Loss and gain

It was a beautiful late August Tuesday morning in Atlanta, and the view from my Bug on 400 north was particularly bright and fine.  The day began a complete antithesis to Monday's sideways pouring rain that had made life inside and outside the perimeter one big all-day tragedy. I was headed to work feeling buoyant in my magic blue dress that usually indicated a really good day ahead.  

I had a nice little job doing inside sales for a high-end provider of video surveillance solutions in retail and schools.  It came complete with an affable boss who laughed easily and enjoyed spending time in front of a white board, drawing out the nuances of sales as he graciously spoon-fed me all sorts of new concepts.  Along the way I had discovered that most of the principles he covered had clever applications in real life, so it was all quite enjoyable and fascinating.  

Having been a flight attendant for a good while, followed by a sweet gig as a preschool teacher and stay-at-home mom, every day I was a stranger wandering in the strange land of business, trying to make something of myself.  A landslide of new and significant responsibilities had come my way, and I was desperate to find a fresh and profitable skill set to call my own.  

On this day, the morning's tranquility changed shortly after arriving at the office by a sudden phone call from Brenda, my wonderful friend and housekeeper, who was standing with the Atlanta police in the living room of my home.  And in just a few moments, the world shifted, my mother was gone and the day's all-encompassing brightness was mostly forgotten.  Eventually, I made it home and sat at the desk in my sunny sitting room with friends coming and going, wearing the magical blue dress until well after dark.  

~~~~~

Thus began a new way of living.  At this time in 2008, I was a little loaves-and-fishes enterprise, trying to generate enough money to keep us all going, with my mother as steadfast supporter who gladly helped any way she could.  Ironically, it was she who had put Brenda at my house on the day she died, having given me the special treat of Brenda-time. Ever thoughtful as well as practical, in the preceding weeks my mother had assured me that, though her health was not so great, she was doing her best to hang on, "so I can help you because I'm no good to you dead".    

This first real world job was calling school districts to determine if our company could provide them with awesome video security systems.  I quickly learned sales calls are a challenging art, and was determined to be the person I would enjoy talking with on the phone, as opposed to a creepy, script-reading annoyance.  There were two lessons learned here: the public schools in my assigned Tennessee territory could not afford our amazing, state-of-the-art IP solution, and I was a really good telephone friend-maker with the folks back home who liked us just fine but could not buy what we were selling. 

And so one day my wise and always-convivial boss was a bit subdued and politely ended my professional telephone friend-making career right there in front of the white board.  It was not my finest hour as there was no one anywhere in the universe who needed a job as badly as I did.  A better woman would have handled the whole thing with grace and equanimity but, at that moment, I was a mess and definitely not a better woman at all.   

Following this little difficult talk that gave me the most humbling moment of my life, my boss said these words: 

"Don't wallow in it."

I believe that is the most insensitive sentence I have ever heard.  
It is also the best advice I have ever been given.  

At that moment, all I could see was a dark future with sideways pouring rain, and all I had on my mind was collapsing in a heap of despair. Another loss on top of loss felt so bad, and I had no idea where to begin fixing all my problems. However, in the back of my head I knew that in the year I had worked with him, my boss had often shared excellent pieces of wisdom; perhaps I could trust him for one more. I also understood that trying to present your best work and self being a perfect mess doesn't work well. After a sad flirtation with wallowing that served no purpose beyond being somewhat emotionally satisfying, I had no choice but to get up and try it his way.     

Courtesy of kind friends, I took every small job that came my way, and eventually found a spot to sustain us for a bit in our elementary school’s afternoon program. While the pay was sadly less, there were nice intangible benefits attached, ones that I didn’t appreciate until I was there and beyond. I got to see a lot more of my children and their friends when they were still (kind of) small, the time I needed to pack up the home from which we were destined to move fell right into place, and my afternoon world had all sorts of warm and interesting people coming and going. Existing friendships were deepened and new friends were made in a season when they were most appreciated. I still remember those whose paths crossed mine, many of whom I would have never known except through that little temporary job.  

There was some joy in a season of uncertainty. In the midst of change in an unfortunate set of personal circumstances, days at work were a pleasant distraction. There was no room for wallowing. While just a stop along the way, these months were somehow an enjoyable moment in time. And it was all set into motion because my nice friends in Tennessee schools had no money to buy awesome video surveillance and I couldn't convince them otherwise.  

Life continues to be interesting, challenging, imperfect and really good--all at the exact same time.  On countless occasions in the almost five years that have passed, I have made myself remember my boss's advice, mostly when it is the last thing I ever want to do.  While those four words are always hard for my ears and heart to hear, I understand that the best and only way to go is forward. And it is even better when one can do so with grace and aplomb.  I am thankful for the opportunity to look back and be reassured by the history of sunny days that eventually follow the rainy ones, the kindness of so many people along the way, and God's continued faithfulness through it all.  

Still around.  The magic blue dress and Smokey.  

Photo cred to Annabelle.  

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Loss and Gain

When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.

I am aware
How many days have been idly spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned aside.

But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Many many gifts

"I have bought you a present", were words gleefully spoken on the other end of the phone one Sunday afternoon several years ago.  This was not an unusual declaration coming from my mother, the epitome of thoughtfulness and clever gift-giving.  All my life I had been the recipient of treasures--large, small and everything in between--from Margaret, she who never ever took a break from thinking about "some little something" she could give me or any one of a vast number of friends, acquaintances, loved ones and, occasionally, strangers.  People in her world rarely escaped her generosity.  

On this occasion, my mother was exceptionally elated, so I knew the gift had to be extraordinary.  "You won't believe what I found for you!", she said brightly.  Before I had the chance to venture a guess about what wonderful item would soon be mine, she enthusiastically proclaimed, "I have bought you four plots in Forest Hills Cemetery lying in a good section with people from nice families!"  

And that is how I became the proud owner of a lovely piece of real estate with fine neighbors, courtesy of an ad placed by a cremation-prefering couple and Margaret's eagle eyes that always read the print right off the Sunday paper pages.  Mother happily pointed out the land was flat and the graves conveniently located adjacent to the road, "In case any shut-ins want to come to your funeral and sit in the car with the window rolled down".  And, she helpfully noted, for those who desired someday visiting me in my little plot of land with flowers but feared stepping out into the cemetery, a bouquet could be launched graveward from a car window.  

It was all about snagging a bargain and location, location, location.  My mother prided herself on always giving practical gifts.

~~~~~

Margaret had an amazing affinity for gift-giving, all one had to do was mention in her presence a passing interest or mild fascination with something--and she got busy.  My mother would subtly note such information and soon present that person with a well-chosen surprise.  Most of her gifts were small but sincere--from a package of dollar store sugar wafer cookies a nursing home worker had commented she loved, a crocheted blanket she made because someone had mentioned blue was their favorite color, or a several years' long adventure at Suntrust collecting state quarters to surprise a neighbor--all items coming from her camp had meaning.  My mother worked like a genie from a magic lamp, all you had to do was indicate a fondness for something and she would do her best to fulfill your wish in her own little way.  

With penchants for giving insignificant-yet-significant gifts, a good sense of humor and a preoccupation with thoughtfulness, my mother moved through her life in a way unnoticeable to the big wide world, but seemed to hold a sweet presence in the small one around her.  In terms of wealth, my mother had little, but was rich when it came to the intangibles--she was kind and she devoted a great deal of time to thinking about what little things she could do to make others happy.  

Margaret faithfully remembered birthdays, anniversaries, and most any meaningful date in someone else's life.  She celebrated all of the above--along with the most obscure holidays about which only she and Hallmark knew--with always perfectly timed greeting cards and handwritten notes delivered by the US Mail.  Her very small, distinctive and precise handwriting found itself in many mailboxes throughout Chattanooga and beyond, and held a perpetual place in mine.  

The little patch of Forrest Hills land was certainly the most intriguing present ever (and right here my mother would interject the word "useful"), found amongst the dizzying array of countless things she gave me over the course of our lives together.   With an upbeat and good-natured take on living, she was also the only person I have ever known who looked with near-pleasant expectation to her inevitable arrival at Forest Hills Cemetery.  The occasions on which she alluded to this benedictory landing in her life were many--even when I was a child and she was a young and healthy woman.  A familiar beginning of a sentence I heard all my days with her was, “When I’m dead and gone and lying over in Forest Hills . . .”  Through the years I always smiled hearing these familiar words, spoken with in an outstandingly optimistic tone, the kind you hear when others speak of looking forward to a vacation or moving up to a new home.

In 2008, Margaret did claim her spot over in Forest Hills as she had referenced on a jillion occasions, and thus began that feared new period in my life:  Without Her.  While my mother only expressed two regrets at the end of her days--leaving me and not seeing William and Annabelle grown up--God granted her a graceful departure that "didn't put anyone out", which was very important to ever-considerate Margaret.  

In the almost five years that have passed since I last saw my mother, she has given me the ultimate gift--something even better than that little Sunday real estate transaction about which she was so proud.  For instead of an ending, in its place I have found a full and rich beginning as Margaret continues to give and give and give to me.  Like everyone else, my mother had little idiosyncrasies and fascinations that made her lovable, complex and interesting, and time has allowed me to consider and appreciate her special role here on earth.  

Long after she has been gone, wonderful treasures still appear here and there that bear her unique signature of love and the promise that she is not terribly far away.  While I rejoice on Mother's Day for the blessing that was this unique individual and the even greater presents from Margaret I see everyday, my heart is warm and full thinking about how very much Hallmark, the US Mail, her special people and I miss her splendid little signature on cards, envelopes and, most especially, on our lives.  

I found this very yellowed and tattered old clipping from a Thankful Memorial Episcopal Church bulletin of long ago in Margaret's archives.  I think she kinda took to it.  

Lucky Days

June 27, 2003 was a beautiful day at Ponte Vedra Beach with a perfectly perfect high of 87 degrees, sparkly, sunny crystal blue skies, low humidity and a bit of a breeze.  William, Annabelle and I were in happy residence, enjoying some welcome beach time in a lovely condo.  Charlie, William’s sidekick and best friend from Atlanta, was hanging with us there, a delightful guest who was as good-natured as he was adorable.   William and Charlie were all of seven years old, and Annabelle was a precious five. 

We launched our day at the Lodge pool next door, beautiful and expansive with plentiful umbrella-shaded chairs just right for the relaxation I had in mind.  The kids were glad to spend their morning diving for pennies and multi-colored weighted torpedoes while I kept one eye on them and blissfully paged through magazines using the other one.  Lunch was served beachside on the hotel patio where ocean-watching (for the kids) and beach-people-watching (for me) were in bountiful and rewarding supply.  Afterwards we moved on to early-afternoon rest time featuring a matinee of the cartoon movie “Robin Hood” (hands down the rented condo’s most thoughtful amenity), and I escaped to snag a teeny tiny scrap of beauty rest. 

Late afternoon found us out on the beach searching for shark’s teeth and perfect pink “lucky day” seashells (because if you spotted one in the sand, it was just that).  Amazingly successful at coming up with both kinds of Atlantic Ocean treasure, William, Annabelle and Charlie eventually ditched me for the lure of playing in the waves before we landed back in the condo for quick showers and heading into Jacksonville for the minor league Suns evening game. 

We got to the ballpark early and, armed with little wooden Suns souvenir baseball bats, William, Annabelle and Charlie dived into the pack of kids visiting with the Jacksonville players and collected Sharpie signatures.  They were particularly in awe of the Suns affable shortstop--and I am not sure if the draw was his charm or his captivating name--Gookie Dawkins.    

On the perfect evening for baseball, soft serve in little upside down blue plastic Suns baseball caps hit the spot while the aroma of Bubba Burgers cooking on a big charcoal grill drifted enticingly through the stadium.  Great seats under the starry blue velvet sky gave us a fine view of inning interludes like the chicken dance and hat game, as well as for watching the Suns beat the Birmingham Barons, 2-1.  Every Gookie at-bat, catch, throw, move, genuflection and nuance was enthusiastically supported by my three companions who had claimed him for their very own since they made his pre-game acquaintance.  

Because it was Friday, we really hit the jackpot with the game wrapping up in a fireworks show.  The four of us sat way back in our seats with faces upturned as pyrotechnic bursts of color--pink, silver, blue, and red--lit up the clear Jacksonville night sky, time and again, each one more beautiful and spectacular than the last.  As I sat there watching cascading pieces of glitter falling to earth, tired but content after what could only be called the most perfect day ever, little Charlie turned to me and said, “Could we come back here next year and do this exact same day all over again?” 

I promised Charlie yes, but I knew in my head it would be kind of unlikely that all the stars would align just perfectly again in one year's time.  However, the looking forward to a carbon copy of the best day ever gave us something to discuss in the Bug on the way back to the beach, and made for sweet dreams that night.  

~~~~~

Almost ten years have flown by since that day at the beach and ballpark, and it is kind of remarkable how that particular day out of all the many others that have come and gone has stuck with us, a prototype for the perfect summer vacation day--or, for that matter, the perfect any kind of day.  The splendid fusion of pool-beach-baseball-fireworks is forever enshrined in our memory hall of fame.  William and Annabelle still readily remember Gookie and can recite the renowned Charlie quote on demand because we have reminisced about that day many times since.  

The funny thing is that day was not carefully planned out, plotted or orchestrated with any attention to detail at all.  It simply evolved, one idea about something fun to do segueing into the next, in the end a nice surprise of a day complete with a fireworks happy ending, just like in the movies.  With the exception of a Gookie Dawkins foul ball landing squarely in the middle of one of the boys' baseball gloves, we could not have asked for anything more that would have made it better.  

These days I find myself spending a great deal of time contemplating hopes about what might lie ahead, and all the things I would like to see happen for my loved ones and me.   I was out walking one evening last week, as always reviewing this rather lengthy running list of items about which I pray for the future, the future, the future.  And it just occurred to me that I could be so interested in tomorrow, I might just overlook this day and the here and now.  Last week I got a feeling that each day I am already kind of standing somewhere in tomorrow-land, the esoteric place of promise that often occupies my thoughts. 

So I am thinking the best thing to do is to make a big effort to really enjoy and appreciate what is going on in this day--whether that involves shark's teeth, soft serve and fireworks or not--all the while looking forward to the excellent possibilities that tomorrow holds.  I should do my best work today and take advantage of every opportunity that presents itself--then let life unfold with all its nuances, sweet spots and surprises that lie just down the road.  And just like on that special summer day so long ago, welcome the really good stuff that comes along unplanned, unexpected and unplotted.  

I did go back to Ponte Vedra last summer and, even though it was the middle of July, the weather was amazing with highs in the mid-eighties, low humidity and a bit of a breeze.  Just like the images I had carried around in my head for quite a few years, most everything there was the same beautiful or even better.  It was a picture perfect few days in most every way, though I did find myself often looking around for the smaller versions of William and Annabelle playing on the beach.  While the appeal of searching for shark's teeth just wasn't the same without the kids, I was pleased to find two pretty pink lucky day shells waiting for me to come along, perfectly placed in the sand just beside my chair on the beach, on my birthday.  

I have decided that every day is a lucky day.  

Long Time, No See

Picking Annabelle up from school in the afternoon is a big adventure.  I never really know exactly how the four winds are blowing; any given day could be the absolute best one of her whole entire life or the most tragic one ever in the history of the world.  As I drive up at school, it is my custom to take a deep breath and assume the ready position that I instinctively know so well from the jumpseat on Delta jets.  I am braced for whatever should come my way on takeoff from school and during our journey home.  It can sometimes be quite bumpy. 

A 20-minute drive block-to-block, I am treated to a dramatic interpretation of the headlines and highlights from the freshman class on very that day.  There always seems to be something of intrigue going on and, just like with a soap opera or reality show, I have my own sacred favorites amongst Annabelle’s peer group, some of whom I actually know and others who are simply legends in my mind.  Each afternoon I find myself anxious to check in on my girls, to get up to speed on their big adventures, and to learn for whom the struggle was real that day.  There is always, always a story to be told, and I am a fascinated audience.  I learn something new every day, and I am usually worn out by the time we get home.  That is one busy group of girls. 

However, a few weeks ago in the middle of breathlessly telling yet another tale of Drama in Real Life from the ninth grade, Annabelle suddenly switched gears and simply said this:

“I love classical music”. 

With these few words, from out of nowhere I suddenly caught a glimpse of someone I had not seen in a long, long time.  For a fleeting moment, I saw a small reflection of my father, Emery Tucker, sitting next to me, right there in the front seat of my little Bug.   

I suppose like anyone else whose parent spends the final years of his or her life in a whole different situation than the relatively happy and healthy years preceding them, my first thoughts about my father always tend to be filled with the latter days he spent at St. Barnabas Nursing Home, smiling but without speech, paralyzed, and faithfully pushed around in his wheelchair by my mother.  Because the seven years my father spent in this way linger in my head with bold face type; all the preceding ones are pushed down a ways beyond them in more faint normal type.  But Annabelle’s four words whisked me way past the bold and back to a time that surprisingly materialized before me.   My father's life was always filled with his beloved classical music. 
   
In those many years before his stroke, Emery Tucker lived a pleasant, quiet and stunningly simple life.  He grew up in downtown Chattanooga and never lived more than a few miles beyond his childhood home on Houston Street.  Courtesy of the McCallie School, he knew the Bible backwards, forwards and upside down and was fully versed in the Westminster Catechism.  He modeled remarkably perfect grammar and his penmanship was Declaration of Independence-signing worthy.  He always leaned deeply forward to pray in an old-worldly and profoundly reverential manner.  I believe he really listened when they talked about honor, truth and duty at McCallie.  

My father liked nothing more than being at home.  Oh, he did talk some about going a lot of places, but never took the initiative to go.  He preferred the safe and comfortable travel offered in books and magazines.  Most every night found him in communion with his music—Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Bach— played loud enough to stirringly engulf the small house that was his haven on Tuxedo Circle.  With the symphony completely filling the living room, he would pass the evening hours reading the newspaper, working the crossword puzzle (in ink), and smoking a cigar.  This was his life for as many years as I knew him, and he went to bed at precisely ten o'clock every night.  

Emery Tucker always found great pleasure in conversation, and his favorite subject was always the life and times of the person with whom he was speaking.  Genuinely interested in just about everything in someone else’s life, he asked many questions like an eager tourist who had just landed in a fascinating foreign destination.  He rarely talked about himself, save for the opportunity to offer a reflection on the other person’s observation to which he could relate.  And, no matter from whence someone hailed, my father could always come up with some obscure person with whom he was somehow acquainted and who might possibly be known to the individual with whom he was chatting, asking something like, “Say, do you happen to know old Schnickelfritz?” His inquiry would be spoken as if a lightning bolt had just touched down and had given him this amazing new revelation and, if a connection was actually made, Daddy was simply tickled to death in such a genuine way.

While there is a tendency to designate someone right into sainthood once he or she is gone, with time and distance I clearly see both of my dear parents’ fascinations and foibles.  And I love them for their many fine qualities but also for their idiosyncrasies because I find them in myself, so many things I smilingly recognize and acknowledge in the apple that did not fall too far from the trees.  I do appreciate so much the immense and immeasurable good qualities of these two people who were, like everyone else, human beings and products of their days and times.  My parents lived simply, never asking for much, but they were most often kind and thoughtful and caring.  They lived what in the world’s eyes were very ordinary lives but ones that were extraordinary in many quiet ways.  As time passes, I see more and more how their subtle virtues are the foundation of what is really important in life.  

Every weekend I take long walks in downtown Chattanooga, and I always make a purposeful visit to the place formerly known as St. Barnabas, the spot that was a reluctant last home and haven for Emery Tucker in those bold-faced seven years.  I walk beneath the window where my mother used to wave at us every time we got in our car to leave, and I circle the timeless and beautiful Japanese maple tree under which Margaret and Emery held court every afternoon.  I can still see them there in my head; for just a bit, I can be back in those moments and remember what it was once like in that very place.
  

Emery Tucker would be absolutely beyond pleased to know that Annabelle loves classical music.  I do hope I catch other glimpses of my father beside me in the Bug, riding along with us in the afternoon.  With the happy words I heard so many times when he greeted old friends and loved ones, I will smile and say to myself, "Long time, no see!" 

Honor, truth, duty. 

A senior at McCallie.

Walking Home

I get to walk in Atlanta on Sunday evenings now, courtesy of Annabelle’s ambition to once again be a part of Northside Youth Choir tour this summer.  This is year four of our now-traditional Sunday night ATL turnaround that happens from January until June--provided the weather is good and homework complete.   I will admit the commute to rehearsals is kind of intriguing—I try not to think about it too much lest I begin to doubt my own good judgment.  But the little jaunt has worked itself into being a kind of pleasant finish to the weekend—the journey is comfortable, seeing old friends is always fun for both of us, and now it is just something we do.  When June does come, and Annabelle with her long-time BFFs head out together on a wonderful cross-country journey to a whole lot of places she would otherwise never visit, I am always elated for her--and I feel so clever for having made the effort.    

I love living in Chattanooga, but I also enjoy being back in Atlanta, particularly around the neighborhood that was once home.  So it goes like this:  Annabelle gets dropped at Northside and I hit the road.  The truly great thing about walking in Buckhead is the bounty of choices for ways to go, any number of really pretty routes are available depending on time and how many miles I have in mind.  Besides the familiar and lovely scenery along the streets, the best part of the whole deal is I usually run into a loved one—or several--along the way, thus finding a great time to catch up.  No matter which direction I walk, a memory lives on most every corner—and then there is a kaleidoscopic remembering extravaganza to be had passing by Morris Brandon Elementary, where many of us spent countless precious times together. 

However, an extraordinary thing occurs time and again when I am walking.  It is subtle and kind of crazy but, for a fleeting moment, I forget the date on the calendar and find myself ready to head back over to our old house on Dawn View Lane.  With the sun setting and me on familiar neighborhood streets where I have walked countless times, it feels like I have been on an extended vacation and, here I am, back home again.  Never mind I have not laid eyes on the place in almost four years, and the furnishings are all scattered, sold, stored or in our little house on Signal Mountain.  Oh, and by the way, other people do live there now.  No no no, none of that matters—for about three seconds in my head, I am walking home, past the brick mailbox and up that big hill, through the side door and it will all still be there—lights on, ESPN on the television, little William and Annabelle popping their heads up from the green family room sofa, wondering about dinner.  The Bug is in the garage where it belongs, the phone is ringing, it's my mother.  For just a flash, I’m a-going home. 

And then, with a slight shake of my head, I smile and I know for sure that I am not. 

I will admit, occasionally in my mind I do long to return to that house as it was and take a little walk through it.  I would reflect on its loveliness and be so thankful for having lived there.  And what I would give to have just one day again with the children being little, to spend time with William and Annabelle in small form, relive the days that I never really understood would pass by too quickly.  Then the scenario gets even better—seeing the old neighbors, living another day being one of them, going up to the school for some fellowship around Mary’s desk—oh, I could go on and on with this fantasy.  The days were so simple, and a do-over would be really sweet. 

But to step back into that world, the last three and one half years of life would have to be given a vigorous Etch-a-Sketch shake and made to disappear.   And I really cannot say goodbye to some of the most meaningful days I have ever lived and to the kind and awesome people who have come into my life along the way.  If the last few years were only an illusion, I would never have experienced the significant times of both loss and gain and, even more, I would not know the new loved ones and friends who are a part of my world now and who make a tremendous difference every day.  And I have only found them by being here in this place.   

I have learned some amazing things.  Like how much work and economic power it takes to sustain a family.  (A whole lot!).  I have been humbled time and again by seeing just how much I don't know and how much other people do know, inspiring me to broaden my horizons and work to be better.  I understand now it is not what you have that matters, but what you choose to do with all that you have.   And my faith has been strengthened in tremendous ways I never thought possible. 

I find myself a working woman living in Chattanooga, blessed in innumerable ways.  I have some awesome, steadfast friends I love here and in Atlanta—and around the country and the world.   I feel fortunate to have the best of both worlds—not only do I have the incredible beauty and ease of day-to-day living in Chattanooga, I am thankful I can experience bright days in ATL whenever I am there. 

The truth is, I have learned more about what is really important since leaving Dawn View Lane than I did in all the time I lived there.  While some days have been challenging, they are outnumbered tenfold by so many more wonderful outcomes that I otherwise would not have experienced, ever.  And it all began with walking down off of that hill. 

“You're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting,
So... get on your way!”
― Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You'll Go!