The promise of the bells

Way back in 1975, my mother was out on her regular shopping circuit and bought the first edition of a Reed and Barton silver Holly Bell Christmas ornament. It was a fortuitous find and the beginning of an annual holiday ritual. In early December over all 33 years of her life that followed, Margaret made the same pilgrimage to the downtown jewelry store for each new version. In her later days, my mother was not as nimble as she once was, so she called ahead to the store and someone would come out to the curb and present the year's new ornament through the car window. 

I don't recall how or when her special collection changed hands but, somewhere along the way, all these silver decorations migrated to me. Margaret was so on top of this annual tradition that when she died in August, 2008, she was way ahead of the game with the year's incarnation already in place--with yellow Post-It note bearing her neat handwriting on the box: “2008 Holly Bell - Ellen”. She was forever gleeful and proud with each year's acquisition, so my breaking the chain was out of the question. 

It is hard to believe that Christmas 2018 marked the arrival of the 43^rd edition of the Holly Bell that I always welcome and treasure. All 43 bells are the same shiny silver with a red satin ribbon, but each one has slight differences in the raised holly design that makes it unique to all the others. Recently, I worked out in my mind that the subtle distinctions do a fine job reflecting the variations that life's journey offers up across the years they commemorate. 

Bells covering big ones always jump out: the year in which Delta opened the doors of the world for me, the super-special years when William and Annabelle were born, the year we left life and friends in Atlanta, moving to Tennessee, the years when the children left for college--one of which coincides with the 2016 at-long-last landing in our very own home . . . I could go on and on and on. And it wouldn't be that difficult to come up with someone or something special associated with each of the other 37. 

The newest Holly Bell's arrival every December is a sweet and familiar rite, always serving up an invitation to reflect on the preceding 11 months, and to contemplate tying a bow on the year that has mostly finished. Just like all the others before it, the 2018 bell found a place in significance, this time mirroring a period of both loss and gain, a year that closes in quite a different manner from how it began.

But in recent months, there has been one ever-present thought living in my head. Time and life bring change that I sometimes don't understand or like, often the result of my own messing up, or just because what I think I really want isn't exactly found in the middle of God's big plan. However, I have glimpsed newfound promise and joy in the still-exciting offerings of tomorrow, where there live more opportunities to start over and to get things right-er. It really is the greatest gift of all, and a rich one for which I am exceptionally thankful. 

No one would be more surprised about my finding deep meaning in really pretty but fairly commonplace silver Holly Bells than she who started it all a long time ago. I am so grateful for a chance to see a reflection of my life, my children, experiences, and people and places I love in that shiny silver, along with a lovely glimpse of tomorrow's rich promise. 

So here's to a new year filled with significance and possibilities, one that will someday be remembered so well upon reflection in a pretty design brought by a silver holly bell. 

Ellen

The Parable of the Bungalow

It was clear that a miniature real estate miracle would visit the earth if we were to snag one elusive well-priced home. And, to this end, we were amongst the first lookers shot like a cannon right through the front door of a pretty house on the Georgia side of the mountain when it made its market debut. 

Like all good bungalows, it had never, ever been touched by a cookie cutter, and was exceptionally charming with its own unique style. The first floor offered up splendid hardwoods, bookshelves, crown molding and a room with grass cloth (which I'd always wanted to paint). Perfectly smart lighting appeared in all the right places, and 2.5 beautiful bathrooms needed not one bit of help at all. 

William and Annabelle's residential dream lay on the second floor where two bedrooms shared a spacious subway-tiled bathroom. Plentiful windows made the house bright and cheerful, and the up-to-date kitchen was a well-appointed super bonus. But the greatest thing on earth was last—a Mr. Ed dutch door leading to a spacious deck. 

The offer couldn't be written fast enough while I pictured the glorious life that could unfold right there in that place. The children could live it up on their own floor, and I could see myself cooking dinner while sharing a laugh with a talking Palomino horse who had dropped by and poked his head through the dutch door. It was going to be perfect.

We were early, but definitely not alone; the entire rest of the house-hunting universe had the exact same intention. Multiple offers blanketed the sellers' table, and our answer was a laconic NO. My bungalow love affair was over as quickly as it began, and I couldn't even make conversation with a friend over dinner that evening. 

While I did understand that homes are but wood and bricks, with their significance existing only with the occupants who dwell within, I wallowed in the loss of the world's shortest bungalow dream and the cruel real estate game. Owning a nice home was a standard by which I judged myself as a provider, and it felt like a tremendous opportunity had slipped away. I should have offered more.

~~~~~

However, several weeks later, out of the blue, I got a brief and vague text from our real estate agent: "Cottage on Tennessee side coming on market. We will be first to see. Are you interested?" 

And, just like that, an even better home magically appeared. It was on the corner of excellent streets in the land of no state income taxes and where there lies a scarce inventory of homes for me. It came complete with lovely neighbors and all sorts of charm, and there was even old wood paneling (which I'd always wanted to paint). There were an amazing number of amenities throughout the home that were sent just for me, like scattered Valentines from above. And it all worked out fairly easily. 

In the last two years I have learned two important things about the home that got away:

1. Though the price I offered was sanctioned by our loan officer, the mortgage would have been a stretch, even before factoring in the state income taxes. 
2. The bungalow's street is an ever-busy thoroughfare for cars and commercial vehicles. We are much better off on a less traveled road. 

~~~~~

The lesson here is one on which I hold with all my might when hard times of loss come around. All I could see in one lovely bungalow was the fulfillment of my hopes and dreams that were so very real in the moment. Wrapped up in my own little glowy vision, I had no engagement with the much bigger picture. And, sitting in a Mexican restaurant that July evening, I couldn't eat a chip with salsa because I had not one tiny speck of faith that there could ever be anything nearly as nice waiting around the corner. 

It wasn't until much later that I embraced the big NO answer with the grace it deserved in the first place--and it was only after I had something much better in the place of my short-lived dream. While my miniature mourning period, thankfully, wasn't long, it was too much wasted time spent on a momentary dream, with not a scintilla of faith in God's wisdom in all things. 

What had been my supreme disappointment turned into wonderment with the arrival of an even finer gift in an impossible place. When discouragement and adversity come around, I shall take a little detour on my way home, so I can drive by a still-lovely house on a busy street, always remembering the Parable of the Bungalow. 

The big tomorrow

There is never an occasion when I drive up Ochs Highway without thinking about a little story my mother told me many times across all the years. 

Long ago, the pretty two-story house on the righthand side of the road was the home of the principal at St. Elmo School, and one day she passed away. As a mark of respect, the children from the elementary school--my mother and all her peers--lined up and marched single-file, seven blocks up Alabama Avenue to the late principal's home. There she lay in peaceful repose--in her bed, wearing a white gown--and all the children reverently filed past her, paying their respects. And then they marched right back down Alabama Avenue to the school, and life went on. 

~~~~~

It was a whole different universe when those little pupils made the pilgrimage up the road to honor their head of school, and my mother never seemed worse for the wear. In fact, Margaret always told the story with a particular equanimity about the this rite of mourning from a time gone by; I'd like to think this was the beginning of her lifelong reverence for most everything involving mortality.

Growing up, we were always regulars driving through Forest Hills Cemetery, reserving a special slowdown and collective reverential look-to-the-left for the moment we passed where our loved ones lie on that side of the road. She read the print right off the obituary page of the newspaper, kept Hallmark busy producing sympathy cards, and it was very important for her to get to the funeral home any time anyone she knew had died ("I'm going by to sign the book"). From time to time over 30 or so years, she casually mentioned in conversation that, while she was out running errands, she had dropped by the funeral home to "talk about my plans". Like Delta, Margaret was ready. 

Tomorrow marks a decade since my mother left us, and the ten years that have come and gone have been ones which began with great sadness but, over the course of time, have worked their way into a profound richness and appreciation for Margaret, and the whole journey of life as a wonderment. 

As she headed into her 80s, my mother surprisingly revealed that she would be leaving this world with only one regret: She would not get to see William and Annabelle grown. At the time, both children were safely headquartered at Morris Brandon Elementary, and contemplating their adult versions in the vast, far distant future was a nebulous and scary thought for me. 

But, here we are, sitting in that great big tomorrow, with William 22 years old and set to graduate from UT in December (the place she always wanted him to be), and Annabelle will turn 21 in only 11 days. In the last ten years, my children have slowly changed into grown-ups at the exact same time my sadness has steadily moved onwards to reach wonder about how life is such an intriguing journey, filled with lovely nuances, grand adventures and, above all else, a myriad of relationships all along the way.

I really, really hope Margaret would be pleased with William and Annabelle and the big people they are becoming. And I would like to think she could see some reflection of herself and all the family members she held so dear in each of my children. 

I am ever thankful for a mother who had a cordial sort of relationship with mortality, her outstanding record of remembering people who left this life, and the front row seat I had for so long. We remember her always, particularly on drives through Forest Hills, with a slow roll and a left-facing gaze of adoration, this time especially for her. 

Wonder years

Lordy, lordy

Sally's 40!

Methinks she's sad

But we're glad

Still a cutie

What a beauty

Happy birthday! 

Burma Shave 

This intriguing story was shared with the early-morning commuting universe on signs planted at regular intervals in the grass along Northside Drive, from Woodward Way to Collier Road. I was a confidently youthful and certainly immortal 28-year-old, on my way to the ATL airport for a three day trip. By the time I reached 75 South, I was practically crying for poor Sally, turning what had to be a horribly dismal forty. Happy birthday, with my deepest condolences.

About five minutes after that day, I turned 30, the occasion marked with a lovely but slightly awkward surprise celebration, courtesy of a thoughtful and sneaky pal who had swiped my address book and invited every single person in it. I walked into a Peachtree Cafe filled with a dazzling panorama lifted off all the pages, from close friends to a handyman who had once installed a new back door for me. But I didn't bat an eyelash at the number of candles on the cake.

After that, life was apace with flying and getting married. Eventually, on two occasions, I was at Piedmont Hospital gazing over at a bassinet with dim expectations about successfully raising the tiny occupant. Walking out the hospital door launched a busy life, sweet years, all lightning fast. While the children's birthdays were always hugely anticipated very, very big deals, the ever increasing numbers attached to mine passed without any notice at all. 

During the time I was busy with all that, somewhere in the background the pages flew off the calendar. One day I dropped my toddlers off at preschool to learn and play, and just a minute later, I did exactly the same--only it was college. And now I have all the time in the world for retroactive birthday contemplation. 

So I have found my own little understanding about how life works: we all take turns. This phenomenon is all around, and one doesn't have to look very far to see it. Everyone, everywhere is somewhere traveling along through the chapters of life. While looking at others ahead has always been pretty mystical, looking at those traveling behind sometimes make me wistful. 

When I was a brand-new flight attendant, the girls flying Honolulu--the famous Hawaii 5-0--were from a distant universe far, far away and scared me to death. Immortal 28-year-old me driving to work observed a miniature mourning period for poor anonymous Sally turning 40. And, of course, I once believed the time spent raising children would last forever. Clearly, I spent a lot of years being wrong. 

My world is filled with adults in all sorts of nebulous ages--along with babies, toddlers, children, teens and their parents, parents like me, parents not like me, and hordes of miscellaneous others thrown in just for fun. Every day offers a new kaleidoscope of people living in the middle of life's great chapters. The funny thing is, I can find myself in the moment with every single one, each serving up something special. 

And while I get that I'm not 28, 30, or 40 and ignoring candles on cakes, I still haven't found the gloom that is supposed to meet me here somewhere along this way. During the busy children-filled years in life, there wasn't a tiny second to look around for the doom. And now, where there is an abundance of time available for saying hi to the grim, I just haven't seen it yet. 

I hope the birthday candles will continue to remain fairly insignificant, that all the singles, newlyweds, moms, dads, babies, children, teenagers, and the vastly assorted-aged adults who dot my landscape will continue to let me enjoy their chapters in progress. And I hope that the lovely phenomenon of taking turns continues to enrich this life, mystically and--ah, yes--wistfully. 

**Extra super rare birthday pic from the olden days**

Life on Mars

It really doesn't seem so far back to a wonderful season when we had a house at the beach, an excellent location for the summer and preschool breaks. The setting was everything one could ever desire in some of the best years of life, and it came complete with the most fascinating neighbor. While I stayed overwhelmed by sippy cups, naps, and dragging a wagon carrying three-year-old Annabelle and five-year-old William to the beach, the woman next door glided through what appeared--to me, at that moment--an alternative lifestyle. 

Single and attractive Cathy owned the home next door and, in Delta parlance, we would say she worked 5 on/2 off as a busy publishing executive. She entertained, she traveled, and she had an ATL boyfriend who dropped down on the weekend. While I was perpetually bedraggled on the daily little-child hamster wheel, a stylish and well-heeled Cathy breezed in and out. I never worked out her age because she was older than I and, at the time, all those numbers were nebulous to me anyhow. She had a career and a social life, and she always looked terrific. It was like a Martian lived beside us. 

Just like the beach house, the naps, the wagon, and, sadly, the sippy cups went away. Time flew by, and the little three-year-old and the five-year-old achieved enough birthdays to make them semi-adults, now living it up away in college. And, just the other day, I had a miniature Damascus Road moment, realizing I can perhaps have a go at the Cathy lifestyle. It was a very startling thought. 

In order to try for gliding in my life, I had to go back 22+ years to consider what exactly I did with my pre-children self. Committed to the Delta jets three days a week meant I went a lot of places--with old friends and new--served up on a silver platter known as the jumpseat. Every work day delivered all sorts of people in vast and far-flung locales with effortless social interaction included in the deal, all down to show up and sign in. 

And in the world of children there was little opportunity to ever be lonely or bored. All along the way, we were in countless beneficial situations meeting new friends—both little and grown--through school, church, and sports. William and Annabelle provided a ticket into worlds filled with fantastic people, and these experiences continue to pay dividends to this very day. Again, it all unfolded by simply walking out the door. 

So now I have to sort out how to drag these two best parts of the past up here into the future. Somewhere along the way, social media was crowned king and can easily fool me with the illusion of interacting with others brought by this way of signing in. I don't have to get dressed up (at all), and I can quasi-socialize to my heart's content from my sofa. 

The crazy thing about this modern life is if I can't be bothered to get up and go places, the world available 24/7 online has no problem coming to me. A reasonable facsimile of just about anything one can imagine easily appears on command. Recipes are served up, shopping is a breeze, help and advice (about anything) are just a google and, if I don't feel like getting up and out for church, it can appear right in my lap. 

However, it recently dawned on me that real live fellowship and shared experiences with others have always been the finest part of life. And, once upon a time, it was second nature to go about making them happen because it was just how things worked. Seeing friends' daily life photos online from occasions both big and small now makes no one seem terribly far away. But, then again, they're not here on my sofa sharing life and time, either. 

Dropping by to visit friends in their homes for no special reason was once a particularly sweet and regular part of life, and I always looked forward to the ritual debrief phone call when friends returned from trips. Receiving notes, cards and invitations in the US Mail were ever-pleasant surprises. All of these occurred back in that dark age when communicating with each another meant one had to do some work. It was a different world. 

In 2018, It's exciting to see what's possible out there--the 5 on/2 off work I once believed to be other-worldly is quite interesting and, surprisingly, there are still countless opportunities presented every day that are new and exciting. While the omnipresence of everyone and everything courtesy of the virtual world is certainly beneficial, the finest arrangement of my life today should bring with it the best parts of the old school, too. 

With great curiosity, I always watched our neighbor Cathy coming and going in what appeared to me a full and enviable life. And courtesy of the children William and Annabelle, great people came my way in engaging settings. The significant lesson from all of these past moments is the walking out the door part. The richness in life that has been around forever is attainable, starting with showing up somewhere else amongst others. And it all begins with effort.