My ticket to ride

This is how it all went down: William was born, and while I marveled at his amazing highlighted hair at Piedmont Hospital, I thought my chances of being a successful mother were pretty pathetic. I lost a lot of sleep worrying about his soft spot. At two, he went screaming and kicking as a reluctant preschooler through the doors of Northside Methodist, looking splendid in chambray shorts, white tee shirt (with whimsical little trucks in cheerful colors) and red toe-cap Keds. On a beautiful August first day of kindergarten--once again looking sharp--William screamed and climbed me like a tree while parents of children strolling happily into Morris Brandon looked on in horror. William started playing t-ball and sailed through little league ranks to majors, and then suddenly he was in high school baseball.  Along the way he collected two extraordinary baseball nicknames--Pops and Beetle--both of which are perfectly perfect.

I volunteered as much as I could in those easy elementary school days. William and I went to Tennessee home football games, and I held his little hand in the crushing sea of 100,000 Big Orange people. I tried to always be nice to his friends and school lunches were my forever nemesis, while all along I was trying to work out how to be a decent mother of a boy. On a jillion occasions through 18 years, I thought to myself how a better woman would handle this situation with wisdom and aplomb, but I'm not that better woman right now. 

Along the way through all the somewhat mundane-yet-significant days, benefits rained down, right on top of my head, mostly in the form of folks who happened to be in the same place I found myself.  It seems this little William creature was my ticket to ride into places where great people were found in abundant supply. As I look back on this lightning fast time of life, I happily embrace and cherish a particular phenomenon that has provided me the biggest blessings of all--the fellowship that is peculiar to parents who find themselves in the same place at the same time with children doing basically the same things. These were my best people.

For in all the orbits through which I passed--preschool, church, elementary school, Buckhead Baseball, high school baseball, just to cover a few--dwelled for a little or a lot, a myriad of fine people who sat or stood in front of me, behind me or at my side. I look back and see a vast kaleidoscope of faces and places, and I can still recall bits of many assorted conversations across the years.

I clearly recall making a good friend on a noisy yellow school bus full of first graders on the last day of school field trip to the zoo. I remember the fellowship with friends on Vacation Bible School snack patrol (which we had identified as the ultimate VBS cream puff gig). With tremendous fondness I remember days spent at baseball, learning all about the many fascinating intricacies in the lives of others in the stands, which was fine background music to what was going on with the boys and their game in front of us. I have happily discovered this baseball wonder is kind of universal and translates well in stands all over the place wherever two or more are gathered with boys on a field.   

It seems there were only about four or five stops between Piedmont Hospital and the Memorial Auditorium where William will graduate next week. After Morris Brandon kindergarten, he never went screaming and kicking into another school. We did our last just-us Tennessee game in the fall, and next year he will be there completely on his own. I scared the guys in the sports store when I cried as I bought his last pair of cleats this spring, and now the baseball part of his life likely wraps up this week.  I will reluctantly say goodbye to the ubiquitous communion of baseball parents in the stands where I have learned so much for so long.

The soft spot on William's head did whatever it is that soft spots do--and I didn't mess it up.  The blond highlighted hair has long since become decidedly brown.  I never have to make another school lunch, and I think most of his friends liked me okay.  It's funny because that better woman who could have handled most any situation better than I could never showed up.  But a lot of really really amazing people did, and that right there is a wonderment.  

Pops and me.

Beetle and me.

(Either one is fine). 

House(s) Beautiful

Zappos had exactly one pair of black suede kitten heel boots in size 7.5 on clearance, and they were meant to be mine. In a big big hurry, the online deal was closed without much thought, and I smugly looked forward to a stylish future (at a good price). Later that day, e-mail happily proclaimed the boots of my dreams winging their way to me with an ETA of exactly one business day. The message said they would soon be waiting in splendor on the front door step—of our former home in Atlanta. Alas, I had neglected to change my default shipping address. Oh boy.

That metaphoric house sitting at the top of the hill I came down almost five years ago has played my heart and mind with the mastery of a skillful symphony maestro. And I thought I had become newly amazing in February when I finally found the courage to look up at it as I walked by one Sunday evening—a big deal meriting a self-congratulatory moment about moving ever onwards. Now a snappy pair of boots was making me do what I believed I could never do—go back up that hill and see the place that often appears in drifting thoughts of the past.   

The family now making that house their own special place is warm and kind—especially to a former resident with a sentimental attachment to what most everyone else in the whole world recognizes as simply bricks, mortar, and wood. But beyond the array of building materials artfully fashioned together, there are crazy intangibles made of up souls and memories existing only in that spot, my children’s official childhood home, thoughtfully built with bright expectations found in a different time and place. Without a doubt, these reflections are bolder because life took a different direction leading to a leave of the hill in challenging circumstances.

So on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon, I found myself going back up a familiar concrete driveway. I smiled passing my mother’s last little ornamental Christmas tree planted there in 2007, and didn't quite recognize the cedars and crepe myrtles that had somehow stretched way high into the azure sky. When I reached the top, I was standing in intimacy once again with the tall brown brick façade of an old friend. The front door opened and I was standing in the house on the hill. 

There was beauty I had long ago forgotten in every direction. The first thing captivating my attention was a fabulous wrought iron dining room chandelier. With graceful arms of subtly gold-tipped leaves flowing with shimmering crystal droplets, I marveled at its magnificence and was surprised to learn I had selected it in a lifetime long ago. There was gleaming and pristine white woodwork under impossibly high ceilings—smooth and also perfect white—complimented by heavy wood molding everywhere I looked. 

Like a tourist at Versailles, I was a stranger in a strange land marveling at splendor. I was surrounded by what used to be scenery from every day life but is now someone else's tasteful interior design and a special occasion for me. I wanted to touch everything I saw, partly to admire it again (like long lost friends), partly to conjure up memories of the kids being little, and also to inventory where I have been and where I am going since the last defining days in that place. 

My visit continued through spacious rooms with amazing wood windows and across hardwood floors stretching forever. Just beyond tall French doors leading to the backyard, bright but vague apparitions of little Annabelle and her neighborhood BFFs looked back at me from the much-loved swings on the playset. In the family room I could see a small William lying on the sofa watching SportsCenter and, if I squinted my eyes just right, I could see an ethereal (highly) decorated Christmas tree standing in the corner by the bookshelves and windows.

My gracious host was indulgent, letting me admire her exquisite home and enjoy a sojourn into kaleidoscopic yesterdays for just a little while. It was sweet being back in the only place where flashes of days gone by live in perpetuity, vivid and tangible. I was suddenly grateful and glad my boots had landed me in that place. 

Beyond the visages and images found solely in my head, little pieces of our days happily remain and are made better by their now-owners. Precious new children love the playset where Annabelle’s initials are carved in the wood. Pretty hydrangeas I received as gifts from various friends years ago flourish today because there is someone way better at gardening than I to love and pamper them.

But the sweetest holdover for me is in the kitchen. On our last day at that address, the physical and emotional workload of clearing out possessions was overwhelming, and my sainted realtors and I worked with a daunting 5:00 p.m. deadline. Bad decision made on top of bad decision was the rule of the day, and many things—from trash to treasures—found their hurried benediction in a heap of seemingly unwanted belongings at the bottom of the hill. 

Eventually my successor as lady of the house arrived at her new home and spotted a really lovely, fresh picture of a long stemmed, purple flowered plant in an elegant cornflower blue and white container, abandoned on the mountain of remnants. She thoughtfully rescued it from an imminent one-way journey on a garbage truck. And now the memento from the earlier days in the life of that house graces a perfect spot on the kitchen wall, brought back up the the hill by a woman with a heart for special things.  

My life now looks little like the one back in that Atlanta house, and I am good with that. I will concede living in a really beautiful home is an exceptional privilege, but this other way of life is fine, too, and comes with peace. Subtle peace found in a small, slightly dowdy--but somewhat charming—home for the children and me. Peace that is a by-product found in acknowledging and being in the place where you know you are supposed to be. There is beauty to be found in a new life lived from another perspective. While our accommodations are unlike those found on a hill in Georgia, I am ever thankful for having been there and for the wonderful people who populate the scenery--in both places, and points beyond.    

I appreciate kind new friends who graciously allow a sappy, sentimental woman to stop by for a wayward package and let her admire the present and look fondly at the past. And I am grateful to a God who seems to have a great deal of confidence in me and who works in crazy ways to make me go back up a hill to really see and understand where He has taken me in the five years since He brought me down off of it. 

Thank you so much, Whitney.

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.