A Thing Or Two About Nanny

  Meet my "Nanny", Mary Cue Ogle Watson, pictured here at age 85, with one of my second cousins.  She's been gone for nearly 20 years, and still I miss my Grandmother something fierce. I can hear her voice, I can imagine the smell of her Chamberlains Lotion, and see her smile in my mind. All of the cousins have a little bit of Nanny in them, but I have been told by most of them that I got hit with the Nanny stick pretty hard! I am very much like her both in physical features (I am tall, and have her bone structure and build), but also in her mannerisms, love for cooking; homemade biscuits and gravy, fried chicken, beans and cornbread, and chow-chow. "Country food".  Oh, and I lean towards conservative churches, just as Nanny did. I tend to want to be a "separate people" as a follower of Christ.


 Now, there's no *moral* hinging on the tale of this post. I just saw this picture in my files on the computer, and it conjured up such strong memories, that I thought I'd share? Let me tell you how I see this: This was taken at my Aunt Jo-Jo's house in the early 90's. Jo-Jo is her middle daughter and my beloved, old-fashioned Aunt. I take after her a lot too. Aunt Jo-Jo had a house filled to the brim with cool, old, antiques like that old piano, and bookcases filled with all kinds of stuff to fill your imagination. One thing that struck me as a kid was when Aunt Jo-Jo learned she was to become a Grandmother, she wallpapered her guestroom with beautiful Victorian floral-striped wallpaper and put an old-timey looking crib there. She literally made a nursery. I thought that was the sweetest thing I'd ever seen, and I vowed to have a crib in my guestroom when I became a Grandma too. And I did.


 Aunt Jo also was huge into "Natures Sunshine" Herbs, and in this picture you can see a bottle of something herbal and 100% natural on the table beside Nanny. Aunt Jo had a kitchen cabinet full of herbal medicine in the 70's, long before it was popular, and mainstream. If one of the women had *change of life* symptoms, Aunt Jo gave them Dong Quai. If you were lacking "umph" and generally feeling poorly, we all went on "Alfalfa", the "Father of Herbs". If us teenage girls had cramps, we got a coca-cola.  That's how I learned about herbs, and life from my Aunt Jo. She had no problem trying to cure any of us who ailed with some little something she had in the cabinet. And it usually worked! Pondering all of this, I realize I am about the age now, that my Aunt Jo was then. And my kitchen cabinet is full of herbs!


  Back to my Nanny- I had never seen Nanny in anything but dresses, and her hair was long, long, long, as she was Pentecostal. This picture shows her hair a lot different than I knew most of my life. It's short and permed, and probably easier to handle, but it's a reflection of Nanny.  She was hurt when the church she'd devoted her life to went through a split, and more of less dissolved because leadership didn't live up to what it preached. I don't want to gossip- so I'll leave the details alone, but I when I first saw Nanny's hair cut short, even though it was full, and feminine, I was probably in my 30's, and my jaw hit the floor. She was also wearing a pants suit, and I'm sure she was comfortable, but it was hard to wrap my head around, all this new dress and shorter hair! I used to brush that hair out at night, and it went way down to her waist. I thought nothing could be as beautiful as her salt and pepper locks that she called her "glory".  As a girl, I wanted long salt and pepper glory too, when I became a Grandma. That could still happen. (grin)



  Nanny is gone to be with her Savior, and Aunt Jo's house burned to the ground last year, along with  all her beautiful antiques, but thank God she was spared. She now lives with her daughter, the same as Nanny lived with her. I'm glad I have a few pictures. I'm glad we can save these memories on computers, so that they live on, even if the original paper burns to ash. Mostly, I'm grateful that God granted me such a good family,  and the good memories of them, even if it's in a photograph to take myself back in time to the sights, smells, and the emotional tug of an era gone by for a moment. I guess we all have closets full of random photo's? I suppose they all tell a story? Hope you enjoyed mine.

Free Indeed... (Helpful Links for Post-Abortive Mothers and Fathers)

I can't post my last post and just leave my blog to hang in the air. I want to follow up with a reminder to everyone; abortion has more than one victim. Even if you have no connection to abortion, you may know someone who may benefit from seeking help in recovery. The biggest problem with post-abortive Mothers is that they don't feel like they deserve to be forgiven. It's tormenting. And it's
a lie from the devil.

Here are a few links that may help you, or someone you know find the road to peace on this issue. It starts with a confession, and asking God to forgive you- but living day to day with the consequences is often painful.

http://www.careabortionrecovery.com/
C.A.R.E Restoring Lives Wounded By Abortion

http://www.silentnomoreawareness.org/articles/hopehealing.htm
Silent No More

In Our Midst
http://www.inourmidst.com/making_church_safe.htm
Articles on the churches role in healing after abortion.

http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/resources/abortion/after-an-abortion/post-abortion-syndrome-pas/
Post Abortion Syndrome: NOTE: Every Pro Choice group, every agency that stands to make a dollar, and every feminist publication stresses that PAS does not exhist. Yeah, I remember when PMS and PTSD didn't exist either. That's a crock.

http://www.wakeupnet.net/healing.html
Abortion Healing Resources.

http://www.rachelsvineyard.org/
Post Abortion Healing/Retreat

These are just a few links. I am not connected with any, but hope they bring you, or someone you know the healing that only Jesus brings. Remember; He died not just for some of your sins, not just for the lesser of your sins, not just the socially acceptable sins, but for ALL YOUR SINS.

May you find forgiveness, and the peace that passes all understanding.

The Problem With Easter (This Story is about Abortion, and Recover- **May be graphic in nature)

   Every year this time I tell myself that I must go to Easter Service. I've been avoiding it for 34 years. Not that I don't love the resurrection story, I do. I love God, and I am grateful for the sacrifice Christ made on the cross, and not just my salvation, but the worlds!  However, I can't do the church service, even when I try to push myself into it, I wind up making excuses. Truthfully, it is the hardest day of the year for me.


   At 11, my parents divorced, and the only family I'd known scattered.  My Dad wanted a divorce. Initially he moved out into an apartment, but my Mother, couldn't manage the mortgage, family, and a job. This was the 1970's and equal pay for women was more of an ambition than a reality. So, Dad, moved back in, and Mom got an apartment, and my older brother moved that summer after he finished high school. I was told to decided who I wanted to live with? WHO TELLS A CHILD TO MAKE THAT KIND OF CHOICE? After much agonizing for an 11 year old, I choose my Dad. But I was lost in the new family and didn't adjust well.   While we had a decent family life with the new arrangement, and good times together, I felt like I was only tolerated, never embraced. I was their house-keeper, gardener, and babysitter, and in 10th grade.

That year I caught a boy's eye in my biology class. I was 15. He was 19,  and had dropped out of high school, only to return a year later to complete his education. He was handsome and a little wild. I was skinny, and plain, and a little shy. There was nothing remarkable about me, but for some reason we started seeing each other after class. One thing led to another and he started coming by my house at night, while he worked his paper route. The house we lived in was in the city, and had the old 1940's style crank-open windows. I would wait for his "bomp-bomp-bomp" on the window pane, and off I went to help him deliver papers, and back in time to catch a cat-nap and be up for school. I was a "good girl, but I was naive. I wouldn't do anything but deliver papers, I told myself.. .


    But I was taking a huge risk. My Dad would have lost his mind if he had found out! He beat me with his belt. If you know me well, you know I can be stubborn. It was not unusual to loose count at 25 or more strikes before breaking down. I missed many a P.E. class because I didn't want anyone to see my backside. Yet, my Dad was just doing what had been done to him. As an old man sitting across from me at dinner, he confessed that if we lived in today's world, I would have wound up in foster care, because no one should beat their child like that. That apology healed any resentment I held because it was sincere. But we lived in a different era. And I took this chance all because a boy was doing something no one had ever done: He paid attention to me.

  One night, my bofriend drove off the beaten path, down by the river. Foghat's "Slow Ride" was playing on his 8-Track, and he was caressing my face. I let him. He told me; "I love you". I believed him. I had never been this alone with a boy, and the look in his eyes certainly looked like he loved me?  His kiss was powerful to skinny kid. The kid who played violin badly, and was too shy to play sports. The kid who'd taken herself to church three times a week for the past nine years, and leaned a lot to the dorky side. One kiss, and  all the advice I'd been given by my Youth Director about saving my virtue for my husband flew out the window of his '74 Oldsmobile.

   I was horrified that I'd allow this to happen. I'd never really been around very many boys, and when I was it was more like we were passing notes in class, and claiming to *go steady* for a week or two. Nothing ever happened. I was not a loose girl. So here I am literally disgusted with myself. I went to church on my own the next day, on Easter morning,  and sat through the service staring through my tears. I dabbed my eyes and nose, and considering that it was an Easter service, it went unnoticed.

   After church my family all met up with cousins at a local park for an family gathering and picnic. My Grandma noticed I was acting peculiar, and tried to talk to me. She asked me if I was feeling alright? I couldn't look her in the eye. I had this feeling that she would know? I have to wonder if she didn't? That moment would define "Easter" for me for the rest of my life. I just felt like I let God, Grandma, and my parents down. I felt dirty, and ashamed. And on Easter of all days...

  A month later I didn't get my period. Planned Parenthood offerend free pregnancy tests. One day after school, my friend Jenny and I rushed home, and called to get the results. Pregnant. I'll never forget how faint I felt. Jenny held my hand and she cried for me. The room began spinning... I was numb. So I called my "boyfriend" to tell him, thinking in my young, hopeful mind that he would say something like: "We'll just get married." He said nothing at all. Then, he hung the phone up. Dead silence...and I felt my world crash down around me. I was in trouble.

  I pretended at first that it wasn't real. Then, when I began throwing up in the mornings, I began to accept it. Soon, I felt flutters, and kicks. Still, there was my Dad to deal with and I didn't know how? Class went on, and summer arrived. I began to cover my belly with gathered sun-dresses. I just kept going to school and acting like this wasn't happening.

 I still remember my thought process: adoption? I had heard frightening stories of The Edna Gladney Home for Unwed Mothers, as it was known in those days. I was just too selfish and immature to consider giving it up. I believed those horror stories of girls being beaten and baby's taken away before they had a chance to look at them. To me, I was having a baby-doll. I couldn't picture a real live infant. I was just too young to wrap my mind around it all. I was still sort of "playing house" with the thought of a baby.

  So,  friends started advising me, and some parents got involved. One friends Mother was involved in the National Organization for Women (N.O.W.) and she said they can help with finances. I was so scared, I just wanted the situation to go away, and my nerdy little teenage life to move forward. I had no idea what I was doing... I was following advice, and just about everyone said: It's not a baby. It's a mass. Just get rid of it and go on with your life. It  seemed so simple, and without the emotional trauma of adoption.

   The boyfriend was 2 hours late picking me up for the appointment. I sat crying in a parking lot by a pay-phone where we were to meet. When he finally arrived, he was drunk. I was scared. When we finally arrived, they gave me a pill to calm me down, and I waited my turn behind a white curtain. I heard young girls crying, and we all tried to console each other  in whispers. I was stunned to know this was fairly common. That other young girls have gotten themselves into trouble? Really, there had to have been 20 teens in the clinic that day. If they are going through with this as well, surely this must be the right thing to do? What else was there?  

  At the Abortion clinic,they didn't put you under anesthesia to perform the operation. They gave you a sedative, but you were awake. You were told what would happen, in what order. On the day of my first attempt, I got as far as the table, and the Doctor examined me, and immediately backed away. He told whispered something to the nurse, and she told me I was "too far along" for an abortion at this clinic.

   I got up, drowsy, and disoriented, and went out to the car, in the parking lot, where he was waiting. When I told him they couldn't perform the procedure, he became angry and started cussing. Fists flew and he and threw me on the ground and began hitting me. Never under estimate a puny kid. Because I can kick like a mule, and proceeded to until he got off me. He drove me home in silence. I told my parents I got in a fight.. it wasn't a lie.

   The following day I called my mom from the school office. She said; "You have three options Kelly; you can give it up for adoption, have an abortion, or keep it, but if you do, I can't raise it for you." Mom worked 3-11pm as a L.V.N. and was remarried.  Both my Mom and Step Dad were kind to me about this, but it was made clear that I should consider alternatives and finish school. No one would have to know. I think that's the worst kind of shame.... the kind that it so horrible no one should ever know? Again, Abortion seemed like the only alternative and I was told there was a *special clinic* in another town that handles second trimester pregnancies. My Mom arranged to be there with me during the procedure.

     Second attempt: I had just turned 16. No anesthesia, just a Valium and a little I.V. Demoral. I heard the clinking of metal. The doctor tried to tell me what he was doing, as he was doing it. "You'll feel a little pressure". PRESSURE? It was hell. I was told to shut up because I'd scare the other clients when I began to scream. I looked up at my Mom, but the look on her face told me that something was wrong. I was bleeding out, and they packed my body with ice. They were talking about calling "Care-Flight". Nurses scrambled and Doctors cussed. But the bleeding finally eased up and after a few hours I was allowed to go home and recover. Over the next few weeks, my Mom and Step Dad nursed me gently back to health. I was weak all summer, and my milk had come down. I bled for weeks.  All the talk about it being "over with quickly" and "getting back to my normal life" were not happening. It was a rough summer, but yes, I did heal, and move on. But I never forgot. You don't forget this sort of thing, you just learn to pretend it didn't happen.

      A few years later, when I was married proper, and carrying the child that would be my first born son, I saw a pregnancy display at the Museum of Science and History. It was made of clay, but portrayed an embryo in the womb, like half of a woman, dissected. I saw what a baby looked like at 6 weeks, 9 weeks, oh God, this is a real baby. This is not a mass. At 12 weeks there was no denying and at 18 weeks..., I fainted dead away. I woke to someone patting my face and I cried. The reality of what I had done was real. I prayed that day that God would forgive me for my ignorance... forgive the boyfriend, wherever he might be,(?), forgive him for encouraging me, forgive those people who just wanted it to go away... forgive us all. Mostly, forgive me God for murder. I'm sorry. I believed the lies.

   On some occasions, I bargain with God. Help me to make this make some sense?? Please God, don't let this be for nothing! Give me the chance to help some girl who is struggling? Or an older women still carrying the same burden who just needs to be reminded that our sins can be washed as white as snow? I will always give to others as long as I draw breath. But I can't  redeem myself. I can't bring my baby back. It is Jesus who does the redeeming and has my eternity mapped out. Not me. I'm glad, because there's not enough good works to cover that kind of disaster. Still, God has always taken evil, and turned it to His glory. This is not beyond Him for me, or for any woman. If you've gotten this far in the story, please know, HIS GLORY is the only reason I write this. And to reach out to others. Because if the Abortion Clinics were seeing over 20 patients a day at ONE CLINIC, how many other women are carrying this secret?

   And here I am, many years later on Easter morning, remembering that summer. 364 days a year, I'm mostly ok. Remembering that I'm forgiven, yet wondering what I can do in this life to be the candle on the hill for someone desparately seeking the light? To steer them towards Christ, not an abortion clinic? It's what needs to be spoken of, to save lives of innocent babies. To help repair the damage and lies women have bought into. We must, as Christians, speak out as strongly as the feminists in the 70's did against abortion. I can do that, and I always will.

 But one day every single year, I  count back the time to be aware of just how old that child would be if I had made a different choice? Instead of gathering with others at church and celebrate the resurrection, I quietly remember that summer and the innocence and child I lost. I avoid church on Easter because that service brings back the memory of a 15 year old girl, sitting in a pew, scared out of her wits...

 But forgive me, because I just can't go back  to church on Easter. Not yet.














 

 



 


  

Question: WHAT KEEPS YA HUMBLE?

Answer: A GOOD LAUGH AT YOURSELF!

It's good to be able to laugh at ones self, and today that's just what I'm doing. I have been comparing lifestyles of the Amish/Mennonites and, well, ME. There is an appauling, visible difference in their simplicity in thier homes, especially their kitchens, and mine. It's like "sense vrs. nonsense", or "peace compared to chaos"?  I always wanted to be the keeper of the home, yet I see my husband cooking breakfast, because I need some rest from working all week.  I guess my mind is rather programmed to consider their way verses the way I am? Or the way "we" are as a couple??
My husband actually likes cooking a hearty breakfast, and I don't. I'm great at lunch and dinner, desserts, casseroles, and appetizers. But I have a hard time focusing in the morning, and prefer to just sit and sip my cuppa joe will I wait for the fog to clear.  I get sidetracked worrying about this. It's an internal battle of me wanting to be the haus-frau, but I'm terrible at breakfast!  Shouldn't I be the very model of  domesticity??? Well, too bad. I'm not. So I like to laugh about those little battles and I hope you'll laugh with me? Laughing at our weaknesses, and shortcomings is honest, and part of what keeps us humble. So off we go!

 

  

 

 In my mind, my home should be neat, organized, and tidy. Like the Mennonites? Ok, more like some Mennonites, ...no, more like the Mennonites in coffee table books! There we go! Believe it or not, even Mennonite women have children who drag toys out. They have days when the dishes pile up, when the laundry is too much. They also get sick just like everyone else. The thing that they have that I probably envy the most is the sense of community that comes with church. It's not uncommon for a group of women to go clean another womans home when she's unable to keep up for any given reason. Most commonly; a new baby, illness, or a death. Still, they rely on each other. All churches of all denominations should be that way, and many are. Still, ya gotta give the trophy to the Mennonites for really going the extra mile in the sense of *community*. 

But just like facebook, and pop-culture, people are people, and just because you post a picture, doesn't mean life is always that way. It means you captured a good moment. Life is full of chaos, disorderly kitchens, toys strung from one end of the house to the other, and trash that smells. You can't smell a picture, you can only capture the best moment of the day, and post it to leave the impression that life is organized and pristine. And as humans, we love to show our best side! Aren't we peculiar that way?

 

Life tends to be more random, reckless, and half hazard. Yet I think I need to rise to a higher standard? Truthfully, most Mennonites I know DO have orderly kitchens, but it's out of necessity.  I fall so short in this department, likely because I wasn't raised Mennonite, and I didn't have a huge family that required this sort of forethought in the pantry, I'm guessing? But still, I carry some guilt about it, because I've spent so long trying to fit in with the Mennonites, that you'd think my kitchen would reflect this? Nah. Forget about it. I'll just enjoy my friends orderly kitchens, and do my very best to keep mine clean. I can live with that.

 

http://amishamerica.com/amish-canning/

 

Here is an image I relate to a little better, because SINCE becoming a Mennonite via the plain route, (no longer plain, but I should get brownie points for trying), I've become rather brainwashed in the laundry department. I have  large drawer full of long black socks purchased through various catalogs in the past 15 or so years. My friend Patty Lockwood wrote about Mennonite catalogs here on ber blog; The Morning Ramble:

http://morningramble.blogspot.com/2006/01/amish-mennonite-catalogs.html.


 There are many nifty items including black socks that are easily purchased through stores that cater to the Amish and Mennonites. I sometimes find them at department stores, but rarely at a good price.. There is something about a solid pair of black knee socks that *for me* just reeks of trying too hard. Yet I've worn them for so long, that they have become a part of me, at least in the winter. My Birkenstock's are part of me in the summer.


All my very plain friends wear the black socks, and we all have little jokes about the number of black socks we own.  My sock of choice for winter is by far, the polyester-cable-kit-knee-length-black sock. It's something that the younger Mennonites will probably move away from, but I suppose I'm stuck on them? Hey, I have bigger fish to fry, so I can live with the black sock obsession. Some people collect Star Trek memorabilia, just probably not The Mennonites. Really, this is nothing to be concerned with in the big scale of things. So bear with me, as I can't seem to get past the black sock thing? They are warm, they are modest, they don't show dirt! It's one small step for mankind. And they help me wear skirts because they keep my legs warm. They are warm under jeans. They are warm under scrubs. What's not to love?



Moving forward, my next investment, other than more black socks, will be a hangy-down, clothespin-covered, chandelier like product that you can hang your black socks from. It doesn't have lights, but it's functional in that it doesn't take up space, and one can dry socks indoors from it. It just looks like a chandelier... ok, a redneck chandelier...

I found one in The Budget,

http://www.thebudgetnewspaper.com/subscriptioninformation.html   

(newspaper for the Amish/Mennonites,written BY the Amish/Mennonites)  listed for $19.95.

With all these socks, this is a requirement, and absolutely so if I'm going to call myself Anabaptist, however, I fall short in every other area. Really.... I do. But such is life and it's all a struggle to put one foot in front of the other as we all step heavenward. Right?


I hope you've gotten a chuckle or two out of my perception of myself,  my disorganized kitchen and my footwear?  I'm not too terribly worried about what's on the outside, or who cooks breakfast, as long as overall, my motives are pleasing to God? He knows my heart. He knows I don't wake up and hit the stove running!  He knows I fancy black socks. He also knows I love to laugh. Today, I looked at my kitchen and sock drawer, and did just that. Hope you did too. Blessings! Now go clean out your sock drawer!

Flirting With Disaster

My husband Scott and I flew up to Ohio to visit our children and grandchildren right in time to experience a natural disaster: Deracho 2012. A Deracho is as deadly as a tornado, but the winds are straight-line, and not in rotation. Kind of like a wall of fury coming at you all at once, wiping out everthing with any ounce of weakness in it's path. 100 year old oak trees are plucked up out of the ground like spring carrots and deposited in the neighbors pool. Roofs ripped off and power lines snapped in the blink of an eye. Your world is mowed down by an invisible force that you can only see coming by radar.

 

 

Disaster is not something you plan on, or think will happen to you? Many Americans in 2012 think they are somewhat impervious to a true disaster, as if it's ridiculous to think that anything catastrophic could possibly happen? Or worse; that the government, The Red Cross, and other volunteer agencies will swoop in and take care of them? Right now as I write this, Hurricane Isaac has made headlines and families living as far as Arkansas are dealing with floodwaters and scrambling for cover, while trying to save pictures and a few keepsakes. Many leaving behind pets to fend for themselves. Don't think it can't happen to you. Fire, flood, drought, and wind can level a lifetime of accumulation. Which really makes me wonder why we all strive so hard to accumulate? But that's another post...

 

 

 

Well, I'm pleased to say that the community of Newark, Ohio really came together and worked through this ordeal. But I realized just how community oriented we all are in small snippets of daily life during the 10 days without electricity, and in the big-middle of the States most outrageous heat-wave in 50 years. It was hot, and it was humid. We took cold showers, and my very gracious family set up a camp stove outside, and had hot coffee waiting for us every morning. We pulled together with neighbors and family and had a good time doing so. But this taught me a lesson: Keep water and food on hand.  And yeah, I know this could easily lead into a rant about "prepping", but I'm not going there right now. Instead I want you to picture with me how delicate our system is, and you can imagine on your own how something like this can affect you where you are presently?

 

 

 

 

Day one: I decided to venture out into the streets about 2 hours after the storm to see if any businesses were open and were in the world was the fringe of this storms path? Who had electricity, if any? Were people hurt? Could I help in any way? I drove my car carefully around downed power lines, wove around pine trees and oaks in the middle of the street, up to the "main drag" where all the stores are. The first thing I noticed besides the abscence of electricity and all the visual devestation, was that none of the stop-lights were operating. Nothing tests a persons character more than the ability for personal gain, even in traffic. People were driving like idiots, and horns were blasting, and middle fingers flying with wild abandon. It was like a trip to New York City, minus the great ethnic food and Broadway plays. I managed my way to the local store, and was stunned to see people coming and going It appears they had some emergency back up system, so I went in, grabbed lots of bottled, water, canned beans, fruit, bread, peanut butter, and snacks, because I felt deep down in my gut, that none of this would be available in a few days?

 

 

 

 

 

Day two: Need ice, and our telephones are not working! No gas is available, because the pumps operate on electricity. Plan: Drive out of town until we get a phone signal. Call everyone in Texas to let them know we are okay. Find gas, ice, and more food. We had a house full of family, and a diabetic Granddaughter. Make sure she has the right foods and plenty of insulin. Check.

 

 

 

 

Day three: Need more ice. Went by the grocery store again. They were out of ice, out of ANY fresh meat or cheese, and fruits and vegetables had been picked over. All that was left was cabbage, onions, radishes, and about 6 bags of potatoes. I grabbed a bag of potatoes, and went to the canned meat isle. Picked over, but I grabbed some spam, and a couple cans of soup.
Question: Why aren't they shipping more food in?
Answer: Because they have no means to store it.
This is scary. Kroger looks apocolyptic and it's 88 degrees inside, and it's starting to smell. No food coming in, and what's there is starting to get ripe.

 

 

 

 

Are you getting the picture? This went on for 10 days. Everyday I drove into town and scouted for ice, gas, and a phone signal. The elderly and infirmed where being sent to Red Cross stations across town because they couldn't take the heat. I thanked God every single day that we were able to swim in my brothers pool, and sleep in my sisters cool basement. We really made an adventure out of it for the grandkids.  We played board games, sang songs and just told stories. But in the back of my mind I couldn't help but wonder if there was more I could do to be better prepared going forward? 

 

One of the most amazing things I witnessed during this power outage was the fresh faces of teenagers, as they figured out how to spend their time without their cell phones? Seeing groups of teens walk the streets, sit outside in groups, and play board games gave me a lot of hope for the next generation, and I'll bet they'll have a story to tell when they are adults? I'll bet there was more than one teen happy that their parents had those board games, or a stack of cards in the drawer? 

 

 

 

What do you do to prepare yourself? Do you have any kind of emergency plan? Do you know how to make do, or do without? How do you store important documents? Do you keep emergency medicine on-hand? Is there emergency rations of food in your pantry? Do you have a plan?

 

 

 

Giving "food for thought" is like planting a harvest for tomorrow.

 

 

In Christ,
Kelly

 

 

 

Singing the Tomato Blues...

                      

     When I was about 10, my parents divorced. My Mother moved out and I stayed at home with my Dad, visiting Mom at her apartment on the weekends. Not a very common arrangement for the 1970's...  My mother was a nurse at the county hospital's emergency room, a bit of a feminist, and very handy with a gun. She was a bit ahead of her time. She was a good seamstress, and creative. But not a huge gardener in this stage of life.

     But we never gardened until my Dad remarried. My stepmom was, whether she likes to admit it or not; "from good country stock". Her Mother became my Grandmother and took me in like I had always been there. I had new little brother to boot and scores of cousins. My stepmom brought with her, into this new relationship a myriad of skills that I had never learned, one being cleaning, but that's another post. I suppose I should tell you her name; it's Lawanna. And Lawanna was a force to be reckoned with. When she moved in, my world changed forever, and I have to say; for the better. No kid wants their parents to divorce of course, but I suppose I'm an optimist? We had our struggles and sometimes still do, but what she taught me I'm eternally grateful for. She taught me to work.  




     Of course at 12, I balked. I bawled, I threw every fit I could imagine, but nothing seemed to work. Lawanna persevered. She got me out of bed, dressed me in my grubbiest clothes (because they are just going to get grubbier,) and set me to work doing the hardest thing I had every heard of a kid doing: working a garden. I couldn't see the point in it? We turned the Saint Augustine grass over without the aid of a tiller. We combed the grass out and picked rocks for weeks. My new little brother "Clark" was not an exception to work, just because he was 5 years younger. We both moaned and complained but it did us no good. However Lawanna had mercy in her- she would stop us in the heat of the day, bring us in the shade for Kool-Aid and then let us run through the water sprinkler. Then back to work.



    When the last rock had been pulled out and the rows were made nice and neat, Lawanna and Daddy planted the little plants they'd made from seed in the early, cold, spring. I thought the deal was done and I was free from my labor camp experience? No, I just had a reprieve. Soon I was *weeding* with a hoe before I could go out and play. The plants grew and before long we brought in bushels of green tomatoes. They lined the kitchen counters and we ate fried green tomatoes while we waited for the green to turn pink, then orange, then red.

Suddenly- there were more red tomatoes than we could possibly eat! We canned a bunch, but Lawanna was, if nothing else; enterprising. She sacked up the tomatoes, loaded my little red wagon full and sent me and Clark knocking door to door in our neighborhood selling "garden fresh tomatoes". At first I was shy and overwhelmed with the thought of talking to strangers. But Lawanna struck a deal with me: For every bag we sell for .50 cents, Clark and I get to keep HALF! Ok, keep in mind this is 1974. I got .25 cents allowance weekly which was immediately wasted on penny-candy at the 7-11 up the street. Did I mention we lived in the city and no one had gardens in the city in 1974??? We had a HOT commodity and it took off like gangbusters. Overnight, Lawanna got my respect as me and Clark looked forward to selling another wagon load of tomatoes and seeing what we could buy? Lawanna's a genius!!!



    My new found fortune began paying off. Clark was a saver, and I was a spender. Like every young girl, I wanted cosmetic items, a manicure set, and Breck Shampoo. I believe I sent off for *Sea Monkeys* from the back of Tiger Beat Magazine, and was, like every pre-teen I knew, sorely disappointed? Never saw anything other than something greenish growing in that fishbowl. Nothing like the sales ad suggested, not even remotely close. But apparently, this is part of the nostalgia of the 70's, so I guess not all is lost? I just thought I'd have a *pet*?? Sea Monkeys are something that every kid in my era was fascinated with. After all, we had one-line rotary phones, and no internet. We had paper books and magazines with uber-cool ads that never live up to their promises. Such was the 70's... Oh well, live and learn. I bought yarn to crotchet with, and fabric to make pillows for my bed, and my first tube of "Charlie" colonge, that smelled more like turpentine, than perfume. I got a Madame Alexander Doll from Cox's, some lures for my rod and reel, and my stash of penny-candy grew to be the envy of every 7-th grader in my school! Remember; a quarter bought you 24 pieces of wrapped candy. I'm sure I was on a year long sugar high... Daddy, if your reading this- that may explain a lot?


   But the best memories are of just walking through our neighborhood, in the hot July heat, and trying to give each neighbor that doe-eyed innocent look that will twist their heart into a knot and make them buy a bag of tomatoes. I haven't lost that touch, by the way. What's funny to me all these years later is; I suppose my doe-eyed look didn't carry as much weight as I thought? Now at 50, I realize how hard it is to grow your own good tomatoes, and how much better they taste than those bought in a store. The tomatoes were selling themselves, but God Bless Lawanna, she taught us a lesson in going out there and getting the job done! It only helped my self esteem to think *I* was doing any selling? It helped me develop a work ethic that I'm proud of. And it helped me realize I can make do or do without?



   As I weed my garden and glance around at my counter full of tomatoes forty years later... I wonder;.. how much would a bag go for today? It's a thought, and don't think I wouldn't do it again just for grins? Thanks Lawanna. You planted a lot in me, and I'm better person for it.

In picture above: Kelly holding *Wrinkles*, Clark, (Rest In Peace little brother) Daddy, and Lawanna. Circa 1974.

Hand-Tooled Rustic Rawhide (Reflections on *50*)

  Yesterday, while sitting with good friends on a sunny front porch, I realized how far I've come on my journey. I looked across her prairie pasture and I could see clear to Waco. Seeing that distance, and how easy it was on my eyes, It hit me like a ton of lead- just how far I've come in my nearly 50 years... in my journey...on the road to wherever I'm going, looking back at where I've been.

  While sitting outside soaking up the warmth, a cold-front snuck up on us from behind and the temperature dropped. Clouds rolled in. The sky changed texture, and color. There were thunderheads behind little puffy cotton-boll-polka-dots in the sky. It was a myriad. Like God decided to break out his paintbrush just for us. It made me realize that life is so good at whatever phase and stage we are in. Those phases, like the clouds, change without warning to bring on something different, something drastic, or sometimes nothing but calm.

   Life is unpredictable, and I'm glad. Unpredictibility makes you light on your feet. You learn to become flexible and roll with the changes. You stop reacting and learn to adapt to the present and accept the past. Although I'm not as wild or stubborn as I used to be, I consider those attributes as part of the backdrop of who I am, and still reserve a little of that wild streak for a rainy day. It all helped to mold me. Maybe God used it despite me and my youthful arrogance?? In the end, I am pliable and functional just the way I am. Best of all; I am gratefully aware that my past is part of the road to here.

  Processing all this *past*...I feel a little older, but not worn out. Almost like I live inside a well worn pair of old boots. They are comfortable, and suitable for my every need. The dings and scars of self-induced drama, and defensive wounds have done nothing but add character and make the leather tougher, yet softer to the touch. Perhaps the sole (or soul) will need reattaching over time, but they are built for the long haul, the briar's, & the bull-nettle. At first glance you'd think all this abrasiveness would take away from the beauty of the hand-tooling? But nah, it adds to it. I guess I don't just wear the boots. I have become the boots? And thankfully, the boots fit fine.