Monday, September 28, 2009

Sliding Along

This morning I woke with a word in my mouth. I love words, take them to heart, adopt them, work with them–but this one woke me from a sound sleep. It lay there on my tongue as I tried to decide whether to spit it out, swallow it, or digest it. I was still half asleep when the word spread its invasive tentacles through my mind. I could think of nothing else.

Slide. That’s the word, a simple five letter one that comes with a hiss, fills your mouth, and ends like the closing of a door. What does it mean? Is it the gradual downward trend of company profits, the sudden out-of-control slipping of an auto on an icy street, or the rush of a runner on the ground speeding into second base?

Some people slide through life on an even keel at a steady pace with little effort, excitement, or tension. They take what they get and are happy to be where they are. Others don’t slide at all. They seize control, have goals and refuse to let anything change their courses or thwart their plans. Sadly, these power-driven controllers may miss the joy of unexpected blessings passed up or ignored along the way.

Then there are others like me who have goals and look to the future, but are firmly anchored in the present. I'm thankful for every day as a time to enjoy being alive in the beautiful world we live in. I appreciate my ever-active, creative mind that makes me curious and eager to know everybody and everything. I love my writing time when I’m alone with thoughts pouring out, but I also crave the company of others and want to share their lives.

Most of all, I want to be what I was made to be and to accomplish all I am meant to do. At times I feel I’m sliding along, not moving fast enough toward completion, like the pineapple pie that my family loves. I make that pie from ingredients waiting in the kitchen or on a pantry shelf. When the pie’s ready, I slide it into the oven. After what seems a long time, its mouth-watering aroma tells me it’s done. The filling is slightly tinged with brown, just solid enough not to jiggle, and surrounded with a lovely brown crust. A pie sure to please my family as much as it does me.

My life seems to be at the sloshy stage of the pie when the ingredients are all in place but they just haven’t jelled yet. My goal is to reach the point of doneness where I am all my maker planned for me to be.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Follow the Leader



Sunday, Frank and I spent a while in the twilight zone, driving up and down one of the busiest roads in Mississippi looking for the turn-off that led to my cousin Erie’s house. You’d think that in a city next door to Memphis you’d see street signs pointing the way to anywhere you wanted to go. There were posts, white concrete posts standing guard at corners, pure white sentinels unblemished by the slightest hint of black or any other color. Could the street names have been washed away by the torrential rains we’ve had for days? To make matters worse, a few naked metal posts meant to bear a street name at the top had lost their identities.

After turning down every road on the south side several times and finding no trace of the house we knew had to be there, Frank finally pulled out his trusty cell phone and announced to our daughter, “We’re lost.” That was a historic first. We’d driven all over the country and he’d never before admitted we were lost. And we were practically in our own backyard. I’d been kicking myself in the head for not bringing Erie’s phone number, and Frank was bemoaning the fact that he didn’t have his maps in the car. I wonder when we’ll get a GPS so we won’t have to worry about getting lost.

When we finally reached our destination, we were hustled to the table where we enjoyed a delicious meal and a delightful conversation about wasp stings and other fascinating topics. Erie’s hand was swollen to twice its size due to an encounter with a yellow jacket.

Meanwhile through the window, a fowl sight met our eyes. Perched on the porch railing, the pickup truck, and the mailbox were a boldly colored rooster and his harem of ladies all attired in various styles and colors of chicken fashion. Chosen for their variety and unique appearance, the chickens were all young, hatched in April. They had joined the family for two reasons, to adorn the landscape and to provide eggs for the family.

After lunch, we toured the backyard, admiring the latest in chicken housing and amenities. Darrell, the Golden Crested Polish rooster, resplendent in his red, black, dark blue plumage gleaming with a touch of gold and a mop a rock star would admire adorning his head, presented his harem for review.

First came the plump, brownish Ameraucanas with their eyes peering over muffs and beards around their faces. Then the Buttercups with their golden necks held high strutted by. A little Japanese Phoenix, her striking silver head and neck feathers contrasting with a black body and tail, seemed to be a loner as did the pretty little Rhode Island Red pecking at the ground here and there to find the perfect tidbit. Cochin puffballs covered with feathers, even their legs, were as sweet and docile as they looked. The most noticeable of the flock and the most active were the White Leghorns with their dazzling white feathers, slim necks and bare yellow legs.

The flock certainly was an entertaining sight. All those of various breeds and temperaments were living together in harmony, guarded and protected by Darrell the magnificent. When he called, the hens came running whether it was to escape a hawk or to feast on a treat of cracked corn. His ladies trust Darrell, rely on his protection, and follow his commands.


If only people, as different as Darrell’s hens are, would trust and look to their Leader and Protector for guidance, perhaps we too could live in harmony as those chickens do and not worry about getting lost.


The photo at the top is Erie with Darrell

Monday, September 7, 2009

Sneak Attack

Yesterday, I did it again, walked outside on a lovely summer afternoon, unprotected. I didn’t forget my sunscreen, and it wasn’t a guy in a black mask who attacked me or a couple of pit bulls. I was assaulted by villains made bold in their invisibility.

I had strolled into my own backyard to check on a newly planted fig tree. I stopped to admire my latest horticultural interest, a group of sedums in my grandmother’s antique urns. Then I continued on around the garden, pulling a weed or two and dreaming of changing the once sunny garden into a shady one, a necessary project caused by tremendous growth of neighbors’ trees surrounding my little green space and blocking the sun.

A stabbing pain hit my ankle, and I hurried inside, knowing I had been discovered and was considered fair game. Before I could collapse into my recliner, I realized I’d been ravished by unseen carnivorous creatures lurking in secret, primed to attack any warm-blooded being in the vicinity.

I thought I’d escaped with a single bite, but before I could douse it with alcohol, a burning sting erupted up and down both arms around my ankles and my feet. I’d stupidly worn flip-flops and a short sleeve shirt. It was all my fault. I broke my number one personal rule. Never go outside in the summer without spraying or rubbing on insect repellent. Not for a second.

As I sat there watching welts the size of nickels pop up on my arms, I scratched like crazy and wondered why life is so unfair. Some people, my husband Frank for example, are not bothered by mosquitoes. Then I thought how fortunate I am to live now with DEET repellents available and mosquito controls in effect. Not that they always work, and who wants to constantly contaminate our air and water with chemicals to kill mosquitoes?

In the 1800s Memphis was nearly wiped out by Yellow Fever spread by mosquitoes. So few people were left that they had to give up the city charter. Recently we had a scare of West Nile Virus carried by mosquitoes. The vile creatures can carry any number of diseases, but I have to think the ones who bit me are innocent, just hungry.

News flash! Frank just informed me that my bites probably didn’t come from mosquitoes, but from no-see-ums, the tiny, almost invisible flies that set a person or an animal on fire with their bites. I guess I’m luckier than many. My itchy bumps were completely gone in about thirty minutes. Whew! What a relief!

Oh, well, I guess mosquitoes have to eat, and no-see-ums too.