Overload

I love Edvard Munch. His simple, expressive "Scream" painting say it all some days.

This week has been one of those weeks where it seems that I have just had too many things (words, problems, situations, ideas, etc.) thrown at me in rapid succession.

The problem? I just can't seem to take it all in as fast as I used to be able to. I don't know if it is just age, fatigue, or what. Due to many factors, I don't sleep as well as I would like to. I know lack of sleep tends make me feel "dull."

I am pondering as to whether or not I need to step down from some obligations (NOT my watercolor classes at the Senior Center!) and let younger, more energetic people handle them. Unfortunately, these same folks tend to lack the time to follow through and maintain things.

For the time being, I guess I will just scream silently and hope things settle down soon.

Father's Day 2012

Tomorrow will be my first Father's Day without my Daddy. And it is hard to believe he has been in Heaven for six months already. 


Tomorrow, the newly added handicapped restroom at Yokena Presbyterian Church will be dedicated in Daddy's memory. Now I know that some will see this as perhaps undignified, but I see it as perfect. 


Because of treatments for his prostate cancer, and following the removal of a sizable portion of his colon, Daddy always knew where every restroom was in every store, restaurant, and gas station. And, as he was an extremely practical soul, he would heartily approve of the memorials given to him be used for the purpose of a more accesible restroom. 


Daddy loved Yokena Presbyterian Church. When asked during Sunday School class one day what he thought would happen after he died, Daddy made the following quip.


"I'm not worried about it. I am going to be a little angel with wings floating around everwhere, checking on the Sunday School class." 


Tomorrow, I think he will be watching from Heaven. And beaming with pride. 

Singing

Lately, I have found myself singing around the house again. For the longest time, even though I love to sing, I didn't do this. There just did not seem to be any point. I wasn't going to be singing a solo anytime soon. Why keep in shape? 


But since I have been really using my voice on a regular basis (not just holding back and trying to blend) I find that I am getting back notes and a degree of breath control I thought I had lost. And what a joy this is! 


Next Sunday, I will sing at Yokena Presbyterian Church. In July, I will be singing at First United Methodist Church in Clinton. Then I am off to Hermanville, MS for two Sundays. And, of course, I hope to make a stop a Truly Ministries during this time as well. I am grateful to them forever for allowing me to spread my wings and get back what I thought might be gone forever. 


This is just part of "The Lord's Prayer" from last Sunday at Truly Ministries. Not perfect, but so much better than I thought it would ever be again. 

A Pocket Full of Nickels

This poem is by the late Bev Nason, who was also "blessed" with Myasthenia Gravis. She really hit the nail on the head. Substitute prednisone for Mestinon in my case. And my variety of MG does not go into remission.

A Pocket Full Of Nickels

By Beverly J. NASON  

On a good morning, we awake with a dollars worth of invisible nickels
in our pocket, or perhaps we find them after our
first dose of Mestinon.
We must decide how to spend this precious supply.

Shall we shower, dress, make the bed, have breakfast, go to a job,
and recklessly spend them all at once?
Perhaps, we should just use twenty-five cents,
and dress without the shower or shave, leave the bed for later,
and spend five to fifteen cents for breakfast.

We alone may judge from our recent experience.
Having decided, we act, and our precious deposits is made into an
invisible slot, filled with invisible batteries.
These batteries kick in slowly and we drain their reserve.
When it is close to gone, we force ourselves to rest.
As the day progresses, we decided to do a small chore.
The shave, shower, shampoo? Five more nickels perhaps?
The bed? One nickel perhaps. Cleaning house? Going to work?

How many nickels will we have to spend today?
For many of us, we can barely afford one nickel at a time, today.
If we have the luxury of time for a rest period or a nap,

We might awaken with a sudden new supply of nickels in our pocket.
Probably our next dose of Mestinon will provide us with a
fresh supply. For others, we may find we've chosen unwisely
and squandered our day's wealth,

Or borrowed from them tomorrow, to do what had to be done,
or simply what we wanted to do to improve our quality of life.
the debt must be repaid, and time in bed will be the price.
We can gamble them all away, or spend them gratefully.

When we awake, morning after morning, with pockets full of nickels,
Such an abundance that we no longer have to count them
We have achieved Myasthenia Gravis remission

May you all have "pocket full of nickels"

Carefully Taught

I just watched a PBS special on the late, great, Oscar Hammerstein. Most folks know him as the lyricist, who, with composer Richard Rogers, gave us timeless musicals like "The Sound of Music", "Oklahoma", and "South Pacific" to name a few. 


But I learned a lot more about Hammerstein, the man, tonight. He fearlessly dealt with racism in 1927's "Showboat." He cast "Carmen Jones", an all black musical, and quite daring for 1943 (20 years before the Civil Rights Movement." And Hammerstein pondered the issue again in the "South Pacific" in 1949 with "Carefully Taught."


The sad part is that we have not come that far in the past 60+ years. Everyday I see instances where young children are already being taught hate in places and by people who should be teaching them to love. 

You’ve got to be taught
To hate and fear,
You’ve got to be taught
From year to year,
It’s got to be drummed
In your dear little ear
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff’rent shade,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You’ve got to be carefully taught!

"Mrs. Kennedy and Me"

I am currently reading this book, written by Jacqueline Kennedy's former Secret Service agent, Clint Hill.

Clint Hill was one of the agents in charge of President Eisenhower's detail. When he was assigned to Mrs. Kennedy instead of JFK, he was intitially disappointed. But, he found that keeping up with this First Lady was going to be the challenge of a lifetime.


I am now at the chapter that will tell about that fateful day in Dallas back in November 1963. The Jackie Kennedy that Clint Hill describes in the first 3/4 of the book is about to have her life changed forever. I was barely 4 years old and I don't remember that day. But, even though I know what happens, I find myself reluctant to read this chapter. I am enjoying holding on to this portrait of one of the youngest and most vital first ladies in US history. I will read this chapter and finish the book.

Tomorrow.

Yellow Bike Books

 

Last January, needing a little time away after losing my Daddy in December, I arranged to spend a weekend in Grenada with my friend Teresa. Grenada is a good sort of "halfway" point for us to meet and I had found a lovely Comfort Inn that sported "in room" hot tubs. Being able to watch football playoffs, while sitting in a hot tub sipping Diet Coke is about as good as it gets for me. 

Teresa and I are both booklovers, so when we saw the sign for a small, independent bookstore, we immediately went in to explore. I met the personable owner, Debbie, and somehow we got on the subject of the possibility of adding art to her inventory. She was going to be moving to a new building soon, adding a coffee shop, and would have more space. We agreed to stay in touch and make this happen.

This past weekend, I went up to Grenada with some of my paintings and prints. Debbie arranged them quite nicely and I spent Saturday letting children come in and paint watercolors with me. I held a drawing and gave away a painting. And I encourged people to look at my art for gift ideas for future birthdays, graduations, holidays, etc. 

Painting with the children was the most fun. From 2-13, each one had his or her own uninhibited style and ideas. I have to admit my favorite was this 2 year old, who painted with the solemnity of a Master. 

I hope my art "takes off" in Grenada! But, even if it doesn't, I would not take anything for my experience at Yellow Bike Books last weekend. I look forward to a return trip soon!

Mama's Birthday

April 30 was my mother's birthday. She died at age 57. It is hard to believe she would be 79 had she lived. Try as I might, I can't picture my mother as an "old" lady. No matter what her chronological age would have been, I don't think she would ever have been old in outlook or behavior. 

There are so many things I wish she had lived to see. She would have delighted in her grandchildren. They would most certainly have been the smartest and most beautiful children on the planet. And Mama was the one who used to practically gag when her friends with grandchildren used to boast! I think Mama would have liked the internet. Being able to find the answer to almost anything at the click of a mouse would have appealed to her. And I think she would have enjoyed Facebook. Mama loved to keep up with people and be in on the latest goings on. 

I wish Mama could have seen the person I have become. It was not until after she died that I went into therapy and learned to stand up for myself. I think she would have been proud that I went back and got my Master's in Counseling. She would have appreciated that I finally got up the gumption to pursue art. Of course, had she been able to live longer, I would have still been caring for her with no time to pursue these goals. A mixed blessing, indeed. 

So, tomorrow, April 30th, I will raise a glass to Mama. And when I look in the mirror, I will see a big part of her...in me. 

Spring Show 2012

Last night, I was humbled and honored to win two honorable mentions for my artwork at the Vicksburg Art Association Spring Show.



Most of the art on display this year was truly amazing. Some years, there are a lot of pieces that I just don't "get." But that was not the case this year.

In these art shows, I am competing against people who are professional artists and art instructors. People who have been "doing art" for more years than I have been alive, in some cases. With my paltry 3 years of experience, mostly self-taught, I am always amazed when I am part of some pretty illustrious company.

But, as happy as I was with my recognition, I was even more thrilled for the winner of the second place ribbon in watercolor, my Senior Center student and longtime friend, Norma. She is living proof that it is never too late to pursue a passion and learn a new skill.

Really Good Day!

Today was an absolutely wonderful day. 


It began with church at Truly Ministries at 8:30. A dear, dear friend met me there for worship. And worship we did! I sang a Ken Medema favorite "Lord, Listen to Your Children Praying" and even got the congregation to sing along with me. And Reverend Truly preached an inspiring sermon that had me smiling through the entire thing!


After that, my friend and I went to breakfast at Cracker Barrel. Grits, eggs, muffins, hot biscuits...what's not to like? We had a chance to catch up with and enjoy each other. 


Then, this afternoon, Mylie's "Gran" and I went to redo Mylie's room. We had Mylie's mom take her out and we did a room to make a 5 year old happy. Plenty of pink and purple, with hearts, flowers and butterflies that fit Mylie's personality to a "T." I never had children, so being able to spoil other people's kids brings me great joy. 


Now I am home, tired but happy. 


Mostly happy. 

Funeral for a Cousin

Yesterday, I attended the funeral of my Daddy's cousin Herman. Called "Little Herman", being a junior, he stood well over 6 feet tall. 


The funeral was very well done. Longtime, loyal store employees shared rememberances of Herman from the pulpit. Songs were sung and prayers were offered. 


After the service, my stepmom and I decided not to try to make the graveside service due to the heat and the long walk that faced us when we got to the cemetery. When I got home, my sister Tammy called and said that Herman's funeral procession did not go to the city cemetery. Instead it had gone across town in the opposite direction. 


I was baffled. I thought there was room in the Tillman lot for Herman. I could not figure out where another cemetery might be in the tiny town of Hazlehurst, MS. My sister promised to find out and let me know. 


This afternoon, I got another call. Herman had, indeed, been buried in the Tillman lot in the Hazlehurst city cemetery. But, first, the procession took him past Tillman furniture, the flagship of his 5 stores, one last time. 


I know that Herman would have approved. And that he and Daddy had a ringside seat watching from Heaven. 

Another "First"

Tomorrow Easter will mark yet another "first" without Daddy. I have made it through Christmas, New Years, and his birthday. For some reason, this one seems hardest so far. No Easter get together is planned. I am not making a coconut cake in the shape of a bunny, I did not go in search of those awful individually wrapped eggs. The ones that are white inside with hard pastel coating on the outside. Daddy liked those and Circus Peanuts. I never really could figure out why. I find them both at the very bottom of the candy food chain myself.


Tomorrow, I will attend his little church, Yokena Presbyterian, with my sweet stepmom. It will be strange sitting in a pew without him beside me. Strange not having him make sure I have a bulletin and a hymnal. Strange not hearing his voice banter back and forth with his friends before the service begins. 


I know it will get easier with time. But first, I have to make it through another "first" without him. 


And that is not easy. 

Via Dolorosa

Friday, Lord willing, I will sing the Via Dolorosa at Christ Episcopal Church Vicksburg for the 23rd straight year. This is something I look forward to every year. This year, I have a touch of bronchitis that is threatening the quality of my performance. I am hoping to be able to sing this one song, even if I don't sing again for weeks.

A couple of years ago, I scoured the internet for public domain images of Christ carrying His cross down the "Way of Sorrows" and made this video to accompany a recording of the "Via Dolorosa" done in Nashville a few years back.

Walk the "Via Dolorosa" with Christ this Good Friday.

Joyful

This morning I went to Truly Ministries "Dream Center" to sing the "Via Dolorosa." I can't begin to describe what a joyful experience this was for me. It was as if the song just poured out of me, with an effortlessness that I have not felt in a long time.

I have been feeling the tug of spreading my wings and going to visit other churches and witness through music for a couple of years now. But I never truly felt free to do so until now. I think the joy I felt this morning was a sign that I am on the right path.

So, I am stepping out to see just where it leads me.

Joyfully!

First Birthday

My Daddy desperately wanted to make his 80th birthday. When asked his age, he would say "I'll be 80 in March (the 28th to be exact) instead of 79." I have to admit that I don't like those newspaper ad things that wish deceased people a "Happy Birthday." With the passing of the Earthly body, there are no more Earthly birthdays. I hope that Daddy is rejoicing in Heaven every day now. 


This is not to say that these days surrounding Daddy's birthday are not hard. I won't be baking a coconut cake with seven minute icing. I won't be trying to find a card that will make him smile. Most difficult of all is that I won't be calling him to sing his own version of Happy Birthday (aka Happy Birf Birf) to you. 

The Dads wishing each other a Happy Birthday last year

But there will be an Earthly celebration for my Father-in-Law tomorrow. He shared my Daddy's birthday and will turn 83 tomorrow. Mr. Sanders has treated me like I was "his" since I married his son 28 years ago. The work of cooking on his birthday meal has helped distract me a bit from dwelling on my Daddy and how much I miss him. 


At least a little. 

The End

Today marks the end of a tradition for me. I will not be singing the Via Dolorosa at my church. I have been singing this for at least 23 years.

Due to many factors, I have not been able to be in choir much this year. I chose not to do the cantata this year, due to it being the same week as Daddy's birthday, family coming to visit, health issues, and still being mired in settling Daddy's estate.

So, I was not asked to sing the Via Dolorosa this year.

And it makes me sad.

Daddy's Cookies

For the first time since last Fall, I am baking oatmeal cookies. These are not just any oatmeal cookies. These were my Daddy's special oatmeal cookies. 


My Daddy used to talk about the oatmeal cookies his mama used to make. Of course, like most cooks of her time, she seldom wrote down recipes, so after she died there was no way of knowing exactly what quantities of what went into her oatmeal cookies. 


Over the years my mom tried to recreate these cookies for him, but they were always "too sweet", "not the right texture", etc. Competing with a memory was tough! 


After mom died, I continued to try oatmeal cookie recipes over the years to see if I could somehow recreate the magic for my Daddy. Finally, I stumbled upon this recipe and refined it to Daddy's specifications. I made a batch and took them to him. He took a bite and I could see by the look on his face that these were the cookies he had been waiting for. 


So, I am making a batch of Daddy's favorite cookies today, and remembering his smiles. 

Birthday Boy

Saturday, I drove to Baton Rouge for a very special occasion. My cousin Audrey's husband, Pete, was having a birthday party to celebrate the big 8-0. 


When I got to his daughter's house where the party was being held, I was amazed at all the cars parked on the street. I finally found a place to park about 2 blocks away, grabbed my trusty red walker and began trekking to the house. I think half of Baton Rouge was invited to "party with Pete."


I got to hug and visit with a bunch of cousins. I had my picture taken with the birthday boy. Entertainment provided by his children and grandchildren in the form of Hee Haw songs, etc, prepared just for this occasion. And no gathering would be complete without coconut cake. 


After my Daddy's cancer came back, he would always answer that he "would be 80 in March", instead of saying that he was 79. Daddy really wanted to make 80. And I was looking forward to celebrating with him. Daddy's birthday party is being held in Heaven this year. 


But, thanks to getting to celebrate #80 with Pete, not getting to celebrate with Daddy stings a little less. 

"Airport"

Last night, as I was late night channel surfing, I came upon this movie in the middle of one of my favorite scenes. Helen Hayes, the stowaway, was explaining to airport management just how she had been able to "fly free" for years. A few tricks, plus her "sweet old lady" looks had allowed her to travel pretty much wherever and whenever she wanted. Helen Hayes was absolutely masterful in this part. 


And, of course, I could not help but make comparisons to the "old" days of flying vs. the way it is now, post 911. 


Back when I first saw "Airport" at the Joy Theater in Vicksburg, Mississippi, we had just put my dad on a plane to Atlanta. The whole family had been able to go the gate to wait with him and hug him goodbye before he boarded. The toilets cost 10 cents apiece to use. Even the escalator was an exotic treat to ride. People dressed up to fly. Men were in ties and women in neat pantsuits or dresses. 


I had forgotten just how sexy Dean Martin was in a "straight" dramatic role. How cute a young Gary Collins was. How beautiful Jaqueline Bissett (curvacious, not one of these modern, emaciated stars) was in her heyday. 


And it made me long for those days before body scanners, pat downs, luggage searches, and constant suspicion made flying more of a chore to be dreaded than the adventure it once was. 

My Mailman

It is the end of an era on Porter's Chapel Road. Our wonderful mailman, Donnie, has retired after many years of service. The envy of many of our friends, we often received our mail by noon.

When Donnie would deliver packages to our door, he knew to give me a little extra time to get there. One time, when I was expecting several packages and I had the flu, he would tell me to "feel better" when I opened the door to accept my delivery.

At Christmas, I would leave candy in my mailbox for him. If I happened to catch him while he was getting it, I would be rewarded with a nod and a big smile.

I have not yet met our new postman. He does not bring our mail until mid to late afternoon. That is usually when I am napping. I am sure he will be fine and I will get used to him.

But I still miss Donnie.