Days of Delight

We fill our days with lots of gladness,
Which may look to others like pure madness.
First a tour of a true southern home,
Which welcomes all who into it roam.
A fireside chat with a prolific author,
While his cats beg for treats in their saucer.
His wife beaming, as well she should;
They've created a life that's very good.

Two hours of lunch with best friends,
Lots of bridges we seek to mend.
Then off to shop in a little boutique
For that "little something" so unique.
My man comes home from a day of labor;
Volunteering is what he tends to favor.
Supper and chatting with our hosts,
Before we hand our dreams over to the Holy Ghost.

A Good Sisterhood

Looking forward to today
When my oldest friends come to play
Move over Ya-Ya Sisterhood;
What we have is just as good.

We're all grannies now,
And getting up a bit in age.
Laughter is the best medicine
When one reaches this life stage.

Beside the beach, we'll ride along;
We may share in a bit of song.
Our celebration will be intense
To balance our many life's laments.

The sun will dance upon the waves
As we lift our voices in grateful praise
For the pure joy of life and love
Raining down on us from up above.

Forget the Familiar

Forget the familiar;
It will only produce pain.
Our challenge as adults
Is to begin again.
The milk we drank was poisoned
By our parents' strain.

Oh, how easy it would be
To be like dad or mom.
But we must address the wrongs paths
That our parents' lives have formed,
Before our children's children
Accept this as the norm.

We understand how they became
So very lost and confused,
But we still cannot forget
How their children were abused,
Or how it turned a child's faith
Into feelings of being used.

Am I my brother's keeper
Or my sister's saving grace?
What is expected of those
Who have looked Satan in his face?
Are we to fight, flee, or stand firmly
In our Savior's place?

How I long for the answers
To these and other quests.
Until I hear a clear voice,
I can only do my best
To hold those who are crying
And pray for our souls' rests.

He's Such a Handy Man

It's so easy to fold myself into the lives of young families without a thought about how it affects my marriage. There always seems to be so much need when there are children to be minded and minds to be molded. With the particular parents about whom I'm speaking, I know how carefully they choose with whom they entrust their children. The parents ask for me to help safeguard their young, and I am honored beyond belief. This leads to me often saying, "Yes" without thinking, leaving Richard in the lurch wanting for a wife to share a grown-up life.

I've never really enjoyed babies or babysitting, except when Richard was around to enforce order. He's a wonder to behold when a baby is upset, no matter the age of the baby. His center of calm seems to infuse whoever he's with. One of my favorite moves is to put a toddler in his care while I fix supper. He'll build a fort around the child, keeping the child so mesmerized that they forget to fuss. There's always a pay-off at the end, like busting down the tower, or frozen confections for all.

Screaming babies put in his lap are generally cooing in a matter of minutes. One of our infant nephews, as a breast-fed baby was inconsolable every time his mother left him. He used to comfort himself by sucking on Richard's thumb as they watched television together.

We have a whole new crop of kids coming up, most of the male persuasion. I hope I can convince Richard that he really wants to hang out with the boys after hanging out with the "boys." After a day of boat building, I hope he's ready for doing more than sitting on the sofa with the young men in training to be daddies. I hope he's up for enticing them to help with the baby boys.

I miss the days of cooking with kids playing in my line of sight. We even had a wall taken out of one of our houses to enable this experience. If only I'd asked Richard to bring his hand-hewn "chick sticks," I'm sure I'd succeed in seducing Richard to recreate those moments. I think I may hear some brand new Lincoln Logs calling out to me...

Creating Crabs on Canvas

One of the high points of this adventure has been spending individual time with the various women in my life. These are women who are some of my most missed soul-sisters, both young and old. I'm so fortunate that one of these women is my daughter-in-law, Buffy, whose company I adore. She's so accomplished in all that she does, and I'm honored that she finds the time to share who she is with me.

One night last week, she took me along as she and several of her teaching colleagues were to attend a class on learning to paint a blue crab, one of the iconic symbols of Ocean Springs art. I, who have never been able to draw well enough to even get good grades in penmanship, knew this was a lesson in futility for me, but I gladly accepted Buffy's invitation, just for the pleasure of her company.

We walked into a basement studio on the banks of a lazy lake where a dozen women were uncorking their respective bottles of wine. The artist and her assistant were busily pouring paint into little cups that were placed on plastic plates to serve as our palettes. Each of us was handed a blank square gallery-wrapped canvas and asked to choose a spot with a canvas stand and a bucket of brushes. As we all took our places, the artist took the stage.

She began with a simple series of charcoal lines on a white canvas background. We then moved on to outlining with black paint. We were told to simply do what she did. My work wasn't looking promising, and the only comment I received from the circulating assistant was, "Those black lines are heavy." I was used to failing at art, so this didn't bother me. I kept reminding myself that the night was about time with Buffy, sort of like coloring was about time with my little sister and then my children and grandchildren. I decided to go with my natural wing-it flow. What did I have to lose?

Amazingly, as we followed the lead of the artist, each of our crabs-on-canvas began to develop its own shape and personality. The lesson began to feel like fun. As we layered and blended color-by-color, I began to become quite confident and felt rather creative. Each budding artist had something that could be readily identified as a crab, but nothing was wall-ready.

The artist told us to step back from our easels and carry the works-in-progress back to another table for application of "secret sauce." This was a series of squeeze bottles filled with various paint colors. The idea was that we could use the bottles to apply flourishes and details that make the paintings pop.

What fun it was to watch each of us create googly eyes and wild whiskers for our finishing touches! And what a difference the secret sauce made. Both Buffy and I were proud of our finished projects. Buffy's now hangs in her living room to greet all guests and can even be seen on her facebook page. Mine might eventually grace my beach house, wherever that may be.

More Beautiful Than the Beaches

The beaches are more beautiful than we have ever seen;
The sand is more plentiful, and oh so very clean.
The least terns have nesting mounds of beach grass
The parent birds dive bomb all who dare to pass.

Most old oaks survived intact during the storm;
Sculptures were carved out of trees that were harmed.
There are eagles and egrets where oaks used to be,
A rooted sculpture garden for all passersby to see.

There are few buildings now allowed on the beach;
Most are moving beyond the next storm's reach.
The old south may be gone, but the new will arise;
What is yet to emerge is sure to surprise.

I have cast my eye longingly on a lot on the bay;
Across the highway is the beach where the little ones play.
But oh, I miss the marsh and the light on the lake;
Our memories there, I've been unable to forsake.

Our neighbors have moved; starting over we'd do
With friends close by that have always been true.
Our beloved New Orleans would be only minutes away,
With the Higgins Boat project and other places to play.

So many of "my" children would be in the next state,
When I got lonesome for them, I'd not have to wait.
In less than an hour, I could get a dose of The Spirit
Sharing with someone who wants to hear it.

Poor Richard would get a much-needed break
As I partied with my first husband's namesake.
I could visit grandchildren for an afternoon,
With promises to see them again really soon.

My nieces could call on us to babysit
Whenever their schedules were too tight a fit.
Grown friends are fine, but what I live for
Is the light of love shining through young family's doors.

White Christmases to Come

Most of the time my children were growing up, I was divorced from, and sharing custody of them with, their father. We took turns having them for holidays, so I taught them that Jesus wasn't actually born on December; therefore, we could choose any random day on which to celebrate Christmas together. Once, we ended up with Christmas, complete with a decorated tree and Christmas carols, in mid-March. This year, I'm putting our Christmas spirit to the test, once again.

My mother never even decorated our Christmas tree before Christmas Eve. She said that this was to commemorate the trees bursting into bloom when Jesus was born.
Tomorrow marks two weeks before Christmas. As usual, all of our gifts have long been bought and awaiting packaging into approximately fifty separate family surprise boxes. Jams have been made, but pecans have neither been bought nor roasted. Coconut macaroons aren't baked, and bourbon balls are still in the bottles and boxes of individual ingredients. And not one decoration has been hung by the chimney or anywhere else at our place.

Richard is alone at our home in the holler, and I have just been released from my duties as assistant to my sister, the executor of my mother's estate. I really don't have the energy to hurry home, bake, and box all those gifts for Richard to wrap and mail prior to the big day. For this, the package delivery people's families should be thankful. My children and their children have alternate holiday plans made because of the uncertainty about my availability, so I'm afraid that our version of Santa's sleigh will stay grounded this year.

Richard and I have never spent a Christmas together as a couple without outside obligations. This year, I think we can both stand a bit of comfort, joy, and blessed peace while we take a rest from family. We plan to check into a Gulf Coast Casino hotel and put a little jingle in the nickle slot machines, attend a few first-class Christmas shows, and eat rosy red crab legs dripping with butter from the bountiful buffets.

We'll spend lots of time driving around the Gulf Coast area from New Orleans to Ocean Springs looking for the perfect winter home. This way, we can guarantee that our next Christmas will be white, whether because of snow in Coker Creek, white caps on the waves of Lake Pontchartrain, or white sand on the Biloxi beaches. I'm dreaming of many wonderfully White Christmases to come; maybe a belated one in February or March. Would it be too tacky to celebrate Christmas during Mardi Gras?