For My Brother

  My brother has a beautiful wife.
And, she is dying.
She has Alzheimer's, and it is slowly robbing her mind, stealing her memories, and taking her from her husband and children. That beautiful light, is slowly fading.

 My brother tells me, "This is really happening, and I don't know how to stop it.", and I understand.
It's a terrible thing to realize, you are not in control.

 We go through life, making decisions, planning our future, and bending the rules, to make it go our way. We, foolishly think we are twisting the plot, as if we're the author of our story.

 Then one day you stand, screaming in the face of the doctor, telling him to take back his words. It can't be true.

 Above my desk, I see the cross stitched words,
 "I have been driven many times upon my knees, by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go." Abraham Lincoln
 The absolute truth is, there is no better place to be.

 My brother is a strongman. He can lift a thousand pounds, and throw it to the moon. But, he can't lift his head above his sorrow. He is bent to this burden, and fears he will break.

 I want to tell him,
be broken.
Lie, shattered, at Jesus feet.

Be Broken. That's how the Light gets in.

The Dog Days Of Summer

   This has been the hottest Summer I can remember. I suppose it could have been worse. There were days the weatherman predicted a high of 108 or 110, but my thermometer never went over 106.
   This oppressive heat has made us all act a little strange. Even my dogs, who normally follow me around the house, inside and out, have grown very attached to the couch, and air conditioning.

  The most frightening thing I have noticed this Summer, there seems to be an unusual amount of crazy talk and irrational thinking going around. For example the steady rising of Trump in the polls. I normally keep my political views to myself, but this one...I'd like to throw some cold water on Americas face and scream, "SNAP OUT OF IT!". I mean, what are you thinking?

  Maybe the heat has fried our brains. Or maybe we are all just suffering from a BlueBell ice cream deficiency. Yes, our grandchildren will likely read about this Summer in their history books. Someday, along with the Great Depression, and the Dust Bowl days, they will learn the story of the BlueBell ice cream famine of 2015. They'll ask us how we survived. I will say," I don't know, but I didn't even lose weight."

Summer Radio

 
      I was never a Chicago fan. Maybe because I was never in band. It seems like all the band kids really liked Chicago. I liked some of their songs, but I never bought an album, or tried to see them in concert, so that probably means, I was not a fan. However, I heard a Chicago song on the radio, yesterday, and it brought back some really nice memories of a Summer, long ago, and a boy, I'll never forget.

     There's something about listening to the radio, in the Summertime. We can't forget the music played at the swimming pool, the lake, or in our backyards.   It's the soundtrack of slumber parties, and the nights we crawled out bedroom windows, to meet with our summer friends.( The ones in town to visit their real dads.)
 A certain song can take me back to carnivals, and camp outs, and sun bathing. I can almost smell the baby oil and iodine.

  It's likely I fell in love a hundred times, over just a handful of Summers. What can I say? There were cute boys everywhere, and music to encourage a young girls imagination. One hot, sticky Summer night at camp, one of the counselors, a cute high school boy, played his guitar, and sang, By The Time I Get To Phoenix. That night I made the connection between boys and guitars. I was never the same.

  I'm sure anyone, around my age, can remember the Summer we heard American Pie played 100,000 times on the radio. And, I'll bet you still know every word, and sing along, to this day. It's stuck in your head, right now, isn't it?

  I think of my friend, Lisa every time I hear Bad Company, or ZZ Top. And I see us, tanned in tube tops, and bell bottoms, riding around, with the windows rolled down.
I can picture Teresa, Mary and me, in sleeping bags, in Debbie's backyard, whenever I hear Hey Jude.
Paul Simon, and Carol King always make me think of sweet Shelley.
And I miss Ivy, when I hear anything by The Guess Who.

  I know I'm sentimental, but Summer radio stirs up memories of the best friends I ever had, and the cutest boys I ever knew.
 It's 102 outside. Might as well turn on the radio, and make some memories.



  

ARE WE COMFORTABLE YET ?

  I had a few errands to run, before 8:00 this morning. So, I left the house with dirty hair, and no makeup, in hopes of seeing no one I knew. I ducked in and out of the places I needed to be, with my head down, and returned home, my pride intact.
Lucky me.
 Who cares? People don't get dressed up to go shopping anymore. Really, people don't even dress up for church, weddings or funerals like they used to.

  We've come a long way from June Cleaver's day of defrosting the fridge, vacuuming the carpets, and re-grouting the bathtub, in heels and pearls.

This is how my mother dressed me everyday

I remember my mother wearing a dress, and stockings to Six Flags. I'm seriously saying stockings, not pantyhose. I feel tired now, just thinking about it.
 My aunt said she once asked Mom to go with her to pay a bill in town, and mom said she needed to change first. When she came out she was wearing a dress, white gloves, and a hat. After all, it was Springtime in the 1950's.


Grandmother Bacon going to church

  As ridiculous as that may seem, I believe our efforts to relax have crossed a line. Most women live in yoga pants, and sports bras, like they expect to stumble upon a work out.
 Since we quit wearing pantyhose a few years ago, I'm not sure everyone gets the concept of tights or leggings. Let me put it simply. We don't want to see your butt. Your top should always be long enough to cover your rear. If you are a white girl, don't wear white, beige, or pink leggings. You look like Porky Pig, who, as you know, did not wear pants. Get it?

  A woman came to my garage sale, wearing her swimsuit, and a cute, yet see through,
cover up. I thought, "Were you planning on taking a swim?" But, she had on jewelry, and a full face of makeup. I can't imagine how I would, ever end up anywhere, in a bathing suit. If the house caught on fire while I was in the shower, and all my other clothes were burning, you might see me in a swim suit.

  Men are just as bad. My pastor can walk from the pulpit to the gym, without ever having to change his clothes. With him, I find this endearing. He is raising 4 children and needs the ability to move quickly. At least he doesn't wear a bun.
  Why does the Man Bun bother me so? It's just not right. It goes against nature. You're a Man, for Pete's sake. Grow a beard.

  I look in my closet, and I'm ashamed to say, it's full of sneakers and flip flops.( Is it possible to own just one pair of flip flops? ) The only dress hanging in there, I wore to my daughter's wedding, 6 years ago. I guess I've given up, too.

  Tell me, America, are we comfortable yet?

 



 

 

TO JEANNA, WHO KNOWS...

  Take a look at this photo.
 It may seem a little odd, but it was a G.A. (Girls Auxiliary) Coronation, in the Baptist church, where I grew up. I'm not completely sure how the young ladies, with the crowns and scepters achieved such high honors, as  I was not in G.A.'s that long. We could never keep a leader past summer camp, so...

 However, I was involved in two of these coronations, as a crown bearer. My job was to follow my Queen down the aisle, with a pillow bearing her crown.
 See all the adorable little girls, with their smooth hairstyles, and pastel dresses. But, wait! There in the middle. Who are those two puffy haired, freaks in Red? What are they doing in there with all those normal children?

 The little one is my niece, Jeanna. I am the sad girl on the right, and this was my mother's handiwork.
  I was dressed in pink, my entire life, yet Mom chose this moment, this very important, photographic moment to see how I looked in scarlet brocade.

 This is not a great photograph, but if you look closely, you may notice something in our eyes. Sadness? Fear?
We had just been through the traumatic experience of the 1960's Home Permanent.

Once in awhile, I would begin to feel pretty good about myself, only to be brought back to reality by a home perm. Mom, the kitchen beautician, would say, "it's only until the curl relaxes, then it will be so pretty." Until then, I got to enjoy the giggles, and comments from classmates about my poodle bangs. Kids can be very cruel, especially when moms give them so much to work with.

  Teachers do this, as well.
 " You did well on that test today. You won the spelling bee. Well, now it's recess, so lets go out and run"
Me: " Sure, I can run. "
Teacher: " We are going to run around the parameter of the playground, twice. I'll time you. "
 Me: " Wow, this is hard.
 Is my chest supposed to hurt like this?
 My friend left me behind! Why would she do that?
 Boy, it really is hard to run in a dress and Sunday school shoes.
 Why does our playground have swings, when we don't get to use them?
 Everyone looks like they're through running.
 Why can't I play on the swings? I just want to swing.
 Was that the bell?
 Everybody is going in! Except my teacher. She's still standing there with her stupid stopwatch. Maybe she should get an hourglass.
 I think I'll be sick, tomorrow. "

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LAUREN

  Happy Birthday, Baby Girl!
   There are no calories in Heaven so, you and Jesus can eat all the birthday cake and ice cream you want. I'll bet the ice cream is BlueBell, because Heaven is perfect.

   I should be used to missing you by now, but I'm not. In the wee hours of this morning, I had a dream about you. I walked into the house, and there you were, at nine years old. I hugged you as hard as I could, and said, happy birthday, sweet Lauren, and I love you. You were excited about your birthday, then you just disappeared. There were a lot of people there, and I kept waiting for you to come back. I looked out the window, every few minutes, but couldn't see you. Then, it occurred to me. The windows were too dirty to see anything. I remembered the lyrics to that John Prine song.
 Broken hearts and dirty windows

 Make life difficult to see.
 That's why last night and this morning
 Always look the same to me.

 And then, I remembered.
 I remembered praying, asking God to make it not be true. To make it go away.
 I woke up, with my fist clinched, and my arms hurting.

 It was still dark, so I stayed in bed, and thought about nine year old you.
 I thought about how, you would burst into song, at the dinner table. I used to do the same thing, when I was little, and my mother would always say, "No singing at the table!" But, she never said why. So, when you sang, I just let you. And, I laughed.
 You could twirl anything. You were always picking things up in stores and twirling them. Rolls of wrapping paper, yard sticks, nothing was safe. It was fine until you learned high tosses, and three baton.
 You left a trail of glitter and sequins everywhere.
 You were the happiest person I ever knew.
 You blessed my life, and I am thankful God let me be your mom.





 

YOU CAN'T IMAGINE HOW LITTLE I CARE

  They were watching the Wendy Williams show, this morning, at the salon where I was getting a pedicure. I don't watch this show, but it seems to revolve around celebrity gossip and, Wendy's opinion of those celebrities. An audience member even asked her advice about a married friend, sleeping with her x. Wendy's advice, squeal like a pig, sing like a bird. Wendy may have gotten someone killed, today.

 As I watched, I began to wonder, why is this entertainment? Are people really that bored?

 Think about it. If you were standing in a grocery store, and a toddler started throwing a fit, you would walk away as fast as you could. But if some big star throws a fit in that same store, you'll watch it a hundred times on YouTube, and tweet it to all your friends. All we are doing, is giving that celebrity the attention, for which, like the screaming toddler, they are begging.

 Why do we care?
 If some little girl, I've never heard of, is overheard telling her friends how much she hates Americans for eating doughnuts, has it changed my life? No. I haven't had a doughnut in three years, so she can kiss my pale American.....foot.

Yes, it's sad that I can remember my last doughnut.
 I bet Kim Kardashian can remember her last doughnut. She probably took a selfie.