Older?
We’re at the Gulf coast in November, off-season. There are fewer people on the beach and in restaurants, and fewer cars on the road. Everything is calm and slower-paced, a perfect time for our visit. Based on the gray hair and sagging, splotched skin of the folks staying with us at the Wyndham Beach Street Cottages, I’d say most are retired, like us. Where we’re alone, however, several of these couples have grandkids with them, children who appear to be about the age of my grandkids. And this is where I get confused. If the ages of our grandchildren are comparable, doesn’t it follow that the ages of the grandparents should be comparable? George and I were in our thirties before we had kids, where most of our generation were in their twenties, so I would even...
Mom and Dad
They lived near the entrance to the neighborhood, the couple we referred to as Mom and Dad. They were a bit older than us and seemed to be retired, though we don’t know for sure since we never met them. They had the most beautifully landscaped/manicured yard in our subdivision, sure to catch the attention of anyone driving in. It was so immaculate and inspiring, it almost made you believe all the other yards were just as perfect, though very few were. The two worked in their yard every morning–mowing, trimming, planting, pruning; a familiar sight on my drive to work. And if I came home for lunch, I would find them sitting in red chairs, sharing a pitcher of iced tea and gazing at their yard, enjoying the fruits of their labor. The pride they took in their...
NO!
There was a red Jeep sitting near the power lines, an out-of-the-way place apart from the houses in the neighborhood. I was walking Prince when I noticed it—and knew to be wary since it was an unfamiliar vehicle. The car’s windows were down and as I drew closer, I could see a guy sitting in the driver’s seat. An alarm rang in my head, telling me to be alert. I held the dog’s leash firmly, positioned him on my side closest to the car, took a deep breath and picked up speed as I began to pass. Then I heard his voice. “Hey, good-looking!” My blood turned to ice and I readied myself to get into defensive stance. The Rape Aggression Defense class (RAD) I took at the local police department taught me to do exactly that. I had practiced for years and now it looked as if...
Mrs. George?
Shortly after I married her son, my mother-in-law gave me a gift of stationery. It was a pretty shade of blue with a name in dark blue at the top of each page: Mrs. George Curran. It struck me as being an odd gift, something I certainly couldn’t be expected to use. It was the cultural norm for women of my parents’ generation to be known as the Mrs. to the husband’s name. This was in spite of the fact that my mother and mother-in-law were not dependent on their husbands for survival, each having successful careers outside of the home. Perhaps they still acknowledged an earlier time when women managed the household and nothing more, totally dependent on their husbands, and lived as a mere extension of a portion of his life. I came from a different era. I grew up as...
Amendment
I’m still shaking my head over a conversation I heard while walking in my neighborhood. The characters: four or five middle school boys. The setting: a driveway. What they were doing: tossing a football and talking. “What’s the First Amendments?” asked Boy 1. “I (mumble, mumble),” said Boy 2. “Ha! You don’t know!” said Boy 1, in a condescending tone. “Well, neither do you!” protested Boy 2. “Of course I know the First Amendments,” said Boy 1. “That’s why I asked you!” “If you know what it is,” said Boy 2, “why are you asking me?” “To see if you know,” said Boy 1. “And I’m not gonna tell you what it is!” “Ha! You think you’re so smart!” said Boy 2. “But you don’t know the First Amendments either since you won’t say what it is.” “Harrumph!” said Boy 1. “Everybody...
Wait
God tells us to wait in many ways. The question, though, is whether or not we’ll pick up on what He’s trying to say. When you couldn’t get your foot in the stirrup and there was nobody to give you a leg up, it might have been God’s way of saying you weren’t meant to go horseback riding. And maybe it was only after your credit card was rejected you realized you couldn’t afford that sweater after all. The book you wanted at the library was unavailable so you chose a different book, one that made a difference in your parenting. Or your car broke down on your way to a hang-gliding lesson that might have been deadly due to an unexpected storm. Maybe it was simply an uneasy feeling as you were about to share a deep secret that prompted you to shut your mouth. God...
Trains
We rode a train recently, the Tennessee Central Railway, on the Super Fall Foliage Trip to Cookeville. Friends Bernie and Tracy went along. The train car, built in the mid-1950s, didn’t appear to have been updated in a while with upholstery, carpet, and curtains that were old and musty-smelling. But we expected to ride on an antique so, no problem. All part of the experience. We sat in seats facing each other and enjoyed hours of laughter. Leafers, Bernie called us, due to the nature of the tour. The fall foliage was just so-so, probably prettier at higher elevations, but we had a blast anyway, talking, walking through the cars (a challenge when the train is moving at a good clip) and getting acquainted with the volunteer conductors. Both of my grandfathers...
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