JennyCarlisle.net

What Doesn't Kill Us Makes Us Stronger

2013-05-09T06:47:00.000-05:00

It’s that time of year again. While we are enjoying the sunshine that spotlights the beautiful azaleas and dogwoods, we are keeping an eye to the sky and remembering how quickly a springtime storm can devastate so many lives.

Towns like Mena and Arkadelphia here in the Ouachita region remember all too well what it’s like to have to start from scratch, rebuilding after a few minutes of hell on earth.

In the past month, two other towns in our nation have dealt with major tragedies. In Boston, the cause was an unthinkable attack during an event that is meant to signify victory, the culmination of years of hard work and sacrifice. In the small town of West, Texas, disaster came when a major source of prosperity for the townspeople suddenly became the catalyst for utter devastation.

Events like these always leave us shaking our heads. How is it possible for so many to be hurting so badly? It leaves us feeling helpless, confused, even angry. But, here in America, that feeling doesn’t last for long. It seems that the worse the disaster, the more we come together. First responders rush into the jaws of death, instinctively risking their own lives to save others. Trucks full of supplies are quickly sent on their way, overwhelming those in need with more help than they can handle.

When the disaster is not natural, but planned by a terrorist, it is even harder for us to stomach. What gratification could these people possibly hope to get out of maiming and killing? Evidently, it is the feeling of power, a massive grab for attention to their twisted cause. Such a fleeting thing for them, compared to the strong response it elicits from the survivors, which only builds as the days go by.

So how do we do it? What enables us to come together so quickly, so confidently when all seems hopeless? In part, it’s history. We remember other bad times, in all parts of the country, and how we’ve rallied before. When there’s a storm in New England, the power workers from the Southeast hit the road, repaying the help they received during their own time of trial. Firefighters from the mountains of Arkansas head West when flames threaten to engulf and overwhelm the locals. Teams of volunteer homebuilders travel to stricken areas to restore homes.

At times like these, we forget about “offending” someone by expressing our faith. Everyone from the guy on the street to the President of the United States calls for prayers for the victims. Patriotism reigns supreme, and the National Anthem is sung with new fervor and meaning.

Two young singers have similar songs about coming back after a devastating experience. Kelly Clarkson says “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, stand a little taller, just me, myself and I.” There’s a powerful, empowering message here that has resonated with folks going through all sorts of difficulties. Another young lady named Mandisa strikes a similar chord when she reminds us that God is always with us: “When the waves are taking you under, hold on just a little bit longer, He knows that this is gonna make you stronger.”

When it comes down to it, these massive situations are just a large number of individual struggles that happen at the same time. The personal stories are something we can all identify with. We’ve all felt loss, experienced illnesses and injuries that seemed insurmountable at the time. We remember what it felt like to be prayed for, how the love and support of others helped us through our darkest hours.

With that kind of encouragement, recent amputees are already setting their sights on next year’s marathon, and we’ve not doubt they will make it.

Dark days can and will come, even in the most beautiful places. But, with our faith as our armor, we can be ready. When we’re fortunate not to be at the epicenter, we’ll respond in the best way we can. We’ll fill rented trucks with supplies, donate money to the organizations who know what to do with it, link arms and belt out songs about how our flag survived the rockets’ red glare. That’s what makes America the best country in the world. Let’s just try harder to keep this spirit going between disasters.

Good Neighbors: Visit Early, Visit Often

2013-04-05T06:12:00.001-05:00

A common complaint heard these days is that neighbors just aren’t neighborly anymore. It’s nothing like when we were kids, the curmudgeons will say. My response: When was the last time you made the first contact? That’s what I thought.

A few weeks ago, some good neighbors: the kind who will feed your dog when you’re on vacation, moved out. I saw the hubby loading up a trailer with boxes, and yelled across the cul-de-sac ( the favored form of communication around here). I said “I’d come help you with that, but . . . I don’t want you to move!” We’re going to miss him and his wife and their sweet little daughter. We’ve loved watching her grow up, from the first toddling steps on the driveway, to waiting in her little lawn chair when she hears the ice cream truck, to wearing her raincoat and galoshes while performing as the “best water sprinkler jumper in the world”. (Her Daddy’s designation).

In a matter of only a day or two, we walked over as another trailer was being unloaded into the same garage. We introduced ourselves to the young couple who is bringing a new little girl- and Bonus- her baby brother to our neighborhood. Ah- potential Halloween monsters for trick or treating. They’ll fit right in. We may not have been a proper welcome wagon- no time to bake a cake- but a handshake and a howdy-do most likely went a long way in making them feel welcome. They said the lady who lives between us in the cul-de-sac had already been over. She’s quick, that one.

Developing next-door relationships takes work, but the rewards are remarkable. When I was growing up on a similar very close “circle”, our next-door neighbor’s basement was the preferred destination when the tornado sirens blew. She had a key to our house, and would make use of it to bring us homemade treats and candy. It seemed she didn’t miss a holiday, from the biggies like Christmas and Easter all the way down to Valentines and St. Patrick’s. There’s nothing to ease the pain of homework like settling it on the dining room table next to a fresh batch of cupcakes.

Other neighbors with children became life-long friends. Some of the same kids that were on our middle of the street baseball teams now share their nuggets of wisdom, along with pics of kids and grandkids on Facebook.

My husband grew up where the houses were not quite as close. His neighbors were actually cousins, and they spent a lot of time together. Their daddies spent the whole day driving trucks together, their moms and grandma quilting and canning. You can still get James and his sister and those girls laughing by mentioning a certain pony ride, or the egg shampoos that were practiced by the future hair-dresser in the bunch.

The street where we raised our kids was marked by chain-link fences. Once again, no need for telephones here. We’d stand in our yards and holler. The man across the street was particularly famous for this. He claimed to be able to predict when my parents were coming for a visit by our lawn-mowing schedule. Not entirely true, but it made for a good story.

The same man and I once shared the care and upkeep of a stray dog. He started it, by placing a pan of water outside his fence on a hot day. I continued with spare dog food. I was already taking meals to our own dogs in the back, so a walk to the front fence was not that difficult. Soon, the friendly English setter mix was named Rascal, as he managed to get inside the front gate and dig some really good “wallering” holes. Over the fence one day, I asked Carl what would happen when the weather got colder. After all, we were responsible for keeping the dog close by. We couldn’t just let him freeze. No answers that day, but within a week, a very sturdy dog house appeared at the end of Carl’s driveway.

Once labeled as being nosy - watching out for each other is now encouraged by the local police. Neighborhood watch groups are invaluable to those who protect and serve. It’s now politically correct to know which vehicles are commonly parked in front of each house. We learn each other’s work schedules, and notify each other of vacations. The better to be neighborly, my dear.

It takes a little effort, but it’s still very possible to have the kind of neighborhood Mr. Rogers would be proud to sing about. Smiles, waves, retrieving mis-thrown newspapers and improperly delivered mail are all free of charge, and make a huge difference. To have a good neighbor: Be One.

Hope is a Thing with Feathers, or Fins, or Fur

2013-03-09T00:09:00.000-06:00

Springtime in the Ouachitas is a welcomed interlude between power-line breaking ice and fried eggs on the pavement heat. We begin looking out our windows for glimpses of life, in the form of colorful birds at the feeder, or scurrying little critters sunning on the patio. Many of us break out the cane poles, attach a bobber, and pick a spot on the creek bank, on a quest for the catch of the day.

Yes, in this neck of the woods, we love all manner of wildlife. Some enjoy the thrill of the hunt, while others take a more relaxed, observatory approach. That is, as long as the little fellers stay in their proper places.

Like many of my neighbors, I have a bird feeder in the back yard, and welcome many visitors with blocks of peanut butter and suet, and yummy thistle and sunflower seeds. I’ve watched a cardinal couple bring their fledglings for a treat before venturing out into the wild. Red-wing blackbirds, yellow finches, and bluebirds add more color, and there’s a very handsome woodpecker who occasionally stops by.

When it’s time to build a nest, winged parents will go to great lengths to find the best spot to raise their brood. My mother has had the pleasure of watching a wren and her offspring in a window mounted flower box. Literally a bird’s eye view of a real life family drama.

A friend of mine had a surprise once when she opened her gas grill for a barbecue and found a nest full of little chirpers. Needless to say, outdoor cooking was delayed until that family was ready to move along, and a new device was purchased.

Springtime starts our motors running in earnest. I can remember cool mornings on the water with my step-dad, searching the trot-lines he had placed in hopes of a catfish feast. Sometimes, though, we would find the catfish partially eaten, and the perpetrator, an alligator gar, snared on the line. What happened to those ugly fish was certainly not pretty, as this usually jovial man did not treat them very charitably. I often told him that I hoped there was no such thing as re-incarnation, because he was bound to return as a gar, and suffer the same maltreatment from another fisherman.

Meanwhile, back in the back yard: squirrels often demonstrate their acrobatic ability when attempting to rob a bird feeder. They will stretch or jump from a nearby fence, hang upside down, and in general do whatever it takes to get ahold of the tasty morsels we intended for someone else. The same man who hated alligator gars loved watching squirrels, and even created special corn-cob holders which provided a place for the furry rodents to enjoy a feast. However, if they weren’t satisfied with their own food and coveted the bird seed, the gauntlet was tossed. My step dad devised a rope and pulley system which he could operate from inside the house. He would wait until the squirrel reached just the right position, and then . . . Whoops! Sorry, Charlie. Down the thief would go. Score update: enterprising man one, squirrel nothing.

Longtime friends of ours have a wonderful back yard with a spreading oak tree that seems to have attracted a colony of chipmunks. The animals constructed an elaborate village under the wooden deck, and used the privacy fence as their own superhighway, scurrying happily around, and surviving all sorts of eradication methods. These kind hearted folks learned to tolerate Alvin and his friends, as long as they stayed outside.

On one particular occasion, desperate measures became necessary when one of the little stripers ventured in through an open door and made his way to the master bathroom. The lady of the house recounts that her brave protector armed himself with a two by four and a plastic shopping bag and waited patiently for the animal to “become confident” and emerge from his hiding spot behind the commode. Then, using his best “Little Bunny Foo-Foo” method, the eradicator “bopped him on the head”. The plastic sack was then utilized to move the very still furry body to the dumpster. The next day, the victorious chipmunk hunter heard scratching noises coming from the dumpster and discovered that the creature had survived his ordeal. So, believing it only right that he concede and allow a reprieve, the man transported the chipmunk to a nearby creek bank for release. It is hoped that in the future, the chipmunk population will recognize the chivalry of this action, and properly observe their outdoor boundaries.

Happy Spring to all creatures, great and small!

The Changing Face of Love

2013-02-08T20:46:00.001-06:00

What does love mean to us? The answer to that question is very individual, and changes over time. It also varies a little by gender, and even the times in which we grow up.

Newborn babies experience love completely through physical contact. Science has proven that little ones thrive on that human touch, and it actually makes them healthier. I’ve known people who volunteer at hospitals to hold and rock sick children. It fills in gaps for parents who must work, and allows nurses to take care of more critical needs. This is also a great time for grandparents to bond. Though I’ve never seen any research on the subject, I think the attitude of the person doing the holding and rocking comes through and affects the behavior of the child. New parents are understandably nervous and apprehensive. They may even be anticipating those college educations that will soon need to be paid for. Grandparents, on the other hand, are totally relaxed, stress-free and completely joyful about the new addition to the family. We are setting the stage at this point for the days when Mom and Dad will be concerned with discipline, and Granny and Grandpa will be more about having fun.

Small children continue to enjoy the “feel” of love, and soon transfer their affections to inanimate objects. I remember a huge, furry stuffed poodle that I loved to lay on, drag around and sleep with. As my maternal instincts kicked in, I adopted a rag doll named Mandy that I still own. She is unique, because she is fashioned out of black material with stitched-on eyes and black yarn hair. She was just the right size for me to lug everywhere I went. Evidently, I took very good care of her (I wasn’t as rough and tumble as my younger sister) because she still wears her original yellow calico dress and lacy apron.

About the time little girls get in school, it becomes important that they designate one of their fellow students as a boyfriend. I can remember in first grade we all competed for the attention of one dark eyed boy named Bobby. We all claimed he liked us best, though truth be told I’m sure he spent more time running from us than showing any of us his favor.

In the “tween” years, we begin to develop crushes. Being a child of the TV generation, my first celebrity idol was Ricky Nelson. He was the cuter of the two brothers, and oh, could he sing! Later, I became enamored with the Osmond brothers, and even traveled to Kansas City with my mom and sister to become part of the screaming, swooning crowd. Standing outside waiting to get in to the concert, someone spotted some young male figures standing in a hotel window several stories up. Everyone started waving, certain these boys would remember us when they got on stage. Most likely, we were duped by imposters, who always remembered the time they made thousands of girls act like complete fools.

When we’re old enough to seriously look for a mate, we search to find the handsome prince who is the perfect combination of all the things we’ve been dreaming of since the dress-up tea party days. He must be great looking, polite, funny, and hardworking enough to support us while we raise our perfect family. The goal here is to kiss as few frogs as possible along the way.

My Prince Charming had a little bit of a tough sell. Because my own parents had divorced when I was small, I was not going to be swept off by the first young knave riding up on a charging white steed, or even driving a blue-gray Dodge Challenger. I wanted to be sure the king of my castle would stick around to help me rear his future little lords and ladies. Getting acquainted with his family helped in this regard. To them, happily ever after was a foregone conclusion. We rode off into the sunset at a young age, and I’ve never looked back.

These days, as we look back on the busy days of bringing up three independent, totally unique children, it has become all about companionship. Of course, surprises like a special gift from the local jeweler, or a fancy gourmet supper carry some weight. But more importantly, sitting next to each other being mesmerized by meaningless television shows or arguing with the GPS as we explore new territory makes our joy complete. We’ve been there, done that, got a t-shirt or two, and treasure the thought of returning home with each other. Love is no less exciting, just more satisfying than ever.

Random Lessons Learned during Twenty-twelve

2013-01-01T13:54:00.001-06:00

If you’re reading this, the Mayans were wrong. The world did not end on 12-21-12, and another year is going into the history books. We’re back to following the advice given to us by the Son of the only One who has it all figured out: “Watch and pray for you know not when the time is.” I guess we could have saved ourselves a lot of stress and worry. Sort of an “I could have had a V-8” moment, isn’t it?

In the working world, a common thing to do at the end of a project is to review the results; talk about lessons learned. One former boss used a military term and called this a “hot wash” session. We don’t assign any importance or order to these observations, just note them. Detailed analysis can come later.

So, here’s my hot wash for the twelfth year of the new millennium.

1: Never assume you can figure out your retirement plans on your own. The sooner you get an expert on board, the better. If your children are young enough, try to interest one of them in financial planning as a career. Raising your own Alex Keaton could be very beneficial to your whole family. On second thought- having a family member in charge of your money at such an early age could be a conflict of interest, and might prompt arsenic in your oatmeal. Better just consult the yellow pages.

2. If you find yourself in the situation of not having to report to work every day, enjoy every minute. Others will try to fill your time, but you are in ultimate control. If you’re trying to find a new job, try not to stress about it. Things will work out. Meanwhile, live it up, and wear pajamas and slippers all day if you get the chance!

3. Granny Camp with all of your grandkids in attendance can be a real joy. However, the idea of not having another adult around to assist can be abandoned if you have four campers ages 10 and under. Also, shortening the session from a week to three days is a remarkably wonderful idea!

4. You’re never too old for a job interview, and a well crafted resume can be extremely handy. This is your chance to blow your own horn. Don’t be dishonest, but don’t sell yourself short, either. Many employers are recognizing the value of hiring experienced, seasoned employees. On a related note: if you are asked to speak about one of your best features, and one of your worst ones, the weakness should be a cleverly disguised strength. Example: “I have a hard time letting go of a project when it’s finished, because I want everything to be perfect.”

5. Eighteen people can fit comfortably in a garage for a large family dinner. Crafty kids and grandkids can help with decorations the night before. Another stress reducing tip: take advantage of helpful mothers, sisters-in-law, daughters, daughters-in-law and grand-daughters, and send males of all ages outside until everything is on the table.

6. Two serious thoughts about tragic events that occurred just before Christmas. Even if God is no longer officially invited to our schools, He’s still there. And, guns don’t kill people, people who should not have access to guns kill people. I’m trying to keep this list positive, but sometimes things just must be said.

7. We live in a beautiful state, with boundless opportunities for happy jaunts with little or no planning. The State Park system is a secret that we should not keep to ourselves any longer. Though it would be impossible to name a favorite, Mounts Magazine, Nebo and Petit Jean are all in the running.

8. Social media is a fantastic tool for keeping in touch, and even for making new friends. Warnings about revealing too much of your private information are valid, but with due caution, online contacts can become real-life pals.

9. A healthy mix of good food and moderate exercise can make day to day life much more pleasant. Kudos to those who are making great strides along these lines, and for those of you who are just maintaining, never give up!

10. Changes of all kinds happen. During adjustment periods, don’t schedule too many activities. You need time for physical and emotional recuperation.

New years are full of possibilities. Twenty-twelve is gone, and we’re gearing up for Lucky Thirteen. The Mayans didn’t have everything figured out, any more than we do. Like the psalm and the song that inspired this column puts it: “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” Use those lessons learned, and keep your smiling face aimed forward!

It All Makes Sense Now

2012-12-01T11:11:00.000-06:00

We pulled up in the driveway of Granny’s house on a cold, moonlit Christmas Eve. Jumping and skipping to the front porch, we stomped our feet on the welcome mat to leave most of the snow outside, and opened the front door. Our cousins piled out of their own station wagon, and followed closely on our heels.

Strangely, Granny wasn’t dispensing hugs from her usual post just inside. We slowed down a little, removing mittens and boots.

“Good-bye Santa!” That was our grandmother’s voice, coming from the back of the house.

Like a herd of mustangs, we galloped through the living room, into the kitchen, and out onto the screened-in back porch. Granny was leaning out the screen door, waving. “Oh, my goodness. You just missed him.” Granny closed the door and wiped her hands on her apron.

We stood there for quite awhile, our noses plastered to the screens, peering into the starry sky hoping for a glimpse of the tail-lights on Santa’s sleigh.

Granny’s loud farewell helped explain the fact that we were going to open presents soon after our arrival. None of this waiting till morning like most of the rest of the world. It was perfectly logical that Santa had to start his journey somewhere. We were just fortunate that Granny’s house was one of the first on his route.

A few Christmases later, I began to questions how Santa could sit in front of so many Christmas trees in so many parks and department stores across the country at the same time. This was my introduction to the idea of Santa’s helpers. I was perfectly happy giving my list of wants to an assistant, because I was confident they would be communicated to the big guy in plenty of time for Christmas. Still, there was always the chance that you would run into the boss himself.

One especially cold December day, my sister and I debated about whether this was the “real” Santa as we waited in line.

“He’s not fat enough”

“That beard looks fake.”

“His glasses are too new.”

We hopped from one foot to the other, anticipating the candy cane and the cup of hot chocolate that awaited us after our brief visit. Just before I sat on his knee, the words from this velvet-clad man shocked me.

“How are you, Jenny?” What? He knew my name?

“I’ll be right with you, Toni.” And my sister’s name, too?

Okay, so this Santa’s helper might have been local. He may have known us from church, or he did business with my mom at the bank. The really strange thing though, was that he could tell us apart. Most people saw us when we were together, and didn’t bother keeping us straight. They said our name like one word, Toni-and-Jenny. But the real Santa would undoubtedly take the time to sort things out. Could it be?

As other kids my age stopped believing in Santa, I didn’t dare. After all, in all the stories and movies, the children who didn’t believe were very disappointed on Christmas morning. I couldn’t take the risk. Mom’s explanation made things easy for me. She said Santa was the Spirit of Christmas. As far as I knew, a spirit wasn’t bound by normal rules, and used magic to get his mission accomplished. I was completely satisfied.

On a clear night long ago, a group of shepherds watched their flocks. Maybe the older men told stories around the fire. The younger ones probably scoffed at all the talk of a great king who would come to save their nation. Kings came and went, making rules and flaunting their wealth. What would make this king so special? One of the stories they’d heard even pinpointed the town the king would be born in. Bethlehem wasn’t a very regal place in those days.

Then, an amazing thing happened. The sky was filled with light and strange beings, singing praises to the Lord. Nothing like this had ever happened before. The men tried to hide in fright. But the angels told them that they had wonderful news. The long awaited king had been born, and a star would lead them to his birthplace. This was much more exciting than tending sheep!

When they arrived at the small stable in Bethlehem, everything was as the angel said. The tiny baby didn’t look much like a king. His mother and father were dressed just like regular people. Instead of a fancy bed in a palace, he was lying in a manger. It all made sense.

This is what was so special about the new king. He was just like us, just like those shepherds. This was the wonderful news that the angels had been singing about. The shepherds went on their way, telling everyone what they had seen. The great King had finally arrived!

May your Holidays be filled with joy as you remember the night that all of the pieces came together.

Merry Christmas.

Our Regularly Scheduled Program Will Not Be Presented

2012-11-11T19:52:00.000-06:00

For years, our clock radio was set to come on at 5:42 a.m. Hubby’s job was to hit the “snooze” button to allow 9 more minutes of gradual awakening, and then to repeat that process again at 5:51. When the persistent alarm came back at 6:00, it was time to drop feet to the side of the bed and begin a new day.

Timing was crucial. He wanted to leave our driveway ahead of school buses for his commute to the other side of our county. Once there, he liked to arrive with time to spare for perusing the newspaper and checking to see what work was on tap for the day.

I was content to wait until the big yellow vehicles were out of the way, since my trip was longer, and less predictable. If other drivers cooperated, the trip to downtown Little Rock took about 35 minutes. However, when Murphy’s Law was in effect, and everything that could happen did, the journey could take an hour, or even longer. So, I gauged my time by what would be happening when I arrived. On days when I was responsible for leading a class, I wolfed down a quick breakfast, and left right behind hubby. When the “action” was not starting until later, I enjoyed the quiet for a few minutes, drank a cup of hot tea, spent a little more time in the scriptures.

During those years, I was marking off days on the calendar, looking forward to that most important event: Retirement. Employment with the State of Arkansas came along with highly touted benefits, some of which were promised at the end of one’s career. “Hang in there,” they would say. “Your salary here is admittedly not what it would be if you had the same duties in a private sector job. But, after spending 28 plus years of serving your friends and neighbors, you will have a guaranteed income to count on which will supplement the long awaited Social Security check.” My role over the years was to help explain those benefits to others, so planning ahead was expected, and I was eager for each step along the way.

So, we continued our happily busy routine. Monday through Friday, our life was sometimes hectic, but for the most part, predictable. While the kids were growing up, our evenings and weekends were full of activity. As they grew up and away, trips to visit them were worked into our plans. Still, aberrations to our daily and weekly schedules were the exception, not the rule.

Strangely, as the date for my retirement approached, undercurrents of change disturbed our stability. Economic upheaval in the homebuilding industry caused a change in my husband’s job. For a time, he was unemployed, and though our finances were able to adjust, the familiar schedule was blown to bits. Now, I was the only one required to be up and out of the house at a certain time, and his days were spent scouring online ads and other sources for leads on a new work situation. This proved to be beneficial for me, as he took over housework and cooking tasks. I tried not to act too happy about this, as I knew he would be much happier to be employed outside of the house.

At the same time, we realized that my retirement date would not be the be-all and end-all of my own career. For years I had planned to have a part-time job once the daily commute ended, perhaps substitute teaching while I dedicated most of my time to fiction writing. Now, with the head of the household’s income in question, we had to begin to consider other possibilities.

Thankfully, my husband’s stint as chief cook and bottle washer did not last long. He soon found a new position, where he was appreciated for his obviously dedicated work ethic. He settled in, and I continued to wind up my duties with the State, preparing once again to enjoy staying home most days. Recognizing that I would need another full-time job soon, we revised our plans to get an advance on the retirement nest egg, giving us a little bit of breathing room along the way.

So, here we are. The alarm clock is gathering dust. The Monday thru Friday commutes are over. I’m the one scouring on-line job announcements, sending off my resume, anticipating interviews. Since my hubby works most weekends, our outings may happen in the middle of the week. I’m picking up more of the cooking and cleaning duties. How long will this last? What comes next? I’ve learned not to be so concerned with not having all of the answers.

Comfort Begins at Your Dining Room Table

2012-10-08T14:24:00.000-05:00

Although the weather man says we may have to deal with a few more ninety degree days, we’re all starting to look forward to grabbing a light jacket on the way out the door. Football games will be much more fun when we’re wrapping up in a blanket instead of fending off tropical storms.

The changing seasons will affect our eating habits, too. Instead of craving a slice of watermelon or a tall glass of lemonade, we can’t wait to set a pot of chili to simmer, and wrap our hands around a warm mug of hot chocolate. Ah, the comforts of autumn.

For me, certain foods prompt a flood of memories. We all have dishes that trigger thoughts of childhood, or happy times shared with friends. These so-called comfort foods have much less to do with their ingredients than with the familiarity, the easy association with our past, no matter where or when we eat them.

Now that I don’t have to rush off to join the daily caravan to the big city each day, I’m cooking breakfast for my favorite room-mate a little more often. For many weeks, I have cooked his requested memory inducing dish: eggs in a basket. I’ve experimented with different types of bread, and finally settled on sourdough. I use a drinking glass to carve the all-important hole in the middle of each slice. After browning the bread on one side in the skillet, I then pour in the egg before turning the whole ball of wax and continuing cooking to the desired “over-well” order. Unfortunately, he has informed me that this doesn’t quite measure up to the daily breakfast his Mom used to make before he headed off to school. This probably has to do with the type of skillet she used (seasoned iron) and the type and amount of grease (most likely a health dollop of bacon grease). The important thing- I give it my best shot.

My own comfort food is very specific. For as long as I can remember, we’ve had a one-dish meal on the table that I call simply macaroni and cheese casserole. Now that I’m cooking it myself, I find that it is most satisfying when I don’t stray far from the traditional ingredients: ground beef, big fat pasta noodles, longhorn cheese, whole stewed tomatoes and one hidden bay leaf. Recently, my uncle recalled that he’d always called this dish Spanish Delight. I will agree on the delightful part, but since it’s seasoned with marjoram and oregano, I’m not sure how Spanish it is. To use the vernacular of my southern friends, “We love him anyway, bless his heart.”

Traditional foods vary by the region one hails from. Our neighbors to the southwest may crave tamales, or something else wrapped in a tortilla. On the east coast, oysters or crab may figure in. During a recent trip to Cincinnati, we learned that they have a traditional type of sausage usually eaten for breakfast, called Goetta. This mixture of beef and pork was invented by German settlers who stretched their meat supply by incorporating pinhead oats. Interestingly, the taste for this delicacy has not stretched very far beyond the home of the Reds and the Bengals. I guess, for those who have moved away, it’s a good excuse to visit home now and then.

After all, it’s more about the picture in our head when we eat our favorite foods. I remember pancakes with carefully constructed smiling faces on them. Mom accomplished this trick with her own special artistry, sometimes adding remarkable details like eyelashes. My twist on this echoes an activity we learned on trips to Disneyworld: finding hidden Mickey Mouse faces. For my grandkids, the important thing is that Granny will keep the pancakes coming as long as they continue to eat them. A great way to start the day, not matter what the weather.

With some of our favorite holidays coming up, we’ll all do well to remember that traditions don’t require a lot of fuss. Smiles around the table with simple, traditional dishes make for happy and lasting good times. In the words of our friend Juila Child, “Bon Appétit!”

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

2012-09-03T12:12:00.000-05:00

I stood in front of a massive bed with a canopy and rich velvety draperies. The mattress was so high off the floor that you’d need steps to climb into it. I wondered if I could actually get away with spending the night in a museum, like the kids in one of my favorite books, The Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. My mom and sister moved on, so I reluctantly followed. After touring the rest of the Kansas City museum, we spread a blanket in a nearby park and enjoyed a picnic with sandwiches brought all the way from home.

No, dear readers, this didn’t happen in the summer of 2012. It’s one of my best memories from the gallery of vacations past. It’s interesting to think about why certain memories stick with us, and what it says about our personality. As you can see from this one, I enjoy history, have an active imagination and I’m an avid reader. Food is obviously very important in my life.

My husband shared that his favorite vacation memories involve spending time with his three male cousins on their farm in Eastern Texas. He also has great stories about the trips to and from in his dad’s pickup. I’m guessing he liked this because he grew up with a sister in his house and two female cousins who lived next door. The trips to Texas allowed some rough and tumble boy stuff. Great times.

My three children shared their vacations until they married, but different things stand out in their minds.

The oldest son remembers a trip to St. Louis where we stayed in a hotel close enough to walk to and from the Cardinals game. To this day, he loves blending in with the locals, instead of looking like a tourist wherever he goes

The middle son recalls a trip to Nashville where everything was included in the package we purchased, and we followed a schedule for bus tours to the local sites. He still enjoys the “canned trips”, and enjoyed his first cruise with his wife.

Our daughter remembers seeing most of the sights from the back seat of our car, always in the middle between her older brothers. Her current love of country music was fostered by the serenades her daddy and I provided as we sang along with our classic country cassettes.

What memories will our grands retain from the annual Granny Camps? The oldest continues to talk about a trip to the submarine docked in Downtown Little Rock, and now builds all manner of ships with his Legos blocks. However, this year, all four enjoyed sitting at my kitchen table with markers and paper, and balsa-wood models and glue. Do you think this will spark even more creativity in the Carlisle cousins?

As a follow-up to last month’s column, an eight year old friend of ours will remember this summer as the one he spent at Arkansas Children’s Hospital getting a new heart. As we’re writing this, he’s living at Ronald McDonald house, waiting for the go-ahead to head home. His mom says she never knew she would be so grateful to see pink fingernails and chubby cheeks. Of course, we realize that another family somewhere will look back on this time with great sorrow, but we applaud their courageous decision, and hope that the two families will meet someday to encourage each other in person.

The end of the summer drought has arrived, and we now look forward to county fairs, caramel apples and chrysanthemums. Though at times we doubted it, we have survived. At my house, I’ve been enjoying the life of a retiree. My alarm clock is growing dusty from lack of use. I get up a full hour and a half later than I did last spring. I have the option to cook breakfast at home, or relax at a local restaurant. Shopping means taking my time, checking out all of the choices, no rush, no fuss. I’ve actually stayed caught up on my laundry, kept an appointment with the dentist for the first time in years, and visited with dear friends- in the daytime on a weekday. This summer will be memorable as the first one without a Monday-Friday job. Changes may be on the horizon again, but Oh, what a summer vacation it has been.

The Forest or the Trees?

2012-08-06T10:57:00.001-05:00

Increasingly, I identify with the old adage that talks about how our perspective can be skewed when we are too close to a situation. Sometimes, it’s hard to look at the big picture. The small view may be so immediate that we just can’t get past it.

When I was in charge of teaching Cub Scouts about nature at Day Camp, I used an exercise that I renamed “Honey, I Shrunk the World”. This involved sitting on the ground with legs crossed Indian-style, and throwing a loop of rope down in front of ourselves. After all of our little “worlds” were formed, we took turns describing what was contained there. Many things were the same, but we noticed differences. Some had more green grass, or fewer rocks than others. Maybe there was even wildlife, in the form of an ant-hill. We might have been fortunate enough to lasso a lizard. The idea was to remind these budding ecologists of the complexity and detail of God’s creation. I think it also reminded our young campers that none of us have the same view of what happens around us. After all, the world we come from is a little different than our next-door neighbor’s.

At the opposite extreme, I’ve often been fascinated by the changing view as I’ve flown higher and higher in an airplane. Vehicles that are large enough to contain several fully grown humans began to look like the toys my youngsters played with. Eventually, they looked more like bugs scurrying about, and then disappeared from view altogether. Fields that had been cleared for farming stood out against the forested landscape. They started to look like patches in a crazy quilt, with bodies of water edging them like blue rick-rack.

From my semi-comfortable perch in the sky, I thought about the drama that might be unfolding beneath me. Families were going about their daily business. Happy times and sad times played out while I soared above, oblivious to the details.

During a recent brush-fire, we literally had a bird’s eye view from a distant mountain-top. From our balcony at Mount Magazine lodge, we could see the plume of smoke, and with binoculars, the flames that were consuming acres of trees and brush, and threatening lives and property. Residents and firefighters endured a nightmare. From our perspective, it appeared as an aberration to the beautiful landscape, but with the comfort of our air-conditioned room close at hand, it provided no real threat.

There are times in our lives when we focus on tiny details. During a crisis in our own life, or in the life of someone we care about, we can’t get past the next change of a bandage, the next dose of medicine, the last news we heard from a doctor.

A young mother who is a long time friend of ours currently sits at the bedside of her son, who is awaiting a heart transplant. She endures criticism from those who think she posts too many status updates online. They have no experience with the minutiae she deals with, and can only hope to never need knowledge of such things. Others who have been through a similar situation are able to interpret the confusing details for her, and offer concrete suggestions and encouragement. The rest of us simply promise prayers, and send gifts and postcards to try to provide a more cheerful atmosphere. Social media provides a lifeline, a way to reach out for a cyber hug when it’s needed.

On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, young people will be competing for medals in the weeks ahead. We won’t have to wait for a weekly tally of results, as technology will allow us to watch in real-time if we so desire. But, from our easy chairs, we can’t possibly have the same sweaty palms, butterfly laden stomachs and adrenalin charged heartbeats as those who are there in person. It’s all about perspective.

Whether you’re on the ground gazing up through the branches, or soaring high above the treetops, your view of life is unique and important. The rest of us will just do our best to understand.

Preparing To Launch

2012-06-30T09:19:00.000-05:00

A nineteen year old, newly married Saline County girl drives her red Oldsmobile Cutlass to a job interview in a former church building on Kavanaugh Blvd in Little Rock, just a few blocks north of War Memorial Stadium. The beginning of one of my fictional stories? No. The day that changed my life forever.

To put this in perspective, this mostly windowless building housed the Office of Personnel Management, a division of the Arkansas Department of Finance and Administration, and this story occurred in the spring of 1977, just a few months before Elvis died.

Computers were still a science fiction dream in those days. They were mostly housed at NASA, and took up a whole room. We did have electric calculators with rolls of white paper that piled up on our desks as we added columns of figures in an effort to make sure everything in our sight was balanced.

One of the most important functions of the employees in that building was to approve the payroll every two weeks for the thousands of workers employed by the State of Arkansas. This involved someone from each agency carrying stacks of paperwork and actual checks from one place to another, collecting signatures and stamps of approval. One very famous incident occurred in the elevator shaft when a trusted employee lost his grip on the precious papers, which slid into the gap between the elevator and the third floor landing, and went all the way down to the bottom. That brought progress to a clunky, damp halt for awhile. Of course, due to the dedication and hard work of all involved, those employees were paid on time anyway.

My specific role involved opening mail to begin the process of accounting for health insurance premiums deducted from the paychecks of State employees. I was the backup typist in the office as well, and although I believe there was one photo-copier on another floor, carbon paper was still the preferred method for producing more than one copy of correspondence. An indelible memory involves a green felt-tip marker that my boss used to mark up a letter she had dictated. That wouldn’t have been unusual except for the pronouncement at the end: “No, I think it was fine just like it was.” No problem, just stick another triple-decker carbon paper sandwich back in the IBM Selectric and start again, right?

Fast forward over thirty years to the tenth floor of another repurposed building, a former bank with expansive views of rooftops and parking decks. Here, I helped train the people who process the payroll for their agency’s employees. Their job mostly involves reviewing the work done by other employees in their division, running reports to be sure that every hour worked by every employee is properly accounted for. Then, they push the right buttons to be sure that money is transferred to the bank accounts of those employees in time for an ATM withdrawal to finance the weekend’s activities, and to enable transfers and online payments to take care of household bills. Paper paychecks, green felt-tipped markers and IBM Selectrics are all dim memories.

One of my proudest moments was when we traveled to the Headquarters of the National Federation of the Blind. My friends and I were chosen to prove our agency’s commitment to making sure that everyone who wanted to work for the State of Arkansas would be able to take advantage of the latest technology to perform their daily job. We represented all of the hard-working analysts and programmers back in Arkansas who took their work very seriously. I believe that the folks in Baltimore recognized this, and we all came away with the feeling that we could make things easier for all workers, regardless of physical limitations.

Imagine how excited that nineteen year old young lady would have been to hear where her career would end up.

Today at a retirement party, with hugs from her friends and family, she stands ready to take a new leap of faith. With all of the knowledge and confidence they have given her over the years, how can she fail? With God providing the wind beneath her wings, she’ll soar to all sorts of new adventures. The story is getting more and more exciting!

Real Life Time Machines

2012-06-09T07:28:00.000-05:00

This time of year, when spring and summer seem to be tag-teaming, we can never be sure what we’ll be facing. Some days start out cool and comfortable, and end up very warm. Most days, the humidity is not out of control, but sometimes, the build-up to a very summer-like rain shower can be stifling.

For some reason, weather like this kicks my memory banks into overdrive. Smells, tastes, actions transport me back to my childhood, or the time when my own kids were small. Looking around us, we can name thousands of things that have changed since those fondly remembered times. But, it’s the constants, the things that have remained remarkably the same that really “send me”.

Watering the grass for some has become a no-brainer. They have pipes and spouts under-ground that respond to a timer, taking the effort completely out of this task. But at our house, we’re fortunate enough to still be dragging hoses and squirting, whirling mechanical devices around the yard. There’s a science (which I haven’t quite perfected) to placing them just so, and moving them every so often, so as to keep the green carpet moist, while not wasting too much water on the driveway and the street. Something about dodging the spray reminds me of my old jump-roping days. Wait, wait, run before you get splashed. Or, just slow down and get a refreshing surprise. Ha! The smell of the moisture in the air, and the 10 degree drop in the surrounding temperature is universal. It feels and smells just like the yard I grew up in, all those eons ago.

The shaved ice stands that seem to be popping up on every corner are another old thing that has become new again. When I was a teenager working in the baseball concession stand, the ice in the snow cones was chunkier, and there were fewer flavors of sticky syrup, but oh how good they tasted on a hot day. My own kids enjoyed the first shaved ice, and they have happy memories of perching on a picnic table outside of a very small building with their favorite icy treat. Ah, summertime.

Another edible time machine is a hot dog, but only if it’s sold at a baseball game. When our kids were small, I would cook the franks at home, put them in a bun and wrap them in an aluminum cocoon. If anyone at the ball field objected to my smuggling them to the game in my gigantic tote bag, I never heard about it. Today, the ones you purchase after standing in a long line or from a barker in the stands taste pretty much the same, and you still have to contend with mustard and relish that always seem to slide off, and never enough napkins to shield your shorts and/or t-shirts.

Marketers of all sorts of things are savvy to our generation. Muscle cars of today are clever copies of the Mustangs, Corvettes, Challengers and VW bugs of the 60s and 70s. The new models include all the latest safety features, and much better gas mileage. Baby Boomers are suckers for the perfect vehicle to take us down memory lane. Michael J. Fox and his DeLorean have nothing on us.

Twenty-first century houses and subdivisions also appeal to those of us who remember the latter half of the 1900’s. Our fairly new house has tall ceilings, crown molding, gleaming hardwood floors. The cul-de-sac with its wide sidewalks provides a great place for kids and their bikes, scooters and skateboards. Déjà vu all over again.

Folks whose hair is gradually turning silvery still love new things and great adventures. But increasingly, we find comfort in the familiar. Summertime provides lots of opportunities to close your eyes, feel the cool breeze and get a whiff of your youth. We’ll be right there with you.

It's Where You're Headed That Counts

2012-05-20T18:18:00.000-05:00

I’ve been accused by at least one of my readers of taking myself too seriously. So, just for you, dear Uncle, I’ll start this month’s musings with a joke.

Did you hear about the new T-shirt for sale at the Fayetteville bookstores? The back of the cardinal red shirt reads as follows: “If you can read this, my student-athlete development coordinator has fallen off.”

My apologies to those of you who have been living under a rock for the past few weeks. That comment refers, of course, to the recent motorcycle accident that caused a coaching change in the Razorback Nation. To loosely quote the University’s athletic director, that incident by itself would not have caused a huge problem. It was after further investigation, when the matter turned from personal to personnel, that the hog pooie hit the fan. One mishap along the road of life won’t derail a career, but the direction the leader of the team seemed to be headed became a much larger issue.

A favorite show at the Carlisle house pits accomplished chefs against each other with three baskets of mystery ingredients. They might be asked to cook something delicious with such combinations as Portobello mushrooms and M&Ms candies. The judges are very demanding, even though the participants are given no advance notice about the ingredients, and only about 30 minutes to fix each dish. After each challenge, one is eliminated, until the best two battle by fixing a gourmet dessert. The final pair is judged not just on that one last dish, but by evaluating their whole day, all three courses of the meal. This seems to be a satisfying way of choosing the overall winner in this heated competition.

Recently, I finished a book based on a similar idea. A person is judged not by the individual events of his life, but an overview of all them. Deborah Raney’s “After All”, published by Howard Books and available soon at your local bookstore, finds our heroine dealing with a disturbing revelation about her husband that becomes apparent at the time of his death. Along with the grief, she also has to come to grips with feelings of anger and betrayal. The moral of this story seems to be that she must believe that given a little more time, the man she married would have remained true to himself, and to her. It’s a story that reflects real emotions and life situations, and I think you’ll enjoy it, just as you will enjoy any book with this talented author’s byline.

None of us will make all of the right decisions as we travel life’s road. We can only try to approach each intersection, each curve with care and a little consideration of where it will all end up. Enjoy the journey, but try not to derail it with actions that don’t represent who you really are.

Or- to paraphrase a blog comment from Arkansas 360: When you don’t beat LSU, you get angry. When you get angry, you buy a Harley Davidson motorcycle, when you buy a Harley Davidson motorcycle, you ask a pretty 25-year old to ride it. When you ask a pretty 25-year old to ride your Harley, you end up in a roadside ditch. Don’t end up in a roadside ditch. Beat LSU.

Connections: Six Steps to anyone in the World

2012-05-07T06:37:00.002-05:00

Several years ago, there was a movie based on the premise that with only six steps(degrees) of talking to someone you know and then a friend of that friend, etc. you could be introduced to anyone in the world. Crazy? With today’s instant connections on online social networks, maybe not so crazy! We’ll define a connection as one of two things: Either you can verify a blood relationship to a person, or this person is someone you know well enough to expect a hug or at least a good firm handshake when you next see them. There are also what we will call second level connections- these are people you went to school with, or lived down the street from, or worked with at the same employer. They might need to be reminded of your name, but there would be that spark; that “Oh Yeah, How Ya Doin?” moment when your buggies pass at Wal-Mart.

So think about it- How are you connected to the Pope? Or Dog the Bounty Hunter? Actually, celebrities are fairly easy. I would start with the most famous person I’ve met. The circles those people travel in connect them to other famous folks, at least on a firm handshake level. Former President Clinton would fit the bill here for many in the Ouachita region. I’ve washed my hand many times since I shook his, but I worked in a building across the street from the State Capitol when he was our young and handsome governor, and had occasion to meet him many times. Just think of all the people that man has greeted, usually with a clap-around-your-shoulders hug instead of a handshake. If he hasn’t personally met Dog the Bounty Hunter, a friend of someone he’s met certainly has.

When we incorporate blood relatives, we can even use folks who are no longer alive to establish connections. In this way, I can get to the Queen of England without using Bill Clinton. Here’s how it goes: My Mom found a letter to my Granny’s brother from a friend named Carlos who knew him well enough to address him by first name. The letter included a picture taken with the Princes of England at that time- Edward, who abdicated the throne to marry Wallis Simpson from America, and Albert, who became King George VI. This picture provided hours of fun for me and for my sister, as we researched this early 20th century globe-trotter. He turned out to be a very famous opera singer and Latin dancer from Chile. Our uncle probably met him there, as he was quite a traveler himself, and even married a lady from South America. So if my Granny counts as my first connection, Uncle Lo (Tony) is number two, his friend Carlos, number three, King George VI number four, his daughter Queen Elizabeth II number five. Voila!

Those who aren’t celebrities are harder. Could you pick up a phone book from Kenosha, Wisconsin or Tucumcari, New Mexico and randomly point out someone, and then find your six steps? In this instance, I would turn to geography. I would find someone who has lived closer than I have to one of these places, then make connections through the church they attended, where they went to school, etc. For the Wisconsin one, I know exactly where I’d start. Yep, still doable.

So what good is all of this babble? It’s mostly just for fun, really. But, sometimes, those connections can come in handy. If you’re searching for a job, connections can literally mean money. If you’re moving to a new city, or know someone who is, connections can open doors and make life immeasurably easier.

This week, a Facebook friend had a contact who needed something translated into a language that is rather obscure for this area. I just happened to know someone who had studied that language while he served in the Army. Less than six degrees later, the connection was made!

These days, while there are more humans inhabiting the planet than ever before, we are becoming more connected all the time. With this thought, we shouldn’t feel so lonely. That stranger you pass on the street is really the friend of a friend of a friend. Of course, that doesn’t mean we can automatically trust everyone we meet. We still need to keep our guard up. But, when we share an interest, like Ouachita Life in common, we’re already a big step closer to being friends. Who are you connected to, and how? I’d love to hear about it!

Spending Time Wisely

2012-03-21T06:37:00.002-05:00

Spending
Time Wisely
One of our most
valuable resources is time. We’re reminded of that frequently, as everyone
seems to have a suggestion for how we should spend it. Once, my husband and I
were involved in a home based retail business that involved a lot of effort in
contacting others to earn what was called “point value” or PV for short. An
associate who invited me to her house had a sign taped to the remote control
that said “No PV in TV”. No rest for those in pursuit of the almighty dollar.
A speaker at a
luncheon I attended recently asked us if we were too busy to be productive. His strategy- be sure that each task you take
on is contributing to your ultimate goal, by either making a positive move
toward that goal, or researching and preparing for it. I agree that some of the
work we do is counter- productive, and we sometimes spend too much time with
our wheels stuck, throwing up mud. But, there is also value in down time.
Often, when it might look we’re doing the least, we’re actually accomplishing
the most.
I’ve heard that
puzzles like crosswords and Words with Friends are like aerobics for the brain.
So, if I walk around with a pencil (or my new I-phone) in my hand and a faraway
look in my eyes, maybe I’m really battling early dementia. I also have ways to let my mind rest by
keeping my hands busy with cross-stitch or creating a scrapbook page. I’ll
wager that when I’m called home to heaven, somewhere in my house you’ll find
one unfinished puzzle, one embroidered work in progress, and a group of
pictures laid out ready to be glued into a book. Busywork? Not in my opinion.
Our First Lady’s
initiative called Let’s Move focuses on 60 minutes of vigorous activity a day for
kids. That would mystify our grandparents. When did they ever have to coerce a
kid to go out and play? Somewhere along the way, playing outside was seen as a
waste of time that could have been spent on academics. So now, we have a generation
of very intelligent, obese people. On my way to work every day, I pass a track
next to a school that’s usually full of people of all ages and sizes, just out
there moving. Not one bit of wasted time there.
Sometimes, we
baffle others with the way we spend our time. A reader responded to last
month’s request for a love story with a
tale about a Valentine that took a lot
of her time and effort. It seems that she and her favorite beau were courting
long distance. She lived in Southeast Kansas, and he lived in Little Rock.
Always on the lookout for a new way to
spark his interest, she learned that a post office in Romance, Arkansas would
postmark a card and send it with a special commemorative stamp. Very creative, right?
She followed their directions, and got everything taken care of in time for
Cupid’s big day. Well, when the missive
reached its destination, the gentleman couldn’t fathom how and why she had
driven right past the city he lived in to drop a letter in the mail, instead of
delivering it in person. She, of course was not familiar with the geography of
his native state, and certainly didn’t mean to cause mayhem. As they looked
back, it was probably a good indication of what he was getting into. This was
no ordinary, run of the mill lady. Their relationship only got more interesting
as time went by.
When were
children, our time was controlled by others. Parents, teachers and coaches
scheduled every bit of our time. As adults, we make our own decisions. How we
budget our 24hours per day says a lot about who we are. Christians know that
their deeds brand them. A wise investment of time in this world will, we
believe, pay rewards in another world. Our inspiration comes from the Man who
said, “I was hungry and you gave me food, sick or in prison and you visited me.”
Time spent serving others is time spent serving Him.
You have
millions of choices, lots of ways to spend your time. What works for you may
not make sense to someone else. Give it some thought, and don’t waste a minute!

How you Know it's for Real- Hindsight is Always Best

2012-02-06T19:29:00.001-06:00

How You Know It’s For Real- Hindsight is Always Best.
Young people seem to have a common concern: How can I be sure that this person is right for me? The most oft-repeated response: You just know.
Looking back, there were plenty of indications that this guy was different. For one, there were the notes he wrote me at school. I’d written plenty of giggly missives in my time, and received plenty back. But notes exchanged between teenage girls are mainly time-wasters. Much like doodling with words. There was a lot of “so and so just looked at me” and “Don’t you think he’s cute?” Very much the same as teenaged telephone conversations, except without the polite pauses to see what the other person has to say. The notes from this guy, however were very sweet, complimentary, thoughtful. The kind that make you go awwwww.
We really enjoyed each other’s company, and loved hanging out, with or without a group of mutual friends. When he took the big step of taking me to meet his family, it seemed they were instantly sure of the “rightness” of the relationship. One Sunday afternoon, we sat in lawn chairs just to the east of Thornburg Mountain with his parents and grandparents. During a short lull in the conversation, his Grandpa, who was literally a man of few words, piped up with “When are y’all gettin’ married?” A few minutes later, as a storm crept over the top of the mountain, his Grandma whispered to me- “Let’s go inside, the rest of them can get wet if they want to.” I was in.
My own magic moment is etched in my memory. I don’t recall what kind of date we were coming home from. It could have been the latest Burt Reynolds movie, or a sausage, pepperoni and mushroom pizza at Ken’s on Military Road in Benton, or maybe both. We were riding in his Dad’s pickup, because he had wrecked his car on the way to pick me up for a previous date. He looked straight ahead as I slid in as close as possible while still allowing him to drive, and soon came out with a confession. He said he couldn’t imagine the rest of his life without me in it. I couldn’t believe he said it, and I couldn’t have agreed more. No ring, so the real proposal came later, but from that moment, happily ever after was a foregone conclusion for me.
Thirty five and a half years later, those first indications proved to be right on. He was the husband and father I had dreamed of since I was a very small girl. Yin to my yang, he balanced my creativity and impulsiveness with his desire for perfection and certainty.
Raising three kids was never easy, but together, we found the fun. We laughed and cried together, and now we stand back and smile as three happy little families form the next tier of our family tree.
We’re blessed with good friends that we’ve met and held on to over the years. When we spend time with those folks, I can hear the story he’s about to share before he gets it started, and we fill in the blanks for each other. I’m so fortunate to have my best friend to go home with when all is said and done. With him, I can be me, and he’s learned to put up with my annoying habits and contrary ways. I thank God daily for this amazing gift.
There’s nothing I love more than hearing a good story. So, I’m challenging you to recall yours. Post a comment on my blog at www.jennycarlisle.net or send me an email at bythewaydeut67@gmail.net No computer connection? No excuse. Send good old fashioned snail mail in care of Ouachita Life at P.O. Box 147, Benton, AR 72018.
Valentine’s Day is set aside to celebrate the loving relationships in our lives. If you’re not in the middle of one right now, I hope you have happy memories to look back on, and a good outlook that will lead to something wonderful in your future. Regardless, my fervent prayer is that you’ll recognize and appreciate the unconditional love of your Heavenly Father on Valentine’s Day and every day.

Life After the Glass Slipper

2012-01-04T06:28:00.003-06:00

As a new year dawns, we wonder what it will hold in store. New beginnings always get our hearts racing a little bit, especially if we know that some milestone in our
lives is about to occur. Weddings, graduations, new houses all hold a shining
promise as we anticipate how wonderful our lives could become.

But even Cinderella must have had some modifications to make during her “happily ever
after”. After all, she was a common servant girl who suddenly became the focus
of attention, with attendants of her own to fulfill her every desire. Now,
instead of “Cinderella, scrub this, Cinderella, sweep that,” she would hear,
“No, Your Majesty, let me do that. Please Your Majesty, sit down and relax.”
It’s a problem we would all like to experience just once, but an adjustment
just the same.

When I was a small child, I dreamed of having a full-time Daddy living in our house. My parents were divorced, and I enjoyed the summer vacations with my dad and his
new wife, but I longed for what I considered to be a “complete” family. When,
in my teens, my mom met and began dating my future step-dad, it was literally a
dream come true. When they married, it started the biggest change I’d ever
lived through. My sister and I suddenly had a new house in a new state, and a
new school along with our new family. The high school was smaller than our old
one, and all of the kids tried hard to make us feel at home. But, what an
adventure! It was much more than I had bargained for in my little-girl fantasies.

Of course, my dreams continued, and I pictured in my mind what my own happy family would look like. Led by a strong, Christian man, with two or even three beautiful
children, I would fit right in, caring for all of them with love and occasional
home-baked cookies.

When a certain tall, smooth talking Arkansas boy entered my life, I knew this dream, too was on its way to being fulfilled. His upbringing provided the perfect example of
the stability I was longing for, and besides, he was really cute! So, after a
simply beautiful wedding with a wonderful assortment of family and friends in
attendance, we settled into our first home: a rented single-wide trailer
decorated in hip seventies fashion with wood paneling and harvest gold and
avocado green appliances. We soon learned that in order to afford the things we
wanted, we would need to hold down two full-time jobs. So after a couple of
false starts apiece, we both settled in to what would become careers, and began
the daily commutes. The three beautiful children arrived on schedule, each with
their own set of happy adjustments to make in our fairy tale.

Along the way, we realized that our careers would have advanced further if we had a little more education, but this idea was quickly pushed to the back burner in the
daily rush of coats and mittens and sack lunches for five. Opportunities
abounded, and we became involved in the activities of our own children, and
along the way had the chance to impact others in our community as well. The old
dreams morphed and developed into more excitement than we ever envisioned.

These days, the kids are all successfully independent, and our empty nest is still buzzing, especially when the grand-kids visit. We couldn’t have written a happier ending if we’d tried.

This year, another long-awaited event looms. Over the years, I was promised that even
though my job did not include a huge salary, if I stayed around long enough, I
could retire at a fairly early age, and enjoy the rewards of working through a
lot of headaches. This little dream has had plenty of time to develop, and it
mostly stars me at this computer, creating, editing and submitting for
publication the stories that have buzzed through my head for well over fifty
years. Surprise! The glass slipper comes with some complications. Because of recent
economic downturns, my husband and I are both looking for new jobs to either accommodate the lifestyle we’ve worked so hard to build, or trim it down a little.

We are both hopeful, and becoming used to the feeling of butterflies in our stomachs
once again. Hmmm- if all else fails, maybe we can find another two bedroom
trailer, this time with a workshop for him, and a wireless internet connection
for me. Hold our hands, Lord. This year will undoubtedly turn out far differently
than we ever could have dreamed!

Christmas Collections

2011-11-22T21:59:00.001-06:00

If we had our druthers, there would be two Christmas trees at our house each year. My husband’s would be elegantly appointed with beautiful, trendy decorations, probably all in the same color family. His might completely change from year to year. Mine, on the other hand, would display the same treasures I carefully store away at each year’s end. As I write this, they are still boxed up, but when you read it, they’ll be in a place of honor in the corner of our living room.

After thirty-five years of collecting, I have more ornaments than I can practically place on the tall but skinny imitation pine with plastic holly berries and fake twists of grapevine worked in. So, as I decorate, I’ll just pull some of the precious pieces out and pause for a moment as I place them back into their home for protection.

There are ornaments fashioned by my children when they were small. Created from ideas in craft books owned by a clever teacher, they may have started as a clothespin, or a jar lid. Paint, ribbon, glue and glitter transformed them into something wonderful, a tiny piece of a child’s heart. As they say in the credit card commercial: Priceless.

Then, there are the dated ornaments purchased over the years, one for each year of our married life. The designs reflect the times and the budget constraints of those years. Some celebrate a big event in our family- “Baby’s First Christmas”. Others were purchased at after Christmas sales. Each brings along a flood of been-there-done-that memories.

My mother has long upheld a tradition of making ornaments for our family’s trees. Hers show imagination and creativity, and always bring to mind the reasons for the season, love and family. I followed her lead for several years, so you’ll find some examples of my feeble attempts at craftiness. Teddy bears with ribbons and bells, scraps of leather with cut-outs from old Christmas cards, rings made from a special, inedible dough.

Not all of the ornaments are home-made or inexpensive. Otherwise, they’d all be relegated to the back of the tree by my “curb-appeal” conscious hubby. We do own some really nice ones, including part of a Norman Rockwell collection purchased by my step-mother sometime during the last century. There are also tributes to our favorite sports teams, and a few with Disney connections.

I must confess that my Christmas collecting isn’t confined to the tree. You’ll find memorable items displayed on almost every flat surface in the house. One, in an honored position on top of the dining room hutch, even belongs to my husband. Yes, he looks forward each year to seeing the Santa Claus doll (well, that’s what it is) his parents purchased for him on a Christmas shopping trip to Benton when he was small. It really is all about the happy memories this time of year.

One of my favorite Christmas stories brings home the fact that God is a collector, too. The difference is that, he desires to collect our souls for protection from the evils of this world, and to provide a permanent home with Him.

The story goes something like this: There was a man who was raised as a Christian, but had become cynical after years of existing in our rather self-absorbed world. While his wife and kids went to a Christmas Eve program at church, he stayed home, and watched out the window as a strong winter storm brewed. The wind howled, the cold blizzard raged, and he saw a large flock of birds battling the wind, looking for some form of refuge. He’d often enjoyed feeding and watching birds, and his heart was touched by their struggle. He glanced at the large barn that stood behind their house, and he was inspired. Bundling up, he hurried out to the building, threw open the door, and turned on the lights, hoping to lure the floundering creatures to safety. The flock continued to fly hither and yon, and none made their way into the warmth and protection of the barn. The man finally gave up and returned inside, leaving the door and lights as an open invitation.

When his family returned home, he told them of his efforts, and a strange realization touched him as he spoke these words: “If only I could have turned myself into a bird- then I could have guided them in ….”

This Christmas, as you collect happy memories, remember the perfect plan of your heavenly Father. He still wants to draw you closer. Let the baby in the manger be your guide.

"Fulness" : It's All in the Moment

2011-11-05T13:02:00.001-05:00

We throw around a lot of superlatives. It’s not just great, it’s wonderful. Not just pretty but beautiful. How often does whatever we are describing really fit those words?
We don’t have to look too far in Arkansas to find some really pretty scenery. Every evening we can look to the West and see a remarkable display of colors. If there are hills in the distance, the colors seem magnified as the sun makes its slow and careful descent. But, sometimes, something really special just knocks us back and takes our breath away.
One of these unexpected moments happened to me during the Great Ice Storm of early 2000. That year, we lived in Bryant under a lot of gorgeous, tall pine trees. The ice had fallen for several hours, knocking out power, and quite a few loose limbs. Everyone in the neighborhood was beyond thinking the scenery looked pretty, as we contemplated the cleanup efforts that would be necessary to get things back to normal. But, after a night of playing cards by kerosene lantern-light, and sleeping under piles of quilts, I stepped outside to see the morning sun reflecting off thousands of frozen branches above my head. It was like some sort of fairy-land. Light flickered in every direction, sparkling brilliantly. It was absolutely, drop-dead Beautiful.
Recently, I’ve seen pictures of two of my friends who were more than just happy to see a new baby. One had waited for the right husband, then waited again to be a mother. Now that her daughter is here, every photo of the two of them seems to glow. Another friend is a grandma for the first time. After experiencing the loss of a grandson before he really got a chance at life, she now has a tiny, precious grand-daughter. The pictures of these two ladies holding their infants betray the fact that they know the Grace of God is the chief reason for their happiness. The label for those photos: Grateful.
Babies provide us with such delight. They have no qualms about laughing when something is funny. Even at things that older people would label impolite or inappropriate. Their laughter is infectious, and the more we laugh, the more they laugh. Joyful, pure and simple.
After all, it’s really about the emotions that we feel in moments like these. A series of well-crafted commercials on television play directly to our emotions, as a weepy voice sings about the arms of angels, and poor mistreated animals stare up at us with sorrowful eyes. Literally, Pitiful. I don’t know if it is coincidence, but two of my children have adopted puppies from their local shelter since those commercials began airing.
I usually have a problem with watching a television reporter interview a family member immediately after a tragedy. I feel that this invades a very private, emotion-filled moment for that person. Recently, though after the tragic fiery crash that killed Indy Champion Dan Wheldon, his friend and fellow driver Dario Franchitti summed things up perfectly. He said something like: “We all know there’s a huge risk every time we get into our car at the beginning of a race. At a moment like this, when we’re asked if it’s all worth it, we have to say No. It’s not worth it at all. But we all know racing is part of us, and we’ll be back out here again.” It was hard to hear those words, but his point of view at that moment gave us a real impression of what all of the drivers were feeling. It was, in a word Insightful.
Another inspirational story on television came at the end of a newscast. This one depicted a group of American military veterans playing baseball. Nothing unusual about that, until you noticed that one of the teams was made up of men who had lost at least one limb in the service of their country. These warriors were navigating very well, thank-you, both with and without the aid of prostheses. For all who played against them or watched them, the experience was Powerful.
As we approach the holiday set aside for appreciating what we have, let’s look for these moments that are completely packed with something special. We may have to step back, take a deep breath, but they’re all around us. Enjoy these times, and be Thankful.

What's the Matter with Kids Today?

2011-09-29T19:22:00.002-05:00

One of the many songs that runs through my brain on a regular basis starts out this way: “Kids! I don’t know what’s wrong with these kids today!” It goes on to complain about the strange way the younger generation talks, the weird things that interest them. The plea of the song is summed up like this: “Why can’t they be like we were, perfect in every way? What’s the matter with kids today?” Sound familiar? Do you hear folks expressing this thought quite often these days? Remember- this song was written in 1960 for the Broadway musical Bye, Bye Birdie.
Looking back, my own generation was certainly not perfect. In the late sixties and early seventies, our parents stressed over the music we listened to. Far worse than that was the drug culture that permeated everything. In fact, given all the dangerous things we did as teenagers, we were very fortunate to have lived long enough to be grandparents.
So, are kids really any worse than we were? No, just different. And who exactly are we referring to here? As my own offspring grow up, the top age limit is creeping into the mid-thirties now.
Social networking is their cup of tea, and they use it to full advantage. One of my friends on Facebook is not even human, it’s a Van. With some human assistance from a young visionary and many like-minded folks, the Van delivers necessities like shoes, socks and toiletries to the homeless population of Central Arkansas. Now, the Van even pulls a converted trailer which houses a portable shower. In my daily walk from my car to my high-rise office, the people I encounter are starting to look cleaner and happier.
This generation also loves to mobilize and act quickly. When one of them has a problem, they create prayer pages and fund-raising pages that get hundreds of hits each day. Community events like car washes, pancake fundraisers, mass races and “walks” kick into high gear. One local police officer, who we met before he became an Eagle Scout, recently went on television to have his head shaved in support of a fellow officer’s young child who has cancer.
The baby boomers were raised in front of the TV set. Our children substituted video games for television programs. We worried, thinking that the games were robbing our children of the ability to think for themselves. Quite to the contrary.
At the University of Washington, a competition called “Foldit” enticed avid gamers to help in finding a cure for HIV (AIDS). Participants worked to create a virtual model of an enzyme that the scientists had been unable to build. To quote one of the originators of the game “We wanted to see if human intuition could succeed where automated methods have failed.” When the gamers quickly solved the puzzle, this same official said “The ingenuity of game players is a formidable force.”
As these gamers become the workers and executives of top companies, we find that their skills are being incorporated into their jobs. Smart companies take advantage of their imagination and creativity to find new solutions for old problems. By making tough issues into competitions, these “kids” are making amazing strides.
Of course, not all of the members of this generation are so altruistic and caring. No more than our own generation is perfect. But, in the hands of Generation X and Generation Y, I think we can feel safe. All in all, they’re pretty good kids. Are we surprised? Not really. After all- look at who raised them.

Only a Game? Not Around Here!

2011-09-02T09:29:00.001-05:00

Only a Game? Not Around Here.
By the time you read this, Salt Bowl 2011 will be in the history books. I can visualize the dumbfounded look on some of your faces, but those who live anywhere near Saline County know that this is one of the biggest high school events in the state, nay the Nation! Because of the way that city limits and school district boundaries overlap, people who live in Benton and Bryant could live down the street from each other, go to church together, and still end up on opposite sides of the stadium once a year. What started as a conference rivalry over 30 years ago has evolved into “The” event of the football season. So big it outgrew both towns, and had to be moved to War Memorial Stadium in Little Rock. On that night, tumbleweeds run rampant in both cities, as the entire population heads east to gather at a huge tailgate party that rivals some of the Razorback games for enthusiasm.
Speaking of the Razorbacks, does every city have a countdown clock on the local TV station’s website measuring the days, hours, minutes and seconds until the first football game of the season? Although the University is located in Fayetteville, Hog Mania covers the whole state, and little red pig symbols adorn hats, t-shirts, golf club covers and babies’ pacifiers. For those who graduated elsewhere, the Hogs are one of their top two favorite teams. There are Razorback clubs across the country for ex-patriots who often place slogans like RAZBAX on their personalized license plates.
It’s just football, right? So what is all the fuss? When you get down to it, it’s a rather silly game. I remember hearing an old recording by Andy Griffith who described accidentally wandering into this big place where folks were lined up hollering at a bunch of boys who were trying to take a flattened out pumpkin from each other.
It’s really about community spirit, after all. Around here, football unites us. In other parts of the world, it might be soccer (also called football, but only a distant cousin to the American game), or running from bulls in the streets, or even rolling a huge cheese wheel down a hillside. It gives the residents something to get excited about, a cause to rally around, a reason to cheer.
Along with the football players themselves, other groups get a chance to show off their talents at the games. Cheerleaders, dance teams, and marching bands add pageantry and variety, and bring along their own very vocal cheering sections. These teams also compete at their own exhibitions, and the Ouachita Area has been fortunate to bring home many state and national trophies. You may see things at half time that you’ve never expected, like routines featuring Broadway show tunes, or movie themes. Dancers dressed as Cats, and strange noises that suggest Jurassic dinosaurs keep you wondering how next year’s students will top this year’s show. Once, we witnessed a whole marching band “disappear” under a giant tarp, causing a collective gasp in the stands. Not sure what old John P. Sousa would think of that, but it was great fun to watch!
Family traditions are born that span generations. If your Grandpa and your Dad were fans of a certain team, you most likely will be too, no matter where you went to school. Attending games together gives you common “war stories” to share for years afterwards. When you can’t be there in person, you can tune in on the TV or radio, and share the experience across the miles. Our family has often updated each other with text messages and emails when one member lives out of range of the broadcast.
I guess my favorite story of how football and the Salt Bowl affects us took place several years ago when a friend’s son joined us at the big game during a few hours of leave from military training at Camp Robinson. He received a phone call from someone who was on base. What we could hear of the conversation went something like this:
“Yeah, I’m with my Dad at a high school football game …. Well, it’s actually in Little Rock, at War Memorial Stadium …. No, my brother graduated a few years ago …. No, we don’t know anyone who’s playing on either team ….. Well, it’s just what you do on a Friday night around here…. Yeah, pretty cool… Okay, see you soon.”
Go Hornets, and Woo Pig Sooie!

Taking the Show on the Road

2011-07-26T07:03:00.002-05:00

“Ain’t she cute… See her sliding down the chute … Now I ask you very confidentially … ain’t she cute.”
Who recorded this song? Did it sell a million records? I couldn’t tell you. I only heard it when my Dad was behind the wheel of his 1960s era Buick.
The acoustics were better in my Mom’s Volkswagen Beetles, both the 1963, and the 1967 models and the 1973 VW Fastback. Here’s where we formed a family trio, Sister singing lead soprano, and Mom and I providing alto and tenor harmonies. Our selections varied widely, from hymns and choir anthems, to the Beatles and even Tanya Tucker’s “Delta Dawn”.
My oldest son caught the bug quite early. He knew every word to Kenny Rogers’ Gambler at the age of three. The first few times he sang “I wish you could have turned my head, and left my heart alone …”, I was scrambling for a pencil, thinking I had a musical prodigy on my hands. I was just a little disappointed when I heard the Oak Ridge Boys perform the same song on the car radio, and realized that’s where he’d learned it.
My daughter says that one of her favorite memories of summer vacations involve me and her dad assisting Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn on their duets while driving. “Louisiana woman ..” “Mississippi man ..” “We get together every time we can.” The kids in the back seat happily provided the back-up.
The second son also took his old buddy Conway, along with other artists of all varieties, on trips back and forth to Fayetteville. Windows rolled down, stereo turned up, plenty of Mountain Dew for energy- the trip out of the mountains seemed a little shorter.
The next generation of vocalists is thriving, too. Oldest grandson Jordan could sing recognizable melodies before he could form complete sentences. One of his favorite serenades from the back seat started with the words “My Jesus, My Savior”. After that, the words he sang were not intelligible, even though the tune was intact. He was really disappointed, though, that I didn’t know the words either. After several lessons from him, and a few trips around the Christian radio dial, I finally got the hang of it, and we made a pretty good team.
Latest to join the family “circle” is grandson Austin. At five, his favorites are Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson, though he also belts out “I Saw the Light” by Hank Williams(senior).
A couple of years ago, a writer friend of mine accompanied me to a conference in Southeast Kansas. We attended the early service at two different churches before starting back home that Palm Sunday. Something about the Ozark mountains must have inspired us, as we sang every hymn our memories could muster from the top of “the hill” in Fayetteville to well past Morrilton on I-40. Though we knew many of the same songs, she taught me some new verses, and I expanded her repertoire with my old-time Church of Christ selections.
So, the logical end of this story would be that at least one family member or friend now lives in Nashville, and a recording career looms on the horizon. Sorry to disappoint you, but hey- none of us has ever been arrested for road rage, either! Enjoy the rest of your summer, and if you see me tooling down the freeway with my mouth wide open in song, just wave!

Why the USA?

2011-07-18T21:04:00.003-05:00

Fireworks explode overhead. Children make designs in the air with hot, sparkly rods of metal. Bands play songs that are impossible to listen to without tapping our toes to the rhythm. It’s all a part of the annual birthday party that is uniquely American. Looking around in the crowd, we see so many different types of people, each with their own story.
Each branch of our family tree has its own tales. Older family members have passed them along, some as simple narration of facts, others with much embellishment and bravado. All together, they make up the rich fabric that makes us who we are today.
My dad’s side of the family, the McLeods, originated in Scotland. My grandpa’s grandpa and grandma arrived in the US around 1880. Times had been hard in the Scottish Highlands. John McLeod came to America first, and after moving from the Pennsylvania coal mines to Eastern Kansas, he sent for his wife, Mary Whiteford McLeod. She and her four small boys set out across the Atlantic, and in the midst of the difficult journey, their fifth son was born. Once in Kansas, they left the dark world of the mines to become ranchers.
My Mother’s grandfather, Karl Maurer came to America just a few years earlier from Germany. Not speaking any English or having any family in his new home, he enlisted in the Army. His several tours of duty took him through Oklahoma, Kansas, and points west. Because the army was engaged with making the frontier safe for white settlers, much of his time was spent working with the Indians. After a twenty year military career and becoming an American citizen, he married the daughter of an Army musician. Though twenty years younger, she was also of good German stock. They settled near his last assignment, the Presidio in California.
My husband’s family stories all take place in the United States. It seems that on both sides, his ancestors have been in America much longer than mine.
The Carlisle legend centers around four brothers who were shipwrecked in North Carolina. Though I haven’t been able to verify the shipwreck, the location is correct, and for generations, there is a tradition of Carlisle boys traveling and settling together. As to where they came from, or why, indications seem to lead to the importance of their faith. During the Revolutionary war, they were not soldiers, but there is a Carlisle who was a shoemaker that traveled with the Army. Conscientious objector? After moving to Mississippi, they were reportedly Mennonites. In Arkansas, they are listed as founders of a church in Grant County. Doing what is needed for the local congregation is a tradition that continues today.
My husband’s Grandpa Weaver’s grandmother was a survivor of the tragic massacre at Mountain Meadows in Utah in 1857. After returning home to Arkansas, these children made it their life’s mission to share the truth of what had happened to their families. Though the official story involved an Indian attack, the children had seen past the war paint and recognized the murderers as the same Mormon settlers who had earlier promised to protect the wealthy wagon train. Their courage helped bring the story out, and the misguided zealots to justice.
What’s your story? I know you have more than one. Have you shared it with your children and grandchildren? If they don’t seem interested now, write it down. Someday, they will want to know, and they will be proud to understand more about where they came from.
Whether or not you know why your ancestors came here, these stories are so uniquely American. Nowhere else on earth do so many different threads converge into such a rich, warm quilt.
Happy Birthday America! We love to hear your stories!

Our Most Momentous Memories

2011-05-24T06:58:00.001-05:00

“No, you’re lying.” I didn’t believe what my six-year old friend told me at school that day in 1963. We had been playmates before we were schoolmates. I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.
“No, really. Somebody shot the president. He died.”
For Baby Boomers, the assassination of President Kennedy is one of those “Where were you when you heard the news?” moments. It begins a string of common memories, our parents being so very quiet and sad, staying home from school to watch a funeral on television. Tiny John-John saluting as the casket rolled by.
There have been times during my life that formed collections of memories. I can tell you many details about my wedding day, the days each of my children were born. I probably recall everything so well because my emotions were at a peak. I knew that this would be an important event, to be remembered for a lifetime.
There are some moments, though, that stand out even more. When retelling these, we actually go back in time, we relive the whole thing. We smell the same smells, hear the same sounds.
One such memory was related to me at my “day job”. The mere mention of a date on the calendar prompted my friend to tell about what happened to her twenty-five years earlier. She was in labor, about to deliver a daughter. Her husband was in the bathroom at the hospital, putting on a protective gown over his clothes. “Hurry up,” the doctor admonished, “You’re about to miss the whole thing.”
The daddy’s voice came into the delivery room, “I can’t figure out what to do with these ties.” The obvious next request was “Honey, can you come help me?” Luckily, he didn’t say it. She was, after all, a little busy.
Some moments are remembered because of the irony of the whole situation. Another friend told of a very sad occasion, when the family was assembled at church for a funeral. As she and her sister prepared to go in for the service, a dog somehow slipped in to the sanctuary. As quietly as they could, the two tried to move the intruder outside. When the sister employed her foot, the dog yelped loudly, prompting smothered laughter from both ladies. But-it gets better. Years later, the sister passed away, and you guessed it-a dog attended her funeral. Of course, my friend was again consumed with the giggles.
One very vivid vision is stuck in my head, and I’m not really sure why. I’m sitting on the wood floor next to my parents’ bed, which is covered with a white chenille bedspread trimmed with pink flowers. The sun streams in from the window as I move the tiny plastic furniture around in my new metal dollhouse. My Daddy’s arm hangs over the side of the bed, and he responds to my “Look Daddy” with a non-committal “Mmmpph”. I’m not upset about his lack of concern, just content to sit near him and play while he sleeps. From pictures I’ve seen, I think this may have occurred on my third birthday, but even without the pictures, I’m there, reliving what may be my earliest memory.
Walking down the hallway after a first-thing in the morning meeting at work, someone says a plane has hit the World Trade Center in New York. I picture a small craft, maybe a daredevil who ventured too close while trying to “buzz” the skyscrapers. Someone has turned on a television in one of the cubicles, and we alternate between being transfixed and turning away as the unbelievable horror unfolds. We try in vain to continue our day to day routine, and gradually drift out, wanting only to find our family members and hold them close.
It’s almost time for the ten o’clock news on the Sunday after Easter. My daughter calls, telling us to tune into Fox, where they are reporting that Osama bin Laden has been killed. Soon, all of the networks are in the same holding pattern, waiting for the President to confirm what has already been leaked. Commentators try to turn speculation into verification, and we are finally relieved to hear the news from the commander-in-chief himself.
Our memories are part of us, whether shared with the world, or alive only in our own minds. Flashes of intense emotion can re-emerge without warning. They define who we are, give us something in common, make us human. Troubling recollections should be shared so that they don’t burden us. Happy ones should be treasured, and saved for a time when we may need to smile again.

Culture- The Way we Do Things

2011-04-16T10:03:00.001-05:00

All right, Boys and Girls, the word for this month is “Culture”. Now, please don’t assume we will focus on a new word every month. You know this column doesn’t revolve around any sort of firm structure.

So, what does Webster’s say? Two of the definitions in my 2003 Edition of the New World Dictionary are: The skills, arts, etc. of a given people in a given period: civilization. and A growth of bacteria, etc. in a controlled substance.

At a recent gathering of Human Resource professionals, the speaker I heard was referring to the culture of an organization, and his simple definition was “The way we do things”. He said the culture of a workplace is the set of unwritten rules that really define how the business runs.

For example: a large national chain has developed its own culture based on the hot beverages it serves. Much more than just a coffee shop, patrons learn a new language depending on the ratio of espresso to steamed milk and how much foam should sit atop their chosen drink. Latte, Cappucino, or Macchiato? Which size? Forget small medium or large. It’s short, tall, grande, venti, and even trenta. Part of the attraction is being “in the know”, hip to the culture of the place.

When I was younger, I thought culture meant a symphony orchestra playing at the auditorium, recitations of Shakespeare in the band shell. Those things would certainly contribute to the culture of a community, but every town, every region already has a culture of its own. Most places in the South have a reputation for hospitality, a friendly attitude. We wave and smile at strangers, hold “get-togethers” in our homes.

The South is still trying to get rid of a culture of privilege based on the depth of a person’s complexion, or the particular side of town on which he happened to be born. Some things take generations to shake, no matter how wrong they are.

New groups of people can change a region’s “vibe” too. Our culture is becoming increasingly more Latin based, with Spanish words and Mexican foods becoming more and more a part of our daily lives.

So, we see how the skills, art, etc. of a given people can influence our culture. But what about the other definition? A growth of bacteria in a controlled substance. Some things that come along might be unwanted, like bacteria. What do we do with them?

One culture change that I can take with a grain of salt is the coming and going of fashion trends. I don’t worry too much about the kids who allow their trousers to sag, or the girls who show more skin than they should. All of that comes and goes, like the jeans I wore until they were ragged, and I sewed on patches, then dismantled them and turned them into a makeshift skirt.

A recent addition to the culture of Arkansas is the possibility of actually winning big in the lottery. “What would you do with a million dollars?” doesn’t seem like a completely ridiculous question anymore. We actually give it some thought, and our answers show what is important in our lives. But we recognize that in order to pay those big prizes, there must be many, many losers.

Another recent trend in our culture is that we have information literally at our fingertips everywhere we turn. We don’t have to wait for the morning newspaper, or even for the evening news to find out what is going on. We get updated on our computer screens, even on our telephones. We can follow posts made by people on the other side of the world as they literally live the news.

How do we keep from viewing these new things as bacteria- a threat growing in a Petri dish somewhere? It’s all about the stable environment.

Our parents have been called the “Greatest Generation”. They were raised in times of financial hardship and war. We, the “boomers” grew up with hope and optimism. We were taught that anything was possible. What can we contribute to our culture in this time of financial and geological upheaval? Maybe our message is one of respect, tolerance and focus. We can draw on the way we were raised, with patience and faith. We can help them step back and find something to smile about, some hope to get them through. We may not feel wise, but we have survived many changes in the culture, and we can show them that they will, too.