Summer Survival Lament

I'm so irritated I could spit
My washer is broke
And my dryer just quit.
My toilet won't flow
The shower won't drip
Wish I could get a plumber to do his bit.

The grass is cooked
My lawn is dry
Our landscaper's gone
The weeds grow high
Could he fix it? We'll never know
Cause he's on vacation in Kocomo

My drain won't drain
My stove won't work
The blender won't whir
And the coffee won't perk
My summer is slipping away so fast
The house is imploding--I may not last---

Till cool weather comes
And breezes blow
When geese fly over
And life gets slow
When grass is brown cause it's supposed to be
And everything's better for you and me---

Then comes Christmas and Ho! Ho! Ho!
New Year's here and another one to go.

collaboration by Benita and Robert

This is Lauren with some of the cousins at Jamestown--it was Jordan's birthday. We come close to filling the little cove reserved for swimming. It was a good day. And Lauren was a game little thing to brave the noise and the chaos when she was due any minute. While watching all the Mama's watching their little ones paddle around like demented fish I was reminded of some of the quotes on Motherhood I have collected over the years, many of them from a book written by Jane Clayson Johnson. So in honor of Robyn, Laura, Erin, Amanda, Katherine and Lauren and all the other mothers in the family--salute!

In our society we give motherhood plenty of lip service. We pat Moms on the head, bring them flowers on Mother's Day and honor them before crowds. But at the end of the day, we don't extend them the same respect we would a professor, a dentist, an accountant, or a judge.

Oprah Winfrey

Sisters, we must revere motherhood in our homes, in our church callings, in our places of employment, in our associations with our neighbors, in everything we do. If we do not, what are we teaching our daughters?

Jane Clayson Johnson

Let France have good Mothers and she will have good Sons!

Napoleon Bonaparte

Your success as a family...our success as a nation...depends not on what happens inside the White House, but on what happens inside YOUR house!

Barbara Bush

Satan has declared war on motherhood. He knows that those who rock the cradle have the power to rock his earthly empire. He knows that without righteous mothers loving and leading the next generation, the kingdom of God will fail.

Sheri Dew

God planted within mothers something divine.

Gordon B. Hinckley

My friend Melby Denise May Pierce-Warner died July 11 of this year. She battled cancer bravely and the last time I talked to her I was struck by her cheerfulness and her concern for her husband who was, as always, by her side. She knew this was as difficult for him in many ways as it was for her.

I didn't know Denise all that well. I wish I had known her better. I was a little afraid of her when I first met her---she was forthright and sometimes abrupt when speaking. I found out later she was a little shy and hid behind that abruptness. She was inspiring to me--I would like to try to explain why and I'm not sure I can: here goes.

When I first met Denise she had bright blue streaks in her long hair, which she wore wound around her head like a crown. Her adult kids thought it would be fun to experiment with her hair, so she experimented and seemed to like the result. She had a string of bells tied around her knees so they tinkled softly as she walked in church. She said it was so her grandkids could find her. She dressed modestly and certainly not in style and yet what she wore was oddly becoming--mixed textures and colors that were very original and caught the eye. I learned that she had a degree in textiles and design and that she loved to sew. She often wore hats which I personally love but seldom have the courage to wear because few people do anymore. If you saw Denise in a local store you would think to yourself " what a strange lady"--and lady would be in that sentence for a reason. Because as odd as she looked she owned a gentleness that was obvious in her actions--she was kind, and lots of people are not kind. It is a quality that stood out in her.

I wish I had the courage to be who I would like to be and not worry about the style, or if it pleases Miss Molly down the street, or if it's the popular thing to do. I would like to have "the courage of my convictions". Denise loved her family and served them in many ways without worrying whether what she did looked odd to anyone else. Her grandchildren were in my Sunday school class and often spoke of "Grandma's bells" with a grin. They loved it. Her hats were a source of smiles from many people but some of them, like me, envied the ease with which she wore them and wished we could too. She loved the church and was unwavering in her devotion to it. Long term committment--something rare today when other committments take precedence over going to church and serving the Lord--not a fashionable phrase. She loved the Lord and she served-- willingly and well and sometimes at great personal sacrifice. She loved music and taught the children in her classes to sing with a joy that was a joy to hear!

One of my fondest memories of Denise, and a wonderful life lesson --was in her closeness to her husband of 35 years. They were close and not afraid to show it--I can still see them walking to their car in the parking lot after church hand in hand (with a little swing to it )as they walked to an old beat-up car that some people would have junked years ago. Denise was not embarrassed by that car. "Still some good years left in that car", she'd say. "It's been a good car and we'll keep riding in it as long as it will go."

At her memorial service she mostly wanted music sung. I was touched by how many of her choices were my favorite songs. Lead, Kindly Light. If You Could Hie to Kolob, I Am a Child of God, Once in Royal David's City, all favorites of mine. And wished I had taken the time to get to know this wonderful lady better than I did. My heart goes out to her family---and I can't help but think what a home she will be preparing for them beyond the veil--it will be an original, I am sure of that.

How many people do we pass every day that do things a little differently? Whose hair might be out of style or who don't quite fit in with what's acceptable in middle America? Who dress differently or live differently but whose originality and innate kindness we don't bother to see? Who have beautiful eyes and a great sense of humor but who aren't "chic" and don't have the latest whatnot we all have to have to be accepted?

I will miss Denise Warner and love her for many reasons but one of them--maybe the best of them --was her way of teaching me this lesson--without even trying, with a smile and a flashy hat and a lot of love.

Riley

Riley was born on July 7 after a day of love and labor and lots of waiting family and friends. She was worth the wait--and is a joy to watch. Mama and Daddy and Baby Riley Danielle Jones are doing great and all the aunts and uncles and Grands are enjoying getting to know her

Day Old Child

My day old child lay in my arms
With my lips against his ear
I whispered strongly, "How I wish--
I wish that you could hear;

"I've a hundred wonderful things things to say
(a tiny cough and a nod)
Hurry, hurry, hurry and grow
So I can tell you about God."

Mu day old baby's mouth was still
And my words only tickled his ear.
But a kind of a light passed through his eyes,
And I saw this thought appear:

"How I wish I had a voice and words;
I've a hundred things to say.
Before I forget I'd tell you of God--
I left Him yesterday."

__ Carol Lynn Pearson

For a little while longer Matthew is in a very unique place within the family--he is the youngest. He is "the baby". Not always a coveted spot to be--he wants to be big and do big things--but he's the baby so we make him wait and cuddle him when he lets us. Which is not often enough.

But wait a few more weeks and he gets kicked up a notch by a new little one and then he becomes a little man. It's the grand design--and thank goodness it usually works--although I would like for him to stay little as long as he can. Isn't he cute? Don't be fooled--he is contemplating devilment!

From Pretty In Pink to the Green Machine----These Girls Rock!

I read this little quote in our church bulletin last Sunday. It says exactly what I feel. It says exactly what I want my family to feel--and act on.

taken by me at Chickahominy Campground 6/2011



"This packrat has learned that what the next generation

will value most is not what we owned, but the evidence

of who we were and the tales of how we loved. In the end

it's the family stories that are worth the storage."


Ellen Goodman, columnist


It is our family history--the chronicle of our lives and loves, our humor, our wins and losses, our homes and how we made them unique to us, that truly matter. A tangible memento from the past is worth having and often treasured, and should be. But the laughter and tears we pass on to future generations will tell them who we were more completely than anything else. Keep a journal. Write down family stories. Remember who fought in what war--and why. Pass it along to the youth coming up around us. We are their eyes and ears to a past they have no way to know personally--except through those they love personally--or who loved them.

When we attended the Memorial Day program at our local cemetary this year we were struck by how many people were missing--the 40 and under crowd were few and far between. I would like our children to make sure that our grandchildren know who in our family served their country and why we honor them for it. To remember Henley Jones who served in World War I and Granddaddy Moss who was a border patrol on the Czech-German border and Lacey Moon who was a paratrooper at 17 in World War II. Family memories.

Who did Grandma Clara Jones pull around the house after she was shot? Why was Grandpa Moss afraid to walk home from Mr. Charlie's after dark? Who was Mr. Charlie? Where was Grandpa Henley Jones when he died? Exactly how many cats did Grandma Gladys really have? How did Grandma and Grandpa meet? How many frogs did Erin put in her camp counselor's tent? We are lucky--we have so many ways to keep our memories now--from blogging to DVD's. Sit down and write a memory............."evidence of who we are and tales of how we loved," says it all.

HATS

Sometimes a girl just has to have a hat. Not just to cover her head but to say what she feels. A hat can express joy and playfulness, help you hide from the world or give you confidence when you need it desperately. It can be fuzzy or floppy or funny or frilly--but is always an expression of innate "girlness," Here are some pictures of my girls in hats--Hats are the thing!

The Edge

I love to stand on the ocean shore
Where the edge of the continent,

The very end,

Meets the edge of the sea

And then bubbles and froths with bits of seafoam and sand.

The shells swim in the surf

Caught between one edge

And the other.

Tumbling frantically toward the sand

Clinging for a moment till the wavelets pull them back.

The dance is constant,

The foamy water, the rolling shells,

The sand waiting warm and deep to rest them.

Till the waves finally toss them too high for the sea to reclaim

And they are safe.

I often feel like the silvery shells

Escaping the vivacious surging of the sea

Tumbling toward the warmth and rest of the earth

A buoyant bit of flotsam forever caught in the shallows,

On the edge

written by me around 2006, after a visit to Nags Head, N.C.

Spindrift

I do not live by the ocean

But I can conjure up it's sounds and smells

At will.

I see the pelican patrol wheel by,

the morning sun glinting on crests of gray-green water,

shadows in the surf, swimming silently.

I hear the high thin trill

Of seabirds floating on currents of air

and I inhale the scent of salt and seaweed

Sun and wind and sand combine

and create a breathtaking backdrop

for a surging sea.

written by me about the same time
(feeling a little homesick for the Outer Banks)

I took the picture when Robert and I took a little pleasure trip this fall.
Dedicated to the Beach Lovers in my family-'specially the Williams

Gentle Ben

Afterwhiles

My Daddy died on December 2 of 2010. Seems so odd to write that down and know that it is true--that the battle he had in that hospital bed in the living room at their home is over. Even more odd that as days have passed I don't think of him as in that bed--- but as the man who played guitar and sang on the front porch after we went to bed at night when I was little.

When my sister Adrian made strange strangled noises in her sleep and I was frightened and insisted the man across the street was stalking us (I was too young to know a pre-sleep apnea snore when I heard it)--Daddy would stomp out on the front porch in his underwear and shout across the street for Drummer New to go to bed and leave his children alone. He knew Drummer was asleep but didn't waste time arguing. Just saving the day for his eldest daughter (who was a chicken) as Daddy's everywhere do.

Remembering is the greatest gift. I remember Daddy bringing home a pony which we later found out we weren't zoned to keep. That pony nearly decapitated me when he ran through a clothes line with me on his back. I remember him building a tree house for us in the woods beside our house, then giving us twenty minutes of instruction before we were allowed to play in it because we might fall out. I remember him taking us to the beach, although he was afraid of water and wouldn't let us venture out more than shin deep . If it hadn't been for Mama we would never have learned to swim. I remember him waiting under the street lamp in front of our house because it began to snow while I was on a date and he was unsure of the driving ability of my young escort but didn't want to embarrass me by coming to take me home. I remember him telling me goodbye as he left for work the morning I was scheduled to catch a plane to Hawaii. He informed me I was not to go--it was too far and too dangerous---knowing full well I was going anyway and he would worry the whole time I was gone. I remember him going to the Doctor's with me when baby Robyn shoved a piece of cotton up her nose and how calmly he held her so the doctor could extract it while I cried and she screamed.

Daddy and I had the same ups and downs that most daddies and daughters had. We certainly didn't always agree. But he loved us and I knew that even when I didn't know much else--and depended on it. Being the youngest in his family made him a little rebellious in his own life and a little cautious about his children's lives. He loved to laugh, which is a good memory--maybe the best memory.

Lying in bed on a warm summer evening, listening to your Mom and Dad harmonizing on the front porch while he plays the guitar is a wonderfully peaceful way to drift off to sleep. "A long steel rail and a short cross-tie" or "On the wings of a snow white dove" still bring back the warmest, most secure feeling when I hear them. Editing, as someone once said, is necessary when remembering your childhood--I find that is true when a long illness has changed your perceptions of your father and turned him into a shadow of his former self. I like remembering. I like those nights of music and laughter. I like my Daddy becoming the man I knew before he was sick, though I learned a great many things from his illness too. I'll hang onto those memories--good and bad--and use my editing skills wisely.

The man don't come to our house anymore

He used to come around

And knock upon the door

We still live where

We always lived before

But the man don't come

To our house any more.

We each had a verse of that song and that is perhaps my fondest memory of my father--his playing and singing each verse for us as we sang along--Me and Addie and Andy and Mike--with Mama harmonizing, as usual. 'Night, Daddy.