Blessings

That little rascal was up shortly after 6 a.m. Guess he had a full day planned at Mawmaw & Pap's house and he was ready to get started! Had to run errands this morning, and do laundry, and cut grass, and powerwash the deck. Oh, Jay helped me dig in the dirt and plant hostas and fuscia. About lunchtime he'd had enough of all this work. Fetched his swimsuit and announced it was time to go to the Y. We grabbed quick lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and cantaloupe; then we squeezed into Eddie's little truck and went to the Y for a couple of hours. My intent was to do the weedeating while Eddie finished cleaning the deck, but this poor ol' Mawmaw is done for the day. You can stick a fork in me. I'm totally done. Except for supper, which is gonna be steaks and potatoes on the grill. No brainer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And let me brag one more time on my Jayster. I say he's a computer whiz. It's his job at school each morning to boot up the computers in his first-grade classroom. And he's been using this one at our house for 4 years now--since he was 3. He has mastered the Mac! I just had no idea how masterful he was until this morning. Sometime ago I bought him a new computer game--a Winnie the Pooh learning game. But for some reason this thing drives me nuts. Instead of coming up as an icon on the desktop where you can click on it to start it, it comes up automatically as soon as you put it in the hard drive. And there's no stopping it once it gets started. You have to let it go through several stages before you can stop it. Takes about 10 minutes, and I fuss the entire time. . . . . . .. So this morning I didn't know the thing was in the computer and when I started it up, here comes Winnie the Pooh. And I was fussing. Jay walked over and said, "Space bar, Mawmaw. Hit the space bar." I didn't think it would do anything, but that little boy reached around me and hit the space bar. Incredible! It took it back one step. Hit it again and again and again. And in 10 seconds, instead of 10 minutes, we were out of Winnie the Pooh. I hugged and kissed and hugged that little boy some more. How did he know that? But I sure am glad he did!

Eddie and I have a whole slew of nieces. All of them on Eddie's side of the family live at least an hour away, but all of my nieces, except Ginevra, live right here in Hendersonville. Kayla is a senior this year and last night was prom night. Go to the link for Carolyn's pictures to see this pretty young lady in pink. When she was a baby, she was a hot head. We used to laugh and laugh at her. Called her temper "the second child syndrome," because it seemed in our family that every second child had a mind of her own. Kayla was no exception. She had this headful of dark curls. Just a beautiful child. But then she'd frown and shout, "I don't like it!" Thankfully, that just seemed to last during the terrible two's. At 17, she's a beautiful Christian young lady. Don't know about this boyfriend, though. Might have to check him out and make sure he's good enough for her!

I have given up on the Flicker Album off my main page. However, I think I've beaten the system. If you'll scroll on down and look under "Links," you'll see "Carolyn's pictures." Also, there are two other sites there . . . both blogs of Christian friends. Read 'em. They'll warm your heart and give you a few "belly laughs" as well.

The parking garage is closed this morning. Seems that there's a skunk on the loose. Would someone please explain to me how a skunk gets into a 3-level parking garage in the middle of downtown Nashville? Every spot within a 5-mile radius is paved. There are no living facilities around here conducive to a skunk! Sure hope they've contacted a professional exterminator to trap the thing and to test it for rabies. And don't you wonder about the person who discovered the skunk? Is he or she at home now soaking in tomato juice to try to eliminate the smell? . . . . . . That also reminds me that a couple of years ago a snake was found in our credit union. Just stretched out on the floor in front of one of the tellers. An employee came in, thought it was a belt, and went to pick it up. Oops! If that had been me, I would have had to have gone home and changed clothes . . . after I'd regained consciousness. So how do critters such as skunks and snakes end up in a concrete building that is surrounded by pavement and other concrete buildings? Another one of life's great mysteries.

As you know, our neighborhood sustained substantial damage in the tornado that came through Middle TN 2 weeks ago. For some reason, the media—especially the Tennessean (Nashville paper)—has chosen to ignore Hendersonville and instead focus on Goodlettsville and Gallatin. Not to take anything away from them, but HELLO! What about us? Last Sunday's paper front page section was mostly dedicated to coverage of the tornado. In nearly dozen pages or so, Hendersonville got about 1 1/2 inches of copy. There were maps showing the route of the tornado in Goodlettsville, Gallatin, and even Gibson County and Warren County, neither of which are even close to us. I was livid. So Sunday afternoon I sent the following e-mail to the newspaper: I don't know whether I'm more hurt or angry after looking at today's (Sunday) coverage of the tornado. There are maps of every place the tornado even thought about touching down EXCEPT Hendersonville. I notified the paper earlier in the week and asked why had there been no media coverage of the Drakes Creek/Anderson Road area and was told by Pam ***** that no one knew there had been any damage. I also talked to Ann *****, who was nice enough to have my pictures posted on the Web site. But y'all are acting like nothing ever happened here. How in the heck do you think it got to Gallatin from Goodlettsville without passing through here? We have at least a dozen or more families who have no home to return to. Just rubble and kindling. Dozens more homes that need serious repair. People who were hospitalized, one young mother permanently paralyzed because she threw her body over her two young sons to save their lives. But no . . . everything in the paper is Gibson or Warren Counties or Goodlettsville or Gallatin. I'm so disappointed in the news media, especially the Tennessean. You can't plead ignorance. I told you nearly a week ago. I had not heard anything from them all week. Thought they just wrote me off as another crazy woman. But then this evening, as I was cooking supper, the phone rang. "Mrs. Gregory, this is John G***, the city editor for the Tennessean." Well, now that's more like it! Seems that he writes an editorial column in the Issues section of the Sunday paper and this Sunday he's writing about the tornado. Thought I had some valid points and he wants to use parts of my letter and address some of the issues I raised. Wanted to know if it would be all right to quote me. I said sure, as long as he doesn't make me look like a nut. My son works at the Tennessean and I am a denominational employee—don't want to cost either of us our jobs! He laughed and assured me that would not be the case. Then he asked several more questions regarding the tornado. And he asked if he could call me at work tomorrow if he needed anything else. As much as I've had pictured, quoted, and printed in the paper lately, they ought to consider giving me a cubicle!

My cousin Debbie is putting up one good fight against the cancer that was discovered last November. She's had all kinds of radiation, including a 48-hour radiation isolation period. I don't know how she does it. Aunt Nancy, her mom and a second mom to me, called a little while ago. Seems that Debbie is going to start chemo on May 11 and have a total of 6 sessions. Says it is a "precaution." I don't know. Debbie is so strong, so full of faith, and a champion fighter. She's a chaplain at Baptist Hospital and has ministered to countless thousands of sick and dying patients and to their families. Now she's on the other side of the fence. Not a good place to be. Please keep Debbie, husband Kelly, and their sons in your prayers. Their oldest son graduates from high school next month. Their youngest is only 8 years old. . . . . . Debbie is Aunt Nancy and Uncle Robert's third child. Debbie and her 2 older brothers were adopted after my aunt and uncle thought they couldn't have kids of their own. Never doubt the power and faithfulness of God because when Debbie was only about 6 or 7, Aunt Nancy gave birth to Julie and then to Dan a few years later............... I very clearly remember when Debbie became a part of our family. I was in second grade at Rosebank Elementary, as was David, Debbie's oldest brother. Thankfully someone had the good sense to make sure we were NOT in the same classroom. David and I have always been like brother and sister, having gone to church and to school together. Seems like we were always at their house or they were at ours. Such an unusual closeness. Anyway, I remember that David got to miss a day of school because they were going to go get his new little sister. She was 18 months old, having already been in one foster home or adopted home (I'm not sure which) and that situation failed. Her name at that time was Mona, and I'm sure glad they changed it to Debbie or Debbie-Do as we often called her. Cute little blonde-haired beauty, loved and sometimes tormented by her big brothers. There's one home movie of them at the beach. Bobby or David had caught a sand crab and they were chasing this little toddler around the beach. While there's no sound, you can tell she was screaming her head off. Brothers! .. . . . . . . One more memory and I'll call it quits. The summer I was nine my family and theirs were supposed to go to Montgomery Bell State Park for the 4th of July. But my sister Nancy came down with the measles a few days before. So we couldn't go, and I was heartbroken. Finally it was decided I could spend the night with my cousins and go to the park with them. HURRAH! The boys' bedroom was downstairs; Debbie's and their parents' room was upstairs. I was gonna sleep downstairs with David and Bobby, and we were making all kinds of racket, as 6- and 9-year-olds will do. We finally settled down for the night, sort of. I was in one twin bed with David and Bobby was in the other. Then David started telling Bobby that the booger man was gonna get him and all kinds of other nonsense. Bobby was always wild as buck and didn't need David's encouragement to get wound up. Before it was over, all 3 of us plus 2 stuffed collie dogs ended up in the same twin bed, sound asleep. Don't you know that was a sight! The next morning we went to the park and I learned to swim that day. Best July 4th I've ever had!

Linda refers to the building I work in as the Ivory Tower. I think it's more like the Tower of London. Let me share a conversation that took place this afternoon: We had our monthly department meeting. When it was over, I noticed 3 of our administrative/clerical ladies still sitting at one of the tables. I stopped by to ask Joan a question about an email she sent earlier today regarding the women's rest room. We seem to have a regular plumbing problem because too many people rinse things down the sink that should have been placed in the trash instead. . . . . . . . I had responded to her and told her half jokingly and half seriously that maybe we needed to have a called meeting with the girls to discuss bathroom etiquette. Not only are clogged sinks a problem, but there will be hair on the sink, scraps of toilet paper left on the floor, wet seats and countertops, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. Pat suggested that perhaps the men's bathrooms are cleaner. Just as I said, "That's because they have urinals," one of our managers, Ron, strolled by and sat at the table. Now Ron and I go back close to 20 years. I worked with him when he first came to the company, and we've been friends ever since. Also, his wife is my little Jay's elementary school principal, and Ron's grandson is the same age as Jay. Just some common threads. . . . . . So Ron walks up and hears the word "urinal," and asks what in the world are we talking about. Nasty bathrooms and how some people think their mothers must work there and come in and clean behind them. Joan, who is Miss Prim and Proper (and I'm not), was appalled that we would discuss a dirty bathroom in front of a manager. Oftentimes thoughts run through my head and out my mouth before I can stop them. One such time was looming on the horizon. So I said, "Joan, I've been in the man's underwear drawer. This is nothing." I thought she was going to pass out. Of course Ron and the other 2 ladies are in stitches. Joan asked, "Were you in his home?" To which I responded, "Well, no. It was a sleezy motel on Murfreesboro Road." She began to hyperventilate, covered her ears, and said, "I can't hear any more!" The rest of us were laughing so hard we could scarcely breathe. But I managed to give, as Paul Harvey would say, "the rest of the story." . . . . . . . Many years ago our section was at a writers conference at a motel. These things used to last nearly a week and writers came in from all over the country, so we all stayed at the motel for the duration. I was in one of Ron's sessions and he needed something from his room and asked me to go get it. No problem. I took his key, went to his room, and opened the drawer he told me the item would be in. Well, it also happened to be his underwear drawer. I nearly died. I slammed it shut. I'd never seen the personal underwear of any man other than my dad and my husband—certainly not that of a male co-worker! But I regained my composure, reopened the drawer, and swiftly removed the needed item. And until about a month ago, I'd never told Ron that story. But in the last 20 years I've come WAY out of my shell. . . . . . . . . So the girls today had another big laugh about it, and Ron is such a good sport. He just laughed along with us and asked why I waited so many years to tell that tale. Then they all wanted to know what kind of underwear he wore—just ragging him terribly. I walked over, patted him on the back, and in as much seriousness as I could muster, answered, "Scooby Doo. The man wears Scooby Doo underwear." They were howling as I walked out. . . . . . And now, Ms. Linda, you know the truth about what goes on in the Ivory Tower.

I hit the door running when I got home yesterday. Had folks coming for dinner, and I was determined to have homemade fried pies for dessert. I have a small b/w TV in the kitchen that I usually have on while I'm cooking, so while I made crusts and fillings and whipped them into pies, I listened to Oprah. Yesterday's show revolved around women who are trying to fulfill themselves and find an inner peace but who are going about it all the wrong way. The first young lady, in her 20's and not too far removed from the college campus, said she spent $165,000 last year on designer clothes, shoes, and pets. In her mind the Hollywood celebrities "have it all." She emulates them by trying to dress like them, decorate like them, and own the material things they have. That's how she tries to feel better about herself and her life. Now she's deep in debt and still searching. ................Another young wife and mother, married to a professional, says to her friends and family she appears to have it all. But she's empty on the inside. No intimacy with her husband—physically or emotionally. She's searching for something to fill that void. All the stories were virtually the same when boiled down: Looking for an inner peace, joy, comfort, and something to give their lives purpose. ............DUH! The entire time I was in there baking and listening to this program I was thinking to myself, "What you are looking for you can find in Jesus Christ!" Oh that someone had been there to share the message and love of the only One who can fill that void, that empty space, in our hearts and lives! We try to fill that whole in our hearts with possessions, drugs, alcohol, affairs—any number of things and not all of them bad. But those are temporary fixes. When that high wears off, we're right back where we started................. A couple of times Oprah said something to the effect that a person can't be all that God intends for her to be until that person is happy with herself. No argument there, but she just didn't go far enough. Truly the fields in America are white until harvest, but where are the workers?

I'm busted, disgusted, and not to be trusted. Linda, my newest friend and partner in crime, was supposed to be coming into town tomorrow. We had a breakfast date all set for Thursday morning. John, the co-worker who is to blame for creating this new friendship, was supposed to go as well. Then comes the unfortunate e-mail that the reason for the trip has been cancelled. So there goes breakfast with the "Running Wild" crowd. That's bad enough, but now she rubs salt into the raw, gaping wound by saying they are going to Pigeon Forge instead . . . the shopping capital of Tennessee. Nestled in the Smokey Mountains and just a piece of heaven here on earth. Therefore, while John and I are chained to our desks in windowless offices where not even the smallest ray of sunshine comes through, Ms. Linda will be running breathlessly through the shops in Pigeon Forge, small piece of plastic in one hand, and leading the shopping brigade with a call of "CHARGE!" Why, by the end of the day she'll probably have the numbers worn off the darn thing! Of course her story is that she too will be chained to a desk (in a plush hotel with windows and room service and wearing leisure attire [see previous post about Union Station]) working on a writing assignment. Now tell me, does that not just break your heart? Excuse me, I need to go get a tissue . . .

Apparently half of the world is obsessed with the soon-to-take-place birth of the child of a couple of celebrities because I can't open a newspaper that there isn't an article about them. I wish them well, but you know what? I could not care less about what kind of birth and/or delivery they choose. But today's paper has a half-page article about "silent birth," something endorsed by Scientologists. . . . . . . . . . Silent birth. Isn't that an oxymoron? Now I've given birth twice, and let me assure you, they were anything but silent. The first time, in June 1976, was at Langley Air Force Base in Hampton, VA. I hope things have changed, but at that time the military did not believe in drugs for the poor woman in labor. You just bit down on a stick, screamed a lot (mostly at your husband), and prayed it would be over soon. As luck would have it, the air conditioning was out on this warm June day, so it was as hot as blazes in the hospital. And no drugs except for a small dose of demerol that made me throw up and did not help the pain. About 6 hours into delivery, some genius thought maybe the baby was too big for me to deliver and sent me down to X-ray to see if I needed a C-section. Don't you know that was fun! They didn't care if I was in the middle of a contraction or not. Just move your very pregant body over to the next gurney, please. Oh, and did I mention that I was 28 days overdue? Yeh. My due date was June 1 and the week before the midwife (didn't have "real" doctors) had said I was dialated and ready to go. A full 5 weeks later I finally delivered an 8 lb. 13 oz. boy. . . . . . . . . All that to say, there was NOTHING SILENT about the labor or delivery. And I very sweetly through clenched teeth told Eddie that if he expected any more children, we would go to a civilian doctor. I'd had enough of this military torture. . . . . So the next time—3 years later—we went to a civilian doctor at Fort Campbell, KY. As soon as I walked in the door and obviously in labor, things started happening. Popped in an IV immediately and God bless them, an epidural. Those things are the greatest discoveries any scientist ever came up with. An easy, easy labor and just over 2 hour later, we had a precious baby girl. That was as close to a silent birth as I'd ever get . . . almost pain-free. . . . . . . . . So good luck to any of those poor, unsuspecting, first-time moms-to-be. I've been there, done that, and got the stretch marks to prove it. But you'll never convince me there's such a thing as a "silent birth."