A Man's Home is His Castle, No Matter the Season



The earth is now covered with the colorful remains of Autumn's glory. And tiny birds, feathers ruffled by frigid, early winter winds, have packed their bags and headed for sunny islands beyond the coast of Florida.



Autumn leaves have fallen,
carpeting the grass with their glory.

Bill and I, along with our two little pups, are bundled up properly here in North Carolina. We're ready for the winter which has unofficially begun. The temperature at our house has been hovering under 35 degrees for three days now, and from the parking lot down the street, I can see snow on the mountain tops. Fortunately, we like the change of the seasons.

And meanwhile, like the changing seasons of the earth, the life my husband and I share is entering into a new season. A change that is overdue. We've found an apartment in Charlotte, just down the street from Bill's work; all bottom level, with a large kitchen, a nice master bedroom, a studio for moi, as well as a place for the doggies to lay in the sun. This will be our work-week abode, and we'll head home to Hickory for the weekends. Because Bill and I aren't yet ready to let go of our house of 22 years, with its memories, tradition, kid-friendly creek, and picket fenced garden of old roses and herbs. 

Castles are everwhere I look in Charlotte!
This one was across the street from the hotel we stayed in
when we went to a Panther's game a few weeks ago.



We've resisted any move to Charlotte for 20 years now, because of our large family. Housing for a family of ten is a costly persuit in Charlotte as compared to Hickory. As a result, Bill has driven back and forth for a total of 156 work weeks, 40 hours each. Yep, that's the equivalent of three years of driving with 40 hour weeks. (This is how Bill thinks!) Let's see on my little calculator here...that's 40 hours x 52 weeks x 3.  Have I figured that right? I can't look.

Now we're going to have two extra hours to spend together every single day. Let's see...that's 2 x 5 x 52 = 520 more hours in one year, or 13 work weeks more time togehter just in the first year alone! Something like that, anyway. Wow! 

Like life, the tides come and go,

one over another, never ceasing.



As they say, my friend, this is life; it's ebb and flow like waves in the ocean's surf. One wave recedes and another begins over the first. Then another and another and another.

We don't know how this new adventure is going to go, but we're looking forward to it. And we're taking it on together. As we promised we would do many years ago, in a little church in my home town.


It brings these three words to mind: God is good.

Varoom!

I love to drive.

Subaru as seen in the wild, resting...

And my little red Subaru Forester who answers to the name of Bullet loves to be driven.

She is a mightily coordinated youngster who clings to twisting wet roads like a cougar, so she and I enjoy going places together, like on mountain roads in the rain and snow. (Yes, I did steal (belted radial) that image from the old GoodYear Tire commercial; your remembrance of that gives away your old age, so don't tell anyone...)

Anyway, I steer and Bullet boogies.

Snowy country road with Blue Ridge in the distance

This week we've been up and down 321 to Boone a half a dozen times. That's up and down, counted as one time. Bullet and I have actually traversed Highway 321 a total of twelve times since last Monday.

You see, my daughter broke her ankle two weeks ago, sledding in the perpetual snow storm that has blessed, plagued, and annoyed the Blue Ridge for nigh on ever since the Autumn leaves fell.

Well, after sitting in her dismal, cramped apartment caring for herself for five days, my youngest called for the best and most lovable rescue/care taker she knows. Dearest Mama.

"Can you please come get me?" she asked. My ears perked up like a happy Rat Terrier's. "But of course," I said.

Tugging on my comfy brown knitted boots, I hopped in Bullet and varoomed right up the mountain.

Now if you know me at all, you're aware that I suffer from the malady known to middle agers as the Empty Nest Syndrome. It goes through several stages. I am in Stage Four, the "Wondering Who the Heck I Am Now That There's No One Home to Nurture" stage. So if any of my kids or grandkids needs a little love, I'm there for them like lightening on a telephone pole in the middle of a lake in a thunderstorm on an August afternoon in Central Florida. That's fast, my friend.

Back to my kid. She has been my prisoner/victim until this last Monday when at last she was able to get a cast on her ankle.
The appointment was at 3:30; all went well. I got her home and snuggled into her apartment, her clothes in the wash, bed made and everything unpacked. Bullet and I at last arrived back to our home by 7:15 pm. I felt like Supermama, and Supermama was pooped! Bill cooked. I slept like a log. 

(Picture of adorable daughter in bright green cast should have gone here, but alas, we didn't get one!)

Then yesterday morning I got a phone call before I was out of bed. It was my daughter. In pain. The cast was pressing against the outside of her poor widdle foot.

Zoom zoom! Up 321, back down to Taylorsville, where the good doctor cut the cast away from her tortured toes, back up to Boone and down 321 to home. Whew!

(Don't worry. I'm mercifully sparing you the details; you don't want to know "why Taylorsville?".)

I think I've had enough of the mountain drive for one week.

I have other things to do today, like writing and drawing. I don't want to go back up the mountain tomorrow, either; or the rest of the week.

But I do love the mountain drive. Listening to Bach, with the bass turned up so that it vibrates the steering wheel beneath my fingertips.

I look out upon those deep blue mountains and can see so far around the earth that I almost sneak up on myself from the back!

I can tell where it's foggy and where it's raining and where the sun shines bright. I see Grandfather Mountain and Hawksbill and Table Rock. I see the storm front that is headed this way, floating just above the soft yellow sunset, tinged in greens and blues and pinks.

As for Bullet, she just hums along with me. She loves the setting sun, too. The cold crisp air, the scent of the pavement.

And of course our dear friend, Johann. (You know. Bach.)

Snowy Days are for the Birds!

Meet Monsieur Starling, imported to America from Europe, I believe.

He was happy to pose for me yesterday as I waited in the car for Bill to run into Walmart. I sat there, camera ready, hoping for sparrows. Not being a shy guy, Mr. Starling decided to let me photograph him first. It's easy to understand why he's so proud, what with those colorful feathers gleeming in the sunlight, and markings like reversed ermine, fit for a king.

Bill and I were on the hunt for empty bird's nests, which I will be using in a notecard series, available later this week. We got some beautiful material.

The photo above was taken by my husband.

He had to climb a mountain of snow which had been piled around this little parking lot tree. I watched as he teetered precariously on the dirty wet stuff to get this photograph just for me.

I wanted to get as many nests as possible from the inside...that is until we found this one.

It was close to the road, so we pulled into a loading dock area for easy acceess, which turned out not to be easy at all, thanks to a 10 foot wall. But my husband trapsed up a hill and down the street to get this image. He came back triumphant, the hunter with his game.

Upon closer inspection, however, we realized that this nest appears to be full of bones. We tried to convince ourselves that that was just leaves and debris frosted frosted in snow, but no. When I enlarged the picture on my computer this morning, it does look like a cluster of dry white bones.

Needless to say, this particular nest won't be going in my Empty Nest Cards. I know it looks cool, but we empty nesters need happy images of empty nests. Images that remind us that empty nests are truely a thing of beauty, full of opportunities for the future.

Did you know that birds often reuse their nests?

Sometimes twice in a season. And they may come back again, year after year. Little birdie mommies and daddys passing their home along to their offspring. And so it may go until the nest wears out. (That is why I don't collect nests, save for the one that comes out of a little shoe box to adorn my Christmas tree every year.) 

So, the empty nest is not a thing to be mourned, but is actually the harbinger of a happy future. A future which may even include grandchildren. Grandchildren who go home after the spoiling is done one day, and return another day for more of the same.

Unfinished knitting, mayhaps?

One more nest to share before I go, my friend. I especially loved this sturdy little nest. This couple found a bit of string to use in their home, but I have a second theory. The knitting was abandoned when the eggs hatched a little earlier than expected.

Well, that's it, folks. Yesterday's adventure. The best thing about it wasn't the lovely photos of bird's nests. It was the fun time Bill and I had together, just driving around, looking for them.

Have a good day. And keep your eyes open. Remember, you pass by things every day that are sitting there, waiting for someone to notice them. 

Delight in life's little details. It's good for the spirit.

Mothering Grown-ups

Once upon a time I thought that my children would grow up and my job as a mother would be done. Though I love being a mom, I was tired. With a capital "T". And the kids were always fighting and getting into trouble, babies nekked in the front yard, others jumping off the porch into pillows...it was crazy around here. The house was a wreck. Laundry was everywhere. There was never an extra dime in the checkbook. Hardly even time to make more babies, if you get my drift...

So I clung to the hope that some day Bill and I would at last have time to "Spend Together". With money to Spend Together. Alone, without laundry or dishes or poopy diapers and other parently things. Romance and all that stuff that you're desperate for when you're young and have young'uns at home. But now that the kids are all official "grown-ups", I realize that that was a rediculous notion; the dream of a young and idealistic woman.

First off, my friend. Kids never grow up. (I didn't! I still felt like Daddy's little girl at age 57.)

Secondly, did I say romance? Are you kidding? Why is it that when we have kids around all the time, we never have the opportunity, and when we at last have the opportunity, we aren't nearly as interested? Romance, indeed.

As for the house being messy, who cares? And money. Who has money these days, anyway? I can buy sheets without feeling guilty now, and that's an improvement.

And last, did I use the word "alone"? Bill and I are still almost never alone. With our big bunch, someone is always coming home for the weekend, and when that one leaves, another shows up for the week. And the celebrations are constant. Last week was Kathleene's 40th birthday with 30 people at my house, and this weekend is Israel's second with a party at the other grandma's house.

But who's complaining? We are crazy about every one of our kids and their families, too. We are blessed to the max.

(By the way, folks, when it comes to sex, everybody knows that sex is overrated in our society...at least, that's what Bill and I think we should keep telling ourselves. But we don't. We just complain. Grope and complain behind our grown children's backs...)

What brought this all on is JoAnna. Still Baby Joie, to me. She is 25 and is moving to New York City next month. It's such a big deal for Bill and me, as all of our children but for our California girl, live relatively nearby. This weekend Joie is flying up there to check out apartments in the big city. Alone. I'm a nervous wreck, but not as much of one as she is. (If it wasn't for prayer, I'd not be able to let her go at all.) Being the last week of summer (and Bill's in the school building business,) Bill can't go with her. And while I would really like to help, and think I am best at these things, I am unable to do so due to advanced arthritis. I've been to New York before, and know how hard it is to get around up there. If Joie were moving to Charlotte or Atlanta or Los Angeles (or any place that has parking places instead of subways) I would be able to assist in the hunt for a home. But not New York City.

So JoAnna is all grown up today, whether she likes it or not. Whether I like it or not. And she was my little Joie just yesterday. That's life, my friend.

So to you young mothers, I say, "Enjoy!" Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!!! Enjoy this moment. Enjoy this day. I know it's hard sometimes. You're tired. You're sick of washing laundry and doing homework. The house looks like one of those reality shows where they make some poor packrat throw out everything. To top it all off, you haven't got a moment to romp with your hubbie, and you are young enough to be desperate.

Darlin'. Listen to a woman who understands (believe me) how you're feeling right about now. All too soon, your youngsters are going to be grown-ups just like my kids are. Just like you are. One day. Some day. But before you start feeling all sad and depressed, I am here to assure you that you needn't worry about ever losing your job as a mother. Because that, my dear, will never happen.

Once a mother, always a mother. And that's that.

Deber

PS: Bill and I have two (2) baskets of laundry in our bedroom as a regular lifestyle. Laundry is forever...