The fine art of watering

I’ve been known to have a sharp tongue.  Don’t sit there at your computer with your mouth hanging agape while you read this.  I’m not always the epitome of sweetness and light, just ask my family.

Oh, as a stranger or acquaintance, you might glimpse a flash of my temper if you really, really make me angry.   I can deliver a strong tongue lashing, but in most cases, I try to curb my words and my fury.

It’s the right thing to do and most days I strive so hard to do the right thing, even though often I fail.  Quite some time ago, I had one heck of a day, you know the kind where everything seems cattywampus, nothing works the way it should, people irritate you, and circumstances beyond your control frustrate you.  And it was cold and rainy to boot.  That kind of day.

Feeling totally exasperated, I pulled into a gas station to fill my car. But after a couple unsuccessful tries, the pump just would not work.  I looked at the attendant, warm and dry inside the station, but he just stared out the window at me, exhibiting no signs of coming to my aid. Finally, I gestured to him (the call button didn’t seem to work either!) and he slowly meandered up to me with this insightful news:

“This pump isn’t working,” he said nonchalantly.  “You’ll have to pull around to another pump.”

Grrr.   Anger fueled by my frustrating day welled up quickly as I noticed the line of cars waiting for the other pumps.  I glared at Mr. Helpful.  He just shrugged his shoulders and that was the breaking point.

“Well, if you KNEW this pump wasn’t working, don’t you THINK it might have been a good idea to PUT A SIGN ON IT SAYING SO?!!!”  I yelled.  I whipped my irate words, each one getting louder and accelerating up a notch in angry tone, at him.  Again he shrugged and started walking away.

“Thanks for nothing!”  I mumbled as I climbed back into my car and he ambled into the station.   I pulled my car around to the long line at the opposite island and waited…and waited…and fumed…and  fumed.  If my gas gauge hadn’t been so close to E, I would have driven away.

And while I waited, I sensed the Lord telling me I was being utterly ridiculous.  What purpose did my anger serve?  Was it righteous anger?  No.  Would my wrath right a wrong?  Absolutely not.  All it really did was raise my blood pressure and provide fodder for the gas attendant’s tales of how nasty and irate customers can be.  But I was still hopping mad.

Finally, I nosed my car beside another gas pump, zipped my credit card angrily through the slot and started filling my car.  As I felt fuel coursing through the hose into my tank, I also could feel anger pumping out of me as well.  I felt like God’s presence was siphoning wrath right out of me.  In its place came strong conviction as I realized my venomous words had just given every person who calls themselves a believer in Christ Jesus a bad rap.   What kind of picture of a Christian did I paint? Not a very pretty one.

Cold and damp, I started to climb back into my car, but stopped, closed my car door and walked into the gas station where – you guessed it – there was a long line of customers waiting to pay their bills.  I forced myself to stay patient and when my turn at the cashier arrived, I told her I needed to speak to the young man behind her.

She glanced at him as if to say, “Now what did you do?”  He winced, walked up to the counter and looked at me like a beaten puppy.  I suppose he expected yet another tongue lashing.

I looked him straight in the eye and said, “I want to apologize for yelling at you out there.  I realize it’s not your fault the pump isn’t working and the station is so busy.  So..,” I paused, “I’m sorry.”

His eyes widened in disbelief.   His shocked co-worker looked warily at me then at him.  “Okay,” he said.   And that was that.

No illuminating beam streamed down from heaven.  No harp music swelled loudly on the store’s speaker system.   No one exclaimed, “Wow, you’re a great person!”  Nothing miraculous occurred except within my heart because I knew – I knew - I had done the right thing.   I did what Jesus called me to do, to apologize when I spewed forth unrighteous anger on someone.

Please don’t think I’m writing this to get any kind of accolades because I don’t deserve them.  I’ve experienced way too many times when I have succumbed to most unrighteous things.

Instead I share my experience because I believe God asks me to relate the change I felt in my heart that day – the joy and peace that flooded over me because I obeyed my Savior and Lord, acknowledged my wrong,  and doled out a little grace to someone else.   Grace, not selfish anger, is what He grants to me every day, whether I deserve it or not.

Unfortunately, my impatience and frustration often get the best of me.  I’m ashamed to admit in the past, my wicked tongue lashed out harsh words at those I love most – not strangers at a gas station – my husband and children.

But as I’ve matured both in age and spirit, I’ve allowed God to continue to mold me and change my ways.  The still, small voice of the Spirit helps me curb my tongue, use self-control and stop myself before I react in angry words…most of the time.  See, I’m still a work in progress.

Just the other day, I positioned myself on my front porch swing and read in the book of Proverbs again, noticing how many verses pertaining to wisely using words and controlling the tongue are underlined in my Bible.  At some point in my past, I had drawn a star next to this verse:

“Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.” ~ Proverbs 12:18.

Obviously, God kept trying to teach me a lesson I’ve needed to learn for many years.

While reading, I observed the ruby red petunias nesting in our porch boxes needed water.  As I grabbed the watering can to pour fresh water on those flowers, an idea sprouted in my mind –  I am just like that watering can!  What pours from me when I am shaken a little or tipped?

When I pour forth words of blessing and encouragement on others,  it’s just like cooling, refreshing water flowing out onto my flowers, which will be nourished and grow abundantly.  But if words of contention or anger flow out of my ‘watering can’ over my loved ones and even those I find difficult to love, it’s like dousing flowers with poison.   They will shrivel up and die.

My words have the power to be poisonous or encouraging and I have the capability to choose which they will be.   Nourishing others and cultivating kindness is the right thing to do, even when I’m feeling impatient or frustrated.

In my sixth chapter of my yearly book of Opportunity, on this 28^th page, and every day, I know that’s what God calls me to do and I’m going to try my best.

©2011 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Lovin’ summer and summer lovin’

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“Summertime, and the livin’ is easy,” a line from George Gershwin’s opera, Porgy and Bess, echoes in my mind today. 

As a kid, that phrase summed up June, July and August accurately because the livin’ really was easy.

Back then, I anticipated three main events of summer, and the rest of the time was pure freedom.  Memorial Day officially kicked off the season, because few school days remained after that.

My family always spent the holiday at an annual picnic hosted by my parents’ friends where relatives and acquaintances gathered for an entire day full of feasting and fun.  One or two days later, the last day of school usually arrived and that meant freedom was finally here!

Freedom to do whatever you felt like doing.  No more studying or getting up early.  Freedom meant spending the day reading under a shade tree or lounging at my next-door neighbors’ pool.

Freedom represented remaining outdoors as long as I desired, ushering in the darkness by catching fireflies, and staying up late until my heavy eyelids drooped, I dragged my sleepy self up the stairs to bed,  and I fell asleep knowing I could sleep in the next day as long as I wanted.

In June, my friends and I eagerly awaited the next big event – the local firemen’s annual carnival, an event still sponsored after all these years.   Matter of fact, carnival week just concluded and that caused me to remember how exciting it all used to be.

Trips to amusement parks were a huge treat back then and I didn’t get to enjoy those outings often.  Vacations were also rare for our family, so the carnival coming to our area was thrilling stuff.

An entire week of entertainment ensued including long parades, where we waved to our friends in the high school bands and grabbed up candy thrown by our local firemen hanging off huge fire trucks; tummy-upsetting thrill rides and games of chance, where you could win the most gargantuan stuffed animal you’d ever seen in your life; and a smorgasbord of appealing carnival food.

We couldn’t wait for carnival week greeting us with dazzling bright lights, loud rock music, the odor of grilled onions, peppers and sausage, and the carnies’ voices enticing you to spend your money foolishly.  My gal pals and I would try to persuade someone of driving age to transport us there as many nights as possible.

As a younger kid, the joy of riding the Ferris Wheel or the Tilt o’Whirl,  of eating greasy french fries doused with lots of salt and vinegar and freshly spun pink cotton candy,  and finally purchasing a candy apple to take home and enjoy later drew me to the carnival like a moth to the porch light.  But when adolescence hit, the carnival was THE place for girl to meet boy.

My teenage girlfriends and I would circle the midway over and over, walking and talking, stopping to flirt with this group of boys or that.  It was innocent back then though:   boy met girl; boy asked girl to join him for a ride on the Scrambler;  boy strolled around with girl, maybe holding hands;  boy might sneak a kiss from girl behind the firehall;  girl’s parents picked her up; boy went home.

Pretty tame by today’s insane standards, but back then, that was an exciting evening.  I still vividly recall one thrilling night at the carnival.  I  spotted my high school crush and after talking (and flirting) with him, he offered to take me for a ride on his motorcycle.  I was in heaven!

I remember how he gently placed his extra helmet on my head and how that motorcycle roared to life when he started it.  I can still recall the butterflies in my stomach as I hopped on the bike behind him and he instructed me to hold on tightly by putting my arms around him. “Oh, be still, my heart!” I thought then.

As we sped down the highway away from the flashy neon carnival lights into the darkness, I couldn’t imagine a summer night better than that.   The evening air rushed at my face as I hung onto my crush, making me twice as breathless as I already was with my arms tightly encircling him, experiencing the exhilarating thrill of just being near him.  I could feel warmth from his back as we raced through the chilly night and I inhaled the scent of his freshly laundered shirt.

As a young and innocent 15-yr-old school girl, I thought, “What could be better than this?”

The boy I felt certain I was madly in love with was a perfect 16-year-old gentleman, even though riding a motorcycle was considered a little wild.  After a ride that seemed much too short, he took me back to meet my friends again at the carnival and then sped off into the night on his bike.

I floated along on a dreamy cloud of infatuation for much of the summer after that nighttime motorcycle ride.  Every time I heard a bike roaring down the road outside my house, I would run to the window to see if it was him.  If I was at my friends’ pool next door, I would leap up from my tanning towel and check to see if my crush was coming for me.   And he did roar up my driveway, but only on one summer day.

That summer I waited – a lot.  In summers past, I couldn’t wait for the next big event, the 4^th of July (the next topic in my summertime reverie).   But during my 15^th summer, I found myself impatiently wishing for the season to conclude and school to resume, just so I could see the object of my infatuation every day.

Now, forty some years later,  in Chapter 6, Page 25, of my book of Opportunity, I wonder how many teenage girls still dream their summers away over puppy love.  I also wonder how many foolishly give themselves to the first object of their infatuation.

I’m thankful I waited for my beloved one, my husband.  And I ponder how many young girls wandering midways under garish carnival lights in attempts to catch the attention of boys who make their hearts beat faster realize the importance of that.

©2011 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Why Mama’s been mum

Mum’s the word.

Well, not only has mum been the word lately at Mama’s Empty Nest, but Mum has been fairly mum herself as well.

Definition of mum:  (adj) silent, not saying a word.   The origin of the word possibly came from “mmm,” the humming sound we humans make with our mouths closed, which indicates either unwillingness or an inability to speak.

Shakespeare used the word in Henry VI when he wrote:   “Seal up your lips and give no words but mum.”

In other words, keep quiet, say nothing, shut your trap.  The saying “mum’s the word” worked its way into our language as a means to advise another person to not reveal what he knows about something, to keep a secret, or stay quiet on the subject.

If you regularly follow my blog, you’ve probably noticed I’ve been awfully mum in the last week or so.  Throwing in some synonyms for the word  – mute, speechless, uncommunicative, wordless – adequately describes me right now.  And I know it!

I can’t admit that I’ve been quiet because I know something I shouldn’t reveal because that’s not it.  I don’t know a secret about anything!  So I honestly have no clue why I’ve been so uncommunicative (which is very unlike me anyway).

Should I blame my wordless state on busy-ness?  No,  I cannot.  No more busy days than usual.  Oh, there has been a little wedding planning, some strawberry picking and freezer jam making sessions, a bit of cleaning and household chores here and there in between my hours at my job, but nothing that demands my full attention.

Even my computer sits idle.  I check my email occasionally and then shut off the distraction.   Logging in to Facebook has become a rarity because I see those words asking me to declare what’s on my mind, and I’ve got…nothing, no status updates, nothing interesting to say.

If I do fire up my laptop, I sit and stare at the blank screen and I am…. speechless.  Wordless.  I feel like I have nothing to impart, even though my notebook of blog ideas paints  an entirely different picture.  I just don’t feel like saying it or writing it or even thinking about the ideas long enough to put a sentence together.

It’s like I have a disorder – a non-communication complaint, summer speechlessness, or author’s apathy.  I can’t decide whether it’s just writer’s block or summer’s siren song of idleness.

In my younger days, I could be quite the talker, making chit-chat and small talk to fill any awkward silences.  But as I’ve aged, I’ve become more of a listener than a talker.  And honestly, sometimes I really have nothing to say.  Absolutely nothing.

This speechless state has woven its way, spreading like runners of ivy, into my writing.  I don’t want to bore my readers with just any old words.  I won’t publish a blog merely for the sake of publishing every day….or two…or 12.  If I have something worth writing, it also needs to be something worth reading.  And alas, I feel no compulsion to write.   And so I’ve been mum.

I hope I haven’t been disappointing, but I fear I may have been just that for those of you who log into this blog each day expecting some new post from me.   Bear with me, my faithful readers, I’ll get my words back.

For now, on this 21^st page in Chapter 6 of Opportunity, my deck and the coolness of the evening after a warm summer day are calling out enticing me. 

My softly cushioned patio chair whispers, “Come hither.  Come rest and bask in the quietness of a country evening.  Inhale the scent of freshly mowed grass and savory strawberries, plucked from the garden.  Listen to the birds warbling their sing-song melodies.  Feel the gentle breeze as it ruffles your hair.  Gaze westward and witness another spectacular sunset.   Evenings like this won’t last for long.  Maybe tomorrow you will find your words.”

©2011 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Performing for my audience of One

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Flashback to the 60’s.   She is alone, upstairs in her bedroom with the door closed tightly.  Pictures of her idols, “The Monkees,” smile on her from the walls of her room.

Dressed in her most mod outfit, mini-skirt, fringed vest and go-go boots, she dances the Pony and the Jerk to spinning vinyl 45’s on her record player, belts out songs to a pretend audience of thousands but in reality just a few old  stuffed animals and forgotten baby dolls.   And she yearns for the day when she would become famous.

Her daydreams revolve around that thought.  Fame.  It would be exciting to be a famous pop star/singer, but what she truly envisions for herself is becoming a sought-after actress, known and revered by millions.  When that happens, she muses, everyone will be in awe.

Those who snubbed her now, those who didn’t want to be her friend, and those who didn’t realize she existed would clamor for her attention and she would ignore them.  And if that star-studded scenario didn’t occur, she would settle for being a famous author.

Such were the desires of an adolescent girl.   To be famous meant you were somebody, not just the average 13-year-old girl who lived a hum-drum boring existence in an average middle-class home in rural America.  When she was a famous singer/actress/writer, she thought she might occasionally return to her hometown, just to show people how important she was.

That young, teenage girl was me.  Back in the day, I had no clue what real life entailed; I thought being famous was the end all to everything.  As I grew up,  I realized that wasn’t true.

I imagine most famous people have an inborn desire to become noticed, rich or powerful.  Famous actress Katharine Hepburn once said, “When I started out, I didn’t have any desire to be an actress or to learn how to act. I just wanted to be famous.”  So evidently, she experienced that passionate desire and brought it to fruition.

Famous is something I am not.  My closest stab at being a star actress was the lead role in my high school play during my senior year.  The nearest I’ve come to being a singing sensation was performing a few solos in various church choirs and singing ensembles.  The only hints at public awareness I’ve managed in the writing world were my byline on articles I crafted in reporter days for a daily newspaper and my little blips on this blog.

Now I laugh out loud at the visions I embraced back then of performing before audiences of thousands.  Obviously, I did not embody the passion to fulfill those girlhood dreams of notoriety.   These thoughts returned to me recently when I read Dr. David Jeremiah’s book Life Wide Open – Unleashing the Power of a Passionate Life. 

As a young teen, I thought my passion was to become famous.  I wanted to be noticed and applauded by an audience.   That’s what I believed would provide a happy and fulfilled life.

How wrong I was in my youthful zealous daydreams.  Real life led me into an entirely different direction:   marriage, children, family life, enjoyable work, making the world a better place for one person at a time, and most importantly, loving and serving God.

To some, those aspects of life don’t sound very passionate, but they have been my passion all along.  And Dr. Jeremiah’s wise words reinforced what I’ve come to understand.   He wrote this in the study guide accompanying his book:

“The strength of passion is to do whatever we do heartily, and the secret of passion is that we do everything as if we were doing it for the Lord himself rather than for man.”

He continues, “Sometimes we think nobody sees the effort we make to work at our jobs, take care of our families, or serve the Lord.  Not true!  God sees it all.  We play on a field with an audience of One sitting in the stands.  And He is the only one who really matters.  He sees and knows everything we do – the motive and passion with which we live our lives.”

So even back in my foolish days, when I longed for a captive audience, I already had one.  The One.    The only One who matters.  And so do you.

Imagine as you go through your day, there He is sitting in the auditorium watching your performance, sitting in the bleachers watching you play, sitting at your conference table watching you work, sitting on your sofa listening to you talk.

He knows what you’re going through, He sees what you accomplish even when no one else notices and you are weary, and He finds pleasure in all you do for His glory.

On this 14^th page in Chapter 6 of my Opportunity book, I find it inspiring to think that I might please my audience of One and that He doesn’t  care whether I’m famous or not.  I know He doesn’t want me to lose heart while I serve Him in the big things and the small.  I hope you feel the same.

“Your life is your message to the world.  Make it inspiring.” ~  Lorrin L. Lee

©2011 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

In ‘Crazy Love’ with Michael Bublé

There were about 10,000 examples of “crazy love” in the arena because that’s how many Michael Bublé fans attended his concert last night and I was one of them!

And it was obvious by the thundering applause he garnered that we were all crazy in love with this crooner.

A good family friend blessed hubby and me yesterday with free (yes, you read that correctly!) tickets to singer Michael Bublé’s Crazy Love Tour concert.  (Thank you so very much, KC!)

That gift passed on to us was such a lovely blessing because when hubby heard that Bublé was coming to a city near us, he thought about purchasing concert tickets for my birthday.  However, in our current economic state, we both decided to nix it because tickets were so spendy.

So naturally, we jumped at the chance to go listen to this amazing young man.  When I sent Facebook messages to all three of our adult children to let them know about our windfall, I knew they would be jealous because they all enjoy Bublé’s music as well.   Sure enough, these were the responses I received:

• Oldest Daughter:  WHAT?!?!?!?!??!?!! Are you kidding?????? Who’s giving them to you??? I LOVE HIM AND AM SO JEALOUS!!! Have fun and take lots of pictures, please
• Middle Daughter: What?!?! I’m jealous too! Lucky you mom!! Hope you enjoy the concert!
• Son:  What?!

So can I just confess that I gloated a little knowing my kids became envious of something dear old dad and I were getting to experience?  I mean, really.  When does THAT ever happen?

Just call me delighted and tickled pink to receive free tickets to this particular concert.  An a cappella group named Naturally Seven warmed up the show.  Their voices not only blended well, but they literally ‘became’ instruments on stage.  They gave a stellar performance;  I want to keep checking this group’s progression on the music radar screen.  I imagine big things are ahead of them.

Then it was time for the star performer who arrived on stage in a theatrical way. (I won’t spoil it for those who may be going to see his concert).  I love this young man’s style, his smooth singing voice that just melts over you like butter on a warm biscuit, and his renditions of songs, old and new.   What I didn’t realize was what a showman he is.  And oh, he is!

He was entertaining, funny, and so very likeable.  He made mention of all those who held up signs for him to read as he sat down and chatted with us.  He made you feel like you were just lounging in your living room and he had come for a visit with you.  You know, just chillin’ with Michael.

He wished happy birthday to a young child and a teen, up close and personal.  The wide-eyed teen girl exhibited total shock when he ventured down into the audience to talk to her and planted a kiss on her cheek.  That young lady must have swooned home on cloud nine!

The bearded entertainer slid across stage, he bounced, he jumped up and down while he crooned and bopped and bestowed upon us a superb show.  He graciously introduced the members of his band telling us funny and heartwarming little stories about each of them.  And the band was fantastic, just simply amazing!

He treated us to old favorites like “Georgia” and “I’ve Got the World on a String,” jazzed it up with “Mack the Knife,” and took us back to the 60’s with “Twist and Shout.”   He mixed old songs sung with his undeniably Bublé-esque style woven in between songs like his own ballad, “I’m Coming Home,” and the whimsical, crowd pleasing “Haven’t Met You Yet.”  Of course, the crowd responded like crazy when he launched into his signature “Crazy Love.”  (Just an aside, the guy behind me shouldn’t have sung along, especially so loudly;  Michael Bublé, he isn’t!!)

Let me also make mention that unlike many performers, Bublé sounds just as amazingly good live as he does on his CDs.   His voice is as melodic and awesome on stage in a gigantic arena surrounded by thousands of his fans as it is in a recording studio.

In between sets, Bublé made us laugh with his funny stories and entertained us with his imitation of Michael Jackson, who he claimed in true confession time that he wanted to be (not be like, he wanted to be him) when he was a kid.   “I was so bummed that I was a white person,” he quipped.

Then he surprised everyone by jumping off the stage at the end of the arena, meandering while still singing through the crowd on the floor (surely a nightmare for security guards) and bounding upon a platform in the arena’s center to perform several more songs.

He explained that action by saying he apologized to those in front of the stage who paid good money for their tickets, but “these good people paid good money too” as he pointed to those of us out in the tiered seats and at the other end of the arena.

All too soon, he ended his concert back on stage.  The band stopped, the lights went down and the standing ovation audience roared, clapped and whistled for more.   In a couple minutes, the lights flashed back on and Bublé returned and treated us to an encore.

But just like life, all good things must come to an end.  I loved his last performance of the evening for us.

The lights went low, a huge subdued curtain closed to hide the band who stopped playing, and it was just Michael Bublé alone on stage, without a microphone, singing a cappella:

“And when my life is over, remember when we were together

We were alone and I was singing my song for you.”

Thank you, Michael Bublé, for sharing your talent, your passion and your joy for music with us.  As I recall your performance last night on this 11th page in Chapter 6 of my book of Opportunity, you made each one of us feel like you really were just singing your song for us, especially me.

©2011 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Giving praise where praise is due

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“The mountains are God’s thoughts piled up…

The ocean is God’s thoughts spread out…

The flowers are God’s thoughts in bloom…

Image source unknown

The dew drops are God’s thoughts in pearls.”

~ Minister Sam Jones (1847-1906)

“O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! 

You have set your glory above the heavens.  From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise because of your enemies, to silence the foe and avenger.  When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?  You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor.  You made him ruler over the works of your hands; and you put everything under his feet; all flocks and herds, and the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea, all that swim the paths of the seas. 

O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”

~ Psalm 8 (New International Version)

©2011 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Country sights….and smells

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I love living in the country, really I do.  When we moved here from suburbia,  my family and I concocted a little ditty on our cross country car trip from there to here.

We sang it to the tune of the old TV show theme song, “Green Acres.”  Oldest daughter wasn’t too sure about leaving the suburbs behind for life in the country, so our song went something like this:

[Mama & Papa sing]  “The country is the place to be,

Country livin’ is the life for me,

Land spreadin’ out so far wide,

Keep that shopping mall,

Give me that countryside.”

[Oldest Daughter sings] “The ‘burbs are where I’d rather stay,

I don’t know how to rake in hay,

I just adore the city view,

Daddy, I love you but give me Murray Avenue.”

[Papa sings] “Fresh air!”

 [Oldest Daughter sings] “Washington Square!”

[Papa] “You are my daughter.”

[Oldest Daughter] “Goodbye, city water!”

[Everyone] “The country we are there.  Da-dum, da-da dum, dum dum!”

Our family, including all three children, adjusted quite well to life beyond the ‘burbs, even if oldest daughter was a little frightened by cows when she trained for her cross-country season running on country roads.   And when we finally built our new home, we managed to acquire city water!

I reminisced about our move here just the other morning because we mark our 13^th anniversary of living in the country at the end of this month.  That milestone makes this place the abode where hubby and I have lived the longest ever in our married life.  Like a well-seated tree, the roots burrow down pretty deep now.

So when I awakened early just the other day, I paused for a minute before I began my morning routine.   The evening before had been cool and we slept with our bedroom windows wide open.  I always sleep well when fresh air wafts into the room.

That morning, sunshine poured through the windows, and I could hear the serenade of several birds singing their good morning song. As I listened, their melodies were the only audible sound.  No traffic.  No noisy trucks, no honking horns, no loud people, just song birds.  What a lovely way to wake up!

While I sipped my morning cup of tea in our breakfast nook, the view out our back windows provided a lush landscape greeting my sight.  No tall buildings, no houses, no sidewalks or streets.   Just leafy trees, a verdant hillside and a farmer’s field.   Flowers in brilliant bloom in our yard added to the assortment of a colorful feast for my eyes as well.

Driving to work that morning, I cranked open my car windows and that’s when I caught a whiff of a delicious odor – the indescribable smell of freshly mown hay.  Yes, there he was –  the farmer driving his tractor over the field, performing the first hay cutting of the season, hay that will be gathered up into large round bales later and will dot the meadows.

Summer time has arrived in the country, even if the calendar doesn’t say so.   Mornings like these which evoke such feelings of bliss make it seem like all is right with the world.  That is, until I caught another distinct odor – road kill, and in this case the most smelly kind -  a skunk.

And that reminds me of another song.  Anyone ready for a round of “Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road?”

Ah, life in the country….in my Opportunity book, Chapter 6, Page 9, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

©2011 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Snakes alive! What if??

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Hello, my name is Mama’s Empty Nest.  And I have a habit I need to confess.

Yes, I am a what iffer.  I’m one of those people who always thinks “what if?”  I’m sure I’ve driven my kids insane by telling them to plan ahead, be prepared for any emergency because what if this, that or the other thing happens?

You know, keep a blanket in your car trunk because what if you get caught in a snow storm.   Carry a bottle of water with you because what if you’re stranded somewhere and the temperature soars.   Make sure you have batteries for your flashlight and while you’re at it, stock up on some matches and candles because what if the power goes out.

I’m like the female version of the quintessential Boy Scout.  Be Prepared.   That’s my motto.  And I can’t blame it on scouting because I never did join Girl Scouts.    It seems I was just made this way and I really can’t stop myself from thinking it.   Perhaps I need to join WIA (What Iffers Anonymous)!

Just the other day, I caught myself saying “what if?”   Early in the summer season, hubby’s garden plot starts sprouting good stuff; leaf lettuce and spinach already grow in abundance.   The strawberry patch yielded two quarts of delicious red berries in two days’ time, and there are plenty more to be picked.

Sunday evening, hubby and I leisurely lounged on our deck, watching the sun start to sink lower into the horizon, basking in a balmy breeze and cool temperatures.  Then I decided to visit the berry patch and noticed more ripe, juicy berries needed plucked.

I didn’t want to take time to change from my sandals into socks and tennis shoes, so I stepped among the thickly woven plants.  Of course when you pick strawberries, you have to bend over and search underneath all the leaves for the fruit.

And that’s when it happened.   A thought jumped into my mind as suddenly as a flash of lightning lights up the sky.  What if there was a snake hiding underneath those leaves?  I stood up immediately, voiced my thought to hubby, who looked a smidge alarmed.   (I’ll clue you in on that in a minute!)

I looked at my feet bared in sandals and gave a little shudder.  The thought of a garden snake slithering out of hiding across my toes or my hand as I checked for strawberries gave me the willies.  I’m guessing the idea probably unsettled my husband just as much.

It’s true I don’t like spiders and snakes.  My hubby gladly protects me from spiders and other critters, but he positively loathes and fears snakes.  I learned that fact early in our marriage.

As newlyweds, we lived in the southwest – rattlesnake territory.   One weekend we decided to take a walk through a wooded area near our apartment.  As we were maneuvering along the trail, a small snake (although not a rattler, fortunately) suddenly appeared out of the brush and scurried out onto the path in front of us.

His unexpected appearance startled me so that I literally froze.  I just stood there, mouth gaping open, staring at the snake, unable to move.  When I finally came to my senses, I realized that my strong, valiant military husband was gone.   Gone!  Left me standing there in a staring contest with a snake!

One sight of that slithering reptile and my hubby hightailed it out of the woods.   As fast as he could.   By the time I conjured up the good sense to join him, I realized he was already standing in the apartment complex parking lot.

I’ve never let him forget that story and it has provided some good-natured fun-poking over the years.  But the story illustrates how much he hates those creatures.   His first thought was “get the heck out of here” and I can’t blame him.  I still jokingly rib him for not protecting me from that reptile or at least grabbing my hand and dragging me with him.  Oh well, he reminds me, even the extremely brave and adventurous Indiana Jones had a fear of snakes.

I’m happy to report we did not see a snake in our garden the other day, but I suspect from now on, I may have to take the hoe with me just in case…you know… what if??  When I was growing up, I remember my mother took care of garden snakes that way.  She was fearless and chopped their heads off with the hoe.

I tried this once when a tiny snake surprised me, but by the time I found the hoe in the garage and went back to do some serious damage to him, he had long disappeared. That experience just provided more fodder for my “what if” scenario….see what I mean?  Be prepared!

And that reminds me on this 7^th page of Chapter 6 in my book called Opportunity, I need to become more like my mother.  If I could just make a coconut cream pie from scratch like her, my hubby would be thrilled.  For now, he’ll just have to be happy with my good intentions of “taking care” of the little garden snakes, as long as he protects me from all the other stuff.  But if we ever meet a big snake, we’ll both be “out of here!”

©2011 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Why is appropriate attire so foreign?

Dressed for the city then – Image source unknown

“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.”  ~ Leslie Poles Hartley quotes (English Writer, 1895-1972)

If you’ve been a reader of my blog for some time now, you probably realize I love quotes.

This oddity stems from my fondness for the written word and when I find a quote that ‘speaks’ to me, I squirrel it away in my trusty quotes notebook like a treasured nut for winter’s sustenance.

Then at the appropriate time, that quote lends itself well to thoughts I may be pondering.

I’ve stewed over one idea for the past few weeks.  This particular notion presented itself when hubby I ventured into the city and it has retained a spot on my “Things to Blog About” list, but I just couldn’t find a handle to hang it on until I discovered the above mentioned quote today.

I’m reminded more and more that the past really IS like a foreign country.  All I must do to witness this is visit a public place – a school, a church, a store – or drive down the streets of the nearest city.

When I was younger, the majority of people dressed up in their nicest clothes and made themselves look presentable to go out into public.  They wore their “Sunday best” to church, weddings, funerals, shopping, even the doctor’s office, and especially if they were visiting the city.

I vividly recall one day when I was a college student, a friend and I planned a shopping day downtown in our nearest large metropolis.   As I was leaving my parents’ home, my father, who traveled there often for meetings related to his work, asked me with a hint of disdain in his voice, “Is THAT what you’re wearing?”

I thought I looked presentable in my bell-bottom slacks with a cute sleeveless summery shirt and my wedged platform sandals.  Dad thought differently.

This was a man who dressed himself in a suit, shirt, tie and hat for work every single day even in summer’s heat.  My attire, he informed me, was not suitable for the city.   And he was correct.

I was stubborn and refused to change, but after my friend and I stepped off the bus onto the hustle and bustle of the city streets, I realized for myself how grossly under-dressed I was.  Everyone was outfitted in very nice clothes and I felt self-conscious about the way I looked.

By today’s standards though, I would probably have looked dressed up. Recently, hubby and I drove to our metro area on a week day, a work day.   I didn’t see many men walking along downtown dressed in suits, let alone ties.  Women weren’t “dressed for success” either.

Dressed for the city now – Image source unknown

Almost everyone was casually attired and some were dressed inexcusably inappropriately with body parts and/or under garments exposed.

I couldn’t help thinking that my dad would have been appalled to see so many slobs in this downtown city, where he would not have been caught dead without his hat.

While hubby and I discussed this ‘trend,’ he recalled traveling on a field trip to Washington, DC when he was in elementary school.   His mother made him wear a suit and tie because that was just good form back then.

He was, after all, visiting our nation’s capital and should be dressed respectfully.  He still remembers a couple of classmates, clothed in regular pants and shirts with sweaters, calling him “Senator” because of the way he was attired.

Both he and I grew up during a time when people wore their best clothes when going out in public, not like they just rolled out of bed and were wearing clothes in which they slept.   We also grew up in the thick of tumultuous change – the 60’s – and were in college and a young married couple in the 70’s.  So we embraced the new freedom of style, but we still managed to understand dressing appropriately and to teach that concept to our children.   Now, anything goes.

Before you call me an old fuddy-duddy, let me firmly state I don’t believe we should live in the past.  There were definitely customs and ideas of the past that we gratefully put behind us, but I must ask why people prefer to dress like slobs today.

I don’t know if it’s just that society in general has become so casual about everything or whether people have just become more lazy and slovenly.   Do they really not know any better? Or is it that people just don’t have respect for anything any more, not even themselves?

I wonder this when I attend a lovely formal church wedding (not in an outdoor setting) and notice not only men without suits or ties, but men clad in shorts.   I wonder this when I witness middle-aged women attired in Daisy Duke shorts and revealing tops.   I wonder this when I catch a glimpse of a person in t-shirt and jeans enter a funeral home to pay ‘respect’ to one who has passed away.

And I shake my head in amazement why people want to be seen in public like that.

I realize I’ve just delivered a bit of a rant, but on this 4^th page, Chapter 6, in my book called Opportunity, I’m seriously wondering am I just a foreigner in this different age?  Tell me what you think.

Copyright ©2011 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Counting birthday blessings instead of calories

Image source unknown

I’m parked on my front porch swing absorbing the beauty of a sunshine-filled day with baby blue skies dotted by fluffy clouds while being cooled by a balmy, light breeze and I’m contemplating life.

Why such a serious subject on a gorgeous summery day you may wonder.   Simple answer, my birthday’s drawing nigh.

I think when you pass a significant number of years in age, you really begin taking stock of your life, how you’ve lived it thus far, and how you want to live what years remain.  Let’s just call that maturity.

Someone once said, “We know we’re getting old when the only thing we want for our birthday is not to be reminded of it.”    I don’t necessarily relish birthdays any more especially when I stop to calculate how old I really am.  But I do like to reflect on years past and consider the future when my birth date rolls around on the calendar.

A friend and co-worker deposited a lovely polka-dotted gift bag on my desk yesterday.  She inquired whether I’d be savoring birthday cake for my special day;  I replied negatively.  There’s really no sense in having cake for just hubby and me here at the empty nest.  We’d end up eating the entire thing ourselves and goodness knows, neither one of us needs all those calories!

Besides, if I’m going to indulge in sweets for the day commemorating just how close I’m creeping towards the big 6-O, then I’d much rather have a big ol’ vanilla cream-filled powdered sugar doughnut.  Yep, I’d go for the sugar gusto of a doughnut over cake any day.  So, even though cake is yummy, no cake for me this year.

No cake, no candles, no party and I’ve told hubby to not spend money on gifts either.  Really, material things don’t matter much to me anymore, and receiving gifts, while lovely, just doesn’t fill up my love language tank.  What floats my boat is spending a wonderful time with those I love most.

As I reflect on birthdays past, that’s exactly what I’ve been given for every birthday I’ve celebrated -  blessings in the way of family gathered around me.   Until I passed my 9th birthday, I not only had my parents and sisters in my life but also my maternal grandparents.

Eventually, brothers-in-law were added to the family and then baby nieces and a nephew were born.   And God blessed me with a true love, a husband who has never, ever forgotten my birthday and makes me feel special and loved.

By the time our beloved three children came along, we didn’t live near our families, but my own little family made my birthdays memorable and so blessed.  Add a vast assortment of friends to my birthday blessings and I realize how much joy I’ve been given over the years.

So now at this juncture of life, when I have been the recipient of so much, it’s way past time for me to commence identifying what I give back in return and how should I increase that measure.

What impact do I make on others’ lives?  In what ways can I bestow joy to someone else?  How can I encourage and lift up someone who’s heart is breaking, someone who faces the uncertain unknown, or someone who needs a faithful, listening friend?

Today in Chapter 6 (already!), Page 2 in my wonderful book entitled Opportunity, that’s what I’m contemplating – looking back at how far I’ve come, yet seeing how much farther I need to go to fulfill my purpose here in this world.

I have always been a person of good intentions, but too often have not followed through on them and that is something I need to change.   When God plants a person’s name in my mind, I need to stop what I’m doing right then and pray for him or her.  When He gives me an idea about how to bless another, I must ensure that idea comes to fruition.

Years ago, someone gave me a perpetual calendar with quotes and a Bible verse for each day of the year.  For the last several years, the calendar occupied space on my workplace desk.  As I turned the page to my birth date, the quote greeting me seemed appropriate for my special day:

“I expect to pass through the world but once.  Any good thing, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any fellow human being let me do it now.  Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”  ~ Attributed to Stephen Grellet, Quaker missionary

I want to make this my birthday prayer.   Next year, Lord willing, on my birthday, I hope I can say that I’ve given many more blessings than I have received.

©2011 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com