The inspiration for Mama’s Christmas gift was a blue light special at Kmart. Adding to the pressure was that it was December 23. So when the Blue Light special announcement came on, in the true Christmas spirit, I searched with great expectancy for the light.
There was Mama’s gift: My Mail Station. And it was on sale for $99 with a $50 rebate. How could I go wrong?
With a Mail Station, Mama would at last be able to enter the world of cyberspace: she could create and send e-mail. Since all her children, grandchildren, cousins, nieces and nephews are on-line, surely she would welcome the chance to communicate with loved ones in this way.
Mama was as appreciative as only a mountain woman can be when change is thrust upon her. “Hum,” Mama said, “this wasn’t on my Christmas list.”
When you are dealing with mountain women, you have to pitch etiquette out the window. Our only hope was to tell her that this was a blue light special with a $50 rebate, bringing the price to $49.99. We assured her that this was not a computer; there was no Internet exposure. Finally, we had to use the “C” word, a word dear to my Scotch-Irish mother’s mountain heart. That word, of course, is “Cheap.”
We had won the first battle when Mama said, “How about teaching me how to use whatever it was you children gave me.”
But the second battle loomed just as large: actually teaching Mama to operate the contraption. I reckon the mantle fell on me because, as the oldest child, I ALWAYS have to go the extra mile…
As we began working with the mail station, we could not communicate any better than we did forty years ago when I was a teenager. The problem was not, however, my age. The problem was vocabulary. I began by telling Mama not to be afraid of pushing the “On” button because the mail station was “user-friendly.”
“What do you mean by friendly?” she asked, “I haven’t talked to anyone yet.”
Mama herself admitted to being stuck in a “horse & buggy mindset.” I tried not to speak “cyberspace,” but there are no suitable substitutes for verbs like “scroll down, “ “hit enter,” “arrow over” and “log on.”
Now I know how she must have felt in 1955 when she was trying to teach me the multiplication tables. At one point, I said firmly, “Mama, pay attention to your cursor.” Basically she replied that if the mail station would require her to break the Ten Commandments, she was against it.
Thank goodness, just when all appeared lost, I had a revelation. “Let’s send an e-mail to everyone, thanking the family for their Christmas presents.”
Forty-five minutes later, we had completed the 6-line thank you note. After we sent the e-mail, I congratulated her on her accomplishment.
Mama was silent. Then she asked, “Will 8 people get this message? If so, that means I just saved 8 postage stamps @ 34 cents apiece, for a total of $ 2.72. Wow!”
Wow indeed. Why didn’t I think of this to start with?
By the time this column appears, surely our Christmas shopping will be done. Although I call it “our” shopping, this is just to be polite. With my own eyes, I see a few good men shopping with their wives. This is a concept, however, that I cannot fathom.
You would think that shopping for a predominantly male family would be easy. It would be if the males in question were of normal size, taste, and temperament. For starters, our family ranges in height from 6’ 2” to 6’9” with their shoe sizes going as high as 15 ½. This includes not only the farmer and his 4 sons, but also his brother and their 2 sons.
Even if you could find clothes to fit them, throw in the fact that they don’t want clothes for Christmas. “We don’t need anything,” they say, “ and certainly not clothes. Unless they’re camouflage.” And they don’t mean just any camouflage.
They mean the latest version – like 3-D Mossy Oak Break-Up, preferably with Scent-lok lining. According to the Christmas Bible, the Cabela’s catalogue, this line of camouflage consists of individual fabric leaves “cut using superheated air for precise detail” and sewn onto the pants, jackets, or whatever. “From the ground or from a tree stand, you’ll love how you disappear,” the catalogue promises.
This is the hottest thing in camouflage ‘cause it helps men look like “trees walking.” The real Bible also refers to this in what is probably the first (and only) theological reference to camouflage: see Mark 8:24.
And what do these theologically correct camouflage pants cost? In tall, $ 124.95 plus shipping. The matching jacket is $ 134.95. The scary news is that these also come in women’s sizes.
What they don’t know is that I would rather have perfume instead. Or a new American flag.
With camouflage prices going out the roof, I had to rethink “our” Christmas shopping. So I headed to the tool department. To be fair, the farmer did give me some gift ideas. However, he might as well have been speaking in Swahili. When I asked him to go shopping with me, he was taken aback. “Me? Me go? Me go shopping? Me go Christmas shopping? Ho, ho, ho.”
I handed him the Sears advertising supplement and asked him to draw circles around the pictures of the heart-stopping kind of drill, saw, wrench, compressor, hole punch, or whatever.
Clutching this circular close to my heart, I took a deep breath and entered the tool department. The first person I saw Christmas shopping that morning was my friend, Barbara, also the mother of 4 sons. We didn’t have to say a word – we exchanged knowing glances. We understand some things much of the civilized world wouldn’t believe. And we waited on someone to take our circled circulars and help us find whatever it was our husbands had sent us after.
What this means is that behind every successful Santa Claus, there stands a very exhausted Ms. Santa. And I only hope we live long enough to see Ms. Santa get her due.
In the meantime, does anyone know where I can find a silhouette-saver decoy bag or a goose buster blind?
As fate would have it, it fell my lot to host this year’s Christmas party for about 2 dozen men. Baptists -- and all that goes with the territory.
The farmer asked what was the big deal. “You worry too much. Just cook up a bunch of stuff and be done with it. The meal will take care of itself.” Then he tucked himself into bed at 9 pm, and I headed for the grocery store.
The teenager at the grocery checkout was highly impressed. This means she actually spoke to me. Evidently I didn’t look the part, because she asked, “Do you know how to cook? What are you going to bake with all of this stuff?” I simply said, “Well, I’ll be baking cakes, pies and potatoes.” No point in going into orbit about the gender differential and how it applies to cooking and entertaining.
Besides, I had already discussed this meal with my soul mates, the women in my life. I had polled my friends as to what to put on the menu. I knew it was going to take a pile of cow, but what else?
To a woman, they were unanimous in what else the menu should consist of. Women know what men like to eat. I couldn’t help but wonder, do men know, intuitively, how to design a menu that women would like? I think not, or Presidents of the USA would not speak out against broccoli.
What to serve with the beef, I asked? “Potatoes,” the women all answered. “Serve lots of potatoes. And country men prefer them mashed.”
The next menu item should be sweet potatoes, someone suggested.I balked at a second potato entrée. “Trust me,” my sister-in-law said, “they won’t think it strange if you serve them 2 kinds of potatoes. Only women will crucify you for that.”
“Of course, you have to have macaroni and cheese,” my menu consultants said. “And didn’t you freeze a lot of corn? They’ll really go for that.”
When I pointed out that this was turning into a bland, all-starch menu, the women asked hadn’t I learned anything from raising 4 boys?
Evidently I haven’t, because I suggested baking my personal favorite, asparagus casserole. The women were flabbergasted. Basically, they said that asparagus was very expensive, and probably only one man whose mother had raised him to be polite would even sample it.
Which brought us to dessert. “Men’s favorite dessert,” they said in unison, “is banana pudding.” But they agreed that this wasn’t very Christmassy, and that banana pudding didn’t serve up pretty on the dessert plate. “If you won’t make it from scratch and put meringue on the top, don’t fix it.” That’s why I canned the idea of banana pudding.
When the preacher arrived that evening, he sauntered into the kitchen, looked at the pots and pans, and asked about the state of my soul. Basically I told him that I had been thinking a lot about the New Testament story of Mary and Martha, and that maybe Martha had gotten a bad rap.
That was the last I saw of the preacher.
The women were right. There weren’t enough scraps left to feed a Chihuahua, except for the pink congealed salad that I fixed -- anyhow.
Just when the farmer and I got old enough to get away with an artificial Christmas tree, we blew it.
Even the farmer felt a man-made tree from Lowe’s would not cut it in a new house, especially a house built on a farm. “What would the neighbors think?” the farmer asked. I wanted to ask, “What neighbors, the opossums?”
The farmer promised that this year, we would have the best tree ever. “Been there, done that” ran through my mind.
“Where will we ever find the perfect live tree?” I worried. I was vulnerable and I knew it. So, when the Gardner-Webb girls’ softball team flagged me down on Main Street with their posters, “Christmas Trees for Sale,” they suckered me right in. The 8-foot tree, though split halfway up the middle, was a bargain – and for a good cause. This was the first Christmas tree I had ever picked out.
Who would I blame the “bad side” on? And, once the farmer knew I was capable of buying a Christmas tree, would he delegate this duty to me for the rest of my life? Why didn’t I leave well enough alone?
When the farmer came home and found the tree, thank goodness his macho ego apparently did not feel threatened. He simply sized the tree up and said: “It’s might near split wide open. But, maybe it’ll take in more water that way. If not, we’ll just undecorate it and start all over again.”
That was Saturday. With no children to jump and down and run fetch the decorations, we were at a loss as to what to do next. No one put begged for hot chocolate; no one put on the Johnny Mathis Christmas music tape. If the children had been home, we would not have been able to rest until the tree was decorated.
Without them, the Tree of 2001 may never be finished. Sunday we got the tree in the stand; then we rested. Monday night the farmer attempted, single-handedly, to string the lights on the tree. Up and down, round and round, over and under he went. Tuesday morning, I noticed that one of the sets was not burning. “Probably because that strand is wadded up under another one,” I reckoned. Wednesday night, we pulled all the lights off and started again. The strands that had been working quit. The one that hadn’t been working started blinking. And the only set that had been working just right, well, the farmer accidentally cut into it with his knife and we had to trash it.
We washed our bifocals and attempted to fix the surviving strands, taking them bulb by cheap bulb. Four hours and lots of coffee and unprintable words later, we restrung the tree.
Thursday, I got out the other decorations, spread them on the floor, and took a nap instead. I dreamt of store bought, fully decorated Christmas trees.
Possibly by the time you read this column, our tree will finally be decorated. If it has died, I will have spray-painted it green.
When the children were small, I dreamt of the glorious Christmas tree we could have when the children were no longer underfoot. Now I can’t wait until the grandchildren get old enough to help – and bring their wonder.
How I had looked forward to Thanksgiving weekend. In its glow, I would unpack a few more boxes, maybe even cook and put out some holiday decorations.
The rebel in me had decided not to go Christmas shopping. If I shopped early, what would I do with myself on December 22-23?
Thus, Friday morning, I made myself a to-do list: unpack, cook, decorate. Then I went upstairs to check my e-mail and a few Internet sites. Some of you know what happened next: the computer held me in its grip until the sun started down.
In retrospect, tending to my computer was providential. Kicking myself the whole time, I spent Thanksgiving weekend backing up the computer and the humble website I’ve spent 293,049 hours building without a working knowledge of HTML. When the holiday weekend was over, the only thing I felt proud of was that my computer was OK.
That night, the unthinkable happened. In checking the day’s e-mail, I had a message from the delightful Canadian lady who had helped me locate blackberry vine wallpaper for our bathroom. (The farmer had protested this choice, saying that he hated facing the morning in our new bathroom -- made him feel like he was in the briar patch.)
My wallpaper friend, Fiona, had sent me an e-mail with an attachment that appeared to be more wallpaper patterns. “S3M.pif” – sounded like wallpaper to me. But the attachment would not open. Neither did my beloved antivirus software surface to rescue or warn me.
Smelling a rat, I did quick research on the ‘net and realized that I, along with lots of you and millions around the world, had just gotten the Bad Trans virus. Even worse, at that very moment, my computer was sending the virus to my former friends – the folks in my address book.
I yelled downstairs for the farmer, telling him I had a virus. He said it was probably just the same case of diarrhea that our granddaughter had had. He said maybe I should just sleep upstairs.
By then I was delirious, until the solution hit me: Call someone under 30 years of age. They would know what to do. And my daughter-in-law did. It took 6 hours and $50 for new antivirus software, but she finally, and literally, saved my computer.
But what about my computer friends -- a wonderful assortment of Baptists, cousins, high school classmates, Gardner-Webb professors, and Sunday School class members?
They tracked me down the next day, at the office. The first call was from the administrative assistant of a NC Baptist organization. “Kathryn,” Carla began tentatively, “is everything OK with you these days? Did the stress of the recent Baptist state convention get to you?”
I assured her that I was not infected with post-Convention stress. Carla said, “Well, you’re infected with something. And I think you should know you have sent a whole bunch of Baptists an e-mail message titled, ‘Picture_me_nude.’” Thanks goodness Carla had compassion on me and said she would cover for me – this time.
Then I got a couple of calls from military friends. In this time of great national stress for our military, I had sent the virus to our armed forces: to a colonel in Georgia and to a chaplain in Alabama.
So -- if I disappear from the face of the earth for a while, it’s probably not the rapture.
A week ago, a weary nation wondered if this year, Thanksgiving would be different. For most of us, in large and small ways, it was.
As we drove “over the river and through the woods” up I-85 to Grandma’s house, I learned you can trust the media. For the media was right. Oh, there were a few planes overhead, but most NC travelers were parked on the interstate – in holiday gridlock.
And outward signs of patriotism were everywhere. If our baby son had not also been our chauffeur, we could have distracted him with a game of “Count the American flags.” With a lone American flag on our car’s back bumper, it’s obvious that we are not patriotically conspicuous enough.
In fact, while we were idling up I-85 en route to Spencer, Baby Miles asked what we wanted for Christmas. The first item I mentioned: a new American flag and flagpole for the house. My hunch is that there will be lots of American flags and American jewelry exchanged this holiday season.
Later, on Thanksgiving morning, Mama’s first official act was to fly her American flag from the front porch. Inside, more than ever before, family conversations dealt with national and international concerns. Genuine thankfulness for our country and its freedoms intermingled with our concerns for the future – for ourselves and for innocent Afghan peoples whose plight the media refuses to keep from us.
Newspaper articles had warned that this holiday season there would be less frivolity and more seriousness. Of course, notwithstanding the crisis, my sisters and I eventually got the Scrabble set and our Scrabble dictionaries out of hiding. This year there were new words in our vocabulary, especially using the 8-pointer, pesky letter “j.” Words like “jihad” and “mujahdeen,” to name a few.
Mama had hinted that, instead of playing games, raking her leaves might be our patriotic duty. I’ll have to hand it to Mama, that was a good strategy. It just didn’t work. Even at the rapture, we’ll grab the Scrabble dictionary – just in case.
What about the farmer, you always ask? The only change we noted this Thanksgiving was that he forgot to bring turnips. On Thanksgiving morning, he apologized to Mama, saying he’d just ride around Rowan County until he came to farmhouse; then he would knock on the door and ask the farmer for a mess of turnips. Mama hinted that in urban NC, this could be a good way to get yourself shot. I reckon the farmer chickened out, ‘cause this year, there were no mashed turnips.
The farmer, however, remembered his other tradition. He brought his horse harnesses to Spencer. And while the rest of us played games and talked politics, he threw the horse harness over Mama’s backyard clothesline and stood there in his coveralls, waving at shocked city folk, and polishing the harnesses’ horse brass.
Thanksgiving afternoon, there was special cause for celebration when newborn Aaron and his 2-year-old sister Morgan arrived from Boiling Springs. Scrabble sets disappeared and cameras came out. Instinctively, Mama combed her hair and put on lipstick, then posed for pictures with her great-grandchildren.
Though Thanksgiving 2001 was tempered with profound concerns, I hope you could count enough blessings to make your day one of Joy – and especially Hope, which now, more than ever, may be our finest show of patriotism.
After 10 great years in uptown Boiling Springs, we are quickly taking to our move back to the country. We are learning, however, that the country is not what it used to be. Even in Cleveland County.
These days, there are too many vehicles going up and down country roads. Period. The farmer says that it's not really the same as traffic since most of the vehicles on our road are pick-up trucks, with a few farm trucks and horse trailers mixed in. Maybe he has a point. All I know is that some of these country boys in the 'hood are long overdue for a new muffler and/or transmission.
If you want peace and quiet in the country, you probably need to consider moving to the outskirts of Casar -- or to Greenland.
In the old days, I used to enjoy walking up and down our unpaved country road, taking in Mother Nature, smelling honeysuckle, and picking Queen Anne's lace. With the paving over of most of Cleveland County, if you want honeysuckle, your best bet is the fragrance section of the Avon catalogue.
As for walking down a country road, now if you're found doing that,the assumption is that you need a ride, an MRI, or the use of a cell phone.
It's too soon to tell about the animal population at our new place in the country, although I have seen 10 deer in 3 weeks. Since we built on a hill, I'm hoping we have avoided the predominant Cleveland County scourge: the skunk.
Raccoons are another matter. Just when I had decided against window treatments, a neighboring 'coon hunter asked how late did I stay up? He said that no matter how late they hunted out in the woods, our lights were still on. This was important information. Whether the adjoining woods were full of rabid raccoons was up for grabs. What was now known was that we had built smack dab in the middle of 'coon-hunting territory.
The farmer says, shucks, 'coon hunters are the salt of the earth. He says that window treatments are for city folk. While he's not home, I plan to hang blinds. Trust me: once they are up, he will never know the difference.
And, when and/or why would your husband not be home, you ask? What the farmer likes best about our new house is that it is smack dab next to Headquarters; i. e., the old dairy barn. This is the cause for a lot of rejoicing. So much so that the other day the farmer announced: "Now that we have a house out here, I'll be spending lots more time at the barn."
For his part, our youngest son Miles, home from NC State, said,"Mama, I am so glad that you and Daddy built this house. It means so much to me to be able to wake up, look out the window and see the dairy barn."
For my part, I look out the kitchen window and, indeed, Headquarters looms large. So do the old manure spreaders, the old deep freezes, and every vehicle that ever hauled a Hamrick to town.
The farmer, ever the philosopher, simply says, "You'll get used to the country again.”
Son Miles, ever the pragmatist, adds, "Once we have a fish fry, you'll know we have arrived."
Our move to the country means we've changed locations -- nothing else.
After hauling our stuff across town in our recent move to the country, what a relief that when we leave this world, we don’t “get” to take it with us.
Hopefully, heaven will be my last, great move. Back on earth, however, I am digging out, sorting out, and occasionally, pitching out.
Besides being overwhelming, moving is also emotional. The last item that my hand felt as I was double-checking the cabinets in our former house was PaPa’s well-worn whet rock. Papa believed that a man should be able to sharpen pocket and kitchen knives to the point you could shave the hairs off your arm. PaPa’s whet rock – that’s a keeper. Across town, the first item that I carried into the new house was a candy dish – filled with seasonal candy corn. Cute, but the first item somebody should have thought of was toilet paper, instead.
Well, you ask, where was the farmer in all this? What was the first item he brought to the new house? Even I was shocked. He said that a new house calls for a new dog, and didn’t I think that Bonnie was just the smartest dog to come out of Shelby? According to the farmer, over in the county seat, the leash laws were posing a problem for Bonnie. So when Bobby Rogers told the farmer about his new wife and her worries about her dog’s confinement, the farmer invited the Rogers’ dog to come live with us – in our new house.
Over the years, I have tolerated dogs when I would rather have had cats and/or pet rocks. Now in my twilight years, we have adopted yet another dog to love and fret over. The farmer says that I am making a mountain out of a molehill. He says you should be suspicious of anybody living out in the country that doesn’t have at least one dog on the place.
So, while the farmer made sure that Bonnie got acclimated; i. e., marked her territory, I continued unpacking.
The largest challenge was setting up the kitchen. Where would the coffee pot go, the cookbooks, the fry daddy full of fried okra oil? It was good that I had taken a week off of work.
What was the first thing I unpacked in the kitchen? It makes me sad to answer that question. Center stage in our kitchen, on the lower shelf of the choicest cabinet, are our medicines: for high cholesterol, thyroid problems, acid reflux, estrogen replacement. Also there’s Silver Centrum, calcium, the B, C, E and K vitamins, and a Sam’s Club mega bottle of ibuprofen. There is even a small bottle of malaria pills, just in case.
What is the symbolism here? Somebody is getting old.
So, ya’ll come. And, if you get past the dog, we’ll put on the coffee and offer you candy corn and, for your bones, chocolate-covered calcium chews.
Instead of a column, I should be writing a book called “Moving Is Not for Sissies.” Or, if that title won’t fly, what about a how-to on “Moving for Dummies?”
Two weeks ago, no sooner did the builder say the new house was ready than the farmer called our sons, as well as other male friends with trucks, and asked them to come right over. When I suggested that we might need a little organization, i. e. a plan, before we started moving, the farmer said that I was nuttier than a fruitcake.
Thank goodness for female friends and relatives, who understood my dilemma and came to the house to run interference. They also knew when to distract my attention, such as when doors were coming down and heavy chests of drawers were being called unflattering names.
One dear friend protected my china, wrapping each piece in the Shelby Star, and refusing to allow the farmer to move the hutch until the crystal had been safely removed.
That is not what had happened on Pearl Harbor Day, 1991, the day we moved from the farm to uptown Boiling Springs. December 7, 1991, while I was at work, the farmer moved the dining room hutch. When I got home, I cried, thinking of how lovingly the farmer obviously had wrapped and unwrapped my china and crystal in order to move this handmade piece of furniture. I was deeply moved, until Baby Miles said, “What are you crying about Mama? Daddy didn’t wrap your plates and glasses. He just set the hutch on the back of Big Red with all the stuff still in it. And he made Jason and Leif lean against it so the doors wouldn’t fly open.”
Although, to my knowledge, we didn’t lose a single wedding gift in 1991, this time I was taking no chances. Thanks, Nancy. One thing I know for sure: there will be a special place in heaven for people who help you move.
Of course the men started with the large items. They wanted to take the refrigerator right off the bat, but I had to outsmart them. The refrigerator was full of empty salad dressing bottles, spoiled cottage cheese and other delicacies. Insisting that a new house demanded a clean refrigerator, I braced myself against the refrigerator. Realizing that he might be licked, the farmer handed me my favorite cleaning toothbrush and the Clorox.
I was still working the refrigerator over when the men finished with the large items and turned to the small stuff. With my head deep in the fruit and vegetable bin, I heard the farmer say, “Boys, go get a plastic grocery bag. We need something to put your Mama’s earrings in.”
By the time I finished with the refrigerator, my personal items were long gone. Our son Jason tried to cheer me up by saying, “Mama, when you get to the new house, it will be like the biggest Christmas you have ever had. Every box and bag you open will be full of surprises.”
That has certainly been the case.
Amazingly, all of my earrings except one pair survived the move. That pair melted – I reckon because they were packed in the same grocery bag with a hot curling iron.
And there’s another warning to be included in my how-to on moving. If the men pack your estrogen where you can’t find it, say in the box with the light bulbs, they might as well get ready for the fireworks.
The President has been insistent in urging us to return to normal. As a patriotic American, I am trying to do that.
What complicates the matter is that normal life is not something I know anything about. I pretty much abdicated normal life when I married a Cleveland County farm boy.
The President has also asked us to call him if we notice anything out of the ordinary. “Anything that isn’t as it should be,” he has explained. If that is what I can do to serve my country, I will need a direct line to the White House.
My opinion has always been that if a few normal moments come your way, you should perk a pot of coffee and enjoy them. This may be a gender thing. Personally speaking, I got married and pregnant on the same day, and life’s been a roller coaster ride ever since.
So here the farmer and I are, seeking to return to a normalcy we have never known, and the builder says our new house is about ready to move into. At least we are speaking again. This will simplify moving.
The farmer got over not having hearts on the living room mantle. And I got over the fat, green leather tub of a recliner he bought for himself -- and the den.
You would never guess, however, what our biggest house-building argument was over. By far and away, it was over crown molding. Until the farmer went to town to see if he could pick it out, he thought crown molding was something the dentist wanted him to get to complete his dental work. When the farmer’s brother got into the fray and suggested dentil molding rather than traditional crown, the farmer was utterly confused.
If you have to ask who won the crown-molding dispute, you don’t know much about Southern magnolias. It’s a gender thing.
Of course, it took a bait of mashed potatoes and a peach cobbler or two to help the farmer get over it. When the children ask what they can get their daddy this year for Christmas, I am going to suggest a subscription to House Beautiful.
Earlier in the year, I had worried that moving day might coincide with two other events: the Cleveland County Fair and the arrival of our second grandchild. Miles had already said that he was going to the Demolition Derby – period. And I had announced that, new house or not, I was going to the hospital to have the grandbaby. Period.
Thank goodness, I did not foresee the horrors of September 11. For one month, though the builder kept building, I have been too paralyzed to prepare, to pack, and even to open the mail.
So when the farmer announced that we might start moving as early as this weekend, I replied: “We can’t move…I haven’t balanced the bank statement.”
This is definitely a gender thing.
Then I remembered what happened the last time we moved: the farmer set our hutch, crystal and all, on the back of Big Red and moved us to town. Immediately I turned on the computer, downloaded Quicken and balanced the statement.
Mr. President, normal life for me includes getting a jump on the farmer. I am happy to report that I am back at it.
God willing, this will be the last in an unexpected series of columns. These 4 columns, written after and about September 11, focused on the following themes:
Now is the time for each of us to pick up our lives and take those actions that will contribute to our nation’s healing.
Not everyone has been immobilized since September 11. Indeed, the firefighters, the police, the rescue workers in NY, DC, and PA sprang into action within seconds of the tragedy. Instead of becoming demoralized and debilitated, though their personal losses were too deep for words, these individuals have lifted our spirits and inspired our resolve. They made no speeches; indeed, most of them refused to be interviewed. Their work spoke for them. Their determination, their perseverance, their selflessness have irrevocably changed our nation – for the better.
The actions of the terrorists were highly destructive and gravely evil. Then hosts of good people sprang into action. Ordinary, hardworking, decent people have not only trumped evil with good, they are reducing what was intended for evil to rubble.
Oh, what heroes there are among us. I don’t expect to ever hear again in my lifetime the whining question we used to ask in our pre-September 11 cynicism: “Aren’t there any heroes left?” Not only are there heroes, there are so many of them that we will never know all of their stories, much less their names.
So what can we do?
Our money is needed. It occurred to me this week that I am guilty of a troubling inconsistency. Here are the patriotic items I have bought since September 11: flag earrings, a large silver flag pin, a small flag pin, a flag decal for the car, and red, white and blue beads and ribbons. And what have I given? The small donation I dropped in a firefighter’s boot at a collection point is not enough. Fortunately I work for a company that is matching our gifts to the American Red Cross, and I worship with NC Baptists, who are providing disaster relief at the Pentagon. These are two of the many organizations that can use our gifts to help those directly affected by this tragedy. It’s time to dig deep – to give until it feels good.
Our prayers are needed.
Our jobs are needed. It is time to go back to work with renewed vigor. And, if I understand our President right, our patriotic duty also includes spending what we can of our paycheck. Somehow, new shoes for fall just don’t seem to matter. But our economy needs our confidence and our return to normalcy.
What other actions can we take? Our resolve is needed. Our unity is needed. Our respect for one another is needed. Our words of hope and healing are needed.
Added together, our individual actions are making a profound difference. May God continue to uphold us, guiding our thoughts and directing our actions.
Almost 3 weeks later, it may be that now is the time for “a thing called hope.” The terrorists win small victories to the extent to which we grope around demoralized, fearful, and despairing. And not one of us wishes to grant these evildoers one iota of victory.
Hope enables us to stiffen up, wake up, reach out, and move forward. Hope is the antidote for the terror.
However, moving from grief to hope is a process. It will take us all awhile. But returning to a thing called hope should be one of our personal and national objectives.
There are plenty of national reasons for solid hope: our leaders, our Constitution, our people, our military, our resolve, and for most Americans, our faith.
There are plenty of personal reasons for solid hope: our families, our churches, our work, our freedoms, and our boundless opportunities.
Just when I was wondering if we would ever smile again, our oldest son called Wednesday night to tell us to dust off our rocking chairs, that he and his wife were heading to the hospital. Thus began our family’s forced, and joyful, return to something like normalcy. This phone call was our wake-up call, reminding us of the need for a rebirth of hope.
Though it was past the farmer’s bedtime, he put his boots back on and we headed for the hospital. The farmer had wondered if there was anything that could take my eyes off CNN. Very early Wednesday morning, as I waited in the maternity floor’s family room, I realized that I was far more absorbed in what might be happening in the delivery room than I was in what was being analyzed in CNN’s Atlanta newsroom.
Around 4 AM, September 26, our son announced that the baby was here and that our second grandchild was a boy. His name would be Aaron James – for his grandfather and great-grandfathers.
Later, as we stood in front of the nursery window, Jason talked excitedly about his hopes and dreams for their newborn son. He assured me that just as soon as the baby had a Social Security number, he would be ordering him a NC lifetime hunting and fishing license, too. For her first Christmas, Santa had brought granddaughter Morgan her lifetime license.
The nurses in the nursery probably thought we were oohing and aahing over the baby. But no, we were thinking of how many catfish the baby would one day haul out of the Broad.
A new baby is another reminder of God’s goodness. A new baby inspires us to excitement over the miracle and the sacredness of life. The arrival of little Aaron James has awakened our family to hope, to dreams, to the expectation of future joys.
Maybe this is why God created grandchildren. Grandchildren are God’s way of keeping older adults from throwing in the towel.
May we so live during these days that our children and their children will have a future. May we take no action or give into any emotion that will dim their eyes, or diminish their enthusiasm for living.
The President is right: perhaps the best way we can help our country is to get back to our normal activities. Getting back is hard when your normal activities include writing a humor column. Maybe next week…
For now, most of us are still grieving and sorting through lots of mental rubble. The very good news is that, as a nation, we are making discoveries that strengthen us and embolden us.
Here are some reflections:
I’ve always felt grateful to have been born in this country. But how much I have taken this country for granted. Over the years, as parents, we’ve accumulated American flags, badges, pins, banners, and decals. Most of these I either pitched out or buried in the bottom of the drawer of least important memorabilia. When I needed an emblem of America to cling to, I realized how much I had taken these symbols for granted -- and the country and the freedoms they represent.
Until we were attacked, I did not know how much I loved America. And I didn’t know that the rest of us felt the same way.
An even more profound realization: I did not know how much the rest of the world cares for us, grieves with us, and identifies with us. It is important for us to go forward with courage and wisdom, not just for our children and ourselves but also for the rest of the world. We are a beacon of hope for others. We bear a responsibility that extends beyond our borders and beyond our generation.
Our leaders, therefore, bear a heavy responsibility. A great way we can help our country and our world is to pray for these leaders by name.
Another observation: This national tragedy causes us as a nation to focus on those things that truly matter: people, country, work, worship, and a daily appreciation of life.
Although work increasingly consumes more of our time, it is a blessing that we’re prone to take for granted. It is appropriate that our leaders have reminded us that our work matters – it’s one of our contributions to the fabric of this great country. Each life, each role, matters. The New York fire fighters, police department, and rescue teams have demonstrated this simple truth in ways that move us to tears.
In our naiveté and in our comfort, most of us have underestimated the power of fanaticism. May we in our response to this tragedy be spared this extreme.
And we have underestimated the power of evil. I don’t know about you, but these days have made me want to be a better person, a harder worker, a braver American, and a better Christian. With God’s help and guidance, I can envision our emerging from this tragedy a better people.
Which brings me to the final reflection. Our greatest blessing as a nation is our deep spiritual reservoir. We didn’t know it was still there. As individuals and as a nation, we are just beginning to tap this reservoir – through ours prayers and through countless acts of love. May we drink deeply from this reservoir, and move forward under God’s guidance and according to His will.
As a baby boomer, I was taught patriotism as a child. Like many of you, I learned the Pledge of Allegiance at church – at Vacation Bible School.
As a college student, my views on patriotism were forever changed by the opportunity of living and studying for seven months in Bogotá, Colombia. Just as it is possible for parents to love more than one child, I learned that it is possible, and enriching, for Americans to love the peoples of other countries.
Then I married, we began farming, and in our attempts to get out of farming financially, we ran afoul of the IRS. Patriotism required us to get over the bitterness, to forgive the government, and to continue to pay our taxes.
In recent years, my mother and I have traveled to two other countries: Russia and India. Patriotism grows, not diminishes, as you learn to pray for other nations and to replace long-standing prejudices with appreciation for the heritage of other great nations.
Several years ago, after being placed in a management position, my beliefs on patriotism came to the forefront. I have never spoken publicly, even at the office, of the first step that I took. I went to town and bought an American flag to have at the office – to fly on Martin Luther King Day as well as other national holidays. It’s an act that I know is right and just.
September 11, as the word came to our office of what was taking place, a coworker asked what we were going to do. I said, for starters, we are going to fly our flag. Within 30 minutes, our flag was out. And on our marquis, we placed patriotic words that voice the beliefs we believe our community shares.
It IS a time for patriotism: for flying the flag, for wearing ribbons, for praying, for weeping, and for struggling with our prejudices. It is a time for courage: for moving past emotionalism, as Americans are doing, and making tangible contributions of money, blood, and prayers.
It IS a time for patriotism: for praying for a new President and for leaders for whom you did not vote. And it is time to say publicly that that President is your leader, and that you are proud of the job he is doing of leading the free world through this profound tragedy.
It IS a time for patriotism: for realizing that we are not alone in our suffering and in our grief. Last week I wrote of a first cousin who came to visit. It must be culture shock but after visiting us in Boiling Springs, she left to visit a friend in Rome, Italy. Here’s the note e-mailed by her daughter: “Mom is in Rome. She said all the Italian flags are at half-mast and the Europeans are really upset too. Everyone she meets that realizes she is American just apologizes and says how sorry they are.”
It IS a time for patriotism. For the real steel, the love of freedom that under girds America, does not weaken under fire. This steel grows stronger, and stronger.
May God purify us, comfort us, and bless us with courage and wisdom for the challenges that lie ahead.
Several first cousins were coming for a visit last week, so I called Mama. For the first time, I heard my mountain-bred mother express fear. This unnerved me. Mama was a bit afraid to make the 92-mile drive from Spencer.
The farmer said not to twist her arm. He reminded me that though Mama is 78 going on 58, her Chevy Celebrity is 15 years old, which in Chevy time is 109.
I told Mama I would be making plenty of homemade lasagna. If she changed her mind, there would be enough in the pot for her. The lasagna bait worked. Within 24 hours, there was a message on the answering machine: “Kathryn Mae, I’m coming to your house. I have to prove to myself that I can still do it.”
Of course, Mama made the trip in fine order. She got in her lane on I-85, worked her speed up to 55 mph, and never veered course. In fact, this is how she has made her way successfully through life.
One first cousin came over from Charlotte. The other, who had never been to our house, came from Virginia. I took a mental health day off from work in order to cook the promised lasagna.
About the time Mama and the cousins arrived, so did the tree stump grinders. When you are entertaining in the country, this is huge. Besides creating a lot of excitement, it provided entertainment for the men folk. I don’t know much about male bonding, but I think this stump grinder did the trick.
With the men outside, the cousins and Mama and I talked. What do first cousins who seldom see one another talk about? They share memories of family reunions, beach trips, the old home place. They remember long-deceased relatives, and ponder who else they are kin to.
We’re all past 50 now, and that probably explains what happened next. The oldest cousin is one of the keepers of the secrets, and so while she was in town, our 70-year-old cousin let us in a few family secrets. This is always a shocker. I don’t know about your family, but if there had been a Springer television show in the early 1900s, our family could have produced a participant or two.
Eventually, as the lasagna ripened, we wrapped up the family conversation with a discussion of who had died, and when, and of what. Our grandparents had had 14 children; only one aunt is left and she’s 88-ish. Most of the aunts and uncles lived to old age, despite the family curse that we have inherited: high cholesterol, in the 400+ range.
Over lasagna, we discussed our various cholesterol medications and compared dosages. We spoke of our diets. Then we had strawberry shortcake.
Stuffed to the gills, before we parted ways, we spoke of current matters. We’re all Baptists, and we had to talk about that. Which led to politics.
Imagine my surprise to learn that one of the first cousins is a Republican. She may be an arch one: she assumes that everyone else is one.
This could be a problem -- if she visited more often than once every 70 years.
Last week’s column on the empty nest syndrome could have been subtitled “Missing Miles.” As we stood in the driveway and watched our youngest son drive away for college, I came back in the house and wrote about the loneliness, the angst if you will, of sending a sophomore to NC State.
The farmer, on the other hand, had a different column idea. As we turned to walk back in the house, he began reminiscing on how times have changed. He remembered how boys left for State College in the “good ole days.”
Since reminiscing is more fun than crying, the farmer and I began comparing notes on our “leaving for college” experiences. The farmer said he remembered his Mama crying, too, with her last words being, “Don’t forget to write us a letter as soon as you get there to let us know you got to Raleigh OK.”
Some things have not changed. Like Miles, the farmer drove off for NC State in a pickup truck. But the farmer’s truck was not a late model Japanese import with bumper stickers that would make a Grandma blush.
It’s hard for me to feel sorry for the farmer. Somehow or other, I managed to complete 90% of my college education without car, truck, or SUV.
Frankly speaking, as a girl in the 1960s, asking my parents for a pickup truck never once crossed my mind. The last half of my senior year, when I did student teaching, we became a two-car family and my parents loaned me a Buick Skylark. I well remember looking out the dorm window almost every morning to make sure I wasn’t fantasizing about having a blue Buick.
The day I had entered college in 1964 as a freshman was a red-letter day for the family. It was a day they had saved for and prayed for for 18 years. Of course, Grandma came down from Asheville to go to Wake Forest with us. She wore her Sunday dress and her Sunday hat. She probably had white gloves in her pocketbook, considering the seriousness of the occasion. Her responsibility, once we got the few boxes I had into the room, was to make my bed.
Daddy was dressed in a suit. Pants and shorts were not allowed, so Mama and I also wore dresses. The family spent the better part of the day, helping me “get situated.” Looking back on it, I wonder what could have taken so long. There were no stereo speakers to arrange; no computer , TV, VCR, or cable hookups required; no phone service to be secured; no apartment lease arrangements to be signed.
There wasn’t even a lamp to plug in. When we found out that my roommate was bringing a lamp, Mama said that was one more thing we could scratch off the list.
Basically, my shopping list for college was comprised of these necessities, listed in order of their importance: Webster’s dictionary, Roget’s Thesaurus, Smith-Corona portable typewriter, Bulova watch, Montgomery Ward umbrella, and S. H. Kress trashcan. The one splurge was matching avocado green cord bedspreads that we purchased uptown, at Belks.
These items, plus tuition and books, had been purchased at great sacrifice by my parents, so I was grateful for each one. My parents cried a long time, and promised they would write me often.
The times and the shopping lists may have changed, but the separation of college students from parents will always be bittersweet.
