Emmanuel ~ God With Us!

The Christmas story is almost completely hidden among all the trimmings of the holiday season, from political correctness to materialistic expectations to overbooked calendars.  I am guilty.  Do we send out cards that say Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays?  Will I have enough money to make the holiday season a success?  Have I bought all the ingredients for this party appetizer or that holiday meal?  Somehow we manage to embrace all of the necessary holiday requirements, except one – priority one for the shepherds and the angels and the wise men – the birth of the Christ child.

TODAY’S BIG STORY:  On Sunday, December 11, I transported a frightened expectant mother in full labor to a hospital emergency room!   After a frantic one-hour drive, she and I reached the hospital at 12:21 p.m., and she delivered her newborn son at 12:34 p.m.  While this story is certainly not meant to be compared to the nativity birth, the events of the day helped guide me back to priority one – Emmanuel, God With Us!

The morning began with a big red velvet cake mistake!  I was making preparations for our after-church holiday meal by baking a red velvet cake.  As I removed the cake layers from the baking pans, I was absolutely amazed how round and identical the layers were – symmetrical perfection!  I was getting ready for church and waiting for the cake layers to cool, when I received an unexpected text at 9:19 a.m.  The text read: “I know you are probably at church, but can you text me when you get out of church or when you are not around other people.”  Sensing that something was wrong, I said, “I will.”

The cake layers had cooled, so I began the icing process of cherry pie filling and homemade lemon/cream cheese frosting.  The frosting was thinner than I had hoped and instead of clinging to the cake, the tasty mixture was flowing down the layers and over the side of the cake plate.  When I attempted to move the cake to a larger cake plate, the cake fell apart.  My beautiful red velvet cherry torte was a total disaster.  Then, at 9:42 a.m., I received another text which read, “Okay the reason I texted you this morning is to ask if there is a doctor open today?  I’ve been having contractions.”

Involved with the sticky cake mess, I did not check the text until 10:02 a.m. After reading the text,  I quickly replied, “OMG!! Let me think…I am not going to church!  You need to get to me or I need to get to you!  Can you drive?”

She did not reply, so at 10:05 a.m., I sent another - more urgent - text. “Please tell your Mom!  She and I will get you through this!”  She immediately protested, “I cannot tell her.  No possible way.”

“Then you have got to get here,” I responded. 

The twenty-year-old college student told her mother that she was coming to visit my daughter who was also home from college for the holidays.  At 10:15 a.m., I dumped the red velvet cherry mess into a large bowl and placed the dessert disaster in the refrigerator.  I gathered together bread and drinks for my husband to take to the meal after church.  Then I called my daughter, Katie, who was involved in the fabricated story, and my other daughter, Aimee, who is a nurse.  At 10:19 a.m., my cell phone died, so I had to move my sim card to another cell phone to continue the conversations!

At 10:49 a.m., the expectant mother said that she was headed to my house.  She asked me if I was alone, and I assured her that everyone had gone to church.  She arrived at 11:04 a.m.  Once again, I called both my daughters to help me through the process and to support me during the trip to the hospital which was more than an hour away.   At 11:13 a.m., I called Aimee to inform her that we were leaving my house...the frantic trip had begun.  At 11:26 a.m., I reported to her that the contractions were coming two to three minutes apart.  She insisted that I remain calm (even though I was driving eighty miles per hour).  I began to pray to God that I would not have to deliver the baby without the help of medical professionals.  I prayed that He would keep us safe on the highway – emergency flashers and all!  I prayed for the young mother – experiencing the pain of natural childbirth without any medication or more importantly, the presence of her own mother.  And I prayed for the unborn child.

My phone rang at 11:33 a.m., and Aimee sternly advised, “You have got to tell her mother – right now!  Someone in her family has to know!  I am not saying this as your daughter, but as a medical professional!”  So I pleaded one final time for permission to call her mother, and she answered yes! At 11:35 a.m., I called her mother and calmly told her that we were headed to the hospital.  I delicately explained that her daughter was having a baby – a nine-month secret that had now been revealed!

At 11:56 a.m., I called Aimee again and alerted her that the contractions were now only one minute apart.  I began to panic that we were still twenty minutes from the hospital! My daughter said with a renewed composure, "Mom, God is with you.  You were foretold that this event would happen, and you are right where you are supposed to be.  Just calm down and breathe."

She was right.  On the previous Friday, I had been awakened out of a dead sleep by a frightening dream.  In the dream, the mother-to-be was screaming, "Help me! Help me, please!" She was crying and pleading, as she called me by name.  I awoke at 6:15 a.m. and sat straight up in my bed.  I kept calling and texting her throughout the morning.   When I finally reached her, I told her about the terrifying dream and convinced her to call me if she ever needed my help.  The following Sunday morning, she did.

At 12:21 p.m., we finally arrived at the emergency room of the University Medical Center.  I jumped out of the vehicle and ran inside the emergency room entrance.  I did not scream.  In a quiet deliberate voice, I said, "A young woman is having a baby in my vehicle as we speak."  Immediately, a team of medical personnel wheeled out a stretcher and moved her to the delivery room.  After I parked the vehicle in the visitors' garage and found identification information, I proceeded to the registration office to complete the paperwork.  At 12:43 p.m., I sent my other daughter, Katie, a text. "OMG!!! WE MADE IT!  She is headed to the delivery room!  Thank you for praying! Thank you, God!"

Before I sent the text or finished the admission process, the young mother had already delivered a healthy baby boy at 12:34 p.m.!  AMAZING!!!  I sat in the waiting room and waited for the baby's grandmother to arrive.  I thanked God, again, for His divine presence. I repeated over and over, "Emmanuel, God with us!" What comfort!! EMMANUEL, GOD WITH US!

After her mother and family began to arrive, I announced my departure.  While driving home, I thought about the events of the day.  As I said earlier, I never intended to compare the birth of this baby to the virgin birth; however, I knew I had seen signs and wonders on this December day.  I had been forewarned in a dream.  We had arrived at our destination just minutes before the baby was born.  The delivery was textbook, the newborn was healthy, and a young mother who bore her own secret scorn and private judgment for nine months was now surrounded by the unconditional love and public support of her family.   I looked above the interstate and a perfectly round full moon was leading me home.  Truly…the season for miracles still existed in 2011. I had found my way back to priority one. 

When I finally got home, my husband and I shared stories about the day.  He said, “Oh by the way, your red velvet cake was a huge success ~ the favorite dish of the day!”

I scolded him, “You took that messy bowl of red velvet cake to church?”

He replied, “Yep…and there is one small chunk left!  Evidently people didn’t care what it looked like on the outside!”

The final confirmation:  I had forgotten priority one.  I had seen the cake when it was perfect, and I was disappointed with the end result – broken and messy.  All that had mattered to me was the outward appearance of the cake and what people would think when they saw it.  I had decided to just hide it away in my refrigerator, where only the members of my family or I would know about the regrettable mistake.  I had forgotten the most important thing –  the combination of all those perfect ingredients inside that delicious cake! 

Wow!  Broken and messy…and in the end – red velvet redemption! I looked up messy in my thesaurus, and I found synonyms such as disastrous, tragic, heartbreaking, woeful, and unfortunate; however, I also found antonyms such as blessed, happy, joyous, and wonderful. 


What a perfect Christmas story!  Emmanuel! God With Us!  Welcome to our world, sweet infant child!

Dianne ; )

     

Comfort and Joy!

This morning I was reading a passage from Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach.  The author describes the book as a “walk through the year, beginning on New Year’s Day.”  I have attempted to digest the book as a day-by-day devotion; however, there are the days when I re-read an appropriate passage for the day’s particular need or set of circumstances. 

Today was one of those days. Scrambled or Fried…Scrambled or Fried…I thumbed through the pages frantically.  I had to find Scrambled or Fried.  After about fifteen minutes of perusing the 366 essays, I found Scrambled or Fried on date September 3 (as the pages are not numbered).  Whenever I feel completely crazed and overwhelmed, this is one of the passages that I re-read. 

Scrambled or Fried is an essay about a secret fantasy that many women have, and according to the author, “it focuses on the forbidden.”  I know what you’re thinking.  I thought the same thing, until I read the second paragraph.  The essay speaks of “the overwhelming impulse to disappear without a trace.”  She calls this fantasy of running away, “the waitress fantasy.”

When I first read the essay, I felt such a therapeutic release of guilt!  I am not alone! The author says that “contemplating a plan of escape is an imaginary mechanism to let off steam from life’s pressure cooker.”  She also writes, “When you think you can’t take it anymore, a life that revolves around asking customers if they want their eggs scrambled or fried holds a certain appeal….When our waitress fantasy surfaces, we’re physically, emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually exhausted by the struggle within and without that pulls us in a hundred different directions.  We’re seriously wounded by the ancient enmity between daily life and the Great Work.  Band Aids don’t work anymore.”

I wish that I could copy the entire passage word for word as Today’s Big Story.  Every time I read it, I feel a cathartic response, as though I have been to a physician.  Over the years, I have entertained the fantasy of running away – my own disappearing act.  I call my imaginary impulse to bolt, “the Blowing Rock fantasy.”  

Years ago, I read a book series by Jan Karon entitled the Mitford series.  We were living in "the Big House" at the time, and I internalized my own imaginary escape and retreat as I read the stories. The books are based on the lives of normal people in the fictional mountain town of Mitford – a setting based on the actual postcard village of Blowing Rock, North Carolina.  OMG!  How does a person begin to describe Blowing Rock, North Carolina?  Even before I had the unbelievable opportunity to go there three years ago, Blowing Rock (Mitford) had become the destination of my run-away fantasy. 

The methodology of my fantasy has always been the same.  I begin by literally searching the online classifieds of Blowing Rock newspapers and printing out jobs for which I could apply.  Then, I check out temporary residences where I could live.  My fantasy evolves to include a small store front building that I eventually buy to open a children’s book store. (I actually have a picture of the building and a telephone number to call.) By that point, I have moved into the second story apartment above my little shop around the corner.  After a couple of hours of indulging my Blowing Rock fantasy, I float back down to reality, face my real life to do list, and start the process of bringing order to chaos.

The date that I am writing this blog is December 8, so I instinctively flip the pages to read today’s passage. The essay is entitled Tidings of Comfort and Joy.  The first sentence reads as follows: This is the week that women’s shoulders begin to droop as their list of holiday “should do’s” becomes as long and heavy as Jacob Marley’s chains.

The author continues, “For many women, this is the season of misery and angst:  tears, tantrums, screaming, yelling, hustle, bustle, cash conflicts, royal-pain relations, and holiday humbug.” Wow! I thought, how fitting!  What better time for a run-away Blowing Rock fantasy than the frenzied, materialistic, chaotic rush of the holidays!  As a matter of fact, my last fortune cookie read, “An enjoyable vacation is awaiting you near the mountains.”

I have said so many times this past year, “I can only do so much.  I am only Human.”  But Christmas reminds me that I am not only human.  I am Spirit, also. In the anthology, The Book of Comfort, Elizabeth Goudge asks herself the question, “What are the sources of comfort to which we turn in what Saint Augustine…calls our mortal weariness?” The answer, she writes, is that “our existence is as light with comfort as it is weighted with weariness.”  That is not just an answer for the holiday season, but an answer for all our days.  Whenever my human heart is in danger of total collapse from the weight of my own weariness, a heavenly offering of that which is perfect always appears.   The perfect gift may be as small as a pass-along box of earrings or as big as an answered prayer; but I always recognize the Divine lightness that comes with it – a welcomed intervention that brings unexpected comfort and pure joy, whether the source is human or Spirit.  

Oh tidings of comfort and joy!  That is the true message of the Christmas story – a world of mortal weariness existing together with Divine lightness. So, even if I do as much as humanly possible to make the holidays perfect for everyone, I can never make the eternal Christmas story more perfect than it already is.  In the last sentence of today’s essay, Evelyn Underhill is quoted as saying:  I do hope your Christmas…has a little touch of Eternity in among the rush and pitter patter and all.  It always seems such a mixing of this world and the next – but that, after all, is the idea!

A little touch of Eternity – not an imaginary run-away fantasy – but a good and perfect gift that comes from above.

Comfort and Joy! 

Dianne ; )

Reaching for a Plate of Perfection!

My mom and I began this week with a dreary, drizzly Monday trip to the city for an early morning doctor’s appointment.  As I was sitting in the waiting room, I picked up an October 2010 issue of REAL SIMPLE magazine.  After perusing the first few pages, I happened upon a quote featured on the monthly Thoughts page.  The quote was credited to author M.F.K. Fisher from the book entitled An Alphabet for Gourmets and read as follows:  Gastronomical perfection can be reached in these combinations: one person dining alone, usually upon a couch or a hillside; two people, of no matter what sex or age, dining in a good restaurant; six people, of no matter what sex or age, dining in a good home.

WOW!  What a scrumptious mouthful! I immediately felt an elevated response from reading the quote, and I knew I had to copy it!   The drive to the doctor’s office had been both dismal and stressful, not to mention the parking situation in the pouring rain; and yet, the minute I read the quote, I felt my body react in a positive way.  I just love a collection of words that can spontaneously do that! It’s so amazing! As I copied the quote onto the small yellow pad that I carry in my purse, I felt another sensation of lightness.  Just reading the quote a second time was literally transforming my mood!

So I pondered the idea of gastronomical perfection while I waited for Mom.  I am pretty confident that I have never reached perfection on any level.  I have never felt quite perfect as a wife, mom or friend.  I have never achieved perfection as a writer, storyteller or photographer. I have never been remotely close to perfection as person of faith; however, I know for sure that I have reached gastronomical perfection on every level, in every combination.  YES! I softly exclaimed to myself, as I slightly hiked my leg and did a side fist pump!  TODAY’S BIG STORY: Gastronomical perfection is mine!

This past Thanksgiving, I sat down at a table of six in a good home – not once, but twice.  Two sets of parents, two boyfriends, two daughters, two in-laws and their two children, one husband and one son accompanied by homemade raisin-cinnamon bread, a Smithfield ham, cabbage casserole, potato soup, a fresh 20-pound turkey – brined for 30 hours and baked for six, a made-from-scratch green apple stuffing, steamed broccoli and cauliflower, gourmet macaroni and cheese, a bowl of very young English peas, two of Mom’s Millionaire pies, a Brazos Bottom pecan pie from Texas, Kentucky bourbon cranberry sauce, and a secret family recipe cornbread dressing made just for Katie!  Six people, of no matter what sex or age, dining in a good home –absolute perfection times two!

And speaking of two…the individual members of my family have perfected pairings in good restaurants from Emeril’s to Olga’s to Jazzeppi’s to A.J.’s!  Two people, of no matter what sex or age, dining in a good restaurant – what I know for sure, it just takes two!  I was reminded of a mild summer night when my son and I dined in a good restaurant called Walker’s.  We did not have a reservation, and the place was packed with people.  Thankfully, we were escorted to an upstairs dining area where the locals were congregating, the vibe was cool, the atmosphere was friendly, and the food was first rate.  After we finished our meal, Matt and I leisurely strolled back to the vehicle.  We were so completely full and satisfied that getting in a hurry was not an option.  Matt was holding a tooth pick in the side of his mouth, and I distinctly remember embracing the perfection of that moment as I listened to him critique the food and service. 

Another more recent dining duo took place on a perfect October evening with my daughter in a good restaurant appropriately named Thirty Two, as it is located on the thirty-second floor and overlooks the Biloxi Bay.  My daughter feasted on the restaurant’s famed 14-ounce bone-in filet mignon, followed by fresh crème brulee and a glass of thirty-year port wine.  I reached gastronomical perfection with a double-cut Berkshire pork chop (apple-brined), dried cranberry and shallot bread pudding, frisee (French curly endive)and bacon lardons – all topped with Normandy sauce.  At the end of the meal, Aimee and I felt completely euphoric!  We entered the elevator, pressed the down button, heaved a huge sigh of contentment, and leaned on opposite corners for the ride!  When the elevator doors opened, we were both smiling as though we had just found the goose that laid the golden egg!  Two people, of no matter what sex or age, dining in a good restaurant – sheer perfection!

However – to be perfectly honest – when I first read the quote, I actually thought about my quiet supper meal on the previous Sunday.  The Thanksgiving holiday was officially over.  Everyone had gone back to work or college; even my husband was headed to Mobile.  After church, I walked into my empty home, put on my pajamas, and rummaged through the refrigerator for leftovers.  I found a piece of roast, a few potatoes and carrots, and a half-pitcher of sweet tea.  I grabbed a jar of mayonnaise and mashed a spoonful onto my potatoes and carrots.  I made a half-sandwich with a slice of wheat bread and roast.  Then I poured the cold sweet tea over ice.  I spotted three bread and butter pickles in the bottom of a jar that was stuck to the refrigerator shelf, so I helped myself to the pickles and tossed the sticky jar into the garbage.  I carried my meal to the couch, picked up the remote and sampled my DVR list, which was at 79 percent full.  Home alone. Tonight there would be no college game day, no Sunday night football, no basketball tournament in Hawaii, no Rambo, no Three Stooges – just me and Oprah, the Hallmark Channel, Food Network and HGTV, and leftover roast and potatoes.  One person dining alone, usually upon a couch or a hillside…totally perfect.

My mom received a great report from her doctor on that messy Monday morning, so we headed to Waffle House for a late breakfast of pecan waffles, fried country ham, smothered hash browns and as always, a heaping helping of gastronomical perfection!

Dianne ; )

Reopening a Rare Trunk

My Grandma Frankie's Trunk

We just take the best of today, tuck it away, and keep it for tomorrow.  

Years before that quote was featured at the top of my blog or I had even heard of a blog, I was asked to define the concept behind the Tomorrow Trunk quote.  I had compiled several of my best children’s stories, typed them into manuscript form, and mailed the compilation to various agents and children’s book publishers.  The quote was the first line of the introduction, and the year was 1993. I still have every rejection letter from those first submissions.  Over the years, I repackaged the Tomorrow Trunk a dozen times until the large compilation of stories became one singular story…and my file of rejection letters continued to grow. But no matter how I redefined the Tomorrow Trunk, the original concept (the quote) stayed the same.

When I sent off that first batch of submissions, most of the rejection letters (or postcards) I received were canned or bulk mailings prewritten in advance.  The response began with “Dear Author” and ended with “Respectfully, The Editorial Department”.  As I began to study my craft and get better with queries, I started to get actual responses from real people. Over the years, I have received editorial direction from several agents, editors and publishers, including  Laura Rennert of the Andrea Brown Agency, Susan Hirschman and Virginia Duncan at Greenwillow, and Meredith DeSousa, who in 1999 was assistant editor at Simon and Schuster.  That year, her comments mirrored the consensus of every reply.  “Love the idea behind it…notes are wonderful…stories are varied and childlike.  The problem, however, is that the manuscript includes both notes from an adult and stories for a child.  I am afraid the appeal of this collection would be lost on both groups.”  Laura Rennert even suggested that the Tomorrow Trunk become interactive, like a real trunk, and suggested that I read the Griffin and Sabine Trilogy for an interactive example (which I was SO glad I did). I could just envision children everywhere carrying around their own little Tomorrow Trunks full of stories.

Yesterday, my mom and I visited close relatives, and I was able to take pictures of the first trunk that initiated my fascination with trunks and berthed the idea of the Tomorrow Trunk.  When I was growing up, my grandmother had a trunk ~ a real, real trunk.  The outside reminded me of the wealthy socialite trunks that were carried onto the Titanic – heavy metal with intricate designs and gold-leafing.  Inside was a flat compartment with divided sections which held jewelry, handkerchiefs, old coins, safety pins, and a hodgepodge of junk.  The top compartment could be lifted out of the trunk, and underneath that compartment was a secret storage area where my grandmother kept her most prized possessions ~ an assortment of cherished pictures, a stack of personal letters tied with ribbon, and her most special keepsakes.  After my grandpa died, I lived with my grandma for six years; however, I was never allowed to 'pilfer' or ‘meddle’ in the trunk. Only on rare occasions, Grandma would open the trunk, remove the top compartment, pull something out of the bottom, and tell me an unforgettable story.  I would sit right next to her on the couch and hang onto every word.

The novelty of those moments introduced me to a sacredness of story that I have never taken for granted or considered common and every day.  To me, that's the meaning of the best of today.  She was discriminatory with what she shared and restrictive with whom.  Those precious items and their accompanying stories were not for public display or routine visits.  The best of her today was tucked away.  My grandmother died during my sophomore year of college, and yesterday was the first time I had seen the trunk in thirty years.  My aunt’s daughter had graciously invited me to visit and take pictures of the trunk for my blog.  When I first saw it (just the outside), I was overcome with emotion. 

When I opened the trunk, all the contents were gone; however, as I lifted that compartment, all those moments with my grandmother began to flood my soul! I cannot describe what I felt, and I am weeping as I type the words.  I realized that my fascination had not been with trunks, but with the stories that were kept inside…the sustaining narrative that had been tucked away.  At that moment, it occurred to me that what I had done over the years for potential profit for my family (as in dollars and cents) had indeed made me a very rich woman during the process.  I had tucked away the best of today and kept it for tomorrow.  I imagined, thirty years from now, my one day grandchildren being reminded of a special story and feeling the overwhelm of that same love and devotion.

What I know for sure is that I no longer live in my grandmother's world.  I am a dinosaur, and I am facing the extinction of my species.  I love books that I can hold in my hand, like the twenty-year-old worn out children's books that I read to my babies.  I enjoy passing around family pictures (with my family, not Facebook) and telling stories that have only particular meaning to us.  I like to go to the mailbox and get mail, and open envelops with return addresses, and read real birthday cards with handwritten notes inside the front cover.  And I love my collection of trunks filled with stories.  Even though I try to blog at least once or twice a month, I much prefer to write my private journal entries with pencil and paper...which I do on a daily basis. When I do blog, I always try to elevate the purpose of the Tomorrow Trunk to that occasional visit with my grandmother when we shared a special story.

Today, my world and the world of my children is stuffed to capacity with TMI...that's what my kids call it.  Too much information ~ an exploitation of daily life which dilutes the best of today.  When there is too much of everything every day, then nothing that is personal seems special or sacred…not even our private thoughts.  Personally, I don't want to know what people are doing, thinking or ‘tweeting’ every minute of the day, nor do I want to view a thousand pictures or videos during the process. When all that hodgepodge of junk is removed or lifted out, then the rare is found tucked away underneath ~ the best of today.

And one final note…I disagree with that editorial assistant from Simon and Schuster.  I do not agree that the problem with the Tomorrow Trunk is that “the manuscript includes both notes from an adult and stories for a child” or that “the appeal of the collection would be lost on both groups.”  I think that the notes and the stories are the appeal of the Tomorrow Trunk, and I still envision children everywhere carrying around their own Tomorrow Trunks full of stories.

Dianne ; )

A special note of thanks to Aunt Delsie, Kay and Durwood who made yesterday so special.  Whoo! So many stories, so little time!  Thanks for letting us take pictures of all the trunks!

My Aunt Hilda's Trunk

Miss Mellie Nassar's Trunk (our neighbor)

Vocare - To Call

This week I checked out three books which had similar words on the front covers.  I didn't notice the words until I got home from the library.  The first book was entitled Avocation of Compassion: The Mississippi Physician and Creative Writing.  The second book was entitled Out on the Porch: An Evocation in Words and Pictures, and the third book was entitled Heart in Conflict: Faulkner's Struggles with Vocation. 

Avocation, evocation, and vocation...maybe no one else on earth would have noticed those three words, but I did.  I haphazardly selected the books and paid no attention to the three words during the process.   I wholeheartedly believe that when something random becomes something connected, there is a lesson for me to learn. So I started with Webster.

Avocation refers to a casual or occasional occupation; diversion; hobby.  Avocation is derived from Latin ab - away and vocare - to call.  For some people, writing is an avocation ~ a hobby or diversion that calls them away.  I certainly understand writing as an avocation.  I have pretty much made a living doing something other than writing; however,  I would never consider the writing that calls me away as a casual occupation, but more a necessary diversion.  During the worst times in my life, writing has saved me.  Never made me alot of money, but kept me alive.  Writing seemed to call me away, and for the moment, that calling made all the difference.  My family and peers have always considered writing to be a hobby that I enjoyed, an avocation for sure; however, I have felt the call so deeply at times to write (even in my journal) that not writing seemed an unnatural response. The occasional, yes; the diversion, yes; but never the hobby.

Evocation is the act of evoking; to call or summon forth, as memories; to draw forth or produce a response or reaction; to summon up spirits by incantations.  Evocation is derived from Latin e -out and vocare - to call.  So...hmm...avocation is to call away and evocation is to call out.  Certainly, anyone who has written stories, recalled memories, or drawn from past experiences understands the importance of evocation.  We see a picture or hear a phrase or smell an aroma, and we call out those reminders of times passed.  Then, we usually tell a story.  We have all experienced evocation.  We drive by a house with a wood-burning fireplace or a charcoal grill, and we immediately react.  We summon forth our memories of various seasons, and spirits rise up within us.  Our inward incantations are calling out the best and worst of what we remember of our lives. 

According to the dictionary, vocation is a stated or regular occupation; a calling.  Vocation is a call to or fitness for a certain career; the work or profession for which one has a sense of special fitness or to which one is best suited.  Vocation is derived from the Latin vocare - to call.  Wow!  What a definition!  A stated occupation, a sense of special fitness, a calling to which we are best suited. 

When I was in the second grade, my teacher recognized a calling in me.  My hobby -- my avocation -- was telling stories.  The stories always produced a reaction from the students and a response (mostly negative) from Mrs. Gaddis.  According to her account, I would make the most unlikely stories seem believable.  I told those second graders that my daddy lacked one dollar having a million dollars, and that robbers broke into our house and stole our clothes (which they threw into our pond).  Even as a little girl, I possessed a special fitness to tell stories.

Later, as a fifth-grader, I wrote an article for the county newspaper as part of a school competition.  My article was chosen as the winner and was featured on the front page of the newspaper.  I never second-guessed what I was called to do from that moment forward.  In college, I majored in communications with a minor in journalism and spent most of my adult life writing or telling stories. I never knew as a fifth grader that I would write hundreds of front page articles for that same newspaper; but I knew I would write. 

Whether by avocation, evocation or vocation, I have always written stories for the sake of the call. Years ago, I had hoped to one day become a famous writer, live on the beach, deposit checks in the bank, and surround myself with a zoo of pets.  What I have learned from years of writing and telling stories is that the calling itself is always what matters most.

To call away, to call out, to call. To say in a loud voice, to proclaim, to shout!  To summon, to arouse, to awake from sleep. I think, at some point in time, the call comes to each of us; however, I believe that the call becomes the calling for a chosen few who answer.

Dianne : )

The Miracle of the Angel's Trumpet

,

TODAY'S BIG STORY:  The Angel's Trumpet survives and thrives!  In the South, friends and neighbors pass along their  favorite plants like they do their favorite stories.  My mom's angel's trumpet has a very special story.    





Last summer, one of Mom's lifelong friends gave her a small plant to add to her perennial garden.  Because of Mom's health issues, I have been the person primarily responsible for the care of her beautiful flowers.  I know every plant in her flower beds, from the hibiscus to the four o'clocks to the shasta daisies.  Unfortunately, I did not know about the prized angel's trumpet.


The angel's trumpet was so special ~ as was the friend who gave it to her ~ that Mom decided to plant the small seedling herself.  She did not tell me that she had added a new ~ very small ~ plant to her garden.  When I began weeding the flower beds, I thought the plant looked more like young pokeweed (or poke salad).  Not knowing that she had planted the angel's trumpet, I chopped it down ~ even with the ground.




Mom was frantic!  After a fifteen minute tongue-lashing about the uniqueness of this particular angel's trumpet (which might as well have been plucked right out of heaven), she reluctantly told me not to worry about it.  Yeh...right.  So for one year, I babied that one-inch stump.  I put up a stake to mark it, which I labeled Mom's Most Precious Angel's Trumpet Stump...just to prevent lightening from striking twice.  Then, I gave it every possible opportunity to survive...sunshine, water and of course, Miracle Grow!  But for four seasons, nothing happened.  No growth.  No change. No miracle.
 

Just last week, I got my miracle.  I was so excited when I arrived at Mom and Dad's to put out pine straw and saw the beautiful angel's trumpet in all of its glory!  Mom had wanted to surprise me, and what a surprise!  For one entire year, the sight of that little stump grieved me sore.  Within a two-week period, the angel's trumpet had sounded forth a reverie of redemption, endurance and triumph! What a sheer delight! 

Such an amazing story for us all!  Today's Big Story!  Never judge an angel's trumpet by its tiny little stump, and never predict a story's end by how it begins...you might just miss the very best part!

Dianne ; )

Ms. Lynn's "Secret" Garden



 

Because my family lives from one end of the state to the other, I spend much of my time traveling the same highways. Each state highway is designated by a number, such as Highway 35 or 25 or 49, and almost everyone has a general idea where you are in the state simply by those numbers. However, for me, each highway is designated by hundreds of places where I want to stop, take pictures and hear stories.  I know exactly where I am when I get to the pastoral farm with the three white geese or the bed and breakfast that has been for sale for three years (that I want) or the whimsical garden with two storybook swings in the front yard.  This past Monday, I finally stopped at Ms. Lynn's whimsical garden!

I knew when I walked onto the porch that I had found a special place.  I knocked on the front door, and no one answered.  But I know how flower ladies think.  I walked around to the side door, and sure enough, it was open.  That's when I met Ms. Lynn.  I explained to her that I had admired her garden all summer, but the swings were the bait that I could not resist.  She was eating lunch, and I hated to interrupt; however, if there is one thing I know for sure, garden people cannot resist the opportunity to show off their blooms!

The blooms are everywhere, and every area of the garden is accompanied by a different story, such as the Louisiana Irises that bloom early spring, but serve double duty as an organic septic tank.  The irises boast beautiful dark orange and red blooms, while also providing a scent-sational treatment for what could have been a smelly (and costly) problem.

The garden is just as quaint and quirky as I imagined it would be!  Wrought iron, watering cans and wheelbarrows add to the fanciful feel of the garden, almost as if they grow magically out from the trees or vines or flower beds. 

 





Everything looks like it has always been there, from the yellow and red wheelbarrows that greet you as you enter the cottage garden to the bright blue bottle tree right in the middle!  No wonder the garden makes you feel like a child again with its captivating primary colors...and those enchanting swings.  

But, Ms. Lynn's garden has a secret.  I think all the best gardens have secrets; you just have to stop and listen for those secret stories.  Ms. Lynn has experienced more than her share of grief with the deaths of two husbands and three daughters.  Her whimsical garden is the natural solution to her emotional pain!  I know this connection.  I have read about a hypothesis called biophilia, which literally means a love of life or living systems.  Unlike phobias, which are the fears that people have of the natural world, philias are the attractions or positive feelings that people have to certain habitats, outside activities and natural surroundings.  Gardening is Ms. Lynn's form of therapy.  For others, this almost instinctive attraction is a means of survival. That profound bond with nature brings both calm and communion. I am a member of this group; when I am in a garden, I know I belong.



The subtle persuasion can come from a small wooden stool...



...or an empty wrought iron bench.



When our heart is sad, the garden beckons to us.  "Come and join me.  Get your hands dirty.  Plant something new. Be creative. I need your companionship today."  And so, like Ms. Lynn, we rise up early and face a new day, knowing that the flowers will be there to greet us.  We might even take our turn on the swings. 



Before I left, Ms. Lynn showed me a curious rose.  She said that she planted a rose bush, and the blooms had always been pink; however, a yellow rose is blooming from the bush.  She thought maybe she had planted the rose bushes too close together, which was the reason for the yellow rose.  The rose isn't a cross-breed or hybrid.  It is just a singular yellow rose on an otherwise pink rose bush.  Although I can not explain why that rose is there, I am still thankful for those rare blooms that ~ occasionally ~ just come out of nowhere!

 

At the end of our visit, a single petal seems to wave and say, "Come back again, when you're traveling this way!"

 

Dianne ; )

Art WORK @ Endville

TODAY'S BIG STORY:  Road Crews Create Art in Motion! This past Tuesday, my mom and I rode with my niece and her son to Endville (what a great name- sounds like a picture book idea) to visit my brother and his wife.  My brother is a crew foreman in charge of grassing a ten-mile stretch of four-lane highway being built near Tupelo for the new Toyota plant.  The preliminary dirt work for the highway project is massive, and I was amazed as I watched the various crews at work.  In the bottom of these deep excavations, the dirt movers, bulldozers, and graders looked like a little boy's play toys - two to three inches tall.

As part of our tour, we took a thrill ride to the top one of the highest hills and parked...so that I could take pictures and Roger could explain the process from start to finish.  I continued to look and listen and somewhere between the engineer's design and the estimated completion date, I was overcome with awe by the skills of these heavy machine operators.  Upon closer examination, I realized that I was watching art in motion ~ literal ART WORK.  Each operation was performed with synchronized precision like a choreographed dance.  HUGE, and I mean HUGE, pieces of equipment going up and down, and back and forth, and over and under ~ never missing a beat. Even the Slow/Stop signs were turning in perfect rhythm with the machines and trucks. It was so incredible to watch. Digging, scooping, lifting, plowing, dumping ~ skilled men/women at work all day.

As I listened to Roger describe the project operation, the words sounded more like a discussion of art than road construction.   He talked about the use of natural materials, such a water and grass and "good" dirt ~ which has to be mixed and tested for certain textures, consistency and density.  Whoever thought that common dirt could be so highly sophisticated? Any artist who has ever used clay or mud as a medium certainly knows and appreciates the rendering process.  

According to Roger, the dirt has to be perfect as does the landscape ~ another art word.  He talked about how the crews create this blank canvas by moving tons of dirt, which is done by hours of grubbing, chiseling, sculpting, and smoothing ~ the same techniques used to work out all the imperfections in creating works of art. Even the rocks that line the long stretch of highway are flawlessly placed stone upon stone by Mennonite craftsmen. A long day in the artist's studio may not compare to the long hours logged by these skilled laborers but the end result is no less amazing!

The next step in the process is grassing ~ temporary and permanent.  In the temporary stage, a quick-growing grass is planted to support and sustain the dirt work and prevent erosion. According to The Artist's Handbook, the support is the structure to which the paint and the ground layers adhere.  In order for the paint to remain in tact, the support must have good dimensional stability and durability.  Are we talking about road construction or art?  Additives, solvents, seasoning ~ all multi-layering techniques used in art.

In the permanent stage, the grass is planted to finish the work ~ the final layer of tempera green to be admired by all who travel the ten-mile masterpiece.  That's exactly what it is ~ an amazing work of art by everyday people.  Being an artist is not just about embracing the creative genius required to design such an grand endeavor, but it is also about the perfect execution of that design.  That finished product is what these skilled laborers achieve on a daily basis - one stroke or rotation at a time.

Before my visit with my brother this week, I would have probably told people that he helps build highways.  Now, I think I will say that he helps create art in motion!

 

Sandra, thank you so much for those delicious sloppy joes and for letting us "camp out" with you for a few hours.  And Roger, thanks for reminding me that no matter what we do, all work is creative. 

Dianne ; )

Matt's Super Summertime Sandwich

One of the perks of living in a rural community is the country store.  This past summer, Matt's favorite Saturday meal was this massive sandwich made from fresh sliced deli meat and cheese which was all hand-sliced on an old-timey meat slicer.  We usually bought a pound of cajun turkey, a pound of smoked ham, a pound of bacon, a pound of roast beef, a pound of sharp cheddar hoop cheese and a pound of pepper jack cheese.  Then we added dill pickles, fresh tomatoes and jalapeno peppers from the garden, sweet Vidalia or red onions, sliced boiled eggs and a host of condiments ranging from mayonnaise to honey mustard to salad dressings.  (Occassionally, we also bought incense, a small brown bag of dime store candy, a jar of pepper jelly and a plastic cup of boiled peanuts!)

But for the carnivore of the family, the trip to the country store was all about the meat.  The only necessary ingredients for Matt's super sandwich were three pieces of whole wheat bread, six slices of meat and four slices of cheese.  No extras ~ just bread, meat and cheese!

Everyone in South had their fair share of hot Saturdays this summer. No one wanted to spend the weekend cooking over a hot stovetop or baking warm casseroles. One particular Saturday, that hot Mississippi sunshine came streaming through our large picture window and saturated Matt's super sandwich with light.  I grabbed my camera and took a quick picture.  I wanted to remember the sandwich just the way it looked and relish the story that was served up on the side. 

Today, the South is recovering from tropical storm Lee, and the temperatures have dropped to the low 70's during the day and the low 50's at night.  A cool front is here, and fall is on its way! Just as the seasons change, so will the Saturday menus.  Big pots of homemade chili, tomato gravy and hot biscuits, Mexican goulash and rotel dip will become the family favorites; however, on a scorching summer Saturday, a super sandwich in soft sunlight is something worth savoring ~ and so is the story.

As a matter of fact, it is the best thing since sliced bread!

Dianne ; )