The Tomorrow Trunk ~ Revisited

On this last day of 2012, I am revisiting the Tomorrow Trunk.  As momentary and fleeting as the years may seem, the first manuscript of the Tomorrow Trunk was drafted twenty years ago in 1993.  The Tomorrow Trunk was copyrighted in 1999, and I completely re-drafted the original text in 2005 after Hurricane Katrina and wrote the story from a child's perspective.  I started blogging about the process at the advice of a literary agent on October 19, 2010.  Parts of the Tomorrow Trunk have been read to and read by thousands of people over the years.  I have read the children's stories at schools and libraries.  I have shared the journaling/storytelling/writing process with book clubs and creative writing classes.  Plus, I have spoken to various adult groups about the importance of recording today's best stories.

And yet, the Tomorrow Trunk is not just a manuscript you hold in your hand or read on a page.  For me, the Tomorrow Trunk is the invisible family member at the table, the unseen observer in the room, and the surprise witness ready to testify an accurate account of the most important story of the day.  The Tomorrow Trunk has taken on a life of its own.  On days like today, I reach for something deep inside its internal parts. Almost immediately, I am connected.  I am crying, or laughing, or pausing.  Most importantly, I feel immortal ~ as if what I am experiencing is not subject to loss, or time, or death.

In that moment, I fully understand the enduring value of the Tomorrow Trunk.  Even while everything around us changes, stories are never-ending.  When summoned, these stories that we tuck away have a phoenix-like spirit that resurrects right within our midst.

So as an old year dissolves and a new year evolves, I resolve to be immortal ~ perennial, everlasting, evergreen.  Just take today, tuck the best of it away, and keep it for tomorrow.

Happy 2013!

Dianne ; )

THE TOMORROW TRUNK

On the day I was born, my momma gave me the tomorrow trunk.

She gave my two sisters the tomorrow trunk when they were born,

but their trunks are not like mine.

No one has a tomorrow trunk like me.

The tomorrow trunk is always different for every child.

I take the tomorrow trunk with me wherever I go.

I can not leave it behind or forget about it.

The tomorrow trunk is never full.

There is always room for something new.

The tomorrow trunk does not have any toys in it,

but it does have surprise birthday parties

and midnight visits from Santa Claus.

There is no money in the trunk,

but there are trips to the ice cream shop,

(thanks to the Tooth Fairy)

and a summer’s worth of dreams

at a lemonade stand.

It does not have a bike in it, but it has a bunch of bumps and bruises,

two skinned knees, and one bad wreck (that was my sister’s fault).

It does not have a baseball or a bat, but it has that one bad call,

and my first over-the-fence homerun,

and my sister’s purple shiner (that was my fault).

The tomorrow trunk does not have any books either, but it has lots of stories.

Scary tales and fairytales, bedtime stories and secrets.

It has stories stacked up high like the tower of dirty dishes

after Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma’s house –

that disappear before breakfast the next morning.

The tomorrow trunk is never full, but it is stuffed

with March winds for flying kites,

the smell of skunk spray so bad that it burns your eyes,

the buzz of a chimney full of bees,

the light of a hundred fireflies in a jar,

and the best scream ever!

(Thanks to one big bullfrog in my sister’s bed.)

The tomorrow trunk never loses anything.

It remembers the names of eighteen dogs, ten cats,

and two turtles that will always be my best friends.

It holds the best days spent in a seven story tree house,

a sunflower house in Grandma's garden,

and a real house that disappeared in a day.

My momma says that the tomorrow trunk is what we make it.

She says that what we do – not what we have – is what we carry with us.

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

Then, when we have to say good night to today,

the tomorrow trunk is always there…

and best of all, it is always mine.

Copyright 1999/Revised 2010, Dianne B. McLaurin.

The Other Christmases

Symbolic of the way we live, Christmas has always been feast or famine at our house – too, too much of everything or absolutely nothing at all.  I remember one Christmas in particular when Matt and Katie became totally frustrated with the entire gift-giving process, because they had so many presents to unwrap.  Whenever we tried to take away one toy so they could open another, the two toddlers lay out in the floor and screamed, “I don’t want to open anymore, Mommy!”  We have the entire chaotic scene on video.  Of course, their older sister happily obliged, as she enjoyed opening their presents as much as she did her own.  I also remember a snow-covered Christmas in Memphis when our grown-up daughters showered us with gifts.  We unwrapped presents for hours in an upscale apartment that looked and smelled as if Martha Stewart designed the decorations and Paula Deen prepared the food.

But then, there were 'the other Christmases', as I have called them – those Christmases when money was short, gifts were few, or family was separated.  This holiday distinction is not necessarily a pitiful or resentful declaration, but more of a seasonal disappointment. No matter how we lived the eleven months leading up to December, we always longed for a grand Christmas with all the trimmings. So having experienced more than our share of the other Christmases, we just simply did what we do best – what the strongest, fittest survivors of our species do – find a way to adapt.  Not only did we adapt; sometimes we thrived.

I remember one year in 'the big house' when we decorated Christmas trees in five rooms and did not fill a single stocking.  My entire extended family had gone to the mountains together, but David had just started a new job and was not eligible for time off.  My son spent Christmas with his girlfriend’s relatives, and my oldest daughter spent the holiday with her boyfriend’s family; so David, Katie, and I slept late, ate a big breakfast, and went to the movies together. We shared the cinema with a dozen people for whom we gave stories about why they were watching movies on Christmas Day.  We ate popcorn, sugar babies, and hot tamales, and we ended up seeing back-to-back movies, none of which I can remember!

I will never forget the almost treeless Christmas.  That year, David decided to be Daniel Boone and take the kids into the woods to chop down a cedar tree with an ax. We owned a hundred acres of open pasture surrounded by deciduous hardwoods, long leaf pines, holly trees, and cedars; so for the kids, the tree-hunting excursion seemed like a wilderness adventure.  They actually found a tree that was a perfect height with a nice shape; however, the cedar was neither bushy nor full.   At the time, we had three house cats named Christopher Columbus, Balboa, and Ponce de Leon – three curious explorers whose purpose in life was to navigate every inch of our house, including the newly-discovered Christmas tree.  Every morning, I awoke to a toppled-over cedar, broken ornaments, and a bucket of spilled dirt which had been mistaken for kitty litter!  

After a few days, we decided to remove the scrawny tree altogether; we would decorate a Christmas quilt instead.  So I spread out a handmade green and red holiday quilt, outlined it with garland, positioned a few lights and ornaments, and placed our presents on top.  The kids, who were between the ages of six and twelve, hated that quilt.

On Christmas Eve, the kids and I made an eleventh-hour stop at the grocery store.  Leaning against the outdoor wall of the store was one remaining Christmas tree.  I told the kids to stay in the car while I bought a few basic ingredients.  When I walked inside, I asked the cashier if the tree had been sold.  He said no, and I bought it right on the spot.  I asked the bag boy to carry it to my car.  Aimee told me later that when Matt saw the tree, he said in the most pitiful voice, “I wish we had a Christmas tree.”  When he saw the bag boy pick up the tree, he shouted, “Look, somebody bought the last Christmas tree!”  Then, when he saw the young man headed to our car, he started screaming, “Mom bought the last Christmas tree!”  That Christmas Eve night, we decorated the last spruce pine on the lot, and the tree actually survived three climbing cats for the next three weeks!

The leanest one of the other Christmases that I remember (and we have had several) – happened the year that David closed his paper recycling business.  Most of his large cardboard accounts had purchased their own bailing equipment, so they could sell directly to the mills.  His computer paper accounts were becoming obsolete with each new advance in information technology.  The family-owned business that had provided a lucrative six-figure income for years was closing its doors.  David knew that he had to sell the equipment, trucks, and remaining paper inventory in order to break even.  Also, for the first time in his adult life, he had to look for a public job.  When Katie and Matt were born one year apart, I had left my position as a newspaper editor to be a stay-at-home mom. Until this turn of events, everyday life for our young family had been almost perfect.

After a sober reality-check, we faced the inevitable sale of our first family home and an impending move to a more affordable alternative.  Also, we would have to learn to live on about one-fourth of the income to which we had been accustomed.  The materialistic celebration of Christmas that we had come to expect was pretty much non-existent.  During all of our discussions (and I am almost embarrassed to say it now), the harshest reality for me was that my two daughters would not be getting their American Girl© doll collections.  Aimee was reading the American Girl© books, and Santa had promised each one of the girls a doll collection for Christmas. The girls had literally worn the catalog paper-thin as they dreamed of Christmas morning. Now, Santa couldn’t even afford one doll, much less an entire collection.

I told my mom about the situation.  Two or three days later she called me.  She said that she could not afford to buy the collections, but she had an idea that might work.  I purchased a large five-dollar trunk (of course, there had to be a trunk involved) and two dollar store dolls for ten dollars each.  The plastic dolls stood about two-feet tall, had movable limbs, and were actually quite beautiful.  Mom and I took the catalog and the dolls to my Aunt Mary Jane, who used fabric material scraps to sew complete clothing collections for both dolls – almost identical to the clothes in the catalogs (even two sets of pajamas).  Next, I bought barrettes and bows, combs and brushes, and any other accessories that could be used for the dolls.  I cut out pictures from the catalogs and decoupaged them onto the trunk.  Finally, we stuffed the trunk, placed the dolls back into their packages, and wrapped everything for Christmas morning.  Altogether, thanks to Aunt Mary Jane’s time, labor, and use of fabric, we had spent fifty dollars on the girls’ Christmas doll collections.  Both dolls had fancy Christmas dresses which they wore to dinner, when they joined us at the table for their first Christmas meal.  My girls played with those dolls and that trunk of clothes for years.

Over the next few months, we faced many changes as a young family; however, after that Christmas, I knew for sure that unexpectedly good things were going to happen to us along the way. This past year, my adult girls took a trip to New York City and visited the American Girls© Store.  All the excitement and wonder was just as palpable for them as it had been twenty years earlier.  They have even started making plans for a return trip with their one-day daughters.  Still, neither of them will ever forget the other Christmas when they learned what it meant to be real American girls.

I guess no one wants to roll out the red carpet for the other Christmases.  None of us want to 'celebrate' compromised or lowered expectations.  And yet, I am reminded of the other Christmas that we sometimes forget during this season of shopping and sales.  No matter where the long journey takes us or the disappointment we may experience with each closed door; in the end, we might find something positively perfect in the most unexpected place.

Dianne ; )

Olly's Day Off

P.D. James once said, "It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life."

While most people are spending their December days inside shopping malls and discount stores, I have spent the past two days outside raking a football field of fall leaves.  This week's weather has been an ideal combination of winter chill and warm sunshine.  This morning, as I gathered my rake, gloves, and wool scarf, I noticed a lonesome little elf on the shelf.  I haven't been especially naughty or nice, so Olly hasn't had any real news to report to Santa.  With just twelve days until Christmas, my holiday helper joined Riley and me for an absolutely perfect day of playing in a pile of leaves. No magical trips to the North Pole or official elf responsibilities today ~ it's Olly's day off!

 Hands behind my head, leaves piled high, 

sunshine on my face, bright blue sky!

 I'm King of the Mountain today!

Riley and me...side by side;

find a secret place to hide!

Take a ride on the rake

and in a bicycle basket.

Open Christmas cards...jolly fantastic!

Dianne ; )

Meet Olly, The ELF on the SHELF!

TODAY'S BIG STORY:  The postman made a very special delivery to me ~ The ELF on the SHELF!  Meet my Jolly Olly...

I was so excited when I opened the package, which came attached with the following packing slip:

I thought you could use a little helper this holiday season. Merry Christmas! Katie :-)

So...to begin our December adventure, I introduce Olly to Riley.

 Riley makes Olly feel right at home. 

Riley thinks Olly looks like a doggie treat.

OOPS!!  Riley wants an ELF on the SHELF to eat!

Olly meets Monkey ~ Riley's favorite toy.  Olly thinks Monkey is creepy.

Next, Olly is ready for his first road trip...

...to the Walnut Grove Public Library.

"We belong together, " Olly says. "It's a Sign!"

Olly helps choose the books to read at the Kindergarten Christmas Program!

Dream Snow by Eric Carle is his favorite.  

He likes to push the button in the back of the book.  

Olly thinks the button is magic.

Olly has a fun day at the library.  

Tonight, he is flying back to the North Pole to tell Santa all about his adventures.  

Tomorrow, Olly and I are going to a birthday party for Jasper!

Dianne ; )

The Next Year People

Most often, I don't have a clue who reads my blog.  I am not tech-savvy or market-minded; I just write and post.  When I sign-in to compose a new post, I naturally take notice of blog views; however, I don't understand what makes one post really popular and another post less successful.  If I over-think the process, I start to second guess my purpose ~ which has always been to write today's big story for The Tomorrow Trunk.

Still, I do know the identities of a few of my readers; they are my friends and family. They are the followers who don't technically follow me at all.  They simply read my blog on occasion and then call me afterwards to ask a question, make a comment, give a compliment, or correct my punctuation. After my most recent post about My Last Best Nest, one question was on the minds of everyone who called:  When and where are you planning to build?  While I am still unsure about the where part of the question, I am hopeful that the when answer is next year.   "If everything goes as planned, we hope to start building next year," I replied again and again.

That post dated November 15th. Three days later, on November 18th and 19th, I watched the Ken Burns' documentary, The Dust Bowl, which aired on PBS.  To my knowledge, I have never missed a Ken Burns' documentary on PBS, and I have never been disappointed.  I am convinced that great storytelling is not just telling a great story.  To me, great storytelling is the ability to transfer ownership of the story so that a shift occurs.  Any storyteller can assimilate and deliver facts, interviews, and images through a  medium of choice; however, the great storyteller understands the conductivity of the story.  The great storyteller uses his medium as a conduit ~ a connective channel that harnesses the power and potentiality of the story and streams it through the corridors of time.  Ken Burns has an amazing ability to bring a present-day relevance to a historical past ~ at full strength.

I always watch a Ken Burns' documentary with a journal or notebook at hand, and I have pages of quotes from each one.  The Dust Bowl tells the story of great ambition, a great drought, and the great suffering that followed during the 1930's on the Southern Plains. So much of the story revolves around the unwillingness of the farmers to accept their situation as hopeless, even though their money-making wheat crops turned into monster-making dust clouds. In the first episode, these farmers referred to themselves as "next year people" ~ so nicknamed because they were steadfast in their belief that the rain would come next year.

In one interview, Ken Burns states that "next year people" portrays a sense of sort of stoic American frontierism.  It also represents a kind of stubborn resistance to change....I think "next year people" is a double-edged sword.  I like the ambiguity of  it. The hard-core "next year people" who stuck it out endured and survived a cataclysmic drought which lasted ten years and which also included plagues of rabbits, grasshoppers, black blizzards, and death.  Driven by a false assumption of plenty, the farmers held onto the belief of perpetual returns no matter how much they overworked the land. Ken Burns calls the dust bowl "the greatest man-made disaster in American history."

In a National Geographic interview, Burns addresses their denial mentality. We always think, "My house value will always increase. The stock market will always go up. If I just make this deal, if I just expand here, everything will work out fine."  And then we have this foolish thinking that "rain follows the plow" ~ that the act of cultivation actually increases rainfall or that (the climate) has undergone a permanent change ~ which is just insane. It's the same idiotic nonsense that we tell ourselves to convince ourselves that our hopes for the future are the same as the reality of the future.

I have never experienced a dust bowl; but I have endured many of my own man-made storms. I am one of those "next year people" who, at times, has "hoped against hope" ~ which is to hope for what we can not see. The philosopher Frederick Nietzche denounced  this kind of hope as a malady ~ an affliction of the worst kind.  According to Nietzche, "Those who suffer must be sustained by a hope that can never be contradicted by any reality or disposed by any fulfillment ~ a hope for the beyond."  He references a lesson from Greek mythology which teaches us that "hope is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of Man and because of its ability to keep the less fortunate in continual suspense."

And yet...I always have hope; I am afflicted to the core.  No matter what Herculean task I face, I do so with a Herculean hope.  Just this past weekend, I heard my Herculean husband express hope with one short phrase, "Maybe next year."

I understand the "next year people" and their denial mentality.  While Ken Burns calls it the "idiotic nonsense that we tell ourselves to convince ourselves that our hopes for the future are the same as the reality of the future", I tend to side with Merriam-Webster who defines hope as "to cherish a desire with anticipation; to expect a certain outcome with confidence."  Mr. Webster also reminds us that the antonym of hope is despair.

Dr. Barbara L. Fredrickson, a professor at the University of North Carolina, states that "hope literally opens us up...removes the blinders of fear and despair and allows us to see the big picture, thus allowing us to become creative and have belief in a better future."

That's exactly what happened to the "next year people" of the dust bowl. They survived because of fearless abandon, unrelenting tenacity, and creative solutions.  They experienced nature's harshest punishment upon this country, and they feared at times that God Himself had unleashed His judgement upon the entire Southern Plains.  As they waited for the rains to return, their losses were all-consuming.  Still, they did not lose hope. The Bible proverb states, "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life."

One of the earliest references to hope is found in the story of Pandora's Box (or Pandora's Jar).  The story of Pandora is a fascinating Greek myth which tells of the "pithos" or box that contained all the punishment of mankind for stealing the fire of Zeus.  Even though she receives the box as a gift, Pandora is instructed to never open the box.  Unfortunately, her curiosity could not be tamed. In the end, she opens the box and unleashes great evil upon the world ~ hate, anger, poverty, sickness.  Yet, at the very bottom of the box, Zeus had placed a small hope.  Because Pandora hastened to close the box, hope remained trapped inside.

I have my own version of that tale.  I am confident that in years to come, my children or my children's children will also have the curiosity to open The Tomorrow Trunk.  In the trunk, they will find many stories of  struggle, survival, success, and selective insanity; however, if they look deep enough, at the very bottom of the trunk, they will find hope. Cartoonist Charles M. Schulz once wrote, "A whole stack of memories will never equal one little hope."

So...when do I plan to build My Last Best Nest?

Next year...I hope.

Dianne ; )

My Last Best Nest, Part Two

In all the places we lived, my husband cleared thousands of hedge bushes. While most men jumped on a big machine and leveled rows of unwanted hedge in an afternoon, he carefully removed them with his own sheer strength and determination ~ one by one ~ which usually took years.  On the Hundred Acre Farm, he cleared hedges for four years, until the property paralleled a manicured golf course.  He cut away hedges from around ponds, along fence lines, and underneath trees; but, the one thing I remember most about all that hedge labor was the gift of the bird nests.

After a long day of clearing hedge, David would always meet me at the campsite situated by one of the three ponds on the property.  On hot summer days, we sat underneath the shade trees and shared ice cold water, sweet tea, and big dreams.  On cold winter days, we warmed by a fire of hickory and oak with a cup of coffee and hot chocolate.  After a short break, he was anxious to show me what he had accomplished during the day.   Then he would say, almost as an afterthought, "Oh yeh, I found you something."

Sometimes he pulled it out of his coat, or laid it on the dashboard or tailgate of his truck, or left it on a fence post for me to find at the cleared area. The something was a bird's nest in perfect condition, completely unharmed by the removal process.  My husband knew that I embraced the fact that the even the smallest of homes was regarded during his painstaking enterprise.  The bird's nest was his way to impress...and it always worked ~ every single time.

Upon observation, I could tell that each nest was literally "a graphic mirror of the bird's mind."  No two nests were ever just alike.  The larger nests looked like baskets ~ crude, flat, and loosely woven with twigs. These nests barely held together once removed from the branches that supported them.  Other nests resembled tiny crocheted cup holders.  These detailed nests were composed of grasses, horse hair, feathers, mosses, lichen, and various gathered materials.  Each component was intertwined and fused together with such heart and soul, that the nest itself could not be torn apart.  The attention to detail and the appointed placement of each necessary furnishing rivaled any perfectly staged home.  These miniature prototypes set the standard for my last best nest.

So...my husband and I set out on a nest-making mission.  First, we made a list of the utilitarian must-haves for our last best nest.  We both wanted a cozy nest that's big enough for two with a wood-burning fireplace. We wanted three porches: a front porch for rocking, a screened-in or sleeping porch for reading and resting, and a back porch for reminiscing.  I requested a dedicated library for all my books, and David listed a separate tool shed/garage.  Neither of us wanted another two-story house with stairs to climb.  Perhaps, most importantly, we desired a natural habitat which provided concealment and privacy...just like the tiny bird nest hidden in the hedge.

After months of scavenging, we found our last best nest ~ Southern Living's Banning Court. The only missing component was the separate two-car garage/tool shed, which could be easily attached.

One, two, three porches...a fireplace...a library (now who can believe that!)...one story ~ room for two. Thanks to Pinterest, I have pinned 177 ideas on My Last Best Nest board to date.  Check it out!  

http://pinterest.com/dmclaurin59/my-last-best-nest/

As my husband and I looked at possibilities for the garage attachment, he could sense my excitement.  The male just knows that the female loves to build nests!  He smiled and said,"Well, maybe I can impress you one last time with a perfect little nest."

And to some good angel leave the rest ~ to be continued...

Dianne ; )

My Last Best Nest, Part One

TODAY'S BIG STORY:  Even if it is empty, your last nest should be your best nest! For the past few days, I have been studying the concept of an 'empty nest'.  My three small children are three grown adults, my house is empty, and my calendar is blank. Every member of my family is now gainfully employed, with one exception:  ME.  My hectic life that was filled with constant interruptions is now hushed, and the all-consuming days of continual sowing and gathering have, at last, yielded a grateful harvest and an empty nest. 

Caliology is the study of birds' nests, and the subject is fascinating! According to a book entitled Birds' Nests: An Introduction to the Science of Caliology, "the bird's nest is the most graphic mirror of a bird's mind."  What an amazing thought!  I have had an endearment for birds' nests since I was a little girl growing up in the country.  On Sunday afternoons after lunch, my aunt would take the nieces and nephews on a 'hike', as she termed it.  We would walk past my grandpa's sheds, which provided a craftsman's lesson in primitive and resourceful nest-building.  First we passed a combination wash house/smoke house.  Then we usually made a stop at Grandpa's tool shop and the feed crib. We also passed a potato bank, which was actually built on the side of an embankment and served as a storm pit during bad weather.  Behind the potato bank was a chicken house where the chickens roosted at night.

When we arrived at the bottom of the sloped pasture, we meandered around a huge oak tree onto a small cattle lane.  We walked over a shallow creek and around a densely wooded area ~ always watching for snakes.  The purpose of the expedition was to find something interesting to discuss and hopefully bring home.  I remember finding wild violets, fossilized rocks, and bird feathers.  We studied animal tracks, and we identified trees by their leaves; however, when we spotted a bird's nest, the trip was golden.  Of course, we were never allowed to touch a nest.  Aunt Hilda warned us that the mother bird would not return to a nest that had been touched by human hands; and, as young children, we believed every word Aunt Hilda said.

In the Birds' Nests book, written in 1902 by Charles Dixon, I discovered too many quotes to post; however, this quote is one of my favorites:  "There are, perhaps, few things in nature more exquisitely pretty than the nests of certain birds; not only do these structures appeal to us through their beauty, but still more so through the creative mind of the little architects that build them." 

And yet, despite all their beauty, birds' nests are built for utilitarian purposes only.  "When once these purposes are served, the nest, no matter how elaborate or beautiful it may be or the immense amount of labour it may have cost its owners, is forthwith deserted, either forever or only used again when the recurring necessities of reproduction require it."  How we humans identify with the patterns of our winged counterparts.  I have traveled so many rural highways which are dotted by architectural masterpieces ~ beautiful decaying family homes which have been deserted by their owners because the utilitarian purpose of child-rearing had passed. "Like the gaudy chrysalis or cocoon, and notwithstanding its beauty, which has served but a secondary and quite unappreciated purpose, it is discarded and left to inevitable decay, its owners taking no interest in it whatever."

I fully understand the portion of the quote, "only used again when the recurring necessities of reproduction require it."  When our son ~ the youngest of our three children ~ graduated from high school, my husband and I decided to sell the big house.  Right about the same time, Zoe, our corgi, had seven puppies.  The family that was interested in the big house had five small children under the age of nine. They had found their perfect nest.  Not only did the family want to buy our house, they also wanted Zoe's puppies.  By the time we closed on the sell of the house, the puppies were old enough to be separated from their mother.  Just days before we moved, we carried our corgi to the local vet to have her spayed.  On the morning of moving day, Zoe and I were watching the sunrise one last time from our front porch perch.  She was resting at my feet, and I noticed her scar.  All those "recurring necessities of reproduction" that had been required of us were passed, and we were both relaxed and relieved.

Birds' nests are usually built for two purposes:  laying eggs and raising young birds. The bird's nest is a place of incubation (warmth), protection, and instruction.  The momma bird in me is confident that each one of our many nests has provided some, if not all, of the above.  In our nesting attempts, we built brand new nests, refurbished the nests of others, and even returned to our old nests ~ twice.  But now, my nest is empty.  All of my little birds have nests of their own making in habitats of their own choosing.

According to Wikipedia, the ability to choose and maintain good nest sites and build high quality nests is a female thing among most bird species.  I know this is true for most humans as well.  My two daughters searched out their nesting sites and have taken great care in building their first nests.  They have chosen awesome paint colors, restored furniture, purchased just-the-right accessories, and created their very own HGTV-worthy nests; however, my son rents a third-floor nest which includes a couch that folds out into a bed, two stools at the bar (actually one is still in the box), a television stand, and a 42" plasma television.  In some species, the male helps with nest construction as part of the courtship display, but only for the attention of the female.  Where there is no courtship, the male bird is content with the most rudimentary nest, and in most cases, does not make even the slightest provision for nest building.  Sounds like a third-story Matt-cave!

But what's a momma bird to do with an empty nest? Finding the answer to that question was difficult.  Nests that are not specifically used for breeding are called 'dormitory nests or roost nests (winter-nest)' and are used 'only for roosting or resting'.  I think a know the human equivalent to dormitory nests, and I am not interested just yet.  I want a winter-nest ~ a roost nest ~ a nest for sitting, reading, resting, lodging, and sleeping.

In his poem It Is Not Always May, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the following:

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest;

For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest!

With the help of some good angel, I am ready to build my last best nest

 ~ to be continued...

Dianne ; )

A Beautiful Way To Bounce

TODAY'S BIG STORY:  My daughter, Katie, starts her new employment as a Corporate Communications Specialist today!  With a bachelor's degree in Communication and an emphasis in Public Relations, she describes this position as her "dream job."  I still remember the first big story I wrote about her ~ Katie's Lazy Daisy ~ when she was five-years-old.  Twenty years have passed since I tucked that story away in The Tomorrow Trunk.  So unbelievable!  Also, after years of apartment life, she moved into her first home this past weekend.

On Thursday of last week, Katie called me in a panic!  The human resources department had not received verification of her employment as a flight attendant.  According to Katie, the airlines had outsourced employment verification, and the company was not responding to her potential employer's requests.  Katie stressed that she could not start her new job without that information! She said the HR representative just needed W2 forms for proof of employment. Katie asked me if I would look in her big keepsake box and try to find her airlines folder.  After a few minutes of digging, I found the W2 forms and other employment documentation which I immediately faxed to Katie and she faxed to HR.  She called me about an hour later to inform me that she had been given a start date of October 15th for orientation and October 16th as her first day in her own designated corner of the corporate world.

I slowly began the process of packing everything back into the box when I found a letter I had written to her in 2006.  She was nineteen years old at the time and had just started working as a flight attendant in Memphis.  For some reason, she had saved two printed copies, so I kept one copy for me.  I sat on the floor beside her big keepsake box and started reading:

Katie,

I am reading a book by Kay Redfield Jamison called Exuberance: The Passion for Life.  I picked it up simply because I have read a lot of her books.  As I was reading it, I realized that I was reading about you.  You were created to be exuberant.  You are a Tigger.  You just want life to be a series of bounces ~ each one higher than the last. That's why you have had to work so hard at overcoming all of the unfortunate situations that happened to you last year.  You are not a moper like Eyeore or a worrier like Rabbit or timid like Piglet.  You are exuberant ~ over the top ~ sometimes, a little too much for everyone around you!  I think Aimee is your Pooh.  She recognizes your need to be a little "off the chart", and she really tries to protect those characteristics of your personality.

I also checked out a couple of the Pooh books and read about Tigger.  In one particular story, Eyeore is talking about Tigger's bouncing, after it surprises him and causes him to slip off into the pond.  "I don't mind Tigger being in the Forest, because it is a large Forest, and there is plenty of room to bounce in it.  But I don't see why he should come into my little corner of it and bounce there.  It isn't as if there was anything wonderful about my little corner.  Of course, for people who like cold, wet, ugly bits, it is something rather special, otherwise, it's just a corner, and if anybody feels bouncy, they don't belong there."

Rabbit feels sorry for Eyeore and decides that Tigger really is too bouncy.  "It is time we taught him a lesson.  There is too much of him, that's what it comes to."
Piglet defends Tigger.  "He just is bouncy...that's who he is and he can't help it."
But Rabbit convinces Piglet that his plan is for Tigger's own good.  "That's what we are trying to do is think of a way to get the bounces out of Tigger."

So (you probably should just read the book), Rabbit concocts a plan for Piglet, Pooh, and Rabbit to take Tigger to a place he has never been before, to lose him, and then find him again the next morning.  Rabbit assures Pooh and Piglet that he will be a different Tigger altogether.  "He will be a Humble Tigger, a Sad Tigger, a Small and Sorry Tigger, an Oh-Rabbit-I-am-so-glad-to-see-you-Tigger. He will be deflated, unbounced, newly appreciative, and cut down to size:  IF WE CAN MAKE TIGGER FEEL SMALL AND SAD FOR JUST FIVE MINUTES, WE SHALL HAVE DONE A GOOD DEED.  HE IS FAR TOO FULL OF HIMSELF."

But, instead of Tigger losing his way in the Forest, it is Rabbit, Pooh, and Piglet who get lost.  Not realizing that they had meant to play a trick on him, Tigger bounces to Rabbit's rescue.  The rest of the story goes like this:  Tigger was tearing around the Forest making loud yapping noises for Rabbit.  And at last, a very Small and Sorry Rabbit heard him.  The Small and Sorry Rabbit rushed through the midst towards the noise, and it suddenly turned into Tigger; a Friendly Tigger, a Grand Tigger, a Large and Helpful Tigger, a Tigger who bounced in just the beautiful way a Tigger ought to bounce.  "Oh-Tigger-I-am-so-glad-to-see-you," cried Rabbit.

In the end of the story, after things calm down, Piglet says, "Tigger is all right really."
"Of course he is," said Christopher Robin.
"Everybody is really," said Pooh.  "That's what I think."

Katie, you were born to bounce!  You are exuberant.  That is not the same thing as happy or joyful; it is a different emotion that is born in certain people.  That is why, all of your life, you have hated the boring or routine.  You keep calling it "being original"; however, it is more than that.  Exuberance is excessive, extreme, abundant...and annoying at times, especially to the small, sad, and sorry.  According to the book, you are the kind of person who gallops at full speed for two hundred miles, and then stops and says, "Where am I?"

Only two things challenge exuberance ~ rules or boundaries and exhaustion.  Sometimes the exuberant person just wears himself out; that is why when you aren't bouncing, you're sleeping. And most likely, a person with exuberance gets put into a place where exuberance is not acceptable.  If he stays in that place long enough, he loses his bounce.  You have just moved from a small town where bouncing is not allowed and where any allowable exuberance is confined or judged.  Maybe there are just too many Eyeores in that place who like it that way.  What you have to do is keep looking until you find a Large Forest with lots of room.

Don't lose your bounce, Kates! Be careful of Rabbits, and Piglets, and Eyeores.  These are the ones who 'want to get the bounces out.'  Not only have I conformed to those individuals, I have been one.  But, I assure you, the thing I miss most about you when you are not here is your bounce ~ that's the wonderful thing about Tiggers.

MOM

So today, Katie enters a Large Forest.  She may feel a little lost for the first few days, but she is a Friendly Katie.  She is a Grand Katie and a Large and Helpful Katie. She is a Katie who bounces in just the beautiful way a Katie ought to bounce.  And when she returns to my little corner, that's the Katie I'll be Oh-so-glad-to-see.

Dianne ; )

No Backsies

TODAY'S BIG STORY:  A free makeover is not FREE!  Neither is a complimentary facial or a no-obligation invitation.  I learned that lesson well this week ~ to the tune of 114 dollars ~ money I had been saving to buy a Keurig® Single Cup Coffee Maker!  I am such a Frances...sigh.

One of my all-time favorite children's books is A Bargain for Frances by Russell Hoban.  I love all of the Frances books, but this one is a real teacher.  The book jacket reads as follows:  Frances is going to Thelma's house for a tea party.  "Be careful," says Mother.  "When you go to play with Thelma, you always get the worst of it."

Haha!  Thelma!  Don't we all have at least one Thelma in our lives!  Thelma is the friend who is always talking us into buying something that we don't need, trying to sell us something that we don't want, or "encouraging" us to do something that we know is going to cost us in the end.  A great review of this book is written by Barry King:  We have all, at one time or another, had to deal with difficult and userous persons whose mendacity and opportunism have left us out-of-water, bewildered by the changing dynamics of what was ostensibly a mutually-beneficial social engagement, but has somehow turned into a one-way relationship.

WOW!  Couldn't have said it better myself, Barry!  And yet, the reader is fully aware that this not  Frances' first rodeo with Thelma, based on her mother's precautionary tone.  Where was my own mom last night when I needed her?  She would have said, "Now, isn't this the friend who talked you into buying the incomplete, chipped set of Pfaltzgraff® china at her garage sale?  Isn't this the friend who called to remind you of her work's charity bake sale that ended at lunch ~ the very same friend who, after you rushed to get there before the sale was over and bought one cake and two pies, had taken the day off?  Do you think it's a good decision to accept her offering of a free Mary Kay® makeover?"

Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.  I feel just like Frances, who settled for the ugly plastic tea set, while her friend, Thelma, used Frances' money to buy "a real china tea set, with pictures on it in blue."  In the story, Frances is saving her money for  a tea set that "has trees and birds and a Chinese house and a fence and a boat and people walking on a bridge." Oh...how I just love that sentence in the book!  Thelma is quick to remind Frances "why that tea set is no good."  She convinces Frances to buy her plastic tea set with pretty red flowers, then Thelma uses the money  Frances saved to buy the real china tea set Frances wanted.  Big sigh...

But, as Thelma warned Frances, there are "no backsies!"  Once the deal is done, there is no undoing the dupable deed.  No matter how long I lay in my bed, stared at the ceiling, and affirmed in the depths of my soul that I will never, ever do something like this again ~ most likely, if I am a true Frances, I will.  Somehow, the short end of the friend stick always arrives at the party just before I do.

Why?  Well...I won't spoil the end of the story, but I will tell you that, in spite of everything, good friends matter to some badgers more than money or makeup or coffee brewing systems or real china sets. Even when they leave us with bumps on our head and all wet,  Frances sums up the situation perfectly with one question, "Do you want to be careful or do you want to be friends?"

Sometimes we simply prefer another round at the tea party rather than no tea party at all.  The "no backsies" of losing a friendship is far more costly than the "no backsies" of buying something I really didn't want. So...

While I cleanse, tone and moisturize my face, a much wiser female (than Frances and I) is enjoying a real china tea cup accurately filled with one of the 200 exotic, fragrant varieties of Keurig® Single Cup gourmet coffee.

Backsies one, backsies two,
Backsies are no fun to do.
Careful once, careful twice,
Being careful isn't nice.

Being friends is better.
                 ~~Excerpt from A Bargain For Frances

Dianne ; )

Goodbye Summer, Hello Fall!

The Need for Narrative

(Written Tuesday, August 28, 2012) Yesterday, my mom and I met “at the pole” for a special outing to the city.  My daughter is interviewing for three jobs this week, and she solicited our help in choosing a professional dress suit.  We also decided to do some stocking up, as Hurricane Isaac is moving towards the Mississippi Gulf Coast and is expected to head inland on Wednesday. Lots of big stories!

Whenever Mom and I go anywhere together, we always meet “at the pole”.  The pole is situated dead center of the Wal-Mart parking lot and is located exactly half-way between our two homes.  If we both leave our homes at 1:00 p.m., we both arrive “at the pole” at 1:20 p.m. – almost within seconds of each other.  Once we arrive “at the pole”, Mom gets out of her car on the driver’s side and moves to the passenger’s side; then I take the driver’s seat, turn down her country music, and buckle up for the day’s journey.  We usually buy her groceries and gas, visit her doctors, go to her banks…and we always eat at her favorite restaurants. 

If Mom has a doctor’s appointment, we drive fifty miles of interstate – one way.  We start our trip with the same question, “So, what’s going on your way?”  If she asks the question first, I get to tell my stories.  If I ask the question first, she tells her stories.  Sometimes, we try to wait each other out to see who gets to be the storyteller first; but one of us always breaks.  We really keep the narrative going if I can offer a response to her stories with some better stories of my own, which we often refer to as one-uppers.  “I’ve got one better than that.  Just wait until I tell you what happened to me.  Well, you will never believe what I heard.”

There have been those rare occasions when we just didn’t have any stories to tell.  We still accomplished our to-do list, ran all our errands, and met our appointments; however, one very basic need was missed – our need for narrative.  Nothing is more disappointing than a visit from a relative with no real story to tell.  Occasionally, Mom says, “Well, I saw your brother yesterday, but he didn’t have much to allow…not too much going on.”  However, if she replies, “Your brother came to visit over the weekend and stayed three hours” – JACKPOT!  No one stays for three hours without some stories to tell!

We also love to re-report the latest state and national news or rehash a Lifetime movie.  This particular Monday, we talked for the entire return trip home about Brian Williams and the Rock Center report on Mormons.  So funny!  Neither one of us have ever met a single Mormon!  We discussed Prince Harry like he was an embarrassing relative who lives down the road.  And we both were convinced that the Honeymoon Killer is guilty; we just can’t believe he is from Alabama!

Of course, with all of Katie’s interviews and a hurricane headed towards Aimee and Matt, we almost missed our exit, which we have done more than once.  Even though I hate to admit it, my kids and I missed two exits during a trip home!  On another occasion, while engaged in narrative with my daughter, I missed an entire bypass and ended up in Slidell, Louisiana instead of Biloxi, Mississippi.   How we Southern women do NEED our narrative!

 My mom will celebrate her eightieth birthday on October 23^rd of this year, which is why my present need for narrative is so significant.  To most Wal-mart shoppers, our pole is nothing more than a well-lit parking space.  But for me, a meeting “at the pole” is the place where our stories begin.  I am made even more aware of this primal need when I think about the imminent absence of those meetings “at the pole”.

At times, I am tempted to feel a burden of responsibility to my mother – one that is not shared by my children, my siblings or their families.  Then, I am reminded of the most simple motions as we meet ~ seeing her wide smile, as I park.  Her questioning me about how she looks or where I got my outfit or (usually) why I am late.  At that moment, I realize that I am not merely fulfilling an obligation.  I am filling a void ~ a need within myself.  I need an ending narrative with my mom…I need to finish those last chapters of our story.  It doesn’t matter if we discuss the latest gadget – as seen on TV – that she wants to "try", the price of gas twenty years ago, or how to make pepper jelly.  Maybe she will give me an update on the health (surgeries, doctor visits, and vitals) of all her neighbors, and I will tell her about Riley’s dew claws.   She might remind me that Dad’s tobacco is not on the grocery list and that her medicine is ready at the pharmacy.  No matter how somber or silly, narrative is a need.

One of my favorite, favorite, favorite Southern writers is Reynolds Price, and he explains the need for narrative in this way:  The strangest thing about narrative is that it seems to be our second most profound need as human creatures.  We have to have food; we have to have nourishment and water.  And after that, apparently, we have to have this interchange which consists of human beings telling stories to one another.  Love ~ all those things that people list as needs ~ can be done without.  We know that.  People live without them for decades.  But food and stories, food and narration really do seem absently built into our natures.

                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TODAY'S UPDATE:  Since I wrote that journal entry, Hurricane Isaac rained havoc on the South, my daughter received a great job offer with another on the table, and my son leased a one-bedroom apartment in Biloxi.  On Labor Day, Mom and I met "at the pole" for a day-trip to the coast.  We missed our exit in Hattiesburg, so we had to call the kids for directions back to Highway 49 from Lumberton on Interstate 59.  My oldest daughter asked me, "How in world did y'all get way over there?"  

I replied, "We were talking about our funeral arrangements, and we missed the exit." LOL!

Dianne  ; )

Lucy and Linus ~ Together Again!

TODAY'S BIG STORY: Mama Cat and Baby Kitten are together again!  What a crazy story! On Monday afternoon, I decided to look again for the missing cats ~ the fourth day in a row.  I parked my car on the side of the road and called for the cats.  After ten minutes of Here Kitty Kitty's, I could hardly believe my ears! I heard a low, hoarse meow from a clump of tall grass.  I kept calling, and Lucy reluctantly walked out into the open parking area.  Lucy was alive and moving closer to me! When she was finally within reach, I picked her up.  She protested the return trip in the car; but after four days on the side of the road, Lucy was heading home.

I filled her food bowl, and she filled her empty belly.  After eating her food, Lucy always disappeared into the hedge, but today she reacted differently.  She kept perching on the storm door and peeping through the glass...almost like she was missing something.  She wouldn't come in; she just stood on her back feet and looked inside.  Lucy cried at my bedroom window most of Monday night.  I could hardly sleep. I remembered reading an article about cat guardians that stated how cats sometimes display grief through vocalizing.   She just kept meowing in the most hauntingly melancholic tone...me-OWWW.  She seemed to be crying out to me, "Go find my baby Linus!"

I wasn't even sure if Linus were still alive.  He had been thrown from the car on Thursday night, and I did not know if Lucy had found him.  I was confident that he must be starving after five days, so I determined to look for him one last time.  On Tuesday morning, I drove back to the roadside spot where I found Lucy.  I called for the kitten, but I heard nothing.  I decided to meow, and I heard a faint response ~ almost a whisper.  I meowed a second time and listened intently for the feeble mew of the kitten.  As completely feral as that kitten had been, Linus slowly crept out of the tall weeds.  Something in him ~some kind of survival mechanism~ was responding! Even with all of his apprehension and wildness, Linus was making a choice between life and death!

I kept meowing until the kitten was close enough to grab. With one quick snatch, I caught the wild kitten and tossed him into my car.  He went completely bezerk!  Linus was pouncing all around the car interior like an enraged five-pound hornet, and we both had five miles to go!  When we finally made it to the garden shed, I hurriedly jumped out of the car and opened the back door!  Linus sprang from the vehicle and ran to his mother!  Within seconds, both cats disappeared from sight...back into the hedge behind the shed.

Home?  I'm not quite sure if Lucy and Linus understand the concept of home ~ certainly not socialization.  Safety? Togetherness? A place to eat?  Whatever constitutes home to these two cats, they recognize a sense of place here.  Even though they are still strangers to me, they are no longer in a strange environment.  Since their return, nothing has changed ~ no grateful response, no playful interaction, not even a purr.

I have learned so much about myself during this entire process...how we are sometimes flung into certain situations beyond our control, how we humans do the best we can to make things right, how even the untamed respond to survival, and how we all need guardians and companions and a familiar sense of place. I haven't seen the cats for two days now; however, their cat food mysteriously disappears on a daily basis. They may not be my "pets", and I may not be their "person"; but we definitely have a story.

Dianne ; )

The Life of Lucy

How does a stray become a stray?
       Maybe it happens just this way,
starting three months ago, around the first of May...

The first time we saw Mama Cat, she was huge!  We knew she was pregnant, AND we knew she was hungry because she was eating a baby bird behind our shed on a Sunday morning.  My husband scatted her away from the nest of birds learning to fly, and I drove to the local dollar store to buy the semi-feral cat some Meow Mix! Thankfully, only one bird was digested during the process.  I placed a two-sided bowl on the patio and filled one side with cat food and the other side with a mixture of milk and water.  She licked both sides clean, and then she ran away.

Over the next few weeks, Mama Cat came and went.  Each time she returned, she would always jump on the outside ledge of our picture window ~ a signal to us that she needed sustenance.  She ate her food, drank her milk, and disappeared into the bushes.

Around the first of June, she delivered her kittens...somewhere.  We didn't see her for two or three days.  When she finally came back to her food bowl, she was emaciated.  I decided to buy some canned tuna and chicken to feed her while she nursed her kittens.  She never missed another meal ~ morning, noon, and night. She also began to interact with me, almost like a pet.  She let me pick her up, she sat in my lap, and she even tried to come inside on several occasions.  I almost felt as if this behavior was familiar to her.

So...I cleaned out the garden shed and set up living quarters for Mama Cat.  She had a permanent home, if she ever decided to bring her kittens.  Mama Cat quickly accepted the invitation.  She and her one baby kitten moved into their nice, dry, clean home during the week of the Fourth of July.

This past Friday night, the kids in the community were playing volleyball in our back yard when one of the girls saw Mama Cat.  "Lucy!" she shouted.  She ran towards the cat and grabbed her up in her arms.  I was shocked.  I had held Mama Cat, but I had never just embraced her without reservation. Then she went running to her mother with the cat dangling in her arms and exclaimed again, "Mom, look, it's Lucy!"

The little girl played with Lucy the rest of the evening and asked if she could visit Lucy again on Saturday.   The following morning, she told us that her dad had chased Lucy away because she was pregnant. Her mother explained that they couldn't afford to keep Lucy and that she was glad Lucy had found a good home. The little girl also informed us that Lucy gave birth to four kittens; however, we had only seen one. As they were leaving, I told the little girl that she was welcomed to visit Lucy anytime.

Lucy ~ Mama Cat had a proper name, so we named her one surviving kitten Linus...which brings me to today.  This morning, Lucy and Linus were playing on the carport.  I opened the storm door so that Riley could go tee-tee-in-the-yard, and somehow he startled Linus.  Lucy jumped on Riley with all fours!  I was screaming, Riley was yelping, and Lucy was scowling!   When I finally got Riley back into the house, he was covered in tiny claw marks.  Plus, he was totally freaked out! After I treated Riley's wounds, I chased Lucy and Linus back to the shed.

Later this evening, I saw Lucy back on the carport ~ lying underneath my car.  I was headed to a local restaurant to pick up a take-out order, so I made sure Lucy had moved before I backed out of the garage.  I assumed Linus was still in the shed.  I assumed wrong.  I drove about five miles to the restaurant and picked up my order.  About half-way home, I heard a thump.  I looked in my rear view mirror to see what I had run over, and there sat Linus in the middle of the road.  All of a sudden, he jumped up and ran into the tall grass on the side of the road!  That little kitten had lived through the entire ordeal!  I knew that Linus would never come to me if I called or even let me get close enough to catch him, so I had to go home and get Lucy.  Maybe she could call to him or he could call to her, and I could somehow get them both back home to the safety of their shed.

The car ride alarmed Lucy, but we quickly made it to the spot where the kitten had been flung from the car. As soon as I parked the car on the side of the busy state highway and opened the back door, Lucy bolted out of the car and and headed for the bushes. Now, both Lucy and Linus were hiding in the thicket. I called and called, but neither cat emerged from the brush.  So I got back into my car and drove home.

How would I ever be able to bring them back home?  How would they survive in the wild?  All I could hope is that maybe they could at least find each other during the night.

Once again, the life of Lucy had taken an unfortunate turn.  How does a stray become a stray...maybe it happens just this way.

Dianne

MOM'S 82

We all have possessions that we cherish more than our everyday objects…a special gift from a friend, an heirloom from an estate, a souvenir from a vacation.  I have collected so many of those beautiful belongings that you hold in your hands, given to me by the special people in my life.  However, over the years, I have also lost some of my most prized possessions, which happens when you move as much as we have.  You drop a box, you hear the shatter of breaking glass, and you dread the digging process to discover what you’ve lost.

Lately,  I have been so overwhelmed by the devastation that I have witnessed all over the country…forest fires, flooding, severe storms.  So much loss from coast to coast – even loss of life – and I feel like a helpless witness as I watch so many people begin that digging process to discover what they have lost.

On the Fourth of July, I watched the movie, Peace, Love and Misunderstanding, because any film that casts Jane Fonda and Jeffrey Dean Morgan as Woodstock residents has to be at the very least engaging.  While most of the movie served as holiday background noise, the final two-minute documentary film made by one of the movie’s teenage characters packed a punch that was unexpected. The message:   Loss is tough. Surviving loss is tougher. Rising above loss to see where it takes you is the toughest challenge of all.

Just like the music-loving hippies of the 60’s, I choose the mediums of storytelling, writing, and music to take me to unexpected places…which brings me to MOM’S 82 – the title of my post.  Every life deserves its own playlist – maybe every season of every decade of every life deserves a playlist.  MOM’S 82 is a playlist I created during one of the most difficult seasons of my life.  Each track has a story – a personal reason for being on the list.  Even now, the playlist transports me to an elevated place of retrospect and challenges me to create.  Each lyrical selection reminds me that when loss threatens to swallow up all my hopes and dreams, I still have eight-two songs of protest.

That’s what I love about great music and memorable stories – they can be moved from place to place, decade to decade without fear of loss.  You can’t lose your favorite song in a flood or watch your favorite story be burned up in a fire.  You can’t break a playlist like a precious vase; mildew can never ruin a memory.  A collection of fine china is worthless if a piece is broken or an edge is chipped or the porcelain is stained; however, that broken piece or rough edge or stained veneer is what makes MOM’S 82 a cherished collection.

Anyone who knows me understands that The Tomorrow Trunk is not just my blog; it is my life’s message – my mission.  Take the best of today, tuck it away, and keep it for tomorrow.  No matter what loss tomorrow may bring, your stories are always yours to keep.   Jim Harrison, the amazing author of Legends of the Fall, wrote this quote, and I wished I had penned it myself:  Death steals everything but your stories.

I think I would have to add…and your favorite songs.

Dianne ; )

 

The Same Rain

Four baby birds...

This past Sunday my husband noticed that one of my window boxes had toppled over and was laying on the ground.  I was surprised, because the box was filled with soil and caladiums; however, we experienced strong storms which I assumed blew it down.  I had also seen the mama cat trying to use it as a litter box, or so I thought. Maybe she knocked it to the ground.

Upon closer inspection I noticed what appeared to be a nest.  Then I saw three baby birds huddled together on the ground and one baby bird hidden in the soil.  The mama cat had not been looking for a litter box; she had been spying out a protein snack. She must have been startled when the box toppled over, and thankfully, the four little birds were still alive.  I called to David who helped me move the nest to one of the tall shrubs located closest to the window...out of Ms. Kitty's reach.  Then he took a serving spoon and carefully placed each little bird back into its nest. The mother bird watched all the activity from the limb of a mimosa tree.  After we were finished with the painstaking operation, she flew to the side of the house, then down to the ground, then into the shrub. Mother and babies were reunited and safe.

We returned to our lawn chairs and watched the mother bird repair the nest and feed her babies.  Each time she returned to the shrub, she looked at us and chirped deliberately as if to say, "Thank you for saving my four baby birds."

How Can We See That Far...One of my most favorite singer/songwriters is Amy Grant.  I grew up listening to her music and learning life lessons from her thoughtfully-penned lyrics. I especially appreciate a song that she co-wrote with Tom Hemby entitled How Can We See That Far.  The song tells the story of the high expectations of young love...holding hands, dressed in white, promises said by candlelight.

Then the words of the chorus bring advice from a wise father:  But like your daddy said, how can we see that far?  The same sun that melts the wax can harden clay, and the same rain the drowns the rat will grow the hay. And the mighty wind that knocks us down, if we lean into it, will drive our fears away.

The bridge of the song reinforces the message to the young lovers:  We might die, we might live, we could hurt each other badly, do things so hard to forgive.  And if time is not our friend, your mind might forget me before the end, and oh I cannot ~ I cannot look that far.  

On the following Monday, we once again encountered threatening thunderstorms during the middle of the night.  I awoke to loud claps of thunder and rain pouring off the tin roof of the house.  Then I thought about the four baby birds in the shrub next to the house.  I jumped out of bed, ran to the guest room window, and opened the blinds. My heart sank.  We had so carefully placed the nest right beneath the excess run-off from the roof.  The rain that was watering the earth was drowning the four baby birds.  How Can We See That Far?

I sat down on the edge of the bed and watched the pouring rain empty into the tiny nest like a faucet. As my husband had attempted to avoid the almost certain casualties of a hungry mama cat, he had not foreseen the unexpected calamity of a poorly-positioned nest combined with torrential rains.  And what I had witnessed as a new lease on life ~ a blessing, good fortune, favor, success, a miracle ~ had ended in deluge.

It's like the daddy said, how can we see that far?  It's the same sun and the same rain. The same wind that fuels the forest fire cools the brow of the farmer.  The same wind that creates the hurricane comforts the babies on the beach.

I continued to sit on the edge of the bed and watch the rain.  There was nothing I could do, and sometimes that just sucks.  However, as the sun began to rise, the rain stopped and a chorus of song ensued.  I listened as the birds welcomed the morning with harmonious acceptance. The storms of the night had not silenced their songs.  But what about the probability of hungry cats or torrential rains or devastating loss?  For the birds, each day dawns with a chirping symphony ~ no suspense, supposition, or suspect, just a simple song of salute.  Presumption, serendipity, circumstance, chance...how can we see that far?  Everyday, come what may...it's the same sun and the same rain.

Dianne ; )

Oh, by the way...the four baby birds ~ they survived to sing another day!