The Woods Winery Adventure

The Woods Winery Adventure:

It’s not often that I am without a story to tell.  It is more often that I withhold a story because it seems to lack purpose beyond entertainment.  The story on my mind tonight is exactly that story.  It’s one I have told a few times with over animated arm motions and twisted facial expressions in pursuit of a laugh. It serves no purpose. It has no plot, no villain, no conflict, and no hero. 

Before I disappoint you with this story I must clear this up.  I do not know the dog’s name but I choose to call him Rugby. He was a short dog with spots. He was a beagle type dog which adds no real value to the story.  I do know the name of the winery but I choose not to call it by name. I will call it The Woods Winery.  It is my understanding that among those in the Texas wine community The Woods Winery has a reputation of providing a quality product and has received recognition in many product categories.  And lastly, it’s a story.  I no longer consume or promote the drinking of alcohol but I do not criticize those who do. At the time of this adventure I had romanticized the swirling of wine in cheap stemware at a sidewalk beach town bistro on a Sunday afternoon amongst the locals.  If at that time I had had a Facebook I likely would have checked in with a creative one liner promoting the one-dimensional value that converted a fifteen-minute outing into a click-like worthy lifestyle.

Once upon a time in the pursuit of adventure and lack of time restrictions we were steaming down the highway of East Texas.  Pine trees were thick and tall along the two-lane state highway.  The sun was bright through the cracked windshield of the 1995 motorhome.  My fuzzy little dog, Liberty Anne laid cozy on the dash in the sun as the motorhome rattled slowly up the long hills.  We had driven this road many times prior to this day and many times since but we had never stopped at the winery.  For whatever reason on this day we decided to turn the 32-foot motorhome from the highway onto a dirt path.  Understand that before deciding to detour from the main road the driver should know there will be a place to turn around or be prepared to back slowly out of the narrow path that you have since determined not to be passable in forward. 

The dirt path curved sharply to the left before crossing a railroad track packed with black asphalt.  Just beyond the tracks in a yard of knee deep Bahia grass was a wooden banner that read “The Woods Winery”.  Behind the sign and to the right was a doublewide trailer that appeared to be a residence.  Beyond the sign and to the left was a small tin building and an old yellow railroad car.  We had arrived at the tasting room we had set out to enjoy.   There was not a parking lot or even a defined parking area so we turned the motorhome into the tall grass hopeful we were going to be able to maneuver a turnaround. 

Let me pause here and say this.  If there had been a sign at the beginning of this dirt path indicating a garage sale we probably would have kept going.  However, if I had followed sale signage to this house and building configuration I probably would not have stopped to shop.  I am not saying it is right but sometimes I exercise my right to bypass a yard littered with treasures of others if certain conditions are present or if they have an excessive number of cats. 

The option to bypass in this case was hindered by the location and the vehicle we were driving.  You simply do not sneak out of someone’s driveway in a rattling old motorhome.  Other considerations: the boys, shook awake from the railroad crossing, were piled up in the windshield anxious to see the winery and Rugby had made a verbal announcement of our existence and now Liberty Anne was standing boldly like a hood ornament on the dash.  We had three choices.  We could stop to enjoy the tasting room and tour the facilities, awkwardly turn the coach around pretending we were not seen, or continue the dirt path across a cattle guard passing a hand painted sign that read “beyond here be banjos”. 

I turned to that guy I live with and said, “we are not buying anything here.” 

He put the motorhome in park and turned off the ignition as the boys piled out the side door.  The resident vintner seemed shocked to see us move enthusiastically toward the ramp that led in the box car.  Let’s call her Peggy.  She was not in charge of guest relations and tourism.  She looked like I look when you walk up in my yard when I am on my knees pulling weeds from the lantana flower beds.  She had a small amount of sweat on her forehead that she wiped away with the back of her wrist as I do when my hands are soiled. Her hair was hanging around her face which was smiling and questioning yet welcoming.  Peggy was not preened to receive company but without much conversation she eagerly invited us into the box car.  She made a couple of excuses for the condition of the yard and some visibly incomplete projects that we passed as we walked. 

The inside of the box car had potential and I could see her vision.  She quickly read the room and invited the boys for a root beer which she had on tap.  She pulled out two stemmed glasses with The Woods Winery logo etched on the side and glanced around for the bottle to pour from.  As she poured the first glass she mentioned the category of wine, the awards and accomplishments they had received, and availability of this variety in Texas.  It was a citrus wine.  Because I am not a winery connoisseur and I refuse to google the right terminology for this story I will only describe it as sweet.  It had a hint of orange favor like the ice that remains after you have finished a Fanta Orange Soda.  I liked it.  She pulled another bottle out and repeated the steps as she poured.  We were being won over by the pride she had in her products.  She stood behind the bar across from us and in contrast to the first moments in her yard, she proudly showed her wares.

She spoke confidently educated as she asked if we would like to see the work area.  I am by this time on the third ‘taste’ and agreed that I would indeed like to see the process.  She led us out the end of the box car as if we were jumping from railcar to railcar of a New York City Subway. We entered the tin building and an open area without obvious purpose before she shuffled us out the sliding tin doors and into another building.  It was there we met her husband and business partner.  We will call him Buddy. 

As I said before I am not a wine connoisseur.  I am just gathering facts that I can tweak slightly toward humor so that I can at any given opportunity steal the metaphoric microphone and make the crowd roll in laughter. 

There was Buddy.  He was sitting on a white 5-gallon bucket with his elbows on his knees.  It was hot and he too had beaded sweat on his forehead.  In his right hand he had a paring knife and in his left, he had a peach.  Peggy, in the background was making introductions and explaining the large stainless-steel vat in this building.  She noted the origin of the peaches and then gave a skinny explanation of the process of fermentation.  Periodically Buddy tossed the peach from his left hand into the vat and reached into a heap around his ankles to grab another.  

Again, let me stop here for a sidebar.  I know that traditionally the process of making wine has been pictorially represented with Lucy and Ethel stomping around a circular trough with their dresses pulled up, the fruit squishing between their toes, and Lucy distorting her face in disgust.  Also, I have read that the germs of the toes are beneficial to the process of fruit fermentation and that any pathogen on the human foot is not able to survive the winemaking process.  Other than staining the stomper’s toenails this is a completely sanitary practice.  It’s because I know this that I find it hard to poetically describe and retell this portion of the story.  I simply cannot say it any other way.  Buddy was barefoot.  His dirty toes were buried below bushels and bushels of overripe Texas grown peaches.  The peach juice seeped into puddles like sweat around his feet and splashed as he shuffled his feet and wiggled his toes.  It was too much.  Peggy talked but I failed to hear anything that she said.  I saw toes that walked unprotected in the sand to the mailbox earlier in the day.  I saw toes that stood in the bathroom only inches from the toilet periodically.  I saw toes that sweated in leather steal toe boots and tube socks while pushing a lawn mower or stomping a shovel into the dirt.  I glanced down to see Buddy’s toes next to Rugby’s toes all in the same pile of peaches.  All I saw were toes but the tour continued. 

Buddy continued his task as Peggy and Rugby led us back to the tin building to explain the corking station.  I refocused to see that each bottle was corked individually.  One bottle at a time was put in place and using a lever the wet cork was pushed into the bottle to form the necessary seal.  This is a slow process but I appreciated the amount of time the vintner had to inspect each bottle just before it was placed into a crate for distribution or storage.  It was at this point that Rugby, standing at eye level with the corking plunger, was a part of the process.  As Peggy placed a labeled bottle of sparkling citrus wine onto the target and pulled the lever, the cork squeezed into the neck of the bottle expelling just the slightest amount of liquid.  It rolled down the long bottle neck like a tear until wiped away by the spotted dog’s waiting tongue.

Winemaking is a lengthy process.  It takes a commitment to the process that not everyone can appreciate. That is why we climbed back into that motorhome and plowed back down that dirt path with two bottles labeled The Woods Winery both licked by Rugby the bottle high vintner.   

Does this sweater need a collared shirt or is a T-shirt fine?

About a week ago Stacey was sitting at the over-sized farm table in the kitchen with his Bible opened in front of him.  He was reading from the book of Ephesians while texting or snapchatting or instagraming and eating his second bowl of off brand Mini Wheats.  As I walked into the room he said, ‘it’s a shame you ripped Ephesians out of your Bible.  There is some good stuff in here!” 

He’s right about the good stuff:  in six short chapters, Paul uses the word grace twelve times and love 14 different times.  He talks in a practical sense about life; about grace and peace, wisdom and knowledge, trust and truth, hope and promise.  These are things I need to filter through my mind on a regular basis.  He talks a little about Christian maturity and what behaviors we should avoid. In the last of the book, Paul also reminds me who the enemy is and how I am to equip myself to withstand against the enemy.  Oh, it’s just packed with value!

But….in Ephesians 5, Paul uses ‘the S word’…. you know? Submit.  And that is why I ripped the entire book out of my bible.  I am not a ‘submit’ kind of gal.  Maybe you noticed.

I think I can tell this without calling any names or making anyone mad.  I am not one to ask permission.  If I want to go to Walmart or the Goodwill store or the Mall or to Vicksburg, Mississippi, for whatever reason, I simply go.  That doesn’t mean the communication is missing. I don’t sneak out or call after I arrive to let someone know.  It’s a conversation but I don’t need approval or permission.  It sounds as if I have attitude about this.  It almost sounds like I am spitefully and willfully daring anyone to tell me I can’t do something.  That is far from the truth.  I just think, “I’m going to run to Walmart,” is enough; I don’t feel even the slightest obligation to ask, “do you mind if I run to Walmart?”

Calm down, Baptist!  I didn’t really remove anything from my bible.  I assure you any tears, rips, or omissions are completely unintentional and repaired to the best of my abilities once noted.  I wrote the above nonsense to share with you my illustration of ‘submit’ as it is written in Ephesians 5:22.

If you google such you will find that minds far more knowledgeable than mine have likened submission to Roger Staubach and Tom Landry and lawnmowers with chocolate syrup.  All good stuff but I like to think of submission as a dance.  Not a waltz or the floss, not the running man or the cotton-eyed Joe; but a two-step.

This past weekend I was in Mexico with my friends from high school.  Eight ladies of the 80’s plotted and planned an adventure into the Gulf of Mexico hoping for sun and relaxation.  As I was gathering my things and packing my suitcase the Sunday morning of our return trip, I looked at my phone to see a text from that guy I live with that read, “Does this sweater need a collared shirt or is a T-shirt fine?”  Attached to it was a selfie of him standing in the door to the bathroom wearing a light blue sweater over a T-shirt.  Anyone that knows me knows that I am not a fashionista or anywhere close.  I am still wearing hand me down jeans from 3 styles ago.  Unfortunately, I saw the text too late to respond and I don’t know how he completed the ensemble before heading to church that morning.  This is a man that can pull a combustion engine from a boat using a rope over a limb of a shade tree in the backyard, tinker with it and put it back in and go skiing that afternoon.  He can calculate the cosine and sine and whatever the other one is and does for engaging self-enjoyment. (Side note: as he read that last statement he fought the urge to tell me what ‘the other one is’.) He has APPs on his smart phone to convert numbers and units and degrees.  He is my go to for tips and tricks for manipulating an excel spreadsheet.  That guy I live with is smart but he can’t decide how to wear this sweater to church.

Fortunately for him what I lack in fashion sense I make up for in decisiveness and that is where the dance begins.  Bear with me, this analogy is clearly too big for paragraph form:

Some thoughts on dancing:

1.    No one pushed, pulled, or tricked me onto the dance floor.  I have been drug to many events before but I willfully chose to stand with open arms before that guy I live with.

2.    We dance to the love songs.  Think of the songs on your playlist.  I have a variety of genres, artists and tempos on my download list.  I listen to anything from The Statler Brothers and Freddy Fender to Katy Perry and MercyMe but when I dance face to face with that guy I live with it’s going to be a love song in a very traditional sense. 

3.    We don’t dance for you.  I read recently (probably on Facebook) “forget the ones who want to dance in clubs. Find one who’ll dance in the kitchen to George Strait.” Our dancing is for us and the betterment of us and that is the kind of dancing that happens in the kitchen or on the back porch or around the Christmas tree; maybe.

4.    He leads.  I must admit, that guy I live with isn’t much of a dancer.  We have on occasion in our earlier years together gone to the clubs and after some time in the shadows managed to make our way onto the hardwood hand in hand.  I know some will think I am being harsh but he’s a counter and he doesn’t have a natural rhythm. It’s the engineer in him. But he leads, facing forward and with great visibility he maneuvers through others trying their skills on the sawdust.  And he counts, step, step, slide, step, step, slide…. sometimes he’s only avoiding the obstacles around the kitchen table; Stacey’s shoes, Q’s toys, Amazon boxes.

Where does the submission come in?  That’s my part.  Truthfully, I am not a dancer either.  One of my daughters-in-law can twirl and spin around the dance floor with a skill level that they didn’t teach in 4H camp.  She has a polished swing that is not only fun to watch but it’s intimidating.  Funny thing is her skill is dependent on the person leading; wouldn’t she look ridiculous doing all of that without a partner?  And while the lead is important he would certainly look silly without her.  Submission is not a line dance or a pole dance.  It’s a face to face, arms embraced movement to the same song. 

Two important parts of the submission dance beyond choosing the right partner, the right song, the right location and right reason:

1.    Trust:  I can’t dance with you if I am in constant fear of trip hazards.  When I find myself looking over my shoulder I need to reevaluate my trust settings.  Rear view mirrors are for Buicks not dance floors. Confidence, trust, faith in the leader not because he demands it but because he deserves it.

2.    Skill: Submission is not a power struggle. It’s one unit moving in the same direction, on the same mission, with the same goals, yet different skills.  I’m not to be the leader but the leader can’t step, step, slide, step, step, slide backwards in heels.  It’s not a matter of deficiency; it’s not his role.

I tend to beat an analogy to death (also a skill) but one more thing: teach your kids to dance.

Have you been in a fight lately?

I remember as a kid thinking that it was cool to have been in a fight.  At some time in my young life I heard an older teen ask another have you ever been in a fight? They would talk graphically about these fights. The brutality was as cool as cigarettes and burning rubber. I often wondered what characteristics must be involved for an encounter to be labeled as a fight.

Often as children my sister and I had “fights”.  On one occasion I pushed her into the living room window. Does that qualify as a fight? I am not sure but I do know that we broke the window and were required to pay for the replacement. Parenthetically, window replacement in the late 70’s cost exactly the amount required for two girls to go skating on a Saturday morning.  I recall one time my dad was so sick of the fighting that he made us stand in front of the house near the highway and physically and publicly fight with one another. He followed that with roadside embracing.

That guy I live with and I don’t fight now but when we were younger we had disagreements from time to time.  Once I bought him a spooky neck tie to wear to work on Halloween.  That particular year Halloween fell on a Friday, casual Friday, and he refused to wear the tie. Finally, to appease me, he put the tie on. It didn’t make me as happy as you might imagine and if I remember correctly I took the scissors and snipped the tie off about 5 inches below his chin. We referenced that as a fight but I’m sure that was just fussing.

When I was in junior high I remember an organized fight that was supposed to take place downtown Beckville just after school. I don’t remember what the fight was to solve or what started it but in junior high school it seemed everything revolved around boys and baby aspirin. The girls were to meet downtown and with a crowd of fellow students of all ages circled around to witness the pulling and tugging, kicking and clawing, hair pulling and squealing and rolling around on the pavement. I stood proudly to watch.

We all have stories about fighting and fussing, arguments and disagreements.  If you don’t have any such stories, turn on daytime television.

So why am I talking about fighting? I consider myself to be somewhat non confrontational.  I don’t do physical aggression.  While I am very opinionated I don’t consider myself to be argumentative.  On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being most likely to walk away, I am a solid 14.  That said, I likely stomped my foot and walked away pouting.  That’s who I am.

Earlier this week, I heard someone reference the scripture, II Timothy 4:7 where Paul said, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith” as a summation of his life.  I have always loved and often quoted this passage because like most people I read this as someone at peace with what they did and how they did it.  I have mentioned on many occasions that I am not one for making New Years Resolutions but I do have goals for my life.  One of those goals is to not leave this life with overwhelming regret.

Men and women much smarter than I have pondered and expounded on this verse through the years, in foreign languages and around the globe.  I will only look at it from the most practical and most elementary application.  If you were to summarize your Christian walk, the choices that define you, and the way you displayed your relationship with Christ as a conflict, would you honestly describe it as a FIGHT?  Maybe it was a scuffle, or a fuss?  If I tallied up the defining choices of the 1990’s for me, I would not find fight; not even a snarl.  I refer to those as the complacent years.  I was indifferent and unconcerned for a major part of the decade.

What about now?  I told you I am not much for New Years Resolutions. I operate more on the principle and philosophy of “Start where you are, use what you have, do what you can,”~ Arthur Ashe (rinse and repeat).   But if I decided that I needed to ‘fight’ it would be a great time to start.

My friend and coworker, Scott Kujak, is the founder and creator of Underdog Podcast as well as the 2018 Golden Gloves Champion in the super heavyweight division of Austin, Texas.   Even in his suit and tie at 6ft 4inches he can present as a force to be reckoned with but when you walk straight up to him, unafraid and bold, he will smile and you will see it in his eyes.  You will also notice that around his thick right wrist he wears a rubber bracelet that says, James 1:2-3, and he means it.  The combination of these and the reputation of compassion for everyone he encounters made him the ideal person to talk to about preparing for the fight.


I asked Scott this:  if I wanted to start boxing for fun, obviously and ridiculously hypothetical fun, what 2 to 3 things must I do to prepare?  I need to be ready but as I told him, my boxing training was a direct reflection on the abilities of Rocky Balboa and consisted mostly on being able to scream, “Yo, Adrianne” in the appropriate Italian Stallion accent.


I gave him some time to think about it but I don’t think that changed or altered his response at all:

1. Discipline.  Running and jumping rope, sparring and pushing through the bruises; getting back in the ring to do it all over again.

I texted the word discipline into my phone quickly all the time thinking, consistency, persistence, perseverance, determination.  My Baptist mind scrolled through my scripture memory bank, “Pick up you cross” “Crucified daily” and finally landed on a passage marked in my bible as “daily walk”; 1 Chronicles 16:8-15.  I read the scripture to myself and thought it sounded so easy compared to the day in the ring that Scott described.  1 Chronicles 16: 8-15 is a Psalm and required no head gear, no gloves, no mouth guard. Comparatively, easy. Then I remembered my opponent and his wiles, the snares he hurls and his ability to derail my discipline.  In Ephesians 6 we are warned that we fight against principalities and powers that have taken off the gloves.  To prepare for the fight, we need to put on the full armor of God.  I don’t think the jump rope is going to prepare me for the fiery darts of the wicked but I have the shield of faith. That’s where the discipline comes into play.  Discipline is the choice, ability and determination to raise the shield even if you are bruised and tired.

2. Mentally confident but not cocky. Bold. Calm confident.

As Scott described and explained his comments I thought about my days of being in high school athletics; the mindset, the emotional roller coaster of winning then losing, the expectations and disappointments.  It’s often difficult for us to find the calm confidence. Let’s be honest, physical conditioning is tough but mental conditioning is as brutal as two junior high girls fighting in the streets of town.  In Romans 7 Paul has a little breakdown and pens a level of genuine frustration to the church of Rome; the internal conflict of potential and practical warring in his mind. In verse 25 of the same chapter and the beginning of chapter 8 he pulls it back together with the blessed assurance, the calm confidence. To prepare for the fight, we need to be still and know (PS 46:10) who God is, we need to be bold as a lion (Proverbs 28:1), not because of our abilities but because of our Creator.

3. Fight for purpose. Deeper meaning.

I had to ask. You all want to know. Why would you intentional get in reach of someone trying to hit you?  (I love you, Scott, but in my old mind that makes about as much sense as eating a Tide pod.) His answer made me question the things I do. Where I may ask, “why do you box?”; he might ask, “why do you blog?” I found 261 scriptures in the King James that ask “why”.  That’s not a lot of questions for a book so full of answers.  Don’t complicate this; it can be simple and straightforward.  I am going to get up every morning and exercise with my “daily walk” and I am going to be bold and confident in the Gospel not for trophies, or accolades, or championship titles.  1 Corinthians 10:31 says, “do all to the glory of God” and in verse 33, “that they may be saved.”

I know at least one question left unanswered, am I even in the fight?

Island time

Let it be known that most days I have more questions than answers.  One question that has always caused me to question is "if you were on a deserted island..." Before I can answer I must declare that I have nothing but questions.  Why am I on the deserted island?  Are we talking South Pacific or Patmos?  Have I chosen to be on the island or have I been exiled?  Should I expect a film crew following or possibly a revelation from God?  These are going to need answers before I commit to an island companion.   Or maybe I don't want my island cluttered by company.  Maybe I will look for a football named 'voit' or a coconut named 'dole' to keep me sanely entertained whilst alone on the island.

I said all of that to see if I could drag you into paragraph two of this, my most recent and long awaited, blog entry.

Work this week landed me in the state of Connecticut.  A quaint little postcard state, (little compared to Texas) with beautifully shaded green lawns tucked neatly behind the very busy NYC. Though I have traveled to NYC a handful of times until now I have never rented a car and hit the northbound interstate into the state whose nicknames include the "Constitution State" and ironically, "Land of Steady Habits".  No, I have no idea what that means but I am curious by nature and will google it as soon as I lack anything better to do.

I enjoyed the drive through a few small towns on my way to Derby.  The homes were settled on small lots with rolling lawns lined with tulips and blooming fruit trees; homes that looked as though they sheltered families that woke singing every morning and closed their eyes smiling every evening.  Tongue in cheek and with a pinch of sarcasm, how could anyone living in a house with such a beautifully manicured and fertile lawn have anything less than blissful moments in the sun?  As I looked around the shops, restaurants and hospitals I noted no one that seemed to be capable of dressing themselves differently than I (as my daddy said often, they put their pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us) so I guess they probably have the same issues, different landscape.

In case your interest as been peaked, Connecticut is home and/or birthplace to both Bush presidents as well as The Carpenters duo of the early 80's, the guy that created Family Guy, Noah Webster, and Mark Twain; the later needing no introduction.  I don't know that I would sign up for the home tour but other Connecticut natives of notoriety include Glenn Close, Eli Whitney, and some lady named Katharine Hepburn. Though this is not a travel blog I would recommend a drive through the Connecticut area if you ever find yourself with the time resource and an inclination to see a little bit more of America.

I think I mentioned before that I am a fan of the dramatic series "Law & Order: SVU".  If I was at a NYC hotel and a bus bannered "Law & Order: SVU tour of the city" rolled up the driveway I would be crawling over camera toting tourist to get a front row seat!  First stop: Rikers!  I know you just asked yourself, why? Why not?  It's like Alcatraz, New England style!

I never have time for as many tourist stops as I would like when I'm "on the job" but occasionally on a plane or shuttle bus I have time to let Wikipedia explain to me what I am missing.   Geographically impaired, I often open google maps to get a bird's eye view of what I am missing. In this case I got a bird's eye view of what NYC is missing.  The islands that I found interesting on this trip were North and South Brothers Islands. In the East River just to the left of Rikers Island there are two smaller islands.  Zooming in by way of google maps I could see structures on the larger north island.  Seems to be real estate of little developmental interest to a very crowded and busy city but to a google enthusiast like myself it's a virtual playground.

Here's what I found interesting in a nutshell.  North consist of 20 acres, South is the smaller brother of about 6 acres.  The islands are not open to the public now but at one time  in the late 1880's North Brothers Island was home to Riverside Hospital previously on Roosevelt Island.  The hospital's location lended well to the hospital's mission of housing and treating those with quarantinable diseases. Some of the notable diseases included smallpox and tuberculosis. Apparently exempt from the threat of Hipaa compliance violations, the facilities stakes claim as host to the infamous Typhoid Mary who died there in 1938.   The hospital died shortly afterwards but reopened briefly as a housing facility for World War II veterans attending local colleges.  If you are following this roadmap closely you will note at the next turn, 1950's, the facility becomes the first treatment center for adolescents with drug addictions.  Heroin addicts, specifically, were locked up possibly against their will until clean, not necessarily with intentions to stay that way.

Now only broken down structures covered with heavy foliage designated as bird sanctuaries remain on the island. As recent as 2016 there was at least a preliminary plan to open the island as a park with limited access by the public. Perhaps the black-crowned night heron will enjoy the company.

Do you think the birds were ever asked "if you were on a deserted island...?

Welcome to a new baby girl!

Though I never felt unwanted I did grow up thinking that every parent wanted sons. Boys seemed to be the gold standard for children; a bragging right. From the very first moment that I considered having children until this very day I have always wanted boys.  I have been richly blessed with three incredible sons and a backdraft of blessings from them but today we are celebrating and awaiting the arrival of our second grand daughter.

Our grandchildren, Kallie(8), Eli(6), Cash(4) all belong to our oldest son, Angel.  They are wildly exciting, talented, sweet, smart, and a bag of chips.  I bet every MeMe would say the same about her grandchildren.  Today our middle son, Levi, will hold his first child in his big ol' shaking hands for the first time.  He will look at her round little face and wonder how life will ever get better than this.  It will.  Everyday will just get better and better. One day she will smile and his heart will flutter into his throat. She will belly laugh and he won't be able to get to a video camera fast enough!  She will cry and he will join her in tears. She will say "dada" and it will sound like choirs of angels.  The best things in life are wrapped snuggly in a blanket his Mammie made.

This is a recycled piece I wrote several years ago for a beautiful friend expecting her first daughter.  I tweaked it but thought it was worth revisiting for this occasion.

An untraditional bouquet of roses. One blue, one red, one white, one yellow, one pink, one peace...

The blue rose is for the tomboy she will be. For blue jeans and baseball games, mud pies and fireflies; camping trips, fishing trips and squirrel hunting with Daddy.  Blue is for cowboy boots, spitting and sitting unlady-like.  Blue is for tagging along with your cousins, playing the guitar and catching lizards.

The red rose is for the day that Jesus breaks her heart and she realizes unconditional love and the blood it took to extend it to us.  For the first time she will shout AMEN in church, the first time she sings “Jesus loves me”, and for the day that she is baptized.  Red is for knowing that Christmas ain’t about Santa Claus.

Pink is for hair bows, Easter dresses, and Prom dresses.  It’s for the little pink socks with lace and paten leather shoes and makeup.  It’s for hula-hoops, baby dolls, and dotting your “i" with a heart.  Pink is for pom-poms, Girl Scout cookies, diaries and lip gloss.  Pink is for Scott Baio posters above your bed and giggles and giggles and giggles and giggles.

The Peace Rose is for those teen years.  When she’ll say (maybe to herself) “I hate you” because in the moment she thinks everything you do is to make her life horrible. She will cry and you will cry.  The peace rose is because you will love her every moment like you do today knowing that one day she’ll understand that special place in your heart that God made just for her.  The peace rose is for not changing her curfew or your values, it’s for doing what is hard knowing it will be worth it one day.

White is for wedding gowns and garter belts.  For that day when the man she always wanted to marry walks her down the aisle to the man she never dreamed would come along. White is for happy ever after and the generations that have been there.

Yellow is for friends.  For that friend that will take up for her on the playground, for the girl that stays up the latest with her at her first sleep over and for the one doesn’t tell that she still wets the bed sometimes.  Yellow is for the one friend she’ll tell when she has her first kiss.  For the one who knows what her voice sounds like when she’s crying on the phone even when she’s trying to hide it. For the one that can make her laugh and cry at the same time, the one that cherishes the same things and respects the differences.  Yellow is for the friend that knows that when you gripe about your mother, you never stopped loving her. Yellow is for friends that love you enough to tell you “It’s not always about you!’

Warm and loving welcome to Darcie Rose.

Let me tell you a love story

I have said before that Valentines Day is one of my least favorite holidays.  I am not religiously opposed to the saint that was credited for the celebration and I am certainly not against love. I have always appreciated chocolates, candies, jewelry, and flowers but I need to know I am loved not just on Tuesday, February 14th but on the Monday before, the Tuesday after and everyday in between.  Without all of the day-in day-out gestures of love and appreciation and affection I don't think the three pounds of Russell Stovers chocolates would be anything more than my next cavity. 

If you asked me for a love story I might tell you of about a man nearing 70 years old who married when he was not much more than a child. For decades he has stood tightly to a bride that suffers from life altering mental illness because he said in front of God and family that he would.

I might share a story about a young preacher who one week prior to meeting the love of his life surrendered to God the search for his one and only. 

I might tell you about the last time I saw my daddy stand on his own and how he shook as he wrapped his arms around my mother.

I could tell you how a self-professed but now sober alcoholic found his happily ever after on Match.com.

I might tell you about the friend who at 40 years old said 'I do!' to her best friend. 

I likely would tell you about the engagement ring that my mother-in-law hocked to buy gifts for her boys the first Christmas after their daddy died.

There are many love stories all around us.

I remember several year ago when Stacey was barely in school we had a Valentine picnic. We spread a big black and red checked blanket on the floor upstairs where we ate pizza and played a silly game I named, "if love were..."

If love were a food it would be.....pizza. We all gave different answers.  If love were a flower it would be a .....rose.  If love were a color it would be....red.  That seems simple enough but let's stretch it a little.  What if love were a roadway? Some might say a black top while others might say the autobahn and still others might say a dirt road up the steep side of a mountain.  If love were a bird it would be a red headed wood pecker to me but to you maybe a majestic eagle or a beautiful swan that started off as the ugly duckling. 

Try these: 

If love were a car it would be a....

If love were an animal it would be a.....

If love were a beverage it would be a....

If love were an ice cream it would be sprinkled with...

If love were a piece of furniture it would be a....

If love were a place it would be.....

If love were a body function it would be a....

A hug! 

Ok, maybe it's just getting silly now. Truthfully we can make rhymes of metaphors and riddles of love similes all day long for fun but we don't define love. Love is defined for us not by us in 1 Corinthians 13. From the God that is love through the pen of the apostle Paul we have a very clear definition of love through a list of what it is and what it ain't.  

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,

Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;

Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. 1 Corinthians 13: 4-6.

Levi and Melody used this scripture beautifully in their wedding a few years ago but I think my favorite picture of Love from the Bible comes from Matthew's gospel. In the 22nd chapter Jesus is being quizzed by the Pharisees then the Saducees and then again by the Pharisees.  Finally the lawyer asked him to tell them which was the great commandment. Jesus declared the first and great commandment, as instructed in the Old Testament, to love the Lord thy God with all your heart, your soul and your mind; with all you have.  And though the Pharisee didn't ask for the top two that is exactly what Jesus gave him when he said, the second is to love thy neighbor as thyself.  

What I love about this scripture is the visual of love.  If we love the Lord with all we have we create a vertical connection to God or more importantly he creates a connection with us. When we love our neighbors, those that walk this planet amongst us, we intersect that with a horizontal line forming a cross. That is the true symbol of love. Remember that God so loved the world that he sent his son to hang on that cross. That is a cross we should pick up daily; Love God, love others.  

Celebrate true love!

Try a carrot please

The super-duper daddy egg sandwich 

Here's a memory for you:  

In the late 1990's or early 2000's the Golden Corral restaurants were on our list of affordable dining options.  With 3 kids to feed our budget was too tight to even consider dining out but we often did anyway.  I remember one afternoon at the buffet we had enjoyed a big dose of comfort foods and were looking seriously toward the dessert buffet. 

Let me pause here to give you some background information on Levi Adron.  He had struggled for years with allergies, runny nose, asthma-like bronchitis, weepy eyes, ear infections - you name it! Levi had it.  Levi also had a tendency to only eat the foods on the approved (by Levi) list.  Fine dining options like pizza, French fries, bologna sandwiches, and tacos with no veggies were on the list.  The unapproved list was relatively short as it included 2 foods: those grown in dirt and those that looked yucky. 

Like most parents I liked my kids to step out every now and then to try something new. And while I did not expect them to embrace a Brussels sprout I thought a carrot to be a doable option.  Statistically, 2 out of 3 boys can handle that.  More noteworthy, 1 in 3 boys will expel carrots along with approved list buffet choices all over a public table in a crowded Golden Corral.  

It was my fault.  I bribed him with ice cream.  Taste one carrot, I said, and I will let you have ice cream. 

It wasn't until a few years later that he was officially tested and determined to be allergic to carrots as well as many other foods. Parenthetically he tested positive to a milk, thus ice cream,  allergy as well but we never wasted that in a instant replay in a public place. 

I remember very little about my childhood in comparison to the memories my sister has stashed away.  Bits of stories are pieced together with other memories.  Dates and places are confused and blurred.  Sometimes as I recall an event to my mother she will politely unscramble the timelines to remind me of how and where it actually happened.  Maybe because I am the baby I was too young to remember clearly? Maybe because I blend what I remember with what I have been told? Or maybe I just wasn't paying attention?  

One thing I do remember is the super duper daddy egg sandwich!  I don't know when we first had it and why we felt the need to name it but I remember clearly breakfast for supper and the super duper daddy egg sandwich. My dad was an experimental chief. One of his most famous original recipes was the spaghetti omelette. It was triple-D worthy before Guy was old enough to drive that convertible.  

The super duper daddy egg sandwich was indeed super duper.  Yard eggs with just a touch of milk scrambled in the electric skillet then piled on white bread with just a thin smear of Miracle Whip at nine o'clock in the evening when we probably should have been in the bed. Makes my mouth water to think about it! There was only one secret ingredient that made us belly up to the kitchen bar for such a treat and that was the event created by the fry cook himself.  It was all in the presentation.  The enthusiasm he had for cooking with his kids gathered around. The way my mom readied the next step as if she was preparing a path for him to delight his children. The choreography as they worked around the skillet together.  I guess if my daddy had plated duck feather marinated in creosote I would have grabbed a fork and jumped in.   Kitchen memories are the best! 

Fast forward to Levi in 2017, the allergies have settled, he passed the peanut challenge (that's a story that he would not like to see in print).  Levi married his high school sweetheart as his mother did and every Sunday after church we gather four generations around the table; his grandmother, his parents, his brothers and sister-in-law, his niece and nephews and his bride.  I am often amazed at the servings he dishes onto his plate; mashed potatoes with gravy, pastas that are not Mac and cheese.  I even saw him smear a little basil garlic pesto onto his sandwich last Sunday.  

I consider Levi's picky eating habits when I plan a meal but it is nice to see him try new foods, maybe expand the approved list. Don't get me wrong I don't push him too much. I learned my lesson at the Golden Corral.  I think it is that super duper young lady that grew up beside him that makes life and lunch worth sampling.