Just a little bit of Grace

I'm not sure I'll ever understand why he loved her so much - but he did. Even as a child, I saw the way he looked at her and knew he was hopelessly smitten by this tiny lady who fussed at him but never over him. In fact, it never crossed my mind that she loved him at all but I'm sure she must have, in her own way.

I don't know when he realized something wasn't altogether right about her but I've heard stories that make me think her bizarre behavior began when her daughters were very young. Perhaps it was an extended, unchecked case of postpartum depression following the birth of four babies in eight years. I don't suppose we'll ever know what triggered the breakdown but we do know she had one.

He took her to doctors, got her treatment - including shock treatment at one facility (something he always regretted) - and brought her home where she would have periods of normalcy sprinkled with episodes of wacky behavior that become more frequent and eventually more wacky as the years passed.

Her girls grew up and left home, each taking their own emotional baggage to deal with in the coming years, as we all do. Then it was just the two of them again, Graham and Grace. He, a dawn til dusk, no nonsense, hard working farmer who worked his land and his brother's land, a cross he almost let break him. She stayed home, a confused and anxious housewife whose mind was slowly being seized by schizophrenia.

Her signature stunt was her "trip to Fort Worth." Every so often, he would come home from the cotton fields to find a note on the fridge that said simply, "Gone to Fort Worth to visit Lucille", her sister. But she wasn't gone at all. She was upstairs in the attic room. And the only access to that room was via the very narrow pull down staircase in the hallway. It was so narrow in fact that he couldn't maneuver his 6'2" 275 lb. frame up them.

He was rarely surprised to find the note because on his way home, he had passed her car parked several blocks away, usually in front of the same abandoned house he passed everyday on his way home. They'd lived in this small Texas town for over forty years so even if she chose a different house to "hide" her car in front of, it would take no more than five minutes to discover it. She would stay upstairs for days at a time, watching soaps during the day, sewing on the portable machine in the closet and cooking her food on a hot plate. She used a bucket for a toilet and according to him, would sneak down to clean it during the day when he was gone.

She was odd. She loved dolls. I had a few but she kept most of them put away so I wouldn't ruin them. She spent hours happily humming while she sewed the tiniest little dresses for my Barbie doll, dresses with perfect collars complete with intricate tatting - yet she never hugged me once that I can remember. In fact, she didn't like me much and I always knew it. He knew it too and protected me when he could. She pulled my hair a few times and made me wear clothes that embarrassed me at school. She hid my ironing in the freezer and told Daddy Graham I did it - but he knew better so I really didn't get in trouble for it.

She put padlocks on the cabinets so Daddy Graham couldn't get food from the cupboards because she claimed he was too fat - but spent hours baking individual coffee cakes and crocheting lap blankets for every single resident of the local nursing home.

The disease ravaged her mind over the years and eventually they had to take her car keys away. She forgot about Fort Worth and became much more concerned with the fireflies who were dying and having funerals in her sweet pea bed. They were dragging their little coffins over her sweet pea vines and that made her very angry. She would stand at the back window and peak out at the garden, watching closely hoping to catch them in the act.

We all told him it was time to find a place where she would be safer but he wasn't ready. He was retired and convinced he could stay home and care for her himself. Then one Thanksgiving, we were all home and out she came to serve Thanksgiving dinner - in the short, pink baby doll pajamas she'd made for herself some time before. In her 80's now, the outfit looked hysterical on her, pantie style bloomer bottoms and a loose fitting top that was almost too big. Her ever present hairnet sat like a rat's nest on top of her head with the knot threatening to fall onto her forehead Ruth Buzzi style. It was funny, memorable and sad.

Within a few years, my grandmother was moved to a nursing home and eventually, he joined her there. She still talked to fireflies and forgot who most of us were - but she always knew who he was. To the end he was her protector. It broke his heart to see her deteriorate but he stayed right there with her.

They celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary at the nursing home. When my cousin stood back to snap a picture of them, my grandfather reached across their wheelchairs and tenderly laid his large hand over hers, now drawn up and useless.

H was clearly still just as smitten as he'd ever been.

Living in the moment . . . and loving every minute

The older I get, the more beauty I see in everyday scenes. Last Friday, I left the lush green hills of Bastrop county and headed west to Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

Staci had surgery on Tuesday and needed some help with the kids while she recovered so I siezed the chance to be that extra hand. I was due for a break from kitchen remodeling (and I think Mike was ready to tackle some creative construction without my valuable input) so the timing was perfect.

The weather was ideal for traveling and the audio book I was listening to (the Memory Keeper's Daughter) was great. The fields and hills between Lampasas and Brownwood still held their green from the summer rains. The windmill farms on the west side of Abilene, up around Sweetwater, looked like a majestic, kinetic sculpture garden that went on and on until they disappeared into the horizon. They have a sort of mechanical awesome look I like. The fact that they generate energy is a bonus.

The long desolate drive from Clovis to Fort Sumner was even pretty with an arid display of browns, lavenders and pinks that I found particularly pleasing. My friend, Sue, who lives near Austin is from Clovis and says she misses the wide open spaces of her hometown. I couldn't imagine missing the flat, sparse, desolate plains when you live in the gorgeous green hills of Texas - but I have to admit, the area is growing on me.

Saturday afternoon, I watched from the window in Staci's family room as the ranch horses lazily trailed in from the pasture to get food and water - cottontail rabbits scampering from sage brush to sage brush at the invasion. The cloud formations at sunset were too spectacular to photograph. The colors were amazing and moved like a giant kaleidoscope of brilliant yellows and pinks against steel gray, silver lined clouds. It was impossible for this amateur photographer (not to mention complete clutz) to get the right settings on the camera in time to catch the grandeur . . . so I just enjoyed it.

I did manage to capture a shot of the moon ascending over the livestock pens late yesterday afternoon though it still doesn't do the moment justice. All in all, it was a lovely trip. Staci is recovering very well, the twins were a delight to be around and the older kids broke my heart with their rapid maturity.

I'm so glad I took the time to slow down and enjoy the moment.

Wrinkles in my elbows?

That's Calin, one of our seven grandsons. Calin spent a few days with us last week because he had a week between getting out of school and the start up of camp.

It was a great opportunity for some one on one conversation with this seven year old wonder, who like most kids his age, holds nothing back.

One morning he was passing through the kitchen and came across some hand cream I keep on the counter. "Sugar," he asked, "do you put cream on your face to make the wrinkles go away?" Thinking I must be looking too young to be his grandmother, I said, "yes, I do and I think it's working, don't you?" "Yep, I think it is . . . but I think you need to put some on your elbows cause you're gettin' lots of wrinkles there!"

Later that night, I wondered into the living room to put him to bed and found him watching a murder/detective show. As he reluctantly left to go brush his teeth, he announced, "I've never been murdered in my whole life!" "Well, as a matter of fact, you haven't," I said. "Because if you had, we wouldn't be having this conversation." "No, I'm not kidding," he insisted. "In my whole life, I've never been murdered!" Rather than scare him with the realities of murder, I just agreed, kissed him goodnight and thanked the good Lord I am alive and able to enjoy conversations with a 7 year old.

Farewell to a faithful friend...

Today was a tough day for us. We said goodbye to Fester, our beloved cocker spaniel.

It's true what they say, you know. Dogs really are man's best friend, in the truest sense of the word. In the last 14 years, we've had many friends but I'm certain they all saw every flaw we have. Fester never did. He thought we were just great - all the time, everyday. He liked hanging out with us no matter where we were and was always there to greet us when we came home. I know he adored my cooking because except for spinach and brussel sprouts, he'd eat anything I gave him.

Fester was there to toast every grandchild's birth. He watched patiently while we changed diapers, burped babies and put them back in their cribs. Then he climbed up on the nearest high point so he could see inside the crib to watch the baby sleeping. Later, as they grew up, he ate cocoa puffs with them as they watched Saturday morning cartoons and then went fishing with them in the afternoons. At night, he slept soundly (and I mean soundly like in snoring) at the foot of their beds. They crawled on him, pulled his ears, rode him like a pony and dressed him up in funny clothes and he loved every minute of it.

I can't count the number of times people asked us if he and Murphi could have more puppies because they all wanted a dog with just that kind of temperament. For years, Mike and I traveled with Fester and his cohort, Murphi, all over the country. He loved to travel and saw more of this country than most humans do.

Time marches on, however, and it finally took it's toll on Fester. It was one of the hardest decisions we ever had to make. He was dying and we knew it but we kept hoping we could make him more comfortable and everything would be okay. Down deep, however,we knew that wasn't true. We said we'd never let him suffer and today, he was suffering. It was time.

Having one daughter who is a nurse and another in the veterinary industry was a life saver. They both took him to the vet and Christi held him, wrapped in his blanket while he went peacefully to sleep.

I comfort myself with images of Fester - running and playing with children somewhere in Heaven. And I hope the angels have an endless supply of gooey pastries (Fester's favorite!)that they freely hand out to fat, sassy, happy dogs.

Fester touched our lives with absolute unconditional love and forgiving grace and we're infinitely better people as a result.

Someday, we may get another cocker spaniel but we'll never find another Fester. He was one special little buddy.

It's all about porches

The first thing that captured us about the house we live in now was the porch. It's a lovely lazy wraparound porch that spans the full length of the house and is deep enough to hold all kinds of porch seating. Two dirty white ceiling fans with blades gracefully bent from Texas humidity provide the ambiance of a summer breeze when the air is thick and hot and vintage light fixtures cast a sultry romantic glow in the night hours.

It will come as no surprise then that as we search for our next home, finding one with the right porch was imperative. After months of looking and having survived a serious letdown with what we thought was the perfect property, we came across just the right porch.

The porch is in Bandera, and is attached to an old Mediterranean style home with lots of vintage windows, wood floors and a view that looks out over a creek and the town of Bandera. It sorta reminds me of something you would find in the south of France or in San Miguel, Mexico. You might not be able to see it from this photo but it's there.

Moving to Bandera would be a little like going home. I "grew up" not far from there, at Medina Children's Home which is about 16 miles away and I graduated from the Medina High School (I was even Homecoming Queen!). Mike has always loved Bandera and when his Wyoming buddies come to visit, that's the one place they always want to visit. It must be something about the Cowboy feeling the town exudes.

Since moving back to Texas in 1999, we've looked many times for a home in Bandera but have never found anything that suited us . . . until now. The possibility of moving back seems almost natural to me.

I've been to a couple of high school reunions and discovered that several of my old classmates and roommates have also moved back to the area, too. What fun it would be to have the Bakers over for dinner some 40 years after we all lived together at the children's home. I wonder if Della remembers the night we helped hoist a girl we didn't like over the fence so she could run away. She was caught about 14 minutes later and we all got in deep doo.

Or those late nights just before Christmas when we put Della, who was really tiny, in the laundry bin. Then we'd sneak the gifts from our sponsors out from under the tree and slip them to her to carefully open. If there was money inside, we took it out because if we found it on Christmas morning, we had to turn it over to the houseparents. Della was a real pro at re-wrapping.

This particular house is going to need a lot of work. We will rearrange rooms, create a modern kitchen in the center of the house and bring the laundry room inside to where the kitchen is now; turn the small 3rd bedroom into a master bath and build a pergola along the entire backside of the house to take advantage of the view. The front of the property will become a small, personal vineyard and a privacy fence will define the front yard. Yep, it will be tons of work but that's the part that excites us the most.

And everyday, when we've finished with our work, we'll meet on this fabulous porch and plan our tomorrows . . . and maybe share a glass of wine with our neighbors, one of whom, I understand, is a budding author. Or maybe we'll just sit and share stories with the Bakers, our Wyoming friends or whoever else ambles in.

Meet Scribble Boy

One of Staci's four year old twins, Creed, came home from preschool a little downhearted last night. When Staci asked them how school was, Creed replied, "Not so good." He explained. "My teacher told us to color but we had to color in the lines and I just like to scribble."

Amused, Staci tried convincing the little guy that sometimes it's more important to follow instructions than to do what we want to do. Of course, the four year old couldn't let it lie. "But I just like to scribble and it's my picture!" he demanded. "But, your teacher is trying to teach you, Creed -, so stay in the lines on the picture you're doing for her and then scribble all you want on your own stuff at home."

I had to laugh when Staci told me the story. Scribble boy and I have a lot in common. If I was going to have to stay in the lines, I was going to make new lines. Even subtle new lines would make my picture different enough to satisfy my own creative need. I can't say that approach really worked all that well for me in school because back then, defying authority in school would get your butt whipped, sometimes both at school and again at home. And I lived in a children's home where the lines were embedded in stone and nothing outside of them was ever, ever tolerated.

Once out on my own, I discovered that just as often as not, coloring outside the lines, even drawing new lines served me well. With time, I learned to better calculate the risks, deal with the results and learn from the experiences. It took me half a lifetime to embrace that particular quality about myself and realize it was a very important part of who I am. Only then did I find my true creative core and learn to enjoy it.

I'm sure scribble boy will do fine because he's a strong minded little dude and schools are so much better these days about nurturing the creative child. I reckon as I grow into my golden years and my vision begins to fade, I'll be very happy. I may not be able to see where the lines are anymore so I can just scribble away!