93

My mother and hers, around 1930

Last Friday would have been my mother’s 93^rd birthday. Not a milestone, like a birthday that ends in 0 or 5. Just one more June 21^st. 

Mother always said that being born on the longest day of summer meant she got to celebrate longer than anyone else. She loved birthdays. And birthday gifts. They didn’t have to be fancy or elaborated. Or even appropriate.

Mother, ca. 1948

I still remember the first birthday gift I bought for her with my own money. I saved my allowance for weeks, and when the time came, my brother helped me sneak around behind her in the Piggly Wiggly. I bought her a pitcher. Not sure why; I just thought it was pretty, all clear, with flowers painted on the glass. Also, the Piggly Wiggly had a limited supply of possible birthday gifts for moms.

My mother and hers, around 1980

She kept that pitcher until the paint wore off. And then some.

Toward the end of her life, when Mother didn’t need or want anything, I sent cards and flowers, made calls, tried to visit. Anything to remember her “longest day to celebrate.”

Spa day at her church, 2006

After all, she didn’t keep that pitcher because she liked the pitcher.

Mother would not, however, have mentioned it if my brother or I had forgotten her birthday. That was not her style. Instead, she tried to instill in both of us the short, temporary nature of life. No one is going to be in our life forever. People leave. People die. And she knew that all too well. She lost her best friend in a car crash when I was 7. And more than 25 years after my grandmother’s death, Mother would sometimes murmur about missing her. I suspect, if I live that long, I’ll do the same.

A Southern POV: Dinner on the Grounds

Ah, Decoration Sunday. What a sweet memory!

Every year, on the third Sunday in May, Hopewell Baptist Church near Ashville, Alabama, held (and still does) Decoration Sunday. That’s when all the families come out, clean up the family graves, and replace the flowers, weed, rake the marble chips, and anything else needed to spruce up the resting places of the ancestors we still honored and respected.

When I was a kid, this also included dinner on the grounds. The long table the church elders had erected would be inundated with fried chicken, green beans, potato salad, congealed salads, coleslaw, homemade biscuits and rolls, and enough sweet tea to put the entire county into a coma.

Not to mention the desserts.

Oh, let’s do mention them. Every cook in the area would array their best dishes with their favorite sweets. Banana puddings, pies of every fruit we could grow, and cakes. Flies would come from miles around, and there is no torture in the world like standing a hungry 8-year-old next to the sweets, handing her a towel, and saying, “Now keep the flies away.”

Right. Nothing said about keeping fingers away, right?

“And don’t touch anything. Not till after the blessing.”

Right . . .

The commanding voice of a preacher who could be heard in town would bless the food, and the scramble for the best bits would begin. As you can see from the table, it was high enough for all ages of kids to scoot under and around, grabbing skirts, teasing each other, and occasionally dropping a lizard on the table, just to see who’d scream.

For the record, my mother never screeched, but she had lightning reflexes. A reptile near her baskets ran the risk of being snatched and flung into the graveyard before it could blink. The kids would race after it, laughter and squeals echoing off the old growth canopy of trees.

Y’know, I was an adult before I saw a cemetery with flat, grass-covered rows, with headstones level with the ground. The ones I grew up around were rolling mounds of sand and grass, dotted with ancient, lichen-covered markers, some that towered into the sky. The only “organization” was that the saints were all buried with their feet to the east, so they could rise facing Jesus upon his return.

The rest was a bit . . . haphazard. Some families surrounded plots with borders of granite or brick. Marble chips, slowly fading from white to black from weathering, covered many humped graves. For a kid, it was a minefield of treasures: not just the aforementioned lizards, but June bugs (which were AWESOME tied to strings), multicolored rocks, old flower arrangements (which made great “wedding” bouquets for the girls). Oh, and there was the cemetery on the other side of the road, which was abandoned and overgrown, ripe for ghost stories.

I remember the uncomfortable stuff as well: crinolines and mary janes, ants, horse flies, and the sweltering humidity, even in May. But all that fades in light of the good, the cherished remembrances of family, faith, fun, friends . . .

 . . . and lizards.

Author, Center Stage: Leigh Ann Thomas

Today, I launch my author spotlight posts with Leigh Ann Thomas, whose book, Smack Dab in the Midlife Zone, launched June 6. Don't forget to comment on this blog for a chance to win a copy of the book.

Welcome, Leigh Ann! Let’s start with a description of the book.

The infamous middle years:

• Children move through school, fly the coop, and return home bringing more children
• “Natural” highlights are—in reality—gray hairs
• Clothes-shopping in Juniors brings guilt and undergarments get sturdier
• Children need us less, parents need us more
• Questions abound: Who is that woman in the mirror? What is my purpose? Where do I fit in? What now, Lord?

Over 40? No problem. With joy and transparency, Smack-Dab in the Midlife Zone uses scripture, prayer, and the power of story to show women in midlife how being smack-dab in the middle of God’s plans and purposes is the best place to be. With the Lord’s guidance, this packed-with-transition life season can be infused with growth, discovery, and edge-of-your-seat adventure!

Sounds great! So what incident in your life spurred you into writing this book?

I emerged from my thought-it-would-last-forever mom-fog and noticed my girls were nearly grown. My babies now approached high school, college, and this thing called marriage. I felt the ground shifting beneath my feet and panic ensued. As I fought the inevitable changes, my thought-life became a chaotic mess. Lord, wait. Where do I fit in? What happens now?

  With grace-filled patience and tenderness, God taught me that in spite of what my senses were telling me, this was a beautiful, magnificent beginning. I needed to lay my angst at His feet and to simply trust Him.

I love your dedication to your grandmother. What impact did she have on your writing? How do you think your life in “mid-life” differs from hers?

My sweet Granny impacted my writing through her powerful influence on my faith. In addition to my parents, she and my Gramps modeled lives of genuine, sacrificial devotion to God, family, and others. I have treasured memories of snuggling next to her as she studied her Bible and of walking with her to church—my hand in hers—and chatting about anything and everything. When my family moved several states away from my grandparents, I do remember that Granny and I exchanged handwritten letters. She saved (under a clear coat of varnish) one I wrote as a nine-year-old, and I have the letter in my office today.

  As far as midlife, I don’t remember Granny worrying about her appearance, changing roles, or where she fit in (of course, I may have been too young to pick up on those things). I just remember her laughter and her warmth. She exuded life and joy.

In what way does your faith encourage your writing?

I want my work to be an overflow from my relationship with Jesus Christ. Because of this, I don’t see my faith so much as an influence as an integral part of fulfilling my goals and purpose.

Why would Smack-Dab in the Midlife Zone make the perfect summer reading book?

Ah, these balmy days are the perfect time to immerse our souls in nature and to discover beautiful places of solitude—a woodland trail, the front porch, a shell-dotted beach, a secluded park bench—to still and quiet our inner selves, and to seek God’s heart. Smack-Dab in the Midlife Zone encourages women to reach for everything a life with Christ offers: depth of purpose, vision, and confidence. 

  This life-season involves myriad change, but our God doesn’t change, and He calls us to take the next steps in this faith adventure. There is no age exclusion on vibrant, passionate living, and when we lay our midlife fears and uncertainties at His feet, He will guide us to walk in joy and to glorify Him in our moments.

  

What’s your next book?

I’m praying over several scribble-filled notebooks and listening for the Lord’s gentle whispers of direction. Each potential manuscript is a way to encourage women in Christ—to inspire lives of vision and passion. The process is such an adventure!

Where can readers find you online? 

Website: LeighAThomas.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/lthomaswrites

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/leighathomaswrites/

Amazon author page: https://amzn.to/2rNxrrB

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/785810.Leigh_Ann_Thomas

And where can we buy the book?

Elk Lake Publishing Inc. https://www.elklakepublishinginc.com/leigh-ann-thomas/

Amazon  https://amzn.to/2MMUHFK 

Barnes and Noble https://bit.ly/2wPeFoz           

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Leigh Ann Thomas is passionate about encouraging women to seek God’s best. She has penned four books and is a contributing author in 12 compilations. A staff writer for the parenting sites, InTheQuiver.com and Just18Summers.com, Leigh Ann has also contributed to Southern Writers Magazine, Power for Living, Charisma Magazine, and others. 

She is married to her best friend, Roy, and they are thankful for the gifts of three daughters, two sons-in-law, three amazing grandsons and a grand-princess.  

A Southern POV: The Kneeling Log

I never knew my paternal grandfather; he died six months after I was born. I've heard great stories, of course, from my grandmother, father, and assorted cousins who knew him. Jesse Walter Pope seems to have been universally loved by anyone who crossed his path. One story, however, stands out, and it underscores the legacy of faith he left behind.

The Popes (before Daddy was born). L-R: Brothers Walter and Jesse; Jesse's wife Omie Brothers with their firstborn Bunice. I'm not sure who the girl is, possible Terah Maude or Omie's sister. Parents Henry B. and Terah Maude (Gray) Pope.

Omie and Jesse Walter's gravesite, Steele, Alabama

Every day, without telling anyone, Granddaddy vanished. Wandered away from his home. Without saying anything to anyone, he disappeared into the woods. It was a lifelong habit, and only a few people knew why. But after he died, the story began to spread, especially after folks started hearing about his kneeling log.

One cousin, who had seen the log, began to share what was behind his daily disappearance. You see, Granddaddy went into the woods to pray. He knelt on a log and had a lengthy chat with God. No one knows for certain what they talked about, but given his nature, I feel certain that he started with praise to God and thanksgiving for all the blessings in his life. Gratitude for his family and friends. He'd make requests for his family and work his way outward.

Every day. Rain, shine, cold, or heat. So much so that when they found that log after his death, it had two deep impressions in it from his knees. Scoops out of the wood from where he pressed hard, lifting up those around him.

That, my friends, is a lot of praying.

Now, you might not be able to tell Mr. Jesse was a praying man from that picture of his family. He's the one holding the shotgun, who looks a lot like he might take you out if you approached his wife and new baby. But pictures can be deceiving; this was a good man who treated his family like gold...

My study Bible

...including the six-month old granddaughter, who would be the last grandchild in the family. He doted on her. Prayed over her. And no doubt, for her.

And, believe me, my mother reminded me of that fact till the day she died. "You have been prayed over by the best," she'd say. Don't ever forget that. And I haven't. Ever. 

So never think that the faith you have goes unnoticed or unheralded. Or that what you believe today will leave no remnant when you're gone. Those around you, those who love you notice. And your impact will resonate for years to come, even unto the next generation.

For the Love of Books

I always say that I'm all about books, writers, and readers. That's been my heart since I was telling stories on my grandmother's lap, making up stuff to embarrass my parents and get my brother into trouble.

So, in an effort to continue that focus, I am opening up my blog to spotlight authors who have upcoming releases. My goal is to post a new interview about an upcoming or recently released book every Wednesday. I'm currently have those booked through September, and I'll open up an invitation in August for more.

No, I don't have a lot of readers (yet) on this blog. But I have a good social media presence, and, of course, the authors can share on their own social media. Y'see, gone are the days when a majority of readers find new authors through browsing the shelves at the local bookstore. Today, the key to discoverability is word-of-mouth. Reaching out to the readers where they are.

This is my small effort to help with that. And if you have ideas for me on improving this effort, I'm open to them. Let's all help each other find the best reads and the most engaging authors.

The first interview will launch this Wednesday. So look for each of these features, which I'll be calling Author, Center Stage.

A Southern POV: My Grandmother's Bible

Do you have one? I do. I have several, in fact. Those foxed and dog-eared, leather-covered and hand-smeared Bibles that sustained our families through good times and hard trials. Many are falling apart, loved beyond repair. I received them from both sides of my family, and they hold cherished spots in my house...and my heart.

My grandmothers were both avid Bible readers. My paternal grandmother, Omie, was so entrenched in Scripture that she made it a mission to read through the Bible once every year. King James, of course; she loved the language. It wasn't a doctrinal issue for her--choosing that translation over another--but one of familiarity and love.

The words rolled off her tongue like butter, soothing and sure. Omie could wield Scripture like a sword--or a poultice. She noted in the back of her Bible every time she finished a read-through, and she wore out more than one leather text. She'd place it on her lap, feet together and flat on the floor, like the charm school grad she was, and disappear into God's Word.

This is one of her later Bibles, and you can see how tattered it had become. It wasn't the last one she wore out, but it was the one she noted her second marriage in--she remarried in August 1963 at the age of 71 (she turned 72 later that month)--as well as many of the births and marriages of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

What a treasure that makes this Bible--it's not just a legacy of her faith but one of the love she had for all her family. Her hugs were legendary, and she'd smooch every cheek as if she hadn't seen you in a lifetime. She was practical and poised, but she gave my mother some of the best advice on marriage--and sex--ever.

She may have been a proper lady, but she knew men...and when women, even proper Southern ladies...get together to talk about life and love, practicality won out over proper. There are a few folks who knew her who say I remind them of her (except for that proper part), which I take as a great compliment.

Omie Velma Brothers Pope Burns lived until she was 90, outliving that second husband and most of her peers.

But not her love of God's Word. That was, like the Bible itself, eternal.

A Southern POV: Burnt Fried Chicken

I had two grandmothers, and they should have been similar, considering they were of the same generation, born on either side of the year 1900. Instead, they could not have been more different. Mom and Grandmother.

"Mom" is on the left, next to Mother,
and "Grandmother" is on the right.
Circa 1978. 

They did have some things in common, including their devout faith. And as the youngest grandchild on both sides of the family, I lost them both fairly early in life, when I was in my early 20s. Forty years later, memories are faded and pixelated, but a few stand out, clear as the proverbial dinner bell.

My maternal grandmother, Ila, was soft-spoken, loving, and kind, an amazing cook who loved to garden and take care of her family and the animals on the farm. We called her "Mom," instead of any of the usual grandmother names. She could do anything with a needle, including tatting lace. She had spare bedrooms that were clean if a bit cluttered, and whenever we returned to my parents' hometowns, we always stayed with her.

We almost never stayed with my paternal grandmother, Omie. It didn't occur to me until I was grown to ask why. And, to be honest, by that time, I really didn't have to ask.

Omie had been a "city girl," who had even attended charm school. In my childhood, she absolutely defined "prim and proper." We never dreamed of calling her anything but Grandmother. She married a storekeeper, who was a member of a "founding family" in his small town, but the Great Depression turned them into farmers for awhile, which made Grandmother miserable. She wasn't a great cook, and much preferred to read her Bible and sing hymns at the top of her voice, her feet going lickety-split on the pump organ peddles, than clean. Supper was often cornbread and milk, pinto beans, or cold leftovers.

Grandmother, my brother, and me.
Circa 1959.

She had a most patient husband. Two, in fact. She outlived both of them. 

She hated mini-skirts and beards (and hippies, if that's not obvious). Once, when I was attempting to sit gracefully in a mini-skirt by pulling it down in the back, she commented, "Dear, you cannot pull down what isn't there."

But, heavens, did Grandmother love the Bible. She made a godly attempt to read through the King James Bible from Genesis to Revelation, every year. She wore out several leather volumes, and she recorded each completed read-through in the back, in her neat but shaky handwriting. She was wise, devout, and demanding. Yet she loved all her grandkids almost as much as she did the King James.

But I seldom thought about her without thinking about burnt fried chicken. As I said...she wasn't much of a cook.

I think she was bothered occasionally by the fact that our family never stayed with her when we were visiting the area. But her house was usually small, and she was lovingly determined to bring us back to the doctrines she loved so much. My father lost patience with this fairly quick.

Plus...her sofa and chairs were also covered in horsehair fabric, which made us all itch.

But in one attempt to persuade us to linger longer, she offered to make us lunch, which consisted of leftovers some of her church ladies had brought her. There was potato salad, beans, some greens we couldn't quite put a name to...and fried chicken. My mother suggested she heat it in the oven, but Grandmother insisted the skillet would be faster. So she refried the chicken.

Or tried to. Chicken doesn't refry easily. Especially when there's no fat in the skillet.

Ah, well, fried chicken isn't that good for you anyway.

But it was a memorable visit. One full of love, advice, and great hugs. I think God...and King James...would have been pleased.