Nostalgia Burgers...

The old adage says “you can’t go home again”.  I disagree.  True, you can’t go back in time and experience things the same way and the past is not a healthy place to reside, but there’s nothing wrong with taking a peek at the Used To Bes and Once Weres.

I moved enough as a kid that I didn’t have my own connection to my family’s hometown.  I certainly have memories created during summer visits but that was vacation for me.  I loved my grandfather’s tour of all the sites and places that were important to him.  “Over there’s where the barn used to be. It’s not there anymore.”  I sat on barstools next to him, drinking my YooHoo, listening to him talk to his buddies about all of those places that used to be.  They mattered.  They mattered to him because they were part of his life story.  They mattered to me because they were part of my life story, too.

As adults, ,my siblings and I shared ice cold Stag beers at the bar that used to be the Bikini Club…which used to be the school house where our father went to school as a boy.  Sure, many years have passed and many bodies have crossed that threshold since those school days, but I believe some of those memories linger in the ethers.

The first place that I really called MY home – the town where I spent my formative years and shaped the Terri that I am today is a place that most people only visit from time to time.  Before MTV descended upon us, the beach of my heart was a sleepy little haven between Labor Day and Memorial Day with a noisy party thumping during the summer in between.  All of my first big moments happened there.  First job.  First kiss.  First car.  First place of my own.

I’m lucky enough to be able to return to that beach every once in a while.  Naturally, the beauty of the place is the main draw, but I can’t help but run through the Memory Tour.  It feels good to glance back sometimes.  And now, with my kids next to me, maybe they’ll understand a bit about me beyond “Mom”, in the same way I saw my grandfather as more than just my grandfather when he reminisced.

Sadly, many of “my” places now only live in the land of Used To Be.  The Pier 99 Motor Lodge, where I was a 13 year old maid (hardest physical job of my life) is no more.  In its place is yet another towering condominium.  But Pineapple Willies - which I watched being constructed as I squeaked my toes in the sand behind it - is still going strong.  Miracle Strip Amusement park has been gone for a few years now.  The pier radio tower where I first thought “I could be a DJ” is probably not even a memory for many of the families who visit now.  The Treasure Ship perished in a fire.  Dracula’s Castle gave way to giant souvenir shops.  Their absence doesn’t stop me from pointing out where they Used To Be to my eye-rolling husband and kids.

Last weekend, I had an opportunity to visit my beach again.  After I squeaked my toes in the sand, I promised my girls a visit to my hometown anchor – Funland – for a Nostalgia Burger and maybe a round of Goofy Golf.  We only made it to Funland but that was enough to restore my soul.

You see, when I lived there, the roads were uncluttered.  A drive on the main road meant there was beautiful visible beach on one side and small houses and mom and pop businesses on the other.  Perfection, really, but for teenagers, we could always find fault in something.  There was no high school on the beach in those days, so early morning loooong bus rides or a beat up old car were necessary.  There was no McDonald’s, no fast food at all. 

But there was Funland.  Steps from my front door, I could meet up with my friends, eat a delicious hamburger, have some ice cream, and play a little skeeball while figuring out where to go next.  Go drink beer in the dinosaur’s belly at Goofy Golf?  Catch up with the skaters at the pier?  Both?

 

The first time my husband’s band was booked at Pineapple Willie’s, I told them to go have a Nostalgia Burger at Funland.  They saw the beauty of the place right away.  Any time I am within an hour of the place, you’d better believe I’ll make it there.  It never disappoints.  The moment I walk in, the bells ringing and games clanging take me right back to 16. 

My kids see the magic of the place.  OK, they’re probably just humoring me so I give them game tokens but they do appreciate the snack bar.  They surely cringe when I talk to the folks behind the counter and call my Nostalgia Burger a Nostalgia Burger, but that’s what it is and I will honor that!  They pretend to ignore me when I strike up a conversation with the same maintenance guy that has been there since 1982 but I think they’re also paying attention.  These things matter.

This place, with its burgers and cheap beer and pinball helped to shape me.  It is my hope that I will always be able to get a Nostalgia Burger and that, one day, my kids will have their very own memories of the place.  At the very least, I trust that *they* will have a place for their own version of Nostalgia Burgers.

 

Embrace The Mad Genius...

Recently, my family was on an impromptu vacation, wandering the hills and sites of Chattanooga.  It’s close to home and one of those places that we always drive through on the way to someplace else, so why not?

 Chattanooga, if you’re not familiar, has a landscape of mountains and valleys and is under 150 miles from Atlanta, Nashville, Knoxville, Birmingham, and so on.  Geography historically made it a desirable place to set up camp.  First for the Cherokees, and then for soldiers and miners.  So, my family set up camp (in a motel with a pool and breakfast buffet) for a few days. 

Mother Nature did a fabulous job designing the area but human nature is to tinker and make changes and improvements that suit whims or needs of the moment.  So while the caverns, waterfalls, and mountain ridges were pretty great on their own, man made them accessible and more comfortable for other humans to enjoy.  Not so coincidentally, these adaptations created money flow. 

As a tourist, I appreciate these “upgrades” and embrace them.  However, because my brain works the way it does, I always find myself marveling at the creativity and tenacity of the people behind the technology instead of the natural beauty in front of me.  We know why the railroad was built.  We know why and how roads were constructed.  We can kind of understand the need for the cable rail that goes a mile up the side of a mountain. 

Tour guides can explain the reasoning behind the technology and can talk about the challenges or obstacles on the way to the top, or to the bottom to the falls.  But they never really shed light on the mad genius behind it all.  That’s the tour I want to take. 

What made that chemist tunnel under ground for 17 hours in the first place?  When the first hang glider strapped himself to wings and launched off the side of a mountain, how sure of himself was he?   

I think maybe I come from a long line of natural tinkerers.  Grandparents, uncles, brothers, and cousins who, when met with a problem, figure out a way to keep getting the work done.  It’s not so uncommon.  My grandmother figured out how to make her own tin cookie cutters (and sold them to neighborhood housewives) when such things weren’t readily available during war rationing.  My grandfather, working in a meat packing company, suggested that White Castle poke small holes in their burger patties to speed up line cooks (he received a cash reward and they are still made that way), and my mother can create the perfect box or packaging for whatever she needs with cardboard scraps. 

Those are all very practical things.  But what about the weird and/or fun stuff?  That’s where my brothers come in.  Brother Ken once created a very elaborate system to reach around a corner and across a room for the sole purpose of swiping frosting off of a cake that was being closely guarded.  Why?  Probably just because he could and seemed like fun.  That was the only reward. 

I’m always most impressed by the people who create not out of need, but for the fun of it.  I wish I had that in me.  I absolutely have the creativity and have countless zany ideas in any given moment.  I just don’t have the drive to see it to fruition.

 

When we strolled through Rock City and heard the tale of the man who turned a rough natural treasure into a fairyland garden, I was moved by the vision of this local guy who recognized a resource and turned it into something grand.  Perhaps I was just in the right frame of mind to notice, in one of the many gift shops, this little gem!

It is exactly what it appears to be:  a retired cigarette machine – the kind once found in every bar or restaurant in the country – but with a new purpose!  This particular machine is an “Art-O-Mat”, vending handmade goodies from local artists.  Hand crafted soaps, oil paintings (which, I imagine, are probably small), jewelry, etc.  There was even a Mystery selection, so who knows what your five bucks could have gotten!

 

Now, my focus was off of the rocks and rope bridges.  I wanted to know about the mad genius behind this object!  Because this is just the kind of thing I would create in my head but that would never actually happen.  1. I’m lazy by nature and 2. I’m easily distracted so the first time my idea was rejected, I’d certainly drop it. 

I think the world would be a much happier place if we appreciated and encouraged our mad geniuses more.  True, this recycled vending machine isn’t solving world hunger or global warming, but it’s definitely spreading whimsy and encouraging the growth of ideas into reality.  And who knows, maybe it’s the thinkers of this variety that are going to save us all!

What I Am Is What I Am...

I come from a pack of musicians.  I married a musician.  I birthed a couple of natural musicians.  But I’m no musician myself.  Still, nearly every moment of every day delivers a song to my head.  More often than not, I find myself speaking in song lyrics.

That makes my kids crazy – which may be why I do it.  Whenever they lodge a complaint or ask for something, I often respond with relatable lyrics.  They give me funny looks and ask if that’s a real song.  Thanks to youtube, I can always share with them the soundtrack in my head.

Unless you were paying attention in the late 80s, you may be unfamiliar with the current song in my brain’s rotation.  Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians said “What I am is what I am. Are you what you are or what?”

Why this one?  Frustration, I think . It seems that more and more in this world, people are demanding labels for everything.  The old “what do you do?” question when first meeting someone has been around forever and will probably never fade.  The expected response is to name your profession and claim that label as your identity.

People have become bolder and more demanding in wanting others to identify their labels. Are you Liberal? Conservative? Christian?  Carnivore? Vegan? What’s your Nationality? Whose team are you on?  What I am is what I am. Are you what you are or what?”

What I am is a Person. I am Mother, Daughter, Wife, Sister, Friend. I am Grateful I am Loving.  That’s the end of the labels I’m willing to wear for anyone else.

I often say that I know a little about a lot of things.  Lessons learned by just being present with open eyes and ears.  “Oh, I'm not aware of too many things.  I know what I know, if you know what I mean.”

Some of this acquired knowledge enables me to do a job.  Some informs decisions I make in the things that matter.  Some guides me through challenges.  Some steers me away from conflict and frustration.

Since labels seem to be the thing people are most focused on right now, I will temporarily wear Frustrated Human Being.  When my fellow humans are choosing separation and conflict, it’s frustrating.  Anger and fear have no place in my world, but I see it swirling around me.  When Ego – be it political, religious, or just plain arrogance - runs rampant, it seems that instinct is to cling to all of those labels one carries and try to run with them.  That only serves to fan the flames and fuel the fire.

For me, I trust that security comes from standing with my feet firmly planted, wrapped in the blanket of the only labels I need.  Good Person. Mother. Daughter. Wife. Sister. Friend.  What I am is what I am. Are you what you are or what?”

 

 

Can't Never Could...

I think every family has regular sayings that come up as steady reminders.  History lessons, etiquette coaching, just general good ideas about how to behave in the world.  Naturally, in a family as large as mine, we had plenty that carried us through life. 

Most were practical in nature – “On your feet, lose your seat” was a real survival mantra in a house with more butts than chairs.  “Mom called.” meant expectations were being presented. The list goes on, but the ones that mattered are the ones that have stuck with me outside of the safety net of childhood.  These are the things that have guided me through life so far and the things that, one day, will be shared with my own kids.  Eventually.

I don’t remember my mother saying “Sometimes it’s better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission” when I was young and safe in the nest, but she definitely shared that with me as I was testing my wings.  You know what?  It’s great advice and has served me well  I’ve paired it with my own advice found out here in the world – “What’s the worst that can happen?  If the answer is ‘Nothing’, then go for it.”  Now, I won’t be passing that one on to my own kids until I think they’re ready to handle it, but it’s still solid advice.

I’m sure my own kids will grow up to remember me saying “I didn’t ask you if you want to” when they protest a command to clean their room or something.  I have many similar things, but the one I hope they carry with them through life is the one that will take them the farthest.

“Can’t never could”.  I remember my grandmother saying this when I complained that I couldn’t do something.  I remember my mother saying this, too.  I try to be mindful of this when choosing my words to my own kids.  When they come up with some seemingly hair-brained scheme that I’m pretty certain will flop, I try not to tell them they can’t do it.  I may question their plan with an “Are you sure?” or “How are you going to do that?”without ever saying “You can’t do that!”  and let them see for themselves.

By “Can”, I mean is capable.  It’s not about permission. I definitely say “You may not” or “You’re not allowed to do that” but words matter in our world (As I remind them by singing “our words are prayers, be careful what you’re saying” to them) and try to steer them away from seemingly bad ideas but their young lives have only just begun.  Who am I to tell them what they can do?

My 8 year old has been saving apple seeds all her life.  She states her intention to plant them one day and squirrels them away in pockets or paper cups until they are lost and she starts over again.  In my grown up mind, I know that I buy apples of unknown origin from big box grocery stores, so planting those seeds is not likely to produce anything but disappointment.  But I never said “You can’t do that!”

About two months ago, “Someday” arrived.  My little farmer instinctively knew how to germinate those seeds.  Then she planted them in a small paper cup, with soil she scrounged from the back yard and positioned them under a lamp.  And she watched.  And she waited.  And I’ll be damned if tiny little sprouts didn’t rise up from the dirt!

Every day, she watched and measured.  She loved those seeds into life!  We transplanted it from the tiny paper cup to a small flower pot.  And it kept growing.  So it went to a bigger pot.  And it’s still growing. 

 

Two months later, this tiny little seed that should not have developed is a 14 inch tall, healthy, sturdy plant.  I need a bigger pot.  Eventually, I assume, we’ll have to put it in the ground and love it some more.  Will it ever bear fruit?  Maybe.  Maybe not. I don’t know.  But I will never say that it can’t.  Because Can’t Never Could.

When my daughter sees this plant, I hope she remembers that she defied probability and made something happen.  When I see it, it serves as a reminder that the ideas and hearts of those who are determined can make the improbable become possible!

 

Just The Tip Of The Iceberg...

I talk about my family often, so if you know me, you know that I hold my grandmother on a platform as an example of the woman I strive to be.  She was loving and nurturing, but she was strong.  She raised smart, kind, strong children who became smart, kind, strong parents of smart, kind, strong children. There was nothing that she couldn’t do if she wanted to and she did a lot.  She worked hard.  She was inventive and creative and could always find a way to accomplish whatever needed to be done.  But for all of the things I could say about Josephine,.  I never would have said that she was playful.

That is, until I saw some newly discovered photos of the young girl who had not yet become a wife, a mother, a grandmother.  She was eating watermelon, making faces, and clearly horsing around with her brothers.  In hindsight, I realize I saw that in her.  She had a sly sense of humor, but was very quick and quiet about showing it.  She, well into her late 80s, could still play pool (one handed!) like the shark she learned to be at her brothers’ sides.  And, now that I think about it, the way she helped her grandchildren learn Readin’ Ritin’ and ‘Rithmetic was done through games, rhymes, and songs.  She DID have a playful silly side!

Still, I never would have said that she was sentimental.  In my family, I think I carry the sappy torch of schmaltzy remember-whens that make everyone else roll their eyes.  I never would have guessed that my grandmother had that in her.  The other day, however, my mother and I were talking about fabric and quilts, which reminded her of the time my grandmother made a wedding ring pattern quilt for her youngest child – my aunt Ruth – with fabric from Ruth’s dresses and clothing over the years.  You could have knocked me over with a feather with that revelation.  My stoic, practical grandmother had an emotional connection with fabric scraps!?!

Now, she’d been quilting all of my life.  Every family baby was welcomed with a quilt made by her hands.  Of course, I knew those quilts were made with love and devotion.  They were all received with love and a bit of reverence for the heart and hands that made them.  I just never realized that those sentimental feelings were a two way street. 

This new insight to a woman I thought I understood just made me think of the old iceberg adage.  We’ve all heard the expression “just the tip of the iceberg”.  It’s generally intended to say that there is so much more to a situation than one can easily see.  Sometimes, that can mean things that seem simple are actually very complex.  Sometimes, it’s used as a warning that the worst of a situation is yet to come.  Sometimes, however, it’s delivered as advice to persist because beyond the good that you can see, there is only more bounty to come.

The Josephine that I knew was just a tiny portion of who she really was.  And I think, if we’re being honest with ourselves, that rings true for all of us.  No matter how much we say we’re open and present our whole selves, there’s no real way to display all of the ingredients that make us who we are.

My kids used to love those little scratch art sheets that, at first glance, are a sheet of one matte solid (usually dark) color.  Using the tip of a little plastic pencil, they’d scratch away the solid and reveal the bright rainbow of color that lay beneath.  Life’s kind of like that:  scratch away the darkness to reveal the beautiful picture.  The catch is, if you scratch it all away, you’re left with nothing but a meaningless blob of color.  It's the dark veneer that holds the shape.

Likewise, it’s the deep-set foundation that gives the iceberg strength.  We see what’s visible.  If we get closer and stick around a bit, it becomes clear that there’s more below the surface than we first saw.  I once saw a quote (sorry, don’t recall who said it):  “Personality is the tip of the iceberg someone shows you.  Character is their true foundation.”

With this in mind, I will continue to be surprised by the base at the iceberg of every person I meet and I hope we all experience more awe and beauty and less “Titanic”.. 

 

Bob Ross Is My Spirit Animal...

When I was younger, I never would have claimed to be an optimist, but I guess that’s always been the case.  Looking back, I always had a soft spot for the outcast, the sad sack, and the underdog.

I’m sure that’s just hard wired into my DNA.  My grandparents never walked away from an opportunity to help.  My mother took in every stray animal – be it cat, dog, or teenage boy – that crossed her path.  My father, broken as he may have been, was a torch bearer for causes that mattered to him and was quick to take action when the alarm bells rang.  So, I guess that’s just who I am.  I’m happy to even have a glass, so when something’s in it, it must be half full.

My friends often joke that I’m “The Diplomat” because, when there’s tension, I’m pretty adept at pointing out the positive spin.  If the silver lining isn’t obvious, I try to direct the eye to the other places it can be.  That’s not such a bad trait.  I’ll take it.  I’m like the Bob Ross of real life scenarios! 

Anyone over twenty who’s ever spent any time watching public television is surely familiar with the man with the soothing voice and big, fluffy afro who just wanted to share his Joy of Painting with anyone who’d watch.  He was a master with his brushes and oils and could whip out a beautiful landscape in the half hour that he had to share with us.  More than that, he was a master with his words of encouragement and his uncanny ability to turn any misstep into an intentional part of the story he was painting.  As he said in nearly every episode, “We don’t make mistakes.  Just happy little accidents.”

I’m no artist.  The only painting I do is on the walls of my house.  But Bob’s approach to painting has been an excellent guide for my own approach to life.  He voiced one of my deepest held beliefs – one presented to me all my life by my mother and grandmother – in such a way that it really registered with my adult self: “The secret to doing anything is believing that you can do it. Anything that you believe you can do strong enough, you can do. Anything. As long as you believe.”

When I catch myself doing things that maybe cause others to give me the side-eye, I’m reminded of Bob saying  “People look at me like I'm a little strange, when I go around talking to squirrels and rabbits and stuff. That's ok. Thaaaat's just ok.”  Once again, no one has ever accused me of being appropriate.  I will continue to talk to strangers, to squirrels, and I will continue to look beyond the dark and the thunderstorms for the rainbow that I believe will be there on the other side.  I think Bob Ross is my Spirit Animal.

Now, maybe more than ever, there are unintended splotches on the canvas.  I’m going to morph them into happy little clouds or strong green trees.  Every day, we have the opportunity to shake our brushes clean, let in some light, and get to painting! As the man said “We're gonna make some big decisions in our little world.”

Thanks, Bob.  For the art, of course, but mostly for the inspiration.

Temporary Posses...

Last month, I was the lucky recipient of a jury summons.  That’s the price of one of our freedoms in this country, so I never mind it in theory.  Reality, however, brings a host of reasons why I’d rather be anyplace else. 

For starters, I live in a county that spreads across a large portion of metro Atlanta, which means a commute from the northern suburbs to downtown, at a time when roughly a bajillion other people (give or take) are on the highway, headed in the same direction.  Then, given the large population of my county, there are countless cases on the docket on any given day, so selection is a long process.  Still, civic duty prevails, so I filled my coffee cup, loaded my bag with granola bars and reading material, and headed downtown.

Because of the sheer number of prospective jurors required, the courts have a system to handle the influx.  Rather than expecting everyone to rely on chance to find parking or a reliable train schedule, buses are used to shuttle us from a big stadium parking lot to the courthouse.  Easy enough.  Traffic was on my side, I found a nice shady parking spot, the sun was shining.  What more could I ask for?

As I was walking toward the bus area, a couple of people asked me if they were in the right place for jury duty.  I assured them they were and pointed them in the right direction.  Then, I heard someone calling “Ma’am?” from her car.  Since I didn’t see any other Ma’ams around, I deduced that she was talking to me, so I turned to her.  She, like the others, inquired as to whether she was in the right place.  I told her she was and offered to wait and walk with her.  Together, we made our way to the group of people waiting just as the bus pulled up.

When we boarded, there was only one available seat, so I offered it to her (as she was my senior) and I stood nearby.  When we arrived at the courthouse, she was ahead of me exiting the bus so I was a little surprised to see her waiting for me on the curb.  She said “We made it this far, I figured we should stick together.”  So we did.  We stayed together through the metal detector scans, the check in process, and found our way to the already very full waiting area where my new partner scouted the room and found us two seats together.

When I sat down, she quoted one of my favorite proverbs: “If you want to go fast, go alone.  If you want to go far, go together.”  I laughed.  Told her that was one of my favorites, and put my book back into my bag because I was pretty clear I wouldn’t need it to occupy my time.

We chatted a bit, in the way that strangers do.  Or, at least in the way that *I* do with strangers that makes my husband and kids roll their eyes at me.  My new friend – I’ll call her “A” – noted with a chuckle that nearly every person in the very full room had their heads down, faces buried in some sort of electronic device to prevent them from actually interacting with other human beings.  At some point, the woman on A’s other side, put her phone down and joined our conversation.  We’ll call her “B”.  After a bit, the woman (“C”) directly across from us put her book down and commented on something we said.  Before long, we had a nice little coffee klatch – 4 women passing the time – learning from one another, laughing, and just generally enjoying ourselves – while hundreds of people sat silently sequestered unto themselves all around us.

When it was time for our first break, we 4 women, strangers when the day started, found our way together to the break room and shared a table where we sipped coffee, nibbled on danishes, and continued to chat.  When my husband texted to see how my day was going so far, I told him I had a new posse to keep me company.  Back in the waiting area, we settled back in to wait together.

We talked about a little bit of everything.  The news, the uncomfortable chairs, previous jury experiences, our different neighborhoods, job searches, and so on.  A mentioned that her husband was at the doctor that day for a checkup for his kidney transplant 5 years prior.  So I told her about my husband and our experience.  Which led to B saying that her uncle is on the waiting list.  Then A’s name was called to go to a court room.  Soon enough, C’s name was called.  By lunch time, B and I were released at the same time so we decided to lunch together.

Out on the street, the obvious sandwich shops and fast food choices were there.  Then B stopped a busy looking man on the street and asked for a recommendation.  *Note to my kids – SHE stopped the stranger on the street, not me!*  He told us where he was going and offered to lead us there, so we followed.  There, in this tiny little place we’d never heard of, we had delicious Jamaican food that never would have happened without the guidance of a stranger.  You know, because we took a chance, trusted the guy, and went along with him.

 Back at the courthouse, with full bellies, the room was quickly emptying out.  Then B was relieved for the day while I was left in the final group for selection.  The end of my posse for the day.  So, I checked my email, pulled out my book and settled in.  After about an hour, I was finally let go – the last potential juror to be released that day...the sole survivor.  Civic duty done.

I don’t know if my Court House Posse took anything away from their time with me.  I hope so.  We talked about children and schools and everything that I suppose a group of friends would chat about over coffee.  We were different ages, different races, and of different lifestyles but, there in that room, we were all the same.  I think we all learned something during our time in those uncomfortable chairs.

Of course, I can think of a hundred things I’d rather have been doing that day, but I’m grateful for my posse.  I don’t remember their names.  But I will remember their stories and am so appreciative of the time spent with them.  Together, we were able to make a boring day more bearable.

The main lesson I got from the day is that I’m not alone in my instinct to connect with people  I’m standoffishly friendly (it is TOO a thing!) and I’m not alone in that.  And isn’t that kind of the point in life?  Connecting, sharing, learning?  Sometimes a posse is temporary.  That doesn’t make it less valuable.  Be open to the posse-bilities. (ha. see what I did there?)