This photo popped up on my Facebook memories today. It's of Mama and the girls during a birthday lunch for her in Charlotte. I scanned the screen for the date. A year later she will have decided to stop the chemo and let the cancer do it's thing.   Over the next month she'd feel great. I would come home one day to, "are we sure I'm still sick?" That night she would present John and me with a plan: she had already sold her car, so she would want to borrow one of ours to volunteer at the church office a few days a week. (She will have missed working a great deal.)  John and I would exchange glances that said, "how exactly are we going to manage THIS one?" We'd put her off for a few days until things would start to go downhill, reinforcing that, yes, she WAS still sick. We'd spend the next few months getting in lots of "lasts," though we wouldn't call them that. Road trips would be tough by then because she would never know how sh...

John got home Sunday night too late for supper. I walked into the kitchen to see him smearing peanut butter on a few crackers I had bought at a fancy food shop. “What are you doing?” I said. “I just wanted a snack," he said. “But I was saving those.” “Oh, sorry. For what?” “To eat,” I said. “I AM eating them.” “Later.” I turned my head toward a misshapen bowl on the counter. “When I serve them in this cute piece of pottery I bought.”  He shoved a cracker in his mouth and walked out of the room.  I knew it sounded silly even before I breathed the words. There were enough crackers to have now and later. Even if he ate them all, who cares? There are other crackers. Anyone else do this? We tuck away the decorative napkins, the best-fitting bra, the good beer, and move the homemade pound cake to the back of the freezer because we have in our minds that this thing is too valuable to be enjoyed now. We must wait until the right time that never comes. The next thing we know, the poun...

When I worked in adult literacy, I realized quickly that a variety of reasons brought these students to our door. They changed schools one time too many, had no support at home, worked to support the family, had an undiagnosed learning disability...the list goes on. As children they often endured a combination of challenges, but I never heard "I just didn't want to learn."  As part of our intake process, we asked about their experience with traditional education, which would help us help them learn as adults. Even though most of our students had left school before graduating, they could be successful by building on any positive past experience. They also needed help managing feelings of fear and apprehension, which tugged at most of them. A common question was, "Did you have a favorite teacher?" None of the students I ever talked to could name one.  Although school wasn't always wonderful and I had my share of teachers I didn’t care for, school was still a p...

Last August we moved to a cute little ranch with a pretty yard. We had to cram twenty years of house into one with much less storage space. Although I have been interested in the concept of minimalism for a few years, I seriously scaled down my junk footprint last summer. (I said I reduced it; I did not eliminate it. I’m not an animal.)  That meant getting rid of lots of stuff, whether or not it held an emotional connection or was of practical use. “You can’t keep it all,” I reminded myself. I separated items into boxes and trash bags bound for a charity or the dumpster. I tossed in books, kitchen tools, and clothes and—with a self-righteous turn of my head—did not look back. A decluttered house contributes to a decluttered life, and I desperately need that.  But as proud as I was to chunk, fling, and heave, I wrestled with my attachment to things even though I know they break, take up space, and lose their shine over time. And what about when you realize you discarded somethi...

“And who does HE belong to?” Aunt Edith said, interrupting Uncle Earl’s story about another WWII veteran who recently moved in two doors down. Aunt Edith and Mama We watched her skinny arm reach out from the corner of the room and extend in John’s direction. “He’s mine,” I smiled. “He’s my husband.”  She turned her gaze toward my mother. “And do we like him?” she said in that beautiful southern accent I always wish I’d inherited, though her throat needed clearing. Mama smiled back and turned to John, “oh, we do, we do.” “Well, then,” Edith said, plain as a butter knife. She returned her arm to her lap and smiled closemouthed at her husband of almost seventy years as if to say, “continue.” He did while Mama and I put out lunch.  “And who does HE belong to?” Aunt Edith said five minutes later, the arm again accusing John of something only Edith knew. “Oh, he’s still mine,” I said, shoving a hushpuppy in my mouth. This line of questioning continued throughout the afternoon. She k...

“I need to check on the fort,” L said a few weeks ago as I unbuckled him from the car seat. “Is it finished?” asked his brother, hopping down from the car. “It’s mostly finished,” I said. “ We still need to accessorize. Let’s go take a look.” Through pine needles, we walked back to the edge of the woods and climbed the ladder to what is basically a six-foot-high, freestanding deck. We take in the 360 degree view that includes a neighbor’s pond, which we didn’t know existed until now. I was excited for them to see it, not only because of the time and expense that had been put into it, but because I had already imagined the games and campouts soon to follow on the platform. (A tent is one of the accessories on our list.) “This is nice,” L said, running to each corner for a look. “Paw-Paw did a good job.”  “He did,” I said, my heart filling up. “That’s so nice of you to say. You should tell him that.” “But we need cup holders,” T interrupted and stretched up onto his tiptoes to see a...

We enjoyed a beautiful Mother’s Day this year; I hope you did. Literally beautiful because we celebrated many of the moms in the family in the perfect place: outside. The weather was mild and the breeze was light, bringing with it the scent of honeysuckle—one of my favorite things. It was glorious, ya’ll.  Last year John and I ate grits and eggs out of to-go boxes with his parents in their front yard, so I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m still basking in the glow of Sunday.  The moms hauled in the goods too: gift cards, flowers, jewelry, cards—funny and sweet. I decided to join in on the gift-giving by making homemade decorated cookies as a take-home treat for the moms. The thought was a good one, but the execution was weak. (You know you have a mess when no amount of glitter can fix it.)  Then I remembered: You know how mothers often receive (usually handmade) gifts that are the worst, but moms have to act like they’re the best? I simply gave these ladies another opportuni...