Home Is Where The Story Starts

A Legacy Worth Nurturing

Posted by on May 2, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts | 2 comments

A Legacy Worth Nurturing

First thing yesterday morning I hurried out to the front yard and peeked at my lilies of the valley. After all, it was May first and the lily of the valley is the official flower for the month of May. It rained off and on all night and there were still droplets on the flowers. It made my heart sing. These flowers are from home. Last summer, my sister-in-law dug out some plants from her yard, stuck them in an ice cream bucket, and we carried them all the way back to North Carolina where I plopped them in the ground. I anxiously watched this spring to see if they would come up and was overjoyed when they did. May isn’t May without lilies of the valley. Besides, these came from my parent’s retirement home. I lived there for several years before getting married, my brother and his family have lived in it since, and now my parents will be moving into it. It is a family home, one where many of my favorite memories live. Last summer also, my husband’s aunt gave us some plants. Some were daffodil bulbs from her home which I put between the hostas a friend from church gave us a few years ago. The hostas are magnificent this year. The daffodils came up, but didn’t bloom. I’m assured they were just adjusting to their new home. There’s also a Joseph’s Coat cutting she put in a planter and it has continued to thrive even though we still haven’t transplanted it. We will find a home for it and put it in the ground this week. The gorgeous red flowers make me smile just to look at them. The other thing she brought was a mass of peonies. I love peonies. They remind me of the parsonage where my parents have lived for the past 25 years. Every summer, the peonies in the side yard bloom and we carry ant covered blossoms in to grace the table. Such a big part of summer. I separated them and put some along one side of the house, and the other at the end of the porch by the lilies of the valley. They are doing great and will be blooming before long! They are especially precious to Bruce. These plants are separated from plants that were separated from plants at the farm “over home” where Bruce’s great-grandparents lived. It was the place that his mother and her sister thought of as “home.” “Mama would be so pleased that we have some of those peonies,” Bruce said. My heart smiled. Heirloom plants are a legacy of love and should be cherished and cared for. Speaking of care, my African violets aren’t doing so well. During the time that we were at the beach this winter, there was a cold snap here, and I’m afraid we had the heat turned down too far for indoor plants. One looks like it might survive, but the two that came from...

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When We Were Very Young

Posted by on Apr 28, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts | 2 comments

When We Were Very Young

When my older sister and I were very young we had an adopted set of grandparents, the Akeys. I was so young most of what I remember about them comes from stories that survived our time with them, with one exception—the doll house. My dad’s first church was up in the mountains of northern California in the tiny town of Adin. That is where we met the Akeys. One year our mother’s parents, Grandpa and Grandma McKnight and our two aunts, Connie and Carolyn came up to our house for Christmas and Grandpa and Grandma Akey came over also. Another church sent us a wonderful gift of a doll house. This doll house was special. It had metal floors and the people and animals had magnets on the bottom. You could hold a magnet under the floor and move the characters around. It was such a novelty that my one true remaining memory of Grandpa Akey is that he and Grandpa McKnight monopolized our new doll house ALL DAY LONG. Recently, when we were in South Dakota for a visit I was looking through old photos with Daddy. There were some from that time and some of the Akeys. In an attempt to learn more about the pictures and that time period I’ve been re-reading the notebook of letters my mother wrote. She told Aunt Rachel about the doll house and about how intrigued the adults were. It made me laugh. Reading old letters is one of my favorite things to do. Also, while we were home Mom had a pile of books that she wanted us to divide between the four children. They were books that had been in our home all of our lives and I found it interesting which ones we had memories of. I ended up with a set of three books by A.A. Milne—When We Were Very Young, Now We Are Six, and Winnie the Pooh. I was surprised that my sister didn’t want them, but there were others she cared more for. She informed me that they had come from Grandpa and Grandma Akey and they were given to the two of us, that being all the children there were at the time! So, I gladly took them. They were my favorites, after all! Today is National Great Poetry Reading Day. You can argue with me about this if you must, but a good deal of my favorite poetry comes from A.A. Milne. So today I’ll leave you with this piece from When We Were Very Young.   DAFFODOWNDILLY She wore her yellow sun-bonnet, She wore her greenest gown; She turned to the south wind And curtsied up and down. She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: “Winter is dead.” by A.A. Milne Building Legacy . . . one story at a...

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A Tale of Two Chairs

Posted by on Apr 18, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts |

Back in 2001 I moved into an apartment and quickly realized that some of my furniture just wasn’t going to fit. So, I called my sister and she offered to go along furniture shopping—with her four children. It became obvious within moments of walking into the store that furniture shopping with four small children has its advantages, the main one being that the sales people leave you completely alone. They see you, avert their eyes, and suddenly find it necessary to go do . . . something . . . somewhere. So, unbothered by enthusiastic sales people we wandered around and found a lovely couch and a small pink swivel rocker. The rocker was incredible. I could fall asleep in that chair. A couple of years later, having paid off the couch and chair, I decided I wanted to buy some more pieces. I had a hankering for a huge overstuffed chair in my bedroom. I wanted this so much that I was willing to trade my double bed for a single in order for the chair to fit. I know, it was strange but it was what I wanted. And I was single so I could, and I did. Remembering the lovely sales-person-free shopping from the previous trip, I called my sister, now with five children, and off we went. What we found was perhaps my favorite piece of furniture ever, a massive blue chair with an equally massive blue ottoman. The denim cover looked tough and the kids loved it! It almost swallowed me up and I could take the most amazing naps in that chair. When I met my husband we spent many hours on the phone—a lot of those, I was in the blue chair. So, one of the things I insisted on taking with me when I married was the blue chair and ottoman. I left the rocking chair behind with my parents, with the stipulation that if they ever tired of it, I would take it back, but not the blue chair. No way, no how was I parting with that. As we’ve moved here and there the blue chair has become a problem. It worked wonderfully in the house in Florida! It was great in our bedroom in Newberry. But, here in Hendersonville? Well, we are downsizing and the chair doesn’t fit that word. At all. First I crammed it into the bedroom and turned the ottoman sideways and it swallowed up the entire corner of the room. It was tripped over, kicked, and very under appreciated. I would occasionally sit in the chair for a glorious  afternoon of writing. But, more often than not it was neglected. Finally, I decided to take the ottoman to storage and I made do with a box covered with a pillow instead. It wasn’t the same. The chair lurked in the corner for the past couple of years, pouting—or maybe it was mourning—the separation from its ottoman. I kept hoping maybe we would need it....

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Public Displays of Affection . . . or Not

Posted by on Feb 14, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts |

Today is Valentine’s Day, the day the whole world seems to go crazy with displays of “love”. Everywhere you look there are flowers, chocolate, and public displays of affections. It reminded me of a piece from my book about legacy, All I Have Needed-A Legacy for Life. Today I am posting that piece. You see, I didn’t learn about love from society, television, or silly cards. I learned from people who knew what love was really about. So, here you are. Enjoy!   Public Displays of Affection . . . or Not My dad’s parents were ranch people. They grew up in Nebraska during simpler times when the work was hard and there weren’t many frills. They lived in a sod house (where Daddy was born), and they lost everything during the Depression. When people talked about the “good old days,” Grandma would say, “They weren’t so good.” They were loving but not demonstrative, at least not toward each other in front of others. That wasn’t their way.   When Grandpa was about ninety, he developed a lump on his neck. He ignored it as it got bigger and bigger. After all, he was ninety. He didn’t expect to live forever. One day it started causing trouble with his breathing, so they took him to the hospital, rushed him sixty-five miles from Broken Bow to Kearney, Nebraska. That lump had to be removed. The morning of surgery, the staff came in to take Grandpa to the procedure and told Grandma, “You can kiss him goodbye if you want.” To my parents’ amazement and delight, she did. It wouldn’t be considered a romantic moment by today’s standards, but it certainly impressed Daddy. After all, at age sixty-five he was watching—for the first time—his parents kiss. During the preparations for surgery, Grandpa’s IV came apart, and he bled some. He bled enough that the doctors decided they should take him back to his room and check his heart before doing surgery. After all, he was ninety. Once he was cleared for surgery, Grandma had her chance again, and she went for it. “Twice,” Daddy said. “I saw them kiss twice!” The look on his face when he was telling us was priceless. It was pure delight and comfort. Proof of what we all knew. They loved. (As if one hundred direct descendants and sixty-five years of marriage wasn’t enough proof.) A couple of years later, Grandpa was hospitalized with a mild heart attack. It was caused, it turned out, by prostate cancer, and he was dying. Grandma, herself well into her 80s, couldn’t care for him at home, so they put him in the nursing home attached to the hospital. During the next six weeks, Grandma went up every day to eat lunch with him … well, at least until she figured out that he wasn’t eating when she was there in hopes she would take pity on him and take him home. She certainly wanted him home, but it was...

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A Morning Prelude

Posted by on Feb 11, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts |

A Morning Prelude

I clutch the mug close in the cold morning air and let the smell of coffee awaken my brain. Leaning on the seventh floor patio rail, I gaze across the Atlantic Ocean. There’s water as far as my eyes can see. In the dawn—that half hour before the sun rises—the pastel light show begins, a prelude to the main event. For Myrtle Beach, SC the temperature is frigid, low thirties, and I have the patio to myself. Indeed, I seem to have the entire beach front to myself. I don’t see anyone down on the sand. No life at all. Except for the daily gathering of permanent residents, the seagulls. It is high tide this morning, there really isn’t much beach to walk on. I don’t know if that is the reason, but the surfside avian grandstands are empty, no flock of seagulls gathered at water’s edge today. Where are they? Then I spot them, floating just beyond the breaking surf. They rise and fall with the waves, tiny black and white dots on the gray water. Waiting. Watching. A few birds fly overhead, circling around the gathering throng until they eventually settle on the water. Maybe they found their friends or family, these latecomers who just could not get out of bed in time to leave with the rest of them. I don’t know. A peacefulness settles over the scene as the shifting pink, blue, gray, and peach hues push the pre-show to its climax. A mild disturbance to the gathering crowd occurs when six young birds—they must be young, don’t you think—skim across the water in front of the crowd. Their formation is impressive, a perfectly straight line. My heart is in my throat as they barely clear the waves, daring anyone to do it better. And, sure enough, here comes another group, taking up the challenge. They fly in from the other direction, same straight line, same get-as-close-to-the-water-as-you-can-without-touching-it flight plan. I imagine the grandparents shaking their heads and chuckling. One dad announces, “That’s my kid!” The mothers cover their eyes, hoping they don’t have to make a run to the birdie ER. As the sky lightens, the tension rises and all eyes turn toward the horizon. When will the star of the show arrive? I glance at my watch. Yep, due any moment. I fix my eyes on the horizon. Then, across the water one bird calls it. There! There! There! Other birds jump in, frustrated that Sally Seagull was the first to announce it AGAIN. Soon a chorus of cries arises from the grandstand. A few birds lift from the water, unable to stay in their seats. Over the horizon the top edge of an orange ball appears and the ocean grandstand breaks into verbal applause. From my perch I join the chorus. “There it is! Good morning...

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Breath Taking

Posted by on Feb 7, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts |

Breath Taking

Early the other morning, I had the most amazing dream. I remember thinking, that is the perfect plot. Then I fell back asleep, and of course when I woke up, I couldn’t remember the first thing about that dream.   My mind wandered as I lay in bed, half awake. I thought about questions for interviewing elders. One question was, “What was a typical school day like when you were a kid?” Then I thought about my school day. I couldn’t remember many details about the start of the day, but I do remember coming home for lunch every day. We only lived two blocks from the school. Mommy would have lunch ready and we would eat and run back to school. My focus shifted—I’ve been working on point of view in my revisions—and I wondered what it was like from her point of view. The kids rush in, eat their lunch, Miriam dumps a bunch of words, and out the door they go. I smiled.   Sometimes, okay, often I read as I walked home. It was only two blocks after all. This line of thought led to one day in 1973, since I was walk-reading that day. When I arrived home I barely made it through the door before I plopped down in the overstuffed maroon chair by the front door, all with my eyes glued to the book. I continued reading while conversation swirled around me. A few minutes later, Mommy got up to start some supper.   I wondered, what was it like when she reached the doorway to the kitchen and stepped instead into heaven? What was she thinking? I bet it took her breath away.   After my forgotten dream the other morning, I climbed out of bed and opened the curtains for my first ocean view of the day.  It was gone. A thick fog completely obliterated any view of the ocean right outside my window. Even the next huge condo was nearly hid from view. But, I could hear it. Through the fog came the sound of the waves rushing up to meet the sandy beach. It was there whether I could see it or not.   Whew. I sat at the table; curtains opened and scanned Facebook, email, then the news. At one point I glanced up and there it was. The fog had lifted. I could see the ocean’s edge. Within moments the fog had lifted more and I could see half-way to the normal horizon. It was beautiful, even in the rain.   I couldn’t help but think of my earlier wakeful thoughts. Maybe that’s what it was like for my mother. One moment she views God through the fog of this earth, and the next, BAM! She sees clearly for the first time.   What a thought! It takes my breath away.   1 Corinthians 13:12  For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall...

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When Morning Gilds The Skies

Posted by on Feb 1, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts |

When Morning Gilds The Skies

This morning I awoke before my alarm. I had a date with the sun. With no trouble whatsoever, I jumped out of bed, made a cup of coffee, threw on some clothes and headed down to the beach. It was dawn, but the sun hadn’t come up yet. The clouds hovered at the horizon, so I knew I wouldn’t see the sun in all its glory when it rose, but sometimes, when the clouds are there the show is even more spectacular. It didn’t disappoint.  I took my phone and started recording the sunrise as I stood there and let God’s creation speak to my soul. http://www.miriamjonesbradley.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/When-Morning-Gilds-the-Skies-160201b.mp4 Change seems to be coming faster and faster. My daddy has retired from the Pastorate after a life time of ministry. He and mom are preparing to move out of the parsonage, their home for the past 25 years and a family home for over forty, since my step-grandpa was Pastor there before Daddy. Yesterday the church we attend in Hendersonville said goodbye to their much loved, much respected Pastor and his family as they move on to a new ministry. The pains of change were palpable in the service, but the confidence in our mighty God was more so! Our church in Linville will be saying goodbye this year to a family who have ministered with them for several years. It all hurts, but it’s a good hurt. They are moving on to somewhere new, to what God has for them. But in a small church, every departure leaves a canyon. We have said goodbye to our grandparents, and some of our parents, but now it seems a continual drumbeat of farewells to the elders who helped make us who we are, reminding us that we are next. We will soon have the targets on our foreheads, so to speak. We see heartache and heartbreak on our social media. Children suffering terrible diseases, some incurable. Families suffering tragic loss. Our country teeters on the edge of an abyss with so little common sense and Godly wisdom being demonstrated that it seems hopeless. We recognize how evil we are in the sight of God and we wonder how He can show us mercy. But, as I stood at the water’s edge this morning and watched God’s glorious creation two songs flew into my mind. The first was this one: When morning gilds the skies, My heart awaking cries, May Jesus Christ be praised! Alike at work and prayer, To Jesus I repair; May Jesus Christ be praised! Does sadness fill my mind? A solace here I find, May Jesus Christ be praised! Or fades my earthly bliss? My comfort still is this, May Jesus Christ be praised! When sleep her balm denies, My silent spirit sighs, May Jesus Christ be praised! When evil thoughts molest, With this I shield my breast: May Jesus Christ be praised! The night becomes as day When from the heart we say: May Jesus Christ be praised! The pow’rs...

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A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words -Try Smiling!

Posted by on Jan 25, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts |

I’ve heard that a picture is worth a thousand words. When I look at this picture I believe it might be true. In case you didn’t know I believe in laughing a lot. I believe in smiling. I especially believe in making other people laugh and smile. I think it’s in my DNA. Seriously. If you know my extended family you understand this. If you don’t, trust me! Now, I’m not always successful. There are even times when I fail miserably at making myself smile or laugh. Thankfully God gave me a husband who understands my need for the occasional—okay, the frequent–joyous outbursts, and he knows that if I am down he needs to make me laugh. Or smile. I found this photo awhile back. I’m not really sure who gave it to me. It’s a picture of me with one of those crazy plastic toys where you bopped the bottom and a plastic ball flew out, then you tried to catch it. As you can see, I wasn’t using it correctly. No surprise there. On the back of the photo someone wrote my name and the date. Miriam Jones 1/15/73. I didn’t need the date to remember when the picture was taken. I remembered exactly when. This picture was snapped the day of my Mommy’s funeral. I stood in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, the very spot where my mother stepped over the threshold into eternity four days earlier. Now, when that picture was taken none of that was going through my head. I don’t remember making a toy into a hat because I wanted to make people laugh, feel better, or forget for a few moments the horrific tragedy that had overtaken us. I don’t normally think such things through. I just do them. If in pain, laugh. If scared, joke about it. If worried, be silly. See, that’s how my brain works. If you can still laugh, it can’t be that horrible, can it? The thing about this photo that touches me the most though, is that someone—I suspect it was an aunt—decided to snap the photo. That person recognized the importance of the moment. They believed this was a moment in the middle of a difficult day that should be remembered. So, they snapped the picture. It is the only picture I have from that day. I’m okay with that. Because a picture is worth a thousand words. And, of all the pictures in my head from that day, I’m glad this is the one someone snapped. I found a poem the other day that sums up my philosophy on smiling and laughing. I share it with you today. TRY SMILING When the weather suits you not,    Try smiling. When your coffee isn’t hot,    Try smiling. When your neighbors don’t do right, Or your relatives all fight, Sure ‘tis hard, but then you might    Try smiling. Doesn’t change the things, of course-    Just smiling. But it cannot...

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Ocean or Prairie View – Home Is Where You Make It

Posted by on Jan 21, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts | 2 comments

I have this picture for the background on my phone. I put it there this autumn after our trip to South Dakota, Nebraska, and Kansas. It reminds me of home. Let me tell you why. When I am at the ocean I have no problem waking up early. Most mornings I wake up automatically, while it is still dark. I don’t want to miss the sunrise. Oh, I’m not necessarily waiting for that moment when the sun creeps over the edge of the horizon, although I have to admit that the first pinpoint of orange does make my heart beat faster. “Here it comes! Good morning, Sunshine!” I love sunshine. No, the effect I like actually comes before the sunrise. It also comes just after sunset. It is the pastel phase. There is a blue, pink, peach, gray and green haze along the horizon that is just breathtaking. The colors mute together and remind of an impressionistic painting, my favorite type. As the sun comes or goes the colors continually change, but in such slow motion you hardly notice until BAM, there comes the sun. Then it changes all over again. It is incredible. In November we were driving from Rapid City, SD to Gordon, NE. Shortly after crossing the state line the sun set. I started snapping pictures with my cell phone. It was so beautiful, there on the edge of the Sandhills. So much wide-open space. Kind of like the ocean. I flipped back through the pictures and one caught my eye. It reminded me of. . .  no, it couldn’t be. But it was. It reminded me of the ocean. I stared at it. Then I knew. It was the colors. The blue, grey, pink, peach of the dusk. The brown of the winter grass contrasted with those colors and they stood out. Just like they do at the beach when they contrast with the sand along the beach. I smiled to myself. Maybe this is one reason I feel so much at home at the ocean, even though I did not grow up anywhere near one. Maybe it is like the quote from Sarah Plain and Tall, one of my favorite movies. There she is on the prairie, thousands of miles from her beloved ocean yet she, with the help of young Caleb, discovers a similarity. Caleb Witting: What color is the sea when it storms? Sarah Wheaton: Blue and gray and green. Caleb Witting: Now I know what’s missing from your drawing. Colors. Colors of the sea, blue and gray and green. So, maybe the prairie didn’t remind me of the ocean. Maybe it’s the ocean reminding me of the prairie. Either way, either place I am, it feels like home. And that reminds me of the words of advice Uncle Jim gave me when I married. “Home is where you make it, Miriam.” Yes. Yes, it...

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Always The Same, New Every Morning.

Posted by on Jan 16, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts | 2 comments

It is ever changing, the ocean. Yet, always the same. How incongruous.   From my vantage point twelve stories up, I watch. This time of year there aren’t many people out there, always less than ten. There’s the woman with her Irish setter. What a beautiful dog, even from here. They meander down the beach. A family with three teen agers stands on the edge of the water, huddled together in the cool morning air. Are they coming or going from the pancake house? They drift apart, each following his own thoughts and the element that has captured his interest until they come together again. For a picture.   The romantic couple walks hand in hand. They stand at the edge arms around each other and look out to sea. Are they just starting out? Are they here to rekindle their romance? Last ditch effort? No, these two don’t look like a last ditch effort. A woman races past them, her arms pumping. She is here for exercise. The elderly couple creeps along. No hurry. They have been here before. So many memories.   All day long I sit and watch the parade. Ever changing, yet always the same. Like the ocean.   Up the beach is a canyon of sorts. The storm drain at the next resort over has worn a path to the ocean. I first noticed it when the beach patrol pickup cruised right down to the water’s edge to avoid the crater. A river through the beach. That’s strange.   The sunrise this morning happened behind clouds so the show was delayed. An hour later the sun slithered its way out from behind the thinner clouds and a stream of light shot up through the clouds and down across the water where the beam of light made its own path, this time across the water and onto the beach. The cloud colors—not to be outdone—reflected off the water in the sand. The iridescence of the shallow water reminded me of the conch shell my daddy retrieved from the ocean in California. He came out drenched from head to toe, his hand triumphantly holding the shell overhead. That shell sat in our home and I could hear the ocean when I held it to my ear. Or was that shell really the one he rescued? Memories, real or how we remember them. I’ll have to ask today.   As the sun and water put on a spectacle, the birds get into the act. A line of black birds glides along the surf, barely skimming the top of the water. A perfect formation . . . almost. One, at the tail end can’t quite keep in line. He can’t fly straight. Must have missed his morning coffee. Either that or he’s a free spirit.   The sound of the waves breaking, always going in and out. Always the same. But, ever a different view. They remind me of God. Never changing. Always the same. But, no matter...

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Jasmine and the Christmas Card

Posted by on Jan 11, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts | 1 comment

It’s time to take down the decorations now that the Christmas season is over. Admittedly, at our house this year there aren’t many. I was more focused on getting things back in order after our crazy-busy Fall and didn’t really want to drag out the decorations. But, we had a wonderful Christmas. We enjoyed family on Christmas day, and we received a lot of cards in the mail.   I love receiving Christmas cards, but I’m not good at sending them—except to our friends, Paul and Chari. We really do try and get them a card every year. If we don’t, there are consequences. Well, not really consequences, but we might hear about it! And hear about. And did I say, hear about it!   So, this year we were early. In November we spent a couple of weeks in South Dakota and as usual we stayed with our friends, Paul and Chari. A couple of days before we left, we were at the store and happened into the card aisle.  Of course there were Christmas cards already on the shelf and one caught my eye. It had a cat on it. Chari likes cats. Paul—not so much. Hmmm.   You see, Paul loves Christmas cards and he wants lots of them. So we decided to get the card. After all, not only did it have a cat on it, the inside had action. Lots of it. When you opened the card there was a cat all rolled up in Christmas Lights and upon opening it the cat and lights started spinning and yowling! We hooted. It was perfect. It was also expensive enough we figured we could claim that it would make up for any years we have missed. Yep, it’s that kind of friendship.   So, before giving it to Paul and Chari, we decided to share it with my parents. First, Bruce handed it to Mom, who was sitting in her rocking chair. She opened it, jumped when the cat yowled, laughed and handed it back. Bruce took it over to Daddy and he opened it, jumped when the cat yowled—even though he knew what was coming. We all laughed and he handed it back to Bruce.   All of a sudden, out of nowhere came Jasmine, my sister’s cat. She growled, hissed, and attacked Bruce’s leg. This might look like a man, but she KNEW there was a cat in there somewhere and she wasn’t having any of that! She takes her job as “homeland security” very seriously.   It was kind of funny, but obviously Jasmine was VERY disturbed. Her fur stood straight out and her back was arched. She obviously thought there was a threat to her people and she was going to deal with it! She took quite awhile to settle down.   When Vonda came home from work we decided to show her the card. Mom and Daddy were gone, but Daddy had warned Vonda. “Make sure you go outside to...

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Batman and the Flip-Flop

Posted by on Jan 7, 2016 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts |

Batman and the Flip-Flop

This morning I took a pile of envelopes to the mailbox. They were long overdue thank-you notes. Wow! What a relief to get that “chore” done. Yet, it didn’t seem so much of a chore when I finally got started. After all, there is something very uplifting about writing a thank-you note. Not only are you doing the right thing, but the actual reviewing of what the recipient did for you can be very encouraging. After all, isn’t it amazing to remember kindnesses shown to you?   Thank you’s are also fun to receive. If nothing else, they are another communication with someone you care about. One of my thank-you notes was to my cousin who hosted us in her home in November. (I told you they were way overdue.) I threw in a fun comment as I was writing. I thanked her for the Batman Story. You see, not only did she provide us with a place to stay, she also provided me with an idea for a blog post! So, here it is.   Batman and the Flip-Flop   First off, you have to realize that my husband and I are not really cat people. Oh, cats like us all right. In fact, cats really seem to like my husband which annoys him. He believes they like him just to annoy him.   Batman, as you can imagine is a black cat. But, surprisingly, BatMAN is not a man. Batman is a dainty pretty female. This is because of an honest mistake on the part of the previous owner and once a cat has a name, why change it? Really. Who cares, right?   So, my cousin kindly gave us her room and moved upstairs to a single bed. We were grateful, but aware that Batman may see this as an intrusion into her domain. The evening was uneventful except for Batman’s insistence on personal space intrusion behaviors. This is what I call a cat using me as a walk path. I believe this to be a sign of a passive-aggressive feline.   Off to bed we all went, looking forward to a good night’s sleep. I was just drifting off when I heard an exclamatory remark from my husband. I don’t remember now what word he used. It was probably “NO” but I do remember the tone. It was that “the cat just jumped from the floor to the bed landing right on top of me just as I was drifting off” tone.   I’m not absolutely sure Batman wasn’t as surprised as Bruce. After all, maybe Batman didn’t realize her owner was upstairs. I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but I’m pretty sure my cousin made sure the cats knew where she was. Uh-huh. Passive-aggressive.   So, Bruce bopped the intruder on the head and Batman made her exit from the bed. Bruce heard some sliding and skittering on the floor and then all was quiet. We slept.   My cousin...

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A Dream Come True. . . Mostly

Posted by on Dec 10, 2015 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts |

A Dream Come True. . . Mostly

Most of us have ONE place we think of when we are asked where we grew up. For some people, like my husband that place is still home since we live in the house he was born to and grew up in. It is really an awesome thing. For a preacher’s kid, I think I had a fairly stable childhood. I look at North Platte, Nebraska as my place, even though we only lived in that house 6 ½ years. It was the most consequential 6 ½ years of my life, by far, and when you are in grade school time does pass slower, doesn’t it? Have you ever gone back to your childhood home? I did last month and it was a dream come true. . . mostly! Because the next book in my Double Cousins Mystery series will be set in North Platte, we planned a side-trip through Nebraska on the way home. We pulled into North Platte about noon and the first place we stopped was the park, simply because we passed right by it on our way into town. There were three specific memories that popped into my head when we were there. First, were the peacocks. I loved seeing the males showing off all of their gorgeous colors. The peacocks were too far away for me to get pictures, but just the sight of them across the park sent the memory-picture shooting through my head. Memories are great that way. The second thing I remembered was the carousel and the cotton candy. Of course, in November there wasn’t any action there, but once again, just the location brought back all of the sounds, smells, and sights of an afternoon at the park. We stopped and I pointed out the area where I remember having church picnics. Picnics where the women threw rolling pins, the kids had gunny sack races, and the men. . . I don’t remember what the men did. Any childhood friends remember? After that, we drove around town a bit and then ate at Wendy’s. That part of town has changed so much I didn’t recognize anything. Even the big old hospital appears to be gone. It was kind of sad. But, we forged onward to the part I was most looking forward to. That morning as I was waking up, I had one of those dreams. The ones where you are half awake, half sleeping. I thought, “What if when we get to my childhood home it is for sale and I can go inside and see what it looks like?” Then the dream part started, because I bought it. Believe me; I do not need to buy a house in Nebraska! So, when we pulled up to the house and I saw the for sale sign (FOR REAL-NO KIDDING) I was a little taken-aback. Whoa! We parked beside the house. There was much activity going on. A man was blowing the leaves from the side yard. Another man was...

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Remember and Be Glad. . . My Choice

Posted by on Dec 7, 2015 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts |

Remember and Be Glad. . . My Choice

We visited an outlet store the other day. They advertised a free coffee mug if you purchased $30.00 of items. I wasn’t there to buy. I was there to see about a book signing. But, the more I walked around the store, the more Christmas sales I found. I ended up with a mug. It has the verse Psalm 118:24 on it. Christmas is everywhere these day; stores, work, home, church. If you are a Scrooge, it isn’t a good time of year for you. Or, if you’ve recently lost a family member. Or maybe, it is the first holiday season since your loved one passed. Either way, it is difficult. As a nurse, I’ve seen it many times. I know this first-hand, too.   November 23rd was the due date eight years ago of our unborn child. It seems like every eight-year-old child I see this year is cuter than cute. December 2nd was the 85th anniversary of marriage of George and Mildred Jones, my grandparents. It was also the 18th anniversary of the day Grandma McKnight went to heaven. December 7th is remembered as Pearl Harbor Day. But, for me it is remembered as the day Grandpa McKnight followed Grandma to heaven. Next month there are more such anniversaries, ones that I note. Every. Single. Year.   So, what are we to do? What would my mother and grandparents want me to do? Would they be thankful if I spent the day moping around and feeling sorry for myself? I think not. Yet, that can be a real temptation. Sometimes, the loss just reaches out and grabs me by the neck and squeezes. It comes at the strangest moments.   Maybe it is when the girl’s choir lines the walls of the church and raises their voices in praise to the Lord. I glance at my husband, his eyes shut, head moving slightly to the music, a look of joy and peace on his face and I am reminded of the look on Grandpa McKnight’s face when he heard glorious music. Of course, the pew would have been shaking from his laugh-cry if it had been Grandpa.   Maybe it’s when looking at an adult coloring book of Psalms and I flashback to memories of Grandma McKnight listening to us recite Psalms to her.   Or, maybe it is in a patient’s room when the old man in the bed is watching episode after episode of westerns. I stand there, holding my breath. Will Matt Dillon save Miss Kitty? And, why didn’t they ever get married anyway? Then, in my mind I see Grandpa Jones sitting on his couch watching his favorite show. My eyes burn.   Or maybe, when my husband opens the shades in the kitchen to let in the morning sun and sings, “Sunshine in her window, makes Miriam happy. . .” and I remember just how much Grandma Jones loved John Denver.   Or even when the eight-year-old young lady and her daddy...

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A Memory-Building Detour – Creating, Reviewing, Protecting Legacy!

Posted by on Nov 29, 2015 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts | 2 comments

A Memory-Building Detour – Creating, Reviewing, Protecting Legacy!

Today I struggled to come out of a fog. I had a nap—longer than I intended. I bolstered myself with a touch more caffeine. Still, I needed something. So, I put on some baroque music and the constantly moving lines of the pieces start to wake up my brain. On the counter I spotted the tea cups I brought home with me from our recent trip. Ah, yes. A cup of tea. Just the thing. I smiled as I poured the water over the tea bag. This cup will always be a special memory of our detour to see cousins.   Usually, when we come home from South Dakota we shoot east and drop down through Chicago, or at Sioux Falls drop down to Kansas City. This time we chose to come back through Nebraska and Kansas.   In Nebraska I had two goals; the first was a stop in North Platte to research the next Double Cousins mystery. The other was a visit with my cousin Gordon and his wife Jan at their ranch. Something about that ranch fills a hole in my heart. The hole left when Grandpa moved off the ranch? Maybe. The hole left when Grandpa died? I’m not sure. But what I know is that their hospitality is a challenge and a blessing to me each time I am there. Their love for the stories of our elders, the details of the history of our family, and determination to leave a godly legacy for the children remind me so much of Grandpa and Grandma Jones. And, well . . . there is the fact that Gordon is a horse man, through and through, just like Grandpa, AND the fact that his ranch is right in the place that Grandpa loved more than any other, the Sandhills of Nebraska. We stayed at their home one night.   First we met in Gordon, NE, for pizza before Jan went to work the night shift at the hospital where she is a nurse. (Yes, my cousin Gordon lives outside of Gordon, Nebraska—how cool is that?)  While Jan worked, Gordon, Bruce, and I spent the evening talking about family history:  Gordon found another barn built by our great-grandpa Jones, memories of our grandparents, Grandma’s ability to do what she wanted without making a scene, and the project at hand, the re-publishing of Grandpa Jones’ books. By the time Jan got home in the morning, Gordon had decided he needed to get on the road with some cattle he was moving. A storm was coming. We ate a quick breakfast—delicious cinnamon buns—and Gordon was out the door, a bit ahead of us.   A quick visit, but what great memories. I wish I had taken a picture of Gordon and Bruce talking politics the night before, but I didn’t . You’ll have to imagine that! From there we drove to North Platte where I lived as a child and where Carly, one of the “double cousins”, lives with her...

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Of M&M’s and World Peace

Posted by on Nov 22, 2015 in Blog, Home Is Where The Story Starts |

Of M&M’s and World Peace

Recently I was challenged to take time to evaluate just what my heart desires. Not just the big things like world peace. All of it. From M&M’s clear up to. . . yes, world peace. So, I thought about it and made a list. I want nothing bad to ever happen to my loved ones again. I want to sit in bed and eat M&M’s, ice cream, and watch old movies all day. (Without gaining weight) I want a library that holds all of my books. I want my house in perfect order. A place for everything and everything in its place. And when I put something down instead of putting it away, I want it to go back to its place. God can do that, right? I want my books to sell like wildfire. I want every shift at work to be an easy day with lovely patients who get well and go home. I want to be in control at all times. I want my foot to work again. I want all of the people I love to follow Jesus as they should. I want to always do God’s will and never be grouchy. I want to be the perfect wife. Oh, and besides all of that, I want world peace. . . I could go on and on. But, you get the idea. I am a control freak. But, then I realized. Much of what I am longing for; no pain, no sin, no sorrow, complete order, it will happen someday. But, that is called heaven. And, how about here on earth? What would happen if I never had trials, problems, challenges, or failures? Besides the fact that I would be morbidly obese from eating all of those M&M’s and ice cream, I would be immature and shallow. I would have no character. For, it is in the challenges and the trials that our character is developed. So, maybe those desires are fun to dream and laugh about. But, when you look at the end result (consequences) of getting all of those dreams, maybe just maybe that isn’t what I want. Maybe what I need to be focusing on as my desires are those things God says HE wants to see in me. But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.  Galatians...

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