The Antique Mirror

 The Antique Mirror

 

A mirror is simply a piece of glass with mercury-based paint brushed or sprayed on the back, so that whoever looks into it sees their own reflection in it. Isn’t it? Mirrors are everywhere – in furniture and jewelry boxes, on bathroom walls and automobile sun visors. Their only purpose is to reflect an accurate image. But when is a mirror not just a mirror? 

The image in an antique mirror may show its age when the mercury backing is faded or worn away, so that the reflection you see in that glass is distorted or diminished. But what would happen if you looked deeply into a mirror and didn’t see your reflection at all? When does a mirror not reflect but project instead?

My husband, Marshall, laughed at me when I told him I was afraid to leave the security of the small town surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains, where I grew up, attended college, and lived with him after we were married, to move to the big city in the flat, exposed Piedmont region of Virginia. That wasn’t unusual, as I was often afraid of silly, ridiculous things that didn’t bother him or most anyone else, and Marshall never hesitated to tell me so.

“Bess, sweetheart” he’d say, “You’re just being silly – afraid of shadows. There’s no reason that anyone should be as timid as you.” Handsome, brilliant, Marshall, was my rock. With his Structural Engineering degree from Virginia Tech, he was as solid and unyielding as high-strength concrete. When bridges were necessary to span the gaps in our marriage, it was Marshall who built them.

When we found a renovated bungalow on Golden Road in Henrico County, Richmond’s West End, an adorable place that reminded me of the small, clapboard farmhouse I’d grown up in, I agreed to give the big city a try. The neighborhood was attractive. The neighbors were extremely friendly. Before long, I began to feel safe, well, mostly safe, anyway.

Marshall loved the hustle and bustle of Richmond, and was very happy with his new, challenging job a busy engineering firm. His salary was more than sufficient to support us; nevertheless, I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to meet our significant mortgage, so I got a part-time job at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, working as a cashier for the lunch-rush crowd in the café. It was an educational, enriching, and exciting place to spend several hours a day. I made new friends and thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

We’d only been living in Richmond for about a year when I found out I was pregnant. I located a great obstetrician in the West End, near out home; and thankfully, my pregnancy proved to be totally uneventful. That didn’t stop me from letting my fears consume me. Every day, I had to overcome a horrific litany of what-ifs that filled my mind with dread.

Marshall was sure I’d relax and stop worrying, after I carried our baby to term without a hitch, and our precious son, Lucas, was born, healthy and strong. But no, the numerous, possible catastrophes that tormented me during my pregnancy, only shifted to a laundry-list of other, potentially fatal concerns, with crib death at the very top. I pushed down my fears, swallowed my panic as much as I could manage, and went on with my many day-to-day responsibilities.

When I was still a few weeks from my due date, a co-worker invited me out for a late lunch at a Greek restaurant in The Fan, an historic and very intriguing neighborhood of the city. After we’d eaten our fill of tasty Gyros, we took a little walkabout and did some browsing at several of the unique shops in the area. We stopped by an interesting antique store with a macabre vibe, where I found a cheval floor mirror that was a perfect fit for the solar-system theme I’d chosen for the nursery.

It was beautifully fantastical, oval in shape, with a carved, mahogany frame resplendent with moons and planets, and encrusted crystals that looked like stars. Marshall didn’t like it much, saying it gave him “the creeps,” but I found it magical and mesmerizing. I placed it in the far corner of the small, baby’s room, where I could sit in my grandmother’s battered, ancient rocker, while I nursed Lucas, gaze into our reflection, and dream of my perfect son’s promising future.

I treated my mirror to the utmost care, religiously cleaning the dust off its carved frame and wiping away the smudges from its reflective surface. One afternoon as I was polishing it, sunlight slanted in through the window pane and flashed across the mirror, so that when I looked into it, the reflection seemed to change, to become cloudy and dark, like an old, heavily-tarnished, silver serving tray. I shook my head to clear the vision, knowing it to be my wild imagination getting the best of me. When I looked back, the mirror reflected the empty rocker, just as it had the dozens of times I’d gazed into it before.

When Lucas was only ten months old, something I could never have dreamed of, much less obsessed-over, happened. It was a warm, late-spring afternoon. Marshall was out, golfing with a group of his friends from the office. Lucas was napping. Our next-door-neighbor started his lawn mower fifteen-feet from the baby’s window, so, I laid aside the book I was reading and hurried to the nursery to make sure the irritating noise hadn’t disturbed Lucas’s sleep.

I cracked open his door and peeked inside. What I saw sent my heart shooting up into my throat. My knees almost buckled. There was a strange woman in my son’s room. She was wearing a heavy coat with a wide, fur trim on the hem, and a midnight blue, woolen scarf, spangled with silver stars, tied around her head. She stepped through the antique mirror, carrying Lucas, wrapped in his favorite blanket, in one arm, and a pitchfork in her free hand. He called out to me in a puzzled, plaintive voice, “Mama? Mama!”

I screamed and launched my body at the baby thief but she was too quick for me, disappearing into the smooth glass of the mirror. I got a brief glimpse of the unexpected, other side, as she landed on a narrow, moonlit path that wound through a wooded grove. The woman, or witch, or whatever unnatural creature it was that had invaded the sanctity of my home and absconded with my child, was still visible for a few seconds, moving quickly down the path through the woods, before the glass faded to black.

I was both terrified by what I’d seen and horrified by what I knew I had to do. No one would believe me if I tried to call for help, least of all my skeptical, unflappable husband, who always dismissed my imaginary fears and did his unwavering best to ground me in reality. So, there would be no one coming to help me. I had to muster up enough courage to go after my son on my own. Just me. Alone.

My heart racing, smacking against my ribs so hard I could almost hear it, my breath coming in ragged gulps, I reached my hand out to touch the surface of the mirror I’d cleaned and polished daily, and for many weeks. This time, however, instead of sliding over the glass smoothly as they usually did, my fingertips went right through the cool, silvered surface and into a frigid nothingness. I jerked my hand back and shook it. So cold! A bitter, winter wind was blowing, hard, on the other side.

I sprinted to the coat closet in the hallway, and tore through its jumbled contents until I located my heavy parka, stocking hat, gloves, and insulated boots. After dragging everything on as fast as I could manage with trembling limbs, I sprinted back to the nursery, and without another thought, stepped through the mirror.

My head spun, my stomach churned for the interminable seconds it took before my feet landed on the well-worn, dirt path. Darkness enveloped me. It was terrifying. I felt a panic attack coming on but forced it down by sheer will. Not now!

As my eyes adjusted to the dimness of my surroundings, I realized that I could see shafts of pearly moonlight shining through the canopy above. Huge trees lined the trail, their boughs reaching over it and forming a spooky, ominous tunnel. I started to run.

My pulse pounding in my ears, my lungs burning, I pushed myself, forcing my rubbery legs to keep pumping, despite the waves of nausea flooding over me. A huge owl swooped low, gliding over my head on silent wings, screeching out a warning. Red eyes glowed like charcoal embers in the edge of the tree line. Branches reached down and plummeted me with their bony, wooden fingers.

I ran faster. When I was almost spent, the path finally dropped out of the woods and onto a flat plain that reminded me of the hay fields near the home where I grew up. I could see a small, thatch-roofed cottage in the distance, its windows glowing yellow with a flickering light. I slowed to a walk, desperately sucking air.

After a minute, the icy breeze cooled my sweat-covered face and urged me into a slow jog. My booted feet hit the hard-packed path in a steady beat. “Lu-cas, Lu-cas, Lu-cas,” I chanted with each footfall, trying to keep the horror I was feeling from completely overwhelming me.

Despite my breathlessness, I kept up a steady pace that seemed to cover the distance to the cottage more quickly than it should have, and before I expected to reach my destination, I found myself standing at the rough-hewn door of the small, waddle and daub house. Not waiting for an invitation, I threw the latch, pushed open the door, and bolted inside.

The witch-woman was standing with her back to me, next to a huge stone fireplace where a wood fire blazed brightly. The pitchfork was prominently displayed, leaning against the adjacent wall. Lucas was asleep in a cradle at her feet, apparently unaffected by his rapid and unexpected journey. I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Who was this woman who’d stolen my son, I wondered silently, a witch who could walk through antique mirrors? She slowly turned to face me and whispered, “Welcome, Bess.”

When she raised her chin and her shining eyes met mine, I recognized her immediately. She was me!

“Wha…wha…what, I mean, h-how?” I stuttered. Then, standing taller, taking a deep breath, and gathering my courage, I demanded, “Whoever you are, give me my son! Now!”

“As you can see, my dear, Bess, I am you – or another version of you. Your eyes have not deceived you. There are many of us, you know, in many other places, different, faraway places. And I have every intention of returning sweet Lucas to you, unharmed. IF you can prove you are worthy of him.”

“What do you mean, worthy? He is MY son. I gave birth to him. Give him to me, now!” I demanded, taking a threatening step toward her, at least I meant it to be threatening. She casually held up a hand and my lurching body stopped abruptly, as if I had slammed into an invisible barrier.

“Your son is twice-blessed, a very special child. He deserves a mother who is truly worthy of him, a mother who will continue to bless him, a brave woman who isn’t debilitated by her many overwhelming and unreasonable fears. Tonight, you must face and overcome numerous challenges which will terrify you and test your resolve.

“If you are successful in completing your trial, you will find your personal talisman, as I have found mine.” She caressed the handle of the pitchfork. “It will be a lucky charm of sorts, that will sooth your temerity, protect you from your irrational fears, and give you peace and everlasting courage.”

Reaching out a familiar hand, she ordered, “Come with me.”

Having no other choice, I followed obediently as she led me toward the door, lifted a burning lantern off a hook, stepped out into the bitter cold, rounded the small cottage, and stopped next to a rough, stone well. “Climb up,” she said. “Stand in the bucket.”

I was petrified as I tried to pull myself up the uneven wall of the well, only to slip off the smooth-sided rocks and slide backwards. It took several attempts, but I finally made my way to the top and grabbed onto the large, hemp rope holding the bucket.

I was shaking so hard that the wooden bucket danced like a dervish in my grip. It took all my strength and courage to step off the wall and attempt to catch the see-sawing container with my booted foot. When I finally succeeded, I huffed out a prayerful, “Thank you, Lord.”

As my unusual conveyance started to descend, I cried out to the witch, “How do I get back, get out?”

My doppelganger answered, “All will become clear once you find your talisman.”

With that, the bucket lowered me into the dark, dank depths of the well. I don’t know how far I descended, but much too soon, the small circle of moonlight above me shrunk to a pinpoint, then disappeared altogether. I shivered in the bone-chilling cold as I felt water droplets, once suspended in the moist air, freeze on my cheeks and the edges of the scarf I had wrapped around my throat.

The darkness was absolute. I could hear strange, terrifying sounds all around me – squeaks, squawks, screams, howls, whispers, whines, and most frightening of all – the drip, trickle, and whoosh of water. How deep was this well? What if I reached the water before I found whatever it was that I was supposed to find?

Something whistled and flapped above my head, then landed on my face, wrapping leathery wings around my ears. A bat. I screamed and screamed again until the horrifying creature released its grip on me and flew away.

Voices assailed me, laughing, mocking hisses predicting my failure, pointing out my many weaknesses, promising me nothing but tragedy and pain. I cringed and hummed, “Lucas, Lucas, Lucas,” to drown out their dreadful taunts, wondering it would be possible to feel any more frightened and desperate.

As my wobbly ride continued ever downward, it plunged through something that felt alarmingly like a spider’s web. Sticky, cloying strands clung to me, in my eyes, nose, and mouth, tangling my hair. I couldn’t let go of the rope to wipe them away. My mind’s eye flashed with a vision of Frodo Baggins stuck in Shelob’s lair and I screamed again. Where was my Star-glass when I needed it? My body shook like the proverbial leaf which, thankfully, dislodged some of the gummy web from my face.

My fall seemed endless. Something furry ran down the rope, over my gloves, and landed in the bucket at my feet. I did my best to ignore it. A shrieking, ethereal form, that glowed brightly against the darkness, a banshee of legend perhaps, emerged from the wall, circled my bucket, and darted downward, followed by two more of the same, ghastly shapes.

I closed my eyes tight and prayed, trying to shut out the terror by conjuring up mental pictures of my beloved son. So, I was shocked when my conveyance came to a sudden stop.

I opened my eyes again to see a lighted, open archway in the well wall. Prying my frozen fingers off the rope, I left my furry companion behind, jumped out of the bucket, and onto a wide, protruding ledge, then stepped quickly through the opening and into an inviting and welcome warmth.

The stone-lined room I entered was enormous, lit by thousands upon thousands of candles. On the brick floor stood a row of wooden tables. Each table held an assortment of items, hundreds in all. Talismans. But which one was mine? How would I ever know?

The first table held an assortment of weapons – a knife, a bow and arrow, a slingshot, a battle ax, a broadsword, a mace, a saber, and even a gun – more specifically, a 38 caliber, Smith and Wesson handgun, just like the one my policeman grandfather used to carry. I knew without a doubt that none of these were for me. I would never be a warrior.

The second table was filled with a variety of symbols of bravery – a police officer’s badge, a sheriff’s star, a firefighter’s helmet, a soldier’s boots, a mountain climber’s ice pick, a diver’s snorkel, a smoke-jumper’s parachute, an astronaut’s NASA patch, a private detective’s conceal-carry permit, and a bull-rider’s championship buckle. None of which belonged to me, either. I wasn’t anyone’s hero.

The third table boasted numerous awards honoring brave and courageous acts – a plaque, an authorized certificate, a trophy, a bouquet of flowers, a diamond-encrusted ring, a medal, an embroidered emblem, a leather jacket, a BSA Eagle Scout pin, and a million-dollar check. Again, not mine. I’d never win an award for bravery.

The fourth table was lined with unusual jewelry, necklaces and bracelets, for the most part, engraved with severe medical conditions and handicaps that people much braver than I am overcome every day. Heart disease, cancer, depression, diabetes, severe allergies, autism, the list went on and on. I searched through the table’s contents until I found a medical alert bracelet with my birthdate on it, and “anxiety” sculpted in block letters.

Was this it, my talisman? Could it be? I wasn’t sure. I started to pick it up and put on, then hesitated. It didn’t feel exactly right. I didn’t think it would fit because it seemed too confining somehow. I pushed it away, stepped back, and moved on to the next table.

This one was much smaller than the others. It sat off to one side, easily passed over, unnoticed. It was covered with a wide variety of palm-sized trinkets, each with a motivational word written upon it – a clear, glass crystal etched with the word FAITH, a smooth, rose-quartz ellipsoid encrusted with the word HOPE, a terra-cotta cube stamped with the word CHARITY, a pewter disk with the word PATIENCE pressed into its face, a granite chip with the word STRENGTH scratched across its side, a tiny, worn, leather-bound book with the word HOLYNESS embossed in gold on the front, and finally a red-oak heart, polished to a warm glow, with the word LOVE carved into its face.

My eyes flew open wide. I literally felt my lungs expand and my chest fill with joy when I picked up my talisman and squeezed it tightly in my fist. A tingling, almost like an electric shock raced throughout my body and streamed out my fingertips and toes.

My witchy double’s voice immediately echoed in my ears. “Yes. You have found it. Your love for your son is your own, true talisman. Love is what gives you the courage to do the impossible. Take it with you and keep it close. My blessings go with you, Bess the Brave.”

I awoke on the floor of the nursery in the little house on Golden Road. Lucas was in his crib. He rolled over, smiled widely, and said, “Mama!” with conviction. I could still hear the whirring, clunking roar of the lawnmower hacking away at the backyard next door. Had it all been a very realistic dream? My gaze swept over to the antique mirror, where my prone form, lying on the floor in front of my grandmother’s rocker was reflected. Only a dream then.

When I sat up and stretched to ease my stiff limbs, a small, wooden heart rolled out of my fist as I unclenched it, and fell onto the carpet. On it was written the word LOVE.

Now, please think about this. The next time you gaze into a mirror, what will you see? Though you may expect to find your own reflection, what if another world appears there instead? Will it be the fault of an old, worn mirror in need of re-silvering, your imagination playing tricks on you, or just a dream? What if the mirror isn’t a mirror at all, but a gateway to another dimension, another time and place?

And Freedom Dies

 

And Freedom Dies

 

They said it could never happen. Not here. There were too many checks and balances in place. Too many who would resist. But they were wrong.

Destruction sold the big lie and rolled in on a red wave of devotees who swallowed whole his insults, projections, and calculated promises. His cult of followers adored him, admiring his outspoken hatred of any who opposed him. He loved himself and emulated powerful dictators.

Billionaire overlords, the true power behind his throne, stepped out of the shadows to take control of their hapless puppet. Heretical "Christian"-nationalists replaced dedicated, impartial civil servants. Congress was dismantled; the constitution destroyed, while the Supreme Court cheered.

Millions were deported or killed. Walls were built to keep the people in. Concentration camps were built to punish them for their courage. The military was charged with arresting and imprisoning any who dared to speak against him or his overlord rulers. The free press was muzzled or corrupted.

Corporations were deregulated; safety precautions eliminated. The depended-upon social supports were destroyed. The poor and sick were blamed for their poverty and illness. The people suffered and wondered how it had happened, the lessons of history ignored or forgotten.

Women were prohibited from serving in positions of power. Their bodies controlled by others, many died. Public education was outlawed. Children were indoctrinated and brain-washed in schools run by fanatical believers.

Prisons and labor camps were filled past capacity. Mass graves overflowed. The environment and economy were destroyed. People wept for the past as the new Dark Ages consumed them. But they’d gotten what they’d asked for – a strong leader – law and order – a fascist controlled by modern-day feudal lords who made them all powerless peasants.

They said it could never happen. Not here. Until it did.

When Friends Leave

Today a read this poem -

I watched my
friends,
leave my life.
And the worst part,
is that I felt like I
deserved it.

S.W.

I have no idea who S.W.is but I definitely know what she's feeling. It hurts when friends turn away from you. It's agony when your dearest friends no longer want to count you among their dearest friends. And I don't know about you, but I always assume that I'm the problem. I am always convinced that I must have done or said something to my friends to make them turn away from me and leave me behind.

Friends leave you in a multitude of ways. Sometimes they just drift away - gradually stop calling or reciprocating your invitations. Other times they tell you bluntly that they no longer want to be your friend. The first method makes you feel sad and might leave you wondering a bit if you've done something to offend, but often you chalk it up to a life that has just gotten too busy. The second, more direct method, really stings, a needle that is sharp and aimed straight at the heart. It lets you know that you've definitely offended somehow and that you are simply too unpleasant to endure. As difficult as this is to take, at least you know for certain that in the mind of your friend, you deserve to be dropped from the friend zone.

But by far the worst way to be left by a friend, to my mind, is when that friend simply stops responding to your attempts at communication. One day they're there for you, the next day they're not. No more contact. No explanations. Leaving you questioning not only yourself but whether or not the friendship was ever as real and important to the friend as it was to you.

How do you reconcile that kind of rejection? What do you do after you've made several attempts to reconnect with that friend with absolutely no response? Well, in my case, I checked the obits to make sure the friend hadn't gone and died on me, then I tried, one more time to reach out, to make sure my friend was okay. I offered up my concern and aid if needed. And then I waited. Finally, when no response came, I gave up. Then I started trying to figure out what I had done wrong. Why did I deserve to be excised out of my friend's life so neatly?

I thought back to the time when the other friend told me that she didn't want to be around me any more - a time that I thought was one of the lowest points in my life - and realized that despite how much that hurt, this sudden abandonment without explanation, by a cherished friend, is much more difficult to endure. It's soul-crushing.

Why? Because I know deep down that it is entirely my fault. I'm toxic. I deserved to be cut off from that friendship - and all friendships. Problem is - I don't know what it was about me - what I did or what I said - that was so offensive and off-putting - so toxic. And because I have no clue about what makes me so toxic, I have no way to remedy the situation. I can't change something about myself that annoys or frustrates another if I don't know what that something is. So I delve deep into self-analysis and self-blame.

Because of my foundation in Myers Briggs Personality Type, I tend to do that analysis from a type perspective -

I am truly an Extravert, so I wonder - Am I too open and forthcoming? Do I share too much? Do I speak without thinking too often? Do I express my opinions too openly?

I am also an iNtuitive person, so I think - Maybe I try to get too deep into real communication with friends - trying to make a connection that goes beyond the surface. Maybe I'm too abstract. Maybe I allow myself to get too far into the theoretical. Maybe I am too prone to flights of fancy instead of being grounded. Maybe I spend too much time asking "What if?" and focusing on possibilities. Maybe I'm happier living in my imagination than in the real world.

I am, sadly, a strong Feeling decision maker, so I assume - I'm the problem. I'm too sensitive. I wear my feelings on my sleeve. I'm too easily wounded. I'm too easily swayed by things that touch my heart. And when I'm over-stressed, I become the polar opposite - the teddy bear becomes a bear.

I am, for good or bad, a Judging type, so I imagine others think that - I'm too quick to draw conclusions. I'm too controlling. I'm too opinionated. I'm too structured and rigid. I'm too bossy and take-charge - too preachy. Too convinced that my way is the right way.

That's me - the ENFJ  teacher. Always have been, always will be. I know that puts me in the minority - type-wise (less than 15% of the population.) I've felt like the proverbial duck out of water my whole life. Certainly that's why some of my friends have turned away - they simply do not and will never "get" me. Nevertheless, the rejection I've experienced by those I thought were friends has hurt me deeply and profoundly. I wish I knew why they don't want me as a friend.

I want to cry out - "Just tell me what's wrong with me and I'll fix it!" Rejection is unspeakably painful, especially when you know, deep down, that you deserve it.

Cousins Rock

Do you have cousins? Did you grow up spending time with them? Do you still keep in touch? Thankfully I can answer yes to all three of these questions. I can honestly say that my cousins helped me to become the person I am today - and I'll leave it to you to decide if that's a good thing, or not.

On my Mom's side (Ayers) there are 13 cousins, total. Take away myself and my brother, that leaves me with 11 first cousins. On my Dad's side (Minnix) there are 8 cousins, total. Same calculation leaves me with 6 first cousins. So all in all, I have 17 first cousins. An "embarrassment of riches" as someone much wiser and more well-spoken than I once said.

Of the Ayers cousins, I am number three - and the first girl. I remember spending summer days at my grandparents' farm in Huddleston trying, and failing, to keep up with my older boy cousins, Bob and Allan. No matter how much I wanted to run around barefooted, like them, I was never able to toughen up my tender feet, and was generally sporting at least one badly stubbed toe. So I spent most of my time waiting on the porch for the boys to get back from their various adventures, while dressing up the least wild cat I could catch in doll clothes. Regardless of the age and gender differences, I always looked forward to the boys' annual summer visits to our grandparents from their home in Greenville Alabama.

Here's a photo of 8 of the 13 first cousins, circa 1962. I'm on the left, rocking my pedal-pushers, holding my baby brother, Jay. The little redhead next to me, charming Tambra Jo, is Dale. Bob, the oldest, is holding Tambra. Tim, pensively chewing his thumb, is between Bob and Allan (on the right) holding Vickie. Jan (next in age after me) is missing from the photo, as are Ricky, Jimmy, Mike, and Tonya, who weren't even a gleam in their parents' eyes yet.

We didn't see much of Jan growing up as her father was in the military and they were stationed overseas. One thing I do remember about her was when they returned to the states from Germany and came to Vinton to visit with us before moving on to Florida. She and her family spent several days at our house that summer. I don't think it was a particularly hot summer, but it was before my dad added central air conditioning to our house. Coming from the cool temps and low humidity of Germany, Jan suffered in the summertime heat. I'll never forget her mopping her brow and saying, "It sure is hot here in Florida." I didn't have the heart to tell her that she was in Virginia, and a long way from Florida, where it would be considerably hotter. Guessed she'd figure that out for herself soon enough. Funny thing was, years later when she would visit us from Florida, she would freeze in the Virginia "cold."

Tim was (and still is actually) a funny, creative kid. Born on Halloween about five year after me, we spent many Sunday afternoons together trying to find something interesting to do. Tim liked to cook, so to keep him busy while she prepared a meal for the crowd of family gathered for Sunday dinner, Grandma would give him a small saucepan filled with a couple of inches of water and a hotdog, which he "cooked" over one of the heat registers in the floor of the dining room. He was also instrumental in encouraging tent-making in the front yard. We'd drag out Grandma's quilts and old spreads, drape them over the lawn furniture, and spend hours crawling in and out of our masterpiece of engineering (and rebuilding it when the younger kids knocked it down.) Or once, when our grandparents had to replace their refrigerator, we spent an entire day playing in the empty box. Who needs video games when you have imagination?

My mom and her sisters were always very supportive of one another, especially when someone was sick or a baby was born. My mom went to Richmond to be with my Aunt Vi when Dale came into their life and Vi came to Vinton to help out when my brother, Jay, was born. Red-haired, freckle-face, Dale was full of life and energy and joy, and we all enjoyed having him around. My dad, in particular, liked to tease him. Of course my dad like to tease everyone! One thing I'll never forget about Dale is that he bounced when he walked - literally bounced - bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet with every step he took. And he was always dressed to the nines. Vi starched and pressed his "dungarees" to knife-edges sharpness and polished his white high-tops to a pristine shine.

Tambra Jo is Tim's younger sister. She is only a month older than Jay, who is nine years my junior. Her family was transferred to Birmingham when she was little, so I don't remember much about her way back then, except that she was adorable and sweet-faced. Tonya, their youngest sibling didn't come along until after the family moved to Alabama, and being that she's the youngest of my cousins, I didn't really get to know her until she was an adult. Now I love spending time with her and her gorgeous daughters.

Vickie and her younger brother, Jimmy, and Ricky and his brother, Mike, were considerably younger as well, so I don't have many memories of them as children. Except for our Easter egg hunts, that is. Every Easter, Grandma would dye a couple dozen eggs that the older cousins would hide for the younger ones to find. It was great fun, well, aside from the Easter when Grandma forgot to cook the eggs first. After that year we always used plastic eggs for the hunt.

All in all, Sunday afternoons at Grandma and Grandaddy Ayer's with the cousins were the best. There was always someone to play with and something to do - badminton or croquet in the summer, and making a fort in the upstairs of the house in the winter. I can't imagine what my childhood would have been like without my cousins.

While my Ayers grandparents lived in the country, my Minnix grandparents lived in the city. We visited with them every Sunday, too, usually right after church. I loved to sit in the swing on their front porch and watch the cars whiz by. Plus, I had the wonderful advantage of living right up the street from four of my Minnix cousins, so they were regular playmates for my brother and me.

On Sunday mornings, we'd sit around the kitchen table and wait for Grandma to pop popcorn for us or scoop out ice cream cones. I was the oldest of the Minnix grandchildren (and the most spoiled according to all reports.) Melanie came along three years after me, followed by Linda, Keith, my brother Jay, Gail, Tina, and finally Robert. Melanie was one of my best pals growing up. We spent countless hours dressing Barbie dolls, coloring, playing tag or kickball, riding bikes, swinging on the neighbor's swing-set, and generally roaming around in the neighborhood. Her brother, Keith, was idolized by my brother, Jay. They spent at least as many hours together as Melanie and I did, playing GI Joe or generally running amok.

I'll never forget going to my cousin's house and watching Gail (same age as Jay) when she was still crawling, scooting up and down their hardwood hallway, while her siblings ran from her in mock terror, calling her "Monstro!" Of course that business was instigated by Keith, but we all participated. Robert came along 13 years after me, so I never spent much time with him growing up. In fact, I babysat his siblings while his mom was in the hospital after his birth. It' hard to believe that Robert, the youngest of my Minnix cousins, has two grown sons.

Linda and her sister, Tina, lived fairly close by as well, so we saw them often, too. Linda got a lot of teasing from all the cousins because, even at age two, she was a girl who knew exactly what she wanted. Smart and determined, she tried her best to organize us all to do her bidding, though her efforts were generally wasted on the rest of us incorrigible heathens. Tina was quite a bit younger, so I don't remember her as well, except for the summer when I babysat for them while their mom worked. Tina was supposed to take a nap every afternoon, but that rarely happened. Tina did not like to take a nap but preferred to stay up with her sister and me, to make sure she didn't miss out on anything fun.

Thankfully, I am still close to my Ayers and my Minnix cousins. Though we don't see each other often, we do so whenever we can. Plus we keep up on social media and through messaging. I feel so lucky and so blessed to have spent my childhood with these special people. We share so many wonderful experiences and memories. If you don't have cousins like mine, you don't know what you've missed!

Cousins Rock!!

Making Amends

For the past few weeks, our pastor has been presenting a sermon series entitled, "I'm Offended." This topic has had a significant impact on me. In light of the current state of affairs in this country - when everyone seems to be operating from a position of, "I'm just telling it like it is and if you're offended, tough;" And when so many people seem to believe that you shouldn't be offended, anyway, when others speak their "truth;" And if you are, it's just because you're too sensitive - this is a very important lesson. I'm probably in the minority these days, but I believe that we need to be reminded of the dangers of offensive words and behavior and of what is required of anyone who strives to live in polite society and in harmony with others. 

So, you ask, why should it matter if you're offended by someone, or if you offend someone? You'll get over it, right? They'll get over it, too, eventually. And you'll both either forgive and ignore the offense or move on. Maybe one of you will hold a grudge and never re-connect, but that's okay, right? People come in and out of our lives all the time, so what does it matter if an offense comes between us? Someone else will step in to fill the void left by the person who is no longer in your life, right? And it's likely that you're not missing anything by not having that person in you life and they're not missing anything by not having you in theirs. Right? And besides, you have the right to say whatever you think, right? And if others are too easily offended, it's their problem, right?

No. Not right. Never has been, never will be. Offending others or being offended by others can be a relationship death knell. We cut off contact with those who have offended us because we're hurt and it's easier than confronting them, telling them that we're hurt, and trying to forgive. We avoid those we have offended because we're feeling embarrassed and guilty and don't want to face up to them, swallow our pride, and admit that we were wrong. (Or else we demonize them and shift the blame to them for "over-reacting" or being too sensitive.) So, instead of trying to mend fences and repair the relationship, we let it die. And we never know what we missed because we didn't care enough to try to reconcile.

It making amends an easy process? Heck no. Proverbs 18:19 says, "An offended friend is harder to win back than a fortified city." So true. Think about it. When you are offended, what do you expect the friend who offended you to do? How far does he/she have to go to win you back? That varies with people and personality. Not many of us are naturally forgiving and some of us are downright stubborn grudge-holders. So for most, a sincere, "I'm sorry," is the bare minimum we need before we can open our arms for a reuniting hug. For some much more is required. 

Our pastor quoted, Ken Sande, and his Seven A's of Confession (or Reconciliation) as a how-to guide for making amends for your offensive behavior. My thoughts are noted in purple.

1. Address everyone involved (All those whom you affected)  If you aren't sure about someone, ask. You might be surprised how far-reaching your offensive statements/actions might be. Don't assume. Verify.
2. Avoid if, but, and maybe (Do not try to excuse your wrongs)  Like our pastor said, when you make a positive, constructive statement then use if, but, or maybe, followed by some qualification or justification for your words or behavior, you negate everything you said before. Here's an example - "That color really looks great on you, BUT those pants make your butt look big." Or to put it in context - "I'm sorry for being so critical, BUT you know me, I say what I think and MAYBE you shouldn't ask my opinion." Or the following which is definitely not an apology - "I'm sorry IF I hurt your feelings." Also, as recommended by our pastor, add NEVER and ALWAYS to that list. Those extreme words are rarely true though they offend often.
3. Admit specifically (Both attitudes and actions) Saying "I'm sorry," isn't enough. Try to express exactly what you believe you've done or said that was offensive. And while you're doing it, try to look and sound remorseful and sincere. I'm reminded of a character Steve Martin portrayed on "Saturday Night Live," who would say, "Well, Excuuuuuse Meeee!" Definitely not an apology.
4. Acknowledge the hurt (Express sorrow for hurting someone) Some people are born with Teflon overcoats - insults and personal attacks seem to slide off - leaving no hurt, no offense. But others' overcoats are made of Velcro - everything sticks - and hurts and offends. Let the person you've offended know that you recognize the pain you've caused them. Even if you wouldn't have reacted in the same way, acknowledge that they have been hurt and that they are entitled to their feelings and reactions. Telling someone that they shouldn't have been wounded won't resolve anything.
5. Accept the consequences (Such as making restitution) It's always risky to ask the person you've offended if there is anything you can do to make it up to him/her, but often that's exactly what you need to do. Sometimes it's the only way to begin the reconciliation process. And if they suggest something which might make them feel better, if it is in your power, do it.
6. Alter your behavior (Change your attitudes and actions) Really make an effort NOT to repeat the offensive statements or behavior. Think before you speak or act. Remember to whom you are speaking and how you have previously wounded that individual. If you say you're sorry but show no change in attitude or action, your apology is insincere and disingenuous and you have destroyed all trust.
7. Ask for forgiveness Maybe the hardest part of all - but the most important to reconciliation. Learn to forgive and to ask for forgiveness. 

So, I ask again, why does it matter? Because we live in a civilized society - or at least we used to - and that's what civilized people do. 

"If possible, on your part, live at peace with everyone."  Romans 12:18

Am I Blue? ...with apologies to Billie Holiday

Do you ever have days when you feel like this?

Well, today is one of those days for me. I've been feeling a little bummed out since Sunday when my husband and I were approached by a man at our church picnic, a stranger to me who clearly believed I was someone he knew. After a casual greeting, which implied that he thought we were already acquainted, he nodded toward my husband and asked me if he was my son. Yes, that's right, my SON! I mustered up a nervous laugh, quickly told him that the man next to me was my HUSBAND who, actually, is older than me (by a little bit,) and shrugged off his immediate distress with a forced smile. 

As upsetting and hurtful as it is to be told you look old enough to be your spouse's mother, the really awful part is that this isn't the first time it's happened to me. Though it's been a few years, two other, distinctly horrible incidents are forever burned into the memory patterns of my brain. And quite frankly, no matter how hard the unintentional accusers try to backpedal and make excuses for their mistake, the damage done to one's self-image is impossible to erase. This is something I will always remember and agonize over.

The first time it happened, I was in my early 40's and prematurely gray. Within weeks I went from gray to blonde, hoping beyond hope that the change would make me look a bit younger. Apparently it worked, for a while at least, since it was about 10 years before it happened again. That incident prompted a weight-loss campaign which resulted in a 40-pound slim down that I was able to maintain for several years. Again, the change must have helped out in the "You're really showing your age, old gal," department because another 10 years have flown by since that last time, when a woman in the office looked at a photo on my desk of my husband and sons and said, "Oh, I didn't know you had three sons!"

Now to be completely honest, my husband does look quite a bit younger than his 64 years. He's tall, and trim, and muscular, with very little gray hair. He has great skin, too, tan and unlined. And I don't. I'm fair (and spotted,) fat (again,) and gray. 

After age 60, I decided to cut off the blonde locks and reveal my real truth - I'm a white-haired old lady. Plain and simple. The weight I lost 10 years ago has come back despite all my struggles. Many days I don't bother with makeup because it tends to just slide off my face anyway, so yes, I admit that I look older than my husband. I can own up to my reality. But REALLY! Do I look old enough to be his mother? Given, he looks 10 year younger than his actual age, but that means - to be old enough to be his mother I must look 10 year older than mine. What a totally depressing thought. Is it any wonder I'm bummed out and blue?

To make matters even worse, last night as we were going to bed, I mentioned this age difference calculation, which had be circling around and around in my head, to him. Of course I was fishing for an affirmation, or heaven forbid, a compliment. Something like, "That's silly, Donna. You look great. Don't worry your pretty head about it." Even a "You look fine," would have been something, but what was his response? Complete silence.  A "Do you hear the crickets?" kind of silence. 

So after that unspoken affirmation that even my husband of 44 years thinks I look old enough to be his mother, I had a rough, restless night. And a blue morning. Do you blame me? 

I know, I know. Looks aren't supposed to matter and aging is inevitable. So, I guess I'll just have to put on my big girl pants and try to laugh about it - for real this time and not because I want to make someone who unknowingly delivered me a gut-punch feel less embarrassed. What else can I do? I'm not going to get any younger, that's for sure. 

I will try not to wonder if anyone who meets my husband and me for the first time might be thinking that I robbed the cradle. That's the trouble with being an approval-seeker like me - you can't help imagining what others are thinking about you. And now, even if no one is really saying it, "What in the world is that handsome young man doing with that old crone?" keeps echoing in my head. 

Sunday Afternoons at Grandma's

Way back in the "good ol' days" when we were kids, Mom and Dad took us to Grandma's every Sunday afternoon where the Ayers clan gathered. Surrounded by aunts, uncles, and cousins, we sat around the huge drop-leaf table and ate the delicious food my grandmother, Lonie, had spent the better part of the week preparing, while talking, and laughing, and generally having a wonderful time together.

Why, you ask, did it take my grandma days to prepare Sunday dinner for the family? Well because, as I've mentioned in previous blogs, my mother had nine siblings. So, if all the "locals" came for lunch, we numbered around 18-20, give or take. If all the "out-of-towners" were also visiting, that number went up to 30 or more. Either way, even with the huge table that could seat 10 (or 12 in a pinch), we had to eat in shifts.

Plates were filled from the heaping bowls of food on the table for the younger kids, who were relegated to a small card table in the den. Then the men were given first shot at the delicious food and fluffy homemade biscuits, while everything was still piping hot from the oven. Now you may think it a bit sexist for the women to stand by and serve while the men ate, but in actuality, this was a clever arrangement which suited both genders. The men ate their fill pretty rapidly and vacated the table to head outside, weather permitting, to find a comfortable place in the shade to nap (or to smoke or to take a little nip if a little nip was available, which it generally was.) Once the men were gone, the women took their places at the table, eating and talking (or occasionally gossiping) for as long as they wanted, only rising to clear, and wash-up, and put away once they had had their appetites, for food and fellowship, satisfied.

While our mothers sat at the dining room table and our fathers lounged around, the kids found many, many interesting things to do and places to explore. In the colder months, when the window panes would frost over from the combined warmth of the cooking and human beings packed inside, the upstairs bedrooms of my grandparents little clapboard house in Goodview might become a palace or a pirate ship, where we let our young imaginations run amok. In the summertime we broke out the croquet set or volleyball net and played for hours. Or we dragged out chairs and Grandma's homemade quilts and made a tent. Of course the younger cousins would invariably pull down a quilt or two each time they crawled in or out, so we spent the better part of the afternoon rebuilding that tent.

My cousin, Tim, who I always thought was somewhat less of a ruffian than my younger brother and most of my boy cousins, would get Grandma to give him a small sauce pan filled with an inch or so of water and one lone hot dog, which he would pretend to cook on one of the many floor furnace vents. Though the hot air blowing out from the old oil-fired furnace was quite toasty, as compared to that produced by today's heat pumps, Tim's hot dog never got any more that lukewarm. Nevertheless, he generally ate at least part of it before the afternoon was done.

At Eastertime, the older grandchildren hid eggs, that Grandma had colored, for the younger kids to find. Well, except for that year when Grandma forgot to boil the eggs before she colored them. Boy, was that a mess! After that year, we opted for the plastic eggs instead - you know the ones that can be filled with jelly beans, colored marshmallow eggs, or Peeps. Of course, that meant that hiding the eggs the first time was much more fun than the second or third rounds, after all the candy had been eaten, because the enthusiasm for finding the empty eggs flagged considerably. And then, months later, we'd come across a forgotten egg under a bush or in a clump of dead grass.

Sometimes the adults would confiscate the kids' card table and put it to the use for which it was intended - Rook! If you have never played Rook, or watched my grandfather play Rook, you've really missed a treat. It's a fun game of betting on how many points you think you'll be able to make to try and win the "widow" so you can choose which color of cards is "trumps," scoring bigtime if you are able to achieve your prediction, or being "set" bigtime if you fail. My grandfather, Lemuel James Ayers, Sr. or "Brud" liked to win a hand, or a game, but what he really loved was to set his opponent. I can still hear him crowing, yes crowing, when he was able to outplay my dad (always an audacious, risk-taking card player) and set him back the full amount of his original bid.

I spent many an afternoon sitting behind one of my aunts or uncles watching the Rook game. It was fascinating. Sometimes I would be allowed to hold the cards and, with some gently prompting, bid and play out the hand. A proud moment to be sure. To this day I still love to play cards, especially Rook, because it always takes me back to those wonderful afternoons with family in the little white house in Goodview.