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.

Southern Ingenuity

Glenn Allen Minnix was my father. He was a member of the greatest generation - a radio operator and navigator on a B-17 bomber during WWII. But that's a story for another day, one that I will defer to my brother, Jay, because he is the true expert about that time in our father's life. Today I'll tell you a little more about Dad's special, MacGyver-like engineering genius.

I honestly can't remember the year, but one day, probably in the late 60's to early 70's, I came home from doing whatever it is teenagers do to find my dad and several other men working in our basement. They were making a terrible racket. Groaning, creaking, pounding, (and a few curses,) followed by the ear-splitting shriek of a metal saw, emitted up the stairs and rang throughout the house.

Trying to make myself heard above the clamor, I asked my mom what was going on. She explained, loudly, that Dad and his helpers were replacing the broken water pipe feeding our house from the street. I knew that the old, galvanized line coming into our house from the meter had been leaking for a while, so it didn't surprise me that my father was trying to fix it. But what did baffle me was how he was going to manage that from INSIDE the house when logic told me that they should be OUTSIDE digging up the old pipe and replacing it with new. So, taking my ears (and potentially my life) into my hands, I went downstairs to find out what sort of feat of creative engineering my sweet dad was attempting this time.

I found Dad and two other men (apologies for not remembering who) wrestling lengths of muddy galvanized pipe out through a hole in the front wall of the house's foundation. One end of a huge wench was attached by a huge chain to one of the support poles holding up the house. The other end was attached to the pipe. The men ran the wench until a long segment of the pipe emerged through the hole and into the basement, then they used the saw to cut it off and tossed it aside. The process was repeated. slowly and painstakingly. I stayed and watched for awhile, my heart pounding with worry that this crazy, time and energy saving scheme would literally bring the house down on top of us.

After a while, it became obvious how Dad planned to get the old rusted and broken pipe out of the yard, without digging, but what wasn't nearly so clear to me was how he was going to get the new pipe installed. That was until I saw the end of the old pipe come through the wall firmly attached to the new pipe. So, I realized, there was method to his madness after all. Dad had cut loose the old pipe at the meter and coupled it to the new pipe before beginning the wenching process, and so, the new pipe was pulled along into the space vacated by the old without having to disturb the turf in the front yard or move the first shovelful of dirt. Genius.

Broken Down Tractors

My dad loved to tinker. He bought vintage Mustangs and brought them back to life, rebuilt numerous cars and trucks, and fixed just about every mechanical thing in our house at one time or another. He lived by the "If it moves, grease it; If it doesn't move, paint it," adage.

A Greatest Generation MacGyver, Dad really could fix just about anything with a hammer and electrician's tape. I almost wrote that he could fix practically everything with a screwdrive and tape, but Dad wasn't that subtle. A hammer was more his style. In fact, I still have an indelible image of him pounding a screw into some project using a hammer, and then commenting that the threads on a screw were put there for removal purposes only. Dad generally took the most expedicious route to solve any problem or fix any broken down thing. He never wasted effort on things like actually screwing in the screw.

Dad only owned one new car in his life because he saw no reason to shoulder the financial loss of the initial depreciation, when he could make used cars work almost like new. And if that was true for cars, it was even more so for lawn tractors. Not only did he NOT EVER buy a new lawn tractor, he loudly ridiculed anyone (including my husband) who did so.

Buying old tractors and fixing them up was one of Dad's primary post-retirement hobbies. And if the old thing broke down or threw a belt every time he tried to mow with it, so much the better - because the breakdown gave him another reason to tinker - another reason make a run to the junk yard or hardware store. (He actually bought mowing deck and tractor belts by the gross!)

The most notorious of his tractor creations was the one he cobbled together from two, or maybe three, junk-yard finds. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find a photograph of that "monster" tractor, but it ended up looking similar to the one pictured above. Since the engine was from one tractor and the transmission was from another, they weren't exactly compatible, so Dad ended up having to put two gear boxes in the thing to make it run slowly enough to mow. The down side was that the improvised rigging made the tractor a bit too long for the job it was intended to do. It's wide turning radius forced Dad to mow both our yard and the neighbor's if he wanted to get the darn thing turned around and headed back in the opposite direction.

Despite the fact that the monster tractor wasn't particularly well suited for yard mowing, it did make a great vehicle for getting around the neighborhood. When our sons were little, Dad loved to pull them up in his lap for a ride down the street and around the block. The thing made so much noise that all the neighbors were sure to look out to see what was up, which gave Dad a great opportunity to show off his grandsons.

Remember that I told you that Dad made fun of my husband for spending the money to buy a new tractor? Well, here's the rest of that story. After Dad died, my husband took on the responsibility of mowing the yard for my mom, using his new Cub Cadet tractor. The first three times he went down to the house to mow, something on that new tractor broke - a belt snapped, or a mowing deck wheel came off, etc. The first two times it happened, my husband figured it was just a coincidence, normal wear and tear. But when it occurred again on the third attempt to mow, he decided had to be more than that. His thoughts were confirmed when he heard my dad's laughter ringing in his ears.

Dinky and the Duck

I introduced you to my Aunt Vi, AKA "Dinky," in an earlier post - the sore-toed sister and accomplice of the pie-pan, chicken murdering sister. In today's episode, Dinky is getting ready to receive a suitor, a beau, or as my grandmother would have said, "a feller she's sweet on."

If you remember, I also mentioned that my mother's nuclear family included my grandfather and grandmother, nine siblings, and an old bachelor uncle. Uncle George was, for lack of a better description, a character. Well, "a character" is actually an understatement, but it's the best I can do at the moment. Let's just say that Uncle George was a tease, and a prankster, and a bit of a scamp.

Dinky also had four older siblings, three of whom were already married at the time of the duck incident. Kind, hardworking, devoted, Mae, the eldest, married Renford Murphy, an exceedingly sweet-tempered man, after the war and moved to Greenville Alabama with him. (That's a story for another day.) James, the serious oldest son, was married to Lucille, a perky, petite woman, with the tiniest feet I think I ever saw on a grown woman. And then there was my mom, Vaughnie (or Bonnie as she was known by most, because she hated her given name) who was married to Glenn, my notorious, bug-squashing father, whom you met in the "Stiff-neck Chronicles."

Now, just imagine what sort of devious mischief might happen on a lazy, boring Sunday afternoon, when you put that prankster uncle together with my jokester father (especially if you add a snort or two into the mix.) And then imagine that you are Vi - all dressed up in your Sunday-go-to-meetin' finest, ready and anxious to receive your gentleman caller - the perfect, unsuspecting target. Got an image?

So what do you think, happened next? Well, it wasn't fun for Dinky, I can tell you that much for sure.

The expected date arrived, nervously shaking hands all around, and was shuffled into a proffered place on the front porch swing to await his girl. Moments later, Vi came out of the house, smiling brightly at her gentleman caller, her dress perfection and curls bouncing in that flirtatious way curls used to bounce in the 40's. She practically danced across the worn floor boards and took her seat beside her young man on the swing.

Now the treachery begins. With a mischievous grin, Uncle George scooped up one of the baby ducklings that were running around in the yard and handed it to my dad, his partner in crime, gesturing for him to give it to Vi. Which he did of course, with no hesitation, placing the baby duck squarely in the middle of Vi's lap, on the full skirt of her best dress.

I'm sure you can guess what happened next. The duckling did as ducklings do when dropped against their will into the lap of a loudly protesting teenaged girl. It squawked and flapped away, leaving a long streak of duck poo in its wake. Dinky, seeing that her beautiful dress was ruined, and mortified beyond belief, bolted for the house, chased by guffaws of laughter from Uncle George, Brother-in-law Glenn, and all of the other family members who were witness to her embarrassment. Witnesses, I might add who did nothing to forestall her humiliation, even when they knew what was coming.

As if this incident in itself wasn't bad enough, it has been remembered and recounted time and time again by Vi's siblings and in-laws - to her continued dismay. Quite often throughout the years, when it was felt that a reminder was called for, a little yellow duck of some sort would show up at the appropriate time, and the moment would be relived in all it's hilarity. This included a birthday, not too many years ago, when a cake sported a yellow ducky and read, "Happy Birthday, Dinky!"

Guarding Your Tongue - Is "Honesty" the Best Policy?

What has happened to the sage advice, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all?" I grew up hearing that expression, meant to spare feelings and maintain relationships, didn't you? My mother was particularly adamant about it. Well, these days it seems like that wise admonition has been completely disregarded in favor of speaking your mind, no matter who is hurt or what relationships are ruined.

Today we're living in a world that is almost completely lacking in social graces. Manners have gone the way of quiet gentility - thrown out the proverbial window. And in favor of what? Brutal honesty? Which is, to my mind, simply an excuse for expressing any mean-spirited opinion one possesses, with no need to filter or moderate the hatefulness being spouted.

Over and over again, I'm hearing and reading statements such as - "I'm just being brutally honest. If that hurts your feelings, here's a Band-Aid." So, now it's not only okay to attack viciously and without conscience, but to blame the victim for being "too sensitive" if the attack causes them harm? I don't think so. In fact, I agree with Richard Needham who said, "People who are brutally honest get more satisfaction out of the brutality than the honesty."

Frankly, I do not understand the appeal that proclaimed "honesty" has these days. Not only because that honesty tends to be simple brutality specifically aimed at particular targets, but also because that proclaimed "honesty" is actually personal opinion spun to resemble truth, and not truth at all. Just because a person says what he or she thinks and makes a claim of "being honesty" does not guarantee that there is any truth whatsoever in their statements, though many people assume that honesty and truth are synonymous.

Webster defines honesty as frank directness, and bluntness, in addition to integrity, morality, righteousness, goodness, truthfulness, and reliability. I say that there is much, much more of the first two definitions in most statements of honesty than any of the latter. Honesty these days is simply not what I grew up knowing honesty to be. Now its a tool to sway, or browbeat, others to your way of thinking and to belittle those who don't agree with your premise.

So, in this, I long for "The Good Old Days," when people valued thoughtfulness, kindness, and circumspectness in speech, and when they spoke to build bridges between people and not to tear them down. And I wonder just how far this brutal trend will go and how much damage it will ultimately do. It worries me.

Not to preach, but...we are warned, repeatedly, and not only by adages spouted by our elders, but by the Big Guy upstairs, to guard our tongues -

Proverbs 15:1- "A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger."

James 3: 5, 6 - " Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one's life on fire, and is itself on fire by hell." and

Ephesians 4: 29 - " Do not let unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen."

So I say, in this, do as your mother told you.

Leading with Your Heart

I'm and ENFJ and I'm here to help!

Over 20 years ago, I was introduced to Myers Briggs Personality Type Theory and I was hooked from the start. All my life I had felt that there was something wrong with me because I was more sensitive and easily wounded than either of my parents and many of my friends. Throughout my childhood and teen years, I was chastised for "wearing my feelings on my sleeve" and for not being able to easily "roll with the punches." I was much relieved when I first took the MBTI and found out that, though my ENFJ type is relatively rare in the population (15% or so), there are still lots and lots of people like me - dominant Extraverted Feelers - outgoing folks who lead with their hearts.

So, I realized, there wasn't something wrong with me after all. I am who God made me to be - and that's all right. Do I need to cultivate my critical thinking skills or to even learn how to put on a Teflon overcoat when called for? Of course. There are definitely times when it's important to know how to remove feelings from the equation and to reason logically - considering only the facts. And there are even times when that nonstick surface is essential for letting the negative (especially unnecessarily harsh criticism) slide off. But still, most of the time it's okay to be me and to lead with my heart.

Understanding my personality type has also helped explain much of my approval-seeking behavior. Wanting to be loved and approved of by others is natural for most folks, but it is in the DNA of ENFJ's like me. We need atta-girl's and encouraging smiles almost as much as we need air and water, which is why we try so hard to get validation from others and why we feel so defeated and hopeless when approval is consistently withheld. When others disapprove of us, or heaven forbid, dislike us, we are demolished - and at least in my case, I find myself back in the downward spiral of self blame - wondering "What's wrong with me? Why don't they like me?"

Being an ENFJ also helps to explain why I have such a difficult time ending relationships or cutting people loose - even when those relationships or people are toxic to me. I just can't seem to give up working toward reconciliation even when it isn't in my best interests. Often, I'm plagued by thoughts like, "If I just try hard enough, he/she will come around," of "I know I can be who he/she wants me to be," thoughts that are not productive and should be quickly short-circuited. Trouble is, people-pleasing is not only a product of my upbringing, it's in my very nature, and learning when to let go is difficult to impossible.

That deep-seated need for approval is why excessive criticism can be completely debilitating for Extraverted Feelers, like me. Want to crush me? That's easy - just keep finding fault with me without ever balancing that by offering any praise. Since my natural tendency is for self-blame, all you have to do is feed into that and you can get the best of me without really trying. But on the flip side, all it takes is a few kind words, a compliment or two, and you'll get the very best me there is. I will work harder, and more joyfully, just to keep the praise coming.

Yes, I'm and ENFJ and I'm here to help.