Wednesday, July 28, 2010

When I was Daddy's LIttle Girl

My favorite place as a young girl was the cab of my Dad’s pickup truck. During the week his hugs would smell of aftershave and freshly dry cleaned suits. On the weekends, his hugs smelled like the cab of his pick up – fresh air and the out of doors. We would often travel to the beach or a local lake on the weekends. I would bounce beside Dad on the bench seat my stubby legs propped up on the steel gray tool box set in the wheel well. Dad’s favorite green hunting hat hung from the gun rack with his favorite red flannel shirt. In that place I knew exactly who I was, Daddy’s little girl.

My earliest memories in the cab are of Dad singing old hymns. “There’s within my heart a melody. . .” his baritone voice bellowed. He was not a trained singer but to my young ears his was the most beautiful voice in the world. Those old hymns remain among my favorites; In the Garden, Just a Closer Walk with Thee, I Love to Tell the Story, and The Old Rugged Cross. I first learned about Jesus and his love for me listening to Dad sing.  No sanctuary could have been more sacred than that rattling old cab as we drove along the mountain roads singing together.

Later, the singing stopped but the music didn’t.Dad kept a large collection of cassette tapes organized in two tattered shoe boxes in the middle of the bench seat of the truck.These boxes were filled with Dad’s favorites: Tammy Wynette, Hank Williams, George Jones, Crystal Gayle.Sometimes Dad would allow me to pick out my favorites and I would sing along imagining I was performing on stage. “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” by Tammy Wynette and “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” by Crystal Gayle were two of my favorites. My own small voice dripped with all the emotion of a 10 year old who had never known heartache and drawled as much of southern accent as a northerner could. Dad never told me to be quiet or critiqued my delivery. He was my own personal audience in the grandest of concert halls.

As time passed my singing stopped and the concerts turned to discourses. Dad and I discussed many serious topics and a few trivial ones. Together we solved the cold war years before Reagan went to Moscow. My teenage mind struggled to wrap around theological quandaries and philosophical challenges. Dad shared his opinions and treated mine with great respect. I would listen to his memories of being a young man in the mountains of Oregon and I would share my big dreams for the future.In our private classroom, I learned to think and to dream.

Over 20 years have passed since I sat in the cab with Dad but I think of our many rides together as my own daughter sings in the backseat of my car. Her little voice climbs to the ceiling dreaming of a stage somewhere. Or my son shares his life and dreams with me as we drive down the turnpike. And hopefully they will remember those times in Mom’s car as fondly as do when I was Daddy’s little girl.

Happy Birthday Dad! From Daddy's Little Girl

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Whistling Girls and Crowing Hens

    
     "If you are going to make that noise, go outside," Mom sighed wiping her hands on the dish towel as she finished the morning dishes. Her patience worn thin from the endless airy breaths of spittle and shrills I was making. 

      "It's not noise," I replied heading out the back door. "It's whistling." I was bound and determined to learn how to whistle that summer.

      "You know what Grandma always said, 'Whistling girls and crowing hens, always come to some bad end."

     "Yeah, right," I whispered under my breath, rolled my eyes and headed out the back door. Grandma had a lot of these odd sayings, old superstitions for a time gone by when acting like a lady was important. She never let my Mother lick her ice cream cone in public when she was a girl. I never understood how you could eat an ice cream cone without licking it? I wasn't worried about being ladylike in my blue jeans and braids. What kind of bad end could come from whistling? It was just a saying and held no real threat, right? By the end of the summer, I had learned to whistle and seemed none the worse for wear.

     I raised chickens in a small coop in our backyard. Out of my first batch of fluffy yellow chicks came a black-feathered pair. Henrietta and William ruled the coop for several generations of chickens. William became the compliment to my Mom's dumplings after his orneriness overtook his usefulness. I missed his morning song but I doubt the neighbors did. Henrietta continued her grandmotherly presence, a mainstay in our hen yard. Then one quiet afternoon, a distinct "cock-a-doodle-do" came from the backyard.

     "What was that?" Mom questioned me.

     "I don't know," I said the back door slamming on my way out.

    The crowing got louder as I neared the hen yard. I wondered how a rooster had found his way through three fences to get in the coop.  But when I turned the corner, only our hens were in the yard.  Dumbfounded, I stood still for a moment. And then I saw Henrietta scratch a couple of times in the dirt, lift her head to the sky and in a cloud of dust begin crowing. She strutted a bit when she finished quite proud of herself like a little old lady who decides she has reached an age when all propriety can be dropped.

     However, Henrietta wouldn't relish in her new found talent for long. And within a week, the echo of Grandma's saying reverberated in my mind. "Whistling girls and crowing hens always come to some bad end." I found Henrietta's lifeless body in the hen yard one morning. Our crowing hen came to her bad end, but this whistling girl seems to be none the worse for wear after over 30 years of whistling. 

     Though, I have been known to look behind shoulder after a particularly exuberant whistle, you just never know.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Directionally Challenged

My children will tell you that every car ride to a new location with me is an adventure. This is not because of my effervescent personality or penchant for fun. No, it is because they know I will get lost at least once on every trip. I am the first to admit I am directionally challenged. If you ever to travel with me, don't hand me the map. I consider myself a fairly intelligent and capable woman, but not when it comes to directions.


The other day we had to find our way to my youngest daughter's away swim meet. I used mapquest and studied the route. I knew there was construction on several of the roads I was instructed to drive on (I do live in Pittsburgh where there is always construction between the months of April and October).  At least I was a little familiar with where we were going. Of course, the kids were not reassured since they buckled up and said "Let the adventure begin!"

Things were going well and as always, I was hopeful that this would be the time I didn't get lose my way. The naysayers in the backseat kept asking if we were lost yet. My navigator in the passenger seat kept reading the directions and looking for street signs which didn't seem to exist. Twenty minutes into the drive the doubts began to build up. Were we on the right track? I was following detours and I was following directions. Had I missed a turn? Should I turn around or keep going? I could feel my anxiety level rising.

Those in the backseat were beginning to talk about where this adventure might lead us and thinking this year Mom was definitely getting a GPS for Christmas. We tried calling another swim team member but soon discovered we were on our own. I took a deep breath hoping to lessen the panic building in me and mellow the tone of my voice as I ordered the adventure seekers to be quiet. Then did the only thing I knew I could do, just keep driving and trust the directions.

And sure enough, the detour ended and the streets we needed started appearing. We arrived safely at the swim club with time to spare.

Being in an unknown area without being able to see the big picture causes me to feel anxious. I don't like not knowing where I am or where I am going. How can I know if I am headed in the right direction? Have I gone too far or not far enough? I get the same feeling when I think about my life and God's plan for it. Am I going in the right direction? Did I miss my call? Or do I need to keep going?

I learned on this latest adventure if I trust the directions and keep going, I will arrive at my destination eventually. And I am learning the same thing in my own life. If I trust God and his plan for my life, I just keep going and He will continue to lead me. I don't have to worry about how I will get there, what detours might lie ahead or what adventures may arise, instead I can rest in his care knowing that eventually He will lead me to just the place I am supposed to be.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Leaving the Foolish Behind

Dexter is my buddy. He more than anyone else looks forward to my return at the end of the day. He faithfully sits beside me on the couch and will defend me in the face of any danger, even at the risk of his own safety. Dexter is my 8 year old Jack Russell Dachshund mix who cannot be faulted in terms of loyalty but can be questioned when it comes to logical thought. I continue to be dumbfounded by his total lack of reasoning.

This morning, I knocked over the kitchen garbage can causing coffee grounds and other garbage to fall on the ground. Dexter with tail wagging began eating like he had just been served the choicest selections from a 5 star restaurant. All the while a full dish of dog food was less than five feet away. Why would he choose to ignore the healthy food for the garbage?

A couple of years ago, Dexter almost died from consuming chocolate, not once but twice in a matter of one month. After the first poisoning, we became passionate about keeping the stuff away from him. He became passionate about finding it. We lost the battle when he ate a bag of chocolate chips he sniffed out of its hiding place. The poison caused him to vomit and shake uncontrollably for almost 24 hours. And still we have to be vigilant to keep chocolate away from him. Why would he pursue something that makes him feel so awful?

And when Dexter vomits I rush to remove it before he comes back to eat it. This is truly a disgusting pattern of behavior. But not new since the Psalmist also described it, “a dog returns to his vomit, so a fool repeats his foolishness” (Psalm 26:11, NLT). The comparison he makes is no less pertinent today. Because even though I can see the foolishness of Dexter’s behaviors and the wisdom of not repeating them, I am often oblivious of my own foolish choices and the consequences. And I repeat the same destructive behavior over and over again.

Dexter will always be a fool. There is no hope for my little buddy. As impossible as it sometimes seems, there is hope for me. My hope is in God who offers to transform the lives of those who seek him. Without God, I remain a fool just like Dexter. With God, I have a chance of leaving the foolish things behind me. At least that is what I am hoping.