What if I hadn't tried it...?

I first began my radio career, in Pennington Gap, Virginia at WSWV AM/FM. It was kind of by accident that I began being paid to talk! And if that’s the case, by now I should be a millionaire!

My husband had a weekly broadcast on the AM station and had lost his voice one day when he was supposed to speak, so I sat in for him. For 30 minutes, I was the host of his program. I had music picked out for the guy in the control room to play to start the show. (LP’s...remember those? Long play, 33 1/3 rpm.) I talked for a few minutes, did a devotion, then had more music...interviewed a preacher that was at our church for revival, and closed out with more music and a prayer. All that in half an hour!

The next week, the guy in the control room told my husband I needed to drop by and talk to management about getting a job as a deejay there. When Joe came home and mentioned that, I just laughed. The next week, he brought home the same message. Again, I laughed...but this time Joe said maybe I should seriously consider something like that. “It might be fun,” he said.

But I still didn’t go in to talk with them. And then one Saturday, I was asked to help with the American Cancer Society’s Radio-Thon. I went in and helped answer phones and the two guys running the program handed me a microphone. I started talking with them on the air, and found out my husband was right...it was fun! It was an all-day affair so when it came time for dinner, the guys looked at me just before the next on-air break and said, “You take this next break. We’re going for pizza.” They were so matter-of-fact with it that I thought they were kidding. But they walked out the door! A guy in the control room called out to me that I was “...on in 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1.” Silence. I stared at him and he just gave me a look that said: Well, are you gonna talk or what??!? So, I talked!

I found out later that those two guys - David Hartley and Wayne Sizemore - had picked up a pizza, then sat in the radio station’s parking lot, eating and listening to me on the air. At the end of that very long day, David offered me a job. He said I’d have to learn the ropes, get my license from the FCC, and then he would like me to work on Sundays to get used to being on the air.

Sunday afternoons on the AM station were filled with preachers.
Lots and lots of preachers.
All afternoon.
Preaching.
They’d come in with people from their churches and have singing and then preaching. Sometimes it was quite loud preaching. Loud, as in sweatin’ and hollerin’ loud.

On the FM station was almost always Cincinnati Reds baseball, which made me happy for a couple of reasons. I like the Reds. While getting the feed from WLW, my favorite Cincinnati radio station, it would make me feel a little closer to home. And I knew that my mother and daddy were likely listening to the same baseball broadcast that I was feeding to the listeners of our little radio station in southwest Virginia.

I was to do a local Station Identification at the top of the hour. If there was time, I was supposed to give our local weather forecast. On way too many occasions, I’d flip the switch on the microphone in the wrong direction and instead of local weather on the FM, our listeners would get Cincinnati weather from the WLW feed. And on the AM, while the preachers were giving it all they had, I’d talk over them and give the weather forecast. I didn’t know it. They didn’t know it...or hear it, thankfully). But our AM listeners did!

I finally got the hang of things and went on to enjoy a career in radio that wasn’t planned, but turned out to be one of the best things that could have happened to my life. After a year at the station in Pennington Gap, we moved to Chattanooga, where I worked as a reporter, then a deejay at several stations, and doing voice-overs for commercials...which I still do today.

And those two guys that went out for pizza, then sat in their car and listened to me that Saturday afternoon during the Radio-Thon? Together, they taught me the things I needed to know, coached me, cheered me on and became two of the best friends I’ve ever had.

In those early days while I was learning how to “do radio” on Sunday afternoons, I knew that the ballgame was over when I’d hear Joe Nuxall say, “This is the old southpaw, rounding third and heading for home.” I hadn’t thought about that phrase until recently...

My husband began praying two years ago (shortly after his 60th birthday) about what was next for him. As a United Methodist minister, he’d served five appointments in the Holston Conference over a period of 36 years. He felt that he wasn’t done yet. At 60, many of his peers were talking about their future retirement from the ministry. But Joe wasn’t ready for that. He prayed daily about ‘what was next’ for his ministry. For two years he reminded the Lord “...I’m not done yet. I’m rounding third and heading for home. What’s next?”

In January he found out what’s next. We have served at Alcoa First United Methodist Church for 17 years, and in June, he will become the District Superintendent for the Cleveland District of the Holston Conference. He’s stepping out of his comfort zone. And I’m stepping out with him.

I’m getting ready to embark on an adventure with my hubby that neither one of us ever aspired to. Just like I didn’t set out to be a deejay, Joe didn’t have his eye on becoming a District Superintendent...yet that is exactly where he is headed. Next time I write to you, I’ll likely be on that adventure...or at least sitting on the edge of the riverbank, ‘getting my feet wet.’


Until then...remember that if you have a pulse, you have a purpose. Make your life count!

Friends and Soupbeans

Do you have people in your life that you’re close to even though you aren’t with them often? Maybe you haven’t seen them in years, but when you’re together it’s as if you were just conversing the week before. I enjoy friendships like that. Being in the ministry with my husband for 38 years has allowed me to know lots of wonderful people. Last week, I was with a couple who were our very first neighbors when Joe and I began our life together. John and Dena had two little boys who were adventurous and polite and we loved them. On our very first Easter as husband and wife, they invited us to have lunch with their family. They helped us feel like we fit right in. Today, John still has that same sweet, humble spirit that we came to love in him all those years ago. He’s a man in love with Jesus and his wife...and it’s obvious.

His wife, Dena, was one of my very first mentors as a new bride. I’d go over, sit in her living room and talk about anything and everything. I’d ask questions. She’d give me wise answers and encourage me. When my husband asked me to fix him some “soupbeans and cornbread” I was clueless. So where did I go? Across the road, of course, to Dena...who told me how to fix what is still one of Joe’s favorite meals.

She’s had some health battles but I have yet to hear her complain about any of them. When skin cancer required extensive surgery on her nose...it never quenched the sweet smile and tender spirit of this woman! Even skin grafts - which I’m sure had to be very painful - didn’t change her attitude. This week, I saw her not long after she woke up from having her left breast removed because of cancer. Her right breast had been removed years earlier. I walked into her room and there she was...smiling. There was no spirit of tragedy in that room. The surgeon felt he got all the cancer when he took the breast and one lymph node. The only thing I felt in that place was the sweet feeling of three friends visiting with each other...catching up on one another’s families and sharing our hearts. Nurses were ministering to Dena’s needs while John and I talked. He still has that calm, gentle approach to whatever we are talking about. I haven’t been with either one of them for many, many years, yet when we were together there in that hospital room, it was as if we’d never been apart. Facebook has helped in that way because we’ve been able to stay in touch. Thanks to that social media...I knew to drop by the hospital in Kingsport on my way back from our home in Virginia to our home in Tennessee. Many people are praying for Dena to recover well and I am one of those people.

Before I left the room, John asked me to sing one of his favorite songs “Because He Lives” so I did my best for him, prayed with them...kissed them both when I was finished and walked toward the elevators. I felt good inside. I’d just spent a few moments with special people that I don’t see nearly often enough, yet who made me feel as if we’d never been apart. Those are the kinds of friendship every one of us needs...am I right?

Now you and I both know that I cannot possibly post a blog that won’t at least make an attempt at putting a smile on your face...so here goes.

When Dena told me how to make soupbeans in 1974, she said to buy a bag of beans and “rock them” so the immediate picture in my mind is me sitting on a rocker holding a bag of dried beans. To this day I smile when I pick the rocks out of my bag of beans!

She also told me that the beans needed to soak before cooking them, so I figured if I wanted a bowlful of beans I should soak a bowlful of beans. I covered the beans with water, left the bowl overnight on top of the counter and came out the next morning to see beans everywhere! I didn’t realize that by soaking them, they would expand! Theodore (our deaf cat that deserves a blog posting all to himself someday) was crouched down on the floor nibbling away at those beans. I don’t remember if it did anything to his digestive system. But I do remember that I cooked up so many beans, we ate them for a week! You can guess the rest of that story, my friends, because Beano hadn’t been invented yet!



Always remember that if you have a pulse, you have a purpose. Make your life count!

Singing in a bank...

I walked into a bank today, saw a Martin guitar in an open case sitting atop a table...picked that beauty up, sat in a chair and serenaded the customers and tellers. I know I wasn’t dreaming because in a dream I might have been taking a test I hadn’t studied for, speaking in front of a crowd unprepared or walking into a room filled with people when I was suddenly naked. I’m sure there is some psychological reason I would have a dream about being naked but let’s not go there because I have enough problems.

The bank was in Dunlap, Tennessee. The guitar was on display because it is being raffled off for charity. My friend Joan works at the bank where Tom (her hubby) and I dropped in to pick her up for lunch. He encouraged me to play a few chords on the guitar and she asked me to sing the “Chik-Fil-A Song” for her co-workers. After my performance, they asked for another...so the ham in me complied. I shared the latest song I’ve written which contains the lyrics “...if my body were a car then I would trade me in for one with a better warranty.” It contains descriptions of bodily functions, so I hope the bank employees were okay with that. From the reaction, I guess it was.

I like my life. It’s never boring.


And remember this...
If you have a pulse, you have a purpose. Make your life count.

Sense and Scents-a-bility

My face was pampered today when my daughter and I went to the Lancome counter at Belk’s to have her friend, Brian, give each of us a makeover. When he finished with his magic, I felt very pretty and very pampered. It certainly was nice to have him pamper me, so I asked Brian how he feels when he is able to help someone look extra special with a 'spruce-up' like he provided for me. He told me that it is a wonderful feeling...very rewarding. I can imagine that he must go home each day with a good feeling because of what he does for countless women, doing their makeup. This afternoon I had on colors I’d never have tried on my own, but his expertise proved those colors to be exactly what I could wear! Who knew?!? (Brian did...) And I watched as he did the same thing to my daughter, with some of the same colors, but achieving a completely different look!

After getting some samples of Lancome products and a purchase for each of us, Hannah Beth and I wandered around to the other counters in Belk. She took a squirt of Clinque’s “Happy” perfume and as soon as I smelled it, I was taken back to her college days when that scent would linger in the bathroom long after she’d left for classes.

We also went by the Estee’ Lauder counter. I wanted to take a quick spritz of “Private Collection” - the scent that Joe gave me for my birthday while I was pregnant with the beautiful girl standing next to me. I used up the last of that fragrance just before her second birthday and haven’t worn it since. When I leaned over to let her smell it, I asked if she remembered that scent. She did! She remembered it! I thought that was pretty neat. I may have to start wearing it again, because even as I am sitting in my favorite chair typing this blog, I still have that faint, sweet scent in my nostrils...and somehow it makes me feel content inside!

One more thing I did before we left the Estee’ Lauder counter...I took one of the scent cards and sprayed “Youth Dew” on it. That scent always makes me think of my mother. It was her favorite. As she got older and her sense of smell diminished, she would spray on way more than she should...but I didn’t mind because it was “her scent.” I had no idea what memories that scent would later stir...

I miss my mother. She lived a long life and was very ready to go home to Heaven. But I don’t think I was ready to see her go. She could have lived to be one hundred and I still wouldn’t have been ready! Smelling that “Youth Dew” today made me happy. It was a scent-memory that I’d forgotten I had. Just like the scent I sprayed on myself today has given me warm thoughts and feelings of early motherhood...Mother’s scent brought good feelings, too.

Of the five senses that God built into each one of us, the sense of smell seems to be my strongest. Certain odors or scents can stir up memories for me and transport me for just a moment back to the time that matched that scent. It’s a good feeling. I enjoy it.

Now, lest I become too serious in this blog - something I try to steer away from because I’d MUCH rather make someone laugh with my thoughts and stories - I must leave you with another thought: There are smells that take you back to someplace you might not want to go. You know the ones I’m talking about. The ones that proper people would never talk about in public...or write about on a blog.

Well, no one ever accused me of being too proper, so let me stir up a few scented memories for you:
...the first whiff that lets you know a diaper is in desperate need of changing.
...what is ‘in the air’ the next day after a really good Italian dinner.
...what is ‘in the air’ the next day after a really good Mexican dinner.
...what happens to you when you toot in the grocery store and try to move away from it quickly so no one knows you emitted said toot. (don’t say you’ve never done that. I know you have. I was behind you!)
...what happens when you sneeze or cough and you have an ‘air leak.’

I remember a kid in the sixth grade who had a signature 'fragrance.' Each time he emitted it, he would smile like he’d given us all a great gift. Great gift, my foot! But I have to tell you that after all these years if I smelled that emission today, I’d know that he was somewhere in the area...it was that distinct!

Yes, I suppose this is a tasteless way to end what started out as a pretty sweet little blog posting. But we all know that this is something that every human being deals with. It’s just that most of us don’t blog about it.

Maybe you’ve heard the saying: “The one who smelt it is probably the one who dealt it.”

Again, I know this isn’t a dignified subject to write about in a blog, so forgive me if you’re offended. And if you ARE offended, then think of it this way...if God meant for that air to stay in there, don’t you think He would have made a place to put it? Well, He didn’t...but He DID make a place for it to leave!

P.S. I downloaded a "Whoopie Cushion" app on my phone. I haven't used it yet, but there's always a first time...




Always remember that if you have a pulse, you have a purpose. Make your life count!

Divine Appointments

Have you ever heard of such a thing...or experienced one? On a recent Sunday morning, I had just such an appointment. The headache I developed that day was turning into more than just an uncomfortable inconvenience. As I stood in the front of the church, leading music alongside my daughter and our worship leader, my head began to hurt. By the time the music had finished, I went straight to my husbands office to get into quiet surroundings and give the discomfort every opportunity to leave the premises of my head before I needed to teach Sunday school. Even though I hurt during class, the lesson went rather well but I decided not to be part of the worship music team in late service because of my pounding head. I waited till my husband stood up to deliver his sermon, slipped into my regular spot in the back pew right next to my hairdresser Kirk (who is one of my best ‘girlfriends’). As Joe started speaking, I looked at Kirk and told him there was no way I could “sit through this.” No, I wasn’t under conviction...I was just in pain.

I sat in a chair just outside our sanctuary where the sound was much easier to bear and listened to my pastor. About five minutes into the sermon, a young woman appeared in the hallway. I hadn’t seen her for weeks because she is in a job that keeps her away from our little town quite a lot.

She asked if we could talk and I realized right away that she was on the verge of tears as she looked at me. Her first words were, “I think you're the only one who can understand how I’m hurting...” as her words gave way to tears. I spoke her name and asked if she’d had a miscarriage. She nodded, held up two fingers, and then we just hugged and cried.

It was as if God had allowed that headache. I know He didn’t cause it, but He certainly used it. Had I not been sitting there, my precious hurting friend would not have had someone there who knew exactly how she felt. We were having a ‘divine appointment’ right there in the hall of our church! At the moment I’m writing this blog, I’m thankful for that awful headache!

I took my friend into my husband’s office where we could have some privacy. This dear girl had two miscarriages in the last year. She knew that I’d experienced multiple miscarriages and felt that I could help her. I certainly pray that I did...

People want so much to be able to say something to one who has experienced this kind of loss. Words like “at least you know you can get pregnant” or “something must have been wrong with the baby” might make the person feel as though they are comforting the hurting parent. But in my experience, nothing could be further from the truth! Many times over, other women who have experienced lost pregnancies have agreed with me. Let me put it to you this way: Would you go through a line at the funeral home and tell a grieving widow, “at least you know you had a husband” or “there must have been something wrong with him” and that’s why she doesn’t have him anymore?!? Of course not.

In my opinion, this is still a life that ended too soon. Don’t try to smooth things over in an attempt to comfort. It doesn’t help. We don’t need someone to try to smooth things over, we just need someone to listen, hug us and cry with us. There isn’t a single thing, in my opinion, that can make that experience easier to cope with. No, that life didn’t stay around long enough to grow and be born, named and held...but that life was still important. It had a beating heart.

I didn’t try to say anything profound that would make my friend feel better. Instead, we shared a box of tissues as she told me how she was feeling inside and that she was angry with God for letting this happen...not once but twice. I told her that I got angry with God, too. And I stayed mad at Him for a while. I even told Him how angry I was with Him. And when I did, no lightening struck and turned me into a greasy spot on the floor. I was like an upset little girl who couldn’t get what she wanted and made sure that the person who was preventing it would know exactly how I felt. Yes, I even stomped my feet a few times as I cried. I still don’t understand why God allowed me to carry those children under my heart only to NOT allow me to carry them in my arms. I have one wonderful daughter who was a joy to raise and I would have loved every one of her siblings just the same as I did her...but it wasn’t to be. I don’t know why. But I had finally come to the place where I could tell God: “I’m not mad at You anymore. I don’t understand why all this happened but I trust You. I don’t like any of this, but I love You.”

Those are the words I shared with my friend. I hope it helped her find a way to express her feelings freely with her Heavenly Father. He already knows how she feels. After all, His Son died...




Always remember that if you have a pulse, you have a purpose. Make your life count!

Desperation

Have you ever been desperate?

I consulted Merriam-Webster about this and my feelings were confirmed. What I experienced this week in Walmart was true desperation. The dictionary had definitions such as: having lost hope...giving no ground for hope...moved by despair...suffering extreme need or anxiety...involving extreme danger or possible disaster...of extreme intensity.

I’d been running errands most of the day and needed some items. If I had been shopping for just groceries, I’d have gone to my local Kroger or Food City. But I needed more than that, so Walmart was my store of choice.

You could say I was desperate for “falling prices” but you’d be wrong. (...and this is where you might want to stop reading if bathroom humor or experience isn’t something you like to have discussed in your presence. Of course, I am not in your presence at this moment...so, never mind.)

As I shopped, I knew I needed to find the restroom. At first I thought, “you’ll be home in fifteen minutes.” And so I finished shopping for the items on my list.

There is something that a bathroom and a cemetery have in common: when you gotta go...you gotta go. And I had to go.

I’m in the middle of Walmart...restrooms in the front of the store and restrooms in the back. How convenient. So I made my way to the back restrooms because they are almost always cleaner. When I got there, I found out why they’re almost always cleaner. The ladies’ restroom was closed for cleaning. For a brief moment I wished I had been a man. Brief.

Just the thought of not being able to use the restroom right away made the feeling I had even worse. Yes, you could say I started to get desperate.

I grabbed my buggy (AKA shopping cart) and made my way to the front of the store. Suddenly every ‘I’m-just-slowly-wandering-the-aisles-and-looking-at-everything’ shopper was in any aisle that I hurried down! Every time I would make a dodge to another aisle, there they were AGAIN!!!

Desperation. Then a moment of relief. No, not that kind of relief. It was the ‘near-the-front-of-the-store’ kind of relief. Ah, yes! I was getting closer!!!

Then I saw a blasted cleaning cart at the restroom entrance and my hopes were dashed. Desperation turned into flat out panic!

A closer look revealed that it was the men’s room being cleaned. I didn’t actually say it outloud but I was so grateful that I was a woman at that moment that I was saying “hallelujah” in my heart!

You don’t want me to finish this story. Suffice to say the desperation left me...so to speak!

And it reminds me of when I was almost seven months pregnant and my baby girl was tap-dancing on my bladder. We were traveling through Dothan, Alabama on our way home from a vacation at the beach. When my hubby finally found a rest area and pulled in, I was opening the door on our Volvo before he even could stop the car. I ran toward the ladies’ room and flung the door open. There was a little lady who was drying her hands when I crammed her into the wall with the door! I ran into the stall at the same time I realized what I’d done to her. Sweet relief and apologies were flowing. When I came out, she was still in there. As I washed my hands, I apologized again for what I’d done to her. She saw that I was pregnant and smiled when she said, “It’s alright, dear...I heard you coming but I couldn’t get out of the way in time!”

Remember those definitions I mentioned above?
Desperation: having lost hope...giving no ground for hope...moved by despair...suffering extreme need or anxiety...involving extreme danger or possible disaster...of extreme intensity.
They describe every single emotion I had in Walmart that day. And in Dothan, Alabama. I don’t like having emotions like that.

Now if you’ll excuse me...I need to find a restroom.



Always remember that if you have a pulse, you have a purpose. Make your life count!

Grits

On one of my favorite tee-shirts, GRITS stands for Girls Raised In The South. My daughter is definitely a Southern Belle, complete with the accent and charm that goes along with it. She makes a momma proud!

I was born in North Carolina, spent the first 5 years of my life there, then moved to Virginia. When I was 9 years old, my daddy made be be a Yankee by accepting a church appointment and moving our family to Ohio. I came to love that place and even made my home in Columbus, Ohio for a while. But in my heart I’m a southern girl and always will be.

Once, not long after we’d moved North, our family was taking a Sunday afternoon drive and Daddy noticed I was laying down in the back seat. He said I should sit up and look around at the scenery because you could “...see for miles!” I retorted that I didn’t want to ‘see for miles’ that I wanted mountains to look at. I also remember telling him that when I got big enough to decide where I was gonna live, I was moving back to the mountains. And, many years later, that’s exactly what I did! Now, mind you, I have nothing against Yankees, but I am a southern girl to the bone.

I’m 58 years old and for 37 years I’ve enjoyed eating grits.

My mother didn’t cook grits. She made Cream of Wheat. I didn’t eat it. Still won’t. Never will. You can take that to the bank. To quote www.GAgirl.com: “Yankees have attempted to create a synthetic Grit. They call them Cream of Wheat. As far as we can tell the key ingredients of Cream of Wheat are Elmer's Glue and styrofoam.” Amen, sister!

Mother did cook grits in the form of what she called ‘fried mush’. She’d buy it in a block, slice it, fry it and some of the family ate it with maple syrup. I said some of the family. I didn’t eat it. Just didn’t look or smell like something I wanted to try. (I felt the same way about liver, but that’s for another blog.)

Here's something funny I found:
THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF GRITS
1. Thou shalt not put syrup on thy Grits.

2. Thou shalt not eat Cream of Wheat and call it Grits; for this is blasphemy.

3. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbors Grits.

4. Thou shalt only use Salt, Butter and Cheese as toppings for thy Grits.

5. Thou shalt not eat Instant Grits.

6. Thou shalt not eat thy Grits with a spoon.
7. Thou shalt not put syrup on thy Grits.

8. Thou shalt not put syrup on thy Grits.

9. Thou shalt not put sugar on thy Grits either.

10. Thou shalt not put sugar or syrup on thy Grits


Personally, I like to eat my grits with butter, sugar and a little salt. And...please forgive me...I eat them with a spoon!

In 1974, while on our honeymoon, Joe and I ate breakfast at a restaurant in south Georgia. I ordered eggs, toast, bacon and juice. The plate was delivered with a pile of white stuff in the middle. I told the waitress that I didn’t order those. She said they “...come with it.” I asked what they were and she laughed (along with a few muffled chuckles around me - INCLUDING my husband) and made the astute observation: “You’re not from around here, are ya, honey?”

My husband of less than a week was kind enough to offer a suggestion when I asked him how to eat them. He suggested a little butter, a little salt and maybe I might enjoy some sugar on them (although he’d never do that).

Then he told me that “...the traditional southern way of eating grits is to eat them with a knife.” He demonstrated by just sliding his table knife into the grits and picking them up. He said the trick was to keep them on the knife long enough to get them in your mouth. I trusted this man. I loved this man. I had just married this man, even though I’d only known him three months! So, I did it.

More chuckles from the tables around me...not muffled this time. My dear, sweet groom had just begun what would be 37 years (and counting) of teasing me.

It’s been said that the mysterious manna God rained down from the sky to feed the Children of Israel as they wandered in the desert was grits. But I am certain that isn’t possible because:
1, There is no record in the Bible about God raining down butter, salt, cheese or sugar for the grits.
2. A loving father would never provide grits for his children without the butter, salt, cheese or sugar.

But then again...maybe God had it all mixed together when He let it rain down on the Israelites!



Always remember that if you have a pulse, you have a purpose. Make your life count!