The Hotdog Chronicles: Part 1

 If you ask my dad why they opened Sandy's, he would say, "For us.  For our family, so we could have a good family life."  It might sound funny to say hotdogs equal family life, but it was true.

In 1979, Dad had worked with Eckerd Drugs for years.  He loved it, and was promoted several times.  However, he'd also moved with each promotion: From Alabama to Tennessee; from Tennessee to South Carolina; and from South Carolina to North Carolina...almost.  With me in Kindergarten and Leslie in sixth grade, another move sounded difficult.  And while Mom and Dad had no trouble tackling difficult situations, they didn't want us to tackle any unnecessary ones.

For a year, my dad drove to Asheville on Sunday night, worked there all week, and drove home Friday to be with us for the weekend.  My mom handled everything at home.  It must have been hard.  I say that now, because I'm a mother.  At the time, I don't remember life being much different.  Maybe we went through the Burger King drive thru more often, but maybe not.  We all loved BK Lounge on a normal year.

We were just settling into life in Columbia.  Quail Valley was new, and we lived next door to a family from an exotic destination called Kentucky.  For years, I truly thought the Lotts were from The North.  I mean, technically Kentucky is "up on the map."  They would invite me over to their front porch so they could hear me talk in my Alabama accent.  And boy, did I.  So obviously, things were going great in our melting pot.

Eventually, it was time to move to NC or make a change.  I imagine my parents had many discussions about what to do.  I wonder what Mom thought when he said, "What if we trade this stable position for selling hotdogs?"  I guess I could call her right now and ask her.  It's 6:15am, so I'm sure we are all awake and three cups of coffee in, so stay tuned for the answer in part two.

growth

 

my asparagus

 

Little Miss Earnest

The thing about me diving into the conservative church in my 20s was that I did it BIG.  That's how I do things.  The friends who'd been in the church most of their lives, as well as the friends who are still there now, seem to be able to handle it better than I did.  They seem to keep their wits about them, hold themselves together a little better.  But I was new and darn it if I wasn't the most earnest church girl you ever met.

Things I did at my most earnest in the mid 90s which my friends tolerated:

Like the time I was driving down the interstate listening to Dave Matthews' "Crash," was convicted that he was a stumbling block for me because his little foot dancing made me feel tingly and confused, and flung his CD out the window.  I know what you're thinking.  There are many good reasons to fling it out the window, but that's not the point.  Later my friend invited me to his concert.  Obviously I declined and sorrowfully recounted the flinging incident, probably hoping she'd save herself by flinging her tickets.  She did not.   #JesusHatesTinglingMoreThanLittering?

Or the time I shared a room with my friend during a girls' weekend.  She was pregnant and mentioned her varicose veins.  On a different weekend, she'd have been out in the living room, drinking wine and laughing with the rest of our friends.  Instead, her roommate decided to pray aloud over her legs.

How about the time a guy friend asked me for advice on asking out a girl he liked.  I suggested he fast about it.  He was not as grateful as you'd expect.  On second thought, he was exactly as grateful as you'd guess.  I don't know how it turned out, but I know they're not married currently.  #MaybeShouldHaveFasted

I cringe and giggle a little looking back.  My friends who knew me before these rode it out patiently.  And my friends in the church might have laughed a little, but never got super impatient with me.  Really they could've said, "Dude, take it down a notch.  Even Jesus is embarrassed."

It taught me something though.  If you do something with enough earnestness and confidence, people will just let you.  That's not always bad.  When I look back. I don't exactly miss that little earnest girl, but I don't hate her either.  Neither do they.💛

morning

the day opens.  
you are different than yesterday, but you may not even know it.

some differences you can name, like the naming of the new person you met yesterday.  the new thing you learned about building or nature or art, all more glimpses of the world around you.

some changes you cannot see, name or know,
they are tiny ridges in the grey matter of your brain, or new pathways taking shape for new thought patterns and habits just being born.  did you share a little more of yourself, and how did that feel?

these are changes in the tree rings of your heart but working from the outside in, closer and closer towards the pulsing center of who you will become, who you've been since the beginning but haven't met yet.

that center is being uncovered and revealed, like a sculptor carving away the extra clay that has no place in your life, moving you towards truth and wonder and joy.

and, if you're open to it, by dusk today, you will only be closer🖤.

Decorating paralysis

I could tell you about the
carefully selected wooden thumbtacks
on this desk,
and how I feel proud
and a little happier each time
I see them.
I could tell you how my paperclips
are Beyonce gold instead of boring silver,
so when I fasten a sheaf of papers
I do it with pizzazz.

 

Maybe I'll tell you how the color 
of this desk lamp impacts my mood

more than it should,

and the way each item
on this cork board above me  

was placed there oh-so-most-carefully,

so that when I see one, 

I have an oh-so-most-carefully chosen
emotional response.

I can decorate a nook.

I can almost decorate a tiny apartment.
Maybe that's why I love my little home.

It is not overwhelming.
My mom says all of my furniture is scaled 

like dollhouse furniture, but that's the way I like it.
It suits this wee dwelling,

and it suits me.

The idea of a house, you know, a HOUSE-house,
leaves me stymied.

I walk through yours and wonder at how

you filled so many rooms.

I'm in awe of how many decisions were required.

Are you a witch or a superhero, 

because you, ma'am are wondrous.

Choosing my thumbtacks took me an hour

and two trips to Target.

In a HOUSE-house,

I'd have to create whole entire giant tableaus.

The audacity!

Pause a moment, and riddle me this:

Do you know how big a sectional couch is?

Roughly the size of Delaware.
Do you know how daring and courageous 
it is to choose one and ONLY one 

to put in your house-house?

To face a large empty room, and plunk down

Delaware feels braver than walking

to the snack bar in your bikini at the pool.

And then I'm supposed to what?  

Let people actually see it?

I'm supposed to invite people over and 

and be laid bare like that?  To say, "Yes, I chose this.  

No, it wasn't handed down.

No, it did not come with this house.

Of all the ones I could have selected, this was the one I bought....

It's wrong, isn't it?"

But no one will tell me,

they'll just pat me on the head,

peek in the other rooms,

and realize they're empty,

because the sectional was as far I got.

That gigantic naked sectional,

sitting there, all noisy about itself,

showcasing my ill-equipped design skills.
I'll need 11 people to sit on it and hide it,

before I can relax.
I need it covered with bottoms ASAP.
And then I remember that's the point:  Bottoms.

Aren't bottoms usually the point?

Of anything interesting anyway.

I just want the couch for the bottoms - 
attached to the heads-
attached to the people that I'd want in my house-house.

And maybe that's the point of any home.

And yes, a few people I love would appreciate
the thumbtack selection, 

but even those oddballs can only stand so long
eating their barbecue before their bottoms 
need a rest.

And maybe that's why 
I have to at least try to fill a room, maybe even two, 

so all the bottoms I love will visit and rest.

And realizing this, I have come full circle

once again, remembering 

what I must remember at the end of every circle

of learning:    

It's not about me.

Contract with Myself

 I hereby agree to enter into this contract with the undersigned and aforementioned, as they are both me.  The terms are as follows:

You, the aforementioned, agree to be delightful.  "Delightful" shall be defined as being what you feel like being each day. Delightful is also defined as being what you feel in your guttiest gut, deep down solid soulful true core of yourself.  You will act on it, or choose not to act if you are feeling like you just want to sit still and stare into space.  You will draw or sing or write or talk to small figurines as you feel led.  You will post on Instagram according to your whim and whimsy.  It will be what some may consider excessive.  You will rearrange your furniture as many times in as many awkward configurations as you need to in order to feel delight.  Then you will rearrange it back when you decide it was righter the first time.  You shall address as many people and animals, wild or domestic (both the people and animals) as you need to as Boop, Honey, Cutie, Slick, Slim, Baller, Pimp, and any other word that springs to mind when it feels fun.  You will watch their face and take it back if they don't love it.  You will speak to yourself as much as you like, because you are good company.  You will sing every terrible song on your Spotify playlist repeatedly and with great gusto until you are bored or hoarse, whichever comes first.  You will tell the dog she is the prettiest and best everyday until she is "gone to her second life" where she will probably be a baby seal.  You will tell your children how handsome, healthy, hilarious and honorable they are until they question your sincerity.  They'll be like, "Nah, nah, it's too much, bro.  You're biased; you have to think that because you love me.  It can't be true."  But it IS true.  That is why you'll keep saying it, because true compliments are delightful. 

In return for your Delightfulness, I shall not grade you nor question you.  I shall not tell you you are too much.  I will cheer you on because you are keeping a contract and that is a responsible loyal thing to do.  In fact, it is - dare I say - delightful.  I will feed you and house you, and tell you that you are cute.  I will call YOU, Baller.  I will remind you that Love or god or the world or something you can't see or explain is still there helping, and whether you can explain it or not, you are free to believe.  I will call on them.  I will call family, old friends, and new friends and probably strangers on the street, so that you can share your delightfulness and learn from their own unique style of delightfulness.  I will believe in you and become your most crucial support for being you and doing crazy art that comes from your gut.  I will tell you to listen to other people who say good words to you so that you can stop poking holes in their compliments or love.  I will teach you to love others and yourself without worrying that you will forget the first one if you do the second.

I will share this with others in case it helps them love themselves ❤️