You've Come A Long Way, Baby

Months ago my dad-in-law forwarded an email to me about grandma's apron.  It was a poem about how grandma's apron was used.  I remember it mentioning her gathering eggs in it, shooing flies away, using it as a potholder, and wiping away tears with it.  It was a lovely little poem and I should have kept it.  It reminded me of my Ma.

Today's aprons are hip and happening. They are not just for protecting clothes any longer - they are the clothes.  It's all the rage to wear an apron in place of carrying a purse.  A bib apron with pockets instead of a purse, interesting.  Better than a fanny pack.  Anything's better than a fanny pack.  Smock type aprons with criss-cross backs over T-shirts, interesting.  You can't keep a good thing down.  I like the idea.  I have a meeting Tuesday night and I might give this fad a try.    

My daughter, Shelby, never cooks without an apron on.  Unlike me, who never wears one.  But, since they are now hip and happening, maybe I should change that.  Because, you know, I'm all about hip and happening.  Just ask my girls.  Well, maybe not, they think I live in another century.

Below are some photos of some of my favorite aprons.

This one deserves to be first, it was my Ma's.  One of my safely tucked away treasures. My mama guesses it to be at least 51 years old.  The top strap was ripped selvage from a piece of fabric - she was frugal.  Check out the safety pin, there was always a safety pin.  When Ma died I put this in a little plastic zippy and for years I could smell her when I opened it.  Sad, I know.  Let's move on.

This one was a gift to Shelby from her Aunt R.  Lovely and hip, just like its owner - and her aunt.

This was the first item Isabela ever sewed.  She made it at Children's Camp when she was 8.  Check out the stitching.


My dear mother goes through things in spurts.  She may make quilts for months - and then, never again.  Florals for months, making wreaths, candles, spray painting the furniture.  Then she never does that particular hobby again.  Lately, she's been making aprons.  Below are some of hers.  I'm not good at secrets - Merry Christmas early, my sweet sisters.  Don't worry, my mama can't keep Christmas secrets, either, so I'm really not spilling any beans.  Under each one I will share a little interesting apron tid-bit.

You can track aprons back to the 12th century.  The word originates from the French word naperon, which means napkin or small tablecloth.

Men wore them first for hygienic protective wear (that's a mouthful, why don't we just say to keep clean).

In the 16th and 17th century the color you wore determined your trade.  Barbers wore checked, butchers and porters wore green, and masons wore white. 

This is the one I might wear, if I can bear to leave my purse behind.  With jeans and a cute little shirt.  I'll let you know how it goes.

Below are a few aprons my sister, P., has made, along with a few more tid-bits.  P. always wears an apron and has passed that love down to her daughter.

Your beau is thinking of you if your apron becomes untied. Isn't that sweet? Tie those aprons loosely, ladies.

The "tied to his mama's apron strings" phrase rings true. Children really were tied to their mama's aprons so they could play closely and safely.

The 1940's saw the beginning of the frilly, little half apron.

My beautiful neice, S., in an apron she made herself.

While cruising the aisles of Hobby Lobby recently I discovered a great little book.

A is for Apron, by Nathalie Mornu.  This book has templates and patterns in the back -but they must be enlarged.  If you love aprons or sew aprons, you need this book.  Fun and interesting with aprons way too good-lookin' to hide away in the kitchen.

Aprons, they cover us and protect us.  They make life easier.  Check back later for part two on aprons, from a secret guest blogger.

To my sister P., Happy late Birthday.  This book is yours, it's making its way to you in a little bubble envelope as you read this.  I love you, adore you, and miss you - make me the one on page 81, 'k?

A Little Rain, A Lot of Fair

Last night we made our annual trek to the Mississippi State Fair. 

I say annual, but I can recall several years we sat it out due to finances.  Our girls are old enough to save their money now, and they do.  A few years of not going and they learned a lesson they have not forgotten.

I, on the other hand, was not so wise last night.  We shall go in order.  First of all, I broke the eleventh commandment.  Thou shalt not tell husband how to drive.  The twelfth.  Thou shalt not tell husband where to park.  And, finally, the dreaded thirteenth.  Thou shalt not roll thine eyes at husband.   Raise your hand if you have ever done this, raise it high.  Raise your other hand if you have done it more than once.  Oh yeah, I am not alone.  Hurry, put them down ladies, remember the butterfly effect - if your arms are like mine, they flap in the wind.

My next mistake was not making absolute sure that Maxster would ride before I bought a wristband.  Because we had driven around the world to get there  Because we were late, I went straight to the ticket counter and shelled out the $25 that Max had not saved.  He threw his little wrist up there and never looked back at me to say, "Mother, I am not going to ride tonight, it would please me so to see you and Father save your money."  Little monster.

Next mistake, putting him on a ride that goes fifteen feet in the air - for his first ride.  Should've, could've, would've -  if I had enough sense -  worked him up slowly to that. 

See his arm up in the air?  Looks like he's having fun?  Apparently it's just peer pressure.  This, my friend, was a $25 ride. At least the bumblebee's happy.

This is how he spent the remainder of the evening.  Watching from the sidelines . . .

and riding Daddy's shoulders.  At least he rode something.  He's Too Good To Me had forgiven me by now.  See the jaw?  It's not clinching anymore - a sure sign that he is over my commandment breaking.

And my favorite, cheering all the other riders on.  I'm pretty sure the peace sign is meant for me.


And my final mistake was a lack of preparation.  See all that beautiful weather?  It's just a farce.  A mind trick to my eyes to make me say, "The weather looks nice - let's go to the fair."

Hubby looked at his handy dandy little phone and said, "A system is moving in."  I said to that, "Maybe it will pass us by."

To which he said, "I don't think so."

No raincoats, no umbrellas, not even a piece of paper to hold over my lovely hair, which was sporting some "freeze-it" hairspray.  I looked like a drowned rat, with glue in its hair, beside the ever handsome He's Too Good To Me and his cute little "run your fingers through my hair" curls he gets when his hair is wet.

The 150th Mississippi State Fair.

A good time was had by all - sorta.

Cute x's 1000

Put your shoes on and get to Dollar Tree.  My daughters went Operation Christmas Child shoebox shopping for children ages 2-4 today and found the cutest thing I've seen since the first time my babies streaked through the house butt naked.

Look at this.

It is a blanke' with a doll attached.  For only one dollar.

Can't you just envision a child carrying this and sucking on her thumb.

This is sweeter than candy, for only one dollar.

Hurry, bet they are going fast.

Happy shopping - for only one dollar.

How Big is Your Neighborhood? another lesson my child has taught me

Compassion is defined as a deep awareness of the suffering of another coupled with the wish to relieve it.

Her name is Nancy Elizabeth and she was my daughter Shelby's sponsored child from Compassion International.  Nancy lives in Quatemala and we received the glorious news a few weeks back that she no longer needs a sponser.  Her situation has improved, praise Jesus.

Shelby "adopted" Nancy at a Student Life camp in the summer of 2006.  I remember the evening she called home telling us she had fallen in love with Nancy from her photo.  She had searched through dozens of photos, looking for that special child.  Shelby assured us she could sponsor her; that she would give up whatever was necessary to do this small thing if it would help Nancy have a better life.  And she always did.

 
















At least once a year we recieved a letter from Nancy, translated, with a drawing attached.  We learned her favorite color is blue and her favorite food is tamales.  She shared how she loves to get dressed up.  She wrote that she was failing language in school and asked for our prayers.  She wrote of clowns and Christmas parties and lunch boxes.  She wrote of a new mayor in her town - said he was a smiley man.  She asked about our family while she shared with us news of her father's "sick foot", how she was not allowed to go to camp, and how hard her mother worked selling shoes.

Often she mentioned her pigs.  To quote Nancy, "pig does a lot of feces and there are a lot of flies, " and, "pigs are fat because they eat a lot of waste."  We laughed at that letter.

Nancy asked for prayer for herself often.  Once because her teacher gave too much homework.  Another time because she was to sing in front of a crowd and had become nervous, forgot the words, and ran away crying.  We cried at that letter.  One time she wanted Shelby to pray for her because she became mad easily.

She would write of her grandmother's visit and in the same letter she would tell us of the ground trembling. She expressed joy because they were finally getting water in their town. There were drawings of dogs and flowers and sunshine and trees. Once there was a drawing of Larry the Cucumber.

She thanked Shelby for the help she gave, for the Christmas shoes and toys, and always wished her a nice day with "big hugs and affection."

Aside from a few things there is not much to distinquish Nancy from any other child we might know.  But even so, she is different.  She is from a country where two-thirds of the children live in poverty.  There is sickness and starvation.  Quatemala is a part of our Father's world, so to us it must become our neighborhood, a place in which our compassion is shared.

There is a new photo on our fridge now, right beside Nancy's.

Her name is Adidai Virginia and she is nine years old.  Maybe it is her clothes, possible her expression, but she looks a hundred years old inside that little body.  Hopefully, soon, we will learn her favorite color; we will learn what brings her joy and what saddens her. 

I'm sure Shelby will cry, as she did with some of Nancy's letters.  She will laugh, also.  Each one of us, at different times and for different reasons, will look at the photo and wonder what it would be like to walk in someone else's shoes.  What it would be like to be really hungry and poor. 

This song, Yours, from Stephen Curtis Chapman, should make us all feel like the whole world is our neighborhood.  What would you do for a child in your neighborhood that needed help?  We would all reach out to someone so close to home.  What is the saying?  Home is where the heart is.  Everywhere else is not so far away if you look at it from our Father's eyes.




Funny thing is, everywhere else is always right around someone's corner. We should love here and we should love there.   Really, what is the difference?

" . . .  and whoever welcomes a little child like this in My name welcomes Me."  Matthew 18:5

Me? Superstitious?

An apple a day keeps the doctor away.

While getting Max an apple yesterday I caught myself twisting the stem and muttering my ABC's.  This got me to thinking, which, as I have said before, is not always a good thing.  Sometimes it is better for all involved if my mind stays blank, or at the very least, on track.

But here it was, off track and racing through my memories as I began to recall superstitions of my childhood.

Welcome, one and all, to what my mama taught me.

I am:
a) proud b) embarrassed c)ashamed 
to say that I have never, knowingly, stepped on a crack.  Shoot fire, y'all - it would break my mama's back.

Walk under a ladder?  Well no, thank you very much,  I'd rather walk around the world.

Once, because I rocked a rocking chair with no one in it, my mama made me knock on the next closest piece of wood - and that doesn't even make sense.

My sisters and I were never allowed to give a boyfriend a shirt.  My mama saved many a young man's life that way.  Every Christmas we heard the sad tale of the girl she once knew who gave all of her boyfriends shirts as gifts.  All of those young men died - I kid you not - every one of them.  Shame, isn't it?

We were never allowed to turn around and go back if we left something at home.  That's bad luck.  Whatever it was we did without it - and whatever you do, don't look back or you will never see home again.

It was a real shame if a black cat crossed our path because, well, we couldn't go back. 

Logic would tell one not to put ones shoes on the table.  Logic, no.  Bad luck, yes.

Please do not open that umbrella in the house and don't you even think about passing that baby through that window.

Be careful with that mirror, you know what will happen if you break it.

Don't bother lifting your feet, I won't sweep under them anyway.  You want to marry one day, don't you?

I assure you that I am not pulling your leg or yanking your chain when I tell you my mama would send my sister, who suffered from styes, to the end of the drive with these little words:
Stye, stye, leave my eye,
take the next one coming by.

Always say, "God bless you," when you sneeze.  It keeps the devil away.

Never pull out a gray hair.  I'm warning you, ten more will grow in its place. 

Don't fret y'all, all of this can be reversed if you blow out all of your birthday candles at once or wish upon a falling star.  And the best thing of all to turn your luck - the big end of the wishbone.

Don't misunderstand me, my mama is a bright, intelligent woman.  What does she have to say about the number 13?  Nothing.  Don't you know that's just "silly superstition".

My daddy had a few of his own - the dreaded snapping turtle who would not let go till it thundered and the 'ole watermelon growing in your belly if you swallowed a seed.  And everyone, don't be afraid, but he has snakes that live in his belly button.  Because my daddy has never believed in shirts I always had to keep an ever watchful eye out.  Just in case.

I am proud to say I have risen above all of this nonsense.  Come see me sometimes, but don't come in the month of August, it's - never mind.

I'll see you when I see you.  Until then, "Bless 'yo pea-pickin' heart."
"Keep on keeping on," and remember, "Country cookin' makes you good-lookin'."

P.S.  I'll try not to dream about you, cause if I do three times in a row you're a goner.  It's your own fault though, should've held your breath when you walked past that cemetery.

Give This Christmas Away

For there will never cease to be poor in the land. Therefore I command you, ‘You shall open wide your hand to your brother, to the needy and to the poor, in your land.’ —Deuteronomy 15:11

Around twelve years ago our church began participating in Operation Christmas Child. Even if you are familiar with this, please keep reading. We were introduced to OCC by Marianne (see post A Life, A Death, and Pasta Salad ).  Someone who is crazy for shoeboxes is my friend J.  My friend D. has had hers packed and ready to go for weeks now.  Special ladies those two, trust me.

This year Veggie Tales has partnered with OCC to help spread the word of this ministry. Love those Veggie Tales - what a BigIdea!





All of my children love this cause; but there is a special place in my daughter Delia's heart for this shoebox ministry. She has packed a shoebox every Christmas for years and years. Each item is lovingly purchased with her own money, and ordinary items will not do. An entire day must be set aside because she shops store after store, carefully selecting for the child she envisions will open the box. If she is packing for a little girl there always, always, must be a doll. If it is for a little boy there must be a soft and squishy stuffed animal.

Delia faithfully checks everyone else's box, rearranging the items so that they fit perfectly, and in the process making room for more. Few can pack a shoebox as full as Delia, or with as much love. It has been a joy and a privilege to watch our daughter grow from a child to a young woman with a giving and knowing heart.

What does she give? A part of herself to each child.

What does she know? That her Father God will bless each box and each child that receives it. As she signs the letter that goes in each box she lifts that child up to our Lord with a special prayer for their salvation.

Won't it be great one day in Heaven when she has the unimaginable joy of singing and dancing with her shoebox children; for in faith we believe in answered prayer.

For the past few years I have watched Isabela plan her box and I see another Delia in the making. Already this year Izzy's box is wrapped and waiting on the counter - ready to fill with love.

One day I will post about my daughter Shelby's personal passion and a little girl we have all grown to love.

How is it, with all the mistakes I have made, that I have mothered such amazing girls? They are not perfect. Their bones are full of greed, selfishness, jealously, envy - all that sin stuff - just like their mama's. But through grace they have each accepted our Lord Jesus Christ as their Savior - and with His help each day they rise above their human natures and thrive in a world that is difficult for us all to understand.

Rewards await each and every one of us if we give with a heart full of Jesus; but, if you know Jesus, it is not your own reward you long for.  You long for the knowledge that the list of party attendees gets bigger by the day (see post When the Roll is Called Up Yonder) if you pray and believe in the power you hold in your own hands.

Won't you pack a shoebox this year? Watch this video with Amy Grant and Matthew West and give this Christmas away. I guarantee you won't regret it.




Whoever closes his ear to the cry of the poor will himself call out and not be answered. 
Proverbs 21:13

Kitchen Table and a New Leaf

Kitchen tables are, to me, a necessity.  Those of you that know me know it's true.  It's where I keep my stuff.  Stuff like mail and old papers.  Stuff like schoolwork and craft supplies.  We are remodeling, so stuff like tools and wood supplies.  We won't even get into the laundry that piles up on my kitchen table.  A friend walked into my home a few weeks ago and exclaimed that she could see the top of my table.  At that moment I could have crawled under it.

I have turned over a new leaf - get it? new leaf, table leaf.  I need a new leaf, this one is getting worn out from being turned over again and again.  Since He's Too Good To Me has built me a new table, I refuse to clutter the top of it.  It is tooooo bea-u-ti-ful.  Before you look at the picture those of you who do not like color may need to put shades on.  I love color, I cannot type enough how much I love color. In college my design classes that had to do with color were my favorite.  Yummy. 

Drumroll, please . . .

Ta-da.  My new kitchen table.  It is topaz.  It is not teal, or sky blue, or turquoise.  It is lovely topaz.  I love it so much that the night my love first brought it home I wanted to sleep on it.  I love it that much.

I guess kitchen tables have been around forever.  I bet Adam and Eve had a rock and they sat across from one another and gazed lovingly into each others eyes. 

The kitchen table used to be the place for family gatherings.  Still is here, except we all gather around it while the food cooks and then go in front of the TV to eat it.  Another new leaf I need to work on. 

I remember when my Ma died.  The morning of her funeral I could not sleep and at 4:00 I went sneaking into my mama's house to crawl in bed with my big sister, who was in town, only to find them all up and gathered at the kitchen table.  A bittersweet memory. 

Ma made her biscuits and dumplin's at her kitchen table. She did not have any counter space so everything was done at the big table in the center of the room.  A sweet memory.

No one pull out the big guns and aim them at me for what I'm about to show you.   Before I do, please know that I believe in women's rights.  I believe they should vote and have a voice.  I believe there are things they can do better than men.  And vice versa.  I believe there are things some women must do.  Yada, yada, ya.  All that good stuff.  But I do believe in a past better time.  I do believe that women rocked the boat when they demanded so much and men let them have it.  We cannot have it all.  Amen.

Here come the bazookas.  I love this picture.  A family gathered around the table.

I know, Daddy is reading the paper and Mama is serving.  So what?  Look at the smiles.  I know, I know, it's a drawing.  Please, all those that do not like this picture exit the building. 

I'm stepping off my soap box now (I'll get back on it another day) to invite you over to gather 'round my new table.  He's Too Good To Me made it for practically nothing.  He's good at that kind of stuff.  To me it's priceless.

Now, if I can just keep the clutter off.

My House is Dirty and "What if?"

Today it was difficult to pull myself out of bed.  I kept thinking about what was waiting for me on the other side of our bedroom door  (actually, on this side also).  A messy, dirty house.  Messy is one thing - we run through, sometimes singing the "clean-up, clean-up" song, and can take care of it pretty quickly.  Dirty, on the other hand, is, well - hard work.  And it's Monday.  I've always thought, deep in my warped way of thinking, that Monday was the second day of rest God created.

I have a few ladies coming over tomorrow night.  Now, these ladies are friends.  I know they would come into my home and find it dirty and not judge me; but my psyche tells me I must clean.  There are two reasons I CLEAN my house.  One, because company is coming over.  It's an excellent motivation to my lazy self to get mop and bucket out.

The second reason is a trip.  I can't leave on a trip unless my house is clean.  What if?  What if?  What if?

What if someone gets sick on the trip and we need something from home?  What if someone has to come into my home to get that something for me or take care of something?  What if this happens and my house is dirty or messy?

Or what if we die?  What if I'm lying on the side of the road with twisted metal all around and my last thought is, "Mama, my house is dirty."  What will people think?  Or worse, what will Mama think?

We don't go on trips often and with everyone's busy lives company is somewhat rare.  So I have discovered as age creeps up on me that lately there is a new "What if?" worming its way into my already muddled brain.

I go to bed at night and this new "What if?" begins to sing its song.  What if someone breaks in and murders us all in our sleep?  What if the police come into my home and in their report they write something like this - "Hard to tell if victims' home was ramshackled or not, messiness could be due to laziness.  Hard to tell."

What if we all die in a fire and the fireman's report reads something like this - "Hard to determine cause of fire.  Home was obviously dirty.  Hard to tell."

Don't laugh ladies.  I have per conversation proof that many of you have these same thoughts.  I have been in a pact with friends before that if a certain one died while under the knife that we left would rush to her home and clean it before the hearse had the house in sight.   

As you can tell my brain is tired, warped, and muddled. Funny, just like my home. Gotta go, mop and bucket await.  And, "What if?"

Thanks, Mama.

Proverbs 31

Want some more funnies?  Read here for some good laughs. Thanks Amber at http://therunamuck.com/

Sucker Punches

Sometimes life throws sucker punches right to the stomach.  Last night I went to bed and all was well with the world.  This morning - sucker punch. 

I handled the situation badly.  I chose bad words, bad actions, and worse - I punched back. I'm lower than pond scum.

  Lower than pond scum with dead fish floating on top.


Can I just go to bed, pull the covers up over my head, cry some more, and then try waking up again?  This time I would know to duck or take a deep breath and slowly let it out.  Count to ten - maybe even not get up at all.  Yep.  That would do it.  Not get up at all. 

Even He's Too Good To Me could not fix this today.  And believe me, there is not much he can't fix.  Just a wink and a touch does the work of dozens of bandages on my wounded heart.  Today it wasn't wounded, though.  It was pulled out, stomped on, and thrust back in.  Just a shadow of its former self. 

It is not what happened, it is how I handled it.  Just pick a parasite.

Any will do.  Name it Rie.

But then . . .

Delia and Shelby made me a cake.  A cake can't match He's Too Good To Me's embrace.  But this one was different.  This is a hard cake to make.  One of those "candy ball stage correct temperature can't get the icing right" kind of cakes.  Made from scratch.  Melt in your mouth.  Made by both my babies' gentle hands.

Who raised them?  Surely not pond scum or parasites.  I'm not sure where they came from, I don't deserve them. 

On a day life throws sucker punches one should try not to behave like a malicious flesh eating parasite.  But if one does it helps to be loved anyway.  It helps to see Jesus in others, even when you can't see Him in yourself.  It's a soft reminder that tomorrow you may be . . .

But for today just let me go back to bed, after a piece of cake - and some humble pie.

The Incredible Quilting Adventure (I've had better ideas)

Here are the promised photos of Izzy quilting blocks in unusual places.  Once we spread it out over three days she began to have fun with it.

This was her favorite spot.  In her Daddy's deer stand.

On PaPaw's tractor.

On sister Delia's bed watching TV.  This is a good spot, also.  I think it's the TV part.

In Dairy Queen at lunch.  Have ya'll tried the Georgia Mud Fudge Blizzard?  Wow, they should have never concocted that one - with extra fudge - yum, yum.

Nana's bathtub.

In an orange chair.

On top of the panel saw.

In Emily's tree.

In a boat.  I feel like Dr. Suess.

In Max's baby bed.

On top of the house - she liked it so much up there she did two.

This is the spot she had looked forward to the most, it is one of her favorite places at Nana's and PaPaw's. By now her fingers were falling off one by one and pouring blood. The adventure was over - good thing you can't see her face.

Tonight she finishes the binding and tomorrow we may throw a party.  With bells and whistles and fireworks - a humdinger of a celebration.

Next Wednesday in class we will begin a new quilt.  Ssshh . . . don't tell Izzy.