I can't believe it has been over a year since I last posted to Something from Sammie. It is not that I haven't written anything, I just felt discretion was called for. You see, writing is therapeutic for me. If I can write it down, I can pretend that I have said the things that I have written without actually saying the things that would hurt someone else or just don't need to be shared. Writing also helps me analyze my thoughts. What is really important seems to emerge from the written page where as in my head thoughts get muddled with emotion, and what emotion deems important, reason does not.

Words spoken in the emotion of the moment sometimes are not what you mean for the other person to hear. Emotion filled words spoken are often heard with emotion filled hearing, muddling the truth even further. Words written in the emotion of the moment are not always what the other person needs to hear, but what I need to hear, think through, speak up about or get over and move on. But words once spoken, can't be unspoken, once published, can't be unpublished. Emotions cloud my thinking. Writing helps clear the emotional clouds.

In the past year, with the help of others, I have learned a few things about improving communication, the real kind, not the kind I write to myself. Some of things ARE better left unsaid and some things SHARED can make life better.

I am trying to make a conscious effort to tell someone when they do something that brings a little sunshine into my life. It usually brightens both of our days. My friend, Wanda, is especially good at this one. She is my inspiration. Even sharing a "thank you for being so pleasant" to a particularly helpful tax clerk at the Birmingham City Hall (Tuesday, rainy day, long line, then nice clerk) made her smile bigger and my day a little less rainy.

I believe this is especially important for those close to you, spouse, kids, parents, and siblings, because they are the ones with whom there will most likely be stormy days. If I have packed away a little sunshine, the cloudy days brighten a little sooner because it makes it easier to believe that as Annie sang, "The sun will come out tomorrow." Without that sunshine in my solar batteries, the cloudy days seem to never end and it is hard to believe that the sun will ever come out. Living in a cloudy place all the time is depressing, but if there is enough sunshine in our batteries, some of the clouds actually dry up.

Another part of my communication education has been learning that sharing some things that bother me is not altogether bad either. Only writing it down, without ever sorting it out to determine what is important enough to share, is not good. The emotional ranting that does not get analyzed, only buried among the pages, does not get dealt with. The difficulty comes when analysis reveals what needs to be dealt with and having the courage to bring it back out when there seems to be no immediate need to do so. Bringing up the important, but not urgent, things that need to be worked through is the hardest part because it does not always make me or the other person feel better immediately like sharing the sunshine does. It sometimes is difficult to cloud up a sunny day by bringing out that cloud I have been hiding. I learned that holding in all of those clouds made me bitter and the little clouds clumped together for so long make for one bad storm and it was hard to see the sunshine with all those clouds hanging over my head.

I have to keep reminding myself to practice the good communication education lessons so that they come naturally. When I use them, the sun shines more often in my neck of the woods and I get to post more of my writing.

Mud Therapy

I had heard of mud baths that heal aches and pains. I had heard of mud facials that removed impurities. But I had no idea how therapeutic mud could be. I don't intentionally smear it on my body, however, I do get rather dirty. Instead, I intentionally smear the mud with my hands. I am talking about the mud therapy I have found in which you throw pots. Technically, it is not mud, but clay.

I have been going to a studio every Thursday night for several months and getting my hands dirty. I am not very good, but I have improved over the last few months. I will never be an artist, in the way that others who go to this studio are, but I love to create pieces that are appealing to my eye. The main thing I love is the "me" time, where I forget about work, family issues, and old people. All I think about for three hours is what will I be able to do with that lump of clay; what makes me be able to make one lump of clay into something relatively tall and fairly symmetrical one time and the next lump of clay ends up a lump of clay after I have messed with it for 3o minutes.


I have been surprised by how much I love my Thursday Therapy sessions. I hate it when I have to miss it. I have wanted to learn how to throw pottery on a wheel for a long time. However, I thought it might turn out like all the other artistic endeavors I have tried--stained glass, painting, drawing, sewing, cake decorating, jewelry making--with some moderate success, and sometimes more than moderate investment, but nothing with which I felt I really had a connection. I have stuck with this longer than any of the others and don't see a place where I will tire of it. I could be wrong, but for now, I love my Thursday Therapy sessions with a benefit of having something I have created, some of it that I really like, to show for it. In fact, I need to start culling out the ugly stuff that is spilling out of my cabinets. I have a friend who suggested that I use it for a different type of pot-throwing therapy and just smash it when I am frustrated/angry. That might be a good idea. But for now, I will go get my hands dirty in the clay that heals my aches and pains and removes the impurities of my day.

Great friends are PRICELESS

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art.... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.” 

― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

I have come to realize that what C.S. Lewis wrote is absolutely true. Since changing jobs, I have really come to appreciate the value that friends add to life. It is not that I didn't appreciate my friends before. I have had wonderful friends my entire life. But working basically alone in a small office with only Bill and Jim coming and going, I have come to realize how much I depended on the daily interactions with friends to cope with the stress of life.

I have always worked where there were other women. Women do things for each other. Sometimes they seem frivolous or even silly, but there is some kid in me that enjoys the silly and frivolous. I miss Ghosting at Halloween and Secret Santa at Christmas. And I like to talk about stuff. "Your hair looks great, is that Nice 'n Easy Ash Blond?" "Her baby is just as cute as he can be." "Oh, good Lord, if I have to hear about her cousin's cabin one more time, I'm gonna scream." "How many points are in this two inch square brownie?" "He's as dumb as a post, bless his heart."

I sure am glad I have great friends who remember this lonely, one-woman office person. Thank goodness for GNO. And thank goodness for all those wonderful women who give value to my survival.

Cars

Cars are a part of our everyday lives, necessary to get us from point A to point B. We often don't think too much about them unless they breakdown, or at least I don't think too much about them, ordinarily. This past couple of weeks has been different. A car can be a part of a person. The type of car that you drive does say a little bit about you, even if you deny it. Uncle Walter was like that. He always said he didn't care much about cars and never did. He even said that he never was a very good driver. He said when he was young, his family didn't have but one car and my dad wanted to drive all the time, so he did and Walter didn't. He said when he graduated from Westpoint, he had people drive him around. The army didn't want officers to drive themselves. While the driving part might have been true, I don't believe the part about him not caring about cars. He always had the "cool" car. We didn't get to see him often, but when he came home in a car, not flying home in a rented private aircraft, he always had a cool car. He had an Austin Healy convertible. In the early 60's he had a long car with big fins. And then in the 70's he had a Corvette.

The "Colonel's Corvette" is what the 1970 Corvette Stingray that Walter owned was known by at the Cars by the Creek car show; Impatient Creations, where it was restored; and, now, Eric Joiner Classics; the broker who sold it. It is a beautiful car. My son David LOVED that car. I thought of it more of a rocket on wheels. A dangerous, expensive, money pit, rocket on wheels. When you have to take the t-tops out of the car so that you can sit up straight behind the wheel and two inches of your head is above the windshield, I don't think it is safe for you to drive; not to mention the huge engine that just begs you to, "See what she will do."

Even though I didn't have the same type of affinity for the car that David did, I still feel sad that it is gone. My sadness is a sense of loss of another part of Walter. He bought the car when he was in Vietnam from the PX in Saigon. He picked it up when he got stateside in St. Louis and drove it to Leavenworth, KS, where he was stationed through the end of his career. He drove the car for several years until he parked it in the barn on the farm because it needed some work done and it was no longer practical to drive everyday. Jackie talked him into getting the car restored in 2007 so she could drive it around town sometimes. She said it was a shame to have a car like that just deteriorating in the barn, and she was right. He had it towed to Impatient Creations for them to restore the car and spent much more than the car is worth to have the work done. Sadly, Jackie became ill and passed away in early 2008, many months before the car was finished. Walter could not drive the car and he could not bear to get rid of it. He said, "You will have to figure out what to do with it after I am gone." At least we took it to Cars by the Creek once before he passed away last year. I think it made him happy. We took it back this year and it won first place in its muscle car division. I think it made him happy again.

Even after restoration you have to drive a car to keep it running properly. That was not done enough over the past four years. We had to invest more money into the car to get it ready to sell. We took it to a broker and within three days, it was sold. I don't have to worry about my son's brains being above the windshield, which is a good thing. I don't have to worry about what will have to be fixed next (nothing's cheap, even headlights.) But, one more part of Walter is no longer with us. I miss him.

Dangerous Territory

I have had an epiphany this week regarding the pitfalls of staying connected to my children through electronic media. I like to keep up with what is going on in my children's lives.I am a friend to two of them on Facebook. I follow them all on Twitter. When they join the professional world, I suppose I will be LinkedIn to them. I want to be connected to them in this way because I get to hear snippets of conversation between them and their friends that gives me some insight into their world. The problem is that sometimes there are things you don't want to know.

When I joined Facebook a few years ago, I sent a friend request to David, middle son, who was in college at the time. He has yet to respond to my request. I was insulted at first. I get it now.

I should have understood David's reluctance to accept my friendship request. He does post some quirky things on there. That is just his personality. His profile pic was of a random black man and a dog. I know this because he would comment on posts made by mutual Fb friends. I guess when you do rather bazaar things you don't want your mother questioning them. He is a grown man now and if he wants to post bazaar things on Fb, that is his own business.

While an undergrad, my oldest son also had some less-than-flattering pictures of himself (really was him) on Facebook. But college is college. I didn't expect pictures of him studying for exams. Those are no fun. At least he was smart enough to take those pics down before applying for jobs and law school. Sort of like the Dutchess's topless photos, pull them all back in and pretend it never happened. He too is a grown man and has matured past the "firefly" stage. (You think you are lighting the world, but you are really just showing your ass.)

This brings me to my youngest son and the reason why I say staying electronically connected to your children is dangerous territory. Steven, my youngest, has been in college for exactly one month. He came home last Sunday to celebrate my birthday with the family. He arrived about 3:00 p.m. I was outside washing my car and was unaware that he had come in. He was unaware that I was outside washing my car. When I came in he was watching football on TV, playing a video game on his laptop, and tweeting/texting on his phone. He is quite the multitasker. We talked for a while, and by "talked" I really mean I asked him questions and he gave monosyllabic answers. I suppose his multitasking does not extend far enough to having a conversation while watching TV, playing a video game, and tweeting/texting. Anyway, I was use to this type of conversation, after all, I am the mother of three sons. The real blow came when I read his tweets a couple of days later. He tweeted at 3:30 p.m., the approximate time I came in from washing my car, "I wish I could go home." BAM! What a blow. First "home" is now a dorm room. Second, he prefers it to real home. Third, he had already told me that he was alone most of the weekend because most of his friends had left to come home (real homes) on Friday or Saturday because there was no football game in Tuscaloosa, so he would prefer an EMPTY dorm room to being at home.

I would have preferred to be blissfully unaware of all of this. I immediately "unfollowed" him. There are some things a mother just does not want to know. I try to think back to the dark ages when I went away to college at 18. There was no Fb, cell phones, tweets, or blogs. If there were, I would not have wanted my mom cyberstalking me (which I was NOT doing.) She would have wanted to remain blissfully unaware of some of the things I did back then too. I do know that I wanted to be on my own. My first taste of real freedom was without her being able to call me 24/7, or watch what parties I went to, or even if I would prefer to not come home to celebrate her birthday.

I guess some of my insecurities as a mother stem from the fact that I never got to know my mother as an adult. She died before I was able to do that. I don't want to miss out on that with my children. Perhaps after college and Steven is a grown man (not a teenager in a 6' 3" body) I will follow him again. Until then, I am going to close my eyes and pretend this is still "home" and he prefers my company to no company.

Newala School

Newala no longer exists, but at one time there was a school and a community of that name between Montevallo and Calera. The school sat where there is now a mound of gravel from the Chemlime Plant by the railroad tracks just after highway 89, where you turn to go to Walter's house from Hwy. 25. The school was a consolidated school, which the government had opened to combine several one-room schools in rural areas and to attempt to get the farm kids to actually go to school. If you notice in the picture there are kids of all ages even though the school was from first through eighth grades. This is because many farm kids didn't got to school very often and may have been 15 and not really know how to read. Technically, school was required through the age that students would normally finish eighth grade. However, in a farming community such as this, many parents kept the children home most of the time to work on the farm. They might to go school during the winter when there was not much farming to do. School was not a priority for most of the parents, who may or may not be literate themselves. In this time period, it is remarkable that both of my grandparents graduated from college, Walter Sr. from Jacksonville State University, and Clara from Alabama College (what is now University of Montevallo).

I always assumed the Newala was in someway derived from New Alabama, but that is not so. The name was the same as another community somewhere up north.

My grandparents both taught at the school where there were four teachers some of the time and three teachers some of the time. My grandmother taught first and second grade. She is the woman on the end of the second row in the picture below. Notice how she is dressed. Walter said she never knew how to dress and always looked shabby. My grandfather is on the end of the third row. Notice how he is dressed, always neat and rather formal. He taught fifth and sixth and then fourth was added and later seventh and eight grades, was the principal, and drove the school bus.

Walter is in the second grade in this picture. He is sixth from the right in the second row wearing the plaid jacket (106). My grandmother, Clara Adkins, is 94. My grandfather, Walter R. Adkins, Sr. is 35. Julian Hardy, MD is 74 and his more famous twin brother, James Hardy, MD, is 75. Walter's friend and neighbor, Buck Anderson, is 111. One of the other teachers, who Walter only knew as Ms. McLaughlin, is 93. My dad is not in the picture because he is not old enough for school at this time. This picture was made in spring of 1928.

There will be a dedication of an historical marker near the spot of Newala School on September 9, 2012, in memory of Dr. James Hardy, a pioneer in heart transplant surgery. I am proud to say that my grandparents were an integral part of the early education of some very influential people. Some of them are in this photograph. There are at least three doctors, one lawyer (who Walter believes became a judge) and, of course, one Colonel. Many of these kids remained in the community and were equally as important to the people there. Otis Bean became the town barber in Montevallo and was in business there as long as I can remember. Many of them were farmers who raised the food that sustained themselves and other through the depression.

Walter commented that even though many students would skip school often, most all of them showed up on picture day, wearing their best clothes. You can tell by the picture that this was a very diverse socioeconomically. The Hardy family owned a lime plant. Of course my uncle was the son of educators. Most of the others were either miners' children or farmers' children.

My father is not in this picture because he was not of school age yet. He told me that he was taught by his parents for all six of his elementary school years. His mother taught first and second grades. As he was about to begin third grade with a new teacher, his third grade teacher died suddenly and she was not replaced. Instead, his mother added third grade to first and second and his father added fourth grade to his fifth and sixth. My dad said that he received an excellent education from them and that he could have probably done just as well in college after leaving sixth grade as he did after graduating from high school. His parents made sure he did his work and taught him well. After beginning Montevallo High School in seventh grade, the system began what was called "progressive" education where they did not give grades and each child was supposed to move at their own pace. That didn't work so great for my father who's own pace was to skip school whenever possible. I guess this is a story for another post.

Labels of our lives

Labels. We have many during our lives. I have been thinking about all my labels since I added a new one, "empty nester." I am still "Mom," "wife," "daughter," "friend," and "sister" just to name a few, but "empty nester" seems like somebody else. I thought I would be sad when I moved into this phase of my life, but I am not. I think it is mainly because Steven was so excited about his new label, "college student."

This is, of course, not our first college drop-off of a son, and each time it has been a different experience.  John's teenage years had been challenging for us all. Bill and I were convinced that God made eighteen year olds so that parents would be ready to let them go. However, John seemed to figure out the college thing early on and was very successful at it. When Steven scheduled his Bama Bound for the only two days that I couldn't go with him, I think John was the perfect pick to take my place.  John did a great job with his label, "big brother" and gave him tips that I could not have done. I am now kind of glad that I was unavailable.

Moving Steven into the dorm was, dare I say it, easy. Not because I wanted him to move out or because he was being difficult, in fact, I may have found it easy because he was easy to live with. It seems that he has been making decent decisions for an eighteen year old boy. I am confident that he will continue to do so, for the most part. College students always make some decisions they don't want mom and dad to find out about, but as long as they don't involve the three B's (explained in another post), they are going to be okay. The fact that Steven has a great support group at school makes it a little easier on me also. Nearly all of his close high school friends are only a dorm or two away. Some of them we have known since kindergarten and they have called Bill, "Coach," "Scout Leader," "Billiam," or "Dad" and me, "Mom2" for years.

Being an empty-nester is not so bad. I can dash to the laundry room in my towel. Our grocery bill is lower. I can cook with onions, tomatoes, and carrots. All of my glasses are in the kitchen. There are fewer single socks left after the wash is done. There is a lot less smelly athletic clothes and less laundry in general. I can go to sleep without listening for the knock on the bedroom door to announce, "Mom, I'm home." David and Domino moved out recently too. Now there is a lot less dog fur to vaccuum up. Bill and I can go out to eat for less than $50.00 (if we pick the right restaurant.) I am looking to replace carpet and can pick any color I want. It is the beginning of a new era.

For the first time in twelve years on the first day of school I didn't have the label, "teacher." I have no remorse over trading this label for, "self-employed."  My new freedom as "self-employed" and "empty nexter" is wonderful. These new labels give me flexibility to be a better and less-stressed "wife," "sister," "friend," "daughter," and even "Mom."