The Crab Chronicles

Watching the Apple Tree

Most of the blogs I read are funny, or smart, or sometimes gut-wrenching, but they usually focus on the outer life. Most of the blog writers I read have a lot more children than I do, and/or just a more interesting, action-filled life than I do. So their outer lives are far more interesting than mine.

As an experiment, I'd like to try a blog here that discusses the outer life as a metaphor for my inner life. I'll try not to sound to self-conscious or "literary" - which is hard for me to do even when I try.

Here's what set me to thinking about this.

There's a huge apple tree in my back yard. Mother says it's far larger than most apple trees.

I didn't plant it. It was here when we moved in the house 8 years ago. It never produced anything really resembling real apples until last year, and then we sort of noticed them after they were at their peak. They were mostly all over the ground. The birds were feasting on them.

Most of the apples were the size of golf balls. They were sour. I spent several hours one day getting a bunch of them peeled so I could make a small batch of homemade apple sauce. I hadn't made homemade apple sauce for Michael before then.

He loved it.

I promised my friend Paul that this year we would share apples with him, and I hope there will be apples to share. He recently married for the second time and is enjoying being a dad to his wife's two daughters, who live with them. [Notice I didn't say "stepfather" - he is taking the role far more seriously than that. Kudos to him.] Paul is a writer too, and a "foodie." We share food, seedlings, eggs sometimes [from his chickens]. He also used to publish books of poetry, and he published a book by a friend of mine, which is how we met. [See how I worked in the writing reference there?!]

My life is sort of like that apple tree. Most days I just feel like one tree among many, nothing special. It's taken me a long time to produce edible fruit [writing that pays off] and yet... Michael likes that I stay at home and write. I try to be done by the time he gets home from school.

I'm not entirely sure the apple tree will produce fruit again this year. I don't know what magical confluence of sun and rain produced apples last summer. I certainly didn't fertilize the tree.

I'm not entirely sure I can be a writer full-time, or if I should even keep trying. I am keeping my eyes open for regular office type jobs.

My life seems to be in stasis right now. I am unsure whether there will be writing this summer, or fruit from the apple tree, or what, if anything, I should do about either situation.

I only know one thing for certain: I love applesauce that I make, and Michael loves it.

Tending fruit trees is an entirely new thing for me.

Disciplining myself to write is an entirely new thing.

Years ago, I used to kill all kinds of plants. I still kill plants occasionally. Not on purpose. I'm just sort of a haphazard gardener. I don't get into reading about gardening, or approaching it scientifically. I just like to see things grow, and I try to keep things watered, composted, and fertilized. I try to be organic as much as possible, but it's not always possible.

Like, this year I've planted a bunch of radishes and marigolds in the long side garden, in hopes my cucumbers and squash will be protected from bugs. I don't know if it will work but it's worth a try.

Years ago, I didn't write because I didn't think I had anything to write about. I didn't get out and DO anything much. I worked, I came home and read books, and I watched a lot of movies. Everything changed when I decided to go to Russia in the summer of 2002. I was re-energized about writing, and my life turned a corner.

Regardless of whether I can make any apple sauce or apple pies this summer, I enjoy seeing my massive apple tree in the back yard. It has grown as our house has become a home. It shelters. It provides sweetness for birds and insects. It looks as though it belongs out there.

Regardless of whatever else I do this summer, I will write - whether it's during the day, or nights and weekends, it doesn't matter.It doesn't even matter if it's good. I have to write, the same way I have to breathe. It sustains.

I will keep trying to produce edible fruit, and I will keep looking for corners to turn.

above, the view I see every day, from my desk. The apple tree is above the trampoline.

Summers at the Lake

All day yesterday I had the feeling of deja vu. The weather was overcast and humid, but it was very mild outside.It reminded me of being on the lake, on rainy weekends.

When I was a kid, we spent a lot of time at a little cabin on Douglas Lake. It was not heated so we didn't go up there in winter, but we spent most weekends there in the summer, and often a week or two in July, with Dad commuting to Knoxville to work.

Douglas Lake has an interesting history. It was built in the early 1940's when the dam was constructed to provide extra electricity. This article on Douglas Dam tells more about it. The lake was essentially flooded farmland. The Tennessee Valley Authority flooded a lot of places in the 1930's and 40's, in an effort to modernize rural areas.

I didn't know all that as a kid. I just liked going to the lake.

The cabin had 3 bedrooms, a full bathroom and a half bath, a main room that combined the living room, kitchen, and a dinette set, and a big porch. Below, some photos. Yes, the bottom photo shows me wearing shorts. I was about 11 years old but I looked older.

It was very..... rustic.

The important thing was my dad was able to go there and relax. There was no phone there, and that was a blessing. I never went on vacation as a kid that Dad didn't spend a good bit of time on the phone, talking to his officers at the bank. He was a workaholic. If cell phones or smartphones had existed back then, it would've been worse.

Dad's favorite thing was to invite folks to come for the weekend, and not tell Mother until Friday. Then she would spend the weekend cleaning and cooking and it wasn't too relaxing.

If it rained or someone couldn't come, there was no way to notify us, since there was no phone.

There was a tiny general store a couple of miles away, and Dad was buddies with the man who owned the store, June. [that was his name; I couldn't make that up] June knew where our cabin was and I think had a spare key. He was a salt of the earth type person

June was a typical mountain man. He didn't like strangers. One time, one of Dad's employees stopped to ask June directions to the house, and June said he didn't know anybody named Tony Thompson. He told Dad later, "Didn't know that feller. Warn't gon' tell him nuthin." Of course the man was wearing a business suit, and a tie. Mountain folks didn't view those clothes well - the banker, the law enforcement guys - all those folks were not welcome. Dad thought it was a very funny story, and was pleased that June protected our privacy.

The cabin was down a narrow, twisty road, and the last part of it was a gravel road. It was pretty far back there.

We had a lot of good times there. I spent a lot of time there reading books, fishing, swimming, water skiing - in other words, it was a great place to be a kid. If there had been air conditioning it would've been perfect.

Dad liked to fish, and we ate many meals of fried fish and hushpuppies.

One time, we had a campfire in the backyard and a fox came around.

Dad was out in the tiny fishing boat once, with our big dog Fred, and Dad fell out of the boat. Fred stayed there in the boat, going round in circles, for about an hour until the gas ran out.

I once spent a good deal of time getting scratched by thorns and bitter by bugs, all to gather up enough wild growing blackberries so Mother could make a blackberry pie.

The Bush's beans cannery was nearby and we used to go up and buy dented cans of beans at deep discounts.

Dad used to sit and play poker with me and Bruce on rainy days. We played for matchsticks.

Today we're having more thunderstorms, and it's raining. Great for my gardens.

I just wish I could look out and see the mountains.

Keep Calm and FInd a Doughnut

Years ago, my mother tried to get me to join AAUW [American Association of University Women]. I went to one meeting, at the home of someone who lived down a small road, and nearly got lost. Nearly wrecked the car. Had to park a mile away and walk. At night. In the dark. By myself.

Then when I got there, all the women knew each other and nobody was very welcoming to me.They discussed some weird book I'd never heard of.

I had a college degree. I could discuss books intelligently.

I hated going places by myself, at night, however. I particularly hate finding anyone's home, at night, in the car.

Needless to say, I didn't join AAUW. I just didn't think it was worth it.

As I've gotten older, I've decided I really just don't like going out at night. Not unless it's a place I know very well, near home.I get very anxious driving at night - more so if it's raining.

Last night, as Michael and I left a play, I was remimnded of all the reasons I hate going out at night. It was dark. It was raining. We were in midtown.

The good thing was that Michael was driving.

[The play, BTW, was The Book Club Play at the Horizon Theatre - really cute play. Very funny.]

I had pointed out when we were headed to the theatre that the large, full-service Krispy Kreme place was just a mile or two from the theatre, and we could get a doughnut afterwards.

So we left the theater in the rain and headed over there. Normally it would take 5 minutes to get there. It took more than twenty minutes. There was a car stopped on Ponce, with the light on to turn left. It just SAT THERE for like 15 minutes. Cars were rushing by us. We couldn't get around the idiot. Finally, the car just moved on off, out of the way. Probably re-thought that late night drinky poo in light of the complete lack of parking around the restaurant. I don't know. I just know I needed a doughnut after that. I was half hysterical.

Michael? The driver? Calm as a cucumber.He was chuckling about it later when we were in line, waiting for doughnuts. "You would've FREAKED OUT, Mom. I didn't," he teased me.

"Well good. From now on, you're my driver for all night excursions," I replied.

See this guy in the photos? That's my Uncle Don, Mom's brother.

Nothing phases him. I've never seen him not calm. I've never seen him excited about anything. Nothing ruffles his feathers. He is as slow and deliberate and methodical as a human being can be. He is a retired college administrator. The radio could announce a nuclear attack was imminent and his only remark would likely be something like "Jane, do we have any iced tea? Let's find a nice chair where we can sit and watch all the commotion."

Michael is just.like.Don. They are not related biologically. They haven't spent that much time together. They are two peas in a pod, however.

It amuses Mother and me no end.

The Blessing and Curse of YouTube

YouTube is a dangerous thing, I am beginning to think. If I am not careful, I will spend way too much time on there putting things like "funny talking dogs" in the search box. 

YouTube can be quite useful, though. I have tried to train myself not to freak out when I need to explain something to Michael and I am clueless..

Like last night, we were working on Biology. The endocrine system. We watched this entire video:

 

Michael paid attention. He didn't fiddle with his iPod. He didn't doodle. He didn't give me the heavy sigh and rearrange himself in the chair so as to appear boneless. [If you've been around teenagers lately, you know this move. It's like all their bones turn to jello, and your teen sort of melds into the furniture in an almost scary Matrix-like way.]

Then there's stuff that's more fun.

I am not a good dancer. I can't show anyone how to dance and be serious. When I was trying to talk Michael into attending the Homecoming Dance last fall I wish I could've showed him this video, which was one of the most popular on YouTube a few years ago:

 

Any time Michael is in a foul mood I can jolly him out of it by just jumping to me feet and "dancing." I usually mix up a hideous concoction of Oompah Loompah, John Travolta, and "choking on a potato chip" type moves. I shake my groove thang. And he laughs.

I would do just about any silly thing to make him laugh.

YouTube is not perfect, though.

I do get tired of the ads.

Right now, I do NOT need to know how to improve my dog's bad breath. We buy Milk Bones. Her breath isn't that bad.

Those ads annoy the crap out of me.

Sometimes someone sends me a link to a video that makes me cry. I will watch those videos over and over. I am not embarrassed to admit that. Sometimes when I am just stressed out to the max I need to cry and I can't. Listening to Carrie and Vince sing "How Great Thou Art" accomplishes two things. It reminds me of my faith, and it makes me cry.

 

There is another video on YouTube that makes me cry. Sometimes when I want to remember the little guy who stole my heart years ago, I go back and watch this video. I cringe when I hear my own voice, but no matter. I have a record of Michael that's priceless to me:

 

An American Family

I like this photo probably because in it my mother looks young and carefree. The guy behind Mom is a friend. The guy closest to the camera is her cousin "Sonny."

The tragedy of Sonny's life was that he was gay, and he was born in a time when that simply wasn't ever acknowledged in most families. His parents were members of two socially prominent families in the Marietta/Acworth area, and he was their only son. Even now, I feel compelled not to publish Sonny's proper name because his dad's family is still so prominent, there could be repercussions.

Sonny lived a pretty good life, from all accounts, as a banker, but then something happened, and we heard he died a penniless alcoholic. I don't know what happened. One of my grandmother's brothers died in 1976, and the resulting firestorm over his will and legal battle that followed split the family. We lost touch with Sonny and an entire group of my grandmother's siblings and their families. Mamaw was in a nursing home by then, having suffered a massive stroke. She couldn't remember she even had siblings, or children or grandchildren.

Two of Mom's other cousins on that side of the family were gay, and we think one of them died in a mental hospital. Not sure about the other one. (The tragedy of those lives is part of the reason why I am so in favor of equal rights for gay people. Secrecy and shame are simply not conducive to leading happy lives, and extending the right to marry is a basic civil right.)

The fact that the family was split in 1976 was very painful for my mother, especially since she had lost Papa in 1972, and her mother was essentially lost to her in 1976. Mother was accustomed to being part of two large clans [Hastys and Butlers] and various cousins of hers spent extended time visiting and/or living with her family during her growing up years.

She has written a lot about her youth and the extended family in her blog, like this post.

Fortunately, one of my Butler cousins, Steve, has taken it upon himself to start a Facebook group for the descendants of Robert E. Butler. Mother is enjoying seeing so many old photos and hearing stories. It has given her a lot of joy, despite the fact there is some controversy about identifying everyone in the photos.

Above, my great grandparents Beulah Phillips Butler and R.E. Butler on their wedding day in 1888.

Above, my grandmother and some of her sisters in Atlantic City around 1922. The photo below was made sometime between 1905-1910, we think. There were several siblings born after this photo was made.

One thing I love about seeing the photos on the Butler Facebook page is that the descendants have expanded our horizons way beyond North Georgia, in many ways. We have family members of different races. We have family members that are low income, high income, and everything in between. We are scattered in a lot of different states, including Texas, Virginia, and Florida.

And we still have family members who remember [well] Granny and Grandaddy Butler, and their children. Our oldest member is over 90.

The feud is a thing of the past.

We have stories to tell. We have recipes to share. We compare faces, and take note of who has the bluest eyes, the reddest hair, the longest legs.

We don't always agree on politics, or religion, or even sports, but it doesn't matter.

The family that was once split apart is knit together again.

We are far more similar than we are different. We all value family connections. We all seek to love, and be loved. In that way, as much as any other way, we are an American family.

Choose Wisely

You see the photo above? I was six years old. I was a flower girl in the wedding of one of Mother's cousins. I had on a lovely blue velvet dress and that strange boa thing on my head and I looked adorable except for the pained expression on my face.

Why did I look that way? I remember it vividly.

The table held just a few goodies. Weddings in 1968 were not the elaborate affairs they are today. I had discovered plates of cheese straws on the refreshment table and I was busily trying to eat them all. Quietly.

Somebody came up and snapped the photo of me, ruining my chances of eating every.last.cheese.straw. Drat. The two ladies in the background are my great aunts Marcellle and Dot and they were probably forcing me to be very sneaky anyway, but that photographer? He ruined the whole deal.

Come to think of it, it was likely my dad snapping the photo.

What's funny is that this photo tells such a funny story. I wrote about this phenomena [but not this particular photo] yesterday on my blog The Write Rainmaker. Business owners think they can slap up some generic photo on their website and it will be just fine but they underestimate the power of images.

Images can be a huge asset on a website, or not. It's a choice.

I've tried to persuade my son that all of life consists of a series of choices, and we all have the power to control our lives. We can choose our attitudes. It's a lesson it took me years to really absorb, but I am trying to get him to think about it more consciously, from an earlier age.

If I could've taken a photo of Michael's face yesterday when he came home from school, it would frighten small children. He was in a royally foul humor. I never did find out why. He is, of course, a TEENAGER, and that implies angst. 

I made him eat a snack, and we played chess outside on the patio. He got in a better mood when I let him beat me at chess.

In all truthfulness, I've always been a wretchedly bad chess player. He thinks several moves ahead and has strategies in place and all, the way you're supposed to play. I just randomly move things around. It confounds him because he can't predict what I will do.He got so mad at one point he threw my castle into the backyard, and then I made him go find it.

I think of that as good practice for married life someday. LOL

Carwash Stories and Publication

My 1999 Mazda has a cracked head gasket and it's been sitting in my driveway now for about 18 months. It also needs a new battery. I've been driving Mother's Highlander, which is a great car.

I've told Michael if he can make enough money this summer to get the Mazda fixed, he can have it. He can also go ahead and get his driver's license but I am waiting until school is out because I think it's a big distraction right here at the end of school.

His last day is May 23rd.

I expect he will spend most of the day on May 24th doing NOTHING.

Yesterday I told him to get out in the driveway after school and wash the Mazda. It had gotten a gunk of pollen on it that needed to be scrubbed off. He had never washed a car before. I didn't realize that until we were in the driveway and I had to show him how it was done.

If you click on the photo you can see the magnificent muculature on Michael's powerful left arm. Very impressive.

I told him when I was in college, every time I went home, Dad would wash my car in the driveway. I don't know why he was a bit obsessive about that.

He also didn't like to see bumper stickers on anybody's car. He was very peculiar about certain things, and propriety about the appearance of one's car or one's lawn was a big deal to him. He never would allow us to put political signs in the yard. We also couldn't put out Christmas lights. A wreath, at most.

Anyway, I digressed.

Not much else to report, except...

OH YEAH! Michael is a published poet! Check out his published poem Azure Blue. Very proud of him.

Mother's Day Drama

My plan was to rest and relax all day yesterday, but like most plans like that, it didn't happen.

I wanted to stay home and relax. We had to go to Kroger. And Home Depot. And to get gas.

At 9 last night my brother called to wish Mother a Happy Mother's Day, and I told him we were just sitting down to dinner. He was flabbergasted. We normally eat between 7 and 8. Michael was supposed to help Mother get dinner done.

Michael was not happy with that plan.I told him to start at 6. He started about 6:45.

Mother got the country fried steak cooking and tried to supervise Michael making a salad. Then she gave up, went back to her room, called me and said I would have to finish dinner.

I was sitting in my room trying to read, which meant Michael had to call up the stairs to me about 6 times, so he could make a salad. I finally gave up reading and just sat there.

Michael was asking me questions like: "Where is the feta cheese?" [he cannot find anything in the fridge]/ "What do you put in the salad besides lettuce?" [he's watched me make salad many times and Mother, who taught me, was standing right.there.beside.him.] "What do you put in the salad to make it GOOD?!" [same thing I told you a minute ago]

Finally, "WHAT ARE WE HAVING BESIDES SALAD?!"

"Bread. On the counter in front of the bread box."

"That's ALL?!"

I walked downstairs and fixed some bisquits.

We get through all that, and the call with Bruce. Michael eats two bisquits, a small piece of steak, and nothing else. He refused to touch any salad. I had chopped up a few of the mushrooms to make them smaller. I think he was insulted.

He wouldn't even eat any key lime pie.

At one point yesterday he asked me when Kids Day is, since I got an entire day all to myself. "The other 364 days a year are ALL kids days," I informed him.

This morning I discovered he hadn't taken out the garbage. He didn't unload the dishwasher. He didn't memorize the poem he was supposed to memorize.

He took two tennis balls to school so he could practice juggling. He asked me if he could make a living as a juggler.

"NO! Stay in school," I replied.

He has 9 more days of school.

Thanks be to God I put some color on my hair the other day because the GRAY IS TAKING OVER MY HEAD.

This was made around 1981. It's the only photo I know of from that time period. Mom and Dad and I were all dressed up to go out somewhere. Not sure where. The picture was made with one of those cameras where the photo pops out and you watch it develop. Those were fun cameras but the prints don't hold up too well.

I always think when I see this photo, that's why I don't look good with my hair pulled back. Then my entire head looks like an egg...

My Thoughts Today

No End

 

This is what I have learned:

There is no perfect love.

 

Love is like soil; filled with millions of grains -

Tiny stones worn through time, but

always there.

Whether boulder or sand,

substantial.

Waiting to grow things.

 

Death is not even an end to it.

Dad taught me that.

The tiny cord stretching from that world to this

Exists.

Unseen but unbroken.

I feel it.

I feel your arms around me, and hear your voice.

I look in the mirror and see your eyes.

 

Love can cover miles in a fraction of a second.

Love penetrates space, time, oceans, iron –

It is everything.

It can be anywhere.

 

I did not make a mistake in loving you, little girl.

I did not make a mistake in letting you go.

The agony of being a mother is letting go.

 

Only in the arena would you learn.

Only the harshest lessons would penetrate your soul, so encased in fences to keep the predators out.

I sought to spare you –

 protect you –

save you --

I forgot that stubborn spirit that kept you alive.

 

You think we are not in touch.

You think you are hidden from me.

You think we are far away.

You do not understand

the filaments of love

that cocoon you.

 

In my heart a niche awaits, sheltering

a flame which never wavers.

 I know you will see it one day.

 

My hands may be empty but God’s hands are holding you close,

and one day those hands will lead you home.

All News Is Slanted

I posted on Facebook yesterday a controversial post, knowing that not all my friends would agree with it, but I feel free to express my opinions on there. I never in a million years thought it would spark a 95 comment fight. I've posted very serious things before and had, at most, maybe 20 comments?

95 comments is mind blowing.

I also posted this:

I worked at a daily newspaper years ago. The news we get is what is decided is important by senior editors and news officials. There is ALWAYS a slant. I am trying to teach my son to never accept ANY news story as the absolute truth, because I do not believe the absolute unvarnished truth is found from any one source, when one is talking about a major event. We watched Oliver Stone's film JFK [the 3 hour director's cut] because I wanted Michael to see how important it is to examine not only the facts one is given by the media, but ALL facts, from different news sources. I told him, I'm not sure if Stone's movie is entirely accurate. However, there are still a lot of bizarre things about the assassination that have never really been answered by the obviously biased Warren Commission report. / I think we need to teach our children to question what they are told, question "facts" and look behind the story for the OTHER story.

The same person who had made a lot of the comments in my other post made some very disparaging remarks about this post. I won't name that person publicly because I firmly believe that what happens on Facebook should stay on Facebook.

However, I was amazed that person was so vehement. It told me that she was very angry, but I got the sense the anger was about a lot of things, not just the topic at hand.

How angry we are informs all our opinions.

Fear also informs everything.

What I am trying to teach Michael is to think critically. I never taught Alesia that skill, and it's possible she was not ready to learn it, even if I had tried, but it's an essential skill in life.

Every morning of my life, for as long as I can remember, I've watched one of the morning shows while fixing breakfast.

When I was growing up, it was the TODAY Show. Now I flip around between Today and Good Morning America, but just as often I wind up flipping over to Fox because that's the channel Mother likes to watch.

People criticize Fox for not being fair and balanced. I find that funny because when Bush was in office they were often quite critical of him.

CNN is quite biased. So is MSNBC. So is Fox. So is EVERY NEWS PROGRAM EVER AIRED.

You cannot take personal bias out of the news. The Editor or Producer or somebody ultimately decides what stories to air and what to ignore, or pay scant attention to.

Sometimes when I am on sensory overload with all the regular news outlets, I go online and see what Reuters has to say. I had never heard of it until some years ago when my brother was stationed at Ft. McPherson here in Atlanta during the first Gulf War. His job was to monitor all the news overnight, and brief the generals every morning. Reuters was a big part of that because he found all the news outlets very biased and Reuters seemed to him to be the least biased.

The top story on Reuters this morning is Violence casts shadow over Pakistan's Milestone election. The top story on CNN is Abused but alive: Lessons for Cleveland's survivors. The top story on Fox this morning is From boycotts to delays, Republicans using tough tactics to disrupt Obama agenda . The big headline in my local paper, the Atlanta Journal Constitution, is Police suspect mom’s illegal street racing led to wreck that killed her baby, a teen.

So which story is most important?

You will never find a consensus on that. Even if my brother and I were sitting right here together, we would likely disagree on which one was most important. Even though we have the DNA of siblings, we gew up in the same home, have about the same intelligence, similar outlooks on life, etc.

What I want my son to do is to THINK when he sees the news.

Think about what facts were left out of the story. A good editor adheres to the rules of journalism which are simply, put the most important facts first.Who decides what those are?

Think about the sidebar stories that might have been. For instance, in the AJC story, the first words are "police suspect" - but what if they are wrong? What if the young mother driving the car was not racing? That headline will haunt her forever. Think of her trying to get a job and a prospective employer Googling her name in a year.

Now, am I bashing the police? Not really. I'm sure they had a good reason to suspect illegal street racing. "Facts" printed in the paper are not always true, though. And there are often other facts that get ignored.

The photo above is an example. Look at the photo. Appears to be a pretty happy family, right? It's my grandparents are my uncles around 1932. I love this photo, but a look at my grandfather's face speaks volumes to me. The Depression was in full swing. Minor league baseball teams were going under every day. He was having a hard time supporting his family. He was young and strong and handsome, but huge issues were brewing in the world that would lead to a painful separation for him and my grandmother not long afterwards.

If I can teach my son one other thing, besides thinking critically, it will be this: Attitude is everything.

Attitude.Is.Everything.

We will all have dark times in our lives. We all have "a bag of rocks" to carry around. How we choose to think about those things will make the difference in how happy we are ultimately.

What news we choose to believe has a big effect on us personally.

So, to recap: look behind the headlines. Dig deeper than the surface.Don't let the headline or the picture fool you.

Don't let it make you crazy or depressed, though.

God has your back, no matter what the headlines are, or what you are dealing with. That's my personal opinion, not a provable fact. The world is a crazy place and we are bombarded on all sides by confusing facts. It's FAITH that makes it endurable.