What's your story?

One of the reasons we write stories from our life is to make sense of our journeys. 

What have we accomplished that has made a difference? What lessons should we pass on? What wounds need to be healed? What do we celebrate, and who do we forgive?

The answers to these questions are revealed in the stories we tell about ourselves. 

Periodically we need to pause and assess how our lives are unfolding. Understanding the twists and turns that our lives have taken gives us a choice to move forward on the same path or in a different direction. "They" say that we cannot change our past (and they are right). However, we can start fresh with a new beginning at any time in our lives. 

We were created by a loving God who gives us the gift of free will to be authors of our life stories. How is your story unfolding? Are you the hero(ine) or the victim? As children we depended on others to give us a good life, and sometimes they let us down in tragic, even horrific ways. But we are the adults now--the ones in charge--the ones who are responsible for our happiness and peace of mind. The truth is, we can keep doing the same things over and over expecting different results, or we can have the courage to change and embrace the life we were meant to live. 

What story are you creating for yourself?

Coca Cola is my brand

I know Texas is a Dr. Pepper state, but I've been a Coca Cola girl since... well, since I was a girl. Back then, I would get a glass bottle from the cooler for 5 cents and then, instead of uncapping it, I'd take an ice pick and punch a hole in the cap. It was like having a grown-up drink in a baby bottle. The sweet, sticky, carbonated watery syrup leaked through that little hole, and I drank in tiny sips like a humming bird at a feeder.

By the time "Things go better with Coke" became the marketing mantra for my favorite brand, I'd learned to uncap the bottle and pour Planters peanuts through the neck and enjoy the salty-sweet dance of peanuts and Coke on my tongue. Singer Barbara Mandrel did the same, but she earned royalties from a song about doing it.

When I started going honky-tonking, the things I added to my Coke were Puerto Rico rum and Tennessee whiskey, which I drank from a paper cup. I'd start out with two fingers (about a jigger) of alcohol, but as the night deepened, I quit measuring. I was wild and crazy, but not very smart.

Now I'm older and wiser. I drink Diet Coke in a glass or Solo plastic cup. Today my sweetie drove through McDonalds and bought me a large Diet Coke for $1.08 (the 8 cents is the tax). I crushed the straw between my teeth so I could only get a trickle into my mouth, like I did when I was a girl. That's one of the benefits and blessings of living this long: I can be a kid again.

Write-in

I woke up with a novel idea (no pun intended). I want to host a write-in. What do you think?

I'll have it at Church Street Retrerat, which is Ronnie's and my Victoian home, built in 1875 in Navasota, TX. It's only a 90-minute drive from Houston.

There's roomy spaces in rooms with high ceilings and slow moving fans, a porch looking out on a pecan and elm shaded lawn, a fenced backyard with three rowdy dogs to keep you company but not talk to you, and blocks of small town wonder for solitary meandering with the Muse as company.

Bring your writing tablet or laptop. I'll provide coffee and tea, maybe a little fruit and cheese. We'll write together, but in silence. We will be like children in parallel play--feeding off each other's creative energy, but not interrupting one another's thought process.

In silence but in community.

You see yourself as an artist but not a writer? No worries--bring your sketch book. Or your camera.

In the late afternoon we'll come together, reflect on the experience, and decide if we should do it again.

Sound like a plan?

April is flying by, and soon it will be May, so when? Sundays are preferred but I'm open.

A Life in Shoes

I love shoes. They've marked some important events in my life. When I got my tonsils removed at age three, I got white sandals for being brave. I wanted to race out of the hospital, but my daddy carried me. I can still remember what they looked like on my pudgy little feet.

Growing up, I had two pairs of shoes, one brown pair for everyday school shoes and Mary Jane black ones for church. I know those shoes were probably two more than other kids had, but I can admit it now--I wanted more. When I turned thirteen, my parents gave me black patent French heels for my birthday, and  even though my younger brother insisted we could only love people and not things, I looooooved them. My everyday shoes were cordovan penny loafers, but I thought of myself as an uptown girl, so I put silver dimes in them instead of copper pennies. ( I had no idea what an uptown girl was, but I felt sure she'd prefer silver to copper.)

When I graduated from college and bought my own wardrobe, I began buying shoes in larger numbers, but they were from discount stores, made of imitation leather that made my feet sweat. Smelly feet, however, were a small price to pay for 3-inch heels with tiny slingback straps in red, white, taupe, navy, gold, pink, lavender, silver, and black. I was twenty-one teaching high school seniors who were seveneen, eighteen and nineteen. I needed the height.

I moved from teaching into administration in my thirties, enabling me to buy good Italian leather shoes. My favorite was a pink and white Bally high-heel number from Neiman Marcus. I also purchased slinky sandals and sturdy atheletic shoes in both bold and muted colors. As they say from where I come from, I was in high cotton.

Now that I'm nearing retirement, I no longer buy high-heels--or to be honest, mid-heels. I need to be extra careful about keeping my balance. It's a much harder fall at my age and further down, too. So I'm wearing flats again. My favorite are a pair of Mary Janes. They're comfortable and the crossover straps keep them snug on my feet.

Oh, and I have three pairs of low-heel leather cowboy boots: one in a red, white, and blue Lone Star design, one in blood red, and one Ostrich pair in honey brown.  After all, I am a Texas woman, y'all.

Advice

What's the best advice you ever received? The worst? These are worth writing down and passing along. Not because someone else is going to avoid making mistakes--making mistakes is how we learn from life. However, I believe examining the advice we've been given can help us understand our choices.

I've gotten wise advice and foolish advice along the journey of my life. There are consquences, of course, both golden and disasterous. And, through the years, I have learned from both.

Good advice:

• If you want to change your life, change your attitude.
• Relationships matter  more than material things. 
• Nothing lasts--but the heart remembers, so live with a forgiving heart.
• Nothing teaches you history, geography and culture better than world travel.
• The arts stimulate and nourish both the intellect and the soul.
• You can't change what you regret about the past, but you can start over anytime for a sweeter future.

Foolish advice:

• Get a perm--it'll give your hair some body.
• Have a drink--just one.
• Tell me what he said--I promise I'll keep it a secret.
• Go ahead and do it--nobody is watching.
• Buy it anyway--it'll motivate you to lose weight.
• That's too expensive for you--look for something cheaper.

How about you? What's the most memorable advice you've ever received?

Stowaway cat

It's Spring Break and Ronnie and I have arrived in Kerrville for a glorious week in our RV.

Except...

We heard a mewling this evening and Ronnie thought it was a cat, maybe one that got up under the RV while we were out this afternoon, and he went out to investigate. Turns out there is a tiny kitten in the baggage area. How could such a small kitty get up there? Ronnie has a theory: our neighbor's cat crawled up into the baggage area somehow and had her litter. She was probably moving her babies when Ronnie got the n the RV and drove off with the last one stranded.

We don't know if it's a he or she, so I've named it Sox. My friend Jackie Crowley had a very cool cat named Sox, and this one has four white paws similar to Jackie's cat.

I'm highly allergic to cats, so I'm popping Antihistamines. Ronnie is staying up with Sox, keeping nag the baby comfortable and warm.

We've looked up how to care for orphan d kittens and we have nothing. In the morning we're headed for the vet as soon as he opens. According to the internet we can expect a healthy bill and a carload of supplies to get Sox through the next 4 weeks or so. From Sox's appearance: one eye open and one shut; folded back but straightening ears; and shaky steps, it's just a day over or under 2 weeks.

So far, Sox is a furry survivor that has captured Ronnie's heart. And okay, I'll admit it, me too. Guess I'll be living on Benedril.

Happy birthday, y'all

The fourth Texas Birthday Bash was held this weekend to celebrate Texas's 180th anniversary of independence. Ronnie and I went both nights. My friend Karleen Koen went with us Saturday night. We were supposed to join Butch and Sheila Juelg, but there were a couple of thousand people crowding the bandstand that was set up beside the Navasota City Hall and finding them was just impossible. We'll try again next year. Most likely meet at the house and then walk the four blocks to the venue.

The weather was perfect. We didn't even need jackets once we moved to the beat of William Clark Green, Josh Abbott, and John Michael Montgomery. There were other bands, but these were the ones we came to see.

The crowd was the real show.

Long legged fillies in denim shorts that barely covered their bottoms wore cowboy boots to mid-calf and frilly white lace camisoles or plaid sleeveless shirts. Except for a few sporting ponytails, most had hair loose and cascading down their backs. Bling-crusted belts assessorized all choices of attire, from the fringed denim shorts to mini-skirts to skin tight jeans. Lots of fringe. On shirts, shorts, boots, and handbags.

The young men with dates kept a hand on their woman's waist or in her back pocket or slung possessively over a shoulder. Single men lined the outermost edges, in groups of three and five, drinking from their longnecks and checking the beauties who were forever weaving through the crowd gathered in front of the bandstand.

There weren't many cowboy hats this year. Instead, there were plenty of caps with bills pointed forward and pulled down over masculine faces, not askew or backwards like city gangsta types. These guys hailed from College Station, Brenham, Hempstead, Anderson, Roans Prairie and other neighboring communitites. They wore low-slung Levis held in place by tooled leather belts. Their boots were scuffed, proof that they worked the land or in one of the industrial or manufacturing plants.

Many wore snug tee-shirts that showed off muscular  bodies. Most of them were Aggie brands with appropriate tag lines about the 12th Man and such. My favorite was "Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of the Ring." (For you non-Texans, that is the pusuit of the Aggie graduation ring.)

Others wore western shirts or long sleeved white dress shirts. One had on a hoodie with this statement stenciled on the back:
Frac long
Frac strong
And always
Frac on!

Where else will you find someone promoting fracking at a concert? Only in Texas, my friend, where oil field is still the major employer and an important revenue stream for the state budget.

The crowd thickened as the night wore on. The single men began walking into the fray, feeling pumped by the beer and the band. Young women jumped atop hay bales, swinging their hips to the beat of the bass guitar. Couples danced in spaces no bigger than three-feet square. Shiner beer, Bud Light, and bottled water from HEB kept most people hydrated.

Even though Open Carry is law in Texas now, the only thing anyone had in a holster was an iPhone, which was frequently drawn to shoot photos of each other and the bands.

I love this small town that celebrates the birthday of Texas.  Yee-haw, y'all.