The Secret of Immortality

“Like mother, like daughter – the nicest compliment there is.”

This tiny little verse is printed on a vinyl plaque that my daughter Jennifer gave me one day years ago. She was not a mother yet and still I can say that as she is like me so too is she like her own daughters. The littlest, Emery Kate, only months old, is sweet, calm, happy, and smiles all the time. She makes everyone around her feel loved because she is so generous with her own love.

But it is when her mother picks her up and holds her close to her heart that she is most content and although we all attempted, on our recent trip, to use the technique to get her to sleep, it was my daughter, her mother that was able to get her to sleep the fastest.

I can remember holding Jennifer in my arms when she was about a year old. We were sitting in the living room of our home in Denver, CO in the wooden rocker my parents gave us when our first born, Brian was born. Jennifer and I rocked and talked and hugged and laughed and I said to no one in particular, “My head says you need to grow up, but my heart wants you to stay just like you are right now, my sweet daughter.”

And then there is Alexandra Anne, also known as Lexi or the Lou Lou as she sometimes calls herself. Tiny, smart, funny, a tornado circling a room, a force to be reckoned with and yes like her mother as well; because she is also kind, sweet, and filled with love for everyone she meets. She meets no stranger and is surrounded by a light of happiness that is very contagious just like her mother.

Like mother, like daughters, my daughter has been given the gift of caring for two precious daughters and with the help of a loving husband she can do all things for her daughters. Honoring this gift she has been given comes easy to my daughter, but then she is like me. I thank God every day for having Jennifer in my life as I know she does the same with Emery Kate and Lexi.

And the lessons of love that I learned as a young mother, my own daughter is learning and one day she will pass them down to her two daughters and so on and so on through eternity for that is the secret of immortality.

A Summer Garden and the Simple Life

I’d like to think I’m capable of enjoying a summer garden and the simple life at the same time, but tending a garden is not a simple act. It takes time, endurance, and a certain amount of skill and it does help to not be afraid of worms, insects, and getting dirty ----all of which give me the creeps.

Moving to our new house in April, we found the backyard to be a blank slate. Thinking that when we sold our house on Signal Mountain and moved to north Georgia, we would most likely not have a yard, we gave away the majority of our outdoor tools---even the lawn mower. The good news is that we can share the lawn mower with our son Daniel, who lives eight houses away and who takes turns with his dad cutting the grass in both yards at the same time. Or Mark cuts and Daniel edges; still it is nice to have green grass and a lawn, something I have not had in the sixteen years we lived on Signal Mountain. Of course on SM I had trees and the largest tree I have now is three inches tall….yes, you read right—a sapling growing in my garden….will it or will it not survive? That is the question.

I digress….and therein lies the reason I want a garden to grow my own vegetables, to see the product of my (and I use the word loosely because it is my husband’s green thumb that is the true gardener) efforts from beginning to end; and, to have a place where I can step outside in my nightgown (like my dear friend Debby confesses doing in her morning ritual through her garden) and see for myself the product of our toils. I am the one who sets the plan in motion, with his blessing, I might add, deciding what vegetable to plant; what herb to buy; what flower will enhance that corner of the lot. I even picked out the hedge of Leland Cypresses for the back yard.

But alas, our garden is just a dream right now.

“It is a work in progress,” he says. I decide that is good. Moving forward in any direction is better than standing still.


Two beds were already built around the shed. In one, we planted crowder peas that the granddaughter, Paige planted from seed. When the “bush” peas turned out to be climbers my husband built a trellis out of wood and twine and now the beans are not only climbing reaching for the sun, but flowering and producing a bounty of beans; thank you Paige.

On the other side of the potting shed we planted two tomato plants and later some mint because we plan to plant tomatoes in the big bed next year. In the meantime, we have gotten three tomatoes which is a miracle. It was usually late August before it got warm enough for tomatoes on Signal Mountain. These tomatoes are good, but not like some of the heritage plants from previous years. We will have to experiment in the new bed next year with a variety of tomato plants. But I couldn't help but admire the dew drops on our tomato plants this morning as I walked around the back yard just after the sun rose.

Looking off into the distance I was spell-bound by the fog and mist rolling across the field behind our home. Fodder to the goats and cows that roam the field, it pleases me to be reminded of a simpler time in life when families lived off the land they held so dear. My back yard may be a blank slate but the beautiful raised bed my husband built will be filled with “black gold” dirt and “stuff” from our compost pile. And like the beautiful crowder peas, the larger beds will one day be filled with a bounty of produce that we can not only put on our dinner table, but share with our friends and family not unlike a simpler time in life.

A Sacramental Vision of Being

Sitting in the corner of the porch under the ceiling fan, I could smell the grass being cut next door. The hum of the lawn mower was unusually low and therefore allowed me to hear the birds in the trees on the farm behind my house. Even the silly rooster that crows at all hours of the day seemed unaware that he had competition in the lawn mower.

What I was supposed to be listening to was my granddaughter Paige. Ever since she heard the story of the guinea fowl feather, she has been telling me stories. We sat beside each other rocking in over-sized rockers circling an open pit fire at the Animal Kingdom Lodge while a woman from Africa told us the story. Her African accent thick, at times, so thick I could barely understand her, but the beauty of words, her hands as they moved, and the rapture in Paige’s eyes as she watched was all that I needed to stay alert to the teller.

Today’s story from Paige was one of her with her three cousins, Lexi, Hayden and Emery Kate. Together the four of them danced and played games, rode horses, had a sleep-over, and swam at the beach. Every once in a while a red car would drive down the road behind my house. It would go far down the road and turn south and disappear into the woods on the other side of the farmer’s pasture. It is a mystery to us where he goes and so Paige suggested we follow it one day. And before I knew it, Paige was elaborating on her story adding a mystery or two as the story was told.

It would have been easy to focus on the everyday issues of my life, but I made a conscious decision not to do so. Instead I saw the spiritual in the moment. I looked at the farm, the animals roaming through the fields, the lamb crying out for its mother, the lawn mower humming next door, and my precious granddaughter entertaining her Mimi with her charming stories. Everywhere I looked I saw God.

Hot Tamale Pie for Dinner

Historically speaking, my roots are not from the American Southwest, but my daughter-in-law’s are and it pleases me to cook for my friends and family. So I decided to try a recipe from a tiny little cookbook I found when I unpacked a box marked “Good Cookbooks.” Entitled, A Little Southwest Cookbook by Barbara Karoff, from Chronicle Books, I decided to try the Tamale Pie.

Although authentic tamale pie calls for cooked chicken, I chose to use ground meet (because I had it in the refrigerator.) For me, cooking is way to express myself. I love the smell of onions sautéing in the skillet; add some garlic and the aroma is delightful. This particular recipe did not call for garlic but it did call for black olives which I omitted because some in the family cannot tolerate them. After frying the onions and bell pepper, I added the cooked ground meet, creamed corn, green chilies, and tomatoes.

I also took pleasure in chopping and seeding fresh tomatoes as well as grating fresh cheese. But the most rewarding effort called for was making my own cornmeal mush. This required soaking the cornmeal in water then cooking it in boiling water with chili powder for five minutes stirring constantly.

According to the Arizona Highways Heritage Cookbook, published in 1988 by the Arizona Highways magazine, tamale pie came to the southwest with wagon trains in the late 1800’s. Left-over food mixed with the cornmeal mush and served with salsa made this an easy recipe for travelers. Another recipe I found was in a column “From the Kitchen of Sister Mary,” by Sister Mary on the Society page of a 1931 issue of The Meriden Daily Journal, Meriden, Connecticut. Ingredients are similar but it called for 2 cups of potatoes, but then said the potatoes could be omitted. Key to this recipe and the others I found is that the tamale pie is an adaption of the southwest’s hot tamales and although a little bit time-consuming in prepping, once the cooking starts, it’s a breeze and so delicious in the end.

I have a little plaque my daughter gave me that says, “Like mother, like daughter – the nicest compliment there is.” My daughter does not cook (yet.) My mother was a great cook, however. And like me she used cookbooks and followed the recipe to the T. And like me she always forgot something. In this case, I forgot to serve the Salsa with my tamale pie. I don’t think it mattered. It was the thought that counted.

My joy in preparing the meal; my family’s pleasure in eating it; and another opportunity for me to use God’s power to do good in my life made this hot tamale pie delicioso!

A Time Capsule to Remember

The city of Cordele, Georgia is the “watermelon capitol of the world,” according to its official website www.cityofcordele.com . Conveniently located 140 miles south of Atlanta and 100 miles from the Florida state line on Interstate 75, it is the county seat for Crisp County Georgia. And although its history is rich dating back to the Civil War and for a few days serving as the capital of Georgia, in truth it is a pit stop for Northerners on their way to Walt Disney World or at least it was for us.



It was 4:30 in the afternoon when we reached Cordele after leaving Chattanooga for the land of “where memories are made.” We stopped for gasoline at the intersection of I 75 and state highway 401. Downtown Cordele is located approximately eight blocks west and four blocks south and is located on US Highway 41, which as those of you who live in Tennessee know, US Hwy 41 is the old highway that tourist took to get to Florida before the Interstate system was built.


Because of that, we did not see downtown Cordele but instead were greeted with a Titan Missile which according to the town’s website came to be in 1968. Today it is a time capsule. I asked Paige if she knew what a time capsule was and she explained that it is a box that people put things in and then opened up years later. I was impressed. I asked her where she learned that and she said, “Sponge Bob Square Pants.” (A cartoon show on Nick Jr.)


Of course the reporter in me wanted to know more. So I asked the attendant at the gas station, a young man who was eager to tell me the story. It seems the truck that was hauling the missile from somewhere in Florida broke down on the Interstate there in Cordele. Instead of hauling it to its final destination, which he did not know, towns bid on keeping it and he was proud to announce that Cordele out bid Atlanta. Even more amazing he added that two years ago they realized the missile was still armed. This was backed by the manager/owner who repeated the story to another customer. I’m not sure that I want to believe that an armed missile has been sitting 500 miles from my hometown, but it is a good story and it is an amazing impressive sight to see.




Of course for Paige more amazing was to wonder what the citizens of Cordele placed in their time capsule.

Speaking of Legacies

Today is April 4th. My youngest child was born today. Giving birth to my daughter was the first time I experienced true happiness. Don’t get me wrong, there were many times before she was born that I was happy but none compared to that day thirty-three years ago.

Giving birth to three sons first was delightful and rewarding but I always felt they would be more their father’s child than mine. I could make smart-looking and clever outfits for my sons but it was not the same as smocking a dress or black patented leather Mary Jane shoes with little white lace-trimmed socks.

My sons tease me saying I must have put a bowl on their heads and trimmed off the excess hair. But my daughter’s long wavy hair was combed and brushed until it shined and then she would sit patiently as I French braided it. I was a lucky woman to have that opportunity. And now I get to watch her with her two daughters caring for them with all the same love and care she learned from watching me. I must add here that my two sons who are fathers are remarkable men caring for their children with an abundance of love that they also learned from their father and me.

There is a tornado watch and thunderstorm warning right now. The wind is so fierce that the trees sound like waves on the ocean crashing onto the beach. If you’ve ever been to Atlantic Beach in North Carolina and tried to carry on a conversation you know what I mean.

The pine trees are over four stories high and are swaying right to left and round and round. It reminds me of life moving constantly not unlike our hearts beating. As I think about my daughter celebrating her birthday today, life goes on. I gave birth to her and now she’s a grown woman giving birth to her own girls and one day her daughters will give birth. The cycle goes round and round just as the pine trees in the wind.

We can only give what we have in our hearts. At the root is love and without love there is no life. And life does go on, one legacy after another.

Footnote: Speaking of legacies, I was born on the birthday of one of America’s great leaders, Martin Luther King. My daughter Jennifer was born on the anniversary of his death.

Taking Care of Business

What is it about newborn babies that brings out the best in people? I think it is the way they smell. Or maybe the soft skin or maybe it’s the fact that they have their whole lives ahead of them that makes us feel so good.

I spent two weeks with my daughter Jennifer and her family after the birth of her second daughter Emery Kate Swing on February 1, 2011. Jennifer thought Emery would be easy to say along with her big sister Lexi which is short for Alexandra. Nobody ever calls Lexi Alexandra. And Lexi does not call herself Lexi. She calls herself Lou Lou. But Jennifer spells is Loo Loo and others have spelled it Lu Lu. But it doesn’t matter. If a stranger asked Lexi what her name is, she says, “Lou Lou.” And so far, no one has called Emery by her first name only. We all say, “Emery Kate.”

Babies change so quickly. I wanted to remember the way Emery Kate smelled and the sweet softness of her cheeks and forehead when I kissed her. I wanted to remember the way she sounded when her mother nursed her as if all the world was right. I wanted to keep the picture of her big sister kissing the top of her head and gently patting her tummy when her daddy held his two girls on the couch.

Every night Kevin would come in and build a fire in the living room. In between washing clothes and dishes, and helping Kevin with dinner (Jennifer doesn’t cook) and taking care of Lexi, most of my days are a blur. It was hard on Lexi, not to have a new baby in the house, but to not be in school anymore (no more daycare with mom home now); and not to have mommy lift and carry her (Jen had a c-section and so could not lift Lexi); and so she struggled with emotions that at times none of seemed to know what to do.

One day she and I drove to the train station and went downtown to the library for storytime. She loved it. For a few hours she was the center of my attention and for a few hours I had a glimpse of the precious granddaughter that is so quick to say “I love you Mimi.” I was only sad once during my stay in Charlotte. When Jennifer’s incision seemed to be not healing as it should, I drove her to the doctor’s office. Instead of dragging both girls inside, I drove around town for a while and then picked Jennifer up later when she finished. As we passed up KinderCare, Lexi’s daycare, she saw it and pointed to it saying, “There’s my school.” Jennifer looked back at her and asked her if she missed her friends, and she said yes. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw her look off into the distance and then she said, “Do my friends miss me?” Not quite three and her whole world has changed. But she is strong and young and a blessing to her parents who like her newborn sister is a miracle thanks to Jennifer’s difficulties in getting pregnant.

And so I left my daughter and family, but not after drowning her in advice in between all the other chores. I told her that when I left they would either miss me or sing, “the wicked witch is dead.” But it didn’t matter because in the wee hours of the morning when I rocked the baby to sleep while the rest of the house was quiet, I said my prayers and blessed them with courage to live their lives the way God intends them to live and be the people they are meant to be. What more could I want?