The Garbage Can.

As I backed out of my driveway this morning, I was reminded that it was Wednesday. Humpday to weary 9-to-5ers, but also garbage day for those of us on the mid-week rotation with Franklin Disposal. I put the Pilot in park. As I wheeled my big blue receptacle to its resting place, I felt a sense of peace. No big deal, I know this. However, there were many Wednesday mornings at the beginning of this 9-year journey that I felt ‘not peace.’ At times I felt sad, or angry, but not usually peace. I remember that first day in May 2008 when I rolled the garbage can back down the driveway in my fuzzy pink bathrobe. It was probably the first time I had done that in 5 years. Always in divide and conquer mode, Brian did garbage can duty. I did morning routine duty. I did hair, sock searches, and refereeing of early morning squabbles over cereal and pop-tarts. Brian did garbage duty for almost 20 years. I remember looking up and seeing my neighbor, Julie, as she watched with tears in her eyes. She also knew that Brian King did garbage duty. Brian was gone.

I was not sure I could do it, not garbage-can-duty, of course. It was everything all at once and nothing would ever be the same. The garbage can became a symbol for me over the years. 

I am not sure why, but I didn’t adjust well to the garbage-can-duty-thing. I was confused about how early the garbage guys would come, and what about holidays? Seems so simple as I type this, but I often found myself trying to race, bed-head and barefoot, to get to the street before the schedule-conscious truck passed, often leaving the can at the curb past the HOA acceptable time limit. This of course causing an appointed deputy of all things Homeowner Association-like to issue me a helpful reminder delivered by personal post. It was a struggle. However, there are many things I handled with ease, much more complicated, time-sensitive, and consequential matters that others might find overwhelming, but I never quite fused the nuances of refuse disposal into my sub-conscious. When I forgot the schedule or missed the memo concerning holiday pick-up in those early days, I can remember just being angry all over again at the thought that garbage-can-duty was supposed to be Brian’s.

In case you were beginning to worry about me, I am actually quite adept at the job of Trash Captain now. I made a deal with “The Man” when I moved to let me leave my “Big-Blue” by the house so there is no remembering to put it on the curb, only to put bags in the can. Smart! This morning, though, I was reminded of all those feelings in those early days, and I realized I hadn’t felt that way in a long time. Peace.

More changes are in store and I am moving into new space again. My baby-girl is out of high school and she is not a baby. She is grown-up. She will not be living with me in just two short months, and I feel different but good. 

It is almost like reluctantly moving to a much smaller home, but then finding out that the view is more amazing.  

I am transitioning to a new place. I am going from I have to, to I get to. I no longer have to have milk in the house because I am responsible for other humans, but I get to cook dinner when everyone comes home because it brings me joy... There will be no lunches to have to pack (even though I enjoyed it) for Hatty this fall, but getting to schedule coffee or lunch with her across town when it works for both of us. She buys her own shampoo and tampons. I don’t have to check the school calendar. I don’t need to pull the parent duty.

I get to choose how I spend my free time. Weird.

 I get to check in with my older girls to see what is important and have meaningful exchanges without the need to make all the decisions for them. I am a silent investor now. I am still deeply vested, but they have their own big-blue-responsibilities and I have mine (Yay). It is the same with the garbage now. It is my big blue receptacle. Who’s else would it be? I get to roll it back to its resting place and be thankful to have a curb on which it can sit, at the corner of a yard, where the house is my own.

#justwrite

A Barney Banjo Christmas and Coming Full Circle

Another Barney Banjo Christmas

For those of you who knew Brian King, you will especially appreciate this story. Rewind to Fall 2016 when I saw Jeanie Garrett an old Florence, Alabama friend who surprised me with returning the Barney Banjo Brian had given to her daughter Julia, moments before we left Florence Alabama to make our new home in Hoover, Alabama where we lived for eight years until Brian was killed in an accident in 2008. At that moment, I knew I would have a special Christmas present to give to Kristian (pictured left) with the new Barney Banjo in the foreground, with her sweet Dad (right) that same Christmas morning, 
and then yesterday (above) when she opened and laughed through tears as she read the Barney Banjo story again. See the story Below:

A Barney Banjo Christmas

It was the Christmas you were two and a half. For some reason to you were deathly afraid of Santa; I blame the creepy Easter Bunny at the mall we saw in the Spring. But my, you were cute with your blonde hair always spilling out - refusing to be contained by the bows I tried.

I remember the fateful day we first saw the Barney Banjos at the Florence Toys-R-Us. There was a massive display of purple plastic, and we were instantly enthralled with the cleverness of the design. You had to put your hand inside to make the banjo play. It played songs and sounded like a banjo - Cute! (My Mom brain immediately devised a plan, “This will be great ‘Santa present.'” So we began the discussion..“Santa might bring you a Barney Banjo for Christmas if you ask him.” Knowing full well that you would not want to get within 10 feet of the “Jolly-old-elf,” I thought this might just be the motivation you would need to get over your phobia. Never wanting my kids to grow up with unreasonable fears, I figured this could be the perfect solution.

Wow, was that a great idea that backfired! I did get you to talk to Santa – wide eyes filled with terror, you quickly asked for a Barney Banjo and ran back to me. Poor kid. Once that task was over, I realized Santa’s job was going to be tough. All of a sudden, there were no Barney Banjos at Toys-R-Us! I thought I would check with other stores, None. I called Gran. She checked in Tennessee – Zero. I called Aunt Michelle. She checked in Atlanta – Nada.  I called Hasbro. The nice lady on the phone could not guarantee me that anymore Barney Banjos would ship before Christmas. Apparently, there was an issue with the manufacturer, and “Have a nice day!” What?! I started to panic; I started to talk to you about other fun toys. You would look at me with your blonde wisps and big baby blues and tell me how you could not wait until Santa came with your banjo. What was I going to do? I had a two-year-old who told Santa – at gunpoint, practically, the two things on her sweet list, and one of them might not make it! 

You told everyone, over and over, about your Barney Banjo! I felt the Karma Gods placing their bets and laughing at me.

In December, your Dad was flying to Austin, Texas for a meeting, and I told him to look for the elusive evil toy while there. He was skeptical. I said, “Find one!” So, when he landed, I started harassing him, “Did you look for the Banjo?” “No,” I begged him to call the stores, and he promised to. He called around – no luck. Then he tried a K-Bee Toys in a local mall somewhere. At first, the clerk said they were out, but then hesitated and said he would check the back stock. When he finally came back to the phone, he said they had two Barney Banjos that had been pushed behind some other things. Your Dad said, “I just need one, I am on my way!” When a man who was sitting close by heard the conversation, he asked for the story behind the sudden excitement. Brian told him about the search, and when the man heard the toy’s name, his face lit up, and he almost shouted, “I am looking for a Barney Banjo too!” Off they both flew to the store and bought the last two known purple, plastic banjos on the North American Continent. When I next received a call from your Dad, I anxiously answered, and he did not speak at first. Then, I heard the sappy, sweet banjo notes that rang over the cell phone from Texas to Alabama! My hero! Christmas was saved, for both of us!

I can remember your chubby face full of expectation and delight that Christmas morning as you ran into the living room. Your only words, “Where is my Barney Banjo?”I wish I could always make your dreams come true like your Dad and I did that day. I love you, Mom.  (Written in 2010 – edited Christmas 2016. Merry Christmas!)

#justwrite #christmas #daughtersofjoy 

A Memory- My Mom and What I Learned from Her Tuna Salad.

Janice Shockney May 4, 1937- July 18, 2012

It is the 4th Anniversary of my Mom's first day with Jesus, and I miss her. It is not as it has been said along the way, that we don't appreciate our parents until they are gone. It is just that we can never fully know all the ways we will long for them over the years. As our life changes and we face new unknowns and challenges, we just need them. We knew we would. We just didn't know in how many ways and the ways just keep coming it, don't they? Sometimes in the silence of the uncertainty of life, I strain to recall the comfort of just hearing her voice on the phone. No one has ever been on my team, quite like my Mom, and I miss her today and wish we could talk.

I have been thinking lately about the lessons I learned from my Mom. It is hard to boil down into a list all the things your parents teach you along the way, but this memory keeps coming up lately and the lesson it taught me unaware sums up my Mother's philosophy on life: And it is simply this:

We can't control everything. Plan for Joy. Expect some problems along the way. And, most days are salvageable.

My Mother was a planner. My Mother was resilient. My Mother was fun. And, if we made plans for a fun day, somehow we were going to have a fun day. On this particular day in the Summer, I woke up with excitement because Mom had planned to take the day off for a picnic and swimming for my brother, Gary, me, and my Grandmother too. My Mom worked, and during summer break, I was home all-day-everyday just waiting on something to do. There was camp, swim lessons, VBS, and sometimes, Mom would take a day off to take us swimming. Those days were the best!

 I could hear her in the kitchen before I was fully awake. I knew she was working on the Tuna Salad sandwiches we would eat for lunch. The mixture was a bit weird, but she added enough sweet pickles that I got over the mayonnaise, and after a couple of hours in the pool, a kid would eat anything. She made a pan of brownies the night before and Kool-Aid Lemonade we would carry in a Tupperware pitcher and drink in styrofoam cups as we sat on our towels with hair dripping trails of water and happiness down our backs on a brief break in the fun of the day. I could not wait!

Mom, Dad, Gary and Me in the 70's

The anticipation would build on the long car ride from the country into Goodlettsville to Pleasant Green Swimming Pool. When we were finally winding our way through the pool's neighboring houses, I would roll down my window, because you could actually smell the chlorine several minutes before you saw the gated entrance. We would find a picnic table under a tree, and mom would stake it out with a red checked tablecloth and our Blue Coleman Cooler. Towels were piled on the bench and chairs unfolded as Gary and I would run down the grassy bank and head for the pool. My Mom would sit on the hill in the shade with a paperback novel until lunch time when we would eat the sweet tuna salad and lots of chips and brownies and Double Cola over ice. It would be great.

As we were preparing to leave our house that morning something unexpected happened. My mother was walking up and down the stairs to load up the trunk of our blue Ford Granada when she called down to Gary (our kitchen was in the basement - weird I know) to bring up the Double Colas, an 8-pack of heavy glass bottles housed in a divided, paper carton. Apparently, there had been something wet near the drinks so that when my brother picked them up the bottom released and glass hit the concrete floor of our old country kitchen. The glass flew in all directions like shrapnel and a piece lodged in Gary's calf. He hit the floor crying in pain, and chaos seemed to take over. 

My Grandma started screaming for Mom and in a few minutes, we were all in the car, heading not for the swimming pool but for the ER. I was crying for a different reason now, but not so that anyone could see.

After what seemed like hours, we left the ER with my brother's leg bandaged and under the bandage 6 stitches in exchange for the glass that the doctor removed, with instructions to keep the wound clean and dry. DRY. Great, I thought. There would be no pool. No picnic. I must have said something out loud about by brother's part in ruining the day because I remember that MaMa (pronounced "MawMaw") scolded me.

I sat quietly in the back of the car with my eyes closed, and when the car finally stopped, I realized we had indeed driven from the emergency room to the pool. Just like we planned! I was thrilled! My Grandma was flabbergasted. My Mom was matter-of-fact. It seemed to her that we planned to go the pool for a picnic and a half-day was still more fun than not going at all. She reasoned that Gary could wrap his leg in a plastic bag, sit on the side, and at least get the other one wet if he wants to. And, we all needed lunch anyway, and it was already in the car. So a picnic it was!

I remember my Grandmother retelling the tell later. "Anyone else would have canceled the swimming day if a trip to the ER became necessary," she laughed, "But not Janice, she never lets anything get in the way of what she wants to do."

I loved that about my Mom. She just made the best of things (like adding extra sweet pickles to the Tuna Salad). She readily admitted that she couldn't control a lot of what happened. She taught us to plan with joyful anticipation, to accept problems or challenges as part of the deal, and not let anything ruin the fun if it is within your power. And most of the time it is. Thanks, Mom. That advice has always served me well.

No wonder this was one of her life verses.

#pleasantgreenswimmingpool #missingmom #philippians413 #justwrite

Fourth Grade is a Jungle!

I must get this story in print, before it gets lost in the folds of time.

This fall was such a dive into the deep end for me. I really did not know what to expect. We had the summer to just be a bit broken without alarm clocks and expectations. We had some time to begin healing. And we did. So in August I loaded lunches and loose-leaf paper into backpacks and held my breath.

One afternoon in September, we were having the usual let-me-tell-what-happened-in-my-life-after-school-girl-talk. One of the older girls was relating a boy-girl-tale heavy on the drama and light on common sense. I was giving my usual, "See, boys are such a waste of energy." speech. Then I catch the sweet face of my baby-girl all just turning 10 that month. Says I, "My Hatty is never gonna act like that, she's  never even gonna hold hands not to mention kiss a boy in Middle School!" "Right sweetie?" (I said this knowing that she did indeed have a boyfriend. Hatty is just one of the girls that the boys don't know what to do with. She's confident, cute, and loves bugs and dirt. Instead of following the path, she blazes one, so she intrigues them. Like 'moth to a flame'. It was no surprise when she announced her 'boy' earlier in the fall. That did not mean I had to encourage it. So I ignored it. I down played it. I denied it. I hoped it would be over soon.)

Hatty looks up with that "My mom is a dork." expression and confesses boldly, "Mom! Will and I hold hands ALL THE TIME." (Now, I can over-react for effect on a dime and I was having a little fun.) Says Dorky Mom, "Oh Hatty! How could you? Where do you do this holding of hands?" A little quieter she responds thinking she has been too forthcoming, "On the playground, just around our friends." "Oh Hatty, I just can't believe that you are Holding Hands With A Boy In Fourth Grade!" (I too can pull out a little drama-queen when I need to.)

Then Hatty looks at me with the most serious of faces and proclaims, "Mom! Fourth Grade is a Jungle!"

Good Stuff.

(Fall 2008)

#kidssaythedarndeststuff #4thgrade #justwrite

Remembering Mom

My Mom on right with her beloved sister Darlene on the left.

Janice Theola Simpson Shockney was born in a time that seems very far from here. Far from cell phones and email messages, Mom recalls the first telephone in her home when she was the age of 9 or 10. Not only a time without TV but without air conditioning and hot water heaters as well. Her childhood was a time when milk-men made deliveries instead of UPS men. It was a time when stories were told for evening entertainment and doctors made house calls. When no one was afraid to leave doors unlocked or worried over children disappearing outside for hours because that’s what kids did, played outside. Until dark!

Mom was the middle child of Theola and John Roscoe Simpson. Darlene her older sister was her best friend and they both adored and spoiled their younger brother Donald. My mom’s simple upbringing in Nashville Tennessee would prepare her for the life she lived with my Dad, Nelson Gary Shockney, Sr. She and my Dad were neighbors as kids in East Nashville but did not begin dating until after High School. My dad told her almost immediately, “He wanted to make her his bride.” But they didn’t marry until Dad returned home from his service in the Army because Mom wanted to be sure and not make a mistake that might lead to divorce like her parents.

Mom and Dad lived in Atlanta and then settled in Goodlettsville with my brother, Gary, and then later me. Our little house on Moss Trail was destroyed by fire in 1970 which led to a move to Robertson County where we tried to blend in with the locals and learn to be country folk! The house where we lived was remodeled around us and over us and we endured calamity and chaos including a flood in the basement, a barn that burned, and a well that constantly needed re-priming to insure enough water.

We tried hard to become farmers but we weren’t fooling many onlookers in those early attempts at planting and harvesting. It was much closer to an episode of Green Acres than a panoramic view of Scarlett O’Hara’s Tara in Gone with the Wind. I assure you. But we all enjoyed living in the country with fruit trees and fresh produce. Mom became an expert at canning our bounty and we raised a few ponies and cows which Gary and I thought was pretty cool. Mom worked at the Social Security Administration until taking early retirement in the late 80’s. When Dad’s health declined to the point he could no longer work, they moved into Gallatin and enjoyed what Mom would say were the happiest years they had together until Dad died in 1996.

We are all shaped by our parents and I am no exception. I hear my Mother‘s voice when I remind my girls to take a sweater or they will be cold in the movie.

Mom believed in being prepared.

As a teenager, like mine today, I would head to the door in a hurry to leave only to be stopped by my Mom’s warnings to buckle up, have plenty of gas, drive safely, lock my doors, etc. And, like my teenagers today I would roll my eyes at the familiar speech. But that was my Mom always ready and trying to prepare me as well.

Similarly, Mom began Christmas shopping in January and would proudly announce being finished sometime in late summer. She had the presents all wrapped of course too! In December we smiled as we opened slightly ragged gifts with flattened bows that had been stored away in tight spaces. There was the occasional Easter when a forgotten or well-hidden Christmas gift was found unexpectantly and appeared in our Easter Baskets instead!

I remember when a much discussed and anticipated Y2K really got my Mom in an uproar. She saved milk jugs and filled them with water and lined the storage shed with provisions so she would be ready for the weeks of survival that might accompany said Apocalypse. The funniest part of this memory is she decided if all life as we know it were ending it would not matter if her house was dirty, so she stopped cleaning as the impending time approached, and vowed not to clean again until the threat had passed.

She loved planning for Holiday parties and special events as well. I can see her cook books in a pile on the floor of the den as she made her menu weeks in advance. Mom was a great cook and she loved to make big meals for family gatherings. My cousins Brenda, Linda and Gina would rave over her fried corn on Easter lunch. Nothing made her happier than to prepare a good meal and have all the family come to enjoy it.

Mom also loved to travel. The most fun though was the preparation. Her trips she would plan by researching her destination and then writing and typing the information later cataloged in a photo album like a copy of National Geographic. It was impressive.

One of the greatest joys of her life was her Journal writing. In them she recorded weekly and sometimes daily the seemingly ordinary events of our lives. By doing so she gave herself the gift of many precious memories otherwise lost in the folds of time. In her last years she would revisit them like old friends to help with her fading memory being depleted by the cruelties of dementia. She wrote these memories down for herself and all of us as well because she knew one day they would be precious to her children and grandchildren as a record of our family.

But more than the sweet, funny memories of my Mom and her ever-ready habits, Mom lived everyday making the most of her words and time. She began everyday in bible study and prayer. She looked after everyone that needed her attention. She always ended a phone conversation with “I love you”. She always let us all know how proud and thankful we made her. She wrote letters to loved ones to make sure important things were said and not forgotten. She told us that she prayed for us every day and she did.

A few weeks ago she had the chance to spend a day with my daughters, she spent the day playing games, telling stories of her childhood, laughing, and telling them how important it is that they marry a Christian man and raise a Christian family. She didn’t know it would be the last day they would have to spend this way but she made the best use of the day because it was a day she would never get back like every day that we live. That was my Mom. 

If July 18, 2012 caught her family and friends a bit ill-prepared and not ready to say good-bye, Janice Theola Simpson Shockney and been preparing her whole life for this day. She was ready that night as she lay down to sleep to wake up as she wrote me in a parting letter, “I am not afraid to die”, “I have lived a good life”, “God has guided me in his counsel and now he is receiving me in His glory.” She had been preparing every day for the day she would wake up in Glory.

She was ready for July 18, 2012. 

I am so proud that she was my Mother. We will miss her loving presence from our lives. She was our greatest cheerleader and advocate before God’s throne. We love you Mom, Your daughter.

June 18, 2012

#warroom #justwrite #missingmom