Category: Everyday Life

Stories from the pews

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Last Sunday we attended church with our extended family.  My mother sat in the pew in front of me with my nephew and his girlfriend to her left.  Every now and then, when we stood to sing, the girlfriend placed her arm lightly around my nephew’s waist.  Each time this happened, Mom tapped the back of his girlfriend’s hand with her index finger, then turned and winked at me. 

I smiled watching the scene play itself out a couple of times—the arm around the waist, the tap, tap, tap, and the arm drop.  I’ve seen it all before.  My mother is not known for her good conduct at church. She tries to behave during the sermon; it’s the pre and post sermon parts that lead her astray. 

Aunt Elouise once said, “I don’t sit with your mother.  She shuts my hymnal in the middle of a song just for the fun of it.”  Mom also protests her least favorite hymns by choosing to sing a song she likes during the one she doesn’t. I admit I’ve caught myself doing the same thing. 

Hmmm…am I on my way to becoming my mother?

Kids love to sit near Mom.  They know her purse if filled with candy and she shares it with anyone in reach. My mother’s good humor goes to church with her, but she takes her faith seriously and taught us to prioritize from an early age. 

Growing up, skipping church was never an option for my brothers and me. Mom added an eleventh to the Ten Commandments: “If you’re too sick to go to church on Sunday, then you’re too sick to do anything else (fun) for the rest of the week.”  We had only to test her on this once to find out she wasn’t kidding.

The first church of my memory was an American Baptist in southern West Virginia.  The sanctuary was large, housing two sets of pews separated by a red-carpeted middle aisle.  Two narrow aisles ran up and along the exterior walls below stained glass windows.

At youth choir practice, the boys liked to jump under the furthest back pew and roll all the way to the altar. Our choir director Mrs. Murphy, chased up and down, fanning herself and pleading, “Now, boys, come out from under there. We need to begin.” 

Not that I was always innocent.  In those pews, my parents often attempted to reel in my brother John and me, nudging us with sharp elbows and locking their eyes on ours in a stern warning. John and I tried. We did.

When our five-year-old brother Donald belted Jesus Loves Me over the other Cherub Choir members, John and I held our breath, ducked our heads, but still fell to floor in front of our pew, unable to contain our laughter.

Once, for a reason Mom still cannot figure, Dad let us get a snack from the store around the corner between Sunday school and the worship service. During the opening prayer, the three of us strolled down the middle aisle, popping soda can tabs and ripping open bags of chips, while our parents wished themselves invisible.

From those pews my family watched my baptism. After, wet hair plastered to my cheeks, I walked outside and twirled under giant cottony snowflakes, before returning to sit with my family in the sanctuary.  

In those pews my mother often clasped my hand into hers and squeezed three times: “I… love…you.”  I returned four: “I…love…you…too.”  Then, Mom pressed my palm twice, asking wordlessly, “How…much?” 

I squeezed her hand with all my might.

Church provides a sanctuary for meditation and reflection, a place to rejoice in the gifts of love and life, and a pew to share a few winks and nods. In those pews, my mother taught me that God does have a sense of humor.

This lady

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Three young women stood in front of me.  They were choosing nail polish.  No problem.  I wasn’t in a hurry. 

I’d been up since 5:30 AM and had driven two hours to the northern panhandle of West Virginia to get that Wheeling feeling. In other words, I drove to Wheeling for work.

The only feeling I got?  Tired.  So, on the way home, I stopped at a nail salon to treat myself to a pedicure.

And everything was fine—until the cute blond to my left said, “We’ve got to move out of this lady’s way.”

I glanced right.  I glanced left.  I glanced over my shoulder.  That’s when it dawned on me: I was “this lady.”

We females are called girls, gals, girlfriends, women, and ladies.  Not that there is anything wrong with being a lady.  I’m sure my mother was relieved the day she realized she could rely on me to be a lady when necessary.  Still, the tomboy in me will always remain.

Maybe it’s me, but isn’t there a difference between “a lady” and “this” or “that” lady?  The former speaks of manners and etiquette and elegance.  The latter suggests—or in my case—screams:  Advanced age.

In the early 1970s, Tom Jones sang, “She’s a Lady” to the top of the charts with the emphasis on “a Lady.”  “…She’s got style. She’s got grace. She’s a winner.”   Those lyrics are what most women consider a compliment:  

Somehow, I don’t believe the thoughts of the “girls” who were choosing nail polish aligned with the song.  I’m sure—in moving out of “this lady’s” way—they didn’t mean to be negative or insulting. They were just trying to be accommodating.

Lady?  Me?  When did I transition from girl to woman and now, to “that lady”?  I don’t remember turning that corner. I wonder how the girls would have referred to me had I been younger or near their same age? Would they have said, “We need to move out of this chick’s way” or “Hey, girl, let’s make some room for you?”

As for me, I saw no difference in our ages until I was deemed “this lady”

The male population does not have this problem.  It’s true.  Men are boys until they reach their mid-twenties or so. From that point on, they are referred to—at least in hearing range—as men, possibly dudes, or bros, but one thing is certain, they will always be boys.

I pondered the “girl to woman to lady” evolution as I chose my nail color. Bubble Bath? No, too subtle. Berry Blue? Too sweet.  Serene Green? Too calm.

No, this was a red situation. There it was: Kiss My Aries—that would show them.

My feet soaked in warm water beneath a chair that, though it massaged my back, did nothing for my self-esteem.  All the while I watched the door, looking for a “this” or a “that” lady, to gauge how others must perceive me.  But my mind registered only women and girls and one man, who as we established, was probably a boy. 

I relaxed my head against the chair and said to myself, “Self, set it free” when a woman I knew walked in.  I said, “Hi. How are you?”

“I’m tired,” she said.

“Me, too,” I said.

 She lifted her eyebrows in surprise.

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “You look refreshed—like you’re starting the day, not ending it.” 

In that instant, “this lady” became the girl she’d been all along.

Dying thoughts

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Sometimes Gary and I talk about death. 

OK. I mention death now and then. Gary talks more of Eternity. But last I checked you’ve got to do one to get to the other. 

I’m not a Genny-downer, not even close. I just say things that come to mind. Like when I peek into my husband’s study and see he is so locked into whatever is in front of him, he may forget to come out.

“When I die, you’ll need to set a timer to remind you to take breaks—get out of this room, and stretch your legs,” I tell him.

He just smiles, but I mean it.

It isn’t that Gary never leaves the house. He hits the gym often and goes for walks on a regular basis. But the study is his absolute, hands down, favorite room. Once he cozies in, he’s all in. It’s my job to extract him from its clutches. 

Who will step in after I’ve checked out?

That’s why I tell the kids, “If I die, you’ve got to get your dad’s nose out of the book he’s reading and take him to a baseball game, a museum, or a park—anywhere.”

“Noooo, don’t say that!” they wail. “Stop being morbid.” 

What they call morbid, I call realistic. 

Sometimes, Gary walks through a room while I’m cleaning window blinds.

“When I’m gone, go over these with a Swiffer twice a month or they’ll get ahead of you in a hurry. And clean under the toilet rims. Or I guess you could hire a cleaning service.”

He just keeps walking. 

Oh, well, at least I know he’ll run the vacuum cleaner occasionally. And he won’t starve. Gary’s a good cook.

Too bad the poor guy was cursed with a wife whose hands and feet have only known warmth during her three pregnancies. My blood circulation stops cold at my wrists and ankles. 

Sometimes, after we’ve turned in for the night, I croon, “Want me to put my foot on your leg?” 

“Nooooo,” he laughs and rolls away.

That’s when I say, “You won’t know if I die in my sleep because my hands and feet are always ice cold. Don’t call 911 until you’re sure I’m dead.”

I got that last bit from my grandmother.  She used to pull my 12-year-old self close, look me in the eyes, and say, “Genny Ann, promise me you’ll make sure I’m really dead before you let them take me away.”

Shivers ran through me the first time Grandma said those words. People could be mistaken for dead when they’re still alive? Yikes.

I’ve given Gary the usual instructions. A modest service. No viewing. (I don’t want anyone looking at me if I can’t look back.) 

Cremation, probably, though I could still change my mind. If I go to the crematory, put me in a tennis shoe box when they send me back. No expensive urn, please. 

There are plenty of empty shoe boxes on the closet floor behind my clothes. Yes, a tennis shoe box is perfect for storing me until I’m scattered hither and yon.

Speaking of which, I’ve told my husband, “When I punch my ticket to Heaven, keep the traditions going with the kids and grands.” 

Cookie parties. Christmas stockings. Christmas lights. “The Quiet Man” on St. Patrick’s Day. The Fourth of July at the lake.

Our girls will help him.

I’ve shared these dying thoughts, not often, but more than once. Still, I’m not convinced Gary has tuned in. 

“Can you tell me the things I’ve said about when I die?” I asked recently.

He rolled his eyes and said, “Burn your journals.”  

If I die, will someone please send this column to my husband?

The berries

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After taking a dip in the lake on a warm July evening, I took Louisa’s hand, and we hiked up to our castle on the hill. Our castle is our home away from home, though some mistake it for a cabin.

When my three-year-old grand and I reached the smooth fieldstone steps, we bumped into Bartholomew. Bartholomew is our resident toad. He lives in his own castle, deep in the cracks between the rocks that form a wall along the back of ours.

“Look, Louisa, there’s Bartholomew,” I said. “He’s come out to say ‘Hello’ to you.”

Louisa crouched low and tilted her head forward to have a better look. 

“Can I pat him?” she asked.

“Sure.”

The toddler reached out and lightly stroked the toad’s bumpy back with her index finger.

Bartholomew didn’t hop away until Louisa caressed his leathery skin a second time. 

My baby grand giggled when I said, “Wow, Louisa, Bartholomew thinks you’re the berries!”

I shared this story with some friends in South Carolina and discovered they had never heard the expression: “You’re the berries.”

“You’re the berries is the same as telling someone she is the bee’s knees or the bomb.com or, more simply put, the best,” I said. 

If you look up the phrase, experts claim it’s slang from the 1920s, not tied to any particular region in the U.S.  It says the same thing about “the bee’s knees.” 

I beg to differ. 

For one, when I related the story of Louisa and Bartholomew to my WV friends, they all knew exactly what “you’re the berries” meant.

For two, the 1920s took place a long, long time before I came into the world, and I am more than familiar with “you’re the berries” and “the bee’s knees.”

Old sayings? Probably. Slang they may be, but both phrases appear to be common in the Mid-Atlantic region. In the South, not so much.

While living in Alabama, Gary and I raised our eyebrows when a neighbor offered to “carry” us in her car to the store. 

It was also in Alabama that we heard news reporters say, “A cutting occurred last night around midnight.” “Cutting” as in someone had stabbed (or knifed) someone else.

In Charleston, SC, when I said, “Will you all be joining us at the courts?” a woman replied, “You all? You all? You must be from the north.”

True Southerners say, “Y’all.” 

OK. Fake Southerners also say, “Y’all” (bless their hearts), but it’s easy to tell genuine from imitation when it comes to dialect.

West Virginians face the problem of being stuck in between. Northerners consider us Southerners, and Southerners deem us Northerners. 

But I know I am a “you all” and not a “y’all.”

Midwesterners also have unique sayings. My hair ties are their hair binders. I would rather when they have their druthers. When I see a baby, I say, “Oh, how cute.” Midwesterners say, “Oh, for cute!”

The Western part of the U.S. claims its own slang to fame. For “all talk and no action,” they say, “All hat and no cattle.” People who talk too much are “jawing,” and a “tenderfoot” is someone in training.

Westerners say, “Don’t squat with your spurs on” and “Never ask a barber if you need a haircut.”

Food for thought.

Born in South Carolina, my grand toddler is a true Southerner with West Virginia in her blood. At three, she worked out her own understanding of “You’re the berries.” 

While eating breakfast the morning after she met our resident toad, Louisa said, “Vieve, will we see Bartholomew today?”

“I hope so,” I said, “but he doesn’t usually come out this early.”

At that, Louisa smiled at her mom and dad, and said, “Bartholomew thinks I’m the fruit!”

11:11

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life1 Comment

Consider 11:11 AM. Consider 11:11 PM. 

When I take a random glance at a clock, 11:11 is the time I see more than any other. Maybe, just maybe, 11:11 sticks easily in my head, making me believe my eyes land on it more.

I don’t think so. 

Why would 11:11 capture my attention any more than 3:33 or 2:22 or 5:55 or 10:10?

This 11:11 thing has gone on for years—and I do mean years. It’s happened so many times that, when I look at a clock or a watch and see 11:11, I look away, shake it off, and move on with my day or night—fast. 

If Gary is within earshot on those occasions, I say, “Make sure you check the time when I die. I bet I’ll take my last breath at 11:11.” 

He waves me away and laughs. He does that a lot.

If his eyes fell on 11:11 as often as my eyes do, he, too, might wonder if the number/time carries some kind of personal significance.

I recently checked the time as I readied for lunch date, and 11:11 tried stared me down.

I said to myself, “Self, I’ve got to get to the heart of this matter. What is the deal with 11:11?”

Most Americans recognize 11/11 (no AM or PM) as Armistice Day or Veterans Day or Remembrance Day.  At least I hope they do.

Friday, November 11, 1918, the armistice was signed that put an end to World War I. The cessation of combat took place the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.”

Those are some pretty significant 11s if you ask me. Maybe I’m drawn to 11:11 to remind me to appreciate what took place all those years ago, but even I know that’s a stretch.

Those who don’t immediately tie 11/11 to Veterans Day may say, “Are you talking about 9/11?”

I am not. That’s a day we all want to, but should never, forget.

After years of being haunted by 11:11—the time, I typed the following question into the search bar of my web browser: “What is the significance of 11:11 AM and 11:11 PM?”

I expected a lesson on how to read a clock or instructions asking me to be more specific.

Instead, a wealth of too much information populated the page. The Farmer’s Almanac popped up and mentioned Veterans Day, but it went on to say the time 11:11 is believed to bring good luck.

The article said, “You have probably heard the famous saying, ‘Make a wish when the clock shows 11:11!’ To some, this means more than a fun statement.”

Good luck? Make a wish?

Had I ever heard “the famous saying,” I would have spent a lot less time cringing and trying to erase those numbers from my mind.  Good luck tied to 11:11 was a brand-new concept for me.

I went on to learn that numerologists think November 11 at 11:11 is the luckiest wish-granting day and time of the year. And 11:11 AM or PM on any given day is considered the strongest time to make a wish and set a world-changing goal. 

Additional web pages took the symbolism of 11:11 deeper, as in way deep. The “special” time, both AM and PM, is also seen as “a powerful symbol of synchronicity, awakening, and alignment with the universe.”

When we catch 11:11 on the clock, we’re supposed to be mindful of our thoughts and intentions. Some contend that my 11:11 sightings are positive messages from the universe.

Hmmm…I’m not so sure. 

As far as I can tell, I’ve been wasting wishes on first stars and birthday candles when I should have been wishing on clocks. 

Who knew?

Mrs. Murphy

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Some people come into our lives and stay for a while. Others dance and flicker among us for a brief moment, like a candle’s flame.

How long people have known us has little to do with the impression they leave on us. Sometimes, we don’t realize the extent of that imprint until much later.

That’s how it is for me with Mrs. Murphy.

Every now and then, Mrs. Murphy rises from my heart and into my consciousness. I can’t say what triggers the appearance of those memories, but I welcome them all the same.

She was the Music Director at the First Baptist Church of my childhood in southern West Virginia. I picture her tall with a solid frame, but then I was small and skinny.

Her close-cropped dark hair held a bit of wave or curl. Maybe a perm? She wore black framed eyeglasses with upswept corners (in cat-eye fashion)—or so, I thought.

Mrs. Murphy’s responsibilities included directing all choirs, Cherub, Youth, and Adult.

“Responsibilities.” I wrote that word with hesitancy. Mrs. Murphy exhibited so much joy in what she did that it never occurred to me it was part of a job.

She even made certain the kids’ choirs had holiday parties, Halloween, Easter, and Christmas.

When my friends and I were promoted to Youth Choir, we walked to the church every Wednesday after school for practice in the big sanctuary with an inclined floor.

Mrs. Murphy got a workout at those practices. She spent the first 15 minutes running up and down the middle aisle in her chunky heels, trying to get the boys to stop rolling under the pews and take their places in the choir loft.

“Now, boys, come out from under there,” she said with firm gentleness.

Then, she clapped her hands to coax a little stronger, “Come along, now, boys. It’s time to get started.”

My brother Donald, two years my junior, was born with a baritone, man-sized voice. He took his place in front of the church with the Cherub Choir, in his white robe and ginormous red bow, and belted “Jesus Loves Me” like a miniature Johnny Cash with a little added thunder. The rest of the cherubs were reduced to a tweet here and a tweet there.

I was a cherub alumnus by then. Donald’s “Jesus Loves Me” roar sent our brother John and me into titters, followed by giggles until we tumbled from the pew and tried to smother our howls into the deep red carpet. We hiccupped rising chortles, but that didn’t keep tears from laughing all the way down our cheeks.

Mrs. Murphy remained unfazed.

On Sunday mornings when the little ones took front and center, her hands and arms sang with the notes as she led her Cherub charges. The louder Donald’s voice, the bigger her smile.

When thoughts of Mrs. Murphy came to me last week, it occurred to me that I knew very little about this woman I admired. We lost touch after I moved away in 6th grade.

I emailed my very first best friend, Stilts, whose parents called her Nancy, but I never would.

“…I’ve been thinking about Mrs. Murphy, our choir director. I loved her! Do you know what happened to her? I can’t recall her first name. Ugh.”

Stilts wrote back, “…Her name was Florence Murphy and her husband, Eugene…they were the most fabulous couple at church and as neighbors.”

Lucky Stilts, to have had Mrs. Murphy for a neighbor.

I don’t know if Mrs. Murphy enjoyed gardening, if she had a dog, or liked to cook. I don’t know if she had children or how many. I don’t recall the color of her eyes.

I do know she brought music to the hearts of many. And she loved children.

Maybe, for me, that was enough.