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Posted in Life, Love, marriage, Uncategorized

Tulips and Off-road Diesel

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“What are you thinking about?” I asked my husband, as we were driving home last summer after a day of playing outside in the Maine woods. Full of sunshine and fresh air, our bodies were comfortably heavy while our minds were clear, and we’d both been quiet on our way home from a trip “up-north.” But after 15 minutes of daydreaming, I was suddenly curious to know what he was seeing in his mind’s eye. “Off-road diesel,” he answered immediately, eyes still on the road. I turned my head to him as I laughed out loud, and a slow smile spread over his face as he slid his eyes in my direction. “What?” he asked shrugging, as confused by my reaction as he was pleased to hear me laugh. “Want to know what I was just thinking about?” I asked, and continued before he could answer, “I was thinking about tulips!” We both laughed then, mostly I think, about how different we are.

We fell silent again, and still a few miles from home, I had time to reflect on our differences, as I thought about the day we’d just spent together. We’d rode the four-wheeler on some old logging roads, stopping occasionally when one of us would spot something worth investigating up close. Sometimes, it would be a stream with large rocks as our only bridge to the other side, and he’d insist on going first to make sure the rocks were stable enough to land on, then turn back to offer me a steadying hand. Sometimes, one of us would spot the ruins of an old farmhouse foundation and since we both love a good treasure hunt, we’d stop and dig through piles of broken glass, hoping to unearth an unbroken antique bottle. And if I found one, he’d insist on pulling it out of the ground so I wouldn’t cut myself. I thought about the preparations necessary to even go on such an adventure, involving ramps and ratchet straps, tire plug kits and portable battery chargers, all things I rarely even mention, let alone ever, in a million years use. He knows about things that I don’t know about, he knows about off-road diesel.

But, he knows about tulips too; he can plant them, tend them, cut them, surprise me with them, and arrange them. He also knows how to build a house, sell it, and clean it. He can catch a meal, and cook it. I’ve also seen him sew (cloth, and on one memorable occasion when we were young and poor, his own hand! It worked!). He can walk around patting a colicky baby’s back for hours and make the best omelettes ever. He knows how to do things, but I know how to express things.

I can turn a conversation into a story, a memory into a paragraph. I can remember what was said, when we said it, where we were standing and sometimes, what we were wearing (although I’m quite confident that this whole statement will garner an objection from my husband when I read this post to him!). I can remember how I felt, imagine how someone else felt and put it down on paper. But I don’t know anything know about off-road diesel, I thought to myself, suddenly feeling panicky. A quick google search just as we pulled into the driveway reassured me I actually did know what that was, I just didn’t know I did. Just as there are things that I bring to our relationship that I might not know, I bet he knows, as I know the things he brings.

We are as differently shaped as two pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. Our outer edges don’t match up and trying to fit those parts together would never work, there would be nothing to hold the two pieces together. But, the inside pieces fit perfectly and easily. The colors, although slightly different, compliment each other so that when they are joined, become one. Both of us a small part of the big picture, just as God intended us to be.

Last night I was in bed when I realized that my lips felt uncomfortably dry and I found myself in the ultimate first-world conundrum – I felt desperate for some relief for my lips, but I was already cozy and perfectly positioned for a good night’s sleep and didn’t want to get up. Just when I thought I’d actually have to get out of bed, my hero arrived, and in the nick of time. He had come upstairs to give me a goodnight kiss but I seized the opportunity and asked him to grab me “some lip stuff” from my bathroom. “It’s to the right of the sink,” I reassured him as a look of uncertainty flashed across his face since he rarely goes in my bathroom. I could hear him rummaging through lipsticks, lip glosses, lip-stains, pencils, chap-stick and two lip balms, yet he emerged victoriously a few seconds later. “You use this little tub thing at night, right?” he said handing it to me with a smile on his face. “Yeah, I do.” I said as I reached up for it, smiling back at him, while inside I thought, “tulips.”

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Beach Day (with kids, and without)!

Posted on by Susannah Warner

When our children were little, my husband and I, like most parents, wanted to expose them to a variety of experiences; some for educational purposes, like museums, and the library. Some for fun, such as amusement parks, fairs, and playgrounds. We also felt it was important to share our love of nature with them by going on frequent walks, hikes, picnics, camping, hunting, and fishing. But always, every summer, there was… THE BEACH.

It wasn’t something we put much thought into, it’s just something that many families who are not landlocked, do in the summer. But, it was always on the top of my summer bucket list, one of those outings that I looked forward to, while daydreaming at work. I imagined the smiling, freckled faces, the sand castles, body surfing, collecting shells and sand-dollars…all of it. The reality of a trip to the ocean with children and a husband who is not overly fond of crowds is quite different. Yet, every year, like a woman who instantly forgets the pain of labor when the baby arrives, I too, forgot every June, how very ego shattering a family activity trip to the shore can be.

It always started well…usually something like this. My husband and I, sharing a drink and a late night cigarette (hey! Don’t judge, that was way back in my 20’s!), would concoct the plan amidst alcohol’s sweet amnesia, and just like Eve in the garden of Eden, I’d be the one to seduce my poor husband into believing that it would be great! “The weather is supposed to be nice tomorrow, and since we’re both off, how about we surprise the kids and take them to the beach?!?” My husband, a curious combination of travel buff, yet large crowd abhor-er, climbed eagerly aboard the figurative road trip bus, as he always does, no matter the destination. Thus, our cigarettes and coffee brandies forgotten for the moment, we both leaped into action, unearthing my mother’s old beach umbrella, and dragging the old sand chairs, the low kind that unfold with the itchy webbing, out of a corner of the garage where they had been tossed after last year’s fiasco.

And so, under the cloak of darkness and with alcohol’s sweet blessing, we happily prepared for our excursion. Sandwiches were made, ice trays full and in the freezer, ready to grab in the morning. Sand toys, towels, chairs, umbrella, sunscreen, all packed and in the trunk; all that was left was to sleep and surprise the kids in the morning. And we did, although the brightness of the day was a bit harsher than we’d anticipated the night before. But the children were as happy and as excited as we’d hoped, so off we went, kids bouncing around in the backseat (children did not sit in car seats until high school in the 90s!), singing songs and chatting excitedly…for the first mile.

Yet, anyone who has ever brought kids to the beach, or anywhere actually, knows how the rest of the story goes. Within minutes, someone in the backseat is accused of staring at the other, someone is taking up more than their share of the seat, someone has to pee, even though that someone had been told to go before the happy carload departed. Finally there, after several rounds of “what state is that car from?” ” Geography,” and “I spy” a parking dispute erupts… “Keep going, there might be a better spot further on.” “No, I’m not going to keep driving around and around, I’m staying here.” “But then, we have to walk so far!” The eagle, or rather our old Mercury Lynx landed, and there she stayed.

Everyone out, weighted down like Sherpas, with enough equipment to live on the sand for at least a week, everyone trudges happily along and along, and along… Finally an economy car sized area is spotted and the bedraggled children dump their bags and chairs and stand obediently in the blazing sun while I struggle to dig out the sunscreen and apply it to their rapidly freckling little Irish-skin bodies, while Dad wrestles with the old rusty umbrella, borrowed from my mother years ago, having dragged it out of its corner of the garage last night, where it was unceremoniously dumped next to the old chairs, 364 days ago.

I wont bore my readers with all of the harsh details of the rest of the day’s events. Suffice it to say that like life in general, it had its good times and bad. However, I distinctly remember having more good times than bad as a kid at the beach myself. All the things I had daydreamed about at work, were the things I remembered doing as a kid. For some reason, it really was not that fun anymore, as the mother. Of course there were squabbles between the children as any day, but add to that two hungover parents, the fact that the sun was too hot and water too cold, our sandwiches inexplicably had a fine layer of sand in them so that our peanut butter, and our ham, and our bologna now had an unpalatable crunch. Our bottoms got sandy, and our shoulders sunburned. The kids did not play as much as I had imagined and instead seemed to skulk around the umbrella, eating salty potato chips out of the bag and complaining of thirst that was apparently impossible to quench with the cans of soda we’d bought at a convenience store, special for the occasion, as they were now far too warm to ease their parched throats.

So, after an appropriate amount of time had elapsed, and having waited out the “OK guys, you have 5 more minutes,” term limit twice, Dad again, with grim determination, and a now intimidating set to his jaw, grappled with the ancient umbrella while I cheerfully stuffed wet and sandy towels in a straw beach bag, and helped listless children search for their flip flops. Trudging quietly now to the car, parked insanely far away to save a dollar on parking, I offered up the beach-day cherry on top to the weary beach-goers, whose heads were now bowed as if in defeat, under the weight of the shore accouterments…. “Anyone feel like ice-cream?!?” “YEAH!!” they cried, with a little pep in their steps, the final push they needed to stagger to the car, which sat in the farthest corner of the parking lot, shining like a garish red oasis in dessert sun.

And so, with sticky hands and faces, and with drops all over sandy bottomed shorts from ice cream someone had dripped on themselves because they had insisted on a cone only (“I don’t want a bowl!!!”), and uncomfortably sunburned, the Warner family sedan lurched home chasing the sunset and the happy American family dream. A determined father, a weary mother, a sticky daughter, and a sunburned son, but with another family achievement unlocked, and at least one annual summer expectation scratched off the list.

A few years have gone by since then, about 20 actually. My children are grown, one with a child of her own, and I no longer feel the need to plan a beach day because I believed that is what I should do to ensure my children had a happy childhood. My husband and I actually go now because we want to. In fact, we went the day before yesterday, on the spur of the moment because he had to pick up a part for his four wheeler near the coast, so we decided to check out a new spot. The only chairs we brought were the ones that are always in my trunk, but hardly ever use because we like to explore, not sit. We didn’t need an umbrella for the same reason and with no expectations or supplies weighing us down, save a trusty backpack that we put all the sand-dollars and interesting shells we’d found, we played and explored like children all day, and until the sun set. And when we drove home and stopped for ice cream, I got a Blizzard, so no drips.

I must say, I love my children dearly, and I would not change the experience of giving to them the absolute best childhood I could possibly give them, full of every adventure we could afford, and spending nearly every minute that I could with them, for anything in this world. And I used to think too, as I have heard many of my young mom co-workers say of their children, “stop growing!” But, let me tell you something on this Labor Day weekend, there is life after your children have left the nest, and it’s not at all laborious. It’s actually quite glorious.

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The Lazy Hiker

Posted on by Susannah Warner

You know, I’m really not much of a hiker. In fact, I jokingly refer to myself as “the lazy hiker,” I’m really in it more for the benefits and the rewards, not to push or challenge myself in any way. My favorite hikes are those with low impact, high reward; NOT the type described as grueling, difficult or perilous. I do not want to sweat and strain for 12 hours, eat beans out of a can, sleep on a rooty ground in a sleeping bag that I’ve schlepped on my back all day, get up after an uncomfortable, mosquito orgy, sleepless night, eat a peanut butter sandwich, and do it all over again. Nope.

See, what I like is a 4-5 hour (max! Round trip!) walk, a lightweight day-pack on my back, my phone in my hand, or in my handy hip pocket, so that I can document in pictures unusual findings, picturesque spots, or particularly difficult sections. I don’t mind sweating a little, and I don’t mind a few arduous climbs, even those that require “3 points of contact,” for safety, as long as they are brief, and there is a lengthy leveled off section so that I can catch my breath and so that my quads can stop burning.

And then…the reward. the summit. It needs to be awesome, it needs to be breathtaking and I need to capture it all, including selfies, so that I can post them later. I like to linger for a bit, and bask in my athletic prowess, my nature loving-ness, and my tenacity and then I like to go back down and find a pub, preferably with a deck outside and have an appetizer and a cocktail. See? Low impact, high reward. My workout is done for the day (actually, maybe two days), I’ve spent some quality time with my husband, and with nature, and I have social media fodder galore. Win/win/win.

My husband, on the other hand, is of the “push yourself” variety of weirdos. He’s the sort of person who loves to see how much his body can endure; how many miles he can cover (he did the 100 mile wilderness for funsies), how long he can handle the discomfort of the beginning stages of trench foot (literally happened to him one rainy June) and how much suffering it will take before he longs to come home. He likes to reach summits, but more as a personal badge of honor, instead of the public one that I like to display. When he comes home from these days or weeks-long adventures, he loves to sit on the couch and say, “This is great! I haven’t sat in comfort for days!” His fondest wish is to hike the whole AT, preferably with me by his side. Not happening (Umm, unless maybe some desperate cable network, would care to fund this fantastic folly, in a big way. I promise, “The Bickersons” can, and will deliver on the  guilty-pleasure, reality show type showdown daily, or at least per episode.).

I had a little time to ponder our differences, as well as the similarities between hiking and life in general, on our journey up Mt. Battie, today (a hike for me, a walk for him, which with a few wrong turns, a couple extra trails, and lots of switchbacks, turned into almost an 8 mile hike. Ugh.). The pace at which we climb, the baggage we carry, the people we choose to bring with us, the level of complaining, or not, that is done when the going gets tough, the wrong turns, and dead ends that you face, the roots and rocks that must be navigated, the people we help to reach the top, and the ones who help us… all of it could be compared to our own journey through life.

Of course the summit of life for many of us would be Heaven. Literally, and figuratively. I hope to hear the words, when I reach the apex, “well done, good and faithful servant,” and to hear Him say that to my fellow climbers too. That would be the ultimate reward, especially for this lazy hiker.

 

 

 

 

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A New Thing

Posted on by Susannah Warner

The second anniversary of my blog passed last week, just as my dissatisfaction with it had reached its zenith. It’s not that I don’t love writing tidbits, like appetizers about my life and my family…I do love those things. But I’m hungry for more than that, and I feel like my blog has served its purpose for me, for now. I’m not saying that I won’t blog occasionally, but with 102 posts in two years, I’ve averaged about one a week, and right now I’m feeling led to do a new thing.

I believe that God is pointing to a new path and I’ll need to look to Him for direction, because I’ve never been down this road before. But one of the many things I’ve learned since I started blogging is that it does no good to just think about something and never do it. I don’t want to have regrets at the end of my life, I want to close my eyes on that day and know that I took advantage of every opportunity that God gave me along the way, and that I didn’t squander any of the blessings He has given me, including time.

I waited for a long time to even start my blog. Why? Well, I didn’t know if I had enough to say (I do! Just not enough time to say it!), I didn’t know if anyone would read it ( some people do! But that’s not the purpose anymore), and I just didn’t know how to start. (Google! Duh!). Well, here I am, two years later asking the same questions for a bigger project. It’s scary and daunting, but you know what, I’m a little weary of appetizers. I’m kinda feeling like some steak and potatoes, something with substance that I can really take a bite out of. You know why? Because that’s the only way to get to the dessert. And if I fail? So what? If I never gave it a shot, I’d have failed anyway. At least I’ll know I tried. That’s all He’s asking of me. The rest is up to Him.

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Part of the Experience; Traveling with the Bickersons.

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“Give me ya confirmation number please,” the weary Delta employee with the crooked name tag reading “Yolanda,” said with a yawn. “Give me a break!” my husband quipped back. Yolanda’s eyes narrowed warily as she squinted at my phone until she looked up at the sound of him laughing. She laughed too. “Ms. Warner,” she said with a Georgia drawl, “I like ‘im, you should keep ‘im a’roun’! ” I laughed too as we got down to the serious business of figuring out how to get to Logan airport, even though all flights to and from were suspended due to a snowstorm.

We thought we had figured it out 5 hours ago back in Charleston, when the text cancelling our flight and rescheduling us for the next day had me on the phone, reluctantly agreeing to fly from Charleston to Atlanta, Atlanta to Richmond, Richmond to Boston, arriving some 14 hours after we’d started out, but at least on the same day. Hustling around the hotel room as soon as I’d hung up to quickly pack since our new flight was scheduled to leave in less than two hours, we checked out, google mapped our way to the car rental place, remembering to fill it up with gas first, took a shuttle to the airport and made it through security without incident. Well, not without having my bag searched as it almost always is, this time I think the culprit was my AirPods, which kept “showing something electronic, but I don’t know what it is, must be my imagination,” the bored agent shrugged, giving up after the third failed attempt. He gave me a once over, and apparently deciding I didn’t look like a criminal, waved me on.

Happily we flew to Atlanta, our carry-on bags having been checked for free as the flights were full, something that I did not like that my husband had agreed to at all, as I knew for a fact they would not be waiting for us in Boston.”You’re not the one who has to stuff them in the tiny overhead bin, then get them out again on three different planes today,” he huffed. Since he graciously did not add that the bags were overstuffed  because I always overpack and insist on bringing five pounds of beauty products, multiple shoes and clothes for every sort of weather event, I reluctantly agreed for the second time that day. “Well, at least let’s get our bag of medications out of them, just in case,” I said. Sighing, he proceeded to rifle through six days of dirty clothes, annoyance increasing with every second. “I thought you said you were putting them in your backpack,” he grumbled. “No! I told you that I couldn’t fit them in there and asked you to put them in your bag! Oh! Just forget it then, if it’s that much trouble!” Apparently finding it to be too much trouble, he closed the bags, and wheeled them away, which would be the last we saw of them for four days.

Quarrel temporarily forgotten, we complimented each other on our travel skills, and ability to roll with the punches, until we checked in at the kiosk at our first lay-over and learned that our flight from Richmond to Boston had now been cancelled as well. Knowing we’d have a much better chance of finding something out of Atlanta, the busiest airport in the world, instead of tiny Richmond, we sidled up to the nearest counter and met Yolanda.

Fresh from our vacation in Charleston, where manners include kindness and consideration of others, not just please and thank you, and still in an expansive vacation mode mood, and never ones to take our frustrations out on anyone but each other, we waited patiently while she tried to get us home… “I have a 2:30 direct to Boston…but it’s delayed until 8 pm. Oh wait, that’s full. I have a 6:30 pm to Boston…but it’s delayed until 1 am, tomorrow. But, you’d be confirmed on that flight,” our smiles faded as we looked at the time and realized that meant 15 more hours in this airport, a three-hour flight to Boston, a shuttle bus to pick up our car, and a four-hour drive home, meant we would be getting home about 24 hours later. Portland and Manchester had no available flights, so my husband suggested Hartford. There was a flight available. “No way! How would we get to Boston to get our car?!?” “A bus,” he nodded confidently to himself. “Yup, that’s what we’ll do. You need to trust me on this.” Well, I didn’t trust him on this, not one little bit. My life? Absolutely. Eventually getting home in one piece? Sure. Making us take the most frustrating and least convenient way to get there? Yup, I did trust that. Yolanda and I looked at each other, a bond of sisterhood and understanding flowed one to another other like a rainbow. We knew we were thinking the same thing. Sighing, I indicated that we would take the flight to Hartford. She continued to look at me, and the long meaningful stare was not lost on me, “okaayyy, Miss Susannah, but if this don’t work out goooddd… ” we smiled at each other, and with new tickets in our hands, my husband and I started to walk away when Yolanda called out…. “Kev-in! Kev-in! I like her, you need to keep her a’roun’!”

I’d love to report that we flew off to Hartford, caught a bus to Logan, a shuttle to our car at the hotel, and sang songs all the way home while recounting our adventures in Charleston, arriving on the same day we set out. Alas, as any traveler knows, especially ones who are fortunate enough to travel with a spouse, particularly one that you’ve known for decades, such is rarely the case. I’m afraid that despite our initial glee at having been bumped up to first class by the kind Miss Yolanda (those little water bottles just waiting for me! The little pillow! the blanket! maybe even a free glass of wine when we took off!), our smiles turned upside down, as the pilot announced that “we are experiencing a mechanical issue, I’m afraid all passengers will need to disembark the aircraft.”

With a vague sense of relief that the Hartford scheme was now foiled, and with newly found hope, I marched down the aisle and straight up to another ticket agent while all the other passengers were wearily grabbing their bags from the overheads. As I was in first class, I was the first one in line to present our compounding problem.”Well,”  he said smiling into the computer screen, “looks like I can get you on a 6:30 direct flight to Boston!” I was so relieved that we didn’t have to go to Hartford, I didn’t even think about the fact that Miss Yolanda had already told us that this flight was delayed until 1 am. Gratefully we took our new tickets, rushed down the hall, took two escalators down, hopped on a subway, and headed to the gate, arriving there 20 min before it was time to board. But too late, because by this time, the Bickersons had arrived and they were not going to leave until we pulled into our driveway (which ended up being at 3 am). I’m sorry to say that the Bickersons further stepped up their game upon discovering that our new flight would not be leaving for another 7 hours and would necessitate more subway rides and another long, silent, arms crossed walk to the now changed gate.

At some point during the long trek (according to my Fitbit, I walked six miles in that airport!), Mrs. Bickerson took it upon herself to ask another agent if she and sulky Mr. Bickerson could be placed on standby for the 2:30, now 8 pm direct flight to Boston, which, much to Mr. Bickerson’s annoyance, prompted a turnaround and another subway ride to the new gate. Approaching the desk of the fifth Delta employee of the day, I swapped my Mrs. Bickerson scowl for a Susie sunshine face and inquired politely if the odds were in our favor. With 48 others on standby, it appeared unlikely until a quick search of our names revealed that miraculously we were in “the top-tier.” “What does that mean?” I asked stunned. “Well, Ma’am, that means you’re third on the list.” Thanking him out loud, and Miss Yolanda in my head for getting us in the toptier by bumping us up to first class, I looked around at the 48 other tired/mad faces. A little boy crying beside me caught my attention, and I knew before I even heard her say it, that this frightened mother with two fretful little boys, was also hoping to be called. “It’s ok, it will be alright. We will be together, don’t worry, we will get seats together.” Always one to think of quotes from movies and books, I was unpleasantly reminded of Titanic, when the poor Irish mother tells her children that as soon as the first class passengers were safe, that they would be let go. “Well, this is a fine kettle of fish,” I thought. “We can’t steal their seats!” But, as I gazed sadly at her, Mr. Bickerson’s face came into focus, and I shamefully thought, “well, maybe we can.”

I should have known that God had other plans; plans that did not force me to confront my conflicting survival/beast mode vs. Christian /nurse battle raging inside of me. Thankfully six of us; weary mom, weepy little boys, surly Bickersons, and one sulky teenage girl managed to get seats. We were the only ones out of almost 50 others, and we felt like we’d won the lottery, a sentiment I actually exclaimed aloud until I was hushed by a still crotchety Mr. Bickerson. Several of the other stand-by passengers actually clapped when the moms name was called; although not one clapped for the Bickersons, least of all Mr. Bickerson. They didn’t clap for the teenager either, so that made me feel a little bit better. Exhausted, hungry and stressed, Mr. B was suffering from an intense craving for a cigarette, although he’d quit smoking five months ago. Hours earlier, Mr. B had actually succumbed to the call of nicotine and, having left Mrs. Bickerson at a TGIF with a mai tai in her hand, disappeared into the Atlanta terminal abyss, where he was not seen or heard from until an hour later, which is actually how long it took him to take four escalators, two shuttles and to go through security AGAIN. Apparently, his 10 minute fall from grace also involved a discussion partly in Spanish with a prisoner who had been released days earlier and assumed Mr. B was Puerto Rican (?!?). But I digress… Needless to say, Mr. B was met with a stone faced Mrs. B; mai tai long since consumed and its potential soothing effects turned inside out. Even the story of the spanish speaking jail-bird who was looking for his “lady” and a couple of bucks, did little to assuage her disappointment. Mr. B, having bought a pack of cigarettes for the first time since October, felt little joy at the site of the smoker’s roo, inside the terminal the B’s noticed on the way to one of their gates, in fact it seemed to make his agitation worse. And so it was with relief , when we finally boarded the plane headed North, that Mrs. B. sunk into a middle seat, Mr. Bickerson a row behind me.

The next seven hours did not improve the Bickersons mood much. Not after the 3.5 hour flight, not while discovering the bags were in Richmond, as were our medications; mine, for headaches, his for mood :/. No improvement while waiting for the shuttle to take us to the hotel in the freezing Boston weather, our blood having thinned by the short stay in the south. In fact, tensions reached the boiling over level, by the time the Bickersons had been dropped of at their vehicle by the russian speaking van driver, and found it covered in a foot of snow and ice, but curiously with the passenger’s side cleared off, and snowy footprints on the floor mat. Wasting no time to find out why this was so, Mrs. B started the car, while Mr.B, aggressively cleared the snow and chipped away at the ice, obscenities flying as wildly as the snow. A quiet and reflective ride home from Boston in the middle of the night, gave Mrs. B plenty of time to wonder if traveling was actually worth it; the cost, the bickering, the swearing, the crossed arms, the inconvience…As we neared our home, we tentatively started talking again. First, about practical matters… Would our son have shoveled the driveway (he did), then about the funny things (Puerto- Rican!), and we laughed. We remembered the laughter, the fun, the experiences, the people, the food, the sites, and we knew that we’d made more memories. Like a savings account, we’ve stored these things up in our minds and in our hearts, and even though the Bickersons make exorbitant withdrawals at times, the Warners know that they could never truly bankrupt them, they’re just part of the experience, and an experience is always worth having, even knowing that the Bickersons are coming too.

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Strength and Beauty

Posted on by Susannah Warner

What I noticed most while vacationing in the south this past week, was the softness of it all. The people, the dialect, the manners, the trees; all of it. A Northeastern girl, I’m accustomed to a harshness in the land, a toughness in the people, and a fierceness in the landscape. Even our trees, here in the pine tree state grow rugged, tall and proud. Our coasts are jagged, and our mountains are severe. Our weather can be extreme, so much so that Mark Twain said, “if you don’t like the weather in New England now, wait a few minutes.” And from its inhabitants, I’m used to speed, and assertiveness mixed with just a touch of hardness. What I saw and experienced in the south, at least in Charleston, was hazy, easy, and softer, and no where was that more apparent to me than in its trees.

Although South Carolina’s state tree is the palmetto, not the live oak as it is in Georgia, it was one of the most beautiful objects I saw in Charleston, and certainly the tree I photographed the most. Spreading its limbs generously, and luxuriantly across the landscape, the prodigious oaks offered abundant shade, and a filter, selfie specialists could only dream of. These massive trees grow more out, than up, a shape that allowed me to wander like a child under a canopy-like reprieve from the sun and the intermittent raindrops. A product of their environment, the live oaks branches grow out, sometimes up to 100 feet, while the height only reaches 40-80 feet, all of this to prevent it from toppling in the event of a hurricane. And if this isn’t magical enough, Spanish moss drips decadently, and enticingly down; an enhancement of beauty, rather than a deterrent, nature’s lovely tinsel. The effect is a covering of softness and beauty, much like the residents of Charleston, whose kindness oozed sincerity.

Maine’s pine tree by contrast, could never withstand the weight of snow if it grew out, and so must grow tall and aloof. Towering 160-180 feet, these trees are tough, strong, and useful, but lacking in the grace, and charm of the southern live oaks. What I find curious though, is that for all it’s bravado, the pine tree is considered a “soft wood,” while the genteel oak is known as a “hardwood.”  I’m no arborist; I know about soft wood only because my husband was a chainsaw carver, and hardwood ruined his  chainsaw blade, and his shoulders, and it was much tougher to carve over the more pliant pine. Hardwood is so durable that supposedly during the war of 1812, “Old Ironsides,” was so nicknamed because of its live oak hull which was so tough that the Brit’s cannon balls literally bounced off it.

I guess it’s true that you can’t judge a book by its cover, or maybe a tree by its shape. The toughest old Maine codger can be a softie inside, while a sweet southern belle can have a backbone of steel. I don’t prefer one over the other; both are a marvel of God’s workmanship. The Almighty sees the beauty in all of us-hard and soft, indomitable and yielding. There’s not one of us that is too difficult for Him to carve into a work of art. For that, and for the beauty to be found everywhere, I will forever marvel.

 

Posted in children, Love, Uncategorized

Traces of Love

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My mother once told me that when I was small, sometimes she would find my little things lying around that had not been put away before I went to sleep, after she came downstairs. An open book maybe, a crayon (to this day pronounced “crown”), that had rolled halfway under the couch, a little wooden truck, with a popsicle stick tailgate and actual wooden wheels, that my father had made for me for my Barbies, parked in the “garage” under the coffee table, and that seeing these little reminders of me sometimes made her feel a little sad. “Traces of Love,” she and my father apparently called these things. I always liked that, and thought of it often when my children were little and I found the same sort of remnants strewn about the house, after it was finally quiet for the night.

As happy as I was to have a couple of hours of peace before I fell into bed, I would always feel a little sad too when I would see a little teacup under the radiator, and remember shamefully my annoyance hours earlier about being asked to have another tea party, always inexplicably with a blanket over our heads. Or, an orange Nerf gun dart under the pillows of the couch, having gotten wedged there after a shower of them sprayed across the living room. I always recalled too, how I only half listened to my daughter talk about her horse, while I prepared dinner. The other half of my mind was occupied with all the things I needed to remember for the next day; sign a permission slip, pack lunches, throw a load of laundry in the washer…Or how, as I read to my son I might have skipped a page or two, eager to have some time to myself.

So, when the cries of, “I’m thirsty! I’m not tired! I’m scared! I have to pee!” finally subsided, and the house took on that late night, half-asleep hushed feeling, I would usually take a minute to mentally acknowledge the things I wished I had done differently that day, before I joined my husband on the couch. Looking around at their little things, always helped me refocus and remember that no matter how tired I was at the end of the day, I had been blessed with these little people to mold and shape the best way I knew how, so that someday they could appreciate traces of love from their own little ones.

 

Posted in Uncategorized

Ever In Your Favor

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Last night, after a satisfying meal of lasagna and ice cream, my husband turned on the TV, and flipped through the channels. He surfed for a bit, landing briefly on one show, then skipped to another during the commercial, as he often does; a practice that drives me crazy, as I would prefer to sit through a bunch of commercials rather than have my attention divided by three shows at one time and risk missing some of the show that I really wanted to watch. Fortunately, between DVR, Netflix, Amazon Prime, and HULU, we rarely watch live TV, so this is not usually a problem. One might think given all the opportunities listed for entertainment, that we watch a lot, but the truth is with the exception of a few reality shows (Survivor! Amazing Race! and embarrassingly, Big Brother), and an occasional movie, usually several years old by the time we get to it, we rarely watch TV at all. Certainly not in the daytime, and depending on our schedules, sometimes days go by without either one of us turning it on, since we are both of the opinion that we’d rather do something fun, then sit and watch someone else have it. This is pretty much the same reason that I refused to be a cheerleader growing up, because I never wanted to just watch the action and cheer for someone else, I wanted to get out there and have someone cheer for me.

In any event, we somehow settled on The Hunger Games, a movie I’d seen on at least two other occasions as well having read the series several years ago; a literary fad sitting squarely between the innocent Twilight series, and the grownup 50 Shades of Grey, which I could not get into because of the shocking lack of attention to detail as evidenced by the way-off base use of adjectives and verbs in a supposedly American setting (brilliant, keen…seriously?!? I don’t know any person around here who says those things!). Why not just set it in Britain then, a country whose vernacular it’s author is clearly more familiar with. Even the “Grey” in the title is the more widely used UK version. C’mon! Obvious faux pas such as these, drive me bonkers, and ruin the whole book for me, often within the first chapter and is something I consider to be a turn-off, rather than the turn-on the author intended (but, grammarly and smart people, please don’t judge me as harshly, for I am but a lowly nurse blogger with no editor and no matter how many times my super-intelligent sister tells me, I always forget the proper usage of colons and semi-colons and let’s not even get started with how many times I end a sentence with a preposition and those run-on sentences! Ugh! Sorry, Mom!).

But, I have digressed into a weird off the wall rant, so sorry about that. I had a direction for this post and it was this…Ah yes! My comparison of Hunger Games to life…. stay with me on this. My husband and I watched a bunch of normalish, albeit extra good-looking people, face an onslaught of obstacles, with only a brief rest before another attack commenced, all while also fending off other competitors in attempt to win the right to stay alive to fight another day. Although this may seem a bit far-fetched, I couldn’t help but compare the tribulations the characters faced with the trials we all face daily. Sometimes it does seem as if you’ve barely recovered from one set-back, such as costly repairs to a vehicle, when another punch lands right in your pocketbook. Add on sick kids, frozen pipes or a daycare that has inexplicably closed for the day, and it’s enough to make you inadvertently turn against your strongest allies. “Remember who the real enemy is,” one of the competitors in the game said, as the heroine froze, bow poised in a moment of fear and confusion to shoot him. And she did. She did remember before she hurt him and turned instead to aim at the true enemy.

It’s so easy to turn on the ones we love and lash out at them, although they’re there to help. At the risk of sounding cheesy, we are all playing a version of the Hunger Games, and in this game called life, with its twists and turns, its setbacks and frustrations, we must remember who our allies are, and who the real enemy is. It’s not the guy who channel hops like a bunny, and who never gets back to the real show on time, and it’s definitely not the guy who hand shredded three big blocks of cheese for the lasagna and washed a mountain of dishes after. This is my ally, my biggest fan, and the one who has my back, just like my big brother Jesus. Because lets face it, it’s impossible for the odds to always be in our favor, so I’m pretty happy that I’m always in His.

Posted in Uncategorized

Reinvention

Posted on by Susannah Warner

This is my husband. He’s leaving for his first day on a new job. He’s 53 years old. Think you can’t start over? Think you can’t reinvent yourself? Think again…

My husband has had many jobs in his lifetime, and more than one career. He’s been a cook, a carpenter, and a soldier. He’s delivered pizzas, made sandwiches, done physical therapy, and worked in factories. He’s built bridges, and houses, and did asbestos abatement in paper mills. He has degrees in culinary arts, and physical therapy. He’s worked outside when it’s 20 below zero, and crawled in boilers where the temperature was 120, He was unstoppable until a diagnosis of bipolar brought us both to our knees and a halt to a consistent paycheck. For a time, it seemed there was no way around this mountain. But, there was a way, and he found it. How? He adapted and he evolved.

“The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.” George Bernard Shaw

Darwin’s theory of evolution in part presumes that complex creatures evolve from more simplistic ancestors, and through a process called natural selection, a species adapts to its environment, while the less beneficial attributes are not passed on. At least that’s that’s how my scientific-shy little mind breaks it down (yeah, you can school me if I’m wrong!). If this is true in the large evolutionary scheme of things, wouldn’t it be the same in our day-to-day lives? I know it is for my husband, and I know it can be true for you, if you want.

“It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.” Charles Darwin

Don’t just accept the fact that you are what you are. You can change, you can grow. It is not too late to learn. Never be complacent in where you are in life. That is not to say that you shouldn’t enjoy each stage of your life, but that’s all it is; a stage. It will change. Just as you once thought you’d never grow up, you did. And maybe as a young mom, you feel that children will always be hanging off of you, but they won’t. Maybe you feel that you’re stuck in this dead-end job forever. But, you’re not. Get ready. Things will change, and you must change too. Be prepared to evolve and adapt, or you will begin the slow process of death.

”When you’re finished changing, you’re finished.” Benjamin Franklin

If where you are now, is not the dream you had for yourself when you were 7, don’t despair, don’t give up. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t change your life. Don’t get stuck in a monotonous rut. Remember the passion you had as a kid? Ok, so maybe you won’t be a professional athlete, an actress, or a veterinarian as you thought when you were little. But, you did fantasize about being more than what you were at the time, and that’s where it begins. Rekindle that excitement, then put that energy in to change, no matter how small.

“The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new.” Socrates

My husband has always been unable to sit still (what a blessing and curse ADHD can be!). He is always moving and loves to learn. He loves to help people, and he loves to talk. He hates the 9-5 life, and being inside all the time. Combine all these attributes with a carpentry background of 35 years, and it made perfect sense for him to become a real estate agent. He has succeeded by turning all the turmoil and strife of his childhood and the challenges of young adulthood into a passion and energy that allows him to continually evolve into the best person he can be. He has used all of the trials in his life as building blocks, not roadblocks. Sure, it’s not easy, and it has taken a long time. He’s a card-carrying member of AARP and needs daily medication to keep going, but if age, mental illness, and a very rocky start to life haven’t stopped him, why should it stop you? You’ve got all the tools you need to reinvent yourself if you want to; you just have to want to.

“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”  C.S. Lewis

Posted in Uncategorized

Rest for your Soul

Posted on by Susannah Warner

One of my nephews messaged today because he’s coming home next month and wanted to let us know. By “coming home,” I mean his childhood home in Trenton NJ, which is a mere 500 miles from us, his Maine family, rather than roughly 7,200 away in China where he has been living and working for the last few years. Since he will be so close, even for just a few weeks, he would like to come and see us, catch up on all the news, and share his own. He wants to rest and play, explore and share good conversations with us over a glass of not-so-great wine.

My nephews have spent two weeks nearly every summer of their childhoods here in Maine with their extended family. For many years they came with their parents; a happy, crazy, hazy, lazy time in August. Now that they are all grown, they still come up as often as they can, separately but with the addition of friends, girlfriends, and partners. I love that even as adults, or maybe especially because they are grownups, with grownup lives, they still think of Maine as a place for R&R, a place where they can shrug off their heavy adult coat and live unburdened for a short time.

It’s a wonderful feeling to know that your home and/or presence is a comfort to others, a sanctuary and a place to recover from the demands of an unforgiving world. There are so few places in this world where there are no expectations. Most of us wear a mask at times, even those among us who value authenticity and prickle internally at a disingenuous atmosphere or situation. There are social norms to conform to though, and hoops to jump through, and it can be exhausting, even for the strongest of the strong…maybe especially for them.

When the winds of adulting have left you battered you to the point of bone-weariness, isn’t it so comforting to know that there is a harbor of love beckoning you home, a place where you are cherished and loved, fluffed and puffed? Not unlike a child whose  mittens dangle reassuringly from a string around his shoulders and whose hood is tied securely and lovingly by his mother who is careful not to pinch when zipping him up, its such a safe feeling to know that there is a place where you can go to be protected from the elements, and feel the lavish heaps of care, attention and protection.

I hope that everyone who reads this has a place like this, maybe even several places, just like my nephews. A place where you never knock before you come in, and don’t have to text first to say you’re going to stop by. A place that the owners face will light up when they see you. A place where you leave your social mask at the door and slip into your authentic-self slippers, which have been left for you by the door from your last visit. A place where the people love it when you brag about your accomplishments a little, and feel genuine joy and pride for all that you’ve done out there, and you never feel embarrassed to tell them the compliments others have paid you, because you know they truly enjoy hearing it. A place where your favorite foods are prepared in your honor and it isn’t awkward at all if you take a quick nap on their couch after you eat. A place where you can feel yourself paradoxically unplug, yet recharge. A place where secrets are told and kept, and when you share the darkest parts of yourself; the things that you’re ashamed to say but long to tell, you do, because you know the ugliness will dissipate in the light of their eyes. A place where the fire is warm and the hearts are warmer and the burdens you lay down at the door when you entered this place are still there waiting for you by the door, but they are curiously lighter than when you came. But wait, they’re actually not any lighter, it’s just that your arms are stronger, and your mind is clear. Your gait is determined and your spirit refreshed. The world and its demands are still waiting for you, yet you now welcome the challenge; buoyed, bolstered and wrapped in a protective bubble of unconditional love.

I am thankful to have such places to go here on earth, and even more grateful to be this person for a few people, but to me such a place is Heaven. I’m not talking about streets of gold and angels with harps kind of heaven, I’m talking about Home. I’m talking about wearily trudging up to Jesus’ cozy house, dropping my burdens by the door, entering without knocking and seeing him to turn to me, delight on his face. I’m talking about sipping coffee with him while we eat warm cinnamon buns and I talk about all the things on my heart. I’m talking about seeing the love in his eyes, as he nods and say “I know,” and I know that he does. I’m talking about taking a quick nap on his couch while he covers me with his softest blanket. I’m talking about waking so refreshed that I’m ready to go back out there.

He’ll wave as I go of course, and even though I’ll have a lump in my throat because I know I can’t live there yet, I can visit anytime. And as time goes by and I pick up more and more bags of worldly burdens, the heavier it all becomes. And just when I think I can’t go any farther, I find a love note that He tucked in my pocket while I napped. The Word is weightless, yet sinks into my heart, and a curious mix of strength and softness surround me. The power of His Word will sustain me until that day- when dirty, tired and hungry I again trudge to His house and, without knocking, and knowing He will turn and smile, I enter into sweet and eternal rest (with a little bit of fun and adventure of course, because after all, this IS Heaven I’m talking about!).

*Don’t or can’t believe this? Is this too much of a fairy tale for you? It’s true, it’s all true and it will set you free. Questions? Comment below or PM me!