Pens and Needles

Our oldest grandson, Charles Douglas Reeves, has always been Charles D to me, to differentiate from his Granddaddy Charles. He and his lovely wife, Allie Nowell Reeves, have recently celebrated their first wedding anniversary. He’s a fine responsible and handsome young man, full of integrity, busy and skilled as an electrician, and quick to help anyone in need. As his Nana, I always knew he would be resourceful and be able to master tough situations. I love to remember some of his “growing up” stories.

One evening I took Charles D’s dad his favorite pumpkin pie. He ate one piece, then put it in the refrigerator to enjoy the next day. Charles D, about three years old then, observed the stashing of the pie. In the night he got hungry, padded down the hall, ate the entire filling out of the pie, and put the crust back. He didn’t even try to tell a lie when questioned. He was proud of his success!

He was always a champion of the underdog, or cat as the case might be. When his cat, Sassy, birthed four kittens he became concerned that cars were going too fast in our driveway. So he made wooden signs cautioning drivers to go only 4 mph as our driveway was a cat crossing. As the kittens grew, we told him he could keep one of them but would have to give three away. He obeyed with only brief argument. He gave one to his older sister a few miles away, one to his mother, and one to his cousin William visiting from Birmingham. His sister and mother soon returned theirs for various reasons and Charles D had his kittens back. He and Sassy were happy.

I don’t think he was always the class clown but I know one day when he was. I forgot that morning to give him an important medication and had to take it to him. As I headed down the hall to his first grade room at Southside School, I heard uproarious hilarity and wondered what could be happening. Miss Bell met me at the door, a look of relief on her face. “You’re just in time,” she said. Was Charles D receiving an award? Then I saw the whole drama. Charles D stood in front of a captivated audience pulling the pockets of his pants in and out, standing on one foot, making funny faces–until he saw me. Suddenly there was complete silence as Miss Bell said, “I’m trying to teach math here.” Needless to say, Charles D and I had a meeting in the hall.

Charles D enjoyed his high school years, particularly NJROTC. I can see him now in the color guard marching smartly onto the football field or raising the flag as the band played the National Anthem. He loved church camps, going to the beach, playing video games, and having friends over. Probably his favorite hobby, even from six years old, was fishing.

To me, his most memorable fishing event happened near Jacksonville, Florida when he was about eleven. He, my sister, and I were spending the night with my niece Joan who was living temporarily in a little apartment near Mayo Clinic. She was awaiting a liver transplant. He, of course, was bored with all us women and went outside to investigate. The apartments were situated along a pretty little canal lined with willows. Next thing I knew Charles D was asking Joan for string to rig up a fishing pole with a willow branch. Joan, who loved to encourage children, volunteered a safety pin along with the string.
Charles D was in business. There was a prominent “No Fishing” sign by the water, but how could a boy with only a sprangly willow branch catch a fish? But he did! About a six inch fish at that. And he couldn’t get him off the hook. It had turned dark, and there we were beside a “No Fishing” sign struggling by flashlight to take a fish off a safety pin. The poor fish was thoroughly injured by the time we extricated him and threw him back in the water. I’m sure Charles D would choose a different fishing day as his favorite, like the day as a teenager when he caught a five pound bass in a local pond.

So–as I said, I always knew Charles D would be resourceful. Today, on his 29th birthday, I’m thanking God for the generous, talented, and helpful man he has become. I’m thankful, too, that he still has a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, the personality of the fisherman boy and the class clown.

A favorite verse of Charles D’s is Luke 1:37: For with God nothing shall be impossible.

I had not paid that much attention to the Bible book Habakkuk–except to think it was such an interesting name with its three K’s–until Marel Brown gave me her perspective on it. I had read Marel’s inspirational articles and poetry in Home Life and other periodicals so I was thrilled to learn she was teaching a class at the Dixie Writers’ Conference that week at St. Simons Island. The theme for her class and, in fact, for her walk in life, was Habakkuk 2:2: Then the Lord replied: “Write down the revelation and make it plain on tablets so that a herald may run with it.”

I have always treasured those days with Marel Brown, a cute little brown-eyed bird of a lady. She was so joyful in her relationship with the Lord, so excited about “writing down the revelation,” and so very interested in helping her students to do the same. It was impossible not to catch her enthusiasm–about writing, about God’s greatness, and Habakkuk.

Habakkuk was a prophet for the Lord about 600 B.C. not long before the terrible Babylonian takeover of Jerusalem. The book Habakkuk is a conversation between the prophet and the Lord. He wondered why God was allowing such devastation to His people.

Habakkuk’s anxiety for his people as they experienced violence, injustice, and horrors reminds me of the anxiety we have today over the United States. How long, Lord? asked Habakkuk. Save us, Lord! Deliver us from the snare of the fowler. The world has turned upside down. When will You set things right?

The Lord told Habakkuk (and tells us) He would take care of the whole situation in His way and in His time. The sin of Israel had to be dealt with. But woe to the nation that chose to demolish God’s people. Habakkuk knew Israel had sinned by worshiping idols, by ignoring the law, by ignoring God. He understood that God had to discipline Israel as a father disciplines his children. But his plea was In wrath remember mercy.

Habakkuk has only three chapters. After talking to and listening to God Habakkuk ends the third chapter with a prayer that reminds me of Job’s prayer after he finally realized that “God is God and I am not.” A portion of that prayer is a favorite reminder of what it means to trust God implicitly.

Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.

May our prayer for the United States of America be that, no matter what, we will be “joyful in God my Savior.” But also may we pray “Lord, in wrath remember mercy.”

I needed the walk so why let a slow gentle Georgia rain stop me? Raindrops pattered on my water resistant hood, a soothing sound. Following my usual track around our circular driveway, I pushed my walker under the Indonesian cherry tree. The road there was strewn thick with the tree’s burgundy blossoms. Just beyond, pink and white Japanese magnolia petals floated down to paste themselves against wet pavement. Newly fallen ones are bright but they soon develop brown edges and resemble discarded dance slippers. The fragrance of Japanese magnolias was subtle but very much alive in a light, exotic way.

Up the other side of the circle a thick hedge of reeds leaned over the driveway, heavy with rain that had been falling since morning. The patter of drops was louder on my hood as I walked under the bamboo foliage. A cool streak developed down the middle of my back. Brittle stems rattled against each other in a breeze.

A flurry of snowdrops bloomed at the turn of the circle. Their whiteness shown distinctly amongst a tangle of last year’s dry lantana branches. White coral bells upon a slender stalk, Lilies of the valley deck my garden walk. Oh, how I wish that I could hear them ring; That will happen only when the fairies sing. An old song lilted through my head as if my sisters and I were still singing it in a round, giggling when we got mixed up about which line we should be on.

I stopped to take in the lovely spectacle of a jasmine vine in full yellow bloom climbing high on a pine tree behind our mailbox. It never bloomed last year but now it’s like sunshine in the rain, tiny blossoms as abundant as stars in the sky. Someone said it is a Carolina jasmine. I’ve seen the vine climbing amongst wild growth along roadsides.

Walking under tall magnolia trees, I could hear raindrops hit glossy leaves with almost a metallic ping. Drops slid from one leaf to another falling eventually to the long brittle leaves of iron lilies before soaking into the earth.

One gorgeous camellia still blooms by the basketball goal. The blossoms weigh limbs down in luxuriant beauty. I call it the Valentine camellia because it always blooms mid-February and because it warms the heart like the sudden surprise of a dozen red roses. I can see the bush clearly from our kitchen window but observing the delicate blossoms in their intricate pink variations, up close and personal, is so much better.

Bertha, our gray and white cat, wandered up and wound herself between my walker wheels, brushing against my legs. Then she walked a round or two with me. Cats really don’t dislike water as much as people think. Of course it was a very light rain, not a downpour.

I completed six rounds while, even in gloves, my hands turned to ice. Back inside, I was pleasantly warmed and cheered by a cozy fire and a cup of hot cocoa with Charles.

Ask the Lord for rain in the springtime; it is the Lord who sends the thunderstorms. He gives showers of rain to all people, and plants of the field to everyone. Zechariah 10:1

Mamma’s tiny patch of asparagus never flourished. Mamma grew beautiful and delicious okra, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, corn, even rhubarb. But the asparagus was an unrealized dream. It was always going to do better the next year. It didn’t die; it just never did well. Maybe its poor progress year after year had something to do with my misunderstanding one of Mamma’s teaching points.

Last night I gleefully prepared some asparagus for baking, coating crisp spears with olive oil and rolling them in salt and pepper. I was reminded of Mamma’s tiny struggling asparagus in its own protected corner, specially tended with rich fertilizer, yet forever disappointing. At the same time I remembered her asparagus patch I remembered also Mamma’s repeated instructions not to “cast asparagus” on anyone. I couldn’t help smiling.

I got the lesson she was teaching: casting asparagus meant saying something unkind or critical about another. It was years, though, before I realized it was aspersions, not asparagus, we were not to cast.

I remember wondering what casting asparagus would look like. Would one person throw asparagus spears at another whose arms were over their face trying to avert the green missiles? Or maybe one person would be trying to feed tough asparagus to another. It was actually quite puzzling because Mamma treasured that asparagus, flourishing or not. She would never throw it away.

It is funny, and sometimes alarming, how children misunderstand our language. If they would ask questions to receive a clear explanation they could avoid the confusion. But often, as I did, they accept what they think is being said and no one realizes there was a breakdown in communication.

But I did understand Mamma’s meaning. I knew “casting asparagus” meant undue criticism. She said the same thing in other phrases: “If you can’t say something nice, then keep quiet” or “Comparisons are odious.” On the positive side she might quote a Bible verse like Proverbs 25:11: “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.”

As I prepared asparagus for dinner, I remembered to be thankful for Mamma’s teaching. Whether asparagus or aspersions, don’t cast them on anyone!