The Gift of a Memory

Hey Ya’ll,

You know, I realize this blog has turned into more of a series of reflections than updates on renovations.  But I’ve got to tell you, that is more of what this has become – a series of reflections of my life rather than a “run-of-the-mill” restoration.  I promise there will be pictures with this update though. 

As I sit here on my grandmother’s – my – front porch and look out over the tranquility of a Southern Evening, I can’t help but reflect on the past two years since her passing.  I’m awestruck with a forbearance knowing she is in a place of perfection – Paradise, and yet a turbulence of curiosity fueled by questions I beg to ask her each day.  I’ve struggled with this past week, knowing today marks two years.  I’ve struggled with an attempt to find words to convey what it means to me.  But somehow, words never seemed to be a problem on her front porch.  Conversations seemed to flow easier in the peace of her home; they were typically exchanged over a fresh cup of coffee and maybe a piece of pecan pie with no one but the birds to hear our conversations and keep our secrets.  

Every day I find a new question I wish to ask my grandmother.  They surface from the very depth of every Christian’s heart to those of a fearful grandson.  I want to ask her what is it like to see the face of God – to touch His hand and call His name?  What is it like to hear His voice and to see your name roll from His very lips?  What is it like to see His smile when you play the piano? What is it like to hug your daddy’s neck again, and see your mother who died when you were eight? And then there are the daily foolish questions I want to ask her. Do these sheets need to be washed on the delicate cycle? How do I change the bag on your vacuum cleaner? How do you thread the bobbin on your sewing machine? I wrote down your recipe for peanut brittle from memory, but can you tell it to me again? Just one more time? 

I look at her house – my house – and all the changes I’ve made.  I want to ask her are you happy? Do you like this color? Is it okay if I put this picture here? Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to know that she is as happy with her house as I am.  But though the paint colors have changed and the carpet is new, I still look at every wall and see it just as the way she had it.  I remember sleeping in the beds in each of these rooms.  I remember playing with my uncle’s toys in her basement.  I remember learning her recipes over her kitchen counter.  I remember all of the Fourth of Julys that were celebrated on this carport beneath the ceiling fan that illuminates the darkness now.  I remember the comfort, the grace, and the welcomed feeling that was extended to every person that ever sat on this porch.  I remember the easy conversations that were had in the very chair in which I sit as I type this.  I remember the wisdom that was shared and the compassion that was given to me over all those cups of coffee.  

And then I smile – I smile because I’m happy.  I smile because I know that I have a lifetime of my own memories to build in this house.  I smile because I am Betty’s grandson, and it is my honor to continue to extend that welcome to others and that compassion that was given to me.  I smile because this isn’t just my house – it is my home – and was a home to my family.  It was where my mother grew up – where my grandmother lived – where I have so many precious memories.  All are a gift.  It is truly a gift to look in every corner and see a memory, touch that memory, hear it, and taste it.  The appearance of my home may change, but the compassion and Southern hospitality that built this home never will.  And the memories that were formed throughout the forty years this house has stood will never fade.  Each one is a gift, and they are why I smile. 

Warm Southern Days,

Russ

New carpet for my bedroom.  All in all, the total cost for the carpet in all three of the bedrooms was $1,200.  This included the cost of the carpet (80 square yards), padding, and installation.  

 Guest room number one before. 

 Guest room number one after.  This furniture belonged to my paternal grandparents and was passed on to me by my cousin Cassy. It looks absolutely stellar in this bedroom. 

 A better view of the bed.

 New posts for the front of the house.  The old planters are also gone, and the yard has been scraped down in preparation for new landscaping.

And for that, I'm Truly Thankful

 So I never hopped on the “Thankful” bandwagon for the month of November, but over the course of the past few days, I feel that there are some aspects of my life for which I am truly thankful and they bear mentioning.

I’m truly thankful for dreams.  I’m thankful for the chance to have a special visit from someone I miss dearly – to have that chance to say what I didn’t in the past.  I’m thankful to have that chance to hear “I’m proud of you” once more and feel that hug I’ve longed to feel. 

I’m thankful for November nights that are reminiscent of a warm June night.  I’m thankful for the fragrances that are on the wind of those nights.  I’m thankful that those winds carry a faint hint of a familiar lotion and a cigarette from Granny’s spot on my porch. 

I’m thankful for the mundane things in my life like raking my own yard, hearing the katydids that fill my trees, the stars that hang overhead, and the promise that my yard will yield new life with spring.

I’m thankful for having a house that was and is a home.  I’m thankful for all the memories that are held in those four walls.  I’m thankful for having a home that is filled with stories begging to be told.  I’m thankful that my grandmother left me a final gift of finding my family history that I long to see but will never get to live.  I’m thankful for the promise that love can happen after forty and three kids, and that even though that marriage might have failed all those letters were worth saving - even if it means your nosy grandson did read them.  I’m thankful for seventy years of music hidden in a closet that it is worth saving, worth playing, and worth hearing again.

I’m thankful for having a life in which I can truly say I’m happy.  I’m happy to live where I do – a place where it is okay to spend all afternoon sitting on a porch if to only watch the cars go by, where friends send flowers to the deceased and food to the family, where strangers will wave to one another as they pass down a two lane road, where prayer is still encouraged and God is still loved, where white is only worn between Easter and Labor Day, and gossip is exchanged just as often as recipes and daylilies.  I’m thankful to be close to such a wonderful family – both in proximity and spirit, to have a life filled with friends that I love like family, to be able to look back and genuinely miss people because their impact on my life was so great, and to be able to look forward and say tomorrow is going to be just as good as yesterday. 

And for that, I’m truly thankful.

Warm Southern Days,

Russ

When you’ve come this far, might as well keep going

When you’ve come this far, might as well keep going

Hey ya’ll!

Sometimes in life there are stories that tell themselves – we are merely the conveyors of the words or a simple scribe to preserve them.  This is one of those stories; I was merely along for the ride.

I awoke to a balmy seventy degrees in Mobile this morning – a reminder that Fall in the South is a constant battle with the remnants of Summer.  I had decided last night that if I’ve gone this far, there is no way I’m going back home without going to the beach first.  And so I did – and the trip was totally worth it.  I chose Dauphin Island for a few reasons – proximity to where I was staying, it’s an island (which is awesome in itself), I’ve never been there, and the drive looked like more fun than actually getting there. 

I was right.

The drive led me along a parkway that was graced by breaking waves of the ocean on one side and khaki colored grass of a marshland on the other side.  Eventually, the land faded away and it was only ocean on both sides of the parkway. There is something to be said about being totally alone with only a cup of coffee, the new day’s sun, and the fragrance of the ocean in the air. 

Dauphin Island is truly a little gem where Southern Pines, oaks covered in Spanish moss, crepe myrtles, and palm trees all live together.  It is the perfect blend of everything I love in a vast plush green and just beyond that a body of blue that laps against the sand.  I drove the full length of the island and somehow found a station playing those old standards I love so much.  You know the kind – Ray Charles and Bobby Darwin - and for a few minutes I felt like that guy who plays the pilot on Pan Am driving with the top down (corny, but if you watch Pan Am you understand).

So now as I type this, I’m sitting at the University of South Alabama staring out a window at a lush palm tree.  And just behind that is a row of crepe myrtles – I’m going to have a tough time staying indoors this morning.

Warm Southern Days,

Russ

Sometimes the Detours are the Best Parts

Hey Ya'll!

So I’m fully aware that this post has absolutely nothing to do with remodeling my house, but since most of my postings are more about the simple pleasures in life than remodeling, I thought this followed the same theme. 

This week, I have the great pleasure of recruiting for the University (I like to consider this a perk rather than a requirement of my job).  I’m getting paid to drive my convertible across the state.  How awesome is that? I started my week long “Tour de Alabama” at 5:00 sharp this morning.  There was a crispness to the air that could only be part of the Fall in Alabama.  I decided a long time ago when planning this trip that I would take Highway 43 to Tuscaloosa, my first stop, instead of the interstate.  I know, I could have made better time, I could have driven faster, I could have saved gasoline…there are a lot of perks to taking the interstate – but one perk of taking a rural highway trumps the interstate every time – the personality.  My GPS disagreed whole heartedly and insisted I turn around at every available spot.  So we aren’t on speaking terms since I unplugged it and threw it in the glove box. 

As I traversed further south into the state, farms dotted the two lane highway with faded red barns, glistening silos, and steam covered ponds.  It is a weird and yet complacent feeling to watch the sun rise over the treetops of a mountain.  It’s also nearly impossible to find a convenient bathroom in a pinch – but one has the same problem on the interstate and I digress.  In trying to merge from Highway 74 back to Highway 13, I blew past the junction on into God’s Country (Lady Antebellum was blaring on the radio, don’t judge me).  I found a little half-gravel/half-asphalt road that led back to the highway – and the wrong turn was totally worth the detour.  It was a stellar countryside and an exemplary show of the wonders of Fall in the South.

I think the most profound part of my trip this morning was traveling through Phil Campbell and witnessing the scar over this little Southern town.  But that is exactly what it is, folks – a scar from a prevalent wound that is healing with time.  Ravaged houses still dot the landscape alongside wind twisted trees.  But adjacent to these houses are new dwellings with a light that penetrates the darkness – a reminder of the ingenuity and triumph that builds this South.  The wind ravaged trees are full of leaves again.  It’ll be a scar that stays with each of us forever – a subtle reminder of the awesome wonder of God.  But I’m not talking about the wound that caused the scar; I’m talking about the resilience, the persistence, and faith that has healed that bleeding wound to a scar.  I think it is something that can only be found in the South and understood by those people that give the South its distinct flavor.  Be proud of your neighbors, your heritage, and our success as Southerners.  I know I am.

Warm Southern Days,

Russ

Sometimes, the detours really are the best part.

A Final Gift

Hey Ya’ll!

This isn’t really an update on renovations, but more so a story about the joys of doing so.  Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been trying to decide what I want to do for flooring options (tile in the bathrooms, colors, styles…but mainly price [you all know I’m cheap]).  During the process of measuring the floors tonight, I did a little more cleaning out of my guest bathroom closet.  

After my grandmother had the house to herself, she moved out of the master bedroom into one of the kid’s vacant rooms and used the guest bathroom.  So all of her cosmetics and everyday items were stashed away in this closet.  Any normal person would simply take his or her arm and rake everything into a garbage bag.  Well, I’m not your normal person.  It’s simply amazing what a closet can hold.  It holds more than just stuff – it holds a lifetime of memories.  With each bottle of perfume and each tin of powder comes an overwhelming reminder of the way my grandmother smelled.  Each tube of lipstick and each shade of blush is a subtle hint of the full color of life that she lived.  I found two boxes of sheet music crammed in the bottom of the closet – hidden for the past twenty years.  I sat in the floor, my knees pulled against my chest, and I could hear her piano in the other room.  

But perhaps the greatest treasure I found was an old box of loose papers.  These are papers that wouldn’t mean a thing to anyone else but my grandmother.  It was a collection of history of her children.  I found handwriting lessons my aunt and uncle completed when they were in the first and second grades.  With each piece was my grandmother’s handwriting across the top telling the date and the little hand that wrote it.  I found handmade Christmas cards, pictures drawn by her children, and ribbons that were worn in my mother’s hair.  And then I found the note that spoke to my heart.  I found a note written by my mother when she was just fifteen years old.  It was folded four times and ‘To Daddy’ was written on the outside.  As I opened the crisped paper, it revealed a note in which my mother was begging her father – my grandfather – to let her go out with a boy.  What’s more to know is that she was interested in a boy before my dad.  As a youth involved so much in his own life (and typically fully believing that his parents’ lives revolve only around him), one tends to forget that his parents had a life before he existed.  But it spoke to me.  My mom has a history…she has loved and she has lost.  She was a teenager once who lived through puppy love, and had friends that could date when she couldn’t.  She lived a life – and a grand one.  She negotiated and begged – offering to get up on Saturday mornings to clean house and only watch T.V. when my grandfather told her she could – all in exchange for one date.  She closed by telling him she was older than he thought and she wasn’t so little anymore.  (I hope I don't embarrass my mother too much by telling this - it was too charming to me not to share).

I think this is one final gift from my grandmother – a chance to live a past I never got to see – a chance to see my family grow up; maybe not with my own eyes, but with pieces of their history.  There is a memory attached to everything, and each one is worth hearing and worth being told. They may not mean anything to anyone else, but they mean everything to me.  I guess the best part is I didn’t just buy a house, I bought a home.  

Warm Southern Days,

Russ