I took my mother to Laurel, MS on Tuesday. She’d not seen all of the new things going on there since the HGTV show, Home Town, has changed its vibe pretty significantly. After that Tuesday Elvis matinee we enjoyed, I decided we’d make Tuesdays our regular day to do something fun together and Laurel was what I’d planned for this week. 

We got there around 11 and we were both ready for lunch. We decided on Pearl’s Diner as it was fried chicken day and Mama is a sucker for a fried chicken leg. There was a line already forming outside, so I dropped her off to save us a spot while I parked the car. I easily found a parking space on the same block and I walked back up to join her in line. I came up and she said, “Joni, I’d like you to meet so and so- they’re here visiting from Missouri.” Then she turns around to another couple and says, “and you remember so and so who use to go to church with us.” I thought, “dang, Mama. I just let you out of the car a minute and a half ago and you’ve already met people from Missouri and found old friends who’d moved away.” Before we made it inside, she made friends with a lady from New Orleans and we heard her life story. Before we left, she knew all about the family history of Pearl’s Diner and was awfully tight with Pearl’s son. I’ve been thinking for a while she should either be in charge of the Mississippi Welcome Center system or go to work for the FBI -interrogation division. Terrorists couldn’t hold up under her interrogative powers. She’d know everything about them in a minute and a half. In a world that seems to have forgotten how to communicate normally and effectively, it is refreshing to see it done the old-fashioned way.

My mother and I have always done things together- that’s nothing new. But, when I designated a special day for us to spend together, she remarked that it must mean she’s getting old. Same thing she says around her birthdays when we gather everyone around her for a picture. I guess I’d have to admit there’s some truth to that. She’ll be 80 this year and it does make me more aware of the swiftness of time and how I should utilize it.

Along the same lines, about a week before Blair was to start 7th grade, I woke up early one random morning and a wave of sadness hit me out of nowhere. My mind started spinning and thinking about all the changes 7th grade would bring. She was my first child and there was a threshold we were about to cross and it hit me that morning. I lay in bed and cried the first tears of letting go of her. A process of mourning that came in waves and in little increments over the span of the next 8 or 9 years. She was 13. Asleep in her bed. Couldn’t even drive. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, but the realization that something I loved so much would leave me, one day, started that morning in bed. She was my girl turning into a young lady and, at that point, I couldn’t imagine being without her. 

I think we all look ahead and anticipate changes that will be difficult for us. Maybe we even begin to mourn things long before there’s anything to mourn. Start to miss things even before they’re gone. When we see the very first light of transition far off in the distance, maybe it’s then that we start the process of grieving. Don’t get me wrong, aside from arthritis, there’s not a thing wrong with my mother that we know about- unless stubbornness is terminal. No, I’m just more aware that you only get one mother and they generally don’t live forever. 

Psalm 90:12 says, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” I’m no theologian, but I think that could mean gaining the wisdom of how to maximize/take advantage of/squeeze all the good out of our allotted time on this earth. Living for Jesus, loving people, and working out our calling. So, may we rock our babies ‘cause babies don’t keep. Love our mamas because they don’t either. And live for God with our whole being. May we seize the day. 

Happy Weekend, y’all. 

JONI 

I’ve built kind of a reputation among the people who know me best. Not sure it it’s a good or bad thing, but I’m known as The Purger. I love to purge. To get rid of things I’m not using or don’t need. I’ve always been this way. I loved cleaning out my desk and my pencil box and the drawers in my room when I was little. As a teenager, it was my purse and my car. Now that I’m grown, I’m always trying to keep clutter from taking hold in our house. Clutter just makes me feel out of sorts. I like for things to have a place and to be somewhat orderly, although you certainly could never accuse me of being compulsive about it. I mean, I’m not like the guy on Sleeping with the Enemy, for goodness sake. 

From time to time, I get called by friends for help. They call when their habit of hanging onto stuff has caused a clutter pileup and they’re ready for intervention to help them free up some space. Knowing how I am, they think if I come over, I can help them pull the trigger on getting rid of some things. There are some hard nuts to crack when it comes to purging. We all like our stuff. And there are so many different kinds of “collectors of things” as we’ll call them. There are the “that’s perfectly good- not a thing wrong with it” crowd, who believe if the item in question is in good, working condition, they should hang onto it- even if the item in question is a VHS camera the size of a briefcase or a hooded hair dryer from the ‘76 Sears catalog. There are the “I’ll need that if we ever fall on hard times” -which, nowadays, it’s kind of hard to argue with that one. I’ll give you that. The “I still use that, sometimes” collector- um, every other leap year doesn’t justify the space it occupies. I have several teacher friends and they’re the “I can use that in my classroom” or “one of my student gave that to me” kind of collectors. Ok, I can appreciate that. There’s the“that might be worth something” collector, who will never know if it is or not because it will likely never leave the spot where it sits and Antiques Roadshow does not make house calls. There’s the “I’m going to save that and, one day, when I have more time, I’ll (fill in the blank) person, who always has big plans. Then, there’s the most common collector, the “I’m going to ask my children if they want that before I get rid of it”- let’s all just remember that there’s nothing we have sitting around that your children or my children want, so let’s save ourselves some time and effort. We all have our points of weakness when it comes to cleaning out, but always with good intentions. 

I like to talk tough about getting rid of things. I mean, I do have my reputation to uphold. I come across as being a hard-nosed purger, but I do have my weak spot- that one area where even I have trouble. I’m a big ol’ sentimental fool. So, if the clutter in question has anything to do with family memories or growing up or a time or people that are no more- well, even I struggle with letting that kind of stuff go. It’s not like I get these artifacts out frequently to look at and remember. No, I’ll go years and years without even thinking about those things, but I know they’re there and maybe that’s all that matters. 

In the process of moving things back into our house recently, I’d conducted my usual purge operations that occur with any kind of move or transition. There were just a couple of closets that had escaped my inspective eyes. One of them housed all of our memories. There were all the scrapbooks. My friends and I were into that craze when it was the thing and I meticulously documented both children’s lives from their baby showers to their high school graduations. There were the baby books. I was determined that our first and second child would have every line of theirs filled in and I’m happy to report they are. There were stacks of photo boxes and photo albums. All of that was, of course, put in the keep pile. But, then there were all the plastic tubs full of keepsakes. Tubs and tubs of it. You know what kind of stuff I’m talking about. That stuff we can’t bear to throw away. What kind of mother throws away the little sign that the hospital hangs at the head of the bassinet? Those worksheets where they first trace the letters and then try to write them at the bottom without help. Mother’s Day cards fashioned from doilies and painted handprints. Letters to Santa, certificates, report cards, Valentines, popsicle frames with a Polaroid taped inside. There were medals that I had no idea who’d earned them or how. Of course, the medals and ribbons are totally separate from the trophy section- the trophy box is a whole different deal and is kept in the attic because of its vast expanse. I guess you could even say I was storing body parts in the tubs- a little silver hippo housing baby teeth and a couple of envelopes of first haircut locks. 

Not only were there the tubs storing the kids’ keepsakes, but there were even a couple housing things from Davis’ and my childhood. Things our mothers had kept for us. At some point, my mother asked my brothers and me to come and take possession of our “boxes”- meaning our childhood keepsakes which she was ready to hand off after 45 years of housing them. After both of Davis’ parents passed away, we took ownership of his things, too. We were storing a lot of memorabilia and I decided it was time to try to pare some of it down or, at least, try to reduce the amount of Rubbermaid products required to store it all. Surely I didn’t have to keep every coloring sheet they’d brought home from Sunday school. Certainly, I didn’t need to hold onto every card they’d received at their 5th birthday party. And what would one ever do with teeth and hair? Mothers are told to keep these things but then what? 

Yes, it took me a day and a half to go through it all, piece by piece, and I did slim down our memory heap. We went from 6 tubs of memorabilia to 4. It doesn’t sound like a lot of reduction, but there are a lot of itty bitty pieces of paper and and handmade cards and school work in one storage tub, so I’ll count the effort as a success. Y’all know how this plays out, don’t you? I could call my kids now and tell them they have to come get their stuff. They’ll say they don’t have room for it. I’ll say ok, but I can’t keep all this forever. In another 20 years, I’ll remind them again. They’ll say they’ll get it, but add that they have no idea where they’ll put it. Somehow, when they come home, they’ll always conveniently forget and leave here without it. Finally, Davis and I will croak or they’ll put us in a home because we’re not taking our medicine and writing large checks to random people and they’ll have to come clean out our house to sell it. There, they’ll find the 4 tubs. Some full of their parents’ handprints and Vacation Bible School diplomas. And theirs with all the construction paper and glitter and misspelled words. And they’ll say they don’t know what to do with all of it, but they’ll load them in their cars and take them to their homes. Their homes that are already full of their own family tubs. The tubs will join them there until they’re passed down to their children. It’s like a game of sentimental hot potato. No one has the heart to throw it away, so we just pass it down the line. 

Yes, one day, my kids will hear those words- Tag. You’re it. The keeper of the tubs. 

Memories do live best in the corners of the heart and the corridors of the mind, but, against those little papers with too much glue and pinking shear edges, this hard core purger admits defeat. 

Y’all have a happy weekend and try to keep cool! Maybe stay in and work on your tubs. 

JONI 

It was a hot and steamy July day. I’d invited my mother to spend the afternoon with me. She didn’t know what we were doing, but I had lunch and a movie in mind. I wanted to take her to see Elvis. Besides hearing his songs played, I don’t remember much about Elvis except when they interrupted my afternoon shows to tell us he was dead. I was 9 and was probably watching Gilligan’s Island or Happy Days or something. My mother was of that age though- the generation that had a front row seat to his rise to fame. She remembered when he was first on The Ed Sullivan Show. She’s always thought Elvis was handsome and had a voice that made her swoon. It could be what she saw in my Daddy with his thick, black hair pushed back. Who knows. I guess you could say she was definitely a fan. Not the kind that would’ve had Elvis salt and pepper shakers on the table, or kept a candle burning near a framed velvet portrait, or thought she’d spotted his face browned into her morning toast, but just the regular kind of fan that enjoyed his music and thought he was easy on the eyes. 

We enjoyed a nice lunch. Got the vegetable plate to offset the meat overload of Independence Day. We stopped in a few shops near the restaurant and then headed to the movie. It was a Tuesday afternoon. The day after a holiday. I was sure we’d be among very few there. We rounded the corner to the theater and found out just how wrong I was. There were women. Older women. Hordes of them. As far as the eye could see. It was a virtual sea of post-menopausals. Grasping their printed tickets. Clutching their purses. Waiting in line for popcorn and Raisinets. Running in and out of the restroom before they went to take their seats. Mama and I had already taken our bathroom break before we even got there as she’d reminded me that it was going to be a long movie and we’d just had all of that tea with lunch and the theater restroom might not be so clean. Once we got there, I offered to buy popcorn and drinks, but she pointed out that it would just make us have to visit the ladies’ room again. It was like I had wandered up in the middle of the filming of an “At Progressive, we can’t keep you from becoming your parents” commercial. 

We made our way to the theater and found our assigned seats. The theater was quite full and I only saw two men in there. No, this was a movie for the ladies. And here they came. Coming in groups- some with canes and walkers- all with big purses. They were using their phone lights to maneuver the dark aisles. Getting situated. Getting their feet elevated to the right height and their head reclined without spilling the overpriced popcorn. You could tell they’d been waiting for this a long time. Despite the reminders on the big screen, there were the errant flip phone rings during the show. It obviously took a while to dig them out of those big purses and then to find the right button to silence them. There was the occasional whooping out loud when Elvis would be looking especially handsome. There was a lot of “whispering” in normal speaking voices. And the older lady next to me thought she’d join him in singing one of his songs at the end. Everyone knows how much fellow moviegoers love that. 

The movie was over and everyone sat there a minute. Then it happened. The audience started clapping. I really felt the Progressive parent commercial coming alive then and wanted to step in for Dr. Rick and say, “No one who made the movie is here.” We exited weaved our way back through the lobby. The ladies were all heading back to the restroom. Trying to find their groups. Throwing away their popcorn tubs. We passed one poor woman who was off by herself with tears in her eyes. She was needing a minute. 

It was a really good movie. Even being outside the Elvis generation, I really enjoyed it. It was done very well. He wasn’t from my decade, but his same story has been replayed plenty of times in musical icons from my day. People with extraordinary talent who achieved crazed fame and it not ending well. I don’t think the human brain can process or manage the pressure that comes with it. Every generation has their big stars. Their heartthrobs. Never to be fully understood by the next generation. But, every generation will eventually become their parents. Just like the commercial says. Symptoms may appear gradually over a period of many years before the full blown transformation takes place. My son-in-law calls me Joni Sr. -insinuating he’s married to the junior. Sometimes, I hear myself say something or catch a glimpse of an expression on my face and I can just feel my mother spilling out of my pores. Progressive can’t help us, so may we be parents worth transforming into and may we be grateful for those parents we’re becoming. 

Happy Thursday! 

JONI