Choir Leader.

    Once the giggly anticipation of my Christmas card delivery settled in my skin,  I knew I had to get myself straight before I went to my mom's house today for Christmas Eve.  It is a house of the Lord.  If you don't know this scripture before you go through the door, you will know it when you leave.

Matthew 18:20
For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.



    Earlier today I noticed that my friend, Lecha Rouse, had posted Whitney Houston's performance of "Do You Hear What I Hear?" on Facebook, and I froze.  I found myself shallowly thankful for YouTube and the technology to bring that authentic gift from God through my speakers while Whitney filled my space once again like she has for more than half my life. 

    When I was a child, I was taught about a choir of angels surrounding the Lord in Heaven.  I had a Crayola inspired image of what that choir must look like.  I'm sure I've drawn it a hundred times on Home Federal note paper in church.  If I drew in church, I had to draw spiritual pictures.  I saw yellows, whites, silvers, and golds all adorning child like figures while the air looks fuzzy as their voices rise.  Until today, that image never changed.  Until today, I imagined God's chorus to be one of simplicity.  Until I asked myself, "Do You Hear What I Hear?" today, I thought God's chorus might look like Charlie Brown's Christmas musical. 

    Can you imagine what it has been like in Heaven this week?  I've complained about alarm clocks, deadlines, evaluations, stress, and traffic here on earth for a month.  I've been equally cranky during the past week. Like many of you, I found myself before the television because I felt morally obligated to watch the people of Sandy Hook as they undoubtedly faced hell on earth.  But today, I stopped complaining.  Today, when I read Lecha's post, I stopped being sad about those babies.  I stopped questioning God. 

    Today, when I listened to Whitney sing, "Do you know what I know?" I answered, "Yes."

    As I sit at this keyboard tonight with music blaring from every possible speaker, not caring if I wake up Lightnin' or Orville next door, I have a new image of what the Lord's choir looks like this Christmas. 

    There are twenty children standing before their choir teacher.  Her silver wings rise with the volume and strength of her voice. Her robe is white and emphasizes notes with her body as she rises and falls with every note.  They are wearing little white robes, and their gold wings are tiny.  Their wings don't rise, but they flutter quickly when the notes get high.  They've been practicing since Friday before last.  She met them at the gates and welcomed them to her music class because they must never be afraid to learn or go to school. There are no auditions; everyone became a member.  Harps and trumpets are trying to keep up with their teacher, and a Little Drummer Boy is working feverishly to respectfully follow the teacher's lead.  In just over seven days, the choir is ready, and today, they have begun their performance.   

    Tonight, as I sit in my little nerd cubicle,  I know that Whitney Houston is leading a choir of angels in Heaven.  Tonight, I have decided that her purpose was never to entertain you or me here on earth.  Her time here was merely practice.  Tonight, I am believing, because I can, her purpose, and the purpose of that powerful, timeless voice, has been to lead a choir of twenty angelic children as they praised our God and celebrated the birth of His son on this night in Heaven.  That image has allowed me to make peace with madness, to stop questioning, and to know that nothing I hear on earth will sound as beautiful as it will sound there.

     I found the lyrics to the song, and they read, "Way up in the sky, little lamb, do you see what I see?"  I'm sure those twenty little lambs had been watching that star dancing in the night for weeks before they were taken to grasp it.  Later, a lyric says, "Do you hear what I hear ringing through the sky, shepherd boy, do you hear what I hear?" I am sure the little boys from Sandy Hook can hear a song far above any trees and the voice that is big as the sea belongs to Whitney.

     "Said the king to the people everywhere, listen to what I say pray for peace, people everywhere! Listen to what I say."  I've heard the song for forty-one years, and the lyrics never resonated with me like they have today.  I never took the time to sit down and study their meaning.  I never took the time to give the lyrics any power.  It's hard to hear the text when Whitney's voice delivers the sound.  The song says we should pray for peace.  I don't think that is about war, conflict, or politics.  I think we are supposed to pray for peace in the hearts of Sandy Hook's residents and the people left behind.  For I know, if I know nothing else, the twenty angels are earning A+'s in choir tonight.

      In the end, Whitney sings, "He will bring us goodness and light."  Each of us has a reason to give in to pain during the holiday season.  We each awake on this day with some degree of loss.  We each awake with some scar of disappointment.  But, we still woke up.  This holiday will be what we make it.  And, I do believe, He will bring us goodness and light just like Whitney sings He will.

     Can you imagine growing up with Whitney as your mother teaching you the words to "Jesus Loves Me"?  Can you imagine her voice at a Christmas gift exchange?  Can you imagine that power, talent, and force filling your home each holiday season?  And then, can you imagine the silence this year?  Can you imagine the silence in Sandy Hook or in Whitney's home? 

      I can't hear that silence, but I can hear that choir of twenty angels working hard to please their teacher and their God. 

      Step out on your porch and look up.  Close your eyes.  Hold your heart.  Let me know if you hear what I hear.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aF_wZPUtpxA

     

    

    



The Making of My Christmas Card 2012

     "I know I gave birth to you, but I swear, when you get me into these fixes, I sometimes wonder if you came from under a cabbage leaf."  Mom said those words to me as she climbed in the bug to prepare for the day's adventure.  I've got pictures of so many people I love, but I sure don't have many photographs of Mom and me together.  Now, I don't think I need very many.  In fact, I think I might just need the one you see at the heading of this entry.  I really don't know how I could possibly design a pose to depict our relationship any better.
      I learned at an early age that Santa is a second string player in the whole glory that is Christmas.  My mom taught me about Jesus first.  She taught me to believe about a baby born in a manger.  That established the idea of what "believe" meant in my young mind.  After I knew God's reason for our most glorious season, then she got busy with Santa (no pun intended).  We didn't need an elf on our shelf.  When you live with Bebe and you know Jesus is on her side, you must be good.  Period.  Santa was never used as a threat regarding my behavior.  Jesus, the Ten Commandments, and switch were a promise.
     At some point in my adult life, the Joseph went missing from her manger scene and I still live in constant paranoia that she thinks I stole her Joseph.  I swear; I didn't.  Holly Cheek has shopped literally from Middlesboro to Italy trying to find a proper replacement for Mom's missing Joseph, and there isn't one to be found.  Every year at Thanksgiving, Mom starts talking about what she'd like to give me for Christmas, and then she says, "I'd get you something else, but I know you have my Joseph." This is my public plea for help.  Please, if you see Mom in public, tell her I don't have her Joseph.  No matter how well I try to behave, this Joseph issue comes up every year.
      So, I convinced her we would be darling.  I convinced her we would be divas.  I convinced her that I'd behave, say no bad words, and promised not one hair on her head would be out of place when we finished.  After our glam squad work, some costume fittings, and pose discussions, we finally looked into the camera and made up for a lot of lost time in pictures. 

     Today, my aunt Sandy sent me an email and reminded me of an image I'd give gold to have on film today.  My papaw Steve loved Christmas as much as he loved fishing.   Sandy reminded me though that every year,  a small, crooked line of Christmas lights would adorn the hand built fence row that invited guests to enter through an antique gate like all of your grandparents had.  I had forgotten about those lights, and I try so hard not to forget.  I've tried to imagine what my papaw would think if he saw this picture.  I'm pretty sure he'd look at mom and say, "Well, at least you're a ten point."

    I have had a happiness headache for days waiting for the actual cards to reach far distant lands where my family members call home.  I've wanted to come here to ...hellofuzzy... and tell you about the happiest photo shoot of my life, but I managed to restrain from pointing and clicking and ruining a surprise.  This was absolutely the work of more than merely me.  Daniel England secured the location and shot the pictures for us.  I cannot thank him enough.  The wardrobe was supplied by another of Santa's elves, but I can't reveal those details for fear of ruining some magic for my young readers of ...hellofuzzy...  That particular elf and his wife know I'm thankful that they entrusted me with such a heirloom.  Mom was sitting on a stack of dictionaries.  If she sat in the actual seat, you could only see the tippy top of her antlers, and that just would not do.
     For as many laughs, giggles, and chuckles these images have provided you, knowing that our Christmas card has brought joy to a few homes has really filled Mom and me up with more pride and sparkle than two gals should be allowed to contain by law.  We've spent hours on the phone, texting, calling, and emailing each other while compiling US Post Office delivery stats, "Who have you heard from today?" while we compared notes regarding your responses to what we hope has been a very Merry Christmas surprise from us to you.

Now, here's a picture of Mom adjusting her "rack."  (again...no pun intended)

    And, in a moment of sincerity, know that I am thankful for my ...hellofuzzy... world and all of you who read my words and share my spirit.  As Christmas Day approaches, let us gather with those we love and hold them just a little bit tighter this year than last...simply because we can. 

    Merry Christmas from ...hellofuzzy...  and Bebe, too. 



   

    

If this Danna could love others like that Donna...

     Today, I find myself awake and rattled because my home town newspaper, the Middlesboro Daily News,  has led me to a place of anger, disappointment, and sadness.  Throughout my life, I have sought refuge in taking and studying photos.  In sentimental times, I browse through Facebook and try to find photos that remind me of how I was raised, that show me faces of those who loved me first, and that encourage me to write with my mother's grace and my dad's lack of filter.  Let me just tell you how it is up front.  If I've ever made you smile or shed a tear after reading ....hellofuzzy..., my ability to do that with words has been instilled by my educational background, encouraged by my parents, and fostered by more than one person as shown in the photo above.  These are members of the First Christian Church in Middlesboro, and I stole the photo from Donna Greene's Facebook collection.  You should know that I am not a member of the church, but its walls store many pages of my life's story growing up in Middlesboro.  As I look at that photo, I see teachers, safe harbors, inspirations,  the little girl my mother loved first long before I came along, and my beloved next door neighbors who introduced me to their beloved friend, Donna Greene, when I was just a little girl and in the process, I gained yet another role model who set an example for the citizen I hoped to grow up to become.  Donna is pictured on the front row to the far left, and her smile and comforting words have encouraged and embraced me during every single milestone of my life.  
    Everybody knows Donna in Middlesboro.  When you say that about a small town, there are two connotations to the expression, "Everybody knows...."  I just clarify that everyone knows Donna by choice not by gossip.  Donna's family's roots run deep throughout Bell County, and those roots were planted in times of hard work and sacrifice by her parents and their ancestors.  Middlesboro has several characters known by their first names only.  My mother is one, and so is Donna.  To its benefit, the Middlesboro Daily News has used Donna's name during her hire to add a sense of credibility to its lifestyles section.  God doesn't make no junk and Donna never printed any junk.  Two facts I've known since I learned to sing "Jesus Loves Me."  Now, the Daily News has decided after twenty-seven years to fire Donna in an unnecessary and curt manner as of October 19.  My heart is broken for her, but more so, my heart is broken for the demographic who depend on her to bring highlights to their days.  Not all folks in Middlesboro are plugged into this Internet we use to seek our news.  The Middlesboro Daily News is the prominent source of news for many in my beloved home town, and most of the time, the only good news within its pages was compiled by my friend, Donna Greene.  I believe those to write good news that make us smile and forget about the harsh headlines that often make the cover are the journalists whose work we should honor first. 
      My personal interactions with Donna during my life on Balmoral are too many to list.  She is as a sibling to my precious Scott and Mary Ruth Coign and their son Jon.  She and her sister Beverly were Jon's first friends.  As I began to trot a worn path to the little white house next door when I was a child, I was often greeted by Donna's welcoming smile, and she listened to all I had to say with genuine interest and validation that some day the ideas I hope to write and the stories I hope to share would be read by the masses.  She also listened to me vent to Scott and Mary Ruth about stories that would have made the headlines of the Daily News fly off the shelves by the thousands, yet she watched out for me, understood my frustration as a child, and never once betrayed my trust by running stories about antics others would have paid far more than fifty cents to read.  A kid can learn a lot by sitting silently in a pawn shop.
      I hate conflict.  It takes the air from my lungs.  My mouth becomes parched.  My head grows swimmy.  I cringe and have literal physical reactions to it in general.  Today, I feel none of those things.  Donna's painful fate is not an issue of conflict, it is an issue of love.  She has penned the obituaries for my papaw Steve who taught me how whittle;  for my WoWo who taught me how to properly eat a Reese's cup; for my dad who told me a lot of secrets in hopes that some day I'd publish one hell of a book, and I will;  and for my beloved husband whose absence from my daily life has left a heart ache that Donna has written more than once to tell me she prays will some day be eased.  She organized the senior photo section when I graduated from high school.  She featured me in a story when my writing sent me like a bull in a China shop to a state academic competition.  When my dad finally stopped fighting cancer, she and Beverly came to the cemetery and stood within inches of me as I laid him to rest.  She has celebrated my accomplishments, prayed in my time of need, and shared her precious time with the Coigns with me when I know they didn't particularly want an awkward teenager interrupting their grown up conversations. 
      She is a living, breathing history reference for Middlesboro.  She has provided filters that few journalists would have had the courtesy to use.  She has taken time to acknowledge the sacrifice of veterans, praise the work of teachers, and encourage young people who are interested in journalism, sport, academics, and their love of life in general.  She has been a source of validation when it comes to the credibility of the Middlesboro Daily News. 
      I am incredibly disappointed in my home town newspaper.  Just a few short weeks ago, my mom was named "Best Person in Middlesboro" as a result of their Reader's Choice annual submission.  My mom was tickled pink, but she'll tell you without a remote hesitation that she'd share the title with Donna Greene.
      The Middlesboro Daily News has made a tragic error in judgment.  I have found myself listing the names of Middlesboro residents who have passed on to Heaven and would have smooth blown a gasket had they been here yesterday when this information was shared.   The Daily News thought it had reason for financial concern back in the days of fiery city council meetings and investigations into the wicked ways of the body of water of Yellow Creek that crawls along the Beltline.  To quote Doug Campbell, "You ain't heard it thunder yet."
      I love you, Donna. 

Secrets about the Beebster

     Today has brought about an event that has developed into a ...hellofuzzy... moment too good to pass up.  Someone, somewhere has decided my mother is the "best" at something, but the mystery source won't reveal any details.  Mom, of course, is curious yet reserved.  She's not sure if she's the victim of a practical joke or if a new reason to smile is coming her way.  Regardless, she shared this conspiracy with me while calling to see if I wanted her to bring me more Sunny Delight.  Much to her disappointment, I still have half a refrigerator full.
     After I ended the call with her this afternoon, I got so tickled.  Being the daughter to a mother who spends most of her waking moments with nine year old children is quite the trip.  She sees most of the world through the eyes of those children.  Every year, a new little patch of students falls head over heels in love with my mother, and I am again reminded that I'm her only child strictly as a matter of biology.  She is a mother of sorts to generations.
     But, enough of all that jazz meant for Hallmark cards and Lifetime movies.  I think it's time to share with you a few of my mom's hidden talents.  I'm writing this not only to send her into orbit but to also distract her until she finds out, officially, what is is that someone has decided she is the best at doing, being, playing, and/or teaching.  There are things about my momma you may not know, and I feel as though it is my personal responsibility to share with you the secrets of life with Bebe. 
     First of all, you must know if you go to her house on Halloween, before, or after, you will get a treat. No costume is ever required.  Just show up after a hard day at work, ring the doorbell, and she'll come running with a little snack, bottle of hand lotion, or a candle.   No one ever leaves without a gift of some sort.  She is quite fond of products that come in small containers.  She likes water in bottles that are pint size.  She swears all Coke products taste better in small cans.  She says that Hershey's traditional candy bars are just sweeter in the bite size form.  She thinks the little cups of Kraft macaroni and cheese are precious, and she loves tiny little packets of Kleenex.  Very few things in her arsenal of gifts are bigger than a bullfrog.  She lovingly gives out treats and follows with, "Isn't that cute?"
    Next, you should know that no ink pens in her house work.  None.  I can tell you there is some unknown evil force that lives within proximity to her kitchen food bar, and it dries up the ink in every pen that touches its surface. Cookies, cakes, and dumplins survive, but her ink pens have a shorter lifespan than peanut butter in my cabinet.  She will not throw away a dried up pen.  Would you like to know why?  They're all pretty.  They're not the 12 for a dollar Bic pens.  Oh, no.  All of her pens are flowery, decorative, girlie pens, and they're just too cute to throw away.  If you're going to go see her for an autograph, you better take your own pen. 
   Another interesting little Bebe fact is that she is, perhaps, the most aggressive college football fan I've ever seen in action in my life.  Ever.  I live in a town filled with devoted UT fans, and I'm telling you, I'm yet to see anyone respond to Neyland Stadium and its boys like my mother.  The transformation begins when the SEC media days transpire. She is that fan who will listen to WIVK commentary and turn down the volume on her television.  You are a small group, but you know who you are.   She allows herself to forget about football from February until August.  However, when she starts to clean up her classroom for her little students, something creeps into her blood and turns it orange.  She knows every single play.  She knows every single official.  She will argue about every single penalty.  She knows she has big orange issues, and she keeps her enthusiasm at home within the confines of her own little NCAA football kingdom.  ESPN only wishes it had game day like Bebe's house on Saturday mornings.  Makes me a nervous wreck.  I don't know what is more intimidating...the anticipation before the game or her reaction when it's over.  She covers up one eye and watches out of the other.  She screams.  She yells.  She would blow a whistle if she had one.  Please, don't enable her and make this condition any worse.  The reason why she doesn't sing in the church choir has nothing to do with her piano skills.  She's too hoarse from screaming at the television the day before to sing on Sunday.
    However, if there is one simple thing that makes her happy, it is giving anyone a piece of peppermint.  I bet you're smiling right now and agreeing with what I've written.  She is the sole reason that Brach candies hasn't gone out of business.  She will never give you butterscotch.  No, no, no.  She is the tri-state area's strongest proponent of the powers of peppermint candy.  She keeps it in her purse, in her car, by the piano, and at the entrance to her dining room.  She is never out of reach of a candy bowl, and she'll put one in your hand if given half a chance to do so.  The peppermint will never be gummy either.  You know how that piece of candy tastes after it has nested in the bottom of your grandmother's purse since Sue Ellen was sober on Dallas?  Mom's candy will never be out of date.  She wants it to be fresh and she wants to have a lot of it on hand to give to you.  She thinks she's just giving you a piece of candy, but you know there's a lot of love that comes along with every loud wrapper you twist open. 
    My favorite, favorite, favorite secret about my mom is her loyalty to local radio in Middlesboro.  If any current visual image of her now gives me insight to what she was like as a child, it is her love of all radios that are tiny and portable.  Her iPad rests precisely in the middle of her house, and it has technological capabilities to connect her with the entire world; however, right beside the iPad sits her little transistor radio.  It's just a simple, black radio that runs on double A batteries.  She packs it around with her like I keep a silk pillow with me.  That little radio travels back and forth from her bedroom to the kitchen to the den every single day of Mom's life.  On laundry days, it goes to the basement.  If it's pretty outside, it sets on the deck. She relies on it for news, weather, and especially school closings.  She has all the technology of the free world at her fingertips with regard to the Internet, but she loves that little radio more than she will ever love anything invented at Apple or Microsoft. 
    There are more secrets to come, but I will close this session of ...hellofuzzy... out for the time being.  I don't know what kind of "best," my mom is about to be named, but I can't wait to find out.   And on those days when you're trying to figure out the secret to staying healthy, happy, and spiritually connected to God, I highly suggest you drink a tiny can of Coke, eat a little bite size Hershey bar, try to write with a pretty pen that has no ink, passionately watch a college football game, and then perk up your ears and listen to a little local radio talk.  Seems to be the key to living a happy and fulfilled life. 

   
    
 

Girls, Girls, Girls

        Without question, this is the quickest ...hellofuzzy... update I've ever posted, but today's events have filled my heart and brought my summer days closer to a happy ending by spending the afternoon watching two young women celebrate life while loving each other just as much as they did when they could barely see over the porch rails of this little play house.  My afternoon today with Brittany and Allison prefaced by a stop in Cookeville to see Kori and Tucker earlier in the week has reminded me why I became a teacher, found my home in Tazewell, and am grateful for the opportunity to watch one giggly girl, one almost athlete, and a creative genius grow up and become all that God has intended for them to be.  They are three of many, but through the years, they are three of my many loves who have kept in touch, shared milestone moments, and allowed me to photograph them along the paths their lives have taken.

        I didn't know them before they turned ten.  I had no clue they even existed until they started fifth grade at SMMS.  By keeping the score book for Junior Pro basketball, I got to know a group of kids who remain close to my heart many years after those Saturday mornings of blowing whistles, enthusiastic huddles, and double dribbles.  I've tried to decipher exactly why it is that we became so close, and my analysis is actually quite simple.  I think I'm one of the few adults they ever met who didn't know their parents.  I must  have seemed like some creature from another planet.  I didn't know Steve Malone was an "eye doctor", had no clue Danny England existed much less had a car lot, and the only flower shop I had ever used was Henry's in Middlesboro.  They quickly taught me about their families while I tried to make mental notes about the importance of NASCAR, University of Tennessee sports, and nail polish that changed colors with one's body temperature. 

        Their 8th grade class was filled with girls during their particular year.  Only two boys managed to make the list, and oh, how they endured torture.  Endless conversation about all things frilly, such as the first ever formal dance at SMMS (in my tenure at least).  And in their group, there was Eddie.  Eddie was a curly haired, brown eyed, brilliant boy, and he lived to grade Allison's papers.  He just wanted her to miss one question so he could strike a red mark across her paper thus sending her into fits of displeasure.  He seldom got to use his red pen, but in turn, his paper presented Allison with no chance to strike red either.  They were two of a kind, but their lives couldn't have been more diverse if scripted to be that way.  When Saint Valentine's Day rolled around, Brittany led the brigade to make Eddie feel loved.  I stopped at WalMart and bought a box of Hello Kitty Valentines, and the girls all filled them out with notes of affection for their rotten Eddie.  He entered class to find a bag filled with love that day, and I'm pretty sure that's the only time he ever blushed in his entire life.

        My connection to Kori goes back to that red dirt that runs through my veins.  Her older sister, Tracy, was suspicious of my hire at Tazewell Speedway, but the fact that I knew Kori gave me a little credit upon my arrival in "the tower."  After two seasons of working beside Tracy, God called her home too soon, and my attention to Kori's life became more focused because I was here to watch her grow, go to prom, get married, and now become a mother.  I'm so fortunate, and I do not take one single step of her life for granted.  She is beautiful, smart, and painfully funny.  She has been from the first time I met her, and each characteristic of her being seems to fill my heart with each simple text message, Facebook update, or email she sends.  Tucker has no clue what he's in for.  He will be a momma's boy, but they will re-define the term in methods no one has experienced to date. 

       As Brittany opened her gifts today, she narrated the event in the same voice she has had all her life...at least as long as I've known her.   She was attentive to each detail and was so thankful for every one's generosity.  Her spirit is unlike any girl I've ever met.  I don't think she has an "off" button, and like, Tucker, Baby Ethan has no idea what he's in for when he meets his mother.  I have visions of Brittany being the ultimate sports mom.  She'll have shirts with his jersey number and then his name is Swarovski crystals.  Woe be unto the first referee who ever calls a penalty on Ethan...or Tucker for that matter. 

       My mom raised me to believe boys aren't as smart as girls; she's on to something there. : )  With every group of students who leave my classroom in May, I can accurately predict the future for each.  I envision graduations, celebrations, academic accomplishments, athletic domination, and happiness fulfilled.  Brittany, Kori, and Allison have always shared life's moments with me, and today, I have realized that the little awkward tween girls I met so long ago are honest to goodness grown women who are making this world a better place one milestone at a time. 

      They are just three of 19 years' worth of students I've met while enforcing the importance of grammar and punctuation.  I will be writing about more of you in the blogs ahead.  I was so emotional leaving Brittany's baby shower today, and I had to rush home and put my thoughts to fuzzy.  Despite the frustrations that come with my career choice, there is no more of a rewarding work to be done on this earth than to be a teacher.  This is the perfect time of year for me to be reminded of that fact. 



The Other "Woman"

     August 3. I find myself remembering and wishing in a child like sense.  As I write this, I have a decision to make; today can be sad thus making it all about me, or today can be humble thus making it all about him. There is this day, and there will always be this day.  Today is his fifty-second birthday.  In the beginning, I thought it was appropriate to be silent, to give the impression I have put all the pieces back together, to ignore the obvious.  Now, 1,186 days later, I have accepted that being silent isn't an option for me.   Last fall, an acquaintance suffered a similar heart ache, and I found myself feeling connected to someone I knew but didn't know well.  Thanks to a common love of flying red clay mud and technology, she has become my friend.  She reads my thoughts and other women who've known these days do, too.  We're not alone in our baby steps toward exhaling.  We know God holds our hands, but we help each other in a very quiet yet powerful manner.
    He never considered his birthday to be a big deal, and I couldn't understand why.  I never told him why I cared so much about the day; I never thought about my explanation before he wasn't here to listen. I always acknowledged but never truly explained. I'd buy cute, flirty cards to mark the day.  I should have written my own words instead.   My explanation is simple. Without his birth, I would have never known the purest yet briefest joy of my life.  I can't give the day of his passing any more power than it already holds on my happiness.  I have to focus on the events that eventually brought him to me instead of the tragedy that took him away.  I have to rise above grief because if I give in to it, all the work my mother did to teach me about our faith is a loss.  It is because I believe what she taught me that I have made peace with him not being here to celebrate on this particular day.  We'll celebrate again when I meet him there.
    In my daily accomplishments of  exhaling, stepping ahead, and acknowledging truth, I found these two photos which I had forgotten existed.  If he were here, I couldn't share them with you. He'd never live these down.  I came to my keyboard with an option of making doom and gloom permanent on this day or giving you a reason to smile.  I chose the latter.     
   We were married for a year and a half when Alley came into our lives.  While outside piddling in the yard, he heard "voices" from inside the central heat and air unit in September 2004, and he took the encasing off to find three kittens whose eyes were barely open.  He burst through the kitchen door like Opie Taylor after winning a baseball game and dragged me outside (I'm not much of one for the outdoors).  There on the front porch wiggled three gray kittens in a pile.  They couldn't walk, but they could wiggle and scream. I was not a cat person.  I looked around the yard, and there was no sign of a momma.  Then, I looked at his face and saw a smile I had never seen before.  He couldn't stop patting their heads, and when he did, they'd bob up and down like floaters attached to a fishing line being teased by a crappie.   In my memory, that is what happy will always look like.  We fed them some milk from a medicine dropper, and they lapped it up.  They fell asleep, and we put them in a whelping box under the tree in our front yard.  He was worse than a kid waiting on Santa.  Back and forth with a flashlight he'd go to the box throughout the night. I can still see him shuffling out of the bedroom in his Snoopy pajama pants.  During the night, the momma came back and got two of them but left one.  The one left behind made her way into our house within a matter of nanoseconds... a passenger in the pocket on his t-shirt, and she has been here ever since.  He named her Alley, and for years, she was the other woman in this house.
      In a matter of weeks, I felt as though I was a third wheel in their relationship.  He fed her with a bottle, and she grunted while she drank it.  She sat on his shoulder and slept while he watched TV Land.  She greeted him at the door upon his arrival and sat with him while he ate dinner.  She looked at me as if I were always in the way.  I shudder to think about what she would have told me had she been able to speak.  Her smirk, her squinty eyes, her proud prance around this house made me nuts.  In spite of my jealousy,  they together were a sight to behold. 
      I came home from work in spring to find them outside.  As I putted my little car up the driveway, I thought, "That's not what I think it is."  It was.  It was purple, and it was a leash.  Not only was he carrying a leash, but Alley was connected to it by wearing a matching harness.  I sat in my car under the carport in disbelief.  He had gone over the edge.  He had finally snapped.  This was it.  The laughter I heard as I got out of my car was like that of a small child watching a circus.  He knew he had pushed me over the edge, but he knew I'd love the scene, too.  He loved being outside more than in the confines of walls.  That is another reason I know he's o.k. now; there are no walls to hold him  there.  From the time he got home until the street lights came on, he stayed outside and he wanted Alley with him.  She'd sit in the living room window and give him  a pathetic sad face to indicate her disapproval of him being away from her.  She'd get mad being stuck inside with me and pout until doing so convinced him to come inside early.  He rescued her from misery, and then he thought to put her on a leash.
      If you look closely at the first picture, you can see his smile stretching across his face with the effort to stretch farther.  He knew he had stepped outside of a box, but in doing so, he made her happy and himself jubilant.  I imagine he smiled like this when he blew out candles as a child.  Yes, he put Alley on a leash, and they enjoyed the outdoors together.   He sat in his chair whittling cedar one Marlboro after the next while she sat in front of him nibbling on blades of grass.  I'd peek around the corner and watch the show when I could do so without getting caught.  In time, he finally let me take pictures.  Again, I find myself beyond thankful for my cameras.
      And now, the pictures remain and bring me so much happiness.  I laugh hysterically when I pull these two up.  He just put a cat on a leash.  I now bring the cat in here to command central of Cedar Fork, show her the pictures and talk to her like I expect her to respond and acknowledge how cute they were together.  I'm silly enough to hope she remembers him, and I'm smart enough to know that's not possible.  And to think I thought HE was nuts.  She plays along.  She keeps me company.  She never leaves my side and she meets me at the door when I return.  She sleeps beside me while snuggled up to the end of his pillow that still smells like a mixture of motor oil and smoke (I will NEVER wash it; feel free to judge my cleanliness),  and she earns her keep; we haven't had a mouse in this house yet.  I have become the crazy cat lady, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
       So, in closing, these pictures will serve as this year's birthday for us from him.  As I've written before, I hope Heaven is the place where we will finally escape technology, so I don't expect this blog to travel that far.  All this time, my loved ones have consistently worried about my well being.  Today, I can tell you that peace "which passeth all understanding" resides in this house with Alley and me.
     Take time to record your life and make back up files.  The photos that will matter the most are the ones that come from a moment's notice instead of months of planning.  There is no need to make hundreds; just make a few and make them priceless.
       Happy birthday, Pic, with love from Alley and me.

Provided. Encouraged. Practiced. Repeat.

    I am not a photographer.  Earlier this year, I took great offense from the words of a villiage idiot who proclaimed there are no photographers left...just good automatic cameras.  Criticism has always been this only child's worst enemy, and I took that insult to heart.  As I allowed my inner child to puff up and pout like she had just lost her favorite Barbie, I realized the truth of the matter is this:  I am not a photographer.  I have not completed any course of study regarding my favorite art form.  I have not completed any sort of degree in visual arts.  I have never set foot in a photography classroom.  I have taken some private lessons from professionals in Knoxville, but those were the equivalent to learning how to play chop sticks on the piano with more than one finger.  Today, I'm admitting, I am not a photographer.
    I am, however, one very grateful picture taker who was allowed and encouraged to improve her photography by her parents, teachers, and extended family from the first time I ever picked up a Kodak Disc camera.  Remember those?  Only fifteen shots per disc, and you had to make them count.  That was the first camera I ever received, and I used it to win the award shown above.  My 4H assignment was to tell a story with six photos, which I wish I still had but don't.  I can remember assembling Alice, Becky, Leslie, and Lisa in the back yard with pom  poms in hand.  I photographed six steps to building a human pyramid and put the pictures on a poster board.  Those six pictures (taken when I was eleven years old) have led me to my heart's happiest place today:  looking at the world through my camera lens.
   Is there an underlying issue to my love of all still images?  Yes.  Would a therapist have a field day with it?  Of course.  Let's just say that I lost all my family photos when I was in middle school, and that loss traumatized me.  Most people consider family photos their prized possessions, and within just a few minutes, my lifetime of memories went up in flames while I watched frozen in fear.  From that terrible experience, I vowed to photograph life's most simplistic and fantastic moments and never ever lose another image of my family; and I'd make sure others never suffered such a loss, too.  I bounced back from one act of cruelty, and I transformed a nightmare into my happy place.
   Growing up in Middlesboro, I had more than one professional photographer whose work inspired me to learn more about getting better and smarter with a camera.  Mr. Jackson, owner of Jackson's Studio and Gifts, was the first person I ever knew who took pictures for a living.  His gift shop and studio were next door to my dad's pawn shop, and I had a lot more fun hanging out at Jackson's than hanging out with a bunch of pocket knives and fishing poles.  Mr. Jackson also had original Cabbage Patch dolls (cloth faces) in his store, and even though I never owned one, he allowed me to come over and babysit his adoptable babies.  There's no doubt in my mind that I drove him and Joyce Skidmore nuts.  I am so appreciative of their patience and kindness, but little did I know then what a huge impact their effort to amuse me would have on my life as an adult.  If I behaved myself, made good grades, and didn't break anything, they'd let me take a few dolls back to the photography studio and pose them and pretend to make pictures of them.  There was no film in the camera.  Sometimes I got to use a flash, and those were super special days.  I arranged those dolls like they were supposed to be models in JCPenney's Christmas Wish Book and photographed them for hours on end.  Jackson's also sold collectible stickers and scrapbooks.  New supplies came in weekly, and the stickers were a quarter each, which was a lot back then.   When my day's work with photography was finished, I got a free sticker for my collection for being such a good employee.  That is precisely how my life behind a camera began.
   I paid attention to every possible exposure I encountered regarding professional photography when I was a child.  I remember one particular bridal portrait that was displayed in Venable's for such a long time.  It was a close up of a bride in a yard filled with beautiful flowers, and I never knew who the bride was. She had short blonde hair and glowed with happiness.  I never knew who photographed her, but that is the first bridal portrait (other than my mother's) to ever leave me breathless.  The frame around the portrait was carved thick wood covered in gold paint, and I looked at that photo like many people looked at art created by the masters in museums. The portrait wasn't a full shot...only from about the waist up...but she looked so beautiful and the pose was timeless.  Timeless is something I've strived for in my own picture taking, and it's tough to achieve.
   Pearle Sorah went to church with my mom and me.  How appropriate that he, an x-ray tech, was also a photographer.  He had a home studio and when I would visit with his wife's grandchildren, I often watched as he completed sessions with clients. I watched him like a hawk when he photographed weddings, too.   He had a very nice studio with the best equipment, but he snapped a picture of his wife's daughter, Terri, at the airport during sunset one evening, and that stands out in my mind as yet another actual photograph that left me breathless.  Terri had beautiful long brown curly hair, beautiful skin, and she was wearing the coolest sunglasses ever.  She was leaned up beside an airplane, and everything was just perfect once the shutter was fired.  Slowly, I started to realize that I could make beautiful pictures outside instead of staying inside a studio.  I wanted my pictures to be timeless and leave people breathless.
   During high school, I made numerous futile and failed attempts to tan my skin at a local beauty shop in Middlesboro so I would be less prone to glow in the dark.  That beauty shop had "walls of fame," which displayed photos taken by Benny Collins.  If your portrait was hanging on the wall in that particular shop, it was the equivalent to a local celebrity's star on a walk of fame. HA!   This was the first time I ever remember paying attention to the difference in color and black and white photography with my preference being toward black and white.  Benny was the first photographer I ever knew to introduce special effects into photography, too.   He was a master of double exposure, gel highlighting, and unique backdrops.  It took great restraint for me to not stalk him because he just lived around the corner from Mom and me.  I managed to resist the temptation to beg him for wisdom regarding his craft and just took notes from his work as I saw it.  To this day, my favorite Benny Collins photograph is of a bride's shoe.  Yep.  Cinderella's shoe might have been as beautiful, but I doubt it.  It was the most unique bridal photo I had ever seen, and that's when my definition of timeless began to broaden.
   After I learned to appreciate the work of Mr. Jackson, Pearle Sorah, and Benny...I saw the work of Paula (Hayes) Melton, and from that day forward, everything about the way I worked a camera changed.  She had photographed a friend of mine, and it looked as though the girl's gorgeous face was reflected in a pool when there was no drop of water to be found.  Again, I was left breathless.  That photo will forever stand in my mind as the most beautiful image I have ever seen.  The color was so sharp.  The skin looked like Grace Kelly.  Eyes were as deep as the water appeared to be.  There were no shadows.  The light absorbed in the skin instead of reflecting from it.  Every single component of that shot was absolutely perfect.  Before our world went digital, the only way I had to see Paula's work was to actually get my hands on pictures she had shot.  I hunted for them like water in a desert.  If she photographed a wedding, I tried to go to watch her...not the bride.  When she photographed children, I studied the proofs like I was preparing for a final exam.  She didn't have to advertise.  All she had to do was consistently produce what I consider to be the most beautiful photography I've ever seen.  Period.  I finally worked my nerve up to ask her to photograph me, and she made me feel like I was pretty.  I was as awkward as a fish on sand, but she brought a calming yet encouraging spirit with her work.  By the time we were finished, I was ready to be on the cover of Vogue.  I learned in that single session the importance of making every subject feel beautiful, handsome, and appreciated.  Paula's heart is evident in every single image she has ever photographed; all I've ever wanted was to be that good.  It's a goal I take baby steps toward with every session.  I could write for days and still never convey to you what a standard her work sets for my photography. 
   Those local influences are precisely the people who have helped me get to this point in my photography.  From the time I was old enough to understand the sentimental value of a picture, I was fortunate to know people who were professionals and could teach me great lessons by the example they set with their work.  I was inspired by photographers who had to choose ISO, use light meters, navigate through dark rooms, and rely upon their precision instead of technology to produce timeless images.  Having that appreciation of photography long before Photoshop was involved is one of my life's greatest gifts. 
    As always, I'm grateful to my parents for always inspiring my love of photography.  They picked up on my genuine love of a camera without question and allowed me to expand my experiences in order to avoid killing their young. HA!  I know I made them crazy.  I know the money my mom spent on developing my film would have probably been enough to pay my entire college tuition and then some.  For those of you parents who make great sacrifices to encourage what your child loves to do, let this story remind you that your children will be grateful for your support. 
    Maybe some day I will be a professional photographer, but for the time being, I'm just going to continue taking pictures of happy people and trying to improve with every click of the shutter.  I am a proud 4H photography champion, and that's all the fame my ego can handle.