Journal of a Living Lady #324
Nancy White Kelly

In our 43 years of marriage, Buddy has changed from a shy Mississippi country boy to a non-stop comedian. It was his dry wit that drew me initially. Now his wit is not so subtle. Sometimes I approve. Often I don’t, but I’ve learned to expect the unexpected.

Like on Mother’s Day. Just before the morning service, the pastor was politely greeting little ole ladies while standing on the floor in front of the platform. Suddenly Buddy snatched my fancy hat and put it on his own head. Up he jumped from the pew and headed down the center aisle. In front of God and everybody, he bear-hugged the surprised preacher.

Buddy has never been a respecter of persons. Family lineage or community status doesn’t impress him a bit. He is what he is and assumes everybody else was born on flat land too. I have always admired that quality in him.

There is a twelve year difference in our ages. Buddy graduated from high school when I was in first grade. When he asked me to marry him, I insisted that he pay the obligatory visit to my parents to ask for my hand. Poor fellow. My mother put him through the third degree and was highly skeptical that he had been married before. He hadn’t. It just took a long time to find me.

There are advantages and disadvantages to marrying an older man. He was mature, had his education behind him, and was employed with a secure company or so we thought. Eastern Airlines later bit the dust. Still Buddy had accumulated wisdom and life experience that is atypical of newlyweds.

Buddy grew up in a three-room house. Utility, not beauty, was priority. He never out-grew that idea. About half-way through our marriage, I gave in. Having a house decorated like those in the glossy magazines wasn’t going to happen with my man around.

Yes, he is forgetful. He feigns senility at times just to aggravate me. No, he doesn’t hear well. How could he? Three sets of hearing aids sit in the top drawer of the bureau. He ought to own stock in Metamucil.

At last count Buddy had nine pairs of pants and fourteen shirts. Yet he wears the same outfit day in and day out. That is, if he gets by me in the morning. Sunday is an exception. No matter how early we rise, Buddy waits until the last possible minute to decide which of two suits to wear and can never remember which tie matches.

I remind him occasionally that he won’t find another woman who would put up with nails in the bedroom furniture so he can hang his keys, but it is a small price to pay for a good man. How many young men get up first, make the coffee, get the morning paper and then gently awakens his wife? Now that I am retired again, he has resumed that daily habit and I hope he never stops.

It never dawns on him to open a door or pull out a chair for his wife, but Buddy would search the world for me if I disappeared. His grammar lacks polish, but he never fails to unashamedly say he loves me or show it in hundreds of little ways.

Our wedding picture looks nothing like either of us now. We are held together by an accumulation of spare parts: nuts, bolts, wire, cat gut, mercury fillings, titanium and plastic. We have shared memories that nobody else has and neither of us is complete without the other.

When I look around and see my friends who are now widows, Buddy’s imperfections fade into oblivion. The calendar is moving swiftly and the clock is ticking. I treasure every day with him. It is a selfish wish for certain, but I secretly hope I go first. That may not be. He has my permission to re-marry, but he won’t. Neither will I.

Age aside, love like ours is a once-in-a-lifetime affair.

-----

Journal of a Living Lady #323
Nancy White Kelly

When spring arrives somebody ought to do Buddy a favor by locking me up until winter comes again. I go crazy just as soon as the flowers start budding and the birds start singing.

Usually it starts with Easter chicks and ducks. Some years I spontaneously buy colorful birds that catch my fancy in the pet shop or at a flea market. Usually there is a puppy in the Kelly mix and maybe a kitten too.

We have two cockatiels now, Tick and newly acquired Tock. In case you missed that story, go to www.thelivinglady.blogspot.com. We also have Siamese cat named Sam we got from the Humane Society. His owner was killed in a motorcycle accident.

In my rush to shed the winter blahs, I always plant spring flowers too early. Frost usually renders the first attempt null and void. Spring-themed banners and whimsical yard ornaments follow the gardening splurge.

Ye Old Coin Shop, which is located next to our house, was painted a bright canary yellow last spring. Charlie hates that color, but I remind him that he no longer lives with us. (Due to the economy, we had to let him go.)

Now that spring has sprung again, I have been in my usual spring craziness mode. This time I started on the puppy jag having lost our two Chihuahuas in the past year or so. Oppie died of kidney failure at the old age of 14. In our grief, we quickly acquired a darling puppy we named Midget who loved to play outside.

We forgot to close off the doggie door one afternoon when we went for a quick bite at a local restaurant. When we returned there was a message on our answering machine. She had been hit by a car. That was a sad day. I haven’t wanted another dog until recently.

While casually browsing on the Internet, I came across Craig’s list which runs classified ads. Sure enough there was a picture of a darling white Chihuahua with black spots and alert pointed ears.
The woman, whom I came to know as Amanda, shared that she worked for the Ameri-Peace Corp in Cameroon and was gone long hours. She really hated parting with little Tess, but her schedule and the grueling heat in Africa was taking its toll on the puppy.

Amanda said Tess weighed 2 pounds, was 4 months old, and never met a stranger. She had all her shots and was even AKC registered. Tess was leash-trained and fully housebroken. Had she spoken seven languages, she would have been perfect. Of course, I could have found a Chihuahua locally, but that picture of Tess just melted my heart. I had to have her. No other puppy would do.

Amanda and I corresponded back and forth by email several times before she selected me as the best choice of caretaker for little Tess. The really good news was that Amanda was giving me the puppy. Buddy, oblivious to this all, would have nothing to complain about. She was free. All I had to pay was the airfare which was a reasonable expectation. There was to be a nine-hour flight out of Cameroon to Atlanta that next evening.

Amanda sent me a couple of emails warning me to put up any toxic chemicals around the house and to hide any cords that Tess might chew. She also wanted assurance that my vet would check her out after arrival in the states.

PayPal wasn’t an option for her, so we agreed on Western Union. She came up with a test question and answer that only she and I would know. That way only she could claim the wired money.

I carefully filled out the Western Union paperwork at a local grocery desk. While in a happy and generous mood, I added a little extra to cover her gas. After all, she was a humanitarian worker. It was the right thing to do.

That was on Friday afternoon. All evening and late into the night I anxiously checked my computer for confirmation of the arrival time in Atlanta.

On Saturday morning I got an email from Amanda saying that the airport agent required insurance. She had just paid her rent and only had enough to make it through the month. Amanda’s email brought an urgent appeal. Could I cover the unexpected cost? Tess was now sitting in a cage at the hot airport and time was of the essence.

Before I could reply, I got a call from Cameroon. In broken English, a rude man informed me that I had to send $850 now so the puppy could go out on that last flight. That money would ensure that the dog was properly fed and cared for. Any money left over would be returned when I picked her up. What? Every possible emotion coursed through my body as I realized I was being scammed.

I was angry at Amanda, at the man, and most of all at myself. I learned a valuable lesson and a costly one. Never ever send money by Western Union to somebody you don’t know no matter how convincing they sound.

I have since learned that this is a common scam and many gullible others have also been victims. There is no recourse. I console myself that a bad experience is sometimes the price of a practical education.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I will never be scammed again… unless it is spring.
_________
nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #322

Granted, Tick is an unusual name for a cockatiel bird. But that is what I named the little chirper who caught my ear when I entered the local pet store a few months ago.

Years ago I bought over 100 of these small birds from a traveling vagabond on the way to Florida. I had the bright idea of raising them for fun and profit. That was back when ours boys, one by birth, one adopted, were around 12-years-of age.

Bobby had little interest, so Charlie became the budding entrepreneur. Looking back, it was probably was not a good idea. My intent was teaching responsibility and giving an opportunity to earn extra pocket money. Charlie was keen at first, willingly giving up the abandoned tree house for an aviary.

The experiment lasted about as long as the worm farm, but though his interest waned, my love of birds continued. Eventually I earned a certificate in ornithology from Cornell University just because. Dabbling in new experiences has been the story of my life, but back to Tick.

Tick went home with me the day I discovered him in the pet shop. I was on a mad dash to get back to school after a quick lunch. I constantly glanced at my watch, thinking tick, tock, tick, tock. The friendly clerk seemed oblivious to time whereas I am a perpetual clock watcher. Tick seemed an appropriate name for my new little friend and it stuck. I was duly warned at the pet shop that Tick was an escape artist.

I have never been one for single animals. About a week later, I added Tock, a yellow female cockatiel. Tick was elated with his new girlfriend and sang to her daily. He even learned the first few bars of the Andy Griffin theme song. Our Siamese cat, Sam, lay contently on the floor listening to Tick chirp or sing. He never seemed even remotely interested in harming either of the birds.

When the weather started turning warmer, we moved Tick and Tock to the screened front porch. I even added a home-made nesting box in hopes of future Tockettes.

My afternoon routine included playing with Tick and Tock, changing the cage papers, and adding new food. One recent day Tick was not in the cage. The safety clip was still in place on the front door. I knocked on the nesting box, but no response.

I called for Tick, but no familiar chirp returned. I started searching the porch and, alas, found a pile of white feathers and a hole in the screen where Sam apparently had made his entry.

To this day, I don’t know how Tick got out of the cage unless he managed to pull the seed slide door. It is so small that he would have had to struggle to get through it.

It has been less than a week since the loss. Tock is lonely and I check on her often. Today she left me a gift...a tiny white egg. She must have a mate. So off to the pet store I go in search of a new Tick.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #321

Nancy White Kelly

The month of May is one of the busiest for the Living Lady. Being a school administrator means being involved in lots of activities. I have been to the community playgrounds, eaten hot dogs, taken trips, given awards and still have much ahead: baccalaureate services, athletic banquets, dress-up dinners, and then, of course, there is graduation.

Behind the scenes there are board meetings, parent interviews, phone calls, teacher interviews, curriculum reviews and numerous end-of-the-year class parties. Believe me, these are just the highlights.

For someone with cancer, it seems miraculous that I have functioned well enough to lead in the educational arena again, but my passion is still to write, teach and speak. This unexpected thrust into the working world again has been rewarding, but hopefully I will be able to focus again on being a wife, mother and grandmother soon.

Sunday was Mother’s Day. Buddy wanted to buy me something special. While I appreciated the thought, I gently reminded him that he wasn’t my mother. My boys did remember and that was nice. The cards and calls brought back memories of my own mother who was our family’s version of Lucille Ball. She loved her five children with all her heart.

On the day of her funeral, my youngest brother stopped for gas at a convenience store. After pumping the gas, he waited patiently in front of the cash register while another young man, probably in his twenties, fumed. The fellow complained that his mother had him leave the football game he was watching on television to go buy some milk. He threw the money on the counter in a childish display of anger.

My brother tapped him on the shoulder. “Be glad you have a mother still. I just buried mine.” The young man dropped his head and meekly left without a word.

As busy as we are, we should never be too busy to remember those who are so special to us, but not just on special days. Several years ago, before the world was the crazy place it is now, a man stopped at a florist to order some flowers to be wired to his mother who lived 200 miles away. As he got out of his car, he noticed a young teen-age girl sitting on the curb sobbing.

He asked her what was wrong and she replied, "I wanted to buy a red rose for my mother. But I only have 75 cents and a rose cost 2 dollars."

The kind man smiled and said "Come with me. I'll buy you a rose." He bought the girl her rose and ordered his own mother's flowers.

As they were leaving, he offered the girl a ride home. She hesitated but said, "Yes, please! Take me to my mother."

She directed him to a cemetery several blocks away. As they approached a freshly dug grave, she jumped from the car and ran. With tears streaming from her face, she placed the rose on the heap of dirt.

The man returned to the flower shop, cancelled the wire order, picked up a bouquet and drove the 200 miles to his mother's house.


nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #320
Nancy White Kelly

It there is ever an emergency or urgency in our household, you can be sure it will occur on the week-end. Busy sorting old coins, I picked up the ringing phone.

“Ye Old Coin Shop.”

The man on the other end sounded cheerful enough.

“Is this Dr. Kelly?”

“It is. How can I help you?”

He introduced himself as “Ted” with Clearcheck Collection Agency. Now that is not a company I was familiar with.

“And how can I help you?” I asked again, genuinely puzzled.

“You made a purchase at So-and-So drugstore in Blairsville, Georgia, on March 31st for $69.00.”
I vaguely remembered. “And?”

“Your check was returned. Are aware there is a $30 returned check fee.”

I interrupted him. “Excuse me. My check should not have bounced.”

“But it did. You need to send us $69.00 plus the $30 returned check fee today.”

My blood pressure was rising.

“That is impossible” I said. “We have an adequate amount of money in our bank account to cover that check.” I knew it was so because I had just checked the balance the day before.

“Mam, you need to send us $99. We are a COLLECTION AGENCY.”
My mind swirled as I tried to remember the many scams I have read about recently in emails and in consumer magazines.

“You are mistaken, sir. We haven’t bounced a check.”

He proceeded to give me a check number which certainly sounded like one of the series we were using. Ted said I could check it out on-line at clearcheck.com. I assured him that I would and that somebody would owe me an apology. He proceeded to tell me that they would take a credit card on-line. Hmm.

Our bank in Young Harris is not open on Saturday and there was nobody for me to call or vent to. I probably needed a doctor as my blood pressure had risen enough to launch a space shuttle.
Sure enough, on line I was able to see a picture of the check I had written. I carefully read all the information and it seemed correct. That was my signature. This was puzzling. Surely our bank would have notified us if we had a check that bounced. It hadn’t.

I called the chain drugstore in Blairsville and asked to speak to the manager. She was not there, but the assistant was.

“Does your drugstore use a company called Clearcheck?” Without hesitation the manager replied that it was. I told her how I was called by a collection agency. The manager explained that the drugstore doesn’t even know when a check bounces and gave me an 800 number to call.
Being the week-end, of course, I couldn’t reach anybody but a foreigner who informed me in imprecise English to call back during normal business hours.

There was nothing to be done until Monday. My school schedule doesn’t permit me time to take care of such things, so Buddy became the main man. I presented him with the information that I had scribbled down. I braced for his reaction which, if a video, would be named, “Dial M for Mutter.” He fumed all that day and the next.

Even though Buddy had to be in Ashville for a medical appointment, he was up at sunrise on Monday. He was standing at the bank window as they opened the blinds. The pleasant teller spotted the problem immediately. The check had been routed to the wrong bank.

Back at home, Buddy called the 800 number he was given. As expected, he got the robotic “If you want a certain party, dial 1.” Dial 1 directed him to another 800 number. After 5 demands to punch in any number from 1-5, he was finally given to a human being.

I would not have wanted to be the lady he finally reached. He went through the entire spiel again. The lady said she would take care of it. No apology was forth-coming.

Buddy wasn’t ugly, but he was emphatic, “It will be a cold day in you know where before ya’ll get my $30.”

The next day Buddy got a call from the drugstore. “You need to send Clearcheck another check for the $69 since they are the ones who still have it.” We haven’t and probably never will.

My question is, “What happens if Clearcheck deposits the first as well as the second check?” Call me anything, but “S-T-U-P-I-D” is not how you spell it.

*******************
nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #319
Nancy White Kelly

You will never hear me complain about birthdays. Living through two major bouts of metastatic cancer makes me appreciate every one of them. Yet, getting older brings limitations. Cutting my own toenails is beyond me now.

I can barely reach my toes which are not entirely due to age. While putting on hosiery is a struggle, it is still doable. Trimming my own toenails is impossible.

For the last couple of years I have joined the rank of the privileged. Frugal me has paid someone else to do that chore, heretofore unthinkable.

Working five days a week as a school marm, plus Saturdays at the Ye Old Coin Shop, make time a precious commodity. I took advantage of having a few extra hours during spring break and stopped by a leased nail salon inside Wally World. No appointment was needed.

A pleasant Asian-looking woman settled me into a vibrating chair that provided a pulsating back massage. What a welcomed retreat.I shut my eyes to the world. Without conversation, the girl guided each foot in and out of the swirling water with jus the poke of a finger.

Unexpectedly, the pedicurist had an aggressive style. She scrubbed my soles and toes with a short brush. Each sweep of the bristles began with a jab. The rough brushing became increasingly uncomfortable. I said nothing, believing that the procedure was a taught one which would soon stop.

My golden silence became red blood when the girl brushed the exterior of my big toe one last time. Unfazed, the young woman dabbed my raw toe with wet cotton before painting my toenails. No acknowledgement or apology was forthcoming. Nonchalantly she moved to next customer.

I waited in quiet shock as the toe paint dried. After several minutes I gathered my purse and glasses. The girl informed me that I needed to wait another 30 minutes before wearing my shoes. Noticing my frown, she offered some thin yellow flip-flops. I paid the male cashier as if nothing unusual had happened and even gave the girl a tip. At home I applied a topical ointment hoping that all would be well eventually.

All during the night my toe throbbed. When I told Buddy I was going to skip Sunday school, he knew something was wrong. He over-reacted just as I feared he might. It was good that the salon was closed and the girl unidentified. If you know my Buddy, it is a bad thing to mess with his wife.

Buddy hurriedly changed his church clothes. Mumbling something about staph, he pretended to order me into the car. That began a brief spat.

“Not going,” I argued. “Emergency rooms are for life-threatening emergencies.”

“This could cost you your toe, your foot and even your life,” he replied. “Get into the car.”I finally gave in to the benign badgering and offered a compromise.

Buddy drove to the walk-in clinic much too fast. Ironically we ended up waiting nearly three hours amidst coughing and barfing.

The diagnosis was as expected: “Punctured toe, infected abrasion...” Antibiotics were prescribed.
It has been three days now. Small red lines are sprouting north of my toe knuckle. (There is such a thing, isn’t there?)

I’ll watch and wait. My purse is $24 dollars lighter for the pedicure. Needless to say the pedicurist didn’t cure my ped. A check for the prescriptions will hit the bank tomorrow. I can hardly wait for the doctor bill.

The only up-side to this story is that I have ten pretty toenails.
_____________
nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #318
Nancy White Kelly

Spring is springing, but don’t be fooled. Blackberry winter is a reality in these parts. Buddy and I moved from South L.A. in 1994. (That is lower Atlanta for those of you who moved here from somewhere yonder.) New to the mountains, we quickly learned not to put our cold-weather clothes away too soon. In late spring, Buddy stores our winter things in the attic above the garage. It is a steep climb up that wooden ladder Buddy built 14years ago. He isn’t as agile as he used to be. I have never been agile and seldom do ladders, even the three-foot kind. Buddy shouldn’t do ladders either at his age. He fell off one recently.

My Buddy is a great guy, but a poor patient. He whined about soreness for days. I was grateful he didn’t break a hip, but rolled my eyes after the umpteenth time of hearing about it. Granted, I wasn’t born to be a nurse.

Several days ago I called to check on a neighbor who was recovering from minor surgery. For thirty minutes she gave me a blow by blow description of every quiver of her bowels for the last ten days. I patiently listened. It was all so moving, but be assured she won’t be hearing from me anytime in the near future. Some things you don’t discuss ad infinitum and constipation is one of them…at least not with me.

But, if you want to whine about taxes, I’ll join you. As I get out my receipts, calculator, IRS forms, and another cup of coffee, I will share with you one of my favorite stories:
While eating at a local buffet, a man suddenly called out, "My son's choking! He swallowed a quarter! Help! Please, anyone! Help!"

A man from a nearby table stood up and announced that he was quite experienced at this sort of thing. He stepped over with almost no look of concern at all, wrapped his arms around the boy's abdomen, and squeezed. Out popped the quarter. The man then went back to his table as though nothing had happened.

"Thank you! Thank you!" the father cried. "Are you a paramedic?"

"No," replied the man. "I work for the IRS."

The Living Lady is happy that winter will soon be over, that Buddy is not in a full-body cast, and that my friend’s digestive track is functioning properly. I will be even happier when our tax return is in the mail.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #317

Nancy White Kelly

The most memorable event of my life occurred on March 28, 1980. The lengthy scar from a C-section frequently reminds me of the pangs of pain I experienced that wonderful Friday night.

Charlie was playing the piano by ear by the time he was two. When he was five, he was entertaining friends and family with Chariots of Fire while stretching his scrawny little legs to reach the then distant pedals.

Fast forward over a quarter of a century. Charlie was recently helping a friend who is the youth minister at his church. While the group of adolescents was wolfing pizza in the Fellowship Hall, Charlie quietly slipped away. He headed to the church sanctuary across the street for a secret rendezvous.

It wasn’t the first time he had done so. His private pleasure was to play the church’s grand piano with all the passion of a pianist at Carnegie Hall. That was his maternal grandmother’s fantasy dream…to see him play there someday. She will have to settle for his music in heaven, but not too soon I hope.

That worship center of the church was not being used. He opened the heavy doors to the sanctuary and was amazed at the total pitch darkness. He had seen dark in there before, but never so dark as that night. He pulled out his cell-phone to use as a light. He carefully walked down the far right aisle. The dim beam of the little phone barely caught the outside edges of the pews.

Charlie inched toward the front of the sanctuary. He climbed the side steps and felt his way to the magnificent piano. His searching fingers found the sheet-music light which he switched on. He was amazed at how powerful that little light bulb seemed in such utter blackness.
As he stood thumbing through the hymnal, he heard a sound. It wasn’t much, but enough to perk his ears. Charlie peered out into the total darkness. After a brief moment of futile gazing, a deep voice interrupted.

“I am here to pray.”

Charlie heart skipped to this throat.

“That’s fine,” he replied. “Will piano music disturb you?”

The yet unseen man replied that it wouldn’t. After a few minutes of soft playing, Charlie turned toward the distant man.

“I suppose we should introduce ourselves.”

A shadowy figure emerged from the darkness. As he came closer, Charlie observed that he was a muscular, middle-aged man. His face was life-worn and his head was shaved.

“I heard that the sanctuary was always open,” the man said. “My wife’s grandmother attends here.”

“Yes,” Charlie replied. “We are always open though we don’t advertise that to the public. Is there anything you would like to talk about?”

The stranger replied that he could go on all night about his problems. Charlie responded that sometimes people need others to talk to and that perhaps God brought them together.

The man was full of troubles, mostly related to his marriage and finances. He and his wife used to be church-goers, but had back-slid to the point of seldom going now.

Charlie, being considerably younger, awkwardly stumbled for the right words for the distraught visitor. Charlie prayed for wisdom as he shared Bible verses and common-sense advice. The man unloaded his sordid past and Charlie listened and responded compassionately. When it was time to part, the man agreed to follow up with a counselor that Charlie recommended.

The man came to a dark church to pray and to seek a response from God. Little did Charlie know that he would be the Almighty’s channel for blessing.

Little did Buddy and I know what God had planned for him that night, twenty-eight years ago, when this miracle son was welcomed to the world. Happy birthday, Charlie.


nancyk@alltel.net

JOURNAL
OF A
LIVING LADY #316

Nancy White Kelly

Coming to a theater near you…maybe, maybe not.

If you received an email from someone telling you that they were an Oscar-winning filmmaker who wanted to do a documentary on your life, you would likely laugh. Yea, right. Perhaps you would play along to see how far this wacky spammer would go.

The fact is I did receive such an email two months ago. The stranger gave his name and a list of his movie credits. He was on first-name basis with many movie stars with familiar names. He had read my book and reprints of newspaper columns on the internet.

He said all the right things. His father had died of cancer. Several friends of his dear wife had battled breast cancer. They had told him the value of humor in the dark tunnel of uncertainty. He too was a man of faith. The mystery man was Bill Couturié. He said my story was inspirational. He wanted to buy the rights to Journal of a Living Lady so he could produce a movie.

I was dubious, but checked him out. Yes, he had won seven Emmys and an Oscar. He had directed movie greats such as Morgan Freeman and Jody Foster. He lived in the same town as Anthony Hopkins.

Bottom line. I signed a contract and endorsed a modest check this week. It is so surreal. How could a chummy regional writer end up on the big screen?

Bill warned that the film probably would not do as well as Pirates of the Caribbean. His motive is more altruistic that commercial. He is willing to invest a minimum of two million dollar. There was a hint in the initial contract of ten times that much. The journey from book to screen is quite lengthy. Probably Bill should have included a caveat in his contract: “the undersigned agrees to remain living until the project is completed.”

Mr. Couturié and I have emailed several times now. I had to laugh at his last correspondence. He confidently referred to his up-coming task of selling this unusual proposal to high-roller film investors. His selling pitch to them would be: a “big Christian lady” who went on to live a victorious life after being diagnosed with terminal cancer.

This was an ambiguous choice of words. Granted, I am plus-size. I profess to be a Christian. I try to epitomize a true, Southern lady. But, Buddy, honey, please don’t write “big Christian lady” on my tombstone.


nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #315

Nancy White Kelly

Our little Micah is turning three this week. He is the oldest boy of our own miracle son, Charlie. We were married 15 years before God gave us the desire of our heart, a flesh-of-our flesh son. If you haven’t read the story, you might want to get the book, Journal of a Living Lady available from Amazon.com, the Sentinel newspaper offices, or directly from this author. Send $15 to The Living Lady, 6156 Southern Rd., Young Harris, GA. 30582 and I’ll put a book in the mail.

It is a bit challenging to bring you “ readers-come-lately” up to date in a few paragraphs. I’ll try.
When Charlie was five, I was diagnosed with serious breast cancer. I prayed and asked the Lord to let me live to see our son graduate from high school. Twelve years later, just weeks before his graduation from Towns County High, the cancer recurred. I wasn’t bitter. My prayer had been answered.

This time the cancer spread to my lungs, lymph system, and bones. I have been through surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy several times. I lost my hair twice, but never my faith. God delivered healing. I checked myself out of hospice. In spite of dire predictions from the doctors, I have seen Charlie graduate from college, get married, and now is the father of our two grandsons, Micah and Noah.

All Nanas, Papas, Mee-Mees, and Paw-Paws have grandparent tales. I am Granny. This is my story and I am sticking to it.

Micah, like his father, is a procrastinator. Especially at bedtime. His requests can be endless. Another story. His froggy blanket. His truck. Mickey Mouse too.

Recently, after tucking him in for the night, Micah started his familiar, manipulative cry. Charlie ignored him for a while. When the fake crying escalated, Charlie purposefully tromped heavily down the hallway to Micah’s bedroom. In the sternest voice he could muster, Charlie demanded to know what the problem was. There was a long pause.

“Daddy, I need to go to church.”

*****
nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #314

Nancy White Kelly

Faux pas. That is French for big goof. Mistakes? I have made a few. This last week I faux pas-goofied again.

On August 5th, I was asked by a desperate school board to serve as administrator for Mountain Area Christian Academy. That was the same week Buddy and I opened the Ye Old Coin Shop.

Making my life-long numismatic hobby a business was our attempt to survive in retirement.
Like many folks these days, we were experiencing a green economic shift with our financial out-go threatening to exceed our in-flow.

The timing of these two major life events collided. Any entrepreneur knows the myriad details involved in opening a business. Any school principal can understand the daunting task of walking into the initial staff orientation meeting and facing 40 employees.

Ready or not, school was beginning in a week. MACA was entering a new, state-of-the art building. Workers were everywhere pulling electrical wire, rolling asphalt in the parking lot, painting walls and landscaping. Most didn’t speak French …or English. It was challenging to explain in universal sign language that the inside toilets weren’t working yet.

Back at the coin shop, our own toilet decided to misbehave. “El escusado se derramo de agua." Just days before the Grand Opening we had to replace an entire floor.

Thankfully the school is operating smoothly now. The coin shop is surviving, but not thriving. We are only open Saturdays and evenings by appointment.

I am proud of MACA and its dedicated staff. We have 232 students from pre-school through grade 12. MACA kids respect authority. Biblical principles are emphasized. The flag is pledged. The students dress in sharp-looking uniforms. That is, unless it is Spirit Week.

Though still under reasonable control, for five days we let our students break the norm. They can dress according to a daily theme, be a little noisy and enthusiastically encourage teachers to kiss a pig to help raise funds for the senior trip.

Atypically, our students and staff looked and acted like monkeys in Hootersville. To my chagrin, an old friend who is a distinguished lawyer, decided to drop by for a first-time visit. He was amused by my mortification.

Monday was “Blast from the Past Day.” No problem. Wednesday was “Tacky Day.” Staff could opt out, but few did. I smeared my lipstick, mismatched my shoes, and dressed in both plaid and stripes.

Then came my faux pas. Our office manager arrived in a swirly brown corduroy skirt. I raved about how tacky she looked. I meant it as a compliment. Unfortunately, she wasn’t participating in Tacky Day.

Oops.


nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #313
Nancy White Kelly

Many flips of the calendar page have transpired since I last burned myself. A couple of years ago, in a busy kitchen, I hastily grabbed the handle of a hot cast iron skillet and dropped it even faster.

At this stage of life, I should remember that fire and resulting heat has the capacity to cook human flesh. I wasn’t thinking that day about life lessons.

It was a cool, but soggy Saturday morning. The clock said ten o’clock and I was hustling to get across the driveway to the coin shop that adjoins our home. My arms were fully loaded with a laptop, keys, briefcase, dangling cords and a piping hot cup of apple cider.

Buddy would have held the door open if he were around. My mind asked rhetorically, “Where is that husband of mine when I need him?”

Frustrated, I kicked the bottom of the screen door and moved forward full-force. The door didn’t budge. The wooden screen door frame was swollen from the moisture in the air. It didn’t budge. As the steaming cider spilled onto my hand, I briefly recalled the words of Newton, “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

My normal reaction to extreme heat would be to turn loose of everything I am holding. But, having dropped an almost new lap top a year earlier, my financial instinct prevailed. I held onto the expensive computer and allowed the blistering cider to saturate my left hand. The middle three fingers were essentially boiled.

Once inside the coin shop, I repeatedly headed to the restroom and doused my fingers under the cold faucet water. The pain temporarily abated while the water ran over my hand, but returned when I walked away. It was an odd experience to hope no buyers or sellers of coins would come that day. It would be hard to concentrate on calculating the price of even the smallest cache of silver change. What if a customer wanted to inspect some of the items in the showcase? It is hard to be civil, much less pleasant at such times. Pain has an unrelenting way of commanding attention.

In desperation, I tried a few drops of the morphine I occasionally take for the bone cancer. Even it failed to bring relief. For three tough hours I could think of little else other than those three swelling fingers.

Fifteen out-of-town relatives were coming for the holidays. There were presents still to be wrapped and onions to be chopped. I didn’t need this torment.

The pain eventually subsided and I had a new appreciation of life without intense pain. My burn was so minor compared to those sustained by folks in the burn unit of Grady Hospital or our American soldiers recuperating from roadside bombs blasts. I felt like such a wimp.

Often life lessons need to be repeated. I hope I can remember these three: Fire burns. Life hurts sometimes. The sun always shines…even after the longest day and darkest night.

nancyk@alltel.net

PS: The Journal of the Living Lady has appeared spasmodically recently due to newspaper transitions.

Journal of a Living Lady #312
Nancy White Kelly

I didn’t know the deceased. She was the mother-in-law of one co-worker and the grandmother of another. My decision to attend the funeral service was mostly to show my care for the grieving family. Losing a loved one is never easy. I am an adult orphan to death myself.

For whatever reason, the hearse would be late to the church. For nearly thirty minutes I occupied the waiting time by gazing at the menagerie of folks. They whispered quietly among themselves, often shifting uncomfortably in the hard wood pews.

As if in another decade, the majority of men were nicely dressed in suits or at least shirts with ties. Only a few women wore pants which made me glad I had worn my navy and white dress. The attention to attire was a testimony to the respect the gatherers had for the departed lady.
Finally the hearse arrived. The congregation stood as the large extended family solemnly filed into the narrow rows, filling one and then another until the center section was nearly full.

Until her stroke some months ago, the eighty-two- year-old woman had helped wear those church pews thin. How many hymns had she sung in praise of her Lord? How many prayers had she lifted up to the throne of heaven on behalf of others? God has the answers. He even knows the number of hairs on our head.

On this sad day, the lady’s granddaughter and other loved ones sang songs on her behalf that paid tribute to her great faith. Two preachers, most likely a father and son, shared the eulogy and sermon interspersed with a medley of funeral music. Though slightly out of tune due to age and use, the up-right piano seemed the perfect accompaniment to the life of the lady in the casket. Tears and tissues were the norm for the best part of two hours.

For me, the stranger in the midst, the hustle and bustle from my daily routine at school and the coin shop was temporarily suspended. The importance of family, the reality of death, and the blessed hope of a new day in a new place caught my full attention. The preacher closed with reminder that each of us will have a turn.

I am ready for the journey, but prefer that my ticket not be punched today. As Robert Frost once wrote, “I have miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep.”

I think I have so much to do first. But by what right does the watch have to tell the watchmaker when to pull the stem? Or the clay to tell the potter when to take his hands away from the watery wheel? As the book of Ecclesiastes says, “There is a time to live and a time to die.” We are molded for a purpose and when our usefulness is done, God calls for the death angel.
Roses are for the living. Funerals are for those left behind to mourn. Heaven is a prepared place for a prepared people.

nancyk@alltel.net

Due to computer glitches, this column is TEMPORARILY on hold. Please check back in a couple of weeks.

Journal of a Living Lady #311

Nancy White Kelly


Our son Charlie related recently that his two-year-old son feared a big, mean elephant that supposedly hid in his closet. After bedtime, Micah would hurry down to his parent’s bedroom and, with wide open eyes, describe the monster. With his limited vocabulary, Micah demonstrated this terrorizing menace by making a huge bellowing sound and thrusting his arm away from his chin to imitate the elephant’s trunk.

Like a dutiful dad, Charlie walked Micah back to his room, examined the closet with all the seriousness of a monster detective and declared that the elephant had gone back to the wilds. Micah was satisfied and obediently went back to bed for some restful sleep.

This parental anecdote led to a conversation among Charlie’s friends about the monsters they feared when growing up. Charlie confessed that he feared the Hulk, a green giant that was popular in the early eighties. He also admitted to other fears, like being afraid of putting his feet on the floor after bedtime. He imagined that some creature far uglier than an elephant would snatch his toes for a tasty nighttime snack.

I would laugh except that it reminded me of my own childhood fears. Probably a few of you older readers remember the movie, “The Thing.” The original version was scary. I spent many nights wondering if the strange noises I heard in our old house were that post-frozen creature about to bust through my bedroom door. I also imagined that Frankenstein was in the woods, awaiting the opportunity to take my body for needed spare parts.

Like his grandmother and daddy, Micah will eventually grow out of his fears of imaginary monsters. There are too many real things for adults to concern themselves with like the drought and war.

Let us hasten to our Heavenly Father. Dear God, please bring rain and peace soon.


nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #310
Nancy White Kelly

Have we all gone insane?

A few days ago I dashed into a nearby variety store for a few household necessities. Regardless of how busy our lives are, there are some times you just have to stop and shop. Buddy doesn’t like to run out of toilet paper. I reminded him that the pilgrims managed without it. He wasn’t amused.

On that late October day, the temperature outside was unusually toasty. As the double glass doors of the store sprung open, I was greeted by loud Christmas music and a swaying Santa Claus.

What happened to Thanksgiving? Oh, I remember. Only the grocery stores commercialize Turkey Day. There is little economic motive for other establishments to promote a national day of giving thanks. But Christmas hoop-la already? To quote the famous commentator, Charlie Brown, “Good grief.”

I love the real Christmas season. My mother did too. She even birthed me on Christmas Eve. Those nostalgic memories of childhood Christmases are probably an exaggerated figment of my imagination. They were good, but never perfect. The anticipation was always greater than the day of the tree.

As a parent, I tried to create that same utopian experience for my children. Some Christmases were better than others. Each year, as I put away the decorations, I promised that next year would be different. Simpler.

Buddy and I have even considered going away in early December, maybe even out of the country, until after January 1. So much work, anxiety and expense could be avoided that way.

Of course, the real meaning of Christmas is important to Buddy and me. Yet, historians tell us that Jesus wasn’t really born on December 25th. Reality is that the birth of Christ should be celebrated all year long, not just on some man-made calendar date.

Will Christmas find us on some deserted island, far from the hustle and bustle that has already begun? That is doubtful. There is always next year or the hope of it.

In the meanwhile, the guest closet is full of items I have picked up all during the year. Nothing expensive, but quite a pile all the same. Toys, shirts, gimmicky things. Same-O. Same-O.

All I really want for Christmas is my family together. A good meal. A little laughter. Unhurried time. Fond reminiscing. If Christmas is the only time to conveniently do that, then bring it on. It is coming anyway.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #308
Nancy White Kelly

Every day I realize more and more that I am past my prime. While arthritis screams rather loudly to my joints, it is my mind that I mourn the most. We older folks know more than young people. We just can’t remember it.

Removing my rings is a daily ritual. I don’t like to wear them when attending to mundane household tasks like washing dishes. Chemicals and soapy residue aren’t good for jewelry.

Early last Tuesday morning, while a rooster crowed in the dawning light, I discovered that my wedding rings were missing. Where could they be?

Time was fleeting and I needed to leave for work. I checked in all the jewelry boxes given me by relatives and friends through the years. No rings. I looked in the bathroom soap dishes. Still no rings.

With the pathetic, non-agility of an aging lady, I slowly lowered my body to the floor. My fingers combed through the bedroom carpet. My eyes caught the clutter of papers and books scattered under the bed. The clutter would have to wait.

I grabbed hold of the bedspread. My elementary students would have considered it a humorous version of “ tug-of-war.” With all the strength and courage I could muster, I finally pulled myself to a standing position. My sophisticated high school students would have described the scene in more scientific lingo: applied physics. Whatever. I was vertical.

Where could those rings be? I have misplaced them before, but never for so long and never when in such a hurry to leave. I am a known advocate of punctuality. It would be amusing to the staff, but embarrassing to me, to be late to our morning faculty meeting.

I asked Buddy if he had seen the rings.

“Nope,” he replied casually. He never even looked up from his newspaper while taking an unhurried sip of coffee. Apparently the headlines were more compelling than my need for wedding rings at 6:00 in the morning.

I did a final walk-around of the entire house, looking high and looking low for the missing rings. I resigned myself to being ringless that day, but not late.
I made a hasty stop in the bathroom to spray my hair for an anticipated long day. It was then that I saw the shiny reflection of a diamond in the medicine cabinet mirror.

Yep. My wedding rings were right where you might expect them…on my left ring finger.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #308

Nancy White Kelly

Today is Saturday. It is coin shop day. I must change hats from being a school administrator to being a proprietor. It is quite a challenge to be responsible for a business with only one day a week to tend to it. And, to top it off, Buddy says jokingly that he needs to find me a third job. In almost the same breath, he tells me he is hungry.

Reluctantly I ask him to take charge of the coin shop. I amble across the drive-way to the house. In the kitchen I prepare soup and sandwiches. My mind tells me that there is something wrong with this scenario. I don’t complain. Buddy is a good man and his type is increasingly hard to find in this modern day.

Buddy is not a lazy man. He is always busy, but it is chosen business. He can go back to bed in the morning, or noon, or even afternoon if he wants. He has no time clock. He cuts grass, piddles in the shop or visits with friends while I work. Occasionally he will drop by the school and put up a bulletin board or two. I am envious.

My day starts early and never ends. His day is just so flexible. Mine is full of meetings and more meetings. Parents, students, board members, and community activists flood my life with visits, phone calls, and emails. Then there are the students who want me to watch every volleyball spike or quarterback sneak. There is never a day anymore that I feel caught up. My method in this madness is to assign priorities to my tasks. I do it by numbers: 1,2,3,4. Most days I am fortunate to get past the 1’s. Nobody is at fault. It is called the tyranny of the urgent.

The staff at Mountain Area Christian Academy is wonderful. They are professionals and don’t require micromanaging. In fact, they inspire me. Schools can survive for a while without an administrator, but would not last long without passionate, dedicated teachers and employees.

When the younger students, in their neat little uniforms, pass by me in the hall, someone will almost always say, “Good morning, Dr. Kelly.” That cheers me. The high school students stand in respect when a visitor comes into the classroom.

As I encounter courteous young people, it gives me hope for the next generation. Leaders of the past are almost gone. Like the Bible says, life appeareth for a while, like a vapor, and then vanishes away. We all are terminal.

Thankfully my six-month cancer scans came back “stable.” That is a good word when you are in the fourth stage of this awful disease. Though the cancer still shows in my bones, it isn’t spreading and hasn’t for over a year now. That is good news. The bad news is that cancer in the bones is painful. Nothing I do or take seems to stop the gnawing, aggravating drilling that penetrates my spine. Yet I am grateful for each day is a new day and for the opportunity to make a difference.

The Living Lady is still alive and productive. When my oncologist sees me, he points upward and says, “Miracle. Miracle.” I respond with a vigorous nod and point upward myself. I know a miracle when I am one.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #307

Nancy White Kelly

It was nice being a grandmother again. Charlie, Tori and our two grandsons, Micah, age two, and Noah, age five-months, came for a week-end visit.

Because all three of us adults are heavily involved in the educational field, trying to create meaningful time with our growing family is becoming increasingly difficult.

I am a school administrator. Charlie is a science teacher. Tori is a preschool director. All of us work in different schools. Add Buddy to the list. He is constantly on-call at MACA to do handy-man jobs. All the teachers know him. When they see Mr. Buddy come down the halls on his motorized three-wheel trike, they come flocking.

On Labor Day week-end, both the boys were sick with nasty colds. We vetoed the visit because that is the last thing Buddy or I need. Then Tori got their colds. Finally, this past week-end looked like a possible go. The launch of a space shuttle couldn’t have involved as much anticipation on my part.

Regretfully, it was still necessary to open the coin shop on Saturday from 10:00-4:00. Our growing base of customers depend on Ye Old Coin Shop to be open that one day a week. During customer lulls, Charlie came in and helped sort buffalo nickels. I instructed him to look carefully for a 1937 buffalo nickel with a missing half leg. That one is worth at least $800 in fine condition. He also looked through some mercury dimes hoping to find the elusive 1916 one with a D mint mark. It is worth about $2000 in uncirculated condition. His happy hunting turned up nothing spectacular, but it was nice having his company.

On Sunday, we all went to church. Micah was the only one in the nursery with whiskers. He found a permanent green marker on my desk and decorated his arms, legs, and face. Buddy and Tori tried everything to remove the indelible ink: vinegar, WD-40, and even a touch of gasoline. Nothing worked so Micah went to church in his Sunday clothes with weird, swirly green lines sprouting beneath his impish nose.

Grandchildren are priceless. If we had known that they were so much fun, we would have had them first.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #306

Nancy White Kelly

My life could not be any busier. Being out of the work force for so many years and then being thrust back into it big time has been challenging. Gone are the days of casual lunches with friends or quietly reading the newspaper while enjoying my morning cup of coffee. Buddy has been a good sport about his missing wife though I think he remembers the good ole days with a bit of sadness. My day starts at five in the morning and often ends late at night.

Funny things continue to happen. For instance, our school has mail boxes for each employee. I was using a plastic tray for my notes until the secretary found time to label me a slot. Since there were no more slots available, I designated my plastic tray for the new custodian.

One day I had an unsigned note in my box requesting that the water fountains in the gymnasium be cleaned. Obediently I headed for the rags and was on a hunt for cleaner when a staff member noted my unusual assignment. She quickly identified two problems: lack of communication and failure to read the new mailbox labels. All was well until the custodian began receiving the teacher lesson plans meant for my approval. I think everybody knows now where the mail should be delivered. I just hope I don’t get asked to wax the floors. I can barely walk those long school halls.

On Saturday our school played its first football game ever. We were the traveling team and had to go to a new field in a little town north of Marietta, Georgia. Buddy and I got lost and arrived several minutes after the kick-off. Being that I am a stickler for punctuality, it was a bit embarrassing crossing the field on the goal post end to get to our team’s side. Nobody kidded me and I was glad.

We won 35-44 which was a good ending to a very long week.

nancyk@alltel.net