Thinking of You on Your Birthday, Pops

              

Pops All Dressed Up
Too Serious!

This June 21, it's not just the first official day of summer, but it's my grandfather's birthday.  Though he died in 1959, I think of him often because he was one of the important people in my childhood.  I didn't realize until recently that he was born on this day in 1887 because I don't remember that we ever celebrated his birthday and only a little ancestor research taught me that this day was the day his life began 126 years ago.

               Raymond Livingston Artope was my mother's father whom we called Pops.  By the time I was born, he was 59 years old, so my childhood memories are of this man in his 60's.  When you're a kid, people in their seventh decade are OLD people.  Now that I've achieved 60+ years, it doesn't seem all that old to me, but then it was definitely old. 

               As I look back from adulthood, that childhood impression of age is altered by experience.  I realize that he was, in fact, still living a vigorous life, pursuing his craft as a carpenter.  Perhaps he wasn't working as much as in younger years because he certainly had time to spend with family, thus my memory of his importance to me.

               He was a big man, hearty and strong.  It seemed that his chest was broad as a barrel and though he didn't carry a belly, he seemed to fill up space in the front seat of his pickup truck.  One of our joys as kids was riding in the back of that truck.  There were no seatbelts then and his only rule was that we "hold on."  I'm pretty sure the truck never went fast enough when we were back there to generate much danger.

               We learned that the danger came from within that front seat.  Pops chewed tobacco.  People who chew tobacco spit occasionally.  What is spat is brown and slimy and acidic.  When one is driving a pickup and spits out of the window, that nasty stuff is carried by the wind around the corner of the cab and across the bed of the truck.  After once experiencing the sudden whap! of chewed tobacco across the face, we learned to listen for the spit and we ducked fast.  It was an art of childhood that we mastered pretty quickly.

               The other knowledge gleaned from that pickup was related to the clinking noise that always came from under the seat.  Nosy kids had to find out what it was, of course, and given an opportunity, we explored.  What we found rattling around under there was a whiskey bottle.  Young enough to be brash, I marched into the house and asked Pops why it was there.  He replied simply that he liked a drop now and then.  When I asked why, he said that carpenters always drink a little whiskey.  And that was that.

               Pops had a workshop in the basement of my grandparents' Atlanta home.  It seemed like a special cave.  He made little wooden stools for us to sit when we visited him there and he placed them a safe distance from the workbench.  He was savvy and didn't want us to get sawdust in our eyes or to be hit by an errant nail hammered inelegantly. 

               A man of few words, my grandfather didn't say much most of the time, but he would talk as he worked.  Those hours we were allowed in the workshop were special times when we saw the care he took as he crafted a bookcase or cabinet.  Despite the fact that the basement was unfinished and had a distinctive smell, a mix of the Georgia red clay that floored it and the years of sawdust that had been generated, I remember it as an organized place.   He had places for tools and materials and kept them in those places.  I wonder now if that's where I got my need for a similar organization.

               Pops managed to convey both his affection for us and his pride in us in his quiet way.  When our grandmother, the family worrywart, would begin to chastise us for some misbehavior or careless transgression, he would gently, but firmly, remind her that we were just children.  He always made us feel that he was on our side.

               There remained a hint of mystery about him.  He didn't talk about his past or his philosophy of life.  I don't remember any comments about politics or the state of the world.  He wasn't overtly religious.  He was a craftsman who lived simply, loved his family and, some might say, made little mark on the world.  He did, we were told, help build the amazing Fox Theatre in Atlanta.  There is no plaque there with his name or the names of the many artisans who built that marvel. 

               He did, though, make a mark on me.  He left me memories that I cherish and  the pride that somewhere in me are his good genes.  Thanks, Pops, and Happy Birthday.

OUR UNFORGETTABLE MISS MARCIA

           

Today is a watershed day in the history of Chattanooga television.  After fifty years of selfless service to the WTVC-TV audience in the tri-state market of Tennessee, Georgi and Alabama, Marcia Kling said goodbye.  Beginning as Miss Marcia on Romper Room, she went on to other assignments, always reaching out to us, always teaching valuable lessons by letting us see the possibilities, always helping us believe that we could successfully meet our challenges. She has been teacher, friend and exemplar, always there with a word of encouragement.

            Anyone who has been fortunate enough to know her knows that her influence will continue to affect so many lives.  Her innate goodness, her willingness to reach out to help those in need and her consistent ability to stand for what she believes while not judging others are qualities that are rare.  It is easy enough to have beliefs or opinions.  Our Miss Marcia never made others feel that they were beyond the pale, no matter their imperfections. 

            Over the many years since I was lucky enough to have her in my daily life at WTVC-TV, I have remembered her wise counsel and quoted her to others.  At a particularly trying time in my life, she reminded me that life is about choices.  She helped me understand that I could actually choose to be happy and pursue that choice actively with success. 

            I am grateful to have had her wisdom so readily available.  She set an example that I will always strive to emulate as best I can, despite knowing that I cannot possibly match her capacity for giving, her patience or her courage to rise above challenges that would daunt a saint.  Part of her amazing gift is that ability to inspire in those who experience her joy of life the belief that it is always worth the effort  to be the best that we can be, whatever disappointments we face as we strive to meet our goals.  In a culture that puts so much emphasis on winning, she allows us to see that personal growth and giving are the true wins in our lives.

            I believe that the power of her personality is such that she remains with us even when we are not watching her on television or talking with her in person.  Her good soul, having touched us, lives on with us, following our paths in life.  As someone who has always believed that television provides an electronic backyard fence over which we get to know one another, I will always be happy that Marcia Kling was--and remains--our favorite neighbor.

 

            "The purpose of life is not to win. The purpose of life is to grow and share. When you come to look back on all that you have done in your life, you will get more satisfaction from the pleasure you have brought into other people's lives than you will from the times that you outdid and defeated them." –Rabbi Harold Kushner

Remembering the Birthday Girl

 

           

Just one year ago today, we celebrated our friend Dale's birthday in her hospital room in New York City.  Disappointed that she was unable to be at home for her birthday, she rallied through the many phone calls from friends who brightened her day with their birthday wishes.

            She was, our dear Dale, a birthday girl in more ways than one.  Her famous "little red book" helped her keep tabs on the birthdays of her many friends.  She was often the first or second call that came on one's birthday, her throaty Southern accent lilting through the receiver, enveloping the celebrant with her warmth and humor like a hug.

            Though she left this life less than a week after her 2012 birthday, she remains with those who knew and loved her in a thousand memories. This being a Sunday, we're reminded how often she would call on Sunday mornings to check in with us with her signature opening of "Darling, it's Dale" in that unmistakable voice.

             As we watch Jeopardy almost every night, we think about how much she loved it and how she and her friend Brenda would dish about the contestants after each show.  In the many years before her last illness, she would tape the show and watch it after an evening at the theatre.  In that difficult year when she battled illness mostly in the hospital, she watched the live telecasts and Brenda's call would come just after the show ended.

            So many times over this past year, I've found myself wanting to share something with her that I knew would make her laugh.  How I miss that laugh.  At other times, I've wanted to know if she saw a movie that we'd seen and what she made of it.  Ever ready with her opinions, she was such fun in those conversations. 

            As we follow the photographs of her beloved nephew and grand-nieces via Facebook, we think of how much she loved them and how proud she would be of their lives.  She loved them and loved planning their next visit to New York or her next visit South to be with them.

            When her time with us ended, so many spoke of the investment she had made in their lives and their careers.  Several commented that she was one of so many people's few best friends.  She had that capacity for love and a boundless curiosity for what lay within those she loved and what they might show the world.  She took pride in the accomplishments of relatives, friends and clients.

            What we remember viscerally and with joy is that encompassing interest she took in those of us lucky enough to be in her circle of life.  Her very presence seemed to create more oxygen, breathing energy and laughter into us.  She cajoled, encouraged and demanded that we embrace life, even as she embraced us.

            So we remember you, dear birthday girl, dear Dale.  Even as we miss your physical presence, we continue to bask in the glow that you brought to our lives.

New Year's Eve 2012 - Words and Pictures

            For those who have been following our move to a new home, this post probably will come as no surprise.  Some of you have heard my moans and groans all the way across the country as we've spent the past year undergoing the rigors of building a new house, leaving our nest of 12 years and trying, with some stress and strain, to unpack and settle in again.

            What you might also have heard was my elation that our new neighbors are our son and daughter-in-law.  We found a piece of land and designed and built two homes, mere yards apart and only one mile from our former home.  Our vision realized, we can now walk the stepping stone path from one house to another and have found, indeed, that we can help each other easily while maintaining privacy for each generation.

            What I haven't shared as much has been the sheer fun of discovery that is part of this process.  Sure, we've discovered lots of "things" we'd forgotten we had.  We've been rather ruthless in taking many of them to Goodwill to share with others who might have a place for them in their lives.  Candidly, we lived through the year of designing and building in some sort of denial, doing much too little to purge our accumulation of "treasures."

           Just this New Year's Eve, I've finally begun unpacking the boxes that purportedly belong in the dining room.  I share with you the discoveries from the effort thus far, including the boxes marked "china" (as though  they didn't also include a myriad of other things).  I uncovered  a veritable potpourri of items that I hadn't seen in years and/or can't remember ever seeing before!  And in one corner, the artwork that reminds us of places we've been sits in its protective wrappers awaiting the time we find just the right place to hang each piece. 

            What I've been realizing throughout the unpacking is that it isn't things we've been collecting; it is actually a collection of love and memories.  Tonight as I dug into one box after another, I found the glasses we bought on a trip to Venice in 1992.  All the memories came back:  the wonderful hotel at the corner of two canals, the boat that picked us up from that hotel to take us to the glass factory on the island of Murano and the factory itself, replete with rooms of gleaming glassware that took our breath away.  I remember the awe on our 13-year-old son's face as he was presented with a blown-glass horse.        

            Further digging found the pottery wine glasses purchased on a trip to Seagrove with friends who love pottery as I do.  I remember that day as we wandered together through one potter's studio after another, oohing and aahing over their creativity, laughing together when we got lost between potteries, despite the  map.  It always feels so good to be with longtime friends who know you well enough that they could catalog your foibles, but choose simply to love you, foibles and all.

            And I dug on, finding tickets and pins from the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta, keepsakes from a once-in-a-lifetime experience we shared with family and friends when the world came to our hometown.  I remember the ease with which we took rapid transit to venues, despite the fears many had that Atlanta wouldn't be able to handle the crowds.  Apparently so many people left to escape those predictions that we moved about rather painlessly.  We saw swimming and basketball, baseball and those famous golden shoes of Michael Johnson flashing around the track.  We watched the glorious standing ovation given the last woman to circle the stadium in the marathon when she slowly made that last lap long after the rest of the runners.  Her finish was the most meaningful of all for the crowd that day.  We were saddened by the bombing in Olympic Park, a place that first was associated with happy children running through fountains of cool water, but bears also the stain of one man's lethal anger.

            Obviously, I could go on as the memories emerge with so many of the items we've accumulated and moved from state to state or just this one mile from house to house.  But one last picture was tonight's most amazing find--the "witch nose" that neither  of us remembers buying, owning or being gifted.  Amid all the happy memories of trips taken, family and friends enjoyed, there is this, a mystery that brings a smile with it.

            As I've been writing this, we've been hearing the fireworks of the New Year celebrations.  I stepped out on our front walk and saw the bursts of color rising into the sky, blooming like giant chrysanthemums and booming like the guns of a naval battle of old.   It is a good night that ends a year that brought us joys as well as the sorrow of a dear friend lost.  She would like our new house and would enjoy sharing the memories, many of which included her deep laughter and ready wit.  We remember her with love, knowing that this night, too,  begins a year, one with the promise of new joys, as well as the possibility of new sorrows.  It is the promise and possibility that we anticipate and celebrate.

            Here's to a Happy New Year for all who've read this far.  May the memories you make in the year ahead give you joy for years to come,

           

I Salute Those Who Serve

William Hayward Lumpkin

On this Veterans Day, I think of all those who willingly step up to serve our country, especially those who choose to wear a uniform that requires them to go where they are sent, even when those orders take them  to the front lines.  Most especially, I think about those soldiers, sailors and air warriors, nurses and medics who served in World War II.  Many of them are gone now, as that conflict ended more than 60 years ago.

I think especially of my husband's father, William Hayward Lumpkin.  He was among those in uniform in World War II, then served until his retirement from the U.S. Army many years later.  Though retired from military service, he never really left the Army behind, retiring a second time from a civilian job at Ft. Campbell in Kentucky.  He remained loyal to his comrades-in-arms, maintaining friendships made in the Army throughout his life.

While I never saw him in uniform, I heard the pride in his voice when he talked about his service.  Those comments were rare, actually, despite the breadth of his experience.  He wasn't inclined to share war stories.  Rather than talk about those memories, his conversation was centered around those he loved and his penchant for wry humor.  Whatever he'd known of hardship and strife in uniform was left behind, replaced by the joy he knew in home and family, friends and golf, or the pleasure of a good horse race.

I saw the pride in the eyes of his family, their pride in his service.  I know that pride lives on in their memories of him more than a decade after his death.  They know the sacrifices he made for them and for our country, a country boy from Alabama who honored the uniform he wore.

So, I think this Veterans Day of the man we called "Pappy."  I thank him and all the others, gone but not forgotten, who have given of themselves in service to America.  I thank those who go into harm's way today.  We are a fortunate people to have among us the men and women who choose to serve.

Some Thoughts on Perspective

Each bloom is unique; together they become special anew.

It seems, in this hotly-contested political season, that even when the two sides say they want the same thing for our country, they feel compelled to find mutually exclusive solutions. We hear words like “partisan politics” and “non-compromising positions” so frequently that they have taken on a life of their own, seeming now more important than the issues at hand. Attack and blame substitute for collegial action on behalf of the citizens these people ostensibly represent.

“A democracy is nothing more than mob rule, where fifty-one percent of the people may take away the rights of the other forty-nine.” ― Thomas Jefferson

I, like most Americans, am bombarded daily by the onslaught of political messages flooding the airwaves. I have wearied of the intrusion of politics into social media, wishing that, instead of flogging each other with the vitriol collected from websites hither and yon, we could talk about the issues without so much rancor. Why are we so angry? In the privacy of our own thoughts, do we really believe that our anger will make things better? Or are we just allowing ourselves to be manipulated by those who feed our fears?

“When a man wants to murder a tiger he calls it sport; when a tiger wants to murder him he calls it ferocity.”

― George Bernard Shaw

In fairness to all concerned, we humans all too often lose our ability to see beyond the ends of our noses. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and it seems to me a little perspective can go a long way toward more happiness in our lives and less misunderstanding.

“What we see depends mainly on what we look for.” ― John Lubbock

Close at hand are so many instances that might help us look at life with more balance, less angst. In my case, life is enriched daily by one man’s journal of hope. It is a testament to courage in the face of adversity, faith in the face of fear. The journal, updated online multiple times each day, chronicles the open-heart surgery of the journal writer’s partner, a friend whom I was lucky enough to meet at a business gathering many years ago. The patient is someone I know as a good and decent man, now fighting for his life. One might think him always fit, always healthy. In reality, his heart was sick and needed repair. So he has undergone a very serious operation and now, cared for by excellent medical expertise and a loving partner, he fights to recuperate. As I follow his partner’s journal, I marvel at the strength and endurance both patient and caregiver are displaying.

“Some people grumble that roses have thorns; I am grateful that thorns have roses.” ― Alphonse Karr

I was reminded by a high school friend’s post on Facebook of a favorite teacher we had. He encouraged us to learn through questioning. While debate was often provoked in his classroom, it was managed and tempered with civility. When passions ran too high, he reminded us that our differences of opinion were just that, differences and opinions, none life-threatening. For myself, in the arrogance and ignorance of my youth, I espoused and defended positions that were outdated and ill-informed, primarily due to lack of experience and perspective. Rather than chide me, our wise teacher encouraged me both to speak my mind and, more importantly, to listen to other views.

“It is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.” ― George Eliot

There is a wonderful saying about perspective that goes something like this: “I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” The world recently watched such a man who had no feet, Oscar Pistorius, run in competition with footed athletes in the recent Summer Olympic Games. The sheer inspiration this man embodies remains vividly in my thoughts. Any time I’m inclined to whine about the psoriasis that hurts my feet, I think of Oscar. It’s not just the wonder of watching him run on those amazing springs, but the genuine joy he expressed in interviews after coming in last in the semi-finals of his event. He obviously understands that winning is a different thing than being number one.

“When it rains it pours. Maybe the art of life is to convert tough times to great experiences: we can choose to hate the rain or dance in it.”

― Joan Marques

In looking at what others have said about perspective, I’ve found so many different ways of expressing it. A favorite thought comes from Jane Yolen’s writing in Briar Rose: “Fairy Tales always have a happy ending.” [so they say] “That depends... on whether you are Rumpelstiltskin or the Queen.”

Photo by Mike Lumpkin

Morning Magic

Some of the most magical times I’ve experienced have been mornings. There’s something primitive in me that appreciates the dawning of a new day, that reassuring appearance of first light. It’s a beginning, or to indulge in redundancy, a new beginning. It’s a step into the unknown, the future that unfolds a minute at a time as we rub our eyes, sip that first cup of hot tea and open the door to feel the air and hear the sounds. Whatever came before, each morning promises a chance for something new.

The days that we spend at the lake are especially inspiring. When it’s foggy with the clouds hanging low across the mountains, I’m reminded of a morning walk in Edinburgh when we could barely see three feet ahead, but ventured into a blufftop park and met an elderly Scotsman and his “wee doggie” and heard a tale of his wartime days. We struggled to understand his accent, but reveled in his delight in telling tales.

On those mornings when we see the first pinks and lavenders of the rising run across the eastern end of the lake, I think back to mornings at the Outer Banks. Mike and I like to get up early and head out to the dune to watch the sun come up from the ocean. Before the sun breaks the horizon, the sky above the water is painted with all the glorious colors of the clouds in the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. It is spellbinding.

One of the joys of the cruises we’ve taken has been early morning walks around the deck as the ship moves through the water. The sense of adventure is heightened by the first sight of the next port as we circle the deck before breakfast, breathing in the ocean air and hearing the cries of gulls that have come out to greet the ship.  Often, we enjoy a last sight of the moon before it disappears from the sky.

Our mornings in North Carolina often begin with the musical gobbling of wild turkeys in the woods around our house. In many places, near and far, we’ve awakened to the voices of cardinals, loons, hawks and eagles, the buzzing of hummingbirds speeding around the feeder, and the chattering of squirrels. Their presence connects us to nature and to the earth, assuring us that we belong together in this world.

I remember cold mornings as a child when, snuggled in bed, I didn’t want to get up. I imagined that I would just stay there, tucked into the warmth of the quilts, forever and ever. It seems funny now that I didn’t want to yield to bedtime back then, but also resisted getting up in the morning.

I remember, too, mornings when I couldn’t rise quickly enough. Those were the days when we were going fishing with Daddy or going on vacation with the whole family. They were the days when, despite giggling late into the night with sleepover friends, we leapt out of bed in the morning to pursue whatever schemes we’d plotted the night before.

Now, though I sometimes wish for a few more minutes of sleep and stumble through the routine of getting up, dressed and out the door, I relish anew the experience of being up and about when few others are there. I cherish those first sights and sounds and the sure sense that the day ahead, whatever it brings, is mine for the living.