Homesick for Anderson

I got homesick. It could be that I’m old. Or, in Orlando in January, it was cold and rainy. It could be that instead of spending three days hanging out with my daughter, Hope, during her last week of interning at Walt Disney World, I spent three days in bed with a headache if my head hit the pillow or nausea when I stood up, accompanied by vertigo returning from a three-year hiatus.

I got homesick. I had big reading and writing plans when Hope was working. I had mother/daughter shopping plans when Hope wasn’t working.  My only interruption was to be football. 

Instead, I watched only the second half of the Outback Bowl. Luckily for me, it was the right half, the one in which the Gamecocks decided to win.  I drove eight miles to Wal-Greens and bought over-the-counter medication, crackers and Ginger Ale. On the way home, I stopped at a Chick-fil-a drive-thru for soup, shivering when I rolled the window down. This took an hour and a half.  I stayed awake for the first half of the Sugar Bowl, then tossed and turned all night, waking every two hours with a headache, wondering the outcome but too miserable to check my phone. 

I got homesick before the virus, though, which is rare for me.  I’ve always enjoyed traveling, and we’ve been to Walt Disney World many times. But I got homesick in that city that week.  

Maybe it was all the lights on all the buildings or all the people in all the lines or all the noise on all the attractions or all the hours spent writing at a tiny desk in a tiny hotel room while all my family took naps or all the cars on all the crowded roads or all the minutes (three was the average) at all the traffic lights or all the frost on all the windows in the parking lots. 

Whatever it was, I couldn’t wait to be back in Anderson, South Carolina.  I drove myself, Hope, and the contents of her apartment to Anderson/HOME on a cold January Thursday, stopping once in the nine-hour trip.

Humor me while I tell you the rest of this fascinating story. 

Arriving home at 4:30PM, I went straight to bed.  I stayed in bed all day on Friday.  Saturday, I went to primary care, where I blacked out twice in the waiting room.  I had lost three pounds in one week, and the nurse thought she had misread my blood pressure. It was 80/60. I was severely dehydrated, which explained the return of vertigo.  

I welcomed a steroid shot. There was a shortage of fluid, so I was sent home with Gatorade instructions.  I felt better for two days, then returned to the doctor again for another shot and more hydration instructions. 

When you’re sick, you have time to think. What else can you do when you’re curled up under blankets drinking all that water and Gatorade not feeling well enough to read?

This is what I came up with. I learned something about myself in Florida. I’m a South Carolina snob. No, I’m an Upstate South Carolina snob because I’m also a four seasons snob.  

What else did I learn?  I’m a small-town snob and most definitely an Anderson snob.When I go to bed at night, my street and my home are dark and quiet. My drive to work is twelve minutes. It could be shorter, but I don’t drive over the speed limit anymore. Speeding tickets, I tell myself, are for the young and impatient; plus, I’m determined to keep my safe-driver discount. The longest red light in my day is the one-minute light next to Westside High School. I used to roll my eyes when caught there.  Used to.  

When I got homesick, I made a decision.  I will NEVER (I’m old enough to say never) live in a town bigger than Anderson, S.C., unless Anderson gets bigger than Anderson.  You know what I mean?  

I like to go. I like to travel. In fact, I have a long bucket list of destinations, but I know that Anderson, Home, the Electric City with four seasons, will be waiting for me.

Seasons of an Electric City

Your air turns cold as expected,

Yet we fret over fickle weather predicted,

Then laugh at ourselves for doubting your snowy surprise,

Oh, how you jest.

Some groan. Some dance,

At your attempt to make us rest.

Your temperatures warm and please,

And we delight in the early aroma, knowing you tease,

Then marvel at the pink, yellow, purple, and white blooms.

Oh, how you renew.

Some drive. Some walk,

On your streets lined with the softest hue.

Your heat takes our breath away,

But we gather, splash, sweat and play,

Then smack the mosquitoes and search for relief indoors.

Oh, how you ignite.

Some travel. Some stay,

As your landscape bursts at daylight.

Your trees amaze with their display,

For we lengthen our sleeves and watch our teams play,

Then carve and decorate, speak of blessings, and feast.

Oh, how you submit.

Some retire. Some pray,

In your early evenings, cool and moonlit.    

  

Your seasons electrify our community,

So we make a home, build friendships, find opportunity,

Then open our hearts and minds, and smile content.

Oh, how you grace.

Some ridicule. Some cherish,

Within your city of familiar face.

Did You Know? The History of Coffee

Pious Ethiopian monks centuries ago,

Did you know

The berries you ate, after which you stayed awake 

With vigor and spark

Would pour into my cup, so rich and dark?

Devout Arabians, the potent alcoholic drink your foe,  

Did you know

The beans you roasted, ground, and boiled

And called Kahweh 

Would heat a ceramic cup, bring warmth to me?

Eager Venetian trader, traveling a northern road,

Did you know

The magic drink you introduced to Europe’s 

Rebirthed minds, old and young

Would touch my lips, please my tongue?

Clever Dutch adventurer, whose soul stooped low,

Did you know

The tree you stole, the plantation that started

On a Pacific shore, away from frost

Would open my eyes, awaken my thoughts?

Greedy French naval officer, a fruitful crop to sow,

Did you know

The tree you took to the Caribbean, closer to the dimly lit shop

Warm and comfortable, where I spend my day,

Would stir up memories, help me know what to say?

Crafty military aide, to Brazil you did go,

Did you know

The branch you snuck, the industry that grew

Around the world, the powerful aroma for my readers to smell,

Would seize their senses, strengthen the stories I tell?

ROY G. BIVing Living

Several years ago, when I reentered the retail world, I had to relearn an elementary school science lesson: ROY G. BIV, the acronym for the colors that make up the rainbow - Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, and Violet. It sounded simple enough, but what about the other colors?  I learned that Pink is light red, peach is light orange, teal comes before blue, black goes after violet, and grey is light black.  Why was this important in retail?  Like an elementary school classroom, our store took science seriously and arranged apparel in an orderly ROY G. BIV fashion, perfectly lined up against the wall or at a wooden table. 

Arranging solid shirts according to ROY G. BIV was easy enough, but I soon learned that prints didn't have to follow ROY G. BIV as strictly as the solids. Perhaps they were the teacher’s pets.  A red, orange and yellow multicolored shirt could sit wherever he pleased as long as he didn't sit next to another print. ROY had an important color story to tell, and a print sitting next to a print was a visual interruption.  And if the pampered print shirts weren't annoying enough, I learned that G. BIV considered himself to be a cool color and didn't want to hang out with warm ROY.

I spent nine years watching apparel tell their color stories: the little black dress revealing her sophistication, elegance, and style, and the white dress indicating her purity or simplicity.

I haven’t forgotten ROY G. BIV. It reminds me that we, too, have a story to tell. We can do a little ROY G BIVing, too.

Symbolizing excitement, energy, and speed, a red sweater might be a wise choice when we drag in on Monday, but it also symbolizes aggression; in fact, some car insurance companies charge more for red cars.  December in retail was a nightmare.  Sometimes I wondered what would happen if we changed our store’s décor to pink (caring) and beige (pleasantness)? Or what would happen if I change my busyness to caring?

Orange demands attention and symbolizes enthusiasm.  When Clinique promoted their fragrance, Happy, we enthusiastically participated by sporting our different shades of orange.  At work or play, enthusiasm is a worthwhile addition.

Yellow, which happens to be my favorite color, symbolizes imagination, friendship, summertime, and hope.  After the cold winter, spring is a season of anticipation. We run to our windows praising the warm sunny days, knowing vacations and gatherings with family and friends draw closer. 

Green is not only associated with envy but also luck.  What color is our money? What a coincidence. 

Blue, another favorite of mine, has been known to have a calming effect and lower blood pressure.  If a cold, dreary week is followed by a blue sky, let it remind you of God’s calming hand and of his faithfulness.

Purple, or violet, is a popular color for Easter because it symbolizes royalty. It’s also believed to relieve migraines.  I once considered sending a note to corporate: paint the shoe department purple during the Easter season.  Purple is also a mysterious color.  Wow, what if the fresh coat of paint brought back all the missing "other" shoes?

Easter. There isn't a better season to talk about a color story.  Retail stores want their products to be as appealing as a basket of dyed eggs.  The Greek word baptizo was often used to describe the procedure in which a piece of cloth was dipped into dye, resulting in an entirely new color.  

I've never dyed cloth but have baptized many Easter eggs with my kids.  We never ROY G. BIVed them, though. The eggs that always stood out to me were the purple or green.  Green is not only luck and envy but also renewal.  Purple is not only royalty and mystery but also transformation.  We have a chance to renew and transform our living with strength, balance, joy, generosity, truth, sincerity, and wisdom.  Easter is a time to find new life, to be baptized by a Savior who transforms our living.  

Happy Easter,

Katy

      

There is Hope

An event in 1974 led to a major decision twenty-one years later. It wasn't Watergate or the disbanding of the Beatles.  It was a television event, and I fell in love with a name, Hope. 

I grew up in a world where teenagers watched soap operas, so a few hours before The Brady Bunch, I watched Days of Our Lives.  Here's a little Days, that's what we called the show, history.

Addie Horton discovered that she was pregnant but also ill with Leukemia. Instead of harming the baby with treatments, she let the cancer take its course.  Addie and Doug named their first and only child Hope. Soon afterwards, as Addie was walking with Hope, a car spun out towards them, and Addie (realizing she wouldn't live long) pushed Hope's stroller to safety and let the car hit her instead, killing her instantly.

This was an emotional event for a Days loving adolescent girl, and I remember thinking, "what a beautiful name, so positive," and because I dreamed of prince charming, a house, and perfect children, Hope was placed in the back of my head for a future baby name.

Each time I read a verse with the word hope, especially Hebrews 11:1  "Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see," I feel in love with the name again, for I was a daydreamer with many hopes.

My Grandmother King, a gracious, sociable lady, suffered with an immune deficiency for many years.  Seeing her ill so often, I once said to her, "I know you're tired of always being sick."  She replied, "Honey, where there is life, there is hope."  I remembered those words when I was pregnant, and although I often heard, "That's an old name, isn't it?" and "There are so many popular names to choose from, what about....,” I didn't waver. On December 18, 1995, one week before Christmas, baby Susannah Hope was born.

Hope cried night and day for two months and went through the terrible twos at the age of one, but other than that, she was, and still is, a delight. Teachers described her as “the sweetest.” Friends and family describe her as sweet, funny, beautiful, and caring.  

Hope wasn't the most popular name for a baby then nor is it now, but I look at her with a mother's heart and believe she genuinely lives up to her name.  Even though Hope shares my love of sarcasm, she lights up every room she enters. 

The name stayed with me because it was positive, and so is my daughter. She offers so much to her world: patience, kindness, laughter, and compassion. I cannot imagine a world without my Hope.  As a sister, daughter, granddaughter, niece, and cousin, Hope brings life to our gatherings.  She shows us the Holy Spirit.  

"And his name will be the hope of all the world." Matthew 12:21

I also cannot imagine life without the hope of all the world, Jesus.  

  

....what we hope for.  Of course, I hope for material and selfish things. I hope for good health for myself, my family, and my friends.  I hope for the best in life even though I often don't know what that looks like, which is where faith enters the picture.  I hope for peace and salvation for family, friends, and people I meet.

There are many reasons to feel hopeless: poor health, poverty, relationship problems, depression, loss, and uncertainties. But there is hope.

In Taylor Caldwell's short story, "My Christmas Miracle," packages from a stranger arrive unexpectedly on Christmas Eve to a single mother with a hungry daughter and no job.  And she writes, "and a sweet peace flooded me like a benediction. I had some hope again."  Even in the darkest times, there is hope.

It's the season to offer hope to all the world through Angel Trees with names of strangers, gifts to co-workers and neighbors in need, encouragement to friends with life-changing uncertainties, visits to families who feel forgotten.  With every dollar given, present unwrapped, meal cooked, hospital corridor walked, or encouragement offered, we give a promise.  There is hope. 

 

Happy 22nd Birthday to my Hope, who has makes our world more positive, our home more joyful, and our hearts more grateful.

We Love You,

Dad, Mom, Luke, and James

I hope each of you experience Christ, the Hope of the World,

Katy

Anderson Area Charity in Need: New Foundations Children and Youth Services in Anderson, South Carolina. http://newfoundationschildren.com/

A story of hope and good Christmas read, written by a dear friend and author, Laura Hodges Poole: "A Christmas Chance." https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23487371-a-christmas-chance

Two short stories about the hope we can bring to others during this season:

My Christmas Miracle by Taylor Caldwell

A Gift of the Heart by Norman Vincent Peale

During my "research," on Wikipedia, I found an interesting fact about the actress who played Addie Horton on Days of Our Lives. Patricia Barry played Addie from April 19, 1971 to June 28, 1974. Barry reprised her role as Addie for one episode on December 18, 1974.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia -a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.

My sentimental longing began this year when I delivered a Poinsettia from my church to Mrs. Evelyn Wilson.  She cannot hear, but I knocked on the window of her door until she looked up and saw me.  On her notebook, I wrote my name, my husband’s name, and the name of our church.  She nodded and talked to me.  When I wrote my parents’ names, Mrs. Wilson smiled brightly and said, “I remember you when you were a little girl.” 

    My childhood was more than a few decades ago, and I’ve seen her many times as an adult, but the sweetness of her memory filled me with joy and made me laugh.  We talked for about ten minutes. I had a prior commitment and regretted leaving, but I drove away grateful for sweet personal associations like Mrs. Wilson who filled my past with kind words and wisdom.

    

I promised myself and my daughter that I’d carefully sort through my Christmas decorations and purge, and I’m proud to report that I’ve been successful. However, some treasures cannot be discarded. Three hours after visiting Mrs. Wilson, I found something I had forgotten about, a small, red, wooden musical jewelry box given to me by my childhood best friend, Allyson.  There’s a Hummel angel on the box along with the year 1975.

    

The hinges are broken, so for the past ten years or more, I’ve returned it to the storage box. That night, I placed it next to a musical figurine on a table in my living room, grateful for dear personal associations like Allyson who filled my past with delight and generosity.

    The following day, my mom and I relived past Christmas Eves with my dad’s family, the Browns.  We shared these memories with my son Luke, laughing as we recalled our varied Christmas dinners. No matter what the menu, Mom cooked her famous meatballs, there was always some kind of sandwich, and Dad brought boiled shrimp because it was Luke’s favorite.  One year, instead of a ham or roast, Aunt Glenda (Dad’s sister) made lasagna.  Another year, our Christmas Eve dinner was breakfast. We enjoyed our smorgasbord at the table, the hearth, the sofa, or an ottoman.  

    

As a child, I drew names with my cousins and remember how excited I was buying one of them a gift.  The adults drew names as well, and Mom and I shook our heads at the chaos of everyone loudly opening gifts at the same time. 

    

When we grew up, the cousins began exchanging names with our parents and aunts and uncles.  After boxes, ribbons, wrapping paper and tissues were ripped and tossed, we took the volume to a low roar and semi-listened as each family member, beginning with the oldest, gave a lengthy show and tell of gifts, each requiring a story or a joke from another family member. 

     When the cousins became parents, we passed our babies around, tied ribbons on their heads, then when they were older, let them play dress up and fight over toys. 

     A few years ago, we abandoned the gift exchange for the Dirty Santa game. As if the Brown family needed another reason to argue, this Dirty Santa involved both useful and gag gifts, so our chances of taking home a gag gift increased with each steal. 

   

Dad and his siblings are no longer with us, and several of my cousins live too far to stop by for Christmas Eve.  But, we have the in-laws (or out-laws as Uncle Sam calls them), and we try to be together.  The menu might be soup and sandwiches or a Christmas Eve feast, but I promised Mom there'd be meatballs. 

 We may not bring gifts. We may only meet for an hour or two.  But, we will laugh. We’ll create memories, grateful for decades of love and laughter provided by the most personal of our associations, the Brown Family.