Posted in #Confessions, Aging, Gratitude

The Sadness of Getting Older

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

There’s a sadness to getting older. An underlying cloud of hazy gray covers the days and at night there is worry or maybe remorse at misspent opportunities.  Not every day is seen through this heaviness, of course, but there is a realization that hits, and I begin to know, really know that my days are numbered.

            Time is whizzing by at an alarming rate. I recall the birth of my children as if it were yesterday, yet my baby will be forty-six this year.  It is April and I feel as though I was just putting out my fall decorations and enjoying pumpkin spice coffee creamer.  Fourteen years ago, my first grandchild was born and soon he will be a sophomore in high school.  It all seems to go so fast now, and yet some things never change, like the need to be loved and accepted, the awe of watching a sunset, or the joy of warm chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. 

Sometimes I forget that I am older until I pass the mirror and look into the droopy eyes of someone I don’t recognize at first.  “Oh, hi love,” I say to myself. “I see you. It’s ok.  You’re doing ok.”  As reluctant as I am to share my self-talk, I appreciate the encouragement and realize that in most situations my own support and nurturing is much more important than the words of others. (A realization that has taken me years to learn.)

            I’m feeling sad lately at the adversities and misfortunes that are befalling my dearest friends.  All of us, if we live long enough, will pass through the valley of the shadow of death.  All of us will have hard times, and I have had my share of these seasons, but seeing my sweetest friends go through sorrow and suffering puts a heavy pit in my stomach.  I want to help. I want to change the inevitable outcome of diseases and grief.  I want to do anything other than accept the unacceptable.  But, as my Sittin’ Ugly Sistah Ginger says, sometimes all you can do is just show up.

            My dear friend of fifty years has Alzheimer’s.  It has been a slow dissent for her, but things are speeding up. I show up but it rarely seems enough.  I send prayers and good thoughts, but it hasn’t changed the course of this barreling freight train.  My tears have done nothing to soften the harsh reality for her children and yet the tears keep coming and somewhere in there is my own self-pity at being left behind, without my friend.  Aptly named the long goodbye, Alzheimer’s is a cruel and heartless disease that robs the very life from its victims and tortures the family and friends left to watch.

            That is part of the sadness of getting older.  We are either leaving behind or getting left behind.  It’s a constant hello and goodbye.  Things are ever changing and mostly when you least expect it.  Like our bodies, and their predictable, but often unwanted revisions. Our hair, skin, and nails become shapeshifters, morphing into entities that do not resemble their former selves.  Our limbs betray us, and our inner organs are like an old pair of tennis shoes, scuffed, tattered, and worn completely out.

            There is a nursing home with memory care near our neighborhood.  I used to find it humorous that its name was Autumn Leaves.  But it is no coincidence that many homes are named according to this time in life and what that brings.  Serene Meadows, Tranquil Oaks, Sunrise Senior Care all names meant to bring peace to this time in life.  A rose by any other name…

            When my dear friend Randy passed away two years ago, I became mute with sadness.  What I wanted to say to her children and sister, I somehow couldn’t.  I was overcome with this feeling of disbelief and such a deep sense of permanence.  If the unimaginable could happen to her, a vibrant, loving, generous spirit, what could become of us lesser beings? 

There is a sadness to getting older.  The time for do-overs has passed us by.  There will be no more children to try and get it right with.  Our best hope are the grandchildren who we can love with abandon and try not to interfere with their lives.

This year Boo and I bought a new car.  “We need to hurry and buy one before they all become electric.  I’m too old to learn about electric cars,” he said. 

“You know this will probably be your last car, babe,” he added.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we kept the last one for eight years.  Do the math.  Do you really see yourself car shopping at seventy-eight or seventy-nine?”

“I suppose you may be right, but I’d like to keep my options open, just in case.”

Last new car.  Last colonoscopy.  Last driver’s license. And I probably will not start a rock band or learn to snow ski.  However, even with the sadness of lasts, nevers, and goodbyes, there is an open opportunity for gratitude and appreciation that somehow makes everything more palatable, if I can let it. 

Gratitude for having one day at a time, so the sadness and frailties of life don’t overwhelm me.  Thankfulness for the health and wealth I do have, not what I wish I had.  And compassion for this old body who has served me well all these years.  Aging is not for the faint of heart.  It takes courage to walk through this life with all of its highs and lows, and even though there is sadness around every corner, I will choose to keep walking toward the light.

Posted in Contemplations, Gratitude, Truth

Don’t Rain on my Parade! by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

Since the publication of Barbra Streisand’s autobiography My Name Is Barbra, the internet is blessed with endless Barbra content. For me “Happy Days Are Here Again” because I cannot get enough of Barbra Streisand!  

Part of my Barbra Collection

When I saw Funny Girl in 1968, she grabbed my heart and mind with her talent and gave me more inspiration and joy than my thirteen-year-old soul could imagine. I saw her debut film twenty-four times over three weeks. (I got to see movies for free because Grandma owned the theaters in Eunice, Louisiana).

Back then my two younger sisters and I adored musicals, reenacting our favorite scenes in the big living room as Momma’s hi-fi in the den sent the songs into a round ceiling speaker. We’d take turns being Fanny Brice as we danced around chairs and twirled on the carpet to “I’m the Greatest Star” or used our fire place’s white brick hearth to represent the tugboat in “Don’t Rain on My Parade.” The “Sadie, Sadie” song challenged nine-year-old Kelly when she had the Omar Sharif part and tried to carry “Barbra” over an imaginary threshold. But we all excelled at mimicking Barbra’s facial expressions and her expressive arm movements. We’d copy the movie’s blocking and enter the Funny Girl world. 

As a teen, I wrote fan letters on lined school paper filling pages about her singing and acting skills. I explained how her talent inspired me to be braver and not let my mild cerebral palsy stop me from trying to swim, play tennis, or audition for the chorus in The Eunice Players Theater’s version of Oklahoma. Yet I didn’t aspire to be a singer since my own mother had once told me “You couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.” I didn’t dream of being in movies either.  I wanted to be Barbra’s friend and have her over for gumbo. 

After I received form letters from her fan mail coordinator, Larry Marcus, I started addressing my letters to him. I’d write nonsense like “How can someone I adore and think so much about not even know I exist?” Every song she sang told a story that she acted out with her unique phrasing, whispering, begging, accusing, demanding, and using vocal calisthenics that took us on journeys that had us smiling, laughing, and crying (sometimes all in one song). Thank God I was a fanatical fan before the Internet because I would have become a teenaged recluse who lived online and listened to Barbra’s albums instead of hanging out with friends of my own.

Through Funny Girl, Hello Dolly, and On a Clear Day You Can See Forever Gayle, Kelly, and I shared our Streisand obsession. Without a record store in town, we’d take turns ordering her albums from KEUN, our local radio station. We co-owned The Barbra Streisand Album, The Second Album, The Third Album, and the Funny Girl movie soundtrack. However in 1970 when the Stoney End album was released, my younger sisters cared more about James Taylor and Carol King. As their music tastes matured, they gave me all their Barbra albums. I bragged, “I’ll never stop loving Barbra Streisand!” and Kelly flipped back her long, straight brown hair while Gayle shrugged her shoulders and followed her little sister into their shared bedroom. 

So I’d retreat into my own room where Barbra’s movie posters and lobby cards covered my walls and ceiling. And I’d put the Color Me Barbra album on my portable record player and plug in my headphones and let my idol belt out emotions my teenaged soul understood. I especially connected to “Where Am I Going?”:
“Where am I going? Why do I care?
No matter where I run, I meet myself there.
Looking inside me, what do I see?
Anger and hope and doubt.
What am I all about?
And where am I going?”
I told myself to be stronger and braver about my cerebral palsy. I still hid my crooked left arm in long sleeves and cursed my limping left leg. But Barbra at age 19 got a record deal with Columbia and landed a starring roll in a major Broadway show without changing her name, her nose, or her personality. Her belief in her talents and her fearlessness propelled her to success. She was my role model.

In college I took a library course that taught us how to do research. Our teacher had us create an annotated bibliography on a topic we liked: “Choose a topic you love so much you don’t get bored researching.” So I pulled heavy boxes of old periodicals from bookshelves and scanned microfiche to learn more about Barbra Streisand. I never approached another college course with such enthusiasm! That project increased my adoration as I learned about Barbra’s going to NYC alone at 17 to take acting classes and to attend auditions during the day while singing at small nightclubs in the evenings. I also connected with her passion for food and her tenacity. 

These days as I delve into the 966 pages of My Name Is Barbra for the second time (I first read the autobiography; now I’m listening to my idol read the book), I re-listen to each album or rewatch a t.v. special or movie of hers to discover the creative details I missed before. Her strumming, humming “Evergreen” to Kris Kristofferson in A Star Is Born (a scene edited out of the original version) is one of the movie’s very best moments. In Yentl, I hadn’t followed the cinematic motif of Yentl crossing water, and I marveled at the glorious use of natural and staged lightning during the song “There Are Moments.” Her attention to detail as a director and her collaboration with cast and crew seemed magical. I’m “geeking out” as people used to say.

Please don’t judge my Streisand obsession. Don’t Rain on my Parade! 

When a person enjoys something that gives her true joy and hope, why not allow her that inspiration? Many years ago a close friend started hating on Barbra. “Her voice is too nasal.” He knew I loved, loved Barbra Streisand. Why diss something your friend loves?

We like what we like. When one’s fanaticism hurts no one, let that parade march down the street with pride. That goes for food preferences and sports fandom as well as entertainers. Someone’s favorite team is someone else’s “What an embarrassment!” Just like one person craves seafood gumbo and another says shrimp makes them gag. Viva la difference! Let each of us adore the people, places, and things we want to. Barbra will always be “the greatest star” to me, and I hope those who disagree can keep their negativity to themselves. Let me experience a joy that shines on my soul and turns any day into a Mardi Gras parade. I smile all over every time Barbra sings, acts, writes, directs, or creates her next masterpiece. Merci beaucoup, Barbra Streisand!

Posted in #Confessions, Contemplations, Fears and Worries

Singing in the Shower by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

Even though Momma once told me, “You can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” there’s one place I feel comfortable belting out a song – the shower. Since I prefer free-form singing – making up the lyrics I can’t remember (like “I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain/ I’m a crazy old fool/ Ain’t followin’ no rules”/ Just laughin’ and washin’ the blues away”) My shower is a judgement-free zone, and the hot water soothes my soul as well as eases my mind and sends my troubles circling down the drain with any funk my body has accumulated. 

A year into the pandemic I confessed to my sister that I’d sometimes go two or three days without a shower or bath. Gayle was flabbergasted. “What’s wrong with you?!”

I think I didn’t like getting undressed when the weather was cold and I probably thought, “What’s the use of cleaning up?” I wasn’t going anywhere or getting cozy with anyone other than my dog or cat or husband, none of whom cared how I looked or smelled.

But I soon realized I was depriving myself of a calming, stimulating, and satisfying form of creativity. When I re-imagined the lyrics to “Singing in the Rain,” steamy water became my psychotherapist, and I always felt stronger after my shower. The singing was as necessary as the body-washing. I’d become Gene Kelly swinging on a lamp post and feeling in sync with the pouring rain.

I used to cry in the shower after my dad moved in with us. Living with an 87-year-old widower, who was part hypochondriac/part Pout-Pout Fish, was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from! Caring for a 6’4” man in adult diapers who had more doctor appointments than a New Orleans native has Mardi Gras beads was not part of my retirement plan. My shower sobs helped me release my stress and wash away the day’s unpleasantness.

However, singing in a shower is worlds better than crying in one! Even if hearty sobs create endorphins that lie and tell me “every little thing is gonna be alright,” singing transports me into movie magic. 

“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” is another shower favorite for me. I conjure up Katherine Ross riding on the handlebars of Paul Newman’s bicycle in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and my world is sunshine through the trees and Newman’s mischievous grin.

(“Raindrops are falling on my head/ And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed/ Nothing seems to fit/ Those raindrops are falling on my head/ They keep fallin’”).

Even if the afterglow of a hot shower with my rousing renditions of movie soundtrack hits lasts only until I remember my list of chores and responsibilities, I’ve washed away some fifty layers of worry. I forget my awkward limp and crooked left arm, my grown sons’ personal struggles, and the world’s most annoying cat who refuses to ever die who shares a 900-square-foot apartment with us.

These day’s my shower’s finale is “Don’t Rain on my Parade” and I become the greatest star – Barbra Streisand – on that tugboat on her way to surprise Omar Sharif in Funny Girl.  “Don’t tell me not to live / Just sit and putter/ Life’s candy and the sun a ball of butter/ Don’t bring around a cloud to rain on my parade!” Music has power over reality at times, and we need moments of escape as much as we need a good washing. So I’ll choose confidence and joy over fear and worry every time.

Posted in #Confessions, Whispers

Whisper #1 Stop Smoking

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            I heard it years ago, that faint whisper of suggestion, “Stop smoking.”   I had never wanted to quit my closet smoking habit and never thought about it until the whisper.  If no one knew I smoked, did it really matter?  If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?  If I didn’t smoke in front of people, was I really a smoker?

            My husband (my accomplice) and I vowed never to smoke inside the house, so we relegated our habit to the garage and backyard deck.  He, of course, smoked when and wherever he pleased, but I hid, out of shame.  When my daughters were young they never saw me smoke. I pretended to be very self-righteous about my hidden vices.  In fact, my daughters still laugh, “Mom of course we knew you smoked!  We also knew you hid your cigarettes in the kitchen cabinet above the coffee pot.”

            “You did?”  I genuinely asked.  “How did you know?”

            “M o t h e r  please, we might have been young, but we knew you were being shady.”

All those years of slinking around trying to hide my habit, spraying cologne, and chewing gum were all for naught.

    When Boo and I decided we would not smoke in the new house, I was really ok with it.  We set up two chairs in the garage with a table and ashtray.  I was comfortable until I wasn’t.

   I became increasingly irritated by the garage surroundings:  dust, clutter, and bugs.  Once, while having an early morning puff out in the garage, a raccoon wandered in through the half-opened garage door and scared me half to death.  We had a stare-off while I debated how I could defend myself if he were to get closer.  Still in my bathrobe before work, I envisioned the raccoon attacking me and me being found hours later near death, in the garage.  I gradually reached over to put my cigarette out, and in my fear, I knocked over my last bit of coffee. “Sh!*”  I stood up, preparing to bolt toward the door into the house, when the raccoon slowly turned and sauntered out into the dawn.  He was probably bored with my commotion or more likely, repelled by the smoke.

            “Stop smoking.” whispered to me at surprising times.  I would be mid-drag, huddled in the garage on a cold night or a one-hundred-degree summer day, wiping the sweat from my face, and I would hear, “Stop smoking.”  And then, two life-changing events altered my universe:  my father passed away and my first grandchild was born.

            Nursing homes usually don’t have a smoking section for a reason.  In 2009, as my father’s heart disease was progressing, I noticed that very few eighty-five-year-olds still smoked.  And the ones who hadn’t stopped in time were battling oxygen masks and horrible rattling coughs.  Already I was lying on my doctor’s questionnaires where it asked, ‘Have you ever smoked?’  I was lying, sneaking, and in total denial.  My father’s life was ending, and I was still smoking, although it was becoming increasingly more difficult to hide.

            I frequently drove to Amarillo to visit my dad in the nursing home, and when I did, I stayed in their senior living apartment with my stepmother.  Christine, God rest her soul, had a nose like a bloodhound so I had to be extremely cautious about covering up any smoke smell.  Plus, I was never alone, so I was definitely not smoking as much as I thought I wanted to. 

            “Stop Smoking.”

            I began to pray, “God, help me to stop smoking.”  I prayed for months, all the while continuing my secret habit, sucking on breath mints, and spraying Febreze on my clothing.

   Allen Carr wrote a book entitled “The Easy Way To Quit Smoking,” and in it, he refers to nicotine as The Green-eyed Monster.  This monster lies to you and tells you he is your best friend.  He makes you believe you are cool, social, and in control like you could quit any time you wanted, except the truth is that each time you smoke, you want to smoke more.  The Green-eyed Monster has his own whisper, “Just smoke one more.”

            The Green-eyed Monster says, “You’re so cool!” But, how often have you seen smokers hiding in back alleyways or standing alone on a corner?  Not cool.

            I read the book.  I prayed and I smoked until June 2009, two months before my father died.  I was traveling to visit my dad, maybe for the last time and I wanted to go without my ‘friend.’  I was exhausted by hiding and isolating myself from the scrutiny of the non-smokers.  I felt disgusted with myself.  I was ready to lay it down, yet I wanted to make sure I had a fresh pack and lighter handy.  I was balancing between two worlds.

            But, on June 13, 2009, in Amarillo, Texas, without fanfare or even a plan, I suddenly stopped smoking.  One day turned into another and another, all smoke-free.  I thought I would be shouting it from the rooftops, but as a closet smoker, I really didn’t have that many people to tell.  When I got home, back to Austin, I had to change my habits.  For a while, I couldn’t go out on the patio with Boo because it was so triggering, but eventually his smoking did not bother me.  I was not going back to The Green-eyed Monster.

August 22, two months later, my father passed away, and then on September 21, almost one month to the day,  my grandson was born.  I knew I never wanted to be a smoking granny, stopping to cough up a lung on the playground.  I wanted to be the fun grandma, able to participate in hikes, trips, and parties.  I never wanted him to smell smoke on me, only Jergens lotion or freshly baked cookies.  With his birth, I saw my future, and it was monster-free.

    Days turned into weeks and weeks into years until I realized I had been fourteen years as a non-smoker.  Fourteen years, the same age as my grandson.  My whisper probably saved my life; I know it has improved my life and brought me peace.   My whisper finally drowned out those empty promises from The Green-eyed Monster who skulked away like a wounded animal and will never come back.  Never.  

    Often in life, we do hear a whisper that is trying to tell us something important.  It’s our job to be quiet enough to listen, and perhaps heed a warning.  I like to think we can whisper back, and it will be heard.

    I am grateful, I whisper, I am so incredibly grateful.

Posted in Relationships, Truth

I Walk Tall; I Got a Tall Attitude

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

   Four years ago, we took a summer vacation to The Great Smoky Mountains.  To date, it still remains one of my favorite destinations, topping the charts in scenic views, lush mountainsides, and rivers.  We saw so many black bears that it seemed they were making an appearance just for us.  And then there was Dolly.  Dolly’s childhood home, Dolly’s theme park, Dolly’s statues, and Dolly’s Stampede.  As much as we intended to stay strictly in the wilds of nature, we were drawn to Dolly Parton like a pat of butter to a piping hot square of cornbread.

            Gatlinburg, Tennessee is one of the entrances to The Smoky Mountains, and you can’t drive through Gatlinburg without seeing, hearing, and feeling Dolly Parton.  Dollywood, Dolly Parton’s Appalachian-themed park is located in Pigeon Forge which is a hop, skip and a jump from Gatlinburg.  Dolly and Dolly-type things to do are everywhere, and well…when in Rome.

Boo

            I could go on and on about Dolly’s Stampede, where we ate a four-course feast followed by a show featuring music, comedy, animals, and pyrotechnics.  I could tell you about the horseback riders who did tricks, and how patriotic the show was, but what we mostly came away with is the absolute magnetism of Dolly as a country singer, songwriter, actress, and philanthropist.  She gives money for scholarships and donates books to inner-city schools so that all children can have a book of their own to read.  Her talent, charm, and grace are undeniable.  And by the way, she is a Capricorn.  Her birthday was January 19th, the last day to be a Capricorn.

            Capricorns are known to be hard workers.  They are often overachievers, persistent, practical, and sensitive.  They make success look effortless even though they do put a lot of energy and time into their careers and relationships.  And while Dolly Parton is an extravagant example of zodiac energy and creative entrepreneurship, she has a soul twin who shares so many common denominators and the same birthday,  my little Auntie Sue.

            Dolly and Sue, both short in stature and big on attitude, have an unstoppable will to survive and thrive.  Both are givers and have never known a stranger.  Both can kick ass and take names later and both love to love others.   Although Dolly is obviously living life to the fullest, Auntie Sue has gone on to Glory, both are excelling and exhilarating in their respective spaces.

            Dolly and Sue were faithful to their belief in God.  In fact, there is a Bible verse that reminds me of them both.  Proverbs 27:17,  “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.”  Anyone who ever spent time with Auntie Sue knew she was special.  Her confidence, endearing humor, magnetism, and compassion for mankind was a force that attracted others, drew them in, and encouraged them to be better people.  What a legacy, what a quality to have.  Both of these tiny dynamos obviously lived by Dolly’s quote:  I walk tall: I got a tall attitude.

            I was always one of the tallest girls in my class all through elementary school, perpetually on the back row, center on picture day.  I was taller than every boy in my class until seventh grade.  I was always scouring the pant rack for tall, not regulars, and tried endlessly to find stylish flat shoes with not too much heel. 

            I never wanted to be tall.

            You should be glad you’re tall.

            The growth of my arms and legs was the source of many tears and angst.

            I wish I was tall like you.

It didn’t matter what anyone said, my inner self could not manage a tall attitude.

            Growing up, I would occasionally forget that I was a full head taller than everyone else until I saw myself in photographs or looked down to see my pants fit as though they were ready for a flood.  I was tall, but I never walked tall.  As I gradually grew into my own in high school, I was glad the boys were taller but painfully aware that when standing with a group of girls, I could see the top of everyone’s head.

            In college sorority pictures, I tried to casually slump, scrunching my shoulders to be more ‘right-sized.’  Unsure of myself, holding back and trying to fit my tall peg into a short hole left me never feeling good enough.  It’s the kind of thing self-help books are made of.  Shrinking back, making myself small, so others could be tall.

            Enter Auntie Sue.  Tiny like Dolly.  Big hair, like Dolly, and outspoken, like Dolly,  Auntie Sue believed in me with a force as strong as the Oklahoma wind.  Growing up without my mother, I never had that approval and acceptance that many might take for granted.  I simply bluffed my way to adulthood where Auntie Sue finally reentered my life with a new perspective;  Walk tall and have a tall attitude.

            I have written volumes about Auntie Sue.  Stories about her humor, her sacred sittin’ ugly time, her glory hole, and her fierce loyalty to those she loved.  I will never tire of singing her praises.  I’ll never forget her hysterical Sue-isms, and I’ll forever be grateful for her love.  Her walk-tall attitude encompassed me and lifted my slouchy frame from a wanna-be 5’6” to a real 5’8 ½”.  Unconditional love has the power to make even the shakiest walk tall.

            Maybe some might think it a  s t r e t c h  to compare Auntie Sue with the big as life, Dolly Parton, but I think it’s just right.  As iron sharpens iron, a tall attitude encourages the same.

    Dolly’s living the dream and embracing her tall attitude.  She’s singing her songs, selling her cornbread, and bringing the world together with her podcast, Dolly Parton’s America.  And Auntie Sue?  My little Auntie Sue is still sending her love and guidance to me, and she’s still walking tall….walking tall on the streets of gold.

Posted in Grandmother

Grandma’s Banana Bread

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

Every November my thoughts turn to family gatherings, beautiful, crisp fall days, pumpkin pie spice, and my grandmother, Martha Margaretha Claughton, born on November 20, 1891.

My grandmother always went by ‘Grandma’.  If you really know me, you know about my grandma.  She was such an important part of my life growing up and even though she was a no-nonsense kind of gal, she influenced my very essence of being a woman, mother, and now, grandmother.  She was strong-minded, and willful, yet gentle when she needed to be.

Grandma lived in Duplex A on Hayden Street in Amarillo, Texas

Today, one of the greatest blessings of my life is being a grandmother.  I never could have imagined the sweetness, the absolute heart-breaking tenderness of holding a grandchild.  It feels holy, like a sacred trust ordained from above, and ever since Boo and I embarked on our journey as grandparents, our lives have changed for the very best.  Being a grandparent suits Boo like a custom-fit Giorgio Armani in midnight blue.  Perfection.

As for me, the transformation has been more subtle.  My heart feels bigger, my spirit is gentler, and my patience is sometimes like the Energizer Bunny, which is a surprise to my daughters who definitely didn’t get a patient mom.  My grandkids call me Nannie, and I swear it is the sweetest sound on earth to hear one of them call me by that name. 

When my girls were younger and I worked full time, I felt a certain hurriedness to our days.  Panic at not getting ‘it’ all accomplished, and not quite good enough according to Better Homes and Gardens.  I secretly envied all of my friends who were stay-at-home moms.  I compared myself to them, like apples to oranges. And when my single mom days were upon us, I even felt more inept at the perfection I saw in others.  I was judging my insides by other people’s outsides.

Losing my own mother at a very young age, I longed for a momma like a lone, train whistle carries on the wind, winsome and low.  Through it all, Grandma was there.  Steady, true, and happily scooping me up in her soft, capable arms.  I don’t know where I would be today if I hadn’t had my grandma.

 Grandma stepped in with her homemade quilts and flapjacks made in the cast iron skillet.  She cooked our lunch every Sunday after Church.  She made my clothes and when I was old enough, she taught me to use the old Singer sewing machine.  She taught me to play Canasta, plant Zinnia’s in the garden, and make homemade banana bread.  She loved me the very best she could.  Always.

And today, all these years later, I’m standing in my kitchen mixing up the banana bread to bake and chopping the pecans for Grandma’s pecan pie that I’ll take to my brother’s for Thanksgiving.  I always wear her pearls on Thanksgiving day and I know how proud she would be that we think of her and remember her special recipes and her love.

I’m sharing Grandma’s Banana Bread recipe in hopes that you will try it someday, and if you do, think about my grandma.  She always baked this bread in coffee cans (Folger’s) only because she never owned a loaf pan, so coffee cans are the original and preferred way.  I don’t use pecans in ours because some of our grandkids have nut allergies, but if you can have the pecans, please do!

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all and Happy Birthday, Grandma!! 

Grandma’s Banana Nut Bread

1 cup sugar

½ cup shortening (I use vegetable oil)

2 eggs

1 ½ cup mashed bananas

2 cups flour

Pinch salt

1 tsp. baking soda

½ cup chopped pecans

Bake in greased coffee cans (or loaf pan)

350 degrees for 55-60 min.

Posted in Contemplations, Gratitude

Easing Into Woo-woo

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm
Yosemite 2023

            It didn’t happen until much later in life, for me. 

Being born in Amarillo didn’t really prepare me to be open-minded or New-Agey, but I’ve lived in Austin for twenty-five years now, and I’ve discovered a thing or two about being woo-woo.  According to the Oxford Dictionary, Woo-woo is relating to or holding unconventional beliefs regarded as having little or no scientific basis, especially those relating to spirituality, mysticism, or alternative medicine.

            My friends and family are done with me posting pictures of the cardinals that visit our backyard.  My captions always refer to my mother popping in to let me know she’s thinking about me.  It’s not that I really believe my mother is reincarnate as a cardinal; it’s that I think her spirit is giving me a sign that she’s near and sending her love.

            In general, I think there are no coincidences.  Everything has a purpose and meaning, and I can see the ‘extra’ in this world and appreciate the nod that the universe sends me.  The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous talks about it on page 449:  “And I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.  Nothing, absolutely nothing happens in God’s world by mistake.”  Woo-woo? I don’t think so.

            I have two crystals hanging near the window in my office, not only because of the beautiful colors they reflect but also because of their energy.  A clear quartz crystal is called a ‘stone of the mind.’  It is supposed to help you focus and concentrate.  It harmonizes and balances.  It unblocks universal energy.  Woo-woo!

            “It’s a rock,” Boo says.

            “You just have to believe,” I say back.

            “I believe it’s a rock,” he said with a smile.

            Even though I embrace the woo-woo in life, I have to admit I’m a little conflicted about Psychics, Fortune Tellers, and Mediums.  I want to believe in it, and while I am drawn to their supposed superpowers, there is a part of me (that old Southern Baptist part) that thinks only God knows the future.

            Once, my daughter Lee and I went to see Teresa Caputo, The Long Island Medium.  Her show was in a convention center with hundreds of other people, all hoping to connect with a departed loved one.  The air was electric with anticipation and possibly spirits hoping their families were in attendance.  “I need a glass of wine,” I said, as the lights dimmed, and Teresa took the stage.  But, after her brief introduction, she left the stage and began to walk through the audience.  I started to get nervous thinking, what if she stops at us? Or What if no spirits want to connect with us, or what if they do and I ugly cry while on the jumbotron?

            As you can see, perhaps my mind was not in the calm, receptive state it should have been, and Teresa did not stop for us.  We were disappointed, but there were ten other lucky people who connected to their loved ones on the other side.  Woo-woo? Possibly.

            Through the years I have tried my hand at meditation.  I’ve always heard that prayer is talking to God and meditation is listening to what God has to say.  In the beginning, I read a few books about how to meditate.  I found a calm, quiet place to sit, set a timer, and started my slow deep breaths.  At first, all I could manage was three to four minutes, but eventually, I got up to ten.

            Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Thien Buddhist monk, lived his whole life in mindfulness and peace.  He wrote many books, hoping to bring others to peace, serenity, love, and compassion.  One of his more famous quotes is used in all forms of meditation: “Breathing in, I calm my body and mind.  Breathing out, I smile.  Dwelling in the present moment I know this is the only moment.”  And while I know I’m nowhere near monk meditation status, I can feel the settling peace even five minutes can bring.  Woo-woo?  Maybe.

            Unfortunately, Boo doesn’t quite share my affinity for Woo-Woo.

            “You OK, Boo?” he says as he pops his head in my closed office door. (Yes, he calls me Boo, too.)

            Without opening my eyes, I whisper, “I’m meditating.”

            “I thought you were asleep or something.  Hey, really quick, do we have any scotch tape?”

            “It’s in the junk drawer in the kitchen,” I whisper.

            “OK, thanks.  Sorry to bother you,” he whispers back.

Japanese Tea Garden, Golden Gate Park

            This summer on our fabulous trip to Yosemite, we often took moments to ponder the beauty of this glorious park. We would sit upon a fallen tree, or perch on a rock near a river, and just soak in the peace and the beauty.  I could actually feel something magical and healing from the mountains and waterfalls of Yosemite. It’s a spiritual experience.  While on the trip, I found a book that truly explains the glory of being in nature.  The book is entitled “Forest Bathing.”

            Forest bathing is the Japanese mindfulness practice, Shinrin-yoku.  The emotional, physical, and spiritual benefits of slowing down and taking in the natural world.  It helps you reconnect with nature’s tempo and serene beauty.  It has nothing to do with wallowing in water surrounded by trees.  In reality, it’s the act of being among trees, absorbing the ambiance of a forest.  Escaping to the outdoors is nature’s antidote to being too busy and hectic.  It is the epitome of self-care.  It is scientifically proven to help us think more clearly and to improve our overall well-being.  Aristotle said, “Nature does nothing uselessly.”  Nature is perfection.  Woo-woo?  I don’t care if it is.

            I have a dear friend who is going through a terribly rough time.  As we talk, I try to be more of a listener.   I want to be the ‘easy friend,’ a good listener, never wagging a finger with you should’s, or you better.  Occasionally, I can’t stop myself and I’ll offer up something that works for me.  “Have you ever thought about keeping a journal?  Sometimes it helps me to write down my feelings,” I share.

            “I did buy a journal.  I’m writing things down as they happen,” she said.

            “Maybe you could go back to yoga or try meditating.  Have you ever tried counseling?” I offer at another time.

            “I’ll start with the journal, Nan.  I’m easing into Woo-woo,” she smiled.

            And that, my friends, is the sum of all I wanted to say.  Ease into whatever you believe is leading you to be a better, calmer version of yourself.   Prayer, meditation, journaling, or mediums…Cardinals that remind you of family, or a long, peaceful walk among the trees. All that matters is the connection to peace and compassion for yourself and others.     Open your mind and embrace the wonderful world of Woo-woo.

I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown,

For going out, I found, was really going in.

John Muir, (The Father of our National Park System)

Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias, Yosemite National Park 2023 (Me & Boo)

Posted in Contemplations, Death and Dying, Family, Friendship

Showing Up by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

You can't make this s*!# up.


Last night I rewatched Kelly Reickart’s movie Showing Up. Focusing on two artists   preparing for their upcoming shows in a northwestern town, the narrative follows both friend and family drama. As Lizzy creates colorful ceramic girls, Jo works with textiles and string to design installments that towered around and above observers. Poetic scenes of other artists working at the local art school are interspersed with the two main characters who live next door to each other and clash over plumbing problems and the care of a pigeon with a broken wing. With the art world as its backdrop, the film has Lizzy and Jo support each other in different ways. From appreciating each other’s work to sharing the care of the pigeon, they show up.

On a sunny day in late May, I watched my son play volleyball in Zilker Park with the high school tennis team he coaches – an end-of-the-year celebration for his students. I sat at a picnic table loaded with cupcakes covered in red, white, and blue frosting,  platters of cut-up fruit, bags of chips, gallons of water and Hawaiian punch, two boxes of mango popsicles and a five-foot tall plastic bag of popcorn from the movie theater where one of the teens worked. The sun came in and out behind gray clouds that contemplated rain. After energetic volleyball games where the players got covered in sand, sweat, and good cheer, the teens joined me at the picnic table to eat the melting popsicles and cupcakes.

Showing up is a true sign of love. I go to weddings, funerals, birthdays, and graduations not for the cake or prayers or confetti but to show support for those I love during life’s joyful and sorrowful times.


Evan made a speech about the team’s accomplishments before explaining he and his co-coach’s version of participation awards: individualized Pokemon cards for each student!  They had designed  these laminated cards with the Pokemon logo on one side and a photo of the student with  his/her Pokemon stats on the other. Kids had names like “Warrior Doubles Player” and “Sassy Server.” A tall senior told Evan the card was the best school “award” he’d ever received.
I had not been looking forward to hanging outside that sweltering afternoon, but I loved watching my son’s tennis players celebrate with each other. Showing up might start out as a chore, yet the people I show up for always make me realize I made the right decision. 

Shar (co-tennis coach) and Evan

When my youngest sister died suddenly in 2004, the ordeal became a blur of nightmares that left me gulping for air as my family planned for the saddest day of our lives. Except for the Sam Cooke recording of “I Am a Pilgrim” that Gayle convinced a priest to allow us to play as we exited the church, the funeral mass and home visitation stuff felt robotic, cold. Later when mourners filled Grandma’s house and spilled out onto the front porch and backyard, I remember seeing people who surprised me with their presence. So many from New Orleans and other cities Kelly had left her mark on showed up in our small hometown. Gayle’s closest friend flew in from California, and when I said to him, “Danny, I can’t believe you came all this way,” he told me, “Gayle would do the same for me.” Most of that day’s memories are hazy, but I do remember seeing Steve, Kelly’s former boyfriend who was as sweet and calm as he was creative and handsome. He gave me a smile that for a second made me feel safe.

Kelly at Christmas

In 2009  after my middle son had a horrendous accident that required a six-week stay in the hospital, my Sittin’ Ugly Sistahs showed up in the ICU waiting room. Throughout Casey’s painful weeks filled with countless surgeries, I sat by his bedside. Friends dropped off food and gave me comfort. Gayle arranged for our immediate family to come to Austin to celebrate Christmas that December while Casey was still hospitalized. 

Sittin’ Ugly Sistahs

Years later, family and friends braved the Texas heat to attend Casey’s outdoor wedding after COVID had cancelled their first choice for a November marriage. Gayle and Kelly’s best friend Mark flew in early to help with the rehearsal supper and the big day’s set-up of tables and decorations. Around midnight as we loaded our cars with wedding gifts and dirty tablecloths, Gayle told me, “I’m glad I came for Casey’s wedding, but this shit was hard!” Despite the scorching temperatures and stressful work, she and Mark had showed up.

Last June Gayle’s husband died from systemic heart disease. I got a one way ticket to New York as soon as I could. Our nephew Ryan and his wife Kelly flew into New Jersey for the funeral. Friends from out-of-state came up as well. Of course, Danny was there. I stayed two weeks and helped Gayle as best I could as a steady flow of friends and work associates showed up.

Me, Mark, & Danny showing up for Gayle

When death happens, we can be at a loss: “I don’t know what to say.” We don’t have to say anything. Just show up and give the grieving person a hug, a sad smile, a nod, a box of brownies. Taking the time to drive, fly, or walk there means more than we know. Showing up announces, “I care about you.” Even if we can’t ease their suffering, showing up helps the ones with the holes in their hearts, the fog in their brains, and the confusion in their souls. Sharing sadness is not as easy as bringing presents or making champagne toasts, but showing up matters to those we show up for. Only in-person can we give someone a hug that will last longer than a card or a text message. Messages and gifts might mean we’re thinking of those we care about, but showing up means we’d risk highway driving or airport stress to be in the room where life is happening. We show up.

Posted in #Confessions, Boo

I Don’t Have To Stay At The Ritz

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            I didn’t grow up fancy.  I wasn’t spoiled with extravagant gifts and toys, in fact my father was always saying, “Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.  If you want something you have to earn it.” And I would.

            I landed my first job at fifteen working at the YMCA as a lifeguard.  Luckily, this did not turn out to be my life’s vocation, but it was enough to make me realize I needed to find a better job and one that didn’t require me getting my hair wet every day.

            Soon I progressed to my part-time job at Montgomery Wards working in the TV, Stereo, and Record Department, and there I stayed until college.  I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I wanted one.  And when I got to Baylor University on a sunny August day in 1971, I was quickly struck by the differences in those with money and those without.  I wasn’t smart enough to be on a scholarship, but I needed one.  I was somewhere South of high falootin’ and North of broke.

            Fast forward to spring break 2006 when Boo and I were thinking of a little trip to the beach.  With a nostalgic look on his face, he said, “I know the perfect place.”

            “Florida?” I asked.

            “No, The Flagship Hotel in Galveston.  It’s iconic.  It’s one of a kind.  Magical. It’s the only hotel built right over the water.”

            “Sounds divine,” I said, and by Friday we were driving to Galveston. 

            I was looking for a large, seven-story type mansion hotel, and when we pulled into the parking lot, I said, “This can’t be it.”

            There was a huge FEMA sign strung across the Flagship sign and the parking lot was full of cars and campers.  I’m not going to lie, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but Boo, ever the optimist, said, “Isn’t that cool that The Flagship is helping FEMA and the poor people displaced after Hurricane Katrina?  It looks a little run down, but it used to be the place to stay in Galveston.  I bet it’s still nice inside.”

            Turns out we had one of the few rooms still available for hotel reservations.  The hotel was mainly full of families from the hurricane.  As we cautiously got into the elevator, there in the corner, was a dirty diaper and three chicken bones with a KFC wrapper.

            “Don’t worry, our room will be nice,” Boo whispered.

            But, as we turned the corner from the elevator, I could hear loud music as three doors were wide open, and people were wandering from room to room with beer, babies, and biscuits (from KFC).

            “It’s only for two nights,” Boo said, “We’ll hit the beach in the morning.”

            As we were getting ready for bed that night, the musty smell of bay water, cigarettes, fast food, and marijuana wafted in and out of our room, and as I went to turn out the light, I saw a roach walking across the top of the dresser.

            “I can’t do it,” I told Boo, but it was late and by the next morning before 10:00 a.m., we were checking out.

            I don’t have to stay at the Ritz Carlton, but this was the Ritz Cracker, an old Ritz cracker that was found under a couch cushion.

            Later, in July of 2006, Boo’s mother, Jean, God rest her soul, paid for a trip to Yosemite National Park for our anniversary.  Although Boo and I are not poor, we are educators, which puts us in a certain bracket, if you know what I mean.  Anyway, Jean also got us first-class tickets to California on United.  Boo and I were surprised and yes, neither one of us had ever been in first class before this glorious trip.

            Once upon a time, before my Nikon 3500 digital camera, I sported a disposable camera everywhere I went, and first-class was no exception.  As Dorothy Parker once said, “I’ve never been a millionaire, but I know I’d be just darling at it.” I knew I was meant for first-class the minute we sat down.

            “Get your camera!”  Boo whispered.

            “Let me wait until we take off.  I don’t want to look like we don’t know how to act in first class,” I whispered back.

            Even before all the other passengers were on the plane, the stewardess asked if we would care for a glass of champagne, and we, as casually as possible, said yes!  Then she came back by with a silver tray filled with rolled up, hot, moistened hand towels for us to wipe our hands free of the dredges of travel.  “Ahhhh,” we sighed.

            Since we had no cell phone and our disposable camera had no selfie function, we took turns taking each other’s pictures at various stages of our first-class experience.  Wiping our hands, toasting the air with our glass of champagne, savoring each bite of our hot cashew nuts, and our lunch tray with a choice of red or white wine. We enjoyed every second of our flight!

            Looking back now, I’m sure our first-class neighbors thought we were the Beverly Hillbillies coming home from the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, but at the time we were living the high life.  Fancy to the max.

            The only other time Boo and I surpassed our fanciness was one weekend in New Orleans.  As luck would have it, rain pelted our car as we drove from Houston to New Orleans.  It was raining so hard we could barely see the road.  About twenty minutes outside of New Orleans, a car in the lane to our right hydroplaned in front of us, missing our car by barely an inch, and went across the line into the oncoming lane of traffic.  The only sound in our car was us sucking in our breath for what seemed like an eternity. Boo glanced into the rearview mirror as we slowed and saw that the car missed all traffic and spun around to be back in the right lane.  We were shaken.  It was like a dream.  “Shouldn’t we stop?” I asked.  But we couldn’t and neither could anyone else.  We all slowed down and tried to recover. “Thank you, Jesus,” was all we could say. 

            Still shaken up, we pulled into the Marriott parking lot an hour and a half later than check-in.  When we walked inside and gave them our names, the desk clerk said, “Malcolm?  We weren’t able to keep your reservation due to the weather.”

            “Are you sure?  What are we supposed to do now?”

            The clerk excused himself and returned a few moments later.

            “We’re sorry for the inconvenience.  Although we do not have your room tonight, our sister hotel, right next door does have a room.  Are you interested?”

            “Sure.” We said.

            We drove our car 300 feet to the hotel next door and when we pulled up a doorman greeted us.  “Welcome to the Ritz Carlton,” he said.

            Boo and I just looked at him and then at each other.  It really didn’t sink in until we arrived at our king-bed room and turned on the lights. 

            “Wow,” we said collectively.

            “Hurry and unpack,” Boo said, “So they can’t make us leave.”

            After our stressful drive to NOLA, we showered, donned the fabulous white, fluffy Ritz Carlton robes and slippers, and ordered room service.

            “We’re really fancy, now,”  I said, and with a mouth full of delicious club sandwich Boo nodded a resounding yes.

            Oh sure, I could go into the philosophy of fancy.  The definition, the descriptions, but maybe fancy is in the eye of the beholder.  Maybe fancy is a glittery term I have held in the highest esteem for too long.

            The hummingbirds in my backyard, fancy.  The gorgeous butterflies flitting from flower to flower, fancy.  Huge fluffy snowflakes falling from the sky, while your grandchild tries to catch them on his tongue. Beyond fancy.  And while I value this kind of ‘fanciness’ over the things money can buy, I still like a good hotel.

            I don’t have to stay at the Ritz Carlton, but I know I’d be darling at it.

Posted in Contemplations, #Confessions

Home on The Range or My Life As A Rolling Stone

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

Boo and I have lived in our home for almost nineteen years.  This is the longest I have ever lived in the same house.  I mean ever.  We have seen our aging neighbor through the death of his wife.  We’ve seen the young couples on our street have babies and now I see those babies waiting for the school bus in front of our house.  We share our over-the-top holiday decorations with the thousands of twinkling lights, and life-size blowups of Olaf, dancing penguins, Santa, and his reindeer. We invite young mothers with fussy toddlers in strollers to pet our black cat, Emmy.  It feels like home.  I don’t think God will ever ask me if I lived in a good neighborhood, but He might ask me if I was a good neighbor, and I hope to answer a resounding yes!   I feel a part of life, here.  I feel safe.

When I was born, my parents, brother, and I lived on Crockett Street in Amarillo, Texas.  It was a small, stucco starter home, with a detached garage that my dad and grandpa built.   My brother had a gang of boys to play with and luckily there was a little girl next door for me.  However, when I was four, as my mother’s illness progressed, it became necessary to sell our home to help with medical bills. Thus, we moved to a rent house across from Amarillo Junior College.  My mother died shortly after that, and we moved again because my father could not bear to live where my mother had died.  Luckily, a Methodist preacher and his family were moving to Chicago, so we rented their modest home right down the street and there we stayed for about five years.

When I was ten we moved across town to an upgraded neighborhood, and I started sixth grade as the ‘new girl.’  We did live there for nine years and after that, I went to college.  Even at Baylor, I bounced around to two different dorms my freshman year.  My sophomore and Junior years were stable, and then I got married and moved to an apartment in Waco, and the next year we moved to  Killeen, Texas to start a new life and teaching career.

I will not bore you with the gory details of each one of my moves, but within that marriage we did move twice.  Then there was a devastating divorce and that’s really when my moves escalated.  As a single mom on a schoolteacher’s salary, I had exactly $525 to spend on housing.  No more.  I was constantly on the lookout for a newer, bigger rent house for the same amount of money in the same school zone.  There were two moves before I remarried, then a huge uprooting to North Carolina.  To simplify matters, let’s just say within the next ten years there were four moves, another unsightly divorce, and a plan to move to Austin.

Obviously, one could argue that I am unstable, a rolling stone, or an excitement junkie.  But I plead irreconcilable circumstances and bouts of insanity.  I became the queen of creativity. I could unpack boxes, set up beds and hang all the pictures in two days flat. I would use my rent deposit refund to pay my next rent deposit, and I always left each house a little better than I found it.  I was resourceful, frugal, and as Blanche DuBois said in A Streetcar Named Desire, “I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

Now, all this to say there have been downsides to my gypsy ways.  My family has never written my address in anything but pencil.  My youngest daughter blames me for her trust issues, the U.S. Postal Service still sends me change of address cards each summer, and it is hard for me to pass up a “good moving box.”

Perhaps I have been a wanderer.  It wasn’t my objective; I just fell into it.  Each move, each house meant something special to me, and I pinky swear that I never meant to harm my children or anyone else by moving.  I know I did the best I could.

With every new house, my intentions were pure.  I made it a home because by my definition, home is where the heart is and as long as I was there, my children would be safe and could be happy.  My modest meals like baked chicken in Italian salad dressing with a plain iceberg salad and lots of Ranch were the alternative to fish sticks and mac n’ cheese.  I wouldn’t say boring, but I might say dependable.  There was nothing fancy about our lifestyle, yet the girls were afforded new curtains and bedspreads to spruce up even the dreariest of shag carpets.  We survived and more.  We’re strong women, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound and make a home from the barest of frames.

But now… Now that I have this home with Boo, and we have made it ours, I have roots.  Settled in ways I never knew I needed.  Anchored with a firm foundation of faith and family.  Grounded with grandchildren that each consider our guest room as ‘their room,’ and brick by brick we have built beautiful memories with years of love and laughter.  I feel so lucky.

When my time here on earth has ended, I fully believe God will not ask the square footage of my home or the brand of hardwood floors or granite counters, but He may ask how many people I welcomed in with open arms.  He may ask me if I offered those without some of what I had, and He will probably ask if I loved others well.  I hope my answers will be satisfactory, as that has always been my aim. 

For you know what I say is true, a house is not a home unless it’s full of the good stuff, like love, laughter, and respect, and that is all anyone could ever want.