Month: February 2020

Posted in Family

Don’t You Worry about that Mule

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

Don’t You Worry about that MuleMule 2

by Ginger Keller Gannaway

One of Dad’s favorite sayings makes me both nod and scratch my head: “Don’t you worry about that mule. That mule ain’t going blind.”

I totally get the essence of his advice, even if I don’t fully understand the specific imagery. A mule is a hybrid of a male donkey (jack) and a female horse (mare).  A mule has more strength, patience, intelligence, and longevity than either of its parents. Darwin has said that with the hybrid mule’s superior characteristics, “art has outdone nature.”

I suppose my persistent and powerful worries can be compared to the superior pack animal –  the mule. As I age, I have too much time to obsess over my endless list of fears:

Will my son get the new and improved job he seeks?

Will the ceiling slash in our living room turn out to need major roof repair costing thousands?

Will my car’s weird electrical issue where the doors automatically lock and unlock when I make a sharp turn or go over a train track one day keep me trapped when my car gets forced off a highway that crosses a deep river?

Will my dad’s nurses ignore his buzzer calls for help?

Will the latest global virus turn into scenes from the movie Contagion?

I’m not sure why Dad’s saying is about the mule’s eyesight, but maxims do not have to be logical, e.g. “Happy as a clam” or “Hunger is the best pickle.”  They just need to suggest the essence of a piece of wisdom.  Momma’s explanation to me of the Cajun phrase, “Tonnerre ma chien! (“Thunder the dog!”) was , “Well, it just means, ya know, ‘Thunder the dog,’ like you say, ‘Tonnerre ma chien!’ ya know.” There’s a feeling of an unexplained exclamation there, like a “Oh my God!” I guess.

So sayings can hold an abstract wisdom using concrete imagery, whether we’re talking about a dog in a storm or a mule with sight problems.Worry Head 1

My worries sometimes tangle me in knots of fear. I lose sleep or overeat or snap at my pets and my husband. Then my senseless concerns never come close to reality. My son did not start holding up a cardboard sign on the corner of First Street and Ben White Blvd. when he was between jobs. My car has not trapped and drowned me at the bottom of Lake Pontrachain on my way to New Orleans.

Dad’s saying involves a mule because worries have strength and a sturdiness that stays with a person. However, mules also are known for being more affectionate than their parents. Therefore, I  accept the fears of my nonsensical brain and remember that my head makes unlikely predictions.

Mules may get stuck in mud-filled ditches but they do not despair because they believe what Dad knows, “Don’t you worry about that mule. That mule ain’t going blind.”mule 1

Posted in Death and Dying

The Face of God

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

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written by Nancy Malcolm

 

As I walked silently from the room, I could tell even the air was different.  Every molecule in that room had shifted from dark to light; tense to tranquil.  I am a volunteer for hospice and this is the story of the day I saw the face of God.

Christopher House, in Austin, Texas, is a fifteen room care facility for hospice patients whose symptoms temporarily cannot be managed at home.  Patients are stabilized and then allowed to return home if they are able, as per their wishes. It is a more comfortable alternative to going to the hospital.  Each room has a bed, a private bath, and conveniences for family members who accompany their loved one. As a volunteer, I never knew who would be there from week to week, and when a patient was gone they either went home or on to heaven.  It was the goal to allow our patients the dignity to die at home, just as they wanted, surrounded by friends and family, in the comfort of a familiar setting. But, the beauty and serenity of Christopher House is the next best thing to home.

On Tuesday as I started my two-hour shift, one of the nurses called me to room number nine.  “She’s been in so much pain and I think she’s finally getting comfortable. Would you sit with her for a while?  Her family wasn’t here today.” 

“Of course,”  I said and as I entered the room I saw my little patient lying in bed, positioned on her side, facing the window.

“Hello,” I said.  “I’m Nancy and I’m a volunteer.  Would you mind if I sat with you for a while?”

She didn’t answer, but I wondered if she could still hear me.  Room number nine was painted in pale blue and had serene pictures on the wall.  Her bed was next to a large window looking out to a covered patio with plants and flowers.  The lights were off, but outside it was sunny and bright.  

My patient was a tiny, older woman with caramel skin.  She was in her twin size hospital bed, and beside her on the table was a large photograph of her and her husband on their wedding day, many years ago.  She also had not one, but three Bibles in her room. One on the bedside table, one on the coffee table and one laying near the foot of her bed. All three were well worn with love and devotion.

I walked around the bed so we could see each other, but her eyes were fixed on the window and she didn’t acknowledge my presence.  I continued to talk quietly, “Would you like me to read to you from the Bible? Let me get a chair.”

I couldn’t move her, so I wedged a folding chair between her and the wall.  Taking the Bible from the bed, I sat down and tried to get calm.

“Do you have a favorite verse?”  I asked.

I sat still and tried to match my breath with hers, but it was shallow and ragged, possibly from the pain.   In and out I breathed, trying to slow down her pace, until I opened the Bible and said, “Let’s start with the Psalms.”

Her face was tight and her brows knitted, and I could see that her body was stiff.  She looked uncomfortable, but the nurses had used pillows in all the right places to help her be supported and relaxed.  I started to read and to my surprise, my voice was shaking.  

Again I breathed in and out, slowly, and I started over.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

Softly, I read Psalm after Psalm, stopping occasionally to let the powerful words sink in.  It seemed that every verse I read was speaking to love, peace and trust and was just what I imagined she might want to hear.  

“Let Thy mercy, O Lord, be upon us according as we hope in thee.”

 I continued until I felt the shift in her breathing.  I felt it change from the shallow uneasiness to the slow and deep inhale and exhale.  I was unaware of the time as I talked quietly to her in between the verses. Finally, I heard just the faintest whiffle of a snore and I closed her Bible and looked up.

 That is when I saw the face of God.

Her body was totally relaxed and her face was smooth and youthful not a wrinkle to be seen.  Even though her eyes were closed now, one lone tear was left to roll down her cheek and her lips were in a slight, pale smile.  There was a light that surrounded her, nestling her like hands cradling a baby.  You might think, “Oh, it must have been the light from the window.”  But, I know it was not.  

“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thy own understanding.”

I knew her pain was gone.  I knew her body was resting and I knew her face was God’s face.  The power of those ancient words had changed her.

Quietly, I climbed out of my wedged space by the window, but I left the chair and her Bible open on it.  Room number nine was different somehow. The air had changed, and there was a light and a feeling of peace so beautiful that I didn’t want to leave, but it was my time to go.

The next week when I returned to volunteer, my little patient was gone.  “She went home,” the nurses said, and I knew that was true.  She was home.

Posted in Family, Food

The Last Perfect Bite

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

The Last Perfect Bite by Ginger Keller Gannawaybite4

Momma bite
Momma Gerry taught me to savor every bite.

Near the end of an elaborate Thanksgiving dinner, my husband once casually took a small bite of fried turkey, cornbread dressing, and smothered green beans off my plate.

I glared at him in shock. “Are you crazy?”

“I thought you were finished,” he explained.

My first instinct had been to stab his thieving fingers with my fork because that little amount of food was my carefully planned, highly anticipated last perfect bite.

As a Cajun who does not trust a person who does not LOVE food, meals mean a lot to me. I believe they are best savored and unrushed. How can some people scarf down food like dogs and finish in a few minutes a dinner that required 27 ingredients and three hours to prepare? Also, a person’s need to keep various foods separated on a plate confounds me. What would mashed potatoes be without their gravy? Why should we deny the black eyed peas a chance to get up close and personal to the slow-roasted beef? I love to change a plate of purposefully divided food into a mash-up of new flavors. 

I actually plan my last perfect bite as soon as I get my first taste of the meal. How would stewed sweet potatoes complement tender and savory pork tenderloin? Wouldn’t the asparagus sautéed in garlic enjoy mixing things up with the curry shrimp? I relish how the flavor from one region twirls and smiles when it sidles up to a spice from a different culture. No wonder fusion restaurants are all the rage now. Belly Shack (Korean/Puerto Rican), Revolutionario (North African/Mexican), Valentina’s(TexMex/BBQ), & Bayona’s(Spanish/Italian/French/Indian/Mediterranean) offer international ways to thrill and delight their diners.bite3

You might think that casseroles and soups have done all the mixing of tastes for the average diner. No way. Gumbo, a favorite of mine, emerged from incorporating diverse ingredients from a hodgepodge of places; however, that does not keep this Eunice, Louisiana girl from adding a dollop of potato salad into a hot bowl of chicken and sausage gumbo. Mix it up, cha.

When I glance over a plate lunch’s assortment of possibilities, I let my fork pick up a piece of baked chicken and add a little rice and gravy before I balance some maque choux (a Creole corn dish) on top and end by using the fork tines to jab a cherry tomato from my salad. Then after lively dinner talk, some sips of wine or iced tea, and my compliments to the cook, I decide on my last perfect bite. I balance my favorite flavors and anticipate that bite that may include two, three, or up to to six different dishes; it is always a groovy way for life’s diverse tastes to surprise and delight me. Trust the mix, baby, trust the mix!

gumbo momma
MaMa’s Gumbo
Posted in Friendship

Money Money Money

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

Money Money Money (1)

 

Written by Nancy Malcolm

 

Boo and I have been married for fifteen years and while we rarely disagree, the main times we do are when he tries to tell me something I already know.

Because this isn’t our first marriage, we decided from the beginning to have separate checking accounts.  I feel very strongly about my money management skills and my ability to handle my affairs. But, so does he.

He is so old school that he still wants to receive his paycheck in the mail so he can deposit it himself. 

 “Direct deposit feels risky,” he says.  “So many things could go wrong, and besides, I like to see and feel my money.” 

 The man doesn’t even use an ATM machine.  He withdraws his cash from the drive-through bank cashier or he goes inside the bank to speak with a real person.

Once, I tried to show him how to deposit a check using his phone and I thought he was having a heart attack.  When I explained how easy it was and that he could just check his account at any time, he begged me to stop. “That’s crazy!  Someone could just hack in and take all of our money.”

“Yes, but that’s why you have passwords and safety features.  I’m telling you this will save you time and the stress of driving to the bank,” I said.

Boo just shook his head, “I don’t know you anymore.  You’re just willy-nilly with this online banking shenanigans.  I like real people, not machines and phones,” he said and added, “You charlatan!”

Needless to say, our household bills are divided between the two of us.  Boo pays his bills the same day they arrive in the mail, and although I have never been withdrawn or had a late fee, he worries that I will forget or miss a payment.  

“Don’t forget to pay the mortgage,” says the worrywart.

“I won’t.”

“I see the mortgage payment is here,” says Mr. Passive aggressive.

“Yup.”

“You know there’s only a five day grace period for the mortgage,” he scolds.

“I know.”

Seriously, the mortgage just arrived in the mail and he says all of this during the first twenty-four hours.

  I have NEVER forgotten to pay the mortgage or any bill, but he cannot trust my process.

I have to admit, sometimes I let it sit out just to make him ask questions and sweat a little.  If he gives me cash for something or just slips me a twenty, he will worry and watch until that twenty-dollar bill is safely in my wallet.  “All of my bills face the same direction,” he proudly proclaims. “That way I can tell at a glance how much money I have.”

“I’m happy for you, Wells Fargo.”  I egg him on, while secretly mine are too.

He saves all of his change and is keeping it in one of those old, large water cooler bottles.   Once I put some extra coins into the jug, thinking he would be happy and he completely freaked out because I had included pennies.  He only likes silver.    

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The man has money hidden in all kinds of places.  I’m quite sure that the garage alone has a couple hundred and his desk is probably packed with wads of cash hidden in the bottom of drawers or folded in stashed envelopes. I haven’t checked between the mattresses yet, but I wouldn’t rule it out.   His cash hoarding is endearing and yet perplexing.  But one thing is absolutely true; he is generous and loves giving gifts, especially to his grandkids.  His heart is pure gold. (or should I say silver.)

It must be hard to be Boo and have so many rules about money.  He stresses a lot because he wants to be in total control and secretly, I guess I do too.  But, my Boo is a fabulous money manager and even if his practices are antiquated; even if he causes me angst, and questions my techniques; he is thrifty, loyal, helpful, kind and brave just like a Boy Scout.  He’s my JPMorgan and Citi Bank all rolled into one.