Category: Contemplations

Posted in #Confessions, #Teaching, Contemplations, Relationships, Teaching

The Long Year

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm
My Honeybee’s singing Happy Birthday

            For one long-fast year of my life, I taught kindergarten in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

Estes Hills Elementary School was nestled in a mixture of pine and oak trees and was an older school with character, and lots of other characters who worked there.  Each of the classrooms had a back door that opened into a lush courtyard and a front door that lead to a winding sidewalk that circled the school.

The year was 1991 and was one of the most interesting, AKA hard, years of my adult life.  1991 involved a marriage, a move to North Carolina from Texas, a job change and a pending divorce.  1991 was dashed dreams, sour grapes, and a river of tears all rolled into one.  Twelve months of shock and awe.  365 days of “What the hell?”, yet there was a calm, deliberate sweetness that awaited me every morning when I greeted my 25 little charges.  Estes Hills and the 25 Honeybees (our class nickname) gave me purpose and life.

Estes Hils was a neighborhood school that was also near The University of North Carolina.  Many professors’ children attended our school and for that reason, most of the teaching staff was a mature, seasoned group, able to provide the level of learning our clientele demanded.  Each teacher was assigned a teacher assistant to help facilitate classroom learning and discipline.

I was one of several kindergarten teachers that year, and we were each assigned 25 students.  While you may not think 25 students is a lot, 25 five-year-olds is.

My students were eclectic, coming from varied backgrounds and nationalities.  One such student, a handsome little boy named Xolani, came from Africa and had a click language dialect.  While he spoke perfect English, his P sounds had a click, which made his language both fascinating to listen to, and hard to understand.

My teacher assistant, Violet, had her master’s degree in art.  Every day she planned an art project for our students and during that hour, she took over and I assisted.  She was talented, creative, and best of all, patient with a great sense of humor. 

Being new to this school that was so steeped in tradition and culture was like being drop kicked through the goalpost of life into another era.  It didn’t help that I was from Texas.  The North Carolinian women were Berkenstock wearing, clean faced southerners who sounded like they used a question mark at the end of every sentence, with slow paced, elongated v o w e l s.  And even though I had the usual slow, Texas drawl, they proceeded to make fun of my y’all’s and fixin to’s, like I was the one with an accent.

It didn’t help that in 1991 I was still sporting big hair, red lipstick and against the wholesome scrubbed look of the other teachers, I looked, well… a little on the trashy side.  A little too made up for their taste.

            “You Texans,” and they would just shake their heads.

            “You Texans think everything is bigger in Texas.”

            Quite frankly, my self-esteem was already in the toilet because of my horrible, no good, very bad year. But it was hard to make friends, and by the third day of school, I was feeling like the Lone Texas Ranger and would probably be eating lunch by myself for the rest of my life.

            But on the fourth day, my back door swung open and the teacher from two doors down popped his head in.

            “Hey, Miss Texas, want to join us for lunch?” Bryon asked.

            And a friendship was made.

            Bryon and Chris were the two gay teachers from two doors down.  They were charming, hysterically funny and comforted my shaky soul like a bowl of chicken and dumplings.  We ate lunch together, chatted at recess and they even invited me to some of their fabulous weekend parties.  At a time when I felt very little mercy from life, they gifted me friendship and laughter.  And when the end of school came, and the end of my marriage, Bryon and Chris helped me load my U-Haul trailer for the long drive back to Texas. 

My 25 Honeybees were sweet with not a stinger among them. The parents and students even surprised me with a cake and gifts on my thirty-ninth birthday, and as their joyful voices sang happy birthday, I held back tears from the sheer preciousness of that moment.

 One particular day I was leading a lesson about North Carolina as a state, and we were coloring pictures of the flag.

One student raised his hand and asked, “Teacher?”

“Yes, Samuel,” I said.

“Are you a Democrat or a Puerto Rican?”

“You mean Republican?” I asked.

“No,” and he shook his head, “I’m pretty sure its Puerto Rican.”

“Well, which one are you?”  I asked.

“Oh, I’m black,” he said

“Cool.” I answered.  And I gave him a big hug.

The hug seemed to suffice him as an answer, and we finished coloring in silence.

My long-fast year in North Carolina was a blessing in so many ways.  I found out that some people aren’t who they say they are, and that actions really do speak louder than words.  I learned it’s ok to be from Texas and proud of it.  I marveled at the resilience of the human spirit and the inherit kindness that restored my faith in man.  And with great fondness, I remember 25 little Honeybees who needed me as much as I needed them.

Posted in #Confessions, #Teaching, Aging, Contemplations

Critics        by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

Recently Gary said something that made me bust out laughing.  I was leaving to observe a student teacher and said, “I’m worried that I wore this same skirt the last time I observed her class.”

He dismissed my fear with, “Don’t worry. No one will even notice what you’re wearing.”

T-shirt from Crockett High School (my favorite place to teach!)

“What!?” I said. “Teenage girls notice EVERYTHING their teachers wear, say, do, or do not do!”

They criticize pants that don’t fit well, shoes that are worn out, a dress older than their parents are, a necklace, earrings, makeup, or lack of makeup, an unusual pronunciation (even if it’s a word they don’t know), your voice, your posture, your haircut, your car, your lunch, your pet, your children, or even your momma.  Nothing is off-limits. To most teens, teachers give them too much homework but not enough praise. Also, we provide endless chances for them to perfect their criticism skills. 

I remember once wearing one navy sock and one black sock. So I deserved the, “Hey, Miss! Your socks don’t match.”  I also had to claim the, “Why you mixing a pearl earring with your fake diamond one?” And I turned hot sauce red when a usually quiet girl pointed to my left ankle and softly said, “The staple you used on your pants’ hem is about to fall off.” Guilty as charged.

But I didn’t like the observational skills of a fifteen-year-old who stood up in class and pointed to my white shirt’s left pocket and smiled. “Your mustard stain reminds me of my baby sister’s throw up!”

And nothing stings like the, “Hey, Miss! You oughta give whoever cut your hair a minus-one review on Yelp!”

Even the unintentional criticisms can punch your self-image in the face. “Miss! Guess what! You and my great-grandma have the same blue jean skirt.” During my 36 years of teaching, students have been both ruthless and helpful.

I’ve had kids point out lettuce between my teeth many times. The kind ones whisper the problem (“There’s something in your teeth”) while you’re picking up that day’s assignment. The uncouth ones make sure all thirty-four classmates hear them announce, “Hey, Miss, your spinach had a fight with your honeydew at lunch!” 

Some adjectives that were meant to grind down my confidence in my lesson plans have been: “Hey Miss, this book is lame…whack…stupid…sorry ass… boring… sucks… all kinds of wrong… too easy… too hard…awful…lousy…inferior…crummy…basic…cheesy…off…and crappy.”  

One time when my principal observed me teaching, a cute cheerleader passed judgement on my new dress by looking me up and down and slowing shaking her head. Then the fact that my lesson was clever, creative, and engaging meant nothing to me, and the dress I paid way too much for was in our Goodwill bag the next week.

After I turned fifty, the teens’ criticisms made me laugh more often than blush. So what if I got confused when using my room’s “smart board” or messed up streaming video on the doc-cam.

“You’re forgetting to unmute the sound, Miss,” or “Your hyperlink doesn’t open,” did not bother me.

“Hey, Eric, could you sort out my tech issues?” I’d say and all would be well.

And the quips about my crooked glasses, out-of-date clothes, or uncool taste in music did no harm. When someone noticed two inches of my half-slip showing, I could step behind a bookcase and roll up my slip’s waistband as I continued analyzing Shakespeare’s use of figurative language without missing a metaphor. 


I love the line from the Oak Ridge Boys’ song “Leaving Louisiana in the Broad Daylight” — “I gotta roll on between the ditches.” Turning older has made me tough and carefree, where the snarky criticisms not only slide off my back but evaporate into a lavender mist.

Posted in Confessions, Contemplations, Relationships

Mind Your Own Beeswax

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            Have you ever had the misfortune of finding out something you wish you hadn’t? Sometimes the truth is more than I really want to know.  Being nosy or asking too many questions might seem fun at the beginning, but eventually, ‘oops, there it is!’ and I cannot unhear what I just heard.

            The simple, “How are you feeling?” turns into a graphic description of a lanced boil or a replay of what someone had for lunch that didn’t agree with them.  The innocent, “What did you do this weekend?” parlays into a three-part mini-series complete with Instagram reels and photos.

            When I continue to ask, prod, or coax someone to share information, I would do well to mind my own business 99 % of the time, especially when I am asking my adult children questions about their lives.  Navigating life with grown children is quite different than when they were eleven years old, and I had a right to know all about their comings and goings, friendships, what they ate, and how they were feeling.  Overstepping my boundaries was a given back then, but now it is a definite no-no if we want to stay on good terms.

            I used to think I was rather good at finding out things about our kids, but my husband, Boo, is an expert.  He is the master of ‘21’ questions.  He is the guru of gossip, and like Inspector Clouseau, he is a fact-finder to the nth degree. 

            Boo is generally a man of few words, but seat him next to a stranger on the airplane or give him a beer, and he becomes absolutely chatty and will pry into anyone’s life before they know it.  He is adept at asking questions in rapid fire.  Who, what, when, where, why, and how. He is not afraid to ask any question to anyone at any time.

            He is often frustrated by my lack of snooping into our daughters’ lives.

 “Well, did you ask her how much that was going to cost?” he says.

            “No.  It’s none of our business what they spend their money on,”  I answer.

            “Yes, it is.  I think she should save her money or invest it in some stocks. I have a list here of the best ones.”

            “Boo, mind your own beeswax,” I counter.

The expression, ‘mind your own beeswax,’ comes from the 18th century when the dreaded small pox left scars on people’s skin. To cover the pox marks, women would apply beeswax to their faces.  The story goes that if people got too close to a woman’s face or stared at her covered up spots, she would tell them to “mind your own beeswax.”  Another theory is from the practice of sealing letters with beeswax to prevent others from reading them.  Whichever theory you agree with, the end result is the same, don’t meddle.  Stay in your own lane.  Butt out. 

            Most of the time I try to fly under the radar.  I can sit quietly and entertain myself easily.  I don’t have the need to talk.  I can stay in my own hula hoop, but if there is one lonely elderly person in the grocery store, they will find me.  And, even without asking, I will find out everything they have been thinking and feeling for the last twenty-five years.  I will know their pets’ names; their personal medical diagnosis; vacation plans; their children’s names, where they live, and why they haven’t called in over a month. 

             I rarely initiate these conversations, but I must have that face that says, “Tell me everything.  I really care.”  People tell me why they got divorced; when they found Jesus; their favorite ice cream flavor and how they put on their false eyelashes.

            Once, at Buc-ee’s, I ran in to get a bottle of water while Boo waited at the gas pump.  Twenty-two minutes later I emerged.

            “What happened?” Boo asked.

“ I was paying for the water and noticed the cashier’s false eyelashes were the longest, thickest fake lashes I have ever seen.  I said, “WOW, I love your lashes!,” but I could see the girl thought I was making fun of her, so to make her feel better I said, “No, I really love your lashes.  I wish I could wear those.” 

            I don’t know why I said that.

She proceeded to tell me where she buys them, how much they cost, and step by step instructions on attaching them. Then she explained that her real eyelashes have nearly all been pulled out by the glue, and now she has to wear the false lashes all the time, so her boyfriend won’t know her real eyelashes are gone.

“Don’t get the cheap glue,” she advised. 

 By this time there was a line behind me, and I quickly said, “I’ve learned so much, thank you!  You’ve given me the courage to try it,” and she leaned over the counter and gave me the biggest hug.

 “Go big and dramatic,” she said, “You won’t be sorry.  And have a blessed day,” she added.

“You too,” I called.

            “Wow,” Boo said when I told him the story, “That’s a lot of information.”

            Oh sure, all this could have been avoided had I not said anything about the cashier’s eyelashes.  But don’t you agree that some situations just beg for a question or comment?  In the same way, we want to ask our grown children questions that we probably shouldn’t, even though we think we want to know the answer…we really don’t.  Maybe someday I’ll learn not to ask.  Maybe someday I’ll remember the secret to happiness is minding my own business.

Repeat after me:  The secret to happiness is minding my own business!

Posted in Contemplations, Family, Mothers

smaller things by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

Momma liked smaller things. A demi-tasse coffee cup, teaspoons, a dessert saucer over a dinner plate, and a purse no bigger than a seven-year-old’s palm. She preferred small, cheap towels like the ones once stuffed into boxes of Breeze detergent over the bath sheets sold in fancy department stores. And she never wanted a whole stick of her favorite Doublemint gum. “Just give me half.”  In our super-sized world, she often ordered an appetizer for her meal, and a small Ruby’s biscuit with a three-inch piece of Johnson’s boudin was all she needed for breakfast. 

One of eleven kids, she likely grew up with smaller portions of everything. Her family nicknamed her “Poulette” (Cajun French for “small chicken”).  I remember all 5’2”, 102 pounds of her pecking around our home with an ever present dish cloth (no bigger than a Kleenex), always cleaning or cooking. 

Geraldine & Reggie
The LaTour Family

However, her preference for smaller things contrasted with the largeness of her heart and her need for beaucoup bon temps. She never turned down a spicy gumbo dinner, a competitive Bouree card game (for money!), or a local festival like the International Crawfish Etouffee Cookoff in Eunice,Louisiana or the Frog Festival in nearby Rayne. 

Her “don’t ever leave me out of the fun” attitude continued even after her mind got muddled and she was confined to a wheelchair. In 2014 my Sittin Ugly Sistahs (Nancy, Mary, and Cynthia) joined me in Eunice for Mardi Gras, and we wheeled Momma two blocks to the downtown festivities: a street dance with a zydeco band, a boucherie where cooks used all parts of a butchered pig to make boudin, cracklin, pork chop sandwiches, and Momma’s favorite – backbone stew. After we enjoyed the rocking band, the rich food, and the Second Street parade, a light rain started. Momma half-dozed in her wheelchair while we held an umbrella over her.
“Mom, you ready to go home and take a nap?” I asked.

“Y’all going home, too?” she said.

“We’ll take you home and maybe come back for the next parade.”

“If y’all staying, so am I!”

Momma’s “joie de vivre” was as big and bold as the Eunice Superette’s black bull outside their meat market/ processing plant.

Her love for her kids and grandkids was as strong as the hugs she gave us when she was forced to tell us good-bye after a holiday visit. Wrapping both arms around my waist she’d whine, “ Cha, I don’t want you to go.”

And she’d give me three tight, tight squeezes that always took my breath away even as I braced myself for the intensity. Momma’s smiles set her blue eyes twinkling and proclaimed her marquee-sized, unconditional love that gave me the confidence I needed to have my own children. So I still hold on tight, tight, tight to my memories of Momma’s endless and sometimes jealous love because I truly prefer a salad fork over a long-tined dinner one, and my coffee tastes better in a thin rimmed cup that holds no more than three ounces.

Me, Kelly, Momma, Gayle in Granada, Spain
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 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, Contemplations

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.