First Person Limited

Many people say theirs was the best mother ever, but mine really was. Or at least the best mother I could have had to enable me to be who I am. For all of the opportunities and accomplishments that have been mine since she died in 1985, I can imagine her support and blessing.

Anna Mae Long lost her parents while still in her teens. Because of this, she married her one true love earlier than planned. She wanted children right away but God in His wisdom let her mature a couple of more years before the babies started coming: three during the Great Depression, two during pre-World War II unrest and a baby boomer after the war was over.

As a homemaker — full-time-stay-at-home-mom, she exhibited her skills for organizing, managing money, for making do and for making everything stretch a little farther. Later,when there were no longer children at home, she used these skills as President of the Woman’s Society of Christian Service of the North Texas Conference, leading women in the missionary efforts of the Methodist Church.

My mother loved the finer things: poetry, literature and music. She had excellent grammar and taught her children to use it correctly. I’m sure we learned mostly by hearing it spoken.

I’m sorry she didn’t have time to write more. I’m sorry she didn’t keep a journal. We had long conversations over the years but I still think of questions I wish I had asked her.

She loved her family. Sometime in the late 1940s she wrote the following poem.

Those are MY Children

Those are my children pictured there … Four precious girls with ribboned hair,

Two darling boys in starched shirts and ties, Six dear angels in disguise.

Six million dollars they represent! Each one to me the Lord has lent

To keep awhile. And I must take care  To train them well while I have them here.

A mother’s pride in the things they do, Knows each day a joy anew.

The joys so far the cares out weigh, With added blessings to each day.

Yes, those are my children — blessings real, That fill our home with love and zeal;

A scattered sock, a book amiss, A tattered, a juicy kiss.

As Mom to six I have so much A loving smile, a caressing touch

I’d not trade places with a queen And have to miss one little thing!

Sometimes I scold, I will confess, But that does not mean I love them less;

Or that I’d want to be without The memory of one joyous shout.

I thank Thee, Lord, to have the right To bid them each a fond goodnight.

Guide me that my light may shine To link each of their lives with Thine.

Anna Long Alderson

This time of year I am in Thanksgiving/Advent/Christmas mode.

It’s one week until Thanksgiving Day and while I am finishing my Thanksgiving shopping and decorating my Thanksgiving tree and wrapping Thanksgiving presents and addressing Thanksgiving cards (read facetiously), my head is full of thoughts about Advent and Christmastide.

The observance of the Advent season began somewhere near the end of the fourth century. It was a period of 40 days leading up to Christmas and was a time of fasting and prayer. Now it lasts about four weeks and is intended to be a time of reflection and preparation for Christians. This year, the first Sunday in Advent is November 27, making it a season of 29 days until Christmas Day.

For the past 10 years I have edited an Advent devotional booklet for my home church, First United Methodist in Beebe. This means that throughout the Thanksgiving week I am collecting, writing, editing, formatting, copying and stapling.

Members and friends of Beebe FUMC write short devotionals to be included in the book. These can be either poetry or prose and often are Christmas memories or insights about a particular scripture. The writings are then assigned to a certain day, one reading for each day in Advent.

Though this is a busy time for me, I enjoy it and look forward to reading my friends’ thoughts about this blessed time of year.

You will hear more about this as the season progresses.

A few tidbits from the notebook where I jot down things I want to remember:

Never have more children than you have car windows.
— Erma Bombeck

Everyone wants to be Cary Grant. Even I want to be Cary Grant.
— Cary Grant

I’d as soon murdered him as left out his middle name.
— Robert Frost in The Code.

Pigs don’t fly but swine flu.
— Unknown

How you are dressed says how you want to be received.
— Layne Longfellow (at Arkansas Writers Conference on “Reading Your Prose.”)

Relaxation music makes me nervous.
— DH

The media skewered my remarks.
— Carl Paladino, 2010

Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.
— Groucho Marx

Some people say that I must be a horrible person, but that’s not true. I have the heart of a small boy — in a jar on my desk.
— Stephen King

It seems, living in a small town, we’re either under a burn ban or a boil order.
— DH

I never (or seldom) blog about something I received by email.  The exception being: 1) It’s interesting, and 2) I haven’t seen it before.  Thanks to my daughter Linda for this one.  The author of this collection may be Jon Hammond – his name appeared at the bottom of the message.  I have edited his list of 29 paraprosdokians to 10.

“I had to look up ‘paraprodokian’. Here is the definition: ‘Figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected; frequently used in a humorous situation.’   ‘Where there’s a will, I want to be in it,’ is a type of paraprodokian.

1. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But it’s still on my list.

2. We never really grow up, we only learn how to act in public.

3. Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

4.  You do not need a parachute to skydive. You only need a parachute to skydive twice.

5. There’s a fine line between cuddling and holding someone down so they can’t get away.

6. I used to be indecisive. Now I’m not sure.

7.  Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.

8.  Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.

9.  Hospitality is making your guests feel at home even when you wish they were.

10. When tempted to fight fire with fire, remember that the Fire Department usually uses water.

Listed on a breakfast menu in Cordoba, Spain: embezzled egg

Sign in a restaurant in Cebu, Phillipines: We Han Sop-Drink in Can and in Batol

Often, in moving from one language to another, something is lost in the translation. Other times, even though we’re all speaking English, there is still a breakdown in communications.

A few years ago, when winter snows came upon us rather quickly and unexpectedly, a friend’s daughter called to let her mom know she was going to begin her trek home from the city. She asked if she should stop at the store on her way – was there anything her family needed? My friend told her to please pick up a 10 pound bag of cat litter. When the daughter arrived home several hours later, the mom assumed the bad wheather must have made it a harrowing trip. Seeking to be sympathetic, she said, “Oh, I was worried about you, it took so long for you to get home.” The daughter replied, “Well, I had to go to several stores to find 10 pounds of calves liver!”

Christmas Eve communion has been a part of my holiday observance for most of my life. Memories rush in: 1970 – my young son, so proud in the little white surplice, his first time to be an acolyte; 1980 – kneeling in the small country church, the pageant ended, the children still dressed as angels and shepherds; 1990 – the come-and-go service in the big city church, communion and a quick prayer while my husband holds the baby, then we trade places; 2000 – in our new church home, the members of the congregation carrying candles, spreading through the dark sanctuary, making a big circle of light.

Our holiday schedule changes over the years as family members are added and others are called home. But however many or few of us there are, at whatever point in the hustle and bustle we find ourselves, on December 24 we stop, make our way to church and kneel with our brothers and sisters in Christ to remember and give thanks for the gift of the Christ Child.

A wonderful, blessed Christmas to you all.

I’ve been around for a while and I’ve decided that what the world needs now is for folks to be more like Troy Donahue.

Troy was in the movies in the 50s and 60s and he always played a young man who suffered when society or circumstances forced him to make wrong choices.

But the good thing about Troy Donahue was that he always told us how he felt. “I am very angry.” “I am so sad.” “Gee, this makes me happy.” Telling us his feelings was a good thing, because otherwise, given Troy’s acting ability, it would have been difficult to know.

So I’m thinking, life would be much simpler if people would just tell me how they feel. It would relieve me of the responsibility of trying to figure it out. I wouldn’t have to work so hard to be sensitive. How helpful if folks said: “I’m uncomfortable.” “I feel threatened.” “I love you.”  Maybe then I wouldn’t do or say the wrong thing.  Push when I should hold off. Leave when I really should stay.

How different things could have been if he were a little more like Troy Donahue.

(One-minute monologue –  Center on the Square audition)

When a person dies, be it celebrity or rank unknown, there’s always someone ready to pronounce, “This is what she/he would have wanted.” And they say this with great authority while most of us left behind haven’t a clue.

Since Michael Jackson’s death, family and hangers-on have gathered and “best friends” have surfaced to take part in the creepy activities. Surely some one (or more) claim to have the word on “what Michael would have wanted.” But, sadly, those in charge have missed the boat.

In life, Michael Jackson was adamant about protecting his children from the media. With the exception of the balcony scene, we have not had a look at Paris, Prince Michael or Blanket. There is no way MJ would have wanted them to be paraded out after his death. Surely if there is one who truly cared about Michael Jackson or his children, that person would speak against this exploitation.

Now, after it’s been shown a thousand times, the video of a grieving little girl will be filed away with the pictures of John Kennedy, Jr. saluting his daddy’s casket and Prince Harry’s note to “Mummy” bouncing through the streets of London leading Diana’s funeral procession. We will see the scene again and again any time there is the slightest excuse. And Paris will see it again and again for the rest of her life.

Is this what her protective father would have wanted? I think not.

I watched the Tony Awards last weekend from the ten minute (!) opening to the closing number by host Neil Patrick Harris. (These can be seen on YouTube) There were a few technical difficulties but, hey. My first TV set showed nothing but live broadcasts.  We learned to overlook the occasional shadow of a boom mic on a leading lady’s face or the now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t stagehand retreating from the set as the camera panned.  But I digress.

For me, the highlight of the show was Angela Lansbury’s win for Blithe Spirit. This great actress has been on stage, big screen and small screen for seven decades accumulating an impressive body of work.  Watch her on Murder She Wrote,  on Hallmark Channel, or check out Netflix for more than 60 titles.

After journaling for most of my life, I find that it is now passe. To move into the 21st Century, I must learn to blog. I just bought a book WordPress for Dummies.