The Language of Love

Bob and I recently celebrated our 24th wedding anniversary. This got me thinking about “the language of love”. When I think of those words, I envision nonverbal communication. A loved one's gentle touch, a cunning look, a knowing smile across the room all conjure images of what should be intended by this sweet phrase.

But after all of these years I know it is more, oh so much more. For example, when I say, “Honey, we need to talk.” his whole countenance changes. He immediately goes on the defensive. I swear I’ve even seen his head spin round a few times. I finally (after years) figured out that what he was hearing was, “Honey, I’m about to gripe.” So even if I am about to tell him that cat is sick or the yard looks nice, he won’t hear it because he is ready for me to lower the boom. I try to avoid these words now, as they just don’t work.

That look across the room, if it is a frown the other will question, “Why do you look like that.” The pat answer is “This is the only face I have.” Something is amiss when “looking” wrong is questioned. I’m 50 years old, maybe it wasn’t Bob, maybe I was focused on something else. Still I have to be careful of the kind of looks and sighs I toss about as feelings could get hurt or an argument could ensue. Maybe we just needed to talk, but ooooh, can’t say that.

Another favorite is, “What are you about to do?” This said by me, obviously means, “I don’t know what you are about to do, but I know it will be wrong.” But no, really, I was just wondering.

So, all of that said, in this our 25th year, I have to say that the language of love is all Greek to me.

Chinese Checkers and Chocolate Pie

Written in loving memory of my sweet Grannie who passed on Monday, April 20, 2010
In all my memories, Grannie appeared among my earliest. She was for me a fixture, and an incomparable force in my sometimes stormy life. She was always, always there to keep me safe when I was little, to teach me as I got older and comfort me as I got older still. She was home for me.
From the time I was a little girl, Grannie and I would play Chinese checkers. Who knew that so many lessons could come from such a simple game. First, I had to learn to put the marbles in their place properly. Everything has its place. Of course I couldn’t get too wiggly or wild or that would upset the board and marbles would scatter. There is a time to stay calm and still, in order to get down to the process. That learned, she not only played the game, but taught me to play as we went. “If you will move here…” she would say. “Next time you will be able to use this marble to jump here.” I can see her fingers pointing now. Strategy and careful planning help in getting through the process. It’s good to plan ahead. She did this for years until I could win without any help. Practice and work can lead to a win in whatever endeavor is pursued.
Grannie’s chocolate pie was the best I’ve ever tasted to this day. At around age eight, I started the long pursuit to replicate this pie. Anytime she made them and I was there I was hanging out in the kitchen with her. She never shooed me away, or lost patience with me. Her recipe was not written. It was in her head. I had to get it because I knew that one day she would not be around to make this delectable delight. I got her to write the recipe down and it included items like an egg size amount of butter and 3 to 4 tablespoons of flour. She taught me that the eggs could not go directly into the hot liquid because scrambled eggs are not good in chocolate pie. Sometimes it is best to ease things and even some people together in order to get them to mix. She taught me not to play with the pie crust dough too long or it would be tough. There are times when more is not better. For over forty years I have practiced the art of Grannie’s chocolate pie. It’s gotten better over the years and is requested by my children at all holidays and praised by many. I never call it my own, as it will forever be Grannie’s chocolate pie, and like all things Grannie, made and served with love.

Ah, Springtime!

At long last! It seemed forever in the coming. Springtime in Mississippi starts with blooming daffodils. We are then blessed with the yellow dusting of everything in pine pollen. Woe be to the individual who is allergic to pine. Really, moving away would be a viable alternative, regardless the cost. It is here that regarless of how soggy the ground might be, we all pray for rain to wash the air of the pollen. Even if it does rain the pollen comes back in a day or two. It does this until it's done. The cars become covered in it and it is hard to determine what color they used to be. We dust one day only to find it needs it again the next and the rag used to dust is yellow, seriously yellow.
This occurence is accompanied by the pine trees shedding their pine cones. Tread carefully while walking amongst the tall pines. Those pine cones are large! A conk on the head by one would hurt. They are also prickly. Tidy yard people seem to keep them cleaned up as quickly as they fall. Suffice it to say, we are not tidy yard people. The front yard at the big house is littered with hundreds of giant pine cones.
Some time in the middle of the pine polled adventure, the oak trees (if you are lucky enough to have oaks) start to shed these worm-like entities that stick to and fall into everything.
So if you drive by and see a crazy looking lady standing in the yard with yellow dust and squigglies in her hair, it's probably just me enjoying the scent of the wisteria in the air. I love spring.