P My Name is Procrastication

For more than a week I have stared out my back patio door at the plants overcome by weeds that is my back yard. The people living in our house before us were the original homeowners. It is apparent to us that they put a lot of time, money and energy into planting nice plants in this yard adding an orchard of lacy leafed nandina plants. Those dainty plants are heartier than they appear producing lovely leaves that change colors with the seasons. These sprawling plants grow right in front of a wooden fence at the very back of our yard. They might be nice to look at if it were weed-free manicured plants in front of the fence and pretty row of flowers. But we can't even see the nandinas for all the wild vines completely covering them and we can forget any flowers ever surviving in that jungle. Even though the foliage in our yard is lush and green, it is deceiving as good because they are mostly weeds and the beauty of the real plants can't even been seen.

The weeds would be easy enough to remove with a little work if I'd just get my sorry self outside to do it. Procrastination is my enemy. Distractions plague me all day long and I lose focus of what tasks really need my attention. For the past couple of weeks, our weather here has been rainy, sticky and wet. Breeding conditions for mosquitoes are at a high right now. The last two days the sky has brighten and the sun has shone down to dry up the yard warming up temperatures significantly. Procrastinations because of heat, bugs, and the draw of inside comforts has kept me from working in my yard.

Yesterday afternoon I made a meager attempt to pull weeds and cut down the new sprouting of wayward acorns planted by squirrels. With bug spray, applied to my arms, legs and shirt, the mosquitoes seemed to leave those areas of my body alone. Not wanting to rub bug spray on my face, it was left as an open target and the dive-bombers made their attack. My weeding attempt lasted a total of 5 minutes before I called defeat and retreated back into the house. Therefore, today my tactics to braving the bugs and freeing my nandinas from weed destruction will be different. I have a plan...it would seem that spraying all the plants with yard repellent first would keep the annoying little blood-suckers at bay. Next, I will apply an armor of repellent to my body, without neglecting my face, leaving nothing exposed to the bites of the Texas swamp bugs. Wearing the proper armor, my hope is to free my nandina plants from the sprawling weeds covering their beauty while protecting myself from the attacks of the mosquitoes.

Freeing the nandina plants of the weedy vine nuisance could be a nice metaphor for us as Christians battling the struggles of daily life.  If I were a preacher type, maybe I could come up with a related message comparing my life to the nandinas and letting the weeds, my worries and other worldliness, overtake me so that my thinking of what to do is a tangled mess. The mosquito eating concerns attack and keep me from doing what is needed to take out the vine growing concerns of my life. If I don't use repellant on all areas, not just some, then my freedom won't be complete.

Well, I'm not a preacher type, but believe me there's a message in there somewhere.  Money, finding a job, grown kids' problems, this house, that backyard mess, even worry over my husband's health are all the weeds that cover me right now. If only I could clear those weeds of worry and free the Christ-following soul God meant for me to be, then like my nandinas, others would see the beauty of Jesus in me season after season. The mosquito attack of unexpected car repairs, plumbing repair, doctor visits, trees falling, and threatening storms can all be repelled if I'd simply apply the full armor of God's word. The Father is the best repellant for such weeds of life. It is through Christ that order and freedom can overtake my weed infested life. 

Keep me free from the trap that is set for me,    for you are my refuge. ~ Psalm 31:4

My Personal Cat Story

Over the almost 60 years of my life, I have loved various dogs and cats with a healthy respect for their animal nature. My husband and I currently own two cats, Homer and Baby. They are definitely family and even favor their human of choice. When we sit in our recliners, Baby, the older female cat, sits and kneads on Kim, while Homer, our teenaged male, drapes his long body across my lap for a nap. Those two animals show their love, mischief and familial ties to us like children to their parents.

Growing up in Port Neches, TX, I owned mostly dogs and rarely a cat. My dad was opposed to cats explaining that they carried germs. I suppose his experience with cats getting into the trash, leaving chicken remains, soggy vegetable peels and such nastiness strewed across the lawn, was the basis for his cat and germ theory. As a result, my dad kept a bungy cord strapped across the trash can lid to keep all germ carrying varmints out of the garbage. 

Even though Daddy was not a lover of cats, we did manage to have a few take up residence with us. One black and white stray cat came, stayed at least a couple of months with us and was gone one day as suddenly as it came. Another cat, belonging to my oldest brother, came when his landlord wouldn't allow the Siamese cat in the house my brother rented from him. I don't think my dad was pleased the cat had to live with us, but with Mom's encouragement, he was tolerate of the feline. The name of the cat escapes me, but she should have been called "the queen of Sheba" because she acted like we were her servants. The first winter she became "great with kittens" and would make us all laugh as she planted herself in the middle of the living room floor to bath her big belly of babies. The pregnant cat leaned back in the most ungraceful manner to lick her belly and then she'd wobble backwards like a Weeble from the weight of her tummy. All of us, even Daddy, would roll with laughter at the sight. She gave birth to the kittens in the dead of winter. Back then, we actually experienced cold, sometimes freezing, winters down on the coast. "Sheba" lived in what we called, "the little house", a one-room apartment attached to our garage. Mama made sure the little space heater in the bathroom was lit each morning to keep the kittens and their mom warm during the day. That mama cat could be found each morning curled up in the bathroom sink all toasty and warm while her babies were freezing in the little cardboard box-bed we'd fixed for them on the floor. The kittens must have been born too early because Sheba would not feed them. A few of the kittens died right off. Mama brought the last remaining naked kitten into the house wrapped in a towel covered shoebox. With its eyes squeezed shut and almost no life in its tiny body, we attempted to feed it warm milk with an eye dropper. I prayed over that little kitten to live, but there just wasn't enough strength in it to survive.

The next liter of kittens Sheba had came around Christmas when our part dachshund, part mutt dog, Prissy, also gave birth to puppies. The cat and dog had four babies each. The eight canines and felines were hilarious to watch play outside. Although, one skeptical black kitty did not share her siblings' trust in the four furry rowdy puppies and opposed any approach of a puppy. That tiny fur ball of a cat would arch its back as best it could, and push out a teensy hissss at any of the puppies that came near. The other seven playful animal babies did play with each other. One of the kittens even invented a game. A small bush near a low step outside "the little house" caught the curiosity of the kitten. It began to go up on the low porch step, jump to the small bush nearby, and with all the joy of a kid, would ride a limp branch down to the ground. Then, like a little child on a playground slide, the kitty would run back up the step and take the branch ride again. Soon the other three kittens were playing on the ride and eventually one of the puppies decided he'd give it a try too. The first time the puppy leaped to the branch he soon learned he was not as agile as his kitty cousins and too heavy to ride the branch. He landed on the ground below with an abrupt flop! Such were a few of the funny animals I owned during my youth. My childhood pets obviously conjure up joyful childhood memories.

Homer and Baby are great company to me on days when I'm not going anywhere to work. Which seems to be a lot lately, but that's another blog for another time.  Homer comes to me while I sit at the computer desk and standing on his back legs, reaches up to tap my shoulder and will "mee-ow", which is cat for "I want to go outside, please open the door."  So, I reach around to the patio door knob and he happily rushes out to prowl the mysteries of our backyard jungle. As Baby hears the squeak of the door opening, she'll stroll slowly to the door and eventually join Homer on the patio. Her pastime is spent sitting up on the small brick pony-wall in the breezeway watching the cars pass by on the street. Homer, the ever diligent bird watcher-lizard hunter, takes safari in the tall weeds of our back fence.

With our human children grown, moved out and on their own, I like the presence of our cat pets in our home. They are the quiet children we never had (because 3 little wiggly boys are noisy) and the more independent of our kids. Its easy to take a weekend trip out of town and leave the cats to fin for themselves. Even though I don't expect the cats will take care of me in my golden years, they do keep me company brushing my legs every now and then, as if to say, "I love you". They keep us entertained and give us companionship, always willing to simply hang out with us. That makes me feel wanted and I like that. 

Homer playing in the yard

Baby keeping watch

Kisses on the Bottom From Paul

I just ordered Paul McCartney's latest album Kisses on the Bottom. It isn't the usual music one would expect from a Beatle.  On the contrary, it is music of his parents' day that he listened to them sing as a young boy in Liverpool. He wrote, in the making of this album, that he took in the old tunes his parents and friends would sing as they stood around the piano played by his dad at parties on New Year's Eve. I am loving the captivating tunes McCartney is singing such as the album title, Kisses on the Bottom.  Other album titles include It's Only a Paper Moon, The Glory of Love, and Bye Bye Blackbird; along with many other mellow songs that make me wistful and melancholy.

When my across the street neighbor, Kaye Lynn, and I were young teens, we played a lot of Beatles' albums. She was absolutely in love with Paul McCartney and had a huge poster of him on the wall in her bedroom. We would gaze into Paul's dreamy eyes and melt. He was cute for sure, but teary, hysterical teen was not my style as much as it was Kaye Lynn's. She could get so worked up over the mention of Paul's name. Although, I did love the Beatle music. I'm sure I can still sing along with the first Beatle album I owned word-for-word, predicting the next song before it starts. That album was played over and over on my little stereo turntable in my pink bedroom daily in the 1960's. One New Year's Eve, Dec. 31, 1959, two giggly girls played the music of the Beatles ringing in a new decade and toasting 1960 while clinking Mom's fancy stemmed glasses filled with 7-UP. When I see Paul McCartney's eyes, I still think about my friend Kaye Lynn and wonder where she is and how she is doing. Those were days of learning and adventures.

As I listen to this new album recorded by an elderly Beatle, the soft sound of the guitar is thoughtful. My daddy played guitar. Even though his style was more country than McCartney's, still there is something about these melodies I am hearing that reminds me of Dad's electric guitar phase. Daddy bought a used electric guitar with a speaker attached that sat on the floor beside him as he played. That guitar didn't look like the modern rock guitars you might think of when you think about electric guitars. Dad's guitar was big, more like his country 6-steel-stringed guitar he normally played. There was a thick black wire plugged into the guitar running down to that little red box on the floor.  The sound coming out was amazing to me. He could make a soft melody sing from that little speaker that was not unlike what I'm hearing now on McCartney's album. Daddy was so happy when he played his guitar. I know how it is to get caught up in playing music, while letting the melodies and words waft over your soul. It's a feeling I can relate to even now as I listen to McCartney's tunes. I miss playing music with Daddy and this music is making me miss him all the more.

It surprised me to realize that Paul McCartney was born in 1942 and is 69 years old, turning 70 this June. The surprise came from the fact that this pop music icon from my teenage years is no different from the rest of us and is now a senior citizen. The second surprise in learning his birth date was that he was born the same year my oldest brother, Johnny, was born. Johnny was 69 years old when he passed away last June and would have been 70 on his birthday last January. It is sad to see that generation fading away, but so glad that McCartney is doing well and representing them by staying active doing what he loves, singing and enjoying music. It's older people like him, I need to pay attention to and not lament my approaching 60th birthday so much. Paul is an inspiration to me to stay active, working and loving the things that make me the happiest.

Paul McCartney - Still a dreamy sort of guy!

Well. The music continues to play and soothe my soul. I'm in a blues-sort-of-mood today listening and remembering by-gone days while feeling they all were just yesterday. Music has powers to move, motivate and inspire. I find that my best writing is done with music playing in the background.

So...Make my bed and light the light, 'cause I'll be home late tonight. Blackbird, oh Blackbird. Blackbird, bye bye.