Questing Parson

Mountain Top Experiences

Below is QP and granddaughter # 3 atop Mount Healy in Alaska last year.

Coming in one month today, providing the ancient parson's legs hold out, QP and granddaughters #s 1 and 2 atop the same mountain.

Strong Women, God Bless 'Em

I love women. Okay, there it is, right out in the open. I love women. Who can say when this love affair started? I honestly don't know.

Maybe it was Francis. Francis was that drop dead gorgeous babysitter my parents hired for my brother. Somehow they didn't think I was capable of taking care of my brother when I was twelve. He was five then. So, they hired Francis to babysit my brother. And I would watch Francis babysit my brother. And after she put my brother to bed I would watch Francis watching television. Did I mention Francis was drop dead gorgeous?

We moved from the town where Francis babysat my brother. When we moved I'd grown beyond my childish ways. Maybe the reason I love women has something to do with Kay. Kay lived up the street from me in the new town to which we moved. Kay was something else. Kay taught me the joys of swapping spit.

I'm going to detour from this history of my progression through the various stages of learning to appreciate women now. This blog carries a PG-13 rating. I'll just give you a quick snapshot. That snapshot acknowledges the obvious fact that the men and women of my generation are much better lovers than the generations that followed us. We were more practiced, more attentive, never in a hurry. We certainly should be. We spent ten years in foreplay.

It was the Women In the World Summit 2012, just recently ended, that prompted my journey back in time remembering, as Willie, said, “all the girls I've loved before.” Things have really changed since those days when Kay and I were coming of age. Women have truly come a long way.

I was fortunate to grow up in the family I did. In an age when women were perceived as mere appendages of their husbands, the women in my family actually ran the show. I don't think I realized that until I was in my thirties. I'm sure my late realization was a direct result of those women's unique ability to let the men in the family think they were in charge.

Mama, my grandmother, had a fourth grade education. When my grandfather died she carried on for thirty plus years, teaching us lessons we never learned in the universities we attended. My great aunt, Mama's sister, when her husband died kept the auto garage he owned, the largest in Atlanta, running with even more success than he enjoyed. Looking back on it I can't help but wonder how many city blocks of downtown Atlanta my aunt owned.

And then there was my mother. Mother's birthday was last week. I have to admit I didn't realize what day it was until I read the acknowledgment on my brother's Facebook page. (But, then again, Mother always did love him best.) [:-), brother]

My mother was a child of the 1920s, and I have no doubt that she and my Aunt Virginia danced until the dawn at the dance clubs of Atlanta. She was a beauty. She was confident. And she had this view of life, far ahead of her day, that gender should be no impediment to whatever one wanted to accomplish. Mother should have had daughters to offset the troubles my brother and I caused. Mother was to be respected. No, let me rephrase that: Mother demanded respect. My mother had no hesitation of engaging in a wrestling match, a real wrestling match, with any adolescent male ignorant enough to think she wouldn't whip his ass in front of his onlooking peers.

The Women in the World Summit, as I said, got me thinking about those genteel Southern ladies who shaped me. The women who are their children have excelled, one was in the first class of ordained women in the Church of England, and one a successful businesswoman. As for my brother and me, we were feminist long before someone trotted out the word.

It was a joy to see that parade of twenty-first century women speaking and being interviewed at the summit. It gives hope for the world. I can attest from personal experience that we're all better when we're nurtured and inspired by strong, liberated women.

I got a hint that the strong woman will continue in the next generation of our family the other day. I asked my granddaughter if her boyfriend was going to be at a family function. “That won't happen,” she told me. I asked her why. “Look,” she said, “I'm a fourteen year-old woman; harmones are raging in my body; I have enough dealing with my moods. I don't have the energy to deal with some male's moodiness.”

So here's the end of this rambling remembrance of strong women and my affirmation that we'll be better still as humans when women are finally treated as equals in every aspect of life.

Thanks Mother; thanks Mama; thanks Aunt Virginia. And watch out world, my granddaughters are headed your way!

 

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Only Custom Made Equipment for the Parson's Grandchildren

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Well, hello, yourself. How in the world are you doing?” I immediately recognized the voice. It belonged to one of the other grandparents, you know the type of grandparent of which I speak. It was the mother of my child’s spouse. She means well but in playing the role of really great grandparent some have it and some have less than it.

“I’m really doing well. How about you?”

“I’m doing good. You know it was such a treat to have the kids come visit from Connecticut. Gracious, I don’t know about you, but I don’t seem to realize how much I miss them until they are ready to go back. And those children, those precious grandkids, aren’t they absolutely wonderful?

“They are that. And that younger one sure got your looks.”

“My, my, aren’t you the complimentary one. And I know you’re being gracious, but thanks for making an old woman feel good.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I said.

At this point I was getting a little anxious as to what this phone call was about. Look, it may not be the best feature of our society, but the truth is the daughter’s mother doesn’t make phone calls to the husband’s father just for the purpose of swapping platitudes. And yet, like my son, I am a Southern gentleman. I let the conversation continue.

“Could you believe the way the younger one has grown?” she asked.

I informed her that I couldn’t believe it either. And then just to trump her I said, “Well, I think the older one is certainly proving himself to be smarter than his parents.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she responded.

There was a pause in the conversation. I definitely got the impression she was mulling over what to say next. I waited. As I’ve intimated above the conversations between the two of us have been sparse during the ten years of our children’s marriage. They were usually confined to coordination of who would pick up or take to the airport whom.

“The grandchildren really seemed to have had a great time at your house.” she said.

“I thought they did, too,” I responded. “They were nonstop the whole time they were here.”

“I know. It wasn’t ten minutes after you dropped them off at our house than they were sound asleep in the den. They really got worn out. You really keep them active.”

“I enjoy the time with them,” I said, wondering where this conversation was going.

There was a pause. Then she spoke again. “You know, the kids said you have the best slide they’ve ever been on.”

“Did they? That’s nice to know. They did seem to have a good time playing on it.”

“Do you mind my asking where you bought it?” she asked. Then she added, “I’d like to get one for our house.”

Now in this life some secrets need not be shared. “Actually, I can’t,” I said. “It was custom made for them.”

“You had a slide custom made for your grandchildren?”

“I did.”

There was another long pause before she said, “Well, I just wanted to thank you for dropping them off.”

I told her it was no problem. She hung up. I was grateful for the call. It reminded me to go out in the front yard and retrieve the cardboard box the kids had been using to slide down the bank that is my front yard.

Love Witnessed

The parson's gift to two granddaughters this past Christmas was the promise of two weeks in Alaska, including climbing a mountain. The ascent is scheduled for June.

Two weeks ago the parson rose from his favorite rocker, and took note the rise from the rocker took an inordinate amount of time. In fact, the parson surmised the rise was more like that of an elderly man than a man such as is the parson, one with the physical prowess of one ten years younger. The parson paused when he finally achieved the full upright position. He paused and thought.

One granddaughter is an accomplished dancer; the other granddaughter is a gold medal winning gymnast. The trek up to the top of that Alaskan mountain would be a little challenging, especially if one had difficulty exiting a rocker and who would need to keep up with those two generations younger. The parson, being the astute thinker he is, calculated that there might be just enough time in the four months remaining to regain a small portion of his vigor.

All the above is but prologue to the parson sitting with his back resting against a rock outcropping just beside and a little below the overlook near the top of Fort Mountain in Northwest Georgia. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, lay beside him with his snout resting on the parson's leg. It had been a long hike. Charlie Brown was snoring softly; birds were singing. The Alaskan jacket the parson wore warmed him comfortably. A seducing weight pulled slightly downward upon the parson's eyelids.

Voices pulled the parson back to wakefulness. Someone was on the observation deck off to the parson's left and a little above. The voices had awakened Charlie Brown also, but after a quick assessment with his nose he resumed his sleep.

“I love you, too,” the female voice said. She spoke with a slight Hispanic accent. “I'm glad you're home.”

They paused a good while. The parson got the distinct impression there might be some spit swapping going on.

“What are you doing, Frank?” the female voice floated with a tinge of surprise over the air.

“Julia, will you marry me?” came the male voice, definitely not Hispanic and definitely Northwest rural Georgia.

There was a squeal. There was a sound of feet jumping up and down on the wood. “Yes, yes, I will,” she squealed.

There was another pause. This pause was longer than the first.

“I can't believe it. It's beautiful. Oh my gosh, Maggie is not going to believe this. I love you. I love you.”

There was another pause.

She spoke again, “Oh Frank, you make me so happy.”

Frank's voice didn't carry on the wind. The parson definitely got the feeling Frank was the strong silent type.

There were no more voices. There was only the wind blowing across the face of the mountain. A blue jay flew down and rested on a branch not five feet from the parson and Charlie Brown. The parson watched him for a moment. He then decided it was time to move his creaking bones. He rose slowly. He stepped forward and peered around the rock toward the overlook. They were gone.

Charlie Brown had finished stretching. The two moved up to the path. The parson walked out on the overlook. He was a bit disappointed Frank hadn't carved his and Julia's names inside a heart on the railing.

What's Missing From Women's Gymnastics?

I've been a little busy lately. That's not a complaint. It's an admission of fact. The busyness was not forced upon me. I chose it. Maybe it chose me. All I know is I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

The events that occupied my time lately centered around gymnastics, specifically women’s gymnastics. And more specific than that gymnastics events in which my granddaughter was a competitor.

A few weeks ago I made a pilgrimage to Memphis, Tennessee. That trip brought me to the BBQ and Blues Invitational Gymnastics Competition. Let me make three points about that event. Point one: Dizzy Dean said, “If it's true, it ain't bragging.” Point two: My granddaughter came in fourth overall in the competition. Point three: my granddaughter, no doubt because of the superiority of the genetics passed down from my side of the family, competes in an age division well above her own.

I watched her. I was astounded at her athletic ability. I could not comprehend that was my tiny granddaughter turning flips, dancing and prancing in perfect harmony with the music on the floor exercise. I wished I could be her as she flung herself in twists and turns from one uneven bar to the other. I held my breath as she flipped above the four inch wide balance beam and came to rest as though it were as wide and the landing path on an aircraft carrier. And I was amazed at how she propelled herself off that vault into the air twisting and turning before landing almost perfectly and tossing her hands upward to signify she'd completed it well.

I was hooked. I wasn't just hooked on my granddaughter. It didn't take athletic competition to accomplish that. I was hooked on the sport. I was hooked on the physical prowess of these young women. I was hooked on the thrill of it all.

It was no wonder, then, I found myself last week at the Atlanta Crown Invitational Gymnastic Competition. I got there early due to a meeting not lasting as long as I'd anticipated. My granddaughter wasn't scheduled to compete for a couple of hours. But I'd been captured by that competition so I went into the arena anyway.

Opening the door to the Gwinnett Convention Center I was assailed by the squeals and the chatter of girls, ages eight to eighteen. My mind processed the visuals of these young competitors texting away to their friends, whispering to each other about passing male teens, and wearing t-shirts proclaiming:

Push-ups make you pretty. - Gymnasts don't defy gravity; they defeat it. - Girls can't what? - Why walk when you can cartwheel? - You know you're a gymnasts when boys won't arm wrestle with you. - My boyfriend asked me to choose between him and gymnastics. I miss him. - If gymnastics were easy it would be called football.

Okay, yes! My granddaughter was competing. And she did well, really well. But despite that I walked out of that facility wondering if something were not askew. I watched my granddaughter and her teammates as well as the members of the other teams compete. They competed on vault, on floor exercise, on beam, and uneven bars.

Suddenly I realized men compete in floor, pommel horse, still rings, vault, parallel bars, and horizontal high bar, more and different events than the women.

Here's my question: Do you guys seriously think my granddaughter couldn't kick your you-know-what on those other events?

The Art of Judging

It's a long ride to Memphis, Tennessee. It's 394 miles to be exact, from my front door to the Memphis Convention Center. There are no shortcuts. It's up I-75 to Nashville where you need to hang a left toward Memphis. The trip takes six hours and thirty-three minutes, not counting rest stop breaks, gas station fill-ups, and such.

You might be wondering how I am in possession of this bit of travel trivia. The short answer is a couple of weeks ago I went to Memphis. Now, I don't just hop up every morning and decide to go to Memphis. No, sir. Not me. I have to have a legitimate, clear-cut, purposeful reason to travel five miles from my recliner, much less many hundreds of miles. On this particular weekend I did. In fact, nothing could have kept me away from Memphis that weekend.

You see, I'm a sports fan. Yes, I am. And unlike many who live in my neighborhood, my sporting experience is not limited to Georgia, Alabama, Georgia Tech, or Auburn football. Yes, I am a more sophisticated follower of athletic endeavor. I actually watch volleyball, men's and women's basketball, soccer, and to round out my purveyor of athletic experience, I also am a big fan of gymnastics. It was for this latter sport I pointed my hybrid toward Memphis.

Arriving at the facility early on Saturday morning, I secured a seat which would afford the best view of all the events, the beam, the floor exercise, the vault, the uneven bars. Sitting down in my seat next to the small fence separating the fans from the athletes, I studied the program, marking the sequence of the performances, trying to calculate the abilities of the various teams participating.

The uneven bars sought my attention first. I watched in studied concentration as the athletes began their practice and warm up. I took my camera out, zoomed in on the individual contestants, and concentrated on the event.

“Ah!! Come on,” I exclaimed at the end of the event. “How could the judge score that low?”

“You think it was low?” asked the man in the seat beside me.

“Yes,” I replied, “I'd think it was at least three-tenths of a point too low.

My attention now turned to the balance beam. Once again, as the contestants began their practice and warm ups, I studied my program in anticipation of the competition. The event then began. I watched closely. The zoom lens was not needed. The athletes were competing close enough that I could hear the sound of the friction between their feet and the beam.

After one particular athlete had completed her balance beam competition, I must have let out an audible sigh. “The score was too low?” asked the man beside me.

“I think so,” I informed him. “I'm not sure how much experience that judge in the center has. She's being a little too restrictive.”

The man nodded in approval.

The vault now demanded my attention. Same story. And then came the floor exercise. Same story. There's a reason these judges, I thought, are not going to the Olympics.

“Scores were too low?” asked the man after each.

I nodded.

“Tell me,” he said. “How do you know the scores were too low?”

“Easy,” I said. “They are always too low when my granddaughter is the one being judged.”

Go Figure

Late in the afternoon the parson pointed his vehicle toward his home. He left the banks of the Mississippi where Granddaughter Number Two had completed at the Blues and BBQ Gymnastics Invitational. There was a smugness about the parson's demeanor. His ten year old granddaughter had finished fourth in overall among a field of predominately fourteen year old competitors. The parson was convinced it was a genetic thing.

Imagine the pleasantness the parson experienced in his psyche. Imagine the feeling that nothing was to detract from his elation as he rode the began the 400 mile trip home. He turned on Prairie Home Companion and listened to Garrison Keillor's tales of Lake Woebegon. Everything was wonderful. The sermon had been written. The computer programming for the multi-media was ready. All that remained was for the parson to get home in time for a good night's sleep.

The cell phone rang. The parson's pianist was calling. She wasn't feeling well. She wasn't going to be able to be at church the next morning. The parson's granddaughter had just exceeded all expectations. She was proving her ability, establishing through her athletic ability she was a descendant of the parson. There was no problem. The parson began to hum the hymns he'd slip into the multi-media program to substitute for the pianist.

Sunday morning the parson arrived at church. When the time came to express at the beginning of worship joys and concerns, the parson modestly slipped in that his granddaughter was the recipient of his genetic gift. The parson was on top of the world. The parson was ready to preach the sermon about “Remember Your Baptism.” The parson was as ready as a granddaughter about to leap up onto the uneven bars.

It was during the first hymn the problem began. The video presentation of the screen, with the words and background music to the hymn suddenly encountered audio challenges. The music would play loudly for a moment and then fade into nothingness. It befell the parson to sing without benefit of accompaniment the words of the song loud enough for the congregants to follow.

During the Prayer of Confession the parson's lapel mike began cutting in and out. One moment his voice was blasting out over the congregation; the next moment it was silent and the parson had to strain to project his voice, which was fine until the mike cut back in to now amplify the parson's almost shouting voice.

At one point, the parson headed back to the media room in the midst of the service to show the young know—it-all's how to correct the situation. The parson's correction lasted for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds.

But the parson stumbled on, like a young gymnasts who just stutter-stepped at the most important transition of the floor routine.

The sermon was delivered as thought it was a normal service. And at this point it was a normal service. But then the last hymn appeared on the screen. The hymn appeared, but the accompanying music did not. And yet, the congregation kept singing.

The parson, following the service, stood a the door to the sanctuary. After he'd greeted everyone who had such comforting things to say about the comedy of errors, he walked back into the sanctuary. A member of the church suddenly reached out and hugged him, tightly.

“This was the most meaningful service I've ever encountered,” she sobbed to the parson.

Go figure.

Everyone Gets To Sing

The parson headed toward the really, really big city way down the road. It was raining. The traffic was heavy. Along the way sections of the interstate resembled a parking lot. But he persevered. It was an important day.

Number two grandchild (that's chronological order) was performing that night. She was to be the soloist in the Sixth Grade Winter Concert. It was an event not to be missed and certainly worth the traffic and rain. The parson pushed on constantly glancing at the estimated time of arrival indicated on his GPS device. He'd left thirty minutes earlier than first planned. But, now, with the standstill traffic, it was going to be close.

The parson walked into the Middle School Cafetorium with four minutes to spare. Other grandparents, daughter, son-in-law, and, more importantly, next-to-last grandchild were there. The parson nodded at the others and held his arms wide for the anticipated leap of the three-and-a-half year old who was not sprinting toward him. He swooped her up, hugged her tightly and headed to an empty seat on the row the family had appropriated.

She plopped herself into the parson's lap. “Look,” she said, “this is my Dad's cellphone. Watch me play this game.”

The parson watched. A family member spoke to him. He looked toward the sound of the voice with an expression that spoke to who was most important in this exchange.

“See,” she proclaimed. The cellphone screen now sowed a penguin, apparently a sign of victory. She squirmed in the parson's lap, getting comfortable for another game.

The members of the Sixth Grade Chorus now began to file into the room. The parson watched intently, seeking the familiar face. There she was, on the first row. There were close to a hundred kids in the chorus. She looked so diminutive in comparison to many of the others. She saw the parson and the other members of her family. Her attempt to remain “professional” wilted as her familiar crooked smile pulled the corners of her lips upward.

“Where's my sister?” asked the lap squirming one.

“There. Look right between these chairs and you'll see her.”

“I see her,” she proclaimed. “She's going to sing in a minute.”

“Shhhh,” came the sound to the parson's left. It was a the son-in-law. The parson presented him with his practiced “She's with me now, butt out” look.

“My sister looks pretty,” said the little one.

“She does,” said the parson. “Do you know why all those other kids are up there on the stage with her? I thought your sister was going to sing.”

“Well,” she replied, turning her hand in a palms up position that seemed to indicate: This is an easy question. “Look, this is their school, too.”

“Yes,” she replied. “They all get to sing.”

“You mean everyone gets to sing even if they can't sing as good as your sister?”

She now rooted herself around so that she was facing the parson. “Yes,” she said, it's like your church.”

 

A Purple Room

The day started normally enough. But only a few hours into its activities the parson got a call.

“Dad,' I just wanted to touch base with you before dropping the little one off this afternoon.”

The parson's daughter was speaking in a nearby town and the parson was going to babysit his three-year-old daughter.

The parson, being the experienced servant of the church he is, has become, over the years, aware that at a certain age children often assume the role of parent when it comes to those who raised them. The parson couldn't help but believe his daughter was pushing it.

“So, I wanted you to know that the best thing might be to just let her play games on the computer. You can go to the PBS kids site and there's all kinds of games there. That way she won't be too much of a bother to you.”

The parson did not respond. There are times when a response is superfluous. The parson just waited for the child to be dropped off.

Late that afternoon, right on schedule, the parson's daughter arrived. The granddaughter came in. Daughter and her hubby left for the speaking engagement. The parson and his grandchild moved inside.

Supper was spaghetti. She gobbled it down. And then came the question. “Are you going to let me play games on the computer?”

“If you want to. But there are other things you can do, too.”

“What's that?”

“Come here and let me show you something.”

They walked into a room that used to be Ms. Parson's sewing room and which had been stripped bare.

“Where's the carpet?” she asked.

“I pulled it all out,” said the parson. “I'm going to put a wood floor in here. And this is going to be a grandchildren room. Now over here will be a bunk bed, over here a sofa, here's there's going to be a toy chest, and here is where the computer desk will be.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“So, do you remember when I called last week and asked you and your sisters what your favorite colors were?”

“I remember.”

“And the colors were purple, green, and red, right?”

“Look over there in the corner. See those buckets? They've got paint in them, red, green, and purple. Now, you can play games on the computer or I can give you a shirt to put over your clothes and you and I can paint these walls. What do you think?”

“I can paint?”

“Yes, you can.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That's cool.”

“Take your shoes off so we don't get paint on them.”

The parson headed to his room to get a t-shirt. He draped it over her shoulders and penned it tight. The paint was poured, the parson gave her instructions on how to use the roller. She attacked the wall. The parson gave no attention to where she slopped the paint. He'd planned from the beginning to have to repaint the whole thing.

When daughter returned to pick up grandchild, the grandchild had her head on the parson's lap and was snuggled under an afghan sound asleep. Her mother's entry roused her.

“Hey, darling. Did you have fun playing computer games?”

“I didn't play any games tonight. I ate spaghetti and painted.”

“You painted. That's nice. What did you paint?”

“Walls.”

“You painted walls. Well, that's interesting. Come on, you can tell me about it on the way home.”

As daughter buckled the grandchild into her seat, the parson watching from the porch, heard her say, “Did you know the grandchildren's room is going to have a computer?”

“Grandchildren's room. Sweetheart, there's no grandchildren's room.”

“There is now,” she said, “and it's purple.”

This Cannot Be

Yesterday she was five years old and she and I were on our first Excellent Alaskan Adventure:

Today a professional photographer sent me this photo and insisted it's the same granddaughter.

OMG!