RT and I are visiting in mother in a small town in middle Georgia. RT owns some land here, and each day we’ve gone out in the woods and done some hiking. It has been a lot of fun. I have to say, though, that it has been so nice having his mother cook for us. Last night she made country fried steak with mashed potatoes, cornbread, cooked cabbage and rutabagas. The rutabagas didn’t tempt me at all. Ron loves them, and I let him have all he wanted. However, the rest of it was wonderful.

Today I helped Lillian get ready for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving meal. I learned one of her secrets. She asked me to make the layers for her coconut cake. I LOVE her coconut cake, and so you can imagine my surprise when she indicated a box of cake mix. Duncan Hines butter recipe golden cake mix. Yes, she used a cake mix. However, when I had followed the directions on the box, she added a quarter cup of sour cream - her secret ingredient to make a cake mix taste homemade.

Add 1/4 cup sour cream to a cake mix

The sour cream made it light - and the mix made three layers for her coconut cake. The frosting is thin - just sour cream, whipped cream, sugar and coconut. Here’s Lillian frosting the cake:

Lillian frosting the coconut cake

There was so much frosting left over, Lillian said, “Let’s make another cake!” So we did. For the second one, she switched it around a little bit and made a lemon cheese filling for the cake. Here is the final product for that endeavor:

Coconut Cake with Lemon Cheese Filling

I have to admit that I’m a sucker for my mother-in-law’s sweet potato souffle’. I’ve written about that souffle’ before - twice, as a matter of fact. So I asked Lillian if she planned on making sweet potato souffle’ for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner. She said that my niece’s aunt was going to make it. After I waxed eloquently for awhile about how it was my favorite part of the Thanksgiving meal, she said that she might just make one herself, too.

She did. Fortunately for us but unfortunately for the Thanksgiving meal, the sweet potato souffle’ she made didn’t last the night. When she took it out of the oven, I asked her if I could go ahead and spoon out a little bit so it would look better for the photograph I wanted to take for this blog. And once that spoonful was taken out and put on a plate, we ended up adding it to tonight’s menu. It was right there, after all, and it looked so good, and there would be another one at Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow anyway.

My son and his wife arrived this evening to visit for a couple days, and he immediately had a couple of helpings with his dinner, and then took all that was left over with him to the barn apartment where they’re staying to eat for his breakfast tomorrow morning.

Sweet Potato Souffle

As I sit here writing this post, the turkey is in the oven, and there is that wonderful aroma permeating the house. Outside in an electric smoker, my brother-in-law Larry is smoking a couple of hams for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving meal. Earlier in the day - when I took the photograph below - there was also a small turkey breast in the smoker. The turkey breast was small enough to come out and go in the refrigerator until tomorrow. The hams are still smoking.

Hams and a turkey breast in an Electric Smoker

Here’s to Thanksgiving and all the delicious food!

God bless all our veterans who know first hand the sacrifice and hardship of serving in the armed forces of our great nation. They protect not only our freedoms but the freedoms of others arond the world everyday.

God bless the memory of my father:

Charles Shaw, United States Marine Corps

God bless my nephew, Joshua, currently serving in the United States Army overseas.

Joshua, United States Army

Sunday morning RT and I woke up and decided to have a day together. So often RT and I spend much of weekends going our separate ways taking care of our individual errands and interests. We decided that whatever we did on Sunday, we would do it together.

Although Sunday School and church are things we always do together, we decided to skip them both. Instead we got on the internet and found an apple orchard that was just an hour away. We got in the car and headed east where we visited Breeden’s Apple Orchard in Mt. Juliet, TN.

There we bought four bags of apples, a half gallon of apple cider, some sorghum and molasses, and various jams and jellies. We left there and stopped by a country cafe for a “home-cooked” lunch of fried chicken, vegetables and sweet tea.

Then we headed southeast of Nashville to Henry Horton State Park for nine holes of golf.

Neither of us had ever played that particular course, and it was beautiful. We played the back nine holes - and had much of the course to ourselves. We didn’t keep score and had a grand time. We joked and laughed our way through the course. We had some great shots and some not-so-great shots. Mostly, we enjoyed the beautiful day, the cool breeze and the breathtaking scenery. The golf course is surrounded by beautiful wooded areas - just gorgeous.

After golf, we headed to the opposite side of the park to their skeet-shooting range where I “pulled” as Ron went through six boxes of shells - missing very few of the targets.

Afterwards we headed back to Nashville - drove by my school to pick up my lesson plan book so I could refresh my memory about whether or not I had a particular lesson to do today. (I did.)

Then we swung by the grandgirls’ house to share our apples with them. While we were there, they were eager for us to see the work they’ve done on their rooms. . . Well, the work their mom and dad have done on their rooms. Their rooms looked great, and they were thrilled to have the apples.

And finally we headed home again. What a wonderful and relaxing day.

The past three weeks, my little family has been dealing with the possibility that our precious 33-year old daughter - known here as “Stinkeroo” - might have inflammatory breast cancer. If you read about that type of cancer, it’ll scare you: aggressive, rare, hard to treat. As I read about IBC online, I realized that Stinkeroo’s symptoms were textbook - right down the line. We were all scared - and the slow-moving ways of the medical folks didn’t help alleviate our worry.

After appointments with various doctors, after sonograms, mammograms, and several biopsies - and that agonizing week-long wait for final biopsy results - we have the results. No malignant cells found. Today Stinkeroo has an appointment with a breast specialist who will hopefully be able to determine what is going on. We can now breathe again.

In the meantime, enjoy my theme song for the results:

I awoke this morning to a little voice talking in the next room.

“Daddy here, Grandma Carol here, PawPaw here, Joey here…” and the voice continued as she named all eight members of our little branch of the family tree. RT and I looked at each other and smiled.

“She’s talking about where each of us will sit around the table,” I guessed. I quickly got out of bed and went into the great room of the condo we’ve rented at the beach and found that I was correct. It was Sunshine talking to her mommy as she pointed to the chairs that were placed around the large round table in the dining area.

Soon she, my daughter and I were sitting together as we ate our respective bowls of cereal. The sounds of my grandgirl’s voice and my daughter’s voice in the foreground, and the sound of ocean waves in the background. Life is good.

Yesterday on the way home from the school, I mentioned to the grandgirls that today would have been my father’s 89th birthday.

Sweet Stuff: “He never got to know us.”
Sunshine: “No, he doesn’t know us.”
Me: “And that’s one of the saddest things I know of. Grandshaw would have loved you so much. He would have loved seeing you and knowing you.” My voice started cracking before I could even finish.

It’s indicative of the power of the parent-child relationship that over 21 years after my father’s death, I still tear up thinking about how much I miss him. I would so love for him to see what wonderful adults my children have become. They were just children - in second and sixth grades - when he died. Now they’re grown - and the grandgirls are here: Sweet Stuff is about to finish first grade, and next year Sunshine will be kindergarten. How I wish my father could see and shower my little grandgirls with his unconditional love. And it is truly one of the saddest facts of my life that he is not still here.

A couple years ago, a classmate of my niece died - a little first grader. Haley cried and was upset, but then she said, “Well Anna Marie is alright, GrandShaw will take care of her.”

My mother is a very gifted writer. Her blog is Ruthlace, and she has just posted “Happy Mother’s Day 2008.” It is so good that I’ve linked it and have it posted below. Click over and read all her wonderful posts.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY 2008
Some of the articles and sermons I have heard on Mother’s Day would give one the idea that to become a mother is to become a saint.

We all would agree there are saintly mothers and there are self centered, even criminal mothers. Most of us as mothers find our place somewhere in between.

In spite of the seemingly endless nausea and misery of pregnancy and pain of childbirth, the incredible love that we have for that helpless and amazingly beautiful baby when it is finally born is awesome. There is something about motherhood that tends to bring out the best in most of us.

Most of us as adults have an emotional attachment and love for our mother. In cases where the mother has such personal problems as to neglect, abuse or abandon the child there is always unbelievable sorrow.

Just the thought of “mother” brings about great emotion in many of us. I remember one Saturday before Mothers Day when I was sitting in the sanctuary with our church music director. We were discussing the music for the next day and got into conversation about some of the old Mother’s Day hymns. She mentioned two old gospel songs, “That Silver Haired Mother of Mine” and “If I Could Hear My Mother Pray Again.” We both choked up.
I think all of us come to Mother’s Day thinking about our own mother and not about some honor due us if we also happen to be a mother.

It seems to me that mother love is more nearly like God’s love…unselfish love…agape love, than any other human love. Mother seems to see possibilities in us that other people seem not to notice. Just as God sees possibilities in us that we do not see in ourselves and others fail to see.

Charles Swindoll’s book entitled, Living Beyond The Daily Grind has a chapter, The Grind of Motherhood. Is there any one of us who will not agree that in addition to the many joys of motherhood and the endless rewards, motherhood is a four letter word called “Work.” Swindoll puts it this way; “the daily mounds of laundry, ironing, folding, cleaning , cooking, car pooling, being a referee, a coach, and encourager, a counselor, a cop, staying pretty, remaining tactful, loveable, compassionate, cheerful, responsible, balanced and sane…”

My daughter, Deborah Lewis wrote a book in 1990, later put out in paperback which I think is one of the best on the subject of Motherhood Stress. On the cover is a woman stretched out across two mountain peaks, with children walking across her, and the sub title is “Finding Encouragement in the Ultimate Helping Profession.” Motherhood is the ultimate helping profession and parents are encouraged to realize the importance of the job.

I was in my early fifties when my mother died at age 88. Even though I had a husband and seven children, I will never forget the sense of loneliness and loss I felt to realize my mother was no longer in my world.

My mother had a philosophy of life as a Christian, not to worry about things that “could not be helped” and to take each day as a new beginning. In her honor, I want to include :
A BALLAD FOR MY MOTHER
1. My mother grew old. . . had lines etched in her face
Worked hard all her life. . . with uncommon grace
She lived by the Bible. . . Each day and each mile.
She taught me her secret. . . of life with a smile.

Refrain: She said. . . Today is the first day. Of the rest of your life.
Don’t borrow trouble, With yesterday’s strife.
Take time. . . Smell the flowers.
It makes life worth while
Then pick up each new day.
With love and a smile!

2. Widowed while young. . . Mama worked in the mill.
Washed on a scrub-board. . . Brought wood up a hill.
She sang as she labored… to stay out of debt ,
She taught me a lesson. . . I’ll never forget.

Refrain: She said. . . Today is the first day. Of the rest of your life.
Don’t borrow trouble, With yesterday’s strife.
Take time. . . smell the flowers.
It makes life worth while .
Pick up each new day With love and a smile!

3. One day I said, Mama,. . . Your life has been hard .
You’ve buried two babies. . . Out in the church yard.
You’ve known all the heartache of struggling for bread,
She smiled through her tears and these words she said:

Refrain: She said. . . Today is the first day, Of the rest of your life.
Don’t borrow trouble, With yesterday’s strife.
Take time. . . smell the flowers.
It makes life worth while.
Pick up each new day. With love and a smile!

Her old fashioned teacakes? We ate the last crumb!
Her old fashioned flowers? She had a green thumb!
She lived by the Bible. . . Each day and each mile.
She taught me her secret. . . of life with a smile.
~Ruth Baird Shaw~

Today was my cousin Don’s memorial service in Georgia.  At the service, my mother and all my siblings and I were together for awhile.  It has been a couple years since we’d been altogether, and it was nice - even if it was for a sad occasion and even if it was for only a couple hours.  After the memorial service at the church and then visiting with family and friends and sharing a lunch in the church fellowship hall, we each went our separate ways again.  RT and I headed back to my mother’s to get our suitcases and fly back to Tennessee.  My oldest sister, Janice, and her husband started the long drive back to D.C.  My youngest brother, David, headed back to Alabama.  The others headed back to their homes in Georgia.  For a little while today, though, all our paths converged.  We went outside and had photographs taken of all of us together. 

I know all the grandparents out there will understand my fascination and obsession with my two grandgirls.  They are truly the lights of my life.  Our daughter and son-in-law wanted to visit friends in Memphis this weekend, and so we volunteered to babysit the girls.  I think they enjoy being with us because we so totally get into playing with them.  When we play school, RT and I take our turns being the students or the principal or the teacher - depending on what roles the girls want us to play.  We can play for hours.  So this weekend I was Principal Grandma Carol, and RT was Teacher PawPaw, and the girls were the students. 

It was fun and enjoyable - especially when the students and the teacher planned a special music and dance performance for Principal Grandma Carol.  The performance was held on the front porch.  We have two rather prissy little grandgirls who love to pirouette and dance, and they insisted that Teacher PawPaw do the same dances with them for the performance.  Words can’t express how much I wish I had a videotape of that performance.  Just pause for a moment to get the full effect of that visual.  60-year old very macho Paw-Paw dancing across the front porch.  The phrase “twinkle-toes” comes to mind.  I could have used that wished-for video as blackmail against PawPaw to get anything in the world I could possibly want.  

I have to admit, though, that I would have done the same thing if my role had been Teacher Grandma Carol.  The things we do for those grandgirls!

This is a poem my mother wrote.  Here’s her story about it: 

A few years before my husband died, we bought a cemetery lot in Conyers where his father and grandparents were burried.  Charles was still in a busy pastorate, but late one afternoon we finally went down to see the lot and to visit his mother who lived nearby.  As it began to get dark in the cemetery, I noticed lights going on in the homes near the cemetery.  It seemed like a parable to me, comparable to parents leaving lights on at night for their children.  I wrote:

The Light

My father always left a light  for me …
Against the nighttime shadows
Lovingly

He left the door unlocked
It opened wide
And I could safely find
My way inside

Beyond the grave
I see a light . . . I see
The Light of home.

God left a light for me
So I can walk through death
With faith . . . not fear
I see the lights of home
And God is near!

~RBS, 1980~