Lynna Clark

By Lynna Clark

We filled a row of rockers on the huge porch. For over twenty years while mama was alive we rented a place at the beach for the extended family. I’m sure locals scattered to the four winds the first week in June each summer just to avoid our chaos.

Thanks to mama it was an organized chaos. Each family was responsible for certain things on the master list she kept year after year. Seldom did we have to make a grocery run while vacationing. Ice cream sundae night was the one exception. We looked forward to it all week. Mama taught us the value of organizing our chaos. Daddy however, has wisdom of a different sort.

One night while rocking and sipping coffee on the aforementioned porch, he noticed his rocker was not performing to his satisfaction. Being a man who repairs everything the moment there’s a need, he commented with disdain. “For want of a nail, the house was lost.”

Handing me his coffee, he fetched his tool box and fixed the rocker. “Anybody else settin’ in a wobbly rocker?” he asked while walking down the line of chairs. I know what you’re thinking. What kind of person takes a tool box on vacation? The same kind that packs his weed-eater so he can clear the public walkway. Yep. That’s my dad.

Sure I’m a little partial. But I declare, I think my daddy can fix just about anything. I may have told you this before. But he built and hung the rafters over his lake deck so he could turn it into a screened in porch. I asked him who helped get those heavy things hoisted.

“I built a jig,” he answered like it was nothing. For those of you who still have no idea how he did it, don’t confuse jig with a little dance one does to express joy. No, daddy’s jig was a homemade tool he built to prop one end of a rafter while he climbed a ladder and hung the other end. I wasn’t there so I can’t imagine it either. It’s just another one of those things daddy knows how to do. The old adage “Necessity is the mother of invention,” is very true. The problem is that there’s not a lot of necessity in our culture anymore. My daddy has lived that particular kind of wisdom all his life. When you don’t have exactly what you need, you make do with what you have. Wise indeed.

I heard that during the early years of space exploration the American government spent millions trying to figure out how to make an ink pen write where there was no gravity. Our solution to every problem is to pour money on it. The Russians beat us at that game. They just used a pencil. Though daddy’s no Russian, that’s his kind of common sense. Even now I can still hear his reprimand when I did something less than brilliant.

“Ain’t ya got no common?”

Sometimes I worry that I’ve missed out on that old fashioned practical kind of wisdom. My phone has a calculator so my memory of the multiplication tables is fading fast. It also has folks’ names so I don’t have to memorize anyone’s phone number. BUT! I can still count out change when paying with real money. On days when I’m feeling especially mischievous, I hand the baby-faced cashier a twenty dollar bill plus whatever change it takes to pay so she can hand me back an even ten. Watching her eyes glaze over is weirdly satisfying. However, I try not to gloat too much as I will surely be asking someone her age for technology advice before the day is over. Too bad there’s not a jig for that. I could call my daddy.

Daddy’s Festive Jig

By Lynna Clark

Poor Kevin. He is not well. See him leaning over on the bird bath? He’s been a little droopy lately, so I stood him back up. While he nodded his head in approval, a wasp popped me on the leg. That’s okay. It was a small price to pay to help a friend.

Hannah and I walked by Kevin a few days later and he had fallen all the way over. Bless his heart. Those dang squirrels must’ve knocked him on his face again. Hannah reached down to lift him back up when a whole swarm of wasps flew out. They popped her good! Turns out Kevin had a secret.

Deep inside his coconut heart was a large wasp nest. Kevin was full of trouble.

Quite a few years back I tried to help a lady who was going through a terrible time. She lashed out so hatefully that I had to wonder what brought on her wrath. The pastor where I worked observed the ruckus and said these wise words:

“Hurting people often hurt others.”

It didn’t make me feel any better. Crazy woman, now we both hurt. What’s up with your bad self? But I started noticing a pattern.

My pastor friend was right. Those who hurt others are usually hiding a great deal of pain themselves.

But I’ve also found the opposite to be true. Some of the sweetest comfort I’ve ever received has been from those who’ve experienced great pain or loss.

Maybe it’s about how we process our suffering.

An old saying that bears repeating is this.

“Trials will either make us bitter or better.”

You’ll be happy to know that Kevin is better. His demons were exorcised with a large can of wasp spray. Thanks David.

Now Kevin is back to nodding his head and happily making those who pass his way smile again.

By Lynna Clark

I finally shared with my husband a terrible thing that happened nearly thirty years ago. I was traveling home with three little girls in tow when I had a flat tire. I limped it into a service station where a nice young mechanic came out of the garage area wiping the grease from his hands. “What can I do for you ma’am?” he kindly asked.

“I’ve got a flat.” I showed him the back left tire as I got out of the car. “Could you fix it for me?”

“Sure thing ma’am!” he was all over it lickety split. Three little girls watched from inside as he made quick work of something that would’ve taken me all morning to figure out… if I could’ve done it at all. I asked sheepishly if he’d take a check as I had zero cash in my purse.

“No problem! That’ll be five bucks for the use of the wrench,” he kindly replied.

“Are you kidding? Let me pay you more than that…” I protested. When he shook his head no and repeated, “Five bucks.” I asked “Would you like an apple pie?”

I had a yard full of apple trees at the time and had learned to make homemade pies. That would be the least I could do. He suddenly got his back up and replied in a tone I will never forget.

“My WIFE would not be happy! I try to stay away from things like that!”

“Things like what?” I wondered though I never asked. I have no idea what the man thought I was offering, but believe me, it was PIE.

I was so embarrassed.

Look at me man! Of course I’m terribly attractive here in my pleated mom jeans, blinding white tennis shoes and big eighties hair. It’s surely hard to resist a woman with three kids in a hatchback who has to write a check for five dollars. But c’mon man! Pie is not CODE for anything.

I only told one person what happened in case she knew something about offering pie that I did not. She was hip like that. I knew I could trust my friend Ann not to tell anyone. She didn’t. But every once in a while something would come up and she’d ask, “So did you pay with ‘pie’?” …wink wink

Even now as I confess this indiscretion to you, my neck turns red with embarrassment. It took me thirty years to tell my husband who loves me with all his heart. Why?

It’s hard being misunderstood… maybe because we feel the shame of what others assume about us.

But I’m telling you… it was PIE for crying out loud.

Big 80’s hair with my man rockin’ the stache

PS- Happy Anniversary beloved David; the first one I will spend without you. Praise God for the 51 years of wedded bliss He gave us which included lots of …. cake.

By Lynna Clark

There she was again. I kept running into this woman I was acquainted with long ago, usually in the parking lot of some store. As she walked away I commented to Hannah, “What is up with that mullet? She’s kept her hair like that forever. Who would do that?”

I did not even bless her heart.

The following week David and I went out to eat for our anniversary. My friend Melanie and her hubba Dennis sat across from us. I kept admiring Melanie’s bangs. She is just so pretty. At the end of our dinner, she took a picture of me and David. As I looked at our anniversary picture, I really hated my very high forehead.  Then it happened. Suddenly I had bang envy.

You need to know this about me.

I have cut my own hair for years.

I know. It’s similar to the man who is his own attorney and therefore has a fool for a client.

But in my defense, every time, and I mean EVERY TIME I get a professional cut, they forget to allow for my extreme natural curl. At the end of the shearing, they whip me around in the chair to view my loveliness in the massive mirror. And EVERY TIME I wish I had spent my money on therapy instead… or perhaps a hat.

Good grief.

Then I leave them a nice tip, and vow NEVER to step into another hair salon as long as we both shall live… me and my hair.

So annyyywayyy…

I cut me some bangs.

But I forgot to allow for my extreme natural curl. Since I didn’t cut the back, just my bangs, suddenly I had a mullet.

I do not even deserve a “bless your heart.” That’s what I get for being critical.

A mullet.

No doubt it was punishment for my haughty words. I wore it like that for two whole days. Factor in the humidity and it fast became a fuzzy mullet. David never said a word. That is why we have remained married for forty years. The man knows when to keep silent.

One morning I decided that everyone around me had suffered enough. With scissors in hand, I determined to correct the situation.

I asked God for help. Deep in my soul I heard, “It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.” So I quit trying to straighten my bangs and allowed them to curl all willy nilly the way God made them.

Apparently my transgression was worse than a two day penance. For now I am sporting a much shorter curly doo. Even my 21 month old grandson, who says very little, pointed at my fuzzy head and commented a long slow, “UH-oh…”

I imagine that I will bump into my mullet friend again soon. As she walks away she will probably shake her head and wonder, “What is up with her afro? She looks like Richard Simmons. Who would do that?”

I hope she will be kind enough to bless my heart.

By Lynna Clark

I take great pride in keeping my home neat. It’s not always clean, but it is tidy. There’s a bright tablecloth on our little kitchen table, with a fruit bowl or flowers. Dirty dishes are placed in the portable dishwasher as soon as they’re used. David and I are the only ones here and the house is so tiny that it only takes a minute to make it neat.

However, last Monday we finished a long day and crashed. The tablecloth was dirty so I tossed it on the floor toward the laundry room. The dishwasher was full and in front of the kitchen sink hooked up to run. David wasn’t feeling well so he grabbed an old sheet and quilt then hit the recliner sofa. The week before, he moved to a new office and had pulled books off our shelves, sorting stuff in piles on the floor. Our house was unusually trashed.

Books were not the only thing to hit the floor that night. About 2am, he got so violently ill that his blood pressure bottomed out. I found him passed out on the bathroom floor and had to call 911.

As I jerked on clothes, described his symptoms to the dispatcher, and prayed my sweetheart wouldn’t die, I ran to turn on the porch light and open the side door. Lickety-split my little upside down house was filled with firemen and paramedics who do not know what a respectable housekeeper I am. Wouldn’t you know it! The one time…

This is where the wise person would tell you that none of that matters now that I know David is okay.

While that is very true…

The next day I found myself cleaning the house top to bottom, rearranging the bookshelf, spreading out a clean table cloth, washing all the linens, disinfecting the floors, and thinking of a reason to invite the emergency guys back for a do-over.

Perhaps if I bake a cake to thank them for their great efficiency and kindness…

This time the 911 call would sound like this:

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Oh… no emergency. Is the same crew working that worked Monday night?”

“Yes ma’am. Is this the lady with the messy house?”

“They TOLD you that?”

“Yes ma’am. They were appalled. Apparently there was a pink striped sheet on a red sofa. Sounds hideous!”

“Could you please send them back? I have cake!”

“No ma’am. They said if you ever called again to tell you they would not return to such a pigsty.”

“But… but I have cake.”

“No cake in the world would entice them back. They also told us about your bedhead. Said you looked like a woman in a bad wig wearing clothes with yesterday’s coffee stains.”

“Sigh… it’s true. It was bad. Sorry I called…um… have a good night.”

“You too ma’am… because they are not coming back.”

Mama always said to wear decent underpants in case there’s an emergency.

You know… they did not even check our underpants!

Thank the good Lord.

By Lynna Clark

Our hometown of Salisbury, NC is beautiful, especially Fulton Street. We drive that way often just to enjoy the view of homes and churches. As we circled a block so I could get a better picture of one of the homes, we passed this sign at a church.

Yep. That’s gonna cause a ruckus. Better get there early to beat the rush. But I guess just as I’m attracted to old homes with fern lined porches, others are drawn to the melodious sonnets of church organs. Different strokes I suppose.

On a different day, my husband passed this church sign and went back to take a picture.

Wow. Can’t you just feel the love?

This one conjures up images of ushers becoming bouncers as they toss visitors into the street for an inadvertent foot tapping.

“Hey buddy. God loves you, but don’t let that trickle down to your feet.”

It’s not just church signs that make me wonder. As we traveled south on I-85 David spotted an advertisement for a Jerky Outlet. It did NOT say “beef jerky.” I guess here in the south there’s apparently a large market for shrunken flesh of any kind, at least enough to fill an outlet store. Because you know… nobody wants to pay full price for jerky.

I think I have a solution to help these groups enjoy their diversity. Perhaps the folks with the new organ could invite the ones from the other church over for a time of fellowship. Organ music generally does not incite dancing. Even when played at a ballgame it only instigates the crowd to raucous singing and the buying of peanuts and crackerjacks. Perhaps the corruption could be kept to a minimum if folks from the Jerky Outlet would hand out samples at the gathering. With all the effort it takes to get jerky down, the service would be kept quiet and orderly… lots of chewing; no dancing. Friends would be made, bouncers could go back to being ushers, and the new organ would be thoroughly enjoyed by tons of well-fed visitors.

Of course the congregation would be reminded to keep their smacking and yummy noises low so as not to interrupt the melodious sonnets. If there were questions about the origin of the jerky, such as “Is this Turkey Jerky or Donkey?” ushers could field those questions as well, especially since their bouncer jobs have been taken away.

Yep. I think it could work! Now if we can just agree on a dress code…

Hmmm… that could be a deal breaker. I bet nobody’s gonna want to get dressed up to eat jerky.

By Lynna Clark

David opened the can and put it on the seat between us. His reward for going grocery shopping was a tiny splurge on cashews. We headed home when suddenly a little dog ran out into the road. David hit the brakes and screeched to a stop. Someone’s pet was spared that day, but the cashews slid forward and dumped head first, scattering across the floorboard. He looked at me and said, “Next time, the dog dies.”

It’s like dropping toast. It will always land butter side down. I heard that if one were to strap buttered bread to the back of a cat they would spin indefinitely because cats always land on their feet. Could this perhaps be a source of alternative energy?

Why not? Who would’ve thought we’d use corn for fuel? Maybe someone should try buttered cats.

My apologies to animal lovers everywhere. I’ve just confessed that my husband loves cashews more than dogs and I would butter a cat to propel an engine if it would save me a buck.

Sorry.

Have you noticed when watching a movie like Quigley Down Under [which is one of my favorites] that the disclaimer at the end says “No animals were harmed in the making of this movie.” Never mind the poor guy being dragged behind the horse… or the Aborigines being pushed off the cliff. But the horse is okay.

I may sound mean and uncaring about animals, but I’ve been known to set a dish of milk out for a stray kitty meowing at my back door.

I wonder if she’d like a piece of buttered toast to go with that.

By Lynna Clark

If you are one of those people who gets into their vehicle and heads out all willy-nilly without first considering very deliberately which route you will be taking, this will make no sense at all to you. Stop reading here.

However if you tend to contemplate the desired destination and with great effort calculate every turn betwixt where you are and where you’re going, then you may understand when I admit the following. You see… I am directionally challenged. In fact my condition is quite severe.

Even around Salisbury where I grew up… I can’t find my way. Very few things look familiar as I travel. In fact it’s all new to me. Like Jake Alexander Boulevard where I have recently discovered that if I pass Life Church and the Goodwill and Harris Teeter and Aldi’s and keep traveling I shall eventually wind up near the mall. Who knew? When I expressed my excitement over this well-kept secret to my beloved David he nodded his head with great joy at my sudden understanding. “Yep,” he said sweetly. “And you could go bowling…”

The man has patiently given me directions to the hospital and the doctor’s office and the drugstore for years… every single time I leave without him.

“Sooo… will I pass the Dairy Queen?” I ask without a clue.

“Yep. It will be on your right. Keep going but slow down so you don’t miss the turn and our drugstore is on the right before Statesville Boulevard in the Ketner Center.”

“No wait wait wait… too much information. Okay I pass the Dairy Queen… will I see Sonic?”

“Yes… just keep going. You’ll pass Krispy Kreme. If the hot light is on you have to stop. It’s the law.”

“So then Innes Street Drug is next?”

“Soon after… but don’t get turned around when you stop for hot doughnuts. Keep Krispy Kreme on your right and keep going til you pass the barbecue joint with the pink pig. Turn on the right side of the median into the Ketner Center where the florist is. You’ll see our drugstore on the left.”

“Pink pig… hot doughnuts… flowers… drugs… good grief… Statesville Boulevard… got it. Have your phone handy. Hey if I keep going will I be at the mall?”

“Nooo….” He looked at me and cocked his head sideways. “Do you need to go to the mall or is this just a happy conversation we’re having for no apparent reason?” His eyes betrayed him as they shifted past my lovely face to the football game before him.

“NO WAY!!! THAT WAS PASS INTERFERENCE REF! HOW DID YOU NOT SEE THAT?!!!”

Once the disputed play was reviewed to our satisfaction I inquired again of my beloved, “Hey honey… is there still a Cato’s in the mall?”

“I don’t think so… but there’s one over by…” He stopped for fear that he was about to undo the drugstore directions thereby missing hot doughnuts as well as his ballgame. But because he’s a patient man who adores the wife of his youth he tried again. My heart did a little happy dance because he muted the commercial. If you thought I was going to say muted the ballgame sorry to disappoint. He’s a saint but he is not Jesus. He did however look at me with love and understanding.

“When you come out of the drugstore parking lot take a left. You will be on Innes Street.”

“Hey! That’s good because it eventually crosses the square, right?”

“Yep. Keep going and you’ll pass Romo’s where we got the pizza that was so good… remember where Uncle Buck’s used to be?”

“Don’t tell me about what used to be somewhere. That doesn’t help. Pizza… with the white sauce? Yes! On the right! Okay so… keep going. Then what?”

“You’ll come to a stoplight just before the interstate. Stay in the right lane and turn like you’re going to Walmart. Get into the left lane past Bojangles and turn left at the light. Go to the end where they’ve made that little circle thing that you always turn in front of the wrong way and go toward Cracker Barrel. Cato’s will be on the left. You’ll see it.”

“Cool! So all that stuff runs together? Awesome! I can do this!” As I headed out the door I was happy to spot a Kohl’s $10 coupon card beside my keys. “This is gonna work out great. While I’m there I’ll just run into Kohl’s too. Now how do I get to Jake Alexander from here?”

Gazing toward the wife of his youth once again with lovingkindness, he rose from his favorite Saturday spot, turned off the television, and walked toward me. “I’ll take you honey.”

“NO no noooo… I can totally do this!” I exclaimed with great bravery.

He kissed me sweetly then added, “Maybe you should bring the doughnuts back here before you try to find Kohl’s.”

“Good plan darlin’! Jake Alexander here I come!”

“Innes Street honey… the one that crosses Main Street but you can’t turn left at the square so…”

We sighed simultaneously. Bless his heart.

So if you happen to see an old chick pausing longer than you prefer at an intersection please don’t honk unless of course you are expressing your love for Jesus. I will as usual be invoking the Almighty for help as I navigate my way home with doughnuts which may be stale by the time I get there.

By Lynna Clark

We have a grocery store in town that requires a 25 cent deposit for the use of a shopping cart. Therefore we make sure to have an Aldi quarter in the truck at all times. If one were to get caught without a quarter, one would have to carry a shopping bag and that can get downright burdensome. I tried to beat the system by using an empty box from one of their shelves to gather the items on my list.

Okay. So the box was empty because I unloaded it.

Annyyywayyy… by the time I finished shopping, the jug of milk had rolled over two cartons of eggs.  I’ve learned the hard way. One does not go to Aldi without ones quarter.

A close friend who shall remain nameless confided that her husband freaks out if she uses his Aldi quarter. Actually he stashes away several in his vehicle. She tried to reason with him that it only takes one. He made it clear that she is not to spend his Aldi quarter[s.] I guess it’s a security thing… in case he has a buggy emergency. All I know is that this normally mild mannered man goes from zero to psycho over his Aldi quarter.

As a precaution, we stash only one Aldi quarter; for if we kept more, we’d surely go whipping into the Wendy’s drive-thru for a 99 cent Frosty and end up using all our Aldi quarters. No need tempting fate.

One day as I approached the line of buggies with quarter in hand, a lady walked toward me pushing a cart. Instead of retrieving her sacred quarter, she offered her buggy to me. I tried to give her my Aldi quarter. She smiled and shook her head no as she said, “Be blessed and pass it on.”

Whoa!!!

I think I heard angels singing! How does one nominate a fellow sojourner for sainthood anyway?

I pocketed my Aldi quarter and skipped jauntily inside with my free buggy. What a wonderful beautiful happy day!

As I unloaded the groceries into the truck, I noticed a young mother walking toward the entrance. Her frazzled appearance and two wild kids in tow qualified her as the perfect candidate.

“Would you like this buggy?” I asked.

“No… it’s okay. I don’t have a quarter.”

“Here you go. Someone did the same for me.”

Her face brightened and for a minute I thought we might share a hug. I should have given her my name in case she wanted to nominate me for sainthood. Who knew an Aldi quarter could bring such bliss!

It really IS going to be a wonderful day in the neighborhood! In fact, I think I might have enough nickels for a Frosty!

By Lynna Clark

One of our favorite TV personalities made a remark that caused us to laugh. As the show continued David tipped his head and asked. “What’s goin’ on with her eyebrows?” I looked at him and wondered when he started noticing such things. Turning back to the pretty lady I realized he was right. Her brows were perfectly matched and a bit wider than normal. “Why would she do that?” he asked again. It was almost as if they’d been carefully colored in. The fact that I engaged in this conversation gives you a glimpse into our exciting life.
“Well… when I lost my hair during chemo, I was told there was a stencil I could get to draw in perfect eyebrows. Maybe she got hold of something like that. Although I could never quite get mine to look right. I always came off looking angry. Or shocked.”
He pushed his hair back and raised his eyebrows looking surprised. “Like this?” he asked.
“Yep. Just like that only not as bushy.” I smiled at the man. “I guess I should have splurged on the stencil. I kept thinking I could do it myself. But at the time, eyebrows were the least of my problems. It’s funny how they never grew back.” He leaned forward between our matching* recliners and looked at me closer.
“Hmm. They’re there. They are just very light. I guess you could draw them on. Just remember, ‘Less is more.’ You don’t want to look like the TV lady. That’s just weird.” A small part of me was pleased that he liked what he saw when he looked at me and didn’t want me resembling a celebrity. At least that’s what I heard.
I pulled up a phone picture our youngest daughter had taken of us the day before. As I held it up for him to see, again he considered the eyebrow situation. “Maybe our eldest daughter could draw some on the picture. She’s techno-savvy.”
I looked at the photo we hoped to use later for a family thing. “Yep. She could do that. Back when she was in high school she had big eyebrows, like Brooke Shields. So pretty. If anyone has a good appreciation of eyebrows it would be Stephanie.”
He nodded and I wondered if we should be watching the Braves game instead. Surely none of those guys have stenciled eyebrows. If so they’d be melted off in the Georgia heat. A bit later I dug through my make-up for an eyebrow pencil. As I looked in the mirror I envisioned looking like Sela Ward or that gal that plays in Ant Man. Remembering David’s words I tried to use a light hand. Suddenly I recognized the image in the mirror. It was Mr. Potato Head… using his angry eyes. Sela Ward was nowhere. But I did look expressive. So there was that.
A hot washcloth and a few scrubs later I came to a conclusion. Maybe I’ll be just fine without eyebrows. No more surprised looks or angry eyes. This way I can do what comes natural. Maybe keep people guessing with my blank look. I plan to hold onto my eyebrow pencil though. Considering our life, my confused look will surely come in handy in the future.
*Disclaimer: The mentioning of matching recliners is not intended to sound highfalutin. They DO match because his is brown and mine is orange and blue and brown paisley. However, they were not bought as a set. We are not that sophisticated.
Obviously.