HOME SWEET HOME

Sometimes it's as if I've been gone only for an hour or two...

It's been 36 years this month that my parents and their four children loaded a lifetime of belongings inside a large moving van and backed it out of the driveway of the only real home any of us ever knew.  As we crammed into our aging family car we headed east towards Pike's Peak Mountain and as we drove away I knew only one thing to be true...I desperately didn't want to go.

My heart was never quite whole after I left Sigman Street and if the truth be told I never really considered any other house I ever lived in as a child my home.  And, although I am never to know how my life would have been different, I somehow know I would have ended up in the very same place I am today.  I may have taken another road to get here...traveled a different path...walked down a different street, but I believe I would be living the life I am now living just the same.

I pulled up the picture at the top from the Internet and it shows what our California home looks like today.  It's a shadow of it's former self for long gone are the crank-out windows and the soft brown facade that set the home apart from those around it.  The Fruitless Mulberry Tree planted when I was seven has been uprooted and the original landscaping has been changed as well.  In it's place an extended concrete driveway has been poured and it now sits on top of the very earth where the photo of the three of us kids was taken back in 1963/64...

This morning as I went outside to water my garden flowers I couldn't help but wonder about the house standing so proud and tall in front of me.  Who might be driving by my La Chaumière de Briarwood questioning the changes made to what might very well be their childhood home?

When I was still a very young girl my family visited the plot of Texas land where my Father lived as a boy.  The house hand long ago been torn down and I remember watching as tears formed in his eyes as he talked about Conroe and how he deeply he loved it.  At the time I did not understand his passion for the earth beneath his feet or why the demise of 'Crystal Creek' caused his booming voice to crack and tremble...

Not long ago I was chatting with my grown son about possibly one day selling the house he lived in as a child and the Oklahoma home we still live in today.  Once we have grown older it's hard for us to imagine being able to climb her aging stairs...

"Oh Mom!" he began

"I want to live in my old house again someday!  Please promise me you won't ever sell it without giving me a chance to buy it.  I hope one day I'll again call it home..."

 Today I'm happy to know that as everything about life and the land seems to change about me daily, thankfully the love of home continues to live on and on...

UPON RETURNING

May Smith White

Is this the lane where lilacs used to bloom~

Or have I missed the road that once I knew?

As here above the fence, no longer loom

The wind-blown lilacs I had longed to view.

For years I somehow knew I would come back~

Although a silent voice had said to me:

Old scenes will be subdued, in someway lack

The beauty known upon each hill and lea!

But yet, I know I will return again

To claim a dream before it fades and dies;

To see a greening hillside washed in rain

And soon, the clearness of the cobalt skies.

I will return again I know~I know~

To walk remembered paths of long ago.

Blessings for a lovely day!

Love to you~

~WHAT WAS LOST NOW IS FOUND~

SCHOOL GIRLS

Hacienda Heights, CA

August 1964

L-R

Linda (Big Sis), Kathy (Cousin), Cindy (cousin), & Me

After a very busy weekend enjoying the Re-Opening of my website (more about this tomorrow!), I spent some time yesterday working in my garage!  Now...going through boxes of JUNK (not good junk, just JUNK!) is not something I wanted to do on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon!  Still...the thought of waiting to do the much needed clean-up until the Summer when temps climb over 95 degrees outside made me sick.  Besides, I have some furniture in need of a makeover (remember the U-Haul filled with neat stuff I hauled back from Tennessee???) and I needed to make room to paint.

~SEEMS LIKE YESTERDAY~

46 Years Ago

Anyway...while I was moving around more boxes than I can say I came across one of those stackable clear bins and it LOOKED to be the MISSING BOX I'd been frantically searching to find for a long time.  My heart skipped a beat because I feared the box had been tossed out by mistake.  The thought of that possibility made me very nervous because it held many irreplaceable mementos...and some of them belonged to my mother.

~WHAT WAS LOST NOW IS FOUND~

When I lifted the lid to the bin I was shocked at what I found.  Inside (and right where I'd left them) were all the things I'd been searching for.  Most notably, the neatly folded dress and bonnet I wore in the photo above.  My mother made it for me when I was 5 and my sister, Linda's, too.  Along side of it was the newspaper clipping from 1964.

~I LOVED THIS SWEET FABRIC~

I've shared with you before that my very talented Mom and her sister, my Auntie P, were ALWAYS doing things to get their girls in the Newspaper.  They were both heavily involved in PTA at the time and the two of them concocted the idea to dress their daughters up as old fashioned school girls to promote BACK TO SCHOOL and joining PTA!  The four of us made the front page of the SUNDAY (this was a big deal even then) San Gabriel Valley Tribune! :)

I'm beginning to understand more and more as the years go by just where my creative spirit came from.

(Thank you Momma...you continue to inspire me!  I'll return your things to you this week!)

Blessings to you as you begin another week of passionate living in our great-big beautiful world! 

~CHRISTMAS PAST...Tied Up With Heartstrings~

~OUR DUTCH CHRISTMAS 1964~
Hacienda Heights, California
Me, My Sissy Linda, Cousins Cindy & Kathy

(Us Girls in December 2008)
Linda (My Sister), Cindy & Kathy (Cousins), Me

Today was a melancholy Sunday. If you haven't figured it out by now I'm hopelessly sentimental and I can truly get lost inside my own head if I"m not careful. Christmas does that to me. All the Fa-La-La-La-Lahhhhh's and trips down memory lane can really set my heart to wondering.

In 1964 "The Highlander", a local newspaper from my hometown of Hacienda Heights, California, came out to our modest (and tiny!) home on Sigman Street and photographed my sister, two cousins and I for a write up about celebrating our Dutch Heritage. I've shared with you before that my mother and her sister, my Auntie P, were always doing SOMETHING that got their daughters noticed.

I have NO IDEA what happened to my hair in this picture. The bangs are real. The braids are FAKE! :)

I spent the later part of the evening digging myself through a stack of old photos searching for the FEW pictures taken at Christmas when I was a child. My parents didn't take many photographs so you can imagine the ones we do have collectively mean the world to my family. My sister and I have pictures with our cousins but we have very, very few taken with our youngest sister and brother...like maybe two! It is the one thing I would change about my childhood if I could... I'd have more pictures.

How this clipping has survived is beyond me. It was damaged in a terrible house flood in 1977 and yet remains in one piece...

I blame the fact that I'm now a picture-taking-fool on the simple truth that my parents never owned a decent camera until I was grown and gone...

~CHRISTMAS AT GRANDMA'S 1962~
Hacienda Heights, California
Kathy (cousin), Me, Linda (sister), Cindy (cousin)

I may be wrong, I'd have to ask my sister, Linda, but I honestly believe this is the ONLY picture taken of me as little child at Christmastime. It was snapped in 1963 at my Grandmother's home when they lived on either Kennard or Flamstead Street. I was in Kindergarten and was 5 years old. All us little girls got Butterball Doll Babies that year and my sissy and cousin got gorgeous Bride Dolls... I remember wanting to know where mine was but I was told I was too young to have one. :(

(JUST A NOTE: MY BIG SISTER JUST WROTE AND TOLD ME I DID HAVE A BRIDE DOLL! SHE SAID THEY HUNG OVER OUR BEDS FOR A LONG TIME WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN. I DO DO DO REMEMBER THAT NOW! (ISN'T IT GREAT TO HAVE A BIG SISSY WHO REMEMBERS THINGS FOR YOU????XOXOXO THANK YOU, LIN!) WHAT I DIDN'T HAVE (AND DESPERATELY WANTED) WAS A CHATTY CATHY DOLL! MY AUNTIE P KNEW THIS AND GAVE ME ONE ABOUT 4 YEARS AGO! ALL THIS IS FURTHER EVIDENCE MY MIND IS SLIPPIN'!

~My Mother & Auntie~
Around 1963 or 1964

The picture above is of my mother and her younger sister, my Auntie P. They were heavily involved in PTA and worked hard to promote our local elementary school. This was a Polaroid picture and the original was so dark you could barely make out who was in it. I've learned enough about Photoshop to make me dangerous...at least I was able to lighten the heavily damaged picture enough to see just what it was. My mom or my grandfather painted the poster for the PTA DRIVE that year... My Gramps was always painting those sweet Santa's for the door of our classrooms. My mother did get really good at knocking off his work though so I can't be sure just who painted this one...

Seeing my beautiful Mother in this photo (she was about 29) lends me to believe time goes even faster than I think it does. She turned 75 this year...

Thanks for stopping in today. Like many of you I've been busy enjoying the season while breathing in all things Christmas and Christ-centered. Hoping and trusting your days have been as lovely as mine.

Blessings and love...Rebecca

~TAPS UPON MY SHOULDER and Everyday Miracles~

DOYLE - 1969

I have a little story to share with you today. It isn't too terribly long and it's fairly uncomplicated. It is a story I must tell for it affirms there are moments in life when we must stop and catch our breath allowing us to glimpse God's very presence in our lives. He promises to direct our every step if we will allow Him to do so...

I met my friend Mary H. by selling my wares on eBay. By her account we've known each other for about four years and we've forged a sweet, long-distance friendship. I've never had the privilege of meeting Mary face to face, but we've spoken on the phone several times and often exchange emails. She is fun-loving and very talented and I've been blessed by her presence in my life. She has easily become a lifelong friend and I thank God for her generous, giving heart.

I, of course, live in Oklahoma, and Mary lives in my native State of California. Of the thousands of cities in this very large State she lives only about 50 miles from where I grew up. This gives us many wonderful things to talk about, lighthearted moments sprinkled with laughter and joy. We've shared a passion for parenting, the excitement of becoming grandparents and our love for all things old (especially laces). And sadly, we have the common bond of how living with a parent with a mind-robbing disease can affect ones very life.

So, it wasn't surprising to me when Mare called me up a few weeks ago and we began another long, satisfying chat. She had read my POST about my 5th Grade Teacher, Mrs. Ferguson and felt compelled to call me. Something in that story had jumped out at her and she just had to share with me something she was sure I would want to know.

In that Summertime Post (June 28, 2009) I mentioned a classmate by the name of Doyle Griffith. I had a wild crush on this cute, well-behaved boy and I continually faced the wrath of my teacher for trying to engage him in conversation. Doyle and I sat next to each other for the entire school year and despite the fact I'm certain I drove him plum crazy with my chattering voice, he never failed to help me with my assignments or offer up an encouraging word. If my memory serves me correctly he moved away from our hometown the summer before 6th grade and I was to never see him again.

Such is life, I suppose. People come in and then move out of our physical presence all the time. I've learned to accept it. Still~over the years I longed to know of my sweet childhood friend and just what had become of him. As an adult, God constantly brought Doyle to my mind and I thought it more than strangely odd that I would remember a ten year old boy with such great detail. I mean...I was only ten years old myself, and had yet to do any REAL living...

And then came Mary.

DOYLE - ABOUT 2005

When the phone rang I immediately recognized the soft voice of my California friend on the other end of the line. Always upbeat and kind, the conversation began with...

"I have something to tell you, Rebecca...something I know you'll want to know. It has something to do with your 'Mrs. Ferguson' Post..."

After a long pause she continued...

"I knew your childhood friend, Doyle'...he's been in my home many times."

After reeling myself in from the shock of Mary's statement, she began to tell me the story of a happily married husband and father who had attended her church and had lived in her hometown. Not wanting to disappoint me with incorrect information, Mary did some asking around and found out that indeed Doyle and his family had once made the tiny town of Hacienda Heights their home.

Now...with millions of people living in California, what are the chances of someone I met on eBay knowing someone I had gone to school with in 5th grade? More so, what are the chances of me even mentioning a boy I hadn't seen in at least 40 years by name?

Mary went on to share with me that Doyle had been diagnosed with cancer and after being in remission for some time had succumbed to the dreadful disease a couple of years before. I felt sick. My heart was heavy and I was truly sad. Another young life gone far too soon and I was moved by the knowledge that another one of my childhood friends had passed on...

It's important that I tell you here that I don't believe in coincidence. That said, what, if any, were the lessons to be learned from my present life intersecting with the one that I had left so many years before? Why had Doyle never strayed far from my thoughts and why was it that he was always being brought back to the forefront of my mind? Why was Mary involved? Was there a deeper meaning here? If so, what was it?

Maybe it's just that these days I expect only miracles on a huge, grandiose scale and miss the more personal, everyday kind....

Maybe what just seems to be a coincidence is nothing less than God tapping me on the shoulder, whispering, or even at times shouting: "I'm here! I'm with you! You are right on track with your life! You are right where I want you to be, Rebecca! Keep pressing on!"

I believe it is.

Blessings to you as you listen for the voice of God in your life...Rebecca
PS: Thank you Doyle, for everything. And, thank you, Mare.

~THE PRICELESS TEACHING OF MRS. MARTHA FERGUSON and 5th Grade Life Lessons~

Mrs. Martha Ferguson
Miss Rebecca Elliott

In December of 1968 I turned the magical age of ten and found myself firmly planted in the 5th grade. On a daily basis I was under the watchful eye of an attractive black woman who earlier that summer had been chosen to be my teacher. She was tall, sported dark wavy hair and even on the sunniest of days could be seen in a lightweight wool coat and patent leather shoes. She was an awesome story teller, loved savoring butterscotch candy, and before the passing of another year of innocence she would successfully point my feet in the right direction.

Mrs. Martha Ferguson was a stern lady. Even so, I could tell she liked me. She did not, however, take kindly to the simple fact that I was a talker and on more than one occasion would disrupt her class with my mindless prattle. Plainly stated, I would rather wile away my classroom hours day-dreaming about this and that (or whisper pleasantries with my closest friend, Laura) than complete the assignments placed before me. Mrs. Ferguson rarely smiled, but…nor did she frown. She was just…well, agreeable. And even though I was scolded on a daily basis for SOMETHING that always started with the opening of my mouth, she was never TOO terribly hard on me. That is, except for the time she very firmly demanded I immediately stop doing two things…

DOYLE GRIFFITH
The Cutest Boy In 5th Grade

1. Flirting with Doyle Griffith, the cute boy who sat next to me (and the one, if not for my chattering voice, would never have even known I was alive)…

and...

2. Twirling my hair ribbon around my fingers (instead of leaving it tied up in my hair)...

Life during fifth grade brought with it lots of discoveries. It was the year I first recall being taught that teasing other children was a dreadful thing to do and the year I promised myself I would never do it. But, that was only after hearing someone call one of the McMurray twins “Dead Fish” and then watching silently as their words resulted in a visit to the Principle’s Office for a bumm whoopin'. I’d been bullied enough over my own imperfections and wanted no part of the cruelty and could certainly live without the sure-to-be-had paddlin'...

MY BIXBY YEARBOOK 1968-1969

I fully understood during fifth grade that I wasn’t one of the “it girls”. It was also the year I realized that money was powerful and that some of my classmates had a lot of it and some… well, like me, did not. During the months of fifth grade I came to believe my gaped teeth made me ugly (notice the closed-mouth smile) and my mousy brown hair would certainly have looked a little more desirable had it been blond.

It was during that fifth year at Bixby I was to learn that no matter how hard I tried I was never going to beat Sally Jewel at Tether-Ball (she was a bruiser of a girl so I figured it was OK) and the year I discovered I was truly terrible at mathematics. It was the year I learned I “kinda” loved English, was dreadful at Geography, fairly good in Spelling and the year my heart embraced anything and everything that had to do ART. Be it drawing, painting, gluing, glittering, papier-mâché or pottery, I was in for the long haul.

And thanks to the film about…um…well…you know…I learned (frighteningly so) I wouldn’t always be a LITTLE girl….

It was also the year I learned that teachers can cry.

I cannot say just why I stayed inside during my recess on that early spring afternoon, my memory isn’t that good. What I do remember is witnessing the teacher I had grown to love and admire as she sat quietly behind her desk dabbing away the tears that rolled down her cheeks. I couldn’t resist the urge to focus my eyes upon her as truthfully I’d never seen a teacher really cry. She was deeply troubled by what I clearly understood as being something “grown-up” and I knew better than to disturb her. The seconds ticked by as I tried to complete my assignments…I didn’t dare look up again for I feared she would find me staring at her and that would be uncomfortable for both of us. Several minutes passed before I felt her presence standing next to my tiny chair.

“Becky” she said, quietly kneeling down beside me.
“Listen to me!”

She gently pushed my hair from my face and then began...

“I need to tell you something that is just for you! You are a very smart girl! Don’t let anyone else ever tell you your not good enough, smart enough, pretty enough or talented enough! Work hard! That’s the key! If you do, you WILL make it! Remember, it matters not if you are Red, Yellow, BLACK or White…”

With that, she stood up and walked back to her desk.

MY 5TH GRADE TEACHER
Mrs. Martha Ferguson

We were never to speak about her tears or her instruction, and I never again saw Mrs. Ferguson cry. My final memory is of her standing tall in her dark colored jacket as I snapped her picture for my photo album. It would be the last day I was to ever sit inside a classroom at Bixby Elementary School. It would be the very last time I would ever see the face of the woman who would forever remain my favorite teacher and the one who helped change the course of so much of my life.

Years would fly by before I would recall again the pocket-sized memory I had so neatly tucked away. I was never to know the reason for Mrs. Ferguson’s sadness or the source of her tears. I suspect it had something to do with some sort of racial discord, but I can’t be sure. What I understood then and know to be true even today is that through her own sadness and sufferings she didn’t hesitate to offer up the needed encouragement and acceptance to a small girl wandering aimlessly in a garden that rarely bloomed.

“Bless you, Mrs. Ferguson, beautiful Teacher! I wish I could find you…”

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof.” Proverbs 18:21

“Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the heavens. Ephesians 4:29

Blessings to you as you encourage those around you and teach those who are willing to listen…Rebecca

SUNDAY MORNING COMING DOWN

A SUNDAY IN SPRING

Somehow, in the midst of many, many moves, this tiny Polaroid picture of my family has survived it's share of sufferings. Tattered and a bit faded, creased and torn, the photo represents for me a snapshot of the true American family. Mine. It was taken in the Spring of 1963, back when my father was 33 years old and my mother was 29. I lovingly restored the only copy in existence and can't help but be truly thankful it wasn't lost or destroyed over the years.

I can't tell you much about this day except that it was a Sunday! Taken long before my sister Jenny was born, my mother dressed her three children to the nines, thanks to the talent of my grandmother (who was always making my older sister and I matching dresses). The church we attended in Hacienda Heights, California, can be seen in the background as well as an old station wagon (my brother could tell you the make and model). I can only say I know for 100% sure the car was not ours...we never drove anything remotely that nice.

We were a working-class family. My parents owned a tiny track home and my father, a struggling student of the Word, worked his way towards his goal of full-time pastoring for many years... I remember well those days of early want and longing~ But, I can only look back upon them today and smile. For all the things my parents did that proved not to be the best of decisions during my growing-up years, they did a million things right. Forever etched in my memory and woven into the fabric of my heart is the knowledge they did the best they could with all that they had. For this I am most grateful! If I make it to the other side of seventy, I pray my children will feel as blessed...and won't judge me too harshly for my imperfections...

FORTY-TWO YEARS LATER
(My brother's Wedding Day~ Lin, Mom, Bill, Daddy & Me)

"Watch what God does, and then you do it, like children who learn proper behavior from their parents. Mostly what God does is love you. Keep company with Him and learn a life of love. Observe how Christ loved us. His love was not cautious but extravagant. He didn't love in order to get something from us but to give everything of Himself to us. Love like that." Ephesians 5:1-2 (The Message).

Blessings to you as you worship with your family...Rebecca

KINDERGARDEN SCHOLAR

I started Kindergarten very young. I was only four years old when timidly I walked into a classroom near the south wing entrance of Hudson Elementary School in the autumn of 1963. The windows in the school were both tall and grand and allowed for endless warmth and sunshine. It was the heavily stained, gray-green walls and the darkness of the discolored wood flooring that was frightening to me. Nothing I recall seeing during that early September morning was the least bit inspiring. I wanted to go home. I wanted to return to the sanctuary of my mother’s calming face and the simplicity of my favorite coloring books and my extra fat, pre-school crayons. I cared nothing about learning my ABC’s and even less about playing Tetherball, Kickball, 4-Square or Tag. As my size would later dictate, I was viewed as being too small, too tiny to ever be thought of as valuable. I was a late reader, was terrible at Arithmetic (that is what it was called back then), and save for my endless imagination, I felt alone. When my classmates enjoyed successes, I struggled with my perceived failures. I was placed in a sectioned off group for “slow learners” and there I would sit for many a season. And so began my battle for acceptance.

I couldn’t have possibly understood it then, but the longing to fit in had engulfed me, forcing me to hide deeper within my own thoughts and ideas. I was fearful that if I dared speak truthfully of my desires, I would further separate myself from my peers. More often than not I sat quietly aside. Emerging only when necessary to draw fresh breath or when I remembered to comb, what I believed to be, my “mousy brown hair”.

Ultimately it was my daily forty-five minute art class that proved to keep me grounded. When allowed, I would paint. More often than not I would draw and begged endlessly for paper and pen. On the rare occasion we could afford something special at home, I’d search the store aisles for the latest child-based craft project offered by our local five and dime. When I was disciplined enough to not squander my tiny allowance on penny candy or a bottle of Bubble-Up, I would save my quarters and spend them on colorful embroidery floss, tubes of shiny glass beads or maybe even a new sixteen color paint box. A beautiful world was calling out to me to press onward. I just didn’t know how to listen to her whispers.

It wasn’t until I was in my early thirties than I began to surrender to my deeply rooted dreams and to the voice I had long ago silenced. With great determination I finally accepted the fact that I was never going to master mathematics, love science, become a musician or excel in sports. I chose to abandon the pretender within and embrace my most private of passions. I simply loved to create and whether my coffers were full or empty, I was going to live my life doing it.

I revisit that four year old little girl on occasion. Sometimes, when it’s really quiet, before the sun is up and the day pulls me in, I can feel our hearts beat as one. And when I do I tell her this. I say “Be real! Live your life with meaning and honor. Be fully the child you are called to be and listen not to the non-believers who are sent to discourage and destroy you. Be at rest within God’s Blessings. Glory in His Gifts…for therein is where you will find true peace…”