Let's talk about Clematis.

Missing the sight of flowers in the garden has me flipping through photos tonight. I'm staving off the annual winter depression by remembering what the next two seasons have in store. This beautiful blue Clematis cheers me each time I enter the secret garden during the late spring and early summer.  Its delicate little tendrils twine through climbing rose canes and the indigo color contrasts beautifully with the antique rose's sweet smelling, double-flowering, deep pink petals.

Clematis perform well in Oklahoma's USDA hardiness zones 6 and 7. Bursting with color that catches your eye and tempts you to search for buds hidden among the roses and foliage. Clematis climbers fall into one of three categories. Each with individual pruning needs to promote healthy growth and enhance flower production. When planting Clematis, check with your nursery as to what pruning requirements your Clematis needs.

Remember they adore the sun, but need their roots shaded by smaller plants or additional mulch to help keep their shallow root system cool. Clematis will add a mystical and theatrical touch to your garden with a flare relegated to the dainty, but flamboyant.

It makes me wonder what gardeners did before photographs existed? Suffer excruciating garden withdrawals, probably!

Don't be so haughty, sister!

Sitting in a class room full of macho men for eight long hours had worn on my nerves. Minding my manners all day; I had endured foul language and graphic details of unspeakable crimes. There were times during the day that I felt queasy and filthy because of the topic being taught, but I was cautious in my speech; quiet and humble in mannerisms. Wearing a OHP trooper uniform changes ones' image of ones' self and I suppose it changes how others see you also. So after stomaching all I could, I stood and stretched my stiff legs and gathered my few belongings. Feeling justified in my intense dislike at the pin-headed instructor and his crudeness, I made my way to the trash can where I would throw my Styrofoam coffee cup away. It had entertained me all day as I doodled on its squishy surface. Mentally listing my qualifications, I told myself that as an instructor I would never talk like this man chose to do, I would not offend or rape students' ear holes like this man had done. This man is inferior to me, I thought as I dusted off the hairspray flecks that had collected on the shoulders of my brown shirt. I adjusted my gun belt and threw my head back as if I were an aristocrat at a grand ball. I swept across the carpeted classroom floor with class and ease and just as I approached the receptacle bin of refuse, I sneezed with such force that I peed my taupe trousers. Fear and panic slapped me silly as I quickly spun around to see if anyone had taken note of my plight. No one seemed to notice the source of my unease, so I lowered my notebook in front of me and used it as a shield as I backed slowly out of the classroom. One thing continued to blast away at my self confidence as I squished across the parking lot at a quick trot...judge not! When was I ever going to learn?

V.I.P.

His black eyes darted around the crowded room nervously as he paced behind the podium. He wiped his hands on his trousers as if they were wet. There was only two of us on the panel that night, he spoke first.
"My name's Harold." He began, his voice wobbled a bit as he told the crowd about himself.
"I sat where you are sitting, not 5 or 6 years ago." Harold said. "Nothing that was said here that night, affected me. I left here, just as I had come in. I liked to drink and when I would drink, I would drive." He said unapologetically.
I watched him intently, not knowing where he was going with his story. His black plaid fedora was cocked to the left on his head not revealing any hair underneath. I was thinking how he looked like a leprechaun with a scraggy black beard and short stature. Harold probably wasn't 5' tall and wore tattoos like jewelry on each finger. Taking long pauses between sentences to collect his thoughts, he plunged his hands into his baggy jean pockets and hunched his shoulders forward as if he were cold. I thought he looked a bit rough around the edges, but almost childlike in his demeanor.
He told us that he was and is a chronic alcoholic. He said he had been arrested four times for driving under the influence of alcohol and said he even did time for the last one.
"I was locked up for a year and a half." He confessed, but never took his eyes from the audience.
He told us all about the high cost of those D.U.I.'s, saying they cost him nearly $60,000 dollars, his house, his job and his family.
"Then one day, I stopped drinking." Harold bragged, "I attended A.A. and got sober."
His candor made him likable, I found myself drawn to his plight and reveling alongside him in his victory. He held everyone's attention, I noticed, as I took a quick look around at the attendees. My eyes drifted back to Harold's as he continued.
"After all the things I had done, I finally got my life on track, I was sober. Then my son was killed by a drunk driver. He was only 16."
His eyes flooded with tears. I could see that there was a great deal of anger and grief very near the surface as he gritted his teeth. Harold had escaped from killing anyone when he chose to drink and drive, but someone had stolen his boy while choosing the same path he did. The impact of which was almost more than he could bear, but that's why we were there; we were the victim's impact panel.
I don't know if Harold's story or mine made any difference to the people that attended that V.I.P. but as usual, I came away different; moved to act, to do more and to never forget the victims of D.U.I.

Jack

You see this precious face? Would it boggle your mind to know his mommy and daddy didn't want him? I couldn't believe it either...but it's true! Friends of ours adopted this little boy and each time I see him with his arms wrapped around their necks, my heart bursts with joy.

Just this morning I overheard him telling his parents that their song was playing. He was referring to, "I belong to Jesus." I nearly cried as I watched his little arms pull his adoptive parents together with his three-year-old little arms. With their heads joined together they sang as emotions as thick as a softball formed in my throat.

Seeing them together made me think of how cherished we are to God. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. Remember that the next time you feel alone, unloved, despised, rejected, depressed or discouraged. He has a plan for you, one greater than you can ever imagine.

Yes, It's Thanksgiving again. So what? It's just another day, right? Every Thanksgiving people spend too much, eat too much, drink too much and say way too much. You've been there; family gatherings where even if alcohol isn't involved, people will say things that they will wish later they hadn't. Maybe like me, they will refuse to say what should be said and regret that also. It has only taken me 41 years to decide that I want no further part of it. My time is precious, valuable and unrecoverable. I can not sacrifice a second more of my only controllable resource, dancing around the truth. So, here it is...try this on for size...I love my life!

I love my family. I hold no ill will toward my parents, brothers, extended family or upbringing. Getting spankings, sometimes with a belt or a paddle, didn't mar, scar or kill me. Attending a small Christian school and even a couple of Bible colleges, didn't ruin me on my Baptist upbringing or drive me to drinking...well, that may be stretching it a bit. Regardless, I love Jesus and His free gift of salvation and I'm not ashamed to tell you about it or Him...anytime, any day.

I'm thankful for the same things you are; a place to lay down at night, waking up each morning and indoor plumbing. I'm thankful I was born in America, that I have a nice home, a great job and plenty of food to eat. I'm thankful for clean water to drink, a loving husband and gorgeous children to wrap my arms around and love. I'm thankful for every single tear that I cry and every pain that causes a hitch in my get-along because it reminds me that I am still alive and still feeling anything at all.

It is impossible to list everything here that I'm thankful for, but I refuse to spend one more Thanksgiving stuffing my face and biting my tongue. Tomorrow and forever I choose to live, laugh, love and be grateful for who I am, Who's I am and all that I have. I hope you will choose to do the same. Happy Thanksgiving!

A Place

The crumbling adobe wall whispered hundreds of years of living. Impressed, I gently ran my finger tips across a pink earthen structure and silently asked for understanding. I wished it were possible to know who all had touched the same, who had ducked beneath the low overhang to enter or exit the secret compound of solitude. How could a "place" reek so of peace and harmony? "The City Different" speaks to me in ways that no other place on the planet does. My birth state is a desolate, lonely environment that few appreciate and fewer adore. When I wander the streets, I feel at home; smelling pinyon wood burning in an ancient kiva, I beg to remain. This is where I belong and where one day I will be. Whether alive or no, it matters little. Apart from where your heart dwells, you live life as a spent Aspen leaf, yellowed, tattered and waiting.

Nickle, Dime...Slot Machine!

I watched as the black Toyota swerved carelessly across both lanes of traffic. Squeezing in between two cars where no room existed, I knew there was something wrong with the operator of this vehicle, but it was, "quitting time." Time to take the Batgirl outfit off and put the alter-ego uniform on. The one of "mother/wife." I've heard it said more than once over the years, "put your blinders on and go home!" But there was that nagging sense of something not quite right about the way the driver of the Toyota swerved between the lane lines. I could never choose to ignore what slapped at my conscience. Something was seriously wrong and I could not choose anything other than Duty, my duty. So with mounting aggravation at having my evening plans changed, I turned my blue and red lights on and finally hit the siren when I got no reaction out of the driver. What was wrong with this guy? For miles he continued as if cars around him, weren't slowing and pulling to the right. When I finally got the Toyota stopped, I could only wonder what would cause a person to choose this path. This path is the long pull of a wicked whiskey or a life-cheating slot machine, it could bring you loss, big loss. Insanely enough, this slot never has a winner, but you'll fool yourself into believing you won as you pull into your driveway. You'll climb out of your car and thank your lucky stars that you made it home without crashing, without killing yourself or worse. You'll make it inside and undress or not and swear you'll never do it again, but even intoxicated you know better. When you wake in the morning alive it will be a mystery to you how you managed to make it home. If next time comes, your luck might not hold. But hey, that's the best part of playing slots...the chance that you'll lose, right?