An Old Familiar Place

UNDERSTANDABLE, UNINTENTIONAL, UNDENIABLE

2011-05-15T11:22:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking about getting old and the funny things we do to delay the inevitable. Maybe the way we dress. I have “old” tendencies about some things, but not that! At least not intentionally. For instance, I’d rather wear something from a nice uppity consignment shop that some rich woman has tossed out than to wear polyester! I just can’t do that. My girls never let me. They were always my shopping buddies, though I was buying for them mostly—not for myself. They all have great taste. But where did they get it—had to come from me, right? Now, when there are three of them, you tend to allow them to set the pace. You have to. You’re outnumbered. Even now, when we go into the stores, they watch me like a hawk.

“Did you just touch that piece of polyester? You might want to go wash your hands, Mother!”

“Well, I didn’t recognize it as such. It was an honest mistake. I mislaid my hand. Sorry!”

Now, for someone who is seeking to delay the aging process, I live in the wrong place. Florida! There’s a sea of polyester out there, left over from the early 1970’s. Everywhere you go, there are strange fragrances. No. You can’t call them fragrances. They’re an admixture of Shakley cleaning products and vitamins. Heavy on the cod liver oil.

I stepped into Duncan Donuts Sunday morning for a cup of toasted almond coffee. If you’ve not had it, you need to rearrange your schedule and hop by there. It’s so easy to order. Not a grande production, either. Pun intended. A double tall cappuccino extra dry? Who knows what that actually means? For all I know it’s made with buttermilk and soy sauce. I do rebel against that.

I was bringing Larry a drink the other day. He’s my son-in-law who lives in the fast lane of Harley, disc golf, jet planes to who-knows-where, and signature coffees. Well, I wrote it down. I’m sure it’s simple for him, rolling off his lips like GPS directions to Sturgis or Four Corners. But not for me! I had to say it wrong. The lady was stumped. I was ordering something they’d never heard of. So I called Angie to get it straight. Finally! I had left off the most important word—Latte! Understandable and unintentional and certainly undeniable!

Back to Duncan. A portly—yes elderly—man was standing beside me, placing his order and while I refrained from even glancing toward the basic chocolate covered glazed ones, his box was fast filling. He’s finished. No, wait! He saw yet another bin from which he had not chosen. And then he did it. He took the plunge and ordered TWO BARBARIAN DONUTS!

Two Barbarian Donuts! That's definitely understandable!

My eyes searched the bins, looking for some very rebellious donuts, expecting them to hop right out of the bin and into his box, swords drawn, when they (my eyes) landed on— BAVARIAN!

He wanted two BAVARIAN DONUTS! How cute! A perfectly understandable, unintentional, undeniable exercise in mistaken donut identity.

I took my seat and sipped my simple cup of toasted almond and thought about cracking up, when I realized I was one with him—the only difference was he had the nerve to order two BARBARIAN donuts and I didn’t. But then, I looked at his portly waistline and back at mine and thought, if I can forgo polyester, I can stick to the sweet and pleasant taste of toasted almond coffee with one cream and an extra small sugar.

I just hope I live long enough to watch as my daughters slip into the unintentional yet undeniable—

Jane Bennett Gaddy

2011-04-15T15:47:00.000-07:00

SHILOH

Don't give up on me. I'm vacationing in my home state of Mississippi for a week. I'll return next Monday or thereabout. I come here as often as possible. My home is on the Nature Coast of Florida but my roots are planted Way Down South in Dixie! In fact, I visited Shiloh Battle Ground just over the border into Tennessee yesterday and . . . oh, my! Filled me up. I wanted to sing real slow . . . Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton . . . Can you hear my accent!

I'm sitting at my sister's computer, very much out of whack because that's just the way I am. I need to be in my own space, at my own computer, with all my books and stuff around me in order to write. I just wanted to check in, as we get hits on this blog every day from different parts of the world. Thanks for that! Please make me happy and leave us a response.

I'll leave a few pictures of Shiloh. I'm such a southern woman! My second published book is about the Civil War, and there's a poignant storyline that includes the Battle of Shiloh in that book. Wish you would read it. Just go to any online bookstore anywhere on earth and key in The Mississippi Boys. Or click here to Amazon.com. You're going to love it.

I'll be posting to one of my other blogs, As Thy Days, when I return to Florida . . . posting about Shiloh, one of the most nostalgic places in the South. Please watch for that post, and I'll tell you how I felt when I saw that thousands of Confederate soldiers were buried in five different trenches on Shiloh Ground—southern soil—while the Yanks were buried in marked graves in a special place in the cemetery. Again, it filled me up.

Jane Bennett Gaddy, Ph.D.
Trinity, FL

Long Hot Summer

2010-06-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

... time crept by. As slowly as a thousand of those hot and humid days in the Mississippi Delta. But summer had come to an end and school was well underway. My senior year. One late fall Saturday morning, I drove to Clarksdale, parked my father's car in front of the Woolworth store and ran inside, across the freshly oiled wood floors, through the aroma of chocolate and hot cashews from the candy bins, past the smells of cheap perfume from the counters of the old familiar five and dime. I was on a mission, protocol or not.

Beth was at the lunch counter in her red-checkered uniform. She was tall and thin; her dark hair lay in ringlets about her cap; and her eyes danced when she talked, the dimples in her cheeks deepening with every smile. She moved with precision, taking orders for burgers and fries and then preparing them with little effort. Without looking, she reached for the fountain spout and drew a Coke, took a long stride over, and sat the glass in front of me.

"Jane, you know he's in town, and he looks great. We all went out—"

The past few days had been unbearable, as I remembered it was just about time for Ray to come home on leave, but I didn't know this was the weekend. I was not exactly in the call group. I unleashed all my pent-up feelings on Beth, kept interrupting her, not knowing she had something to tell me.

"Beth, I have taken a chance with my sanity to hope for an opportunity to talk to Ray, much less to see him. Now you're telling me how great he looks and you all went out somewhere last night. And there's Peggy, right? Where is Peggy anyway? I thought she worked on Saturday. And, yes, I'm burning with jealousy. You've all seen him and until now I didn't even know he was home."

I looked down, fitfully wiping the clean counter with my napkin, then bending the straw. "Not that I care," I said taking a side-glance at Beth. I wished thoughts of Peggy didn't exhaust me so. I was totally out of character, and Beth knew it. She was silent for a moment, preparing herself to be interrupted again.

I had taken this about as long as I could. I didn't want to cry, but the tears started as I sipped the Coke. "I want to see Ray," I said.

"That might not be possible." She hem-hawed a bit; I kept interrupting, and finally she blurted it out: "Jane, listen to me. He's engaged to Peggy. He gave her a ring last night."

I was stunned. My head dropped and the Coke went flying. "I'm sorry, Beth. I've got to go." I stood to my feet and began picking up the glass pieces on the long counter that stretched from one end of the old five and dime diner to the other. I momentarily regained my composure, leaned over the counter, and started to speak. My words got louder, reverberating down the row of swiveling chairs and bouncing on every small town nosey ear in the Woolworth store.

Excerpts from House Not Made With Hands

published 2007

Jane Bennett Gaddy

Harrison by the Rapids

2010-03-24T17:22:00.000-07:00

Each of my children has given me one grandson. Phyl's Nathan; Angie's Adam; Tracy's Kyle; Joey's Harrison. I love them all with a passion.

There's just something about a "barefoot boy with cheek of tan." I loved that poem so much that I made it a permanent part of my American Literature course for external studies students at Bethany Divinity College. I think this photo gives it new meaning. My brother, Mike, took it this weekend after Harrison had just about spent himself romping the banks, skipping rocks, and just having his own private thoughts about the old Tallahatchie River that meanders through New Albany, Mississippi. A delightful spot on the southern map, the place where his great-grandparents lived for many years and where they died.

Blessings on thee, little man,

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!

With thy upturned pantaloons,

And thy merry whistled tunes;

With thy red lip, redder still

Kissed by strawberries on the hill;

With the sunshine on thy face,

Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;

From my heart I give thee joy—

John Greenleaf Whitaker

Pathetic Moments

2010-03-06T10:26:00.000-08:00

He dropped the hammer and walked out back beyond the canebrake toward the stream. When there were thoughts to be had, decisions to be made, wrongs to be righted, Isaac had always been able to tramp the woods and fields for resolution. Out where streams of warmth on a sun-drenched day hovered with intensity on his shoulders. Where southern winds blew the slightest breeze to cool the heat of an Indian summer. Where an autumn rain beat against his sun-browned face to clear the cobwebs of this war of love and hate that held him in a vice. He had dashed his own hopes and dreams, leaving Jennie behind to wonder who he was and why she had ever fallen for the roguish Payne boy in the first place.

The peaty smells of decomposing leaves atop the damp earth hung in his nostrils. He lingered a moment imagining a garden with the mossy compost subdued, wild flowers of every bloom and color replacing the piles of damp leaves, but no one to share them with. Isaac stumbled under the weight of his emotions and fell helpless to the damp earth. He loathed the feelings of defeat. The North had defeated the South. The War had robbed him of his father and Henry, death defeating life. The carpetbagger had cast gloom and doom upon his relationship with the only woman he had ever loved, attempting to take the dearest on earth to him, and in the course had been the straw that broke the camel's back as far as Isaac was concerned, and what was worse, he couldn't get his hands on Graystone to punish him for the chaos he had created.

A doe broke through the thicket, her new baby frolicking close to her heels. The gentler, simpler life, he mused. She has one thought alone—her fawn. Aware that Isaac lay stretched on the ground a few paces from her, she bolted to the safety of the copse and disappeared with her little one.

Isaac lay static, struggling between the right and wrong of it all. He had fallen victim to everything he had spoken against, allowing his best intentions to be quashed by the schemes of Simon Graystone.

He loathed admitting it, even to himself, but he was in the slough of despondency, eating from the trough of defeat...

From the manuscript, Isaac's House

Jane Bennett Gaddy

2010

It was dead of winter...

2010-01-09T17:44:00.000-08:00

My inspiration came the day I visited Isaac's house in Slate Springs, Mississippi in 2007. It was dead of winter and, at the time, I was writing The Mississippi Boys, the manuscript almost finished. I gave my new book its title that day—Isaac's House. It had been hard for me to say goodbye to The Mississippi Boys, and it was settled, I didn't have to. I would write Isaac's House, and behind it, Joab.These are my people. Not the Paynes, for they are my fictional family. But the Clarks—T.G., Jonathan, Albert Henry, Isaac, Joab and Samuel Clark. T.G., Jonathan, and Albert Henry all died in the Battle of Gettysburg. Isaac joined the Confederate Army when he came of age and fought until the war ended. I'm still learning about Joab, and Samuel was my great-grandfather, only two years old when his father and brothers went to war.

I returned to Isaac's house in Slate Springs in July 2009. Standing on the old front porch that day, thoughts of this man—a Confederate who survived the Civil War, who came home to marry Jennie and raise a large family right where I was standing—revved the writer within me. Isaac's place is a most beautiful piece of Americana smothered by tall oaks, pine and magnolia. Sumac, ivy and morning glories grow inside and out. The tree with the roots exposed over the trail of a road is still standing.

The old house, collapsing now—once white clapboard with a green roof, and yes, even a dogtrot, in later years enclosed, yet identifiable as such—whispers a tale of an era of carpetbaggers and scalawags. I close my eyes, set my imagination free, and shine my fictional light directly on the history of my family, even now, evoking emotions of sorrow and joy. Sorrow for T.G., Jonathan, and Henry. Joy that Isaac lived to tell their story.Jane Bennett Gaddy, Ph.D.
Trinity, FL

Cool Waters of Confession and Forgiveness

2010-01-04T12:13:00.000-08:00

Across the gravel road from the barn was a vast piece of land neatly rowed. I took off my shoes and sank my feet into the warm, dusty loam, walked across the turn row and down a row of cotton. The tractor drivers had plowed the loamy fields, turning the fertile soil, and the tiny plants had responded. They were only about six inches high. But in a couple of months, the stalks would be as tall as I, full of blooms, squares and bolls. This was my father's cotton field. He worked long and hard to build and maintain the plantation for someone else. He knew everything about cotton from the tiny seeds to the weighty bales. The smell of the soft white fiber will be with me forever. (And so will the memory of my father.)

From House Not Made With Hands, chapter 16.

When I think about walking those dusty Mississippi roads barefoot, I remember the times I've felt a need for the Lord to wash my feet, refreshing me in the way. The vulnerability is there, but so is the daily cleansing. A trek through the cool waters of confession and forgiveness is always available. What a blessed Savior who provides renewal and restoration when I mess up!

In John 13, after the last Passover supper with His disciples, Jesus rose up from supper, took off His outer garment, girded Himself with a towel, and began to wash His disciples’ feet and dry them with that towel.

Peter’s impetuous, questioning spirit and Jesus’ divine, profound answer helps us understand where we are positionally in Christ Jesus. Surely, because of His efficacious work, His shed blood, we are cleansed from all sin (Hebrews 10), but we need a daily walk through I John 1:9 that our fellowship may be restored, a washing from daily defilement. Metaphorically speaking—first a one-time approach to the Brazen Altar of Sacrifice where our sins were taken as far as the East is from the West and into the Sea of God’s Forgetfulness. Then, to the Laver of Cleansing, where our fellowship may be restored on a regular basis, for we are still clothed in sinful flesh.

If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness (I John 1-9).

Friends are Forever

2009-12-10T13:33:00.000-08:00

In this world of cliches and shortcuts, I'm reminded of my friend, June. I love June. She's a real friend. Always the same. Always smiling. She has this contagious laugh (which she blames on me, of course), but I say it's innate. I dare not attend a funeral with her, for we will end up laughing at something. Makes no difference where she is, she can start a raucous laugh. It's never my fault. I can tell you that.

June has this thing she says when we're going to be apart for a long time. It's simply NLG... Then she hugs me tight and says, I'm NLG. Never Letting Go. Now, that's a real friend. One you want to hang onto.

In 1970, we had some of those friends on Cambridge Avenue in old Southwest Roanoke, Virginia. Lifetime friends. Like June. Friends that give clear meaning to Proverbs 17:17: A friend loveth at all times. Here's my short list of reasons I loved the Cambridge Avenue experience. It's all about those NLG friends. Do you have any of those?

Pleasant days and special evenings.
A keen awareness of the needs of those you love.
The warmth of a fire, a table of good food.
Kind words and thoughtful deeds, no explanation required.
Sundays after church, and a steady stream of wonderful people bringing their favorite covered dishes and placing them side by side on a white table cloth.
Toast and jam. Coffee always brewing.
Hardwood floors and fireplaces in every room.
A parlor where friends gather around the piano.
Christmas trees and garland everywhere.
Sitting rooms with high ceilings where secrets are told and held in strictest confidence.
Bathtubs with claw feet and Irish Spring bath soap.
White radiators and a noisy coal furnace.
The high porch. Sitting there while evening fades and the white lights of the star appear high over the Roanoke Valley, illuminating the Five Star City of the South.
The Shenandoah Mountains, tall and intimidating.
Ivy covered streets, oak trees and brown squirrels that walk the tight wires.
Parks and people who make you happy.
The front porch glider.

I could go on and on, but you get the idea. Friends are forever.

Precious Memories, How They Linger

2009-11-24T10:20:00.000-08:00

Thankful for a loving mother and father...

Every morning in the dead of winter, Papa slogged to the woodpile, brought in two or three armloads of wood and made a blazing fire in the open-hearth fireplace. The old farmhouse had cracks that let the cold in, and you could scrape enough frost off the window sills for a snowball fight before the warmth of the fire melted it.

The house had two sides with a dogtrot running through the middle. The sleeping rooms were on one side; and in the winter at night the howling wind would sing you to sleep. My grandmother piled on quilts—quilts she had made, forbidding much movement during the night. If you had to go to the bathroom—well, the slopjar in the cold hallway between the bedrooms would have to suffice until morning.

The front room and kitchen were on the other side of the dogtrot. That's where Papa made the fire. One cold, wintry morning, my mother left the warmth of her bed and trekked across the dogtrot without my grandmother. She ventured too close to place a stick of kindling on a fire that was already roaring through the chimney. Just like Papa. Her long flannel gown caught fire, and she was alone. Mama and the older girls were still on the other side of the dogtrot making beds and folding quilts before starting breakfast. Papa and the boys were at the barn, feeding the mules and cows. My mother froze, standing there with the little gown flaming around her stomach and legs, screaming for Mama. My grandmother rushed to her, yelling for the girls to get Papa. She smothered the flames with a quilt and began to work on my mother. Her gown had disintegrated, and she lay in a little heap, her body already beginning to char. They packed on frost and drizzled icy water on her burns while trying to keep her warm, praying she would not go into shock until Papa could go for the doctor.

God spared my mother when she was a tot four years old. She had third degree burns from the top of her stomach to well below her knees, and she had to learn to walk again when she could stand on her feet. Years later I realized why she didn't die from those burns. A long line of us would need the love and tenderness only she could give. The scars remained, and the first time I noticed them, I was probably about the age she was when it happened. She explained it to me, and I remember touching the scars years later to vicariously live the moment, but I could not. We were not to worry about it. The pain left her as the burns healed, and that was that.

_______________

Peter wrote this to me from the cemetery in New Albany, Mississippi, where my parents are buried side by side with one headstone that reads, Blessed Assurance.

Cemeteries are strange places. I know the vessel is in the ground, and the souls of those I've come to honor are an eternity away. Yet here I sit, because somehow I'm closer. We are so 'fearfully and wonderfully made.' The stone reads, 'Blessed Assurance,' and it is a joy to know they had it, kept it close to their hearts, shared it, and left a legacy of men and women who love the Lord. What more could you ask? The longer I'm alive (and poor), the more I realize that the briefest of moments flashes and a lifetime is gone. Who and how we love is so much sturdier than all the dollars in between.

From House Not Made With Hands

A Full Heart

2009-11-18T13:09:00.000-08:00

Thoughts based on House Not Made With Hands

...the cupboard is empty, but the heart is full, written on a napkin and placed on a shelf in the empty refrigerator reminded me that day there is something extraordinary to a believing child of God as it concerns his daily provision.

Back in the early sixties, everything was not coming up roses for everyone. And for me to just pick up and move from the comfort of home and family to a place I'd never seen was a bit disconcerting. Yet, knowing from the start God would provide, we made our plans based on his promises.

There've been times in my life when I had no idea how God would meet a need. I've thought, this one is too big even for God. Then like the rain on a hot summer day kisses the parched earth beneath my feet and gives hope to the tiny lily bulbs stored below the surface of the soil, my Heavenly Father meets a specific need of mine in the same miraculous way.

I don't catch him off guard and unable to come through for me. He knows that I need food, drink, clothing, shelter. And if he feeds the birds of the air and clothes the lilies of the field... well, you know the rest of that story. He's going to take care of his children. He is the Great Provider, and that based on the loving condition—his expectation of us—seek ye first the kingdom of God...

What a great way to live! With an empty cupboard, a full heart, and the knowledge that a loving Heavenly Father knows where we are and what we need. I can seek first his kingdom and be surprised at his wondrous provision.

Matthew 6:33

Faithful Sons

2009-11-11T16:54:00.000-08:00

Veterans Day, November 2009.
In honor of my great-great grandfather, T.G. Clark and his sons, Jonathan and Albert Henry, who died at Gettysburg. In this chapter, Jonathan has just buried his father and Henry in a shallow grave on the wheat field and two days later fights in Pickett's Charge.

To his dear friend and brother in combat, he gathers his wits and calmly asks, "Andrew, what do you dream about?"

"I dream about the river behind my house. About naked trees in the winter. About my Mama when she was young and I was a boy. And I dream about walking to meetinghouse on Sundays in the spring."

"You don't dream about blood or cannons or dead family members in the cut?"

Andrew looked away, tears filling his eyes.

Jonathan wiped the tears and sweat from his own face and continued. "I wish I could dream about riding to work with Pa and Henry, talking and laughing. About fishing down on Big Creek. Frogs croaking on a hollow log. An eagle in flight. And Benjamin."

Andrew swallowed hard. "I know, man. Is there anything I can do for you, my friend?"

"No, Andrew, I'm afraid not. Life as I've always known it—the good life—is over. No more dreams for me. From the time we left Mother and the boys and Cassie in December of 1861, life was good, because I still had Pa and Henry. For almost two years we slept in the same tent or on the same oil cloth under the stars; we took our meals from the same tin plate many times, bathed in the same cold stream, warmed by the same campfire. My father practically brought me back to life when I was dying of the fever. Henry has been my soul's best friend. No, there's nothing you can do. There's nothing anyone can do. The war has seen to that. This war has taken the dearest to me. It has taken my dreams and left me nightmares in return.

"The naked trees behind the ridge and on the river are gone. I don't get to walk home from meetinghouse like that any more. Whatever you find delicious in your mouth is bitter in mine. Whatever is fine to you and better than fine—then take this into your heart—those things are gone from me. They don't belong to my anymore."

Jonathan's shoulders shook and tears streamed down his face.

From Chapter 32, Faithful Sons
The Mississippi Boys

Honor Answering Honor

2009-11-04T11:39:00.000-08:00

A Northern Officer Describes the Final Parade of
Lee's Army of Northern Virginia
Appomattox Courthouse

Before us in proud humiliation stood the embodiment of manhood: men whom neither toils and sufferings, nor the fact of death, nor disaster, nor hopelessness could bend from their resolve, standing before us now, thin, worn, and famished, but erect, and with eyes looking level into ours, waking memories that bound us together as no other bond...

Instructions had been given; and when the head of each division column comes opposite our group, our bugle sounds the signal and instantly our whole line from right to left, regiment by regiment in succession, gives the soldier's salutation, from the "order arms" to the old "carry" —the marching salute. General John B. Gordon at the head of the column, riding with heavy spirit and downcast face, catches the sound of shifting arms, looks up, and, taking the meaning, wheels superbly, making with himself and his horse one uplifted figure, with profound salutation as he drops the point of his sword to the boot toe; then facing to his own command, gives word for his successive brigades to pass us with the same position of the manual, —honor answering honor. On our part not a sound of trumpet, nor roll of drum: not a cheer nor word, nor whisper of vainglorying, nor motion of man standing again at the order, but an awed stillness rather, a breathholding, as if it were the passing of the dead.

Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, The Passing of Arms
(New York, 1915)

Through Eyes of Faith

2009-11-01T13:12:00.000-08:00

Excerpts from Prologue, The Mississippi Boys, published 2008

... I spent fourteen years with my journals and memories from the old plantation to get House Not Made With Hands, and letting it go was like saying good-bye to an old friend. I dared believe this was my meaningful contribution and kindred spirits out there would take the journey with me. After all was said and done, I couldn't bid farewell to certain characters in my story, so I opened a new one from a chapter so deep-rooted in my history that I had to peer through a glass darkly to get images of those about whom I wanted to write. Their heroic story consumed me, and I wrote, realizing my page was not yet full.

And this is it. Though historical fiction, I hope its dynamic will touch you in a way you never thought possible, for we each have an investment here. Our forefathers—yours, mine, Blue and Gray—left DNA on battlefields all over the South. Their blood was sprinkled—yea, freely poured out—from Shiloh to Fredericksburg to Chancellorsville to Antietam to Gettysburg.

It was fall 1984, and in sacred privilege, I stood looking out over the Wheatfield. A mist of rain fell across my face and the Pennsylvania Battlefield. This was hallowed ground for reasons you will know all too soon. My great great-grandfather, Thomas Goode (T.G.) Clark, and his sons, Jonathan and Albert Henry spent invaluable time here. Just three days. Invaluable, nevertheless.

My grandmother, Vallie Georgia Clark Smith, told me parts of the story some years ago. She knew far more than she revealed to me but there would come a day when I would learn more, for those Mississippi Boys wrote letters home to my great great-grandmother, Margery Brown Rogers Clark (Rachel Payne in the book). The originals are archived in the Mississippi Room at the University of Mississippi in Oxford. Appropriately so, for they were Rebels of the most splendid sort. Confederate soldiers who gave it all—for the South.

They sat by lonely campfires in the mountains of Virginia, chilled to hurting, feet propped on fire logs for a measure of warmth, so tired and cold they could scarcely hold pen in hand, words emanating from a rare place, one where few have dared to go, one from which many nevermore returned. I read those letters some one hundred and forty-four years after the War, and I was inexorably attached to these men. My forefathers. I reckoned for myself why T.G. went to war at the age of forty-six when the maximum requirement age was forty-one. Jonathan, nineteen, and Albert Henry, seventeen, would have to go, and he could not let them go alone. The way I see it, he gave three times. Once for himself, once for the Confederacy, and once for his sons. He was a real hero, this Mississippian.

For the space of five years, Mississippi and ten other southern states were a country with a flag, a president, and with fearless men who, as Jefferson Davis said, just wanted to be left alone, but who, when pressed to the breach, became willing to fight defensively for their Confederate States, for their flag, and for their homes.

I've read the letters over and again, and I see these men through eyes of faith, but I've thought about how it will be when I see them face to face for the first time, and if it be in clouds of glory or by way of the grave, I will know them. They will know me. And, any way you view it, that's a wonderful declaration of truth.

Jane B. Gaddy, Ph.D.

I Corinthians 13:12. "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."

Sweetened With Time

2009-10-30T07:58:00.000-07:00

The fig trees that shrouded the old chicken house were loaded with fruit, reminding me of my mother's fig preserves laced with lemon slices and served with her hot homemade biscuits, just another of the endless southern delicacies that might show up on our breakfast table when I was growing up.

(My mother in 1942, taken when we lived in Detroit. I was two years old.)

I wrote these words in House Not Made With Hands, reminded that when something is preserved, it gets sweeter and more delectable. If left long in the jar, fig preserves will turn to sugar. The sweetening process goes on and on. And so with life. We get to choose, though. Like a kiss to the earth by the summer sun or a gentle pat of rain, if we so desire the Lord can touch us, sweetening an otherwise bitter or unfruitful life.

Something as insignificant as a tiny fig, matured by time and nature's touch, has an amazing lesson for us. In order to ripen and sweeten, the fig must be attached to the tree. Otherwise, it is considered untimely. And in order for us to mature and become sweetened in our lives, we must be attached to the sweetening source of existence, the Lord Jesus. God is the preserver of the faithful, and those who would be sweetened will remain close to the source of life and growth.

Proverbs 2:6-8. "For the Lord giveth wisdom: out of his mouth cometh knowledge and understanding. He layeth up sound wisdom for the righteous: he is the buckler to them that walk uprightly. He keepeth the paths of judgment and preserveth the way of his saints."

The Delta

2009-10-27T12:56:00.000-07:00

People of the Delta who grew up when cotton was king and the days were long and lazy in the South well remember the phenomenon that took place. It changed. Dramatically. The old ways began to die. Ways that had remained the same for decades. The South had been evolving in the same direction since the birth of the Nation, but when the tide turned, not many of us could identify with the change.

My daddy didn't leave the Delta until he retired from farming. He saw the changes coming, but he never saw its demise. Watching it go down would have been devastating to one of its greatest fans. He had given his strength and energy to a place he loved—the Southland.

By the time the late fifties rolled around, my interest was not the surreptitious exodus out Fourth Street to Highway 61 North toward Memphis, for I knew nothing of it. Nor was it neighboring Tunica and the casinos, not yet a twinkle in Mississippi's eye. It was those oak-shaded streets—West Second, Catalpa, School, and Oakhurst Drive. It was Alan's and Powers' and Shankerman's department stores. And oh, yes, Westbrook's Drive-In, where we sat in our cars eating hamburgers and listening to our favorite fifties' tunes. But far beyond that, it was a dusty road, some mimosa trees, and a long green trail that led to the Indian Mound and true love already sparked from a tune by Clarksdale's own Sam Cooke called Darling, You Send Me.

From Chapter 1, House Not Made With Hands

Jane Bennett Gaddy
Trinity, FL

The White Shirt

2009-10-24T10:31:00.000-07:00

Someone has said that youth is wasted on the young. Over fifty years behind The White Shirt, I find that could not be farther from the truth. For all life's situations are remembered by sights, tastes, fragrances. To be carried over into our mature years—if we're clever enough to let it happen. I draw a deep breath to fill my proverbial lungs with the smell of leather on the white shirt I found hanging in my young husband's closet so many years ago. He was far and away serving our country and I was left behind. I clung to anything that drew me close to him. Anything that brought intimacy in his absence. That stirred my thoughts of him alone. Sights, sounds, fragrance on a white shirt. He is my joy, my wine of Lebanon. He brought me joy then. He brings me joy now.

But there is One greater still who is more fragrant than the wine of Lebanon. One who brings joy unspeakable and full of glory, about whom Hosea wrote, the scent thereof shall be as the wine (joy) of Lebanon. There is none like him. The fragrance of the Rose of Sharon, the Valley's Lily. I'll always remember The White Shirt, a symbol of love both physical and emotional, but as lovely as the memory is, it cannot touch the reality of Calvary where Love was crushed, broken, poured out, and became more fragrant than the wine of Lebanon.

Hosea 14:4-6: 9. "I will be as the dew unto Israel: he shall grow as the lily, and cast forth his roots as Lebanon. His branches shall spread, and his beauty shall be as the olive tree, and his smell as Lebanon. They that dwell under his shadow shall return; they shall revive as the corn, and grow as the vine: the scent thereof shall be as the wine of Lebanon. ...Who is wise, and he shall understand these things? Prudent and he shall know them? For the ways of the Lord are right, and the just shall walk in them..."

"Too Hot, Too Cold, Too Late, I'm Sold"

2009-10-22T12:22:00.000-07:00

My son, Peter Joseph, is much the better writer than I. He wrote the foreword to my first book, House Not Made With Hands. It's a page from his journal. I'll share it with you...

Sunday, Dec. 23, 2001. John Steinbeck died in New York on Dec. 20, 1968. He lived on 78th Street and wrote East of Eden in pencil here in this city. I was thinking of Little Orphan Annie when they sing, "Too hot, too cold, too late, I'm sold." New York is like learning to drive a stick shift. You can't know whether or not you love it 'til you get out there and do it alone.

Tonight I wandered the streets of Midtown without direction for three hours. My tired shoes and legs would not allow another moment longer. Everything here is done in the superlative. I fell in stride with a man and woman, both wearing full-length mink coats in the rain. My cheap suede jacket was surely more affected, but I allowed myself the luxury of nonchalance. They did not seek shelter but simply walked on, and so did I.

The city has a pulse and a momentum of its own. You cannot alter the velocity any more than you could hope to slow a river by swimming upstream. I found myself alternately wading in and still sensing my reticence. There is a strange and unmistakable beauty I am coming to realize that stems from one spectacular and unstoppable truth. The city is a single point of light where liberty found residence. I have lived in the Southeast all my life and have seen much of the South and its old beliefs. It sticks to us and forces wedges of culture and religion and prejudice in between us all. New York is a glimpse at advanced democracy. Still a place that our forefathers could look on and know that the strife was worthwhile. The streets are full of Blacks, Jews, Asians, French, Italians, Whites, and hybrids of all, mixed together and speaking any language. Somehow this works. Somehow all of these people step into the palace that is the City of New York and become...American. When I close my eyes and watch the reel of the last several days play out, my mind fills with smells and sounds and sights so vast that it's as if a great wind is blowing confetti all around. What can I do but sit back and watch the stunning beauty engulf me.

My mother has seen New York many times over the years. From those visits she has become a New Yorker at heart. It was her love of the city that planted a seed in me. For almost a year I picked up pennies and saved loose change, dollars, and any spare money to afford myself the chance to be a part of this city. Every one of those dollars would have been absorbed into my everyday life and would have had no meaning and no memory. Thinking back on it now I can see that my mother asked me to do the impossible. I purchased for myself a change. I have been affected in ways that I would not have had the courage to ask. I can see the lights of the mammoth signs of Times Square from where I sit now. Lights my mother has seen time and again; but I know, even now, that they have shown a light into parts of me that have been dark for far too long. How do you thank a person for giving you a gift that never fades? A gift that time strengthens.

April 24, 2007. I remember being on an airplane some years ago and my mother handed me part of a manuscript. She said she had been working on it for years and that it was a sort of memoir of her life. She and I have spent many hours going over that book since then. It is the story of all of us and it is a story of the South that so few ever hear. She talked about changing the names of the characters so that she could take liberties where needed and I agreed. I told her to call it a fictional memoir, but that's what memoir is. No one could hope to remember the nuances that make up our lives. She found the voice of her generation, though. She brought back those with her while she told the story. I found this page from a journal written the first time I visited New York City. We were Southerners who invaded the North for a few days and the city infected me with a desire that lasts to this very day.

When I read my mother's book, I imagine the same wonderful thing happening to someone who has spent a life in the North. The book is a window opening to the reader and allowing a glimpse or two at a time gone by and a place that most have never seen or known. Southerners are fiercely proud of their heritage. It has a meaning and a story all its own. This is my mother's story. Her heritage and mine as well. If New York City is truly a palace then this book represents a house. A house that encompasses the South, the people who lived and breathed it, her family, my family, and a generation yet to come. You cannot touch this house. It is not made with brick and mortar or clapboard wood. It is stronger and finer still than that. This house, our house that is still growing, is the house not made with hands.

Indian Summer

2009-10-22T11:06:00.000-07:00

Goodbyes are not all they're cooked up to be, sometimes as painful as that first blast of winter cold that follows the colorful short-lived October of our lives. God's creation in living vibrant color all too soon fades into cold reality. Life has its disappointments and heartaches. Where do we go from here? How do we get back to the beautiful Indian Summer when all is said and done? How do we wait out that long anticipated call that will make everything right again?

I've been down that path often, but never with such intense significance as that first and only "goodbye" experience. I thought it was forever. I wanted him back in my youthful life. Some way, somehow. And then one day the call came in answer to the desires of my heart. It led to my marriage of over fifty years. But why the wait—the anticipation?

Sometimes it's not we who are waiting. It is the Lord who waits that he may be gracious unto us. We don't understand it. We don't have to. That's the beauty and glory of serving a God who has all the answers, who fulfills our hopes and longings in his time and in his way with that slightest, but most significant, disclosure from the last part of his promise: blessed are all they that wait for him.

Isaiah 30:18. "And therefore will the Lord wait, that he may be gracious unto you, And therefore will he be exalted, that he may have mercy upon you: For the Lord is a God of judgment: blessed are all they that wait for him."

White Walls of Memories

2009-10-21T13:04:00.000-07:00

A house is just that—walls that surround our childhood memories—but a home filled with love, laughter, happiness and contentment is far more than our youthful minds can comprehend when we are growing up. For a little moment, we draw strength from tangible blessings, failing to realize that every good thing in life originated in the mind of God. Sad, we sometimes wait too late before we search our memories for pieces that have formed the warp and woof of our lives. We wait too late to realize that "life is a whisper, blowing softly through the years, leaving behind an emptiness that defies description." That is, if we do not harvest those memories.
That grand old white clapboard farmhouse had its store of treasured memories—voices of Mother and Daddy—the love that passionately drove them to nurture and raise nine children who would be their legacy, their offering to the Lord for his generosity to them.
God's anticipatory grace has supplanted all the memories of promises broken, of stumbling and falling, of miserably failing. We cannot outthink him or cause him to change his mind about us, for he is omniscient and immutable, his mercy, love and grace confirmed on Calvary's Cross when his Son, the Lord Jesus, died for our sins—past, present, future. Try as we may, we cannot take him by surprise, nor can we do anything on life's short journey that would cause him to love us less.
Isaiah 55: 8-11. "For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts."

Intense Purpose

2009-10-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

My life is laced with memories of a dusty road, of pink flowering mimosa trees and a long, green trail that led to an Indian Mound where true love had its beginnings. God's design has been with intense purpose, an extraordinary journey unfolding. Looking back, I see how all the pieces fit together in a beautiful poem, notwithstanding the painful moments, for there have been many. But "...we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them" (Ephesians 2:10).

Yes, we are His poem, if we know Christ. A poem written by one who, with omniscient lips, spoke the worlds into existence. To allow His workmanship to reside on Planet Earth was the final touch of His six-day phenomenon. And to be one of His own is a privilege that comes with trusting, believing, and receiving, not only the fact that He is our Creator God, but that His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, came to earth—was virgin born, lived a sinless, perfect life, died on the Cross for the sins of the world, arose the third day, ascended back to heaven, is seated at the right hand of the Father, and ever lives to make intercession for His workmanship.

And the grand finale of His plan is to return for us and take us to where He is. In the meantime, His Holy Spirit residing within is our earnest, our hope of heaven, our reason for following His intense purpose until we see Him in the fullness of His glory.

Psalm 145:5 "I will speak of the glorious honor of thy majesty, and of thy wondrous works."

Forever Grateful

2009-10-13T12:27:00.000-07:00

My mother-in-law was the epitome of patience, endurance, and long suffering. She gave clear understanding to the cliche, silence is golden, able to keep to herself those poignant moments when life could have been more gracious to her. She married once—devoted her life in service and love to her family—worked hard until she was able to work no more and spent her dying days in an Alzheimer's wing.

I remember driving to Pearl, Mississippi, with my husband to spend Christmas Day with her not too long before she died. We had celebrated our anniversary the day before, and we drove in the falling snow to the extended care home where she resided.

Seeing is believing in most cases, and it was true, she was experiencing the winter of her life. Snow had begun to fall across the final pages of a book well written and a life well defined. The far-off look in her eyes was indication she was not there or that she longed to be someplace else. Oh, that we could intervene. Make it better. But that is not ours to do. Life's fading moments belonged to her and God alone. King David of old had similar thoughts, for he had said, "Oh that I had wings like a dove! For then would I fly away, and be at rest" (Psalm 55:6).

I know this about her—she gave birth to the man that has made me happy for lo these many years, and for this I thank her posthumously. I will be grateful to her forever and a day.

Psalm 27: 13. "I had fainted unless; I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living."