Nancy Parker Brummett

Author Writer Speaker

Nancy

Thanksgiving Corn

by 8 Comments

Here’s a “Back Porch Break” classic with memories of Thanksgivings past. Wishing you and yours a blessed Thanksgiving, full of memory-making!

With each year that passes I become fonder of Thanksgiving. Uncomplicated by the excessive decorating and gift-giving that we seem compelled to do at Christmas time, Thanksgiving is simpler. It’s all-inclusive, and it’s a time for focusing not on what we don’t have, but on what we do.

One of my fondest memories of Thanksgivings past was when I was living in a tiny village in Germany as the homesick wife of an Army officer and the mother of a two-year-old. The only other American family in the village invited us to share Thanksgiving dinner with them. They shared a tradition as well.

Many years and changes later that tradition is now a special part of Thanksgivings in our blended family. Although the group that gathers at our house can differ from year to year, someone’s sure to ask, “Are we going to do the corn thing?” Here’s how it’s done.

After the table is set for Thanksgiving dinner, you put a single kernel of corn at each place (popcorn works just fine). Once everyone is seated, you pass a small bowl or cup from person to person. In turn, each drops his or her kernel of corn into the bowl and says what he or she is most thankful for this year. (I always leave the gravy on the stove and the lid on the sweet-potato-and-marshmallow casserole…this can take awhile!)

Since there are no right or wrong answers, we’ve found almost everyone feels free to say something. This simple sharing bonds young and old, and both laughter and tears are pretty much guaranteed! If you decide to try “the corn thing,” the scene around your table could be something like this…

A mother might look down at the newborn sleeping in the crook of her arm and softly express gratitude for “ten fingers and ten toes.

A college freshman, home for the holiday with new appreciation for all that he left behind, might say, “I’m thankful for a home to come to…and that Mom’s doing my laundry.”

A grandma who successfully recuperated from heart bypass surgery might take the bowl in one hand, the corn in the other, and look around the table at people she loves. “I’m just thankful to be here with all of you,” she might say through her tears.

A small child might wriggle and giggle when it’s her turn, then say she’s thankful for “mommy and daddy and turkey to eat.”

One year, after the corn was collected and I was back in the kitchen pouring gravy into the gravy boat, I felt my little granddaughter Amanda tugging on my skirt. “Grancy!” she said with tears in her eyes, “I forgot to say I was thankful for Jesus—and for my sister!” I was glad to get everyone’s attention again so Amanda could add her “overlooked blessings.”

After the sharing, when the tears and laughter have subsided, we join hands and say grace. Of course, a grateful heart is the best prayer of all. May yours be full to overflowing with gratitude this year.

Simple Instructions

by 8 Comments

A friend recently encouraged me to subscribe to an online newsletter titled The Writer’s Almanac (newsletter@americanpublicmedia.org) featuring a daily dose of poetry, quotes, and other musings posted by none other than Garrison Keillor. At the end of all his posts the ever affable Keillor signs off with, “Be well, do good work, and keep in touch ®.” Yes, it seems he registered that line, and I agree it “has legs” as they say! Today I saw it as a better than average set of simple instructions for Baby Boomers with parents in assisted living or nursing home facilities.

Be well. After dealing with runny noses, middle of the night flu bugs and a hodgepodge of other illnesses and wounds over the years, it’s hard for seniors to stop hoping their kids are well, even if the “kids” are in their fifties or sixties. My mom would always notice if it sounded like I had a cold when we talked long distance, and a couple of days later I would be treated to another call just to see if I was feeling better. I knew she was concerned because she never made long distance phone calls capriciously. They cost money, you know! Take your vitamins, eat healthy food, and get some exercise. Be well.

Do good work. One of the things I’ve missed most now that my mom is with Jesus is that she was my most loyal reader, my most enthusiastic audience member, my biggest fan. She would carry the latest copies of my newspaper column crumpled up in her purse to share with anyone who would sit still long enough to look at them. And although she found a couple of the books I wrote to be much too transparent by the standards of Southern propriety, she was thrilled to receive the first copies and would sit down and read them as soon as she could. Then I would get the congratulatory call. The parents who drove us to school all those years and paid for our lessons and college tuitions did so to invest in our futures. They are interested in our work and want to hear about it, and will help us keep a healthy perspective on the definition of success. Do good work.

Keep in touch. My husband and I were both blessed in that neither of our mothers was a guilt inducer. No matter how long it was between phone calls, they were just happy to hear our voices on the other end of the line and never said, “Well, it’s about time you called. I thought you were dead,” as I understand some parents are wont to do! Yet because they didn’t complain, we may not have called and visited as much as we could have. Now we’d love to be able to do both, but they are gone. How long does it really take to make a phone call, write a note, send a photo, or drop by for a hug? Keep in touch.

So with apologies to Mr. Keillor, I’ll close as he does. Be well, do good work, keep in touch®.

Lessons Learned Late

by 5 Comments

You’d think a woman in her seventh decade of life (yikes, that’s scary!) would have learned about all there is to learn. But evidently not. I know there are some weighty lessons that are so important we need to learn them repeatedly. Trust in God. Pray first. Let go. Those lessons are important enough to relearn whenever necessary.

But those aren’t the lessons that have been on my mind lately. What bugs me are the common sense things that I feel I should have learned long ago. Why is it that a woman in her sixties hasn’t learned:

Never kiss a long-haired cat after generously applying lip balm.

Get your keys out of your purse before putting on a coat of fingernail polish.

Don’t turn the praise music on the radio up so loud that you won’t know you’re scraping the side of the garage with your car as you come in.

Remember that bleach splatters (yes, even splashless bleach), and it will ruin whatever it splashes on.

A watched pot never boils, but a pot left on the stove will boil over if you’re in the other room checking Facebook and someone posted a lot of funny cat photos.

The reusable bags you finally remembered to bring into the grocery store should be handed to the clerk at the beginning of the checkout process, not at the end.

Envelopes mailed without postage will show up in your own mailbox weeks later.

Curling irons are hot enough to burn skin. Thus the name, IRON.

What about you? Any lessons learned late, or that you seemingly never learn, that you’d like to share? Please. I know I’m not the only one…am I?

 

Aspen Gaspin’

by 16 Comments

(A classic column becomes a blog post.)

Fall is the time of year when trees dress in their best and demand our undivided attention. Two magnificent maple trees are rooted in my memory. One stands outside my childhood bedroom window in Tennessee. I call it my “thinking tree,” because I spent hours draped in its limbs pondering life. The other was dubbed “Mom’s Tree,” because for four years I sought it out on my son’s Midwestern college campus and took its picture. I’m sure it’s still there, watching over the backpacked students shuffling by with their minds on anything but leaves.

Those of us with such trees, such multi-colored falls, in our memories are fortunate. Yet those of us in Colorado try not to let those memories diminish our enjoyment of our fantastic Colorado falls. After all, other people have to motor for miles to marvel at the contrast of an expanse of golden aspen against the deep evergreen of the pines. We live here and can be gaspin’ at the sight of a stand of aspen in minutes.

Certainly these trees deserve our respect. When aspen gaspin’ season arrives, they have to put up with a great deal of abuse. Imagine the conversation two aspen trees might have when they first see the line of cars and RVs snaking its way up the mountain pass:

“Oh, boy. Here they come again. Start quaking.”

“I’m quaking…I’m quaking. There’s that couple with the yippy dog climbing out of their RV. Didn’t we see them last year?”

“Yeah. Gee, they’ve put on some weight. Maybe they should climb up here to see us instead of standing by the road with their binoculars.”

“Not with that dog! Hey, what’s a peak? According to these people we’re always before it, at it, or past it.”

“Who cares. I’m just glad they all leave before we’re standing here stark naked with them gawking at us. That would really be embarrassing.”

This year I intend to fully enjoy our Colorado fall, to get out of the car and hike through the trees. Whatever day I arrive will be the peak day for me. I’ll keep those magnificent maple trees in my memory where they belong, but our glorious Colorado aspen deserve nothing less than my full, unmitigated admiration. This year, they’ll get it.

Where’s the Bear?

by 8 Comments

It seems that everyone on my street has seen the neighborhood bear except me. “Didn’t you see him yesterday between those two houses?” the neighbors asked. Or, “I just saw him in the bushes in your back yard,” someone else said. So I look and I look, but I don’t see him.

By now I am feeling like my granddaughter Sophia, who when she was about four years old and squeezed between her two older sisters in the back seat of my car, was dismayed that she didn’t get to see a dead skunk in the road. I didn’t know why she started crying just after I announced, “Phew! There’s a dead skunk in the road!” but when I asked her she said, “I didn’t get to see the dead skunk. Everybody gets to see the dead skunk in the road except me.” My husband and I often repeat her statement whenever we have any kind of disappointment that leaves us feeling left out.

But I didn’t want to be disappointed this time. I was determined to see the bear. I heard from one neighbor that the bear began his rounds just before dawn, so I programmed my coffeemaker to brew a pot of coffee at 5:00 AM last Sunday morning.  Up by 5:30 AM, I turned a chair toward the window in my living room. I sipped coffee and I waited. Surely he would appear to munch on the wild plums by our driveway. We had seen the scat that proved he enjoyed those quite a bit! So I stared at those bushes, but I saw nothing.

My cat Molly settled in to watch with me although she didn’t know what we were watching for. Filling the morning quiet with her gentle purr, she seemed clearly pleased that I had gotten up so early just to sit with her. Or so she thought.

I’m guessing that if you’ve read this far you are ready to hear, “At last, there he was—the bear!” But nope. No bear. Yet sitting silently as the sun cast a pink light on the mountains, I realized there was so much more to observe. Molly and I heard a couple of squirrels chattering quietly to one another about their plans for the day. We saw a hummingbird silhouetted at the feeder, his feathers all ruffled up with morning dew.

Although I hadn’t opened my Bible yet, I knew it was replete with verses to speak into our morning watch. This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it (Psalm 118:24) I whispered to Molly. I didn’t see the bear, but I did see wonderful reminders of the glory in each new day—and of how we should honor God by watching vigilantly as He unfolds it.

I’m glad I didn’t miss that early morning watch, but I’d still love to see the neighborhood bear before he goes into hibernation, his belly full of our wild plums. If you happen to see him, please tell me. Oh, and if you see a dead skunk in the road, please tell Sophia.

Garage Sale Mania

by 19 Comments

Labor Day has come and gone but garage sale signs are still popping up like dandelions in most neighborhoods. With each one I see, I get that familiar itch to go check out the sale—but then I stop and tell myself, “I already have a garage.” If my own bad joke doesn’t dissuade me, then I may drive by slowly, but I rarely ever stop.

And after the last garage sale I held, I doubt if I’ll ever have another one. It had been ten years since my last one. I suppose my memory of the pain had been erased, leaving just the tantalizing pleasure. For whatever reason, I gave in to temptation. I had a garage sale.

I knew it was going to be a one-woman show when my husband and I agreed he should go ahead and go on a weekend men’s retreat, but that’s not when I decided the garage sale was a bad idea.

The sale was on a Saturday, so on Friday evening I was in our garage surrounded by all the priceless items I had collected. Where to begin? Soon I was setting up “store” and having fun merchandising the treasures into departments. By this time it was about 11:00 p.m. and I hadn’t even begun to price the items. But that’s not when I decided the garage sale was a bad idea.

The curtains in the garage caught my eye and I reasoned they should be washed if my store was going to impress a bunch of strangers, so I took them down and put them in the washer. Re-hanging the curtains about 1:30 a.m., I fell inside the big silver garbage can I was standing on. But that’s not when I decided the garage sale was a bad idea.

By 2:30 a.m. I was making real progress getting the color-coordinated stickers on all the items. The garage door was down and the door to the house was open, so my two cats came out to see what I was doing up so late.

Suddenly I heard a scuffle in the corner of the garage. I looked up to see my big black and white cat, Al, with a mouse in his mouth—its little tail and legs sticking out. I convinced Al to drop the mouse, who promptly scurried away, and got both cats shut up in the house. Then I realized I still had another hour’s work to do in the garage—only now I’d be doing it with a mouse who was hurt, angry, or both. That’s when I decided the garage sale was a bad idea.

After three hours of sleep, I was up at the crack of dawn to greet the shoppers. They literally ran up my driveway and into the garage as soon as I opened for business. Many of the early birds left after canvassing the garage briefly. Those were the shoppers expecting to find the Hope diamond carelessly displayed alongside the old bedroom slippers.

By day’s end I was practically giving away anything someone even glanced at sideways, still I had a garage full of valuable stuff. It was another week before a charity picked up the remainder of my treasures and we had our garage back. Of course it could have been worse. At least none of the shoppers lifted the lid to a pot only to discover a dead mouse inside!

I applaud your frugality if you shop garage sales, and if you have the fortitude to have them, I wish you the best. As for me, I’m going to avoid the mania…unless one of those signs really entices me of course!