Nancy Parker Brummett

Author Writer Speaker

Back Porch Break

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!

Within the Sound of Silence

by 30 Comments

It was eerily quiet yesterday at the neighborhood pool where I swim laps. The only sound was that of the water with each stroke I took. Gone was the cute little girl in the pink suit who accidentally kicked me in the nose when she crossed my lane to join her friends. Gone were the two little dark-haired boys who reminded me so much of my own two at their ages. They spent most of the summer mastering spitting water between their front teeth, and I could still imagine their giggles echoing off the walls. But yesterday I was the only person in the entire pool area. Even the teen-aged lifeguard was missing, replaced by a sign that read, “Warning: No lifeguard on duty.”

Where were they all? They all went back to school. As I swam I wondered how their day was going. Was the little girl dressed in her new fall clothes, her hair pulled back in a curly ponytail with a pink scrunchie? Were the boys wearing their stiff new jeans and already counting the minutes till recess? Had the lifeguard traded his terminally bored expression for a grin when he saw familiar faces again?

Of course my mind also lingered on images of our own twelve grandchildren as I made my way down and back, down and back, in the cool water. Each time my smart phone chirped to tell me I had a text this week it was another back-to-school photo sent by a proud and thoughtful mom.  These images and more flooded my mind as I swam and prayed, swam and prayed.

Back-to-school time means so much more than new backpacks, cool outfits and sharp pencils, doesn’t it? More than anything it’s a time of hope—a time when everything feels new and all things seem possible.

It’s the year for milestones in our family.  We waved two granddaughters off to college, one for the first time, after they stopped by our house on their way. I let the images of them leaving our driveway, their cars packed to the hilt, linger in my mind for a lap or two. Three more granddaughters started high school this year. How grown up they looked in their first-day photos. But I knew the butterflies we couldn’t see were there, too, so I prayed they would feel confident and connect with at least one good friend.

Two grandsons and a granddaughter started middle school, heading into those years when they want to be cool and accepted so badly it’s painful. I prayed they would allow themselves to lighten up and have some fun. Being a teenager can wait.

So that leaves four more, all boys: two headed to first grade, one to kindergarten, and one to preschool! All these milestones deserve to be celebrated and prayed over, but none more so than that of our grandson Josh who is challenged by brain damage but leaving his home and parents for the first time to go to first grade! I don’t know who is showing more bravery, he or his parents.

Lord, be with all the children we know and those we don’t as they go to school this year. Whether in our country or in third world countries where just one sharp pencil might be a treasure beyond belief, they are precious in your sight. Bless them, Lord, and keep them safe as they grow and learn under your watchful eye. In You we always have a lifeguard on duty.

Hummingbird Joy

by 15 Comments

After a summer marred by wildfires and the violent shooting incident in Colorado, it’s especially healing to have the hummingbirds return to bring us some unmitigated joy in the face of so much loss and grief. Few things in this earthly life can be considered pure joy. To the obvious list of kittens, puppies, and newborn babies, I always add hummingbirds—and I’m so glad they have returned.

By this time each summer we usually have six or eight at our feeder all the time and have to refill the nectar daily to keep them happy. But it’s worth it for the entertainment they bring!

One year I was on the phone when the first hummingbird of summer arrived. There I was, tilted back in the chair in my office at home having a long overdue chat with a friend, when I heard his frantic racket. I looked through the blinds to see him hovering at just the spot where I usually hang a feeder each year.

In the three seconds we made eye contact, the hummingbird seemed to clearly say to me, “Well, fine. I fly here all the way from Mexico, and you can’t even bother to get off the phone and put out the feeder!”

As much delight as they bring, and as much effort as they put into the trip, we really should greet these summer visitors with a bit more pomp and circumstance. Even if you aren’t much of a bird watcher, these birds will get your attention. They might suddenly appear just behind a paperback you’re reading out on the back deck only to dart off sideways as soon as you look up. Such antics are hard to ignore!

It’s also hard to ignore their gorgeous coloring. As with other birds, the males are the showiest. Interestingly, some of the most brilliant colors are not created by pigment in the feathers, but rather are iridescent reflections from the feathers themselves. One more sign of God’s amazing creativity.

There are 338 varieties of hummingbirds, 16 in the United States, and all of them are attracted to the color red. They prefer tubular red flowers and need to consume half their weight in sugar daily just to stay in the air!

If you succeed in attracting these interesting little hummers to your yard, remember they have incredible memories and high expectations. They will come back to the same feeders year after year, so once you become a destination point, be sure to keep the feeders up…and filled…well into the fall.

As difficult as this summer has been for those of us in Colorado, there’s still joy to be found. Given all that has happened, I’m keenly aware of the comforts of home, husband, and hummingbirds—and more determined than ever not to take any of them for granted.