Author: Bev

When jogging indoors to my thematic playlist, including a song titled, Breathe, another one titled, Mercy, and one of my favorites which I belt out in private, Kyrie Eleison, meaning, “Lord have mercy.” 

“Kyrie Eleison down the road that I must travel.”  God have mercy, and protect me from myself, my choices, my words….  The 1985 song performed by the band, Mr. Mister, includes the words mountainside, highway, road, sea, choose, heart, soul, body, among others, and references growing old.

“Have mercy!”  I grew up hearing this exclamation, or was it the extended version, “Good God, Have Mercy!”

Speaking of “the road that I must travel,” the song on my list, called Mercy, sung by Welsh artist, Duffy, is one with special significance to me because I first heard it while resting in a French hotel, at the end of a long day of travel. Duffy articulates the classic, man who done me wrong hook, which thankfully doesn’t speak to me, but the song’s title means something altogether different to my soul.

Have mercy as I go along my path, whether it’s rocky, sandy, through valleys, shadows, swamps, rivers, or mountain passes.  I’m reminded of the Scripture from Isaiah 52, “how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news of good things, who publishes peace.”  Having received mercy, my end-game is always to publish peace.

But, sometimes even those beautiful mountains pose a seemingly insurmountable challenge.  Thusly, we cry out with a prayerful plea along the lines of Kyrie Eleison. Or more colloquially, “give me a break!”

Duffy croons, “You’ve got me beggin you for mercy, why won’t you release me; My morals got me on my knees, won’t you please stop playing games….”.  I’m reminded when singing along with this song that one of the King James Bible phrases I recall from growing up is, “I beseech thee O Lord…”. 

Having grown up and learned a few things along the way, I’ve discerned that beseech means, to beg.  One form of prayer most of us are familiar with, is the begging prayer, beginning with the word please, usually in rapid succession, “please, please, please….”  In this prayer our hearts are crying out for mercy.

What is mercy?  A victim being tortured cries out for mercy.  Duffy begs for mercy from a vicious circle of game-playing and I don’t mean Monopoly, more like a manipulative and sinister game of cat and mouse, not fair-play.

Have you heard the saying, “there but by the grace of God, go I?”  This original saying is usually attributed to John Bradford, who said it when seeing criminals being led to their execution in 1553.  Ironically, his grace was limited to two years, as he was executed two years later for heresy, being a Protestant in Roman Catholic England.

Grace, meaning unmerited favor; and mercy being compassionate or kindly forbearance toward someone under a powerful other, points to the kind of begging prayer mentioned above, “Could the ‘powers that be,’ kindly give me a freaking break?!”

I had a vision of Scarlett O’Hara or some such southern belle gasping quietly in the summer heat, whispering, “Lord, have mercy,” as she fans her lightly perspiring face.  In my northern bluntness, I’m more likely to speak to the heat, while wiping my sweating face, “would you please cut me some slack, dude!” 

Even more popular than the begging prayer of desperation is the Lord’s Prayer, the pastoral poem of faith, Psalm 23, wherein we expect that “surely goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our life.”  The prophetic book of Micah suggests something even more socially equitable: that we refrain from staying angry forever, but delight to show mercy to others, having received mercy ourselves.

We all have our way of begging for mercy. 

Do names matter?  Can a name define us, at some core level?

Along with gender, the first thing everybody wants to know about a new baby is their name.  The gender thing is under fierce debate these days, but I think we’re all agreed that our children are still given a name, at or shortly after birth.

Don’t we consider, carefully the name we choose for our offspring?  We’re giving our children their first identity marker when we give to them their name.

Some children are named after a favorite aunt or uncle or a “family name.”  Other names are made-up names, pulling together parts of names or place-names, with some sort of significance to the parental units.  Yet other names are of ethnic origin and again hold some sort of meaning.

In terms of name-meanings, there are books and internet references dedicated to name-origins.  Some parents-to-be consult these resources in order to select a certain just-right cadence to the name and/or character traits they hope to see their offspring realize.  For example, my name derives from the very industrious, beaver.  And so, I am.

Hope was one of my chosen names, one of those teenage fantasy exercises engaged in by some of us.  Anne Shirley from “Anne of Green Gables,” my favorite book series, stipulated she preferred to be known as Anne with an E, because it was “so much more interesting.”

Tara, was another one.  I guess I was a “Gone with the Wind” fan at some point in my youth.  “As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again,” said Scarlett O’Hara; and Rhett Butler’s famous line was, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”  These industrious folks called their farm, Tara; probably after terra, for earth.

“Name that tune,” has been a game-show for eons.  I mean, what’s a song, without a name?  Name-dropping is key for some folks looking for a job.  It’s all about who you know.

What about name-calling?  When I was a kid, we learned to chant: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words (names) will never hurt me.”  If you’ve ever been bullied, you know this isn’t true.  These kinds of names, now called labels, hurt a good deal, sometimes for a lifetime.

Are you a name-brand kinda person?  From tea to jeans, consumer goods have names.  Designer names enjoy high status.  Generic names, usually unpronounceable, are inconsequential; it’s the item, not the name that sells.  Some people like a label blazoned across their bottoms and their handbags; others refuse to buy an item with a name on the outside.

Key to this column, is the name game.  Names are essential to our mind being able to describe, categorize or classify information. Names are therefore, not inherently good or bad.

Using language demands we name things.  But when we attribute meaning to names, we risk social or cultural misunderstanding.

As to nicknames, one name in particular that I and probably a good number of my generation, have had to uncomfortably revert back to its original, is Dick.  Until recent years, this was the casual name for Richard.  But this use has gone by the wayside and is now considered archaic.  Dick, was also in the olden days, short for detective.  But, today, the word is understood in popular culture as a pejorative for a stupid, mean, or contemptible person, especially a man.

Short for Beverly, my nickname is Bev.  This is my preferred moniker.  As with most children, who kinda know they’re in trouble when mom uses their full name; I think I’m being monitored by the government when someone calls me Beverly.  However, when talking on the telephone I usually say I’m Beverly because in that context, Bev is often misheard as Beth.

Beverly has archaically been gender-neutral.  There was George Beverly Shea, Canadian-American Gospel singer, famously known for “How Great Thou Art” and “Just as I Am.”  My surname, Barton has been, as a given name, attributed to a number of aristocratic English gentlemen, meaning “from the barley settlement.”  No wonder I’m a fan of Sting’s, “Fields of Gold;” all about loving sentiment and the Barley Field.

Just so you know, what does your name mean?  More specifically, what does your name mean to you? 

The title of this column mimics the title of a composition we publish in our business.  The content of that piece has nothing to do with dust or household cleaning, but it was on my mind, so here we go.

Rabbits and bunnies; it’s summer and these critters breed and inhabit our rural yards.  My husband has replanted beans thrice, now.  Next, its chicken wire, I guess.

Today, as I write this, it’s a welcome sunny day, after a long stretch of rain, clouds, and darkness.  I noticed in our kitchen, exposed to the morning sun, that dust bunnies have proliferated beyond my comprehension.

There are nooks and crannies from wall to rectangular wall in our kitchen.  Maybe they aren’t technically nooks, but I’ll bet you they could be called crannies.

From a lay person’s point of view, these spaces that collect dust in our kitchen are places where cabinets don’t quite meet the wall or appliances butt up against a cabinet.  It’s probably a finish carpenter’s bane.  At any rate, they exist and there is just enough space for dust, cobwebs, and cat fur to collect, and my ordinary cleaning tools don’t suffice to easily eradicate them.

To some people, dust bunnies are temporary visitors.  But they seem to be family pets in our house.  In fact, they had taken up residence on the dust mop, no less.

Dust on the dust mop seemed unreasonably cruel to me.  I almost cried, but decided to laugh instead.

I’m aware that some folks are in to cleaning in a way that I can’t fit into my list of priorities.  I have friends, acquaintances, neighbors and loved-ones who keep immaculately clean homes.  Kudos to you.

I keep a tidy house and I “clean it up” when messes are made.  I live with a man who spills, daily.  Don’t call the doctor, it’s not an illness; just an atavistic trait he seems to have inherited from his dad.  But I’m used to cleaning up.

Have you ever heard someone say, “you made the mess, you clean it up?”  It seems like a reasonable thing to expect.  But I am the delegated rescue-person, called to the crime-scene to “clean it up.”  If I don’t clean it up now, I’ll have to come back later and do it, when its effects might be worse.

Preemptive cleaning is okay.  I do it to keep things orderly and hygienic, yet don’t take it so seriously as to be considered fanatical.  Our house isn’t dirty, it’s lived-in.

In fact, I’m a tad uneasy around perfection. Show-homes are just that, for show.  One usually doesn’t feel welcome or at home in these places.  Everything is placed.  Nothing is real.  How do you unwind in a place that is so tightly wound?

Have you ever been the cause of a grocery-store announcement, “clean-up in aisle 9?”  I confess I have once or twice been the culprit; darn those flimsy blueberry cartons, or was it grape tomatoes?

So, I’m not always the cleaner.  But somebody must clean up after us in every aspect of life.  It’s as inevitable as death and taxes, as the saying goes.

To clean something up means essentially to free it from a whole bunch of unwanted stuff.  We can free ourselves from dirt, soil, stains, pollution, extraneous matter, marks, roughness, defects or flaws, encumbrances or obstructions.

So, clean it up and set yourself free, my friends.  If someone sets you free by cleaning it up for you, use your words and say please and thank you.  They’ll appreciate it.

 

Perceptions can be misleading, depending on what you want to see.  Ronald Reagan was known to have repeated the Russian proverb, “trust but verify.”

One of my husband’s socks had been missing for a while; one lone sock waiting on top of the clothes dryer for its mate.  It made me half-heartedly sad as if it were a dove or a cardinal, lost without their sidekick.

I looked behind the clothes washer, as on the rare occasion some item of clothing will end up in that Bermuda Triangle.  Ah-hah, I was sure I had found it.

I got my grabber from the pantry closet and tried to grab it from its dark abyss.  Unsuccessful, I brought a flashlight to the fight.

As it turns out, it wasn’t the dark, missing sock.  It was a black hose pipe.

This was not the first, nor will it be the last, time I’ve mistaken one thing for another.  My perceptions can be as inaccurate as the next guy’s.

I wanted to find that sock.  So, given the possibility that I had, hope and simple longing, made me see the missing sock.

I’ve always enjoyed seeing animals on my hikes, even ordinary deer, snakes, rabbits and squirrels, and I used to set out “looking” for them.  Many times, on these walks in or near the woods, I’ve seen animals from a distance; only, close-up to verify them as a leafy branch.  Or what looked like a giant weasel turned out to be a resting squirrel.

After several of these perceptual mistakes, I made a pact with God to stop looking for animals and just see what I see.  I utter an informal sort of prayer-declaration at the onset of each outing, “I’ll see what I’m supposed to see, today.”

My observations of flora and fauna have become more eventful since this altered expectation.  I’m surprised more often than I used to be, and see as many animals as I always had.

As to social perceptions, I’m thinking of one of those inspirational quotes shared on Facebook.  This one said in essence that everyone who sees us out in public, assigns to us a persona according to their seconds-long perception of us.

In other words, we can have thousands of personalities depending on the perception’s others have of us.  Some of those perceptions will be crisp and spot-on and others will depict us, colored by what they want to see, expect to see, when they see us, or what their tinted glasses affords them.

We serve others better by not relying on our perceptions and concocting a story in our heads about them.  There is a fifty-fifty chance we’re wrong. The best way, I’ve learned to gain perspective about someone, is to ask them. I can be blunt that way.

If we want to know something about someone, we should ask rather than guess; and rely on our ears rather than our inferences.  I’m aware that most of us are from small rural communities and we’re used to the old adage, “If you don’t know what you’re doing, somebody else does.”

In our small towns, people think they know us.  We trade stories about “my uncles best friend’s cousin,” and quite a few people know exactly who is being talked about.  I guess this isn’t all that far-fetched from many of our ancestors who had the same names generation after generation. Somehow, they knew which William they were referring to.

Genealogy can be tricky because of this naming quirk, and small-town life can be fraught with perception errors because of what we think we know about people.  The benefit of small-town “knowing” is that one is never left completely in the lurch.  Someone is always around to lend a hand.

The thing I would like to see heartily embraced by rural folks, however, is open communication.  Most of us don’t read minds.  In order to act on our perceptions, with an appropriate response, we need to know what the other person is thinking, “straight from the horse’s mouth.”

This last quote is another of my potential misconceptions.  It may have crossed my mind that the origins of the quote had something to do with the television show I grew up watching in the 50s-60s called, Mr. Ed, featuring a sarcastic, talking horse.

In reality, the saying comes from the idea behind having come directly from examining a horse’s teeth, to determine its age, and relaying that information to someone else.  So, rather than relying on conjecture, perception, or inference, we should go the route of the direct inquiry or research before deciding about a person or a matter.   

Please don’t make me guess!

Back to the heirloom comforter, part deux.  Last year, after I mended about a foot around the perimeter of that blanket, the mood went out the window.

“I’m just not in the mood for this.”  Have you ever said this, and then walked away from whatever task, argument, or entanglement triggered the statement?

I’m not so sure that being in the mood for something, or out of the mood for it, means you’re temperamental, touchy, or emotional.  It might just mean that you know your capabilities, and you know when it’s time to rest and when it’s time to put forth effort; when the effort is worthwhile and when it isn’t.

I don’t know what mood is required to finish mending that comforter, but simple math tells me I have twenty-three some feet to go.  I surmise that my tidiness quotient may be just the kick in the pants I need to get into the mood to finish mending that darn blanket.

These kinds of tasks for me, require a certain mood.  I don’t know if it’s “creative”-types who must be inspired to finish these kinds of projects or if it’s everybody.

This made me think about the concept of mood.  One can be in a good mood.  Or one can be in a bad mood.

Just ask your “mood ring.”  Fitness trackers from watches to rings, tell us about what the mood ring did in the 70s.  But the mood ring made us feel psychic, and thusly good about our powers of control.  Fitness trackers can make us feel guilty if we somehow don’t measure up.

On the other hand, do we really need a device to tell us to cut the attitude, when we’re in bad moods?  Or, that it’s okay to be elated at the report of good news?

Why is it that when we say someone is moody, we aren’t talking about their gaiety, delight, etc.?  “Moody” seems to refer to a bad mood.  Or does it describe volatility?

Isn’t everybody moody then, if it is a straightforward fluctuation of mood, related to circumstances?  If this logic stands, then I suppose someone living with challenging or downright awful circumstances might be vulnerable to the moody moniker.

Some of us call a bad mood, snarky.  My husband calls it crunchy.  That word puts me in a bad mood!  Snippy is another word I’ve heard to describe a bad mood.  Pissy, is another one; although not so delicate.

We in America say we’re “pissed off” when we’re angry.  I guess this is a useful connotation of the word given its origins as a release of waste to the outside of the body.

A mood, then, any mood is a release of emotion from the subconscious to the conscious mind.  I think it was Shrek, or was it Donkey, who said, “better out than in?”

The origin of the word, mood, that has stayed around since prehistoric times, is “frame of mind.”  A frame is what a picture is set into.  Have you heard, “my mind is set?”

I think we can have our minds set on positivity or negativity.  We can see a glass half full or half empty.  We can be pessimistic or optimistic.

We can figuratively get up on the wrong side of the bed and our mind is already set before planting our feet on the floor, that we’re in a bad mood.  I don’t know why this is, but I know some days are just that way.

I’ve learned that bad moods and good moods are temporary.  They each will pass.  And we should tread softly around them and let them be.

At any rate, what are you in the mood for today?

Recently I was mending an old hand-me-down, family comforter.  I had washed the blanket, enhancing its deterioration, and then it laid around for over a year.

Every edge was open, exposing torn and matted batting.  The patterned top had tears, some where there was no more fabric remaining to sew together.  It was like sewing very little of something, to nothing.  Even the batting needed a bit of sewing so that it won’t bunch up when all is said and done.

Last year I had just started mending it when so many other things took precedence for my time and attention.  So, it laid in view, needling me from time to time to “get er done,” but apparently the needles were tolerable enough to delay getting at it, for a long time.  Perhaps the needling was the acupuncture of delay; not that bad.

I’m no seamstress.  In fact, I pretty much know, one, hand-stitch that I learned in junior high, home ec. class, to make an apron, no less, and a simple A-line skirt.  That’s it.  I still have that cute little green apron, in a cedar chest.

Having not one ounce of interest in marriage, children, or domesticity at that age, I tolerated home ec., with sewing the lowest of low on my list of learning-priorities.  But I guess that “survival-stitch” stuck and has served me over the years.  One should be able to sew a button back on a favorite garment and hem a pair of must-buy pants created to fit a giant in a size 10.

I call it a lock-stitch because it knots the thread after every stitch.  And I’ve used that stitch ever since then, to mend torn seams on hundreds of cloth items that have passed through my life.

So, recently, after hours, on multiple days, of mending that blanket, my husband was so appreciative and in awe of my domestic skill, he reminded me that “you know, our favorite spare comforter (at the ready for napping and general winter cuddling) really needs the same thing.”  This is a cautionary tale; in that you really must be careful about what you’re “good at.”  Because like it or not, what you’ve proven to be good at, proper grammar aside, will come back to haunt you.

For example, one can become so good at doing a menial chore, or what I’ve heard called, “scut work,” that no one else even attempts to do it anymore, because “you’re so good at it.”  This can become a catch22 if you’re not alert to its pitfall.

Being “too good at” doing everything might just come back to bite you in the, well, you know what.  And it’s your fault because you wouldn’t let they do the job because they didn’t do it “right!”  You showed them one time how to do that job “right,” and they can’t quite achieve your exacting standard.  Guess what, you’ve locked yourself into that particular chore-prison for life.

I don’t know what sap first said, “if you want it done right, do it yourself,” but if you’ve fallen for it, you’re putty in the hands of those you serve.  Now you’re the only one who can do that job “the right way,” from now to forevermore.  That job is yours alone, because “you’re so good at it!”

“But you always do the dishes because you’re so good at it.”  “You change the diapers because you’re so good at it.”  “You talk to the customer service people because you’re so good at it.”  “You clean the garage so much better than me.”  “I don’t do it because you’re so good at it.”

Every household creates a division of labor at the outset.  It’s simple economics of time.  Sometimes that division is fair and other times it just doesn’t add up.  And at each addition of members to the household, including pets, that division of labor changes.

The division of labor changes with age, also.  In our case, it has become even more equitable than at the beginning.

I recall that one of my marriage terms was “I don’t vacuum.”  I think it was around year ten that that particular term flew the coop.  Today, my husband washes some dishes but his limit is, “I don’t do plastic.”  I wash the storage containers.  He feeds the cats in the morning.  I feed them at noon and night.  He cleans up their vomit chunks and I clean up the stains.  I organize the trash; he carries it out.  We both cook.  Off and on we renegotiate these terms. 

I must in all fairness add that my husband dispenses sincere thank-you’s regularly, even frequently, for the mundane chores I sometimes reluctantly perform around our house.  I never thought a thank-you was necessary for doing what has to be done, but he’s a kind man.

Be careful out there, with what you’re good at.

Ever since that Mother’s Day outing with my daughter, when I bought a new purse, “for travel,” I’ve been contemplating “the changing of purses.”  This is monumental for me.

Not unlike the proverbial “changing of the guard” at Buckingham Palace in London, it’s almost ceremonial for me, this change of hand bag.  I’ll explain.

Laugh all you want.  I can take it.

I’m not a hand bag collector like some women.  But I have about a dozen bags, hanging on the back of a closet door and a few more scattered inside bureaus or chest drawers.

Unlike our cats who prefer their canned food flavors alternated from one can to the next, I can eat the same meal for days in a row without blinking an eye.  I like what I like.

As to my purse, I’ve used the same one for over a decade.  It was a gift from my bestie and wowzah did she get it right.  It’s the perfect neutral color.  The capacity is vast, and it has pockets and pouches galore, notwithstanding its relatively small size.

I have received compliments by the hands full on this bag, from women and men, alike.  It must be kinda special.

By the way, do you call yours a purse?  Hand bag, or simply, bag?  Pocketbook, is a popular one in these parts.

I don’t change my purse to go with my outfits, or at the change of seasons.  I only switch out to a wrist-wallet if I have to run to the store for something needed “now.”

Given these facts, contemplating changing my purse is a major change for me.  It’s sort of a permanent change, given my predilection for “the same,” as outlined above.

This is all because of that new purse, “for travel.”  Since the preparation-phase of our uber-trip to Europe in 2008, I’ve learned to pack, light.  As to clothing, the rule is to bring a couple of basics in primary colors and vamp them up with prints that can be mixed and matched, topped off with some personal, statement-making accessories.

As to the travel handbag, it’s about lots of pockets in a concise package of a neutral color, for categorizing everything needed and nothing peripheral.  It’s almost akin to a filing system.

It’s tempting to carry one of those huge, cavernous tote-like bags that has massive space but few pockets, and weighs a ton.  I abandoned this idea with nightmarish visions of a customs agent screaming, “I need your passports and boarding passes now,” while I’m digging to China for the needed documents, and he/she is rushing us along a queue to the beyond.

In this scenario one can’t be fumbling around through makeup bags, a canister of extra strength Tylenol, a measuring tape, sun glasses case, reading glasses case, breath mints to satisfy an army of halitosis germs headed to the dentist, coupon case, tissues, nail clippers, tweezers, manicure and sewing kits, full key rings that a school janitor would envy, a wallet packed with a hundred cards, including store loyalty cards, department store cards, gas cards, pictures of the grand kids, insurance cards, emergency contact and “final wishes” cards, a couple dollars cash, and a coin purse.  No purse of this caliber is complete without wipes, a Tide-stick, antibacterial soap or hand sanitizer, perfume, lip balm or lip gloss, powder and some sort of hair brush or comb.  Oh, and your phone.

At second thought this is not a purse, it’s a portable office.  Were you a girl scout?  Prepared for every possible eventuality?

Or maybe you’re simply a mom or partner, at the ready to fix any mess your kids or partner might make, away from home.  Better yet, you’re a woman, an equipped woman, dressed for success or for battle, with your purse as your brief case, armor and shield.

Most husbands these days will wear a pink shirt and are happy to hold their wives’ purse while they are otherwise engaged.  They know this thing holds the lifeblood of their unit.  It’s not just a purse.

So, you get why I haven’t changed my purse yet.  It’s because it’s loaded, not just literally. 

You’ve heard, “there’s meaning to my madness?”  I intend to pare down, in the purse department. 

First comes the thought, right?  I’ll do it because it’s time, but like Scarlett O’Hara said, “I’ll think about that tomorrow.  After all, tomorrow is another day.”