The Powder Box

The powder box was not overly ornate. In fact, at first glance, it appeared quite ordinary. It was rectangular in shape, and comprised of a semi-white hard plastic. The four corners on the bottom of the box were footed, and a flower bouquet design was etched on the lid.  The box occupied space on a table that sat at the foot of my grandmother's bed, next to a couple of books and what else, I don't recall. As a kid, I noticed it for several reasons. One, I loved to read, so each time I visited my grandmother, I saw it as I grabbed the two aforementioned books. Two, it was the only luxury item I remember seeing in a house whose contents were comprised of mismatched furniture, an old wood burning stove, and an overabundance of plants. And three, the powder wasn't overly fragrant, but it did smell like my grandmother, or maybe my grandmother smelled like it. Either way, the fragrance was reminiscent of summer vacations spent with my grandparents, playing outside all day until darkness sneaked in and slowly blotted out the daylight, running barefoot and stubbing my big toe on the front porch steps (again!), and staying up late with my sister in order to infiltrate my grandmother's snack cabinet for crumbly cheese crackers and tiny chocolate candies.

As summer vacations and weekend visits came to an end, so too did the powder. The box, however, remained behind and became a repository for old buttons, an unpaired stocking garter, and other trinkets my grandmother kept inside. And while I remember her owning subsequent powder boxes, I couldn't tell you what they looked like, or where they ended up after the powder was gone.

The powder box, quite ordinary in appearance, is now aged and worn, with a faded flower bouquet design on the cracked lid. It occupies space on the chest of drawers in my bedroom and holds a class ring, several sets of earrings, and other baubles that I can't currently recall. But each time I open the box, I am reminded of my grandmother, and how much she meant to me. For you see, I too am a repository, void of powder but still slightly fragrant. And grateful, always grateful, for all of the time and effort she deposited into me.

Changing Seasons

Last Autumn, I moved across the country from a state with mostly mild weather all year long, to a state that is seasonal. To say that I experienced a period of weather adjustment is an understatement. As I began putting away my clothes and shoes, I soon realized I had very little to wear in the way of warm attire for the approaching winter. Moreover, I discovered my running shorts and shirts would leave me pretty much defenseless against the rain and snow on my early morning runs. So, I bought the necessary clothing, toughened up, and moved on with things.

As spring approached, I knew that planting would bring a sense of familiarity to me in my new home, so I began to plan my garden. My excitement, however, soon faded. Even though it was the middle of March, the ground was still hard as a rock, leaves were scattered everywhere, and the local nurseries had very few plants out to buy. And to make matters worse, we were still experiencing frosty mornings and periodic cold rains.

After pitching a fit and mourning for the warm weather I'd left behind, I took a step back and decided to research gardening trends in my area. As I became familiar with the planting seasons, I also began to study the plants that are native to the region. Sadly, I learned the cactus and yucca plants that I used to grow were not suitable for my new garden, however, a variety of plants, some I'd never worked with before, would grow successfully through the end of summer. And as the first few weeks of April began, nurseries started to offer these plants, and I, unashamedly, purchased and planted in abundance.

Change is difficult. It can often leave one wandering around aimlessly searching for a sense of purpose that was, at one time, so clear. On the whole, it's much easier to work within the realm of the familiar, where success is at least somewhat guaranteed, than to invest time and effort into learning new things, forming new relationships, going new places. But life is comprised of seasons, and whether you live in a climate that is consistent all year, or one that alternates between periods of cold and hot, you won't grow if nothing in your life ever changes. So embrace the unfamiliar and live in the moment. And when you do, you will begin to see the benefits of experiencing the changing seasons of your life.

Strong Roots

Approximately a year ago, I bought a small houseplant for a dollar at my local lawn and garden store. As the year progressed, I watered and fussed over the plant until eventually, it outgrew its existing pot. As I set about transferring it to a larger container, I was both surprised and delighted to find not one but three separate root systems buried beneath the topsoil. So, for a little money, time, and effort, I reaped three separate plants instead of one.

Now, I'd like to take complete credit for the successful growth and expansion of my houseplant, however, in good conscience, I cannot. While I acknowledge the water and attention I bestowed upon the plant certainly contributed to its overall health, the main reason it flourished has to do with the strong root system that was already in place when I purchased it. This root system was most likely established by the initial sower, and further strengthened by the care it received at the lawn and garden store where I purchased it.

We all have a root system, a gift of sturdiness afforded to us early-on by parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, siblings, and other influential people in our lives. Strong or weak, positive or negative, it's ever-present, and it has a direct impact on how we respond to circumstances we encounter. Hence, it stands to reason that a strong, positive root system enables a person to deal with chaos and strife more easily than a weak and depleted root system which is susceptible to negative thoughts and /or actions.

The good news is that those of us who wish to strengthen our root systems have the ability to do so by managing the external influences in our lives. When we engage in healthy relationships, pursue education and knowledge, and employ modest amounts of self-affirmation, we develop the grit needed to face challenges, and grow stronger, bigger, and better lives. So get ready my friend -  you're definitely going to need a bigger pot!      

Grace Made Over

My grandmother Grace was a quiet woman. By quiet, I do not mean she did not like to talk or engage in conversation. On the contrary, she was from a big southern family where chatter was the norm if you had any chance at all of being acknowledged, or for that matter, fed. No, the noiselessness I am referring to was in her demeanor. In the small community in which she lived, she was known for maintaining her composure, despite the challenges she faced. She'd put her hands on her hips, inhale and exhale, and calmly pronounce her opinion. 

My grandfather, on the other hand, was thunderous in his approach to life. Although short in stature, even when wearing his old gray traveling hat, his ability to project his big personality into every situation made him seem, at times, massive in comparison to those around him. He'd rant and rave about one thing or another, and any positive contribution he may have made to to the conversation was often lost in the uproar that ensued. And while I was never afraid of him, I oftentimes wondered what all of the fuss was about.


Consequently, my grandfather's capacity for overreacting was generally offset by my grandmother's ability to remain calm and assess the situations they encountered. This was no easy task, and even after watching the scenario play out countless times, I cannot tell you where she developed the fortitude she displayed on these occasions. What I can tell you is it served to encourage me when my parents divorced, when I met my in-laws for the first time, when I met my in-laws subsequent times, when I applied for my first job, and when my sister passed away.

Through the years, members of my family have referred to me as "Grace-made-over," a comparison that humbles,and I must admit, pleases me. And although I've been known to put my hands on my hips when I talk, I'm not always as calm as my grandmother was, most times, not even close. Still, when pandemonium sets in, I do my best and I like to think she'd be pleased with my efforts. After all, a short moment of quiet and reflection frequently yield big results. And that's what I'm going for. 

Outhouses and Outcomes

When I was a kid, an outhouse was a necessary evil for homes that did not have indoor plumbing. Unlike the quaint buildings depicted in movies and on television, which have crescent moons and a scattering of stars flung across misshapen, loosely-hinged doors, many of these buildings were drab, foul-smelling meetinghouses for flies and other bugs who enjoyed the stench within, even when the muck was heavily powdered with lime. And since most of these structures were not insulated, they became hot and humid in the summer, and turned freezing cold in the winter. 

My grandmother's outhouse was situated in between the back porch of the main house and a stretch of uncut forest that served as a land border on the other side. To reach it, one had to follow a small, twisted, dirt path that had been worn down by generations of family and friends, all who had made countless trips back and forth to answer the call of nature.

Because I enjoyed watching scary movies, I was always slightly superstitious in regard to what would happen to someone should they fall into the toilet hole of the outhouse. After all, my cousin's plastic toy helicopter had been hurled down said hole into the deep recesses of refuse after losing a fight with my other cousin, never to be seen again. While I knew I was bigger than a toy, I didn't know what lurked in the abyss and I didn't want to take any unnecessary chances. And so, I avoided the outhouse whenever possible, especially in the dark. Even when equipped with a flashlight and a new roll of toilet tissue, it was a scary run from the house to that crudely shaped shack, and I'm not ashamed to say there were many times I chose to cop-a-squat in the front yard by the tiger lily bushes instead of making the trip.  

Needless to say, I did not fall victim to the perceived dangers associated with my grandmother's outhouse, and continued to enjoy countless visits with my grandparents over the years. Looking back, the experiences I had on that small homestead with the crooked outhouse, my cousins, and the tiger lily bushes helped make me who I am today, an outcome I am most grateful for.