Janet Morris Grimes, Author/Speaker

Janet Morris Grimes – Writing and Speaking for the Pursuit of Sappiness

Posts Tagged life

She Tried to Run Away, But Got Stuck in Traffic

Jan 5

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Published in the Nashville Eye column of The Tennessean, November 16, 1998.

 

It had been a particularly trying week around our house.  Our washer quit washing the same day the refrigerator chose to warm things up.  The bathtub upstairs leaked into the bathroom downstairs, suggesting new methods of recycling water.

Our mini-van developed a few interesting habits of its own when the air conditioner assumed the role of a heater during the hottest autumn months in the history of Tennessee. On one of those rare occasions of rain, we discovered our windshield wipers worked only when we activated our right turn signal.

Then, my printer went into “freakout” mode when my 4-year-old daughter tried to print 50 copies of her birthday card.  My printer never recovered.  As I shipped it back to the factory, I enclosed a brief letter of explanation.  Cause of death – nervous breakdown.

I was feeling a little sorry for myself, so, in an effort to recall the good things in life, I took my three kids to church to help pack Christmas boxes for underprivileged children.  One big, happy family all working together to celebrate the spirit of giving, right?

No, not on this particular day.  My angelic children argued over everything from who got to put the candy in the boxes to whether or not children in third world countries preferred 101 Dalmations or Mickey Mouse coloring books.  Each of them ended up in a major timeout sessions, and I finished packing the boxes, which were being sent to Haiti. 

Silently, I wondered if that country would also accept donations of over-privileged children from Antioch, Tennessee.

Somehow, we had missed the point. That proved to be the proverbial last straw.  I was ready for my own timeout, so I hit the road.

Alone at last, I hopped into our manic mini-van, heading off into the sunset.  Operation Run Away had begun. Destination unknown.

With the radio blaring and the wind blowing through my hair, I made my way to the interstate, and immediately knew I was in trouble.  It was rush hour and Nashville streets were under eternal construction.

I found myself in the middle of what appeared to be a mall parking lot rather than a major highway, and had completely forgotten about the lack of air conditioning.

As sweat started pouring off my frustrated brow, I had to laugh.  During a week where nothing was going right, even my runaway attempt was failing.

With nowhere to go and time on my hands, I turned the radio off and relished the unfamiliar sound of silence. As I was sorting through all the things that had gone wrong, a strange thing happened: No matter how hard I tried to wallow in the depths of self pity, I kept finding my way back to all the things that were right in my crazy little world.

It started when I glanced in the floorboard and discovered a note my youngest daughter, Malloree,  had written to me.  It was covered with hundreds of M’s, because as she explained, “Mommy starts with M, like me.”

I remembered riding bikes with my son, Andrew, earlier during the week.  For that one brief moment, we were nothing more than friends.

I envisioned my oldest daughter, Crystal, coming home from school and recounting, without ever taking a breath, every vivid detail of her day on the mixed up planet known as Junior High.

Suddenly, I was thrilled to be a part of it all.

And immediately, I knew that with all the things in my life that were out of order, the one thing that had collapsed totally, and caused me the most damage, was now repaired – my perspective.

A family is an amazing thing. No one else could cause frustration, disappointment and anger, and then give m the will and the reason to overcome those feelings. No one else but my family could make me search for an escape, while at the same time cause me to be incredibly thankful that I was the one filling those shoes.

A smile spread across my face, and I knew it was time to go home.  My runaway journey was complete.  I would return with a renewed outlook and what was left of my sense of humor.

I would return being fully aware that sometimes it’s the people I love the most who drive me the craziest, knowing full well that they feel the same way about me.

That is what makes us family, I suppose.  And that is what makes it all worthwhile.

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A Mini-Reunion…

Jan 4

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Getting together with former classmates brings back memories, fosters friendships. 

Published in the Nashville Eye Column of The Tennessean, May 5, 1993.

It was as if nothing had ever changed.  If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought we were still at Apollo Junior High and the bell was about to ring for us to go back to class.

But we were in the real world now.  Our lunches together had been moved from the school lunchroom to Church Street Center’s Food Garden.  No bells rang, but we had to hurry off just the same.  Beth had to see an important client; Donna had some work waiting on her desk; Rhonda had a meeting to attend; and I had to pick up my children.

Where had the years gone? 

Beth and I had been together since the fourth grade, when we won second place in the three-legged race.  To this day we still have witnesses who insist that we should have come in first. From then on, even though our legs were no longer attached, our hearts were.

In seventh grade, we met Donna.  She looked as scared as we did, and she laughed a lot, so we fit together perfectly.  The three of us managed to survive in our confusing new world of adolescence, and we ended up loving it.

Our lives were busy and our minds were full of questions – thus came our important discussions over lunch.  What are you going to wear to the basketball game?  Did you hear which couple just broke up?  Do you think he’s cute?  Mike wants me to ask you if you like Todd…

It became a lunchtime ritual.  A time to treasure each moment for what it was.  A time to laugh, cry and get advice.  A tine to hope for the future.  A time to share.

That was what junior high was all about.  I don’t remember any of our discussions being about science or history, but I guess we did OK, because we made it through to high school.

It was there that we met Rhonda.  She was a year younger than the three of us, and we assumed she could benefit from our maturity and wisdom.  We took her in and became a foursome.

We were members of the school marching band, so we were constantly involved in rehearsals, Friday night football games, or band contests.  In our spare time, we worked together at McDonalds, so it was hard to find us apart from each other.

Those were great times.  But soon, we reached a turning point in our young lives.  With graduation, we faced many life-changing decisions and the time had passed for consulting each other for every choice we made. 

We were on our own.

The years passed quickly for us as we all followed different paths into adulthood.  College, marriage, and new careers kept us busy.  With an occasional phone call we stayed in touch, but we rarely found time to see one another – until we finally met for lunch.

It had been five years since the four of us had been together, but something told us that is was time to resume our lunchtime ritual.  Perhaps it was because we missed each other and needed a good laugh.  Perhaps it was because we wanted to update everyone on our hectic lives.  But I think it had more to do with the fact that even though we were all grown up, we still found ourselves in a world almost as confusing as junior high, and we knew we could better handle the challenges as long as we were together. 

Whatever the reason, we treasured the moment for what it was: a time to eat junk food, laugh, cry, and ask advice.  A time to hope for the future.  A time to share.

As we parted I marveled at how much we had changed, and was thankful for the ways in which we remained the same.

No matter how many years had passed, the results of our discussions were the same. We left the table with a better understanding of who we were, where we were going with our lives, and the value of true friendship.

(Grimes, married and the mother of two children, is a dispatcher for the Metro Police Department.)

 

 

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Brink of Being a Big Kid

Jan 4

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Andrew Elijah Grimes, Class of 1993Published in the Nashville Eye Column of The Tennessean on June 15, 1992.

 

 Well, this is it – the moment I haven’t been waiting for.  To be truthful, I have actually dreaded it.  I wish I could put it off a little longer, or somehow freeze this moment in time so I would never have to fact it.  But realistically, I know that it is all part of growing up, and unfortunately, I don’t have a choice. 

 The day has come for my nearly 5-year-old son’s “preschool graduation”- a ceremony celebrating the fact that he and a group of other youngsters from a day care program at church are now ready for kindergarten in the fall,

I find my seat along with the other parents.  They seem to be taking it so much better than me.  Grandparents are smiling, cameras are flashing.  Everyone is acting as if it is such a festive occasion. Why can’t I?

 I sit here with tears in my eyes, bracing myself for this huge step forward.  I mutter those familiar words, “I think I can.  I think I can.  I think I can.”  The words are from The Little Engine That Could, one or Andrew’s favorite stories.

 Silently, I wonder if my son will ever want to hear that story again.  Will we still get to watch Sesame Street together?  Who will tuck in his shirt?  Who will be there to laugh at his jokes that make no sense whatsoever?  Who will keep his hair combed?  And who will remind him to use his manners?

How will Andrew be able to handle life without me?  Or maybe the question should be, “How will I handle life without him?” 

He seems ready for the challenge, excited about the prospects of kindergarten.  He knows his full name, address and phone number.  He can count and go to the bathroom alone.  He still can’t tie his shoes, but I blame his Ninja Turtle tennis shoes with the Velcro straps for that. 

But what about me?  It is going to be so quiet around my house.  What will I do with my time?  Who will sing the theme song of The Jetsons with me?  Who will laugh at my jokes that make no sense whatsoever?  Who will mess up my hair and remind me to use my manners?

The tears are flowing freely now. 

I watch as the “graduates” bound down the aisle.  Some are skipping, some waving.  A few are holding hands, and the rest are arguing with the person behind them.

I noticed that none of them are crying.  They are all so excited and proud; it never occurs to any of then that a portion of their young lives is coming to an end.  They don’t need a timeout to cherish the moment; they simply give it everything they’ve got and enjoy it.

The teachers lead the graduates as they sing songs, say their ABC’s and recite a poem in unison.  They are grinning from ear to ear; their lines are loud and well-rehearsed; their twinkling eyes are full of promise.

I can’t help but smile as I watch the future leaders of our country wiggle about in their tiny caps and gowns.  I wipe away my tears and allow myself to enjoy the rest of the service. 

Andrew crosses the stage when his name is called and is presented with his “diploma” and small Bible, both of which will carry him a long way in this life. 

Before I know it, my son’s preschool graduation ceremony is over.  I hug him and tell him I love him.  He responds by wanting to chase a little red-headed girl around the room. 

And because the time has come, I slowly let him go.

As we make our way to the car, the reality sets in.  My little boy is growing up.  In many ways, I guess I am too.

(Grimes, of Antioch, is a dispatcher for the Metro Police Department.)

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Mom’s Best Advice

Jan 4

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When I first started writing, at about age 11, it seems that it was always about my Dad. I always made him my hero, and imagined all sorts of ways he would take care of us and protect us as we were growing up.

But the truth is, my Mom was the  hero of our lives, and all I had to do was watch her.   So this one was for her, and was published in the Nashville Eye Column in The Tennessean on June 12, 1993.

The best advice my mother ever gave me was this:  Take what is given you in life and do your best with it.  Don’t look to others with envy.  Trust God and give 100% of yourself every day, and you will never have to question the path your life has taken.

I don’t ever remember being lectured about it.  In fact, it was never even spoken.  Instead, it was demonstrated to me daily through my mother’s actions.  Thankfully, the message came through loud and clear.

My mom was valedictorian of her senior class in the western Kentucky town where she grew up.  With dreams of becoming a teacher, she worked her way through college.  During her second year at David Lipscomb, she met my Daddy, who was studying to become a preacher.  They married on January 12, 1963.

Mom put her plans for her education on hold sand continued working so my dad could finish school.   She was kept busy with my sister, Jeanna, who was born in July of 1964.  Daddy finally obtained his degree in June of 1966, and a year later, I was born.

Before I was born, Daddy started preaching for a small congregation in Corinth, Mississippi.  Mom was just settling in to her role as a wife and mother.   Their lives together were just beginning, and the road ahead was full of promise.

But, one morning in November of 1967, Daddy was on the way to Harding Graduate School in Memphis, and was tragically killed in an auto accident.  After almost five short years of marriage, my mother was widowed and left alone to raise my three year old sister and myself.

That was 25 years ago, (in 1993) and no matter how tough life has been, I never once heard her complain.  She always made whatever sacrifices that were necessary in order to provide for us. This included her working two jobs for as long as I can remember.

When we were little, she spent every available moment with us.  She laughed.  She sang.  She took us horseback riding and to Opryland.  She transported us to lessons of every kind – swimming, dance, piano – in an effort to discover our hidden talents that to this day, still remain in hiding. 

She listened as we invariably told her that she needed to fall in love because we needed a daddy.  Every Christmas, I would ask Santa for a little brother, and every year, she would try to convince me that I needed to tell Santa about my second choice, because that “probably wasn’t going to happen.”

One of my favorite memories is waking up early on Saturday mornings and climbing into bed with her.  Jeanna would slide in on the other side, and we would snuggle up to her and make what we called a “mommy sandwich”  a daughter on each side and a mommy in the middle.

I would watch her as she slept, her soft skin gently masking the strength that could be found within.  She was truly the center of our universe, and we rested in knowing that we were always her first priority.

I think those moments signified the things we needed most as we were growing up.  An effortless trust.  The embodiment of commitment.  A guardian angel that we could touch.

Looking back, I see that now.  But then, all I knew was that everything would work out as long as she was there with us.  

She never let us down.

And now, as I view life through a mother’s eyes, I can only hope that my children get from me the same example I received from her – a flawless demonstration of unselfish love.

 

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The Mystery of Marriage

Jan 4

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Published in the “Nashville Eye” column of The Tennessean, Sunday, January 30, 1994.

Mystery of Marriage – The dreaded ‘seven year itch’ is only one of the obstacles that beset the road to a successful union.

I approached it with caution.  I had heard the warnings.  I knew what I was up against, and wanted to be ready for it.  I was determined not to be the latest victim.

I sought information from those who had survived it before.  They lived to tell about it, so I hoped they could give me the secret.  I heard some good advice, but no one would gie me the foolproof way to beat it.  I was on my own.

The time had come: the plans were made; there was no turning back.  I took the kids to the babysitter, and silently drove home.  He came out the door and got in the car.  I had to ask him the burning question: 

“Are you itching yet?”  He didn’t answer.

It was our seventh anniversary.  I had heard the horror stories about the dreaded “seven year itch,” and I was prepared to scratch.

The previous morning, I browsed through the section of the newspaper that announces upcoming weddings.  There were pictures of happy couples and a small write-up beside each, saying what their plans were for the future.  They seemed to have love and a determination to stick together.  But, sadly I wondered what would be said if the newspaper were to publish an update on each of them in five or 10 years.  How many woul dstill be together?  Would they keep that gleam in their eyes?  With all the changes they would face, could they survive as a couple?

So, we had reason to celebrate, I tell my husband and myself. Many couples don’t make it this far.  Looking back, I’m not sure how we managed.  So I wanted to find that one common denominator that holds couples together and keeps them happy for 50 years. 

The night my husband and I were married, a very wise man who had been married forever told us that the key to it all is never to mention divorce.  It’s not an option, so don’t discuss it. He knew what kind of loyalty and commitment it would take to endure whatever struggles we might encounter.

We would go on to test that loyalty many times. 

I think it takes the same type of devotion that you show to your children:  If they make a mistake, you don’t give up; you don’t leave them; you love them; you hang in there with them and hope they become stronger for what they have been through.  Sometimes I wonder if marriages would last longer if people would support their spouse the same way they do their children. 

The advice about divorce was probably the best I have ever heard.  But I’ve known people who have kept their commitment and have made themselves and their children miserable because of it.  I don’t just want my marriage to last — I want it to be great.

I have never found anyone who has the answer.  I’ve talked to couples who have beaten unbelieavele odds, and even theycan’t tell me how they did it.  Then I questioned people who have been through a divorce, and they shared what they would have done differently.  The only thing I have learned is that there are no guarantees.

Maybe the secret will only work for me if I discover it for myself.  Maybe the answer comes from deep inside.  I have to find what makes my marriage good and do more of that.

One man told me that he and his wife had torn down their marriage and put it back together many times, but that it now was better than ever.

So perhaps that is it the key to a long and happy marriage is to  have a complete set of keys.  I mean, the things I did in the beginning to make my marriage work aren’t necessarily the same things that will work for us today.  My husband and I have changed; our surroundings have changed.  So, I must also change.

Back to the night of our anniversary.  Tommy never did answer my question, probably becasue he hs his own understanding of how this works.  Even though he knows exactly how long we have been married, he will be the first to tell you that we have been happily married now for four years.

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She still dreams of how life would be with Dad

Jan 3

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Published in the Nashville Eye column of The Tennessean, Father’s Day, 1990.

 

My reaction to Father’s Day has changed over the years.  

When I was little, I ignored it completely.  As I grew older, it became a sad time for me.  Today, I have come to appreciate this holiday, maybe even more than the others. 

You see, my Daddy died when I was a baby.  I never knew him, but I had his picture and my own fairy-tale view of what he must have been like.  I constantly watched other daddies and dreamed about my own. Sometimes, I still do.

It took me awhile to figure it all out.  I guess I was three years old when I asked the inevitable question, “My best friend has a daddy; why don’t I?”

My Mommy explained that Daddy was killed in a car wreck and had gone to be with God in heaven. She said he would always love me and be watching over me, even though he couldn’t be here. It didn’t make much sense to me.

I asked my sister, Jeanna, about it and she said it was true.  She was six years old and knew everything.  She said she remembered Daddy.  Everyone seemed to remember him except for me.

It seemed that the more I learned about my father’s death, the less I understood it.  I wanted a lap to sit in and a neck to hug.  I wanted to be tickled and chased and to ride piggy-back.  I wanted my Daddy to come back.  And I believed with all my heart that he would.

It was my seventh birthday- this was the day he was going to come see me.  I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay long because he would have to get back to heaven. All I wanted was to spend a few minutes with him so that I could remember him too.

I wore my favorite blue dress to school that day because I knew he would like it.  I saved part of my lunch for him because I thought he might be hungry from his trip.  I knew he would be able to recognize me because he had been watching over me all those years.  I wondered if he would look the same as in the pictures.

I wondered, and waited.

May 7, 1974 – on that day I learned the meaning of the word “forever.” Finally, I had come to terms with my father’s death.

Perhaps this might explain my misconceptions about Father’s Day.  My first memory of a Father’s Day was being in church and the preacher loudly saying “Happy Father’s Day!”  I quickly decided that since I didn’t have a “happy father,” I didn’t have to listen to that sermon.  I slept through church that Sunday.

As my sister and I became teenagers, we recognized the holiday by buying our mother a Father’s Day present. She played both roles in our family and deserved the show of kindness.

Now that I’m grown and have kids of my own, I look forward to father’s Day.  It’s a big production at our house.  The kids march around with sigsns that say “Daddy is great!” they have buttons that say “I love Dad” on them.  I want them to understand how important their daddy is; I what their daddy to understand it as well.

Maybe I still have a fairy-tale view of things, but in my opinion, it is quite simple: It’s the little things that a father can do that are most important.  Spend time with your kids, whether it’s playing ball or doing yard work or reading to them.  Listen to them.  Let them know you are on their side.  Make them laugh often, and hold them when they cry.

Regardless of their age, your children need to know you care. 

Trust me, it matters.  And Happy Father’s Day!

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