The Iddy, Biddy Diddy

Ever feel like you're trying "too hard"?  Is this truly a possibility or is it just a scam people use as a tactic to get you to stop doing what you're doing?

If someone tells me I'm trying too hard, then it has to be "the scam".  Yea, it's a scam, alright.  However, if I decide that I really am trying too hard, like if I'm black & blue from hitting my head against a wall, then maybe it is time to back off... unless, of course, it is for my family, or for my loved ones, or my friends, or my so-so friends, or my list of people that make me crazy, or my hobbies, or my job, or my latest project, or my next project, or my "I should do this" list, or my "I have to do this" list, or, and by all means... my beloved bucket list.

Hmmm... guess that just about covers it.

No sense in beating my head against the wall to get this point across.  After all, I have to save my energy for daunting projects.  So, let me close with this delightful little, iddy, biddy diddy...

Passionate souls are stubborn souls.
Stubborn souls are hard to sway.
So, if ye be a soul like me,
pray "stubborn" goes away.

Ah, I feel better now.  Let the day begin!

Just call me:  your friend, your want-to-be friend, your so-so friend, or...
"She makes a' me crazy" friend,

Sincerely,
Cindy Lou


p.s. #1  I'm practicing for the Mean Old Lady Olympics.

p.s. #2  I hear they have a competition called Quick Wit.

p.s. #3  I'm sharpening my skills... uh, tongue.

p.s. #4  There is a scripture in Proverbs or somewhere in the Bible about not being stubborn.  I should look it up.

p.s. #5  Can't... I'm too stubborn.

p.s. #6  Yikes!  Feeling convicted.

I Samuel 15:23, Holy Bible, King James Version
"For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry..."

p.s. #7  Uh, oh...  

I John 1:9, Holy Bible, King James Version
"If we CONFESS OUR SINS, he is faithful and just to FORGIVE OUR SINS, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." 

p.s. #8  Sweet... Thank you, Jesus!


@Copyright 2010, Cindy Lou Hodges
All Rights Reserved

The Clothesline

I enjoy my living room with its gold, amber & crimson colors.  The visual warmth surrounds me and welcomes me onto its cushions and beckons me to stay awhile.  Except for this morning!

He told me that he had washed a load of laundry and spread it out for it to finish drying, and that it was in the living room on the love seat.  (That's our modern day clothesline around here, that, and the sofa.)   This is normal at my house because I have a husband who knows how to do laundry and doesn't seem to mind doing it.  Fortunate am I.  Entertained, also.  The laundry load was "whites":  his underwear & our socks.  I know you're already thinking that he mixed colors in with the whites, but that's not so.  He is very good at the job, and today's story takes a different direction, so just sit back and let me continue.

In my morning stupor, I rambled through the house waking up, and my mind drifted back to my real clothesline days in Duncan, Oklahoma.  My parents, brother and I lived on the northern edge of town on five acres with a big front yard.  Tall oak and blackjack trees dotted the fence line and a few peach trees stood between the oaks and the big, long clothesline. Even with the trees, the view of the clothesline was quite public and anything on display there was like a giant checkered flag waving at all passersby calling, "Look at me.  Look at me!"

I thought nothing of it until I became a "developing" young woman.  Now, I am certain that I didn't do my fair share of laundry or other household chores, but it when it came time to hang out the clothes, I just nearly died when I had to hang out my brother's & daddy's  underwear and mama's & my  panties and  bras.  I always saved them for the last, and I always did my best to hide them, pinning them on the middle of the three wire lines with the towels, sheets & such hanging on the outer lines.  I even tried double & triple layering items, but they took forever to dry.  When I was out there, I worked as fast as I could, hoping no one would see me or notice the "underwear" flapping in the breeze.

You need to understand that this was before we had a real clothes dryer, and we weren't the only family who used nature to dry our clothes.  But, it seems to me that we had the longest clothesline in town, and this girl wanted to be like my uptown girlfriends who finished their laundry inside.  I remember when the city changed our street name from North 10th to Country Club Road, how excited I was about now being a "city girl".  But when I had to hang out clothes, my embarrassment quadrupled!  How could we be so "country" when we lived on a city street called "Country Club Road"???  "Why couldn't we get a dryer like normal people???"  "Why? Why? Why?"  Mama & Daddy paid no attention to my whining.  They just smiled when they handed me a laundry basket of wet, clean clothes and pushed me out the door.

Just so you'll know I'm not completely dumb, I finally did realize that I could hang the lady garments inside over the bathtub.  That was a small victory for pride, and such an easy solution.  It just took me several years to figure it out, though... some of us folks are just kind of slow at progress, and I guess I'm one of them. 

Golly, that was about forty years ago.  And, now, I'm back to the present time.  I thought what a neat story I could write about my husband's string of white undies spread all over the living room love seat.  But, when I walked in with my camera to capture the vision, he had already removed half of the proof.  When he realized what I was doing, he blocked my camera shot, and then he shamed me for making fun of his efforts to help with the laundry.  We laughed, and I teased him about putting it all back so I could show you how funny it all looked, but he didn't seem to think it was too funny.  Now, that's funny! 

So here I sit, telling it all, and this may be the last time he washes my socks.  It may take me a few years to figure out why, since some of us folks are just kind of  slow at progress, and I guess I'm one of them... but, oh... what fun!

Since I have no picture to show you, just use your imagination.  Stark white men's underwear (drawers, as we used to say) and white socks of all shapes & sizes strewn across the Mediterranean love seat.  A vision of oxymorons, or let me say... oxipowders!

Pardon me while I continue...
You may pick one of the following as my closing line:

Cheers to the clotheslines of now & then!
Hip-hip hoorays to those who get my Dreft!

May the Tide of change be easy for All!

Blessed are those who are Downy and hung out to dry.

Wisking you easy stain removal as you Shout your colors loud & strong.

May Gain restrain your Arm & Hammer.

Resolve to Bounce back to days of Ivory Snow.

May clean laundry be yours as you Spray & Wash, Purex & Clorox.

and my favorite...

Snuggles  to you!

Laughing and looking feverishly for my clean, white socks...

Cindy Lou



@Copyright 2010, Cindy Lou Hodges
All Rights Reserved.

My Flag

Triumphant it stood.
Boldly it waved.
Courage and strength it told.
I watched it furl in jet streamed sky
and wondered how am I
so fortunate to sit beneath this flag,
on freedom's common ground.

What price was paid I cannot grasp,
can't fathom freedom's cost,
but as I view Old Glory's flight
I pray we shall:
not faint,
give hope to night,
turn wrong to right,
and be worthy of the name...
America...
America...
America.

                  --Cindy Lou Hodges


@Copyright 2010, Cindy Lou Hodges
All Rights Reserved.

Fire, Fire... Hair on Fire!

It was the month of December in a quiet neighborhood in central Texas.  It was your typical Sunday morning worship service in this Southern Baptist Church.  Traditional Christmas carols and festive decorations filled the room, but there was nothing typical about things when her hair caught on fire!  I guess you could say, "That's when all hell broke loose!"

I was the pianist, and she, Miss M, was the keyboardist.  We were just about four feet apart from each other.  What separated us was a short banister wall, about "hip high", and of course, the votive candles were lit for the morning's service.  All was well, and the congregation seemed to be singing better than usual.  They actually were in tune with our choir, and our minister of music was giving it his all as he lead the joyful sounds of praise and worship.  Our pastor was deep in thought, or prayer, or something, but by the look on his face one could tell that he, too, was enjoying the service.  It was a packed house and joy filled the sanctuary.  Everyone was in their proper place, and as they say, there was peace in the valley.

Then, it happened.  We were in the middle of one of our favorite Christmas carols:  congregation singing, piano playing, keyboard roaring.  And then, she leaned forward with her head tilted down somewhat... ka-whooooosh!  The top of her hair caught on fire! 

Out of my peripheral vision I saw this instant flash of bright, white light.  There seemed to be some very pale yellow, kind of lemon yellow, and a very delicate shade of lavender mixed with some blue in it, too.  I thought it was very pretty, until I realized what it really was!  "Oh, my gosh... it's a fire!  Dear, God... her hair's on fire!!!" 

Now, you have to understand, that at this exact time in space, everything was in slow motion:  very, very slow motion... even though we're talking about just a matter of seconds.  As my fingers kept playing the Christmas call to worship, my eyes saw three or four deacons rushing towards the piano and keyboard.  They looked like linebackers from a football team, but they had this horrid look of fear on their faces.  They seemed to do some sort of shuffle run, then they would halfway halt, then start moving forward again.  It was a strange sight, I tell you.  Frightening, too, because they were running straight towards us...  Miss M and me. 

I don't know what finally clicked in my mind, but thank goodness it did.  I jumped up and started hitting Miss M on the head, patting out the fire.  Wisps of singed hair floated all around us, kind of like tiny dark feathers sifting through the air.  It was as if we were on film, and that the film's shutter speed was slowly clicking from frame to frame.., or in this case, from "flame to flame".  The very distinguishable odor of singed hair overpowered everything:  the scented cinnamon spice candles, the holiday fragrance of the evergreens, and even my gently applied Channel #5.

It all happened unbelievably fast, and then, in a flash, it was over.  Done.  Gone.  Fire out.  Oh, the candles kept burning, and the congregation kept singing. Well, mostly.  The singing did sort of die down, but I'm not sure the folks on the back rows ever knew why or that a ruckus had occurred right there on Sunday morning, in their peaceful little church. 

Our minister of music recounts that everything in that service was going great until he looked over and saw his pianist beating the keyboardist on the head.  Guess he missed the vision of the flames, but he sure as heck saw his two musicians decking it out with each other, and that's what he remembers to this day!

As for the deacons, the men that rushed to the front, they weren't needed after all.  My speed and position allowed me to take care of the "situation", and so, they fumbled back to their pews, shaking their heads wondering what on earth had happened. 

Musically, the song survived.  Only a few measures were without accompaniment, and once the flames were smothered, I went back to the piano bench and started playing again.  Miraculously my hands were not burned.  Miraculously, Miss M was not injured.  Her pride was somewhat assaulted, and her hair needed a few weeks to recover, but she had no burns whatsoever, and what could have been a catastrophe became a miracle and a marvelous, unforgettable memory.

I have to tell you, that this was a highlight of my career.  I have played for church services off and on for decades now, and many stories can be told.  But, this one is tops.  Whoever said being a church pianist is boring, has never sat where I sit, and they have never seen things from my perspective.  I love what I do, and it is never, ever boring... at least not for this gal, and certainly not here in Texas!  I truly consider it a privilege, and I count it all joy to be a "bench warmer".  And just for the record, the Christmas season is definitely my favorite time of the year!

So, here I sit.  I'm watching and waiting for more miracles...  pardon the pun, but they do warm the heart!

Joyfully serving... and, joyfully playing,
this church pianist,

Cindy Lou


@Copyright 2010, Cindy Lou Hodges
All Rights Reserved.

The Daydream

I was so involved with my daydream that I missed my mouth with my coffee cup.  Surprising?  Not at all.

The imagery was spectacular, and the band was in the grove, uh groove.  There I stood with the microphone, not one ounce of fear piercing through my body.  All eyes were glued to this magical moment:  all ears tuned to the soft nuances that would soon flow from my soul.  No one knew this was the moment I had longed for.  No one knew the expense of this adventure.  No one knew.  No one cared.  No one, but I.

Spotlight intact.  Curtain up.  Applause filled the air with the echo of triumph.  Taking in one last breath, I opened my mouth to sing, and right there, in the middle of my daydream... was the sound of fire alarms and clanging bells!  Uh... no:  it was the telephone.  The audacious, stupid phone was screeching right in the middle of my once in a lifetime "moment".

So, there went the coffee all down my shirt.  There went the daydream:  there went the diva.  I felt like Ralphie, the little kid in the movie, The Christmas Story.  Spectacular were his daydreams that spinned with unbridled enthusiasm!  They out shined the grandest of schemes, and in this world of doubt, they kept his fragile, creative spirit alive.  No one knew about his secret scenarios.  No one knew about them at all, and no one cared.  Or, so he thought.

I guess, inside all of us dwells either a diva or a Ralphie, and somewhere along the way we picked up the notion that the child in us should grow up and throw aside our childish ways replacing them with grown-up thoughts and grown-up behavior.   (Oh, that's in the Bible.  Isn't it?  It's in I Corinthians 13:11.)  That's what is required of us as responsible adults, but I can see a meltdown coming if the child within is forgotten and never released to play, to create, or to daydream.

I don't know about you, but I am planning on longevity here in my life.  My long awaited first grandchild will soon be born, and I want to be around to see her coo & giggle, to see her take her first tiny steps, and to see her twist and turn as she masters her first pair of high heel shoes.  I would love to be around for her wedding day as she lovingly takes those solemn steps of marriage.  And when I arrive at those later stages of my life, I don't want to be a dried-up, old prude who doesn't know how to laugh, or sing, play, or daydream.  I want to be young at heart, and laugh at the days ahead... the days present. 

That sounds like quite a challenge, because aging can be terribly cruel.  Injuries and insults assault us, and time marches on without our permission.   As my Aunt Polly used to say, and now my mother says, "Aging ain't for sissies!"  Yes, I have to agree, it isn't.  Neither is daydreaming.  It takes a lot of courage for grown-ups to dream like a child, and even more courage, I think, to admit that we do.

They say that confession is good for the soul, so here you have it:  I confess.   I daydreamed, and it didn't cost me anything other than the time to wash my coffee-stained blouse.  That was just a few, well spent minutes, and I think that little snippet of time added new wonderment to my child-like faith.

What about you?  Have you daydreamed lately?  It isn't painful, and the child in you just might thank you for the freedom.  Dance, sing, build bridges, climb mountain cliffs, paint like Rembrandt, design fashions, write a best-seller novel, discover a cure for cancer, find a forgotten city, go to the zoo, go watch a baseball game, or imagine your flower beds a botanical wonder.  Be creative... there are no limitations when we daydream, and without our permission, no one can take our dreams away from us.

Because they are precious, we must protect our dreams, and we are instructed to guard them continually.  They can be a gift or a burden, so we are to use them wisely.  We should even pray about them, asking God what they should be and asking God to direct our thoughts and take them where He wants us to be.   Can't say that I remembered to do that before my "diva dream", but I should have.  For I have found that heavenly daydreams are the sweetest of all and the longest lasting.

Take heart, my friends.  There is hope for all of us!  With my grown up knowledge and my child-like faith, I face the future; and you can face it with me.  We may be fortunate enough to daydream a brighter future, and we may even be fortunate enough to find ourselves basking in the spotlight as we stand in front of cheering crowds.  Or, we may find ourselves flat on our backs facing the frightening sounds of emergency sirens.  No one can accurately predict what awaits us, but I do know that we don't have to face those times alone.  There is Someone who cares.... Someone who knows.  And, I would like to know Him better.

Think I'll grab my Bible, turn off the telephone, and ask God to fill me with His love and even more child-like faith.  It can happen, you know... and that doesn't have to be a daydream!

Blessings to you as you rediscover the child within you.  Guard it.  Protect it.  Nurture it.  And, then, give it a friend by the name of Jesus.

Sincerely,
Cindy Lou



"For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he..."
--Proverbs 23:7  King James Version, Holy Bible

"I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it."
--Luke 18:17, New International Version, Holy Bible

"...there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother."
--Proverbs 18:24, New International Version, Holy Bible



@Copyright 2010, Cindy Lou Hodges
All Rights Reserved

Scrambled Eggs

Which shall it be?

"Life is too short for fussing and fighting, my friends."
OR...
"Never go to bed mad.  Stay up and fight!"

Guess it depends on the situation, but I see that most arguments revolve around proving who is right and who is wrong.  We all want to be right.  We want to be the smart one, the superior one, the winner;  but, most of the time, the winning comes at great expense.  Why can't we accept that there is more than one way to do a task, and more than one way to view the situation?  It's all a matter of perspective.

I speak from experience.   Being married to an engineer, and myself being an artist... I know for a fact there is more than one way to get the job done.  For instance:  breakfast eggs.  He likes his fried, squashed, squished and hard as a rock with crispy, crinkled, bacon greased brown edges.  I like mine scrambled with butter, ever so soft, light and fluffy.  It's just eggs, but two distinctly different ideas of how to cook them:  two different preferences, two different perspectives.

Two different people living together:  successfully!  Yes, in this household now, around the cook top, there is peace.  He has his bacon grease and spatula, and I have my butter with olive oil.  'Tis so amicable here.  'Tis so sweet.  And then, out of the blue, holding it high in the air, I hear myself say, "step aside, dear... I have the skillet, and I know how to use it!"

Hungry, grumpy,
and not feeling very patient this morning,

Cindy Lou

p.s.  Even the sweetest rose has its thorns!  (chuckle!)