Bottles, Nickels, and Bare Feet

 

Growing up in the 1960s, money was tight and every penny counted. In our house, we lived by the motto: “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” But that didn’t mean we kids didn’t dream of a little pocket money of our own.

There weren’t many ways to earn it—maybe rake leaves, take out the trash, wash a neighbor’s car, or walk a dog or two. But my brother, sister, and I found our own money-making scheme: scavenging for tossed-out Coca-Cola bottles.

We’d spend whole summer days wandering up and down the streets in town, pulling our little red wagon behind us. I can still feel my bare feet burning on the hot pavement as we searched for those beautiful green-tinted bottles glinting in the sun. Each one was worth a whole nickel if we turned it in at the store—a nickel that could buy a treasure trove of penny candy.

What we didn’t realize then was that we were also doing our town a favor, picking up litter and keeping our streets clean. Before long, a few neighbors joined our mission, and the search turned into something of a neighborhood event. We’d laugh and carry on as we peered into ditches, crawled through underbrush (collecting a few scratches along the way), and darted out of the road when a car came by.

All that effort rarely amounted to much in terms of money, but we were proud of every nickel we earned. And of course, we spent it as fast as we got it—sometimes on penny candy, sometimes on another cold bottle of Coca-Cola. Either way, it was worth every drop of sweat and every blistered toe.

Looking back now, I see it wasn’t really about the nickels at all. It was about the simple joy of working together, laughing in the sun, and learning that even small efforts can make a difference. Those were rich days indeed, no matter how little we had.

Nowadays, when I think about those summers and that little red wagon, I’m reminded of how God blesses us in the simplest ways. We didn’t have much, but we had each other—and we had the joy that comes from gratitude, hard work, and togetherness. I believe the Lord smiled on those barefoot children, teaching us early that true wealth isn’t measured in coins, but in contentment.

Dear Lord, thank You for the simple joys that fill our lives—sunshine, laughter, family, and the satisfaction of honest work. Help us to remember that true riches come not from what we have, but from hearts that are thankful for every blessing, big or small. Amen.

 

Come Set a Spell: A Lesson in Patience and Faith

When I was a child, visiting my grandparents was one of the greatest joys of my week. They lived about fifty-five miles from our home, and every Friday evening, after my daddy got off work, we’d pack up the car and head their way. My father always helped my grandfather in his shop on the weekends, meeting the quota he had for a local mill.

As soon as we turned into that familiar driveway, all of us kids would start bouncing around in the backseat with excitement. We knew we were about to have the best kind of weekend — the kind filled with sunshine, laughter, and plenty of playtime while the grown-ups worked.

When we reached the front porch, the screen door would creak open, and without fail, my grandmother’s sweet voice would call out, “Y’all come on in and set a spell!”

Now, proper English would’ve said sit a spell, but in our Southern home, “set a spell” just felt right. Back then, I didn’t care about grammar. The only thing that mattered was that she wanted to spend time with us — to stop what she was doing, welcome us in, and make us feel loved.

Those weekends were simple, but they were rich. The air always smelled faintly of machine oil and biscuits baking. The hum of my grandfather’s tools mixed with the sound of my grandmother’s shuffling around in the kitchen. And no matter how busy everyone seemed, there was always time to “set a spell.”

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about those visits. This week especially, it feels like God has been whispering to my heart in much the same way: “Come and set a spell with Me.”

Life gets so busy — the days blur together, filled with things to do and places to be. I usually start my mornings with coffee and my Bible, but some days I rush right past that quiet time, thinking I’ll get to it later. But God waits patiently, just like my grandmother did — eager for me to pause, open the door, and spend a little time with Him.

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” That verse has taken on a new meaning for me lately. God doesn’t just want our quick prayers in between appointments or our distracted thoughts before bed. He wants us to be still long enough to feel His presence — to truly know Him.

When I picture my grandmother’s porch and her warm invitation, I can almost see my Heavenly Father sitting there too, gently calling, “Come and set a spell.” And just like those visits long ago, when I take the time to sit with Him, I always find peace, comfort, and a love that never runs out.

Dear Lord, thank You for the gentle reminders to slow down and spend time with You. In a world that moves too fast, help me to be still long enough to feel Your presence and hear Your voice. Teach me to rest in Your peace, just as I once rested on my grandmother’s porch. Thank You for always waiting with open arms, ready to spend time with me. Amen.

Random musings ©️ Bonnie Annis

Daddy's Resourcefulness

 

Growing up, I don’t think I ever saw my Daddy stumped by a problem. He could fix anything—from a tractor that wouldn’t turn over to a squeaky door hinge that drove Mama crazy. He had a knack for looking at a problem, scratching his chin for a moment, and then figuring out some clever solution out of thin air.

 

One Sunday afternoon, our toilet started leaking. Now, back then, hardware stores didn’t open on Sundays, and Daddy knew that if he waited until Monday to fix it, the five of us would be in for a long and miserable evening. A house with no working toilet? Unthinkable.

 

So, he did what Daddy always did: he figured something out.

 

Unbeknownst to me, his “something” involved one of my favorite pairs of shoes—a soft suede pair of moccasins that I adored. Daddy must have eyed them sitting by the back door and thought, that leather will do just fine. He took one shoe, cut a small piece from the tongue, and made himself a washer to stop the leak. Toilet fixed. Problem solved.

 

The next morning, I was getting ready for school. I slipped into my hip-hugger bell bottoms, pulled on my peasant blouse, and went to put on my moccasins. That’s when I saw it. The tongue on one shoe looked like a mouse had chewed on it. I let out a holler that could’ve woken the dead, accusing my siblings left and right.

 

Daddy sat at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee, not saying a word. Just smiling to himself.

Mama turned around from the stove and gave him that look—one every Southern husband knows well. 

 

“What did you do, Honey?”

 

That’s when he confessed, grinning sheepishly. “Well, the toilet was leaking, and I needed a washer. I figured that leather was just right for the job. I cut it out where she could still wear the shoes. Nobody’d ever notice.”

 

Except, of course, I did notice.

 

I was mad for a while, but deep down, even then, I admired the way Daddy’s mind worked. He could take nothing and turn it into something useful. He didn’t need manuals or fancy parts—just a little bit of common sense and a whole lot of confidence.

 

Over the years, I’ve caught myself doing the same thing—improvising fixes, making do, and figuring it out as I go. Whenever I pull off one of my own “creative repairs,” I can almost see Daddy smiling that same quiet smile, coffee cup in hand.

 

I guess you could say he didn’t just fix things—he passed down a way of thinking. And I’ll always be proud to be his daughter.

 

Heavenly Father,

Thank You for the gift of resourcefulness, and for the simple wisdom You often hide in the hearts of everyday people like my Daddy. Thank You for the memories that remind me of his steady hands and his quiet confidence. Help me to carry that same spirit of faith, patience, and creativity into my own life. And when I’m faced with problems that seem too big to fix, remind me that You are the ultimate Creator—the One who can make something beautiful out of anything.

Amen.

The Breakfast Club and the Reunion I Skipped

Last night, I rewatched The Breakfast Club for what must be the hundredth time. I’ve always loved that movie—it’s one of those classic ‘80s films that seemed to define a generation. But this time, I noticed things I’d never paid much attention to before.

First, the language and some of the subject matter. Wow. I didn’t remember it being quite so rough around the edges! Still, once I looked past that, I was reminded why the story has always stuck with me. Five students from five very different high school cliques—the popular girl, the jock, the brain, the weirdo, and the rebel—trapped together in Saturday detention.

It struck me how much those same groups existed in my own high school. We all had our categories, our little boxes that supposedly defined who we were.

If I had to choose, I probably would have fallen into “the brain” group back then—but in my heart, I always leaned toward the rebel side. Maybe that’s why the movie has always spoken to me. Beneath all those labels, each of those kids just wanted to be understood, accepted, and seen for who they truly were.

Ironically, last night was also my high school’s 50th reunion. When the announcement first came out, I was excited. I wanted to go, to see old friends and maybe even reconnect with a few classmates I hadn’t seen in decades. But as the date drew closer, something inside me shifted. Partly it was due to personal reasons, partly because I had family coming in from out of town—and honestly, I just wanted to spend that time with them.

So, I didn’t go.

Today, as I scroll through Facebook, I know I’ll see pictures of smiling faces from that reunion. I’m both looking forward to seeing them and dreading it a little too.

A 50th reunion only comes once in a lifetime, and I know I’ll never get another chance at it.

There’s a part of me that hates missing it.

But another part of me—the rebel part, maybe—feels at peace with my choice. After all, The Breakfast Club taught me long ago that who we are doesn’t depend on which group we fit into or which events we attend. It’s about being true to ourselves, right where we are.

And as I sat there last night watching that movie, I couldn’t help but think how much life is like that Saturday detention—different people from all walks of life brought together for a reason. Some lessons come late, some arrive quietly, but God always knows what He’s doing.

Maybe I didn’t need to go back to my high school reunion to relive old memories. Maybe what I needed was right there in front of me: a reminder that I’ve already been shaped, refined, and freed by the One who truly sees me—no labels, no groups, just grace.

Lord, thank You for reminding me that who I am in You is far more important than who I was in high school. Help me to live each day true to myself and to the person You’ve created me to be. Amen.

Mrs. Ellington a lesson in grammar and Grace

In the center, white pantsuit

I’ll never forget my eighth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Betty Ellington — a truly remarkable woman born in 1916, back when ladies still wore gloves to church and manners were as important as math. By the time I met her, she was what we affectionately called a “blue-haired lady,” though she’d likely have preferred “silvery-haired Southern gentlewoman.” She carried herself with such poise and grace that even her posture seemed to correct ours.

Mrs. Ellington taught in the DeKalb County School System for over forty years, with more than thirty of those right there at Clarkston High School. Most of us owe our command of the English language — and perhaps our tendency to correct others — to her. She was a stickler for grammar, and heaven help you if you ended a sentence with a preposition. She had us memorize all forty-eight of them, pounding them into our teenage brains until we could recite them in our sleep.

I can still rattle off the start of the list: aboard, about, above, across, after, against, along, amid, among, around, at… — and yes, I can still hear her voice echoing, “Keep going, class!” I must’ve driven my poor family crazy, wandering around the house muttering prepositions under my breath like a preacher in a spelling bee revival.

She also made sure we learned the eight parts of speech, diagrammed sentences until our hands cramped, and used only blue, black, or blue-black ink — nothing else would do. You didn’t dare turn in an assignment in pencil or (heaven forbid) green ink unless you were looking for extra homework.

But outside the classroom, Mrs. Ellington revealed a softer, more joyful side — especially at Clarkston Baptist Church. I’ll never forget seeing her at the piano, her perfectly coiffed hair catching the light, her hands gliding across the keys with pure joy. She’d look out at the congregation with the biggest smile on her face, completely at ease and full of the Spirit. The same woman who ran her classroom like the Queen’s Court could let loose in church, beaming as she played hymns that made you want to shout “Amen!”

She had her own brand of Southern elegance — she loved fancy clip-on earbobs (the sparklier, the better), beautiful neck scarves tied just so, and she was a die-hard Georgia Tech fan, bless her heart. You could always count on her to display school spirit in the most ladylike way possible — probably with a gold brooch or a tasteful ribbon.

Mrs. Ellington was the definition of a “gentile Southern lady” — dignified, devoted, and deeply godly. She taught generations of students not only how to write a proper sentence, but how to carry themselves with grace and purpose. She passed away at the age of 92, leaving behind a legacy that lives on in every essay, letter, and grammatically correct Facebook post written by one of her students.

To this day, when I hear someone say “where’s it at,” I can almost feel Mrs. Ellington looking down from heaven, shaking her head with that patient, knowing smile. I like to think she’s still correcting papers up there — in blue-black ink, of course — and maybe playing a few hymns on that heavenly piano between classes.

Dear Lord,

Thank You for the teachers who shape our minds and our hearts. Thank You especially for Mrs. Betty Ellington, who taught us that every word matters — in grammar and in life. May we honor her legacy by speaking with kindness, writing with purpose, and living with the same grace she carried so well.

And if she’s up there grading our work, Lord, please remind her to use a little mercy with that red pen.

Amen.