Three Raggedy Friends and a Lifetime of Memories

 

There are some things we keep not because they are valuable in dollars and cents, but because they are priceless in memories. Sometimes those treasures are tucked away in a box, carefully wrapped and stored for safekeeping. Other times, they sit right where we can see them, quietly reminding us of where we came from and the little pieces of childhood that never really leave us. For me, three Raggedy Ann dolls have become much more than old dolls. They are pieces of my story.

 

The beautiful Raggedy Ann in the dark blue dress is the one who started it all. She was handmade especially for me in 1958 by Caroline Carey, a longtime friend of my mother's. (At the time, my mother was expecting my little sister and Carolyn knew I might need a little extra love before Valerie was born.) I was just a year old when she came into my life, and somehow, almost 7 decades later, she is still here. Her yarn hair may not be quite as perfect as it once was, and her little cloth body carries the gentle signs of a well-loved childhood companion, but to me she has always been beautiful. She isn't simply a doll. She is the keeper of my childhood secrets.

 

She has been there through so many seasons of my life. She knew the little girl I was before I understood much about the world. She witnessed childhood joys, disappointments, tears, dreams and perhaps a few things I wouldn't want anyone else to know. She never judged me, never interrupted and never told a soul. There is something comforting about an old friend who has been with you for almost your entire life. When I look at her now, I don't just see a Raggedy Ann doll. I see a little girl sitting on the floor with her beloved doll, completely unaware of how quickly the years would pass.

 

A few years ago, I found another handmade Raggedy Ann and couldn't resist bringing her home. I named her Raggedy Alice. I imagine she was probably made sometime in the late 1960s, and although I don't know the hands that lovingly stitched her together, I like to think someone once loved her as much as I loved my Raggedy Ann. She became a companion to my original girl, and somehow the two of them look as though they were meant to sit together. Raggedy Alice may have joined our family many years after my childhood, but she seems perfectly content to take her place beside her older friend.

 

Then, just yesterday, another little Raggedy Ann came home with me from a vintage market sale here in Perry, Georgia. She is the smallest of the three, and I immediately knew she needed a name. So Little Annie it was. She was manufactured sometime in the late 1970s, which means she carries her own little bit of history. I have no idea where she has been or who loved her before me, but now she has a new home with two older Raggedy sisters. I have a feeling she is going to fit right in.

 

And then there is the tiny ceramic Raggedy Ann figurine sitting among them. She was a gift from my youngest daughter, which makes her especially precious to me. She may not have the soft cloth body or yarn hair of the others, but she carries something just as meaningful, the love of a daughter who knew that Raggedy Ann represented something special to her mother.

 

My love for Raggedy Ann began long before I ever understood the nostalgia I would one day feel for her. As a child, I loved reading the Raggedy Ann and Andy books written by Johnny Gruelle. I could lose myself in those stories, where the world seemed gentler and imagination was always just around the corner. Life seemed simpler then. Childhood wasn't filled with quite so many distractions, and there was something wonderfully sweet about settling down with a book and entering a world where dolls could come alive and adventures could be found in the most ordinary places.

 

Perhaps that is why these dolls mean so much to me now. They aren't really about dolls at all. They are about time. They remind me of a little girl who once believed in the magic of stories, a mother who had a friend named Caroline Carey who took the time to make a special doll for her daughter, and a childhood that could never be duplicated but can still be remembered.

 

I sometimes wonder what my Raggedy Ann would say if she could talk. After all, she has had many, many years to collect stories. She has seen me grow from a little girl into a woman, watched the seasons of my life come and go, and remained quietly faithful through it all. She has known things about me that no one else could possibly know. Maybe that's the true gift of childhood treasures. They remember the version of us that the rest of the world has forgotten.

 

Now the three of them sit together, Raggedy Ann, Raggedy Alice and Little Annie, like old friends gathered around a kitchen table, sharing stories from different generations. One was made for me in 1958, one came into my life decades later, and one arrived just yesterday. Their years are different, their stories are different, but somehow they belong together.

 

Looking at them takes me back to a simpler time, when a handmade doll could become a lifelong friend and a book could transport a child into another world. It reminds me that some treasures grow more precious with age, not because they become more valuable to everyone else, but because they become more valuable to us.

 

So I'll keep these three little Raggedy girls close. I'll dust them gently, straighten their dresses and smile every time I walk past them. And somewhere in the quiet of my heart, I know that my original Raggedy Ann is still keeping my secrets. After all, we've been together since I was just a wee one.

Some friendships really do last a lifetime.

A New Year!

This morning I was thinking about the home I grew up in. It was an old cinderblock home, nothing fancy, in fact it was an architect's final build in order to get his license. 

Inside that house, on the second story, inside the bottom cabinet of the bathroom, was a laundry chute. Those weren't too popular in the late 50s and early 60s, but we had one. 

My brother, sister, and I thought it was great. Though it was built for convenience, we used it for sending toys and other things down into the laundry area of our garage. 

I can still remember standing over the top of the chute, hands ready to let some precious cargo speed down the chute while yelling "Bombs away!" And I can still see the wide eyes of my sibling peering up through the chute at me, waiting to retrieve the payload. 

Those days were filled with childhood fun. We made good use of that laundry chute, but so did Mama. It made her life easier not to have to carry loads of clothing down our long flight of stairs. 

As I was thinking about that laundry chute today and our cries of "Bombs away," I thought, that's a good motto for this New Year. Instead of holding onto the past events that have traumatized us, we need, in our hearts, to be willing to let go with a proverbial “Bombs away.”

We also need to be willing to expect God to provide all we need for the New Year. 

While the Israelites were wandering through the desert for forty years, they didn't have much in the way of food. They got tired of their typical diet and begged God for something different. God heard their cries and answered, providing them with a new breakfast food called Manna. 

The manna appeared every morning. The Israelites were given specific instructions on gathering it and they were not to store it up for the following day. If they disobeyed and gathered some manna to save for the next day, it would spoil before they could eat it. 

This year, perhaps we need to wake each day looking for our manna - God's perfect provision for whatever the day holds. 

As we look for it, I hope you can envision a "heavenly laundry chute" with God at the top and yourself at the bottom eagerly looking up to see what He's going to send your way. 

I doubt seriously that you'll hear God yell, "Bombs away," like we did as children, but I imagine, if you could see His face, you'd see a huge, loving, kind smile and eager, heavenly hands ready to bless you. 

Last year was a terrible, awful, very bad year in many ways, but, if you think back, I'm sure there was some manna tucked in there, too. 

This first day of 2026, Look up! The Lord is your Provider! He is Jehovah Jireh. Let Him take care of all your worries, all your cares, all your needs. He wants to bless you. And if you keep your gaze locked on His beautiful face, nothing else that touches your life will matter because He has the manna. And He's going to make sure you have just enough for each and every day. 

© Bonnie Annis

You can read more about Manna in the Bible in Exodus 16.

A special Christmas memory

Christmas memories are often either some of the very best or the very worst memories a person can have. I'm thankful I can say that most of my Christmas memories have been extremely pleasant and most of them have revolved around selfless love given to me by others. I'd like to share one of my childhood memories with you today in hopes that it might encourage or bless you during this emotionally charged time of year. 

I don't remember exactly how old I was the year I received my most prized possession but I must have been between the ages of 8 and 10. That Christmas, like most others in my childhood, centered around just being together instead of focusing on what was underneath the tree. 

I distinctly remember turning in a Christmas list to my mother earlier in the month. I'd talked with my next door neighbor (who was a little older than I) to find out what the most popular gifts were at the time. I'd asked her what she was going to ask "Santa" for and she showed me pictures from the Sears catalog of all the beautiful Barbie dolls and accessories she'd added to her list. I took home that empowering information and rewrote my list knowing all the while that my parents could never afford such luxuries. Although I would have loved to have found a Barbie dream house, Barbie, Midge, Ken, and Skipper under my tree, I knew I'd be lucky to receive one doll, if any. 

On Christmas morning, as my brother, sister, and I, sat patiently on our living room floor waiting for the signal to begin, I glanced at the packages beneath our tree. There were less than a dozen which meant there were probably only two or three a piece for each of us. This was nothing new. Each year, we were very thankful for whatever we received, but as a child, it was only natural to hope that year after year, things would get bigger and better. 

When Daddy came downstairs, Mama gave permission for us to begin opening our gifts. As we scrambled to find the gifts with our names on them, our parents sat back and watched with anticipation. Great thought and time had gone into the choosing and even though money was scarce, there was no shortage of love in our household. 

My brother, sister, and I were busy opening our gifts simultaneously. I have no idea what they received that year but I do remember my special gift. The box was bigger than a shoebox and I had no idea what might be inside. It was too small to be a Barbie Dream House and too big to be a Barbie doll. I hadn't asked for anything that was even remotely that size, but as I continued unwrapping the box, the mystery was revealed. 

Through a clear cellophane window on the front of the box, I saw a beautiful Italian doll. Her velveteen bonnet and dress were a deep burgundy in color. Her hair, perfectly coifed, was coiled into individual blonde ringlets framing her angelic face. 

I stared in awe as I beheld this wondrous gift. I felt so loved! Where on earth did my mother find it? I'd never seen anything so gorgeous in any of the stores we'd visited before Christmas. 

Carefully, I removed the wire ties that held the doll securely in the box. After she was free, I held her close and examined every inch of her loveliness. Glancing up from the doll, I looked into my mother's face. Tears of joy stained her cheeks. 

I didn't realize it at the time, but the purchase of that doll was a huge sacrifice. Surely she had cost more than any other gift under the tree and had been picked out just for me. 

For years, I cherished that doll only holding her once or twice a day for fear of soiling her loveliness. She was the most special material possession I owned. 

I don't know whatever happened to that doll. More than likely, as I grew older, she was given to a needy child in the neighborhood or donated to a charity but the memories of her will be with me forever. 

Last night, as I was perusing Ebay, I saw a photo of a doll very similar to the one I loved so dearly. It sparked all these memories and made me realize how very loved and cherished I was to my parents back then. It also made me realize how very much we take for granted in our lives. 

If I could have a "do-over," I'd make sure to let my parents know how very much I appreciate them not buying me a Barbie Dream House that year. Their gift was so much better because it was chosen with love. 

We don't always realize our blessings until they're gone. And while a Christmas doll seems so trivial, it's symbolic of a greater gift. Just as our parents want to give us their very best blessings and take joy in giving us our hearts' desires, so our Heavenly Father wants to shower us with His abundant blessings. 

This Christmas, don't focus on the "things" that make the day merry and bright. Instead, focus on the hearts and love around you. Most of all, remember the most beautiful, priceless gift of all...the sweet gift of God's one and only Son, Jesus, handpicked especially for you.

Pianos and Piranhas

When I was growing up, bartering wasn’t some quaint, old-timey concept. It was just how folks did business. If you had something useful to trade, you might never see a single dollar exchanged. Lucky for us, my mother was a master seamstress. She could hem a dress, mend a rip, or stitch a zipper faster than most people could microwave popcorn (not that we had microwaves back then, but you get my drift). Because of Mama’s magical sewing machine, we never lacked for what we needed—although sometimes I wished the woman had been terrible with a needle.

Especially the year she bartered our childhood freedom away for piano lessons.

Mama struck a deal with a local piano teacher. In exchange for sewing clothes for the teacher’s family, my brother, sister, and I—were to learn how to make beautiful music. Mama imagined us lined up like the Von Trapp children, harmonizing and maybe even smiling. What Mama didn’t know was that our future held more terror than treble clefs.

The first day, we entered the piano teacher’s house with high hopes and low expectations. She greeted us with the enthusiastic warmth of a hostage negotiator. Her mouth was drawn in a tight line that said, “I do not play”. She pointed with her bony finger to a pair of chairs in the corner—our designated waiting area. That corner held exactly two things: hard wooden seats and a large aquarium full of fish with pointy teeth.

She informed us, very calmly, that those were piranhas.

I didn’t even know piranhas lived in Georgia. But I also wasn’t about to challenge a woman holding a ruler with calluses on her knuckles. She made it abundantly clear that silliness, fidgeting, or even excessive blinking would not be tolerated. One of us would sit on the piano bench while the other two waited. And by “waited,” I mean sat perfectly still… trying not to get eaten.

Our lesson began with scales. Not songs, not melodies—scales, over and over, forward and backward until our fingers tangled like spaghetti noodles. Each mistake was rewarded with a stinging tap! from her ruler as she barked, “Start again!”

If the student on the bench suffered, the two in the chairs suffered in silence. We were supposed to watch quietly, but every now and then she’d glare at us over her glasses and say, “Act up, and I’ll put your hand in the tank with my piranhas.”

You’ve never seen three children sit so still. We didn’t even breathe normally. I’m pretty sure oxygen was too risky.

Week after week, we practiced, tapped, trembled, and survived. Mama proudly stitched hems while the ivory keys claimed our childhood. But in spite of the ruler smacks and the fish-y threats, we actually did learn something. At the very least, I learned how far a mother will go to make sure her children get a “well-rounded education.”

And to this day, whenever I hear a piano, I don’t think of Mozart or Beethoven.

I think of a wooden ruler and a tank full of piranhas.

And if you’re wondering—no, none of us grew up to be musicians. We never played in a talent show, or even a church offertory. Our greatest piano achievement was surviving without losing a finger. But I must say, I can still play several of the songs I learned back then and yes, Heart and Soul is one of them.

Today, when I think about those lessons, I have to laugh. Mama believed she was investing in our future. In a way, she did. She taught us discipline, determination, and the importance of sitting very, very still if there’s even the slightest chance piranhas are involved.

And to this day, if someone offers me piano lessons, I kindly decline.

Unless they throw in a pair of earplugs and guarantee—in writing—that no aquatic wildlife will be harmed in the making of my musical education.

Mama’s Little Record Player 🎶

Back in the early 60s, when life felt slower and simpler (though we didn’t know it at the time), Mama brought home one of the most magical things my young ears had ever encountered—a small record player with a handle on top so you could tote it around like a tiny suitcase of joy. She kept it in the room at the top of the stairs, perched neatly on a little table in the corner as if it were a sacred shrine. And in some ways, it was.

Mama joined what I think was the Columbia Record Club—sort of like a book-of-the-month deal, except instead of books, we got albums delivered straight to the house. Each month felt like Christmas morning when she’d open that cardboard package and slip out a brand-new record. Her first selections were classy ones: Perry Como crooning somewhere in the background, Nat King Cole’s velvety voice wrapping around us like a warm hug, and Percy Faith’s sweeping orchestras making our humble home feel downright elegant. 

Daddy, on the other hand, gravitated toward the funny records—Justin Wilson, Red Foxx, and other comedians whose jokes flew way over our innocent little heads. We didn’t understand a bit of the adult humor, but Daddy sure did. And he laughed—a lot. Daddy wasn’t a frequent laugher, so when that sound filled the house, it made the walls feel lighter somehow, like even the wallpaper could breathe easier.

At Christmastime, Mama ordered albums with all the popular holiday hits. We’d listen to “I’m Gettin’ Nothin’ for Christmas” and “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” while decorating the live tree. Mama and Daddy would sing along, completely off-key but full of enthusiasm. Meanwhile, I, in all my literal childhood wisdom, believed every word of those novelty songs. If I’d told even one fib that year, that was it—I was done for. I’d get nothing but a lump of coal and disappointment under the tree. Fortunately, I worried for nothing. We always had presents, even in the lean years, though I couldn’t tell you what most of them were now. The gifts fade over time, but the music never does.

Eventually, I got my own record player—an absolute treasure in my little world. And with it came my growing stash of 45s. Oh, how I’d love to have those now! I played them for hours, memorizing lyrics like I was training for some imaginary musical Olympics. Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way”—I wore those grooves out. My bedroom walls probably still faintly echo with those tunes.

When my own kids came along, I passed the tradition down—though their Christmas tastes leaned more toward the ear-piercing joy of Alvin, Simon, and Theodore. The Chipmunks’ Christmas album played on repeat, and the kids cracked up every time Alvin messed up his lines. It wasn’t exactly Nat King Cole, but it brought the same kind of laughter Daddy used to share. And that felt right.

Of course, amidst all the silliness and chipmunk squeaking, we always made room for the heart of Christmas. “Do You Hear What I Hear,” “Silent Night,” and other sacred songs floated through our home each December, quietly ushering in the remembrance of Christ’s birth.

It’s funny how such old memories—sixty years old or more—can suddenly rise to the surface like a familiar melody. Sometimes it’s triggered by a single note from Pandora or Spotify as my holiday playlist shuffles along, surprising me with echoes from childhood. One moment I’m standing in my kitchen, and the next I’m back at the top of that staircase listening to Perry Como, Mama humming beside me, Daddy laughing in the background, and a tiny record player spinning the soundtrack of our lives.

And I’m thankful. So thankful. For the music… for the memories… and for the way songs can carry us back home again, even if just for a moment.

Dear Heavenly Father,
Thank You for the gift of memory and the sweet way music weaves itself through the years of our lives. As I look back on those simple days—Mama’s little record player spinning in the corner, Daddy’s rare but joyful laughter, and the songs that filled our home—I’m reminded of how Your goodness was present even then. You used those melodies to lift our spirits, knit our family together, and wrap us in comfort we didn’t always recognize at the time.

Lord, thank You for the precious gift of nostalgia, for the way a single song can carry my heart back to moments long gone yet still so alive within me. Thank You for laughter, for love, for the innocence of childhood, and for the way You’ve guided me through every season since.

As new generations in my family make their own musical memories, help me continue to cherish the past while embracing the present. Let the joy of those old records remind me that Your grace has always been the steady rhythm beneath every chapter of my life.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

The Christmas Angel

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights.” — James 1:17 (KJV)

When I was a child, Christmas just wasn’t Christmas until our angel took her place at the top of the tree. Every year, we’d take turns naming her, though for the life of me, I can’t remember what name I chose when it was my turn—or what my brother picked either. But there’s one year that stands out clear as day in my memory.

Daddy had just finished stringing the colored lights around our tree, and Mama was putting the finishing touches on the garland of popcorn and paper chains we’d made in school. When it came time to crown the tree, Daddy lifted my little sister, Valerie, high into the air so she could place the angel on top. I can still see her hands trembling with excitement, her dark hair brushing just below her ears, the same color and cut as the angel’s. Daddy smiled and said, “We should name her Valerie—she looks just like you.”

And from that year on, the angel had a name that stuck.

Her gown was a soft cream-colored chiffon, elegant and delicate, especially for something made in the early 1960s. She seemed almost magical, glowing gently in the light of the old-fashioned bulbs that hummed softly overhead. It’s hard to believe that little angel is now about sixty-five years old and still brings joy to our family every Christmas.

Valerie still has her—carefully wrapped in tissue paper and tucked away safely for most of the year. But every December, she unwraps that fragile treasure and gently places her atop her own Christmas tree. Now her grandchildren watch in wonder as she tells them the story of “the Christmas angel,” and of the year Daddy lifted her up toward the heavens to place it there.

Though I didn’t get to keep our childhood angel, I carried the tradition into my own home once I had children. When they were small, I bought a Christmas angel of my own and, just like Mama and Daddy did, we took turns naming her each year. As the years passed and the tree themes changed, so did the angel. Each one had her own style, her own sparkle, and her own name chosen by one of my kids.

It became a little family ritual we all looked forward to. The kids still laugh about it to this day, remembering the names we came up with. I think one year, when they were teenagers, the angel ended up being named Clarice. I asked where that name had come from, and one of them grinned and said, “From The Silence of the Lambs!” I shuddered at first—but then laughed, too. Leave it to my kids to find humor in tradition.

Through the years, the angels may have changed, but the meaning behind them never did. They’ve always represented hope, light, and love—the same qualities that first Christmas night brought into the world.

Just as Daddy once lifted my sister toward the top of the tree, I’ve realized that our Heavenly Father lifts us up, too—gently, lovingly—helping us shine where He’s placed us. We may feel fragile at times, like those old angels wrapped carefully in tissue paper, but in His hands, we’re always safe. Each Christmas, as I unwrap another angel and place her on the tree, I’m reminded that love and faith endure, generation after generation.

Christmas isn’t about what’s under the tree. It’s about Who came to dwell among us, the true Light that still shines in every home and every heart that welcomes Him in.

Dear Heavenly Father,
Thank You for the memories and traditions that remind us of Your goodness through the years. As we lift our eyes to the angel atop the tree, may we remember the night You sent Your Son to lift us out of darkness and into Your marvelous light. Help us to treasure the laughter, the stories, and the blessings that bind our families together. Let Your peace rest upon our homes and Your love shine through us this Christmas and always.
Amen.

The Night We Learned Our Lesson

Back when I was a child, discipline wasn’t a suggestion—it was a guarantee. If we acted up, we knew one of three things was coming: a sharp “Now you listen here,” a quick slap on the behind, or, in the worst of cases, Daddy’s belt. That belt was a legend in our house. It hung on the back of the bedroom door like a warning sign from the Lord Himself.

One particular night stands out clear as a bell. My sister and I were supposed to be winding down for bed, but instead we decided to test the laws of gravity. In our fuzzy little footie pajamas, we were jumping on the bed, laughing so hard our sides hurt. We were having ourselves a grand time—until Mama hollered from downstairs, “Y’all better quit that right now!”

Of course, we didn’t. When you’re a kid, Mama’s voice sounds more like background noise than an actual warning. I’m not sure how many times she called up, but when we heard her footsteps coming up those stairs, we knew Judgment Day had arrived.

Now, Mama was famous for her “warning swats.” She’d take Daddy’s belt, snap it once or twice in the air, and usually that was enough to send us scrambling under the covers. But not that night. No, ma’am. That night we’d pushed our luck one bounce too far. The belt didn’t just sing—it landed.

I can still feel that sting all these years later. Mercy, it burned like fire! Those little welts on the back of my legs were proof that Mama meant business. Back then I thought it was the end of the world, but looking back now, I see it was just good, old-fashioned love wrapped in leather.

You see, our parents took the Bible to heart when it said, “He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is careful to discipline him” (Proverbs 13:24, NIV). And in Hebrews 12:10, we’re reminded, “Our fathers disciplined us for a little while as they thought best; but God disciplines us for our good, in order that we may share in his holiness.”

I can’t say I was thankful for that spanking then—but I sure am now. Those lessons built respect, obedience, and a healthy understanding that choices have consequences. Looking back, I’m convinced those “come-to-Jesus moments” with the belt probably saved me from a few bigger whippings from life later on.

A Closing Prayer

Dear Heavenly Father,
Thank You for loving me enough to correct me when I go astray. Help me to remember that discipline isn’t punishment—it’s protection. Thank You for parents who cared enough to teach me right from wrong, even when it hurt them (and me!). Give me a humble heart that’s willing to learn from Your gentle correction and to extend that same kind of love to others.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.

PDQ

 

Mornings in our house were anything but calm. My brother, sister, and I would dash around like chickens with our heads cut off—grabbing books, coats, and lunchboxes while Mama stood in the middle of the chaos, calling out, “Y’all better hurry up or you’re gonna be late!” Somehow, we always made it out the door, though usually with a shoe untied or a piece of toast clutched in one hand.

 

Looking back, I miss those crazy mornings. But more than that, I miss the silly little things that made them special—like the day Mama came home from the grocery store with a new product she said we’d love.

 

It came in a small glass jar filled with dark brown pellets. The label read PDQ. I was helping Mama unpack groceries when I spotted it, and I couldn’t resist picking it up for a closer look. The words on the label promised that these tiny pellets could turn an ordinary glass of milk into chocolate milk—something that, in our house, was considered pure luxury.

 

“Mama, can I try it?” I asked eagerly.

 

She smiled and said, “You can—but just one spoonful, you hear?”

 

I followed her directions carefully, pouring the little chocolate balls into my glass and stirring like I was conducting a science experiment. And sure enough, as I stirred, the milk turned from plain white to a rich chocolate brown. One sip and I was hooked. That PDQ was magic!

 

I don’t remember if the label explained what the letters stood for, so I asked Mama. Without missing a beat, she said, “Pretty Darn Quick!”

 

And she was right. From that day forward, our mornings were fueled by cereal—usually Captain Crunch or whatever happened to be on sale—and tall glasses of PDQ chocolate milk. Looking back now, I shudder to think of the sugar we were cramming into our growing bodies, but back then, it was pure bliss.

 

One afternoon after school, my siblings and I decided we were hungry enough for a snack before dinner. Peanut butter sandwiches were our go-to, but that day, one of us got a bright idea. “What if we sprinkled a little PDQ on top of the peanut butter?”

 

We worked fast—PDQ, you might say—so Mama wouldn’t catch us experimenting in her clean kitchen. We slapped the bread together, took a big bite, and laughed as tiny chocolate balls spilled out onto the counter. But oh, the taste! That combination of creamy peanut butter and chocolate was heavenly.

We didn’t know it then, but I like to think we were on the verge of greatness—standing at the kitchen counter, sticky-faced inventors, just a step away from creating the world’s first Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. We just didn’t quite have our formula right.

 

These days, I wouldn’t dare start my morning with that much sugar, but sometimes, when I pass the chocolate milk mix at the store, I can almost hear Mama calling out from the kitchen—

“Y’all better hurry up or you’re gonna be late!”

 

And for a moment, I’m right back there again—running late, laughing with my siblings, and drinking my Pretty Darn Quick milk before it was time to jump in the car and go.

 

Life moves pretty darn quick, too, doesn’t it? One moment we’re kids racing to beat the school bell, and the next we’re grown-ups longing for one more taste of those simple, carefree mornings. I’m grateful for the memories that still bubble up like laughter from the past—reminders that even in the rush, love was always at the heart of our home.

 

Heavenly Father, thank You for the sweet, ordinary moments that make up a life—mornings filled with laughter, family, and even a little spilled chocolate milk. Help me to slow down long enough to savor the blessings You’ve placed in each new day. Amen.

Sunday Drives

 

When I was a child, Sunday afternoons were made for rest—and sometimes for restlessness. After church and a good dinner, when we kids started getting antsy, Daddy would grin and say, “Pile in the car!” Those four words meant we were headed out on a short adventure. We never knew where we were going, and truth be told, I’m not sure Daddy did either.

 

All three of us—my brother, sister, and me—would bounce around in the backseat of our old blue Ford station wagon, back before seat belts were much of a thing. Mama and Daddy would talk softly up front while we whispered, giggled, and picked at each other until Mama’s warning came sharp and clear: “You kids better settle down or you’re gonna get a whipping.”

 

Daddy always had a cigarette hanging from his lips, and before long, the smoke would swirl thick through the car. One of us would holler, “Daddy, it stinks!” and he’d just smile, telling us to roll down the window. The cool breeze would rush in, washing away the smell, and we’d stick our faces close to the glass, watching fields of cows roll by or the occasional tractor lumbering down a dirt road.

 

After an hour or so, one of us would inevitably whine, “Daddy, I gotta go!” He’d nod and say, “We’ll stop at the next gas station,” but somehow we never did. Unless it was a real emergency, we had to hold it until we made it home. On the rare occasion he actually stopped, Mama would go inside to ask for the bathroom key, which was always attached to some odd contraption—a hubcap, a cinder block, or a chunk of wood—to keep it from being stolen.

 

Those Sunday drives didn’t take us anywhere fancy, but they were full of laughter, love, and the kind of togetherness you don’t find much anymore. We didn’t need a destination; the joy was in the going.

Today, after church and lunch, I got a little bored and looked over at my husband. “Wanna take a Sunday drive?” I asked. He smiled just like Daddy used to and said, “Let’s go.”

 

We drove with no plan in mind, just letting the road lead us where it wanted. We saw a shimmering rainbow arching across the sky, a quiet river lined with trees still holding on to their last bits of fall color, and—of course—a field full of cows grazing lazily in the afternoon light.

 

As the car rolled along, my heart swelled with joy. For a moment, it felt like I was that little girl again—hair flying in the breeze, laughter bubbling up from the backseat, and the world wide open before me.

Life moves so fast now that we rarely take time to just “go.” We think every trip must have a purpose, every moment must be productive. But sometimes, the sweetest blessings come when we simply take the road less planned and let God steer. Those quiet rides remind me that joy isn’t found in the destination—it’s found in the journey and in the company we keep.

 

Dear Lord, thank You for the simple joys—family, laughter, and the beauty that surrounds us. Help us slow down and notice the everyday miracles You place along our path. Teach us to trust the journey, even when we don’t know where it’s headed, and to treasure every mile we travel with the ones we love. Amen.

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

Out of the mouth of babes

Today, I'm remembering a conversation I had with my oldest daughter about 10 years ago. At that time, I was shocked at what she shared. She'd been having a conversation with her oldest son (he's 18 now) when he looked up at her and said, "Mom, what will you do when you get old?" She thought about it for a few minutes and responded with an "I don't know." Then he said, "Will you be like Gigi (that's me)? Will you just spend all your days cleaning?" 

 

As she shared that with me, my first thought was to laugh. You know, out of the mouths of babes and all, but then I thought, what kind of legacy am I leaving for my grandchildren. Of course, this grandson has seen my house and knows it's always clean (yes, I'm a clean freak) but do I really want to be known as a Martha????

 

For those of you who don't know, I'm speaking of Martha in the Bible. Martha was one of the sisters of Lazarus, the man Jesus raised from the dead after he'd been in his tomb for four days. The other sister's name was Mary. 

 

Mary and Martha were very different. In the Bible, we're told after Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, Martha was inside being busy doing things to prepare a nice meal. She was probably focused on making sure everything was going to be just so while Mary, was more interested in hearing what Jesus had to say. Well, if you know the story, you know Martha got a little ticked off at her sister not helping her in the kitchen. So what does she do? She goes to Jesus and complains but she wasn't expecting the answer she received from him. He told her that Mary had chosen the better part. 

 

Martha probably walked away from Jesus with her head held in shame knowing what He'd said was the truth. Mary was sitting with the men at Jesus' feet learning profound truths while Martha was slaving away in the kitchen. 

 

Now Martha wasn't a terrible woman, someone had to prepare the meal, right? But her heart was not focused correctly. She was worried about all the tasks at hand and she was also frustrated and angry at her sister's lack of help. 

 

As I thought about what my daughter said about my grandson's question, I had to take a few minutes to regroup. Did he really think all I did every day was clean???? Hopefully not! But it made me realize, little eyes are watching. And they often see things we fail to see. What I'd rather him have said to his Mommy was, "Mom, when you get old, will you be a wise and godly woman like Gigi?" And of course, she would have answered, "I'd surely like to be." 

 

Out of the mouths of babes! You never know what they'll say. I'm thankful my daughter took time to share what she thought was a funny conversation with her son but to me, it was very thought provoking.

In our world, we'll always have the need for Marthas and Marys. But instead of deciding whether you want to be one or the other, why not try to be a little of both? Jesus said Mary chose the better part and isn't that what all of us want? 

 

As I wrap the cord of my vacuum cleaner up and get ready to put it away, I think I'll make a cup of coffee and sit down for a little bit with Jesus. We have a big conversation ahead. 

 

I hope this post has impacted you in a small way. Don't forget to seek the better part and don't forget to spread love. Jesus wants us to experience all there is from Him and it'd be best if we heed His advice. 

 

"As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, "Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!" "Martha, Martha," the Lord answered, "you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed-or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her." (Luke 10:38-42)

"When did you become a rebel?"

"When did you become a rebel," an old friend asked me during lunch a few months ago. I had to laugh and toss my head as I replied, "You know, I really don't remember." She and I had been friends for a very long time and though we rarely got to see one another throughout the year, we did manage to stay in touch through other means. 

After our meal, I went home and began to think about her question. I thought for days and days, never coming up with a definitive answer and then, last night, in the middle of the night, I had it! I knew exactly when I became a rebel. 

I vividly remember the scene in my mind - my cousin and I were in my parent's old home. We had been playing while the adults were visiting. I don't know what we were doing before the rebellious streak in me appeared, but as I dig through my memory bank, a clip from that day is so clear. She and I were on the stairs. Paper doll scissors in hand, I cut her bangs and she cut mine. We cut them way too short and started laughing at our handiwork. We were proud to have done something nice for each other but found it our deed wasn't so nice a few minutes later. 

The next thing I remember was my mother yelling out my first and middle name in a tone that emphasized her displeasure with me. "What in heaven's name have you done?" she asked. Shrugging my little shoulders, I retorted, "I don't know. We were just having fun." My cousin stood quietly by. I don't remember anyone speaking a word to her, but I got royally chewed out and if memory serves me correctly, I got a swift and hard spanking. That was the moment I decided I'd fight back. I didn't say a word to my mother, but I was determined she'd never treat me that way again. 

When I was growing up, my grandmother would often give me pages from the McCall's magazine. The pages held pictures of a paper doll, Betsy McCall. Grandmother thought I'd have fun cutting them out and playing with them, which I did even though the dolls didn't last long since they were flimsy magazine weight paper. I enjoyed cutting around the figures and making sure not to nip the little tabs that held the clothes on Betsy. It was cheap entertainment back in the early 60s. A little later on, manufacturers began to print paper dolls on heavier paper and even made kits that included dolls and clothes to cut out. Inside those little boxed kits were the tiniest pair of scissors, too. The kind I used to cut my cousin's hair! Those scissors weren't super sharp but they were sharp enough to do the job and that's all that mattered. 

Cutting my cousin's hair that day also sparked another desire in my heart, to become a cosmetologist. That day helped me realize how much fun it was to not only cut hair but feel the texture of it and style it. I knew one day, I'd get a job doing something I loved and I eventually did, but I'll get to that a little later. 

As I was growing up, I didn't get to have much say about how my hair looked or the way it was styled. My mother, to save money, cut my hair herself. She'd wet my hair, tape down my bangs with pink hair tape popular back then, and whack it off not realizing when the hair dried, it shrank. I look back now at photos of me when I was younger and shudder. My bangs were about 2 inches or more shorter than they should have been, which made me look ridiculous. 

And then, as I grow a little older, my mother started letting our next door neighbor practice her cosmetology skills on me. I can't tell you how many bad perms I had back them! they were hideous and I hated them. 

When I turned 12, my neighbor and girlfriend, Melinda, let me play with her hair all I wanted. So I learned to wash, curl, and blow dry it. She loved the way I did her hair and had me set her hair on those big plastic pink rollers with bobby pins often. Sitting her under the old timey blow dryer was fun, too. I loved watching the cap on that thing poof up with air. 

At 15, I let my rebellious streak out. I began dying my hair. I tried every color available and sometimes did more than one color in a day. It was wicked fun! It's a wonder my hair didn't fall out from all the processing it went through. 

At 16, I began working in a salon in Decatur called the Hair Pair. I loved going to work each day but the pay wasn't good, so I didn't stay long. I kept thinking I'd go to school and get my cosmetology degree, but never did. That didn't stop me from studying and learning to do hair though. 

I've done hair for so many family members and friends over the years and still do to this day. Just last weekend I cut my son in law's hair and my husband's and trimmed up their mustaches and beards. I just enjoy doing it so much. 

I'm kind of glad I got chewed out when I was 5 for cutting off my cousins bangs. If that hadn't happened, who knows where I'd be today! I think all of us have a little rebelliousness in us. No one likes to be told no, do they? I know I sure don't. If you tell me I can't do something, by golly, I'm going to prove to you that I can and I will. I'm proud to be a rebel and hope I'll be one til the day I die.

A precious childhood memory

Christmas memories are often either some of the very best or the very worst memories a person can have. I'm thankful I can say that most of my Christmas memories have been extremely pleasant and most of them have revolved around selfless love given to me by others. I'd like to share one of my childhood memories with you today in hopes that it might encourage or bless you during this emotionally charged time of year. 

I don't remember exactly how old I was the year I received my most prized possession but I must have been between the ages of 8 and 10. That Christmas, like most others in my childhood, centered around just being together instead of focusing on what was underneath the tree. 

I distinctly remember turning in a Christmas list to my mother earlier in the month. I'd talked with my next door neighbor (who was a little older than I) to find out what the most popular gifts were at the time. I'd asked her what she was going to ask "Santa" for and she showed me pictures from the Sears catalog of all the beautiful Barbie dolls and accessories she'd added to her list. I took home that empowering information and rewrote my list knowing all the while that my parents could never afford such luxuries. Although I would have loved to have found a Barbie dream house, Barbie, Midge, Ken, and Skipper under my tree, I knew I'd be lucky to receive one doll, if any. 

On Christmas morning, as my brother, sister, and I, sat patiently on our living room floor waiting for the signal to begin, I glanced at the packages beneath our tree. There were less than a dozen which meant there were probably only two or three a piece for each of us. This was nothing new. Each year, we were very thankful for whatever we received, but as a child, it was only natural to hope that year after year, things would get bigger and better. 

When Daddy came downstairs, Mama gave permission for us to begin opening our gifts. As we scrambled to find the gifts with our names on them, our parents sat back and watched with anticipation. Great thought and time had gone into the choosing and even though money was scarce, there was no shortage of love in our household. 

My brother, sister, and I were busy opening our gifts simultaneously. I have no idea what they received that year but I do remember my special gift. The box was bigger than a shoebox and I had no idea what might be inside. It was too small to be a Barbie Dream House and too big to be a Barbie doll. I hadn't asked for anything that was even remotely that size, but as I continued unwrapping the box, the mystery was revealed. 

Through a clear cellophane window on the front of the box, I saw a beautiful Italian doll. Her velveteen bonnet and dress were a deep burgundy in color. Her hair, perfectly coifed, was coiled into individual blonde ringlets framing her angelic face. 

I stared in awe as I beheld this wondrous gift. I felt so loved! Where on earth did my mother find it? I'd never seen anything so gorgeous in any of the stores we'd visited before Christmas. 

Carefully, I removed the wire ties that held the doll securely in the box. After she was free, I held her close and examined every inch of her loveliness. Glancing up from the doll, I looked into my mother's face. Tears of joy stained her cheeks. 

I didn't realize it at the time, but the purchase of that doll was a huge sacrifice. Surely she had cost more than any other gift under the tree and had been picked out just for me. 

For years, I cherished that doll only holding her once or twice a day for fear of soiling her loveliness. She was the most special material possession I owned. 

I don't know whatever happened to that doll. More than likely, as I grew older, she was given to a needy child in the neighborhood or donated to a charity but the memories of her will be with me forever. 

Last night, as I was perusing Ebay, I saw a photo of a doll very similar to the one I loved so dearly. It sparked all these memories and made me realize how very loved and cherished I was to my parents back then. It also made me realize how very much we take for granted in our lives. 

If I could have a "do-over," I'd make sure to let my parents know how very much I appreciate them not buying me a Barbie Dream House that year. Their gift was so much better because it was chosen with love. 

We don't always realize our blessings until they're gone. And while a Christmas doll seems so trivial, it's symbolic of a greater gift. Just as our parents want to give us their very best blessings and take joy in giving us our hearts' desires, so our Heavenly Father wants to shower us with His abundant blessings. 

This Christmas, don't focus on the "things" that make the day merry and bright. Instead, focus on the hearts and love around you. Most of all, remember the most beautiful, priceless gift of all...the sweet gift of God's one and only Son, Jesus, handpicked especially for you.

©️ Bonnie Annis 

Hot Georgia Summers and Childhood Memories

Oh, how thankful I am for air conditioning! It's such a blessing on these hot Georgia days. I don't know how we ever lived without it, but it wasn't too long ago that we did. 

As a child, we didn't have air conditioning. We grew up in a two story cinder block house on a large wooded lot with beautiful Oak and Pine trees. Thinking back now, I'm so thankful for all those trees! Their lovely, leaf laden limbs helped cut down on some of the sweltering heat that bathed our house each summer. The only way we had to cool down was to run around half naked, play in water from the garden hose, flip on our attic fan, or open every window wide. Usually, we did a combination of all those things but there were some days nothing seemed to work. 

I remember marveling at the hard, dry, cracked red mud from lack of rain and seeing the steamy haze of heat rising from it. We could barely wait for evening to come so things would cool off a little. As soon as cicadas started to sing, we knew it wouldn't be long before we'd get a little relief. 

I was so thankful our old house had real tile floors in the kitchen and the living room. That tile was so cool to our bare feet in the summertime, although I hated the way the floor always felt dirty and gritty no matter how many times Mama swept it. We were always tracking in dirt with our little feet. 

The attic fan didn't do much for us during the day other than move around the hot air. In the evenings, after dark, with our open bedroom windows, the fan would often draw in a little breeze that would gently flow across our bodies as we lay on top of our covers trying to get cool. 

One particularly hot summer, none of us could get comfortable. We fussed and whined and complained until Mama told us to go get our pillows. We thought she was going to let us sleep downstairs so we ran to get them, but she had something else in mind. 

I remember standing in front of her in my little white undershirt vest and my panties, the coolest thing I could wear without going completely nude. She took a large spray bottle and began squirting my pillow. When she got one side sprayed, she told me to flip it over. I did and she sprayed away. I had no idea what she was planning, but I was obedient. She did the same for my siblings. Then, she told us to take our pillows and put them in the deep freezer which was in our garage. So we did. 

I don't remember what we did for the next thirty minutes or so, but we waited. When enough time had passed, Mama got our pillows out of the freezer and handed them to each of us telling us to go on back to bed. 

Carrying that chilled pillow up the thirteen stairs to the second floor of our house, was a blessing! I could feel the coolness against my little chest and it felt amazing. 

When I reached the landing at the top of the stairs, I turned right and headed to my bed. Laying the pillow on my bed, I crawled up on the mattress, lay down, and fell asleep. 

Mama was pretty ingenious! Who would have thought to do something like that? 

Now, we buy cooling gel pillows! I have two in my room right now. If Mama'd had the resources, I'm sure she could have invented those and become rich!

Last night, as we were closing the garage door I heard the low, rhythmic hum of cicadas start up in the cluster of trees across the driveway. It made my heart smile. 

Cicada

I'll never forget my hot childhood summers and I have no idea how we survived without air, but we did. Thankfully, I don't have to worry about that now unless we have power outages or something. I don't think I could make it. I've become less tolerant of the heat now that I'm older.

Thank God for the person who invented air conditioning. He's spoiled us mighty good. 

They grow up too fast!

 

Items she collected on our walk

There's nothing sadder than watching the innocence of childhood come to an end. 

This weekend, while spending time with one of my granddaughters, I realized she's not a little girl any longer. 

At 9 years of age, the changes have come subtly but this weekend, as I watched her, I realized she's teetering on the edge of teenage life. 

I'm thankful for the time I get to spend with her. It isn't a lot, usually once a month and at major holidays and birthdays. I'd love to have more but I'll take what I can get at this point. 

We did a lot of things while she was here. I always try to find fun ways to keep her entertained without plopping her in front of the TV. 

The first thing we did was a science experiment. We talked about density, volume, and air. I used a bar of regular soap and a bar of Ivory soap to help give her a visual explanation. She laughed as we put the bar of regular soap in the bowl of water and it immediately sank to the bottom. Then, stood in awe watching the bar of Ivory float. Next, we took a bar of Ivory and put it in the microwave. I pulled up a chair so she could watch as the changes took place. Her eyes grew big as saucers as the soap began to expand filling my microwave with lush white clouds. When we took it out, I let her hold it. "It's light as a feather," she exclaimed. Then, I showed her how quickly the cloud would disappear if she crumbled it in her hands. The soap instantly became soap flakes. 

We went outside and did a nature walk where we discovered 5 garden slugs beneath the downspouts. She was intrigued with them and asked if we could pick them up. I found a piece of an old wooden slat and showed her how to gently lift a slug without harming it. 

She studied that slug for a long time, watching it move slowly across a piece of bark leaving a shiny, slimy trail. She looked up at me and said, "Gigi, do you know slugs are Gastropods?" I was amazed at this little one. Of course, she's very intelligent and loves to watch any and everything about nature, but she's always taken a special interest in insects and other small creatures since she was a tiny thing. 

I sat beside her and together we watched the slug maneuver his way up and then down the leaf of an Iris plant. Her eyes twinkled as she asked me how slugs move without any legs. I had a chance to teach her about the muscle contractions some animals and insects use and realized, though we were just outside enjoying nature, we were also having quite a homeschool lesson. 

We came inside after our adventure and I taught her how to make homemade play dough. I'd made it for her in the past but I'd always done all the measuring and cooking. This time, I allowed her that honor giving instructions as she worked. 

The precious memories we made that day are priceless. I know it won't be long before she won't care about taking nature walks with her Gigi and she'll be more interested in clothes and makeup than studying slugs. It makes me sad to think those days are coming to an end, but that's life. She has to grow up even if I don't want her to. 

Memories past and present

My dress was similiar to this 

Most people know that I flit from one craft to another. I'm kind of ADHD when it comes to crafting and get bored easily if I focus on one thing too long, so I welcomed the chance to sew again. I'd last used my machine when Covid first started, and everyone was needing face masks. After making about 200 of them, I grew tired of it and put my machine away. Inside the case, I knew it wouldn't collect dust, no matter how long it was there. 

So when it came time to make a special gift for a dear friend, I pulled out the machine, set it up, got everything ready and began working diligently. I would be presenting the gift on Saturday, so time was of the essence. 

Flipping on the sewing machine light, I slipped the pinned fabric beneath the presser foot and lowered it. As I depressed the foot pedal, the machine began to run, and it wasn't long before I was enjoying listening to the constant humming of the machine. As I worked, my mind began to wander, and I was transported to my childhood where that familiar rhythm was a constant in our home. 

Sewing was one of my mother's favorite things to do. She had a tiny sewing room in the upstairs of our house. It couldn't have been more than 6 feet wide by 9 feet long, but she didn't mind. It was her space, a place where she would retreat when my brother, sister, and I were being a little rowdy. 

I don't remember when she first started sewing, but her old Singer sewing machine seemed like it was constantly going. Before we began attending school, Mama was making our clothing. I remember visiting a nearby fabric mill not too far from our home with her on many occasions, the dye from the fabric burning my eyes as we entered the shop. Mama could spend hours in there, searching the pattern books, picking out buttons or thread, and having fabric measured and cut. Being there was interesting to me and is probably where I began my love of crafting many, many years ago. I loved feeling the different textures of the fabrics- corduroys, velvets, and linens. I loved seeing the beautiful prints of cotton, playing with the metal zippers, and digging my hands into large bins of multicolored buttons. We visited so often, the cashier and Mama became friends, calling each other by name. Usually, when Mama was having her fabric cut, I'd sit at a table perusing the pattern books. I quickly learned how to find a pattern number on the page and find the corresponding pattern envelope from the filing cabinets based on the maker's brand. Butterick, McCall's, Vogue, and Simplicity were the most popular back then. After Mama had paid for her purchase, we'd leave the store and head to the car. I still remember the sound of the brown paper bag crinkling as Mama tucked it under her arm and reached in her purse for her car keys. Many times, we had no idea what Mama was going to make, but we quickly learned that if she was making something for one of us, we'd better leave her alone and let her do her work when we got home. 

As we grew older and money became tighter, Mama took in sewing for others. There was one woman in particular who was fond of Mama's sewing skills and employed her regularly to make her wardrobe. Mama would work on her dresses when we were at school, but sometimes, she'd work on a specific request late into the evening in order to complete it by the customer's deadline. 

Throughout our growing up years, Mama made my sister and I dresses, shorts, pajamas, and other things. She was determined to dress us fashionably on a budget. 

One of my favorite memories was of a skating outfit I'd asked Mama to make for me. I was a preteen and all of my friends had cute little skating outfits with skirts that would flair and flutter as they spun around on the roller-skating rink. I knew we couldn't afford to buy one of those but asked Mama if she might make one for me. She told me if she could find a pattern, she'd be glad to do it so the next time we went to the fabric shop, guess who was the first to reach the pattern books?! Me! I was bound and determined to find a skating outfit and I did. When I showed Mama the pattern, she said she could make it and agreed to do it before my next skating party. 

Her sewing machine hummed all day and most of the night that Friday before my party. In fact, I fell asleep listening to the rhythmic humming of her machine. I had no idea what a sacrifice it was for her to do that for me and didn't understand it until I had a family of my own and began making their clothes. The eye strain she must have endured during the twilight hours and the nagging back pain as she stayed hunkered down in that hard, wooden chair at her sewing table were evidence of her love for me. 

On the morning of the party, she presented me with a beautiful lavender skating outfit complete with matching bloomers. I tried it on, and it fit perfectly. I knew I was going to look so pretty out there on the rink floor with all my girlfriends and I did. 

As I rounded the corner on the last section of my project, I watched the sewing machine needle move up and down quickly piercing the fabric. It was mesmerizing to see how delicately and swiftly the thread was locked into place. When I completed the project, I held it in my hands and felt the stitching. I wondered how many times my mother must have done the same thing as she finished one of our pieces of clothing. 

Love comes in many forms. Some ways are practical and found through acts of service like the ones my mother gave me. I'm so thankful she was resourceful while we were growing up. We were taught never to waste a thing. Her mother, my grandmother, taught Mama well and used to say, "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without." I'm sure that was a depression era sentiment, but I've remembered that since the day I first heard it. If there's ever a scrap of fabric in our home that can be reused, repurposed, or recycled, you can bet your bottom dollar it will be saved for a rainy day.