Last week I dined with two old and dear friends, one of whom had been robbed at gunpoint the night before. She and her family were watching television when she heard the unmistakable click of the back door. Could it have been the wind? Curious but not alarmed, she turned to look, and four masked men bounded into the room.

All had guns, and each leveled his gun at the head of one of the family members. Four people who’d been enjoying their time together at day’s end moments before were now held captive by invaders. Pleasure turned to terror.

As my friend said, “It was surreal. I felt like I was in a dream.”

The young men wanted money, not silver or jewelry or electronic devices. Sadly for them, the family had less than $50 in cash between them. After dumping the contents of the two women’s purses, the armed robbers (is there a better term?) retrieved at least one debit card and asked for the PIN. No fool, my friend readily gave it to him, and two of men left for an ATM machine with this promise/threat: “If this doesn’t work, we’re coming back to shoot all of you in the head.”

Held hostage, the family felt powerless. Cell phones had been confiscated and doused with water by this time, making contact with the outside world impossible. Even though they were confident that the PIN would work, the family still felt frightened, especially as they thought of the innocent two-year-old sleeping in a nearby bedroom.

Events took place that must have unsettled the two remaining intruders because they left before their partners returned, taking house keys and the home owner’s car. At least one phone still worked, and someone called 911. Police officers arrived in a matter of minutes. Three of the four men, all under twenty-one, had been apprehended by the time of our luncheon the next day. By that afternoon, the fourth was also in custody.

How could something like this happen in such a seemingly safe neighborhood with pretty lawns and tree-lined streets?

Another friend, Marsha, and I absorbed this story as we dined on salmon atop spinach lunches. Marsha began talking about a recent anniversary trip and delighted us with stories about her adventures, including a ride in hot air balloon. We chatted briefly about two other friends, one in Alaska and one who just returned from a trip to England and Scotland.

Life was good for them—and for us too. We never take that for granted.

The conversation reminded me of stories I’ve read about people in the most adverse of situations who somehow do more than merely soldier on. They laugh, joke, eat, make love, and sing even as bombs explode around them. No matter what exciting, trivial, or funny story came up in conversation, the previous night’s incident was there, hovering over and around and above us. Our dialogue always came back to IT.

No one had mentioned race. I’d pictured four white men brandishing guns. When asked if the thieves were black, my friend hesitated a moment before nodding yes. There was sadness in that nod…and knowing. Knowing that had developed from decades of working with college students and from reading and observing life with a clear eye. A woman of deep faith, she was likely thinking, “All are precious in His sight” even as she relived the terror of the night before.

Horrific things have always gone on, just not this close to home. Otis and I saw  The Independent State of Jones last week, and I was sickened by the work of the Klan. I can still feel my involuntarily uptake in breath when I witnessed Mr. Moses’ realization that three white men were following him with taunts and name-calling. They killed him in a cruel, merciless way.

I also reread Elie Wiesel’s Night last week and wondered how the world could stand by and watch. Just watch. Roosevelt knew and I’ve often wondered why he sat on it. Not a political scientist by any stretch of the imagination, there are many things I don’t understand. We were less of a global community then. Now we send troops to places in the world I’d never heard of until now, but then six and a half million Jews and other “undesirables” were killed while the world turned a blind eye.

I have no answers, just the conviction that all lives matter.

Yesterday at the beach I was flipping through Sasee, a publication I enjoy reading while in Myrtle Beach. After finishing Night, I wanted to peruse something light, something heart-warming and fun.

I became increasingly aware of this strident, shrill voice coming from my left. My feelings soon went from annoyance to downright anger. Did she really think she was going to persuade her companions of the correctness of her viewpoint by talking that way? Doesn’t she know that people can’t be bullied into agreeing with you?

I moved my chair down near the water’s edge. Ah, bliss. The sound of the surf drowned out just about everything, and I could read in peace.

A few minutes later, I heard it again—that irritating voice. Couldn’t be, I thought. But it was. The opinionated sunbather had followed one of her friends into the water and was haranguing her about a topic of obvious (to her) importance.

Here’s the thing. No one wants to be talked down to, and no one is going to be convinced of the truthfulness or awfulness of a person, place, thing against his or her will. There are ways to influence others, but hers is not one of them. Neither are the continuing posts, memes, and comments from hate mongers that I see on Facebook every single day.

If you hate Hillary or Trump or Obama, fine. Keep it to yourself. I prefer reading, listening to, and watching the news for myself. So do most people.

For now, I’m going to, figuratively speaking, move my chair to the water and away from the diatribe. I’ve already begun clicking “hide post” to posts that are unfounded and hateful.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

While most people don’t know or care that Camden High School had its 50th reunion last weekend, 200+ graduates and their families and friends do. Even those who couldn’t attend because of sickness, distance, prior obligations, or fatigue are probably interested in how it played out.

Since last week, about a dozen people have asked, “How was it?” In a word, fabulous. Read on for a summary and some noteworthy tidbits.

On Friday evening, classmates met at one of Camden’s historic locations, Proctor Hall. A two-story house with lots of character, it was the perfect setting for a gathering such as ours. According to its Facebook page, “Louise C. Proctor Hall epitomizes the gracious hospitality and antebellum ambience that characterizes Camden.”

Classmates walked across a lovely lawn beneath trees lush with the greenness of summer to get the entrance hall where they received names tags, information about weekend events, and a booklet with short bios of classmates. With a beautifully decorated dining room on the right and a grand parlor on the left, the downstairs area offered three rooms in which to mingle, and classmates crossed from one area to another to greet old friends. From time to time, I spotted clusters of people chatting on the porch.

On Saturday, several opportunities to get reacquainted with one another and with Camden were available. I can’t speak for other classmates, but I enjoyed visiting the Archives where dozens of mementoes from school days were available for all to see. What made this activity especially enjoyable was sharing it with others and hearing their laughter as a photograph triggered a memory of a teacher, student, playground prank, or classroom experience.

I also joined several classmates (25?) for lunch at one of Camden’s favorite eateries, Candy’s at the Granary. Not really expecting that much of a turnout, I was surprised and pleased to see that so many folks gathered to break bread together and just “visit.” From Dr. Hoffer who sat next to me I learned that the arthritis in my knuckle is likely the result of a traumatic injury and not the kind that comes with, well, you know, the aging process. Good to know. From Wanda and Bryan, I learned about the Apple Festival in Hendersonville, NC on Labor Day Weekend. Count me in.

On Saturday evening, the BIG event took place at the Shrine Club. Meeting there has become somewhat of a tradition. There was music, entertainment by some excellent shaggers, delicious food, and nonstop conversation. Someone had been hired to take a class photograph, and what could have been an ordeal turned out to be a fun half hour. We got a little cuckoo before it was over, and when we began singing the Alma Mater, the photographer directed our musical efforts.

image

Dozens of scenes from the evening continue to run through my mind, but this afternoon, the primary ones are:

  • A graduate who brought two of his grandchildren rather than miss the gathering.
  • The numbers of people who gathered to watch a 1960’s DVD that featured events, music, and news.
  • The photographs of forty-four deceased classmates. There was rarely a moment when their names and faces weren’t being studied…and remembered.
  • The handsome caterer who appeared from time to time, shaking his head in wonderment and saying he had never seen anything like it. “Y’all ought to put this in the paper!” he said.

 

Here’s the concluding paragraph from the preface of the bio booklet, Here’s to the All of You. “Despite our relative homogeneity as kids, we’ve evolved into quite a diverse group. We served our country, nursed the sick, raised children, traveled the world, taught school, weathered personal storms, experienced tragedy and loss, run businesses, managed banks, and lent a therapeutic ear. We’re artists, dancers, camel riders, marathoners, golfers, coaches, and musicians. And we’re survivors.”

So far I haven’t encountered anyone who didn’t enjoy the reunion. As for the committee, we’re already planning for one five years hence. Next time it will be in the fall or winter. We seniors (yes, we can admit it) can’t take the heat as well as we used to.

Will someone please share a memory? Someone, anyone, everyone, tell something you liked, enjoyed, and would like to see repeated.

When I was in my late 30’s, I finally got around to reading Dale Carnegie’s classic How to Win Friends and Influence People. I’m not saying it’s rocket science and that everyone should order a copy from Amazon ASAP. Well, maybe I am saying that…at least the last part of the sentence. Rocket science is rocket science, but Mr. Carnegie’s book is the go-to book for getting along with others, maximizing success, and developing relationships.

Its theme is based on fundamental principles of fairness, kindness, courtesy, civility, and good old-fashioned common sense. I’m glad I read it. Like Voltaire said, “Common sense is not so common,” and I needed a few reminders.

I didn’t intend to write a book review. It’s just that I was thinking of the influence that book had on me at an earlier time of my life. I need to go back and reread parts of it, and I think everyone alive could benefit from doing the same thing. By the way, an up-to-date version, How to Win Friends and Influence People in the Digital Age, is now available, but the reviews aren’t that positive. Most of the ones I skimmed advised the reader to stick to the original edition.

But here’s my story. This weekend, I’ll be attending my 50th high school reunion (gulp), and I’ve been reflecting on other reunions. While they’ve all been fun, I recall the 20th with most affection, and I think it’s because my former classmates all seemed to be practicing the concepts of Mr. Carnegie’s book.

Example:

“Hi Jayne, you look great! What have you been doing with yourself? Where do you live? Do you have any children? Really? What are their names?”

While speaking to me, the person was smiling (one of Carnegie’s instructions), spoke my name (another one), and seemed genuinely interested in me as a person. That last behavior is of utmost important in Carnegie’s literature. He believed people should show an unfeigned, genuine interest in the other person. It’s not always about you. In his words, “You can make more friends in two months by becoming interested in other people than you can in two years by trying to get other people interested in you.”

I first read the book because I was teaching Human Relations, PSY 103, and was always on the prowl for a little something extra to spice up my classes. As years passed, I was happy to see that some (much?) of Carnegie’s work fits in nicely with cognitive psychology and the importance of one’s thoughts. I’m going out on a limb and professing that his tried and proven methods of friendly, sane, and measured behaviors are in line with Goleman’s ideas about emotional intelligence. There are definitely some similarities although Goleman’s work is research-based.

Question: Is there anything new under the sun?

I hope everyone who attends this weekend’s activities feels acceptance, interest, and inclusion from his and her classmates. If you’re a sister or brother graduate, you can be sure I’m going to greet you with a smile, mention your name, ask about your life, and listen attentively while you tell me…not because I’m a manipulator but because it’s the human thing to do.

So tell me. What have you been up to since we last met?

I wish I could have come up with a snappier title, but I can’t.

Unless I’m traveling or sick, I usually make it to church on Sunday mornings, not because I’m a holy roller but because I need help. I understand all about loving one another, turning the other cheek, and practicing forgiveness, but there’s something about being in the midst of like-minded people (and sinners) that reinforces my desire to go from okay to good to better to best in thought and deed.

But yesterday we were traveling, and I found myself feeling a little fidgety and ill-at ease. I needed the communion of my church friends to buoy me up. I wanted to hear some beautiful hymns and ponder the mysteries of life and death and what comes after our tenure here on Earth…and what came before. I could have read about all those things and more, but reading wasn’t sufficient yesterday.

As we cruised along towards home, I recalled an article I’d read about Joel Osteen the day before and decided to listen to one of his podcasts. According to Success magazine, he’s “the most popular minister on the planet” and has a net worth between 40 and 60 million dollars. In addition to being able to pay bills, Osteen’s idea of prosperity includes having good relationships, feeling peace, and being able to bless someone else.

I know a lot of people don’t like him. They say he’s more into optimism and positive psychology than into theology. “A motivational speaker with a religious bent,” Osteen stays away from heavy discussions of Satan and hell. Maybe that’s why I like him.

Oops, the cat’s out of the bag. I do sort of like him, probably because he thinks like I do in some ways. I too feel that a person’s thoughts are central in determining destiny, and Joel says, “Your life follows your thoughts.” It’s not rocket science, but there’s truth in that simple statement.

Osteen’s philosophy is akin to cognitive psychology. As Norman Vincent Peale said, “Change your thoughts and change your world.” He wasn’t a psychologist, but he was, like Osteen, a minister, one who focused on the power of thoughts. Detractors would say that positive thinking is more of an armchair activity while positive psychology is aligned with replicable scientific activity, and they’d be correct. Still….

But back to Joel Osteen. His 10.5 million dollar house bothers some people, and while that doesn’t endear me to him, it doesn’t completely turn me off either. I realize that everything’s relative. I have acquaintances who live in houses worth between three and four hundred thousand dollars and some who live in mobile homes, apartments, and condos. All have homes more spacious, safe, and comfortable than many (most?) of the world’s population.

As I wrote the above sentence, I recalled a sign outside of Food for the Soul that I saw this morning. Positioned out near the street so that passers-by could see it, the sign announced that the homeless shelter would be open tonight. 

I missed being in church yesterday, but I like thinking, “You have gifts and talents in you right now that you haven’t tapped into.” There are so many people who need to hear that message, so many people I could share it with. While I would have heard and been inspired by speakers, prayers, hymns, and hugs had I been in a chapel with others yesterday, I might not have heard Osteen’s message.

And maybe his is the one I most needed to hear…and share.

My Grandmother Padgett was a marvelous cook. Even now, I drool at the thought of her walnut pound cake and the dark chocolate covered coconut candy she served. And it wasn’t just the sweet treats she excelled in. Her roast beef, chicken and dumplings, and angel biscuits were unsurpassed.

My other grandmother, Grandmother Clyburn, was my mother’s mother, and her cooking must have been fair (like mine?) because I never heard a single person brag on it. In all my years of knowing her and being in and out of her home, I don’t recall ever tasting any of her kitchen creations except toast and eggs. She broiled the toast after smearing it with real butter, and I loved it.

I’ve come to realize that I’m a mediocre cook at best. I can do it, but I don’t look forward to it like some folks. In fact, the idea of preparing a delectable dinner with several dishes is daunting to me, and I’m wondering if that’s why I’ve gravitated towards hosting holiday drop-ins with tasty finger foods for the past couple of years.

Last week as I began putting Christmas paraphernalia away, I came across three sets of Christmas china, none of which I had used for a “sit-down” meal,” a good old-fashioned family event. What is wrong with this picture? I asked myself.

Knowing I was going to see two of my three children over New Year’s weekend, I decided to prepare a traditional meal that included black-eyed peas, greens, and cornbread. We set the time for late Sunday afternoon, and I was filled with anticipation and honestly, a little bit of dread. What if my plans for around the table sighs of gustatory delight backfired?

My daughter Elizabeth, always organized, helped me plan and gather what I’d need. With ham, rice, cornmeal, buttermilk, green beans, and spinach, we felt good confident about the meal.

That’s when the self-doubt came to call.

I felt like something was missing, so we dropped by the Piggly Wiggly  at Market Commons. They have the best deli in South Carolina, and I chose a loaded baked potato salad, a Waldorf salad, and a small chef salad to supplement our Sunday feast. Armed with the essentials for a memorable New Year’s meal, I was content.

But here’s what happened:

  • The rice that I had so cleverly prepared with chicken broth was a solid, gummy mass of goo. Apparently, I forgot to burn off the burner.
  • The ham was incredibly salty. Also, I had heated and added a glaze that was much too spicy. Live and learn, right? I won’t be doing that again.
  • The Waldorf salad had too much celery, and I removed each tiny piece of it and then added a sliced banana for that mellow taste. Everything was fine until little Ethan announced that he didn’t like the “white things” on his apples. Despite his mother’s reminders that he liked coconut, he couldn’t be persuaded to eat one bite.
  • The green beans in the steamer bag were so green that they looked almost artificial. They were waxy and chewy and tasteless, the latter because  because I forgot to add seasoning.
  • The loaded potato salad that looked and tasted so good after being warmed in the oven for a few minutes became a soupy mess after being forgotten for another half hour.
  • The cornbread was so-so without my mother’s cast-iron frying pan to bake it in.
  • The chef salad that was supposed to add some texture and color to the menu remained uneaten in its festive bowl. Without a drop of salad dressing in the house, the dish was unappealing.
  • The Star Wars cookies Elizabeth made were colorful and yummy.
  • I had planned to prepare spinach, but well, why waste the time?

My idea of having a traditional around the table meal panned out. We used plates that had once been my mother’s, and we decorated the table with Christmas items that had not yet been put away. The scene was pretty. But the food. Well, it was so unappetizing that the experience has helped me come up with my word for the year: IMPROVE.

Improve in cooking, writing, loving, painting, teaching, helping, and every other area of my life. Vying for first place was learn, but since that’s something I already make it a point to do every day, improve wins the day.

Has anyone else decided upon a word to guide behavior, thoughts, and feelings this year? If so, what is it? And why or how did you decide on it?

Earlier this week, I read The Top Five Regrets of the Dying, a book I’d heard about on a podcast and that fit perfectly into a course I often teach, Human Growth and Development. By an interesting and circuitous path, Bronnie Ware, the author, left her successful banking career and became a “carer” of the dying. A genuinely compassionate person, Ms. Ware grew to care for all of her patients, and as they felt her affection and concern, they opened up to her and shared their life stories, complete with regrets.

As she listened to her patients, the author began to perceive the repeated recurrence of the same five regrets. This realization affected Ms. Ware so much that she decided to write a book of her findings. Not only does she tell of the patients themselves, their personalities and former lives, but she also applies their teachings to her own life. Being with them gave her courage to be true to herself.

The dying helped her live more fully.

While the five regrets might sound like psychobabble to some people, there’s actually quite a bit of overlap between Ware’s findings and those of developmental psychologists. In the order they’re listed in the book, the regrets are:

  1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
  2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.
  3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
  4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
  5. I wish I had let myself be happier.

Interestingly, earlier this week when I mentioned the first regret on Facebook, a friend commented that he wished he hadn’t worked so hard and that he’d stayed in touch with his friends. Reading his comment prompted me to contact a dear friend, and she and I enjoyed a leisurely lunch and long overdue lunch. It was awesome. No regrets.

From teaching Human Growth and Development, I learned that the #1 regret of older people facing the end of life was not doing the things they really wanted to do. Even if they  failed in achieving the goal, they felt that was better than cowering on the sidelines waiting and watching for the right time or circumstance.

As it turned out, however, many did just that (cower on the sidelines, procrastinate, or make excuses) rather than face possible rejection, disappointment, loss, heartache, or humiliation. I’m not saying those who said YES and then lost money or suffered ridicule were happy about that. I am saying, however, that they died with no regrets. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all—and all that.

Just about everyone I’ve talked with today has said 2015 was an okay year or that it was a terrible year or that they wanted to make some changes. Some people on Facebook said it was the best year ever. What about you? Are there things you want to change? Are there things you want to do that you’ve been procrastinating? If not now, then when?

What will you do during the next twelve months that will better assure that 2016 is a year of no regrets? As for yours truly, I’m working on a plan.

The next morning, I anxiously pulled back the Pier 1 curtain and peeked at the porch. Feeling both excited and apprehensive, I couldn’t wait to see how the application of the Annie Sloan Old White looked on the few selected squares.

Truthfully, they weren’t squares, but diamonds. When laying out the design, I had started on a diagonal, not knowing what the result would be. If you want squares, start eighteen inches from one side and place the tape every eighteen inches all the way across the surface. When you finish in that direction, start crisscrossing those pieces of tape every eighteen inches with tape going the other direction.

The design is a personal preference. I like the diamond look, despite the fact that it was accidental.

The paint had dried overnight, and before I pulled up the tape, I thought about layering it with the stain. After all, the stain contained sealer, and sealer was probably a good thing. But….well, after about 25 seconds, I decided to leave the chalk paint as the only floor covering. Why cover it up with a colored sealer after so carefully applying it? If necessary, I can use the stain on the porch floor later or use it for another project.

With bated breath, I tentatively pulled up a few pieces of tape. I loved what I saw and began yanking it all up. That was an easy thing to do because since all of the tape was literally stuck together, it came up in huge sections.

I stood back and admired (not too bashful to say this) the results. While I like the looks of the blue tiled floor, I felt like it needed a little something more. Light bulb moment: Why not stencil some stars on a few random diamonds?

Stenciling the stars and moons using acrylic paint was the most fun and creative part of the project. My brothers looked over the area and both said something like, “I thought you were going to paint this. Did you decide to have it tiled instead?” They were serious.

Upon closer inspection, they could see the floor was painted, not tiled, and I’m sure they might have thought the final look a bit amateurish. They’re too mannerly to say that, though.

I finally moved the furniture back inside and am loving the new look. The floor looks a little mottled in spaces, and that’s because of the damp concrete. We’ve had an exceptionally damp fall in South Carolina.

In summary, if I can do this, you can do this. There’s no need to pay someone else to do the job IF you are prepared to put a little elbow grease into the project.

 

Back to the porch painting project.

I let the concrete dry overnight, and that evening I looked at a few YouTube videos. Whether that was a good or a bad thing, I’m not sure. I do know that I got the bright idea to tape off the floor in squares so that when I applied the paint, it would only go on the squares and not on the tape. That way, my porch floor would look like tiles! Yay! Bright idea, huh?

I ran into a problem (er, challenge) right away. It’s hard to find ½ inch tape. The only kind I could find was double-sided tape, and it was a bear to apply. It stuck to my hand and to the floor at the same time. Very frustrating. Tuesday afternoon, my husband came in from the woods for a few minutes and checked on my progress. Standing at the open door leading to the porch, he inspected my handiwork and hesitated slightly before commenting on the crooked tape in the far right corner.

After a moment, he said, “If you had asked me, I would have told you a way to get those lines straight.”

I glanced at him to make sure he was serious. He was.

“Are you kidding me? Look, Sweetie. I love you, but there’s a reason I waited for you to go to the woods before I started this.”

“If you put a string in one corner and pull it tautly to the other corner….”

But I didn’t let him finish.

“Bye bye, Dear,” I said.

“I was just trying to help you,” he insisted as he walked into the house.

Before the afternoon was over, I ran out of tape. That was probably a good thing because I had nearly lost my religion trying to apply the double-sided tape. I went to Advance Auto in search for a specific type of tape suggested on one of the videos. Not only did they not have it, they had not even heard of such a tape.

The next day while in Target with my sister-in-law, I found ½ inch one-sided regular Scotch tape. Eureka and Hallelujah and Yippee! That afternoon, I finished applying the tape every eighteen inches and began painting.

While carefully applying the tape, however, I suddenly I got the bright idea of using Annie Sloan chalk paint instead of concrete stain. I double-checked YouTube to make sure this could be done. It could.

Using an official Annie Sloan brush, I began applying paint right in the middle of the floor. It looked good, really good. But something unfortunate happened. I ran out of paint, and the nearest Annie Sloan stockist was fifty miles away. Undaunted, I rationalized that if Annie Sloan paint would work, so would American paint, a brand sold downtown. I scooted down to Ellie’s Attic and bought a quart of Blue Jean, a color that looked almost identical to the Aubusson Blue paint left in the jar.

When I began applying Blue Jean, I soon saw that the shades were different. Oh well, I reasoned, it’ll be a unique look. In no time at all, I had used the entire quart of the American paint, and there were still a few squares where the paint looked thin. The ghastly green was threatening to shine through. I got out Annie Sloan Old White and applied a thin coat to these few squares.

Daylight was dimming, so I called it a day and walked into the house to rinse the paintbrush, all the time wondering what the morning light would reveal.

If not for the blogs I read, the ideas I saw on Pinterest, and the YouTube videos I watched, I never would have attempted painting the back porch, much less get creative with it. But I looked and listened and mustered up the resolve to just do it. If I can do it, anybody can. For the next couple of days, I’m going to break down the task in the hope of inspiring someone to take on some DYI project she’s (or he’s) been procrastinating.

Have you ever been absolutely fed up with how something in your house or yard looked? Have you ever said, “I wish I could do so and so with that slope, porch, room, patch of ground, or wall?” I have. This time, however, I took action. I realized that no one was going to beautify this space if I didn’t do it. And since I’m too stingy and stubborn to pay someone for something I think I can do, well, I did it.

I painted the screened-in back porch.

It looked horrible, downright nasty in places. Not only was the color a putrid shade of green, but the paint was coming off in places, but not in a chipping, peeling sort of way. More like someone had poured a bucket of acid on various spots on the porch floor, leaving a few areas with a leprous appearance. I’d tried covering those spots with small rugs, but I always knew what was beneath them. And besides, who puts a put beneath a window where there’s no traffic? No one—unless there’s something to hide. And there was, there sure was.

For month, years in fact, I had talked about painting the back porch. My husband’s customary response was to hide his head in the sand, pretending not to hear my suggestions. When he did respond, it was typically in either a cautionary way or a negative one.

Me: “I think we should just move all the furniture off the back porch, clean it, and then paint it with some porch paint and add glitter.”

Him: “Glitter?”

Me: “Yeah, Carol and Randy did that to their garage floor, and it looks fantastic.”

Him: “That’s a garage floor, not a back porch.”

There are several variations on the above theme, but all of them had the same ending: No Go.

Then one day I decided maybe we should just get rid of the screened-in porch and make it a sunroom instead. I was not really sold on that idea enough to really sell it to the hubs, however, mainly because you can’t hear birds chirping and children playing when you’re in a glass-enclosed room. And then there was the fact that neither of us really wanted to spend the money, not just for the work itself but also for the increased utility bills.

One day my frustration with the ugly room reached an all-time high, and I decided to take on the project by myself once my husband got involved with hunting season. In October of each year, he spends a week in the woods hunting, cooking, and listening to tales by a campfire.

I told him of my plans to transform the room, and on Monday of that week I went to Lowe’s to buy the materials: concrete cleaner, a stiff brush to scrub the concrete with, a roller and paint tray, and paint stain with built-in sealer. Monday afternoon, I removed all the furniture from the porch, hosed it down, applied the concrete cleaner, and worked like the dickens to remove some of the prior paint and a lot of crud.

The only difficult part of the cleaning afternoon was using a water hose without a sprayer. I didn’t know it was missing until I was ready to start working, and I knew I might lose my momentum if I stopped to go back to Lowe’s. Moral of the story: Make sure you have Everything (capital E) before you start.

RSS Quote of the Day

  • George Eliot
    "Blessed is the man, who having nothing to say, abstains from giving wordy evidence of the fact."
July 2016
M T W T F S S
« Jun    
 123
45678910
11121314151617
18192021222324
25262728293031

Flickr Photos

Reflejos

Enjoy sunset 埔里虎頭山

Dreamscape

More Photos

Mormon.org

I'm a Mormon.
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,088 other followers