Trying to get back. . .

We're trying to get back to Ajax Rock. After the Humpty Dumpty fall, we've aged a bit. The rest of you please feel free to jump on the Rock while we mosey on back.

Hello-o-o-o-o

Here I am, avoiding my homework (yes, I am doing it....sort of) and I thought about this old meeting ground. I decided to visit and in my visiting try to find out if I'm the only one here. I miss this gathering place. It made me feel connected to everyone who is so out of touch. So here I am, asking: Is anyone out there?

How many times can Humpty Dumpty fall?

This is not a trick question! How many times, truly, can Nannygoat fall down on hard pavement and jump back up? Today she had a bad spill from the cab of her rented U Haul right smack straight down on the pavement, and lay there with the rain coming down on her to further humble her. And let's not forget the pain of landing smack on her tailbone!

 Life is not always fair, is it? But sometimes we get gifts we don't deserve either and I vote for one of those gifts to be presented to her pretty quickly! She's picked up a lot of people, and we'd better all be willing to catch her one of these times! We love you Nannygoatsistermothergrandmother! Walk tall and hang on!

Pride goeth before the fall

This is a picture of Nannygoat Simpkins before her fall from grace, before (just before) she went oops! and took the first of TWO (count 'em and weep) falls -- before rising from the wreckage and skating on into the sunset over the Antietam Battlefields. About 29 HOURS before she got to an X-ray machine and ended up wearing a blue cast of embarrassment on her RIGHT (and writing) wrist.

Before eating humble pie. Before ending up on the prayer chain list of New Street United Methodist Church.

Hangin' up the skates for a bit, bowed not not beaten. battered but not out of the game. RAISE YOUR GLASSES HIGH!

Hey, America, I did it!

Bump those fists, sista's and bro's: I took a virgin run on those fine rollerskates and did not fall, not even once!

Okay, okay. So it wasn't roller derby, and I was at the Antietam Battlefields on a sunny and windy March day. The hills weren't steep, but there were hills, and I went both up and down. Once I got my "self" out of the way, the rest of me knew what to do. It was lovely, and my inner thighs, butt and abs thanked me for it by aching for a long while.

Now I've purchased for $3.00 from a local thrift shop the single ugliest sort of athletic suit I've ever laid eyes on: neon bubblegum pink pants with matching jacket, adorned with hideous turquoise and black hibiscus thing-ys. It's "quality," though, with zippers at the ankles and lining and water repellent properties.

See, the way I figure it is this: If anyone who knows Nancy Whalen sees this crazy lady whizzing down the street, wearing those skates, that outfit, and a bike helmet, she or he will never, ever guess that it's Nancy Whalen. Because it's not. It's Nancy Lynn Simpkins. Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty....

I got some brand new roller skates . . .

. . . you got a brand new key. Wasn't that Melanie in the 60s, alluding to coupling of a different sort? Ah, those naughty 60s.

And speaking of 60, well, I broke that barrier a good while back, you know, and thought I was ready for the old folks' home.

Then something unexpected and wholly wonderful happened to me, and that little red-haired girl from a few entries back landed in my lap to challenge me. Being a DOP (Daughter of Peck), I never back away from a challenge, not even a double-dog dare. So I said to my Simpkins self, "What the heck?"

And while I'd never foul the air we breathe with a four-wheel drive, I got four special wheels put on these awesome skates (the silver and black ones on the left). I chose the red ones because, well, that little girl has red hair, doesn't she?


Three or four nights ago, while my intuitive fingers were doing their own walking through the world wide web, they found themselves on a skates web site. Since I don't believe in accidents or coincidences, I figured God had led me there to give me a talking to about getting off my sore behind and stopping already with the old lady act. When She speaks, I listen up. You can take that to the bank, brothers and sisters. God and Peck demand active listening, not just a nod or a "yeah, yeah." Straighten your spine, take a deep breath, and get ready to move with the Spirit, ladies and gentlemen.

So the skates aren't actually here yet, which is just as well since it's cold and rainy in my neck of the woods. But outside are glorious asphalt-paved roads checkered with little hills and dips and speed bumps, and when the call of the wild beckons, I won't be burning any oil or polluting the environment with anything but my panting breath when I slip on these skates and skate to the glory of God!

I'll be burning high-octane fat, and I can lade it on as fast as it melts away.

Elephant ear pastry anyone?

Home

What does that emotionally-charged word mean to you? As a self-described "wordsmith," I find myself in awe at its range and shades of meaning, as varied as each individual who uses it.

For all of us, human and so-called "lower" forms of life, it started in the mind of God; moved into the womb or egg sac or another safe harbor; and then it became a touchstone for our unfolding lives. To me it has always meant safety, refuge and love. For others, tragically, it is a place from which to flee -- a dangerous place where abuse and neglect take place; a homeland under siege with no relief; a war zone -- or worse. It can be a heating grate on city streets or a cave in the wilderness. And for the truly hopeless, even those with faith to feed them, it can be death, sometimes by their own hands, and release in the afterlife we all pray for.

Yet for most of us who are not born into privation and hopelessness, home is a place where we are nourished and watered, taught love, responsibility, language, and social skills -- where we are encouraged to spread our wings and practice to take flight when we reach maturity. If we are really, really lucky, home is also family and safety and even sweetness. Yes, there can be discord, but that gives us an opportunity to hone our skills in a safe place. We learn to argue and retreat, to cooperate and complement each other. We learn to ask for what we need and have the chance to practice gratitude and doing things for others.

When we "leave home," I don't think we really leave so much as take it with us like a turtle with its protective shell or a vehicle towing an RV.


See, we take ourselves everywhere we go, and those same selves are the ones we developed at home. And while we're practicing being grown-ups, aren't we really using "home" as our safety net? When Momma and Daddy died the year I turned 60, I awoke to the awful truth that if all else failed me in this world, I could not go home again. I was a trapeze performer without a net or harness. And believe me when I say it is life-changing and frightening to be alone and exposed in that way. How lucky am I to have had that other home waiting for me for a full 60 years? Most people on the planet count themselves fortunate if they have it for 10 or 20 years, don't they? And some never had it from day one.

"Home" can also be a state of mind. Some people are born vagabonds, and home is inside them somewhere, tucked like a handkerchief or loose change inside their pockets. They may be insecure people or people who are curious -- or even those like Peck who just had the itch to go. I wonder, though, how adventurous they would feel if they had no physical home to which they could return?

In our spiritual journey, "home" may be the place where we are free of our earthly needs and reunited with God and our loved ones. Old hymns and spirituals talk about crossing the river, getting to the other side. And having that kind of faith makes everything in our external life seem less essential. This is the quest I'm on now.

I'm preparing to shed my skin, my possessions, my conveniences and many of my responsibilities. I am, at age 61, ready for the solo flight: but only because I know that God and her angels will catch me if I fall. And after I'm caught and dusted off, I will finally be turned toward home again. How wonderful and mysterious is that?

Maybe when the shouting is over, it comes down to the trite but true statement that "Home Is Where the Heart Is," after all.

The child within

Who, I ask, looking at the unbridled joy on the face of this child, could fail to smile? She is, you know, still inside each one of us, just waiting to be let out to play.

This birthday card was given to me on my un-birthday, as a vote of confidence that I, too, could reclaim the little girl who climbed on Ajax Rock, who skated with abandon on roller skates with a key on string around my neck. And although I don't actually remember wearing a cape, there was certainly some kind of magic that propelled me along those cracked sidewalks on Morris Avenue.

A few years later, Loie and I discovered indoor skating at the Rollerama, and we collected old pop bottles in tall weeds, carting them in a rusty red wagon to Andy's Confectionary for the return deposits, finally counting up our pennies to the magic number: 150. Enough for admission and skate rental for two,

When I lived in the ghetto in Panama City nearly 40 years ago, the unforgettable sound of roller skates hummed its way into my brink-of-adulthood life. There, Christmas day was a sort of city-wide rollerskating day. Children poured out of their crowded homes to skate along Fourth of July Avenue, the downhill street that separated those of us in the slums from the affluent Canal Zone on the other side -- a place where people pretended that roaches didn't crawl across their dinner tables (though they did, as I learned while dining at an officer's home, much to my fiendish delight) and all the palm trees were manicured so that they swayed in perfect synchronicity over the wide avenues and grassy lawns. Where I lived, there was no grass, and the palm trees hung limply in the humid air. Oh, and in my world, there in the slums, the children skated on one skate, thank you, having to share the skates, and also the fun, with their siblings or cousins.

Fast-forward another decade and one-half, and rollerskating beckoned me with a new promise: to feel like the grown-up mommy of three "gnarly" kids could still cut the mustard. Armed with Woolco skates in all sizes for the kids and those skateless kids on George Mason Avenue in Falls Church, as well as a perfect pair of honest-to-goodness shoe skates exactly like those of Linda Rondstat on her current album cover, I handed myself over to the glory of skating, even in short-shorts, up and down the hills of our neighborhood. At one point, we had 16 people on one block out skating in unison. Not only was it good for the soul, but it did wonders to tighten the sagging butt and trim those thighs. I was once approached in the post office by an older gentleman who inquired whether I might be the young woman who skated past his house; whereupon, dressed in career clothes, I confessed my sin of joy and exhibitionism. He confided that his wife skated in the basement and wanted to join us, so of course I said, "C'mon down." I don't think that she ever did, and she might still be skating in her basement in demented and delirious circles as I write.

Having been asked recently if I knew how to ski, the query coming from a friend who knew I lived once in Colorado, I replied that no, I didn't, that I was too old for that now, with, you know, the dire warnings about osteoporosis and falls sounding the certain death knell. "But," I said, "I used to be a mean rollerskater," alluding to the roller derby era. Well, both sports use the knees and require similar skill sets, don't they?

Pronouncing to this friend that, "No, I do not ski. Cannot ski. Will not ski," did nothing to dissuade. So, he, appealing to the inner child in all of us, sent this card from a ski resort in Utah., and I think it was meant not only to challenge me but also to reassure me that it's never to late to give up control, to feel the glory and the fun of a sunny day with a pair of roller skates on your winged feet. Just don't forget the key.

Bethy's little snugglebunny

BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENT

Hello out there, all you who climb onto Ajax Rock. I have the privilege and pleasure of announcing that my daughter-girl, my precious and enigmatic child -- your sister, niece, cousin and friend -- is flying to Salt Lake City next Saturday to claim her new baby.

His name is going to be Ben, and he's a pure-bred Australian Shepherd, now eight weeks old. He resembles love-of-her-life Harvard Charles in that he is a red merle who is mellow and snuggly. And if we know one thing about our Beth, it's that she loves things soft, downy, cozy and comfy. And speckles and spots? She's a sucker for anything speckled and spotted -- like a fawn. Adult deer? Get out the shotgun. But a tiny, speckled fawn? No way.

Looks to me like she's found all that and more. A new life to care for, nurture and train. A companion on the bumpy and too-narrow highways of life, jammed with traffic and impatient humans who don't know your name. A helpless creature in need of Dr. Beth -- a woman who loves her boys. Who speaks dog. Who is devoted, steady, whimsical and flexible. Someone who may leave her car keys in the bread basket but who knows exactly where the dog leashes are, the toys and the treats.

I mean, folks, this is a woman whose cupboards may be as bare as those of Mother Hubbard, who may eat Smartees for lunch and be indifferent to her own needs, doing without necessities. But open a cupboard in her kitchen, and you will find healthy, nutritious dog and cat food, home-baked dog biscuits and a mortar and pestle to grind up food for her creatures who have dental or gum "issues." Who can get soaking wet trying to get into her house because she lost the keys, break a window, climb through and rip her pants off but worry only about whether Harvey and Kirby! are getting cold and wet. And they wear fur.

Is this a lucky dog or what?

Godspeed, my child, to Utah to claim your puppy. My love and prayers and hopes and dreams go with you.

Congratulations to the growing canine family. And Dave, get out the cigars. It's a boy!

Emerging from hibernation

It may be snowing and sleeting outside, but I'm feeling the sap rise and the turning of the planet toward new light, new possibilities, a new growing season followed by reaping and harvesting whatever rewards God gives me.

Rather than sleep away half of the day, I find myself rising in the night and slipping outdoors to look at the night sky, strewn with stars that wink at me in a silent conspiracy. And when there's frost on the ground, it looks as if some of those same stars have fallen like diamonds from heaven, right at my feet. It's like a promise of eternity that warms my soul until I no longer feel the cold.

Isn't it a miracle that we mortals share the same instincts and hope as other creatures and plants? The buds are slowly swelling on my pear trees and forsythia, and the daffodils are emerging under their blankets of dead leaves. It's an annual promise of sweeter, longer days to come. And for someone who is a believer, as I am, it parallels the new life that God has prepared for us.

Lent begins next week. A time for introspection and for "giving up" or "doing more" or whatever your own heart tells you to do in preparation. You just have to be still and listen.

Can rebirth be far behind? Not while our planet continues to hurtle through the heavens. Stop. Listen. You'll hear it in the stars, the birdsong, the whisper that speaks the language of faith.

Look no further. Miracles are all around you. Open your eyes and watch along with me.