For Judy - With All the Stars in the Sky

 

I was asked to write a newspaper article on my friend, Judy Beard, on the closing of her beloved boutique and her retirement from the public domain.  Normally, words for people I adore come easily for me.  For Judy, I cannot find words big enough.

In the book of my life, Judy fills an entire chapter.  All I can think to do is to dip my hands in and pull-out fistfuls of memories and life lessons to splash across the page.  No margins, no indentions, no particular style of writing – just thousands of words sprinkled like stars across a mid-night sky.  And then some.

In my mind, I lassoed the heavens and pulled down the stars.  I tugged hard on my heart to squeeze out the thoughts.  I sat at my laptop for the longest time searching for words to describe my oldest friend, mentor, therapist, prayer partner.  The one who has always had my back.  The one who picked me up when I fell down. Who dressed me up when I was a country girl from Senatobia and told me to dress for the career I wanted and not for the $14,000 a year job I already had.  My secret keeper. The one who knows me inside and out.  The one who is on my side always but also tells me flat out when I make a mistake. 

I realized that words are cheap and my love and admiration for Judy Beard, my friend, and the newspaper article about one of Hernando’s best known and most successful business owners are two very different stories.  Read the story about the business woman in the newspaper if you want; this one is straight from my heart. 

I was 20 years old when I first passed through the doors of the historic building on the Hernando square that was home to Judy’s shop, Center Stage Fashions.  I had just gotten a new job at the Hernando Bank and I had no professional clothes and no money to buy anything.  I had just moved into a duplex paying a whooping $175 a month rent with only the bed and dresser from my room at my parents’ house.  No other furniture, not even a refrigerator.  I kept milk for cereal in an ice chest on the kitchen floor. I washed towels and linens at the local laundromat. I ate a ton of Spaghetti-o’s. But, by golly, I had a public relations job at the bank. 

I couldn’t buy a cup of coffee, much less new clothes for a bank job.  I first went in to Center Stage because Judy was a friend of my parents and I knew her name.  In desperate need of something to wear to work, I found not only clothes but also a plan to get me outfitted for a new life.  Judy took a chance on me and gave me a $100 credit line to buy two suits, one brown and one gray, two blouses, one white and one red, and a sweater.  She showed me how to mix the seven pieces of clothing to make different outfits.  I was set for Week 1 of my new job.  I will forever remember the kindness she showered on this poor naïve 20-year-old.

After I paid off that $100, she let me charge $100 more.  Soon enough, I had clothes to dress for two weeks without wearing the exact same thing twice.  I thought I was the best dressed girl in Hernando. 

Although I had no idea at the time, those first few years I received so much more than a new wardrobe.  Encouragement. Self-confidence.  A strong work ethic. Determination. A never-quit attitude.  A true and life-long friend. A mentor.

I remember walking across the street wearing my gray suit and red blouse one day and a lady in town stopped and said, “Oh, it’s you, Martha, I thought you were somebody.”

On that day in that time of my life, that well known woman’s unkind words devastated me.  I WAS trying to be somebody. I was trying hard.  I went immediately to Judy’s shop, head hanging like a kicked puppy, just to hear her say, “Martha, you ARE somebody.”

YOU ARE SOMEBODY.  Everyone needs someone in their life to tell them they are somebody.  Judy told me that in a million different ways over many years until I finally believed her.  Just one of the many gifts my friend has given me.

Last week Center Stage stood virtually empty. Gone were the edgy and on-trend clothes that made this boutique so unique. After almost 46 years, Judy turned off the lights and locked the massive old doors for the last time.  Earlier that day, ladies – young and old, many dear friends and some people I never met - streamed in to bid farewell and happy retirement to Judy and her precious daughters, Cindy and Lisa.

I was not one of them. 

I was not quite ready to let go of the place where I purchased my honeymoon trip attire and talked nonstop about wedding plans.  Where I bought professional clothes when I was eagerly climbing up the career ladder.  Where I tried on glittery skirts and sparkling tops for galas and social dinners, while she talked me in to actually going.  Where I bought big tops and stretchy pants when I was pregnant.  Where I grabbed shorts and t-shirts for Drew’s soccer games and band trips.        

Parties. Graduations. First jobs. Weddings. Baby showers.  I cannot remember a time in my adult life when Judy was not there to guide me. When I was struggling to find my way, to build a career, a family, a life – I spent hundreds of Saturday afternoons with Judy trying on clothes in the back of the store (my personal dressing room) while she quietly poured in to me wise words and gentle advice. Her standard response to any difficult situation?  “We’ll just have to pray about that.”

 Judy’s face was the first one I saw when my daddy died.  She was at my door with a chicken and rice casserole and arms stretched wide enough to hug us all.  She dabbed steady sweet tears with her ever-present white tissue while she washed dishes at my sink. 

When Drew was little, Judy had a special place for him in the shop.  One of the dressing rooms had books and stuffed animals and there were always snacks and apple juice for my little one.  Miss Judy has been in my son’s life since the beginning and he has enjoyed many of her cheesecakes, pies and special treats.

I have cried hard hot tears, shared my greatest fears, and celebrated my biggest victories with her.  She listens. She hears me.

Many, many times, Judy would get on her hands and knees to pin a hem on a pair of pants for me, old fashioned red pin cushion on her wrist, straight pin between pursed lips, telling me to stand up straight and she would hem the pants so I could wear them with heels or flats.  She always made sure my clothes fit me perfectly.

Many of my friends are mourning the closing of our dress shop, but for me it was never about the clothes.  It was my safe place.  My soft spot to land.  The place where I could strip away all the things that were not really who I am and be just me. And, that was ok.

Although I know that our deep discussions about life (mainly mine) and visits over peanut butter crackers and coffee will not retire with her, I want Judy to know, I need for her to know, how much she has meant to me in this crazy mixed-up thing we call life.

As much as all the big sparkly beautiful words I can squeeze from my heart. 

And, then some.

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

Big Tough Love

 

               A few of the Alewine 11 - Carol, Stevie, Claudette, David, Ann (my mom) & Danny

My Aunt Carol loved bold and loud.  She did not whisper her feelings to the people she loved.  She did not give sweet kisses and soft hugs.  She pushed and shoved her way through life, dragging the people she cared about along for the ride.  Aunt Carol passed away this week.  She was 88 years old and a perfect example of big, tough love. 

The second oldest of the 11 children born to Fletcher and Dolly Alewine during the hard times of the 1930’s, she had no time for whining, spoiled children.  Aunt Carol was tough love at its finest. 

Aunt Carol yelled at all of us kids, made us do chores along with her kids when we visited and didn’t think a thing of swatting us with a fly swatter if we messed up or making us go outside to play if we had been inside bugging her too long.

That did not stop me from wanting to go spend time with my cousins in the summer.  Especially when it was Bunko night.  Aunt Carol would spend hours making mountains of snacks and setting up card tables for her Bunko group. My cousin, Sandra, and I would peep around the corner watching the ladies with their bouffant hairdos as they popped Juicy Fruit gum and held long thin cigarettes in their Revlon Red nail polished fingers.  They were supposed to be there to play Bunko, but I'm pretty sure they mainly came to gossip and eat snacks.  Every now and then, we would hear one of them scream with delight when they won a trinket from the prize basket.  The best part of the night was when all the ladies went home and we got the leftover cookies, chips and dip and other homemade goodies. She always had the best stocked pantry I had ever seen.  

Carol was my mama’s best friend.  There was rarely an event where my mama was that Aunt Carol was not beside her.  She was the Laurel to my mother's Hardy; the mac to her cheese.  Inseparable.  They finished each other's sentences.  Laughed at the same jokes.   Mama said she and her sister were very different but exactly the same in ways that really matter.  I get that.  It’s a sister thing.

When my sister was in the hospital and there was no hope of her getting better, I stood on one side of her bed and my mother and Carol stood on the other.  I took my sisters hand and told her that it was ok for her to go.  I would take care of her children.  I would make sure her daughter had a beautiful wedding and that her son got a good education. I would be there when she could not.

Aunt Carol reached across that bed, took my hand and said, “Mart, it is going to be ok.”  No tears.  No big hugs.  No dramatic speech.   Just a hand on mine and a simple message.  Everything will be ok.

But things were not ok.  My sister died.  For exactly one year I was furious with God.  I had prayed for my sister like I had never prayed before.  I had made deals with God.  I would stop cussing if God would heal my sister.  I would never miss church if he would let my sister live.  God lied to me. I remembered from Sunday School, ask and it shall be given, seek and you shall find.   God did not hold up his end of the deal.  For a year, I would not speak to God.  I did not pray.  Things were never going to be ok.  My Aunt Carol was wrong.

For a whole year, I turned my face away from God. I was furious.  But, God is a big God.  He can take our anger, our frustration, our HUMANESS.   Slowly, so slowly, I began to see that my sister’s death was not something that God did TO ME.  My little sister’s life was between her and God.  How I reacted to the loss of my sister was between ME and God.  I realized that I had been ungrateful for the sister I was given.  I had not been thankful for the 38 years we shared on this earth.  I started to realize what a tremendous blessing she was to me.  How I am who I am because I grew up with her.  My sister left me her amazing children who are MY children.  The world is definitely a better place because she was here.

Everything was going to be ok, just like Aunt Carol promised me, because God’s plan is always ok.  Better than ok.  Perfect.  So many times, we do not see the perfection in the plan and that lesson is always so hard to learn, but Aunt Carol knew.  She knew because she had lived with loss and heartache.  She knew because she knew God’s plan is not always what we think we want or expect.  She told me because she loved me.  My aunt loved me not only big and loud but also with a very simple message on one of the worst days of my life:  It is going to be ok.

On a hot summer day many years later, I went with my mother and Carol to see my grandmother. She and I were in the kitchen and I asked her, “Do you remember telling me that everything was going to be ok when Gail died?  It took me a very long time, but I finally understand what you meant.”

With a very rare tear in her eye, she said, “I always knew that you would.”

The loss of my Aunt Carol is profound.  I can think of so many things we will miss about her.  Her yelling at the TV during Ole Miss sports, her love for the Memphis Grizzlies, her daily phone calls to my mother, her always telling mama to tell me that she loved me.  All the things that made her who she was to each of us. She loved God, her family, Ole Miss, tomato sandwiches, watermelon, and her soaps. She loved me loud and clear.

I want to say to Uncle Robert, Aunt Carol’s husband of almost 70 years, and to my cousins, Bobby, Sandra and Pam.  It is going to be ok.  Maybe you don’t understand.  Maybe you are angry.  Maybe you feel like God has left you or forsaken you.  But it is going to be ok.  God’s perfect plan is, well, it’s perfect.  Even in loss, it is perfect.

Everything will be ok. My Aunt Carol told me so.

Wednesday Chores

 

Little white puffs of richly scented vapor float up to the ceiling as the iron sizzles across my daddy’s frozen shirts.  My mama goes back and forth to the Frigidaire pulling one extra-large white cotton shirt after another out of the freezer, sprinkles them with water from a soda bottle and uses her heavy iron to flatten out the wrinkled rough cotton resulting in a smooth warm shine.

It is Wednesday – ironing day – on a hot summer afternoon at our house.  The steam from the iron smells clean, the real kind of clean, the clean that comes from Duz washing powder and hot water and hanging for mere minutes on the clothes line in the blistering Mississippi summer heat.  We drink orange juice every morning from tiny juice glasses etched in a 22k gold wheat pattern that come free in every box of Duz. We have a complete set.

I am lying down for an afternoon nap with my little sister and baby brother.  I’m 5 years old, much too old for a nap, but mama says I have to rest with my siblings so that they will nap.  If I am real still and quiet, I can get up and color or play Barbies while the younger kids sleep.  I am in the middle. The cream of the Oreo, with my baby brother’s crib pushed up next to the bed that I share with my little sister.  Andy is sprawled out across his crib in only a diaper, his chubby cheeks slightly pink from the heat.  I am holding his hand through the bars of the crib, which I do every night to keep him from fussing before he finally drops off to sleep a few hours before he is wide awake again, ready for a bottle and a diaper change. 

My little sister, Gail, is on the other side, face turned away from me, with her thick blond curls spilling over her pillow and onto mine. She talks a lot, even in her sleep, and she laughs out loud in her dreams. I count the buttons down the back of her favorite top, slightly touching each button and starting all over when I get to the bottom. The buttons are pearly and tiny and she needs help getting into the blouse she wants to wear every day.  I count the buttons until I get to 20, then I look toward the foot of the bed at mama to see if I can get up now.

I see my mama dressed in petal pushers and a sleeveless blouse much like Gail's. She absent-mindedly licks her finger and quickly touches the iron to make sure it is still hot enough. The transistor radio sits on top of the chest of drawers, watching as my mama softly sings along with Johnny Cash’s big, gravelly voice. Ring of Fire.

 She goes about her work quickly, efficiently, like she does everything, occasionally glancing over at us checking to see how much more quiet time she has before we are awake and she will have arguments to negotiate, boo boos to kiss and supper to finish

I hear her flip flops as she hurries from bedroom to kitchen to get another shirt and check on the pot of pinto beans that have been cooking since early morning.  Wednesday – it is not only ironing day, but also fried chicken, pinto beans and mashed potatoes-for-supper day.  Wednesdays are busy for her, but she smiles at secret thoughts I know nothing about and sings and pops her Double Mint gum and she is happy.

We are all in the same room on this summer day because our room – the one I share with my sister and my baby brother – is the only room with an air conditioner.  It’s a window unit that cools our bedroom and my mama and daddy’s room across the hall.  We have air conditioning because doctors assure my parents that the cool air will help my asthmatic sister breathe better.  It does.

I don’t know why this hot summer day climbs to the top of the mountain of my memories so often and so clearly.  Maybe because on this day, I thought my baby brother would always reach out for me when he needed comforting.  I thought my sister would always breathe easy and sleep peacefully.  That my mother would be secure in the knowledge that her children are all safe and within arm's reach of her.  I thought my daddy would always be walking through the door in crisp white shirts ironed with love by his wife.  I believed all Wednesdays would bring chores and fried chicken. That mamas always sang while they ironed and smelled of minty gum and Evening in Paris perfume.  I thought that if I was still and quiet, my brother and sister would always be beside me and I could get up and play and know that they would be joining me shortly.

I have learned that summers end.  Children grow up.  Move away.  Live their lives.  Face their demons and sometimes lose their battles. Daddys don’t always walk through doors at the end of the day and mamas don’t forever feel safe and secure.  I now know that every minute in time is unique, singular and precious. 

Just like the wheat pattern that is etched into those little Duz juice glasses, this day – this ordinary summer day  -  will be etched into my memories forever. 

Unique, singular and precious.

 

 

A Life Remembered in Greeting Cards

There are more than 7 billion greeting cards sold each year in this country.  I found 6.9 billion in boxes under my mother’s bed just last weekend.

It all started when my mother needed a new roof on her house.  That led to repairing the leaky spots inside her house, which led to the painting of said repairs, which led to the near demolition of the interior of her home, which led to me having to put it all back together and finding thousands of keepsakes and what-the-heck-is-this things all over my old childhood home on Camille Street in Senatobia, MS.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m as sentimental as the next gal, but my mother has kept every scrap of paper I’ve ever written on and every shoulder pad I ever wore.  Multiply that by 4 Hudspeth kids’ keepsakes and you will see the perfect picture of my mother’s hoard…I mean, house.

What started out as a simple new roof has turned in to weekends of mediation between my mother and me, with my brother sometimes acting as a mediator. 

It usually goes something like this:

Me:  Mama, do we have to keep these green Liz Claiborne pumps? I wore these when I worked at Hernando Bank in the 1980’s.    

Her:  YES!  They MIGHT come back in style.

Me:  Why are you holding on to this empty Vick’s Vapor Rub jar?

Her:  That was the last Vick’s my daddy ever used!  You know he always kept Vick’s salve by his bed.

Oh, ok.  I guess that makes sense…In my mother’s world.

Her:  What did you just put in that garbage bag?

Me:  Nothing…. 

Strangely enough, the “nothing” in the garbage bag often finds its way back into the house. 

One of the reasons it has taken so long to get everything cleaned up and put back together is because both of us get caught up in the memories tucked away under beds, in underwear drawers, behind what-nots and stuffed in closets that haven’t been opened in years.  Every single scrap of paper, picture, stuffed animal, and do-dad has a history and a story to tell. 

Especially the greeting cards she hangs on to.  Each one chosen with just the perfect touch of corny – some funny, some sentimental.  They are from friends and family for all occasions – birthdays, Christmas, Mother’s Day.  There are boxes of sympathy cards sent to my parents when my sister passed away and again when my brother passed away.   All she has carefully dated and cataloged.  I have called her several times this week and found her re-reading some of her cards.  They bring her such joy mixed with a little sadness.  Her favorite ones are from her children and grandchildren.

From my brother, Andy, to my mother for Mother’s Day:  Thank you for all that you do for me.  Can you keep Heather this week? (My sister-in-law, Ann, always put pictures with the cards they sent)

From my brother, Jeff, to my mother on Valentine’s Day:  I love you, Mom. You mean so much to me.

From my sister, Gail, on her birthday:  Love always, Gail, Buster, April and Brandon

And, of course, the ones from me.

In 1972 at the age of 15, I wrote:  “Mama, I know we don’t get along too good, but I love you anyway. XOX.”

In 1979 at the age of 22, I wrote:  “Mother, we don’t always see eye-to-eye, but I do love you.”

In 1992 at the age of 35, I wrote:  “Mom, you are my best friend and I will love you always.”

Maybe greeting cards allow us to express ourselves in a way we would not do in person, but today I want to make sure I am not just sticking a card into an envelope for my mother’s birthday.  How many times have I run into Walgreens and picked up some random card without even really reading the message.  I want the message I send to my mother to be spoken and not read; to be handed out in hugs and not envelopes.  To be held in her heart for safe keeping and not just in boxes under her bed. 

I love that my mother has a little Hallmark history of our family in the form of cards and notes.  Each card forming a patchwork quilt of expressions of love and appreciation for my mother from her family. I love that she took the time to date each card and that she cannot bear to part with them.  I love that she has a continuing love affair with the written word. 

My mama and I are so very different...And so much alike.  The proof is in the cards.

Cousin Love

I am No. 6 of my grandmother’s 20 grandchildren.  She is No. 20, the runt of the litter.

She is as hard headed as she is tender hearted.  Her dark hair fames an angelic face with her dad’s full lips, her mom’s porcelain skin and eyes that sparkle blue when she laughs and deepen to blue/ green when she is daydreaming.

She does a lot of daydreaming.  

At first glance, she seems exotic. A wisp of a girl, so naturally beautiful she seems otherworldly.    Her molasses-rich drawl reveals southern roots as deep as the Mighty Mississippi.  Her dream car is a big black pick-up truck.  The epitome of a Mississippi girl.

She is fiercely loyal, slow to anger, forgiving, humble.  A true, blue daddy’s girl as only southern girls can be.

My baby cousin, Summer.

In a huge North Mississippi family of Alewine grandchildren, Summer is the baby of my grandmother’s baby boy.   While the rest of us Alewine cousins were named solid baby boomer names like Martha, Pam, Jeff, Gail, Rhonda, Dianne, and Sandra,  Summer was named, well, Summer. 

Her name describes her perfectly.  She is warm, loving, breezy.  She is drawn to the lost, mistreated, and misunderstood. She is forever “collecting” people she believes need saving.  She offers her ear, her heart and her home to anyone who needs it.

She is a shining light in a troubled world.

Summer doesn’t just talk about Jesus to anyone who will listen. She shows them who he is. 

The Alewine people are a rowdy outgoing, family of folks who love to spin a good tale, laugh and have a good time. Summer is different.   A true introvert in a huge family of extroverts, Summer loves spending time with her dogs, close family and a few special friends.  She is quiet and guarded.  She will tell you she is blessed.

Even the most blessed of God’s children do not escape the ugliness of life on this earth.

On a cold winter night in February 2009, Summer lost her precious mother in a car wreck. 

I remember that dark day. I grew up with my Uncle Stevie and love him like a brother, but I barely knew this young cousin of mine.  I did not know what to say to this damaged girl who had just lost her mother.  I sat outside her bedroom and prayed for the right words to say.  I asked God to use me to comfort her in some way.

Her door never opened; I did not find the words.  I left my uncle’s home without even seeing her that day.

I prayed.   God had a plan. 

While I was praying for her and seeking God’s plan for her, she was challenging me with Biblical questions that I would have to research in order to answer.  This girl makes me think.

While I was convincing her that she is strong and resilient and independent, she was showing me how to find joy in the simple things in life – a new puppy, a playful child, an old time gospel singing.

While I searched for the perfect Christmas gifts for her in a multitude of stores and websites, she quietly gave me the most precious gifts…. Things of her mother’s that she knew I would love.  Arthur Court serving trays, a precious handmade canister set, a wall clock that is perfect for my home.  Things that mean something to her that she wanted to share with me. Priceless gifts from her heart.

We talk about the simple things of life, her job, her daddy and my mama, our shared love for our family.  One minute we may be discussing the pros and cons of vitamin supplements and the next we could be talking about the meaning of life.  Many times, our messages back and forth go on for hours; some days we just say hello.  We rarely ever go a day without connecting in some way.

Sometimes there are tears, but there is always laughter.

On that tragic day in 2009, this heartbroken girl captured my heart.  She continues to teach me so much about life, loss, joy, and family.  

Even though she has shown me things I could no longer see, I watch her searching for answers, for truth, for the way back from the darkness.

She may not be able to see her light just yet, but I see it shining brightly in the lives of the children she keeps at daycare and their parents she invites to church.  In the lives of people who need a meal, a bed or just a pat on the back. In the eyes of her beloved daddy.

And, in the life of an older cousin who loves her like a sister, prays for her like a mother and is blessed to be with her on this lighted path we call life.

Matthew 5:16

My Hero Wore Fur

Not all super heroes wear a cape. Mine wore a mink coat.

First grade Christmas party.  My mother, then 22 years old, brought snow white cupcakes with red sprinkles to a room full of rowdy ready-for-Santa first graders on the last day before Christmas break in 1964.  She looked like she stepped off the pages of Teen Magazine dressed in pink stirrup pants, fluffy sweater, gold sparkly shoes and a mink coat.

Actually, she wore a mouton coat, but in the eyes of these first graders, it was a mink coat.  Like the one Marilyn Monroe wore when she surprised the world and up and married old Joltin’ Joe.

My friends asked me if she was a movie star.  Simple answer:  How could she be a movie star when she’s my mama?

She was 16 years old when I was born.  Just 10 months and 13 days after she married my daddy.  Standing in front of a justice of the peace in a gray suit borrowed from her sister, my mother was a child bride.  I have pictures of me as a baby with my teenage mother’s favorite doll, Annie Oakley.  My daddy gave her that doll… and me.  They went on to have 4 more children and Annie Oakley was forgotten somewhere along the way.

Standing just north of 5 ft. tall, mama was not like all the other mothers.  She was pretty with her dark curly hair, perfect complexion and twinkling eyes. She painted her lips in Avon Red Velvet and always smelled like Evening in Paris perfume.  On Saturdays, we watched American Bandstand and sang and danced around the living room with Dick Clark and the American Bandstand Dancers.  When it came time for my daddy to get home from work, she washed our faces and combed our hair and stood at the window waiting for him to drive up.   He came home to her every single day for 55 years.

Super heroes do cry sometimes.   My mama has lost 3 of her 5 children and 7 of her 11 siblings.  Her beloved husband passed away suddenly six years ago.  She doesn’t laugh as much and her brown eyes are a little less bright.

American Bandstand has been replaced with The Young and the Restless as must-see-TV and her glamorous mouton coat is in storage at my house.  The last bottle of Evening in Paris that my daddy gave her sits on my dresser, empty now.  I still occasionally take the top off just to get a whiff of my childhood.

My mama is no less a hero today than she was that day she made her 6 year old daughter the envy of all the other first graders.  She is still beautiful with dark curly hair, a perfect complexion and, yes, sometimes Red Velvet lips.

 

 

Lessons on Black Leather

He was clad in typical motorcycle garb – black leather vest, leather chaps, motorcycle boots, dew rag hanging out of his helmet, hugging a big black Harley.  A rugged, bear of a man.

Stopping next to him at the red light gave me an opportunity to critique him like a New York Times book reviewer.  My southern mama’s mind went to work immediately.  That is nothing but trouble. 

Then I saw him.  Riding shotgun was a miniature replica of Mr. Motorcycle Dude.  Little black leather vest, a red, white and blue bandana tired around his neck.  I could see shiny brown eyes peeping from underneath wind-blown silver and brown hair. A tiny pink tongue darted in and out to the rhythm of the distinct rattle of the V-twin engine.  Seeming to grin from ear to ear, the little Yorkshire terrier was sitting pretty in a rigged up safety seat built especially for him.   Four or five pounds of best friend. 

Puppy dogs and babies soften even the hardest shell of a person.

Why do we judge people on how they look?  How they dress?  Even what they drive?

On second glance, maybe he is a doctor who cares for terminally ill patients every day except Friday’s when he rides his Harley through the back streets of DeSoto County to unwind.

Maybe he is a fireman who worked most of the night putting his own life in danger to save someone else’s family and is headed out of the city for a break.

Maybe he is a teacher who gets through to the ignored, abused, forgotten children of our world because they can relate to him.

Maybe he is the butcher, the baker or candle stick maker.  He is someone’s son, dad, husband, friend.   

Whatever he does or whatever he drives or however he is dressed does not determine who he is.  Except when he is stopped at a red light next to a somewhat set-in-her-ways, self-proclaimed southern belle with a really hard shell who is learning new lessons on humanity.  (Matthews 7:1)

Every.  Single.  Day.    

This I know to be true:    Anyone who takes his Yorkie for a ride on his Fat Boy on a beautiful, sunny Friday afternoon is a hero in my book.