View From the Heights

The primary purpose of our trip to Chattanooga, Tennessee, was to pick out countertops for our kitchen and bathrooms. Adding a few days to explore Chattanooga offered a break from our daily routine. Several friends recommended attractions, including the Tennessee Aquarium and the Incline Railway to Lookout Mountain. Driving to our Airbnb on Chattanooga’s east side, we wound our way along Missionary Ridge up steep streets and arrived at the charming restored cottage on a quiet street, La Petite Chateau. 

With an early start the following day, we rode on the Incline Railway, which rose sharply to a 2000-foot rocky cliff on the city's west side, Lookout Mountain. In several places during the ten-minute ride, the car rode at a seventy-eight-degree incline. Spectacular views of Chattanooga wowed us as the railcar moved steadily upward. 

After arriving at the station and passing through the souvenir shop, we walked three short blocks to Point Park, part of Chattanooga National Military Park. Restored southern homes lined the ridge as we stopped several times to take in the view of the city from the heights. I breathed deeply and gratefully for this time of exploration with John, absorbing man’s inventiveness and God’s stunning creation.

As we approached the park entrance gate, John asked, “Hey, hon, do you still have your National Park Pass in your wallet?”

“Yes, I do. Let’s ask if the park accepts it.” They did. Senior passes have their perks. 

We strolled around the tranquil park, reading the interpretive plaques describing the battles and casualty counts between the Union and Confederacy, a grim reminder of the Civil War’s consequences. The sheer drop to the Tennessee river below and hazy skies evoked a haunted feeling.

Reese, a volunteer park guide, delivered a spell-binding narrative of the Chickamauga and Chattanooga battles of 1863 as we gathered near the Confederate cannons. The primary engagement for Chattanooga was not fought on the heights of Lookout Mountain but spread out below among the bends of the Tennessee River valley. The Confederate soldiers watched from the relative safety of the mountain as their side lost the battle to maintain a strategic railway supply junction. The troop’s demoralized loss gave way to solemn reflection.

“I am amazed that a disastrous decision by one unpopular Confederate general swung the war in the Union’s favor,” John stated thoughtfully. “How can one man’s ill-timed maneuvers turn the tide of a major offensive?”

I added, “The troops on top of the mountain watched their side lose the skirmish and had no recourse to aid their fellow troops. They eventually gave up hope and retreated off the mountain. How sad, but they lived another day to fight and die.”

This verse came to mind.

“The name of the Lord is a fortified tower; the righteous run to it and are safe.” (Proverbs 18:10 NIV)

I considered the death and destruction in the valley, for the Civil war men and myself. I’ve dwelled in turmoil down below which all of us experience. 

In the wisdom of His perfect timing, my Father lifts me out of suffering, and I gain a clearer understanding of the valley of the shadow of death. Witnessing the battle from His high standpoint brings peace. And when my soul is at peace with God, love flows freely to battle-weary friends and family. This life becomes more about the needs of others than my hopelessness to help. Surrender to the authentic character of God and run into his safe tower on the heights.

Still Horse Crazy

             As a life-long animal lover, horses were no exception in my affections. I had one problem as a young girl. Horses in central Illinois were kept on farms. My Aunt and Uncle’s pig and grain farm near Coal City, Illinois, was this city girl’s only exposure to farm life. 

We knew what fun awaited us after Uncle Roger finished a day’s work in the field or pig barn. After we helped Aunt Nonie clean up the dishes from a meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob and berry cobbler with a dollop of vanilla ice cream, a tractor ride was great entertainment for city kids. 

Uncle Roger climbed nimbly on the green John Deere after he lifted us into place. Who would he pick to ride on his lap and steer the noisy, diesel-smelling tractor in the fields down bumpy corn rows? Usually, it was a younger child that he needed to secure inside the tractor so that they wouldn’t fall off. I remember him putting me on the tractor step and saying, “Just hold on tight, Nancy!” Bumping down the cornrow, the rough corn stalk leaves slapped me on the leg while smaller leaves tickled.

My week on the farm with Aunt, Uncle, cousins, pigs and cats was ideal, except for the absence of a horse to ride.

I can count on one hand the number of times I rode a pony wheel ride at a fair, but riding in a circle for a few minutes with a tired horse tethered to a steel wheel was boring and unfair to the pony. Still, the horse was living, unlike the plastic motorized rocking horses outside the grocery store that moved after Mom or Dad put a dime in the slot. But I could dream.

In the summer, we drove to southern Illinois to my dad’s Uncle, who kept animals. Still horse-crazed at age twelve, the tawny horse in front of me was a dream come true. Overcome with excitement, I barely heard Uncle ask me if I wanted to ride the horse.

Trixie was free to roam their yard. As I walked to her head and tentatively reached out, Uncle encouraged me to talk to Trixie.

“Tell her what a sweet, fine horse she is. Let her hear your voice and smell you.” 

I was intimidated standing by a giant horse but too excited not to follow Uncle’s instructions. The feeling of climbing into the saddle and grabbing the horn was exhilarating. Trixie’s sweat-stained saddle creaked and smelled of saddle soap--and sweat. Uncle kept the reigns and led me around while giving me important riding instructions. 

“Don’t pull hard on the reigns, and don’t kick Trixie’s side. She is not Lone Ranger’s horse, Silver. She’s older, gentle, and will take you for a nice ride around the yard.”

Still, visions of riding hard and fast to get help for Jimmy stuck in a well with a snake bite flitted through my mind. Maybe the tan and white Rough Collie, Lassie, would bound across the yard and join us on an adventure. 

Uncle let me ride for many happy hours, but it may have been only thirty minutes in reality. With his help, I dismounted. My legs were wobbly. I would never trade the time I spent on gentle Trixie over the soreness I felt the following day. Wow, I was sore!

In Tennessee, horses are all over and not limited to country farms. You may keep a horse if you have a minimum of five acres. Our friends have four beautiful horses on thirty acres that they generously let their friends ride. My riding time is ahead after hot summer days turn into cool fall, and the flies are not troublesome for horses and riders. 

I will get up the morning after riding stiff and sore, but my soul will ride into the sunset with the Lone Ranger and Silver. Hi ho, Silver–away!

What I think I look like on a horse!

What I hope doesn't happen!

The Cabinet Maker

 Tom, the cabinet maker; Mark, the building contractor; John, my husband and I met at our Tennessee home to discuss kitchen cabinets. The outside walls and roof are on our new construction in the hills of Tennessee, and the framing crew is working on our back deck. We yell above the pounding nail guns, saws and shouts to hear one another. Tom's friendly, accommodating personality put me at ease during the planning session. He only carries a pencil and a 5x7 pad of paper to capture the dimensions and overall design--without a computer or fancy graphic aides. As we introduce ourselves, I mention that we live on the same street as his cabinet shop. 

Jade, the Corgi 💖

“We’re the folks that live in the warehouse with the apartment. Do you remember me walking my dog, Jade, past your shop?”

“Yeah, I shor do, “ Tom says with a gentle smile and a strong local accent. “I thought you look’ familiar.”

“I haven’t walked past your shop since Jade passed away several months ago.”

“Well, I’m sorry ta hear that. I ‘member your doggie barkin’ at me, then comin’ over for a pet,” Tom reminisces with a shy smile.

“Jade could be a stinker sometimes, but I miss her.”

We waded through more pleasantries and then got down to business.

I’ve planned a unique design for the kitchen island in our open living area. The island needs to be more than a box with a top to stand out. I’m nervous about expressing my plan clearly. Will Tom and Mark envision my ideas? My nervousness disappeared as Tom asked targeted questions and gave valuable suggestions. I see the wheels turn in Tom and Mark’s minds as they discuss the logistics for the island.

After making all the decisions about the kitchen cabinets, we walk to Tom’s car to see the sample cabinet stain. Sweat drips down my temples from standing in the sweltering August Tennessee sun, so I step into a shady spot. A light but refreshing breeze picks up, moving the humid air over me like a fluffed bedcover instead of squeezing my lungs. The heat doesn't seem to bother the men, but all their foreheads are beaded with sweat. 

Cherry Wood Cabinet

The cabinet sample shines with rich red-brown color, a little darker than I thought I wanted. The more I look at it, the color grows on me. The woodgrain pattern is stunning and met with John’s approval. I compared the cabinet sample to the flooring samples, and the color combinations work beautifully together.

We talk about other things unrelated to building a home. Tom's father, Elmer, brought him up in the woodworking cabinetry trade. He's been doing business for thirty years locally.  

“I keep workin’, though not as hard as in years gone past, ‘cause I love meetin’ people and makin’ beautiful cabinets,” Tom said, adding that he and Mark attended the same school. They are proud artisans with a high degree of integrity in their work and relationships. They remark sadly on the grim future of the trades.

"No one wants to learn a trade, enny more. It's a dyin' art," Tom shook his head woefully. We all agree, silently wondering what would happen to all the craft maker's knowledge that would be lost when men like Mark and Tom passed away.

Looking at John and me, Tom said, "You-uns is good people." The genuine compliment from a southern gentleman to two northerners warmed my heart.

Tennessee produces gentle, proud, unassuming people that work hard and love their own and are kind to transplants who have fallen in love with their mountains and their culture.

Mountain view on the way to our new home

 

Am I Willing?

Note from Nancy B

Missing Pages: A Common Woman's Uncommon Hope is in my editor's capable hands for the next few months. In the meantime, we are building a Tennesse retirement home and loving our new community. Join me as I offer more stories for you to read and comment on. Please know that God gives you hope for your future. 

Am I Willing?

“You must be more willing to listen,” my husband, John, states with a slight edge of frustration. His patience with me is impressive when I think out loud. His economy of language frustrates me because he processes thoughts internally. He deliberates, I react, and opposites always attract.

In my frustration, I grow impatient and resist John’s preferences. I balk when he says I need to be more willing to listen. 

“I listen to you! Can’t I express my opinion?”

He thinks logically, going from A to B to C without hesitation. My wordy spaghetti logic takes the journey from A to F, then back to C and straight to Z. But he continues to listen actively and hears my heart among all the words. I learn to speak logically and succinctly, halting impulsive reactions.

Our discussion centers around the type of cooktop we want for our new home; an electric, gas or induction cooktop. He wants the functionality of induction. It allows rapid heating while leaving the surface cool after removing the boiling pot. I prefer a gas cooktop, but the gas by-products aggravate John’s breathing. His health concerns make choosing induction cooking logical. John wants all the knobs, gauges and beeps. He couldn’t care less about the cooktop’s finish. I want it to look beautiful. Aesthetics over function drives my choices. 

All week long, John’s statement about my willingness bounced around in my head.

I envision a triangle with the facts and emotions on the bottom that fuel the decision at the top. Will I willingly cooperate to take the facts and feelings into consideration? Or will I resist and argue in the decision-making process? Whether I am willing or resistant during the decision-making process depends upon the importance of the decision’s outcome. I am eager to be congenial when John doesn’t care about the color of the flowers I want to plant in front of the apartment. Our discussion may get heated if I want to spend more flower money than he thinks is necessary. If he wants to buy an expensive woodworking tool, I may be resistant because the purchase impacts the funds available to buy the things I like.

Generally, women spend money to have experiences and build relationships, i.e., vacations and home decorations. Men spend money on big-ticket items to do things, i.e., fishing boats or a band saw. 

Within several years of marriage, John and I take the kids on our first family camping trip to Six Flags Over America in Missouri. Back then, we don’t talk about our expectations of money. He works, I take care of the children and our house, and I spend “his” money on things he thinks are frivolous. Tupperware is not frivolous!

The “deely-bopper incident of 1981” stands out as our wake-up call over the differences we hold spending money. I have high expectations for a fun family day and disregard John’s worry about the expenses. A deely bopper is a 1980s novelty item of headgear with two springy antennae. 

“Mom, can I have a deely bopper? They are so cool,” Rachel, my daughter, shouts. 

“Hmm? Do all three of you want one?” I ask.

“Yeah, I want one,” my youngest, Andy, says as he jumps up and down.

“Me too,” says Eric, the oldest. He’s eight going on sixteen, but the fun headgear draws out his fun-loving child. I turn to John.

“John, I know we spent more than we expected on lunch. But can the kids buy these?” In 1980, thirty dollars for lunch for a family of five was exorbitant. We aren’t prepared for the expense of the whole day.

John thinks spending six dollars on three deely boppers is wasteful and refuses to spend the money.  

With his head down, John says, “No, they don’t need them. I don’t want to run out of money on this trip.” We had no debit or credit cards, only traveler's checks. Once they are gone, we are out of money.

He is a killjoy, and I tell him so.

“They’re only two dollars apiece. Six dollars isn’t going to break your bank,” I say sarcastically.

We exchange more sharp words until he gives into my emotional pressure. This exchange colors our whole vacation. He sits in his camping chair, silent and pouting, reading a book while the kids and I play games at the picnic table. Today, we laugh about the deely boppers, but it was an eye-opening conflict born of uncommunicated expectations. 

Many years later, we attended a free finance class at our church and learned to communicate before events like the “deely bopper incident.” In this class, we receive valuable and practical information to apply in the years ahead. This advice helps us avoid squabbling over the use of money.

One of our homework assignments is to track all our spending during the week and bring the record to class. The spending tracking helps us establish a budget as a framework to build a secure financial future. One suggestion we put into place changes our future discussions on spending. We give each other a discretionary allowance for clothing and hobbies, starting with a whopping twenty dollars per month. Allowances give us the freedom to spend without having to justify our purchases. Anything else is a budgeted item, like postage stamps, vacations and savings. This budgeting system increases our willingness to listen to each other as we discuss finances. 

With all the home-building decisions we currently face, I strive to be a willing participant, neither a doormat nor an obstructionist. Difficult choices to reach an agreement become future touchstones to remember how we worked together with God’s help. Our cooperative but imperfect partnership in building a home will bring sweet memories for the future, even with the occasional deely bopper-type discussions. 

Willingness ensures a smoother process. Resistance does not. 

II Timothy 2:7 says, “Consider what I say, for the Lord will give you understanding.”