"what a wonderful world" was always a special song, but one christmas almost 20 years ago was the night i felt it all the way to my bones. it was elizabeth's first christmas and we had come to tennessee to introduce her to my family. jim and i were still in our haze of wonder - our dream-like bubble - the only two people in the universe who had ever experienced birth and parenthood and never tired of gazing into the face of our baby daughter. we were gathered at kathy and paul's for dinner, the whole family together, even mema and troy and linda. we filled the house - spreading from the kitchen past the dining table into the big open family room. elizabeth was in her little red velvet christmas dress with white tights and red velvet shoes - a tiny ruffled headband around her fuzzy head. the world seemed to be swirling around us as the center as she was welcomed and we were bathed in love. my ears tuned in to the words of louis armstrong coming from the stereo and i think i knew this moment in time was special - a moment i needed to remember. perhaps because it was christmas and we were all together in joy, but for whatever reason the words of the song resonated in our souls and stayed there. jim scooped elizabeth into his arms and danced through the room until the song was done - each of us in turn stopping in mid action to watch. most of us were smiling but linda's eyes brimmed with tears for what had not been as loving a life for herself and her children. the song ended and kathy took the custard pies from the china cabinet - mom helped in the kitchen and kathy's boys joined the ever present crowd to talk away the night - this special night when we had momentarily stepped away from ourselves and observed our blessings from the outside. later jim told me what he thought about as he danced with his two-month old daughter on her first christmas - he knew some day he would dance to the same song with his grown-up daughter at her wedding. even then with parenthood fresh and new - first steps and first words, learning to ride a bike, the first day of kindergarten in front of us - we realized this precious gift of our child's life in our care and we have never taken it for granted with either of our children.

as i have heard the song through the years, my reaction has always gone deep - made me nostalgic for the days when everything wonderful was still in front of us. i recently heard the story of the real inspiration for the song - a daddy coming home from war to reunite with his young daughter - all of life beautiful and full of wonder because he has come home. i have no doubt jim and elizabeth will dance to "what a wonderful world" at her wedding when she is glowing with all the world of love and family and possibility ahead of her. jim will cry and i will watch from the side with tears pouring down my cheeks - tears of pride, tears of joy for her bright future, tears of longing to do it all again in slow motion holding on as long as i can.

mom's hands - plump with short nails - once bone thin - now puffed and almost burying the wedding band she has worn for more than fifty years. the fingers are beginning to take on strange angles as arthritis bends the joints and takes flexibility they once had. not yet seventy is too soon for hands to give way to pain but her hands have worked hard for much of her life - they paid the price she would offer freely again. as a girl those hands cared for the house and her little brother while her parents worked to pay the bills. they transitioned seamlessly into caring for her husband and then one child after another until there were four. they cooked and cleaned, washed dirty faces, baked birthday cakes, sewed clothes -- creating our simple and lovely world. too often her tired hands worked far into the night sewing the prom dress that we never appreciated enough - finishing the easter dresses for herself and three pouting daughters. those hands ached as they finished her annual christmas surprises hidden each year in her bedroom closet behind old shoes and daddy's work clothes. the nails never grew - the hands never resting from her mission to make a perfect safe world for children she loved beyond life - hands fierce in their attempts to shelter us from mean words and unfair teachers and thoughtless friends.

how do i thank this mother who has given her life and dreams and youth to make my life better?

i never understood anything before my children were born, never knew the depth and life cracking power of love until i looked into the faces of my babies - watched them grow into beautiful children - struggled with them through adolescence - and now stand on the periphery as they transform into adults. the feelings washing over me are so powerful sometimes i think i'll drown in the need to protect and give and wipe away all that might tarnish such beauty and promise. i understand my mother's tears as i have lightly moved forward - away from her - and the deep melancholy of knowing i have done the most important thing i will ever do and now i am almost unnecessary. i understand why mom hummed from room to room one christmas as she cared for three sick adult children - how she might have cherished one more opportunity to place a wet wash cloth on a fevered forehead, deliver jello and saltines with a little crushed ice and coke.

my mom's hands have never tired of caring for her children - as i suspect mine never will for my children. the love carries on from generation to generation as the hands instinctively reach out - fully open - offering everything without reserve - crooked with age or not. no hands, however straight and young and elegant could ever be as beautiful as my mom's plump and slightly bent hands - overworked from the business of loving her children.

with all my heart - thank you mom - i love you

some things i remember

the sound of cars rushing past the front bedroom window too fast and loud for the starlit darkness. it was most noticeable in the night when all other sounds had faded to quiet breathing and even mema's late night snuggle talk of old-time boyfriends and all night dancing had broken off abruptly with a soft snore. the sound of car motors began as a faint growl - quickly grew to a full roar in front of the house and just as suddenly vanished to the hush of crickets and bullfrogs and breathing. the noise was always accompanied by headlights shining through the white polyester sheers covering the windows and i would sometimes watch them late into the night when i had drawn the long broom straw - winning the privilege of sleeping in the feather bed with mema. the first dive in was like falling into a cloud but soon mema's deep sleep would send an arm over my chest or a heavy leg across my small mosquito bitten ankles. we all wanted that spot, but the best sleep was for the ones who nestled into feather beds spread on the floor - covered with homemade patchwork quilts smelling faintly musty from the cold back room. where we slept didn't matter so much because lying awake watching headlights from the feather bed - listening to the cadence of car motors and sleeping breath - were all part of the rhythm of a summer sleepover at mema's.

and i remember

picnics in her short front yard - so close to the highway we could feel the wind from the cars. we spilled from the front porch into the yard where we lounged on quilts under the shade tree. trixie wandered - begging for scraps of ham or cornbread - collecting ear scratches or belly rubs and finally settling next to mema in the porch swing. those days felt serene - family enough to never feel alone - uncle troy telling big-hearted stories of his latest swindle - casual conversations with no thought of saying the right thing or making an impression - simply accepting each other gratefully on an endless hot sunday afternoon. sometimes it was a fish fry with just caught and cleaned catfish and hush puppies with coleslaw on the side - or maybe homegrown black eyed peas and field corn -big warm slices of tomatoes ripe from the garden- with pork sausage freshly made in mema's sunny kitchen.

and i remember

the wonderfully ugly white vinyl couch in the den at 4 almo drive. the kitchen and tiny den were attached with a half wall so we could see mama when she cooked. the house often smelled of hot grease - too hot - because mama only cooked with the stove on high - perhaps a little indication of her impatience - or maybe just four hungry kids wanting to eat right now. after dinner the lights would go off and the tv on - all of us piled together on the ugly couch. saturday night was gunsmoke with matt dillon, miss kitty and festus - and we looked forward to that night all week. except for the sliding glass door right beside the couch - facing the dark woods. mama and daddy always heard noises out there - believed prowlers were watching us - infused us with fear for the unknown evil outside our own back door. i was so afraid at bedtime - covered myself from head to toe - no neck exposed for the vampires to taste - nothing tumbling out of the covers to be grabbed and never released. don't close my eyes - it might sneak up and take me. don't open my eyes - too many frightening images - i saw the outline of a man - i saw movement - something looking at me from the crack between the window and the curtain. i am terrified. i try to sleep when the heat is on - it covers the noises of demons in the night. i am the only one awake - the only one afraid - i wake kathy and for a little while i am alright. she begins to sleep again - but kathy i need you closer - i'm so scared. we move the twin beds together in the large master bedroom with red carpet, window airconditioner and a tiny half bathroom with a window facing the dark woods. i can touch kathy - she keeps me safe.

and i remember

the night lana sue died. i was little, maybe six or seven, and the house was cozy warm - lights on, gentle ben on tv and mama cooking supper. it was sunday. the phone rang and mama answered - her face contorted - tears came - she collapsed into the hard kitchen chair as daddy took the phone. before, sundays had been good days - after, they were a reminder - gentle ben was part of the unforgettable night lana sue wisdom - mom's beautiful gidget-resembling cousin with thick hair flipped up at the bottom - cousin who swung us around and around at family gatherings - mom's just-like-a-sister cousin - died in a car crash with her boyfriend on a terrible sunday night. they said she went through the floorboard of her boyfriend's car as they drove too fast over the bridge. he lived. she died that night just before she would have been sixteen. the house was dark for days and we didn't go to school. the sadness was suffocating and i wanted it to end. i was little - i wanted to play - i wanted to go to school - i wanted to live.

at last we opened the shades and let life in again.

imagine lying on your back in a hammock under the stars with a soft gray cashmere blanket and a cup of perfectly sweetened chai tea - remembering a life almost finished - hair snow white - reading glasses long ago replaced with thick bifocals - wrinkles deep, but none so bottomless as the laugh lines around the sweet old smiling mouth. imagine the wisdom it took to laugh through a life laced with pain and struggle - sickness and health - joy and loss so big - so endless it almost swallowed you whole - but not quite. imagine how grace took over and taught you to wait - to soften - to accept - to remember small joys great enough to get you through a life. imagine whispered words of love passion what's for dinner i'm sick the sky looks like rain what will we do if he dies if she dies if they leave us if the dog needs surgery if the insurance doesn't cover the bills. imagine the words not said out of kindness - fear - shame - pride - understanding. imagine a life where we can reach the end and still smile more than cry - walk in the sun equally loving the rain - without thought of anything more than -life is an extraordinary gift - a good solid rough-around-the-edges butcher-knife-sharp sweet and salty gift.

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my grandmother's white hair hasn't been cut in decades and she wears it pulled into a knot on the back of her head - her 90 year old skin is tan and smooth and spotted with age - her blue eyes twinkle as she smiles at life. you know, she said on our last visit, we may have our losses and our disappointments but life is still beautiful. her back curves from all she has carried - children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and now the great great grandchildren have begun - a life of parties and boyfriends by the dozen in her youth - public work, as she called it, in the shirt factory - a rocky marriage that ended 20 years ago with my grandfather's death - siblings, 6 in all, gone one by one - her beloved son's death before he was ready. losses, solitude she did not choose, suffering, but still she sees beauty. her speckled hands remind me of days long ago when we sat on the porch swing as she braided my hair with hands so strong my eyes sometimes pulled at the corners. other times those hands gently smoothed and cooled my tousled head in the heat of summer. mema never gets hot - never breaks a sweat. her smile has always been present - calm - loving - quiet in the storm. she lives with blackie and penny - her beloved dogs who are also survivors - rescued from hopeless futures. so she cooks for three and penny can't get enough dr. pepper and what would happen if the girls didn't get their snack before bed. she goes to church - reads her bible - cans more tomatoes and corn and pickles than she will ever have time to eat - visits the old people in the nursing home - takes walks in the park in sunny weather - makes quilts and brings homemade pecan pies to every holiday gathering. she has said goodbye to more people than i have ever known, met death and life and god face to face - and still she smiles.