Needs a little work…


Ten years ago we had no idea how true those words would prove to be. Since buying our home, we’ve slowly been transforming it into a place we love to live, one project at a time. We started by ripping up linoleum, restoring the terrazzo floors, giving it an initial coat of paint, and moving in. Each year, we’d take what was in our meager savings account and invest it in the house, changing it bit by bit, and each year my sweet, tired hubby hopes this will be the last project…

Four years ago, we refinanced and made provision for a large improvement, putting in new windows throughout the house (the old wooden ones were rotting off their frames), nice siding over the concrete block and wood on the exterior, and painting—spending every penny.

Last year, we took the color plunge and painted most of the interior in rich, warm shades. It turned out beautifully.

This summer we’re giving the 1950’s front bathroom a much-needed facelift. (In all actuality, I am the one who thinks it’s needed, and my handy husband has resignedly acquiesced.) Remember, I’m a whim chaser. In my mind, this simply meant putting in a new cabinet, and painting. Uh… I was wrong. This project requires heavy lifting, plumbing, drywall, floor repair, and electrical expertise. I think I need to make a public apology. (And a meatloaf.)

The bright spot in the project so far has been the “find”. We found a cool vanity with sink and faucets at a local home décor place’s scratch and dent warehouse. The scratches are only on the feet, and it has no dents. Cool! We saved ourselves tons of money. (Picture me patting Don and myself on the back repeatedly.)

Will this be the last project? Probably not… I'm sure I can find something that needs a little work.

Reason Number 2073 To Keep An Eye On A Five Year Old


A creative child can get into trouble in less than 30 seconds. This has been proven in the Taylor household.

I try to work from home a few afternoons a week during the Summer, which really means sitting at the computer for 3 or 4 minutes at a time before having to check on my very creative daughter…

Picture this scene: I am happily writing some instructions for work when I realize the house is just a little too quiet.

“Marla,” I call.

Silence.

“Maar-laaa”, I call again.

No answer.

“You know what that means, Mom.” This from Sam, 21.

“Okay, okay,” I sigh heavily.

To his credit, Sam hunts for her in the front of the house, while I go to the back.

“Found her,” he yells.






I come around the corner to see him pulling her by the feet out from behind a huge mirror that is hung in the corner of the living room.






“Oh my,” Sam says.

“Oh my,” I echo.

Marla has painted her entire face with red lipstick.

Wind Chimes




There’s something quite magical about the sound of wind chimes. Maybe it’s the way their music reverberates in the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere on a breezy day. I’ve had a fascination for their tones since childhood. My mother had a small wind chime that hung in the kitchen window… the top of it was shaped like a small silver pagoda’s roof, and the tiny bells made the most delightful sounds when the breeze would blow softly in.

When I was in my early 20’s I became enchanted by some chimes in a gift shop on Park Avenue in Winter Park. Almost 3 feet tall, they had a rich, warm tone that was incredibly soothing to me. They were $50.00, and we were newly married with a very limited income. I begged my husband to buy them for me as a Christmas gift, and was thrilled to find he’d done just that when December rolled around. They’ve been hanging in our yard wherever we’ve lived for 28 years.

In 1999 our youngest son Jesse passed away when he was just short of 4 years old and was laid to rest in a cemetery in Winter Park under the shade of an old water oak. It’s really a beautiful spot, and over the years I have often gone there to sit, cry, pray, and remember. A few weeks after his funeral I went to mourn by myself for a while. The breeze was gently blowing and I could hear bells… wind chimes. Someone had hung a fine set of chimes in the tree over his grave. It was beautiful… and somehow comforting to me. Each time I would go back to visit, I would hope that there might be a breeze so that I could hear them.

I told a few friends about the bells and soon I began receiving wind chimes as gifts. I think we have 10 of them now, all hung about the yard in various places. They’re all different sizes and each has a unique sound. Some are melodious, some haunting, some light and airy, and one made of bamboo that kind of clunks. I love them all. They speak to my spirit.

You see, each time they ring, I’m reminded of God’s kindness and mercy. He loves me enough to comfort me in my sorrow in ways that are perfect for me. He reminds me of beauty in the midst of pain, sorrow, and loss. He kisses me with the sound.

Whims





I’m a whimsical creature, tending to give myself over to new ideas and passions regularly. Right now, I’m a fitness junkie. This year was a big birthday year for me, and I decided that I was going to be fit. I joined a gym in late February, and with the exception of our vacation and a three-day excursion to Chicago, I’ve gone to exercise 4 times a week. I started out slowly, doing some cardio and then light weights. Now, I’m up to an hour on the treadmill and have increased my weight workout. Wow! I feel so good! I think I’d like to make this a permanent addition to my life. Now on to the next whim…

Most of us are good at just a few things. (I mean really good at them.) As a musician, I’m trained in the choral arts, and am pretty good at teaching, directing, etc. This year, I have decided that I want to become proficient in another musical genre in order to grow in my craft. Although I’ve just begun on my journey of self-improvement, I’m finding that it’s already challenging me to the point of humility. I’m going to keep at it though. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, to coin a phrase.

My third whim that I decided to chase this year has been to rediscover my long lost talents at cooking. Years ago, an incredibly tough tragedy struck our family, and I stopped cooking. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t remember what I’d put in the food or to turn on the oven. I don’t know how Don and the kids survived, but somehow they did. This year, the whim to try cooking again took me in its delicious grasp. I try a new recipe at least three times a week, and it’s been great fun! Don and the kids have been happily eating all manner of wonderful new dishes-- for the most part. The other night I decided to make barbecued chicken on greens with chipotle dressing, but dinner didn’t turn out as planned. You see, while I was busy trying to pull it all together in the last 10 minutes of preparation, my 5 year old was dancing circles around me, the phone was ringing, and my husband was trying to tell me about something to do with the insurance settlement for the car… I was a little distracted, and failed to read the recipe correctly. It called for 2 tbs. Ancho chilies… I put in the whole can.

“Wow, Vicki, this is really good,” my prince of a husband said as he wiped his brow.

I couldn’t answer, as my mouth was on fire.

“A little hot, maybe, but good.” He ate all of it.

What love! What devotion! What was he thinking?

So for now, I’ll continue to chase my whims… pray for the family.