Charlotte and Bobbie Buster, May 21, 2010

Another reason I believe in Happily Ever After...I've seen it first hand.

~Mollianne

Happy Birthday, Bobo

Today is the 103rd anniversary of the birth of my Grandfather…we call him Bobo. Malcolm Anderson Younger. He died 33 years ago, so really, he’s been gone more of my life than he was here. But he made a huge impact on my life and today, I honor him and his memory.

I used to have a letter that he wrote to me. I lost it to water damage about 20 years ago, but I know what it said. He wrote it on May 27, 1957. He had just put my Grandmother on a train to Louisville, Kentucky. She was coming to help Mother. You see, I was seven days old, the third child and my oldest brother was only four and a half years older than I. Mother had her hands full. Bobo’s letter said that he was sending me the best gift he could possibly send. He sending Neenie. He assured me that I was a very welcome addition to the family. He told me how much he admired my Mother and my Daddy. He added that they were all thrilled that I was a girl, because they needed a baby girl in the family. Then, he told me that he would pray for me every day of my life.

What an amazing promise, and I’m certain that he kept it. I’m sure it has made all the difference in my life. It was a wonderful letter! My mother gave it to me when I was a teenager and I kept and cherished it until it was lost, along with much of the memorabilia of my childhood. The love he gave me in that letter remains in my heart today.

There are many things, facts, I could tell you about him. What I want to tell here, though, is how I remember him. The smell of coffee in the morning makes me think of him. My folks weren’t coffee drinkers, but he was. When I woke up in the morning and smelled coffee, I knew that Bobo was in the house. If I got up quick enough, I was likely to see him in a chair, reading the morning paper, doing the crossword puzzle.

I was 10 the year my great-grandmother, Bigmama, died. Bigmama and I were grand friends, and her death was the first death that was personal to me. I felt a loss at her passing. We gathered at the family cemetery in the tiny town of Oakland, Tennessee to bury her. I was overcome with grief, the first true grief I’d ever experienced. I was sitting next to Bobo and as I melted into tears, he put his arm around me and gathered me to his side. He pulled the ever-present handkerchief from his coat and wiped my eyes. He told me to hang onto the handkerchief, in case I needed it. He told me not to be sad, that everything was going to be okay.

He came to see me graduate from high school and was still with us when I came home from my first day at work as the hostess at a busy restaurant. I hobbled in the door. My feet were killing me! Bobo sat down beside me and rubbed my feet. He smiled and said, “Poor little working girl! Poor little girl.” I knew he was teasing me, but he was rubbing my feet and he could have said anything he wanted to at that moment.

When I was to be married, I asked him if he would help officiate at my wedding. That brought on even more teasing. He told me that his fee was going to be quite large. He complained when I showed him the scripture I wanted read. He gave me a bad time about the cost of tuxedo rental. He told me he was an old man and he couldn’t stand that long. In March, before my June wedding, he told me that he needed me to come to his house before the wedding and get some stuff he had for me. So we made plans to make a quick trip to Missouri near the end of May. I knew that he had refinished an antique washstand for me. I had no idea that he had built a hope chest for me. I was so surprised when I got to his house and there it was. It is beautiful and to this day, it is my most prized possession. He designed it and built it out of walnut. For me. A beautiful and cherished gift.

I got dressed on my wedding day and different family members were coming in for pictures before the ceremony began. Bobo came in and told me he had something special for me. He had a dime to put in my shoe for good luck. He told me that he had gotten it the day I was born and saved it for this day. Another cherished possession.

During the wedding, as my groom and I knelt on the bench, Bobo prayed over us. We were kneeling with our hands clasped and he had his hand over ours as he prayed, squeezing tighly. Before he was finished, one of his hands was on my cheek. I opened my eyes and his face was wet with tears. He’d have sworn, I’m sure, that the tears were a result of a tear duct issue he had, but I know that they were tears of joy.

The last time I saw him was just shortly after the wedding. We were ready to start out on a great adventure, my groom and I. We were driving to Florida to a tech school and then on to Germany for our first duty assignment in the Air Force. It was mid-afternoon and really time to go. I was avoiding my husband like the plague, sitting in the kitchen with my grandparents. As much as I wanted to start my new life, it was so hard to think that I was going to walk out that door and get in the car and drive away. The minutes ticked on and I said one silly thing after the other. Finally, Bobo took my chin and made me look in his eyes. He said, “Mollianne. Its time for you to go. Your husband is waiting and it is time. Everything is going to be okay.”

That is the last thing he said to me. That is what I carry in my heart. Everything is going to be okay. It has to be! Bobo said so.

When I think of him, I think of a man called by God who spent his adult life in the ministry. A man who answered the call to duty and served (and was decorated) as a chaplain in the Pacific during World War II. I think of his engaging smile and piercing eyes. The practical jokes he played on his friends. The way he used to whistle under his breath. The manner in which he absolutely adored his wife and daughter. The pride he had in his grandchildren. His amazing woodworking skills. His quick step. A camera in his hands as he documented my childhood. Coffee and a newspaper. Crossword puzzles. Those coveralls he wore when he retired. His amazing intellect. His hands that were gnarled with his old pal, Arthur. The schwitzel he drank every night before bed. The love that he showed to all he met, both in his words and his deeds.

He’s been gone a long time, but he is very much alive in my heart. His name lives on, carried down from generation to generation. My brother is Terry Malcolm. My brother’s son is Terry Malcolm, Jr. My grandson is Malcolm. I have a great-nephew who is also Malcolm and one who is Anderson. Bobo was a man who left a legacy so mighty in our family that his great-grandchildren who never knew him, or if they did-they can’t possibly really remember him, have named their children in his honor. That, my friends, says a lot about the man, Malcolm Anderson Younger.

Happy Birthday, Bobo. I know that if you were here today, instead of saying that you were 103, you'd say that you were nearly 110. I love you and I miss you.

In My Mother's House

My Mother has been on my mind this week as we have geared up for Mother’s Day. I have contemplated all the places we lived when I was a child. In doing so, all those things about those things that made our house a home came to mind. I would like to share some of those things in honor of my Mother.

These are some of the things that make my Mother’s house a home…

Unconditional Love-Mother loves us no matter what. Which didn't mean that she was unaware of our faults or that she didn't try her best to keep us on the straight and narrow. She simply loves us.

My Sweet Daddy-He is Mother’s companion, her love, the rest of her…her hobby, the center of her attention, and her compass. I wasn't very old before I recognized that what they share is the Real Deal. Theirs is a love that is precious and rare.

Prayer-my Mother prays. It isn’t something she does only when trouble comes, or when things aren’t going her way. It is a way of life for her. An ongoing conversation with her Heavenly Father. When my Mother tells you that she is praying for you, she is.

Music—day and night, rain or shine, happy or sad…there is music in my Mother’s house and in her heart! There is a song in her that is beautiful and she sings as she goes about her life.

Wonderful food-my Mother is the best cook I know. She made doughnuts when we were little. I’m not talking she bought doughnuts. She made them. From scratch. Not even from packaged biscuits, although she did that too. When I was little, she made them from scratch…she started with measuring out flour! Fried them in oil and then cleaned up the mess. In fact, for awhile, she made them every Tuesday night. I suppose that flour and sugar were cheap and my Mother can do more with flour and sugar than anyone! The aroma of a pot roast cooking makes me think of Sunday dinners. Sunday mornings often found her putting a roast in the oven to cook while we were at church. Walking in that door after church, well it just smelled like heaven. She still delights in discovering new recipes and regularly when I talk to her, she has just put some delicious thing in the oven to bake. My lifelong love affair with food was born in my Mother's kitchen.

Poetry-Mother loves poetry and literature. I remember her reading Shakespeare’s sonnets to me before I started kindergarten. Whatever she was reading, she read out loud to me. She encouraged me to memorize poetry and I can close my eyes and recite “Little Boy Blue” to this day. I’m sure I knew that word for word before I started school. Eugene Fields was a dear friend in our household. I also know “The Spider and The Fly” and “The Highwayman” and “Maude Muller”. Whittier, Longfellow, Riley, Keats, Dickinson...these were more than the names on School Buildings and Libraries. They were friends I met at my mother’s knee. They remain my friends to this day.

Laughter-You can hear her laughter over a crowd. Let’s face it, Mother is NOT the quiet type. She can be quiet in church, but sometimes that is a challenge. Her laughter comes so easily, and it happens often. On more than one occasion, Mother and I have gotten in trouble for laughing so hard. We don't always even know what we started laughing at. It just starts and we can't contain it.

Baseball and Basketball-My mother loves her St. Louis Cardinals. This is not a passing fancy or phase. This is a serious love affair. How I managed to marry a Braves fan is beyond me. I guess you could call mine a mixed marriage.

She also loves her Mizzou Tigers Basketball. When I was growing up and you didn’t see so many college games on TV, I remember when she watched the Boston Celtics. She loved that Larry Byrd! Much later, she became a fan of the Chicago Bulls, of Scotty Pippin and Michael Jordan, but I recall having to be quiet or go to another room while she watched the Celtics. She liked those teams, even if they were Yankees.

Southern Hospitality-When I moved to the South and made it my home, it was like coming home to me. I was raised by a daughter of Dixie and I learned early to put my hand over my heart and stand whenever that beautiful tune was played. I also knew about the Stars and Bars. I was making biscuits and cornbread before I learned to drive.

There were always extra people enjoying my Mother’s hospitality. She sort of collects people who need her style of love and care. My Mother would sooner ‘eat worms’ than have anyone leave her home hungry, thirsty or unloved. She is the epitome of Southern Hospitality.

~My concept of home was first formed in my Mother’s home. It was and still is the most wonderful place to me. There is something magical about going home to Mother’s. I carry a piece of it with me at all times, but sometimes the need to go back and be in her house…her home…is overwhelming. That need is bubbling up and over in me right now and I am so fortunate to be leaving on Friday to go home.

On this day that we honor our Mothers, I am so thankful that Charlotte Theresa Younger Buster is the mother that God chose for me. I love you, Mother.

Happy Mother’s Day!

~Mollianne

Mother

Someone asked me to describe my Mother once. I believe that was the hardest question I have ever been asked. If you know her, you know why.

Charlotte Theresa Younger Buster is, among other things:

Larger than life
A force of nature
Unbridled energy
A little woman with a heart as big as Texas
Purpose personified
Grace under fire
Beautiful from the tip of her toes to the top of her head, inside and out
Not exactly what you'd call quiet

My Mother is a living definition of what it means to be in love. She is in love with her Lord. She is in love with her Bobbie. She is in love with her family. She is in love with her home and her life.

She is the epitome of homemaker, a godly wife, an excellent cook and nobody...NOBODY can clean or do laundry like she can.

Everyone should have a friend like Mother. She is the consumute friend and neighbor. Always there with a giggle, a cup of coffee, a freshly baked cake, prayers, time and concern. When my Mother is your friend, you have a friend indeed.

If she hadn't raised me to be a strong woman, I fear I'd have spent my life totally intimidated by her. I have never possessed her energy. I'm much more introverted than she is. I'm a true homebody and Mother is always ready to go! Somehow, though, this tomboy of a woman gave birth to one very prissy daughter. I remember sitting in the floor with her while she carefully cut out paper dolls for me. I know that was an act of pure love, because I know she cared not one whit for such things. But she knew how I loved them and she did it for me.

She taught me so many things, and one was that it was okay to be me-even though I am so different from her.

That lesson, the space to grow up and be all I can be...not an extension of her or even who she wanted me to be...is one of the most precious gifts of earthly grace I have ever known.

Because of her wisdom in raising me as she did, we grew up to be friends. She is Mother first. Always Mother. But,Friend as well. I am so blessed. When I had a daughter of my own, it was my honor to give her Mother's name. Not to call her Charlotte, because Annie suited her so well...but her name is Charlotte Anne. They are alike in many, many ways. The blessings have rebounded.

Describe my Mother?

My husband does that very well. I've often heard him say, 'Charlotte is the most extraordinary and remarkable woman I have ever known.' When a Son-in-Law feels that way about his Mother-in-Law...you know she's special.

Oh...and did you see the picture? That is Mother in her Uggs. Its not enough that she's extraordinay and remarkable...she's doggone adorable, too.

Love you, Mother!

~Mollianne

My Sweet Daddy

His steps are a little slower these days. Actually, they are a lot slower and he shuffles as he walks. His shoulders stoop and his hands don’t always work like he wants them to. I find myself helping him put his coat on and opening bottles for him. He doesn’t hear well. He keeps his medications in his pocket and takes them like clockwork. He drops things and it isn’t easy for him to get up from a soft couch.

Amazingly, he does it all with such grace. No complaints about his aging process. He doesn’t allow, at least not in my presence, the slowing and slipping of things to frustrate him or cause him to be down, angry or depressed. He seems to be accepting that after almost 80 years on the planet, its just time to slow down a little.

Did I mention that he still holds a job? He is the Associate Pastor of the church where he first came to know God as a young man. He can still stand in a pulpit and proclaim the gospel with a clarity that many younger pastors would envy. He sits in staff meetings, and I imagine provides a voice of calm and reason and wisdom to any who would listen. He is still a leader of his congregation and an advocate for doing things in new and different ways. He studies his Bible, as he has done for 60 years to search out new lessons from God, and teaches Sunday School and two off-site Bible Studies.

It takes me off guard when I see him napping on the couch (or, perhaps just sitting with his eyes closed and thinking…unless he is snoring I’m never quite sure if he’s asleep or not). When I look at him through realistic eyes and see the man who has somehow become an old man, I think to myself, “Who is this man?” Because, in my heart and my mind and the eyes through which I mostly view the world, he is still a giant of a man. Tall, strong, handsome and walking with purpose in his stride. He could be frightening at times in his size and temper to a child as small as I was. He was bulwark of safety against the many things that frightened me. He knew the answer to any question I could ask. My earliest notions of God the Father certainly had a Bobbie Buster appearance to them.

I recall having this thought the year he turned 33: I just knew that this was the year he would die, because Jesus died when he was 33. I would have been 6 at the time. That is how deeply connected my early spiritual thoughts and ideas were tied up with my Sweet Daddy.

Never in my life have I needed my Daddy and had him not be there for me. Not always in a physical presence, but he has been there for me. He has been the hands and face of God to me throughout my life in his words, his deeds and his love.

And now we are at that time of life when middle aged children become more concerned about their aging parents and begin to consider what they ought and ought not do. How strange it feels to me that I ought to watch out for him. He has always taken care of me.

One of the sweetest relationships of my life has taken on a new and tender aspect. Today, my heart is full of thankfulness and joy that this man…this giant of a man whom I love and respect and wish to honor is My Sweet Daddy.

~Mollianne

A confession

I have a confession. Ash Wednesday is just the sort of day to make confessions. Remember back in January when I was taking down my Christmas decorations and putting them in the boxes? Everything is in a box or tub. Has been for about 6 weeks.

The boxes aren't all put away yet.

I can give you 458 excuses and reasons why...but the ugly fact remains that it is Ash Wednesday and my Christmas decorations are still in boxes and storage tubs stacked in my family room. It is just shameful. I am really embarassed by this.

I might a well get the rest of it off my chest. My house is a mess, too. A no-fooling, get the gossips talking, tongue wagging, dirty mess.

Now, by this time tomorrow, most of that will be taken care of. We are hitting the 'to do' list with a vengance tonight. I'm taking a vacation day tomorrow to clean and get things in order. (My parents are coming tomorrow...so you can see that I am quite motivated!)

I even mentioned in that previous post that Easter was just around the corner. I blinked my eyes, woke up this morning and it is Lent! Today! Its Ash Wednesday.

I played the piano for the faithful few who attend our 7:00 am Ash Wednesday service. I spent the day with ashes on my forehead. I have been reminded in more than one way today that from dust I was created and to dust I will return.

I have a verse from the Psalms that I pray daily. To me, it just about covers it all. Ash Wednesday is a day that Psalm 51 is read as part of the Liturgy. The Psalm of confession and repentence, The verse I say as a prayer is Psalm 51:10 Create in me a clean heart, O God and renew a right spirit within me.

Oh, how I need a clean heart and a right spirit. If my heart is clean and I am in a right relationship with God...nothing else really matters.

My house, on the other hand, I'll have to do myself. But this evening and tomorrow, I will offer the cleaning of my house to God in an act of worship and praise. I will be thankful for its solid structure and for the bounty we enjoy. For the mud on the carpet that was tracked in by boys who were joyful because they had been out in the melting snow. For the laundry to be done for a husband who is home after extended travel. For the arranging of things to make our guest room comfortable for beloved and most welcome guests. All of these things I will offer with joy and thanksgiving.

Create in me a clean heart, O God.

The rest, I suppose, is up to me!

Grandma Lucille

Last Thursday would have been our Grandma's birthday. She would have been 102. I really meant to write something about her on the day, but I was pre-occupied. I think she would have understood. You see, my husband was very sick and I spent the day caring for him. As I tell you a bit about the extraordiany woman Grandma was, I hope you will understand why I think she'd understand that I failed in my goal to write about her on her birthday.

Grandma was a formidable woman. I always had a very healthy respect for her. Not only because I had a justified true belief that she would have jerked a knot in my tail had that been necessary, but also because she seemed like a no-nonsense sort of woman to me.

Going to Grandma's house always meant that we could have all the Pepsi we wanted. Literally. When we walked in the door, she would proclaim that we knew where we were and to help ourselves. She meant that the kitchen was open for business and she was always stocked up for us. I don't recall being at her house as a child that there wasn't a tin of Rice Krispies candy on the table. There were bottles and bottles of Pepsi Cola in the refrigerator. There were oranges and bananas that we could eat to our hearts content. Pringles potato chips, once they were invented...but always some sort of potato chip and M&Ms. If we were there at Christmas, you could add fudge and divinity to that mix...made by her own hand. And better than any I've ever had since.

Grandma saved the Funny Papers for us. When we got to her house, we would run out to the back porch and dig in. Her paper had different funnies than did ours, and we would catch up on Beetle Baily and Blondie. She would save her powder compacts for me. I think she thought I was a little prissy, in fact, I'm sure she did. She would have been right, too. But once she had used almost every speck of powder in a compact, she would put it away and when I came, she would give it to me to play with. She gave me books for Christmas when I was little. Several of them are tucked away in my Hope Chest, as precious treasures of my childhood.

As I grew older, I began to respect her a great deal. I was named for her mother, and she would tell me about Grandma Mollie. Seems I had a lot to live up to, as Grandma Mollie was a longsuffering, kind and very decent person. What I learned from Grandma as she told me about her mother was a sort of reverence for the ties of family that hold us together. And perhaps why my Daddy wanted to name me for his grandmother.

Grandma worked. She worked hard, not only in her home but also outside of it. I wasn't very old when she and Grandpa moved off of their farm in Eugene into the nearby town of Jefferson City, Missouri. Grandma donned a uniform and went to work at St. Mary's Hospital. I'm not certain the exact title of her position, but I believe that she was a nurse's aid of some sort. She began that job when she was older than I am now. Imagine that! I sit at a desk, occasionally counting the days until I can retire. Not my Grandma! She begin a new career when she was older than I am.

I recall her working the 3pm to 11pm shift. I can see her in my mind's eye, like it just happened, sitting in her chair with that blue jumper uniform on, gathering up her things and putting them into her pocket to take to work. I can't even imagine how many people she cared for, but it was always obvious to me that her work was important to her. She might have complained about it, but I don't remember ever hearing that.

She must have been remarkably good at her work, too. Because when she reached the mandatory retirement age at the hospital, which by then had become a Medical Center, she kept on working. She continued to get a waiver to work, until finally they just told her to let them know when she was ready to retire.

Grandma loved her children, Maxine, Bobbie and Ronnie. She loved their spouses, Dick, Charlotte and Sharon. She loved her sisters and brothers. She loved her grandchidren. She was always ready to brag on any of us, if we had done something worthy of bragging. I think she was happiest when all of her children were home and everyone was fussing and teasing.

She was a wonderful correspondant. When I lived in Germany in the late 70's, we wrote letters back and forth. She enjoyed my letters and was faithful to write back to me. The most precious letter I ever got from her, however, was about the time of my divorce. My Daddy had told her that my marraige had come to an end. She wrote to me and said, in short that I was strong enough to make it through this disappointing experience. She told me to stay busy and find meaningful work. Then, she said something that still makes me smile. You have to understand that Grandma's language could occasionally be colorful. She told me that she hoped 'that SOB has to pay you for the rest of his life.'

She certainly was willing to say what she thought.

Her cast iron will combined with her loving care of others are the things that I remember most about her. I try not to carry many regrets with me, but one of the things I regret most in my life is that I didn't take the time to know her more personally. Not just as Grandma, but to know Lucille in a deeper way. I find myself hoping that I'm the sort of person that she would have respected and wanted to spend time with. I wish I had been able to care for her when she reached the end of her life.

I wish I had told her that I respect her and hope against hope that I am more like her than I think.

Maybe...just maybe...I knew how to care for Ed last week when he was sick because there is a little bit of Lucille in me. And, maybe she would find me to have become more than just Miss Priss, as she called me. I do hope so.

Happy Birthday, Grandma!
Thank you for being the example of a good, caring woman of character.
I love you!