Stephanie Says.. Take a walk inside my head

I’ve been thinking about men lately. (Get your mind out of the gutter, it’s not that kind of context.)

Off the top of my head, I can think of at least nine guys who are in my regular existance.  There’s my boss who always makes me laugh…and from whom I steal candy.  Mike is cool.  He never worries about anything, even when a customer comes in needing something FIVE MINUTES AGO.  He always knows how to fix things (like the time he spent at least half an hour picking tiny pieces of paper out of the copier when it had jammed) and didn’t yell at me when I was bored one night and organized his desks into categories (this is the pen cup, this is the pencil cup, this is the candy bucket, this is scratch paper…stuff like that). Of course, any time I clean up in his office, it reverts to its “a strong wind blew through here not long ago” natural state soon after, but you gotta love a boss who lets you steal his candy.

Ben’s not in my life as much now that he’s up and moved my best friend to Florida, but he’s still one of my guys.  Ben is always going to be the guy who cut up our bushes and cleared off our vines.  He even pulled up a tree in our yard just to see if he could.  Ben tells jokes that I don’t understand, talks to Kenny for hours about computer stuff (which I also don’t understand) and helped instigate the whole “Stephanie’s getting a swimming pool in her living room” birthday present that still knocks my socks off.  Kenny isn’t like me.  He doesn’t just jump into a situation and start talking to people.  But Ben is different.  He gives my husband a chance to just be a guy, talking to another guy about whatever it is guys talk about.  And for that, I will always be grateful.  I just wish they didn’t have to do it twelve hours apart.

Dr Smoak is my Minister of Music.  He’s not the first Minister of Music I’ve had since Daddy, but if I have to be in someone else’s choir, I’m glad I’m in his.  Dr Smoak and Kenny have this unspoken plan to get me out of my comfort zone and have me sing things that I think are scary and out of my range.  Kenny suggests what I should sing and Dr Smoak suggests how it should be sung.  He was very patient when I was working on “Oh Lord, You’re Beautiful”.  He helped me practice for months (plural) before it was time to “go on”.  He runs a fun and funny choir, making faces at us when it’s time for us to stand and present the special and leading us in an off key “Happy Birthday” when someone is celebrating that particular milestone.

There are other men in my life, of course. Pastor is showing a heretofore undiscovered sense of humor and graciously puts up with me begging for him to sing “I Wonder As I Wander” every Christmas.  Jack works in the back, calls me “Flossie” and opens the garage door for me when a delivery truck comes ’round.  Roger doesn’t mind me piling things onto his clipboard as he stacks up the invoices to be signed while he makes his rounds.  Wayne gets out of his chair even before I have “Wayne will help you” out of my mouth.  Our friend Jeff is very patient as I hand him a script for the Christmas musical and moan “I just don’t know how we’re going to film this scene.  I just don’t think we can do it.”  And, of course, he pulls off a miracle and films everything beautifully.

They are loving and kind and understanding and patient and encouraging.  But the Big Three are my father, my brother and my husband.

Daddy is the person I’m named after. He was the person who gave me my first bath, the man who taught me “Jesus Loves Me”, the tall companion who had to shorten his steps in order for me to keep up.  I literally followed him everywhere, from office to choir room to robing closet to record storage.  It was his “gold tooth” that Clay and I discovered during Mama’s round at “Eye Spy”.  It was his hands that held me when I came home from high school upset because I wasn’t pretty like the cheerleaders.  It was he that surprised me by keeping baby Abigail on weekends so Monica could go to work.  I have his curly hair, his love of music, his name.  I’ve watched him compose songs, lead choirs and even have an album he arranged and recorded.  But he’s changing, this Daddy of mine.  He’s becoming Poppaw to not just his grandchildren, but to our family entire.  Poppaw is the one who reads the Christmas story every Natal Eve.  Poppaw provides the lap that curly headed little girls circle up in and the notes that family reunions come together around.  Poppaw prays over Thanksgiving Dinner, answers questions about Scripture, knows all the tricks in card games.  Poppaw’s hair is white and his shoulders broad.  His profile is that of a Hall and his responsibilities are those of the Halls also.  I was thirteen when my Poppaw died.  I didn’t see it then.  Daddy was still my Daddy.  My cousins and I were just kids.   The reunions for us were still card games and baseballs.  I didn’t see it then.  But I’m starting to see it now.  Sometimes, when he bows his head or pulls out his Bible, I can see it.  My Daddy has become an Elder in our family.  He helps keep the oral traditions.  He knows the notes to the old hymns that we sing.  He can recite the Nativity story by heart.  And we’re very lucky to have a Poppaw like him.

My Bubby’s name is Clay.  He has my father’s profile, as most of the Hall men do, but his stature is pure Estes.  Clayton Estes that is.  If I was our Poppaw’s girl, Clay was our Papa’s boy. The opposite of me, Clay loved being outdoors.  We played Cowboys and Indians sometimes.  I was a settler, sweeping my porch.  Clay and our cousin Andrea were the more adventuresome Indians, climbing trees, turning flips and dreaming of a real horse or two to ride.  Even when we were teenagers, Clay preferred being outside riding his bike, while I would rather stay on my bed with my ankles crossed reading whatever book I could lay my hands on.  Clay jumped.  He climbed.  He played in dirt piles and was never without a soccer ball.  He was fourteen and Monica twelve when they met.  Sixteen years later, Clay is a young father with little girls who snuggle into his lap the way I snuggled into my own father’s.  He puts clothes on Disney Princesses and sings silly songs.  He has a mini me in little Elisabeth, who can’t go long without popping a thumb in her mouth, just like her Daddy did as a baby.  He has a baby son who will be wearing a cowboy costume this year, just as his father did, clonking around in Papa’s “real” boots, too big for him or not.  He’s a loving husband, a respectful son and a good Daddy. He’s thirty now and growing to be more like our father in wisdom, in speech and in love of family.  But to me he’s Cheetah to my Tarzan, knight to my princess, the little brother who held my hand when I was too scared to climb long flights of stairs.  God sure knew what He was doing when He gave me Clay to grow up with.

And He knew what He was doing giving me Kenny.  Baby, Honey, Boo, Kenneth Stephen, Mr Sims.  I’ve called him all of those names during the course of our relationship.  Kenny wasn’t what I wanted.  At all.  He’s ten years older than I am (or eleven, depending on how much I want to exploit the six months in the ten and a half years between us) which means he can remember Hippies and Druggies and Vietnam and Jimmy Carter and all kinds of things that my memory won’t stretch to include.  He’s tall and smart and the first person I call in times of crisis, but he’s not the six foot blonde surfer/doctor/musician that I just KNEW I was destined for.  (Never mind that I can’t surf, can’t tan, don’t live anywhere near a beach and never have and would hate to live with someone keeping on call hours. )  There are so many things that Kenny and I disagree on. He’d rather be anywhere besides watching Ugly Betty, for instance and I don’t see what keeps him listening to the technology podcasts that he collects.  He keeps shirts until they have literally worn out, I would give/donate/sell away more than half our house if given free reign.  He does his part by printing coloring pages and puppet stages for my church classes, I like to actually be around the kids.  We used to fight just to have something to do, or so it seemed.  But something happened in the last couple of years that could only have come from God.  The shop came into our lives.  Litho-Craft may seems like a strange kind of gift for Heaven to be dispensing, but for us, it was a marriage saver.  Suddenly, we had something in common.  The people we talk about aren’t just known to one of us, they are customers that we both serve. We both run copies, edit files, take phone calls. Kenny taught me how to process the checks and go over the end of day totals, which made me feel a part of things.  Working together at the shop helped us work together at church and at home as well.  Kenny washes, I dry.  Kenny helps me get ready for Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings and I tell him how the crafts went over.  He’s learning to read to my nieces and I’m learning to let him work alone in his office when he’s had a hard day.  We disagree on literature.  We disagree on musical styles.  He could care less if I have lipstick on or have put my hair up.  But he’s also the man who heated water on the stove and poured it over me shower style when we had no heat one cold winter.  He’s the man who plays with my hair because he knows I like it.  He took me to St Louis to see my favorite play and to Nashville to eat my favorite sandwich. He works long hours on little sleep and puts his heart into whatever needs to be done.  He’s not what I thought I wanted, but he’s always going to be what I need. I’m just lucky that he loves me too.

 

I’m lucky to have all of them.  I’ve met some men who scare me.  I’ve met some men who make me want to run away.  I’ve met rude men and pushy men and men with egos that are off the charts.  But I’m blessed by “my men”, “my guys”.  They’re a little crazy.  They’re a little mixed up.  And they may not be the smartest or strongest or most popular men in the world.  But they are my blessings.  And I’m thankful for every one of them.