Category: Gratitude

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Family Pictures: Georgia Lee Harris Haynes

Georgia Lee Harris Haynes was my paternal grandmother. She was a pastor’s wife straight to the core, and she loved cats more than anything else in this world. Although I grew into cat allergies in my preteen years, I wasn’t allergic when I was younger. I learned my first great lesson about feline feistiness when I pulled the tail of her Siamese cat named Fye. I got a painful clawscratch from one side of the face to the other, and I never did that again.

Georgia Lee was a devout As the World Turns fan. That hour was my nap time, too, if I was staying with her. When I heard the show’s theme song come on, I had to go to my dad and uncle’s growing-up room and crawl in the bed. I wasn’t allowed to watch all that kissing. That was her laundry hour – her ironing board stayed set up in the living room, and she spent the hour ironing clothes she’d pulled in off the backyard clothesline.

And she made those thin layer cakes – chocolate or caramel would be waiting under the aluminum cake cover with a dent in it each time I visited. Her choice of clothing matched the shades of her cakes always ~ browns, tans, chocolates, caramels. She wore snap-up dusters and terry cloth sock slippers with plastic soles and almost always appeared to be doing a variety of household tasks, but you’d never find her house clean. Ever. Everything was everywhere, S&S Greenstamp books included – – the complete opposite of my other grandparents, whose motto was A Place for Everything, and Everything in its Place. These two grandmothers were opposites in so many ways, but one thing they had in common was that they loved their grandchildren and great grandchildren!

My firstborn, Mallory, with great grandparents Georgia Lee and W. F.

Georgia Lee didn’t talk a whole lot, but I’d often look over and see that she was smiling or laughing to herself, as if she were self-amused about something only she saw. Her favorite expression: My Lands!

I love these pictures of her, rocking me in 1966 and giving my daughter, her first great-grandchild, a music box for her first birthday in January 1988 as my grandfather Haynes looked on. It seems like it was jut the blink of an eye ago, and I can still see the wonder in their eyes as they watched her fall under the music box’s magical spell.

Music Box Tricube

the wonder

of a child’s

music box

to listen,

watch wide-eyed

to each note

to watch them

listening

mouth agape

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Family Pictures: A Kid in a Candy Store

My youngest child, Ansley, behind the counter at the Haynes Grocery and Meats candy case in the 1990s

Throughout my life, the Haynes Grocery candy case was a treat. As a child, whenever I stayed with my dad’s parents in Waycross, Georgia where I was born, they would always walk me down to the grocery to get a piece of candy from the large oak and glass case that sat on the counter. If you look closely at the photo above, you’ll see a wood and glass case that drew every child from all around for a sweet treat. Parents would have to pick up their children to let them get a good look, and sometimes they would pull out the containers for kids to get a better look, as you can see above. Ansley is carefully considering what kind she would like. I can’t remember what she chose, but I do remember my choice was almost always plain M&Ms. And I remember the joy of seeing my own daughter choosing candy from that case. (You could get an ice cold bottled Coca Cola, too, and we would put salted peanuts in ours to make it better).

The store has held wide appeal for generations, and unfortunately, though the building is still there, my cousin Lucy could not continue on with the store once her parents died, so it closed and stayed in a state of disrepair for some time. Her father, my great uncle Laverne, ran the store with his wife Lucille, who died when Lucy was a young child. Laverne was the butcher, and everyone got their meats from the Haynes Grocery and Meats. I’m not sure whether Lucy has sold the store yet, but I know everyone wanted that candy case. I also don’t know who the highest bidder was or where the candy case is today, but it sure made a lot of eyes light up in its day. Once a kid in a candy store, ALWAYS a kid in a candy store.

There are two photos of the Haynes Grocery Store below, dating way back to the early 1920s/1930s era, and the one beneath it was taken in the 1990s. I look at that photo today and remember so vividly the way there and back from my grandparents’ house: out the door of the grocery, go left. Turn left at the corner, and walk down the dirt road on Creswell Street to the last house on the left before the road intersects. And if you looped the block, Great Granny Haynes’ house was on Prescott Street. And that was how fast I could get to candy back in the summers of my youth in a dirt road railroad town in the Deep South, where to this day I still don’t know how they never had central heating and air. I can still see the curtains billowing in the moonlight, hear the fan in the window and the horn of the train as it rattled down the tracks.

And every single time, I still choose the plain M&Ms.

An Abecedarian Candy Case

What to choose from the candy case? Let’s see…..

Almond Joy

Baby Ruth

Charleston Chew

Dubble Bubble

Fun Dip

Gumdrops

Hershey Bars

(I loved just looking at all the choices…..)

Jellybeans

Kit Kat

Lemonheads

M&Ms

Now and Laters? Necco Wafers?

Oh Henry!

Pixie Stix

(Quite the mix, but not so hard to pick!)

Reese’s Cups

Sugar Babies

Tootsie Pops

Unicorn Pops

Victory Bars

Whoppers

Xtreme Sour Warheads

York Peppermint Patties

Zero Bar

so many choices…..but I always picked

…..the plain M&Ms

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Granny Haynes

February 1978 my brother Ken and me with Granny Haynes
Granny Haynes on the front row, far right, at Calvary Baptist Church in Gilchrist Park

My great grandmother, Lena May Haynes, is seen in the photo above on the front row of Calvary Baptist Church in Waycross, Georgia, where she raised her nine living (of ten) children after my great grandfather died at 57 of heart complications. She lived in a small cinder block house where the kitchen was the heart of the home that had just two bedrooms, as I recall. I don’t know where everyone slept, but I do know one of her girls lost a toe when one of the boys chopped it off with an ax or a hatchet while making lye soap in a big pot in the back yard.

My late father wrote a piece on her life, which I’m including below, and I took that text and created a found poem from it.

Granny Haynes

Lena May Kinsey Haynes

family and church her highest priorities

insistent on traditions

Christmas party Silver Dollars

made life fun

made us laugh, dried our tears

gathering in her home

churning ice cream

eating watermelon and fried chicken

listening to the stereo

aprons strings binding her family together

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Family Pictures

I’m sorting family pictures this month, making piles of who gets what from the Haynes family photo albums. After Dad died last June, we found tubs and shoeboxes and plastic bins and entire furniture drawers filled with ephemera, memorabilia, sentiments, and photos. And just about everything else. Photos are all over the place in the house, but it’s work that has to be done. And I’m likely among the last generation of humans who will ever do this sort of thing now that pictures are mostly digital. I wish all of this were reduced to one simple thumb drive, but the upside is that I’m walking down memory lane and have found a theme for the month of June: family pictures. Perhaps the easiest way to let go of old photos – and lingering grief – is to give them their proper moment in the spotlight and then share with others who can decide whether to keep or discard them. I have already tossed many, but the remaining ones had some reason to land in the truck to bring home on our last trip south.

Today, I am sharing a few photos of my mother when she was a young girl. I’m using the acrostic form to capture the spirit of Miriam Ruth Jones Haynes. She was a spitfire as a child, and when she became a pastor’s wife, she was a slightly more polite spitfire. She and my father were high school sweethearts, and when she went off to Florida State University, she missed him so much that she went home to see him and the rest is history. She quit college to join him in Macon, Georgia at Mercer University as he finished his degree and went on to Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky. I get my love of the outdoors from her. I wish I’d gotten a whole lot more of her, but here we are…..

Miriam

Made most of her own clothes on her sewing machine

Including her wedding dress and prom dresses

Ran around on a mule named Festus with her cousin Billy

Ivory and ebony musician extraordinaire

Avid fisherman, fly fishing in rivers

Marksman, too : believed she was Annie Oakley

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Family Pictures

My mother’s father, James Earl Jones, holding a family picture, – Christmas 1988

I’m sorting family pictures this month, making piles of who-might-want-what from the Haynes family photo albums. After Dad died, my brother and I discovered tubs and shoeboxes and plastic bins and entire furniture drawers filled with ephemera, memorabilia, sentiments, and photos. And just about everything else (he never threw anything away). Ken and my sister-in-law Jennifer have done the daddy lion’s share of the work of sifting and sorting and all the things that go with closing down a life or two, so these tasks of what remains that can be done from my home five hours north are gratifying and fulfilling to be able to contribute.

Photos were all over the place in the house, but figuring out what to do with them is no small task. I should be more grateful: I’m likely among the last generation of humans who will ever do this sort of thing now that pictures are mostly digital. I wish all of these snapshots were reduced to one simple thumb drive, but the upside is that I’m walking down memory lane and have found a theme for the month of June (and the rest of 2026, in a way): family pictures. Perhaps the easiest way to let go of old photos is to give them their proper moment in the spotlight and then share with others who can decide what fits into their lives to carry forward, and whether to keep or discard them. I have already tossed many, but the remaining ones landed in our truckbed to bring home on our most recent trip south.

If you’re a blog reader who has ever dreamed of taking pen to paper and writing, or if you’re a reader with a blog of your own and would like to join me in sorting your own family photos and sharing your stories, I invite you to come along and see what we can all unearth from the annals of time as we welcome the month of June. There’s really nothing quite like family photos to spark memories that inspire stories and writing.

So to start, I’ve created a system that I hope will help me simplify and sort. Below are the blog logos and themes I plan to use for the remainder of this year using family photos to drive poems and stories. I’m using them to designate piles to sort my photos and begin writing. Under each logo is a caption with the category I’ll use as I sort……I invite you to use the same system and share your photos and stories, too, allowing the memories to drive the writing and the writing to preserve all our family stories and traditions.

Memory Lane Nonet

come walk with me down memory lane

resurrect family members

relive all the best moments

bring the past back to life

then pick up the pen

write the stories

release them

to the

world

Our Own Family, Dogs Included
Extended Family and Ancestors
Travels and Adventures
Travels and Adventures in The Great Outdoors
Celebrating Retirement
Hobbies/Sports/Art/Pastimes
Reading/Books
Gratitudes and Blessings and Family Gatherings
Christmas Travels and Family Visits
Christmases at Home

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Botanical Watercolor Masterpiece Mistake

I knew when I painted a fern branch earlier this month that it would be my favorite of all the firsts. It looked real, with the variegated green leaves and authentic stems, like I’d plucked it fresh from the edge of the forest lining my driveway and placed it right here on the paper. It appeals to my simple side – – just two colors and one brush, a recycled coconut Oui glass yogurt container filled with water, and a page-bound piece of watercolor paper. And the directions.

Yes! Finally, something that looked real and that might be framed in an art gallery by some lesser-known semi-famous watercolor artist from a rural town in middle Georgia.

I liked it, so I set out to use the plain white notecards I’d found in the craft section of one of our six local Dollar Generals no more than five miles apart on every map throughout the southeastern United States to create a hand-painted notecard. And I worked and worked and started loving it, too…..until…..

Screenshot

…two little leaves halfway down the page and to the left of the stem became problematic. Instead of leaving them as their own sort of natural trouble, I started trying to fix them with my human eyes and perceptions of how fern leaves should look. And tried and tried, and ended up with what looked like two leaves on a stem that a novice watercolor human had tried unsuccessfully to fix. Definitely not those up to par with a semi-famous rural watercolor artist.

I’d heard that “all art is fixable,” a long time ago. I decided to text my older daughter, who had been to college as an art major, for tips on what to do. I sent her the picture and asked if she could find the mistake, thinking maybe it was just me, measuring with my own human eyes my perceptions of what a leaf should be. But she, too, found it and marked it up in her phone and sent the photo back like she’d found 1990s-famous Waldo in a red and white striped shirt sticking out like a sore thumb.

Screenshot

And she suggested what to do to make the art fixable…..painting a caterpillar “or something.” We continued texting, and what I love about texting with my children is that while we are talking about fixing art, we are really talking about life and its universal transfers to deeply held beliefs. I thumbed through my watercolor book and found both a ladybug and a caterpillar and decided on the caterpillar. I did NOT like that ladybug, even though I tried painting it. The legs looked a little off.

Screenshot
Screenshot

I like, too, that even though she was an art major and has so much natural talent, we are both using our “training wheel” books with the picture already sketched onto watercolor book paper. She will bloom in creativity far more quickly than I will, as she’s already ventured into salt watercolor painting, her own sketches, using filters on her camera to change photos she takes to a watercolor filter to see how she might paint something, and inherently knows more about the artistic techniques that she can apply from other art forms to watercolor painting.

Screenshot

And I really love that a 59-year old mother trying a new hobby can ask her 39-year old daughter who naturally gravitates to all things art like a duck takes to water, what to do about my fern leaf failure. And I love that I took her advice. I found my caterpillar directions in my training wheel book and painted this caterpillar in a smaller form, over those two bad leaves. And as soon as I began, I knew that my next lesson needed to be on perspective and dimension. I’m not sure whether the watercolor training wheel books can teach those skills, but I’m going to go into every painting henceforth reminding myself that caterpillars in the wild do not dangle like gymnasts on parallel bars from fern leaves. But my daughter, ever the optimist, found a way to add an encouraging sentiment in the text thread.

Screenshot

I think I like caterpillars on branches much better….and the more conceptual version of leaves, too.

Move over, Eric Carle……there’s a new hungry caterpillar in rural Georgia dangling by one suckerfoot from a fern, eating all the greenery on her quest to grow a pair of painted wings….. and take flight.

big-ass ladybug?

or one fat caterpillar?

either fixes art.

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Hydrangea Watercolor Haiku

Whenever I see a hydrangea, I think of two people. The first is my late father, who in his waning days after a lifetime of calling it a hydrangea, called it a hydranjula. Someone had brought one to the hospital, and he urged me to “take that hydranjula” home with me. Either he was used to the constant room changes or he knew his days were quickly coming to an end. I took the flower.

The second is Missy, my childhood friend who gave me a sprig of a hydrangea she’d been rooting. I transplanted it to our farmland home in middle Georgia from the island where we grew up riding bikes all over the place before it became a tourist destination. It must have wanted to be a country hydrangea, living in a quieter, less subtropical place. It’s thriving, despite my neglect of it. These are the kinds of plants I need. The kind I can plant, water, and forget – – and let nature do the rest until time for pruning.

When I saw the blank watercolor page with its step-by-step paint-on-page directions, I had no idea how to create color within color until I learned a little about wet on wet versus wet on dry painting. When a page is wet, the colors bleed together in a way that painting colors on dry pages doesn’t. I can’t think of a better flower choice to learn about wet on wet than a hydrangea, with its blending pop of colors that change based on the pH of the soil. And for once, I had a leaf actually turn out the way it’s supposed to look. I couldn’t have done that when I started, so I am learning a little as I go. I prefer slow, unhurried learning – – and ironically, it’s a lot like watercolor painting where you build layer on layer. I was never a fast learner, but once I finally get it, I’ve got a grasp.

Happy Sunday! Tomorrow, I’ll share our first experience boondocking in a Harvest Hosts site. If you’ve never heard of Harvest Hosts, it’s an innovative way to travel like a complete and total hippie – – which is my ultimate goal for the next chapter of my life. I want to be a hydranjula-painting traveling haiku-writing hippie, and I’ll show you the boondocking part of what that looks like tomorrow.

Hydrangea

the last flower my

father ever gave me was

a hydran-jula

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Watercolor Weekend: Fennel

When spring days grow warm and the butterflies appear, I think of my mother and the way she always planted fennel for the Black Swallowtails to lay their eggs. Once a caterpillar breaks out of its chrysalis and greets the world, it is hungry and can munch down practically a whole wispy branch of a fennel stalk. I’ve seen it happen. While I won’t be framing this watercolor painting to hang in my kitchen as the Floral Fun page tip suggests, it does bring to mind the happiest memories of my mother and keeps her memory close.

To the Garden Fennel

those Black Swallowtails

know you’re caterpillar hosts

nursing their offspring

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Open Write

Erica and Jessica of Arkansas are our hosts today for the third and final day of the Open Write for May 2026 at http://www.ethicalela.com. They inspire us to write “found” poems not by finding lines or words from other poets by collecting thoughts and ideas of things we find. You can read their full prompt here. It’s a lot like taking a nature walk and instead of collecting pine cones or stones or feathers, poets collect moments and feelings to share.

I visited my brother on Lake Hickory over the weekend, so this morning I’m scrolling back through my photos for my “walk” back through the weekend.

Welcome to North Carolina

Welcome sign greets us into the state

we pull into the driveway overlooking the lake

artist’s palette sunset, dock, pool,

a sloping hill for dogs to play

Mojave sun hat on the boat

tritoon power fast afloat

Ospreys soar and dive for fish

songbirds, praise chimes, fountain wish

boats on sandbar, toasting dreams

wallowing in warm sunbeams

but one more stop while traveling home

Malaprops for treasure-tomes

And then two more,

Black Rock Mountain, Tallulah Gorge

but back to work, a life to forge…..

.

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May 16 Open Write Place Based Poetry on a Watercolor Weekend

It’s a Watercolor Weekend and an Open Write weekend, too – and I wish I could have painted the sky last night, but instead I am sharing a painting I started earlier this week and have not yet finished – it’s a Lily of the Valley, and I chose it for the varied shades of blue I feel when I’m around all this water. I’m on the road, so I didn’t bring my paints with me in preference for spending time with my people this weekend. This one didn’t blend well, but I do like the colors.

Our host today for the May Open Write is Jessica, who lives in Arkansas. Today, she inspires us to write about places in our state – anywhere, but particularly considering any hidden or obscure places. I’m in a uniquely-named place this morning – not in my own state, but in North Carolina visiting my brother and sister-in-law, who just bought their dream home right on Lake Hickory. I asked him, “So your house is in Hickory?” He said “No, it’s close…..it’s a Taylorsville mailing address.” And then he elaborated. “It’s actually Bethlehem. Our place on the map is in Bethlehem, North Carolina.” Our late parents would be so proud – Dad, a preacher, and Mom’s favorite Christmas carol was O Little Town of Bethlehem.

It took my breath away when I rolled in just before sunset last night. The sky changed from a watercolor palette to vibrance the opacity of oil with its blues and oranges and pinks a purples. We sat with wineglasses in hand watching it. This morning, a heron and an osprey, already, waving hello with a thousand other birds looking for breakfast. And I saw the Osprey flying high change course, dip down, skim the surface, and catch a fish. It’s spectacular to watch and resembled the eagles I saw in Alaska swooping down for fish so much that it has me wondering…..have I seen an eagle this morning??

So I’m writing about morning lake activity here in Bethlehem, North Carolina

Bethlehem

I think I know

why His eye is on the sparrow

with all the other birds

far more majestic in flight

this tiny song sparrow

may not have the wingspan

of the eagle or the osprey

but it sings praises more

powerfully than all the rest

here in Bethlehem

where songbirds

know the best reason

to sing