Author: Dot

My mother’s name was Anna. That is a wonderful name to have. Do you know how many people are named after her?  Off the top of my head, I can think of 14-15.

Not one single person is named after me. Well, let’s face it. I don’t have that sort of name. My middle name is Wendell. I was named for a beloved aunt who was named for Oliver Wendell Holmes, who my grandfather admired. That aunt’s husband was Theodore, which is the masculine form of Dorothy (think about it), so I guess I was named for both of them.

Dorothy is a grand old name … well, the song says “Mary” but still. The fact is, Dorothy has become an old fashioned name, as Sarah or Hannah used to be. The top three choices of girls names in 2009 were Isabella, Emma and Olivia.  Anna was number 29 and Dorothy did not even make the list of the top 50. (www.parent.com)

In my baby book it says that Mother chose my name because of its meaning – which is “a gift of God.”  As the third baby born during the Great Depression, I appreciate my mother’s outlook.

Someday, generations from now when my name is found in old family records, perhaps it will leap back into favor. Pre-pre-K classes will be filled with little Dorothys and Dots and I will look down from heaven and say “Finally!”

My daughter and I spent Saturday in the flea markets – three of the several in my small town and others around Central Arkansas. We experienced “antique stores” that were really flea markets and “flea markets” full of old, potentially valuable, hidden treasures.

I have to say right here that my china, circa 1952, must be rare beyond compare. I have looked for several years hoping to replace some broken pieces but have never seen my pattern hidden away amongst the other dishes.  But I digress.

I love browsing through these stores, though I’ve never collected antiques. I like to look at the arrays of old books and music, or poke in the vintage ricers, dicers and whips, remembering the things my mother had in her kitchen. Occasionally, I buy a small token that brings a memory.

Like a metal top, a child’s toy with a handle you push to make the top spin rapidly. Or an old Prince Albert can. My dad was a heavy smoker for many years and often rolled his own, probably to save money.  Later when filter tips came in, I think he continued the habit because he preferred the taste of the pure tobacco.

Dad was always very comfortable with who he was, and in the 70’s there were hardly any smoking bans. Once, on a business trip to New York City, he drew smiles and curious looks when passersby saw the distinguished business man in a three-piece suit pull out cigarette papers and the makings and light up what looked for all the world like a joint. (or so they tell me.)

In 1995 I was in a car wreck. It amazes me now to think that happened 15 years ago. We were crossing a state highway in East Tennessee and a pick-up broadsided the passenger door, where I was sitting working a crossword puzzle.

Let me say here we were technically at fault. The truck, which we didn’t see at first, had the right of way. Because the visibility at that intersection was so poor, the accident was ruled “no fault.” We weren’t ticketed but also there was no big financial settlement. (People always want to know this.)

The big farm truck lay down no skid marks before it plowed into our car. I wish I knew he had at least TRIED to avoid hitting me. I also wonder if he was even mildly curious about the welfare of the woman who was life-flighted to a Knoxville hospital.  Or if he was only bothered about the dent in his front bumper, which my insurance repaired.

Diagnosed with a broken pelvis, I spent time in a hospital, a hospital bed, a wheelchair, on a walker and a cane before I went back to work two months later. Here are some lessons learned from that experience:

The value of good insurance. My wonderful State of Tennessee Blue Cross paid 95% of my hospital bill and wonderful Geico paid the value of my car and never raised my rates. I had enough sick days banked to see me through.

Just a bit about being handicapped. A server in the mall cafeteria asked my daughter what I wanted to eat (like I couldn’t hear or speak). An automatic door closed on me. I missed singing the Christmas cantata.  Most choir lofts are not handicap accessible.

Another lesson about children. Our six-year-old boy was in the back seat. He was unhurt, but told his aunt it was his fault. He had been playing with his action figures and “probably making too much noise.”  Why do children blame themselves no matter how far fetched the scenario?

The sustaining grace of intercessory prayer. As news of my accident spread to family and friends I was placed on prayer lists. By Sunday, I knew I was being lifted in prayer in 10 different congregations (that I know of) from three denominations. I felt confident this would not be a permanent injury – I would recover completely. And that’s exactly what happened.