The Jewish Dolly

I remember the first time I met her like it was yesterday.

The bond was immediate, like we’d known each other in a past life. We hugged like we were already family, reconnecting after years apart. She had a small frame, a blond wig, and red, shiny lipstick that looked like it could almost drip from her lips. This woman is the Jewish Dolly Parton, I thought.

Marsha welcomed me into her home and, in true form, earlier than I was ready to discuss religion, asked if I’d be willing to leave my Southern Christian ways behind and join the Jewish faith. I remember thinking, This isn’t how it went in Sex and the City…Charlotte York had to beg.

Before I knew it, she had set up an appointment with her rabbi to discuss conversion classes for me, like Hashem’s own little Jehovah’s Witness.

The rabbi wasn’t as quick a sell. He was intrigued by my Southern roots, my confidence, and the fact that I had a car and could chauffeur him to our conversion classes in the city. Still, he wasn’t sure I was ready to trade shellfish for matza. The rabbi and I were an odd pair, both with thick accents from two different worlds, yet somehow we still found our rhythm. I felt comfortable leveling with him.

“I appreciate your classes, but I will always be who I am. I truly think I would learn more from my mother-in-law, because she does things her own way,” I explained.

He chuckled and nodded, “I guess I have to find a new ride to the city,” he said.

Marsha taught me the prayers in Hebrew, sounding out each word and explaining the meaning behind it. She taught me the different traditions, from washing hands before Shabbat (a holy rinse, not a soap-and-scrub situation) to why bread isn’t eaten over Passover. She never grew frustrated with my questions. When others would try to sway me to converting or tell me why I should do something this way or that, she would stand in defense of me.

“Ah ah, this is the way we do it…this is how I’ve taught her. Don’t correct her in my house,” she’d say.

Being two strong-willed women with very different roots, we butted heads sometimes, too. But we always figured it out eventually. When the dust settled, she would laugh and say, “I can’t argue with you, Eden. You’re too much like me.”

When I was in labor with Little Miss, Marsha, my parents, and Little Miss’s dad were all right there, patiently awaiting our little girl’s arrival. I was having contractions, hungry, and a little ill from so much chatter around me, because apparently labor comes with a live audience.

“If y’all are going to talk, can you please get behind my head and stop talking about food,” I barked.

“I’m just going to stand right here and read these prayers for you, okay, my love?” Marsha replied, opening her to-go Torah.

She began praying, still not behind my head.

“I appreciate that. I do. Can you read it to yourself, though? I know God will still hear you.”

She quickly scurried behind my head, maybe adding a new spin on a few of those prayers. But a few hours later, the only thing either of us could think about was the most beautiful little girl who had just been born. And just like that, a Bobbie was born too, a title she wore like a crown.

In the years that followed, no matter where I was or whether we’d just seen each other in person, I could always count on a Friday-afternoon text before Shabbat began.

“Good Shabbat, Eden! I love you forever and always!”

“I love you always and forever!” I would reply.

As seasons shifted, even when I was no longer her daughter-in-law, our bond never wavered. Marsha still made room for me the way she always had. When I visited New York City, I stayed with her, and when she came to North Carolina, she traveled like she was catering her own visit, coolers, bags, and ingredients you couldn’t talk her out of bringing. The kitchen would fill up fast, and suddenly our house felt like her house too.

Marsha was happiest with a table full of people and a feast of everyone’s favorites. If you complimented something she cooked once, she took it seriously in the best way. From then on it was “your favorite,” and she made sure it showed up every time you came over. Making people feel loved was her gift, and she did it the way she did everything, out loud and with extra servings.

Marsha never did quick goodbyes. She would walk you to the door, sometimes all the way down the steps, giving one more hug and extra kisses, like she could tuck a little extra love into your pocket for later. Even on the phone, she would blow kisses and say I love you on repeat until someone finally hung up.

Goodbye was never the point, though. The point was the love she pressed into you before you left, enough to carry you until the next time.

And on our last visit, which I didn’t expect to be our last, I did just that. I said the important part, over and over, the way she always did.

I love you… always and forever.

Just Holding On

“We’ve done this before,” she said to me, both of us wiping tears from our cheeks.

She was right, but it felt as if I had just moved her into her freshman dorm. All the worries and concerns I’d had the year before were fighting to push to the front of my brain.

Did I give her all the information she needed?
Does she know who she can trust?
Does she have enough illegal pepper spray?

But my faith fought back… She’s got this, Mama. And so do you. Listen to her—she’s consoling you now. When did she get so wise?

We had spent three wonderful days together, with our hype woman, Bub, by our side—one day on the farm, one day driving to NYC and moving into her new dorm, and one day settling in and window-shopping in the city. We made a month’s worth of memories in those three days, and then…there we were, staring at each other in front of an elevator, prolonging the inevitable “see-ya-soon” snuggle.

There are hundreds of books that prepare you for What to Expect When You’re Expecting, but what prepares you for the college years? You spend roughly eighteen years preparing your little one for the world, but what prepares you for their departure? As a mom, you feel every emotion your child does—the excitement, the nerves, the fear, the anxiousness, the happiness, the sadness—the homesickness. The roller coaster your child is on somehow finds you, the parent, tethered to the back end of the ride—hitting every bump along the way and slingshotting around every curve with your grown-up baby. I don’t know that much could prepare you for that. But in the same breath, being there and feeling those emotions with your child also adds gratitude to the list. Grateful to be along for the crazy ride—even if you’re tethered to the back of the last cart; even if the emotions overwhelm you both—you still feel honored. You still feel like you are part of their daily routine, even though you aren’t sitting in the school pickup line anymore.

The adventures go by quickly—each round of the ride. My heart was in my stomach waiting for that elevator, just as it was the year before, standing on the street in front of her dorm before heading home… it didn’t seem as if a whole year had passed.

I’m so thankful to be a part of the ride. Just don’t ever forget I’m back there, holding on to every moment with you, my baby.

Dream Big

“The boxes of the annual are here.”

My heart fluttered like it was Christmas morning. Months of work—literal blood, sweat, cusswords, and tears (and a few small fights) went into this one, huge body of work. 

In September, I took on the marketing position at Bayliss Boatworks. I was excited to try something new in a familiar setting. For years, I’d been doing photos for the company in conjunction with billing for new construction projects; now I was ready for more words and fewer numbers on the daily. The Bayliss Annual was always mentioned with a sheepish grin: “You know it’s a big project” (I’m ready for it), “It’ll make you crazy” (Ha. Already crazy.), “IT IS A LOT” (So am I).

Honestly, parts of the job description reminded me of an ad for a horse that I would want in my pasture-—everything in my life always comes back to horses. He rears sometimes. He hates fly spray. Sometimes he boogers at his own shadow. Sounds perfect.

I wondered- while I was warned about the vices of the marketing position, were my superiors reminded of mine? Stubborn. Doesn’t take no for an answer. Will tell you no in a heartbeat. Did we mention stubborn as a mule? I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. Perhaps my bosses felt the same way.

The Bayliss Annual is a short magazine detailing happenings around the boatshop over the previous year. It includes articles on upcoming projects or features—engines, sonars, and custom in-house additions. For the last several years, I’ve tagged along on the Annual’s journey, helping with photos or proofreading. But there’s nothing quite like being in the driver’s seat…

This year, the entire body of work sprang from ideas in my brain: article ideas—researching—interviewing—photographing—writing—editing—and ad slinging. Seeing this project through has been all-encompassing, incredible, and at times a little overwhelming— but in the best way.

A little over twenty years ago, I was a journalism student at East Carolina University whose passion was writing. I was thrilled to land a position as a staff writer at The East Carolinian, our school newspaper, covering any topic they’d assign me. (Mostly nothing riveting, but I didn’t care—someone trusted my writing, and I was beyond thrilled.)

Now, as I sit back and review the Bayliss Annual for the 700th time, I’m overwhelmed again. This is a dream from twenty years ago come true. That journalism student who wrote for free just to put her words out in the world dreamed of writing in a magazine. The dream I dreamed came true—but on a much larger scale. Not only did I get to write in a magazine, I created it from cover to cover, with my photography featured alongside my words. Sometimes our dreams seem big—but God’s dreams for us are bigger.

I’m incredibly thankful for two decisions I made in 2019: 1) going back to East Carolina to complete the degree I started in 2002; and 2) accepting a position at Bayliss Boatworks. I never imagined those choices would one day align, but here we are. I’m grateful for my stubborn streak—that part of me that never lets go—because look at all I would’ve missed.

Not Yet...

It’s been two weeks since I allowed myself to think about what happened... 

Two weeks since I put my hand on my dad’s urn and whispered, “Not yet…she can’t go yet,” before leaving my childhood home to follow an ambulance with my mama inside.

It started with a panicked phone call. Chest pain. Blood pressure of 179/105. She’d called an ambulance. Without thinking, I walked out of work and drove to her house, my heart pounding with memories of another day when I rushed there in a similar fashion— the day we lost my dad. I begged God on the drive that today wouldn’t be the day I lost my mom too.

When I arrived, I found her wearing her trademark smile, reassuring me that she was going to be okay. That’s my mama—comforting everyone else, no matter the situation. The EMTs hooked her up to a heart monitor and confirmed we needed to head to the hospital. Mom hopped up from the chair and struck out to the ambulance.

“Ma’am, we will need you to get on the stretcher,” they said, giggling.

“Oh…I can’t ride shotgun?!” she replied with a smile.

At the hospital, tests were run, and it was decided we’d need to transfer her to a larger facility for a heart catheterization. I had my game-face on, but it was as fake as a Chinatown purse. Inside, I was crumbling but I knew I couldn’t show it. 

While awaiting the results from the heart catheterization, we went to the gift shop to look for something to brighten Mom’s day. Leopard pajamas? Sold!

“Are you Kathryn Spencer’s daughter?” a nurse asked me.

I felt the blood drain out of my face; my knees buckled.

“Yes?” I replied.

“Can you follow me? The doctor wants to see you,” she said.

All I could hear was my heart beating in my ears. This seems too urgent. Why isn’t she telling me anything? 

The fear was trying to force its way in. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Don’t let it in. Game. Face. On. I held my husband‘s hand and squeezed it as tight as I could to try to stop myself from getting ahead of what I didn’t yet know. 

The doctor explained that my mom had four blockages over 90%. He’d placed a balloon pump to stabilize her, but she’d need open-heart surgery the following day. I wasn’t processing…I was looking, listening, and blinking…but the words were not processing. How? My mom is the healthiest person I know. She just had two heart evaluations this year before both of her knee surgeries…quadruple bypass?

The nurse offered to walk us to the ICU waiting room. We followed her and I looked at the familiar paintings on the walls. This was the same hospital- the same floor, that my dad was on. We got to the waiting room and my legs felt like they were weighted down in cement. I couldn’t move. The doctor’s words had processed and I crumbled. My husband held me as I completely lost my shit—worry, anger, fear…it was all pouring out of my eyeballs. 

“She’s tough. She’s going to be just fine,” he whispered.

After a few minutes, I shook it off, took a deep breath, and reapplied some makeup. (Ironically, from the makeup bag that my mom wouldn’t let the ambulance leave without.) 

Faux-game-face, reengaged.

We walked into the ICU and were greeted with a smile as Mom extended her hands to us.

“I have to have surgery tomorrow,” she said.

“We do,” I said, squeezing her hand.

While my faux-game-face was on, I knew she saw right through me. Her worry wasn’t for herself, but for me- for us. No matter how old you are as a mother, your baby is always your baby.

The morning of her surgery, something shifted. I woke up with a strange sense of peace- I knew God had this. Fear was no longer knocking on our door- it had given up.

The surgery seemed like it took days. The surgeon met with us while Mom was in recovery and explained the entire procedure. Mom did amazing through the surgery- but he found an additional blockage. So she actually had a quintuple bypass. 

“This isn’t something that happens quickly…blockages like this?” I asked, with the previous evaluations she’d had heavy on my mind.

“No ma’am, it took 77 years,” he said. 

Seeing her afterward was nothing short of a miracle. The following morning, she was sitting up, asking for her makeup. Her lipstick and mascara had somehow survived the chaos of the past few days, but she was ready for a new application. (Note to self: get the brands of both) 

“You know, Jesus was with me the whole time,” she explained.

I am sure He was. Him, and probably a few bossy angels…all of which had been hearing our nonstop prayers.

Today, my mom has been home for a week…and as I drove to her house this morning, I let myself have a little meltdown. Since the hallway in front of the ICU waiting room, I haven’t allowed myself to think about the severity of the situation we found ourselves in. I had too much to do, too much to think about, and I knew breaking down wouldn’t help anyone. Let’s be honest- since I was surviving on coffee and fast food, I’m not sure I was even hydrated enough to have a meltdown.

Now...I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. I'm so thankful for the friends who prayed, texted, and brought meals, and for the community that’s still showing up for us. For the doctors, nurses, and every hand that helped my mom. Most of all, I’m thankful for her strength—and her smile that’s as radiant as ever.

This experience reminded me of the fragility of life. Like that Tim McGraw song, sometimes it takes staring down the unimaginable to live with true gratitude. You don’t have to ride a bull tomorrow, but you should hug your loved ones tighter….say “I love you” more than feels necessary because it’s never too much.

Half Fast Farm

 “I found some properties we should look at,” I would say nightly, after dinner.

It became our evening routine; looking at properties online and dreaming of how we would decorate and where we would put the horse-barn. On the weekends, most Saturday mornings were spent riding west about 45 minutes to lay our eyes on whatever properties we had dreamed of during that week. Many drives back to our little Half Acre Farm were spent talking ourselves out of whatever we had seen. The property is just too low for the horses. The house could be perfect but the timing, Little Miss would have to change schools…etc.

For years this was our pattern and while it was wonderful to dream of our future farm, it often became frustrating. Moreso as Little Miss’s graduation date rapidly approached, the dream of moving west was becoming more and more attainable. Our Saturday morning drives back home were no longer spent with us talking ourselves out of purchases but talking ourselves into purchases that were a far cry from perfect.

We saw signs of “perfection” in every home we looked at. One, in particular, seemed like the perfect little fixer-upper cottage-style farmhouse on 20+ acres of land. We ogled over the listing for days before doing a drive-by and calling our real estate gal for backup. 

“The house is tiny but with all that land, we won’t ever be in it…how bad can the inside really be?!” we said, on the way to do a walk-through.

Turns out, pretty bad. We named it Alice in Wonderland because the foundation was so off that from the front to the back of the house, we seemed to sprout up in height and couldn’t get out the door without bending down.

“Let’s put an offer on it…it’ll be an adventure to fix up!” we decided.

Sidenote: we prayed so hard for God to show us signs that this property was the one. Upon arrival, an eagle landed in the field. We were immediately captivated. Teary-eyed. This is where we are supposed to be! The eagle promptly flew off.

“Well…it either means this is it…or it means we are supposed to follow him b/c this place is a death trap!”

The property went under contract before we submitted our offer. I was devastated. I had already started a Pinterest board for renovation ideas and thought up future farm/barn names. (Don’t worry. I steered clear of the Wonderland Ranch.)

I cried over a house that's foundation was more unstable than my emotions.

“I don’t want to look anymore. For years we have looked and looked and I keep getting so disappointed…I can’t do it. If there is a house out there that God wants us to have, then it will just have to find us,” I said, through sniffles.

My sweet husband agreed. While we both wanted this dream to come true more than anything, it was starting to feel like maybe it wasn’t meant to be. 

The next day we received a call from our friend who is more like our family.

“Hey…I was talking to a buddy and he might have an old farmhouse he’d like to sell on some acres if ya’ll wanna go look at it? It’s not listed but here is the address…”

Okay, God…now you’re just toying with my emotions.

I was fully prepared to hate it. I had made my peace with our decision to stop looking and was just along for the ride…until we pulled up to the driveway.

It was the house of my dreams. Our dreams. It was the kind of house that, on our first-ever (and every one since) road trip, we would point to and say- that one…wouldn’t it be nice to sit on our front porch and look down a long driveway with the horses grazing in a big pasture.

As we pulled down the long driveway, I got chills. So much for hating it, I thought to myself. I already didn’t care what the inside looked like. It had me at two porches and a metal roof. But the inside was equally as perfect as the outside. It was us and I immediately felt more at home than ever.

“Get your house sold…we are excited to have ya’ll as neighbors,” the owner told us, while shaking our hands.

We drove home and were filled with every emotion possible on the rollercoaster. We listed our house immediately and within five days, it was under contract. (Thanks to our real estate queen, Audra Shackelford!)

We did have one memorable prospective buyer who was concerned with how sanitary the property was with the horse stalls below the house. My eyes rolled so hard I gave myself a migraine. (Since the horses don’t convey- and they are vegetarians with a better diet than any human I know….fret not, pal.)

Before we knew it, we were closing on both properties and moving was in full-swing. After the first night in our home, we woke up in pure disbelief. It has been over a month of living in our dream home, and we still look at each other every night and say how we can’t believe this property is ours.

Why do I write all of this? Why am I sharing this? Because this was a dream that we prayed for. We worked hard to achieve it but God provided all the tools for us to make this dream a reality. One of my favorite people, Missie Dejarnette, once reminded me that God hears all of our prayers no matter how big or small. So if you have a dream, talk to God about it. It may take some time for Him to pave the way, but trust me, He will.