A Journal; Grief unfortunately observed

There are many ways that I feel I was being prepared for this horrific nightmare a year out. One was that I was reading C.S. Lewis "Grief Observed" and Frederick Buechner, "The Healing Power of Pain and Memory." To understand the absurdity of this statement I have to say that last year was one of the best years I can remember in a long time. There is NO preparing though for this pain, but there is unbelievable peace in moments when I realize that my little nobody self was being coddled.

I have a gallon zip-lock bag of photographs on my desk today. Three months ago I had a four foot high stack of albums. Call it providence once again but I began to think that the kids and grands would enjoy them more in their homes so I spent a month divvying them up between the kids and gave them out at Christmas. They were a source of joy between Mickie and I as she sifted through the pile. I wasn't sure if she finished going through them because she had only just received them 10 days before she died because of Covid and Christmas mail delays. I have to think that in some of those dark days she got a smile from those pics. 

I miss her so. I am fighting through this, but grief is cruel. It comes when it wants, it does what it wants, it contorts my throat in a moments, making me sound like a bullfrog if I try to force a word out. I see the forever grief etching itself into lines around my eyes. They look weak, they are, they must be, they have been cisterns for a monsoon of tears. 

I keep bringing myself back to the cross because I feel I may wander off the cliff of despair if not. I feel both weak and reckless. I want to drive really fast, I want to ride a horse, not a broad back mare, but a 16 hand un-cut stallion, dance till midnight with no concern of my aching hip  and yet — equally as strong is the need to sleep, cover myself up with comfy blankets and crawl into the crook of Don's arms to sync my weak heart to his rhythm. 

I don't think this will end. Not on this side of that blue Karman line, not until I see her on the other side. 

Notes: 2 weeks before Mic died, I told her "I got your back baby." 

I don't want to forget a single thing we talked about, did in these past months. This year was a year of restoration for us. I just wish it had been enough.

Another day; I didn't feel the awful heaviness upon wakening that I did yesterday. I made it through the sun rise and first cup of tea and thought, "Okay, someone's thoughts and prayers are kicking in for me." I don't want the memories to stop, but I don't want them to cripple me either. I worked all over the place trying to stay busy today. I mucked the chicken coop. Worried over a bullied hen, gathered eggs, helped Don with work and finally as the sun turned to the west and the light began to fade, I hurriedly gathered my bulbs to plant. I know there may be another day. But, the sooner I see life grow from that cold damp dirt, the better. I planted a few rows of lily's. Mic's favorite. I had to plant them inside the fence so that Zoe wouldn't dig them up and eat the bulbs and die herself. Oh, the fragility of this life. I pulled my gloves off after I hoed the area and got on my hands and knees. The tears began to well the minute I felt that soil. I remembered some gardening ideas she sent me in a message a month ago. Little tiny lights solar lights that looked like dew. I look at the wandering willowy shoots on the Confederate jasmine sitting in the yard that I was going to take her this spring for her porch. Reaching out beyond their trellis, searching for something to cling to. Me too.

My hands are black now, the bulb has long since been covered, I am not just massaging soil as my mind goes to her, to God, to someone. My voice won't eek it out yet. But, I know I will talk in this garden. I am on one side of the fence and Zoe is on the other. She senses my pain I am sure. She licks my face  while sitting in my flower bed on the other side. 

"It's okay" I console. The only words I can speak. I wish I could believe what I tell her. 

Another day; My dear hubby has been a rock for me. I feel selfish that I am so needy of this much support. I can see where the death of a child could rip at the fabric of a marriage. There is nothing certain and this death proves that to us. But he pulls me out if I get quiet, he calms me if I act restless, he holds me when I cry and yet I know he prays that this cup will be removed from us as much as I do. I told a friend a few weeks ago that I had always heard that when a mother gives birth to a child she is as close to death as she will ever be. I beg to differ, there is NO pain on earth. I PROMISE you, that is worse than losing a child and I have never felt as close to death as I have these past weeks.   

Another day; It is Valentines Day, Don brought joy into the house. His thoughtful gift says so much about how he knows me. Specialty teas from Indian, new tea diffuser and beautiful cut flower card. He's been my rock since the terrible night 1 month ago. It feels like yesterday, it feels like tomorrow and it feels like forever. I know it is, I woke one night and knew, this grieving, my grieving for a child would go to the grave with me. You don't get over this. My rock has held me when I sobbed into his chest, when I wasn't sobbing, when I was "holding it in." He has prayed for everyone but himself, I remind him to do so. 

Another day; There are bad days and there are bad days, that seems to be the trend right now. I had a really bad day at work this week. I find myself breaking down on the job. Tears rolling while I am re-finishing cabinets. I finally think I figured out why so much during the day. My phone buzzes and I think it's her. We were texting a lot recently. We called each other when I was out on the road giving quotes, but during the work day we would text each other. I can't believe how many times I think "Oh, I need to tell Mickie about that." and then I realize that I can't and I become distraught. I waited on this day for the wave to subside and the tears to subside and then told Don. 

"Don, a lot of my grief is when I realize that I can't tell something to Mickie."

"You can tell her. Just talk to her like you would if she was here." he told me. 

I guess I may have looked at him like he was being ridiculous because I can't just talk out loud to my deceased daughter while working in  a client's home. But — the next day. I had a thought about something that I wanted to tell Mickie and I went right outside and sat in the truck and talked for about 15 minutes. I told her about the DNA results coming in and that she would be happy to know that we didn't have a damn ounce of Indian in us. But, we are now Scot's and even though I know she preferred the Shamrock, her new country emblem is a Thistle. At the end I told her, "I know you are at peace now, but your Mama, she's not. Please God, Mickie, one of  you, both of you, know that I Love you Mic, I wish you were here more than anything, but I want to know that you know I love you and I miss you so much." 

I was able to go back in and finish the day and my heart became lighter. That evening when we pulled in the drive, the answer came. We arrived home to find a box on the fence post. Don and I presumed it was the new drill he ordered. I carried it inside and put it on the table. A little while later I opened the box and gasped. I checked the label and it was addressed to me and not Don. It was a beautiful box full of relaxing candles, bath salts and lotions but what stood out the most to me was the paper it was wrapped in, beautiful pink thistle flowers and the name of the company — Thistle Farms, was this gift from a dear unknowing friend answered prayer? The beautiful candle is etched in glass with the message Love Heals Every Body. Am I stretching or wishing for it to be so? Probably, but it gave me consultation for that night.  

Another day: It is almost 8 weeks from the day my beautiful girl took her life. I can't say that I am any better since the shock wore off. Some days are worse than the very first night. However, there IS joy in each day. Don prays daily for rest for my weary soul. I need rest for my weary soul but have only found it at the foot of the cross. The nightmares have subsided some, Thank God. I would wake every night or other night with a start and re-live those terrible moments. Only the worse part is I was right there, I couldn't help. The day memories are precious but play like a reel to reel, black and white all day in my head. Every thing is a memory. Food, sky, laughter, song, birds, bugs, snakes, movies.... you name it, there is a memory attached to Michelle. Isn't everything sacred now? I don't want them to go away but I know eventually the showtimes will space out. I told Don today while we were riding home. "My mind, knows that Mic is gone. However, my heart just can't convince it of this truth yet." 

Another day: I think sometimes it's two steps forward and 3 backwards. Is there a forward, is there a backwards? Or is the rest of my life going to be a juggle of pleasure and pain? At some point during each day I feel like there is a hatchet in my chest. Will I die if it is removed? Other minutes may resemble trying to talk through the miniscule airway around the great big ass bullfrog in my throat. Should I be grateful for the assholes who distract me from grief? 

Another day: I miss my girl so much and crazy things are running through my head right now. I guess the anesthesia (for lack of a better word) of shock has worn off and I am fighting the nagging thoughts. Why didn't I call that day? Why didn't I intuitively know she needed me? Or did I? Was her last thought regret? I wish I could have had the courage to dress and fix her hair and make up myself. My granddaughter called after leaving her mama's grave site today. Her heart, OMG, the only thing worse than a broken heart is hearing another break. I am so proud of her for confronting ALL of the demons of this thing we call grief. I don't know how my other granddaughter is doing, she is retreating. I want to be there for her. There is joy in the day, as much as there is grief. One day one will win out, the next another. Such is life. 

Angel of the Morning

 I have been writing human interest essays for 10 years, 7 or 8 of these with Charleston Grit. I base all of my stories on life experience, so my family has trolleyed along with me. I know that if I can't eek out this story, I'll never be able to pen another one. My daughter died 3 weeks ago. 

Breathe in — June 14, 1977. 10:15 pm. I heard her gasp for air as she took that first breath. 6 pounds 12 ounces.  I counted all appendages quickly. She was delivered by forceps, a routine procedure in the late 70's. Did she have brain trauma that caused her progressive myoclonus seizures later in life? My days are a plethora of Why's and If's. 

My brown eyed girl. Van Morrison penned my lifetime theme song for her a decade earlier. She too loved Morrison, her favorite song of his was "Into the Mystic." Michelle loved 70's rock and would jam in front of the huge Marantz stereo in the living room with her dad singing as he played his bad ass air guitar. Bad Company, AC/DC, Styx, Journey, the whole gamut. 

Michelle loved HARD and often. She gave everything of herself to everyone, keeping just enough to get her to the next checkpoint for "fuel."  Over the years the check points became farther and farther apart and she was giving more and more and keeping less. Eventually every little thing became overwhelming. 

Was the disease more debilitating than we thought? Did she hide it better? Was cognitive reasoning affected? I question everything these days.  

But still — still, to the very end she fought the illness, loved deeply and was benevolent beyond anyone I ever knew of. Her beautiful smile could melt ice. Michelle brightened days for many as hers fell apart. The lights dimmed inside those 37 miles of nerve endings. My girl committed suicide. 

I have heard it said all my life. Reach out, there is one person who can turn that tide. We wish we knew who that person was. We do know that a loving husband, mother/father, aunts and cousins, sisters & brothers, beautiful children, brand new granddaughter couldn't do it. 

Now my days, hours and minutes are filled with memories. I see her everywhere and all the time in all things. This is the memory from this morning. Blackies campground on Folly Beach for a full summer in 1981. The campground had a nice large pavilion. The sounds of the party time bands playing shagging music lulled Michelle who was 4 and her sister to sleep on the weekends. During the week a juke box rocked some of the decades best; Peter Frampton, CCR, Styx, Eagles, Lynyrd Skynyrd.....  but quiet time came early at the campground, 10 PM. 

One morning I was up at the crack of dawn with a pillowcase full of clothes to take to the laundry which was housed behind a wall at the pavilion. We walked quietly down the sandy path to the pavilion which housed a laundry room behind one of it's petitions. As I sorted the clothes Michelle wandered off to the Juke Box to check the coin slot and mash some buttons. All of a sudden Juice Newton started playing "Angel of the morning" at party time decibels. I came running around the petition to find her smiling, her eyes big as saucers. People started yelling out of their tents and campers at us. I couldn't find out how to stop the music. I finally got it pulled out from the wall and snatched the cord out of the wall. It was a memory we spoke of often. Michelle wasn't an angel of the morning. She preferred to wake up naturally and around 10 o'clock would have been her preference. But, school, work, life didn't fit that schedule. I would sing "Angel of the Morning" to her and she would snarl. Eventually she began to like the song again AND the morning. 

My heart feels as if that juke box is plugged back in and memory after memory, side A & B are being played. I will never be able to unplug that juke box, nor will I ever want to.   

The morning after she died, the sun was brilliant, the sky was Tarheel Blue. I wish she could have held out for daylight. I believe it may have changed her mind. 

Breathe out —January 13, 2021, 7:02 pm. 

Bad Ass Cat kind of year.

 

 

I have never uttered "I'm bored," not for a day an hour or a minute of my life. When a thought becomes a stitch, a stroke of the brush, a paragraph on paper, we give it life. We have created something that didn't exist, out of the blue, just like that. To me those creations are little miracles in this world. Whether it be the seed a farmer put into the ground that became a beautiful squash on my counter, origami birds, a child's drawing on a frig, a new guitar riff that rippled out into the universe — A zillion little things that weren't here yesterday came into existence today. 

My mind runs continuously and I know it will until I take my last breath but it wasn't always like that. Unsupportive comments from family de-railed and many times stunted my desire to create. It took years for me to learn that their lack of support was more about their inability to dream than my ability to create. You should never let someone else's voice be louder in your head and heart than your own. 

It doesn't matter if what I do will ever be seen. The joy is in the creating. I don't even try to legitimatize the time I spend doodling on a power bill or scribbling random words in a notebook. I just know that if I wait until everything is perfect in my life to do what I like to do then most of what I have done or ever will do wouldn't materialize. 

I am my biggest critic but I have been working on that for the last several years. I used to crumble up a page I had just written on an essay or manuscript and I've been known to  paint a huge red X across a a painting that I felt I messed up. 

But lately I have found that if I leave it, walk away from it like a jig-saw puzzle, I can get past the ugly and when that doesn't work — I sign it and laugh before throwing it out. 

I have tried my hand at watercolor painting for years and every 4 or 5 years I will twist the caps off of those paints and give it another go but, it never ends well. The last attempt was of a cat, easy peezy I thought. Uh-uh. What happened in those few minutes between the vision in my head and the tip of that brush was nothing short of sabotage. What I ended up with mostly resembled the dead cat from Stephen King's Pet Cematary. It was REALLY bad. 

I couldn't not make myself throw it away even thought the muddled water in the rinse glass was prettier than the painting.  I laughed, signed my name to it  and named it "Cats gone bad" why plural? I thought I might make a triptych series.  

So for 2021. I'll try not to be so hard on myself. There's enough criticism in the world without self-inflicting it. It will be alright if I color outside of the lines, paint bad pictures, make ugly Pinterest projects, do it all wrong — as long as I enjoy the process. Happy New Year to you all, I raise a glass to all of your bad ass cat's this year. 

Tidings of Comfort and .......

 

A trip to the post office can kill your comfort and joy buzz — IF you let it. 

Don helped me carry heavy boxes into the post office this week. As we got in line, a lady behind with an enviable resting bitch face and eyeroll muttered something that didn't sound like a greeting. I looked behind her and realized the actual end of the line went on a good ways behind us. We moved to the back of the pack without taking my earrings off.

 

Literally moments later another "lady" in front of us felt that she needed to dictate to another where she should stand, the other lady told her she was just fine right where she was.  I believe those damn aisle arrows that have been removed from the grocery store floors have thrown these wanna be traffic police into a tizzy. 

As we moved through the line at an acceptable holiday pace, it was clear to see that there were two kind of people in that room. The patient and impatient. Sighs and mutterings could be heard behind me if someone took longer than a minute with the postal clerk. 

And then — it was my turn. I was greeted by a jolly postal elf with a ginormous Christmas Santa hat on. While he was scanning my packages I  fixated on his hat. It had bulbs on it and looked like it may be a little uncomfortable.

 

I knew the minute it left my mouth I was click bait. "Does you hat light up?" I asked. 

He grinned wider than a Cheshire cat and said "Well yes it does." he answered. 

He pulled a bell hanging down near his ear and the hat moved up and down on his head and the bulbs all lit up and elf ears popped out from the side and it sang "We wish you a Merry Christmas." and more verses of it than I knew it had. 

I scanned the room behind me, sneers and jeers, I was clearly the bane of their existence. I've always been the one to mash a button on a toy in the store to see what it does and then fumble to find the cut off switch hurriedly. I couldn't get behind the plexiglass to do so and just suffered through the imaginary projectiles being thrown at my back.  

But, the song eventually ended and the postal clerk wished me a Merry Christmas with a wink and a nod for the next person to come to the counter. 

A little reminder, we don't have to tell everyone how we feel about them. Sometimes we can just go along with it and be better for it. 

That Kitsch Shit Going On

I don't believe the true magic of the universe can be conjured but I do believe it will present itself if I am open to it. I realize with Covid that I can fall into a much smaller world (rabbit hole) which closes the portals to that magic. I have to fight that, I will ALWAYS fight that. I can take a ride, walk, phone call, write, spill into a journal, cook, paint, etc.

On our way home from a trip to the mountains to meet a precious new life, our 4th generation great-grand girl, I thought of how fortunate I am to even utter those words. 4 generations of women in one room. How divine. 

The night before I was to meet Tinley I climbed into the foreign cabin bed in the foothills of NC, my soul's home away from home. My furry girl Zoe sighed and finally fell asleep curled up beside me, un-settled herself and looking for comfort from my body heat, I — the same from her. Both of us are accustomed to the creature comforts of our home. 

Sleep was not as quick to come for me as was with Zoe. I tossed and turned. I was absolutely positive the ancient cabin logs housed creepy crawlers just waiting for the lights to go out. Finally, my eyes couldn't focus, my sub-conscious put guards at the gate and I drifted off.  

Around midnight I rolled over and noticed a glow in the bedroom. A dream catcher hung in the  window. I didn't pay any attention to it when when we first arrived. Aren't they in every cabin in the mountains? So kitschy that they have lost their wonder. Or have they?

Maybe I just need to remind myself of their origin. I like to think an Indian maiden lying on her back, star-gazing on a cool mosquito-less fall night with a crackling fire nearby, framed the galaxy in her minds eye and then made a twig frame for it. Call it what we may it's really not the piece itself is it? It is what is behind it, seen through it, or the memory caught in it. 

I walked in my own yard a month earlier and there too was a perfect nature-made frame hanging from a few transparent webs. There is a constant in the universe, an earth-speak, subtle hints of wonder left just for me on my journey if I will just pick up the little pieces of puzzle it leaves me along the way. However, it's not a practice as easy as eating and drinking, etc. 

But — tonight, with the slivered light of a new moon, the dream catcher caught in it's web 2 huge glowing stars/planets of which I am not sure. I called Don in to see them, they were so bright!  We do that, we share the wonder. Don is a night-owl, he will come to me in the middle of the night and take my hand to walk outside into the darkness for a night-wonder;  a moon glow, an owl, a wood-line full of fireflies or the eyes of a herd of deer. 

Tonight I called him. Light fluffy pastel blue clouds wafted through the webbing of that dream-catcher, the symmetry of the stars in it was absolutely beautiful. 

Later I Googled the heavens to see what the phenomenon may have been. I really didn't know what to look for but Earthsky.org said that on October 16, 2020, the Eastern seaboard would have the year’s closest and largest new moon. 

Yes, a new moon she is, our beautiful little great-grand Tinley. Continuity, promise, hope. Shine your light little one. Your light, your life is your voice. 

2 nights after we came home from the mountains, just to prove it's not just a mountain thing, earth was showing off in the southern sky. Don again took my hand and walked me down the steps with a flashlight and then cut the light off to show me the big and little dipper. As a bonus, the Milky Way swept through the middle of the sky as if with a angled camel haired artist brush, dipped in blue-gray paint. 2020 ain't all bad y'all! 

Sands of Time

The first time I remember my feet touching the silt of the sea I was around 8 years old at Atlantic Beach in NC. I remember the scary tug of the disappearing sand as the tide pulled it from under my feet, I felt I would fall. I crave that tug annually. We have never lived more than 4 hours from the coast but it seemed like forever away sometimes. I once put sand in a box and brought it home. Then one cold winter day in North Carolina I warmed it in the microwave, took the box to my office and jammed my toes into it while I worked at the computer.  

In the late 70’s I was pregnant with my first daughter but wasn’t about to let that keep me from the sanctity of putting my ass in the sands of Key West. I dug a hole in front of a probably now defunct sand bar blaring Peter Framptom and Bog Seger. I then placed my rotund belly in the cool concave. About a half hour into my sunbathing I was hit on by a dude. I put down my book and rolled over to address him, he stopped mid-sentence and took off when he saw the swollen orb that had been hidden in the sand. 8 weeks later when I went into labor I walked the sands of Isle of Palms in SC because walking the halls of a hospital was so much less appealing.

When I go to the beach I seldom go into the ocean but I love the waves, the tug in the shallow surf. I adore how the sand makes me feel. I have come as far as one can go, to the edge of my terra-firma without being consumed by its majesty, the ocean.  

I have wizened to the idiosyncrasies of beach people now that I have become one: 

• Those  with the faraway look in their eyes. I used to walk past them and look out to see what they were looking at. Nothing and everything.
• The buried feet people, these are the ones that came out the day before and didn’t put sunblock on.
• The combers, the people who walk like they have a certain intention—  straight ahead, they pass you again a half hour later with the same intent. 
• The seekers, those hunch backed young and old with solo cups full of shark teeth and shells.
• The builders, those who make towers to say they were here, with moats and windows of shells. 
• The losers, the people who don’t know the tide and come back to find their chairs, flip flops and towels have been consumed by the Atlantic. 
• And lastly, sweet baby Jesus, bless their hearts — The sea gull feeders.

I can also tell you that sand is the best pedicure you can get. I always come back from a beach day with pristine pink bottomed feet. Sand isn’t always kind though. I would pack band-aids for Don and the boys for their boogie board irritated nipples. And there is nothing worse than sand in any crack if you aren’t near a shower when you leave the beach. I swear I almost made an oyster once in the car ride home once.  

Over the sands of time I have been all of the above. Today, on Folly Beach, I am just lost in the awesomeness of it all. I began seeking for elusive sharks teeth. I am sure I didn't look that distruaght but a kind man came over to me and held out his hand which was full of sharks teeth. He gave me three of them. A lot of people had walked by this man and he chose me to reach out to. I freaking love kindness!! Don then found one and gave it to me. 

After about an hour we made our way back to the public access. I saw my granddaughter sitting in the sand, her 7 month pregnant belly swollen. With a little imagination I can see my great granddaughter Tinley rising butt up to greet the sun and surf. Continuity, no where says it more clearly than the edge of America.  

Magnolia Plantation & Gardens Chinese Lantern Festival

When we arrived at  Magnolia Plantation & Gardens for the Lights of Magnolia display in collaboration with The Zigong Lantern Group the lights were competing with a brilliant fuchsia sunset to the east. In no time at all the sun set and the production proceeded to steal the show.
I had been excited since before Christmas to see the display and avoided looking at pictures (the best I could) of friends who posted on FB and Instagram of the event. That worry was unfounded, there isn't a picture out there, anywhere, that could replace seeing this in person.
My husband, two friends and I were greeted near the ticket booth by one of Magnolia’s own colorful beauties. Mr. Peacock was lackadaisically foraging the grass for a late evening snack. Minutes later he flew to one of the magnificent moss laden oaks and posed as one of the most beautiful silhouettes I have seen.
As we entered the arches the “oohs and ahhs” began. The 3/4 mile stretch of phantasmagoric eye-candy was filled with people of all ages. Glee, amazement and gasps of awe were heard from the smallest to the oldest around me in addition to my own. I slowly moved from one display to another through the slack-jawed, wonder-struck crowd. I talked to strangers too overcome not to speak about what we are seeing; The colors, the miles of silk, the weight of the bent steel, the precision, the perfection, the art, the intensity, the backdrop of Magnolia Garden’s dripping moss and towering oaks. It was an amazing marriage between the lights and Magnolia’s natural flora; the lighted alligators among the low forest, huge butterflies alongside the winter blooms of camellias. 
We wound our way around the fairy tale children’s section, the ark, the fields of butterflies, ladybugs and more. The trees and paths were filled with brilliant Avatar sized blooms and dripping icicles formed a canopy overhead along with the hundreds of LED lit Chinese lanterns. The panda, lion and zebra displays were just dazzling. The wall of Chinese Zodiac tiles was a huge hit with the crowds as everyone searched out their birthday year and sign to take a picture with. And then — there he was, the  200-foot dragon.
The dragon being one of the most magnificent lantern displays was built on-site by The Zigong Lantern Group. The artisans, use a variety of materials including silk and chinaware, LED lights, bent wire, plates and cups.
Hong Jun Deng's magnificently created dragon "is really the biggest dragon I have ever made." he said through an interpreter to Herb Frazier, Magnolia Garden’s Public Relations Director.
Its head towers 45 feet into the moss-draped trees. The dragon's scales are made of 26,000 porcelain plates. Deng and Wu carefully attached each plate on the dragon's body with thread. I stood transfixed at this piece for a long time in wonder. I crept up as close as I could get and was admiring the plates, the thread-work, the silk, the wire fabricating, the bracing. I turned to find my husband to find an Asian man smiling at me across the path, I smiled back. I think he was pleased to see the work of his culture so greatly appreciated by the crazy lady about to tip over the rope to get a better look.
For more stories about the fabrication, the process and the people behind it, please check out Herb Frazier’s stories based on interviews of the artisans here. https://www.magnoliaplantation.com/lights_of_magnolia_stories.html

As we exited the last arch, my friend touched my shoulder. "Look back." she simply said. As a whole the lights were just as gorgeous, but narrowing and dimming with each step away. A perfect close to 2019. Hello 2020.
Thank you to the powers that be at Magnolia that brought this beautiful lantern festival to us. Get your tickets and don’t let this event slip by.
The hours are 5:30 to 9:30 PM Wednesdays through Sundays. Tickets are $28 with fees for adults, $13 with fees for children ages 6-12 and free for children ages 5 and under. Additional fees for on-site parking and shuttles apply. For more information and ticket options, visit www.lightsofmagnolia.com