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HATTIE
Summer after summer, the old woman had sat in the rocker beside the kitchen window just staring out into her neighbor’s backyard. She had no reason to think they were even aware of her existence there. She sat and scowled out the window the livelong days, just watching them live their lives. So close, yet zillions of miles away.
She had watched their children grow up. When her window was open, she had learned that their names were Larry and Ella Hatchett. They had four kids, Danny, Joe, Hal, and Sue. Just this past year the youngest, Sue, had left for college. The backyard had always been full of noise, both laughter and fighting. The parents and kids had always had tons of friends hanging around visiting; and the aroma of barbecue had many times tickled her taste buds.
Now here it was, late summer again. The Hatchett young had all gone back to school or wherever. The corn and tomatoes in their garden were nearing the end of another season.
“Hattie, you old fool you, are you sittin’ and droolin’ again? Remembering how those fresh victuals tasted when you was young on the farm? Damn HIM for draggin’ me off to the city nigh on to 60 year ago! I’m so damn sick of those canned goods delivered from that crappy supermarket down the block. If I could still walk that far, I’d walk a mile for some of those fresh veg’tables. Hmm, wonder if I can still chaw that corn with the few teeth I have left in my head? For sure HIS Social Security check ain’t gonna pay busfare to a real farmer’s store, even if there was any cash left after they raised the rent on me again.
Hard to believe that for over 20 years, that trash next door has never even waved or spoke to me as I sit here day after day. It seems that most times they are in their garden they make a point of not lookin’ my way. I’ve seen them throw away good food ‘cause they couldn’t use it all. Ya might think they would share with the poor, old lady next door, wouldn’t ya.
So what if I poisoned their cat the first year they moved there? Damn cat was always prowlin’ and mewlin’ around, keeping me awake. I s’pose they are still upset ‘cause I yelled at their brats one night after supper. No reason for young’uns to make that much noise playing ball. Did’nt do any good, they just pretended they could’nt hear me.”
“Some uppity people don’t care a whit about their poor, old neighbors.”
“Look at them big, red, ripe tomatoes just hangin’ there on the vines. Still a few juicy ear of corn on those stalks too. Those beautiful sunflowers will be gone by soon, sure would look good on my table. Been forever since there were fresh flowers in this dump. Not since HE used to steal some on his hike home from the mill at night.”
“Geez, Hattie, now you gone and done it! My belly is rumblin’ and somehow my face got all wet.”
Later that evening, the old woman watched the Hatchetts leave in their car all dressed up for an evening out. She waited a bit until almost dark and then_________, hunched over, scissors clasped in her hands, the old woman passed like a shadow behind a screen of young birch and slipped possessively into her neighbor’s garden.
“What this room needs is color,” Janice declared, as she turned toward the window.
Suddenly her eye caught the roses in her neighbor’s garden. Janice saw the beautiful and dazzling display of the Rio Samba roses. These roses had flaming yellow petals splashed with an intense red-orange color as the petals unfurled. Several blooms carefully arranged would add the perfect color to her living room.
Therefore, Janice made up her mind. Her neighbor was gone, so now was the perfect opportunity.
Hunched over, scissors clasped in her hands, the old woman passed like a shadow beneath a screen of young birch and stepped possessively into her neighbor’s garden. Of course, Janice would never admit to being old, although categorically she was much older than she admitted.
She bypassed all the other roses and made a bee-line for the Rio Sambas. Quickly she started cutting the stems. Occasionally she stole a glance toward the house, but kept on cutting. She had her garden gloves on so that helped to keep her fingers from getting punctured by any thorns.
“What do you think you are doing?” a very masculine voice demanded.
Janice jumped and almost dropped the roses. “I …I..I was just cutting a few roses. Mrs. Johnson always let me have a few,” she stammered.
“Well, I’m not Mrs. Johnson! She doesn’t own this house any more. Since you have already cut those, I will let you keep them this time. Next time, I’m going to charge you with trespassing, as well as stealing. Is that clear? I’m the new police chief.”
Janice gulped, took a deep breath, wiped the perspiration from her forehead, said a faint, “yes sir,” as she dashed for her own yard.
“Thank you,” she said faintly as she slammed her door shut. Her heart was palpitating, and her breathing was rapid.
“Wow, what a close call!” she said. “Next time I’ll buy silk roses.!”
Hunched over, scissors clasped in her hands, the old woman passed like a shadow behind a screen of young birch and stepped possessively into her neighbor's garden.
“Now, if I can be so quiet, perhaps I’ll be able to cut the hair of that damned Puerto Rican gardener,” she said to herself. “He’d be quite handsome if only I could see his face,” she mumbled. A slow, determined smile spread over her wrinkled face as she pictured her Prince Charming, dressed in his birthday suit and his new haircut.
For two years she had watched from behind her living room curtains as Enrique pruned her neighbor’s hedges and lovingly cared for their formal gardens. That was two years of pure joy for the old lady, but she did notice his hair was growing increasingly longer. She despised long hair on men. Not only that, but a month ago she noticed he had a gold earring in his left ear. Imagine that—a man with long hair and an earring—she’d fix that situation soon.
With her sweetest voice, she called his name, “Enrique?” The gardener turned around toward the voice and was startled by what he saw. “Jesu Bambino!” he stammered. The woman lurched toward him, scissors flailing, and made a grab for his hair. In one swift move, she accomplished her mission. He grabbed for her neck but she was more agile than she appeared. He made the wrong move, tripped over a rake and fell forward onto the scissors, which she still held aloft.
“Aha, Enrique, you are no longer Samson and you are no longer mine. Sweet dreams.”
Hunched over, scissors clasped in her hands, the old woman passed like a shadow behind a screen of young birch and stepped possessively into her neighbor's garden. Stepping gingerly among the remaining flowers, she managed to avoid crushing the marigolds. Recently fallen leaves crunched beneath her brogans. She always wore the old cast-offs left by her late husband. He had small feet for a man, and hers were larger than the average woman's.
Old Maude cast a glance furtive glance toward her neighbor's bay window, knowing full well that he would be engrossed in his favorite television show . She had chosen her time perfectly. Inside, Raymond followed the contestants on Wheel of Fortune intensely. He never missed the highlight of the day!
Stealthly, old Maude crept toward the prize she had coveted throughout the summer months. Checking her watch, she realized there were only minutes before the show was over, and Raymond would be meandering out to the garden. Well, he was in for the surprise of his life! If only she could make her arthritic bones move a bit faster, she would claim the rose he had stolen from her last year. "Tarnation, the old goat! Saying it's on HIS property! Indeed! Saying I should pay a surveyor to run the line. Why should I pay when he is the one who stole from me?"
Just as Maude clasped the beautiful rose in her gloved hand and reached downward to snip the stem, she heard a step behind her and felt breathing on her neck. "Rats, foiled again," she muttered as her daughter took the scissors from her hand and dragged her backwards toward her own yard. "Never mind about this time. When she goes to classes tomorrow, I will manage to sneak over and claim my rose! There is always tomorrow."
Rose Sumter had a passion for roses. She loved to look at them, touch them and smell them. Best of all though ,she loved to grow them.
Due to the abrupt death of her husband Justin, her standard of living was about to change drastically. He was the sole owner of the only bank in their home town of Coffeeville, Kansas. His doctor had warned that he needed to slow down and learn to take it easier. Well that was just not his style. Why pay others when you could do it yourself was his motto! As luck would have it, old Dr. Orin was out of town delivering a baby when Justin had a heart attack and died.
Attorney J.R. Thompson advised Mrs. Sumter to sell the bank and put the proceeds into a trust fund. He reassured her that she would receive a substantial amount each month to keep her present lifestyle.
This worked out just fine ,except for one thing. Her passion for exotic, expensive roses! Justin and Rose were so disappointed that they were never blessed with children. He decided to send for some rose bushes. When they came he presented them to her. He asked her if she would try to make a rose garden for their enjoyment. She was thrilled and set to with a passion . She knew they would be a lot of work but what else did she have to do with her time. The housekeeper took care of everything, including meals.
She watched the gardener and took notes of every thing that he did, just in case he was called away elsewhere. Their rose garden truly was spectacular. On Sunday afternoons they usually had several friends over for tea in the garden.
After Justin died and her latest order of "exotic roses"arrived, she went searching for the Rose Garden Journal . It was right there in the sun room. It took her a couple of days to go through it. When she had finished she felt confident that she could handle the planting by herself. That is exactly what she did the next day.
When the gardener arrived a few days later she let him do his work as usual. Knock- knock, she went to answer the door . It was the gardener with a puzzled look on his face. After the good morning exchanges, he said, "Who planted those new roses?"
She promptly replied,"I did!"
"I'll be darned, was his reply. " "So you have been watching me haven't you?"
"Why yes I have and I've made a journal of all that you have done in our garden as well."
"I can see that you no longer have need of my services ma'am."
"But I do," Rose said. "I want to have you teach me how to propagate some of the exotics."
Smiling he said ,"Of course I can do that. When would you like to start?"
"Right now, if you have the time. First let me grab my journal for notes, then we can get right to it."
It took about a month for the first shoots to appear. Than there were instructions on how to care for the new shoots. The gardener said,"You are a natural. I think your lessons are finished. Would you mind if I drop by once in a while, just to see how things are going?"
She replied, "It would be a pleasure to see you anytime. Thank you so very much for all your help. If you need a recommendation for employment , just ask and I'll make one up right now."
"Why Mrs. Summer, I have instructions to return to my previous employer as soon as this job was finished. Thank you most graciously for the offer." With that he took off his hat and gave her a bow.
As the new shoots were maturing, she made her plans. She had already decided where each of her beauties' new homes would to be. She used the waiting time wisely. She made an especially large apron for storing all the tools that she would need. She made a special trip to the hardware store. Most of the hand tools were in the shed already, except for a flashlight, small basket and long handled rose clipping shears. Those items purchased, she set about arranging the tools in the apron.
After dinner each night she would go out to cut off the shoot to be replanted in some person's private garden. She wore a black coat and hat . At dusk she would start her journey to the person's garden to plant the baby rose. She walked very slowly and crouched over somewhat ,while one hand was always on the sharp rose pruner scissors. All went well until she overheard some gossip at church one Sunday. The police were looking for the person dressed in black carrying a tiny basket. Oh dear, she thought, she had to change the time that she was traipsing around planting her baby 'beauties."
She chose before dawn when everyone was asleep. This new time worked out just fine, until one morning the police followed her ! She slipped into her church for a little while ,peeked out and they were gone. By this time she nearly had all of the new baby "beauties" planted. A funny thought came to her one night just before going to bed. Why not offer the rest of them to the church. Of course they were delighted. Father kept her very busy planning just where to put a miniature rose garden so that everyone could admire it.
By this time the other babies were starting to bloom, much to the surprise of the whole town. She had secretly gone to nearly every home that had a rose garden. Of course she showed up, camera in hand, as one of the admirers when each of her new babies bloomed. The blossoms were spectacular! They were her "Beauties, babies!"
-------------------------------------------------------
“God help me,” she whispered.
“Hush girl,” the gentle giant said. "We are not out of danger yet."
“Oh,” she sighed, swiping the back of her hand across her brow.
Somehow, she knew she would be safe now, snuggling close to the gentle giant's chest as he quickly and quietly sprinted through the thicket in the jungle.
Teeney started mulling things over in her mind. All I was doing was trying to get one more shot of the couple in the group. Then I stepped back a few steps and went down the slope, just like tumbleweed, over and over. Some fall and lucky I landed where I did. The next thing I know I am being whisked away to safety. Why am I in danger?
“Oh my, where is my camera!” At that precise moment something nudged her leg. Looking to see what it was, she breathed a sigh of relief; it was her camera.
It really didn’t matter much about her purse as most of her traveler checks and Ids were in a hidden compartment of her camera case. The camera had a date and time set on it so it would show up on the photos she had taken. This was an important factor in her business.
No one would ever suspect that Teeney wasn’t a tourist on vacation. She was a petite 4’6” brown hair, blue- eyed thirty-six year old women who looked like a teen ager. After what seemed liked hours they came to a clearing where a small airplane was waiting. Putting her in the passenger side and getting into the pilot seat, the giant took off. Once the plane was airborne and the autopilot on, the giant turned to Teeney and extended his hand.
“Hello, my name is Sam and I’m with the DEA, I had to stop you before you got into the clearing where a drug ring was doing business. It would have been dangerous for you.”
“Thank you, and my name is Teeney, I am a private detective. I have been following some fugitives and was taking the last photo of them when I misplaced my feet. By the way, just how tall are you?”
Smiling, Sam said, "6’8”.
“No wonder I thought you were a giant,” Teeney replied with a smile, as they flew into the clouds.
A psychological study found time spent looking at a fashion magazine caused 70% of women to feel depressed, guilty, and shameful.
Women have always been unhappy with the way they look. An internal and external conflict that is always communicating to bring on our insecurities. The list is always about the same: I’m too fat / too thin, too short /too tall, too straight / too curly. The list is an endless circle of reflections that plague us. Some of us can identify an inside conflict and take steps to get rid of it. We choose an outside method to work on it in hopes we will gain approval from others, which will build our self esteem. Over the years I have dealt with these superficial conflicts because of the self doubt they generated.
In my prepubescence years I saw myself as lumpish. Yearning for a figure that was chipped from marble, I’m sure my complaining was boring to my family. At age 20 I saw myself as plump and squat. One weird diet after another, I still feel ill when I see a grapefruit. In my 30s I was frumpy, still short, had stretch marks and three kids. I was grateful if I got my hair combed and teeth brushed. In my 40s I was still over weight and time had added a few grey hairs. Crows feet and laugh-lines were definitely turning into wrinkles. Color rinses and firming creams to the rescue, temporarily. At 45 the hips were bulging and the derriere was wider. Joined Diet Work Shop, took a year to drop 20 lbs., was always hungry and cranky. By 50, I was dealing with drooping buttocks and oatmeal textured thighs. Yoga and aerobics three times a week. Learned that sweaty leotards ride up and chafe. At 55 my bosom began to give into gravity. Had to replace those sexy little lacy coverings and go for industrial strength support bras, in 36 long.
Now in my 60s I’m still overweight. I have acquired a mustache and a double chin, along with the age spots, assorted aches and pains . . . and an attitude. A turning point at last! I have given myself permission to age the way I want.
At 70, who knows what the "turned around" me will be. Frankly Rhett, I don’t give a damn!
At my advanced age, choosing just one turning point is impossible. There have been so many.
My first marriage meant that I left the nurturing arms of my parents to face the unknown. Not only was I sleeping with a MAN for the first time, I also had to go to work to make a living. Both events were traumatic, but they boosted me into adulthood. Then he died, and my next turning point was being a single working mom with an almost-three-year-old. She didn’t enter the terrible twos until she had passed her third birthday, so I couldn’t say that that stage of her life was out of the way. It was just beginning!
The next turning point was when Sara left for Michigan for graduate school. She had gone to the local university for undergraduate work, and I found that I wasn’t ready to see her leave the nest. Oh, I know I did, but that was different. She was my little girl, and she was going so far away. That meant no more groups of college students coming and going all hours of the day and night. No more concerts where I could be a proud parent during her solos. Instead, the house was quiet. Too quiet. I had to fill my hours in different ways and just be grateful whenever she called – even if it was just "send more money, Mom."
The greatest turning point came when my husband of 23 years asked for a divorce, only 4 months after my 65th birthday. That thrust me into the world of the single senior homeowner. Suddenly I was responsible for mowing the more-than-an-acre of land, for finding someone to make necessary repairs, for remembering to pay the real estate taxes, for buying my own car tags and putting them on, for installing a new toilet seat when the old one split down the middle, for repairing my own kitchen faucet, for getting my car serviced instead of having someone at home to change the oil. In short, it meant making all the decisions for everything that happened in my life.
However, if "turning point" means the ability to take a new road and explore new challenges, I have taken that step. I am happy being single. I have so many options open to me now that I don’t know which to choose first. I want to travel. I want to do some remodeling. I want to take classes in many different subjects. I have started my own business. I have taken up hobbies. I have reconnected with many friends that I had lost during my years of married life.
When I finally turned the corner and chose a new road, I found the one thing that I had lost for so many years – myself.
Steve was deep in thought about the upcoming contest. What if he won? The event was to be televised and that was weighing heavily on his mind He was beginning to wish he had never submitted the video to become a contestant. The letter from the show producer described the prize money and all the perks that would go along with winning. Included in the letter was information describing flight arrangements,ground transportation, and hotel accommodations. All expenses were to be paid by the contest promoters.
The filming location was ideal. Who wouldn't want to spend a week all expenses paid in the Caribbean? Warm winds, palm trees, sandy beaches and night life that made life in his rural town of 150 people seem very dull.
Unable to shake his troubling thoughts, he tried to analyze his concerns. How would he explain to his friends and neighbors about his appearance on "THAT" television special. His mother was sure to watch too, and that would be a real problem. His mother had a very puritan attitude and nothing he could say would make a difference to her if she saw the program.
Steve was no mama's boy. Actually he was a lot like any of the huge football players that are seen mouthing HI MOM when they are caught by the sideline TV cameras. He was tall, physically well built, and considered one of the most handsome men in the state where he lived. Steve wasn't conceited, but at the time he wanted to capitalize on what he had been told. He convinced himself those were reasons he sent in the video. The exposure would surely not go unnoticed by anyone. What to do? Take the trip or advise the program producer he was no longer interested.
The turning point in his decision making came quite simply. The answer sat steaming in the kitchen. It was a fresh baked apple pie his mother had placed on the kitchen window sill to cool. He knew now he couldn't go. The video of him pretending to have prepared the family Thanksgiving feast was a lie. The TV program "Hunks and Herbs" showing the cooking abilities of athletically fit men in the kitchen would just have to do without him.
Life has places where one can either keep to the chosen path or take a slight detour. Life also has "The Road Not Taken." The' what if's'. For some of us, there is an instance when we make a deliberate sharp turn away from the much traveled thoroughfare.
As a child, I had complete faith in Jesus. As a thirteen year old, I knew I was to do God's work. In my mind, this would mean mission work, and I wanted no part of it. The lure of the world was much too strong for me to resist. Being a southern, country girl, I hungered for bright city lights, pretty clothes, music to dance to, admiring men. I wanted it all.
I moved to Detroit and set about fulfilling my dreams, forget the message from God! I soon met a young man who aroused my sexual urges, but not my common sense. Soon I was pregnant and married, the last thing I had in mind.
I adored my five children but never enjoyed being married. We stayed the course for just short of twenty five years, until the last child was supposedly adult, and we split. Divorce was failure, but it was freedom. I still wanted the pretty clothes, money, dancing, adoring men.
Slowly I awoke to the facts of life. Men "adore" young women. However, I was fortunate enough to meet a really nice man, and I settled into a comfortable life. Something was still missing.
When my three month old grandson died, without my ever having seen or held him, I desperately wished to die too. Yet God spoke to me. I was told that there were other people who needed me, that I had more life to live, so I went on living. I suddenly knew I should be in church, trying to do the will of Almighty God.
It took me quite some time to surrender completely, but I now belong to Him, lock, stock and barrel. The clothes, money, cars, men, music, are only things in this world. God is forever. God was my turning point.
At my advanced age, choosing just one turning point is impossible. There have been so many.
My first marriage meant that I left the nurturing arms of my parents to face the unknown. Not only was I sleeping with a MAN for the first time, I also had to go to work to make a living. Both events were traumatic, but they boosted me into adulthood. Then he died, and my next turning point was being a single working mom with an almost-three-year-old. She didn’t enter the terrible twos until she had passed her third birthday, so I couldn’t say that that stage of her life was out of the way. It was just beginning!
The next turning point was when Sara left for Michigan for graduate school. She had gone to the local university for undergraduate work, and I found that I wasn’t ready to see her leave the nest. Oh, I know I did, but that was different. She was my little girl, and she was going so far away. That meant no more groups of college students coming and going all hours of the day and night. No more concerts where I could be a proud parent during her solos. Instead, the house was quiet. Too quiet. I had to fill my hours in different ways and just be grateful whenever she called – even if it was just "send more money, Mom."
The greatest turning point came when my husband of 23 years asked for a divorce, only 4 months after my 65th birthday. That thrust me into the world of the single senior homeowner. Suddenly I was responsible for mowing the more-than-an-acre of land, for finding someone to make necessary repairs, for remembering to pay the real estate taxes, for buying my own car tags and putting them on, for installing a new toilet seat when the old one split down the middle, for repairing my own kitchen faucet, for getting my car serviced instead of having someone at home to change the oil. In short, it meant making all the decisions for everything that happened in my life.
However, if "turning point" means the ability to take a new road and explore new challenges, I have taken that step. I am happy being single. I have so many options open to me now that I don’t know which to choose first. I want to travel. I want to do some remodeling. I want to take classes in many different subjects. I have started my own business. I have taken up hobbies. I have reconnected with many friends that I had lost during my years of married life.
When I finally turned the corner and chose a new road, I found the one thing that I had lost for so many years – myself.
Steve was deep in thought about the upcoming contest. What if he won? The event was to be televised and that was weighing heavily on his mind He was beginning to wish he had never submitted the video to become a contestant. The letter from the show producer described the prize money and all the perks that would go along with winning. Included in the letter was information describing flight arrangements,ground transportation, and hotel accommodations. All expenses were to be paid by the contest promoters.
The filming location was ideal. Who wouldn't want to spend a week all expenses paid in the Caribbean? Warm winds, palm trees, sandy beaches and night life that made life in his rural town of 150 people seem very dull.
Unable to shake his troubling thoughts, he tried to analyze his concerns. How would he explain to his friends and neighbors about his appearance on "THAT" television special. His mother was sure to watch too, and that would be a real problem. His mother had a very puritan attitude and nothing he could say would make a difference to her if she saw the program.
Steve was no mama's boy. Actually he was a lot like any of the huge football players that are seen mouthing HI MOM when they are caught by the sideline TV cameras. He was tall, physically well built, and considered one of the most handsome men in the state where he lived. Steve wasn't conceited, but at the time he wanted to capitalize on what he had been told. He convinced himself those were reasons he sent in the video. The exposure would surely not go unnoticed by anyone. What to do? Take the trip or advise the program producer he was no longer interested.
The turning point in his decision making came quite simply. The answer sat steaming in the kitchen. It was a fresh baked apple pie his mother had placed on the kitchen window sill to cool. He knew now he couldn't go. The video of him pretending to have prepared the family Thanksgiving feast was a lie. The TV program "Hunks and Herbs" showing the cooking abilities of athletically fit men in the kitchen would just have to do without him.
Life has places where one can either keep to the chosen path or take a slight detour. Life also has "The Road Not Taken." The' what if's'. For some of us, there is an instance when we make a deliberate sharp turn away from the much traveled thoroughfare.
As a child, I had complete faith in Jesus. As a thirteen year old, I knew I was to do God's work. In my mind, this would mean mission work, and I wanted no part of it. The lure of the world was much too strong for me to resist. Being a southern, country girl, I hungered for bright city lights, pretty clothes, music to dance to, admiring men. I wanted it all.
I moved to Detroit and set about fulfilling my dreams, forget the message from God! I soon met a young man who aroused my sexual urges, but not my common sense. Soon I was pregnant and married, the last thing I had in mind.
I adored my five children but never enjoyed being married. We stayed the course for just short of twenty five years, until the last child was supposedly adult, and we split. Divorce was failure, but it was freedom. I still wanted the pretty clothes, money, dancing, adoring men.
Slowly I awoke to the facts of life. Men "adore" young women. However, I was fortunate enough to meet a really nice man, and I settled into a comfortable life. Something was still missing.
When my three month old grandson died, without my ever having seen or held him, I desperately wished to die too. Yet God spoke to me. I was told that there were other people who needed me, that I had more life to live, so I went on living. I suddenly knew I should be in church, trying to do the will of Almighty God.
It took me quite some time to surrender completely, but I now belong to Him, lock, stock and barrel. The clothes, money, cars, men, music, are only things in this world. God is forever. God was my turning point.
Every once in awhile I go to the attic of my mind where many memories are stored away. Some I have almost forgotten and I run into them as I dust off memories of my past.
Today I take one out and dust it off. It is a very special memory from my youth.
I can almost smell the roses. The air is warm and fragrant. Bees are buzzing and the butterflies are flitting from flower to flower.
My boyfriend Jerry and I are sitting on the front porch swing. Jerry is the most gorgeous blond blue-eyed guy I ever saw. I have been "stuck" on him since junior high school. I was in seventh heaven when he started walking me home from school and taking me to an occasional movie. Everyone knew that he was my beau.
On this day he was not his usual laughing, kidding self. He became very serious. "Jo," he said, taking my hand in his and gazing intently into my eyes, "I have been drafted and I have to report for duty tomorrow. Promise me that you will wait for me and that you will marry me whenever this crazy war is over."
"Oh yes," I happily promised, " I will wait for you forever."
We started making plans for our future. We would be married as soon as he was back from service. I would work while he finished medical school. He always wanted to be a doctor. We planned our family. Two boys......two girls.
That was the most joyous evening that I have ever spent. "I will write to you every day," he promised. I can still feel his gentle embrace and his tender kiss as he said goodbye.
I got a letter from him almost every day when he was in boot camp. I read and re-read every one of those precious letters. He always sent his love and said that he was looking forward to our life together.
Then he was shipped to Korea. His letters became less frequent but just as precious. They were full of plans for our future.
This was one of the happiest time of my life. I felt that I had everything that I could possibly want. I begin to fill my hope chest with handmade dollies, pillowcases and linens for our home.
One day, about two months after Jerry had been sent to Korea, his sister Marge came to see me. "Jo," she said," we have received some bad news today. Jerry is missing in action."
I felt all the blood drain from my body. "Marge," I said, "what does that mean."
"It means that they don't know where he is or what has happened to him," she explained.
" I know that he is allright," I said, "he just has to be."
" I pray that you are right," she said as she hugged me. We held on to one another and had a good cry.
For months I kept asking Marge if she had news of Jerry. Her disappointing reply was always " I have heard nothing."
Although I hoped against hope, I never got another letter from Jerry. I finally had to face the fact that he was not coming back. I shed many a bitter tear to no avail.
Jerry was one of those unfortunate soldiers whose whereabouts were never known.
Our life together was not meant to be.
Although I later met and married a man that I adored, I have not forgotten Jerry and that last evening on the front porch swing. He is still there laughing and teasing me when I visit the attic of my mind
As a child, my bedroom was across the hall from our "attic," which was really a junk room. But it was my notion of what an attic should be, full of old trunks, family photographs, out-of-style clothing, and assorted odds and ends.
Now my parents are gone and, though the years, the treasures from the attic have been distributed, sold, or discarded. But the memories linger in the attic of my mind. Now and then something will trigger one of those memories, and I am so grateful that God gave us minds in which to store all the treasures of our years.
My sister and I would often invade the room, open the trunks, and pretend we were old-fashioned girls or pirates or treasure-hunters. We’d make up a new game each time. In my mind, I can still see some of the outlandish costumes we created and hear our childish voices trying to be tough pirates looking at our ill-begotten gains.
Sometimes I recall a dress of mine that was a favorite, like the wine-colored velvet dress with a white lace collar and tiny flowers embroidered on the bodice. Or a dress belonging to my mother. I always laugh when I "see" the dress that we bought for her birthday. Daddy had given us money to buy her something, so we went to the cheapest dress store in town – Mode-o-Day – and bought what we thought was an outstanding choice. It was relegated to the trunk almost immediately! As children, we didn’t have much sense of style.
When I hear a piece of familiar music on the radio, I recall the folder of French horn music that I had to learn in high school for regional competitions. I will never know why my mother kept that music. Competitions always filled me with a sense of dread.
In my mind, my "attic" is also full of events:
My eighth grade graduation when I stepped in the mud with my new white shoes and the boy behind me in line took out his handkerchief and cleaned my shoes while I wiped my tears.
My short experiment with ballet, which I see now was a mistake from the beginning. In my mind’s eye, I compare my dancing to that of the elephants in Disney’s Fantasia.
My high school prom, where the waitress, leaning over to pick up my coffee cup to fill it, poured most of the pot down my back. Thank goodness I was wearing taffeta, or I would have spent the night in the burn unit at the local hospital!
My marriage to my first husband, which was a solemn affair since my father had died the day before. The bright note came during the communion service when, as I was offered the chalice, I could hear my 4-year-old nephew loudly saying, "Oh, look, Nancy gots the prize." The whole congregation either tittered or laughed aloud!
The night a group of us went out to steal watermelon, not paying any attention to the fact that watermelon do not grow in November!
If I were to try to clean out my mind’s attic, I could not finish the job in a lifetime. But there’s no way I would want to discard any of those memories. They represent the fabric of my life.
The upper part of my brain is an area where I box items and store them. I’m unable to discard them because they could be useful. I come from a long line of "savers" who were unable to discard anything. You should see the attic of my house!
I’ve stacked the attic of my mind with "memory" containers. Some are sealed and forgotten because of the pain and disappointment they engender. Others, when the flaps are opened, bring rushes of nostalgia and pleasure.
However, years of stowing have caused the inevitable . . . clutter. Something had to be done about this bric-a-brac of recollections. I had spent too much time in this messy room. With a little prodding from my family and friends, I turned "my attic" into a writing room.
When I first entered this room, I was unsure what I would do with all this "stuff." After years of rummaging through the boxes, airing their contents verbally, I encountered the challenge of the written sentence. At times it was, and still is, a struggle to find the exact adjective or nail down the perfect metaphor or simile to express my thoughts. However, I have discovered an infinite world of creativity waiting for release.
I am not a professional, just an apprentice who enjoys sorting out the treasures in those compartments. Yet I think I am heading in the right direction because I find even when, surrounded by others, I stare off into space, juggling words and thoughts. Mentally hacking or expanding sentences and longing to be at a keyboard to expand these abstract thoughts.
When I am finally able to type these disconnected notions, form begins to solidify into text. Then I crop and purge useless sentences and find I am left with only small usable portions I consider worthwhile. However, I continue with persistence and resolution to develop a skill that will use my resources to houseclean the "boxes." I am working toward the true meaning of writing, to give the reader knowledge that they may not have had before they read my words.
I see writing as an advantage to unclutter the attic of the mind. With that thought I must finish. Today I am planning to clean out the other attic . . . and the backhoe just arrived.
Everywhere boxes are opened; clothes, books, greeting cards, report cards, and pictures are all scattered. I cannot pick my way through the mess. Look, there is the old movie screen; the projector was broken years ago. Ditto the camera. That luggage over there is over forty years old. What haunts me, though, is not so much the mess as what is missing from the mess.
I have never been a collector of things: there is something in me that can’t stand the clutter of objects that I can’t use or don’t need. I never felt that they had any meaning to anyone but myself. Could be it’s because I have moved, without ever any help from a moving company, all of our household belongings over a dozen times, and believe firmly that less is better!
In actual fact my real attic is very neat because of what I have thrown out. Most of the boxes there belong to my kids. Added to these are the simple mementos I have saved from my parents for the grandchildren. There are no heirlooms in this attic.
The messy attic I wrote about is the attic of my mind. Memories are vague, half-memories. Sometimes I make up stories based on these. The remembrances are scattered into all the dark corners and are difficult to retrieve, both mentally and physically.
What also haunts me is knowing that perhaps unconsciously I have thrown away many of my memories as I did the possessions. I must have thought that I did not need them to clutter up my little mind. I miss many of them. Occasionally, a happening will pry out a memory; and I am always so happy to find it! It’s like finding an old letter or a book that I thought was gone forever. This happens most often when I get to talk to peers that I grew up with.
The memories I miss the most are those about my children. They get confused in time, place, and who their friends were. I will often say to one of them, “Remember Joe, your best friend in first grade?” All I get is a blank look, and then I realize that Joe was the older girl’s classmate. Oh well, I guess that those memories will have to remain in their own attics!
< HR>
It was a dark and rainy night. Or once upon a time. Those were my choices for starting this story. I’ll go with It was a dark and rainy night. My body creaks as I sit at my desk restlessly shifting back and forth in my typing chair. My computer keyboard stares blankly back at me, waiting to be used. What in this maze of stored information of my minds attic would spring forth to describe itself? I know my razor sharp mind will amaze even me when I begin typing the answer to my own question.
Computer like describes my attic very well. Not orderly like library shelves, with memories all neatly cataloged and filed for retrieval. Nor like the attic of a comfortable old home only visited at particular times of the year. More like a hard drive that hasn’t been de fragged for years. There is a light as I look in, I hope that is a glow from a restart button providing the light. If not that, then my eyes are letting light leak in. Either way it is fairly bright there.
I think my attic compares to a decent quality 20 gigabyte hard drive. Sadly though it’s filled with about 19 gigs of information right now. The CPU or functioning part of my brain was never upgraded so the daily struggle to understand input continues. Next time too,I’ll ask for a motherboard that isn’t integrated. The internals are failing slowly and the only good feature that remains is the case. Not everyone would agree with that but this is my description and I get to choose. If others were asked; depending on who you talk to about my attic this could be their response. It’s the depository of mountains of useless information, it’s his escape from reality, or a daydreamers paradise. Just like the ingredients on a box of cereal the main content is listed first.
Fortunately it’s an older model that doesn’t display the warning “Fatal Error has Occurred” when I can’t retrieve needed information. I’ve programmed it to say “Senior Moment”. All in all my attic is a high quality unit that only needs a little help now and then. Maybe I’ll have learn to write mental Post It Notes, I sure wish I had 256k of burst cashe to impress people with recall. I better note that right now.
.
In the oldest corridors of my mind, beyond the unseen layers of the dust and cobwebs of years gone bye, are my wrappings of white linen that hold the dreams of my youth; my dreams before marriage and children and the never ending sharing of myself that detoured me from other possibilities.
As I unravel the linen I feel uneasy, as if I'll uncover needless failures, unkempt self promises, a fetus of hurts.
The howling wind is casting snow, like pellets, against my window. The sound enhances the drama of the moment. What did I wrap in this shroud of linen? Why linen and why white? Only the child in me remembers. Perhaps, white linen represented the then of my virginity? Or that dreams are cloud-like? No matter, here I go...
My way through the wrappings feels warm and inviting. Under each fold I see a sweet dream. In my teens, I'm an actress and everybody adores me. As I turn the folds of my young thoughts I seem to get more ambitious. I'm a singer, then I own a horse ranch, and, oh my...I'm a nun. Within the last fold is the dearest of all. I'm a little girl sitting on my daddy's lap and he loves me.
I feel the little girl in me weeping as I slowly re-wrap my daddy dream. During this life of mine, if I chose, I could have been an actress, or singer. I could have owned a horse ranch, or even been a nun. The choices were mine. However, having a loving daddy was beyond my control. ...and he didn't want me.
My heart is heavy as I return a small linen fold to the corridors of my mind. I remember Mom's words of wisdom, "What is in the dark, eventually comes into the light."
The child in me awakens. "Perhaps we'll meet in heaven, Dad. You can't run away from me there, teehee.
"Oh, Granny, can I really play up there all summer?"
Susan ran and jumped right up into Granny Jane's lap to give her a big hug and a kiss. "Yes, honey chile, you sure can. I cleaned it up and put some of your mother's toys up there just for you!"
Susan's mother, Susanna, had died in an automobile accident five years ago. Susan had spent a few weeks with her 'Granny' each summer, until now. This year Daddy thought she was old enough to stay for the whole summer!
After her dad left, she and Granny sat down to talk. They had so much to catch up on. Granny always had tea in the afternoon, with cookies and fancy little cakes. After tea, Granny said, "Let's go up and put your things away, than we can go on up to the attic to play." Granny brought along her knitting and they visited while Susan played.
Susan spent seven summers with her Granny as she gently grew into womanhood. While she no longer played in the attic, usually Susan went up to the attic just for a short visit before leaving at the end of the summer. It was such a special place for her. She felt the presence of her mother there because of her mother's clothes , toys and old letters that she had written to Granny when she was in college. Susan had read some of the letters when she was ten, but they did not hold much interest for her then. The summer she was 16, she decided to get them out again and read some of then . Maybe now that she was older she might understand them better. Settling herself in Granny's old rocking chair, she opened one.
"Oh Mums, I hate it here, it's just no fun at all, with me being so fat and sticking way out front with the baby. I will not even go into town with the other girls now. Everyone knows why we are here, that we are all unwed mothers. The nurse told me that it would only be a couple of weeks before it is born. I'm glad I signed the adoption papers. I'm far too young to have a baby without a husband."
Susan could not believe what she was reading. She nervously opened another letter. This one told Granny that she had delivered a boy. Susan did some quick math in her head.
There was no way Susan could solve the mystery by herself. Stuffing those letters in her pocket, she went down to ask her granny about the letters in the attic.
What a nice party. Neighbors and friends dancing, laughing, pockets of people, faces unflawed in the shadows, bits of laughter spiriting above the crowded chatter.
It’s a wine night, not the usual beer bloat, bladder begging, 20 unmanned trips to the sandbox night…or the whisky, can't get my head off the pillow next morning, night, but a warm, rosy, sweet romantic, wine night.
Aaaah, I love the music. Oooooo, feel the beat. This body of mine is made for love. Hummmm, nice thighs, hips, curves, bosoms. Bend over…shake `em in his face. She’s jealous. Shake `em in her face. My hair flows softly over his face. She's ignoring me. And this little boob move is for you honey! Animal instincts flow through my veins. Rose-la-Rose comes to mind and my suit jacket drops softly to the floor. Bump and grind. I need props. A chair like Liza Minnelli used in Cabaret. Slippery little devil. A little hump here…bump there. I’m back in the saddle again. Slow and easy. Ride back and forth. Feels good. Slip my leg over….WHOOPS!
"No, I don’t need any help. Your grandma can get up by herself."
I'm considering applying for a federal grant to study "What turns me on". I'm sure furnishing proof that I've actually had those thoughts would be the first step of documentation for a grant.The grantors might think my preliminary thoughts were very basic. As a teen not old enough to drive, I encountered unique problems. Where, when and how to buy condoms were high on the problem list but not beyond my ability to overcome. During those couple of years before reaching driving age, my criteria were very basic. They amounted to finding a girl that was willing. That alone was a turn on.
Once the obstacle of no drivers license and no car was overcome, my situation improved. Well from my perspective it did; however, considering the lack of romance, it didn't. The giant leap from "willing" to is she "still breathing" isn't much of an advancement in discovering turn ons.
Now that I've successfully navigated the years from my early twenties to my present 60-something I find unique problems could spring up again. The very enjoyable act of foreplay might take a little longer because of forgetting what I was doing and why. Thankfully that hasn't happened yet but just knowing it is possible isn't a fun thought. A bright spot in that would be to find out when I realized what I was doing I'd be turned on. Putting that down on my grant application might help though. Possibly as a grant extension to see what happens.
The body of information in the grant application would have to explain how over the years my turn ons have changed. Change includes noticing the use of the little spandex animal skin to tightly clothe females. Silicone looks good when placed right and in proportion. Short shorts and the mini skirt still get my attention. All are visual stimulation but they are not what turns me on now.
Age has brought with it an appreciation of what a woman enjoys to culminate in any physical interaction. Humor, spontaneity, patience, listening. Romance too has developed along lines that make sense to me now. Or at least appreciating that romantic opportunities come in all kinds of ways. Ice cream can go from plain vanilla to something special when shared while walking along laughing at something silly that was said. A rose is a flower but can take on a whole new meaning when put alongside a plate of food. A candle might be a smoky nuisance unless it is the only light in the bedroom. Shaving while your partner is showering changes when you sneak in and offer to wash her back. Little things do mean a lot. To conclude my application for a grant to study what turns me on. I'd have to complete it with stating that at this stage of my life, what turns me on is the glow of satisfaction my partner has when her unspoken needs are realized.
We entered the main door and just as we stepped into the building the voices of a choir which was ascending the stairs floated up to us. Val and I stood quietly until they passed us by, walking in a stately manner with the clergy to the sanctuary part of Westminster. Val told me this was a service for St. Stephen's Day.
A wondrous, extradionary feeling enveloped me when I heard that choir.It was pure joy filling my being completely. Val and I followed the choir and clergy into the sanctuary. Now the choir seemed to be filling the cathedral with surround sound of the most beautiful kind. My feet would not,could not, move, I was trapped into immobility by the feeling of pure joy, warmth and the overwhelming wondrous feeling of NEVER wanting to leave this spot.
Val's voice called me to come along as we were on a schedule and there was a lot to see in that church. I heard what she was saying, but there was a great almost physical pull so strong to just join the service and stay in the sanctuary that it took real effort to go with her.
I joined my cousin and we toured the different alcoves of the church where famous people were entombed. All the time I could hear the soothing and comforting intoning of the clergy as they conducted the service, and my attention was there, not on the things my cousin was trying to show me.
She said we had to leave in order to make a meeting with her schoolmates. I tried to persuade her to stay just a little longer, but she said we had to go right then.
We left the church and as we stepped back out the door the ebbing feeling of joy just evaporated. I felt so empty and a little sad for many hours afterward. I tried to share the happening with Val, but she couldn't begin to grasp what I was saying and that made me feel even sadder and alone.
Many years later I decided that experience must have been a moment's recognition of a past life. The entire incident most likely occurred in a few seconds. That was fifty plus years ago and I have never felt such joy, warmth and rapture again. That was my personal experience with finding the and then losing my "lost chord."
They sat on her patio listening to the radio. "Man, that music turns me on," said Steve. The statement confused Jodie. "What does that mean?" "You know, makes me hot, gets me excited," replied her friend.
She never seemed to understand what Steve was saying anymore. She blamed it on Randy, his older brother. Steve had told her she’d better learn the lingo before she went into ninth grade or she would be a dork. Whatever that meant did not matter to her. Jodie was proud that she spoke proper English. Her parents had always discouraged slang terms in their conversations. Her mother often reminded her, `A young lady must always converse appropriately.'
However, a nagging thought did cross her mind. She had a mature mind but when would her body catch up. Many of her friends had started to change physically this past year. Jodie was still plump around her middle and only hints of bosoms were visible.
"When do you split this berg?" asked Steve. "Tomorrow, if you are asking when do I leave for my vacation." she retorted. Steve rolled his eyes upward and stood up. "Later alligator," he uttered. Jodie scowled at him as he walked away.
Yes, tomorrow she would be leaving for two months to visit her aunt and cousins. She was looking forward to staying with them at their farm. The pace was always busy and she enjoyed this active lively family.
Her parents drove her to the farm the next day. They left shortly afterwards. Her mother was never comfortable around animals. She could never understand why her sister would choose this life. Jodie felt a little shy at first but Aunt Becky put Jodie to work immediately, gathering eggs.
Every day was a new adventure for her. She liked doing chores and sharing in the day’s activities. Despite the hard work, she found it enjoyable because the family always found ways to have fun. It was a relaxed and comfortable home. She enjoyed the repartee of her two cousins, Paul and Dave. They teased her because she was "too proper." However, she soon learned to join in the banter and looked forward to their exchange of wits.
All too soon her vacation was over and it was time to return home.
When her parents picked her up they were surprised to see how she had blossomed. She was taller and thinner. The sun had tanned her body and had attractively streaked her blond hair. They kept telling her on the way home how well and healthy she looked. A "regal beauty" was her mother’s comment. Jodie was a little uncomfortable with the compliments but she did enjoy the attention. Later that evening standing in front of her full length mirror in her bedroom, she took inventory of her new image. She finally had a waist and breasts and her hips were rounding out. She liked what she saw.
The next day she was reading on the patio when she heard footsteps. Looking up, she saw Steve staring at her. His jaw was slack. "Wow," he muttered. With a sly grin she asked, "Do I turn you on, dork ?"
(center)WHO TURNED ME ON?
The men in my life have been important. They have given me hope and have encouraged me to live my life exactly as I see myself.
It turns me on that each of these men is/was his own man. Each cherished the differences in the sexes. None ever demeaned me, none ever expected me to change. Each accepted my foibles and my accomplishments.
My Dad loved me. That is an understatement. Even when he didn’t verbalize it, the expression on his face spoke volumes to me about love and its power. He expected me to do my best, always. I strove to do just that. When he became so very ill during the last six years of his life, I was given super-human strength so that I could be there for him and my mother. I look back on all that and wonder just how I did it—then I remember his words, "You can do it, Judi!" That turns me on!!
John Look was in my freshman class at college. He was taller than I, had dark, wavy hair, puppy-dog eyes, and beautiful teeth. He was the guy all my sorority sisters were after. I got him, on a slow dance at that. We broke up at the end of the freshman year and he went in the service. Now he’s a Baptist minister.
I met John Merriam at a dance at the nearby Navy base. A friend introduced us. Good move!! We did all the early 60’s movies, made out at the drive-in, and attended every dance possible. He bought an old white Studebaker which had its doors held on with rope. But it ran as long as we kept putting oil in it. One day in the spring, we were walking on the beach—he reached in his peacoat and brought out a ring—we became engaged. I knew all the girls were jealous and I loved it! We were engaged a year and a half—then went our separate ways.
Clyde Simon and I met at a friend’s house when I was working in Boothbay Harbor. I had just finished teaching for three years and was working in the private sector. Clyde was from Antigua, black as ink and was captain of a private yacht. He had sailed its owners to Boothbay for the summer. His boss and wife hated me and I hated them but came to love Clyde. I learned to drink 150 proof rum without a mixer. That was quite a lesson. There is a trick to it, by the way. That was one spectacular summer.
Bruce Hilton showed up at my classroom door in November of ’69. He asked if I remembered him, which of course I didn’t. He had just returned from Vietnam where he served aboard the USS O’Hare. Seems he had been in my typing class the day Kennedy was shot. No, I didn’t remember him as a student. He insists he was the quiet one in the class—could be. To make a long story short, he invited me out for a lobster dinner. The rest is history. We were married in April of ’70. It may be hard for you to believe this, but he still turns me on even after 32 years. I love him dearly.
Son, Christopher, entered this world in May of ’72. Baby blue eyes and blond hair won me over. All the diapers in the world, all the earaches on the planet, all the runny noses, and he still turned me on. His smile is infectious, his humor a little warped, his love unconditional. I like that!
So now you know what really turns me on. I feel really lucky to have known these guys. They are the best of the best.
"Have you ever been in an airplane?" my friend Gene asked.
"No," I replied.
"Would you like to go for a short ride in one?"
I knew that Gene had been taking lessons, and I had heard them talking about how safe it was, so I agreed to it. I wrote a note for my in -laws telling them where I would be and for them not to worry, that we'd be back in a couple of hours.
I was 17 years old and six months pregnant. I worried about the effects on both the baby and me. What if I got sick? But Gene assured me everything would be fine. So we drove to the airport, and he helped me get into the little plane.
"Where am I going to sit?" I asked. There is only one seat."
Gene explained that I would sit in front of him between his legs. To my surprise, there was lots of room once we both got into position. "The tricky part," he said, "is getting this belt around your tummy so that it is not near the baby. You will be safe and you will not move at all."
He started the engine and started what he called his pre-flight check. It took fifteen minutes to finish the checklist. He then revved the engine until it was so loud that I covered my ears. I felt us moving. He yelled, "Open your eyes and look at the front of the plane!"
Things were going by very fast and I felt a funny feeling in my tummy. Soon, however, the feeling went away and wow! we were in the air and climbing very fast. I yelled out , "Can I look out the side window?"
"Of course you can, just turn your head," he yelled back.
That was a big mistake! I got scared. We were very high up in the sky and flying over a dam. I grabbed the two handles and held on for dear life! I felt like I was trapped in this small space and at the mercy of my friend. I started shaking all over.
"How much longer before we go down again? I want out of here. I do not like this at all!"
"Fifteen more minutes," he said. "Will you be alright till then?"
What could I say but, yes? I had agreed to let him take me for a ride and now I was being a big baby. I felt dizzy and still shaking. He could tell that I was uncomfortable. I felt him put something behind my head and than gently pulled my head back. "Close your eyes and breathe very deeply," he said. "Try to relax." How could I relax when I was scared out of my skin! But I shut my eyes and started to breathe a little slower. After about five minutes I could feel myself relax just a little.
"How much longer, Gene," I yelled. "Only about six more minutes, Shirley." I thought to myself, Never ,never again would I ever fly in an airplane!
Before I knew it he put the nose down for the landing, and I felt that
dropping tummy sensation again! I tensed up again, thinking I sure hope he knows how to land this thing without hitting the ground! To my surprise, we landed without even one bounce.
When I got home, I took a nap. I was exhausted from my experience. However, I had an awful nightmare about the plane ride! I was shaking all over and sweating too. Again, I felt trapped. But I was proud of myself, too. The baby and I had made it! However, I didn't fly again until I was 40.
Many times I’ve heard friends refer to unusual or unexpected happenings as "a God thing." In fact, I’ve even used that term more than once in my life. I’m not a particularly "religious" person and my friends would be the first to say I’m not pious, but I do believe in God things. Even my ex-husband, who had no use for God or organized religion, occasionally said something was a "God thing."
Certainly the birth of daughter Sara was a God thing. My first husband of 17 years was dying of kidney failure, and I had been told there was no chance either for a pregnancy or his recovery. Yet it happened. I believe God sent Sara to fill a void in my life.
The writers’ retreat was another God thing. Why else would six women come from all parts of the country to a place they’d never visited to stay with a woman they’d never met? Within minutes of our first meeting, we all bonded as if we’d been friends forever. Not only that, but one of the writers even suggested that she and I celebrate the new year together in San Antonio, a place I’d always wanted to visit but never was given the opportunity. At the time, I didn’t see that as a God thing, but at Thanksgiving I realized how important our meeting over New Year’s would be to me.
Thanksgiving was traumatic, because it was the first holiday in my 66 years that I had been completely alone. I didn’t handle the day very well. All the events of the ugly divorce in January came flooding back to haunt me all day. After 23 years of marriage, I had been discarded as if the whole time had meant nothing. I became almost suicidal, and that black mood lasted through the weekend – until the next God thing happened.
The following Monday I was waiting for my "workout buddy" to finish her cardiac therapy, so I picked up a magazine from the table in the lounge. Of its own accord, the magazine fell open to an article titled "When Should We Forgive?" Something inside me urged, "Don’t turn the page. Read it."
The gist of the article was that forgiving someone else is really a gift to yourself, not to the person you are forgiving. It said, "There is a unique freedom experienced by the person who decides to forgive, whether the other party even realizes any need to seek forgiveness (and I added to myself, or even cares if I do forgive.) A long-term refusal to forgive is a decision to put your life ‘on hold.’ Forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting; it cannot change the past but it can wipe out some of the anger or the bitterness and make the party who forgives free to live his own life. Forgiveness means wanting for the offending party what God wants for that person: to live honestly as someone made in God’s image, reflecting that in his or her choices."
I borrowed the magazine, took it home, re-read it many times. At first, I thought that the idea of giving yourself the gift of forgiveness was a selfish way to look at it. However, the more I read, the more I understood. And I knew exactly what I had to do to get over the anger and bitterness that held me back. I sat down and wrote letters to my ex-husband and my ex-best friend, who was now his lover. I told them I would never forget their betrayal, the ugly words flung at me, the shock of learning what had been going on behind my back for eight months before the divorce – but I was finally at the point where I needed to forgive them both so that I could get on with my life.
And so I am getting on with my life. I will have to admit it’s not easy. I’m only human. But now, whenever those pictures of the past start replaying in my head, I just stop and say to myself, Remember, Nancy, you forgave them. Now stop it! Get on with your life. And, for the first time in almost a year, I am experiencing a kind of peace. I no longer think in terms of being "divorced"; that’s such a negative concept. I am a single woman and my life is just beginning! And, most importantly, I believe in God things.
I was about eight years old when my sister Ann and I came home from school one cold December day to find our Uncle Bob sitting on our front porch steps.
"Hi Uncle Bob," we said almost in unison and started to go into the house.
"Don't go in yet," Uncle Bob said. "Your mom's not home. I've come to take you girls home with me." "Where is Mom," Ann, who is much more inquisitive than I, asked.
"Your Dad has been hurt in a mining accident and your Mom is at the hospital with him. You two girls are going to stay with your Aunt Gloria and me for a few days. Tom and Susie have gone home with your Aunt Betty," he explained.
Ann and I were both full of questions as we walked with Uncle Bob to his house which was in the same coal camp just a few houses away.
"How did Daddy get hurt.....how long will he be in the hospital.....when can we see him?" were some of the questions we asked.
Uncle Bob patiently tried to answer all of our questions.
"We are not sure how bad he is hurt or how long he will be in the hospital. Don't worry girls, your aunt and I will take good care of you," he assured us.
"We want to see our daddy, Please take us to see him," we begged.
"Now girls, you know that children are not allowed in the hospital," he admonished us.
We knew this to be true because last year when Grandma fell and broke her leg, we were not allowed to visit her in the hospital.
Ann and I both loved Aunt Gloria and Uncle Bob but we did not like to stay overnight with them. They had a small house and their three children had to share the same tiny bedroom. Whenever we spent the night with them we had to sleep on a pallet in the same tiny bedroom as our three cousins.( A pallet is quilts or blankets spread on the floor for a bed. A very uncomfortable way to sleep.)
Mom came in later that evening as Ann and I was helping with the supper dishes. "How is Dad....can we go home now," we asked ?
Mom gathered us both in her arms and tried to comfort us. "Your Dad is hurt pretty bad," she said. "He will have to stay in the hospital until he is better. I have brought you some clothes from home. You will have to stay here with Uncle Bob and Aunt Gloria for a few days. You be good and don't give them any trouble. I am going back to stay with your dad." With that said she went into the living room to talk with Uncle Bob.
Ann and I strained to hear what was being said but we only caught a few phrases. "Very serious......pray he will be all right......the next few days are critical."
Ann and I looked at each other and begin to cry. We knew that Dad must be seriously hurt because of the sad looks on the faces of the grownups.
Mom came in and shushed us."Be quiet and go to bed." she told us. After kissing us goodnight she left for the hospital.
The next few days were solemn. Everyone wore a sad face. We seldom saw our Mom as she spent most of her time at the hospital. When we asked about Dad we were told,"he is hanging on."
One day Uncle Bob said," Jo, you and Ann come with me. We are going to see your Dad."
We were very surprised because we had never been allowed to visit the hospital before but we were thrilled at the prospect of seeing Dad.
Everything at the hospital was hushed and quiet. Mom and some of our relatives along with our brother Tom and our little sister Susie were out in the hallway.
Mom's face was red and swollen. We knew that she had been crying.
The relatives were whispering among them selves, " he has asked to see the children.......he's not expected to last through the night.......double pneumonia."
Tom and Susie were taken into Dad's room first. They only stayed a minute then it was Ann's and my turn to go in.
Dad was lying in bed with a lot of tubes and wires and stuff hooked up to him.
"Hi Dad," we greeted him. He just looked at us with his big dark eyes and didn't say a word. He was making a funny raspy sound as he tried to breathe.
"You had better go," the nurse told us as she ushered us out of the room.
Later that night at Uncle Bob's house, Ann said to me," Jo, Dad is really sick. I think we should pray for him."
We were not in the habit of saying our prayers but that night we prayed that our Dad would get well and come home.
The next day Mom came in smiling, "Girls, your dad is going to be all right," she said as she hugged us. Then she explained to Aunt Gloria, "The crisis has passed. His fever broke about 2:AM. He is breathing much better....he is going to be all right."
A few days later, actually Christmas Eve, Uncle Bob said," Jo you and Ann get your things together, you're going home."
He didn't have to tell us twice. We gathered our few belongings and headed home with Uncle Bob leading the way. How wonderful to be home again. Dad was on the sofa with Mom hovering around him. Tom and Susie was there also. Our family was once again intact.
The next day was Christmas. There were no presents, for Mom and Dad had no money. In those days, if you didn't work, no matter what the reason, you didn't get paid and Dad hadn't worked in three weeks.
Some of the miners generously made up a Christmas basket for us. There was a ham with all the fixings for Christmas dinner and even some candy and nuts for us kids.
We did not have much in the way of material things that Christmas but we were together as a family and our Dad was home! It was a happy and joyous occasion. A Christmas to remember.
I have always had strabismus. The artist that painted my eyes placed them on my face so I am looking at my nose. It was probably a mistake. Nevertheless, they shipped me out and sold me that way. The jolly lady who bought me 40 years ago named me the Cross-eyed Santa.
Each year I decorated her tree, always placed in a special spot, hidden away in the back of the tree. Oh, she was not ashamed of me, not in the least. It was her idea of fun. Patiently I would wait for her grandsons to arrive for the Christmas holiday. The two youngest boys were the ones who liked to play the seeking game. Eagerly they would rush to the tree and they would search for me. Sometimes they had to stoop low or walk around the tree to find me, because each year I was tucked away in a different spot. When they finally discovered me, they would shout, "I see him, we found the cross-eyed Santa."
I knew that the jolly grandmother was not well that Christmas in 1988. After the holiday the grandfather wrapped me in tissue and put me safely in my particular box and stored me in the attic. Years passed and he did not celebrate Christmas with the usual tree and decorations. He missed her and did not want to celebrate that way. I missed her too, and the happy faces of the young boys as they played the traditional event.
Happily this year it will be different. The daughter of the cheerful lady discovered me in my resting place. Unwrapping my tissue, she was delighted to see I haven’t suffered too much. Age has crumbled the tassel on my hat. However, my colors are bright and I’m still smiling and staring at my nose. She tenderly held me in her hands and said, "Hello Dear Santa, I thought you were lost, I am so happy to see you again."
Then she carefully wrapped me in a special material, I think she called it bubble wrap, and mailed me to Virginia to stay with the youngest boy. She told me he is all grown up and has a house of his own. I am looking forward sharing a Merry Christmas with him and his family. See you on the tree!
The summer of 1983, my husband, my 13-year-old son and I had moved to the high desert in California. A second marriage for me, Jim and I hadn’t married till age 40 and thought we would never be able to afford a house of our own, BUT…
We moved as far away from the Los Angeles basin as we could and still be within commuting distance to Jim’s job at Lockheed Aircraft in Burbank. We bought a house from a man Jim knew through work who owned lots of rental houses that he was selling off little by little. We bought the house with $500 dollars down, which was the good part. It was falling apart, which was the bad part. I left college, my job and all my friends that summer and was I lonely when Mike was at school and Jim had gone to work.
There was a church right across the street from our house where I began attending and meeting women. By Christmas I was teaching a Women’s Bible study in our home. It is just now, looking back at that time that I realize what a special Christmas that was.
During our final study before Christmas, I asked each of the women to write something for which they praised God. I had made white paper tags, punched a hole through the corner of each one, and threaded bright red yard through. At the end of the class, we each tied our praise on the tree, making a bow with the yarn.
The front room was textured and painted. There was a fire in our fireplace. Our tree, tall and elegantly decorated, was covered in praises to God. One of the women, Suki, was from Korea and her praise was written in fine script in Korean. There was such an intimacy that day.
Suki hung on my every word during those classes. I thought, "Boy, I must really be suited to teaching the Bible!" At the end of the study, Suki came up to me, all smiles and said, "I no unnerstan what you saying but I likeen you bery much!"
I came across a box of old decorations last week when my husband and I were getting ready to decorate our Christmas tree. It has been several years since we have had a tree and we have again moved. I am new in the area and just trying to make friends. Jim and I and our dog are in Washington State, far away from family and friends. There at the bottom of one of the boxes, the ink faded and the papers bedraggled, were the praises from that long ago Christmas. Warm memories came in like a flood, and the assurance that God would again provide warmed my heart.
Although it was over 35 years ago I can still remember the events of the
day like they are happening now. It's 5:00 a/m my wife and I are getting
all the last minute packing done for our trip to my new base assignment in
Lakehurst N.J. I was in the Navy and this was my first change of duty
station since getting married. The Navy used the military air transport
service of the Air Force to fly service men and their families to the states
from Puerto Rico. This was
going to be my son's first airplane ride.
My son was four months old at the time and a little
large for his age. He weighed 10 lbs.12 ounces at
birth. Without adding wine to his formula, he slept all
night. He was not happy about getting ready to travel.
However with a good oatmeal breakfast he was back to
his happy little self. The only problem we anticipated
was diaper changes. Frequency of change was going to
determine both his and our degree of comfort. Parents
now might not relate because the diapers we had were
the cotton ones that looked like miniature sheets.
Learning how to pin those suckers without stabbing a
baby in the hips takes a certain skill. I was very
skilled at stabbing my thumbs, leaving his hips intact.
By helping with diaper changes, I found out my son had
a unique ability. He could transform sweet smelling
milk into traffic stopping smells. On the plus side,
strained carrots and green veggies were colorful, semi
odorless, and compacted nicely in the transition from
jar to diaper. Knowing this we decided to feed him
veggies and some Karo water to keep him well hydrated
and content while traveling.
I'm sure everyone has heard the term hurry up and
wait. This term applies to the Navy and Air Force just
as it does for the Army. We made it to the base with
time to spare to get our bus transportation to Ramey
Air Force base. The bus trip was to leave at 7 a.m and
would take about two hours. The plane was scheduled to
depart at 10 a.m. We arrived at Ramey on time and were
dropped off at the terminal. The plane, a four engine
(not jet engines), was sitting there in all its
gleaming glory waiting for passengers. About 1/2 hour
before boarding, a preflight check was in progress. One
engine failed the run up test. A plane change was
ordered so hurry up and wait was now in full swing.
At 1 p.m we were told to be ready to go in about 45
minutes. A loud cheer went up. A smaller plane was
going to be used. The cargo, baggage and passenger
weight had to be re calculated because in those days
that is how planes were configured for flight. By now
our son had done his thing, slept and was ready to be
entertained. I took the diapers to the men's room,
washed them as best I could and put them in the travel
bag. About 10 minutes before boarding time, play time
had changed to the, I'm hungry sound that only parents
know. Veggies while the ideal choice, but were not his
favorite, so we chose junior food apricots. He sucked
that down like a vacuum cleaner, which was good because
we didn't have a lot of time.
We were airborne about 2 hours when the travels of
the day began working on my son's system. The cotton
diapers were not doing a very good job of muting the
smell of baby digested apricots. My wife peeled back
the edge of his plastic pants and peeked in at one of
the corners. The smell and sight overwhelmed her. The
elastic on the pants snapped back very quickly. That's
when I found out that being more familiar with airplanes was a disadvantage.
No please, no will you, just here's a diaper; change him. I took my son to
the back of the plane to the flight attendant's jump seat to change him. My
job was not easy; the apricots looked like an abstract oil painting smeared
all over the diaper. Even more amazing is how well a lot of the mess clung
to his smooth baby butt. His ability to convert traffic-stopping milk paled
in comparison to the smell generated by the apricots. The smell drove
the last six rows of passengers out of their seats and
up the aisle.
Remember the part about weight and balance in configuring the plane for
flight. The pilot panicked at the swift change in the plane's balance. It
seems flying nose down is not a happy way to fly a plane. The co-pilot came
back to see what happened. Typical of an officer he demanded I do something.
The only solution was to put the diaper and paper towels I used for the
clean up in some barf bags and then in one of the two bathrooms. I suspect
the passengers had jettison me and my son in mind but didn't say that out
loud. With the situation solved, the rest of the flight was curiously
quiet.
That day long ago was my first real learning experience that parenting has
unique challenges.
"The President has been shot," he shouted, somewhat breathless. "President Kennedy has been shot in Dallas. I just heard it on the radio."
We looked at him in disbelief. Slowly, the remaining journalism students began to filter back into the classroom. They were zombies. A few had tears in their eyes; others were crying openly; most were just stunned.
Gradually the news began to spread through the halls. Within 10 minutes, every one of the 3,000 students and 125 faculty members and staff had heard the awful news. The classrooms emptied. Students and teachers wandered the halls aimlessly. There was no place to hide.
When my students seemed reluctant to leave the classroom, I asked if anyone would like to talk. Because these students and I worked so closely together, often far into the night "putting the paper to bed," I felt they probably needed some gentle guidance.
Steve came up to the front of the room, pushed away the clutter on one corner of my desk, and sat on it. "As journalists," he began, "how would we be handling this story?"
That opened a floodgate of conversation, opinions, sober assessment of the situation. They were beginning to absorb the horror of the day's events, and they were THINKING. Just then, the loudspeaker came on in the room, cutting short the dialogue.
"The President is dead." With that brief statement, November 22, 1963 became a moment frozen in time.
I was so scared, Ruthie was alright as long as she was near me. Where did
they take my baby brother Buddy? I did cry about him. Ruthie and I did
love to play with him. He was prettier and a lot more fun than our rag
dolls. We loved to take care of him too! We did cry for Mommy too , but we
always cried for her. She wasn't home very much. Daddy was away in the
Army and we did not get to see him very
often either.
Mommy was home in the day time ,but she was asleep and we had to be quiet.
She got up in the afternoon and fixed food for us to eat. Than she would
get dressed up and go out for the night. She would come back once or twice
every night with a new uncle for us to meet. She put us to bed and they
would go into her bedroom for a long time. She
was always asleep in her bed every morning by herself though.
This went on for a long time until one night she did not come home. I had
to go outside to get the milk for the baby's bottle, when the wind blew the
door shut. I went to our neighbors house and asked them to help me get back
in my house. It did not take them long and they came in with
me. The lady said," OH,my God, I don't believe this!"
She ran to find the other children, my sister and my baby brother. She
swooped us all up and took us to her house. She gave us all a bath and warm
clothes to wear, a bottle for the baby and some food for us. She put him
down for a nap and gave my sister something to play with. Than she took me
into her kitchen where her husband was. They wanted to visit with me for a
while. She gave me a glass of milk and some cookies too. I liked her,
because she was nice to all of us. Best of all, she gave us hugs!
They asked if I knew where my Mommy was? I said no , but she would be back
when it got dark outside. They asked if she went out every night and I said
yes. Than they said I was a very good girl to take care of my sister and
brother. Would I like to go play with my sister now? I said,
"Yes, if I can. " " You sure can and we have a big box of toys to play
with too!" They both gave me a big hug then.
I heard them talking in the kitchen ,but felt safe so I just had fun playing
with the toys.
Soon a lady dressed in black and a policeman came to their house. They
talked for a while, then went next door to look at our house. They both
came back holding their noses and talking very fast to my neighbors.
They said,"That place smells worse than a pig sty. It's about the filthiest
house that I think I have ever seen!"
They told us that we were going to go to the nice lady's house to stay
just for tonight. I cried, and that made my sister cry too. " I want my
MOMMY," I said. They hugged us
and told us that they would come to see us tomorrow after they found my
mommy. I felt better about that and said that we would go with the lady and
the policeman.
The lady took us to her home and it was so nice. There were all kinds of
toys and clothes for us and even a bed for us girls, with clean white sheets
and soft blankets that smelled nice. At our house we slept on dirty
matterss's that smelled bad. She put our baby into a crib in the same room
with us so we would be all together. Then she read us a bedtime story and
we all went to sleep. It was nice here and I felt safe but, was worried that
Mommy would be
mad at me for getting locked outside the house. She told me that I was the
big sister and I had to take care of my sister and brother.
In the morning we all got to take bubble baths. That sure was fun. We played
in the tub for a long time. The lady gave us pretty dresses to wear and
black shiny shoes too! She combed our hair and curled it nice for us. We
even got to wear ribbons in our hair that matched our dresses.
Next she made breakfast for us, yummy oatmeal and toast. The lady washed
the dishes and let me dry them for her. After that she took us into her
living room and said, "I need to talk to you for a while before you can play
with the toys, alright?" We talked for a long time about Mommy and then
some about Daddy too. Then we were allowed to play with
all the fun new toys for a long time while she was on the telephone
talking.
Our neighbors came to visit with us in the afternoon. I asked them they
found my Mommy. They said , "Not yet Shirley, but we will very soon."
They talked a long time again with the lady. I heard that Daddy was in the
army and could be found soon and brought back home right away too. That
made me happy because when Daddy was home , Mommy was too! Soon they left
to go downtown to the police station to find Mommy, they told us. I ran to
my neighbors and gave them a big hug and said, "Please find Mommy for us;we
miss her." They said, "We are sure going to try to honey. We know that you
miss your Mommy."
The Lady had a lot of telephone calls that afternoon. In one of them I
heard part of, she said, " Their Grandmother, why yes she can come to see
them. Bring her right away!" We were told that our Grandmother was going to
come see us, and we were so happy! Our Grandmother loved us the best. We
always loved going to her house, because it smelled so nice. She made the
best cookies too. She had little tiny presents wrapped up in paper with bows
on them for us! She did not make us wait to open them either.
When we laughed ,she did too, and always sang songs for us .
She came in a little while in her hard white dress and cap with her nurse's
black bag. The policeman from last night brought her. We jumped up into her
big lap with lots of hugs and kisses for her. She opened her nurse bag and
brought out two tiny packages. She gave us both one. Her eyes
were smiling ,but in a sad way; this time there were tears too. She told us
that she could not take us home with her because she had too many sick
people to look after. She said she had talked with our daddy and he was
going to come home in a few days to be with us. We both jumped up and down
and clapped our hands. It had been a long time since we had seen him! She
asked us if we liked the nice lady and we both said yes, but we wanted our
Mommy to come get us. " Well, Shirley and Ruthie, no one
can find her right now so you will have to stay here until your daddy gets
home. Promise me that you will be good for the nice lady, alright?" We both
said "We will, Grandma, but will you come back to see us again?" "I will
be back tomorrow with more tiny presents!" With that we
squealed with joy, jumped back into Grandma's lap again with lots of hugs
and even more kisses.
Being only four years old I cannot remember the names of the neighbors nor
the nice lady. I just knew instinctively that they were good to me, my
sister and baby brother.
My daddy was granted an emergency leave and came come in three days. We
stayed at the nice lady's house until he got there. Bless her, my
grandmother came every day to see us. She even got permisson to take us
to her church for the Christmas program. We got to see Santa and the play
that the children put on. We enjoyed the beautiful Christmas music from the
choir. Santa gave each of us a stocking with candy, toys and a huge orange,
which were hard to come by during the WWII days. She took us
back to the lady's house and stayed while we dumped the contents out of our
Santa stockings. We had lots of fun and played with the new toys from Santa.
Grandma went home, but told us that Daddy would be home and bring her
over with him tomorrow.
When Daddy came the next morning we were so happy to see him. We climbed up
in his lap and refused to get down. The policeman came too with news about
our mother. She was in jail! She was hard to find because she had given the
arresting officers a false name. They found her with a picture that was
found in our house. She was arrested for prostitution!
Daddy and Grandma talked with the nice lady about what to do with us until
he could get out of the army. She suggested that he place us in the local
orphanage until he could get back home permanently. She advised him to see
an attorney to file for a divorce from my mother as soon as
possible! She assured him that she would be in charge of our welfare until
his return and would make sure that we were well cared for. The baby would
have to go to a foster home because the orphanage usually did
not care for small infants. She also said that she would see to it that me
and my sister and I would have beds next to each other, since Ruthie needed
to be with me at all times for security and stability.
The next day Daddy came back to see us and talk with the nice lady. He told
her that he had more than one year left to serve in the army, but could get
leave time again in three months. He had been to see an attorney and had
already filed for a divorce. He asked if he could call and talk with us,
maybe once a week and she said she didn't see why not. "They need to know
that you love them and will be coming back to see them often!"
We were taken to the orphanage the next day after Daddy came to tell us
goodbye for a little while. On the way there we went to the foster home
where my brother was to stay. Daddy said he would like it and that they
would bring him to see us when they could. He went to the orphanage with
us to make sure that we would be all right there, too. He gave the nice
lady a whole lot of Christmas presents to keep for us, because he knew he
would not get back to give them to us himself. He did tell us that we would
not be going back to live with Mommy again, but that she might come to see
us sometime.>P>
The orphanage was very hard to get used to. We first went to see a doctor,
and than the nurse cut most of our hair off. We had lice and they put
smelly stuff on our heads for a while. We got shots and were given clothes
to wear every day. Than we were shown around the place. It was
so big I just knew that I would get lost. There were the great big bedrooms
with a lot of beds in them. We were shown where all the bathrooms the
dining hall, the play gym were. Wow, there sure were a lot of strange new
toys there. The nice lady told us that if we got lost we only had to ask
someone and they would help us find where we wanted to
go. I asked the nice lady what the other children's names were and she said
we would learn who they were in due time and hugged us both. She also told
us that she would come every day to see us for a while until we got used to
the rules and the way they did things here.
Every day we learned more and finally after a while we started to feel at
home there. There was a time for every thing that we had to do all through
the day until bedtime. We went for walks to the park and to Sunday school
every Sunday. We got to know the other children after a
while. Some we liked , some we did not like. We played only with those we
liked and Ruthie was always beside me. Wherever we were she would slip her
little hand in mine and smile at me. We both needed each other, to keep from
being scared.
Christmas came and there was much activity at church as well as at the
orphanage. It finally came time for us to open our presents. We had so
many from Daddy and Grandma that the other children were jealous, but we
shared them and every one became our friends again. It was then that
the nice lady told us that these children did not have parents or
grandmothers to give them presents like we got from our family. She kept
her promise and came to see us all the time. We loved her by that time.
Daddy called us once a week, and after about a year, he told us that he had
met a very nice lady named Peggy. They loved each other and wanted to get
married. She wanted to come and see us before they got married. They were
both going to come and see us in a month. Daddy told us that if she liked us
they would get married and she would be our new Mommy. That was exciting
news - a new Mommy for
us. We could leave the orphanage and live with Daddy and Mommy and our
brother too!
When you are five a month is such a long time to wait, but Daddy and Peggy
finally came to see us She fell in love with us on the spot and told Daddy
that they could get married right away. He picked her up and swung her
around just like he did with us. He gave her a big kiss and a hug too!
When he wanted to know when they could get married, she said she would have
to tell my family about
this and plan the wedding. "My mother would insist on that!"she said. They
were married on October 31, 1946 , in the church that she was raised in.
They had to be discharged from the army before they could come and get us.
They had to find a house to live in too. They were discharged late in the
month of November and it took a few days to come by train from California.
They found a house and went about getting furniture to put in it. Our new
mommy came and took us to get new clothes, shoes, coats, gloves and hats.
Than we went to get the same things for our one and a half year old brother.
She took us to see our new home. It was small but so nice and clean. We were
surprised to see all the new toys in the toy box in our room.
We each had small beds alike with pretty pink bed spreads too. Our
brother's crib had a soft blue quilt on it. We helped put our new clothes
away in the dresser and the closet. Than we put brother's clothes away too.
Mommy said, "Daddy will be home soon and we can go to get little
brother to bring him home too!" We were so excited we could not sit still
on the drive out to get the baby. He did not remember us right away and
was afraid. It did not take us long to get reacquainted, though, and then
he was happy
again. We played while Mommy fixed dinner for us. She let me dry the
dishes just like the nice lady did. I felt so big and happy.
Christmas came again, only this time we were a family again, with one big
change. We had a Mommy and Daddy that loved us and never left us alone
anymore. Santa brought us all the nicest presents, tables and chairs,
dishes , new baby dolls , more new clothes and lots of toys for our little
brother too. Best of all we were a family now and we knew that we were
loved and wanted!
As I sit here by the roaring pinon fire, I reminisce about some of the gifts I have received during various Christmases.
There was the year my younger sister and I (I was 5) sneaked downstairs in the middle of the night to see what Santa had brought. It was there – the play table we had
asked for. Everything else was wrapped, and I wondered how Santa had had enough time to wrap every present so beautifully. However, our stockings were still empty, but I was still naďve enough to believe that Santa would come back to fill them.
There was the year I received a bicycle. It wasn’t a shiny new one, though. We didn’t have much money, so "Santa" brought me a used one. By this time, I didn’t believe
in Santa anymore, so I knew my folks had found an ad in the paper for the
second-hand bicycle. It was pea green. I thought to myself, "No self-respecting 10-year-old would be caught out in public riding a pea green bicycle!" I tried to look pleased while I blinked back the tears. My mother, a very perceptive woman, came over, put her arms around me and said, "Honey, it can be painted."
There was the year I received the camel-colored cashmere sweater set. The sweaters were so soft. All my friends had cashmere sweaters, so of course I had to have one, too. It didn’t matter that there was no designer label in it. It was cashmere, so I was finally "one of the gang."
There was the year I received the turquoise-colored poodle skirt and the yellow sweater with a red heart and a knife sticking through it. Okay, so it was the 1950s and it was
"fad time." I think I wore that sweater once, but I just HAD to have it!
There was the year I received roller skates – the kind attached to white boots. I wore
them out at the local skating rink. (Those were the days before television!).
As I look back, all of those were just "things." Not one of them exists today among my treasures. But one gift I still have, my greatest treasure – my daughter Sara.
Although she wasn’t born on Christmas, she is still my greatest gift.
The night was extremely cold. A sliver of a moon shone from above. Stars twinkled in the sky and looked as though I could reach out and touch them. No wind blew. No tree branch moved. From the meadow’s edge I could barely see the frozen pond. Temperature shifts were causing the ice to make a cracking noise, not unlike the sound of a whip being lashed through the air. The moon’s reflection bounced up to my eyes and I smiled. "Good choice you made, Mary Elizabeth," I said silently to myself.
Somewhere deep in the forest an owl called. No doubt he was hunting mice or rabbits. The sound was chilling, enough to make me shudder and turn up my collar. The tips of my fingers were beginning to tingle and my toes had never been so cold. I wondered if I made a wise choice, but then again, there was no other choice. I marveled at how clearly I understood these circumstances.
My mother had told me about Mort’s Pond—how she had skated there as a child, how many fond memories she had of the meadow. I wanted to see it through her eyes, experience the mystery of the place.
The whisper of a slight breeze touched my cheek. I turned quickly to catch its departure. I absolutely knew it was my mother’s breath that I felt. It was as if she was saying, "Mary Elizabeth, you have discovered the key to happiness—the gift of memories. Now pass them on."
It's been said that I live in the past in a self contented myopic world. Possibly I do, but the past has given me a gift, the special gift of memories. They have become my best friend as a writer. Every day I am mindful of how little time I have to enjoy this stage of life. So I have begun to craft these memories into stories that I hope will provide a gift, one that will be left behind for my family and friends.
Memory as I have read comes in five types: Working, Implicit, Remote, Episodic, and Semantic.
Already my "Working" memory has begun to erode. It has become harder to keep several things in mind at the same time. So I’ve resorted to lists to keep me on track during the day. I have an upstairs list, downstairs list, grocery lists ....etc, etc. And the proverbial many more. Then I lose the lists!
My "Implicit" memories, conditioned reflexes, are still in inctact. I can drive my car without having to read the manual. I’m in deep trouble if this mental impairment occurs. Please take my keys away and put me out to pasture!
"Remote" memory is still with me I can remember stored data from books and events. I just have to sort out the overloaded accumulation. That is where writing is helpful.
However, the "Episodic" memory is on a downhill slide. Recent experiences escape me. Where did I put my glasses? What did I eat for dinner yesterday? Did I put a stamp on the letter I sent?
Thankfully the "Semantic" memory still works. The words and symbols I have stored are still resilient. Yet at times when I can’t think of a word, I panic. Oh, Gawd! It’s Alzheimers! Only after I stop fretting will the word slip into my head. I just have to learn to relax. On an up note though, new words can be added to my vocabulary until the day I die.
It is my "Remote" memory that I wish to elaborate on in this piece. I never really know what will trigger a memory from the accumulation of data that I have stored. Yet I am keenly aware that my five senses can begin my thoughts. These events are evidence of this perception.
In the spring the aroma of lilacs brought an image of my grandmother holding me, gently swaying in a ladder- back rocker on the front porch. The evening air would be rich with their fragrance. At eight years old this bonding of bodies gave me a feeling of security. I imagine it provided another form of comfort to her, since my grandfather had died in January and she was lonely.
Recently I walked into a deli and the smell of bread baking aroused another memory. I could taste warm homemade bread smeared with strawberry jam and butter. Then I saw myself sitting on the stoop, licking butter and jam as it trickled down my arm. I didn't want to waste a precious drop of that wonderful treat.
The sound of summer thunder awaked an old excitement in me. Nature is going to perform! It fascinates me to watch a storm build and lightning streak across the sky. A mixture of fear and awe demands that I watch this destructive form of nature, flashing and booming around me. I am always reluctant when the storm forces me inside. Then I remember what may be in store for me. Eagerly I wait, just as I did as a child, to go outdoors and look for a rainbow. This smacks of symbolism I suppose; storms rage in our lives but afterwards they give us a chance to look for a sign of calm.
This past September the beautiful foliage brought back a memory of the first autumn I was away from home. Lonesome for my family, I found a quiet place to sit and reflect. A wide window sill on the 6th floor of the college dorm gave me a secluded perch to see the array of colors, and their beauty comforted me. On September 11, I had a chance to share the foliage with a friend. The experience has engraved a place in my memory. Their beauty and companionship comforted me on that tragic day.
Touch, to me is the most enjoyable sense and the most gratifying. To reach out and touch another human is a simple joy in life. An embrace of loving arms tells another that you care and offer them security. I have an old memory that has changed for the better. When my sons were young and I hugged their lean, wiry and lanky bodies they seemed ready to bolt, to be free of this mushy stuff. However, now that they are men, when I hug them they return the hug and linger. Could it be they are making their own gift of memories?
The neighborhood where I grew up in eastern Pennsylvania was like some of the other lower income neighborhoods of the mid '50s. Apartments with small individual front yards but large shared back yards. Our neighborhood was made up of three sets of apartments on each side of an oil-saturated dirt road. Each set contained four apartments in long red brick buildings. Back then maintenance fees were unheard of because everyone kept their place neat and most often helped each other make any needed repairs.
Ours was a rural neighborhood, surrounded by woods and a long sloping hill. A setting that was a child’s imagination paradise. A few blocks away were single family homes, with large yards and blacktop roads. They were nice to look at and imagine living in, but not the kind of place that kids could play in for fear of damaging something. There was no envy because the kids from those homes came over to play with us, and quite often brought along useful stuff like, bats, baseballs and real gloves.
With tons of places to play, gender differences were not important. It simply didn't matter when it came to playing baseball, hide and seek, red rover, jail, kick the can, and even football. Climbing trees, building a secret shack in the woods, catching fireflies in the late spring or checking under some one's chin with a dandelion was all in a day of play. Those years were a wealth of fun for all of us kids. Certainly a variety of things to generate memories. But one memory stands out above all the other good memories.
Over where the single family homes were, several new homes were being built. Because we needed materials for our secret shack, we went over to see what might be useful in the scrap pile. We asked the construction people if we could have any of the scrap that we could use for our shack. They told us to take what we needed but only from the scrap piles. As scavengers, we were excellent. Bent nails could be straightened and even the scrap insulation was a prize to get. One day while scavenging we discovered when they built the homes they put new refrigerators, washers and dryers in them. The boxes for those items were thrown out along with all the other scrap. We thought this would make great interior wall covering for our shack. While some of us were figuring out what to cut and where to put it, some of the other kids were fooling around. They were putting some of the smaller kids in a refrigerator box and blocking the ends so they couldn't get out. Little as they were, those kids managed to get the box rolling like a tank. Imagination kicked in!!!. Upon checking, we discovered four kids would fit inside the refrigerator boxes and two inside the smaller washer and dryer boxes.
We were MOBILE!!!, Now we had big tanks and little tanks. By lining up side by side inside the boxes and crawling forward on our hands and knees we could make those “tanks” really roll. Every day we tried something different to test our tanks. We would roll through the weeds, climb small hills, and race each other on the flat areas. The best part; was that every kid, big or little, was part of the tank battalion. By the end of the week we used up all the boxes. They were tattered and torn, no longer good to use as tanks. We didn't waste our tanks though; we used them for the original purpose, lining the walls of our shack.
As I remember those times; now it is with a sense of awe. What a wealth of gifts I have realized throughout my life because of the activities during the formative years. Gifts like "Social Interaction/Acceptance," kids were kids, not "rich" or "girls," just little people like me learning to get along. "Honesty" was a lesson we learned, because we asked and were granted the use of all the scrap building material, and that is all we took. We learned to "Waste Not," because we used everything we took. We learned "Personal Pride," because the neighborhood was made up of neat and clean people who cared about where they lived even if they didn't own it. We created our own "Imagination/Fun," because there was always something more to do if we would look beyond the typical. What a wonderful time that was to be a kid and to get those lifetime gifts, ones that I would wish for every child.
It was the fall of 1937 and I was a little girl of four. My parents were looking for a farm to buy.
I remember seeing the farm for the first time. It was owned by an old bachelor named Hall. The house was just one big room with the wall studs showing as the walls had never been finished. Mr. Hall had gathered black walnuts and had them in a pile in the yard. I proceeded to stomp on them and fell getting stain on my brown corduroy pants.
My parents bought the farm from Mr. Hall and on November 17, 1937 we moved to the farm. I can still remember events of that day. I had not known any other home than the one we were leaving so the move was very important to me.
The year is now 2001 and I still live on a piece of that farm. I presently own one acre of it with a home that my first husband and I built in 1967. Except for a period of about seven years, I have went from early childhood to retirement right where I am today.
My mind floods with vivid memories, pets and animals we had, the one room school house I attended, the wonderful neighbors through the many years. My parents sold the large portion of the farm in 1968. My sister owned an acre with a house and she sold it many years ago. My brother also owned an acre but sold it to the new owners in 1968. I bore my two children here, have been widowed twice and now enjoy my life with my husband of one year.
The first visit to the farm was the beginning of a lifetime of memories which I cherish in my heart. It seems I am a part of the land upon which I live. My roots are deep and strong.
I know that some day the circumstances of my life will change and I will have to leave this place. I shall with a heavy heart, I know but I also know I will be sustained by a myriad of precious memories.
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A priest friend of mine has a border collie that she brings with her
everyday to church. Just watching Zappy play reminded me of one of my
memorable vacations that involved two border collies.
My first husband and I were having a drink in one of the quaint bars in
Cooke City, Montana. We got to talking to one of the natives, who we thought
was a fishing guide. Turned out he was a rancher who had a flock of sheep up
in the high meadows of the Beartooth Mountains. Before our conversation was
over, he had invited us to pack in with him and spend three days in his
sheep camp. What a great opportunity! He told us about the high lakes loaded
with trout, the scenery, and the peace of living in a sheep
camp. We eagerly agreed to go and offered to pay him. All he asked for was a
bottle of Jim Beam! No money!
On the appointed day, we met him. He had the horses all saddled, and we were
on our way – up. Up and up! We rode for about two hours until we came to the
camp, which consisted of three tents. One was the cook tent, where the
African-American sheepherder slept. One was Jim’s tent, the other pup tent
was ours. We had sleeping bags and that was it.
Jim had two border collies – the mother and a pup. The mother was teaching
the pup, an energetic little thing, to herd the sheep, and it was
interesting to watch the two work
together, keeping the sheep in a tight little group.
During the daytime, we either watched the dogs or fished. At night, the
black cook
put the trout in a skillet and seared them. Trout cooks very quickly. So we
pigged out on trout and bread and salad. I'’ve never eaten better meals! We
then threw the fish heads and bones outside the tent where the dogs were
waiting eagerly.
Other than the bleating of the sheep, the enthusiastic barks of the collie
pup, and an occasional airplane high overhead, there was no sound. It was
the most peaceful vacation I’ve ever had and one where I felt the closest to
God.
Sometimes when I sit quietly reading, I have an oldies station on the radio
that is playing music from the fifties and sixties. Like a soft old blanket
washed until the colors have faded, there is a definite degree of comfort in
those familiar songs reminding me of my teen years. I know during those
times when I’m reading and relaxing, reflecting on the music is not a
conscious thought. I suppose during those times it is more a sensory
sensation like smelling hot home made bread.The music is just there and
comfortable without thinking about why.
My teen years were not long ago mentally, but in calendar years, more than I
care to remember. During this cruel passage of time, life has had many
interesting twists and turns for me. Considering the passage of time, would
I want to be a teenager now ? No way!!! I’m sure teens now have their own
way of having fun- not like I did but then again the teens of the seventies
and eighties were different. Even so, I can’t help but feel sorry for any
teen who wasn’t a teen during the fifties and early sixties.
I enjoyed drive-ins; now they hide to get away from drive by’s. I rode in a
chopped and channeled souped up Mercury; they have factory 4 cylinder
Hondas. Fun came in the form of dancing to Little Richard’s "Rip it Up"; now
rip it up means destroy property. Note passing in school, along with chewing
gum, was something NOT to be caught doing. Now not getting caught comes in
the form of getting past a metal detector. Even something as simple as the
smell of hot home made bread is replaced by a Big Mac warming under a heat
lamp until sold. The more I write, the worse it seems for today’s teens. The
only real ray of hope I see is RAP music. If it wasn’t for RAP, many kids
wouldn’t be able to string words together in a sentence. I suppose that is
the silver lining to considering RAP as a form of music.
When considering music, I try not to hum "Who Put the Ram in the Ram a Lama
Ding Dong" ? or doodle my mental image of "The Flying Purple People Eater";
it isn’t easy but I manage. Music, it seems, has taken over a decent portion
of my life. It relaxes me, it helps me escape the boredom of the stationary
bike or treadmill. Because I enjoy all kinds of music I’ve been trying to
expand my grandkids' appreciation of music. I might have gone too far in
trying to convince my grandkids that Chopin’s Polonaise 6th in A-Flat Major
has as much value as Britney Spears "OOP’s I Did it Again" does. That little
bit of educational effort on my part has them checking the cost of having me
committed. My wife is helping them. When we were watching Austin City Limits
on TV with Dolly Parton as the featured singing artist, my wife gave me a
look of disbelief when I commented that Dolly sure has a lot of blond
wigs.
Some of what I’ve just written has a semi-serious tone to it but mostly it
reflects my outlook on life. Find fun in everything you can. I want to
demonstrate to my kids and grandkids by my actions that getting older doesn’
t mean I will turn into a cranky, crabby old man. My secret is to sneak back
to the music of my teen years and use it to take me to when the blanket was
new, the colors were bright. I remember the blanket being used for a seat
cover in my car and a comfortable way when parking to get out spread it on
the ground and look at the stars.
STUDENT QUESTIONS and COMMENTS: Why does this feel like school? Why can't
I write? I must be stupid. I'm not interested. May I go to the nurse? I
can't use the keyboard because I broke my finger wrestling with my
brother.Yes, my dog did eat my homework. What time is it? What day is it?
When is lunch? May I borrow a pencil? What's my locker number? What lunch
period do we eat if we're in room 311? How many more days to vacation? How
many
snow days have we taken so far? How many are left? May I stay on Friday
after school to make up the test? Why don't you like me? Everyone hates
me.. Is my eye shadow too dark? Is my skirt too long? May I go to the
bathroom? What time do we get out of this class? What's for hot lunch
today? May I go to the school store? Why not? Everybody else lets us!
What do you mean 'Did I have a good summer'? I was bored to death!
TEACHER QUESTIONS and REFLECTIONS: Am I that boring? Do they think I'm
supposed to supply them with pens and pencils? Why wasn't I warned about
this when I was hired? What do they think I am, a psychologist? Do you
suppose the parents are this stupid, too? How many more hours left before I
can go home? Did I remember to bring the lunch I packed this morning? Will
Friday ever come? Was that test too hard for the students' abilities? Did
they really study for that test? Did I remember to turn off the stove when
I left the house? Why did that kid jump out of the third-story window in
the art room? How come he wasn't even injured? Why can I fall on the ice
and be laid up for a week? May I go home-I don't feel so well. If they'd
wanted a juggler, they should have hired one!!! Do I dare leave the room to
go to the bathroom? Should I have stayed home with my little boy today? How
many more years of this insanity are there before I can retire? Quit? Me?
Quit? I love my job!! Wouldn't trade it for the world-then, again . .
.
My Aunt Josie's kitchen was bright and sunny, I think there were yellow and
white curtains in the window over the sink. The kitchen smelled always of
fresh ironed sheets and homemade bread. I would watch her iron those sheets
with the old hand irons heated on the wood stove. I have those irons now
with the wooden detachable handles. Bread and rolls were made often.
Another lingering aroma was my Uncle Will's cigars, even long after he had
suffered a massive coronary and died on the spot. It was the most
comforting house ever, because between my aunt, her housekeeper Mrs.
Burnham, and my aunt's elderly,arthritic,maiden sister-in-law, Aunt Cora, I
felt there at that house total acceptance. My own home was often very
critical, and just next door I felt warm and happy always.
I helped Aunt Josie with chores, since her husband had died, and she ran a
rather large chicken and eggs operation. I hated the chickens pecking at me
while I collected eggs and spread shavings, but I was being paid and I don't
think I ever said "no" to Aunt Josie. In the summer, she had a stand in
front of her house where she sold her eggs, and some trinkets, mostly
greeting cards. I helped out there too, and met many people.
On reflecting about why my life has been seemingly blessed, I thought back
to those days in that wonderful house. The house, I think, had as much
influence as the gift. My Uncle Will was a financial man, came from a fine
family in Boston, but loved country life. He helped my aunt establish her
chicken business, and worked along with her when he wasn't in his office at
the local paper mill. My aunt's family, and my dad's, were practically
penniless farmers. This house was a castle compared to her brother's and
sister's homes. There was nice furniture, hand hooked rugs, real china and
silver. There were no children, and she was a very energetic lady. She
hooked her own rugs, beside running her business single-handedly. She had a
housekeeper on weekdays because someone was needed to help Aunt Cora, and do
the cleaning and cooking. The house itself gave off such a sense of calm
and order, even though it was not large. Even the yucky business of
cleaning eggs and chickens never seemed to interfere with that. There was a
large back room where the eggs were sorted, and candled, another job I got
to help with. I remember standing at the sink watching many chickens get
plucked and cleaned. There was a chopping block and an axe in the garage
with the Model T Ford for doing the evil deed.
One of those bright, sunny mornings in Aunt Josies's kitchen with the
smell of bread in the oven ( I always seemed to know when to arrive because
I got a free sample with wonderful homemade sweet butter), and all of the
ladies present, the conversation turned to fortune readings. My Aunt Cora,
who could be very stern, also had an impish sense of humor when it came to
me. She said she could read tea leaves, and would I like her to read mine.
Well, I thought I was already a queen with my bread and tea, which I was not
allowed at home. "Yes", said I, and she proceeded to tell me that my leaves
told of a future full of sunshine for me. Isn't it strange that it was just
a passing moment in the life of a child, soon forgotten, but later
remembered as an explanation for why my life had escaped any terrible
sorrows or tragedies. Sometimes when you have been so fortunate you wonder
why, and are afraid because you know you have not been so good as to deserve
such luck. I have often thought in later years that that gift from Aunt
Cora has lasted me all of my life, and that it was probably the most
important gift I ever received.
"What time is it?" Beth asked. "Three minutes since you last asked," Mike
mumbled. Beth glared at him. She could always count on Mike’s sarcasm. At
least he was predictable. Good ole Mike, her faithful confidant and the
biggest pain in the butt. They had known each other all their lives. Well,
since they were ten anyway.
She smiled as she remembered that day eight years ago. Beth had watched from
her front porch as the movers carried furniture into the new neighbor’s
house. The "mother person" who walked around with a clipboard was amusing.
Efficiently and with a crisp manner, she directed the workers to the right
rooms. Bossy lady!
Beth went back to reading her book, occasionally looking up to watch for any
new activity. In an hour or so the "father person" drove up in a station
wagon. It was loaded to the roof top with boxes. He got out of the car and
stretched. Then she noticed movement in the back seat. Beth saw Mike Hartman
for the first time. He seemed to unfold himself from the mountain of cargo.
First, enormous feet slid out the car door, followed by long spider legs.
When he finally stood upright, she let out a muffled snicker. That is one
skinny kid!
"It’s about time you arrived," said the mother as she stepped from the
house. "We got lost a few times, the father smiled. "I don’t need excuses. I
need help." She commanded "Michael, get your books and things from the car
and bring them upstairs to the room I’ve decided you should have."
The father walked to the side of the car where his son stood. "Come on
buddy, I’ll give you a hand." He put his arm around Michael’s skinny
shoulders and gave him a hug. Beth felt a little lump come into her throat.
I miss my father.
Over the years Mike and Beth would become close friends. He was the brother
she never had. He would tease her and they would squabble. Sometimes there
would be injured feelings and they’d be "mad" at each other. Yet, apart they
were miserable, so the spat never lasted too long.
By the time Mike was 15, he practically lived at the Fellini home. Most
evenings he was alone, since his father worked out of town during the week.
His mother kept herself busy organizing social events, volunteering and
doing charity work. Mike once told Beth, "Even when she’s home, she isn’t
here." Beth wasn’t sure what he meant by this, because although Angie, Beth’
s mother, worked part time she always made Beth feel she was home.
Angie had decided that it was her responsibility to fatten this boy up. Mike
had an appetite that would not stop. He would eat the meal his mother left
for him and eat again at Beth’s house. Angie was pleased when the boy’s bony
frame began to fill out. She began to think of him as a son. She knew she
was providing the nurturing he needed. Although Mike never mentioned much
about his home life, she sensed his warmth toward her as a mother.
When Beth was in junior high, Angie decided to go back to work full time at
the hospital. She worried about leaving her alone after school, but felt
comfortable with Mike being there. Over the years her trust and faith in him
had paid off. He became the son and brother to Beth she had always
wanted. If my Joe hadn’t died so young, we would have had the son we
always wanted.
What time did this jerk say he’d pick you up?" asked Mike. "7:30," replied
Beth,"and he’s not a jerk." "He’s too old for you," countered Mike. "He’s
the same age as you, Attila," Beth smirked. She wished that her mother would
get home soon. What is his problem anyway? Ever since she had
accepted the date with Steve, Mike had become an old grump. So what if
Steve is from Taylor High School. We are only rivals on the athletic fields.
Steve was a perfect gentleman when I talked and flirted with him after the
game.
Angie hurried from the bus stop, eager to be home after her long shift.
I want my beat up bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, now! As she turned the
corner, she saw her house, lights glowed from the windows sending a warm
feeling to her. Then she remembered Beth’s date was tonight. I don’t know
anything about him, this boy from another town. She climbed the three
steps to the porch. Standing quietly she watched Beth and Mike through the
window of the hallway. His arms were folded over his chest and Beth was
standing defiantly with her hand on her hip. They’re at it again!
She opened the door. Both looked toward her and saw her smile. You are
so beautiful together, my daughter and my "adopted" son.
"Get him off my back, Mom," Beth yelled. "Ok, ok, I’m sorry," said Mike. He
walked across the room and helped Angie remove her coat. "I’ll go turn on
the coffee pot." He muttered. "He’s such a hemorrhoid," complained Beth.
Angie hugged Beth and replied, "Mike is concerned about you dating a
stranger." "I wish he would date, then I’d could harp at him," replied Beth.
"Steve will be here in a few minutes. I’m going to watch for him." She
turned and walked into the living room.
Wearily Angie walked down the long corridor to the kitchen. Mike had set out
two cups. He looked sad as he watched the last of the coffee sputter though
the percolator. Angie touched his hand. He turned and put his arms around
her shoulders, resting his head on hers. He towered above her, this man
child, this person she had come to think of as a son. "Oh Mama Angie, I love
Beth so much." "When will she ever love me back?"
Michael pushed away from Angieand swiped the sleeve of his shirt across his
eyes. "I gotta go," he said in a choked voice. He opened the back door and
left. Angie watched him cross the driveway between the two houses, still not
certain what she could have said to comfort him. She sank into a chair at
the table and wrapped her hands around the empty cup.
Angie wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting at the table staring into
space. Realizing she was stiff and felt cold, she rose from the chair. Her
head was starting to ache. Where is Beth?"
She hurried to front of the house, toward the living room and found Beth
curled up on the couch. Her big wonderful eyes were puffy and her nose was
red. "Oh, Darling! What’s wrong?" Angie cooed. "He stood me up, Mom. The
jerk stood me up," whimpered Beth. Cradling her child in her arms, she
stroked Beth’s long dark hair. " He did you a big favor," said Angie as a
smile crossed her lips. Beth gave her mother a puzzled look, blowing her
nose in the tissue her mother offered. "Oh, Lord!" Beth fumed. "Now I’ll
have to listen to Mike gloat for the next 50 years." "Where is Einstein
anyway?" "He’s at his house." Angie answered. She felt buoyant as she headed
toward the kitchen. Calling out, "Give him a yell, tell him I’m going to
warm up the Lasagna and make a salad." Joe baby! . Maybe we got us a son
after all.
Tommy is married to my Dad's sister, Wilma. He is the only uncle I have left
on my Dad's side of the family. And he is dying.
I don't remember when I met him; it was probably shortly after my birth. He
was the uncle that always had a stern look and thought kids should be seen
and never heard. Going to his house meant sitting and listening to what all
that the adults had to say until my aunt suggested that we might like to go
out and see the animals on the farm. She knew we didn't care what price corn
was or how the government was spoiling it for the farmers.
Tommy and Wilma never had any kids of their own, which I thought was a
shame. Having a kid or two might have softened Tommy's edges. I learned as
an adult that Tommy wasn't as stern as we all thought. In fact, he was an
old softy all along. He was the one that gave my cousin a place to stay when
she couldn't manage living with our grandparents any longer.
He was the one that gave another cousin a safe haven when her husband
decided to use her as a punching bag. He was also the one that gave a
verrrrrrry stern talk to her husband, telling him we, as a family, didn't
cotton to that kind of behavior. We would be watching closely to make sure
it didn't happen again.
Through the years he has loaned money to those that needed it, gave advice
to those who didn't want it and to those that did. My brother says that is
how he learned to play the stock market.Tommy's advice must have worked
because my brother is living very well. He has always been there when we
needed someone to help. I didn't learn until recently just how much he had
helped my cousins throughout the years.
Tommy is a proud veteran of World War II. He was very active in the local
veterans' associations, serving at funerals, talking to the schools about WW
II and on color guards. He was very instrumental in getting more land set
aside for the National Cemetery in Fort Scott so that more vets would have
the opportunity to be buried there.
I don't mean to make him out to be a saint. God knows he is far from that.
He likes things his own way (all the time!), expects my Aunt Wilma to wait
on him hand and foot and likes to tell off color jokes, especially to the
women in the family. In some respects, he is our family's 'dirty old man'.
He never lets guests watch what they like on TV when visiting him. And he
still thinks kids should be seen and never heard. But as I visit him now, I
look at a shell of what was once my uncle and wish that he had the strength
to argue with me about how the government is spoiling it for the
farmers.
What a great idea--me, alive one hundred years from now!! I use to tell my
Nanny she would live to be one hundred. She missed it by 30 days! I've
also said I wanted to make it to one hundred--but now that I'm 60, that
would make me one hundred sixty. Well, why not, why not me, why not now?
With medical innovation and discovery, what's to stop me? Now, mind you, I
do not want any heroic measures taken--I want to make it on my own!! I'm in
good health, don't smoke, take illicit drugs, drink booze out of control, am
a pretty good driver, and I have nine lives. Only two lives have been used
up so far--once in a ski accident and once by narrowly missing a head-on
collision with some idiot who thought he owned the whole road. Notice, I
said he.
Here's what I don't want: false teeth, wooden leg(s), someone else's heart
or eyeballs or kidneys. One hundred sixty and no replacement parts!!! Now
that would take a miracle. I'm not sure it could be accomplished just on
one multivitamin a day and a good diet/exercise plan, but why not?
What will the world be like one hundred years from now? I never was much
for science fiction so my imagination is limited. If my hubby were writing
this, he could write reams. He watches every re-run of Star Trek and is a
charter member of Sci-Fi channel. I'm sure he has seen "War of the Worlds"
at least 25 times. I've never made it through one viewing!
Looking back, we've made so much progress to make life easier. You know, if
I could change the outcome in this next millinieum, I'm not sure I would.
We will never solve world aggression, hunger, inadequate housing-that would
be Utopia, and face it, it ain't gonna happen!! Never has, never will, and
that's ok--I believe it's part of God's plan to sort out good from evil here
on earth so He won't have to do it later in Heaven. After all, He is the
Boss!
So here's the plan--I'll carry on as best I can, doing what I do best,
enjoying my life, loving my family and friends. If I make it to one hundred
sixty, so be it!! Just hope I can remember where I put the car
keys!
I wish I had a crystal ball to see what life would be like 100 years from now. On the other hand, maybe I don’t want to know. On a personal level, my family will not exist; the Rashers and the Vilanders, who are disappearing now, will be gone completely by then. On a more general note, however, life will not have changed that much.
Basic human nature will stay the same; that, I believe, never changes. Daily life will include more technology; of that, I’m sure. Technology will continue to "make our lives better." But technology is not what drives us. What shapes us to be the way we are and do the things we do is not going to be much different.
I am reminded of the speeches I used to give on "The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same." I drew my speech from 100-year-old newspapers. I discovered that, even though the "things" we have are different – gasoline-powered vehicles instead of horse-drawn buggies, better sanitary conditions, paved streets, electricity – what people did 100 years ago was similar to what we do today. So why should I believe that 100 years from now, behavior will be any different? For example, teenagers will still be teenagers. They will still have parties, dances, school, romances. . Couples will still marry, have children, seek a better life for themselves. Parents will continue to instill a set of values in their children. The elderly will continue to get older and have the same problems of growing older and losing faculties. Oh, medicine may help "cure" some of the ills of the elderly and help them to live longer and more productive lives, but growing old and dying are still inevitable.
We still will have crime and wars and political battles. In his quest to own the world, man will continue to develop more weapons of mass destruction, but I believe the world will not disappear. Man will never wipe out mankind, although his alliances to other nations will continue to change. Famine will still plague us; unwanted children will continue to be a world-wide problem. Murders and robberies and rape and all the crimes that now exist will never go away.
I believe that religion will remain one of the constants of life. Man cannot exist without God or some higher power. While churches may change and denominations may merge, those are only buildings and mankind’s inventions. Man will continue to seek something in his life that he can turn to when he needs something outside himself to get through the pain and suffering in his own life.
My view of the world 100 years from now is not pessimistic. It is based solely on what has happened to us from the time humans first appeared on the earth. Man created weapons of war then along with tools for growing food and building homes. He raised his children with a set of values. His tribe formed alliances with other tribes. He lived and died. The hope was that his generation contributed to the well-being of the next generation. And, after all, isn’t that what we hope for, too?
100 years from now life will have evolved to the point of mankind having in place measures to conserve resources. The earth’s resources will dwindle within the next thirty years for two main reasons: increased population and wasteful use of present resources. Population increase is the result of better disease control and child birth. We know now that babies born in the year 2000 will live 30 years longer than the babies born in the year 1900. That life span when projected forward really multiplies very quickly with each passing year. Wasted resources can easily be determined by the fact that landfills are to capacity now in many states and waste is being trucked and rail shipped to our shores for barges to be filled and towed out to sea.
In the year 2062 sixty years from now travel to, and the colonization of, another planet will have been accomplished. The inhabitants of a suitable planet will be chosen from young adults; but only from the brightest and best minds of the world community. The selection from the world community will be accomplished so that no one ethnic race dominates. Having selected the best and brightest however doesn’t remove them from performing the mundane tasks of everyday living. Those tasks will be shared by all no matter what they contribute to this new community of mankind. This select group will be isolated for many years on the chosen planet because inter-planetary travel will be limited until a greater amount of resources are in place to make more frequent travel possible.
Meanwhile, back on earth throughout this time period, community living and transportation will have changed. Because of the increased population there will no longer be suburban areas. The deteriorated inner cities will have been demolished and multi family hi rise housing built to replace it. Mass transit will be the only way of traveling long distances. This travel will be limited to vital or emergency needs only. Inner city travel will be by multi passenger cars powered by electro magnetic impulse known now as Mag Lev. Shopping for necessities like food, and clothing will be accomplished by use of computer directly linked to the appropriate store. The determining factor on how well you live will be your educational level. If you live within walking distance of a store you will be able to pick up your needs. If not then all goods and services will be supplied by the store for a small fee.
The power supply for operating the magnetic transportation systems, home heating, and general electrical needs will come from nuclear power and coal mining. The liquid resources like oil and natural gas will be used for farm vehicles only. Recycling will be mandatory. Technology will have been developed for the purpose of tracking purchases so that recyclable materials can be tracked.
By 2072 the world is working together to decide which country will grow what plants, and what, if any, animals will be grown for consumption. In short, all matters associated with food management will be decided on by a world food management council. Areas like Iowa, Nebraska, & Kansas that have been over farmed and the ground water polluted with pesticides through the early part of the century will be allowed to recover while other areas of the world produce the crops that were produced in those states. Food distribution will be equal in every part of the world.
By 2082 world health will have become a reality. Moral issues like population control, and euthanasia will have been decided by the world's religious leaders and the decision accepted by the world's population. Crime and punishment will be swift and suit the crime. Technology and biology will combine to assure the accused was the perpetrator of whatever crime took place. Society cannot and will not tolerate crime because it will detract from the fragile existence of everyone.
Dependency on technology to control any wasteful use of resources will be a fact of everyday life that everyone understands. This world 100 years from now will not be a utopia, actually very far from it. This world will have adjusted to the lack of resources in the only way it could; by joining together in a common understanding of need. This could be viewed as a dismal projection but I prefer to look at it as a matter of survival, vastly different from what we are experiencing because we have a wealth of resources. Remember this is 100 years from now. My thought that this projects a severely controlled future is because world unity won’t be easy or without strife but world survival will happen because mankind has always overcome adversity
I had gone to take care of some necessary business in the ladies’ lounge at Macy’s. I was sitting in one of the stalls when I heard a great commotion. A child of undetermined age and sex was screaming loudly, pleading, "No, Mommy, no. I’ll be good. Don’t hit me again."
The stall door next to me slammed and I could hear the sound of clothing being removed, then that awful sound of flesh against flesh. The child screamed louder, pleading, "No, Mommy, no. That hurts. Please don’t hit me again."
With each slap of flesh against flesh, I winced. The sound of an angry hand continued for what seemed an eternity. Then it stopped, and "Mommy" said, "There, I hope that teaches you a lesson."
With that, the stall door slammed again and the sound of the child’s screaming faded
as they left the lounge. The sounds rang in my ears for a long time. The tears were rolling down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop thinking about the child and how that mother was abusing it. It wasn’t just a spanking; it was a beating. Whatever the child had done, it didn’t deserve that kind of harsh punishment. No child does.
I was unmarried at the time, but that day I vowed that if I ever had children, I would never inflict that kind of abusive punishment. To this day, I wonder if I should have intervened instead of just sitting there holding my breath, waiting for Mommy to finish.
I wonder if I could have made a difference in that child’s life. Probably not. But it made a difference in my life.
Twilight the magic time of day, the best time to be arriving at the
magical hacienda. Shewho was very excited to have finally reached her destination. On the porch were the cat guards who looked quite fierce, but when they were greeted in friendly manner they moved from their sentry spots so that Shewho could knock on the door.
Shewho knocked and waited for someone to open the door and greet her.The door flung open and there was a sprightly munchkin with a big smile,
clapping her hands joyfully and inviting Shewho to come into the
hacienda.
"My name is LadyB, said the munchkin. "Come, Shewho, and meet all the other guests." Shewho took a step inside and saw that she was indeed in a hacienda. The rooms were the soft colors of a desert sunset, the rugs were earth tones, and all the furnishings were just perfect for a hacienda. A grand place for a party.
LadyB introduced the other guests who were sitting on the hacienda
verandah at the back of the house. The three good witches who each practiced kindness, compassion, and love in their part of the kingdom were there, Singing hen, Clucking hen, and of course LadyB and Shewho.
All the guests had come from the far parts of the kingdom and were
having so much fun. They sang, they laughed, they hugged, they ate, for two glorious days. Right in the middle of a fun time, a dark cloud suddenly surrounded Shewho. That cloud just sucked all the strength from Shewho and she sank to the ground. All the guests rushed to Show's side offering a warm blanket, a place to rest, and lots of comforting words . After a time Clucking Hen came to see how Shewho was feeling and saw that she was very weak. Clucking Hen discussed the situation with the other guests and it was decided Shewho needed to be taken to the repair factory. Clucking Hen volunteered to take Shewho in her yellow tornado to the repair factory. The guests stood in a group on the front porch and called out words of encouragement as Clucking Hen and Shewho whisked off in the yellow tornado.
The yellow tornado roared up to the door of the Repair Factory. Several elves and gnomes took Shewho into the factory. They looked at Shewho, touched her in many places, and asked many questions. After a long while the elves and gnomes called the Wizard of the Factory to come see what was wrong with Shewho for they did not know what made her so weak.
The Wizard had piercing eyes, a deep, commanding voice, but a gentle way
about him. Soon he stood back from Shewho and said, " Shewho needs to have body oil, hers is very low. Elves and gnomes, please correct this problem." Everyone went into the highest gear in order to complete the repair as fast as they could. Clucking Hen had been with Shewho keeping her calm, but she had to leave for a while so Singing Hen came to watch over Shewho. It certainly made Shewho feel calm and loved to have friends close to her.
The Factory Wizard came back to see how the repairs were going. He said, " it would be all right for Shewho to leave the factory, but stay close for a couple of days to be sure there weren't any body oil
leaks." " Oh dear said Shewho, where will I go ?" Clucking Hen said, "Shewho, come with me to my nest."
Clucking Hen whisked Shewho to her nest in the yellow tornado in the blink of an eye. Such a nice cozy nest, a place that made her feel safe and secure.
The weekend was over and the magic at the hacienda was fading, which meant it was time for Singing Hen and the three witches to return to their own part of the kingdom. That left the munchkin LadyB alone in her magical hacienda.
Clucking Hen had a special machine at her nest which sent messages on fine spider-like lines to all the other guests. The messages flew to Arizona Witch, Colorado Witch, Pennsylvania Witch and Singing Hen who lived in a hidden place in NY, and LadyB at the magical hacienda telling them Shewho was repaired and feeling stronger.
Soon the spider-like lines were humming from all the messages coming to Clucking Hen's house. They were from the Witches and Singing Hen and LadyB. Each message was one of love and encouragement and warmth. They enveloped Shewho and their magic gave her strength and made her feel so very special and loved. Those messages were a wonderful medicine and got Shewho well enough to travel back to her part of the kingdom. "Clucking Hen," said Shewho, "I don't know how to get home. I clicked my heels once, twice, thrice and nothing happened." Clucking Hen said, "The tornado will take you to a great American Bird which
will whisk you home. Do not worry, Shewho; all will be well."
Oh my that was a huge American bird. Clucking Hen helped Shewho to get under the wings of that huge bird to a safe place. In the blink of an eye American Bird rose above the clouds and glided to Show's home. Great American Bird came gently down to the ground in Bend and released Shewho into the arms of her son and daughter. Huge hugs were exchanged and the son and daughter asked Shewho to tell them all about the trip to the magical hacienda.
Shewho put her arms around her children and said, "It all began at
twilight."
"Mom said she’d take us, and she never breaks a promise." Jon declared with all the authority of a ten-year-old to his younger brothers.
As I lay on the sofa in the living room, I could hear the heated debate among my three sons. They were sitting on the steps of the side porch waiting impatiently for me to take them to dinner. Earlier in the week I had promised them that after work Friday we would go to the "Carousel," a fast food place in town. Truly the real attraction was two Rhesus monkeys that the drive-in housed in a cage in the parking lot. It was always a fun time for us because we enjoyed watching their antics, and we often shared our leftovers.
However, today I had a migraine headache. This one was a whopper, the kind that hurt when even the dog walked across the room. If only I could go to bed and sleep I knew the pain would stop by morning. Nevertheless, with three active sons that needed feeding and tending, it would be hours before I could crash.
With Jon’s words echoing in my throbbing head, I gingerly sat upright. Every movement was a new frontier in pain. I have to do this! So often I had lectured them that you make a promise only if you intend to keep it. How do I keep my head from cracking open like an egg?
In the closet I found a bandana. Carefully I tied it around my head, reasoning that this was the '60s, so what if I looked like a matronly hippie. It would serve the purpose. It would keep my brains from falling out when it split open.
Driving to the restaurant required all my concentration and wits, and with a little help from the Almighty, we got there without incident. The boys had their meal, shared some with the monkeys, and I didn’t embarrass them by losing the contents of my skull.
Much later, as I deposited my still throbbing head on the pillow, I had a feeling of self-satisfaction. I had kept my promise to the boys. Still, what was more important to me was that I had affirmed my oldest son’s trust in me.
Her name was Joy MacIntyre. She was pretty and had the nicest smile.To say nothing of the gorgeous clothes she wore!
We met at the school bus stop shortly after my family moved to
Pennsylvania. She was the first person to say hi to me. I was 14 and she was 15. She noticed that I was shy and said, " Is this the first day of school for you?" I said yes and asked if she know where the office was at the Jr. High. " Oh sure, I'll show you where when we get off the bus. Want to sit with me?"
We rode the bus that first day and became friends. She told me all the right things to do at the Jr. High, as well as a lot of the wrong things not to do! We laughed so much about the funny way we each talked. Her family was from South Carolina and mine was from New Jersey.
My family was middle class; hers seemed to be first class judging by the clothes that she wore. I asked where her father worked and she said for the city. Than she said that her Mother worked for the city too. She was a judge's secretary. I thought that was strange, because my mother did not have to go to work.
As we got to know each other better, I found out a lot about her
family and she learned about mine as well. Her parents were
divorced and her new stepfather had a son in college. She was an only child and spent the summers with her father back in South Carolina. He had moved back home with his parents so they could take care of her when she came for the summer visitation.
She was not happy living with her new stepfather, but her mother
loved him so she was respectful to him. His son James Jr. came home for school breaks. He was neat and a lot of fun. He loved to ride horses and she did too, so they got along quite well, even though he was five years older than she.
Her mother had married James D. Whitlowe II during the
summer. After their honeymoon, they moved into the old family farm
house outside Philadelphia,Pa. It was a big rambling house with two stories and of course the farm had big pastures for horses. It was a family thing; they raised pure breed horses.
When her mother picked her up at the airport, she explained about the move from their tiny apartment in town to the farm. Joy was so excited to learn that they raised horses and that she would be able to ride almost anytime! Horses were the most fascinating things in her life and had been for seven years.
When they got to the farm Mom showed her around the house and took her upstairs to her new room. All of her things were there; not one thing had been left behind. She looked around the new room and suddenly turned around, rushed to her Mother with a big hug and some tears in her eyes. She said," I love you Mom. I do not know James very well yet, but I will be nice to him."
There was one week until school started. She was given a gentle
horse, Maybell, to ride. And ride her she did. She spent most of that week with her new best friend, Maybell. At first she rode only in the pastures until James decided that both she and Maybell got along well. One afternoon he decided that they would all go riding in the woods. They met at the horse barn right after James and her Mother got home from work. Saddling up the horses was always fun. They were all excited, including the horses.
They took a path from the corral that led to the woods. The horses knew the way and were quite frisky. They sensed that there was excitement ahead and a time for racing. James led the way on his big black stallion, Thunder. The path was well used and very clear of debris. Suddenly they were in the woods, and the horses slowed down to a slow walk . They went on through the path for about a mile; then the woods opened to a beautiful valley. The horses picked up their pace and were whinnying with excitement!
James shouted , "The first horse to reach the end of the valley gets this big red apple; the rest only get a carrot!" They lined up so it would be fair for all. " When I shout go, we start!" Oh, Joy was so
excited, she had never been in a horse race before! She decided that James was okay and fun to be around too.
Well of course James' horse won because he was the biggest and fastest of all the horses. They all dismounted and James passed out the treats for the horses. Maybell tried so hard, but she was the smallest of the group and did her best even though she came in last. Joy gave her a hug ,just because she loved her so much. Then she gave Maybell her carrot.
They sat on the ground and talked about the race. Joy was too excited to talk for a while, so she just listened. Finally James asked her if she enjoyed the ride. "Oh, yes, it was the most fun I've ever had in my whole life!" He said, "Well then we shall do it more often. I'm glad that you had fun. I think we all did."
James Jr. went off to college in Massachusetts on the train two days after the Big Race. She was missing him already because he was the nicest young man she had ever known. Mother took an afternoon off to take Joy shopping for school clothes and supplies. They had gone over her wardrobe the day before and decided that not much was needed in the way of clothes. Her Grandmother in North Carolina shopped for her at the most expensive stores around. She did need some winter boots and warm coat. Luckily they were on sale at Penny's. If they saw anything that
Joy fell in love with, she had enough money to buy that for her too.
When she married the alimony stopped ,but thank goodness not the child support. James had taken a cut in pay when he accepted the new job, but it held a bright future for promotions with pay raises. They had both decided to live in the country . It would be better for all of them, especially the baby that would arrive early next spring.
A couple of weeks after school started, Joy invited me to come visit and ride with her. I was so thrilled. I asked her if jeans and boots would okay, because I did not have a riding outfit. She said that would be just fine, and she would wear jeans too. I got off the school bus with her. It was a short walk down their drive way to the house. I commented that their house was really big and old. She said, "Yes it is, but it is so nice inside and you'll love my room too." We went right up to her room,and who wouldn't love it. She had everything a girl her age wanted or needed, even her own record player!
We talked for a while. She really opened up and told me about the ugly divorce. Her father's family was very rich and he was also
very spoiled as an only child. If things did not go right, his parents
made sure that it was corrected, no matter the expense or the
consequences! Her mother was still in college when they met and married. She wanted to graduate, but he would not wait. Soon after
the honeymoon she found out that she was pregnant. Her father had a fit and said it was too soon for a baby. He was not ready to settle down with a family. Traveling was so much fun with his beautiful bride by his side. They had been all over Europe on their six-month honeymoon. Soon they separated and her mother filed for a divorce. She needed a man to to a father to her child, not a spoiled little rich boy.
We did our homework. That was the one rule her stepfather made right away after she arrived. He said that was the rule for him as he was growing up and it paid off. It got him into college on a scholarship, he said. After the homework, we changed our clothes. We went downstairs , grabbed a snack and went off to the barn. James had picked out a very gentle horse for me to ride and told Joy to only ride in the pasture until he got home from work. We had so much fun and Joy said, I rode quite well, so maybe we could go for a ride in the woods after her mother and James got home. I said, "That would be nice. I love being in the woods."
Within an hour Joy's parents arrived, went into the house to change and came running out to the barn hand in hand. You could just tell that they were very happy to be together. Joy introduced them to me,and said, "Let's help them get their horses saddled." That done, we all started for a short ride around the pasture. James asked me about my riding experience. As I was telling him, he interrupted with a question, "Have you ever raced?" "Just a little sir," was my reply."Very good then. We will take a ride in the woods." Joy yelled out,"Don't forget the red apple," laughing, "I've been practicing!" James smiled, " I always carry treats for the horses, Joy."
They cantered along at a leisurely pace, then all of a sudden the trees fell away and there before them was the lovely valley. Both Joy and I smiled in appreciation. It was a beautiful sight to behold! I
soon realized that Joy had been here before as she moved her horse into place with her mother's and James' . "Come on, get in line. We are going to have a race!" Oh my, I was so excited I could hardly breathe as I trotted my horse over and got in the line. James shouted," When I say go, the race starts. The horse that wins will receive this big red apple, and the others will get a treat too."
"Go!" The race was started. James and her mother held their horses back for some reason. Joy could not believe it, so she urged me on and urged Maybell on, too. We both got to the end of the valley at the same time. We halted our horses and shouted that we had won! Her mother and James sauntered up and declared both of us the winners. James said," I've only one red apple so I'll have to cut it in half this time!" He gave each of us 1/2 of the apple for our winning horses. We both hugged our horses and congratulated them on the fine race as we fed them the apples. We also giggled a lot as teen age girls often have a tendency to do. We hugged each other and than fell down on the ground laughing. Both of us knew that the race was rigged, but we didn't care. It had been so
exhilarating to have won!
On the way back to their house I thought I'd heard Joy thanking them for letting us win. Only they were all just laughing. I thought this is a very happy family, a lot like mine. Joy came over to visit at my house too and we had a lot of fun riding our horses too. Father forbid us to race, because he could not be there until later a night. He had to travel a lot longer to get home every night from his work.
Joy and I talked a lot about our families. They were a lot alike.
The only difference was that her mother was going to have a baby and would have to quit work soon. By this time Joy had accepted her stepfather as her own. She asked James if she could call him Father and he asked why? She said, "Well you are nicer to me than my real father and we always have so much fun together!" He got up from his reading chair, walked over to her and gave her a big hug. "Thank you Joy, I am honored that you want to call me Father. How about, Dad instead as James Jr. calls me? I'm sure that the new baby will call me Daddy , but Dad is so much more grown up, don't you think?" "Why , yes I do think that Dad is more grown up. After all, I'll be sixteen in a month.
Too bad her grandmother never got through to her father; he would have been so much different. In past generations, the father was the head of the household. His word was considered the law. It is a shame that his Father was allowed to spoil him to the point of being worthless.
Ahhhhhhhhhh. Peace and quiet. The pain meds have kicked in and I can finally stretch out and get some sleep. Turn out the light, please. I’ll just turn on the TV low. I’m going to dreamland.
WHAT IS THIS? They’re wheeling in another patient, just out of recovery. Well, damn. There goes my night in dreamland. The room is filling up with nurses, aides, family members. I think I even saw the custodian among the crowd. There must be 10 people all crowded in that small space. Lights go on. TV goes off. Damn and double damn!
I call for more pain meds to help knock the spasm in my left leg. Even my toes are numb. I’m not sleepy now. I’m upset and the noise level continues to rise. Some of the aides have left, but there are three or four family members milling around, dragging chairs so they can sit. Well, since the patient has just come out of recovery, maybe the family will give her some respect and sit quietly.
WRONG! They decide to visit, sharing all of their past surgeries. They laugh and talk, oblivious to the fact that I’m in the next bed with only a thin curtain separating us. Finally an aide answers my call and brings me the pain meds. Night passes and I get a few hours of rest.
Morning comes and the daughter cheerily announces she’s going out for a cigarette. I ask if she’d save some of the smoke and blow it my way when she returns. She just laughs. An aide brings in a breakfast tray. It goes to the other patient, whose name I now know is Grace. I’m on NPO, the aide tells me, so I can have "the procedure." The doctor has ordered no food or drink for me. Damn! I can smell scrambled eggs and coffee.
Another aide brings me a basin of water and a washcloth. Bed bath time. He’s cute, but he refuses to bathe me. Damn! Without food, I don’t have the strength to bathe myself, I tell him. It doesn’t work. He leaves.
I ask the daughter if Grace will have a lot of company today. She tells me that Grace has 15 brothers and sisters. Oh My God! The way she says it, I know they'’re all going to visit.. About this time, four women and three men come tramping into the room. The men are wearing overalls and ball caps; the women, polyester stretch pants. Their voices sound like the cast of The Andy Griffith Show. I swear one of them is Gomer Pyle! They drag in folding chairs. Yep. They’re in for the long haul. I moan, hit the button, and request more pain meds.
The conversation ranges from the wheat crop to a cranky bull to calving the heifer – or whatever the cow was. I’m not up on birthing cows, nor do I care to learn. But I’m a captive audience. Since I can’t walk, I’m forced to use a commode chair placed next to my bed. The curtain is thin, and I’m sure they know what I’m doing.
At noon, there’s a "changing of the guard." Those seven people are replaced by seven more and a 15-month-old baby. As the afternoon drags on, the baby begins to get fussy. Nobody pays any attention. But I get a reprieve when the nurses come to get me for "the procedure." Nobody has explained what "the procedure" is except to say I’ll be getting two pain blocks – one in the spine, one in my butt. Even that sounds preferable to what I’m going through in my room.
Back in my room, a little woozy from the Valium, I see a food tray coming through the door. You guessed it – it’s not for me. The family stays and watches Grace eat. Don’t they ever get hungry?
An aide appears by my bedside. "We’re removing the morphine since you’re not doing well with it. You can have pain meds by mouth now – and something to eat if you like."
I like. I tell her I’d like a cheeseburger with the works and a big Dr. Pepper. She tells me they also have some cheesecake left, so I order that, too. At 10 p.m., I’m wolfing down the cheeseburger and slurping the Dr. Pepper. First food I’ve had in three days. Now I can sleep with a full tummy. WRONG. Three daughters keep watch over Grace. I don’t know where they think she’s going. They turn off the TV. No matter that I was watching it.
The next morning I discover the blocks have worked. For the first time in 42 days I’m pain-free enough to walk unassisted. Hallelujah! I’m cured! As I decide how to spend my day, the "Grace clan" takes my chair. They ask, of course, and when I say "Go ahead, you’ve taken over the whole room," I hear one of them say, "What’s her problem." I think about responding, but instead I take my book and my walker and head for the lounge. Since it’s empty, I can watch whatever TV I like, so I take up residence there for the day. Leaving my book open in a chair, I head for the elevator, sneak down to the first floor and find the smoking room. Now I feel human. I meet the unit clerk from my floor who tells me they’re getting my private room ready. Now I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. I can get away from Grace and the Grange convention which has been going on for two days!
I spend two peaceful nights in my spacious private room. I can leave the TV on all night. I can shower by myself. I can walk to the bathroom. I can go into the hall and get coffee anytime I want to. I can even sit on the couch or stretch out in the lounge chair in the room. I have been freed from captivity!
My week in the hospital was the Week From Hell. I have learned something, though. If I can’t have a private room the next time, I won’t go!
I awoke to the awful sound of a man shouting, “You gotta, gotta, gotta come to Friendly Ford of Augusta this weekend”. Damn, I thought, I forgot to set the sleep alarm on my TV again. I couldn't find the remote fast enough.
This particular commercial drives me crazier than most. This man spins his arm around from the elbow like a side ways helicopter rotor. It makes one dizzy just to watch him, his arm spinning, his eyes bulging and him shouting as if everyone within his listening range is hard of hearing. I'd swear he wears fake eyesballs to make his eyes look like they are about to fall off his face. I swear under my breath, I will NEVER visit Friendly Ford, even if my life depends on it, as I find the remote under my pillow. Click, he's gone.
There aren't many commercials, local or otherwise, that will make me grab the remote as fast, but as I go through life I've discovered I hate them all. I'm getting too old to fall for their antics anymore. Cars racing up larger than life mountains, cowboys jumping in off horses into vans, and, of course, the piece of paper with the picture of a guy on it swirling around in the wind looking for a ride.
I long for the old ones of my youth. Who doesn't remember the “Call for Phillip Morris”, Speedy Alkselzer, or Morris, the cat. I long to watch the little boy with the puppies crawling all over him, giggling so infectiously you had to watch, just to find out who thought of such a clever ad. (It was Pepsi). I always felt better after watching that one.
I wish someone would invent a chip, much like the v-chip, that you could install to eliminate commercials. We could choose the type of commercials we didn't want to watch, you know like no car or beer commercials, except during the Super Bowl, ( I have to watch the Clydesdales play their annual game).
Can you imagine what the internet would be like without those awful pop up boxes or the dazzling lights flashing across the top of your favorite senior site. At least, on the internet you can install a program that eliminates the pop up boxes. I guess we will have to resort to special glasses for the dazzling lights.
We need a sensor like the ones on cars in the fifties and sixties that detected bright lights on oncoming cars, commercial comes on, blink on goes the mute. I'm sure most of us would soon realize that our favorite TV shows are really just commercials for the real show, the commercials.
The music surrounded me, controlling my feet! How could this be? My feet
would not stand still. My body began to protest. This never should have
happened, but look at me now! I have dancing feet controlled by the
music.
It's not my fault that the witch turned green! I choose yellow! She
hated yellow, especially when I told her my lover was yellow. That's when the
witch got so angry she turned green with envy. I never got the chance to
explain. I didn't mean the color yellow. But the witch just ranted and
raved and accused me of putting my foot in my mouth. That was
ten years ago when I was a man. Now, I know better. Now, I would have
chosen purple. It was her fault she turned green, but she blamed me. How
was I to know that the she hated green? How was I to know that the only
time she thought of green she thought of nature? How was I to know
how much she hated nature? She should never have trusted me! It was then
that she put the curse on me. That was ten years ago when I was a
man.
I really think I meant all those things I told her ten years ago when I
was a man. It is so hard for me to think now that the music is
controlling my feet. These feet keep my body in constant motion and my mind
swells with the music. It is hard to think of anything but my feet and the
music.
I love watching my feet trying to run and jump through the air while I am
in bed. They have tried everything to get the body they are attached to
cooperate. I continue to refuse. They deserve this small torture that I
can provide only while lying down. They should have thought of
this before they tried to put themselves in my mouth at the same time. Nothing is quite as dumb as a foot. Well, maybe that isn't exactly true; I
have met a few people as dumb as a foot. I digress.
Let me tell you how it all began. It was a restful, dreamless night until
something jolted me awake. I can remember it as clearly as if it were
yesterday and that was ten years ago when I was still a man. I remember
getting out of bed and running out the door. I never thought
of putting something on my feet or even covering my nakedness! It just
didn't seem to matter at the time. HE came from the forest, a creature of
nature. HE was seeking asylum from the witch! I didn't believe in witches
at the time, but that was ten years ago when I was still a man!
Oh, I should have believed. If I had I wouldn't be in the predicament I
am in now. My body would still be controlling my feet. Although I knew my
family would not be happy, I welcomed HIM into my home and tried to make HIM
understand there are no such things as witches. HE was definitely not
convinced. HE told me his story and I wavered in my belief. HE said the
only way he could have the spell removed from him was to find a replacement
to bring to the witch. Always ready for a challenge, I agreed to return to
the witches hut with him. Of course, I really didn't believe a word he
said, I was skeptical. I could see how distressed he was so I
played along with his story. I wanted to put on some clothing but he assured
me the witch would prefer me just the way I was. He explained that she was
one hundred seventy-two years old and uglier than a giant slug, so a
handsome man was always welcome. A naked handsome young man would probably give her apoplexy (which was all right with HIM, because then HIS troubles would be over).
In no time at all we were at the witch's hovel and the door swung open,
squeaking on its hinges. The aroma of baking frog pie assailed our nostrils
and we heard a vulgar sound - hehehehe - coming from within the hovel. We
entered and I gazed upon her. I decided immediately if she was not a witch,
she certainly could pretend to be one quite handily. She was wrinkled and
shriveled and had warts in all the proper places, a huge mouth gaping open
in what was supposed to be a smile, and one sharpened saber tooth growing
from her lower jaw. What small excitement I might have had at the thought
of an eager, willing woman melted immediately. In fact, she was so ugly,
everything on or even near my body shriveled. Of course, Nature Boy was
giggling with delight as he had found a substitute in me and he was about to
be set free.
It was at this time that the subject of color came up. But Nature Boy was
not at all interested and bid me adieu as he skipped out of the hovel and
entered the spaceship that was waiting outside for HIM. Now, it not that I
have anything against aliens, it's just that they always take advantage of
us earthlings. He knew I would not believe his story but that I would be
enticed by it and he gambled that I would do everything in my power to make
a fool of him. I have to admit there is no fool like a young male fool.
I knew I would have to do some fancy foot work to get out of this mess, so
I told the witch 'I could not love you more and I would like to prove it to
you, so just tell me what you want of me'. Her reply was the biggest
surprise I could have expected. She said she wanted me to pick her color.
This was so easy I could not believe my ears. I told her my lover had been
yellow and the witch began to screech before I could even finish my
sentence. Right before my eyes she began turning green. Her screeches grew
louder and louder! I knew right then that I was back in trouble, big, big
trouble. I watched my feet trying to enter my mouth. I knew right then and
there that I was having a most serious relapse of foot and mouth disease. I
had had it under control for all these years and now an outbreak at the
worst possible moment.
It was then I knew 'Foot and Mouth Disease is on the Rise'.
Don't know what all the excitement's for
I've lived with it for years!
The biggest problem I have had
(that almost brings me tears)
Is though my mouth is very big
(the least of all my fears)
my feet are ever bigger still
and that is where I fail
to get my foot into my mouth
beyond my big toe nail!
And that is why I have dancing feet! I can't go on like this. You have
to decide! What shall my fate be?
They waited silently, in the dark, not knowing if they would be put to use or not. The three that were chosen didn't have a choice for this mission. The mission wasn’t secret, but only several people on a select list were aware of the challenge they themselves faced as they mulled over the fate of the silent three. As far missions go, a more unlikely threesome couldn’t have been chosen. If exposed separately, they wouldn’t function as well. They needed each other this time to make the mission work. Furthermore, separately they had no reason to associate with each other, but because they were combined they generated a challenge to those several people in the know, and quite possibly some measure of apprehension for them.
The three that were sent had no clear objective, no set pattern of use. They were assigned this mission simply because they could pull it off without being noticed by society in general. Actually while they waited silently they were surrounded by thousands just like them. They could easily blend in except for when, as in typing; a mistake is made, then they would stand out in their peer group. These three had a unique job ahead of them and they could not possibly do this by themselves. Help was needed and had to be done with structured expertise so no fatal error would occur. The key then to the success of the mission would be to get a variety of ideas written down so others on the select list could offer an evaluation .
Waiting silently was fairly easy for these three. The only difficulty; even as they stood side by side they had no way to communicate with each other. Each though had a specific meaning or reason to be there. For this mission they were bound by the very choice of their combination. They wouldn’t always be together, but this was their time to be used as they had been arranged to do. The really amazing part of it all is their ability to be cloned and sent to the very special people on the list. Cloning in this instance is acceptable but misuse isn’t.
Because words are really good at what they do no wonder the three words, “Silently They Waited,” were chosen for the mission of being used by someone’s imagination. This combination of words can generate many different thoughts. Together these three words “Silently They Wait” sent in an email, do like all words. They wait silently until we use them as our imagination dictates, to have them wait silently no longer but to come alive in a variety of ways. For example:
Silently they waited. The sun was warm, the day looked like any other.
It was late afternoon and time for the creaking to begin. The garage door wheels needed oil. No familiar sound.
Down the block more silence. The bus didn’t stop, no hissing of the air brakes.
It passed the stop for the 1st. time
The light stayed on, the bedtime storybook lay unread. The covers usually tucked neatly, were pulled tightly over her head.
Silently they waited. Fear replaced hope. No creaking wheels. No air brakes. No story read. Sept. 11th. left too many dead.
"Grandma, grandma!" Donnie cried as he ran into the room.
"What is wrong honey?" Grandma replied, as she picked him up.
"I put a rock in my ear and can't get it out," he answered.
"What kind of rock did you put in there?"
Donnie pointed to the fish aquarium. "One from there."
Getting the tweezers, Grandma tried to get the rock out. Her attempts were unsuccessful. She told Donnie to get ready because they would have to go to the emergency room to let the doctor remove it.
After they signed in at the hospital, Grandma and Donnie sat and silently waited their turn.
Suddenly Donnie said, "Come on Grandma we can leave."
"What do you mean?" Grandma questioned, "Isn’t the rock still in your ear?"
"No!" Donnie beamed, "I put a bug in my ear, and the bug is pushing the rock out!"
Grandma giggled. "Well Donnie, I think we still should let the doctor check it."
Silently they wait their turn.
Hurry up and wait! This phrase kept repeating itself as I waited in the Kansas City Airport in Missouri. I had just finished a four-hour marathon in a small rented car from Wichita, Kansas. During the trip I’d competed with darkness and unfamiliar routes, pelting rain and wimpy windshield wipers. Passing trucks that sucked me into their wake and spewed gallons of water on the car and in the final hour, the city’s morning traffic. I did NOT want to wait. I was too pumped!
Nevertheless, WAIT is what I had to do. First I had to wait in line to find a parking space in the rental lot, then wait for the shuttle bus during a downpour. At the terminal, I patiently waited to have my luggage checked. Now, it was time for a "pit stop" but I found I had to wait while they finished cleaning the restroom.
Placidly I queued up at the security gate, juggling identification, tickets and gear. Silently I shuffled forward with the other waiting people, until it was my turn to place my pocket book and "carry on bag" upon the conveyor belt of the scanner.
Then I stepped though the stationary metal detector, and it started to "bing." The sound unnerved me a little, but I mutely complied with security procedures as the attendant motioned me to the side. Calmly I waited until he finished scanning another passenger with the hand-held metal detector. Now I was next for the security check, as he waved the wand over my body, back and front, under my arms, around my ankles and between my knees. My "SILENT MODE" broke.
Huskily, I whispered, "Careful Luv, any closer . . . and you’ll have to marry me."
I can wait for just about anything, but not silently! i>
Silently they waited in the darkness, huddling together in a small group
outside the mouth of No. 2 mines. The siren had gone off just before midnight, a dreaded signal that there was trouble at the mines. With a heavy heart, Mrs. Markey, along with her daughter-in-law Alicia, joined with the others, trudging up the hill to await whatever news that was available.
"Shhh..Alicia," she whispered to the shivering girl." We must be brave and pray that Stephen is alright."
"Please God," the woman prayed,"don't let the mines rob me of my only remaining child."
Was it only six years ago that she had stood waiting , almost in this very spot?
That time there had been a mine explosion and twelve lives had been lost. Sweet, sweet John, her husband whom she still missed terribly, and her younger son Toby were two of the twelve men that had perished on that black October day. Mercifully Stephen had been spared. He was her rock as she buried her husband and young son. "Stephen," she begged as they stood over the graves, "get out of the mines. Get out of these hills and make a better life for yourself and Alicia."
"Okay mom," he promised.
He took Alicia up to Detroit Michigan where he got a job building cars.
Within a year he was back.
"This is my home, mom," he explained. "This is where I want to be. I'll take my chances," he said, as he trudged back to the mines.
A rumor went through the crowd. "What are they saying?" Mrs. Markey asked
the tall woman that stood beside her.
"They're saying that two men have been killed in a rock slide."
"What did she say mom?" Alicia whispered.
Dear Alicia, swollen with her first child. No one could have a more loving daughter-in-law. Mrs. Markey put her arms around her and held her close.
"Alicia," she said, "two men have been crushed in a rock fall."
"Oh God!" Alicia whimpered as she slowly sank to the ground.
"Please don't cry," Mrs. Markey said, as she gently pulled Alicia to her feet.
"They're bringing someone out," the tall woman beside her whispered. Mrs. Markey stood on tip toe, straining to see who was on the stretcher that the rescue workers were carrying to the waiting ambulance. "It's Robert Jones." Someone at the front of the line informed the crowd.
Robert Jones, a shy young man who had just recently married his high school
sweetheart. Most of the town folk attended their wedding. Tears rolled down Mrs. Markey cheeks as she filled with pity for the young bride.
"They're bringing the other one out!" someone shouted.
"Who is it? who is it?" Mrs. Markey asked as she stretched to see.
The news went through the crowd in a low whisper. "It's Stephen Markey."
"Dear God, no!" Mrs. Markey wailed.
Alicia screamed, "It can't be! God could not be so cruel."
The compassionate crowd parted to let Stephen's mother and weeping Alicia pass through to the waiting ambulance where the bodies were being loaded. There was no mistake. It was Stephen lying on the stretcher.
"Stephen, Stephen," Alicia screamed again and again,throwing herself
across Stephen's cold, still body.
"God give me strength," Mrs. Markey prayed as she pulled the sobbing girl
away from the stretcher. She held her tightly against her to still her
convulsing body as they watched the rescue workers load Stephen into
the waiting ambulance.
"Come on Alicia,' she said as they wearily followed the ambulance down the hill.
"We have much to do."
Arrangements had to be made. She had to bury another son.
"They stand quietly by your side, their eyes never leaving your face. Every so often they gently touch your hand as if to say, "Hi Dad. It’s me." Each bear their usual gift of love; Danny with his man-sized fist of quarters just in case you need that extra cup of coffee to wash down the sticky, cherry filled pastry that Cindy, who’s old enough to know better, always sneaks by the nurse station. For sure, Mike harbors your favorite snicker candy bar in his almost man-sized pocket. Susan, best of all, brings you the gift of life she carries within her body. Yup! We’ll be new grandparents in a few months."
"You’d be proud of the kids. Each one seriously checks your IV insuring it’s proper flow, your dialysis machine with it’s clicking meter, and of course, your ever so popular heart monitor with its' zigzag patterns and flat pitched beeps. They stand at your bedside, like tall soldiers, brave and devoted to their dad. There’s not a weak one among them, not unless you consider crying a form of weakness. I’ve seen them cry many tines in the hospital chapel, cafeteria, and I suspect mostly in the privacy of their hearts. I have trouble bearing the hurt in the kids eyes as they watch you labor for each breath of life. How they love you. "
"There is so much sadness in this room. The kids talk in low whispers as though not to disturb you. They’ll be leaving soon. Their visits are always short when you are like this, a breath away from death. See you later, mom," they whisper in my ear. I can feel the wet on their cheeks when they kiss me. Damn! I just want to scream."
"The specialists have been in. Your condition remains unchanged. As usual, we must wait for you to respond to treatment. I wish you’d hurry up and do what ever you're going to do. Die or get better! I’m tired of being in this damn hospital, the same old life or death garbage, for seven years. Thirty-three times we’ve been prepared for death and you had the nerve to live. You’ve said so often, "Shit or get off the pot!" Well, I’m telling you shit or get off the pot! If you’re gonna die then die! Let’s get this suffering over with! I wanna go home, nestle in the arms of my children, shop, and cook, make dinners and friends. …Lord, what am I saying? Shame on me. It’s just that…I hate this hospital! I hate this room! Most of all, I hate that oxygen machine with it’s never ending hissing. How do you live with that sound? How do you sleep with all those tubes in your mouth, up your nose, around your face?"
"The shadows are high on the walls. It must be late afternoon. The dinner trays were collected a while ago. Your favorite nurse, Ann, brought me a cup of coffee. I love to watch her fuss about you, a little tuck here and there, her eyes scanning the bags of fluids. As I’ve always said, "What goes around comes around." You’ve been kind to her. Now her heart is tending you."
"The room is quiet again, except for that damn hissing. Look at you! You’re all discolored. Please get well. There’s still a chance. Feel the warmth of my hand. Let my strength fill your body. We can beat this ol’ emphysema. We can beat anything as long as we lean on each other. Lean on me. I’ll help you. Remember the pact we made? We agreed that when it came time for us to leave this earth, you said that you’d go first, so I wouldn’t be afraid when it came my turn,’ that you’d be there to lead me though the valley of death. DAMN YOU! Don’t you dare die now! I don’t want your dumb hand leading me anywhere in death. Get up and live you coward. How selfish you are. Really, I’ve never thought about it before. Just because you have emphysema we all have to die. Yes, when you go, a part of us will die with you. That generally happens when you love someone… and we do love you."
"I’m frightened. You’re gasping for air again. That means you’re starving for oxygen. You must have more air. There is no more air. The oxygen machine is on full. There just isn’t any room in your lungs to hold air."
"Whoops! You opened your eyes. Hi honey! ...Nope… You did open them for a second. They were all red and glassy, probably from your last bout with the sweats. Let’s see what else can we talk about today. It’s a beautiful spring afternoon. Very much like the first time I brought you home from the hospital. Remember? It felt neat, you being the passenger for a change. I always had a hunch you were terrified of my driving skills. You proved it sitting rigid like a soldier waiting for a bomb to fall on him. Remember your back seat comments?"
"`Be careful, there’s a stop-sign ahead,' and,`You took that corner a little fast, didn’t you dear?'"
"My goodness, where’d the day go? The shadows have melted away; leaving the room dressed in a dull gray. It’s time to turn on the lights. Gee, I’m sorry I startled you. Startled you! Honey, you’re awake! Thank God. How are you feeling? You’ve had a rough time of it. Thought I almost lost you. Water? You want water? That’s a good sign. You’ll be up and about in no time."
"It’s been three days and look how wonderful you look. The IV’s are removed, and you’re walking up and down the halls. "
"You’re going home today. "
"Isn’t the ride through the countryside just beautiful? The warm sun has gently persuaded the last patches of winter to give way to the new sprigs of green that lie beneath it. The creeks are still swollen and the unplowed fields are alive with bouquets of wild flowers. Poetic, ain’t I? Well, I feel good. To show you how good, I’ll be extra careful driving, try my best to avoid the humps and bumps in the driveway. I’ll be so careful you’ll think you floated home."
"Our lilacs are in bloom early this year." He didn’t hear me. His attention is drawn to our land, looking at it as though he had never seen it before, or perhaps just thankful to see it again. I only have a few hours till supper and so much to do, but I won’t rush him. Take those sweet breaths of life, my husband. Face the sun and let its warmth heal the ugly needle punctures that mass your arms with grotesque wounds of discoloration, the sickening reminders of the hell of emphysema. The bruises will fade in a few weeks, but the disease, they tell me, will take you away from us in a few short months. I’ve decided not to tell you the doctor’s prognosis. Nope. I’m not telling you.
I love to watch you. Your hands deepened in your pockets. The impish breeze ruffling your silver black hair. Your proud face. Your human beauty. I love you my husband. Oh, how much I love you.
The room was hushed. No one spoke aloud. The banked seats of the auditorium were filled with spectators, but even they sat silently, waiting, watching intently. All eyes were riveted on the scene in front of them. This was an event of momentous importance, never before witnessed by such a group.
Around the table on the stage were the gowned and gloved participants, all experts in their own fields. They had been called together for this moment. The implements, sparkling and sterile, were laid out in order of their use. Temperature and humidity controls had been checked and re-checked.
The lead expert nodded to his assistants. All was in readiness. It was time to begin. One of the assistants began reading the steps involved, making sure that nothing was overlooked. With deft strokes, the expert made the first cut. The assistants now sighed, having held their breaths during the procedure. He handed the slice he had cut to an assistant, who held out a silver tray. More cuts followed, faster now. Finally, the expert lifted his head, removed his gloves and lifted one of the slices from the tray.
Putting the slice into his mouth, he savored it for a moment, then gave a thumbs up sign. The audience broke into applause. The new pizza had passed the test! It had won the grand prize.
"Is there only one day left? Do we really need to eat? Does any person care that we might not exist by this time tomorrow? What will our families say when they realize we are gone? Will they be surprised and will it be expected?
One day—24 hours—1,440 minutes—86,400 seconds! Gone in a flash, with barely a trace, four lives snuffed out like "a candle in the wind". My God, what a waste! And for what? Who benefits? Certainly we don’t, perhaps they think they do—who knows? We were conceived, born, tended to with great patience by our mothers, and then turned out on our own. ‘Go now, young one, and live your life in peace. Remember this: I will always love you."
These words were overheard in the dawn hours, the day before the opening day of deer hunting season in Maine. I encountered four deer on the way to work this morning. They were, no doubt, enjoying their last meal of fresh green grass as they stood beside the road. The picture was worth a thousand words. That's why this is a very short story!
Silently, they waited in the wind. They were the only things left of what was once a small, well kept farm on the Kansas Missouri border of Fort Scott, Kansas. No one had come to enjoy their beauty for many years now.
My Grandmother called them flags, but I have always known them as iris'. I remember, how I always looked for them, soon after turning into the gravel drive that led to my grandparents small, neat house. They meant we were almost there. Grandma always had homemade cookies waiting, and hot chocolate on cold winter days .
I was always anxious to run through the field of flowers that bloomed down the right side of that drive, and into the field next to it. They were always so beautiful, I missed them when Grandma and my Aunt moved into town, shortly after Grandpa died in 1959. No one gave them ! a thought after that. Nor did I, till last April, when we were told that our dear Aunt Lillian, who had spent so many years caring for my grandparents and others, was near death herself.
We went to inspect the site she had chosen to be her final resting place. Lillian had chosen the cemetery just down the road from the old homestead, atop a hill that overlooked the town, it was beautiful there. The hill was a favorite spot of hers, she went there to see the whole valley below and the beautiful sunsets of her beloved Kansas hills. It was a place of peace.
It was a natural thing to do, to see what was left of the farm that had given us so much joy in our youth. Sadly, there was nothing left but an over grown path leading to the foundation of the white clapboard house we had visited so often. But, like old friends the flags were there, waving in the wind, a friendly hello to us. They seem to say, we remember the old times and thanks for coming to ! visit us.
I couldn't just leave them there.......silently waiting for my next visit. My brother said I was nuts to think of digging them up now. He encouraged me to wait, at least, until fall. I think he was secretly hoping I would forget them when I agreed it would be better to wait.
But, he was wrong, I didn't forget them. We were on our way to visit Lillian's grave when I ask him to wait while I retrieved a spade from my uncles shed. I must get those flags on this visit or it will be too cold next time. They are, now, awaiting their new home, albeit, silently. And, next year, when they bloom I will remember how they waved to me so many years ago.
At some point, I’m sure I will look back on this episode as being funny, but right now I just feel outraged. I’m not sure if I’m angry with myself for being a bad judge of character or at the college student I offered lodging to during her graduate work at the university. Maybe it's a little of both.
In June, a college student was recommended to me by a trusted music faculty member at the university. The girl was coming back to get graduate hours in music education, and she was a violinist. Just what I had been looking for! In the past, several of my daughter’s friends had boarded here during their college years, and the experiences were always pleasant.
This one has turned into a nightmare! My offer was a bedroom, private bath, and kitchen and laundry privileges. I also offered the use of the basement family room for study and practice. I also mentioned that I had a huge empty room for anything she might want to store. Little did I expect three full carloads of "stuff."
Before she moved in, she had managed to talk me into letting her have a bed in the basement, and I reluctantly agreed, thinking this would give us both privacy. I had cleaned cupboards for her dry foods, half the refrigerator, and the bathroom vanity.
I saw no harm in her sleeping downstairs, and I told her she could use the microwave for snacks and the dorm refrigerator for pop or whatever, but that the bar itself was mine.
Before I knew it, she and her mother had converted the empty storage room into a "charming little sitting room," complete with the furniture I had removed to make way for her bed. I use that room for storage also, so she let me understand I would be invading her space. As I
walked through the basement, I noticed a set of dishes, silverware, a crock pot, a blender, and other kitchen paraphernalia. There were throw rugs, stuffed animals, mirrors, a wall clock, framed pictures, and silk flower arrangements.
It was then I realized that she had not accepted my offer of a "room with a bath"; she had turned MY basement, MY family room, into her own private apartment!!! And – she had done it all without asking – or without telling me in advance what she planned to do. The last straw was discovering she had taken the mattress off the other single bed and put it on her bed.
She moved in Saturday. On Monday, I gave her notice to be out by 5 p.m. Wednesday, giving as my reason that she had violated the agreement. Her comment was, "I’d be willing to compromise." That statement sent me through the roof. I didn’t even wait to hear what her "compromise" might be! I said, "This conversation is at an end. You will be out by Wednesday. You will move your stuff into the garage before you leave, and you will make arrangements to have it taken out of here by the end of the weekend."
I have always been a pussycat. I’ve let people run over me for years. Since John left me, however, and I’ve had to fend for myself, I’ve become a whole person. Nobody will ever take advantage of my good nature again. I made some mistakes in this venture, but I have to believe I’m not too old to learn from my mistakes.
The ancient Greeks believed that comedy and tragedy were halves of the same whole.
If I had allowed her to stay, this would have been written as a tragedy. As time goes on,
I’m sure I’ll see it as a comedy.
*Let the seller beware
My mind resembles the remnants of Hurricane Andrew. Facts are piled indiscriminately with fiction. Occasionally something familiar surfaces, something to which I can relate. It's the first day of school. Faces pass me in the hallway. I should be able to meld these faces with names, but I can't. "Well," I say to myself, "this should be an interesting year."
No, I don't have dementia or Alzheimer's. This event happens every year. There are so many faces, so many names, so many little situations, that it is difficult keep them all straight. I search my mental CD for an instant recall - obviously, it was not burned correctly.
"Darn it, why did I call that kid Joe? Was it Joe or was it ------?"
Brenda, walking down the hall with me, asks, "Did you say something to me?"
"No, Bren, just talking to myself-again."
She says, "Get any answers?"
"Are you kidding, of course not. What was that boy's name?"
She looks at me as if she's just be transported from another planet, "Darned if I know!"
I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm not the only one with Vacation Syndrome! I think I'll make it through this year after all.
Jack Benny, Fred Allen, Steve Allen, The Texaco Hour, Sid Caesar Hour all provided me with many hours of mirth and laughter. Sometimes, especially with Bob Hope, there was a play on words which could be considered bordering on the risqué’, but never anything wounding.
Today unless I watch Nickelodeon or other rerun channels the “funny” sitcoms are very sarcastic, image damaging, rude, and just plain hurtful by picking on the weakest character(s) on the show.
These are the shows which are receiving high audience ratings.
To me this is proof positive that as a society we have certainly lost our kinder gentler side, and the ability to be funny, without gaining a laugh, by making cruel or insulting statements about another.
Funny will never be completely buried in our society. Who hasn’t had a tense, sad, scary moment greatly diminished by a bit of gentle humor. My concern is how are the younger folks going to learn the art of light mirth and laughter when most of today’s examples of funny are purposely directed at inflicting image damage to another.
Thank heavens those of us who have outlived the last generation of truly funny, gentle humor can still find examples on the Nickelodeon channel with the Cosby show, Mary Tyler Moore show, etc.
Am I sounding as though there is no hope on this subject? Things go in cycles and my desire is for our society to soon complete the cycle of inconsiderate and verbal wounding of others and replace it with a return to the good ole days of true funny. HP<>P>
Silently, they waited in the wind. They were the only things left of what was once a small, well kept farm on the Kansas Missouri border of Fort Scott, Kansas. No one had come to enjoy their beauty for many years now.
My Grandmother called them flags, but I have always known them as iris'. I remember, how I always looked for them, soon after turning into the gravel drive that led to my grandparents small, neat house. They meant we were almost there. Grandma always had homemade cookies waiting, and hot chocolate on cold winter days .
I was always anxious to run through the field of flowers that bloomed down the right side of that drive, and into the field next to it. They were always so beautiful, I missed them when Grandma and my Aunt moved into town, shortly after Grandpa died in 1959. No one gave them ! a thought after that. Nor did I, till last April, when we were told that our dear Aunt Lillian, who had spent so many years caring for my grandparents and others, was near death herself.
We went to inspect the site she had chosen to be her final resting place. Lillian had chosen the cemetery just down the road from the old homestead, atop a hill that overlooked the town, it was beautiful there. The hill was a favorite spot of hers, she went there to see the whole valley below and the beautiful sunsets of her beloved Kansas hills. It was a place of peace.
It was a natural thing to do, to see what was left of the farm that had given us so much joy in our youth. Sadly, there was nothing left but an over grown path leading to the foundation of the white clapboard house we had visited so often. But, like old friends the flags were there, waving in the wind, a friendly hello to us. They seem to say, we remember the old times and thanks for coming to ! visit us.
I couldn't just leave them there.......silently waiting for my next visit. My brother said I was nuts to think of digging them up now. He encouraged me to wait, at least, until fall. I think he was secretly hoping I would forget them when I agreed it would be better to wait.
But, he was wrong, I didn't forget them. We were on our way to visit Lillian's grave when I ask him to wait while I retrieved a spade from my uncles shed. I must get those flags on this visit or it will be too cold next time. They are, now, awaiting their new home, albeit, silently. And, next year, when they bloom I will remember how they waved to me so many years ago.
I have never been fond of practical jokes. Particularly those like "Candid Camera." They make me uncomfortable, knowing that someone is deliberately being set up for the amusement of a large audience. However, there are "jokes" that have occurred within the family and remain classics. The ones that you retell over the years at clan gatherings, and they still draw amusing reactions from those involved.
In 1972, we moved into a house that was more than 100 years old, a rambling farm house with a wrap around porch. It sat on a hill bordered by fields and a pear orchard, with plenty of room for boys to play and use their imagination. The house had a persona common to older homes. It came complete with creaking stairwells, squeaking doors, musky smells and unexplained noises. Jokingly we would often comment, "Maybe it’s haunted." Despite its idiosyncrasies we found it had many advantages. It was the first time that each boy had a chance to have his own room. Thirteen-year-old Jon had chosen a back room at the end of a long hallway, away his siblings. His two brothers had rooms at the other end, close to the master bedroom at the front of the house.
One evening, after the boys had settled in for the night, I was relaxing and reading quietly in bed. Suddenly, Tommy streaked into my room His eight-year-old legs were pumping so fast it seemed that his feet were not touching the ground. As he landed on the bed, his eyes wide with fear, he claimed, "Somebody is knocking on my window!" Dave, hearing his brother’s declaration, crossed the hall to join us. With typical ten-year-old candor he said, "We’re on the second floor, Dingy! How could anybody be knocking on your window?"
I gave Dave my best mother’s "knock it off" look.. Gathering Tom in my arms I tried to calm him by telling him that someone would have to be 20 feet tall to knock on the window. Still, I did not convince him and he refused to go back to his room. It was going to be a long night!
Deciding the best way to resolve the problem was to check the window and prove there was no reason for him to be upset. He stood in the hallway. His brother entered the room with me. I drew the curtain back, the window was latched but the wooden storm window was ajar. Opening the inside widow, I planned to check the outside wall for trees or shrubbery that might be making the sound and then to secure the storm window. Suddenly the storm window began to vibrate. I became frozen in place. I could feel my heart wildly beating against my chest. David seeing the window move, bolted from the room and joined his brother in the hallway. Again the window jiggled, I was about to join my sons in the hallway when I caught a glimpse of something attached to a hinge. "Dammit!" I yelled. Muttering threats of bodily harm, I headed down the long hall to Jon’s room. I threw open his door and discovered the cause of the "knocking" window. The giggling culprit was lying in his bed, tugging on a fishing line.
After I delivered my stormy reprimand, and when I had cooled down I began to ask questions. I learned that earlier in the day he had rigged about fifty feet of line around the outside of the house to accomplish this fete. This child has never ceased to amaze me with his ingenuity. However, now that he is a father I think it’s pay back time. Now . . . that’s funny!
I’m busy scribbling mental notes to myself. My favorite place. Is this place in the present or in the past? Where is this place or what kind of place is it ? Do I go there alone or with someone? What is the attraction to this place? A place that is singular in being, yet interesting enough for me to go there when my conscious mind feels like it.
There is only one favorite place I can think of that makes sense to me. The favorite place is the memory section of my mind. I can go there for old memories or ones recently acquired. Retirement makes traveling there so much better. I have more free time to roam around when I feel like it. There is nothing to distract me (like work) from visiting as often or little as I care to.
A really unique feature of memory tripping is the ability to link and come up with a whole short mental movie of what started out as a simple thought. Something like my wife saying, "Hon get some wine and chill it; we’ll have it tonight when we hot tub."
Wine the trigger word and hot tub being enjoyable... a good combination. The memory begins with that trigger word wine. It's mid-March and a wedding anniversary is soon upon us. Tickets to Maui for 10 days is a must to tell my wife about "AFTER" I make the arrangements. She does the packing because I have no skill in that area. Maybe it's a male thing, I’m a bit practical and consider this a great way to celebrate and beat the winter blahs at the same time. The romantic part of me (better known as NO FOOL) only mentions the fact it is for our anniversary.
The time arrived, so with bags packed and tickets in hand we were off. The flight to Maui from Los Angeles was on time and for some reason didn’t seem to be very long. The airport on Maui is small, but ground service was very efficient. Not long after de -boarding we picked up the luggage and got the rental car - a Mustang convertible included in part of the trip package. Keys to the car and map in hand plus some suggestions on where to go, we were off on to enjoy our 37th. honeymoon. It was only about an 18 mile drive over to Kehei from the airport and not much traffic. We checked in and found a nice place to have dinner. That night we decided we were tired from traveling, so we’d get a good night sleep and start early tomorrow. We have 10 days and no set criteria. Our only plan was to have fun at whatever sounded like fun to do.
An early morning jog on the beach and we were set to go on our island adventure. At breakfast one of the waiters suggested whale watching on the way to Lahaina and then have lunch there. That sounded good so we headed out. Whale watching was from the car, parked along the highway in an area reserved for pulling off. We saw lots of whale tails and surfacing to blow but not much in the way of huge whale bodies. Oh well that was an extra anyway. Lunch wasn’t exotic but we did learn that Maui has the only winery in the Hawaiian island chain. We also learned that LaHaina has some great dancing at night in several of the clubs so staying to dance was mandatory. We got back late so no morning beach jogging, just brunch and off to find the winery.
On the map it looked close but winding around the side of a volcano is longer than it looks. The lush greenery hid the drastic contrast of what once was an active volcano. Every once in awhile though lava mounds poked out so we got a good look at what nature can do. Small farms and a horse riding ranch were up there too, a little something for everyone I guess. We finally reached the winery and were pleasantly surprised at the beautiful landscaping. I think we were anticipating old rickety buildings with snaggle toothed old Hawaiians tending to vats of crushed products waiting to be put in barrels. Too many old west movies for me maybe. I really don’t know what generated that mental image of a winery but to describe the beauty of the landscape would be a whole other story. The winery boasted the best pineapple wine made anywhere so we had to have some shipped home and some for a night at the beach.
That night we filled an ice bucket, borrowed beach towels from the hotel and wine glasses from the bar, then set out to watch a Hawaiian sunset. I have to admit that seeing the sun set as a fiery red ball sinking into the Pacific is an awesome sight. Later that night when we knew we were alone we skinny dipped in the ocean and played like kids in the sand. Almost identical to our fifth honeymoon on the island of St. Thomas, except there we had bananna rum daiquiris .
That quick trip was tucked away in my favorite place and something as simple the word wine brought it back to me as though it were just now. My favorite place as you can see can be visited by me alone or joined by others that have shared some memories with me. Luckily everyone has this place to go to mentally play or just relax in the glow of knowing life was given to enjoy what we can of it in our own way.
A large, sunny room………lots of utilitarian tables and chairs………..a Coke machine in one corner……..a bright, beckoning jukebox in another. It was a typical 1950s hangout, and it became my "home away from home" for four years. It was my study hall. It was my social life. It was my escape from the rigidity of sorority life. It was my rebellion.
I hadn’t wanted to go to college. The memory is somewhat hazy now, but I remember it had something to do with a boy. Consequently, I wasn’t terribly interested in my classes. Whenever possible, I headed for the "’Cats Den" for a Coke and some R&R. My favorite words were "Fourth for bridge"? I could play bridge day and night! When the bridge players weren’t around, my favorite chess partner was. My backpack contained my Chemistry I book, the English 101 Handbook, Educational Psychology I, a well-worn deck of cards and a chessboard.
Somebody was always plunking money in the jukebox…….."Blueberry Hill," "Blue Suede Shoes," "Heartbreak Hotel," "No Not Much," and other memorable tunes of the ‘50s. Whenever I hear one of them played today – and now they’re classified as "Golden Oldies" – I see the ‘Cats Den in my mind.
My little town had no place for kids to hang out. Hanging out on the post office or library steps was as daring as “good girls” could get, and according to my mother at least, it wasn’t lady-like to do either. There was no business establishment open after 6 P.M., and the sidewalks were rolled up, as the saying goes. Most of my time away from home was spent at the homes of friends.
We had no high school there either, so after eighth grade we went to high school in a town about twelve miles south of us. There were no school busses, so a small group of us paid five dollars each a week to a first grade teacher with a dilapidated station wagon for rides to school and back each day. That was an adventure in itself over our four years, but I must save it for another day.
Because our driver, Mrs. Critsinger, wanted to come home immediately after she left work, and because all extra curricular activities were scheduled outside of school hours, there was no time for hanging out with the students who lived in that town, or at their “hangouts.” They had the choice of two drug stores, and their favorite place, “The Goodie Shop” which had the fried food and pool tables. They also had their own lovers’ lane, bowling alley, movie theater, and playground with pool. Needless to say, we as teens felt more than a little envy. We also put those proverbial ‘chips’ on our shoulders.
That all being said however, I don’t feel sad about it today. I had my own personal hangout as a teen, and the fact that I was the only one using it just made it more special to me. Whenever I had the need to get away from my domineering mother and my bratty little brother, I would hop on my bike and go up the road about a quarter mile, take a left turn, bump over the railroad track, and down into a little pine grove. It was called Sawyer’s Point, and was just a little jut of land into the river that runs through our town. It had a rocky kind of beach, very small. It was just the right size for solitary hanging out. I would just sit with my back against a tree and stare at the water drifting by. Sometimes I would bring a book and lose the time. Many tears were shed there, many frustrations coped with, and most of the time I would come away more peaceful. It was “my” place, no matter that it was owned by a neighbor.
Today, someone has a mobile home parked on that perfect place. Several times a week I pass by in my car, give it a glance, and wish with all my heart that I still had my “favorite all-time hangout” to go to.
Over the years I considered many places as hangouts. In high school was the "Sweet Shop," in college the "Hut," as a young mother, anywhere I could find a moment of privacy. Usually, I locked myself in the bathroom.
While searching my brain’s RAM, I extracted two places that fit the scan for favorite hangouts, Places that formed fond memories for friends and me. My back porch and my play house.
The wooden porch was about ten feet square, with lattices on two sides and an open entrance. It offered shade for lazy summer afternoons for my friends and me. Sitting tailor fashion on the rag carpet, we would play 500 rummy for hours. Even rain did not deter us, we simply surrounded ourselves with umbrellas so the game could continue.
We learned a lot about each other’s character during those naive times, early lessons in human nature: who played fairly, who cheated, which of us were bad losers. Some heated "disputes" would occur. Despite our name calling sessions, our math skills and thinking abilities improved. In addition I gained one valuable lesson to deal with life: if you can’t win this hand, shuffle the cards and try again.
The other hangout was my play house. Once the chicken coop, until my mother whitewashed the interior and decorated it with curtains, framed pictures and furniture that she fashioned out of wooden orange crates. Even as a working mother she found time to do these things on her day off. She had a special gift of imagination and playfulness. I recall one accessory, a discarded floor lamp and its shade. After painting the base, she covered the wire shade with fabric from a cast off house dress, leaving the pocket intact. When I asked why, she whispered, "To hide secret messages."
Her loving efforts afforded us many pleasant, carefree hours of make believe and dress up. We planned elaborate weddings and lawn parties or parades though the alleys of our neighborhood to show off our dresses, high heels, hats and jewelry. Personalities emerged during that time. My eclectic tastes were beginning to bud, a mixture of traditional and unconventional behavior. For a walk around the block with our dolls and carriages I favored a huge fur collar black cape, high heels and a veiled Kelly green hat. However, my carriage contained cap pistols, a hunk of rope, comic books, a musical jewel box and the cat.
Recently, JoAnn, my closest friend for sixty years, reminded me of when we would squabble in our hangouts: the usual problem when children are hungry and tired. We both remembered my grandmother calling us in the house for "chips" with vinegar. What intrigues me were her timing and the quiet why she handled our bickering. We were never aware of her going to her garden to dig the potatoes, or the preparation of washing, cutting and frying them into crisp golden spears. All we saw was the finished product, served in a wax paper cone, which she had shaped around her hand and firmly twisted the end to hold it into place. "I never remember anything else tasting so good," Jo said, "To this day I still put vinegar on my fries."
Nothing endures but change, "hangouts" come and go. Still, we can reach back and remember the end product, the comfortable memories they evoke and the pleasure of sharing the experience
"What is your all time favorite hangout," the inquiring reporter asks?
My immediate response is ," Johnny Macs Drive In."
The reporter said, " I have heard the name, will you please give me you
impressions of that drive in ?"
I would be glad to share with you some of the history of the best drive
in there ever was in this area", I replied.
" The building from the outside was very similar to "Arnolds" seen on the
Happy Days TV program. Our group only ate inside Johnny Macs when we were
with family; when with friends we had drive up service. This was the first
major drive in built right after WWII in our area. Drive in was a new
concept as were the hamburgers they served. A Big Mac was a double patty
burger which included a bit of salad dressing and all the usual trimmings
that makes hamburgers so tasty. The fries and milkshakes were also top grade."
"The location was only a few blocks from the high school. It soon became
the place to go for fun and food after an activity at the school, such as
football game or dance, or a date.. Drive up parking was limited so one
driver would leave the school activity just before it ended, in order to
dash off to Johnny Macs and secure a place for outside service. Then
friends would park their cars in a parking place and come sit and eat in the
car that had been holding a space for outside service."
" These are the tangible facts, I said, but it is difficult to explain the
atmosphere of youthful exuberance, laughter and good fun which built happy
memories for Johnny Mac patrons."
"One of my special Johnny Mack memories happened after a school dance
were we had dressed to the nines. My best friend, her date and my date had
just ordered. Suddenly my date let out a groan, turned to me and
said, " I hope you don't mind washing dishes to pay for this meal because
I have forgotten my wallet." Oh boy, I thought, how am I going to wash
dishes in high heels and a long dress? I can not let my date wash dishes
without my help. This is going to make me past curfew and
in trouble with my parents, but there is no alternative."
"Conversation while we consumed the wonderful burgers, fries, and shakes
kept coming back to having no money for payment, and just when and how we
would tell the car hop about the predicament. I was really worried and
expressed my concerns, but the others just said, 'Oh well that's the
way things go." When the bill came , my date pulled out his wallet,
plunked the money on the tray and dissolved into fits of laughter. It took
a moment for me to see the humor, but I soon was having a good laugh along
with my date."
"Mr. reporter, "I wish you could have attended the recent 50th reunion of
my class. There came the time in the evening when we all began the remember
when routine. Someone said, "Remember the good times at Johnny
Macs ?" There was a collective happy sigh from the
group and everyone was smiling broadly as happy memories flooded back to
them."
"Mr. reporter it is a good thing to have someone write an article about
this local landmark. It is just a shame that you weren't able to be a
Johnny Mac customer. Yes, I do know that the building is now a dry cleaning
place, but as I drive by, I still see Johnny Macs filled with happy
teenagers just enjoying being teenagers at a favorite hangout." HR>
As youngsters we all had favorite places to hang out. It might have been a friend’s house, a tree house, the old swimming hole, the corner drugstore. Perhaps even a secret hideaway known only to one friend and ourselves. We were out the door and off to our favorite nook as soon as chores were done, or before, if we could evade Mother’s watchful eye.
Some childhood traits continue into adulthood. There are those among us who still have an all-time favorite hangout. It might be the local bar, with friends from the neighborhood. For some of us, it’s one special friend’s place. One possibility is our own home, if we are secure and happy there - content with our surroundings and loved ones.
My favorite all-time hangout happens to be a place I only go to once a year. It sits beside a lake in South Carolina. I am there for three days each September, with my brothers, sisters, cousins, nephews, nieces, aunts, friends, and some of my own children.
We have been meeting there for about 10 years. We eat too much. We laugh until we hurt. We play pranks on each other. Some of the guys fish in the lake or go out in the boat. We love each other enough to last until the following year.
I’ve heard it said that all good things come to an end and it is true. Last year my brother died. The brother who provided the pavilion in which we had our annual meeting. The one whose lake we sat beside for three days in September, laughing, loving, feasting so happily. We won’t be going there this year. The reunion will be held at the coffeehouse belonging to a niece and her husband.
Maybe the coffeehouse will become my all-time favorite hangout, but it won’t be the same.
My most favorite hang out is my home. It's the best place to be when the world is closing in on me. Don't get me wrong, I love to travel to see new places and meet new people, but home is where my heart is and always will be, I suppose.
My little corner of the world has special meaning to me. It was the house that my family moved to in 1954, when I was but nine. We were so happy to have found a plot of land out in the country. There was a chicken farm just up the rode. The streets weren't paved.....yet. We couldn't even install a phone for months. There were no lines out this way.
It didn't take long for the country feel to be gone as others found our bit of heaven. Soon, there were children playing hide and seek in the streets after dark. We learned that a new shopping center was being built nearby, then another and another. Our bit of country had been citified.
I don't have a lot of space but it suits me fine. Some days I think I will have to add another room to house all my doodads, memorabilia, computer, and, of course, my collection of fabric, buttons, craft books and thread. I spend hours pinning, cutting and sewing bits of fabric to make clothing and quilts. My creations add color and comfort to my haven against the world.
My home isn't decorated nearly as nicely as I would like, but the chaos works for me at this time of my life. Amid the mismatched furniture (some antique, some early divorce, garage sales finds made over) you will find the photos of my family (we number 22 in all now), mementos of trips long ago, and gifts from my children given when they were small. I have gifts from their adulthood too, but they don't add nearly as much atmosphere as the salt and pepper shakers shaped like ducks, or the ceramic animals created for me while I lay in the hospital recovering from a back surgery.
I have reminders of days gone by, my grandmother's butter churn, the carving of my daughter's name in the window sill in the living room (she was practicing writing her name), the glass wash board my mother used to wash my dresses but most of all I have the memories of birthdays, Christmas's and Sunday afternoons spent playing board games with my brother and parents.
Mom, Dad, I know your up there looking down on the ole homestead and know I am keeping the ole place for just the purpose you intended....a gathering place for your loved ones.
This past week, while helping my granddaughters decorate their bicycles for a hometown parade, I discovered an old pleasure, how to play with my family. The simple joy of purpose with no purpose. It helped me to remember that having something to do that has no real purpose in life is important. It renewed a feeling that I used to have when I was a young mother: the joy of giving my three sons stimulation to use their imaginations.
Our bike project began by searching my cache for possible decorations. We retrieved many items like ribbon, lace, fabric, artificial flowers, poster paper and painting materials. These items gave the girls the fuel they needed to motivate their imagination and creativity. Their dad added his talents by sketching a poster for one scheme and the girls completed the design by painting it with bright colors. It was a wonderful shared play time for all of us. Although their creations did not win any awards, the comment made after the competition, by my oldest granddaughter to her sister reveals the real joy of no purpose. Alex said, "It’s ok we didn’t win. We had a lot of fun as a family."
What is "play?" What gives us fun? I looked up the definitions in my thesaurus and found these listed words: amusement, diversions, recreation, entertainment, as well as the synonyms frolicking, cavorting, capering and romping. It’s been a while since I romped or cavorted. Occasionally, I will put on a CD and dance around. However, creaking knees thwart my feeble attempts at play. So, mainly I center my play around passive entertainment. Computer games, a crossword puzzle, videos and reading, which do not promote creativity but are satisfying. Painting used to be an outlet, but I lost the interest for it. It was not until I started to write did the creative juices start to trickle in again. Now, I find myself playing in a mode that is more suitable to my years. This renewed creativity has made me think of painting again. I plan to join a painting class in the fall to rev up more creative juices.
The best advice I have to offer, never stop playing. Find a practice without a purpose, do something for the joy of it, because it helps you remember how to play.
It has been a few years since this incident occurred; nevertheless, it is
still clear in my mind. Three of us girls were visiting my roommate's
fiancé and his friends in Center Conway, NH for the weekend. It was deer hunting season, so that meant we could either go shopping for the day or go explore the state while the men hunted the wily whitetail.
Because cash was nearly non-existent, we decided to go for a little drive. We headed north to Twin Mountains. It was a beautiful, warm November day. I was driving my little pea-green VW Beetle. Barb was in the passenger seat and Sarah was in the back seat. We had packed a light lunch-it was cheaper
than stopping at a restaurant.
I made the mistake of saying I had never been to Vermont. Barb, my
roommate, picked up on that and suggested we go to Montpelier. After all, it was only 10 a.m. and the guys wouldn't be back from hunting until after 6p.m. Sarah agreed and we headed west. It was a pretty ride-we stopped and had lunch by a stream and wetted our toes in the water.
Once we were back in New Hampshire, Barb said she knew a shortcut back to Center Conway. We stopped at a small store and picked up some cold cuts, bread and other munchies. By now it was 3:30 and daylight was fading. We knew we needed to be back at Jim's by 6:30. The guys were taking us out dancing and dining and we were not about to miss a free meal!
We traveled down the Kangamaugus Highway until we encountered a big pile of dirt blocking the road. (Back in the '60's this road was closed down in the winter because of treacherous road conditions.) Not one to be defeated in whatever she did, Barb convinced Sarah and me that we could get the VW past the pile by putting a blanket over the bumper and lifting the car, bit by bit, around the obstruction. I was skeptical. Barb was insistent. Sarah
was questioning our judgment. I should have voted with Sarah but I didn't.
Big mistake-BIG, HUGE!!
To our surprise, we were able to accomplish the task with little effort. Three of us against the VW-we won!! We jumped back into the car and headed back to Conway, unaware of the slippery slope of our decision.
By now the full moon was illuminating the landscape and revealed a huge dirt pile placed strategically in the middle of a bridge. Again, Barb was sure we could repeat the engineering feat that got us past the first pile. She convinced me to get out and climb on top of the pile to see just how much work we had ahead of us. She knew this bridge and knew it was just four miles from Jim's house on Conway Lake. We would do arrive in time.
Undaunted, I scrambled to the top of "Mt. Everest"! Suddenly, something moved in front of me. My heart took up residence in my throat. In the moonlight, on the bridge, a bear stood on his back legs and looked at me. I froze in place, glanced back over my shoulder to see Barb getting out of the car. "Oh, my God, Barb!! Get back in the car and make way for me," I shouted. After one last look at the bear, I was down the pile and in the car. Sarah said I was shaking so hard that the car was actually shaking. I had no doubt about that. Now I needed to get the VW into reverse and quickly exit the scene. Again, Barb came through with a solution. "Why don't we lure the bear off the bridge with the cold cuts and bread we bought?" Yeah, right!! Like I was going to get out of that car again? I thought not!!
You know the rest-we backtracked to the other end of the highway, a trip of about 25 miles, covered the bumper with the blanket and hitched the poor little VW around that pile again. We headed north to Twin Mountains and at 10 p.m. we made the turn south on Route 302. At ll:30 we were back at Jim's. His friends had gone home. We had missed dinner and dancing but we had a story to tell our kids someday!
"My advice to you. If you want my advice. If I were you I’d...," or "Since you asked me, here is what I think."
Advice as worded in the first three choices is not usually accepted well by anyone. Those words seem to infer whether or not we want it, we're going to get the benefit of someone else’s thinking. To adults this can be offensive; however, good manners dictate that we at least listen even if mentally we're vacationing in Maui.
Advice thrust upon us as children isn’t known as advice. It's known as MOM'S LAW. We recognize it later as responsible parenting. The more responsible the parents, the more a child is prepared to step away from advice and think for himself. One facet of successful parenting is realized when your child comes to you and asks "what do you think" ? That is when you subconsciously perk up and draw from what you have learned in life. No doubt about it: being able to respond "Since you asked me, here is what I think" is one heck of a nice feeling.
A mix of parenting, quotes, life experiences and common sense all come together at some point in life. When that happens is still a mystery. Advice if reduced to its lowest denominator could be a singular simple observance that helps you get through any day. The two pieces of advice I remember most are "Always find a fat guy to work with because he will find the easiest way to do any job" and "If you take the shell off that nutmeg, you can grate it."
That piece of advice came from my priest as I assisted at the altar, helping to administer communion, for the first time. It was a bit of wisdom that has served me well in a variety of circumstances.
I remembered it when I was asked to speak to 17,000 theater owners and managers at their annual convention. At eight-months pregnant, I had been ordered by my doctor to fly, not drive, to the convention site some three hours from my home. Since I didn’t like flying anyway, I was extremely nervous, so one of my theater manager friends volunteered to fly with me. As he sat next to me, talking about anything to try to divert my attention, I suddenly vomited all over myself – and him.
That was only the beginning! When we arrived at the banquet, I was seated at the head table, next to the celebrity guest, actor Cliff Robertson. I was too nervous – and sick – to eat, so I picked at my food while Mr. Robertson regaled me with stories of his wife’s various pregnancies and her problems during them. When time came for me to deliver my speech, I discovered that I was unable to get close enough to the podium to see my notes, and the podium light wasn’t working, so I was forced to "wing it." I just kept saying to myself, "do it with dignity, Nancy, do it with dignity."
Several years later, I was chosen to give the keynote address to the international meeting of Newspaper in Education directors in Vancouver, BC. Several of my friends, knowing how nervous I was, tried to divert my attention by sitting in the front row with handfuls of balloons waving in my face. They had written funny sayings on the balloons, and I had a hard time keeping my composure. But I thought, "do it with dignity, Nancy."
The third occasion when the good Father’s advice came in handy was, once again, a speech. This time, the audience was much smaller, made up of wealthy women who belonged to the Hypatia Beta club. Before I was introduced, I was asked by the chairman to "synchronize watches." She also pointed out a clock on the balcony, so I would always be aware of the time. I was given one hour. Looking out over the audience, I noticed three elderly women in the front row, properly hatted and gloved, their arms crossed over their expensive mink stoles. They began to snore loudly. I knew I would have to speak loudly to be heard over the snoozing chorus. "Dignity, Nancy, dignity," I muttered under my breath. In the middle of a question I was answering for a member of the audience, the stage curtains suddenly and noisily closed. I was in shock; I knew I was given an hour to speak, but I didn’t expect that kind of ending to my speech. At that point, I had to bite my tongue to avoid losing what little dignity I had left!
By nature, I am not a dignified person, so I have always been grateful to my priest friend for helping me to avoid embarrassing myself – and others – in awkward situations. I only hope that when my time comes to leave this world, I will remember his advice – and go with dignity.
Center>A MOUTHFUL ON ADVICE
It is said that the pet marketing industry is one of the largest businesses in this country, USA, but I would be willing to bet that the "advice business" is right up there near the top. Just consider all of the other synonyms regarding advice: direction, guidance, instruction, admonition, and more. Now think of the shelves in your local bookstore. The How-To, the How-Not-To, and the Doomsday books take up a LOT of space there!
It would sure seem obvious to any landing alien able to decipher English that the humans on this planet don't know jack!
How in the world did we ever grow up and raise families? How did we learn how to learn? Train our pets? Cook? Clean? Save money? Love?
I know, I know education is vital, and I am reasonably certain that a younger generation is doing a better job of all of these things than we did. Am I right?
If you listen to, or read the news, it would seem that the youngers haven't learned much of anything; but it must be remembered that the stories reported are only a small percentage of the population. Am I right?
All I really know is that I sit here wishing I had more money. Little did I realize that all of those words of wisdom that I have poured down the throats of all my friends and family over the years were really gold coins. They came tumbling from my wide open mouth freely, while I could have been putting them all down on paper and selling them.
I think maybe the title of my book could be, "How To Live Life and Sell Advice". I had better check though, probably someone has already done that one.
'Twas a dark, cold, scary Halloween night many years ago. My brother and I took seven children ages four to nine, to ride on the famous Halloween zoo train.
I was holding the hand of the youngest child, as we walked toward and through the tunnel to board the train. The way was decorated with Halloween effects, spooky lighting and manequins dressed in scary costumes. Midway through the tunnel a manequin stepped out of the darkness right at me, and made some horrible sound. I
screamed and screamed and cried and ran, until everyone around was concerned and questioned whether I was alright. If ever a young person could die of fright, that would have been the time for me.
It seemed a very long time, but I finally regained control of myself and knew that I must ride the train and not disappoint the children. When we boarded the train I became glued to the seat, and every turn of the wheels my muscles tightened and prepared for flight, as I did not know what other frightening things were in store for the passengers. Midway along the ride the train stopped and everyone, except me, got off to enjoy being scared in the fun house. I waited on the train, every minute agony, and feeling desperate to get off this train and to a place where I felt safe again.
When the passsengers boarded again, my seven year old nephew came and sat next to me. As the train went along, we could see spooky things coming up further down the track. Whenever my nephew spied something he would shout out the window full blast at it. Finally I asked him why he was shouting. Larry said, " If I yell at them then they can't make me afraid. Aunt Judy you just have to yell louder and first." He then urged me to join him in warding off any more scary Halloween surprises with much yelling out the window. Shouting helped release my fear, and I bet I was breaking records for shouting the loudest .
It's been nearly forty years since I received that advice from Larry. It
really has empowered me to handle fearful situations, by meeting fears straight on and in a positive manner.
"Put your seat belt on Gamma, we might crash." she tells me as she is trying to unbuckle her own belt because she doesn't like where she is sitting. Her favorite spot is up front next to the driver. She has better sight advantage in that spot and can play with the buttons on the radio too.
She, also likes to tell me to slow down for the same reason (we might crash). She is very speed conscience. She thinks that 40 mph is fast enough to go anywhere she wants to go. I suspect it's the fastest she can process the passing world around her. Going any faster means she might miss something important, like the cows grazing in the field, or the sight of a new animal in her world.
Her favorite advice is "Be careful, Gamma, you might get hurt, or burned, or fall." , whichever is appropriate at the time. Now this is sound advice considering she is likely to do all of the above. She likes to sneak out of the house, through the doggie door, and climb the ladder to the "tampoline" to jump on it in the early morning hours before her parents get up. By the way, her favorite outfit for this activity is total nudity. "I am a necked baby," she tells everyone, dimples displayed and eyes sparkling with mischief.
She is, also, an authority on hot. She cooks "soup" everyday for her "babies" and me. She adds a variety of ingredients to the pot and then offers it to me with the warning, "Careful, Gamma, it's hot. I cooked it in the micowave." Now, she knows this to be true, because she has been cooking everything from puppies to poop in her microwave since she was 18 months old. Besides, her Mother told her microwaved things are hot and everything Mommy says is true.
She knows about falling too. She found that walking off the end of a kitchen table brings pain and black eyes, so she warns me often to not climb up there. That doesn't stop her from scaling all other heights, though. Climbing is the way to see the world from a different prospective. She really wants to climb up into the sky so she can see how things look from the perspective of the birds. But she warns me that it isn't safe for me to fly with the birds. "So, be careful, Gamma"
"We have a new puppy, Gamma. You should be nice to new puppies", she tells me, all the while, squeezing it so tightly the new puppy squeals in pain. "Be careful, Gamma, the puppy will scratch you, if you put your face too close to him." She knows because, of course, she has the wounds to prove it.
All in all her advice is sound and based on her experiences as a new human being in this world. So, remember: Buckle up; Don't drive too fast; Don't touch hot things; Stay away from the edges of high places; And be careful around strange animals. Very sound advice from a two and half year old!
The insights I share are from my own life seasonings. I know what you are going through because I have been there. You may not agree with me or my views. However, I "bestow" them in hopes that you recognize the kinship and ensure you that you are not alone. The simple process of sharing thoughts with someone who has struggled with the same issues has a cleansing effect and will cause a sense of closure. Reaching out to people for support may make you uneasy at times, but once you learn that "support" means anything that encourages you to find your self. I stress SELF at this time. Getting to know who you are and what you will tolerate from others is the most important education you will ever encounter.
Remember time does not heal. You do. You have to go though this, to get past it. Experience it now and complete it. The grieving process must take place. The trick is to allow these thoughts and feelings to come, but become detached from them. Saying to yourself, "I’m really angry right now, but soon I’ll get over it." Use anger as your fuel, but keep in mind that prolonged anger only deters the process, it is an intense negative emotion that depletes energy and precious time.
You can relive scenarios of past "hurts." You can even add dialogue to the "woulda, coulda, shouldas" which only contribute to making you feel inferior again. The way to pause this pain is to remind you that you are the only person thinking these thoughts. You’re the only one responsible for the "reruns." Practice yelling "STOP" when these negative times crop up. (You may get some strange looks from people, but who cares.) The longer you distance yourself from thoughts that are defeating the easier it gets to move onto more positive things in your life.
There is a thin, blurry line between anger and aggression. What you need now is assertion toward making yourself better. What you must do is come to grips with the issues of victimization and low self esteem. Someone has had the power to rob you of the way you should feel about yourself. No person should have that sort of power, under any circumstances. Work on self love. Find a situation where feeling better is "right," and gradually you will make things better for yourself. Again, you are the only one who decides who deserves the best in life: Luck, love, prosperity, peace of mind. Whatever!
Love, by the way, is something you are. It’s not something you go out and look for. You are the source. Some other person does not have to be your "fix." Listen to any country western song and all you hear are the heartbreaking, clinging, needy kind. The attachment kind, which you think you need to make it in life. This will eventually bring you suffering. Because, whatever or whoever it is, it will definitely leave at some point. When it does, you will have withdrawal symptoms.
There is no way to escape the fact that we each walk alone. We have people along the way, but nobody is with us each step. We take no one with us in the end. It took me a long time to cure the gnawing sense of loneliness, even when people surrounded me. When you stop hoping that other people will make us happy. When you settle back into a space of your own inner self, then you begin to understand and have peace. Comfort yourself and loneliness leaves, it is then that you discover the beauty of aloneness.
No one can be you. No one will ever know quite what it is like to see life through your eyes. You are your own unique self, a blend of genes that is precisely you. It is time to seek out that person, to learn more about yourself and move to another tier of maturity.
Maybe you will find a new relationship to replace the one you have lost. I like a this definition of a relationship that I read somewhere, many moons ago. ‘Relationships aren’t when one half-person and another half-person get together and form a whole. It’s more like when you multiply: 1/2 x 1/2 = 1/4. You become even less of a person when you look to the other to complete themselves. It only works when two whole complete people meet, 1x1 = 1.’ Work on becoming a whole person, this is the time to grow.
In some foreign language (I’ve forgotten which it is, I do that a lot lately.) Anyway, it has no word for love. Instead they have a phrase which translates to "I will not harm you, I do not judge you, I accept you, I support you."
Remember, I care about you, and this is the true reason for this letter. I am here for you.
Love,
Ivy
Just as some women collect Precious Moments, I collect Precious Words. I am a sucker for a good word or, even better, a well-turned phrase. Conversely, when I spot a fake, I become just as unhappy as if I were the woman who thought she was buying a Precious Moments figuerine and bought by mistake a cheap foreign knockoff. Words and phrases should be pure, honest, accurate – and colorful. Let me give you some examples.
.Just this week, a friend shared a description of herself: "Her tongue was never in her pocket." Isn’t that a wonderful description? The other day, I was barely into a new mystery novel by Nancy Pickard, one of my favorite authors, when my "word antenna" began twitching. "He was a bottle rocket of a boy." Wow, Ms. Pickard, that says it all! Those eight little words summed up my nephews, my best friend’s sons, and most of those little second-graders I once taught in Sunday School.
Only a few pages later, the author described her novel’s setting as "Florida – where Spring brings a tsunami of tourism." How much more pleasing that description is than the usual "Florida – where a flood of tourists invades the beaches every spring." While there’s nothing wrong with the second phrase – it says pretty much the same thing –"tsunami of tourism" has so much more "pizzazz," don’t you think? There’s something so compact, so right about it. And it has a certain poetry to it as well.
These phrases also reminded me of an essay on words by the late S.I. Hayakawa. Mr. Hayakawa believed that the sound of a word was just as important as its meaning, so he categorized words as either "snarl words" or "purr words." Snarl words were those that fell harshly on the ears, such as "scrub." Scrub has such a grating sound to it – much like the action it conveys. "Silken," on the other hand, glides gently from the tongue, just as the fabric it describes. Edgar Allan Poe also knew the power of word sounds. His poem, The Bells, is an exercise in sound.
One other thought about words. I liken words to clothing styles. For example, some words can be categorized as "street language." For those, I see cutoff jeans, scuffed tennis shoes, T-shirts with rude sayings. This kind of language, like the clothing, is appropriate in some settings but not in others. I, for one, would never show up at a symphony performance or a garden tea "dressed" in that kind of language! Then there is "daytime/office" language, similar to the tailored suits, pants suits, daytime dresses, blazers and slacks worn by those who work in offices or public places. The third category is "formal" language. This language is characterized by formal "settings" for the words; i.e., no contractions, no dangling phrases, "high-level" verb tenses. Visualize yourself showing up at the office wearing a flowing ball gown, complete with elbow-length gloves, a tiara, and delicate Cinderella-slippers. You get the picture.
My dear, now departed, friend Dean always tried to cover up his lack of education (he quit high school to work in the family business) by reading the dictionary to learn new words. The problem was that the words he chose didn’t fit the rest of the sentence! The sentence "I spend a lot of time perusing the dictionary" illustrates his attempts to cover up what he felt was an inadequacy by throwing in a word which was too formal for the rest of the words in the sentence. His sentence was basically "daytime/office" language; the word "perusing" was formal. The two never mix!
Long ago, I learned that if I wanted to keep friends, I should not point out their "fake" words or try to correct an incorrect word. But that doesn’t prevent me from screaming (a snarl word, for sure!) at the television set when a talk show host introduces an author who has written a new book entitled …" Doesn’t anyone these days know the difference between titled and entitled?
There, now you know my deepest, darkest secret: I am a wo
It was Friday—I was pooped. I hadn’t been home from work more than an hour. I was looking forward to a lazy week just puttering around the house. It was the beginning of our April vacation. Time was not important. I had collapsed in my recliner to watch the news.
My husband came down the stairs carrying a canvas bag with balloons attached. He was smiling from ear to ear as he handed me the bag. I opened the card inside and out fell some pretty important-looking pieces of paper. Not wanting to get too excited, I carefully inspected them and discovered boarding passes and a cruise itinerary. "Oh, my God," I screamed. It’s a good thing I was sitting down! I’m sure it took me ten minutes to grasp the whole idea. I asked when we were leaving and he told me five a.m. Saturday. Now it was 7 p.m. Friday. I had eleven hours to get ready. It usually took me two weeks to plan for a trip. Bruce said, "I thought you might want to do some shopping—here, this is for you and I’ll be your chauffeur." He handed me a stack of bills and off we went on a shopping spree.
I have no idea what I bought. I only know I packed for both of us and was ready to go by midnight. I slept fitfully and was in the shower at 4 a.m. Our flight landed in San Juan, we boarded the Princess and spent the entire week seeing some Caribbean ports of call that we hadn’t seen before. This wasn’t our first cruise but it was definitely the most memorable! We celebrated our 25th anniversary with our best friends, us.
Life doesn’t get any better than this.
Will the pain ever stop? It comes in waves now, causing spasms up and down my leg. The bone aches, the muscles tighten, causing unbearable pain. I reach for the pills the doctor said would work. They don't! Not a bit! Please God, take away the pain!
The surgery is scheduled for a month from now. How will I ever be able to wait that long. The pain is so unbearable, especially at night. Nothing seems to help. Hot showers, cold packs, rubs and creams, they all fail to stop the ever constant pain. The new joint, so shiny and new, is all that will alleviate this awful pounding in my limb. Please God, make it go away!
My body is too young to be falling apart like this, bit by bit I replace what is replaceable: dentures for my mouth, clamps and screws to keep my spine straight, and soon knee joints. I wonder, when I will have to have the hips joints done? I feel that pieces and parts is all that is left of me. When did my body start to fail me? Was it after my fall at the age of twelve or at twenty-nine? Is it, some unknown gene that an unsuspecting relative passed on to me? Did I not eat enough vegetables? Didn't I drink enough milk? Is it because I had four children in five years? Please God, spare me the pain tonight!
The teeth slowly decayed, I lost one with each child....four in all. Then, genetics took over and destroyed the rest. I was so proud, that unlike my school mates, I would never wear braces. They complained of the pain. How, they couldn't eat the things they loved. I scoffed and sunk my teeth into a caramel apple, smugly thinking, how they must envy me.
Then, when I was twenty-nine, I fell off a footstool in the storeroom at work. It seemed like nothing at the time. I was sore and had a few bruises. My back hurt, but that was only natural. After all, I had landed flat on my back on the cement. But, it was soon evident that something more was wrong. Months of medication, treatments and tests followed. I had a ruptured a disc at level L-4, that only surgery would cure. Thank you God, for giving the doctors the knowledge to take my pain away!
A slip on an icy parking lot, I am in pain again. More months of medications, therapy and surgery at the L-5 level. Thank you, again, God for the doctors!
Three months later, the pain is back. All I did was bent over. Please God, not again. The pain is so severe, I can't walk; or stand; or lie in bed. It is my constant companion. Please God, let the doctors work their magic one more time.
Years pass with only slight twinges of pain now and again. Then with the a vengeance, it's back, as severe as ever. Please God, not again.
Weeks of tests and specialists, another surgery, and the pain is gone. Thank you God, I am well again.
Then I turn fifty, my knees don't want to work anymore. The pain becomes increasingly worse. The doctors say I have osteoarthritis, my knee joints are bad. They must be replaced if I am to walk for more than a few steps without pain. Please God, give me the strength to endure.
About a week ago, right after our big 50th high school reunion day, I got into my fairly new automobile and happened to see a bubble on my windshield. It was just above my line of vision. Hmmn, I thought to myself, looks like one of us must have parked under a pine tree. I had better remember to get that off before it hardens. Of course every time I got out of the car, I forgot because my hands were usually full of groceries, mail, etc.
A few days passed, and I was driving to the ocean beach with my friend and her husband from Ohio, and another friend. The gal who was riding shotgun said to me in the course of the trip, "Do you know you have a bubble, a chip, in your windshield?" Well, she was sitting at a different angle than I, so I said, "Really, I noticed that a few days ago and thought it was just a drop of sap from a tree." She was sure that it was a chip, so of course when we parked neither of us checked it out!
A few more days passed, and when I noticed it again, it appeared to have become larger, sort of like a crack might develop. The way shatterproof glass looks when broken is as if it is made in layers.
Another day passed, and I called my insurance company; I waited on hold for a half hour until I could talk with a rep. She took all my information, and said, "Just call a glass repairer of your choice and give him this claim number." I called my brother-in-law, mechanic extraordinaire, and he gave me the names of two companies he does business with. I wrote it all down, put it on a post-it, and stuck it to my kitchen counter so that I could call first thing in morning.
You guessed it. Two days later the post-it was still on the counter, ignored. This morning I had to go for my annual physical, and I said to myself on the way, I have to remember to call that glass company when I get back! Well, I did a few errands on the way home, and when I came out to the parking lot of the grocery store, I remembered to check out my chip, for the first time, with my fingers. It was over 90 degrees, and the car had been sitting in the sun all morning, so imagine my surprise when I ran my finger over "the chip" and came away with pine pitch under my nail!
Now there are lessons here. Always check out your first impression, trust your instincts, have more faith in your judgments, don't be swayed by others' opinions, etc., etc., etc.
Why write out some thoughts ? What would possess me to
sit down to write something for others to read ? I don't know the answer to those questions but then again there are probably thousands of others that have those same thoughts. Curiosity got the best of me when I thought, what would happen if I sat down and
wrote to an open forum? I don't know so I'll just write about some things I've learned over the years.
Confidence. At some point in my life I found out the world isn't kind and that no matter what my good intentions were, someone found
fault with something I did. Did I stop trying ? No because I understood what my intentions were. For me to stop would mean the loss of confidence in myself. Confidence to try seems natural. I never liked the words "I can't" they seem totally opposite of being
confident. There have been times when I thought I had no other choice. Invariably someone would say but have you tried this? and that gave me a whole new way of looking at what I couldn't do.
Innocence. A quality in children that should make anyone take a step back and reflect. I've seen children so badly crippled; they were
distorted while sitting in wheel chairs.The ones I saw were not consumed with anger at their misfortune, they were laughing at
being able to at least make the wheel chairs move so they could interact with others. They accepted what life dealt them. Maybe later they would change, but for now they were happy. My lesson!! Interact with life each day and let the future worry about the
future.
Marriage. Now there is a touchy subject. As I look back, I believe it is a matter of encouraging your partner to remain as unique an
individual as the day you met. My marriage I likened to planting acorns side by side. Each acorn grew but at different times. As we grew the stormy times meant we would rub and chafe each other. But calm was always after the storm and in those times the
branches swayed and softly caressed each other. As with the seasons, growth was reflected in the rings around our hearts: some
wide for the good times, some narrow for the tough times. The marriage tree is what you make it. It can wither and die or as new experiences are shared these can be the limbs and branches always stretching higher until the trees reach a ripe old age and people marvel at the beauty.
Work. A fascinating word that brings up a variety of images in any person's mind. I learned that money only pays the bills; life is the
time you have with your family. Unconsciously I tested that idea one day when we were all together after my middle son came back from the Gulf War. For fun I asked my grown children what presents they received from age 8 to age 16 for Christmas. The time
span was important because it took them through a lot of changes in their lives. They struggled to remember particular toys that were so important. The list was short, not because they didn't get anything but because they just didn't remember what they received.
Then I asked about family picnics or something funny that happened to them while we were out doing something together. That started a whole afternoon and into the evening list of remembrances
That was a short random sampling of my thoughts, written for no other reason than to challenge myself to write. Age has a way of
robbing us of our abilities, and as I have learned recently, the brain needs stimulation or exercise too. Now I have to check to
see if my brain was aggressively doing sit ups or leisurely walking back through time.
There are so many instances over the years of moments that touched my heart. Some I don't want to remember, others bring a smile to my face. Reflecting on both from time to time is what helped me become who I am. Not until I sat down to write this piece have I ever really consciously considered the effect of how
one particular sad memory touched my heart. It is a simple story about a man that was trying his best to elevate his family out
of poverty.
It was in the late 1960's. I had accepted a job with the U.S. Postal Service. I volunteered for a project to evaluate the flow of
International and package mail. My assignment was to work out of the General Post Office in San Juan Puerto Rico. The task was to monitor the mail coming into the island from all over the world, plus how package mail was picked up from the inner island post offices
to be processed. Part of the job entailed talking with the contract drivers. The U.S. Postal Service there used contract drivers rather than postal employees because it was more cost effective in every aspect.
One of the drivers was a young man (my age at the time) who always looked tired and hungry. I suspected he was on drugs but I was terribly wrong. I found out he was minimally educated but a dedicated father. He was tired and hungry because he worked
all night driving, picking up mail. When he got off work he put in a full day shift for the local government painting low income housing. Neither paid very much so stopping to grab a decent meal was not affordable for him. He brought food from home which sometimes spoiled in the heat and humidity. He hid the fact he had a night time job so he could qualify to live in one of the low income units.
His goal was to save enough money to move his family out of low income housing and into a neighborhood where his children would go to better schools. He was a completely selfless man when it came to doing everything in his power to make a better life
for his family. One night when I was checking some of the incoming routes I happened to ask where Osvaldo was. The answer shocked me. He was going to be buried the next day. He and a helper were lowering themselves on a scaffold to paint the third story of a public housing apartment building. He was using a
metal scaffold with cable pulleys. They didn't notice that they were lowering themselves into the power supply for the building complex. The end result was his electrocution.Because they were negligent, no insurance was paid to the family, and no benefits were available. The funeral expenses had to be paid out of the money this man had worked 16 hours a day for. Remember this was in the late '60s
and not here in the U.S.A. I have to admit that my heart went out to his wife and kids. Reality of some of the cruel twists and turns in life came into focus very clearly knowing what his plans were and that now those plans were never going to happen. Indirectly I was
doing the same thing.
Thankfully my project was near its end so I could return home to my wife and two children. A week or two later another project was
proposed, that of installing LSM's (Letter Sorting Machines) and would I consider going back to the island to observe employee training. I don't know if they were installed or not because I quit the postal service. A choice I've never regretted because I wouldn't have to be away from my family.
Over the years I turned down voluntary overtime and promotions that I would have to work third shift to get. Third shift would mean I
would spend my days sleeping when my family was up and ready to do something. All the choices were conscious ones and
supported by my wife.
Osvaldo's family didn't benefit from his sacrifice but he did not die without leaving an impression on me. I don't know what our married life would have been like if Osvaldos death hadn't made such an impression on me. I do know our lives have been rich and full
because I was able to be part of my children's lives. I think my children must have benefited too. They seem to understand life has more to offer than money, because they would rather take my grandchildren to see a cow milked than to volunteer for overtime.
Sitting here trying to come up with a way to define the feeling of something that truly touches my heart, I find that I cannot come with that many moments in my life that it has happened. Most of the ones I recall involve the returned, unabashed love of a child. A situation, either in print or on the screen, about a child or an animal can move me in this way. The best description I can come up with is a physical sensation of overwhelming joy and sadness at the same moment. It passes so quickly that it is easy to shrug it off and forget about it. This may be a “good thing”, because it stops me from acting too impulsively. OR, is that a “bad thing”? Could it be that the “something” touching my heart is giving me a little nudge to DO something?
There are global moments like this that we all share. The assassination of JFK (my heart is always touched whenever I hear Dion sing ABRAHAM, MARTIN, AND JOHN, the explosion of the Challenger (we New Hampshireites very proud of our teacher, Crista), the crash of flight 103 over Lockerbie (the pilot was my high school classmate), and the horrible death of Diana, Princess of Wales. So many many more sad moments not noted by the press and TV. The collective heart of the world was touched.
My heart has also been touched by happy moments. Watching the inaugural parades, Charles and Diana’s wedding, I even remember the coronation of the Queen. Ouch! The weddings and graduations of my children certainly have done it. I especially treasure the memory of my youngest marching with her HS band down Pennsylvania Ave. in D. C. on the Fourth of July! Speaking of that youngest child, she is the one who provides me the most “touches”. She has a knack for picking out the perfect card and adding words that go straight to the center of my being. An example of this is the nightshirt she came by to give me yesterday. It is purple, with bright graphics of women, and says: *** heres to good women *** may we know them *** may we be them *** may we raise them ***. She has me figured out, and knows how to make me happy.
As I have written this I can see that what I said in the beginning was not altogether true. I am recalling many more “touching” moments, and I could probably go on and on and on. This was a great writing assignment for me; it has opened my eyes to see a cup that is way more than half-full.
As I sat in a chair waiting, I was unsure how I would feel when the nurse would arrive with my new baby brother. He was a week old and it was time to discharge him and my mother from the hospital. Mom was sitting in on the bed, chattering with my aunt as we waited for the arrangement of an ambulance to take her to my aunt’s house.
Shortly the nurse arrived with Tommy, she laid him on the bed. I continued to sit away from the activity watching as she finished dressing him in a bonnet, sweater and booties that my grandmother had knit. I was remembering the hours she had put into this labor of love. Secretly I suppose I was jealous of her division of loyalty. Giving her time to this baby that she didn’t even know.
Finally, the nurse bundled him in a blue blanket. She asked, "Who is going in the ambulance with you Helen, someone has to hold the baby?" My mother answered, "My daughter." "Oh! How old is your daughter?" The nurse’s voice was doubtful. From my place in the corner I replied, "I’m 13." She turned and started toward me, as she laid him in my arms she gave me a wink. "Here Honey, hold him while I get your mother in the wheelchair. Looks like you have a full time job ahead of you." I looked down at the tiny face peeking out from the folds of the blanket. Suddenly I found myself smiling, on the inside and the outside. Any doubts or resentments I had about being displaced after years of being an only child were ebbing away. A bond was forming, one that would touch both of our hearts for the rest of our lives. This tiny, helpless person was about to change my status quo forever. I was the Big Sister, a new identity to discover and enjoy.
Well, sort of . . . I suppose I should apologize for dumping strained carrots on his head when he spit them back at me.
Earl Griffith was one of my most memorable students. Oh, I don’t remember him for his scholarship or his wit. I remember him because he was the one student who almost wrecked my teaching career before the end of my first year.
It wasn’t that Earl wasn’t bright; he was. That was the problem. He was so bright he was bored most of the time and turned his energies to creating as much havoc as possible. When our battle of wits escalated, I had finally had enough and threw him out of my classroom. The principal was such a wimp that he allowed Earl to spend the rest of the semester as his "office boy," which meant that Earl was privy to everything that went on in school, could leave whenever he wanted to "run errands for Mr. Hayes,"
and would be able to enroll in the other ninth grade English class during the spring semester.
Whenever I walked into the office, Earl would flash me his "gotcha" smile, a look I learned to hate. Try as I might, I felt that where Earl was concerned, I was a failure.
If I ever began to feel that I was a really good teacher, Earl’s face would appear before me, reminding me that I hadn’t done such a great job where he was concerned.
The years went by. I married, moved to a high school position in a larger city, and
forgot about Earl. By the time I left teaching, eight years later, to become a newspaper editor, Earl wasn’t even a distant memory.
Then one day, my office phone rang. The voice on the other end said, "Hi, Miss Rasher. I’ll bet you don’t know who this is."
"Earl Griffith," I said, "I could never forget your voice."
"Bet you don’t know why I’m calling then," he said with the same taunting voice I
recalled from a decade ago.
"I called to apologize. I’m a teacher now," he continued, "and yesterday I had an encounter with a student who was treating me the same way I treated you. I realized then what I had tried to do to you, and I couldn’t rest until I called to apologize."
A teacher. Wow! Never in a million years would I have guessed Earl would become an educator! A bum, maybe…….or a stand-up comic in a small club…….or the manager of his father’s grocery store. And – wonder of wonders - here he was apologizing to me after all those years. All I could say, as silent tears coursed down my face, was "Thank you, Earl."
That phone call touched my heart more than Earl Griffith will ever know. I hadn’t failed
with Earl after all. And then I knew I hadn’t failed as a teacher, either!
I thought I had heard it all. After teaching high school for 35 years, I must have had at least 4000 kids in my classes. I’d heard about child abuse, drug abuse, divorces, fights with peers, fights with parents and siblings, trouble with the police, and pregnancies. I believe I had become "numb" to the situations in which the kids found themselves. I knew there was nothing I could do but listen and then go home and life my own life. But this one freshman girl changed my life and truly "touched my heart".
She entered my career planning class first semester. She was so quiet, so sweet, so beautiful, and wise beyond her years. Slowly, she let me get to know her a bit. She had moved to our town from Atlanta. She was living with her cousin who had graduated three years ago. She was Eurasian, tall and graceful. She told me she was French-Thai. Over time she showed her sense of humor with little comments that made us all giggle.
The first semester ended. I was sorry to see her leave my class. Then, wonder upon wonder, I saw her name on my second semester roster. I smiled to myself and was happy to have the privilege of her presence in computer class. At the end of the third quarter, I noticed Anna was becoming distant. She was absent several days. Upon her return, she asked if she had a lot to make up. I assured her that with a little extra effort she would be able to catch up with the class. However, that did not happen. She told me she was going to visit her mother in Atlanta. She was absent again for three days.
I thought this rather strange but when she returned, she received several notices from the school nurse and the social worker. She, again, missed some classes in order to attend these meetings. Then the mystery ended. The nurse called me during class time and said Anna was with her and could they come up to the room and meet with me. "Of course," I said.
Anna was looking peaked; her eyes were wet with tears. She had given the nurse permission to tell me what was wrong. Anna had tried to take her own life by cutting her wrists the night before. I felt my knees get weak. Here we were, out in the hall, no where to sit down and I wasn’t sure I would be standing much longer. But that was only the tip of the iceberg! Anna’s mother had just been sentenced to seven years in prison for vehicular manslaughter. To top it off, she had been drunk at the time. Anna had gone to Atlanta to attend her mother’s trial! She was alone. Her father was an American GI during the Vietnam War—you know the rest. She hadn’t any memory of her father and had no brothers or sisters.
I did what any mother would have done at that point. I took Anna in my arms and just held her. I told her how important she was to all of us. She smiled that cute little smile of hers and said "thank you". Whoever said kids don’t need a hug once in awhile?
center>It Touched My Heart
Growing up money was always tight. As our family grew it became harder and harder to buy Christmas gifts for the whole family. Two of my aunts didn't have any children of their own and therefore tried to buy or make something for each of their nieces and nephews. When the third generation started arriving they became more creative with their gifts.
One particular year, money was tighter than ever before. My Aunt Wilma had been ill, crop prices were at an all time low, the money to even buy supplies to make gifts just wasn't there. With the holidays fast approaching, Wilma was beside herself trying to come up with an inexpensive but unique gift for all her special "kids".
It was my parents turn to host the Christmas dinner, we all gathered in their home to enjoy one another's company, stuff ourselves with all the delicious food and open our gifts. The rule was that no gift could be opened until all the gifts had been distributed. The kids could hardly contain themselves. Finally the area under the tree was empty. My aunt apologized as she handed my brother and I envelopes that she explained were our gifts; it wasn't much but she hoped that our families would enjoy them.
Amid all the chaos, I sat watching the kids opening their gifts. I quietly opened the envelope my aunt had given me, expecting to find a Christmas card wishing us well. Imagine my surprise to find a collection of photographs, some were in black and white; some were in fading color. My aunt had hit upon the perfect gift! The collection was a group of pictures that recorded my life through the lens of her camera, which it seemed she was never without.
It touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes when I realized Wilma had decided to part with the precious photographs she had taken throughout my life. Unknowingly, she had started a tradition that I have tried to carry out every few years with my own nieces and cousins.
I climbed the slide as I had so many times before; I was having fun and laughing. As I neared the bottom of the slide, I let out an ear piercing scream. I felt my leg catch on the metal of the slide. My teacher and the principal came running to find me laying on the ground unable to move. The principal decided that a trip to the emergency room was in order. So away we went.
The doctor didn't like the looks of things and told me I would have to have x-rays taken to determine if my leg was broken. After the doctor took a look at the x-rays he informed me that I was to be the proud owner of a new cast. I had broken two bones in my leg.
When my classmates heard of my accident, they prepared a surprise for me. After being made comfortable after my ordeal at the hospital, I was presented with a "Sunshine Box". It contained wrapped gifts from all my classmates.....one for each day of the month. I loved my special presents. One of my most favorite was an autograph book with redwood for binding.
I took it to Sunday school to ask my teacher to be the first to sign this beautiful book. She wrote "Give to the world the best that you have and the best will come back to you." Her words impressed me so, that I have tried to live my life accordingly.
I was reminded of those words, written so long ago, as I talked to a senior friend on the phone one day. She was caring for her grandson, Johnny, who was mentally challenged. She was worn to a frazzle! I offered to watch him for her for a few days while she rested. Johnny was the same age as my boys and I thought they might enjoy playing with one another.
Observing how nicely the children were playing together, I stopped to watch and enjoy them. Musing to myself, I thought this is wonderful, they get along so well!
At that very moment, little Johnny, looked up at me and said the most beautiful words I had ever heard. “My GOD you are beautiful," he told me. Tears came to my eyes. I was deeply touched by this unexpected declaration. I knew, that the best had come back to me, just as my teacher said it would, from the lips and heart of a child.
It was a long time ago. Our small farm near Lake Ontario was in the snow
belt. Winters were harsh and we were poor. I cannot remember a time when I
did not spend my summers cutting firewood for the coming winter. I swung an
axe and used a 2-man saw with my brother, felling the trees that our dad
marked for us. Trees were cut and trimmed before being dragged out of the
woods by horse and later by tractor. We had to pile all the limbs and brush
in one spot before we left with the logs.
After the long pull to the house, the logs were gathered, piled and left to
age until we had an enormous pile ready to cut. We used a buzz saw with a
24" blade whirring close to us as we lifted the logs onto the shelf and
tipped it into the blade, ziiing, and tip back, pull the log, ziing, over
and over, stopping only to move the cut wood away from the blade. The smell
of the cut wood, the chips and sawdust flying around us as we worked, I can
feel it right now. The saw was dangerous, sometimes binding in the wood and
spitting the log right back at us.
When the saw area was clogged with cut wood, we piled it into a trailer to
haul to the house and then tossed it down into the cellar. Each process was
determined by space. We had to stop one job and move the wood along. Our
next step was stacking the wood downstairs, keeping it in neat, straight
rows. Always the smell of the wood, sweat, grunts and sometimes young boy
curses when a chunk too large for the furnace was found. That chunk had to
be carried up the stairs, split and then tossed down again to be stacked.
By the end of summer there was barely room to walk in the cellar, but this
much wood was needed to last until warm weather arrived. Dad always told
people how much he depended on his boys to get this done. We were proud of
that recognition in our little boy way. As winter came, we fed the furnace
a steady stream of wood, keeping us warm with the continuous heat from the
fire.
I remember sitting in a snowbank one winter, watching the smoke from the
chimney as it curled lazily up into the sky. There came a childish
revelation to me, and I was appalled. Running into the house, snow flying
off me, I confronted my dad. "Up in smoke, up in smoke, all our work goes up
in smoke." My dad was a serious man and took me seriously too. He had me
get out of my snow clothes and sit in a warm spot before addressing my
youthful angst.
"Jim," he said, "nothing in life happens by itself. The trees I mark are
trash trees, second growth that will never be timber. They are like weeds
in a garden. The limbs that you pile become homes for rabbits and other
animals. The spaces left grow to brush and brambles that deer and bear like
to eat. The wood we burn means we do not have to buy coal for heat. Even
the ashes are spread on the snow- covered garden and feed the soil. And the
best part of it is seeing you and your brother grow strong doing this hard
work for me. No, son, it does not go up in smoke at all."
Sometimes a life's lesson is learned and then forgotten and then learned
again. Looking back in my life now, I see where there were times when I saw
my efforts as "going up in smoke." I do not always see the effects of my
actions right away, but I know that there is always some benefit even if it
just makes me grow stronger.
Fall camping vacations in Colorado were annual events for Howard and me and our best friends. We had a set routine. Before we reached a campground, we would stop at a local grocery store and stock up on firewood so that we could build nightly campfires to sit around while we visited.
During one of those long-ago trips, we purchased our firewood from a sawmill instead
of a grocery and, to our delight, the wood had a very different odor. It was almost a
nutty odor, very aromatic, very woodsy. It was, we learned later, pinyon pine. We had
seen pinyon forests, the trees gnarled and misshapen, and we knew that the nuts from
those trees were treasured by many. However, we had never experienced the
wonderful aroma that arose from a pinyon fire. We were hooked! Each fall from that
time on, we went back to the same sawmill to purchase our firewood.
The desire for pinyon grew into obsession. We longed to recapture the magic of the
campfires and the cameraderie once home in forestless Kansas. We discussed buying more pinyon at the end of vacation to take home, a foolish idea since we had no fireplace, and open burning in the city limits carried a stiff penalty.
One day, while idly looking through the "For Sale" ads in the newspaper, I saw an ad: "Reserve your pinyon fireplace logs now. Order soon for Christmas delivery.
Limited supply will be available this year. Call Johnson Garden Center now." I had been trying to find just the perfect Christmas gift for our friends – and this was it! Our friends had a fireplace, and I would order a rick of pinyon logs, which would be delivered after December 15. I was certain they would invite us to enjoy the wood, too.I hastily dialed the phone number and placed my order for the pinyon. No matter that the cost was three times that of ordinary firewood – this was something special, something to kindle memories of our wonderful vacations together.
The wood was delivered as promised. As I had hoped, our friends invited us to dinner and an evening around a pinyon fire in the fireplace. Almost ceremoniously, we laid the fire, lighted it, and waited for the aroma to fill the house. Nothing happened. We all sniffed the air repeatedly. Nothing but the usual smell of a fire burning. Where was the woodsy, nutty aroma? What had gone wrong? Were there several varieties of pinyon – aromatic and non-aromatic. Had we misunderstood the man at the sawmill who identified the wood we had purchased on our vacation?
Dean went outside to bring in more wood, thinking that somehow he had grabbed the wrong logs. In a few minutes he was back, laughing heartily. "Get your coats on and follow me," he said, barely able to speak through his laughter. Puzzled, we did as he bid and, once outside……….there it was. The woodsy, nutty aroma of pinyon as we had remembered it from Colorado. For some reason, those memorable odors had to escape in the smoke in order to be detected.
And so there we were, night after night, dressed in our warmest best, sitting out-of-doors in the snow and the winter chill, reliving our vacation memories as we experienced the heavenly smell of pinyon smoke escaping from the chimney. Pinyon was truly the best when it went "up in smoke."
When my wife hears the term, "Up in Smoke," she thinks of surf and turf. I , however, think of her laughing at why we were eating surf and turf.
Since retiring, I have been steadily learning to cook something other than hot dogs on the grill. Ah, the grill - that wonderful way to cook outdoors and drink a beer at the same time. My grill is a built- in unit about 8 feet from the patio porch. This of course stays outdoors year 'round out here in the southwest.
Learning to use four 15,000 Btu burners and a rotisserie is where the story begins.
My dinner for the day was to be BBQ'ed Cornish hens, later to be stuffed with a mixture wild rice and garlic/herb feta cheese. Salad would be a variety of squash, thin sliced with a light topping of home made tarragon vinegar. A chilled white wine and French bread rounded out the meal, which would be served on the patio.
.
Every thing was going along as planned. The Cornish hens were just turning a golden brown in the BBQ. Time to go inside to reheat the rice & feta cheese mixture, put the wine in the ice bucket, slice the bread and pull the salad out of the 'frig. This in my mind took only seconds but the grill had a mind of its own. The BBQ obviously didn't like small chickens. Up in smoke would be a kind way of describing that while my back was turned the golden brown hens were cremated. A thin spiral of smoke curled up from both the hens while they rotated.
My wife suggested I try again tomorrow since all the ingredients were still there and mentioned that a lovely restaurant dinner of surf & turf would make her feel better about not getting to eat my latest attempt at creativity.
Retirement - a lifelong goal, has some pleasant surprises not usually covered in retirement planning books. One that isn't mentioned is being able to look at things that would have caused stress before and now are just funny instances of daily life.
I will never forget my first date with my ex-husband, Oh, it was not because it was the start of our life together that resulted in four beautiful children. but because to this day my family will not let me forget it nor will the insurance company.
Everything started innocently enough, I spotted Bill in the dairy department at the grocery store where I worked. I was helping to fill in at the bakery during Christmas break from college. By spring break, we were eyeing each other again. You know how it was done then (the 60s), noticing without really NOTICING.
By the time I returned for the summer, Bill was determined to ask me out. Of course, I accepted. We were going to go to the movies that very night. I was elated that all my coyness had paid off. I had played hard to get but available.
My brother had a baseball game that night so I wouldn't have to deal with my father asking all those embarrassing questions that fathers always ask. I spent an hour reassuring him that Bill wasn't an ax murderer and that he could meet him the next time we went out.
All I had to do was fix myself a bite to eat. I couldn't appear to be too hungry in case we went out for burgers later. I decided that a fried egg sandwich would hit the spot. I began to prepare it. Oil in skillet heating.....oops! There was someone at the door. Well, it would only take a second to answer it. It was a magazine salesman. He didn't seem to hear me when I said "I wasn't interested." As I tried to explain one more time that I really didn't have the funds to invest in his product, smoke came rolling out of the kitchen. The salesman made a bee line for the drive and his car. I went running into the kitchen.
I knew what had happened. The oil had caught fire. I had a real mess on my hands! How was I ever going to explain this to my parents! I had presence of mind to grab baking soda and a lid. I had the fire out in very short order. But how was I ever going to get this mess cleaned up and dressed in 30 minutes!
As it turned out, I didn't get the mess cleaned up. Mom and Dad had second thoughts about letting their only daughter go out with someone they had never met. They came home just as I was drawing water to start the cleanup.
The insurance company paid to have the kitchen repainted and the ceiling repaired. But my dreams of a smooth first date were dashed by the smoky smell still lingering in the house when Bill arrived. My Father regaled Bill with the story of how his date almost went up in smoke.
It had been a long day. I had gone to the garden center to take advantage of their annual sale. I tried hard to spend all the money I had in my pocket. I succeeded, not thinking about all the work it would take to transplant all those perennials, annuals, and shrubs.
My modus operandi has always been "get it done and get it done NOW". That day was no different. I unloaded my purchases and stood back to admire my incredible luck—a sale that found me needing exactly what they had. The fact that I paid cash and didn’t use a credit card added to the enjoyment!
It had been a week of sun/rain/sun/rain/thunder/rain/sun. My husband told me he believed we were living in the tropics (Maine is our home). As I spread the variety of colors out on the lawn, it began to rain. I retreated to the garage to wait it out. I was going to garden and that was that!
The rain stopped, the sun again appeared, and I went to the shed to retrieve my trusty garden cart. As I pulled the cart out, I noticed a tiny field mouse where the cart had been. It didn’t move. I thought it must be dead. I nudged it very gently with my foot. It moved its head!! I waited for it to scurry away but the little guy just looked up at me with the sweetest face and stayed where he was. Being soft of heart of all creatures big and small, except spiders, I picked up my little mousie. His ears were so cute, his whiskers were so cute, but I noticed that he did not move his right hind leg. It was broken. I wanted to cry. I knew the veterinarian could not be of any help.
The mouse snuggled down in my hand and closed his eyes. I took him to my mother’s front door so she could see him. I knew by the look on her face that we shared the same emotions. She asked me what I intended to do, and I told her I would return him to the shed and let Nature take its course. Reluctantly, I walked into the shed and took a last winter’s mouse’s nest down from the shelf. I put in on the floor in a corner and placed the mouse on the soft nest material. He opened his eyes and twitched his whiskers as if to say, "Thanks, I needed that."
I left the shed, once again amazed at how life has a way of slowing me down in order that I might appreciate the beauty of the world.
The adults then began rousing the children as fast as they could. They kept telling the children, "Hurry, children, we must get out of in an orderly manner!" The doctor and his wife, who lived directly across the street, immediately opened their home to the 97 orphans and staff. Of course, Lady, the hero of the day, was there among the kids.
Fire engines were everywhere, firemen were trying to get the hoses hooked up and water pumping as fast as possible. The weather was freezing cold! Ice kept forming, making it impossible put out the burning building.
"There are children in the infirmary, " the adults, told the firemen. "Someone, please, help them!" The ladies were reassured not to worry; they would get the children out. "Just show us where the infirmary is, and how many children are there?" Frantically, the ladies pointed to the infirmary. There are three little girls in there.
"Ok ladies, move out of the way now so we can get the hook and ladder in there."
Firemen began rushing up the ladder, hollering "Stand back! so we can get the children out!" The little girls did not know the building was on fire until they saw the fireman. "Ok, girls, I will get you all out. One at a time, please, one fireman told them. The idea of being last didn't cause any excitement for the last little girl to be removed. She patiently waited her turn. Reaching his arms out to her, the fireman said, "Ok, sweetheart, come on, it’s your turn. Now look into my eyes and hang on." The little girl did as she was told, never once being afraid. Going down the ladder, with blazing beams falling within inches of them, they reached the safety of the ground. The little girl grew up, remembering every detail of this event even to what the face of her fireman hero looked like; she considers him her guardian angel.
Today, the little girl is a grown woman, who considers herself thankful to be alive. She always takes the time to thank the fireman for the job they do. As you may guess I am the thankful woman, who was the youngest girl to be rescued that night.
The notice from the Sunday bulletin said; Hayride and hot dog roast for
the pre -teen group next Friday night. Let Pastor Brown know if you want to
attend.
I showed it to Mom and she said, " Sure you can go If your older brother
can too."
I talked with my friends in our Sunday school class. They all said it > was
okay if an older sister or brother went along too. We all called Mrs. Lovey
our teacher and she said she would talk with Pastor about it in the
morning.
When she called, Pastor said, " It sounds like it would work with a few
chaperones, and we can let the older children have their own hay ride at a
later date." Mrs. Lovey agreed with that and said she would line up some
chaperones.
Every thing was all set for the hay ride. We girls were constantly on the
phone with what are you going to wear questions.
The big night arrived and our parents took us to the farm where it was to
be held. All said ,"Bye and have fun; we'll be back by ten o'clock to pick
you up."
There was a mad scramble to get onto the big hay-filled wagon to get the
best seat. There were bales of hay for the adults to sit on and the kids
just pilled into the big mound of hay in the middle of the wagon.
Farmer Swenson said," Everyone ready? Than let's get started." He called
out to his old work horse, " Big boy, giddy up." Off we went down through
the pasture at a crisp gallop. If we hit a rock or a bump it would toss all
of us around and we would all squeal and laugh. This was really fun!
Can't you just see seven girls and three boys bouncing around in that big
wagon full of sweet smelling hay? Of course when any of the grownups fell
off the bales of hay, we all let out more squeals of laughter . Even the
adults were having fun and laughing right along with us. Than we got on the
road and the ride was much smoother, the adults sighed a time or two about
that.
One of the fathers said, " How about a song?" He whipped out his harmonica
and started to play. The first song was "She'll be comen' around the
mountain when she comes. " Pretty soon we were all singing and asking for
other songs We were surprised when farmer Swenson, yelled out, " We're here,
everyone out of the wagon."
The fire had already been started and we all looked for sticks to cook the
hot dogs on. "Gosh, hot dogs never tasted this good at home," most of the
kids said. Meanwhile farmer Swenson had unharnessed the horse Big Boy . He
just wandered around eating grass and pulled some of the hay off the wagon
to munch on too.
By this time we were all ready for the marshmallows and some had started
roasting theirs. As usually happens, some caught on fire and were yanked in
to blow out the fire.
A couple were yanked in too hard and flew - you guessed it -right near the
hay that Big Boy had pulled out of the wagon. A fire started and right away
headed for the wagon.
Mr. Swenson yelled, " Come help pull the wagon away. Can't get Big Boy near
the fire; he's afraid!"
It took five big men to push it far enough away so that it did not catch on
fire.
You can believe that we were all given a lecture on being careful with fire.
Carelessness nearly ruined our hayride. If it had, we all knew there would
never be another one. Our hayride and hot dog roast nearly went up in smoke
and our fun along with it. Thank goodness for the adults and chaperones!
Thanks to their quick-thinking in putting the fire out, we did have another
hay ride the next year!
© Ivy Carpenter 7/16/01
Standing on our porch, I desperately clung to my grandmother's body. We watched the smoke rising and flames lapping at the parched grass across the street from our house. Neighbors were emerging from their houses. Some dashed across the street with shovels and brooms and began beating the flames near the edge of the road. Their attempts to extinguish the flames sent showers of sparks and black tendrils of smoke into the air. "Oh Lass, what ‘ave thee done now!" my Grandmother agonized. Minutes before I had fled this area to announce to her that I had set fire to the woods while "experimenting" with a magnifying glass and the sun rays.
The fire whistle on the street just above our house started to blare. My heart leaped, causing me to add a shriek to the melee. "Shush!" my Grandmother admonished as she held me closer. "The firelads are cummin to help."
Shortly the volunteer fire department arrived. I watched as they pulled coils of hose from the truck and scurried to attach them to the hydrant at the end of the street. Fascinated, I watched the hose swell with water, looking like a giant writhing snake. It completely mesmerized me when the arc of water spewed out of the nozzle toward the brush fire. I felt a sense of what I suspect was relief when the flames hissed and began to die. At eight years old, I’m not sure I could have given a name to the emotion, I only knew somehow I felt better. We watched as the firefighters successfully doused the expanse of wooded area and extinguish the flames. A neighbor stopped to speak to my grandmother and started to rebuke me, telling me I should not play with matches. I started to cry because she said I could go to jail.
"Ma" took me indoors, washed my face and assured me they didn’t lock up children. She did not scold me but she did order me to stay in the yard for the rest of the day. Actually, I didn’t mind my confinement because I did not want to face any more neighbors since I had been labeled as the "firebug." I spend most of the day hiding in the apple tree and worrying about the punishment my mother would hand out when she came home that evening from work. As it turned out, the fretting I did was the sum of my punishment. I can attribute this to two factors; the rate of speed gossip travels in a small town and a cooling down period for my mother’s exasperation.
My mother’s beauty shop was in the neighboring town a mile away. Shortly after she had heard the sirens, she called the telephone switchboard operator and asked, "Ethel, where’s the fire?" "Clinton Street, your kid set the woods on fire."
Since we didn’t have a phone in our house then, my mother called the same neighbor that had given me the lecture. Mary told her we both were fine, I had not been burned, and my grandmother was taking it calmly. The neighbor told her not to worry. She could see me through her window. I was sitting in the apple tree . . . playing with a magnifying glass.
I had spoken my mind. "Lets face it," I stressed,"in our younger days not all of our pregnancies were wanted. Many of us felt a few french fries short of a happy meal when the truth was evident. Some of us, already a basket case with 2 and 3 toddlers tugging on our apron-strings, begged God, "Lord pleeeasssseee don't let me be pregnant." However, when reality became undeniable, we settled into a dream-like state and carried our babies, neatly tucked inside us, until the given date and then only complained when the little biscuit had the nerve to chose its own birthday which always added days and even weeks beyond human endurance. Yet, in the end of it all, we fell in love with our little creation, forevermore. Like the old man said, `If there's room in your heart there's room in your home.'"
After the young couple listened to what I had to say they chose a modern decision to suit the demands of this spanking new 21st Century. "The timing was wrong," he said. She agreed. She couldn't take time off work and he wasn't ready to be a father.
As I sit here, on the edge of my bed, watching the streams and puffs of white smoke lift into the already cloudy blue sky, I ask the Lord for strength and forgiveness. I wish they hadn't told me that on this morning my grandchild will be cut free from the womb, its remains to be cremated.
The morning is a million mornings long. I wish I had someone to talk to. "No one,"they said. "No one is to know."
The deed is done. The chimney stands naked against the sky. I've kept a vigil all morning; my old eyes searching the thin white streams emerging from the clinic chimney; my mind wondering which puff of smoke holds the essence our grandchild, our immortality, the blood of our blood.
In this awful time I keep one thought dear to my heart. I know that as my grandchild rises to heaven, God will surely inhale his unborn soul and keep it near and dear to Him. As busy as He is, God always has ample room in his heart and home.
(c) 7/2001
When my brother was growing up, my Mother always wondered whether my brother would ever learn to communicate without the help of his older sister.........me!
Mom swore that my brother, Mike, would never learn to talk because I always did it for him. As he grew older we found that Mike was perfectly willing to let his big sister do all talking. All he had to do was point and grunt and I would let Mom or Dad know what he wanted. He still is on the quiet side to this day. :)
When I entered school, Mom realized she had a real problem on her hands since I always translated for Mike and he was unwilling to learn to communicate in a "normal" fashion. (Read talk). She felt she was making real head way when she finally got him to ask for things like most 2 year olds. You know, create cute words for things like water, potty, go outside, etc. instead of the usual point and grunt method he had been using.
In her effort to teach Mike the English language she felt it was also important that he learn the correct pronouns, verb tenses, etc. She had been working with him for some time by then. She thought she was making some head way. He was becoming quite linguistic! He often said 10 words in a single day! :)
When one day he walked up to her and asked in his Mike like fashion, "Momma, can me go out and play?" she corrected him saying, "You mean, 'May I go out and play?' " Mike responded, "YOU can go out and play, but can me?"
Mom threw up her hands, shook her head and let Mike go outside to play. To this day Mike is reminded of his lack of language skills. As his big sister I can attest to the fact that his English teachers didn't do much better than Mom to strengthen those skills. He is still content to let everyone else talk, voicing his opinion only when asked. Come to think of it.......maybe that is how he got his present position with Boeing Aircraft as Manager over Modification. As you all know it's better to let the boss think he's right until he asks why his plan didn't work. :) Maybe he knew what he was doing all the time!
April 1949, was the first time I had any pain in my abdomen. After numerous trips, to different Drs, none of them was able to come up with a decision as to what my real problem was.
It was decided that exploratory surgery was in order, and they suspected it was my appendix. Being admitted to the hospital and getting ready for surgery was ok with me. I certainly was ready to get rid of the pain I was in. I also had no problem falling asleep that night. After I went to sleep, a nurse came in and woke me up, “Elaine you have to take this pill,” she told me. Ok, what is it for I asked?”” So you won’t have any trouble going to sleep," I was informed,” "But I was asleep," I replied.
Being taught to obey my elders, I took the pill and went right back to sleep .In the morning, I knew I would have to have a shave job on certain body parts All I could do was to wait for the job to get done. Needless to say, no one appeared to do the job. The only ones to come to me were the attendants to take me to surgery.
After my surgery, the nurse who was to care for me, laughing explained what happened while I was in surgery.”When they were preparing you for surgery, they noticed that you had not been shaved .So of course they had to do the job right then before the Dr came in. Right in the middle of the job, the Dr. came in, seeing what was going on exclaimed “HOLY HORNS OF THE COW, WHOSE FAULT IS THIS?”
Upon completion of that job, the Dr. proceeded with his job.
“The Dr. cut you open and upon doing so a large cyst on your right ovary burst at this time. This was the cause of all your pain. However the Dr. decided to remove your appendix at this time." The nurse continued, "You may only have sips of ginger ale for a couple of days. If you need me, just ring for me.”
During the night I woke up very thirsty. Spotting the water jug, I mustered up all my strength and pulling myself up in bed, reached for the water and had a wonderful drink. Then I lay down in the bed and rang for the nurse. The water was gone and I was still thirsty. When the nurse came in, I told her I was thirsty. Her reply was, “and I will be right back with some ginger ale for you." However, she noticed the water jug and removed it. That ended my being able to drink water whenever I wanted some.
During the first week of my stay, I enjoyed helping other people on the ward I was in. One lady who was Russian and could not speak or understand English was a challenge to the nurses .So I asked if I could help. They decide to let me try my hand at it. I was able to get through to the old lady what was needed and she complied. Everyone was amazed that a thirteen-year-old girl could do this. I loved doing it and knew right then that I wanted to be a nurse one day. While finishing my stay in the hospital, I chose a book on brain surgery from the book cart. However, I never got to finish reading the book before I was discharged.
In September 1951, I ended back at same hospital and finished reading the book on brain surgery. During this year I had met my future husband and in December of 1952, we eloped. We agreed that I would continue my education. However the high school principal informed me I was not allowed to continue because I would now be a bad influence on the other students since I was married. My dreams were put on hold.
In December 1964, I became a widow with small children to raise alone. Knowing that the insurance would only last for a certain amount of time, I had to make plans for our future. Looking through the paper, I came across an article for schooling to become a medical assistant. Calling the school, I explained my situation about not having finished high school. The person interviewing me on the phone then asked me to wait a minute while she went and talked to the head of the school. She then came back on line and asked me to please come to the school for an interview. After being interviewed for two hours I was accepted to the school. Loving every minute of my schooling, I proceeded to graduate and with the highest grades. From that day on I read every article pertaining to the medical field I came upon.
In 1966, I obtained a job with a group of doctors. One in particular would always talk to me about things in the medical field. One day while were talking he told me I should challenge the California State Medical Board to obtain my liscense as an R.N. I explained to him about my never having graduated from high school, let alone gone to four years of college to become a nurse. He said it did not matter, because I had more knowledge than an R.N. All that was required was a doctor who would be willing to sponsor me. He would be more than happy to be the one. Thanking him, I informed him that I was doing what I loved to do, people work .At that time R.N.s. were doing mostly paper work and this would not make me happy.
Now I am following another dream, my dream of becoming a writer. I have raised my children to always follow your dreams. Some dreams may take awhile, but I have learned to persevere and never let loose of my dreams.
How lucky can I be! My home has 13 mirrors. That means 13 booby traps, 13 ways to ruin my day. Several of them are small; those I can ignore as I walk hastily by. However, it’s hard to ignore the big vertical mirror in the foyer or the full-length mirror in my bedroom when I shut the door.
I hate mirrors. When I look at my reflection, I don’t see the young woman that
is still inside. Oh no. All I see are the bags and sags and wrinkles and lines.
The hair is getting pretty gray and the weight has gone south. I long to be able
to glance at myself and see the woman I would like to be. Not that I ever was that woman. Granted, I am 40 pounds lighter than I was just five months ago, back to my college weight. When my bathroom scales revealed that, I rushed to the big vertical mirror to assess the "new me." Damn! The gray hair was still there – along with the bags and sags and wrinkles and lines. It didn’t seem that much had changed. That image in the mirror was still the same.
Please don’t get the idea I’m narcissistic. I certainly don’t stand in front of a mirror naked, admiring myself. I never did. But these days I’m well aware of what I would find.
The appendix scar is the Kansas Turnpike – all 280 miles of it. Intersecting that is Interstate 35, compliments of a surgeon who removed my gall bladder and forgot to quit.
But I’m not vain. No matter how lumpy or bumpy, baggy or saggy the outside
of me is, inside there is a 25 year old who still looks at a "hunk" with broad
shoulders and a tight butt; a sexy creature who longs to spend Saturday nights
out boot-scooting instead of treating her bunions; a temptress who thrills at a sexy male voice on the phone, even if it is a cemetery plot salesman.
The body may be wearing out, but my heart still sings and my soul is young. There’s something to be said for that!
What is the driving force behind the urge to always glance in the passing shop window or a mirror? Even when I try not to do it, the compulsion to check myself out is overwhelming. Why, you might ask, would I try to restrain the impulse? Well, as a child it was impressed upon me that vanity is a bad thing, a vice.
Somewhere, when I was very young, I read the Greek myth about Narcissus who died beside a reflecting pool because he was condemned by the gods to fall in love with his own image in the water. He could not grasp the image or even cry about it without disturbing it. He could not leave it, so he wasted away.
This impression, along with the Puritan beliefs of my Yankee culture, really made it seem sinful to admire myself. This, of course, just made it more FUN to do it!
Just watch people in the streets and malls as they pass by the windows. I know they are doing the same thing I do; I recognize all the signs. There is that casual ‘I’m not looking at myself, just the merchandise’ glance. It’s not just women, either, although they are much better at hiding it. The men usually give themselves away with a rather sheepish look. Practically everyone goes through the same routine. Just a flicker of the eye to the right or left, then down at the feet or up to some point in space.
I don’t mean to imply in any way that I think there is something wrong with admiring myself. After all, if I don’t do it, who will? And even if the reflection is not entirely truthful, anything that makes me feel better cannot be all bad, right?
It seems that many of us are just fascinated with our reflections. I guess some superior types could care less, maybe their lives are so rich and satisfying that they never even think of it. So, what’s the reason for the rest of us? Could it be conceit?
Tell me, when you look in the mirror, do you see the same person you see in a self-photo? My mirror is very kind, it doesn’t show all of the creases in my face, but then when I see an up-close and personal photo I am positively floored! When did I get that old? The same goes for the rest of the body too, my mirror says I am at least ten pounds lighter that those stupid scales! Methinks that the mirror is reflecting what is in my mind’s eye rather than the truth.
Now, this may seem to be a silly little essay, but the point I am clumsily trying to make, I guess; is that what our reflections show us is the extent of our self-esteem, how we feel about ourselves at that moment in time. We see what we choose to see.
Is it possible that the answer to my original question could be that we need to be sure we are really OK, and that we at least look normal regardless of what is going on in our lives?
I was really nervous. My heart was pounding as I walked to see her. Would I be accepted? rejected? was she pretty? homely? No, she must be as lovely as I had imagined her to be. The money I was spending was more than I could afford, but I wanted this, had to have this, and here she would be waiting for me. Some things are too good or too bad to face any way but alone; I felt very alone. My breathing was ragged, hands shaking as I reached her door.
There was no one to greet me, I was expected at that time. I had arrived early but sat in my car smoking and fantasizing until the time had arrived. Would I be able to do this? Could I perform under the pressure of great desire and fear combined? As I had driven to see her, the moon was shining brightly. I had hoped that a window might let in some of that delicious moonlight.
I stood at her door, frozen, afraid, shaking, wondering if I was half the man I hoped I was but fearful to be tested. Slowly I pushed open the door. There she was. She was quietly waiting for me, maybe sensing all my mixed emotions. As I had hoped, the moonlight streamed in a window and shone brightly on her skin, god, her skin. She glowed in the moonlight. She was beautiful. Not a word, not a sound except for my gasping for air.
Slowly I moved closer to her, amazed by the color of her skin in the moonlight and the soft light left burning near her. She lay there, waiting for me, quiet, knowing it was my first time. My mouth gaped open; here she was for me, as I had dreamed. I bent over her. My shaking hands reached to touch her, caress her, hold her close to me. My hands and arms closed around her as I brought her close to me. My heart leaped with joy as I held my baby daughter to me.
The movie JAWS impressed me with the way it managed to bring back a memory of why I don't get much farther into the ocean than knee deep. But before I can tell you why, you'll need some background.
As a teen growing up in landlocked eastern Pennsylvania, I didn't know very much about the ocean or the creatures that live there. A typical teen of the '50s, I didn't spend time worrying about ocean life. Just learning about girls was tough enough.
After high school, I joined the U.S. Navy. My first duty station after boot camp was Puerto Rico. Not only didn't I know about ocean creatures, I had no clue as to where Puerto Rico was. I soon learned though; the Navy was kind enough to give me an all-expense-paid trip there. WOW! Free flight, food, housing - what more could a teen ask for ? Surprise
- there was more; I could drink there at age 18. I was in awe of how smart I was to have chosen Navy enlistment over a job in a steel mill.
The combination of living on a tropical paradise and sucking up beer was rudely interrupted one afternoon when a bunch of us decided to go snorkeling.(Hint !!! a lot of beer and snorkeling is not a good combination.) This brave band of ocean hunters, armed with Hawaiian slings and breathing masks, set out to conquer the depths. As I cruised
the warm clear ocean surface, I did my best impression of being a skilled snorkler.
Peering down, I saw something that looked like a 9X12 carpet lying on the ocean floor. Suddenly, however, this carpet began to rise and move in my direction. I decided immediately, even with my fuzzy thinking, I had no business being where I was. My
vision of me becoming fish food flashed mentally, and I didn't like the picture. I can't swear to this being true, but I think I could have beaten any Olympic swimmer in my quest to get back to shore that day. Since then, I have learned that this was a manta ray, and they don't eat humans. Other ocean creatures much bigger than I are in there, however, and some of them do eat humans!
After that experience, I took the time to find out about ocean life. I no longer go more than knee deep in a world where I could be the main course.
© Ivy Carpenter 7/10/01
When I divorced my second husband in 1990, I decided to go back to school and not let myself reflect on being alone. At 55 years old I received a Tech degree in computers. I was the oldest in the class and frightened that my brain wouldn't retain all the technical "stuff." It was a difficult time but I found that I could challenge those grey cells and increase my RAM. Eventually the school hired me to teach GEDs and computers. It was a milestone toward further autonomy. However, the best reward I had was the comment from one of my sons. "I’m really proud of you Mama. I didn’t think you could do it." Translated that means, "Who are you and what have you done with my mother?"
In 1994 I had a setback after my son David died. I went into a bad depression and had to leave the job. I dealt with it in my own way by allowing myself to experience the grief. Reflecting on that interval, I see that rituals and routine took me through that time. By signing up with a Temp Agency, I could take jobs during stable periods. In about a year, I was finally able to work full time. From that experience, I gained insight into my own strength and the knowledge that no one has ever lived a life of any depth or texture without experiencing loss.
Life is a series of highs and lows. I have come to accept the fact I do not have any control over what providence seems to hand out. I do know that I am the only one in control of my thoughts. Therefore, I can control my feelings. If I choose to be sad that is my choice, and I admit there are days I choose to wallow around in self pity. After I have indulged myself in this drama, I get on with my life and accept what is happening.
One final reflection - at this point in life I congratulate myself if I wake up breathing. It gives me another chance at another day to battle the odds.
In the ‘70s, our family participated in Civil War Reenactments and we were to attend a regional one in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. The girls (all 4 of them) wanted new ball gowns and new tea dresses for the occasion. This was terribly important to their teen image! So, as usual, the portable sewing machine was a constant companion so I could squeeze in a bit more sewing in the back of the RV on our way to the encampments.
Almost every day after work I would come home and sew and sew and sew. A copy of Godey’s Ladies Fashions became dog-eared and worn from the girls making their selections for reproduction so they would be at the height of style for the balls and teas they would be attending.
The night of the ball, we all dressed and went to a local restaurant for dinner. Our unit represented a Union troop, the Chicago Light Artillery and some of our best friends represented the 12th South Carolina Volunteer Infantry, a Confederate troupe. Of course we never sat together in the restaurants but would scowl or make derogatory remarks about each other until one or the other side became insulted and honor would have to be restored.
The same was true that night when “Grouch” shot the Reb that was ogling our daughter. As the Reb was dropping from his wound, he knocked her plate of spaghetti in the lap of her new ball gown. Of course everyone at our table was laughing but my daughter and patrons who had been following the argument weren’t quite sure what to make of the whole thing! The manager on duty came running from somewhere and once again we were inches from being kicked out and/or arrested. When the dead Confederate arose, apparently unharmed, and went back to his table to complete his meal, the patrons gave a round of applause and my daughter and I excused ourselves to the rest room to attempt to restore her gown to its previous appearance. Fortunately all went well except for a very large wet spot which I assured her would dry before the ball. However, her sister was not as fortunate when the pork chop she was eating with her fingers slipped from her grasp and landed in her lap. Grease, water and satin did not mix well, and I had to make matching tucks to cover the stain and make it look like the gown was supposed to look that way.
Disaster once again averted, I was stressed, hot and sweaty, and my “do” was coming undone so I made “Grouch” stop at a liquor store and purchase something to soothe me while I tried to make myself presentable. Sweat wiped away with a cold cloth, another layer of deodorant applied, and hair back in order, I reached for my perfume and instead of putting some on my finger to dab on, I put the mouth of the bottle to my skin and stained my gown at the decollate. I tried to rub it out but succeeded only in tearing the fabric lowering the neckline provocatively lower than was acceptable even for evening wear. Undaunted, I got out the box containing the same trim that was on other portions of my gown and quickly stitched a small design at the neckline. Finally repaired, and entering the parking lot of the convention center where the ball was being held, I stood up to put the trim box away and discovered I had sewn the lace not only to the dress but to my undergarment too! If I stood straight, my design was crooked and it sure felt funny moving when your underclothes moved with you!
Well, the ball itself was a great success with almost 1,000 troops and their families in attendance and all dressed in either uniforms or 1860s fashions, it certainly became a weekend to reflect on.
