Sgt. Judson W. Dennis was a resident of Tip Top, Tennessee. He was killed in France on October 17, 1918. The following article by his great-niece,
details how, after seventy eight years his marker finally stood in the
National Cemetery in Dover.
For seventy six years, the letters had lain in storage, waiting for someone
to recognize the lessons contained in words written decades ago by a young
man far from home never to return. A thousand wonders they had survived the years at all. They had lain at the bottom of a trunk through the raising of
five children in a farmhouse deep in the hollows of Tennessee, they had
lasted through the "selling out" of the family farm to T.V.A., found their
way into the top of a storage closet in Kentucky, and at last...at my
father's death, they passed into my hands. The letters were written by my
great-uncle, a man my father had never known. Sgt. Judson Dennis, aged 26, was killed in action one month before the end of The Great War in 1918.
I knew the family legend, though I really knew very little about the man.
Judson's picture hung on the wall of my grandfather's farmhouse throughout
my childhood. I was told he was "Pa's brother, killed in France". Later, as
I grew older I was puzzled that he did not seem to rest in the family's
cemetery. And that too was explained, "They never found his body". That
mystery piqued my curiosity, but oddly I can remember none of my aunts, nor my father elaborating further, or seeming to know much more...and so Judson was just a picture, "Pa's brother, killed in France, who never came home".
In 1984, I was a grown woman with three children of my own when Jud's legacy came to me. I found the box of "letters home" when I finalized my late father's estate. There were some twelve letters, tracing Jud's first
experience as a young soldier in training in South Carolina to his last
letter written some ten months later in France. I sat for hours in another
time and another place as I read the words of a young man suddenly tossed
from the hard but simple life he and all of his family before him had known
into a world that except for some dramatic political upheaval in a faraway
place would never have been of his experience. I read his wonder as he
discovered the countryside he passed through on the train that carried the
Tennessee battalion from Nashville. I heard his delight at the books and
"picture shows" that were available at Camp Sevier. I heard the sadness and
acceptance in his words as he told about the "soldier boy they killed
because he would not obey orders and refused to work." I heard again and
again in his words the newness in his experiences and felt the range of
emotion in the letters, one after another, as they chronicled not only a
journey of miles, but a journey of experience and growth. There were some
ten other letters from various government officials indicating that my
grandfather had gone to as great a lengths as a poor farmer with little
means of influence or communication could go in trying to retrieve his
brother's body. And there was the telegram. As I held it, I could almost
feel the shock and grief that must have flooded my grandfather when he
received it almost a month after the actual date of his brother's death, and
after the ending of what would become known as the Great War. How shocked he must have been, probably believing that with the war ended his brother would soon be home, to farm with him, to raise livestock with him, perhaps to settle down with his "sweetheart" nearby. And in all of that time he had not known his brother was dead. The recent grief I had felt was all too fresh and that, coupled with the multitude of responsibilities that faced me, was the reason at last that I carefully boxed up the letters and set them upon a shelf to wait for yet another ten years.
It was my thirteen year old daughter, Heather, who next unearthed Jud's
letters. She was searching for a history fair project, something she could
research and make a display of , and none of my suggestions would do. In
exasperation, I racked my brain for some idea that would grasp her interest,
something that we could find tangible objects to display for...and I
remembered a small nondescript box that had lain in storage with first one
member of the family and then another for seventy six years. I unearthed it
from the back of a shelf, and laid it before my daughter, little realizing
that the contents of this box were in fact to set off a chain of reactions
and events that would finally bring closure to a chapter of my family's past
and provide a sense of pride for my "children of the 90's" to cling to as
they faced their future. Her eyes grew large with wonder as I told her where
these letters had come from, who the man was who had written them, and what had happened to him. For two days I saw her immersed single-mindedly in the letters that I had first read ten years before, and I understood that she too, was caught in another time and another place. Then came the questions.
And I realized how very different her experience with the letters had been
from my own. I had read them with a grown woman's experience and an
understanding of the past. I had read them with the understanding of another
generation and accepted so much of what Jud said without question. For my
young daughter, there were questions. " Why did our own army kill a soldier
because he did not obey orders and did not work? Why didn't they just send
him home? Why was Jud so excited about all the books at the camp? And what are moving pictures? And what did Jud mean when he said "Old Glory, I will stand and die by her"? Wasn't he scared? Why did he keep telling Pa what to do about his things? Did he know he wasn't coming back? If he did, why didn't he ever talk about anybody getting killed? Why does he keep asking for mail from home? Didn't anybody ever write to him? Why does he keep saying he cannot tell his family where he has been and what is going on? Does he really mean it when he says that the 'mothers and sweethearts and friends' shouldn't grieve, they should be proud to have a soldier?"
The questions came in a flood and I struggled with some surprise to answer
them, realizing that this child had not indeed grown up in a world of
unquestioning patriotism, of appreciation for the means of an education, of
unwavering loyalty. The world that had begun in my own childhood, the
Vietnam era, a time of riots and assassinations, of protests and marches and sit-ins had somehow tapered into this world, and our children are accustomed to dispute, the fall from grace of political officials, the cynicism of a cynical age where there are no heroes and few ideals. Somehow they have no connection to the past that my generation, with our parents and grandparents of another time and way of thinking, did. And so, I think, it should not be surprising that a soldier such as Jud, such as the thousands like him, not heroes and yet heroes just the same, came as such a shock to my young daughter.
I tried to paint his world for her, as best I knew it from th elink of a previous generation. She tried to imagine a world without media, a world without travel, and something else, a world in which people simply "did what they felt they had to do". She held his wallet in her hands and marveled at the picture of the two little girls he carried in it and asked about frequently in his letters. The tiny girls are now her great-aunts, loving ladies in their eighties that she eagerly visits several times a year. She read and reread the tattered letter from a comrade who had been present telling my grandfather how his brother had died. We searched atlases of maps of the time frame, trying to locate the approximate vicinity this man said Jud's body had been buried, and I tried to explain to her the impossibility of doing anything about locating him now. Then, she and her younger sister wanted to know, why doesn't he at least have a marker? And that question hung in the air between us, as I wondered myself.
Her project was a winner. It took first prize at the history fair. She had
traced in excerpts from his letters the simple and tragic story of a young
man, like thousands of other young men, who left a simple existence to
answer duty, and die for it. She displayed his pictures and his medals. But
it was his paper that told me what she had learned from Jud. " I found this
story of Judson Dennis (my great-great uncle) a story of heroism. Out of all
his letters, he not once complained, nor told half of what he saw. He fought
to his death for his country, not because he had to, but because he felt it
was right. He went off to war as a man with guts, leaving his family and
friends and girlfriend. Just receiving a letter seemed to probably make him
grin from ear to ear for days. I feel that in this country today we take
things that are important for granted. That's what Judson had shown me by
just reading a few of his letters." Heather's words were not empty ones. I
had watched her wonder, her emotions, listened to her questions. She truly
was amazed at the bravery and loyalty of this man. And she was in awe at the idea that Jud was not unusual for the time. She titled her project "Pride
Won - Patriot Lost".
The story did not end here. I could not seem to hang Jud's story up once my
daughter had unearthed it, and an unanswered question still lay between us.
I asked my aunt, the only one who can remember Jud at all, just what she did remember. She told me snatches of memories, of being bundled up in a wagon and trekking to Dover, Tennessee to watch Jud drill with the other soldiers, of his final visit home before he was sent overseas. She showed me postcards he had mailed her from faraway places. I typed Jud's letters and gave them to my aunts, I saw the pleasure they took in these and realized that somehow a wound existed in my family that I had not known of. Jud's body had never been returned. And my daughters wanted to know why he did not have a marker in his memory as did the rest of our family. Jud had been dead for over seventy years, and belonged to another world, but somehow in his letters he had become real to us, we felt we knew him, and somehow this did not seem fitting that he had no place among his own, no marker to prove he had ever been. It was a flash of inspiration and impulse that sent me to the phone to call the National Cemetery in Dover. Was there such a thing as a memorial section, for stones to mark the memories of soldiers never found? Yes indeed there was. And then my heart plummeted as I heard the next words, "but it is filled now." I have no idea what prompted this lady to speak her next words, perhaps she sensed my disappointment, but she added, "Let me check to be sure." And then I felt as if somehow I had been given a message that what Iwas doing was for some reason what was meant to be when Judy Bagsby came back to the phone and said, "There is space for one more." Then began the process that more than once threatened not to come to fruition. There was information that was needed, information I was not at all certain I could provide. I had to furnish proof of his status as a soldier, proof of his death, his birth date, his identification number. It was the latter two items I feared for. Once again those things were somehow, I felt, meant to be, because just exactly the right scraps of paper had somehow never been thrown out. His birth date I found on a tiny torn page in my grandfather's handwriting. I have no idea why it was written and would not have even known what the date meant, except that beside it he had penned, "Jud's birthday", and underlined it twice. The identification number seemed to appear on nothing, not the telegram, not certificates expressing appreciation to the family after his death, nothing at all. And then in Jud's wallet, I found a list detailing the items returned to the family. There, at the top, was a number. And upon confirmation from Judy, I learned that this was the illusive number I had been searching for.
This summer a crate arrived at the National Cemetery in Tennessee. A simple white stone like every other white stone in that cemetery assumed its place in a circle. My family and I made a pilgrimage to visit for the first time
what can be considered Jud's resting place. I smiled as I saw the basket of
flowers my aunts had placed there. They never miss a birthday, never a
holiday or change of season with the graves of our family who has left us.
It is important to them, this remembering, this reminding that we all, even
in memory somehow belong to each other and are a part of each other. These ladies do not dwell in the past, they say their goodbyes to those gone, they go resolutely on with their lives. But there is a pride and an honor among them that says those who have left us are still a part of us. Finally, now seventy eight years later, they were able to do the same for Jud.
The story is finished now, I think. Closure has been brought to my family.
And yet perhaps the story is not finished at all. My children learned
something from Jud, something about another time and another way of
thinking, and only time will tell if that impression will matter. I do not
want my children to be unquestioning, I do not want them not to have open
informed minds. But I do want them to understand unwavering dedication, and loyalty, yes..and patriotism too. And I hope they learned something from me, something intangible that has to do with family and honor and
responsibility.
Postscript:
But the story did not end at this time. Shortly after the above article and
Jud's letters appeared in the American section of a Canadian W.W. I site on
internet, a New York researcher and veteran discovered them. Something about Jud's story caught his attention. Kermit Mercer went to great lengths to begin a pilgrimage of discovery about Jud's war experiences and story that would take him all the way to the area of France where Jud was killed.
Kermit's experiences and discoveries are detailed in this site. If this
story further interests you, and you wish to read Jud's letters and see
photos, as well as more information concerning his life and experience, go
to http://www.tngenweb.org/stewart/judson.htm
c1997JANPHILPOT
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Day 2: Bust the Clutter Week
I must admit to waking up feeling much better today. Yesterday's "Bust the Clutter" campaign actually did not last more than a couple of hours but actually accomplished quite a lot.
a) I got STARTED. That, for a born procrastinator, is the important thing. It is easy to get started when you are asking so little of yourself. Literally my first three goals of 50 Throw Away, 25 Put Away, and 20 Junk the Junk took ONLY 33 minutes.
That sounds impossible, but you have to understand how this game is played and how it came about. My little granddaughters were living with me at the time, and we had to keep the place liveable constantly and I wanted to do it without resorting to being a harping nag... so I would tell them we were going to play a game, hand them each a small plastic bag and here we went like hunters stalking big game, looking for things -anything- to throw away. Every thread on the carpet was "game", every crumpled tissue, every speck of paper. We would count as we "bagged"each item and 50 was reason for high fives and shouts! See? Takes no time. :)
Which brings me to the second accomplishment:
b) Hubby got into the 50 Throwaway. He threw away fifty things all on his own and proudly held up his fat bag for me to approve of! :) I think he likes playing cleaning games as well as the girls. I am going to teach him some more. Which brings me to accomplishment number 3.
c) Now that we ARE started, and have made it rather fun, I suspect we will continue until it is done. :) Which brings me to today's goals...
Today the plan is:
Irrevelevant for a few hours as I am heading out of here to get human again and get hair and nails done....
But THEN!!
a) Throw away/burn/or shred at least 50 pieces of paper that have outlived their need and are being kept "just in case a case that will never happen and I know it".
b) Take 5 in 3. That would be take five minutes in three different rooms doing whatever you see needs doing as fast as you can. Use a timer. This is really fun if you have someone(s) also doing it with you and following in the room you just left behind. Kinda like a Chinese fire drill.
c) A 50 outta place - back in place. Again, only this time with fifty small items you find out of place, putting them back IN place. Count EVERYTHING, from the a spoon in the fork section to a penny you put in the change jar.
Ok....ONE person has committed to playing this with me this week! Thanks Tiffany! Anyone else out there???
a) I got STARTED. That, for a born procrastinator, is the important thing. It is easy to get started when you are asking so little of yourself. Literally my first three goals of 50 Throw Away, 25 Put Away, and 20 Junk the Junk took ONLY 33 minutes.
That sounds impossible, but you have to understand how this game is played and how it came about. My little granddaughters were living with me at the time, and we had to keep the place liveable constantly and I wanted to do it without resorting to being a harping nag... so I would tell them we were going to play a game, hand them each a small plastic bag and here we went like hunters stalking big game, looking for things -anything- to throw away. Every thread on the carpet was "game", every crumpled tissue, every speck of paper. We would count as we "bagged"each item and 50 was reason for high fives and shouts! See? Takes no time. :)
Which brings me to the second accomplishment:
b) Hubby got into the 50 Throwaway. He threw away fifty things all on his own and proudly held up his fat bag for me to approve of! :) I think he likes playing cleaning games as well as the girls. I am going to teach him some more. Which brings me to accomplishment number 3.
c) Now that we ARE started, and have made it rather fun, I suspect we will continue until it is done. :) Which brings me to today's goals...
Today the plan is:
Irrevelevant for a few hours as I am heading out of here to get human again and get hair and nails done....
But THEN!!
a) Throw away/burn/or shred at least 50 pieces of paper that have outlived their need and are being kept "just in case a case that will never happen and I know it".
b) Take 5 in 3. That would be take five minutes in three different rooms doing whatever you see needs doing as fast as you can. Use a timer. This is really fun if you have someone(s) also doing it with you and following in the room you just left behind. Kinda like a Chinese fire drill.
c) A 50 outta place - back in place. Again, only this time with fifty small items you find out of place, putting them back IN place. Count EVERYTHING, from the a spoon in the fork section to a penny you put in the change jar.
Ok....ONE person has committed to playing this with me this week! Thanks Tiffany! Anyone else out there???
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Bust the Clutter Week
I am overwhelmed. I feel like crawling deep in a hole and pulling the opening of it in after me. For six months of the year, seven days a week, I know exactly what to do and where to be. No sense feeling guilty about what is not getting done at home because I am not there. I am running a campground. It is not all that difficult a job. What it is...is time consuming. The park owns you, every waking moment and you can bet on being woken a number of times during your sleeping ones. Even the days with fewer hours are spaced such that nothing can really be accomplished before one has to be back "on the job". The exhaustion comes not from hard physical labor, but from the mental pressure of literally have NO day off for over six months.
If you were one who "loves camping", this job is one to ruin that inclination...because you are NOT camping. Toward the end of the season, you are, quite literally, surviving. We had exactly two campfires this year. Why? Well, if one sits outside one is on duty regardless of the hours posted. In fact, if one turns of the lights and goes to bed one is still on duty if someone decides to knock at the door.
Don't get me wrong. There is much about this job that is wonderful. The rangers are great to work with, at least on this lake. The campers we deal with are primarily families and fishermen, not troublemakers. The campground is beautiful, well kept and shaded. We have a great relationship with our regulars and it truly is a unique way of supplementing income for a couple with the capacity for working well together (which we have) and living in tight quarters day after day without murderous inclinations (which we can). It is simply....being tied down so long is wearing, mind and soul wearing. It is simply...it is over "all of a sudden" ....and it is a little hard to get one's bearings again. Because...
When it is over and the gates swing shut behind the last camper...you are literally weary to the marrow of your bones.
You return home just when the seasonal changes are about to make sure your days are literally numbered for any outside work that needs to be done. And you don't feel much like doing it anyway. There is always the inside and always "all winter". And every spring you look around at what was not accomplished "all winter", know you are going to have to leave it undone again, and...feel overwhelmed.
So....I have decided to have a Bust the Clutter Week. I will feel better getting something accomplished. Looking at something accomplished is going to give me impetus to do more, I am sure. And I will do it the same way I motivate my granddaughters when we have "cleaning time"....with games. :) Any of you who wish to join me in the Bust are welcome. :)
Today's Goals:
1) Throw away 50. (Grab a garbage bag, go through the house and do not stop until 50 items are in the trash)
2) 25 "Outta Place". (Pick up 25 things in the house that are "out of place" and put them IN place.
3) 20 Junk the Junk. (Throw away 20 things in the Junk area of the house where way too much is piled up because I "might use it someday". I won't. I haven't yet. Throwing it away).
There. That is a good start. If I get that done, I might just do the whole list a second time today. :)
If you decide to play this game with me this week, let me know!
If you were one who "loves camping", this job is one to ruin that inclination...because you are NOT camping. Toward the end of the season, you are, quite literally, surviving. We had exactly two campfires this year. Why? Well, if one sits outside one is on duty regardless of the hours posted. In fact, if one turns of the lights and goes to bed one is still on duty if someone decides to knock at the door.
Don't get me wrong. There is much about this job that is wonderful. The rangers are great to work with, at least on this lake. The campers we deal with are primarily families and fishermen, not troublemakers. The campground is beautiful, well kept and shaded. We have a great relationship with our regulars and it truly is a unique way of supplementing income for a couple with the capacity for working well together (which we have) and living in tight quarters day after day without murderous inclinations (which we can). It is simply....being tied down so long is wearing, mind and soul wearing. It is simply...it is over "all of a sudden" ....and it is a little hard to get one's bearings again. Because...
When it is over and the gates swing shut behind the last camper...you are literally weary to the marrow of your bones.
You return home just when the seasonal changes are about to make sure your days are literally numbered for any outside work that needs to be done. And you don't feel much like doing it anyway. There is always the inside and always "all winter". And every spring you look around at what was not accomplished "all winter", know you are going to have to leave it undone again, and...feel overwhelmed.
So....I have decided to have a Bust the Clutter Week. I will feel better getting something accomplished. Looking at something accomplished is going to give me impetus to do more, I am sure. And I will do it the same way I motivate my granddaughters when we have "cleaning time"....with games. :) Any of you who wish to join me in the Bust are welcome. :)
Today's Goals:
1) Throw away 50. (Grab a garbage bag, go through the house and do not stop until 50 items are in the trash)
2) 25 "Outta Place". (Pick up 25 things in the house that are "out of place" and put them IN place.
3) 20 Junk the Junk. (Throw away 20 things in the Junk area of the house where way too much is piled up because I "might use it someday". I won't. I haven't yet. Throwing it away).
There. That is a good start. If I get that done, I might just do the whole list a second time today. :)
If you decide to play this game with me this week, let me know!
Thursday, October 14, 2010
A Grandfather's Final Gift
When autumn comes I always remember a very long ago one, when I was a young girl and was just beginning to grasp and appreciate all the shimmering magic of that special time of year. It is a time when russets and golds, burnished coppers and siennas gently sway in a breeze until they seem blended together in a softly smudged masterpiece of brilliant hues and subtle blends. It is a time when the coolness of the air caresses your cheek and the breeze that does the caressing seems to be whispering of something to come. It is a time when the crunching of leaves under your feet make you want to go romping romping....just to hear them some more...
But there is no more beautiful place to realize the glories of the season than in the mountains. And a long ago autumn I was in the mountains. The Smokey Mountains are breathtaking in any season at all, rising up in fullness, wrapping themselves around you in all directions as if a mama were clasping you in her arms. In every season, they are awesome with the mists that rise like the very breath the living mountains exude. In every season, they are breathtaking with layers of ever softening hues of color fading into the distance, mountain after mountain. But in the autumn, when the colors on the mountains are clamoring for attention, when whatever direction you turn is another shouting, "Here I am! I am more beautiful".... "No! This way! It is I who is more beautiful! Me!"..."Here! You are forgetting to turn to me!"...then you know...no palace, no great antiquity, no masterpiece is so arrayed as these mountains.
It was such an autumn.
For as long as I can remember my grandfather was sick. He woke each morning choking for breath, and hacking such deep painful coughs that it hurt to listen to him. He was thin and quiet, rarely having a great deal to say, and somehow in some odd way I found that comforting: that I could sit beside him in his company, yet never be asked all the patronizing questions that adults found so important to press upon children. This autumn he seemed ever thinner, ever weaker, ever quieter, and yet, there seemed something bearing on his mind. I did not ask him what. It was not the way of the relationship between us. We never talked. We were mostly simply quiet together. I knew how to be very quiet. An only child who has long been comfortable with the silence of solitude can do that as well as an elder. This autumn the family was camped together in the Smokies, something we did from time to time. And when the time came for my family to take its leave from the others, my grandfather reached over and touched me gently. "Let's take a walk," he said.
It was surprising. My grandfather never walked. He sat quietly mostly. But side by side we slowly wended a path through the forest, and he began to tell a story. Because the story was from a time I did not understand, and the plot revolved around logging, something I knew nothing of, the details of the story escaped me, although I remember the gist of it. The moral I remember most of all. And the story my grandfather told me was to warn me, that in this world there are folks to be wary of, and one must not always believe what one is told, that one must be careful in this world and think for oneself using common sense. That was it. A simple short story with a moral, and then we turned and walked back through the woods to the campsite, and bid goodbye.
It was the last time I ever saw my grandfather alive, and I knew even then what he had done. Lacking in material possessions, and somehow feeling there was something richer than this to give anyway, he had given me a story: some words to remember, perhaps to ease me through something life would dish out later. He must have known he would not see me again, and must have known he would not be there as I grew into a young woman. Unable to be in my life, to protect or insulate or guide me, he had only a simple story to give. And perhaps it was the richest thing he could have given. It has meant a great deal to me all of my life that I had such a grandfather who, despite his frailty, wished to take a walk and give me a bit of wisdom to ease my way into the world. And I have surely remembered that wisdom time and time again throughout my life. It has meant much to know I had such a grandfather who despite his frailty, wished to take a walk with me: to give me a story. He may have known that I, the lover of stories, would treasure this above all other things. And so I have.
When autumn slips in, begins to push its subtle way into the world until summer at last beats a hasty retreat leaving behind a triumphant shout of color from a new season, I never fail to remember that long ago one. In the very midst of colors clamoring, there came a gentle gift from a grandfather I would never see again.
In this season of gift-giving, perhaps the most precious things we can give those we love, is the gift of thought and heart. Consider those gifts given to you along the way, and consider those which have meant the most. I dare say many of you will discover the same that I have. Those gifts most precious, most remembered, were not purchased in any store, and can only be given by means of a loving heart. Those gifts most treasured came without ribbons or wrapping, never dressed a shop window, and would be treasured only by the person whose heart motivated the gift and the receiver who was loved well enough to be given it.
Copyright ©2000janPhilpot
But there is no more beautiful place to realize the glories of the season than in the mountains. And a long ago autumn I was in the mountains. The Smokey Mountains are breathtaking in any season at all, rising up in fullness, wrapping themselves around you in all directions as if a mama were clasping you in her arms. In every season, they are awesome with the mists that rise like the very breath the living mountains exude. In every season, they are breathtaking with layers of ever softening hues of color fading into the distance, mountain after mountain. But in the autumn, when the colors on the mountains are clamoring for attention, when whatever direction you turn is another shouting, "Here I am! I am more beautiful".... "No! This way! It is I who is more beautiful! Me!"..."Here! You are forgetting to turn to me!"...then you know...no palace, no great antiquity, no masterpiece is so arrayed as these mountains.
It was such an autumn.
For as long as I can remember my grandfather was sick. He woke each morning choking for breath, and hacking such deep painful coughs that it hurt to listen to him. He was thin and quiet, rarely having a great deal to say, and somehow in some odd way I found that comforting: that I could sit beside him in his company, yet never be asked all the patronizing questions that adults found so important to press upon children. This autumn he seemed ever thinner, ever weaker, ever quieter, and yet, there seemed something bearing on his mind. I did not ask him what. It was not the way of the relationship between us. We never talked. We were mostly simply quiet together. I knew how to be very quiet. An only child who has long been comfortable with the silence of solitude can do that as well as an elder. This autumn the family was camped together in the Smokies, something we did from time to time. And when the time came for my family to take its leave from the others, my grandfather reached over and touched me gently. "Let's take a walk," he said.
It was surprising. My grandfather never walked. He sat quietly mostly. But side by side we slowly wended a path through the forest, and he began to tell a story. Because the story was from a time I did not understand, and the plot revolved around logging, something I knew nothing of, the details of the story escaped me, although I remember the gist of it. The moral I remember most of all. And the story my grandfather told me was to warn me, that in this world there are folks to be wary of, and one must not always believe what one is told, that one must be careful in this world and think for oneself using common sense. That was it. A simple short story with a moral, and then we turned and walked back through the woods to the campsite, and bid goodbye.
It was the last time I ever saw my grandfather alive, and I knew even then what he had done. Lacking in material possessions, and somehow feeling there was something richer than this to give anyway, he had given me a story: some words to remember, perhaps to ease me through something life would dish out later. He must have known he would not see me again, and must have known he would not be there as I grew into a young woman. Unable to be in my life, to protect or insulate or guide me, he had only a simple story to give. And perhaps it was the richest thing he could have given. It has meant a great deal to me all of my life that I had such a grandfather who, despite his frailty, wished to take a walk and give me a bit of wisdom to ease my way into the world. And I have surely remembered that wisdom time and time again throughout my life. It has meant much to know I had such a grandfather who despite his frailty, wished to take a walk with me: to give me a story. He may have known that I, the lover of stories, would treasure this above all other things. And so I have.
When autumn slips in, begins to push its subtle way into the world until summer at last beats a hasty retreat leaving behind a triumphant shout of color from a new season, I never fail to remember that long ago one. In the very midst of colors clamoring, there came a gentle gift from a grandfather I would never see again.
In this season of gift-giving, perhaps the most precious things we can give those we love, is the gift of thought and heart. Consider those gifts given to you along the way, and consider those which have meant the most. I dare say many of you will discover the same that I have. Those gifts most precious, most remembered, were not purchased in any store, and can only be given by means of a loving heart. Those gifts most treasured came without ribbons or wrapping, never dressed a shop window, and would be treasured only by the person whose heart motivated the gift and the receiver who was loved well enough to be given it.
Copyright ©2000janPhilpot
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Dear Grown Children
Dear Grown Children,
It is looking a lot like the years I remember growing up. Maybe worse. And it looks like it is going to get worse still. I didn't prepare you for that. I knew better. I was raised differently. But...we always had the idea that our children would have so much more than we did, as we had had so much more than our parents did, as they did in comparison to their parents before them. Well...the cycle was a cycle instead of a straight line forward, it seems. We have been warned of this. Years back, perhaps some ten years back, I heard it projected that our young people would be the first generation in a number that could not expect to do better than their parents did. I hoped it was a "gloom and doom" forecast. I didn't prepare you. Or myself. Now I wish I had listened to my upbringing. And like a typical mom, I have been trying to think how to "fix" my mistakes. I can't. I made the same ones myself and I am trying to "fix" my own too. But because I am a mom, here I go, trying to impart some wisdom. So this is what digging through my memories has brought to send to you:
1. "Keep your wagon in the clear". I heard my grandfather say it again and again. Good advice. I didn't do it, you didn't do it, and we are all trying now to GET the wagon in the clear. Bottom line...get everything you can paid off and don't incur more debt. My parents didn't live on credit. If they couldn't pay out front for it they didn't buy. They kept aside something for a rainy day, the day a tire went flat or they had an unexpected trip to the doctor's office. Do the same, a few dollars set aside every month you don't touch.
2. "Fold the aluminum foil". That is my symbol for using, reusing and not buying more. When I was a kid, my folks washed and folded the used aluminum foil. They stuck it in a drawer and when a piece was needed they reused, rewashed, refolded. They did it until it literally fell into tiny little glittering pieces. I have no idea how long a box of aluminum foil lasted that way, but I am sure they probably bought no more than one a year. Do the same with everything. My grandfather tied every scrap of twine to the end of a ball, rolled it up, and added to it. Same principle. Don't discard what can be used again.
3. "There are no Joneses". Once I asked my elderly aunts how they survived the harsh years of the 1930's. One looked at me quizzically and replied, "Well...we didn't try to keep up with the Joneses...weren't any Joneses." That is what we are coming back to now. Don't even try to keep up with the latest fads, the latest ploys media and advertisements try to tempt you with. Forget the Joneses. The only Joneses out there will be the ones who have humongous debt incurred and still incurring it and it is going to come to a heartbreaking halt sooner or later. Make do with what you have. My folks had the same furniture from the time I was a tot until I was grown. They didn't replace it. They took care of it. If something broke, you fixed it. You didn't go shopping for something else. Pride was taken not in having the newest trend on the market, but in having what you had paid for and taking care of it. In fact, there was a little bit of snobbery about folks that fell into the trap of "putting on the dog" in those days. Not smart, it was thought. THAT was true pride in those days. It needs to be again.
4. "There is more to managing money than making it." That was my father's mantra. And he followed it. Even as circumstances improved, he shopped for bargains. Every Saturday morning he did the grocery shopping and paid the bills. Every Saturday morning he sat at the kitchen table perusing the flyers that had come in the mail checking the bargains against his grocery list and clipping coupons. He did not clip them if he was not looking for a particular item. He made sure he was getting what he was needing only and at the best price. When he returned home my parents checked the receipt against the items to make sure each was rung up only one time and the correct price. That attitude ran through every single purchase made. His one "extravagance" was a new car every three years, primarily because he was not a mechanic and had to have a way to get to work that he knew would get him there. My parents paid cash for it, did not buy on credit. For three years saving for the next car was part of the budget...but when it happened, it was not a quick purchase. He would shop around, and wear down salesmen for months before he finally purchased. He did not include "extras" and bought only what he could afford after he was assured it was the best price he could get something "trustworthy" for, and "trustworthy" was the key...color or looks or sporty had no place in the decision.
5. "If you don't need it, it's not a bargain." Another of my parents' adages. Sales are tempting, a "good deal" is hard to turn down. But if you don't need it...is it really a bargain? Or did you just dig your hole deeper? I admit it, I have fallen into the same trap, but my parents' words are haunting me now and more than once I hear those words ringing in my head...and they are keeping me from temptation. Burn them into your own minds too.
6. "Fanning your drawers dry." My aunts used to laugh about how few clothes they had growing up, and how they often stood out on the back porch fanning a pair of fresh washed "drawers" dry so they would have a clean pair for the next day. It was a funny story and a funny image to think about. But there is some wisdom there too. Think about how small closets are in older houses. There is a good reason for that. A tiny closet was all a person needed. I grew up with three pairs of shoes at any one given time and I was luckier than many. There was a pair of "church shoes", a pair of "school shoes", and a pair of "play shoes" (which was school shoes gone ragged). The same for clothes. Luckier than most, I had an outfit for each day out in public, and a few outfits that I was to change into when I came home. That was it. There was never anything hanging in the closet that was not used and worn on a weekly basis. No spares, and no "I might wear that sometimes". I didn't feel poor. Everyone else in my world operated the same way. The entire time I grew up. I thought that was just how it was. What is more, if your shoe needed repair, you took it to the repair shop. You didn't run out and buy another pair. And most of my clothes were home made, because at that time it was cheaper to buy material and make clothes than to buy them "ready made"....I don't know if that is true still or not, but it was then, and whatever was the most practical was the way we lived. This may sound horrible...but it really wasn't. If that is the way everyone thinks...if they take pride in practicality then it is really a "rich" way to live, because you are proud you are doing what is the "right" thing to live. We lost that yardstick the last few generations. I am going back to it. I am fanning my "drawers dry". No more than what I need. It actually feels pretty good. I stick my tongue out at ads and media now. I feel a little like a kid who just found an escape route from a bully and he can't touch me any more!
7. "Never depend on more than one income." It sounds impossible now, this one. My father preached it. He swore when two people worked in a family only ONE income should be depended on to live, and a family should live within it. The other should be saved, said he. Why? Because then if something happened to one job, the family could still survive. Hmmm. Sounds impossible now days, huh? Might be. But there is still some wisdom in it. How about this? Never stretch what ever is coming in, two or one incomes, to the max so that every penny goes to pay bills. That is for sure cruising for downfall. Leave some breathing space.
8. "One can throw it out the back door quick as the other brings it in the front." Another of my dad's sermons. His point? It takes two to manage. Get on the same team, you and your spouse. One can't do it. If you want to be as sound as possible in this shaky economy make a pact together. Take pride in it. Look it over together, frequently. Pat one another on the back. Make it a thing of pride this teamwork of yours.
9. "Honesty is the best policy" and "A man's word is his bond". Because few of us have prepared for what is happening in our economy, many of us have incurred debt we can't now handle. Don't run from it. If you are to survive not just financially, but spiritually and emotionally, meet your mistakes head on. There is no shame in downsizing, in giving up what you have accumulated if what you are salvaging is your honesty and integrity. It isn't really yours until it is paid for anyway. Make honesty and integrity your greatest wealth, and give up what you can't afford to maintain. If you have incurred debt you can't handle, go to the creditor and offer them what you can on a manageable basis and stick to what you promised. Most will work with you. And don't incur more.
10. Which brings me to the last adage that will see us all through, "Have a little pride." I heard it all my life and used in various contexts. In the world of those generations, having a "little pride" meant: a) there was no shame in being poor, but shame in being unclean or "scruffy". You kept your home and person clean and neat, and that was a sign of wealth...in pride. b) there was no shame in being poor, but there was shame in not meeting one's word or honor. You did what you could when you said you would do it it, and if it took a lifetime to fulfill that obligation you took a lifetime, but you did it. It hurts to see my children having financial problems and frightened of this economy. I don't want it for you, but I am proud of you each time you learn to do without something you previously took for granted. I think of my own lessons...how I put myself through school without incurring any debt and had it paid for when I came out...I am proud that I did that. I don't know, looking back, HOW I did it...but I am very very proud of it. YOU will have that same pride one day, looking back at what you sacrificed to "have a little pride"...who am I to hurt over you learning that lesson? It is a valuable one, self sacrifice. And I am proud that you can be proud even if you have to hurt a little to get there. Yeah...."have a little pride"...and there is no shame in living poor as long as you have that.
Love,
Mom
It is looking a lot like the years I remember growing up. Maybe worse. And it looks like it is going to get worse still. I didn't prepare you for that. I knew better. I was raised differently. But...we always had the idea that our children would have so much more than we did, as we had had so much more than our parents did, as they did in comparison to their parents before them. Well...the cycle was a cycle instead of a straight line forward, it seems. We have been warned of this. Years back, perhaps some ten years back, I heard it projected that our young people would be the first generation in a number that could not expect to do better than their parents did. I hoped it was a "gloom and doom" forecast. I didn't prepare you. Or myself. Now I wish I had listened to my upbringing. And like a typical mom, I have been trying to think how to "fix" my mistakes. I can't. I made the same ones myself and I am trying to "fix" my own too. But because I am a mom, here I go, trying to impart some wisdom. So this is what digging through my memories has brought to send to you:
1. "Keep your wagon in the clear". I heard my grandfather say it again and again. Good advice. I didn't do it, you didn't do it, and we are all trying now to GET the wagon in the clear. Bottom line...get everything you can paid off and don't incur more debt. My parents didn't live on credit. If they couldn't pay out front for it they didn't buy. They kept aside something for a rainy day, the day a tire went flat or they had an unexpected trip to the doctor's office. Do the same, a few dollars set aside every month you don't touch.
2. "Fold the aluminum foil". That is my symbol for using, reusing and not buying more. When I was a kid, my folks washed and folded the used aluminum foil. They stuck it in a drawer and when a piece was needed they reused, rewashed, refolded. They did it until it literally fell into tiny little glittering pieces. I have no idea how long a box of aluminum foil lasted that way, but I am sure they probably bought no more than one a year. Do the same with everything. My grandfather tied every scrap of twine to the end of a ball, rolled it up, and added to it. Same principle. Don't discard what can be used again.
3. "There are no Joneses". Once I asked my elderly aunts how they survived the harsh years of the 1930's. One looked at me quizzically and replied, "Well...we didn't try to keep up with the Joneses...weren't any Joneses." That is what we are coming back to now. Don't even try to keep up with the latest fads, the latest ploys media and advertisements try to tempt you with. Forget the Joneses. The only Joneses out there will be the ones who have humongous debt incurred and still incurring it and it is going to come to a heartbreaking halt sooner or later. Make do with what you have. My folks had the same furniture from the time I was a tot until I was grown. They didn't replace it. They took care of it. If something broke, you fixed it. You didn't go shopping for something else. Pride was taken not in having the newest trend on the market, but in having what you had paid for and taking care of it. In fact, there was a little bit of snobbery about folks that fell into the trap of "putting on the dog" in those days. Not smart, it was thought. THAT was true pride in those days. It needs to be again.
4. "There is more to managing money than making it." That was my father's mantra. And he followed it. Even as circumstances improved, he shopped for bargains. Every Saturday morning he did the grocery shopping and paid the bills. Every Saturday morning he sat at the kitchen table perusing the flyers that had come in the mail checking the bargains against his grocery list and clipping coupons. He did not clip them if he was not looking for a particular item. He made sure he was getting what he was needing only and at the best price. When he returned home my parents checked the receipt against the items to make sure each was rung up only one time and the correct price. That attitude ran through every single purchase made. His one "extravagance" was a new car every three years, primarily because he was not a mechanic and had to have a way to get to work that he knew would get him there. My parents paid cash for it, did not buy on credit. For three years saving for the next car was part of the budget...but when it happened, it was not a quick purchase. He would shop around, and wear down salesmen for months before he finally purchased. He did not include "extras" and bought only what he could afford after he was assured it was the best price he could get something "trustworthy" for, and "trustworthy" was the key...color or looks or sporty had no place in the decision.
5. "If you don't need it, it's not a bargain." Another of my parents' adages. Sales are tempting, a "good deal" is hard to turn down. But if you don't need it...is it really a bargain? Or did you just dig your hole deeper? I admit it, I have fallen into the same trap, but my parents' words are haunting me now and more than once I hear those words ringing in my head...and they are keeping me from temptation. Burn them into your own minds too.
6. "Fanning your drawers dry." My aunts used to laugh about how few clothes they had growing up, and how they often stood out on the back porch fanning a pair of fresh washed "drawers" dry so they would have a clean pair for the next day. It was a funny story and a funny image to think about. But there is some wisdom there too. Think about how small closets are in older houses. There is a good reason for that. A tiny closet was all a person needed. I grew up with three pairs of shoes at any one given time and I was luckier than many. There was a pair of "church shoes", a pair of "school shoes", and a pair of "play shoes" (which was school shoes gone ragged). The same for clothes. Luckier than most, I had an outfit for each day out in public, and a few outfits that I was to change into when I came home. That was it. There was never anything hanging in the closet that was not used and worn on a weekly basis. No spares, and no "I might wear that sometimes". I didn't feel poor. Everyone else in my world operated the same way. The entire time I grew up. I thought that was just how it was. What is more, if your shoe needed repair, you took it to the repair shop. You didn't run out and buy another pair. And most of my clothes were home made, because at that time it was cheaper to buy material and make clothes than to buy them "ready made"....I don't know if that is true still or not, but it was then, and whatever was the most practical was the way we lived. This may sound horrible...but it really wasn't. If that is the way everyone thinks...if they take pride in practicality then it is really a "rich" way to live, because you are proud you are doing what is the "right" thing to live. We lost that yardstick the last few generations. I am going back to it. I am fanning my "drawers dry". No more than what I need. It actually feels pretty good. I stick my tongue out at ads and media now. I feel a little like a kid who just found an escape route from a bully and he can't touch me any more!
7. "Never depend on more than one income." It sounds impossible now, this one. My father preached it. He swore when two people worked in a family only ONE income should be depended on to live, and a family should live within it. The other should be saved, said he. Why? Because then if something happened to one job, the family could still survive. Hmmm. Sounds impossible now days, huh? Might be. But there is still some wisdom in it. How about this? Never stretch what ever is coming in, two or one incomes, to the max so that every penny goes to pay bills. That is for sure cruising for downfall. Leave some breathing space.
8. "One can throw it out the back door quick as the other brings it in the front." Another of my dad's sermons. His point? It takes two to manage. Get on the same team, you and your spouse. One can't do it. If you want to be as sound as possible in this shaky economy make a pact together. Take pride in it. Look it over together, frequently. Pat one another on the back. Make it a thing of pride this teamwork of yours.
9. "Honesty is the best policy" and "A man's word is his bond". Because few of us have prepared for what is happening in our economy, many of us have incurred debt we can't now handle. Don't run from it. If you are to survive not just financially, but spiritually and emotionally, meet your mistakes head on. There is no shame in downsizing, in giving up what you have accumulated if what you are salvaging is your honesty and integrity. It isn't really yours until it is paid for anyway. Make honesty and integrity your greatest wealth, and give up what you can't afford to maintain. If you have incurred debt you can't handle, go to the creditor and offer them what you can on a manageable basis and stick to what you promised. Most will work with you. And don't incur more.
10. Which brings me to the last adage that will see us all through, "Have a little pride." I heard it all my life and used in various contexts. In the world of those generations, having a "little pride" meant: a) there was no shame in being poor, but shame in being unclean or "scruffy". You kept your home and person clean and neat, and that was a sign of wealth...in pride. b) there was no shame in being poor, but there was shame in not meeting one's word or honor. You did what you could when you said you would do it it, and if it took a lifetime to fulfill that obligation you took a lifetime, but you did it. It hurts to see my children having financial problems and frightened of this economy. I don't want it for you, but I am proud of you each time you learn to do without something you previously took for granted. I think of my own lessons...how I put myself through school without incurring any debt and had it paid for when I came out...I am proud that I did that. I don't know, looking back, HOW I did it...but I am very very proud of it. YOU will have that same pride one day, looking back at what you sacrificed to "have a little pride"...who am I to hurt over you learning that lesson? It is a valuable one, self sacrifice. And I am proud that you can be proud even if you have to hurt a little to get there. Yeah...."have a little pride"...and there is no shame in living poor as long as you have that.
Love,
Mom
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Rocking With Serenity
First in a series about grandparenting...This one was written in 2002 shortly after the birth of my first grandchild.
A storm ripped through my yard over a year ago, complete with resounding
thunder and streaks of angry violent lightening that split the sky,
complete fierce streaks of rain that pounded down unrelenting and dark
clouds that promised destruction. When it was over, the maple I had nursed
from a mere sprout into a fine tall tree had split and leaned threateningly
to one side. We tried to save it, tried to cut away the damaged parts, and
let the rest on the opposite side flourish. But my son's wedding was
planned in my yard, and with so many people about, it simply seemed too
precarious a chance to take. I agreed to allow it to be cut, something I
find difficult to ever do. My grown son was crushed. He could remember
the day the little fragile maple tree first sprung up in a flower bed, too
close to the house, and how it was salvaged by being moved to its own place in the yard. He asked that we leave the trunk. I argued that a bare trunk of a tree in the yard would not be pretty, but he pleaded and promised
later to carve it into something pretty if I would only leave it. And so I
did. Throughout the wedding, all the rest of the summer, it sat there…a
bare ugly stump. Autumn came and all around other maple trees flourished
their reds and their golds, and still it sat…a bare ugly stump. In winter
it was sometimes graced with a garment of sparkling snow, but for the most
part it remained what it had become. And then spring came. And one day I
looked for the bare ugly stump and did not find it. I gasped at what I did
see. The stump looked more like a bush! LIFE was in it! Sprouting all
about from the sides of its bark were tiny fresh green shoots bearing the
beginnings of leaves! Hundreds of them.
I pointed it out to my husband and he said, "Do you want me to get rid of
that stump this year? It can never really be a tree now." And I shook my
head adamantly. "No," I replied. "Anything that wants to live so badly
has spirit in it…let it live, let it be what it can be." And I was amazed
that the tree I thought was surely dead, the tree that for all practical
intents and purposes had given up life to storm and chain saw, was not
dead. Unable to sprout and grow from limbs and trunk rising into the air,
it had simply reached into the soil with its probing roots, reached and
prodded until finally it found the sustenance and nourishment to sprout
again, to send tiny green shoots out to grace our yard again. It was a
reminder. And a promise. And a lesson.
The winds of life came fierce this year, and the last of a family was
gone. Only four of them were left, that family that began in 1910, and
none with living children. I was the daughter of their brother gone many
years before, and so the four sisters were especially precious to me…and me to them. And I traveled constantly to be with them, and we spoke on the
phone virtually every day. As my children had flown the nest, my goal in
life seemed to be to nurture those roots, care for them in their last days,
give back something of what they had given so long to me, and draw from
them as many memories as I could to sustain the rest of my own life. But
within two years they were gone, and the last of them in February of this
year. I was not expecting it to happen so soon or so quickly. I should
have been but I was not.
I felt a fierce storm had passed. And though I have lived long enough to
be well acquainted with inevitable good-byes, to lay it all to rest with
those I know are simply "on loan" to us, I found this time more than
difficult. Perhaps it was because I so identified with this family, and
had for all of my life. Perhaps it was because there were so few of us,
and therefore the ties were infinitely more precious. Perhaps it was
because it was literally the end of a family line, or perhaps it was
because it was almost literally the end of my connection with the homeland
that my family had inhabited for nearly two hundred years. Perhaps it was
because they had become so much the center of my need to nurture and
give. I do not know. But I admit to wondering sometimes what my life was
really to be about now. That is sad, I know, for I have a loving family
left, mother, and children and husband. But I confess this crossed my
mind. And the winter moved on, and I felt I had left some important and
vibrant part of me back in the cold storms of February. I am not sure I
really noticed spring this year, and if I did it was with some semblance of
guilt that I could not point out the flowers to my aunts or speak to them
about the coming spring, and make promises of their returning health that I
could not keep.
And so spring came, and summer began. I smiled and laughed and moved
through the days, but my heart was not in it. And then came July and my
first grandchild, my son's child. Serenity.
My son, realizing what the death of my aunts had been to me, and knowing
how deeply I regretted that our line had come to an abrupt end, with all of
them gone now and me the last to bear the surname, gave Serenity that
surname as a middle name. I was grateful and touched. Perhaps the surname would live on then, not as a surname, but as a name to be passed on, and the stories of a family with it.
I nestled the small body against my own and rocked, grateful to finally be
alone with this little being, to remember the days of my own children's
births. Memories flooded, and I remembered something curious my father had said at the birth of my son, his first grandchild. "I started all this!,"
he bragged proudly. I remember laughing, and thinking, "Typical
grandpa. Yeah, dad, and you had a bit of help." So I was amused at my own
thought as I held this tiny creature with her creamy skin and perfect
features. "I started all this…if it had not been for…" and suddenly a bit
of awe overtook me. I lay that baby down in my lap and gazed at her face,
searching for family resemblances, seeing one of my own children in that
creamy complexion and those fat chubby cheeks. I was relieved not to see
any sign of the "family monument", the nose that gives us away as a certain family line. I checked her hands and sure enough there were the long
slender fingers of my father's family, and there was the dark hair of my
mother's. Of course, I admitted, it could also be of her own mother's
family. I checked the tiny toes, relieved to see those must have come from
another side of the house. I laughed at my own attempts to peg this tiny
being into neat little family pigeon holes, and remembered doing this as a
mother, and now I was a grandmother doing this all over again. And the
thoughts kept coming.
All the time thinking, thinking a hundred myriad thoughts. All the things
new grandparents must feel and think flooded my mind and my heart. I
realized I was literally holding in my hands a child that was here because
of all the people I loved, and all the people her mother's family had
loved, all somehow now in one package. I realized I was holding in my
hands the culmination of all of our roots, our ancestry. Mentally I traced
back all of the grandparents on my side of the house for as far as I could
remember, and realized that because each of those couples had come together in all of those generations…we now had Serenity. Mentally I traced all of the grandparents I knew of on her mother's side of the house, and realized again that because they were…she was…Serenity. And though it seems so perfectly logical, for a moment the awesome realization struck me as the wondrous thing it really is. Our roots were alive and well…and she was the fresh young budding sprout springing from those roots. The stump of the tree that sat there dormant all winter was only waiting a bit for spring,
for summer.
Our family only appeared to have ended, our family line's name had changed, yes. And I the last to bear the line's ancestral name, but the tree was not really gone. Unable to sprout and grow from limbs and trunk rising into the air, it had simply reached into the soil with its probing roots,
reached and prodded until finally it found the sustenance and nourishment
to sprout again, to send tiny budding shoots out to grace our family
again. It was a reminder. And a promise. And a lesson.
I settled back in the rocker with Serenity. And then the other typical
thoughts of grandparents flooded me. I thought of all the things I could
do with this little being I could not do with my own. In another stage of
life now, I had the time and the financial means I did not have when I was
struggling to bring up a family. I was nearing retirement. I could bake
cookies any day! I could sit and build block castles and play dress-up at
any time of day…or night! I could take spur of the moment field trips, and
I could nap until noon in order to have a slumber party at night! I could…
and so I became a grandmother.
I sat and rocked, as I do most every day now, with Serenity laying against
my heart, and serenity warming the inside of it. I rock now…with Serenity.
A storm ripped through my yard over a year ago, complete with resounding
thunder and streaks of angry violent lightening that split the sky,
complete fierce streaks of rain that pounded down unrelenting and dark
clouds that promised destruction. When it was over, the maple I had nursed
from a mere sprout into a fine tall tree had split and leaned threateningly
to one side. We tried to save it, tried to cut away the damaged parts, and
let the rest on the opposite side flourish. But my son's wedding was
planned in my yard, and with so many people about, it simply seemed too
precarious a chance to take. I agreed to allow it to be cut, something I
find difficult to ever do. My grown son was crushed. He could remember
the day the little fragile maple tree first sprung up in a flower bed, too
close to the house, and how it was salvaged by being moved to its own place in the yard. He asked that we leave the trunk. I argued that a bare trunk of a tree in the yard would not be pretty, but he pleaded and promised
later to carve it into something pretty if I would only leave it. And so I
did. Throughout the wedding, all the rest of the summer, it sat there…a
bare ugly stump. Autumn came and all around other maple trees flourished
their reds and their golds, and still it sat…a bare ugly stump. In winter
it was sometimes graced with a garment of sparkling snow, but for the most
part it remained what it had become. And then spring came. And one day I
looked for the bare ugly stump and did not find it. I gasped at what I did
see. The stump looked more like a bush! LIFE was in it! Sprouting all
about from the sides of its bark were tiny fresh green shoots bearing the
beginnings of leaves! Hundreds of them.
I pointed it out to my husband and he said, "Do you want me to get rid of
that stump this year? It can never really be a tree now." And I shook my
head adamantly. "No," I replied. "Anything that wants to live so badly
has spirit in it…let it live, let it be what it can be." And I was amazed
that the tree I thought was surely dead, the tree that for all practical
intents and purposes had given up life to storm and chain saw, was not
dead. Unable to sprout and grow from limbs and trunk rising into the air,
it had simply reached into the soil with its probing roots, reached and
prodded until finally it found the sustenance and nourishment to sprout
again, to send tiny green shoots out to grace our yard again. It was a
reminder. And a promise. And a lesson.
The winds of life came fierce this year, and the last of a family was
gone. Only four of them were left, that family that began in 1910, and
none with living children. I was the daughter of their brother gone many
years before, and so the four sisters were especially precious to me…and me to them. And I traveled constantly to be with them, and we spoke on the
phone virtually every day. As my children had flown the nest, my goal in
life seemed to be to nurture those roots, care for them in their last days,
give back something of what they had given so long to me, and draw from
them as many memories as I could to sustain the rest of my own life. But
within two years they were gone, and the last of them in February of this
year. I was not expecting it to happen so soon or so quickly. I should
have been but I was not.
I felt a fierce storm had passed. And though I have lived long enough to
be well acquainted with inevitable good-byes, to lay it all to rest with
those I know are simply "on loan" to us, I found this time more than
difficult. Perhaps it was because I so identified with this family, and
had for all of my life. Perhaps it was because there were so few of us,
and therefore the ties were infinitely more precious. Perhaps it was
because it was literally the end of a family line, or perhaps it was
because it was almost literally the end of my connection with the homeland
that my family had inhabited for nearly two hundred years. Perhaps it was
because they had become so much the center of my need to nurture and
give. I do not know. But I admit to wondering sometimes what my life was
really to be about now. That is sad, I know, for I have a loving family
left, mother, and children and husband. But I confess this crossed my
mind. And the winter moved on, and I felt I had left some important and
vibrant part of me back in the cold storms of February. I am not sure I
really noticed spring this year, and if I did it was with some semblance of
guilt that I could not point out the flowers to my aunts or speak to them
about the coming spring, and make promises of their returning health that I
could not keep.
And so spring came, and summer began. I smiled and laughed and moved
through the days, but my heart was not in it. And then came July and my
first grandchild, my son's child. Serenity.
My son, realizing what the death of my aunts had been to me, and knowing
how deeply I regretted that our line had come to an abrupt end, with all of
them gone now and me the last to bear the surname, gave Serenity that
surname as a middle name. I was grateful and touched. Perhaps the surname would live on then, not as a surname, but as a name to be passed on, and the stories of a family with it.
I nestled the small body against my own and rocked, grateful to finally be
alone with this little being, to remember the days of my own children's
births. Memories flooded, and I remembered something curious my father had said at the birth of my son, his first grandchild. "I started all this!,"
he bragged proudly. I remember laughing, and thinking, "Typical
grandpa. Yeah, dad, and you had a bit of help." So I was amused at my own
thought as I held this tiny creature with her creamy skin and perfect
features. "I started all this…if it had not been for…" and suddenly a bit
of awe overtook me. I lay that baby down in my lap and gazed at her face,
searching for family resemblances, seeing one of my own children in that
creamy complexion and those fat chubby cheeks. I was relieved not to see
any sign of the "family monument", the nose that gives us away as a certain family line. I checked her hands and sure enough there were the long
slender fingers of my father's family, and there was the dark hair of my
mother's. Of course, I admitted, it could also be of her own mother's
family. I checked the tiny toes, relieved to see those must have come from
another side of the house. I laughed at my own attempts to peg this tiny
being into neat little family pigeon holes, and remembered doing this as a
mother, and now I was a grandmother doing this all over again. And the
thoughts kept coming.
All the time thinking, thinking a hundred myriad thoughts. All the things
new grandparents must feel and think flooded my mind and my heart. I
realized I was literally holding in my hands a child that was here because
of all the people I loved, and all the people her mother's family had
loved, all somehow now in one package. I realized I was holding in my
hands the culmination of all of our roots, our ancestry. Mentally I traced
back all of the grandparents on my side of the house for as far as I could
remember, and realized that because each of those couples had come together in all of those generations…we now had Serenity. Mentally I traced all of the grandparents I knew of on her mother's side of the house, and realized again that because they were…she was…Serenity. And though it seems so perfectly logical, for a moment the awesome realization struck me as the wondrous thing it really is. Our roots were alive and well…and she was the fresh young budding sprout springing from those roots. The stump of the tree that sat there dormant all winter was only waiting a bit for spring,
for summer.
Our family only appeared to have ended, our family line's name had changed, yes. And I the last to bear the line's ancestral name, but the tree was not really gone. Unable to sprout and grow from limbs and trunk rising into the air, it had simply reached into the soil with its probing roots,
reached and prodded until finally it found the sustenance and nourishment
to sprout again, to send tiny budding shoots out to grace our family
again. It was a reminder. And a promise. And a lesson.
I settled back in the rocker with Serenity. And then the other typical
thoughts of grandparents flooded me. I thought of all the things I could
do with this little being I could not do with my own. In another stage of
life now, I had the time and the financial means I did not have when I was
struggling to bring up a family. I was nearing retirement. I could bake
cookies any day! I could sit and build block castles and play dress-up at
any time of day…or night! I could take spur of the moment field trips, and
I could nap until noon in order to have a slumber party at night! I could…
and so I became a grandmother.
I sat and rocked, as I do most every day now, with Serenity laying against
my heart, and serenity warming the inside of it. I rock now…with Serenity.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
She is Coming
She's coming and I know it. I know because she has been touching things, moving them around. She touched my sycamore last week, reached deep in her pocket and drew out her number three flat brush, smeared first one, then the other. I found the evidence. It was blood red and resting on the walkway from my front porch. The next day there was another, then another. I am waiting for crimson to be splashed everywhere. She won't be content with dabbling much longer. She already is brave enough to kill what she can and the papery thin brown leavings of her kills are dotting the landscape.
She's coming and I know it. The grass knows it. It is dry and brittle with anxiety. She has been whispering to it in the dark, threatening, warning it away. I know she comes in the dark. She berates her who has been, backs that one away and grasps the neck of that one as she arrogantly shoves, squeezes balmy breath from a warm dry throat. She wants to breathe her own iciness and she does. The air is chill now at night and windows are icy to the touch and holding the moisture of her dank breath.
She's coming and I would not mind her so much except that her sister is right behind. I do not like that sister with her bony angular frame and her chilly airs. I do not like her knarled fingers clawing at a heavy gray sky. I do not like her frosted white mouth puckering to fling obscenities into the beauty until all is shriveled and dead, bones of its former self.
I really would just as soon live forever in summer. I would. But she is coming--and I know it.
She's coming and I know it. The grass knows it. It is dry and brittle with anxiety. She has been whispering to it in the dark, threatening, warning it away. I know she comes in the dark. She berates her who has been, backs that one away and grasps the neck of that one as she arrogantly shoves, squeezes balmy breath from a warm dry throat. She wants to breathe her own iciness and she does. The air is chill now at night and windows are icy to the touch and holding the moisture of her dank breath.
She's coming and I would not mind her so much except that her sister is right behind. I do not like that sister with her bony angular frame and her chilly airs. I do not like her knarled fingers clawing at a heavy gray sky. I do not like her frosted white mouth puckering to fling obscenities into the beauty until all is shriveled and dead, bones of its former self.
I really would just as soon live forever in summer. I would. But she is coming--and I know it.
Monday, October 4, 2010
The Dumb Supper
I wrote this in 2001. My aunts were 90 and 91, childless, in a nursing home in Tennessee and I was responsible for their care. My mother and I took off every Friday afternoon after work and spent the weekends tending to them, then returned home on Sunday. I miss them...how I miss them! Those last years though, with their "hustle and bustle days behind them" and lots of reminiscing time on the weekends I sat beside them...I learned a lot and heard a lot of stories. With the "haunting season" and Halloween upon us, I thought you might enjoy this look at an old time superstition told by my 90 year old aunt.
She laughed, her voice tinkling as clearly as any silver bell, "Oh yes! Did it at midnight we did! Wanted to see who came!" She grinned mischievously at me, waiting for my obvious question. She is frail and tiny, not much more than eighty pounds soak and wet. Her legs don't work very well any more, but there is nothing wrong with her sense of slyness and mischief, evident in dancing eyes and a quirky little smile. Nor is there anything wrong with her sense of audience, and her love of a good story.
My aunt, nearly 90 years of age, may well have a bit of trouble remembering what she had for breakfast, but she has absolutely no trouble with the past. Now it is true that many pieces of her past are pieces that I remember myself, and her memories are not always entirely accurate. They are frequently embroidered with details from another story. But who is to argue with something she remembers from seventy or eighty years ago? Certainly not I! All too many times, her stories have the ring of truth, and always an interesting twist.
We had been talking of my son's recent marriage, and the topic of "old beaus" had come up. She twisted in her wheelchair to peer at me mischievously. Grinning, she told me of her youth and of the perils involved in "courting" two beaus at once. I laughed, thinking of my very traditional old aunt as a young attractive schoolmarm caught in the age-old dilemma of wondering which beau to keep. (Actually it turns out she "kept" both of them, and married both, at different times of course, marrying the second after being widowed by the first).
She glanced slyly out the corner of dancing eyes at her sister, elder by a year, and grinned again, "We tried to figure out which would be the keeper, didn't we, Sister?" Although this Sister generally has a very good memory, she didn't remember, much to my aunt's frustration. She frowned, and if she could have stood to her feet, I am sure would have stamped them smartly and given Sister a quick rap on the head to jog her memory. "Oh yes you do too remember, Sister!", emphatically pronounced this aunt, who has a great deal of difficulty remembering just where she lives these days, but considers the past in sparkling clarity. "It was the night we had the dumb supper!"
I had been listening with amusement, quite used to this exchange of sibling frustration between the two. But now, I knew I was going to hear a story I had never heard before, and my spine straightened as I scooted to the edge of my chair, ready to hear yet another story. She responded to my eager questions with her typical slyness, unwinding just a bit of the tale at a time, teasing me to ask another question, and yet another until the whole of it was unwound. And this, I take, is the gist of it:
"Reba was who put us up to it," she said, laying the blame on a neighbor girl a lifetime ago. "Reba it was that filled us in on most things." She glanced surreptitiously out at the hall; to make sure no one was in passing, then lowered her voice to a slight whisper. "She told us how babies got here! And she was the one put us up to the dumb supper too!"
Ever ready to work a tale to its end slowly, holding the audience in suspense, she waited. And of course was rewarded by my next barrage of questions. "Well," she said, pausing for effect, "You have to wait till after dark. They come at midnight, if they are going to come. Mama and Papa were asleep of course. We didn't tell anyone what it was we were doing! Don't you remember this, Sister?"
Sister didn't, and my aunt shook her head sadly at the thought of her sister's forgetting.
"Set out the supper and turned off the lights and waited," she said, pausing again maddeningly.
The Dumb Supper, was of course an old tradition, but one at the time I was unfamiliar with, and it took a bit of our give and take of teasing hints and eager questions before I realized that the "dumb supper" was a way for hopeful young girls to catch a glimpse of the "shade" of their future bridegrooms. The idea was to lay out a supper, backwards, in the dark. Then the eager and somewhat nervous young girls would await to see what phantom foretelling of the future would appear at the door.
"Well?" I asked as the suspense built, "Did you see him?"
"Heard him," she answered.
"Heard him? What did he say?"
"Oh, he didn't say anything," she said, lowering her eyes, and smiling. "He knocked something down out on the porch!"
"Well who was it? What did you do?"
"Put that supper up and went to bed!" she declared, and her laugh again tinkled as surely as any silver bells. "Spect someone overheard us talking and decided maybe to scare us!"
I laughed and she looked at me thoughtfully, "But weren't any tracks in the snow. And Mama and Papa were in bed."
So ended yet another tale. They never fail to surprise me, these aunts of mine, with the things that pop out in conversations so unexpectedly. I have known them all of my life, and yet it seems each time I visit, they have yet another surprise I have never heard tell of. It is true these jaunts to the nursing home are sometimes tiresome. They mean meetings with doctors and nurses and social workers. They mean endless discussions over medications and treatments, diets and well being. They mean searching for a "missing" bit of laundry or misplaced partials. In looking after two elderly aunts without children, I have often wondered what on earth the Lord is preparing me for, so thoroughly has he made sure that my education included any possible feasible problem that might arise in the care taking of the elderly.
But this I also know. A good deal of my education has been in appreciation. It seems the older they have gotten, the more time I have had to actually sit down and listen. And the more time they have to actually sit there and talk. And it is amazing, the fun and good times that have come of that. It is amazing the chapters of family history that have unfolded because of that. In the days I was a child, I had no time to listen and they had no time to tell. In the days I was a harried young mother, I had no time to listen and they had no time to tell. In these my middle years, and these, their twilight times, it seems the Lord decided to throw a special lesson in to sweeten the parts that have been so hard. It was forced upon all of us, this time, and none of us wanted or expected life to evolve quite as it has. But there is sweetness in it. And everytime I come, I think we are having something of a "dumb supper" together, sitting the table to see what will jolly good story will come through the door next.
She laughed, her voice tinkling as clearly as any silver bell, "Oh yes! Did it at midnight we did! Wanted to see who came!" She grinned mischievously at me, waiting for my obvious question. She is frail and tiny, not much more than eighty pounds soak and wet. Her legs don't work very well any more, but there is nothing wrong with her sense of slyness and mischief, evident in dancing eyes and a quirky little smile. Nor is there anything wrong with her sense of audience, and her love of a good story.
My aunt, nearly 90 years of age, may well have a bit of trouble remembering what she had for breakfast, but she has absolutely no trouble with the past. Now it is true that many pieces of her past are pieces that I remember myself, and her memories are not always entirely accurate. They are frequently embroidered with details from another story. But who is to argue with something she remembers from seventy or eighty years ago? Certainly not I! All too many times, her stories have the ring of truth, and always an interesting twist.
We had been talking of my son's recent marriage, and the topic of "old beaus" had come up. She twisted in her wheelchair to peer at me mischievously. Grinning, she told me of her youth and of the perils involved in "courting" two beaus at once. I laughed, thinking of my very traditional old aunt as a young attractive schoolmarm caught in the age-old dilemma of wondering which beau to keep. (Actually it turns out she "kept" both of them, and married both, at different times of course, marrying the second after being widowed by the first).
She glanced slyly out the corner of dancing eyes at her sister, elder by a year, and grinned again, "We tried to figure out which would be the keeper, didn't we, Sister?" Although this Sister generally has a very good memory, she didn't remember, much to my aunt's frustration. She frowned, and if she could have stood to her feet, I am sure would have stamped them smartly and given Sister a quick rap on the head to jog her memory. "Oh yes you do too remember, Sister!", emphatically pronounced this aunt, who has a great deal of difficulty remembering just where she lives these days, but considers the past in sparkling clarity. "It was the night we had the dumb supper!"
I had been listening with amusement, quite used to this exchange of sibling frustration between the two. But now, I knew I was going to hear a story I had never heard before, and my spine straightened as I scooted to the edge of my chair, ready to hear yet another story. She responded to my eager questions with her typical slyness, unwinding just a bit of the tale at a time, teasing me to ask another question, and yet another until the whole of it was unwound. And this, I take, is the gist of it:
"Reba was who put us up to it," she said, laying the blame on a neighbor girl a lifetime ago. "Reba it was that filled us in on most things." She glanced surreptitiously out at the hall; to make sure no one was in passing, then lowered her voice to a slight whisper. "She told us how babies got here! And she was the one put us up to the dumb supper too!"
Ever ready to work a tale to its end slowly, holding the audience in suspense, she waited. And of course was rewarded by my next barrage of questions. "Well," she said, pausing for effect, "You have to wait till after dark. They come at midnight, if they are going to come. Mama and Papa were asleep of course. We didn't tell anyone what it was we were doing! Don't you remember this, Sister?"
Sister didn't, and my aunt shook her head sadly at the thought of her sister's forgetting.
"Set out the supper and turned off the lights and waited," she said, pausing again maddeningly.
The Dumb Supper, was of course an old tradition, but one at the time I was unfamiliar with, and it took a bit of our give and take of teasing hints and eager questions before I realized that the "dumb supper" was a way for hopeful young girls to catch a glimpse of the "shade" of their future bridegrooms. The idea was to lay out a supper, backwards, in the dark. Then the eager and somewhat nervous young girls would await to see what phantom foretelling of the future would appear at the door.
"Well?" I asked as the suspense built, "Did you see him?"
"Heard him," she answered.
"Heard him? What did he say?"
"Oh, he didn't say anything," she said, lowering her eyes, and smiling. "He knocked something down out on the porch!"
"Well who was it? What did you do?"
"Put that supper up and went to bed!" she declared, and her laugh again tinkled as surely as any silver bells. "Spect someone overheard us talking and decided maybe to scare us!"
I laughed and she looked at me thoughtfully, "But weren't any tracks in the snow. And Mama and Papa were in bed."
So ended yet another tale. They never fail to surprise me, these aunts of mine, with the things that pop out in conversations so unexpectedly. I have known them all of my life, and yet it seems each time I visit, they have yet another surprise I have never heard tell of. It is true these jaunts to the nursing home are sometimes tiresome. They mean meetings with doctors and nurses and social workers. They mean endless discussions over medications and treatments, diets and well being. They mean searching for a "missing" bit of laundry or misplaced partials. In looking after two elderly aunts without children, I have often wondered what on earth the Lord is preparing me for, so thoroughly has he made sure that my education included any possible feasible problem that might arise in the care taking of the elderly.
But this I also know. A good deal of my education has been in appreciation. It seems the older they have gotten, the more time I have had to actually sit down and listen. And the more time they have to actually sit there and talk. And it is amazing, the fun and good times that have come of that. It is amazing the chapters of family history that have unfolded because of that. In the days I was a child, I had no time to listen and they had no time to tell. In the days I was a harried young mother, I had no time to listen and they had no time to tell. In these my middle years, and these, their twilight times, it seems the Lord decided to throw a special lesson in to sweeten the parts that have been so hard. It was forced upon all of us, this time, and none of us wanted or expected life to evolve quite as it has. But there is sweetness in it. And everytime I come, I think we are having something of a "dumb supper" together, sitting the table to see what will jolly good story will come through the door next.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
God's Idea of the Skin We're In
Got up this morning
In the skin that I'm in,
Brushed my teeth
Washed the skin again.
Clothed it in colors,
(Different each day)
So I don't get bored,
Dressing the same way.
Tomorrow I will
Wake in the skin I'm in:
Always the same,
Whether fat or thin.
Same old skin
God put on my bones
A long time ago,
Brownish yellow tones.
They are all around me,
Folks in the skin they're in
Clothed different ways,
But the same old skin.
All different colors,
So I figure its true,
God is fond of a colorful
Wardrobe, too!
In the skin that I'm in,
Brushed my teeth
Washed the skin again.
Clothed it in colors,
(Different each day)
So I don't get bored,
Dressing the same way.
Tomorrow I will
Wake in the skin I'm in:
Always the same,
Whether fat or thin.
Same old skin
God put on my bones
A long time ago,
Brownish yellow tones.
They are all around me,
Folks in the skin they're in
Clothed different ways,
But the same old skin.
All different colors,
So I figure its true,
God is fond of a colorful
Wardrobe, too!
Saturday, October 2, 2010
The Visit
I wrote this last year...or maybe the year before. I don't remember. Perhaps it is a bit late to be posting it...or perhaps not. I don't know. Enjoy...just a bit of a short story.
She's coming. They've told me so, but I know it anyway. She visits often, and I never quite know what to make of her. She's coming, but it was the first visit that I really remember the most, and so I think I will describe that one. I will describe that one because that was the first time I was really aware of her, the most poignant one. I remember the visit best because I was curious about her, and I was so young. I was nine the first time I remember her, though they told me she had been there many times before.
The year I was nine, she came. The older ones had told me she was coming, and I sat out on our front porch anxiously, and waited. I waited dragging bare dusty feet on the slate cool gray of our painted front porch, and I swung the swing I sat in first one way, and then another, twisting it to change the rhythm, to alleviate my boredom.
"When will she be here?"
"Soon," my mother would say, "Soon she will be here."
So I waited all the afternoon, and sometimes I would go into the house for a snack, and I brought a book out to the porch swing with me. I waited, but she did not come. That night, my mother bundled me into warm soft flannel pajamas after my bath, because she said it would be cold that night.
"Will she be here tomorrow?" I asked.
"Most certainly by tomorrow."
In the morning, my feet hit the cold linoleum bare floor and I ran to the kitchen. I could hear the pop of bacon frying and smell the eggs Mama was scooping on to thick white china plates to set on our oilcloth covered table.
"Is she here?"
Mama nodded, and Pa motioned toward the window with his thumb.
"Got here last night," he said, speaking through a mouthful of biscuit. I never quite understood why it was allowed that he talk through his food, but I had to chew and swallow mine to answer a question. This time I did not care.
I ran to the window, and looked out at a frost covered world glistening in early morning sunlight. It was a magical place, our little yard, the fields beyond the tree sparkling like some fancy cake with an icing even Mama could not make. I could have spent a long time just wondering over that, but I was looking for her. I didn't see a car.
"How did she get here?"
"She got here." Papa answered between bites of biscuit sopping with egg yolk and gravy.
Mama made me dry the dishes while she washed, but first we had to wait til she heated water on the big wood stove in a kettle. I was restless.
"Is she awake?"
"Yes, she'll join you on the porch after we get the kitchen cleaned up."
I watched Mama make the water not quite so hot with another dose of cooler water from the cistern, and I watched her put on her thick yellow rubber gloves. I sighed and took up the dish towel. Not til every last dish was dried and tucked away in the dish safe did Mama tell me I could run put on my sweater and go outside.
I went out calling for her. And she answered. It was just as they told me it would be. Her hair was a rusty auburn and tendrils of it drifted through the trees as she called back to me, her voice almost lost in the breeze. I could see the drifts of curling dried leaves swirling under her feet as she scurried toward me. I could see the russets and scarlets of leaves, green just the day before, swinging perilously on their limbs. As she approached me, her fingers brushed them and made them fall.
"Can I have a hug?" I asked.
"It won't be a warm hug," she answered, smiling.
"I know, but I want to know if it feels like they told me it would."
She smiled, and her cheeks were flushed the same color as the bittersweet that grows on the mountain. She puckered her lips and blew softly. I shivered just a bit, as the wind swirled about my shoulders.
"They were right. It still feels good." And it did, after the hot days of August, the cool soft hug felt good.
That was the first time I was aware of Autumn's visit. Because of that, it was the most poignant visit. But she's coming. She's coming again. Soon.
She's coming. They've told me so, but I know it anyway. She visits often, and I never quite know what to make of her. She's coming, but it was the first visit that I really remember the most, and so I think I will describe that one. I will describe that one because that was the first time I was really aware of her, the most poignant one. I remember the visit best because I was curious about her, and I was so young. I was nine the first time I remember her, though they told me she had been there many times before.
The year I was nine, she came. The older ones had told me she was coming, and I sat out on our front porch anxiously, and waited. I waited dragging bare dusty feet on the slate cool gray of our painted front porch, and I swung the swing I sat in first one way, and then another, twisting it to change the rhythm, to alleviate my boredom.
"When will she be here?"
"Soon," my mother would say, "Soon she will be here."
So I waited all the afternoon, and sometimes I would go into the house for a snack, and I brought a book out to the porch swing with me. I waited, but she did not come. That night, my mother bundled me into warm soft flannel pajamas after my bath, because she said it would be cold that night.
"Will she be here tomorrow?" I asked.
"Most certainly by tomorrow."
In the morning, my feet hit the cold linoleum bare floor and I ran to the kitchen. I could hear the pop of bacon frying and smell the eggs Mama was scooping on to thick white china plates to set on our oilcloth covered table.
"Is she here?"
Mama nodded, and Pa motioned toward the window with his thumb.
"Got here last night," he said, speaking through a mouthful of biscuit. I never quite understood why it was allowed that he talk through his food, but I had to chew and swallow mine to answer a question. This time I did not care.
I ran to the window, and looked out at a frost covered world glistening in early morning sunlight. It was a magical place, our little yard, the fields beyond the tree sparkling like some fancy cake with an icing even Mama could not make. I could have spent a long time just wondering over that, but I was looking for her. I didn't see a car.
"How did she get here?"
"She got here." Papa answered between bites of biscuit sopping with egg yolk and gravy.
Mama made me dry the dishes while she washed, but first we had to wait til she heated water on the big wood stove in a kettle. I was restless.
"Is she awake?"
"Yes, she'll join you on the porch after we get the kitchen cleaned up."
I watched Mama make the water not quite so hot with another dose of cooler water from the cistern, and I watched her put on her thick yellow rubber gloves. I sighed and took up the dish towel. Not til every last dish was dried and tucked away in the dish safe did Mama tell me I could run put on my sweater and go outside.
I went out calling for her. And she answered. It was just as they told me it would be. Her hair was a rusty auburn and tendrils of it drifted through the trees as she called back to me, her voice almost lost in the breeze. I could see the drifts of curling dried leaves swirling under her feet as she scurried toward me. I could see the russets and scarlets of leaves, green just the day before, swinging perilously on their limbs. As she approached me, her fingers brushed them and made them fall.
"Can I have a hug?" I asked.
"It won't be a warm hug," she answered, smiling.
"I know, but I want to know if it feels like they told me it would."
She smiled, and her cheeks were flushed the same color as the bittersweet that grows on the mountain. She puckered her lips and blew softly. I shivered just a bit, as the wind swirled about my shoulders.
"They were right. It still feels good." And it did, after the hot days of August, the cool soft hug felt good.
That was the first time I was aware of Autumn's visit. Because of that, it was the most poignant visit. But she's coming. She's coming again. Soon.
Spitting at Big C
I actually wrote this a couple of years ago, but since I know people right now going through their own battle with "big c" (I refuse to capitalize him anymore), this is for those folks. Take courage, and know that the prayers of those who care feather your own wings out of his turf.
Once I faced down Big C and spit in his eye. I don't think of him much anymore. I am down to annual checkups, and that is about the only time he crosses my mind. But something happened this week to pitch him back into my line of vision and I got to thinking on that experience.
It has been five years, more actually. And I knew that the potential was there. The leukoplakia under my tongue had been brought to a doctor's attention and I was duly sent to an ear, nose and throat specialist who "kept an eye on it". By holiday season of 2004, I figured it was cancer. I also figured I would stave it off until after the holidays before expecting my family to "deal with it". So...I didn't tell them. I also didn't tell the doc. I got some mouth numbing solution over the counter at the drug store and I tried to stay numb and focus on holiday preparations.
It worked. Painfully, but it worked. And come January I announced to hubby it might be time for me to go get checked out. I did. Biopsy duly taken. A week later I thought I was going to have to comfort Doc who seemed far more upset than I was. After all, I had figured for a couple of months what was going on. He said, "You're taking this better than I would be." Well, how else was there to take it? Of course, I honestly did NOT know that my odds were going to be as slim as they were. I hadn't done my research. So I went home and did it. Not good. Not good at all.
It took three days for the numb to wear off. Meantime word was out. That was probably what jerked me out of denial. The faculty of a school I once worked for sent a hundred dollar donation they had collected to help with expenses. They also sent a HUMONGOUS flower arrangement...an angel no less, swimming in silk flowers. And that is what did it. It was sweet, it was thoughtful, it was touching....and the damned flower arrangement reminded me of a FUNERAL. I hated the damned thing. Would not look at it. Gave it to my mother. And for the first time that night I realized I did not want to die. And for the first and only time, I lay my head on hubby's shoulder and cried rivers.
Why that was the only time that happened I don't know. I should have been in the doldrums for a while. I should have faced "this may be it." I didn't. And I have always believed it had a lot to do with the many around me who were praying. Say what you might about a small town, there is one thing they are very good at, and that is jumping in and being there when there is trouble. I got cards from people and churches I did not know knew my name. I was teaching at the time, and apparently every middle schooler who attended a church had put my name on a prayer list. Suddenly I knew, just knew (and don't ask me how) I was gonna come through this, maybe missing a few parts, maybe deformed, but absolutely going to come through this and live in spite of it.
I made a tape for my husband the night before my first surgery. I honestly had no way of knowing if I would ever be able to speak again. It was possible my entire tongue would be removed. I also went into surgery with FIVE prayer cloths pinned to me. And...I went in laughing.
Somehow, with all those people behind me, sending me cards, letters, calling, I felt like I was wearing invincible armor. And I decided that Big C might indeed take me down, but he wouldn't get the satisfaction of seeing me grovel. So I laughed...a lot. I found the humor in every single bit of the situation...and believe me, if you look for it there are a lot of things to laugh at, even when Big C is standing there staring you down. For some reason it was absolutely hilarious to have tubes running here there and yon down and out every single orifice and to demand they put in some sort of feeding tube that handled caffeine. After all coffee was what I missed most of all!
"Laughing to keep from crying"? Ummm...maybe. But I honestly did have a grand time doing it, and people around me seemed lighter too, once they got over the shock of it. Of course there was one woman I worked with who just got furious with me for it and never did get over it. I wanted to shake the teeth out of her head and say, "Look, damn it! I am the one who has cancer! And if I wanna laugh, can it!" She stayed mad at me. Sigh. The only thing I can figure is I did not give her the satisfaction of seeing me weeping at death's door. Most everyone else started seeing the humor too.
What is the point of this story? I don't know. I really don't. Just got to remembering it. And remembering what got me through: Prayer and faith in God, allowing others to support and encourage me, and a good sense of humor.
Once I faced down Big C and spit in his eye. I don't think of him much anymore. I am down to annual checkups, and that is about the only time he crosses my mind. But something happened this week to pitch him back into my line of vision and I got to thinking on that experience.
It has been five years, more actually. And I knew that the potential was there. The leukoplakia under my tongue had been brought to a doctor's attention and I was duly sent to an ear, nose and throat specialist who "kept an eye on it". By holiday season of 2004, I figured it was cancer. I also figured I would stave it off until after the holidays before expecting my family to "deal with it". So...I didn't tell them. I also didn't tell the doc. I got some mouth numbing solution over the counter at the drug store and I tried to stay numb and focus on holiday preparations.
It worked. Painfully, but it worked. And come January I announced to hubby it might be time for me to go get checked out. I did. Biopsy duly taken. A week later I thought I was going to have to comfort Doc who seemed far more upset than I was. After all, I had figured for a couple of months what was going on. He said, "You're taking this better than I would be." Well, how else was there to take it? Of course, I honestly did NOT know that my odds were going to be as slim as they were. I hadn't done my research. So I went home and did it. Not good. Not good at all.
It took three days for the numb to wear off. Meantime word was out. That was probably what jerked me out of denial. The faculty of a school I once worked for sent a hundred dollar donation they had collected to help with expenses. They also sent a HUMONGOUS flower arrangement...an angel no less, swimming in silk flowers. And that is what did it. It was sweet, it was thoughtful, it was touching....and the damned flower arrangement reminded me of a FUNERAL. I hated the damned thing. Would not look at it. Gave it to my mother. And for the first time that night I realized I did not want to die. And for the first and only time, I lay my head on hubby's shoulder and cried rivers.
Why that was the only time that happened I don't know. I should have been in the doldrums for a while. I should have faced "this may be it." I didn't. And I have always believed it had a lot to do with the many around me who were praying. Say what you might about a small town, there is one thing they are very good at, and that is jumping in and being there when there is trouble. I got cards from people and churches I did not know knew my name. I was teaching at the time, and apparently every middle schooler who attended a church had put my name on a prayer list. Suddenly I knew, just knew (and don't ask me how) I was gonna come through this, maybe missing a few parts, maybe deformed, but absolutely going to come through this and live in spite of it.
I made a tape for my husband the night before my first surgery. I honestly had no way of knowing if I would ever be able to speak again. It was possible my entire tongue would be removed. I also went into surgery with FIVE prayer cloths pinned to me. And...I went in laughing.
Somehow, with all those people behind me, sending me cards, letters, calling, I felt like I was wearing invincible armor. And I decided that Big C might indeed take me down, but he wouldn't get the satisfaction of seeing me grovel. So I laughed...a lot. I found the humor in every single bit of the situation...and believe me, if you look for it there are a lot of things to laugh at, even when Big C is standing there staring you down. For some reason it was absolutely hilarious to have tubes running here there and yon down and out every single orifice and to demand they put in some sort of feeding tube that handled caffeine. After all coffee was what I missed most of all!
"Laughing to keep from crying"? Ummm...maybe. But I honestly did have a grand time doing it, and people around me seemed lighter too, once they got over the shock of it. Of course there was one woman I worked with who just got furious with me for it and never did get over it. I wanted to shake the teeth out of her head and say, "Look, damn it! I am the one who has cancer! And if I wanna laugh, can it!" She stayed mad at me. Sigh. The only thing I can figure is I did not give her the satisfaction of seeing me weeping at death's door. Most everyone else started seeing the humor too.
What is the point of this story? I don't know. I really don't. Just got to remembering it. And remembering what got me through: Prayer and faith in God, allowing others to support and encourage me, and a good sense of humor.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Dialogue With God: In Re to His Art Exhibit
"You know, my granddaughter is the one that first got me really thinking about it."
"I know."
"And she was only four years old at the time!"
"A wise little soul, that one."
"We think so. Thank you for her."
"You are welcome."
"The first time it crossed my mind, I had mentioned sunset in a conversation, and she wanted to know what one was."
"Yes, I remember."
"So at sunset, I walked her out of our clearing, away from the trees to the top of the hill where she could see to the west, and we watched a beautiful sunset."
"Yes, I worked particularly hard on that one."
"Well she noticed. Her words were, 'Wow! Nana, God is a really really good artist, isn't he?'"
"I know. That pleased me."
"Well, those words have come back to me over and over again: when I see a beautiful sky, a rainbow, the stars pinned to the velvet at night, the rolling hills of our countryside, the ripe fields that surround our house, the moon shining like a lantern...over and over...."
"A child shall lead them..."
"And I think, we humans spend all this money to see something spectacular, like a theme park, or a rock concert, or a fireworks display or even an art museum....and all around us, art is on display every day, beauty, and its free! It's a free show every single day! And you create it for us every single day!"
"I'm glad you noticed."
"It took a child to show me, God. But now that I realize how much you must love us to do that for us....it's AWESOME...so hard to even comprehend so much love!"
"Oh, I have shown you much greater love than that."
"I know....we need to talk about that too, soon. God?"
"Yes?"
"I love you!"
"I love you, too."
"I know."
"And she was only four years old at the time!"
"A wise little soul, that one."
"We think so. Thank you for her."
"You are welcome."
"The first time it crossed my mind, I had mentioned sunset in a conversation, and she wanted to know what one was."
"Yes, I remember."
"So at sunset, I walked her out of our clearing, away from the trees to the top of the hill where she could see to the west, and we watched a beautiful sunset."
"Yes, I worked particularly hard on that one."
"Well she noticed. Her words were, 'Wow! Nana, God is a really really good artist, isn't he?'"
"I know. That pleased me."
"Well, those words have come back to me over and over again: when I see a beautiful sky, a rainbow, the stars pinned to the velvet at night, the rolling hills of our countryside, the ripe fields that surround our house, the moon shining like a lantern...over and over...."
"A child shall lead them..."
"And I think, we humans spend all this money to see something spectacular, like a theme park, or a rock concert, or a fireworks display or even an art museum....and all around us, art is on display every day, beauty, and its free! It's a free show every single day! And you create it for us every single day!"
"I'm glad you noticed."
"It took a child to show me, God. But now that I realize how much you must love us to do that for us....it's AWESOME...so hard to even comprehend so much love!"
"Oh, I have shown you much greater love than that."
"I know....we need to talk about that too, soon. God?"
"Yes?"
"I love you!"
"I love you, too."
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Dialogue with God: On Doctrine...or...Which Way to California?
"I'm truly sorry, deeply...for all the wasted years I wasn't trusting in you. For all the years I was not seeing how you really were in everything, looking ahead for me..."
"I know."
"I am sorry I tried to be in charge of everything...I believed in you, I prayed (and I admit, mostly when something was going horribly wrong). But it was no where near what I am finding now..."
"Yes."
"I had a real problem with organized religion for a very long time...I got past some of that, and I see the reason for gathering in your house now. I hope its all right...but I still have a problem with the idea of certain doctrines being the only way..."
"I am glad you think about it."
"You are??"
"You live a long way from California, don't you?"
"Well, in human terms, yes. A VERY long way."
"If you were to drive it, how would you go?"
"Well...I don't know. I guess I would have to look at a map and figure it out. An AAA Triptik would probably give me the best route to follow..."
"In terms of what?"
"Oh, they take into account road conditions, whether road construction or repair is being done, time, etc."
"So is their way the way you would go?"
"Not necessarily."
"Hmmmm. And your husband is a very seasoned traveler, much more than you are. Would you necessarily, going it alone, go the way he did?"
"Well, I value his opinion. But he would probably understand if I needed to alter his idea of the best route some."
"Why's that?"
"Well...because I am not good in a lot of traffic, because I detest cities. I would much rather take a more scenic peaceful route than arrive hours earlier. I just tend to need....I don't know....a quieter way to go."
"Uh huh. Answer your question?"
"What?"
"Why I don't mind that you question doctrines?"
"OHHHHHH! You are saying there is more than one way to reach you!"
"Yes, certain things apply of course, just as in driving to California. There ARE certain rules of the road....but a lot of roads."
"I understand."
"I thought you might."
"I know."
"I am sorry I tried to be in charge of everything...I believed in you, I prayed (and I admit, mostly when something was going horribly wrong). But it was no where near what I am finding now..."
"Yes."
"I had a real problem with organized religion for a very long time...I got past some of that, and I see the reason for gathering in your house now. I hope its all right...but I still have a problem with the idea of certain doctrines being the only way..."
"I am glad you think about it."
"You are??"
"You live a long way from California, don't you?"
"Well, in human terms, yes. A VERY long way."
"If you were to drive it, how would you go?"
"Well...I don't know. I guess I would have to look at a map and figure it out. An AAA Triptik would probably give me the best route to follow..."
"In terms of what?"
"Oh, they take into account road conditions, whether road construction or repair is being done, time, etc."
"So is their way the way you would go?"
"Not necessarily."
"Hmmmm. And your husband is a very seasoned traveler, much more than you are. Would you necessarily, going it alone, go the way he did?"
"Well, I value his opinion. But he would probably understand if I needed to alter his idea of the best route some."
"Why's that?"
"Well...because I am not good in a lot of traffic, because I detest cities. I would much rather take a more scenic peaceful route than arrive hours earlier. I just tend to need....I don't know....a quieter way to go."
"Uh huh. Answer your question?"
"What?"
"Why I don't mind that you question doctrines?"
"OHHHHHH! You are saying there is more than one way to reach you!"
"Yes, certain things apply of course, just as in driving to California. There ARE certain rules of the road....but a lot of roads."
"I understand."
"I thought you might."
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Legislators? Are You Listening?
My husband always called them "Serenity-isms". I gathered them into a collection called "The Wee, Wiley, and Wise". The fact is that my granddaughter, Serenity, at aged five could come up with some things that would make the wisest old man of the mountain give pause. Here is a REAL conversation I had with her when she was in kindergarten. I think we could all learn something from this kid!
"Nana? I thought school was supposed to teach you things?"
"Well it does, honey! Haven't you learned a lot this year in kindergarten?"
"Nana! I mean impor-nant things!"
"Well honey, you have learned important things! You know your alphabet and days of the week and how to count. You can even read a little bit!"
"Nana, I am telling you. A lot of kids don't know how to do something impor-nant!"
"What, honey?"
"Well at lunch, they don't say their prayers! And the teachers don't know how, either!"
"Nana? I thought school was supposed to teach you things?"
"Well it does, honey! Haven't you learned a lot this year in kindergarten?"
"Nana! I mean impor-nant things!"
"Well honey, you have learned important things! You know your alphabet and days of the week and how to count. You can even read a little bit!"
"Nana, I am telling you. A lot of kids don't know how to do something impor-nant!"
"What, honey?"
"Well at lunch, they don't say their prayers! And the teachers don't know how, either!"
A Textbook Case
I spent twenty-eight years in education, and watched it disintegrate from a world in which "common sense" ruled to one that was baited by the "almighty test" and driven from the first day of school to the last by that hook. I could rant for hours about the lack of "common sense" and the lack of genuine education and preparation for life that our educational system has come to. I thought of it as a mission field of sorts for twenty-eight years, and sometimes I feel as if I "bailed out" (which I did), but I can't say I miss it...
My family was one that threw away nothing. The least scrap of twine was tied to the end of another and rolled in a ball to be saved "in case". A piece of aluminum foil was carefully washed and folded away in a drawer to be used again, and again, until it finally wound up in pieces so small it could be used for nothing. That is how I wound up the family archives for a hundred years worth of old textbooks. They have all enthralled me...from the early books my grandfather went to primary school with in the 1800's, to the ones my father used in the 1930's and 40's.
I always hated math (to the chagrin of my father, an engineer, and my mother, a bookkeeper), and one day when I was well grown, I took a peek into my father's algebra book from high school. Instead of gibberish and numbers, signs and symbols, it was filled with word problems and explanations of how to use algebra to solve them. But these were not just ANY word problems...they were REAL LIFE word problems, and a farm boy could use them to figure how much acreage he needed for so many cattle, etc. etc. In other words, for the time and the life that boy would be entering (or girl...there were those things too), the book made SENSE. One could see the reason behind the numbers and signs and symbols....and I thought, "Now if MY algebra book had been like that, showing me the connection between the gibberish and things I would need to know or be able to figure...then I might have actually LIKED it, at least felt like the effort...rather than despising what I considered a complete waste of time."
Last night I picked up another of my father's old textbooks: "Treasury of Life and Literature", copyright 1938. I was searching for some favorite old poems and some well known early poets of the twentieth century. What I found was exactly that, interspersed with short stories and essays, all divided into topics such as: "Protecting Useful Birds", "Living Within One's Means", "Being Loyal to One's Work", "Saving the Forests", "Developing Bodily Vigor", "The Triumph of Good Work".
I was stunned. Our literature books today reflect our culture...and it is all about "me" and "personal freedoms" to "find oneself"...on a "me" basis. This book sought to build character using literature...where has that gone?
Now can you imagine how "politically incorrect" it would be to include this in literature books for students now? Can you imagine how "politically incorrect" many writers would consider this? How many would DARE to write of this kind of morality in these strong words even here? Yet....isn't THIS what made our country strong? And isn't THIS what we are lacking now?
"'Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try again;
If at first you don't succeed,
Try again;
Then your courage should appear,
For if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear,
Try again."
-William Edward Hickson
"Work!
Thank God for the might of it,
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it-
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the brain and the soul on fire-
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand
Work!
Thank God for the pride of it!"
-Angela Morgan
My family was one that threw away nothing. The least scrap of twine was tied to the end of another and rolled in a ball to be saved "in case". A piece of aluminum foil was carefully washed and folded away in a drawer to be used again, and again, until it finally wound up in pieces so small it could be used for nothing. That is how I wound up the family archives for a hundred years worth of old textbooks. They have all enthralled me...from the early books my grandfather went to primary school with in the 1800's, to the ones my father used in the 1930's and 40's.
I always hated math (to the chagrin of my father, an engineer, and my mother, a bookkeeper), and one day when I was well grown, I took a peek into my father's algebra book from high school. Instead of gibberish and numbers, signs and symbols, it was filled with word problems and explanations of how to use algebra to solve them. But these were not just ANY word problems...they were REAL LIFE word problems, and a farm boy could use them to figure how much acreage he needed for so many cattle, etc. etc. In other words, for the time and the life that boy would be entering (or girl...there were those things too), the book made SENSE. One could see the reason behind the numbers and signs and symbols....and I thought, "Now if MY algebra book had been like that, showing me the connection between the gibberish and things I would need to know or be able to figure...then I might have actually LIKED it, at least felt like the effort...rather than despising what I considered a complete waste of time."
Last night I picked up another of my father's old textbooks: "Treasury of Life and Literature", copyright 1938. I was searching for some favorite old poems and some well known early poets of the twentieth century. What I found was exactly that, interspersed with short stories and essays, all divided into topics such as: "Protecting Useful Birds", "Living Within One's Means", "Being Loyal to One's Work", "Saving the Forests", "Developing Bodily Vigor", "The Triumph of Good Work".
I was stunned. Our literature books today reflect our culture...and it is all about "me" and "personal freedoms" to "find oneself"...on a "me" basis. This book sought to build character using literature...where has that gone?
Now can you imagine how "politically incorrect" it would be to include this in literature books for students now? Can you imagine how "politically incorrect" many writers would consider this? How many would DARE to write of this kind of morality in these strong words even here? Yet....isn't THIS what made our country strong? And isn't THIS what we are lacking now?
"'Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try again;
If at first you don't succeed,
Try again;
Then your courage should appear,
For if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear,
Try again."
-William Edward Hickson
"Work!
Thank God for the might of it,
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it-
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the brain and the soul on fire-
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand
Work!
Thank God for the pride of it!"
-Angela Morgan
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Every Moment With You
Dedicated to my husband, Ed. He is always there for me, but lately a lot has gone down that I have needed his support to endure. As always, he has been there without fail. I wrote this a year or so ago for him. It was an award winner in a Blue Mountain contest....but the REAL Award Winner is Eddie.
Every moment with you…
I love.
After twenty years and more,
Every moment with you,
I love.
I love the shining gladness
In your eyes
When we have been apart and
Come together.
I love the lilt in your voice
When you answer the phone
And know it is me.
I love reaching over
With a hand or a foot
To feel your warmth
Beside me in bed.
I love that I can talk to you
About anything,
Anything at all,
And you listen.
I love that you think,
Really think,
When something is
Important to me,
And you try to answer
Honestly, and without
Judgement.
I love that I can trust you
With anything,
Even immaterial things,
With things of the spirit
And soul,
With secrets of the past,
With anything at all.
Every moment with you,
I love.
Thank You, Papa God, for giving me this man.
Every moment with you…
I love.
After twenty years and more,
Every moment with you,
I love.
I love the shining gladness
In your eyes
When we have been apart and
Come together.
I love the lilt in your voice
When you answer the phone
And know it is me.
I love reaching over
With a hand or a foot
To feel your warmth
Beside me in bed.
I love that I can talk to you
About anything,
Anything at all,
And you listen.
I love that you think,
Really think,
When something is
Important to me,
And you try to answer
Honestly, and without
Judgement.
I love that I can trust you
With anything,
Even immaterial things,
With things of the spirit
And soul,
With secrets of the past,
With anything at all.
Every moment with you,
I love.
Thank You, Papa God, for giving me this man.
Jailhouse Apathy in Hypothetical? Dialogue
Jill shifted uncomfortably on the bench. She felt humiliated and embarrassed here. She felt dirty here. She glanced toward her grown daughter beside her.
"I can't stand this."
"I know, Mom."
"This is not who we are! Not who our family is!"
"I know, Mom."
Jill glanced around at the people lining the walls, filling up the few hard benches, leaned against the walls. She could not believe how many children were running around the place.
"Can't believe they bring kids in here! Aren't they ashamed??"
"Shhh! Mom, they'll hear you!"
"Ought to just have a playground outside. Seems like this is a family outing!"
"Shhhh!"
"Well they do! They act like it is a social gathering!"
"Mom...for some of them...it probably is a pretty regular habit."
Jill hushed. She glanced at her watch. She did a double take. She looked again.
"The sign said visiting hours were at 5:00! It is 5:30!"
"Yup, an' apt to be six afore they git here." The skinny woman in blue jeans sitting on the next bench spoke for the first time.
"What?"
"Man opens the door...sometimes he don't git here til six, sometimes seven."
"Then why does the sign say 5:00???"
The woman shrugged, resigned. She flipped her shoulder length brittle gray hair over a bony shoulder. "He works sommers else first. Don't git off til nearly six."
"Well then they need to change their information posted!"
The woman shrugged again. "What list you on?"
"What??"
"What list you on?"
"To get in? Is there more than one? I don't know...maybe I need to check and see if I got on the right one!"
"Nah. They just put out one at a time. What time you get here?"
"4:30"
"You probably on the first list. You'll git in soon's he gets here and they git em downstairs. Unless yours on lock down. Good thing."
"Why?"
"Cause you git on the second or third list, it is apt to be 9:00 fore you git in."
"WHAT? The visiting times are in fifteen minute increments. That can't be right! Second list should be 5:15!"
"Ain't how it is. They bring em down when they want. An' sometimes they let one bunch visit nearly a hour. Depends on whose in it."
"What???"
The gray haired woman shrugged again. "That's how it is."
Jill looked incredulously at her. The woman looked like she knew what she was talking about. Jill didn't know whether to be incredulous that this woman seemed so well acquainted with the foreign environment, or incredulous that apparently a government institution had such disregard for the public.
"Then someone needs to talk to the jailer!"
"Good luck findin' him. I been comin' here fer nigh on six months. Ain't seen him yet. An' the rest of em ain't gonna talk to you either."
"Isn't this an ELECTED position??"
The woman shrugged.
Jill went to the restroom off the waiting area. There was no toilet paper. She returned to her daughter in a huff.
"NOT ONLY was there no toilet paper...there was not even an empty roll! NOR was there even any sign there had ever been a place to hang one! This is absolutely RIDICULOUS!"
The gray haired woman smiled faintly.
Jill watched another couple, who looked like they were a bit "better calibur" enter the waiting area, looking around uneasily. She felt for them. She understood quite well how "dirty" this entire experience felt to them. She could strangle her own son for putting her through this.
The couple stopped, and spotting Jill, apparently seeing in her "one of their own" asked, "Is this where we wait to see a prisoner?"
"Yes. But you need to sign the list over there..."
"Thanks."
They did, and came back to stand uneasily against the wall. The woman turned to her.
"We drove over two hundred miles...and thought we would never find this place!"
Jill nodded.
"There is no website, nothing! We tried to call, and couldn't get anyone to answer the phone."
"I know. If I had not had someone in town who could come up here and find the posted hours, I would not know when to be here either."
"And we sent a money order here so our son could have commissary, and he wrote us he never got it!"
A well endowed woman with bleached blonde hair and two inches of dark roots spoke up.
"You cain't do that. Got to be a postal money order, got to be made out right." She stabbed at the bulletin board with one thumb. "Ain't just like that, exactly like that...you can ferget it. An' don't go makin' it out for more than twenty bucks a week neither, cause they jus take it an' you don't git it back neither. All you can have at one time."
"But we live two hundred miles away!"
The bleached blonde shrugged.
"He said he wanted something to read, so we brought him some books..."
"Won't let him have 'em."
"What??"
"Won't let him have 'em. Gotta be new books, sent straight from a bookstore or somethin in the mail."
"Not even a Bible????"
"Nothin'"
"He said he hadn't even had clean underwear since he has been here!"
The gray haired woman stifled a laugh. "Nope. Ain't gonna have either unless you give him money to buy underwear at their prices in the commissary! You can't wash what he's already got and bring it in. They run the store!"
Jill gasped. The couple who had driven two hundred miles looked horrified...."What???" the woman fairly strangled trying to grasp this new reality. She swallowed hard. "What...what about people who live as far away as we do? And...and...what about the ones in here that don't have anyone to make sure they have just...well...just basic things??"
The gray haired woman shrugged and looked bemused at the folks who didn't seem to grasp that this was "how it was."
Jill looked at her daughter. "This isn't right!!!"
"Well, Mom. They're prisoners."
"Yes, but WE aren't!!! WE didn't do anything wrong!!!"
Her daughter shrugged.
"I can't stand this."
"I know, Mom."
"This is not who we are! Not who our family is!"
"I know, Mom."
Jill glanced around at the people lining the walls, filling up the few hard benches, leaned against the walls. She could not believe how many children were running around the place.
"Can't believe they bring kids in here! Aren't they ashamed??"
"Shhh! Mom, they'll hear you!"
"Ought to just have a playground outside. Seems like this is a family outing!"
"Shhhh!"
"Well they do! They act like it is a social gathering!"
"Mom...for some of them...it probably is a pretty regular habit."
Jill hushed. She glanced at her watch. She did a double take. She looked again.
"The sign said visiting hours were at 5:00! It is 5:30!"
"Yup, an' apt to be six afore they git here." The skinny woman in blue jeans sitting on the next bench spoke for the first time.
"What?"
"Man opens the door...sometimes he don't git here til six, sometimes seven."
"Then why does the sign say 5:00???"
The woman shrugged, resigned. She flipped her shoulder length brittle gray hair over a bony shoulder. "He works sommers else first. Don't git off til nearly six."
"Well then they need to change their information posted!"
The woman shrugged again. "What list you on?"
"What??"
"What list you on?"
"To get in? Is there more than one? I don't know...maybe I need to check and see if I got on the right one!"
"Nah. They just put out one at a time. What time you get here?"
"4:30"
"You probably on the first list. You'll git in soon's he gets here and they git em downstairs. Unless yours on lock down. Good thing."
"Why?"
"Cause you git on the second or third list, it is apt to be 9:00 fore you git in."
"WHAT? The visiting times are in fifteen minute increments. That can't be right! Second list should be 5:15!"
"Ain't how it is. They bring em down when they want. An' sometimes they let one bunch visit nearly a hour. Depends on whose in it."
"What???"
The gray haired woman shrugged again. "That's how it is."
Jill looked incredulously at her. The woman looked like she knew what she was talking about. Jill didn't know whether to be incredulous that this woman seemed so well acquainted with the foreign environment, or incredulous that apparently a government institution had such disregard for the public.
"Then someone needs to talk to the jailer!"
"Good luck findin' him. I been comin' here fer nigh on six months. Ain't seen him yet. An' the rest of em ain't gonna talk to you either."
"Isn't this an ELECTED position??"
The woman shrugged.
Jill went to the restroom off the waiting area. There was no toilet paper. She returned to her daughter in a huff.
"NOT ONLY was there no toilet paper...there was not even an empty roll! NOR was there even any sign there had ever been a place to hang one! This is absolutely RIDICULOUS!"
The gray haired woman smiled faintly.
Jill watched another couple, who looked like they were a bit "better calibur" enter the waiting area, looking around uneasily. She felt for them. She understood quite well how "dirty" this entire experience felt to them. She could strangle her own son for putting her through this.
The couple stopped, and spotting Jill, apparently seeing in her "one of their own" asked, "Is this where we wait to see a prisoner?"
"Yes. But you need to sign the list over there..."
"Thanks."
They did, and came back to stand uneasily against the wall. The woman turned to her.
"We drove over two hundred miles...and thought we would never find this place!"
Jill nodded.
"There is no website, nothing! We tried to call, and couldn't get anyone to answer the phone."
"I know. If I had not had someone in town who could come up here and find the posted hours, I would not know when to be here either."
"And we sent a money order here so our son could have commissary, and he wrote us he never got it!"
A well endowed woman with bleached blonde hair and two inches of dark roots spoke up.
"You cain't do that. Got to be a postal money order, got to be made out right." She stabbed at the bulletin board with one thumb. "Ain't just like that, exactly like that...you can ferget it. An' don't go makin' it out for more than twenty bucks a week neither, cause they jus take it an' you don't git it back neither. All you can have at one time."
"But we live two hundred miles away!"
The bleached blonde shrugged.
"He said he wanted something to read, so we brought him some books..."
"Won't let him have 'em."
"What??"
"Won't let him have 'em. Gotta be new books, sent straight from a bookstore or somethin in the mail."
"Not even a Bible????"
"Nothin'"
"He said he hadn't even had clean underwear since he has been here!"
The gray haired woman stifled a laugh. "Nope. Ain't gonna have either unless you give him money to buy underwear at their prices in the commissary! You can't wash what he's already got and bring it in. They run the store!"
Jill gasped. The couple who had driven two hundred miles looked horrified...."What???" the woman fairly strangled trying to grasp this new reality. She swallowed hard. "What...what about people who live as far away as we do? And...and...what about the ones in here that don't have anyone to make sure they have just...well...just basic things??"
The gray haired woman shrugged and looked bemused at the folks who didn't seem to grasp that this was "how it was."
Jill looked at her daughter. "This isn't right!!!"
"Well, Mom. They're prisoners."
"Yes, but WE aren't!!! WE didn't do anything wrong!!!"
Her daughter shrugged.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
My Son, My Sun
Dedicated to two very special friends (you know who you are) who feel this pain as deeply as I do. And to all the other mothers out there who have known the same.
God gave me a son
Who was my sun.
He gave me a son
And a cloud.
And I am still
Trying to find the son.
The sun is behind a cloud.
Since I can't see
What's in store for me,
Or worse...far worse...
For him...
God, please take care
Of my son
Find the sun...please...
For him.
Like a Child
Like a Child...
Like a child...
I block out the "logic",
I tear down the walls.
Like a child,
I open it, my chest
Vulnerable,
And say,
"Here I am Lord,
As much like a child
As I can be...
Do what you will."
And you do...
Except for what
I do not let go of.
And there always seems
To be something.
Like a child,
I always hold
Something back
In my greedy grasp.
Like a child,
Help me pull back each
Grasping finger
And let it all go...
Just let it all go...
And hold my open
Psalm.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
I've Had Better Days
Most creative sorts manage to mark a passage of their lives with something of themselves. A musician might write a song...an artist paints a picture. "I've Had Better Days" marks the passage of the last few weeks for me. :) I'm feeling better. So I am selling the outlet of my frustration. He is one of a kind and he is located at: http://www.etsy.com/listing/57316447/had-better-days
:)
No Accidents
A very long time ago, when my son was having a very hard time of things, I did a little homework and a little research, and I wrote him this little piece to remind him in yet another way how very special he was. I was astounded myself at what I learned. It became a lesson for myself, as well as a lesson for him.
This is how special you are...
If you had been born in this country 200 years ago, you would have had less than a 20% chance of reaching the age of ten. If you had been born in most of the world today, the same is still true. But this is not the most wondrous part of who you are. Listen...
For only a few hours of one week of one month in a certain year was it even possible that your conception could even occur. There was one in 450 million chances that the sperm that created you did so. Had it not you would have been another child. When you were conceived you received 23 chromosomes from your mother and 23 from your father, but all of those were a toss up from millions. If one chromosome had been different, you would be a different child. Theoretically, any one of 64 trillion children could have been born...yet it was YOU. Add to that the fact that even after you received the chromosomes that led to your creation, they have a quirky little habit of "crossing over", changing pieces and parts of each other and this made for eight million MORE possibilities of you being someone different from who you are. If one chromosome had switched one part with another...you would not exist...
And yet you do. You were born in this country in this time to this family. You were conceived within the only few hours that were possible for you to exist. You beat the odds of one in 450 million to receive a particular sperm, you beat the odds of one in 64 trillion to receive just the right mix of chromosomes, and you beat the odds of one in eight million that no switching was done afterward except that which produced YOU.
Have you any doubt that you are meant to be, meant to exist? Have you any doubt that there is some very special purpose for you on this earth?
Just a thought,
This is how special you are...
If you had been born in this country 200 years ago, you would have had less than a 20% chance of reaching the age of ten. If you had been born in most of the world today, the same is still true. But this is not the most wondrous part of who you are. Listen...
For only a few hours of one week of one month in a certain year was it even possible that your conception could even occur. There was one in 450 million chances that the sperm that created you did so. Had it not you would have been another child. When you were conceived you received 23 chromosomes from your mother and 23 from your father, but all of those were a toss up from millions. If one chromosome had been different, you would be a different child. Theoretically, any one of 64 trillion children could have been born...yet it was YOU. Add to that the fact that even after you received the chromosomes that led to your creation, they have a quirky little habit of "crossing over", changing pieces and parts of each other and this made for eight million MORE possibilities of you being someone different from who you are. If one chromosome had switched one part with another...you would not exist...
And yet you do. You were born in this country in this time to this family. You were conceived within the only few hours that were possible for you to exist. You beat the odds of one in 450 million to receive a particular sperm, you beat the odds of one in 64 trillion to receive just the right mix of chromosomes, and you beat the odds of one in eight million that no switching was done afterward except that which produced YOU.
Have you any doubt that you are meant to be, meant to exist? Have you any doubt that there is some very special purpose for you on this earth?
Just a thought,
Friday, September 24, 2010
A Finally "Feel the Love" Potion
I didn’t know if it was day or night…
I felt like kissing everything in sight…
Remember that old song? And Love Potion No. 9? Well several years back, I got a dose of that. It happened after: I had survived cancer and thought it was all the side effects of too much surgery, too much treatment, too much stress. I was a nervous wreck, inside and out. Inside I was a quivering mass of jelly and outside I shook like a leaf. I could not sleep. My hair was falling out in clumps. My skin was dry. The only good thing going on was that weight was falling off like crazy…but I did not know why. And then I learned why.
Graves Disease. And the disease I had never heard of had my thyroid literally off the charts.
Enter radioactive iodine treatment to kill half the thyroid. Enter “Love Potion No. 9”…synthroid for the rest of my ever lovin’ life and every single day of it if I intended to live, much less live a “normal” (whatever that is) life. It has entered my mind more than once, so what if there is some worldwide or national crisis? What if I am stranded on a desert island? What if I actually do win the lottery someday (never mind you have to play to win…and I don’t) and get kidnapped and held for ransom? What if I develop amnesia and don’t know I am sposed to have it?? Duh…rather paranoid thoughts I know. But if you know you have to have something every day or else…well, you are prone sometimes to paranoid thoughts.
And sythroid to me was “Love Potion No. 9”. Cured it all. Sanity restored.
So…I should have known. I should have but I didn’t. I didn’t because I have been dutifully taking my synthroid. I didn’t because it has not been all that long ago since I had seen my endocrinologist…less than six months actually. I didn’t because …well because, shhhh! I am menopausal.
So I figured it was that kind of hot flashes only. I figured that was the insomnia. I figured that was the mega meltdown crying jags (I NEVER cry usually...well not except for some moist eyes during sad books or sad movies). I figured that was why I sometimes had the “shakes”. I figured that was why everything some days seemed bigger and more horrible than it was…the middle aged “mellow me” had gone into hiding…and I figured that was why. I figured that was the …well everything.
And it kept getting worse instead of better. I mean one year of this stuff is enough, right??? Shouldn't it be easing??
Well scuse me…but today I was assured the panic attack earlier in the summer was not such at all and should not have been diagnosed as such. Today the mantra of symptoms suddenly made a whole lot of sense. Suddenly I made sense. Today I was assured that my synthroid dose was not only not working for me, but has been working against me…and probably a whole lot of the problem. In other words? My system had gone topsy turvey and I was NOT crazy. You have to understand that this was a HUGE relief to me. I was seriously starting to wonder about myself. I got a brand new prescription matched to the changes my body has undergone in the last six months.
I feel like I have been given a brand new “Love Potion No. 9”. And from this day forward if/when my moods seem “outta whack” I will be hightailing it back to that endocrinologist who finally got to the bottom of it. I will never again figure since I was in his office “not long ago” that means I am still “ok”.
Bottom line? I got to thinking….how many people out there have symptoms of this and have never had it checked out?? Many probably. So this is my little offering to those out there who need to check it out…please do. I know what it is like…insanity…and there really is a Love Potion No. 9 to cure it.
I felt like kissing everything in sight…
Remember that old song? And Love Potion No. 9? Well several years back, I got a dose of that. It happened after: I had survived cancer and thought it was all the side effects of too much surgery, too much treatment, too much stress. I was a nervous wreck, inside and out. Inside I was a quivering mass of jelly and outside I shook like a leaf. I could not sleep. My hair was falling out in clumps. My skin was dry. The only good thing going on was that weight was falling off like crazy…but I did not know why. And then I learned why.
Graves Disease. And the disease I had never heard of had my thyroid literally off the charts.
Enter radioactive iodine treatment to kill half the thyroid. Enter “Love Potion No. 9”…synthroid for the rest of my ever lovin’ life and every single day of it if I intended to live, much less live a “normal” (whatever that is) life. It has entered my mind more than once, so what if there is some worldwide or national crisis? What if I am stranded on a desert island? What if I actually do win the lottery someday (never mind you have to play to win…and I don’t) and get kidnapped and held for ransom? What if I develop amnesia and don’t know I am sposed to have it?? Duh…rather paranoid thoughts I know. But if you know you have to have something every day or else…well, you are prone sometimes to paranoid thoughts.
And sythroid to me was “Love Potion No. 9”. Cured it all. Sanity restored.
So…I should have known. I should have but I didn’t. I didn’t because I have been dutifully taking my synthroid. I didn’t because it has not been all that long ago since I had seen my endocrinologist…less than six months actually. I didn’t because …well because, shhhh! I am menopausal.
So I figured it was that kind of hot flashes only. I figured that was the insomnia. I figured that was the mega meltdown crying jags (I NEVER cry usually...well not except for some moist eyes during sad books or sad movies). I figured that was why I sometimes had the “shakes”. I figured that was why everything some days seemed bigger and more horrible than it was…the middle aged “mellow me” had gone into hiding…and I figured that was why. I figured that was the …well everything.
And it kept getting worse instead of better. I mean one year of this stuff is enough, right??? Shouldn't it be easing??
Well scuse me…but today I was assured the panic attack earlier in the summer was not such at all and should not have been diagnosed as such. Today the mantra of symptoms suddenly made a whole lot of sense. Suddenly I made sense. Today I was assured that my synthroid dose was not only not working for me, but has been working against me…and probably a whole lot of the problem. In other words? My system had gone topsy turvey and I was NOT crazy. You have to understand that this was a HUGE relief to me. I was seriously starting to wonder about myself. I got a brand new prescription matched to the changes my body has undergone in the last six months.
I feel like I have been given a brand new “Love Potion No. 9”. And from this day forward if/when my moods seem “outta whack” I will be hightailing it back to that endocrinologist who finally got to the bottom of it. I will never again figure since I was in his office “not long ago” that means I am still “ok”.
Bottom line? I got to thinking….how many people out there have symptoms of this and have never had it checked out?? Many probably. So this is my little offering to those out there who need to check it out…please do. I know what it is like…insanity…and there really is a Love Potion No. 9 to cure it.
From My "To Pen: Perchance to Scream!" collection...
Passion, After a Fashion
Come live with me and be my love,
The apartment for rent is right above,
And if you will just pay my share
And kindly wash my underwear…
I will promise undying support
And promise never ever to court
Another finer lass than thee…
As long as you take care of me!
(apologies to Marlowe)
Original version: Christopher Marlowe, "Passionate Shepherd to His Love, 1590's"
Ah...let me count the ways!"
I love thee each date
Of all the calendar days!
I love thee so much
It swells my fair breast.
I love thee more than
The span round your chest!
I love thee more than the
Hairs on thine own head.
Tho they be few,
Still I would thee wed!
I love thee the number
Of zits on thy back,
I love thee despite
Quickies in the sack.
I love thee! O I love thee!
And these words are for you!
Written in desperation!
Won't you please love me too??
Apologies to Elizabeth's Parrot Browning..oops....I mean Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Original version: Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (1806-1861), Songs from the Portuguese, "How Do I Love Thee?"
Come live with me and be my love,
The apartment for rent is right above,
And if you will just pay my share
And kindly wash my underwear…
I will promise undying support
And promise never ever to court
Another finer lass than thee…
As long as you take care of me!
(apologies to Marlowe)
Original version: Christopher Marlowe, "Passionate Shepherd to His Love, 1590's"
And yet another from To Pen: Perchance to Scream!
I Love Thee! O Desperate Plea!
"How do I love thee?
Ah...let me count the ways!"
I love thee each date
Of all the calendar days!
I love thee so much
It swells my fair breast.
I love thee more than
The span round your chest!
I love thee more than the
Hairs on thine own head.
Tho they be few,
Still I would thee wed!
I love thee the number
Of zits on thy back,
I love thee despite
Quickies in the sack.
I love thee! O I love thee!
And these words are for you!
Written in desperation!
Won't you please love me too??
Apologies to Elizabeth's Parrot Browning..oops....I mean Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Original version: Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (1806-1861), Songs from the Portuguese, "How Do I Love Thee?"
Thursday, September 23, 2010
GOSSIP
The ghastly whispers came creeping around us
Like cold fingers
Touching, lingering, ever grasping
Grasping in the corners of our minds,
Reaching without ceasing, reaching while
I waited breathlessly
To see what they would find.
Would they find my deepest darkest fears?
The ones I kept wrapped in so many snowy blankets?
The ones I never unwrapped, and liked to see
All wrapped up like little neat bundles, so neat
No one would ever think, or even want to
Disturb?
Would they linger over the bindings of all those
Snowy swaths? Would they caress the smooth
texture, run fingers around the strips of snow?
Could they feel? Could they feel that though
The texture was fleecy, soft, it was also cold?
So cold no fire could ever warm it? So cold
The swaths of cloth must hide remnants of some long ago
Ice Age?
Would they feel it? And if they did...
Would they have to explore, unwrap, layer by snowy layer?
Layer by Ice Age layer?
Would the fingers peel back the layers to expose
All the truths of a long ago past,
Oh so many eons ago, so many mammoths ago,
So many wooly mammoths ago.
Would the fingers pause as they came to that last layer...
And feel the cold so deeply it burned the flesh
And burned the bones of those ghastly whispers,
And ached to creep into the voices of them?
And what of the others?
Did they wrap their eons, their ages, their mammoths
In snowy blankets too, and push them back,
Far back, into the dust and cobwebs of forgotten yesterdays?
Did they do that too? Was this universal?
This cloaking of truth in softness, in purity,
In hidden places that even they could not discover again?
Well I can tell them...
Ghastly whispers come creeping.
They come creeping around us all
Like cold fingers
And they find us all out,
They peel the snowy layers of all that is hidden,
And they ache, they burn
Until the whispers grow in strength.
Cold fingers are attached, you see,
To cold hearts.
Like cold fingers
Touching, lingering, ever grasping
Grasping in the corners of our minds,
Reaching without ceasing, reaching while
I waited breathlessly
To see what they would find.
Would they find my deepest darkest fears?
The ones I kept wrapped in so many snowy blankets?
The ones I never unwrapped, and liked to see
All wrapped up like little neat bundles, so neat
No one would ever think, or even want to
Disturb?
Would they linger over the bindings of all those
Snowy swaths? Would they caress the smooth
texture, run fingers around the strips of snow?
Could they feel? Could they feel that though
The texture was fleecy, soft, it was also cold?
So cold no fire could ever warm it? So cold
The swaths of cloth must hide remnants of some long ago
Ice Age?
Would they feel it? And if they did...
Would they have to explore, unwrap, layer by snowy layer?
Layer by Ice Age layer?
Would the fingers peel back the layers to expose
All the truths of a long ago past,
Oh so many eons ago, so many mammoths ago,
So many wooly mammoths ago.
Would the fingers pause as they came to that last layer...
And feel the cold so deeply it burned the flesh
And burned the bones of those ghastly whispers,
And ached to creep into the voices of them?
And what of the others?
Did they wrap their eons, their ages, their mammoths
In snowy blankets too, and push them back,
Far back, into the dust and cobwebs of forgotten yesterdays?
Did they do that too? Was this universal?
This cloaking of truth in softness, in purity,
In hidden places that even they could not discover again?
Well I can tell them...
Ghastly whispers come creeping.
They come creeping around us all
Like cold fingers
And they find us all out,
They peel the snowy layers of all that is hidden,
And they ache, they burn
Until the whispers grow in strength.
Cold fingers are attached, you see,
To cold hearts.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
A Lover's Vow I Give to Thee!
A lover's vow I give to thee!
A lover's trust that thou might see
My love is thine! And thine alone!
I love thee and I love thy bone!
I love thy sloppy slobbery kiss!
I love it that thou dost so miss
Me when I am gone and come to greet
The owner that gives thee a juicy treat!
I love thy big fat thumping tail
I even love thy hound-dawg wail!
I love thy flopping ears with ticks
And the way you fetch those big ole sticks.
I love thee, dawg, for thou art true!
Of all my loves, I love most YOU!
A lover's trust that thou might see
My love is thine! And thine alone!
I love thee and I love thy bone!
I love thy sloppy slobbery kiss!
I love it that thou dost so miss
Me when I am gone and come to greet
The owner that gives thee a juicy treat!
I love thy big fat thumping tail
I even love thy hound-dawg wail!
I love thy flopping ears with ticks
And the way you fetch those big ole sticks.
I love thee, dawg, for thou art true!
Of all my loves, I love most YOU!
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Grass is Greener On the Other Side of the Road...
So pardon me if I deviate from my agenda of enlightening you on the life of a campground attendant...my attention span is....oh look!!! A butterfly! Anyway, I can write about whatever it was...what? The Grass is Greener? OH! I remember that old saying...
Yes...let's have a little fun with that... found one my manuscripts (stuck to the fence).
Paris Hilton: Ooooo! It is? Well take my little dog over there to use it then!
Bill Clinton: I only inhaled once. So it really doesn't matter.
OBama: That's right! So get your gr-ass over here to my side of the fence!
McCain: You are deceived. It is not green. Let's all be real Americans and mow it down.
Bush: Ain't no grass in Texas. But I know where there are some damned fine tumbleweeds. (and a few oil wells)
Brittany Spears: I am really not even interested in that anymore.
Brad Pitt: That is exactly what we have been saying. So don't adopt locally.
Sheriff: Fire up the helicopter, boys, and let's go!
Willie Nelson: Grass? Where?
Cow poking his head through barbed wire: Yup.
Yes...let's have a little fun with that... found one my manuscripts (stuck to the fence).
Paris Hilton: Ooooo! It is? Well take my little dog over there to use it then!
Bill Clinton: I only inhaled once. So it really doesn't matter.
OBama: That's right! So get your gr-ass over here to my side of the fence!
McCain: You are deceived. It is not green. Let's all be real Americans and mow it down.
Bush: Ain't no grass in Texas. But I know where there are some damned fine tumbleweeds. (and a few oil wells)
Brittany Spears: I am really not even interested in that anymore.
Brad Pitt: That is exactly what we have been saying. So don't adopt locally.
Sheriff: Fire up the helicopter, boys, and let's go!
Willie Nelson: Grass? Where?
Cow poking his head through barbed wire: Yup.
So...You Think You Want to be a Campground Attendant...Part I
Never fails. All summer long we get probing comments/questions and sidelong envious glances from folks who have idealized our jobs and think they want it. About this time of the year they even get downright pushy, breathing over our shoulder like rabid vultures waiting for the season to end and wondering if we "will be back next year".
Since we are too old to sweat, know we do a good job at what we do, and we were't looking for this job when God saw to it we had it in the first place ...we manage to smile without grinding our teeth. Besides, the fact is...we used to do the same thing!
The truth is...running a campground is NOT like "getting to camp six months" out of the year. If you are outside you are on duty. Period. Regardless of what the sign says on the gatehouse. That is why we have had exactly one campfire in the last five months. The truth is, if you are INSIDE you are also on duty. No matter what time it is. Pick a time in the wee hours: 2:00 AM, 3:00 AM, 4:00 AM...I don't care what time you choose...because whatever it is, someone has come banging on our camper door and usually for something inconsequential.
I don't mean to discourage those who think our job is the "next thing to heaven". Clearly there are benefits. And we DO work with and for some of the best people I have ever had the pleasure to work with. The majority of the regular campers have become almost like family. In fact most people who stay at this campground are family oriented/fishermen and really are not a great deal of trouble. But there are a few thunks to think too:
a) Do you mind sitting outside your camper on your off hours and being interrupted at least once every five minutes? Can you still be courteous, professional and smile?
b) Do you mind being awakened at any hour of the night or morning by someone who has either not read the hours on the gatehouse or does not care? Can you smile even though your sleep apnea machine is tangled around your ankles?
c) Can you live with your spouse in a camper or motorhome for six months without being indicted for murder in the first degree?
d) Can you live without a single day off in six months? If you manage to slip off for a day or so, can you be ready to return at the drop of a hat if your spouse (who is left running it) gets sick or the campground gets suddenly busy? And forget weekend slipping off at all. Ain't gonna happen. Also isn't allowed.
e) Are you prepared to miss family birthdays, reunions, funerals, weddings, etc.? The campground must go on...and this is what you signed up for. Family just has to deal with it. And you do too.
f) Are you prepared to work fourteen hour days through the holidays and busy season? (That is "on the clock" hours...it may actually be more like sixteen to eighteen).
g) Are you prepared to plan your dental procedures and medical complications around the number of campers expected in during a particular time of the week...and probably attend to your own surgery or root canal without your spouse there to hold your hand?
h) You do realize you are paid the same regardless of the hours worked that week, regardless of the extra things that occurred, regardless of the number of times you had to attend to someone/thing on your "off hours", regardless? You do realize you are given no medical benefits, sick leave, personal leave and are responsible for paying your taxes and social security on your own?
i) You DO understand you are working SEVEN days a week for SIX MONTHS and there is no one to "fill in", don't you? That's right. We have not had a day off since April. Or a night.
Ok, if you read all this and you think you can still smile and be professional through it all...and it is possible. Hubby and I do. If you read all this and think that, then you MIGHT be material for a job like this... But hang on. I have some fun to share with you.
The writer in me couldn't resist. And as we have had this adventure, I had to document... :) Check back tomorrow!
Since we are too old to sweat, know we do a good job at what we do, and we were't looking for this job when God saw to it we had it in the first place ...we manage to smile without grinding our teeth. Besides, the fact is...we used to do the same thing!
The truth is...running a campground is NOT like "getting to camp six months" out of the year. If you are outside you are on duty. Period. Regardless of what the sign says on the gatehouse. That is why we have had exactly one campfire in the last five months. The truth is, if you are INSIDE you are also on duty. No matter what time it is. Pick a time in the wee hours: 2:00 AM, 3:00 AM, 4:00 AM...I don't care what time you choose...because whatever it is, someone has come banging on our camper door and usually for something inconsequential.
I don't mean to discourage those who think our job is the "next thing to heaven". Clearly there are benefits. And we DO work with and for some of the best people I have ever had the pleasure to work with. The majority of the regular campers have become almost like family. In fact most people who stay at this campground are family oriented/fishermen and really are not a great deal of trouble. But there are a few thunks to think too:
a) Do you mind sitting outside your camper on your off hours and being interrupted at least once every five minutes? Can you still be courteous, professional and smile?
b) Do you mind being awakened at any hour of the night or morning by someone who has either not read the hours on the gatehouse or does not care? Can you smile even though your sleep apnea machine is tangled around your ankles?
c) Can you live with your spouse in a camper or motorhome for six months without being indicted for murder in the first degree?
d) Can you live without a single day off in six months? If you manage to slip off for a day or so, can you be ready to return at the drop of a hat if your spouse (who is left running it) gets sick or the campground gets suddenly busy? And forget weekend slipping off at all. Ain't gonna happen. Also isn't allowed.
e) Are you prepared to miss family birthdays, reunions, funerals, weddings, etc.? The campground must go on...and this is what you signed up for. Family just has to deal with it. And you do too.
f) Are you prepared to work fourteen hour days through the holidays and busy season? (That is "on the clock" hours...it may actually be more like sixteen to eighteen).
g) Are you prepared to plan your dental procedures and medical complications around the number of campers expected in during a particular time of the week...and probably attend to your own surgery or root canal without your spouse there to hold your hand?
h) You do realize you are paid the same regardless of the hours worked that week, regardless of the extra things that occurred, regardless of the number of times you had to attend to someone/thing on your "off hours", regardless? You do realize you are given no medical benefits, sick leave, personal leave and are responsible for paying your taxes and social security on your own?
i) You DO understand you are working SEVEN days a week for SIX MONTHS and there is no one to "fill in", don't you? That's right. We have not had a day off since April. Or a night.
Ok, if you read all this and you think you can still smile and be professional through it all...and it is possible. Hubby and I do. If you read all this and think that, then you MIGHT be material for a job like this... But hang on. I have some fun to share with you.
The writer in me couldn't resist. And as we have had this adventure, I had to document... :) Check back tomorrow!
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