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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)