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.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
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."
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