Orange Cloves and Oaks (On Memory Lane)

28 Wednesday Oct 2015

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I took the back roads today. It is late October. It’s just me and the old Pathfinder, so there’s plenty of  room; hop in and go with me. We’ll talk as we ride along the narrow blacktops of my old stompin’ grounds. Though the intended destination is to visit with my mother’s 95 year young cousin, it’s about to become a virtual tour of memories, and it’s only a 20 minute drive! I should explain that I have found myself to be so olfactory-oriented that even sights from the driver’s seat evoke aroma connected memories. So it works both ways; smells stir memories, and  any memory, however evoked, can make me remember the smells associated with it. I am soothed, persuaded, repulsed, inspired by and affected in every other way by my sense of smell. And what better time of year than Fall to excite the senses, so I’ll be driving with the windows slightly open today.

It’s a beautiful day in its own way; overcast, drizzly to light showers, with a slightly cool breeze. But the gloominess has been dispelled by the bright yellow and red lights glowing from the autumn trees, as there has not been enough rain yet to pull off all the leaves. They are shinier due to the wetness of the rain; and the cooler air prevents a mugginess we’d have had a month ago. I deliberately chose the back way in order to see more countryside. Newly sown wheat fields are a tender green, a lovely contrast to the fall colors. My radio is tuned to Murray State University’s classical music station because I enjoy letting my mind run from point to point without being interrupted by words of songs – just the background music, like scores for movies. And today my mind begins to play movies of memories. Yikes, suddenly I am meeting a car, the driver intent upon holding to the center line, and I’m reminded how quickly I can become a memory! And actually, how quickly life does become memories. Even those extended illnesses or dementias endured by many families ultimately end with, “it seems like only yesterday…”; like, when their moms were just standing at the stove, cranking out the aroma of fried chicken, and turning around with that knowing smile; or their dads were coming home from work, perhaps like mine when I was very young and he watched me go through his lunch pail for some little something he would have left there just for me. Enter the smell of wax paper.  Likewise, whenever I am in a garage with a particular greasy tool and gasoline engine smell, I am transported back to age six and our first garage, with a dirt floor, and how I loved Daddy’s tools that were on the foundation blocks along the walls of that garage. I dare to say one of life’s most asked questions is “where has the time gone?”

As I’m driving, I see a field of soybeans, this variety being a sort of rusty orange, and I immediately am reminded of a little craft we did when I was a nine or ten-year old Girl Scout. We each took an orange and a box of dried cloves and pushed the cloves into the orange skin. Our troop leaders fashioned some way of hanging them, perhaps with a ribbon, and ta-dah! we each had a sachet; a gift to proudly take home to our mammas. Mine, I believe was hung in a closet at our house. Ahhh, the aroma was divine! The dark brown cloves over the surface of the orange gave the rusty appearance shared by that soybean field. I think I tried that craft again in my adult life, either with my own kids or nieces, and it was a complete flop. There was juice seeping out of the oranges, and I was unable to recall how our fearless leaders got a ribbon attached to it in the first place. But I remember how much I liked the orange clove fragrance! It may just be my new perfect autumn aroma. I’m not ruling out all the wonderful pumpkin spice, and apple flavors of autumn, but I am going to be on the lookout for some orange and clove coffee, candles or potpourri! Funny how the color of that bean field stirred my smell memories.

And speaking of smells, I next meet a pickup pulling a load of dark fired tobacco, cured and ready for stripping. Oh what a jolt of memory that is – and I’d venture to say from the aroma, it was a good crop! Weather like this week with several days of slow rain, made premium days for “taking down” as we dark fired farmers called it, because the tobacco would come in order, meaning we could handle it without breaking it up. It’s been about four years now since my husband stopped growing tobacco, but I remember how every day of our lives from the end of August until Christmas smelled of dark fired tobacco smoke from our barns, as well as the dark tobacco gum and the stain it left on our hands, which we wore until it was stripped and hauled away to be sold. The warehouse by the way, was in my mind, the end of the road for the crop as we neither one used any form of tobacco ever – but that’s a whole different story.

A sudden burst of heavier rain brings my mind back to the road, validating how quickly life changes. As we are entering the community of Lynn Grove where I spent my adolescent and teen years, I am sad to see the dissolving of little communities where one could live, go to school, worship, shop, to to the post office, buy gas and visit friends all in about a half mile radius! Plus, everyone knew everyone, or at least their grandparents, and where each dog belonged. And that’s just what I remember. In my parents’ younger days, there was also a flour mill and an egg packing and shipping business, and two little service stations. One of those, called Jackson Ashland was owned and operated by my daddy. That little building has been gone a long time. Now the old Crawford service station, though still there, is closed and no longer donning the patrons sitting outside on benches; there’s no grocery; the mill and egg house are gone. The school has been replaced by apartments. The post office has been closed several years. Our old home burned and my parents moved out of the neighborhood, and the houses now look very different on ‘our’ road. But all three of the local churches are still there! Kind of ironic, I think, that the churches stood strong; and the Word of God is the one thing we have that we know will never change! A flood of memories proceed as I picture myself driving my first car, a bronze Thunderbird; leaving for my first date with the man I married, in a white ’64 Impala; running (literally) down to the store for a gallon of All Jersey or a loaf of Colonial bread; old Silver, my Palomino saddle horse leaning over the fence of our yard for sugar cubes; the school yard where we cracked ‘hickernuts’ under the tall hickory trees; my third cousin Beverly giving me an Este Lauder infused ride to high school in her old green and white Ford and the seat permanently set so far back that she drove with her toes, leg fully extended! These and so many more!

On down the road, I see the soybean fields that have been harvested, and I recall that this year my daddy said my husband’s just cut bean fields look “like they been hit with sandpaper”, smooth and the color of a newly sanded plank of wood. I find myself back in the bean fields 35 years or so ago with our small Allis-Chalmers combine and a red Ford two-ton grain truck where I tried to keep the truck moved down the field as my husband cut his way across it, hoping for a good yield. It was a race with time, and with a racing heart, that I tried to get the truck to the grain company, unloaded and back to the field before he  was ready to unload the combine bin onto the truck again. No one would even consider farming today with one grain truck! Though the soybean dust covered everything and made us itch, I loved the smell of it, and I still do. Since I was 12 and we moved to our second farm after 4 years in town, I was almost hypnotized by the dry rustling sound and that dried grain smell of corn and soybeans ready for harvest. I imagined a closer kinship to the native Americans than I actually had and I tried to invent ways to be out in those fields after the combines moved through. Whether picking up missed ears of corn, biting into the nutty taste of the left behind soybeans, or gathering stripped corn stalks to stack teepee style in the yard – whatever it took to just be there, I was soaking up the warm sun, and breathing in the ripened grain smell.

Arriving at Fannie Sue’s house, I unload the homemade soup I’ve brought for our lunch, and get a hug from the sweetest, toughest lady you could ever imagine! Unfortunately her daughter is unable to join us, but my sister does, and we sit down for a time of food, fun and reflection. Her 95 years has done nothing to her memory! She can recall more names than I even know; tells us the history of many family treasures in their house; knows more about our heritage than I can remember to write down; and yes, she remembers exactly what she was doing yesterday and intends to do tomorrow. This is the first year she did not have a little garden she says, although she did “scratch out with a fork a little spot by the garage and planted a few tomato and pepper plants”.  Those were tortured by too much rain, grass, and something that ate the tomato plants off to about 3 inches above the ground. So, she explained, she visited a local fruit and vegetable stand throughout the summer for peaches and tomatoes – what a faithful southern lady! I have the advantage of sitting opposite the bay window with a view of the woods where the old oaks are still holding onto their browns and tans. They secure the north border of her lawn. She too, has held onto life’s happenings and treasures to secure the next generations’ border of heritage that surrounds and helps to form our inner sphere of time.The wind has picked up a bit, and the sun is starting to slip through the remaining clouds. A shower of yellow and orange leaves falls across my field of vision, as the memories of her life drop just as easily on our eager ears. I realize these times will not be here forever; someone will perhaps be visiting me and asking family questions, testing my memory of time and place. I already realize I am not one of these marvelous people with such a recall. I can barely get a story straight twice in a row. So trips like today, when my memory serves to accompany me nicely, are a blessing. And I am sure that from now on the smell of homemade vegetable beef soup will stir my memory of this pleasant day.

On this lovely lady’s dish cabinet sits a beautiful white milk pitcher with pink roses on it.  She admits it was an object of desire all of her life, as she had seen it at my Great Aunt Treva’s house. My great-grandmother gave it to her daughter, Aunt Treva,  who passed it down to her daughter, at whose estate sale Fannie Sue was able to buy it. On the bottom there is a hand written note that says “Mammy’s pitcher, for Hilda”. I could just see my precious Aunt Treva, the baby sister of my grandma and the one with whom I had enjoyed a close relationship for many years, writing that little note to be sure a family heirloom – a memory – made it into the hands of her daughter.  Holding that pitcher now myself, I can nearly smell Aunt Treva’s kitchen, a clean sort of mix of good cooking aromas. I hardly ever ate there, but it smelled good when I visited. Seems I can hear her meek voice, a little edge of hoarseness to it and an alternating high – low pitch and the way she said my name made me like my name. Admittedly, many of the things we ‘hand down’ to our loved ones or seek out from our ancestors have monetary value, but there is a value much greater than that. I think what we love about seeing, holding, and sharing these wonderful pieces of the past, is the memories they evoke. They let us see through others’ eyes bits and pieces of the lives that have lived ahead of us. We learn to appreciate more and more the work they did, the values they held, and the love they passed down through generations.

The Lord has said through David in Psalms 141:2 and again through John in Revelations 5:8, that our prayers are a sweet odour, or incense that rise up, pleasing Him. It is comforting to me that He too, places importance on aroma; and the flavors of the soul that produce a fragrant worship. Why my memory is so dependent on certain fragrances is unknown to me.  I am just thankful for the memories, however they are made;  those past and those we are making. I pray that I do not lose the ability to remember, and I ask the Lord to bless those who have watched their family members do just that. These memories are connections like roads, from where we’ve been to where we are going. May your journey be full of joy, even in the valleys where you can call upon good memories to brighten your days.

Tranquility: Stillness to Experience More

16 Wednesday Sep 2015

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Sunday, September 13, 2015

Anyone in western Kentucky is enjoying one of those days that is simply indescribable. Worship, rest, play, visit, work – whatever we are doing today, is a notch better than usual due to the combination of warm sun and cool breeze. This is the time of year, as I’ve always said, when I come to life and my writing picks up a little. After church I made a small lunch and we hit the patio chairs for a sunny snooze. (Boy are we getting old or what?) After an hour or so – who’s counting? – my writer’s bug bit me, and here it is.

Monday, September 14, 2015:  OK, rather than remain seated yesterday to finish writing, I chose to call for a couple of bright-eyed fellow fun-lovers to finish off that scrumptuous slice of day. Knowing my younger great-niece wanted to learn to ride her bike without training wheels, I ended up with two giggling little girls and running a “keep up with the wobbly bike” marathon. I really didn’t think I could run any more than a few feet, but when a five-year old trusts you to catch her, you run along side for all you’re worth! It now comes to me that the rest and meditation earlier in the afternoon prepared me for the run of the day. Aha, Lord, I believe I see yet another everyday proof of your wisdom! The more we stop to meditate on your word, storing up your truth, donning the whole armor of God as in Ephesians 6: 10-20, the more we are able to withstand, persevere, and become ambassadors for the gospel of Christ in this race of life.

Perhaps, at this point I want to insert what I wrote Sunday as I sat with my husband after lunch.

I know I should be doing something, but I am completely mesmerized by this day.

I’ve watched the tufts of white clouds which appeared as hypnotized as I, slip magically away.

We’ve basked ourselves in the perfectly warm sun, and cooled under the umbrella, with the breeze.

I’ve listened to that first faint rustle of the drying pre-autumn leaves.

We watched the busy hummingbirds chase each other away, sip and chat loudly – proclaiming victory or daring others to play.

The cat is just as contented as I to merely watch the butterflies ; and I hear my husband whisper ‘thank you Lord’ resting body, mind and eyes.

So, a deep breath again, I enjoy the aroma of a distant tobacco barn in the sweet cool September air,

As I watch a little brown and yellow moth explore my hand, test and taste without a care.

He now perches on my pen as I dawdle, and then write (for that is what I do);

And I think to myself, for all of this and so much more, Heavenly Father I thank you!

 The cat now ready to do life again pounces on a grasshopper, and I’m entertained by the two.

My husband, now strengthened from his rest, gone to whatever he had to do.

Like the Lord’s sabbath and His will for us so still to be

and know that He is God, must be why He provided such a day of tranquility.

“Be still and know that I am God;” Psalms 46:10

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight oh Lord my strength and my Redeemer.” Psalms 19:14 (emphasis mine)

“The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament shows His handiwork…” Psalms 19:1

Wednesday, September 16, 2015    Today would have been my Mama’s 84th birthday. She had a bitter-sweet taste for these beautiful days of Fall. She had loved this time of year so much, then she lost her daddy in October and later her mother and sweet sister in two years of Septembers. Fall took on a cloak of sadness for her; although she still was comforted by the beauty in it. So today Mama, I know you feel the warmth and bliss that you once did on days like this; when you were young, full of faith and hope. But now young forever, knowing now the one in whom your faith took hold, and all your hopes now live fulfilled. I’m so blessed to be your daughter, and a daughter of the King who created all this that is good.

Late Summer

15 Tuesday Sep 2015

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The westerly breeze calls me, the chimes play my song;
I find I am drifting and playing along.
Pouffy white clouds sail the blue sky seas;
Cat’s playing in the Stellas, the sun’s on my knees.
Sleepy sets in and there’s so much to do!
But a moment of meditation is good for you.
The swing gently sways, pushed by the wind.
Heavy eyes and thankful heart bring my verse to an end.

written last summer/fall  P.Ward

CLOSE OF AN AFTERNOON RAIN

30 Sunday Aug 2015

Posted by in Nature, Poetry

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Ending things has never been my cup of tea. All of my life, I hated for parties, sleep-overs, and movies to end. I cried at the end of each stage of my children’s lives, although I knew full well those were perfectly healthy normal milestones. I cried on the last day of my just retired from position at the hospital. I should have been skipping and giggling all the way out. But, no, with tear brimmed eyes I turned in my  badge to the operator after clocking out, fumbled my belongings out to the car, and felt lonely. Going home to a house full of love and excitement at my being able to turn the page and retire, I was weary from a very long exhausting day, and yes, sad; for an ending, I guess. And here we are at the end of another season. Summer on August 30, is pretty much ending. When most people are hailing the end of seasons, I am clinging to all the ‘but I wanted to do this, or that and time is flying’ clichés.

One thing I have been encouraged to do in retirement is to spend more time writing. Partly because those dears know me and like my writing, and partly because it (my writing) has much improvement to take on, and practice makes perfect, right? I have been overwhelmed with the idea of so much to do, the closing of summer, so many people to see and get to do things with, and taking on part-time positions. Yes, busy people just stay busy, and it’s always going to be that way. So, I have been avoiding the urge to write. Until today. We needed a rain as there had been a small dry spell, and obviously I needed a rain to lubricate my writing hinges. It began to rain as I was in the midst of grading care plans for the students in the obstetrical clinical I have agreed to teach.  Soon I found myself moving out onto the front porch swing for a break. Most of the lightning and thunder was over as was the downpour, but the sounds of the tapering off triggered that writer’s need to put it into words.

Phrases to describe the sounds began tripping through my mind and the following poem was the result.

Trickling water sounds through the metal downspout,

Thunder rumbling farther away,

Hissing car tires make that splashy sound,

Drippity drops of nearly stopped rain.

Bold little croak of a nearby toad

and some flying creatures test the air;

The sky is getting lighter, puddles shine wider

Dampness crawls onto the porch to share.

Gently a breeze stirs the water laden trees

And the windchime makes a timid ting-ding.

A constant faint drizzle and a crow calls o’er the way,

A new dong with the ting-a-ding rings.

Blooms bob their heads as tiny drips fall

as if to be nodding adieu.

The freshness remains – an unnamed fragrance –

And the late summer rain has moved through.

 May you have a love wrapped ending to your summer, friends, as we look forward to that breathtaking joy we call Autumn. God is so good. Trisha

COFFEE ON THE WESTSIDE

25 Monday May 2015

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A deer crosses our field of young soybeans just about 20 yards from where I sit drinking an evening cup of Maxwell House, watching what is left of the sunset and a hummingbird taking one last drink. He’s in no hurry nor am I in a hurry to see the day end. I realize the cicadas have gone to sleep or whatever cicadas do when they quiet down. I feel a nice peaceful wrap sliding around my shoulders, with a bit of a chill in the evening air. It is late May, and the weather is damp and cool, more so than we expect at this time of year. The evening birds sound louder than they do when the day life is busily competing for attention. A frog of some sort croaking just beneath the porch rail  where I sit startled me, and I giggled as he and another farther out took turns calling back and forth.

This is Memorial Day, and I have been mindful today of the sacrifices made by the many men and women, and their families, to promote peace and freedom in our country. Without them in our ever-changing history, it is doubtful that I would have the luxury of taking in this evening in such a way. Thank you so very, very much. My heart is prayerful for all who have and are now serving our country.

Since the weather reminds me of the cool rainy season we normally have in April, my mind turns to an April day several years ago when I was riding with my husband on one of his ventures for farm equipment. He likes the company and help with maps and such, and I like the time to write, or read, or work crossword puzzles; so many are the times we’ve struck out on excursions looking for some truck or piece of farm machinery he has found in a publication or online. Anyway, one day in particular stands out in memory because of the striking glow of redbud trees in the wooded countryside. I recall writing a silly little poem about the portrait of Spring. Nature is the most poem-triggering inspiration for me.

It is dark now, my coffee cup is empty and the birds have also gone to nest I suppose for I cannot hear anything but frogs and other night sounds whose names I don’t know. I am going inside to relinquish another day, and to look for that old poem.

Found it, fiddled around with it a bit, and here it is:

PORTRAIT OF SPRING

Redbuds, popping out in vibrant lilac splashes,

on a quiet wooded, expectant canvas,

Soon to be joined by fancy whites and fresh new green

worked into the portrait of another Spring.

Redbuds, with humble unfrilled ease

pull the eye to the blur of late winter trees.

A glow at the edge of a dark rainy day –

They’re waiting for Dogwoods to come out and play.

Dogwood, a name for lacy young ladies in pink and white

who’ll come into their own over cool April nights.

Dogwoods, spreading their arms, hands joined in games

are allowed a short time for song and play

under thickening green mesh arbors of home

until they have leaves and shade of their own.

Redbuds and Dogwoods in unison sing,

“we’re the prettiest part in the picture of Spring”.

My mind with its business and day-to-day run,

stops in awe at what the Artist has done.

And as the years slip by with their speedy endeavor

I look forward to their portraits more eagerly than ever.     P.Ward

Suddenly I’m a girl of 9 or 10 years old again, joining hands in circle with the other girl scouts in my troop. I hear us singing, “Day is done, gone the sun, from the hills, from the (trees?) from the sky. All is well, safe at rest, God is nigh”.  I haven’t heard that song in way too long…Good night friends.

TODD

20 Wednesday May 2015

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One name, spoken in our small community over the past year and a half needed no last name, no explanation. Speaking the name ‘Todd’, was understood that the reference was to “our” Todd Walker. A family man in every respect; son, husband and daddy, yes, to his precious family. And so much  more. In the church, his family attitude exemplified everything God intended the church to be. Which is why I say ‘our Todd’. Everyone who knew him thinks of him as a brother. A teacher, minister, song leader, encourager, Todd’s love for people naturally drew them, and drew us closer as a family; and more importantly (to Todd I know), he drew us closer to Jesus.

One question, forever in the mind of mankind, though we know full well there is no satisfying answer, is ‘why’. Why was it OK for Todd to go so soon? No, Todd would not have us question. But as a heart-broken sister, my Lord understands that I have questions. And it’s ok. Perhaps that gives us the chance to say aloud the things we admire, the things we think are important, honoring our loved ones, when they’ve passed from this life.

One assurance: that Todd is free of all chains that held him from the things he might have done. Free to be in perfect peace. Free of heartache, pain, and suffering. Free to fully praise his Father and Saviour unendingly.

One ugly disease, this ALS. It stole his strength, but did not win his spirit. He used it to strengthen his and the spirit of those who knew him. It ravaged his body and our hearts. But it did not touch his faith which seemed to grow stronger each time he spoke in our presence, serving to encourage the faith of others. It grieves us with its affect, but reminds us of the beauty of the time when disease will not exist.

One Lord, who now holds Todd in perfection. I am not convinced if the saints sleep in perfect peace for now, resting for the time of great celebration in the final resurrection; or if they are immediately transported into an awareness of Paradise. Either way, I imagine Todd will be leading the chorus in his magnificent way at the perfect timing according to our Father in Heaven and his Son who sits at the right hand and welcomes the faithful, and one of those is Todd Walker.

One day, we will all be joined together and questions will be answered, beyond our grandest dreams. This morning as I write, the birds are singing, like Todd; and the sky is cloudy, like our eyes. But on that morning, our eyes will be fully opened, seeing clearly all that is now a mystery. And I look forward to that. In the words of another brother in Christ, Lord come quickly. We miss you Todd.

Wild Violets: Our House Blend

29 Sunday Jun 2014

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I walk by a photograph in our hallway and feel a warmth I have tried to describe for some time now; a picture of peace, and pain; of togetherness, and separation; of a bittersweet day so pungent to my memory that seeing it even brings back the fragrances of the day. I recall the pleasant aromas of good cooking, but I have no idea what we ate. I recall Mama’s Pleasures cologne that I associate with the sweater she was wearing on that particular day. I can see the small dishes of wild violets transplanted from the lawn of my mother’s cousin, to her welcoming tables, so sweetly set for our pleasure. So prominent in my mind are those violets that I can imagine I smell a faint earthy sweetness, like a fresh rain in summer. The photograph is of four cousins, each in her late 70’s or 80’s, sitting at one of those tables after a good lunch, posing to capture, and hold onto, what I knew would be their last time together. As close as their families were in their younger days, each had developed very different lives and two of them kept in touch with the others on, oh, I guess about yearly visits, and occasional phone calls. We, their children, knew our second cousins, or as some would say, first cousins-once removed, and that there were the third cousins, or second depending on how you called the first category, none of which matters at all. But it did matter that we did not grow up together and so we knew each others families primarily through the eyes of our mothers. I rather like the surprise of unique wonderful “kinfolk” found later in life; like discovering a hidden present years after it was supposed to have been placed under a Christmas tree.

The names of our four elderly cousins were typical southern double names. I love to remember how Mama said them and it was always with a great fondness that she did so. First, Hilda Mae, whose lovely home we visited that day was the daughter of my favorite great-aunt, Aunt Treva. Next, Fannie Sue, the only daughter of a great-uncle, (Uncle Dow who was about ten feet tall in my childhood memory) was the eldest of the cousins, and is still living and active today. Next, Johnny Bell, the Texas cousin, short and stout with a large personality so matter-of-fact, that it made me smile just to be around her as I  never knew what she was going to say next. I grew to love her from Mama’s tales of Johnny Bell’s life story. And the youngest, at 77 years old that year, was Betty Lou, my Mama. As it happened, each of them had one daughter accompanying them on the day of the photograph. So, Barbara, Betty Ann, Paula and Patricia witnessed a sweet reunion, a house blend if you will, of four wild violets, nearing the end of long and strong lives.

Wild violets are one of the most fascinating pop-up plants of the Spring. They look so tender, almost fragile, but are so tough you can mow them, pull them, plant over them, or just enjoy them, and they survive and thrive! And summer weather doesn’t chase them away either! I thought how fitting that Hilda Mae used them to decorate on the day of her lunch. Typical of the way her generation used their resources, it was too early in the spring to have cultivated blooms to bring in, so she had dug up wild violets and planted in small dishes. She placed one on each card table, so thoughtfully set up in the ground level room as she knew Mama would not be able to climb the couple of steps into the kitchen. These women were not just any common variety, nor are the violets just any old garden weed. Beauty, stamina, endurance blended just right to give a lasting impression and enrich the lives they touched, might be said of the violets, but especially of each lady there that day. I felt more blessed to be in their presence that day than I can ever express. Knowing how hard parts of their lives had been, and seeing the way they each turned situations to bless others’ lives is so humbling.

I recall thinking how nice that the violets were purple, my mother’s favorite color to wear. At their ages, the cousins had seen better days as far as physical appearances go, and so they wore things they loved to look at; thus they wore the countenances of love, friendship, humility, and life accomplishments that gave them a glow unmatched by any Revlon or L’Oreal. Of course, just as wild violets can certainly be out shown by fabulous hydrangea, roses, and such, these women would be the first to admit they did not strive for worldly beauty, and the cares of life did take their toll. Bent shoulders, time lined faces, sun toughened skin, drawn eyes and mouths that smiled all the more sweetly, all told a story of hard work and pain. The shaking hands and weakened limbs seemed to clasp and hold onto each other with a constitution young muscles could never match. Still these marks of time were hardly noticed as the radiance of their joy at seeing and being with one another outshone it all.

These girls had all given birth, and given up family to death; collectively they’d taught school, worked in offices, harvested orchards, milked cows, raised crops and kids; they fed preachers and multitudes of family and friends with the best cooking I’ve ever tasted;they led 4-H, Girl Scouts, Sunday School classes; suffered heartbreaking divorce, and some widowed at much too young an age; they gardened to feed their families and for beauty of home and community; they mowed, weeded, wiped a billion tears and runny noses; spanked and scolded, sang to and soothed, prayed and praised, and met each new day with the resolution that was as Paul said “whatever state I am in, therewith to be content”. (Phil.4:11) They had grandparents in common, my maternal grandmother’s parents. I feel I can get a glimpse of what my great grandparents were like when I look into the basic structure of those Wild Violets. I see strong roots, long-suffering blooms, people who found joy in everyday life and counted their blessings, and who loved family in spite of differences and imperfections. I see tender hearts in tough working bodies, and persistent faith in the Creator.

I left Hilda Mae’s house that day with tears in my eyes for I knew Mama would never physically be with her beloved cousins again. About three months later as she lay in her last day on this earth, two of these sweet violets came to visit her in the hospital, and their names were the last names my mother ever spoke. As they walked into the room, she looked up, and with a sudden spurt of excitement she exclaimed, “Why! Fannie Sue and Hilda May!”. She smiled weakly, but with great satisfaction. Our cousins sat for a while and visited with me and we spoke fondly of our last visit early that Spring. At the ages of 89 and 87 those precious ladies were still out doing good for others, carrying out the work of their Father. How beautiful the feet of those who go! As grateful as I was then for their visit, that gratitude has grown even more over time, that God brought one of His sweetest bouquets in to Mama on her last day. And then Mama’s visit was over.

A short time before that day in the hospital, I wrote the following poem for those four cousins. After finally recovering the poem on an older flash drive, I am surprised how similar it is to this new post I was inspired to write five years later. My inspiration was from this spring’s plentiful wild violets.

 A LITTLE GET-TOGETHER

Hilda Mae, Fannie Sue, Johnnie Bell and Betty Lou, All came together as kinfolk often do.

The privilege of presence is mine this day, As I am driving Betty Lou their way.

Cousins in the winter season of life, The same grandparents taught values through time,

Here on a gray mid-April day, With sunny hearts in the home of Hilda Mae.

Being forgetful, with no camera in hand, I’m taking snapshots with words where I stand.

The first picture I see at the door eagerly waiting, Are smiles and waves, our arrival anticipating.

Next I see deep purple of wild violet blooms, Taken in from her lawn, to cheer the room.

These remind me of Fannie Sue’s wide tender smile, Cheering and warming us all the while.

Here’s a picture of pure Southern hospitality: Hilda’s warm chicken casserole and cold iced tea.

Green beans, lima beans, potatoes and a roll, A dreamy fruit salad made with good old Jello.

Food for the body and food for the soul, With pictures, laughter, and memories of long ago.

We girls are here as the daughters, in part; But also as cousins and love in our hearts,

Due to the images and stories in mind, That our mothers have lovingly passed down over time.

We, dining in the kitchen and our moms in the sunroom, Serves to remind that one generation becomes another quite soon.

I want so much to hold onto this time, To seal these images secure in my mind.

I see ladies whose lives to love and work yield, In school rooms, offices, homes and fields.

Their work worn hands, now soft to touch, Have cuddled and spanked, taken in and given much!

The lines in their faces are beautiful strokes, Placed by the artist who best knows these folks.

Every line a story in their volumes of life, Tales of their roles as mothers, daughters, and wives.

I see a likeness of my Grandma – just a trace- In the round blue eyes of Johnnie Bell’s face.

Hilda shares pictures of trees that were torn, Damage left by a recent ice storm. And I can’t help thinking of these oak-strong women now looking too, a bit battle worn.

My own mother’s trembling hands and failing voice, Tell me the time is nearing – and we have no choice –

When the gathering of these people on a day like this one, In person will likely not again be done.

But the spirits of these ladies will live on forever, and for us today will be forgotten never.

I know the Master has a get-together planned, Where these good women and their mothers join hands; they’ll feast on love, will know as they are known, And rejoice in their journey that takes them home.

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Heavy to Bear: The Story of an Old Church Pew

18 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by in Faith, Life, Reflections, Uncategorized

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In our garage sits a new occupant, temporarily there; another project awaiting good intentions and a bit of loving care. Given to us by my daddy a year and a half ago, all we had to do was drive down, load it up and haul it home. It’s an old bench, a pew from the church of daddy’s youth, one left after the building was gone, the members too few. Would we like to have it, was his question one day, and we figured, sure, we could use it somewhere, some way. Going to get the pew was a thought from time to time but it wasn’t something we’d put to plan and so it slipped my mind. This morning was a rare time with us both available and so, when the thought of that pew on our porch popped to mind, I said “Lets just go”. Now Dad had warned us that we’d be needing help, but of strong body and stubborn mind, we headed off to do it ourselves.

We all know that in the days of little convenience and less demand, things were made stronger, heavier, investing more time, and often by hand. Did I mention HEAVIER? as in solid wood; 12 feet long, 2 feet wide, and waist-high the old girl stood. Partly dragging and partly lifting, taking two steps and then a stop, we maneuvered her onto the trailer, eased her down on her back, and strapped across the top. My mind filled with questions I’d like to ask that pew, and my husband even expressed that he had a question or two. Did I ever sit on that very same seat, visiting with Aunt Kathryne which was always a treat. Did my grandmother sit there, or my cousin Jan with her friends; how many times did she hear an ‘amen’. How many sweethearts’ vows were heard, and who came to obedience from that very seat at hearing the Word?  How many burdens were dropped right there as heavy hearts listened to a righteous man’s prayer? The weight of the pew itself lent to me, the thought that burdens are expected, when gifts are free. We are told we must each bear our own cross, as the Savior did first, and paid a great cost for the gift He gave of eternal life, passing to each of us the will to live and love with true sacrifice.

“And he bearing His cross went forth into a place called the place of a skull, which is called in the Hebrew, Golgotha; where they crucified Him, …” (John 19:17-18)

And so, after a thought-filled ride back home, we unloaded the heavy burden, set her upright with a groan; there I saw four little reminders of the lives she had seen – objects fallen from the songbook racks on the back of the seat. Two small soft white ponytail bands, a penny and a red pencil trimmed down to two inches I held in my hand. How fitting I thought, that for all that time, the pew had held tokens of childhood like a sign. As the Christ had spoken centuries ago “Allow the little children to come unto me and forbid them not for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 19:14)  The penny as well, so fitting, because religion is not about how much we have, but how much we are giving. That little red pencil was still sharp, but the eraser had hardened over time, and spoke to me of talents and then age came to mind. Although time does take its toll, there are many talents yet to use, love to give, miles to go. Unable to erase, if you’ll pardon the pun, the marks of time and the deeds that were done, that pencil stayed sharp,ready for command, to do whatever directed by some master’s hand.

And at the end of the day, it came to me how neat that we’d thought about going to get that church pew a few days before Easter. At a time when much of the world will be focused on the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, and the gift of eternal life He gave us, we brought home another free gift. I’ve heard it said that with freedom comes responsibility. Likewise, with freedom from the burden of carrying our own sins, comes the responsibility of obedience to the One who made it so. These words of Christ after the resurrection are recorded in Matthew: “Go therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit; teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” (Matthew 28: 19-20) The pew from my dad carried with it the burden of moving it, and later that of cleaning and painting perhaps, but also was a gift of love, memories, and a great place to sit and ponder all the treasures from our heavenly Father. So, heavy is subject to interpretation it seems, as it is all relative; some burdens we bear for the joys that they bring.

“Ought not Christ to have suffered these things, and to enter into His glory?” Luke 24:26   “And the angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not for I know that you seek Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; for He is risen, as He said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.” Matthew 28:5-6

In my faith, we celebrate the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ every first day of the week. I enjoy however, seeing so much more of the world taking time this week to remember the burden He bore for us, and acknowledging His great love. Happy Easter. Hey, do they make coffee flavored easter eggs? Yum.

My Coffeetable

01 Saturday Mar 2014

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It is Saturday, and without kids still at home, I have the privilege of time. Time to sit quietly with my coffee and whatever comes to mind – or just sit, mindlessly. It’s cold outside, warm in here, and suddenly the warmth of my old solid maple coffee table takes command of my thoughts. I realize how she sets the tone in our living room, grounding it, as the hub of it. She seems to have spokes that point back to the past; to the present as it holds today’s periodicals, mail, projects, and just stuff; and pointing as well toward the future with her solid structure saying, ” I’m here for you as long as you need me”. And I BEGIN TO REMEMBER….So, with the way I’m wired, I start to see symbolism, and spiritual applications in the everyday things, and feel that certain writer’s compelling need to share.

First, I’ll try to show you our coffee table. It is a golden brown solid maple, put together with pegs; it has two drop leaves and is round until the leaves are dropped when it becomes a rectangle with curved ends. There are six legs, also solid and rounded with a simple round foot on each. Two of the legs slide outward forming the base for the leaves when they are up. A shallow drawer on each end has the early American brass plate with a handle that softly cla-clanks against the plate when the drawer is opened. One drawer has held various art supplies since my adult children were very small, and the table was then in my mother’s living room. Children love this table; probably because it is down on their level, a little stage for whatever they want to play. They are drawn to it, and I know this because it has been in our family since long before I had children. When I hear the cla-clank of the handle, I know the magical drawer of creative possibilities has been opened; and that watchful eyes need to be present, to watch for markers destined for the sofa or walls, and to praise the fine artwork of young hands. AND I REMEMBER, “Allow the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 19:14. I wish I could reach every pair of little hands that have played around this table and impress upon them how very important they are and how the Lord God loves them.

Another feature of my coffee table is that it has no apron nor surround about the edge. I am able to stretch my legs out and use it for an ottoman. Oh yes! we do put our feet on the coffee table! We can easily reach over from the couch, and slide a coffee cup or a dish onto and off of the table edge without even raising up. I had one of those little mahogany colored lightweights with the table top dropped inside a skirted edge for a short while and it was not user friendly. It went back to the yard sale world. So as I sit here now with my feet upon the table that I love so much, I REMEMBER, “Come to me all you who labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest” said Jesus in Matthew 11:28. How many tiring days have ended with my feet propped upon that table, and my petitions and praise offered to the Lord!

The most important feature I want you to see, is what time has put on it. Many marks of time are in the form of scratches, cracks, dings and color variations. Oh what a flood of memories these hold! The memories go back as far as 1970 when my mother was introduced to furniture stripping. She and her good friend found this coffee table at an auction, thought it had good bones, and she brought it home. The old green paint was stripped off and they found a beautiful maple table beneath. That reminds me how Mama was always good at drawing the good out of people also. She didn’t judge a book by its cover, or a table by its paint, but looked deeply for the good. As each grandchild was born he or she grew to enjoy playing at Granny’s coffee table. My daughter kept “office supplies” in one drawer and played for hours and hours there. She posted office names on every door in her Granny’s house, and the coffee table was her headquarters. My son put several dings in the wood with a little toy pistol and sent many herds of animals running across the broad brown surface. He took sled and sleigh ornaments off the tree and pulled them all over the coffee table. My sister’s children next, and then our brother’s children, all making their own form of fun at Granny’s table, until she charitably handed it down to me when we had none. AND I REMEMBER, “give, and it will be given to you; good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap.” Luke 6:38. And she passed from here with a full heart, a full house, so much given, so much received! I see now where this was going – it’s not about a table, or the coffee, nor the nicks and dings. It’s about the traces we leave behind.

Now Mother’s great-grands play at Aunt Trisha’s coffee table. One very dear little boy, a friend’s son who calls me Aunt held onto that table every time they came, until he could walk. Like my son, and nephews, he operated tractors, and matchbox cars over the fields of my coffee table. The great nieces and children of friends have made master pieces on this table with the crayons and markers, construction paper and coloring books I keep in the one drawer. Candles and walkie-talkies for finding our way before cell phones, are kept in the other one. The table has endured among other things, a 10 month storage where it suffered mildew I had to remove; being faded on one end by a sunny window; being kicked by three different ones of us wearing orthopedic boots; sports the scratches of a high speed chase by my daughter’s dog across the table; and has worn snow scene displays and candles dripping through many holiday seasons. Babies have drooled on it, banged toys on it, and learned to walk holding to it. We eat, drink, and laugh around it. Homework, hobbies, and games have found it a great place to land. My favorite occupants for now, includes a stack of magazines, a basket from Guyana, the Bible, and my coffee cup. Each time I clean it, I relish the marks of loved ones and what they’ve left behind. “In everything give thanks.”

I set down my coffee cup, now unconcerned with the possibility of leaving a smudge, and run my hand along the smooth surface, remembering, lovingly, those who’ve gathered round and used this coffee table. Some who are no longer coming and going here in our house, but whose marks are here – beautiful memories – nicked, dinged, kicked, scratched and marked in time. I’m pretty sure that circle on this end of the table was put there by me; it fits my coffee mug perfectly.

A Bitter Cup

16 Thursday Jan 2014

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January 16, 2014

Happy Birthday to my sister.

Change. Change can have such a bitter taste. Like that cheap coffee in the hospital waiting rooms, or a gas station’s left-from-yesterday-coffee, there’s a bitter aftertaste. More for some than for others. For me, change has never been very welcome; partially because it requires energy – more energy than I want to use. When things stay the same, there is no moving mentally, emotionally, nor physically to accommodate it. At the age of 60, I readily recognize that change is a necessary part of life; and in fact it can accommodate, facilitate, recreate, and do all those other modern moves that keep up with life for us. Without change in my own daily life, I won’t be ready for the changes outside my inner circle. But sometimes, just sometimes, it is not good. Admit it modern world, not all the changes have been for our good. I don’t wish to be a negative person. On the contrary, I am very positive when I say that I like something, and I like it to stay as it is. I look at several situations in a way that one may accuse me of being negative, when all the time, I am being positive about the opposite of what will be, if changed. See? So what has my apple cart teetering? Note that I did not say ‘turned over’, just teetering. Who has moved my cheese this time (to quote a well-known book title written by Spencer Johnson and Kenneth Blanchard) and why was my lip quivering?

My little sister said as we returned from her birthday lunch, “I need to tell you something”; and she said it very gravely. It caused a wave through my stomach and several scenarios to blow through my mind – was her marriage ok? was a child or grandchild in trouble? was one of my kids about to throw me for a loop? was , was, was… Well, I guess she knew how to manage my expectations so that the real issue wouldn’t be so shocking. The news is that they are going to sell their house, about a mile from us, and move to the city life. Convenience, in general, is the reasoning. But I like having them near me. I like, no I adore, her very large shady, peaceful backyard and all its gorgeous landscaping. That’s been my sister’s house for too many years for me to imagine her anywhere else. Where will I borrow a cup of sugar, or where will I drop by for a dip in the pool; where will I run in to give the kids a hug and a batch of cookies? Oh wait a minute, town is where I work. It’s where our dad lives; where we go to church; and it’s only seven or eight miles from here. Oh, ok, some change is good. But I had to sweeten that bitter cup of coffee, and pour in some cream. I actually handled it pretty well. I took her hand and said, “Change is part of life – we both have learned that! Of course it hurts me to think of you moving, but thank Goodness, you aren’t telling me you’re packing it all off to Florida or some such far off place!!” We laughed, and I look forward to helping her select things for a new house someday. And I’m reminded that God has worked on me a great deal about this change thing. Several years ago, my brother-in-law tried to talk her into this move, but she wasn’t going for it, and I bawled and squawled when she told me he wanted to move. Since then, I’ve been through more difficult transitions, changes, dreams on the edge of dissolving, and with each one God has refined me, chiseled out little receptacles, whereby I can accept and live more in harmony with change. We all have those unique traits that need tweaking in order to survive – mine was change acceptance. True, God still has much work to do on me, but I am better able to help Him with this one. Now I am able to see the positive side. I am thankful for all the years I have had my sister and her family right in my back door, to borrow and lend, to cry, to rejoice, to be a part of her family. How many can say that? And it is exciting to think of their building a new home, of the convenience that it will bring for her trying times, and that she will still be so near. As I write, I realize that I am using the relocation issue as a bucket to hold all the tremendous changes that have occurred in her family’s life, and the lack of it other than aging, in my own. These are not things easily written, nor spoken, and so it was good to have an avenue by which I could harp a bit on the subject of change. All we need to take away from this is in Ephesians 2:10: ” For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.” HIS workmanship, not my own. If not for change, how could He make me better?! His knowledge of me is what will sustain me throughout life’s changes. So, since change is always here, ugly or not, to be dealt with, I call on the Lord to equip me that I may in turn be a comfort to another who may not be dealing well with their particular changing times. “Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my anxieties”, Psalm 139:23. How wonderful that God has given me so much time and circumstance to become a “changed person”, in order that I may accept the bigger changes of aging, and such. “Oh Lord you have searched me and known me. You know my sitting down and my rising up; You understand my thought afar off. You comprehend my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. …Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain it.” Psalm 139: 1-3 and  vs 6. Wow. It even blew the great king David’s mind. Some things never change.