The Drop-Leaf Table: Part 2 of “Old Tables and Old Times”

28 Monday Apr 2025

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Chess and Gertie Wilkins

By 1968, my maternal grandparents were pretty much set in their ways. Grandma still drank her coffee with a piece of biscuit dropped in it and sipped it from the saucer. Grandpa still shaved at the breakfast table, and shared a little coffee-milk with me. They liked things that were, like themselves, dependable, substantial, even durable – things like his old felt hat and a good iron skillet. A stout little wooden container for pipe tobacco for him, and rose colored rouge for her, were about as frivolous as they ventured. Oh, I do recall Grandma fitting into a nice girdle with the help of her two daughters, but maybe it was a necessity; I won’t call that one.

From my earliest memories, even before the 1968 photo, there was always the small, dark, drop-leaf table you see between my grandparents. In the living room where they had family Christmas gatherings, there was usually a fresh-cut cedar tree in the corner where two large picture windows came together. But as they aged, Grandpa and Grandma used the little table to hold a less conspicuous Christmas tree. I’m sure this was solely for the enjoyment of the grandchildren, as their only pleasure in life was, by then, just being there for their family, as much as they could.

When I was small, and I mean small enough to play under that table, I enjoyed feeling like I was in my own room, with the leaves, or sides, of the table dropped, partially enclosing me from the rest of the room. Betsy McCall paper dolls cut from the McCalls Magazine my grandma saved for me, were lined up along the baseboard, as I played the time away. I remember Grandpa sitting nearby, never interfering with my play. Just there, with me.

As Grandpa grew older, he sat for longer periods of time in a rocker in the den. Grandma spent more time in the kitchen, as good cooks do, and where the den television was in sight. But I’ll always remember him best in those picture windows, at the end of that long, scarcely furnished living room. Inexpensive furniture – a couch, the 60’s trio of two end-tables and a small coffee table, a couple of chairs, and that wonderful table – barely filled a room of hardwood floors and beige walls. A built-in, but fake, fireplace with a modest mantle completed it, and was the only decorative part of the room. Even the table I loved was plain.

I think I always knew this drop-leaf table was from Grandpa’s family, but until my adult years, I didn’t realize it was made by his father. The table had stayed with my mother who displayed it in her own living room. It, like my grandparents, is substantial, quietly fitting in with any decor, solid and dependable. It was knowing my great grandfather made it, and the memories of playing under it, that made me ask if I might own it after Mama.

I like knowing some things never change – things like a mother’s love, the taste of good coffee, the smell of pipe tobacco and a real Christmas tree, the look and feel of solid wood – old wood. My table has no carvings other than a minimal turning near the bottom of the legs. I have searched underneath for any sign of dating, and I’ve concluded it was possibly salvaged from some other pieces of good substantial furniture, or perhaps doors. The supports for the leaves are primitively made, being cut from the center of both side skirts, and swivel to support each leaf as they are needed. The finish is just as it always was, too dark to identify the kind of tree sacrificed for the life of the table. I doubt I ever refinish the plain little drop-leaf table. Many good times lie under that finish.

Not surprisingly, the table is like the ancestors who left it. Substantial, modest, and sensible in form and function, Grandpa was our rock, and Grandma our cushion, for so many sessions of life-building trials. They loved God, and did their best to follow Him. They wanted to be as unchangeable and dependable as the God they loved and served. Life is about change for the most part; I am just so thankful some things – especially God – never change.

Speaking of change, (although I wasn’t really speaking of change), but now that I think of it, the development date stamped on the fading photo is June, 1969. Pictures were snapped back then without knowing for months whether or not you got a good shot, or even if the film would develop at all. Many important events and times weren’t written about, and forgotten, because the people who were living those times either didn’t think it was important, or they had faith that photographs would last a lot longer than they do. Thanks be to God that He provided a written record, His Word, of our grand inheritance and His unchangeable nature.

So when God desired to show more convincingly to the heirs of the promise the unchangeable character of his purpose, he guaranteed it with an oath, (Hebrews 6:17) ESV.

I’d still like to hear more about your tables. I enjoyed the pictures Linda Pugh sent of her great-great-grandfather, two very old and beautiful side tables, and an unusual chair that I believe is from the days of worshipping in folding chairs. Next coffee break blog, I plan to reminisce about the coffee table in my husband’s office/John Deere room/den. It’s had a heap of living around it. Until then, have a great week!

It’s The Little Things

21 Monday Apr 2025

Posted by in MONDAY MUSINGS, The unexpected

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Standing cross-armed beside the small hummingbird feeder, I watched my Yorkie walk through the grass to do what little doggies do. Suddenly a faint buzzing blew past me and the owner of it hovered at the feeder. Not even an arm’s-length away, a ruby-throated male hummingbird began stabbing the plastic blossoms, drinking the nectar inside, and holding me captive – and captivated. It probably lasted no more than a minute, but it was a nice long southern minute, and I enjoyed it immensely. As they say, “it’s the little things”.

Inside an old weathered wooden bluebird box, are five little helpless baby bluebirds. I watched the parent birds build their neat little nest; then I soon counted one, two, three, four, and then five beautiful little aqua blue eggs, one egg per day. Fifteen days later, I raised the door to look inside, finding five scrawny fuzzy little heads barely bobbing about. Since then, I’ve looked inside to find tiny beaks wide open, awaiting the anticipated meals delivered so faithfully by the parents. They are too near fledging time for me to look inside now, for fear of causing premature fledging; but I feel pretty sure we will see an empty nest soon, and the world will be blessed with five little beauties looking for their place in the wild. I cannot keep myself from sending up a little prayer for their safety. It’s the little things, you know.

My husband has been on a frenzied mission lately. With an old badminton racket in hand – sometimes a battery-powered insect swatter – he is determined to get the carpenter bees before they riddle the framework of his outdoor buildings. Sitting on the front porch where the little buggers have tunneled through my swing, he is totally distracted from all else by these little things. I hope he wins. I like my swing. Little things – some good, some not so good.

It is only the end of April and I am about to start thinking all is not well with springtime. Just before a rain, during the rain, and after the rainfall, a trail of misery finds its way into the kitchen. By way of the minuscule crack where woodwork meets the wall, or under the baseboards, the tiny black crawling invasion makes its way onto any surface attached to the floor. The dog dishes are the first to be attacked; next, the countertop becomes their goal. Ant traps, spray cans, and constant cleaning seem to occupy way too much of our time. It is, sometimes, the little things that bother us most.

We enjoyed a lovely Easter weekend. I kept thinking of the big things – our daughter and son being near enough to spend the time with us; the table full of food and the ability to prepare it; the big-beyond-words sacrifice God made in allowing His perfect son Jesus to be the atonement for our sins; and ultimately, the enormous and wonderful morning of resurrection, making eternal life possible for all. “He is not here; for He is risen, as He said. Come, see the pace where the Lord lay” (Matthew 28:6) NKJV. For all this, I am truly thankful. The big things genuinely are amazing. But what I found myself commenting on most, was the beautiful weather – a seemingly little thing. Rain had been forecast for the weekend; what we got was sunshine and a good breeze. Something unexpected – even something small – can be such a pleasure that we just can’t stop mentioning it. I guess it’s the little things that keep us pacified and occupied, while the big things – the strong important things – hold us up and carry us through. Could be, we are all just a bunch of little kids, being pacified and occupied; and God looked lovingly at us, and said, “It’s the little things that count.”

Have a great week! Watch for the fascinating little things.

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Old Tables and Old Times

30 Sunday Mar 2025

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Seated in the sunroom, at an old library table, I pull my hand along the worn bare boards, oak I think, that form the top of this substantive table. It is its own distinct personality, unlike common styles of furniture in today’s homes. I long to know the story it owns. I bought it from my mother’s estate auction; she inherited it, along with some other belongings left to partially furnish my grandparents’ house, when it was rented out after their passing. As a child, I knew the table was there to provide a study table for the twin bedroom, as we called it. The room contained a pair of mahogany twin beds with pink chenille bedspreads, a beautiful old bureau, and this one old library table; surely there were a couple of chairs that I can’t remember. This room, while my grandparents were living in the house, became housing for college boys as it was less than two blocks from campus. Can you imagine a time when one could allow strangers to come and go through your front door, share the one bathroom, and sleep in the next bedroom! It was a good time in many ways, those 1960’s.

Grandpa, or maybe someone before he came to have the table, had glued linoleum flooring on top — no, it wasn’t even pretty linoleum. The legs, and a shelf that runs the length of the table just about shin-high, are still painted with a dull espresso color, worn and scratched terribly. I pulled off the linoleum, and — though ashamed to admit it — used a pressure washer to help remove the black glue. As it dried outdoors, the sun pulled the boards apart slightly. As you can imagine, it is a pretty rough-looking sight. Why do I keep it, you may be asking yourself. I wish I had an answer worthy of your asking. There is something within the grain of the wood that asks me to understand; to accept it as it is, even though I do not know its whole story. (Maybe we all feel a little like that?) I like the old table because it is something of my grandpa’s. Although, knowing how frugal he was, Grandpa likely found the table at a bargain, and its actual worth, even today, can’t be much. Knowing that the damage it has already suffered prevents it from being one of those “nice old pieces of furniture”, I still feel compelled to leave it as is, other than the linoleum of course. There is a carving in the end pieces between the legs; this is the only thing that keeps me from calling it a primitive work of furniture. Is it a bit of folk art?

If you have any ideas about this carving, or old library tables in general, please share in the comments.

Like the old table, I am quite worse for the wear in appearance. And, like the dear old thing, there is a story — my life’s story — same in basic shape and function as all who are born to their mommas, but different in detail; just as there were probably a score of other tables built like this one and shipped out in the same shape and function, but definitely different in the details of its life story. Don’t we all want to be seen for what lies beneath the surface? Under the wrinkles and age spots, under the flattened arches and flabby abs, and under the thinning gray hair, is a head that still thinks, and feels, and knows its own story. We want to be understood for our worth, not our wear. This old table is worth something to me because my grandpa saw a value in it for his purpose — actually for the college boys’ purpose, but who’s keeping score? It matters to me because someone I cherished bought it, or at the very least, cared enough about it to haul it home. That, for sure; plus I just have a foolish love for old unique furniture.

Feeling the oak boards once again, smoothed by the years of my arms and computer and books, and whatever else one puts on a sunroom table, I begin to understand why I still have it. Or, like Grandpa, maybe I’m too cheap to buy a real desk when I already have a substantive one — one of practical importance to me.

There is a table in my dining room, a prettier, albeit more primitive one, which I plan to talk about in my next coffee break. If you have an interesting item of furniture with a story behind it, please share with us here at the coffee break. Until then, remember, we are all given our worth by the greatest love ever to walk this earth. “Knowing that you were not redeemed with corruptible things,…but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot” (I Peter 1:18-19) NKJV.

What A Friend I’ve Lost

09 Sunday Feb 2025

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The quote is from ” C.S. Lewis’ Little book of Wisdom”.

On February 9, 2024, I jotted in a journal, “I visited with Dana, took Apple Crisp. Her MRI report doesn’t sound good”. The visit was following several episodes of illness, visits in and out of hospitals for her, and they were beginning to hone in on the culprit of her suffering. The apple dessert was made with apples she had picked and shared from her backyard and I had canned them. She shared first. All the time.

It wasn’t supposed to be this post. I am supposed to be planning a celebration of cancer remission with the many friends who have prayed for her, visited with her, and hoped with her. But she had lived long enough and served in the field of nursing long enough to know there are no absolutes or guarantees in life. Other than the one she voiced several times: “God is my strength”. On the sunny morning of February 23, I received a text from Dana saying malignant cells were found in her liver. It was not to grieve, but to ask for prayer, and to keep me from having to hear from anyone else what she knew would not be easy to hear. I cried a lot. On the 28th she was home, waiting for a plan; as always, optimistic. As February turned into March, information for plan of care was not as good as she had hoped. Supper, flowers, prayers, encouraging words all seemed so little; so very very little in effort to make the news feel better. A roller coaster ride was to be her life with talk of transplant, then no; surgery, then no; port and biopsies; finally a Vanderbilt team and a chemo plan. Dana was so relieved to finally have a plan. Two Fridays in to Nashville and one Friday home; wash, rinse, repeat.

Throughout the following months we swapped plants, plant pictures and conversed about plants. It was our favorite of the many things we had in common. Time for me passed in the mundane ordinary stuff of life; never take that for granted. NEVER take it for granted. The beautiful ordinary uneventful day to day life that Dana would have loved to be doing, was put on hold. But she kept being the beautiful thoughtful friend she always was.

With each new test/image/plan of care, Dana Lynn Bazzell looked it in the eye, chin up and walked straight forward bravely to meet her foe. I never heard nor saw a moment of wanting pity. In fact she worked to keep the conversations about everything else. And there were a lot of everything else’s to keep us busy because she just loved life. Plants, people, animals, cooking, nursing career memories, nurse assessment of her lab values, and what to eat when we reached our destination, were some of the topics. As many others know, Dana herself made the trips to cancer treatments an adventure, not a job to get done. She just didn’t see how allowing her friends to drive her to treatments, blessed us. She couldn’t stop saying thank you. On June 21, my last time to get to take her to Nashville, she took cookies to my daughter, and gifted me samples of my favorite perfume. I will always think of Dana when I smell J’adore L’Or. It is a beautiful soft gardenia-type fragrance; like her friendship. Gardenia’s were one of her specialties. I hate so much that my knee replacement bumped me out of the travel posse.

I want to say how much I hate cancer. It is a thief, an evil, like sin, straight from the devil himself. Since the fall of mankind there have been sufferings to endure and battles to fight. Dana would be the first to tell us Jesus died to defeat sin and death. Sometimes a cancer cannot be defeated in life, and requires a life to be given to stop it. Dana defeated her cancer February 7, 2025. I lost a friend who encouraged me, taught me how to be a better friend; how to save and transplant seedlings; how to share life. And I’m heartbroken that I didn’t get to keep her.

In one of her last texts, January 29, she said she just needed sleep. Rest now my friend. We will miss you Dana Lynn Harrison Bazzell.

Out With the Old, In With the New

02 Thursday Jan 2025

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Saturday, 12/28/24

Empty stockings, bulging refrigerator. Dog toys and dust all over the floor. Silent Saturday, children have gone home. Instructions to read for the new gifts we own. Stacks of laundry, and weight growing too, we lied we wouldn’t eat for a day or two. A few strings and dust scattered under the tree; lights off, old and new ornaments smiling at me. Moments of “what happened to the time”, blend with new plans for new year to unwind. New candles to light, burned ones to store. In a week 2024 is no more.

Happy New Year, dear reader. January 2, 2025     

What a joyful surprise today! An unexpected visit from our previous neighbors who moved ‘up north’ a couple summers ago. The Opferman family, Michael, Karen, Joey, Tim and Megan were the sweetest neighbors ever and I miss them so much. This visit was the crowning touch to my holiday season! As the new year approached,  I’d had such varied thoughts flying around in my head.

Like new years and old; laughter, tears and being bold; hope and disappointments and blessings untold; fear and faith, sadness and joy and the world we face. All swirling and trying to make sense of each other as they occupy the same space. Focus, I need to focus!

Like a wind among autumn leaves as they mount upward around and around trying to reach the top of their swirling funnel, so have been my thoughts and until today I could not plant myself at the keyboard to focus on one new year’s message. Now I know it – no, it is not ‘may all your dreams come true’; nor is it ‘may you prosper in all you do’; nor is it any resolution for myself. (I am reminded each new year of my previous new year’s resolution some 20 or more years ago, which was to never make another new years resolution. I have kept it quite well.). Although, I’d be happy for you if all your dreams came true. But then what would there be left for you to hope? Oh, and I will celebrate every prosperous season of your life, but perhaps you need to continue striving in some things, to grow stronger in faith, in confidence, and have a reason to hope. 

My message this year, brought by today’s surprise visit is this – may each day hold some joy for you; one or many, small or big, a joy that you may be able to hope and work with a purpose. My joy is knowing Jesus loves me unconditionally, and wants me to succeed in every worthy endeavor. It makes working a joy. It makes hope against this world a joy. This joy brings new chances after failures. This joy offers new journeys for closed doors, and forgiveness for regrets. It is a win/win deal; His strength for my weakness; His wisdom for my lack of it; to know at the end of any failed effort or any rejection of good intentions, if I can say I did my best when the day is done, there is joy. Joy in peace, in knowing God continues with us, bringing joy in big and small ways and finishing the things we’ve begun. He lights new candles for us as He sees the need. Last evening I stepped outside to see an amazing sunset of fiery red and orange behind the thousands of dark bare tree branches reaching upward out of the woods into a navy blue sky. There was the slightest sliver of moon and above it was the ‘star light star bright, first star I see tonight’. Now THAT’S a candle! Shivering in the cold I felt joy in knowing that I know the creator of all this! Pure joy.

A few highlights among many personal joys for me in 2024: our son bought his first house; sweet friends Nan and Tonya beat cancer; another dear friend Dana has courageously beat obstacles in her journey toward healing; my brave mission leader and friend Beth had a successful first surgery before upcoming ones; my husband asked for a new bible for Christmas; and my husband is finally really and truly for sure and certain, retired from farming.

May each day hold for you at least one joy. Happy New Year! Trisha

“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing. If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him.” James 1: 2-5 NKJV

Big Sisters, and other November Saturday Things

07 Saturday Dec 2024

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12/7/24 November Saturday mornings flew by as we enjoyed great-nephew ballgames, birthdays, shopping, and of course the fun weekend our kids are here for Thanksgiving. Preparations for Thanksgiving dinner at our table took time, but SO rewarding as I looked at each beautiful face around our tables; remembered loved ones who used to be here; and counted our blessings poured on so generously, in the life of Jesus Christ. While we missed those who couldn’t be here due to illness, or the natural course of family growth as it should be, I was reminded of the ‘Big Sister’ thoughts I wrote November 15 this year and didn’t get around to blogging it. I miss blogging when I let busy stuff and ailments interfere. Before I get into that, allow me to say how much my sister helped me this year.

While my four-month-old knee was not yet agreeable with kitchen duty, I was determined to get the family dinner done well (this year was my turn) but when it had been enjoyed, and we were enjoying one another’s company, my legs and feet were done as well! My sweet sister used her off duty year to jump in and start cleaning up the dishes, and never once complained that her big sister was too stubborn to use paper plates and plastic cups. Enough said.

11/15/24. For all the Chloes and Saras and Emilys and Kathys and Lindas out there, no matter what your name, Big Sisters: (lengthy, from the heart, and sobbing as I wrote)

I know a young lady who lost her little brother about a dozen years ago, and I think about her a lot. I’ve known others who did too – lost a younger brother or sister and learned to hop a one-legged race when they’d been used to a 3-legged race. Remember when you were kids? The weekdays of all our formative years were spent with peers, in class and extra activities. Weekends were sibling days. Maybe that’s why I especially think of siblings on Saturdays. Not long ago my sister and I lost our own little brother, all grown up and “old” to some folks’ way of thinking. But to big sisters they’re never old. We aren’t supposed to lose them.

Sympathy flows for all members of a family who’ve had a loss. My heart has broken for the parents who buried their babies. There’s no need to tell their stories; the lines on their faces and their quiet demeanor speak for themselves and we can’t begin to know their truest feelings. But today’s blog is especially for the Big Sisters.

As the older sister, “Sis” has some experience in grieving too. She hurts for her parents or other surviving family. She hurts at the toys no longer shared; basketball, and blocks, crayons and cars. And bird houses. Big sister is expected to accept the sympathy of outsiders, when she doesn’t even know herself how to voice her feelings.

I can only try to imagine how a big brother would feel. Often a man isn’t expected to break down no matter if he is four or forty. But he must feel a form of responsibility to fill Mom and Dad’s expectations for their children; to fill a void in their hearts which of course, is a shoe nobody can fill. My heart hurts for them too.

So, as an older sibling, I can say from a sister’s point of view, we also feel compelled to be there. Be there for close family members of Little Brother, no matter his age. We want to cure the ills he would have wanted to cure; to fix what he would fix. My sister and I will probably always ask ourselves what could we have done more. But since I haven’t lived in the future of answers, and we can’t live backwards, I don’t know the answer. I only can say, I understand sisters. I get it; when you want someone else to share your memories, or make new ones. When you want your excitement under the Christmas tree to be shared with one more like you. I know how you want someone to join you, or argue you out of, being mad at daddy. I know how your arms ache for a tug of war, or an arm wrestle, or a hug. I know what it’s like to want to cook their favorite dish, but no one else really cares that much for stuffed green peppers, or whatever yours loved. When a sound hits your ears and you recall how little brother fussed about it, you want it to sound louder so you might also hear him fussing. Or her. Little brothers aren’t the only ones who leave us. It can be a younger sister too, and I know these same things go for you, big sisters of younger sisters. I know also how thankful I am to have my younger sis.

A sibling’s passing is a loss with its own identity – often not well understood; probably because we really hate to make Mom and Dad cry more. Or maybe big sis or brother just hasn’t learned how to voice it. Like I said, it’s something like a one-legged race. Something shared is missing. Perhaps one crippling emotion is guilt. Do I feel guilty that my life was easier or longer? Yes and no. It ins’t a true guilt, girls, just something we have no other name for; a gut-felt sorrow that he or she doesn’t get to see you grow old. Things like that. There’s another face to this surviving sibling thing, and it is in some cases, relief they will not suffer further; although it is only a thin cloak of comfort.

Perhaps as a big sister, you were given charge of his care at times, and this becomes a heavy crusty shell we wear when we can no longer make stabbing efforts at helping our charge out of trouble. I still struggle with this. Big Sisters, you are not the parent. I repeat, not the parent. Do not hold onto that shell. Break through it and count, like blessings, the wonder you felt at his birth; at his handsome face; his witty humor; his teaching you to drive a straight shift; any and all good things you shared. You are equals – equally loved and appreciated, whether passed or survived.

It’s okay, in fact desired, by all who love you, that you go on living a beautiful life; one Little Brother would have wanted you to. This is important – you have a right to your own feelings of loss whether or not any are mentioned here. Your loss is unique because your sibling was. No matter how old or young the two of you were when parted, you still lost someone who shared your life uniquely. Whether you are angry, sad, or relieved for them, you are no longer able to tell them about it. But God can. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve pleaded with God to tell my Mama, or my brother, or dad, something so important to me for them to know. Something that my heart craves to tell them. After praying, I feel a genuine calm for the crave, and I know God will let them know what they need to hear. God is always the answer to our crave. Just look into His word. You will be certain to find crave-filling messages, and so much more. He knows our grief and our good, our hurts and our healing, when we trust and turn it over to Him.

I pray God’s richest blessings on all the big sisters and brothers, and little sisters and brothers who will spend the holiday season without that One, and every other season, too. Let’s be grateful for every good day spent with him. We are allowed to forget the ugly days if there ever were any. I try to remember there are some who never had the joy of being a sibling. Yes, there is much for which we can say, “Thank You Lord”!

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)

Homecoming: When Good Things ‘Hit Home’

20 Sunday Oct 2024

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Saturday, October 19, 2024 When I picture ‘homecoming’ I think of autumn leaves, parades and people. You probably think of football games, fraternity/sorority reunions and corsages; the usual image. What we both have in common here, is people. Often, it occurs to me at the end of the day, how much of the day has a common theme. One thing leads to another and soon it makes a circle.

From the time I walked the golden leaf-strewn Ninth Street to our third grade class, and throughout the years’ homecoming parades at the very same vantage point, I have expected to see autumn leaves falling for homecoming. In fact, the rustle of leaves is as much a part of the parade as the drums and sirens. People of all ages line up to watch, laughing and waving and scampering through leaves to gather up candy thrown from the parade floats and vehicles. I missed all that this year. Several reasons contributed to my not being there, but the weather was not one! One of the most amazing autumn days ever, has graced our hometown with sunshine, breezes and the high temp of 72 degrees. Perfect homecoming weather! Remembering the years we have watched the parade while shivering in our mittens, or bumping umbrellas and tracking wet leaves into the car, it hit home how much I was missing today; along with missing my daughter who missed coming home due to Covid. She cares too much about us to risk bringing illness home.

My homecoming experience this year was a bit different for me. It has been sixty years since our Murray State University School of Nursing began. It was the Department of Nursing when I attended, and has grown to become a prestigious school in its own right. Thanks to a dear friend who asked me to go, we attended an informal brunch in Mason Hall this morning. A brand new building for the School of Nursing is in the making, so this is likely the last time I will get to be in the halls of what was my home away from home for three years, over three decades ago. As I stood there, looking at the familiar plaques, graduating class pictures, classrooms and such, it came home to me how fortunate I was to have an excellent school so near home; one where I received the education I needed to begin a meaningful satisfying career, albeit my second career. By that time, I had two children in school and my husband and I were self-employed in farming. Embarking on a new career as a non-traditional student was scary, but exciting. Talking to a few of my favorite instructors today, it again hit home, how supportive and encouraging these professionals were in helping develop new nurses. They not only provided education in knowledge, but also demonstrated a focus on the value of human life; professionalism. I know beyond a doubt I was blessed with the best.

At the brunch, I was privileged to see several whom I’d known as co-workers, or in some other capacity as we all strove to carry on the tradition of building competence and character in not only future nurses, but in each other as well. I felt fortunate to be in the company of such caring professionals. That, too, actually came home to me, as I met a former patient in attendance today. She told me how important I am to her, and even though my place in her life was a tiny spot, it was a very meaningful spot. Beside her stood her lovely daughter, the baby I was able, in some small way, to help bring into the world. This baby grew up and has become a healthcare professional herself, and was able to say she has heard her mom speak of me fondly. She knew her mom had been cared for by a team who gave their best. That; that is what we as nurses hope to do; to help the time our patients are with us, to be good for them. A state of wellness, whether it started out badly, or great, (as in expecting to take home a new baby), can always be made better. Today’s homecoming activity certainly helped my state of wellness to be better, if only in the good memories. But to be reminded of how we can pass on the caring attitudes of others from one season of life, into later seasons to care for still others, really hit home for me today.

I’ll rustle through some leaves soon just to enjoy a Murray autumn. But for today, I enjoyed rustling through fond memories, and being reminded how fortunate we are when someone cares enough to help us through some tough times, or help us build our future. As for the friend who asked me to go today, she was my clinical director for 17 years. Both retired now, we continue a friendship I treasure, and before I knew her, she knew my dad who drove her daughter’s group of cheerleaders in his little yellow bus, gaining the respect and love of her family. Isn’t it funny how the past comes home!

As Birthdays Go

11 Sunday Aug 2024

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“Then God saw everything that He had made, and indeed it was very good. So the evening and the morning were the sixth day.” Genesis 1:31 (NKJV)

My apology to any who may have tried to open the link I published yesterday. I was trying to copy and paste from my iPhone Pages, onto my WordPress site. Obviously, it didn’t work and I wasn’t given the opportunity to view before it published. This isn’t about some big birthday bash, nor any deep introspection; just a reminder to not overlook the blessing of another year. So, here is what I was attempting to share.

Birthday #71 – which sounds ridiculous – it is the age of my parents, right? No. Afraid not. The speed at which time travels would be depressing if not for the friends and family celebrating ‘your day’, (whether or not the birthday girl wanted to celebrate). Gifts and cards are so sweet and thoughtful. Time taken to call or text is much appreciated. Visits, almost unheard of these days, really strike the heart. But no matter how many or how few help you celebrate another birthday, you celebrate you! Me? I used the good towels; sure did! Let your people love on you, say thank you, and enjoy the pause on the time travel train. All too soon we hop back on and do our part to keep it going.

My daddy would have called the day before my birthday, saying, “well, Trish, we’re about to turn another year older aren’t we?” As I’ve said before, we shared our birthday. I miss that call. My Mama would have asked if I would like a roast and a chocolate pie made for my birthday meal. And it would’ve been perfect. In the natural track of time, those trains reached their destinations. Someday my train will too. I hope all those left traveling will know beyond a doubt they are loved, and that they have loved and celebrated me bigger than I ever could have dreamed; more than I deserve. Take a moment on your day to celebrate you. God only made one of you and all He has done is good.

The gift of exceptionally beautiful weather; time spent with my family listening to the birds while sipping our coffee; a great cozy meal at Rudy’s with my family while laughing at my sense of hearing; were all priceless. And of course, the good towels. Do not spare the frills. Life is just too short to skip the cream!

Glory

03 Wednesday Jul 2024

Posted by in Life, Through my window

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“For the earth will be filled With the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, As the waters cover the sea.”
‭‭Habakkuk‬ ‭2‬:‭14‬ ‭NKJV

Awaking on a muggy July 3 it is already hot at 6:30 am. My dog and I make a short trek down toward the boat dock. A bum knee forces me back to the safety of my sister’s lake house. The view out the window says its a beautiful morning in spite of the heat and humidity. And in fact, it is.

Kentucky Lake

Life has its hot moments, for sure; life feels like a heavy wet blanket when troubles loom large. Backing away or retreating for a moment into the Word of the Lord refreshes and brings the big picture into perspective. God is still God; good and gracious. In the midst of troubles, He provides a rest and brings us out into a clear day. The heat will pass. The word of God endures forever.

Bless the name of the Lord. His glory covers the earth.