Category: conversation

On the Beach at Mui Wo

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On the beach at Mui Wo the sea spills back and forth creating the ancient rhythm that both soothes a soul and, yet, causes one to dream of seeing the other side of the world.

An elderly man quietly works on his upturned fishing boat, cigarette smouldering as it hangs from his lips. The smoke slowly rises and wafts about his head, causing him to squint, narrow eyed, at his work.

An old transistor radio plays the atonal, to western ears, music so popular with older people here. The music is occasionally interrupted with newscasts wherein the announcer sells the news with the same enthusiasm and patter familiar in used car advertising.

On the beach at Mui Wo, two women. in hats that resemble upturned fruit baskets, slowly work their way down the beach. As they rake the sand and clean up the rubbish from yesterdays visitors, the shush of the rakes serve as a counterpoint to the sea and music. Their chatter, in high pitched Cantonese, is echoed in the descant of bird song.

Three dogs, strays or domesticated – one can never knows – gambol along. First in the sea noses to the wind, then, on the shore, noses to the ground. They stop and dig with unabashed joy, only to abandon that pursuit to scramble under the rocks, and when that bores them, they flop in a heap of bones and hair in the nearest shady spot to nap. On the beach at Mui Wo.

On the beach at Mui Wo, a mother with her child tip-toes to the edge of the sea. Both delight and fear echo in the child’s eyes. She tries to decide whether to touch the sea or run away. Her trill of laughter fills the air, and, for a moment, everyone smiles.

Two umbrellas sprout from the sand. Blankets are spread and tan bodies lie down to catch the morning sun. Coolers of drinks, sandwiches soggy from melting ice, and a tall cold drink appear. Sunglasses, a book, and all comforts of home are scattered around, on the beach at Mui Wo.

Three old ladies practice Tai Chi facing the sun. Ancient wisdom on their faces is reflected in the slow and graceful movements of their bodies.

On the beach at Mui Wo, the world seems old. Yet, there is a never ending connection with tomorrow as the sea spills back and forth on to the shore, on the beach at Mui Wo.

Inspirational Women

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In my lifetime there have been many women who have inspired me to be a better person. It is difficult to choose one above the others, so I want to share with you, instead, several women who have inspired me.
When I was a little girl, my great grandmother, Sylvia Underwood Vandenburg, set the example of what a mother, grandmother, and great grandmother should be. She inspired me through her unrelenting work to feed, clothe, and educate her family. Grannie raised four children of her own, then raise six grandchildren in her home, when their parents abandoned them, while other grandchildren came and went on an as needed basis. She then raise three great grandchildren when her grandson divorced and needed someone to help take care of his kids while he worked.
Grannie was the finest example for sacrifice and service I have ever known. Her garden provided food for her family, neighbors, and anyone in need of food. She cooked for an army of people every day and lunch at Grannies was an event that stood until a week before she died. Because we are a farm family, lunch was the biggest meal of the day. It didn’t matter if we dropped in at the last minute, or if we brought along friends, Grannie always had enough food, and would just smile and “add another potato to the pot,” to make sure the meal stretched for everyone.
Her garden also provided flowers for everyone from new brides to the old and infirm. Her fingers sewed an unending supply of dresses, shirts, quilts, and dishtowels for all of her progeny and our friends. To have a quilt made by Grannie Vandenburg was the best wedding present any girl in the family could have. And when each of us had our first baby, and sometimes third or fourth, as long as she could see to do it, she made us a baby quilt. Those are held as sacred heirlooms by all of us.
Grannie was a small, quiet, homely, uneducated woman who was widowed at the early age of 50. Her life was hard, especially by today’s standards, but she was a tower of strength when it came to protecting her family. She always had the right advice, loving hug, or swat on the bottom for all of us children. She was wise, caring, possessed a wicked sense of humor, and she was one of the most spiritual women I’ve every known. All my life I have wanted to be just like her. To me, Grannie was exactly what a real woman was supposed to be. She could hoe a cotton field, do all the weekly wash, work in her garden, provide three meals a day, and still have time to sit quietly listening to a child struggle to learn to read at the end of a long day of work. Today, when I am sad or feeling lonely, the aromas of vanilla cookies and talcum powder bring back the feeling of unconditional love and security Grannie gave to all of “little ‘uns.”
When I was 26 I joined the church. In the small branch I attended in Harrison, Arkansas, there was a group of women who taught me what being a member was all about. Andrea Lewis, Mary Tasto, Marlene Lovelady, Ruby Essex, Eydie May Abell, and Candy Lovelady set the example for a very new and insecure sister over the six years I lived in Harrison, Arkansas. Each of them taught me in their own way. The older women, Andrea, Mary, and Marlene, who were each old enough to be my mother, gave me an ideal perspective on how to serve, teach, pray, and do visiting teaching. Mary taught me that the church was a place I could laugh, as well as shed tears and that I was too serious about every aspect of the gospel – something sacred didn’t mean something to fear. Andrea taught me that visiting teaching was much more than a lesson and a quick chat as we served together. She and her husband, Joe, were the couple I wanted Hal and I to learn to be like the most. I learned so much about service from Marlene, and those lessons still stand as my litmus test for how well I am doing. Ruby is the most spiritual of women whose calm devotion and knowledge in the gospel and in her testimony helped me to build on the basic knowledge I had as a new member. All of them are what I call prime examples, and it is my opinion that those four women are, in fact and deed, the best of the daughters of God.
The two younger women, Eydie Mae and Candy, were my first two friends in the church. For six years we raised our kids together, served together, struggled with our testimonies together, and built a friendship that still stands today. We were known for our silly antics, like the time they kidnapped me on my 30th birthday and took me to a big surprise party. We were known for being the terrible trio, because we were always up to something. We served in numerous callings together and shared every aspect of our lives.
In those years of learning and becoming a stalwart member of the church, they taught me to believe in myself, to laugh loud and long in joy, and to weep tears of sorrow without shame or embarrassment. Eydie Mae took the complex doctrines of the church and helped me see that the gospel is really quite simple, we make it hard. Candy taught me about dedication and strength. The two of them became my sisters in such a deep and meaningful way that no matter what happens, I will always stand by them.

Today they both live in Florida, and I live in Hong Kong. I miss them very much on days when I am feeling alone. But, all I have to do is wander in to my memory and find something that brings me joy, a laugh, or a comforting thought. I miss the wonderful small branch in Harrison. It is, and always will be, my home ward. The women there still set an example for me. And I will always yearn for those days when I could sit among them and feel the divine love and spirituality that makes them all so unique.

Finally, the women on the Sister’s List stand out as the most amazing women I’ve ever known. I admire their knowledge, spiritual joy, and ability to join together in the best Relief Society every created. When I am down, or angry, or hurt, or frightened, or worried, I just send an email. Within minutes, or at most, hours, I am sent words of comfort, peace, understanding, and usually a laugh or two. They even get indignant and angry on my behalf, and we all solve the world’s problems regularly, with laughter, and most of all, with compassion. I have learned the power of prayer from them, the importance of sisterhood and the ability to communicate and share our knowledge of the gospel principles. I have learned strength, and I have learned that no matter how hard things are, together we can overcome even the most horrific of worldly things. The awesome power of women who work together to accomplish miracles is proven daily by the women on the Sister’s List.
I am eternally grateful that the Lord has provided us with computers and the Internet. I am grateful that I couldn’t sleep one night and surfed into the LDSCN site all those years ago. I am grateful that my testimony has grown in leaps and bounds by the profound example of the testimonies of the sisters I have come to love even though I have never met them in person, or even heard their voices. I look forward, one day, to traveling to meet them. But if that doesn’t happen, I know I can look forward to meeting them on the other side. I know I will know them, all I have to do is look for a bunch of women who are laughing, and talking all at once.
I am so blessed.

Changes

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I was thinking about Grandmother today. She is in her late nineties.  Nearly one hundred years old. I started listing, in my head, the changes in the world in her life time. She was born, raised, and has lived all her life right here in Oklahoma. When she was a girl, there were no highways, no cars for the farmers and ranchers, no electricity in every home, no indoor plumbing, and no telephones. Laundry was done in vats of water heated over an open fire in the yard, and hung to dry on fences and bushes.  Bread wasn’t made in a bread maker or picked up at the grocery, it was homemade, sweets were a luxury, and the most common form of transportation was one’s feet.
Grandmother has seen the coming of air flight, men walk on the moon, and space exploration. The modern age of medicine that can keep a person alive, almost indefinitely, began in her lifetime.  Today, there are cures for disease that used to wipe out whole generations, and that cure is one dose of medication. Today, there are diseases that were unknown in her days as a mother that can devastate and devour children and adults, and we still have no cure for them.  But, maybe, when we are nearly one hundred years old, there will be.
She had never heard of computers, modems, the internet, or Microsoft, and still thinks computers are toys that just beep and make noise.  Grandmother never played with a Gameboy, skateboard, or had a dolly that talked, drank a bottle, and had to have its nappy changed.  She was doing the work of a full grown woman at the age of 14, not talking on the phone and wondering when her parents were going to understand her.  She was much too busy, cooking, cleaning, working the farm, and looking after her family to worry about such mundane things.  It wasn’t because her parents were mean, it was because everyone had to work together, and work hard, to survive from year to year.
She watched the oil boom and bust here in Oklahoma again and again.  She saw the slow pace of the world around her become faster each generation, until it seemed to spin by so quickly it made her dizzy.  In her day, courting was done on a Friday night, or Sunday afternoon after church, in front of the entire family, and a kiss was a commitment.  Movies were not common, and when they finally came to her town, it was an EVENT to go to a movie.  Smoking was something men did, and if a woman smoked, well, she was fast. After the cultural changes that took place in World War II, grandmother still thought women who smoked were fast, but she learned to adjust like everyone else.  She saw women move from the home to the workplace, first as they needed to support families torn by war, then as the feminist movement dictated.
She once told me that she understood why so many women wanted to work outside the home, after all, the house practically takes care of itself.  Look at all the modern appliances now.  Vacuum cleaners, no more need to move and beat rugs every week; refrigerators, no need to have ice delivered or bottle foods and put them in the cellar; washing machines, no need to spend the day bent over a scrub board and washtub.  Chemicals that clean and scrub all by themselves, air conditioning, and heating that doesn’t require the chopping, hauling, and use of wood to warm the house.  Frozen foods and microwave ovens means that a meal can be prepared in minutes instead of hours. With that much time on their hands, women were bound to want to go to work.
In her life time, she has lived through two world wars, Korea, Viet Nam, and Desert Storm, plus many other warlike crises that involved the United States.  She has seen the advent of equal rights, feminism in its modern form, women in the workforce, commonality of divorce, welfare replace charity organizations, the move from an agro-economic based state to an oil/industrial based state, and cycle of  birth, life, and death repeated over and over.
There are four GENERATIONS of family living who are all directly related to Grandmother.  Each on has gone through the trials of its particular age.  Grandmother gave birth to three boys.  One became a lawyer, one a doctor, one a businessman.  None of them stayed on the farm, and when Grandfather retired, they moved to town too.   Her husband served in World War I, all of her boys served in World War II, and her grandchildren in other serious actions.  Her boys were in the first generation to be in the mobile age, cars became common, and life started to move faster.
Her grandchildren were in the midst of the “revolution” of the turbulent 60’s and 70’s where cultural, social, and family standards were obliterated and rebuilt into something most of us are still trying to figure out.  Her grandchildren were the first to shout about “rights” and experiment with sex, drugs and rock and roll openly.
It is her great grandchildren’s generation who saw the advent of gender issues, openness of alternative lifestyles, lifestyles, by the way, that grandmother still whispers about in vague euphemisms because they embarrass her mightily. Her great grandchildren have taken the word “alternative” and turned it into a an icon for whatever they want to do since there doesn’t seem to be a particular pattern to follow any longer.
Her great great granddaughter is just four years old, but already understands how to use a telephone, computer, and all about money.  She knows the microwave will heat things, and the refrigerator will keep things cold.  She knows more about television and how it works than Grandmother ever will.  She knows more about the world at four than Grandmother did at twenty, or even thirty, because she has been on a jet plane to England, she has gone across the United States in a car, and visited the great monuments to the past. Her world is even more complex than that of the previous generation, and one can only suppose what will come in the future.
Grandmother won’t be with us much longer.  She is a tiny, withdrawn, elderly body that sleeps most of the time.  She needs twenty four hour care, and she will probably never remember my name again.  She deserves her rest, and our deepest respect.  Grandmother has become an icon, a symbol, of all that glued this motley crew together as a family.  She is the last of her generation, the beginning fabric of all of us who live and when she dies, we will begin, slowly, to unravel into separate groups, until all who knew her are gone as well.
It is our progeny, then, who will remember us as we remember her. We will be the old folks who were so odd with their love beads, pot, and wine.  The old folks who wore funny clothes, used archaic communication devices like telephones that plugged in, and the internet.  We will be the ones that our progeny look back on with affection, and, hopefully, respect.  Like Grandmother, we will weave the fabric from whence our family grows.  Will we, like Grandmother’s family, slowly fray and unravel?  Probably, but that is the beauty of it all, because each succeeding generation gets to weave a new pattern based on the history and colours of the last generations. By adding a bit here and a bit therefrom the past, and new colours and patterns from their lives, the fabric lives on and on.  Sure the stitches and weave are different, but the threads of life are all tied together and become stronger as each generation grows.  That’s what family is all about. Grandmother would approve.

The Colours of Our World

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The Colours of Our World
She painted the sky purple and the grass red. The flowers were streaks of pink on black; the house was crooked and orange with bright green swirls of smoke coming from the slanted chimney. The sun was a bright yellow circle with a smiling face painted in it, and the stick figures were dancing around the fanciful garden.
When the teacher bent to tell her that the grass should be green, the sky blue, and that the sun didn’t really have a face, the little girl looked at her and said, “Why not?” Being a grownup who believed in remaining firmly planted in reality, the teacher sputtered, “Because! That is how it really is!”
The little girl smiled winsomely at her teacher, and with all the wisdom of a five year old said, “Only if your old,” and happily applied another coat of purple to her sky. As she freely expressed her delight in the colours of her world, the little girl was teaching a lesson that would do all of us “grownups” good.
Sure, we all know reality. We are familiar with every shade of grass and sky. We have all the facts, figures, and knowledge accumulated through our lives. We are experts. In lock step, we move along our tunnel vision lives leaving behind the images of imagination to focus on the business of life. We base our very lives in the context of what is real. Or is it?
When was the last time you danced for the sheer joy of it? When was the last time you sang in the shower, or ate Jell-O out of the bowl straight from the refrigerator? When was the last time you took time to feel the texture of your favourite old sweater with your fingertips while your eyes were closed? When was the last time you caught rain drops on your tongue, or splashed in a mud puddle, or allowed yourself to be soaked to the skin in a sudden rain storm? How long ago was it that you last marched along humming a rousing rendition of a patriotic song? When did you stop seeing the magic in your life?
When we stop dreaming, when we stop seeing purple skies and red grass, when we stop yearning for magic in our lives – and finding it – when we forget that reality is what we make it, then we have forgotten the colours of our world.

Karron Combs
30 July, 2002

The Emu Rodeo

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A few days ago, I went outside to get some tomatoes from my garden and noticed something moving around in our supposedly empty pasture. When it got closer, I realized it was an Emu. You know, one of those huge birds that look something like an ostrich. “Well!,” I thought, “where in the heck did that thing come from.”He was about six feet tall, very mean looking, and seemed determined that he lived here.

After some thought on what to do, I called the Lincoln County sheriff’s office to see if anyone had reported a missing emu  After the sheriff had stopped laughing at me, (and that took a long time) he said that he hadn’t had any reports, but that he would put up a notice in case anyone did call in. Then I called the man who leases the pasture and asked him if the emu was his. Mr. Buroughs, who already thinks I’m a few cards short of a full deck, was polite, (but I just knew he was trying not to laugh too,) said the emu wasn’t his either. So I called the post office and told Carla,*the postmistress, that if anyone mentioned a missing emu, I had their bird in my pasture Now Carla, deals with everyone in this town I live in, and we have a few real inbred types wandering about in these here woods, but she even laughed at me and asked if I had taken my medication that day. However, she posted the notice for me.

I then sent an e-mail to my husband informing him what was in the pasture. He called me right a way to ask if I had taken too much medication, and said he wasn’t too sure if he believed me. I was beginning to wonder about myself, except every time I looked outside, there he was, a six foot tall bird, with beady black eyes and long feathers. So, I determined I was either entering the “Harvey” syndrome, there was really a bird out in the pasture, or I had gotten hold of some really strange medication.

I was relieved to know that it was the second option. Our neighbors had just purchased a breeding pair of emus and the male had jumped the fence and wandered over to our place. I was so glad to know I’m neither unhinged nor over medicated. However, it became evident that an emu rodeo would be necessary to retrieve the stray bird.

About eleven-thirty the next morning, three pickups pulled in to my drive. Six guys unloaded two four wheelers and a dirt bike. After the prerequisite howdy-do’s, they told me they were here to round up, as Tiny Woods put it, “That thar big ole rooster whut done jumped on your property.” It actually took a moment to register that he was talking about the emu. Then, there commenced a rodeo I will never forget.

First, being men, they didn’t think beyond their toys, and that the noise of the four wheelers and the dirt bike was going to be rather distressing to that huge bird. Second, it is not a good idea to upset something six feet tall that runs up to 40 miles an hour and kicks like a horse. The guys loaded up and took off across the pasture and split into three trails, two cutting right and one left. I guess they were planning on getting around behind the bird and running him into the corral to load him into the truck. Right. I climbed up on top of the pickup and wished I had a video camera, this was going to get good!

That old emu looked up and saw three loud vehicles roaring at him with five big, hairy, whooping men on them and took off at a dead run right for the trees. One four wheeler cut around to the back of the stand of trees and ran right into the deepest gully on the place. All I could see was a plume of dirt, and bits of metal flying off the machine. I got an earful of inventive cursing, screams of surprise, and loud crashing sounds.

Meanwhile, the dirt bike ran right through the trees following the emu as he headed due south. I lost sight of them when they disappeared in the direction of the creek. The second four wheeler decided to cut behind the trees in the opposite direction of the first. Things got real quiet for a few minutes except for the distant sounds of the engines Suddenly, the emu came crashing out of the woods headed due north at a dead run. Out in the open he picked up speed, heading right for us. Tiny Woods, who is about six feet seven inches and weighs in at around 350 pounds, jumped into the bed of the truck like he was a skinny kid just as the emu took a long jump and went sailing over the back of the truck. Tiny got kicked right in the chest and fell off the truck on his large posterior. I fell flat on my face on top of the truck and ducked in case the bird came back for revenge. About then the guys on the wrecked four wheeler got it back on its wheels and came tearing after the emu, and the other two vehicles came out of the woods throwing up grass and dirt. Predictable, the guys were getting more inventive in their language by the second.

The bird cut around behind the barn and headed for the second stand of trees behind the loafing shed. Tiny jumped in the truck, as I slid down into the back, and took off – nearly throwing me out on my backside. He went around by the house to cut off the bird while the other three vehicles went through the woods, but that old bird was on to them, and he went running back around the barn heading for the pond. Tiny just about tore the transmission out of the truck turning it around, and the dirt bike rider took a header over the handle bars when he ran right into the creek bed.

One of the guys on a four wheeler strung out a lariat and commenced to whirl it around his head like he was going to rope the emu. Just about the time he let the rope go, the bird jumped over the end of the pond and took off for the back of the pasture again. The driver of the four wheeler couldn’t stop and went right into the water, kept on going, and came out the other side of the pond, then headed after the bird. The dirt biker got back on his bike and took off to the back too. The second four wheeler was going down the fence line behind the trees, as if he were going to be able to sneak up on the darned bird make that much noise with an engine. Tiny slammed on the brakes at the top of the hill and I climbed back on top of the truck to see better. Before the bird got back to the woods, he turned and ran straight back toward where he’d been at the barn.

Split into three trails, all three vehicles came roaring after the bird. Tiny jumped out of the truck and ran to open the corral gate. Even thought the bird ran right into the corral, he just kept right on going and jumped over the back fence like it was a foot high instead of nearly five feet. Tiny looked so funny standing there with the gate closed and a stupid look on his face, with the bird long gone toward the front of the pasture that I lost it and started laughing. I got so tickled that I feel off the top of the truck and ended up on the ground. About that time all three vehicles went tearing past us headed to the house.  Both passengers on the four wheelers were getting ready to throw lariats, and the language was even more inventive. Geez, I wish I could curse like that when I got mad instead of crying saying the same old words over and over.

The emu was now in the woods headed for the dump at a good clip. Tiny and I jumped in the truck and we went flying around the end of the woods and by the house. The bird passed us going the other way. I was laughing so hard I was incoherent and Tiny was cussing and roaring at the guys on the vehicles as if they could hear him over all the noise. As Tiny cut a donut in the pasture, all three drivers passed us and went roaring over the dips (washed out places where water runs off into the pond). One passenger on the four wheeler went flying off the back when the driver hit a particularly bad dip, and he was almost run over by the dirt biker. The other four wheeler went round to cut the bird off, heading it back toward the truck. The guy on the ground took one look at that big bird running straight for him and dove right into the pond, lariat, boots and all. The emu just missed landing on him when he jumped into the pond too.  There was a mad scramble and lots of splashing and muffled cussing as they both tried to to get away from each other as fast as possible. Just as the bird ran out the other side of the pond, the other roper managed to get a lariat around the bird’s head, and the fight was on!. That was one ticked off bird and he tried to bite, kick, and stomp that poor cowboy to death.

I had never seen a roper try to run away and hang on at the same time. By now I was beyond mere laughter, I was cackling and trying not to wet my knickers. Tiny was mad because every time he told me to hush (only not so nicely) I would look at him and fall apart laughing harder. That poor roper was yelling for someone to rope that darned bird’s feet so he could get him down, but the other roper had lost his lariat in the pond and was fishing around for in the mud at the bottom. Meanwhile, the bird took off again, dragging the roper with him (why that boy didn’t let go is beyond me), and the roper got the ride of his life. I am willing to bet he had never run so fast before. That boy’d be up, then down on his bum, then running alongside, then being dragged along behind. That bird tried to scrape him off on the side of trees, drown him in the pond (resulting in the other roper having to run for it again), slam him against the barn and drag him through the corral fence – face first. Around and around the barn and pond that bird went with the roper hanging on for dear life, and the vehicles making worse because the drivers were trying to keep the bird from heading for open pasture.

Finally, the other roper got his lariat out of the pond and managed to get along side the emu and rope his legs. All three went down in a tangle of feathers, boots, ropes, and dust. After a bit of insane activity, they managed to hog tie the bird’s feet and wings so he couldn’t stand or flog them. But the first roper didn’t manage to get out of the way fast enough and that old bird bit him right on the bum. I had managed to get my laughter under control, but that caused me to lose it again and I simply sat on the ground next to the truck and howled with laughter, All six guys, cussing and yelling at each other had to pick up the bird (after they tied his beak shut) and put him in the truck. No one thought it was funny but me, no sense of humor these inbred types, none at all.

I offered them something to drink, and was politely refused. But, as they drove out of the drive way, that bird must have gotten his beak loose, because I heard outraged cussing followed by a meaty smack from one man to another and the words, “I thought I told you to tie that *&%##@ bird’s mouth shut!” I sat on the porch and laughed until I had to go in and use the bathroom or really wet my knickers. Heavens, it was funny! Only in Oklahoma would there be an emu rodeo where the bird darn near go the best of six men, four vehicles, and two lariats.

*names have been changed to protect myself.  I don’t think that those involved would appreciate being the object of humor.

Childhood Memory

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When I was a little girl, my sister, Carla, and I spent one year with my grandparents in Atoka County, Oklahoma. My grandparents still lived in the house they had built with their own hands when they got married. It was a two-room cabin with a lean to on the back for a kitchen. There was no running water, no indoor toilet, and the electricity hook ups would never have passed any inspection if they had bothered to come have a look. In the front room, where my grandparents also slept, was wood burning stove, a double bed with an old cast iron headboard, a dresser, and a small table on which the bulbous brown radio with the huge dial sat. My favourite piece of furniture in the whole house was the wooden rocking chair with the rope seat. All of the grandchildren would fight over sitting in that chair, until Granddad would look up from what ever he was working and say, in his quiet but firm voice, “Here now, y’all stop that fussin’.”

 I remember it was cold that winter, but we went off to school at Harmony School every morning on the big yellow school bus. Every day Grannie would get us up and we would dash from the cold North Bedroom into the front room to stand by the stove as we raced to get our clothes on before we froze to death. I was in first grade, and scared to death of making a mistake. Mrs. Graham was the teacher for grades one through three – all in the same room. She was at the school her entire career as a teacher, and still remembered us up until she died a few years ago. I think she remembered every student who ever walked into her classroom. She was the kind of teacher that I would desire to be if I taught children. I can still remember her looking over her glasses at me, smiling and saying, “Of course you can learn this word, it isn’t too hard to read.” And learn it I did because Mrs. Graham never accepted less than one’s best efforts.

 When school got out for the summer, Carla and I had to go to work with our grandparents. Grannie worked at a laundry that did washing for hotels and restaurants as well as regular folks. I remember the huge whiter than white sheets hanging on the seemingly endless clotheslines, the heat of the clothes press and the steam billowing up as the sheets and tablecloths were ironed every day. The laundry stood in an old building that seemed to be half tin and half falling down bricks. It smelled of starch, steam, water, and freshly aired cloth. The women chattered, laughed, shouted, and aimed an occasional swat at one of the multitude of little kids running around during the summer.

 Granddad worked at a garage as a mechanic. I love the smell of the place. I still get nostalgic when I step into an old fashioned garage that smells of grease and oil. Every morning the new tire smell battled with the odour of fresh brewed coffee strong enough to melt a spoon. I used to play in the office in an old wooden chair. If I did things just right I could get it to spin in great circles while rolling across the floor. In the afternoon, when it got hot and sticky, I could climb up into the cab of Granddad’s pickup and have a nap. He would always wake me up around three with a cold Nehi Grape Soda to refresh me.

 At lunch every day, without fail, Granddad and I would go pick up Grannie and Carla, and the four of us would stop at the little gas station near the Railroad Bridge to buy lunchmeat, bread, and drinks from their deli. Then we would drive out of town and find a place to stop on a dirt road to have our lunch. Granddad would park under a shade tree, near a creek if he could find one, and we would all climb into the back of the truck to have lunch. Nothing tastes better than a pickle loaf sandwich and a cold soda pop on a hot summer day. The memory of those afternoons seems to be imprinted on my heart. All of my senses were involved in those hours. The smell of dry dusty roads, the feel of the soft breeze, the whirr of grasshoppers in the tall weeds, birds squabbling in the trees, and the taste of ice cold soda pop on a parched tongue. All were brought together in a kolidascope of colours to satisfy even the most discerning artistic eyes. If Granddad was in a good mood, Carla and I would be allowed to sit in the back of the truck until we got to the highway. I know, now, that we didn’t go very fast, but it seemed to us we were flying down the road throwing up huge clouds of dust behind us.

 I rarely go back to Atoka County, it just isn’t the way I remember it. My grandfather passed away and Grannie moved to town. It is where my parent’s “people” are from, and I suppose it is really the only home I’ve ever really known as I’ve lived all over the world since then. But, always in my heart stands the memory of those cold winter days, boiling summer nights, and simple times.

Little Girl, Little Girl

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Little girl little girl where have you gone?

Yesterday you were a laughing child twinkling eyes filled with laughter, and tumbling curls, flowing after.

In a dress of Pink and white, flowers all around. Baby dolls and little bikes, falling on the ground. Tears, and scrapes, band aids and drinks. Hugs and kisses, our hearts linked.

Little girl, growing up fast, with your girlfriends running past. Trying lipstick, high heels and dresses. Fixing hair, and polishing nails all attitude and tossing tresses.

France

One day the little girl was all gone, and there you stood. A woman grown all on your own. Eyes all aglow, in love with life.

Some times though I see, in your smile and twinkling eyes, that little girl with tumbled curls whose laughter filled the skies

Little girl little girl, where have I gone? “No where, look in your heart Where memories go on, and love never dies. There, your little girl lies.”

Re-Evaluating

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I was reading a blog by Sarah A. Hoyt (Yes, the SF writer) that made me stop and think about how we all have to stop and take a look at where we are in life on a regular basis. http://accordingtohoyt.com/2012/08/02/im-not-that-guy

This is the response I posted on her blog.

I think many of us of a certain age go through that whole process you wrote about, no matter what career they chose and what kind of “fame” it creates – or not. We reach the point of self evaluation through many avenues, but at some point, unless very shallow or so lost in depression etc., it tends to happen.

I think it comes in stages throughout life. In our teens, we grow up and have to decide what the next step will be. In our 20’s we are striving to learn a multitude of talents to reach the step we decided on, often changing course and objectives along the way. In our 30’s we are generally in a long term relationship and having our children. Another big step for most of us because having kids is a very scary thing.

Then we hit 40. Oh boy, 40 . . . how the heck did that happen? It’s OK, because by then we have settled into house, home, career, relationship, and it is a good time to either cruise through the next ten years or re-evaluate our choices and decisions. Most of us re-evaluate, and either stay where we are because we are happy with our choices, or we panic and decide on a mid-life crises (women too), or, many of us realize that life is passing by fast, and we are no where near where we want to be in life.

I’m pushing 60 now. And looking back, I can honestly say I did the mid-life crises thing by going off to England to complete my doctorate. Life stepped in, however, and at the loss of our eldest son, we became parents to his one year old daughter. I had to re-evaluate big time at this juncture in my life.
So, at the age of 41, I was a new mom, and just to make things crazier, my husband and I decided to work our way around the world. We moved back to England, on to Hong Kong, and finally to New Zealand before coming home to the US nearly eight years later. It was worth it, every moment.

Now my granddaughter is 18, going to college, in a long term relationship, and expecting her first child. Holy CATS! I am going to be a great grandmother at the age of 58. Time to re-evaluate again.

Same time every year.

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My son, always the adventurer, poet, free spirit.
My son, always the adventurer, poet, free spirit.

Every year the black days roll around. They drag me down into a bog of depression, sucking me under, dragging me into the lair of darkness, designed to suffocate every nuance of joy, drown every moment of peace. You would think after nearly 13 years, it wouldn’t be so difficult, and that I would be able to cope better than I do. I know that, in my brain, I am aware that the days are coming, I try to fight the darkness, I try to stay strong and overcome the feelings that slowly overwhelm me. But, like a cloud obscuring the sun before a storm strikes, the emotional storm drowns me.

I know it is useless to let the depression take over. During the dark days, that usually last a week or so, I am physically and emotionally exhausted. I become inconsolable in my sorrow, and prickly in my communication to everyone. At times I feel catatonic and others manic as I relive the anguish of losing my son. My bright, difficult, passionate son was murdered – gone in a millisecond. Taken by a madman in a flash of gunfire, he fell in a pool of blood and brains onto a cold kitchen floor. Days later he lay cold and still in a casket as his family and friends attended his funeral, and we buried him in the cold red clay of Oklahoma. It was a beautiful winter’s day, but my sorrow knew that spring would never really come again for my heart.

So, now that the years have passed, I keep thinking I should be able to cope better. His birthday is September 11th. So many others have reason to be sad on that day because they lost loved ones. I am sad on that day because it was the day of birth for my son. More than the anniversary of the day he died, his day of birth causes me to mourn his loss. I don’t know why that is, I wish I did so I could let go and move forward. I do try to do something honor his life that day. I write him a letter, or I work on his memory book, I have even had a birthday party for him, but the sorrow still drains all the joy out of me.

This year was particularly bad. I went to bed for three days and only got up when I had to take care of my family. I cried a great deal, but mostly I lay there and thought about my son. I remembered every moment of his life from birth to death. I even went over the awful years of his teens when he was so angry and violent. I tried to think of everything I could remember about his likes and dislikes, all the funny stories of his childhood, everything he told me about himself. I read all his letters that he sent to us over the years, and went through his school papers and awards. The last thing I did was to read both his birth and death certificates. I know, a glutton for punishment. Those two documents are the proof that he did live, and that he died – but the important part is the life he lived in between them.

When I think of him, I think of him as a young man holding his baby girl and telling me that she was the whole purpose for his life my heart softens. I hear his voice telling me he loved me and wishing me a Merry Christmas the last time I spoke to him. I see him playing soccer as a little boy, with a big cheeky grin on his face after making a difficult goal – and as a Cub Scout winning an award. I remember a small boy telling me he can dress himself – even if he got his shirt on backwards and his shoes on the wrong feet. As a baby he was the most determined child I have ever seen. And through all the memories, I relive the love I still have for my first born. All the wishes, dreams, plans, and desires I had for his future and his success a a person came flooding back. And the sorrow that he didn’t get to live past the age of twenty-one morphs into anger. The childish cry, “It’s NOT FAIR,” wafts through my mind.

No it isn’t fair for a young man to be brought down in the best days of his life. But he wouldn’t think it was unfair. Not him. Life was always about an adventure, and when it got boring, he would find a way to make it exciting. Dying, for him, was just another adventure. Although, I am sure he didn’t want to leave his baby girl, or his family and friends, I am equally sure that he couldn’t wait to see what waited for him next. Though, he may not have been a very religious man in the traditional way, he always believed there was something more beyond this life. I can see in my minds eye his cheeky grin and bright brown eyes filled with curiosity and wonder as he took on a new way of life. That’s my boy – forging on ahead, no hold barred, into a new existence. Sigh, I miss him so much.

Now it is time to swim my way out of the bog of darkness and press on with this life. The sorrow clings to me every day like whispers of fog floating around me. But the sun does come out and it burns the fog away more day by day. Until next year. I don’t think a mother who loses a child, no matter how old or young that child may be, ever learns to ‘get over it,’ but eventually we do learn to live through it. Even if it means staying in bed in abject sorrow for three days every year.

Tomorrow the sun will peek through my darkness a bit more, and maybe by next week I will be back to normal, but I still miss my boy, and I guess until I join him and he gets to be my guide on the other side of life, I always will.

Possibilities

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Do I think too much? I often wonder if I make life harder than it should be. Do I engage my brain instead of listening to my heart and spirit? Do I simply exist instead of living life fully? Am I letting stereotypical expectations of what I should be and how I should act stop me from being true to myself?

There are a number of pithy little sayings floating about in the ether of the internet or self help books that I could apply to my feelings to create a feel good factor, but how many of them really make any difference in the long run?

I guess we all need to stop and do an internal check to make sure we are staying on the right course. Allowing ourselves to buy into the popular ala carte culture of self analysis is the easy way out of negative feelings. However, if we don’t delve a bit deeper than surface feelings, we are wasting time. None of the quick fixes out there will last beyond the next critical meltdown in our lives.

Oh, I don’t mean we need to run out and spend thousands of dollars sitting in some analysts office talking about how rotten our childhood was and how our relationship with our mother was horrific. If that makes you feel better, go for it, but I am talking about is taking the time to get to know what we really want in life and why we aren’t doing something about it. I am talking about taking the time to really learn what we feel about our lives, and to know our spiritual beliefs and needs are fulfilled.

As I age, I have less patience for people who constantly look for reasons to be unhappy and unfulfilled. I want to throw my hands up and shout, “For heaven’s sake, get off your duff and out of your pity puddle and DO something about your problems.” Inaction is no excuse for failure to thrive. We can always play the unending blame game rather than change what needs to be changed in our lives so we can flourish. It takes courage and determination to actually take steps to transform our lives. If you don’t like what you live, then alter, amend, modify, convert, exchange, or replace the things about your life you don’t like with things that you want or dream of doing. As long as you are inactive or a non-participant in your personal growth and dreams, you will never achieve happiness. Learning to be proactive in all areas of your life will give you the ability to attain all that you desire.

I recently had a conversation with my husband about how fast life has gone by. It seems that just yesterday I was a mother of two young boys, and now I am the mother of grown men and a grandmother. The years just whizzed by without my noticing; it was shocking for me in a number of ways. He pointed out that if I broke down the years, I would be amazed at all I had done, almost without noticing. He was right, and I really had no reason to be feeling sorry for myself. I had accomplished a great deal in my life, and in doing so, became the person I am today. Bumps, warts, and all, life experience has helped to make me who I am, along with all the spiritual moments that strengthened me.

We can’t go back and redo the past. It is over, to paraphrase a song by Brooks and Dunn, “[Life] is like the Mississippi, when she’s gone she’s gone.” It is easy to fall into the trap of thinking “if only” we had done things differently or made a different decision our lives would be better, and we would feel happier. Nonsense, what is, is and cannot be changed just because we wish it so. We live with what we have earned through our life experiences. I can’t make any difference in my life if I spend all my time thinking ‘if only’ about the past. What I can do is move on from this instant, right now. I can mend relationships, ask for forgiveness, and try to make restitution for the hurts I have caused, but I cannot take back what I have done and relive the past. Despite what all the science fiction stories tell us, time travel is still just a fantasy.

We could waste time beating ourselves up over our mistakes, after all, misery loves to propagate and the best way to do that is to use our guilt or frustration as fertilizer. All we will end up with is a patch of weedy discontent. If, however, we have the courage to pull all those weeds of discontent and replace them with the ability to bloom in a garden of possibilities, we can enjoy our lives.

At one point, I was a young mother, and you know, those days were so full of things to do, teaching moments, and work, I didn’t know how fast the years were going. I didn’t have time to sit around and feel sorry for myself back then. I had two little boys who were busy and growing, and I needed to be there to support that growth emotionally, educationally, and physically. I was the home room mother, Cub Scout Leader, and Sunday School Teacher. I squelched through mud and muck finding ‘treasures’ for their nature project, stood knee deep in a pond teaching them how to fish, stayed up late helping them learn to saw, nail, and glue together Cub Scout Derby cars, and had more than one battle over math homework. It was what moms did without question or thought; it was simply part of the job.

As they grew, I taught them how drive a car, work hard on a job, hygiene, and dating manners. I struggled with them through their final exams and yelled about homework more than once, and I was still there for them when they came home after curfew and ended up grounded. I learned to let go and let them make their own mistakes, and to make them be responsible for cleaning up the mess they had made with those mistakes. And, I had more time to think, and to do things for myself. I was so lost I finally went back to school to have something to do when my nest was empty. And, I started the downward spiral into feeling sorry for myself because I was no longer needed so much.

I wasted a lot of time feeling sorry for myself, until I had an epiphany one day. I realized that no one was going to feel sorry for me but me. Sympathy was not forthcoming from anyone, and not one single person was willing to join me in my pity puddle. I sat in it so long I was getting pruney and soggy. No amount of whining or moaning made any difference, except encourage people to move further away from me as fast as they could without making a scene. So, without a real plan, I just stood up and walked away from that pity puddle and began to find a way to overcome self pity and my patch of weedy discontent.

The how isn’t all that important, because it will be different for each of us. What is important is that we take the step to over come what ever it is that is keeping us from being joyful and content in our lives. Not every day will we be able to overcome the discontent in life; we have too many issues in our lives for that to happen, but with practice and dedicated attempts, each of us can have joy and contentment more often than not. For me, the most important step I made was to consciously decide that I was going to be a feisty old lady someday, and to do that I needed to practice being spirited and determined. I had to stop allowing my inner fear of making a fool of myself stop me from trying new things and learning new ways of doing old things. I had to learn to speak up and state my mind. And, I had to learn to be willing to be wrong now and then.

The second most important thing I had to do was find something to be passionate about. My passion was teaching and through that writing. For someone else that passion could become politics, women’s issues, health food, diet and exercise, learning to sing, or learning to paint. The choices are endless. What ever it is that you choose, make sure it is something to which you want to dedicate your time and energy. And, if you find it wasn’t your cup of tea after all, then admit it and move on to something else. I started out thinking I would love to teach high school, something I quickly learned was not for me, so I switched mid-stream and decided to teach at a university level. That passion I had for teaching finally manifested itself in tutoring women who were learning to speak, read, and write English as a second language while we lived abroad. My point is, without something in our lives that we can be passionate about, we have no direction for our energy. We cannot be joyfully engaged in life if we don’t have something to be joyful about.

So that leads me back to my original question, do I think too much? Am I searching for a quick fix, or am I really engaged in life to the fullest? Am I still waiting to be rescued, or am I really out there making choices and mistakes as I give every adventure a chance to enhance my life? Life has changed for me in the past few years as my health has become an issue. I don’t teach any longer, and now I need a new passion. I guess its back to practicing to be a feisty old lady, after all, someone needs to help set a good example for the next generation of up and coming feisty old ladies. Why not me? I guess I had better go and explore my garden of possibilities.