Tag: Family

It is Christmas, damn it!

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So, here we are again at that time of year when we are supposed to be filled with love, peace, and harmony – celebrating the birth of one of the best loved men in the world and beyond. Right. Sure. At least that is how it was when I was a kid, and when my children were small. Not today.

Today we have the progressive left, atheists, and general whiners and moaners who try to stand in the way of Christians celebrating one of their most important HOLY DAYS. Christmas, people, is a Holy Day for Christians. Yes, I know, it is also the celebration of Hanukkah for the Jewish people. It is also the winter festival for tree huggers, pagans, and people who like to dance naked around a bonfire. Fine, wonderful for them too! A Holy Day that is sacred to so many is something to enjoy.

Not Christians, however. We aren’t supposed to be allowed to have a Holy Day. No celebrating in our traditional ways that have come from all corners of the world along with early immigrants. Nope, not according to atheists, who worship non religion more fervently than most people who profess to be religious – no matter their faith. No celebration for Christians according to the progressive left, because someone, (THEM), just might be offended by the American traditions of celebrating a religions HOLY DAY.

However, having a secular day of celebration with Santa Claus and presents is fine. But no Christmas tree, it must be called, instead, a holiday tree. Holiday tree? But that has the words HOLY DAY in it, and therefore can be construed as religious. Still, those that hate Christians can go with the holiday theme, as long as it stays secular.

If a town has traditionally put up a manger with Joseph and Mary, and the usual cast from the story of the birth of Jesus found in the New Testament, in the book of Luke, the secular anti Christian people have a tantrum, file law suits, and insist that it be removed because it might be insulting to some. Yet, no one complains about a menorah, being placed in the town center, or pagans doing their dances, or Muslims, Hindus, or Buddhists doing what ever it is they do for this season. So why the war on Christians?

The Constitution says nothing about separation of Church and State only that there will be no state religion. Try telling that to an atheist or secular progressive wonk. American was founded by Christians. It was settled by Christians. The very fiber of America comes from a solid base in law and morals of Christianity. Granted, the Indians were here first. But even they had strong religious beliefs that often mesh with Judeo-Christian philosophies. But there is still a war on Christians.

It is bad to be religious, it is bad to have our beliefs displayed by having a Christmas Tree, bright lights, candy canes, gifts for our loved ones, and a feast to remind us all of the feast of words from the Scriptures. But, you see, for Christians, it is what we do to celebrate our Holy Day. So, we are under siege to forget our traditions, forget our religion, forget the meaning behind all we do at this time of year, and simply go with the Santa Claus theme.

Sorry, folks, but in my house, it is CHRISTMAS, damn it. And that is what it will always be. If you don’t want to be part of the Holy Day as we celebrate it, more power to you. Don’t celebrate as I do, do your own thing, or not, as you choose. However, I have the same right to do as I wish.

Without Christians, and Christmas, there probably wouldn’t even BE a holiday this time of year across the world. December 25th would be just another dreary winter day, or summer day if you live at the bottom of the world, without meaning or great value. Now wouldn’t that be miserable? Instead the world has the joy of Christmas, (or secular holiday), to lighten our lives for a few minutes.
It used to be that Christmas was just a simple day of prayer and worship for Christians. Then the pagan feasting and other traditions were added, followed by gift giving, Christmas trees from Germany, and Sinter Klaus from Holland, nativities from Italy, songs from all over the world, right up to modern lights and decorations. But, at the end of the day, it is still a day for prayer and worship, and remembrance of the baby that was born who changed the world – and died for our sins.

It is CHRISTMAS, a time to count our blessings, love one another, forgive one another, and let one another celebrate as their beliefs dictate. May God Bless and Keep you, each and every one. Because it is CHRISTMAS, damn it!

60 years.

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I was sitting in the doctor’s office this morning waiting , as usual, and filling out paperwork, when an elderly couple came in. She was a tiny, sprite of a woman, who moved with quick, birdlike starts and stops as she urged her husband across the floor to the sign in desk. He was a tall, heavy set man, with a manual laborer’s hands, and pure white hair that contrasted beautifully with his dark mahogany skin.

She was talking as fast as she could, and just kept on talking as the receptionist asked the man questions. He was, I understood, the patient. She was, however, his designated speaker. She answered every question, told him where to sit, told the receptionist that she didn’t want to wait long, and to hurry up the nurse and doctor so they could go have lunch. She fussed and fiddled until the elderly man reached up and took her elbow. And just like that, she stopped talking and sat down next to him.

While he filled out paperwork, she started telling him what to write down, he just kept on doing what he was doing, as if he didn’t hear a word she said. Soon she was carrying on a conversation with the woman next to her, and they set about solving the problems of the world. Well, she did, the other woman’s end of the conversation was pretty much, “mmhum” and “I hear ya on that one Sister.”

When the man got up to return his paperwork, he reached over and patted the old woman’s shoulder. She stopped spouting words, and sat still in her chair. When he got back and settled, she started talking again, and he reached over and patted her knee. He noticed the other woman and I exchanging a “can you believe that” look, he grinned at me and winked. Leaning toward me, he said, “It’s the signal we came up with years ago when she was talking too much or too loud. She can’t hear a thing, deaf as a post, but she surely does like to talk anyway. She reads lips real well, so you’d never know she can’t hear a word you say.”

I asked him how long they had been married. “Almost 60 years, now. And she is still the most beautiful woman I ever seen.” Then he turned and patted her arm, as she was talking a mile a minute to the woman next to her. He pointed at the door where the nurse had just called his name. The woman got up and started fussing and hurrying him along as if he were a toddler. He winked at me again. “Don’t tell her I said that though, cause I will never hear the end of it.”

When I left the doctor’s office, they were getting in their car. She was fussing and fretting as usual. I wondered if she was a backseat driver, or if she just prattled on until he reached over a patted her to remind her to let other’s get a word in edgewise.

At A Little Stone Church

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At the little stone church on a dusty country road, cars and trucks park in a row in the evening sun. The people stream into the building, dropping off homemade snacks while the aroma of coffee begins to fill room.

It is obvious that the people are long time friends as they greet one another. Slowly the stage fills with amplifiers, guitars, fiddles, mandolins, and a smiling man settles himself to play the piano. The men pick up their instruments, the audience quietly chatters, and with a downbeat the band begins to play.

This isn’t your ordinary band. The youngest member is in his early twenties, but the oldest is nearing eighty. The music is pure country and gospel – American style. They have hundreds of years of combined talent and ability between them, and it shows. There is no set pattern to the songs they play. In turn the singers, young and old alike, stand to sing songs that have been part of American music for generations. Sad songs, gospel songs filled with hope, and songs that create memories of days gone past. The band catches the downbeat and simply needs to know what key the singer wants to sing. Then they bring the music alive.

White heads nod in time to the music, worn hands clap out the beat, and faces smile in recognition of the talent of the musicians and singers. The younger faces in the crowded room smile and listen intently to the words of each song, knowing they were learning at the feet of masters.

As I sit and listen, I am transported back to the days of my childhood when I would listen to these same songs on the radio. Suddenly, my eyes fill with tears of nostalgia and the yearning for days that are long past.

I can’t help but wonder where the good in the world has gone. In the rush of getting ahead, making progress, and living large, the world has lost touch with the simple joys of life. Singing on the front porch with a guitar and mandolin, sitting around the kitchen table laughing at old stories, walking out into the sunset to enjoy the beauty, all seem to be lost in the hurry of life. Where are all our simple joys? What has happened to our traditions?

For the time being, they are alive and well in the small stone church on a dusty country road in Oklahoma. As the sunsets to the rhythm of country music, the world seems to stand still just to listen, with pure joy, to the melody.

Wooley World

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Recently, I have been ill. I had a bad fall and ended up with cracked ribs and a badly sprained ankle. The doctors were kind enough to load me up with medication that stopped the pain while making it impossible for me to do anything more than hobble to the bathroom and kitchen from my perch in bed or on the sofa. When I get that loopy, the words tend to crawl around the pages of any book I want to read, so I end up staring at the television. I must say it is shocking how R rated the daytime soaps have become. I caught a quick glance while channel surfing for something worth watching. Holy cats! I didn’t know that sort of thing was allowed on regular TV!

 

 

I often woke up out of a drugged sleep in the middle of the night, and had to wait an hour or more until I could take more pain medication. I would flip through channels just to see what was on to distract myself. I have never seen so many odd things for sale in my life! And boy are the people selling the products enthusiastic about what they are offering the viewing public. Everything one could want for a kitchen, bathroom, house decorations, along with vitamins, jewelery, office organization, and get rich quick schemes blare at top decibel from the TV speakers. They even have stuff for pets ranging from keeping them flea free and well groomed, to training programs. Want to learn a foreign language? Just go on line or ring them up and they will fix you up as long as you have a credit card. Gym equipment and weight loss programs by the dozen are flogged by has been movie stars and muscle bound guys and gals to the tune of hundreds of dollars. Use their product and you will be magically thin, buff, and sexy. Doesn’t matter if you have the mug of a bull dog, you will be one of the beautiful people.

 

 

My family and friends were sympathetic about the misery I was in, but had to get on with life. So, I thought my dogs and cats would be understanding and fill in the love I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. Dogs, while sympathetic at first, have short attention spans and forget that jumping in my lap, stepping on my foot, and expecting me to play tug of war are things that hurt me. After a bit, they wander off and take a nap, or find something to chew up. Cats, however, being the singular critters they are, have absolutely no sympathy at all. My job, after all, is to make sure their every need is met on their time schedule. The two mature cats just looked at me with disgust and went out to find their own food. The kittens, being young and silly, thought it was a great game to play chase me across, over, and around me. Not a problem until they hit my ribs and tripped me when I was using my crutches and carefully carrying a glass of milk back to the sofa. Come to think of it, they really enjoyed the spilled milk, so I think they were in cahoots with the dogs and they tripped me on purpose. The four of them had a nice snack after all.

 

 

One day it stormed, and I was shaken out of a doze by one huge half pit half lab dog trying to turn into a lap dog, the mini-pin was burrowing under the covers, and all four cats piled on the bed fighting for my lap too. Lovely, I get ignored until the sky booms and then I am the safety net? As the days wore on, the cats decided that it was cool if I was sitting still, my lap made a great place to nap. The dogs used my groggy state to sneak up on the furniture, and I think I fed them all the hot dogs by mistake, because they sure were happy to see me wobble into the kitchen on a regular basis.

 

 

I am glad that I am back on my feet. My mind is clearing, and I seem to remember that I let our 14 year old get away with stuff too. I don’t remember telling her she could wear black eye liner, but she swears I did. My husband got away with things too. I think he fed everyone mac and cheese for three days in a row, either that or the boxes grew legs and walked off. Next time I get hurt, I am going to stick with the Tylenol no matter how bad it gets. At least then I will be able to read a book, keep my brain working, and stay out of the fuzzy, woolly, world where word crawl around pages, animals laugh at me, and I don’t remember my own name.

Snow Day

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It’s snowing, again. It’s Wednesday, and that means a snow day for all the schools. In our house, there are two distinct reactions to the news that school is closed. From our eleven year old there is a whoop of delight followed by a flurry of phone calls to her girlfriends to plan the day. From me there is a sigh of resignation and a decided lack of enthusiasm. So much for my plans to actually get something accomplished for the day.

The day begins with a battle where I insist that she have her breakfast, do her basic chores, and dress in more that jeans and a t-shirt before she bales out the front door with her sled. I win. She hates me, but I win. Dressed in her warmest clothes, coat, and boots, with her chores done in a quick and sloppy manner, she flutters around the door like a moth around a light bulb, while I double check that she is wearing gloves, a hat, and watch so she knows when to check in. She grabs her sled, and disappears across the road to meet all her friends on snow hill. I head for the kitchen knowing that she will come blowing in and I have to be ready.

Sure enough, an hour or so passes before the door slams open and four giggling, soaking wet, breathless girls slide into the kitchen. Snow drips on the floor, boots thump as they are pulled off, and wet clothes leave a trail of cold water all the way to the dryer. Wrapped in warm robes, and wearing dry slippers, they stagger to the kitchen table and tear into the hot chocolate and warm bread and butter like they are starving refugees, all the while talking a mile a minute and laughing about the mishaps out on snow hill. As soon as the buzzer goes on the dryer, they dress and rush out to make the most of the day, leaving my kitchen a war zone of crumbs, dripping water, and ringing with emptiness.

It isn’t long before someone comes to the door with a cut needing a bandage, and a hug reassuring them that they are not going to die from a loss of blood. Another kid turns up looking for mine, and needing to borrow a pair of gloves, and yet another knocks on the door asking for a drink of water. As the designated stay at home Mom on the block, my house is known as the safe house, local public bathroom, and quick stop for a snack or a drink.

As lunch time rolls around, the same four girls, plus two more trail in and go through the same process, except now I play short order cook as I dole out soup and a variety of hot sandwiches and cold drinks so they can refuel for the afternoon. This time, however, they linger in their warm robes and slippers, and then they run, giggling, upstairs for a hair break. After all, at eleven, hair is very important to every girl. They primp and priss their way through half a bottle of hair spray and gel, then dress and throw snowballs at each other all the way across the road. The snow is falling faster and it is getting colder, but even more children are out on the hill, along with a few of the more intrepid parents who have toddlers and younger children. I close the door that was left open as the girls rushed out and go to clean up yet another mess in the kitchen. Then stand at the window in the living room and watch as the children race down the hill in a blur of bright colors and screams of delight.

As the light begins to fade late in the afternoon, I call my child in and send her friends home. Soon it will be too dark to see the fence at the bottom of the hill, and they will all be too frozen to walk. After much pleading and many arguments, I am, once again, on her hate list, but she comes in tossing her coat on the floor and boots under the table. She peels off her wet clothes and heads for a warm shower. When she comes downstairs, she eats her dinner in a haze of fatigue and answers all my questions with a grumpy short tempered tone. When I ask her if she is tired, she responds with a glare and stomps out of the room, deeply insulted. A few minutes later, I peek into the living room to find her curled up in a chair under her favorite blanket sound asleep.

As I turn off the television, and turn down the light, I realize that it won’t be too long before she will be grown up and snow days will no longer be a part of her life. Like most of us, she will have to go to work and not have an opportunity to play. I brush her hair out of her face and pull up the cover, then I tip toe out of the room. As I look back, I no longer feel annoyed, but grateful that for one more day I had a chance to be a part of her day. Too soon, I will be on the peripheral of her life, and days like today will be just a childhood memory for her. It doesn’t make me sad, that is simply how life is supposed to be. Perhaps, next time we have a snow day, I will be less disconcerted and more inclined to rejoice before time moves us irrevocably onward.

Pixie World (for Nick and Bella)

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There is a place far away where certain pixies live,
A place that holds all stories told to children small and big.
Within the boundaries and flower walls, the pixies dwell,
And hold within thier knowledge all the stories we can tell.

It isn’t an easy place to find,
It requires a certain kind of mind.
But there are those who know the way,
And that stories flow from that place.

How fortunate that person is who knows the secret way,
To magic places and lovely lands where children want to stay.
And listen wide eyed with wonder,
 To stories of dragons and thunder.

The story pixies smile and giggle as the children learn,
That certain stories let them take a turn,
At telling secrets, and whispering silly tales,
Of purple orangutans and polka dotted whales.

What strange and fascinating things await the traveler there,
where story pixies are eager to share,
The lovely poems and simple fairy tales,
That cause a child to laugh or wail.

In joy the pixies wait for the traveler to come,
 (a grownup must be the one),
And find the way to the story pixies who yearn,
To share what they have learned.

So children small and big every where,
Can come to visit the pixies there.

Marriage, An Occupational Hazard

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1971

The occupational hazards of living with someone for years are many. Among them is the ability to know that they will wear the same shirt and trousers together at least sixty percent of the time, always listen to a certain kind of music, tell a certain kind of joke, read a particular author with great enjoyment, and another for edification.  They will almost always eat the same foods, drive the same way, enjoy the same people, and want to do the same things for relaxation.  They become,  predictable, comfortable, and taken for granted.  Like an old sweater, shoes, or a favourite pair of pajamas. The occupational hazard of predictability and taking someone for granted is one of the most dangerous hazards a couple can fall into.  All of the advice givers for marriage will tell you that.  They will list a long list of reasons why and then tell you how to avoid doing it.  All that is fine  and good, but it doesn’t always apply to every couple.
For instance, I like it that you remember that I like Dr. Pepper in a glass without ice and that I tend to want to sleep on the right hand side of the bed.  You know I hate it when the cupboard doors are left open and I always need the closet doors shut at night.  I like it that you know I will love certain movies, and hate others, that I am crazy about musicals and I don’t care for mystery novels.  You know that I am equally divided between the colours red and yellow, but that anything in hunter green will please me.  You remember that I am a collector of small boxes and anything with a fox on it.  I like it that you know what art I find wonderful, and that I would want to see a certain exhibit without question when it come around.  I like it that you know I want Onion Rings with my burger if possible, not fries, and that I am particular about what goes on my burger.
You know what music I like, most of the time, and that we can dance, listen, and sing along to the same favourite songs thrills me.  I love the old sweat shirts you wear and the jeans you just can’t part with, along with your Greek fisherman’s hat.  I like it that you tell me about your computer knowledge even thought you know I don’t understand half of what you are trying to tell me.  It makes me happy when you see something on the internet, or in a book, or magazine, or newspaper that you know will interest me and take the time to make sure I see it.  I am always pleased when you remember my interests in literature and try to understand as I prose on and on about things that you have absolutely no interest in, yet you go out of your way to understand.
I like the way I never know if your are going to start dancing or singing at any given moment, and yet, you are sensitive to my need to do the same thing.  I like the way we love to go to the same places on holiday, yet never get bored because we both like to discover new and interesting things.  We even go see things that would bore the other, and take turns doing it, so we both get to see what we want and still give a gift of understanding to the other. I know you will always find our way around in  a strange city, and you know that if I drive, we rarely get lost.  I love the way you read so intently, and you tolerate the fact that my mind wanders and sometimes I don’t hear you.
There are any multitude of mundane things you do for me.  I know you will always pick up empty glasses and do the dishes if I don’t get to them first.  Not because you are making a comment on my housekeeping, but because you don’t mind helping out.  I like the way you help make the beds, and help me move the living room furniture around for the third time when you thought it was fine the way it was in the first place.  I love the way you will go with me to the grocery even though you hate to, and then end up buying all kinds of things I would never have thought to get.  I know that if we go into a computer, hardware, electronics, or bookstore, you will spend a minimum of thirty minutes just looking around and not buy a thing, except what you went in to buy.
I know all these things about you and you know all these things about me, but does that mean we have fallen into the hazard of taking one another for granted?  Are we too predictable? Maybe, sometimes.
There are the times, however, when we surprise one another with something new about ourselves.  Try something new as a couple, like dancing.  Discover a new talent, thought process, idea, ability, desire to learn something different.  We are often amazed at how alike we are and how very different.  We have been together a very long time, and I still feel that there is so much I will never know about you.  Not because you hide it, but because you haven’t discovered it yourself yet.  I feel that there is so much more to me than you know as well, and in time we will make these discoveries together.
You make me feel alive, passionate, funny, and intelligent.  I know you are the most honest of men, you have integrity, and intelligence beyond my comprehension, and that you will do anything you must to protect your family from hurt, want, or need.  You are a dedicated husband, father, friend, son, and brother.  You love those who love you with an intensity that you don’t comprehend.  And you are loved in the same manner.   Everyone looks up to you, admires you, and tries to emulate you.  I know that in your career there are few who have the abilities you possess and that you can be or do anything you wish.  I know that you are loyal, determined, and strong willed and that you are a natural leader.  I know that your colleagues are amazed at your comprehension and knowledge of the work at hand and in the future.
You are, in short, funny, loving, passionate, intelligent, gentle, romantic, determined, honest, caring, devoted, strong willed, and the man that I have loved for fourty-one years.  Do we have the occupational hazard of predictability?  Maybe, sometimes.  However, I am blessed to have you in my life and that you know me so well.  I can only hope you feel the same way.

Its The Little Things

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Certain little girl in France. 2000

He doesn’t remember important dates like anniversaries and birthdays.
He doesn’t  like to buy expensive gifts and things that don’t pay.
He doesn’t always think ahead when he starts to speak,
He doesn’t do the romantic, when the practical will serve to treat.

He isn’t always sensitive to my moods and needs,
He isn’t always there for me, or, maybe, that’s just how it seems.
He isn’t always careful, and he can be a dreadful tease,
He isn’t always kind, but he tries to be.

But none of that really matters, because he so good you see,
At all the little things.

He takes me out to walk about and gaze at starlit skies,
He tickles me and makes me laugh until I cry.
He swings our girl out on her swing and tells her lovely tales,
Dances in the living room with her toy dolphins and whales.

He runs down the hall in fear of her monsters there,
and dresses up and drinks her tea – then he makes me swear.
Not to tell a soul and always to conceal,
That he’s just a big old softie when it comes to a certain little girl.

He washes dishes and does laundry when I’m sick and ill,
Cares for me and worries deep and still –
Laughs at my paltry jokes and listens patiently,
As I spout long and loud on things that bore him patently.

It’s the little things you see, that make me love him so,
And I will continue to, as long as stars will glow .
He makes me feel all warm and loved deep inside,
Even though all that mushy stuff makes his face glow bright.

For he feels silly and odd, being romantic and such,
But that doesn’t matter, its for all the little things that I love him so very much.

It Coulda Been Worse

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The old man sat in the lawn chair by the newly set headstone, and gently traced the name of his wife of over fifty years. As his hands caressed the words following her personal particulars, a soft smile came to his face as he read the epitaph. Quietly he said the words, “It coulda been worse.”

His mind wandered back over sixty years to a hot summer day on a dusty street in a small town in Oklahoma. An old tin Lizzy clanked and clattered down the road, and shuddered to a stop in front of the general store. With a loud bang and hiss, the car seemed to lie down in exhaustion as the doors burst open and a teeming mass of children and dogs tumbled out in a seemingly endless stream. The last one out was a small red haired girl. Covered in enough freckles to compete with the local red-tick coon hounds, and wearing a faded dress patched with cotton flour sacks, she stood on the running board like a queen surveying her kingdom. Hopping down she stood appraising the old car, sighed and said, “Well, it coulda been worse, we coulda broke down in the desert miles from water.”

The small, ragged boy, who had watched the whole show, grinned at her words, grabbed his slingshot and sauntered over for a closer look. He looked the girl up and down, stuck out a grubby hand, and said, “Hey, my name is Henry Oxley, Y’all stayin’ here?” She grinned a gapped toothed smile, pointed at the car, and asked him, “What do you think? That car ain’t goin’ no place soon. If’n thar’s work here my Pa’ll stay, and I’m Maude Tuttle. I know it’s an awful name but it coulda been worse, I coulda been called Mud Puddle.” Her words took the wind right out of Harry’s sails, because Mud Puddle would have been exactly what he would have called her the first time he had a chance. Maude had a way with things like, that, she’d say just the right thing to take any chance of hurt out of a careless word.

Henry and Maude soon became the best of friends. Anywhere one was, the other was sure to be right behind. Harry took a lot of teasing from his pals for a while, until Maude stepped in and showed them she was just as good, if not better than they were at throwing a baseball, spitting, and stealing the occasional watermelon to share down at the creek on a hot summer afternoon. Before long, Maude became a regular member of the small group of poor farm kids who ran free in the woods around the small town that endless summer.

The years went by and they shared all the adventures of their lives from getting caught skipping school to go fishing, to getting lost in the snow on the way home from town one day. Maude could always be counted on to find something positive about situation just when it seemed at its worse. The words, “It coulda been worse” became her trademark statement, and darned if she wasn’t able to come up with a reason why it could have been every time. On the day they nearly froze to death when they were twelve, they had managed to wander into a barn and after groping around in the dark, they found enough hay to make a place to sit. Huddled together to stay warm, teeth chattering, hearts filled with fear, and bellies rumbling with hunger she turned to Henry and said, “It coulda been worse, we might lose a finger or a few toes, but at least we didn’t lie down and die in the snow.” Henry, who had been contemplating life as a fiddler wasn’t too amused, but he could see her point. When they were finally found the next morning, Harry got a visit to the woodshed with his Dad, but it coulda been worse, his Ma coulda kissed him in front of everyone like Maude’s Ma did her.

When Maudie turned 14 something mysterious and strange began to take place, she turned into a woman. That caused no end of confusion to poor Henry. His best pal went from being a grubby, dirt covered, barefoot ragamuffin in torn overalls to being a Female, with a capital F. She wore dresses, and, heaven help him, took to washing her face every day. It was just downright disgusting. Until one day he happened to really look at her and realized that she sure coulda been worse on the eyes that she was. It took a year or so, but Henry finally grew up enough to appreciate Maudie’s new looks. Soon they went from seed spitting contests and shooting at trees with sling shots, to exchanging shy smiles and holding hands when no one was looking. It didn’t surprise anyone when they told their families they wanted to marry when they grew up. After all, as Maudie put it, it coulda been worse, at least Henry would always have a job working on the family farm.

Life has a way of changing the best of plans. War broke out across the sea and the enemy had to be stopped. Like all fit young men, Henry volunteered to defend his country. Maudie and Henry married in a quiet ceremony on a Sunday afternoon at the local church. It wasn’t much of a celebration because Henry was going off to war then next day. As he stood next to his brand new wife, he tried to say all the things in his heart, and apologized that her wedding day was so simple. Maudie, smiled her sunniest grin and said, “Oh, Henry, it coulda been worse, if I’d had a big fancy wedding we would have had to invite all the folks we don’t like. This way, it was just those we love best and the Lord,” and darn it all, if she wasn’t right.

Henry went off to war for four long years. He wrote letters home to Maudie, letters that she would read over and over before putting them in an old cigar box that she tied with a pink ribbon from her bridal flowers. Henry didn’t talk much about the war, he would write about the things he wanted to do with the farm when he got home. He would talk about the men he served with, and once he told her about running into Junior Bonham in a small town in Italy in the middle of a battle. She wrote back every week, and reminded him of the things of home. She would tell him about the baby chicks that she found under the corn ric in the barn, the new calf that old Maisy gave them each year. She talked about his brothers and how John went off to war as soon as he was seventeen, but before he left he married Suky Williams and they made him an uncle of a baby boy. She told him about moving in with his parents when his Ma came down with pneumonia after working in the rain too long, and that she just stayed on because his Ma was never strong again. She told about the way they did without tires and gasoline for the war effort, and she said that sugar was harder to find than hens teeth, but it coulda been worse because at least they could cook up some sorghum for sweeting. But she didn’t tell him that once a month she would go to the movies in town and watch the news reels in hopes of seeing his face as the soldiers marched by the cameras.

Then one June day, just when the corn was about knee high, Henry came home. She was bent over the old wash tub in the front yard, scrubbing the mud out of yet another pair of overalls for one of the younger boys. She looked up to see him standing at the yard fence with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a tired look in his eyes. Well, she thought, it coulda been worse, my man is alive and whole, Junior Bonham never came home. Henry just stood and stared at his Maudie all grown up. And when he finally took her in his arms, all he could feel was that he was thankful to his bones that he had her to come home to. Henry was always quiet when it came to talk about the war. He didn’t bring it up, and he never made it sound as fun as the other boys did when they came home in twos and threes, he just quietly folded up his uniform and took that old duffel bag up to the attic and never took it out again.

The years slowly rolled by and Maudie gave him a house full of kids to raise in the old home place. His Ma and Dad passed on, and he took over the farm while Maudie raised kids, kept house, and filled a garden with plants to give them a root cellar full of food every winter. They lived through hard times and good times, standing together when they needed and always loving each other even when she was spitting mad at something he had done, or he was worried about money and took it out on her. There were moments that stood out in his memory, like when their first baby was born in the middle of winter and caught the whooping cough and almost died. Maudie fought for that baby boy with all her soul and strength. When he finally started to mend, Henry held her in his arms as she wept in exhaustion and relief. There was the time he got caught by the falling tree when he was logging in the winter to make ends meet. When he came limping in with a broken leg and stitches in his head, she just shook her head and went about trying to figure how to make it with him laid up for weeks.

In good times and bad, Maudie stood strong for her family. When things were bad, she would always find a reason why it coulda been worse. She helped her neighbors, served with the ladies in her church, took care of the old and the young, laughed her big laugh, and cried silent tears, but she always just kept on doing what she thought was right. When she was a young mother, she’d come to town on Saturday with a gaggle of red headed, freckled faced kids following behind and as they grew older, she would often be seen with one of her grandchildren holding her hand as she did her shopping. And always near would be her Henry with his quiet ways and slow smile to compliment her.

One day Maudie realized she wasn’t feeling too good. Her red hair had long since turned white, and her freckles competed with age spots for space on her skin. She was bent and slower, and soft in all the right places, with a lap just perfect for a grand baby to sit on. She finally took herself off to see the young man who said he was a doctor and he told her that she was going to die. Well, he put it nicer than that, but Maudie knew that is exactly what he meant. She went home and took a long look around at the farm, talked to the grandson that worked there and who was taking on more and more as Henry slowed down a tad, and decided it was time to settle her life.

Maudie gave away all her treasures to her family and friends. When she gave the old cigar box of letters to Henry, she made him promise not to destroy them but to pass them on to their kids when he was ready. She wrote long letters to her children and grandchildren, and she spent hours sitting quietly remembering the past with Henry. He knew she was sick, everyone did, but they all carried on like she wanted them to, pretending she would be there forever. In a way she would be, because every now and then there would be a little red headed, freckled faced girl crop up among the grandchildren who looked just like her. Or there would be an ornery grandson who laughed her big laugh and smiled with her gapped toothed grin. But Maudie knew she was dying, and when it came time to say goodbye, she took the time to see each one of them alone and whispered encouragement, hope, and love into their ears and hearts.

One hot summer day, Maudie was sitting on the front porch in her favorite chair, she turned to Henry and said, “Well, Henry, I guess its time to go. It coulda been worse, at least I stayed around this old town for nearly 60 years.” That night, Maudie died in her sleep.

The funeral was attended by just about everyone in the county. Every farmer, storekeeper, and rancher knew Maudie Oxley. Her family took up five rows in the church, Henry thought Maudie would have been proud to look down and see so many of her kin folks there. They buried her next to his parents in the cemetery by the old church. Henry turned into an old man over night.

That day, as he traced her epitaph, he whispered to his Maudie about all the things that were happening in the lives of their children and grandchildren. He told her of his loneliness and how much he missed her. Henry folded up the old lawn chair, tears rolled down his face as he said, “I know you’d say it coulda been worse, but Maudie with you gone, I just don’t know how it could be.”

Fairy Story (for Crystal)

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“You could dance,” she said, to the small fairy under the oak leaf,  in the moonlight with silver streaks in your hair. “Or, you could walk the edges of the shadows and dare the night to catch you.  Come along, no time to weep, we must begin the revel, and you must put away your sorrow. Tonight you will learn to laugh away the sadness and find joy for tomorrow. Come, out from there. You are not a child any longer, live you will, live you must, and the mortal man you have loved, will, in time, become less and less of a memory.  Come, dance, it will lift your heart from its depths of unhappiness.”
In a swirl of moonlit silver the queenly figure danced away to a tune only heard in the fairy ring, deep in a forest glen.  The pipes and drum were played swiftly in a crescendo to match the flying notes of the violins. The small glen was awash with swaying and prancing minute figures, who, in sudden joy, would unfurl wings of shimmering gold and float far off the ground , spreading an incandescent light all about the trees.
One, however, sat alone under the oak leaf near her home tree, knees locked in her arms, head down, weeping.  She had just arrived from the outer world of humans, a world where, for many of the human years, she had lived the illusion of being one of them.  A time, when against all advice from her fellow fairies, she loved a man.  And, as these things often do, he aged, grew tired, and finally, despite all her magic, died. She grieved there among the leaves, and saw no joy in the morrow. The small fairy felt so odd being back to her given size after all those years away.  She didn’t feel free, she felt small and insignificant. Sitting alone, the near shadows creeping ever closer, the soft silver of her hair hid her face and the deep green eyes so common among her kind. Her magic aura kept skipping around her, first purple, then green, then a bright, glowing gold, but she took no notice.  She wanted to be alone.  Alone, so she could suffer and no one would tell her nay.
In time, the fairies tired and flew away to homes and beds among the trees. The music stopped and the musicians fell asleep under the nearest toadstool or flower, content that they would be safe in the magic around them. As the stars faded one by one and the sun began to turn the deep night into dawn, the fairy stirred from her place and stood to face the ever brightening east.  One loan piper watched and began to play a soft, somber melody.  In a clear, sweet tone, the music reached into the heart of the sad little fairy and she began to dance.  She danced for the long years she and her man would be apart, for a fairy lives nearly forever. She danced for the sorrow she felt, and she danced for solace from pain.  Around the fairy circle she danced, twirling and leaping in an every increasing frenzy.  Then, when it seemed she must take flight to survive, she dropped to the soft green grass, and slept.
The piper, alone in the magic of the small fairy, stared at her in awe.  For never had he felt such power, such magic, from within the circle. As the fairy slept, the sun rose higher, creeping across the glen, ever closer to her.  Its warmth sent rays of comfort to her heart and mind as she slept the cleansing sleep.  One stood watch, the piper, and in time he placed a leaf over her for protection and added warmth. All the day long, as shadow chased the sun, he watched and tended the needs of the powerful, yet sad, little fairy.
As all things do, the day came to an end.  One by one the revel makers came back to dance under the full moon, only to stop when they saw the gentle fairy asleep in the midst of their circle.  They came one by one, quiet and in reverence, for the piper told all in the silent fairy language – from mind to mind – what she had done.  They stood, waiting for the magic to begin again, so that they could, too, partake.  Slowly she stretched her arms and legs, rolling on to her back.  A yawn later she was standing before them in all her silver glory.  She smiled, and the crowd of fairies gasped at the beauty of her face.  Then in a voice, soft, sweet, and warm as honey, she told them of her dream.
“I danced, alone in a garden circle, filled with the aroma of roses and lemons. I danced alone, in the magic of moonlight, with a piper only to urge me on.  I danced, in joy, in sorrow, and in pain.  I danced for love, for suffering, for solace.  I danced, to complete my circle and to end from whence I began.  Alone, I tread the world of mankind.  Alone, I tread the circle.  In my dream, my true love came, not the passion of youth.  I took his hand, felt his magic, and knew eternal love.  In my dream, I am whole, in my dream I am true, in my dream I am magic.  And now I wake, surrounded by love.  I know that I am home.
I will miss the man of  my youth, I will love him always.  But here, among the fairy ken, I will find a magical joining.”
All the males surged forward, hoping she would hand-fast them, for her beauty and magic shown about her.  But, she turned and walked to the edge of the shadows, and took the piper’s hand.  “This male,” said she, “will fill my life with gentle compassion and love.  I, in return, shall be his muse, and magical music there shall always be.”  She bowed to the queenly figure, who bowed in return, and walked away through the trees.  Now and then, when the wind is right, and the moon is softly full, wanderers will hear a sweet melody played upon a pipe. In their hearts a yearning will grow to turn to the one they love, to hold them and tell them so.  It is, of course, the small fairy and her piper, leading hearts to hearts still yet, for they will live nearly until forever.
K.J.Combs
26, November, 1998