I read something cute the other day. It was a little plaque that said 'the first fifty years of marriage are the hardest'. I laughed and then I realized that my husband and I were going on forty five. Seems totally impossible, but true. Where did the years go? How did they get away so fast? Yesterday we were young, planning a future together, working hard, having babies, raising a family. Then suddenly things changed. The kids were grown and for the first time we had a little time for ourselves. Time to just sit and talk about something important or nothing of any consequence. It didn't matter. After thinking about it I realized he was the one person on earth I could spend an hour with and say absolutely nothing and not feel uncomfortable. It's great to have someone you don't have to talk to if you don't feel like it, but also someone you can pour your heart out to if you feel the need.
A close friend of mine once asked me what it was that made my husband and I so close, and after thinking about it, I decided it was because each of us was the only person on earth the other one trusted totally, completely, and without reserve. You have to feel safe before you can bare your emotional self to someone else. You have to know that what you tell the other person will not later be used to hurt you in the event of an argument or disagreement. There is a lot to be said for learning to fight fair in a marriage, and let's face it, there are times when you will not see eye to eye on things. It's been said that when two people agree on everything, chances are one of them is not necessary. Two differences of opinion can be a very constructive tool if used properly. We learned early in our marriage there were tender spots emotionally never to touch. We never hit below the belt, so to speak. If we knew a subject was painful, we were careful not to use it to win an argument. I have observed that in a lot of cases when a couple have been married and fall out of love with each other, they will use all the tools they can put their hands on to get to the other person. And when you have been in the most intimate relationship you will ever enter, you know all the weaknesses and faults, sore spots and things that will tick the other person off, and in many cases there is not an objection to using them to your advantage.
It takes respect for the opinions and feelings of your partner to be able to listen, not only with your ears, but also with your heart. Some of the times in our marriage he has told me he loved me the loudest without ever saying the words. I remember an occasion when one of our sons was being somewhat disrespectful to me and his father pushed him up against the wall and said to him , "you will not speak to my wife in that tone." It struck me as significant that he didn't say to the boy "your mother", but instead "my wife." I knew he would never let anyone speak disparaging to me, not just his child. On another occasion he was requesting that one of the boys, who had a bad habit of being messy and leaving dirty laundry on the floor, take time to pick it up and put it in the hamper. He said, "you wouldn't leave your dirty laundry lying around for your wife to pick up if you had one, so please don't leave it there for my wife to take care of."
I feel so blessed to have spent the last forty five years with a man who was the most unselfish person I had ever known. He didn't have to give me the moon, I knew he would if he could have. When we were planning on getting married, I suggested we just get matching bands because of a lack of money and he replied he wanted me to have a diamond. He put one in the lay-away and did without lunch several days I'm sure to be able to buy me a small diamond engagement ring. It meant more to me than twenty carats because I knew it came from his heart. The same thing was true when we were looking for a house to buy. I suggested we just look for older homes and he said 'I want to buy you a new house.'
No wonder the last forty five years flew by. I said to him the other day, 'let's do this for another forty five'.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Home Grown Molasses
On his last visit to Memphis my father in law brought me a quart of real sorghum molasses. Not the fake kind you buy in the stores in little jars that contain additives and other garbage, but the real kind. The kind that is pure sorghum juice cooked down into a rich syrup over an open fire in large molasses pans, stirred constantly by Mennonite farmers, who take great pride in what they produce.
And I remembered growing up down on the farm in Mississippi and how the back of our kitchen used to look when it was almost piled to the ceiling with metal buckets filled to the brim with that rich, slow running sweetness.
Daddy didn't plant sorghum cane every year, but when he did it was a major job to get it cut and taken to the sorghum mill to be processed. We had to take long sticks and go down the rows and knock off all the leaves, and then someone would come behind and cut the long cane poles. Occasionally we would break off a part of the stalk, we called it a joint, and chew it to taste the sweet juice on our tongues. The cane would then be stacked and piled into the back of the pick up truck for the journey to the mill. I remember when I was about six or seven years old there was a farmer who had a processing mill he would bring to your house and cook your sorghum for you for part of the yield. I'm not sure how much he got but I think it might have been a third. One year his workers brought the sorghum press and the long pans for cooking and set them up in a field to the side of the house we called the strawberry patch. It was named that because once it had been planted in strawberries. The press was interesting, too. It was a huge grinding apparatus that had a long pole extending from it to which you hooked a mule. The mule would make endless circles around the press and then the juice from the sorghum would flow freely into long, narrow pans, under which a slow burning fire was keep going. Someone with long paddles would walk the length of the pans and stir the bubbling mixture constantly to keep it from burning. It as a long drawn out process that took all day, the best I can remember. And it required great skill because you had to regulate the temperature, not to hot or too cold, you had to judge when they had cooked down enough, and you had to be diligent to prevent the molasses from getting too thick or from tasting burnt. If you didn't do it just right, you could ruin a whole year's crop.
That particular year we had the mill at the house, I remember buckets and buckets of the rich syrup being stacked in the back of our kitchen. One morning at breakfast we had Mama's homemade biscuits and our new molasses. I was anxious to get some on my plate and my Daddy told me to just take a little and see if I liked it
"Oh, I know I like it, I chirped. "Give me another big spoon full."
I totally ignored his warning and Mama heaped two big serving spoons of molasses on my plate. I had under estimated the fact a little molasses goes a long way. After one bite I had enough and started to leave the table. He made me come back and eat the rest of what I had on my plate. Tears and begging did no good. They fell on totally unsympathetic ears. I sat and cried and gagged and finally got the rest of it down. And then I learned a valuable lesson. Never bite off more than you can chew. It was years before I wanted any more sorghum molasses.
Real molasses is something a great many people will never taste. They think they know, but in effect they only have a facsimile. They will never experience going to the breakfast table on a cold winter morning and having hot biscuits right out of the oven and having to wait what seemed like an eternity for your home made molasses to finally drop from your spoon to your plate.
Molasses do grow sweeter in Mississippi. Some people say it's the soil in Tishomingo County and I think they are probably right. They taste like none I've ever tasted. I've wondered if it's just my memory or were they really that sweet. Sometimes I think it probably is a little bit of both.
Just another memory of my Mississippi childhood. Sweet, sticky syrup. Home grown. Like no other.
And I remembered growing up down on the farm in Mississippi and how the back of our kitchen used to look when it was almost piled to the ceiling with metal buckets filled to the brim with that rich, slow running sweetness.
Daddy didn't plant sorghum cane every year, but when he did it was a major job to get it cut and taken to the sorghum mill to be processed. We had to take long sticks and go down the rows and knock off all the leaves, and then someone would come behind and cut the long cane poles. Occasionally we would break off a part of the stalk, we called it a joint, and chew it to taste the sweet juice on our tongues. The cane would then be stacked and piled into the back of the pick up truck for the journey to the mill. I remember when I was about six or seven years old there was a farmer who had a processing mill he would bring to your house and cook your sorghum for you for part of the yield. I'm not sure how much he got but I think it might have been a third. One year his workers brought the sorghum press and the long pans for cooking and set them up in a field to the side of the house we called the strawberry patch. It was named that because once it had been planted in strawberries. The press was interesting, too. It was a huge grinding apparatus that had a long pole extending from it to which you hooked a mule. The mule would make endless circles around the press and then the juice from the sorghum would flow freely into long, narrow pans, under which a slow burning fire was keep going. Someone with long paddles would walk the length of the pans and stir the bubbling mixture constantly to keep it from burning. It as a long drawn out process that took all day, the best I can remember. And it required great skill because you had to regulate the temperature, not to hot or too cold, you had to judge when they had cooked down enough, and you had to be diligent to prevent the molasses from getting too thick or from tasting burnt. If you didn't do it just right, you could ruin a whole year's crop.
That particular year we had the mill at the house, I remember buckets and buckets of the rich syrup being stacked in the back of our kitchen. One morning at breakfast we had Mama's homemade biscuits and our new molasses. I was anxious to get some on my plate and my Daddy told me to just take a little and see if I liked it
"Oh, I know I like it, I chirped. "Give me another big spoon full."
I totally ignored his warning and Mama heaped two big serving spoons of molasses on my plate. I had under estimated the fact a little molasses goes a long way. After one bite I had enough and started to leave the table. He made me come back and eat the rest of what I had on my plate. Tears and begging did no good. They fell on totally unsympathetic ears. I sat and cried and gagged and finally got the rest of it down. And then I learned a valuable lesson. Never bite off more than you can chew. It was years before I wanted any more sorghum molasses.
Real molasses is something a great many people will never taste. They think they know, but in effect they only have a facsimile. They will never experience going to the breakfast table on a cold winter morning and having hot biscuits right out of the oven and having to wait what seemed like an eternity for your home made molasses to finally drop from your spoon to your plate.
Molasses do grow sweeter in Mississippi. Some people say it's the soil in Tishomingo County and I think they are probably right. They taste like none I've ever tasted. I've wondered if it's just my memory or were they really that sweet. Sometimes I think it probably is a little bit of both.
Just another memory of my Mississippi childhood. Sweet, sticky syrup. Home grown. Like no other.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
The Elephant in the Room
I love the story about the king who purchased an elephant. No one in his kingdom had ever seen an elephant so he called in four of his wisest advisers and blindfolded them, then he place them at different points around the beast. Next he asked them to tell him what they thought they were touching. The one who had been placed at the tail said he was sure it was a whip. The one at the elephant's ear said he was sure it was a giant fan. The one at the foot said it was a tree. He was sure of it because he could feel the stump. The one in front at the trunk said he was certain it was a large hose. Then the king told each man to remove his blindfold. They were all shocked at what they saw.
The king then said, "I want each of you to learn a lesson from this. So often we are wrong about things because we fail to see the whole picture. We base our evaluations on what we are able to feel. When we are able to look at all the different parts of a situation, we so often find our opinion changes entirely.
Looking back is so very different from looking forward. A friend of mine once said to me that hind sight was 20/20. Boy, was she right. Looking back we tend to think of all the things we would change, we would be kinder, gentler, wiser, better parents, better partners, better everything. But because we took the path we took, we ended up where we are today. And who's to say if we had taken a different one we might not have liked where we ended up nearly as well.
One thing I have learned in my life is to not look back at all the things I should have done differently. If I had done them differently I might not be nearly as well off as I am today. Am I independently wealthy? Certainly not! Am I exceedingly wise? Heavens no! Are there things if done differently might have contributed both to my wealth and my insight? Oh, yes indeed! But I don't know where those things would have led me. They just might have cost me my husband and my children, or maybe even destroyed my faith.
I have learned to try and look at the whole picture before I form an opinion. Something I almost never did when I was younger. And just like the men with the elephant, it's amazing how often my mind changes once I have.
The king then said, "I want each of you to learn a lesson from this. So often we are wrong about things because we fail to see the whole picture. We base our evaluations on what we are able to feel. When we are able to look at all the different parts of a situation, we so often find our opinion changes entirely.
Looking back is so very different from looking forward. A friend of mine once said to me that hind sight was 20/20. Boy, was she right. Looking back we tend to think of all the things we would change, we would be kinder, gentler, wiser, better parents, better partners, better everything. But because we took the path we took, we ended up where we are today. And who's to say if we had taken a different one we might not have liked where we ended up nearly as well.
One thing I have learned in my life is to not look back at all the things I should have done differently. If I had done them differently I might not be nearly as well off as I am today. Am I independently wealthy? Certainly not! Am I exceedingly wise? Heavens no! Are there things if done differently might have contributed both to my wealth and my insight? Oh, yes indeed! But I don't know where those things would have led me. They just might have cost me my husband and my children, or maybe even destroyed my faith.
I have learned to try and look at the whole picture before I form an opinion. Something I almost never did when I was younger. And just like the men with the elephant, it's amazing how often my mind changes once I have.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
November Roses
November roses are so different from the ones you gather in May. In May you have the hope of many more to come through the summer months. They look the same and yet they are different. More precious, more rare; you realize there won't be more for several months and so you have an added appreciation for them. And I couldn't help but think this was so true of so many things in life. So often we fail to appreciate them until they are almost over. It's like getting to the bottom of the symbolic bottle and suddenly realizing there is not going to be any more.
I have noticed some people who have children later in life. It seems like in so many cases there is a renewed desire to savor the experience, to fully appreciate what they have, as opposed to those who have parenthood thrust on them at an early age. So often the young are still kids themselves, still needing to play and not quite up to the challenge of assuming responsibility for another life, especially one that is totally helpless and dependant on them. They expect too much from their kids in many cases, whereas those that are older have come to realize kids are just that; kids.
The same is true of life itself. As we come to terms with our own mortality, we really begin to appreciate what we have. Somehow or other, life just becomes more precious. We begin to realize there may not be so many other days. A quietness settles in. A desire to look more closely at the roses of November. To appreciate more their color and fragrance. And a thankfulness that even thought it's deep in November there is still beauty to be had and roses to gather.
Ethyl Remembers: Country Life.
I've wondered what it is that draws me back to Tishomingo County, either in person or in thought. It's really hard to define. It's one of those things that exist somewhere inside you and you are not ever just really sure why. I've been gone over forty years and I still refer to it as going home. It happens when I cross the county line and head toward Burnsville.
Am I sorry I left? No, I can't really say I am. It has been good for me to live some place else. To see another way of life other than the small town environment I grew up in. To see how the other side lives. I have experienced so many things and seen so many sights I very well might not have ever known had I stayed put in my home town.
Am I glad I grew up in a small southern town. You bet I am. I know what it's like to walk in the woods on a picture perfect Autumn day. To smell wood smoke as it curls it's way out the chimney, to sit in the porch swing with your sweetheart on a brisk night and admire all the stars in the heavens. To smell the air full of new sweet grass and in summer to find a thicket of wild plums and lay on your back underneath their branches and eat until you are literally sick from the tart, tangy, sweet fruit. To fish and wade in the creek, to ride a bike down a gravel road, being ever so careful to stay in the ruts. When you live in the city there are nice parks and playgrounds but you never have the same vantage point of the stars you have in an open space on a clear night.
I like the city. I like the restaurants and shops and malls and theatres. I like the convenience. I like the fact there are things to do and places to go. Never mind if my favorite weekend is one spent at home, going nowhere and doing nothing. It is still there if I choose to do it.
So which is better. I would be hard pressed to say. Maybe six of one and a half dozen of the other? Maybe not. I have come to the conclusion that happiness is not so much dependent on where you live but how you feel. And I have been blessed for I have been privileged to feel both ways of life. And I am so happy to have come from Tishomingo County. Even if I may choose not to live there anymore.
Am I sorry I left? No, I can't really say I am. It has been good for me to live some place else. To see another way of life other than the small town environment I grew up in. To see how the other side lives. I have experienced so many things and seen so many sights I very well might not have ever known had I stayed put in my home town.
Am I glad I grew up in a small southern town. You bet I am. I know what it's like to walk in the woods on a picture perfect Autumn day. To smell wood smoke as it curls it's way out the chimney, to sit in the porch swing with your sweetheart on a brisk night and admire all the stars in the heavens. To smell the air full of new sweet grass and in summer to find a thicket of wild plums and lay on your back underneath their branches and eat until you are literally sick from the tart, tangy, sweet fruit. To fish and wade in the creek, to ride a bike down a gravel road, being ever so careful to stay in the ruts. When you live in the city there are nice parks and playgrounds but you never have the same vantage point of the stars you have in an open space on a clear night.
I like the city. I like the restaurants and shops and malls and theatres. I like the convenience. I like the fact there are things to do and places to go. Never mind if my favorite weekend is one spent at home, going nowhere and doing nothing. It is still there if I choose to do it.
So which is better. I would be hard pressed to say. Maybe six of one and a half dozen of the other? Maybe not. I have come to the conclusion that happiness is not so much dependent on where you live but how you feel. And I have been blessed for I have been privileged to feel both ways of life. And I am so happy to have come from Tishomingo County. Even if I may choose not to live there anymore.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Ethyl's Boys
I was looking through a photo album the other day, showing some baby pictures of my sons to my new daughter in law. And just for a little while I wished I could go back. Not back to live there, just back to visit. How nice it would be if you could just pick an event from the lives of your children and visit it for a day. And if that were the case I know which days I would pick.
For my oldest son it would probably be the day he finished third grade and when he came home from school that day he had a shiny new red bicycle on our front porch. It was our gift to him because he had made straight A's all year. I remember that year he came home from school all dejected and told me he had made a bad grade. I looked through his bag and found a paper marked 98.
"Is this the grade you're talking about," I asked.
"Yes," came the tearful answer.
"Well, this is not a bad grade. Actually, it's a very good grade."
"I like to make hundreds," he said.
Such was our oldest child. Hard working. Responsible. Caring. He grew up to be exactly the same way, with the same qualities.
With the second boy it would probably be one day after we had moved to Memphis. He was about four or five, I can't remember exactly. Some man was on our street selling little ceramic dolls. Son number two came tearing through the house at break neck speed.
"Wait a minute," I yelled to him as he sped past me. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to get my money," he yelled back.
In a few minutes he came back into the house with a little doll that said 'World's Greatest Mom'. It would not have meant any more to me if it had been made out of pure gold. Such was the personality of son number two. Full of mischief, forever in hot water, but generous and loving to a fault.
With son number three it would be when his pet hamster died. The little critter was his first pet and he loved to put him in his little ball and watch him roll all over the house. Said hamster was named Sprocket and he was dearly loved by our little man. As all pets do, one day Sprocket bit the dust. I will never forget son number three's heart ache when he found his little pet dead in his cage. He went next door and got the little boy he was friends with and invited him over for the funeral. They put the tiny rodent in a shoe box, took him down in our little cove of trees and had a proper funeral for him. It was most touching. Such was son number three. And he grew up to be a very caring man. One who could have great love for his pet or his family.
When you raise children you have so many memories. Some are happy, some are sad, some are everyday and some are tremendous. It's amazing how baby pictures can spark such memories. How very happy I am today for the gift of memory, for in a way I have been able to go back for a visit to their precious childhoods.
For my oldest son it would probably be the day he finished third grade and when he came home from school that day he had a shiny new red bicycle on our front porch. It was our gift to him because he had made straight A's all year. I remember that year he came home from school all dejected and told me he had made a bad grade. I looked through his bag and found a paper marked 98.
"Is this the grade you're talking about," I asked.
"Yes," came the tearful answer.
"Well, this is not a bad grade. Actually, it's a very good grade."
"I like to make hundreds," he said.
Such was our oldest child. Hard working. Responsible. Caring. He grew up to be exactly the same way, with the same qualities.
With the second boy it would probably be one day after we had moved to Memphis. He was about four or five, I can't remember exactly. Some man was on our street selling little ceramic dolls. Son number two came tearing through the house at break neck speed.
"Wait a minute," I yelled to him as he sped past me. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to get my money," he yelled back.
In a few minutes he came back into the house with a little doll that said 'World's Greatest Mom'. It would not have meant any more to me if it had been made out of pure gold. Such was the personality of son number two. Full of mischief, forever in hot water, but generous and loving to a fault.
With son number three it would be when his pet hamster died. The little critter was his first pet and he loved to put him in his little ball and watch him roll all over the house. Said hamster was named Sprocket and he was dearly loved by our little man. As all pets do, one day Sprocket bit the dust. I will never forget son number three's heart ache when he found his little pet dead in his cage. He went next door and got the little boy he was friends with and invited him over for the funeral. They put the tiny rodent in a shoe box, took him down in our little cove of trees and had a proper funeral for him. It was most touching. Such was son number three. And he grew up to be a very caring man. One who could have great love for his pet or his family.
When you raise children you have so many memories. Some are happy, some are sad, some are everyday and some are tremendous. It's amazing how baby pictures can spark such memories. How very happy I am today for the gift of memory, for in a way I have been able to go back for a visit to their precious childhoods.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Pappa
A wise person once said that when you lose a child you lose your future. When you lose your parents you lose your past. That fact was brought home to me vividly when my mother suffered a stroke that left her with the mind of a six year old. She could always make the most wonderful meals out of practically nothing, and when all supplies ran low, she used to make us a dessert she called butter roll. It was simply biscuit dough, butter, sugar, and nutmeg. She made the biscuit dough then rolled it out with her rolling pen, swattered it totally and completely with homemade butter, added sugar to the top of that, and then finished it all off with a sprinkling of nutmeg. She rolled the dough up and cut it in little pinwheels and then layered it in an oven proof dish, to which she added enough water with just a touch of vanilla to cover the tops of the little rolls. Most people who made butter roll used cinnamon, but I remembered Mama's was different because she used nutmeg, and the warm rich smell coming from her oven was not to be duplicated any where.
I have tried and tried to make it like she did and yet I can't ever get it quite right. I asked her once after she came home from the hospital how she did it and what I was doing wrong and she looked at me with a vacant look in her eyes and said she didn't know. My heart hurt and I realized a window had closed on me. A window into the past. One I did not even fully appreciate had been open until it slammed shut in my face.
So here we are today, my husband and I. So far we have lost three of our four parents. We only have one left and he is almost eighty two years old. And to be eighty two, I must say he is remarkable. He totters sometimes when he walks and if he is walking very far, his left foot goes to the left and his right foot to the right. He has trouble stooping down or looking straight up, and his gait is much slower than in days past. His energy is a fraction of what it was yesteryear when he spent the long hot days of summer lifting and hauling soft drinks onto and off of a huge drink truck, but he still grows a garden and shares it's bounty with all his family and friends. His mind is sharp and his memory bright, something to be extremely thankful for, for even if the body is slowing and suffering the effects of age, as long as the mind is working that person is still with us.
I've heard it said that old age is not for sissies and I totally believe this. King Solomon admonished the young to do all they were able to do in their youth because the days would arrive when they would say they had no delight in them. And you have to admire the courage and fortitude of those who can survive the death of a beloved child or the devastating effects of Alzheimer's when it cruelly takes away the memory of a beloved spouse. It reminds me of the story of the old man who showed up for breakfast every morning at one particular restaurant for ten years. One morning the waitress who usually waited on him asked him what he did every day for the last decade and he replied he went to see his wife of fifty years. She was in a nursing home and had been for several years, suffering from Alzheimer's. She no longer recognized him but he still went to visit her. "Why do you go when she doesn't know you", the young waitress asked? "I go because I still know her," he replied. Pappa goes every day, usually twice a day, at lunch and dinner, to make sure she eats. She can no longer feed herself, so he sees to it that she doesn't go hungry.
Such is the man who bears responsibility for the life of my husband. And how can I not have deep affection for him, for so many of the qualities I love and admire in my husband were qualities he inherited from his father. Such as a deep ingrained determination to always be honest and truthful. A total inability to ever lie or be deliberately deceitful. Even if they knew the consequences of telling the truth would result in pain or loss to them, they would both still tell you the truth. They might not answer you but they would not tell you a lie.
Sometimes when you marry into a family you feel at a loss as to what to call your in laws. Dad or daddy just didn't sound right, pop was to short, and Pa Pa was reserved for the grand kids. So I settled on Pappa. It was a combination of pop and Pa Pa and it just seemed right. On a recent visit to Pinson Mounds the lady at the reception desk asked where we were from. I told her my husband and I were from Memphis and Pappa was from Jackson. She asked me how long my daddy had lived in Jackson and I didn't correct her. After all, he did belong to me too. I inherited him when I married his son.
So now we spend some of our precious time together digging up the past, visiting graveyards to see where grandparents and great grandparents are buried, revisiting the old home place where Pappa spend his youth. The old house has long ago gone back to the elements, but the red oak barn his father built is still standing. Part of it has been damaged by a tree that fell on it, but the most of the structure is still there. Afternoons spent 'digging up bones'. While that window is still open, taking advantage of the time left to take a long hard look into the past.
I have tried and tried to make it like she did and yet I can't ever get it quite right. I asked her once after she came home from the hospital how she did it and what I was doing wrong and she looked at me with a vacant look in her eyes and said she didn't know. My heart hurt and I realized a window had closed on me. A window into the past. One I did not even fully appreciate had been open until it slammed shut in my face.
So here we are today, my husband and I. So far we have lost three of our four parents. We only have one left and he is almost eighty two years old. And to be eighty two, I must say he is remarkable. He totters sometimes when he walks and if he is walking very far, his left foot goes to the left and his right foot to the right. He has trouble stooping down or looking straight up, and his gait is much slower than in days past. His energy is a fraction of what it was yesteryear when he spent the long hot days of summer lifting and hauling soft drinks onto and off of a huge drink truck, but he still grows a garden and shares it's bounty with all his family and friends. His mind is sharp and his memory bright, something to be extremely thankful for, for even if the body is slowing and suffering the effects of age, as long as the mind is working that person is still with us.
I've heard it said that old age is not for sissies and I totally believe this. King Solomon admonished the young to do all they were able to do in their youth because the days would arrive when they would say they had no delight in them. And you have to admire the courage and fortitude of those who can survive the death of a beloved child or the devastating effects of Alzheimer's when it cruelly takes away the memory of a beloved spouse. It reminds me of the story of the old man who showed up for breakfast every morning at one particular restaurant for ten years. One morning the waitress who usually waited on him asked him what he did every day for the last decade and he replied he went to see his wife of fifty years. She was in a nursing home and had been for several years, suffering from Alzheimer's. She no longer recognized him but he still went to visit her. "Why do you go when she doesn't know you", the young waitress asked? "I go because I still know her," he replied. Pappa goes every day, usually twice a day, at lunch and dinner, to make sure she eats. She can no longer feed herself, so he sees to it that she doesn't go hungry.
Such is the man who bears responsibility for the life of my husband. And how can I not have deep affection for him, for so many of the qualities I love and admire in my husband were qualities he inherited from his father. Such as a deep ingrained determination to always be honest and truthful. A total inability to ever lie or be deliberately deceitful. Even if they knew the consequences of telling the truth would result in pain or loss to them, they would both still tell you the truth. They might not answer you but they would not tell you a lie.
Sometimes when you marry into a family you feel at a loss as to what to call your in laws. Dad or daddy just didn't sound right, pop was to short, and Pa Pa was reserved for the grand kids. So I settled on Pappa. It was a combination of pop and Pa Pa and it just seemed right. On a recent visit to Pinson Mounds the lady at the reception desk asked where we were from. I told her my husband and I were from Memphis and Pappa was from Jackson. She asked me how long my daddy had lived in Jackson and I didn't correct her. After all, he did belong to me too. I inherited him when I married his son.
So now we spend some of our precious time together digging up the past, visiting graveyards to see where grandparents and great grandparents are buried, revisiting the old home place where Pappa spend his youth. The old house has long ago gone back to the elements, but the red oak barn his father built is still standing. Part of it has been damaged by a tree that fell on it, but the most of the structure is still there. Afternoons spent 'digging up bones'. While that window is still open, taking advantage of the time left to take a long hard look into the past.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
September memories
Ah September, where did you go. I just checked my last post and it was August 30. That means more than a month has passed and I have not been motivated to write anything. That, in a way, is funny, because September is such a special month for me. So many good things have happened to me in September. I fell in love in September 1966 and got married the following year in September 1967.
The hot summer heat of the Mid South usually ended in September when I was growing up in Tishomingo County. School started back and I can remember waiting for the school bus, wearing a short sleeved summer dress, and thinking I was going to freeze to death. Now it's not unusual for it to be ninety degrees the middle of September, but back then the seasons definitely were different.
I remember the persimmon tree in the pasture started to shed it's quinine tasting bounty. The ground would literally be covered with the bitter tasting orange fruit.
There would be just a hint of color coming in the trees and the nights were cool enough you would need a quilt to sleep under. The grass in the cow pasture lost it's green hue and became a dull brown. If you dipped your feet in the little brook that ran down through our property it would give you a tiny shiver. And somehow you could feel inside your self that you had grown a little older. When you are sixteen or seventeen that is a good feeling, not like now. You were anxious to get on with life and the fact you were getting there generally made you happy. How different today. Today when September comes and the seasons change you still get the sense of growing older, but today that feeling so often tends to depress, not uplift.
But I have made my mind up that I will not be down hearted this year. I will be happy for the cooler weather. I will make pumpkin cake and pumpkin pie and enjoy the rich warm hues of Fall. I will pick the last bit of produce from my postage stamp garden, gather the herbs growing on my patio and dry them. I will make chicken and dressing from my home grown sage and savor the rich taste of fall. I will bite into a juicy fall apple and let the sweet nectar run down my chin.
As Simon and Garfunkel sang, 'September I'll remember, a love once new has now grown old'.
One September long ago I had a love that was new. It has now grown old, but not cold. It is richer and warmer than it was over four decades ago. And when I count my blessings, that one will be very close to the top of the list.
The hot summer heat of the Mid South usually ended in September when I was growing up in Tishomingo County. School started back and I can remember waiting for the school bus, wearing a short sleeved summer dress, and thinking I was going to freeze to death. Now it's not unusual for it to be ninety degrees the middle of September, but back then the seasons definitely were different.
I remember the persimmon tree in the pasture started to shed it's quinine tasting bounty. The ground would literally be covered with the bitter tasting orange fruit.
There would be just a hint of color coming in the trees and the nights were cool enough you would need a quilt to sleep under. The grass in the cow pasture lost it's green hue and became a dull brown. If you dipped your feet in the little brook that ran down through our property it would give you a tiny shiver. And somehow you could feel inside your self that you had grown a little older. When you are sixteen or seventeen that is a good feeling, not like now. You were anxious to get on with life and the fact you were getting there generally made you happy. How different today. Today when September comes and the seasons change you still get the sense of growing older, but today that feeling so often tends to depress, not uplift.
But I have made my mind up that I will not be down hearted this year. I will be happy for the cooler weather. I will make pumpkin cake and pumpkin pie and enjoy the rich warm hues of Fall. I will pick the last bit of produce from my postage stamp garden, gather the herbs growing on my patio and dry them. I will make chicken and dressing from my home grown sage and savor the rich taste of fall. I will bite into a juicy fall apple and let the sweet nectar run down my chin.
As Simon and Garfunkel sang, 'September I'll remember, a love once new has now grown old'.
One September long ago I had a love that was new. It has now grown old, but not cold. It is richer and warmer than it was over four decades ago. And when I count my blessings, that one will be very close to the top of the list.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Changing of the Seasons
My husband came in the house this week and summoned me.
"Come outside with me," he said. "I want you to feel something".
I walked outside and stood in the front yard with him and he said, "now feel the air".
Standing still and at attention, I did notice a difference. It wasn't exactly a brisk Autumn breeze, but one could sense the change. It was definitely cooler, still warm, but cooler. And there was just a certain feeling.
"Now listen," he said.
I did. And I could hear the tree frogs and the crickets, chirping to beat the band.
"Now look at the trees," he said.
I did. And I noticed the hint of color beginning to come. Still green, but not as bright as they had been a few weeks ago.
"Now look at the clouds," he said.
I obeyed. And I begin to feeling somewhere inside me the miracle that was taking place. The seasons were changing. Humans had done nothing to bring about this wonderful change, it was just happening right on time and in the order it should. And there was a feeling of refreshment in the change. I felt it inside. The strangle hold the summer's heat had on us was slowly being released. My body was beginning to respond to the change. My senses were heightened and the relief was noteworthy. Things sounded, smelled, and felt different. Nothing drastic. Nothing really that different, but yet a very real difference. More the kind of difference that happens inside a person rather than outside.
July and August in the South, and especially in Memphis, with all it's concrete and asphalt, is deadly hot. Not just heat but crippling humidity to go with it. Every year I live here I dread it. Even going to the grocery store is a burden. If you leave your car in the parking lot for more than an hour while you shop, when you return the steering wheel will be so hot you have trouble touching it. Your milk will turn to clabber on the short ride home unless you carry a cooler in your trunk. Ice cream and frozen foods will be totally thawed and running out the side of the bag in fifteen minutes unless deposited in said cooler. And the effect on your body is hard to describe. It's like trying to run a marathon with a ship's anchor tied around your neck. Everything takes place in slow motion. If you try to hurry you will literally pass out from the heat. People here in the city die from it every year.
That's why the changing of the seasons is such an event here. We anticipate it. We long for it. We embrace it with both arms. It is a wonder! It is a miracle! It's too long in coming! We savor the change. Our hearts as well as our bodies respond accordingly.
I stood outside with my husband and felt what he had come inside to bring me outside to feel. The seasons were changing! We would have more heat, that was for certain. But the promise was there that in a few weeks things would be different. That there would be relief from that which had repressed us for several weeks. And knowing that is enough. Enough to get us through the last hot days of summer.
"Come outside with me," he said. "I want you to feel something".
I walked outside and stood in the front yard with him and he said, "now feel the air".
Standing still and at attention, I did notice a difference. It wasn't exactly a brisk Autumn breeze, but one could sense the change. It was definitely cooler, still warm, but cooler. And there was just a certain feeling.
"Now listen," he said.
I did. And I could hear the tree frogs and the crickets, chirping to beat the band.
"Now look at the trees," he said.
I did. And I noticed the hint of color beginning to come. Still green, but not as bright as they had been a few weeks ago.
"Now look at the clouds," he said.
I obeyed. And I begin to feeling somewhere inside me the miracle that was taking place. The seasons were changing. Humans had done nothing to bring about this wonderful change, it was just happening right on time and in the order it should. And there was a feeling of refreshment in the change. I felt it inside. The strangle hold the summer's heat had on us was slowly being released. My body was beginning to respond to the change. My senses were heightened and the relief was noteworthy. Things sounded, smelled, and felt different. Nothing drastic. Nothing really that different, but yet a very real difference. More the kind of difference that happens inside a person rather than outside.
July and August in the South, and especially in Memphis, with all it's concrete and asphalt, is deadly hot. Not just heat but crippling humidity to go with it. Every year I live here I dread it. Even going to the grocery store is a burden. If you leave your car in the parking lot for more than an hour while you shop, when you return the steering wheel will be so hot you have trouble touching it. Your milk will turn to clabber on the short ride home unless you carry a cooler in your trunk. Ice cream and frozen foods will be totally thawed and running out the side of the bag in fifteen minutes unless deposited in said cooler. And the effect on your body is hard to describe. It's like trying to run a marathon with a ship's anchor tied around your neck. Everything takes place in slow motion. If you try to hurry you will literally pass out from the heat. People here in the city die from it every year.
That's why the changing of the seasons is such an event here. We anticipate it. We long for it. We embrace it with both arms. It is a wonder! It is a miracle! It's too long in coming! We savor the change. Our hearts as well as our bodies respond accordingly.
I stood outside with my husband and felt what he had come inside to bring me outside to feel. The seasons were changing! We would have more heat, that was for certain. But the promise was there that in a few weeks things would be different. That there would be relief from that which had repressed us for several weeks. And knowing that is enough. Enough to get us through the last hot days of summer.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Two Dollar Bills
Last week I was telling my husband about some salesman who was trying to sell me some product and how he kept telling me what he was going to be able to do for me. "Yeah, I thought, you really have my interest at heart, don't you." In the middle of relating the experience I made the comment, 'his interest in me was as bogus as a two dollar bill.'
"Why did you use that expression," he asked? "There really is such a thing as a two dollar bill".
"Really?" I said.
I had heard of said legal tender, but I had never seen it.
"Yes, really," came the reply. "In fact, I received a couple of such bills last week".
"Really!" I said, in amazement.
"Really," he answered me back..
"I would really like to see them. Do you still have them?"
"Yes, I think I do." came the reply.
This morning he came into our bedroom and handed me two two dollar bills. They were weathered and worn, and looked like they had both been through the washing machine with a load of denim jeans. I did a double take. You had to look at the number two printed on the corners of the bill to realize it wasn't a one dollar bill. And I started to think about the value of some people as well as the value of some money.
I must admit that at face value, what he handed me this morning didn't appear to be much. And in truth, today it really isn't. I can remember when if you found a dollar bill hiding in the back recesses of your coin purse, you had a slight reason to get excited. Not so today. A dollar today is worth just about as much as a dime was forty years ago. Even so, when I looked at the two dollar bills he handed me this morning I thought how easy it would be to mistake it for a one dollar bill. And how out of place such money is. The ordinary person operating the cash register at any given store might be taken aback upon receiving such a bill. Where would they put it? There is no assigned place in the money drawer for such currency. They could very easily overlook the true value of it. What if some people thought it was fake. I don't know if I had been handed such a bill in payment for something if I would have accepted it. After all, I had never actually seen one in my entire life. How would I know if it was real spendable currency or not?
And then I thought about some people. How they may not have an assigned place in the cash register drawer of life. How at first glance they appear to be worth so much less than they really are. How sometimes we look at two dollar people and mistake them for one dollar people. How their true value is twice what we have assigned to them. How people may not trust that they are indeed spendable. How they may appear to us to not be trustworthy or of real value because we have never had the experience of dealing with them in real life. How narrow our thinking is at times.
I will not spend my two two dollar bills. Not that they are not good currency, but simply I will keep them because they are rare and different, not ordinary, not seen on a daily basic in my life. Just like some people. If I have the good blessing to meet those who do not necessary meet the status quo of what is acceptable, may I be able to delight in their difference.
"Why did you use that expression," he asked? "There really is such a thing as a two dollar bill".
"Really?" I said.
I had heard of said legal tender, but I had never seen it.
"Yes, really," came the reply. "In fact, I received a couple of such bills last week".
"Really!" I said, in amazement.
"Really," he answered me back..
"I would really like to see them. Do you still have them?"
"Yes, I think I do." came the reply.
This morning he came into our bedroom and handed me two two dollar bills. They were weathered and worn, and looked like they had both been through the washing machine with a load of denim jeans. I did a double take. You had to look at the number two printed on the corners of the bill to realize it wasn't a one dollar bill. And I started to think about the value of some people as well as the value of some money.
I must admit that at face value, what he handed me this morning didn't appear to be much. And in truth, today it really isn't. I can remember when if you found a dollar bill hiding in the back recesses of your coin purse, you had a slight reason to get excited. Not so today. A dollar today is worth just about as much as a dime was forty years ago. Even so, when I looked at the two dollar bills he handed me this morning I thought how easy it would be to mistake it for a one dollar bill. And how out of place such money is. The ordinary person operating the cash register at any given store might be taken aback upon receiving such a bill. Where would they put it? There is no assigned place in the money drawer for such currency. They could very easily overlook the true value of it. What if some people thought it was fake. I don't know if I had been handed such a bill in payment for something if I would have accepted it. After all, I had never actually seen one in my entire life. How would I know if it was real spendable currency or not?
And then I thought about some people. How they may not have an assigned place in the cash register drawer of life. How at first glance they appear to be worth so much less than they really are. How sometimes we look at two dollar people and mistake them for one dollar people. How their true value is twice what we have assigned to them. How people may not trust that they are indeed spendable. How they may appear to us to not be trustworthy or of real value because we have never had the experience of dealing with them in real life. How narrow our thinking is at times.
I will not spend my two two dollar bills. Not that they are not good currency, but simply I will keep them because they are rare and different, not ordinary, not seen on a daily basic in my life. Just like some people. If I have the good blessing to meet those who do not necessary meet the status quo of what is acceptable, may I be able to delight in their difference.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Ethyl Remembers: Thick Summer Days.
It's July in Memphis. Right in the middle of the summer heat. Someone I know, yesterday described the day as a thick Southern summer day and I couldn't help thinking what an apt description that was. Soupy, sticky, wet, summer day. The kind of day when if you walk outside your air conditioned abode for five minutes you feel like you need to go back inside and take a cool shower.
Over the years those of us who live below the Mason Dixie line and would not have it any other way, have indeed grown soft when it comes to the summer heat down here. We have come in out of the fields to work in air conditioned offices and in the process lost our ability to cope with summers in the Mid South.
Down here we have an expression 'the dog days of summer'. I wondered exactly what that was referring to, so I looked it up. I was surprised to find it was an expression the Romans used to refer to the astrological sign of the dog star, Sirius. Those days occurred between July and September and they were thought to be unlucky, marked by hot miserable days of doom and gloom. I like my explanation much better. You know the one about the days when it's so hot and miserable even the old hound dogs refuse to come out from under the front porch. When they find the greatest amount of shade any place has to offer and they lie as still as possible and pant unceasingly with their tongues hanging down like wet dish rags. Those are days when, if the front porch fell in, it would probably be the unhappy demise of at least three or four of the family's dogs.
When I was growing up in rural Tishomingo county in the fifties and sixties, we took such days in stride. We kept working in our gardens and fields, because that is what we did in those days. If we went somewhere on the weekends in our automobiles, we rolled down the windows. Air conditioning was unheard of for the most part, in either our cars or our houses. We had fans that blew the hot air from one side of the room to the other, but that was it. And we could cope much better than we can today. We continued to work and to play unless it just got so hot it was dangerous to do so.
I remember I used to like the summers, even enjoy them for the most part. We were out of school for at least three months, not six or seven weeks like today. We had outdoor things to do that were fun, and we didn't usually let the heat stop us from doing them. What wimps we have all become! Most of us would come pretty close to dying if we tried that today.
Nice memories of those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. Nice to think about and recall. But as for me, I shall not venture very far from my air conditioned den today. I shall sit and write where it is cool and be extremely thankful that those days are only a distant memory.
Over the years those of us who live below the Mason Dixie line and would not have it any other way, have indeed grown soft when it comes to the summer heat down here. We have come in out of the fields to work in air conditioned offices and in the process lost our ability to cope with summers in the Mid South.
Down here we have an expression 'the dog days of summer'. I wondered exactly what that was referring to, so I looked it up. I was surprised to find it was an expression the Romans used to refer to the astrological sign of the dog star, Sirius. Those days occurred between July and September and they were thought to be unlucky, marked by hot miserable days of doom and gloom. I like my explanation much better. You know the one about the days when it's so hot and miserable even the old hound dogs refuse to come out from under the front porch. When they find the greatest amount of shade any place has to offer and they lie as still as possible and pant unceasingly with their tongues hanging down like wet dish rags. Those are days when, if the front porch fell in, it would probably be the unhappy demise of at least three or four of the family's dogs.
When I was growing up in rural Tishomingo county in the fifties and sixties, we took such days in stride. We kept working in our gardens and fields, because that is what we did in those days. If we went somewhere on the weekends in our automobiles, we rolled down the windows. Air conditioning was unheard of for the most part, in either our cars or our houses. We had fans that blew the hot air from one side of the room to the other, but that was it. And we could cope much better than we can today. We continued to work and to play unless it just got so hot it was dangerous to do so.
I remember I used to like the summers, even enjoy them for the most part. We were out of school for at least three months, not six or seven weeks like today. We had outdoor things to do that were fun, and we didn't usually let the heat stop us from doing them. What wimps we have all become! Most of us would come pretty close to dying if we tried that today.
Nice memories of those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. Nice to think about and recall. But as for me, I shall not venture very far from my air conditioned den today. I shall sit and write where it is cool and be extremely thankful that those days are only a distant memory.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Ethyl Remembers: Mississippi Honeysuckles
My niece who lives in Bartlett not too far from me made the comment this morning she had gotten her first whiff of honeysuckle yesterday and it made her miss her childhood in Mississippi. And that took me back. Back fifty years to the gravel roads and wild honeysuckles of rural Tishomingo County.
In the late spring and early summer when you drove down the gravel roads with your windows rolled down, the scent would be so strong it would literally fill your car with the sweet fragrance. And you would always have your windows rolled down for air conditioners in cars were a dream of the future. Only the very well to do had such luxuries. Even new cars were without this modern day necessity. And it was unheard of to have such a fancy gadget in most of the pickup trucks so many of us owned in those days. So it was two forty. Two windows at forty miles an hour.
Sunday afternoons were almost always spent visiting the grandparents on my mother's side, and often the mode of transportation that took us there was Daddy's pickup truck. We kids would climb in the pickup bed without any seat belts or restrains of any kind, for that matter, and take off down the highway to grandma's house. He would run the thing just about as fast as it would go, and wide open I imagine it might do as much as fifty or sixty miles an hour. Who needed a convertible!. The wind would whip our hair in so many tangles it took the rest of the day to run a comb through it, but did we care! No way! The freedom of speed and wind and total lack of being buckled in was wonderful and exhilarating. So much so we, or our parents for that matter, never gave any thought to the realization that if he hit an obstacle of any sort we might have gone flying out the back and into eternity.
My grandparents lived at the top of a hill and the little road leading up to the house was just about all the little pickup truck could do. Daddy would turn into the drive way and goose the gas for the extra boost it took to get to the top. We kids in the back had two choices. Either find something to hold on tight to or go rolling to the back and hit the tailgate. I remember it was great fun rolling around in the pickup bed. Parents today would absolutely shutter at the thought of such reckless endangerment, but hey, that was the fifties. Most families in those days had so many kids that if they lost one it might go unnoticed for at least a week. And the prevailing thought was they could always make another one who would look very much like the one that was missing.
And dust! Let us not even speak of the amount of dust! The roads, for the most part, were all gravel. The only paved roads were the Highways 25 and 72. From our house we hit Coleman Park Road, which was gravel. That took us to Highway 25, which in turn took us to Highway 72. From Highway 72 we turned onto Mount Gilead Road, which took us to my grandparents house and which, for the duration of our trip, was gravel. And by the time we arrived on a hot, dry Mississippi Sunday afternoon we had eaten enough dust to thoroughly coat our teeth and digestive systems for the remainder of the week to come. But did we complain. No way! Freedom was sweet and so dear to us children. To get to ride in the back of the pickup and feel the breeze was preferable to any time spent in the cab of the truck.
I am in no way opposed to seat belts and child seats and similar restrains. I realize they have saved the lives of many children. And looking back, I also realize we could have been injured because of our mode of transport. But it is nice now, fifty years later, to remember what the honeysuckles smelled like on a spring day or what the wind felt like in your hair at sixty miles an hour, or to recollect the smell of dust up your nostrils. And the sheer joy and freedom of being a kid getting to ride in the back of Daddy's pickup on a hot Mississippi summer Sunday afternoon. Such is the gift of memory. How wonderful to possess such a gift.
In the late spring and early summer when you drove down the gravel roads with your windows rolled down, the scent would be so strong it would literally fill your car with the sweet fragrance. And you would always have your windows rolled down for air conditioners in cars were a dream of the future. Only the very well to do had such luxuries. Even new cars were without this modern day necessity. And it was unheard of to have such a fancy gadget in most of the pickup trucks so many of us owned in those days. So it was two forty. Two windows at forty miles an hour.
Sunday afternoons were almost always spent visiting the grandparents on my mother's side, and often the mode of transportation that took us there was Daddy's pickup truck. We kids would climb in the pickup bed without any seat belts or restrains of any kind, for that matter, and take off down the highway to grandma's house. He would run the thing just about as fast as it would go, and wide open I imagine it might do as much as fifty or sixty miles an hour. Who needed a convertible!. The wind would whip our hair in so many tangles it took the rest of the day to run a comb through it, but did we care! No way! The freedom of speed and wind and total lack of being buckled in was wonderful and exhilarating. So much so we, or our parents for that matter, never gave any thought to the realization that if he hit an obstacle of any sort we might have gone flying out the back and into eternity.
My grandparents lived at the top of a hill and the little road leading up to the house was just about all the little pickup truck could do. Daddy would turn into the drive way and goose the gas for the extra boost it took to get to the top. We kids in the back had two choices. Either find something to hold on tight to or go rolling to the back and hit the tailgate. I remember it was great fun rolling around in the pickup bed. Parents today would absolutely shutter at the thought of such reckless endangerment, but hey, that was the fifties. Most families in those days had so many kids that if they lost one it might go unnoticed for at least a week. And the prevailing thought was they could always make another one who would look very much like the one that was missing.
And dust! Let us not even speak of the amount of dust! The roads, for the most part, were all gravel. The only paved roads were the Highways 25 and 72. From our house we hit Coleman Park Road, which was gravel. That took us to Highway 25, which in turn took us to Highway 72. From Highway 72 we turned onto Mount Gilead Road, which took us to my grandparents house and which, for the duration of our trip, was gravel. And by the time we arrived on a hot, dry Mississippi Sunday afternoon we had eaten enough dust to thoroughly coat our teeth and digestive systems for the remainder of the week to come. But did we complain. No way! Freedom was sweet and so dear to us children. To get to ride in the back of the pickup and feel the breeze was preferable to any time spent in the cab of the truck.
I am in no way opposed to seat belts and child seats and similar restrains. I realize they have saved the lives of many children. And looking back, I also realize we could have been injured because of our mode of transport. But it is nice now, fifty years later, to remember what the honeysuckles smelled like on a spring day or what the wind felt like in your hair at sixty miles an hour, or to recollect the smell of dust up your nostrils. And the sheer joy and freedom of being a kid getting to ride in the back of Daddy's pickup on a hot Mississippi summer Sunday afternoon. Such is the gift of memory. How wonderful to possess such a gift.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Ethyl Remembers: Another April
One of my favorite short stories is entitled 'Another April' by a Kentucky writer named Jesse Stuart. It is the story of an old man going out to take a spring walk after being indoors all winter. He is frail and must lean on a cane as he carefully goes around the yard examining the new buds and plants that have started to sprout, touching the pine needles in his hand, smelling their pungent fragrance, and finally hobbling over to the old smokehouse to look for an old terrapin that has made his home there for many years. He calls the old turtle 'his friend', and his young grandson looks through the window as the old man kneels down to have a lengthy conversation with the creature. The old man promises the terrapin to come again, although he knows it may be the last April for either of them, and the young man looks on in innocent wonder, having as yet never having to come to terms with a life ending.
When I walked out in my back yard this early morning I thought of that story. I walked around and counted the pods on my irises. I now have ten. I looked at the roses and the promise of blossoms there. The birds hopped around and the air was warm and sweet, and I thought how wonderful that April does come every year. Even if the winter is hard and cold, like this one proved to be, we always have the promise of April to look forward to. And she seldom disappoints. She delivers her goods almost always on time, and every year her dress is resplendent. She blows in on a whim and leaves on a whine, but she is most pleasant company while she favors us with her presence. Here in the South, May will get hot. By the middle of the month we will have ninety degree weather and be running our air conditioners full blast. Our utility bills will start to climb and they will not decrease until possibly October. But for the next thirty days we have April. So since she has been so kind as to drop in for her yearly visit, let us all enjoy her company for as long as we have her.
When I walked out in my back yard this early morning I thought of that story. I walked around and counted the pods on my irises. I now have ten. I looked at the roses and the promise of blossoms there. The birds hopped around and the air was warm and sweet, and I thought how wonderful that April does come every year. Even if the winter is hard and cold, like this one proved to be, we always have the promise of April to look forward to. And she seldom disappoints. She delivers her goods almost always on time, and every year her dress is resplendent. She blows in on a whim and leaves on a whine, but she is most pleasant company while she favors us with her presence. Here in the South, May will get hot. By the middle of the month we will have ninety degree weather and be running our air conditioners full blast. Our utility bills will start to climb and they will not decrease until possibly October. But for the next thirty days we have April. So since she has been so kind as to drop in for her yearly visit, let us all enjoy her company for as long as we have her.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Ethyl Relates: My brother Jim and Sunshine the bird.
Growing old is the pits. There is just no two ways about it. But sometimes there can be bright spots that make you feel good in your heart. My oldest brother has reached the age where so many things are gone from his life. Youth and vigor have either left entirely or have been greatly reduced. For years he was a military man, seeing two tours of duty in Viet Nam, being subjected to some of the bloodiest battles of that horrible war, and then for the next twenty five years serving with the police force in Charleston, South Carolina. He braved the fury of hurricane Hugo, staying on duty during one of the worst storms to ever hit Charleston, braving the elements so that other people might make it out safely.
He sits in his new leather chair his wife recently bought him and he remembers, and he talks, and sometimes he even cries when he recounts the things he has experienced. Things no man should have seen, much less have felt and experienced first hand. Meaningful, useful work is at a premium now, the yard that was once his joy and price in his retirement years has been replanted to be more easily maintained. The row of beautiful azaleas next to the house have been replaced with plants that don't require as much care. The roses he grew that were so magnificent a few years ago are now in the process of going back to the earth.
The things he tends to talk about are things of long ago, in a past, that to a big extent, was full of trauma and disappointment, while he has trouble remembering what he did yesterday or if he talked to you on the phone an hour ago.
And so a long hard journey is drawing to a close. A journey that will eventually be required of us all. So much of life is over and done with, so many dreams and plans and ambitions are put on the shelf, and each day is a search for some bright spot to find pleasure in, something to make him laugh, something to give him a sense of well being.
And then enters Sunshine. Sunshine is a bird. He was introduced into the family a few months ago and since then he has taken over. Some folks get a dog or a cat to sit in their laps and pet and coo over. My brother has a bird to sit on his finger and fuss over. Sunshine has a beautiful singing voice and he has made himself right at home with his new family. He knows they belong to him, and if a stranger approaches the house, Sunshine has an absolute fit. If brother steps outside and can't be located for even a short while, Sunshine goes berserk. Oh, that bird is no shy guy. He has a personality that is out there. Cross him and feel the wrath of a peck on your finger, but he is protective and loyal to those he cares about. And more than anything else, he makes my brother smile. A happy boy like smile. And so sweet to behold. I have not personality met Sunshine, but I have seen his picture and I have seen him perched happily on my brother's finger.
I talked to my brother a long time on the phone yesterday and we talked about his bird. I told him the joke about the woman who had a parrot that was in the habit of spewing the most horrible, obscene language, so she went to her preacher and asked him what she could do to teach her baby some respect, and his suggestion was to bring her to him. He has a couple of male birds that were so perfect, so pure, they were always singing hymns and praying and he thought maybe their good example would rub off on her bad bird. The idea sounded good to her, so she packed up her bird and took her to the preacher, who took the bad little girl home and put her in the cage with his psalm singing, praying birds. As soon as she entered the cage, one male bird looked at the other and said , "OK, bud, you can stop praying now. Our prayers have been answered".
Brother's response was the usual when I tell him a joke. He burst out in laughter. A few days from now I could probably tell him the same joke again and he would laugh out loud just like he did yesterday. But yesterday it brightened his day, if only for a few minutes.
Every life needs a little sunshine. In my brother's case, it comes in the form of a beautiful yellow and gray bird named Sunshine.
He sits in his new leather chair his wife recently bought him and he remembers, and he talks, and sometimes he even cries when he recounts the things he has experienced. Things no man should have seen, much less have felt and experienced first hand. Meaningful, useful work is at a premium now, the yard that was once his joy and price in his retirement years has been replanted to be more easily maintained. The row of beautiful azaleas next to the house have been replaced with plants that don't require as much care. The roses he grew that were so magnificent a few years ago are now in the process of going back to the earth.
The things he tends to talk about are things of long ago, in a past, that to a big extent, was full of trauma and disappointment, while he has trouble remembering what he did yesterday or if he talked to you on the phone an hour ago.
And so a long hard journey is drawing to a close. A journey that will eventually be required of us all. So much of life is over and done with, so many dreams and plans and ambitions are put on the shelf, and each day is a search for some bright spot to find pleasure in, something to make him laugh, something to give him a sense of well being.
And then enters Sunshine. Sunshine is a bird. He was introduced into the family a few months ago and since then he has taken over. Some folks get a dog or a cat to sit in their laps and pet and coo over. My brother has a bird to sit on his finger and fuss over. Sunshine has a beautiful singing voice and he has made himself right at home with his new family. He knows they belong to him, and if a stranger approaches the house, Sunshine has an absolute fit. If brother steps outside and can't be located for even a short while, Sunshine goes berserk. Oh, that bird is no shy guy. He has a personality that is out there. Cross him and feel the wrath of a peck on your finger, but he is protective and loyal to those he cares about. And more than anything else, he makes my brother smile. A happy boy like smile. And so sweet to behold. I have not personality met Sunshine, but I have seen his picture and I have seen him perched happily on my brother's finger.
I talked to my brother a long time on the phone yesterday and we talked about his bird. I told him the joke about the woman who had a parrot that was in the habit of spewing the most horrible, obscene language, so she went to her preacher and asked him what she could do to teach her baby some respect, and his suggestion was to bring her to him. He has a couple of male birds that were so perfect, so pure, they were always singing hymns and praying and he thought maybe their good example would rub off on her bad bird. The idea sounded good to her, so she packed up her bird and took her to the preacher, who took the bad little girl home and put her in the cage with his psalm singing, praying birds. As soon as she entered the cage, one male bird looked at the other and said , "OK, bud, you can stop praying now. Our prayers have been answered".
Brother's response was the usual when I tell him a joke. He burst out in laughter. A few days from now I could probably tell him the same joke again and he would laugh out loud just like he did yesterday. But yesterday it brightened his day, if only for a few minutes.
Every life needs a little sunshine. In my brother's case, it comes in the form of a beautiful yellow and gray bird named Sunshine.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Ethyl Remembers: Farmhouse Food.
There are two things that every old Southern woman knows how to cook and cook well. One is homemade biscuits and the other is banana pudding. Not the kind that comes from a jello box. The type with the sweet creamy custard that is made from scratch and cooked up on top of the stove in a double boiler. At our house when we were growing up there were homemade biscuits on the table every morning and just about every Sunday for dinner there was a bowl of homemade banana pudding.
By the majority of people's standards we were poor. And by that I mean there was never a lot of money for clothes or luxuries or to spend at the grocery store. We used to long for bologna and hot dogs and lunch meat. Instead we were forced to eat county ham, hand cured and smoked in our smoke house by my daddy. The fried chicken we had often on Sunday at dinner was running around in the chicken coop earlier that morning. The beef roast and pork chops came from our freezer, which was so large it covered the majority of one wall in the kitchen. In summer there was always an abundance of fruit. Blackberries grew in the pasture, grapes hung on the garden fence, peach and apple trees grew in the orchard and also in various places around the home place where my mother had stuck out tiny seedlings that had become mature trees. Our summers were busy canning and freezing and drying the ingredients that would go into fried pies and cobblers to be made and eaten at a later date.
There was always an abundance of fresh eggs, gathered every day from the hen house. It was my job to take a basket, which happened to be hand made from willow twigs, by my grandfather, and gather the eggs. Sometimes I would enter just as the old hen jumped off the nest and the egg she left behind would still be warm to your touch. They were usually brown and the yokes were always a deep yellow.
Some years my daddy planted sorghum cane and had it made into molasses. Not the kind you buy in little jars in the store which is a poor imitation of the real thing, but rich and thick and a dark shade of golden brown that when you held it up on your spoon in winter it would stay there. It would be clear enough you could see your spoon and the cold from winter made it thick and slow running. There really is truth to the statement that something is as 'slow as molasses in January'.
On recent trips to Wild Oats Natural Foods or Fresh Market food stores, I am stunned by some of the prices. My folks were rich when it came to the foods we ate. It was all organic. The fruit sometimes had bad spots but the trees were never sprayed with chemicals. The same was true of the vegetables that grew in the various 'truck patches' or the garden. The eggs were free range and the tomatoes, which grew by the acre in among the watermelon vines, were all pesticide free. There was an abundance of fresh butter and milk, and Mama could turn the simplest ingredients like flour and sugar and fresh butter and nutmeg into the most delicious butter roll you ever put in your mouth. I have tried numerous times to duplicate her masterpiece and can never get it right.
This has brought me to one conclusion. When you are young, you very seldom appreciate the true value of what you have. You always wish for what seems to be the thing that the majority of people deem valuable, when so often the value of what you have far surpasses anything you can buy or anything others may possess. You often take those who really love you and have your best interest at heart for granted, and spend countless energy, hours, and money trying to win the approval of those who could care less about you.
Aah! Such is the folly of youth. Maturity comes with a high price sometimes. But when it does come, it's value is priceless. And as Forrest Gump would say, 'and that is all I have to say about that'.
By the majority of people's standards we were poor. And by that I mean there was never a lot of money for clothes or luxuries or to spend at the grocery store. We used to long for bologna and hot dogs and lunch meat. Instead we were forced to eat county ham, hand cured and smoked in our smoke house by my daddy. The fried chicken we had often on Sunday at dinner was running around in the chicken coop earlier that morning. The beef roast and pork chops came from our freezer, which was so large it covered the majority of one wall in the kitchen. In summer there was always an abundance of fruit. Blackberries grew in the pasture, grapes hung on the garden fence, peach and apple trees grew in the orchard and also in various places around the home place where my mother had stuck out tiny seedlings that had become mature trees. Our summers were busy canning and freezing and drying the ingredients that would go into fried pies and cobblers to be made and eaten at a later date.
There was always an abundance of fresh eggs, gathered every day from the hen house. It was my job to take a basket, which happened to be hand made from willow twigs, by my grandfather, and gather the eggs. Sometimes I would enter just as the old hen jumped off the nest and the egg she left behind would still be warm to your touch. They were usually brown and the yokes were always a deep yellow.
Some years my daddy planted sorghum cane and had it made into molasses. Not the kind you buy in little jars in the store which is a poor imitation of the real thing, but rich and thick and a dark shade of golden brown that when you held it up on your spoon in winter it would stay there. It would be clear enough you could see your spoon and the cold from winter made it thick and slow running. There really is truth to the statement that something is as 'slow as molasses in January'.
On recent trips to Wild Oats Natural Foods or Fresh Market food stores, I am stunned by some of the prices. My folks were rich when it came to the foods we ate. It was all organic. The fruit sometimes had bad spots but the trees were never sprayed with chemicals. The same was true of the vegetables that grew in the various 'truck patches' or the garden. The eggs were free range and the tomatoes, which grew by the acre in among the watermelon vines, were all pesticide free. There was an abundance of fresh butter and milk, and Mama could turn the simplest ingredients like flour and sugar and fresh butter and nutmeg into the most delicious butter roll you ever put in your mouth. I have tried numerous times to duplicate her masterpiece and can never get it right.
This has brought me to one conclusion. When you are young, you very seldom appreciate the true value of what you have. You always wish for what seems to be the thing that the majority of people deem valuable, when so often the value of what you have far surpasses anything you can buy or anything others may possess. You often take those who really love you and have your best interest at heart for granted, and spend countless energy, hours, and money trying to win the approval of those who could care less about you.
Aah! Such is the folly of youth. Maturity comes with a high price sometimes. But when it does come, it's value is priceless. And as Forrest Gump would say, 'and that is all I have to say about that'.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Winter Poem
Visions of Springtime are Dancing in My Head!
Got up this morning, jumped out of bed
While visions of springtime danced in my head
Looked out the window and what did I see
A sky full of gray floating aimlessly.
Oh well, to myself I did say
Winter is present, it won't go away
And although I know spring is there on it's heels
Still can't dismiss the way the day feels.
But I know in my mind that very soon
Robins will sing and daffodils bloom
My forsythia bush will break out in gold
And we'll say a very merry goodbye to the cold.
So even though right now the sky is grey
It's still kind of pretty in it's own unique way
For there is a special type of beauty in the season
And for everything under the sun there's a reason.
For without the rest that winter brings
There would be no special longing for spring.
For everything needs a time of repose
So seasons of gray clouds can be good, I suppose.
So for the present I shall be content
And wait till all these gray days are spent.
Because I know that's soon I'll see
Tiny little buttercups smiling at me.
Enjoy the day, everyone. As long as we are above ground and sucking air, we can hope for a better tomorrow.
While visions of springtime danced in my head
Looked out the window and what did I see
A sky full of gray floating aimlessly.
Oh well, to myself I did say
Winter is present, it won't go away
And although I know spring is there on it's heels
Still can't dismiss the way the day feels.
But I know in my mind that very soon
Robins will sing and daffodils bloom
My forsythia bush will break out in gold
And we'll say a very merry goodbye to the cold.
So even though right now the sky is grey
It's still kind of pretty in it's own unique way
For there is a special type of beauty in the season
And for everything under the sun there's a reason.
For without the rest that winter brings
There would be no special longing for spring.
For everything needs a time of repose
So seasons of gray clouds can be good, I suppose.
So for the present I shall be content
And wait till all these gray days are spent.
Because I know that's soon I'll see
Tiny little buttercups smiling at me.
Enjoy the day, everyone. As long as we are above ground and sucking air, we can hope for a better tomorrow.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Yellow Daisies
I love the color yellow. I remember in tenth grade home economics class when Mrs. Gaines gave us the color wheel and taught us how to put colors and patterns together so we could dress properly. I thought it was interesting that yellow was a primary color. Not fiery like red or icy like blue, but just kind of peaceful, lying there between the two other primary colors. And what you could do with it. Mix it with blue and make green, mix it with red and make orange. Such a useful color, always happy to contribute to the benefit of others.
It makes sense that sunshine was always depicted as yellow in our coloring books. It was warm and seductive but not too hot like red. And yellow flowers just have an inexplicable method of touching the heart.
Which brings me to the crux of my story. One picture perfect October day we were down in Tishomingo County visiting my parents. It was the kind of day songs and poems are written about. Just as close to a perfect day as you are ever going to have in an imperfect world. Aah! October in the South. Not too hot and not too cold. The butterflies still flitted around the fields and pastures, they had not flown away or gone into a permanent sleep. Bees were still buzzing, but not for much longer. We knew it, and there was always the feeling that maybe they did too. They were just so busy accomplishing all the last minute stuff they needed to do before winter set in.
On this particular picture perfect October day I said to my husband, "I want to go to the creek".
Now the creek I was referring to was what we called Cagle Creek, although the proper term for it was Indian Creek. It started in town in Mineral Springs Park and flowed down across land that belonged to the Cagle family. It was the creek of my childhood. There was a deep pool in which fish and sometimes children swam, to the right side of the ford where the tractors and trucks crossed the creek to go to the field that lay just on the other side. When I was young, the ford was rocky and crystal clear. It was shallow and cold and felt oh so refreshing on a hot Mississippi summer day. One of the best things in life was to lay down on the shallow rocky bottom and let the cold clear water run over you and wash away all the heat and humidity and dust accumulated during a miserably hot Mid South day. I had not been in years, but somehow this day I really wanted to go back and revisit this beloved spot from my childhood.
It was about four miles from my folk's house to the little dirt road that ran down to the creek. On this particular day, from the moment we turned down the well worn path, there was beauty everywhere. Some logs had fallen in the pine thicket that lined each side of the road, and from those rich pine logs, ripe with decay, grew the most beautiful wild yellow daisies. They were strewn all along the roadway on each side and the green of the pine trees was the perfect accent to the most beautiful shade of yellow.
When we reached the creek I realized the spot I had so loved in childhood was no more. They had dredged it, straightening it from the winding branch I once knew. The deep pool was gone and the ford, for the most part, had disappeared. Still, it was my creek. The oak and willow trees still grew along each creek bank, and the cool shady glen was what I remembered. Peering across the opening between the trees and down what remained of the field road, I spied yellow. Curious to know what lay on the other side, I took off my sandals, rolled up my pant legs and waded across. Glorious day in the morning!! The entire open field, which was comprised of several acres, was completely covered in yellow daisies. They were dancing in the autumn breeze, beautiful beyond words. I stood for a moment totally mesmerized. Seldom in life does one come upon something that perfect. Butterflies flew and bees buzzed... and I stood still and drank heavily of the sunshine and the sight before me. One thing I knew. My husband was going to have to see this. There was no way he was going to remain on the other side of the creek. I made my way back to the bank and shouted for him to come over.
"But I can't walk on the rocks', he said. "My feet are not used to it".
"Well, your feet are just going to have to suffer", I told him. "You have to see this".
With those words of encouragement he removed his shoes and socks and slowly waded across. We stood together and stared. A perfect moment in time. Forever imprinted on our minds.
I think sometimes of how Wordsworth must have felt when he came upon the daffodils growing in the Lake Country of England. That sight inspired one of the best loved poems in English literature. The golden daffodils had touched his heart in much the same way the golden daisies touched mine. He wrote that sometimes when he was pensive or sad the flowers would flash upon his inward eye and then his heart would fill with laughter. The last lines of that poem are ,'and then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils'. Sometimes my heart dances with the daisies.
It makes sense that sunshine was always depicted as yellow in our coloring books. It was warm and seductive but not too hot like red. And yellow flowers just have an inexplicable method of touching the heart.
Which brings me to the crux of my story. One picture perfect October day we were down in Tishomingo County visiting my parents. It was the kind of day songs and poems are written about. Just as close to a perfect day as you are ever going to have in an imperfect world. Aah! October in the South. Not too hot and not too cold. The butterflies still flitted around the fields and pastures, they had not flown away or gone into a permanent sleep. Bees were still buzzing, but not for much longer. We knew it, and there was always the feeling that maybe they did too. They were just so busy accomplishing all the last minute stuff they needed to do before winter set in.
On this particular picture perfect October day I said to my husband, "I want to go to the creek".
Now the creek I was referring to was what we called Cagle Creek, although the proper term for it was Indian Creek. It started in town in Mineral Springs Park and flowed down across land that belonged to the Cagle family. It was the creek of my childhood. There was a deep pool in which fish and sometimes children swam, to the right side of the ford where the tractors and trucks crossed the creek to go to the field that lay just on the other side. When I was young, the ford was rocky and crystal clear. It was shallow and cold and felt oh so refreshing on a hot Mississippi summer day. One of the best things in life was to lay down on the shallow rocky bottom and let the cold clear water run over you and wash away all the heat and humidity and dust accumulated during a miserably hot Mid South day. I had not been in years, but somehow this day I really wanted to go back and revisit this beloved spot from my childhood.
It was about four miles from my folk's house to the little dirt road that ran down to the creek. On this particular day, from the moment we turned down the well worn path, there was beauty everywhere. Some logs had fallen in the pine thicket that lined each side of the road, and from those rich pine logs, ripe with decay, grew the most beautiful wild yellow daisies. They were strewn all along the roadway on each side and the green of the pine trees was the perfect accent to the most beautiful shade of yellow.
When we reached the creek I realized the spot I had so loved in childhood was no more. They had dredged it, straightening it from the winding branch I once knew. The deep pool was gone and the ford, for the most part, had disappeared. Still, it was my creek. The oak and willow trees still grew along each creek bank, and the cool shady glen was what I remembered. Peering across the opening between the trees and down what remained of the field road, I spied yellow. Curious to know what lay on the other side, I took off my sandals, rolled up my pant legs and waded across. Glorious day in the morning!! The entire open field, which was comprised of several acres, was completely covered in yellow daisies. They were dancing in the autumn breeze, beautiful beyond words. I stood for a moment totally mesmerized. Seldom in life does one come upon something that perfect. Butterflies flew and bees buzzed... and I stood still and drank heavily of the sunshine and the sight before me. One thing I knew. My husband was going to have to see this. There was no way he was going to remain on the other side of the creek. I made my way back to the bank and shouted for him to come over.
"But I can't walk on the rocks', he said. "My feet are not used to it".
"Well, your feet are just going to have to suffer", I told him. "You have to see this".
With those words of encouragement he removed his shoes and socks and slowly waded across. We stood together and stared. A perfect moment in time. Forever imprinted on our minds.
I think sometimes of how Wordsworth must have felt when he came upon the daffodils growing in the Lake Country of England. That sight inspired one of the best loved poems in English literature. The golden daffodils had touched his heart in much the same way the golden daisies touched mine. He wrote that sometimes when he was pensive or sad the flowers would flash upon his inward eye and then his heart would fill with laughter. The last lines of that poem are ,'and then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils'. Sometimes my heart dances with the daisies.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Ethyl Reflects: Life Lessons
It's been said we should try to learn from the mistakes of others because we won't have time to make all the same mistakes ourselves. And I think there is a lot of wisdom in that statement. For our lives are indeed short in comparison to so many other things on earth. A turtle that has no grasp of mathematics or science, but acts purely on instinct, can live up to two hundred years. A tree, the giant sequoia, has been known to live a few thousand. Man, on the other hand, is limited to a mere seventy or eighty years on average. So we are going to have a relatively short time in our lives to make decisions, plans, mistakes, and friendships.
When we are young there is a great need to be accepted, so often we chose our friends from those who are sought out by the vast majority, and we feel it is a great privilege to be acknowledged by such lofty ones. The most popular students in high school got that way for a reason. Everyone wanted to be friends with them simply because they were prominent and by being close to them the less noticed could indirectly share some of that prestige..They could be total snobs, dumb as a rock, and totally lacking in moral fiber, but if they happened to be on the 'in' list, everyone sought their favor.
A psalmist prayed, 'Oh, teach us how our days to number that we may bring a heart of wisdom in'. We are wise if- when we reach the point in our lives where we begin to see we have a limited number of days- we began to be much more selective in our choice of companions.. Gone are the pursuits of younger days. We begin to look for quality, not quantity, and for persons from whom we can learn and grow.
In reflection, I find that I have a lot to be thankful for, for I have been blessed with people who have been wise and experienced, from whom I have learned and by so doing have avoided major pitfalls and potholes that I otherwise might have fallen into. Life lessons, that when taken to heart, have helped me grow and mature and become a much, hopefully, wiser and kinder person.
It's amazing to me how much our lives mimic the seasons. Spring is fresh and new, alive with new energy and growth. Summer is adulthood , fruit bearing, and productive. Autumn is mature, the end of years of hard work and productive activity. Ripening of our mind. The time in our life when we come to terms with our mortality, and the realization we will not be going back to the spring or summer but only forward into winter. In many ways this is the best season of all. We are mature. The grain is ripened and our minds, like the storehouses of the farmer, are full of experience and wisdom. The time when in many cases the years of work have paid off and we have time and still a sufficient amount of energy to go and do and experience what was denied us in our youth because of a lack of either time or money. Aah! then winter. The time when the days grow shorter and fly much faster. The time when it's harder to get out and about and takes so much more effort to go anywhere or do anything. The maturity of the mind is offset by the feebleness of the body, and then in the end, as King Solomon described it, 'the days have arrived when we will say we have no delight in them'.
As I write this I realize I am still in the autumn of my life, and I am so thankful for the ones who have helped me grow to this point. Over the years on reflection I realize that the majority of my friends, the ones I love and trust the most, have been older than me. Anywhere from seven to fifteen years older. And now as I age so do they, and I am faced with the sadness of seeing them lose physical stamina and mental agility, in the same way I am losing it each day. But I am so thankful they have been a part of my life and they have seen fit to include me, because from them I have learned so much about life and what it takes to be truly happy.
Will I advance from autumn into winter. There is no way of knowing. But I am so thankful that I have been permitted to live long enough to avoid dying young. I have been allowed to raise my children myself and that task has not been left to others, for I know in my heart no one would have ever loved them in the same way or to the same degree I have. Am I apprehensive about the coming winter. Yes. Just like the season itself, we never know what it will bring. Will there be blizzards and ice storms and damage to structures and such or will we progress into and out of the season for the most part unscathed. Who knows. We will just have to wait and see. But for now it is good to still be here and to have those we hold so close to our hearts here with us. Each day is a gift. That's why we call it the present. And the best way to appreciate any gift is to use it well and be truly thankful for it.
When we are young there is a great need to be accepted, so often we chose our friends from those who are sought out by the vast majority, and we feel it is a great privilege to be acknowledged by such lofty ones. The most popular students in high school got that way for a reason. Everyone wanted to be friends with them simply because they were prominent and by being close to them the less noticed could indirectly share some of that prestige..They could be total snobs, dumb as a rock, and totally lacking in moral fiber, but if they happened to be on the 'in' list, everyone sought their favor.
A psalmist prayed, 'Oh, teach us how our days to number that we may bring a heart of wisdom in'. We are wise if- when we reach the point in our lives where we begin to see we have a limited number of days- we began to be much more selective in our choice of companions.. Gone are the pursuits of younger days. We begin to look for quality, not quantity, and for persons from whom we can learn and grow.
In reflection, I find that I have a lot to be thankful for, for I have been blessed with people who have been wise and experienced, from whom I have learned and by so doing have avoided major pitfalls and potholes that I otherwise might have fallen into. Life lessons, that when taken to heart, have helped me grow and mature and become a much, hopefully, wiser and kinder person.
It's amazing to me how much our lives mimic the seasons. Spring is fresh and new, alive with new energy and growth. Summer is adulthood , fruit bearing, and productive. Autumn is mature, the end of years of hard work and productive activity. Ripening of our mind. The time in our life when we come to terms with our mortality, and the realization we will not be going back to the spring or summer but only forward into winter. In many ways this is the best season of all. We are mature. The grain is ripened and our minds, like the storehouses of the farmer, are full of experience and wisdom. The time when in many cases the years of work have paid off and we have time and still a sufficient amount of energy to go and do and experience what was denied us in our youth because of a lack of either time or money. Aah! then winter. The time when the days grow shorter and fly much faster. The time when it's harder to get out and about and takes so much more effort to go anywhere or do anything. The maturity of the mind is offset by the feebleness of the body, and then in the end, as King Solomon described it, 'the days have arrived when we will say we have no delight in them'.
As I write this I realize I am still in the autumn of my life, and I am so thankful for the ones who have helped me grow to this point. Over the years on reflection I realize that the majority of my friends, the ones I love and trust the most, have been older than me. Anywhere from seven to fifteen years older. And now as I age so do they, and I am faced with the sadness of seeing them lose physical stamina and mental agility, in the same way I am losing it each day. But I am so thankful they have been a part of my life and they have seen fit to include me, because from them I have learned so much about life and what it takes to be truly happy.
Will I advance from autumn into winter. There is no way of knowing. But I am so thankful that I have been permitted to live long enough to avoid dying young. I have been allowed to raise my children myself and that task has not been left to others, for I know in my heart no one would have ever loved them in the same way or to the same degree I have. Am I apprehensive about the coming winter. Yes. Just like the season itself, we never know what it will bring. Will there be blizzards and ice storms and damage to structures and such or will we progress into and out of the season for the most part unscathed. Who knows. We will just have to wait and see. But for now it is good to still be here and to have those we hold so close to our hearts here with us. Each day is a gift. That's why we call it the present. And the best way to appreciate any gift is to use it well and be truly thankful for it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)