Week in Review

An attitude of worship.
A week of purpose spent in companionable silences and family enjoyment.
Times of contemplation and planning.
Feelings of dread (chores undone) and accomplishment.

Cemetery Thoughts

Not too long ago I went to the cemetery where my mother and grandparents are buried.

It's been a long time since I came here. There's a new grave, but I don't know who it is. I haven't been to Mama's yet. Flowers adorn a few sites, bright color in the faded green.

Gray, overcast skies fit my mood. I don't know why I came. She's not here; no one is. I always thought people odd who returned often to cemeteries or decorated graves. Is it a cry for comfort, a denial of loss, a show of grief for the world? Comfort of a kind comes, and a feigning of closeness. It seems easier to talk to her here. I tell her of the important events of my life, share my secrets and dreams; the things I never tell any one. I almost hear her speak, laugh or cry with me. Nowhere else can I feel her. I can cry here and no one believes I'm crazy. I cry for my loss and emptiness, the missed togetherness, the loneliness of her passing. It's been 10 years since she left. Ten years of challenges i met or failed. Ten years of opportunities I took or ignored.

I see her in me more and more. Gestures, speech patterns, the shape of my hands -- all remind me of the woman she was. Am I keeping her good traits? Am I harboring her sense of humor, hospitality and generosity in my heart? Have I met adversity with her strength and fortitude? Do I let my disappointments overwhelm me and drag me into the pit of despair? (i know the answers to these questions.) How can I mirror her greater qualities to my family and foster that giving, loving, caring heart in myself? How can I remember her everyday like I do when I'm here?

I thank God for the mother I had. She loved me greatly and did the best she knew to raise me. It seems she was taken too soon, but God doesn't make mistakes. Even in missing her and the sadness of her absence is the joy of knowing I'll see her again. This I know: she's in a better place and soon I'll join her there. Then we can laugh and talk and praise our God together for eternity.

Although not a perfect person, she was the perfect mother for me.

Thump, Thump, Thump

I'm home alone again this morning. Only the dogs and fish keep me company. It's nothing like when the boys were at home.

Saturday morning. We finish breakfast and chores. The phone rings in the kitchen and my son answers it.

At just over 6 ft. tall, he towers over me and I feel as though he takes up all the air in my space. He hasn't yet learned to control his arms and elbows, or his feet, except when he holds a basketball. This Saturday is typical. He talks on the phone, the 25 foot cord stretched to the limit. He paces as he talks, holding the phone in one hand and dribbling the basketball with the other.

He and his friends are making plans for that evening. One after the other, they call him. He calls one back, then someone else. Hours are spent this way. I cringe at the thump, thump, thump of the ball. Then I smile as I hear his laughter.

Suddenly it's quiet, but only for a moment. He heads to his room, turns on the radio and then goes to shower. Emerging later in jeans, t-shirt and sneakers, he once again picks up the phone and his basketball. The insistent thumping in the kitchen and hall tells me he is is finalizing plans with the group. After a final thump, he drops the ball into the chair. He come to find me and tells me where he'll be and when to expect him home.

He pauses by the door to check his hair one more time. The fragrance of his aftershave drifts behind him and lingers even after he waves and calls out a cheery "See ya later!"

Quiet. Silence fills the empty house. I pick up a book and settle in for the evening. This night I'm glad for the peace, but I am aware that soon, probably sooner than I can imagine, the continual thumping will cease at my house. The phone will ring less often and the laughter of teen-age boys will be absent from my home.

I miss them already.

Approaching Storm

Memory is a funny thing. The bits and pieces I recall from my youth are triggered by the strangest things. I spent yesterday driving to doctor appointments and to see my sister. We had only a short evening of dinner and shopping before I started home again. Driving in the rain from her house to dinner, I remembered this long ago storm.

Dark clouds gathered, lightening flashed, thunder rumbled. Bigger and brighter strikes brought louder and longer booms. Wind blew strong and fierce. The smell of rain consumed the air.

That day in 1965, my mother, my brother and I stood on the front porch of our Oklahoma home and watched the storm gather force. We expected Dad to come home at any time from Kansas City, where he worked all week.

We stood there watching and waiting. My brother, drinking a Pepsi, said that Dad would be home soon. I wanted to believe him, but had my doubts.

Morning gave way to afternoon. More clouds, dark and menacing, rolled overhead. Jagged streaks of light danced in and around the clouds. Deafening thunder crashed all around. Trees whipped wildly in the wind. Their branches clashed together and leaves scattered across any open grass.

Slowly, the storm arrived. Rain beat the old tin roof of the house then streamed in sheets down into the flowerbeds. Puddles quickly formed then ran down the hill to the creek below.

Suddenly, the rage passed. In the aftermath, a slow gentle rain fell and we finally gave up on Dad's arrival. Mom was sad, my brother mad, and disappointment engulfed me, crushing my heart and lungs. I grabbed a jacket and walked into the woods, letting the rain hide my tears, wash the frustration away and soothe my heart.

Late in the day, the sun appeared between breaking clouds. Baby blue streaks shone among the gray. A rainbow arched over the hill. The storm spent, evening arrived to cover the earth with a blanket of blinking stars.

Kids on Bicycles

Three boys and one girl race around the parking lot of the apartments where my son lives. Laughing and taunting, legs pumping, they circle the empty asphalt. Their bikes (hot pink, florescent yellow and lime green) flash in the sun. They show no fear. They dare each other to go faster, try harder, and do their best.

Now they disappear around the corner in search of a new challenge. They feel the whole world is theirs to investigate and explore.

Playing follow the leader they circle, getting braver stunt by stunt. Suddenly a voice cries out, "It's raining! Cool!" and they lift their faces to the water falling from the gray sky.

Soon, mothers call them in. Bikes are put away and the sound of plump water drops plopping on pavement replaces the laughter. In the stillness a small voice begins to sing, "Rain, Rain, Go Away" and then quiet reigns again.

Summer Day

Cool, for a summer day.

Wind pushes clouds quickly through the sky.

Butterflies flutter over sweet clover.

Trees, leafy arms dancing, offer shade from the mid-day sun.

Dogs lie at my feet.

Horses graze nearby.

Birds sing softly, calling to one another.

No noise but nature's sounds

No pressures for this moment.

No guilt felt at chores left undone, only pleasure as the beauty of the earth restores and refreshes.

I worship the Creator and my soul finds peace.

Driving Gives Me Joy

A car is freedom. It allows you to go wherever you want. A car is speed. It causes landscapes to flash by, sun & shadow blink and wind to rush in your face. A car is independence and control. You choose where you'll go, how to get there and when & where to stop along the way.

I always feel better when I go for a drive. Even driving to mundane chores or a doctor visit gives me a feeling of exuberance.

For example: 1985. Driving a candy apple red, 1976 F150 from the doctor's office at Tahlequah, OK north on Hwy. 10 to work at Flint Ridge Development Co. near Kansas, OK. I turned up the radio and sang along. I let the wind blow through open windows on a perfect spring day. A few clouds floated overhead, but signs of the season were everywhere. Almost no other traffic followed the winding road and I sped along in my own world. On arrival, I parked, hopped out and fairly danced into the office. Face up to the sun, slowly spinning, my arms spread wide, I embraced the day. I could hardly contain myself. Anyone watching would think me crazy; the goofy smile on my face a clue they might be right.

Another example: 1993. Driving home from Springfield, MO to Mountain Home, AR south through Branson to Harrison, then east to the house. I had the T-tops off the black 1979 Pontiac TA. I was alone, the radio tuned to my favorite station and blasting loud enough to hear over the engine rumble and roaring wind. Strangers waved. Happy to be alive, I smiled and waved back. Warm summer sun bathed the interior in its golden glow. I didn't care if I ever got home.

It's a glorious feeling to hug the curves then race down the straight stretches. The power transmits from the motor through the steering wheel, up my arms and into my very core.

These days, speed is not so speedy and curves are taken slower, but the feel of the wheel as I tighten my grip and push the pedal to accelerate still gives me that same deep in my soul joy.

The Cowboy

He squints at the sun and pulls his cap a little lower to shade his eyes. He picks up the halter and starts toward the horse pasture. Long strides make a short trip across the grass, then boots crunch on gravel. Each step creates a small metallic rattle from his spurs.

At the gate, he whistles and the mares trot toward him. His eyes study each of them for any marks or lameness. They look well. He runs knowing hands over backs and down legs.

Walking up to the buckskin mare, he talks softly and wraps the lead rope around her neck and fastens the halter. Dakota is new to the farm and is not sure she trusts this human yet. She shies away, but stops at the insistent tug of the lead.

Dad told him the old timers say all buckskins are "muley" and so far this one has lived up to the saying. The cowboy stays on his toes, always watching, as he ties her at the rail and begins to saddle up. He steps up in the stirrup, swings his leg over and settles in.

As he begins to circle the round pen in warm up, the mare kicks at nothing. He gathers the reins a little more and watches her ears. They speed up into a slow trot. She doesn't like it and tries to buck. The cowboy holds her head and brings her once again under control. Soon the mare relaxes and he begins to meld into her. They become one as he starts down the driveway into the afternoon sun.

At the house, we wait. After what seems hours, we hear the dogs bark a welcome and look out to see horse and rider come slowly up the hill.

Once again he ties her. This time the saddle comes off. He brushes her and the sweet horse smell mingles with worn leather in the air.

He leads her back to the other mares and lets her go. One last pat on the rump as she passes him and he turns to go satisfied she learned a lesson. He enjoyed the teaching.

We smile and nod and talk softly. He reluctantly leaves the horses and dogs for the confines of the house. Tomorrow is another day and the horses will be waiting.

Vacation 2008

I'm back from Vacation. Nothing exotic, just a few days with my granddaughters at my sister's. We spent the week laughing, talking and swimming. It was a great visit with family.

One evening we visited my aunt who lived across the field from us when we were kids and was always available when Mom had to work. She's the same as always, only a little older. Visiting with her I remembered growing up and how good she was to us. Here's one of my favorite memories.

Remembering Brannan's Bluff

Before I could drive myself, Aunt Eva Lea would take us to the "big creek" at Brannan's Bluff on Baron Fork Creek near Proctor, OK. After chores were done, my cousins (Glenda and Rhonda) and my sisters (Gail and Sandra) and I jumped into the back of Uncle Jewel's red Chevy pick-up truck. We climbed up two or three rungs on the wooden stock rack and rode there as we headed to the water. The hot summer wind rushed through our hair as we sped down the road and we waved to all we met, happy to be on our way.

After we turned off the highway onto the dusty lane, we climbed down and crowded around the narrow gate. Almost before the wheels stopped, we hopped out and raced bare-foot across the rocks to see who would be first in the water. We dropped towels on the way and shouted to those behind to hurry. Once to the shore, we dived straight into the clear, cold water, swam across to the bluff and climbed the gray flint wall to the natural cut ledges. The bluff had varying heights so you could choose where to stop, depending on how brave you felt at the time. On the lower levels, sometimes still knee deep in the water, we practiced diving. Other times we climbed as high as we could and jumped off. Sandra was too little and didn't swim well enough to make it to the bluff, so she stayed close to shore with friends -- new or old -- that she found.

I stood on the narrow ledge and looked down at the scene below. Groups of swimmers laughed and splashed each other. Some floated on inner tubes and rafts. On the gravel bar to one side, teenage girls sun bathed and shared secrets. Rock and roll from transistor radios echoed off the rock wall. The smell of Coppertone drifted in the still summer air. Birds swooped and darted in the cloudless blue sky. A towel over her head to protect her from the sun, Aunt Eva Lea sat in her folding chair at the edge of the water in what little shade she found. The water sparkled and reflected the sun, except in the shadow of the bluff. In the deep water, fish swam lazily or hid under a ledge. It was a glorious place to be when I was a young teen. I was at that just right age before worrying about looks, boys and popularity yet after being an over protected kid.

Rhonda jumped. Then I did. Or we all four played follow the leader or other games we made up as we went along. We climbed and jumped and swam until, breathless and shivering, we found a sunny spot to rest and get warm. Rhonda, with blue tinged lips and fingers, sat on the ledge just long enough to stop shaking. Denying she was cold, she jumped in again and we were all off once more.

After about two hours, it was time to go. We heard Aunt Eva Lea call us but delayed as long as possible. We swam to the shallow side and begged for just one more jump. She must have been about to melt from the heat but was kind and usually gave us a few more minutes. Eventually, we all came dragging out, wrapped our towels around us then climbed in the back of the truck for the ride home. Often, since we were starving -- or thought we were-- we stopped at the Proctor Store for an ice cold Coke and a candy bar. As soon as we got home, we ran down to our little creek and played until supper. We fell into bed exhausted and slept the dreamless sleep of the young.

Those were the days!