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A daily walk with... ME |
 Winnie Kay 1947 ~ ____ ~ What Matters is the Dash ~ |
| A friend recently made a comment that young people have this idea that we [baby boomers] are better able to accept the death of our loved ones just because we are older. Just because we know that old people die, we should accept it and wait for our time. They don't know how soon they will be in our shoes; they don't know that love grows stronger with age, and the bond between husband and wife becomes more cemented. My friend is right, you know. When I was a teenager, I would look at my grandparents and great-aunts and great-uncles and see them as old, out of touch with modern music, and having one foot in the grave. I loved them, but in my mind they were doomed. I now have grand nieces and nephews. I have become that old great-aunt to them. I wonder how they see me. Pretty scary, huh? Speaking for my "old" self, I'd have to say to the young folks that I don't exactly accept Death. I've seen the shadow of Mr. Death many times. He crept in, unannounced, one Christmas night and took a piece of my heart, leaving me alone. He whisked away Daddy from his VA hospital bed. He spared Mama from her Alzheimer's damaged mind. He brutally snatched my young niece from her murdering husband. He quietly embraced my infant grand nephew, leaving his twin untouched. He has gathered up beloved cats and dogs over the years. Each time Mr. Death visits, a part of me dies. Do I accept him now that I'm older? Is it easier to lose those I love now that I have lost so much? No, I don't accept Death. No, it's never easy. But I don't fear him for I know Death does not exist. |
I learned something interesting about grief and mourning. There is a kind of solace and comfort in the sadness. It's a place to go where time stands still and everyday, mundane duties are of no concern. Your movements seem to be in slow-motion, as if you are plodding through mud. It's a quiet place where others' words are unheard; only your own thoughts are acknowledged. And it's a dangerous place, for, in that timeless, private world, there is a voice which echos, "Stay here. Don't laugh. Don't smile. Don't love again. Don't move on to live your life anew. For in doing so, you will betray your loved-one's passing." It's a tempting voice. You begin to agree that it is your duty to stay in that dark, quiet, lonely, comfortable place. To laugh again would be a kind of blasphemy. I've also learned that you cannot listen to that voice, nor can you stay in that place. For doing so would seal your own death, a death to the life around you. And this would, truly, be a betrayal of your beloved's investment in their love for you. Until you meet again, draw from that investment bequeathed to you. Emerge from that secure place of sorrow and look up at the sky and breathe again, laugh again, love again. In doing so, you will honor their gift to you. |
I live in a suburb in south Texas known as The Livable Forest. Normally, there are majestic pines, oaks, and elms lining every street. The lawns are usually green with plush carpets of manicured grass, landscaped with stone or timber bordered flower beds of shrubs and flowers. Well, The Livable Forest is dying. We haven't had over an inch of rain since January. The Texas Drought of 2011 has altered the once colorful landscape to a dull brown. Many trees are dead, beyond any hope of revival. I've learned something about the soil this year: when there is no grass, the soil erodes. It just blows away. My back yard, which is now grassless, sits about a foot lower than it used to, exposing tree roots and underground irrigation pipes once used in an old sprinkler system. Water mains are collapsing as the ground shifts. Last Wednesday, our water was cut off while city crews fixed busted pipes. When the hot wind blows, there is dust and dead tree limbs flying through the streets. We have mandatory water restrictions now. My schedule is Saturdays and Wednesday, but this occasional gift of water to the gasping flora is too little, too late. The snakes are coming out from the once thick forest areas and visiting yards and homes, looking for water. This makes me a bit apprehensive about drinking my coffee outside. The squirrels dig through the dry dirt around trees, looking for food. Wild fires are springing up and spreading all around us, consuming the dry brush and dead trees. Little animals scurry to escape the flames. Hundreds of homes have been lost, and even a few lives. When will it rain? Only God knows.  |
I haven't been in here in 8 days. So much for good intentions. Isn't there something about the road to hell being paved with those?  Problem is, I just don't have that much to say everyday. Things are slow today in the forums I visit. It's too early to start my Comma Class, and I'm between edit jobs. It's too hot to go outside (106 in Houston). Besides, It's not my day to water the dead lawn (we have mandatory water restrictions here now). Hasn't rained since Christmas. There's nothing on TV except commercials and 24/7 coverage of Hurricane Irene in Manhattan. Can you believe that‽ A hurricane in New York‽  That punctuation mark there, by the way, is called an Interrobang. It's a combination question mark and exclamation point. Cool huh‽  So as you can see, I'm pretty dang bored here. I know, I know--Murphy's Law, right? It's all gonna hit the fan at once. When Comma Class opens, I'll have a four-million-page novel to edit (and they'll want it in 3 days). And it'll rain so hard, all the animals will start lining up two-by-two. Okay, so I did manage to write about something today. I gotta go now. It's time for my medication.[now where did I put that Jack Daniels?]  |
I get lost, sometimes, in the pain and grief of being left here without my Tom. Then a voice enters my soul, my very being, and quietly whispers, I’m still with you, kid. And just for a moment, I realize he hasn’t left at all. Here’s a story I wrote as I imagined what it would be like to talk to Tom again:
Excerpt: A tattered and worn file is brought forth from the dusty vaults of my mind. I close my eyes as I unconsciously rock on the porch of the cabin and clearly see his familiar large frame. His loving eyes of emerald-green look into my soul, and my heart aches. Images cause the corners of my lips to rise: the thick curls of his tousled gray hair, the tilt of his head, his playful smile. The smell from the surrounding woods is poignantly earthy. I can feel his presence in the twilight breeze. His voice drifts in across the valley and settles in the still rocker next to me. |
| We don’t have a choice as to when or where we are born or to what family we are given. I was blessed to have been dropped off in Texas and placed into the loving arms of Jack and Joyce Davis on a cold December night in 1947. I was the second of Mom and Dad’s six offspring, and, as one of the oldest, I learned, at an early age, about the responsibility that comes with this senior rank. I was seven years old when my twin brothers, Jack and Jerry, came along. The family was growing and there would be more to come. That’s when Daddy changed my nick-name from Princess to Green-eyed Monster. Though I do have green eyes, I never understood what that meant until I got a little older, but I knew it couldn’t be too bad because the name always made Mama laugh. Dad worked at a cotton compress where they pressed cotton into bales for shipment to textile mills. He wore a dress-shirt and tie because he worked in the office. Many Saturday mornings, he would take me to work with him, just to give me a break from the twins. To this day, I can still smell the wood and lead shavings from the freshly sharpened pencils the men used to log in entries and balance the books. There were no computers or electric calculators. The accountants used huge, metal adding machines which were operated manually with a lever on the side. Dad usually disregarded these slow machines and added the columns of figures in his head. Dad worked long, hard hours, but he was always there for me with a hug and a silly joke. He drove an old, black 1948 Chevy, and I remember waiting for him on the front porch in the early evenings. Sometimes he’d stop after work and buy me a Delaware Punch. He’d hand me the cold bottle, go inside and get himself a Jax beer, and come back out on the porch to watch the sun set with me. Sometimes he’d play catch with me and my older brother in the cool grass which he kept perfectly trimmed. We didn’t have a television back then. Some Sunday evenings, Dad would put a Frank Sinatra album on the Hi-fi, and he would teach me how to dance. I’d put my little, bare feet on top of his shinny, wing-tipped Florsheims, and off we’d go around the tiny living room. In his arms, I felt protected and loved. I’m thankful God chose to place me in the hands of such a good man. What I’d give for a chance to dance with Daddy just one more time. |
I loved to stay at Memo’s house, especially in the summer. She had this tiny house with a long kitchen/dining-room area that led into the little living room. Off to the side was a short hallway accessing a bathroom and two bedrooms. That was it—five rooms in all, but to a little girl with imagination and dreams, it was a castle made for a princess. Grandma and Grandpa treated all of us kids (me, my four brothers and sister, and my nine cousins) like we were each special, in our own way. Memo would let us stay up late when we spent the night with her. She’d teach us how to make fried-green-tomato-and-ketchup sandwiches, and we’d all sit on her little couch with her and watch The Jack Parr Show (that was before Johnnie Carson). She didn’t have air conditioning—no one did back then. But she had this huge box-fan set into the window of the bedroom which the grandkids used. The hum of that fan, the softness of the old feather-bed, and the love of my grandma lulled me to sleep many a hot summer night. I can still hear that fan sometimes, late at night, and a peace comes over me as if I were that little girl again. It’s those times I can feel her presence and know she is watching out for me.  Christmas at Grandma’s -- 1948 That’s Grandma on this end of the table. I’m the kid in the highchair next to all those electrical plugs!! |
| Lesson #1 of the fall term of my Comma Sense Class doesn’t open until September 9th. That’s 4 weeks from today, but the enrollment is closed, for my class is already full. This doesn’t mean my boys and girls are just sitting around in the halls of New Horizons Academy waiting for class to start. They have been very busy getting to know each other and setting the pace and the atmosphere for this term. Bob and Imagine are engaged in jelly-bean and apple-fragment warfare. Okira is stockpiling an arsenal of raisins for her own defense, and Joel is safely hiding in the Pope Mobile. Poor ole Pat has no idea what she has gotten herself into as she witnesses sneak attacks of flying, green jelly beans on Marcy who is only minding her own business. Linda and Erica and Kelly have emerged a couple of times to say hello. So far, J Powell and Izabelle seem to be lurking in the shadows, quietly observing before jumping in to this chaotic scene. Me? Well, I’ve been sharpening my trusty Ruler and trying to maintain some sort of decorum. I will keep you posted on future developments— OUW… who shot that spit-ball? [The Comma Queen peers around the classroom, Ruler raised.] Ah hah… Imagine !! Is that a straw I see in your hand? Lord, if this is what it’s like a month before class starts, what will the actual school days bring for this Comma Queen?  |
| I've never been too keen on Blogs. The word itself indicates a conglomerate of congealed words. I'm more comfortable with the word Journal. It just sounds more sophisticated, like you may actually have something important to say. I've started many Journals (Diaries, we called them in my day) throughout my life. There were the teenage years when life was so fresh and sweet—I just had to find a quiet place and write down all the new discoveries about myself and the world around me. Of course I had to keep the diary hidden. God forbid if my brothers found it and made fun of me... or worse. What if Mama and Daddy found it and insisted on talking to Donald D.'s parents about that kiss behind the gym after biology class! After a while, actually living life was just too exciting to stop and write it all down. Then I slid into the young-adult years, a time to chart the course for my future. Choices had to be made. I had to think and ponder and discern options and avenues. I decided to keep a Journal, a written plan—an instruction manual for my children to follow (if I ever had children). But charting life was too demanding, and there was no time to stop and write it all down. I fell into Middle-age with its long hours of building a career and fighting to keep my position of authority, struggling to keep the man I loved happy, and searching for extra time to spend with my parents and siblings and friends. I had my own opinions about life and much to say, so I began a new Journal to share my vast knowledge with the world. Until… until tragedy struck, and I realized I had no knowledge at all, and life was too painful to stop and write it all down. So here I am, now—a senior citizen they call it. And I find that life is still exciting, demanding, and painful. Maybe I’ll stop a while and write it all down. ~~ |
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