Daydreamer

Rest in Peace, Aunt Becky

2012-02-09T17:11:00.000-08:00

My aunt Becky passed away yesterday at the age of 91, after a long battle with Alzheimer's. That disease is so wicked; it takes the essence of the person away and leaves the shell of the body. She was diagnosed with it at the age of 78, so her daughters dutifully took care of her for over a decade as she slipped farther and farther away.

Last week she had a stroke. Since she was no longer able to speak, the extent of the damage could not be determined. A few days ago, she began to refuse nourishment. My cousin Camille, who lives in Georgia, got on a plane to Columbus, Ohio,where her sister Libbie lives, and where their mother was being taken care of in a nursing home. She hoped she would make it there in time to say goodbye. She did.

Alzheimer's has been described as "The Long Goodbye". Slowly, the person afflicted with it begins to slip away, and though they do not die right away, you know the person you love is changing and will not be back.

Aunt Becky was a strong and intelligent woman. She became a nurse, which would later take a toll on her physically, and married in her thirties. She had the two girls, then when they were still young, her husband died. Aunt Becky did her best to support them and did very well.

She sewed beautifully, and would make matching dresses for her little girls. When I visited them, as a child, I loved the very female environment of pretty things and lacy nighties on the girls, and good things to eat.

She sewed for others, too. When my babies were born, Aunt Becky made needlepoint birth announcements.

She was there for my mother, her older sister, who had some problems, shall we say, dealing with life. My sister, fifteen years older than I, spent a lot of time with her aunt when our mother couldn't cope. Aunt Becky was the one who, when my mother died of leukemia at age 60, took care of a lot of the social obligations of the funeral for us.

She went back to school and got her Master's degree in social Work Services, graduating at age 58. Nursing, as I said, had taken a toll on her back. She then worked as a travelling nurse, visiting homebound patients, till she retired at 72.

Yesterday, her daughters put on matching outfits just as they had so many years ago, and went to tell their Mama goodbye. They said all the loving things they could think of, and then told their Mama it was okay for her to go - they would be all right. She passed away just a few minutes later.

What determines a life well-lived? Perhaps it is simply doing the best one can with the hand one is dealt. Keeping going when the going is tough. Getting up every morning and going to work, caring for children, friends and the elderly. Loving your children as best you can. Trying to beautify where you are.

That being the case, as I believe it is - you did well, Aunt Becky. Rest in peace. I was named Rebecca after you, and it is an honor I shall try to live up to.

We will miss you.

So Sorry It Didn't Work Out

2012-01-12T17:23:00.000-08:00

Melissa and Dave have broken up. Respecting their privacy, I will not go into any details. Now the complicated process of getting a divorce when you live in two separate countries begins.

I am sorry it didn't work out. I was getting to know her, and I liked her, though she was very shy around my husband and I. I do my best to like all the girls my sons bring home. I am more successful with some than others.

I keep up with Melissa on Facebook. She's already listed as in a relationship with someone else. That bothers me more than I care to admit. But it lets me know she probably was not THE ONE.

I hope our Dave finds the one, the forever girl.

Reconnecting

2011-08-13T13:46:00.000-07:00

When my older son was just twenty, he married a young woman six years older, recently divorced, and with two children - Jenna, age six, and Jeremy, five. Suddenly I had grandchildren, albeit step grands. I took to the role with enthusiasm. Especially fun was having a little girl around, a beautiful little blonde with a shy smile who just took my heart the first time I met her. Her mother only had custody every other weekend, and her father lived in another town, but we saw them whenever we could. I had great fun dressing her up for Easter, and braiding her hair - all the things a mother of only boys misses out on.
Then, four years later, my son and their mother split up. Their mother got only supervised custody, so never could bring them to see us - long story. I was so afraid they would think we didn't care about them, and sent them messages through their mother when I could. Until recently, I had not seen them since they were eleven and ten.
This spring I got an invitation to their high school graduation - only eleven months apart, they both graduated at the same time. I went, hoping to be able to at least hug them and tell them I had missed them.
I was sure that they didn't miss their old Oma - that was what they called me, and my husband was Opa.
To my delight, they greeted me warmly. They had fond memories of us.
And Jenna is my Facebook friend now. We took her out to lunch and we decided that it just didn't matter that we were not actually her grandparents - we were going to keep her!
Love is where you find it, or it finds you. And it can't be wrong to love a child, yours or not.

Your Children Are Not Yours

2011-06-20T22:02:00.000-07:00

Things have happened in my sons' lives that I could not control.

Imagine that.

When I looked down at my blanket-wrapped first baby, I felt so responsible and terrified. What if I dropped him, what if I scarred him for life? He was so perfect, I was so afraid I'd mess him up. I couldn't stand the thought that what I did or didn't do could so harm him as to change the path of his future, irrevocably send him down a path to ruin.

I tried, I really did. Each day I tried to smooth his path, guide him with love, help him learn, feed him, hug him, keep him clean, keep him from hurting himself. I almost did it perfectly, too - then life intervened.

I had to go back to work, and leave him with a sitter. I got tired one night and shouted at him. I turned my back and he fell and cut his forehead. I had to send him to school.

Little by little, I realized he was not a blank slate I had to write on perfectly. He came with his own personality. This I realized even more when his brother came along with a whole different personality. Things I thoughtlessly did or said would upset one son; the same thing didn't phase the other.

As they grew, so did my efforts to raise them well and my worries that I was not doing it right. Teacher conferences were agony. How could I make them do what the teacher wanted? They loved to learn, just not the way the schools taught. Oh, God, was I raising daydreamers like me? If they would only do their homework!

And did they have friends? The right sort of friends? Why were they picked on by bullies?

And then came driving, and experiments with drugs, girls, and....somewhere along here I realized that I was not in charge. Never had been. Still I fought to hold the reins, while the horses bucked and threw off the saddle.

And then one day they were gone. Not forever gone, but, now adults, they were gone off out into the world where I could not see them every day, could not nag and scold and protect them. I had done my job. They were, for better or worse, RAISED.

A sadness swept over me. Had I done enough? Had I hugged and kissed them enough, told them I loved them enough, punished them for infractions in just the right way, so as to correct their actions but not stifle their spirit?

I am now watching my adult sons with wonder and awe. I see their struggles with life and love and realize that their struggles are theirs, not mine. I do not own them. Who they become is a product of genetics and upbringing, yes, but it is in the end the product of their decisions. This is the crucial part, the part I cannot do for them. I and my husband have done our best; the rest is theirs to do.

And I think, looking at them, that they will do just fine. I love you guys.

The Way We See Ourselves

2011-06-12T08:10:00.000-07:00

I have a dear friend who had a very rude awakening the other day. Deciding to shop for some new clothes, she headed to the dressing room of one of the major department stores, an armful of new outfits draped over her arm.

She had removed her own clothes and was preparing to try on the first outfit when she looked at herself in all her glory in the three-way, fluorescent lighted mirrors.

The expression she used was not ladylike. She called me up later, still upset, and told me she had seen herself revealed in ways she did not want to see - every blemish, extra pound, wrinkle and flaw.

"Honey!" I said, trying to calm her. "Don't you know that those dressing rooms are the WORK of the DEVIL?"

She laughed despite herself.

"Really!" I said, warming to the subject. "They are especially designed by the Devil in cahoots with department stores, so that we will hate ourselves for the way we look and buy a lot of clothes to cover it all up."

"Well," she said grimly, "The first part was accomplished. I hate myself."

After we talked a while, she came to the conclusion that while it was a horrible way to have her flaws revealed, she was going to work on improving them instead of just being upset.

We get rude awakenings, all of us. Some of us do not own a full length mirror and delude ourselves that we look pretty good, until we go shopping. One can go for years believing that we are as slim as we were years ago, until either we get the dressing room awakening or someone posts our picture on Facebook.

Yikes! Who is that woman?

With society's obsession with the slim and the young, those of us with lived-in faces and bodies can be easily distressed when it is finally revealed to us that no, we aren't as cute as we once were. We rush out and buy the clothes, makeup, hair dye and other things to try and make our outsides match our illusions of ourselves. It seldom works. I saw a woman the other day whom I judged to be in her sixties trying desperately to look younger - thin to the point of skinny, Botoxed features, carrot-red streaked hair. I remarked on her attempt to the clerk at the nutrition store, and was shocked to be told that no, the clerk knew the woman and she was only in her early fifties. Trying to look younger actually made her look older.

I recently stopped dying my hair. I was a little fearful at first, but I went ahead. figuring if I really hated it, I could dye it back. Turns out, I love it!
No more expense, messy chemicals or checking for grey roots.

We let go of a lot of stress if we can accept the woman in the mirror. Don't look at her wrinkles - look at the kind light in her eyes. Don't look at her fat - look at her welcoming soft arms and lap. Don't look at her grey hair without seeing the beautiful way light bounces off it, almost creating a halo.

We should take care of our health, of course. But obsessing over our lost youth? Futile at best, tragic at worst. Don't let the Devil and his trick mirrors get you down!

You are beautiful!

Tornado

2011-05-06T12:54:00.000-07:00

The sky fell on Alabama last week.
Over thirty tornadoes swept through North Alabama, tumbling trees, cars, entire houses into unrecognizable piles of rubble. Bricks and sticks, balls and dolls, and paper, so much paper.
A lot of the paper is photographs, torn and soaked in the rain. Irreplaceable portraits of loved ones, the frames splintered and the pictures blurred beyond recognition.
Volunteers are now sifting through the mess, trying to save the most precious possessions of people they do not know. Painstakingly they lift the broken pieces, looking for treasures. These are carefully placed in plastic bins for the resident of the destroyed house to go through.
Our lives were changed the day of the tornadoes. Some of us, like me, only lost electricity for five days. Others lost everything. Many lost their lives, over 230 people, including five members of one family. In that family, only one child survived. His twin did not.
We found candles and flashlights, propane stoves and – neighbors. People pooled the food that was going to go bad in their refrigerators and impromptu barbecues happened. I had a propane grill, my friend had instant coffee. That worked out well; several kaffeeklatches ensued.
We found stars. In suburban neighborhoods the streetlights blur the night sky. Suddenly there were hundreds more stars. Without the sound of air conditioners, we could hear crickets again. Little tree frogs sang us to sleep through our open windows.
We found our own music. Without the professionally delivered and packaged entertainment, we found our old instruments and dusted them off, found our voices and sang old tunes. I hope we keep singing and don’t forget the songs again.
We found our own resilience. Cold showers and spit baths will do that for you. We remembered how to stomp our dirty clothes in cold water in the bath tub and hang them out to dry on makeshift clotheslines.
We remembered how to pray, earnestly and sincerely and for people we had never met. We had no time to question why this devastation had happened to us. We just prayed and rolled up our sleeves.
In a disaster, people frequently forget to take care of themselves, forget to eat and sleep often enough. They are overwhelmed mentally as well and stress can cause them to become ill. The wise among the volunteers take time for themselves so that the next day they can work again. We need to look out for burnout among our fellow workers and tell them it’s okay to rest a bit.
Alabama the Beautiful will be so again. Eventually the debris will be gone, and the trees will be replanted.
Alabama’s people, helping each other, are beautiful now.

Justice versus Mercy

2011-04-09T18:42:00.000-07:00

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” Matthew 5:7
Something happened this week that put the words mercy and justice into stark relief for me. Justice was administered in a case before a parole board – strict justice. The logic of it was impeccable. The person involved had been convicted of possession of marijuana for the second time, which in Alabama is a felony, no matter how small the amount of it. Then the person had, in a moment of weakness, smoked marijuana at the work release camp. It was pretty cut and dried. He’d blown it. Parole denied, justice served.
Mercy, however, was not present. No amount of pleading or any other facts swayed the board. Not the fact that he had a job waiting for him and good friends and family who would support him to stay away from the weed, and a minister’s support as well. Nor the fact that his son wanted him at his birthday party. The man in charge of the parole board said that if this man were paroled, it would be mercy, not justice. In those words.
It got me to thinking about justice, fairness, mercy. It is all too easy to say that people in prison or in poverty deserve to be where they are. They made the wrong choices, really stupid ones. If they worked harder they could get money. We sit in our nice homes and shake our heads and thank the good Lord we aren’t like them.
But who we are, it seems to me, depends on three factors: First, our genetics, how we are born; secondly, what happens to us, especially in our early years, and third; what we decide to do about the first two.
We have no control over these first two factors. We might be born with a lower IQ into an abusive family, or be fortunate enough to be born with high intelligence into a loving family. We have all seen or heard of people overcoming horrible backgrounds and people going bad even after having every advantage. Somehow they have overcome those first two factors.
So what are we to do as church members to help those in bad situations? Are we to sit in judgment, not allowing them to come near us? Are we to be self-righteous and smug?
Or are we to follow our Lord’s example? Jesus, who hung out with prostitutes, tax collectors and beggars. He told them to go and sin no more – but he loved them first.
I’ve heard of some churches that say they minister to the homeless, the addicted, the people in the direst of straits – but they won’t have them actually sit in a pew next to them. Is this love? Latham’s mission is to reach the unreached. That means treating them with dignity, loving them as children of God, our brothers and sisters.
There is a woman in Nashville, an Episcopal priest named Becca Stevens, who felt called to minister to the women on the streets there, who through circumstances and bad choices, wound up as drug addicts and prostitutes. She says that when we see such people, we should not think, “There but for the grace of God go I,” but instead say to ourselves. “There goes God.” She herself was abused as a child, by a church member, but decided to use this awfulness to give compassion to other women. She says, “These women did not end up on the streets by themselves, and they will not get back off by themselves.” She has set up several houses in regular neighborhoods in Nashville, called Magdalene Houses, where the women live rent-free for two years as they progress into their new lives, working at Thistle Farms, which the Reverend Stevens also set up. They make bath and beauty products from the lowly thistle, a plant which aptly grows beautifully in the harshest of environments. The Reverend Stevens brings the women in and prays with them, and simply loves them back into a safe place, never looking down on them.
Yes, there are laws to be obeyed. Our system of justice cannot be abandoned and all the cell doors unlocked. There is often learning that must be done by people who commit crimes. But justice tempered with mercy is what Jesus taught.
The passage in Matthew is taken from the Beatitudes, from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount.
“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” He did not say, “Blessed are those who make sure everyone gets what they deserve when they mess up.” We are to leave that judgment to God, in His infinite mercy.

Happy Birthday, Daddy

2011-03-29T21:14:00.000-07:00

My father, had he lived, would be one hundred years old today. The picture shows his parents and siblings around 1920. Daddy is the little boy behind his beloved Mama. There would be two more children born into the family.
I was born when Daddy was forty-one. My brother Charlie was twenty-one and my sister Pat was fifteen then. Eighteen months later, my little brother Kip was born.
For all of my childhood, Daddy was a salesman. It was a difficult profession; we never knew how much money there'd be. My mother sold Tupperware to make ends meet.
At one time there had been more money, so in the small houses we lived in were the remnants of a more affluent time. Barely fitting into the tiny dining room was a fine mahogany veneer dining room set; the china cabinet held Haviland china and very good silver plate. There were hundreds of books on the shelves my father mounted on the living room wall. We clung to the bottom rung of the middle class with fierce tenacity. We always had food, and though my dresses were often made by my mother, whose sewing talent was questionable, we had nice enough clothes.
Daddy could fix anything. I suspect he could do so because we could not afford professionals, but I think also because he enjoyed working with his hands and his brain at the same time. He once made a screened in porch into an extra room and built an enclosure around my twin bed that had a closet on each end. He repaired our cars and I remember glowing from a compliment he gave me when I hung over the engine of one and figured out how something worked.
He was to be found on Sunday evenings with a kid on each side of him as he read us the funnies. He'd tuck us into bed and "tickle" our backs as he sang us to sleep in his pleasantly deep voice. He sang "Billy Boy" and a wonderfully funny song called "A Clubfooted Rat":
"A clubfooted rat
Fell offa da house,
He didn't fall very high.
He fell right smack
On the backa he neck,
An' jam he tail in he eye."
He took us out into the back yard and spread a blanket on the grass and watched for shooting stars with us. The magic of this stays with me still. Searching the night sky sprinkled with stars, we oohed when one seemed to break free and streak across the heavens. Now whenever I am fortunate enough to see a shooting star, I always say, "Thanks, Daddy."
One thing he let us do would have gotten him in trouble were the child-safety police watching then. We had an old red Rambler station wagon, the kind with a luggage rack on the roof and a tailgate that let down flat. Daddy'd let it down and Kip and I would hop on, grab the luggage rack, and play fireman, going "Rrrrrr, rrrrr!" as Daddy drove five miles an hour through the neighborhood.
He'd let us play with his thick, curly hair - you can see it in the picture - and we'd pretend to cut it and style it.
He bought us skates and took us to skate the sidewalks of the Roebuck Shopping Center on Sunday afternoons when all the stores were closed.
He took us to Sunday school, and if my mother stayed home, we'd skip church and go to the Rexall Drug Store soda fountain and get the same thing each time - a vanilla Coke for me and a cherry Coke for Kip.
He let us ride on his legs in the local swimming pool as he hopped backwards - we pretended to ski.
He took us to East Lake Park and pushed us on the swings, running under the swing to get us up really high.
He told really corny jokes. We called him "King Corn".
My father lived long enough to see us become adults. He died at sixty-six, way too soon, of heart disease. I wish my children could have known him. I found out I was pregnant with my first son on Daddy's birthday in 1978 - but Daddy had passed away on Valentine's Day the month before. My first son looks startlingly like his grandfather around the mouth, especially, and both my boys have Daddy's thick, curly hair.
Rest well, Daddy. You did the best you could.
And could you send me a shooting star soon, please?

Losing Maggie and Scout - our dog kids

2011-01-11T21:14:00.000-08:00

Dogs just do not live long enough. A small dog might live 14 years; a large one a few years less. They are our companions and in the majority of cases, about 85%, we refer to ourselves to the dog as "Mommy" or "Daddy". They understand words on a toddler level and though they can't speak our language, are quite eloquent in their own language of barks, whines, licks and snuggles. They are our children with fur.

Two of our dog kids passed away recently, within three months of each other. Maggie was an almost all white Jack Russell with a Fran Dresher bark and the ability to leap two feet off the ground. With her white, almost lightbulb shaped head and black eyes, she looked like the tabloid alien. She was 13 years and some months old, and in addition to pancreatitis, she had developed a heart condition.She had come to us through our vet, who told us her owner had had a stroke and could no longer care for her.

Scout, our Rat Terrier, had been advertised for sale in the paper. A worried looking dog - I said he looked like Peter O'Toole in Goodbye, Mr. Chips- he had a nervous habit of chewing holes in blankets. Probably why the last family got rid of him. After he destroyed a favorite quilt, I was tempted - but he looked at me with those eyes and I just couldn't care about cloth more than him. Thereafter we covered the bed with thin, cheap blankets he could eat. He did eat them - we never found the pieces he removed.

Both dogs began to fade in a similar manner. They didn't eat or drink and had a faraway look in their eyes. Mary Beth noticed it and called us each time. A good friend of ours,she had been keeping them for us in a kind of doggie hospice, since riding in the truck with us would have been too much for them. She was a wonderful caregiver for them, and we will always be grateful.

We took them to the vet and he agreed they were dying, and put them to sleep gently so there would be no further suffering. We had each cremated, and their ashes are in little wooden boxes with their collars around them. The vet's office has a sweet custom of sending condolence notes to those whose pets have died.

Our Fluffernut is twelve. A Jack Russell mix, she is Daddy's baby. She sleeps in his arms at night. I hope it's not too much to ask God to let her live as long as possible.

My Son is Married

2010-11-13T11:08:00.000-08:00

My son Dave got married this past week. He met Melissa on the Internet, fell in love with her on Skype, and traveled to Halifax, Nova Scotia to marry her. And far from being worried about this, I am delighted.
Oh, I know you hear all sorts of horror stories about Internet relationships. But Melissa visited us this summer and Dave visited Canada. I am not worried. Men have always traveled to find a bride; women have left their own countries for a husband. Sometimes that is what it takes to find the One.
I am not worried. I saw the look she gave my son when they actually were in each other's presence for the first time. I saw my Dave's ecstatic look when he realized they were in love, not just friends on the Internet. This is real love, no matter how it started.
Dave and Melissa were married last Monday, November 8, 2010, in a simple ceremony at her home. Rather than wait and have a big wedding, they chose to do it this way because Dave will be applying to emigrate to Canada and live there with his wife. As an applicant married to a Canadian, his process is sped up. The only bad part is that he has to return to the States until the application is approved. This can take close to a year.
Fortunately, she can visit here during that time. I'm going to give them a big reception when she does!
Wishing the newlyweds a wonderful life together!

Lallie

2010-11-07T20:23:00.000-08:00

Our dear friend Lallie died Wednesday. Her services were yesterday. And I am still in the unbelieving stage of grief. She just can't possibly be gone, so vibrant and active a woman, in love with life and all its fascinating facets. Just - gone. Not possible. A brilliant comet streaked across the sky,lighting our lives, and we are still staring at the sky, wishing it back.
She was only ill about a month. She was only sixty-eight. She was only in the middle of moving from North Carolina to Huntsville, her husband retiring from teaching at a university there, one son's family in Huntsville, the other nearby in Birmingham. A little over a year ago, our son got a Facebook message from her, asking if he was the same Mack Allison who had lived in Birmingham many years ago. Our son replied that it was his father she'd be looking for.
Mack had met Lallie in the fall of 1967, just two months after he had met me. He worked with her at a branch library in the Five Points area of Birmingham. She was a married twenty-five year old mother of two children, working on her Master's degree in math. She was tall, with glossy, black, always-touseled hair. She had an exotic look, big heavy-lidded eyes and a mouth and nose that reminded me of Cher - or a giraffe, in a lovely way.
We'd go over to her house and there was always something going on. She had a huge black dog named Zephyr with a coffee-table-sweeping tail, and later smokey grey cats with Egyptian names. Her decor was exotic in an older house with "character", as they say.
But it was the conversation that kept us coming back. Lallie was interested in everything and knowledgeable about many things. She didn't treat us like kids; she listened and sparred with us verbally, challenging us to think, but never treating us as though we were callow.
When we eloped to the courthouse at 20 and 22, Lallie was happy for us,(my parents weren't, hence the elopement) and as we left her house, she threw rice over our heads. If rice is a symbol of good luck, it worked - we have been married thirty-eight years.
We lost touch with her not long after we married. We moved to Huntsville and withing a year joined the Army together. When I retired in '96,(he'd gotten out much earlier), we had lived at Fort Campbell, Ky, twice, Germany three times for a total of ten years, Fort Dix once and finally landed back in Huntsville at Redstone Arsenal. Meanwhile Lallie had divorced her first husband, Bob Lott, raised her boys, worked in computers and math, and had married Bill Campbell, moving to North Carolina with him where he taught math.
When she found us, we were delighted that she and Bill were moving to Huntsville. There followed wonderful dinners at their house or ours, trips to bead shops for her and I, soaks in their hot tub, and hours of conversation. We seemed to take up where we had left off decades ago. Except, of course, that we all had grey hair and grown children and grandchildren. Even so, I really thought we had a good decade or so to look forward to.
When she became ill, she fussed with the doctors in her characteristic way, and we thought it was a temporary setback. She had allergies and had had a stroke before, and was taking Coumadin and a few other things. But the energy of the woman was amazing. She was making a quilt, researching her genealogy, doing some beading, decorating their house, designing the garden and planting it, fixing her computer, and - well, probably a few dozen other things that I didn't know about.
Gradually it dawned on me that things were not getting better for her. Still not wishing to believe it, I began to pray for a miracle for her healing, and wrote this poem. It became a poem of any woman to her dear friend. Here it is:

No

You can't die today
The sky is too blue.
Sun slants in to warm your bed,
Fiery leaves brush your window -
You cannot grow cold.
You can't die tomorrow, either.
It's Halloween, your granddaughter
Wears the princess gown you made, you
Have to see that.
You can't die the next day -
All Saints' Day? I think not!
You can't die the day after that,
We have the craft show, you and I.
And you can't die next week,
You have got to finish that quilt.
You can't die next month,
With Thanksgiving and all that baking.
December is out of the question, of course.
Christmas triumphs over death.
So you see, my oldest and dearest friend -
You simply cannot die.

But by the time I finished it, she could not hear it.
She left us too soon, or perhaps right on time. She would not have wanted to linger in pain.
We who remember her fondly told Lallie stories at her service, and gathered for dinner and got to know one another. She would have loved the gathering. I met two of her closest friends, and we are keeping in touch. Even in death, Lallie brought people together.
I'd say rest in peace, Lallie, but I can't imagine you that still.
I'll see you again, my friend.

There is Nothing Like It

2010-03-13T22:31:00.000-08:00

My son is in love. I have never seen him this happy.

At twenty-two, he has had several girlfriends, and we have been happy for him. We have done our best to learn to love each one, advised him as best we could, and been there with comforting words when they broke up. It's been hard on us as his parents to see him hurt. He has wanted to be part of a loving couple but just had not found the one.

This time he has found a young woman with whom he can be himself. She laughs genuinely with him, wades fearlessly into discussions on subjects that fascinate him, and deepens his thoughts.

They fell in love on the Internet, talking and sharing writing. Through the wonders of Skype, they could gaze into each other's eyes from two thousand miles away. She lives in Nova Scotia; he lives in Alabama. Though the dangers of meeting an online friend have been documented, they have done it right. She came for a visit today. And I do not think there is much difference between this and the long time practice of traveling to the next village to find your love. The technology is new and the distance is greater, but the idea is the same.

To find another person who loves you as deeply as you love them is a wondrous thing.Someone who accepts you, warts and all, and helps you grow into the best you that you can be. The exhilaration of this new love shines from his face and has put a spring in his step, the like of which I had never seen with other girls. And there is nothing like watching your child's face light up when he speaks of her. All a mother wants is for someone to love her son or daughter as much as she loves them. Hard as it may be to let them go from your protective embrace out into the world, it is bearable and even heartwarming to see them embraced by their new love.

I am getting to know her. I like what I see so far, very much. May they always make each other's eyes light up.

Poem for Valentine's Day - for all my Trucker Team Friends

2010-02-14T22:23:00.000-08:00

This Must Be Love

As the rig pulls in, she is already gathering the shower bags.

He finishes his log page and the last sip of the coffee she made for him miles ago.

She makes the bed, a habit she just can’t quit.

He asks her if the pay paperwork is done and she says of course it is the packets are ready to drop in, I have them right here.

She tells him not to forget his reading glasses this time.

He asks her to hand him his current book and she passes it to him without a word, not even losing his place.

She bundles up the trash bag so the dog won’t make a glorious mess.

The dog is leashed and taken to the small grassy spot,

And encouraged to make a mess of a different kind.

She puts the dog up, and gets the bags down.

He shoulders his bag, and as they walk toward the truck stop,

They reach for each other’s calloused hand.

Rebecca Burke Allison
2007

Terry said, "I love you!"

2009-12-04T07:30:00.000-08:00

My grandson is three and a half. We all talk a lot in both families, and so of course we have encouraged his learning to talk. It was only fair to him!
The first really coherent sentence I heard him say, was, "Get down now!" He said this to me on his second birthday as he struggled to get down from my lap and go play. I was impressed - both by his using a whole sentence at two and by his independence. I let him down!
Since then, we cherish every word we get from him, especially since we don't get to see him but every six months or so, since we live in Alabama and he in North Carolina.
He was talking a lot when we visited last June. He had turned three at the end of April. I sat in the back seat with him, and the conversation went like this:
Terry: "Thassa red light. That means we stop."
Gramma (me): "I see!"
Terry: "Thassa green light. That means we can go."
Gramma: "Uh-HUH! What does a yellow light mean?"
Terry, pausing to think: "Slow DOWN!"
He commented on school buses, flags, and told me all about Thomas the Tank Engine, his current favorite thing.
But he endeared himself to me forever with this exchange, which took place as I leaned over to hug him bye-bye. He was sitting in his car seat and got this funny little almost sly look on his face.
Terry: "That was me."
Gramma: What was you, honey?"
Terry: "I haf a cow in my pants!"
Turns out he had just farted, and his Mom said that yesterday he had broken wind and she had remarked that it sounded like' "Moooo!"
Quite creative to decide there was a cow in his pants!
We have talked to him over the phone since then, and it has been fun, but not terribly clear what he is saying, not being able to look at his face.
But on the night of December first, 2009, albeit at his mother's prompting, my grandson said, "I love you!" Clear as day.
It adds a wonderful new dimension to the love between us.
I love you too, Terry.

Messages

2009-09-28T11:35:00.000-07:00

I have become a Lay Speaker for the Methodist church. This is both terrifying and exhilarating. I am now certified to be able to give messages to groups of people on matters of faith and Scripture. I have spoken to groups of nursing home residents and once to members of my own church, at the Sunday afternoon service.

I say messages, because it seems presumptuous to say sermons. I have not been to seminary. But the Lord in His wisdom seems to think that since I love to write and talk, He can use me for good. At least that's how I choose to look at it. I can't see being all proud of myself and boasting that I know so much. That would be, as one of my favorite authors, Judy Connor, says in her book, Southern Fried Divorce, "biggetyspeckled". You just know what that word means.

Along with giving messages, I am trying to listen and watch for them as well. I finally concluded that God reaches us in as many different ways as He made different people. Since He made us, He knows each of us intimately. He knows how we learn, how we "get it".

My degree is in Occupational Education, and I had to take quite a few classes on how people learn. Some are auditory learners, and get it when they hear the teacher say it. Others are visual - they'd better write it down or draw themselves a picture or a map. Still others learn by kinesthetics - by the feeling, hands-on doing of a task.

I used to read about some people's experiences with God. Some said they heard the voice of God. Some had beautiful visions, angel visitations. Some had awful accidents and woke up in a hospital with a realization about God. I was envious. (Well, not of the accident victim...) God had revealed himself to these folks in an unmistakable way. After that, they had no doubt He existed.

How neat, I thought. I wanted my very own vision, voice of God experience. Having grown up in the Presbyterian Church, I never heard of anyone I actually knew that had had that "born again" type experience.

In high school, I talked with a girl who was of a more fundamental faith. I told her, when she asked if I was saved, that I really wasn't sure. I asked her how to get saved. I wanted that rock-bound certainty about God. She gave me the basic formula. "Get down on your knees and ask Jesus Christ to come into your life and be your personal Savior."

I couldn't wait to get home and lock myself into my room and do this.

I prayed to be saved. I didn't feel anything right away, so I prayed harder. Still no feeling, no voice, no hand patting my shoulder, no certainty. After a while, I had tears streaming down my face and I was begging. Still. No. Feeling.

I finally had to get up and go to supper. The next day I found the girl I had talked to and told her I wasn't sure it had worked, I didn't FEEL saved. Without missing a beat, she looked at me and said, "You must not have been sincere enough."

Well. I left her, feeling very upset and more confused than ever. I was sure I had been sincere. Why had I not gotten the certainty of salvation, the feeling I wanted so badly. After a while, a thought occurred to me. It was, "She's only sixteen, too - what did she know?"

Gradually over the years of my life, I have come to realize that God knew me very well, and knew that had I gotten a huge feeling, I probably would have thought I was losing my mind. He knew that was not the way I understood.

Instead, He has reached me through experiences with people and things I read. He has put people in my life to help me understand; He has shown me things to read that further my understanding. I talk, I read - and I have learned to listen for God.

God loves me. He knows me. He does speak to me. In His own way and in mine.

I think that is why He allows all the different faiths. So that maybe, if we listen, we can all "get God".

My prayer for you is that you will get Him, too.

Pastor John's Journal: God Loves Even the Wicked

2009-09-28T07:15:00.000-07:00

Pastor John's Journal: God Loves Even the Wicked

I like this. God wants us all to come to Him. He is a most loving and gracious Father. And when we finally realize just how much we are loved by our Creator, it is so much easier to love our brothers and sisters. Grace and compassion, not judgment and disapproval.

Busted

2009-09-08T20:55:00.000-07:00

Ok, Jules, you busted me! It has been way too long since I posted - I evidently immediately forgot my resolve to post at least once a week, which is what happens when I try to discipline myself. Stubborn as I am, I don't even like ME telling me what to do.

So - new tactic is to write first, play later. Before I get on the "Innertubes" as my son calls it, I go immediately to my novel that I am writing. Once I start writing or revising, I am hooked. It's the getting started that I have problems with.

A wise woman with a very happy husband once told me, " I used to never want to have sex with my darling husband because I was tired, thinking about the kids, interested in something I was reading, etcetera. But I noticed that once he convinced me to turn everything off and go to bed with him, I had a wonderful time. It was just getting started that did not seem to appeal to me. So I very wisely told him to just start with me and I'd catch up!"

Writing seems to work that way. Just start and your Muse will run to catch up.

Yes!!

2009-06-26T08:48:00.001-07:00

I can post on this blog from my I phone. Yay! This will be short till I figure it all out.

Daydreaming, not Blogging!

2009-06-07T08:24:00.000-07:00

It has been too long a while since I posted. As any inveterate daydreamer can understand, I got caught up on Facebook and its Farm Town, and posting on CoachCreativeSpace. Then my laptop crashed - serious withdrawal!
We had also been driving all over the country with little time to write. Our dedicated run from Atlanta to Chicago and back, twice a week, died last fall when the economy tanked.
We are back on that run now, so maybe I can discipline myself to blog more often - I am setting a goal of once a week. That I can do.
As to Facebook and Farm Town - I think the new will wear off eventually

Easter Dreams

2009-04-09T19:45:00.000-07:00

When I was about ten, and far too old for the Easter Bunny legend, my parents still went through the whole Easter egg hunt thing for my younger brother and I. My mother would boil and color the eggs - I remember once she dipped them in such a way that they were plaid - and Daddy got the job of Easter bunny.
To this day, I can't bring myself to cut the grass before Easter Sunday. You have to have longish grass to hide the eggs in. And, of course, the tiny new spring flowers, the violets and the jack-in-the-pulpits and the little white and gold flowers have to be left, just for pretty.
There is this magical moment when you are little and rush out onto dewy grass, basket in hand, and gasp as you see the first egg, just barely visible in a tuft of grass. You scoop it up and scan the yard for the next one, run toward it stumbling with glee. There is finally a moment when you just can't find any more. Someone has to come and gently lead you back to the house, distracting you from the fever of the hunt with the promise of chocolate.
Like Christmas, even the secular part of Easter is still about love - love that parents have for their children, when they create those magical moments. And the spiritual side of Easter is about the greatest love imaginable.
I learned about a Father's love the Easter I was ten and awoke that Sunday morning, looked out into the back yard from my bedroom. I saw my Dad in his bathrobe and bare feet, loaded basket hung over his arm, gingerly making his way from tuft to tree root, carefully placing each egg in its hiding place. Hiding treasures for us to find, if we searched hard enough.
My earthly father is gone now. I have carried on his tradition with my own children, and soon will share it with grandchildren.
My Heavenly Father is, I believe, still hiding treasures for me to find, if I just look carefully enough.

"Disabled" Dreams

2009-03-16T11:52:00.000-07:00

I collect stories of people who refuse to stay as small as other people's definitions of them. Of people who dream bigger than they "should". Who defy the odds, refuse to stay defined by a disability. I'd like to do a book about them. Not just the spectacular ones who go surfing with no arms, but the quiet ones who become ministers despite severe dyslexia, who start their own business because others would not hire them, who battle depression daily, yet soldier on. My heroes are the people who get out of bed each day, lift their chins and say, "What can I do today?" Not, "Who has to help me?" or, "I can't do anything, I have_______."
They come up with creative solutions to get around their disabilities. They refuse to be victims, don't need pity, and usually can be found uplifting someone else.

If anyone has a story I can use for my book, please contact me at:
junebugnbulldog@yahoo.com
These folks need to be celebrated.

Love Dreams

2009-02-16T09:43:00.000-08:00

I have been married for over thirty-six years. I've been in love with him for forty-one. Maybe it's Valentine's Day that started me thinking about love.

Little girls dream of finding that one true love, aided by books, movies. Often unrealistic dreams are encouraged by the "happily-ever-after" stuff of fairy tales. So that when a perfectly good man comes along, we sometimes don't see him. Or if we marry him, we expect perfectly loving days and nights of glorious passion.

Here's a news flash, girls - it's not like that. It's much less, and much more. It's real life, and real love.

One of my favorite songs id from "The King and I", called "Something Wonderful". The king's head wife sings of the reality of loving a real human man:

"He will not always say
What you would have him say,
But now and then he'll say
Something wonderful.

The thoughtless things he'll do
Will hurt and worry you,
Then all at once he'll do
Something wonderful.

He has a thousand dreams that won't come true.
You know that he believes in them, and that's enough for you.

You'll always go along,
Defend him when he's wrong,
And tell him when he's strong
He is wonderful.

He'll always need your love,
And so he'll get your love.
A man who needs your love
Can be wonderful."

It sounds so old-fashioned in this day of lack of commitment, quickie relationships, divorce and do your own thing. But Robert Heinlein said, "Love is that state in which another person's happiness is essential to your own."

Really? Not, "He doesn't make me happy" or "She doesn't want sex with me often enough"?
We should be trying to make them happy? How odd.

But, as many odd things do - it works. When we try to make the other happy, we get back what we want, usually more abundantly than we would if we stood around yammering about our needs and wants not being fulfilled.

I love my husband. He is honest, hard-working, kind to strangers, loving to our sons and me, not to mention our three dogs and grandson. I plan to live the rest of my life with him, unless he goes first.

We met when I was fifteen and he seventeen, and bonded like swans, for life. I told my father I was going to marry him someday, and he said, "Oh, you're too young to know that. You'll fall in and out of love a dozen times before you marry."

I said, "Oh, no! I can only do this once!" It was too big and all encompassing, this love, this absolute pit-of-the-stomach certainty that he was The One. I have no idea how I knew. I married him five years later, when I was twenty. We eloped and later my father wrote me a sweet letter wishing us well.

There have been many trials through the years, many times when either one of us was tempted to chuck it all and be single. But there remained the bonding, the certainty that we were supposed to stick. So we have apologized, looked the other way at each other's foibles, fought loudly and passionately when we couldn't look the other way, and ultimately fallen asleep in each other's arms, cuddling like puppies.

This is real love, I'm afraid. I think we are stuck with each other. And as I watch him sleep, I think I love to be stuck loving him.

Daydreaming and A.D.D.

2009-01-30T22:28:00.000-08:00

You don't hear a kid labeled a daydreamer anymore. Now they are diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder and medicated. I wonder at this.
When I was a child, kids were left to their own devices to understand the school rules and fit in with them. If they didn't, they were called lazy, daydreamer, troublemaker, bully. Now there are scientific names and medications. Are we more sophisticated or are we wrong? Everyone understood back then that not all kids were headed to college. Now we try to make them all alike with meds. More on this later. I have Sleep Deficit Disorder and I am going to treat it with.....sleep, of course!

Daydreams and Reality

2009-01-29T20:29:00.000-08:00

We have a new President. I wish him well.
That said, I want to talk about dreams and dreamers, politics and Presidents, and the problem with putting forth dreams that people so desperately want to believe in, and then dashing those dreams or simply letting them dribble away.
Emotions are running very high now with the inauguration of President Obama. People of color dare to hope that things will be better for them. People who work hard but for low wages hope to see their pay rise to a living wage. People dream of a better life for themselves and their children.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "I have a dream." He dreamed of the day when people were judged by "the content of their character, not the color of their skin." What a lovely dream.
Have we achieved this dream, now that Obama is President? Who would have dreamed that a black man would be elected President? The thought nags still - was he elected for the content of his character, or the color of his skin? I think both were in play. His stirring words, his charisma, his ability to inspire confidence and hope, contributed greatly. Did also the color of his skin, so different from the same old white guy candidate, contribute to his election?
We shall see. I wish him the best. I hope he has not been so elevated in the minds of the populace that they will hang him for being human. Rock stars are only as popular as their last hit song. Obama can't afford to be a rock star President. He can't afford to dash the dreams of those who put him there.

How to tell if you are a daydreamer

2009-01-03T16:46:00.000-08:00

If you think you may be one - you probably are. But just for fun, I'll post a list so you can check off and see whether or not you might qualify as a daydreamer. Unlike many such checklists, it is a good thing if you score high. Unless you are one of those people who prizes conformity and convention. But you probably wouldn't be reading this blog if you were. Here's the checklist:
In school, have you:
1. Ever forgotten about the math problems because you were trying to copy the drawing of a clown on the worksheet?
2. Lost the class discussion because you were reading something more interesting?
3. Looked at all the blank pages in your textbooks and wished you could fill them up?
4. Watched the birds out the classroom window and wished you could join them in flying away?
5. Written your own poem instead of reading the one the class was studying?
At work, do you:
6. Avoid boring jobs you would have to sit in a cubicle to do?
7. Choose work you can do with your hands that leaves a large part of your mind free to think your own thoughts?
8. Doodle all over your desk blotter?
9. Create fantastic scenes in your mind during a boring meeting?
10. Get fired because you were staring off into space or talking too much?

If you've checked more than a few of these, you are probably one of us.

The trick is to recognize who you are and have always been - a daydreamer - and then find ways to be who you are that won't get you fired or thrown out of school. Try to find creative ways to get school credits, for example, by taking tests instead of having to sit through the classes. That's assuming you have studied on your own. Choose jobs that have you doing what you would choose to do if no one were making you do anything. If you haven't had training in writing, art, music, or whatever your passion is, get some. Try to become a real professional daydreamer and get paid for your writing, art, music. Don't try to be what someone else thinks you should be if it sounds like screaming boredom. You won't be good at it and eventually you will get fired or quit. If you can't get a job in your chosen field, choose something like cooking or driving or painting houses that allows the creative side of your brain to operate while the practical side is doing the work.

Daydreamers jealously guard their thoughts, and really hate it when they are interrupted. Better to be a skilled craftsman and work alone than be in an office where anyone can hold your brain hostage at a moment's notice.

Look at who you have been all your life. Then be that person, unashamedly. Daydreamers seldom hurt anyone else. Just watch out that others do not squash you.

Have a great, creative, dreamy New Year!

Christmas Dreams

2008-12-25T20:19:00.000-08:00

I hope you all had a very Merry Christmas. It's late evening of the Christmas of 2008, and I, full of cookies and kidnoise, am taking a minute to write.
I am at my niece's house, and have watched my three grandnephews and one grandniece tear open presents and make a cheerful mess. Everyone should have kids around on Christmas morning. If you haven't any or yours are grown, go borrow some.
The word "glee" seems to best describe their faces as they tear into the pile of presents. Their parents stand by grinning, as well they should, for they are making memories, magic.

My parents knew how to make the magic. They loved playing Santa, and I think were disappointed when we were finally too old to believe. Our stockings were flannel, homemade and filled with hard candy (which always stuck to the cloth and was slightly fuzzy), fruit ("Santa Claus" apples were the big red ones) and nuts in their shells. The stockings drooped on a chair, for we had no fireplace to hang them on. The rest of the armchair held all the presents that Santa had left. I remember specific presents, the ones that stood out. One year a Chatty Cathy doll, once a doll dressed in the same flannel pajamas my mother had made for me ( a collaboration between her and Mrs. Claus, no doubt), once a jewelry box with music and a tiny twirling ballerina, once a beautiful three speed bike, always books and some clothes. My brother and I had to line up behind the closed hall door, dancing with anticipation, before being allowed to run into the living room and find our stuff. Each year, the proof Santa had been there was obvious; there on the coffee table was the half full cup of coffee and the one remaining half cookie with his very teeth marks.
Christmas Eve had its own ritual - the reading of the Nativity story in Luke, followed by 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, then the singing of Christmas hymns. I still love those hymns and sing them in the car the whole month of December.
I will always love my parents for the Christmas dreams they encouraged and fulfilled. They had very little money, but they made our happy morning the best they could. When I finally asked the question about Santa, my mother explained gently that, well, no, there wasn't actually a jolly old elf, but that he represented love on Christmas. That parents played Santa for their children because of that love. Somehow I was not disappointed, but understood and loved them for it.
I loved playing Santa for our sons.
Love begets love. If one is loved, one learns to love. I hope you've loved a child this year.

Gratitude

2008-11-28T17:25:00.000-08:00

Look up this word online and you will get thousands of links (18,500 on Google). Gratitude quotes, journals, even dances.

What does the word mean to you?

Gratitude - being grateful, being thankful - seems to some to mean an onerous obligation, like when your mother prods you to say, "Thank you," to a great aunt who's given you an ugly sweater. Or it may feel like you have to pay it back, quick, so you won't be the one stuck receiving something instead of giving. The verse in the Bible about it being more blessed to give than to receive has turned out way too many pain-in-the-ass people who can't accept help, compliments, or gifts. It's really ugly to never need anything from anyone. Puts your friends and relations in the position of having to feel like beggars because they can never help you. But looked at another way, are you not giving someone a gift when you accept their help or gift? You are giving them the pleasure of giving, the feeling of having done something for someone else. I still remember when, after visiting my Grandfather and Grandmother in Florida when I was sixteen, I tried to give them a small gift out of gratitude for the visit. I had noticed that they liked a particular mint candy, so I bought some for them. I shyly handed the box to my Grandmother. She handed it back to me saying, "No, thanks, dear." I was hurt and confused. I'm sure she meant well, but it smarted. They had given me a week of their time and things, but refused my gift? Even if they hadn't wanted it, it would have been kinder to take the candy. It took years for me to be able to offer freely after that.

Yeah, I was very sensitive. Painfully so. Daydreamers can be so far into their own navels that they can't see daylight. Scared of rejection, scared to give, afraid to love.

I am grateful I am past that, for the most part. I am grateful for friends who taught me the give and take of friendship. I am grateful that I have finally learned it's not always about me.

Hope you all had a Happy Thanksgiving!

Clueless

2008-11-16T16:35:00.000-08:00

The longer I stay on this planet, the more I realize that none of us has a clue as to what we are doing here. We join churches, political parties, sororities, fraternities, and civic groups in order to pretend we are not clueless. We form elaborate theories, do research and publish volumes of studies, debate endlessly and still end up - clueless.
That would not be a bad thing, except that in so doing, we hurt each other. We exclude people from our special groups, we claim to have the way, the truth and the RIGHT ANSWER. We, at best, only have a partial answer to what humanity is doing on this Earth and how we should behave while here. But that doesn't stop many of us from claiming to have figured it all out. The best among us kindly want to share our vision of the truth and thus reach out in ministry. The worst of us kill those who do not share their "truth".
I have recently become a Lay Speaker in the United Methodist Church. That scares me considerably. As a Lay Speaker, I can minister to the ill and elderly, teach Sunday School, and even - and this is the part that scares me - give sermons. I have spoken three times at services in nursing homes. I spoke on passages from Scripture, the third chapter of John to be exact, and prayed that I understood it enough to speak about it.
In the end, all I could really say is this: We are created beings, created by a loving God. We are supposed to help each other figure this life stuff out. Wouldn't it be wiser to put our individual pieces of Life's Great Puzzle together, instead of jealously holding on to our little tiny piece while insisting it was the whole puzzle? Sheesh.
Pretty much, my theology doesn't get much deeper that the two Great Commandments.
I summarize them:
Love your Creator.
Love His people.
Now go forth in peace and hug someone.

What I Do For Money

2008-11-08T20:47:00.000-08:00

I drive a truck. No, not your little cute compact truck - an 18 wheeler. Turns out it's the perfect job for a daydreamer. Don't worry - a major part of my mind is occupied watching out for major death threats like four-wheelers, but the rest of my mind is - MINE! I write poetry, think about stuff, listen to the news or music or audiobooks, plot my novel - I'm writing about a kid who is stuck riding with her Mom in a big rig. I'm up to chapter 15.
I'm just not cut out for desks and co-workers. And especially not cubicles - what incredible idiot invented those? Co-workers can be nice, and I sometimes miss talking with women, but they can really bring out the worst gossipy side of oneself.
And clocking in and out? No thanks. I pick up a load in one city and drop it in another - in between I am my own woman. Only constraint is that the load has to get there on time. I'm grownup enough to figure out how to do that.
All this and I am making more money than you'd believe.

Daydreamer is Born

2008-09-27T20:34:00.000-07:00

Sitting in that hard wooden desk, clutching a fat red pencil with no eraser, staring at a worksheet filled with repetition, not able to get up and walk away - well, that's my definition of hell. That's how I became a daydreamer. At first I tried very hard to finish each worksheet, but then I noticed something. The faster I did one, the sooner I got another one. So - I slowed down. I couldn't leave my desk except to go to the bathroom or sharpen my pencil, and there were limits on those trips. So - I left in my mind. Here's a poem about it:

Staring into space
(Special space)
Wandering mind
(Wonder place)
Drawing pictures
(I am there)
Not doing your work
(Saved my life)