white woman jello-shot flashback

Good morning. Mathew, my big man/boy youngest son and I just returned from a whirlwind trip to Ohio. It was a Semper Fi kind of thing. Stoke just got himself hitched and we got to share in all the festivities and let me just warn you, there were jello shots involved. Completely harmless looking little things, really. It's like a rainbow of gooey jellied yum-yum treats, especially when they are all stacked up on one another. And then the floor, the surface of trust and solidness, just comes right up and smacks you when you least expect it and the little cuckoo birds turn a bright black and blue as they swirl around your head. Sounds like an acid trip somehow, not that I have ever taken one of those, that's just seventies talk I have heard from my older brother. Not where I really wanted to go at all this morning, on a jello-shot flashback...

We had a beautiful time, we drove for six hours, got lost in Indianapolis because that's a limbo like area, probably closer to hell than heaven- I even got called a white woman. Never been called that before, but I was not offended, oh no! The man who said that used it in a sentence like this:

"White women, look at me! Forget thees map and listen what I tell you, get out of here, you are not safe. Take right at stop light, take right again and keep on going unteel you get out...you understand me?!" "Do not look at thee effing map unteel you do what I say, just get out of here soon now!"

"Uh, thanks..."

I had left the protective big 6' 2" man boy out in the engine-running-locked-truck while I approached this man, I found myself sprinting back, banging on the windows (now I'm sure I looked like a crazy white woman, drawing all kinds of attention to myself by banging and yelling- "wake up, let me in!") The young man does not wake easily or perhaps took this opportunity to make a joke, either way he wasn't much of a security guard. We did get out of there, I won't even go into how we got so turned around and ended up in a place where perhaps, because of our extreme Irish/Swedish glaring whiteness, we might not have been welcomed without an Uzi...

But as usual, that is not my story, this is-

Big Stoke- Marine made man from Ohio, St. Marys to be exact. Met my Marine(Beau) there in North Caroline-y several years back, fell in love like men sometimes do with a buddy- a brother from another mother. They were inseparable, went to war together, made plans to travel the wide world, or at least the extreme southern states after their tour- picking and grinning and driving the Stang, that's Mustang to you and me. Turbo charged and fortified with blow-out-the-windows-and-your-ear-drums stereo. (I'm behind the times there, most folks don't call it stereo anymore, but you get the gist...)

Well you know in this turbulent world, some things happen that no one for sees and lives and plans get rearranged, hearts get broken and journeys never get taken. Sometimes, even big old Marines lose their heart and drop their pack- for too long. And then one wondrous day, after going back, over and over the reasons of why and the question that never gets a good answer, a lovely lady enters in with a bigger heart than a big old Marine. And she looked inside of Stoke, went deeper than most I suspect, lifted that man's pack up higher than it had ever been before and he decided it was time to take a new trip. (Although incidentally, they still went south on their honeymoon...redneck!)





Ahhh...now I'm getting to the good part. Stoke is one tough hombre, but kind of soft in the middle, you know- like a good chocolate chip cookie. We met him at a time when no joy could be found, when packs dragged the ground and it really didn't matter after all- anything. Still, he was a Marine and was made to escort "Dirt's" family around the base before and after the memorial service. In a later telling, he said though it was heart wrenching, he was honored to aid us. He was so tender with my children,truly the first soul who treated them like they were not little pillars of strength, not made of stone- and so kind to them that we all kind of clung to him. We trusted his guidance and strength, really relied on this young man to see us through. The service was somber, ever been in a room full of Marines filling the pews, trying to act all Marine-like, trying to not cry, trying to brave it out? Silent whispering tears, that's what it was. But those are the kind that are heard and felt most of all, those are the kind that ache even after they've been wiped away. So there we sat, trying to live up to the examples being set all around us- honoring not my son, but a brother who served- a Marine.

As the service came to a slow salute conclusion, Stoke stood at the end of our pew and offered his arm as an escort. I was easily led, as were my children. Unbeknownst to us, we were not made to wade through the river of Marines- we were to exit via the parson's door, in full view of the congregation of military men and women. As these doors were opened, all eyes behind us were upon us. A large hall was presented, again open to all eyes and Stoke led us through, beyond the alter, through the doors and straight into... the parson's bathroom. I remember looking down to see a toilet just at my right knee, holy as that little place was, we had taken a wrong turn. Stoke was facing a wall, still extending his arm for me to be led. The kids and Beau's "K." followed right into the little room, actually burrowing right in there like a pack of gophers. Stoke simply turned an about face, shrugged his shoulders, took my arm and out we filed- to the actual exit.

Stoke, in the midst of all the sadness, on a day when no joy could be found- made us laugh and giggle and snort. Oh we cried, doubling over outside where the parson was waiting, wondering- just where had we gone?! To this day, we give Stoke all kinds of grief over that incident. Matter of fact- I was handed the mic at the reception there in Ohio, and told just that story. Jello shots make you do the darndest things...


(And am I the only one to notice how bathrooms and privies and um, well...toilets, have kind of brought about epiphanys as of late??!)


Take care-

by the means of Mrs. Jones

I live a charmed life. Maybe not a perfect one, but charmed comes closest to mind when discussing the ever evolving wondrous happenings that seem to find me day by day. Let me explain-

Several years back, my Marine and I took a trip, an important trip- to save Mrs. Jones. She was standing out in an open field, weedy and wasting away and longing, I felt -when I first laid eyes on her, to be a central part of life again. God knows in her day, she had many visitors. When I came upon her 9 years ago- the only visitors she had had as of late were sparrows and the occasional burrowing mammal, oh and possibly some reptilian company but ooooohhhh, I didn't want to think about that! (Since I knew the Marine would have to crawl inside and ummm, shake Mrs. Jones loose from her flimsy foundation.) (The Marine of course, wasn't having any of this, but the mother in me manipulated and guiled the poor boy, so naturally he obeyed just to shut me up. Or out of respect- yeah, that's how I remember it now...)

I'll cut to the chase or the long haul, whichever keeps you on the edge of your seat- we bound Mrs. Jones to a borrowed old wreck of a trailer, secured her securely and proceeded to drive the 90 miles home. We gave Mrs. Jones a place of honor on the farm next to the clothesline, surrounding her with hollyhocks and horseradish. Through the years, she was again- a central part of life. We loved her. Many pictures were snapped under her red tin eaves, many a smile spread across the face of many a visitor who proceeded to recollect their own outhouse stories from "back in the day." The years passed and the owner of the farm became weary in the upkeep and the low downs of running said farm alone. Even Mrs. Jones' nostalgic charm could not bring about the peace once found so abundantly fresh every day to the weary farmer. (That'd be me...) So- the farmer decided to sell the home place and with the farm would go Mrs. Jones. But- most of the interested parties considering the purchase of the parcel did not seem to take notice of the ancient beauty standing proud midst the horseradish. Some did not even know what she was- a privvy, an outhouse, Mrs. Jones for gosh sakes! I'd proclaim the historical value of her architectural structure while touting her bygone days of total necessity for relief and reading and stinky solitude. I began to realize with the farm sale, Mrs. Jones might become firewood or worse- an eyesore to be excavated. But then- a wondrous thing happened. Yes, now finally- I'm getting to the good part!

Last Wednesday-I found myself in the good company of a lady who works and creates beauty at the Farm near Salisbury, Illinois. I laid all my purchases down on the counter- a candle, dried grasses, cinnamon sticks and most certainly some Bittersweet Vine. The lady turned out to be Cheryl Pippin. And I liked her right away. A kindred spirit naturally...wondrously. Out of the blue a lightening bolt struck in the form of an idea- perhaps Cheryl would adopt Mrs. Jones! She did. Of course.

Mike, Cheryl and Mrs. Jones

The lady's got an eye for the poetry of life, for the day making details, for delightful things. And now I know why we meshed- we are the proud mothers of USMC men, Andrew and Beau. We will always be proud and grateful for our boys, even though we no longer get to lay our hands upon their shoulders, or touch their cheeks ever so lightly, to take in their presence with our eyes, to hear their voices with our ears- we still feel the absolute joy and endless love, we still remember and tell the stories of their lives.

We only just discovered last evening- the similarities of our lives, now intertwined- that went beyond mutual glee of old and useful things. We found each other through a chance meeting, over an outhouse. Mr.and Mrs. Pippen and I do not question that collaboration- but the Marines, being ever true and all...might just have two mighty fine soldiers "over there" who sure have a wicked sense of humor- bringing us together by the means of Mrs. Jones.

...I learned from stones I stepped upon,

death does not a life erase.

Some memories never multiply,

but new ones leave their trace...



Semper Fi

Take care-

Between Awe and Wonder

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!

Rose plot, Fringed Pool,Ferned grot-

The veriest school

Of peace; and yet the fool

Contends that God is not-

Not God?! in gardens! when the eve is cool?

Nay?

But I have a sign;

Tis very sure...

God walks in mine.

Poem By Thomas Edward Brown (1830-1897)"My Garden"

at their gentle best

Good morning. I've noticed the change in the seasons coming of late, a bit quirky in my observations I suppose, I see things that are poetic in nature and not all together structured to the vision of one's eyes but of one's heart. September has always been a favorite time of year for me, a melancholy month to be sure- Fall hangs like a cloak on the trees and dampens all the webs with dew. It's a time that all good things must end, or rather prepare for deep sleep, spiders have all my sympathy. They are the hardest little workers these days and I marvel at their work ethic, often running into their masterpieces while mowing or walking and then later finding that once again, even with their sure demise just around the corner- they rebuild again and again.

Before the leaves begin their free fall from the old Silver Maples in the yard, it's as though the branches and twigs that hold the stem to the leaves give a final heave and then slowly, deliberately bow- humbled with the weight of so many leaves now left to fall where they may, the trees seem exhausted and droops accordingly. Preying Mantises are everywhere- on the Golden Rod, the flag on the old summer kitchen, on the screens to the sun porch. Green and brown and sometimes a rust red, depending on what they're perched upon. And now too, the birds seem impatient- fighting amongst themselves or perhaps it's time that the little birds found their own way and in their reluctance to leave the nest- they squabble with their parents. The night noises are at their gentle best, coyotes howling in the distance, crickets and tree frogs harmonizing- the melody of September is one I know by heart and love so well. The Big Fish says in Maine- it's much quieter. This worries me so much so that I've decided to tape record my evenings here, just in case the silence breaks my heart. So much to do before the big move, but I cannot forget what sustains me. I must frame each event and give it subtle reference- like "September sunrise" or "late fall reflection" in case I need visuals too, on what has all been blessed assurances to my soul here on this farm.

Ahhh, my days are numbered now- not much longer, the wait. The house will be closed on by mid November, things being mostly settled by mid October, hope I will be too.

Take care-

There'll be laughter

There'll be laughter, even after-

You're gone.

I'll find reason, to face

That empty dawn

For I've memorized each line in your face

And not even death could ever replace-

The stories they tell to me.

I'll miss you...Oh how I'll miss you...

And I'll cry a million tears

But the sorrow will pass

And the one thing that will last-

Is the love..you've given...to me.

There'll be laughter...

written by Iris Dement

A good friend recently lost her dear-sweet husband too soon. I had written in the past of having friends (I'm very blessed with incredible friends who share their lives with me and teach me oh-so-much about love.)

who are truly living lessons in devotion to their mates. This couple were my number two teachers. Yep- I've got another set of soul mates who had been my model for what it must be like to live for an other's happiness. These two couples could not be separated, even in names. They were always the two names said in one breath, in one instance. Death was the only thing that could ever part any of them physically. And death has entered in and left a striking void...and all I can attest too at this time, for this I know and know too well; love never really dies. For them, for their families- mountains may seem like their twin. And for some time, there they will stand in the shadow of the mountain and they'll wonder, waking and in their dreams- how they'll ever get over it.

These things I write here are not meant to sadden but to make aware - the people who share your life are gifts of love. A blessing that must be kissed frequently, reprimanded gently in an argument and loved completely at all times. That's how one moves mountains, by knowing in time- that all was said and all was done, that there will be laughter again because you knew it oh so sweetly before, gratefully acknowledging that no one else could have made you smile so. No one else could have filled you up and made you know more everything than might ever have been discovered or even wished for on your own.

The song up above says so much more than I could ever conjure up. I sang it this morning, thinking of E-and-Jim. I sang it once more- just to see if I could get through it without the waterworks.

How death humbles us, weakens us, batters us- but never, when love is involved- diminishes us.

There'll be laughter...