He was talking as he stood in line. He pushed his tray along the ledge with hands that were coated in dirt and trembled ... the right worse than the left. He was given his sandwich, some vegetables, two cookies. When he reached for his soup, his trembling right hand made it hard for him to steady the bowl and some of his savory grace spilt onto the tray. The person serving his needs saw the bowl had tipped and graciously topped his soup off so he would get his fair share. He shuffled to a table, sat down, lowered his head, spoke some more. He rarely joined in conversation with the others seated near him, except to make comments that really had nothing to do with any person or conversation near him. Several times he talked animatedly, laughing, frustration, but these words to no one other than to himself. At one point he did ask one of the servers if he could get a new belt. He showed her that his had broken in half and was duct taped together. It also would have fit a man at least three times his size. He was asked to follow her to another area, where together they dug through a box. He seemed happy that he had several belts from which he could choose. He put the "new" one on, tipped his head, muttered some more words, and took his leave.
He proceeded around the corner and up the stairs to the magnificent Cathedral. He continued to talk as he entered the church and took his place on the right hand side, about four rows from the back of the church. He lowered his head and remained quiet. No longer talking to the unknown. He remained seated during the first part of the Mass, making no noise, looking at no one, but occasionally lifting his head to look at the stars on the ceiling of the Cathedral. He reached into the pocket of the coat that was literally hanging off of his frail body and pulled out a plastic container that resembled a toothbrush holder. The filth of the holder was overwhelming. Surely this couldn't really be his toothbrush. What was revealed within seconds took my breath away. He opened one end and poured something into the palm of his hand. It was coins. Several coins. Some were pennies, a few nickles, and maybe a couple of quarters. He pushed them around in his palm, took two or three of them into his other hand, and put the rest away and placed the holder back in his pocket. When the collection basket came down his row of chairs, he took his meager coins and dropped them into the basket. His gift. He remained seated, talking with no one throughout the rest of the Mass. He did join in the Body of Christ during Communion. When Mass was over, he tipped his head and walked out the main entrance of the Cathedral. As he slowly shuffled down the sidewalk, he once again began carrying on his conversation.
I found myself praying that the voices he heard and the conversations taking place were with his friends. I couldn't bare the thought of him being alone in the coldness of the coming night.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
She Sees With Her Heart
She sees more with her heart than most of us see with our eyes. When she was but 10 months old, we made a visit to the veterinarian ophthalmologist to have her lower lashes evaluated. They were said to "turn in a bit." Maybe, just maybe the lashes were spoken of for about two minutes of that visit. Instead, we received the very unexpected news that she would go blind. "How could that be? She is only 10 months old," I said. I was told her retinas were detaching, and though the vet could not tell me when it would happen, it was thought that she would definitely go blind.
I put my precious Gracie, a sweet little bichon frise, in the car with me and started for home. After tears by me, tail wagging for her, I told her that I was going to show her everything I could in this world. From that day forward, we always took the same route when we walked, so it would be familiar in the future. I took her to the lake, showed her the geese, and let her hear them honk. When she heard that sound in the future, I wanted her to know it was a goose. When I threw her toy to play fetch, I always said, "Are you ready? Here it goes." Then I would throw it in the same direction.
I also took her to two other ophthalmologists for second and third opinions, being told each time, that it was a "fluke thing" that had happened, possibly an inflammation inutero with her mother, or with her as a small puppy. I remember no such inflammation. However, it had attacked her eyes, and yes, there was nothing to be done.
During this time of anguish for me, Gracie continued to wag her tail and find absolutely nothing buy joy in her life. And slowly but surely my precious girl did lose her eyesight. Now at the age of three, I really don't think she sees much at all. Possibly shadows, but since she can't read an eye chart to us, we don't know how much she sees and how much she has compensated vision. When we take a walk, regardless of the route, she leads me, ever fearless of what lies ahead. When a goose honks on the lake, she immediately runs to the dining room window and looks out on the lake. And yes, I know she sees those geese. To this day, she fetches her toys down the same hallway, always following the "Are you ready? Here it goes" statement by me. If I have told her once, I have told her a thousand times, "You can do it." And she has proven, over and over and over again that she indeed can!
My Gracie humbles me everyday. When she meets a new friend, she doesn't see the color of skin, Gracie only sees the person. She doesn't see the outward appearance of the person, she only sees the beauty of that person, and feels the gentle touch she is given. On her first excursion to the dog park, I reluctantly took her leash off and let her loose. I stood and watched as she started to sniff the parameters of the acre of fenced land. Then she picked up her pace and trotted to the center of the area. When we had arrived at the park, there were only two other dogs there. By the time we left, there were seventeen dogs who had joined in the fun. Gracie had greeted each dog and each human at the gate, as if it were her party and they were her invited guests. And she played with all of them.
I have forgiven the "fluky thing" that caused this blindness. I have forgiven the medical world for not being able to fix it. To not do so, would be a dishonor to the heart of my Gracie. I will forever remember that first day in the dog park. and the tears in my eyes. when she came running across an acre of land toward me with her ears blowing back in the wind and the sun on her face. She was free! And, I could oh so see that she sees with her heart. If only the entire world did so!
This writing is in answer to my writing club, The Red Dress Club. We were asked to write about forgivness.
I put my precious Gracie, a sweet little bichon frise, in the car with me and started for home. After tears by me, tail wagging for her, I told her that I was going to show her everything I could in this world. From that day forward, we always took the same route when we walked, so it would be familiar in the future. I took her to the lake, showed her the geese, and let her hear them honk. When she heard that sound in the future, I wanted her to know it was a goose. When I threw her toy to play fetch, I always said, "Are you ready? Here it goes." Then I would throw it in the same direction.
I also took her to two other ophthalmologists for second and third opinions, being told each time, that it was a "fluke thing" that had happened, possibly an inflammation inutero with her mother, or with her as a small puppy. I remember no such inflammation. However, it had attacked her eyes, and yes, there was nothing to be done.
During this time of anguish for me, Gracie continued to wag her tail and find absolutely nothing buy joy in her life. And slowly but surely my precious girl did lose her eyesight. Now at the age of three, I really don't think she sees much at all. Possibly shadows, but since she can't read an eye chart to us, we don't know how much she sees and how much she has compensated vision. When we take a walk, regardless of the route, she leads me, ever fearless of what lies ahead. When a goose honks on the lake, she immediately runs to the dining room window and looks out on the lake. And yes, I know she sees those geese. To this day, she fetches her toys down the same hallway, always following the "Are you ready? Here it goes" statement by me. If I have told her once, I have told her a thousand times, "You can do it." And she has proven, over and over and over again that she indeed can!
My Gracie humbles me everyday. When she meets a new friend, she doesn't see the color of skin, Gracie only sees the person. She doesn't see the outward appearance of the person, she only sees the beauty of that person, and feels the gentle touch she is given. On her first excursion to the dog park, I reluctantly took her leash off and let her loose. I stood and watched as she started to sniff the parameters of the acre of fenced land. Then she picked up her pace and trotted to the center of the area. When we had arrived at the park, there were only two other dogs there. By the time we left, there were seventeen dogs who had joined in the fun. Gracie had greeted each dog and each human at the gate, as if it were her party and they were her invited guests. And she played with all of them.
I have forgiven the "fluky thing" that caused this blindness. I have forgiven the medical world for not being able to fix it. To not do so, would be a dishonor to the heart of my Gracie. I will forever remember that first day in the dog park. and the tears in my eyes. when she came running across an acre of land toward me with her ears blowing back in the wind and the sun on her face. She was free! And, I could oh so see that she sees with her heart. If only the entire world did so!
This writing is in answer to my writing club, The Red Dress Club. We were asked to write about forgivness.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
What's the fuzz? Tell Me What's Happening ...
When I first started watching the process, I wasn't tall enough to see the counter top. I just knew it all looked interesting and that I absolutely loved the outcome. I could see flour being shaken, a white substance being scooped from a large can, and water being added slowly, and of course a little salt. Then I would see the juicy fruit being added, the oven door being opened, and then a buzzer sounding about an hour later. Then, it was mine.
As I got older I continued to watch the process, and then finally decided that I would learn the process ...
My mother gathered me at the kitchen counter, spread out her waxed paper, and it all began. Some flour, of course, she didn't measure. So, I decided before she added any other ingredients, I would scoop the flour she had sprinkled out into a measuring cup, so I would know the right proportion. Then she scooped the Crisco from the large can. Again no measuring, so I was left with the scooping method again to get the accurate measurement. Then came the iced water. Yes, a glass filled with water and a few ice cubes. I couldn't measure this, since there was no chance for scooping, so I had to use the "eyeball" method. Then a sprinkling of salt. I would ask, "how do you know it is all the right texture?" To which she would add, "you just need to make sure it is short enough." By this, I think she meant the Crisco. Because trust me, this recipe stood taller than any I've had since.
Then in her round glass casserole bowl, she would add peaches, a little sugar, and a touch more flour. Stirring ever so gently. Then she would take the heavy, round, wooden rolling pin, flour another piece of waxed paper, and roll the dough mixture out into a flat and perfectly thickened round disc. She would then place this over the peach mixture, crimping it along the top edge of the casserole dish. Each crimp was the perfect indentation of her index finger on top, and her thumb on the bottom. But she wasn't finished quite yet with this undertaking. You see, there was always a bit of the dough mixture left over ... by design. She would then take this dough mixture, roll it out once again, and then she would take cinnamon and sugar, sprinkle it on top, and then roll it up "jelly roll" style.
Both of these prepared dishes would now go in the oven at 350 degrees for about an hour. Then I would begin to smell the process after just a few minutes. About an hour later, music to my ears!! The timer for the oven would sound its musical pleasure. Both of the master pieces were taken from the oven and then set on the wooden chopping board which had been placed on the counter top. The chopping board had been turned upside down, because it had been hand painted by my sister in the first grade, and nothing was allowed to sit on the painted side. Then I was told, "we need to let it cool for just a bit." While the cooling process was taking place, out would come a small box and the table would be set. The master pieces would then be transferred to the center of the table, the small box opened, and the candles placed lovingly in the center of the casserole piece of art. Then the familiar song would be sung, clapping would follow, and then my family was blessed with the best peach cobbler on the earth!!
Yes, my February birthday dessert was always my Mother's homemade peach cobbler. I had this for practically every birthday from the time I can remember, until my 52nd birthday. Then shortly after my 52nd birthday my Mother passed on the second to last day of March. I haven't had a peach cobbler of that caliber since then. Even though I spent that painstaking time of "measuring" all her ingredients, as she worked her magic, I've never tried to make her famous crust to top my peach cobbler. I don't know if the reason for not trying is a fear of not being able to do it, or probably more truthfully, that it is a sacred memory that I refuse to give up or compromise. Sure, I can make the peach concoction, but the crust and even the "jelly roll" style cinnamon roll-up is better left to the memory. It's more than a memory of the actual decadence of the dessert. It's the love it was made of. I just choose to hold it in my heart.
The above was written as a challenge from my writing group, The Red Dress Club. We were asked to write about a fruit. My love of peaches far exceeds their flavor. It remains a piece of my Mother's special touch.
As I got older I continued to watch the process, and then finally decided that I would learn the process ...
My mother gathered me at the kitchen counter, spread out her waxed paper, and it all began. Some flour, of course, she didn't measure. So, I decided before she added any other ingredients, I would scoop the flour she had sprinkled out into a measuring cup, so I would know the right proportion. Then she scooped the Crisco from the large can. Again no measuring, so I was left with the scooping method again to get the accurate measurement. Then came the iced water. Yes, a glass filled with water and a few ice cubes. I couldn't measure this, since there was no chance for scooping, so I had to use the "eyeball" method. Then a sprinkling of salt. I would ask, "how do you know it is all the right texture?" To which she would add, "you just need to make sure it is short enough." By this, I think she meant the Crisco. Because trust me, this recipe stood taller than any I've had since.
Then in her round glass casserole bowl, she would add peaches, a little sugar, and a touch more flour. Stirring ever so gently. Then she would take the heavy, round, wooden rolling pin, flour another piece of waxed paper, and roll the dough mixture out into a flat and perfectly thickened round disc. She would then place this over the peach mixture, crimping it along the top edge of the casserole dish. Each crimp was the perfect indentation of her index finger on top, and her thumb on the bottom. But she wasn't finished quite yet with this undertaking. You see, there was always a bit of the dough mixture left over ... by design. She would then take this dough mixture, roll it out once again, and then she would take cinnamon and sugar, sprinkle it on top, and then roll it up "jelly roll" style.
Both of these prepared dishes would now go in the oven at 350 degrees for about an hour. Then I would begin to smell the process after just a few minutes. About an hour later, music to my ears!! The timer for the oven would sound its musical pleasure. Both of the master pieces were taken from the oven and then set on the wooden chopping board which had been placed on the counter top. The chopping board had been turned upside down, because it had been hand painted by my sister in the first grade, and nothing was allowed to sit on the painted side. Then I was told, "we need to let it cool for just a bit." While the cooling process was taking place, out would come a small box and the table would be set. The master pieces would then be transferred to the center of the table, the small box opened, and the candles placed lovingly in the center of the casserole piece of art. Then the familiar song would be sung, clapping would follow, and then my family was blessed with the best peach cobbler on the earth!!
Yes, my February birthday dessert was always my Mother's homemade peach cobbler. I had this for practically every birthday from the time I can remember, until my 52nd birthday. Then shortly after my 52nd birthday my Mother passed on the second to last day of March. I haven't had a peach cobbler of that caliber since then. Even though I spent that painstaking time of "measuring" all her ingredients, as she worked her magic, I've never tried to make her famous crust to top my peach cobbler. I don't know if the reason for not trying is a fear of not being able to do it, or probably more truthfully, that it is a sacred memory that I refuse to give up or compromise. Sure, I can make the peach concoction, but the crust and even the "jelly roll" style cinnamon roll-up is better left to the memory. It's more than a memory of the actual decadence of the dessert. It's the love it was made of. I just choose to hold it in my heart.
The above was written as a challenge from my writing group, The Red Dress Club. We were asked to write about a fruit. My love of peaches far exceeds their flavor. It remains a piece of my Mother's special touch.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
How Can I Help ...
How Can I Help …
March 30, 2005
When a person has lost a loved one friends immediately want to know “How can I help?” I was certainly no exception to this rule. My friends rallied around me from the minute my Mother died, and some even during her final 2 hours of life, and “kicked into gear.” One of my friends even stated that my friends from work should start a Bereavement Committee; they were so on top of things. I think friends want to help because in their way they are grieving with you. Even if they didn’t know your loved one, they love you, and in this sense they grieve right along with you. The morning of my Mother’s death, before I left to go to the hospital and certainly before I knew this would be the day it would happen, I walked into my kitchen to a sink full of dishes and a counter top that if you didn’t know there was a counter top there, you wouldn’t have known. I stood, surveyed the mess, thought about cleaning it up quickly, but then readily decided I was going on to the hospital because no one would be in my house that day! Little did I know that by the end of that day over 30 people would be in my house. By the grace of God, my friends came to my house within an hour of my Mother’s death, brought food, brought paper products, brought soft drinks, and while I left to go to the funeral home and church to make arrangements, they cleaned my house! I'm sure crying along the way for me, as well. This was one of the biggest blessings they could have done for me. In addition to cleaning my house, one of my friends and his wife even sent a cleaning crew to my Mother’s house and thoroughly cleaned her house, even shampooing her carpets. Unbeknown to me, Mother had been so ill the night before that her house and carpet were very soiled. I don’t know what I would have done if the cleaning crew hadn’t come. You see, my sister, her husband, and my niece were arriving at 11:00 p.m. that evening from New York, and their plans were to stay at Mother’s house. Everyone’s help continued for several days and even weeks after my Mother’s death. In a sense, I know their help will be life long because simply their presence in my life is a source of strength to me. How blessed can one person be?
Reflection … Loving father you have given me so many blessings during my life, and I’ve always said one of my biggest blessings is the gift of my circle of friends. I acknowledged my thanks to them during my Mother’s eulogy, in your presence, and the celebration of life Mass for my Mother. I ask that you continue to bless my friends with peace, happiness, and health. They are special souls, as you well know, but I feel the need to thank you again for this gift of kindred spirits and friendship.
This writing is an assignment for The Red Dress Club. It is an answer to a challenge to describe myself without using adjectives. My life is defined by my beautiful circle of friends. This is but just one example of how important friends are in my life. As you can see by the date of this writing, it has been six years since my Mother passed. My same circle of friends love me today, and I return their love in full force. I have, over these six years, helped them say goodbye to their parents. I've sat with them during their sadness, cooked the food, but mostly have loved them and given them a shoulder to cry on, or an embrace to strengthen them. Friendship is not just important to me, it is the heart of my core.
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