One Person In Line

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.

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.

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.

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.

Ear Muffs! Anyone?

Oh, the wonderful family room with the large pass through window into the kitchen.  It seems a lot of silly and funny happenstances took place through this connection between rooms.  From my Mother tossing a creme puff to my Daddy, even under his objection, to the dog climbing through the window using  the kitchen table as a step stool.  But one Christmas holiday brings to mind an event that our family has laughed about and recalled for years.

Daddy had an unmarried sister. Note that I call her "unmarried."  I used to say old maid, until now I look at my years and marital status, and old maid just really rubs me the wrong way.  My Aunt Edna would join us for holiday dinners.  She lived just down the street from us, but one of us would drive the four houses down, pick her up, and "carry" her (as she liked to call it) back to the house for the holiday celebration.  To say that Aunt Edna liked to talk would be equivalent to saying that there is sand on the beach.  She loved to talk, boy did she love to talk.  And, it seemed that the person she loved to talk to the most was my Mother.

The Christmas we all like to recall started with  Mother telling, no actually warning Daddy, that he was under no circumstances to leave the dinner table as soon as he was finished eating and leave her to listen while Aunt Edna talked.  I vividly remember Mother's instructions that we were all to stay at the table, help direct the conversation, so that she did not become captive to a long, long tale from Aunt Edna.  However, as you can suspect, as soon as dinner was over, Daddy got up, excused himself, and left the table.  Mother shot him a glance that would have cut a whole in the wall had she concentrated her efforts in that direction.  He proceeded into the kitchen, through the kitchen, and into the bedroom.  Aunt Edna was sitting with her back to the pass through window, and of course, Mother was facing the window.  Aunt Edna had not stopped talking since she piled into the car two hours previously.  When Daddy appeared a few minutes later, there he stood on the other side of the window,  adorned with ear muffs!!  Of course, Aunt Edna couldn't see him, but Mother had a front row seat looking right at him.  Now, not only did she have to listen to all the conversation, she had to try to keep a straight face as she saw Daddy standing there, smiling from ear to ear, with his ear muffs on!  Mother and Daddy are both gone now, but when I see a pass through window between rooms, I smile with this vivid and warm memory of a simple pair of ear muffs!

Fried Bologna Sandwich

Sometimes it is a song, sometimes it is a special beach, mountain side, or sometimes just a particular word.  And, then, sometimes it is a fried bologna sandwich.

When speaking of sordid affairs, we've all heard the old story line, "It was the milkman that did it", or "it was the mailman that did it."  Well in my case ...  it really was the mailman.   Yes, my mother was married to the mailman.  My father, Daddy as we called him, carried our mail route.  And, in those days, that meant a heavy full leather bag, packed full of letters, bills, magazines, and his least favorite, "junk" mail.  He literally walked his route. No mail truck to move every block or so, but rather his own personal vehicle, parked several streets away at the beginning of his route, and then the long walk to deliver his mail, and then back to his awaiting car, at the end of his day. 

He would tell you that he had many blessings on his daily walk. From Toby, the dog, that walked each step with him, to all the neighbors that knew him, waved hello, provided hot chocolate in the winter, and ice water in the heat of summer.  But to me, his biggest blessing was being able to have lunch at home everyday.

I'm the youngest of two children, and my sister, three years my senior, moved from grade school to high school when I was eleven.  This was also the same time that my mother returned to the working world.  Thus, I became a "walker" at school. This meant I didn't get to board one of the envied buses with my friends, or even climb in a car at the end of the school day.  It meant, that I, along with many other children, had to wait until the last group, when the principal (a nun) would finally say over the school PA system, "walkers!"   That meant we could, in a single file, leave the school building, follow the "patrol" boy or girl, and proceed down the sidewalk, still in a single file, almost 3 blocks, before we would all disperse in different directions to our homes.  

As I walked down our street, I remember those steps, each individual step, and my mounting fear that I knew I was going to have to go into an empty house.  I have never liked being alone, and as a child was the kid that had to have the bathroom light on at night, would go anywhere with my mother, yes, even the dry cleaners, to keep from being home alone.  After school, I usually arrived home at least 20 minutes before my sister arrived home from high school.  I would open the door, quietly walk into the foyer, and know, just know that someone was going to be behind the door, ready to jump out, and grab me.

Then I would smell it, I would really smell it.  That glorious aroma of fried bologna.  One slice, one thick slice, fried with a little char and until the edges were curled, and then placed between two pieces of plain white bread.  And on very special rainy days, I would even smell the dampness of the wet leather of his mail bag that had been left in the foyer during his lunch.  I would know instantly that our house was safe because Daddy had been there.   Daddy with his fried bologna sandwich, with Toby waiting outside the door, and his car parked several streets away, had walked down this same street, as I just did, and our house was safe.  In just those few minutes my dread had been replaced by the warm feeling of safety, nurture, and love.  Some folks have a special song, a special beach, mountain side, or special word.  All I need is the smell of a fried bologna sandwich, and my world is safe and secure.