Author: gettingofftheinterstate

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The Youngest Graduate

by Donna Poole

The orchestra played flawlessly, and Pomp and Circumstance echoed through the auditorium. Jan put on hand over her mouth to hold back the sobs, but she couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down her face. Dave stood stoically beside her, but she could feel his arm trembling as he put it around her.

Finally. Here was Luke at the very end of the line of graduates. He’d struggled through extra hours at physical therapy all year because he hadn’t wanted to come down this aisle in his wheelchair. And so he hobbled, twisted to one side, left foot dragging. His progress was agonizingly slow. Goldie walked next to him with her leash fastened to his walker. People at this school had learned one short bark from Goldie meant Luke was about to have another seizure, and they usually caught him before a nasty fall sent him to the emergency room.

The rest of the graduates were all at the front, standing at their chairs, when something unusual happened. The entire last row turned around, stepped out into the aisle, and came to the back. They smiled at Luke and walked to the front with him, just as slowly as he did.

One of them reached out and touched Jan’s shoulder as they passed, and one small sob escaped. When Luke finally got to their row he stopped. “Am I doing good, Mama?”

She reached into the aisle and hugged him.

“You’re doing great, son,” Dave said. “Keep going.”

Jan noticed she wasn’t the only one crying.

Jan listened to the speeches. She loved hearing the valedictorian say whenever she was tempted to feel like something was too difficult, she thought of Luke and tried a little harder. Luke interrupted her speech. “I done good, right, Emma?”

Emma laughed. “You did really good, Luke. We’re all proud of you.”

Jan prayed silently. Thank you, Lord, for all these wonderful kids. They could have made Luke’s life miserable, but instead they went out of their way to make him happy. Still, if it hadn’t been for that aneurysm, it could have been Luke up there giving the valedictory speech.

Emma sat down, and the main speaker strode to the platform. “Oh, the places you’ll go,” he began.

Jan breathed a prayer that Luke would be quiet during the speech. She glanced down at the program. Every student had future plans listed after their name, everyone but Luke. Her mind drifted back to the little boy he’d been before that fateful day, his seventh birthday, when he’d suddenly screamed, grabbed his head, and fallen to the floor. She’d never heard words like “ruptured aneurysm,” “right anterior communicating artery,” “subarachnoid hemorrhage” “craniotomy,” and “hydrocephalus” before, but they and many more terms quickly became the most used and feared words in her vocabulary.

In a split second their once bright, active boy, who’d said he was going to be the world’s best aeronautical engineer when he grew up, became an unmoving, tiny body under sheets, hooked up to machines keeping him alive. After months in the hospital and years in rehab he finally learned to talk and walk again, but the Luke they’d known was gone forever. In his place was a boy sweet as he was determined, a boy with little memory of the past, and a boy who seemed unaware of the differences his physical and intellectual limitations made between him and his classmates.

If Luke couldn’t learn what his friends did, he learned what he could and worked three times harder to do it. His teachers, para pros and friends loved him. Never once did Luke ask, “Mom, why can’t I run track? Why can’t I play football? Why can’t I play in the band?” He just cheered for his friends who did those things.

Luke’s best friend was Goldie. Goldie did far more than alert to seizures. Luke talked to Goldie like she was human. Her fur around her muzzle was more white than gold now, and Jan was concerned about what would happen when they had to replace her. Jan worried about many things, but as far as she could tell Luke worried about nothing. He was just one of God’s happy children, trusting God and his parents to take care of him.

Jan had never expected Luke to graduate. He’d always thought he would. Now it was happening. True, it was a modified diploma, but it was one regardless.

It was both a proud and agonizing time for Jan and Dave as they watched Luke struggle with his walker across the platform to get his diploma. He was eighteen years old like most of the others, but he’d never really be eighteen. When the administrator dropped the diploma into a pocket in Luke’s walker, Luke turned to the crowd, grinned, and shouted, “I done good!”

Jan was amazed when people stood to their feet and cheered.

After the ceremony the students stood with their parents in a receiving line. Luke still refused to sit in his wheelchair. Jan could see exhaustion in his eyes, though he kept smiling. Person after person congratulated him and said, “What’s next for you, Luke?” Or, “What will you be doing now, Luke?” “What are your future plans?”

Luke just looked at them wordlessly. His smile began to falter. Dave always answered, “Oh, we’re just taking it one day at a time.”

Emma thought, Why can’t they just tell him congratulations and leave it at that?

“Mama,” Luke whispered, “all my friends are going to college. Can I do that too?”

Jan felt like someone had slammed a fist into her stomach. “College isn’t for everyone, honey. Not all of them are going. One is going to be an electrician, one a firefighter, and another is going into construction.”

Luke’s happy smile returned. “Oh, okay. So, I can do one of those things, Mama?”

Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry. And she didn’t. Jan held it together. Lord, what do I say to him?

Just then, another woman asked Luke, “What will you do now, Luke? What are your plans?”

Tears filled Luke’s eyes; he started shaking, and he almost lost his grip on his walker. “I don’t know, ma’am. I can’t do nothing.”

He turned to his mother. “Can we go home now, Mama? I’m tired. I guess I didn’t do good today.”

The graduate standing near Luke had heard it all. He took a step forward and faced the receiving line. “Hey, guys,” he yelled. “Luke has to go home now because he’s tired. But he’s thinking he didn’t do good. What do you say?”

The rest of the graduates left the receiving line and surrounded Luke with hugs. “Don’t you ever say that again, Luke,” Emma said. “You did good, real good. You did better than us all.”

Luke shook his head. “You’re all gonna go do stuff. I’m not good enough to do nothing.”

“Luke,” Emman said, putting her hand on his shoulder, “some parents need someone to stay home with them and keep them happy, because they’d be too sad alone. And not every kid can do that, only wonderful ones like you.”

“Dad and Mama need me?”

Emma nodded.

“Well, I can stay with them. I can keep them happy. That’s one thing I’m good at!”

And then the graduates shouted an old football cheer that had been passed down through the school for generations. “Luke, Luke, he’s our man! If he can’t do it, nobody can!”

Luke was crying again, but they were happy tears. As his dad helped him into his wheelchair and took him to the van, Jan hugged Emma. “Did God tell you to say that?” she asked.

“Maybe.” Emma wiped away a few tears of her own. “Will Luke be okay?”

“Luke will be fine.”

And as Jan hurried to the van, she knew it was true. Luke would be okay, and she and Dave would too.  She had no idea what the future would bring, but God did, and they’d take it one day at a time.

Today had been wonderful. The youngest graduate had been outstanding. And his dog hadn’t barked, not even once.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

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Shared Tears

by Donna Poole

The newly married couple standing hand in hand under the canopy of stars looked more like sixteen than twenty. The ocean waves lapped at their bare toes, and it felt wonderful on this sultry August night in 1969.

There were only a handful of people on the National Seashore at Cape Hatteras this late, and the newlyweds didn’t mind the solitude. They’d come to the beach as soon as they’d checked into their hole in the wall motel in Nags Head a few miles up the road, the only road in and out of the Outer Banks in North Carolina.

Jenny leaned back against Mike and looked up at the Milky Way. “I’ve never seen so many stars in my life.” Her voice sounded like she was praying.

Mike nodded. “They say this is one of the best places for star gazing on the East Coast. Are you glad we drove straight through from Michigan? That was a long haul.”

“I am glad. I don’t want to waste a single minute here with you. I can’t believe we only have a week together before you leave for Viet Nam.”

“Then don’t think about it. Let’s make a lifetime of memories this week, and remember, I’m coming home. I promise. We’ll come back here every August and look at the Milky Way if you want to; we’ll even come when we’re seventy-seven and too old to walk the beach!”

She giggled. “Mike, seventy-seven isn’t that old! I think we could still walk on the beach.”

“Oh, I doubt it.” He teased her. “You’ll probably have a cane, and wrinkles on your wrinkles.”

She looked up at him. “And will you still love me?”

“Even more than I do tonight. And when we’re seventy-seven, we’ll bring our twenty-five grandchildren back here with us.”

“Twenty-five grandkids? How many kids do you plan on having?”

He kissed her before he answered. “As many as it takes to get twenty-five grandchildren. I don’t want our children to end up alone like we are, with no family.”

“Oh, honey, we aren’t alone anymore. We have each other.”

“Forever,” he promised.

“Do you think God is letting them look down for just a minute tonight to see how happy we are?” she asked.

“I hope so.”

And then they held each other and cried. Their parents had been good friends and had died a few months earlier in a car accident on the way home from a concert they’d attended together. Mike and Jenny were only children, and their parents had been too. With no siblings, aunts, or uncles, their wedding had been small, just a handful of friends, the pastor, and his wife.

Mike wiped the tears from Jenny’s cheeks with his thumbs and kissed her again. “Let’s not be sad on our honeymoon. Our parents would want us to be happy. There’s just the two of us now, but let’s have at least six kids. We’ll need that many to get our twenty-five grandkids. Can’t you just picture them all around our table at Christmas and Thanksgiving?”

Jenny laughed. “I’m not sure. Who’s going to do all that cooking and cleaning up?”

“I will! I’ll do everything, and you can just sit there and enjoy our big family! How does that sound? It will be a good life, Jenny, a real good life. You’ll see.”

A week can fly by on golden wings when you’re young, in love, and in a beautiful place like the Outer Banks. Jenny and Mike wished something would block the one road leading out so they wouldn’t have to leave, but nothing did. A few days after they got back home to Michigan, Mike shipped out for Viet Nam, just one more uniform among the 500,000 U.S. troops already there in 1969. Over 58,000 of them died. Mike was not one of them.

***

It was a sultry August night in 2025 when twenty-six people piled out of their vehicles late at night and headed for the ocean at the National Sea Shore. They’d all checked into a hole in the wall motel at Nags Head a short time before, and even though they were tired, the matriarch of the family had begged them to come to the beach before going to bed. Most of them were wading in the ocean; the water felt wonderful on their bare feet.

“Hey, Mikey,” someone called in the dark. “That was a long haul, driving non-stop from Michigan. Whose idea was that anyway?”

“That would be Grandma Jenny. Who else?”

They were down by the water, but voices carried. Jenny was sitting in a beach chair with her cane next to her, glad to be alone for a minute. Time to herself was a luxury with her big, loud, crazy family usually nearby. The one she loved most, though, was always missing.

In 1973 there were 2,500 soldiers missing in Viet Nam. Mike was one of them. By 2015 there were still 1,600 missing. Mike was one of them.

Tears traced their way down the wrinkles on wrinkles in Jenny’s face as she looked up at the Milky Way.

Well, Mike, I’m here, just like we promised each other we would be. We got twenty-five grandkids, but I had to adopt eight kids to get them, not six. When they told me you were MIA in Viet Nam I didn’t want to go on living without you. I kept begging God to give you back to me. But I finally realized you weren’t coming home. You were with Jesus and our parents. So, I decided to keep our dream alive. Our table is full every Thanksgiving and Christmas, just the way you wanted it to be, and all our grandkids know what a wonderful man you were. All of them are here with me now. I wish God would let you look down and see what amazing people they are.

“Hey, Grandma, do you want to come wade in the ocean?” Mikey asked. He bent down and wiped her tears away with his thumbs.

“I’m not sure I can walk that far through the sand.”

“Hey, who wants to help Grandma get to the water?” he called.

Suddenly Jenny felt her chair being picked up and carried by some of her strong, young grandsons. They sat her down right at the edge of the ocean, and she slipped off her shoes and let the waves lap up over her bare toes.

“You were right, Mike,” she whispered to the stars. “It was a good life. I can’t wait to be with you and tell you all about it.”

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

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The Day We Almost Quit

by Donna Poole

Ideas taken from a sermon by Dan Poole

I wasn’t one of the Fantastic Four, Peter and Andrew, James and John, that double duo of brothers everyone remembers. I certainly didn’t make the Terrific Three, that inner circle who were closest to Jesus: Peter, James, and John. So, even if you grew up going to Sunday school every week, you probably don’t know much about me.

This story isn’t about just me, but it might help if you have some idea of who I was. Let me fill in a few blanks. Like Peter and Andrew, I came from Bethsaida, a town in Galilee. Before I became a disciple of Jesus I followed John the Baptist. As soon as I found Jesus, I told my friend Nathanael to come see him, and he became a disciple too. One other time I introduced some Gentiles from my hometown to Jesus. No big deal. I never did anything big. I didn’t write any of the gospels or stand out in any way. I was just your ordinary Joe.

Even my name was ordinary, Philip. I was one of four guys in the Bible named Philip. I don’t care if you confuse me with Philip the evangelist, but I’d rather you didn’t mix me up with those two sons named Philip that King Herod the Great had by two different wives! At this point in time, I guess it doesn’t really matter though.

Here’s something that does matter. Our story, the story of the Twelve. The story of what it was really like to be a disciple of Jesus from someone who’s been there done that. A lot of the time we had to be something Jews really hated—dirty, dusty, and stinky. We had blisters on our blisters. You may wonder, when you read the gospels, how we twelve could have bickered about such little things when we were with Jesus. Well let me ask you, how do you act when you’re overworked and exhausted day in and day out with no letup in sight?

Let me give you an example. It was the day we almost quit. To a man. No, I should be more accurate. I doubt John would have ever left Jesus. Judas though, he was always up for walking out at the drop of a broken sandal strap, and we broke plenty.

This one time, we were even more tired than usual. We’d just returned from our first mission trip, and even though we’d seen fantastic things happen, that trip was as far from a vacation as you can begin to imagine. Then we found out King Herod, that weak, wicked, worthless piece of garbage, had beheaded our beloved John the Baptist. On top of all that there were multitudes coming and going, a steady stream to see Jesus. We didn’t even have time to eat. So many people! Not all of us disciples were extroverts either. Me personally? I was about ready to become a hermit.

Did you ever get to that place where your body will hardly keep going, your soul is sick, and you’re barely keeping it together? That’s where we twelve were. Jesus understood.

He said; I’ll never forget the words, “Come apart by yourselves to a deserted place and rest awhile.”

By ourselves? Deserted place with no people? Rest? It was about time! Maybe this wouldn’t be an actual vacation, though I felt like we’d earned one and needed it, but hey! Even one day off sounded pretty good at this point!

We heaved a collective sigh of relief. We’d seen so many faces, so many hands grasping at Jesus for healing, so many voices shouting for him.

A quiet place alone sounded too good to be true. Jesus gave directions and we headed for our sanctuary.

Were we disgusted when we got there and found out thousands of people had anticipated our destination and beat us there? Disgusted isn’t the right word. Horrified is more like it. Everyone but Jesus that is. Ever compassionate, he saw their spiritual hunger and taught them. All. Day. Long.

We kept looking at the sun. Surely, Jesus would send them home soon, so we’d have our quiet time to rest. But no. Noon. Three. The hours crept by.

It was time for an intervention.

“Jesus,” we said, “send this crowd home. They haven’t eaten all day. It’s time for them to go into the nearby villages and buy some food to eat on the way home.”

Jesus looked at us and didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he smiled. “You feed them.”

We heard the words, but our brains couldn’t comprehend. Surely, Jesus didn’t mean literally feed them. Was this the beginning of another of his parables? I did some quick math in my head.

 “Jesus,” I said, “It would take a half a year’s wages, maybe two-thirds, to buy enough bread to give everyone in this crowd a piece. Where do we get that kind of money?”

“Does anyone here have any food?” Jesus asked. “Go find out.”

Out into that sea of humanity we went. If anyone had food, and I’m sure they did, they weren’t saying. Only one person was willing to share, a little boy who had five rolls and two small fish. Someone had packed him a snack for the day. Don’t tell me no one else had brought a snack. People always bring food on outings, but no one else was about to hand over their stash. Take good care of number one and all that. I gave a few people a dirty look, but it did no good. We took the little bit we had to Jesus. It was a laughable amount.

“Now go back into the crowd and make them sit down,” Jesus said.

That may sound simple to you reading this, but there were at least 5,000 men, and who knows how many women and children? Out into the crowd we went for the second time.

Did you ever try to get a big crowd to shut up, listen, and sit? We twelve were so exhausted by then we could hardly see straight. We finally got the people to sit on the grass in groups of fifty and one hundred. But they definitely didn’t quiet down. Not until Jesus looked up to heaven.

A stillness fell over the crowd, and Jesus did an amazing miracle. He started breaking up that tiny lunch and handing it to us. “Go feed the people,” he said. “Give them as much as they want.”

Sure. It was a fantastic miracle. But Jesus could do anything. We twelve knew that by then; this was the nineteenth miracle we’d seen him do. Jesus knew we were exhausted. Why didn’t he just have the food drop into their laps? Or why not serve it buffet style and have the people come get it?

And that’s when we almost quit. We couldn’t take another step. Our strength was gone. Not only that; we didn’t want to take another step. The hungry crowd be hanged! We needed rest!

And then another miracle happened. We obeyed in spite of feelings. We took the food from Jesus, and, even though we didn’t want to, we began moving among the crowd for the third time, handing out the food, seeing the smiles of joy, hearing the thank yous. Oh, sure, people will be people. Not everyone was grateful. Some grabbed and never expressed gratitude. Some actually complained there wasn’t more variety. But we twelve? We who’d used up every ounce of energy? Somehow, we had the strength to do this one last thing. And joy replaced bitterness. We were getting to be part of heaven’s work on earth.

Actually, we only thought it was one last thing. When the people finished eating, Jesus sent us back out into the crowd for the fourth time to gather up the leftovers, the food no one had touched. Guess how many baskets we filled? Twelve! What do you suppose we did with those?

That day, I decided if I lived long enough to have grandchildren, I’d tell them to always be willing to give God whatever they had in their picnic baskets. I’d tell them about two miracles. Jesus fed 5,000 people with a little boy’s snack. And Jesus showed us discipled God can do his work without human hands, but sometimes he uses ours. And that’s pretty amazing.

I didn’t learn my lesson all in one day, but gradually I got it. God wants us to pull people out of ditches, and they seldom fall into them when it’s convenient for us. People need us when we’re too exhausted to go one more mile. They need us when we’re on our way to a quiet sanctuary. But Jesus will never leave us, and he’ll give us the strength and joy to reach out. One more time.  

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

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Indiana Sidewalks

by Donna Poole

It was a waiting summer, an in between summer, a dreaming Indiana summer, back in 1973. Our firstborn, Angie, just a year old, loved to walk slowly down the sidewalks, stopping to examine every crack for bugs. Walks took a long time.

Angie liked it when I put her in the baby seat on the back of my bike and pedaled across town to see friends, or when the two of us played in the park next to our apartment. I scribbled dreams in my journal and read books on the apartment patio while Angie napped. Sometimes I wrote short stories.

All this free time was a luxury, an unfamiliar sensation. I’d started working when I was a kid. By the time I was a senior in high school I was working full time, and I continued that all through college, sometimes working as many as three jobs at once to pay my tuition. Now, college was finished. I worked only a part time job, had a baby who was no trouble, and an apartment easy to keep clean.

“I don’t think I’ll ever have another easy summer like this one,” I said to my husband, John.

My prophecy came true. The next summer, in 1974, when I was twenty-five, we left Indiana and came to Michigan to minister in our country church. 1973 was the last lazy, hazy, crazy day of summer I ever knew, the last one of lingering on sidewalks just because there was time to do it. Also, it was the last summer of sidewalks! We don’t have any on our gravel road.

Fifty plus years flew by, and I stood on another Indiana sidewalk. It was a warm, almost summery like morning this past Saturday. Graduation didn’t start until 9:00 AM, but I was in line with family by 7:30, waiting outside. Even in the large auditorium at Butler University in Indianapolis, seats were going to fill quickly as family and friends poured in to see the hard-working pharmaceutical and physician’s assistants students graduate.

But my heart was thinking about just one, Megan, our first-born grandchild, the first of fifteen. I’d waited in the hall at the hospital and seen her minutes after she’d been born. I’d babysat her and been amazed when she’d taught herself the alphabet. I’d danced around the kitchen with her in my arms and pushed her on swings. Then came all the school and sports events. I’d attended her high school graduation, but cancer had kept me from her college graduation where she’d graduated cum laude with a degree in bio-chem. For twenty-five years Megan had charmed me with her sweet and feisty personality, her blue eyes, the deep dimple in her cheek, her smile, and her fierce loyalty to God, family, and friends.

Standing on that Indiana sidewalk last Saturday, the memories rushed back, the funny sweet things she’d said and done as a baby, a toddler, a teen. How could she be twenty-five already, the age John and I had been when we’d left everything familiar to begin our new adventure as pastor and wife? The line moved just in time to stop my nostalgia from spilling out of my eyes and down my cheeks.

We got into the auditorium and threaded our way through the crowd to our seats. The music to Pomp and Circumstance began.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked around. There were so many students getting degrees and hoods.

I leaned over and jokingly whispered to Reece, our grandson, “I know God cares about all these people, but I don’t. I just care about Megan.”

He grinned. “I should feel guilty for saying that,” I whispered again, “but I don’t.”

He smiled again.

And then, I did feel guilty. Those students weren’t nameless faces in caps and gowns getting hooded on the platform anymore. They were people who, with integrity, knowledge, skill, and compassion, were going to change the world. They will be God’s hands, and when they can’t help heal, they’ll help comfort. I prayed for them.

And finally, there she was. Our granddaughter, Megan Michelle Poole, walking across the platform to get her diploma and her hood. I sat in that row with Megan’s parents, her other grandparents, her siblings, and two aunts and uncles. There wasn’t room for her entire huge family to come to graduation. I could feel the pride and the prayers going up from family there and far away. We had all, especially her parents, prayed and cheered Megan on, each in our own way, for two tough years.

Megan said the two-year physician’s assistant program is like drinking from a fire hose. It never stops. It’s relentless. Not everyone who begins the program finishes and gets their master’s degree. But Megan did!  

When Megan was little and fell and hurt herself, she’d jump up, tears in her eyes, and say, “I’m alright!”

Yes, Megan, you’re alright. You will always be alright. God will be with you long after some of the family in that graduation row are in heaven cheering you on from there.

After the ceremony we waited on the sidewalk to hug Megan and get pictures. And then a wonderful celebration weekend began! I think we’ll all remember it forever! It ended with us all standing on another sidewalk, getting one last picture, and hugging goodbye.

Megan will soon be stepping off her familiar sidewalks and beginning an adventure wherever God sends her to people who need her heart and her healing touch. I know heartbreak and joys will come to her. I know we can’t follow her. But just like when she was little, she might have tears in her eyes, but she’ll say, “I’m alright.” And she will be.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

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The Last May Basket

by Donna Poole

Emma stifled a sigh and tried to stretch a cramp out of her leg. She could take a walk down the hall, but she wanted to be here when Mom woke up.

When did Mom’s skin become so transparent? The blue veins on her hands and eyelids trace a pattern under her pale skin. They match the color of the violets in the basket. Will this be her last May basket?

Emma brushed away a tear and continued her silent conversation with herself.

Get a grip. This is the third time she’s been in the hospital already this year with pneumonia and a UTI, and she always recovers and comes back home. But she looks so tired this time, so frail. It’s a miracle she didn’t break a hip when she fell. It’s getting harder and harder to care for her. I couldn’t do it without Scott. Thank God he loves Mom too. I’m beyond exhausted all the time, but I can’t put Mom in a nursing home; I just can’t. And not only because I promised Dad I wouldn’t. Mom was always there for me, all my life growing up, and there for Scott and me too when we were first married, whenever we needed anything. It’s our turn to repay the love.

Mom had often told her she’d more than repaid the love, and when the time came for final goodbyes, Emma would have no reason for regrets. Mom had often suggested a nursing home. She’d cared for her mother and knew the physical and emotional strain caregiving was costing Emma.

Emma yawned. Time really dragged in a hospital, especially when the patient was asleep. She looked at the May basket and grinned. I should have tossed in a few dandelions just for old times’ sake! She leaned her head back against the recliner she was sitting in, and smiled, remembering.

Making May baskets had been a ritual when Emma was a little girl. She and Mom had walked through the woods gathering wildflowers and putting them into baskets. Mom had added wrapped pieces of homemade candy. And Emma had always insisted on adding dandelions, even though, year after year, they died before the baskets could be delivered. And then Emma had cried. The dandelions and tears had become as much a part of the ritual as the May baskets themselves.

Mom had tried to dissuade her. “Honey, why don’t we leave the dandelions out this year?”

“I want to put them in! The yellow is so pretty!”

“But you know they are going to die. I wish you’d listen to me. Sometimes, Mom knows best.”

“Maybe this year they won’t die.”

But of course, they had. And of course, Emma had cried.

“And don’t say sometimes Mom knows best!” she’d said rubbing away the tears.

Cora woke feeling confused. It took a minute to remember she was in the hospital. She looked over at Emma, sound asleep in the recliner. When had her baby gotten wrinkles and a few gray hairs? And she looked exhausted. No wonder. Ten years of caregiving will do that to anyone. How many times a week did she wake Emma asking for help in the middle of the night? How many times had she fallen lately? Five? Or was it six? And when was the last time Emma and Scott had gone out alone even for an evening?

She caught her breath. Honey, you never should have made her promise to take care of me and not put me in a home. This is too much for her, and she’ll never break her promise to you. You should have known that God can take care of me wherever I am. I’m glad I signed those papers yesterday afternoon when she wasn’t here, but they’ll be coming for me soon. How do I tell her without breaking her heart?

She thought her husband probably didn’t hear her. He’d been in heaven for ten years, but she still kept up the habit of talking to him about everything. She knew someone who did hear her though.

“God, help me leave Emma with a smile,” she prayed.

Emma had left her a little notebook and a pen. She wrote on a piece of paper, “Dear Emma, No dandelions, and no tears. Sometimes Mom really does know best.”

Cora rolled her napkin into a cone. She picked a few violets and put them in the cone along with the note.

The noise of the wheelchair coming into the room woke Emma. She rubbed her eyes. “Mom, you’re awake!”

“I am, and I have a May basket for you!”

Emma took the napkin with the flowers, read the note, and chuckled. “I’ve learned a little over the years, Mom. You’re right. Sometimes you do know best.”

Cora held out her arms to her daughter. “Then help me get dressed, dear. These people have come to take me to the nursing home. I signed the papers yesterday. It’s just a few miles down the road, and you can visit anytime you want day or night, but I’m going to insist you don’t come every day. You and Scott need time to make memories of your own, because someday memories are all you’ll have. So, go out tonight, and have fun.”

“Mom!” Tears poured down Emma’s cheeks.

“Hush, honey. It is for the best. You’ll see. Now let’s get me looking good to go to my new home. You’ll bring me a May basket there next year. This may be the last one I’ll give you, but you’ll keep bringing them to me, won’t you?”

Emma kissed her mom’s cheek. “You know I will.”

Emma watched the staff wheel her mom down the hallway. Her chest felt tight with unshed tears. Cora turned in her chair and waved. “And Emma! No dandelions!”

Emma laughed. “Okay, Mom. No dandelions.”

Emma wondered where Scott might like to go for dinner. It was a strange feeling to be able to choose, but one she thought she might come to enjoy. In time.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

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Beneath the Willow

by Donna Poole

I really didn’t want to go. I was so tired, body, soul, and spirit, that my feet dragged as I walked to our meeting place.

Maybe this is why old ladies shuffle. Maybe it’s exhaustion.

I could feel my eyes wanting to close as I forced one foot ahead of the other. It wasn’t love so much as habit that was sending me to our yearly rendezvous. I wanted nothing more than to be home in bed cocooning with my blankets tucked tightly around me, shutting out the world. But we always meet in the garden on Resurrection Sunday and had since I’d met him. How long ago was that now? Thirty years? And so, I’d go, just like I’d gone to church this morning with no praise in my heart, just a hurting dullness. But I’d gone. Hopefully that counted for something.

I was almost relieved to see our usual bench was taken. A young couple sat there, holding hands and laughing amidst the lavender hyacinth and yellow daffodils. It was no place for my tears.

I retreated to a solitary spot near the lake under a weeping willow and almost hoped he wouldn’t find me. I had nothing to say this year. I didn’t have my usual bouquet of fragrant spring flowers to give him, no new song I’d written to sing, no poem to read to him. I clutched what I did have, a wrinkled brown paper bag, soggy with my tears. I sat on the damp ground, laid my head back against the tree, and fell asleep.

“There you are!” I woke to his kind voice. I would have cried again, but I had no tears left.

He sat beside me in silence for a long time.

The sun was sliding low before he spoke. It was just a word.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What have you brought me in the bag?”

“Oh, that’s nothing for you, nothing you’d want. It’s nothing I want either.”

“Then why do you carry it with you?”

“I don’t know what else to do with it.”

“May I see it?”

I shook my head.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head again.

“It’s a broken relationship between two people you love, isn’t it? And your heart is in pieces because you think you could have done something to prevent it.”

I looked at him, astonished. “How do you know that?”

He threw his head back and laughed a laugh so sweet the mother robins stopped singing their babies to sleep to listen to the melody. “You ask me that on this day of all days? On my Resurrection Sunday? Have you forgotten who I am?”

I hung my head and whispered, “No, Lord. I guess my heartache got so big it made you look smaller. Forgive me. It’s just that this is so broken I don’t think even you can mend it. It’s unfixable.”

“I was a carpenter in Nazareth, remember. I have dried more tears and mended more hearts that you can begin to imagine. May I?”

I nodded, and he took the bag from my hands. He sighed when he saw the cuts on my hands that had come from the broken jagged thing inside that had torn through the bag and into my skin.

“You never should have tried to carry this.”

“I know.”

“And I can see your heart is bleeding worse than your hands.”

He looked inside the bag and winced. “This shattered pretty bad.”

“Oh, Lord, it was horrible!” More tears came from somewhere and poured down over my hands. “You should have been there!”

“I was. And I cried with you. Look.” He nodded at my hands. They had stopped bleeding.

“Thank you, dear Lord! Can you fix my heart and that…that mess…as quickly?”

He sighed, stood, and helped me stand. “I could if all were willing. This may take a long time. It may not be repaired until eternity. Will you trust and believe?”

“I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief! What should I do while I wait?”

He spoke one word before he walked away. “Love.”

I almost asked him if he knew how much love can hurt. But that would be a silly question to ask him of all people, especially on Resurrection Sunday.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

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Our Macy

by Donna Poole

Blue eyes sparkling, French braid hanging down her back, smiling and petite—Macy looked adorable like she does every Sunday. She leaned close to me as we waited for the service to start. I hugged her.

“Macy, Grandpa and I are going to see Joan in the nursing home this afternoon. She misses all of us from church. Would you like to come with us, and then we’ll take you out to supper?”

“I miss Joan!”

“I know you do, and she misses you too. She doesn’t get a lot of company.”

“She doesn’t? That’s sad!”

“So, do you want to come with us?”

“Is a nursing home like a hospital?”

How to explain? Life is sometimes more difficult for Macy than it is for us. She has more challenges and a few fears. Hospitals are one of them.

“It’s not exactly like a hospital. There are nurses there, but Joan has her own room, and she lives there. Remember when you went with your dad to see Cynthia? It’s like that.”

She nodded and looked apprehensive.

“Do you want to think about it for a few minutes?”

She nodded again then answered immediately. “I want to go.”

Later that afternoon Macy climbed into the car and smiled at us but twisted her hands. Her parents were out of town, so she’d been staying with her other grandparents.

I asked her, “You ready for a long ride? It’s about an hour.”

She nodded. “Grandma Bowers says if I get nervous it’s okay, because I should think about I’m going to make Joan happy!”

“You will make her happy! And she’s going to be so surprised! She has no idea you’re coming.”

In the hour it took us to get to Joan’s Macy entertained us with her stories, and her laughter warmed our hearts. I noticed something as she talked, something I’ve observed before. Macy isn’t like the rest of us. In her words there’s no judgement, no bitterness, no self-promotion. She never compares herself to other people. It wouldn’t occur to her to try to make someone else look less so she’d look better.

Macy does, however, say exactly what she means. She was talking about a “really old, old, old lady” she’d seen, and I teasingly asked, “Old like me?”

“Yes, just like you, Grandma,” she said, and kept right on with her story as I tried not to laugh.

And she said she loved our church, but we needed more kids, and she thought it would be good if we had a really nice pastor. At that, John did laugh. He’s her pastor.

“Isn’t Grandpa a nice pastor?” I asked

“Yes, Grandpa is the best pastor in the whole word, but this pastor came to our house one time, and he asked my dad, ‘Who is this?’ And my dad said, ‘This is Macy!’ And that pastor was so nice, and he shook my hand. He was a very nice pastor.”

We’re never sure, with Macy’s stories, how much is fact and how much is fiction, just like you’re never sure of that when you read my stories! Macy has a wonderful imagination and can spin an entire tale from a single sentence she hears someone say.

She told us many tales about “Uncle Matt” who isn’t her uncle, but who is her dad’s good friend. Uncle Matt is a firefighter with her dad, and he’s also a pastor. We suspect he’s Macy’s hero, and perhaps the “very nice pastor” she wishes was pastor of our church, not that she’d ever want to get rid of Grandpa. She adores her grandpa. And she loves me too, even though I’m so very old.

The fun and laughter made Macy forget to be anxious until we passed a hospital.

“Is that where Joan is?” Her voice was only a little shaky. Macy has come a long way in overcoming her fears.

Grandpa explained Joan had been there when she’d been very sick, but she wasn’t there now.

“I’m a little nervous,” Macy admitted. She doesn’t mispronounce many words, but nervous is one she does, and the way she said it made my heart twist. I thought once again as I have so many times before how much Macy enjoys life and yet how difficult some parts of it will always be for her.

John and I had already discussed what we’d do if Macy didn’t want to go in when we got to the nursing home; I’d go see Joan, and he’d take Macy to get ice cream and come back and get me. We glanced at each other, wondering if that was what would happen, but we underestimated something. Macy’s love gives her amazing courage.

I wish you could have seen Macy’s and Joan’s faces when they first saw each other and the hug they gave each other. Macy forgot all about being nervous in “hospitals” and told Joan so many of her stories our time together flew by.

Supper together was fun. Macy loves Walmart, so we’d asked her if she’d like to stop at one on the way home. She was excited about that, and we were on our way when we got text messages from three people telling us we were under a severe thunderstorm warning and a tornado watch. The skies looked threatening, so we told Macy we thought we should skip Walmart and head home. She was disappointed but didn’t complain.

It wasn’t long before the wind and rain started. At about the same time we got a call from Kimmee, our daughter who lives with us. The worst of the storm had already hit at home. Her husband, Drew, had been downstairs and she’d been upstairs when she suddenly heard a deafening noise that sounded like a train. With no time to go downstairs, she hit the floor and watched as the air outside of her window turned gray and dirty. The storm left as quickly as it came, and Kimmee went downstairs and looked outside.

I had Kimmee on speaker phone. “Mom, our big tree is gone and you’re not going to believe the mess in the yard.”

I could hear the tears in her voice. She’d loved that tree since she was a little girl. I’d told her the stories that had been told to me, that the old maple had stood on that corner when the Potawatomi tribe had lived here and had perhaps rested beneath it. It had been the tallest, biggest tree in our area.

Macy asked, “Is Kimmee okay?” She sounded even more upset than Kimmee did.

“I’m okay, and Drew is okay, and the kitties are okay, Macy. Don’t worry,” Kimmee said.

After we finished talking to Kimmee, Macy said, “Oh, I wish I could give Kimmee a big hug, because that would make her feel better…on the inside.”

Macy hates to see anyone hurt, sad, or suffering. Her hugs have made so many people feel better…inside.

Since the storm, I’ve been thinking about Macy and her love and courage. If Macy thinks about herself at all, I doubt she’d call herself brave, but she is. She’s brave in life’s storms, and she helps other people face their challenges.

Our poor fallen giant of a tree lies on the ground, and its buds tell us it had planned to bloom beautifully again this spring. It’s cold here in Michigan; it was below freezing this morning, and they say it may snow tomorrow. Still, the crocuses bravely bloom, even though they aren’t at all sheltered from the cold northwest wind.

God doesn’t promise to stop the cold northwest wind, but storms and tears are temporary. Our Easter celebration, with its promise of resurrection life, is only a week and a half away. And meanwhile, while tears freeze on our faces even in the springtime, God has blessed us with people who care and want to hug us and make us feel better…on the inside.

When it does come, what will that resurrection life look like, the one God has promised to all who trust Jesus to save them from sin? Some people might think that Macy, in her new life, will look more like us. I think we’ll all be more like Macy.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

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Just Live

by Donna Poole

It took them awhile to get to their front porch swing. He had two bad knees; she had a bad hip. They both used canes. But they got to the porch the same way they’d gotten through 80 years of marriage, slowly and one step at a time. Henry was 100 years old, and Sylvia was 98.

As usual, Sylvia did most of the talking. Henry nodded often, held her hand with one of his, and rubbed his knees with the other. He kept the swing rocking. Sylvia was too short; her feet didn’t reach the porch floor.

“Henry! Have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?”

His blue eyes squinted when he smiled in the way she’d loved so many years. “Of course. The world is in terrible shape. Inflation is eating our savings. We can’t keep up with this old farmhouse, and it’s falling down around our proverbial ears. We’ve outlived three of our six children and some of our grandchildren. That about cover it?”

“I didn’t say ‘proverbial.’”

He laughed.

“But Henry, don’t you ever wonder why we’re still alive? And aren’t you afraid how one of us will manage if the other one is gone? And doesn’t it make you sad that all our family moved south so long ago, and left us here in Michigan all alone?”

He shook his head and tightened his grip on her hand. “Nope, nope, and nope.”

Sylvia tried to stomp her foot but forgot it didn’t reach the floor. Her hip protested, and she winced. She raised her voice a bit more than she intended. “Could you possibly say more than ‘nope’?”

“I don’t wonder why we’re still alive. Lots of reasons for that. We can still love each other, pray for people, and help them. We’re in pretty good shape for the shape we’re in.”

He laughed. She didn’t. She’d heard it too many times for it to be funny.

He tried to wipe the grin off his face. “I’m not worried about how one of us will manage if the other is gone. It would be the hardest thing we’ve faced yet, but God would help us like he always has. We’re hardly alone even though our family is gone. We have so many friends from church who look out for us. And I’m not sad that all our family moved south. They were getting older too, and Michigan winters are hard on old bodies. If you remember, they asked us to come with them. Begged us, really.”

“I don’t want to move. I was born in Michigan. I’ll die in Michigan. I’m a Michigan girl.”

He couldn’t help it; he grinned again. He loved it that she still called herself a girl at her age. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’re my Michigan girl. I’ll love you until the day after forever.”

Sylvia blushed. “Oh, get on with you now. I love you too, but you won’t worry about anything, so I have to worry enough for both of us. We can’t live on the little bit of social security we get, and our savings are almost gone. What will we do then? And if one of us dies, the other gets even less social security; what happens then? Our insurance premiums keep going up, and they don’t even cover medications. We’ve been lucky so far, but what if we need expensive prescriptions? And food? Henry, groceries cost more every week!”

Henry patted Sylvia’s hand. “You’re right, honey. For once, I agree with you. Go ahead and worry. God has let us down so many times before. Let’s talk about all those times God has failed us. You go first.”

“Henry!” She sputtered, then laughed. “You’re infuriating. Do you know that?”

“You may have told me a time or two. What do you say we do what we came out here to do?”

They looked across the fields and watched the glowing red orb of a sun sink into a bank of blue clouds. Neither of them could remember how many evenings they’d watched the sun set, sitting together on the old porch swing.

The swing made its comforting creaking noise; the spring peepers added their music, and it was a peaceful night in Michigan.

Henry broke the silence. “Sylvia?”

“Yes, dear?”

“What do you say we just live while we live?”

It took them awhile to get off the porch swing and back into the house. He had two bad knees; she had a bad hip. They both used canes. But they got back the same way they’d gotten through 80 years of marriage, slowly, and one step at a time.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

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Three Perfect Pines

by Donna Poole

Except for the constant sighing in the wind, no one had said a word in one-hundred years. That’s a long time to be silent, even for a pine tree. The three pines stood on a hill at the edge of town. The nearby farmhouse had long ago burned.

Woodstock and Kiefer had been dozing in the afternoon sun when Phyllis startled them awake.

“Old man Douglas would be proud if he could see how tall we are now. He called us his perfect pines. We were only a foot tall when he planted us.”

Woodstock’s voice sounded grainy from lack of use. “Well, he’d be the only one proud of us. I don’t think anyone else has noticed us since he died.”

“That was such a long time ago.” Kiefer’s voice sounded dreamy. “Time flies, doesn’t it? What have you two been thinking about?”

Phyllis sighed and a few of her cones dropped to the ground. “I’ve been thinking perhaps I should give up my dream. My name means green bough, and I’ve always wanted to be a Christmas tree, or perhaps become fragrant wreaths to give people joy during the holidays. But what good have I been here?”

Woodstock said, “Years ago I thought my name meant I’d end up in someone’s home as furniture, or paneling. I would have been happy even to become a floor—anything useful. But, year after year, I’ve stayed on this hill, of no good to anyone.”

Kiefer was silent. A few hours passed. Cars drove by on the two-lane road below. It was too soon for peepers, but a few red-winged blackbirds sang their early spring songs. And mourning doves fluttered and cooed in the branches of the three pines.

“What about you, Kiefer? Do you know what your name means? Did you have any dreams that long ago faded into regrets?” Woodstock asked.

Kiefer chuckled. For an old man, his laugh had a young, almost musical sound. “My name means pine. Just pine. Nothing fancy about my name, but I’ve always hoped to be a part of literature. The pine tree is even mentioned in the Bible.”

Phyllis interrupted him. “How do you know that?”

“Didn’t you listen when Old Man Douglas read his Bible out here all those mornings?”

She sighed. “Kiefer, books are boring.”

“What? I think books are the most wonderful thing in the world!”

“So that’s what you hoped to be?” Woodstock asked. “You wanted to be pages in a book?”

“Not exactly. I didn’t want to be a book. I wanted to be in a book.”

“You lost me there, buddy.”

“Okay, listen. Years ago, a beautiful girl in a long dress walked from the farmhouse and sat underneath my branches. She opened a little book and read something I’ll never forget, a poem called “The Secret” by Dora Sigerson Shorter. I only remember the first verse. It said, ‘I know of a thrush’s nest, a pretty nest, a cosy nest, I know of a thrush’s nest with three fine eggs of blue; It is in the perfumed pine, the tasselled pine, the swaying pine, It is in the cool dark wood that I have wandered through.’ She smiled, went back to the farmhouse, and I never saw her again. But I never forgot her or that poem. Ever since I’ve wished someone would write a poem about me, about all of us. Maybe the poem could talk about the mourning doves that nest in our branches. That would make us of some use, right? People would read about us and smile.”

Woodstock sighed. “All I know is none of us got our dreams. None of us were useful to people. And even if we live another hundred years, it’s not likely anything will change. No one even notices us here.”

And fifty more years passed with the pine trees standing silently on the hillside.

It was another sunny afternoon. The trees dozed in the warmth. Cars drove by on the two-lane road below. It was too soon for peepers, but a few red-winged blackbirds sang their early spring songs. And mourning doves fluttered and cooed in the branches of the pines.

The pines awoke to the unusual sound of human voices. A young couple was standing near what was left of the foundation of the old farmhouse.

“Look at this, Jenny. This is where Great Grandfather Douglas built his house. And he planted those three pine trees. My grandmother told me he called them his perfect pines.

He took her hand and led her to the trees. He spread a blanket on the ground, and they sat together.

“Tom, what is that sad cooing sound?”

“Those are mourning doves. They mate for life.”

Tom was quiet for a minute, but a deep red color crept up his neck into his cheeks. “Jenny, I…”

“These really are perfect pines, Tom! How many years do you think they’ve stood on this hillside?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but at least a hundred and fifty.”

“Think of the storms they’ve survived! The ice and snow, wind and rain, and they’re still standing! The pines smell like perfume, and the way they sway almost seems like they’re talking. I’d love to sit under these trees every day.”

Tom’s words tumbled out. It wasn’t the speech he’d planned, but he couldn’t get Jenny to stop talking. “Jenny, I’d like us to stand together like these trees through all of life’s storms. I wish we could stay together the rest of our lives like the mourning doves. I want us to build a house where Great Grandpa Douglas built his. Then you could sit under these trees whenever you want.”

“Tom Douglas, are you asking me to marry you?”

“I love you, Jenny. Do you think you could be happy with me?”

She answered with a kiss and the wind whispered gently through the three perfect pines.

Phyllis pictured a front door with a Christmas wreath made from a few of her boughs. Woodstock decided he didn’t want to be cut down; he’d stay and see the rest of the story. Kiefer wondered if Jenny would read books under his branches.

When the young couple left the trees swayed silently. There were no words for this kind of joy. They’d been part of the sweetest poetry ever lived, sentences repeated a million times through thousands of years, words that never grow old.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

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Little Miss Sass Bucket

by Donna Poole

“Daddy, are you sure the air vents are really open?” I hung over the front seat of our 1950 Plymouth to check. Not that I thought Daddy would ever lie to me, but I was perishing of heat exhaustion and dying six-year-old girls aren’t always rational. “Let me see! USE YOUR MUSCLES!”

“Okay, Little Miss Sass Bucket!” He laughed and pushed the handle again, but no more air flowed through.

“Oh, Mama, please…”

“No, Lindy,” she said. “You may not unroll your window any farther. You know how Aunt Wanda is about untidiness, and our hair is messy enough already. Now, why don’t you sit back quietly like Maryann and enjoy the view? Complaining about the heat won’t make it go away. It will just make you feel worse.”

I sighed, scooted back, and looked at Maryann. Even though we were dressed identically down to our sleeveless cotton t-shirts and crinoline petticoats, no one would ever guess we were twins. She was several inches taller. Her hair, smooth and dark like Mama’s, was still in two neat braids, not a hair out of place. My hair, curly and red like Daddy’s, had escaped the rubber bands. I pushed it back out of my eyes and wiped my wet hand on my blue checked dress. The ruffle at the neck was making me sweat.

I noticed Maryann was still wearing the short white gloves we’d worn to church earlier. “Why don’t you take you gloves off? Aren’t you hot?”

She shook her head. “I’m not hot. And Aunt Wanda likes us to wear our gloves.”

Maryann noticed my gloves were missing. “Did you lose them again?” she whispered.

I sighed and nodded. She pulled off one of hers and handed it to me.

“Take one of mine,” she whispered. “Then Aunt Wanda will think we’re only half messy.”

“Aunt Wanda be hanged!” I said loudly.

Mama whipped her head around and looked at me. “Lindy! Wherever did you learn such language?”

I didn’t want to say I’d learned it from Daddy, but his chuckle gave it away. “I’ll be more careful, dear,” he promised. “But your Aunt Wanda really is difficult.”

Poor Daddy. Mama was giving him the look. “My petticoat is too scratchy!” I said loudly. “When I grow up, I won’t wear one. Not Lindy. Not never!”

That captured Mama’s attention, just the way I knew it would, and by the time she’d finished lecturing me about learning to be a proper young lady, we were at Aunt Wanda’s house.

I gave Maryann back her glove. “She’s going to think I’m terrible anyway.”

Aunt Wanda ignored Daddy. She greeted Mama with a kiss on the cheek. She held Maryann at arm’s length and smiled. “You grow more beautiful every time I see you, child.” Then she kissed her on both cheeks.

My turn. Aunt Wanda gripped my shoulders with her scrawny fingers and long nails. She looked me up and down, from the red hair escaping from my braids to the bow on my dress that had come untied to the white sock that had slipped down inside my patent leather shoes.

Aunt Wanda lifted her chin and raised an eyebrow. “Tsk, tsk, child. What has happened to you? You’re a mess!”

“It was hot in the car. I wiggled.”

“Of course you did.” She let go of my shoulders and stepped away from me like I was a distasteful worm. I didn’t care that she didn’t kiss me. The whiskers on her chin were scratchy, and she had bad breath. When she wasn’t looking Uncle Albert gave me a quick hug and two Hershey’s kisses. When he saw me look at Maryann, he gave me two for her too.

“Come, now, everyone. Time to eat. You’re six minutes late, and Sunday dinner is getting cold. Maryann and Lindy, you will sit at the children’s table as always. And remember my table rule, children are to be seen and not heard.”

“Yes, Aunt Wanda,” Maryann said.

“Lindy, what do you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Child, what do you say to my table rule?”

“Nothing. I’m not supposed to be heard.”

Aunt Wanda gasped. Mama put her hand over her heart. Uncle Albert chuckled, and Daddy wiped a grin off his face as soon as Mama looked at him and told him to speak to me.

Daddy gently took my elbow and steered me away from the group. “Watch it, Little Miss Sass Bucket,” he whispered. “There’s a time and place and this is neither. Understand?”

I didn’t really, but I knew he was telling me to behave, so I nodded.

Maryann and I sat at the little table next to the big one that had more than enough room for us and pushed our food around on our plates. It was the same meal as always. Aunt Wanda didn’t cook. She’d gotten this meal the day before at Big Jim’s Carry Out because nothing was open on Sundays. Mama said Big Jim’s had great food when you got it fresh. It wasn’t so good the next day, especially when the salad was wilted, the spaghetti had been warmed up too much, the bread was hard, and the meatballs were burned because Aunt Wanda had forgotten to get them out of the oven.

The conversation was the same as always too. It was actually a monologue, but I didn’t know that word back then.

“Where did you get that dress? I suppose you made it, and the girls’ dresses too. How quaint! And still just a plain thin wedding band and no other jewelry, I see? How quaint! You’re still carrying the same handbag you had when you got married ten years ago? How quaint! You probably don’t have any money to shop with is my guess. I warned you about marrying a man with no ambition, and what is he? Still a postman with the same route as before.”

And suddenly, Sunday wasn’t the same as always. I took my plate and sat under the little table. The long tablecloth covered me completely. Maryann peeked underneath and whispered, “What are you doing?” I held my finger to my lips; she nodded and dropped the tablecloth back down.

I took a few bites, thinking. If children are to be seen and not heard, then maybe it’s okay if they’re heard if they aren’t seen.

I had a talent for imitating voices, but I surprised myself at how much I sounded like Aunt Wanda. “A mama who loves her girls and makes them beautiful matching dresses. How wonderful! A mama who makes good food, not wilted day old salad and mushy spaghetti. How nice! A mama who never says bad things about people like her aunt does. How quaint! A family where everyone loves the daddy and doesn’t care how much money he makes. And a family who comes to see a nice uncle and a mean old aunt with whiskers on her chin because she’s lonely, and they feel sorry for her. How quaint!”

And then I started to cry. I could hear Maryann start to cry. Then Daddy lifted the tablecloth and picked me up. “Come on, dear,” he said to mama. “We’re going home now.”

“But what about Aunt Wanda?” Mama asked.

“Aunt Wanda be hanged!” Maryann shouted in a voice bigger than I knew she had.

The room was silent for a moment. Then I heard a funny cackling noise. It took me a second to realize it was a laugh and a moment longer to realize it was coming from Aunt Wanda.

“If I apologize will everyone please sit back down and finish dinner?” Then Aunt Wanda got out of her chair and apologized to every single person including Uncle Albert.

When she got to me, she asked, “Do I really have whiskers on my chin?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you for telling me. I don’t see as well as I used to. I imagine when you’re an old lady you’d like someone to tell you if you had whiskers on your chin.”

“I would. Your whiskers are very scratchy.”

Aunt Wanda laughed again, bent over, and kissed my cheek. “Where did you get this one?” she asked Mama. “She reminds me of me.”

“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Aunt Wanda, but you were making Mama cry. I could hear her crying inside.”

Aunt Wanda blinked away a tear. “You have a gift,” she said so quietly only I could hear. “Just pray to God it doesn’t turn mean.”

When Maryann and I started to sit at the little table Aunt Wanda said, “Oh no you don’t, girls. You’ve earned your place at the grown-up table.”

Daddy pulled out our chairs for us like we were real ladies. When he pushed mine in, he whispered, “Apparently this was the time and place, Little Miss Sass Bucket, but we’re still going to have a talk on the way home.”

I nodded and smiled. I didn’t care. The world looked like a different place from this table. And that was the last time in my life I ever heard Aunt Wanda use the word “quaint.”

And I did what Aunt Wanda said. I didn’t know what kind of gift I had, but every night when I went to bed, I prayed it wouldn’t turn mean.

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

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