Author: gettingofftheinterstate

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

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

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

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

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.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

If a calendar hung on the wall, it said the year was 1953, but I couldn’t read it. I couldn’t read until halfway through second grade, and I was only in kindergarten in 1953. I don’t recall the month; we moved partway through kindergarten, and it was my first day at Fall Creek School in Ithaca, New York. I can’t remember the date either, but I was about to learn some lessons I never forgot.

Whatever schoolwork we were doing seemed difficult to me, and it probably was, because even a few years later I still had trouble distinguishing between the letters m, n, q, d, b, and p. The number 2 looked like a letter to me. I remember feeling nervous that first day. When the teacher said it was snack time and gave everyone a little cardboard container of milk I was thrilled. She sat my milk down and said, “In this classroom we drink all of our milk, every drop.”

I spotted a dead fly floating in my milk and tried to show her. “But…”

“No excuses!” She sounded scary stern.

Blinking back tears, I carefully positioned my straw and drank every drop of that milk except for a tiny circle at the bottom where the dead fly lay with all its body parts still attached, or so I hoped.

After more exhausting schoolwork, it was playtime. I’d been looking all morning at the most wonderful playhouse I’d ever seen. It sat in the corner of the room, and when the teacher said to go play, I headed right for it.

Just as I was about to duck my head and enter the fairy tale mystery of what might be inside, a rough hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back.

“You can’t go in there.”

“Yeah!” Other childish voices chimed in. “You can’t come in here. You’re the new kid.”

I looked around. Where should I go? Would I get into trouble with the teacher if I went back to my desk?

Another voice said, “Yes, she can come in the playhouse. She’s my friend, and I say she can!”

“Okay, Maureen!” the children agreed.

A small hand took mine. I looked into the smiling face of a little girl with dark brown curls and bright blue eyes, Maureen O’Riley. I’d found a friend I’d done nothing to earn or deserve, but she was a true friend until we moved away after I finished fourth grade. I soon learned with Maureen as a friend, all the others were suddenly my friends too, but even at the young age of five, I knew enough to tell a real friend from a pretend one.

I told my new friend about having to drink the horrible milk and trying not to swallow fly legs or wings.

“That was silly,” Maureen said. “You should have told the teacher. She wouldn’t have made you drink the milk.”

I wish I could remember more about Maureen O’Riley. I know we always played together on the playground. I don’t remember any of our conversations, and I don’t think we ever went to each other’s homes outside of school. But Maureen was my first school friend, and I’ll never forget her.

We need friends. It’s a beautiful road we’re walking toward Home, fragrant with springtime flowers, joyful with the songs of birds, and lovely with rolling green hills. It’s a brutal path we’re walking toward Home, dangerous with blizzard winds, blinding snow, and frozen tears.

“When good friends walk beside us on the trails that we must keep, Our burdens seem less heavy, And the hills are not so steep. The weary miles pass swiftly, Taken in a joyous stride, And all the world seems brighter, When friends walk by our side.” –Author unknown

I think we sometimes limit the possibilities of friendship with artificial boundaries.

Friends can be family; some of my closest ones are. Friends can be old or young. When I was a young mother some of my friends were senior citizens. When I became a senior citizen, I had a friend who was a teenager.

David and Jonathan, I think theirs is one of the sweetest friendships in the Bible. They didn’t really have much in common when they became friends. David was a sheep farmer’s son; Jonathan was the son of King Saul. David was a teenager who played a harp; Jonathan was a much older military commander. Some Bible scholars say he was twenty or even thirty years older than David. So, what made them kindred spirits? Why did Jonathan love David “as he loved his own soul?” –I Samuel 20:17 Why did he care so much about David that he later on risked his own life to protect David against his father’s murderous plot?

Perhaps what drew the two men together, one a very young shepherd, the other a brave warrior, was courage and trust in God. When Jonathan met David, David, with incredible faith and courage, had just killed a giant who had terrified seasoned soldiers. Perhaps Jonathan felt an instant bond with David because he shared the same kind of faith and courage. Jonathan and the man who carried his armor showed amazing courage when they accepted a Philistine’s taunt to come up and fight. They fought, and the two of them decimated the outpost.

I imagine David and Jonathan felt a bit like this: “It’s a wonderful thing to come upon one who knows what you mean. It’s just like heaven.” –George MacDonald

“The typical expression of opening friendship would be something like, ‘What? You too? I thought I was the only one.’”—C.S. Lewis

“The best friendship is friendship to the soul.” –Matthew Henry

The best and last thing Jonathan did for David was to strengthen his hand in God.

I’ve been blessed with good friends during my long life, and I thank them for strengthening my faith. Several of them are in heaven, and I picture them as part of my welcome Home committee. There was, however, a time when I had no close friends. I remember sitting on the couch with John and describing my ideal friend and telling him how lonely I felt.

He agreed with me we both needed friends, held my hand, and prayed God would give us friends.

Then, problem solved, he said, “If you can’t find that kind of friend, be that kind of friend to someone else.” He kissed the top of my head and wandered off to do whatever it was he was doing at the time. I can’t remember now what it was, because it was almost a half century ago. God answered the prayer, and the friends he gave us back then are our friends still. We treasure them more the older we get.

A friend in her late eighties called yesterday to share some good news. “I told God about it already,” she said, “but I need God with skin on.”

I knew just what she meant. God didn’t make us to be solitary. We all need a Maureen O’Riley, someone to tell us we don’t have to drink milk with dead flies in it, someone to stick up for us against life’s bullies, and someone to be faithful. We all need a Jonathan, someone God uses to make the walk Home a little easier.  

And Maureen O’Riley, if by chance you’re reading this, don’t worry. I don’t drink milk with flies in it. I don’t drink it at all when I can help it! I still see legs and wings!

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

by Donna Poole

It was coffee and “meet and greet” time, the half hour between Sunday school and church. The flavor must be mocha today; it smelled heavenly, but Elsie sat where she was. It took too much effort to stand and navigate with her walker back to the counter where the hospitality group served coffee, donuts, and smiles. Instead, she did one of the few activities left to her with her limited mobility; she people watched.

It was fun seeing the children come out of Sunday school carrying homemade valentines, soggy with too much glue, and proudly present them to someone they loved. None came to her, of

The last time Elsie had held a valentine in her hands had been ten years ago just before Harry had died.

Harry had celebrated Valentine’s Day every year. Their first year, a lean one, he’d made her a valentine, put a tablecloth on the table, set out their best dishes, and served her dinner by candlelight. True, the dinner had been just peanut butter sandwiches; they were all out of jelly. And the music was him singing, “More” in an off-key imitation of Andy Williams, but he’d done it all with tender sincerity, and it had made her cry. And he’d managed to bring happy tears to her eyes for fifty-nine more Valentine Days. She still had the last valentine, number sixty. On the hospital napkin he’d drawn hearts and had written, “I love you more every year. Would you marry me again?”

She kept the last valentine in her Bible, next to I Corinthians 13:8, where it says, “Love never fails.” Harry’s love had never failed. It still warmed her heart, but ten years is a long time not to hear a single person say, “I love you.”

She and Harry had never had children. And they’d both been only children themselves, so there were no nieces and nephews to call and say, “Aunt Elsie, I love you.” How she missed those three words. She expected she’d never hear them again until she got to heaven, and she hoped that would be soon. Ten years can be a long time. Ten years alone can feel longer than sixty years together.

God’s love was a great comfort. She whispered one of her favorite quotes to herself as conversation flowed around her. She’d found it in a book by Hannah Hurnard she’d read once. “For He loves each one of us as though there were only one to love.”

God’s love should be enough, Elsie. And it is enough. But surely God understands how I’d love to hear a person say it.

Elsie shivered and pulled her sweater tighter around her frail shoulders. It’s cold in here today. I wish I’d stayed home. At ninety years old, no one would blame me for not attending church in the winter. But I do want to keep coming as long as I can.

She felt a small hand touch her shoulder. “Miss Elsie?”

She looked up into Becky’s sparkling brown eyes. Red bows adorned the little girl’s long brown braids today, perhaps in honor of Valentine’s Day.

“Miss Elsie, this is for you!”

Becky handed her an adorable paper bag. The sides were red and white stripes, and the front had a red heart with an arrow through it. Elsie fingered the red and white braided handles. She looked inside the bag and saw four cookies. Two of them had pink frosting.

“Thank you, Becky! Did you help your mom make the cookies?”

Becky shook her head, and the braids swung side to side. “No. They aren’t from us. I don’t know who they’re from. I found the bag on the gift table and brought it to you.”

“Oh, honey, the cookies probably aren’t for me. You better put the bag back on the gift table.”

“It is for you!” Becky insisted. She turned the bag around and read the tag, “Elsie, Happy Valentine’s Day! You are loved and prayed for.”

“How very kind!” Elsie blinked back a few tears. “It says I’m loved.”

“Course it says that. Everyone loves you. I love you too!” Becky hugged her. “Do you want me to get you some coffee? I can carry it without spilling it if someone puts a lid on it for me.”

“I’d love a cup of coffee.” Now tears were running down Elsie’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Becky looked like she was going to cry herself.

“Nothing, honey. It’s just that I’m happy to be loved. I love you too.”

“Okay. Grownups cry about funny things.”

Becky skipped off to get the coffee, and the auditorium didn’t feel quite so chilly anymore to Elsie.

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

by Donna Poole

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