Author: gettingofftheinterstate

by Donna Poole

Honestly, it was the best funeral I’ve ever attended. We had it at a private location, one that holds sweet memories for our family. I might as well tell you there were no tears except mine. My eyes did get wet a time or too, but that was because I was so happy. We had so much fun! If we sound like a heartless bunch read on, because you’re only going to think worse of us before you think better.

Let’s start with the food. It was fantastic! Unlike most wakes, no one was too sad to eat. We didn’t even share memories of the not-so-dearly departed. Her name never came up once, unless you count the time I leaned over to my granddaughter and sang quietly, “Ding-dong the witch is dead, the wicked witch, the witch oh witch.”

We enjoyed chicken and beef tacos with all the trimmings you can imagine, and macaroni and cheese, followed by a heavenly array of desserts. Some family members worked incredibly hard. I didn’t do a thing but show up, stuff myself, and admire. Not only was everything delicious; it was beautifully presented. Speaking of beautiful presentations, there was no lack of gorgeous fresh flowers, candles, and other decorations in memory of the not-so-dearly departed.

Please, don’t be shocked; I’m just keeping it real here, but no one even pretended to feel sad. If you’d known her like we’d known her, you’d understand why we celebrated instead of cried. You’ve heard people say, “She’s a piece of work.” Our “she” wasn’t just a piece of work she was a whole disgusting cesspool! I’m all for forgiveness, but if you only knew everything she did to our family, you’d probably ask to dance on her grave with us!  

If we could have obtained her remains, we would have gladly burned them at a campfire. We’ve had many fun campfires before at that location, but we didn’t burn her remains for three reasons. We couldn’t get to said remains. It was too hot and muggy for a fire. Also, it may have been illegal.

But we didn’t need a campfire to have fun. We had great music. The adults lingered at the table, admired the new baby present, told stories, talked, laughed, and watched the younger kids enjoying the trampoline outside. Eight of them jumped at the same time and played fetch with one of the dads. They threw their glow sticks over the high sides of the trampoline, and he threw them back to them. All too soon it was time to leave, and I hated to go. Did this lovely time have to end?

Wait. Hard stop. Rewind. Backstory. A week or so ago I was texting Megan, my oldest granddaughter, about my lung tumor, Morticia, and my wonderful diagnosis of “no active cancer activity seen,” Megan texted me back this: “You know how Hispanic culture has a Day of the Dead celebration? I think we should make tacos or fiesta or something and have a Day of the Dead celebration for Morticia! A funeral is too somber and respectful for her.”

I laughed and texted back, “I love that idea! Let’s do it!”

It was a joke. We both forgot about it, or so I thought. Megan thought otherwise, and planning began. And so did crafty deceit. If you could see her sweet, innocent face, and beautiful blue eyes, you wouldn’t think she had it in her.

From her P.A. busy pediatrics rotation in Indiana, Megan began planning and texting family in Michigan. Somehow, right under my proverbial nose, Kimmee made all the delicious desserts. The only thing I caught her making was cookies and that didn’t make me suspicious. She said she was making them for a date she was having with Drew. Technically true—a funeral date. She gathered arm loads of flowers from her flower garden right outside my bedroom window. I was writing inside with a clear view of the flower garden, but when I’m writing, I’m oblivious to all else. I did notice she and Drew went shopping a bit more than usual, but we don’t keep track of them; it’s not like they have a curfew!  

The mastermind, Megan, came home for the weekend and began cooking and decorating with her mom, our daughter-in-law Mindy. Mindy has the gift of hospitality; it seems nothing is too much for her. Our other daughter-in-law, Katie, made macaroni and cheese, and got eight kids ready to come.

My husband John’s job was to get me to the funeral on time. On Monday he said, “I want to take you on a date somewhere on Friday. It’s a surprise, so don’t ask me any questions.”

If you know me at all you know telling me not to ask any questions is like telling a two-year-old to sit still. It’s not happening. I was instantly curious. Two plus two equals four, so where was this five coming from? We’ve been married fifty-five years; John adores me, but he’s never asked me on a date to a surprise location. Our “dates” consist of something at the drive through on the way home from long days at medical appointments. I got even more curious when he said I should be ready promptly at 6:00 p.m., because we’d be leaving then, not a minute earlier or later.

Say what? We’ve never, I mean not once, gone to a fancy restaurant; did he have reservations somewhere? I asked. I had to know how to dress. Yes, he had reservations. Jeans and a T-shirt would be fine.

I started to think my honey had Alzheimer’s. I tried to explain when you go places that require reservations you usually dress a little less casually. He got a bit frustrated with me.

Friday arrived. And John didn’t feel well. I suggested postponing our date; why not wait until he felt better? He said we were going. I said why not make the date more casual then, a lunchtime picnic to the lake. He said something like this date had been planned for a week and just “ride along with me.” That’s my least favorite phrase, and he knows it, and he only uses it when he’s really frustrated. We headed out, got to our son and daughter-in-law’s driveway we pass on the way to town, and John slammed on his brakes.

“I have to ask Mindy something.”

“Honey, text or call her. They have company. I saw a car pull in ahead of us.”

He refused, and up their long driveway we went, me giving him the side eye. Alzheimer’s it was. Nothing else could explain this sudden, erratic, strange change of behavior.  

We pulled up close to the porch. I looked at the car parked next to us. “Honey, why do you think Kimmee and Drew are here?”

“Just come in the house with me.”

We opened the door. I saw huge smiles. I heard shouts of “Surprise!” I saw faces of big and little grandchildren and their parents. Then I saw Megan who was in Indiana. I’d been missing her so much. How could she be here in Michigan? For a moment, I felt like I was in shock.

What in the world? I think I’m the one who has Alzheimer’s!

I knew it was a surprise for me, but what for? I finally figured it out. We were celebrating the demise of Morticia! All my family able to attend was there. One family couldn’t come because of sickness.

Now you understand why no one was sad at the exit of our not-so-dearly departed. What a family I have! What a memory they made! I did a poor job of getting the gratitude filling my heart to come out of my mouth.

I jokingly sang, “Ding-dong, the witch is dead,” to Megan at the party. But my real theme song is, “To God be the glory, great things he has done.”

Morticia didn’t disappear; she still lies in my chest, still takes up a third of my lung, still pushes everything too far to the right. But her zip-a-dee-doodah is dead. She has no cancer activity. We didn’t have a eulogy for her at the party, so I’ll do one now.

Here lies Morticia, close to my heart. She was wicked while she lived; she was a taker not a giver, and she did her best to be a killer. But she was a giver despite herself. She gave our whole family a new closeness, more love for each other, a real sense of the shortness of time, and a new trust in God. So, here’s to you, Morticia! R.I.P., and be sure you stay very, very dead.

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.

by Donna Poole

Extra! Extra! Read All About It

by Donna Poole

I need, oh, I don’t know, maybe a hundred newsboys with caps carrying handprinted newspapers like the ones we made in fifth grade with Miss Jennings. They could run among all of you handing out the papers and yelling, “Extra, extra, read all about it!”

Or I could use an airplane flying a banner through the sky over every one of your homes with my news printed on it. I know my dad would have loved to do that for me with his 1948 red Stinson. He’d have probably hung out the window shouting the news himself. But Dad’s in heaven; please, God, tell him the news!

I wish I could call, or send a snail mail note, or even text each of you personally and tell you the news, but I can’t for two reasons. I’m too exhausted, and I’d be sure to forget someone important. And I don’t want to forget anyone, because news, good or bad, must be shared with one’s friends. Is it even real until it is?

I can hear you, you know. You really should think quieter. Get on with it, Donna. Tell us the news already.

Okay then, I will. The story started late May, early June 2020. There I was, minding my own business and a few other people’s business too, but in my defense, they deserved it. Anyway, there I was, living my life, when an unexpected resident moved into my lungs. After many tests the doctors identified her as a large b cell non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and put other letters and qualifiers after her name, but I won’t bore you with those. She had smaller companions elsewhere in my body, but she was trouble with a bold T. I named her Morticia and told her she was going to die.

The fight was on. First came R-chop. It’s a combination of drugs and often the first line of defense against invaders like Morticia. One of the drugs in chop has the nickname of Red Devil, and for good reason. Red Devil and its companions twisted my intestines into pretzels and devoured my hair, but it didn’t touch the cancer. Morticia swallowed R-chop for lunch and grew.

I prayed. My family and church family prayed. Many of you prayed. I fought as hard as I could. I practiced Tarzan yells in the parking garage at the hospital and offered to do one in the quiet cancer center. The nurses politely declined.

Next came radiation. That burned my esophagus, but Morticia laughed and stayed the same size. I was beyond exhausted. By then they were calling my cancer “refractory”—resistant to treatment. I backed Dr. Lawrence, my radiation oncologist into a corner and wouldn’t let him out until he told me what he thought my chances of making it were. He didn’t want to say. I threatened his life. He gave me 15-20 %. Part of that paragraph isn’t true.  

He said, “Look at it this way though, Donna. If you fall into that 15-20%, you have a 100% chance of making it.”

I liked the way he thought.

Dr. Kaminski, my cancer oncologist, said, “We’ve run out of options with you, Donna. You’re chemo resistant. I’d like to see you try to get into a clinical trial. I can’t guarantee it will help, but it’s something that might work.”

Getting into a clinical trial isn’t just signing your name on a dotted line. I needed another biopsy of Morticia; she stuck out her tongue at them while they were in there. I also needed heart, CT, and PET scans, a brain MRI, tons of blood work, a bone marrow biopsy, and I had to say all the multiplication tables backward while standing on my hands. Part of that paragraph is a lie.

Finally, I got accepted into a clinical trial for Epcoritamab, henceforth called Epco, a drug not yet on the market. It’s for patients with my disease who’ve flunked at least two lines of treatment.

I became a guinea pig patient with a new oncologist, Dr. Phillips, and a wonderful nurse practitioner, Tera. I loved my whole team, the drug trial coordinators, the amazing nurses in the treatment centers, and especially the caring ones in Ravitz where the guinea pigs go.

Along with the Epco, I had to take another chemotherapy, Gem-Ox. R-Chop might have one ingredient nicknamed Red Devil, but before Gem-Ox was done with me, I was pretty sure the devil himself must have invented it. I don’t think it’s always that bad for everyone, but I went directly from the other treatments to it and my body didn’t have much fight left.

Sometimes, at night, when the pain was bad, I begged God to take me home to heaven. But when the sun came up and courage returned, I said, “Now, Lord, about that prayer in the middle of the night. I didn’t really mean it ….”

He just smiled. God doesn’t answer the prayer of our mouths; he listens to the cry of our hearts, and he knew mine was just temporarily down and out.

Many days I didn’t feel human. I slept more than I was awake. I still sleep a lot. My daughter took over cooking and cleaning. She still does most of it.

Finally, session eight of Gem-Ox arrived, last chemo. Each one had gotten worse. I dreaded going. When I got there on August 10, 2021, I posted on Facebook, “God is so good! This is my last chemo treatment at University of Michigan hospital. John has never been able to go back with me, but today they changed visitor policies and here he is! The seven hours will go faster together! Edit: left home at 5:15 a.m. to be here for 7:10 blood work and a doctor’s appointment followed by chemo. We’ll be done here around 6:00 p.m. and hopefully home at 8:00. We don’t always party, but when we do, we stay out for 15 hours!”

Chemo ended but Epco continued. By late June 2022 I’d been in the clinical trial for about 14 months. We’d lost track of scans. We thought I’d had about 12 PET scans and 26 CTs. But none of the scans had found a guy we were looking for, name of NED, acronym for no evidence of disease.

I wrote on June 29, “Morticia, my lung tumor, is no longer growing, but she isn’t dead either. She’s been a nasty tenant—about destroyed the apartment and never paid a cent of rent. My next scans are in September. Maybe she’ll be just a pile of rubbish by then.”

She wasn’t. But like Tera, my NP kept telling me, “Stable” is a good word.

Life continued. We went to U of M once a month for my cancer treatment and once every three weeks for IVIG for Myasthenia Gravis. For quite a while I was supposed to stay away from groups because my immune system was low, so I became a semi-hermit and wrote books. When they let me return from solitary confinement to the general population I had to relearn people manners; I’m still working on that.

PET scans and CTs continued every six months. By now I have so much radiation I light up a room when I walk into it. People hear a hum when they stand too close, and the hair on their arms tingles.

Little by little the scan numbers started looking better.

We knew the facts. We’d followed the clinical trial study. If people respond to Epco they usually do it right away. It helps 61% if people who take it. Only 38% of them get complete response, and 23% get partial response.

I never thought lymphoma would kill me. But I never thought Epco would cure me either. I’m older; my cancer was refractory; lymphoma in the organs is especially hard to treat. Epco was keeping Morticia quiet and sitting in a corner; I was stable, and we were happy with that. Despite all the prayers, we honestly didn’t expect any more. We just heaved a sigh of relief and celebrated after every scan because Morticia hadn’t grown.

Then came Thursday, August 8, 2024. Tera told me the last few PET CTs seem to indicate what is showing up is just radiation damage and inflammation, not active lymphoma. Hello, Ned, no evidence of disease; you look even better than we expected. How about if you stick around for a while?

I’ll continue with the same cancer treatment and struggle with the side effects. They aren’t easy. I’ll have scans every six months. My immune system will still be compromised so I’ll have to be careful.

But I can’t quit smiling. I’m thanking God. I’m thanking every one of you who ever prayed for me.

Natalie, one of the wonderful nurses at Ravitz, told me she thinks three things go a long way toward helping cancer patients: faith, attitude, and a strong support system. I don’t think anyone could have had a stronger support system than I’ve had. Thank you!

I know Morticia might grow once again, but for now, I’m thinking often about this verse: “I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.”—Psalm 118:17

Not everyone is going to read this, so do me a favor. Put on your cap, girls and boys, and help me spread the news!

***

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.

by Donna Poole

It’s a quiet summer afternoon. She looks out of the car window, and yesterday suddenly pulls her into a bear hug. She can hardly breathe. The half-forgotten beautiful memories of last morrow run from her eyes and chase each other down her cheeks.

The fireworks fade from the sky and only the acrid smell of smoke remains. Parents are tucking sleepy toddlers into car seats.

“Did I fall asleep, Mommy? Did I miss it?”

“You can let go, now Daddy! Look at me, Mommy! I’m riding my bike!”

“Who gives this woman to be married?”

“Her mother and I do.”

The wind whips sand across the empty picnic tables in the pavilion. The garbage cans are overflowing with chip bags and paper plates and napkins smeared with chocolate cupcake crumbs. Only one helium balloon remains, high up at the peaked roofline, that and a tattered piece of blue crepe paper. She can’t reach them.

It had been a wonderful family reunion, and she didn’t guess that when they next gathered one would be missing. And the year after that, another.

The home that echoed with years of laughter of children and then grandchildren has become too quiet. The ticking of the clock is so loud it hurts her ears. Their combined tears drip down over their gnarled, clasped hands. Will this be their last time to kiss goodnight? The hospice nurse says perhaps it’s so.

Gone. Gone!

***

“Are you okay, honey?” he asks.

She wipes a tear, laughs, and turns from the window to look at him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

And this is why I can never remember how to get anywhere. The minute I get in a car and look out of a window my brain starts remembering true things and then telling me stories. I forget where I am. It’s been this way ever since I’ve been a little girl.

She explains all that to him, and he nods. He acts like he understands; he’s heard it all before.

“Does your brain tell you stories?” she asks.

He laughs and grips her hand. “Not really. But it’s okay that yours does.”

She smiles at him and looks out of the window again, thinking of that word.

Gone.

It’s such a sad word, isn’t it? Thank God memories remain, but they often bring with them tears for departed joys. Why didn’t I see the treasures I held in my hands before they crumbled to dust and became just shadows in my heart? What I wouldn’t give for the return of just one golden day! A day I thought so ordinary then, a day I took for granted.

Perhaps, on my next morrow, my eternal tomorrow, God will return to me those lost days. Maybe he’s been keeping them all this time for me to one day find them again at Home, more beautiful than they ever were here, more radiant with love, full and running over with joy.

But now?

Gone. Last morrow is gone. Next morrow is certainly coming, but when? It’s not here yet.

I’m smiling through my tears, though; does God see a rainbow? I have today to live, to love, to laugh, to pray. I have this day, this extraordinary day, to catch my breath at the mystery and beauty of golden bales of straw, the love in the voice of a friend, the laughter of family, and a husband’s whispered good night. I have today to hold in my hands and cherish before it all too soon joins my other lost last morrows.

She turns from the window and smiles at him. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about what meals might sound good for camping. Want to make a list?”

“Sure.”

She writes the list, but at the same time she tries to memorize the way he looks driving, the sun shining on his gray hair, the sound of his laughter, and the clouds racing by in the sky. It’s a wonderful, fantastic, one-of-a-kind extraordinary ordinary day.

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.

by Donna Poole

Close your eyes. Open them. You’re at a tiny, white frame church on the corner of two dirt roads watching a young couple get out of their car. He carries a big, black Bible. She carries a tiny, almost two-year old girl with golden curls and a mischievous smile. The date is July 7, 1974. This young family has lived in Michigan all of four days.

Look at them walk up to the heavy wooden doors of the church. They look a bit like hippies; he has long sideburns. A few months earlier a little boy, a stranger to him, asked with awe, “Are you Elvis?” She has long hair hanging to her waist and wears no paint, no polish.

They look braver than they feel, those two twenty-five-year-olds. They are embarking on a journey that will last longer than they expect. He’s the brand-new pastor of a country church, Lickley’s Corners Baptist. He mispronounces the name of it in his first sermon, and the people gently correct him. It won’t be the last time the people correct him, but those first people, the sweet farm people, will always be gentle.

She has no clue how to be a pastor’s wife. Her views don’t always match his. This troubles him more than it does her. She takes one look at the farm fields surrounding the church, and at the sweet country people inside of it, and she knows she’s home.

Close your eyes. Open them. You’re at the same white church on the corner of two dirt roads, but it’s fifty years later. The building looks a bit different. The outhouse out back is gone. There’s running water now, inside bathrooms, and a fellowship hall. If you look up at the white clouds rushing by in the blue sky, perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of smiling faces looking down, because most of the saints who welcomed that pastor and wife fifty years ago are now in heaven. They aren’t here to celebrate that couple’s fiftieth anniversary of coming to the church; or are they? Perhaps God lets them see what their courage, faith, and vision have become.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s still a very small church on the corner of two dirt roads. It will never be a mega church, but that’s okay; it doesn’t want to be.

What has that church seen in fifty years? It has seen a pastor and wife grow up, or at least begin to. It’s seen them change from a family of three to a family of twenty-five: four married children and fifteen grandchildren. That church has seen people come and people go. It has seen people accept Jesus as Savior from sin and be baptized. It has seen Sundays with full pews and Sundays with sparse attendance. It has seen births and deaths, laughter and tears, sin and forgiveness. It has seen a pastor and wife smile, sob, and sniffle…but the smiles won.

This weekend the church and the new fellowship hall are full. The parking lot is packed, and a few cars and trucks are parked on the dirt road. It’s a golden Jubilee; they are celebrating the pastor and wife’s fifty years at the church. Their family and their church family have worked hard to honor them and to praise God this weekend. They’ve cleaned, decorated, sent invitations, ordered a plaque, prepared a video presentation, planned a gift, and done so much more! In a word, they’ve sacrificed, something this little church is known for.

The decorations are beautiful, and so is the cake. There are cookies and punch, a beautiful plaque and a presentation, a money tree and cards with gifts tucked inside. And there is love and laughter, so much love and laughter.

A few “girls” from the first youth group, almost as old as the pastor and his wife, drive many miles to come, and so does a high school friend of the pastor’s wife. People from present and past congregations blend, talking and laughing. Beloved friends of many years walk through the door, smiling. So many people, so many hugs, handshakes, sweet words. So much joy! Their photographer daughter documents the day.

And then comes Sunday, a Sunday like the pastor and wife had never had before. Their grown son leads the singing, and their daughter-in-law plays the piano. The church building is full, and the hymns go right through the roof and straight up into heaven. The testimonies of love for the pastor and his wife are wonderful. And when their dear friend, with tears running down his face, asks the congregation to join him as he sings his special, “I Saw Jesus in You,” the pastor and his wife know they will never forget this day.

But already, though only a few days have passed, they can’t remember much of what people said to them. The pastor’s wife remembers one thing distinctly. A new, young pastor said to her, “I’ve only known three pastors no one has ever said one bad word about. And one of them is your husband.”

She couldn’t help it. She was tired. And when she’s tired, she laughs. So, she laughed and said to him, “Well, then, Matt, you haven’t been talking to the right people.”

Some sage said, “Everyone who has a dog who loves him needs a cat who hates him.” I suppose that’s true. It’s good for humility. If I told you everyone who had ever attended that country church loved the pastor and his wife, lightning might strike my keyboard. But they are grateful for every person, the ones who loved them, and the ones who served up broiled pastor for Sunday dinner. God used them all to help that couple learn to cling to him.

No one needs fear the pastor and wife will get proud after the wonderful two-day celebration their dear church gave them. If they’ve learned one thing in fifty years, they’ve learned this. Any good they’ve done has been God doing it through them.

Feeling happy and loved, they went to bed when the weekend ended. They pictured each beloved face that had been present and searched for vocabulary words beautiful enough to express gratitude, but none were good enough. And so, they prayed, “Please, bless them, Lord. Bless them everyone.”

Then they took one last look at all the beautiful sacrificial love that had been heaped on them. It glowed in the night, a golden ball, too precious to keep for themselves. They handed it up to their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who made the fifty years happen. He took it with a smile but let some gold dust drift down on their pillows.

“Sleep, my children,” he whispered. “You will need strength for difficult days yet to come. There will still be births and deaths, laughter and tears, sin and forgiveness. You will still smile, sob, and sniffle, but I promise you this; laughter will win in the end.”  

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

Spring didn’t slip softly into early summer one night while we slept. No. Summer raced up from behind, shoved spring sprawling without even so much as a “Pardon me, ma’am,” and we woke up feeling her dragon breath on our faces.

“Ready or not, here I come!” summer shouted. We weren’t ready. We barely had spring. Life’s transitions should be a bit gentler to give us time to adjust, don’t you think?

It’s hot as blue blazes. We’re under a heat advisory with a feel like temperature of 97 degrees. If I wanted to, I could bake my homemade rustic bread in the mailbox.

The poor brides who planned outdoor weddings expecting June’s usual mild breezes and gentle warmth are sweltering in their beautiful gowns, and so are their guests, and their photographers. Forget corn knee high by the fourth of July; some of it is already past knee high on me. True, my knees aren’t all that far off the ground. Fireflies are twinkling over the fields at night, and orange day lilies decorate the countryside. Berries arrived early but so did bugs and blight. I swear, if I hear a cicada while it’s still June I’m going to melt into a puddle of tears.

The old timers used to say first frost comes six weeks after the cicadas sing. That might not be gospel, but to me cicadas signal the beginning of the end of summer.

Slow down already! I just put away my winter mittens.

Mom Poole used to sigh often and say, “Too much too soon.” We weren’t sure what she meant; what was too much too soon? I think I’m old enough to know the answer now; it’s everything!

When I was a child summer vacation stretched forever. Now it seems the kids barely drop their backpacks on the kitchen floor at the end of school and it’s time for the parents to restock them for the next school year. I’m sad for the kids who don’t have the long, carefree summers we enjoyed. Back then the only interruption to freedom was a week of camp for the kids whose parents could afford it. Ours couldn’t, so we ran free and made our own fun.

Summers were busier when I became a teenager; I was working by then, but there was still so much time for fun. One summer I learned to water ski, and I loved it. I’d like to try water skiing again, but I’m not sure where I’d put my cane.

Speaking of my cane, that also was a too much too soon rude moment. I expected to grow old gradually with plenty of warning, not go from the woman who refused to go to sleep at night until she’d walked her 10,000 daily steps to this slow, hobbling creature I don’t recognize.

Give a lady a little warning, would you?

And what about the tears, the trials, the losses, the crosses?

While we’re on the subject, why the misunderstandings and heartaches, why the fractured families and friendships? Oh, I know the answer; sin ruined God’s beautiful creation. But do there have to be so many tears?

I saw twins at the cancer center last week. One was an old lady unable to sit up straight in her wheelchair. The other was a young man, perhaps twenty. But they were twins, matching skeletons with just a covering of skin, zero body fat, suffering in their eyes. Will they find their miracle in that cancer center? We patients are family there. Some of us do find a miracle; some don’t. And our poor family whispers, “Too much, too soon.”

Those “twins” were just two people among the millions in misery around our planet, enduring wars, starvation, man’s inhumanity to man, gang violence, drive by shootings. Is it all random? Life cut short by fire, flood, tornado, drunk drivers.

I could go on. And on. And on. But I won’t.

In this backroad rambling I’ve wandered down a deeply shaded path into territory too dark for me. I’m asking questions I have no answers for. I just know two things.

Job, the man who suffered more loss than any human ever, was full of questions and righteous indignation. He demanded an audience with God. He wanted to know why. Don’t we all? Job got his audience with God, but God never answered Job’s questions. And Job didn’t care. He saw God’s love, power, and glory, and that was enough for him. He decided to stay in his own lane and let God be God.

I’m learning Job’s lesson. I’m learning to “Judge God’s love, not by circumstances, nor by feelings, but by Calvary.” –Unknown

The second thing I know is that it won’t always be like this. Sorrow and suffering will die. Joy and gladness will live forever. When that day comes, God says, “Nothing will hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain.” Isaiah 11:9

And in the end—this is so good it sounds straight out of Narnia—but I promise you, it’s the Bible—there will be a new heaven and a new earth. Life will once again be the perfect garden God created it to be before sin ruined people and disrupted creation. Nothing again will ever be too much too soon. I can hardly wait.

Are you ready?

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 I could be a child again, I think I’d pick the summer I was ten and my sister Mary was nine. We’d just moved into the tin box we called home, a ten by fifty-foot trailer, where, like the old joke says, you had to go outside to change your mind.

Mary and I didn’t mind that our inside space was cramped; we were explorers. and the big, wide outdoors was a new adventure waiting for us every day.

Summer stretched ahead of us forever. We coasted down hills on our bikes way too fast, feet off the pedals, arms stretched wide, yelling “Wah Hoo!”

No one we knew was old, or sick, or dying. Those were just things you read about in books. We were far from rich; sometimes we were still hungry after a meal, but we weren’t starving. We knew nothing about the sorrows of the rest of the world. We were just two little girls enjoying the peaceful innocence of a childhood that’s gone forever.

We didn’t have television, though if we stood on tiptoe in just the right spot in our yard, we could see a tiny bit of the little black and white TV in the neighbor’s tin box.

We walked down the road to the abandon barn to see if there were any kittens we could coax to come home with us.

The foothills of the Adirondack mountains whispered our names, and we couldn’t resist, especially when the wild berries ripened. Mornings were usually cool, so we wore sweaters over our shirts. We hiked down the backroads until we found a field without a fence, or a fence we could cross, and then started climbing up into the hills. Once we found a creepy abandoned boy scout camp and imagined all kinds of scary ghost stories. Often, we tried to walk like the native Americans we admired, one foot in front of the other without making a sound. Then we found the treasure we were hunting, blackberries as big as our thumbs. We ate almost as many as we picked, but we were careful to get enough for Mom to make her blackberry pies.

Soon the hot sun would say it was time to take off our sweaters. We’d tie them around our waists and keep picking. We’d stop for lunch, sit in a grassy field, and eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. We’d blow fluff off dandelions and make a wish. If we wished hard enough, maybe our big sister, Eve, could magically come home for the weekend. We’d pick the widest blades of grass, stretch them tightly between our thumbs, and practice our whistles. Then we’d roll up our sweaters, put them under our necks, and watch the white clouds hurrying to places we could only imagine. Sometimes we’d fall asleep.

Buckets full of berries we’d head home. Mom’s delicious pies would be worth every scratch on our tanned arms. And our little sister Ginny’s blue eyes would dance with delight and berry juice would stain her tongue purple.

On sizzling hot days we’d bike to a place where the creek widened under a bridge and jump into a cold pool of water. Or we’d follow a shallow creek for a while, watching dragon flies and water bugs and keeping an eye out for snakes.

Fireflies lit up magical evenings, and bedtime between clean sheets gave time to dream until morning. Surely, something wonderful would happen again the next day. Breakfast over, chores done, it was time to adventure again.

We played games with the boys who lived in the other tin cans; no girls except us lived in the trailer park. I can still feel the smack of the ball hitting my hand; who had baseball gloves? Not us! I remember the satisfying crack of the bat hitting the ball, the tingle from hand to elbow, and the exhilarating race around the homemade bases. Whatever the game, Mary and I tried to outrun and outplay all the boys, and we usually succeeded.

It was a magical summer. We lived in shorts or jeans and grew brown and brave. Once we chased all the boys out of the playhouse with a mouse. Oh, we were a force to be reckoned with, or so we thought, and as tomboyish as two girls can get. We wore dresses only for church.

When Uncle Tom came to visit, we heard him worrying about us to Mom. “You need to do something about Donna and Mary Lou. Those two girls are growing up like wild Indians.”

We grinned at each other. It was the best compliment we could imagine.

Yes, I’d love to be ten again for one more day. I’d grab Mary’s hand and we’d race down our back country road and feel the wind against our faces. We’d imagine many things, but it would never occur to us that those days might have an expiration date. We were sisters; we’d always adventure, and be young, happy, and together. And one day, that’s exactly what we will be, all four of us sisters, together forever in heaven.  

by Donna Poole

His to-do list would keep a young healthy man busy for a year, and he was anything but young and healthy. He was way exhausted.

But she couldn’t get him to retire. His father had died on a tractor. His grandfather had died in the barn—but not until after he’d finished the day’s milking. It had been years since the farm had turned a real profit, but he still got up before the sun each morning and came home almost too tired to eat supper each evening. The old machinery broke down often; the house needed way too many repairs, and poison ivy was swallowing the yard. The riding mower had died years ago, but she pushed mowed what she could, less each year. Their once huge yard was now a tiny square around the ramshackle, century-old farmhouse.

They had the same conversation almost every morning over steaming bowls of oatmeal. “Why are you being so stubborn about holding onto this place? You know the boys are never going to come back and work the farm. They’ll sell it faster than they used eat hot biscuits as soon as we’re gone.”

He didn’t use his words, just stirred his melting butter and brown sugar into the oatmeal, but his blue eyes, clouded now from too many days spent squinting at the sun, answered her question with one of his own.

And why can’t you understand? This farm is my life.

She knew what his sad eyes were saying, and it hurt. Once, sixty years ago, when he’d brought her to the farm, she’d been his life, or so she’d thought. It hadn’t mattered then that they’d had so little time to spend together, because the time they’d carved out had been sweet, full of love and laughter. Now, the few minutes they had together he snored in the recliner, and she sighed and flipped through retirement magazines.

Sometimes he even fell asleep at the supper table, and that worried her. “Go to the doctor please,” she begged. “It could be your heart.”

But he shook his head. “Not going to pay the doc good money for him to tell me I’m old.”

It seemed every conversation ended in a stalemate.

He sat on the edge of the bed rubbing the back of his neck one evening.

“If you did retire, we could spend more time together,” she said.

He snorted. “And do what?”

He lay down facing away from her and started snoring immediately.

How can he do that? Fall asleep and snore when we haven’t even said goodnight to each other?

Resentment burned in her chest and kept her awake. His words kept echoing in her thoughts. And do what?

Once her thoughts cooled, she admitted he had a point. If they had more time together, what exactly would they do?

A long-ago memory bubbled to the surface. But how would she keep him awake long enough?

As soon as he left in the morning, taking his lunch with him, she got to work. First, she made the bread. She hadn’t made any in years, but when you’ve made as many loaves as she had, you never forget how. She only hoped the yeast in the freezer was still active.

While the bread was rising, she went to the front porch and checked out the swing. It was filthy. She swept off years of dead leaves and road dust and gave it a good scrubbing. When she went back to the kitchen to check her bread the dough had risen so much it had escaped the bowl and was running down the side toward the counter.

She quickly washed, dried, and floured her hands and punched down the dough. It felt good to push it back where it belonged.

“Yeast is amazing,” she said to herself. “It’s always a mysterious thing how it works through the dough so fast. Kinda like life, I guess. A little bit of something spreads a lot faster than you intended sometimes.”

She wiped a tear with the corner of her apron. “No more bitterness,” she whispered to herself. “No matter what.”

“Stews good,” he said later. “Thought I smelled homemade bread though.”

“Did you now?” she said.

“Think I’ll sit in the recliner a bit before bed,” he said.”

“How about sitting on the porch swing instead? I cleaned it off today.”

He scratched his head and stared at her like he’d never seen her before. “Did you now?” He grinned. It had been a long time since she’d seen that grin. He looked so much younger.

“You…don’t remember, do you?” she asked hesitantly.

“Somethings you don’t forget. Do you want me to cut the bread?”

She laughed. “Already done.”

About a half an hour later he sighed with satisfaction. “Woman, your homemade bread and strawberry jam tastes as good as it ever did. Been too long.”

They sat in silence for a bit, watching the sun set over the barn.

She said, “When we were young, we used to sit here sometimes with bread and jam and talk about how when we were old we’d have more time. We said we’d sit here together and watch the sunset every night. Remember?”

He nodded. “Supposed to rain tomorrow night though. Can’t see the sunset.”

“We could play Scrabble,” she said. “We used to do that sometimes.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “Long as you don’t use the letters to make any bad words.”

“Bad words? Like what?”

“Like r-e-t-i-r-e.” But then he laughed and took her hand.

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

Author’s note: I posted a photo of lilies of the valley on my Facebook author page and asked for suggestions for a title for a Mother’s Day story. I chose Jim Karen Herd’s title but also used all the other suggestions somewhere in the story. Thank you, and look for your contributions: Tom Kelly, Marcie Hatfield, Kitty’s Books, Michelle Romano, Andy Luci, Jackie Shaw-Grossman, Joann Freeland, Kathi Ridley Driskell, Loretta Gutierrez-Archuleta, Judy Ford, Deborah Pearson Hatt, Maria Sibson, Michelle Rossow Horton, John Purnell, Sandy Long, Audrey Potter, Carolyn Neinas, Dan MacDonald, and Sue Hatt Hodges.

Wedding Bells for Mama

by Donna Poole

Mama had the soul of a poet, so she named us three girls Lily, Violet, and Iris. I’m Lily; the oldest of seven, and I’m named after Mama. Her name is Lily too.

Daddy was a preacher, so when my brothers came along, he named them Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Then when John was only two years old and I was nine, Daddy up and died. I was mad at him for years for leaving us in that kind of mess.

The tiny chapel in the poor part of town closed after Daddy died; the congregation couldn’t find anyone else to preach for what they’d paid him, and they couldn’t afford to pay more. They were good people, and they gave Mama the parsonage, such as it was.

That two-bedroom home with its leaky roof and peeling paint was the only thing that stood between us and homelessness. Mama homeschooled us every morning then went off to work a twelve-hour shift in a factory. She left food for our supper so I could warm it up and feed the littler ones. On Saturdays Mama cleaned houses for the rich people. The nice homes started right next to ours. Uncle Sammy’s big, beautiful home was the first one, only he wasn’t our real uncle.

I had a hard time keeping the kids in our yard, especially in the spring and summer; they wanted to go play in Uncle Sammy’s big shady yard. But Mama said stay in our own yard and not bother him unless we had an emergency. Our small yard was mostly dirt and weeds and stood in full sun. It was hot, and ugly too, except for a tiny corner I named “My Mother’s Garden.” We tried to help her keep her straggly flowers alive by watering them, but it was mostly a losing battle. The sun baked the life out of them. And then mama got tears in her eyes.

I hated it when Mama looked sad. Of all the mothers of the valley we lived in, I knew she was the best. She said we kids were the best. And she always hugged me tight before she went to work and whispered, “Sweet Lily, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

My memories of mom from those years are of an exhausted face, a sweet laugh, and worry lines. She hated leaving us alone, and I don’t believe she could have made herself do it if Uncle Sammy hadn’t been our neighbor.

Looking back, I suppose we kids used the slightest excuse to run to him. Mama had said “only in an emergency,” but when a little boy has an invisible scratch on his hand and won’t stop crying, that’s an emergency, right? Or when an arm falls off a doll, that’s an emergency, right? Uncle Sammy usually sent us home with something he’d accidentally bought too much of.

“Can you kids use a dozen donuts? They were buy a dozen get one free. Don’t know what I was thinking. How could I eat two dozen all by myself?”

“Take this half-gallon of ice cream home and surprise your mom with a treat. Somehow, I have too much in my freezer, and I can’t eat it all.”

“Matthew, you’re getting so big and strong. Can you carry a gallon of milk home? This is going to spoil unless someone helps me drink it.”

“Lily, I stopped by the farmer’s market and bought too many chocolate chip cookies. I can’t make myself eat another one of them. They’re going to sit on my counter and get stale if someone doesn’t help me eat them.”

Uncle Sammy gave us more than treats too. He mysteriously seemed to have too much cereal, or hamburger, and once in awhile even too many steaks.

Mama would shake her head and wipe away a tear when she got home and we showed her what he’d given us. “That’s Sammy. He always was like that.”

“Mama,” I asked, “have you known Sammy long? Is he your friend? Why don’t we ever have him come for Sunday dinner?”

Mama smiled and touched my cheek. I thought then and still think now that there’s nothing sweeter than the delicate touch of a mother. “Sunday is the only day I have to spend with you kids. I’m not going to give a minute of it to anyone else.”

“But Mama,” I protested, “Uncle Sammy is our friend. You need to have friends too.”

Sunday was our favorite day. Mama was home all day. We went to church together. The other mothers had pretty dresses, hats, and gloves to wear to church. Mama had only her one church dress, worn and faded, but she had a kind of beauty that can’t be hidden. It came from the inside out. And I was pretty sure, even though I was only twelve years old by then, that I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Most of the mothers wore corsages for Mother’s Day, and I wanted to get one for mama in the worst way, but I didn’t have any money. Even if I’d had it, I wouldn’t have spent it on that. Mama never talked about money, but I’d caught her wiping away tears and had asked what was wrong.

“I’m a hundred dollars short for bills this month, sweet Lily, but don’t you worry. Pray about it, okay?”

I did both. I prayed, and I worried.

The next day John refused to let me pull his lose tooth that was hanging by a thread. After Uncle Sammy pulled the tooth, he and I sat at his picnic table and watched the kids run and play in his yard. I seldom cried, but I did that day, and between sobs, the whole story tumbled out.

Uncle Sammy patted my back and said things adults say like, “There, there, it’s going to be alright,” even when it isn’t going to be alright.

When I finally quit crying Uncle Sammy said, “So, let me be sure I have my facts right. You want flowers for mom. Mom needs money for bills…”

“Please, don’t tell her I told you!” I interrupted. “She’d be embarrassed. She tries so hard to take good care of us.”

“No one could try harder,” Uncle Sammy said. His voice sounded hoarse, like he had a cold. “Your mom is the essence of a mother.”

“What’s that mean?”

Uncle Sammy smiled at me. “It means I think your mother is wonderful. And I think we can do something about flowers for her. So many lilies grow in this valley. My yard is full of them.”

“Is that what smells so good?”

He nodded and hollered, “Who wants to pick flowers for your mom for Mother’s Day?”

While the kids came running Uncle Sammy said to me, “I happen to know lily of the valley is her favorite flower.”

“How do you know that Uncle Sammy?”

His smile looked sad. “Long ago, before your mom met your dad, we were friends. I gave her a corsage of lilies of the valley to wear to my senior banquet when I was in high school.”

We all stared at him, shocked. “We thought you were way older than Mama!” John said. “Did you love her?”

I groaned. “John, remember what Mama says about good manners. I don’t think she’d like what you said!”

Uncle Sammy just laughed. ‘Let’s just say I thought your mom was as sweet as the lily of the valley. Now, let’s pick some for her. Under the big fonds you’ll find tiny beauty. Some people call them May bells.”

“I like that name,” Iris said. “We can pick May bells for Mom! Lots of them!”

And we did pick lots. Uncle Sammy helped us. He grinned at me and said, “I just remembered something I used to say to your mom about these flowers back in our younger days when I was feeling poetic. ‘Under the turmoil of wild leaves grows a dainty flower striving to be noticed.’ I wrote her a poem once too. I titled it, ‘Bloomed love.’”

I couldn’t help it. I giggled.

“What?” Uncle Sammy asked. “I wanted to be a writer. Maybe it’s a good thing I became an engineer instead. I probably made more money. That’s why I got to retire when I was so young, even though you think I’m old.”

I giggled again.

“We missed that big patch over there,” Uncle Sammy said. “Why don’t you pick a few of those, and we’ll call it quits for the day and put these flowers in water?”

I bent over to pick the lovely white flowers and breathed in their fragrance. I thought of something poetic myself, “The lily of the valley is my mom.” I was just about to go tell it to Uncle Sammy when I spotted it, a hundred-dollar bill! And even though the flowers were wet from last night’s rain, the bill was dry and looked brand new. I forgot all about my newfound poetic abilities and could only think of the newfound money.

“Uncle Sammy!” I yelled. “Look what I found!”

He grinned. “Well, well, well. You know what they say. Finders, keepers.” And he insisted I do just that. “Who knows,” he said. “Maybe God sent it down from heaven. I’ve heard of that happening.”

Two wonderful things happened on Mother’s Day. I gave Mama the money. “I found it beneath the posies,” I told her. “Now you can pay the bills!”

Before she could question me, the doorbell rang. It was Uncle Sammy with the flowers we’d picked. He’d put them into a beautiful vase.

“These are from the children, Lily,” he said. “And this is from me.” And then he pinned a beautiful corsage of lilacs and lilies of the valley to the shoulder of her dress.

“Oh, Sammy,” Mama said, and then her cheeks turned pink. Do you think mothers can bloom just like flowers can? Mama did that day.

Uncle Sammy sat with us in church. The pastor’s sermon was, “Consider the Lilies.” I think Uncle Sammy must have been considering the two Lilys and Violet and Iris and Matthew and Mark and Luke and John. I think that because the next May, wedding bells rang out for Uncle Sammy, I mean for our new daddy, and for Mama. The only flowers they had were lilies of the valley. It was perfect because the lily of the valley is my mom, forever my mom.

The End
***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume 1: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume 2: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume 3: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume 4: 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 first time was at Grandma’s. Hers was a two-seater, something my sister Mary and I found hysterical when we were little girls taking turns using it, talking to each other through the wooden door.

“Do you think two people ever use this at the same time?”

“Who would ever?”

We giggled just thinking about it.

The next time I was many years older, twenty-five years old to be exact. My husband, John, drove down what they called a gravel road in Michigan to a church on a corner. The gravel road looked like dirt to us; I suppose it did have a few small stones flung here and there. The church, though tiny, wasn’t the smallest we’d seen.

During John’s last year of Bible college in Iowa he had preached every Sunday at a different small church needing a speaker, and that had given us a heart for rural ministry. When the people of this country church in Michigan had written asking John to come preach, we’d been happy to oblige; they were looking for a pastor, and John was hoping to become one.

So, early in May 1974, we drove from Indiana where we were living to Michigan. I didn’t mind the dirt road though John might have. We pulled into the parking lot, and I looked around at the beautiful farm fields. I felt at home. Even before I set foot inside the building, I hoped the congregation would like John and ask him to come back and preach again. John was too nervous to feel one way or another. And our twenty-one-month-old Angie didn’t have an opinion either; she was sleeping in the backseat.

Partway through John’s first sermon in that little church Angie whispered, “Potty.”

I looked around the building. There were no doors, just the auditorium. I tapped the woman ahead of me on the shoulder. “Where’s the bathroom?”

I wasn’t hard of hearing back in those years like I am now, but I was sure I couldn’t have heard correctly, so I just sat there.

Angie said, louder this time, “Potty!”

“Can’t you wait?”

She shook her head no.

I asked the same woman the same question and got the same answer, so outside and around back I went. And I laughed. It wasn’t a two-seater like Grandma’s. I held Angie so she wouldn’t fall in. I thought she’d be afraid, but she was more intrigued than anything else. I kept telling her to hurry so neither of us would get stung by the bees buzzing inside.

A few months later that congregation did call John to come as their pastor. One of his first official jobs was to meet a deacon up at church, turn the outhouse over, and get rid of the bee’s nest. Eventually the church got indoor plumbing, just one bathroom, you know, like the Three Stooges motto, “All for one and one for all.” But it was a big deal for all of us back in those days, a real big deal.

I wanted to celebrate. I thought we should have a church party, burn the outhouse in a gigantic bonfire, and toast marshmallows. John vetoed my idea. It wasn’t the first or the last time he’s vetoed my ministry ideas, which is probably why we’re still in the same church all these years later. If he’d listened to me more often. we’d probably have lasted a year, maybe five at the most, before the sweet congregation may have politely suggested we move on.

The little house the church rented as a parsonage for us had an outhouse in the backyard. “Old John” who lived in a tiny trailer, also in our backyard, used it. When Old John died, young John got rid of the outhouse that was mostly falling down by itself.

Many other outhouses were part of our life’s journey too, most of them found at isolated campgrounds in Michigan’s state forests. Those were wonderful days, camping when the kids were smal, and the campground echoed with laughter of our family and friends who camped with us.

Years passed and through the goodness of God and a neighbor with a heart the size of the world we moved from the little house to the big house next door. It too had an outhouse in the backyard. That one hadn’t been used in years, had no distinctive outhouse smell—if you know you know—and was in remarkably good condition. I had immediate and enthusiastic plans for it.

I dragged John out back. “Look, honey. We’ll plant our garden right here, okay?” He agreed. “And we’ll turn that outhouse into an adorable little garden shed. We can put in a window, slap some cute shutters on it; can’t you just see it?”

He couldn’t just see it, and sadly, the outhouse became a pile of ashes. I was sad. Come to think of it, I believe John said he’d build me a little garden shed that looked like an outhouse. I think I’ll be talking to him about that one of these days when he finishes his honey do list.

That poor cremated outhouse wasn’t the last one in my life. We continued camping where there were outhouses. We were at a state forest near Grayling, Michigan when our son, Dan, who usually loved camping, seemed uncharacteristically depressed.

I asked him if something was wrong. “I miss Mindy,” he said.

“Let’s call her and see if she wants to come up and camp with us,” I suggested.

Mindy did. She bought a little one-person tent and joined us. Primitive camping and outhouses may not have been her thing, but she loved Dan, and she loved us, and we made a wonderful memory that week. By the next summer Dan and Mindy were married.

Strange, but I can’t remember if that summer Mindy joined us was our last outhouse camping trip or if we camped in other primitive campgrounds after that. It’s probably stranger still that I have such happy outhouse memories! I guess it isn’t really the outhouses I remember so fondly it’s the events surrounding them; my sister’s laugh, a young pastor’s first hopeful sermon, a little girl not afraid of bees buzzing around her bare bottom, my early experiences with country life, happy memories of camping with family and friends, and the addition of the first of four in-laws to our family.

In the almost three decades since that camping trip, I’ve learned Mindy will do anything we need done and do it with love. She’s a huge treasure wrapped in a tiny package. I bet she’d even go camping again with us where she had to use an outhouse. But just in case I’m wrong, I don’t think I’ll ask her.

The End
***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume 1: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume 2: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume 3: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume 4: 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 neighbors called them “the boys on the block” because the rest of the neighborhood children were girls. The four boys were inseparable. They walked to school and home from school together and spent most of their free time with each other. They had big plans; they were going to form a band when they grew up and call themselves, you guessed it, “The Boys on the Block.” And they were going to be famous.

Music was their last class of the day, and it was their favorite. It didn’t matter to them that their third-grade music teacher, Miss Whatchamajig, winced whenever the class sang. She was too kind to tell the boys they were tone deaf. Perhaps they’d improve with age. I mean, miracles still do happen, right?

Miss Whatchamajig often said, “Liam, William, James, Henry, please sing a bit quieter. I can’t hear the girls.” The boys would quiet down for a line or two, but then they’d go back to singing the way they did everything else. What they lacked in talent they made up for in enthusiasm.

There was something Miss Whatchamajig didn’t know. Even her trained ear couldn’t hear it, because the volume of three of the boys covered up the quieter voice of the fourth. Not only was one voice in tune; it was pitch perfect.

The boys on the block were good kids, for the most part. They couldn’t wait until their parents let them leave the block so they could have more adventures. Maybe that would happen next year when they were ten years old. But for now, they had to find their fun on the block where they’d all lived since they’d been born. They were glad for the empty lot where they spent most of their time, hanging out, kicking a football, tossing a baseball, or talking.

Sometimes they practiced for the day they’d become a famous band, but that usually ended in an argument, because they couldn’t agree on what kind of music they wanted to sing. And that argument got quite heated after school on April 30 with only one month left of third grade.

“Let’s sing pop,” William said. “My dad says it’s the most popular kind of music in the whole world.”

“Nah, I don’t like pop,” James said. “Let’s sing country. We could make lots of money like Brooks & Dunn.”

“That sounds like two people.” William said. “There are four of us. That’s not gonna work.”

“We could be like ‘Alabama’ then.” James said. “There were four of them. Their music is old, but my dad still plays it. He says country music is more popular than ever.”

“I don’t care if it’s popular. I hate country music. I’m not singing it.” William’s voice was getting even louder than normal.

The two boys glared at each other.

“How about rock then? I bet we’d be good at that!” Henry said.

Liam shook his head. “My grandparents wouldn’t approve of me being in a rock band.”

“Hey, weirdo.” James punched him lightly on the shoulder and grinned. “Your grandparents won’t still be alive by the time we’re old enough to be a band.”

“Yeah, I guess. But I still wouldn’t want to disappoint them. Maybe they could still see me from heaven.” Liam looked sad, and James felt horrible. How could he make this better?

Liam was a good friend. James and the other boys had stood near him at the cemetery when they’d all been just five-years old, and they’d all cried with him. He’d lost both parents in a car accident, and now his grandparents took care of him. It wasn’t his fault if he sometimes sounded like a little old man. He lived with old people.

James asked, “What kind of music do your grandparents like?”

Liam’s face brightened. “They like southern gospel. Do any of you like it?”

The boys shrugged. “I guess we haven’t heard it.” William spoke for all of them. “Maybe we’d like it if we heard it. Do any of the bands have four people?”

“Sure! There’s lots of famous quartets, “Ernie Haase & Signature Sound,” “Tribute Quartet,” and “The Kingsmen Quartet,” but they have more than four guys.”

James was still feeling bad about making Liam sad earlier. Maybe he could make him feel better. “I like that name, ‘The Kingsmen Quartet.’ We could call our band ‘The Four Kings’ instead of ‘The Boys on the Block.’ Do you know any of their songs?” Liam nodded. “Okay, how about singing us one?”

Liam shook his head. “I don’t like singing by myself.”

“Aw, come on,” Henry said. “Sing one. If we like it, we’ll all learn it. Hey, we could sing it tomorrow after class for Miss Whatchamajig! My mom said sometimes people give flowers on May Day. We could give her some flowers and ask her to listen to us and tell us if she thought the “The Four Kings’ would be a good band someday.

“Okay.” Liam took a deep breath and started to quietly sing, “Beulah Land,” a song he loved because it made him think of his parents waiting for him in heaven.

“I’m kind of homesick for a country
To which I’ve never been before
No sad goodbyes will there be spoken
For time won’t matter anymore

“Beulah Land I’m longing for you,
And some day on thee I’ll stand.
There my home shall be eternal.
Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land.”

Liam finished and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The other three stared at him astonished. They’d never heard him sing alone before. Nine-year-old boys don’t often do group hugs, but The Four Kings did one then.

William said, “You’re crazy good, Liam! You could sing the first part by yourself, and we could join you on the ‘Beulah land’ part. Let’s try it.”

It didn’t take the three boys long to learn the chorus. Then they went home with Liam, told his grandma their idea, and practiced the song on her.

“What do you think, Grandma?” Liam asked.

“I’ve never in my life heard anything quite like it!” Grandma said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “So, you want flowers? We have lilacs, violets, and bleeding hearts in bloom. Would you like me to help you pick a bunch for Miss Whatchamajig?”

Liam couldn’t figure out how to take Grandma’s beautiful vase of flowers to school with him in the morning, so he pulled the flowers out and stuffed them into his backpack.

The four boys were so excited they could hardly wait for the school day to end. When it finally did, Liam retrieved the wilted bouquet, and the four boys hurried to Miss Whatchamajig.

“Please don’t leave yet,” Liam said. “We brought you some flowers for May Day.”

Miss Whatchamajig managed to express gratitude without laughing and gathered up her music books.

“Can you stay just a couple minutes?” Henry asked. “We want to be a band someday. We have a name picked out and everything. We’re gonna be ‘The Four Kings.’ And we want to know what you think of our song.”

Miss Whatchamajig agreed while wishing she had earplugs and wondering what on earth she would say when they finished torturing her. Before Liam was half finished with his solo, tears were running down her face.

How did I never hear this child’s amazing voice before?

But when the other three joined in on the chorus with great volume and enthusiasm she knew exactly why she’d never heard Liam. She couldn’t hear him now. She tried not to wince.

“So, what do you think?” Henry asked, an excited grin covering his face.

“I’ve never in my life heard anything quite like it!” Miss Whatchamajig said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

“So, you think we could be a band?”

“Anything is possible!”

The Four Kings thanked her and tripped over each other hurrying out the door.

Miss Whatchamajig gathered up the wilted flowers and started to throw them in the wastebasket. The janitor would empty the garbage before the boys returned tomorrow. Then she hesitated.

I think I’ll take these home, put them in water, and see if I can revive them. It would take a miracle, but I suppose anything is possible. I really didn’t lie to those boys. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them sings in a band someday. And the other three? Maybe I should teach them to play cymbals.

She groaned.

Too loud! They say the humble recorder is one of the quietest musical instruments. Maybe I’ll teach the whole class how to play.

She held the flowers to her nose. The wilted lilacs still smelled beautiful.

I wonder if heaven smells like lilacs. That song, “Beulah Land?” Mom and Grandma like that one. I haven’t thought of it for years, and I haven’t been home in a long, long time. I think I’ll try to fly home for Mother’s Day. I’ll tell them about a new up and coming band, “The Four Kings.”

Miss Whatchamajig walked out of the school, and the empty hallway echoed with the sound of her laughter and the scent of lilacs.

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

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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