Author: gettingofftheinterstate

by Donna Poole

Quiet mystery hung over the restless night that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Sometimes lazy snowflakes drifted down; other times the moon peeked out from behind dark clouds. Two snow people yawned on a front lawn facing a white house that smiled welcome with its green shutters. A Christmas wreath with silver bells hung on its red front door.

“You’re so tall and handsome,” the short snow person said to the other. “I like your black hat, your shiny straight buttons, and your glasses. What’s your name?”

“You may call me Professor. What is your name, little snow girl?”

“I. . .don’t know. I don’t think I have a name.”

“Silly child! Everyone has a name.”

The professor studied her. She was a chubby little snow girl with crooked buttons. Her red knit hat sat sideways on her head, and she had only one mitten. Her carrot nose looked ready to fall into the snow. The professor frowned. He disliked untidiness. Still, there was something charming about the little snow girl’s lopsided smile.

“I shall call you Scruffy,” he said.

“Scruffy? What does that mean?”

In his best lecture voice Professor said, “It means untidy, messy, shambolic, or disorganized.”

“Oh dear,” Scruffy said. “Am I all those things?”

“Yes, but it’s not your fault,” Professor said. “Things like this just happen.”

“So someone made me messy?”

“Silly child! Don’t you know anything? No one made us. We evolved.”

“What does ‘evolved’ mean?”

Professor frowned. How could he explain such a complex science to a simple-minded snow girl? “I’ll give you the easy version. First you were a snowflake. After a million years, you became a snowball. After a million more years you divided into three snowballs. By a process even I don’t fully understand the three snowballs stacked one on top of the other and. . .ta-da! You became you.”

“But who made the first snowflake? Who made my face?” Scruffy persisted. “Who gave me my hat and my mitten?”

The exhausted professor sighed. “Oh, do go to sleep, Scruffy. No more questions tonight. And look at that.” He sounded disgusted. “Your nose has fallen into the snow.”

Soon the professor was snoring softly, but Scruffy felt sad about her nose, and she had too many questions to sleep. So no one had made anything? That didn’t seem right. The snowflakes and the moon were so beautiful; she thought someone beautiful must have made them.

Lights came on in the house. Scruffy saw a tall man with a pipe and a messy little girl laughing together. The little girl pointed out the window and tugged the man’s hand. He nodded.

Silver bells rang as the red door with the Christmas wreath opened. The little girl and the man came outside. The little girl wore a red coat and red mittens, and the man had a long black coat. They walked right up to Professor and Scruffy.

The little girl bent down and picked up the carrot nose. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t put your nose on very well. I’ll fix it.” She put the carrot back on Scruffy’s face and straightened Scruffy’s hat. “Look at that!” She laughed. “I forgot to give you your other mitten.” She pulled one off her own hand and put it on Scruffy. Scruffy felt happy and loved.

“Daddy,” the little girl said, “your snowman looks almost perfect. He looks like a professor, just like you. He’s just missing one thing. You should give him your pipe. You promised Mommy you would quit smoking. It could be your Christmas gift to her!”

The tall man shook his head and laughed. “You and your mom, always asking me to give up my pipe. It’s not even lit half the time, but if it will make you two happy, I guess I can live without it.” He carefully put his pipe just so in the snowman’s mouth. “Now let’s have some hot chocolate before bed. You’re already up too late; it’s Christmas Eve!”

The little girl tucked her hand in her dad’s hand. She smiled and waved at Scruffy.

As soon as the red door closed, Scruffy called, “Professor! Professor! Wake up! You missed it! We didn’t evolve from snowflakes. A man made you, and a little girl made me! Look! The little girl fixed my nose and gave me another mitten. The man gave you a pipe! Look in that window, and you’ll see them.”

Professor looked in the window. He saw no one. “Silly child! Next thing you’ll be telling me someone made the moon and the snowflakes. You must have been dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

Scruffy went to sleep, and she dreamed about a kind little girl.

Professor couldn’t sleep. Something puzzled him. Where had the mitten and pipe come from? How had Scruffy’s nose gotten back on her face? He thought evolution took millions of years. Surely his nap hadn’t lasted millions of years. Suddenly he saw something in the window. A tall man was carrying a small child in rumpled pajamas. Could it be? No! It went against everything he’d learned in all his years of study. Still. . . what if? He looked at the moon and the beautiful snowflakes. He looked, and he wondered for a long, long time.

By Donna Poole

“Over the river and through the woods, to Aunt Eve’s house we go,” the kids used to sing when they were little and we made our annual Thanksgiving trek, the van loaded with food, to celebrate the holiday with family. How blessed we are, I often reflected on the drive, to have three of the four sisters living in Michigan. Who would have thought?

We Piarulli girls spent our growing-up years in New York State. My sisters, Eve and Ginny, along with their husbands and families, ended up in Michigan before we did. I never dared hope I’d live anywhere near a sister, but a year after John graduated from Bible college in Iowa, a tiny country church in Michigan asked him to come as pastor. There we’ve been ever since. So we became three sisters living in Michigan and deeply missing Mary, our New York sister, every time we gathered together.

Let me tell you something about Michigan. Just because three sisters live in Michigan doesn’t mean they will live anywhere near each other. The distance from our house in southern Lower Michigan to Eagle River in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is over 590 miles and takes over nine hours to travel in light traffic. Chattanooga, Tennessee is closer to us.  

But we three sisters were blessed. It took no more than a three hour drive for any of us to reach the other.

The drive to and from Eve and Bruce’s was full of traditions. “There’s the spanking place,” one of the kids hollered every year.

I always felt a bit miffed. Why, when we had so many wonderful memories, did they always point out the place where just once, years before, we’d pulled into an empty parking lot and spanked all of them before we arrived in time to stuff our faces with turkey and give thanks?

On the ride home the kids traditionally begged, “Wake us up to see the Christmas lights.”

When we got to the town that always lit its tree on Thanksgiving evening, John woke sleepy kids and sleepy me. I’m notorious for falling asleep in the car. There’s something about the rhythm of the wheels singing that lullaby, “Over the river and through the woods. . . .”

Years passed, and the stuffed turkey had nothing to brag about in comparison to the stuffed rooms at Eve and Bruce’s. Kids grew up, married, had children of their own, and still we all gathered “over the river and through the woods.”

That beautiful tradition ended when God called Eve home. Extended family began driving over the river and through the woods to gather at our home. Everyone helps with the meal and the food is as good as it ever was; our home rings with love and laughter, but it’s not the same. How could it be? Eve isn’t with us. This year another family member joined her in heaven, and more than one heart will smile through tears on Thanksgiving Day.

Thanksgiving was Eve’s holiday. I’m just pinch-hitting for her for a while. I do my best to spread the love for as long as I’m here, because someday someone will have to take over for me.

When Thanksgiving Day ends all too soon, we linger first at the door, then on the porch, next in the driveway in the traditional, drawn-out Midwestern kind of goodbye. There are a few rounds of hugs.

When Ginny can be with us I always fiercely hug her and whisper, “When will I see you again?” I cry because I love her. I cry because I really don’t like goodbyes.

One by one, cars and trucks leave. Our volunteer fireman son flashes his lights in the driveway so his nieces and nephews—and his mom—can see them and smile with delight.

John and I are two old people with tears in our eyes waving until the last taillights disappear down our gravel road, thanking God for memories of yesterday and today, and wondering how many more times we’ll have to gather together. Will someone else be missing next year when family gathers from over the river and through the woods?

I know what Eve would do if she were here. She’d hug me tightly. She’d remind me we’ll have forever together in heaven. She’d tell me to get back in the house before I catch cold. In my heart, I can see her beautiful smile and hear her say, “Good job, Donna. Thank you. It was a beautiful Thanksgiving.”

by Donna Poole

We get out of the truck, zip our hoodies tighter around our necks, and walk hand-in-hand through the field.

“Aren’t they cute?” someone says. “That old and still holding hands!”

We smile and keep walking. Yes, we still adore each other, but that’s not why we’re holding hands. We’re trying to keep from falling.

“Where’s the finish line?” we ask the first person who looks like he might know.

Reece, our grandson, placed second in this year’s community turkey trot race, and we missed it. We seem to be running for the worst grandparents of the year award, and we’re near the front!

Reece is only twelve. “I beat highschoolers, Grandma!” He grinned. “I even beat my athletic director.”

“Of course you beat him,” Reece’s mom said. “He has a bad knee.”

I ruffled Reece’s curls. I’m rather partial to them and to him. “Hey! You still beat him! Take what you can get!”

Reece’s sister, Megan, runs for Hillsdale College. I’m more than a little partial to her too.

I don’t often get to see my grandkids run, but every time I see their long legs flying around a track or through a field, I say to John, tongue-in-cheek, “They run that fast because of all the practice they got running away from their dad. And their dad was a good runner because of all the practice he got running from you!”

“Can I tell you a story?” Reece, our runner-grandson, asked in Sunday school this past Sunday.

“Is it a Bible story? Does it have any spiritual significance whatsoever?”

Looking disappointed, he sighed and shook his head.

“Tell you what. You tell me any story you want. I’ll make a spiritual application.”

“Really? Well, after I finished the turkey trot, lots of people were still running. I took my snowboard to the hill near the race. People were watching me. I was doing good; then all of a sudden I started. . . . .” He made a rolling motion with his hands.

“Head-over-heels? Not the impression you’d hoped to make?”

We both laughed. “Well, life is going to send you tumbling down many hills you didn’t choose, and sometimes people will be watching.”

We talked about how Reece didn’t get angry, put his snowboard away forever, or hide in his room. He picked himself up and laughed. We discussed the possible stroke or seizure I’d had a few days prior that today’s MRI will hopefully confirm or deny.

We can’t always choose our hills, roads, or tumbles, but we can get up, give God the pieces we have left, and keep going.

That kid snowboarded again Sunday afternoon.

Me? I just finished my MRI. The tech told me he did a special test for memory issues. That’s a good thing, because I walk Muddled Memory Lane often now, and I know many of you walk it with me.

Because of physical limitations, some of us may never again run a turkey trot or snowboard down a hill. I know some of you would love to just be able to get out of a wheelchair and meander a back country road. But there’s something we can do. We can help each other stand. We can keep walking each other Home. And we can cheer on those reaching the finish line.

by Donna Poole

Of course it was raining. I’d forgotten how muddy these backroads get in the rain. I’d forgotten many things, how to laugh, how to love, how to live.

The May lilacs drooped heavily over the country roads leading home. I’d once loved their scent. Now, all I could smell was myself. I smelled of the pigs I’d been sleeping with, animal and human, and I smelled of shame. You think shame doesn’t have a scent? You’d know better if you’d been where I’ve been, done what I’ve done.

I never expected this ending. Since I’d been a little girl, family and friends had remarked on what they’d called my unusual talent and radiant beauty. Convinced I could make fame and fortune my own, I’d fixated on one thing. Money. I needed money to get my start. Farm-life would wrinkle my skin, make me old before my time, and suck the life out of me. I had to get away from home.

So, I begged Dad for money, and I was relentless.

My brother, Eliab, was furious. “How could you! Do you know how Dad got that money he gave you? He cashed in his life insurance policy and gave you the half you would have gotten when he died. I heard him sobbing last night. He hasn’t cried since Mom’s funeral! This might kill him!”

I tried to care, but I was too excited. City lights were calling, and I had more money than I’d ever dreamed. Why try to explain to Eliab? He wouldn’t understand me; he never had. I edged passed him with my suitcase and headed out the door.

“Marion! Don’t leave like this when Dad’s not home! At least wait and tell him goodbye!”

“It’s better this way,” I said.

It was a beautiful, sunny September when I left. Hitchhiking was exciting, and contrary to all the warnings I’d heard, no one robbed or assaulted me. Not then.

My dream city job never materialized, but I was having so much fun with my new friends I didn’t care.

It’s amazing how fast you can blow through a hundred grand in the fast lane. The night life, breathtaking at first, eventually left me feeling so empty I almost didn’t care when my cash ran out. I wasn’t worried the first night I couldn’t pay the tab; my new friend would pick it up. He did but not willingly.

It’s amazing how fast you can blow through friends when you’re broke and need a bed or a hot meal. I was too proud for a shelter or the mission, and I vowed I’d never go home. I’d die first. And I almost did.

You don’t need to hear how I ended up on the streets and the things I did to survive that cold winter. No one would hire me. I didn’t blame them; I wouldn’t have hired myself.

One night I met a group of men who taught me quickly that not all farmers were the gentlemen my dad and his friends were. I’d already learned too much about men from sleeping on the streets to trust easily, but when I saw those farmers in a bar, their flannel shirts and jeans made me nostalgic for home and lured me into a false sense of security. When they offered me a ride and a place to stay, I went with them, like the idiot I was.

I don’t want to say much about the nights I spent with them in their shack or out in the barn with their pigs just to keep warm.

One early May morning, I woke from a nightmare. The men were still sleeping when I left. I tried hitchhiking, but no one would give me a ride.

So, I walked. Over and over I rehearsed my speech, “I’m not worthy to be your daughter. If you’ll just let me sleep in a clean bed, I’ll do anything! You can fire the cook and housekeeper; I’ll do all their work, and I can help Eliab do his chores. . . .”

I scratched at the lice on my head and dug at the flea bites on the skin I’d once admired. Once I’d worried about wrinkled skin, but now I shrunk in horror from my scarred soul.

When I didn’t think I could take another step, I saw it, the place I’d once called home, a white farmhouse with its wraparound porch. It looked so clean. I wouldn’t blame Dad if he shoved me away and shouted at me to go back to the filth I’d come from.

I saw a man push himself out of  the porch rocking chair. It couldn’t be Dad; this man was older, stooped, and weighed about fifty pounds less than the strong father I’d left. He shaded his eyes with his hands, looking at me. Then he started running and shouting for my brother.

“Eliab! Eliab! Come quick! It’s our Marion!”

“Dad,” I choked out, “I’m not worthy to be. . . .”

Dad was laughing and crying. He smothered my words in his hug.

“We’re going to have the biggest party this county’s ever seen! Eliab, you have to help me. We’re going to take Marion shopping for new clothes, and I want to give her your mother’s diamond ring. Hey! Why aren’t you hugging your sister?”

He stopped, shocked by the look of hatred on Eliab’s face and the venom of his words.

“How can you even stand to touch her? She smells like trash and worse. You’re going to have a party for that slut who squandered your money on booze, drugs, and who knows what else? What about me? What have you ever done for me?”

“You’re the most faithful son a man could have, and all I have is yours. But can’t you rejoice with me? We thought your sister was dead, and she’s come home!”

Dad kept one arm around my shoulder and led me toward the house. Eliab didn’t follow. Would Eliab ever love me again? I didn’t know, and my cold heart melted with warm tears. I looked up at the joy and undeserved love in my father’s face.

If Dad could look at me like that, was he a figure of the True? Could my heavenly Father still love me too?

I fell to my knees, sobbing myself clean in the mud. God did love me still. He loved me with a beauty only the broken see. And I could love Him; I would love Him with a depth no righteous elder brother, only other forgiven sinners like me can understand.

“Daughter! Marion, come inside. Soon we’ll have you smelling as sweet as the lilacs. Aren’t they beautiful this spring?”

I took a deep breath. The lilacs were lovely that spring, lovelier than they’d ever been.

This narrative is based on one of my favorite Bible stories. You can read it in Luke 15:11-32.

By Donna Poole

November 12, 2019, 9:00 A.M.

The sun is turning the snow-packed gravel roads to diamonds on this frosty November morning. After the funeral we will drive down a diamond road to lay Anna May, one of our own, to rest in the Lickly’s Corners Cemetery.

The next stop will be the “Corners” where two dirt roads meet. Neighbors and family will sit around tables in the old one-room school where Anna May was part of the last graduating class back in 1948. Anna May was also part of the community club that met in the schoolhouse for many years. So was I.

We opened each community club meeting by singing, “Sew, sew, sewing on our quilts, helps brighten someone else’s world. We are happy as can be, because we’re community clubbers, you see….”

I wish I could remember the rest of the song. Sadly. of the twenty-four members there were then, only one other is still alive to ask. Perhaps I’ll see Sandy today and ask her if she can remember the words to our club song.

The community club sold the building to the church at the corners for $5.00, and the church has used it for potluck dinners ever since. For many years, Anna May was part of that church, our church.

Our church ladies will serve the funeral meal, a turkey dinner, at the old schoolhouse. Two of our women offered to make turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn. The rest of us will fill in things like salads, rolls, meatballs, calico beans, and a dessert table worthy of the name. There will be  lots of hot coffee to warm frigid hands and laughter to warm hurting hearts. Fixing food for others is one of the things the church at the corners does best. It’s one way we can show our love and the love of Jesus.

“How do so few people make so much food?” someone once asked of our church ladies. The question surprised us. We just do; doesn’t everyone? I suppose they don’t, but sharing food, love, and support is still a way of life at our Corners, and I hope the same is true in many places.

“Little House on the Prairie” knew the value of community. We’re lost, isolated, stranded without each other. You don’t have to be back roads country the way we are to cultivate community. It can happen anywhere. It just takes one person to realize we all need each other and to do something about it. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone needs you where you are right now.

We could talk about community today as we walk together through the snow on my gravel road and listen to the snow crunch under our feet. But first, I have a funeral dinner to help serve, and a few hugs to share. I might need a hug myself. I’ll dearly miss my friend.

By Donna Poole

“Just go for a walk.”

How many times has John said that to me when my brain tangled around a writing assignment or my heart knotted with the pain of a friend?

The rhythm of a singular walk on a country road isn’t a panacea, a cure-all, but it sure is a great detangler.

Not all roads detangle thoughts. I walked in New York City once with our Maine-Endwell High School Band. We visited the 1964 World’s Fair, and we walked downtown. I remember the exhilaration and shock I felt when the light changed and the massive crowd moved as one to the other side of the street. There was no room for individuality at that point. Turning back would have been impossible. The crowd carried me forward whether I wanted to go or not. I loved visiting the big city but knew even then that the rhythm of small town and country would always call me home.

At home, I listen to the rhythm of my steps on gravel and hear what the seasons say. The winds erase extraneous thoughts, and my mind clears enough to try to think God’s thoughts after Him. I may be singular on my walk, but I’m not lonely.

God and I were almost to the bridge where the St. Joe River, looking more like a meandering creek, passes under the gravel road. It was a quiet day; I saw no neighbors, and no tractors hummed in the fields. Started, I heard footsteps pounding behind me.

I whirled around. A young deer was running right at me. Deer don’t run toward people; they run in the other direction. She looked into my eyes. I held out my hand, and she nuzzled it. Would she let me touch her? I barely breathed. She wasn’t as soft as I thought.

We talked without words for awhile. I told her this is how it will be someday. She won’t have to fear anything then, and neither will I, because God promises nothing will hurt or destroy in all His holy mountain. We told each other we can’t wait for that day, when death and her sickly children of sorrow and suffering are forever banished, and our God makes all things new.

For now, sorrow and suffering are still with us, as is death, the defeated enemy, but the enemy just the same. We said goodbye this week to a friend of forty-five years.

“Just go, Anna May,” we told her. “It’s okay. We’ll be coming along soon.”

Anna May left behind these gravel roads she dearly loved to walk when she was younger, and she went Home. I hope she finds some gravel byways up there with some wildflowers and a deer that walks right up to her, and I hope she waits for me there. Because I don’t imagine Anna May will like streets of gold any better than I will.

By Donna Poole

As we walk each other Home, not all our meanderings will be on sunny paths. Will you journey with me awhile in the darkness, my friend?

Huddled in the darkest corner of my empty house I sit on the floor, rocking back and forth, head on my knees, arms wrapped around my legs.

I don’t have to open my eyes to know it’s dark; it’s the midnight of my soul. Is this coldness what it feels like to die? If it is, why can’t I just get it over with? I’m too exhausted to cry, too numb to call for help, too bone-weary to look for my bed. Is it even here any more?

I feel someone shake my shoulder. “Make me a cake.”

“Make you a what? I have nothing in my house. Look at me. I have given the last ounce of my love, sung the last note of my song, written the last word from my heart.”

He studies me, and He smiles. “Make me a cake. Just a little one. Make it from your weariness, your bitterness, your loneliness, your despair.”

My bones chill. Who is this monster alone with me in the dark asking me for an offering of my deepest pain? I shrink in fear.

“Are you the devil?”

“Look again.” The voice is mellow and strong.

A light, soft at first, glows and fills the room. I bend and hold His feet. “My Lord and my God!”

He laughs, a beautiful sound. “And now, my cake!”

He lifts me. Surprised I can even stand, I begin mixing all I have, exhaustion, heartbreak, loneliness, fear, pain, and despair. I hold it out to Him.

“Too dry! I have nothing to dampen the batter.”

“Try your tears.”

I shake my head wearily. “I ran out of those years ago.” He puts one hand on each of my cheeks, bows low with grace, and kisses my forehead. Suddenly, I’m sobbing healing tears, bursting from a place in my heart I thought had died with my long-lost saints.

I stir the batter and pour it into the pan. Still, I’m sad. “I have no fire to bake this little cake for You.”

“Thanksgiving always works.”

“Thank You! Thank You, Lord that You can use the emptiness, the grief, the suffering that is me.”

A fire begins within. It’s no longer cold and dark. I offer it up, all I thought was nothing but ugliness and pain. I give it with thanksgiving, and He wraps His arms around me and gives me words to sing again.

Dedicated to Lois Pettit with love, and with gratitude to Elisabeth Elliot and Amy Carmichael, because everyone we love and everything we read becomes part of us and makes us who we are.

By Donna Poole

We punch the address into Waze and choose the fastest route, because that’s how life is for all of us. We have too many places to go and too little time to finish what needs to be done. So we take the interstate, the four-lane highway, or at least the best available two-lane. And if a detour sends us down a gravel road, or we find ourselves trapped behind an Amish buggy, we fume, sigh, and sputter. How are we going to finish that to-do list now?

Do you ever get tired of the interstate? When I was a little girl Mom used to sometimes beg Dad to take us for a ride. We’d all pile into the station wagon and drive slowly down country roads looking for wildflowers. I miss those days. Even though we’ve lived on a gravel road in the country for forty-five years, life is too often a hectic whirlwind for us. I love long walks down these country roads, but we don’t meander often anymore.

I’m tired of the interstate. If you are too, join me here when you get a minute. We’ll walk together down gravel roads in all of life’s seasons. We’ll listen for the first frog to sing a welcome song to spring and look for the first red-winged blackbird sitting on a tall, dead weed. We’ll watch for the winter wheat to green, a sight so bright it will hurt our eyes. Together we’ll enjoy the scent of the first cutting of hay, and watch crops and gardens ripen in the mellow summer. We won’t regret the coming of autumn but instead dance with the rhythm of the falling leaves and pray that our later years will be as lovely. When snow comes we’ll walk together just long enough to hear it crunch under our feet and then retire to a warm fireplace with coffee, tea, or cocoa and talk about what it all means.

I hope you’ll meet me here often at “Back Road Ramblings,” and we’ll walk each other Home.