Author: gettingofftheinterstate

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.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

“Dana!”

She jumped and her co-worker laughed. “I’ve been hollering your name, and you didn’t answer. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just exhausted. These twelve-hour shifts are killing me.”

“Well, you’ll like this news. The boss just said our crew can leave before lunch today.”

Dana couldn’t get to her car fast enough. Now there would be plenty of time to take the long way home and drive by the special place she’d been thinking about all day.

***

Marlene checked the time again. “Dave, I’m getting worried. Your mom is never late when we invite her for dinner. Can you call her again?”

“I just did. It went right to voicemail. She probably decided to pick up a few groceries or something after she got out of work.”

“And she didn’t call to tell us? You know that’s not like her. She’s a whole hour late.”

“Maybe she had to work overtime. I’d call and see, but I don’t want her to think we’re checking up on her. You know how independent she is.”

Marlene picked up her phone. “I’m calling.” She listened for a minute, said “Thanks,” and put the phone down. “They let her go home at noon! Where has she been for the last six hours?”

“Maybe she’s sleeping. Let’s go check her apartment before we panic.”

They knew before they went into her apartment she wasn’t going to be there because her car wasn’t parked in its usual spot.

“Okay,” Dave said, “maybe it’s time to panic. And pray.”

It only took them a few minutes to get from the apartment to the Hillsdale police station. The officer was kind and took the information. Name: Dana Peters. Age: Sixty-two. He recorded the make and model of her vehicle and her license plate number.

Then he said, “There’s not a lot I can do at this point. You said your mom doesn’t have dementia or any health problems you know of, and she’s an adult capable of living on her own. Perhaps she went to visit a friend or another family member.”

Marlene’s eyes filled with tears, and Dave shook his head. “You don’t know my mom. She was supposed to come for supper, and she’d never not show up without calling. She hates to worry us. This isn’t like her at all. Isn’t there anything you can do? I’m not a guy who jumps to conclusions, but something is really wrong here. Either mom has been in an accident, and she’s in a ditch somewhere, or—”

“Maybe someone abducted her,” Marlene finished for him. “She won the lottery last year; it was all over the news on the Lansing and Toledo television stations.”

The officer scratched his head. “Well then, maybe she decided to go to Vegas to try her luck again and have some fun. Or maybe she wanted to take a cruise and didn’t want to tell you.”

Dave was getting frustrated. “Listen, I’m telling you—”

“Officer, please listen to us; Dave’s mom would never do something like that. She’d know we’d be frantic trying to find her. She’s too much of a loving, responsible person to scare us like that. Isn’t there anything you can do to help us?”

The officer started to protest, but then Marlene said, “Sir, what would you do if this were your mom?”

His face softened. “Let’s start with the hospital here in town.” He called and shook his head. “Not there. If you seriously think she may have been abducted, I can get the state police involved.”

Dave and Marlene looked at each other and nodded.

“Okay,” the officer said, “Then go home, and someone from the state police will be there soon to take a statement.”

***

After the state police officer took Dave and Marlene’s statement he said, “I agree with you. Dana has been gone too long. We’ll ping the location of her phone. It it’s on, we can find out where she’s been, and where she is now.”

The officer stepped out to make some calls, and then came back to sit with them. It took some time for the results to come in. When they did, the officer said, “Okay. Looks like Dana left Hillsdale and headed northwest; it looks like she travelled through Battle Creek and Kalamazoo, and now she was in. . . Michigan City. Does your mom like Lake Michigan?”

Dave nodded. “She loves it. She used to take us kids there every summer. But she’d never take off for the lake without telling me. She doesn’t like to drive far from home alone anymore.”

The officer raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s exactly what she did.” The officer’s phone rang, and he stepped out to take the call.

“Dave, what on earth?” Marlene said. “Why would she go up there without telling us?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea what she’s—”
 
The officer stepped back into the room. “We just saw she’s headed for Chicago. You know anyone there?”

Dave jumped up. “No! Mom would never drive to Chicago alone! She hates the little bit of traffic we get in Hillsdale!”

“Okay, well right now she’s at Silver Cross Hospital, 1890 Silver Cross Boulevard, New Lenox, Illinois. Does she have a family member or friend she could be visiting?”

Dave didn’t even have time to react before his phone rang. “What? Yes, she’s my mother. No, I have no idea what she’s doing there. Yes, we’ll come right away.”

He turned to Marlene. “Mom is in the hospital. She isn’t hurt, but she has no idea how she got there. The doctor wants us to come get her, and he wants to talk to us.”

The three and a half hours it took to travel the 202 miles felt more like ten hours to Dave and Marlene. As they drove, they discussed every possible scenario: “Is Mom getting dementia? Is she depressed? Did she just want to get away for a few days? Why wouldn’t she tell us if we did so we wouldn’t go through all of this? Was she in an accident? Why is she in a hospital if she isn’t hurt?”

Dana was sitting up in a recliner and wearing her clothes when Dave and Marlene walked into her hospital room. A doctor followed them into the room.

“Hi Mom,” Davey said. “What hap—”

“This looks like a hospital,” she said. “I keep asking people, but no one will tell me. Why am I here, and how did I get here? Can you tell me Dave?”

“We’ve told you Dana,” the doctor said gently, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You just don’t remember. You walked into the ER and said you needed help.”

“Oh.” She rubbed her forehead. “Where is ‘here’?”

“You’re at Silver Cross Hospital in New Lenox, Illinois.”

“Oh, my goodness! Illinois! Am I near Chicago?”

“About forty miles away.”

“Mom,” Marlene said, bending down to hug her. “We’ve been so worried. Where—”

“Marlene, honey! I’m so glad to see you! I keep asking everyone, and no one will tell me. Where am I?”

Dave looked at the doctor. “What’s wrong with my mom?”

“We’ve explained this to your mother, but she isn’t going to be able to remember it for now. She’s having an episode of transient global amnesia.”

“Amnesia? Did she hit her head or something? Was she in an accident? If she has amnesia, how does she know who she is and who I am?”

The doctor shook her head. “She doesn’t have any kind of head trauma. This is a different kind of amnesia. Transient global amnesia is when a person knows who they are and can still recognize loved ones but can’t recall any recent events. They often ask the same questions repeatedly.”

“Well how long is she going to be like this? Is it permanent?”

“It’s still somewhat of a medical mystery. It seldom lasts more than twenty-four hours.”

“Well, if she didn’t hit her head then what caused this?”

“We don’t know for certain,” the doctor replied. “Sometimes it can be triggered by physical or emotional stress.”

Dave frowned. “I don’t think she’s under any emotional stress, but she has been working twelve hours shifts, and I don’t like that. I think it’s too much for a sixty-two-year-old woman.”

Dana cleared her throat. “I won’t be sixty-two until August.” She looked up at Marlene. “But where am I, and why am I here?”

The doctor explained again, and Dana nodded. Then she looked even more confused. “Wait. The last thing I remember was leaving work early. I was going to take the long way home. I wanted to drive by the old farmhouse where we spent so many happy years raising our kids.”

“It’s good you remember that,” the doctor said. “You probably will never remember the hours between then and now, but I think the episode may be over.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess.” Marlene looked at Dave. “Do you remember what today is?”

He shook his head.

“That’s okay. I wouldn’t expect you to, but today is the day your dad died.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Dana,” the doctor said. He turned to Dave. “So, there was some emotional stress in addition to the physical stress your mom has been under. That could explain why this happened to your mom.”

Dana’s eyes filled with tears. “Am I getting Alzheimer’s? Normal people don’t leave work and drive hundreds of miles away and not know how they got there.”

The doctor patted her hand. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s, Dana.”  

“Was it a stroke then?” Dana asked. “Will I still be able to work?”

“You haven’t had a stroke, either. I know you don’t remember, but we tested you for those things when you got here. You’ve had an episode of transient global amnesia. I know it’s frightening, but you’re okay now. Since we’ve already been able to run all of our tests, your son and daughter-in-law can drive you home any time you’re ready to go.”

She sighed. “I’m more than ready. But Dave and Marlene, I’m so sorry I put you through all this.”

They both hugged her.

“We’re just happy you’re okay!” Marlene said.

Dana teared up again. “I’m so embarrassed and so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Dave said. “This wasn’t anything you could have helped.” He hugged his mom tightly. “And I’m sorry I forgot what day it was. I miss Dad too.”

Dana sighed. “I know it isn’t what I should be focused on right now, and I feel selfish even saying it, but this will be the first time since your father died that I won’t have been able to drive by the old house.”

Dave squeezed her hand. “Come on, Mom. Let’s go. I’ll drive you by the old farmhouse before I take you home, okay?”

Marlene drove Dana’s car, and Dana was asleep in Dave’s car even before they got out of the parking lot. They were in Battle Creek when she rubbed her eyes, yawned, and said to Dave, “Where are we?”

“Go back to sleep, Mom,” he said gently. “We’re taking the long way home.”

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.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

Kristy knelt by her bed. “Dear God, I’m happy Easter is tomorrow! Thank you that Jesus died for us and rose again. And please, I really, really wish I could have a new dress for Easter!”

She hopped into bed, and Mom pulled up the covers. “Honey, we’ve talked about this. We would have gotten you a new dress if we could have. But you know Easter is about celebrating the resurrection, and we can do that without new clothes.”

Kristy nodded. “But the other girls at church will have new dresses to celebrate in. Maybe God will surprise me with one! It would be a perfect Easter if I could have one.”

Her mom sighed. “Kristy, God isn’t some kind of Santa Clause who gives us everything we want.”

“I know that. And it’s okay if God doesn’t give me a dress. I wish you could sew like Emily and Lydia’s moms.”

“I wish I could sew too, honey. I’d love to make you a new dress.”

Kristy sat up and threw both arms around her mom’s neck. “Don’t look sad. It’s okay you can’t sew. You do lots of things. You make me paper dolls and tell good stories. And you’re the best cook in the whole church!”

Her mom laughed. “I don’t know about that, but speaking of cooking, I better get busy making food for the Easter breakfast tomorrow.”

“Are you making the bunny bread?”

“Yes.”

“I hope Mr. Grumbple won’t get mad about it again.”

“I didn’t know you knew about that!”

“Last year I heard him tell Dad he didn’t think Easter Bunny bread belonged at a church breakfast.”

“What did your dad tell him?”

“Dad said if it would make him feel better, we’d call it the spring rabbit. But Mr. Grumbple didn’t eat any of the bread. I hope you won’t have to stop making it. All us kids love it.”

Mom laughed and kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to the kitchen to make the spring rabbit. You go to sleep now.”

Kristy smiled and snuggled under the covers.

Maybe Mr. Grumbple will eat the bunny bread this year. And maybe I’ll find a new dress in my Easter basket in the morning. And maybe it will be a perfect Easter.

Easter morning was pandemonium. Kristy’s mom was busy in the kitchen frosting cinnamon rolls, covering wonderful smelling casseroles, and putting the bunny bread on a platter. Dad was in the study looking over his sermon.  Kristy and her four brothers were racing through the house looking for the Easter baskets their parents had hidden. Hiding the baskets was tradition.

Kristy tried not to be too disappointed when she found her basket. It had a hollow chocolate rabbit, her favorite kind of jellybeans, and a pair of white socks with ruffles on the top. No dress.

But the socks will look pretty with my Mary Jane shoes.

Kristy looked in her closet for her nicest dress, the one she’d worn last Easter.

Kristy sat with the other six and seven-year-old girls at the Easter breakfast. She smiled to see how many girls had her mom’s bunny bread on their plates.

“Your mom is the best cook ever!” Emily said.

“And your mom and Lydia’s mom sew the prettiest dresses ever!”

The table full of girls began admiring one another’s new dresses, most of them flowery prints. No one mentioned that Kristy’s dress was a little snug and short.

“Is this seat saved for anyone?”

Kristy looked up and saw a girl about her age wearing a stained white T-shirt, jeans, and dirty sneakers with holes in them. Her blonde hair was in a messy braid, and her face looked like it had traces of tears.

Kristy smiled at her. “You can sit here. Have you been here before? I don’t think I’ve seen you.”

The other girl shook her head. “This is my first time. My stepdad dropped me off. He said I should stay here so he and Mom could have a couple hours without having to bother with me. I hope they remember to pick me up when they leave the bar.” She brushed away a tear.

Kristy touched her hand. “My mom and dad will be sure you get home if they forget. I’m Kristy. What’s your name?”

“Addy.”

“Addy, do you want some food? My mom’s bunny bread is really good!”

“I don’t have any money.” Addy spoke so softly it was almost a whisper.

“You don’t need money! It’s free!”

“I dunno. I feel funny here. You all have pretty dresses. I’ve never had a dress.”

“It’s okay. No one cares what you wear,” Kristy said.

Emily said, “Let’s all go with Addy. She can get food, and we can get some more food!”

On the way to the food table, the girls almost bumped into Julie, their favorite Sunday school teacher, who was coming out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of steaming breakfast potatoes.

“Oops, careful! You don’t want to wear these potatoes!” Julie laughed. “Kristy, I have a present for you. I saw where you’re sitting. I’ll leave it on your chair.”

“Thank you! What is it?”

“Oh, just a little something I felt like God wanted me to make.”

“I bet she made you a new dress!” Lydia whispered. “She sews even better than my mom!”

It seemed to take forever to get through the food line. Addie kept saying she’d never seen so much food, and it took her a long time to decide what to put on her plate.

Back at the table, Kristy set down her plate and picked up a lavender gift bag. She pulled out pink tissue paper and caught her breath.

Emily asked, “What is it? Take it out. We want to see!”

Kristy pulled out a cream-colored dress with a tiny pink rosebud print. It had short, ruffled sleeves and a ruffle on the bottom.

“That’s the prettiest dress I ever saw!” Lydia said. “Are you going to go into the bathroom and put it on?”

“I will after we eat,” Kristy said putting the dress back into the bag. “I don’t want to get any food on it.”

Her dad went to the microphone. “Please keep eating,” he said. “I’m going to talk about the resurrection during the morning sermon, but I wanted to say a few words about the cross while we’re together here. I’ve been thinking all week about how Jesus lived and died. No one ever lived a more beautiful life than Jesus. No one ever loved or gave like Jesus. He gave everything he had to give during his thirty-three years on earth. And then, at the end, he gave his life on the cross. Why? I think most of you know the answer. He loved us enough to die for our sins and to make a way for us to go to heaven. And now he wants us to love and give to others through us. We can be his hands and feet.”  

“Is that really true what that man said? Addy asked.

Kristy nodded. “He’s my dad. And it’s true.”

“Well, I never heard anything about God loving me. Or people loving me either. And I don’t know if I believe it.”

Seven-year-olds aren’t always good at putting things into words, but that’s okay. Actions are better. Kristy handed the gift bag to Addy.  “I want to give you this.”

Addy shook her head. “That lady said it was your present.”

“It was my present, but now it’s yours.”

“Take it, Addy,” Emily said. “I think it will fit you.”

“You’ll look beautiful in it!” Lydia said.

“The bathroom is right over there,” Kristy said. “Go try it on and see if you like it.”

Addy was gone for a while. When she returned the girls could tell she’d washed her face. She’d unbraided her hair. She looked beautiful even with the dirty tennis shoes poking out from the long dress. She smiled shyly at the girls. And then Addy got what was perhaps her first group hug and lots of compliments.

Kristy saw Julie looking their way and smiling. Julie gave her a thumbs up.

That night Kristy finished her prayers and hopped into bed. Mom pulled up the covers and kissed her on the cheek.

Kristy yawned. “Mom, God gave me a new Easter dress, but I gave it away. It made me feel happy.”

“Julie told me about that. I’m proud of you. And guess what? Mr. Grumbple ate my bunny bread.”

Kristy laughed. “I guess it was a perfect Easter, wasn’t it?”

The End
***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

Nancy leaned on her cane and watched the contractor walk around the barn shaking his head. He kicked at a rotten timber, and it crumbled. Nancy winced, lost her balance, and almost fell.

The young contractor leaped to her side and steadied her. “Hey, Miss Nancy! You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m fine, Ted.” She smiled when she saw the pencil tucked behind his ear. “You look too young to do things the old school way. I thought you’d probably use a tablet.”

He laughed. “I would, but my dad, who owns the company, still wants everything written on paper.” He pulled a notebook from the pocket of his brown Carhart’s then put it back.

“Aren’t you going to write down any figures so you can give me an estimate?”

He cleared his throat. “Miss Nancy, I hate to tell you, and I can send my dad out to give you his opinion, but I know he’ll say the same thing. This old barn is too far gone to save. Forget repairs. It would be cheaper to tear it down and build a new pole barn.”

She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears.

“This barn mean that much to you?” he asked sympathetically.

“It’s just that it’s been in the family over three-quarters of a century. My dad really loved it. Before he died, I promised him I’d do my best to take care of it, but time got away from me. It seems things get older faster than you expect them to.”

She wiped her eyes. “Do you think a coat of paint would help?”

He glanced again at the sun shining through gaps in the roof, at the rotting beams, and at the sagging rafters.

Nothing’s going to save this old thing. It’s outlived its usefulness and needs to be torn down, but if it makes her feel better….

He patted her shoulder. “You kinda remind me of my grandma, Miss Nancy. I’m going to give you the card of a painter I know. You tell him I said to give you my contractor’s discount.”

He handed her the painter’s card, and she convinced him to come in the house and stay for a cup of coffee and some chocolate chip cookies. She wrapped up a dozen for him to take home and share with his family.

“I don’t know why I make so many cookies. I don’t have any family left to cook for. It’s just me out here by myself. I love this place, but it does get lonely sometimes.”

Ted was in a hurry. He had five more estimates to give that day, but he knew his dad would understand. He talked to Miss Nancy for an hour.

As soon as Ted left Nancy called the painter and asked for an estimate. “I’d have to come look at your barn to give you an accurate figure,” the man said, “but even with Ted’s discount you’re looking at a ballpark amount of….”

Nancy’s eye’s widened when she heard the amount. She thanked him and said goodbye. There had to be some old paint around here somewhere. Dad wouldn’t approve; she could hear his voice warning her that there probably wasn’t enough old paint left, what there was would clump, that her hands were too shaky, and that old women had no business trying to paint old barns. But her mind was made up. She hadn’t taken care of the old barn the way she’d promised she would; the least she could do was try to spruce it up a bit. There might not be enough paint to cover the whole thing, but she’d at least paint the side that faced the road.

***

The next Sunday Nancy came home from church. She was tired. The sermon had been wonderful, but she didn’t feel part of anything anymore. Whenever she offered to help do something, someone said, “You’ve done your part, Nancy. It’s time for you to rest. Your job now is to pray for the rest of us.”

She did pray, but she wanted to do more. Sometimes she felt invisible.

Nancy took off her coat, looked at herself in the hall mirror, and laughed. There hadn’t been enough old paint left, and what there was had clumped.

“Well, Nancy,” she said out loud, “Maybe you are invisible. You tried painting the old barn and no one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t comment. Perhaps they were just too polite to say anything. You can’t afford new makeup, and you should know better than to use some that’s so old. It’s a wonder those clumps of mascara didn’t get into your eyes and blind you. And you only had enough blush for one cheek.”

She swiped at the few wisps of white hair she had left. She’d tried to arrange them to cover the bald spots, but it had been impossible. If only there was money to go to the beauty shop. She limped her way into the kitchen, thinking her legs were very much like rotting timbers.

“You and your crazy dreams, Nancy.” She chuckled. “Dreaming about a barn, contractor, and painter, probably because you sometimes feel like an old barn yourself.”

Sunday dinner would be coffee and chocolate chip cookies. Not healthy, she knew, but she had a fondness for baking cookies. She sat at the table munching cookies and thinking about inflation. Property taxes, food, gasoline—everything except her fixed income was higher every year.

And you felt sorry for yourself because you couldn’t buy makeup and get your hair done. Silly old woman, that’s the least of your worries.

 Nancy was so deep in thought she jumped when she heard someone knocking on the back door.

A young man stood there in brown Carhart’s a pencil tucked behind his ear. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “That your old barn over there?” He gestured across the road.

She shook her head. “That belongs to a man who used to live here, but he moved to town.”

“You happen to know his phone number?”

She nodded, and he pulled a notebook out of his pocket and jotted it down.

“What, no cell?” she teased. “You look too young to be old school with a pencil and notebook.”

He laughed. “My cell’s in my truck. And my dad owns our company. He’s the one who’s old school. He wants all the figures written down in notebooks. We buy old barn wood and make all kinds of things with it.”

Nancy stared at him. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Ted, would it?”

“You must know me from somewhere,” he said. “Sorry, I don’t remember you.”

“You wouldn’t. My name is Nancy. Do you happen to like chocolate chip cookies? I could wrap some up for you.”

He hesitated but just for a moment. “They’re my favorite!”

He waited near the door while she packaged them.

“Thanks!” he took a cookie out of the bag and munched one. “Wow, this is good. Do you like to bake?”

She sighed. “I love cooking and baking. I make too much food for one person to eat, though.”

“I’m glad I met you,” he said. “I don’t really believe in coincidence, do you? I think everything happens for a reason.”

She nodded. “Our pastor said the same thing at church this morning. God has his hand in more things than we realize.”

“I have to talk to my dad about this first, but I wonder if you’d be interested in a job?”

“You want to hire an eighty-year-old woman for a job?”

“Dad and I have been looking for someone. Mom’s been in heaven for a year, and Grandma lives with us. She’s younger than you, but she has rheumatoid arthritis and can’t cook. We don’t need anyone to clean; Dad and I can handle that, but Grandma is lonely. We’d like to hire someone to keep Grandma company and cook for us. Are you interested?”

“I think I am, but you need to talk to your dad about me, and I want to talk to God about this. Let’s talk again tomorrow, alright?” She started to close the door and whispered a prayer.

 “That sounds like a plan, Miss Nancy.”

She opened the door again. “Do you call all old ladies ‘Miss’?”

He laughed. “I’ve never called anyone ‘Miss’ in my life. I hope you aren’t offended. You just look like a Miss Nancy to me.”

“I’m not offended. You tell your dad to call me, or come see me, or whatever.”

“I thought you needed to pray about it?”

“I already did.”

Nancy watched the truck drive away then decided to take a nap. She pulled up her quilt and smiled.

Now I’ll have someone to talk to and cook for. I might even have enough money to buy new paint for this old barn. Even if I don’t, it doesn’t matter because it’s what’s inside the barn that counts. And inside this old barn is someone who still has a lot to give.

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.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

Gertie peered over her half-glasses at the packed waiting room.

Looks like the room is going to live up to its name today. Might be a long wait.

She tucked a few strands of wispy gray hair behind her ear, pulled out her knitting bag, and got busy.

“Scuse me. You got a tissue?”

The voice came from a young woman to her right. Gertie glanced at the beanie the young woman was wearing to cover her bald head and the empty ice cream pail—aka barf bucket—she was carrying. Gertie had been there. More than once. The woman didn’t look more than twenty years old.

Just a girl, poor kid. God, help me help her.

Gertie handed over several tissues with a sympathetic smile.

“It’s tough, I know. Are you here alone?”

The woman shook her head and blew her nose. “My husband went to the cafeteria. He’s starved, and he doesn’t like to sit here and see…all of us. He won’t go back with me when I get my treatments either. It’s hard for him. You know.”

Gertie nodded. “I know. I’m Gertie, and I’m happy to meet you.”

The woman sniffed. “I’m Ava, and I wish I was anywhere but here.”

Gertie nodded. “I get that. I’ve been coming here a long time.”

Ava’s eyes widened. “A long time? How long?”

“Five years now.”

“What kind of cancer do you have?” Ava asked still crying.

Gertie answered.

Ava wiped her eyes. “That’s the same kind I have,” Ava said. “But they told me I’d probably be cured after eighteen weeks of R-chop chemotherapy, and I’m having a hard time even living with cancer that long! Why do you still have it?”

“It’s a long answer, but I’ll try to make it shorter. At my age and with my other health problems, they said I had a 60 percent chance of beating the cancer with R-chop.”

“But you were in the unlucky 40 percent?” Ava asked.

“Something like that. Next came radiation and GemOx.”

“What’s GemOx?” Ava interrupted.

Gertie was pleased to see Ava’s tears had slowed to a trickle.

“For me it was like R-chop on steroids, but by then I was where I am now, one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, and for me, one foot on a banana peel is especially dangerous.”

“What do you mean one foot on a banana peel?”

Ava had quit crying, and Gertie was feeling pleased with herself. This was heading in the right direction.

“It’s an odd expression. Sometimes in old time comedy acts someone would slip on a banana peel and fall. People would laugh.”

“I don’t think that’s funny,” Ava said.

“I don’t either, really,” Gertie said. “I guess you have to appreciate slapstick comedy to laugh at something like that.”

Ava wasn’t using any more of the tissues. “What’s slapstick comedy?” she asked.

“You ever see The Three Stooges or Home Alone?”

Ava nodded. “Oh yeah, My grandpa thinks stuff like that’s funny. Me, not so much.”

“Well, slipping on a banana peel was in that same genre, but now it means any situation that’s unstable or puts you at risk of sudden change.”

“So your cancer’s unstable?” Ava asked, reaching for another tissue.

Gertie patted Ava’s arm. “Don’t start crying again. It is, but it’s been unstable for five years. I’m used to it.”

“I don’t know how you live like that! I don’t think I could!”

“Do you really want to know how I do it?”

“I really do. You sit there knitting like it’s the most normal thing in the world not to know if you’re going to live or die tomorrow.”

Gertie chuckled. “Actually, Ava, not knowing that is the most normal thing in the world for everyone, but people don’t usually think about it. I have to think about it. And I can face that instability because God is my Rock. And I can face death because I know I’m going to live forever.”

Ava gave her a side eye. “You a Sunday school teacher or something?”

Gertie smiled. “Matter of fact I am. Why? Don’t you like Sunday school teachers?”

Ava thought a moment. “I haven’t thought about Miss Bessie for a long time. She was my Sunday school teacher when I was a kid. I loved her. You kinda remind me of her. She wore half-glasses like you, and she was really old like you, ninety something.”

Gertie laughed. “Hey, I’m only seventy-five.”

Ava blushed. “My bad. I can’t tell people’s ages once they get old. But thanks for reminding me about God. I trusted Jesus as my Savior from sin when I was a little girl, but then life got busy, and I kind of forgot to include him. I hope he hasn’t forgotten me, because I could really use his help now.”

Gertie said, “He hasn’t forgotten you, I promise. And I won’t either. I’ll pray for you.”

Ava started crying again. “I feel like we’re friends now, and I wish you weren’t dying!”

“Who says I’m dying? My cancer isn’t stable, but my oncology team thinks I might live for years!”

“But…but….” Ava wiped her nose and sniffed. “You said you had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

Just then they called Gertie’s name to go back for her chemotherapy infusion. She shoved her knitting into her bag, pushed herself out of her chair, grabbed her crutches, and laughed.

“I sure do have one foot in the grave! Look!”

Ava followed Gertie’s glance and noticed only one shoe sticking out of Gertie’s pants. The other pant leg was empty.

Ava’s eyes widened. “Cancer?” she whispered.

“No! Car accident when I was your age. I really did want to bury my foot, but they wouldn’t give it to me after they amputated it. But I have fun telling people I’ve got one foot in the grave!”

Then Ava laughed too. “And the other one on a banana peel! I hope I see you next time I’m here!”

“We’ll see each other again, I’m sure,” Gertie said. “Here or in heaven!”

“You preaching again, Gertie?” Ava heard the nurse say as he walked Gertie toward the elevator.

A few minutes later her husband returned. “I met the funniest old lady in the elevator. She only had one leg. She told me I should spend more time in the waiting room with you, and you know what? She’s right. I was thinking the same thing the whole time I was in the cafeteria. I’m sorry, honey. From now on, it’s the two of us fighting this cancer together.”

Ava slipped her hand in his. “Nope, it’s four of us fighting my cancer. You, me, God, and the old lady with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel?”

“Huh? What’s that mean?”

A nurse called Ava to go back for treatment and her husband stood to go with her.

Ava smiled. “I’ll tell you about the banana peel after they get my IV in for treatment.”

He swallowed hard. “Is it okay if I don’t watch?”

She laughed. “You don’t have to watch them put the IV in. You just watch to be sure I don’t step on any banana peels on the way there.”

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.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author