Author: gettingofftheinterstate

by Donna Poole

Emma, the old pastor’s wife, woke in the middle of the night and opened the wrong door. Confused, she stood staring at the family room, the living room, and the Christmas tree.

Why is the Christmas tree in the bathroom? Wait. Where’s the bathroom?

She shook her head to clear it, closed the door, and opened it again—the same door. She remembered one definition of insanity, “repeating the same thing and expecting different results.” But she wasn’t out of her mind, not quite yet, just tired, so tired. She rubbed her eyes, turned around and saw it. Relieved, she headed for the right door. The bathroom hadn’t disappeared after all.

Back in bed, cuddled under her many blankets, and snuggled next to her softly snoring husband, Emma couldn’t quite wake up, but neither could she drift back into sleep. It was almost Christmas.

Christmas! Her mind wandered off to years gone by and a gift never forgotten.

They’d been young then, she and her husband, and not yet in the ministry. They’d spent a year before they’d gone to their country church as pastor and wife absorbing all they could from Tom and Becky, a young pastor and wife at a thriving church on the outskirts of an Indiana town. And they’d learned a lot.

James had worked full time at American Motors and served as a deacon and a department Sunday school superintendent.

Emma had plunged into every opportunity available for service, and surprisingly, even in that large church, there were many holes to be filled. She taught Sunday school, children’s church, and helped in the nursery. Months went by without her hearing a single sermon.

Finally, she timidly approached Pastor Tom and asked if anything could be done about her workload. He laughed.

“Sure! I’ll find someone to cover something for you. But remember, around here, we only grease the wheels that squeak.”

She filed that thought away for future reference. Around here we only grease the wheels that squeak.  

Emma and Becky, the pastor’s wife, became good friends. They both liked to have fun, perhaps a bit too much fun, at least in the eyes of some of the stern older church ladies.

Missionary group was, how shall we put it nicely? Missionary group was dull; there is no nicer word. Emma suggested to Becky they liven things up a bit with a skit, and they enjoyed writing and performing it. In the skit they dressed as two impoverished, elderly, worn-out missionaries and acted the part complete with shuffling walk and quavering voices. They particularly enjoyed two lines they said to each other:

“You poor dear, what is that on your sneaker?”

“Oh, please excuse me. I have dysentery.”

They barely managed the lines without giggling.

Later, Becky told Emma with a sigh the stern older church ladies had not shared their amusement. They’d said the skit had been inappropriate and they hoped in the future Becky would show more decorum.

“No one said a word to me,” Emma replied.

“They wouldn’t,” Becky said. She tapped her chest. “When you’re the pastor’s wife, the buck stops here.”

Emma filed that away for future reference. When you’re the pastor’s wife, the buck stops here.

Quite a few families with money attended the church so Emma and her husband James were surprised to see Tom and Becky’s home with its threadbare carpet and sparse furnishings. They were even more surprised to discover the church paid their young pastor a meager wage, not that Tom ever complained, but it wasn’t too hard to figure it out.

The four of them sometimes enjoyed a meal together at Tom and Becky’s. They shared a turkey leg and a can of vegetables. The first time the turkey leg was a bit tough.

“I should have cooked it longer,” Becky said. “Next time I will.”

“Do you eat turkey legs often?” Emma asked.

Tom and Becky looked at each other and laughed.

“We do when we can afford them,” Becky said. “Sometimes you can get them on sale for nineteen cents a pound. And a big one makes a couple of meals.”

There was no apology for the meager meal and no dessert. There was just love, laughter, and fun around the table. It was a gift of hospitality never forgotten.

Share what you have and serve it with love and laughter. Emma filed that thought away for future reference.

The year passed quickly. The two couples hugged goodbye, and James and Emma went off to begin their ministry in a little church on the corner of two dirt roads. Emma’s favorite thing was to fill their home with family and friends, love and laughter. She never served a turkey leg, but she sometimes made a third of a pound of hamburger into a casserole that fed many. She discovered that a few loaves of homemade bread still warm from the oven go a long way toward covering a multitude of sins in the culinary department.

The years at the little church passed quickly also, too quickly. Emma calculated in her head, whispering so she didn’t wake James. Could it be? Yes. This was their fifty-fifth Christmas as a married couple and their fiftieth at the church they both loved so much.

Memories flooded in of the many meals she’d served over the years. Some had been large and lavish; some had been sweet and simple, but all had been served with love. And after each group of family or friends had left, and she’d crawled into bed tired and happy, she’d imagined she’d heard the Lord saying, “Thank you for a wonderful meal, Emma. I really enjoyed that.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. Cancer treatments had kept her immunocompromised for a few years. She was only allowed to invite family for meals, no more large groups of friends. She remembered years gone by when she’d invited everyone from their little church to come enjoy a meal around Christmas time, but once again, that couldn’t happen this year.

“Maybe next year,” she whispered to herself. “Let’s see. I’ve done Italian, Mexican, soups and sandwiches. If I can ever have my big Christmas party again, maybe I’ll serve turkey legs!”

And she fell asleep with a laugh, a hope, and a dream.

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

No one did Christmas as well as Ruthie; her family was sure of that. She almost looked like Christmas all year round, always wearing her pearl earrings and often wearing red. When she wore her red suit to church, she was the most beautiful woman there, even when she was sixty years old. Her dark eyes sparkled; her dark hair didn’t turn gray, and everyone agreed red was her color.

And if Ruthie was Mrs. Christmas, her husband, Claytie was the best Mr. Christmas in history. He didn’t let her do a thing alone; he was there for it all, the shopping, the wrapping, the decorating, the cookie baking.

And when the kids and grandkids came home for Christmas, Ruthie spared no effort to make the Christmas magic happen. Her heart was in her home, and never more so than at Christmas time. Porcelain angels bowed low, stretched their arms high, or danced with one another on every shelf of the hutch. Santa and Mrs. Claus sat on the round side table next to the couch perched on crocheted doilies. The perfectly decorated Christmas tree stood center stage in front of the bay window, and behind it, on the window shelf, Ruthie’s collection of antique red glass sparkled.

A red cardinal tablecloth covered the dining room table every year; cardinals were Ruthie’s favorite bird, and cardinal ornaments and knickknacks were tucked into every nook and cranny. A set of cardinal Christmas lights wound around the banister, and Ruthie, in a red apron, waited with face aglow at the door to welcome her family home for Christmas.

“Come in! Come in!”

And Claytie was right behind her, enveloping everyone in huge hugs, making even the in-law out-laws feel wanted and at home.

If hugs and kisses could have made it so, their family would have stayed forever.

Each year the menu included every one’s favorites; a HoneyBaked spiral ham, sweet potato, green bean, and carrot casseroles, stuffing, dinner rolls, and Ruthie’s home canned bread and butter pickles. Oh, and the potato salad. Though the recipe passed down to the next generation, no one was ever able to make that potato salad the way Ruthie did. It was worth driving one-thousand miles for. Dessert wasn’t too shabby either—homemade pie and apple crisp, delicious chocolate fudge and penuche, and spritz cookies, forever after called “Grandma’s cookies” no matter who made them.

Love and food meant practically the same thing, so Ruthie spoiled her family with both. No one ever forgot her delicious lasagna, or spaghetti topped with sauce she’d made from garden tomatoes and kept freezer ready for the holidays. Scalloped potatoes and leftover ham were on the menu too.

The red tablecloth stayed pristine clean, only because it was protected with a thick, clear plastic covering. When it wasn’t holding a heavy load of food, it found itself covered with board games and elbows of people leaning forward to talk and laugh with the person across from them or at the other end of the table.

Gift opening was wonderful too, but it would have been Christmas even without it. Often there were homemade gifts from Ruthie under the tree; she was a beautiful seamstress and a creative crafter.

And then each year, Claytie put the icing on the cake. The family called it “Grandpa’s party.” They would all go down to the family room and enjoy the treats he’d made or gone out to get; pizza, hot spiced apple cider, popcorn balls, summer sausage, cheese, crackers, little Pepperidge Farm breads, fun and games, love and laughter. There never was another party like it; I don’t believe.

It seemed to the family those days of coming home for Christmas would never end, but even the sweetest of fairy tales draws to a close. Claytie’s health failed before Ruthie’s did, and the two of them bought a small house in the south to live closer to their daughter.

The home of so many Christmases was sold.

A few years later, Mr. Christmas went home to be with God, and Ruthie lived part of each year with her daughter, and the other part of the year with her son. Her dementia worsened year by year.

One year she said to her son and daughter-in-law, “I can’t remember what home looks like.”

Out came the pictures of each home she’d lived in, but she just frowned at each one and shook her head. “No, that’s not it. That’s not it. I miss home.”

She seemed to enjoy Christmas with her son and daughter in law each year, and they did their best to keep up the family traditions, but it wasn’t the same, even though all the family still gathered together. She smiled politely at her gifts, often something red, a sweater, another cardinal, but she often had a far off look in her eyes.  

Her daughter-in-law noticed. She’s missing Dad and days gone by, but there’s something else too. What is she missing? I think she wants to go home, even though she can’t remember where it is.

More years passed as years do; the chapters in the book seemed to write themselves more quickly now. A severe infection sent Ruthie to a care home. She was happy there and didn’t seem to remember she’d ever lived anywhere else.

Except for that one day. Her son and daughter-in-law tried to visit her every day they could. One day she saw her son coming down the hall and her face lit up the way her daughter-in-law remembered it looking when she’d stood at the door at Christmas.

“Have you come to take me home?” she asked.

Tears filled her son’s eyes.

A nurse gently said, “You live here now, remember?”

“Oh, yes!” Ruthie said, sounding happy but still looking confused.

“Do you know who this is?” the nurse asked, gesturing toward her son.

“Why yes! He’s my husband!”

“No, he’s your son.”

“That’s right. He’s my son.”

The daughter-in-law’s eyes filled with tears too. Husband. Home. There’s no going back, is there? On the way out of the care home that day she clung a little tighter to her husband’s arm, looking back at the windows of the home, and wondering how long it might be before one of them might be there without the other.

One of the gifts they bought Ruthie for Christmas that year was a beautiful mobile with eight glass cardinals hanging from different lengths of string. They looked like they were flying. They were Ruthie’s favorite bird, and her favorite color, but by then she didn’t remember that anymore. Still, she sometimes looked at them and smiled. She had some of her porcelain angels in her room too, and other things she’d once loved, but none of them seemed to matter anymore.

Ruthie did love visits from family though, right up until the end. The nurses told the family she didn’t remember they’d been there two minutes after they’d left, but that didn’t matter, because when they were together, sometimes, just for a brief moment or two, a flash of memory would return, and often it would be about Christmas.

“Hey, Mom, remember how you got the kids blanket sleeper pajamas every year and took a picture of them by the Christmas tree?”

She nodded. “Except for Karen. She wanted nightgowns.”

The son and daughter-in-law looked at each other in surprise. “That’s right! And you and Dad got the grandkids Hess trucks every year.”

“Where is Dad? He was here just a minute ago. Be sure you find him and say goodbye before you leave. He’ll feel bad if you don’t.”

“We’ll look for him on the way out, Mom.”

Winter faded into spring, because no matter how cold the winds blow or how dark and short the days, spring always comes. And one evening, when Ruthie was cozy in bed, an angel came for her. She was surprised to see him; he didn’t look at all like her sweet, cuddly porcelain angels.

He was tall and bright like lightning, but she wasn’t afraid. She caught her breath with joy and felt like a child at Christmas.

He said, “Ruthie, I hear you want to go Home.”

“Oh, I do! Would you mind if I put on my red suit before we go?”

He laughed, and it sounded like an echo of faraway thunder. The windows in the care home rattled, but still she wasn’t afraid.

“Make it snappy,” he said.

And soon, while everyone else in the home slept, two figures soared upward, one an angel looking like lightning, and the other a lady. And the lady wore red.

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

Shortly before he died, President Calvin Coolidge made this phrase popular among our parents and grandparents who were struggling through the the Great Depression, “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.”

“Make do.” It’s an interesting concept, isn’t it? It means, “Okay, I guess that’ll do,” in the sense “it’s not quite right or what I would have wanted, but it will suffice.”

Who first used it? Charlotte Bronte penned “make it do” in “Jane Eyre,” the beloved novel she wrote in 1847.

I guess being flexible is one way of “making do,” and if we don’t learn to bend with circumstances life will be difficult indeed.

We had a make-do-late-Thanksgiving this year. Our original plan was grand; family was coming from near and far. The big birds were in the freezer next to a ginormous ham. We knew exactly how we were going to decorate the tables in three rooms; it was going to be spectacular, and of course Kimmee and I would bake our legendary array of pies.

But life happened. Sticky, germ filled, too busy life. Instead of tables full of family in three rooms we finally managed Thanksgiving last evening with just the four of us who live here. We cooked one of the three huge birds we had in the freezer and made the trimmings we could. Instead of many pies we decided on just three; a pumpkin for Drew, a peanut butter one for John, and a blueberry peach for Kimmee and me. Kimmee is allergic to the other two.

The blueberry peach pie became blueberry turnovers when we discovered one of the turkeys in the freezer had eaten the frozen peaches; he must have. Why else were there no peaches when all four of us were sure they were there?

Two doctor visits that lasted much longer than anticipated put the offending turkey who’d eaten the peaches into the oven quite a bit later than we’d hoped. We staved off starvation with a snack of cheese, crackers, and sparkling grape juice. Finally, around nine o’clock, the turkey decided to come out of the oven. By then some of us whose normal bedtime is seven thirty were getting tired. I never exaggerate; please remember that.

We didn’t decorate any table at all; we decided to eat in the living room and put all the food on the coffee table, so no one had to go back to the kitchen to get seconds, because who had the energy?

But we did something I’ve always wanted to do that won’t work when you have people sitting at several tables in three rooms. Instead of carving up the turkey before people come through a serving line, I’ve always wanted to serve the turkey whole on a platter, the way you see it done in pictures in magazines and in old movies on television. And so, we did!

We managed to crowd all the food onto the coffee table around the huge platter of turkey.

“Who’s going to carve it? Do you want to, Dad?” Kimmee asked.

“Not me! I don’t know how to carve a turkey!” John replied.

“Okay, you do it Drew! I have directions!” Out came her cell phone.

“First you…”

We put lids back on the crock pots so the food wouldn’t get cold.

Drew was a magnificent turkey carver, and that turkey—the one Kimmee had brined and made a spice rub for, and that she, Drew and I, had rubbed all over it, and the bird had complained, and we’d told him to hush, he deserved far worse after eating all of our frozen peaches—that bird was the best tasting turkey any one has ever eaten on the face of the earth. And I never exaggerate.

Kimmee’s rolls and bread were delicious. John pronounced my mashed potatoes, gravy, and side dishes a ten out of ten. Everyone somehow had room for dessert.

And then I called for the maid to come clean up.

“Yes?” Kimmee answered.

“You are not the maid,” I replied.

“Are you sure?”

We laughed. We looked at all the leftovers and sighed. I headed to the kitchen to scrape, rinse, and wash the dishes. That left the rest of them to put away leftovers, my least favorite job in the entire universe, and I never exaggerate. When we all finished it was about eleven o’clock.

I think we told each other goodnight? I remember crawling into bed; I don’t remember hearing a single verse from the chapter of Proverbs John plays for us every night before we fall asleep. But I do know two things. The four of us are very grateful for each other. And we have enough turkey—the one who ate the frozen peaches—left for many meals yet to come, perhaps enough for a month of Sundays, and I never exaggerate.

Also, Drew loves leftovers. They are his favorite thing. And I never lie either.

This, however, is true. It was a late, make do Thanksgiving last night, and it was lovely!

We woke this morning to find our old furnace, the one I’ve christened “Dragon Breath,” had decided to die. And we found a message from the University of Michigan that my cancer treatments are up in the air because I’ve missed so many visits because of pneumonia. We don’t know what comes next, and they don’t either. They are reaching out to the sponsor of my trial drug to try to come up with a plan.

Life is full of make-do situations, and you know what? It’s still a wonderful life. We thank God for it! And we’ll make do. God will help us.

He’ll help you too. God bless us, everyone!

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

The Thanksgiving that Wasn’t

by Donna Poole

You have to give a lot of notice if you hope thirty-two people can arrange their schedules to gather together in the same place at the same time.

I sent my first message on July 11, 2023: “Hey family! I know it’s early, but I wanted to let you all know we’re going to have family Thanksgiving this year on Saturday, November 18 at 1:30 p.m. at our house. Love you all!”

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, and I couldn’t believe it when thirty-two replied they planned to come. Happy? That’s an understatement!

The months flew by, as months always do. As Thanksgiving time grew closer, we hoped for sales, and soon our freezer held the biggest turkey available and a large ham. We planned side dishes and desserts, and family members started telling us what they planned to bring.

I arranged and rearranged the house trying to figure out how to set up enough tables so everyone could sit comfortably and no one would feel isolated. I did this in bed at three o’clock in the morning when I woke up too excited to sleep.

“Traditions are stories families write together,” and our family had been writing its Thanksgiving book for many years. We wrote most of the chapters at my sister Eve’s home. From the time our children were small we always went “over the river and through the woods” to celebrate Thanksgiving with Eve and Bruce and their family, my sister Ginny, her husband Bob, and their children, and whatever other assorted people might be there. Eve and Bruce were famous for their hospitality.

At first the cousins were so little they lay on blankets and chewed on teething rings at Aunt Eve’s. Then they got a little older. I remember one of our children sitting in a high chair, eyes wide at the huge array of food, and pointing at each dish.

He said, “I want dis, and dat, and dese, and dem, and dose!”

Growing still older led to cousin dart games and wrestling in the basement. Someone usually put a movie in the VCR to settle them down.

One by one the cousins grew up, married, had children of their own, and some still came back to Aunt Eve’s and Uncle Bruce’s to celebrate Thanksgiving. As adults they offered to fix some of the dings to walls and woodwork they’d caused when they’d been kids, but Eve said, “Don’t you dare touch a thing. Those are my precious memories.”

Saying goodbye at Eve’s on Thanksgiving night was hard and done the midwestern way. It took awhile for everyone to find their shoes in the pile in the entryway hall. Then the hugs and kisses began in the hall, kitchen, and living room, and spilled out into the driveway, only to be repeated again.

“Did I hug you yet?” “Did you remember your leftovers?” “I love you!” “Be careful driving home!” “Everything was perfect; thank you!” “I can’t wait to see you again!” “I’ll be praying for you!”

And then car after car would back out of the driveway and Eve and Bruce would stand there alone, waving until the last of the tail lights was out of sight. Just like that it was over, and all we had left were the memories, but that was okay, because there would always be next year.

Until there wasn’t a next year. Cancer took Eve home to heaven, and Thanksgiving chapters began to be written at our home. I couldn’t write them like Eve had, but I did my best, and we had some good times. Thanksgiving 2023 looked to be one of the best yet. Why? One family, who had never come, was going to join us, our son, daughter-in-law, and seven grandchildren. You know the phrase “over the moon”? That was me.

Over the moon we all were—until we got under the weather.

When pneumonia hit it was a heavy weight brawler of a boxer and I went down for the count. Sure that I could beat the bug quickly, I waited to cancel Thanksgiving until the doctor said I had to. Another message went out, a sad one this time, telling people not to gather at our home. My husband John got pneumonia too, and our daughter and son-in-law who live with us got sick. A person with Xray vision could have probably seen the tiny germs giving each other high-fives and dancing up and down the walls.

We’d had monthly events lined up like a row of dominoes standing on a table, and pneumonia gave them a rude push. Everything started falling. We had to cancel many doctor appointments not related to the treatment of pneumonia. University of Michigan postponed all cancer treatments until I’m 100% normal—as if I ever was. John wasn’t able to preach Thanksgiving Sunday, and it was his fiftieth one at our little church on the corner of two dirt roads. Sadly, we also had to miss our church’s community harvest dinner, but we hear they managed to have a good time without us, if you can imagine that!

Sad at things missed? Yes, but I feel a strange kind of contentment too, like being wrapped in a cozy blanket in front of a fire on a cold night. As John and I follow doctor’s orders to nap three hours a day we’re contemplating with a smile a quiet Thanksgiving at home. Oh, yes, we’ll miss our family, but they’ll be here soon for Christmas, Lord willing and germs cooperating, and we’re looking forward to that.

So tomorrow, Thanksgiving Day, the two of us will rest. We’ll count our many blessings, not the least of which is still having each other. We won’t forget to thank God for eternal life, for a wonderful church family, for amazing friends, and for the best family anyone could have. We’ll nap; we’ll hold hands and watch the Thanksgiving parade like two happy kids, and we’ll eat a good dinner.

And we’ll say, “Oh, blest be God for love and laughter, today, tomorrow, and hereafter.”

The Thanksgiving that wasn’t? Not in this house, not tomorrow. It will be a wonderful Thanksgiving. Evening shadows may be falling, but we say with William L. Stidger,

“Father, we thank Thee for this day

For food, for fun, for life, for play;

And as the evening shadows fall

We bring to Thee, dear Lord our all;

And as we pray, we ask Thy grace,

Upon this happy, happy place.”

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