by Donna Poole

There were four babies.

None of them were early walkers.

But all of them were early talkers.

The four are ours.

Our youngest, Kimmee Joy, spoke in complete sentences at fifteen months of age, and lest you think I’m bragging, read on. The early talking was not always brag-worthy.  

Kimmee sat on the lap of a friend of mine she called ‘Grandma.”

“Grandma,” Kimmee said, stroking the woman’s face with her baby hands, “you have a very nice moustache.”

I was potty training Kimmee and had to take her into a bathroom in a store. The stall next to us was occupied.

Kimmee giggled. “That lady go fifty-two gallons!”

I gave her the look. “Shh!”

Trying to atone, she gave a sympathetic nod and said, “Maybe she have diarrhea or something!”

I hurried her outside to her dad and said, “Next time, John, you take her to the bathroom!”

“I can’t take her into the men’s room!”

“Oh yes you can!”

In the interest of full disclosure, Kimmee, now thirty-three, must deal with me. Brain surgery and subsequent seizures did a bit of damage to my right frontal lobe. Have you heard of a filter, that part of your brain that says, “Don’t say that?” Yeah. Mine’s broken. Or dead. To be determined. Now, on occasion, I inadvertently embarrass Kimmee.

The other day I was talking to someone on the phone and didn’t realize I’d said something I shouldn’t have until Kimmee groaned. “Mom!”

Do you wonder what I said? Sorry. My interest in full disclosure doesn’t extend that far.

Because Kimmee talked when she was so young, we soon became aware that compassion was one of her strongest traits.

She and I were waiting in the car while John was in the post office. An elderly gentleman struggled up the steps, one hand gripping the rail, the other clinging to his cane.

Kimmee pulled her pacifier out of her mouth. “Mommy, go help that man.” Her baby face crumpled in compassion.

“Honey, there’s nothing I can do to help him. And he doesn’t even know who I am.”

“Yes, he does know you! You are Donna Poole! Now you go help him!”

I didn’t go. I don’t remember how long it took her to forgive me.

Kimmee’s compassion extended to all God’s creatures, great and small. Except for giant spiders. When she was a little girl, she loved on neighborhood barn cats who came and went by the dozens, and she did shed “fifty-two gallons” of tears with each one who died.

Two dogs and countless cats have burial spots on our property some marked with crosses.

She never outgrew her compassion for animals.

Kimmee, and her husband Drew, live with us. They’ve adopted four stray cats who live inside, three more who live on the porch, and other assorted outside creatures. There was a coon for a while.

Just this summer Kimmee rescued a baby bird, a fledgling, from her cats. It lay almost lifeless in her hand; she brought it inside to show me. After awhile it revived, and she set it free. It hopped off into the weeds. She also saved a few baby bunnies this summer. and a cicada.

Kimmee posted this on her Facebook page early yesterday morning. “Anyone else up at 2:30 a.m. attempting to rescue a wayward katydid who came through a window air conditioner and invaded your bedroom? Just me? Cool, cool, cool.

“Also, I say ‘attempting to rescue’ because I’m only about 50% sure it actually went out the door. It kept flying back in, but I tried.”

That “trying” took more effort than most people would have given a katydid in the middle of the night; she had to carry it down a flight of stairs to open the door and set it free.

I imagine God smiles when Kimmee and her kind care for His creation.

God cares deeply about His creatures. The Bible says God feeds the birds; He notices every tiny sparrow that falls to the ground., and He labels as righteous a man who cares for the life of his beast.

William Cowper wrote,

“I would not enter on my list of friends

(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,

Yet wanting sensibility) the man

Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. …

Ye, therefore, who love mercy,

Teach your sons

To love it too.”

You probably know when God put the rainbow in the sky after the Great Flood He did so as a promise to mankind that He would never again destroy the world with water. But did you know God made that covenant with all the living creatures too? You can read it in Genesis 9:10.  

Yes, God made a promise to the animals that day, and He talks to them with every rainbow He puts in the sky. I like to think someday when we talk to the animals, they’ll use words to answer us. I’m only guessing at that, but if Eve wasn’t surprised when the serpent spoke to her in the garden, and Balaam wasn’t shocked out of his sandals when his donkey scolded him; perhaps there was a day when conversation between animals and people was common. And maybe that day will come again.

I know we can learn a lot from God’s creatures even now. Ants teach us not to be lazy—Proverbs 6:6—8. Birds teach us to trust God—Luke 12:24. A crane showed John and me patience as he stood motionless for a long time in the water waiting for a fish.

I’m not preaching vegetarianism, though if that’s your thing, fine. I like a good steak as much as the next guy; I’ll take mine medium well, not the way Mom cooked it to please Dad, charcoal black.

But I’m thinking I’d better enjoy my steaks now, because a wonderful day is coming when I don’t suppose I’ll be eating them anymore. I love these verses from Isaiah 11 about the Kingdom, when Jesus comes to rule on earth:

“The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them. And the cow and the bear shall feed; their young ones shall lie down together: and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. And the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice’ den.

“They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.”

No hurt? No destruction? Only peace? I’ll give up my steak for that! The same God who made His rainbow promise to us and to the animals gave us the promise of peace too. Kimmee won’t have any more animals to rescue then, but neither will she have to cry fifty-two gallons of tears.

Kimmee’s compassion extends to me. Even though she knows only God can do it, she’s been doing her best to rescue me from the claws of cancer as fiercely as she takes a baby bunny from her cats.

I may get well and strong again here on earth. But I surely will be well and strong enough to dance with joy on that holy mountain! Everyone will be kind there; no one will needlessly step on a worm, and perhaps the animals will talk. And in my imagination a perfect rainbow circles that mountain, a reminder that God always keeps His promises.

I suppose we’ll all know what not to say there, and “Grandma” will no longer have her moustache.

by Donna Poole

A dozen hardboiled eggs, a pound of cooked elbow macaroni, whatever sweet pickle relish is left in the jar, as many sliced green olives as you can find in the fridge, a can or two of tuna, a few shakes of onion powder, a couple of scoops of Miracle Whip and mayo, and a good squirt of mustard.

There you have it. The macaroni salad John and I threw together. I forgot to mention we peeled the eggs before we added them to the salad.

John would rather I forgot the eggs altogether, and I really wish we didn’t have to add the gag-a-maggot tuna!

I was vigorously stirring the macaroni in the colander to get the last drops of water out when two noodles flew into the sink.

“Well, there you go,” I said to John. “Now the salad is like me. Two noodles shy of a full box.”

He laughed.

“Do you still love me even if I am two noodles shy of a full box?”

He assured me of his love. John would love anyone who would put tuna in his macaroni salad.

“How many noodles shy can I be and still have your love?”

He gave the ridiculous question about as much thought as it deserved. “You,” he declared, “may be four noodles shy of a full salad, and I will still love you.”

I’ve been to a neuropsychologist for testing a few times; if they send me again, I’ll be sure to ask him how to tell if I’m three noodles shy, so I’ll know when I’m pushing my limits with John. On second thought, I won’t ask him. That man has no sense of humor.

My neurologist sent me to him for testing after a stroke, craniotomy, and multiple seizures affected my brain. Don’t ask me how they affected it; I can’t remember. Kidding. They combined to give me what the neuropsychologist called mild cognitive dysfunction. I think basically that means I get to forget whatever I don’t want to remember, and no one can blame me for it.

I say the doctor has no sense of humor because on my first visit with him I told him a joke. He looked at me unsmiling with wide, fixed eyes.

“It was a joke,” I said, rather lamely.

“Oh,” he replied. Not even a hint of a smile.

I got the sense we weren’t going to be the best of friends.

I wish I could remember the joke I told him. Maybe it was this one. I went to a psychiatrist, and he told me I was crazy, so I told him I wanted a second opinion.

“Okay,” he said, “you’re ugly too.”

It wasn’t that joke. But I honestly can’t remember the one it was. And forgetting that joke bothers me more than not being able to recite Psalm 1 anymore.

See what I mean? A couple noodles shy of a full box.

I had a full box when John married me. Not to brag, but hey, why not? The Apostle Paul bragged, so I guess it’s biblical. I’ll get to my bragging. I used to be queen of multitasking. I never forgot anything. I had so much energy the Energizer Bunny came to me by night for secret lessons before he made his first commercial.

But life has a way of changing things and people. When John married me, I didn’t have gray hair either. I didn’t have cancer and didn’t need to go to the University of Michigan Hospital for treatments more than I go to church. I certainly didn’t need help making a simple macaroni salad.

But, like the Paul said—he wrote some good stuff when he wasn’t bragging—or rather, God wrote it through him: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.” –I Corinthians 13:7-8

Love eats hardboiled eggs in macaroni salad.

Love eats tuna in macaroni salad.

Why, you may wonder, don’t we each make our own salad? John could have his without eggs; I could have mine without tuna. That, my friend, is a logical question.

I give to you an illogical answer: “Because. Then it wouldn’t be our salad.” We’ve grown to like it just like it is, even when it’s two noodles shy of a full box.

by Donna Poole

I haven’t owned one for more than a decade.

Readers who know me in person probably guessed that fact already by the wrinkled collars and cuffs our steamer couldn’t quite smooth out. Finally, I gave in and ordered the cheapest iron and least expensive tabletop ironing board I could find from Walmart.

Saturday morning I used the new equipment and discovered to my delight I despise ironing as much as I ever did. As I stood in our steamy kitchen wrangling stubborn shirts, I remembered Mrs. Denton. She’s the reason ironing is an anathema to me. I don’t cuss, but if I did, “GO IRON!” would be one of the worst curses in my vocabulary.

I agreed to iron for Mrs. Denton one miserably hot summer of my junior high days. The payment was one dollar a bushel basket. That was decent money; $1.00 in 1962 equals $9.29 now. But every time I showed up for my ironing job the basket of clothes was piled higher until one day it was twice my height. That might be a slight exaggeration.

I was no expert in ironing when I started working for our neighbor. We Piarulli girls were the cleaning troops who suffered through white glove inspections from General Mom complete with barked orders of, “Do it over!” but I don’t remember ever ironing my own clothes.

Thomas Sears invented the steam iron. In 1938 the Steam-O-Matic sold for ten dollars. Pretty pricey when adjusted for inflation—it would cost $193.61 today. Perhaps that’s why I remember Mom in the 1950s, when steam irons were still $10.00, sprinkling our clothes with water and rolling them up, leaving them until they were damp clear through, and then ironing them without steam. Perhaps she did get a steam iron later; I seem to remember the devil’s hiss.

I didn’t quit ironing for Mrs. Denton that summer. The summer of my discontent.

“Piarullis don’t quit,” Mom said.  

Sorry Mom, in all my adult years I’ve never ironed a thing I didn’t have to. Had I not been raised in the strictest sect of fundamentalist Baptist, I would have thrown away any clothing that came out of the dryer wrinkled, but that upbringing sticks with you like super glue. I’m pretty sure discarding usable garments breaks some biblical commandment, perhaps one in Hezekiah.

Which reminds me. Someone gifted me with an ugly, faded brown, hand-me-down circle skirt when I was in fifth grade. It had embarrassingly large brown buttons all down the front, bigger than I’d seen on any old lady’s moth ball scented church coat. In the next five years I grew many inches taller but no wider. Unfortunately for me styles in that same time grew shorter. I wore that ugliness from the time it touched just above my ankles until it reached the middle of my knee. Mom probably would have made me continue to wear it, but I was still growing taller, and that strictest sect of fundamentalist Baptist frowned when skirts reached the middle of the knee; to go higher might risk excommunication.

To be fair to Mrs. Denton, we never specified in our original unwritten contract how full the basket should be. And she did have a lot of children. I can’t remember how many. I do remember I thought Kenny was the nicest of them; he was my age, and I considered it kind of him not to point me out at school as his laundry maid.

That ironing took hours that seemed to stretch to days, weeks, months, and years. I entered the Denton house to iron when I was thirteen and left when I was ninety. I survived ironing days only by knowing when I left there I was heading straight for the waters of the Nanticoke Creek. I didn’t care how muddy it was; I was going in! Or, if it was raining, I’d bury my nose in a book!

Time is not the steady, reliable creature some imagine her to be. She’s capricious. Don’t trust her. A minute is not always a minute; an hour is not always an hour.

Don’t believe me? Compare an hour in a doctor’s waiting room to an hour at the lake. See what I mean?

As I ironed Saturday morning, I thought about how time wraps some things in softness and gives them a smile they never had at the time. I smile now at that short girl standing at the tall ironing board dreaming of swimming in the creek. I didn’t know she’d grow up to be me, the woman who still finds creeks and books fascinating, still hates ironing, and still questions the fickleness of time.

Why can’t some hours last longer?

Last Monday, Independence Day, we went to Dan and Mindy’s where we enjoyed a delicious summer meal with them and four of our grandchildren, Megan, Macy, Reece, and Ruby. Mindy’s parents, Mike and Julie were there too. Mike had prepared smoked brisket; it was delicious. I’d never had it before. Shh, don’t tell my oncologist Mike and Julie were there. I’m only allowed to see family, but I figure the family of my family is my family—right?

After we ate, we sat around a blazing bonfire. Perfect is a strong adjective, but that’s what it was. We talked to Megan about her future plans. Macy entertained us with tales of her volunteer work at King’s Cupboard. Reece passed out sparklers, and Ruby shared her glow sticks. The crackling fire kept mosquitoes away and dreams close.

The huge bonfire began to dwindle, and Mindy, our mighty but tiny daughter-in-law disappeared into their woods. All we saw was a speck of flashlight. She returned dragging huge branches under both arms and threw them on the fire.

Once it was totally dark, Dan and Reece went to the back of their property and set off twelve beautiful fireworks. And then we talked some more. Who knows how long we would have stayed around that fire if it hadn’t started to rain?

Those four wonderful hours were much shorter than any four hours I’ve ever spent ironing, and no one can tell me differently.

I wonder what time will be like in heaven? Maybe this gives us a hint.

“One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.” –2 Peter 3:8

I think I understand that a little bit…. Once, when I was around thirteen or fourteen, I spent a day ironing for our neighbor, and it took me a thousand years.

by Donna Poole

Independence Day weekend 2022 is almost history; soon it will be a fading memory.

As soon as my husband John finished his Sunday sermon, Kimmee pulled out of the parking lot of our old country church. As always, I took a wistful look back at the door; family and friends were inside laughing and talking, and I wished I could be with them. But parking lot church is good too, and I counted my blessings.

We took the long way home, down two dirt roads, and Kimmee stopped often to take pictures of wildflowers for me.

We got home, but instead of pulling in the driveway, Kimmee asked me, “Do you want to go to the bridge?”

Oh, the bridge! Memories came flooding back. How many times had I walked to the bridge with Kimmee when she was a little girl? I was the fast one then; she had to hurry to keep up with me.

One September day during homeschool I taught her about Rosh Hashanah, the festival for the Jewish New Year, as we walked to the bridge. I can’t remember how old she was, perhaps third grade.

Rosh Hashanah begins with the blowing of the shofar, a hauntingly beautiful sound. A neighbor blew one for us once. That sound marks the following ten days of penitence that end with Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement.

On that long ago homeschool day, I told Kimmee that on the afternoon of the first day of Rosh Hashanah Jews went to a river, lake, ocean, or anywhere with water. They turned their pockets inside out, shook out any crumbs, and recited Scripture. It symbolized casting away sins to start the new year with a clear conscience, a fresh start. Kimmee and I got to the bridge over the small stream that becomes the large St. Joe River.

“I’m glad Jesus died on the cross and took our sins as far as the east is from the west, but let’s do what the Jews did. Let’s shake out our pockets over the water and pretend we’re shaking out our sins.”

Kimmee objected. “I don’t have anything in my pockets.”

“I don’t either, but let’s do it anyway. Maybe it will help you remember this.”

She shrugged, looked at me like I was part alien, and shook out her empty pockets.

I think she was about the same age when she begged me to stop acting out her history lessons. “I think I’m old enough now so we could just read the book.”

And here I’d thought I was an entertaining actor! Apparently, only one of us was amused. Still, Kimmee grew up to love drama and acted in many productions in college; I take credit for that!  

Yesterday’s Kimmee, now in her thirties, took more wildflower pictures for me at the bridge. I wanted to get out of the car and listen to the water. She came running and helped me stagger to the railing before I cast myself, sins and all, right into the water!

That evening Drew, Kimmee, John, and I went to the fireworks. We parked a distance away from the fairgrounds. Because I’m still in my required cancer bubble, I stayed in the car while the three of them hiked to the fairgrounds to buy the traditional food; can it be the Fourth of July without Fiske Fries?

Life passed by me as I sat in the car in my bubble. I saw young couples with baby strollers, groups of teens, older couples, and a single man with headphones hurry by on their way to the fairgrounds. Most people wore shorts and t-shirts or sundresses; the thermometer said it was warm. I sat wrapped in my long, below the knees winter sweater and chuckled at how I must look. Perhaps like an old lady with cancer?

Family and food arrived back at the car, and we sat our chairs outside, away from people—my oncologist would be proud. The fireworks display was amazing, one of the best I’ve seen. I looked up at the sky and thought about all my family and friends in heaven. I smiled at the thought of being with them forever. I looked to my left, and John smiled back at me and took my hand. I looked to my right.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Kimmee asked.

I thought about all my other wonderful family, not with us at the fireworks, but always nearby if I need them.

With pops and whistles the grand finale was over. I struggled to get out of my chair as John helped haul me up.

“When I don’t move, I forget I’m not normal,” I whispered to him.

When we got home, Drew had a surprise, a box of fireworks.

Sidebar: Today our son John sent his dad this text: “You know you’ve bought the right fireworks when the salesmen gives you a high four.”

Drew let me pick out which one I wanted to see. I chose one called “Summer Vacation.” It was beautiful. After our own fireworks display, we went inside to eat the pies Kimmee and I had baked.

If I told you the pies were perfect, it would be a lie. The berry pie was runny and had clumps of sugar you could chew. Still, it was tasty. It was kind of like life; not perfect, but good enough. More than good enough. I’m grateful.

Gratitude is, don’t you think, the secret to a good life?

I went to high school with Mary; I don’t know if she’d want me to use her full name, so I won’t. She’s a grateful person, even though she can no longer glance over at her husband, Jerry, and have him take her hand. Today I read a Facebook post of hers that touched my heart. She wrote about going to a concert with Jerry and asking Vance Gilbert to sing “May I Suggest” by Susan Werner.

Mary posted, “When I listened to it today, the song had a totally different meaning of the words, especially the last part. It has more meaning now than it ever did before. Thank you, Vance Gilbert. I miss you Jerry, thanks for the great memories we had.”  

Here’s the song.

            May I suggest
            May I suggest to you
            May I suggest this is the best part of your life
            May I suggest
            This time is blessed for you
            This time is blessed and shining almost blinding bright
            Just turn your head
            And you’ll begin to see
            The thousand reasons that were just beyond your sight
            The reasons why
            Why I suggest to you
            Why I suggest this is the best part of your life

            There is a world
            That’s been addressed to you
            Addressed to you, intended only for your eyes
            A secret world
            A treasure chest to you
            Of private scenes and brilliant dreams that mesmerize
            A tender lover’s smile
            A tiny baby’s hands
            The million stars that fill the turning sky at night
            Oh I suggest
            Yes I suggest to you
            Yes I suggest this is the best part of your life

            There is a hope
            That’s been expressed in you
            The hope of seven generations, maybe more
            And this is the faith
            That they invest in you
            It’s that you’ll do one better than was done before
            Inside you know
            Inside you understand
            Inside you know what’s yours to finally set right
            And I suggest
            And I suggest to you
            And I suggest this is the best part of your life

            This is a song
            Comes from the west to you
            Comes from the west, comes from the slowly setting sun
            This a song with a request of you
            To see how very short the endless days will run
            And when they’re gone
            And when the dark descends
            Oh we’d give anything for one more hour of light

            May I suggest this is the best part of your life

Tonight, we’re invited to our son and daughter-in-law’s home, where we’ll be loved by Dan and Mindy and four of our wonderful grandchildren. I think there might even be a bonfire.

The loved ones lost this past year remind me I may not always have my family and friends to love. For the ones I still have today, I’m grateful. This is my hour of light with them; this is the best part of my life.

Of my earthly life, that is. Because of Jesus I can say and believe with all my heart, the best is yet to be. No sins to cast out of my pockets, darkness gone forever. After the darkness comes light.