Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

Debbie fell asleep in the dentist’s chair waiting for Dr. Miller. That wasn’t surprising; she fell asleep everywhere these days, even in church, and that was embarrassing. She jumped awake to an entirely too cheerful voice.

“Good morning!”

Debbie stared up at the tall, white-haired man holding a mirror and a probe.

“I believe it’s afternoon, and you aren’t Dr. Miller.”

The elderly man’s face creased into what her granddaughter called stripes when he smiled. “I said good morning because I had to wake you, and I believe I am Dr. Miller.” He glanced down at the name badge pinned to his white coat.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to focus. “Oh, are you Dr. Miller’s father?”

He chuckled. “Close, but no cigar.”

That chuckle sounds so familiar, but I’m sure I’ve never seen this man before.

“That’s okay, a cigar is the last thing my lungs need at this point. And then, to her horror, she was crying. Crying for the first time since she’d gotten her diagnosis four years ago. Crying for so many reasons.

Dr. Miller put his instruments on the table and sat down on the stool. “How can I help?”

She shook her head and struggled unsuccessfully to stop the tears that had been years in the making. “You can’t help. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“I suppose you’re a therapist in your spare time.” Instantly she regretted her sarcastic tone. What is wrong with me today?

But Dr. Miller wasn’t offended. Again, he chuckled. And again, her mind searched for where she’d heard that distinctive laugh.

“Actually, I’m a licensed counsellor and donate my time at a church. And I don’t usually practice here as a dentist; I’m just here today to help out. I work at free clinics for people who can’t afford dental care. And I’m also a farmer. I’ve lived long enough to have more than one career. What did you do before you retired?”

Debbie knew he was trying to put her at ease by discussing a neutral topic; she’d done that enough times herself counselling people. How was he to know that word, “retire,” was half of her problem, and cancer was the other half?

More tears came. She choked out, “I’m not usually a sobbin’, sobbin’, sobbin’ woman; I promise.”

“‘Sobbin’ Women!’ My favorite song from ‘Seven Brides for Seven Brothers!’” He laughed.

Debbie smiled through tears. “It’s my favorite song from that musical too, but I haven’t thought of it for years. My brain seems to be taking its own walk and thinking its own thoughts today.”

“Do you want to tell me which thoughts are making you cry?”

She sighed. “I’m a bookie’s wife.”

His white eyebrows raised just a bit.

Debbie shook her head. “Not that kind of bookie. People call him Bookie because he reads so much and loves books. We own a small bookshop. Customers hang out to talk more than to buy books. I’m used to listening to other people’s troubles, not sharing mine.”

“Well, maybe that’s why God sent me here today, just for you. I’m a good listener, and I’ve got time. You’re my only patient this afternoon. Why don’t you give me a try?”

Once she started talking there was no stopping. It all tumbled out. She didn’t know if she was even making sense, but he nodded at the right times and looked sympathetic. After she finished and took a deep breath, he summarized with questions, just as she often did after an impromptu counseling session.

“So let me see if I get it. You’ve been a bookie’s wife for fifty years, and your husband doesn’t want to retire. He feels his work is a calling from God. You don’t want to discourage him or be the reason he sells the bookstore before God wants him to, but you’re exhausted from fighting cancer and working at the shop, and once in a while, life seems too much. You’ve run out of everything and have nothing left to give to people. You wish the two of you could retire to a cabin by a beautiful lake and rock away your time until God calls you home to heaven.”

She shrugged. “It sounds so selfish when you say it like that.”

He shook his head. “You don’t sound selfish. You sound tired. You’ve run out of your own strength, and that’s a wonderful thing. Maybe you know where I’m going with this?”

She shook her head.

“I’m not sure where I’m going either. I have to talk to God a minute.”

She waited in surprised silence while the old man sat with gnarled hands folded and white head bowed. She wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Then he spoke.

“Okay, I had to ask God to do a thing of two about this. And I want to say this to you. We run dry, but God never does. He’ll love and help people through us until he says it’s time to quit. And young lady, you need more naps. Lots more naps. And maybe only work at the bookstore a day or two a week instead of six days like you have been.”

A smiling young woman knocked and came into the room. “You ready, Grandpa? You’re going to be late if we don’t leave soon.”

“I’m so sorry,” the dentist said to Debbie. “I have to leave for my cancer treatment. I guess you’ll have to come back when your usual dentist is here. You asked if he’s my son. No, he’s not. My son is retired. He’s my grandson.”

“Grandson! How old are you?” Debbie blurted out the question before she had a chance to think it might sound rude.

“Ninety-seven. I hope to keep practicing as a dentist until I’m 100, if this confounded cancer doesn’t take me to heaven first. I’m one of the guinea pigs at the hospital. Like you, I’m in a clinical trial. I’ll tell the nurses at the cancer center you said hi.”

Debbie’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know I’m in a clinical trial?”

“I’ve seen you and your husband in the waiting room. You two always have your noses in your books.”

She heard the familiar chuckle again as the door closed. That’s where she’d heard it—the cancer center.  

This guy had cancer, was twenty years older than she was, and wanted to keep working until he was 100?

Thoughts turned to prayer as Debbie put on her coat and headed out of the office. Lord, I can’t promise I’ll want to keep working until I’m 100. Those rocking chairs and a cabin at a lake still sound good to me, but I promise you this. I’ll do a better job of trusting you until you say it’s time to quit. And I’ll take more naps.

Debbie tried to open the passenger door of the car, but it was locked. Her bookie was leaned on the headrest with his book over his face. She could hear him snoring through the closed window. He jumped when she knocked, got out, and hurried around to open her door.

“All done, honey?”

“Not quite. More like I’m ready to start again, but I want you to think about something. How about if we only open the bookstore five days a week instead of six? I don’t think I’m the only one getting tired.”

He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

She sighed, and her bookie laughed.

“We aren’t going to open it anymore than three days a week. God and I had a chat about it when you were seeing Dr. Miller. How is the young whippersnapper?”

She laughed, happier than she’d been in years. “The young whippersnapper isn’t as young as you think. And when he asks God to do a thing or two, I guess God answers! I’ll tell you about it on the way back to the bookstore.”

“On the way home,” he said. “I closed the shop for the rest of today.”

But she didn’t say anything. He glanced over at her. She was sleeping already, leaned up against her car window, with a smile on her face.  

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

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

by Donna Poole

“When you grow up, you should marry that nice little Johnnie Poole.”

I don’t know how many times Mom said that to me, but I thought it was too many! I had no intention of marrying the “nice little Johnnie Poole.” But he had every intention of marrying me.

This week was that nice little Johnnie Poole’s seventy seventh birthday. My mom and his mom thought he was perfect, so if they were alive, they’d appreciate the fact that he’s now reached the age of double perfection—double sevens.

Our story goes a long way back, Johnnie Poole’s and mine. Before we even went to kindergarten, we sang in a children’s choir at church. We wore short white jackets with arms that snapped at the wrists. Teachers tied red or black large crepe paper bows around our necks. We looked uniform and adorable except for that nice little Johnnie Poole. He looked adorable with his big brown eyes, but he didn’t look uniform. He was the only child who refused to fasten the snaps at his wrists and the only one who chewed his crepe paper bow while we waited to be called to the platform and wow the adults with our cuteness. That made him the only kid who stood on the platform with red or black lips and chin.

Johnnie Poole’s behavior drove me crazy. Being the preschool control freak I was, I told him every time before we sang to stop chewing the bow and to fasten his snaps. And every time he looked at me with those inscrutable brown eyes and kept chewing. But he grew up and married me anyway.

When we started school, Johnnie wanted to show off his academic progress one day after church. A blackboard was nearby, and he said, “I can write my name. Want to see?”

Slowly, carefully, he wrote, J-O-H-N, put down the chalk, and waited for a compliment.

“That’s now how you spell John,” I informed him. “Listen to the word. John. John. Do you hear any H? I don’t think so.”

He put the chalk in the tray, looked at me calmly, and said, “I guess I should know how to spell my own name.”

And then he walked away. Infuriating boy. Bossy little girl. But he grew up and married me anyway.

Johnnie and I were supposed to get baptized at the same time when we were eight years old, but I had to get my tonsils out, and the doctor said no baptism. He thought being dunked in a tank of water might lower my immune system, and a cold could then prevent the surgery.

After the tonsillectomy, I was in a mood. The doctor had assured me it wouldn’t hurt, but I had a sore throat that felt like the inside of a smoldering volcano. I was mad at the world. And then nice little Johnnie Poole and his parents came to our house. As the adults chatted, he said quietly in my ear in a sing-song voice, “Ha ha ha ha ha. I got baptized and you couldn’t.”

I looked at him, walked into my bedroom, and closed the door. Soon Mom came in. “You come out here and play with that nice little Johnnie Poole.”

“I can’t. I’m too sick.”

“I’m getting out some ice cream. If you don’t come out and play with him, you can’t have any.”

I carefully weighed my options. Ice cream would feel heavenly on my scorching throat, but I’d have to eat it with the infuriating boy. I stayed in my room.

We laugh about it now; we both behaved badly, but I won the brat contest. Still, Johnnie grew up and married me anyway.

When I was in fifth grade, we moved out of the area because Dad’s work transferred him. They sent him back to the same area for a short time when I was halfway through seventh grade. David, a boy I knew, talked to me between Sunday school and church.

“A guy wants to sit with you. He’s a really nice guy. Everyone in youth group likes him. He’s funny, and good looking too. He sent me to ask you if you will sit with him in church.”

“Who is it?”

“I’m not supposed to say until you answer.”

“David, I’m not going to answer until I know who it is.”

“Well, okay. It’s Johnnie Poole.”

“Johnnie Poole? I’ve known him all my life! If he wants to sit with me, tell him to ask me himself!”

“He’s too shy.”

“Well, then, the answer is no.”

But he grew up and married me anyway.

When it came time for our family to move again, Johnnie said goodbye to me after church. And then he returned and said goodbye again. And again. And again. Finally, he asked if he could write to me. We only moved about forty miles away and saw each other occasionally, but I got many letters during junior high and high school signed, “Your friend, Johnnie Poole.”

And I thought of him only as a friend. I dated another boy all through high school. Johnnie got pretty mad when he found out about it, but he grew up and married me anyway.

We dated during college. I remember one Sunday we were at his parents’ home after church. I asked if he wanted to go to town and get an ice cream cone, and he said no. I asked again, and again he said no.

“Johnnie,” his mom said, “if Donna wants ice cream, you should take her to get it.”

His dad wanted a milkshake. His mom didn’t want anything; I think perhaps she was feeling bad. That was the first and last time she ever took anyone’s side but Johnnie’s. He wouldn’t say a word all the way to town.

Johnnie pulled into the parking lot. I expected him to go in and buy his dad’s shake and my cone; that’s how things were done in the sixties. But no. “You want a cone, you go in and get it,” he said.

I took the high road. “Okay. What flavor would you like?”

“I don’t want a cone.”

I returned carrying his dad’s shake, a cone for him, and one for me. He didn’t open my door; getting into the car was tricky, but I managed.

“Here’s your cone.”

Silence.

“Would you please take your cone?”

Silence.

“I can’t hold all this much longer. Please take your cone.”

“I told you I didn’t want a cone.”

But he took it. Then he rolled down his window; this was back when you rolled them down by hand, and he slung that cone into the parking lot. He hadn’t wanted to drive to town, and then his mom had taken my side. And then I did something worse, much worse. I laughed. I ate my cone, and I laughed most of the way back to his house. But he married me anyway.

Oh, I should tell you about an argument we had at college. As things heated up, Johnnie said, “I wish I hadn’t gotten those concert tickets! I don’t want to go with you.”

“Fine, because I don’t want to go with you either!”

We were driving in town. I opened my window and threw the tickets into a snowbank. John pulled over, stopped, and looked at me. “Get out and pick up those tickets.”

“You want those tickets? You get out and pick them up yourself.”

I won the staring contest that followed. John got out and picked up the tickets. We were still the two bratty eight-year-olds even though we were eighteen. But he married me anyway.

John often jokingly asked me to marry him and then produced a ring from a bubble gum machine or a piece of string and laughed. Once we went with his parents and a friend to Georgia. The friend, John, and I were all on top of Stone Mountain, Georgia. The view was incredible, and John asked me to marry him. Back then proposals weren’t group or family affairs with photo sessions. They were quiet, romantic events between two, but we were three.

I laughed. “I’m not falling for that again!”

He’d been serious. He was so hurt he didn’t speak to me the rest of the day. Awkward, because we were with the friend, his parents, and his sister and her husband. Did they notice he was upset?

This should answer the question. His mom asked, “Donna, what did you do to Johnnie?”

Later that night we were alone for a minute or two in the living room. John glared at me. “Do you want to marry me or not? And this is your last chance!”

Marriage didn’t improve our behavior, not right away. John wanted to fold socks and towels the way his mom did. I wanted to fold them the way my mom did. And we had lots of other arguments over things just as important. But he loved me still.

We looked as childish as we acted. Once a salesmen came to the door and asked if our parents were home.

We’d been married about a year when I took a good look at that nice little Johnnie Poole, now called John, or honey. He was working full time and going to college, and he was tired. And I was tired of fighting. I wish I could tell you God got ahold of me, but it wasn’t anything that spiritual. I remember thinking, from now on I’m going to only argue about things that really matter to me.

I found to my surprise few things mattered, and we became a team. We finally grew up and became people God could use to show his love to others, and we became each other’s cheer leaders, comfort, encouragement, support, and best friends.

Fifty-six years of marriage brings breath taking joy and unspeakable sorrow, but we’ve faced it together. Mom was right all along. I love that nice little Johnnie Poole more than words can say, and I’m glad he married me. He’s seventy-seven, and I hope he lives to be at least ninety-seven and loves me still.

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

Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer

by Donna Poole

Summer didn’t behave herself this year here in Michigan. First, she cried a deluge until she ran out of tears, even forced ones, and then she decided to blast us with heat and mugginess. Some of us found it hard to remember to be grateful and remarked if we’d wanted to live in Florida we would have moved south. She followed that with one of the worst droughts we’ve had in years. Summer’s extreme moodiness made it difficult to enjoy her company. We kept looking at our watches, tapping our feet, and wondering if it was past time for her to leave. Apparently, she noticed and decided she didn’t want to leave us with bad memories. Her final few weeks with us were the summer of dreams, beautiful, warm, clear, and comfortable. The humidity was low.

During one of those lovely weeks our son John and his wife Katie took their eight, soon-to-be-nine, children on vacation. We prayed for good weather for them, but we didn’t expect anything like the beautiful days they had. We wanted them to have a fantastic vacation because it was the first they had taken away from home since their first two were very small. They rented a vacation home up north in Michigan with woods behind them and sparkling Lake Michigan down below. Ninety steps below! Playing on the beach and in the clear blue water, rock hunting, roasting marshmallows and hot dogs, throwing footballs, working on a teepee in the woods, looking for sea glass—it was a dream vacation for the kids. One of the littles had so much fun feeding the “eagles” (seagulls).

And books! All eight of them love books, even the ones who can’t read yet, so there was time for reading. But the time came for them to say goodbye, pack up, and go home to the little house and the life they love, and summer finally finished saying her lingering goodbye too.

And then fall arrived. She said, “You think that was beautiful, just see what I’m going to give you!” And so far, she’s kept her promise. Early autumn has been amazing, the weather that is. I just wish I’d been able to enjoy it more. I’ve spent most of it sleeping and trying to survive.

My cancer treatment, the same one I’ve been on for four years and four months, threw me a curve ball that knocked me down for the count. Forgive the mixed metaphor. I’m not going to give you my long list of complaints; I will tell you that for a few weeks even Tylenol and Ibuprofen together didn’t touch the pain. The extreme exhaustion was a blessing; when I slept, I didn’t have to feel anything. And I didn’t have to wonder about the future. I didn’t have to ask myself if I too am saying a lingering goodbye. I’ve had to have more frequent scans since January because they’ve been questionable. After my July scans my oncology team decided I needed a biopsy and my pulmonologist agreed. When they weren’t able to do the biopsy, they decided to repeat one of the scans in three months instead. That’s happening in a few days.

Scans have been part of my life for over five years. They aren’t my favorite thing, and I watch my patient portal closely for results, but they never terrify me. Why not? Even if I am getting closer to the end of my lingering goodbye here, I know I’m getting closer to an eternal sunrise. Here’s how I know. Long ago, when I was just a little girl, I heard, much to my shock, that I wasn’t going to heaven just because my parents were or because I went to Sunday school and church every week.

I could have jumped right out of my little chair when the children’s church teacher made it clear to I was responsible for my own eternal destiny. I felt like covering my ears. My destiny better not involve me being good; I was famous even at seven for being the opposite.

Lucky for me (and you) getting to heaven didn’t require me to behave better. No one can be perfect, and that’s what heaven requires. Jesus lived the perfect life we can’t. I thought I knew all about Jesus. He’s God the Son, born in a manger at Christmas time. He died on a cross, rose from the dead, and went back to heaven. But what did that have to do with a naughty seven-year-old girl who really didn’t want to try to be good?

Mrs. Green, the teacher, explained in a way I understand what Jesus did on the cross. He took into his heart all the sins everyone had ever done or ever will do and felt the guilt of them all. He not only died himself on the cross, he killed those sins, made them to no longer exist. If I knew I was a sinner and wanted him to forgive me, he would make me clean. There would be no sin to keep me from God the Father who loved me so much. Not only would I go to heaven when I died, God himself would live with me all my life. It didn’t take me long to make that exchange when we prayed: I quietly asked him to save me, take away my sin, and give me heaven!

So, do you think I instantly became a little angel who never again did anything wrong? God put a verse in the Bible especially for people like me who have trouble being good, “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” –I John 1:9

But my life changed that day. Life here became sweeter than ever; I’ve always loved life. But I started to listen for a song I’d never heard, watch for a country road I’d never walked, search for the perfume of a flower not of this earth. Eternity was calling my name, sometimes when I was swinging at twilight, sometimes when the slant of the sun caught my heart with its beauty, or sometimes right before I fell asleep at night. I’ve always known a better world was coming. I felt it in my heart, and the Bible promised it.

And even heaven, as wonderful as that will be when all the children are sitting at the Big Table and the love of the Father warms us all, is only the beginning of our eternity. We who know Jesus have no idea of the unimaginable happiness waiting for us.

“He keeps His good wine until last. His gifts grow deeper, richer, fuller, right through the eternal years.” –John Henry Jowett

The Bible only gives us a hint about eternity. It may hold far more than we imagine.

“The resurrection of the saints is not the last thing, it is the beginning. Do not limit God and humanity by the end of this age, or by the millennium. Everything so far has been preparatory. Stretching away beyond me, I dream dreams of unborn ages and new creations, and marvelous processions out of the being of God, but through them all, the risen Christ and the risen saints will be the central revelations of holiness and of life.” –G. Campbell Morgan

In eterntiy the weather won’t have any temper tantrums, and neither will we. We’ll be happier than the happiest of children on the best of vacations. I don’t think there will be ninety steps, and if there are, we’ll have boundless energy to run up and down them! There won’t be the lingering goodbyes we’re all saying here, only one long, eternal hello, and love that lasts forever. Not many more sunsets and it will be time to go Home. I hope I see you 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

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

by Donna Poole

I read somewhere seven is the number of perfection and somewhere is always correct.

I don’t remember any details of turning seven, but I know it was fantastic. At seven, I loved summer days, jumping rope, playing marbles, and hopscotch.  I loved taking crazy risks like strapping on my metal skates and almost killing myself and anyone else brave enough to step on the sidewalk with me. I loved sitting on the rickety back porch in the rain with my sister and playing with pieces of dough Mom gave us until it turned black. Someone, probably a neighbor, had a pogo stick, and that was hilarious, out of control fun. I never knew where I might go on the next jump, perhaps Italy or the moon. I didn’t have a bike until I was sixteen, but I didn’t feel deprived. Summer days are full of fun and dreams when you’re seven. They have to be; seven is the age of perfection, and nothing can beat perfection.

Nothing can beat perfection except double perfection. I turned seventy-seven this week. I told my family I expect to be so perfect this year I’ll be sickening. I’m going to be so perfect I doubt I’ll be able to stand myself, but I have no choice. I’m double sevens this year.  

I had a lovely birthday! It began with so many phone calls I wasn’t even able to brush my teeth until lunch time, and I had to forgo my morning shower and smell a bit gamey all day. I know you’re used to me slightly exaggerating, but that’s gospel truth. One distressed friend couldn’t get through to talk to me; her calls kept going to voice mail, and she finally left a lovely if somewhat off-key rendition of happy birthday there. Another friend left a birthday song in a text message, and I was amazed. I didn’t even know you could do that. And three of my grandkids sang and shouted happy birthday aided by their parents.

Back to lunch. Our daughter Kimmee, who lives with us, told us to stay out of the kitchen while she cooked. I tried unsuccessfully to guess the meal by the enticing scent wafting through the house. She made delicious feta baked pasta!

Mid-afternoon John and I left for a park near us. We sat near the lake in a quiet spot we love and pulled out our reading material. The sun sparkled off the water and the green trees reflected in their depths. Just so we wouldn’t think we were in heaven, noisy work trucks joined us and spent the rest of the afternoon with us, but we didn’t care. I was flying high with an attitude transcending my circumstances; remember, I’m doubly perfect now. But I can’t say I had a good attitude about the nineteen spam phone calls! I don’t think even John, the apostle of love, could have suffered that many fools gladly on his birthday!

But, to a certain extent, life is what you make it. John and I read, talked, and laughed. And I tried to keep up with the hundreds of birthday texts and Facebook messages. We’re blessed with wonderful family and friends.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, we kept thinking the noisy work trucks would leave, but they did not. One exhausted looking worker said to us, “I can’t wait until this day is over.”

I’ve felt that way sometimes, but I didn’t that day. It was my birthday, and I was double sevens! It was my first day of being so perfect my family and friends could barely stand to be near me. Also, I hadn’t taken a shower, remember, so there was that too.

We headed home before the noisy trucks left, and when we got to our country home and blessed quietness, our daughter and son-in-law had a surprise for us. They’d made crème brulee, and one had a candle in it. They sang to me, and then we ate the creamy deliciousness.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands, both of you,” they said to us.

We obeyed, and they gave us a rolled piece of paper tied with a ribbon. What a fantastic surprise!

It said, “Mom and Dad, you always say life is short; make memories. So, let’s go make some together. Happy anniversary and birthdays to you both. We love you guys immensely, and we can’t wait for December 16! We’ll have so much fun. Let’s make an evening of it. Love, Kimmee and Drew.”

Two red arrows marked the place where the four of us will be sitting for the Mannheim Steamroller Christmas Concert!

Words tumbled over each other as the four of us talked about visiting Horricks before the concert, getting cookies afterward, and dressing up in Christmas sweaters.

“Please, don’t agree to preach any funerals that day,” I said to John, and we laughed. “And even if they change my cancer treatment, I’m not going to U of M that day, no matter what!” And then we didn’t laugh. There was just the slightest pause in the conversation. I blinked back a few tears and didn’t look at Kimmee for a second. It was no time to cry.

You see, since January my three-month scans have been coming back questionable, and my poor family, church family, and a few friends have been on a roller coaster ride with me. I was supposed to have a lung biopsy earlier this summer to see whether or not Morticia is flexing her muscles, but U of M determined there was no safe way to access the place in my lung lighting up on the PET scan.

Is the cancer I’ve been fighting for five years once again growing? If so, what options will be available? I’m not a candidate for Car-T or stem cell transplant. I’m already in a clinical trial because traditional treatments of chemotherapy and radiation didn’t work. A recent diagnosis of cardiomyopathy and mild heart failure caused by earlier chemo further limits my options. My oncologist says there will be something. But what? And now what?

Now I wait for the next scan in early October. The larger area in my upper lung and the two smaller areas in my lower lung can disappear, or they can continue to grow.

Human nature wants answers yesterday. So, I can lie awake nights and talk to Dr. Google, or I can remember that the God I had when I was seven is the God I have when I’m seventy-seven.

When I was seven, I had a fascination with speed. I wanted to fly, not in a plane, just by myself. I begged Dad to let me put on my skates and pull me behind the car and was not happy when he refused. I decided to strap on the metal skates and fly down the steepest hill in the area. My younger sister with an older, wiser brain, told me not to do it. I told her I’d be fine. I wasn’t. When I landed in a bruised and bloody heap near the bottom of the hill, I didn’t blame God for not sending an angel to protect me. And, even as sore as I was, I thought, what a ride!

By the time I was seven, even though I was a crazy kid who felt invincible, I knew some important things. I knew life on earth doesn’t last forever. I knew everyone was a sinner, and sinners can’t go to heaven. I knew that’s why Jesus had left heaven and come to earth to die on the cross. Because I’d trusted him as my Savior, I knew I was going to live forever in heaven. Sometimes I’d lie on my back in the grass, watch the clouds sail by, and wonder what heaven would look like. No one had to tell me it was going to be even more joyful than being seven, I knew it. How could it not be? Jesus was there! And Jesus was with me too, forever.

So, now I’m seventy-seven. Sometimes life has been tough, especially in the last five years. But I don’t blame God for not sending an angel to rescue me. We live on a beautiful but broken planet, and bad things happen. The clouds still sail by in the sky reminding me of heaven. Jesus is still with me, and I love him more than ever. Friends and family still sing happy birthday to me. If I tried to hop on a pogo stick now, I probably would end up in Italy or on the moon, but I’m guessing I’d still say, what a ride!

How tough is life? I usually need a nap to recover from a shower. Perhaps because I’m so doubly perfect now at age seventy-seven I’ll quit taking them!

So, life isn’t easy for me; it’s worse for many. I’m going to keep living, loving, and laughing. Lord willing, and if the creek don’t rise, we’re going to Sight and Sound in Pennsylvania this month, an awesome gift from a son and daughter-in-law. Then we’ll have a wonderful few days of a sister reunion. Lord willing, and if the creek don’t rise, we’re going to sit surrounded by lights and music at the Mannheim Steamroller in December. I asked if I could wave a white hankie. Kimmee says no. I asked if I could wave my phone light. She says only if they tell me to.

Hey! I’m still the kid who whizzed down the hill on metal skates. There’s no telling what I might do next. I confess I still have an urge to fly, not in a plane, but by myself. And I will someday, when God calls me Home. Because of Jesus, I’m going to fly right out of this withering, pain filled body into one perfect and a lot younger. I wonder how old I’ll be? I wouldn’t mind being seven again.

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

by Donna Poole

Pick a pew and sit a spell. Any pew will do since it’s just you and me here, though you might hear me better if you come close to the front. I have the soft voice of an old man, and I’ve earned it. I’m an old country church, and I’ve sat on the corner of these two dirt roads for more years than I can remember. I could tell you hundreds of stories that would make you laugh and cry, but I’ll tell you just one today, the tale of Once upon a Sunday, last Sunday to be exact.

So you’ll understand, I’ll have to give you a bit of background. You stop me if I get to rambling, now, you hear? We old churches do that when we’ve a story to tell. I won’t go back to my beginnings; that might take more time than you have years left on this green earth! I’ll just start back fifty years or so. While I talk, you look out that window, and watch the corn grow tall.

Fifty years ago, I was a tiny building, even smaller than I am now, six half pews on each side, and no indoor bathroom. But people came and filled the pews until they needed more room, and they added onto me, bit by bit. Even got fancy enough for one indoor bathroom, then two. Next came a few Sunday school rooms. For years the young pastor, and his young wife, and the people dreamed of building a fellowship hall, but there was no money, and they agreed they wouldn’t borrow any.

As you can tell sitting here, I’m still not a big church, though I’m a lot larger than I once was. I’m still what I was made to be, a plain white church on the corner of two dirt roads. I can’t offer all the programs big churches can. People who come here get simple preaching without many frills, but they also get love, laughter, and prayer. These people can pray! And they prayed for a fellowship hall for many, many years.

How many years, you ask? Enough years that the young pastor and his wife grew old. But then, one wonderful day, they had groundbreaking Sunday and began building the fellowship hall that’s attached to me now. You’ll have to go look at it when I finish my story. Don’t get fidgety now, it’s a good story, and I’m getting to it! It took some time for the building to go up, but God provided that money in miraculous ways and it didn’t all come from the small congregation who sits in my pews on Sundays.

The fellowship hall is a wonderful place now, though it’s still not done. It has two bathrooms, some Sunday school rooms, a large open area, and a kitchen. The kitchen doesn’t have a stove, sink, or running water yet. Floors still need to be finished. I won’t bore you with the list of work still needed, but like I said, it will happen as the money comes in.

Not long ago the old pastor’s wife was walking out to her car through the fellowship hall with Reece, her tall, young grandson. Handsome too, or so she says. You know grandmas!

“This fellowship hall will get finished,” she told him. “Maybe even in my lifetime! And the money doesn’t have to come from people in this church. Do you know that song, “He owns the cattle on a thousand hills, The wealth in every mine; He owns the rivers and the rocks and rills, The sun and stars that shine?”

Reece shook his head.

“It’s an old song, but true,” she told him. “God owns all the cattle on all the hills, and I’m asking him to sell a couple of cows and send us the money!”

They laughed, and Reece said, “I know God can send the money!”

She whispered a prayer, “Please, Lord, sell those cows! He’s so young, and his faith is so strong.”

Money trickled in, but then something unexpected happened. It always does, doesn’t it? My roof needed repair, and it was going to wipe out a lot of the building fund. I felt bad.

The pastor and wife sighed but didn’t despair. Some old friends called them soon after they got the news about the roof just to catch up on life. Like they always did, the friends asked about their health, the church, and the progress on the fellowship hall.

“We’re going to have to put the fellowship hall on hold for a bit,” the old pastor said.

“Why is that, John?” the friend asked.

He listened to the story of the buckling roof. “How much do you suppose something like that would cost?”

“They say about five thousand dollars.”

The conversation continued with love shared as it always does with those four friends.

A few days later the pastor and his wife got a note from their friends. That wasn’t unusual. They’d gotten many notes over the years and treasured each one. As they read it, a check slipped out. They looked at it with disbelief. Then came tears. And joy, so much joy—they could hardly wait for Sunday.

I should say something here. I’m just an old church, but I know things. I listen. Those friends are not rich people, far from it.

Sunday finally came. The pastor’s son led the singing. He said, “Board and business meetings aren’t my favorite, but I think we’re all going to like this business meeting.”

The pastor stood. He told the people about the need for the new roof. He said, “I was going to have to ask you to vote to take five-thousand dollars out of the building fund to pay for the roof, but now I don’t have to ask you to do that. A dear friend of mine sent a check designated for the roof. It’s for exactly five thousand dollars. Not only that but a couple who often sends money to the church sent some this week, and instead of taking money out of the building fund, we have some to put into it!”

The pastor stepped down from the pulpit. “The check was made out in my name, so I direct deposited it into the church account. Here’s the receipt.”

He handed it to the treasurer. The treasurer handed him the hymn book. “Can we sing this song?”

The pastor’s son led the congregation in, “God is is so good… He answers prayer.”

And the people in this old church said, “Praise God,” and “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!”

The old pastor’s wife couldn’t say anything though. She was crying.

It was a good, good, day. Sometimes it’s a blessing to be a small church on the corner of two dirt roads. Five thousand dollars wouldn’t mean much to a big church in town. I know. I’m just a country church, but I hear things. But to those of us here it meant everything.

Praise God indeed!

That night the old pastor was almost sleeping when his wife woke him. She has a very bad habit of doing that.

“Honey,” she said. “Our dear, dear friends. How I pray God will bless them for giving that money. But I didn’t even know they had any cows!”

“Huh?” he muttered.

“Never mind, go back to sleep.”

And he did. But she stayed awake for a while, talking to God. Sometimes, you’re just too happy to sleep, and that happened once upon a Sunday while outside the windows the corn grew tall.

You’ve been a great listener. You should go now and look at the fellowship hall God is building. And when you walk through it, remember to say, “Praise God,” and “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!”

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

by Donna Poole

Diane couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a visitor, but she was okay with that. If you never marry, live to be ninety-six years old, and outlive all your friends and family, who exactly is going to come see you in some dismal nursing home tucked away in the middle of nowhere? No one, that’s who. And there were plenty of others like her there who hadn’t seen a visitor in weeks, or months, sometimes in years.

So, for the ten years she’d been a resident of Buckingham Palace, as she’d named it, she’d adopted the old Victorian practice of calling hours. Unlike the Victorian ladies, she didn’t go calling from 3:00 to 5:00 p.m. Most of the other residents were napping in the early part of that time and being transported down to dinner at the later part of it. She went calling in the morning.

After breakfast in the dining hall the residents went back to their rooms. Unlike pricier care homes, this one had no activities to entertain its guests. Its clientele stayed mostly in their rooms or dozed, chins on chests, in the dark and somewhat odiferous hallways.

The nurses would have changed the situation if they could have, but they were too old, too few, and too overworked. Plus, there were no funds. Diane’s favorite nurse, Jenny, had told her she’d heard rumors of a state nurse who was visiting nursing homes checking on conditions. and improvements usually happened after she filed her reports. True, there was only one nurse for the whole state, but Jenny hoped every day to see her walk through the doors. Diane pictured the state nurse as some kind of miracle working angel, a beautiful woman whose smile would light up the dark rooms and whose powers would bring better living conditions, perhaps even social times for the residents to bring smiles to sad faces.

Diane prayed for that, but she also did what her mother had told her to do when she’d been a little girl.

“Diane, put feet to your prayers.”

“What does that mean, Mother?”

“It means pray and trust God; then do what you can to make things better yourself.”

Diane’s calling hours were her solution to make things better. She started preparing at 9:00 a.m. When you’re an old lady, it takes a long time to put on proper undergarments, nylons, a Sunday dress, good shoes, a hat, and white gloves. She got out of breath often during the process and had to sit down and catch her breath. But a lady doesn’t go calling dressed in less than her best, not even during a brutally hot summer in a place where the air conditioning works only when it wants to.

A splash of perfume, a dash of lipstick, and Diane was out the door, her black patent leather purse stuffed with tissues over her arm. A lady never knew when her nose might run, and if you were Diane, your nose ran a lot. Diane’s runny nose upset her more than her painful arthritis and her diagnosis of a terminal disease.

Nurse Jenny gave Diane a list of who needed visits. Some were people from the memory care hall who weren’t yet so forgetful they didn’t know they were lonely. Like any proper lady, Diane knocked on a door and waited for a “come in.”

It wasn’t long before the nurses heard laughter coming from the room Diane was visiting. She had a gift of bringing light, love, and laughter, and every morning, regardless of how she felt, she shared her gift from room to room.

“Does she have a joke book or what?” Penny, a new nurse, asked Jenny.

Jenny shook her head. “She gets them talking about their childhood, or about something funny one of their children did, or I don’t really know what. I do know she never leaves a room without telling the person Jesus loves them and died for them, and she doesn’t sound preachy. She makes a big difference in this place. We’re really going to miss her when she’s gone.”

Penny nodded. “Someone told me a doctor gave her three months to live. How long ago was that?”

Jenny couldn’t keep the grin off her face. “Five years.”

“What?”

“Yeah. No one can explain it. The doctor who comes in here says love keeps her going.”

“You think a lot of her, don’t you?”

“I love these people. I do something special for them every year to celebrate the Fourth of July. It’s happening late tonight. It’s fun, if you’d like to stay.”

Penny shook her head. “I’m sorry. I would, but we celebrate Independence Day with our grandchildren. You don’t spend any of the day with family?”

Jenny shrugged. “I’m like many of the residents here. I don’t have any family. I suppose that’s why I’ve grown so close to many of them.”

Diane smiled at the two nurses as she hurried past their desk, going as quickly as her walker would allow. She had many visits to make today. It was a special day. And unlike most days, she only went to the rooms of the more mobile, healthier patients. They needed visits too.

“Why is Diane so dressed up? She looks like she’s ready to go to church in the 1950’s,” Penny asked.

Jenny chuckled. “She’s going visiting. You’ll get used to that.”

Diane stayed only a few seconds in each room. “Tonight’s the special night! Try to stay awake if you want to come. We meet in the dining hall at 9:00.”

Penny left when the day shift ended, but Jenny stayed. It took awhile to get the dining hall party ready, decorated with patriotic streamers and little flags. She was surprised when Penny came into the room a few minutes after 8:00.

“Do you need any help?”

“I’d love it! But what about your celebration with the grandkids?”

“They all have the stomach flu!”

The two women cut up the red, white, and blue sugar free Jello, and arranged it on plates. Then they put out the cupcakes Jenny had made, gluten and sugar free, but delicious. The residents began arriving, and the two nurses went to get those who needed help getting there. They exclaimed about the decorations and the refreshments.

The show started at 10:00. The residents clapped and laughed like children as they watched the town’s fireworks display out of the windows. For many of them it was the highlight of the year. The show ended with gold stars that filled the night sky. Entirely uncoached, those looking out of the windows recited the pledge of allegiance.

Penny got the residents back to the room by herself. Jenny had missed the whole show. She’d been sitting by Diane’s bed with tears running down her face. Diane had collapsed before she’d taken her first bite of Jello, and the two nurses had gotten her back into her room and into bed. Jenny put her stethoscope on Diane’s heart one more time. There had been no heartbeat for five minutes. She’d called the doctor, but he was on another emergency, and Diane was a DNR, so there was no hurry.

“Why am I crying? She’s wanted to go to heaven for years!” Jenny spoke aloud to the empty room. No, not empty. God was there and a host of unseen angels.

She jumped when she heard a voice. “Jenny, why are you crying? I’ve had the most amazing dream! I dreamt I went to heaven and fell at the feet of Jesus. So many people were there I’ve loved. Then they celebrated my homecoming with fireworks. The last one was the most beautiful of all. Gold stars filled the entire night sky! And why are you crying?”

“I’m crying because I’m happy. Go to sleep now, Diane. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

“I guess I better get to sleep. I need to go calling tomorrow morning, you know.”

“Yes, dear, I know.” Jenny bent over and kissed her on the forehead.

She was almost out the door when Diane said, “Maybe that angel will come tomorrow.”

Jenny’s heart skipped a beat. “What angel?”

“You know that beautiful state nurse who is going to make things better around here.”

“Oh, that angel. Maybe she will come. But I think we already have one angel who makes things better every day, and I’m glad we get to keep her a little longer.”

But Diane was already asleep.

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

by Donna Poole

There were seven little girls, the number of perfection, or so their mother thought. Six looked just like her, blonde, blue eyed curly haired beauties. But people sometimes asked if the middle child was adopted. Her hair was red and straight, and freckles splashed across her face. Her eyes were a startling green that looked right through a person.

In order of age the six blonde girls were Anna Belle, Bonnie Belle, Clara belle, Fergie belle, Gemma Belle, and Holly Belle. Holly Belle was born on Christmas. But when the little redhead middle child was born, her dad took one look at her, named her Poppy, and declared no “Belle” would be added to it.

Poppy was a daddy’s girl from the day she was born. She was the only colicky one of the seven, and poor Mom couldn’t comfort her. Exhausted from having a baby every year, she was only too happy to have Dad come home from work and lay Poppy across his chest. The baby immediately quit the high pitched screaming she’d been afflicting the house with all day, and there was peace and quiet until Dad had to return to work the next morning. When Poppy outgrew the colic, though, she had the sunniest disposition of any of the girls. If she ever wished she had blonde curls and the name Belle after Poppy, she never said so.

The Belles were happiest playing with dolls, paper dolls, or having a tea party. Poppy liked to climb trees and play catch with Dad when he came home from work. She followed him like a puppy when he weeded his garden or worked on the car, talking non-stop about a new bug she’d found or a stray cat she was trying to tame.

“You’re my boy, aren’t you Poppy?” Dad often asked.

“Yep. I will always be your boy, forever and ever.”

Every Father’s Day Poppy made her dad a card. She drew stick figures of the two of them and signed it “I love you. From your boy.”

Poppy made more laundry than any three of her sisters. She was always falling out of trees, or stomping in mud puddles, or wading in the creek. She usually had a minimum of three bandages somewhere on her body, and at least one scab on her nose or cheek.

She wore dresses to school and church because it was the 1950’s, and that’s what all the little girls did, but she changed into her jeans or shorts the minute she got home.

People described the Belles as “beautiful” and “exquisite” and said Poppy was “kind of cute.”  

Poppy loved playing with her sisters when she could coax them into going for a bike ride or swimming in the creek, but she cringed when they begged her to play princess or come to a tea party. She obliged them because she loved them, but she kept looking at the door.

Sometimes Mom would rescue her. “Let Poppy go.” Mom would laugh. “She’s a tomboy. She’s got a whole world to conquer outside.”

And then Poppy would gratefully escape. If the tea party or princess game had been too long, she’d run as fast as she could down the road, loving the feel of freedom and the wind in her hair. If it was time for Dad to come home, sometimes she’d run the whole mile and meet him at the corner so she could climb in the car and ride home with him and hear him say, “There’s my boy.”

And Poppy would lean against him and say, “I’ll be your boy forever and ever!”

It was a fun game. Poppy loved being a tom boy. She’d never be a girly girl, but she didn’t really want to be a boy. She liked being a girl. Sometimes she daydreamed about how many children she’d have when she grew up. She decided two was a respectable number. She didn’t care if they were boys or girls, but she would not name any of them Belle.

Suppertime was the best time of the day with the whole family sitting around the table. Mom always looked tired but happy. Dad made everyone laugh with his crazy stories and jokes. Sometimes Mom smiled at the girls and said, “My seven girls. Seven, the number of perfection.”

Then Dad would say, “But wouldn’t you like to try for one more?”

Mom would sigh and say, “No, I don’t think we should mess with perfection. I know you want a boy, but we might get another girl, and I’m happy with the seven we have!”

Poppy didn’t like that conversation. She swung her legs back and forth and bit her lip. “Daddy doesn’t need a boy, Mom. I’m his boy. Forever and ever.”

And then it happened. Mom told her perfect seven she was expecting a baby. She’d already picked out a name, Izzie Belle. The girls squealed with joy and hugged her. Mom managed to smile, but Poppy noticed she looked more tired than ever.

When the baby was born Anna Belle was twelve, Bonnie Belle eleven, Clara belle ten, Fergie belle eight, Gemma Belle seven, and Holly Belle six. Poppy was nine. A neighbor lady stayed with them while Dad went to the hospital to bring home Mom and their new baby sister. The seven girls squeezed together on the couch smiling and waiting to take turns holding Izzie Belle.

Dad came in the door first. “I have a big surprise for you, girls!”

They laughed. “It’s not a surprise, Daddy,” Poppy said. “We know we’re getting a new baby sister.”

“Not exactly,” Daddy said. His voice sounded very mysterious.

Mom came in next holding a tiny bundle wrapped in blue. “Girls, meet your new baby brother,” she said. “His name is Isaac.”

The girls squealed and held out their arms, all wanting to hold him first. Then Daddy said something that made Poppy’s heart feel like it crumbled in pieces. “You can’t be my boy, Poppy. Not anymore. I’ve got my boy now.”

Poppy blinked back tears. What happened to forever and ever? I’ll never make him another Father’s Day card. And I won’t love him anymore. And I won’t love that horrid baby.

And then the tiny bundle made them all jump with a loud scream. “Oh no,” Mom groaned. “I haven’t heard that sound since Poppy was a baby.” She shoved the baby at Dad.

Dad patted the baby and tried to rock him but he flung out his little arms and screamed louder. The blue blanket slipped off him, and Poppy noticed bright red hair sticking straight up. She saw a red, scrunched up, furious face, and tears running down little cheeks. She laughed.

“Give me the baby, Daddy,” she said. “Let me try.”

Mom shrugged. “Might as well let her try. What can it hurt?”

Poppy held the baby across her chest and a funny thing happened. The screaming stopped. The little face relaxed and the baby fell asleep with tears on his cheeks.

“He’s kind of cute,” Poppy said.

“He looks like you,” Anna Belle said. And all the other Belles agreed.

Daddy cleared his throat. He looked a little embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, Poppy. Just because you aren’t a boy doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You’re very special to me and always will be.”

“I know, Daddy,” Poppy said.

She wasn’t mad at him. And she didn’t think the baby was a bit horrid. Not anymore.  

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

by Donna Poole

“I’m proud of how much you’ve done, Mom. Do you think you can keep going a little longer?”

“I think I can.” My daughter was helping me plant my vegetable garden.

The peas and some beans were already in. We planted more beans, cukes, radishes, summer and winter squash, peppers, several herbs, and a dozen tomato plants. The longer we worked the slower I went. I did less work and Kimmee did more. She dug all the holes and hoed all the rows. She knew I was feeling bad about my limitations.

“Mom! You should be proud! This is the most work you’ve been able to do in the garden in five years!”

I knew she was right. Cancer, chemotherapy, radiation, and even the clinical trial drug I continue to take monthly all changed me. The old Donna, the one who once planted 120 tomato plants and hoed a huge garden, is, I fear, forever gone. In her place is a woman who leans on her daughter’s arm to walk to and from the garden and needs a three-hour nap after she plants the few vegetables.

The sadness didn’t last long. I woke from my long nap thinking of the sweet smell of soil, the feeling of the hot sun on my neck, and the joy of the cool breeze on my face. I thanked God for what I’d been able to do and the daughter who’d helped me do it, and I prayed he’d keep the deer out of the garden.

We have hunters in our family, and I gratefully eat any venison they give me, but I’ve always felt sad for any sweet Bambi who perished by gun or arrow. Not anymore! This year one Bambi decided to make our hostas their salad bar.

When we moved here thirty years ago from the house next door, there was one granddaddy hosta in the back corner of the house. Through the years we transplanted the little shoots and made many large hosta beds in our yard, and I admit to a bit of hosta pride. Now, thanks to Bambi’s voracious appetite, we have very few of our hundreds of hostas left. The leaves are completely gone, and only the tall stems are left. I looked at the devasted hostas and lost all pity for Bambi. It took me about two seconds to become judge and jury and deliver my verdict: Off with his head!

It’s not hunting season, so I’ll have to devise a quiet extermination plan. Guns make too much noise, but I have two grandsons with bows. I think it’s time they spent a night bonding at Grandma’s house. No, they don’t get to sleep inside. They each get a lawn chair. I’ll bring them food, and they can eat and talk until it gets dark, and then, no talking. In silence they will watch and wait. The first grandson to shoot and kill the deer gets signed copies of all my books!

Oh, wait. They both already have signed copies of all my books. I don’t think they’ve read them yet; they’re too busy living their lives, but they have them. They can read them when they’re old, retired, and their knees give out.

My husband, John, knows how I love the hostas, and he did what he could to help. He sprayed the lonely, remaining hostas with hot sauce, dish soap, and water. It better work. I’d hate to have to deny culpability for encouraging hunting out of season and have to visit my wonderful, upstanding grandsons in jail.

I’m not sure my grandsons would break the law for me, but that’s an absurd question, because I’d never ask them to. I do know they, and many others in my family, would do anything legal to help me, regardless of the inconvenience it caused them. And that makes my eyes swim with grateful tears.

Sunday night we went to the graduation open house for the one of the two afore-mentioned grandsons who I won’t be asking to shoot a deer, and go to jail for me. It was wonderful to sit around tables with family and friends and celebrate, not just Reece, but his parents too. It was a beautiful open house decorated with memories. The food was good, and three of my favorite things were there in abundance—love, laughter, and friendship.

We saw people we hadn’t seen for a long time. Several of them asked when John was going to retire. We jokingly asked them to stop using foul language in our presence. John thinks “retire” is a four-letter word, even though I’ve told him many times it has six. It seems spelling isn’t his strong suit. He really didn’t want to hear that word.

What I didn’t want to hear was that I should get up and walk. I knew I should, but the thing is, except for pain in a certain area, I feel so much younger when I’m sitting. I didn’t want to get up and become an old lady, and hobble around with my cane. I was happy right where I was, planted at the table with family and friends. But I knew they were right. If I sit too long, I’m barely able to get up at all. Finally, I got up and went for a walk with two long-time friends who wanted to help me. They’re both ten years younger than I am.

Ten years ago, our age difference wasn’t even noticeable. Five years ago, BC, before cancer, it was barely noticeable. But oh, you can tell the difference now! One of them cried when I told her I’d used a walking stick and gone to the garden by myself the other day. She asked me to promise I’d never do that again; she was afraid I’d fall.

And so, the three of us walked around the driveway at the open house, laughing and talking. I thought of some of the joys and sorrows we’d shared and prayed about through the years. They were helping me walk around the driveway, but we’d been walking each other Home for many years.

I stayed amazingly late at that open house. I outlasted all my friends and didn’t go home until three o’clock in the morning! Oh, wait. I forgot. I’m not writing fiction this time. Okay, so I went home a little before ten, but my body felt like it was five hours later!

My heart though! My heart was somewhere above the clouds and up in the stars. It was such a fantastic evening with people I love. Like my granddaughter would say, it was epic. True, I slept a lot the next day, but it was worth it. And during the hours I was awake and ever since, I’ve been feeling grateful for all the family and friends I have who are helping me, and I hope I am helping them too, as we walk each other Home.

In that heavenly Home, the deer and antelope may play, but they surely will not eat the hostas! Perhaps I will plant a huge garden with 1,000 tomato plants. Kimmee will help me, but it will be my turn to dig all the holes.

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