Mosaics

by Donna Poole

“Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.”—Stanley Horowitz

Little did the poet guess when he penned those words for a 1983 edition of the Reader’s Digest how many thousands of photographers, painters, and writers he would inspire. Though many may not recognize his name, searches for Horowitz’s poem skyrocket on the internet each fall. The most current statistics I could find were from the New York Public Library in 2011: “A search of his name and the first line of the poem retrieved around 1,630,000 results.”

I can see why those lines are so loved, can’t you? The metaphor is gripping and beautiful and makes us think of the mosaic of our own lives. The artists among us do that; they grab us by the collar as we rush by, oblivious, and they whisper to us, “See.”

What do you see when you look back over the mosaic of your life? Memories grow hazy along the way and are colored by our personalities too; what we see depends on whether we look back with bitterness or a benediction.

I can’t remember all the names and faces of the people who’ve walked a mile or two with me on my backroads, but I know that they each have left a piece of themselves that is now the pattern of me. Time has smoothed many jagged pieces of glass in my mosaic, so they no longer hurt as they once did. Light shines brighter from behind some pieces reminding me of people and of why I loved them.

I bend down and run my fingers over the bright colors and smile at the memories forever preserved of our four children as babies, toddlers, teens, and young adults. I see their weddings. Among the brightest flashes of color in my mosaic are our thirteen grandchildren who refuse to stop moving, even in this still life art memory.

When I look back at the pieces in my mosaic, I remember smiles that warmed my heart, encouraging words spoken when I was exhausted from the long walk, and laughter that wove its beautiful wave of color around the darker times. I see so many prayers. I recall a line in a book here, a quote from a teacher there, a hug from a friend. Woven among all the years, laughter, and tears, I find God’s Word, because more than anything it has enriched my life.

I look ahead and wonder what colors will still add to my mosaic before the design is complete.

We add something to every life we touch. Is a look of kindness, a word of encouragement, a hug to dispel the fog of indifference too much to give? I want to give more and more as we walk each other Home. The tiny piece I add to the mosaic of someone’s life may glow for them far after I am gone.

It has been a beautiful autumn here in Michigan. I agree that “Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.”—Stanley Horowitz

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Seasons of a Marriage

by Donna Poole

“I’d like to buy a diamond ring, please.”

John was nineteen and looked much younger when he walked into Schooley’s Jewelry Store at 152 East State Street, Ithaca, New York. It was an old, well-established store and had been there since 1937.

The proprietor, Mr. Wrisley, was kind. He didn’t ask if John had any money, but he did ask how much he wanted to spend. Then he showed him several diamonds, from larger to smaller.

John’s eyes brightened when he saw the bigger diamonds. He hadn’t expected he could get anything like that for his money.

“Now I want to show you something,” Mr. Wrisley said. He gave John his eyepiece so John could see that the larger diamonds had many flaws, not visible to the naked eye, but easily seen through the eyepiece. One of the smaller diamonds looked perfect with no flaws.

Mr. Wrisley nodded. “It’s a pure diamond, perfect. It’s up to you. It depends on what you want.”

John never was all about show, but he does love perfect. He loves God’s perfection, and He loves that God makes us perfect in Him when we trust Jesus to save us from our sin. He thought the smaller diamond was a good symbol of what he wanted our marriage to be. He put down some money he’d saved from working his summer at Cornell University and promised to bring home money from his college job at Grand Union each paycheck until the ring was paid for. Mr. Wrisley agreed.

We married the summer we were twenty; it was the spring of our marriage. I wish I could tell you that like the ring it was always pure, perfect, and without flaws, but that would be a lie. We both had a lot of growing up to do. John’s mom wanted to do his laundry, and he insisted on spending every weekend at home so she could do it. I enjoyed visiting his wonderful parents, but every weekend seemed a bit excessive, especially because we were both going to college, working full time, and had little time to spend together during the week.

Like Ruth Graham said when a reporter asked her as she and Billy Graham, the famous evangelist celebrated their fiftieth anniversary, “Did you ever consider divorce?”

Her answer came quickly. “Not once.”

“Oh, come on. You must have thought of it at least once in fifty years.”

“Divorce? No! Murder? Yes!”

There wasn’t much we didn’t argue about, but the disputes were surface, silly, and passed as quickly as a spring shower. Our first year was tumultuous, but we loved each other fiercely, and had wonderful times as breathtaking as the most perfect of spring days.

Spring marriage days slid into summer, the wonderful years of raising our four children, or perhaps of them raising us.

Then came late summer. The kids married; the wonderful grandchildren began arriving, and we have thirteen of them now.

How quickly summer became fall. Everyone here in Michigan and my family in New York says they have never seen the leaves as beautiful as they have been this year, and I feel the same about the fall of our marriage. It has never been as lovely or connected as it is now.

Perhaps we are even in the winter of our marriage. Only God knows that.

John and I have walked down so many backroads together. Some roads have echoed with joy and laughter. Others have listened to our prayers and tears. But through all our journeys, our love has grown deeper, truer, purer, more like the ring John gave me fifty-two years ago.

Why is that?

John gives great advice when he does marriage counseling. He draws a triangle with three dots, one at each corner and one at the top. “The top of the triangle is God,” he tells the couple. “The dots at the sides are each of you. What happens as each of you moves up the sides of the triangle and gets closer to God?”

The answer is simple. The closer two people get to God, the closer they get to each other.

When I sit in on marriage counseling, I tell the couple a favorite quote, “Marriage is when two people become one. The trouble starts when they try to decide which one.”

John doesn’t invite me to sit in on many marriage counseling sessions. I wonder why?

God, John, and I have more backroads to travel, but we know we are getting nearer to the end of our journey. The road we’re on now isn’t easy, but we have seen some beautiful views and have been sheltered from the winds by love of God, family, and friends.

Hopefully, we’ll travel together for many more miles, God, John, and I, getting closer, the three of us, until we reach Home.

The two have become one. Which one? We can’t tell, but whatever we are, we cherish the love we share.

Photo Credit Kimmee Kiefer
Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Follow the Road or Don’t

by Donna Poole

You wouldn’t guess it to look at him, but this almost seventy-two-year-old country preacher I’m married to has a restless streak a country-mile wide. At least it used to be a country-mile wide; maybe it’s only a half-mile wide now. It shows up in different ways. He gets a certain glint in his eyes.

Then he says, “I wonder where this road goes? You want to follow it and find out?”

He knows I do. I always do, except for that one time.

We were in Lost Nation, a game preserve area close to our home, when he asked his question.

“No, I don’t want to. That’s not even a road! Please, don’t….”

But it was too late. Hoping, as he always did, that our 1973 Pinto station wagon would magically transform itself into a Jeep or better yet a four-wheel-drive truck, John had already started down the “road” in Lost Nation that looked more like someone’s overgrown driveway. We swerved and bumped down the path that grew more overgrown and less road-like by the minute.

“I think we should turn around or back out of here,” I suggested.

“There isn’t anywhere to turn around, and I don’t want to back out of here. Besides, we don’t know where this goes yet.”

We never did find out. Finally, we could go no farther, and John had to begin backing out, considerably harder than driving in.

We were close to where we’d started when the Pinto sunk in a patch of mud.

“Help me push the car out.”

We pushed; we struggled. John remained optimistic. I’m the family Pollyanna, but those tires were half-buried in mud. Getting stuck in the mud in an isolated game preserve in the days before cell phones wasn’t fun.

John found an old fence post. “I’ll try to lift the car up with this while you push.”

I don’t remember now if either of us prayed. Let’s imagine we did. Whether we did or not, God was merciful. He let us wait long enough to realize we were in trouble. John hiked back to the road and flagged down a truck,

The truck driver hooked on a chain and pulled us out of the mud. He refused pay, smiled at John, and politely said, “Probably not the best place to try to drive a Pinto.”

I don’t remember what I said to John. Let’s imagine I was a good wife and didn’t say anything.

John’s restless streak used to show up in other ways too. He often got requests from churches looking for pastors. Would he come preach for them? He went every time and after a favorable vote asking him to come as pastor went through agony trying to decide if he should leave our church.

Finally, our church board asked to meet with John. Bud, our oldest deacon, spoke for the board. “Pastor, you’re driving us crazy! We never know if you’re going to leave or stay! Please make up your mind one way or the other.”

That time of many churches asking John to come preach and slowed and stopped. Many years passed. We didn’t get another request from a church looking for a pastor until John was seventy. It came from an adorable church with a small congregation near the shores of Lake Michigan. If you don’t live in Michigan, you may not know that many Michiganders drool at the thought of living near the lake. Including me.

John wasn’t tempted. He wrote the church a sweet note declining the request for him to come preach with the possibility of being considered as their pastor, smiled at me, and tossed the letter in the garbage. He didn’t tell anyone at our church. I confess, I got on the internet and researched the beautiful area; I’ve always hoped to someday live closer to the lake. But the beautiful road that beckoned me to the lake couldn’t compete with the heart of the people we love right here. Most important, John knew God wasn’t calling him to go down that road. I’m glad I don’t have to figure that out for him, and he doesn’t have to for me. We each must listen to that still small voice in our hearts and choose what road to take.

Still, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t God calling John to drive down that forsaken path in Lost Nation. That is one back road adventure he never tried again.

We drove back to the scene of the crime today so our daughter, Kimmee, could take pictures for my blog article.

“Dad, you drove down that? But it isn’t even a road!”

Exactly, Kimmee.

“Well, it was wider back then,” John said, sounding defensive.

Not by much it wasn’t.

“Take a picture of that sign, honey,” I said. “The one that says no vehicles.”

The sign makes me guess there must still be people with a restless streak a mile-wide looking for adventure. Too bad the sign hadn’t been there all those years ago. But then I wouldn’t be taking this backroad adventure with you.

Road in Lost Nation. Photo Credit Kimmee Kiefer.
John’s “road.” Photo credit Kimmee Kiefer.
Another view of John’s road–photo credit Kimmee Kiefer
The sign that wasn’t there when we got stuck. Photo credit Kimmee Kiefer
Lost Nation. Photo credit Kimmee Kiefer
Lost Nation. Photo credit Kimmee Kiefer
all photos by Kimmee Kiefer
Lost Nation. Photo Credit Kimmee Kiefer
Lost Nation. Photo Credit Kimmee Kiefer

The Baby Has a Name–Almost

by Donna Poole

It was a monumental moment. At exactly 8:42 a.m. on May 28, 2020, I touched the keys on my laptop and typed the words, “Corners Church Jr.”

“I’ve started the sequel to my book,” I told Kimmee. “I thought Corners Church was a standalone novel, but I woke up in the night with a sequel in mind.”

“That’s great! But you aren’t really going to title it Corners Church Jr. are you?”

No, I wasn’t, but since the book baby hadn’t announced its own name yet, I’d give it that one until it did.

Writing a book is like wandering down back country roads; you probably aren’t going to end up where you expected, and the views will surprise you. I had a destination in mind when I began writing, but my book wandered off on a journey of its own telling. After many revisions, my new book begins like this:

Chapter One

All Who Wander

What am I doing here? It wasn’t the first time he’d asked himself that. Pastor J. D. looked around the long table and sighed. Another board meeting for the books; he’d give this one the same grade he’d given the others, a C for effort.

And C for Cyrus. The minute I open my mouth that man’s ready to holler no. He hasn’t liked me since day one, and I’m not his biggest fan either.

Day one. That had been a year ago. Sometimes it felt like a decade.

J.D. had been lost in more ways than one when he’d stumbled on Corners Church. After losing both Abby and his position as lead pastor at Riverside Tabernacle and Seminary in Chicago, J.D. had fled like a wounded animal to an Airbnb cabin in Barryton, Michigan. He’d purposely looked for an off the beaten path place where he could be alone. He’d planned to stay at the Airbnb only a month but had ended up staying a year. “Not all who wander are lost.” J.D. had thought about that saying often during his year at the cabin. He’d wandered a lot trying to regain some peace.

***

New characters found their way into my book, including Cass, one of the four adorable rescue cats who belongs to Kimmee and Drew and lives with us. The book wouldn’t be the same without Cass, and neither would its author.

Today, September 28, 2020, at 12:30 p.m., four months after I started typing, and 60,320 words later, I finished my third edit of my book. Thank you, Lord, I thought. Next, I need to find a cover and send it off to my real editor.

I’m more apprehensive about this second book child than I was about the first. Like all children born into a family, it’s quite different from its sibling; you might not even recognize they are related. We took an unexpected journey, my book and I. A few days after I started it, I found out I had cancer. I’ve written the whole thing sitting in bed, between tests, doctor’s appointments, and chemotherapy treatments.

Many days I couldn’t write at all. It was too much effort to concentrate or focus. On semi-good days, a strange thing happened. When I couldn’t force my thoughts into line to read a book or watch a movie, I could still write a book. Often, when my brain and voice were too weak to carry on a decent phone conversation, my fingers still flew over the keyboard, living life with the new characters at the Corners.

So, I’m a bit apprehensive about this book. But I’m exhilarated too. I prayed my way through the writing, and if it’s incoherent, my editor will tell me. If it’s decent, I may present you my new baby before Christmas, though I’m not promising. This book journey is far from complete. Let’s just say you’ll see it sometime soon, Lord willing and if the creek doesn’t rise, or, as a main character in the book insists on saying, “Lord willin’ and if the creek don’t rise.”

And that brings me to the book’s title. It’s either, If the Creek Doesn’t Rise, so as not to offend the sensibilities of the grammar Nazis and perhaps keep them from buying the book, or, it’s If the Creek Don’t Rise, in honor of Cyrus who says it that way.

Which title do you like? I’d love your thoughts.

This is Cass, a main character in my new book. Photo credit: Kimmee Kiefer

The Last Cutting of Hay

by Donna Poole

Summer doesn’t stomp off in a fury announcing her departure like some drama queen leaving a party, high heels clicking on a hardwood floor.  Summer is a lady. In her whisper-soft ballet shoes, she glides off when no one is looking.

“Where’s Summer?” someone asks.

“I don’t know. She was here just a minute ago. Did anyone see her leave?”

“I wish I’d paid more attention to her. She was a delightful addition to the party, wasn’t she? Will someone close that window? It’s getting cold in here!”

The calendar and Kimmee, our daughter, tell us it’s the last day of summer.

We occasionally spot a rare butterfly or a hummingbird reluctant to fly south, but these sightings happen infrequently now.  No joyous bird songs greet us when we step outside. It’s so quiet I can hear the dry leaves falling from the leaves and hitting the grass. The slant of the sun is different inside the house now too. I like that; it’s lighter inside than it was.

On one of our backroad ramblings the other day we passed a field and saw the last cutting of hay. Nothing says the end of summer more clearly than that. And nothing makes me feel more nostalgic, except, perhaps, the geese practicing for their flight south, getting the V formation right, but flying in the wrong direction. When it’s time to go, they’ll know when and where. God will tell them, and they will listen.

Before they were old enough to have “real” jobs, our boys, Johnnie and Danny, hired out to farmers who needed help baling hay. They were hard workers, so they never had trouble getting jobs. When they were very young, they’d stand on the moving tractor, pull bales and stack them, or load them onto the elevator, or stand in the barn stacking the hay as it came tumbling off the elevator. When they got a little older, they learned to drive tractor and rake the hay. Haying was hot, hard, exhausting work. The boys came home covered with sweat and hay and with funny stories of equipment cobbled together that a farmer somehow stubbornly kept running, of how they had almost fallen off a wagon when a tractor had jerked, or of the amazing food they had eaten.

“Mom, we’d work for Reeds for free just to eat Mrs. Reed’s food!”

While some of their friends loved lazy, hazy summer days with nothing to do, our boys enjoyed, to quote one of their favorite radio programs, “the satisfaction of a job well done.”

The boys were about twelve when they started hiring out to hay. They were skinny kids, all legs brown and sunburned, and I desperately loved them and their determination to work like men. That’s what their dad and I heard most about them, “Your boys work like men.”

What do they think of those haying days now? Do they regret the loss of summer freedom? John Jr. says, “That tough work made me the kind of man I am today. After baling, most the jobs I’ve had felt easy.”

Danny says, “I baled hay because I love the hard work. You instilled a good work ethic in all of us kids. All these years later I still bale hay and love it (although most of the time it’s round bales). If you work hard you have a better appreciation for what you earned.”

And now when I see the last cutting of hay, I think of how fast all those growing-up summers passed by for our boys and our girls and now are for our grandchildren. Just like summer leaves us quietly, so does childhood.

Soon the “Bye Dad! Bye Mom!” isn’t because the kids are going off to hay on a hot, summer afternoon. It’s because they’ve come for an hour, or an evening, and it’s time for them to go home with their own families, with their own children whose summer of childhood will soon be gone.

It’s so quiet then we hear the dry leaves falling from trees and whispering across grass. We notice that the slant of the sunlight is different for us now than when we were younger. We hear the lonesome sound of geese honking and look up to see them in perfect V formation but flying in the wrong direction.

We laugh then, my John and I, as we wrap our arms around each other, wave goodbye to kids and grandkids, and watch the geese. They’ll get it right when the time comes. When it’s time to go, they’ll know when and where. God will tell them, and they will listen. Our kids did, and our grandkids will too. Our prayers will help them find the way.

The last cutting of hay may be nostalgic, but it brings promise too. As long as the earth endures, there will always be another first cutting of hay; there will always be another spring. Our grandchildren will grow up to be hard workers who love God, and our children’s children will too. They won’t be alone. The world will always have some good people who work hard, love God, and love each other. I hear the promise in the sound of the wild geese who are in perfect V formation and look! Now they’re flying in the right direction.

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

Lessons From a Lunch Pail

by Donna Poole

John was wrapping a used brown paper grocery bag around his old, dented, black lunch pail. It took a lot of tape.

“She’ll think it’s funny,” he said, convinced his daughter must have inherited at least some of his irrepressible sense of humor.

“I’m not so sure.”

Tomorrow Angie would be six years old. All she wanted for her birthday was a lunchbox she’d showed us several times. She couldn’t wait to carry it to the first day of first grade and show all the friends she’d made in kindergarten, even Wendy, her least favorite friend. When I’d asked her why she didn’t like Wendy as much as the others she’d said, “Because, Mommy, she tells the other kids what to do, and I want to tell the other kids what to do.”

Wendy might not be her favorite person, but Wendy and all the other kids would love the cute lunchbox.

I kept working on the butterfly birthday cake. Our little girl adored butterflies. I thought about her other gifts. Her Daddy got her a used bike from Fees, church friends, and hid it from her. When she was napping or sleeping that summer, he sanded it, painted it, and shined it until it looked new. Grandma and Grandpa Poole sent money for a new bike seat and streamers. We bought her training wheels. Her other gifts were a package of chenille pipe cleaners from us, crayons and a coloring book from three-year-old brother Johnnie, and magic markers and a notebook from one-year-old brother, Danny. Grandpa Piarulli sent money for material for me to make her a new dress.

Angie sat on the floor when it was time to open gifts. She opened everything but saw no lunchbox. Then her Daddy handed her the bulky, ugly wrapped package. She, opened it, and looked up at him, confused.

“It’s your new lunchbox! For first grade!”

Her bottom lip trembled. Tears spilled out of her huge brown eyes.

He hugged her. “Don’t cry! Open the lunch pail.”

Inside was a note she could read with little help: “Look on top of the refrigerator.”

John held her up so she could see the exact lunchbox she’d wanted. Tears turned to squeals of joy as she pulled it down and held it close, but Daddy’s eyes and face filled with regret as his look met mine. He feels bad about those tears to this day.

“Let’s go outside,” he said.

When Angie saw her new wheels parked next to Daddy’s car, she forgave him, but she too still remembers the not-so-funny ugly lunch pail.

Angie’s birthday was on Monday that year, Daddy’s day off, so he had time to help her learn to ride her new bike. Our good friends and neighbors, Hales, came for ice cream and butterfly cake and brought Angie a new dress. She went to bed a happy girl, thinking of her blessings, not the gift her Daddy had thought would make her laugh but instead had made her cry.

My heavenly Father has handed me a few packages wrapped in ugly paper with even uglier looking dented lunch pails inside. I know he doesn’t do it expecting me to share a sense of humor I can’t understand, but do I cry? Sometimes.

“God is too good to be unkind and He is too wise to be mistaken. And when we cannot trace His hand, we must trust His heart.” –Charles Spurgeon

I need to remember to keep looking inside the lunch pails for the notes. I don’t expect God to lift me up and show me everything I asked for waiting for me on top of the refrigerator, but I do expect the notes to teach me to trust His heart. So far, I’ve found some breathtakingly beautiful notes in my dented pails, and I hope you have too.

Jungle Juice and Awesome Aunts

by Donna Poole

“Please,” John asked, “Stop calling your chemotherapy poison.”

I knew he was right; attitude toward treatment is important, so with the help of a friend I renamed my R-chop chemotherapy “Jungle Juice.” But what’s Jungle Juice without a good Tarzan call, right? I practiced that, complete with chest pounding, until John groaned.

The time came for my third chemotherapy treatment, halfway point, time for a celebration. I had just the perfect one in mind. I’d demonstrate my Tarzan call for the nurses.

“You can’t do that at U of M,” John objected. “Do you want them to kick you out of that place?”

Hmm. Maybe. I dunno. Well, if I can’t do my Tarzan yell inside, I have a surprise for you, honey.

So, as we walked sedately arm in arm, like any dignified elderly couple, through the parking garage into U of M, I let out my Tarzan yell. Twice. John looked for a car to hide behind.

During chemotherapy I offered to demonstrate my terrific Tarzan imitation for the nurses. They chuckled but politely declined.

A voice from the other side of the closed curtain called, “Well, I want to hear it!”

I called back, “A kindred spirit!”

My kindred spirit and I had a long, interesting conversation. She’s only forty and fighting the battle of her life for the next year against a rare, aggressive cancer. We didn’t talk much about cancer though; we discussed life in general, our faith in God, her five horses, and the nieces and nephews she adores. We discussed how important it is to be an aunt, and what a great influence and comfort an aunt can be.

I’ve been thinking about my awesome aunts ever since our talk. My Italian aunts were beautiful. I loved it when great-aunt Julia came to visit Grandma’s house when we were there. Not only did she press a shiny silver dollar into our hands, but she and Grandma had some wum-dinger discussions. Just as their arguments got interesting, they switched to Italian because they could talk faster, disappointing, because we couldn’t understand Italian.

I remember seeing two of my aunts, I think it was Aunt Mary and Aunt Louise, join arms and dance the polka in Grandma’s kitchen. All my Italian aunts talked fast and at the same time, called their parents “Ma” and “Pa,” and always treated them with the greatest respect. At least they did after they were adults!

I wish I’d known my Italian aunts better, but I didn’t talk to them much. Mom always insisted children were to be seen and not heard, so my siblings and I had to sit hands folded at Grandma’s and not talk unless spoken to. That gave us more time to hear the stories. We heard how once our gentle grandpa got tired of hearing my aunts argue about whose turn it was to do dishes, so he grabbed the table cloth, wrapped up the dishes, and threw them all outside where they broke on the lawn. I guess they never argued about dishes again!

In my last blog I told you about Uncle Tom, but I didn’t say much about sweet Aunt Virginia. We kids felt comforted just sitting near her. She was soft, kind, and wore necklaces made of pop beads, large beads you could pop apart and put back together, and she let us play with them.

Aunt Virginia loved to whistle softly. She was a quiet complement to Uncle Tom’s opinionated outspokenness. The only time I ever saw him get upset with her was when they were visiting us. He came into the living room in his t-shirt, and Aunt Virginia said, “Tom, you need a bra more than I do.”

This was the 1950s. People did not say “bra” right out loud. People especially did not tell a man he needed one. It was hysterically funny to us kids, but not to Uncle Tom, and he let her know it.

Mary and I stayed with Uncle Tom and Aunt Virginia a month when Ginny was born. I remember those as days of quiet peace, except for the time I had to rescue my sister from a too bossy cousin. I loved being there; I slept in a bedroom where a fan blew white, billowy curtains behind my bed, a place made for daydreams.

After John and I were married we visited Uncle Tom in the hospital after he’d had a heart attack, and then we went to church with Aunt Virginia. I told her how much she’d meant to me all those years, and how much I’d loved hearing her whistle, and how happy it had made me.

Aunt Virginia looked at me and chuckled. “Donna, I only whistled when I was nervous.”

My aunts were awesome. My kindred spirit on the other side of the curtain in the chemo room is an awesome aunt too. She’s single, with no children of her own, and adorers her nieces and nephews. I’m glad she sent me down this backroad rambling road remembering my aunts.

You may not have had the blessing of an awesome aunt, but if you have a niece or nephew, it’s never too late to be a special aunt to them. Maybe you can even teach them the Tarzan call. Everyone should know that, right?

“Only an aunt can give hugs like a mother, keep secrets like a sister, and share love like a friend.” –unknown

Photo Credit: Sycamore Lane Photography
Having fun with Aunt Michelle!
Photo Credit: Sycamore Lane Photography

Then and Now

by Donna Poole

“Mom! You don’t have to hike every trail in this park!” our confirmed bachelor son, John Jr., said.

His much younger sister, Kimmee, looked up at him with grateful brown eyes; she was exhausted too.  

“Yes,” I answered, “I do. You kids don’t have to come, but I have to hike every trail in this park.”

“Why?”

The question was logical.

My answer wasn’t.

“Because I always hike every trail in the park.”

Huge sigh from confirmed bachelor son. Small groan from little sister.

“Okay. If you and Dad are going to hike every trail, we’re coming.”

“Why?”

My question was logical.

His answer wasn’t.

“Because.”

Times change. This camping trip we didn’t hike any trails.

Times change. One day, in his late twenties, John Jr., the confirmed bachelor son came home from church.

“Mom, have you ever noticed Katie Smith’s eyes?”

And that was the beginning of the end of the bachelor days. John Jr. and Katie now have six children. All four of our children are married now, and we have thirteen grandchildren. That’s our wonderful now.

Sometimes it seems like yesterday I was a child. Occasionally I take a walk down memory lane in my backroad ramblings. It’s fun remembering my Uncle Tom. I had two Uncle Toms, and I loved them both. My tall, Italian Uncle Tom looked startlingly like Dad, except he was a foot taller. My mother’s only sibling was also named Tom.

Mom’s Tom was the fire chief of the Philadelphia Navy Yard and that made him a hero to us kids. When we went to visit him, he introduced us to downtown Philadelphia and street vendors. Uncle Tom bought me my first soft pretzel; I can still taste it. Dad was horrified. How did we know if it was clean? I didn’t care about clean; it was delicious. Uncle Tom was fun; and life was wonderful.

Uncle Tom took us to our first amusement park and went with us to Niagara Falls. He taught me to swim in the Atlantic Ocean.

 We kids loved the yearly visits from Uncle Tom and Aunt Virginia. Uncle Tom was larger than life in more ways than one. He was a big man with a big heart, and he loved big. Best of all, he was on our side always, like a giant champion. Mom never spanked us when Uncle Tom was visiting.

Every visit, before he left, Uncle Tom bought us a present. Presents were a big deal in our family in the 1950s. You got a present for your birthday and for Christmas but never for any other reason.

One year when Uncle Tom came to visit, he didn’t seem to regard my sister Mary, and me, the way he usually had, as his little angels. Our other siblings still had his favor, but Mary and I troubled him.

We lived then near Taberg, New York, in the foothills of the Adirondacks Mountains. Our trailer park was in an isolated location and the only other children near our age in the trailer park were boys. Mary and I could outrun and outplay almost every boy at whatever sport there was. The two of us road our bikes for miles and swam in creeks. We took pails and climbed the hills searching for wild blackberries, coming home with heaping pails of them that mom made into mouth watering blackberry pies. Sometimes we roamed the foothills for hours. It was a wild, free, Tom Sawyer kind of life.

Uncle Tom did not approve. We heard him tell Mom, “Donna and Mary Lou are growing up like wild Indians. The only time I’ve seen them in a dress this whole week was to go to church. They act more like boys than girls. I’m worried about them.”

He talked to us too that week, about being more lady like. We listened politely and nodded. He was, after all, our favorite uncle, our beloved Uncle Tom.

Too soon, it was time for Aunt Virginia and Uncle Tom to head home. It was bittersweet though because we knew present time was coming.

“Donna,” Uncle Tom asked me, “what would you like for a present this time?”

“A baseball bat! I don’t have one, and I’d really love one!”

He sighed. “I’ve been talking to you all week about being too much of a tomboy. I’m not buying you a baseball bat! Mary Lou, what would you like?”

“I want a baseball to go with her bat!”

If I remember correctly, Uncle Tom told us to choose a “girls’ gifts” and we refused. We didn’t get presents that year. But we didn’t lose our love for Uncle Tom and had many more wonderful visits with him.

The Tom Sawyer days Mary and I shared only lasted a few years; for me it was fifth, sixth, and half of seventh grade, but they were my favorite childhood days. I could write a book about our adventures and the trouble we got into and out of!

Perhaps that’s why I felt like I had to hike every trail in the park. It’s something Mary and I would have done back then.

Someone said not to spend too much time looking in the rearview mirror, because we aren’t going that way. That’s true, but it’s fun to look back at the then and see how it shaped you into the person you are now.

Well, dear Uncle Tom, you knew Jesus as your Savior. I know you’re in heaven waiting for the rest of us to join you. You’ll be glad to know I acted quite ladylike this vacation, but only because my body was too tired to cooperate with my spirit. I did spot a new trail on one of our drives though.

“John, do you think we could hike that trail next time?”

“That one? No! It would kill us. That trail is two times longer than the one we hiked last year that did almost kill us. It goes down that mountain, comes up another one, and it curves around there, and . . . I’ll show you where it comes out.”

He drove quite a distance. “See? This is where that trail ends you want us to hike. Still want to try it?”

I just smiled.

Some people didn’t grow up Tom Sawyer, and it shows.

There’s Gold in Them Thar Hills

by Donna Poole

You travel a quiet backroad; it’s not your backroad, but its familiar feel says it could be. You see a group of friends laughing uproariously. One of them glances at you and sends a smile. They aren’t your friends, but you know they could be. You enter a small country church. It isn’t your church, but the warm welcome lets you know it could be. There’s healing in those brief connections, more precious than gold in the hills.

People have found gold in the hills of Brown County, Indiana. I’m sure not everyone was so quick to tell the tale, but the first recorded person to say he’d found gold was John Richards who discovered it in 1830 in Bear Creek. Commercial attempts at mining gold in 1875, 1898, 1901, and 1934 didn’t produce much, because apparently there just isn’t that much gold to be found.

There’s gold of another kind to be found in the hills though, the healing gold of connections. I wish I could remember how many years we’ve been traveling down the backroads to come home to Brown County, Indiana. We love the hills and the connections we’ve made here.

John and I grew up in the hills of New York State.

I was in fifth grade when Mom and Dad decided because we moved so much for Dad’s job as a mechanic with Mohawk Airlines, we’d just start taking our home with us. They bought a new trailer home, ten feet wide by fifty feet long, five-hundred square feet for six of us, make that seven when my sister was home on visits. Let’s just say that lack of space contributed to my early, long lasting love of being outside, especially in the hills.

I’ve always found a healing connection in what God made untouched by human hands. Even as a child I loved solitude, especially at twilight. As much as I love people, I sometimes need God’s quietness to heal.

We pulled into the campground at Brown County. The woman who handed me the map looked at my hat and smiled. It wasn’t the, “I’m so sorry” smile I often get these days. It wasn’t a quick averted “I don’t know what to say to you” glance. She looked right into my eyes. Somehow, I knew it was a “you go girl!” grin.

I told her, “On the worst of days I can’t imagine going anywhere. On my good days I keep thinking, ‘if I can just get to Brown County! I think I can heal there.’”

She laughed. “And here you are. I get it! I’m a five-year cancer survivor. I’m so glad you’re out doing this! Good for you!” She looked at John. “And good for you too! Thank you for bringing her!”

She’s not my friend, but I know she could be.

Over the years we’ve visited several small churches here in Brown County, and they’ve all felt like home. Our favorite church meets right in the park. We’ve come to love the pastor and his wife. They are friends. We couldn’t see them this time, not even at a distance, doctor’s orders.

We can’t hike our strenuous trails in these hills and laugh at each other afterward for even trying. Now John congratulates me when I go with him to carry the garbage to the bin several yards down the road.

We have a favorite little shop down in Nashville. The owner has told us snippets of stories over the years that found a home in my book. John is going to take him a signed copy of my book while I stay here at the camper. I will miss seeing him this year, but it’s okay.

I don’t mind what I can’t do. The healing human connections can wait for next time.

I’ve slept all night the last three nights, and so has John. I think the camping trip is doing more to heal my cancer than chemotherapy ever could. John and I have time here to talk about things other than cancer. We have time to live in the now.   

It’s totally still outside and in my heart as I sit in my lawn chair talking to you through my blog. The sun smiles down between tall, ancient trees. God is in His heaven, and if all is not right with the world, it will be someday.

I’ve come home to the hills.

Under the Trees

by Donna Poole

Our picnic finished, we sat in chairs under trees next to the quiet water. Lazy isn’t the word to describe how I felt; inert is better. I was simply there, merely being. Too tired to read, but somehow having a book on my lap brought be comfort.

I looked down at A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L’Engle and touched the cover. It too, had a picture of trees by the water. I knew I’d love the book if I could get energy to open it; I’d read it before. But this time, my hands refused to turn any pages. They were content to lie folded on top of the book. Maybe I could absorb it by osmosis.

On the other side of where we sat a piece of land stretched out, and then the river-like water curved around and widened into a lake where children splashed and played. They were far enough away that their laughter and shouts sounded like soft background music played in a candlelit room. It was sweet, but I couldn’t quite connect with it. I just sat. I couldn’t walk over the bridge and go to the swing where John and I love to sit looking out over the lake, but I didn’t care.

“Happy?” John asked. “Tired? Want to go home?”

“Happy, tired, don’t want to go home. I’m a tree now. Leave me here in my chair by the water and come back and get me when I have enough energy to get up and leave.”

He chuckled and opened his book. I napped on and off, and listened to the trees, their roots deep by the water. Their quietness sinking down deep into the mineral rich earth below.

It’s alright just to be sometimes; it’s okay not to have anything left to give. It’s fine to rest awhile by the still waters of God’s grace and soak it in deeply, to regain strength, and light and joy.

But the trees are always giving. They are giving me shade and peace. Their leaves are making delightful patterns on the water. They bring joy to the people who sometimes fish from these banks.

That’s because it’s their season to give. Soon, their leaves will drop like yours are now. They will stand silent and still against the cold of winter, and they will wait for spring’s renewal. You, too, must wait for renewal. But for now, just rest. Be.

The sun began to sink in the west, and John closed his book. “Ready to go now?”

“No. I really can’t go. I don’t have the energy. I’m serious. I have to stay here. I think I’m a tree.”

He laughed, pulled me to my feet, and steered me to the car.

“You’re not a tree.”

I looked at the trees one more time as we left the park. They whispered a goodbye message. You can be a tree if you want to be a tree.

I don’t want to be a tree forever, but maybe I’ll be one for a little while. If you see me, slouched down in my chair beside the water, baseball cap covering my bald head, looking too tired to move, don’t worry. I’m okay. It will get better. Just for now, I’m being a tree.

“And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season.” –Psalm 1:3