Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“First you…”

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” Kimmee answered.

“You are not the maid,” I replied.

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

The Thanksgiving that Wasn’t

by Donna Poole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Father, we thank Thee for this day

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

And as the evening shadows fall

We bring to Thee, dear Lord our all;

And as we pray, we ask Thy grace,

Upon this happy, happy place.”

The end

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

I wish I had been there!

I wasn’t there, but I can see the look of determination on his face. I know it well.

Yesterday, Reece, our grandson, ran with his school’s cross-country team in the regional meet. He led most of the race but got passed in the last one-hundred fifty yards. Reece set a PR of 16:20.4. He’s now the fastest junior in his school’s history. His team hasn’t lost a race yet this year, and they’re headed to Michigan International Speedway next Saturday to run in the state meet. The girls’ team qualified for state too. Fire up, Colts!

Cross-country is a sport that builds character. It takes dedication, determination, and teamwork. It requires listening to the coaches and following directions. Because the runners go such long distances, they have to do more than run fast; they have to run smart. They must know when to pace themselves, when to push past their limits, and when to use that last bit of reserve to propel across the finish line. It’s not a “hey look at me” sport. A good team encourages one other.

I think cross-country is a lot like life. It’s the old saying in motion, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Some people say John F. Kennedy’s father first used that phrase. Others say it became popular in football locker rooms in the 1950s and Texas coach, John Thomas, first used it.

Ralph Waldo Emerson understood the concept of when the going gets tough. He wrote, “What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters to what lies within us.”

Dale Carnegie said, “Most of the important things in the world have been accomplished by people who have kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all.”

And Confucius said, “Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”

I’ve seen runners ignore what was behind and ahead and reach inside for the determination within. I’ve seen one keep running and finish last when there was no hope of winning, and yet I called her a winner. I’ve seen runners fall, get up, and keep going, and I’ve thought, there goes a hero in the making.

Cross country runners who stick with it year after year have the stuff.

John and I enjoy fall camping and when it’s cold we say about the others camping nearby, “They’ve got the stuff.” We laugh when we say it, but we mean it. It’s a compliment. When it’s almost cold enough to snow, and it’s pouring rain, and we see a tent pitched in the woods, we say, “They’ve really got the stuff.”

We camped this fall for the first time in three years. First, we went north in Michigan, and it was cold. We braved a stiff north-east wind, walked to the channel at Muskegon, and watched the boats go out into Lake Michigan. We huddled around a fire, laughed, and told each other, “We’ve got the stuff.”

Next, we went to Indiana, and Indian Summer arrived. It was glorious.

“John,” I said, “I want to hike a trail.”

“You mean you want to go for a walk?”

“No! I want to hike a trail. A real trail. Come on! Let’s try! We’ve got the stuff.”

He laughed and looked at me dubiously.

“I don’t know, honey. You haven’t hiked in three years, and you still have trouble walking. What if you get out there and can’t get back? I can’t carry you!”

I knew he was right. And wrong. Cancer took so many things. Walking is still very difficult for me, but hiking used to be my passion. Just ask my kids.

“Mom!” Our son John groaned more than once. “Do you have to hike every trail in this park?”

“I do! You don’t have to come with me though.”

They came with me. Kimmee had a broken toe when she climbed up ladders on the sides of rock cliffs to hike with me. In my defense, I didn’t know she had a broken toe.

This Indiana campground had no rock cliffs, no mountains, no steep paths leading to waterfalls, no place we might meet a bear with her cubs—none of the excitement of trails past. It just had trails through meadows and up gentle hills.

“Please?” I begged.

John gave in.

When I put my feet on that trail, I was giddy with excitement. There were times I’d thought I’d never hike again, times when just brushing my teeth left me shaking with exhaustion.

“You sure you can do this?” John asked.

“We’ve got the stuff!” I answered.

He laughed, and we started hiking. Okay, hiking may be a bit of an exaggeration. I’m not sure what you’d call it, with me leaning on my cane with one hand and on John’s arm with the other and limping and hobbling along the path. Once I began, the old feelings returned, and I didn’t want to go back. I knew I’d passed my limit of endurance, but I still didn’t want to quit.

“That’s it,” John finally said. “You’re too tired. It’s a long way back to the car.”

“Please, let’s just get to the top of that hill. I want to see what’s next from up there.”

He gave in; we struggled up the hill. When we got to the top, we couldn’t see a thing. The path wandered away through thick underbrush. Disappointed is an understatement—until John touched my arm.

“Look,” he said softly, helping me turn around so I didn’t lose my balance.

We stood looking back at the way we’d come. I caught my breath at the beauty. The path was illuminated in shades of gold and red autumn leaves dressed in their best for their farewell party. Puffy white clouds drifted by in a brilliant blue sky. It was quiet, except for the distant hum of something that sounded like muted cicadas. We held hands, and my heart filled with worship.

Maybe that’s what it’s all about, not seeing where we’re going, but looking at the beauty of where we’ve been, and thanking God for the memories, even for the struggles that got us where we are today, at the top of the hill, looking back.

After a few minutes we started back.

“You okay?” John asked.

I nodded and laughed. “We’ve got the stuff.”

Actually, we don’t. We have God. He’s the one who gives us the determination, the will to fight, the resolve to keep trying against all odds, to keep on going when life gets tough.

And so, we hobbled back down the trail together, two people, three-quarters of a century old. The car was farther away than I had remembered it. John says we walked a mile. I don’t think so. I think he just felt that way because his arm hurt from me leaning on it. But together we made it back to the car and to the campground.

That was several days ago and I’m still sore. But it was worth it. I didn’t make the history Reece made, but I made my own kind of history. Maybe someday I’ll even be able to hike every trail in the campground again. I wonder if my kids will want to go with me?

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have five other books on Amazon as well, three soon to be four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

It was October first, but the soft evening breeze on our faces still felt like late summer. The sun dipped low over Lake Michigan. John and I stood where the white sand meets the black asphalt ready for our nightly vacation ritual of watching the sun set.

The sun never sets the same way twice over the lake. Last night was John’s favorite way. Without a cloud in the sky, the fiery orb sunk lower and lower until it entered the lake with a hiss. Only John can hear the hiss, but he insists it’s real, and who am I to argue? I’m so deaf I can barely hear a locomotive.

I did hear the sounds on the beach soften as the sun began its downward journey. Little children stopped playing and watched, enchanted. In the last millisecond before the sun disappeared, they shouted, “Going…going…gone!”

Then they resumed their play.

We watched a bit longer through part of blue hour, admired the reds, purples, and blues that painted the sky, and thanked the Artist who is far lovelier than his most beautiful creation.

It was on just such a clear night as this two years ago that our young friend Amber lay on a trampoline with her sister, Aubree, and watched the stars fill the night sky. She loved sunrises, sunsets, the stars, and their Creator. None of us guessed that before the sun rose on October 2, Amber would be in heaven, and we would be whispering through tears, “Gone.”

Gone too soon? She was only twenty-two years old.

Amber loved standing with me, holding the railing on the little cement porch of our old country church, and watching the sun set over the fields, spring, summer, fall, winter. She went to heaven on a golden October day; never again would we watch the sunset over those fields.

Amber’s mom said to me this morning, “More than anything Amber wanted a ministry for God. She didn’t know she already had one.”

Oh, she did. You can’t describe a person’s life in three words, but if I had to pick three for Amber, they’d be light, love, and laughter. And she brought those things into every life she touched.

God took Amber softly, gently. She was here; she was gone.

But it didn’t feel gentle for those of us who loved her. It was a thunderclap, a tornado, a hurricane, and I don’t suppose we’ll ever “recover” if by that word we mean we’ll be the same we were before.

Once we could pick up our assorted pieces and see through our tears, we could see Amber everywhere; in a restored marriage, in a heart turned back to God, in a child’s laughter, in the golden leaves of October, because those are Amber days.

We’ve lost other family and friends too since Amber slipped away without a goodbye, and we’ve whispered, “Going, going, gone.”

But last night at the beach when I heard the children shout those three words I thought, And somewhere on the other side of the world someone is saying about the sun, “coming…coming…here!”

When my stubborn Morticia cancer refused to respond to treatment I often pictured Amber, leaning over heaven’s gate waiting for me, the way she and I leaned on the railing and watched the sunset over the country fields we both loved. I could see her smile. Then I got the unexpected news, “No active cancer.”

Honestly, I felt two ways. I’m glad to stay here with people I love and who love me. I’m happy to continue whatever work God has for me until it’s done. But part of me felt like I’d finished packing for a wonderful once-in-a-lifetime trip and it had been indefinitely postponed.

“Stop hanging over the gate waiting for me,” I said to Amber. “Looks like it’s going to be awhile.”

Amber would have laughed at this story: Yesterday we left home at 5:30 AM so we could get to our camping place in time to go to church. When you’re married to a preacher, at least if he’s my preacher, vacation includes church.

Despite our best intentions, we were twenty minutes late. Regardless of how I may appear to you in my writing, I can be a shy person. Into this church I go, hunchbacked now because of scoliosis and radiation damage, wearing a mask because I still have to take cancer treatments so I’m immunocompromised, and tipsy even with my cane.

My medical team still has me on restrictions: “Stay out of groups, and if you must go wear a mask and sit in the back.”

This lovely church reminded me very much of ours in many ways including this: the back seats fill up first. It was also quite crowded. I hesitated. Where to sit?

“Sit up there,” John whispered, but he has to whisper loudly enough for me to hear, so everyone else heard too.

The pastor stopped mid-sentence. He had a great voice for a preacher. “Welcome!” he boomed.

At that the few people who weren’t already looking at us turned and did so.

It didn’t bother John a bit. He’s a people-person.

Once I slunk into my seat and forgot about me, the sermon was just what I needed. The pastor told us to look back at the cross where Jesus died for our sins. Then he told us to look inward at ourselves, the person we see in the mirror. Is that who we want to be?

“Look ahead,” he told us next.

Heaven is what is waiting for us if we’ve trusted Jesus as Savior from sin.

We took communion together. It was a sweet time, but somehow, I managed to knock over my cane. It was loud, and I think I heard Amber laugh.

They sang mostly newer songs at that church, ones John and I didn’t know, but we knew the last one. It was, “In the sweet bye and bye we shall meet on that beautiful shore.”

I forgot about my hunched back, my mask, and my cane. All I could think of was meeting on that beautiful shore where Amber has been for two years today.

A few years ago, back in 1678 to be exact, John Bunyan wrote, “There you shall enjoy your friends again that are gone thither before you; and there you shall with joy receive even everyone that follows in the holy place after you.”

It will be wonderful, Amber, but God’s not ready for me just yet. So, this evening, I’ll go back down to Lake Michigan with John and watch the sun hiss when it hits the water. I’ll thank God for such beautiful days as this and wonder how much lovelier yours are there. So don’t hang on the gate waiting for me, but don’t get too far away either.

When the people who love me on earth whisper, “Going…going…gone,” you shout, “Coming, coming, here!”

Maybe there will be a little country church somewhere in heaven’s vastness, and a railing, where we can watch the sunset and talk. We have a lot to catch up on.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

The old lady’s eyes were closed in prayer, but she knew the scene by heart. Seven half pews lined each side of the tiny church, just as they had for the last fifty plus years her husband had been pastor here. The bare wooden floor, worn and stained from one-hundred-fifty years of use, still creaked in the same places. The views outside of the six windows, three on a side, changed with the seasons. Today they showed empty fields gifted golden with round bales of hay. The last cutting of the year.

Eyes still closed, she pictured Macy, her granddaughter sitting next to her, light brown hair in one thick braid tied with a pink ribbon and hanging over her shoulder, paisley ruffled dress, and brown and turquoise cowboy boots. How she loved this granddaughter, the one who found school lessons difficult but spoke expertly a language few can master, the language of love.

It was communion Sunday. The pastor, her husband, had said what he’d always said. She knew those words by heart too.

“To be sure our hearts are right with the Lord, let’s spend a few minutes in silent prayer before we begin.”

A baby whimpered, but other than that, she heard only a holy hush that called her spirit to prayer.

Lord, I think things are better between you and me than they’ve ever been. Today’s the day we eat the broken bread and drink the cup, symbolizing your death when you gave all you had to give so we could have eternal life. I put my faith in your sacrifice long ago, and I know that’s all I need to do to live in heaven with you. But because I love you and your people, I’ve tried to follow in your steps. I’ve given everything I have to you.

Have you though?

She knew in an instant what he was talking about. Not that. Please, not that. But if everything isn’t everything it’s nothing.

What to do? The old lady knew well joy comes from giving, but this was almost too much. A tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it quickly away before Macy noticed. Always compassionate, Macy lived the motto: your pain is in my heart. She could not, she would not worry this woman-child.

I’ll do it, Lord. I’ll give that too.

Softly she slipped passed Macy and out of the pew. What would she say when her granddaughter noticed she was leaving? But Macy seemed unaware.

She tiptoed up the wooden floor trying not to make a sound, hard to do with a cane and her lack of balance. She caught herself on a pew and stepped down hard on a creaky place, but no one opened their eyes. Strange. She looked around. Even the fussy baby had her eyes closed now.

She glanced out of the windows as she continued to the front. The fields whispered back to her, See, we’re empty now; our round bales say how happy it is to give until you have nothing left to give.

The old lady went into the room where the children had junior church. They were still in the pews; her husband didn’t dismiss them until after communion. She found what she was looking for. She’d left it there the previous Christmas, and in that little country church, no one threw out anything.

She unrolled the sparkly gold paper, fit for a gift for the King, and cut off the right size. She wrapped her gift quickly; she didn’t have much time to get back to her pew. With a smile, a tear, and a prayer, she left her gift on the communion table.

Here, my sweet Lord Jesus, this is for you. I promise I’ll never ask for it back. You deserve so much more, but I’m old now, and this is all I can think of to give you that I haven’t already given.

She was amazed on her return trip to her pew. No one seemed to hear her cane tapping on the hard wooden floor. Macy didn’t notice when she slipped back into the pew.

Macy nudged her. A deacon was offering the silver plate with the broken crackers.

“Grandma,” Macy whispered, “you’re not supposed to fall asleep in communion!”

Confused, the old lady looked at the communion table, but her precious gift wasn’t there.

She put the cracker in her mouth and bowed her head.

I guess the golden gift was a dream, Lord, but I do give you what was inside the package—my precious hope of retiring someday. I’ll never ask my husband about it again. I see the pain in his eyes when I do. But you’re going to have to help me because I’m a tired eighty years old. I’d hoped for a little place for the two of us. I’d imagined coffee on the porch in the mornings with quiet days stretching in front of us and nothing to do except maybe welcome the grandkids running in and out. . ..

Macy patted her hand. A deacon was offering the tiny cup full of grape juice.

Her husband was quoting the words of Jesus as he had done for more than fifty years, “‘This do as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’

He added, “Let’s remember him together.”

Together they raised their cups and drank. Together they remembered.

After church Macy hugged her, a worried look in her blue eyes. “Are you okay, Grandma?”

“Never better, Macy. Never better.”

She walked slowly to her car, leaning heavily on her cane, smiling at the harvested fields as she passed.

Was it her imagination, or did the fields look a bit sad? Maybe it was just that the shadow of a passing cloud hid the sun, and the golden field looked a drab brown.

In the rustle of the late-summer breeze, she thought she heard the fields speak.

It’s okay to be sad about the death of a dream. Just remember seasons change; they always do. And a season better than any dream is coming soon for you.

“Thank you,” the old lady said.

Macy came up behind her and touched her arm.

“Who are you talking to, Grandma? No one’s out here. I think I better help you to your car.”

The old lady laughed. “I think you better.”

And they walked slowly on together, the young woman child who knew the language of love and the old dreamer of dreams.

by Donna Poole

So many things signal the back-to-school season. Here in Michigan, the slant of the sun comes from farther south; the fireflies are gone where good lightning bugs go, and it’s quiet outside. Sumac leaves are just beginning to redden. Yellow buses pick up kindergarten children who are wearing new sneakers and backpacks, and moms wipe away tears as their little ones take their first solo flights.

I can’t remember my first day of kindergarten. I don’t know who walked me to school or who my teacher was. I have only one memory of my time in that school. I wore a fuzzy white jacket to school in the morning, but it was warm when school ended. I stood on some steep cement steps, held the jacket over one arm, and clung to an iron railing. Somehow, I dropped my beautiful jacket and watched with tears in my eyes as thousands—it seemed to me—of bigger kids poured out of school and trampled my beautiful jacket underfoot as they ran down the stairs.

Finally, my big sister Eve, seven years older, appeared in the crowd.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I couldn’t speak; I pointed at my jacket.

“Why didn’t you just pick it up?”

And then with a true hero’s bravery she reached between the herd of thundering feet, grabbed my jacket, took my hand, and helped me down the stairs. I must have had short legs, because those stairs were terrifyingly steep, but with Eve holding my hand, I could do anything.

We moved half-way through kindergarten, and I had to go to another school. I remember two things about my first day. The teacher plunked down a small cardboard carton of milk and said, “In this school, we drink all of our milk. No excuses.”

I opened my milk, put in the straw, and saw it. A dead fly was floating on top. But in this school, we drink all of our milk. No excuses.

I drank that milk until there was just a tiny drop left at the bottom with the dead fly lying in it. Would it be enough? Would the teacher make me drink the fly too? I remember the relief I felt when she picked up my little carton and never glanced at it. I didn’t have to drink the fly.

Then it was play time. I’d been noticing a huge playhouse built out of giant-sized Lincon Logs. I couldn’t wait to see inside. I’d barely bent over to look when another child pushed me back.

 “She can’t come in here. She’s a new kid.”

“Yeah! She’s a new kid. She can’t come inside our playhouse.”

I stood frozen, telling my feet to go back to my desk, but they wouldn’t move.

Then a little girl with dark brown curls and beautiful blue eyes took my hand. “She can come in here. She’s my friend now, and I say she can play with us.”

Instantly I had a whole classroom full of new friends, but my best friend until we moved again was that little girl with the dark brown curls and beautiful blue eyes, Maureen O’Riley. I’ll never forget her. I lost her in our many moves.

It’s that time of year, the time for solo flights. Children all over are starting kindergarten, or junior high, high school, college, or grad school. I hope they all have an Eve to rescue a trampled jacket or a Maureen O’Riley to say, “She’s my friend now.”

I took a solo flight of my own today. I went for a short walk alone outside for the first time in three years. Three years of cancer treatments can leave an older person weak and unsteady, but I’ve been working to get stronger.

John was in the yard doing some chores when I took my walking stick and headed down the driveway. He saw me.

“Hey! Where are you going? You’re not supposed to be doing that by yourself!”

“I think I can, honey. I really want to.”

“Okay, but don’t go far. Only walk to that next driveway up there, okay?”

I nodded. It felt a little scary walking on uneven ground, just me and my walking stick with no one’s arm to hold, but it felt exhilarating too. Walking down our dirt road, just God and I, used to be my favorite thing.

It was a hot, humid morning, but the breeze felt wonderful on my face. There was no traffic; there seldom is. Like most September mornings, it was quiet. I’d forgotten how I love the sounds of silence. A few of the maple leaves are turning; I saw one on the ground and stopped to take a picture.

A voice from far behind me called, “Are you okay?”

I laughed. “I’m fine, honey. Keep working. I just stopped to take a picture.”

The road called my name and suddenly I realized I’d passed the driveway where I’d promised to turn around. I wanted to keep going, but I didn’t. I headed back; I’d gone such a short distance, so I was surprised at how exhausted I was.

Suddenly a young woman with dark curls and beautiful brown eyes came hurrying toward me. “I couldn’t find you in the house, and I couldn’t find you outside. Dad said you were taking a walk.”

“I went to kindergarten,” I said. “I went all by myself.”

“Did you?” She laughed and didn’t ask any more questions. After all these years, she’s used to her mom. “I need to go to the garden,” she said. “Do you want to come with me?”

She offered her arm, and I took it.

It’s that time of year, the time for solo flights. Children all over are starting kindergarten, or junior high, high school, college, or grad school. I hope they all have an Eve to rescue a trampled jacket or a Maureen O’Riley to say, “She’s my friend now.”

And if the ones taking solo flights are old ladies who walk a little too far to get safely home alone but don’t want to admit it, I hope they have someone come find them, offer an arm, and help them get home by way of a beautiful garden.

The End

Photo credit for gladiolus: Kimmee Kiefer

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

by Donna Poole

He’d lived with her for four years and thought by now he knew everything there was to know about her, but who knows anyone, really? This was the first time he’d suggested playing cards for money. She hadn’t wanted to, but he’d talked her into it. His stash was getting a bit low, and he’d thought she’d be easy money.

I wish I’d never started this game, but I can’t quit now.

He tried not to fidget or give away his nervousness. A good gambler never does that; no one had to tell him. He knew it instinctively. Gambling was in his blood.

He studied his opponent. Older than he was, she probably wouldn’t have been his first choice to live with, but when you’re down on your luck, you take what you can get. Her hair was getting the tiniest bit gray around the temples, but she was still beautiful. Her blue eyes met his with a smile, but he didn’t smile back.

She held her smile.

If he only knew how I’ve lied and cheated in this game. He doesn’t know I have it in me. But when the stakes are this high, you gotta do what you gotta do.

The smile made him even more nervous than he already was. His hands felt clammy.

What cards is she holding? I can’t tell by her face. She’s scaring me.

He glanced at the money he had left on the table. That pile and one more thing, his prized possession, were all he had left. She’d taken everything else. He studied his cards and her face. Everyone always said about him that he had a gift for knowing what people were thinking, but it wasn’t working this time, not with her.

Had he ever known what she was thinking? He wasn’t sure. And then he lost that hand. And the next. He knew he should quit, but he couldn’t. He shoved his prized possession to the middle of the table and glared at her.

When he’d lost the last hand he’d felt like crying, except he’d never cried once. Not in the four years he’d lived with her.

He loved her, but he was so angry he couldn’t even look at her. She’d known what this game had meant to him, and she’d taken everything.

“I’m going to bed.”

He hadn’t looked at her, and she hadn’t answered.

She sat at the table, calmly gathering the cash into a pile, thinking I couldn’t let him win. Yes, he had a lot to lose, but I had more. If only I’d steeled my heart against that other gambler, I wouldn’t have lost my beautiful house. I wouldn’t be living in this stinking, low-income apartment fighting roaches and bed bugs and listening to drunken brawls through thin walls every night. I’ll never let another gambler win, not if I can help it, especially not this one I just took for everything he’s got. I love him too much. Gambling’s in his blood, I know it is. And I don’t know if I can flush it out, but God help me, I’m going to do my best.

She was exhausted, more tired than she’d ever been, but she went to check on him. The night was chilly, and she wanted to be sure he wasn’t cold. She pulled a blanket up carefully, trying not to wake him. She wondered how long he’d be angry with her.

He woke up and looked at her with those beautiful blue eyes so like her own.

“Goodnight, Grandma. I’m not mad at you anymore. Gambling’s stupid, isn’t it?”

And then he rolled over and popped his thumb in his mouth.

Four-years-old might be too old to suck your thumb, but she never tried to stop him. Poor baby. His father, her son, had staggered drunkenly into her apartment and had dropped him on her table on a cold winter’s day. The newborn had worn only a soaking wet diaper. His mother had died in childbirth a few weeks earlier.

“Here you go, Mom,” her son had said. “I’ve gambled away everything you own and my own life, but don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He’d disappeared into the night before she could say a word. The court had given her custody of the baby.

She didn’t know if her son was dead or alive.

She went back to the kitchen and sat at the table. Then she dropped her head to her arms, confessed her lying and cheating, and prayed for her son.

“Lord, help us all.”

She cried for a while. Then she wiped her face.

She looked at the mess on the table and laughed.

She put the pile of pennies back into the piggy bank, his dearest treasure, the one engraved with his name, Thomas J. Thompson II. Tonight had been Tommy’s first experience with gambling, hopefully it would be his last. If not, she’d be smarter than she’d been with her son, Tom. She knew what to watch for now, and she knew where to get help.

She picked up the cards from the table. Then she picked up the ones she’d hidden on the chair next to her to win the last hand. She put them all back into the box.

“Go Fish,” she whispered.

by Donna Poole

Sometimes, it’s simpler to text.

On June 1, 2020, I texted family members, “I had an X-ray today and it showed an atypical mass peri-hilar region. I need a CT and a pulmonary consult. It could be pneumonia, but they need to be sure ‘it’s not something worse.’ The doctor said whatever it is, it’s the reason why I’m wheezing, short of breath, have chest pain, and am tired. Let’s keep this in the family until we find out what it is. I don’t see any sense in terrifying everyone at this point…. Love you all. Don’t worry. I’m not going to die. I have too many books to write and jokes to tell.”

It was the “something worse.”

George Matheson said, “Show me that my tears have made a rainbow.”

Yes, I found many rainbows on my cancer journey, each uniquely beautiful, some even double. Yes, God has been good, and there have been blessings, love, and laughter. But there’s no denying the tears.

 I’ve prayed; I’ve laughed whenever I could, and I’ve enjoyed every possible minute of life, but only God and another cancer patient knows how tough non-stop cancer treatment is and what three years of it does to a person’s body and mind.

Still, in August of 2023, I thought I looked pretty good for my age, just another average camper at Lake Michigan Channel Campground. I was walking from the channel back up to our campsite with my two faithful companions, my cane, and my husband, John, when a couple headed the other way met us.

She looked straight at me.

“Good for you!” Her voice was loud. “You’re walking! That’s the best thing for you!”

What? Do I look that bad? I’m just an ordinary looking older camper, aren’t I?

I looked down at myself. It was a super-hot day, according to John. Most people, even the few in wheelchairs, wore swimsuits or shorts, tank tops, and flip flops. I still shivered in my jeans, long sleeved shirt, sweater, warm socks, and loafers—I’d forgotten my tennis shoes. And my balance was so tipsy I needed both my companions to remain upright.

I guess I do look that bad.

But I smiled at the woman and kept walking. She’d meant to encourage me. And I was encouraged. It was the first time in the three hard years John and I had gone camping, and there’d been times we doubted we’d ever go again. Now that we were holding our dream in our hands, we didn’t want to waste a minute of lake breezes, sand dunes, gorgeous sunsets, and crackling campfires. We begrudged even having to leave to get a few groceries and a can opener.

Knowing I had to go for more scans when we got home made our time together even more precious. The four days came gift wrapped from heaven, and God didn’t add any sorrow with them.

Our favorite activity was walking down to the channel that connects Muskegon Lake and Lake Michigan. The walkway is lined with benches where you can sit and watch everything from little kayaks to huge ships carrying cranes and other machinery.

Sometimes you can hear the conversations of the people on the water. Two guys on jet skis were talking as they flew by us going way too fast; the channel has a strictly enforced speed limit.

“Once I got too close to the ferry.” one young man said to the other. “They called the coast guard on me.”

They looked up, saw us sitting on a bench, and grinned at us. I couldn’t help it. So much life and laughter—I smiled back, even though I knew what our son, a marine patrol officer would say, and he did say it when I told him.

“I would have given them a ticket.”

Yes, you would have, Danny, and rightly so. Too much youthful enthusiasm can cause destruction and even death, and you’ve seen that in your other job as a fireman. But I recall two brothers who drag raced each other down a road not far from their home and didn’t tell their mom about it until many years later. I’m sure one of them wasn’t you.

Well, I suppose more than a few of us have given our guardian angels a run for their money. We didn’t keep ours too busy though, just sitting on the benches. We weren’t just watching life go by from those benches though, we were living it. I loved reading the inscriptions on them. Here are a few, just as inscribed:

“In memory of Jeff Januska

Dedicated with great love from family and friends

So guess what…. have a seat, tell a story, catch a fish, give a hug.”

“Don & Carol Herrgord

Faith and Family

To God be the Gory”

“In memory of Herm & Alice Stafford

Of all the paths you take in life,

Make some lead to the channel.”

“In memory of ‘Peachie” Witham

Memories made while camping are in our hearts forever

Your loving friends

Rosemary ‘Peach” Witham

You still live on in the hearts and minds of your loving family

We’ll meet again”

“Always in our hearts

John and Dini Viveen

Devoted Parents-Devoted Opa and Oma

‘The most important thing in the world is family and love’”

The time came to leave our dream come true and head home, but we have a good life at home, a wonderful life. We returned home and got more scans for me, a PET and two CTs. They’d tell me the status of the cancer. What would they say? We’d followed closely the news of the drug trial I’m on; we knew I’d already far passed the statistical time of a good response on it. Still, “hope” is our word. We hoped and prayed it would be the same as what we’d been hearing since I’d flunked chemo and radiation and entered the clinical drug trial: Stable. Stable means the cancer is still active but isn’t spreading.

After each scan, my oncology team assures me “stable” is a good word, and the best word I can hope for at this stage of the game. “Complete response” is too much to expect at this point, but anything except disease progression is wonderful news.

I’ve gotten pretty good at deciphering PETs and CTs; I’ve had lots of practice. John estimates I’ve had over a dozen PETs and almost two dozen CTs, but when these results arrived in my patient portal I looked and looked again. I read them to John.

“Does it mean…?” he asked.

“I don’t know. This time I have to ask.”

Sometimes, it’s simpler to text.

 On August 17, 2023, at 2:55 PM I got a message from an oncologist at my cancer center. It read in part, “Hi Donna. You are in complete response. Meaning we can not see any active disease on PET.

In the trial you are on, epco continues until disease progression. So as long as you are responding, no plan to stop therapy.”

Complete response!

John and I thanked God together for this rainbow, one more beautiful than we’d ever hoped to see this side of heaven.  

I texted family, “Who’s ready for some incredibly good news?”

Then in my imagination I took a path back to the channel and sat on a bench, the one that says, “To God be the Glory.” I pulled my sweater close around me, watched the yachts sail by, and put some thoughts in order.

On June 1, 2020, I’d texted my family, “Love you all. Don’t worry. I’m not going to die. I have too many books to write and jokes to tell.”

How silly of me. Of course, I’m going to die; everyone does, but it seems I’m not going to heaven as soon as I expected. And as much as I love the benches at the channel, when my time comes to say, “See you later,” a bench isn’t what I want to leave behind.   

When I die, I hope to leave a heart-memory that says this: “She loved God. She loved her family. She loved her friends. And she thought of everyone as a friend.”

Even strangers who holler encouragement in voices a bit too loud.

The End

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author.

by Donna Poole

The clouds threatened rain and the chilly wind echoed their warning. The usually crowded beach at Lake Michigan was almost empty except for the two people flying kites, a grandpa, and his little grandson.

The grandpa had three kites in the air already. Then he helped the little boy launch his kite, a beautiful butterfly, translucent blue, yellow and red with four long tails. The kite was taller than the boy was. The wind tugged at the kite and tousled the boy’s sandy blond hair. He danced with excitement, bare feet sometimes in the sand and sometimes at the edge of the asphalt parking lot. With Grandpa’s help his kite soared effortlessly high into the sky. Grandpa handed the string to his grandson, and the kite began wobbling erratically. Then it plunged to the sand.

I caught my breath as the child ran to his kite, sure it was broken and waiting for tears, but no, the kite was unharmed. Patiently, the grandpa helped the boy launch his kite again. It remained airborne for a few seconds longer this time, but again nose dived to the ground.

This time the grandpa didn’t help. He all but ignored the boy’s efforts. The little boy struggled to even pick up the kite, taller than he was. He dropped it once, twice, three times. The third time he tangled himself in the long red tails, but he just brushed them aside and tried again.

I guessed the boy to be three, maybe four years old, a little thing in a long-sleeved t-shirt and tan shorts. I kept waiting for him to call for his grandpa’s help or for his grandpa to offer, but neither thing happened. I only managed to stay in my own lane and mind my own business because I can barely keep my balance with my cane; I’d be no help to a little boy trying to get his kite in the air.

He was a determined little kid. The fourth time the kite lifted up, up…I held my breath. But no. Down it came with a crash. The fifth time he let the string out and the kite soared up high and higher into the sky above the lake.

“Yay!” he hollered. “Look! Look!” And he danced across the sand looking up at his beautiful butterfly kite, translucent blue, yellow and red with four long tails.

His grandpa looked; I looked; my eyes filled with tears. You go, little boy. Oh, the places you’ll go. Your grandpa won’t always be here to help you. Old ladies watching from cars with their canes won’t be able to help you. But I hope you know the Someone who will be able to help.

I sent the video I’d taken of the little boy with his kite to our granddaughter, Megan. She’d just finished her first semester of Physicians’ Assistant School. It had been hard. Megan is brilliant; if she says something is tough; it’s tough.

I knew if something had been difficult for Megan it would be impossible for me. She’d graduated cum laude with a degree in bio-chem from Hillsdale College. Bio-chem? I’d barely passed high school biology, had flunked high school chemistry once and just passed it the second time. So often during Megan’s semester I’d wanted to help her, but she was flying the kite, one shaped like a white coat. I was the old lady sitting in the car with my cane. But an old lady with a cane can pray for a beautiful young woman with blond hair and one dimple struggling to fly a kite taller than she is.

When I sent Megan the video of the little boy with his kite I texted, “He is you.”

 She texted back, “Little buddy was having a hard time for a minute there.”

When it came time for finals Megan was sick. Now she was struggling to fly her kite over Lake Michigan in a thunderstorm. And the old lady watching from the car with her cane cried. And prayed. And cried some more.

I hope that little boy with his kite learns to know the God Megan knows well. She worked impossibly hard, and she prayed even harder. And she flew her kite, the one taller than she is. It’s somewhere out of sight now, and all of us who love Megan are cheering! Her white coat ceremony is in a few weeks.

I just hope at the ceremony I can keep from pointing up and hollering, “Yay! Look! Look!”

Because if no one else there sees a kite shaped like a white coat dancing way up at the ceiling, they need an old lady with a cane to help them see it.

The End

Photo credit for Megan and me: Kimmee Kiefer

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

I have four other books on Amazon as well.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author