Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

The first time was at Grandma’s. Hers was a two-seater, something my sister Mary and I found hysterical when we were little girls taking turns using it, talking to each other through the wooden door.

“Do you think two people ever use this at the same time?”

“Who would ever?”

We giggled just thinking about it.

The next time I was many years older, twenty-five years old to be exact. My husband, John, drove down what they called a gravel road in Michigan to a church on a corner. The gravel road looked like dirt to us; I suppose it did have a few small stones flung here and there. The church, though tiny, wasn’t the smallest we’d seen.

During John’s last year of Bible college in Iowa he had preached every Sunday at a different small church needing a speaker, and that had given us a heart for rural ministry. When the people of this country church in Michigan had written asking John to come preach, we’d been happy to oblige; they were looking for a pastor, and John was hoping to become one.

So, early in May 1974, we drove from Indiana where we were living to Michigan. I didn’t mind the dirt road though John might have. We pulled into the parking lot, and I looked around at the beautiful farm fields. I felt at home. Even before I set foot inside the building, I hoped the congregation would like John and ask him to come back and preach again. John was too nervous to feel one way or another. And our twenty-one-month-old Angie didn’t have an opinion either; she was sleeping in the backseat.

Partway through John’s first sermon in that little church Angie whispered, “Potty.”

I looked around the building. There were no doors, just the auditorium. I tapped the woman ahead of me on the shoulder. “Where’s the bathroom?”

I wasn’t hard of hearing back in those years like I am now, but I was sure I couldn’t have heard correctly, so I just sat there.

Angie said, louder this time, “Potty!”

“Can’t you wait?”

She shook her head no.

I asked the same woman the same question and got the same answer, so outside and around back I went. And I laughed. It wasn’t a two-seater like Grandma’s. I held Angie so she wouldn’t fall in. I thought she’d be afraid, but she was more intrigued than anything else. I kept telling her to hurry so neither of us would get stung by the bees buzzing inside.

A few months later that congregation did call John to come as their pastor. One of his first official jobs was to meet a deacon up at church, turn the outhouse over, and get rid of the bee’s nest. Eventually the church got indoor plumbing, just one bathroom, you know, like the Three Stooges motto, “All for one and one for all.” But it was a big deal for all of us back in those days, a real big deal.

I wanted to celebrate. I thought we should have a church party, burn the outhouse in a gigantic bonfire, and toast marshmallows. John vetoed my idea. It wasn’t the first or the last time he’s vetoed my ministry ideas, which is probably why we’re still in the same church all these years later. If he’d listened to me more often. we’d probably have lasted a year, maybe five at the most, before the sweet congregation may have politely suggested we move on.

The little house the church rented as a parsonage for us had an outhouse in the backyard. “Old John” who lived in a tiny trailer, also in our backyard, used it. When Old John died, young John got rid of the outhouse that was mostly falling down by itself.

Many other outhouses were part of our life’s journey too, most of them found at isolated campgrounds in Michigan’s state forests. Those were wonderful days, camping when the kids were smal, and the campground echoed with laughter of our family and friends who camped with us.

Years passed and through the goodness of God and a neighbor with a heart the size of the world we moved from the little house to the big house next door. It too had an outhouse in the backyard. That one hadn’t been used in years, had no distinctive outhouse smell—if you know you know—and was in remarkably good condition. I had immediate and enthusiastic plans for it.

I dragged John out back. “Look, honey. We’ll plant our garden right here, okay?” He agreed. “And we’ll turn that outhouse into an adorable little garden shed. We can put in a window, slap some cute shutters on it; can’t you just see it?”

He couldn’t just see it, and sadly, the outhouse became a pile of ashes. I was sad. Come to think of it, I believe John said he’d build me a little garden shed that looked like an outhouse. I think I’ll be talking to him about that one of these days when he finishes his honey do list.

That poor cremated outhouse wasn’t the last one in my life. We continued camping where there were outhouses. We were at a state forest near Grayling, Michigan when our son, Dan, who usually loved camping, seemed uncharacteristically depressed.

I asked him if something was wrong. “I miss Mindy,” he said.

“Let’s call her and see if she wants to come up and camp with us,” I suggested.

Mindy did. She bought a little one-person tent and joined us. Primitive camping and outhouses may not have been her thing, but she loved Dan, and she loved us, and we made a wonderful memory that week. By the next summer Dan and Mindy were married.

Strange, but I can’t remember if that summer Mindy joined us was our last outhouse camping trip or if we camped in other primitive campgrounds after that. It’s probably stranger still that I have such happy outhouse memories! I guess it isn’t really the outhouses I remember so fondly it’s the events surrounding them; my sister’s laugh, a young pastor’s first hopeful sermon, a little girl not afraid of bees buzzing around her bare bottom, my early experiences with country life, happy memories of camping with family and friends, and the addition of the first of four in-laws to our family.

In the almost three decades since that camping trip, I’ve learned Mindy will do anything we need done and do it with love. She’s a huge treasure wrapped in a tiny package. I bet she’d even go camping again with us where she had to use an outhouse. But just in case I’m wrong, I don’t think I’ll ask her.

The End
***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume 1: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume 2: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume 3: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume 4: 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 neighbors called them “the boys on the block” because the rest of the neighborhood children were girls. The four boys were inseparable. They walked to school and home from school together and spent most of their free time with each other. They had big plans; they were going to form a band when they grew up and call themselves, you guessed it, “The Boys on the Block.” And they were going to be famous.

Music was their last class of the day, and it was their favorite. It didn’t matter to them that their third-grade music teacher, Miss Whatchamajig, winced whenever the class sang. She was too kind to tell the boys they were tone deaf. Perhaps they’d improve with age. I mean, miracles still do happen, right?

Miss Whatchamajig often said, “Liam, William, James, Henry, please sing a bit quieter. I can’t hear the girls.” The boys would quiet down for a line or two, but then they’d go back to singing the way they did everything else. What they lacked in talent they made up for in enthusiasm.

There was something Miss Whatchamajig didn’t know. Even her trained ear couldn’t hear it, because the volume of three of the boys covered up the quieter voice of the fourth. Not only was one voice in tune; it was pitch perfect.

The boys on the block were good kids, for the most part. They couldn’t wait until their parents let them leave the block so they could have more adventures. Maybe that would happen next year when they were ten years old. But for now, they had to find their fun on the block where they’d all lived since they’d been born. They were glad for the empty lot where they spent most of their time, hanging out, kicking a football, tossing a baseball, or talking.

Sometimes they practiced for the day they’d become a famous band, but that usually ended in an argument, because they couldn’t agree on what kind of music they wanted to sing. And that argument got quite heated after school on April 30 with only one month left of third grade.

“Let’s sing pop,” William said. “My dad says it’s the most popular kind of music in the whole world.”

“Nah, I don’t like pop,” James said. “Let’s sing country. We could make lots of money like Brooks & Dunn.”

“That sounds like two people.” William said. “There are four of us. That’s not gonna work.”

“We could be like ‘Alabama’ then.” James said. “There were four of them. Their music is old, but my dad still plays it. He says country music is more popular than ever.”

“I don’t care if it’s popular. I hate country music. I’m not singing it.” William’s voice was getting even louder than normal.

The two boys glared at each other.

“How about rock then? I bet we’d be good at that!” Henry said.

Liam shook his head. “My grandparents wouldn’t approve of me being in a rock band.”

“Hey, weirdo.” James punched him lightly on the shoulder and grinned. “Your grandparents won’t still be alive by the time we’re old enough to be a band.”

“Yeah, I guess. But I still wouldn’t want to disappoint them. Maybe they could still see me from heaven.” Liam looked sad, and James felt horrible. How could he make this better?

Liam was a good friend. James and the other boys had stood near him at the cemetery when they’d all been just five-years old, and they’d all cried with him. He’d lost both parents in a car accident, and now his grandparents took care of him. It wasn’t his fault if he sometimes sounded like a little old man. He lived with old people.

James asked, “What kind of music do your grandparents like?”

Liam’s face brightened. “They like southern gospel. Do any of you like it?”

The boys shrugged. “I guess we haven’t heard it.” William spoke for all of them. “Maybe we’d like it if we heard it. Do any of the bands have four people?”

“Sure! There’s lots of famous quartets, “Ernie Haase & Signature Sound,” “Tribute Quartet,” and “The Kingsmen Quartet,” but they have more than four guys.”

James was still feeling bad about making Liam sad earlier. Maybe he could make him feel better. “I like that name, ‘The Kingsmen Quartet.’ We could call our band ‘The Four Kings’ instead of ‘The Boys on the Block.’ Do you know any of their songs?” Liam nodded. “Okay, how about singing us one?”

Liam shook his head. “I don’t like singing by myself.”

“Aw, come on,” Henry said. “Sing one. If we like it, we’ll all learn it. Hey, we could sing it tomorrow after class for Miss Whatchamajig! My mom said sometimes people give flowers on May Day. We could give her some flowers and ask her to listen to us and tell us if she thought the “The Four Kings’ would be a good band someday.

“Okay.” Liam took a deep breath and started to quietly sing, “Beulah Land,” a song he loved because it made him think of his parents waiting for him in heaven.

“I’m kind of homesick for a country
To which I’ve never been before
No sad goodbyes will there be spoken
For time won’t matter anymore

“Beulah Land I’m longing for you,
And some day on thee I’ll stand.
There my home shall be eternal.
Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land.”

Liam finished and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The other three stared at him astonished. They’d never heard him sing alone before. Nine-year-old boys don’t often do group hugs, but The Four Kings did one then.

William said, “You’re crazy good, Liam! You could sing the first part by yourself, and we could join you on the ‘Beulah land’ part. Let’s try it.”

It didn’t take the three boys long to learn the chorus. Then they went home with Liam, told his grandma their idea, and practiced the song on her.

“What do you think, Grandma?” Liam asked.

“I’ve never in my life heard anything quite like it!” Grandma said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “So, you want flowers? We have lilacs, violets, and bleeding hearts in bloom. Would you like me to help you pick a bunch for Miss Whatchamajig?”

Liam couldn’t figure out how to take Grandma’s beautiful vase of flowers to school with him in the morning, so he pulled the flowers out and stuffed them into his backpack.

The four boys were so excited they could hardly wait for the school day to end. When it finally did, Liam retrieved the wilted bouquet, and the four boys hurried to Miss Whatchamajig.

“Please don’t leave yet,” Liam said. “We brought you some flowers for May Day.”

Miss Whatchamajig managed to express gratitude without laughing and gathered up her music books.

“Can you stay just a couple minutes?” Henry asked. “We want to be a band someday. We have a name picked out and everything. We’re gonna be ‘The Four Kings.’ And we want to know what you think of our song.”

Miss Whatchamajig agreed while wishing she had earplugs and wondering what on earth she would say when they finished torturing her. Before Liam was half finished with his solo, tears were running down her face.

How did I never hear this child’s amazing voice before?

But when the other three joined in on the chorus with great volume and enthusiasm she knew exactly why she’d never heard Liam. She couldn’t hear him now. She tried not to wince.

“So, what do you think?” Henry asked, an excited grin covering his face.

“I’ve never in my life heard anything quite like it!” Miss Whatchamajig said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

“So, you think we could be a band?”

“Anything is possible!”

The Four Kings thanked her and tripped over each other hurrying out the door.

Miss Whatchamajig gathered up the wilted flowers and started to throw them in the wastebasket. The janitor would empty the garbage before the boys returned tomorrow. Then she hesitated.

I think I’ll take these home, put them in water, and see if I can revive them. It would take a miracle, but I suppose anything is possible. I really didn’t lie to those boys. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them sings in a band someday. And the other three? Maybe I should teach them to play cymbals.

She groaned.

Too loud! They say the humble recorder is one of the quietest musical instruments. Maybe I’ll teach the whole class how to play.

She held the flowers to her nose. The wilted lilacs still smelled beautiful.

I wonder if heaven smells like lilacs. That song, “Beulah Land?” Mom and Grandma like that one. I haven’t thought of it for years, and I haven’t been home in a long, long time. I think I’ll try to fly home for Mother’s Day. I’ll tell them about a new up and coming band, “The Four Kings.”

Miss Whatchamajig walked out of the school, and the empty hallway echoed with the sound of her laughter and the scent of lilacs.

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

“Dana!”

She jumped and her co-worker laughed. “I’ve been hollering your name, and you didn’t answer. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just exhausted. These twelve-hour shifts are killing me.”

“Well, you’ll like this news. The boss just said our crew can leave before lunch today.”

Dana couldn’t get to her car fast enough. Now there would be plenty of time to take the long way home and drive by the special place she’d been thinking about all day.

***

Marlene checked the time again. “Dave, I’m getting worried. Your mom is never late when we invite her for dinner. Can you call her again?”

“I just did. It went right to voicemail. She probably decided to pick up a few groceries or something after she got out of work.”

“And she didn’t call to tell us? You know that’s not like her. She’s a whole hour late.”

“Maybe she had to work overtime. I’d call and see, but I don’t want her to think we’re checking up on her. You know how independent she is.”

Marlene picked up her phone. “I’m calling.” She listened for a minute, said “Thanks,” and put the phone down. “They let her go home at noon! Where has she been for the last six hours?”

“Maybe she’s sleeping. Let’s go check her apartment before we panic.”

They knew before they went into her apartment she wasn’t going to be there because her car wasn’t parked in its usual spot.

“Okay,” Dave said, “maybe it’s time to panic. And pray.”

It only took them a few minutes to get from the apartment to the Hillsdale police station. The officer was kind and took the information. Name: Dana Peters. Age: Sixty-two. He recorded the make and model of her vehicle and her license plate number.

Then he said, “There’s not a lot I can do at this point. You said your mom doesn’t have dementia or any health problems you know of, and she’s an adult capable of living on her own. Perhaps she went to visit a friend or another family member.”

Marlene’s eyes filled with tears, and Dave shook his head. “You don’t know my mom. She was supposed to come for supper, and she’d never not show up without calling. She hates to worry us. This isn’t like her at all. Isn’t there anything you can do? I’m not a guy who jumps to conclusions, but something is really wrong here. Either mom has been in an accident, and she’s in a ditch somewhere, or—”

“Maybe someone abducted her,” Marlene finished for him. “She won the lottery last year; it was all over the news on the Lansing and Toledo television stations.”

The officer scratched his head. “Well then, maybe she decided to go to Vegas to try her luck again and have some fun. Or maybe she wanted to take a cruise and didn’t want to tell you.”

Dave was getting frustrated. “Listen, I’m telling you—”

“Officer, please listen to us; Dave’s mom would never do something like that. She’d know we’d be frantic trying to find her. She’s too much of a loving, responsible person to scare us like that. Isn’t there anything you can do to help us?”

The officer started to protest, but then Marlene said, “Sir, what would you do if this were your mom?”

His face softened. “Let’s start with the hospital here in town.” He called and shook his head. “Not there. If you seriously think she may have been abducted, I can get the state police involved.”

Dave and Marlene looked at each other and nodded.

“Okay,” the officer said, “Then go home, and someone from the state police will be there soon to take a statement.”

***

After the state police officer took Dave and Marlene’s statement he said, “I agree with you. Dana has been gone too long. We’ll ping the location of her phone. It it’s on, we can find out where she’s been, and where she is now.”

The officer stepped out to make some calls, and then came back to sit with them. It took some time for the results to come in. When they did, the officer said, “Okay. Looks like Dana left Hillsdale and headed northwest; it looks like she travelled through Battle Creek and Kalamazoo, and now she was in. . . Michigan City. Does your mom like Lake Michigan?”

Dave nodded. “She loves it. She used to take us kids there every summer. But she’d never take off for the lake without telling me. She doesn’t like to drive far from home alone anymore.”

The officer raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s exactly what she did.” The officer’s phone rang, and he stepped out to take the call.

“Dave, what on earth?” Marlene said. “Why would she go up there without telling us?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea what she’s—”
 
The officer stepped back into the room. “We just saw she’s headed for Chicago. You know anyone there?”

Dave jumped up. “No! Mom would never drive to Chicago alone! She hates the little bit of traffic we get in Hillsdale!”

“Okay, well right now she’s at Silver Cross Hospital, 1890 Silver Cross Boulevard, New Lenox, Illinois. Does she have a family member or friend she could be visiting?”

Dave didn’t even have time to react before his phone rang. “What? Yes, she’s my mother. No, I have no idea what she’s doing there. Yes, we’ll come right away.”

He turned to Marlene. “Mom is in the hospital. She isn’t hurt, but she has no idea how she got there. The doctor wants us to come get her, and he wants to talk to us.”

The three and a half hours it took to travel the 202 miles felt more like ten hours to Dave and Marlene. As they drove, they discussed every possible scenario: “Is Mom getting dementia? Is she depressed? Did she just want to get away for a few days? Why wouldn’t she tell us if we did so we wouldn’t go through all of this? Was she in an accident? Why is she in a hospital if she isn’t hurt?”

Dana was sitting up in a recliner and wearing her clothes when Dave and Marlene walked into her hospital room. A doctor followed them into the room.

“Hi Mom,” Davey said. “What hap—”

“This looks like a hospital,” she said. “I keep asking people, but no one will tell me. Why am I here, and how did I get here? Can you tell me Dave?”

“We’ve told you Dana,” the doctor said gently, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You just don’t remember. You walked into the ER and said you needed help.”

“Oh.” She rubbed her forehead. “Where is ‘here’?”

“You’re at Silver Cross Hospital in New Lenox, Illinois.”

“Oh, my goodness! Illinois! Am I near Chicago?”

“About forty miles away.”

“Mom,” Marlene said, bending down to hug her. “We’ve been so worried. Where—”

“Marlene, honey! I’m so glad to see you! I keep asking everyone, and no one will tell me. Where am I?”

Dave looked at the doctor. “What’s wrong with my mom?”

“We’ve explained this to your mother, but she isn’t going to be able to remember it for now. She’s having an episode of transient global amnesia.”

“Amnesia? Did she hit her head or something? Was she in an accident? If she has amnesia, how does she know who she is and who I am?”

The doctor shook her head. “She doesn’t have any kind of head trauma. This is a different kind of amnesia. Transient global amnesia is when a person knows who they are and can still recognize loved ones but can’t recall any recent events. They often ask the same questions repeatedly.”

“Well how long is she going to be like this? Is it permanent?”

“It’s still somewhat of a medical mystery. It seldom lasts more than twenty-four hours.”

“Well, if she didn’t hit her head then what caused this?”

“We don’t know for certain,” the doctor replied. “Sometimes it can be triggered by physical or emotional stress.”

Dave frowned. “I don’t think she’s under any emotional stress, but she has been working twelve hours shifts, and I don’t like that. I think it’s too much for a sixty-two-year-old woman.”

Dana cleared her throat. “I won’t be sixty-two until August.” She looked up at Marlene. “But where am I, and why am I here?”

The doctor explained again, and Dana nodded. Then she looked even more confused. “Wait. The last thing I remember was leaving work early. I was going to take the long way home. I wanted to drive by the old farmhouse where we spent so many happy years raising our kids.”

“It’s good you remember that,” the doctor said. “You probably will never remember the hours between then and now, but I think the episode may be over.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess.” Marlene looked at Dave. “Do you remember what today is?”

He shook his head.

“That’s okay. I wouldn’t expect you to, but today is the day your dad died.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Dana,” the doctor said. He turned to Dave. “So, there was some emotional stress in addition to the physical stress your mom has been under. That could explain why this happened to your mom.”

Dana’s eyes filled with tears. “Am I getting Alzheimer’s? Normal people don’t leave work and drive hundreds of miles away and not know how they got there.”

The doctor patted her hand. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s, Dana.”  

“Was it a stroke then?” Dana asked. “Will I still be able to work?”

“You haven’t had a stroke, either. I know you don’t remember, but we tested you for those things when you got here. You’ve had an episode of transient global amnesia. I know it’s frightening, but you’re okay now. Since we’ve already been able to run all of our tests, your son and daughter-in-law can drive you home any time you’re ready to go.”

She sighed. “I’m more than ready. But Dave and Marlene, I’m so sorry I put you through all this.”

They both hugged her.

“We’re just happy you’re okay!” Marlene said.

Dana teared up again. “I’m so embarrassed and so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Dave said. “This wasn’t anything you could have helped.” He hugged his mom tightly. “And I’m sorry I forgot what day it was. I miss Dad too.”

Dana sighed. “I know it isn’t what I should be focused on right now, and I feel selfish even saying it, but this will be the first time since your father died that I won’t have been able to drive by the old house.”

Dave squeezed her hand. “Come on, Mom. Let’s go. I’ll drive you by the old farmhouse before I take you home, okay?”

Marlene drove Dana’s car, and Dana was asleep in Dave’s car even before they got out of the parking lot. They were in Battle Creek when she rubbed her eyes, yawned, and said to Dave, “Where are we?”

“Go back to sleep, Mom,” he said gently. “We’re taking the long way home.”

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

Kristy knelt by her bed. “Dear God, I’m happy Easter is tomorrow! Thank you that Jesus died for us and rose again. And please, I really, really wish I could have a new dress for Easter!”

She hopped into bed, and Mom pulled up the covers. “Honey, we’ve talked about this. We would have gotten you a new dress if we could have. But you know Easter is about celebrating the resurrection, and we can do that without new clothes.”

Kristy nodded. “But the other girls at church will have new dresses to celebrate in. Maybe God will surprise me with one! It would be a perfect Easter if I could have one.”

Her mom sighed. “Kristy, God isn’t some kind of Santa Clause who gives us everything we want.”

“I know that. And it’s okay if God doesn’t give me a dress. I wish you could sew like Emily and Lydia’s moms.”

“I wish I could sew too, honey. I’d love to make you a new dress.”

Kristy sat up and threw both arms around her mom’s neck. “Don’t look sad. It’s okay you can’t sew. You do lots of things. You make me paper dolls and tell good stories. And you’re the best cook in the whole church!”

Her mom laughed. “I don’t know about that, but speaking of cooking, I better get busy making food for the Easter breakfast tomorrow.”

“Are you making the bunny bread?”

“Yes.”

“I hope Mr. Grumbple won’t get mad about it again.”

“I didn’t know you knew about that!”

“Last year I heard him tell Dad he didn’t think Easter Bunny bread belonged at a church breakfast.”

“What did your dad tell him?”

“Dad said if it would make him feel better, we’d call it the spring rabbit. But Mr. Grumbple didn’t eat any of the bread. I hope you won’t have to stop making it. All us kids love it.”

Mom laughed and kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to the kitchen to make the spring rabbit. You go to sleep now.”

Kristy smiled and snuggled under the covers.

Maybe Mr. Grumbple will eat the bunny bread this year. And maybe I’ll find a new dress in my Easter basket in the morning. And maybe it will be a perfect Easter.

Easter morning was pandemonium. Kristy’s mom was busy in the kitchen frosting cinnamon rolls, covering wonderful smelling casseroles, and putting the bunny bread on a platter. Dad was in the study looking over his sermon.  Kristy and her four brothers were racing through the house looking for the Easter baskets their parents had hidden. Hiding the baskets was tradition.

Kristy tried not to be too disappointed when she found her basket. It had a hollow chocolate rabbit, her favorite kind of jellybeans, and a pair of white socks with ruffles on the top. No dress.

But the socks will look pretty with my Mary Jane shoes.

Kristy looked in her closet for her nicest dress, the one she’d worn last Easter.

Kristy sat with the other six and seven-year-old girls at the Easter breakfast. She smiled to see how many girls had her mom’s bunny bread on their plates.

“Your mom is the best cook ever!” Emily said.

“And your mom and Lydia’s mom sew the prettiest dresses ever!”

The table full of girls began admiring one another’s new dresses, most of them flowery prints. No one mentioned that Kristy’s dress was a little snug and short.

“Is this seat saved for anyone?”

Kristy looked up and saw a girl about her age wearing a stained white T-shirt, jeans, and dirty sneakers with holes in them. Her blonde hair was in a messy braid, and her face looked like it had traces of tears.

Kristy smiled at her. “You can sit here. Have you been here before? I don’t think I’ve seen you.”

The other girl shook her head. “This is my first time. My stepdad dropped me off. He said I should stay here so he and Mom could have a couple hours without having to bother with me. I hope they remember to pick me up when they leave the bar.” She brushed away a tear.

Kristy touched her hand. “My mom and dad will be sure you get home if they forget. I’m Kristy. What’s your name?”

“Addy.”

“Addy, do you want some food? My mom’s bunny bread is really good!”

“I don’t have any money.” Addy spoke so softly it was almost a whisper.

“You don’t need money! It’s free!”

“I dunno. I feel funny here. You all have pretty dresses. I’ve never had a dress.”

“It’s okay. No one cares what you wear,” Kristy said.

Emily said, “Let’s all go with Addy. She can get food, and we can get some more food!”

On the way to the food table, the girls almost bumped into Julie, their favorite Sunday school teacher, who was coming out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of steaming breakfast potatoes.

“Oops, careful! You don’t want to wear these potatoes!” Julie laughed. “Kristy, I have a present for you. I saw where you’re sitting. I’ll leave it on your chair.”

“Thank you! What is it?”

“Oh, just a little something I felt like God wanted me to make.”

“I bet she made you a new dress!” Lydia whispered. “She sews even better than my mom!”

It seemed to take forever to get through the food line. Addie kept saying she’d never seen so much food, and it took her a long time to decide what to put on her plate.

Back at the table, Kristy set down her plate and picked up a lavender gift bag. She pulled out pink tissue paper and caught her breath.

Emily asked, “What is it? Take it out. We want to see!”

Kristy pulled out a cream-colored dress with a tiny pink rosebud print. It had short, ruffled sleeves and a ruffle on the bottom.

“That’s the prettiest dress I ever saw!” Lydia said. “Are you going to go into the bathroom and put it on?”

“I will after we eat,” Kristy said putting the dress back into the bag. “I don’t want to get any food on it.”

Her dad went to the microphone. “Please keep eating,” he said. “I’m going to talk about the resurrection during the morning sermon, but I wanted to say a few words about the cross while we’re together here. I’ve been thinking all week about how Jesus lived and died. No one ever lived a more beautiful life than Jesus. No one ever loved or gave like Jesus. He gave everything he had to give during his thirty-three years on earth. And then, at the end, he gave his life on the cross. Why? I think most of you know the answer. He loved us enough to die for our sins and to make a way for us to go to heaven. And now he wants us to love and give to others through us. We can be his hands and feet.”  

“Is that really true what that man said? Addy asked.

Kristy nodded. “He’s my dad. And it’s true.”

“Well, I never heard anything about God loving me. Or people loving me either. And I don’t know if I believe it.”

Seven-year-olds aren’t always good at putting things into words, but that’s okay. Actions are better. Kristy handed the gift bag to Addy.  “I want to give you this.”

Addy shook her head. “That lady said it was your present.”

“It was my present, but now it’s yours.”

“Take it, Addy,” Emily said. “I think it will fit you.”

“You’ll look beautiful in it!” Lydia said.

“The bathroom is right over there,” Kristy said. “Go try it on and see if you like it.”

Addy was gone for a while. When she returned the girls could tell she’d washed her face. She’d unbraided her hair. She looked beautiful even with the dirty tennis shoes poking out from the long dress. She smiled shyly at the girls. And then Addy got what was perhaps her first group hug and lots of compliments.

Kristy saw Julie looking their way and smiling. Julie gave her a thumbs up.

That night Kristy finished her prayers and hopped into bed. Mom pulled up the covers and kissed her on the cheek.

Kristy yawned. “Mom, God gave me a new Easter dress, but I gave it away. It made me feel happy.”

“Julie told me about that. I’m proud of you. And guess what? Mr. Grumbple ate my bunny bread.”

Kristy laughed. “I guess it was a perfect Easter, wasn’t it?”

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

Nancy leaned on her cane and watched the contractor walk around the barn shaking his head. He kicked at a rotten timber, and it crumbled. Nancy winced, lost her balance, and almost fell.

The young contractor leaped to her side and steadied her. “Hey, Miss Nancy! You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m fine, Ted.” She smiled when she saw the pencil tucked behind his ear. “You look too young to do things the old school way. I thought you’d probably use a tablet.”

He laughed. “I would, but my dad, who owns the company, still wants everything written on paper.” He pulled a notebook from the pocket of his brown Carhart’s then put it back.

“Aren’t you going to write down any figures so you can give me an estimate?”

He cleared his throat. “Miss Nancy, I hate to tell you, and I can send my dad out to give you his opinion, but I know he’ll say the same thing. This old barn is too far gone to save. Forget repairs. It would be cheaper to tear it down and build a new pole barn.”

She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears.

“This barn mean that much to you?” he asked sympathetically.

“It’s just that it’s been in the family over three-quarters of a century. My dad really loved it. Before he died, I promised him I’d do my best to take care of it, but time got away from me. It seems things get older faster than you expect them to.”

She wiped her eyes. “Do you think a coat of paint would help?”

He glanced again at the sun shining through gaps in the roof, at the rotting beams, and at the sagging rafters.

Nothing’s going to save this old thing. It’s outlived its usefulness and needs to be torn down, but if it makes her feel better….

He patted her shoulder. “You kinda remind me of my grandma, Miss Nancy. I’m going to give you the card of a painter I know. You tell him I said to give you my contractor’s discount.”

He handed her the painter’s card, and she convinced him to come in the house and stay for a cup of coffee and some chocolate chip cookies. She wrapped up a dozen for him to take home and share with his family.

“I don’t know why I make so many cookies. I don’t have any family left to cook for. It’s just me out here by myself. I love this place, but it does get lonely sometimes.”

Ted was in a hurry. He had five more estimates to give that day, but he knew his dad would understand. He talked to Miss Nancy for an hour.

As soon as Ted left Nancy called the painter and asked for an estimate. “I’d have to come look at your barn to give you an accurate figure,” the man said, “but even with Ted’s discount you’re looking at a ballpark amount of….”

Nancy’s eye’s widened when she heard the amount. She thanked him and said goodbye. There had to be some old paint around here somewhere. Dad wouldn’t approve; she could hear his voice warning her that there probably wasn’t enough old paint left, what there was would clump, that her hands were too shaky, and that old women had no business trying to paint old barns. But her mind was made up. She hadn’t taken care of the old barn the way she’d promised she would; the least she could do was try to spruce it up a bit. There might not be enough paint to cover the whole thing, but she’d at least paint the side that faced the road.

***

The next Sunday Nancy came home from church. She was tired. The sermon had been wonderful, but she didn’t feel part of anything anymore. Whenever she offered to help do something, someone said, “You’ve done your part, Nancy. It’s time for you to rest. Your job now is to pray for the rest of us.”

She did pray, but she wanted to do more. Sometimes she felt invisible.

Nancy took off her coat, looked at herself in the hall mirror, and laughed. There hadn’t been enough old paint left, and what there was had clumped.

“Well, Nancy,” she said out loud, “Maybe you are invisible. You tried painting the old barn and no one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t comment. Perhaps they were just too polite to say anything. You can’t afford new makeup, and you should know better than to use some that’s so old. It’s a wonder those clumps of mascara didn’t get into your eyes and blind you. And you only had enough blush for one cheek.”

She swiped at the few wisps of white hair she had left. She’d tried to arrange them to cover the bald spots, but it had been impossible. If only there was money to go to the beauty shop. She limped her way into the kitchen, thinking her legs were very much like rotting timbers.

“You and your crazy dreams, Nancy.” She chuckled. “Dreaming about a barn, contractor, and painter, probably because you sometimes feel like an old barn yourself.”

Sunday dinner would be coffee and chocolate chip cookies. Not healthy, she knew, but she had a fondness for baking cookies. She sat at the table munching cookies and thinking about inflation. Property taxes, food, gasoline—everything except her fixed income was higher every year.

And you felt sorry for yourself because you couldn’t buy makeup and get your hair done. Silly old woman, that’s the least of your worries.

 Nancy was so deep in thought she jumped when she heard someone knocking on the back door.

A young man stood there in brown Carhart’s a pencil tucked behind his ear. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “That your old barn over there?” He gestured across the road.

She shook her head. “That belongs to a man who used to live here, but he moved to town.”

“You happen to know his phone number?”

She nodded, and he pulled a notebook out of his pocket and jotted it down.

“What, no cell?” she teased. “You look too young to be old school with a pencil and notebook.”

He laughed. “My cell’s in my truck. And my dad owns our company. He’s the one who’s old school. He wants all the figures written down in notebooks. We buy old barn wood and make all kinds of things with it.”

Nancy stared at him. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Ted, would it?”

“You must know me from somewhere,” he said. “Sorry, I don’t remember you.”

“You wouldn’t. My name is Nancy. Do you happen to like chocolate chip cookies? I could wrap some up for you.”

He hesitated but just for a moment. “They’re my favorite!”

He waited near the door while she packaged them.

“Thanks!” he took a cookie out of the bag and munched one. “Wow, this is good. Do you like to bake?”

She sighed. “I love cooking and baking. I make too much food for one person to eat, though.”

“I’m glad I met you,” he said. “I don’t really believe in coincidence, do you? I think everything happens for a reason.”

She nodded. “Our pastor said the same thing at church this morning. God has his hand in more things than we realize.”

“I have to talk to my dad about this first, but I wonder if you’d be interested in a job?”

“You want to hire an eighty-year-old woman for a job?”

“Dad and I have been looking for someone. Mom’s been in heaven for a year, and Grandma lives with us. She’s younger than you, but she has rheumatoid arthritis and can’t cook. We don’t need anyone to clean; Dad and I can handle that, but Grandma is lonely. We’d like to hire someone to keep Grandma company and cook for us. Are you interested?”

“I think I am, but you need to talk to your dad about me, and I want to talk to God about this. Let’s talk again tomorrow, alright?” She started to close the door and whispered a prayer.

 “That sounds like a plan, Miss Nancy.”

She opened the door again. “Do you call all old ladies ‘Miss’?”

He laughed. “I’ve never called anyone ‘Miss’ in my life. I hope you aren’t offended. You just look like a Miss Nancy to me.”

“I’m not offended. You tell your dad to call me, or come see me, or whatever.”

“I thought you needed to pray about it?”

“I already did.”

Nancy watched the truck drive away then decided to take a nap. She pulled up her quilt and smiled.

Now I’ll have someone to talk to and cook for. I might even have enough money to buy new paint for this old barn. Even if I don’t, it doesn’t matter because it’s what’s inside the barn that counts. And inside this old barn is someone who still has a lot to give.

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

Gertie peered over her half-glasses at the packed waiting room.

Looks like the room is going to live up to its name today. Might be a long wait.

She tucked a few strands of wispy gray hair behind her ear, pulled out her knitting bag, and got busy.

“Scuse me. You got a tissue?”

The voice came from a young woman to her right. Gertie glanced at the beanie the young woman was wearing to cover her bald head and the empty ice cream pail—aka barf bucket—she was carrying. Gertie had been there. More than once. The woman didn’t look more than twenty years old.

Just a girl, poor kid. God, help me help her.

Gertie handed over several tissues with a sympathetic smile.

“It’s tough, I know. Are you here alone?”

The woman shook her head and blew her nose. “My husband went to the cafeteria. He’s starved, and he doesn’t like to sit here and see…all of us. He won’t go back with me when I get my treatments either. It’s hard for him. You know.”

Gertie nodded. “I know. I’m Gertie, and I’m happy to meet you.”

The woman sniffed. “I’m Ava, and I wish I was anywhere but here.”

Gertie nodded. “I get that. I’ve been coming here a long time.”

Ava’s eyes widened. “A long time? How long?”

“Five years now.”

“What kind of cancer do you have?” Ava asked still crying.

Gertie answered.

Ava wiped her eyes. “That’s the same kind I have,” Ava said. “But they told me I’d probably be cured after eighteen weeks of R-chop chemotherapy, and I’m having a hard time even living with cancer that long! Why do you still have it?”

“It’s a long answer, but I’ll try to make it shorter. At my age and with my other health problems, they said I had a 60 percent chance of beating the cancer with R-chop.”

“But you were in the unlucky 40 percent?” Ava asked.

“Something like that. Next came radiation and GemOx.”

“What’s GemOx?” Ava interrupted.

Gertie was pleased to see Ava’s tears had slowed to a trickle.

“For me it was like R-chop on steroids, but by then I was where I am now, one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, and for me, one foot on a banana peel is especially dangerous.”

“What do you mean one foot on a banana peel?”

Ava had quit crying, and Gertie was feeling pleased with herself. This was heading in the right direction.

“It’s an odd expression. Sometimes in old time comedy acts someone would slip on a banana peel and fall. People would laugh.”

“I don’t think that’s funny,” Ava said.

“I don’t either, really,” Gertie said. “I guess you have to appreciate slapstick comedy to laugh at something like that.”

Ava wasn’t using any more of the tissues. “What’s slapstick comedy?” she asked.

“You ever see The Three Stooges or Home Alone?”

Ava nodded. “Oh yeah, My grandpa thinks stuff like that’s funny. Me, not so much.”

“Well, slipping on a banana peel was in that same genre, but now it means any situation that’s unstable or puts you at risk of sudden change.”

“So your cancer’s unstable?” Ava asked, reaching for another tissue.

Gertie patted Ava’s arm. “Don’t start crying again. It is, but it’s been unstable for five years. I’m used to it.”

“I don’t know how you live like that! I don’t think I could!”

“Do you really want to know how I do it?”

“I really do. You sit there knitting like it’s the most normal thing in the world not to know if you’re going to live or die tomorrow.”

Gertie chuckled. “Actually, Ava, not knowing that is the most normal thing in the world for everyone, but people don’t usually think about it. I have to think about it. And I can face that instability because God is my Rock. And I can face death because I know I’m going to live forever.”

Ava gave her a side eye. “You a Sunday school teacher or something?”

Gertie smiled. “Matter of fact I am. Why? Don’t you like Sunday school teachers?”

Ava thought a moment. “I haven’t thought about Miss Bessie for a long time. She was my Sunday school teacher when I was a kid. I loved her. You kinda remind me of her. She wore half-glasses like you, and she was really old like you, ninety something.”

Gertie laughed. “Hey, I’m only seventy-five.”

Ava blushed. “My bad. I can’t tell people’s ages once they get old. But thanks for reminding me about God. I trusted Jesus as my Savior from sin when I was a little girl, but then life got busy, and I kind of forgot to include him. I hope he hasn’t forgotten me, because I could really use his help now.”

Gertie said, “He hasn’t forgotten you, I promise. And I won’t either. I’ll pray for you.”

Ava started crying again. “I feel like we’re friends now, and I wish you weren’t dying!”

“Who says I’m dying? My cancer isn’t stable, but my oncology team thinks I might live for years!”

“But…but….” Ava wiped her nose and sniffed. “You said you had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

Just then they called Gertie’s name to go back for her chemotherapy infusion. She shoved her knitting into her bag, pushed herself out of her chair, grabbed her crutches, and laughed.

“I sure do have one foot in the grave! Look!”

Ava followed Gertie’s glance and noticed only one shoe sticking out of Gertie’s pants. The other pant leg was empty.

Ava’s eyes widened. “Cancer?” she whispered.

“No! Car accident when I was your age. I really did want to bury my foot, but they wouldn’t give it to me after they amputated it. But I have fun telling people I’ve got one foot in the grave!”

Then Ava laughed too. “And the other one on a banana peel! I hope I see you next time I’m here!”

“We’ll see each other again, I’m sure,” Gertie said. “Here or in heaven!”

“You preaching again, Gertie?” Ava heard the nurse say as he walked Gertie toward the elevator.

A few minutes later her husband returned. “I met the funniest old lady in the elevator. She only had one leg. She told me I should spend more time in the waiting room with you, and you know what? She’s right. I was thinking the same thing the whole time I was in the cafeteria. I’m sorry, honey. From now on, it’s the two of us fighting this cancer together.”

Ava slipped her hand in his. “Nope, it’s four of us fighting my cancer. You, me, God, and the old lady with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel?”

“Huh? What’s that mean?”

A nurse called Ava to go back for treatment and her husband stood to go with her.

Ava smiled. “I’ll tell you about the banana peel after they get my IV in for treatment.”

He swallowed hard. “Is it okay if I don’t watch?”

She laughed. “You don’t have to watch them put the IV in. You just watch to be sure I don’t step on any banana peels on the way there.”

The End
***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

He looked at her with tenderness in his smile. She felt suddenly shy and blushed. And I? I was there from the beginning.

If you’re thinking the infatuated couple was sixteen, you better add five decades to that. Perhaps you’re surprised two sixty-six-year-olds can fall in love with each other just the way teenagers can? Well, I wasn’t surprised. Having been Cupid’s scribe for centuries I can tell you I’ve seen it all!

I have permission from Cupid to tell their story, but I’ll have to change names to protect their privacy. So, lets call them Adam and Eve. That’s original, don’t you think? Besides, those names are easy for me to remember, and I admit my memory isn’t as sharp as it was when I became Cupid’s scribe in 700 BC.

Probably one reason Cupid is letting me share details is he’s still angry with this couple. They fell in love totally without his help, and he was miffed. He left me to follow their journey and flew off in a huff.

“Mark my words, Thoth,” he said to me, “that relationship is doomed; I’m sure of it. You watch them, take good notes, and report everything back to me.”

And so, I texted Cupid daily reports. Unless you’ve had to write on stone with a chisel you have no idea what a time-saver texting is. Back when I had to record everything on rock and fly it back to Cupid my mythological back was killing me every day. But that’s a story for another time.

Adam and Eve met in church of all places. They attended a church group for older singles called “White Heads but Not Yet Dead.” Cute, huh? Cupid rolled his eyes when he heard that one.

Adam had lost his wife several years earlier and was beginning to think he might not want to spend the rest of his life alone when Eve walked into the singles’ group he’d been attending for two years.

The leader asked Eve the usual “let’s get to know you” questions.

“Did your partner die?” he asked.

Eve shook her head.

“Divorced? Don’t let that embarrass you. Half of us in here lost a spouse that way.”

There were nods of agreement.

Still Eve said nothing. The leader waited.

“I never married,” she finally said. “I took care of both my parents until God called them home, and by then I was fifty. That was sixteen years ago. I came tonight because, well, I guess I’m tired of being lonely.”

The shy, quiet way Eve spoke went straight to Adam’s heart. I actually turned around looking for Cupid shooting one of his invisible arrows, but then I remembered he was home with influenza B; it’s going around you know, and even mythical creatures are not immune.

I immediately knew Cupid was going to be upset. He thinks he must be involved in every love story. He wasn’t going to be happy with me either; he’d told me to keep my eye on this group. But what was I supposed to do? I can’t stop the beginning of a love story. I did my job as scribe. I followed Adam and Eve to the coffee shop after the meeting and took notes.

At first, Eve was hesitant to go out for coffee.

“Thank you, but no,” she said when Adam asked her. “I don’t date.” She cleared her throat. “You’ll probably think I’m weird, but I’ve never dated.”

“Not even once?”

She shook her head no. “Not once, and I’m too old to start now. I just came to the meeting for company, definitely not to find a date.”

Adam ran his hand through his white hair and Eve tried not to notice the curls. Her brother, waiting in heaven for her, had curls just like that.

“Well suppose we don’t call it a date,” Adam said. “Why don’t we just go get coffee as two people who might decide to be friends once they get to know each other? You don’t have a problem with making a new friend, do you?”

She laughed, and poor Adam felt his heart flip. Oh, I knew the signs. How was I going to word this message to Cupid?

By the time Cupid recovered from the flu, Adam and Eve had gone on several non-dates.

They talked about everything, and Eve lost some of her shyness.

As soon as he was well enough, I took Cupid to the coffee shop to let him see for himself what was happening. That’s when he took one look at them, turned purple with fury, and told me to stay on the case.

I wasn’t about to leave anyway, I’d gotten involved. My ancient heart felt tender the first time Adam held Eve’s hand. They always prayed before they had their coffees and bagels, and one night her hand was on the table. To most people it probably looked like an old hand, tiny and fragile with a network of blue lines. But Adam looked at that hand like it was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. He covered it with his large hand calloused from farming.

“May I?” he asked.

Her smile was her answer, and so he held her hand all through prayer. Sweet.

They never went anywhere together but the same coffee shop. After two months while they sat in their regular booth, Adam asked, “Can we call this dating yet?”

Eve laughed. “Adam, I’ve known it was a date from the first time we sat here exactly two months ago!”

He looked surprised. “You knew this was our two-month anniversary?”

She laughed again. “I wouldn’t exactly call it an anniversary.”

“I suppose you’re right; but be prepared. In another month I’m going to ask you a question.”

Eve couldn’t say she didn’t know what was coming. It was an unusual proposal, and it happened right in their booth at the coffee shop while I hovered nearby.

“Eve,” he began, “is there anything about me you still need to know? Any questions you want to ask?”

“I do, and your answer is a make-or-break deal, so think carefully.”

She paused, the question hanging between them. Adam started to sweat, pulled out his red kerchief, and wiped his forehead.

“Well, get on with it, honey,” he begged. “Time’s a wasting, and at our age we don’t have much to squander!”

Poor guy. I almost panicked with him. What could Eve possibly want to know they hadn’t already discussed?

Eve took both his hands and looked him in the eyes. “How do you feel about pasta?”

His white, bushy eyebrows shot up. “Pasta?”

“Yes, pasta. You know. Spaghetti.”

“That’s your make-or-break question? I love spaghetti! My mother made it every Sunday when I was a boy, but to be honest, I haven’t had any in years. I sure would like to have some again; maybe we can go to an Italian restaurant on our next date.”

Again, there was a long silence. Eve chewed her bottom lip. Adam kept sweating. I was glad I was invisible, because my legs suddenly felt weak, and my wings were too heavy.  I slid into the booth next to Eve before I collapsed in an invisible heap on the tiled floor.

What if Eve hated spaghetti or had a pasta phobia or something.

“You see,” Eve said just a millisecond before Adam and I passed out, “my mom made spaghetti every Sunday too. We didn’t always have enough to eat when I was a child, but on Sunday, no one went hungry. When I was still a little girl, I told my mother I’d never marry a boy who didn’t love pasta. And I’m a woman of my word.”

“Did you say marry?” Adam asked, letting go of Eve’s hands and reaching into his coat pocket for the diamond ring that was there.

Before he could get the ring out, Eve reached into her bag and pulled out a ring box.

“My father wore this black onyx ring on his right ring finger as long as I can remember. Adam, will you marry me?”

He chuckled. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one to ask that question?”

Eve said, “I also told my mother if I ever found a man I loved, I was going to propose first. She was horrified, but I’m a woman of my word.”

“In that case will you give me your word you’ll marry me?”

“I asked you first. What’s your answer?”

“How about if we both answer on the count of three?”

When they said “yes” and exchanged rings people in the coffee shop laughed and clapped. A waitress brought them chocolate covered donuts.

“Here’s a little something extra to celebrate,” she said. “But aren’t you two nervous? I remember the first time you came in here and it was obvious you didn’t know each other, and it’s only been a few months, right?”

They answered in unison, “Three months ago tonight.”

Adam and Eve married a month later, and an Italian caterer served spaghetti at their reception.

I flew by occasionally to check on the couple when Cupid was otherwise occupied. They enjoyed many years of happiness and ate spaghetti every Sunday. I didn’t tell Cupid about their happily ever after; if there’s one thing he hates it’s being wrong.

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author

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.

by Donna Poole

“Want to go to the mall?” Jack asked.

Anglina buried her head in her pillow. “Not really. Why are you awake so early on a Saturday morning?”

“Why are you not awake? You’re usually up before sunrise.”

She yawned and stretched. “I’m tired today. And since it’s our first Saturday as empty nesters and there’s nothing we have to do, I figured I’d sleep in.”

“That’s why I’m awake, our first Saturday as empty nesters! Isn’t it great? Let’s not waste it. Come on! You shower, and I’ll fix breakfast. How do you want your eggs?”

“In the carton. Just toast and coffee for me, honey.”

“Are you sure? I’m in the mood to celebrate! I’ll make your favorite Western Omelet.”

“Thanks, but just toast.”

Jack talked all through breakfast about how happy he was that their perfect planning had worked out just as he’d imagined. They’d been young when they’d had their two children, a boy and a girl, planned and spaced two years apart. As much as Jack had loved being a dad, he’d always looked forward to still being young when the kids left home.

“This is our time, Ang,” Jack said. “No more ball games, recitals, plays; no more girl scout cookies to deliver, no more parent teacher conferences…”

Anglina chuckled. “Those two were in about every sport and activity possible in high school, weren’t they?”

“Yeah, and it didn’t end when they went to college either, because they didn’t go far away. We still attended games, drama productions, concerts, homecomings; you name it—we went.”

“It was fun though, wasn’t it?”

“It was, babe, but now we can do what we want to do.”

She sighed. “What exactly do we want to do?”

“Well, we’ll figure it out as we go. We’ve got all the time in the world. For starters, I want to go to the mall!”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We can window shop. Maybe I’ll buy another 3-D puzzle.”

Anglina looked at him but didn’t say anything. He had three unopened puzzles sitting on the puzzle table already. Puzzles were something he and Denny had always done together.

“You having fun?” Jack asked as they strolled through the three-story mall.

“People watching is fun. Look at that baby. Isn’t she cute?”

She nodded at a baby nestled in her father’s arms, sucking her thumb, and holding onto her father’s earlobe with her other chubby hand.

Jack smiled at the baby, and she popped her thumb out of her mouth and smiled back.

“Ang, she remind you at all of Missy when she was a baby?”

Anglina nodded. “Kind of. I dressed Missy all in pink like that until she got old enough to talk and informed me she hated pink!”

Jack laughed. “Remember when we brought Denny home from the hospital? Missy was so disappointed that he couldn’t play with her right then. She told us to take him back and get a different one!”

They wandered on through the mall talking about their kids’ growing up days. They kept seeing the baby. Awake or asleep, she was always holding her dad’s ear.

“Holding her dad’s ear like that? It might be the cutest thing I ever saw,” Anglina said to Jack. “Do you miss it at all? The baby days?”

“Are you kidding? Taking turns getting up in the night, being exhausted all day? These days right here? These are going to be our best days; trust me. Hey, let’s get some lunch at the food court. What sounds good to you? Subs? Chinese? Tacos? Pizza?”

“I don’t suppose any of them serve toast, do they?”

“What’s with you and toast? Are you sick?”

“No. I’m not very hungry, and I’m tired. I’ll save us a place at a table, and you get whatever you want to eat. Just get me a cup of hot tea.”

“Hot tea! Since when do you like hot tea? And another thing! You’re never tired; you can outwalk me at the mall every time.”

She shrugged. “Well, I’m tired today, and tea sounds good.”

By the time Jack returned with her tea and his food she’d fallen asleep, her arms folded on the table and her head on her arms.

“Babe!” he shook her shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

He uncovered his plate. “I ordered an extra-large and got two forks in case you change your mind. I know you love chow mien.”

Anglina took one look at the food and covered her nose. “That smells disgusting. I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

He put the Styrofoam lid back on the food and grinned at her. “Okay. So, when were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“About the baby. Come on, Ang. The only time you’ve ever been this tired, liked hot tea, or hated Chinese food was when you were pregnant. When are we having this baby?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I know how much you’ve looked forward to this empty nest time. I didn’t want to tell you. I’m fourteen weeks along.”

“Wah hoo!” He jumped from his chair and shouted. “We’re going to have a baby!”

People at nearby tables smiled.

He sat back down. She stared at him. “You’re really happy about this?”

“Ang, do you realize all we’ve talked about today is our kids? I wanted to come to the mall today because I was feeling sad about the kids being gone. I needed to get out of the house. I’ve been trying to talk myself into believing these were going to be our best years, but honestly, I feel too young to be an empty nester. I’d rather wait and be one when I’m in my sixties!”

His smile made her a believer.

“Come on, Ang!”

He threw his food in the nearest garbage can.

“Where are we going?”

“To the puzzle store. I hate doing puzzles alone. I’m going to pick out one the baby and I can do together!”

She laughed with tears still on her cheeks. “I know it’s been a while, but you must remember it will be several years before this baby can put together puzzles.”

“I can wait. The time goes fast. Too fast.”

The couple with the baby was coming toward them. The dads smiled at each other.

“Your baby girl is adorable,” Jack said. “We’ve got one in the oven!”

“Jack!” Anglina laughed. “People don’t use that expression anymore.”

“I do!” Jack said.

“We’ve got one in the oven too!” the other dad said, smiling at his wife. “We have three in college, and when God sent us this surprise, we didn’t want her to grow up alone.”

“Congratulations!” Jack said.

He watched the other couple walk away and took Anglina’s hand. “What do you think, Ang? Should we get this baby a sibling?”

“Jack, I know we’ve been busy helping the kids move into their new homes, but you’ve gotten terribly unobservant lately. You didn’t notice how quickly I was gaining weight?”

“I noticed. I just thought it was, maybe, you know, middle-aged spread?”

She laughed. “I’m spreading alright, and there’s a good reason. The doctor gave me an early ultra-sound because of my age. This baby already has a sibling.”

“You mean?”

She nodded. “Twins. A boy and a girl.”

“Holy cow!” He stopped walking, put his hand on his forehead, and stared at her.

“Say something!”

He just kept staring. Finally, he laughed. “That’s what I call perfect planning!”

The couple with the baby had turned around and was coming back toward them.

“Hey!” Jack said to the other dad. “I just found out we have two in the oven!”

“Congratulations!” the other dad said. “You should celebrate! Maybe the four of us could go out for dinner sometime?”

“Anything but Chinese!” the two women said at the same time.

And the baby popped her thumb out of her mouth and laughed.

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 picture books.

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author.

by Donna Poole

“At least it’s not forty below,” Randy said.

“It’s not a balmy eighty degrees either,” Clarissa retorted.

He laughed. “Where do you think you are, woman? Florida?”

She sighed. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever be snowbirds like some of our friends are.”

“Don’t suppose.”

For some reason his cheerfulness, usually so endearing, irritated her today. Perhaps because he’d insisted on taking their daily doctor ordered walk outside downtown instead of in the college gym. She didn’t like slush seeping through her old boots and getting her toes wet. She didn’t like the wind chill. And she really didn’t like these walks; she didn’t think they were helping his health or hers. How could they? She walked turtle speed, clinging to a cane with her right hand and to his arm with her left.

He stopped in front of the candy store window decorated with cupids and hearts. “Want some candy for Valentine’s Day?”

Clarissa sighed again. “You know what the doctor said about candy. And if we were going to cheat on our diets and eat some you wouldn’t want to buy it here.”

Randy squinted at the price on a displayed box of chocolate then whistled. “People really pay that for a half-pound of candy?”

Yes, and people our age retire. And people our age go to Florida in the winter. And people our age have enough money to buy new boots when their old ones wear out.

She didn’t say any of it out loud though. What good would it do? His old, family run hardware store was Randy’s life. It made less money every year, and sooner or later he was going to have to face the fact that it needed to close the way so many other businesses in town had.

Sooner or later; what am I saying? It’s already later. We’re seventy-seven years old. We have no retirement money left. What we saved in the more prosperous years is gone now keeping that store open. Pretty soon we’re going to be back to eating pork and beans and boxed mac and cheese on alternating days the way we did in college. What’s he thinking?

She didn’t ask Randy what he was thinking. She already knew his long-range plan. He wanted to die behind the counter of that hardware store of his with his boots on, family proud until the end. The faded sign, hanging by only three screws, read, “Randy Sanger and Sons, Hardware.” But the sons had long ago left the small Michigan town to live their own lives in other states, and she and Randy understood. This little town was dying; the hardware store was dying, and she and Randy were dying. And they’d never get to retire, or be snowbirds in Florida, or spend any time together.

Quit being so dramatic, she told herself. We aren’t exactly dying yet, just getting older. I think our love is dying though. I can’t remember the last time we did anything fun together. All Randy does is work, go to church, and fall asleep in front of the television.

Clarissa sniffed, pulled her arm out of Randy’s, and dug in her pocket for a tissue.

“What’s wrong?”

But before she could answer Randy walked on ahead of her and stood looking in the window of the new hardware store in town, the one that carried everything he couldn’t afford to keep in stock. This store was on the main street in town; his was down a side street. This store was one of a chain of thousands of successful stores across the United States.

Clarissa caught up with Randy and linked arms with him once again. She investigated his face as he stared in the window. Would he see it? Would he realize he was waging a losing battle and finally sell the store while they could still salvage a bit of money? Oh, they’d never be snowbirds in Florida, but maybe they could sell the store and their run-down house and find a nice apartment where they could enjoy time together in their last years.

Randy lifted his chin. Clarissa knew that stubborn sign; she should after fifty-seven years.

“You know what Bud Smith said to me yesterday at my store? He told me he’d never give a penny to this chain store. He said he’d rather wait three weeks for me to order him something than pick it up here in an hour. He said Mom and Pop places are worth supporting, and he’s right!”

“Randy Sanger! Do you love that store more than you love me?”

He didn’t seem to hear her. His face had a dreamy look, and he was staring at the street.

“A man never forgets his first love,” he said.

Clarissa turned to see what Randy was staring at. A beautiful older woman, tall, erect, with silver hair and no cane was sliding into a car. No scoliosis hunched her back like it did Clarissa’s. She adjusted a fur cape and smiled at an elderly man who bent and kissed her like they were young lovers.

Is this the first sign of dementia? I’m his first love! He never even dated anyone else, as far as I know.

But Randy was certainly looking at her like a man in love. Clarissa was too hurt to be angry.

“Okay. Who is she?”

“What she?”

“The woman you’re staring at!”

“What woman? Clarissa! The car, look at the car! Don’t you remember?”

She looked. The woman was getting into a vintage, perfectly preserved yellow VW Bug from the 1960s. It had a black convertible top.

“Don’t you remember?” Randy asked again.

“How could I forget?”

They looked at each other, laughed, and decades disappeared. Once again, they were college students in their twenties, standing in a car dealer’s lot after hours, staring at the same VW Bug they’d looked at so many times before, a yellow convertible with a black top.

They’d both wanted that Bug more than they’d wanted anything. They’d turned their meager college tuition budget inside out, upside down, and sideways trying to figure a way to get it, but it was as impossible as flying to the moon. Instead, every night when they got off work, they went and looked at the Bug. Until it sold. That night they went home and to console themselves added a piece of cheese to their toast topped pork and beans.

Now, back on the street over a half-century later, they stared as their dream car drove away.

“How much do you suppose it’s worth today?” Clarissa asked.

Randy shrugged. “I’m guessing fifty grand.”

She sighed. “I’d have guessed more, but still a bit out of our budget, huh?”

He laughed as they headed back to their rusty old minivan. “A bit.”

He helped her get in, put her cane in the back, and started to shut her door.

“Hey wait. Did you think when I said, ‘A man never forgets his first love,’ I meant the woman getting into the VW?”

She nodded.

“How could you think that? You know you were my first love. You’re my only love. You’ll be my last love.”

He grinned at the shocked look on her face and got into the van.

“What? I still have a little romance left in me. I took Valentine’s Day off work. Thought we’d get lunch at that little Italian place and then play Scrabble. You still like to play Scrabble?”

She nodded and reached for his hand. “That sounds lovely. So, Bob’s working alone that day?”

“Yep. Told him he’s gotta do it.”

“But this is his first Valentine’s Day as a married man. Maybe you should just take a half day off and let him take the other half.”

Relief washed over his face. “You wouldn’t mind? I was wondering what we’d do after we played Scrabble. I get kind of bored just sitting around watching TV.”

I was wondering what we’d do after we played Scrabble.

Clarissa shouted with laughter that turned to tears and back to laughter.

Randy Sanger, you’d be the most unhappy, bored, retired man on the planet. Wouldn’t that be a lot of fun! No, thank you.

She kept laughing and crying. Alarmed, Randy pulled the van over to the side of the road just as the rusty muffler fell off. He got out, picked it up, and threw it in the back of the van.

“Good thing I know a good store where I can get clamps to fix that old muffler,” he said. Then he patted Clarissa’s shoulder. “Are you okay, honey? I really do love you; you know.”

“I know.” She sniffed. “But I almost forgot.”

“You almost forgot?” His voice went up an octave. “You aren’t getting that old timer disease, are you?”

She couldn’t resist teasing him. “I might be. Will you still love me?”

“You know I will! I love you more than anything. Even more than my hardware store.”

She smiled at him. “Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”

“It’s not Valentine’s Day yet!”

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

Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author.

by Donna Poole

I’m bone weary, more exhausted than ever, but what a day it’s been! I wish I had the pen and parchment of a scribe to write my story, but I’ll whisper it to the wind blowing by my little temple chamber. Perhaps it will carry my tale down through time to someone who cares enough to listen.

They call mine a sad story, but do you believe a warm river of joy can run under the ice of sorrow? I do, and I’ve lived in that joy for one-hundred and five years. That’s right; I’m a very old woman. Some think me only eighty-four, but no matter; old is old, and no one denies I’m that.

Oh, but please excuse my lack of manners. Let me introduce myself. I’m Anna, daughter of Phanuel from the tribe of Asher. Long ago, in Deuteronomy 33:25, Moses wrote of my tribe that “your strength will equal your days,” and that has been true of me.

 It seems almost like a life another lived when I recall my few married years. I wedded my beloved husband when I was only fourteen years old, the common age for marriage. Our happiness was beyond words. We talked about everything. My favorite topic was the coming of the Messiah; I’d been fascinated by that since I’d been a tiny girl, and my beloved never tired of listening to me.

“Do you think, dearest, we’ll live to see the Messiah come?” I asked my husband so many times.

He laughed and pulled me into my favorite place, the circle of his arms. “I hope so, but remember, people have been waiting for the Messiah for centuries. Meanwhile, let’s talk about having a family.”

That was his favorite thing to talk about, and I desperately wanted children too. I remember standing together under the night sky, his arms around me, looking up at the stars.

“Dearest Anna,” he said, putting his rough beard on my cheek, “perhaps God will bless us with so many children our offspring will be like those stars, too many to count. Our great grandchildren will sit at our feet and listen to our stories, and our children will nourish us in our old age. I will love you even more when your hair is silver and your smooth cheeks are lined than I do today.”

It was a beautiful dream, but it was not to be. After only seven years of marriage and no children, God took my wonderful husband.

Shattered, I wept in heartbroken despair, feeling the best part of me was forever gone. I was alone with no family to rely on, a harsh place to be in Jewish society. A widow with no means of support was dependent on the charity of others.

As I lay on my mat, eyes swollen almost shut with tears, I heard the quiet voice, and not for the first time. “Anna, my dear child, I have plans for you. Will you take my hand?”

I’d heard the voice so many times during my seven years of marriage, sometimes when I was pounding grain or kneading bread, sometimes when I was sweeping the dirt floor of our tiny home we loved so much. The voice never alarmed me. I knew it was my heavenly Father, and it filled my heart with even more joy than when my husband stooped to enter our home and pull me into his arms each evening after work.

Each time I heard the voice I whispered back, “Yes, I will take your hand. Where are we going?”

But no answer ever came. This time, I sat up on my sleeping mat, wiped my tears on the sleeve of my robe, and answered, “Yes, I will take your hand. Where are we going?”

“Go to the temple.”

I rolled up my mat, took what I could carry, and went to the temple. I wish you could have seen the look on the priests’ faces. I stood before them, a twenty-one-year-old woman, face still wet with tears, clutching my belongings. I looked at them silently; then suddenly I felt the powerful hand of God on my shoulder.

I opened my mouth.

I don’t remember all I said now, but a torrent of joy poured out, proclaiming the goodness of God in the land of the living, promising Jehovah would keep his promises soon and send the Messiah for the redemption of Jerusalem and the world.

The words were not mine, and when Jehovah finished speaking through me, I dropped my head and waited quietly.

The priests whispered among themselves as I waited, praying they would not misjudge my motives and try to marry me off to an acquaintance. The women of my tribe were known for their beauty and often sought after for marriage, even the widows, though not by priests. Priests could marry only a virgin or the widow of another priest.

Please Lord, let them see I desire only what King David did, “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to enquire in his temple.”

Even then, on that first encounter with the priests, I knew instinctively why the Holy Spirit had brought me to the temple; David’s desire was mine and would be forever. I could feel my face glowing with the intensity of it.

After a bit longer of a wait, a young priest, Simeon, approached me, asked my name, and I told him.

“Prophetess Anna,” he said, “we offer you sanctuary here. You may stay in one of the little chambers in the outer court.”

Prophetess! I’d never thought of myself as such, but God had spoken through me.

You may find it hard to believe, but I never left the temple courts after that. Day and night I remained in the temple. I served God by praying and by encouraging others to look beyond the mundane everyday of life, and to live for what matters, because soon they would see the King!

I spent most of my time praying and fasting. At first women glanced at me and then away or at each other. I knew they thought me eccentric; who wouldn’t? But as time passed, they came to me and shared burdens. I reminded them of the two things we so easily forget, the shortness of time and the length of eternity. In helping them discover joy, my own sorrow faded though never totally left. My past life with my beloved faded to a dream and I spent my real life in anticipation. The Messiah would come in my lifetime; I knew it!

You cannot possibly know how quickly you can go from young to old unless you’ve done it yourself. The passing of years took my agility and my smooth skin, but people often remarked about the young fire in my eyes. I gave that glow a name; I called it hope.

Though countless days faded into night; though more than four-thousand Sabbaths came and left with no sign of the Messiah, I did not lose hope. It grew stronger. Each night before I lay down on my mat, I tried to picture him. How old would he be? Would he be dressed like a king? Each day in the temple my eyes searched the face of every young man, looking for the Messiah.

And then one day I heard Simeon, the young priest who’d first welcomed me, now grown old like myself, shout louder than I’d ever heard him. He was standing next to a young couple who’d come to present a baby boy to the Lord and to offer a sacrifice as the law required. They were just an ordinary looking couple, but Simeon was holding the child in his arms and as close to dancing for joy as his old limbs would allow.

He blessed the child, praised God, and prayed, “Lord, now let me die in peace! You told me I wouldn’t die before I’d seen the Messiah, and here he is in my arms, a light to the Gentiles and the glory of Israel!”

What! The Messiah is a tiny baby? Can it be true?

I hurried to see for myself. As soon as I saw the smiling face of the baby boy God’s Spirit fell on me and I thanked the Lord and told everyone who would listen the Messiah had been born!

Simeon may have been ready to die, but I certainly was not. I wanted to see this child grow into manhood, conquer Israel’s enemies, and set up his kingdom.

That night as I lay on my mat the voice I’d come to know and love so well spoke to me once more.

“Anna, my dear child. I have plans for you. Will you take my hand?”

I didn’t ask where we were going, I knew, and I didn’t want to go. Not yet.

“Wait, Lord, shouldn’t you be taking Simeon? He’s the one ready to go. I want to see the Messiah set up his glorious kingdom.”

“Dear Anna, what if the Messiah has come to deliver his people, not from Roman rule, but from sin? And what if that deliverance involves his own death on the cross, a cruel, humiliating, excruciating death?”

I thought of that baby’s smile, and I wept. But then in a brief flash of light I saw an empty tomb, and the Messiah’s triumphant return as king centuries later, and I caught my breath at the beauty of it all. Millions upon millions of his followers returned with him, and I was one of them, and so was my beloved husband!

They call mine a sad story, but do you believe a warm river of joy can run under the ice of sorrow? I do, and I’ve lived in that joy for one-hundred and five years.

“How soon will you take me, Lord?” I asked.

“Very soon.”

I feel my strength fading, but I’m not uncomfortable. I feel like a sleepy child being tucked under warm robes at night by a loving mother.

Quickly now, while I’m still able, I’ll whisper my story to the wind blowing by my little temple chamber. Perhaps it will carry my tale down through time to someone who cares enough to listen.

The End

This story is fiction based on fact. The Bible doesn’t say that Simeon was a priest or even that he was old. It doesn’t tell nearly this much about Anna. Read the true story for yourself in Luke 2.

***

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