Walking Each Other Home

by Donna Poole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end

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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

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

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

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

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