family · Grief · Life

Terrible

Sally3 Comments

The RDP prompt for today is twelve. I searched my draft folder and found this incomplete post that had last been edited in February 2016. My mother died in November 2015. I wrote so many posts following her death. I think it was my way of untangling the knot—and it helped.

This post was never completed. When I read it this morning, a flood of memories engulfed me.

Here’s the post which I called “Terrible.” At the end, I’ll try to complete it — though the 10 intervening years surely have changed where I was going with the original.

THE ORIGINAL

The one nurse said, “Well, I guess you’ve never seen a dying person before.”

She was matter-of-fact. Tart. A little smug. Definitely too cheerful.

The other nurse was different. Compassionate. Caring. Gentle.

“Can I do anything for you?” she asked every time she checked on my mother. “Can I get you anything?”

With twelve hour shifts for the nurses, we mostly saw only these two.

When I would ask the first nurse

THE 2026 COMPLETION

When I would ask the first nurse for anything, she did her job, but with so little compassion that I ended up avoiding her. Truth be told, today I can’t even picture her.

Forgettable — that’s what she was. I’m glad I didn’t spend time dwelling on her.

What I remember about my mother’s final hospital stay are definitely the kindnesses:

The other nurse bringing food in for us.

The doctor who called a family meeting. She began with these words, “Mom is very sick, and she isn’t going to get better.” She went on to talk about the fact that modern medicine could keep her alive, but we should think about what was best for her. One of my brothers still refers to her as “the doctor that told us to kill Mom.” It’s that dark famiy sense of humor that we have. I have no doubt in my mind that it was the right decision.

A group of women from the church came to the hospital room and sang to my mother. They had all been in the choir with her, and now they sang for her. It still brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. Out-of-tune warbly voices of older women joined in some of the most beautiful music I’ve heard.

My siblings and I gathered around the bed, each telling my mother that we loved her. My youngest brother told my mother that it was okay for her to go. I had heard that it can be important to say that, and he said it, all the while rubbing her foot as he stood at that end of the bed.

I feel pity for that nurse whom I had labeled “Terrible.” Her words, I guess you’ve never seen a dying person before, are so hollow.

I don’t know what prompted them, but today, I would take her hands in mine, and say, “I hope that some day, you can gather with your family around the bed of someone you love very much, and you can be with them when they pass. It’s a beautiful thing.”

Terrible vs. beautiful. I’ll remember the beautiful.

Life

Coincidence or Providence

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I have a friend who can list off coincidence after coincidence in his life. He tells me stories of stopping at a gas station in Nowhere New Mexico and meeting a grade school classmate that he grew up with in New Jersey.

Or the time he was hiking in New Zealand and ran into someone he had worked with on Mt. Rainier in Washington state.

Or of running into a woman he first met in Germany on an exchange program in his teens. Running into her twenty years later. In America. By chance.

It seems to happen to him. Former students, former co-workers, former teachers, distance relatives all seem to show up in faraway at unplanned times.

I think he has a memory for people, plus he is very outgoing.

So is it coincidence? Or is it good memory and a lack of fear?

Plus he would never credit God’s hand as playing a role in any of it.

For me, I just read the other morning something Augustine said about looking at chicken tracks in the mud of the hen yard, and how it looks like chaos, but if you look at those criss-crossed nonsensical paths through the eyes of faith, you can see Providence.

Is the fact that one hen gets a slew of tasty bugs scratching in the hen yard, while another hen seems to miss all the good ones in the same hen yard a matter of skill, or coincidence, or Providence, or sheer luck?

Life is such a mystery.

This is my response to Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt: coincidence.

Life

Sewing With Burlap

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The good thing about burlap is that it is inexpensive.

The bad thing about burlap is — oh, where to begin?!

Burlap wears its flaws on its proverbial shirtsleeve, although I shudder to think how uncomfortable a burlap shirt would be.

It is coarse and crotchety, like an old man who has worked hard his whole life and never been been appreciated for a single thing he has done.

It frays easily and often.

It does not like to be straightened.  Lesson #1 in 4-H sewing decades ago included straightening the fabric.  Burlap is just ornery enough to say no.  It sort of looks like it is willing to comply, and then, BAM, an in-your-face refusal when the cutting begins.

Despite all that, burlap is quite lovable — especially if you’re partial to cantankerous types.

I’m sitting here, staring at various burlaps, trying to think how I can get along with them.  How can I coax this rough piece of fabric into something beautiful?

IMG_4499[1]

In my first attempt, I lined it with a cheery cotton print.  The burlap lost its burlap-ness.  It was like taking a hobo and dressing him in a business suit.  What makes a hobo appealing is his relatively carefree life, hopping trains, bumming food, answering to no one, but a businessman has to present himself just so, and answer to all sorts of people.

No, I was glad the lined burlap cone was nixed. It was too incongruous.

DSC02204

My next attempt was a simple burlap sack.  Simple. Hah!  To make a casing for a ribbon to go through was nearly impossible. And then, I didn’t cut a long enough piece of ribbon.  And then I kept wondering if jute would be better than ribbon.  And then I just got mad at the whole darn thing because it refused to look like what I had pictured in my head.

I had an idea for my next attempt.  I would work with the fray-happy fabric. I saw it on Pinterest.

Except… I’m pretty sure all those wonderful Pinterest ideas require fingers, and, as it turns out, I’m only equipped with thumbs. Ugh.

The more I fuddled around with the burlap, the more I saw this as life.  Things don’t always turn out the way we hope.  Plan A becomes Plan B becomes Plan C.

And still we remain hopeful. Still we try again.

[I decided to started searching the Ragtag Daily Prompt word in my draft folder so I could relook at some of the things written years ago. Today’s word was HOPEFUL — and this post came up. This post was originally written in August 2014 as we were getting ready for son #2’s wedding.]

aging · poetry

Hickory Dickory

Sally12 Comments

Hickory dickory dock
Time is a melting clock
The hourglass sand
Slips through my hand
Hickory dickory dock

Hickory dickory dock
The windows need new caulk
Body falling apart!
When did this start?!
Hickory dickory dock

Hickory dickory dock
It’s getting harder to walk
No pep in these steps
Need some vodka and Schweppes
Hickory dickory dock

Hickory dickory dock
Did somebody just knock?
Dark spectre with sickle
Well, this is a pickle!
Hickory

dickory

dock


This is my response to this week’s W3 Prompt: write a poem inspired by a nursery rhyme.

I had so many ideas — Georgy-Porgy being taken down by the Me-Too movement. Mary being served a delicious lamb dinner and later finding out why her lamb had stopped following her to school. Three blind mice — what kind of mischief could they blindly cause? I settled, however, on Hickory dickory dock.

The picture was created by moi using ChatGPT

Life

Come to the Table

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[A week or so ago, I decided to started searching the Ragtag Daily Prompt word in my draft folder so I could relook at some of the things written years ago. Today’s word was FOUNTAIN — and finally a post came up — this one. This post was originally written in May 2019 and has been sitting in my draft folder ever since. I don’t know what prompted the post back then.]

Back in the 1980’s, when the AIDS crisis was sweeping across the country, some churches took up the cause by proclaiming it was God’s judgment. I know because I heard it — not whispered, but spoke aloud — “This is God’s JUDGMENT.” Homosexuals were considered a particularly nasty subset that fell under the heading of SINNER.

And no, I did not attend Westboro Baptist.

My brother, Stewart, responded differently. He was a pastor at the time and he began inviting people with AIDS and their caregivers to church suppers.

This may not sound like much today, but it was big. There was so much misinformation and fear around the issue. People were afraid of drinking from the same water fountain as someone with AIDS. Or being anywhere near them. Like the virus might leap from them to person to person like a strange deadly flea or bedbug.

But my brother invited them in — and I was shocked. “Aren’t you afraid?” I asked.

He answered my question with a question. “Don’t you think Jesus would have spent time with them? I think they are exactly the people He would have sat down to dinner with.”

I knew he was right.

Mine is a slow and heavy ship that takes years to change its course. It may have taken decades for me to totally rethink the issue, but I think Stewart moved the rudder just a little with that conversation.

Life · poetry

Bless This Mess

Sally3 Comments

Dear Lord,

Bless this mess
I’ve no need to impress
Anyone

I am
Who I am
Who I am

Life has
Too much stress
Why should I guess
Or obsess
Over what possess-
ions
Someone else may want

Yes, yes —
I can address
This mess

I can assess
And progress
As I process
Decades of stuff

Nevertheless
dear Lord,
I need You
To bless
Me
As I move from mess
To less

I confess
My dependence
On You

Amen

This is my response to Stream-of-Consciousness Saturday‘s prompt: impress. I’m still working through a house full of stuff.

I have another five boxes ready to go out the door. Yay me.

Life

Growing Up Rural

Sally9 Comments
Cows — my nieghbors growing up

Overwhelming smell
And noise [MOO!] — but gentle eyes
Smooth snouted Holsteins

My father
Bought an old farm (no bother)
In whose fields I played– a wild
Child

Farm neighbor
Dairy barn, outdoor labor
Always something more to do
[moo!]

Time changes
Local scene rearranges
I look for cows, but I’m told,
“Sold.”

Hay mowing
Then baled — where is it going?
Farms are gone. Fodder ought not
Rot

Field of purple weeds
Ragged Robin volunteers —
Bemoan? No — embrace

What was once a hayfield is now Ragged Robin.

This is my response to this week’s W3 Challenge which was to combine two poetry forms. I think of my response as a sushi roll — the Haikus (bookends) are like the nori that wraps the sushi roll. The filling is made up of Deibide Baise Fri Toin, an Irish poetic form.

A Haiku is three line moment of insight. Suggested syllable count 5-7-5. A Haiku also has clear images and a turning point.

The Deilbide Baise Fri Toin is an Irish poetic form made up of quatrains, aabb rhyme scheme, syllable count 3-7-7-1.

Life · poetry

Overwhelmed

Sally2 Comments

I have been stressed with too much to do
The grass grew tall in the lawn
Mow? Me? Ugh, I thought
My get up and go was gone
I went to the barn, John Deere tire was flat
My hope fell — [boing, boing, boing]
I drove to town to do a few things
Came home, and found a friend mowing

This is a true story. Who knew that someone mowing my lawn could be a beautiful moment?

I’m challenging myself to find a beautiful moment each day for a week. This happened on Friday. Did someone do something nice for you this week? Was it a beautiful moment?

This also follows the W3 Challenge criteria for the week — all one syllable words except the last one, 5- 8 lines.

poetry

Inspired by a Card

Sally6 Comments

Hop hop hop
[CHOP CHOP CHOP]
Paws pause

Hark!
Ears prick up!
[Sniff sniff sniff]

Hmmm…
What is this?
What do I hear?

Hop hop hop
[CHOP CHOP CHOP]
“TIM-BER”!

This is my submission to this week’s W3 Challenge. Poet of the Week, Ange, challenged us to capture a dramatic moment in just a handful of lines — a storm breaking, a glass shattering, a door slamming, a sudden realization, or any instant where something changes sharply or unexpectedly.

You may write in any poetic form, with the following restrictions:

Your poem must be between 5 and 8 lines long. (or maybe 12, if they’re really short!)

Every single word in the poem must be one syllable long.

You are allowed one multi-syllable word — but it must appear as the very last word of the poem.

I was literally staring off into space — or, more precisely, absently staring at the box of paper recycling beside me. This card was on top — a Santa carrying a Christmas tree. I love rabbits; I’ve been observing lots of wildlife in my yard this week– and the poem was born.