SUMMER CHAIRS

 Boy. Was I scared to put up this new post. It may never see the light of day but I had to start somewhere. As one of my favorite authors says, "It was a good week in Lake Woebegone." Well, it has been a good week for Amy Taylor even though Monday was four months. 

As I type, I'm listening to the waves break along the coast of The Beach Club in Fort Morgan, Alabama. We went there in August with our grandsons and their parents. I have the live shot pulled up in the background. I can watch the blue water change color and see the waves shift direction. I see the Beach Boys carrying the umbrellas and chairs back to the four boxes for the night. They will be out again tomorrow, running with the umbrellas under their arms and going back to set up the chairs. What a job, day in and day out. They are in good shape and very tan. I wonder what they do between the morning and late afternoon.

H. loved the ocean. He was caught up in tickling surf ruffling around his calves, splashing saltwater across his body, a little in his nose. Dad was right there, holding tight. Granddad was farther back, ready to catch any stray six-year-old that might fall back into the water. But he was wearing a life vest. 

C. squealed and kicked his feet as his Mama dangled him in the surf. All of  his ten-month-old self experiencing such a new sensation, this fizzy warm water, a salty smell in his nose.

Our vacations have been back and forth to our homes, to see each other during our time off, being so far apart. But we do see each other regularly, but distance is still distance and time and energy. I do envy those parents who are close by their families. But eight hours is better than sixteen hours. At least you can drive. We had a nice vacation just relaxing in a different place. I hope to go back.

Nice memory for a fall afternoon. I do keep my eye on the beach. It has gotten to be a habit of mine, checking the beach for the day. Only 71 today. Kind of chilly for swimming even if the water is warm.

I just stuck my frozen chicken breasts in the oven. Olive oil, butter, garlic salt and Old Bay. It will make a nice supper with leftover rice and frozen broccoli. A Sister Schubert's roll. Maybe finish up the Chocolate Moose Tracks ice cream for dessert. Thursday is Goulash day. I may just break a record of cooking for the week. Plan to make Steak Veggie Soup on Friday. I know I'm breaking a record. I just haven't felt like cooking for a long time. K. has been a real trooper helping us manage. 

Today I got new doors. I have never had new doors before.  Just new storm doors but the door locks work and they close nicely. Now I can open the front door if the doorbell rings. As it has been, I have had to hold onto G. and talk through the side window. I keep a narrow chair under that window. G. would go through the window if he could and years of jumping up and down had ruined the paint. That was repainted last fall. This fall new doors, front and back. Those old doors had been there at least twenty-seven years. They are gone. I even have new keys. In an odd coincidence, my sister was getting all new windows. I thought that was funny. 

After a couple of months of looking online, I finally went into the store on Tuesday and bought a new purse. I do purchase some things on line but I try to be a store shopper. I love to touch what I'm purchasing. Oh, I do my homework online. I get out my ruler and measure the height, width and length and decide if it is large enough using my current purse as a pattern. But after all of this time studying the small Hallie bag with crossbody, it didn't foot the bill. 

I have no idea what my new purse is named but it is the same designer and larger and still has the crossbody.  I go into the guestroom where I spread out my new fall purchases (there were other items but only one purse). The room has that new leather smell. I do like a new purse but I keep them a long time and trade them out for different needs. My current purse I bought during Covid on a trip to the store to buy new sheets. Must have been a necessity.

Coming home with my pretty Cherry Coke purse (that's my name for it) I realized I didn't have an audience to run by and share my new purchase. Someone who would enjoy my new bag as much as me. Mama. She would love it and raise her eyebrows. Standard reaction. Where do you think I got my love for a good bag?  

Tomorrow night will be a big new season for the few network shows I watch. I don't watch much. We usually watch Shetland or Vera or Brokenwood Mysteries, all British. But I like my Razorbacks, NASCAR and the Kansas City Chiefs. I have watched one Cowboy game in honor of Mama but that may be enough. 

So just the simple things can make a good week. Like new clothes and finishing my book for my new book club (we shall see) weeks ahead of schedule. Supper in the oven and the furnace kicking on for the beginning of the cold snap. A good whiff of my fall scent. Getting the car washed. But putting your car in reverse on the metal feed is an interesting experience. Neutral is better. And then I had to drive by leaf blowers.

But did I mention the chairs? I did. It was something watching those young men snap the chairs up and run back to the storage boxes. The clap of the salt-seasoned chairs signaling the end of our summer. Instantly, for me, the memory clap of other chairs beginning our summer. 

Under the green tent. Sometimes you drive by a cemetery and the tent is empty. Or not. A family gathers. The white wooden chairs for those closest to the deceased. A goodbye. Later, we waited in the distance, watching as the small wooden box was lowered into the ground. We live hours from the cemetery so we couldn't come back later and make sure all was in place as it should be. 

The truck drove off, with the tent and the fake grass and the stack of wooden chairs. We walked back over to the headstone. Daddy waiting beside her. The ground is tamped down. The yellow rose wreath propped against the headstone, a name with no last date. The June hot summer morning is melting the clothes to our backs. There is great sadness. Mama is gone. But she has had a beginning. No more suffering. In her last weeks, she would say "Amen. Come, Lord Jesus." Rev. 22:20. HE came.

  

 

IN MEMORIAM: THE DEFINITION OF A GOOD MAMA

My Mama died yesterday. Ninety and half blessed years as she would say. She moved to Little Rock five years ago and lived in a Senior Adult Retirement Center. The independent side. Very independently. She wasn't needy. Very involved with the community, she was too busy with book club, bridge, chair yoga, bingo, swimming, skip bo and Happy Hour to name a few. I will miss her being twelve minutes away and trying to find a place in the adjacent parking lot and not the lot on the hill. On Tuesday, she worked her Wordle. On Wednesday, she was standing over the table looking for puzzle pieces in her beloved Puzzle Room. Diagnosed with cancer in January, she would tell anyone she was ready to see Jesus. After months of treatment, the disease took her quickly in the past week. I published this post in November 2013, It still describes my Mama.

She got the cat a few years ago. For her, it has been a wonderful addition to her life. There are others of us who are not crazy about the antics of this cat. She knocks pictures off the wall. She pushed a Waterford lamp off the table, into pieces. Shredded upholstery fabric with her sharp back claws. With regularity, she pushes the clock radio off the dresser in the middle of the night. Crazy cat lady. But her fierce love of this nutto cat is one more example of my mother's tremendous love and devotion if a breathing body belongs in her circle of family. And this cat is quite elevated in her position. She gets away with mayhem because she has the ability to purr.

The birthday girl with no party.  But don't feel sorry for her.  That is exactly the way she wants her day to be, turning eighty.  She its practically running to another state just in case someone she knows locally might take a room at the church and have a lovely reception.  Maybe just a little adoration will

be allowed from the family she is running to and her traveling companion.  She has made it very clear she knows the way with her eyes closed.  Lover of maps and adventure the road is always beckoning.  She will go anyway, anyhow, except why fly when you can get in the car and ride for eight or nine hours with birthday luck.  In her car, let me make that very clear.  Car love - seriously.

She loves the smell of new tires and squirrels away secret bars of chocolate.  She is the designated driver in her group of ladies because she can still see at night.  Her mahogany dining room table is always covered in a partial jigsaw puzzle and scattered pieces.  She has everything she needs but she doesn't want too much.  There is no excess of anything in her life except time spent at her computer playing games.  Shopping for shopping's sake doesn't interest her but she loves pretty new clothes.  I heard it from her first, a good bag and good shoes.  She is right but then again, she is right most of the time.

Impeccable taste and fashion advice.  Lipstick, powder and a good haircut.  Blue eyes and simple beauty a teenager who loved makeup could never understand.  Mama blue.  A house with nothing out of place.  A sofa, a chair, a table placement stays forever.

There is nothing in life that can't be cured by writing thank you notes, washing dishes, putting a hot supper on the table.  Writing monthly bills and watching the stock market keep her mind zippy along with crossword puzzles and staying busy.

There is a trophy on the shelf from the days of her life playing tennis.  And every Bible our family has ever purchased or received.  But she doesn't wear her faith on her sleeve.  She just shows up with whatever meets the need - deviled eggs, chocolate pie or a ham.  And she is quick to let the preacher know how she feels after sitting on the first row at church.  Nothing gets past her.

Especially raising two girls.  Waiting in the wingchair in the dark at 3.  Surprise.  Bacon and eggs for breakfast before church, after a college daughter ran around all night disco dancing.  Surprise.  Taking calls from a concerned professor, politely.  Surprise, your professor called.  Germany?  Really?  Can't see the forest for the trees.  There is this young friend of mine.

Goldwater.  Dallas tears and fears.  Presidential volunteering.  No knives of any kind but disbelief that the Secret Service would really take away his beloved pen knife at the Presidential Library Opening.

Games, always, everyday a full roster.  The Original Cowboy fan, through thick and thin and thick and thin, swaying her day.  World-stopping devotion.  A golf swing but never a player.  Tennis, tennis and more tennis.  Now aerobics to keep her moving.

To lunch but rarely dinner.  A circle of widow ladies with welcoming arms.  Whirlwind socializing.  Book review with a plate of cookies.  Symphony for the children.  Traveling just for a piece of the famous homemade pie.

Every second of every minute figured out weeks in advance, the gift of analyzing bridge twice a week for years.  Tournaments and points and good friends and manners.

The love of family but "when are you leaving" as you walk in the door.  Preparation for leaving.  Holiday dinners with just enough.  Too much leftover dressing would not do.  Leftovers are only tomorrow's meal in three weeks from the freezer.  A lifetime of little lidded cups containing mere tablespoons.  Waste not, want not.  But it was the chili, just that once.

Standing on the tarmac in her winter coat in Morocco.  Left waiting on her Naval Officer because he was right in third grade but wrong about her arrival time.  As fast as she could pack, catch a December train and a transport plane, first flight to a world only imagined in Hollywood.  Tales that would last a lifetime, the yearly tradition of a little ting of the bell on the Christmas corsage he grabbed on the way out the door of a borrowed apartment already full of presents for his bride.

Working day's end, she and two babies, bathed, freshly dressed, hot supper, everything waiting for his hand upon the door, his castle - their world.  A lively conversation that never ended until the middle of one dark morning.  Why do old people always want to know what time it is in the middle of the night?

Chopped onion and celery sautéing in a pan when he walks in the door and he will think you have really done something.  When Jesus comes, you are going to say "Just a minute, Jesus!"  Do it now.  Just do it, when the going gets tough.  One roll is enough.  Go fix the cornbread.  Are you working on your book?  What about the story?  You take too many pictures.  I don't need a cat.  Don't you dare get me a cat.  I'm not big on fruit.   I used to think I could eat a whole pot roast.   I don't eat all day, except a coke at lunch.    I'd go without but I always have six eyes looking back at me.  Happy Altoids!

No party for me.  Eighty is old.  I don't know how many years I have left (but her mother lived to ninety-three.)  True.  Pull out the map.  Check the itinerary.  Some items marked will be drive-by viewings only.  California.  New England.  Italy.  New Orleans.  She is always ready to go. Her bags are packed.  Here we come Rome, Georgia.  Let the whirlwind commence.


signed,

a girl who loves her Mama

WHAT COLOR PLEASE

 

Proceed with caution. This is personal fluff. Sometimes we just need a little lightness in the day. Your other choices are listed at the end of the article.

When I was a teenager, I was famous for my nails and polish collection. Back in the day, we didn’t have Lee Press On Nails that would stay on your fingers. Only celebrities like Cher and Barbra had gorgeous long, red nails which I greatly coveted, my goal in life. Fortunately, for me, good nails are inherited. Grandmama had good nails and so does Mama. I’m hoping good nails mean good bones.

In those days, hunting out new nail polish was my hobby. When we moved to Little Rock the grocery store, Skaggs Albertson’s, had an entire wall devoted to nails. This was a new feature and greatly appreciated. Many a baby-sitting dime went to purchase my new favorite color by Revlon or Loreal or Cutex. I can’t remember the color names. Every Saturday afternoon or night, depending on my social life, I would do my nails. I could paint my nails in thirty minutes and let them dry for an hour with only light tasks allowed like turning the pages of a magazine.  

Actually, with longer nails, tasks weren’t easily performed. Washing dishes only in gloves. Making a bed was foreboding. Hooking a necklace. Buttons. Then a nail would break and I would always cut them all back down.

I always got compliments on my nails. As a college student doing mission work in deep South Texas at a Hispanic Baptist Church, the little children would hug me and call me Sister, holding my hands to look at my long, fluorescent purple painted nails. They were fascinated. Purple was a completely daring color. No one even made Blue My Mind or the famous Chanel Vampire, a black red polish. Now there is no lack of greens, greys, yellows and other colors I deem inappropriate for nails, certainly for my nails. My teenage colors of choice were anything frosted pink or peach or hot pink and pure red. In fashion magazines, I always looked at the nails.

I remember seeing my first pink white blush color on the pages of People Magazine in the early 80’s in an article about Marie Osmond and her young family, her new baby and first husband. They divorced, had more spouses, and have remarried in the last few years. I searched for the color for years. It is now my favorite.

The names of polishes must be catchy. It’s Pink PM, You Callin’ Me A Lyre?, Act Your Beige, Let Me Bayou a Drink. My current collection of Pink White Blush colors.

The click clack of my nails made my piano teacher crazy. I kept them shorter and would wear them short for recitals and Piano Guild. But my nails have always grown quickly. The longest my nails have ever been were the days closest to my wedding. I worked very hard not to do any tasks more strenuous than unwrapping wedding presents and applying my Estee Lauder makeup. Only hair salons had manicurists with appointments.

The length of nails today is ridiculous. There are certainly many dishes left in the sink and beds unmade.  When I was a girl, my Camp Fire Girl Troop went to Fort Night at Neiman Marcus in Dallas. The focus for the year was on China. I have never forgotten the two Chinese men on display for their nails. Long, long nails and at a certain length the nails grew and curled around each other. It brought up too many questions in my 10 year old mind.

There were not nail salons on every corner offering hundreds of colors and almost as many applications. I have done the artificial nails but finally gave up when I decided the cost and damage to my own nails were not a fair trade. But that has not prevented me from enjoying getting my nails done for every special occasion. Diana and I have always had fun going to get a mani-pedi together.  

My freshman year of college was the heyday for my nail obsession. It was not uncommon for my polish to change daily, matching fingernails and toenails. I was definitely on target for all of those good grades needed to make parents happy to provide your college education. But in all fairness, I was not the only coed up to her knees in cotton balls and polish remover. However, my first semester of college I got an A+ in Nails and an F in Biology. Always blessed with time management skills.

 

I was trying to think of something to blog but my current choices were fun health and  family issues and toe nail fungus. These are not encouraging or written about in polite company. I think I will just go paint my fingernails. Afterall, laundry and brushing the dog are not tasks for fresh nails.

 

P.S. For strong nails, I recommend OPI Nail Envy. Nail Strengthener. Last purchased on Amazon.

 

 

 

CHRISTMAS CHEER: THE JOURNEY OF A CHRISTMAS TREE

I don't know about you but my tree came with a yellow ribbon, all the way from Oregon.  Maybe on a truck or maybe on a train.  But not on a ship or a bus or a bike.  What a wonderful place to be, in a truck or on a train filled with fir trees.  The garage smells delicious. 

Probably on a truck because there is not a train station near the tree store (big box, sorry local favorite florist but your trees are out of my price point, even though you know my name.)  The truck has made the 2,241 mile journey, which according to Google Maps should take thirty-two hours.

We hope our Christmas Tree Trucker was not expected to make the trip in such a fashion but he couldn't lollygag.  His trailer was full of woods, "lovely, dark and deep."  In a different journey but like Robert Frost's traveler in "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening," our trucker couldn't stop and relax but a moment because
                   "I have promises to keep,
                       and miles to go before I sleep,
                         and miles to go before I sleep."                                 
Wow.  Can you imagine a 53' trailer, full of tons and tons of scratchy fir trees?  Maybe they were piled in boxes and then loaded.  Thousands of needles scratching the boxes with the slightest bump in the road.  Such a long road to travel.  Would it make him merry to carry his load, anxious to be such a bearer of joy?

From capital to capital, from the Willamette Valley to a dip in geography between the Ozarks and the Delta.  From a lush pacific region boasting Strawberry Festivals, Peony Festivals, a Wine, Pear and Cheese Jubilee, a Bluebird Day, a Jefferson Mint and Frog Jump Festival, Dahlia Festivals and a Pumpkin Merriment Party, to name a few.  Eight states away to another world of fests:  Watermelon Festivals, the Wye Mountain Daffodil Festival, Jewish Food Festival, Sixth Annual Elvis Haircut Day, Toad Suck Daze, Riverfest, Purplehull Pea and World Championship Rotary Tiller Race, and Bikes, Blues and BBQ.

Portland.  Boise.  Ogden.  Laramie.  Skirting Denver.  Salina.  Wichita.  Just barely missing Tonkawa.  Heading on down to Tulsa Town.  Passing Fort Smith.  Leaving London.  Cruising through Conway.  Crossing the Arkansas River.

The 6 -7 foot Douglas Fir is still supple and fresh.  Our batch of winter weather has certainly helped keep the tree supply winterized for all of us folks who just looked up and realized Christmas was around the corner.  And the winter weather has not helped my procrastinating preparation. 
I love Christmas.  Joy to the World was written just for me.  Hark the Herald Angels Sing.  I have learned a lot about angels this year while teaching my new favorite thing, my Ladies Sunday School Class, a dozen fun girls about my mother's age.  I don't teach, I just steer and occasionally throw a wild card into the mix.

But for a lot of people, this is a hard season.  Chronic illness can make merriment difficult.  Even good stress can add to chemical depressions.  People dealing with addictions.  The death of a beloved father, whether a month ago or three years ago.  Hunger for love, for food, for a warm, peaceful day.  We all want to feel merry in our hearts, complete with wrapped presents and a table full of home cooked favorites, surrounded by people who love us.

For me, two great truths are found on this ribbon.  First of all, this tree was planted and grown in the U.S.A.  The yellow ribbon or tag was attached to the tree manually.  Can you imagine doing that job over and over and over, and again?  My tree was a perfect tiny little green polka dot in a large tree farm where acres and acres are filled with trees to be harvested in different years.   
.......This tree was grown expressly to bring the joy of Christmas into your home.
They didn't have to include those words.  Sure, it is their business but it is also their statement.  This tree was grown expressly, on purpose, to stand in my study in the front window shimmering with white lights, covered with shiny ornaments made all over the world and a few made with the hands of a little girl.  A tree for my home.
......to bring the joy of Christmas.   Christians didn't begin to consider winter evergreens as symbolic until Medieval times and even then, because of the origins in ancient Egyptian and Roman cultures it was not accepted.  The Puritans had laws against Christmas decorations.  German immigrants are credited with bringing many Christian Christmas traditions to America.  The British Victorian tree greatly popularized the American decorated tree we enjoy today.  This is the historical viewpoint. 
I don't know the religious leanings of this noble tree farm, but for me, when I see the Christmas tree I see hope.  How wonderful to look out on acres of trees and know the joy they will bring.   I know the joy that gives me strength on the cold day.  The hope that gets me through the hard times of the season.  Love that knows my name.
May this Christmas be full of  joy, hope and love for you and those you love.

"And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly hosts praising God,

and saying,

Glory to God in the highest.  And on earth, peace and goodwill to all men." 

Luke 2:13-14

              
 

Originally published 12-13-13

NOT AFRAID OF VOLCANOES

                                                                         

To think you almost didn't make it. You were born four weeks early. The doctor came in the room and told Mama that if you lived twenty-four hours you would probably live. No one had told her. She had been asking to see her baby but there was always an excuse. Until the pediatrician came in. You had hyaline membrane disease. This was the beginning of your life, the story of your little body struggling for every breath. 

I came along first. Twenty-two months before you. I figure your struggle was where you get your tough strength. We were camping with our family in Colorado. I was six and you were four. We were visiting an ancient volcano. You said you weren't afraid of volcanoes. It wouldn't hurt you if you didn't hurt it. And you weren't afraid of bears.   

I don't think you have ever been afraid of anything. Not the dark. I remember waking my little sister up in the middle of the night to walk me down the long dark hall to the bathroom because we didn't need night lights. 

I may have come first but sometimes it's like you should have been first.

Except you definitely are my baby sister.

We travelled all over the country camping. When we visited the Grand Canyon we hiked down the Angel Trail, a narrow path shared with burros taking adventuring souls down into the canyon. When we had ventured far enough, we turned around. Although she wanted a helicopter to get her out, Mama stills says you pulled her back up the trail.

You always wanted to dance. In elementary school, you twirled on stage in your red and white tutu in a school play. In high school, you were the Dancing Queen, doing the hustle in your satin turquoise jeans or spinning in your pink Quiana dress on the outreaching arm of your favorite partner. You even won a Disco contest!

At the end of your junior year, our family moved to another city for a new job opportunity for Daddy. Not a great opportunity for you. But you bravely packed your bags, said goodbye to your friends, the drill team and Student Council, determined to make a new name for yourself in the new place. People questioned the move and offered to let you live with them for your senior year. But our family doesn't separate. It was rough but you were stronger.

You completed the University as Outstanding Student in your field of study and went to work for the largest bank in the state. As the administrative assistant to the Vice President. As you said one time, "I know how much money is in all of these bank accounts but I'll never tell. Just knowing is enough." You got that job with a resume in hand, knocking on the door. 

You got married and had two children. After each child, you went back to work when they were six weeks old, the norm at the time. There was no such thing as a long maternity leave or paternity leave. You worked all day and at night came home to a needy house. Need to feed the family, need to wash the clothes. Need to vacuum. I have always admired your ability for hard work. You jump in and get the job done. Pitch and toss. Hilary will clear it out. 

                                                                           

With a six week old baby, traveling on a path of ice and snow, you moved your family to a new state so your husband could attend seminary. A new place. A new start. All so he can learn the way to use his gift to God's glory. The sole bread winner, you lose your job very early in the transition and went to work for a bank. Strength again.

Two years later, a new move to another state and a new church for music ministry. After waiting over a week for their belongings, she called the van line over and over, only to find the van had been moved to an out of the way corner in Pensacola. She is not afraid to take the bull by the horns. One afternoon, she calls me from her kitchen and says "I'm standing at the kitchen sink. Can you hear the hurricane?" She goes to work for a bank in the new town and is voted Woman of the Year by the local women's club for her service to the community. 

Several years later, your family moves to another state and city. Whew. You are still there. But really, who has worked at a funeral home and cemetery. Brave. During that time, you decide to return to the university. While managing your funeral home job, with children in elementary and middle school and the demands of being a minister's wife, you get a Master's Degree in Education. 

Mama Meal of Hamburger Patty, mashed potatoes and canned green beans will be served just a few times as you meet your new responsibility as a 2nd grade, kindergarten and pre-K teacher. Somehow you make time to teach a middle school Sunday School Class. You attend prayer groups in your spare time. 

You come home one night and your home has been ransacked. You pick everything up and buy a new door lock. Your sister is quaking in her shoes just thinking about it. 

Mama lives eight hours away and in new retirement, you are famous for calling in the morning and twenty minutes later calling back and saying "I'm on the road to Little Rock." All to come see Mama and me. You can throw a bag together slap dap unlike your sister who has to have every outfit written on a list and checked off before closing a suitcase. You stop halfway through your trip at an outlet mall for a little shopping and a good walk around.

                                                                        

                                                                                

A rare picture of Daddy camping because he was usually taking the pictures. Cooking on a grill, no Coleman Stove in sight. Must be first trip! Daddy has been gone thirteen years. But he was a wonderful father to his two girls. He loved to kick his house shoes down the hall and make us squeal with laughter. He worked hard for his family to always provide more than we needed. He loved to take us camping. We would eventually modernize with lanterns and stoves. He took us on a wonderful trip to NYC where the waitress knew his name and our names! He worked during the day and put us in death defying taxis at night, riding to Mama Leone's and The King and I. 

I was recently asked who is my hero. I immediately thought of you with your strength and bravery for what the situation requires. I always want you on my side.

You have an open wide heart of giving to many people. You are famous for your pumpkin bread, chocolate chip cookies and snickerdoodles - just checking on you.

You sit in a room full of children and try to give each one the love in your heart. Each child - the ones who are lovely and the ones who can't help that their lives have been hard so far. You are their chance. 

You are the chance for so many people. The chance to see God in your eyes, your song, your hands, your concern, your laughter. I can only imagine the laughter as you rode a bicycle in Paris in the middle of the road. Unforgettable. Brave!

You are the one to call when a friend is dying. You bravely stand by and share loving words and scripture, sing him a song. This man just hours from heaven. Not even your family but a sweet friend.

I have never written about my sister, Hilary. She is the one L. The LL is the First Lady when my sister and her family spend the night at the White House.

I can write about her because she is such an encourager. I am the writer just wanting to share the strength and bravery she brings to my life. She is still my baby sister. And I suppose if we were to sit down with paper and crayons she would still copy my drawing. I can only hope to copy her zest for living. 

                                                                        

                                                                         She makes life fun!

 

OUT ON VACATION: TUMPED, RATTLED AND ROLLED

 This great adventure began with a surprise and a birthday for someone not easily surprised.  Early on our trip, I announced I was not giving away the location even if Burt guessed correctly.  We were traveling a busy highway with many offshoots leading to interesting destinations.  I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of figuring out my plan.  After all, I had put time and effort into this surprise adventure.  I told him to pack his basics.  I packed tricks up my sleeve.

We zoomed past the last turn off point to a big vacation spot,  We'd been traveling over two hours when he said one of the most rarely used words in his vocabulary - flabbergasted. Just hearing that word was satisfaction enough for all of my stealth.  Almost enough.  He knew I was pleased.  I told him I would tell him when we arrived.

We drove through little Arkansas towns we had only seen on the state weather map.  Ash Flat, Cherokee Village, Cave City.  Homes and businesses lining Highway 67, some more prosperous than others.  This was like the twilight zone to us, setting us down in another world in our very own state.  We do get around - except for this northeastern spot almost in Missouri.

I announced we'd arrived in the little town of Hardy, home to great canoeing, kayaking and white knuckle tubing adventures located on the Spring River.  Hunting and fishing.  The Spring River begins in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas about fifteen miles to the north.  A natural spring, eighty feet below the surface produces 9.75 million gallons of water an hour, a natural wonder producing the Spring River.  The river is 58 degrees at all times.  The river forks off in Hardy to a warmer version.

Canoe trailers are everywhere.  Kayaks are tied to car roofs.  This place is keyed into water adventures.  Tourism appears to be a healthy business.

We had canoed in college and kayaks don't match our waistlines so I had gotten us a reservation for a float down the south fork of the Spring River Saturday afternoon.  Neither one of us had ever floated or tubed down a river but children were included in the trip.  I figured it must be child-friendly and made for the novice.

My bag of tricks included special sunglass lassos, waterproof bags and food, 85 sun protection for lily white skin, and his old hat and tennis shoes and hidden swimsuits.  He was surprised again at my idea and preparation but most of all, the willingness of this summer couch potato to get into the water.

It was not a good sign when we walked up to the establishment and people were standing around complaining about the long wait for their rafting sessions to begin.  It is always good to crack open a few cold ones to cool off any tempers.  Beer and coolers, the more the merry for heading down water.  Everyone was so pleasant standing around in the 100 degree sunshine.

If I were to describe in detail our fetching attire, which we felt was necessary to protect our skin, our daughter might never speak to us.  Please don't tell RL I wore my favorite navy long sleeve blouse down the river.  Burt was asked twice if we were from Maine (t-shirt).  I do believe we had the experience of age over everyone else.  But at least we were moving.

Another questionable happening was the pile of life vests being decimated as the rafters pulled out of Dodge.  They are required to carry vests in the rafts.  No one made a point of requiring we get a vest.  After all, this was going to be a nice little float down a lazy river with a little rapid here and there.  And the remaining life vests wouldn't fit my big toe.

The rickety old van used to transport us to our river of Oz was not a good sign of corporate cohesiveness.  There were no instructions but Burt and I had seen other rivers where people looked so happy floating along, occasionally shooting through fairly shallow rapids.

The float (tube) is huge with a little canvas seat in the middle.  This is the advertised Cadillac version, seriously.  We wanted to be tethered to enjoy the experience together. I didn't want to go first because I had no clue of what I was doing.  I had packed two waterproof bags for a picnic on the river.  There were plenty of sandbars along the merry way according to the management. These bags were hanging on the tether but my float was not attached, yet.  When you sit your caboose in the float, your limbs go flying up in the air until you remember the importance of grabbing the handles.  This is the last moment of control until the lazy trip ends.  Suddenly, you are at the mercy of the river while your husband is still trying to get himself situated.

At first, the current is a good sign, the first good sign of the day.  I can still hear children getting in tubes with their parents.  But the current is carrying Burt and me further apart.  We can still see each others' faces and hear yelled conversations, but despite our best dog paddling, we can't catch up to one another.  As the lucky one who ended up going first, I'm soon around the corner and into the first little rapid.  This is so much fun!  I will try and watch Burt make his initial rapid and wait for him.

My first rapid made me realize the current was perking along.  I tried to stay steady and wait for my swimming partner but the water wouldn't let me.  I could hear him come around the corner but by then I was moving swiftly out of sight.  I yelled to him that I would wait at the next sandbar.

At one point, he yelled to me that he had tumped over.  I could only imagine the fiasco.  But at least it wasn't a canoe.  Unfortunately, he couldn't reseat himself in the tube and had to hang on top of the float, going head first into the rapids.  I knew his predicament but still had no control of my own journey, floating down the middle of the river, large sections of the river, totally alone, all alone.  I did have a few good rapids but I was worried about him.

This was his birthday treat and we were doing everything separately.  There was never a good stopping place.  I finally saw a family playing on the banks of the river.  A long set of steps went up to a house at the top of the hill.  I yelled out and asked if the water was waist deep.  The woman said yes.  She was just a couple of yards from me when I decided enough was enough.

I launched off the tube into water over my head.  I've grown up in water - chlorinated, beach, river, lake water.  I've never had this feeling before.  The tube flipped up over my head and my sunglasses and hat swam like a mass in front of my face.  I'll never forget the shadowy underwater image.  My first thought was "This is how people drown."  The undertow was my next shock.  I couldn't believe how strong the river bottom was flowing.  I say the grace of God gave my legs strength to make it to the nearby rock shelf.  I never let go of the float.  When I reached the woman and her family, my arms and hands were shaking uncontrollably.  I told them I just wanted to wait for my husband.

Burt finally arrived.   I asked the woman if those were her steps and house.  I told her I just wanted to walk up there and wait until someone could come get me.  I recalled a rough trip on the Buffalo River when I wanted a helicopter to come get me.  I told Burt I couldn't do it.  If I had had my wits, I would have let go of the float.  Whoops.  The nice woman told us the river had been closed the day before.  I could tell she wasn't impressed with the outfitter we had chosen.  We were like two fish out of the water.  She said she was always helping folks out.  She helped us get re-situated and we headed back down the river.  I never would have gotten back in if Burt hadn't had hold of my float.

For a short distance, the float was fun, going down rapids together just like I had envisioned.  But we were soon separated again and my quiet, lonely journey continued.  It seemed as if we couldn't stay together as we battled the current and the rapids.  It was a very strange sensation, going down the river with no one else in sight.  Nothing along the banks looked reliable and I was afraid of snakes.  I was stuck in the middle with no way of slowing or changing course.  Definitely not the afternoon I had expected.

Then Burt came around the corner, laying across his float, hanging on for dear life. Another rapid had tumped him overboard.  It was hard to see someone you love struggling and not be able to help.  He aimed for a rare large rock in the river and was able to right his float and get back on properly, resting in his Cadillac seat.  And then finally, the river begin to slow and we were able to get back together. We gleefully floated to the second bridge, our landmark for disembarking.  Our tour was ending.  Exhausted, we pulled the floats up on a grassy hill and I collapsed on the ground.  The picnic bag had not been sealed properly - my fault. Wrapped MM's and Kit Kats floated in the trapped river water.  My Coca Cola was salvageable but my blood sugar was going down fast.

Our chariot arrived, a van in worse shape than the first one.  Windows were loosely held on with duct tape which was a saving grace as a hole in the floor was sending noxious fumes inside.  I promised myself to just hang on, I would soon be in dry clothes.  We later laughed that maybe we were too old but scuttled that theory.  Maybe we should just stick to chlorinated water but that would cut out the beach and the lake.

Dry MM's, a Sprite, Peanut Butter crackers and a nap gave me the energy to go to dinner.  Burt met a live scorpion in the shower while I napped.  Just more excitement to the day.  We ended the day with a delicious steak dinner, watching the sunset on this part of the world, perched cliff side overlooking the river.  It wasn't our part of the river, but I looked at the rapids for as long as light would catch the white ripples.  They would be white even in the dark like the millions of gallons gushing to make a river, neverending, neverending, even in the dark.  The river represented our survival, coming through the rough waters.  But better served wearing life vests and tethered together, the best way to go down an uncharted river.






*We had taken out at the second bridge as instructed. After that point in the river, rapids and a large whirlpool awaited anyone on the river. We didn't know that part.  Later in the summer, a man kayaking through those waters was swept into and under the whirlpool area. His body was not found for some time. 

OUT ON VACATION: THE BEST AIR MATTRESS

 

We had four because we were four, traveling the country in a packed to the gills Yellow Ford Galaxy and later, a Shimmery Green Chevy Impala.  The best ever air mattresses were dual purposed, a necessity for camping.  By night, soft pillows of air tucked under flannel lined sleeping bags.  In the light of day and within sight of water, buoys across whatever beach, river, or lake called our name to a day of water-filled adventure.

The best air mattress, wide and long, with the reminiscent smell of a sturdy Goodyear tire, tried and true.  Every seam of the mattress was sealed to perfection, above and beyond the rest of any just plain water toy.

The green mattress had the feel of suede.  Surely, this rubberized canvas was sea worthy if a mast could be installed without puncturing the sturdy fabric.  Standing on the edge of the beach, looking out over the Gulf, one could imagine launching the float towards Cuba and arriving, if only to push up on the foreign soil for just a moment before discovery.

Landfall in Cuba brought to mind the struggle of the old man and the sea, and his daily tin can of hot coffee for breakfast before sunrise, another day searching, using the handmade ropes to capture the glory fish of his last days after a lifetime of just enough.

My imagination would be only a slight match for the old man's small wooden skiff.  The race of a silver blue fish out into the Gulf, caught in an unknown trap, a heavy load to shake off.  The old fisherman's gnarled hands gripping the endowed rope, the prize finally within his seasoned grasp.  The untamed, unchallenged will of the wild fighting with every cell this unknown outcome. 

The stillness of the sea, the unshadowed sun, the scavengers of the defeated.  The strength of anger to raise an oar and strike at nature's predators circling and circling.  The real one that couldn't get away.

The call to come in, dragging the air mattress behind me, leaving stripes in the sand as I turn towards evening camp chores.  When my parents were still drinking coffee around the fire, Sister and I would head to bed.  Finally tucked into my cozy sleeping bag on top of the taut mattress, the worst sound would be the barely discernible buzz of air escaping. Or the high pitched noise might be a blood thirsty mosquito dive bombing my ear.  At this point in the trip, a mosquito was the preferred option.  With rolling over came the realization that morning would find me on the surface of the topography of this campsite with only a tarp and a canvas floor as a cushion between me and the hard, rocky ground.  Nothing is flatter than a flat air mattress that has given up the ghost, slowly all night long.

When camping, we had exactly what we needed, carefully thought out for the two week trek to the echoing Colorado mountains or the Atlantic Ocean.  Year after year, my mother mapped out a trip months ahead of time, sending letters inquiring about the Grand Canyon and Mesa Verde and the free maps offered by the different states we would travel through.  Or procuring tickets to visit The White House and The Capitol.  (We didn't camp while in Washington, D.C. but going and coming.)  Those mattresses were packed and unpacked many trips.

On the trails in Colorado

Campsite unloading.  Always a happy family time.  The folded mattresses would be put on the concrete table. We didn't have anything resembling an air pump but two pairs of lungs.  Oh the joy for the lucky children who got to blow up the mattresses.  But the campsite was not up and running until the "beds" had been made in the tent.

Blowing up the mattress would make me dizzy.  My cheeks would hurt.  I would blow and blow and see little result.  I would throw out a complaint which would not usually be noticed by parents placing stakes and smoothing the tarp.  I can still hear the sound of the heavy green canvas tent unfolding and becoming a shelter against the wilds of the wilderness like bears and cougars and skunks and hurricanes.

Immense effort continued in my physically exhausting attempt to get that float finished.  Sister would be working on her air mattress.  I don't know if it was the time expended in achieving the result or the burning lungs and exhaustion after the fact.  Toting water back to the campsite from the distant water spigot.  Shining a skinny flashlight down the camp road to get to the facilities in the middle of the night.  Waiting for the rain to stop while staring at the green canvas, not daring to touch the sides and start a horrible leak.   Blowing up the air mattress was the least favorite of the unfavorites.

But suddenly the welded rubber seams would straighten up and the flat columns of air would pop and I would quickly close off the brass nozzle.  The stress and struggle would result in something that would hold me up as I floated in the nearby lake, laying across it sideways, dangling my legs into the water which got cooler as I went farther out.  Or laying down on the mattress as I bobbed across salt water, soft waves on a quiet sea running underneath. 

But without the stress and the struggle I would only have a flat piece of suede-like rubber.

When life gets hard, look for a buffer.  Don't lay down on rocks covered only by a plastic sheet and canvas.  Pour the stress, anxiety and pain into something that can lift you just inches above the uneven surface.  Without the tension of the trapped air, the mattress can't inflate.  

You can be standing on your little Ship of Life and a rogue wave knocks you into the water.  Lady Overboard!  For a minute I flounder before I remember I can swim.  The best air mattress is thrown my way and I grab it and hang on tight, kicking out of the deep water.  Finally on top, I lay back resting on the pillow, as my tears of panic dry under the glory of the sun. 



Originally posted 4-3-14