Kindness and Sorrow

[The writing group assignment was to tell about an act of kindness done for us or by us. Based on "Kindness," by Naomi Shihab Nye, from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems (1994)
The lines I used:
"Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing."]



Before I worked for him, I didn't know anyone like him. I guess my father would come closest. While I was working for him, I learned what integrity looked like, and I wanted to have it too. Working for him wasn't always easy; he was demanding, sometimes too much so. But as the years went on, I gained a huge amount of respect for him--and he did for me. After he retired, in my opinion no one even came close to him in ethics and standards, in running the firm.

When I went into the ministry, I moved away and didn't stay in contact. Years later, I moved back to serve a church in Nashville, and renewed the friendship. He took me to lunch and was so proud of me. "She used to be my secretary, and now she's a minister," he told the waitress. He was like a proud father.

One day not long after that, he came to my church office, with terrible news. "I have cancer, and don't have much longer to live. Will you do my funeral?" Through my shock, came my answer. "I'd be honored."

From then on, the plans were made. He was a very organized person, and he made the plans for his funeral down to the smallest detail. He told me what he wanted. I was to be in charge. A Bishop was to do the eulogy, but I was to be in charge. Another minister was to sing, but he reiterated that I was to be in charge. I think he trusted me to understand how he wanted it done and follow through. As his health continued to fail, I saw him and talked with him, as did his other clergy friends. After his death, the three of us did as he asked. We all loved him, respected him, grieved for him.

Soon after his funeral, his son called me, and told me of his bequest to me. I was humbled by his generosity, and by his remembering me.

He was one of the finest men I ever knew--like a father, a mentor, a friend. It was a rare friendship in our modern business world, based on mutual trust and respect, rather than power games or intimidation. A man from the old school, a gentleman, in the best sense of the word. Rather than lecturing about integrity, he lived it. I hope I can follow that example in my own life.

Reading and writing

[In writing group, we each drew three random words to write from. Mine were joy, despair, create. And then we were off . . . . ]

"He don't have no despair," says Faulkner's character in "The Spotted Horses." It is such a joy to go back to reading Faulkner after years away. How was he able to create such true-to-Southern-life characters? The class is a joy, reading him again is a joy, and it inspires me, just as his work used to do, when I was much younger.

Reading Faulkner requires the willingness to pay close attention, and be willing to read slowly his long, dense sentences, sometimes whole paragraphs, with no punctuation at all. But I'm enjoying it so much again, that it's worth the effort.

During that period in my life, I read Southern writers almost exclusively. I have Faulkner books on my shelf that I haven't touched in years. Now I want to go back to them again. I also have other books by Southern writers, and one book about Southern writers.

Isn't it funny the reading tangents we go on? From teen fantasy (the Eragon trilogy my grandchildren introduced to me), back to quality literature. And missing my friend Jeaninne all the time, for the book lists we used to share.

*******

[The next assignment came from "Numbers," by Mary Cornish. Addressing the question, "What have you recently added to your life? What do you need to subtract from it?]

What have I added to my life lately? Writing group. It's brought fun back into my life, and gotten my brain going again. I've been wanting to record my memories, so that my daughter and my grandchildren will have something to refer to when they are curious about what life was like for me, growing up in Oak Ridge. So now having an outlet for those memories gives me great pleasure.

What I need to subtract from my life is the accumulation of junk that builds up all around me. This is harder than I realized--harder than it sounds. Every time I want to clear out my books, I come upon books I haven't read in a long time--like the Faulkner books. So how am I going to dispose of Faulkner, when I've just rediscovered him? "What a puzzlement!" as the King of Siam told Anna.

I have this dream of organizing all the parts of my life--and adding and subtracting perfectly. And that someday I'll have a lovely comfortable home surrounded by my books, my stitching, and my family (including Toby, of course). Somehow I don't think this is a very realistic goal. Somehow that perfection doesn't seem very attainable.

Adding and subtracting--I always did have trouble with numbers!

Who Am I?

I am from piano lessons and trading cards,
from good china and outhouses.
I am from air raid drills and security posters
on the Turnpike.

I am from the Chapel on the Hill
and church held in the Ridge Theater.
I'm from the conservative right,
so how did I get to the liberal left?

I'm from biscuits and gravy or honey,
and the coffee pot plugged in all day.

I'm from teachers and principals,
and also from farmers and truckdrivers.
I'm from Methodists and Baptists,
and have become neither.

I'm from salt-of-the-earth "people,"
now trying to survive in a world alone.
From extended family to nuclear family.

From Appalachian folk culture
to the Atomic City.
Who knew Oak Ridge would ever
be "the good old days"?



After "where i'm from" by George Ella Lyon
from where i'm from: where poems come from (1999)

Waiting for the bus

Several years ago, I wrote this little blurb in my small notebook I carry with me. My dog Toby (a bichon frise) and I were sitting on the bench outside my daughter's house, waiting for the school bus. Unfortunately, I didn't date it (the one writer's sin), but this is what I said (unedited).

"Toby and I sitting on the bench, waiting for the bus. How does he know what we're waiting for? But it's as if he does know. Would be a good picture--two white heads, turned the same way--waiting for one small blond boy, we both adore."

This morning I'm thinking it might work better in verse form. Let's see how that goes.


Toby and I sit on the bench,
waiting for the bus.
How does he know what we're waiting for?
But it's as if he does know.

Would be a good picture--
two white heads,
turned the same way--
waiting for one small blond boy,
we both adore.


Pretty bad poetry, but truth, nevertheless.

Dreamcatcher

Our writing prompt that day in the group was a dreamcatcher, hanging on the wall. And oh, the wonderful memories it brought back! Quickly I was immersed in those memories of another rich experience I will never forget.

I took a trip to Tucson, Arizona, as an escape from two years at my "church from hell." (Every minister has one; just ask them.) I thought I might even be able to transfer into the Southwest Conference and serve a church there. That was not to be. Nevertheless, it was a wonderful experience, traveling into a "brave new world" for me, in the Southwest.

I drove west by myself, my suitcases in the trunk, and a faceted crystal orb hanging from my rearview mirror, increasingly catching the sunlight and bouncing it around my car. As the scenery changed, I was overwhelmed by the beauty around me.

I'd never driven this far alone and was a little nervous, but I'd had the car serviced, and had a CB radio on the seat beside me. I promised my daughter I'd drive only during daylight hours, and stop when I got tired. And check in with her every night until I arrived.

The friend I stayed with had a condo up in the hills above the city, and she took me on several short trips to show me the area. Over and over, I repeated, "I love this place. I want to stay here." The sunlight was different there, and it caught the glass angel on her coffee table, sending brilliant sparkles around the room. Just as the faceted orb on my rearview mirror had done. I'm an early riser, and I got up before my friend did, so I had my morning coffee basking in the sunlight, and stroking her beautiful cats, who kept me company.

In Tucson I learned about the dreamcatcher, as one hung over my bed during my visit. And I was introduced to southwestern architecture, and art, and textiles, and scenery. We went to southwestern museums, and ate at restaurants with southwestern food. I bought a cross stitch pattern of the Taos Pueblo in New Mexico, though I knew that it would be a challenge for my then less-than-expert stitching skills. I stayed there two months--in summertime, no less.

But the only job I was able to find was temp work. The United Methodist Southwest Conference had more ministers than they could place. Apparently my love affair with the Southwest was not unique. Many people knew what a magical place Tucson was.

So eventually I came back home to Tennessee, took a new church in Cookeville, TN, and awaited the birth of my first grandchild. But I never forgot my Southwest adventure, and every time I see a dreamcatcher, or a De Grazia picture, or Georgia O'Keefe's art work, I'm immediately plunged back into that world that I loved so much. I finished my Taos Pueblo piece and had it framed, and it now hangs in my Tennessee apartment. I know that I'm back where I need to be, but I'm very grateful for the magical two months that God granted me in Tucson, Arizona.

October and Jeaninne

October is here at last. Thank goodness! Fall is my favorite season, a real relief after the dog days of summer. (Of course, when April arrives, I'll swear that spring is my favorite season. Which will also be true.)

I've always wished I had the coloring of my friend Jeaninne. She LOOKED like autumn--with beautiful auburn hair, and always wore fall colors beautifully. We were best friends in high school (bff's even then). We were in most classes together, and even double dated. I remember pizza parties, and walking through a snowstorm to the corner grocery store to buy the pizza mix. NOT Chef Boyardee, and this was before the time of Papa John's. No way to order online for delivery in 30 min. But my preference in pizza hasn't changed in 50 years--pepperoni, mushrooms, and GREEN olives. We'd make the pizzas, and when Nick and Don came over, we'd eat and listen to Johnny Mathis and Dave Brubeck. (Please note that this was 50 years ago, so I may be mixing my time periods. Was Dave Brubeck 60's or 70's?)

Jeaninne's home was a second home to me. Her mother was a wonderful cook; I still use her lasagne recipe. Her father was a physicist at Oak Ridge National Lab, and built a race car. They always made me feel welcome, and I loved spending time there. Her mother taught me how to knit, as well as sharing recipes. She loved opera and ballet, and their home was filled with good books, wonderful music, and art work.

Jeaninne drove a little yellow Crosley convertible, shaped like a box, with a hole in the floor where you could see the pavement go by. I lived on a steep hill, and when she picked me up, the neighboring German Shepherd would run alongside us up the hill. He was at about eye level, and ran at about the same speed as the Crosley, as it putt-putted up the hill. We had lots of laughs and good times in that little Crosley.

Through all the years after high school, we stayed really good friends, though we never lived in the same place again. She went to University of Wisconsin in Madison, married and moved to Japan. Their two children were born in Japan, and were bilingual up to the time of their return to the States. They lived in California after that. But Jeaninne and I stayed close friends, and shared that same crazy humor we'd had in high school. Whenever she came home for a visit, I'd get back to Oak Ridge to see her, and we'd pick back up where we'd left off. We'd exchange book lists, recipes, and life experiences. She was a wonderful friend.

I lost my friend a year ago to cancer. It is still painful, as such losses always are. So many things remind me of her--books, music, movies, art, food, wine--I could go on and on. As October turns Tennessee trees to golds, oranges, and rusts, I'll have Jeaninne with me. I dedicate this October to her.

Haiku

After a trip home to East Tennessee, in writing group we tried our hands at haiku.

Nostalgia

Drive past the overlook,

remember those happy times--

a toxic city

-----

The schoolhouse is gone,

replaced by a jungle gym--

children still prevail

-----

Drive the Cade's Cove loop,

deer grazing in green pastures--

watch them watching us

Biscuits 'n Honey

When I was growing up in Oak Ridge, my father used to go to Monroe County (where his brother and sister and their families still lived). He knew farmers out in the country who were his sources for country ham and sourwood honey. He would go frequently on weekends and bring back these delicious foods for us to enjoy. Certainly we never bought them in grocery stores. My father was a "country boy."

When he brought in the jars (I think) of honey, my mother got out the old serving dish that came from his family and was perfect for honey. It was old glass, age worn, on a pedestal, and had a design engraved on the sides. Each time we sat down to breakfast (sometimes night, and sometimes morning), he would remind us that this was sourwood honey, the best you could get.

I loved to watch him eat his biscuits, butter, and honey. He'd cut off a piece of the comb and mash it up, mixing it with the softened butter. When it was almost gone, he would "sop" up the remains with the last of his biscuit.

My daddy was an old-fashioned man--moral and hard-working, and he loved his family, his coffee, and his country food.

At my writing group that day, the taste of honey and the comb brought back some lovely memories.

Gotta be perfect

Since starting this blog a week or two back, I've come to realize (and not for the first time), how difficult it is for me to "just do it." I've known for a long time what a procrastinator I am, but now I'm beginning to understand how much that is tied to some weird kind of perfectionism. Now anyone coming into my living space would find that amusing to outrageous, as a good housekeeper I am NOT. But there's a connection even there. Why start, when I can't get it all done? Why start, when I'm sure it will never be done well? Why start, when I can't do it perfectly?

Since beginning the blog, I've had all kinds of ideas roiling around in my head. (There's that word again.) From some of the stuff I've done in writing group (my father's love for biscuits and sourwood honey), to some of my childhood memories (am I the only kid who spent lots of time with a shoebox full of trading cards?) My brain jumps from pillar to post, and finally gives up in despair. What am I gonna write about? And even when I decide on something, I know I'll never do it perfectly.

So for today, I'm just throwing this on the table to chew on a while. I have an early shift to work at the library, so don't have time to ponder the question all morning. Which, in this instance, is probably a good thing.

OK, Syd and Bob, this one's for you. :-)

The nomadic life

I know that the "general wisdom" has always been, own your own home. Don't waste your money on rentals. And I've followed that advice on several occasions. Although, to be honest, while I was still married, we rented more than we owned. It worked better for us during those years, because we moved so frequently that reselling would have been difficult, if not impossible. Before our daughter was born, we were pretty much nomads, much to our parents' distress. Actually, even after our daughter's birth, that didn't change too much. My mother once complained that she was going to give us our own address book, just to hold all our address changes. We moved from apartment to house, and then to another city; and the pattern repeated itself.

Our first years we lived in Oak Ridge while my husband was in school at UT-K, and then he got a job with Boeing in Seattle, and we moved across country in our new Jeep, taking a friend as passenger who wanted to go to California and find an exciting new life. We were all very young, I keep reminding myself. It was an adventure, and it was fun. We lived in Seattle for three years, and in those years, we lived in four residences--an apartment on Mercer Island, a house in north Seattle, a farmhouse on Vashon Island, and another house in the Green Lake area. Then we moved back to Tennessee, so our new daughter could have time with her grandparents. Also, Boeing was in the throes of one of their frequent layoffs, only this one was major. Eventually, our Seattle friends told us of the big sign saying, "Will the last one to leave Seattle please turn off the lights."

Back in Tennessee, we lived in first an apartment in Oak Ridge, then a different house, while my husband returned to school in a different field (from metallurgical engineering to archaeology). Somewhere in there we lived in a trailer and married student housing. I have truly lost track of all our places of residence. Finally, we went to University of Idaho for graduate school, and again an apartment, followed by a farmhouse out in the country. All rentals, of course. After graduate school for him, it was my turn to finish my interrupted undergraduate degree, which was done at UT-K, while we lived in Oak Ridge again, and then moved to Knoxville, into the first "home of our own." We didn't stay long there either, of course, as it was time for him to get a "real job," instead of temporary employment as contract archaeologist or director of archaeology summer field schools. Permanent employment came from the State of Tennessee, in Nashville, necessitating another move. A year in a rental house in Murfreesboro, followed by, finally, another "home of our own" in Nashville.

During all these years, our daughter was also growing up as a small nomad (nomadette?). She changed schools, as well as residences, every year until fifth grade. She says it's what has made her so outgoing, making friends easily. She had no other choice.

I don't know what got me off on this nomad tangent. I started out telling about my Sunday morning maintenance emergency. At 6:00 a.m., I was calling the maintenance hot line because of a water leak. Oh yes, I remember! It's why I rent an apartment, instead of owning my own condo or house. I truly hate to have to deal with home maintenance and yard work. So for me, those blessed maintenance people are worth their weight in gold. Thanks, guys!

(Hard as it is to admit, the nomadic lifestyle didn't end for me with the move to Nashville. Maybe sometime I'll tell "the rest of the story.")

dot's spot

The blog begins, stepping blindly but hopefully. Thanks to Syd for the encouragement (and the web site). This whole journey of my senior years has been made up of those tentative steps--Divinity School, ordination, actually preaching, then retirement. More tentative steps into retirement--the reference desk at the library, which is a constant (and frequently intimidating) learning experience. And art classes. And the writing group.



So today, too early in the morning, in mid-September (one of my favorite months), I take another tentative step into the unknown--a blog, of all things. My hope is that it will help me put down some of the turmoil of thoughts constantly roiling in my head. (Is that a word?) Even better would be if some sense could be made of all that chaos. But that might be a little too optimistic.



Who knows? We'll see. Thanks, Syd. (I think.)