Remembering Keyoe

The Escort in its earlier days in our driveway on Hollybrooke Lane

I heard the crunch and saw the side view mirror to my left bend and break as I backed out of the garage.  I couldn't believe it.  I'd moved that little Ford Escort out of that same spot time and again and had never come close to hitting anything. I turned off the engine and went into the house to tell Larry what I'd done and that he'd better come and take a look.   He followed me outside, walked over to the driver's side and surveyed the damage.  Then in typical Larry fashion he assured me that it wasn't all that bad.  I stared at the poor dangling mirror and wondered if he really knew what he was saying.  "Well, it didn't fall off," he said consolingly.  "And besides, I almost did the same thing a few days ago." Well, almost isn't quite the same as actually doing it.  "I think we can piece it back together," he continued and then proceeded to push the broken parts together. "I think it'll be fine to get you to the store and back." I looked it over skeptically.  A few minutes later I left in the white minivan.

It's not as if the car was in pristine condition.  It's been in our family for ten years and during that time it's had a few altercations, most of which, I admit,  involved me.  The first incident was an encounter with a small tree.  That time I lost the side-view mirror on the passenger's side.  It was shortly thereafter replaced.  Another time I rear ended a truck that was pulling out of Walmart.   Pete the Pickup didn't appear to have a scratch on him, but my poor little Escort's hood was scrunched up something terrible.  That required a visit to the junkyard for a part and a new paint job.      

Not too long ago I was sitting at the traffic light waiting to turn onto Main Street when I saw it.  A car of the exact same make and color as mine was preparing to turn left off of Main onto the side street where I sat.  I watched closely as it turned in my direction and noticed the driver peering at my vehicle just as closely, our eyes locking for a moment as she passed.  I turned to get one more glimpse before the light turned green.   Her car was in much better shape than mine, everything appearing to be still intact.  She'd obviously never rear ended a tree.  After that last little incident in Alabama,  Larry had figured it was hardly worth the money to get the bumper replaced.  It was, after all, just an Escort, not exactly the most expensive car on the road. But seeing that tidy little vehicle that morning, I felt a twinge of regret. And nostalgia. 

This story actually begins eleven summers ago.  The large moving van had come once again, stopping and unloading at the house two doors down on Hollybrooke Lane.  We were accustomed to seeing the big trucks,  the place was rented out every year to the families of officers who had come to study at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery.  Unfortunately, with the new neighbors continually changing and never settling in for long, we barely got to know them.  Oh sure, there was the occasional wave and the short, casual conversations as we passed by during our evening walks, but before we knew it, another year had passed and we'd see the big May Flower parked at the curb once again.

We had seen the latest occupants coming and going a few times, a mom and dad and two young boys.  We assumed that we might get an occasional nod or hello but probably not much more than that.  But we would all soon discover that this move was going to involve much more than just a year of officers' training for the Major.  He was about to face the greatest crisis of his life, and his family's being in that house was no mistake, directed by the hand of God Himself.  

I was in the kitchen putting the final touches on dinner when Larry walked in somberly and told me that he had just come from talking with the new neighbor.  He had noticed him pacing at the end of his driveway, visibly distraught, and had walked over to see if he could help. "He just found out his wife has breast cancer.  He's not sure what to do or what this all means.  He's scared."

Those in the military are accustomed to living away from family, but there are times when that separation is felt more acutely.  This was the case for both of them, but especially for Keyoe whose family lived in Japan, so far away.  The cancer was aggressive and treatment was to begin immediately.  Dwayne's course of study would be terribly demanding as it was, and to have the responsibility of a family while his wife was undergoing the chemo and radiation was daunting. 

So we became their family.  Sometimes it meant watching the boys, other times they came for dinner.  Women from my Community Bible Study group and others from the church filled up their freezer with meals.  But most importantly, they knew someone was close by who cared for them,  and that also meant Larry being available to offer an ear to a young husband and dad who needed a friend and confidante during that time of uncertainty. 

Though Keyoe was a Christian before she moved next door, that year in Alabama was a time of growing into a deeper faith.  A friend of mine who had lived in Japan for a time just happened to have two copies of the Jesus Film in Japanese and passed one on to her.  Keyoe was quite fluent in English, but watching that movie in the language of her heart touched her profoundly.   

Keyoe's health seemed to be improving as the days drew closer for their departure.  We were not looking forward to their leaving, we had grown to love this family as if they were our own.  But we knew that in the same way God had led them to us, He was still revealing His care for them through Dwayne's next assignment.  They were being sent to Japan. 

We would eventually receive the news that Keyoe's illness had come back with a vengeance.  An emergency trip from Japan to a clinic in Hawaii did not reap the hoped results, there was nothing more that could be done.  How grateful we were that God had placed her near her mother during those last months of her valiant fight.  One morning Larry felt impressed to call Duane in Japan.  He  dialed the number.  A voice he didn't recognize picked up, it was Dwayne's brother.  He was there for Keyoe's funeral. 

So what does all of this have to do with that little Escort?  Not too long before that big moving van had once again made its way down  Hollybrooke Lane to load up his family's things, Duane gave us a call.  We were needing a second car and he said he'd like to sell us the one he had driven back and forth to the base, the little silver Escort.  It didn't have all that many miles and the price he quoted was unbelievably low. "Why, Duane?" I  remember asking. "You could get more than you're asking from us."  He simply stated, "I want you to be the ones to have it."   

Duane is remarried now.  A few Christmases back we received mail from an address we didn't recognize.  I opened it to find a picture and short note enclosed inside the card.  I shouted out loud when I realized who I was seeing.  It was Duane with not only his two boys, but with a new wife and two more children. I studied his face.  He was good.   

I think he would be pleased to know that we still have the Escort, even as battered as it might be. It's the car that we lend out to those who don't have wheels but need to get to the doctor's or pick up some groceries.  And it shows.  The interior's not the best either with all the traffic it's put up with over the years.  Recently we thought about selling it and putting the money towards a pickup, something Larry's always wanted.  But Bruce our mechanic looked a bit quizzically at him when he mentioned it.  "This is still a good car," he told him.  "It's got a good motor and there's no rust.  I'd think long and hard before you decide to sell it."  He was right.  So we'll hang onto it until it refuses to go another mile.  Besides, it has a story to tell.  One that we don't ever want to forget.                

Duane with his two boys

Our last outing with Duane and Keyoe at Peach Park in Clanton, Alabama  

The House that Coxes Built



This is the brand new house that was waiting for us.

We hadn't thought too much about where we were going to live after our first four-year term on the mission field.  We knew we'd like to find a place to stay back in the community we'd pastored in Pennsylvania before leaving for Central America.  And even though we'd been away for almost three years, we still thought of beautiful, rural Bradford County as home.  Our kids had loved it and our dearest friends were there.  But our returning to the States for a year of furlough was still over a year off.  We'd find something when the time came.  We hoped.

The Wesleyan Church in Herrickville had been Larry's first pastorate.  He was fresh out of seminary,  full of passion and seemingly limitless energy.  Therefore, it wasn't at all surprising that before long that little country church started filling up with young couples and their families.  There was one  guy in particular who stood out with his red hair and amiable personality.  He had shown up with his wife and two kids one Sunday morning in July and didn't waste any time in giving Larry a call and inviting us over for a visit.  I guess they liked us enough because they started coming regularly and soon became members.  They also became two of our closest friends.
 




Nioma and Dennis directed the children's ministry in those early years.
Here they are with their own two kids and a few extra. 

 

I don't remember if it was written in a letter or if the news came through a phone call. It was from these same friends, the Coxes, informing us that there was no need to look for a place to live when we returned stateside for that year.  They would have a place ready for us, a brand new house.  And they were going to build it.
 

Nioma and Dennis with Autumn a year before they started on the house



A couple of  weeks ago Larry and I were in Bradford County.  We ended the day by having supper with Nioma and Dennis in their home, an old farm house that they had renovated and moved into some years back.  We sat at one end of a very long table that runs the entire length of a very long room where hospitality is practiced freely and often.  But it was getting dark and we had a bit of a drive, so Larry looked at me and said, "What do you say?"  I'm not sure where that expression comes from or why he uses it,  but that's the cue to start gathering our things and say our goodbyes.  

Nioma handed me a disc as Dennis was packing up a bag of venison to send home with us. She'd  been busy transferring their old videos over onto DVD and had decided to make two copies of this particular tape, one for them and one for us.  It was labeled, Building Marcy's and Larry's House.  "The quality's not the best," she warned me. "But I thought you might like to have a copy."

Dennis and Nioma in Honduras

Dennis with our neighborhood children in Honduras



 

A couple of nights later I carefully set it into the tray of our DVD player and then sat back to watch a story that had been written for us exactly twenty-five years ago.  It begins in the spring of one year and ends in the summer of the next.  During the course of two hours, what starts out as a bit of cleared land grows into a lovely two-story structure, a home.  And with each scene, from the slab being poured, the walls being raised, the roof being built, electricity being run and sheet rock going up, individuals come and go.  Some are strangers, but most are not, people who were a part of our lives back then, all contributing in some way to the house that was being built for us.



No matter where we've lived, Nioma and Dennis have been there.
This was taken in 1999 during our "Alabama" years.



The last fifteen or twenty minutes are especially poignant.  Larry's dad had traveled over from Western New York to spend a few days on the house that would soon be home to his oldest son and family and Nioma films him several times working on the interior.  A few weeks later my father is there in one of his favorite caps and familiar suspenders hauling a large roll of carpet up the stairs.  My mother's voice suddenly comes from the bottom of the steps and for a few short seconds  the camera catches her before she goes out the door.  I found myself wishing she had stayed a bit longer. 

The last scene of the story is my favorite part of all.  The house is finished,  waiting and ready for the travel-weary family that is on its way to take up residence there.  Nioma is by herself.  The place seems oddly quiet after the months of  hammers and saws and voices calling out to each other. She begins to move from room to room, now filled with furniture,  and tells the story of where each piece came from.  The beds, dressers and tables, couches and chairs, pictures on the walls and even the nicknacks on the shelves, all provided by our families and close friends who have been anticipating our coming back home for a time.  And then hearing the sound of a car, she moves with her camera to the large sliding glass doors overlooking the balcony just in time to see a station wagon slowly making its way up the dirt road towards the house.  In anticipation she moves back to the stairway and waits.  Moments later the sound of the door opening below can be heard and she calls out a welcome as the heads of children suddenly appear at the top of the steps, eyes wide, curious, anxious to take it all in.  And then the tape runs out.

Dennis and Nioma with Autumn, Fawn and me before we returned to Honduras

 

I sat there for awhile afterwards thinking about what had gone into making that house.  I must have known back then all that had taken place to have it ready for us.  But as time goes by,  there's a tendency to get caught up in the happenings of now and to forget what has come before.  I hadn't remembered to what extent our friends had worked and sacrificed to have a home ready for us.  An old video tape from a quarter century ago reminded me of that, and I feel humbled and grateful and blessed all over again at the gift. 

 

After our return to Central America, Nioma and Dennis sold their old place and moved into our house.  That was fine, we were no longer there to enjoy it.  A few years later they bought and remodeled that old farm house I mentioned earlier and that's where they've been ever since.  But things are soon to change.  Dennis will be retiring in a few months and there's talk of selling this last place and  spending more time with their kids out of state.  But more than anything, they're anticipating the adventures that God still has ahead for them.  They've always enjoyed that, living a good adventure.  And besides that, the bigger the challenge, the better.  I suppose that's why they built us that house. 

This was taken a few years ago at Fawn's wedding.
It's hard to imagine greater friends than these, the best gift of all!

 

Saying Goodbye

 

The phone call had come only a week or so after our last trip to the Manor.  That visit had left me heartbroken for the couple that had become increasingly dear to us over the past three years.  When we had first met, they were living on the first floor of a home for seniors that allowed them to share a small living room and bedroom.  As the husband's dementia worsened, however, he and his wife were moved to a secured area where he could be more closely supervised.  A few months later, a serious fall resulted in a hospital stay for him and eventually a transfer for both to the Manor, a full-care nursing home.  It had been hard seeing him there, slumped over in his wheelchair and looking so terribly lost, seemingly out of touch with everyone around him, including his wife of so many years.  It had left me feeling particularly sad that day. 

Larry had taken the call.  It was from their daughter.  Her dad was failing, she informed him, and was going under hospice care.  She thought we'd want to know.   A few days later he was gone.

Today we attended the funeral of our friend.  His wife sat in a wheel chair in front of the casket that held her mate of sixty-two years.  I know that the body lying there was just the shell that had held the soul and spirit of her husband,  but somehow it was still comforting to see him as he had been a few years back when we first sat in that tiny living room introducing ourselves.  And though it was apparent that the dementia had already begun,  we were able to see bits of who he had been.

The last several weeks had not been kind to him, however.  His appearance had changed drastically, the sparkle gone altogether from his eyes.  But the terrible impersonator who lay in the hospice bed had been far worse,  not even remotely resembling the man who had been called by a certain name for eighty plus years.   Therefore I was grateful for those who had prepared his body, allowing those who had loved him to remember him at least in this way one last time.  His wife spoke softly. "He looks good, doesn't he."  I nodded.  He did. 

It was cold as we stood in the cemetery.  A large winter storm was making its way towards us, but grace had been extended.  The roads were clear and as yet there was no indication of what was to come a bit later.  He had been a military man.  Those there to honor him fired their guns, the bugle sang its song and the flag that had draped the coffin was quietly and reverently folded and handed to the one who had loved him the longest.

We shall continue to visit the Manor.  There is a lovely woman who lives there with curly silver hair and a face that lights up whenever someone comes to pass a little time with her.  It will be strange at first not to see the both of them, they were together such a very long time.  A long, long time. 

The Extra Day

I was still in bed when the phone rang early one morning a few weeks back.   It was Larry.  He had missed his flight out of Montgomery.  He'd begged the attendant at the counter to let him through, the plane was still on the tarmac after all, but she insisted that it was too late.  The gates were closed.  He'd have to either catch a later flight which would only get him as far as Philadelphia, or he could rebook for the next day.  He opted for the second choice.  "I was only five minutes late," he sounded tired.  "Well," I told him.  "You probably should have left the house a bit earlier."  I'm not always the most sympathetic listener.  He mumbled something on the other end and hung up.

I know the plans I have for you....I called him back a few minutes later.  He'd left our place on Monday for a meeting in Alabama on Tuesday and had booked his flight back to New York for the day after.  I'd suggested when he purchased his ticket that he might want to spend an extra day in Prattville.  It was, after all, our home for twelve years.  Now he had no choice but to make the best of it.  He was already sounding better when he picked up.  "I'm glad you're there for an extra day," I said.  " You'll know what to do, who to see."
 

I know the plans I have for you....  Because he missed his flight by those mere five minutes,  he saw and brought comfort to a friend whose husband had recently died,  ministered to a woman who is battling breast cancer and counseled a man who has been struggling with guilt over an issue in his past.  On top of that, there was an extra evening with his son and youngest daughter to be enjoyed,  a steak dinner out at a nice restaurant followed by games, home videos and lots of laughter.

I drove to the Elmira Airport to pick him up the next evening, exactly twenty-four hours later than originally planned.  The plane came in right on time.  Not willing to take a chance on missing another flight, he'd gotten up at four that morning, much earlier than necessary. "You tired?" I asked as we headed out the terminal to the parking lot.  "I think so," he said, "I was in six airports today."  If he'd made his flight the day before, he'd have only been in four.  No doubt he was relieved that this day was almost over.

It was snowing lightly as we climbed into the car, a considerable contrast to the Alabama weather he'd experienced over the last couple of days.  I was glad to hand him the keys and let him drive the  twenty minutes or so it would take to get home.  "You were supposed to be there you know."  I tend to repeat myself when I'm trying to make a point. "You needed to stay that extra day."  He nodded in agreement.  There was no question.  I know the plans I have for you..... 

The Chair

Margaret's birthday fell on a Sunday, less than a week after she buried her husband.   There had been no warning, no preparation for the heart attack that had come, snatching him away so quickly.   Granted, he'd not been feeling very well lately, wasn't quite his usual energetic self,  but she never suspected that she would so suddenly be thrust into widowhood.  Her family had a cake for her that Sunday afternoon, and she brought the last of it to church that night to share with those of us who were there.  It was going to be a hard evening,  John's long, lanky frame conspicuously absent.  I had dreaded the thought of seeing that empty chair at the front of the room where he always sat.

To create an intimate, less formal setting, the chairs form a circle in that room.  John's sat right next to Larry as he taught.  He had been a preacher and there was hardly a night when he didn't have something to add.  He was always polite, waving his hand when he wanted to expound a bit,  and eventually Larry would motion to him, letting him have his say.  Usually he was brief, but there were those occasions when he became especially passionate,  turning our study for a time into a revival meeting.   No doubt, he would be terribly missed.  By all of us.

Both he and Margaret had taken a special interest in Richard, a man in his early thirties who is mentally slow, more child than adult. They had been especially kind where he was concerned, always taking time to visit with him, make him feel important and valued.  Not everyone knows how to relate to Richard.  His hygiene is less than exemplary and he tends to talk too loud.  But he's faithful, rarely missing Bible study, sitting  towards the back of the room near the coffee makers where he can mix his own hot chocolate.  As I walked through the door on that particular Sunday evening, bracing myself to face the empty chair, I saw that it was occupied after all.  There, sitting quietly next to Margaret, was Richard.

I don't remember Richard saying anything that night.  He was simply there,  bringing comfort to a grieving widow in the one way he knew how.  He sat in that place next to her,  in  her husband's chair.  And by doing so, he touched us all.    

Christmas Road Trip

Joel and Autumn the last time we spent Christmas together in 2008

December 25, 2012

Early Christmas morning:

West Virginia is  covered in several inches of white.  It's early and there's little traffic on the road.  I imagine the seeming tranquility of the homes we are passing is deceptive.  If there are children in those houses,  I can only imagine what's going on behind their doors. 

Sometime later:

Northern Virginia is covered in snow as well though it's not nearly as deep as to the north of us.  Larry says that we'll be in this state forever.  I'm glad that we at least got as far as Maryland last night.  I don't ever remember a Christmas that we spent the entire day on the road.  There's still a part of me that can't believe we're even doing this.   I remember our first Christmas together when we drove all night Christmas eve to get from Kentucky to New York.  We were much younger then, naturally impulsive and with a lot more energy.  We listened to Christmas music the entire trip, pulling into my parents' driveway in the early morning hours.  We thought we'd be spending that Christmas alone as our car had died a few weeks earlier.  But one of the profs at the seminary had posted that he had a Buick Electra for sale and Larry approached him about letting us use it for the week with the possibility of buying it.  He agreed.  I still remember the anticipation and excitement I felt on that ride, singing one carol after another as the miles sped by.  It was one of our best Christmases ever.  And yes, we bought the car.

The trip is longer this time, these thirty-six years later.  And we're not going to see our folks. They're gone now and our siblings have their own families,  living in various places all over the country.  No, we're going to see two of our kids, the baby and the boy, the ones who need us the most this Christmas.  It's been four years since we've spent this day together, way too long. 

A couple hours later:

The grass is now peeking through the snow.  It won't be much farther til it's completely green again.   And warmer of course.  We've been warned that there's going to be some pretty severe storms in the Gulf States, especially in Alabama.  Our destination. But that won't be for awhile yet.

I brought my Andrea Bocceli Christmas CD along.  Why does that perfect tenor voice make me cry so easily?  I've also brought an old edition of Guidepost's Christmas classics from the church library.  The stories touch me and when I try to read them aloud to Larry I can hardly get through them.  I know that this trip to some might not seem sensible, traveling over 1100 miles to spend just three days with two of our kids.  But sometimes we do things that aren't exactly logical.   We do them because that's what our heart tells us to do. 

We just passed a man driving a jeep with a wrapped Christmas tree attached to the roof of his vehicle.  He has North Carolina plates and he's heading in the same direction we are.  I caught a glimpse of his face as we passed.  He was alone but there was a smile on his face.  I wish I knew a little of his story, it's got to be a good one.

Autumn has called, wanting to know where we are.  How much further she asks.  Makes me think of when the kids were younger, especially when we were traveling from Alabama to New York.  Autumn was always wanting to know how much further it was.  Some things just never change, no matter the years.

Birmingham, Alabama:

We started getting bad rain just north of here.  We had some in Tennessee but then it tapered off.  I thought, or perhaps hoped, that we'd been through the worst of it.  I couldn't have been more wrong.  Poor Larry, the yellow lines are impossible to see it's coming down so hard.  Autumn keeps texting wondering where we're at.  There are tornado warnings to the south of us.

Verbena,  Alabama:

"Mom, you're only a half an hour away!" Autumn texts.  I remember as kids we would anxiously await the arrival of my southern cousins each summer,  our hearts beating at the sound of every car that came down Mill Street, hoping it was the one with Carolina plates.  There's nothing quite like the anticipation that comes with waiting on someone who's traveled hundreds of miles to be with you. 

Prattville, Alabama:

"Get in here quick," Joel hollers as we pull into the drive.  "The sirens just went off."   Why did I not think to throw my umbrella in the car before we left New York?  I hold one of the bags I brought from home over my head and make a dash through the rain.  Autumn grabs me as I rush through the door.  "Mom, you're here!"    

The Manor

I hardly recognized him.  He sat in a wheelchair, hunched over, expressionless.  I had seen him only a few weeks ago, just before Christmas when we'd taken gift baskets from the church to both him and his wife at the facility where they lived.  I remember that we had just barely arrived when the program director popped her head in the wife's room and announced that an hour of storytelling was about to begin in the auditorium. "You're welcome to bring your friends," she insisted.  It was then that I noticed the husband was without his walker. I knew he wouldn't be allowed to pass through the secured door and walk the hall without it.  "He's lost it again," his wife confided.  "He can't remember where he left it." At that moment we heard the voice of one of the aides in the hall as we stood.  Not to worry, the lost had been found.  It had been in his room all along.  Where it belonged. 

I knew that the dementia had progressed,  but the shock of seeing him in the wheel chair took my breath away.  It hadn't even been five months since they were moved from their little apartment on the first floor to the more secure second floor.  That's because he had wandered off the grounds and could no longer be trusted to be on his own.  It had been a hard adjustment, being separated like that.  They had been married for sixty-two years, always together.  The separate rooms, even though just across the hall from one another, didn't feel natural.  So the few times we visited, we always found them together.
 

Until today.  They had been moved again.  This time we would find him in The Manor they said.  I'm not really all that sure why they call it that, it is after all a nursing home.  Perhaps by giving it a fancy name it's supposed to take away some of the sting.  Actually, it's not all that bad for a nursing home.  It's clean, fairly bright, even smells okay.  If it weren't full of old people, you'd hardly know.

And then we saw her, his wife, sitting behind a table not too many feet behind her husband, his back to her.  She lifted her hand and waved, a slight smile on her lips.  She knew us.  I went and sat beside her.  She seemed pleased to see me.  "It's nice here," she said.  "And I like to sit out here where there's more going on."  Perhaps this place would suit her better than the Second Floor facility that had felt so confining.  We chatted a bit more, then she continued wistfully.  "He doesn't talk to me anymore, doesn't act like he wants to be with me."   I touched her arm and spoke as tenderly as I could.  "That has to be hard for you."  She turned and looked at me.  "We've been together since 1949."

Larry pushed her wheel chair beside that of her husband's for a few minutes before we left.  "We're about to leave," he told him.  "Then we've been told they're going to take your wife to rehab."  "Yes, I'm going down to rehab," she repeated.  And at that moment he took his hand and reached over and touched her.

I cried for several minutes after we pulled out of the parking lot. 

A Shoe Box for John

John

The lady handed me a check after the service that morning saying she wanted to help out with Operation Christmas Child, a ministry that sends hundreds of thousands of Christmas gifts to underprivileged children in third-world countries.   I'd never met her before, she was from out of town,  visiting with her mother on that particular Sunday.  The video we had shown that morning had obviously moved her.  "My husband died recently," she said.  "I'd like to do this in part to honor his memory."  My mouth dropped open when I looked at the amount.   This was going to fill a lot of shoe boxes.

We had spent several minutes filling the cart at the dollar store.  As Larry emptied the contents onto the counter I engaged in small talk with the cashier.  She had grumbled a moment before to a coworker about things not being put back where they belonged from the night before.  An older woman, she looked tired, as if taking this job had come out of pure necessity.   She mumbled about the disrespect she suffered on this job from some of the other workers.  I needed to lighten the atmosphere and commented that the items she was ringing up were all going into shoe boxes to be sent to needy children, most of whom had never received a Christmas present before.   But there was no lightening the mood of this woman.  "Well, I certainly hope they're staying here," she retorted.   "We have enough children in our own country who need help.  We don't need to be sending them somewhere else."  She brought up the recent storm that had created such havoc to the east of us in New Jersey.  I reassured her that I'd no doubt that various agencies and faith-based groups would make sure they were covered.  She continued to frown as we beat a hasty retreat for the doorway with our dozen or so bags.

One Christmas many years ago we stopped at the home of Rojelio and Argentina in La Julia, one of the poorest barrios in La Ceiba, Honduras.  As we entered their simple two-roomed house with its dirt floors,   I noticed nothing there that set that particular day apart.  No tree, no lights, no gaily wrapped packages.  It was in such sharp contrast to the mission house that we had just left with its colorful decorations and the newly-opened gifts that my children had been enjoying throughout the day.   Rojelio and Argentina hadn't seen the looks of delight or heard the cries of pure pleasure coming from their three boys as we had experienced that morning with our own children.

If there is anything I came away with from those years of seeing such blatant poverty, it was a profound sense of gratitude and humility at the privileges I had received because of where and to whom I had been born.   Day- to- day survival was not a concern for my parents.   But for Rojelio and Argentina, having enough food, medicine when needed and an adequate shelter for their growing family was all-consuming.   Having money left over to buy a few Christmas gifts was the farthest thing from their minds.

Back to the lady in the dollar store.  If there hadn't been other customers waiting in line behind us, I think I might have told her a bit about Argentina and her little two-roomed house with its dirt floors and no indoor plumbing.   And if there was time,   I'd go on to tell the story of Antonia and her family of five that lived in a tiny shack beside the river where they bathed and drew their drinking water.  I would remind her that because of the privileges offered her,  she will have a certain amount of money guaranteed her when she retires and her medical needs met as well,  so unlike the elderly and the disabled and the disadvantaged in other places that survive by whatever means they can,  sometimes doing odd jobs but mostly by begging in the streets.   I would remind her that no country in the world takes care of its own better than we do,  and that same generosity has always and should continue to extend beyond our borders. Whether she approves or not. 

Larry and I filled eighteen more containers after leaving the dollar store that afternoon.  We knew that each one equated with that  many more boys and girls in far off places having the joy of opening a gift meant specifically for them, possibly for the first time in their life.  And that in turn could easily bring the spirit of Christmas to an entire family.

A couple of years ago I received a letter from a grandmother in Africa who was raising her grandson, John.  He had received one of the shoe boxes that I had packed up a few months earlier.  She introduced herself, told a little about her family and then concluded her letter with this.  "Thank you for the gift you sent John," she wrote. "He was so happy, and I know that he received the gift that was meant just for him."   She had enclosed two pictures, the first of an eight-year old boy with a big toothy grin holding a package.  Yes, it was definitely from us,  I recognized the blue and white wrapping covered with snowmen.   The second photo was a family shot,  John's family.  He stands front and center surrounded by those closest to him.  They are dressed in their best, their love and support evident.  And their gratitude.

John's family

 

The Paper Trail

I am not a collector of stuff.   Though I do have a few special trinkets, paraphernalia from our years in Central America and some special possessions given as gifts over the years,  we don't have a lot of non-necessities in our home.  As much as I hate to move, and I've done it enough, I've seen each major change as an opportunity to simplify my life.   I've always been this way.  My mom loved clean but didn't mind a few extra things lying around, her dining room table was ample proof of that.  Even as a kid I took it upon myself to keep that table cleared as much as possible, a never-ending task with four younger brothers and sisters who couldn't have cared less at that time. 

 

Larry has worked well with me on my need for tidiness over the years.  Well, that is except for his tendency to leave a paper trail wherever he goes. He'll write phone numbers and bits of information on tiny scraps of paper and leave them all around the house.  When I find them, often days or weeks later, he doesn't usually have a clue as to what they are.  Every once in awhile I'll commit the unpardonable sin, going into his office and peeking into or under his desk.  There is always paper, piles of it.  He seems to love the stuff: sermon notes, minutes from board meetings,  personal reminders, emails, letters.  You name it, it's there.

Then there are the boxes stowed away in our attic full of old bank statements, utility bills and the like.  The thought of all that paper makes me shudder.   I have mentioned more than once that I'd love to take a week off,  get a high-powered shredder and start eliminating it all.  But this is one of those subjects that has created some tension in our marriage, and I have learned to tread a bit more carefully when broaching the subject.  So I figured that if he goes to his reward first,  one of the first things I'd do is turn my music up full blast and start shredding away.  But if I were to precede him, I fear they would remain where they are.  I can just see my poor children opening those boxes and throwing their arms up in the air, wondering why their father hung onto all that stuff for all those years, leaving them to do all the work of sorting through. 

 

That brings me to today, our anniversary.  Thirty-six years ago I married a tall, skinny seminary student who is ridiculously romantic and terribly sentimental.  I'm neither.  So for example, if he's going to get me flowers, he's learned that I'd prefer a single rose over a dozen.  I reason that since they're going to eventually die anyways, why spend all that money?  This is what he's had to contend  with all these years, an overly practical wife.    

 

I had already had my coffee and watched almost an hour of news when he came shuffling down the steps this morning.  "I know what I'm giving you for an anniversary gift this year," he said.  "I'm going to start shredding those boxes of papers for you."  An hour or so later I heard the scraping of heavy objects being dragged across the attic floor and then the plod of heavy feet coming down two flights of stairs and then out the door to the office next door to begin that monumental task.  Except for a few hour's break in the afternoon to take in a meal and do a little shopping, Larry has spent almost the entire day on my anniversary gift.  

 

Lots of couples say they have a special song that they've chosen for their own, music that expresses how they feel about each other.  We've never had that, one song that connects the two of us.  But today I heard music, and though there were no words, the humming of the melody from behind the office door was all I needed to know that he loves me. 

 

Then

 

More Recently

 

Mom and The Fourth of July

   

  

My mom would be turning 90 this year.  A lot of August 29ths have passed since she died more than 15 years ago, and there have been a few times that I've simply let the day go by without hardly giving it a thought.  I'm kind of bad about birthdays that way.  Sometimes I remember, sometimes I don't.  If my four kids weren't all born the same month I might forget theirs, but I get them all over with and then have eleven months break before I have to remember again.  It's easier that way.

There are other days, however, when I can't stop thinking of her, especially holidays.  She loved them all, perhaps in part because she enjoyed her kitchen and loved to bake, and what's a holiday without a few pastries and other goodies lying around?  She made the most delectable mincemeat pie with the flakiest of crusts sprinkled lightly with sugar for Thanksgiving, and the special fruit salad and popcorn balls that she and my dad made every Christmas have become traditions with my own family.  Memorial Day and Veterans'  Day weekends were excuses to make her decadent, walnut-filled chocolate brownies and ever-popular carrot cake.  I've never found a better recipe for either, and as I follow the instructions written in her own hand, I remember her and wish she were here to show me how to roll out the perfect pie crust for my strawberry-rhubarb pie.  I have yet to roll it out in a perfect circle like she was able to do with so little effort.

Yep, my mom loved the holidays and I'm pretty sure that food had a good part to do with it.  She enjoyed everything about it, the preparation as well as the eating.  Even the many letters she wrote to me over the years, and I have hundreds of them, include details on what she had prepared for dinner during that week.  I would say there's probably only a handful that don't have some mention of food in them.  My sister reminded me that she didn't like using the oven during the hot days of summer, but even so, she'd always manage to whip up some homemade biscuits for strawberry shortcake when the berries were in season.  And when the Fourth of July came round she was more than willing to put up with a hot kitchen to have a platter of Ol' Henry bars or a cake on the dessert table.

I never thought to ask my mom which was her favorite.  I imagine Christmas and Thanksgiving were right up there, but the day I miss her the very most is July 4th.  My mom loved America about as much as she loved us.  She couldn't get through the National Anthem without tears or see an American flag without placing her hand on her heart.  And if a flag passed by during a parade or a marching song was being played that stirred her, she would always stand to attention for a few moments.

I was in Alabama the winter she died.  She'd been sick for a long time, so when I got word that she was gone I felt mostly relief that it was over for her.  In fact, I was amazed at how well I was handling her death during those first months.  Of course I missed her, especially the phone calls and letters, but all in all I was doing pretty well.  And then July 4th came.  The day was full of activities: a pool party, a picnic, lots of people, lots of food.  But when I returned home that evening, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness and loss.  Memories of past years' celebrations came flooding into my mind and I longed for those times again.  And I longed for my mother.

I'll be traveling home in a few days to spend the Fourth with my family.  We'll picnic at my brother's in Olean and go to Bradner's Stadium in the evening to watch the fireworks.  We'll get there a bit early and sit on the field on blankets and lawn chairs anticipating that moment when the sun drops over the horizon and the display of lights and sparkle begins.  But first, right when it's almost time, the Star-Spangled Banner will come through the speakers.  All will stand to their feet and some will hold their hands to their hearts.  It is then I will remember and stand all the prouder, grateful for my nation and my heritage.  It is especially at that moment I will miss her and wish she could be there. 

Kathy

My friend Kathy's birthday would have been today. We were just a week apart in age and both of us lived on Chestnut Street in Weston's Mills.  I rarely got out of school for mine, only if it happened to fall on a weekend.  But she on the other hand never had to go to school when hers came around.  That's because she had the wonderful fortune of being born on the same date that Christopher Columbus bumped into a continent that hadn't been discovered yet and made it a national holiday.  I'll admit, at times I was a bit envious of her and wished that America could have been found on some other day,  like a week earlier maybe. 

When we were young we spent a lot of time together.  Because we were so close in age and only a few houses apart we just naturally sought each other out when needing something to do.  The Christmas we were ten we both got Mattel's Lie Detector Game.  We couldn't get enough of it, playing it as often as we could.  She never made it through the whole night at my house, she'd always get homesick.  But I'd sometimes stay overnight at the Williams where we'd sit in the middle of the kitchen floor for hours trying to figure out who'd committed the crime.  I still have mine by the way.

Most of the homes on Chestnut and Mill Streets in Weston's had kids, so there were often whole groups of us playing together. Certain games went with certain yards.  We used the Cassada's place for dodge ball because they had a side walk that divided their front yard in half.  Our place worked best for football and kickball and the Reese's field was perfect for baseball.  But one of our favorites was the gentler, quieter game of Mother May I.  That one was always reserved for the side yard at the Williams' house.  As for Wintertime, there was still plenty to do. Sledding, making snowmen and building fortresses kept everyone occupied.   And there was always the Mill Pond.  Kathy was a natural on skates, much better than I.  We spent hours there,  our absolute favorite thing to do during those cold months. 

But we didn't always get along. We were both bossy, liked to get the last word in and and have our own way.  At times our relationship was a bit strained.  I remember one day in particular  where we had a horrible argument  after getting off the bus and somehow ended up in my neighbor's yard.  It escalated to where Kathy took her metal lunch pail and hit me as hard as she could over the head.  I followed it up with a hard shove, pushing her into Sally Cassada's flowerbed that ran right next to the house. It was not one of our better moments. 

We were also pretty different.  She came from a family of all girls.  I didn't.  Her dad was Irish, so they were good Catholics, the kind that didn't eat meat on Fridays. When I had dinner at their house they always did this strange thing with their hands after saying grace and had a medal of some saint hanging in their car.  My family was Protestant.  She liked Elvis Presley and had his posters hanging on her bedroom walls.  I was more into Julie Andrews and The Sound of Music. She was athletic and played intramural sports at school and she could do a great cartwheel.  I couldn't get much beyond a somersault.   I played in the band and auditioned for school plays, stuff that didn't interest her all that much.  By high school we were pretty much doing our own thing, and the only time I saw her was on the bus.

I went off to college for a year then decided to take some time off and find work.  That year turned out to be one of the hardest of my life, a second-shift plant job in an environment that was completely foreign to me.  Kathy just happened to be working in that same place and reached out to me almost immediately, ready to pick up where we had left off.  I grabbed hold, needing a friend and grateful that it was her.  

A year later I was back in school almost a thousand miles away.  I was glad, relieved to be gone from the place, but I missed my friend.  Our friendship had gone to a deeper level this time, far beyond Mother May I and playing games on the kitchen floor.  I'd been teaching children's Bible classes at the school throughout the year.  She'd gone with me a few times and with that came questions about my faith and why I believed as I did.   When I came home for Christmas a few months later she said she'd been waiting for me, that she was now ready to give her life to Christ. When I told her that she could have done that on her own, she said that it was important I be there. I was honored.  Humbled.    

Kathy had already been married for a few years when I met Larry and married during his senior year of seminary. Kathy wrote from New York and said she and her husband would love to take a little vacation and come to see us for a few days.  We were living in Wilmore, Kentucky in seminary housing in a very small apartment.  It had just one bedroom so we put the two of them on a sofa bed in the living room.  Kathy was concerned.  She knew that to use the bathroom she'd have to walk through the bedroom. Larry assured her not to worry, just to come right through.  Nothing would wake him up anyways, so he said.  He'd be sleeping like a baby.

I was suddenly awakened when a loud yell came from our bed followed by a horrible scream.  Larry had opened his eyes to see a white ghostly figure slowly making its way across the room.   As he hollered the startled apparition in the white nightgown began to scream back.  "I thought you were a ghost!" He was still shaking.  And then she started to laugh,  a wonderful loud belly laugh that went on and on, and the next day she was still laughing.  All these years later I still laugh out loud when I think about it.      

Kathy the morning after she scared Larry half to death

I saw Kathy several times over the following years.  I always felt that she was a much better friend to me than I ever was to her.  When I'd get back home for a visit she'd always try to see me.  When I came home for my brother's and dad's funerals she was there.  When she remarried, she made arrangements for me to meet her husband Kevin and to see her new home.  I spent an evening with her there.

I was living in South Carolina when I got the call from my brother Rex.  Kathy was gone, a blood infection of some kind had taken her life.   She'd had some serious health issues resulting from a botched surgery a few years earlier, but I'd never expected this.  I grieved as if I'd lost my own sister.

When I was a kid you always knew when it was suppertime at the Williams' house.  That's because Kathy's dad would stand outside when it was time to eat and call her home. Sometimes we were right in the middle of something and I'd wish she could just stay a few more minutes. But she never hesitated, not even once. She'd drop whatever she was doing and start down the road.  Going home.  There was no one with a voice like that.  It would boom and everyone in Weston's Mills would hear it.  The Father calling his daughter home.  

Her Name is Fawn



Fawn came home from the hospital in this outfit 

My third child turned thirty years old today.  Her name is Fawn.  I've only met a couple of other people in my lifetime with the same name, and one of them had a rather peculiar spelling.  But it seems to fit her well.  If everyone was matched up with a particular animal on the basis of appearance, she could easily be described as a deer with her slender build, long-legs and big doe-like eyes.  Where her name's concerned, I'd say her dad and I got it right.  But we almost didn't.

Fawn seems to always be running a bit late.  When she calls she'll usually preface the conversation with "Mom, I'm running late."  In fact, of all four of my children, she was the only one that came after she was due.  The first two both arrived on the exact day and her little sister had the courtesy to show up early.  But Fawn arrived five hours after midnight, the day after.  No, she wasn't terribly late, she never is.  Just a little late.  I still remember my mother's call the evening before asking if my labor had started.  Nope, not yet.  She confidently assured me that I'd have my baby by the next day.  She was right.  I called her early the next morning to tell her that she had a new granddaughter.  She wasn't even the least bit surprised.

When I gave that final push during that early morning hour and heard we had a girl, I knew what we would call her, a name I'd loved since I first heard it while in college.  It belonged to one of the most striking girls on campus and had fit her perfectly.  When I called my mother that morning to tell her that we had a new little girl, she already knew her name.  In fact, it wasn't a surprise to anyone.  We'd told most everyone the names we'd picked out, both for a boy and a girl.

The name wasn't received well by some of our church people.  I attributed it to the area.  Bradford County is made up of mostly country folk, so I assumed they preferred more traditional things, including names.  Whatever.  I still liked it.  And besides,  they'd get used to it.  It would grow on them over time.   But the response of one especially close friend still bothered me.  "If you have a little girl, I'll love her," she had told me.  "But I'm not sure I'll be able to call her by her name."  Ouch.

As I held that new little baby girl in my arms on that first day, I called her by the name I had held on reserve all those years. But I was uneasy, something didn't feel right.  When Larry came in that evening I told him that I was thinking we might want to rethink this whole name thing. As much as I loved what we'd chosen,  I needed for others to like it as well. I asked him to bring me the  baby book of names from the house.

I hadn't remembered putting a star by the name Fawn in the little paperback.  But there it was.  I stared at it for a moment then ran it over my tongue.  It sounded right.  I continued to look through the book noting what else I had highlighted at some point in my pregnancy,  but I was only half-reading.  I sensed that I'd already found the right one,  certainly not as common as some might like, but one our friends could learn to live with.  When Larry later walked into my room,  I showed him what I had found.  "And we could use your mother for the middle name," I said.  He smiled. 

My friend Tina Laudermilch stopped at a children's boutique in Towanda, bought a little outfit and brought it to the hospital just a few hours before we were both to be released.  I opened the wrapping to find a red velvet outfit with puffed sleeves and a little white collar. "I thought you might like to have something new for her to wear going home," she said.   I felt the soft fabric and then reached to tear off the cardboard tag that was attached to the sleeve.  I couldn't believe my eyes!  I asked Tina if she'd looked at the tag.  She shook her head.  There imprinted was the picture of a deer, and above that in large bold-print letters was the word FAWN.

  

I have told my daughter many times the story of her name and how we chose it.  She has used it now  for thirty years and has thanked me over and over for not staying with the original.  She's not all that crazy about it either.   Actually, it's thirty years minus one day, for in the archives of one particular newspaper, she is known by another name, the one she had for that entire first day.  After I called my mother,  she contacted the Olean Times Herald that very morning and had a birth announcement placed in the paper.  It's in print that on that very day,  Friday, October 8, 1982, I gave birth to a daughter, Love Lee. 





Fawn all grown up.  She has lived up to BOTH of  her names!

Rex

I traveled to Olean a couple of weekends ago for a birthday party.  It was a big one.  My brother Rex turned 60.   His wife Gale rented the pavilion at War Vets Park right across  from Bradner's Stadium, our favorite place to watch the fireworks on the Fourth of July.  It seemed fitting.  Rex has always loved to watch things explode,  especially when they're high overhead splattering the sky with color.  There's no one I'd rather watch with than my half-man, half-child brother who shouts out in pure delight and joy at the best of them, his eyes never once leaving the sky.  A couple of years back he had the audacity to go to a major league baseball game on that day and watched the fireworks from the stadium there.  He said they were awesome, some of the best he'd ever seen.   But for me, that day wasn't quite the same.  


I still remember this washtub from my grandparents' house

Rex came along just thirteen days short of my first birthday.  We didn't always get along during those growing up years.  My younger brother Karl was pleasant and easy going.  Rex, on the other hand, was much more, how do I say it, intense.  If I annoyed or upset him, which seemed to be quite often, he'd give me a good punch to the stomach, knocking the wind out of me and putting me to the ground.



We were still getting got along when this was taken

  

But occasionally we got along.  One of our favorite things was to go down into the canal that ran by our house and look for snakes and lizards.  One day we picked up a piece of sheet metal and were suddenly set upon by a swarm of yellow jackets.  I immediately went one way, he went another.  I came through the incident unscathed,  but Rex wasn't so lucky.  In no time he was covered with ugly red welts from the angry bees' stingers.  My mother, hearing the screams, came flying from the house, snatched him up and ran for the driveway where she proceeded to thoroughly roll him in a mud puddle.  Obviously he survived. 

Speaking of puddles, another incident I specifically remember involved a live lobster that my dad was going to prepare for dinner after he got home from work one night.  A meat cutter with five kids doesn't generally include lobster in his food budget, this was a luxury.  But Rex managed to spoil it for all of us when he got a hold of the crustacean and decided to take it for a swim after a good rain. I never heard my mother use one curse word her entire life, but I doubt she was ever closer than she was on that particular day.    I wasn't anywhere near when my father got home from work that night, but he never brought another one home.  It would still be several years before I'd get to taste my first lobster.  I had my brother to thank for that.
 

Karl would grow up to be the good brother

We loved to fish as kids, and nobody more than Rex.  We'd often walk to Haskell Creek with our poles and spend a couple hours just waiting for a bite. Honesty, I don't ever remember catching a fish in that place. I don't know if any of my siblings ever did either, but we spent more hours there than I could probably count.  One particular day I was standing high on the creek bank with my two brothers when Rex pulled back on his pole and gave it a hard yank, wanting to cast his line out past the trees and into the water below.  As the line jerked forward, I suddenly felt a sharp tug at my upper lip and then heard the snap of the fishing line. There, dangling from my mouth, was his hook and an entire worm, still intact.  First stunned and then upset, I begged him to ride home with me.  But fishing in a creek where we never caught anything obviously came first.  He refused.  But the good brother had ridden on ahead and my mother was waiting for me in the car as I pulled my bike into the driveway.  It would be several days before the swelling would go down because of the stitches,  and for the longest time there was a little bump on my upper lip where the hook had lodged itself, a continual reminder of that day and of my horrible brother.

I'm not sure if over time that little bump simply faded away or if just became so insignificant that I no longer noticed it.  No matter.  That's often how relationships evolve between siblings.  I grew up,  he did the same.  The crises of childhood somehow faded, no longer all that important. I'm not sure  when it was that I began to see my brother as a friend.  I just know that it happened.

Rex and his co-counselor at Circle C Ranch after a ride down a mudslide  

Around eight years ago I noticed that Rex was slowing down.  A lot. Always full of energy, he was considered the fun uncle.  He loved  baseball, amusement parks and roller coasters and would often  set off  his own private stash of fireworks to the delight of his nieces and nephews.  One day I watched as he put on his jacket, it was as if he were moving in slow motion.  Something was very, very wrong.  We pushed him to see a doctor.  It was Parkinson's. 

When you don't see someone very often, you can't help but notice the changes.  Medications  help, but they don't heal, so he moves somewhat slower, tires more easily,  talks softer.   But he seems to take it all in stride and continues to see his life as blessed and lives it to the fullest.  

Oh, by the way, when I got to the party the first person Rex insisted I meet was some Bona's basketball player.  Rex is probably the biggest St. Bonaventure basketball fan out there.  He never misses a home game and is known by all the players and most of the people in the stands as the flag man.  That's because he has flags representing all the countries that these young players come from and waves them when they're on the floor.  He's even been written up in the newspaper and has been featured on the news. 



There's no bigger St. Bonaventure basketball fan than Rex

Rex has always been a bit crazy for sports.  He knows the teams, the players, the stats.  From the time he was a kid trading baseball cards he's loved the Yankees, and when baseball season is over, he's totally immersed in keeping up with his football team, the Buffalo Bills.   And then there's his beloved Bonnies that kick their basketball season off just as football is winding down. 

The party was scheduled from two o'clock to five.  It wasn't hard to see how tired he was, but there was someone else he wanted me to meet.  One of the bosses from work had come to congratulate Rex on his milestone birthday.  Rex is the manager of the frozen food and dairy department of a large grocery store in Olean, a physically demanding job.  And cold.  The last time I was there he was wearing gloves as he loaded up the ice cream freezer. He sometimes goes in early and often stays late.  It takes him longer nowadays.  But he likes to work and says he wants to do it as long as he possibly can.  He's well-liked and respected there. I can understand why.     

Five o'clock came and we began to take down the decorations and gather up the food and gifts.  We needed to head home, but Larry loaded some of the stuff into our car to drop off at the house on the way out of town.  We found the living room already full of people, some who had come a long ways to share this special day with Rex, and I knew that though the party was officially ended, the celebrating would continue on for a bit longer.   I hope that someone thought to set off a few fireworks in the backyard as the sun dropped behind the horizon.  There's nothing Rex would have liked more.

Rex in his Bills' jacket among his family