Brenda Knight Graham's Blog, page 7
February 7, 2024
Cat in the Window
I’m always so glad when I open the kitchen window shutters in the morning and find our cat Bertha ready to greet me. We have three cats but Bertha is the one who senses the time is right and waits in the window ready with a cat smile. When I lay my fingers against the window she responds by rubbing the glass with her face or even a paw. When I blow her a kiss she answers with a fervent meow. She watches as I pull out a pan for cooking eggs, open the refrigerator to get milk and butter, and run water in a pot for grits. It’s as if our kitchen is her television and we’re stars on a show. Of course when she hears Dr. Graham open the back door she leaves the window pell-mell because she knows he’s going to feed the felines.
The cat in the window is one of innumerable blessings for which I’m thankful. Once I start naming them, the number grows and grows, as if my recognizing one blessing from God brings three more to my attention. It’s quite fun, aside from being uplifting, to make a thank you list. Here are a few more of my many things, people, experiences for which I’m thankful.
A single white iris blooms under a maple tree, the only one in a large bed brave enough to bloom this early.
Japanese magnolia blossoms open wider every day like pink and burgundy tulips patterned against the sky.
Cold wind in my face as I walk reminds me it is still winter in spite of what the groundhog says and in spite of blooming flowers. As I walk into the welcome warmth of the house and smell banana bread baking I’m hugged with a feeling of rightness and expectancy.
Four finches visit the bird feeder, a purple finch pair and a goldfinch pair. They seem to enjoy swinging and eating at the same time in the cleverly made feeder we bought at Mule Day about twenty years ago. Which reminds me–I’m thankful for grandson Charles Reeves who took time to come fill the feeders and do other chores while Charles is sick with flu-like symptoms.
We’re thankful for doctors. Oh my! Yes! And all the medical community. We’d rather not need them but in this broken world we absolutely do need them. We’re thankful for their compassion, expertise, and wisdom. We’re thankful for our granddaughter Amanda Evans who works for the cardiologist group we go to. Not only is she helpful checking us in efficiently but is so cheerful–makes our day!
First class mail–other than bills!–is so very welcome. A letter came yesterday from Nell Rose Ware, a dear friend in Tennessee. Her handwriting is shaky and cramped because of her arthritis but she’d gotten our Christmas card and wanted us to know, though she didn’t send cards, that she’s okay. At ninety-something she’s living with a niece and sounds happy in spite of adversity.
I’m thankful for a long distance phone call from two sisters, Jackie and Suzanne, during which we all three giggle like girls and remind each other of touching and hilarious memories.
I’m touched by communication from busy college student grandson William Jr. who took time to text and ask how we are, then followed that up with a phone call. He has no idea what a gift that was!
There! I’ve filled a page and hardly even begun. But that cat in the window? She’s found me sitting in the sun and wants to sit in my lap for a good petting. So I’ll pause on the thank you list.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name. Psalm 100:4 (NIV)
January 31, 2024
Of Snipe, Sky Hooks, and Cow Tipping
As January ends and a temporary spring blossoms in south Georgia, somehow my thoughts turned to some humorous situations. Maybe it’s because bees are humming already around cherry blossoms or because I saw a butterfly flitting between bushes, as if they have no idea winter may return next week. Anyway, as I walked my half mile yesterday I started thinking about catching snipe, hoisting a skyhook, and even cow tipping.
There are several ways to catch snipe, I believe. The method I was introduced to one dark night sticks with me today.
Two older brothers invited my sister and me to go snipe hunting. We were always eager to have an adventure with our brothers and probably trusted them more than we should have. We grew up on a wildlife sanctuary and no one was allowed by my dad to hunt anything unless it was bullfrogs or possums. But the boys assured us we would catch the snipe alive, then release them, as we did lizards and butterflies.
We followed instructions carefully. Opening a burlap bag wide and holding it next to the ground in a dry gully we waited with hearts racing for the boys to scare the snipe from somewhere farther up the gully. The snipe, they said, would come rushing down and we must be ready for them. We waited and waited.
Finally we heard the raucous laughter of our brothers who crashed through the bushes hooting and hollering that there is no such thing as snipe. I felt I had turned the joke on them later when I showed them in the dictionary the definition of the word snipe. It really was a bird, but not one to rush down dry gullies into an open burlap bag. The boys were not impressed with my dictionary find.
I learned about sky hooks without embarrassing myself. I heard my husband talk to young people who worked for him. If some job seemed impossible, he’d say cheerfully, “Guess we’re going to have to use a sky hook.” Some caught on pretty quickly, others scratched their heads and looked up in confusion. I had a mental picture of a skyhook firmly attached to a big cloud.
Instructions for cow tipping are pretty simple. Head out to a pasture when the moon is right (whatever that is), find a cow standing alone, touch her on her side, just a light touch, and watch her tip over broadside. It would be wise to know the difference between a cow and a bull, to know the owner of the cow is not easily disturbed, and be dressed for a chase in the event the cow runs after you instead of keeling over.
There’s a time for humorous pranks if you know the target of your joke can take it. It’s good when everyone involved can enjoy a good laugh. Like the time my little daughter asked how she could catch a bluejay. I told her what my mother had told me. Put some salt on the bird’s tail and then you can pick him up easily. She tried for at least five minutes to sneak up on that bird and salt its tail. Finally she exclaimed with dawning understanding, “Oh, Mom!”
It is a good and healthy thing to be able to laugh at oneself. Remember Sarah laughing after the Lord told her she would have a son when she was ninety? She said, “God has brought me laughter, and everyone who hears about this will laugh with me.” (Genesis 21:6) But God was not playing a practical joke on Sarah. She really did have that baby and named him Isaac which means laughter.
But then there are times when laughter of any kind is just not appropriate. Solomon in Ecclesiastes writes: “Like the crackling of thorns under the pot is the laughter of fools.”
I think we should temper our practical jokes with kindness. And be courageous. Because he who plays practical jokes may also be tricked in return.
I’m taking a cue from the bees, the butterfly, and the cherry blossoms as well as the crows circling noisily above, that it’s a good idea to laugh today because winter may change it all tomorrow.
January 16, 2024
Hollow Tail–a riding shotgun story
As my husband Charles Graham officially retires after 55 years with Cairo Animal Hospital, I’d like to re-run this story. It says a lot about this dear, loving man whose purpose in life has always been not only to care for animals but for their owners as well.
Instructions for treating a cow with hollow tail were not given at UGA School of Veterinary Medicine. However, it was certainly addressed as a condition a veterinarian might hear about along with such things as hollow horn, troughitis, and Miss-a-Meal Colic in horses. All humor aside, farmers had through the ages had to figure out their own remedies for whatever ailed their creatures. For the most part, Charles learned to ease around these “old farmers’ tales” with gentle suggestions that this or that new methods had been discovered and would work much better. But there did come a time when Charles perceived the importance of seeking aid from a self-appointed hollow tail expert. The memory of that occasion came back to him as he read the obituaries recently.
Charles reads the obituaries both in Thomasville Times daily and in the weekly Cairo Messenger. There are two reasons for this practice.
He became committed to reading the obituaries regularly because of a “raking over” by a client one day. Ever the cheerful one, Charles arrived at the Tyus farm to treat a cow, hailing Mrs. Tyus with a wave and “Good morning!” Opening his black bag and chatting as he did, he asked, “Where’s Mr. Tyus today? Gone into town maybe?” Whereupon Mrs. Tyus began to weep. “Doc, don’t you know? He died last week.” She then proceeded to let him know she thought it was pretty shabby of him not to keep up with things any better than that.
Charles determined he would try never to be so unfeeling again.
The second reason he keeps up with obituaries is to try to know who is kin to whom. His longtime partner, Gene Maddox, somehow always knew the relationships of everyone in Grady County and beyond. He could readily list a person’s cousins, ex-wife and relatives, along with ancestors and occupations. The knowledge of all branches of families was a great source of help when he left veterinary medicine to go into politics. But Charles, too, wanted to be able to keep up with family connections. Studying survivor lists in the obituaries helps a lot.
So when he read that an old friend and client had died he listed for me his survivors as well as those relatives already deceased. And right quick when he read Babe’s name, he remembered the hollow tail scene.
The cow was down, Jersey heifer, expected to become the family’s milk cow. “A cow down” is a medical condition with various causes and remedies. When a call comes to treat a cow that is down, the possibilities range from grass tetany in the spring to pneumonia to malnutrition to mysteries galore, including poison and other dire causes. Of course a common problem is related to calf delivery but that wasn’t the case with this one.
Charles had already given this “down cow” the shots he perceived she needed, including IV calcium. But he couldn’t offer much hope for survival. She was pretty low and not showing good signs of response. Babe wandered up to join the onlookers just as Doc said the chances weren’t good for this little cow.
“Looky here, Robert,” said Babe to the owner, “we could do a hollow tail job, you know. Iffen Doc’s through, of course.”
Charles, grabbing a good opportunity by the horns, said “Sounds like a good idea, Mr. Babe. (The nickname “Babe” had stuck with this fellow from childhood, but his gray hair demanded of Charles the respect of “Mr.”) “Why don’t I stay on and watch?”
This was where Mr. Babe began hedging. “Well, now, I don’t know about that, Doc. I ain’t done one in many a year.”
Charles looked at Robert, the owner. “What do you think? Want him to try it?”
Robert looked a little dubious but Mr. Babe was his neighbor. So he nodded.
Mr. Babe stuck his hands in his pockets and shuffled in the grass. “Don’t even have my knife with me.”
“No problem,” said Charles. “You can use mine. I have a nice sharp scalpel.”
Mr. Babe had turned very shy. “Guess I’d better not,” he said. Then, brightening with a new idea, he said, “Why don’t you do it, Doc?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Charles looked around at the gathering of neighbors now watching expectantly. He saw Robert grin and give him a nod. “Ok, then, if you’ll give me step by step directions, we’ll just kind of do it together. So, I guess, Miss Eleanor, we’re going to need some salt and pepper. Right, Mr. Babe?”
This request was to let Mr. Babe know Doc wasn’t completely ignorant when it came to hollow tail.
Mr. Babe’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “That’s right, Doc,” he agreed.
So that’s how it was that Charles palpated the tail, located the area at the end of the bone and the beginning of the twitch. Mr. Babe agreed he’d gotten the right spot.
By then Miss Eleanor arrived with salt and pepper.
“Now you got to make the cut, Doc,” instructed Mr. Babe.
“You sure you don’t want to do it, Mr. Babe? No? Well, is it all right if I trim the hair away?”
Mr. Babe nodded.
“All right if I smear some alcohol on the spot?”
Another nod.
“Okay, here goes.”
The audience was quiet as the inch long cut was made. Charles commented to all that he saw the hollow and Mr. Babe grunted his assent. Then there was a shifting and a sigh from the crowd as Doc sprinkled the wound with salt and pepper.
“Okay if I wrap it in gauze?” asked Charles, well aware that usually the wound would be wrapped in a piece of sheeting or whatever was available.
Mr. Babe nodded, then said, “That’d be good.”
“Okay, then,” said Charles when the deed was done. He stood up, scratching his neck. “We’ll see how she does, Mr. Robert. Thanks for your help, Mr. Babe.”
They shook hands with each other and with the owner and Charles told Robert he hoped all went well. “Call me if you need me,” he said as always.
Several weeks went by.
Charles happened on Mr. Babe at one of the country stores. In those days, the 1970’s, the country stores were lively on many crossroads throughout the county, ready for the farmers and others who needed their soda break, some conversation, a gas refill and even a few groceries. Charles often stopped at whichever one was along his way mid-morning or afternoon, whether Hollingsworth Store, Portavint’s, Powe’s at Pine Level or Ward’s at Pine Park. He could use a lift after a hard calf delivery and he greatly enjoyed dropping in on neighborly conversations.
That day he asked Mr. Babe how the hollow tail had done.
Mr. Babe shifted in his chair and then hung his head. “Doc, she died. First one I ever lost.”
Charles laid a hand on Mr. Babe’s shoulder. “Well, it wasn’t the first I lost and probably won’t be the last. We do the best we can but we can’t win them all.”
Old country store now closed at Calvary, Georgia
January 9, 2024
Squirrel Success
Squirrels are pests, that’s for sure. But they are also cute, funny, entertaining, and so admirable in their utter persistence.
Everyone, I guess, who puts bird feeders out, has some story about squirrels stealing the seeds. I’ve personally seen them try and try and try again to reach a feeder on a slick post, to jump to a suspended feeder from a tree or window sill, and usually, finally to succeed. But the funniest squirrel success I’ve seen happened several years ago.
The squirrels so diligently sought to get the bird seed when we lived on South Broad, Cairo, that we devised various ways to repel them. Charles nailed the bottom of a barrel to the top of a post outside the living room window. Purple finches and goldfinches came in flocks to that feeder, as well as titmice, chickadees, and cardinals. The squirrels couldn’t climb from the post up around the wide barrel bottom, or at least not for a long while. But finally, one day one squirrel figured out how to stretch himself far enough to pull himself over the edge of the feeder. Of course, when he got home, he told all his brethren about his achievement so they began to come trying their stretching expertise. Soon a skedaddle of squirrels regularly visited the feeder enjoying meals and snacks.
We greased a bird feeder pole, we bought squirrel proof feeders, we tried everything. Then we found the guaranteed squirrel proof bird feeder. It was a circular feeder of clear plastic open on one side, with suction cups to fasten it to a window. We put it on a dining room window where we could enjoy the birds eating while we ate. We could watch the birds up close without their being frightened. It was a delightful feeder. We saw squirrels eying it wistfully. They leaped to the window sill but couldn’t climb the glass. Over and over they tried. We thought we’d finally found the feeder only birds could enjoy.
We were blessed (or cursed) at that house with an abundance of squirrels. Looking out on our front lawn at times, we could see as many as fifteen at one time grazing for their own buried pecans, skittering up the trunks of pine trees, leaping from branch to branch of palm trees. But they could not get to our bird seed. At last the cardinals and mourning doves, chickadees and house wrens had the feeder to themselves.
I laughed one day when I saw a squirrel leap to the window sill and stretch himself up along the glass like a white-bellied over-extended rubber band before falling to the ground. Maybe I was a little bit sorry for him. But, after all, he had other things to eat. He didn’t need those seeds. Then one day I guess he, or a fellow squirrel, was laughing at me.
I walked into the dining room and stopped, staring in disbelief. In that clear bird feeder, curled tightly to make himself fit, was a gray squirrel eating with obvious passion. I didn’t get to see the little acrobat squeeze himself into that bird feeder but, once there, he ate in utter safety while I found my camera and took his picture.
Now, years later, as I turned pages of a photo album, I came upon that faded old picture. What an example of persistence, patience, and perseverance that squirrel was! If only I had even half his perseverance in reaching for goals–losing weight, finishing a difficult project, or praying for a God-sized problem to be solved.
That squirrel told the news to the squirrel community and our safe, squirrel proof feeder was open to all. It was comical the day the feeder’s suction cups turned loose and the whole thing, squirrel and all, went tumbling down. But that squirrel’s lesson was not lost on me. He didn’t keep his wonderful discovery to himself but told all his family and neighbors how to get to the seeds and to be regulars at the “table” until the day it fell.
He was a successful squirrel–persistent, patient, never giving up, and telling the good news.
Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Galatians 6:9
December 12, 2023
Flawed Christmas Tree
The picture above is of a recent Stone Gables Christmas tree, not the one featured in the following story.
Some trees are crooked, one-sided, thin, somehow flawed. This one appeared to be perfect. It was thick, beautifully shaped, a fifteen foot cedar chosen from our own Pinedale woods. We as adults with our children had gathered at Mamma’s house, Stone Gables, to dress the tree. The rafters fairly rung with our jubilant merriment. A great fire crackled in the fireplace. Scents of cedar, a freshly peeled orange, and hot apple cider spiced the air.
The great room at Stone Gables is open to the rafters on one end with open staircase circling to the second floor. The Christmas tree had been tied to the bannister in the corner where Christmas trees had been set for sixty years. When we were children we had waited in the kitchen on Christmas Eve while Mamma and Daddy decorated the tree and lit the real candles. But now as adults we had a wonderful time dressing the tree ourselves. In order to reach all the lovely branches, some of us worked on floor level, some on the balcony, and some on a step stool.
Mamma sat by the fire in a rocking chair basking in the merriment and fun, making occasional quiet suggestions concerning placement of Aunt Emma’s crocheted white bells or the clip-on candle holders.
It was nothing short of a perfect tree and a perfect scene–until Ginger, standing on the step stool, let out a scream that halted everything. There, draped over a couple of boughs only a foot from her face, was a brown snake skin. After a breathless pause, we all began to speculate and babble about how the repulsive skin happened to be there.
Mamma looked at Nathan, my nephew who was good at playing pranks. But Nathan adamantly denied knowing anything about the snake skin. Our brothers said the snake skin was not there when they hauled the tree in from the woods and dragged it through the double doors. I shivered at the thought that the snake itself might be right then hiding behind the piano or under the couch.
Of course someone, probably not Ginger and certainly not I, disposed of the snake skin. We finished trimming the tree until it was a glorious sight before we sat down to enjoy ginger snaps and hot cider.
It’s not a very good analogy, I guess, but remembering that scene reminds me that we are all flawed in some way or in many. But one day God, through the blood of His perfect Lamb, Jesus, will remove the ugliness from us–all the unkindness and deceitfulness and disobedience–and make us pure and even beautiful, like a perfect Christmas tree! In the meantime, I like my tee shirt that reads “Flawed but still worthy.”
By the way, we never learned how that snake skin snuck into our Christmas tree.
November 30, 2023
Nativity Scene Revisited
The nativity scene is all set in our front yard, thanks to many helpful hands. The crude stable holds the Baby Jesus in a manger, Mary kneeling beside him and Joseph standing tall and protective, staff in hand. Outside the stable one shepherd kneels, another stands holding his staff. A donkey, a cow, and four sheep are gathered to celebrate the coming of the King.
It is no small job to haul out all the pieces of the stable and figures from storage and erect them to look as natural as boards and paint can make them. Every year we have had help to set it up but this year with Charles’s energy depleted and I using a walker it wouldn’t have happened without strong hands and shoulders.
The idea for displaying a life size nativity scene started in the 1990’s when celebration of Christmas became politically incorrect in many areas of the US. We agreed that it was time for us to make a greater effort to celebrate Christmas visually. If there couldn’t be a nativity scene on federal or state property, then we should make sure to celebrate the King on private property.
We ordered patterns for cutting out and painting the Holy Family, shepherds, sheep, and wise men. Fred Bearden, a skilled wood craftsman, cut from plywood the Holy Family, a ewe and a lamb. His wife, Linda Bearden, who taught two of our grandchildren in kindergarten, drew the lines for painting. I, no artist at all, was able to follow her lines and complete those first pieces. Anne Lisk and her husband, Stormy Lisk, gave us a structure they’d created for a Bible school class which Charles adapted to a sturdy stable.
Over the years we’ve added pieces–the cow, the donkey, another ewe and lamb. During Covid-19 quarantine we cut out and painted the shepherds. We were hoping to make the wise men in time for 2023 Christmas but Charles’s leukemia/lymphoma had a different idea. Maybe next year!
I sat on the front porch and watched as everyone worked to set up the scene the day after Thanksgiving. Thanks to the Lord’s mercy and a wonderful oncologist named Dr. Tan, Charles was a lot stronger and was able to supervise in a pretty hearty way. Our grandson, Charles Reeves, had helped put the stable together many times and was a team leader now in stable building. His wife, Allie Nowell Reeves, took a place holding a corner together while the screws went in. Also helping hold, heave, prop or whatever was needed were our son Will Graham of Birmingham along with two of his three children, William Jr., an Auburn sophomore, and Mattie, ninth grade. There was a lot of laughter and teasing, setting and resetting the roof, adjusting here, re-screwing there.
It was a beautiful sunny but cool morning, wonderful for the beginning of the Christmas season. I thought back over Christmases past with this creche. There was the year I painted the first figures. I became so emotional painting Jesus’s little hands, knowing what they did for me, that I made him five fingers and a thumb on one hand. Of course I had to start over! There was the year we enacted a live nativity scene amongst the pines at our old place. We had a real bleating lamb and a neighbor’s cute little donkey. There was the year when Charles patiently cut out the shepherds with only my clumsy help. Together, we painted the figures. There were times when children ran in and out of the scene and I thought of Jesus saying “Let the little children come to me.”
It is only a wooden scene. But it reminds us of the greatest birth, the coming of Jesus in human flesh. It reminds us He came to save all who would come to Him–the humble shepherds, solemn Joseph, worshipful Mary, and each of us.
William Jr. attached the star on top and established lights to shine spotlighting the Baby Jesus. I drove down and took a picture of the finished work. Hugs were not enough to say thank you to all who helped. It was such a sweet gift for our children to give, something of which Jesus Himself is pleased.
November 21, 2023
Thanksgiving at St George Island
This Gulf coast scene reminds me of that year we spent Thanksgiving on St. George Island.
We are traditional people. Thanksgiving dinner always includes turkey, dressing, casseroles, cranberry sauce, and puffy yeast rolls. We gather around the loaded table and let the food cool while we listen to each one’s particular thankyou. Someone, usually the head of the house, says the blessing, and then we stuff ourselves until we hardly have room for the pumpkin pie. After dividing leftovers, saying goodbys, and walking some of the calories off we might pull out the Scrabble board, or grab the paper to study the Black Friday sales, or even head out to cut a Christmas tree.
But one year we threw tradition to the wind, took our two young teenagers, and drove the three and a half hours to St. George Island, our favorite Gulf coast beach.
We rented a cottage on the bay side. The children were disappointed that it was too cold for swimming but found plenty of other things to do, especially when Charles’ brother and his family joined us. Between fishing, hunting seashells, throwing frisbees, and building sandcastles there was no room for boredom. The sun was still warm, though breezes made us pull our sweaters close. A short walk took us to the lovely white dunes and the smooth beach by the Gulf Coast blue, blue water. Did I say it was too cold for swimming? Our kids delighted in wading in the surf and screaming as the waves chased them ashore.
Maybe we missed the great turkey preparation, the sweet potato and broccoli casseroles, the dressing and gravy. But we dug in heartily to grilled hamburgers, hotdogs, fried fish, peanut butter sandwiches, pork and beans and mac and cheese. I don’t remember anyone’s complaining. We all chose our favorite ice cream at the cute little shop on stilts over near the beach and walked down the tall steps happily licking. We trekked to the only store on the island for milk and eggs. It was a very tasty non traditional Thanksgiving.
I think it was on that weekend we drove out to “The Cut.” St. George Island, a barrier island near Pensacola, is twenty eight miles long and q mile wide at its widest point. It’s been dubbed “The Forgotten Coast” because it is the last pristine beach on the Gulf with no high rises or amusement parks. At the western end the island was severed about 1954 to allow ships to navigate to and from Pensacola without having to go around the end. It was a rough ride for us through what is now a gated, elite community, to the cut where we could look across the churning water to Little St. George Island, a wilderness separated from its mother island.
The state park is at the other end of the island. We went there several times to play and walk the beach. Somebody found a starfish. The children scooped up hermit crabs and hauled them around before relocating them. It was a perfect beach for throwing a frisbee. We watched enviously as one family launched a beautiful kite. It may have been on that beach where we sat on the sand and ate William’s birthday pecan pie. If we crunched on windblown sand, no one complained. The seagulls were very excited and the children threw them a few sticky bites.
I remember the waving sea oats on the dunes, the constant whisper of wind and the rhythmic roar of the waves. I remember the thrill when Julie found a really big clam shell, top and bottom still attached, like a treasure chest with lid. I think William and his boy cousins built an enormous sand fort with tunnels and turrets and then had the time of their lives tearing it all down.
It was a very different Thanksgiving. But in the most important way it was the same as all the others. We were grateful to God for everything–for the hamburgers, the blue sky, the pounding waves, laughter, and each other. It was a Thanksgiving experience we never repeated but have always fondly remembered.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name. For the Lord is good and his love endures forever. Psalm 100:4-5 NIV
November 7, 2023
Treasured Times
Often when I pass the turn to Coolidge and Moultrie in Thomasville, it feels as though we should be going to Mama and Papa Graham’s house. For so many years we did travel that road to the little community called Merrillville.
We might find Papa in his overalls tinkering at the tractor shed, picking peas in his large garden, or maybe sitting on the porch ready to tell a corny joke. Mama was usually in the kitchen. The house always smelled delicious–a fresh peach cobbler, a roast in the pot, beans cooking slowly with a ham hock. Mama might be elbow deep in grating corn for freezing or maybe worrying over a scrapbook she was putting together.
According to what stage of life we were in, our children would be with us and would scatter, after giving hugs, to play with cousins. Later, grandchildren might tumble in the yard and explore the neighborhood. Down beyond the garden and across the road was Merrillville Baptist Church, a little white church with a steeple, always prominent in any weekend plans. Mama and Papa were caretakers of the church and fellowship hall for several years. They made sure everything was clean and bright for Sunday.
During one period of time our grandson, Charles D, always accompanied us to Merrillville. Papa and Mama made a fuss over him and he was a champ, even at 13 and 14, at taking their fond ribbing. One of his favorite things to do after lunch and after fulfilling all his familial duties was to investigate the neighborhood. If they were ripe, he might come back with a handful of peaches, or he might be gnawing through a sour seedy pomegranate.
There were so many good times over the years–family gatherings, homecoming at the church, a family project of taking down an overgrown hedge, a ride to the pond whether fishing or not. All was enhanced by Mama’s good cooking. But there came a time when she had to slow down, could no longer heft the big iron pan onto the stove and turn out a great platter of country fried steak. I remember fondly a period of time when our children were grown and Charles and I alone would leave after church in Cairo to head to Merrillville by way of Wendy’s in Thomasville where we picked up hamburgers.
At that time, Papa particularly craved a Wendy’s single hamburger, juicy with lettuce and tomatoes and accompanied by crisp fries, and we all chose the same. We’d all sit around the kitchen table enjoying lunch and talking. Papa wanted to report there was some kind of aphid on the butter bean leaves. Mama might be concerned about a neighbor who hadn’t shown up at church. Papa was full of stories about old times and loved telling his jokes. Mama scolded him for telling the same jokes she’d heard “a thousand times.” Charles entertained us with his latest sometimes gory veterinary experiences. We might all be enthusiastic about some upcoming event like Mule Day in Calvary, Georgia.
The seasons of life are like quilt pieces, each with its own pattern, its darks and lights. Each piece is to be treasured in its own way. As I drive by the turn to Merrillville I have a warm feeling, memories of good times, simple times, times we might have felt would go on forever. But no, times change, children grow up, active people become slow, and a garden place is occupied by a bright modular home hiding the view of the little white church from what was Mama and Papa’s back porch.
I’m thankful for the heritage of my husband’s parents, the good times, and the lessons they didn’t even know they were teaching us and our children. I’m thankful for those good memories that come to me as I pass the road to Merrillville, memories like a beautiful quilt so sweet to wrap up in on a rainy day.
November 2, 2023
Drama on the Lawn
I’ve never thought I would like to go to one of those costume balls where identities are so disguised that one actually dances with strangers. But I do take delight in the costume fun of children at Halloween. Kaison informed me that he wouldn’t wear his mask when he came to our house because I might be too scared. Then when he arrived he wanted me to put on his very vivid clown mask. Charli said she would be a scarecrow. She, along with other cheerleaders, had a booth at “Boo on Broad”, a festival of costumes and treats for the children in Cairo. Broad Street was blocked off for the occasion. Charli arrived here as the cutest scarecrow I ever saw, painted face and all, with crazy clad feet that couldn’t stop dancing. The surprise costume to enter our kitchen where chili bubbled in the pot was our grown Candi in a fully inflated animal balloon suit, four legs, long ears, and fat arms. Only her laugh gave her away.
Charles and I had enlisted Charli to be in charge of giving away treats from our front porch. We made up packets of good treats including a gospel tract. Charli set paper bags weighted with sand and lit by tiny battery-operated candles in an inciting path from the street to our porch. She established herself on the steps but kept dancing and doing cheerleader tumbles down the lit pathway.
We sat on the front porch on padded chairs to watch everything. Wrapped in blankets as if going on a sleigh ride, we still shivered in the cold. The US flag snapped sharply in the wind and dogs next door bayed mournfully as groups of suspicious characters came down the street. It was a perfect night for drama on the lawn.
Charli wasn’t content to sit on the steps and wait for customers. She was everywhere, up and down the path, in and out of shrubbery, at times using a light blanket as wings, at others tossing a little candle from one bag into the air, then catching it on the way down. As daylight left us with only street lights and the porch light her little light tossing to the sky looked like an upside down shooting star. Then she began acting out a new plan.
Hiding in the shadows of the shrubbery, Charli waited for unsuspecting witches, supermen, mermaids and all to approach, then jumped out at them. Candi, too, hovered in the shadows and then suddenly appeared in her enormous bubble suit. There were screams of delight and fear as Charli then ran to the steps where she gave out treats. When Kaison returned from his trick or treat expedition he fell right into the game. His self appointed job was to attract passers-by to our set-up by loudly proclaiming “We have candy!”
Charles got too cold and went inside. Amanda sat with me watching the show, giggling with me over the cute costumes and interacting with brightly clad visitors whether we could recognize them or not.
The children didn’t want to give up the fun when the treat bags were gone. I could feel Charli’s sadness as she collected the candle bags and we locked the door. We came inside to find that Charles had lit a fire. What a fun evening!
October 26, 2023
In the Midst of War
Stories from the middle east are chilling. Israelites killed in their own homes in brutal ways. Babies and grandmothers and all in between beheaded, gutted, shot in the face multiple times. Homes and buildings destroyed. Children snatched from parents as hostages. All by Hamas, a terrorist group in Gaza. A missile aimed at Israel misfired and destroyed a hospital in Gaza killing many and infuriating Palestinians who blamed it on Israel. News media did not recant their original statement accusing Israel even after firm evidence pointed to Gaza. Evil is rampant. Even in our beautiful free country evil is shouting and hurling hate at Israel who neither wanted nor started this war.
Thousands are banding together in prayer and sending aid. But thousands are also saying “Kill the Jews!” Too many have turned a blind eye and are not even paying attention. It’s far too similar to times leading up to World War II when the news was deliberately filtered and Americans simply didn’t believe what they did hear of the criminal atrocities. Families of millions of Jews, sympathizers, and others deemed by the Nazis to be unfit to live–all these knew the concentration camps and gas chambers were all too real.
The pictures of War in Israel are gruesome. But one happy picture has flashed on the screen several times, a picture of a wedding amongst Israeli soldiers. The bride and groom, both soldiers, are dancing in an opening formed by surrounding comrades. The comrades are whooping and hollering in jubilant celebration. It’s just a quick swirl of a video in which I hear words like “Love is stronger than evil” and “Evil cannot kill love.”
Charles and I were in Israel in 1996. I remember clearly the earnestness of our Palestinian Christian guide when he said, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem.” I have not always remembered to pray for Jerusalem but now, after October 7, am so graphically reminded. We know complete peace in the mideast and the world will not happen until Jesus comes. But there can be peace in the hearts of those who honor Him. There can be peace in the midst the war.
We must stand fast and pray for Israel, for the peace of Jerusalem, and for their enemies to be quelled. We must pull for Israel to defend herself against this unspeakable evil as God teaches that His people should do. And through it all I’ll remember the words shouted at that wedding party: “Love is stronger than evil.”
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem. Psalm 122:6
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