Mama Ciele

Rangy, rows of Pecan trees drip over my rural route,
sweeping me along in a direction there about.
A blush of red peeks just ahead,
my destination marked by roses, memories from my head.
A tiny clapboard washed in hints of green,
the crowning glory a porch now seen.
Delighted wings take my heart I am home, I am home.

Wrapped in the comfort of a time-worn chair,
She gently combs and plaits my hair.
Joining the buzz of night bug, cicada, and katy-did,
comes the rain on tin answering prayers most bid.
She hums a tune without words ’bout leavin’
‘If we never meet again this side of heaven…”
Peaceful wings take my heart I sing, I sing.

Work-worn hands yet easy and fine,
smoothing  cool sheets  on the line.
Flashing blue eyes twinkle and spark,
with tales of fantasy, I hate when it gets dark.
Time for bed, falling asleep counting knots on pine walls,
her soft snoring just down the hall.
Shining wings take my heart I dream, I dream.

 

Epilogue:
Gone now, an emptiness left in time and space,
progress stands in her home’s place.
I hum a song with no words, a little blonde boy,
snuggles close with his toy.
I look at my own hands, work-worn, nails torn,
I am content yet I mourn.
Gentle wings took her home, took her home.

Dragging Canoe

I think every family has some legendary tale repeated from generation to generation regarding some scandalous ancestor or ancestry. Perhaps even several stories float about in most families as they do in mine. One such historical narrative in my family was so “bad,” that a division opened up in our family. Those who believed and those who denied.

I am the daughter of one who believed  and was willing to claim the story. I remember it from the earliest years of my life. My father, whom I called Daddy, was a great fire maker, banjo picker, singer, storyteller and beer drinker. These talents usually came together four or five times a year when my uncles, aunts, and cousins would gather at my grandmother’s. The fire would signal the mothers to come out from the kitchen and the kids to settle down after the excitement of chasing fireflies. The men picking and tuning banjos and guitars promised a different kind of excitement, one that I can still feel stirring in my chest at the sound of a banjo and the smell of smoke. My cousins and I got to stay up late on these occasions, blind eyes were turned to us as we snuck sips of beer from our daddies and sips of lime daiquiri from our mamas. Soon the singing would begin.

Everything from Bobby Goldsboro and Roger Miller to Hank Williams and Johnny Cash was played, we hummed when we didn’t know the words. As the drinks flowed the music got messier, there was more humming and a general mellowing prevailed. It was then that the stories got trotted out. Against the background of soft strumming, Daddy told about the Cherokee Warrior Chief who led raids on southern colonists. His story was bloody and scary in my memory, the details vague except for the final statement always directed at me, his only child, “And that’s the story of your great-great-great grandfather.”

The days of my childhood were long gone when I started seriously researching my family’s genealogy. I always remembered that one story and that I might have Cherokee blood running through my veins, so I was ever on the look-out for the proof.

Five years ago, while on a cemetery expedition I found a memorial marker that read,
Nathan Ward
Sara (an Indian).

I knew them to be my fifth great-grandparents, I did not know she was “an Indian.” Soon after I discovered the division in our family. It seems that a living second uncle of mine was so outraged at the thought of “an Indian” in his family tree that he re-wrote history in his book. He did this with the support of many on his side who no doubt had heard the stories. I do not understand the depth of prejudice that would lead someone to deny their heritage. I have never been persecuted or discriminated against in any real way so I will reserve judgment of my uncle on this issue and I will not name him or the title of his book. I will, however, point out that he has perpetuated a mistake in our family tree by giving Sara an entirely different set of parents. He wrote the book about twenty years ago and it has been used as a reference for almost that many years. Further, he fought the historical society who placed the memorial marker in the old cemetery, he did not want Sara to be noted as Indian. The advent of records on the internet and the more recent DNA projects have proved that my uncle’s book at best is in error, at worst may be peppered with lies.

Last week through the magic of DNA, large scale genealogy projects and other documentation, I have discovered that Sara, my fifth great-grandmother was Naky Sara Tatsi Canoe Brown Ward daughter of Cherokee Warrior Chief Dragging Canoe. Daddy was right with the exception of a few greats. I have been telling anyone who will listen about this discovery. I have also been singing these lyrics over and over again, “Cherokee Nation, Cherokee tribe, so proud to live, so proud to die…” In my head, I sound just like Cher who sang my favorite version of this song. I imagine my dad singing along, minus the banjo.

The One That Got Away

I got home late from work, hot, sticky and hungry. My phone lit up when I pulled it out of my apron pocket. The need for a brisk and clean shower was more powerful than the pull of the vibrating phone. I threw on my coolest cotton p.j.s, made some nachos and settled on the couch with my latest Prey novel by John Sandford. This is one of my favorite times of the day. My husband is asleep, work is over and I can stay up late, with nowhere to go in the morning.

The renewed vibrating of my phone reminded me I needed to check in; a little alarmed because no one texts me after eleven pm. It’s an old friend from high school- both times. He is letting me know that he will be in my area on vacation with his family. They will be here in a few weeks, maybe we could get together. I have not seen Joe for over twenty years, could be fun.

Texting about three times a week, I find out that he does not love his wife. He has two children, a boy, and a girl, grown. The daughter lives in the same house with Joe and his wife. The daughter, a single mom, also has her ten-year-old daughter living in the family home. He does not mention his son. He works nights and would like to call me on the way to work. For the first time, a faint, almost not there alarm goes off. Why can’t he call me during the day on a day off?

The first phone call came about nine o’clock one night, my husband was home and I cajoled him into talking too. See we all went to the same high-school. It was awkward, my old high-school buddy referred to his wife alternately as the “old battle-ax,” and “the old ball and chain.” Who talks like that? He made a point of telling us that his wife would not join us for dinner but that he would like to meet up for some seafood. After a bit of bragging about the famous people he rubs elbows with through his work we hung up.

He called me three more times, I answered the first and dodged the last two. The first call was enough. It began innocently enough remembering old times. We had several classes together our senior year. It ended with him telling me that I was “the one that got away.” Nervously laughing I pointed out that we never even went on a date. I don’t know this guy anymore. He said he never had enough nerve to ask me out, but if he did and now I quote, “It would not have been our last date you wouldn’t have wanted to date anyone else ever again if you know what I mean.” No, I don’t know what you mean. I hung up soon after.

For the next week, I could not stop thinking that I was “the one that got away.” Even if I might have got away from a jerk, I decided I was flattered. I imagined showing up for dinner looking pretty hot for a fifty-four-year-old. I also imagined wearing a mu-mu and no make-up. I debated cutting my hair, what color would I paint my nails? Should I tell my husband that he said I was the one who got away? I imagined being terribly witty and extremely interesting. I thought about what it would feel like to sit across the table from someone besides my husband who might like me “that way.” I was giddy and disgusted.

The day of the dinner date arrived. My husband and I were looking forward to a night out with grown-ups that weren’t our family. I never shared my private musings with my husband or what Joe had told me. I was a little nervous, but I had decided it would be fun to go out on a date with another man, my husband in tow. Really what is wrong with me? I was on a big high. Three hours before our dinner, I received this text from Joe, “Change of plans we are heading home now, hope to see you next time, will call soon.” Well huh!

My husband and I went to dinner anyway. I was terribly witty and extremely interesting. My husband was thoughtful, laughed at the right times, and he held my hand. I gave a little thanks that we did not get away from each other.

OCD Part Two

 

Wound healing powder by Johnson and Johnson works pretty well for wounds that can’t be stitched but won’t stop bleeding. Trouble is I can’t seem to find my supply. Sweat is pouring off my brow and I have a rib cramp blooming on my side as I try to reach into the depths of my medicine cabinet. The cabinet takes up two shelves in my kitchen cupboard, it is deep and loaded with bottles, syringes, test strips, gauze, vitamins, band-aids, and assorted medical must-haves. Meanwhile, my husband sits softly crying at the table applying pressure to his wound. Ahh ha! Found it!

The following is a warning for those weak of heart or stomach: graphic blood details coming up.

My husband lives with OCD, Anxiety, Severe Depression, Bi-Polar II, Agoraphobia, and PTSD. Right now his anxiety is ramping up his OCD causing him to pick his skin until he bleeds. His arms are covered in constellations of scabs – some are oozing, some are scabs, and some are actively bleeding. He picks with such aggression that on six occasions he has opened  tiny blood vessels which pump blood out in alarming quantities.

A close look with my magnified reading glasses reveals the source. A perfectly round yet small as a pin-head vessel shows itself with a slow eruption of blood in sync with a heart beat. I know from experience it needs advanced attention. I hope the powder will work. The ER doc said to try it before we made another visit to his domain, it will be a lot cheaper.

In minutes the bleeding stops, clotted by the magic powder. I’m relieved that we do not have to make a trip to urgent care. He says it burns, I reassure him that the directions say it might burn and remind him that stitches really really sting.

I cover his arms in tube socks adapted for just this purpose. His crying has stopped, he is full of remorse. He hates himself right now. The balance beam has been set up for the day. We both will try not to fall off.

OCD

Hazy daylight filters unhurried over the sodden sheets of my bed. Another sultry day promised by the fogged window. I sit up to drag the damp ends of my hair from the creases of my neck. Free from the muffling pillow I hear his crying. Again.

The need to pee stops me from attending to him quickly. I am not worried about this so much now because it is familiar. I know what’s waiting for me. I linger a bit while washing my hands and stare at my face in the mirror. I look tired. I make a few practice faces trying to find the sparkle in my eyes that tells me I am me. The creaking floor snaps me out of trying on faces, he is on the move.

We meet up in the living room that separates our bedrooms. His face is red.

Yawning, I ask, “What’s wrong? Didn’t you sleep well?”

He lifts his arm and I am less shocked than grossed out by the amount of blood. Blood is dripping, staining the already weathered pine floors. I think about how hard it is to clean blood stains from this floor before I think about cleaning his arm.

“What the hell?” I sound  mad to my own ears.

Moving quickly across the room, I embrace him, standing on my tip-toes to kiss his teary face. My husband of thirty-five years looks sad and ashamed. He has done this to himself. Again.

Snap. Post.

One last post, she promised herself. Two hours later she shuffled to her bedroom. Mind racing with quick retorts, sleep eluded her.

Six am found her dragging out of bed for a quick shower. A breakfast of an omelette and fresh fruit on a plate purchased for just this occasion. Snap. Post. Satisfaction would come later as she read all the comments from her desk.

Annoyed with the conference call breaking the contemplation of newly painted nails she pressed mute and speaker. Now she could hear but was hands-free to snap and post her hot pink tipped fingers.

On the drive home, she noticed the horizon. Pulling over in heavy traffic she raised the cell phone. Snap. Post. Getting back in the car she missed the miraculous flash of orange as the sun departed.

The house phone was ringing when she unlocked the front door. It was a call she did not want to miss.  Holding her cell phone in front of her face, snap and post, with the caption, “me and mommy having our weekly chat.”

Late that night as she savored all the likes and comments, she was able to squash the thought that popped into her head, “I am haunting my own life.”

Royal Rose

The bar-b-ques were one of the few chances Lucy had to glimpse a tangible piece of her past – her grandmother’s dishes. One of her cousins could always be counted on to flounce in flourishing one of the coveted dishes laden with corn bread or freshly sliced tomatoes. The dish would claim a prime location on the table in spite of its humble holdings. A whole set of Royal Rose china belonged to their beloved grandmother. Every time Lucy saw them tender memories of her grandmother and her own dear mama engulfed her heart.

The last memory of both her grandmother and mother together was Christmas day when she was five. The glow of the candle-lit table provided the perfect backdrop in her mind. Nine places were set. Her grandparents sat at each end of the large oak table, her mother to the left of her grand-dad and her father to the left of her grandmother, she and her siblings filling in the rest. The table was covered in finely embroidered white cotton cloth. She was given the honor of carrying the gravy dish to the table, she remembered carefully placing one foot in front of the other in an effort to not spill a drop. Her mother and grandmother smiled quietly as she successfully placed the dish on the table. The memory ends there. Her sweet mother would be dead by Valentine’s Day and both her grandparents would be claimed by influenza Christmas Eve four years later.

When her grandparents passed, her uncle – her mother’s brother – a dentist and only surviving child of her grandparents swooped in and packed up “the good stuff.” This included the lovely set of pre-depression china. After her mother’s death her father, a farmer, had sent her and her only sister to live with her grandparents. This arrangement lasted for two years until her father found another wife. Those two years turned the five-year-old Lucy into a stoic and mature almost woman. She was the one who had lovingly washed the china each Sunday after dinner for the last year. Now her silly, childish, spoiled cousins, one a year older, one a year younger than Lucy would possess the precious dishes.

At age thirteen Lucy gave birth for the first time to a son, she was unwed, her father forced her to give the baby away. Lucy had been raped by the neighboring farmer, who was married with children of his own. At fifteen she was married for the first time. She quickly gave birth to a son and a daughter all before her third wedding anniversary and her nineteenth birthday. The bar-b-que was scheduled for the day after her 20th birthday. Already showing with her next child she did not really feel like going; but, she could not miss the opportunity to see which dish would appear on the table in a mocking gesture made by her ninny cousins. They could never know that what they thought of as a stab to her heart was really a gift. A gift filled with the shimmering glow of candles on a table abundant with love and food.

She stopped cold when she saw the chipped edge of the square moss rose serving bowl. Over her shoulder, she heard the grating whisper of her cousin. She learned that many of the dishes had been broken during their recent move to a bigger house. This was the last bar-b-que with her mother’s relations she ever attended.

She told me this story  when I asked why her oddly matched serving bowl had a chip in it. She also told about her quest to collect rose patterned dishes; over the years collecting two different sets of rose patterned china, each called Royal Rose, one from Japan, one from Germany. She never did find any to completely match the original china made in Poland. As for the chipped dish, she stole it at that last bar-b-que, unable to bear the thought of any more harm befalling all that the dish represented.

I am Lucy’s granddaughter and I have just passed on sixteen place settings complete with three serving bowls, one with a chip; two serving platters; salt and pepper shakers; and a gravy bowl to my daughter along with this story. While telling the story my four-year-old granddaughter wandered over, sat down and listened with wide eyes.

Weather Smut

There is this thing I do to the annoyance of some and the entertainment of others. It has been dubbed weather smut. I really enjoy pulling out all the descriptive stops when describing meteorological happenings or even non-happenings. Today I was at the beach…

The vantage point from my beach chair perching softly on the dune provides perfect capture of the day’s atmospheric changes. Unyielding breezes bring tiny grains of sand to settle in the fine hairs on my arms. The wind ruffles in from the east over the already churning ocean. The sky to the west is loaded with heavy hanging multi-celled clouds trying to push out to sea. So powerful is the wind that the billowing cumulonimbus clouds are held at bay stacking higher and higher. A stark division clashes over the sand. East over the ocean a halcyon blue sky dominates. West over the coastal lands towering, multi-cell, thunder-filled clouds threaten. Today I am rooting for the storm.

What If…

A shout from one of the cooks, “Put away your devices, get your drinks, dinner is ready!”
Grandad chuckles, “In my day, mother called us to wash up, dinner is ready!”
Seven adults and five children scramble around the hand-made farm table. Fast-paced, high-spirited but congenial debate evolves into our common discussion of tactical experience versus technological experience.

“I like it when my cuzeen teacheded me how to find a Gym.” the three-year-old offers, referencing the current Pokemon Go craze. A mix of opinions spanning ages and genders ends the evening in a pleasant feeling of exercised minds.

I represent the oldest generation in this cast of family. I have long been a fan of Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card. I positively believe that the world will be saved by an unknown genius who spent many hours gaming in varieties of worlds, levels, times and spaces limited only by the imagination of the creators and players.

Our future generations will need to be proficient in virtual planning and strategies. Already there is a need for defense of information and people. The primary weapon will be technology as in Ender’s Game. This fantasy novel written in 1985 is eerily relevant in 2016. Set in the future, Ender Wiggen is the hero of the story. He begins like all the other children in the story playing complicated video games. The world has been defeated twice by an alien invasion. Ender’s combination of human empathy and skilled warfare learned through gaming leads to the eventual defeat of the aliens in the third and hopefully final battle. While we have not reached the outer space alien enemy world we certainly do have alien enemies whose beliefs defy comprehension. Planning and following strategies are just some of the benefits.
Cheryl Olson, Sc.D., a researcher in the first large project on video game effects on pre-teens through a 1.5 million dollar federal grant for Harvard, focused on over one thousand students in South Carolina and Pennsylvania. The conclusions note an improvement in self-esteem for boys and girls especially for those with ADHD or other developmental disabilities. In addition, kids are able to try varying roles and behaviors in a safe environment.  Dr. Olson and her husband, Lawrence A. Kutner, Ph.D. have written a book called Grand Theft Childhood. They allow their teenage son to play video games.
Many games have violent themes yet the FBI reports no significant correlation between violence committed by youths and mature rated video games. Child obesity, another concern, has a higher link to hours spent watching television than gaming. Another study conducted by Michigan State University of 482 children found no statistical link between video game playing and weight gain. The study also found that boys who spent hours on realistic video sports spent more time on actual physical sports activities.
My eight-year-old grandson is hearing impaired and has some developmental issues along with the ever popular ADHD. He also reads, computes and comprehends in the 95th percentile. His favorite video game is Minecraft, a world building game focusing on gathering and surviving. He explains to me with a great focus the ins and outs of teleporting, portals, texture packs and the myriad of other creative aspects. Enamored with my friend’s fairy garden, a kind of real world Minecraft, he wants to build a fairy structure with me. We did it today. He gave the vision and direction while I handled the tools. Without his vision, I might have failed. Without my hands on skill, he might have failed. This could lead one to believe that video games v. hands on is a stand-off. I stand on the side of not so. My reason lies in the fact that it is July, it is 101 today in our neck of the woods, and Halloween is the last thing on my mind. Yet, my grandson spotted some Halloween themed tape in my collection of crafty things and his imagination kicked into high gear. Not only did he provide a theme he also decided a tree house would be the perfect structure for conveying the spooky. He is able to think outside the box, not limited to convention. He was not adept at handling a glue gun but he sure knew where the glue needed to go. I can’t say I was much better and have the blister to show for it.
High-fiving me after my squealed curse, “Way to take one for the team G-ma!”

Between us, we built a fantasy any real fairy would be happy to abide in.
The adults in my family play a fantasy game of our own creation, the stolen title is Zombie Apocalypse. The title covers a variety of disasters that may befall our world including plague, war, economic collapse and meteorological disaster. All of our scenarios involve the collapse of modern technology. The primary weapon will be the ability to adapt and create. I have undeveloped property in the Blue Ridge Mountain foothills of southern Virginia. Most of our fantasy quests involve getting to this property from our scattered locations while gathering and collecting things we may need. We are in no serious way doomsday preppers, we are more like arm-chair what iffers. Our schemes involve building a small society of family and friends who survive and thrive in a post apocalypse world. I know our little fantasy gamers even without modern technology will guide and focus working hands to build the best new world on the property should all hell break loose. At least our little corner of the world will be saved. Other little gamers will do the same in their corners and life will go on ready for the next world or level or time or space.

My Shirt!

“Are you from Ohio?”
“What? No.”
“Oh, just a Buckeye fan?”
“Uhhh not really.”
“Sorry, I just saw your shirt and thought…”
“Right! I forgot I was wearing this. I’m from Canada.”
“Ok, well welcome to Cherry Grove Beach.”
“I vacation here every year.”
“Cool.”
“I actually found this shirt under a pier after hurricane Hugo.”
“1989 Hugo? That Hugo?”
“Yeah.”
“The Cherry Grove Pier?
“Yeah. Just right there in the sand along with a lot of other debris.”
“Does the tag have red K?”
“I believe there is a pinkish stain on the tag.”
“I believe that is my shirt.”
The entire conversation more or less really did happen except the last three sentences. The actual last three sentences went more like me telling her that I used to have a shirt like that and that I used to be from Ohio. The twenty-seven-year-old find still being worn plus the finding of the shirt under a pier after a hurricane has run around my mind for over a year. Trying to find a satisfying explanation has eluded me. This week’s Yeah Write Non-Fiction Challenge “Stranger Than Fiction,” finally sparked my brain.  The Inspiration: ” Not every absurdity has a story behind it, but every writer can find fuel in these small moments in life.” (Quoted from this week’s challenge. Written by Meg.)  I hope you enjoy the fuel!