Tag Archives: family

best ever ~

21 Thursday Dec 2017

Posted by in a time for telling, Poetry, Storytelling

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Just this week, a friend told me of the start of a new tradition within her family wherein each member shared their best Christmas memory. Even in recounting the experience, tears filled her eyes as she spoke of her own, and those shared by others. There were moments of sorrow and others sweeterstillof pure joy, but eventually, they all became the best memory ever.

How is it that we’ve forgotten that? To know that every sorrow wears a coat of joy, and every bliss is but a warning of grief – a missing of the sweetest part? And yet, when measured into the same overflowing cup, they become the best – again and again.

She asked to my best memory ever and I think (partially) it was dislodged from my heart by her telling, but it is one of joy and family……….the best ever still.

Tho we didn’t know it at the time, we weren’t rich. My family of six lived in a two bedroom trailer until I was twelve. Then we moved into a castle of three bedrooms….. 🙂 The memory recalled is from the ‘castle’. Every Saturday was the same. One by one, my brother and sisters would wake for some reason and make our way to my parent’s room, my parent’s bed. Until we were all there, telling our dreams, torturing and tickling, and eventually deciding on breakfast.

But Christmas was another such time. My brother (who by virtue of the fact that he was the only son, had his own bedroom) would sleep in the girl’s room. We’d all pile into one big bed (or it seemed big at the time – tho I suspect it was no more than a full-size). I’m not sure we slept at all, but during the night, with every little squeak or bending of board, we’d speculate that Santa had come around. My brother was the designated outlook for us, and he would sneak down the hall to spy on the living room………and then run back to the safety of us to report. There was no understanding that it had to be five o’clock before we could get up. The only restriction was that we couldn’t get up before Santa had arrived.

closerYears later, I have heard stories of how long it took to get all the presents under the tree*. Between wrapping, assembling, and playing with all the toys – it was their joy we were most anticipating I think. Even now, at Christmas, I imagine the sound of little boy feet running down the hall…….. ‘he’s here, he’s here’………..

Let us keep Christmas forever in our tiny hearts, remembering things little as big. Let us keep love through the sharing of stories – creating anew every best memory.

* My Chatty Cathy doll was almost worn out before Christmas, and a promise to get a kitten for my sister resulted in an unexpected run to the country – and a cat that nearly brought my dad to stitches.  In the telling, even more sweet beautiful tears.  My dad comments, ‘we didn’t know just how good we had it’….  Then he winks, ‘yeah, we knew’……..

wake me home
some other year –
beyond this life surrendered
fall to me the places
I have known –
save for me
a little room
with not much more
for leaving –
arms to fill
wake me now
to home

. . .

Author’s Note:  One of my favorite reposted as a reminder.

freed ~

13 Wednesday Dec 2017

Posted by in Poetry, Soapbox, Storytelling

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thepresent

Maybe it’s the rush that is the season, but lately, I’m more and more reminded of the present that is the present.

A friend recently commented that her goal for 2018 was to be wherever her feet were – to be grounded in the now – looking nither forward or back but only to this ‘perfect’ moment – free from the boundaries and ultimate limitations inherent with the others.

As expected, it got me thinking about the present and how wisely (or not) we spend our moments. I’ll readily admit that I love talking about the past. Not in the sense that I speak of it with regret or sorrow, but as part of the larger story – perhaps the place we began, though it might not have appeared so at the time.

The stories are what define us, help us to grow, and in sharing those, we allow others a part of us that exists (like the present) beyond the grasp of past or future.  In my humble opinion, there is no relationship nor circumstance that cannot be made better by four simple words – tell me a story.  In the sharing, the present becomes greater than the depth of a moment, a season, a lifetime.

Of times I spent with my daddy, the gift of being present rewarded me with amazing treasures – parts of him. There were stories I had heard before, but others, I had not. The same is true of my visits with mama. From an ordinary conversation about fishing comes a story I didn’t know.

When she was pregnant with me, she couldn’t work in her daddy’s cafe. Yet, there were days when he needed fish for the restaurant and he took her with him. That part of the story is sweet enough, but there is another part. Because she was expecting, there were times when she grew nauseous or tired. He carried a blanket with him so that she could nap in the bottom of the boat while he fished.

I love that story……a piece of my grandfather who died a month before I was born. A piece of my mother, and a piece of me.

And now, in another way, perhaps a piece of you too.

I never tire the revelation, of the insight into all that matters. When faced with a grieving friend, the simple words, ‘tell me a story about her’ (or him) is enough to alter perspective, allowing us a shared place of memory, intimacy, solace and connection.

In our stories, we are at once a hero and immortal. Where the story remains, so our name, repeated long past the expanse of either past or future.

So, tell me………

when last I dreamed
I lay awake
and wandered unto home
the safe and sweet
embrace
once was you
tell me now
some other time
of who you are
and why
you knew my name
before I thought
to love

. . .

three doors down ~

17 Monday Jul 2017

Posted by in a time for telling, Poetry

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I’ve always held to the theory that we are exactly where we’re meant to be, even when we might wish ourselves otherwise.

On more than one account, I’ve found myself in prayer – grateful that I’m not the ‘keeper of the clock’.

Recently, it was proven to me yet again.  FB_IMG_1500090354285

Though the ‘days between’ may be long, I hold relationships among my sweetest treasures.  Not long ago, I learned that a dear friend was hospitalized; to be honest, she was the mother of my ex-husband. Despite the years (and obvious adjustments), she and I remain extremely close.  At times, she shared a secret belief that her purpose in this life was to know me……to love me.

I made several trips to her bedside, where she continued to decline as the result of a freak incident involving insecticide used on her garden.

Two weeks after her initial admittance, her family received bad news – her days were numbered (as if any of us are exempt from the counting), and she might not survive the week.  It was Saturday.

On Sunday evening, my husband complained of fatigue and a shortness of breath. Given his heart history, we rushed to the emergency room, where he was treated and admitted for observation and further testing. His heart rate had dropped dangerously low; the doctors attributing it to a bizarre spike in potassium levels.

His room was only a few doors down from my friend’s. Over the next several days, I was back and forth between the two, delivering leftover food, whispering assurances, and sharing in the telling of stories dear to everyone.

It was exercise in leaning – one into another – closing the gap between now and then.

On Wednesday morning, my friend (Lucille) surrendered her struggle, surrounded by love and fearlessness, despite the fact that death had come as an unexpected wolf to her door.  As I huddled in the hall with her family, her daughter-in-law (one of my closest friends) commented that Jay was now ‘free to go home’. I assured her of my hope that such might happen later in the afternoon, following another check on his vitals.

But, when I returned to my husband’s room, I was met by his doctor, sharing the good news. My husband’s potassium level had neutralized and his heart rate was back to normal. He was released within hours.

I am not one to ever believe in coincidence. We are exactly at the place we were meant to be (destined, as we chose, to be).

At a time when I was desperately needed (three doors down), I was given another reason to be there and the strength to bear both.

when my garden
yet in splendor breaks
faces to the sun
let there
my day begin
another
new

held within
the forevermore
I prayed would come
this way –
again to know
the mystery
of you

. . .

Lucille Lundquist
1935 – 2017

tethered ~

20 Thursday Apr 2017

Posted by in a time for telling, home, Poetry

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12998626_10153643973946275_7704908785686098454_n

“Sometimes, in the midst of a crazy day or a crazier week, I get an email from my brother, ‘meet you below the falls in five minutes’. And just like that, I am somewhere else, breathing in the cold spray from high above, as laughter echoes off canyon walls. Even now, I close my eyes and hear the wonderful music that is bare feet on flat rocks.”

If we’re fortunate, we realize the blessing in the midst of its becoming rather than only in retrospect. In doing so, we free ourselves from bitterness, regret, and a future filled with frustration as we attempt to re-write the past.

In doing so, we erase the illusion that is time.

While the body may be tethered to the advance of hours, years, seasons, love is not. As someone near and dear to me commented recently, ‘How time dissolves in the mind, when our frame of reference is simply love …’

Touché

unfocused ~

09 Thursday Mar 2017

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As of late, my mother has been sharing stories. Some I’ve heard, but others, I haven’t. It seems almost impossible that this much time could pass without me knowing that my mother lied about her age when she married my daddy. Of course, on the other hand, it seems unlikely they would have married had she not. My assumption that the laws were different then had never really been tested so I was surprised to find numbers written on the edge of their license. When pressed, she confirmed she had lied.  I suppose the justice wanted the ‘last word’, noting their ‘supposed’ ages to the official proof.

There’s another tale about her leaving the basketball team when my grandmother gave her the choice to either quit the team or stop seeing my dad. My mother actually fretted for a while over that until I reminded her that they only dated for a couple of months before marrying, at which point she quit school. I wonder how much of the last 62 years have been filled with angst, when in reality she might have missed two or three games.FB_IMG_1488552217459

But we do that, don’t we? The things that shouldn’t be given any weight at all are made bigger by our insecurity, anger, frustration, jealousy and need. And yet, the things that should be viewed as ‘big’ most often aren’t. We lose sight of the first kiss, choosing instead to focus on the first broken heart.

The attention given to my sweet Aunt Lyda* isn’t near the amount given to those whose lives were defined by bad luck and worse choices.

Mom wants me to write a book filled with her stories. I’m all for it, though periodically, I put down my pen and exclaim, ‘that’s not making the cut’ or ‘sorry, but that story’s going with you’.

It’s not the burden that breaks us, but the way we carry it.

tell me now
again
I will you
speak of times before
split the veil
wherein my name
is sewn
listen this reminder
lest I should pass
the night
burdened with
the memory
of every love
I’ve known

*My great aunt Lyda (my granny’s sister) was a beautiful soul. She married a man whose first wife was lost to illness. She helped to raise his three children, though she never bore any herself. They were hard times, and his wife had been buried in an unmarked grave. When he passed, Lyda had a stone made, bearing his family name. The first wife was moved, and for more than 40 years, they’ve lain next to one another, Ruthie and Lyda, with the man they shared between. It’s a story I love to carry.

mccoy

it won’t feel like Christmas until ~

22 Thursday Dec 2016

Posted by in home, Poetry, Storytelling

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thesmokies

You’ve heard it before. It seems everyone is asked to complete the sentence from time to time – even as the final moments sneak by on Christmas eve.

I personally love the answers. Some wait for a certain movie to play (It’s a Wonderful Life, my favorite) or they wait for snow, the first Christmas card, a call from across the miles. Regardless, for most, there is a trigger that pulls them (sometimes kicking) into the spirit of these days.

Last weekend, I spent an uncomfortable amount of time at Home Depot. People were beginning to think I worked there. In fact, I helped one lady by pushing her cart to the registers.

And while I am rarely without the Christmas spirit (even in June), I was losing my taste for home renovation options!

But as I was searching for the appropriate aisle for molding, I realized the music had changed.  O, they were playing Christmas music, albeit most of it was what I refer to as ‘retail’ Christmas music. But then, on the aisle between hinges and paint thinner, it changed – Joy to the World began playing. It was only the music, but I recognized it immediately. It was enough….

I’ll admit that I am a terrible singer (and a worse dancer), but I couldn’t resist. I began singing and the more I sang, the louder I became, and the more I felt Christmas cooling in my bones.

From one aisle to the next, I sang……..the first verse and then again (the only verse I knew for certain the words).

Since then, a co-worker gave me a tiny picture frame ornament; another, a sand and driftwood candle; and still another – a new birdhouse (guess they’ll be moving out of the grill), feeder, and ten pounds of wild birdseed.

Just this morning, as I made the turn beside a church on my way to work, two does stopped in their morning walk to watch me (hey you).

I feel it everywhere, but right here (pointing to heart) the most. It’s in all I do – hope, faith, family, angels, my daddy, the Smoky Mountains, evergreen, music, and love (always love).

Christmas is come………and I was home!!!

Merry Christmas to you. May your heart be filled to overflowing.  Joy (sweet joy) to the world!

Evermore,
Bobbie

unfiltered ~

11 Monday Apr 2016

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More than one florist tried selling us on roses, on carnations, lilies or gladiolas.

Somehow none of those seemed worthy of the man
who found beauty
in the wildflowers and weeds….

daddysbouquet

where
and I am with you now
no different
than before –
when winds are blown
and waves –
the sea concedes
faultless as a message
left behind
to soothe the shore
know that I am waiting –
a breath
you’ve yet to breathe

. . .

beyond ~

07 Thursday Apr 2016

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The most amazing thing happened on Wednesday, April 6th, 2016.

Robert Brady George was reunited with his parents, Annie and DB; grandmother, Darthula; sisters, Louanna and Imogene; brothers, Eucle, JD and Hubert; a very special grandson (Nathan Allen Ray); and a host of angels, relatives and friends nurtured by 83 years of living.

It had been many years since most had been together and the lull was long enough. From all accounts, the reunion was beyond what mere words could describe. Tears of joy, hugs and kisses, storytelling, thunderous laughter and a flood of emotions were said to have filled the sacred halls. After several hours of celebrating a beautiful life, the group was seen moving at the speed of light into the heavens.

Survivors are beyond the limit of numbers, but include his sweetheart, his wife of 60 years, Bonnie; children – Bobbie Ward (Jay), Janey Ray (Rick) , Stephen George (Michelle), Renee McGowen (Terry); grandchildren – Daniel Ray (Jennifer), Stephen ‘Toot’ Ray (Rose), Andrea Ray (Brent), Robert George (Susan), Stephanie George, Hannah McGowen (Nate), Cameron McGowen; and great grandchildren – Lathan, Mia, Remie, and Brody.

The roots of this tree run deeper than names and blood; deeper than bone or the limit of words to page. Blessings have a way of multiplying; hearts, filling up until all we know is love.

God is good (all the time).

Author’s Note:  On Tuesday morning of this week, my mother suffered a heart attack and was air-lifted to a regional medical center in Nashville. She underwent a procedure for immediate repair of her heart. She worried about daddy, and though he wasn’t told, perhaps he felt it. Or maybe he felt the assurance that she was being cared for. At the end of a weary day on Wednesday, we were called to the facility where my father has been a patient for the last 8 months. When we arrived, we found him already gone, sleeping in his bed as if he had simply drifted off upon a dream. We stayed for hours, into the night, figuring a plan for how to tell mama, but relishing in stories, song, and laughter as daddy ‘slept’ within arm’s reach. We realized that had our mother not suffered her attack on Tuesday, the event of Wednesday would likely have triggered one greater than her heart could bear. Storms had swept through, keeping my brother at home (only a mile or so from the nursing facility) rather than visiting my mother. In the haste to get to the hospital, we left behind her phone (averting the call of Wednesday evening).  Time and again, we were presented with a truth greater than our grief – that every tear is precious, and that God never lets us go.

This morning, a note from my niece. My initial thought – it was a delay from yesterday.

Update on Papa this morning.
He is doing amazing! Up and tending
the garden already. Huge improvement since
yesterday!! He will visit you all today so
look for him. He is love, and he is everywhere!

. . .

asIhavelovedIamknown

extraordinary ~

22 Tuesday Dec 2015

Posted by in a time for telling, home, Poetry, Storytelling

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savingme

Last night, just before I kicked the covers off, I lay in the still and reflected on an extraordinary day.

Perhaps not extraordinary by most standards, but I received Christmas cookies from a friend, held hands with a few others, giving grace over a sandwich. I traded calls and messages with my brother, sisters, and mother.

I got my hair cut, allowing me time with a dear old friend. We laughed, fretted aloud, and eventually came back around to the acceptance of just how blessed we are – separately, but even more so, together.

I left from my hair appointment in the rain, and though it was past visiting hours, I phoned the center where my dad resides these days and found he was still awake, so I dropped in. Not only was he still awake, he was still eating – savoring bits of a hamburger and fries, sitting in bed in a camouflage beanie and his red and black checked flannels.

He smiled when I entered, causing me to beam!

‘Hey, good looking.’

I told him about my day, and helped him manage the last of his iced tea. I commented on the growing stack of cards, the dwindling supply of bird feed, and the presence of two new baskets of Christmas goodies.

Time slowed. (this is surely heaven)

Not long ago, I asked if he would like a recliner so that he was afforded more options – more than just the bed and a wheelchair. I raised the subject again, and he smiled, ‘I’m fine’.

‘Then what would you like for Christmas, daddy?’ His little boy eyes sparkled as his brows raised. I chuckled, ‘O, not sure I can do much about that, daddy’, figuring he was contemplating either a ride home or a stay-over with mama.

He beamed. ‘Just your smile. Lots of your smiles.’

And that I gave him, even as he told me how I was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

I’m quite sure there have been better (other times and other smiles), but for a late night at a nursing facility, there’s not much sweeter than a hamburger, flannel pajamas, and a smile that leaves no room for worry……..

God is good! O yeah!

save me
your side
near the end of the way
and miles
we would walk
hand in hand
through the still
imperfection
of where we began
even now –
for this
all I wish
is to love

. . .