It Was During WW II

I remember walking nine blocks home to check the mail and then nine blocks back. Looking for a letter from Forrest and unwilling to wait until classes were over.  Rain, snow, sunshine.  No matter the weather.  I wrote to him almost every day and lived for his replies, which didn’t come nearly that often.  Mail came twice a day back then and postage was five cents,  a penny for a postcard.

I walked down Benton, turned right on Central, past the library, the courthouse, Hamby’s restaurant where the aroma of fresh baked homemade rolls and fruit pies kept diners coming, turned right, past wooden houses with blue and yellow stars in the windows indicating family members who were serving the country or who had died in the service of the country, turned left at Main, past  St. Joseph Catholic Church on the corner of Main and Scott, past the school, more frame houses with stars and a church on the corner of Main and Scott, then my home. second house from the corner–609 West Scott.

I was seventeen and a freshman at Drury College   Forrest was my boy friend of five months who later became my husband.

The war ended while Forrest was on a boat being deployed to England.  By then, I had left Drury and entered nursing school at St. John’s Hospital.  I turned down a plebe Christmas –a week at West Point– with someone I’d met at Drury, Jack Wagner, to be there when Forrest returned from the service.  My grandmother had paid for a mouton lamb coat for the occasion and I was set to leave when I learned Forrest would be home.

After three years, we married and had four sons.

Forrest and three of our sons, Scott, John and Ken have died–Scott and Ken of suicide and John of colon cancer.  Forrest died of kidney failure.

Chris and I remain.

 

“Heart Gifts”

That’s what Karen calls them.  All the things she gives.  All the things she does.  I’m overwhelmed with all the love.  Don’t know how to handle it.

Karen arrived Tuesday with burgers from my favorite restaurant, Taylor’s.  The best burgers in town from a restaurant my husband and I frequented when we dated over 70 years ago.  She also brought vegetables from her neighbor’s garden.

Since Karen arrived, she’s made macaroni and cheese, tomato soup, guacamole, and cucumber salad.  She bagged much of the food for the freezer to use later.  She wants to know what else I’d like her to make.

She thoroughly cleaned my kitchen, including the floor.

She sees problems and solves them, went out and bought a small doggie bed and a shower curtain liner to protect me and the bed from Jenny’s nocturnal incontinence.

She bought a pole and humming bird feeder and another hanging feeder because she knows I love to watch birds, especially humming birds.   She put the pole in the ground, made the sugar water and hung the feeder.

She did laundry.

She brought me a lovely summer bouquet.

Karen won’t listen to my protests.  “I can do this while we visit,”” she says.

Late evening we sit on the deck watching day fade into night, breathing the sweet humid air and listening to the birds calling to one another through the dark trees. This is Karen’s favorite time of day.  Mine too.

It isn’t like she doesn’t need a rest.  Back in Arizona, she works 12 hour shifts as a doctor in an emergency room.

Karen is a beautiful, compassionate soul who  cares about humans and animals alike. She gives of her whole self.  I love her with all my heart.

Thinking About My Life

In my family, I was the ‘sick’ one.  Spent a lot of time in bed.  At almost 91, I’m still trying to overcome the fear and loneliness of being different.

It doesn’t help that from the moment of my birth I was a disappointment to my parents.  I was the first grandchild and everyone wanted a boy.  My brother, who arrived eleven months later,  got all the attention and admiration from our extended family.  I took it for granted I was definitely inferior and didn’t deserve more than what I got.

It also didn’t help that my mother was only seventeen when I was born.  She quit school and went to work after her father and brother died of pneumonia. She, her mother and her sister had to live with relatives.  She married my dad when she was sixteen and became pregnant shortly afterward.  She missed a great deal of her childhood.  Except for my brother, Buddy, Mother never liked children.  Nor animals.

It didn’t help either that I was never hugged, kissed nor told that I was pretty or good.  Neither Mother nor Dad were demonstrative.  They didn’t play with us or read to us.   Mother was busy having babies and doing housework and Dad was engaged with starting a new construction company with his dad.  Mother noticed me only to punish or criticize.  Dad didn’t seem to notice I was even there  But my parents took good care of us physically and they were not abusive.  Mother attended all the school performances.  She took good care of me when I was sick.  I just accepted that she loved me.

But I didn’t feel completely safe.  I seemed to realize there were areas of my life where my mother couldn’t, or wouldn’t, save me.

This feeling may be explained by something that happened a few short months after my birth.  Mother sent me out of state to live with my maternal grandmother until after the birth of my brother.  Then shortly after his birth, I was sent to live with an aunt while she had major surgery and recovered.  I don’t remember those times, of course, but the experience of being tossed from one stranger (to me) to another, must have done nothing to make me feel secure.  Then when I was settled permanently at home, Mother was busy with my baby brother.

My saving grace was that my maternal grandmother, Bertie May Smith, and Mother’s sister (my aunt), Ching, genuinely cared about me and made me feel special when I was with them.

A New Beginning

It’s long since my last post and I must learn all over again how to construct a web page.  I apologize and hope readers will be patient with me.  This seems like a good time to start a new site because I’ve lost the thread of continuity I thought I previously had and I definitely feel like a newbie.

As the years go by, I have lost the ambition or the desire to write and that saddens me because writing was once my life.  But so often the words I want or need elude me and it’s hard to make my true meaning known.  Also, I don’t have the stamina or the patience I used to have.  I hope this will be a place where I can take up writing again while sharing experiences with other folks.