Currently Reading Frankenstein: Prodigal Son By Dean R. Koontz, Kevin J. Anderson see related

Two Funerals and an Engagement

This is one occasion that so many things have happened that I have had a lot to write about but no time to write.  First my mother died.  I could either go into a long explanation about our relationship (that would take years to write) or I could just share with you the poem I wrote which provides all the explanation you'll need.

My mother has died
You look at my dry eye
I'm sure you wonder why
And what kind of child am I
Not to mourn that passing
The funeral director asked
(for the obituary)
Was the illness long?
That was when my sister said
What was in my own head
I can't remember a time
when she didn't cough
Both thinking still
But keeping to ourselves
Does emotional illness count?
My eye is dry and this is why
I know that today is the first day
In as long as I have known
That Mom is not suffering
Today she will forget to cough
Her mind will be restored
To the innocence she longed for
The innocence she pretended
For denial was her most intimate friend
Today, tortured no more by twisted mind
And twisted body
Her soul roams with the Lord
And yet I do mourn
But not for her
I mourn that I will have to wait
For my own heavenly reward
To know a mother
Who has been restored
God's good work once begun in her
Now complete

The day began with Mom's death at 8:00 a.m.  [She always was a morning person] and it did not get better.  Mom earthly body had accumulated 86 years of age on the day of her passing into the next life--an age when no one is shocked to hear that you have died and "natural causes" is assumed.  But my cousin's son was only 30, an age that some of think of as "still a child", "hasn't begun to live" and we expect many more years to pass before body and soul are peacefully separated.  Chris Carter died at about 4:00 p.m. (obviously not a morning person) finally losing his battle with muscular dystrophy.  Jerry, another one of you kids has had to wait too long for that cure you have worked for, for so long.

In contrast, there has been another family situation brewing. I'm not inclined to believe that anyone who doesn't know me reads my blog but if the waves of the Internet have brought you here and you don't know my from Eve, then I'll tell you that my grown son has been living in a far away state for just over a year. In Michigan there lives a lovely young lady named Ashleigh and no one appreciates her loveliness more than my son.  He is so taken with her that his greatest desire is to make her his wife but he has no job and that is a problem for obvious reasons.  Failing to find employment in Michigan, his plan was to come home and obtain employment in a place where fewer people are looking for a greater number of jobs.  The poverty inflicted by the unemployment prevented a proper proposal with ring.  OK, Ok, I can't stand to talk that way any more...  I had a engagement and wedding ring set that I could not wear because they didn't fit anymore--but we're not going there.  So, I had the rings adjusted to Ashleigh's size and mailed the rings to Wesley.  He received the rings the day before Mom died.  That was two days before the anniversary of their first date.  To make a long story longer the engagement became official on March 30 but that was just the beginning of the fireworks.

Ashleigh went home to tell her parents her happy news and they were anything but happy!  That evening she wound up staying in Wesley's apartment because she did not feel she was welcome in her own home anymore.  April 1, Wesley flew home to go to  his grandmother's funeral.  We thought at that point that we were about to have a long term house guest.  While Wes was away for the funeral, Ashleigh reconciled with her parents and moved back in.  As it stands now, we will have our house guest but not as soon as we anticipated.  We expect Ashleigh mid-summer instead.  But who knows, things seem to change rapidly!

Currently Reading Square Foot Gardening By Mel Bartholomew see related

See, I told you I was not a consitant Journaler!  What?  I didn't tell you?  Well, I'm telling you now, I start a journal then don't keep up with it and lots of things happen and I feel guilty for not writing about them and think I should just blow of my journal instead of admitting that I am not a constitant journaler.  Because that would be like admitting that I was less than perfect or somehow at fault and I wouldn't want to do that.  But I wrote a thing a poem maybe and I wanted to post it so that was a good enough reason to come back.  So here it is--this thing I wrote:

The stair is bare

and worn

What is that line

on the wall?

That is the mark

left by the flood

waters of Betsy

She came and left

her mark

And it remains

im my life

Time has passed

Too many years

Why not change

the Wallpaper?

The house still

remembers the tears

of the new slaves

fresh off the

auction block

down the street.

What is this place?

Why can't I leave here?

My family all gone away

There is no way, No Way

I will survive here

in a house that still

cries with my tears.

Maybe I should name it.  How about "weeping stair" or "weeping house"  or not.  What do you think?

I wrote this while in a class that was blending jazz music with Langston Hughes poetry and the Bible.  We were given a time to listen to Miles Davis and write and this is what came out just as you see it here, unedited.  This writing, like the class, came from a blend of a lot of things: items up for discussion in class, the title of the class "A way out of no way", and a supernatural experience that I had in a real house in New Orleans when I lived there in 1981.  My husband and I lived in a small apartment on the third floor of a house that is now over 200 years old.  The house was origianlly used as a holding and training place for slaves as they were brought in from the river which was 14 blocks away.  I don't know who owns the house now that our former landlady has died but at the time, it was owned by a decendent of the orginal owner.  The first time we entered the building, we noticed that half way up the second floor the wallpaper changed.  There was a distinct line, below was dark and soiled and above was brighter and cleaner.  So the natural question arose.  What happened?  She merely replied "Betsy".  My first thought was disbelief, why would anyone keep the same damaged wallpaper around for over thirty years?  The next thought was that was some seriously deep flood water.

You have no doubt read this far to learn about the supernatural event.  Actually there were many in that house but I will only recount one as it pertains to this poem.  One afternoon, (or was it morning?) I was home alone except for the child still residing in my body when I heard someone crying.  Not ordinary crying, but crying like the worst thing that could possibly happen had indeed happened...sobbing violently.  I was startled by the sound that seemed to be coming from right outside my door, so much so that I was hesitant to investigate.  But the sound of fear...or was it sorrow, it must be both...caused my compassion to overcome my fear.  There was someone who desparately needed another human being for just what I didn't know but I felt that I had to try to help so I opened the door. The hall was empty.  I know how sound carries, it's probably drifing up from the second floor, so I went to the second floor and the second floor hall was empty but the weeping continued just as loud and just intense as when I first heard it.  So I continued to the first floor and the first floor hall was also empty.  Well, it must be someone, inside their apartment crying over a death or in fear of an abusive husband.  My curiosity got the better of me and I listend at each door to see where the distraught person might be residing, if I find the door, should I knock?  But as I traversed the entire building the sound of weeping was equally loud and intense everywhere, eminating from the  very fibers of the house itself, from the flood stained wallpaper from the cypress banister, from the shadows under the stairs.  Was that a blood stain in the poorly lit hallway?

So I went back upstairs and turned on the TV.

Reading back over the poem, I see some things that float through my head from time to time have spilled out on the paper but may still be hidden.  I see those who are touched by Christ and healed but are reluctant to leave the trappings of sin or infirminity behind.  The majestic house survivied hurricaine Betsy, at least one fire and now hurricaines Katrina and Rita and yet it still sits there with the same old damaged wallpaper.  The tears of the slaves will remain with the house even when the tenants move on to bigger and better apartments.  The spirit of the weeping slave or slaves are forever trapped rather than going on to heaven.  They stay to wallow in their misery for eternity.  How much does that mirror all of our lives.  We plead to God to be freed from the sin that enslaves us and the Scripture tells us that we need only accept the forgiveness that is already there for us and yet we sit year after year in our stained and dirty wallpaper. From an Eagles song: "So often times it happens that we live our lives in chains and we never even know we have the key."  From Life of Brian a healthy man is seen begging he says "alms for an old ex-lepper"  He has been healed by Jesus but only knows how to beg so he continues with his old familiar way of life rather than going on to live a full life of a healthy man.  Then toward the end, there are two ways to read the last few lines.  "There is no way, NO Way I will survive here in a house..." or "There is no way, NO Way... (new sentence wtih determination) I WILL SURVIVE here in a house...  How you read it depends upon your wallpaper.

Currently Reading Never Have Your Dog Stuffed : And Other Things I've Learned By Alan Alda see related

I've been tagged!  I didn't know what being tagged was until now but apparantly it involves replying to these questions on my blog.  So here I am playing along.  No, I didn't answer the last question, I deleted it,  I can do that if I want, it's MY blog.

Four jobs I’ve had:
1. Accounts Payable Clerk (my first computer job—had never touched one before)
2. Alterations seamstress at “The Fashion” (big bucks designer clothes)
3. Cashier at K&B (for eleven effin years!)
4. A job with no title or description—I do whatever she tells me to do (make displays, data entry, on-line purchasing, her email, my email, roll up fabric, make candles, sew a wide variety of things, write advertising copy, write letters, load and unload the van / truck, paint, glue things to other things, accounts receivable, accounts payable, fix the computer, fix the fax, fix the copier, the list goes on and on.)

Four things I want to do before I die:
1. Finish my king size quilt
2. Make a beautiful garden that doesn’t require constant care
3. See my son’s name in movie credits (he wants to be a director)
4. Build and live in a straw bale house

Four things I say a lot:
1. “Did you tape ‘Lost’?”
2. “Okay…”
3.  “Yes, Donna, God really DOES love you! No, He hasn’t given up on you!”
4.  “Would you like to visit my church?  It’s different.”

Four of my favorite foods:
1. BBQ Crab at Joe’s Crab Shack
2. Cheese anything (cheese cake, cottage cheese, cheese ball, pimento cheese, cheese alone, DEFINETLY NOT HOGS HEAD CHEESE)
3. Lasagna

4. Ruston peaches

Four people I’d like to curse:
1. George W. Bush
2. New Orleans Levee Board
3. Emcee (if you know this person, no further explanation is necessary)  
4.

Four people from history I’d like to meet:
1. Jesus as he the apostles saw him
2. John Denver
3. My own ancestors
4. John Lennon

Four movies I watch over and over:
1. Blazing Saddles
2. Young Frankenstein
3. Star Trek (all parts and TV episodes)
4. A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

Currently Reading The Purpose-driven Life: What on Earth Am I Here For? By Rick Warren see related

Poem by Russell Kelfer --

You look like you look for a reason.
Our God made no mistake.
He knit you together within the womb,
You're just what he wanted to make.

The parents you had were the ones he chose,
And no matter how you may feel,
They were custom-designed with God's plan in mind,
And they bear the Master's seal.

No, that trauma you faced was not easy
And God wept that it hurt you so;
But it was allowed to shape your heart
So that into his likeness you'd grow.

You are who you are for a reason,
You've been formed by the Master's rod.
You are who you are, beloved.
Because there is a God!