It's the Smallest Gifts that Matter

     On my desk I have saucer with two blue jay feathers, two dried clover flowers, a Jesus card, a rock, dried crab apple berries, some dried leaves and a dried dandelion flower. On my piano sitting on top of a jarred candle are dried sugar maple leaves.

     You might ask what these strange items are doing hanging around? Am I a hoarder, lover of all things nature, someone who can't through things away? Well...I'm a Nana, or Nanny or Nan, a Grandmother or a Granny (a funny name my next to youngest granddaughter called me one day). And, if you've ever had children or grandchildren, you realize quickly it's the smallest gifts that matter through the course of time. Gifts given on the spur of the moment, gifts given from the heart. These very important gifts need a place of honor and a place where they can be seen. These very small gifts have a story and a heartbeat.
     Such as the two blue jay feathers that were given to me by oldest granddaughter Shi, age 11. She brought them to me after an afternoon of exploring the yard and said, "Look Nanny, I found two blue bird feathers! You can have them!" So into my collection they went. Shi loves to explore, and reminds me of myself when I was her age, I was always wanting to explore nature.
     I found the two dried clovers in my purse after my youngest granddaughter, Boo Boo age 3, went home from a visit. We had been out in the front yard looking at and watering the flowers. She apparently decided to pick some flowers for me, and make it a surprise by placing them in my purse. Little Boo Boo is wise beyond her age and is always thoughtful.
     Joe Joe, age 8, gave me the Jesus card after he'd had a particularly difficult day at school. Somehow in his heart, it was Jesus who would see him through. He said, "Here Nana, here's Jesus. Don't you love Jesus? He's good to us." The Jesus card spent many months on the refrigerator door, so we could remember Jesus's goodness, and Joe Joe's gift. This year in school, Joe Joe is excelling! We are proud!
     The rock belongs to Mae Mae, age 4, she is a lover of rocks (like her Nana), and collects them continually. She is fascinated with all the rocks in the driveway, even though to me they all look gray and uneventful, but little Mae sees the beauty in their plainness and finds them all wonderful treasures. She also gave me the crab apple berries and asked to be lift to the tree so she could pick them. Mae says she wishes she could touch the air!  
     Bespectacled Drewy, age 8, looking like a little professor with his glasses gave me the dandelion and maple leaves. With a big and tender heart he loves all things science. His most recent gift to me was a drawing of his Kiwi Bombs. A mother and father and their offspring. After he left my house, I realized he must have been learning about traits in school and this was a creative assignment meant to teach children about why they look like both their parents.

     Although, my oldest grandson Trey, age 11, lives far away I have one of his gifts a candle bought for me one Christmas. It sits, and will always sit, on my bathroom sink. Trey, now looking like a young man, loves sports and Legos, and is always happy to see us when we visit.

     In my office, I also have my closet doors covered with art created by the grandkids. There's a large plump spotted cow, an octopus, a man made from envelopes, a watermelon slice and various paintings. They are there as small gifts given in love, and they are there to remind me that childhood doesn't last forever. These smallest gifts are helping me to remember to make each day a magic day and remind me that's it's always the smallest things that really matter in life. So true, so true....
   

My Father's Boots, Connected Me to My Roots

     How often when growing up do we believe we know more than our parents, or for some reason they are an embarrassment to us? For me, it took a trip to Nashville, Tn., at the age of 50, 25 years after my dad passed away, for me to come full circle with the feelings I had about his cowboy boots and the person he was.
     In late September, last year, I went to a workshop with spoken word artist Minton Sparks. She told us that the ground we were born over, comes up through us and out of us as writers. I guess that's the first time I really appreciated where I came from. Before that time, I felt it was not consequential to who I became as an adult.
     Although my family was very dysfunctional, we loved each other in our own way. One of my earliest memories is of wanting to be a cowgirl. Mom and Dad bought me a cowgirl outfit and boots to go alone with it. There was also a cowgirl hat that I kept attached to my bouncing head with a drawstring. At the age of three, I thought I was in style and very proud to have my picture made in this western getup.
     But soon, when I was four, mom began to go to church and I went along. Dad didn't attend very often. So, I began to see that other men wore dress shoes, not cowboy boots. This became an embarrassment to me that my Dad never wore dress shoes.
     It was much later in my life that I realized, he came from Colorado and the West--it was who he was. Many years later I fell in love with the West, the mountains, the canyons, the rocks and the deserts, many years later I would wear cowboy boots. Many years later I would understand where he came from, his roots and the reasons he was who he was.
     Recently I was privileged to read a poem I'd written at the Minton Sparks workshop at our local Spofest--a public presentation and performance of poets, writers and musicians. Below is my poem "Daddy's Boots," and some thoughts on my mom and dad:
      

     Daddy's Boots

Now, daddy loved his boots,

leather cowboy boots,

he shined them with Kiwi polish and a soft cloth,

and a special horsehair brush 

with a wooden handle,

buffing them to a proper shine,

bringing to the room the sent of polish, 

coffee and Prince Albert tobacco.

(I still have his brush,

used by my son to shine his boots.)

But, for all of his love for his boots, I was ashamed of them,

not of their shine, nor the smell of their polished leather,

nor the way the heels

smacked the concrete sidewalk when he came home at night,

but that they were... well, boots...

cowboy boots.

No one in my "World" wore cowboy boots.

I went to church with mama, 

and the men all wore proper leather loafers 

and dress-up laced shoes.

 But daddy came from Colorado,

he'd owned a Palomino,

and a cowboy hat--he loved the West,

he loved the wind and the mountains,

he loved Louis L'amour and John Wayne,

He loved sad country music the kind 

with a nasal twang.

(But all those memories of his past,

were lost to me in the prideful waters of my swirling youth,

because I knew how he was supposed to look,

I knew how he was supposed to act.) 

The day came when he would walk me down the aisle,

I was embarrassed,

because he insisted on wearing cowboy boots--

not proper leather loafers like a church going man would wear!

I was married in the fall and daddy wore his boots--

to my chagrin.

With his tux, 

with his bow-tie

with his cowboy boots he gave me away--much to his chagrin,

and his to sadness at lost opportunities

 and my loss of youth and my leap into adulthood.

And now, so many years later, many years after he's passed on,

I'm traveling, wearing cowboy boots with a skirt and a scarf,

and bangles, driving to Nashville to learn about where I came from,

and the people who made me who I am...

    

Daddy

Western snap shut shirts

Cowboy boots and Khaki pants,

Rolled up jeans,

Black hair, combed backed with a proper duck-bill,

Roll-your-own cigarettes and black coffee,

Prince Albert in a can,

Cans of beer clustered close by,

Country music,

 Home made omelets and fried potatoes,

a welder by trade,

flash burned eyes soothed 

by mama and potato poultices,

Army cook and survivor of WWII,

with mental scars produced by 

walking through Dachau,

Loved to take photographs.

Mama  

Simple cotton dresses, with simple buttons,

 made by a friend,

canvass tennis shoes,

a large purse full of everything anyone could need,

including her full-sized Bible,

Hair grayed much too soon,

pulled back in a bun,

Breakfast rolls and donuts,

Three Musketeers Bars,

Polk greens and watercress,

fried chicken and mashed potatoes,

Instant coffee, diet soda,

a cook in restaurants and maker of giant cream pies,

lover of dogs and children,

believer in God and the "Church,"

never learned to drive,

rider of cabs and the church bus,

A Writer of poems and songs.

     For a video presentation of "Daddy's Boots," please use this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gC-LTmHfC2I&list=UUuBt6CUBHLTQD1amOpvAm1g&index=8&feature=plcp

On Death and Dying

     My daughter told me on Memorial Day that the kids were painting happy pictures for Poppy and me, because so many people had died on this day and they wanted to cheer us up. She also said the three of them had become preoccupied with her death and our death and what would happen to them if we all died.
     I think there must be a certain age when kids become aware of death--her children are 10, eight and four. I remember worrying about my mom dying when I was a child, maybe around the age of eight to 10. She had told me if anything ever happened to her, I'd go live with my pastor's family. The reasoning behind this was, she had no family near by and my father wouldn't have been able to raise me on his own due to addiction problems.

     Possibly the fears of death for my grandchildren have been reinforced by recent events. Twelve weeks ago today my best friend passed away--Delisa Curtis Cox--a beautiful spirited woman, who loved God, family and helping others. She brought sunshine and music to a room, she brought grace, smiles and respect to all those around her. Never would I have thought she would leave us so young and so early, at age 50 with stage four cancer. She always loved children, and although her two son's are married she didn't have any grandchildren of her own yet. I always thought she would grow old continuing to help people and that and her house would be full of family and beautiful curly headed grandchildren. My grandchildren saw the sadness and loss I, and my other friend Lisa Weisgerber, felt--we had been three childhood friends--now there was just the two of us...

From left, Delisa Cox, myself and Lisa Weisgerber

     When she passed away Tuesday, March 6th, my daughter and her children went with us to Louisiana for the service. On a rainy Thursday, we drove across states, rain coming down in sheets for 12 hours--it seemed the whole of heaven was weeping for the loss on Earth of such a beautiful soul. Soon after her memorial service, the music store where Shiann takes violin lessons had a sudden loss, also. A guitar teacher in his 50's suddenly and unexpectedly died, leaving everyone who knew him shocked at the loss.
     Then the Saturday, before Memorial Day, the grandkid's former school librarian, age 38, died after a six year battle with brain cancer. She leaves behind small children and husband. On Sunday, a woman their mother works with lost her 48 year old husband to a sudden heart problem. Another, sudden loss.
     After so many loses soon the world, to a child, takes on a sinister slant and an ominous cloud hangs over the brightness of childhood. It does for adults, too. There are some questions to life where there are no answers. Where it seems God has chosen to become a silent observer. We are taught not to question Him, but in our hearts we do, because we are only human.
     We can only comfort the living, while trying not to think about our own mortality. We cling to the brightness of knowing and hoping the ones we love are in a better place. And, we hold them in our hearts as sacred treasures. In December before my friend, Delisa, passed away she told me she'd had a dream of us running in a field together,  holding hands--we were laughing and happy. I believe we will again someday...