The soul in despair

Everyone has, or will, at some point in their lives experience the pits of despair. While the dictionary defines despair as the loss of all hope, I think one must feel terribly alone as well. My most vivid memory of despair was more than 35 years ago. We were building our house near Sherrard, and because the home we sold in Moline closed before we were ready, we were living in a small motel out in the country. It's still there as apartments. 

I fed the kids instant oatmeal and took them to catch the bus at our new property where I spent much of the day varnishing, staining, or whatever task was needed that I could do. We're talking subfloors and no toilet yet, so it wasn't easy. I also tried to keep up with my volunteer duties without benefit of cell phones or email. I remember quite a bit of phone booth calling. As I recall, I was organizing a walk to raise money for a charity among other things. Marvin went to work, then came to the new house to work on it, along with the kids. We cooked supper  over an open fire, then back to the motel for homework and bed. We all remember that work with pleasure, building our home on a hill, clearing brush, future plans for horses and cattle and pigs (even chickens just one year - too messy), and of course dogs and cats. The red fox that followed us on our first walk across our 160 acres was a symbol of all that could be good in that place.

One night Marvin and I decided to leave Frank in charge of his younger siblings and go out for dinner. We argued about one thing or another ... while we share the same values for the most part, sometimes my choices just are beyond his capacity to tolerate or understand. The walk was probably one of them. Can't remember and it's not important. The argument was terrible, and we had to quit when we got back to the motel. So with unresolved anger and pain, I sat on the bathroom floor and wept. Now weeping is different than crying, and sometimes noisier ... certainly with more depth in feeling and need for smothering sobs in a towel. There I am, alone, in despair, praying for relief. And trying to do it quietly so I would not wake up the children who were sharing one of the two beds in the room. I still remember the pain of it. 

Despair has come again for me, and certainly for him, but that's his story to tell. Do I continue to challenge Marvin's patience and understanding? Certainly as much as he challenges mine. Yet we still hang on to our separate truths, as well as find common ground on the most important ones. Neither of us are quitters, so we stayed married, and have found great peace and companionship spiced with a bit of dissonance. Sort of like a good book, fine food, or time with nature.

Even in the pits I always feel a connection with something beyond. Is that God? I like to think so. I know that alone in that bathroom that night, I felt a presence. God finds us no matter where we hide. We all need to step into that light and reflect it on others. The three most important words are "I love you". Or are they "I forgive you." We need to say both of them freely. 

Hope in a meow!

Spook is a hopeful cat, and persistent. Each day, several times per day actually, she stands by the door, looks at me and says "meow", becoming a bit more persistent each time I ignore her until I finally let her out. A few minutes later she's back, looking disgusted that the white stuff is still on the ground freezing her toes. On a warmer day, say 30 degrees Farenheit, she and her mom Oscar (that name is another cat tale) will stay out for an hour or more near the house. They don't wander the ravines in the wintertime. So the small creatures holed up there are safe for now!

Spook has reason for her hopeful attitude as the survivor of a wild animal attack that broke her leg and killed two litter mates when she was tiny. Just her sister Birdy managed to escape unscathed. Spook stayed wild as a kitten while Birdy (yeah, another cat tale) decided she liked us. About half-grown, leg healed but unbending, Spook climbed trees and did other cat things. One day Marvin heard that meow and found her about 15 feet up a tree, stuck on a thorn. Hmmmm, what to do... the tree was in a ravine, and a ladder would not be a safe idea. So he nabbed the dip net and nudged her off the thorn. She fell, of course, expending another of her nine lives, and snarling all the way, went to hide and lick her wounds. 

Meanwhile, Oscar had another 5 kittens that same year, meaning we had 8 unspayed female cats and I shuddered to do the litter math over the coming years. So Marvin got the dip net again, trapped the two snarling wild ones into a cat carrier and we took all three to the vet for spaying. And the litter to find homes for them. Thank God for the Quad City Animal Welfare Center.

Well, the winter of 2007-2008 was cold, so we started letting everyone inside with Sam and Boxy, our so-called indoor cats. Spook and Oscar now think they are housecats too and Spook, lanky and awkward, loves to sit in laps. But she still hopes for the outdoors, and lets me know about it daily. I join her in that hope that warm weather will return in a few weeks (49 days until spring, yeh! but whose counting!).

Spook's courage as a kitten, never daunted by the crippled leg or humans trying to catch her, as well as her hopeful sorties for the Sun are a great example for us to encourage ourselves and others. Whether advising our children, grandchildren, friends, or strangers, even ourselves, we should always pursue dreams, and be not afraid to take risks. Hope is definitely found in Spook's meow and in our dreams. Be courageous! Go for hope! 

Sea shells by the sea shore ...

Two years ago we decided the whole family should take a vacation in celebration of Marvin and my 50th wedding anniversary. So the 12 of us traveled by plane to Florida on Dec. 26, 2008, and for four nights and days vegetated on the beach and by the pools of the beautiful South Sea Island Resort which encompasses most of Captiva Island near Fort Myers. Great food was a bonus and great company with one another a blessing.

Our condos faced the Gulf of Mexico and the well-cared-for beaches were a constant source of joy. Yeah, I know there's something elemental about the ocean, frightening for its immensity and amoral power, yet awesome in its color and the amazing gifts it bestows on those who seek it. Having fished the Bering Sea, I am well aware of the fear factor and seasickness! Yet I yearned to feel the sand and salt water and to find the sea shells raved about on the resort website. So every morning we walked the shoreline, trying to hit low tide so we could attempt to pick the best from behind a beach shelf, which is covered with water during the day. Everyone found shells, of course, with concentration and a bit of reaching! I even fell into the water fully clothed because I was determined to get a conch shell! Did I quit? Nope! Those waves that kept giving and taking back couldn't keep me down! 

The shells and striving for them could be considered a metaphor for life. When one reaches for a goal, sometimes one acquires it. Sometimes one may become so immersed in the striving that one is soaked in the work and oblivious to the rest of life. And sometimes the goal is taken back by the waves of perdition. Perhaps then our goal should be continuing to strive. To reach yet again for the beautiful shell was our purpose on the beach. To reach for our life's goals again and again is our purpose here on earth. We just need to not let the waves take our attention away from those we love, or discourage us from striving. 

During this New Year, I plan to remember the sea shells by the sea shore ... and my family's striving!

Living on ...

Surely all of us want to be remembered, that's the way we continue to live after death, at least in the earthly sense. If one believes in eternity, then life continues anyway, just in a different form (believe me I don't mind leaving behind pain for that!). But the topic is memory. Perhaps my granddaughter Shannon calling the other night reminded me of that. She asked me the names of my grandparents and parents. Well the latter was easy, but I had to look up the names of the three grandparents who died before I was born. So maybe that's how long one lives on in this earthly setting, as long as your grandchildren can remember you.

However, the most I remember about the grandmother I sort of knew ... Frances Smith of London, KY ... is that she chewed tobacco and was as delightful as a child when she came to visit us in Illinois because of the traffic in front of our house near Bismarck. Sh lived in a log cagin with two rooms, heated by a fireplace with an outhouse in back. I remember the snug warmth of feather comforters near that fire in the bedroom that held several beds. She had raised 8 kids there. My mother learned to cook there, starting at about age 4 in the lean-to back porch. The cemetery where Frances Bruner Smith was buried next to her husband Roland, was next door to the cabin I loved to visit. I thought Kentucky was a big adventure, handsome strapping woodsy men, lots of coonhounds and holy roller preachers railing fire and brimstone. I think one of the preachers was an ancestor, but most were more like the first described, especially my uncles.

So what will my grandchildren and hoped for great-grandchildren remember about me? Those memories are still happening! But there are some cool early ones. Will Aaron remember falling from the third bunk at Synod School? I had put a mattress on the floor where he would fall so he wouldn't break his determined 7-year-old neck on our first trip together! Will Kelsey and Morgan remember our being stuck on an interstate after a blizzard in north Arizona? The road crews just let the snow melt ... it always seems to by afternoon! Will Shannon and Jessi remember the adventures right here at the farm? Carried those lunches and small bags to gather outdoor treasures. 

Have I ever said anything wise to them? Or memorable? Hmmmm... that's something to think about while we still have memories happening. Whatever they remember, the important thing is that we have been together. They know their grandmother. That's a great way to be remembered. 

What do 50 years bring?

Marvin and I will celebrate 50 years of marriage on Sunday, Dec. 7. Actually we started celebrating over Thanksgiving when Marvin reached the magic age of 70 and will be continuing to be joyful until after Christmas when all the family vacations in Florida. Four nights and five days of family will be a fitting tribute to our time together. If married folk produce 10 family members they are proud to claim as children and grandchildren, then what else has meaning in life? Really!

We have accomplished other goals: good jobs, our own companies, a few good friends, and many meaningful activities. But children always make the difference, at least for me. We've both affected the lives of many children besides our own. But a long marriage isn't about doing stuff, it's about being silent together as well as talking through a shared meal. It's about trust even in despair. It's about enjoying one another, and of course, there's love. We have loved each other through pain, sorrow and anger. We don't give up on marriage, even when divorce sounded so much easier. Perhaps tenacity had something to do with it. Perhaps it was the memory of our parents saying that we must be patient and work at marriage. I don't know, really. We have found what makes being together work, but would never presume to tell others how to do it. Not all marriages are made in heaven, but surely more of them should be working than the statistics show! 

Saturday night we will dine out at our favorite expensive restaurant and toast one another. I am toasting a healthy, happy, frustrating, and long-loving marriage. I pray that it will continue to become all these things and more! Well, maybe not the frustrating part!

 

A sister's love

Imogene was 15 when I was born so she was more than my big sister. There was a little mothering, lots of protection and plenty of generosity. She shared her children with me so I always had a great sense of family, instead of being the youngest of the six Murphy children and raised as an only child. she introduced me to the facts of life, cautioned me about boys and cheered me on in high school plays and musicals (along with my parents, of course!). 

When I had children, Imy was there to hold my hand. Mother couldn't bare to watch so she deferred that duty to my other mother, who was my sister. Imy had her 5th child a few months after I had my first so David and Frank grew up together (yes, disagreeing frequently and a relationship long damaged beyond repair). My son Art, at age 2, kicked her in the shins for not feeding him quickly enough. Sheila was simply adored by her Aunt Imy. We were together often, traveling to Chicago and St. Louis before we moved away from Rossville near Imy to the Quad-Cities. She came to see me until she moved with her three youngest to Scottsdale. Marvin and I took our kids to visit the desert several times, and once we continued on with Imy and Curt and David to Mexico. Sheila loved being in my niece Joni's wedding, as Joni had been in mine. 

My aging parents moved to live near us, and traveled to Arizona to be with Imy during our cold winters. After they died in 1976, my sister decided I needed a vacation, so she took me to Venezuela to visit friends, then to Mexico City and Acapulco for some beach time. I returned the favor by driving her to Kentucky to visit our ancestors' homes several years later.

My sister was a strong woman in her youth who was devastated by Parkinson's Disease and many ailments of aging. Joni saved her life many times during the more than 20 years she cared for her. As Imy became more frail, I enjoyed their hospitality. While our families are torn apart by anguish, strife and betrayal, I remember Imy and Joni with love.

More than a sister, sometimes a mother and always a friend, Imy taught me about courage and tenacity as she faced the afflictions of life and her physical suffering. Imy's smile would light up a room and her generosity was exemplary. I loved her in this life and will always miss her. Gone two years now, she is with my parents and I will see her again one day. What more could any of us want?

Walker is still alive

We saw Walker again this weekend. He's been with us since someone shot at him out of season and nicked a wing. Walker is a Canadian goose, an elegant bird whose flight is sure and true. The sounds they make as they come in for a landing on our pond is as clear a call of the wild as an eagle's in the West. Some think the geese are a nuisance, but we love them as well as the many types of ducks, herons and other water birds such as the kingfishers that visit us during the spring through late fall. 

Walker and his mate arrived early this year. We saw the wing dragging and thought a coyote or fox family would take him soon. But not so. He walked up the hill in front of our house to find food, and crosses the road to the neighbor's pond. We think they leave a shed door open for him to find shelter. The mate is now gone, as our most of the other geese, but we know she will return in the spring to see if Walker makes it through the winter. The ponds froze this week but portions melted yesterday, so he is safe for a bit longer. 

You might ask how we know Walker is a male. Well, we don't, but he is larger than the mate, and that usually means a male. You also might ask why we haven't called animal rescue, or something. And that reminds me of my childhood, raised on a farm in east central Illinois. I learned there to respect Nature's Way. A kitten with a broken leg was nurtured back to health by me after the leg was strapped to popsicle sticks. I loved to lay in a clean stall with a young calf, inundated with the scent of hay and warm animal. Baby chickens were in my hands before I knew to be gentle. As I was older I had horses to train and ride and bantam chickens to admire. Through these experiences my parents taught me to respect life and that Nature should be allowed to take its course with animals. There simply wasn't enough money to take a kitten to the vet, or to fix a goose's wing. 

Money was not the issue, however. My parents believed that humans were given the task of caring for God's creatures, but that humans came first. While I believe we've done a miserable job of that work, I am troubled that so many people will spend thousands of dollars on their animals but not a penny for humans in need.

OK, we now have five cats that we adore. They are fed the best food available and go to the vet as necessary. So should I call about Walker? I don't know. He probably can't be fixed, but the wing is stronger, and I keep hoping that the flapping exercises he performs (without benefit of physical therapy!) will one day carry him away. 

I know, however, that if he doesn't fly away, he remains free. Somehow, I believe that is what God intends. The ice is melting now, and the Almanac predicts a mild winter. 

So we'll keep watching Walker and cheering his courage.