Autumn Leaves

The abundance of blooming chrysanthemums enticed me. Of course, being only 4 or 5 years old at the time, I couldn't resist picking a few flowers and tucking them into my pockets to surreptitiously sniff them, later. Too bad I forgot about them and mommy found them when I came home. I sure got yelled at!

My mother was confounded at my thievery. Hadn't I been spanked enough for my evil ways? And yet I was still willing to take the chance each time I picked other people's flowers. It seemed logical to me that such abundance was to be shared. Of course, if Mommy had a garden of her own, perhaps I would not have had such urges. But, since I was given the freedom to roam.... well... it just seemed natural to me to help myself. I had no idea what was to follow the blooming of the chrysanthemums. It seemed like the metamorphosis happened overnight.


I walked the length and breadth of the streets marveling at the extraordinary changes taking place. One day the trees were green, the air was humid, and suddenly the next day, the trees were screaming brilliant and the air was brisk with a new warmth and freshness. The fragrance was tantalizing. That first autumn I remember surprised me.


As I walked the sidewalk that magical day the multi-colored leaves deliciously licked my feet as I crunched my way through them. I remember gathering maple, elm, oak, even willow. I knew my trees by name, of course. Only for a moment did I ask myself if this was another form of stealing. But, did the trees belong to individuals? It seemed to me that since they lined the streets on both sides, they belonged to the streets and not to people. Besides, the leaves were already no longer attached to the trees! It seemed the leaves were up for grabs. I often tossed down one pretty captured leaf in exchange for another even lovelier one. My hands were so full of leaf bouquet by the time I returned home, this time, I was sure it was okay to bring this bounty. And for once I was right.


The instant I walked in the door, my mother's shriek was one of delight. She was pleased with what she thought was a gift for her. I immediately went along with that idea. It hadn't occurred to me to offer them to her. But, I was so happy she approved, so relieved I was not in trouble for being a bad, stealing girl that it was easy for me to give up my newly acquired treasures.


Mommy laid each leaf out on the table, then mysteriously began to slip each one into a book, to save them, she said. Imagine my disappointment with the next stage the trees exhibited... the skeletal barrenness preceding winter. 

Memory of Memorial Day

In my childhood I had never lost any close relatives to death. Except for my grandparents who had died long before I ever had a chance to know or love them. Yet, a palpable emptiness existed in my life in reserve for them.

My first real  understanding of death came when I was about three years old. My nine year old brother, Davy, told me most reverently, that he was not my only brother. Not quite believing him, I questioned my mother, and in a matter of fact manner, she verified it.  The year before Davy was born, 1938,  she had a stillborn baby boy, and she named him Lee Borden Deane.  No one ever behaved uncomfortable about it,  the only attitude was one of respect for the dead and a long ago sense of loss. And so, another palpable space occupied my life, labeled “Baby Lee.” He seemed so wise to me as he watched over us in heaven since he was older than Davy.

By the time I was seven, I had younger brother and sister who easily made up for any sense of missing family members. Our lives were quite busy and full.

We made yearly pilgrimages on Memorial Day to Baby Lee’s unmarked gravesite. About 1957, during my early adolescence, I  remember one particularly miserable trip from Niagara Falls to Tioga County, Pennsylvania. I did not understand what was bothering my mother, but I  was very aware that she was especially grouchy. My brothers, sister and I thought she was being mean towards us kids during that trip.  We wondered is she was mad at one of us, but dared not ask. We felt trapped in the car; and sullenly sat in silence, not daring to move.  We couldn’t wait to arrive, and  run off into the woods to explore and play, working up an appetite for the picnic that was planned for later.

Mom and Dad stayed near the grave, pulling weeds and arranging flowers.  Later, I wandered back to see if it was safe to get near them without suffering my mother’s wrath.  As I came out of the thicket, I saw their backs were turned to me, surprised to see my father’s arm around my mother’s shoulder, I couldn’t remember ever seeing any show of affection between them. I stopped in my tracks, curious. Then, I noticed my mother’s shaking shoulders.  She was sobbing bitterly. I wondered if she was feeling bad about the way she had treated us kids earlier. I sorely needed an apology or at least a kind word.  I wanted to feel forgiving toward  her.  My Dad glanced back and saw me.  Alarmed, I whispered, “What’s wrong?”

Mom, ignoring me, broke away from Dad and walked away, studiously pretending to look at some other dead person’s gravestone.   Dad came toward me, blocking my view of her, and answered, “Your mother is crying for Baby Lee, because he died and she doesn’t have him here with us.”

I felt as though I had been slapped across the face. A burning resentment of the dead baby filled me, and suddenly, I decided I hated my mother. For the first time in my life I felt true rage. Like a child size volcano, I exploded. “Why is she crying about a baby who died ......How many years ago?..... Why does she care so much about that one and not about us?  She has all four of us, alive and living with her everyday and she treats us so mean!! What about ME?” I sobbed. “What about Dave, Roger and Wendy?

As my father looked around to see if any strangers visiting the cemetery had heard me shouting, I turned and ran with my anger, back into the woods. After a while I calmed down and wandered aimlessly, looking at all the wild green things growing. I felt alone and unloved. Many times throughout the rest of the day, I heard my brothers and sister occasionally calling me. Whenever they came near, I ducked behind the nearest big tree trunk and they would miss me.  I even, purposely ignored them when they yelled for me to come and eat. Their searching for me was sporadic and I knew my parents were not too worried about me, or they would have participated in the search. I was too hurt and resentful to allow myself to enjoy the picnic, or to let go of my self pity.

By the time the sun began to set, Dave climbed a nearby mountain, and was able to spy my hiding place. Not alerting me to his search, by calling for me, he silently came through the woods right to my location, and resigned, I walked out of the woods with my brother. I was no longer in a rage, but feeling whiney, I asked the same questions of Dave as I had screamed at my father. He let me know he was just as unhappy about it as I was. But, he was not angry. He  tried to explain to me that I should try to be more understanding. I didn’t know how to do that. Yet, I became somehow strangely comforted to know that he shared my feelings.  The burden of it was no longer so painful to me, and I forgave Baby Lee for abandoning us so long ago.  It was many years before I ever got to a place where I understood my mother’s behavior and no longer  held it against her.

Letter to a Dead Mother (2)

Dear Mom,

It was nice to smell the aroma of my childhood today as I sipped my cup of coffee. Yes, it's true! I didn't have my tea. I made me a "cuppa" in remembrance of you. Wish you could sit here with me to enjoy it.

I wonder if there is anything to the notion of treating ancestors to earthly gifts. Would it be nice for you if you could get a whiff? A taste? Kats has a shelf where pictures of his parents are displayed. Every morning he puts a cup of coffee and a bowl of rice in front of them, out of respect and remembrance.

I remember when Dad was close to death and he couldn't eat, he said he didn't miss food. But, coffee... oh if he could just have a taste! So, we dipped a cloth in a cup of coffee and touched it to his tongue. Would you have liked that?

No, I think not. In your last days you were a chai drinker. Weren't you? Tomorrow I will make a cup of chai and drink it joyfully in honor of you. Yes, honor you. I didn't do enough of that when you were around, except maybe on Mother's Day, Birthday, Christmas. The rest of the year, you knocked yourself out working for a living and being our mom. How did you do it back in the 1950's when being a working mom was not very acceptable? I certainly didn't appreciate it. I felt resentful that I had to babysit and do things around the house while other kids were out playing. And it didn't help that others made it clear to me how "deprived of a childhood" I was. Especially other adults!

I remember some neighbor saying, "Oh? Your mother works? She should be home taking care of you kids! Tsk, Tsk."  Soon I decided to not mention your being employed. I let my resentment simmer. Today, of course, a woman who is co-owner of a business, present on the job, AND a mother is valued. Today you could have held your head high for your achievements and not be embarrassed. And perhaps I would have been proud of my mom and the responsibilities she entrusted me with.

I remember that last decade of your life, Mom. You fussed and worried and apologized repeatedly. "I should never have left you kids on your own. I should have been there for you. Maybe things would have been better if I never worked."

James and Genevieve Deane, Easter 1950s
8295 Laughlin Dr. Niagara Falls New York 

I don't know how many times we all tried to reassure you that things really were better for us that way. We all became quite self-sufficient and independent. I didn't envy other kids much for having their mothers at home nagging on them all the time, making them mind their manners, making them stay indoors when the whole outdoors was our playground. We had freedom, Mom! Other kids didn't have that. I secretly felt quite smug about that.

I could go across the street to the park and swing on the swings when other kids had to come in and do their homework. I could watch cartoons all Saturday morning if I liked. I learned how to shop for food on my own. All of us kids had freedom to wander and wonder at what other kids were forbidden. We played in the woods nearby. We dug in the dirt without worrying about getting dirty. We had life as a gift to discover without constraint. Some people thought we were a bit wild. And yes, some parents wouldn't let their kids play with us. So what? We didn't like those prissy kids all that much anyways.

Mom, I hope there is a way now, you can see that it all worked out for the best. Can you see we are all getting through life with solid confidence that we can make it, regardless of the challenges? We learned to make mistakes. Unlike other kids, we knew how to fall down and pick ourselves up.  If we scraped our knees, we knew to go home, clean up, put a band aid on, and get back out in the world ourselves. You kissed our boo boos later, if we thought to tell you. Me? I usually didn't. I was too busy complaining about having to do the dishes or whining about having to clean my room. But, only when you really got after me to get those things done.

Of course, there were a few motherly cuddles we missed. But, you were there for us when we grew up and you didn't have to work, couldn't work, anymore. I could call you anytime and tell you all my problems. You didn't try to tell me what to do. You listened. You held your tongue. I know it was hard for you. I know now you could see I was making the same mistakes you had. I wonder if it would have been different if your mother hadn't died when I was a baby. Maybe she would have told you. Then, maybe you could have guided me in the same way. You had no experience raising kids, or relating to your adult kids. Yet, I blamed you for not being a better mom. Yet there I was as a troubled adult, reaching out to you. It's so odd, now that I think about it. Sometimes I thought you were my worst enemy. But, I look back and see you weren't.

I didn't realize it at the time, but your listening to me on the phone was better than gold to me. You know better than anyone the twisted turmoil I inflicted upon myself the secrets of my heart, the troubles of my soul. You put up with a lot of my taking it out on you, my blaming you for my troubles.

I remember you saying, "Yes, yes, it's always the mother's fault her kids are unhappy. Just ask any shrink!" I didn't know how much that hurt you, that we couldn't be close. You bent over backwards to help me, to be there for me. But, you didn't know what I needed. Not really. How could you have known? I certainly didn't. You didn't have a parenting manual. You didn't have a psychology degree to help you with your unstable daughter. How it must have tormented you when I couldn't get effective treatment, when I got so despondent I didn't want to live. I can barely stand it when my own daughter faces her grief. What pains her, pains me. I don't know how you did it, Mom.

I know sometimes you got upset, you worried about me doing the wrong thing, worried I was suffering because of the way I lived my life. Some mothers turn their backs on their adult children when they don't like how they live. Some mothers let go of the apron strings right when the kids leave the nest. They disconnect from their kids, then wonder why they are so distant. They live out their "golden years" disenchanted.

Grown up or not, I was still your child. I remember you saying that more than once. I think the last time you said that to me was when you were eighty-six, and I was sixty-one. "No matter how old you are, you will always be my child".

Whether it is real or not, whether you know what I'm feeling or not, it doesn't matter. I'm so glad I finally found this way to feel connected to you again. It's been a lonely five years without you.

You know what Mom? No matter where you are now, you'll always be my mother.

James Deane for President

He's my Daddy

He comes home from work
wearing his grey striped
overalls covered with
Vanadium dust.

I think he is the
President
of the United States
I'm close.
He is the President
of his Union

"Carry me. Carry me."
I whine and beg.

He's so tall,
when he lifts me up,
I can feel the sky!
Well, not the sky, really,
but the ceiling is
almost the sky.

I can touch the place
where he fell through
one day, when he worked
fixing something in the attic
as I sat in my high chair
just a moment before.

They tell me I wasn’t there,
That it happened to my brother.
Perhaps I was there,
Waiting to be born.

Elizabeth Munroz

Great Expectations

Wrapping gifts tonight, it started to sink in. The time draws near when the big day arrives. Will I still be in this Grinch mode? I hope not.

I recall childhood Christmases, and filter them through this age's interpretation and get frustrated with myself that remembering doesn't necessarily make the same feelings arise that once created impetus for future Christmas seasons.

It's similar to no longer enjoying that great car you once bought, and no longer care for.

It's like watching a movie of some kid who is enjoying herself, but her thoughts are her own. I remember little things that once meant a great deal to me. I think it is a lot like Ram Dass' book, Be Here Now. It's what I was doing then, but I cannot go back and recapture it all.

I realize this is the point I am missing. I'm looking backward and wishing I was there now, and I'm not. I'm here, of course. It's not like I want to eradicate the deliciousness of those childhood memories. A lot of them have come to visit me lately, carol singing in the snow with other kids, wrapping gifts for Mom 'cause she was "all thumbs", making all our christmas cards by hand. Great expectations of forcing those feelings is unrealistic.

By clinging to the idea that I might re-capture those previous experiences and renew my "joys of the season", I've made an effort to examine what might bring about new sensitivity on my part. The logical mind wants so badly to have it diagrammed in plain black and white. The reality is if I did have those answers, it would only be understanding and not satisfaction in "knowing". I mean the knowing from the heart, the knowing that passes needing explanations.

So, I wait to see, even in my mild anticipation, how things will be this year. I think I have a big chance to have a good time, as I will be seeing my kids, grand kids and great grand kids. Surely, their joy is contagious. So, it will be nice to soak it up like sunshine.

I have hope for a renewal, or perhaps a new way of experiencing the season, here and now.

The Hardest Thing to Do

A first person account of Daniel Mercy:

I remember when my best friend, Johnny, came home from the hospital. We were both five. But he was half my size. He had been living with leukemia but then, he died. I remember that was when I first decided "when I grow up I'm going to be a doctor".

I soon forgot that dream and before you know it, all I wanted to do was ride my bike and be a racer. As I peddled like a speed demon delivering the newspaper throughout the neighborhood, I always avoided the house of Johnny's parents as much as possible. I got very good at throwing the paper from impossible distances, making sure his parents weren't in sight. If they were, I would go back later to deliver.

As I grew older Mom and Dad encouraged me to be an accountant. They pointed out my thriftiness with the income I made from my paper route as a way to point out that I was a "natural" for such a career. I would be secure with good money and I would always be well off, they said.

It was at that time I took up art and scribbled away on any piece of paper I could get my hands on drawing the microbes I saw in Biology class, drawing the map of the stars in astronomy class. It was then I decided I wanted to be an astronomer

But, the day came when at a neighborhood festival, I ran into Johnny's parents. They had gone on with their lives, and had other kids by this time. I met them one by one, right down to the youngest, the five year old they had named John.

That day is indelible in my mind, it was the day I got serious and began to study. I made up my mind, it would be medical school or nothing. It wasn't easy. I thought it was the hardest thing in the world I would ever do. But, it wasn't.

I thought the hardest thing I ever did was when my first patient died. I went home in a daze, I punched the wall in the garage before I went in the house and cried my eyes out in my wife's arms.

But, that truly was not the hardest thing I ever did. Not the hardest thing I will ever do.

The hardest thing I ever do, is every day... Sometimes it is when I have a new patient come in the door with worried parents.

And later on, after you have tried your best to save that little life, you would think the hardest thing is being honest and telling the kid its over. But they are so understanding and wise beyond their years. They already know. They are relieved. They want it to be over. They know it is time. They knew it before I did.

But that's not the hardest thing. The hardest thing is telling the parents there is nothing else that can be done. That it is all over. Time to go home and wait it out. Get hospice. And knowing the child wants to go, but the parents cling. That's the hardest thing.

>>>>>>>

Note: This was a fictional writing exercise in character development.

Yard Sales and Thrift Shopping

What makes a person hoard, or collect things?

Was it what triggered my mother's frequent visits to thrift shops and yard sales? She seemed to have a never ending compulsion to buy up trinkets, knick knacks, kitchen ware and clothing.

She had various collections over the years. I remember the rooster stage. The house was full of them. Then there was the "copper kitchen" phase. Her Hummel figurines and angels had their own shelves strategically placed throughout the house. Still, she culled and cleared once in a while. Her sense of being a dutiful housewife had not been overidden her desire to own things. Underneath it all, she was a clean freak.

If Mom had a penchant for signs of abundance, I'm sure it was due to the poverty of growing up in the post depression era. It was a time of little food, clothes made out of papa's worn shirts and going without shoes all summer to save the expense of buying new ones. She owned one doll in her whole childhood, and one little child size teapot she cherished until the day she died.

In order for me to come to the decision of becoming a minimalist, I am affording myself a look upon that which has brought me to this point as I tackle the not insurmountable task of divesting myself of "stuff". The last ten years, I have lived in one house, beginning with it empty, except for bare minimum of belongings. Now, I'm guessing, my belongings could accommodate the needs of several families.

I have diligently discarded margarine tubs, and not allowed myself to have sentimental attachment to Christmas cards and magazines. (Paper is my weakness.) I've regularly made a run through my house de-cluttering and discarded things a la Fly Lady. But, like my mother, I have a penchant for the delight of finding a treasure at a bargain price whether it be a teacup edged in gold or sturdy bedsheets.

About five years ago I gave up stopping at yard sales! It was sort of like severing my arm from my body, but I needed to lighten the burden of my "things". I wanted to let go and be free of excess. It's an addiction difficult to break.

At first it was extremely challenging to drive by without taking a wistful look. I learned to carry no cash. Who would take a check for even my most avid purchase? And it certainly helped having someone else do the driving, admonishing me, "Don't Look!"

Today, however, I stopped at the thrift shop on a whim. They take credit cards, you know. The store called out to me, I swear. "Stop! Don't pass me by!"

Or was that "buy"?

Tell Me

Tell me... how you came to be,

my friend, floating like a feather

traversing the sky and hovering

right here in front of me.

Tell me... what kind of trick is that?

I remember you from that first decade

urging me to pirouette

wearing my favorite blue dress.

Yes, you did. You made me laugh,

comforted me when lonely.

You banished Mr. Alligator

from under my bed.

Tell me... how you

made the stars tell their secrets

and helped the snow maiden find me

that time I fevered.

You don't have to tell me

how you faded from my dreams

like the faeries in the breeze.

I know why you disappeared.

when I'd forgotten your existence.

Tell me... my old friend, why

you are here again.

Is this my second childhood?

A Letter from Mommy

Dear Charli,


You are 8.


You do not get to have a teenage size attitude, yet.


You talk back, and you get time out because you are still a little girl.


♥ ,


Mom

~~~~~~
A letter my grand daughter-in-law, Heather Masley, wrote to my great grand-daughter, Charli, yesterday.
Photos taken by other family member.

What's a Mother to do?

What's a mother to do? When her first born babe dies at birth... When her kid swallows bleach... or overdoses on aspirin? When her 9 year old son has an ulcer, her little girl goes down to the river and falls into the water?

In that last case, she takes a branch from the willow tree and whups her wet kid on the back of the legs all the way down the middle of the street... all the way home.

She is not to be blamed. She didn't know any better. It was the way she was raised, and disciplining a child was common practice back 60 years ago. People did not call social services for such an act. It was the way things were. She never thought twice about it. She had been so worried when her little one could not be found. She had been horrified when she discovered a boy bringing the wet child home explaining what happened. As she chased her kid with the willow switch the fear and terror chased her as well. And she sobbed as did her child.

What's a mother to do, when her kids steal apples from the farmer's orchard? Or flowers from the next door neighbor's garden or items from the five and dime store? She makes the child return the stolen goods, admit the crime in shame and apologize. That one really works well because of the humiliation factor. The lesson in honesty needs no willow whip.

What's a mother do do when her teen refuses to help out with family chores, when defiance, rolling of eyes, slamming of doors, swear words muttered intending to hurt are the behaviours she has to deal with? Mother is at her wits end and doesn't know what to do but question herself, question her mothering skills, wonder what when wrong, fear for her children that they will turn out all right.

What's a mother to do when her children inherit the same disease she has? At first she denies the possibility until it is so obvious it can no longer be ignored. She irrationally blames herself for passing this disease on to her children. She carries her guilt like a heavy sack of coal on her back, especially because they suffer pain and social stigma because of it.  How could she have prevented this from happening? Not having any kids? There was no birth control back in those days. Though the children know she is not to blame, she carries that shame the whole of her life, no matter how much they reassure her.

What's a mother to do when her kids get married too young, have babies too young, divorce so quickly? What's a mother to do when she discovers that her hereditary condition is the cause of her grown up child's cancer. She privately cries and prays all the while believing God doesn't hear her. She sits in anguish day after day feeling helpless while her child lies there. Lot's of things were different back then. You didn't tell anyone about the "C" word. People thought it was contagious. You became isolated and alone without the support and love of your community. You most certainly did not question the decisions and behaviors of the doctors and nurses back then.

Oh, this is not one of those lovely overdone tributes to Mother's Day. Is it? What Hallmark card would sell such a message?

What can those children do when they grow up, but look back on their childhoods and understand the value through having children of their own and see just how challenging it is to raise a child. They can only look back in wonder and awe when they realize mother had so many children to take care of. How had she managed? How had she kept the house clean, the laundry done? How did she have energy to cook meals and welcome her husband home? How did she do all that and still work part-time labor intensive jobs over the years?

Please don't get me wrong. There's a whole lot I have left out. The good stuff and the really good stuff and the sublime stuff. But, that's for another day.

She said, "You will always be my children, no matter how old you are. When, I'm 80 and you're in your fifties, you will still be my children. I shall worry about you, pray for you, hope the best for you and love you forever."

My Personal Opinion

I think we are often lead, but do not always follow. Like a mother walking down the road with her child, there reaches a point where she has to let go and let the child walk without being clinging and fearful.

The child might get distracted by the pretty seashells along the way and hang back while mother stands aside and watches. She wants the child to follow, but also allows the child to explore the world, and then... oh no! the child has been scratched by a thorn! Why wasn't mother there to prevent it? But, she is watching and cares and wants the to learn what to value and what to be careful of. Sometimes we just have to learn the hard way to take care of ourselves, knowing that mother is not too far away.

I think that we have a path in life to take, like if you were to travel from Belgium to Spain. There are a lot of things to see on the way, a lot of interesting signs that say turn left at the corner and go down that road and you will see the amazing beach.

And so we go on those side roads, knowing we have a goal to reach, and maybe we have a flat tire or the car needs repair, but yes, we do gain something from our experience, and so ultimately we get back on the path.  I think there are so many signs along the way where we are diverted and gain experiences both painful and enjoyable and it is all part of what we do to grow.

I think the tragedies in our lives are part of the path. Sometimes we stumble a lot on those rocky paths. I look at depression as my going down a steep path with rocks in the way. And so, all I can do is hang on and try to keep myself balanced and composed as best as possible while I am sliding down, sometimes falling down. And at the bottom, there is my old friend, my old enemy... Depression. It's like walking through mud, so it is difficult to get back on the path to the original goal. We could just curl up in the mud and die, or we can keep trudging through it until we can find a foot hold to start climbing up again. It's very hard to climb upward on a steep path, but it sure does strengthen us.

~~~~~~~~~~~
I took the first three photos at Capitola, California and the fourth one in my own backyard. Destiny is collecting seeds from the dried poppies.

Shenandoah

There are certain voices that, when you hear them, evoke a response deep in your psyche. They cannot be ignored. I had carelessly uploaded a mix of new music to my IPOD, and while taking my walk yesterday, Harry Belafonte  began singing Shenandoah. (Who's Harry Belafonte you may ask?)

Shenandoah plucks my heartstrings, a piece of music about a river valley,  brings up long lost thoughts and emotions for me. It wasn't that I remembered a bad time. No, it brought up a poignant memory. Childhood walked beside me singing her heart out to Shenandoah and Harry Belafonte. Nostalgia breathed it's way up my nose and tickled like dust. What a strange sensation! But, that is what brought the tears and I almost lost it right there on the sidewalk in my own neighborhood.

I stood there a moment to collect myself. My childhood instinct said to run! But, there is no way to run back home. My childhood home no longer exists.

Should I turn it off? Change it to another selection? Or suffer? With the flood of joy enveloping me while my legs melted into jelly, I decided to suffer. After all, there is healing in music. Belafonte's Mr. Bojangles, and Matilda soon gave me a more grounded and upbeat experience. I soon made it home uplifted in spirit.

I have a theory. Sometimes life gives you what you think is more than you can handle. But, try running away from it, and it just follows you. Hide from it and it will find you. What we are supposed to face, will face us off, unless we will ourselves to turn to it, embrace it and heal ourselves in the process.


Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I love your daughter
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

Oh, Shenandoah, I'm bound to leave you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I'm bound to leave you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you,
Away, you rolling river
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you
Away, I'm bound away, cross the wide Missouri.

Return to Roots

Swaying in the breeze, the willow cried.
Wind wanting to comfort her,
could not.

Of all the people on the earth,
she loved that child the most.
The one who sat beneath her daily
her back leaning against the bark.

Willow's roots embracing her
like a babe in arms.
Willow's branches swayed,
touching her hair as she played
happily, with her dolls
and now she was going away,
far, far, away to another place.

Ever wonder why willows weep?
Ever wonder why girls cry?

Poem and photograph by Elizabeth Munroz

What is happiness?

"Happiness. You deserve it. You have earned it. You get to have it and be present in this life, in this place, here and now."

This I found on the blog site of Dot Hearn  called The Writing Vein. In her writing she suggested in focusing on writing about happiness.

I think happiness is a personal thing. You and I might not experience happiness from the same source. So, here is my viewpoint on what happiness is for me.

Happiness is remembering childhood experiences, writing about them and discovering nuances I had not previously recalled.

Happiness is reading old letters from family and friends that were sent to my parents from 1937 to just a few years ago when they both left this world.

Happiness is thinking fondly of my parents in new ways, looking at them from the perceptions of others in ways I wasn't open to. It's like discovering and loving them with a door open into their lives which I never passed through. It's a treasure I never knew existed.

Happiness is seeing my adult children being successful in ways I could never foresee, learning to like them for who they are now. Yes, I would happily include them in my circle of friends if they were strangers, I recently met them and got acquainted.

Happiness is seeing the most incredible thing come true, that I never thought could possibly take place in my lifetime. I have grandchildren, some who are adults and have found their place in the world. Some who are still getting their education and well focused on their goals for their future place in the world.

Happiness is a miracle that never even occurred to me would happen. Not only do I have children and grandchildren, I have great grandchildren. They are all beautiful souls who have come into live to make our hearts break with loving them. They are the future to carry us forward. How long I will live to see where they go? I don't know. It gives me happiness just to know how they grow, how their personalities are developing, and yes, even their grumpiness, when it manifests.

Happiness is embracing the suffering and survival of my past, and welcoming the knowledge and compassion which it has brought me. It turned me unto a path I never would have taken. Happiness is knowing that I actually have strength and courage I didn't think. I can be thankful, in some ways, for the torment I endured.

Happiness is having a day without pain, a day I can walk naturally, a day where I feel emotionally as close to what one might consider "normal".

Happiness is realizing I have a smile on my face just from looking at LOL cheezburger cats, or experiencing something on YouTube I never would have consider worth watching until that moment, thanks to friends and family for sending me the links.

Happiness is going through sixty years of old photographs, having my Grandparents histories, wondering about old timey things about which I haven't a clue.

Happiness is knowing who my ancestors were, learning about their culture, geography and history of where they lived. Knowing where I came from made me feel connected to the past for many generations. It made me feel more than I am, more than one person, alone on this planet, more than just one set of DNA.

Happiness is having a digital camera so I can take as many pictures as I want without having to worry about the cost of having them printed, deleting all the unacceptable ones, and finding that one perfect picture I didn't realize I had managed to catch with my camera. Those are the kinds of pictures I want printed and framed.

Happiness is being aware I've got a smile on my face that was not there before, a smile I have when I'm by myself and not triggered by someone else, a smile that is my very own. Those smiles are so important to me, especially because of a lifetime of not smiling, of living with depression. Smiles are like little dancing sparkles bursting from my heart and warming me inside and out, even if they only last a minute.

Happiness is my 20 year old cat looking eye to eye with me while the universe and we became one during her last moments. Naturally, there was grief and sadness involved, but that experience is etched in my soul forever in a kind of deep "knowing" that truly is indescribable.

I think I would be bored if I was happy all the time. I would have nothing to compare it to, nothing to make me cherish it all the more because it is so rare and precious.

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Present in the group photo above are: from left to right starting at the top row; Clint Mountain, David J. Deane, Bill Reuter Sr., James Deane, xxxxxx?, xxxxxx?

Bottom Row, Clint's son or nephew, Suzan Deane,  Bill Reuter Jr., Genevieve Borden Deane, Roger Deane, and last but not least our dog, Tammy

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The picture of the young man on a Youtube page is my adult son, Xavier who works in the video game industry.

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From the old time picture from 1911 My Grandmother's sister, Anna Evans in Thompson car in front of Ned O. Tarbox's store. Cattaraugus County, New York

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The picture of the calico cat is Keli as described above