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. 

Letter to a Dead Mother

Genevieve Deane 1953
Niagara Falls, NY

Dear Mom,

I keep having all these little mini conversations with you in my head as I go about my days. I noticed I've been having more and more of them lately. Little things, like "ooh... you would LOVE this new Vermont white cheddar cheese I found!" or "You would be telling me to go sit down and have a cup of tea now."

At first I wondered how it was after all this time that you are on my mind. Then it dawned on me. Your birthday, in a few more days, you would have been 92 years old this year.

Why your last five birthdays didn't bring you into my daily life, I don't know. But, here we are.

Today, I was standing at the kitchen sink,washing dishes,  looking out the window, remembering how you got to have your sink moved to the front window of your kitchen. You wanted it that way so you could look out into the yard and down the street on Cayuga Island "to keep an eye on the kids".

When was that? I think about 1948. I think. That house is still there, Mom. Did you know that? I bet you wouldn't like what they did to the place. I sure don't. It certainly lost it's charm.

It's funny how the most mundane act can bring on an obscure memory. I wonder if your mother ever stood at the sink and thought of her mother. I wonder if she got along with her mother. You always said how wonderful your mother was, and how well you got along but I never believed it.

You and I got along so poorly, it just didn't seem possible. It was always a mystery to me that mothers and daughters could be friends.  I've been mulling around thoughts about how difficult and painful it must have been for you.

Even after I came to an understanding that you did the very best you knew how in your parenting of me and stopped my blame game, I can understand now why that didn't pull down all the fences between us. The brick wall, yes, but not all the scars were healed. I'm so glad that at least you and Little Sis had such a good connection. Your love for each other was obvious.

I'm not saying you didn't love me. Nor am I saying I didn't love you. It's just clear to me that it was stunted and strained and unfulfilled. I do wish we could have healed that more than we did.

I think about your last years in the nursing home. I picture myself in the same situation. What is to prevent me from ending up there? Nothing I can think of, unless I experience sudden death. Slow deterioration seems to be the most evident cause of nursing home inevitability. Even the most well-meaning, loving kids can intend to see you through your last years in your own home. But, things change. Circumstances change. Stress toleration levels change. And truly, I look at my kids and think as you did... I don't want to be a burden. I don't want to take away a moment of their own chance to enjoy life, to be free to enjoy their later years without being weighted down by an aging incomprehensible parent.

There are things now that I didn't understand in the past, I wish I could tell you. I wish you could have the satisfaction of thinking "I told you so". I know you wouldn't say it out loud. But, I am well aware of the feeling I get when my daughter says something to me and I think, "Ah... there it is. She now knows how it feels. She now understands." She doesn't always acknowledge that she realizes I once went through it myself. Something like that kind of understanding could bind us together, give us that feeling of relief that there no longer is that one thing standing between us. But, that is not always going to happen. The fences are still up. Barbed wire fences, in fact. So sharp and prickly, still after all this time. I just throw up my hands. I no longer reach out and try to smooth it over, no longer try to make it better. Now I understand, Mom, why you did the same thing I am doing now. All that energy just for another stab to come later. Not worth it. Painful, yes. But, less painful than to continue to try to heal something that is scarred over so badly.

I know you know what I'm talking about. Would you want me to say, "I'm sorry" now that I understand some of what you went through with me? Would it have mattered? Or would there be that same hesitation I feel in not believing it will cure anything? Would it only be a band aid hiding the wound? When you pull the band aid away, it may be healed, but still the scar is evidence that the damage has been done. Nothing is erasable. It seems.

Am I being negative? Pragmatic, I think. I look at the facts. On the phone the other day, I was struck by how a subject that would never be considered inflammatory to anyone else was perceived as a possible threat. Being a mom, I don't want to inflict pain upon my child, so I agreed to no longer discuss it. And truly, that's okay. It was not important. I can talk about it with friends instead. The perception that I could be the cause of incredible turmoil and pain because of it makes me hesitate to speak, to say anything unless asked a direct question. And then I wonder what would be the "right answer". How can this not turn into another moment of pain indelibly burned into the heart of my child? So, I've agreed to the suggestions made now, and wonder if I follow through that her fears will come to fruition.

Is that how you felt, Mom? If I say, no.. let it go or yes... let's discuss it, it seems the results might be the same, a woman who is stressed out because she believes she's damned if she does and damned if she doesn't.

I remember one day, when I was going through the family photos you gave me there were many pictures of you and your friends smiling, having a good time. It dawned on me.... somebody LIKES her... lot's of somebodies. It seemed a mystery to me. There were people who liked my mom enough to go places with  her, make quilts with her, have lunch with her, laugh with her, play board games with her have long conversations with her. They were not threatened by what she might say or do. They accepted her for who she was. These were people who sent her loving birthday cards with comments praising her good qualities that I could not see in her. My mom was in reality a likeable, lovable person, non-threatening person. She was not the dangerous half-rabbit half-scorpion who might strike at any second.

Velva, Eva, Al and Gennie Borden

I'm sorry, Mom. I wish I could make it up to you. Of course, it's too late. Or is it? Can you hear my thoughts, feel my feelings, sense my final understanding and regret? Are you in a place where these things are all evident to you? Or does it even matter now that you are gone?

The most obviously thing I can think of is that the healing is one sided. I feel better because I can now relate to what you may have been feeling. I understand more of how it was for you. But, sadly, it is only like having half a blanket when you are cold. I need the other half a blanket. Then, we could sew the blanket back together and wrap our arms around each other with the blanket snuggled 'round.

I Miss You, Mom!

Rest In Peace

February 9, 1920 - December 14, 2006

Genevieve Evelyn Borden Deane, age 86, died at her daughter's home in Cedar Park, Texas on December 14, 2006, following a fruitful and fulfilling life.

She was born February 9, 1920, in Breeseport, NY
She was the Daughter of Myron Rockwell Borden and Orilla Brewer Davis

On May 16, 1937, She was united in marriage to James Deforest Deane in Port Allegany, PA.

Most of her adult life, Mrs. Deane resided in Niagara County NY where she and her husband operated their own business and later she worked for St. Mary's hospital in Lewiston NY. After retirement in 1980, the couple moved to Southern California and lived in Yucaipa, and Valencia, CA.

Mrs. Deane was a member of the Episcopal Church. And was a member of Gideon's International, Full Gospel Businessmen's Ladies Fellowship, and volunteered in the Ladies Auxiliary of Assembly of God San Bernardino California, helping to create quilts for the homeless.

Personally, her extended family included all the friends of her children who called her "Mom".

Among her interests, Genevieve was an avid seamstress sewing on her old Singer treadle machine, which later on was modified as an electric portable. She sewed by hand tiny stitches as her mother had taught her while quilting. But her favorite needlework was hand embroidery. Among pleasures in her life, she enjoyed gardening, antiquing, thrift shopping, yard sales, and swap meets, and collecting treasures such as sea shells and interesting rocks. She loved board games, cards, jigsaw puzzles and was an avid reader. In her early years, she wrote poetry which was recited on the WJJL radio station in Niagara Falls NY.

Genevieve attended Port Allegany High School in Port Allegany, PA and later graduated from Niagara Falls High School.

She is predeceased by her parents, Myron Rockwell Borden, and Orilla Davis Borden, her husband James Deforest Dean and sister, Carrie Borden Staples; brother, Alvin Borden, a son Lee Deforest Deane, and grandson, Raj Anil Megha.

Survivors include her four children, David, Lockport NY, Elizabeth Munroz, Watsonville, CA, Roger, Scottsdale, AZ, and Suzan Simpson of Cedar Park, TX. Her grandchildren include Christine Deane, Lockport NY, Laurie Blunk, Alta Loma, CA, Therese Burton, Chicago IL, Xavier Rodriguez, San Francisco, CA, Carl Deane, Niagara Falls, NY and Varsha Megha,  Austin TX. She is also survived by 17 great-grandchildren and 4 great-great-grandchildren who will surely miss her loving arms around them.

Great-Grandchildren include Moses, Brittany, Marquis, Andrew, Justin, Michael, Breanna, Chloe, Kezia, Moriah, Tiara, Kory, Storm, Jasmine, Sterling, Rain, Anjulique, Ashanti and Rajen

Great-Great Grandchildren are Daniel, Matthew, and Alexander


With special thanks and gratitude to my sister Suzan, who devoted herself to my mother that last year of her life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: new great-great-grandchildren, Rylee, India, and Raj have been born since 2006 with another one due any moment.

What Mother Wrote 1969

Lightening crackles across the sky and thunder's magnificent bass joins the foolish chirp of optimistic early birds as rain pelts off the eaves onto the once shiny, new green translucent plastic sheet now lying in the winter worn clay muck where I once thought roses would be blooming.

And that, in one overgrown sentence, that which became one grotesque paragraph, is the story of my life. Nothing more needs to be written. But since I long ago tried to prove myself poetic, I found I was only capable of writing terse verse, and am now much older and more foolish. I feel it might afford amusement to someone if I set down some of the bizarre consequences of this "Alice life". For it all seems to be a mad tea party. All the lovely dreams and the grand plans and hope are misshapen and run into  grotesque patterns as splashes of paint thrown carelessly at a canvas.

As a young and naive girl I used to fear that lightning would "strike me still in my tracks" somewhat like a pillar of salt. Oh how cruel, but now if it would be so kind. No. There's no chance of such a romantic fate for me and I now realize there never will be. I shall be as the green plastic and once shining and hopeful of giving grace and shady welcome from the hot summer sun or shelter from the beasts of snow and ice of winter but left discarded unused, to lie in the mud and be of no consequence. Just beaten down, marred and scratched, unbeautiful and useless. Never having been in the right place at the right time to add any beauty or serve a useful purpose. Scarred and muddy and discarded.

Written by my mother, Genevieve Borden Deane, April 10, 1969 at age 49

I recall the green plastic tarp she had placed over a too early planted rose bush, that had been trammeled by a rain storm and dashed her hopes for her garden to be.

I didn't know she wrote this piece. I just came across it yesterday while looking for some old family papers.

I recall it was a short time after I had gotten out of the hospital for surgery on my recurrent chondrosarcoma (bone cancer).

I suspect the stresses of that alone could have contributed to her despondent mood.

But, I'm sure there were other things going on in her life of which I am unaware.

I'm sure, by looking at the photos, you can see she was not always so morose.

Something My Sister Wrote to a Distraught Friend

I see you, with your feet planted firmly on Mother Earth, absorbing blessed strength. 

Your eyes fixed on the horizon, realizing your dreams. 

And your heart connected with Spirit, knowing your truth. 

And all is well. 

~~~ Suzan Deane-Simpson

Queen of Horse

This picture has been altered in the spirit of fun in photoshop. I hope the Queen won't mind.

Becoming...

 You should think

not only that you become a mother

when your child is born,

but also that you become a child.

              ~~~Dogen

Note: Photo is of my sister and her daughter

Jasmine Elizabeth's Birth Day

.

I remember the day you were born. Your Mama was already ensconced in the hospital birthing room with a bevvy of nurses bustling around.

No... wait a minute. They weren't exactly bustling. Maybe more like joking. They were all quite jolly, you see. It seems they all knew each other and your mom from high school and this was like a big reunion. Maybe they all weren't nurses, either. I mean... how could that many nurses be assigned to one patient? Maybe.. um... maybe one was a nurse, one was an aide, one was going off duty and one was hanging around. I really don't know. But, it still boggles my mind that in the center of all these giggling women, sat your mother, calm and tranquil, almost invisible, it seemed, like a beautiful jewel hidden behind a veil of serenity. She had such an amazing aura about her countenance.

Your grandmother was there, too; sometimes involved with the "Ladies of the Court", sometimes focused on your mom. Always the hostess with the mostest, making sure everyone was happy, everyone's needs were met, often relaying messages to those outside, always a smile on her face. Isn't that just like your Mima?

It all reminded me of a nature show I once saw about a beehive, where all the busy bees gather around the Queen Bee. They were buzzing and active, and the queen was simply gestating. Though she's the quiet one, she's the one expending the most energy. Perhaps, in a way, she could borrow their energy in order to make her job more effective. I'm just speculating on that, of course. I know so little about apiculture.

My son, your cousin, was in a new high school associated with Ball State University called The Academy, and since it was the beginning of the school year, the students weren't spending their time in the dorms on the weekends. You must have been born on a Friday, now that I think of it. I had previously committed to pick up some other students and bring them home with Xavier that day. It was such a long way from Indianapolis to Muncie, and at that time there was no such thing as a cell phone. There was no way to get in touch and call another mom to take over the responsibility.

So, as the sun crossed the sky, I sat there rubbing your mama's feet and wishing you would soon bless the world with your presence. I didn't want to miss it for the world. But, the hours passed and it came closer to the time I was to pick up your cousin and his friends. I knew it was time for me to leave. I sent you a message in my thoughts, asking you to wait until I returned.

Xavier was standing on the sidewalk outside the dorm looking a annoyed and embarrassed that his own mom stood him up, and showed up late for that first very important weekend. His friends didn't seemed too concerned and when everyone piled into the car and I explained why I was late, they all understood.

So, there we were speeding down Highway 69, and I mean it. I was exceeding the speed limit, maybe way too much, because everyone was pretty quiet. Soon enough we arrived at the drop off point and we headed east on 70 hoping that you had waited for us that extra forty miles.

I cannot express the sadness I felt that I could not be there for your mom during that time and to welcome you into the world. Yes, of course, your Mima was there, as it should be. But, oh, how I wanted to be there too, but you had arrived before us. By this time there was a nurse, practically on guard outside your mother's door, keeping everyone shooed away. All she would do is announce that the Auntie was present. So many other relatives now were out in the hall, I thought for sure I'd be overlooked.

Yet, still the Queen, your mother had summoned Xavier and me inside and we all hugged, apologized for not being here and talked about our various experiences since last we'd been together. You were not in the room, having been taken to the nursery. Another disappointment for me. I had wanted to hold you, even if I was late. But, that was not to be, either.

After a while the window blinds were drawn on the big nursery window and you were pointed out to me and Xavier. I stood there in awe. I had never in my life seen a baby like you. There you were with your legs firmly planted in the air like a bird on a perch just waiting to take off. Seriously! Has anyone ever told you about that? I expected to see a little snuggled bundled with a dark little head peeking out the top, but those legs of yours were not to be confined.

I think of you often like a bird, always ready to fly through the sky to explore the world, to come back and perch on a branch. Not a very romantic image for a baby girl I guess.

But, now that I think of it, soon, like a fledgling, you will be preparing yourself to begin your journey into adulthood. When the feathers of your wings grow in fully and you are ready, I can see you soaring with the air fluttering behind you, the sun warming you and the clouds smiling as you go by.

Happy Birthday my dear precious namesake.

One Step at a Time

One Step at a Time by Lenor Madruga Chappel

Lenor's story of living through extremely frightening circumstances is truly mouth dropping, amazing.

Not only did she face being diagnosed with a very rare bone cancer, chondrosarcoma, but the only effective treatment for her was a full amputation (hemipelvectomy) with surgical removal of her leg and a portion of her pelvis. During a time in my life when I was faced with the same diagnosis, and so discouraged,  I was given this book by my mother. It gave me the hope to carry on to realize a mother with children could not only survive, but thrive.

Lenor's story of how she dealt with her diagnosis, her surgical experience and her positive recovery is more than inspiring.

Though the diagnosis and surgical aspects of her story sound frightening, this book is not gory. It is uplifting and positive. It teaches by example how to get inner strength through such an incredibly devastating life circumstance. Even without facing such medical possibilities, this is a book for anyone to benefit from reading.

Can be purchased at iUniverse

A Message for Mom

Dear Mom,

Happy Mothers Day!  I love you very much and I am grateful to be your daughter…you are always there for me.

The other day…I was not in a good mood and you told me, while I was going to dance, that I look like a ballerina…It really made my day.., AND that I… I was your hero…. It brought tears to my eyes…. Love you… and you’re my hero!

From your loving daughter,

(Perform 4 Life)

~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: This letter to Mom is from my other grand daughter, twin of the "Adorkable" who wrote a poem about mothers which I posted the other day.

To his wife on Mother's Day

A friend who has been following my blog was inspired by Heather's letter to her daughter, Charli and asked me to publish this:

Buttercup,

Friday, I brought you flowers. You were happy and put them in a vase and displayed them on the table. I forgot that you wanted something alive, something that would not die. So, I went to the garden shop and bought two rose bushes. Last night I went out and planted them. One is red and one is white. One represents the passion you have brought to my life. One is the pure love you have given our son. These will never die.

When you were about to give birth to our son, you cursed me up and down for getting you pregnant. I was confused. Hadn't we both planned on this? But, now we can laugh about it. You were in such pain. I couldn't believe how you could get through that. It was then I knew why women have the babies and not the men. You are so strong. I could never handle it. Not just the pain, but the changes your beautiful body went through.

You got up night after night and fed the baby while I selfishly slept. You were so tired in the daytime. Finally, I got the hint, bringing the baby to you. So glad I did. There is nothing more awe inspiring than to watch the mother of your child nursing him. I fell in love with you all over again. I couldn't help myself. Do you remember?

You've guided our son, watched over him, taught him how to be independent when I felt inadequate. I don't know how you managed when I was away. You held down the fort, took care of finances when things were tough. You dealt with insurance and doctors when our son was sick. Things I would be hard put to handle. I can't tell you how much that meant to me to see how competent you were handling all that. I'm sorry I never told you that when you had so much burden and felt insecure.

Now our son has grown into a man. It amazes me how you are with the grandkids, the patience you show them when you are not feeling energetic, and the love and encouragement you give them.

And when you went back to work and became a business woman, you made such progress moving up the ladder of success, I was, and still am so proud of you.

Those times when we disagreed and you became that fierce strong willed woman sometimes overwhelmed me, I admit. I didn't know how to handle it. And when you let me have my way, it's funny, but I cherish it all. I'm so glad we stayed together through those rocky times. It's been well worth growing wiser together through them.

I don't know how to say Happy Mother's Day in a way that has enough words to express how I feel, but I hope this will be okay. I've never been the romantic type you craved. I've always had a hard time putting my feelings into words. I wish I could have been better at it when you needed me to.

Remember when we first fell in love and I said I would shout it from the rooftops? You laughed at my cliche. Of course, I didn't do it. But, maybe this is a way. Here it is, not the rooftop, but publicly online for the world to see. I hope you know the admiration I have for the best mother and grandmother I know.

Love,

Your Macho Man

~~~~~~~~

Photo of baby was taken by the parents. Others, by me.

Written by My Grand Daughter

Mothers are like soldiers.

They are the underdog in the house.

Yet they are always there to protect you.

They are always watching

and making the right choices.

Like a soldier loves his country,

a mother loves her family.

<Adorkable>

~~~~~~~~~~

Please note: Photograph is of my sister's dog and is not a mother.

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.

Cries with Cop

I started to cry while driving on the freeway. I have no idea why. It wasn't simply that sense of tears starting to spring that you can hold back with a tightness in the throat. No, this came from somewhere deep. Like a volcano wanting to break loose. Tears unbidden. Tears with plans of their own.

I knew I had to get off the freeway as soon as possible to avoid being a danger to others. I can drive while crying. I've done it before. Haven't we all? It wasn't even a matter of understanding why I felt so sad.

There was an exit up ahead a couple miles, but I had to pull over right there and then.  I had the flashers on so that other drivers would at least notice I was on the side of the road. Not wanting to break down sobbing, I was looking around for some tissues, and thereby noticed from the rear view mirror, a vehicle coming up on me  from the rear. A police vehicle. Oh dear, oh yuck, oh %^*&! Can I get a traffic ticket for having pulled over on the freeway without having a flat tire of overheated engine? I would soon find out.

Officers in this area frequently come up to the passenger side of the car to talk to the driver, because the danger of a high speed vehicle clipping them while passing too closely. Therefore when the officer came to my door, I opened it so he could lean in. It was just beginning to sprinkle.

He took one look at me, and I noticed in his eyes a flicker of recognition. He knew instinctively that this wasn't a stalled car problem. Maybe he was thinking, a crying woman, Oh no, oh yuck, oh %^*&!". But he said with concern, "Are you all right, Ma'am?"

I didn't know what to say. (I just started crying for no reason, officer, over nothing?) No, I didn't say that. I lied. Okay, maybe not a full lie, a little white lie. I told him my mother died last year... and a bit of overwhelming grief struck me while driving... and I thought it would be safer for me to pull over to calm down. He said some comforting words, and to get me out of danger of the traffic, he followed me to the next exit.

Maybe it is true after all. Maybe I am missing my mother. She was 87 when she died a couple years ago. She was my best supporter, and loved to me read anything I might have written. A letter, a poem, a story, one of my opinionated pieces or a journal page about my cats. She would have liked this posting to know a caring cop had stopped to help her daughter. She would have understood how tears and sadness come from nowhere, with no known reason. She would have understood my white lie.

Please note:  I love to take pictures of vintage cars. The last picture is of my Mom in our 1955 Nash Rambler. 

We All Have a Story. What's Yours, Ducky?

I remember the time I was driving X and his new steady girlfriend, K, home from high school. It had been a long monotonous ride. I got off the main highway to get out of traffic, take a detour on a side road with two lanes. I told the kids, "We're taking the scenic route! Less nerve wracking!"

Suddenly the two lane traffic slowed to a grind. Not just on our side. It seemed the cars on the other side were slowing too. Some would suddenly zoom by with a little squeal of tires. It seemed so odd. I stuck my head out the window to catch a glimpse of what was holding up traffic.

Mother duck...

Her ducklings were located in the drainage ditch on our right. Their goal? The pond to our left across the road.

I quickly swung the car over to the side of the road. A little gasp from K. Was I making her nervous? Maybe she thought I was driving into the water?

I opened the door and got out, my son smiling and rolling his eyes as, K said, "Where ya goin'?

"I'll be right back."

I walked down the center of double yellow lines and stopped equal to the position of the ducks, put my arms out wide and waved them (like flapping wings, now that I think of it.)

There's something about being a mother, myself, seeing another mother and her little ones in danger, that brings out the protectiveness in me.

I began edging my way right and left. The cars slowed to a creep, one zipped pass me. I gave the driver behind him an I-dare-you look. He smiled and threw his hands in the air and remained in place.

Now that all traffic was stopped heard only mother duck encouraging her little ones to follow her between this canyon of metal, asphalt and funny odors. 

I could also hear K in the car... "Your mother is crazy!!!

X said. "You better get used to it."

The cars stopped.

They had no choice with Crazy Lady blocking their way

Momma and babies all made it safely across to the pond.

I have no doubt one of the pond ducklings who hadn't gone on adventure snickered to the newly crossed over, "Your mother is crazy!

It seems that ducks have us people well figured out, as there are other stories similar to mine. There was one in the news about a cab driver. Maybe you have a duck story? It does not have to include teenagers If you have a duck story. Please feel free to share it in a comment. 

It's Mom's Birthday

Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 89. She led a good life, a hard life. She had such a lovely name, Genevieve.

Her early memories were of living in the lumber camps, where Papa's work was still necessary, a blacksmith when it was a dying art. Her mother worked as cook and washerwoman for the lumber company. Their home, less a home than we can imagine, with a shed-porch where she and her brother slept and woke up to snow on the bed, because of the open slats holding up the roof.

She didn't think it was a hard life then. She just thought that was the way life was.

In a way, she worked for the lumber camp herself, setting the long tables with plates and eating utensils. Putting syrup, molasses, salt and home made jams in the center for the pancakes while her mother cooked up the big pans of bacon and eggs fried in their grease.

Once the lumbering dried out, no more trees to cut, you see. They went to live in the house of a relative who took them in. Papa tried to run his smithy there on that Crooked Creeak Road out "in the sticks", as she called it. Papa died when she was nine, at the beginning of the fall of the stock market and the Depression. It made no difference in their lives. They were already poor.

So she could find work as a housekeeper, mother sent her off to live with her older, married sister.

A year later she was brought home to live with Mother and her new Step-Dad.  Suddenly, the poverty was not so oppressive as her mother continued to work in a diner as a cook. Her pies the prize of the county.

Those are just some facts about my Mom's childhood, shared for no particular reason except today is my mother's birthday and these things have come to mind.

The first photo is my mother as an infant with her mother and aunt, and work horse.

Second photo was taken the year Papa died.

The third photo was taken when Genevieve was 14, when times were better.