Posts tagged caring

Paying it Forward

The snow was blowing fiercely across the parking lot. Three little children in boots and coats trailed, holding hands beside their mom. They struggled to the car from Goodwill as their mom searched for her keys.

Beside her, walked a well dressed lady, opening the door to her new car. “Do you need some help?” said the lady.

“No, but thanks.” said the young mom, as she felt the lady folding a large roll of cash into her glove.

“Oh, thank you!” said the young mom. “No, THANK YOU, said the lady as she walked away with gratitude inside her.

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To Those Who Go Unrecognized

The person who “pays forward” a young mothers bill in the grocery line,

the elder who listens to the tears of a teen, and shares her wisdom,

The cat who jumps in your lap and purrs when you are lonely,

The mom who makes extra cookies for the shut-in next door,

The teacher who stays after class to help a struggling student,

The driver who lets you in line at a long red light,

the tired mom who rubs her teens back until she hears his soft breath,

These are the rare people we need more of, and who aren’t recognized.

linked from:http://www.velvetverbosity.com/2013/11/04/100-words-353-nanowrimo-inspiration/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+velvetverbosity%2Ffeed+%28Velvet+Verbosity%29&utm_content=Yahoo!+Mail

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Freedom and Truth

As I start to press the “publish” button on a story about the loss of my son from a sudden heart issue, and the organizations that I have found that help prevent these tragic, unnecessary deaths. I think of  my losses caused by having to live without him, I find my hand shaking, my heart throbbing and wonder if I have the courage to push the button. I know I will have to respond to replies, open the wounds and subject myself to religious opinions that make me ill. Finally, I will hit the button, realizing that If I save one mom from the hell I have ended, it will be worth it. Opening my wounds id definitely the type of blog that both frees me , forces me to be truthful and hopefully helps others avoid the tragedy of loosing a child.

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A Fathers Gifts

A few years ago, I wrote this story for my father on Father’s day. I had hope to put it on my blog, but it didn’t happen. I found it today after I got home from my third day accompanying my father to a surgeon and decided that I wanted to honor him every day. It was time to write the blog.I had been looking for a poem that I had written my father years ago, when I felt so young and innocent. Life has never been particularly kind to me, bu the last nine years have seen so many changes in my world that it has been hard to hold onto who I am. I realized more than every that the only way that I have made it through these time was the love and strength I had received from my father.

Within these past nine years, I have lost my best friend and three cousins to cancer. I have seen four of my children marry in only four years and have been blessed with six grandchildren, with number seven on the way. Not long after my second child got married, I lost my precious 15 year old son very suddenly while he was playing baseball. I lost my health because of this loss and have come close to death myself five times. Not quite three years ago, when I was still recovering from a hip transplant, I lost my beloved mother. The grief that my father felt after 61 years of marriage took a tremendous toll on him.

This story, however, is about my father, one of the most amazing men I have ever known. My father never had an easy life. His dad was a tenant farmer in Upper South Carolina and then Western North Carolina. His family moved nearly every year when he was young. He and his brother, who was three years older were out earning money doing chores when they were in grade school. My father and his brother were raised by their dad. His mother, who had been sickly most of his life died when he was five years old. During the 1920’s, it was practically unknown for a single father to raise his children. A maiden aunt came to stay with them from time to time. She was very strict and religious, but cooked them good meals and gave a woman’s influence in their lives.

My father has told me stories of his life since I was a child. I would beg him to tell me a particular story. I called him, “Huckleberry Ken” because his life had been so full of both hard work and mischief. After becoming a parent myself, I suggested that he should write down his stories, so that we could pass them on to his grandchildren, along with others who had enjoyed his art of storytelling.

He took my suggestion, and with me acting as editor, he publish. I had to ed four books about his childhood, teen years before World War Two. His time in the Navy in Guam, and his years working on both the Highway and Railway Post Office. He has another book that we have yet to officially publish.

Helping him with his books was both a chore and a privilege. I has to order photos from museums, obtain permission to use them, hunt down friends he had known 50 years before and record their stories, the scan and edit everything on the computer. In the early 1990’s a home computer was much more complicated than it is today. I often wonder why I ever suggested the idea of publishing the books. To my father, it was the dream of a lifetime and I look upon those difficult days, when I had a house full of little children to deal with as well, as some of the best days of my life.

My dad was the good student, the hard worker, his dad’s favorite. His brother had more difficulty in school and would probably be labeled “ADHD” in this ay and time. When the school would send home letters about his bothers lack of progress, my father would read them and tear them up, knowing that his brother would be unjustly scolded by their father and realizing that no one at schol would follow up on the letters. In the decade when he and his brother were students, kids from impoverished families were looked down on by teachers and administrators. Many of the children has parents who could not read or write and started school with little knowledge of “reading, writing and ‘rithmatic” as it was often called. Often, there was a shortage of materials and children who could not pay for books, never received any. There was little chance for these children to get an education when no one could help at home and no one at school seemed interested in helping them. Most of the children from poor families has quit school by their early teens, with boys working late shifts in factories and girls staying home to work on the farm and marrying by their mid-teens. Though there were child labor laws “on the books”, it was easy to lie about your age and not be questioned.

Once, when my father was in the 5th grade, e decided to change schools after hearing from friends that a nearby school was better than the one he was attending. All he had to do was walk a little further and catch another bus. Without ever discussing it with his father, he simply started the new school year at his “new” school. It was nearly Thanksgiving before his father found out, and my father was doing quite well in his “new” school, so his father just let it ride.

When my father and his brother were still in grade school, they would be out looking for jobs on weekends and in the summer, in order to get enough money for “soda crackers, a can of Vienna sausages and a soft drink for lunch.” In summer, it was easy to pick berries and sell them to the wealthy families who would come south “to summer” in the low country of the Western Carolinas.

They learned to work hard for very little pay. Often, they were asked to tear down old barns and storage buildings, and do odd jobs. When a wealthy resident or better yet a local contractor would ask if they could “fix cars, lay brick or haul cement”, their answer was always, “sure”. It was in this way that country boys like my father and his brother got most of their “education”.

When World War II was in the horizon, my dad and some friends headed north seeking jobs that they had heard were plentiful in the growing automobile industry. A few of them stayed, but my father and a friend, who owned a car, did not. They came home and found work in the construction business, taking any job they could get. They learned to drive trucks, build houses, and any other job that might lead to a “step up” on the employment ladder.

Not long after returning from their adventure “up north”, my father received his draft notice and decided to join the Navy before the decision of which branch of the service he would be drafted into.

His brother had injured his knee when he was a child and did not pass the physical to be placed into the “service”. One of my father’s most poignant memories was hearing his dad’s last words to him as he boarded the bus for basic training. His father had bowed his head, hiding a tear and whispered, “Son, I don’t think I will ever see you again.” He didn’t. While on Guam during the Christmas holiday of 1945, my dad was called into the chaplains office and told that his father had died of a heart attack. He still has the letter hr received four days later from his father, saying that, “everything was fine.” Communications were very slow in those days but the letter was profound, his father’s prediction had come true.

Upon landing in Guam in the fall of 1945, my father was asked by his commanders if he could drive a truck. Even though he had never held an official driver’s license, he replied confidently, “Sure.” and thus found his job with the navy would be that of a truck driver as our military men struggled to wipe out the final skirmishes of war and rebuild the devastated countries that had been left in its’ rubble.

His book about this time oof his life is titled, “Two Hundred Thousand Boys on a Rock Called Guam. On the cover is a photo of he and two friends sitting on the top of a captured Japanese submarine, the rising son right below their young, smiling faces. To me, this book is the story of a group of boys being thrust into an unthinkable situation and showing their determination and fortitude. It is the story of “boys” becoming “men”.

My father did not come home from World War II with the ticker tape parades and tearful families rushing up to their ships as it was shown in the newspaper. He got off of a bus in Upper South Carolina and walked several miles down a dusty unpaved road to an uncles’ house where he had lived for a while when he was a child. When he got there, tired and thirsty, no one was home. After walking to a country store to get a soda, he returned to a less than excited family who had been away selling produce. He stayed at their house one night, and realizing he wasn’t wanted, he took a bus to the home of a friend I Western North Carolina, hoping only for an invitation to supper and a bed for the night.

Surprisingly, the reception he got there was one of love and acceptance. The idea of a third son to help around the farm seemed good to the father, Mr. Jackson and rough a warm smile from his wife, who had always had an affinity for this long, lean, hard working young boy. Hoping only for a good nights’ sleep, he stayed there four years, until he met and married my mother. Mr. Jackson taught my father the skills to help him get construction and truck driving jobs, and was happy to have him “pay for his keep” by helping out around the farm. My father earned enough money to buy an old truck, which he nick-named, “Old Hully”. This allowed him to move up the ladder in the construction business to hauling materials, rather than carrying the heavy rocks and such to the construction site. The Jackson family called my dad, “Kenny”. And the name stayed with him in that neighborhood throughout his life.

My father had always valued an education and enrolled in a local Junior College under the G.I. Bill, which had allocated him funds for attaining an education. He took a double major in Accounting and Truck management at the Business School in the larger town nearby. It was there that he met my mother, who was also taking Accounting, riding the bus to night school while working in a bakery during the day.

When they married several years after meeting, my father was working at a Trucking Company and my mother still held her job at the bakery. They soon moved in to a small house on the street where my mother had grown up. I wasn’t born until nearly six years later. I had my father under my spell even before I was born, but when he laid eyes on a little girl with golden curls, his heart melted. After growing up with men and living in a home with only sons, having a little girl was both frightening and a blessing.

My father worked two jobs most of his life. He worked in the insurance industry, but decided not to move to Ohio when the company transferred there. I was nearly five years old when my dd was offered a job with The life of Georgia Insurance Company in Atlanta. Hoping that my mother would be happy in Atlanta, where her mothers’ family lived, he took the job and rented an apartment. Most of the time, my mother and I stayed in our new house that he had built in our home town, and my father came home on weekends. When he moved our family to Altanta, my mother was miserable. It wasn’t long before dad turned in his resignation and came back to our home town hoping one of his applications would be in the mail.

Surprisingly, an application did await him. It was for a job at the Postal Service! The hours were bad, the schemes, where an employee had to put cards into the correct hole in a large stand up desk were a nightmare, but my dad was up to the challenge and while keeping his part time job with the Tennessee Valley Authority, he passed the test and got the job! His early years at the Postal Service lead to his book about his years riding a highway mail bus that was so long that it required a bolted back section to traverse the country roads, and his years working on a railway car, sorting mail and throwing it out onto poles made for this purpose in rural areas. These jobs often required “lay-overs” of several hours or even a whole night and the Postal Service rented out rooms for their employees to rest in as they caught their next “run”.

My father’s job at the Tennessee valley Authority was my favorite. He often let me help him decode the machine-made charts from places up in the mountains with lovely names like “Sunburst”, which sparked my poetic soul. There was a secret phone number with a coded message on it that told the depth of the river at different locations. Dad trusted me with the number and I would call to check the gauges which sent a piece of equipment down into the different rivers and let out a series of beeps to tell the worker the depth of the river. The office also held volumes of books filled with photographs of the famous 1916 flood which devastated our area and caused several deaths.

More importantly, the TVA office was where I saw my first computer! It was in the late 1960’s and the machine took up a hole room. Its’ only job was to make the charts that wee read to compare the depths of the river at different locations. The most exciting part of being “daddy’s girl” on his TVA job, was that I got to ride with him to observe and record data about floods that occurred in Western North Carolina. I loved telling my friend the stories of seeing houses, flooded up to their porch rails, with a cat sitting forlornly on the roof.

Being a girl, and an only child, I had to be my father’s “son” as well as his daughter. That meant I got to learn all the “boy” jobs, unlike my friends. My father taught me about the stock market, investing and shared his love of learning with me. We played geography games, such as who could name the most states, state capitols, or fill in a blank map. We read books together, he taught me the love of reading and learning. He helped me with my homework. He would stay up hours doing math with me, a man who had only a 7th grade education before he took a double major at a Junior college. He would wrap my curls around his finger and assure me that if he didn’t know how to help me with an assignment, he would learn with me.

We worked in the garden, build sidewalks and fancy brick walls and made crafts out of wood. He taught me the names of the flowers, trees and insects where ever we went. Although I spent many hours with my mother, aunt and grandparents next door, it was my father who taught me.

I had thought about sending this story only to my father, but later decided that it would make an interesting blog about a little girl and her devoted father. He always reminded me of Abraham Lincoln, which did not please him. But he was tall, with curly, dark hair and a serious face, much like our 16th President.

My hope now, years after I first wrote this letter, is that my children and grandchildren will look back on this simple tribute to my father as one of love and respect. At 86, he still commands our respect, still teaches us the lessons he has learned in his life. He has been generous with his help, strict with his rules and filled with an unequaled devotion to his family.

Though he has not always been agreeable with our modern ideas, he has tried to keep up with technology, taught us to invest and “save for a rainy day”. He reminded us of HIS “Golden Rule” (who ever has the gold makes the rules) and that, of course , was him.

I cannot imagine having a father who loved his errant, non-conformist, self proclaimed “hippie” daughter with any more patience and unabashed devotion than he has done with me, It goes without saying that he has had this same love and patience with my children and grandchildren.

I can only hope that in years to come , that my children have even half as much love and respect for me as I have towards him. As the old saying goes, “He has learned to turn lemons into lemonade.” The gifts that my father have been many, but none were more important than his time. He chose being with me over friends or hobbies. When asked him what the most important thing that we had was, he would squeeze our hands and softly say, “Time.” You can’t buy it, or even earn it, but you sure can waste it.” I wish I had listened more closely to his simple wisdom. I feel so fortunate that I have had so much time to spend with him.

 

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Apathy- Haibun Challenge

I lost a precious, healthy 15-year-old while he was playing ball seven years ago. At first there were the disgusting “grief addicts” who actually came to my door and introduced themselves, all to give their “condolences”. I got critically ill because of his death, and felt that everyone was already “over” feeling sorry for my family. Life went on for everyone but me, even in my family, and I understand, I really do, but it still hurt-it hurts today when no one remembers the day and I feel like I am dying.

Some of my kids had just married, some married soon after, I’m now expecting my 7th grandchild when I had none when I lost my son. I lived, after finally convincing doctors that it wasn’t “just grief” (grief is a “JUST??”By that time, they told me I had three weeks to live. I have continued to be ill, Suffer from the results of misdiagnosis, (which, along with inadequate slow medical care, cost my son his life).

I live in pain, physical and emotional. Apathy is real, but I am afraid it is true that we cannot bear the burden for everyone-perhaps a select few. The agony of it would kill us. Even temporary condolence, even an occasional, “I remember” is nice. I suppose that is all we can expect.

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Stay

I struggle to live and breathe when I see,

The love that you have for the broken, sad me.

In spite of my pain, you touch me and say,

I love you, my mom,I’m here,It’s OK.

if only you had what you really need.

Your brother alive and the mom I should be.

Hold my hand, my sweet baby, so I won’t slip away.

There’s part of him in you,and both want me to stay.

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