You Can’t Judge a Box By Its Cover

Beautiful Imperfection–A battered butterfly (missing its lower parts but still flying) that we encountered on a hike

So, I tried hard to write a funny post.  The last thing I wanted to do was write again about our troubles.  Alas, I couldn’t seem to muster the light-heartedness I needed to write it well.  Not that I’ve lost my sense of humor.  No indeed.  It’s fully intact, as any of my friends or family can tell you.  Along with my sense of wonder, thank God.

The incident in question WAS funny, though.  Even if it didn’t seem so at the time.   When I saw the article in the paper before Christmas about the Senior Santa shoebox project at Meals on Wheels, I really wanted to do it.  Only problem was, I had to wrap a shoebox.  More precisely, I had to actually cover the surface of a shoebox with pretty paper in a presentable manner that did not resemble the work of a demented chimpanzee.  

Sounds easy enough, but the truth is, I am gift-wrapping impaired.  Incredibly, even gift bags are a challenge to me because I can never seem to get the tissue looking right.  So covering a shoebox seemed about as daunting as sewing that dress I was required to make in eighth grade home ec . (Poor Miss Nettie Herring—I was surely the most challenging sewing student she ever had!) 

But Dorothy,of the Wrexham Knitting Group in Wrexham,NorthWales made it look so easy!  She nimbly wrapped the shoebox with the cool, calm efficiency of a brain surgeon.  In fact, I’m quite certain Dorothy, if she put her mind to it, could easily learn and perform brain surgery.  She certainly made me believe, after I’d watched her about ten times, that I, too, could wrap a shoebox.  Until, that is, I actually tried to do it.

No need to recount every detail of the sad struggle.  Let’s just say it took me two hours, a whole roll of gift wrap, and lots and lots of tape.  Along with much wailing and gnashing of teeth.  It was a grim business, I tell you.  Until the end, when I suddenly became aware that I was breathing hard as though I’d run a marathon and that I was literally dripping sweat in a sixty-five degree house.  Which was, of course, ridiculous, and I started laughing.  Sort of like a demented chimpanzee, haha. 

Amazingly, in the end, it didn’t look too bad.  And filling the shoebox was a lot more fun than wrapping it.  I do hope that the recipient of my humble offering was able to see the love in it rather than the ragged edges.  Which, now that I think of it, is the very thing we hope for in our relationships with people.  That they can see the beauty and spirit in us, despite our ragged and lopsided edges.   That they can see that we’re doing our best, even when that best is far short of perfect.  That they can look past our differences and instead see what we have in common.  And that we may do the same for them.

In Benjamin’s journey back to wholeness, he and I have had a lot of conversations about the importance of being your authentic self, even when people reject that self.  Indeed, my children will both tell you that the #1 Mommy maxim they heard from me throughout their lives is the importance of being true to yourself.  Hard for all of us, but especially hard for an autistic person like Benjamin.  As an autistic person navigates the world, they are constantly challenged to conform themselves to the world in ways that are often difficult and in ways that may not come naturally.  So their struggle to conform, yet maintain that inner core of authentic self, can be exhausting.  And often discouraging. 

Benjamin’s working hard to learn that balance.  And in helping him, I’ve often been reminded of my own need to remember the truths I know about myself, but sometimes lose sight of when I let the world pull and push me off balance.   That equilibrium is so easy to talk about, but so hard to achieve.  And that struggle for balance, as I tell Benjamin, is something we all have in common.  It’s something we all share–whether we’re autistic or not.  The important thing is to not lose sight of who you are or the sense of your own beauty. And to remember always who you are capable of becoming.

Moving Forward

Many, many thanks to everyone who commented on my last post and to those who wrote me—it meant a great deal.  I know it’s sometimes unpleasant to read of unpleasant times (Lord knows it’s not much fun to write about them either), so I truly value those of you who have stuck with me.  I have gone back and read your kind, loving, and caring words more than once and been sustained by them.  We are grateful for your continued prayers and good thoughts for Benjamin…and for us.

Benjamin is home from the hospital now.  Our time now is filled with the slow rhythm of work, walking, talking, and quiet porch sitting, punctuated by visits from loved ones and trips into Asheville for counseling.  In some ways, the past few weeks have taken me back to Benjamin’s very early childhood, before he started school.

When something like this happens with your child, you start to question everything.  In Benjamin’s case, this questioning is even more intense because I worked so closely and intensely with him when he was small.  As I’ve mentioned before, Benjamin’s autism was much more pronounced when he was young.  If not distracted, he would spend hours rocking back and forth or spinning or even just flapping his hands and staring at them as though they were separate things. Until the age of four, his speech was mostly echoing back to us what we’d said to him. 

We had very little money then and there were few options for help for Benjamin, other than some physical therapy for his hypotonia.  Tom worked long hours as a carpenter just to keep a roof over our heads, so I felt like it was mostly up to me to help Benjamin—to convince him, in a sense, that engaging in our “world” was worthwhile.  I read everything I could get my hands on about autism, and we got some helpful suggestions from the place where Benjamin was diagnosed, TEACCH. 

The first thing I wanted to know then was what it felt like to be Benjamin.  So I got down on the floor with him and rocked back and forth to the same rhythm, trying to hear the same music he heard. Benjamin was always fascinated by light.  He’d stare at any light, rapt, as though he were seeing something we couldn’t—angels, perhaps.  He also liked to sit in the morning sunbeams as he rocked.  So there we’d sit, rocking in and out of the light streaming into our living room.  It was very soothing, actually, and I’ll have to say that I could see why he might prefer it to the unpredictable inconsistency and discomfort of “real” life. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about that, and the questions cycle through my head over and over.  What could I have done differently?  What if I’d taken him out of school and taught him at home when we couldn’t get his teachers to try to protect him from the relentless bullying? If I’d done that, how would he have learned what he needed to get along in the sometimes cruel world?  And the biggest one, I suppose: Did I even do the right thing by nudging him gently into our world?

But those are just the questions that go through my head at night, when I’m lying there waiting for sleep to come.   Really, I think perhaps questions about the past are only useful now if they somehow help to answer the more immediate and more important question:  How can we help Benjamin to find wholeness?

One morning recently, while Benjamin was eating breakfast and I was in the kitchen working, I put on the CD my dear friend Jayne had sent us.  In the note she sent with it, she said that she hoped the music would be a balm to my soul.  And indeed it was.  As I listened, I looked at Benjamin.  He had his eyes closed and was rocking back and forth, moving in time to the music.  I smiled to see that and closed my own eyes as “Be Still My Soul” began to play—the music seeming almost like warm hands stroking my weary spirit.  I rocked back and forth, too, just as had almost twenty years ago when I was trying to connect with my sweet boy, trying to convince him that my “world” was a place worth living in.  When I was trying to see that world through the eyes of Benjamin.

And, now, as it was then, progress is slow coming.  One day at the time, one hour at the time.  Two steps forward; one step back.  But now, as then, we are glad to be moving forward.  And we celebrate the smallest victories, relish the simplest pleasures, and I thank God, without ceasing, that He sent Benjamin to be my beloved son. 

Seeing Rightly

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”  (Antoine de Saint Exupéry)

I’m writing this post both to let you know I’ll be absent from the blogosphere for a while and to ask you for your most sincere and earnest good thoughts and prayers.

When I talk about our troubles in an oblique way, without giving many details, I’m not trying to be mysterious or melodramatic.  In fact, I wish I could tell you everything, to ease the burden I carry, but so much of it involves other people whose privacy I don’t wish to compromise.  Plus, who wants to hear all our trials?  It’s certainly too much to expect folks to listen to some endless recitation of our latest tribulations.  As I wrote in an earlier post, I start to feel almost embarrassed to relate another hardship.  I think, sub-consciously (or not), many people start to wonder if we’re somehow bringing this on ourselves.  You might wonder how could so many bad  things happen to one family or what we might have done to displease God.  Lord knows, I have sure wondered that.

And that is why I withdraw when things get overwhelming.  No matter how much people tell you that you should reach out to others (and I believe you should, which is why I’m writing this), the truth is, those others have their own problems, and I can’t realistically expect them to shoulder my burdens when it seems mine are endless. 

But I can and will ask you for your kindest thoughts and for your most sincere prayers.  Especially for my son Benjamin.  Long-time readers already know that Benjamin is autistic and that navigating the world is far more of a struggle for him than anyone knows.  And long-time readers also know that Benjamin’s had a tough time of it in the last two years.  An appendectomy, the loss of several loved ones, and a broken back (with lingering pain) have just added to his burden, and he has struggled for a while with depression.

And it all finally became more than he could bear.  He’s in the hospital now.  I’m telling you that because there is no shame in it.  The greater shame is in some of the things that contributed to his being where he is now.  The relentless bullying he endured when he was little when the adults that should have intervened, didn’t, for one.  I can’t tell you how many times teachers said (and they all knew he was autistic), “Oh, bullying’s just a natural part of growing up.  He needs to learn to stand up for himself.”

I’ve written before—extensively—about all the ways the world rejects those who are different (just click on “Autism” in my sidebar if you want to read those posts). But I’ll say again—please teach your children well.  Teach them first and foremost to be kind. I believe there is nothing more important.  And children learn kindness from their parents.  So…be kind.  Consistently.  If you are, you’ll never reject others because they are different.  If you are kind, you will love folks for who they are, whether they fit your narrow definition of “normal” or not.  And maybe, just maybe, you’ll figure out that perhaps they have something to teach you—something that may expand not only your mind, but your heart.

But right now, Benjamin’s heart is broken.  So is ours.  We have never felt such deep and profound grief.  So I ask you, from the bottom of my heart, for all the good thoughts and prayers you can muster.  And I thank you from the bottom of my heart for listening.

Abiding Joy

It’s been a hot, dry summer at the Doublewide Ranch, but, as always, there are delights aplenty to be found.  The Queen Anne’s Lace has been abundant this year, and I’ve seen entire fields of it and chicory awash in a bright haze of blue and white. 

When I’m feeling a bit low, it’s sights like this that are a sort of barometer of Beth.  If I see one of these simple wonders and my heart doesn’t quicken with joy and pleasure, then it’s time to seek professional help.

My heart certainly quickened at the sight of this gladiolus.  Made me glad for glads.

We’ve especially enjoyed the honeybees this year.  Thankfully, there were lots of them.  After we saw how much the bees loved oregano, we joked about what our beekeeper neighbor’s honey might taste like.  Spicy and sweet might not be a bad combination.

Not as many butterflies, but we’ve treasured the ones we’ve had.  And we’ve treasured all those Crayola-colored zinnias that grew from fallen seeds. Not to mention the self-sowing cosmos, cleome, and petunias.  As a slightly lazy gardener, I love flowers that self-sow.

You can have your fancy, lavish store-bought bouquets—–I’ll take the humble, homegrown ones.  They utterly delight me.

And speaking of self-sowing flowers, I love my porch petunias.  I planted them the first year we came, and I’ve never had to do a thing since but water and fertilize.  Seems miraculous to me. 

This is a morning glory, believe it or not.  It split like this after a rain.  I thought I’d discovered a new flower!  And, by the way, morning glories self-sow, too. Endlessly.  Over and over and over again. 

We took a roadtrip for Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man’s birthday.  This is Benjamin climbing The Lump, in Ashe County, NC.  Definitely an ungainly name for such a lovely place. 

A spider web illuminated by the glow of the morning sun.  I’d never seen one shimmer like this—it looked like the work of fairies.

It’s hard to put into words just how much I am sustained by the natural world.  When I am brought down by that other world—the world of the fake, false, and phony—-I cling to the riches that surround me here.  They are real, they are true, and they bring me a sense of peace and contentment.  Not the fleeting happiness of the false world, but a deep, abiding, and everlasting joy. 

Indeed, I am rich beyond measure.

Wise As Serpents and Innocent As Doves

A few weeks back, not too far down the road from me, a huge plywood sign appeared in front of the little house that sits square in the middle of a sharp curve.  In large, uneven, paint-dripping letters, someone had scrawled, “GOD SAW YOU TAKE THAT BIKE.  GOD WILL MAKE YOU PAY.”

Now, I’m sure some folks snickered as they passed that sign or maybe smiled condescendingly, but not me.  In fact, every single time I passed that sign (and I passed it a lot because it was up for a long time), I breathed a prayer for my neighbor.  I think I understand his rage, his need to feel that even if the scales of justice are not balanced in this world, they just might tip his way in the next.  I remembered him well because soon after we moved here, I waved at him as he sat on his porch, and he was one of the few in this neighborhood that ever waved back.  But he doesn’t wave any more.

Years ago, when we lived in another trailer far out in the sticks, we had a burglary.  They cut the phone lines, damaged both our doors trying to get in, and pretty much cleaned out the few things we had of value (monetary value, that is).  Ariel and Benjamin were 6 and 7, and we picked glass shards out of Ariel’s stuffed animals for weeks, since the perpetrators ultimately broke the window above her bed to gain entry.  I discovered all this when I came home alone.  I quickly left and drove from neighbor to neighbor, looking for one who would let me use their phone.  At least half of them were home (I could hear them inside), but not ONE would come to the door.  Later, we had evidence that it was probably one of our own neighbors who broke in, but we could never interest the sheriff’s office in pursuing it.  After all, we were just poor trailer trash. 

So, I think I understand how my neighbor down the road feels. 

There are a number of admonishments in the words of Jesus that are a real challenge to our baser human tendencies (such as turning the other cheek when someone strikes you), but one of the most difficult to me are his instructions to his twelve disciples upon sending them forth to minister to the world.  He tells them (in Matthew 10:16), “Behold, I am sending you out as sheep in the midst of wolves, so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”  I’ve thought a lot about that lately as Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man and I have faced a number of things that have made it hard not to slip into a dark state of disillusionment and cynicism.  Our struggle to get Worker’s Comp benefits without hiring a lawyer (ultimately unsuccessful), our realization that neither his employer nor the state Industrial Commission seem to be there to help us, and even looking at the bill for his recent hospital stay and the ridiculousness of the charges ($3.33 for a single 81mg aspirin!) are just a few things that make us feel disheartened about the state of the human race.  Not to mention the goings-on in Washington, D.C.

Sure, the “wise as serpents” part isn’t all that hard.  Wariness comes easy now.  We are very much like watchful serpents these days, gazing warily through our narrowed eyes, watching for those that might tread upon us, and hoping we can strike before they do.  But if you live constantly on guard, suspicious of everyone, your vision will become narrow and jaundiced.  And a jaundiced eye never sees clearly. Neither is it possible in this world for a reasonably intelligent adult to be completely “innocent as a dove.”  If you don’t  feel a little cynical these days, you’re not thinking.  I always love watching the mourning doves in our birdbath, but, clearly they’re not the sharpest members of the avian community. When a hawk comes around, all the other birds clear out.  Not the doves.  I worry about them.

So, to be both “wise as serpents” and “innocent as doves” is one of the many spiritual challenges that I fail at daily.  But I keep trying, keep struggling against complete cynicism and bitterness, keep holding fast to faith.  Because cynicism may come from facing certain facts, but it doesn’t come from facing truth.  Because the real truth is—there is always hope.  And the real truth is, there’s still a lot of goodness in this world.  Lord knows, I’ve seen that, too.  In friends who stick with me (thank you!), even when I’m sad and a little bitter.  In my immediate family, who loves me as I am.  God is there, whether in the hearts of my beloved or in the mockingbird that sings at night. 

So I struggle against darkness—both in the world and in my own head.  Cynicism may be an intelligent response to this old world, but there’s nothing particularly wise about it.  In darkness, we lose our vision, and it’s easy to conclude that there’s no way out.  Real wisdom, I think, sees things as they are, but believes they can be better and looks for ways to make them so.  It seeks a way out of the darkness.  I’m no theologian, but I believe that may be what Jesus meant.  To be wary and discerning, but always open to goodness.

So may we see things as they are but keep a vision for how they can be.  May we know real truth when we see it. And may we keep our wary, weary eyes fixed always on the light.

Blessed

I wrote the last post specifically for any who might think that my post about feeling sad meant that I’d lost my faith or my ability to see the good in my life.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Indeed, I think that hard times often bring into sharper focus the greatest blessings in your life, so that you see more clearly what is good, what is pure, what is true.  And so often, you find that the very things you thought important are trivial and the things you thought trivial are important. 

So, rest assured that I am still mindful of my blessings—big and small.   And one of the big ones happened just recently…when Ariel got herself hitched. 

Yes, that’s right…our baby girl got married.  It was a lovely wedding, though there were glitches, including a heavy downpour just as they started saying the vows.  We were all soaked (except for the bride and groom), and I will forever be immortalized in the wedding pictures as mother-0f-the-bride looking like a drowned rat.  But what I’ll remember best is the way Cameron and Ariel looked at each other–with pure and unadulturated love.   And that’s all that matters really.

Ariel and her doting Daddy (Tom’s hair was wet from the downpour, but he still looks handsome, I think. And Ariel, of course, is beautiful)

I’ve mentioned before what an…umm…unconventional family we are (which is probably obvious from my unconventional blog).  So before I got to know Cameron (a UNC-CH graduate, like Ariel), I worried that he might not fit into our family or, even worse, find us weird.  But after spending time with him, my fears were somewhat assuaged and I began to believe that he was just quirky enough (and accepting of our quirks) to fit in just fine. 

But it was the cows that completely put all my fears to rest.

Shortly after he and Ariel got engaged, they came for a visit.  But Cameron did not come empty-handed.  No indeed. He came bearing gifts.  He came with cattle, to be exact—two of them.  Holsteins—a fine bull and heifer. 

I looked at them and said, “I don’t know, Cameron.  Sure, these are fine cattle—healthy and strong.  But I think she’s worth a dowry of at least three bovines.”  I was going to milk this for all it was worth.  I was udderly shameless. 

But Cameron was not cowed.  He smiled and reminded me that a dowry is actually what the bride’s parents give the groom’s family.  His two cattle, he said,  were the bride price.  Yep, that Cameron is a smart one, for sure.

Oh dear.  A dowry.  I hadn’t figured on this.  What could we possibly offer?  And then I remembered my apple nut bread.  Cameron loves the stuff, even better than my oatmeal cookies.  So we quickly struck a deal that promised a lifetime supply of apple bread, and Tom and I graciously accepted the Holsteins as our bride price, though I still think Ariel is a three-bovine girl.

And now, Ariel and Cameron are back from their honeymoon and happy in their comfy newlywed nest.  And the bull and heifer are happy, too, grazing in our mountain pasture.  They love how the grass grows so high and lush around here.

But our fine bovines are a bit wary about the animal life in these hills.   Can’t really blame them if they steer clear of some critters here.  After all, a few of them are…well…real dodoes.

“A Lot of It’s Mighty Fine…”

“That was rough…. Thing to do now is try and forget it…. I guess I don’t quite mean that. It’s not a thing you can forget. Maybe not even a thing you want to forget…. Life’s like that sometimes… Now and then for no good reason a man can figure out, life will just haul off and knock him flat, slam him agin’ the ground so hard it seems like all his insides is busted. But it’s not all like that. A lot of it’s mighty fine, and you can’t afford to waste the good part frettin’ about the bad. That makes it all bad…. Sure, I know – sayin’ it’s one thing and feelin’ it’s another. But I’ll tell you a trick that’s sometimes a big help. When you start lookin’ around for something good to take the place of the bad, as a general rule you can find it.“

~From the movie Old Yeller

Yes, oh yes.  Indeed.  A lot of it IS mighty fine.  Including you, my kind, compassionate, and understanding readers.  You (and your comments on my last post) are mighty fine…and I thank you.

More mighty fine things…

A mighty fine bubble (blown by my mighty fine daughter) with a mighty fine view

My mighty fine beloved family on a mighty fine hike—at Black Balsam in 2009

A mighty fine unexpected note from a mighty fine person

Another mighty fine note with some mighty fine music from a mighty fine friend.

A mighty fine woodpecker with a mighty fine Mohawk

Same mighty fine woodpecker digs for mighty fine bugs

Mighty fine woodpecker drills mighty fine hole for mighty fine bugs

Some mighty fine clematis.

A mighty fine life.

Here I Am

It’s funny how when you go through repeated misfortune, one darn thing after another, you can start to feel a sort of shame. Embarrassed to even mention your latest adversity to anyone. It’s like you have a Scarlet Letter on your forehead and that letter is a big, ol’ “L.” (That’s “L” for “loser,” in case anybody didn’t get that.) And that shame makes you want to go somewhere warm and dark and curl up in a ball. Or at least, that’s how I’ve been feeling.

Seriously…the other day, I was in our little walk-in closet putting Tom’s clothes away when I suddenly felt the urge to curl up in a little pile of his clothes (the man has a distinct aversion to hangers). I closed the door and sat down in Tom’s shirts and pants—my knees drawn up to my chest, my head down, and closed my eyes.

This has happened more than once lately. I call it “going fetal.” Of course, I’m too stiff and old to really lie down and curl up in a ball. If I did, I probably wouldn’t be able to get back up. It would be just my luck to have to call 911 to come rescue me from my fetal position. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!

It’s funny, too, how when I start to write about it, I just can’t help but fall back (no pun intended) on humor. It is so much easier than talking about pain, isn’t it? And people love people who make them laugh. About a year and a half ago, in a post about the difficulty of writing about difficulties, I wrote: 　Why is it so hard for us to lay our souls bare—to expose our deepest griefs and yearnings?　 What are we afraid of? Why do I feel something close to shame when I talk about my sadness?

Well, I suppose everyone would answer those questions differently, but I think for most folks, one of the main reasons is simply a fear that people won’t like the broken parts of you. It’s a human need and hunger, this deep desire to be liked—no wonder we are so afraid! And the truth is, we’ve had “friends” that have turned away because we’ve lost our light-heartedness of late. One of Tom’s co-workers said to him the other day, frowning, “You’ve changed.”

Well, hell…yes. Yes, we have.  In ways we can’t even articulate.

Too, I think most of us don’t want to encumber others with our own sadness—it can be such a heavy burden. So we put on a happy face and say “Fine!” when folks ask how we are. Like that Ogden Nash ditty: Don’t tell me all about your indigestion! “How are you?” is a greeting, not a question!

No doubt, too, some of my own reticence comes from growing up in a family where we hid our brokenness. It just wasn’t talked about. But sometimes there was no hiding the cracks. Like when my brother stole a car and was sent for years to juvenile jail (which was then called “training school.”) Or Daddy’s long stay in the mental hospital.

Of course, every family has its secrets and everyone has their troubles, but I have to say—we have had more than our fair share, especially in the last couple of years. And it takes a toll.

The latest for us, besides Tom’s knee injury and our long (and losing) struggle with Worker’s Comp is Tom’s two-day hospitalization last week after I rushed him to the hospital when he suddenly slipped, with no warning, into honest-to-God, bona-fide dementia. He looked down at his knee brace, which he’s been wearing for four months after tearing his meniscus and said, “What is that? Why is it on my knee?”

Of course, we thought he was having a stroke, and so did the doctors until they did a battery of every kind of stroke-detecting test there is. All normal. They kept him overnight before finally deciding that he had a strange and fairly unusual malady called Transient Global Amnesia.

Never heard of it? Me, neither. But I can tell you that it’s very, very real and very, very scary.

And, yes, I AM truly thankful that it wasn’t a stroke and that Tom is now fully coherent and the only obvious vestige from our experience are the big hospital bills that will soon be in our mailbox. But I feel like I’ve aged twenty years in the past two and I’m so, so very tired and sad and I can’t stop crying at the drop of a hat and I feel weird and detached from people like I’m looking at them from the wrong end of a telescope and I can see in their eyes that my weirdness shows and even my writing seems weird when I read it over and I’ll read my emails (that take forever to write) a million times before I send them and sometimes don’t send them at all because who wants people to see you when you’re crazy?

And, that, my friends, is why I haven’t blogged.

We’ve all heard folks say (about going through adversity): What doesn’t kill me will make me stronger. Well, maybe that’s true sometimes…but I can tell you that I don’t feel so strong right now. I feel puny, weak, fragile, and faint of heart.

But this where I am right now. And this is who I am right now, I reckon. Here I am. All my unraveling and loose threads and tears and rips right here for all to see. I’ve always told my children to be true to themselves and others, so I guess that’s what I’m doing. Being true. I also tell them that even if putting one step in front of another is about all you can manage, do it. No matter how slow or faltering the steps. I guess I’m doing that, too.

So here I am. Being true and putting one heavy, weary foot in front of the other. And I suppose you could say that I’m coming out of the closet, though every part of me just wants to stay there curled up, eyes closed, licking my wounds.

But life goes on and I must, too. And I have to trust that there are at least a few people out there who will embrace me and look beyond the wounds and scars, even when I am a stumbling, puny mess. And who will forgive me for not being strong.

Here I am.

A Magical, Late-Autumn Walk

Well, of course, I know it’s not autumn.  And spring, I suppose, is an odd time to post autumn pictures.  But since Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man has been on my mind a lot lately and since I’m trying to fill my headspace with happy thoughts to crowd out dark imaginings, I thought it’d be a good time to finally post some pictures from a magical walk we took in November. I say “magical” because, well…it was.  Late fall, still a little color in the leaves, not too hot or too cold, lovely setting with forest and mountains and big, big sky,  and the finest of companions.  Plus, in seven miles of hiking, we didn’t meet another soul (except for the horses and mule, that is).

I apologize for not posting last week–we’ve had a few hiccups that we’re still hoping will be small ones.  Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man hurt his knee, a meniscus tear, so we surely won’t be hiking for a while.  We’re still trying to figure out why the Worker’s Comp people think he can work, since much of his work involves lots of walking while carrying heavy loads and crawling about on his knees.  A couple of other hiccups, as well, that we won’t know the outcome of for a while, but they occupy my thoughts just enough to make it hard to write. But, back to happy thoughts…

The place where we hiked was the site of homesteads long ago, and while there were few signs of where the houses had stood, the apple trees the settlers had planted were still there, still bearing apples.  Gnarly little apples to be sure, but they certainly made fine apple bread later.  In fact, the only living beings (beside birds and bugs) we saw, three horses and one mule, quickly smelled the apples that we’d stuffed in our backpack and pockets and followed us all the way back to the truck.  One even stuck his head through the window of the truck after I got in, and they were all staring accusingly at us as we drove away.  I felt quite guilty not to give them apple treats, but I only had enough for the aforementioned apple bread.  But I promised them that we’d come back next fall and would pick enough apples then to share.  And, God willing, we will.  I’d sure hate to break my promise to my four-legged friends, even if they only loved me for my apples.

(Follow the apple-strewn trail…)

Candy Dish *or The Great Peppermint That Surpassed All Others

I don’t usually take pictures of our home furniture, but a golden slant of morning light lent my everyday still life here a sort of holy ambiance, so I decided it was worth capturing. All three items pictured here have special significance in my life, but for now, I’ll just tell you about the candy dish.

I wrote a bit in my two previously posted persimmon pudding posts about my Grandma’s and Grandpa’s farm in Greensboro and what it meant to me growing up. Our family moved about every two years, so their farm was the one place I could go that gave me a sense of permanence, home, and belonging.

It’s ironic that the land where their house stood and where I used to roam through the wild woods now accommodates an upscale subdivision of huge, fancy houses, because Grandma’s house was a humble abode—some would even call it a shack. Grandma and Grandpa slept in the front room where the woodstove was, which was also the room where we all hung out because it was the only really warm place there in the winter. The room where I usually slept was right next to that one, almost filled by two double beds. I usually slept with my Aunt Ellen, who never married and often stayed at the farm. I loved Aunt Ellen fiercely, but I hated sleeping with her because her snoring was earsplitting—enough to wake the dead. I’d often lie there for hours, with the covers pulled over my head, trying to muffle the deafening thunder of her snores.

Although Aunt Ellen had her own apartment in Winston-Salem, we all called this room Aunt Ellen’s room. She stayed there often enough that the room was full of her things, including her clothes in the tall wardrobe—so tall that it almost touched the ceiling. On top of that wardrobe, for my entire childhood, sat a candy dish. It was a lovely, cut-glass candy dish, but when I was small, I scarcely noticed the beauty of it. Rather, it was the peppermints inside that held my interest.

I seldom got candy growing up, so when I’d go to people’s houses as a child, I’d often gaze longingly at their candy dishes. In fact, I learned early on that sometimes, gazing with unmitigated yearning at a candy dish resulted in the candy dish proprietor saying, “Beth, honey, would you like a candy?” Yes, yes, it’s true—when it came to candy, I was not above a little minor manipulation. If staring didn’t work, then I’d move on to Plan B., which involved saying something subtle like, “My… that candy certainly looks delicious!” For the candy holdouts, that usually did the trick.

But Aunt Ellen was no ordinary candy dish proprietor. First of all, she was an extremely frugal sort of person who believed in saving everything for a rainy day. Including candy. Secondly, she thought that candy should be a rare treat for children. Very rare. So, of course, I quickly learned that, with her, Plan A was completely ineffective—she would just ignore me. So, on to Plan B. Every time she’d come in the room, I’d gaze up at the candy dish and say loudly, “My, Aunt Ellen, those peppermints sure do look delicious!” Frequently, she’d still ignore me, so I’d say it again, so loud that I was almost shouting. Finally, Aunt Ellen would sigh, roll her eyes, and look at me and smile. “Why yes, Beth…yes, indeed they do!” Then she would leave the room.

This same scenario played out for my entire childhood. That candy dish full of peppermints seemed to taunt me every time I went to Grandma’s. The same candy dish…and yes, the same peppermints. A mere candy dish full of peppermints became something much larger in its unattainability. I was certain that those peppermints must surely be the sweetest peppermints in all the world. But it would be years before I found out;  years before the unattainable was attained.

I was a teenager when Grandma passed away. Because the farm was to be sold, I was there helping my mama and aunts to clean things out. Aunt Essie and I were in Aunt Ellen’s room, sorting through the things there for family pieces to be rescued from the coming auction. Casually, I mentioned to Aunt Essie that I was sure Aunt Ellen would want to keep the candy dish on top of the wardrobe. Happily, Aunt Essie agreed, so I stood on a chair, reached up, and at last grasped the object of my desire. Holding it close to my heart, I got down from the chair, sat on the bed, and reverently removed the lid. There they were, after all these years—the sweetest peppermints in the world.

Aunt Essie eyed them dubiously. “Uhh…I think those might be kind of old—you shouldn’t eat them.”

“Oh yes…they’re quite old,” I said. “Ancient, in fact.” I picked one up—the cellophane wrapping was yellow. I unwrapped it. Not so easy,  as the cellophane was glued to the peppermint.

“Umm…don’t eat those, Beth. Honestly, I think I remember those from MY childhood,” said Aunt Essie.

“Me, too,” I said, as I popped it into my mouth.

You may be wondering how it tasted. Well, I’ll tell you—better than you’d think, but not as good as I had imagined all those years. Surprisingly, the cool pepperminty essence was intact, but it was curiously chewy. Still, somehow, I thought it was the best peppermint I’d ever had up to that point.

I’ve told this story to my children many times. They never knew my grandparents, of course, though they do faintly remember my dear Aunt Ellen, whom they visited as toddlers. It was then that she gave me the candy dish (surely there was no one who could appreciate it more than me). They never knew my mama, either, so many of the things I have around the house that are so dear to me because they hold memories, mean little to my children. So my stories are a way to give meaning to these totems of the extended family that my children never knew, these little monuments to my past.

And I guess some of my stories paid off, as Ariel chose to paint the candy dish (in pastels) for her Advanced Placement Art class in high school. She painted it with the morning light streaming in, illuminating the cut glass and filling the dish with rainbows. Not surprisingly, it’s one of my favorites of her paintings (and won her a $500 art supply gift certificate in an art show).

(Ariel’s painting)

I hope that someday, perhaps after we are gone or maybe before, Ariel or Benjamin will take the beloved candy dish and put it in a place of honor in their home. Not high up, where no one can reach, but low, where the morning sun will always illuminate it. And I hope they will fill it with peppermints or some other delights, so that eager little hands can always open it and pack their pockets full of their heart’s desire.