Author Archives: Cindy Blackstock

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About Cindy Blackstock

My life story has been one of opportunity and growth. My professional career has centered on the human element where I have engaged, encouraged and empowered. Navy wife, Red Cross Emergency Service Director and positions within local governments have challenged and strengthened me. The employment experiences compounded with my personal life has allowed my character to be one of determination and independence. My hope is that I am never far from having that offset by an empathetic nature. Before the pandemic I was a brunette but after a year of isolation I decided to show my authentic self and rock my gray hair. It has been a tangible way to signal I am ready for the next stage of my life. I am so much more than what I have projected professionally. I am mother, sister and friend. For years I have also worn the monikers of daughter and wife but they have been relegated to history. I would like to think in recent times that it is my genuine demeanor, and not just the apparent gray hair, that draws people to me. As a result I have been bestowed with several new names: Gate Keeper, The Vault and the Kleenex Lady. Life is short and none of us are promised tomorrow. I have spent decades learning to take that to heart. I might have not realized early on but my focus has been to attempt to leave things better than how I originally found them. This includes myself. I have been sowing seeds for longer than I can remember and now will concentrate on harvesting that crop of a lifetime.

Microcosm

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Very often, in inclement weather, total strangers will gather together and share shelter in order to protect themselves. There might be some small talk about the conditions, but under any other circumstance, odds are they wouldn’t find themselves engaging with one another. I found this same psychology exists when there is a bus trip underway.

My vacations often involve bus trips. I appreciate someone else doing the driving and the door-to-door service makes touring relevantly easy. I recently returned from a trip and found the experience provided other observations beyond the group mentality. The bus company that I utilize has started to assign seats. I usually travel alone and have the good fortune to be able to spread out. This time I brought a crochet project and was happy to be able to have use of both seats. It is the luck of the draw who you find yourself sitting by as well as how far back your seat might be located on the bus. Soon the passengers will find some commonality and groups will form.

This particular trip was one that I had planned for an extended period of time. I saved my money and didn’t complain about having to pay the single occupancy rate. I feel having a hotel room to myself an enjoyable benefit. We were scheduled to set out on the morning of Black Friday. My brother graciously cooked for Thanksgiving so there was no hindrance in my preparation. My packed bags were placed by the front door as I crawled into bed that night. I set the alarm for 6:00 a.m. and felt I would have plenty of time to reach the bus by 7:45.

The next morning there was no startling noise to rouse me out of bed. I glanced at my clock and realized it was 8:00 a.m. The trip host had tried to reach me by phone. Her message said they could only wait another five minutes. I found I was in a state of shock. I returned the call, being as gracious as I could, although heavy with disappointment. I couldn’t reach the host directly. Shortly after, the phone rang again and I was asked if I was familiar with a location, far removed from my original pick-up spot. The bus was stopping for breakfast at a buffet and I was asked if I could meet them there within the hour. I loaded the car and drove through a total of four states to meet them. I managed to do it within forty-five minutes. I missed breakfast but wouldn’t miss the trip.

There was a certain amount of notoriety I gained as a result of my unique way of meeting the bus. Once I was onboard and settled, I realized I left my hearing aids and charger, along with my phone charger, sitting on the kitchen counter. I could live without my hearing aids but the thought of having no access to communication and pictures was troublesome. I soon learned who my people would be. The couple sitting in the seats in front of me lent me their charger. I charged my phone during the day on the bus and retuned the cable to them so they could charge their ear plugs overnight.

Although I looked forward to this trip with great anticipation, I found it was fraught with frustration. I have a chronic illness and I have learned to work with the limitations that it presents. For some reason those issues didn’t appear to me or translate to the challenges that would be present while traveling. I found, due to my limitations, that I would miss half of the planned events. Very often I found I was on my own as the group moved ahead through the scheduled tours. Not to miss any opportunities, I spoke with many of the locals and found the conversations enjoyable in their own right. My condition is not well known and even misunderstood by several in the medical field. Not only did the couple who sat in front of me lend me their charger but they provided understanding. They had their own personal connection with my condition. Although I didn’t keep them from any of the tours, it was clear they were watching out for me. One evening I fell and suddenly those who I was not familiar with came to my aid. Within the week the circle of my people expanded. I didn’t have to look long or hard for someone to sit with at breakfast or share a spot at dinner.

The microcosm of the bus trip and all the passengers showed itself, once more, to be true. Those in attendance shared details of their lives quickly and without hesitancy as the time together would be fleeting. As the tourists took their last steps off the bus it was understood that it would be the last time this group would be together. We would return to our own communities and our long time group of friends who had to learn who we are over time. As travelers, we have no friends in common and if stories were shared later, they wouldn’t appear to be personal. Like those who might gather together to shelter from a storm, we have all moved on. Although there was such cohesion for a week, the shared conversations, tours and meals will be relegated to history. Every so often, there might be a story about a traveler whose passage through four states was needed to meet the bus. In reality, I might be the only one who continues to tell that tale and not one that I would want to repeat.

Once Upon a Snowfall

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I was surprised to hear about regions that had received an early snowfall. I didn’t personally see it in my area but I thought it would be appropriate to resurrect a piece from my previous blog, My Punchline. It also was brought to mind after my recent post about Landscapes and remembering how it was.

Since I was young, I have always enjoyed hearing stories of how it “used to be”. A picture painted with words and a faraway look could transport me. Very often I found myself wishing I had experienced it firsthand. It never occurred to me that one day, I too, would have stories of how life “used to be”.

The recent mammoth storm created a beautiful landscape blanketed with deep snow and drifts. It also created the challenge of how to dig out and where to put the excess snow. I found that current conversations often mentioned how there appeared to be a lack of willing youth to assist with snow removal. We lamented that there were no children lugging shovels up and down the street offering to lighten the load. That’s not how we remembered our childhood. We would be shoveling not because it was expected but more importantly, it was the right thing to do. If a couple of dollars made their way to your pocket there was cause for celebration.

Although the current blizzard-like conditions should have brought a chill, I found that I was warmed by memories of those snow storms of long ago. In what seemed like an eternity, we would layer ourselves to protect from the cold. Gathering at the end of the Harshman’s yard we would prepare for some serious sledding. The Harshmans were an elderly couple and to my knowledge they had no children but that changed after each snowfall as every child in the neighborhood would find their way to that backyard.  It was elevated just enough, with a long and open stretch that would allow our gliders to fly. Within time there would be a mound constructed in the middle of a path to add lift and excitement to our travel downhill. Our enthusiasm was only tempered by the elements finding their way through our best attempt to keep them at bay by our winter outerwear.

Trudging home, dragging our sleds behind us, we knew that soon warmth would greet us. I felt betrayed when the sleeves of my coat would shift upward and no longer meet the edge of my gloves. The sting of snow on the exposed skin of my wrists would make me long for our toasty kitchen, warmed by a large pot belly cast iron stove. It sat in an alcove, fired up during the winter season, beckoning to us after our outside adventures. We would pull the crunchy remnants of snow from our outerwear and toss it on the stove. Those little crystals would dance and sizzle on the hot griddle until they disappeared as little wisps of steam. 

Nightfall did not exclude the presence of snowfall. My bedroom was located at the front of the house, facing the street. Enveloped in darkness, under a pile of blankets, I would be lulled to sleep by the sound of vehicles, their tires wrapped in chains, traversing the ever deepening snow. The scrape of a plow would often interrupt the stillness of the night. My father worked second shift and would travel four miles to return home nightly after midnight. Long before the Sheetz and traffic light occupied the corner, a plain intersection was part of the setting. Once home it would not be uncommon for my father to take a shovel, walk down to the intersection and assist his coworkers who had the misfortune to become stuck in a deeply covered area. The snow fence was not always successful in keeping the drifts from hampering travel. The fence, comprised of slats and wire, would run parralell to the road and could be used as a barometer as to the severity of the storm.

The memories are as clear in my mind as they were fifty years ago. Half a century has passed and life has changed. The pot belly stove was removed when my father renovated the kitchen. The alcove had become a walk-in pantry for my mother and the stove became a source of heat in a chicken coop my father converted into his workshop. The home no longer belongs to our family and the workshop no longer stands. Yet the recollection of the past is as much a part of me as my present being, usually bringing smiles but sometimes eliciting tears. Now, with the passage of time, I find I derive great pleasure of painting pictures with words and sharing how it “used to be”.

Veterans

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This blog is not late. Yes, as a nation, we celebrated Veterans’ Day on November 11 but our gratitude should be evident every day. That appreciation was personally instilled in me as a child. Later in life, as a Navy wife, I had the good fortune to serve the ship’s crew and their dependents as the Family Support Group President. The ship’s captain allowed me an open door policy and I felt that collectively we offered significant assistance to those who knew the hardship and sacrifice that came with the Navy lifestyle. Once we were enjoying life back in the civilian environment, I held the role of Emergency Service Director in the American Red Cross. For close to a decade I was charged with managing our service to the Armed Forces among other emergency programs. I might not have ever served as active duty but I felt in my own way that I did offer my time and talents in gratitude to those who served. I don’t hesitate to confess that I consider my efforts miniscule in comparison to those who wore the uniform.

I live in a small town, surrounded by other small towns. Locally, it is not uncommon to see the Hometown Hero banners adorn the utility poles. If you are not familiar with the program, it is a tangible way for a hometown community to acknowledge those who served. Banners are displayed honoring veterans along the main streets in their hometown. The banners typically printed in red, white and blue show the individual in uniform, their name and branch of service. The era or conflict in which they were involved is listed additionally. I have often noted while in my car, waiting for a light to change, that there are several that note the ultimate sacrifice was made. Those proud faces accompany you while you make your way through town. It is easy to detect those whose activity came decades earlier. Their pictures displayed, frozen in time, above the streets they might have walked in prior decades.

I often share the fact that my father was career Navy. It offered him opportunities that he would have never had if he had remained in southern Georgia, where he was born when economic struggles were the norm. He saw the world, achieved his GED and rose to the rank of Chief Petty Officer. He never spoke of the horrors of war that he witnessed yet it was clear that he valued the bonds he held with his shipmates and what together they endured. We would never be able to honor him with a Hometown Hero banner as the locale of his birth was so very rural. He remedied that himself by enrolling in the US Navy Memorial. He is listed on the Navy Log, proof that he devoted twenty years of his life in service to something much larger than himself. Over thirty years has passed since his death and he is forever linked to those who also sacrificed selflessly.

I will continue to notice the Hometown Hero banners as I make my way through every town that displays them. I will look at those youthful faces and wonder where they are today. I know they all have a story to tell and certainly that story holds integrity and bravery. I also am painfully aware that I can never thank them all personally for their service and sacrifice. Yes, Veteran’s Day falls on November 11 annually but I don’t feel as a country we are bound to only celebrate this dedicated group of people once a year. As I write this, I am not at a loss for words. Those thoughts, coming directly from my heart, say thank you to those who served and ask that those who are currently standing in harm’s way are protected and remain safe.

Landscapes

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I happened to notice a house on the market. It caught my eye as it was located down the street from where I grew up. I can recall who resided there, so many decades ago. She was an elderly widow.  Her curtains would remain drawn and her house always seemed cool and dark. She was a tiny woman, whose overstuffed chair seemed to swallow her as she sat and told her tales. I would listen eagerly as she would recall how different the landscape was years prior. I was intent on learning what changes she witnessed in what we considered our neighborhood. With her description it was not hard to imagine what the route close to our homes looked like as a dirt road traversed by horse and buggy rather than the current paved road.  I always enjoyed my time with her. I never imagined that one day I would be the individual remembering how it used to be.

We lived on a road that was not, at the time, a major thoroughfare. The city limits were literally located across the street from us. As children we witnessed changes but they felt few and far between. Down the street a rundown gray clapboard Cape Cod was torn down as the land adjoining it was to change from pasture into a complex of multiple schools. One home on the corner of the intersection was torn down to make room for an ATM. On the opposite side there was a lovely brick rancher that was also to become history. On its land a convenience store was built. We seemed to take it in our stride. The farm down the street was sold. The field that once produced crops was to become a printing plant. In time, long after we had grown and moved on, the historic farmhouse would soon give way to be demolished along with the large printing plant. It was all replaced with a warehouse. The only thing that seems to remain unchanged is the spiral staircase manufacturer at the other end of the street. Could it be that we were the last children to make our way there and climb to the top of their display model that was erected at the corner of their property?

It’s not uncommon to hear residents complain about the local rural landscape being swallowed by new warehouse construction. Many of them are occupied bringing traffic and noise to a once docile environment. I notice many appear to remain empty. Built on speculation, they continue to wait for their time of activity. Many ponder if this type of growth is actually necessary and sustainable. I would imagine that the displaced wildlife population might wonder the same thing. Concerned with their own survival they must adapt to the changes brought by our economy. I wince when I think that I, too, might have contributed to this expansion due to my online shopping purchases.

Another change witnessed by those in rural communities is the proliferation of solar panels. Fields once farmed, offer energy as the new crop. Not to play devil’s advocate but they don’t seem to be as intrusive as the warehouses. They don’t hide lovely sunsets and once constructed there doesn’t appear to be an increase in traffic. I was pleased to see a herd of goats recently in one such field. Later along the fence line I saw a hawk. Maybe this is a more gentle way to change the landscape while welcoming the future.

Years ago, when I purchased my home, one great selling point was the farm field adjacent to my backyard. The first improvement I made to my home was to screen in the back porch. I have enjoyed the views and the privacy. Although I understood that a development of independent senior cottages would be built to accompany the existing assisted living residence nearby, those plans might have changed. A large sale sign, advertising the location, was erected. It has since been removed. I question whether the land has sold or if it was removed from the market. Either way, I have already determined what changes I will make to the back of my property to continue to enjoy the possible change in landscape. My rocking chair remains on the porch. If I find that no one comes to hear my tales of how it used to be, I might be tempted to continue to share them with you.

Sail On

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One of my friends is ill. I could extol her many outstanding virtues and characteristics yet there are other thoughts that sickness brings to mind. Those thoughts are like clichés, sailing through. Without being boorish, I would like to share a few revelations that have recently come to me.

Collectively, there is truth in the statement that none of us are getting any younger. When I look back at my youth, I can recall the dreams and aspirations that I held. Although my friends aspired to be teachers, nurses, nuns and mothers that was nothing I desired. I did go on to marry and have a son and I hold him as my greatest achievement. That is a role that is not fulfilled by everyone as we have our own path to follow. Although I envisioned my calling within the field of communications, my professional life lead me to work within nonprofits and local governments. I feel my accomplishments are many and I don’t regret the time spent supporting our communities. Now that I am retired, I have no desire to return to any of it. There are no do-overs. That ship has sailed and I am not getting any younger.

When I was in the market for a house, after my divorce, my criteria was rather simple. I envisioned this purchase to be the home in which I would retire. I was looking for one floor, with an area for laundry and a large dining room to hold my family for holiday meals. At the time my realtor explained that being so particular about a dining area might not be very practical. It most likely would not be a room I would use on a regular basis. I would accept none of his guidance. I saw myself as a very social being, with holidays being the ultimate gatherings. It is fair to say that I am satisfied with my dining space but all the entertaining I envisioned is more history than future planning. The plates and serving pieces I acquired aren’t currently being used. My holiday gatherings are smaller now that death has robbed us of several of our loved ones. Due to my chronic illness, fatigue is often a constant companion and I am no longer inspired to entertain. I do hope I find the energy and resolve to clean out all those unnecessary serving pieces and pass them along. Elaborate and laborious proposals have given way to simple gatherings for holiday meals. That ship has sailed and I am not getting any younger.

In retirement it has become blissfully clear that trading time for wages is no longer the norm. In many ways, time is my friend as I am not bound by schedules and alarms. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t aware that my senior status reminds me that a larger portion of my life is behind me rather than ahead. Yet I am allowed to give myself permission to enjoy my time. If a book’s subject matter intrigues me, I am permitted to take the time to read. If God paints a beautiful sunset, I am allowed the time to sit and let the colors envelop me.  When I find a skein of yarn calling to me I can find the time to employ a crochet hook and start creating something. If I am consumed by a group of videos on YouTube there is no issue in watching them but I must remember that portrays someone else’s life and I still need to continue to live mine. Living mine translates into not putting everything off until tomorrow, a day not promised. Realistically, how many of us are ever ready for that ship to sail?

I have often thought of the wisdom of Erma Bombeck in dealing with this topic. Excuse my poor example of paraphrasing, but she was correct in her nudging to live life and not wait for a special occasion.  Now is the time to use the good china or burn the candle. Again, in thinking of illness I find it to be a humbling adversary. Now is the time to pick up the phone, send a note and share a meal. I know that I, in honor of my friend, now choose to live intentionally. I don’t want to be standing on the dock, looking out over the horizon with the sinking feeling that the ship has sailed, this time without me.