Tag Archives: History

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.

Kinfolk

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My brothers and I are transplants. Our mother’s side of the family came from the Philadelphia area, first emigrated from Italy. My father was from South Georgia. We were transplanted as a result of his Navy career. Growing up just south of the Mason Dixon line, it was easier to see family on our maternal side and we also had the added benefit of having our maternal grandfather live with us. That offered us a built in connection. My father’s side seemed so distant as it was more difficult to maintain that connection. I have shared before that at the age of ten I first read To Kill a Mockingbird. It portrayed the era that my father was raised and I thought reading it was imperative to understanding my southern roots. I will also admit that Gone with the Wind gave me a very inaccurate picture of the environment where my father was raised. He had shared that he grew up on the Colton plantation. What I had envisioned was far removed from the dark brown framed humble abode which was the reality.

With my retirement quickly approaching, I had planned a trip to Savannah, Georgia, as a gift to myself. There was no familial connection to the area yet it was front and center on my bucket list. In conversations with my Georgian cousin we came up with a plan to visit Savannah and then spend time together becoming reacquainted as family. I won’t go into details but that plan was abandoned and I spent my week with family enjoying a long overdue visit. My cousin and I hadn’t seen each other face to face since we were young but our connection has become strong in adulthood. I felt totally comfortable with accepting her offer which embodied perfect southern hospitality. I still have plans to visit Savannah but I thought it was more important to delve deeper into my family’s history.

What did I take away with me? I was already familiar with the red clay and the abundance of pines. Here in the north, we are fortunate not to fall victim to kudzu. This invasive vine can be seen everywhere, as it takes over hills, valleys and fields. The only plus I could grasp was the sea of green it created. Not every neighborhood has a wandering goat but my cousin’s does and I found it delightful. For the first time in my life, I tried boiled peanuts. That might be the last time they cross my palate as I think it takes a considerable amount of time to get use to the texture. I gave all the other southern fare a big thumbs up! Tender baby back ribs and the boiled shrimp was most enjoyable. I learned to appreciate many of the foods as a child since my father introduced it to us as part of our smorgasbord menu growing up. Good fried okra and pimento cheese is not considered a staple here, north of the Mason Dixon line, but I was grateful to find an abundance there. My cousin made a point to expand my sweet tooth and I found buttermilk and chess pies to be a wonderful dessert added as a delicious finish to a meal. It is amazing that we found so much time to talk, and catch up, when she spent so much time in the kitchen, cooking items to expand my horizons and waistline. We have talked about future trips and I hold out for the addition of peach cobbler and corn dogs the next time I am there.

Obviously I enjoyed my time visiting, eating and sightseeing. What I found more gratifying was the opportunity to meet my cousin’s grown children and her grandchildren, her husband and his siblings. It was important to me to understand what I had missed by not growing up there and fill in many blanks, as well as rehash family stories and histories. The last time I made a trip to Georgia I was able to visit with two of my aunts. They have since transitioned and I considered my brief time with them a gift. One expects the loss of their parents, and my aunts’ deaths, although mourned, didn’t come as a shock. What I do find unsettling is the loss of six of my Georgian cousins since my last visit. Little by little, I see time slipping away but I don’t want my southern roots going too. This visit has me reflect on the questions I wished I had asked earlier. In retrospect, I can’t make up for lost time, but I can change the future. Conversations and visits will continue and if they include fried okra and brewed tea, all the better.

Dump Runs

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In a previous blog, I mentioned that I began to take my trash to the dump as a cost saving measure during a very lean period in my life. It is a benefit offered to the local community, who choose to take advantage of its fee free establishment. Now that paying for trash pick-up is feasible for me again, I can’t explain why it remains more acceptable to make this run on Saturday morning rather than gathering my refuse and putting it out every Thursday evening. For some reason I grew to resent that weekly routine. Now I travel the back roads with my trash and recyclables and gaze out across the mountains. I believe I currently enjoy the backdrop more these days since I don’t have to cross that mountain daily for work.

I also have reason to believe that going to the dump is in my DNA. Yes, I might be the only person who admits going to the dump and feeling sentimental over the trip. It was not unusual for my father to utilize the local landfill. Our home was often under construction and he undertook various other projects that created waste. Since my father has been dead for over thirty years, protocols and regulations at the landfill have greatly changed. Ages ago, items were not bagged and they lay in a pile which allowed everyone access. I have no idea if there were signs that stated no one could retrieve items once they were discarded. If that was the case, my father, who always had a very ethical approach to life, ignored them. If there was something that could be salvaged at no cost, why not go for it? It may be cliché, but one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. It is not a stretch of the imagination to say my father’s childhood was challenging financially. His father died before my Dad even reached his teen years and I know what a struggle it was for my grandmother to provide for the family. It could be that is why my father was comfortable with dumpster diving before it became a popular activity. I doubt if anyone used the term biohazard when sharing what they scored at the dump. It didn’t seem to be much of an issue at the time.

My father chose not to keep these adventures solely to himself. It was not unusual for him to take my son along for the ride. During one of his reconnaissance missions, I recall him finding a plastic figure about four inches in height. It looked like it could have been some kind of action figure, just the kind my son and his cousins would enjoy playing with for hours. It was clear that this figure’s plight was to be discarded at the dump due to a missing head. Between his shoulders, where his head should have been, there was a screw. My nephew, who continues to maintain his creative streak into adulthood, named him Little Head Man. I don’t recall if Little Head Man was on the side of good or evil, but his distinctive feature fit well into my nephew’s narrative.

Before you find your stomach turning thinking about the removal of items from the dump and being handled, know that all the treasures were washed well before they were used. I can recall how my father’s thoughtfulness extended to me one time that made me question his rational in determining what would be a good castoff selection. I have always enjoyed handicrafts and it wasn’t unusual for me to fill my time with sewing, crocheting or cross stich. My father, knowing this, spied a bountiful stash of yarn. It was burnt orange in color and had the texture of rug yarn. Although I appreciated his generous donation of yarn to my collection I was queasy about the thought of touching it. There was no practical way of washing it prior to its use and in order to make something with it I would have had to hold it in my hands for several hours. As distinct as the memory of receiving this contribution to my inventory of hobby items may be, the final destination of this yarn has been forgotten. I have a feeling it was returned to its original location, the landfill. I probably held a bit of guilt returning it with the adage of looking a gift horse in the mouth heavy on my mind. So strong is that memory that I will not purchase thrifted yarn to this day.

Yes, policies have changed and no one has permission to access the trash being brought to the waste management site. These days I consider the Saturday morning dump run a trip to the social mecca of my small town as it is easy to see people you know. I enjoy the usual comments about the recycling bins not emptied often enough and how short people like myself struggle with getting items in the bin without it all falling back on you. I appreciate the irony of seeing so many yard sales set up along the way, tempting you to stop and fill the void that your trash run might have created. Most of all, I enjoy my trips to the dump as they bring back memories of my father and a simpler time. I have never forgotten that upon return from the landfill we would enjoy the reveal of what surprises returned with my father. With this all tucked away as memory, it doesn’t take much imagination to picture my Dad riding shotgun when I go.

Going, Going, Gone

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In an ironic twist, I recently found myself making purchases at both a flea market and an auction. After my last post, More or Less, bringing items into my home appears to be a hypocritical choice. As much as I find it necessary to simplify my life and lessen the load I have collected over the years, I have never lost a certain level of sentimentality for certain items. Our mother, Rita, lived for twenty two years after the death of our father. Her home was filled with items acquired over time, permeated with copious amounts of love and memories. When she gave up housekeeping, I brought many of her items over to my home. I continue to call my style Rita Revisited.

I go through stages when I invest my time in auctions. I can remember the first one I attended. I tagged along with our father to one being held very close to our home. I don’t think I caught the main purpose of the event and I don’t recall if our father bid on anything. I do remember, being a child short in stature, I couldn’t see over the people standing in front of us. Our mother was much more a fan of yard sales as auctions made her nervous. She and Dad would spend Saturday morning scouting through others’ junk to find their treasures. They would pass items along to us that they thought might be helpful or needed. Maybe it was their hobby that now has me discern if I truly need something prior to bringing it home.

I have enjoyed auctions, although historically I am outbid. Many of them today are buyer friendly as you can review the items and place your bids online. The last time I attended an auction in person, I came home with sore feet and a sunburn. Recently I had picked up my online high bid items from an auction in my old neighborhood. I was aware of the house from living in the area. Being that it is well over a century old, I suspected it held character within its walls. I was right, it was apparent that the house had aged with charm. I had the opportunity to speak with the family on that bittersweet day. They lamented that they couldn’t keep all of their late uncle’s possessions but they would keep the memories of him and all the special occasions that they gathered there for holidays and events.

You might be curious about what items I am allowing into my home after sharing my battle cry about purging. I have begun collecting vintage handiwork: quilts, embroidered pieces and crocheted doilies. My plan is to repurpose them which pays homage to the time and talent it took to produce them and also gives them a new life that makes them available for daily use. I have a collection of these pieces from my maternal grandmother and her sister. I never had the opportunity to know them but I currently find it difficult to repurpose these pieces that they lovingly toiled over. My paternal grandmother was also very talented with needle, thread and crochet. In my own way I honor them. No longer present in this world, their legacy is very much a part of my life, but I am just not ready to take scissors to those items.

As I pay tribute to my ancestors, I question what legacy I may leave. I believe that each and every one of us is put on this earth for a reason. The majority of us will never know fame or fortune but within our small and personal realm there must be something that is left. I think of it as a ripple in a pond. Those concentric circles can continue on and reach farther than we might have intended or realized. For a long time I worked within my community. My hope was to make a difference in my small corner of the world. Now that I am beyond work and retirement is my reality, I revel in the fact that my time is my own. Satisfied with what I have achieved professionally I don’t want to drop the ball now. In the future, if there is a handcrafted item that brings joy to someone, than it was worth the effort. Putting words to paper brings me great joy and if there is something I have shared and it touches just one soul my time has not been spent in vain. Who could possibly be the proverbial high bidder on what is behind? I don’t mean our household goods and property but rather something we personally created. We have this one life, before it is going, going, gone, let’s not squander it.

A Father’s Day Post

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As I mentioned Mom in a Mother’s Day post, I would be remiss if I didn’t share some recollections of Dad on Father’s Day. It has been well over thirty years since he walked this earth. I miss that soft southern accent that never left him or his routine of pipe smoking and the scent of tobacco that would linger in the air. There are stories that he told which I hold onto with bittersweet emotion. They are just a small portion of the man he was. I would like to be a fly on the wall and observe, one more time, what a typical day would be like. What non important matters were covered by conversations no longer committed to memory? Why is it human nature to take so much of our daily lives for granted?

I was destined to be a Daddy’s Girl. My father, career Navy, made the trek from Norfolk, VA to Pennsylvania in a snow storm to greet me at the time of my birth. My three brothers and I were the recipients of many of his life stories. Being from southern GA, our father’s upbringing was so different to the one we knew. Hardship very much comprised his youth. It might have never been spoken out loud but I know in his heart, his desire was to provide a better life for us.

My father would recount the stories of his youth. He and his one brother, tried jumping off the barn roof with springs on their feet and once they pushed a winged crate out of a chinaberry tree to see if they could fly. One of them would hatch the plan to tie tin cans to the tail of their cow. The clattering sounds spooked the cow and she jumped over the fence, leaving her tail behind. I imagined that the cow wasn’t the only one with a sore bottom that evening. He would relish telling these stories. He didn’t dwell on the fact that he and his brother, as youngsters, would be the ones to find their father on the porch after suffering a heart attack. They struggled to get my grandfather into the house but his death was imminent.

Growing up in rural south GA, without a father, couldn’t have been easy. Dad was an avid fisherman. He never cared for hunting. He said he had to hunt to help provide meat for the table and it held no charm for him as an adult. He enlisted in the Navy with the theory that there was more to life than picking cotton. Dad would tell us about the good times he experienced in the Navy. I’m sure as a young boy he never thought he would have the opportunity to travel the world. His enthusiasm for the Navy rubbed off on me. My one high school term paper focused on Admiral Chester Nimitz, Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet during WWII. I got carried away with my research and read several accounts of battles at sea. I remember one graphic description shared by a sailor.  He stated that during battle you could see your shipmate die a horrible death, next to you, which would cause you to vomit. There was barely time for that human reaction as you would have to quickly return to your gun. I disclosed what I had read to Dad. He listened and quietly replied that yes he was aware as he was there. That was the only somber admission that I ever heard about his Navy career.

Dad managed to get two full careers under his belt before retiring at the age of 62. He was never at a loss of how to fill a day. He and our mother had raised the four of us and opened our home to our maternal grandfather who suffered a stroke later in life. He remained at home with our mother being his caretaker. Finally, after a life of hard work and providing for all of us, it was Dad’s turn to slow down and enjoy the freedom that retirement would provide. It was not to be. He was diagnosed with cancer, a result of being exposed to asbestos during his years in the Navy. Although he was willing to follow recommendations and treatment he was resigned to his accept his diagnosis. If he was afraid of what the future held, he never showed it. Upon reflection he said that those were the cards that were dealt him. He died one month short of his 66th birthday.

I thank you for indulging me and my reminiscence of our father. We should all have stories to reflect upon for those of us who no longer have a reason to celebrate the day. For those who are fortunate to still have their father, I would suggest you listen to those stories and commit them to memory. You don’t know when that voice will be silenced. Let’s not squander the opportunity to keep them alive for the next generation.

Timber!

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Trees provide pencils, paper and oxygen. Growing up I remember the smell of fresh lumber in the house as my father always had something under construction. During my childhood Christmases, the aroma of some type of evergreen would permeate the house. I say “some type” as I am not an expert on trees. As a young girl I enjoyed watching Here Comes the Brides. The show’s concept was built upon the trials and tribulations experienced by the single women that were brought out to Seattle to accompany the lonely lumberjacks. I didn’t learn much about the lumber business by watching because, like everyone else, I had a crush on Bobby Sherman, one of the lumberjack brothers. Later, as an adolescent, I was an avid fan of the Waltons. Their family business had them operate a saw mill. I vaguely remember them harvesting the lumber strategically and being cautious not to strip the mountain. That little gem might have caught my attention as the concept of commemorating Earth Day was taking off. To celebrate its inception, President Nixon planted a tree on the White House lawn. If I haven’t lost you yet, you may have noticed that my knowledge of trees is enough to complete one paragraph.

Fast forward to present day. Surprisingly the lumber business has frequently come to mind. This time it has nothing to do with a television show but rather my place of work. I cross the mountain each day to find myself often staring at the edges of cut trees, piled high on a flatbed truck, as I wait for the light to turn green. There have also been unfortunate delays occasionally, as a truck is unable to complete a turn onto the narrow streets. Traffic is held up until the truck can inch its way to freedom. This current experience has expanded what has been my very shallow interest where lumber is concerned.

At some point, in school, I am sure we covered trees and their internal rings. I was not a big fan of Science but I do recall the concept of each ring signified a year in the life of the tree. It’s ironic that piece of knowledge has come back to me as I am presented with actual examples on a regular basis. During a lengthy wait behind one of these trucks, I took the time to notice that the size, color and thickness of the rings would vary from tree to tree. Nature is the catalyst or culprit behind these variances. If a tree was exposed to harsh outside elements, record of it would show in the rings. Fire and drought would leave its mark. The age and history of these trees would have remained hidden, under their bark, if they hadn’t met an early demise due to the handiwork of a saw.

I think we, the human race, can compare our lives to those of trees. Our exterior can hide the history of our growth and what we have encountered. There might have been times when we experienced drought. Maybe we felt like our lives were devoid of something: love and companionship, a decent wage or living situation, or the focus needed to select a better path. Possibly we were scorched or singed by living a little too carefree or pursuing a passion that was destined to go up in smoke. If we are fortunate, we live our lives without constant challenges. Just as a tree adds its rings, time goes by and we age, adding learned lessons and wisdom with each passing year. No one knows, as it could all remain hidden like the trees. If our experience is one that allows us to continue to rack up the rings, I would suggest we follow the example set by trees. Reach for the sky. Continue to focus on what is above and always look upward, constantly striving to become stronger each year. When the time comes to count your rings I pray they are immeasurable and unique.

Friends, the Family We Choose

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Not to sound egotistical but I must have been a very smart little girl. At the age of eight I made a friend. At the time I had no idea what the future held, my focus was on play and laughter. Now, over half a century later, I still claim her as one of my closest friends. We are very much our own people but I have found comfort in our like mindedness. Her honesty and fortitude have been invaluable over the years. For decades we haven’t lived close physically, but rather 1600 miles apart. The distance hasn’t lessened the connection.

Years later, as an adult, I had the experience of making a lasting friendship during my time as a Navy wife. The connection was actually made through our sons who found each other in friendship as classmates. We shared an uncanny connection through husbands and the Navy but I don’t think that had us tip the scales in the creation of our bond. Fortunately, a solid relationship was the end result. It has been over thirty years since the foundation was laid. Countless numbers of family celebrations and events have been shared. There are 100 miles between us, but again, the distance hasn’t dampened the relationship.

It would almost appear that my closest friends are the furthest away. That is not necessarily the case. I have a wonderful group of women that I share a meal with on a regular basis. They are supportive and compassionate and their presence in my life is positive and uplifting. I met another friend, also living nearby, through one of my previous professional positions. The job was eliminated but the friendship remains strong. Again, she is another one that brings a positive spin to my life. A former classmate, who returned to live in the area, is always ready to join me in an adventure or come to my aid when needed. No matter how these bonds originated, I am glad they remain.

As life is fluid, I feel no one should become stagnant where friends are concerned. I have a bounty of longtime friends and I am fortunate that recently I have increased my abundance. If you read my recent blog Airing Dirty Laundry I make reference to a friend that helped me organize and clean prior to my surgery. What is so remarkable about this experience is that this is a relevantly new friendship yet it has been profound. I found myself asking for help and graciously accepting it when I was the most vulnerable. That is nothing that I would have anticipated from a new acquaintance.

When I think about those I have known over the years, I realize that I have had some friends that existed for a finite period. There was nothing that terminated our alliance but a change in life’s circumstances created a natural separation. I have countless numbers of acquaintances that have enriched my life in various ways. I treasure those whose friendship has been tested with time, distance and other bumps in the road. I also recognize that these precious relationships are a two way street. Distance could be a deterrent to remaining close but it is worth the effort to stay in touch. There are no guarantees in life so it is worth the effort to never take anyone for granted. Life can be ordinary in so many ways but can present challenges that could blindside us. There are those who could offer support and enrichment and it is worth the effort to remain open to the opportunity of meeting them. I believe that true friendship binds you by impenetrable heartstrings. Friends are the family that you choose. You might not have the same blood coursing through your veins but you share history and a sense of caring and connection that can be as strong as any root in a family tree.

The Greatest Generation

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An elderly man was pushing his shopping cart through the check out and I didn’t realize that I was blocking his exit. His white hair was neatly trimmed and combed into place. I noticed that although it was spring, he was wearing a flannel shirt. It looked as if the tags had recently been removed as it appeared new. Work pants completed his outfit. His cart contained two boxes of Cheerios and a bag. He politely let me know that he was trying to move around me and I stepped to the side. With a smile I asked him if he had a license to operate his shopping cart.

What I thought was a humorous passing comment opened a conversation that I didn’t anticipate. Not knowing if he misunderstood my remark, he chose to tell me that he was 99 years old and has been able to maintain his driver’s license. I didn’t get a sense that he said it in a condescending way but rather with understated pride. I could see that he was someone that didn’t take his independence for granted.

Although I have played our conversation over in my head several times, I am still unable to remember how he introduced the fact that he was a veteran of WWII. He was an infantry soldier and it has left a mark on him that is evident to this day. Ironically, he was soft spoken, yet his words suggested that during those years he experienced hell on earth. He spoke of the heat and the bugs and how collectively it had played havoc on their health. There was no relief at night as they slept on the ground and the morning dampness only added to the damage of their skin. However harsh the environment might have been, it played only a small part of what they contended with regularly. His battalion saw heavy fighting and heavy losses. With pride he shared that there was a monument erected as a result of their service.

If he shared the particular information identifying his battalion or the actual location where he fought, I don’t recall. I do feel I heard what was important. Here was a man who selflessly put his life on the line for what he believed. I had been given the perception that he questions why he was able to survive when so many others didn’t. He has done more than survive as he anticipates celebrating his 100th birthday by the end of summer. He has had many years to reflect upon his life and what his purpose might have been as he made his way on this journey. After our conversation came to an end he smiled and said he was going home to read his Bible.

I don’t know who this man is and I am certain I will never see him again. I know nothing of him other than what he chose to share. I have no name to identify him and no way to congratulate him on his anticipated 100th birthday. He could say the same of me. Yet the universe felt it was necessary for our paths to cross. An elderly man was able to share a part of his life that was traumatic yet deemed necessary. Although I was a receptive audience, I look at myself and wonder what the purpose might have been.

It might be natural to think of the Greatest Generation during this Memorial Day weekend. How many of that population never had the opportunity to grow old? They experienced the Depression and made it through to the other side. They did their part in the sky, on land and sea. For those not serving, they kept the home fires burning with ration books in hand. They raised families where many of their offspring let their hair grow and questioned the necessity of war. Yet this resilient group of people continued to move forward. Every day their numbers dwindle and their lives full of service and sacrifice go with them.

I felt like I was given a gift to have a window into this stranger’s life. By accepting this gift I feel I must pay it forward. I chose to make payment by honoring this individual, those like him, and most importantly, those who gave their lives. This blog doesn’t scratch the surface of recompense for their sacrifice but it comes with a profound sincerity.