Crying with my Ancestors

Sometimes I think you need a little of your own history in order to be able to understand history. I can’t remember never knowing about those relatives. They were on my Grandma Hall’s side, residing on the farm in Amelia County, Virginia. Patsie — we never call her Grandma — would sit at her oak dining room table, framed by the gold wall paper and talk about these people — Nonnie, Lou, Ralph and countless others, all making my head swim with Old Relative Fatigue.

Although I had visited the country, fed the cows and had my picture taken in front of the tobacco crop, I had yet to value these relatives. By the time I met them, they were well over sixty, country folk, and most with only an eighth-grade education. I was a city-raised missionary kid, spending my childhood in Japan. These relatives hugged me too often and acted like they knew me. After the turkey sandwiches, lemonade and a few rides on the porch swing, I was eager to go home.

As a college student and throughout my early twenties, whenever I’d sit around her dining room table eating fried chicken, biscuits and salad, I’d hear some anecdote from Patsie’s farm-raised days. At age seven, she played in the field one gloriously sunny day instead of sticking to her chore — picking tobacco. She recalled the spanking for her disobedience. Classmates at the county school teased, calling her “Tar Heel” because she and her family had moved from North Carolina, the Tar Heel State, to Virginia. As if this wasn’t bad enough for a young girl to endure, she was also ridiculed for her freckles. Hearing that freckles disappeared if washed with the early morning dew, Patsie often scrubbed her cheeks and nose with the moisture. Not only did her brothers laugh at her for this ritual, but her freckles remained.

Affectionately, Patsie told tales of her sisters and brothers, and Aunt Chachi, who lived with Mama, Papa and the children. What kind of name is Chachi, I would muse. Patsie talked about them like they were a part of us, which made me feel I should be interested. So I’d pose a question or two. Other than my infrequent remarks, it was mostly just Patsie reminiscing as the sun sank into the horizon, ending another day. I don’t have time for this, I’d think. There were exams to study for, dates to go on, and a big world I wanted to travel.

A short while ago, I took my children to visit Patsie. The now ninety-year-old silver-haired woman sat in the red winged-back chair and somewhere in the hot, sleepy summer afternoon I was aware she was again filling me in on the relatives of Amelia County.

I listened to accounts of Ralph and Nonnie and the others. I learned that of her eight siblings, four were still living. Her sisters had recently paid her a visit from the country. They’d brought blueberry preserves and apple pie.

But what I really wanted to learn was much more emotional than preserves or pie. I found my voice asking about Johnny, her youngest sibling. Of course I’d heard the tragic story before; Patsie had told it as she recalled all the other stories. Johnny had been on the running board of the car when he was twelve. Carl, his older brother, had been driving. “Don’t let the boys ride on the running board,” Patsie’s father had warned, but Carl hadn’t listened. Over a bump on the country road, Johnny slid off the running board to his death.

Of all the times I’d heard this story, I’d never cried. But on this afternoon in July, the tears welled and curved along my cheeks. Reaching for the photo album on the coffee table, I held the black-and-white photo of my great-grandmother and looked into her young face. I touched her hair and arms. I knew these arms ached because they no longer were able to hold her precious Johnny. “I know, I know,” I whispered at her picture. While blood had united us as relatives, the more definitive bond was that we were both bereaved mothers. For I, too, had a child die — my son, Daniel. It had not been a car accident, but a cancer-related death.

Although there were six decades between the deaths of Johnny and my Daniel, as mothers our lives had no doubt been similar after the deaths of our sons. Days of anguish, doubt, sorrow and frustration of having chores to do and other children to care for when our newly-broken hearts begged us to sit and sob. I cried for this woman in the black hat; I cried for me.

These days, I am listening to the tales of those relatives. I sit on the edge of my chair and take it all in. For those relatives, though far removed from my city life, are a part of me. Patsie believed they always were. It just took awhile and some history of my own to recognize this.

~Alice J. Wisler wrote this article in 2002 for The Urban Hiker. She is the author of five inspirational novels, including Still Life in Shadows. All of her novels have a component of grief and loss. Her devotional, Getting out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache, arrives on bookshelves this December. In addition to writing, Alice teaches workshops on writing through the turmoils of life. Visit her website: http://www.alicewisler.com

Cracking Walnuts

Cracking Walnuts

What am I doing here?

Okay, I’m a writer. And yes, I am on the other side of some calendric divide, but I am feeling a little like the guy who arrives at a Christmas party carrying a menorah. Although I am a few months shy of the big seven-oh, I am neither retired nor looking forward to retirement. With two school-age children, the word retirement is not even in my vocabulary. Fine with me.

One of my boyhood heroes was my great-uncle John, who lived alone and single-handedly maintained a sprawling place on Lake Minnetonka that hosted hordes of visitors on weekends three-seasons-round. He always said he wanted to die with his boots on. Neighbors found him one morning slumped over on his front step, one boot on and his right foot pushed partway into the other. Stubborn man.

I was always a non-conformist about age, with close friends significantly older and substantially younger. These days, younger friends are studying brochures from retirement communities, and many contemporaries have already moved in. To me, an entire community of birders and golfing enthusiasts, all my age or older, would approximate purgatory on earth. I have nothing against birders—I’m married to a teacher-naturalist who works for Audubon—and golf seems mostly harmless. But the older I get, the more the age-segregation of modern society strikes me as unnatural, and the more it becomes clear that my take on age is nonstandard.

Where did western society take a wrong turn? Throughout most of hominid evolution and human history, our ancestors lived with infants and toothless elders, agile adolescents and balding providers, young mothers and mumbling shamans all crowded in together in small groups. We were not meant to live without children underfoot to trip us or young people confronting our complacency or the elderly offering perspectives that we couldn’t possibly understand until we, too, are toothless and incontinent.

I am fortunate to be still surrounded by people of all ages. At the one end of the scale are my five- and nine-year-old grandchildren, and at the other end my elder friends and associates. Teaching at a university not only keeps me current, but also immerses me in the generation into whose charge the messed-up world is being handed. They are a strange breed, these young adults of the digital age, but even as I puzzle about their preference for texting over face-to-face dialogue,  I am optimistic. In between are my middle- and high-school kids and their friends. The parents, most of whom are half my age, nevertheless seem to accept me as a fellow passenger.

Retirement? How do you spell that?

The Rosen Singularity, my fourth novel, is a contemporary thriller, a provocative meditation on life, death, age, and longevity. In it, an emeritus professor tells his young protégé about his own view on retirement.

My Miriam once told me about…stopping at a farm stand....  Her parents bought a small bag of walnut meats from a girl of twelve or so, who proudly told them that her grandfather had cracked all the nuts on the table. She nodded toward an old man with gnarled hands and a weather-ravaged face hunched over one of those big old long-handled affairs, cracking walnuts one at a time, very, very slowly. Miriam said he looked like he was a hundred to her girlish eyes, but there he was, doing his part to keep the family orchards going. Maybe he read to his young grandchildren in the evening when he was too tired to crack any more nuts. Maybe he entertained the family with stories from the old days, polished and embellished by years of retelling and by flagging memory. Who knows? But that man was not off playing golf or mahjongg in some retirement community or taking up bed space in a nursing home while waiting to die.

His protégé protests that this seems harsh, that not everyone has vigorous golden years. We deserve eventually “to take some time to ourselves, to do what we please, or at least not to have to get up every morning and drag ourselves off to some stupid job.”

The older professor replies, “I’d say no. Everyone contributes, everyone adds something, whatever they can.”

I am neither of these characters, and just because I wrote their dialogue does not mean I have to be in full agreement with everything they say. Their conversation echoes the tension in a much grander dialectic in the book. Still, to borrow from my own characters, as long as we are consuming, perhaps we have a responsibility to contribute.

Even if it means cracking walnuts. Or telling stories.

Larry Constantine writes intricate thrillers on provocative themes under the pen name Lior Samson. When not cracking walnuts or writing stories, he teaches graduate courses in industrial design, cooks gourmet meals for his family, and composes vocal music for community groups. He is an award-winning writer with 22 books published, including four novels and a collection of short fiction. He divides his time between Massachusetts and Portugal, where he teaches at the University of Madeira. You can reach him by email at Lior(at)LiorSamson.com.

Lessons Learned on Halloween Past

I love autumn, when cool nights carry with them the promise of a vibrant fall, and the chance to gather together as a family—first at Thanksgiving, then Christmas. But as a child, I loved Halloween best of all. I’d plan for days, trying to come up with a clever costume. My friends and I were costume snobs, looking down on anyone who had to wear a store bought outfit. Our costumes were as homemade as the fun we had on Saturday afternoons.

Halloween wasn’t just a one-night event either. There’d be at least one Halloween carnival, a class party, another at church, and possibly one at a friend’s house. Each one required a costume. Some years I’d wear a different costume to each event. Others, I’d use the earlier gatherings as a rehearsal for the big finale, Halloween night.

What made it such a big event? It was the candy—of course. We’d spend as long as possible out Halloween night, and then the next day comparing our loot. Sometimes we got a load of the good stuff, and other times not so much. We’d trade for our favorites and find ourselves torn between wanting to make it last till Christmas or eat as much as possible.

But, before anyone could get any candy, we had to knock on the door. Even tiny toddlers were taken by the hand or carried in parents’ arms and taught to knock.

Why? Because, as any child who’s ever been out for Trick-or-Treat knows, not knocking means not receiving. 

So what do you want to do during this time of your life? Whatever it is, go for it, and don't let a lack of action keep you from chasing your dream.

Where's Home in Your Heart?

Last night, I strolled with my family through the streets of my hometown—New Albany, Indiana—enjoying the annual Harvest Homecoming Festival. It was a glorious fall evening with a slight chill in the air necessitating a sweater or jacket. The theme for this 45^th festival is “Harvest Goes Hollywood.” We sampled homemade fudge, sipped hot chocolate, greeted old friends and made some new ones. A concerted effort by a number of groups to revitalize the downtown business district has been successful and, as a result, charming, independently-owned restaurants and shops are now drawing in younger families and the “hip” crowd to a once-dying economy. What an exciting transformation! The aromas of roasted nuts and caramel corn mingled with chicken and dumplings, corn dogs and pork sandwiches. Something for everyone. The cafés and art galleries opened their doors wide. Vendors in many booths sold all manner of colorful and creative wares, from T-shirts and trinkets to expensive jewelry and artwork. Firefighters gave kids a tour of the engine and ambulance. Bands and dancers performed live on the festival stage. All the while, Miss Harvest Homecoming moved among the crowd, wearing her tiara and sash. Groups of teenagers congregated in front of the music store, older folks observed from picnic tables, and young couples pushed strollers.  As much as any other time in my life, it impacted me tonight that this is Americana. This is what life’s about. Small town life at its best with families enjoying a beloved hometown tradition together, strengthening ties and the spirit of community.  

As a senior in high school, I couldn’t wait to get away from New Albany, part of Kentuckiana where it sits on the banks of the Ohio and often called the “sunny side of Louisville.” Let me make it clear I was in no way ashamed of my hometown, but I inherited an independent spirit from my mother and wanted to embrace and experience the world. Unlike the majority of my counterparts, I wanted to live and work in a big city, travel to Europe, see Broadway plays and meet all sorts of fabulous, interesting people. When I packed up and moved to the Ball State University campus as a freshman, I only returned home during summer breaks, holidays and vacations for the next 28 years. Along the way, I married my husband, Jim, gave birth to our three children (ages 16 to 23) and lived in Texas, California, Pennsylvania and Massachusetts before coming back home in late 2005 with my family in-tow. Funny how life comes full circle sometimes. I'm proof that you can come home again and yes, Dorothy, there truly is “no place like home.” On my website, I make this statement: “I’ve ‘been around’ in the nicest sense of the word.” As a writer, living in different regions of the country has given me a broader perspective of this great nation and its people, customs, cultures, and geography. I wouldn't have traded those experiences for anything, and they've made me the person I am today.  

When our son Matthew graduates from high school in two years, I’ll be able to say all three of our kids have graduated from New Albany High School—the oldest public high school in Indiana (1853) which served as a hospital during the Civil War, and first in the nation to have an FM broadcast radio station commissioned by the FCC. Notable alumni include Billy Herman (Hall of Fame MLB player during the 1930s and 1940s), Sherman Minton (U.S. Senator and associate Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court), Josh Dallas (actor, currently on ABC’s popular “Once Upon a Time”), Fuzzy Zoeller (U.S. Open and Master’s Champ—and part of my family), and Edwin Hubble (astronomer for whom the Hubble Space Telescope is named) was a notable faculty member. 

My question to you: “Where’s home in your heart?” As New Albany begins its Bicentennial celebration in 2013, I’m so proud to be a “returnee” to my sweet hometown, full of rich heritage and tradition. You see, the Lord knew where I belonged all along. It just took me a while to see it, and to find my way home again. But oh, I'm so glad I did. My prayer for you, my friends, is that you’ll be so abundantly blessed. Matthew 5:16

JoAnn Durgin is the author of the popular Lewis Legacy Series, contemporary romantic adventures full of faith, family and love (Torn Veil Books): Awakening, Second Time Around and Twin Hearts are available in both paperback and ebook from all major online Christian book retailers. Book #4 in the series, Daydreams, is coming in December 2012. Meet Me Under the Mistletoe, a Christmas novella from Pelican Book Group (White Rose), is expected to release in the next month. She'd love to hear from you at her website, www.joanndurgin.com or on Facebook.

This is On My Mind

In 1908, at the age of twelve, my father started working in the lead mines of Granby, Missouri. He walked a mule on a windlass in a circle to raise or lower the miners into the mine. Eight revolutions in the circle reached level one, twelve cycles, to level two, and so on. Before dying in his eighties, he marveled that science had progressed from that early mechanical concept to having man walk on the moon.

Certainly we all have benefited from the advances of science. Living in Arizona would be difficult without air conditioning. We all live a much easier life in many ways because of the advancement of knowledge. As is often the case, advancement also carries with it the law of unintended consequences.

With our ability to communicate immediately with others in distant locations; the availability of news as it happens from all parts of the globe; the multiplicity of entertainment devices in our living rooms, it seems that sometimes we neglect the social niceties in dealing with others.

Even as a youth there was considerable contact with others—perhaps a bicycle tire needed air; an errand to the grocery store for my mother; or buying a coke at the drug store for a young friend who’d shared a movie with me. My parents, both by example and specific teaching instructed me in the rudiments of “getting along with others.” A gentleman always held the door for a lady; “please” and “thank you” were words to be used liberally; swearing was never to be tolerated; adults were addressed as “Sir” or “Ma’am”, or “Mr.” or “Mrs.”, never by their given name.

Sadly, I think that manners today are often a neglected subject in most homes. For example, do you often get a thank you notes from someone you’ve given a gift? Do you occasionally want to shout to the driver ahead, “Next time buy a car with turn signals”? Have you ever dealt with someone who was so busy on a cell phone they didn’t acknowledge your presence? Do events such as these do anything to your blood pressure?

One thing that gives me great pleasure is working the athletic events at the University of Arizona. Part of my responsibility is getting the students into the arena. Recently, a young couple approached me for admittance. The young man took the co-ed with him gently by the elbow and allowed her to be served first.  That insignificant event was so unusual that I commented to the young lady that her companion had good manners and if being treated respectfully was important to her, she should give him special attention. Am I a dinosaur? Probably, but it was refreshing to observe a young man exhibiting proper etiquette.

Though not related to manners, another occurrence is related to technological advancement. We are, I fear, as a people, losing our love of reading. I recall many times as a youth, laying on my back in the grass, studying clouds for whatever images I could find. I’ve seen alligators, long necked geese, humpy back camels and chimpanzees. Once I even saw a unicorn. Why is that important? It helped me to develop my imagination so that I was readily transported to magical places by the books I read. It seems today people are more interested in having some type of instrument in their hands with which to entertain themselves. A young lady of my acquaintance once told me she had sent one thousand text messages in a month. That seems excessive to me. Of course, I’d rather talk to someone direct than text them. Perhaps my judgment should be disqualified.

At a recent book signing I met a young man who confessed he didn’t like to read books, because he’d rather have something in his hands. The comment was accompanied by holding his hands as though holding something, while his thumbs wagged frantically. What a shame! He’d rather text or play X-Box than read. Oh! Did I mention he is a high school teacher?

While on my soap box, one last thought. Respect and responsibility are becoming archaic and are in danger of being eliminated from the dictionary.

Don’t forget to use your turn signals.

D. Lincoln Jones

D. Lincoln Jones

After a thirty-year career working for two Fortune 500 companies, D. Lincoln Jones ventured into the world of private business. As an entrepreneur, he has founded and served as the president of two corporations.

Always seeking new horizons, he has toured the West by motorcycle on his Honda Goldwing. When he settled, he became a student of art, excelling in working with pastels and colored pencil. His work is displayed in homes and small collections across the country. He is most proud of a sketch of Raggedy Ann and Andy, a gift to his granddaughter that she treasures.

Jones has been an avid reader since childhood, so his desire to write has come naturally. Among his favorite books are Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry, Shogun by James Clavell, and The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara.

High Grade is his first novel. A second is in progress.

David’s website: www.dlincolnjonesauthor.com

NIGHT OWL

When I was a kid, there was a popular saying whenever someone said, “who”—“Your feet don’t fit a limb.”  Well, maybe they don’t, but I’m an owl—a night owl. I know many other night owls. We seem to be programmed to stay up way into the night. Is it hereditary? I don’t think so. My parents weren’t night owls. They got up early in the morning. Dad always set the clock on the coffee maker to perk at some terrible early morning hour and took time to drink a cup or two before leaving for work.

Does anyone go through a ritual like me? Before Barbara, my wife, retired, she would tell me how badly I needed eight hours of sleep for my health. I had gotten by nearly all of my adult life on six hours or less. She would tell me, “You’ll be surprised that once you get horizontal, you’ll go to sleep.” I would make a commitment to go to bed at nine and read for a while. This would last for a couple of nights, a week at most, and then a process would kick in. I would go to bed at 9:15—then 9:30 and before long I would be back to my routine of staying up till midnight or 1—sometimes 2 or 3.

In January of this year, Barbara retired. I no longer needed to get up to drive her to work. This is a wonderful thing for me—it means I can get eight hours of sleep no matter what time I go to bed. Whenever she mentions my staying up late, I remind her I am getting my eight hours. I honestly think if it were left to me, I’d probably stay up all night and sleep during the day. Then, eventually, rotate around to sleeping at night and stay up during the day.

One thing I’ve noticed, Barbara is staying up later more often. I don’t know if she’s given up on me changing or if she’s been a closet ‘night owl’ all this time. She is different though in one respect. She was raised on an Iowa farm and whenever the light of day touches her eyes, she is up and doing Yoga, quilting, reading or working in her garden. Me? I’m such a sound sleeper that I don’t think a bomb would wake me.

Barbara enjoys the journey of everything. She savors every detail of whatever she’s doing. I on the other hand am a workaholic. I want to get from point a to z and start something else. Retirement hasn’t changed me. Years ago, to keep from being frustrated about running out of time, I developed a strategy. I knew the sun was always shining. Therefore, life is one long day, interrupted by naps. This has allowed me to shut down my day, relax, take a six-hour nap and go again.

I am very grateful that Barbara is my best friend. After being friends for ten or twelve years, we started dating. She knew, from the beginning, I would be a challenge that would involve a lot of acceptance and compromise when we went out to eat one night. She looked at my plate and asked, “Do you ever eat anything red, green or yellow?” I replied, “Sure-jelly beans.” I was serious. Thanks to her loving persistence, I now eat veggies. We laugh about our differences and enjoy our life together.

Well, it’s after midnight. Time to take a nap. Whoooo means goodnight in night owl language.

Tom Blubaugh, Author of Night of the Cossack and other works

Night of the Cossack historical fiction ebooks available at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble

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What will you leave your children?

The title of this will probably prompt you to think aboutGrandmother’s china or an heirloom quilt or some other
material thing that has had special meaning for your entire life.

But I’m not talking about material things. I’m talking about

beliefs, values, morals or any other idea they could cling to that would make their life better in the event of your death.

I believe that our lifestyle has eroded to the point that material things are the first to come to mind when someone passes.

And that is a shame.

Dividing the departed’s belonging among siblings can bring out the worse in all of us. My husband’s family made ten piles of things with similar value, because there were ten siblings, and then put numbers on the piles. Everyone drew a number and if he or she didn’t like the pile they inherited, then they could trade it with someone or sell it at a garage sale. It seemed very fair to me.

Others haven’t been as fortunate dividing up the keepsakes.

I have a wonderful neighbor who journals every day. She plans to leave the journals to her children. Knowing her like I do,those journals will be of moral value and bring peace to her

children.

She has a prayer list and she faithfully pray for the people on the list every day. Any time that I am discouraged I can go next door or call her on the phone and feel one hundred percent better after talking to her. She uses phrases like, ‘All this craziness that

goes on," and she is right. She can identify valid problems and always ask the Lord to help solve them. As for what she identifies and calls craziness, it gets treated as the devil’s work.
She is one of the most positive and loving people that I have ever had the privilege to know. I thank God for my good neighbors.

Kids learn early that if they whine long enough they will usually get what they want. I know of one young girl who hasso many stuffed animals in her room there is hardly room for

her. Material things will not see these children through during a time of crisis. Giving children too many things deprive themof valuable life lessons, like: the pride they feel when they do chores, earn money, and save for what they want. Handing them everything isn’t teaching them to manage money or be responsible.

As parents we need not only to teach our children to be financially responsible, but to fill their spiritual needs with a faith that is unshakeable. These children need to be left with a

belief system that will sustain them in a time of doubt. The worst things we leave our children is the negative thingsthat they have observed in our behavior. The positive traits we

have need to be witnessed, as well as discussed, at some point in their lives. 

We can’t spend too much time letting them know how much we love them and training them to stand on their own two feet.

When I lost my oldest grandson, if it were not for my belief in God, I could not have made it through the grief. I know he is in a better place and getting the love he so desperately sought

while on this earth.

I remember my mother telling me years before she died that when her time come she wanted me to be happy for her. She knew she was going to go to heaven and if ever there was

a guardian angel to look over me I know my mother is doing

that.

I know my grandson is in heaven and it brings me peace to. Will your child or children have enough training that if you should be taken away in a heartbeat, they will have the spiritual

beliefs needed to survive? 

About the Author

Annette Bergman is a mother of four, grandmother of seven and

great-grandmother of five who splits her time between Indiana

and Florida. A native of a small barrier island, she was raised

in that uniquely Southern style which so oft en lends itself to

frank -- and humorous -- observation. Now retired after a 30-

plus year career as a REALTOR, Annette spends the bulk of her

time writing, a passion she discovered while still selling homes.

That passion has already led to one book, “Return to Tybee”,

and the publication of several humorous newspaper columns.

In addition to that accomplishment, in 1991 Annette sewed the

first official flag of her hometown, Tybee Island, Georgia. Her

talents also led to the creation of nine designs for the Simplicity

Pattern Company, which were published in the company’s book

“Casual Cut-Ups”.   In her free time she enjoys gardening with

her husband, Roy.

The author's website is: 

www.annettebergman.com and enjoy her blog at   http://annettebergman.blogspot.com/2012/.