The Christmas Ornament

When my oldest daughter was in the third grade, she became a “traitor” in our family. In Alabama there are only two football teams. One is Alabama and the other is Auburn. We were die-hard Alabama fans and my husband, Don, never missed a game. Then out of the blue, our oldest daughter decided that she wanted to to to Auburn University when she graduated from high school. I thought it would hurt my husband, but he never said a word. “It’s just a phase,” he joked, and then teased her, “No child of mine will ever go to that school.”

When Shannon graduated from high school she spent her first year living at home, working and attending the community college. By her Sophomore year, she was ready to transfer to Auburn. We packed up two cars and like thousands of other parents each Fall, tried to hide our anxiety and emotions, as we sent our oldest off to college. Shannon settled into her dorm, met her best friend on 'moving in' day, joined a local Christian fellowship group and last, but not least, bought a season pass to all the football games. That daughter of mine could talk football with the best and seasoned commentators and it simply amazed me. It amazed her father, too, that this former clarinet player in the high school band knew her football so well.

After her graduation she moved to Georgia, a few hours drive away. She and her father continued their mutual love of football. My husband and I had actually never attended a live Auburn football game, but one Fall my daughter arranged to get us tickets and she was going to meet us there. It happened to be the same week my husband had to undergo some serious medical tests. We hadn't yet told our daughters. I was worried and wanted to back out of the trip, but he didn't want to let her down, so we went. The test results came back the following week. It wasn't good. Cancer. Two weeks before Thanksgiving he started Chemotherapy.

Before Christmas that year my husband had ordered a special  Auburn football ornament for Shannon. It was the first in a series. She loved it. She came home every chance she could, now that her Dad was undergoing cancer treatments. It was naturally hard to leave each time and return to her job, knowing how ill her father was.

In March, a small package arrived in the mail. I opened it and there was another Christmas ornament, the second in a series. Had my husband already ordered another one, this early in the year? I put it away in the closet. The Chemo was taking a toll on my husband, but his spirit held strong. When his doctor told us that there was nothing else they could do, I called my oldest daughter to come home.  And I told her about the ornament that had come in the mail. I couldn't hold onto it until Christmas. I truly believed that this was God's way of letting her know that it was okay to let go.  God knew that her father wasn’t going to be there for the next Christmas.

Since then the ornaments have arrived like clockwork each year, each one uniquely designed with her favorite college colors, blue and orange. She has ten now and it is a gift from her father every year, a way of letting her know that he is still with her.

Good-Byes and Promises

I went to two funerals last month. My aunt died at the end of April and two weeks later, to the day, my uncle's wife died at the young age of 52. For the second time in two weeks I drove the 90 miles to Tennessee.

Many of my relatives on my father's side still live among the rolling hills of middle Tennessee, where the scenery is picture postcard pretty. I wanted to stop and take pictures along the country roads, but we were in a time crunch. Oddly, I noticed many small buildings overgrown with weeds and grass, when I realized that these little out buildings were former outhouses.

The relatives came from nearby and  from far away. Alabama. Georgia. Virginia.
There was the young cousin from Savannah. Instantly I recognized her, even though we haven't seen each other in 15 years. Sunny (not her real name) is grown now, tall like her father, and has the honey-colored hair of her mother. She also inherited her father's cleft chin.  

Another distant cousin, two years older than me, grins at me, remembering when we were 10 and 12. I was the oldest in my family and he, the youngest. I tell him that he looks like Jimmy Carter, only more handsome. His wife, a pretty 50ish woman,  shares her email address and Facebook page and we promise to keep in touch.

"Jimmy" has a twin sister and she squeezes me in a real southern hug. She is flamboyant, dressed in bright colors, and extroverted. Her Mama, my great-aunt, 80ish, has perfectly coifed silver hair, and soft hands, holds my hands and doesn't let go. She lost her husband six years ago and is in the early stages of Dementia.

My uncle is shaken at the sudden death of his wife. He is lost without her. He has aged, and is thin and frail, and doesn't look like the Elvis look-alike of his youth. The girls were crazy about him and he would talk for hours on the black rotary dial telephone, before call waiting and message machines. His only child is a pretty young woman in her twenties and looks like her father when he was younger.

Then there is Jewel, who just lost her mother two weeks before. She has long, black hair and could pass as a Cherokee Indian. Her daughter, another beauty, graduated from high school this week.

Cousin Rusty stands quietly to the side. He is 50 and doesn't talk much. He is the sole survivor in his family. Thank God for his wife of 30 years. He is proud of his son, who recently graduated from college.

Another cousin, Billy, will perform the funeral. He is a preacher and an evangelist. His older brother has fought the devil his entire life, but Billy turned to God.

My sister and I catch up with everyone, trying to remember names and faces. We listen to stories and share some of our own. We talk nostalgically about long-ago family reunions and childhood memories. We hope to plan a reunion, under better circumstances, we tell each other.

It is night before we leave. One of our cousins and her family take us out to eat before we go. We linger, talking in the parking lot under the street lights. Finally, we say our good-byes. And promise to keep in touch.

I think of all the good-byes I've said through the years, and promises to keep in touch.

And my uncle's wife - she was a military veteran. She served in the Army when she was a young woman and returned home to these Tennessee hills at the end of her tour of duty.

Day is done, gone the sun
From the lakes, from the hills, from the skies
All is well, safely rest;
God is nigh.

(Taps)

This Memorial Day may we remember all of men and women who gave their lives for our country. God bless them all.

Blessings,

Anita

Rest in Peace

My sister called me this morning to tell me that my father's younger sister passed away during the night. She was only 63, not much older than myself. My extended family members are scattered and because my grandparents are gone and because of life's circumstances, or whatever reason, it's hard to get people together, unless there is a wedding or a funeral. And that is where I usually run into a cousin or aunt that I haven't seen in years. It's sad, but true.
Now there will be another funeral to go to.

 You hear about people having a hard life. That was my aunt. Like many poor, Southern girls of her era, Aunt B. got married at 15. She had her first child at 16 and another one at 18. There was another one, too, in between, another boy, that died soon after birth. I remembered the day they buried that little baby, in a little country cemetary, up on a hill. It was raining and we children had to wait in the car while the grown-ups huddled under the umbrellas. And my aunt, only a girl herself, sobbed for the loss of her child.

Rest in peace, Aunt B.

In Remembrance

My daughters and I were talking this past week about how we miss the "old days," when their father, their grandfather and their uncle were still alive. I loved to listen to them joke around and talk about the good old days and tell tales of their youth. My father-in-law was really special to me. We had many similar interests and the same taste in books. He would often send me a package of books when he was finished reading them. He also loved cryptoquotes, another favorite of mine, and kept index cards from the daily cryptoquote in the newspaper. He was a real family man and loved nothing more than to spend time with his children and grandchildren. My father-in-law was a veteran, but never made it overseas. While his unit was on their way to Europe during World War II he was hospitalized for several months for Tuberculosis, a lung disease that claimed the lives of several of his siblings. Out of nine children, he and a younger brother were the only ones to live past the age of 30. When he recovered he was discharged from the Army and went to college on the GI Bill, becoming a teacher. Not bad for a man with a wife and four young children.

While his father did not make a career out of the military, my late husband did, serving 20 years in the Army. Before he was 30 years old he had already been stationed in Vietnam, Panama, Korea, Germany, and Alaska, and these were not counting the stateside tours. Don was  proud of his 101st Airborne badge and the bronze star that he received for being wounded in action.  He was proud to serve in the Army and proud to wear the uniform. My husband was a spontaneous type of person and with the Internet, was able to contact some former soldiers of the 101st Airborne. He called one veteran late one night, against my cautious, "It's 11 o'clock at night!" He and the other Vietnam vet spoke for over an hour on the phone. Another soldier that he had contacted replied with this email, "Welcome Home, Brother."

I like to think that heaven has a flag-waving welcoming committee for all those who served, and that they are all holding signs that say, "Welcome Home, Brother."

The Beginning of Days

How many days has it been?

How many months?

How many years?

And yet it seems like only yesterday

that you were here

But time has sped by, raced ahead

to fill the empty spaces you left behind

The days have passed into months

The months have passed into years

Like small streams that run into rivers

and empty into the ocean

of our collective sorrows

And days accumulate into Time

And Time is a balm 

like bread to the hungry

and water to the thirsty

Time nourishes our broken heart

By counting the days behind us

When finally, there are so many

We no longer feel the fresh pain

of the beginning of days

(c) Anita M. Ashworth 2011

Mama's Hands

Mama would be 71 on June 20. She's been gone for nine years. Has it been that long? For a long time after she died I still reached for the phone to call her and when I drove past her neighborhood I would get a lump in my throat or tears would gather in the corner of my eyes. I miss her so! There are little things I miss the most; going by to see her on a Saturday before she went to work. She always had fresh coffee made and a cake or something sweet to eat. That was the German in her - she would show her love by feeding you.

She always put her family first. Mama was not a modern, liberated woman. The only thing she ever wanted to be was a wife and mother.  She had a sweet and caring spirit and a sensitive soul and a forgiving heart. And she loved her grandchildren. I remember her last Christmas. Weak from her illness she had still managed to buy toys for the little ones and store them in the closet. I wrapped the presents for her and she gave me money to buy the rest.

Mama was never going to grow old. She had that European porcelain skin, not a wrinkle in sight. Mama believed in cold cream. And at 61 she still dyed her hair a rich, auburn color. Her hands were beautiful and didn't look like the hands of a waitress at all. Mama took care of her hands and she didn't go to a salon.

I look at my raggedy cuticles and chewed off nails and my wrinkled hands and wonder if there is some miracle cream that would give me hands like my mother had. I doubt it.

Happy Mother's Day,

Anita

Mama's Boy

"It's a boy," the doctor said, as he laid the child in her loving arms. Blonde hair, brown eyes, he toddled behind her, her baby boy. She held him and rocked him and scolded him and played with him and was so proud of him, but mostly she just loved him, because he was hers and he was the baby.

When he was five years old she took him to the photography studio to have his picture made in his cowboy outfit because he wanted pictures to hand out like the older kids. He smiled from ear to ear, his hair slicked back, cute as a button.

When he started school she watched him get on the big, yellow school bus, following his older brothers and sister and turned around to wave at her. When he threatened to run away from home, his belongings packed in a plain, brown paper bag, she watched him walk down the street, his shoulders low, until he turned around and came home. With tears in her eyes she scolded him and told him to "never do that again."

He grew up tall and skinny and she watched him through the awkward teen years, full of youthful mischief. He was charming with the girls and voted "Most Polite" and "Biggest Flirt" by his classmates.

And she watched him get on the bus once more, after his high school graduation. He came home a man, this time wearing a uniform that Uncle Sam had given him, a soldier ready to go to war. She watched with a mother's pride and a mother's anxiety as he was shipped off to an Asian country, dropped in a jungle with other rookie soldiers far from home. Two months later she received the news that he'd been shot, but he going to be alright. It mangled his hand, but he was alive.

She saw her boy get married and have children of his own. He was a grown-up now, but he never forgot her birthday and never forgot Mother's Day. He was still a Mama's boy at heart and called on the weekends to see how she was getting along. He still had that boyish charm and love of life and playful sense of humor.

The years passed and life was full of ups and downs, but she always had her children to care about. Then one day it all changed. Her youngest boy was sick and it was serious. The doctors offered treatment, and she clung to hope. And so she was by his side when God called him home, the son she had brought into the world. Mama's boy.

(In memory of my husband, Don)

"Talking to a Grave"

I go to a place

Where I stand alone

Where once was a patch of dirt

Now your name is etched in stone
I say hello

I love you
I miss you
And wish you were here
My conversation sounds hollow
As I get down on my knees
There is only silence
But for the whisper of a breeze
I blow you a kiss

Before I say good-bye

And I want you to know

Once more

I love you

I miss you

And wish you were here


(c) Anita M. Ashworth 2009

The Homecoming

A lone traveler walked along a desolate country road. he was cold, hungry and tired. He had been traveling for days, but it seemed more like an eternity. The traveler had wanted to stop and rest several times along the journey, but was afraid that the weariness would overcome him and he wouldn't be able to continue. He trudged on, clinging to the hope that home was just around the next bend in the road, beyond the next clump of trees. The journey had taken its toll on him. In the beginning he had been a strong man, walking straight with his head held high. As the miles added up, his load became heavier. He had to abandon many of his belongings along the way, until all he had left was a canteen with barely a drink of water.

Finally, he saw a glimmering light in the distance. And the smoke from a fireplace. Home.

He mustered up all his strength and rushed forward, throwing open the front door. In the crackling light of the fire stood his mother, radiant in her youth and beauty. Her arms were outstretched to embrace him, just like when he was a boy coming home from school. His beloved grandfather sat in the rocking chair, grinning ear to ear. His grandfather had taught him how to hunt and fish in his childhood. His baby sister lay in her cradle, softly cooing. It had been a long time since he had seen her. Standing around the room were his brothers and sisters, and aunts and uncles, all smiling as they warmly greeted him. At last he noticed the table laden with food that was befitting a celebration. At that moment a commanding voice could be heard from the head of the table.

"Come in and rest, my son. We've been expecting you."

The traveler was home at last.

(In memory of my father-in-law, who would have been 90 years old this year.)

(c) Anita M. Ashworth 1991

Father's Day

I don't even stop and look at the Father's Day cards at Walmart anymore. When Don was alive I would take my time reading several before making up my mind. Most of the time they were humorous cards, but once in a while I'd pick out a heartfelt card. If I had the chance here's the letter I would write to him on Father's Day.

Dear Sweetheart,

Happy Father's Day! I don't know if I ever told you what a terrific Dad you were. I didn't tell you enough what it meant to have a husband who not only loved me, but loved his kids unconditionally. No wonder they went to you first about everything! Remember that tatoo that Carrie got and didn't want me to know about it? I found out after the fact, when you already knew. Remember how you and Shannon would talk college football for hours and how you always called her on the phone after Auburn played? That's something she won't forget. Nor will she forget the time you and Jeff drove to Auburn late at night to pick her up because her grandmother was in the hospital and we didn't expect her to make it through the night. You didn't want her to drive home alone during such an emotional time.

And Carrie won't forget the times you took off from work to be a chaperone on a boring band trip to Birmingham or that time you checked her out of school to watch your beloved Kentucky Wildcats play basketball at Tuscaloosa. Or going to Nashville to see the Tennessee Titans play. You knew that I was not a big sports fan, but your daughters never let you down.

And neither one of them will forget the countless Friday nights you took off from work so you could attend the football games and watch them play in the marching band. As a father, you were definitely hands-on and always put your family first.

I remember when we lived in Germany, right after Shannon was born. We lived in a one-bedroom basement apartment in Nierstein, that little German village within walking distance of the Rhine River. With only one car, it meant I spent long days home alone with a newborn baby while you went to work. I was anxious for you to come home because I was nervous about being a new Mom. We had no washer or dryer. During the week I would wash diapers in the bathtub, but on the weekends you took the dirty laundry to the laundromat on post and brought the clean clothes home, all neatly folded.

While growing up the girls always knew they could come to you. I guess I was the disciplinarian and you were the laid-back parent. I don't recall you ever spanking the kids.

I know that you would be proud of the girls now. I know you loved your son-in-law. Your youngest daughter married a good man. I know that your heart would break for Shannon, for what she's been through the past year, but you would stand there and protect her every step of the way. And you would just fall in love with your grandchildren. "Teka" was just learning how to crawl when you left us and you wouldn't believe that she is going on five and starting Kindergarten! She is the spitting image of her mother. You would just love "little Allie" and get such a kick out of her. She has one unique personality and has practically potty-trained herself. Talk about a strong will! And then there's Lucas, your grandson. He is so easy-going and what gorgeous eyes and a beautiful smile he has. I could see you now on the living room floor playing with all of them, just like the girls used to climb all over you when they were little.

Don, it hasn't been easy on the girls since you've gone, but God's comfort and peace have helped. Thoughts of you are always on their minds and in their hearts. They miss you so!

With Love,
Anita