Elves in the Trees

I read The Hobbit/Lord of the Ring books when I attended college (the first time). I parked off-campus in an established residential area with beautiful tree-lined streets. I always believed there were elves in the trees.

A few months ago I marathoned The Lord of the Ring movies. Of course, I’m talking the extended versions. I think I watched 16-18 hours of the struggle between good and evil, industrialization against the natural world, as well as elves fighting orcs. I loved it.

The backgrounds in various scenes were inspired by the beautiful artwork of the Hildebrandt brothers. They have brought to life many of Tolkien’s characters. Their work is exquisite.

I was reminded of the incredible imaginations not only of Tolkien’s Middle Earth but also of C.S. Lewis’ Narnia. I think that if God inspired these men to write of such fantastic worlds and species; what has God been doing?

I believe there are wonders more glorious than we could ever dream. There might even be a few orcs in the mix. Of course, they would be vegetarians and would have visited the dentist.

No one knows for sure, so I think I have a good argument.

I think there will be elves in the trees.

Let Me Not Be Afraid

What if I said to you
“I will not let go?”

I will not let go
until I receive that
unspeakable gift?

You, who have known
me from the Beginning.

You know my heart.

Wash me and I will
be whiter than snow.

Let me not doubt You
like Much-Afraid
let me build altars
and sacrifice all to you.

Knowing you have
only good for me.

Let me not be afraid.

The End of the Year

I usually spend the end of December reflecting on the year. However, this year has been different. Every day has brought some degree of reflection, fear, and a few tears.

This year has brought some good experiences. I have received notes and visits from wonderful friends and family members who have encouraged me. Some are even strangers: my sister’s co-workers as well as members of her church. The most touching was an envelope of hand-made cards from a children’s group at my sister’s church. The purity of their comments and faith were difficult to read through the tears.

I have no idea what 2013 holds for me. In spite of the terrors(real and imagined), I know I am not alone. Yes, it is my struggle; living in a body that has decided to cease responding to my wishes. Regardless, I know someone has me on their mind or in their prayers every single day.

Thank you for being my friends; even those I’ve never met.

Peace and Blessings

Janet

The Last Look

In the past year our parents’ house has been emptied, painted, and soon will be sold. My sister has dealt with the nuances of these changes.

Every time she and her husband stayed at the near-empty house she would go through the house opening every door, closet door, and light…even the basement. Perhaps she was looking for something or someone.

The house is the only house she remembers as home. I remember the previous house as well as the apartment that is home to my first memories.

We spent time at Thanksgiving reliving my wedding reception held at our house; both of us walking out of our bedrooms in our wedding gowns. Further back…our first dog and riding our bicycles up and down the street. Our dad’s yearly gardens where the green beans, tomatoes and zucchinis grew to epic and legendary proportions.

The house is now empty. Brenda left the house last week for the last time.

Another family will celebrate their first Christmas in the house this year.

It is end of forty-five years of residence by our family.

The house may be gone to us, but the memories are forever…

Prairie Magic

Hot, dusty Texas day.
No clouds to hide the glare
of the sun. No wind to sweeten
the air with the scent of flowers.

The small house is paint-bare
with a screen door that doesn’t
close.

Big, fat flies weave their way
in and out of the screen-less
windows.

She pushes the door open
balancing the laundry basket
on one hip and a baby on the other.

She checks for rattlesnakes
before setting the child down.

She wearily begins hanging
clothes on the line;
one broken and retied so many times
she can hardly find a spot
for a clothespin.

Her back is tired and her womb is
full again. She wonders why
she lets that man weave his magic.

Then she smiles to herself.
She remembers those quiet
moments when she is his
one and only.

As the last sock is offered up to
the harsh sun she surveys her work.
Without a breeze the clothes will dry
dry and stiff.

But she has some magic of her own.

She picks up the child and walks
back to the house.

She turns and whistles.
Not loud and commanding like
calling a dog.
But softly, as to a lover.

Slowly…the wind beckons to her
a breeze freshens the sheets like
sails swelling and filling with invisible
gusts.

The aroma of wildflowers from miles
are borne on the sweet breath of the wind.

She smiles, and walks back into the house.
It’s time to start dinner for that man
who makes her smile…

Daddy’s Lap

This poem is inspired by a passage in “Grace for the Good Girl,” by Emily P. Freeman. She believes that in the midst of grief there are no strong women of God. There is only brokenness, desperate need, and little girls on Daddy’s lap.

When I was little my daddy’s lap
was for hugs, comforts and tickles.
A place of solace when the world
became too much to bear.

One day I was too big to sit
with my arms around his neck;
covering his rough, scratchy cheeks
with countless kisses.

I still felt pain, heartaches
and disappointments.
But I had no where to go.
The one person who knew me
from the first day of my life
was gone.

One day the pain became so
intense I could not walk or
even think.
So much grief and self-doubt.
Who could help me?

My pain must be of my own doing.
I made mistakes that left
me without a safe place
free of condemnation.

Then, a gentle hand
touched my shoulder
and turned me away from the
mirror of self-inflicted disgrace.

A kind voice said, “Come to me,
and I will give you rest, for I
have known you since the beginning of Time.”

I believed the voice, and did the thing
I longed for.
I climbed up onto my
Daddy’s lap; wrapped my
arms around his neck
and cried.

The Boys of Summer

I am a big baseball fan. Being from Baltimore makes me an Orioles fan by birth. My dad and I went to a game at least once a year. It was always fun when he was off on Opening Day. We made the pilgrimage to Memorial Stadium to watch the O’s play the Milwaukee Brewers.

I have great memories of attending sporting events with family. Every Thanksgiving my uncle invited me along with other family members to attend the annual City-Poly game. Before the game my aunt made us Lipton’s Chicken Noodle Soup, as the weather was usually freezing. I was never that interested in the game although I loved the half-time show. After the game it was on to a relative’s home for dinner and fun.

This summer has been wonderful season for Orioles baseball. We ended up as a wild-card in the playoffs; losing to the New York Yankees in five games.

Baltimore still loves their Birds. Hundreds of fans waited at Camden Yards to welcome the team home from New York and thank them for a great season of baseball.

Fornow the bats of Baltimoris are silent.

Next year the boys of summer  and Orioles Magic will return.

Yep, yous gotta believe…Hons

Our Dad

 

 

Today is our father’s birthday. He would have been eighty-seven years old. He was the youngest of five children; only two now remain. He grew up in a small town in West Virginia during the Depression. He and his brother shared a bed while his three sisters shared one as well. My grandfather worked for a local tannery and the railroad. He kept three gardens to feed his family. The family kept a cow. They received one pair of shoes a year. One year my dad wore out the toes of his shoes sledding. He padded the shoes with newspaper.

While this sounds like a horrible situation; you are wrong. They were a happy, close-knit family. There was no television to invite isolation. They had friends throughout the town, but they were each others’ friends as well. There are times they picked on each other. My dad was small for his age and he told stories of his older brother walking him around town with his arm twisted behind him. Just a little brotherly love…

My dad would bicycle around the county for miles and miles. He grew up in the mountains; mountains that my sister and I learned to love as well. He hunted, fished, and generally tramped his way around Tucker County.

He was not a good student. My sister and I have pieced together some stories indicating Dad had a little lazy streak.

When he graduated from high school he enlisted in the Navy. After all, the country was at war. He served aboard the submarine U.S.S. Quillback. According to the letters he sent Mom he had a smart attitude and gave his commanding officer some lip. He learned to never do that again.

That country boy traveled to Pearl Harbor and all points in between. His boat and crew were part of a campaign to sell War Bonds. If the rest of the crew looked as good in uniform as Dad; they sold a lot of bonds.

They spent time in Guam recuperating. The letters home reveal Dad liked the R&R. They got up in the morning, ate, went to the beach and napped. Repeat several times a day…Dad wrote that if the Navy was like that all the time he would be happy to re-enlist.

Like many of his generation he returned home, married his high school sweetheart and lived a long, happy life.

Brenda & I are very fortunate to have had a dad who, during the Dark Ages of the 50s and 60s, loved his daughters and didn’t hesitate to take us fishing, boating, and taught us to skin a squirrel. Sorry to all my squirrel-loving friends. I have repented of my crimes.

Regardless, Brenda and I grew up knowing we were daughters of a man who loved us.He didn’t care that he never fathered a son.

He not only forgave us of our crimes, but forgot them as well. To my knowledge he never brought up the past as blackmail.

The last five months of his life were the most difficult for all of us. He lost his wife as well as his memories. We watched him fade from this life into the next. Everything we did during those months were to provide him with the best care possible. It was all about him. It was the only way we could honor the man who knew us all of our lives.

Brenda and I were blessed to have had this an as our father. I think he knew he was blessed with two incredible daughters. If he didn’t know that while he was alive, I think he knows it now.

Happy Birthday, Dad

October 5, 2012

Good morning, everyone.

I have been pulling my writings from my old computer and discovering many things. One of them is this poem I wrote several years ago when my uncle passed away. He was an amazing man. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge and because of an infection; he missed joining his Maryland National Guard unit when it stormed the beaches at Normandy. Many of his friends and fellow soldiers died that day. But he was spared…

He came home, married his sweetheart and raised a family. He loved sports and was inducted into the Wrestling Hall of Fame for his influence on the sport.

He was a man who walked humbly before his God, and loved the waters around his ancestral home: Crisfield, Maryland.

 

All creation waits-in anticipation

we are here and the voice is distant; ofttimes muffled.

Whether we realize it or not,

we wait.

Then the voice grows louder: strong yet so gentle

The voice speaks joyously: “Well Done!”

As though it was the final goal in a close game.

And yet, it is.

It is a close game. Our words carry infinite weight.

We leave the darkness-we no longer gaze through the scratched

and marred mirror.

We enter the light…and the dance.

 

 

Janet

Sisterhood

I was a seasonal ranger at Gettysburg National Military Park for six years. It was exhilarating and fun. Many times it was extremely frightening. While I had a great working relationship with all the rangers; there was a definite bond among the female staff.

For some visitors women rangers were a oxymoron. They occasionally made disparaging remarks. One woman called me a “rangerette” and several times males visitors told me I had no idea what I was talking about (I did).

Many visitors appreciated our efforts and wrote letters of  appreciation.

The nasty incidents were easy to overlook with the support of the women on staff. I am still friends with many of them. Some have remained at Gettysburg while others have moved on to other sites. I left the Park Service to work for several museums before becoming an independent researcher and writer.

Besides being female we all shared several things in common. We wore ugly shoes… However, we all wore a uniform with a distinctive patch on the sleeve. In the middle of the patch is a white buffalo. We jokingly called ourselves members of the Order of the White  Buffalo.

I have wonderful memories of my time at the park. I discovered other women who were as obsessed with history and the Civil War. I still remember discussing the action at Little Round Top with Becky while actually standing on LRT. Or the many times I sought solace in the “Drum” chatting with Evangelina. It really doesn’t get much better than that.

I love all the great women I met at the park. I won’t mention names, but you know who you are.

Keep the faith and don’t let the you-know-whos get you down.

Love ya,

Janet