A little change of pace Harry, but the words needed an outlet.
Birds playing in the rain.
I love the sounds, the light patter of the rain,
the bird's songs and chirps,
and the silence of everything else,
the sights, as flashes of red and blue blink through the still bare branches.
The thunder tells me it will not last long,
so I will savor this until the beauty of the storm takes over.
Ah, the beauty of the storm
all rage and roar, blustering winds and sideways rain.
I love this too.
The thunder you can feel in the rattle of window and shaking floors,
the fingers of light giving glimpses of the swaying trees.
I love the goosebumps and snuggles from small, worried arms.
Shh, I say, the storm will pass.
Sleep now, sleep now.
Sleep, the storm shall,
I love this too.
The thunder now fades,
the whistle farther down the track,
the moon a beacon without rocky shore guides.
I love the ring of light,
a halo through the clouds,
as ghostly trees shine,
drips punctuate the still left behind.
I love this too.
I listen now to birds again,
who sing to dawn brought by the man,
who smiles down in the night, rejoicing.
Shh, sleep now, sleep now.
I love this too.
The quiet of deep night,
its stillness wrapping the weary,
shh, sleep now, sleep now.
Hope the storms your way were just as cleansing as the ones through my neck of the woods.
To Harry from New Jersey, with love from east Texas via a thunderstorm in the night.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Monday, March 10, 2014
Rites of Passage
Well Harry, another chance meeting, another moment frozen in a mind, another day where strangers become fast friends. Valentine's Day, a day for sharing our love with its history varied and bloody, but I try to stay in the spirit. This year, it is one of those weird off days for my school. Bad weather days that are built in and if not used, we get to stay home. I suppose that is only a southern thing as I watch the news of the north hit yet again by blowing snow and crushing ice.
On the 13th, I watch young love spread over my high school as teddy bears and chocolates were given and shared. I saw cheeks bloom with that fresh blush as the no PDA rule was tested again and again and young hearts burst with joy and sorrow over their Valentine's. I teased appropriately as young girls walked into my classroom carrying the proof of that undying devotion only the young seem to carry so easily. All of them convinced that this was the best day of their lives. I secretly thought, "I hope not." My hope for them is to thinks of this day with love, to think of it with a happy smile, but hopefully not the greatest moment. I hope they have many great moments, sad moments, but I suppose it is a kind of rite of passage. We all remember our high school crush, some more fondly than others. I think of my fickle heart in high school and how my crush seemed to change with the seasons.
On Valentine's Day, instead of pampering myself with chocolate and champagne, I woke early so that I could take my eldest for her own rite of passage, the driver's test. We rode in near silence, I in the passenger seat, her getting in a little last minute practice. We arrived at the DMV, appropriate paper work in hand and proceeded to wait our turn. There were several other hopefuls in line accompanied by parents who looked just as nervous as their charges. It came time and my daughter headed out with the instructor, all jangling nerves and brittle smiles.
The parallel parking portion of the test would be first. As the instructor had her test mirrors and lights, I and the others watched through the window and the recollections began. "I took my test in an old Ford with a 3 speed on the column," said a grandmother. "I took mine in a station wagon. I still don't know how I passed," a mother said. My own test was taken in a blue Ford Aerostar. I, too, do not remember how I passed. Now, they are off. We can see the parallel parking portion from our vantage point, orange cones that look to close together. We all watch with baited breath. Some of us trying to remember our own, others trying to get pointers on how to pass when their turn comes up.
"She's doing good," said the grandmother. "Cut the wheel a little harder," I breathe. Then she's done it. She's pulling back out and headed off to the road portion of the test. We all look at each other as the cheers and applause ring off the dull tan walls of the DMV. Smiles greet each waiting face. Now I wait for her return, but not alone. These strangers wait with me. We all hope she returns smiling. We all fear she will not. Only minutes pass before I see her return but they are the long minutes of time reserved for the waiting. As she gets out of the car and heads in, her face gives me no clue. Once inside, she sees me and even though it is a little shaky with nerves, she holds up that score sheet and beams at me. Again, the cheers resound. Congratulations are given and other hopefuls take a breath. "If she can do it, so can I." A few final words from the instructor and we are off again. Her paper driver's license in hand. I offer to let her drive home, but she shakes her head, "No thanks mom, you are still the better driver." Always humble and gracious my girl. I did not have the heart to mention that it probably had more to do with shaking hands and the need to text friends of her new status. As I head to her school, that did not get the same holiday as mine, we chat now about the car she wants, the job she will get.
Again, I am assaulted by my own remembrances of my first car, my first job. I wave her off at school with one more congratulations and how proud I am of her, but my mind is still traveling backwards instead of forwards. I spend the rest of the day doing a little retail therapy in the hopes my past will be forgotten, to somehow restart my forward thought.
At the end of the day as I happily make a congratulatory dinner and listen to the children make plans for where their sister will take them in her as of now nonexistent car, I receive an urgent email to call my aunts. It seems, Harry, that this Valentine's Day would be a day of love, but of love remembered, love shared in the past. My grandfather, my mother's father, had succumbed to his weakened heart. Why had they called me you ask instead of my mother. Well, good question. I being the eldest on our side, was nominated since my mother was several thousand miles away in Costa Rica, her favorite place on this earth, her second home.
I was charged with getting in touch with her, with relaying funeral arrangements and other details, and then back to the aunts and grandmother he left behind. I had to tell my mother through email that her father was gone. It was necessary as we did not have a way to call and I had to tell her, but it will be a moment that I will have to forgive myself as she does not blame me. It seems a kind of weird circle as the roles were reversed some twenty years ago when my mother had to tell me of my father's passing and serve as liaison to his family as I was too young. I suppose that is part of what troubles me. She told me in person and was there to comfort me, while I had to tell her when my arms could not reach her.
So my children and I traveled west to say our final goodbyes. He was remembered on a Thursday, bright and shiny with a bit of gusty wind. After flight delays and missed connections, my mother had made it as well as many others. I was finally able to give her the hug I was desperate for and the comfort I felt she needed although I suppose a child will always want the feeling of being wrapped in her mother's arms. We grandchildren many each said a little something, more I think, for our grandmother than ourselves. Family never seen before gave their condolences and cousins forgotten were now remembered and greeted as old friends. Happy smiles warred with teary eyes as each person reconciled with their own faith.
It was a week for rites of passage, Harry. Some joyful, some sorrowful but all parts of each of our lives. Death is our final rite, Harry. As mortals, we struggle with it, we fear it, we either rush towards it or struggle to fight against it at different points along our paths. We plan for it like it is some exotic vacation, but it is inevitable.
I have called my grandmother more since his death than I did in the six months before. I slowed down enough to realize that that is all she wants from me, a voice on the phone and maybe a visit now and then. She knows I love her, but she does not know my little joys, my triumphs, my worries. I always speak of those random connections that unite us humans, this time I remembered that they do not always have to be random.
So here is to joy remembered, family united and random connections, Harry. A little poem from my grandfather, Howard Hill, 1927-2014.
Miss Me - But Let Me Go
When I come to the end of the road
And the sun has set for me.
I want no rites in a gloom filled room
Why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little - but not too long
And not with your heard bowed low.
Remember the love that we once shared.
Miss me - but let me go.
For this a journey we all must take
And each must go alone.
It's all part of the Master's plan
A step on the road to home.
When you are lonely and sick of heart
Go to the friends we know
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds.
Miss me - but let me go.
As always, to you Harry from New Jersey, with love from east Texas via the great beyond.
On the 13th, I watch young love spread over my high school as teddy bears and chocolates were given and shared. I saw cheeks bloom with that fresh blush as the no PDA rule was tested again and again and young hearts burst with joy and sorrow over their Valentine's. I teased appropriately as young girls walked into my classroom carrying the proof of that undying devotion only the young seem to carry so easily. All of them convinced that this was the best day of their lives. I secretly thought, "I hope not." My hope for them is to thinks of this day with love, to think of it with a happy smile, but hopefully not the greatest moment. I hope they have many great moments, sad moments, but I suppose it is a kind of rite of passage. We all remember our high school crush, some more fondly than others. I think of my fickle heart in high school and how my crush seemed to change with the seasons.
On Valentine's Day, instead of pampering myself with chocolate and champagne, I woke early so that I could take my eldest for her own rite of passage, the driver's test. We rode in near silence, I in the passenger seat, her getting in a little last minute practice. We arrived at the DMV, appropriate paper work in hand and proceeded to wait our turn. There were several other hopefuls in line accompanied by parents who looked just as nervous as their charges. It came time and my daughter headed out with the instructor, all jangling nerves and brittle smiles.
The parallel parking portion of the test would be first. As the instructor had her test mirrors and lights, I and the others watched through the window and the recollections began. "I took my test in an old Ford with a 3 speed on the column," said a grandmother. "I took mine in a station wagon. I still don't know how I passed," a mother said. My own test was taken in a blue Ford Aerostar. I, too, do not remember how I passed. Now, they are off. We can see the parallel parking portion from our vantage point, orange cones that look to close together. We all watch with baited breath. Some of us trying to remember our own, others trying to get pointers on how to pass when their turn comes up.
"She's doing good," said the grandmother. "Cut the wheel a little harder," I breathe. Then she's done it. She's pulling back out and headed off to the road portion of the test. We all look at each other as the cheers and applause ring off the dull tan walls of the DMV. Smiles greet each waiting face. Now I wait for her return, but not alone. These strangers wait with me. We all hope she returns smiling. We all fear she will not. Only minutes pass before I see her return but they are the long minutes of time reserved for the waiting. As she gets out of the car and heads in, her face gives me no clue. Once inside, she sees me and even though it is a little shaky with nerves, she holds up that score sheet and beams at me. Again, the cheers resound. Congratulations are given and other hopefuls take a breath. "If she can do it, so can I." A few final words from the instructor and we are off again. Her paper driver's license in hand. I offer to let her drive home, but she shakes her head, "No thanks mom, you are still the better driver." Always humble and gracious my girl. I did not have the heart to mention that it probably had more to do with shaking hands and the need to text friends of her new status. As I head to her school, that did not get the same holiday as mine, we chat now about the car she wants, the job she will get.
Again, I am assaulted by my own remembrances of my first car, my first job. I wave her off at school with one more congratulations and how proud I am of her, but my mind is still traveling backwards instead of forwards. I spend the rest of the day doing a little retail therapy in the hopes my past will be forgotten, to somehow restart my forward thought.
At the end of the day as I happily make a congratulatory dinner and listen to the children make plans for where their sister will take them in her as of now nonexistent car, I receive an urgent email to call my aunts. It seems, Harry, that this Valentine's Day would be a day of love, but of love remembered, love shared in the past. My grandfather, my mother's father, had succumbed to his weakened heart. Why had they called me you ask instead of my mother. Well, good question. I being the eldest on our side, was nominated since my mother was several thousand miles away in Costa Rica, her favorite place on this earth, her second home.
I was charged with getting in touch with her, with relaying funeral arrangements and other details, and then back to the aunts and grandmother he left behind. I had to tell my mother through email that her father was gone. It was necessary as we did not have a way to call and I had to tell her, but it will be a moment that I will have to forgive myself as she does not blame me. It seems a kind of weird circle as the roles were reversed some twenty years ago when my mother had to tell me of my father's passing and serve as liaison to his family as I was too young. I suppose that is part of what troubles me. She told me in person and was there to comfort me, while I had to tell her when my arms could not reach her.
So my children and I traveled west to say our final goodbyes. He was remembered on a Thursday, bright and shiny with a bit of gusty wind. After flight delays and missed connections, my mother had made it as well as many others. I was finally able to give her the hug I was desperate for and the comfort I felt she needed although I suppose a child will always want the feeling of being wrapped in her mother's arms. We grandchildren many each said a little something, more I think, for our grandmother than ourselves. Family never seen before gave their condolences and cousins forgotten were now remembered and greeted as old friends. Happy smiles warred with teary eyes as each person reconciled with their own faith.
It was a week for rites of passage, Harry. Some joyful, some sorrowful but all parts of each of our lives. Death is our final rite, Harry. As mortals, we struggle with it, we fear it, we either rush towards it or struggle to fight against it at different points along our paths. We plan for it like it is some exotic vacation, but it is inevitable.
I have called my grandmother more since his death than I did in the six months before. I slowed down enough to realize that that is all she wants from me, a voice on the phone and maybe a visit now and then. She knows I love her, but she does not know my little joys, my triumphs, my worries. I always speak of those random connections that unite us humans, this time I remembered that they do not always have to be random.
So here is to joy remembered, family united and random connections, Harry. A little poem from my grandfather, Howard Hill, 1927-2014.
Miss Me - But Let Me Go
When I come to the end of the road
And the sun has set for me.
I want no rites in a gloom filled room
Why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little - but not too long
And not with your heard bowed low.
Remember the love that we once shared.
Miss me - but let me go.
For this a journey we all must take
And each must go alone.
It's all part of the Master's plan
A step on the road to home.
When you are lonely and sick of heart
Go to the friends we know
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds.
Miss me - but let me go.
As always, to you Harry from New Jersey, with love from east Texas via the great beyond.
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