Love...Passing Over

When you see me write about my cousin/nephews, these are the sons of my Dad's oldest brothers daughter, to whom my parents were legal guardians of until she was 18, always known to me as 'Sis'.  Though there will be genealogical information gathered by Sara Lee Ragland, that will indicate William Fletcher Ragland as her father.  There will be references to Bill Ragland, these are one and the same person.  I never knew my Uncle Bill, as my Granddad Ragland, both had passed before I was born.  My knowledge of them came from stories within the family and through pictures.

This side of the family originated from Wales, when three brothers came to America and one of them added the 'd' to the end of the name, the other two maintained the original spelling of the name, 'Raglan', of which there is still a castle bearing this name, in Wales.

http://www.castlewales.com/raglan.html

Though you will see the name on my Dad/Mom's headstone incorrectly giving his name as 'Clark Asher', which was my Granddad Raglands' name, my Dads name was only 'C.A.', period, all there was to it!  There are hopes of getting this corrected, as I promised Dad I would do when he saw it the day it was delivered and was highly distressed about the incorrect name being on it, as if my Granddad had passed away again.

The mix up, which I'm not sure who was given final approval before it was chiseled into the stone, I only know that it was not me, I believe came from Dads' social security card, which listed his first name as 'Clark', with a middle initial of 'A'.  This came from his being a civilian iron worker for the Navy during WWII, and they required a first name.  But someone had to have dropped the ball between point A and B on the headstone.  People who attended Dad's 'Going Home Gathering' mentioned the incorrect name to me, that is the final identity, the name under which visitors will inquire of location in the cemetery will not be found.  Thankfully it is a small cemetery and most in the area knew Dad.

The 'Sunset of Life' and the process of releasing persons to the next life are all processes for the living, not for those passed over.  The decisions that are made on their behalf by those who are left behind are some of the most emotionally taxing I think.  This is the last act of kindness and love you can show to that person, and it is imperative to you to do it all as they wanted.  Neither of my parents, in life, wanted to discuss these topics.  Though I believe they should be, because you are never really certain when that time is going to come, when you will be the one left to make the decisions.  Sometimes it comes very early in life, others are blessed with many years.

For my first nephew/cousin, Harrell Wayne, it came very early in life, at 18 months.  I was barely 4 years old at the time, and can remember the days before his arrival.  I remember first meeting him just before his first Christmas, at the apartment where his parent, Patsy, sister/cousin, and her husband, Harrell, lived.  He was a beautiful little guy, with his wide, toothless smile laughing up at me, he was ours, and I adored him from that day on.  The following May I would turn 3, and do not recall ever feeling jealous of the love and affection my parents had for him, just enjoyed hearing his laughter from my Dads' arms being tickled and played with.  He was my parents first Grandchild, and he was much loved.

Even now I have problems talking about his passing, events and feelings of that time were etched on my heart and embedded in my mind, for life.  I was there when he passed, present as Patsy drove the car as fast as possible toward town on Route 66 to the emergency room, watched as my Mom continued to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on him from the passenger seat, prayed from the back seat where I stood holding on to the front seat, worried over the cars that would not get out of the way and let us go faster.  The ambulance would have come, if the two old ladies on the party line of 8 would have let me have the phone and make the call like Mom sent me to the house to do, but because they would not, time had been lost with Mom having to go to make the call and stopping CPR to do so. 

This left Patsy with Harrell Wayne, to do CPR, with me sitting on my knees in the grass, watching her desperately breathing into him, screaming and crying between breathes, only to gather him into her arms and run, screaming out to God to please save her baby.  And I running along beside her trying to get him from her to continue CPR, knowing she was too distraught to do so and that having watched Mom, knew I could do!

Even now I grieve, am crying now as I recall this.  Because even as we pulled into the ER and rushed inside, and they went into the ER and the huge metal doors swung shut, I knew he was gone.  God told me in my heart.  Mrs. Ireland, the head nurse, came to take my hand and walk me down a long hallway to the left, where on our left was the nursery and we stood looking at the babies there.  I recall crystal clear thinking that it was all so very unfair, here were all these other babies to be loved, and our baby was gone.  And it was my fault!

Some would say not, then and now, but I was the one who left the front yard to go to my swing over in the big cottonwood tree, leaving him there to play with the little tractor and swingset.  Going inside to the sewing room where Mom and Patsy were and asking to be let out to go swing.  The heavy wooden back door had a latch way up high and it was locked, Patsy had to let me out. 

As soon as I was outdoors I ran toward the well house where the big cottonwood stood, and from it hung my rope swing that Dad had put up for me, on a very long rope, you could swing as high as the sky from it.  I sat in it and swung toward the east, away from the house, because the gate to the front yard sat to side of the house and from the yard you could see the swing, I
didn't want to make Harrell Wayne want out.  I had seen him standing at the gate looking toward me, I didn't want to meet his eyes and make him want out.

I don't know how long I was swinging when Patsy hollered from the house to ask if I had seen him over there.  To get there he would have had to cross the little irrigation ditch as I had, across the wooden bridge over it.  Being summer the ditches were full to overflowing, even the three big weirs out toward the highway, which was not far from the front of the house.  All of us went all over the farm calling to him, Patsy even went out to the highway, I can still see her in my mind standing in the drive calling out to him with her hands cupped to her mouth.

While Patsy was doing this, my Mom was in the little irrigation ditch walking with her hands down into the water, calling Harrell Wayne and praying, I still see this and remember thinking she was getting her watch wet, the pretty gold one with the little chain on the clasp, the one Dad had bought her.  She didn't notice.  After some time she went around the curve in the ditch beside the corrals, and at the first gated drop in the ditch she found Harrell Wayne, only by the air trapped inside his 'rubber pants' that covered his cloth diaper and were just barely showing above the waters surface.

The Sacremento Snow Storm

When I was 4, the family all got together once again to go deer hunting.  This was a time when several family members would pack up their gear, load the vehicle and head out for stays in the mountains for the deer season, until everyone had gotten their deer.  These were great times together, spent for the most part in the main tent, a huge tent where the meals were shared together, dominoes play, songs sang.  There was even a pot-bellied stove around which people sat to play music after the evening meal. 

My Grandparents had a slide-in camper they put on their pickup where they stayed, Dad was not going to be able to go this year, so Mom and I went with them and would be sleeping in a little tent near their camper.  Grandpa would come in the evenings with a heated cast iron skillet and put it under the mattress by our feet, and had put a little butane heater inside connected to a small bottle of propane outside.  We were warm as toast every night.

This year we were in the mountains near Carizozo, New Mexico.  Ed and Frances Snapp and their son, Arvo, were with the group, my Grandparents, and Mom and I.  Dad would be coming down later on.  I remember there was much activity in 'setting up camp', but Arvo and I played with the little plastic antique cars my Grandpa had bought me in Carizozo where we fueled up, and broke everyone of them.  I was terribly upset about this.

I don't know how many days we were there before the snow came, unexpectedly.  I do remember my Grandpa hacking us out of the tent we were sleeping in, fearing that we had been asphyxiated from the little stove, though I did not know this until later, only that he kept hollering at us and talking to my Mom while whacking away, I thought it was funny and cute of him to be so concerned, whack, whack!

What I did not realize was that about 6'-8' of snow had fallen during the night, and it was still snowing.  There was no way we were going to drive out of there, we were far back in the mountains, at the very end of a 'trail' of a road.  I was enthralled, it was surely the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life!  4-year-olds know no danger, that there is a set amount of food for a certain period of time, that there is only so much fuel on hand for heat and cooking.

We spent that first day in the camper with my Grandparents, wiping the condensation from the aluminum ceiling of the camper, all day, while the men were out shoveling snow from around the vehicles, FOR HOURS!  Grandpa would come in to eat, have something to drink, thaw out and rest, then go back out.  My Mother and Grandmother were talking about the situation, with concerned looks on their faces, I didn't know why they were worried, Dad was coming in a few days, and I knew he would just drive that pickup right on in there.  Probably bring the tractor and pull the pickups out of the snow.

Unknown to us at the time, the Ranger Station who takes all the names and locations of those going into the mountains, while checking all their licenses for hunting, were in contact with the Army, 8+ feet of snow is no joking matter.  I was just having the time of my life, the walk ways that had been dug out from camper to tent, to main tent, to the other camper were feats of wonder to me, the sides of the paths towered above my head.  Looking back I realize we were like mice in a little maze of paths, and that only a few feet away from that towering left side of the path, the deep snow blanket went on for miles, hiding any identifiable thing.

On the morning of the third day from the snow storm we could hear engines off in the distance, my Grandpa speculated that they had called out the National Guard to come in after all the hunters scattered throughout the mountains.  But there was no telling when they might make it back to where we were, sound carried far over the snow and quiet of the mountains.  But the next morning a gentleman in a black fur hat, long gray overcoat with a fur collar, black boots, a 'Clark Gable' mustache, beautiful brown eyes and stellar smile made his way into the 'path maze'. 

I do remember Jim Clayton, they called him, but I was sure it was Clark Gable!  And said so!  My Grandparents and Mother knew him, and I kept asking Mom if that was Clark Gable?!  He told everyone to lock up and prepare to leave, The Army was at the main road in half-tracks and we would be walking out the path they had spent the last 12 hours digging.  He picked me up to carry me out and everyone else followed him.  I was gobsmacked, he was gorgeous! LOL

When we made it to the main road, there were about 6 'big trucks' and some heavy equipment off the side of the 'trail' they had blazed through the middle of the 'snow field' where the road lay hidden.  He set me up in the back of the half-track and then helped everyone else in, there were several people already there.  The lady next to us held a little blonde Cocker Spaniel, so I was quite content to sit on my Moms' lap and visit with the lady and her little dog.  People were just sitting on the floor with their backs against the side of the covered back portion of the truck, I took all this in and asked my Mom where they were taking us.

It turned out that the Army had called in trains to run according to the direction that people needed to go, either east or west.  We would be going east.  I was so excited to ride a train.  Golly Wow and Shazam, what a lucky kid I am I thought, and said so to Mom.  I did not know then that it had taken two days to clear the tracks and get the trains lined up to go, that train station was packed full of people.  We were there for several hours, people phoning to get in touch with family members, cleaning up and changing clothes, eating and drinking what the Army had brought in.

Mr. Clayton was there, I had of course had to make a time to go and thank him, and to stare at him some more!  He did not seem to mind my childish infatuation of him.  He came over just before we were to board to let Mom know personally, I had had all the excitement I could hold and had zonked out just as the train was getting there.  Though my Mom tried to wake me and I remember trying so very hard to open my eyes to see the train she kept telling me was there, I was just done in for the day.

It was late night by the time we were pulling into the railroad yard in Tucumcari, by then I was no longer comatose and could see the amber light shining through the windows of the depot.  I was sure my Dad would be there, I could not wait to tell him all about my adventures, he would be so impressed!

The parking area of the depot was full of cars, mostly police cars, those lovely, beautiful cars of black and white with the single red light on top, this was safety, things were back to normal.  These were people I knew, friends of my parents and 'surrogate' uncles to me, I knew Jerry would be there!  

And sure enough, Jerry is who met the train, with several other officers that my parents knew.  But Jerry is who I was looking for, and when I saw him I bounded off the train step into his arms.  He carried me to the depot, with me chattering all the way.  Telling him that Clark Gable came to carry me out of the snow, but that my Mom said it was someone else.  

Inside the depot, it was pretty crowded, mostly with officers that Jerry knew.  Mom was given a cup of coffee and sat down on one of the benches to wait her turn to call and let Dad know we were there.  Nobody had known how long it would take the train to get there, so were not called until it pulled in.  She was talking to Dad on the phone when Jerry stood me up on a desk there.  I was telling all the officers about being snowed in and the Army coming to get us, digging us out and riding in the half-track, about the lady with the dog, and Clark Gable carrying me out of the snow.

Jerry had some thumb cuffs he put on me and we all had a big laugh about me trying to get out of them.  When Dad got there I was standing 'cuffed' on the desk and laughing.

http://www.nmstatepoliceassoc.com/1940s.php  The second photo on the opening page is of Jerry, before my time

http://amarillo.com/stories/012301/obi_brunk_28.shtml  His obituary in the Amarillo paper

http://www.yourhikes.com/HikePages/HikePage.aspx?HikeID=37  The area around Carizozo and the Sacremento Mountain Range

Happy Birthday 2 Year Old

Yes, I know I missed a couple of days, gave us all a rest. I was thinking about a lot of things this last couple of days, times we all had together, things I thought you might be interested to hear, and what would share with you the wonder that was born in me through the people in my life. 

How little things stick in your memory for years, that you draw strength from when recalled. In some areas I have memory that scares some people.  For instance, I can remember my second birthday, what I was wearing, where we went, who was there, etc. When I brought this up with my Mother, to verify if my memories were correct, she was a bit flabberghasted, but as I recalled more things, verified that it was exactly as I remembered, but she didn't know how I could remember that far back.  I was in my 20's when we were discussing this. 

Little things are very important to small children, I don't think I was unusual in this.  I adored the peddle-pusher sailor suit I had on for my second birthday, with the little sailor collar and tie knotted in front at the neckline.  White with tiny double-piping in navy and my little double-buckle white leather sandals. And my cake that Peanut Williams baked for me, and took to Conchas Lake where we celebrated, was just the most gorgeous thing.  White icing, with yellow roses and yellow writing saying, ''Happy Birthday 2 Years Old'', because I had my Mom read it to me. 

I was so proud of it, the time she took to make it, just for me. When Dad and Uncle Bill got in the boat to go fishing, I wanted to go too, but I had to take my cake with me.  I still vividly remember sitting in the middle of the boat, with my cake on my lap and it starting to sprinkle, so Uncle Bill put up the umbrella in the middle of the boat to protect my cake and we headed back to shore.  We then cut my cake, after my Mom had to talk me into it, and Peanuts had put a silver dollar inside my cake for me, making sure to cut and give me that special piece. 

It takes so little to make others happy and know they are loved. I still remember the look Peanuts had on her face when she saw how much I loved my cake and wanted to just keep it and take it everywhere with me, not even eat it! Dad and Uncle Bill even thought that was pretty funny and 'begged' for a piece of cake before I would let anyone cut it, so of course, I couldn't deny them then!

Almost 3/4 of a Century

My parents were married on January 2, 1932, when my Mom passed away on November 17, 2006, they were about to celebrate their 75th wedding anniversary.

Both of them would turn 19 in May following their marriage, they were virtually married their whole lives.  Most people don't even live as long as they were married.

When we threw a 50th Anniversary party for them, I jokingly asked Mom if she was ready to trade Dad in on a new model.  She laughed and said,''Naw, I'll keep him, besides I just got him trained like I want him''.

They were married for 26 years before they adopted me, but in the years before I was born several kids from the area stayed with them to finish school when parents were moving or some crisis occurred in the middle of the school year and they wanted to stay to finish it out.  Many of their nieces and nephews stayed with them, a couple until they were grown, both before and after I was born.  They counted up one time that 29 kids, other than me, had lived with them through the years.

That is a permanence few people know in their lives, a bond, a pledge that is almost unheard of these days.  I am sure that in the ebb and flow of life, there were some stormy seas for them, having gone through the Great Depression was challenge enough to break many people. They had nothing but a car when they got married, and yet they were happy together. Family and friends gave them things and they both worked hard, long past the time when most people have retired.  They were never rich in earthly goods or money, but they were comfortable, and the best thing was that they loved what they were doing, and they did that together.

Spinning Wheels Rodeo

Having mentioned forward motion, wind in my face, I have to tell you about when I was 7 and my Dad decided to buy me a motorcycle, totally unknown to my Mother.  Even if it was a Lady Yamaha 50, step through with leg protectors, and had to be pulled backward onto a double-down stand to park.  My Mother was pretty sure, for about the millionth time, that my Dad had lost his mind.  But it was something of a 'well, gotta get her one too', since my cousin and his son had gone with us to Amarillo, or we with them, don't recall specifically. 

A motorcycle sales/service business was going out of business and were auctioning off everything they had on the floor.  Rather like the sales ring where 'hawkers' work the room and shout in bids, it was pretty lively.  Very early in the sales my cousin saw the one he and his son was going to buy and stayed with it until they got it.  This required that the two of kids take off on it out through their back lot, zigging and zagging between the umpteen cars that were parked here and there and everywhere.  All I have to do is mention the driver of the bike and you will know that my life was in danger.  If there were 5 gears on the thing, then we were going to have to 'try' them all.

Waymond has never been known for 'taking things easy', ever.  There is another bike story about he and I out in the street in front of the church I will tell you about later, which is amazing that I lived through this one to experience at all.  We raced between cars, turned in front of incoming trucks preparing to load up their purchases, skidded around a few pickups and somehow made it back to the front of the building where our Dads were, in time to see my Dad pushing out the bike he had bought me.  I had not even imagined that I was going to get one also.  Oh, did I mention we were not wearing helmets, those had been purchased for us after we had peeled out the minute his bike was bought, our Dads were standing there holding them.  Sure fire way to keep them from being damaged.

Salt Cedars Galore

I always wanted a black horse, never did have one though, but I think they are beautiful.  Was always around horses growing up, my Dad was very much a 'horse man', and wanted me to be as crazy about them as well, so he started me out young.  I was 2 the first time I remember going behind Dad on Bessie, his Palomino.  She was a sweet horse, with a beautiful, creamy-colored mane and tail.  Sitting behind the saddle and scooted up real close, with double-wraps of my hands in the leather fringe, Dad would put his left arm behind me, reins in his right, and off we'd go to check the cows in the creek pasture.  There were water gaps to check and cows to count, Dad always liked to see his cattle every day, so we did, no matter what pasture they were in.  It was grand adventure to me, wind blowing in your face with your hair lifting in the same rhythm as the horses mane, this is when I fell in love with forward motion, wind in my face.

My Grandma had made me a special bandanna for these occasions.  She took a bandanna and folded it in half point-to-point, and placed a plastic headband at the front, widest part, then basted it in along the back and ends of the headband.  The loose ends of the bandanna then tied behind your neck.

With my bluejeans and boots on and wearing my special bandanna, I thought I was pretty much all that as Mom would lift me up to put my foot in the stirrup Dad had just dropped his foot out of and I'd swing up behind him as he held my left arm.

He would double-check my hands in the fringe, adjust my booted feet pretty much sticking straight out on either side of him, reach his arm behind me and off we'd go, loping out of the driveway headed south to the creek.

It didn't take me long to figure out that I had to lean forward when Dad would trot Bessie uphill and lean back when we started down the other side.  Her hooves in the shallow creek water was just the neatest thing I thought, splashing water up her sides and sprinkling my legs and back.

Dad and I did this countless times together, but on this one day I was with him we were missing a calf.  He explained I was going to have to hold on real tight without his arm behind me because we were going to have to go through the 'brush', which was groves and groves of salt cedars, and with one hand he would guide Bessie and with the other keep the branches from slapping us in the face as we went by.

I was so engrossed and enthralled with this new adventure, leaning off to one side when Dad would and he would hold the salt cedar branch away from us.  He would ask me, ''You still with me?'' every once in a while after these tree scraping moments.

We found the calf and Dad showed me how to tell from his nose that he had sucked, so he was good, his Momma knew where he was, she would go to him later.

The mounting exercises when Mom wasn't there to lift me up to Dad were a little different.  It was a good thing Bessie was so gentle, because I'd kind of be there dangling for a moment until I could get my foot in the stirrup and get all settled aboard.

We had checked the water gaps and headed back to the house when I realized my bandanna was gone!  Dad said he would come back and look for it later, but I just knew it would be gone by then, blown away by the wind or a coyote grabbing it, or some other awful thing and it would be lost to me forever.

I think Dad turned around and retraced our path because he didn't want to listen to me go on forever about it all the way back to the house. 

We did finally find it, but that meant we were quite a bit later than usual in getting back to the house, when we trotted into the driveway there stood my Mother, with those hands folded back, resting on her hips.  If you knew my Mother, you know exactly what I mean.

The Shadows of the Wickets

My Grandpa had the patience of Job, very quiet, steady man, he was gentle by nature.  He and my Grandmother had a croquet court up west of the garage, well tended grass, short mowed, with a hand pushed reel mower.  I can still see him in silhouette against the evening sun, with his fedora hat on,  mowing that grass.

I don't know where his faith in me came from, to say it was misplaced would be an understatement.  But when I was 2 he decided to teach me to play croquet.  It was in the early morning, I can vaguely remember because of where the shadows were on the grass from the wickets and stakes.

There is a fine art to this game, and it is meant to be played at a leisurely pace.  When your ball has ended up too close to someone elses' ball to fully strike it in the direction you want to go, you can place your foot on the other ball firmly, and strike it to knock your ball forward toward the wicket.

Okay, this is why I say my Grandpa was the most patient man I have ever known in my life.  He was taking the time to tell me and show me all the finer inner workings of the game, and to demonstrate how one did that.  There is no telling actually how long he took to go through the moves, line the balls up and give me an opportunity to 'play through', same as in golf.

I can remember trying to take all of it in, I so wanted to please him and make my Grandpa proud of me, the smiles and laughs we shared that day are part of the kaleidoscope of memories I treasure.

And only one of the reasons I miss him so.
From Wikipedia:

The American rules version of croquet – another six-wicket game – is the dominant version of the game in the United States and is also widely played in Canada. It is governed by the United States Croquet Association. Its genesis is mostly in association croquet, but it differs in a number of important ways that reflect the home-grown traditions of American "backyard" croquet.
Two of the most notable differences are that the balls are always played in the same sequence (blue, red, black, yellow) throughout the game, and that a ball's "deadness" on other balls is carried over from turn to turn until the ball has been "cleared" by scoring its next hoop. Tactics are simplified on the one hand by the strict sequence of play, and complicated on the other hand by the continuation of deadness. A further difference is the more restrictive boundary-line rules of American croquet.^[21]
In the American game, roqueting a ball out of bounds or running a hoop out of bounds causes the turn to end, and balls that go out of bounds are replaced only nine inches from the boundary rather than a yard as in association croquet.^[21] "Attacking" balls on the boundary line to bring them into play is thus far more challenging.

Dare To Dream

One of the earliest memories I have of my Grandpa, is of he and I laying on a blanket out in the front yard, on the grass near the fish pond that is no longer there.  I must have been about 2-years-old, and he with his right hand, since his left hand was missing all the fingers to the last knuckle, would point out shapes in the clouds; rabbit, elephant, face ~ and then ask to be sure I could see it. 

Have I mentioned that I adored this man?  In his flannel plaid shirts and khaki pants and suspenders, smelling of Swisher Sweets, of which I always got the 'ring', and would wear it until it literally fell apart.  He also smoked a corncob pipe on occasion, I loved nestling into that flannel covered shoulder and breathing in the smell, which to this day brings feelings of warmth and safety and love.

I spent weekends with my Grandparents often, beginning at a very young age, when most children will not be separated from their parents for anyone or anything.  When my parents would come to pick me up, I would run go hide, and my Grandpa would instantly become my 'partner in crime', declaring, ''Well, I don't know where she is, she was here just a minute ago''. 

Beyond grateful and blessed to have come to this family of which this lovely man was patriarch, steel wrapped in velvet.

In 1902 he rode a bicycle from Kansas to New Mexico to put in his homestead claim.  Having done so, then sold the bicycle and bought a round trip train ticket to return to Kansas for my Grandmother, and they come to New Mexico to begin their lives together as a married couple.  She was all of 16 and he 21.

The beauty of these family stories is the history they bring for my sons, for whom I mainly share them, that they would have them after I am gone.

I've Had Worse Places On My Eyeball

Have I mentioned that my Dad grew up in Texas?  He had some sayings that only folks from Texas knows what mean, you either had to be born and raised there or have spent a number of years there to 'relate' to them in any way.  Other people kind of look at you strange when you use these sayings, and they usually go right over their heads.  So you then spend the next several minutes explaining what it means.

Here is an example of when this term, ''worse places on my eyeball'' would be used, whether appropriate or not.

I think I was about 9 at the time, as usual running everywhere I went.  Because of this I was 'rail thin' ,as people would say, and all legs.  I had been sent to the far end of the field checking the electric fence as I went, making sure the wire was securely in the insulators on the poles around the alfalfa fields.  The hay was almost waist high on me and just budding out, ready to be cut and then baled.

Having finished my job I was in a 'high lope' back to the house and had just cleared the hay and entered into some tall Jose` grass when my right knee slammed into something I couldn't get my leg back off of.  I was trying not to 'scream like a girl' and not throw up and pull my leg back off of what turned out to be a piece of angle iron leaning out from an old feeder hidden by the grass.  The steel was rammed into my kneecap and trying to stand on one leg and use both hands to get my leg free was not going according to plan.

After a few minutes, seemed more like years, I know now it was several minutes only, I got my leg off the thing.  I stood for a while with my hand over my kneecap trying to regain some composure and figure out how I was going to get all the way back to the house, I could barely stand to put my foot flat on the ground with any weight on it at all.  I was so close to screaming from the pain, I knew I was going to have problems.

It hurt so bad, I kept my hand over my kneecap and 'gallumped' to the house, calling on Jesus with every step to just help me, with each step saying His name.  When finally I saw the house and my Dad standing in the driveway, alas, redemption I thought, I will be given some horse lineament or something to put on it and all would be well.

Very near collapse in my youthful trauma, when I reached my Dad and could pull up my pants leg to show him my horrific injury and wonder with him what we could do to save my leg, he said to me, ''Aw, babe, I've had worse places than that on my eyeball''.

He didn't mind if you cried when you got your feelings hurt, but he sure didn't expect to have you 'go to pieces' just because you got 'banged up a little'.

Later as I sat on the edge of the canal under the trees in 'my place' contemplating all this, I thought about all that Jesus had been through willingly and on my behalf, and I had a long talk with Him about my hurts, both external and internal, and let Him know how grateful I was for the pain that He endured, since I could now relate, somewhat, to what it must have felt like to have his hands and feet nailed to a chunk of wood.

Over The Rainbow

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oa79YcLriI0&feature=player_embedded

Hearing the Bible story of ''Noah and the Ark'' and having a mind that made movies to my thoughts or to what was being read or said to me, there were plenty of odd things I wondered about from this story.  Especially after my 18-month-old cousin/nephew (another story for another time) drowned at the farm in an irrigation ditch.  The thought of the entire world drowning, except for Noah, his wife, their three sons and their wives and only two of each animal species, male and female, I was in awe of God, and more than a little fearful.  And let a big rainstorm come up and I would become so afraid I would be sick to my stomach.

Once, when I was about 7 or 8 it rained non-stop for 3 days.  The creek that ran a half mile south of the house was over the banks by several feet, and had it not laid in a wide 'U' canyon, and our house been uphill from there, we would have been flooded out.  A mile or so to the east the creek wound around to the north and passed under a long bridge that had to be crossed to get to church or to school.  On the third night of the rain, which happened to be a church night and just like the post, come rain or shine, we were headed to church.  The water had topped the bridge and was running several inches deep over the road, even my Mother was telling my Dad we should turn around and go back home.  I was absolutely possitive we were going to die that night.

We did make it to church, everyone was singing and clapping their hands and enjoying the service while it continued to rain outside.  All I could think about was how much more water would be running over the bridge on the way home and asked my Dad several times through the service if we couldn't just spend the night in town with some relatives and go home tomorrow.  Since he and my Mother drove a school bus and the next day was school, the answer was no, we had to go home.  In my minds' eye I could just see the newspaper write up about this family, who determined to attend church, had been swept off the bridge on the way home and were nowhere to be found, nobody to drive the bus the next day and no one to call and let them know.

I knew that God had put a rainbow in the sky as a promise to Noah that never again would He destroy the world by water, but that didn't cover one crazy family on the way home in a station wagon!  At that moment I was really very upset with my Dad, but of course, could not tell him that!  I knew, even then, that someday when I was a Mom, I sure wasn't going to do crazy things like this with my children along.

Seems rather odd now that one of my favorite songs is ''Over the Rainbow'' by Judy Garland.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1HRa4X07jdE

Who Was God's Mother

As 'Providence' had seen fit to place me by adoption into a home with parents in their mid-40's, who were Christians, I came to know that providence was God.  With my Dad being a deacon in the church, I grew up on scriptures and Bible stories, both in church and at home.  There were family devotions from my earliest memories, until I was about 8 years old, no clue at this time, yet, why they were discontinued.  But, nevertheless, there was prayer in our home.  Grace was said before every meal and as far back as I can remember my Dad got up at 5 in the morning, every morning, if not earlier.  He would put the coffee on to 'perk' in a glass percolator on the stove, while it 'perked' he would pray.  I woke often to here him in the living room, first at the old wooden-armed, padded rocker and years later, at his recliner.  When the coffee was done, he would have a cup, straight from the pot, hot as lava, strong and black, and read his Bible for an hour.

My Mother was a country wife and a busy Mother.  Most of my memories of her from my early years are of her in the kitchen, radio on, pots on the stove and her rolling out something on the breadboard that would shortly thereafter go into the oven.  She sang all the time, full songs and just verses, as she worked in the kitchen or as she and I were in the garden.  Of which she knew of no limit on, besides the huge plot of ground just south of the house, she and Dad would put in a 'truck patch', rows from end-to-end on one side of the field, and Dad would have the 4-point planter boxes on and plant 4 rows at a time of corn, beans, melons, etc.  Mom loved to hoe out the garden and truck patch, and sang all the while.

Every Sunday we went to my Grandparents house after church, either for dinner or after dinner with church folks or after dinner at home and before we would go back to church in the evening.  Grace was always said by my Grandpa, well sometimes as an honor he would ask my Dad to say Grace, but it was always said.  My Grandpa went to church 2 or 3 times a year, but was probably the most spiritual person I ever knew, quiet by nature and with a strength of character you instinctively trusted.  The whole community did, and called him 'Pop'.  I adored him.  He spoke with me on topics no one else did.  Such reverence he had for life and nature and people.  From him I learned so much, not least of which was that though others might make a distinction that I was adopted, he was thrilled and blessed to have me for a Granddaughter, and that it 'looks like she's going to be a red-head'.  Which he truly wanted, as he had been red-headed in his youth.

It was this observed connection and continuance of generations, the gathering of all the aunts and uncles and cousins almost on a monthly basis, that at 4-years-old made me ask my Mother, ''Who was God's Mother?''  To which she answered, ''God did not have a Mother, He always has been, always is and always will be.''  In the midst of the spin cycle that threw my brain into, I wondered; How did one know Him?  How did they KNOW know that?  Who was this person that prompted my Dad to talk to them every morning?  And since I was just a little kid, did He hear me?  Even though every night I repeated the old poem with my Mother, ''I see the moon and the moon sees me, God Bless the moon and God Bless me.''  And would not go to bed until I had told the moon good night in this special way.

The Birth of Wonder

The birth of wonder; when is it born?  Is it present at birth, as we are thrust out into the unknown by unseen forces?  Or does it come later, when we first learn and accept that we are captains of our own ship, but without a sextant to plot our course?  This will come from experience, mentors, family, that we hope have our best interests at heart.  Regardless of age, we are all children, still traversing this plane, drawing on the world around us as we progress forward through time. 


When our children are born, this all comes rushing over us, great waves of responsibility.  The need to assist in the building of their ship, to introduce them to the pieces they will first use in construction, and not try to override their instinctive desire to build the ship they envision.  While instilling enough information that their vessel will be sea worthy, and not sink at first launch.  A very delicate balance this.