Monday, June 10, 2013
Friday, May 31, 2013
One summer & Paul
I was fourteen, loving life, living as large as an eighth grade student could live. My super high on life was going to last forever. I was sure. Besides it was the summer of 69, who could lose?
My Grandmother's home was just around the curve from the Clinton water tower. You saw the tower, you were practically standing on her old white-washed wooden porch. There was probably a chicken or two in the yard; they'd scatter whenever cars rolled into that big dirt driveway. The neighbor's dog, "Champ" would come off the porch, bark a moment as if to say, "what took you so long?" Then Grandmother herself in the apron of the day would greet us with a loud, "Hello there, I need some hugs!"
A big family gathering this time as cousin Paul was arriving home from Vietnam. Two tours of duty... a proud Marine... but something was so wrong. He wasn't the same. But I was fourteen, going to live forever, and glad to see my favorite cousin. He told me of the time I mailed him Wrigley's chewing gum and he had to do fifty push-ups to keep the gum. Next time I needed to mail it so the mail officer wouldn't know... "Lay all five pieces of gum flat, then tape them to the back of your letter." It worked!
Grandmother's home looked like one of those old southern, stately homes. (Think, "Gone With the Wind" - the movie.) My Grandfather had died before I was born. He and the Mrs. paid the large sum of $1800 for a two story, 35 acre home; with twelve children it came in handy. My favorite part was the porch that wrapped around three-fourths of the house; particularly the wooden swing on the side where the rose bushes grew. South Carolina sand was a natural for the plants. Aunt Pat would be playing hymns in the parlour, while I would absorb the aroma of the flowers. That piano was possibly a hundred years old, but she kept it tuned for her Mom. Gradually all the brother and sisters would become this all-gospel choir. I preferred rock, but listening while swinging, sure did make a body feel peaceful. Then again, maybe it was just the summer of 69.
Pretty soon "the choir" would stop and a massive movement of rocking chairs would start to fill the very front of the porch. Everyone looking outwards toward the road waving, "howdy" to every passing car. Younger cousins filled the yard chasing chickens or playing dodge ball. They would run until they dropped. Only cousin Paul remained in his room on the second floor.
My own family was there for two days. In that time I rarely saw Paul. He seemed to stay out of sight on purpose. My uncle who was still in the Marines and had been to Vietnam, asked everyone to give Paul time. "You cannot imagine," he said, "leaving the killing fields one day to arrive in perfect safety the next. The shock of death surrounds you and then you're home where people are singing hymns. Makes you wonder if God even knows there's a Vietnam."
Two weeks, maybe three passed. A busy fourteen year old was making beach plans. My parents had rented a tiny cottage for a week and I was so ready for fun and sun. In fact we were loading the car when the mail ran. My Mom called out, "Hey, Dixie, here's a letter from Paul for you." I was excited that he might continue writing me after getting home. But then I saw the return address... one of those long, multi-lined, multi-number addresses of the military. He signed on for a third tour. I read as hot tears welled up and fell on my cheeks. He felt that's where he belonged.
"I cannot relate to anyone. Maybe Uncle Tony because he's been here, but even he seems to be okay. He has Aunt Deb and the kids. At home I'm alone. Here I have my buddies; we are family. I cannot leave them. I cannot stay where there is no sound. For in that silence I hear their cries. I love you. Please write. Love, Paul"
When he requested his fifth tour of duty they refused him. Once home he stayed in a drunken blitz. In and out of trouble with the law, and no relationship ever lasted. He was so alone. I was 28 and we arranged to spend a day hanging out. We had so much fun and he didn't drink the entire time. We drove down all the back roads... making it to Grandmother's house finally. Since her death no one was there to care for it. He had a taken an apartment after his Mom threw him out. But on this day none of that mattered to him. He and an old friend were enjoying life. A year later he was dead... fatal car accident, though some suspect suicide. I don't know but I'm certainly not going to cast a stone. If anyone needed peace he did... and those who serve in the same capacity.
Thank you for reading.
I dedicate this video to Paul.
My Grandmother's home was just around the curve from the Clinton water tower. You saw the tower, you were practically standing on her old white-washed wooden porch. There was probably a chicken or two in the yard; they'd scatter whenever cars rolled into that big dirt driveway. The neighbor's dog, "Champ" would come off the porch, bark a moment as if to say, "what took you so long?" Then Grandmother herself in the apron of the day would greet us with a loud, "Hello there, I need some hugs!"
A big family gathering this time as cousin Paul was arriving home from Vietnam. Two tours of duty... a proud Marine... but something was so wrong. He wasn't the same. But I was fourteen, going to live forever, and glad to see my favorite cousin. He told me of the time I mailed him Wrigley's chewing gum and he had to do fifty push-ups to keep the gum. Next time I needed to mail it so the mail officer wouldn't know... "Lay all five pieces of gum flat, then tape them to the back of your letter." It worked!
Grandmother's home looked like one of those old southern, stately homes. (Think, "Gone With the Wind" - the movie.) My Grandfather had died before I was born. He and the Mrs. paid the large sum of $1800 for a two story, 35 acre home; with twelve children it came in handy. My favorite part was the porch that wrapped around three-fourths of the house; particularly the wooden swing on the side where the rose bushes grew. South Carolina sand was a natural for the plants. Aunt Pat would be playing hymns in the parlour, while I would absorb the aroma of the flowers. That piano was possibly a hundred years old, but she kept it tuned for her Mom. Gradually all the brother and sisters would become this all-gospel choir. I preferred rock, but listening while swinging, sure did make a body feel peaceful. Then again, maybe it was just the summer of 69.
Pretty soon "the choir" would stop and a massive movement of rocking chairs would start to fill the very front of the porch. Everyone looking outwards toward the road waving, "howdy" to every passing car. Younger cousins filled the yard chasing chickens or playing dodge ball. They would run until they dropped. Only cousin Paul remained in his room on the second floor.
My own family was there for two days. In that time I rarely saw Paul. He seemed to stay out of sight on purpose. My uncle who was still in the Marines and had been to Vietnam, asked everyone to give Paul time. "You cannot imagine," he said, "leaving the killing fields one day to arrive in perfect safety the next. The shock of death surrounds you and then you're home where people are singing hymns. Makes you wonder if God even knows there's a Vietnam."
Two weeks, maybe three passed. A busy fourteen year old was making beach plans. My parents had rented a tiny cottage for a week and I was so ready for fun and sun. In fact we were loading the car when the mail ran. My Mom called out, "Hey, Dixie, here's a letter from Paul for you." I was excited that he might continue writing me after getting home. But then I saw the return address... one of those long, multi-lined, multi-number addresses of the military. He signed on for a third tour. I read as hot tears welled up and fell on my cheeks. He felt that's where he belonged.
"I cannot relate to anyone. Maybe Uncle Tony because he's been here, but even he seems to be okay. He has Aunt Deb and the kids. At home I'm alone. Here I have my buddies; we are family. I cannot leave them. I cannot stay where there is no sound. For in that silence I hear their cries. I love you. Please write. Love, Paul"
When he requested his fifth tour of duty they refused him. Once home he stayed in a drunken blitz. In and out of trouble with the law, and no relationship ever lasted. He was so alone. I was 28 and we arranged to spend a day hanging out. We had so much fun and he didn't drink the entire time. We drove down all the back roads... making it to Grandmother's house finally. Since her death no one was there to care for it. He had a taken an apartment after his Mom threw him out. But on this day none of that mattered to him. He and an old friend were enjoying life. A year later he was dead... fatal car accident, though some suspect suicide. I don't know but I'm certainly not going to cast a stone. If anyone needed peace he did... and those who serve in the same capacity.
Thank you for reading.
I dedicate this video to Paul.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
White sky = emptiness?
and yet I feel the need to type
What goes on
within a mind that's so distracted?
Where did I
lay down my peaceful attitude?
It was here
just days ago and disappeared again.
Chemtrails against the sky
are you the reason I've faltered at living?
Taking no pleasure
in anything outside and yet I go there.
Words just words,
but they're all I have for expression.
White sky emptiness
you will not win; even as I write, I've won.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
No blame
Finding focus... reasons to continue... mid-life, but late, crisis?
Meanwhile being outside brings me some sort of fulfillment... a normal spring, again.
But wait! Let me start at the latest beginning, as I enter into:
Rant # 3,648
Wars and rumors of wars... every day. Everybody wants to rule the world. (Wasn't there a song by that title?)
Forget gold and silver... check out the price of a rump roast. A simple everyday cheap cut of beef. So I bought some ground turkey to do a hearty meatloaf. It had absolutely no flavor.
I'm thinking to give up cigarettes, though I really like to smoke. The cost doesn't bother me, but of late with all the people bumming "just one", it's become a nuisance. And heaven hold your breath should I say, "I'll sell you one for 15 cents." You'd think I was charging an arm and a leg! Only those people who know the importance of a budget understand "why" the small price.
On one hand I find myself angry about home issues; then just as quickly I am thankful to have a home at all. I entered my eighth month of an overwhelmed budget. The light is now visible and I am happy to be moving in a right direction. (In previous posts I shared the combination of occurrences that brought this about.)
I often come to my blog thinking I must only post good stuff. Nothing sad, mad, or scared, should ever be committed to the Internet world of "dcrelief". What a bunch of rubbish! If anything I want to convey the fact that I am real. I live. I cry. I laugh. I fall down and get up. What anyone thinks of me is not the issue. If someone reads this blog and determines one sentence gets them through some issue of their own... then that's important. I'd like to know about those things.
God's blessings. There is so much controversy concerning religion. Hah! There's nothing NEW under the sun. (Ecclesiastes). With a few years of peace here and there, but not necessarily everywhere at the same time... there's nothing new. As if all the arguing and debate is the point of religion. Hmm? No, nothing new there either... and ~ it is the point... keep everyone fighting. Then if our house gets hit by the storm, call it God's will. Don't call it HARRP.
The reason I live is because I have faith that the very God people would shun does indeed exist. It's taken me years and some wonderful experiences to shape that belief... and it is belief. Most of those experiences had negative results... for a while. I could no more "see" anything good to come than the next person. And don't think I've got it down pat today either. I'll always be seeking His face. End of topic.
So I am back to the start of my post. I think it must be time for a change though I have no idea what that might be. It just seems to be a waiting time. Maybe my head needs to catch up with my heart. Until then I'll keep doing the short sabbaticals in the sunlight; after all it is spring, still. The post man will be happy to note the removal of the poison ivy from the area of the mailbox! The rubbish collectors will be happy to see the neat little piles of brush by the road; job security? Last of all a Fibromyalgia fog is hopefully lifting soon. I can't wait for the poetry of my heart to return to the blog.
Thanks for visiting!
Monday, May 13, 2013
"let me out"
It's thrilling to meet an artist who can do this type of work. He simply "sees" the object "inside" of the wood. It beckons him to let it out.(wow)
The tree man will return this week to do more tree removal. Our last episode had him cutting the large, limbless trunk into eight sections. They respectfully measure between 8-12 feet each, with a diameter of 3-4 feet. This is no tiny tree!
Can he make this bench? I'll have to show him this photo and see what he says. Also I can't wait to see photos of things he's been making during the interim. Hints of specially designed pieces were clues from the last episode. I suspect he'll have the Adirondack chair completed??!(smile)
Surreal - Tuesdays
Have you ever had a moment when time appeared to stand still, even though the days are passing quickly? This is what I'm experiencing. I count Tuesdays. It seems to be a anchoring point. Suddenly seven days have passed and it's Tuesday again. Tuesday? Is there any significance in my choice of Tuesday? I have no idea.
Any thoughts from the blog-sphere?
And the photo? It's as if they are standing still... surreal.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Memory rose
Hi Mom~ your rose began to bloom on Thursday.
Strange how nothing came to mind for me to blog about.
Not until I sat down and remembered the rose, did it occur to me.
I must have walked past it a dozen times on Friday.
My god-daughter has a phone camera.
Yes, you'd love her too.
I can't wait for you to meet her! One fine day.
You're the one who said, "Every year when that rose blooms..."
You know I thought it was dead, so we cut it back really hard.
"... you'll know that I'm thinking of you, Dixie.
Thanks for the rose, Mom.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
child-like
I would love to return to a place of innocence.
Did I grow out of it, or did older people influence my change?
And why would they rush me to grow up?
What could possibly be greater than beauty and wonder?
Curiosity painted the flowers - each one a carefree color.
Tiny petals tempted the brush: "paint me red, no paint me yellow."
Little eyes gaze upon small bugs wanting to paint them too.
Look at all the feet that could use little shoes.
Adults tell me I cannot go back; are they wrong?
I love a retreat for a heart that loves nature's creatures.
Grab your paintbox and your brushes.
I go to a place of innocence ~ and you?
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