One Foot in the Grave

I suppose everyone has heard the expression, “one foot in the grave”, meaning not long for this world. We are all here on earth for a very short time, and death eventually comes to everyone. But at the risk of seeming irreverent, I just have to share what happened to me a couple of weeks ago that gave new meaning to this phrase. I have told the story to a few people, and one particular friend said, “You HAVE to write that in your blog.” Perhaps she is right; everyone needs a good laugh now and then, even at the expense of someone else.

It started innocently enough. I have been working on a cataloging project in my community, capturing information at the local cemetery in order to have a searchable database and visual plotting of all those buried there. This is a spare time project, so I often spontaneously decide to drive out to the cemetery to do my work, without anyone else being aware of my coming and going. This particular evening, I arrived about an hour before sundown, and began walking down one row after another. As I prepared to take a digital photo of one of the headstones, I stepped in front of it and crouched to get a close-up shot. Before I knew what was about to happen, my left leg sank suddenly and swiftly into the dirt-covered grave, all the way up to my knee!

Of course, the first fleeting thought I had was, “How far down does this thing go?” I have stood by many graves at this very cemetery, aware of the large gaping hole hidden underneath the velvet-draped casket. And I have even watched the caskets lowered into the ground, but I had no concept of the depth of those holes.

My second spontaneous thought was, “It’s almost dark and no one knows I am out here.” That thought was interwoven with all the stories and impressions people have about cemeteries and the dead bodies who are buried there. Of course, those were thoughts that flashed through my mind within probably the first 2 seconds. By then, I was already instinctively flying back out of the grave the same way I went in!

Now, under ordinary circumstances, I don’t move really fast. I have had arthritic knees since I was in college, so my movements are not usually swift ones. But on that particular evening, I most likely set a record for how fast one can fall into a hole with one foot and get back out on solid ground. My quick ejection also served to get my heart rate up to an optimum level.

After the initial panic wore off, I began to see the humor in the situation. The grave was, coincidentally, a fairly new one—the father of one of my high school classmates. I pondered: do I email her and say, “Hey, I just dropped in on your dad yesterday”? Nope; too insensitive. Should I tell people I have grave concerns? Perhaps I hum to myself that old hymn, “Low in the grave he lay” . . . naw, that’s too irreverent. Maybe I tell folks I had a sinking feeling about the cemetery project . . .

Okay, I’m finished with the bad puns. And I will be certain not to “fall” for any more misrepresented graves—from now on, the plots have to be on solid ground before I take another step.

Judy Martin Bowyer

Copyright © 2012

Sleepover at Grandmother's House

After years of wishing someone would capture some of my dad's family stories and preserve them for future generations, I finally decided that if no one else was willing, I would give it a shot. So I have promised some of my cousins that I will attempt to write the memories I have of my grandmother, as well as my dad and his sister and brothers. This story comes from my first efforts on this project, and I thought by sharing it, perhaps you will realize the value of making precious memories with your own children or grandchildren. And to all my cousins who read it, this is a sample of how I am approaching the venture. Who knows, maybe it will inspire each of you to write things YOU remember from your own childhood? Happy memories, and full speed ahead! jb

My grandmother was a little sprite of a woman, but she turned ordinary days into adventures. I vividly recall one specific time when I spent a summer night at her house when I was about eight years old.

Although Grandmother only lived about eight blocks away, I packed my little bag with all the things I would need on my overnight journey. Mama took me to her house in the early evening, and I shared a simple meal with her at the kitchen table. After cleaning up our dishes, we went into the tiny living room and got out the box of Dominoes.

Grandmother didn’t just play “token” games to keep me occupied until bedtime. She enjoyed playing, and it was a lively, enthusiastic competition. And of course, we always talked while we played. She was a great conversationalist. Sometimes, she simply spoke of ordinary things in the community, or about family members and what they were doing. At other times, the conversation took a different turn.

My grandmother never owned a television set, but she loved to read. In fact, she read voraciously, and knew something about a wide variety of subjects. So her conversation might include some interesting tidbit of information she had read about. And, of course, she read her Bible daily, so she wove things she had read into the discussion.

Around 10:00 o’clock, she declared it to be bedtime, and while I put on my pajamas and brushed my teeth, she changed into a long gown and took down her hair. Grandmother was probably barely five feet tall, if even that. Her white hair, when loose, hung most of the way down her back, maybe almost waist length. During the day, she wore it twisted into a bun. But at night, she took it down and let it fall loose.

We turned out the light and both climbed into the double-sized feather bed in the front bedroom. It always felt safe, lying next to my grandmother in the dark, listening to an occasional car drive past down Main Street.

At first light the next morning, Grandmother was out of bed, and I sleepily followed. We pulled on our clothes and headed for the kitchen. I don’t remember what she made for breakfast, but it was probably very nutritious, since she was a health nut long before it was fashionable to be one. Grandmother would pore through health journals, and researched the latest findings ‘way before we had the internet. She had discovered the merits of soy milk before anyone around us even knew it existed, and she purchased it by mailorder.

Once breakfast was prepared, we took it outside to eat. That, in itself, was an adventure for me, since at my house we never ate outside unless it was a cookout. But Grandmother dearly loved the outdoor life. She spent most of her waking hours working in her garden, so she was quite at home eating breakfast in the backyard! We took our morning meal into the screened-in garden room in her backyard.

Here, I must digress to explain this building. Because Grandmother was a “can-do” kind of woman, we never knew what construction project she might have underway when we went to visit. I remember with amazement that sometimes I would walk into her house and discover that she had knocked out a wall and reconfigured some room in her tiny home. By way of explanation, she was widowed at a young age. And she was, after all, a pioneer woman who had traveled by covered wagon to new territory, lived in a dugout, raised eight children on the West Texas prairie, and had likely even helped her husband build their home east of Petersburg. So yes, I’m sure she had learned many skills and was not afraid to try something new.

At any rate, Grandmother was not afraid to tackle new projects, and as far as I know, she completed them single-handedly. At this point in the story, she was eighty-five years old, and had built an outdoor screened-in garden room, for lack of a better description. Sure, it was crudely built with scraps of this and that. She had basically built a wooden frame, nailed screening to the framing boards all around, and had installed an old screen door at the entrance. I can’t remember for sure, but it seems like it had a covering of some kind.

She had an assortment of plants inside. There was a bench-type table with chairs, so that was where we took our breakfast on this particular day. The morning was cool and fresh; birds sang, and a slight breeze sifted through the screens, ruffling my short brown hair. Grandmother had already secured hers in a bun. It wasn’t a stylish gesture for her, but purely practical so that she could work in her yard during the windy days with ease.

On this particular morning, we had carried our breakfast out to the garden room, and it seemed magical to be sitting outside, eating an ordinary breakfast in an extraordinary fashion.

I remember thinking, “This is so much fun. I don’t know why we don’t do this all the time at home?” Of course, that is the beauty of being with grandparents; you get to do things you would not always get to do at home!

Sometime around mid-morning, my mother came to retrieve me, and it was time to go back to my own routines.

A simple memory of a seemingly uneventful sleepover—much like others I had experienced at Grandmother’s house. But the time spent must have been engraved on my heart more than fifty years ago, because the imprint of those precious details is still sharp and vivid in my memory today.

Judy Martin Bowyer

Copyright  2012

RAIN!

West Texas has experienced such a drought in the past couple of seasons that the color brown has become familiar to us all. But the skies have opened over our land in the last ten days, bringing much-needed moisture.  I woke early one recent morning to claps of thunder and the precious sound of rain hitting the windowpanes. Farmers and ranchers in this part of the country will be grateful for the life-giving moisture. My own yard is a testimony to what happens when there is rain and when there is none.

Just two weeks ago, I purchased some herbs to plant, but by the time I was able to get them in the ground, the sage plant was looking withered. I planted it anyway, and have continued to give it daily drinks of water. After the recent rains, I went out to assess the state of my little herb garden. Lo and behold, there was a green sprig shooting up from the area where I planted the sage. It could be a weed—it’s too early to tell—but I’m trusting that it is, indeed, the sage coming back to life.

The rain blessing reminds me of a universal truth: for things to grow, they need nourishment. The word “nourish” comes from a Latin word that means “to feed.” Not surprisingly, the word “nurture” comes from the same root word.

As I anticipate the growing things in my backyard that are, right this minute, being nourished, what of my relationships? Are they being nourished? Several examples come to my mind of people I know who have flourished under a bit of extra attention.

When I was a child, my friends and I loved to play on the swing set, pumping our legs furiously to go as terrifyingly high as possible. But once we achieved the maximum speed and height, we stopped pumping and coasted, letting the swing wind down from its momentum. We called it “letting the cat die” (with apologies to all my favorite kitties). Without some effort to keep it in motion, the swing would finally glide to a stop. It is easier sometimes to let relationships coast, assuming they will keep swinging even when we stop putting forth effort.

So today, just as the life-giving rain is nourishing our land, I want to be mindful of some relationships in my life that could use a drink of water, too. If you and I make the effort to pour out some nurturing on people we know, the results will almost certainly be fruitful. We all thrive with attention and care. Why not shower somebody today with a little nurturing? You might bring some wilted, starving relationships back to life. 

copyright 2012

A Little Jewel

On Christmas Day, 1914, a little girl was born to a family that already had two half-grown daughters and a son. She was born at their home on the plains of West Texas, and once the neighbors in that farming community heard the news, some came on that Christmas morning to bring food and offer congratulations. One lady leaned over to see the tiny little girl and exclaimed, “Why, she’s just a little jewel!” So they named my mother “Jewell.”

Those who know me well, realize that I always have fond stories to tell about my Dad, but few hear the stories about my mother. I loved her just as much as I loved my father, but she was a quieter presence in our home, and fewer people in the community knew her very well. But Mother was a wonderful mom, so I want to pay tribute to her this Mother’s Day weekend.

When I remember my mom, one of my first thoughts is that she was so involved in the lives of her two daughters. She rarely missed PTA meetings, she served as Room Mother, Girl Scout leader, FHA sponsor, Band Booster, Sunday School teacher, and carpooler. I can’t recall a missed band concert, basketball game, school play, or anything else in which we were involved.

Mother wasn’t a shopaholic, but she knew how to find bargains and look for good value, and she taught me to do the same. I learned how to shop wisely, make careful choices, and think carefully about what was a good value.

She was not just a good cook and housekeeper, she was a good homemaker, which is not always the same thing. She was a full-time homemaker and kept our house clean and beautiful. Mother cooked three nutritious and delicious meals everyday, and each summer found her helping Daddy with the garden, canning and freezing vegetables for the winter. She was a creative and skilled seamstress who not only kept us in well-made clothes, but she also made curtains, bedspreads, and all kinds of things for our home. She loved beautiful things and had a good eye for color and fashion. Although we were not wealthy, Mother knew how to keep us, and our home, looking fashionable and colorful.

Even though my mother was shy, she knew how to be hospitable. We often entertained people in our home for meals, and she frequently took food she had prepared to others who needed it. Mother had a great sense of “family”, and loved having our relatives over. Any given Sunday, it was not uncommon to come home from church to enjoy dinner with aunts and uncles—I can still taste that delicious roast and gravy in my mind! Holidays were almost always spent with family. There was nothing more important to my mom than being with those she loved, and she enjoyed not only her own family but my dad’s family as well. There were all a constant part of our lives.

Not many people saw my mother’s sense of humor. But she loved a good laugh, and at home with the family she had a very silly streak. We had some good times, and she made it possible for me to learn how to enjoy laughter and not take myself so seriously.

My mom was a good neighbor. We were surrounded by families from the community, people who played a significant part in our lives. Mother visited with most of them on a regular basis, shared vegetables from the garden, and occasionally walked next door to borrow a cup of sugar. She and Daddy sat out on the lawn on summer evenings just passing time with the neighbors, and laughed and wept together over all that happened in their daily lives.

One last thing that I remember about my mother was how she really listened to me. In high school, I would have said that was not so ~ but in retrospect, I know it was. If there was something I really longed for, something I truly hoped to get for Christmas, more often than not it was under the tree Christmas morning. If there was something I was distressed over at school, she paid attention, and tried to help me find a solution. If I had a favorite color, it was not unusual to find that she had purchased fabric in that color to make me a new dress.

My mother lived a long and happy life: content with the simple things, not expecting that the world owed her more than she had already been given. She was humble and grateful, generous and thoughtful. She didn’t do everything perfectly, but she taught me all the most important things I needed to learn. She left this earth for something better sixteen years ago, but on this Mother’s Day, I miss her still. 

True Cliches

“Don’t fight it; just accept it.”

Those words were quoted ad nauseum by Marian Stewart in my Freshman Algebra class in high school. Algebra was like a foreign language to me, and my logical mind needed to understand it, not just do it! Many of us who struggled in her class questioned things like, “What IS X? What does it mean? Why do you call it X and Y?” And often, when there was no logical answer that would satisfy us, she just looked at us with her usual patience and sense of humor, shrugged, and said, “Don’t fight it; just accept it.”

Later, the Serenity Prayer expressed some of the same truths that Mrs. Stewart understood. Reinhold Niebuhr wrote, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

Still later, my son-in-law often theorized, “It is what it is.”  

An even earlier wise person, King Solomon, wrote in Ecclesiastes: “I have always tried my best to let wisdom guide my thoughts and actions. I said to myself, ‘I am determined to be wise.’ But it didn’t work. Wisdom is always distant and difficult to find. I searched everywhere, determined to find wisdom and to understand the reason for things.” (New Living Translation, Ecclesiastes 7:23-25)

All the wise people I have quoted were striving to understand life, to get a grasp of what they needed to know. Yet each of them understood that we have our limitations. There are some things we will never understand. Some things are beyond our ability to fix. We can change some things to make our world better, but much of it is beyond our ability to control, and most of us hate being out of control and not fully understanding where we are headed.

There is probably more anger and frustration generated from our helplessness than almost anything else. We want to know! Most of us want to direct the course of our lives and navigate our way to a safe harbor where everything is peaceful, plentiful, and comfortable, where we know exactly what is coming and we have no surprises in store. When we learn that we aren’t the ones at the helm, we generally are angry and fearful, grasping for whatever particles of our lives that we can manage to control. We have little patience with issues that don’t have a concrete answer or solution. I quote the proverbial “we”, but really it is the literary “I” that is under discussion, for these are all things that bring me anxiety.

The quotes I mentioned at the beginning are probably best summed up with the Serenity Prayer. The balance I need (and probably you do, too) comes when I can look at my circumstances, discern the areas where I can improve or make things better, and then pray for the courage and discipline to make those changes. But beyond that, I hope and pray God gives me the discernment to “pick my battles”. I want to be wise enough to see what is beyond my ability to change, and to follow Mrs. Stewart’s advice: “Don’t fight it; just accept it.”

Copyright 2012

Tree Memories

The Spring days are growing warmer, school children are wrapping up the final events of the academic year, and my thoughts are turning toward summer. I decided to reprint a blog I posted quite some time ago on my previous website. If you were a tomboy as I was, you might have enjoyed tree-climbing, and this topic might resonate with you.

As a child I never consciously thought much about trees. Not being a budding arborist (okay, it was a lousy pun!), I grew up taking our few trees for granted in spite of the fact that I lived in a flat, practically tree-less part of the state of Texas.

However, I do find it interesting that so many of my childhood memories revolve around trees. Until I was about five, we had a row of two or three large elm trees west of our house. My swings and sand pile were under those trees so I spent most of my time playing underneath them in a shaded world of make-believe. My older sister and her friend Vondell climbed our trees, mostly I think to get away from me. At least, they did until they came eyeball to eyeball with a praying mantis, and I think that brought their tree-climbing practices to a screeching halt. But I was too little for tree-climbing, and I don’t remember experiencing that particular adventure until after our elms were taken down.

By that time, the Stapletons had purchased the house across the street from mine and they not only had a playmate my age, but they had TREES! There were three satisfactory elm trees in a row lining their driveway. The one nearest to the garage was just exactly the right size and shape for climbing, and it wasn’t long before Jeanne and I were retreating up into its leafy hideaway. There, we sometimes escaped from her younger sister, just as my sister and her friends had hidden from me. But we usually included the little one ~ Jeanne’s mom made us.

It was a retreat where we found respite from the summer heat, where we dreamed dreams about what we wanted to be when we grew up (I’m still searching that one out!). We made plans, shared whispered secrets, and observed the neighborhood from our safe perch. Occasionally we discovered we were sharing our tree house with insects and critters, and we had our share of skinned knees from climbing up and down on the rough bark. But it was mostly a comfortable place to while away the summer hours.

One memorable summer, we decided to host a talent show (comprised of the much-sought-after talents of Jeanne, Joanne, and Judy). We had visions of selling tickets to our entire neighborhood and making a “bunch” of money. Billing ourselves as “The Three J’s” (a cleverly unique name that should have rivaled the Supremes) we prepared for opening night. Carefully, we hand-printed tickets and programs. Each of the three of us practiced the acts we would perform to dazzle our audience. We contracted with Jeanne’s mom to provide refreshments. On the night of the big performance, we placed a row of folding chairs just west of the big tree. Pushed up against the tree, facing the chairs, we positioned a long wooden table that was to be our stage.

The plan was that we would climb up the tree on the opposite side, and when it was our turn to perform, we would come out of the tree onto the stage and wow any talent scouts that might be lurking on the lawn. (We figured after this debut, we would definitely be asked to appear on the Ed Sullivan show!)

As I recall, the audience consisted of the Stapletons, my parents, both our grandmothers, and one gullible neighbor who couldn’t find a good excuse not to come. We Three J’s performed our little hearts out, amid thundering applause. It was a heady experience.

What good times we had! Television sets and Nintendo games were no comparison with our active imaginations.

There was another significant tree in our neighborhood. It grew across the street from the Methodist Parsonage, right next to the road. The Y of the tree was low enough to the ground that we kids could easily reach it. There was a hollowed out place that was a perfect spot for leaving messages or hiding things. Some super sleuths from Petersburg Elementary spent their summers stealthily passing secret messages to one another through the hidden hollow in that tree.

I can also remember picking up pecans under my Uncle Clyde’s towering pecan trees down the street. My Grandmother, Blanche Martin, also had a large pecan tree in her yard on Main Street. I remember having picnics in her yard underneath the shade of that tree, which my dad told me was the first pecan tree planted in Petersburg (he had planted it himself as a boy.)

Now that I have moved back to Petersburg some fifty years since the Three Js had their opening night, I am once again enthralled with my trees. I have two large pecan trees that my Dad nurtured for many years. And I love to hear the West Texas wind sighing through the pine tree in my front yard. Okay, so we don’t have many trees around here. But ah, the joy of the ones we do have!

So what are YOUR memories of trees?

copyright 2007, Judy Martin Bowyer