My brother is organizing a fundraiser for this school in Uganda. Please donate if you can. He and his wife are planning a trip in the near future to visit the school and I hope to get some of the stories of the children he meets. This go fund me was posted a few days ago.
Please Help…before The Goshen Children’s Care and School is closed down…maybe forever!
It’s a distressing story. Goshen is located in Seeta, Uganda, near Kampala. The school has been operating out of a rental home for several years. However, just in the last month the local government decided the school may no longer operate from a house. It must operate from a “school structure”. Godfrey, the founder and director of Goshen, had a quick solution. With the property owner’s permission, he and his small team built a 3-room “school structure” at their current location. The total cost was just $1700, which was donated by a church in the US. Amazing! They built that structure in just 2 weeks! Double Amazing!
The very next week after completion, the property owner informed Godfrey that he was selling the property! The school must close! This is very cruel to the 20-25 children from this severely impoverished area. Without the Goshen school, those children will no longer continue their education. The families just can’t afford even a few dollars for the minimal tuition.
However a true blessing is available! A vacant lot right across the street from the current school is for sale. Godfrey can buy this property and build another school very inexpensively. The whole project is approximately $15,000.
There is urgency! The new school term starts in early March. If the school is not built by then, the parents may lose faith, and the children probably may not return. In this impoverished town, education is the only way to find opportunities.
Please donate right now! $20, $50, $100
Any amount will help!
Here’s a quote (in broken English) from the director, Godfrey.
“This idea for the academy I had it 7 yrs back. By faith I decided to implement it. I have 5 volunteers who help me. This academy is free, When the youth come we feed them with breakfast and lunch and also print them materials.This week we will start skills session where we will teach them computer skills, art and craft skills and music. Though I don’t have the materials I will use what is available, am grateful that families are giving me youth. Yesterday there are families who brought 10 youths, and my heart was where are they going to sit, what about food, and I said Holy Spirit take control, continue praying for us thank you so much”
In the space of two years, Officer Hershey came into my life three times.
In the 1990’s, we lived in a neighborhood at the top of a hill in Bellevue, Washington. On this particular morning, after my husband left for work, I ate breakfast, played with the dog, did some housework, and got ready for work. I’ve never been a morning person. I don’t get my head working much before 9 am. I was late two out of five mornings. I tried to make it up by being early at least once a week. Luckily, I worked for an old friend who put up with me.
I looked at the clock and, oh my, I had ten minutes to make the fifteen-minute drive to work. I jumped in the car and started down the long winding road from the top of the hill to Main Street. The speed limit was 25 because it was so curvy and, in places, steep. My foot never touched the accelerator, only the brake as I drove down the hill. This morning I didn’t pay attention to speed. I was traveling between 40 and 45 mph when I saw the motorcycle cop behind me with his lights and siren. I pulled over. Darn, now I’d really be late and with a traffic ticket on top.
I rolled down the window and in my sweetest tones, “Good morning, Officer. I must have been going a bit fast.”
The officer had a big grin on his face like he’d caught the fish of the year. His badge said Officer J. Hershey. “May I see your license and registration young lady.”
I pulled the license from my wallet and the registration from the glove box and handed them to the policeman.
“You live on this hill,” he said. “Yes, sir, Officer Hershey.” “Then you travel up and down this hill a couple of times a day, don’t you?” “Yes, sir.” “You know the speed limit here, right?” “Yes, sir.” “You know this is a dangerous road when it’s raining or icy, right?” “Yes, sir and it’s a beautiful day today.” “Are you on your way to work?” “Yes, sir.” “Do you love your husband?” His face became serious.
Now that one knocked me back. What was he getting at? That didn’t sound like a traffic citation question. I looked up and tried to see his eyes through his dark motorcycle goggles. “Yes, sir.” I said with hesitation.
“Well, this is what I want you to do. When you get to work, call your husband. Tell him you love him and want to take him out to lunch. That lunch will cost about the same as the ticket I should be giving you. Apologize for driving too fast down this hill because it is not safe and tell him you won’t do it again.”
I let out a big breath. “No, ticket?” I asked. “Not this time but I patrol this road so don’t let me catch you again.” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
I did exactly as he instructed. I told Ken the impossible story of how I barely avoided a traffic ticket over our lunch.
A few months later, on a Saturday, I was in a traffic jam on one of the main streets in town. I was in the middle of three lanes inching forward little by little on my way to the mall. In my rear-view mirror, I saw a motorcycle cop working his way between the slow moving cars and when he got to my car, he put on his siren and lights. He gestured for me to move out of traffic into the parking lot of a business. Disgruntled, I signaled and began traversing the road through traffic. Other drivers were also made unhappy by this movement. I glanced again at the cop and realized it was Officer Hershey. What the heck? I couldn’t have been speeding, I was barely moving. Why was he pulling me over?
I parked in the lot. He got off his motorcycle and came to my window. “Please give me your license and registration,” he said. He took a second look at me and said, “Oh, you again”. “Yes sir. I couldn’t have been speeding. What’s wrong?” “Please step out of the car.”
I did as I was asked wondering if he was going to give me a sobriety test or something. Very confused. The traffic on the street picked up a little as the light changed but it was still very congested.
“Come back here.” He gestured to the rear of my car. “You don’t have a current license tag. You are out of compliance; your car license is expired.”
I looked and sure enough. The new stickers were not on my car. “You’re right. I have the new stickers in the console. I asked my son to put them on for me last weekend, but I didn’t check. The little bugger didn’t do it.” “How old is your son?” “Fifteen.” “Yah. That’s sounds about right. Get them out of the car.” I did as he asked and handed them to him so he could see they were up to date.
He took a cloth from his jacket pocket and wiped off the license plate then took the sticker and put it on. Then he did the same for the front plate. “Have a good day.” He said and touched his cap as he got on his motorcycle and moved back into traffic. “Thank you again, Officer Hershey.”
Nearly a year later the tranquility of a Sunday morning in our hilltop neighborhood was shattered by a violent soundscape. Adults yelling. Young children screaming and crying. Car doors slamming. The crack of gunshots. A car engine roaring. Tires squealing. A car racing down the street. Ken and I looked at each other puzzled and he said, “I better go check what’s happened.” Out the front door, he went. A few minutes later he came back with our neighbor, Maryann, bloody, trembling in her pajamas, barefoot, with a coat thrown over her shoulder.
“She’s been stabbed. There’s blood everywhere inside and outside the house,” Ken said and went to call the police.
I took her into the bathroom to address her wounds. Fortunately, nothing was spurting or flowing. (I faint at the sight of blood). She told me how her estranged husband showed up uninvited and demanded to take the kids. They argued and he snatched the kids and took them to the car. Then he returned to the house and assaulted her with a knife, stabbing her several times before she could grab a gun from a kitchen drawer and shoot him.
Maryann and her family had moved into the rental house next door a few weeks before this incident and we’d only met them casually. We didn’t even know her husband had left the family.
Within minutes the doorbell rang. I answered and who stood before me but Officer Hershey. “Officer Hershey, come in,” I said in surprise. “It’s Detective Hershey, now,” he answered, a serious look on his face as he entered the house with two other officers.
I sat with my arm around a quavering Maryann as she told her story to Detective Hershey. Ken was questioned by one of the other officers. Then the police took Maryann back to her house to continue investigating the scene. That was all we heard until we were called as witnesses at Maryann’s trial for attempted murder.
As it turned out, Maryann was crazy, threatening her family when her husband moved out of the house. He wanted to get the children away before they were harmed. She knew he was coming over to get the kids and she staged the fight so she could have a motive for shooting him. She inflicted stab wounds on herself. Luckily she wasn’t a good shot. She wounded him in the neck, but he was able to get to the hospital for treatment and was okay. Maryann was sent to an asylum for the criminally insane.
We moved from the neighborhood soon after, not because of the shooting, but because it was a planned move. I never saw Officer/Detective Hershey again, but he remains a sweet memory. I looked him up online. In 2017, he retired as a Captain after 35 years in the police force with commendations and kudos from dozens of citizens in the city, especially high schoolers who appreciated his common sense approach to teens, his humanity. He had a significant impact on young people in the city. He was called a legendary gentleman by one citizen. Bellevue was blessed with his service. Exemplary man and policeman. Thank you, Captain Hershey!
Look at that happy face. You can’t help but smile back.
Prompt: Write a story or poem based on a stanza, lyric, or chorus of a favorite song.
“Soft kisses on a summer’s day laughing all our cares away, just you and I. Sweet sleepy warmth of summer nights gazing at the distant lights in the starlit sky”. Chad and Jeremy, A Summer Song.
These lyrics take me back in time to the summer of ’63 after high school graduation. Ken had a job in the warehouse at Associated Grocers during the week. I was the stay-at-home babysitter for my nine-year-old brother; both of my parents worked. On weekends Ken and I would slip away, drive to the mountains or shore to spend the days just being together. Hours and hours alone. I know we talked the entire time, well mostly. I recently asked Ken if he remembered what we talked about. Neither of us can remember. Nothing consequential, I fear; not the Vietnam War, the economy, global cooling (yes, science said another ice age was developing), world famine, or the politics of the Kennedy administration. I was team Kennedy, he team Nixon. Somehow the hours melted away.
One standout memory was sitting on a blanket on the bluff above Deception Pass watching boats go out of Skagit Bay into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Our location part way down the bluff was sheltered from the eyes of anyone on land above us and open to the water below. At one point we were in a heavy clinging embrace when a cruiser passed through the channel. The captain blasted their very loud horn and shouted encouragement. They were so far below they were unable to see us clearly, just that we were entwined and off in our own world. We couldn’t see them, only the boat. We waved as they passed by.
That memory makes me smile each time I hear the lyrics of the song. On weekends, Ken would pick me up early in the morning and get me home late Saturday night, then repeat on Sunday. We would gaze at the starry night skies for as long as we could. We drove all over the northwest part of Washington State looking for secluded places to park and picnic, sometimes in the mountains, sometimes in the islands. It was an idyllic summer of love, very little responsibility or care, and loads of time to ourselves. We had money, Ken’s baseball signing bonus plus his job, so we could do anything; but we spent little, choosing instead to just be with each other. Those tender memories are part of the bond that has held during our sixty years together.
Thirty years after that summer, we sailed Wind Dancer, our 41′ C & C sailboat, by Deception Pass but not through it. Water depth in the narrow passage ranges from around twenty feet in places to over two hundred feet and the currents are treacherous so boats can only go through one at a time. Keeled craft are discouraged as they can be sent spinning out of control.
I wrote this poem about that summer.
Summer of ’63 I was seventeen You were eighteen Life ahead full of unknown currents Unplanned and unexpected Carefree summer of love, Passion unbounded, undenied. Love as deep as ocean canyons Kisses soft as sugar froth Melted on our lips. Time unwound slowly A bottomless well Those happy days Followed by years Navigating life’s swollen eddies Struggles, celebrations, Misunderstandings, reconciliations. The tumultuous tides of our affair Like the sea gushing through Deception Pass Smoothed into calm waters of well-aged love.
St. Agnes is the patron saint of virgins. A beautiful girl of a wealthy Christian family back in the year 304 CE, she was martyred at the age of thirteen because she refused the advances of a high-born Roman suitor. From then, on January 20th, the eve of St. Agnes feast day, when properly implored by a virgin, St. Agnes reveals in a dream the man the virgin will marry. It’s real, look it up.
As a teen, I was a devoted Episcopalian. I studied about and loved many of the saints, especially Agnes. I went to church at least once a week and attended bible study with our priest. Father Mac lived across the street from us with his wife, a piano teacher, and two little daughters. I babysat the girls a few times. Father Mac and my dad would swap stories over a beer on Saturdays. At one point I considered becoming an Episcopalian nun doing good works around the world. That was a bit in conflict with my ambition to be a multi-lingual interpreter and world traveler who lived most of the time in France with ten internationally diverse children – different fathers, no husband in the picture. I guess that is the wonderful part about being a teenager – dreams don’t have to reflect reality. I remember on a couple of occasions when I didn’t want a goodnight kiss from my date, I would use the nun card and tell him I had to stay pure. It usually meant no next date with that guy, but it was a good way to end a going-nowhere relationship. Most of my dates in high school were going-nowhere dates anyway, but I liked to be asked and always had a good time.
As a high school senior my friend, Mike, asked if I would go out with his cousin, a University of Washington freshman, who was from out of state, living with an aunt and uncle, and wanted someone to take to parties. I was that kind of friend. It was understood that Bob had a girlfriend back home in Iowa but needed a girl-friend to take out for social events – no romance involved. Sure, I’d love to go to university parties. Bob was a super nice guy, kinda shy but easy to talk to. He was on a football scholarship so most of his time after class was taken up with football. His scholarship was limited, and he didn’t know if he would stay at UW. He was very homesick. He took me to a couple of high school dances, and we went to UW events and a football team party, but I saw him only about once a week even though he lived down the street. I had a crush on a boy at school who couldn’t see me for dust and had had a summer fling with a guy from another school that ended when he left for college. Nothing big going on in my romance department, but I still had plenty of fun times.
In September, I joined an organization called Junior Achievement, promoted by my Civics teacher, Mr. Keller, whom I admired. A group of teens from both high schools in town were divided into smaller units and mentored to develop businesses. Each unit created a company, sold stock in the company, created a product, marketed and sold the product and, at the end of the year, did a Year End Report that was judged. You could earn scholarships from the efforts you made in your company. Our business, we named ESCO, was sponsored by the local utility Puget Power. We had three advisors. We made and sold extension cords.
After a few meetings brainstorming our product and other business options, the company voted on officers. A boy named Ken, from the rival high school, was elected President and I was elected Secretary. Everyone in the company worked in manufacturing and selling but the officers (I don’t remember who was Vice President and Treasurer) had separate meetings and duties. Ken and I were together often. At our first meeting, I was impressed by him. He was gorgeous, tall and athletic, and very smart. But as we got to know each other I began to despise him. He was an annoying tease, he mocked and goaded me, an arrogant boar. He evidently was a big-deal three-sport athlete at his school and the best pitcher in the Kingco League, but it wasn’t impressing me. He talked incessantly about his “fiancé”, a model, who lived in San Francisco and was older than he was. He dressed the best, in clothes that he said she sent him as gifts. Gag a magot – was my mental response. We met with city business leaders and did some publicity for Junior Achievement. It made me grind my teeth when we had to go places together or have meetings apart from our weekly company meetings.
I wrote in my journal of my woes and disappointments as well as the fun times. On January 20th, St. Agnes Eve, I said my regular prayers and then prayed that St. Agnes would send me the dream of my true love. Of course, I had a couple of boys in mind, but hoped not to influence her with specifics. When I woke, I realized I dreamed of STUPID KINARED. That is what I wrote in my journal. I couldn’t believe it. Why would she send me a dream of the very LAST person I would even speak to? St. Agnes was relegated to “suspect” on the saint list, and I promptly kicked her to the curb so to speak. STUPID KINARED and I had never dated and never would so what was her message?
Two weeks later, Ken asked me for a date.
“What would you say if I asked you out for Saturday night?” was his exact question. “I don’t know, try it,” was my answer – stifling a gag. I knew he was pulling my chain. “Well, would you go out with me Saturday night?” “Sure,” I said knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t show up, relishing the idea of me waiting for him, and then having some lame reason the next time we met. I skied every Saturday and never dated on Saturday night because I was so knackered by the time I got home, I couldn’t hold my head up. That was perfect. I knew he wouldn’t show, and I wouldn’t care.
He showed up. I was warming my cold aching body in a steamy, hot bath, thinking of the dinner Mom had waiting for me when she knocked on the bathroom door and said there was a boy named Ken asking if I was ready for our date. I was beyond surprised – and a little ticked off. “I didn’t know you had a date for tonight,” she said. “I didn’t either,” I said. “Well, what shall I tell him? He’s in the living room talking to your father.” I thought about it and decided I didn’t want to be the one who failed to show for the date. I’d never hear the end of that. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” I said. I had no idea what the date was, but I sure hoped it included dinner because I was famished after a long day of skiing and only a little lunch several hours before. I dressed for a dinner date.
He took me to a Seattle U basketball game. I HATE basketball – a bunch of sweaty jocks with squeaky shoes running from one end of the room to another. Pointless and boring, I never can figure out what’s going on. I was miserable, I was cold, I was hungry, and I hated my escort. The date from hell. I didn’t speak to him except in single syllables. By the time we got in the car, he was irritated by my behavior. He opened the car door for me, then slammed it so the car shook. I started quietly sobbing with my face turned to the window, hoping to get home quickly, have something to eat, climb into my warm bed, and forget the night ever happened.
We were part way home and he asked, “Would you like to stop at the Burger Master for something?” I perked up a bit. “Yes. That would be great.” My stomach nodded in approval. Maybe something would be salvaged from this disaster after all. He pulled into the parking lot. It was a drive-in restaurant where a waitress came to the car, you ordered, and then she brought the order to the car. We weren’t going into a warm restaurant. “What would you like?” the waitress asked. Without looking at me or asking a question, he said, “Two vanilla milkshakes.” I hate vanilla milkshakes. I’m a chocolate malt girl. Things were not looking up. I had never been on a date when I was not consulted – first, about where we were going, usually school dances or a movie, and second, what I wanted to eat if we were at a restaurant. Who did this arrogant joker think he was, God? My bad mood deepened. When the shakes arrived, I said, “You drink them both, I don’t like vanilla milkshakes.” He did and we left.
Instead of driving me home, he drove to a place by the lake. Quiet and secluded. “I’d just like to talk to you,” he said. “About what,” I grumbled. And then he talked. I don’t know what about because I wasn’t listening. He asked me to take my coat off because he was allergic to fur, and it had a fur collar. I declined. I asked about Sue, his “fiancé” and got a non-answer. There was no kissing, no making out, no nothing and he took me home.
In the morning, my mother asked, “How was the date?” “Never in the history of dates has there ever been a worse one,” I replied. “You’ll never see that guy here again. I sent a clear message.” Later in the day as I was doing homework at my desk my mother came into my room. “You know the guy you said I’d never see again? He’s at the door asking for you to come out to talk to him.” Sure enough there he was standing by his car, with his best friend he wanted me to meet, bouncing a basketball between them. The gall of this guy, the absolute impudence, the audacity! I was intrigued. What made him come back?
From that day on he either called or came by to see me every day, sometimes driving across town to pick me up after school to take me home, or driving up to the slopes to ski with me on Saturday. His persistence slowly won me over. I began to see his charm. We would go out or he would come hang out at my house. My parents loved him. My mother made him his favorite blueberry pies and my father barbequed steaks when he came to dinner. We dated exclusively for the rest of the school year and summer. We fought, we broke up, we reconciled, rinse and repeat. We had great times together and it was never boring. Bob had to find a new girl-friend.
Two years ago, I was going through old journals and papers. Most of the journals from early days were tossed when we moved from Seattle to Tucson, but I found the one from my senior year. Over the years Ken and I talked about that first date. He didn’t remember it being so bad – obviously. I showed him my entry from St. Agnes Eve when I said I dreamt of STUPID KINARED (capitalized and highlighted). He laughed. I had totally forgotten that St. Agnes foretold our marriage in a dream that I had scoffed at and ignored.
Now over sixty years later, when we go to bed at night, he leans over to kiss me and says, “Thank you, St. Agnes.”
Never underestimate the power of a saint. They work in mysterious ways.
PS: Our JA company received an award as Company of the Month one month and an honorable mention at the end of the year and Ken received a scholarship award as runner-up for President of the Year. After high school, Ken signed a pro contract with the Detroit Tigers as a pitcher with spring training starting the following February. Ken never took me to Burger Master again. We didn’t attend basketball games either. We attended plays, movies, dances, and the very nicest restaurants in town. He is the BEST date I ever had. Sue continued to write to Ken even after we married.
January 6th, 2024 is the 60th anniversary of our first wedding. It started as a dare. Surprise, surprise it lasted! The beginning was a bit unusual.
Ken and I met in 1962 at a Junior Achievement Meeting. He went to the rival high school across town. We began dating in February 1963. It was a rocky romance at best. He proposed on our third date. My response was to laugh. Ridiculous I said. We’re in high school and I have plans. I was going to be a world traveler and a French/English interpreter living in Paris not a haus frau in Bellevue, Washington. He was undaunted and asked me several times. Each time I said no. He was intense and serious; I was a flibbertigibbet. We broke up over and over, but I kept going back to him. There was that indefinable something that I couldn’t resist.
We were enrolled at Washington State University and our dating life the first semester was a replay of our high school experience. On again, off again. We went back to our homes at Christmas break and saw each other for the holidays. It was common practice for a student with a reliable vehicle to sell space in said vehicle to other students who needed rides to and from the west side of the mountains. We each signed up for the ride back to the University after New Year. The guy oversold the space in his car. Ken and I can’t remember exactly what kind of car he had but Ken thinks it was something like a Chevy Malibu – not a full-size car by any means. The driver, his girlfriend, and another fellow sat in the front seat, Ken and two other big guys in the backseat and me. The only place I could sit was on Ken’s lap. We were all 18 and 19 years old so being packed like a canister of tennis balls didn’t seem so bad. After all, it was only four hours across the mountains from Bellevue to Pullman.
On Sunday, January 5th, we left about 1:00 pm in a light snow. As we got into the mountains the snowfall was harder. By the time we reached the pass, it was closed due to the storm. We couldn’t use I-90 to get to eastern Washington and had to backtrack and reroute south into Oregon then across I-84 and up to Walla Walla and then to Pullman making a four-hour journey into an eight-hour marathon. We stopped a few times so everyone could get out and stretch their legs. Ken’s legs went numb a few times with me sitting on him but, as I said, we were young and everything was possible. We were all in good spirits and having a great time despite the delay.
Ken was going back to school for semester finals, then leaving the first week of February to go to Florida for Spring Training. After high school, he signed a contract to be a pitcher with the Detroit Tigers’ Baseball Organization. He was going to be in exotic sunny Florida with baseball groupies, playing ball all summer. I began thinking how much I would miss him.
I whispered in Ken’s ear. “Do you still want to get married?” Without hesitation, he said, “Yes.” “Ok, we’ll do it tomorrow,” I continued to whisper so our companions couldn’t hear. “Tomorrow?” he queried. “Tomorrow or never,” I challenged. “OK.” “I have two conditions”. “What?” “One: we don’t tell anyone and then when you get back from baseball, we have a real wedding. Two: you take me out of Washington State to live somewhere else”. “Ok.”
My first condition was because my mother would be disappointed if I didn’t have a big fat wedding. From the time I was knee-high to a beetle she talked about my wedding. She was cheated out of a formal wedding in 1943 because of the war and she wanted to put on a big affair for me. I knew it would kill her spirit if I eloped and she didn’t get the chance to plan a wedding. The second condition was because I couldn’t stand the dreary climate in western Washington and had wanted to leave since I got there when I was twelve. Ken was willing to live anywhere.
It was decided. We got to our respective dorms late and agreed he would pick me up at 8:00 to go to Idaho to get married. We couldn’t marry in Washington State because, at that time, men under 21 had to have a parent’s permission. There was also a waiting period from the time a license was issued until the nuptials could be performed. That didn’t fit our window of opportunity. In Idaho, there were no restrictions and no waiting period. We set off for Coeur d’Alene in Ken’s knackered old 1950 Chevy that used more oil than gas. At one point our car spun out on the ice and we ended up backed into a snowbank. A kind motorist stopped to help us get back on the road. It was still snowing lightly but undaunted we continued on. Nothing deterred us.
I dressed in a sleeveless cream-colored wool dress and high heels. It was the only almost white dress I had. High heels in snow are not the best choice either. But again, what about this whole thing made sense? I took my big china pig under my arm as my maid of honor…. don’t ask. Ken wore a sports coat, slacks, and sensible shoes. We each had a coat against the winter chill.
With a few stops along the way to add oil, we made it to Coeur d’Alene and found the courthouse. We quickly obtained a license and asked where we could get married. We were directed to a little chapel, The Hitching Post. A justice of the peace married us with his wife as a witness. It was done!! We had lunch at a lakeside café. They gave us a tiny wedding cake to celebrate. On the way back to the University, the Chevy gave up and died. We left it at a service station in Colfax and caught a bus for the ride to Pullman, pig, wedding cake, and all.
As soon as we got off the bus we went directly to the car dealer and Ken bought a cranky 1950 Cadillac, again not the most reliable car, but it got us around town for the couple of weeks before he left for Florida. The next weekend we drove to Lewiston, Idaho for our two-day honeymoon and happily ever after.
Ken never lets me forget I was the one who proposed to HIM. Yes, indeed I did, and I don’t regret it. We still chuckle over the impulsive decision and the fact that it actually turned out to be a good idea. We marvel that our spontaneous marriage has weathered sixty years.
We did have a formal wedding with all the hoopla, wedding showers, white dress, “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue”, flowers, music, big cake, and reception at the beautiful old Saint Thomas Episcopal Church in Medina with Father “Mac” McMurtry and Father “Val” Valspinosa presiding on September 4, 1964, just five days after Ken returned from the baseball season.
To keep up the story, Ken had called my father from Florida in April to ask for my hand in marriage, then sent me a diamond engagement ring in the mail. My mother and I went to the courthouse in Seattle to get the license. My best friend was my maid of honor (much better than a china pig) and Ken’s best friend was his best man. Mom planned the whole shebang. The only thing I picked out was my groom and my dress, she did the rest and had a wonderful time doing it. I was probably the least stressed bride in history.
We kept the secret for forty years until my mother passed away. She never knew the story and neither did anyone else. Our kids were flabbergasted that we kept the secret for so long from them. “What else don’t we know?” was their response. Oh, the stories we could tell…
In recent news, a six-year-old boy was put on the wrong flight to visit his grandmother and ended up in Orlando instead of Fort Myers, Florida begging the question, where were the adults? Should children be allowed to fly unaccompanied?
Times have changed. I flew unaccompanied four times from the ages of four to eight. Each summer, I flew from Wichita, Kansas to Denver to stay for a month or so with my mother’s parents. I treasure those memories because it was a time when I got to know them and they me beyond just a short visit. My father’s family lived in and around Wichita, so I grew up with nearly weekly visits with grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins on that side of the family. The only opportunity I had to see my maternal grandparents, aunts, and uncles was summertime trips to Colorado.
That was in the late 40s and early 50s of the last century, oh my. It never crossed my mind to be fearful or apprehensive about those experiences. I was handed over to a stewardess, as they were called then. She looked after me from the time I boarded the plane until she gave me to my grandparents. Also in those days, my parents walked me across the tarmac directly to the door of the airplane. Things were so much simpler. At the end of my summer stay, my parents usually drove to Denver to collect me. One time my godfather volunteered for the duty, and I drove home with him and his girlfriend. I sat on the front seat between them (another thing that couldn’t happen today). It was a long day’s drive looking for Burma Save signs, counting out-of-state license plates, singing silly songs, and stopping for cokes and a lunch of toasted chicken salad sandwiches.
I remember on my first or second flight I was taken for a short visit to the cockpit to meet the pilot and copilot. It is not clear in memory if the plane was in the air but I’m pretty sure we had not taken off yet. I sat on the pilot’s lap as he showed me how he operated the plane with all the dials and gizmos he used to get us to our destination. He allowed me to “take the wheel”. It was fascinating. Back at my seat, I was treated like a princess with lots of attention and the flight went by very quickly. I never felt I was cargo or a piece of luggage being shipped from place to place. My grandparents were there waiting when the door was opened. I was always the first to deplane.
Each time I flew, I was given a junior stewardess pin with wings to wear that looked just like those worn by the pilots and flight attendants.
On the last flight I took solo when I was eight, I was seated next to Tex Ritter. He was one of the singing cowboys. My very favorite was Roy Rogers with his horse Trigger, but Tex was next best. Then came Rex Allen and Gene Autrey. I loved cowboys. Since I was the only girl in my neighborhood, I played outside with all the boys. I had a complete cowgirl outfit with a fringed skirt and vest, a neckscarf, boots and spurs, and a toy gun with a red holster. We rode up and down the street on our pretend horses chasing Indians and outlaws or hiding out from the same.
I had seen Tex and his big white horse, Flash, in Saturday matinees. I remember his low resonant voice. My favorite songs were, I Got Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle, You Are My Sunshine, and Froggy Went a Courtin. He sang the theme song of High Noon, but I believe that was later in his career. I don’t recall having a conversation with Tex other than “Hi” and “How are you”. He minded his business, probably read a book; and the stewardess gave me a coloring book, so I kept busy too. I did get his autograph in the autograph book that I carried with me and still have.
I’m not sure how I survived all that reckless treatment as a child with unsecured plane and car seats, and being handed from stranger to stranger far from home; but here I am – the lucky survivor of a happy childhood.
I became enamored with the book, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, by Richard Bach sometime in 1971. I was a young suburban mother of three living in Bellevue, Washington. In the book was wisdom about living your best life that inspired me. A couple of years later my friend Karla told me she read in the newspaper that Richard Bach was going to barnstorm in Issaquah later that week at the small skyport there. We decided to take our kids to see him. Karla’s son was three and so was mine, my two daughters were five and six. We went to a big open field with one runway and a barn to watch Richard Bach guide his biplane to a landing and get out to greet people. There were about twenty or so people there. He looked very spiffy in his jeans, white turtleneck shirt, white scarf, and leather jacket with windblown wavey hair and a mustache.
I wanted an autograph in the worst way but in my excitement, I forgot to bring the book with me. Richard offered to give short rides in his biplane for five dollars. Karla and I looked at each other and exclaimed “Let’s do it!” There were two or three people who flew before us, so we watched as he piloted his plane through various maneuvers. I kept an eye on her son while she took a ride, and she watched my three kiddos while I went up.
When it was my turn Richard asked if I had ever been in a biplane before. “No,” was my answer. “Have you ever been seasick or airsick?” Again “No”. Would you be afraid to be upside down?” My excitement climbed. “No”. “Ok then, we’ll have fun,” he said.
The ride was short and exhilarating. We did loop de loops, barrel rolls, and zig zags. I think my entire flight lasted fifteen minutes and my heart soared. When we were back on the ground, he hopped out of the plane and helped me down. He shook my hand, and I thanked him, utterly starstruck. Then I told him I read his book but forgot to bring it for an autograph. He reached into an inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a piece of blue paper. He tore it in half, took out a pen, drew a picture, and signed his name. “Here,” he said. “Paste this inside the cover of your book.”
I have read and reread most of his books. I think Illusions is my favorite although when I read another it becomes my favorite. These are a few of his quotes I love best.
“When you have come to the edge of all the light you have And step into the darkness of the unknown Believe that one of the two will happen to you Either you’ll find something solid to stand on Or you’ll be taught how to fly!” ― Richard Bach
“No matter how qualified or deserving we are, we will never reach a better life until we can imagine it for ourselves and allow ourselves to have it.” ― Richard Bach
“Remember where you came from, where you’re going, and why you created this mess you got yourself into in the first place.” ― Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah
“You’re never given a dream without also being given the power to make it true.” ― Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah
“There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands. You seek problems because you need their gifts.” ― Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah
“You don’t love hatred and evil, of course. You have to practice and see the real gull, the good in every one of them, and to help them see it in themselves. That’s what I mean by love. It’s fun, when you get the knack of it.” ― Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull
One Christmastime, my parents drove from Wichita to Longmont Colorado so we could spend Christmas with my mom’s family. We stayed at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. We were there a few days before Christmas. My grandparents’ home on Carolina Avenue was small. The routine during our stay was that I went to bed in grandma’s bed. Then when the adults went to bed, I was transferred to the living room sofa. My parents slept in the guest bedroom. I always went sound asleep, never sensing the move from bed to sofa.
On Christmas Eve my aunt, uncle, and cousins came to visit with us. My cousins were much younger than me, so we didn’t play together. We had dinner then everyone helped decorate the tree. The bright lights cast a colorful glow around the room. There was a fire in the fireplace making the night cozy. The big picture window in the front room framed the snowy scene outside. Grandma had paper and crayons for me to draw pictures. I drew a picture of Santa and his reindeer to leave for Santa along with cookies and milk.
When my aunt and uncle left with my cousins it was time for me to go to bed. I worried that Santa would get burned by the fire when he came down the chimney. Grandpa assured me he would stay up to make sure the fire was out and the fireplace cool so Santa would be fine. I told them I would stay awake until he got there just in case. And then, lights out.
In the morning I awoke when Grandma came into the living room to take the cover off of Mr. Thorndike’s cage. He was their blue and green parakeet. He started to jabber, jabber, jabber as soon as he saw daylight. Slowly I recognized where I was and looked first at the fireplace to check on the fire. It was out. Then I looked at the tree and saw presents all around it. Santa had come. The milk and cookies and my drawing were gone. I missed him – I slept through it all. Oh, how disappointing. But I couldn’t let anyone know I had not fulfilled my mission.
Grandma and Mom went into the kitchen to start breakfast. Grandpa came into the living room followed by my dad. They looked amazed at the tree and all the presents. Dad picked me up and Grandpa took the blankets and pillow off of the sofa so they could sit down. I walked around the presents; everything was wrapped, and I didn’t know what was mine but I tried to guess. Grandpa said we’d open gifts after breakfast. Oooo, I didn’t know if I could wait so long. Grandma took me to the bathroom and helped me dress. I was so anxious. Grandpa picked one present from under the tree and told me I could open just one before breakfast. It was a china tea set with roses on the four small cups and saucers, and a teapot, sugar bowl, and creamer.
Then the question. Did you see Santa? Did you talk to him?
My four-year-old brain lit up. “Yes,” I said emphatically. “Santa came down the chimney and got his pants a little dirty. He saw me lying on the sofa and put a finger to his lips and told me not to talk. He ate the cookies and rubbed his tummy, mmm good. Then he laid out all the presents from his big red bag and blew me a kiss, took my drawing, and disappeared back up the chimney and I fell asleep really quick and didn’t look at the presents.”
“Oh, you’ll have to tell Grandma what you saw,” Grandpa said and called Grandma and my mom in from the kitchen.
I repeated my revelation and added that I heard the reindeer on the roof and their bells.
“You are one lucky girl,” said Grandma. “Not many get to see Santa.”
I did not notice the exchange of looks and winks that I’m sure darted around the room from adult to adult as I told my story. They accepted every word and repeated what a lucky girl I was.
Four years later, when my third-grade teacher told the class just before we left for the day and Christmas break, that although Santa wasn’t real, it was the spirit of giving that made Christmas special. A knot formed in my stomach. Santa, not real? How could that be? My throat went dry, a lump obstructed my swallowing. I couldn’t talk. I was devastated. I went home after school and asked my mom. She grumbled about the teacher telling the class about the myth of Santa but admitted that the teacher was right. Santa was the spirit of giving not a real man. The magic trickled out of the holiday like syrup slowly dripping off my Christmas waffles. It took me the whole Christmas vacation to accept that Santa was not a person, just the essence of giving. I couldn’t even talk about it to my best friend. The day before school began in the new year, I asked her if she knew about Santa before Mrs. Singer told us. She said yes, she was not surprised. Her parents never believed in Santa and told her and her brother not to talk about it to other kids who might believe. That really put the exclamation point on the lesson. I had no choice but to believe them.
Then I remembered my Santa sighting. Another whole dimension developed in my troubled brain. Now I knew, they knew I was telling a whopper of a tale when I described my visit from Santa. By then, I’d convinced myself that it was true. Not once did any of those grownups bring it up. Toward the end of my mother’s life, I asked her about it and she said my imaginative, impromptu story was the highlight of that Colorado trip. I’ve told stories real and imagined since I was four.
Writers obtain inspiration from a variety of sources. Mine usually come in dreams, or as I’m waking in the morning. Sometimes a character talks to me while I’m walking or driving asking to have his/her story told. It can be said to be divine, or mystical, or even crazy but it is magical. This is the true story of a spirit who guided me to write a poem.
At the tender age of sixty-two I suddenly realized that I would never be a grandmother. It had been my highest ambition, having grown up with wonderful grandparents and great-grandparents. As Polonius said, “and it must follow as the night, the day….” (totally out of context) I believed it was the natural culmination of a life well lived. I made the bold statement to my three progeny at various times that my aim in having children was so I could eventually be a grandma. I think that may have been a step too far. In hindsight, probably not a great tactic in the parent/child relationship.
By April, 2008 none of them exhibited any interest in procreation. NONE. They were happily living the lives they designed without one thought to my hopes and desires. Oh me, oh my. For several years, I had pinned baby pictures of my friends’ grandchildren and even the children of my childrens’ friends on a wall in my office cubicle. Someday, I believed, the wall would contain a load of pictures of MY grandchildren. But now all my children had exceeded their fortieth birthday and no grandchildren on the horizon. Not even a hint, a whiff, a whisper, a sign.
That evening I sat with my journal and began to jot down a poem mourning the conscious loss of something I would never have. I wrote about the little granddaughter I wished for – all the things I envisioned doing with her.
The next day I went to my computer to transcribe that story to submit to my writers’ group. As I sat at my desk, I felt the strong presence of a little boy hovering over my left shoulder. I could hear his voice. He wanted me to bake a cake for his third birthday. His spirit was so vivid, that the story of my granddaughter morphed into a poem about my grandson. I read it to my writer’s group the next week with an air of sad resignation, a kind of mourning.
My Grandson at Three A memoir of loss
A chubby bundle of verve Dirty knees, killer smile A charming packet of cuddles, Blue eyes spark with wonder That is my grandson
Innocence and childish wisdom Life – a fish bowl of dashing delights A bright idea swishes past A clever observation The world full of marvels
At three his every thought Becomes action Or question to be explored Energy and curiosity Cascade thru our day
From awakening Til he is tucked away Too tired to dream My grandson to me is Joy, delight, a miracle
Sweet arms surround my neck “Read it again, gramma” Good Night Moon redux Snuggles in my lap Affection, a two-way road, no tolls
I know it can’t last This rapture of childhood If love holds when he is grown He’ll read to me In the afterglow of remembrance
I wished a granddaughter Tea parties and dress up I wanted a granddaughter To primp and pamper I dreamed a grandson, the light of my life
I am the mother of three None plan children of their own Their choice, their path Expectation denied A loss I mourn
He will never be born to the world In consolation of loss My grandson is born to my heart A luminous vibration of life Forever tenderly just mine.
On Mother’s Day, May 11, 2008, I received a call from our eldest daughter who was living in Hawaii. “Hi Mom,” she said, “Happy Mother’s Day. You are going to be a grandma.” I was stunned. Excited, stunned, excited, over-the-moon, amazed. It was several days before I remembered the little boy who asked me to bake his birthday cake. My daughter declared that she was not going to find out the sex of her child until it was born. I had a hard time keeping the secret – I knew a little boy was on his way. He told me so about a month earlier.
Our daughter was divorced and moved to Tucson just before her baby was born. Ken and I were privileged to be part of his childhood. I did bake his birthday cake for his third birthday, white cake with chocolate frosting and M&M’s. He is all that I dreamed. He does have blue eyes and a killer smile. He is a bundle of energy and light. He is a blessing beyond my imagining. He taught himself to play the piano by ear at age three. He learned to play the guitar from his mama. He played little league with his grandpa as a coach. He’s a scholar at school taking honors and AP courses. He is now over six feet tall, nearly as tall as grandpa, and very much his own person. He belongs to his high school mountain biking team. He has participated in El Tour de Tucson Bike Race every year since he was four starting with the fun run, then the five mile and so on. This year he challenged himself to ride the longest run – 105 miles that he completed in five hours. Oh, the bragging can go on and on for pages.
This past weekend we celebrated his 15th birthday. I baked a German Chocolate birthday cake for him.
And at nap time when he was little, we did read Goodnight Moon – many times.
Happy Thanksgiving to All! This has always been my favorite holiday – all about food, friends, and family. A time to be with those we love with no obligation for gift-giving. Once upon a time our family had a very memorable Thanksgiving – not in the usual way.
The Thanksgiving tradition in our family developed over a number of years. As young marrieds, my husband’s two sisters, their husbands and the two of us went to his parents’ home for Thanksgiving. His single brother came along with the girlfriend of the month. None of us had the room or wherewithal to deal with a crowd for the holiday. We all lived in and around the greater Seattle area.
When children were born to each household, we found it easier to have the feast at one of two houses, ours and Ken’s sister Arlene’s. At one point our two families lived only a block from each other. We had large homes and each had three children of similar ages. The kids attended the same schools. Ken’s dad suffered with medical problems and his mom was getting older, so it was harder for her to prepare a big meal, even with help. We divided up the holidays. One year Ken and I would host Thanksgiving and Arlene and Charles hosted Christmas. The next year we switched. That went on for most of the years our children were small through their teens.
The last year for our big family gathering was the most memorable. Arlene and Charles had moved to a home on a few acres at Offut Lake, south of Seattle. Ken and I moved even further south to Arizona. All our children were adults living in the Seattle area. Ken’s parents had passed away. Charles’ mother, Maude, lived in her own little trailer home on their property so they could care for her as her health declined. A few days before this particular Thanksgiving, we were told she had been moved into the house because she needed twenty-four-hour attention. We expected to spend time with Maude during the day.
We flew to Seattle from Tucson and drove out to the lake. Upon arrival, our arms loaded with gifts and treats for the family, we were greeted on the front porch by Charles with, “Happy Thanksgiving. We’re glad you could make it. Come on in. Mom just died. She’s lying in her room. You can visit with her if you like. We’ve called the coroner.”
Shocking, to say the least. We had no cell phones at that time, so could not receive a heads-up that she was near the end. Momentary confusion rattled us. Should we postpone Thanksgiving dinner? The family no longer all lived in close proximity and everyone traveled a distance to be together. Was it proper to have a celebration with a deceased loved one in the bedroom? Not a common question at Thanksgiving. The whole family was gathered, and we took in the reality each in our own way. There were no tears, just a collection of faces in varying degrees of disbelief. Now wasn’t that just like Maude. She certainly grabbed the center of interest for this family event. We finished preparing the meal reminiscing about past Thanksgivings. Laughter and memories of Maude were shared. We took time, individually, to go to her room and wish her Godspeed toward Heaven.
Dinner was served. We sat down to the feast, Charles said a prayer of Thanksgiving, and we enjoyed the traditional assortment of foods as in past years. Death was an unexpected specter at our table. Just as we finished, a knock came on the door. The coroner with two assistants arrived between dinner and dessert, as if scripted. Maude’s body was removed and we continued our meal with pies and cakes. It was odd but felt completely appropriate and comforting for everyone to be together.
In later years as our family spread out to various states, we gathered friends together who also had far-flung relatives and created a friend/family to celebrate Thanksgiving. It is still my favorite holiday. Has your family or friend/family had an unusual Thanksgiving? I’d love to hear about them.
wonkagranny 