Ah, Friday. It was the end of a particularly rough week, and I’d made plans to venture outside of the OC for the day to have lunch with a couple of friends and help out in Family Advocacy. I was pretty excited to just step back and take it easy; I’d been feeling slightly burnt out as of late.
As much as I absolutely love my work and my life here, at nine months in I’d be lying if I said that all of it doesn’t catch up with me once in a while. Just the Tuesday before, I’d come home from an exceptionally tiring day and gone straight to bed at 7:30 without saying so much as a “hello” to any of my housemates. Needless to say, in a family of eleven, if one goes to bed before double-digits it really isn’t fair to ask for or to expect silence. Therefore, I stumbled out of my room with my comforter a half-hour later, snuck through a seldom-used back door while the rest of the crew was otherwise occupied in the kitchen, and crawled into my van to rack up some REM points. This started out as a pretty sweet idea until somebody discovered my absence a couple of hours later and the entire house organized itself into a frantic search party, thinking that I’d snapped and embarked on some manic tear through the Appalachian hills as a result of my less-than-stellar day. I awoke in the front seat of my Chevy Uplander to the sound of my name being bellowed by the Jackson House men and echoing all around our hollow. Bless their hearts, but I wound up not quite getting the night’s rest that I so desperately needed.
So, when a housemate held our phone out to me on Friday morning and said that it was Earl’s daughter calling, I couldn’t help cringing. She’d told me the day before that her dad had been flown to Lexington from Kentucky River Hospital, and I’d asked her to keep me posted. Wish granted.
I softened when I heard tears in her voice. “They’re doing surgery,” she said. “My whole family is there and they want me to come. Can you drive me?” I sighed internally as I glanced at the kitchen clock and let thoughts of my low-key Friday vanish. “Give me a couple of hours, okay?”
We drove the two hours from Vincent to Lexington in time to meet the rest of the family after Earl had come out of the operating room. We waited inside a small room for a report from the front lines. Sarah was there, as were another one of her daughters and Earl’s two brothers from Indiana. Earl and Sarah’s two sons and their wives were in town, also, but were out grabbing lunch. I tried to gauge from the mood of the present company how gingerly I should tread.
“So are you one of them liberals from New York?” the smaller brother asked me, his eyes small and hard.
“Actually, I’m part of the red minority in that state,” I answered slowly.
Well, from that point on, we were all the best of friends.
A nurse entered the room and gave us an update. It turns out that the burning Earl had been experiencing for the past few weeks was a two foot-long blood clot in his right leg. Had he not suggested that as a possibility to the doctor in Breathitt County, we’d have been gathered for a very different and much more upsetting circumstance.
I spent the entire day with the whole family waiting for Earl to be wheeled to his recovery room in the ICU. They’re a mixed bag, to be sure, and they certainly made their presence known in the sixth floor’s main waiting area. Earl’s two brothers are complete opposites: Andy is a slight fellow, with his hair neatly parted on the left and a bright green and purple polo shirt tucked into his blue jeans; Ricky’s gray hair was parted straight down the middle, and overalls covered his substantially larger gut. The two sons present were big, beefy men – one is a mechanic, while the other followed in his father’s footsteps to become a truck-driver. The women all remained quiet, dozing on and off throughout the afternoon. Not the men, however.
“Check out how her second toe is bigger’n all the rest of ‘em,” one son whispered theatrically to Andy.
“She’s like a monkey,” Andy concurred.
“Where’s she from again?” another brother asked Laura on the other side of the room.
“New York,” Ricky interrupted.
“Well, how in the hell did she wind up here?”
“Not enough Republicans up there for her.”
“Well, she’s no fool.”
“We should call her Cricket. Sorta sounds like Bridget. And she’s tiny. Like a cricket.”
“Way she snorts, though, makes her sound like a barnyard.”
“You know the way to tell a woman’s from ‘roud here? Barefoot and pregnant.”
“Well, she’s already practically barefoot.”
“Didn’t she date that Jimmy boy a while back?”
Here I interjected. “I did NOT date Jimmy. We got pizza once.”
“Well, we might have her pregnant by May, after all!”
After a while, the brothers took one of Earl’s sons and set out in search of food, weary from an afternoon of merciless teasing. The rest of us continued our vigil. Finally, at long last, a nurse came in to us and said that our guy was able to start receiving visitors two at a time. I smiled at his son and daughters, but Sarah took my hand. “Come on, baby,” she said, standing up stiffly. “Let’s go see Dad.” I hesitated and looked at their kids, but they nodded eagerly, so I walked arm-in-arm with Laura past the nurses’ station and into Earl’s room.
The chaos of the hospital bullpen dissolved in the peace of Earl’s dimly-lit room, and I felt the usual calm associated with this man fill me up. He looked exhausted but comfortable in the hospital bed’s clean sheets, his long white hair swept back across his pillow. His eyes met mine and his eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise. I felt my eyes prickle with tears as I asked, “How're ya feelin’, Earl?” Flint struck steel somewhere deep in his eyes and that old wry grin flitted faintly across his lips. “Mostly with my fingers.”
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Country Poet
“I’m not sure I’m the girl you’re looking for,” I said doubtfully.
Hannah shook her head. “He’s not trying to court you. He just needs a friend. He can’t talk to nobody in this town.”
I wasn’t convinced. It’s not that I didn’t trust Sam; I did. I just wasn’t confident that my involvement in this particular piece of family drama would yield positive results. He was having trouble with his woman – actually, with two of his women. His ex-wife was giving him grief over custody of their two kids, and his current long-term girlfriend had stolen from the family and used the money to buy drugs. And although Hannah was simply worried about her eldest son, I couldn’t help but feel like I would walk into my office on the morning after our conversation to a very angry dope head and a twelve-gauge.
“Just take down his number,” Hannah pleaded. “He saw you in town the other day and said to me, ‘Mama, I just feel like I can trust her.’”
Against my better judgment, I added Sam’s number to my contacts list. I kept it there for a week or so and contemplated what my best move would be.
As much as my common sense was telling me to lose the number and forget about it, I couldn’t. Sure, my job title is “Elderly Caseworker” and I have absolutely no professional or personal background to help a fellow through a situation like this one. But this was family. Just a few weeks ago I’d gone to their reunion and shared stories, laughs, and wonderful food with the whole lot of them. Heck, I’d even gotten up in front of a hundred strangers and belted out “Amazing Grace” with banjo and steel guitar accompaniment. In short, there was an established bond there, and it counted for way more than common sense. And so I decided to call Sam.
Truth be told, I was as curious as I was concerned. Sam is your quintessential stone-faced, strong and silent farmer. Tall and gaunt, his face is a constant ashen color, his cheeks and eyes sunken in and partially hidden under a baseball cap pulled down low. He seldom smiles and never laughs. And while he’s always regarded me with kindness, I’d never had a conversation with him that extended past “Hey, how are ya?” Frankly, I could count on two hands the number of words I’d actually heard out of his mouth. Needless to say, I was intrigued to find out what it was that he believed he could share with me.
I waited one night until the Jackson House had wrapped up dinner and walked outside onto our porch with my cell phone. I found his name and hit Send, a strange butterfly fluttering in my stomach. Sam’s voice ended the ringing on the line and I told him who was calling. “Hiya, Sam. It’s Bridget. Your mom gave me your number.”
He sounded a little awkward on the other end, though not at all surprised. We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, but it quickly became apparent to the two of us that if we’d never spoken this way when spending hours in each other’s company, then we certainly weren’t going to start on the phone this night. So we jumped right into it.
Sam told me about the two women he’d loved – how he’d given everything he could to them and how he’d been taken advantage of when they both turned to drugs. He told how his first wife had tried to use his kids to hurt him, and how his current girlfriend had proven to be a pathological liar.
“Bridget, I know that I’m capable of loving so much,” he said, his voice rising with emotion. “I just want to find a woman who’s going to love me as much as I love her.”
I’m glad that we were having this conversation via phone because, for the half hour that Sam poured out his soul to me, my mouth hung open. I’d had no idea that underneath that gray, non-descript exterior beat a heart so full of warmth and passion. I remained silent for a long time and let Sam get everything off of his chest. He talked about being lonely, and how at thirty-nine he believed that it was too late to start over. He said that he felt trapped in this place due to the custody battle involving his kids, and knew that his options (so to speak) were limited here. He insisted that he really loved his current girlfriend despite – and really perhaps because of – all of her problems. He was eloquent in his sincerity, his speech almost lyrical in its beautiful honesty. Sam became a country poet to me that night, tragic and sad and much wiser than I.
Sam and his girlfriend are still together; he took her back, much to his family’s chagrin. He’s helping her to work through all of her issues with the patient stoicism and loyalty of a saint, and he continues to work constantly to support her and his children. Sam and I have since resumed our smile-and-nod friendship. There’s a certain understanding in our eye contact now, though. Our “Hey, how are ya?” is like a secret code for “Hang in there. Sometimes love is tough. But it’s always worth it.”
Hannah shook her head. “He’s not trying to court you. He just needs a friend. He can’t talk to nobody in this town.”
I wasn’t convinced. It’s not that I didn’t trust Sam; I did. I just wasn’t confident that my involvement in this particular piece of family drama would yield positive results. He was having trouble with his woman – actually, with two of his women. His ex-wife was giving him grief over custody of their two kids, and his current long-term girlfriend had stolen from the family and used the money to buy drugs. And although Hannah was simply worried about her eldest son, I couldn’t help but feel like I would walk into my office on the morning after our conversation to a very angry dope head and a twelve-gauge.
“Just take down his number,” Hannah pleaded. “He saw you in town the other day and said to me, ‘Mama, I just feel like I can trust her.’”
Against my better judgment, I added Sam’s number to my contacts list. I kept it there for a week or so and contemplated what my best move would be.
As much as my common sense was telling me to lose the number and forget about it, I couldn’t. Sure, my job title is “Elderly Caseworker” and I have absolutely no professional or personal background to help a fellow through a situation like this one. But this was family. Just a few weeks ago I’d gone to their reunion and shared stories, laughs, and wonderful food with the whole lot of them. Heck, I’d even gotten up in front of a hundred strangers and belted out “Amazing Grace” with banjo and steel guitar accompaniment. In short, there was an established bond there, and it counted for way more than common sense. And so I decided to call Sam.
Truth be told, I was as curious as I was concerned. Sam is your quintessential stone-faced, strong and silent farmer. Tall and gaunt, his face is a constant ashen color, his cheeks and eyes sunken in and partially hidden under a baseball cap pulled down low. He seldom smiles and never laughs. And while he’s always regarded me with kindness, I’d never had a conversation with him that extended past “Hey, how are ya?” Frankly, I could count on two hands the number of words I’d actually heard out of his mouth. Needless to say, I was intrigued to find out what it was that he believed he could share with me.
I waited one night until the Jackson House had wrapped up dinner and walked outside onto our porch with my cell phone. I found his name and hit Send, a strange butterfly fluttering in my stomach. Sam’s voice ended the ringing on the line and I told him who was calling. “Hiya, Sam. It’s Bridget. Your mom gave me your number.”
He sounded a little awkward on the other end, though not at all surprised. We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, but it quickly became apparent to the two of us that if we’d never spoken this way when spending hours in each other’s company, then we certainly weren’t going to start on the phone this night. So we jumped right into it.
Sam told me about the two women he’d loved – how he’d given everything he could to them and how he’d been taken advantage of when they both turned to drugs. He told how his first wife had tried to use his kids to hurt him, and how his current girlfriend had proven to be a pathological liar.
“Bridget, I know that I’m capable of loving so much,” he said, his voice rising with emotion. “I just want to find a woman who’s going to love me as much as I love her.”
I’m glad that we were having this conversation via phone because, for the half hour that Sam poured out his soul to me, my mouth hung open. I’d had no idea that underneath that gray, non-descript exterior beat a heart so full of warmth and passion. I remained silent for a long time and let Sam get everything off of his chest. He talked about being lonely, and how at thirty-nine he believed that it was too late to start over. He said that he felt trapped in this place due to the custody battle involving his kids, and knew that his options (so to speak) were limited here. He insisted that he really loved his current girlfriend despite – and really perhaps because of – all of her problems. He was eloquent in his sincerity, his speech almost lyrical in its beautiful honesty. Sam became a country poet to me that night, tragic and sad and much wiser than I.
Sam and his girlfriend are still together; he took her back, much to his family’s chagrin. He’s helping her to work through all of her issues with the patient stoicism and loyalty of a saint, and he continues to work constantly to support her and his children. Sam and I have since resumed our smile-and-nod friendship. There’s a certain understanding in our eye contact now, though. Our “Hey, how are ya?” is like a secret code for “Hang in there. Sometimes love is tough. But it’s always worth it.”
Friday, September 24, 2010
The King
Autumn is an exciting time here in Kentucky. As nature ages gracefully, the leaves change and set the hills on fire in a blaze of scarlet, amber, and gold. Mornings wake up the day with a decidedly crisp chill in the air, and the fog is taking longer and longer to burn off in the valley of Booneville. Front yards are slowly filling up with pumpkins, bales of hay, and scarecrows. The old folks are taking turns making predictions about the coming winter, each more ominous than the last and quickly followed up by war stories of Januarys survived.
Perhaps, though, the most exhilarating Fall activities are the slew of county fairs that are threatening to occupy our every weekend. These festivals are no frivolous New York affair featuring beer tents and wire leashes for invisible dogs. Oh, no. County fairs around here are serious business. Young and old battle it out in 4-H contests for canning, quilting, painting, and vegetable-growing, and local musicians show their stuff at down-home talent competitions that win the victors a Walmart gift card and a year’s worth of bragging rights. There are banjos, mandolins, guitars, and more Appalachian clogging than you can shake a stick at. And as far as sustenance goes: well, if you can fry it and run a stick through it, you can most certainly ingest it (before jumping on the giant pirate ship ride and sorely regretting it).
During the past few weeks, my Kentucky family and I have immersed ourselves in the local flavor of our current surroundings. We kicked things off at the Jackson County Fair in our CAP hometown of McKee, which I followed with the Booneville Fair in the OC. A few of the J-House ladies checked out the Richmond Pottery Festival, while the ever-wise McCreary gals opted for the Bourbon Festival last weekend. This past Sunday, a few of my friends and I attended the Berea Spoonbread Festival.
Spoonbread is a type of cornbread that’s pudding-like in consistency, not like the dense, crumbly cousin that we live on down here. Seeing as how there’s a whole festival named after it, five of us splurged on a single three-dollar helping and eagerly gathered around the bowl with our spoons to try it. We all took our bites at the same time and chewed them slowly before looking up into the faces around the circle and seeing our own confusion reflected in each of them. Okay, so spoonbread isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m quickly learning, though, that a small town doesn’t need a real reason to celebrate community.
We wandered about the grounds, looking at the different stands and sampling the various fares offered from brightly colored booths smelling strongly of oil and clogged arteries. Eventually, we found ourselves sitting in a pavilion next to the music tent, eating snow cones and impatiently awaiting the arrival of the final act of the festival and the one for which we’d really come in the first place.
Will “Teen King” Reynolds is a sixteen year-old reed of a boy who – you guessed it – impersonates Elvis Presley. Do yourself a favor and Youtube him. All it took was for us to see his name and promotional photo in the festival program, and we knew there was no question that we’d have to be present for his show. He’s been doing this routine for years. When discussing the show later on in the McKee Rite Aid, the cashier knew exactly who we were talking about; she’d seen him at an Independence Day celebration in Richmond a few years back. What I’m trying to say, kids, is that this fellow if kind of a big deal.
Tamara and I were sitting at our picnic table surrounded by other cheery festival-goers while Christel and Ben went off to make phone calls before the music started up. While we girls were chatting, we heard a blood-curdling scream; we, along with the other thirty people in the pavilion, whipped our heads around to see who’d caught on fire. Alas, Ben came running over to us, eyes like saucers and the Superman symbol he’d had the kids’ face painter draw on his chest just peeking out over the top button of his flannel shirt.
“YOU GUYS. HE’S HERE.”
It took us a minute to realize that he was, in fact, talking about the Teen King. With those around us now looking at all three of us with some alarm and much interest, Tamara and I sprung from our bench and fled the scene, making a bee-line for the parking lot where the King himself was exiting his Oldsmobile with his grandparents and girlfriend in tow.
And what a King he was. He was dressed in a pale blue jump suit, his large white belt and many rhinestones catching the September sunlight and making him sparkle. His perfectly coifed black wig had not a hair out of place, and I can only assume that blue contact lenses allowed him to hold us in so piercing and icy a gaze. He was putting on a white scarf when we approached him, positively star-struck.
He graciously agreed to take a picture with Ben and me. Upon later review, I’m not entirely sure whether or not the curled lip was evidence of Mr. Reynolds staying in character or a sign of impatience for those of us who are so very far below his particular brand of royalty.
The show was just as spectacular as we’d hoped it would be. Afterwards, Ben and Trevor, who himself was sporting Batman’s emblem on his t-shirt, were banned from the Fun Slide for flying down headfirst, Ben bellowing the Superman theme song on the way down. And so we headed out.
But Lee County’s Woolly Worm Festival is right around the corner; its main draw is a massive caterpillar race. “Excited” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Perhaps, though, the most exhilarating Fall activities are the slew of county fairs that are threatening to occupy our every weekend. These festivals are no frivolous New York affair featuring beer tents and wire leashes for invisible dogs. Oh, no. County fairs around here are serious business. Young and old battle it out in 4-H contests for canning, quilting, painting, and vegetable-growing, and local musicians show their stuff at down-home talent competitions that win the victors a Walmart gift card and a year’s worth of bragging rights. There are banjos, mandolins, guitars, and more Appalachian clogging than you can shake a stick at. And as far as sustenance goes: well, if you can fry it and run a stick through it, you can most certainly ingest it (before jumping on the giant pirate ship ride and sorely regretting it).
During the past few weeks, my Kentucky family and I have immersed ourselves in the local flavor of our current surroundings. We kicked things off at the Jackson County Fair in our CAP hometown of McKee, which I followed with the Booneville Fair in the OC. A few of the J-House ladies checked out the Richmond Pottery Festival, while the ever-wise McCreary gals opted for the Bourbon Festival last weekend. This past Sunday, a few of my friends and I attended the Berea Spoonbread Festival.
Spoonbread is a type of cornbread that’s pudding-like in consistency, not like the dense, crumbly cousin that we live on down here. Seeing as how there’s a whole festival named after it, five of us splurged on a single three-dollar helping and eagerly gathered around the bowl with our spoons to try it. We all took our bites at the same time and chewed them slowly before looking up into the faces around the circle and seeing our own confusion reflected in each of them. Okay, so spoonbread isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m quickly learning, though, that a small town doesn’t need a real reason to celebrate community.
We wandered about the grounds, looking at the different stands and sampling the various fares offered from brightly colored booths smelling strongly of oil and clogged arteries. Eventually, we found ourselves sitting in a pavilion next to the music tent, eating snow cones and impatiently awaiting the arrival of the final act of the festival and the one for which we’d really come in the first place.
Will “Teen King” Reynolds is a sixteen year-old reed of a boy who – you guessed it – impersonates Elvis Presley. Do yourself a favor and Youtube him. All it took was for us to see his name and promotional photo in the festival program, and we knew there was no question that we’d have to be present for his show. He’s been doing this routine for years. When discussing the show later on in the McKee Rite Aid, the cashier knew exactly who we were talking about; she’d seen him at an Independence Day celebration in Richmond a few years back. What I’m trying to say, kids, is that this fellow if kind of a big deal.
Tamara and I were sitting at our picnic table surrounded by other cheery festival-goers while Christel and Ben went off to make phone calls before the music started up. While we girls were chatting, we heard a blood-curdling scream; we, along with the other thirty people in the pavilion, whipped our heads around to see who’d caught on fire. Alas, Ben came running over to us, eyes like saucers and the Superman symbol he’d had the kids’ face painter draw on his chest just peeking out over the top button of his flannel shirt.
“YOU GUYS. HE’S HERE.”
It took us a minute to realize that he was, in fact, talking about the Teen King. With those around us now looking at all three of us with some alarm and much interest, Tamara and I sprung from our bench and fled the scene, making a bee-line for the parking lot where the King himself was exiting his Oldsmobile with his grandparents and girlfriend in tow.
And what a King he was. He was dressed in a pale blue jump suit, his large white belt and many rhinestones catching the September sunlight and making him sparkle. His perfectly coifed black wig had not a hair out of place, and I can only assume that blue contact lenses allowed him to hold us in so piercing and icy a gaze. He was putting on a white scarf when we approached him, positively star-struck.
He graciously agreed to take a picture with Ben and me. Upon later review, I’m not entirely sure whether or not the curled lip was evidence of Mr. Reynolds staying in character or a sign of impatience for those of us who are so very far below his particular brand of royalty.
The show was just as spectacular as we’d hoped it would be. Afterwards, Ben and Trevor, who himself was sporting Batman’s emblem on his t-shirt, were banned from the Fun Slide for flying down headfirst, Ben bellowing the Superman theme song on the way down. And so we headed out.
But Lee County’s Woolly Worm Festival is right around the corner; its main draw is a massive caterpillar race. “Excited” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Bless Its Heart
It’d been a particularly rough day. I dragged myself up the steps of the front porch rather melodramatically and pouted as I headed straight for Annie’s outstretched arms, while Ginny cooed, “Bless its heart.”
Annie’s a tiny woman, part Cherokee with a full head of red hair that she usually wears in a plait that reaches the small of her back. She lives in a beautiful old white house sitting on top of a hill in Vincent; it’s one of my favorite spots in Kentucky. The walls are layered with cream planks that are turning yellow with age, and the dark wooden doors are covered with intricately hand-carved molding. After my visits with her in the spring, one of my favorite things to do was to run across her back property with her dog Ginger on my heels. I’d reach its highest point and throw myself down in the tall, sweet-smelling grass, sending up a plume of jewel-colored butterflies against an achingly blue sky. A big wrap-around porch conducts the most beautiful breeze on balmy summer evenings when we sit with her family on the swing and wave at the passing cars. Annie considers me to be a daughter to her now, and I see her children and granddaughter as my own relatives. There are few things to which I look forward more at the end of a long day than unwinding with the whole lot of them in a cloud of cigarette smoke at their kitchen table.
Annie’s granddaughter Kelly is eight years old and cute as a button. So, when she asked me to buy something for her school’s fundraiser to assist her in her generation’s relentless pursuit of Silly Bandz, I had no choice but to succumb to the requests of the freckle-faced little sprite. I signed up for twenty issues of Time magazine (I know it goes against all of my “El Rushbo” upbringing, McCormacks, but I’d already bought a subscription to Southern Living from another kid, and People en Español just wasn’t that enticing). As I didn’t have the cash on me that afternoon, I arranged with Kelly and her mother Ginny to meet me at the elementary school at 7:30 the next day.
Ginny greeted me with a warm smile in the chilly gray morning light as I waited for them outside the cafeteria. At thirty-seven years old, her face is beginning to show the effects of years of sun and smoking, but her brown eyes lend a pretty softness to her expression. Kelly sleepily took the ten bucks I handed to her and let the corners of her mouth curl up ever-so-slightly in thanks.
I hugged Ginny and said, “See you at your mom’s house later?”
“Of course,” she chuckled. “We always wind up there one way or another.”
I drove up Annie’s hill at about 4:30, looking forward to listening to their family banter for an hour before returning to my own Kentucky family. I walked in to a very different scene, however. Annie, her son, and her daughter-in-law sat silently around their table, chain-smoking their cigarettes and silently staring straight ahead. Annie looked up at me, her deeply wrinkled face creased even further with worry. “Ginny and Kelly were in an accident over in McKee. Kelly was taken to Berea, but they flew Ginny to UK.”
I looked at them, startled, and sat down in the vacant chair at the end of the table. “How are they now?”
“No one’s telling us anything when we call,” Annie said helplessly. She pushed the phone into my hands. “You try.”
I got through to the emergency room and discovered that Ginny was responsive, but in bad shape. I asked if it would be helpful to have a family member there, to which the nurse replied, “Uh, yeah.”
The obvious dawned on me then: neither Annie nor her son have a car and therefore had no way of getting to UK. I asked Annie if it would be alright for me to represent her family at the hospital, and she eagerly agreed. Bringing her daughter-in-law with me, I jumped into my minivan and sped off for Lexington.
After spending a fair amount of time in the waiting room, we were allowed to make our way through the maze of gurneys and plastic curtains back to Ginny’s bed in the ER. Her tiny 108-pound frame lay twisted up in the sheets, her left foot visibly swollen and her face contorted in pain. I rushed to the side of the bed and began to sweep her dark brown hair away from her face. She tried to open up her swollen eyes to look at me without much success. “It’s Bridget, Ginny. I’m here. I’m here.” She tried to repeat my name, but the left side of her mouth remained stubbornly limp, and she looked alarmed at the realization that she was unable to speak normally.
She’d suffered a stroke while driving. Kelly later explained that her mother had been acting rather strangely upon leaving their appointment, and that she’d just “fallen asleep” on their drive back to Owsley. They’d careened into a ditch on a remote roadside (something that proves to be a constant threat around here). Once their vehicle had come to a stop, Kelly had crawled out of the car with a chipped collarbone, up the embankment, and to the first house she saw. When nobody answered her knock, she ran into the street and flagged down a coal truck, saving her mother’s life.
As doctors and medical students drifted in and out of the room, Ginny continued to writhe in pain; due to the fact that she hadn’t been given an MRI yet, she was unable to take any sort of pain-killers. When the doctors revealed that she’d not only broken her foot in three places, but had also crushed her pelvis, I really wasn’t sure how much longer Ginny could take it. It’d already been hours since the accident and, because of the lack of family presence and pertinent personal information, nothing had been done to her in that time except for the insertion of an IV of fluids.
The doctors saw the need to stabilize her heel before proceeding with an MRI. The fracture wasn’t compounded, but the nature of the break was such that every movement threatened to push the broken bone through the skin. Two medical students began to cast it, and Ginny cried for them to stop, trying to lift herself up. I gently held her shoulder down, stroking her hair and shushing her the way I imagined my mom would have if it were me laying on that bed.
“You’re doing a great job,” I whispered as she whimpered under my hand. “I’m so proud of you. And Kelly’s going to be so proud of her Mama.”
“For what?” she mumbled through her uncooperative lips as a tear slipped down her broken nose.
I smiled and loved her so much at that moment. “For being so brave.”
The plaster eventually hardened, and Ginny fell asleep out of pain and sheer exhaustion as I held her hand. It sounds ridiculous, but I felt a strong protective, maternal instinct as I hovered over her pain-stricken face and broken body. It felt like somebody else – someone much older and more confident – was answering the doctor’s questions, giving direction to Ginny’s sister-in-law on how to update the family, and filling in Ginny’s husband when he finally arrived at UK from Berea Hospital. I felt as if Ginny was my very own, and I wanted to stay by her side through everything the doctors did to her that night. This was impossible, I knew, but I was so grateful to have been able to be with her as she endured all of that suffering. There’s a certain intangible but extraordinarily resilient bond that forms between people where intense suffering is involved. It can’t be created amidst everyday circumstances, and it can’t really be explained. It’s a bond that transcends normal human contact because suffering, like true joy, taps into psychological and emotional wells that are only accessed rarely, when something so deeply affects an individual that the usual reactions just don’t suffice.
When the surgical team wheeled her away to put pins in her foot and to scan her brain, I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her. Her “I love you, too” was muffled, but it meant the world to me.
Annie’s a tiny woman, part Cherokee with a full head of red hair that she usually wears in a plait that reaches the small of her back. She lives in a beautiful old white house sitting on top of a hill in Vincent; it’s one of my favorite spots in Kentucky. The walls are layered with cream planks that are turning yellow with age, and the dark wooden doors are covered with intricately hand-carved molding. After my visits with her in the spring, one of my favorite things to do was to run across her back property with her dog Ginger on my heels. I’d reach its highest point and throw myself down in the tall, sweet-smelling grass, sending up a plume of jewel-colored butterflies against an achingly blue sky. A big wrap-around porch conducts the most beautiful breeze on balmy summer evenings when we sit with her family on the swing and wave at the passing cars. Annie considers me to be a daughter to her now, and I see her children and granddaughter as my own relatives. There are few things to which I look forward more at the end of a long day than unwinding with the whole lot of them in a cloud of cigarette smoke at their kitchen table.
Annie’s granddaughter Kelly is eight years old and cute as a button. So, when she asked me to buy something for her school’s fundraiser to assist her in her generation’s relentless pursuit of Silly Bandz, I had no choice but to succumb to the requests of the freckle-faced little sprite. I signed up for twenty issues of Time magazine (I know it goes against all of my “El Rushbo” upbringing, McCormacks, but I’d already bought a subscription to Southern Living from another kid, and People en Español just wasn’t that enticing). As I didn’t have the cash on me that afternoon, I arranged with Kelly and her mother Ginny to meet me at the elementary school at 7:30 the next day.
Ginny greeted me with a warm smile in the chilly gray morning light as I waited for them outside the cafeteria. At thirty-seven years old, her face is beginning to show the effects of years of sun and smoking, but her brown eyes lend a pretty softness to her expression. Kelly sleepily took the ten bucks I handed to her and let the corners of her mouth curl up ever-so-slightly in thanks.
I hugged Ginny and said, “See you at your mom’s house later?”
“Of course,” she chuckled. “We always wind up there one way or another.”
I drove up Annie’s hill at about 4:30, looking forward to listening to their family banter for an hour before returning to my own Kentucky family. I walked in to a very different scene, however. Annie, her son, and her daughter-in-law sat silently around their table, chain-smoking their cigarettes and silently staring straight ahead. Annie looked up at me, her deeply wrinkled face creased even further with worry. “Ginny and Kelly were in an accident over in McKee. Kelly was taken to Berea, but they flew Ginny to UK.”
I looked at them, startled, and sat down in the vacant chair at the end of the table. “How are they now?”
“No one’s telling us anything when we call,” Annie said helplessly. She pushed the phone into my hands. “You try.”
I got through to the emergency room and discovered that Ginny was responsive, but in bad shape. I asked if it would be helpful to have a family member there, to which the nurse replied, “Uh, yeah.”
The obvious dawned on me then: neither Annie nor her son have a car and therefore had no way of getting to UK. I asked Annie if it would be alright for me to represent her family at the hospital, and she eagerly agreed. Bringing her daughter-in-law with me, I jumped into my minivan and sped off for Lexington.
After spending a fair amount of time in the waiting room, we were allowed to make our way through the maze of gurneys and plastic curtains back to Ginny’s bed in the ER. Her tiny 108-pound frame lay twisted up in the sheets, her left foot visibly swollen and her face contorted in pain. I rushed to the side of the bed and began to sweep her dark brown hair away from her face. She tried to open up her swollen eyes to look at me without much success. “It’s Bridget, Ginny. I’m here. I’m here.” She tried to repeat my name, but the left side of her mouth remained stubbornly limp, and she looked alarmed at the realization that she was unable to speak normally.
She’d suffered a stroke while driving. Kelly later explained that her mother had been acting rather strangely upon leaving their appointment, and that she’d just “fallen asleep” on their drive back to Owsley. They’d careened into a ditch on a remote roadside (something that proves to be a constant threat around here). Once their vehicle had come to a stop, Kelly had crawled out of the car with a chipped collarbone, up the embankment, and to the first house she saw. When nobody answered her knock, she ran into the street and flagged down a coal truck, saving her mother’s life.
As doctors and medical students drifted in and out of the room, Ginny continued to writhe in pain; due to the fact that she hadn’t been given an MRI yet, she was unable to take any sort of pain-killers. When the doctors revealed that she’d not only broken her foot in three places, but had also crushed her pelvis, I really wasn’t sure how much longer Ginny could take it. It’d already been hours since the accident and, because of the lack of family presence and pertinent personal information, nothing had been done to her in that time except for the insertion of an IV of fluids.
The doctors saw the need to stabilize her heel before proceeding with an MRI. The fracture wasn’t compounded, but the nature of the break was such that every movement threatened to push the broken bone through the skin. Two medical students began to cast it, and Ginny cried for them to stop, trying to lift herself up. I gently held her shoulder down, stroking her hair and shushing her the way I imagined my mom would have if it were me laying on that bed.
“You’re doing a great job,” I whispered as she whimpered under my hand. “I’m so proud of you. And Kelly’s going to be so proud of her Mama.”
“For what?” she mumbled through her uncooperative lips as a tear slipped down her broken nose.
I smiled and loved her so much at that moment. “For being so brave.”
The plaster eventually hardened, and Ginny fell asleep out of pain and sheer exhaustion as I held her hand. It sounds ridiculous, but I felt a strong protective, maternal instinct as I hovered over her pain-stricken face and broken body. It felt like somebody else – someone much older and more confident – was answering the doctor’s questions, giving direction to Ginny’s sister-in-law on how to update the family, and filling in Ginny’s husband when he finally arrived at UK from Berea Hospital. I felt as if Ginny was my very own, and I wanted to stay by her side through everything the doctors did to her that night. This was impossible, I knew, but I was so grateful to have been able to be with her as she endured all of that suffering. There’s a certain intangible but extraordinarily resilient bond that forms between people where intense suffering is involved. It can’t be created amidst everyday circumstances, and it can’t really be explained. It’s a bond that transcends normal human contact because suffering, like true joy, taps into psychological and emotional wells that are only accessed rarely, when something so deeply affects an individual that the usual reactions just don’t suffice.
When the surgical team wheeled her away to put pins in her foot and to scan her brain, I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her. Her “I love you, too” was muffled, but it meant the world to me.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Coming Home
Sunlight streams through the windows and shines off the whitewashed walls of the tiny church as blue-haired women in their Sunday best shuffle their way into pews reserved by tradition and habit. This weekend is Homecoming here at the Green Hollow Methodist Chapel, and one of my gals has invited me to be a part of her family today. I’ve taken my seat in the back, right behind Ella Mae and her son. Slowly, the rows in front of me fill up with generations of people who have come through this place at various points in their lives; hugs and excited greetings are exchanged as folks catch each other up on the past year.
As the conversation dies down, the pastor walks up to the front of the church and grins broadly at his congregation before inviting everyone to stand and sing. A hundred voices meld together and rise to an arched ceiling that embraces the joyful noise like an old friend. I mouth the words but don’t allow any sound to come out; aside from not being familiar with these old hymns, I feel like my voice would stick out amongst that gathering above us, a harsh New York accent trampling on beautifully soft Southern lilts. I’m content to listen, and my voice is content to rest (for once).
After a few verses, we sit and the pastor begins to take a role call. He announces the last name of each family in the parish, and all those present from that group stand. Some families have upwards of twenty members present, coming from as far away as California. Others – like Ella Mae’s – have two, but they represent their lineage and stand just as tall. The pastor introduces the oldest member of the congregation; at ninety-four, she stands proudly behind me as he calls out her name, beaming in a bright pink and purple floral print dress and surveying her church family, one which she has seen grow and change more than anybody else in this building has. Our attention is then directed to the youngest member who, at four months old, sleeps blissfully through the first of many homecomings, completely unaware that the eyes that smile on him now will watch him closely as he develops a little personality and contributes in his own way to Green Hollow's rich history.
After some preaching and more beautiful singing, we get up and file slowly through a door at the front of the church into a gathering area. Miles and miles of Southern cooking stretch out in front of me. In a traditional show of friendly competition, each lady has made her own specialty dish with the flair and panache of a five-star chef. Oh, sure, they’ll bat their eyes and dispense cordialities, but don’t be fooled: this is a blood sport (my compliments to whoever whipped up the potato salad, by the by). These people know how to cook. And they sure know how to eat.
We eventually roll away from the banquet tables and back into the church, where it’s open mic time. I’m blown away by the natural talent within this tiny community; each young singer that steps up to the front of the congregation is better than the last. While keeping an ear open, I make my way to the vestibule, where there are large scrapbooks set out featuring thousands of newspaper clippings from years past about the church’s members. I skim through the generations, watching one girl grow from a birth announcement to an engagement announcement to a wedding announcement. I look around and see her sitting close to her young husband, and I smile when I notice that she’s just starting to show. A pretty blonde woman comes and stands next to me, serving as a guide of sorts as I continue to explore this church through its periodical records. She tells me that she’s thirty-nine and a teacher at the county high school, but she has a youthful light and warmth about her that makes me feel like a peer. We fall into conversation easily, and I learn that the expectant mother inside is her younger sister. Hearing my accent – or lack thereof – she asks me where I’m from and which church I attend. I answer New York and give the name of my parish, and I notice the slightest trace of a raised eyebrow (Catholics aren’t traditionally all that popular in these parts). I quickly explain, “My horns and pitchfork are in the car.”
I’d had high hopes of being the recipient of a few smiles at this church, perhaps of being granted the chance to be graced by a conversation or two with its charming members. I’m happy to report to you that, due to that comment, I am known as the “Catholic New Yorker with Sass” to the Green Hollow Methodists, and have since received numerous dinner invitations. How’s that for ecumenism?
As the conversation dies down, the pastor walks up to the front of the church and grins broadly at his congregation before inviting everyone to stand and sing. A hundred voices meld together and rise to an arched ceiling that embraces the joyful noise like an old friend. I mouth the words but don’t allow any sound to come out; aside from not being familiar with these old hymns, I feel like my voice would stick out amongst that gathering above us, a harsh New York accent trampling on beautifully soft Southern lilts. I’m content to listen, and my voice is content to rest (for once).
After a few verses, we sit and the pastor begins to take a role call. He announces the last name of each family in the parish, and all those present from that group stand. Some families have upwards of twenty members present, coming from as far away as California. Others – like Ella Mae’s – have two, but they represent their lineage and stand just as tall. The pastor introduces the oldest member of the congregation; at ninety-four, she stands proudly behind me as he calls out her name, beaming in a bright pink and purple floral print dress and surveying her church family, one which she has seen grow and change more than anybody else in this building has. Our attention is then directed to the youngest member who, at four months old, sleeps blissfully through the first of many homecomings, completely unaware that the eyes that smile on him now will watch him closely as he develops a little personality and contributes in his own way to Green Hollow's rich history.
After some preaching and more beautiful singing, we get up and file slowly through a door at the front of the church into a gathering area. Miles and miles of Southern cooking stretch out in front of me. In a traditional show of friendly competition, each lady has made her own specialty dish with the flair and panache of a five-star chef. Oh, sure, they’ll bat their eyes and dispense cordialities, but don’t be fooled: this is a blood sport (my compliments to whoever whipped up the potato salad, by the by). These people know how to cook. And they sure know how to eat.
We eventually roll away from the banquet tables and back into the church, where it’s open mic time. I’m blown away by the natural talent within this tiny community; each young singer that steps up to the front of the congregation is better than the last. While keeping an ear open, I make my way to the vestibule, where there are large scrapbooks set out featuring thousands of newspaper clippings from years past about the church’s members. I skim through the generations, watching one girl grow from a birth announcement to an engagement announcement to a wedding announcement. I look around and see her sitting close to her young husband, and I smile when I notice that she’s just starting to show. A pretty blonde woman comes and stands next to me, serving as a guide of sorts as I continue to explore this church through its periodical records. She tells me that she’s thirty-nine and a teacher at the county high school, but she has a youthful light and warmth about her that makes me feel like a peer. We fall into conversation easily, and I learn that the expectant mother inside is her younger sister. Hearing my accent – or lack thereof – she asks me where I’m from and which church I attend. I answer New York and give the name of my parish, and I notice the slightest trace of a raised eyebrow (Catholics aren’t traditionally all that popular in these parts). I quickly explain, “My horns and pitchfork are in the car.”
I’d had high hopes of being the recipient of a few smiles at this church, perhaps of being granted the chance to be graced by a conversation or two with its charming members. I’m happy to report to you that, due to that comment, I am known as the “Catholic New Yorker with Sass” to the Green Hollow Methodists, and have since received numerous dinner invitations. How’s that for ecumenism?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Interview with a Hitchhiker
He sat leaned up against the guardrail to my right in front of the Booneville post office, a contented smile on his face, his blue and milky eyes mimicking the August sky, if not able to reflect it. A worn and well-loved knapsack sat on the ground next to him, the only other object in the world that, if it could talk, would be able to tell you all of the things that the two of them had experienced together.
I’ve always held onto a romantic and completely irrational envy of the hobo. Granted, my housemates would roll their eyes and be quick to point out to you, the reader, my J. Crew-infused wardrobe and inability to create a meal without using twenty-four ingredients and every pot in the kitchen – evidence that I not only couldn’t cut it riding my thumb out on the road, but that I probably couldn’t make it a hundred miles in my Cobalt without a GPS and a Starbucks. Nevertheless, I can’t think of too many occupations that would naturally allow for better stories and, thus, I covet this one.
I turned these thoughts over in my head as I watched the man. My world is so very different from his. Mine contains beautiful relationships with wonderful individuals; his contains a single overwhelmingly intimate relationship with the road. My alarm clock wakes me up from my warm bed every morning; his wake-up call is when the rising sun hits the windshield of the abandoned car he’s sleeping in. From Monday through Friday, I basically know which occupation and responsibilities will fill my time; he works when he needs to eat, and never once wonders if a meal will come his way. He places his complete trust and whole self at the mercy of the endless stretch of highway in front of him. He has forsaken all permanent and tangible human relationships in favor of a life of solitude and off-beat adventure. His dearest friend is the stranger who gives him a lift or a five-dollar bill. He loves it. And a part of me wants it.
A left turn would take me to my office with its desk covered in hurriedly scribbled notes and its phone with messages recorded by cherished old voices. My day would be filled with the interactions that I’ve come to adore these past seven months, comfortable and predictable as they’ve now come to be. But I couldn’t help myself.
“Where ya headed?” I hollered out my rolled down window. He glanced in my direction, neither enthusiastically nor nonchalantly. I was just another passer-through (albeit a very excited one).
“Beattyville,” he drawled. That meant that I’d be back in Booneville within the half hour. My mind was made up. “Hop in!”
He picked up his bag and slowly walked over, asking if I was sure I didn’t mind. “Not at all,” I smiled. “It’s on the way.” He put all of his worldly belongings in the back of my van and stuck his head through the passenger-side window to thank me once more before climbing in. I did a double take.
“Road Dust?!”
It was the nephew of one of my favorite participants. I’d spent a few afternoons with him on her front porch in the past, holding my breath and not daring to blink or interrupt as he told me story after story of his adventures on the road. He’s been hitchhiking since the age of sixteen – that’s almost forty years of being a true vagabond. He’s gotten into numerous fights, saved a few lives, and come close to losing his own. And, though his health has begun to fail him, he has no plans to settle down any time soon. He loves the freedom that this lifestyle affords him, and will probably continue in this vein until he dies.
It would come as a surprise to anyone just meeting him, but Road Dust is a very talented artist; his specialties are buildings and landscapes. Having discovered this from his aunt during his last visit, I asked him to sketch me a church. I received it after Road Dust had already jumped onto a passing truck en route to his next destination. It hangs in my room now, an 8.5 x 11 inch looseleaf masterpiece (to me, anyway).
We chatted as I brought him to the highway about where he’d been and what he’d been up to during the past few months. He hadn’t decided yet whether he’d be Cincinnati-bound or sleeping in Georgia that night. He did mention, not without blushing, that his aunt had suggested that I’d “make him a good woman” (a claim which she later roundly denied, revealing that the idea actually came from the bachelor himself). When I pulled over to let him out, he flashed a big smile, shook my hand, and said that he’d see me later.
As I watched him trudge toward Route 52, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of loneliness for him. Later that morning I sat at my familiar desk, called up a few of my familiar participants, drove around the familiar courthouse square, and visited a lot of familiar houses. I received big hugs from familiar arms and discussed familiar topics with familiar folks who have come to see me as one of their own.
There’s a big wide beautiful world out there, for sure, and I’m looking forward to seeing more of it someday soon.
But, for now, familiar will do quite nicely.
I’ve always held onto a romantic and completely irrational envy of the hobo. Granted, my housemates would roll their eyes and be quick to point out to you, the reader, my J. Crew-infused wardrobe and inability to create a meal without using twenty-four ingredients and every pot in the kitchen – evidence that I not only couldn’t cut it riding my thumb out on the road, but that I probably couldn’t make it a hundred miles in my Cobalt without a GPS and a Starbucks. Nevertheless, I can’t think of too many occupations that would naturally allow for better stories and, thus, I covet this one.
I turned these thoughts over in my head as I watched the man. My world is so very different from his. Mine contains beautiful relationships with wonderful individuals; his contains a single overwhelmingly intimate relationship with the road. My alarm clock wakes me up from my warm bed every morning; his wake-up call is when the rising sun hits the windshield of the abandoned car he’s sleeping in. From Monday through Friday, I basically know which occupation and responsibilities will fill my time; he works when he needs to eat, and never once wonders if a meal will come his way. He places his complete trust and whole self at the mercy of the endless stretch of highway in front of him. He has forsaken all permanent and tangible human relationships in favor of a life of solitude and off-beat adventure. His dearest friend is the stranger who gives him a lift or a five-dollar bill. He loves it. And a part of me wants it.
A left turn would take me to my office with its desk covered in hurriedly scribbled notes and its phone with messages recorded by cherished old voices. My day would be filled with the interactions that I’ve come to adore these past seven months, comfortable and predictable as they’ve now come to be. But I couldn’t help myself.
“Where ya headed?” I hollered out my rolled down window. He glanced in my direction, neither enthusiastically nor nonchalantly. I was just another passer-through (albeit a very excited one).
“Beattyville,” he drawled. That meant that I’d be back in Booneville within the half hour. My mind was made up. “Hop in!”
He picked up his bag and slowly walked over, asking if I was sure I didn’t mind. “Not at all,” I smiled. “It’s on the way.” He put all of his worldly belongings in the back of my van and stuck his head through the passenger-side window to thank me once more before climbing in. I did a double take.
“Road Dust?!”
It was the nephew of one of my favorite participants. I’d spent a few afternoons with him on her front porch in the past, holding my breath and not daring to blink or interrupt as he told me story after story of his adventures on the road. He’s been hitchhiking since the age of sixteen – that’s almost forty years of being a true vagabond. He’s gotten into numerous fights, saved a few lives, and come close to losing his own. And, though his health has begun to fail him, he has no plans to settle down any time soon. He loves the freedom that this lifestyle affords him, and will probably continue in this vein until he dies.
It would come as a surprise to anyone just meeting him, but Road Dust is a very talented artist; his specialties are buildings and landscapes. Having discovered this from his aunt during his last visit, I asked him to sketch me a church. I received it after Road Dust had already jumped onto a passing truck en route to his next destination. It hangs in my room now, an 8.5 x 11 inch looseleaf masterpiece (to me, anyway).
We chatted as I brought him to the highway about where he’d been and what he’d been up to during the past few months. He hadn’t decided yet whether he’d be Cincinnati-bound or sleeping in Georgia that night. He did mention, not without blushing, that his aunt had suggested that I’d “make him a good woman” (a claim which she later roundly denied, revealing that the idea actually came from the bachelor himself). When I pulled over to let him out, he flashed a big smile, shook my hand, and said that he’d see me later.
As I watched him trudge toward Route 52, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of loneliness for him. Later that morning I sat at my familiar desk, called up a few of my familiar participants, drove around the familiar courthouse square, and visited a lot of familiar houses. I received big hugs from familiar arms and discussed familiar topics with familiar folks who have come to see me as one of their own.
There’s a big wide beautiful world out there, for sure, and I’m looking forward to seeing more of it someday soon.
But, for now, familiar will do quite nicely.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Hiatus
My sincerest apologies to those who are kind enough to glance at this little diary every now and then. Due to an unfortunate and sudden rendezvous between my laptop and an overly aggressive glass of juice, I haven’t had the luxury of banging away at my keyboard during the occasional late night when sleep eludes me. Therefore, since it would appear that my own computer won’t be of much use to me any time soon, I’ll be moving my writer’s workshop to the community room of the Jackson House, my temporarily blank pages to its over-sized computer screen. And I’ll try to catch you up a little on the stories I’ve been withholding for the past month and a half. But, for now, I’ll just give you a sense of how I’m doing.
Life’s been feeling very much like a storm-battered ship lately. We’re in the middle of a lot of turnover here at J-House and, while I love the folks who are here very much, I’ve bid farewell to quite a few members of my family in the past few weeks, and it’s made for a heavy heart at times.
Admittedly, I’ve never been very good at saying goodbye. As a result, I usually opt out of saying it at all. “I’ll be seeing you” tends to be my phrase of choice; it postpones the inevitable reality that life isn’t slowing down, people are moving on, and relationships are changing rapidly. Of course, our lives are punctuated by a series of hellos and goodbyes. They essentially form the parameters of all of our human contact. In one way or another, you and any person you’ve ever come across have greeted each other; something within you sought out and reached something within that other person, whether he’s the man you married or the guy who changed your oil last week. Where you both went after that initial contact is a matter of personal choice and chance, I suppose. But, when everything is said and done, you and your friend will part ways. Maybe it’ll be death that separates you. Maybe an argument and a broken heart. Maybe a smile, a handshake, and a hand-off of keys.
Or maybe it’ll be a new school, a new job, a new opportunity. Perhaps life will ultimately be what comes between you. And, in many ways, that’s something to be celebrated. If love means truly, selflessly, and actively seeking the greatest good for another person, then moving on to that which God has planned for us not only calls for happiness, but for rejoicing.
And, as I stroll down this shady old Kentucky dirt road with these incredible individuals, I will rejoice with them. I’ll get excited with them about tomorrow. I’ll smile as they embrace the gifts of looking back down this road they’ve traveled on – far past the point at which I’m standing – and of acknowledging how much they’ve grown and how far they’ve come. And then I’ll smile until it hurts as they head toward a path that breaks away from the road that I’m on. With a final hug (and more than a few tears on my part), I’ll watch them disappear through the trees and stride toward a new set of challenges and triumphs. Then I’ll link arms with the ones who are still on this blessed patch of dirt, and we’ll keep walking. Soon enough, one of those paths will emerge from the woods and produce a new sister here and a new brother there, and I’ll fall in love all over again.
This moment – the one between the hellos and the goodbyes – will never happen again. I think, really, that its passing is the thing that I mourn. But the sun that shines on us as we walk now is that same that did when we walked with the ones who’ve left. The wildflowers growing on the side of the road, the muddy lake up at Camp AJ, our roof (above which the shooting stars and fireflies are brightest) – all of these things bear witness to this moment and to all passing ones. These fragments of time are indelibly a part of who I am and who I have every hope of becoming. And when my little path comes up on my current dirt road, I’ll know that I loved with every inch of my heart. And I’ll have left nothing on the table.
Life’s been feeling very much like a storm-battered ship lately. We’re in the middle of a lot of turnover here at J-House and, while I love the folks who are here very much, I’ve bid farewell to quite a few members of my family in the past few weeks, and it’s made for a heavy heart at times.
Admittedly, I’ve never been very good at saying goodbye. As a result, I usually opt out of saying it at all. “I’ll be seeing you” tends to be my phrase of choice; it postpones the inevitable reality that life isn’t slowing down, people are moving on, and relationships are changing rapidly. Of course, our lives are punctuated by a series of hellos and goodbyes. They essentially form the parameters of all of our human contact. In one way or another, you and any person you’ve ever come across have greeted each other; something within you sought out and reached something within that other person, whether he’s the man you married or the guy who changed your oil last week. Where you both went after that initial contact is a matter of personal choice and chance, I suppose. But, when everything is said and done, you and your friend will part ways. Maybe it’ll be death that separates you. Maybe an argument and a broken heart. Maybe a smile, a handshake, and a hand-off of keys.
Or maybe it’ll be a new school, a new job, a new opportunity. Perhaps life will ultimately be what comes between you. And, in many ways, that’s something to be celebrated. If love means truly, selflessly, and actively seeking the greatest good for another person, then moving on to that which God has planned for us not only calls for happiness, but for rejoicing.
And, as I stroll down this shady old Kentucky dirt road with these incredible individuals, I will rejoice with them. I’ll get excited with them about tomorrow. I’ll smile as they embrace the gifts of looking back down this road they’ve traveled on – far past the point at which I’m standing – and of acknowledging how much they’ve grown and how far they’ve come. And then I’ll smile until it hurts as they head toward a path that breaks away from the road that I’m on. With a final hug (and more than a few tears on my part), I’ll watch them disappear through the trees and stride toward a new set of challenges and triumphs. Then I’ll link arms with the ones who are still on this blessed patch of dirt, and we’ll keep walking. Soon enough, one of those paths will emerge from the woods and produce a new sister here and a new brother there, and I’ll fall in love all over again.
This moment – the one between the hellos and the goodbyes – will never happen again. I think, really, that its passing is the thing that I mourn. But the sun that shines on us as we walk now is that same that did when we walked with the ones who’ve left. The wildflowers growing on the side of the road, the muddy lake up at Camp AJ, our roof (above which the shooting stars and fireflies are brightest) – all of these things bear witness to this moment and to all passing ones. These fragments of time are indelibly a part of who I am and who I have every hope of becoming. And when my little path comes up on my current dirt road, I’ll know that I loved with every inch of my heart. And I’ll have left nothing on the table.
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