December 18, 2021
The external and internal influences that shape our behaviors are so subtle at times that we don’t even recognize their impact. Other times, these influences are as obvious as an ancient, weathered boundary marker. When I contemplate the strong desire within me to take my thoughts and write them down, there are reasons I can’t explain; I don’t even understand the extent of that passion myself. I can only suppose that some of us have a strong, genetic disposition to be the story tellers. On the other hand, there are those who have nurtured that desire, believing in the value of the written word and have given me the tools and knowledge to allow my writing to evolve.
I am quite certain that Momma Helen had a huge
influence on my love of the written word by always making sure that I was
surrounded by as many books as I could consume. It is true that good writing
encourages more good writing. Surrounding one’s self with good authors and
appealing stories is the best way to learn and grow, not only in general
knowledge, but in creative writing and a greater mastery of the
written word. With a childhood I often
wanted to escape, I found respite by losing myself in books.
It was not uncommon for me to consume
a book a day. My favorite genre, even
then, was nonfiction: biographies,
autobiographies and memoirs. Many of the
books I read were stories of missionaries and well known protestant Christians. Because
the selection of books I was permitted to read was filtered through the lens of
the Independent Baptist Church, overtly Christian
books and books of historical significance written with a politically conservative, patriarchal, and puritan view made up most of my personal library. Later I was able to broaden my horizon by
borrowing books on the sly that didn’t make the approval list at home or at church. I read them at school behind the cover of a textbook
or as I sat in the back seat of the "bus" (really a van with the Christian School's name displayed on the side). I discovered worlds that I had
been sheltered from in the words of those books. I devoured any and every book I
could get and I wondered at the lives of those that were different from my
own.
My maternal grandmother (Nan) also had a huge influence on my
desire to propagate a good story. Nan’s frequent choice was some sort of adventure story and her favorite adventure stories were of people
who braved the Alaskan wilderness. I
have many books in my library, once belonging to her. Nan always shared what she was
reading with me, either telling me about the story or loaning me her books. She might have been the first person to encourage
me to write. No matter how poorly
something was written or how insignificant it was, my grandmother’s face would glow,
and her eyes would shine, as she shared even the most insignificant of my
writings with others. When we had to move her to a memory care facility, I
found page after page of things I had written over the years that she had
packed lovingly away. They mattered to
her and she was proud of me. That
touches me deeply and sometimes when I think I might never write again, I feel
her encouraging me to continue. She
always wanted me to write a book. If I
ever do, I will dedicate it to her.
These influencers along with the elementary, high school and
college educators who offered both negative and positive criticisms of my
writing, as well as countless individuals who have encouraged me to continue
putting words together to express the stories inside my head, have propelled me
forward over the years. Their undying belief
in me brought me back from times of bareness when the words felt trapped and
sometimes even dead.
I believe that ultimately,
writing is about connection. We are
drawn to a particular author when we feel a connection with their words. We may not know anything about the subject of
which they are writing, but their words provide a picture that we can
understand and evoke an emotion within us that is universal. Now that I am a grandmother, I want my words to
be available to my grandchildren when I am gone. How I wish I had a journal belonging to
my mother who passed away when I was seven!
There have been very few written words that I have been able to find to
connect me with her: a few letters she
wrote to her grandparents when she was a child, a few to her parents when she was an adult, and the faded
and yellowed words recorded in my baby book in her handwriting (that looks so
ironically like my own back slanted cursive writing). How I wish that somewhere
I might come across something that she had written that told me how she thought,
how she felt, what she enjoyed, what she disliked, her dreams, her hopes, her
regrets. I have nothing. While I am extremely thankful for those friends
and family of my mothers who shared with me all they could of who she was, I
wish I could pair that with her own words and her own thoughts, since I wasn’t
able to grow up under her influence. As
a 54 year old woman who has been separated from her birth mother by death for
47 years, sometimes my my heart still aches when
something happens in my life and I wish that I could go to my mother and ask
her to tell me of her experiences and share her stories.
Ultimately, here, in this online journal which has more chance of
withstanding time than pen and paper, I hope in some way I can reveal to my
children, grandchildren and maybe future great grandchildren who I am, what I
feel, how I believe, what is important to me, and the manner in which I have lived, as well as
some of my memories and family history. Maybe,
it will bring them the comfort that I was denied by always wondering about my
own mother.
December 20, 2021
I have been sleeping so soundly and dreaming so vividly, mostly
just a crazy mess of stories that don’t make much sense, but there have been
distinct dreams of loved ones as well. My
grandparents have been often in my dreams the past few weeks and just like when
they were physically present, their presence in my dreams leaves me with a
great sense of peace. I miss them so
much and I am sure with the holiday season upon us, their absence is reason
enough that I would recall them in my dreams as I have thought of them frequently
during the day. One night I dreamed that
my grandfather was patiently explaining something of importance to my
grandmother. It was such a familiar
scene, the two of the close together, talking, my grandfather looking out for
my grandmother and my grandmother putting her complete trust in him to protect
her. Then, still an observer in the
dream, I became startled, remembering that my grandfather had passed and here
he was conversing before my very eyes. (It
still hadn’t registered to me in my dream that my grandmother was also deceased. In the moment, I thought that she was still living,
and I began to wonder how my grandfather could have come back from heaven to
sit with her, comfort her, and provide guidance.) My grandfather looked at me and while I can’t
recall his exact words to me, he made it known that what I was seeing was supernatural
and that he had been allowed to converse with Nan (my grandmother) and comfort
her and that I had been allowed to see it.
I was so startled and then awoke quickly with no transition from sleep
to wake and began to cry for I realized that both of my grandparents were indeed
passed and that the vision of them in my sleep had been so real it was as if I
had truly been with them.
Last night as I was dreaming, I walked past a sleeping child. I thought it was my grandchild, but something
called me back to look again and it was my son, Josh. I called his name in surprise and he
smiled. He appeared to be sleeping and
never spoke to me, but every time I would say his name, he would smile the way
that only Josh could smile with his mouth just a little bit crooked. That was it.
That was all there was to my dream of Josh, but I awoke feeling as if I
had been with him and all is well. I
have dreamed very distinctly of Josh in the past and while I am sure it can all
be explained scientifically as an internal longing manifesting itself in the
unconscious, I sometimes wonder if perhaps our loved ones aren’t allowed a few
moments to comfort us. I personally
believe the veil between “heaven” and “earth” is very thin and our loved ones
are indeed closer than we think. Perhaps their spirits do visit us in our
dreams.
December 25, 2021
Christmas Day has been quiet.
Originally, we were supposed to drive to Augusta County and have a meal
with Mike’s extended family. Due to some
of the family members encountering Covid at church functions and a few of them
contracting the virus, the event was cancelled.
I had the country ham on hand as our contribution to the family meal, so
I made a few sides to go with it and an apple pie for dessert. Other than milking the cows, walking Buddy,
and taking care of the chickens and senior dogs, we have rested. We had our Christmas with the daughters and
grandkids two weeks ago because they had other plans for Christmas day. Texts and pictures allowed us to connect with
them today. I called my parents and
talked to them a bit. Dad was on the way
to the deer stand as black powder season opened today in his county in Missouri
and we kept the phone chat short. Momma
Helen and I talked a bit. I miss being
able to call my grandparents on Christmas.
Earlier this week I found time to bake some cookies, make some
cheese curds, and put together four different types of cheese spreads. I made up a few baskets for friends and neighbors
and delivered those on Thursday. This
year didn’t call for me to over-extend myself with the baking. Since I did not make Christmas goodies before
we got together with our grandkids and because I have shut down the cow share
program and I am no longer making gift bags for those individuals, I needed far
fewer cookies this year than in years past. I had made a few extra bags of
goodies to take to some friends in the Staunton area, but with our trip
cancelled and no immediate plans to go there, I unpacked the bags and put the
cookies in Mike’s snack box.
December 26, 2021
Sunday morning after milking I had the opportunity to sit with my
friend who has pancreatic cancer while her husband went to church. I typically sit with her every other week but
with our grands here one Sunday and my not feeling well another week, it had
been over three weeks since I had been able to stay with her. I was eager to have the time with her. Like I have told her, even if she doesn’t
feel like talking and we just sit quietly together, I am thankful. There’s truly something to say for a friend
with whom you can sit in silence and words are not needed. She was alert and able to talk to me some, so
we visited a while and then she rested a while, and then we visited some
more. I am so grateful for our time together. I know that ever day is a gift.