The plan made aging pure fun. I promise we will move on next week to either deeper or more quirky subjects. Over 100 pieces of mail deserve a blog all their own, not to mention that the purchase of stamps may have helped offset the deficit of the USPO. Two eager bunnies sent words in early May which I opened before I realized they were covering their bases while the thought was upon them. Then I started saving in a basket decorated with an angel that is usually used for Christmas cards. Some I recognized by a name on the back or a return address or a personal Aunt Charis for addressee. Others had no clue except it was for me

I got up Thursday morning and sorted in piles by family, church connections, and worldly friends. Whether anyone noticed it or not, I am nothing if not organized. I needed to savor and to make a list. Active reading was delayed by admiring a Happy 85th Birthday sign in the front yard. (Whoever sent, consider yourself thanked). Appropriate distractions came as e-mails or texts or absolutely delightful phone calls. Two close at hand friends came to greet in person and give a now permissible hug. The celebration was supper at a Mediterranean restaurant with a group of six kin. A glitter edged poster listing memories from three great nephews shone as decoration. The day was topped off with carrot cake.

The next day began connecting who and what, each giving a special blessing or delight. A few mainly reminded me of a person that pandemic or just shifts in recent activities had moved to a back place in my mind. I needed to sit and rest in that connection again. Some were a to the point recount that could have happened only because of a special place or time. Words brought tears or a chuckle or the action of putting the paper down and catching my breath. I was overwhelmed by those who took time to take pen in hand and fill a whole page with stories or fleeting glances of years that have passed.

Since these were chosen friends, I didn’t expect criticism, though with some, it could have been offered. What caught me were some incidents I thought were ordinary, turned out to be a treasure for others. I liked hearing smiling and encouraging and loving children because I see those traits in me. Some offerings like adventurous opened a door to be more of that, and I was pulled up short when someone listed patient as a virtue. Really? To those who sent words and times, and to you who just absorb the overflow of the day in this writing, thank you. You have walked with me in various journeys and have give me what we are called to give to each other.

As I have loved you, so you must love one another. John 13:34

August, 1957. I had turned 21 in June and was in charge of everything that happened in a 6th grade class except music. Yes, even art and physical ed. Hold the laughter please. In that time, when lunch came, we lined up at our door, had a prayer, and walked to the cafeteria. As children were gathering, the child nearest me said, “Miss Wedgeworth, what do you remember about the Civil War?” At that point I realized no matter how young and cute I considered myself, to a large group of my world, I was old. From then on whenever someone asked my age, I just told them, thankful for years and what they had offered.

This very day I will have completed eight decades and five years of the next one. As it unfolds, I will open, maybe in small batches to be savored, cards and notes that have come from many of you. A son and I worked through several ideas of what would be the best ceremony. Having the neighbors come for ice cream and cookies down the driveway was an option until the heat rose in May. Closing off the street for a party that children could skate and draw expanded exponentially with each day until it imploded on itself. All I wanted was that contact with those who have walked various paths with me.

A few of you are still precious who knew the ten and twenty years of childhood and college. Five decades were in classrooms with ties to children who now have grandchildren and with peer teachers who have also retired. Past the age that I thought I could, I had opportunity to camp out, white water raft, and scratch the back of whales rubbing against a boat in Ignacio Bay. I spent fifty-six years being married and raising three children. I have sewed and gardened and put meals on a table to feed bodies and spirits. Underneath all since I came to Houston as a single has been a church that with music, teaching, and people has been everlasting arms each step of the way.

Absolutely perfect! Absolutely not! You don’t need for me to innumerate the dips below zero on the graph. No matter how I felt during those times, I have crossed the rivers and slogged through a swamp and scaled a mountain to look ahead to a half decade that leads to nine groups of ten. Sometimes it is scripture; sometimes poetry. Wendell Berry A Timbered Choir ” I go into the image of a design that mind can follow, but not know.”

And everyday, all of Psalm 139 except verses 19 – 22. I can leave His judgements to Him.

………..and lead me in the way everlasting. Psalm 139:24

First, notice the article adjective that denotes the noun. It is not an because treadmill doesn’t start with a vowel. Neither is it a because this machine is not just an indefinite example. The was chosen on purpose. The black and silver Pro-Form Cadence Lt was selected for a special need and a special place because a time had arrived to call it into being. If you know me well at all, structured exercise is not the phrase that comes to mind. I never played a team sport. One venture into partner ping-pong and a tiddlewinks ranking in one contest were my athletic highlights. Even walking with a certain grace came to me in the middle part of my life.

I realized that I could fit daily exercise into my day when I taught at a school near my house that had a free gym for teachers. I could go early enough to “work out” and shower and be upstairs in time for my first class. Daughter and I did a spin class together, and at times I tried the elliptical trainer. Amazingly, after a good bit of huffing and puffing and stopping short of my goal, I did improve. A marathon was not in my future, yet steps forward were possible.

What tipped the scales to ownership? The marathon is still unreachable. Steps every day increased in importance with age added. Starting in September I set 3 miles a day, sometimes in increments, as a doable goal. Through the fall I tallied up an average of 2.6. That took into account sloughing off time and rainy days. The calendar does turn, and even in May Houston hit 85 degrees with panting humidity. Mental preparation for some changing of space and releasing dollars, and middle son went with me to a BigBox to find THE right treadmill for me. Then I was ready to think more about details.

I rearranged some furniture and freed up a place other than the living room to house the equipment. I went confidently alone to ask the right questions of a young salesman who had to absent himself to find out every answer. Forty minutes later I had paperwork for the machine and the contact with a company that would come deliver and install – the best dollars I have ever spent. Walking outside may be my place of choice. Commitment to steps clocked will have to include inside.

Therefore, strengthen the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees, and make straight paths of your feet, so that what is lame may not be dislocated, but rather be healed.

Hebrews 12: 12 – 13

I don’t know if it is a talent; however I can have something in my hand, put it down, and it vanishes. At one school before I wore glasses all the time, I had a $1.00 reward for whatever child found them. It cost me about $4.00 a year. Well worth not having to search. The same school had a secretary who consoled me with nothing was ever really lost. I had this vision of reaching the Pearly Gates and having to go through the Enteral Lost and Found before I could enter. At times the lost item casts a wider ripple than just finding that object.

Friday before Memorial Day was a golden day. I had a list that flowed like spilled mercury. Breakfast with a friend, picked up ordered groceries, and got them put up. Time for a nap (a genetic necessity). I did a little business and letter writing and made a post office run to wrap up a day of check lists.

I looked forward to Saturday. A source came to collect a couch whose removal would make room for a treadmill…stay tuned for that story…and gave a small end table I no longer needed to a daughter who did. Everyone left, and I was ready to go forth. I put my hand in my purse to check and felt no purple wallet! ARGH! as the pirate says. I could account for every step of the day before. It had to be in the house. I clocked miles making the circle and resorting piles. Helpful phone calls with, “Where did you have it last?” were not helpful. I even called on the only saint I know, St. Anthony, affectionately called Tony by those who know him best.

No one had charged on my back up card, so I still felt sure the wallet had not been dropped and picked up. A smaller bag had the essentials I needed. Nothing could be done until Tuesday. I felt any previous plans for that day floating away if I would have to deal with a computer and passwords. One more word to Tony, and i resigned myself to the inevitable.

Sunday morning I was making a Tuesday list when middle son came to gather me for church In one hand he had a flashlight; the other held a purple wallet. It had slipped between a driver’s seat and the gear box. I was duly authenticated again. Two museums and the library would have restored cards rather easily. Dealing with insurance, Medicare, and my vaccination proof might have taken time and effort. That morning I had read Ezra 2, an account of 42,360 Israelites plus some extras who were returning to Jerusalem. I was no longer excluded like the people in vs. 61 – 62. Come Tuesday, I could go forth to the day. Thank you, Tony and Doug.

These searched for their family records, but they could not find them and so were excluded from the priesthood as unclean. Ezra 2: 62

I knew the poem, just not the name and how appropriate it was. The emotion began with a flash of envy. One soggy Houston night I was trying to assiduously cross the street from the parking lot to the church for choir. I have a pair of Land’s End rain shoes that look like patten leather, yet shed enough water to keep feet dry. They were not adequate for stepping from street over the gutter to the curb without a slosh into the shoes. Suddenly a composed vision appeared. A college girl had on jodhpurs tucked into Hunter black knee high rain boots and was chatting with a friend showing no concern about where her feet went. She was prepared.

Even if I could match her wardrobe, the faintest hope did not exist I could pull off her sangfroid composure. Hopefully though, I could at least be saved from awkwardly clomping and still have dry feet. At a family dinner, I mentioned how appropriate the boots were and how sure I was they would solve any future problems. This statement was made stronger by our just coming though a several week stretch of rain and more rain leaving an abundance of soaked, soggy ground.

Next, another hindrance existed. Not only fashion, but cost was was in the mix. I’m a second generation depression child and frivolous spending unleashes heavy guilt. However, an attuned daughter sent a text. “IF you really want the boots, your daughter-in -law and I will give them for an early birthday gift.” I went to the site and could decide the “really want” did not apply to knee length. A pair of yellow ones, my favorite color, in calf length were on sale. I hit the reply button that said,”Yes!”

They came, along with continuing rain. The box was not just six sides with tape in the middle. It was custom made for the shape of the boots. With socks, they fit perfectly, shining over black chino pants or even blue jeans. They wouldn’t do for a five mile hike; however, I can now take out the garbage can with dryness or run in the grocery store with a little smidgen of sangfroid.

The A.A. Milne poem starts, “John had Great Big Waterproof boots on..” He adds a mackintosh and a hat to be totally rainproof, and then declares, “And that (said John) is that!” The title of the poem is “Happiness.”

When you go through deep waters, I will be with you.

Isaiah 43:2

Is it worth forty years to be free of slavery and reach a promised land? Some still think so. The band tightened around my heart with the picture of the little boy who realized his mother wasn’t coming with him at a border crossing. I’m not sure I could say with the mother, “Go on!” Tuesday was the morning the Vietnamese barber who is the age of my older son cut my hair. For twenty years, I’ve sat in his chair for him to tame my waves and control my cowlick. I have followed his two girls from first grade to in college now During early pandemic, he called to say he was in the grocery store and did I need anything, and he gave me a number in case I wanted an at home haircut. We have more than a once a month friendship.

Through the years, he has told bits of his life in two countries. I finally said, “Give me the details.” You know some of it with a country at war. His mother was left a widow with 10 children when her husband was killed. My friend was three then and the baby brother was seven months. They lived through economic and governmental challenges until he was 12. At that time the oldest sister was in Kansas because she had worked for an airline and an older brother served in the army. His mother managed to get six of tthe other cildren on a 40′ x 10′ boat with 76 people. His brother had a compass and navigated to get them to a refuge camp. Once a month, an American group would come and take 1,000 that met the criteria of their questions. They finally arrived in Kansas. Then the last two girls came. When they were all in America, they sent for their mother.

The family stories I heard were cheerful and amazing. So many activities happened together from weekly meals to golf trips for the men to taking in various cousins while they looked for a job in a new city. The mother made sure she sent money back each month to an orphanage in Vietnam. After she died, the children take up a collection each time they meet to keep her giving alive.

I went back to Louisiana for my 50th high school reunion. Only three of us had moved from Tangipahoa Parish. Yet there are multiple stories of those who have fled across countries and oceans to escape hunger and persecution while hopefully finding a place of safety. No, I don’t know the right answers and solutions. I’m not even sure I know the questions. I only know this expanded family has claimed their place in this country and my town and given a noble meaning to the word citizen. I have to keep caring for the aliens in this space I call my own.

 “When a foreigner lives with you in your land, don’t take advantage of him. Treat the foreigner the same as a native. Love him like one of your own. Remember that you were once foreigners in Egypt.

Leviticus 19:34-35

The mental picture for this writing is two four year olds each holding their end of a toy. Faces red and voices strident, they are rocking back and forth and screaming, “Let go! It’s mine!” Several times lately I have thought that the two participants are me and some company. I have bought a whatever, asking only to bring it home, release from packaging, and begin using. Instead, the opening has required pulling and tugging with strength, the help of a blunt or sharp object, and more than the patience of the proverbial Job! Total frustration!

How did this problems arise? Do I think a less protected world used to exist? Start with the easiest of these, meat for the meal. I know one can order a cut from the glass fronted counter and have it personally wrapped and labeled. The majority of shoppers, and I help make up that majority, pick up a prepackaged offering while barely slowing down the cart. To get to my meat, I have to face shrink wrap with no discernible edge. It must be poked with with a fork to break the seal and the plastic will stick to my fingers as I try to pull it back. I have to disengage by folding back and pulling plastic off at the same time. In addition to cooking I have to get rid of container, pad, and shredded wrap.

The next step in keeping several pieces together is the form used for batteries. I can see my A, AA, AAA offerings through a protruding shaped cover. Supposedly the items can be reached by breaking the perforations in the middle of the back of the packaging. Done correctly, I can fold back one side, removed a battery, and then close to keep remaining offerings safe. I begin the procedure confidently with a thumbnail. The little dots are only surface deep and don’t give. Usually I progress to trying a knife and then finally rip apart and store batteries not needed at the moment in a zip lock bag.

Think of your own stress starting a new package of pens, not sold as a loose single any more. The ultimate focus of action was demanded by a bath bomb I was given for Valentine’s Day. It required all of the release from cardboard steps and then peeling back a super thin layer of plastic in strips before I could toss into the bath to release its aromatic offering. Reading back, I realize each of these unleash a wrapping problem was solved with persistence. Bumping headlong into thoughts and emotions that are thorny require the same try another method at times. After effort is expended, I am gifted with understanding and a depth of knowledge that I wanted to claim as mine.

For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed , nor hidden that will not be know. Luke 12:2

Generals get the credit. They plan the campaigns and move the pins on the map and bring about victory. Their names make the newspapers. Yet, years afterward, some soldier in the ranks recalls and affirms a buddy of that time who did the little thing that provided encouragement or survival for a certain day. This has been my concern of the pandemic. I can’t help the sick. Around though, are the hungry and homeless that are part of the fallout. What’s my contribution? I do give some to an organization that effectively provides food. That helps, yet the outcome seems to just put me on a list of whom they ask for more. My name can remain unknown: my action needs to be worthwhile.

I remembered and checked on a story a son told of an action he took 20 years ago during the Iraq War. He had a civilian job in Kuwait. U. S. soldiers were sent into a port city and then transported across the desert in large open trucks. They were going to a war zone and wore battle gear complete with weapon and ammunition and they were supposed to carry a number of canteens of water. When weight reached a certain point, they chose to have fewer canteens. Sometimes the trucks broke down. The young men were arrayed in battle stance on the sand in 120 degrees while repairs took place. At some point, my son realized as he made his required rounds that more water was needed. He took to carrying cases in his truck. When he came upon a stalled transport, he would pull off the road, get out with his hands up, and explain to the lieutenant who came up with guards and rifles that he had water if it was needed. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” I’ve wondered if some veteran ever told that story about being thirsty and water was provided?

So I was back to what can I do? When I leave church, a needy person is always standing at the stoplight to the freeway. I try to avoid eye contact, not really wanting to roll down my window and give money. However, the church sells preordered meals for the congregation, a good solution for me as a single person and also for families. It would be easy to order two and food would certainly be welcome as a hand out One week I gave it to man in a wheelchair with a sign, “HELP MY FAMILY.” The horn behind kept me moving. This Sunday I was the first and only car at the light. “Here’s your lunch.” The unkept man looked amazed, took the bag, and walked to the car that pulled up behind. Then he came back to my widow. With an almost toothless grin, he called through my window, “Thank you, I’m gonna eat this. If I can do any thing for you, just let me know.” The order had come down through the ranks, “Feed the hungry,” and I had done what I could.

..for I was hungry and you gave me food.” Matthew 25:35

Not a review of McMurtey’s book. Rather this is a discussion of my DNA and life in the yards of Swift. Chronologically, bird feeding begins with my daddy in Hammond, Louisiana. In early dawn, he got up, put on kakhi pants, a shirt to match, and yard shoes, He put bird seed in a coffee can and walked to the back of the yard by the oak tree.Two tin pie pans waited. Bird seed was put in one, a little water from the faucet in another, and he stepped back and waited. A thrush came to the food. Daddy named him Brownie and had a morning conversation. Through the day we would hear the short flute like trill of his song. After those two had checked in with each other, daddy would scatter a handful of grain on the ground for Rupert the squirrel when he arrived. By now, mother had coffee made for him.

At various times the rest of my life, I would visit my birth dad in northwest Arkansas. He had a small roofed patio at the back of the house, a cool sheltered spot to drink coffee, visit softly and watch birds welcome the dawn. This dad depended more on God’s providing foot by putting worms and bugs in the nearby garden. Dad’s contribution was building a wren house to very definite specifications. Wrens are small perky birds with an upright tail. I always could picture the female with a bandana tied under her chin as she organized her dwelling. They don’t mind living near humans. The house is best if 16 square inches with a hole 1 1/8 – 1 1/2 “, just right for her size. A perch outside the hole gives her a space to sit and carry on quite a discussion, yet dart back inside if something needed tending to.

On Rice Boulevard, I came into my own with tall hooked feeders for a variety from goldfinches: here today, gone tomorrow and picky eaters. Bluejays believe if it’s in the feeder it belongs to me. A cardinal family claimed some space and squirrels had to be ground feeders because I put a baffle to hinder their gorging themselves without sharing.

At Swift I seemed only to attact doves. Their “Who cooks for you?” call heralded spring, and they were fun to watch. I just longed for variety. When the wildflowers took off, I managed to dig up one feeder and move it to the front yard outside my dining room window, so I could watch. I left a feeder in the back yard which amazingly became a cafeteria. Robins came through and scratched in the flower beds. Mocking birds and blue jays took turns driving each other off. A cardinal family must have a nest near by because they feed usually one at a time. Color signifies whose turn it is to watch nest and eggs. They remind me every day to “Cheer up!”

Finally to Lonesome Dove. As near as I can tell, only one dove and no other specie lives in the elm at the front of the house. I can sit at the end of of the dining table, a Covid 6 feet difference, and we eye each other through the window. The bird (sex undetermined) will sit an unmeasured time as long as I am still, cocking its head to view me with one eye and maybe memorize my routine. If I stand too quickly or come and open the front door too vigorously, he heads for the elm with a flurry of flapping wings.

Jewish tradition says when the voice of the turtle dove is heard it will signify Israel returning to its land of origin. A Kol Hator. I only know the dove’s song calls forth a new season and makes me one again with the winged birds created according to their kind.

Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land.

Song of Solomon 2:2

Research says names are the first to go, and l am that stage sometimes. You, whoever you are, are in a concentric circle. A friend or family member I am looking at can be identified. As the circle expands, time needed to recall becomes extended. In writing, I often have to put a dash and hopefully can add the last name. Later during the day while stirring spaghetti, Melissa pops into my mind.

What I don’t want to forget are the stories, those tales I know or I want people to know of my history whether those tales are important to them or not. When I was less than four we lived in one story house six feet off the ground that my daddy built next to the school where he was principal. In the backyard, my mother had him dig a hole and she put in it a rather large glass jar – maybe crowd size that she had gotten from the school cafeteria. She caught rain water in it and saved it to wash our hair because the other water was hard, a term that meant lots of minerals and didn’t leave your hair smooth and shiny. Listen to my mother’s voice. “I looked out the kitchen window and there were these two legs kicking in the air. Her shoulders stopped her going all the way in and there was just enough water in the bottom to wet the top of her head. I said, ‘Charis, what were you doing?'” I told her I just wanted some water to make a mud pie. I don’t remember the happening, just the retelling.

I want others to know about my taking violin in high school, not very successfully I’m afraid. The college professor who struggled with four of us in a quartet had us play in a parish competition in the college auditorium. Just as we managed to scape to the final resolution, the 4:00 whistle dismissing school sounded. Cacophony was the appropriate word. He shook his head as we looked at each other and broke into teen-age giggles. He did play at my wedding in appreciation for our disbanding after that.

That’s not all of them. Some are struggles and mistakes shared only with a special few. Combined with pictures, our children need to know what it was like as each was brought home into our family. A group of you need to be reminded of being tumbled like puppies in the back bedroom at the ranch to watch whatever the Thanksgiving special was. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang comes to mind. Words are strung together when we gather to recreate the person we were and the specialness of people around us. That may be why funerals are better named a memorial service. Share a story today.

The memory of the righteous is blessed. Psalm 10:7a