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

The definition says backstory is the happening in a fictional plot that lead up to current action. My backstory is real life. For this Thursday writing to happen, events began in February. You have like stories that start with a battery dying, news from a doctor’s appointment, even a happy event like a marriage. This saga begins in February with the Freezicane.

As you know, life was pleasant personally because I was rescued by an adult child with a generator. When I returned home, three events needed rectifying. A major component in the sprinkler system had burst. For this the water had been turned off at its specific valve and it required the experts coming to replace – money expended and no long wait. Second, a tankless hot water heater exposed to the elements burst and spewed before I remembered its existence. All inputs were turned off. It just has to wait its turn with my family plumber. Immediate repair was necessary only if I invited you to stay in the garage apartment and you wanted a hot shower. Life could move on.

The last event was aesthetic appearance that defined the freeze all over Houston. A fence that marked the forty feet at the end of my yard had been been covered since who knows when with green fig vine, requiring only to be sheared every spring like a trip to the hairdresser. Now, along with other fences, houses, towering buildings, and freeways it was dead to the roots. The brown appearance created a war torn visual experience.

In a mood of “i can do this!” I began pulling and clipping off the dead vine, thinking I would just have an uncovered fence. The uncovering was scary. The aging fence within my lot was rotten boards painted green except where my lot didn’t match the lots on the next street down. Those were brown. I was building a pile of dead vegetation and broken boards piled in the corner of the backyard and the city doesn’t collect that kind of trash again until maybe May. I walked around the block to check with my neighbor who was replacing his fence, and I met an angel. He is Mr. Brown with a chain saw, a helper, and a truck.

By 10:00 this Tuesday morning, he had completed my amateur task. The appearance wasn’t quite what I could live with. He scratched his head, scratched with his pencil, and offered a price to replace ugly and broken within my budget. I had not asked, sought, or knocked, and I was taken care of as lagnaippe. i promise not to replace the fig vine.

“And I caused the widow’s heart to sing for joy.” Job 29:13b

Part of my morning preparation when I taught eighth graders was to check the sports section of the paper and note details of the headline. As gangly boys slouched through the door, I would say, “What did you think about…” and fill in my detail. They would straighten up, take over the conversation, move on to their seats and think Mrs Smith was a cool teacher, not knowing I had shot my wad for the day. I have had some sports moments, mostly in attending. Anything that requires catching, throwing , running, or blocking is not on my list.

My heart is closer to and I know more about basketball than any of the other choices. My high school had a total of 80 on good years, at least half girls, and some of the boys not athletic. A basketball team and enough subs was the best we could cobble together. That provided the opportunity to have jocks and cheerleaders and to take trips up and down the parish for games. Though I went to football games in college, even had a date a time or two, they were in an open stadium and maybe a dance afterward. A cold two hours and a late night were not high on my list. Louisiana Tech had/has a good basketball team and were sometimes ranked high in the state, making them fun to follow and check on.

While I don’t yearn to attend the games, I give my whole attention to March Madness. When the bracket first comes out I clip and scotch tape to a cabinet door. All options are over at the edge, poised and ready. I scan the list for first hopes. For some years, North Carolina was the team at the top from the very start. Other years a low seed clawed farther than anyone had thought and maybe even made the top contender sweat.

This year, I had some stress over my druthers. Three Texas teams and Baylor ,whose progress was amazingly not mentioned in my Baptist church services, weighted the right side. On the left side, LSU, one of my alma maters, and Gonzaga. How could I not like a team dubbed the ZAGS!. Another good option to root for was my friend’s Crimson Tide because she has kept the tie strong while four states away. About three time a week, I would reach up and ink in progress, at times sadly. I never watched a game. I just checked the score of the late game before I went to sleep at night.

As in any competition, the end was reached with excitement and also the satisfaction that both teams had held themselves accountable. Not a trounce, just a well-played game. The winners could tear down the net, clutch the trophy, and hold up the banner. I wonder about my bracket. As Yogi Berra said, “It ain’t over until it’s over,” and my task is to play my best until the final round.

“Do you not know that in a race all run but one receives the prize. Run in such a way that you may obtain it. …Now they do it to obtain a perishable crown, but we an imperishable crown. “

1 Corinthians 9:24, 25b

I can only hope that each person anywhere has some foundation that strengthens them to be a strong helpful person in the world. Years ago I chose for Christianity to be my guide and measuring rod. That said, this is probably the week out of the whole year where I am taught and retaught the life changing story. Memories are varied and run a gauntlet from lows to high.

The larger arc of receiving started small for Easter. Presents were a part of the day, yet not the overwhelming surprises and even the ability to request that came with Christmas. Count on a basket, eggs, candy and you’ve covered the morning. New clothes for a coming season were important. My mother believed in “an Easter snap,” one more cold spell. At the sunrise service in the city park, other girls appeared gorgeous and shivering in their ruffled short sleeve dresses, while I was able to stand, embarrassed yet warm, in my woolen skirt and a long sleeve houndstooth jacket which would be available for the event of winter in October.

I never came to accept an egg laying bunny. I fed the chickens and knew where eggs came from. Dying eggs was messy and too many specific directions. The only part I really liked was cutting squares from the Sunday comics, covering them with a cloth dipped in vinegar water and releasing it to find a picture on the egg. We had a big egg hunt on the school grounds. Some one usually uncovered the unfound egg on a hot day in May providing a perfect example for the smell of sulfur.

Write your own paragraph on Easter Sunday. Some travel; some don’t. Some have elaborate meals; others eat out. Church is a focal activity or should be. My favorite part of this season begins Thursday night. I like the idea that before all falls apart, Jesus has a meal that ends up being a teaching session and a reminder that all will be together again for some meal like this. For years – maybe twenty – our family had a “Friends, Family, Widows, and Orphans,” Easter meal. The net began with single adults who didn’t have family in town. It also included families with young children who needed someone to serve as a grandparent on site substitution. Some older adults couldn’t travel for this particular holiday. The menu was simple enough that all could be put on the table soon after church was over. One year we got a phone call, “Are you eating? Can I come?” As so many things, need and location changed. Now we will meet at another house with a much smaller group. I will still bake rolls, as my mother did, and remember the purpose of this meal.

“the Lord Jesus on the same night in which He was betrayed took bread; and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, “Take eat, this is My body which is broken for you, do this in remembrance of Me.”

1 Corinthians 11:23-24

I really don’t know if this Part 1 and Part 2 series are even of interest except to me. The underlying idea of time for a change is more universal, so apply these to whatever jerked you up short and made you say, “I no longer have to…,” or even ” I no longer want to…..” Two weeks ago I confessed I wanted to look through clean windows, and I felt no guilt if I didn’t make them appear that way. This week is crossing the Rubicon and not looking back when I stop giving my all to a task I love, keeping a yard.

The change may have come about gradually. Back when I was growing up – that’s like walking to school in snow stories- the yard was a family job. Daddy put on his fishing kahkis and used the push mover to lower the grass. A moment to raise your hat to a faithful reader who still does the same. Mother raked leaves and piled them under the azalea bushes and whacked back whatever was out of shape. I weeded the cinderblock bed Daddy had raised in the back yard for Shasta daisies and pansies.

Marriage changed the relationship with mowing. David managed near the house in Dayton and that ended his agrarian labor. His part was hired out. In various moves, I was the garden gal. I grew sweet peas in Dayton in memory of a trellis next to a garage in Louisiana. I brought daylilies from Mother’s yard. They multiply with water and love and bloom on Swift Blvd. sixty years later. One year David gave me forty pansy plants for our December anniversary. I picked out each smiling face, and gold would not have pleased me more. Russellia spread and attracted humming birds while asclepias called in the butterflies who left the cycle of eggs and caterpillars and cocoons.

At one point, I needed help. I had a yard lady who came in with her crew twice a year and did in one long day what would take me a week or more in daily effort after tending to family and teaching. As years passed, aging moved in. The desire was there. The getting down was slow and the getting up slower. I let last fall’s leaves cover the wildflower bed as mulch. Freeze week left a mess. I tried a leaf blower and instead of a nice pile to sweep in a bag with the fan shaped rake, I created “leaves that before the wild hurricane fly.” To wrap this up, the yard man for next door and I reached an agreement and his skill solved my problem.

I know the final step in adding decades is to open hands and release. My trowel is getting less use. Yet, I’m saving this writing and then going out to plant zinnia seeds in hopes of having a multicolored bouquet in July. I just rejoice that what I’ve been a part of was a continuation of one of God’s first gifts to man.

The Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden. Genesis 2:8