Lucy

Lucy is tall and statuesque. I don't think she'd look good in a bikini, though. I can remember Lucy when I was a little girl fifty years ago. Even back then, she would not have sported a bikini with style. Back then, she was tattered and torn and had lost some of her statuesque beauty that astonishes people today. 

I don't know why Lucy stayed around for so many years. God knows, there were times when Lucy looked like she would crumble and fall at any moment, but the old girl held on and was still there fifty years later when I decided to visit her.


I wonder if Lucy remembers me? I walked by her every summer day for years and often stopped to wonder about her. She'd look at me as if the wonderment went both ways. We'd stare at each other as time stood still, and my 7-year-old brain pondered Lucy's existence.  

Today, when I visited Lucy, it dawned on me that she's much older than I, but looks much better since her facelift. In some ways, I think Lucy kind of mirrors my own life. Well, maybe I don't weigh quite as much as Lucy, but I feel like I've weathered the storms as she has.  As we all can learn from our elders, I, too, learned a lot from Lucy.  

Lucy loves the beach. I, too, love the beach. I love the beach when it's bright and sunny with calm, soothing surf. I also love it when the storm clouds roll in and roil the powerful waves into crashing sand pulverizers.  The beach reminds me of my grandma. Thinking about grandma reminds me of Lucy.

Thus, I've come full circle to be reminded of grandma, the beach, and Lucy. When I first visited Lucy, grandma was holding my hand. Now, as a grandma, my age-spotted hand would be holding a young hand, and I'd explain like my grandma did, that Lucy is a great old girl who has weathered many storms.

I didn't have my grandma on this day. Well, maybe, I did. I think her spirit was with me as I gazed up at Lucy while the sun was shining so brightly that she practically glowed in the early morning hue. It brought tears to my eyes, reminiscing about Lucy and grandma. Two old gals who stood the test of time. I've joined the "old gals" club now. I'm glad I've made it this far. I'm just as happy to see that Lucy has too.

Lucy's story didn't start where she stands today. She took a long, tedious journey to end up where she is. Her journey required many helpers along the way. People stood by her and protected her as she made her arduous journey to where she stands now. Lucy's journey is how I think I am related to her. I've needed many people to stand by me on my often challenging trek through life. I, too, have stood by them.

My daughter and my sisters were with me on this day when we visited the old gal. My sisters and I drove down memory lane through all the towns that bordered Lucy's abode. We lived in many of them during our long hot summer romps back and forth to the beach with grandma. I told my daughter about how much Lucy was a part of our growing-up lives. It made me sad that my daughter, Jenn, could only look up at Lucy since using a wheelchair prevented her from enjoying all that Lucy had to offer.

Life's like that sometimes. Sometimes, we are participants, and sometimes we're spectators. Occasionally, we want to be participants when we can only be spectators. Often, we wait an entire lifetime to be a participant. Today, I could participate in the first time experience of touching this old gal who I could only gaze at as a child. Some fifty years ago, Lucy was protected behind a secure fence from curious children like myself.  

When I came home from visiting Lucy, I brought a magnet with her picture on it for my granddaughter.  

As I handed her the souvenir, she laughed at me. "Nana, she giggled, why did you bring me a picture of an elephant?"  

"Well, Devyn," I said as I put her on my lap, "She's not just any old elephant. She's Lucy, the Margate Elephant, and she is older than me!"

"Older than you!" The surprise on her face made me laugh.

"Yes, older than me." I said, "I used to walk by her every day when I was a little girl about your age, but she didn't look this good back then."

"Lucy was made new again," I said. "We'll all be made new again someday."  

"That's silly, Nana!" Laughed my granddaughter, "You can't be made new unless I paint you and get rid of the wrinkles."

I thought about that for a minute or two. Finally, I said, "No, Nana doesn't want to be painted, and I don't want to get rid of the wrinkles either."  

"Why not?" Asked my little inquisitor.

"Because the wrinkles are what let me be part of the Old Gal's club with Lucy. If you're in the Old Gal's club, it means you're wise."  

"Is Lucy wise?" My granddaughter's beautiful blue eyes pierced my heart at that moment.

"Yes, Devyn," I said, "Lucy is wise because she has weathered many storms, and she still stands tall and smiles because she was made new."  

"I don't get it, Nana.  You're not new like Lucy."

"That's right, Devyn, you don't get it yet," I answered, "but, you'll get it when you become a member of the Old Gal's club."

Someday When

Someday When

Needles dripping with false promises fill the emptiness of so many woebegone lives. The up-in-flames hopefulness of the four-year-old fireman answering the walkie-talkie's frantic cry for help. The erased dreams of the six-year-old teacher with her classroom full of unruly stuffed animals. The avid sticker collector, the aspiring artist, the talented musician, the creative inventor, and the earnest detective - all expectantly waiting to "grow up" to reach their "someday when." 

"Someday, when I'm a vet, I'll save all the horses in the world." 

"Someday, when I'm a great gymnast, I'll be in the Olympics!" 

"Someday, when I'm a baseball player, I'll be in the World Series!" 

The little would-be teachers and firefighters wait and listen to their parents talk about someday when they go off to college, and they wonder when that "someday" will be theirs. Meanwhile, the parents encourage the hopeful children to pursue the possibility rainbow full of color and joy. 

Never did any of the tots aspire to reach emptiness. Never did their parents wish for sleepless nights and sorrowful days. So, why did it come to this? Why did these confident strivers' "someday" become "no days?"

The somedays are long gone - replaced with a cruel vacuum that sucks the joy and depletes the soul. They once craved to feel again. Now, they strive not to feel the loss of someday when. They crave the tantalizing needle that seduces them into the deception of "not feeling," if only for a moment. 

There's no feeling, hope, ambition, or daydreams that may come true. The needle claims another someday when. It tumbles another dreamer into a soulless nightmare. 

And, again, we ask, "Why?" Why are so many young star-gazers slipping into oblivion and sliding into the abyss? Nirvana isn't found in a needle, we tell them. Yet, it still claims young hearts and minds with reckless abandon. 

The destroyer. The ransacker. The demolisher home-wrecker spreads its lies and sows its seeds in young hearts everywhere. We cannot fight the exterminator if we don't acknowledge the source of its roots. The roots have gained a strong foothold in our decaying, godless society.

A fractured bone cannot offer support, nor can a fractured society support its most vulnerable persons. We are a country on the brink, and the root system is deeply embedded in division, strife, and discord. Fatherless families, run-down neighborhoods, black vs. white, rich vs. poor, liberal vs. conservative, woman vs. man, gay vs. straight, MAGA hat vs. non-MAGA hat, god-fearing vs. godless, gun-owning vs. non-gun owning, hopeful vs. hopeless. 

Hopeful people look forward to the future, so they have children, love them, nurture them, and dream of someday. Hopeless people cry over a lost future. To the hopeless, the future is sown in tears. 

As a parent who has lost a child to the hopeless promise of a needle, I still want the future of this country to be full of "someday when" and not sown in tears. 

Gone Fishing

I just made a "gone fishing" sign to hang up in my house. The problem is, I don't even own a fishing pole or a tackle box. I don't have a fishing license.  A "gone fishing" sign would not pertain to anyone else in my family since no one in our household fishes.  Devyn and I had plans to fish in the lake behind our house, but the HOA won't allow it. So, making a "gone fishing" sign for my wall seems futile, but I'm still making it.

I'm making the sign for myself, and I'm making some signs for the other women who go fishing with me. The truth is, I would fish morning, noon, and night if I could. The problem is, it's dark and dingy where I fish, and I prefer sunny places with lots of fresh air. I don't think there is any fresh air where I fish. Where I fish, there is a lady named Ace, who is often fishing before I even arrive.  Ace is close to being a professional fisherman (or maybe it's fisherwoman). I don't know how Ace got her name, but she is an ace at fishing.

I, too, am becoming an ace at fishing. I catch big fish, little fish, medium fish, and even an occasional mermaid. Sometimes a bird flies by while I'm fishing and I kill it too! When people hear that I'm going fishing, they expect me to come home with dinner. I don't come back with dinner after fishing, but I usually come home with the money to buy dinner.

I don't fish in a lake. I don't fish in the gulf. I don't fish in a pond or stream. There is only bottled water where I fish. When I fish, my girlfriends often join me. I think they'd fish morning, noon, and night if they could. Jenn goes fishing with me, not because she likes to fish, but because I drag her along.  

Once, when I was fishing, a buffalo ran by. I'm not kidding. Me, Ace, Iris, and some of the other ladies all tried to kill it. We all failed. Sixty-something Iris lassoed the beast, but he got away!  Last night, me and two of my friends fished until after 11 pm. I never stay up past eight! However, I made an exception last night because all eight of us were singing Janis Joplin songs as we each went after the sharks, blow-fish, mermaid, and falcon.

 "Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz…" Our voices enhanced the atmosphere of the dark, dingy place. I think everyone else that was there left very quickly when we got the stanza, "My friends all drive Porches…"

Everyone was drinking wine as we fished. I was the designated driver, so I didn't partake. Imagine, if you will, eight ladies drinking wine, fishing, and singing Kumbaya while doing the wave every time someone killed a fish!  

Luckily, for the fish, they never really die. They swim by every few minutes - even after they've been "killed." The mermaid laughs at us over and over again. I won't say what some of the women call the mermaid, but I'm not sure she'd laugh if she heard it. Besides the mermaid, there's the octopus, the crabs, the crocodile, the darkness monster, and the falcon that all have nick-names, which I can't repeat.  

One might wonder why so many women love to fish. An occasional man might wander over to us, but the men usually are outnumbered at our fishing hole, or should I say table?  

That's right; it's a fishing table. Our table is not for the faint of heart. We take our fishing seriously - even when we are drinking wine. Whenever we put our sights on a fish, mermaid, crab, octopus, darkness monster, or bird, it takes a lot to kill one of them! Five cents can quickly add up to five dollars or more. Of course, the amount you lose is directly related to the amount you bet. There can only be one big winner at a time at the fish table. Of course, everyone can shoot and kill the smaller fishes too, but to win the big bucks, you have to kill the larger images, such as the laughing mermaid. When she dies, she pays out big. It might take eight of us shooting her for five minutes, but eventually, she explodes for one lucky fisherwoman who can win more than thirty dollars on a five-cent bet.  

Sometimes my family tells me that I'm addicted to fishing, which is a form of gambling. That might be true, but I could stop if I wanted to.  For instance, I have gone three days in a row now without dragging poor Jenn to the fish table. 

True, my button-pushing hand is twitching a bit, but it is not because I miss killing the mermaid. What I do miss is the comradery of sitting around a table with a bunch of ladies singing and doing the wave to celebrate each victory. Wouldn't it be nice if the world was like our fish table? Wouldn't it be nice if everyone celebrated everyone else's victories even though their success means that you didn't win this time? The last time we fished, after signing Kumbaya, Vicki started crying. She was crying because she missed her mom, who had just passed away and would often join Vicki at the fishing table. My two friends, who accompanied me, are mother and daughter, and they both hugged and comforted Vicki. That's what gone fishing means to me. It means getting together with a bunch of friends and laughing, sharing, singing, and celebrating little victories.

Survivor

If you're reading this, you're a survivor. When someone tells us they're a "survivor," it's natural to wonder what that individual survived. Often, the individual will say, "I'm a survivor of…," and they fill in the blank. Then, we don't have to guess, but it doesn't mean that we better understand what "survivor" means for each person. In reality, we are all survivors. 

Life is a survival sport. It's just how we participate in the game and survive. We can be angry, joyful, grateful, triumphant, or sad survivors. Ultimately, the way we choose to survive is what people will remember.

Today, I read a post on the brain aneurysm survivors' website. The post said, "A brain aneurysm changed my life by ____________________." I read the post and asked my daughter, Jenn, how she would fill in that blank. Jenn said, "Giving me a new appreciation for every moment of every day and every breath I take that doesn't require a breathing tube!" That's a typical response for Jenn, who always looks at her post-aneurysm life with a positive attitude and humor. 

It didn't occur to me that I should also answer the question since I, too, had a brain aneurysm. I, too, am a survivor. I am a survivor of a brain aneurysm, a stroke, and heart stents. I am a survivor of a parent that has lost a child. I am a survivor of so many things that I forget what I've survived! 

I want to say that I am always a grateful survivor, but that wouldn't be true. I am not always appreciative, joyful, or triumphant. Often, I'm angry and sad. Sometimes, I mourn all that I have lost. Sometimes, I get mad because my brain does not function like it used to. 

I could write a lot about sadness. My tears could salt many pages of loss - enough to fill an ocean. God knows there are times when I let the ocean waves of emotions wash over me and threaten to crush me into the rocks. I could easily allow myself to be tossed and thrown by the waves. I could drown in the sorrow. 

Thankfully, despair is not the spirit God has allowed to take root in my soul. If depression gained a foothold, the root system would be massive. Instead, I'll body-surf the waves and say, "I've survived this far!"

Craft Night

I always said I wasn’t going to move away from my beloved farm. Who would want to leave two adorable miniature donkeys that had no interest in becoming a cart-pulling duo and thought that a halter meant, “kick up your heals and run”? Or, the six chickens that laid more than eggs on our front porch? Then, of course, there were the four roosters that insisted the sun came up at 4 AM every day. Our home had the farmhouse charm of plaster walls that hated nails, eroding pipes, and an outdated kitchen and bathroom that I just had to remodel all by myself. Sure, the five acres required Bill to mow every weekend, and the barn needed rewiring before the malfunctioning stall fans started a fire, but that’s all part of farm living.  

Speaking of fires, we were always burning something at the farm, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. There was that time that Katie pulled the plumbing off the barn wall while trying to put out the tractor fire, but that’s another story. Along the fire theme, there was the time the house almost burned down due to faulty electric in the den. Luckily, Bill got Lulu out and put out the fire before it spread. Some of our friends had the audacity to suggest we should have let the house burn to the ground! Then, of course, there were the numerous bonfires that were responsible for Bill’s singed eyebrows. I also miss the sight of teenagers jumping through the blaze during one of my daughter’s epic parties. 

There are many things I miss about the farm: the quiet of the pasture, watching the horses galloping, milking the goats. Well, maybe I don’t miss the time the goat nailed me in my forehead during that one little milking incident.  Thankfully, I didn’t have to go to the hospital despite the fact I was knocked out and lying facedown in the barn for a short time.  I did have a goat hoof-print on my forehead for a week, but I survived.  Even though we had many near misses, like the time the saddle went sideways while Bill was riding the horse, I still miss the farm.

Moving was never on my radar. Living on the farm gave me the satisfaction of practicing veterinary medicine without the hassle of eight years of schooling. In high school, I took Latin so that I could become a veterinarian. It wasn’t in the cards for me to pursue that dream, but somehow, I convinced Bill that farming was the next best thing. So, I doctored my animal charges. I became the queen of birthing goats (even breach). I cured colic in horses and saved many a goat from dysentery. Sure, we did have a small pet cemetery in our pasture, but that wasn’t because my vet skills were lacking.  

Anyway, the time finally came when Bill announced, “We need to move!”  

“What!” I exclaimed, “I just finished soaking the kitchen hardware in vinegar, and the last pallet just went up in the bathroom! We can’t move now, the kitchen backsplash isn’t done, and I haven’t rewired the electric in the dining room!”  

“I’m tired of spending my weekends mowing!” Bill whined. “The farm is not a good place for Jenn in the wheelchair, and Devyn is tired of playing with the chickens.”  

So, after that heated exchange, I finally relented and agreed to look at houses in a neighborhood. My enthusiasm for moving was underwhelming. I continued to paint the kitchen cabinets and lookup goat cheese recipes as if I’d always be on the farm. I never entertained the thought that I was selfish. It seemed I was the only member of our family that loved farm living. Even Devyn’s rooster, RooRoo, couldn’t keep her from begging me to look for a house where there’d be real friends to play with.  

The house hunting brought us to a lovely neighborhood just a couple of miles from the farm. I tried to picture myself on a cookie-cutter block with houses that all had the same paint color, but moving into such a place would be a tough pill for me to swallow! I guess it was the pool and the pickleball courts that convinced me I could consider the move. When Jenn saw the pool and Devyn saw the kids playing, and I saw the looks on their faces, I knew my farm days were numbered.  

The two-story home that we set our sights on had five bedrooms and looked out over a “lake” (it’s more like a pond). Unfortunately, the house had a sold sign out front.  Jenn and I started visiting the neighborhood every day in search of the perfect home. Then, one day, as luck would have it, the “sold” sign in front of the two-story house was missing. I inquired at the office about the house, and I was told the deal fell through. The salesman told me we could buy the house if we sold our house over the weekend.  

“Okay.” I said with conviction, “We’ll get it sold.”  

We sold the farm that weekend. Just like that, we got an offer from the third couple that looked at our house. I know it was because the remodeled kitchen and the pallet bathroom looked so good!  

Now, we live in that two-story house overlooking the “lake.” Now, I have received at least 20 letters from the HOA (about once a month) addressing the wagon wheel I put in the front yard, the kayaks in the back yard, and other various infractions concerning our parking habits. All-in-all, the neighborhood has been a good thing for the family. Jenn loves the pool. Bill is closer to work, and it only takes him about an hour to mow the lawn. Devyn’s friends don’t have feathers, and I have organized a pickleball group. But, perhaps the most surprising change of all is that I am knitting on craft night! Yes, it’s true, I went from milking goats to knitting half a potholder (which has only taken me eight months). Maybe it will be done in time for me to give it to Bill for Christmas next year.

I could end this story by saying how sad I am that I left the farm, but that would not be true. The truth is, I have discovered that, despite the HOA, this neighborhood is made up of wonderful people. Craft night at the clubhouse is just code for “get together and laugh with friends.” Do we ever laugh! Granted, my potholder is the brunt of many of the jokes, but that’s okay. The friendships we’ve formed in our new neighborhood are priceless. They are worth far more than a few fresh eggs. I never thought I would say this, but I wouldn’t trade our craft night for all the donkeys and chickens in the world!

Shim and Hir

I need some clarification. In this politically correct climate, I can no longer say him; instead, I must say "shim." Ze, hir, and hirs are all atwitter in this land of hither and thither. I'm unsure, but I think she and he are no longer. Instead, I should say they or maybe you. Can I say you, or is it ewe? It can't be ewe since that would be a female sheep. 

I tried to figure out what was happening in our upside-down world. I found this simple explanation: sexuality (whom you go to bed with) and gender (who you go to bed as) are now flexible. 

Anyway, in light of the new gender-neutral grammar rules, I have written a children's story to explain this confusing new way of looking at the world and the people in it. I didn't use people, though. I used sheep to stick with the ewe theme. 

Shim and Hir

Once upon a time, a ewe didn't know she was a she. 

So, their friend, who was a ram, said, "Ewe, you can call yourself 'shim' since you don't know if you are she or him." "Shim would make you neither or neither (however you want to say it)." 

"Why, that's a great idea!" Said the ewe who didn't know she was a she.

Not long after the ewe became Shim, they and the ram talked for a long time about why the ram had to be a him. So, the ram finally decided not to identify as him and to call theirself "hir." 

Over time, Shim and Hir developed a close friendship. Shim and Hir played sheep games every day. Then, one day, ze became upset with each other when Shim wanted to play "baby ewe," and Hir wanted to play "horn bashing."  

Shim got mad at Hir and said, "I'm not playing horn bashing with you because I don't have horns!" 

Hir retorted, "You are really acting like a ewe!" 

When Hir called Shim a ewe, it made Shim so mad that they decided to be friends with Hir no longer. It came to pass that ze went their separate ways to find new friends with whom ze could identify.

The End.