Tommy and I spend more than our share of time at the VA. It has been such a blessing in our lives and on one occasion literally saved Tommy's life.
Each time we enter the revolving doors, something new is going on. The hospital is in perpetual expansion and repair both inside and outside.
When we were there this week, the hospital was hosting the "2016 Fine Arts, Applied Arts and Crafts Competition". Beautiful pieces of artwork were arranged on tables waiting to be judged.
Brochures explained the qualifications to enter the contest. A written letter of no more than 225 words would describe "the physical and/or mental challenges the Veteran overcame in order to accomplish the creation of his art.
The Veteran must have experienced combat duty during World War ll, Korean War, Vietnam, Gulf War, or current combat operations. The artwork must relate to the Veteran's personal experience in the war or conflict."
I spent most of my time in the lobby looking at the artwork, reading the notes that accompanied the different forms of art while listening to a flute played by a courageous lady who served in the Navy. Next to rain on a tin roof, the sounds of the ocean touching the shore, and soft whispers of a baby, I think her music was the most soothing sound I have heard in a long time.
On other tables were paintings in watercolor and pastel. Some of the paintings had an oriental focus or memory of Southeast Asia. It took a long time to study the artwork. They held unwritten stories in colors of war.
The ship to the left is a miniature creation of the USS Missouri. Never in a hundred years would I be able to hold my hand steady enough to accomplish putting this together.
I walked around the tables three times. Each trip I found my way back to one special piece of art. It was a homemade scrapbook. Each page painted in shades of red, rust, brown, dark brown and black. Once again the colors of war to me. In my mind, the creator was stationed either in Vietnam or Southeast Asia. A few pages make me think of the Middle East. I believe the artist is a woman. I do not think for a minute the war is ever far from her mind.
I would have paid a hundred dollars for the book however, I doubt if it was for sale. The book is a collage created with scraps of words, pictures, and square holes connecting one page to the next with quotes and heart felt emotion. At times the pages resemble a ruined home in the Middle East. It is someone's memories someone's stories. Perhaps the stories are hard to remember yet impossible to forget. It would be a hard place for the mind of anyone to live for any length of time. Joy held court in another book but had no place in this one.
I took photos of the book and I intended to post them, however I changed my mind. It is not my book to share. I feel it is alright to describe the cover of the book from my perspective. It was made from cardboard that had been painted black multiple times. Written in slightly hard to read words was the title of the book, "Ghosts of the Shadow of War". Something gold is painted on the left side and runs halfway up and over the top of the book cover. At times it looks like a dragon, other times a snake with a spider web near the top of the book.
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Written in the midst of the golden dragon looking figure are the words, "The Not So Enchanted World". In the midst of all this was drawn a black knight and a small blond girl...both riding a lighter shade of black horse.
I don't know what it really means. I have many ideas but I doubt if any are right. To me it seems the young woman went to war to help people in need, perhaps as a nurse. There is one photo of three young women running away from a helicopter. The camera captured the panic look on their faces. They are all wearing dusty green fatigues and black boots. Perhaps the young woman was full of life and promise then something happened; she saw war up close and personal. War and fighting appeared to rip a hole in her soul. Seeing that at such a young age, changed how she saw the world, perhaps forever.
War is never normal unless you were born in a war zone. Even then there is no normal anything. It is more of a wait and see what happens next kind of life. After war, perhaps a normal life would feel uneasy, fragile and war would be the 'normal' nightmare. Awkward. Scary. Peace would be a reprieve but hard to get used to. I think some veterans would be looking into an empty space...uneasy, perhaps reliving the same scenes over and over in there minds at odd times of the day or night. I hope I am wrong.
To most Americans I have talked to who have been to war, it is hard to come back and live a normal life soon after seeing war up close and personal. It takes awhile to adjust to peace. People change. I think it would take a long time to remember 'normal'. It might have to be redefined again.
A flood of memories filled facebook, newspapers, talk shows,radio and magazines as the news media reported the death of Pat Conroy, Nancy Reagan, and last week the passing of Glenn Frey. These people wandered in and out of my mind all week. I will miss them. Pat Conroy and Glenn Frey had a big impact on my life. They shaped parts of how I saw the world through their words and music. They each have their own key to a room of memories in my past.
When I miss the South of my youth, Pat Conroy is one of my authors I read. "Beach Music" was my favorite book he wrote. "The Prince of Tides" and every other book he wrote came in a close second. He always came back to South Carolina. He knew both sides of the South. The one people saw and the one people lived.
He wrote of love, beauty and hot humid evenings on the coast. He also wrote of homes filled with abuse,and mental illness. He wrote of a life he did not want in a military school,not just any school, the Citadel. He also loved South Carolina. His words painted vivid pictures of the low country. He could make me laugh and cry in the same sentence.
When I read he died, I was shocked. Lisa, my oldest daughter, sent me a message from Florida, to tell me of his passing. She loves his work as much as I do. Pat Conroy understood that not every man should be a father; and that not every family member is sane or normal. He knew 'normal' could be a matter of opinion decided by the few while speaking for the many. He wrote of forgiveness and second chances and of getting even. He wrote of broken families and people who can be fixed eventually, however the cost is often more than most people desire to pay. He wrote of the high price of forgiveness. He applied what he learned.
Glenn Frey, my secret mental lover, died earlier than Lou or Pat Conroy. I mourned him too. The Eagles came on the scene about the time Tommy and I married. We loved them immediately. We have a memory to go with every song they sang. I regret not going to any of their concerts...although I do have the T Shirt. We were young and broke. We always thought we would catch them the next time.
Ronald Reagan's First Lady, Nancy, died last week too. She probably loved her husband as much as any woman has ever loved a man. I hope they are together tonight.
My friend, Lou Kirby Conner died Friday. That is so hard to believe. We grew up together and then went our separate ways. However, the connection was never broken. After years of no contact we would see each other and pick right up where we had left off. That is how it is with good friends and family.
My first memories of Lou and me were as little girls walking to school together. We would laugh and talk and always stop at the dime store. One day Lou told me her version of the facts of life. I was all ears. I don't know who told her that version but man did she have it wrong. We didn't know it until years later. Then we had a big laugh at how gullible little seven year old girls can be.
Not to be outdone, I would tell Lou the Saturday night adventures at the jailhouse. Mama and I lived with Mamamae and Granddaddy in the little house across from the jail. When the weather was pretty we had a front row seat to the Saturday night rowdiness.
On Monday morning, I had a new story about blood and guts, fighting and weapons drawn by the police to calm down the drunks. That is unless it rained and then everyone went to jail or bed because it was too wet to sit outside. I may have exaggerated a little...I may have exaggerated a LOT... just to keep the story interesting. That was fine with Lou.
Lou was the first one in our group to get a transistor radio. Transistor radios were all the rage for several years. It would be like getting an IPhone today. I had to wait until Christmas to get mine. It was about four inches wide and maybe six inches long. We could take it to school with us or put it under our pillow and go to sleep listening to WLS Chicago. Dick Biondi was the 'coolest'D.J. He was always one step away from getting fired for pushing his slightly off color jokes. We loved him. He was our 'bad boy'. I was listening the night he played the first Beatles record. It was awesome.
If memory serves me right, Lou was the first in our group to get married. Mama and I went to her wedding. She was a beautiful bride. It was a Fall candlelight wedding for Richard Conner and Lou Kirby. They made a beautiful couple.
Thirty or forty years later, Lou and I spent a lot of time together the summer Daddy was admitted to ICF. It would be a month before his room was ready and I stayed with him until it was fixed. I was at her apartment two or three times a week. It was good to catch up on each others lives. We laughed a lot at silly things we remembered when we were kids. Lou was a good friend. The years and miles did not change that fact. I will always miss her.
Like a little girl,a rather old little girl, I can not wait for the first snow of the new year. Snow is white magic to me. It makes the world look clean, and new. The thick whiteness covers piles of junk, pot holes and barren trees. Snow is winter's shot in the arm when the grayness of each day begins to sink into peoples bones with invisible pin pricks.
In my part of the world, it started snowing before daylight and snowed most of the day on January 9, 2016. We had close to 5 inches of wet, pristine snow by mid afternoon.
We knew the snow was coming so we prepared as best we could. The wood we use in our wood stove was in the laundry room and completely dry. Bird feeders were filled, windshields were covered. A chocolate fudge cake sat on the kitchen counter. We had plenty of coffee to last for a month. Life was good at the Carter home.
The clouds were thick and heavy for most of the day. In Missouri we call this kind of sky a 'snow bank sky'. The sun seldom peeked out during the morning. The afternoon fared better after the snow stopped falling. The birds and deer were feeding most of the day.
Cardinals, doves, finches, sparrows, titmouse, juncos, and a small mixture of other birds that I call "fly by's" find the feeders. The "fly by's" are birds passing through making a pit stop. Tommy and I enjoy our window view of nature. As I am writing this blog, two small deer are eating in our front yard. The dogs are in the house so they have nothing to worry about. It never gets old to see deer in our yard.
The next day we decided to go for a ride. I wanted to take a few photos while checking out the roads and scenery.
I love our backwoods road. It is every bus drivers nightmare but I enjoy it. I have also been its victim several times over the years. I have taken a few unscheduled trips through the woods. Once I dug a new ditch while trying to get to work. Another time, I hit ice and did a complete 180 on the road, facing my house instead of work. I saw no reason keeping me from driving home. That was the direction I was facing. I might as well proceed...and I did. When this gravel road was made a designated right of way, I firmly believe the county thought no one would ever live down it. It would be a cut off to the next black top road... over the hills, through the valley, and around curves made for snakes. Several years later, we proved them wrong and bought our home. Then a few people from St. Louis bought property up and down the road. They are still considered 'outsiders'. They are a standoffish group as a rule.
Make a left turn out of our driveway and we are on our way to civilization. There was one tree down but someone cut it up and pulled it out of the way so they could get to where they needed to be.
The top of Atterberry Hill is always a iffy drive. Country people all drive in the middle of the road... even up a hill. As a former 'city girl' I have never understood this mindset. After 30 years of country living, I still honk my horn...just in case. Usually, I am the only one on the road but sometimes there are surprises causing one of us to get out of the way fast.
This was one of those 'slip ups' that almost happened.
Our road is no different than a hundred other country roads. It is our piece of the past, no matter how small it is. For a little while cell phones don't work. The traffic is minimal--crazy but minimal and the world has slowed down a notch or two. Life is good and that is the main thing on my 'what is important in life list'. Keeping life simple and fun are necessities at this stage in my life.
The year was 1983. I had a super bad case of the flu. The kind of flu people get when they hope the flu will not kill them; however they are so sick it wouldn't matter much if it did. I was that kind of sick. Finally, I drug my wazoo to the doctor's office. While there I told my doctor about some other 'oddities' going on in my body at the time. He sweetly told me there was nothing he could do about the flu. I had to ride it out and next year be sure and get a flu shot. However, he very softly said I needed to have a hysterectomy as soon as possible. I could not believe what I was hearing, so gentle man that he was, he said it again, "You need to have a hysterectomy as soon as possible." I remember saying, "I can't-- I have the flu!!" He laughed, I cried. We talked for about twenty minutes longer while he recommended a surgeon in Columbia. A month later I had surgery.
The next month flew by and before I knew it, I was in the hospital waiting to have surgery the next morning. The surgical team made their rounds and talked to me about what to expect the next day. The last member of the team to visit me was the anesthesiologist. He was a good looking young man about my age. He explained the drug they would be using the next day on me. He told me there would be a slight chance I might wake up on the operating table. He assured me this was close to 'one in a million chance' but it could happen. He assured me I would not feel anything if I woke up and he would immediately put me back to sleep. When he was finished he asked me if I had any questions. Apparently I said 'no' and he walked out the door. He made it about half way down the hall when I called out to him, "Did you just say, I might wake up on the operating table?" He laughed, turned around and came back to my room. He explained the procedure once again to me; assuring me I had nothing to worry about. Then he left again.
It was the next morning before I knew it. I was scheduled to be the first surgery so I didn't have long to wait. Tommy was there and I told him what the team said the night before. He laughed, reassuring me there was no way the doctors would let me wake up on the operating table. Famous last words!
Someone pushing a gurney came to get me. Soon I was on my way to surgery. I was prepped and asleep in a matter of minutes. Everything was routine until halfway through the surgery I WOKE UP! I remember the operating room was freezing cold, there was rock music playing and I was staring at my masked doctor who happened to be holding my uterus. He was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. However, he said, "Mrs. Carter no worries it is not cancer. I am sending it to the lab but you will be fine." Then I started getting the dry heaves. The doctor said, "Put her out! Put her out NOW!" I heard the anesthesiologist say, "Good night honey" It felt like he touched the back of my ear, then I was out instantly.
The next day everyone visited me again. They could not believe I woke up on the operating table. Well, neither could I. We were laughing about it. Tommy couldn't believe it happened. He said, "I guess this proves you are literally one in a million." I remind him of this fact, from time to time . I made some sort of list in the gynecology journal department. I have had several surgeries since then and slept through the procedures. Thank goodness. The one thing I wish I could remember was the name of the song that was playing in the OR room when I woke up. It was a good song but for the life of me I cannot remember the name.
I like the quote to the left. "What a wonderful thought it is that some of the best days of our lives haven't happened yet." However, I think it is a quote for younger people. As people age, I have noticed many tend to live in the past. I catch myself doing this often. Nothing in life prepares a person for getting older. It happens while we are busy with our daily lives and goals. The young think the world was made for them and they will never age. There is no reason for them to worry. Everything life has to offer is before them. As older adults, we find ourselves looking back often analyzing our lives. Questioning decisions we made, and chances we took. One year turns into ten years, before we realize it. Then ten years turn into twenty, once again before we know it, we are staring retirement in the face. We live with the choices we made. The stressful part of life is over. It is time to do all the things that were put on hold while we lived a productive family life. This is where it gets tricky.
In my mind I am about forty, the rest of my body disagrees. When I go clothes shopping, I have to go to the other end of the rack now instead of the skinny section. Occasionally, I am in the wrong store. I look around at the clothes and think, 'Hmmm I wore these clothes in the 70's. I am not sure I want to wear them again.' I find a more 'age appropriate store' and look at what a 66 year old woman should wear and I say, "Oh, Hell No!" and I find myself in the first store . . . again. Looking desperately for something that doesn't show my ass or my bust. Good luck with that! Apparently, when I was young, I showed a lot more of myself than I realized at the time.
I ramble around until I find something that will work. A little bit of this and a touch of that and before you know it I am ready to go home. Mother Nature and I have split the difference. I can live with that if she can.
As I sit here, I have a heart monitor hooked up to my chest sending a continuous ECG to someone --somewhere. They are looking inside my heart for the next thirty days. That has to be one boring job. I doubt if anyone is really looking. I lost the cell phone transmitting all this crap yesterday and no one called to see if I was dead! That was reassuring.
It is an odd feeling knowing there is more time behind me than in front of me. On the other hand, I have achieved almost everything I wanted to in life. No complaints there. When Tommy and I retired we had a simple plan.
1. Do something productive every day.
2. Witness more sunsets and dawns.
3. Learn something new each week.
4. Stop wearing a watch.
5. Pursue any unfulfilled desires.
6. Find a way to share our blessings.
Lacey and Melodi will have a baby in the Spring. A grandchild is a huge blessing and something we all look forward to. Jacy and Logan are busy growing up. Jace is a teenager now and Logan isn't far behind. Lisa and Lisle are in the process of moving to a new home. Both of them have jobs they really like. Lisa is working on her Masters degree. Tami, continues to write books and seek God's plan for her life. There is a lot going on in our family, just like it is in everyone's family. Vacations have occurred and more are planned. Hobbies started--hobbies stopped. It is a busy time in this gift called 'life'. The other day, I heard someone on the radio say, "We are only given so many trips around the sun. Make the most of them." I am inclined to agree with that statement.
The Fall season took its place on the calendar around 3:21 this morning. One season evolved into another while we slept. Very little in Missouri changed overnight to mark Fall's arrival. As the day progressed it was sunny and hot, the same as the last day of summer was yesterday. The temperature reached 85 degrees.
While drinking coffee this morning, my mind rambled back to the summer. I logged on to my computer searching for photos of the summer of 2015. Photos are the proof of my memories. I look at them and I remember the day or event. If my home caught fire, the two things I would grab would be my photos and Tommy's love letters. Both of those items are things I could never replace. He doesn't remember half of what he wrote--but I do and that is what matters to me.
Summer took its time arriving. June was the wettest month we have had in recorded history. As far as temperatures went, we never reached 100 degrees. Unofficially, at my house we did three times. Several times during the summer we had lows in the 50's.
Tommy and I did not fish as much as we usually do. The days were often too humid. When we did go, we fished Little Dixie. I love that place. We seldom caught anything worth keeping but the view was delightful, the coffee good and the company even better.
We spent as much time strolling the trails in Little Dixie as we did fishing. The lake is 205 acres. It is nestled in the midst of 733 acres. Nature trails, both man made and animal, are everywhere. Each new view is in competition with the last view seen.
On any given day we could be found driving the back roads of Callaway County, especially around sunset. An old gravel road is a moment in life waiting to be photographed. Old broken down barns and homes have a hidden history. Stories few people know or care about. Often Tommy and I make up our own version of what we saw. One old house was ready to fall down. It was still hanging on, fighting weather and decay; but loosing the battle each year that passed. I fell in love with that old memory. Someone took great care in the structure of their home. Later we learned its story. At one time it was a huge two story home, with a winding stairway and a veranda almost as large as my home. The couple who built the home had 22 children between the two---his, hers and theirs. I can't imagine raising 22 children. That is a lot of people to care for, feed, clothe and love. I had 3 beautiful daughters... our greatest treasures. I swear there were times it felt like I had twice that many children -- I never corralled the hidden three kids to confirm that suspicion.
Every year I spend a small fortune on flowers for each season. I am in the midst of building perennial beds that no longer need to be planted year after year. Honestly, I am tired of all the work that goes with keeping flowers beautiful. I am delegating this job to Mother Nature. I think she will do a better job than I usually do. While driving the back roads, some of the prettiest flowers I have seen all summer are perennial wild flowers; growing here and there, keeping company with cows and buzzards. When I was a little girl, I used to say,' God made wild flowers for poor people.' Every time I said something along that line, Mama thought I was about to die.
Tommy and I will probably go to the river late this afternoon. Perhaps we will eat supper at our favorite bar and grill. I am still in pursuit of buzzards. I missed many photo shots, that begged to be taken, because I forgot my camera. I am not giving up. I still have time to get a few good photos. Tommy teases me about my fascination with buzzards this year. It is true, the buzzards are trapped in my imagination. In one missed shot, a dead tree was filled with close to twenty buzzards. It was an ironic photo --and I wanted it, but missed the shot Another time, we were rounding a curve on our road, six buzzards sat on an old rail fence. All of them were transfixed on something in the water. One turned around and looked at the truck, ignoring us he returned to watching the muddy water with rest of his buddies. There were several good shots in those few seconds. Then they flew away.
This is first time in my life I have ever been this curious about buzzards. There is a story and a photo in my mind growing bigger each day. From a distance these scavengers look enchanting. Soaring to great heights as they scan the area below looking for a dead carcass. They remind me of a certain type of human, who looks lovely from a distance however, the closer they get, the more undesirable they become--much like the buzzards.
All to soon the trees will start to change colors, birds and buzzards will migrate to warmer weather. Nature will strut her colors while mere mortals try to capture her beauty with a camera. This is an on going game nature and people play. Find the perfect tree, find the perfect leaf, find the perfect love and see what happens.
Last week was the week from Hell for Tommy. He worked hard, 8 hours a day, doing manual labor for a couple of friends. When he came home at night he looked like death warmed over. He actually stumbled in the back door one night. No matter what I said, he was determined to work...and work he did. When he was young he worked like this but he isn't young and he is retired. We don't work hard. That defeats the whole purpose of retiring. Every day he promised me he would take it easy and rest. He lied.
I knew he would not have time to rest before our trip to Kentucky. I was right. He woke up at 3:30 a.m. Friday morning and got me up at 4. We were out the door and on the way to Kentucky by 5 a.m.
The trip down was nice and easy going. Once we arrived in Clinton we stopped to visit with our good friend John Kelly Ross. I also talked with Lou Conner. It was a pleasure to see these old friends again. John has the best sense of humor, and can tell a story perfectly.
Tommy and I decided to spend the night in Union City, Tenn. We paid for our room but had to wait for it to be cleaned. This left us 2 hours to kill. Tommy was tired, hungry and did I mention tired, well if I didn't. . . he was TIRED... and while I am at it I will throw in Grumpy too. 'We' could not decide what Tommy wanted to do! He wanted to wash the truck but was hungry. He needed to sleep but had no room to lay down. At that time there was no room in the inn. He decided to wash his truck first, then eat, and finally try the motel again.
Fine by me, I was only thirsty. I remembered we had 5 small bottles of frozen strawberry water in our cooler. That was all I wanted. . . a drink of water. I opened a bottle while Tommy was trying to pull out into oncoming traffic. Never once did it enter my mind that such a simple thing could cause me so much trouble. But it did. There was no stop light, it was jump and go kind of driving. The four lane was busy with people on their lunch break. No one would let us out of the driveway or into the traffic. Finally, there was a slight pause in the traffic allowing Tommy to jump in a lane. That is about the time I opened my water bottle. The cap and about an inch of ice, the size of a bullet, shot out of my bottle and hit the windshield. KABOOM!!! It bounced back and hit me in the chest. I screamed, Tommy screamed, and then I fell over in one of those uncontrollable laughing fits that only happen to me when I am too tired and have lost all control of my emotions. Tommy yelled at me to see if I was alright, because he thought someone had fired a shot at us and I was hit and crying. I squeaked through a round of gut laughter, "I- I- I am fine". He was scared and furious. I should have been but I wasn't so, I continued to laugh. Every time I thought of how that scene must have looked, I started laughing all over again. Snorting, eyes watering, nose running kind of laughter. Tommy was soooo through with me. The only reason he didn't pull over and try to put me out, is because he knew I wouldn't budge.
We washed the truck and he was mad! We ate lunch and he was mad. Finally, we make it back to the motel and he was mad. He did get some sleep, when he woke up he was not mad anymore.
Me??? I still think it is one of the funniest things to happen to us this year, and we have a long list of funny mishaps so far. . . and it is only the beginning of September. For some reason, I do not think Tommy will ever think, at least this year, this day in our life was funny. Some day he will, but not today and I am pretty sure not tomorrow. I am still laughing as I type these last words...and I know funny when I see it, after all I live with him and we share this crazy experience called life. Thankfully, most of the time, it is funny indeed. We need to realize this more often.
The ship to the left is a miniature creation of the USS Missouri. Never in a hundred years would I be able to hold my hand steady enough to accomplish putting this together.
