It was the day Santa was visiting. He’d be at my market pavilion that evening at 5:00PM, and I was preparing for his arrival. Kids were coming and the cookies were ready, and that morning at work, I had the nice surprise of finding extra lights in my storage area. (Our public works team had hung a few hundred feet of icicle lights on the farmers market pavilion the days prior.) Apparently, I, being spatially challenged, had ordered a couple hundred feet extra.
“We’re gonna make this Santa-space twinkly!”
Suddenly, I was Clark Griswold. I envisioned myself singing “Joy to the World” when I flipped the switch. I was working with a blank canvas in a new structure, knowing that no matter how many lights I found a space for, the festive part in my brain would be screaming, “More! More!”
But today…. the task at hand…was to get these lights up.
Interruptions
I was three hours in and the icicle lights were done. Now, lighted garland was being hung in six-foot increments. The sparkly star was up (not in its originally planned place—the wind was too fierce for it. The wind was. a. beast. Brutal, I say!) While I was squinting, standing back, and making sure the lights on the garland were spaced correctly, my Bose speaker belted out Brenda Lee.
About halfway into decking the rails, I noticed a work vehicle pull into the lot. The area isn’t public parking, and this vehicle parked perpendicular to the pavilion. My brain went into overdrive…”wonder what they’re doing”…”hope there’s no tomfoolery”…”am I going to have to ask them to move the truck”…”I’ve never heard of that business….”
The engine is cut off.
Burl Ives is in the background reminding me to have a holly jolly Christmas.
And I begin keeping a side-eye on them as they sit there.
My decorating finally took me to an area that required my facing them. I could keep an eye on them without gawking and I could see what they were up to. Suspicious activity requires that, you know.
I turned, and in the front seat I saw the driver eating something, and a tiny, older lady on the passenger side. “They’re just eating lunch,” I thought with relief.
Four minutes pass, and the passenger door opens. The gentleman comes around, assists the lady out of the truck, she straightens her peacoat, and begins walking in my direction.
“I need to walk around…my legs get stiff,” she said, as she made her way to where I was.
The man had already returned to the truck.
“I understand that!” I replied, as she made her way to me.
“I have issues with the arteries in my legs,” she continued. The doctor said I wouldn’t be walking in three years. That was six years ago. So, I make sure to get up & walk when I can.”
By now, she’d reached the area where I was decorating.
“Well, it looks like you’ve defied the odds—you’re getting around beautifully!”
A hearty laugh seemed to prompt the pointing of her cane. “My son is in that truck. I don’t let him know these things because I don’t want to worry him. He invited me to ride with him today for his work. First time I’ve done this!”
Our conversation seemed to just flow after that. I learned that…
…her bridge “didn’t fit right”
…she worked for an attorney without any formal training when she was 19 years old
… she worked for the railroad after that
…she lived in the very county where I’d previously lived almost 20 years
…she thought my daughter is beautiful (of course I showed her photos!)
…she was shocked I’m old enough to have a 31-year-old child (like I’m going to omit that tidbit…BOOYAH, FATHER TIME!)
…she believed in “divine appointments”
As she kept apologizing for taking me from my decorating, I kept telling her it was quite alright—she’s not taking me from anything.
I found myself smiling largely the entire time she spoke. Her red lipstick matched her pillbox hat perfectly, and her eyes twinkled more than the thousands of lights I’d just strung. Her white hair reminded me of the soft, fluffy stuff we used for snow in our mini Christmas villages in the 1970s. Like cotton.
“Well, you sure have done a beautiful job,” she said.
(It was just lights, a star, and garland…..)
She told me her name…. but to maintain her privacy, I’ll call her “Mrs. B.”
She told me her age.
Eighty-nine.
Mrs. B used to travel “these parts” with her husband, who had passed some years ago. She’d not been here in a while, and as a matter of fact, she and her son were headed to another town about 30 minutes north of us, but they wanted to stop for lunch.
My town it was.
In a non-parking lot.
Beside my Santa space.
Forty-five minutes had passed, and the feeling in my fingers and toes had returned. I walked her to the truck where her son stood waiting for her, and invited her to come back in the summer for our farmers market.
“Ain’t nothin’ like a homegrown tomato, and we have some of the best!” I told her. “I would love to see you one Thursday during our market season.”
“I may just do that!” she said, as her son helped her into the truck. “You sure have made me want to visit again….thank you!”
I stood, contemplative, as the truck disappeared over the hill. The wind blustered around me.
I pivoted and noticed the lights of Santa’s space. Heard the joyful sounds of Bing Crosby. Felt the tips of my fingers and toes. And noticed I was still wearing a smile.
My mind…my body…my heart….needed this pause…needed this reminder.
Thank you, Mrs. B. I believe in divine appointments, too.
The power that cats have is surprising. I’ve discovered that no one owns a cat. Cats own them!
We are not cat people.
At least, that’s what we’ve said for more than a decade.
But somehow…we always seem to have members of the feline family claim us. We’ve cared for 18 strays since 2009—fed them, had them neutered/spayed, found them homes. We never bring any in to live because, well, we are not cat people.
However.
Our most recent pounce of cats was a litter of five from a momma we called “Loretta.” She was definitely feral—we’d seen her in the neighborhood for a couple years, could never catch her, she stayed a safe distance from us, then one day…. she came waddling to our back yard, belly hanging low while she sniffed for food. We knew what that meant.
Her coat was dull and her eyes matte-looking. No shine anywhere. She was malnourished. Pitiful. Even though I’m not a cat person, I began setting out cans of salmon, tuna, sardines, and kitten food. I caught her eating only at night, when she’d emerge from the woods behind us and eat like someone was going to take it from her. This went on a week or two then we didn’t see her for a month. I wondered if she’d been hit by a car, taken in by someone, or had chosen another house to frequent for her meals.
But then, from my laundry room window one sunny spring day, I see Loretta emerging from the woods…with five kittens in tow. I immediately thought, “Oooh, no.”
Keep in mind, we’d been taking care of The Jerk (a.k.a. “Wally”) for almost a year. Black Bombay who gladly ate the food we gave him while despising our very presence. We’d put his food out on the wall (hence the name) and he’d come hiss at us, then eat. He was a butthead. We didn’t need another cat, much less five of them—or six if Loretta hung around.
So it begins.
Those babies were helpless. Tiny. Mewing. And adorable. The closest I could get was 10 yards, but I watched them intently through Robbie’s binoculars. I supplied their food & water daily for about three weeks, watched them grow, and noticed Loretta staying to the side…a “hmph” look on her face, combined with a “I will cut you if you get any closer” glare. I made sure they never went without. No animal will be hungry if I have anything to do with it. Even cats.
But one day, they weren’t there anymore. I went out there, yelled for them, and saw no activity. I fretted. Worried a coyote had gotten them, or they’d been run over, or…or….
For three days I continued their feeding routine—food was eaten nightly, but I assumed it was a raccoon or our possum Edgar XV (again, another post) that had enjoyed the meal. On the fourth day, as I walked back to the house from their eat-on-feet delivery, I noticed activity by the butterfly bush at the garage. There they were, little orange, white, and grey balls of fluff, Loretta sitting on the wall watching them. She was bringing them to us because she trusted us. Or at least that’s what I told myself.
But dang. A litter. And we’re not cat people.
They took up residence in our garage, and I’ll admit, we made for a cushy experience. Except for Loretta, we had them all trapped, neutered/spayed, and released (thank you, Sarah & Twin County Humane Society!) Loretta was just too elusive, and I hate we couldn’t get her, too, bless her heart.
Fast forward about nine months. The three orange tabbies had long since left/disappeared/found a home. Mr. Big Stuff and Blanca remain, along with Wally and Mr. Higgins (he’s a Ragamuffin and deserves his own post). I should add that Mr. Big Stuff is now Byg Stuph because we discovered she’s a girl and wanted to give her a fancy-dancy name.
She earned her name because she was the first who would approach us. The first to come out of the garage. The first to eat when food was placed out. I said, “Well, isn’t he a Mr. Big Stuff?” (cue Heavy D!…..I digress).
Her personality has developed and become very evident. She. Loves. Attention. And lovin’s & scrubbin’s. She also loves popcorn and fighting with Blanca. They fight like, well, siblings (Blanca can hold her own and I have photos to prove it. If interested, let me know in the comments).
Anyway.
The door was open last night and in she came–jumped on the couch with me and started rooting around for a comfy spot. I let her do what she was wanting to do just so I could see what she was wanting to do. She sat beside me awkwardly for about five minutes until she stepped up on my lap, curled up, and snoozed. Her motor was going 90% of the time. She was warm and rumbly. I decided to leave her be.
Byg Stuph the Lover
I started getting cold & asked Robbie if he thought she’d be disturbed if he put a blanket over me.
She wasn’t.
Her purrs emanated a Roush-like quality, and I found myself adjusting my breathing with hers. She snuggled…warmed my lap…and purrrrrred. I started to relax with her.
Easing her way in….
Over the course of 90 minutes, Byg Stuph napped like she’d probably never napped before. I could run my thumb over her nose, hold her paw in my hand, play with her toes, and she continued to snooze. I never thought cats did this. I never considered them snuggle bugs. But here she was, relishing it all, belly-to-belly with me, and it hit me that she knew I could be trusted–my thick, Mac & Bob’s sweatshirt adding to her comfort. Not only that, she liked my company.
Every breath was a purr….
Pretty huge stinkin’ feat for a cat.
And for me.
Her sister Blanca crouched at the open door, watching the whole time. Delusions of grandeur overtook and I imagined both of them, snuggled and purring on me. They’re a bonded pair (of course) and I so want her to experience the same affection her sister receives. I called for her, but she gave me the cat-finger and turned her butt toward me.
One step at a time.
Had it not been bedtime and I had to get up from the couch, I think Byg Stuph would have stayed there until morning. We have a thing, she & I (Blanca & I will, too—I promise). If Loretta ever visits again, I want to tell her I am honored that she trusted us with her babies. We gotcha, Loretta. Your babies are safe, warm, fixed, inoculated, and loved with us…even though we’re not cat people.
Thank you, sweetheart. We hope that you’ve found a safe place of your own. Byg Stuph & Blanca will be sure to have a long, cushy life together, and we’ll forever mention you as “that momma” who gave them to us.
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If my eyes were closed, I’d feel like I was on my side porch in the summer, listening to the rain, the swing gently swaying front…back…front…back…
And as I watched her, I think she was thinking the same.
The Queen has had a few weeks of absolute astuteness (is there such a word?) She’s been awesome in letting me know what she needs & wants. Fuzzy socks. Her sunglasses cleaned. The car window down because she smells a dead skunk.
No worries, chinquapin, we rollin’ all four down!
She’s also seemed wired up, as I say. Full speed ahead. Rare form. Active.
Not bad things, mind you. Just “on” things.
So, I accommodate.
Night time routines
This evening, I readied her for bed. I collected her pj’s, a fresh towel, washcloth, and changed her bed sheet, while she sat on the potty reading a 13-month-old edition of my Harvard Business Review.
It was bath time.
Every time for the past few decades, I’ve had two methods of bath time: let the water run to warm, lift her into the tub, and remove the wand to rinse her while she sits in the tub; or fill the tub, add Epsom salt, baking soda, and lavender oil, and hold my arms under her to give her buoyancy to aid in the relaxation, then rinse accordingly.
But tonight…tonight I was going to let her experience something new.
I stood her and stepped her over into the tub, the shower head spraying a rainstorm (that’s the setting) into the tub. Instead of sitting her down, I let her stand. Back to the spray. Water pitterpatterpitterpattering on her, warm water running down her head, to her back, shoulders, to her arms, and exiting out of her fingers that positioned themselves in front of her, tip-to-tip on each hand, as if instructing the droplets where to go.
Stillness.
She tilted her head slightly back and closed her eyes. I just knew she was relishing the feeling of the water cascading down her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. She stood silent. Motionless.
And I let her relish.
I was, too.
The power of water
We stood for 3 minutes. Then 5. Then 8. I worried that the water would turn cold. Or my arms would grow weak. Or her legs would give out. The water seemed to turn into tiny, rubber beads that bounced off her now caramel-colored hair. They ricocheted in unison. A cadence formed as we stood, her with her eyes closed, hands out with palms facing toward her, my hands and arms holding her weight…so she could experience what we all (at least most) have. I noticed her eyes closed, and a contented smile on her face as she soaked in her standing-shower experience. And I….became lost in the moment…my shirt soaked…my jeans now stuck to my legs.
It was bedtime.
I turned her, sat her down, and bathed her like I’ve done the past three decades. She was pliable, mellow, smiling, and what I perceived as happy for enjoying her first shower. Once finished, I stepped her over the side of the tub, dried her, lotioned and powdered her, combed her hair, sprayed it with Pravana (how’d she become so bougie??) and donned her in her cozy pjs—a combo of a t-shirt/sweatshirt and long-johns/fuzzy pants. And fuzzy socks. Have to have fuzzy socks.
To bed she goes. Teeth brushed. Drink of water. Monkey bear presented. Prayers said. Kisses given. Obligatory photos & videos…
“Yes, you’re beautiful,” I tell her. She feels prissy, and fresh, and relaxed and calm and Zen-like.
And I’m all emotional.
Thirty-one and-a-half years and she has her first shower. I’m thankful that He shows me the “little” things that can make a huge difference. The “little” things that bring huge joy.
I know I’ll never see mine the same….
Thank you, God, for making the seemingly insignificant so significant. It really does matter.
A chance encounter with a fellow sunset-photographer reminded me of one of the reasons I love West Virginia.
Robbie and I had gone to Pipestem, WV for a birthday celebration weekend. Saturday afternoon brought downpours, lightning, thunder—and while it did shorten our fishing excursion at the lake, it didn’t lessen our enjoyment. As a matter of fact, it added to it. There’s something about thunderstorms and cabins in the woods….
As the rain turned into a drizzle and the sun began pushing her way through the retreating storm clouds, the quickly changing light told us there’s a beautiful sunset to be seen, so we drove to the nearest overlook behind McKeever Lodge. Another lady stood there, phone in the air, taking photos of the continually changing scene. Seeing us drive in like an Andretti, she turned & said with a laugh, “You better hurry up, it’s changing so much.”
I took my place beside her and began capturing the breathtaking scene that changed from fog to fog and mountain to sun to bursts of orange and red to fog and mountain and sun and….
It was like a sky kaleidoscope.
The breathtaking view on a March evening in Pipestem, WV
After about three minutes of silence and reverent appreciation of the scene that lay before us, my photog partner turned & said “I live just down the road.” She gave us her general area, to which Robbie told her that his cousins live there, too, and told her their names.
“Oh, yes! I go to church with them!” We all laughed and agreed what a small world it is. Robbie told her his full name and said, “Tell them you met me.” The lady—even more surprised—said, “I used to work with a man with the same name!”
The world just got even smaller. She worked with my father-in-law 30+ years ago.
In true, West Virginia fashion, we quickly added one another on social media and are now friends.
I love my home state—and this is one of the many reasons. We instantly connect with and are drawn to other West Virginians. No matter how long you’ve been transplanted somewhere else.
Rewind to Friday
We arrived on Friday before check-in time, so we drove to every overlook to take photos. We drove through the campground where I used to stay with my parents & brother in the 70’s & 80’s when we borrowed Pop-Aw’s camper. I pointed out “our spot”, showed Robbie the stretch of pavement where I skated in the rain and finally learned how to turn a bike around while riding it (turning terrified me), the place where—at about four years old–I stepped in a pile of horse poo while wearing flip-flops, and how the smell of toast and the sound of crows always remind me of camping in Pipestem.
I showed him the shelter where we had a huge family picnic one year. Adjacent to the overlook where I captured the sunset photos, this shelter had giant rocks in the woods that we kids (a slew of us cousins) played on. When you’re five years old and you’re standing on a giant rock, you feel you can conquer the world. The smell of charcoal and moss, the sound of a radio playing AM Gold (think Captain & Tennille, Maxine Nightingale, England Dan & John Ford Coley), skinned knees, bottles of pop (glass bottles at that!) and terrycloth tank tops…. all made for a perfect day at Pipestem with family and friends.
The shelter to the right, the “giant” rocks in the center and to the left. Hard to believe it was 45 years ago that I played in those woods.
Back to 2021……
Check-in time arrived. Even though the young lady who checked us in was wearing a mask, I could see she smiled warmly the whole time. Her eyes crinkled. She had that West Virginia accent that has become even more obvious to me the longer I’ve lived away. “If y’all need anything at all, just dial zero from the phone in the cabin and that will connect you with us. We want y’all to have a wonderful stay with us here at Pipestem.”
Welcome to The Neighborhood
We drove the quarter mile to the cabin. Robbie had never stayed at or seen the inside of these cabins, (I have quite a few times), so I was eager for him to see it. When we walked in, he immediately felt at home and was ready to build a roaring fire in the stone fireplace.
It was 72 degrees outside, so I asked him to wait until it was actually cool. He was somewhat disappointed, but agreed.
We had 2 bedrooms, living room, full kitchen, bathroom, deck that overlooked the woods, and my favorite…crank out windows. I immediately cranked every. single. one. out so we could hear the outside and feel the mountain breezes.
Our abode for the weekend
One of the roads in our neighborhood
Our retro living room
I unpacked refrigerated items and began preparing for 4 guests that evening. After that, we took a walk through our weekend neighborhood. The cabin-dwellers to the left of us were unpacking their truck and threw up their hand and shouted a hearty “Hello!” We returned the greeting, to which they replied, “No better place to welcome in Spring, is there? Isn’t this wonderful?” Of course, we agreed. I looked at their tags—Ohio. Welcome to West Virginia, I thought.
Fast-forward 7 hours. We sat on the deck in the darkness, bellies full from a great dinner and roasted marshmallows, and listened to the night sounds. At that moment in time, there was no place I would rather have been.
Saturday morning was sunny. We loaded up the fishing poles and made the hike down to the lake. West Virginia Gold Rush was happening, so I was eager to slay some trout. I was prepared to be exhausted and sore from all the fish I would be reeling in, but I knew it was a small price to pay if I’m going to be a master fisherwoman. Plus, I had Super Duper and Power Bait. It was ON. (You can learn more about WV Gold Rush here.)
I just knew I’d catch Walter!
The walk down to the lake was much easier than the walk back.
Lake fishing
An hour later, not even a nibble. (In my defense, they hadn’t stocked that lake yet.) Didn’t matter though. I still spent an hour on the lake. In West Virginia. With my husband.
And I even bought the sweatshirt.
The clouds gathered and we knew rain was coming. We rode the back way to Hinton (I do NOT recommend it for those not familiar with driving narrow, curvy, partially washed out, on the side of a mountain roads). Hinton is adorable. I want to make another trip just to walk the sidewalks, get photos of the old architecture and brick streets, and eat at one of the locally owned restaurants there. But I digress…
After Hinton, to Athens we went—Moe’s specifically—I needed a pizza pie.
On the way back to Pipestem, hot pie on my lap, the rain poured down. I was eager to get back, listen to the rain in the woods, and Robbie would finally get to build that fire.
Husband was most proud of his fire
The next 4 hours saw pizza, a roaring fire replete with the crackle and pop and hiss, 4 games of poker, one game of Spades, and a fox sighting by Robbie (I always miss the wildlife!). We decided to head to The Black Bear Café, where we had more pizza (those who know me are not surprised) and wings. But first, the serendipitous trip to photograph God’s artwork with the gorge, the mountains, the sun, and the fog.
That night, we climbed into bed at 10:30. We knew more storms were coming in, and eagerly anticipated hearing the rumble of the thunder and the pattering of the rain on the roof. The storms didn’t disappoint. At 3:30 a.m., we were awakened when the thunder shook the cabin. While frightening to some, to me it was a melodic mountain lullaby. What a glorious ending to a magnificent weekend.
The Pug on my lap snored.
Seventeen pounds of pugloaf created a numbness in my feet, and even
though the wait to see the vet for her urinary tract infection was long, I
loved seeing all the other wonderful pets coming in and out. The sassy Schnauzer to my left was summoned
back about twenty minutes after I’d sat down.
During our wait, I made friends with the silky white gal, and her mom showed
me photos of her sister (another Schnauzer) and two brothers (Boston
Terriers). The lady to the right of me
held her tiny Yorkie who was in for a steroid shot. She laughed as she told about all the boys in
her family—sons and grandsons—and even the handsome fella on her lap was a
boy. “Is yours a girl?” She asked.
“Yes, and a diva at that!” I answered.
We both laughed. Chessney kept
snoring.
The bell on the door jingled and I turned to see who would
be joining us in the crowded waiting room.
A beautiful old gal with a rust-colored coat and eyes wide from cataracts waddled in behind a tall lady and in front of a woman carrying a baby in a carrier—her entourage had obviously accompanied her. She panted and appeared to check out everyone in the waiting room—perhaps searching faces to see if she recognized anyone. Perhaps curious about the furballs on laps or lying on the floor by their owners’ feet.
Her name was Cuddles. I heard the Tall Lady tell the receptionist in the back that she’d not been to this vet in a while, and her address had probably changed from the one they had on file. The receptionist called out the one on file. “No, that’s my old one…” she said, then proceeded to give her the new one.
Cuddles walked as far as her lead would allow on the other side of the room. Sniffing. Greeting. Slowly exploring her environment. I heard the receptionist ask, “Do you want her ashes?”
My throat constricted. Don’t look at Cuddles! Don’t get attached to her! Look away! Don’t let that first tear fall! I felt sucked into a vortex, stuck between wanting to offer condolences and support and wanting to run around back where I saw goats in a pin and bawl like a baby–no one would see me there.
I didn’t hear the Tall Lady’s answer.
The woman with the baby looked around the Tall Lady’s shoulder
and said, “I will be in there with her.”
The receptionist comes over with a paper to sign, and it was
then that the Tall Lady let the tears flow.
I heard hushed communication between the worker and her, an “I’m sorry”
and an “I know it’s hard,”—I was thankful for the obvious compassion.
The Tall Lady sits beside me and takes the baby in the carrier onto her lap, and hands the lead to who I learned is her daughter. She immediately goes into “Mimi” mode and her tears are turned to smiles. The infant with the giant blue eyes was her grandbaby—full of smiles and the cutest dimples you ever saw. The Yorkie Mom and I focused on the baby and spoke of her sweetness. To be honest, I was thankful for the distraction. We asked the baby’s age. Her name. How many grandbabies the Tall Lady has.
Cuddles was on the other side, still checking out the other
patients. Two snapped at her. Everyone laughed because both irritable
pooches were fewer than 10 pounds. One
reprimanded their tiny pooch, “She [referring to Cuddles] will eat you alive!”
I was doing okay redirecting my thoughts. Not ruminating on what was to come for the sweet old girl. Then here she came, waddling over between the Tall Lady and me. She approached the still-sleeping Pug, and the Tall Lady said, “Cuddles, she’ll snap at you, too!” I laughed. “She doesn’t know how to do that—no worries—she will love Cuddles.” More laughter.
Chessney awakened from the touch of Cuddles’ nose to hers. Her snoring stopped. She just sat still…barely touching noses with her new acquaintance. Cuddles panting paused, they locked eyes, and I reached down to stroke her soft, fluffy head. “You’re a sweet girl, yes, you are,” I said. The Tall Lady told us she had been such a wonderful companion, and she’d just reached that point….kidney failure, unreliable legs….
She wiped her tears.
I stifled mine.
I ran the back of my hand against Cuddles’ muzzle. Chessney leaned in and touched noses with her one more time and lingered just a second longer, right before a lady came out of the door and called Chessney’s name. I stood, shook my feet a bit to get the feeling back in them, and headed to the exam room, petting Cuddles one more time as I went….
I don’t pretend to know what dogs think. I choose to believe they know things on a level
that we don’t–I’ll believe that until the day I take my last breath. And if there was any doubt about it before,
this interaction in the waiting room made me believe it even more.
Cuddles and Chessney connected on a canine level, and I was privy to see it, to be a part of it. I was able to be a part of Cuddles’ life—albeit in a tiny way—prior to her transition. I was able to show her love, and admiration, and bring her comfort through the stroking of her mane and the sharing of my flat-faced diva. Where I at first was terrified of connecting with Cuddles because of the sadness I would feel and the empathy that washed over me for her family, I’m so thankful that she chose to introduce herself to Chessney, and give me the honor of meeting her, too.
Rest well, sweet Cuddles, until your family sees you again…..
“I think God will have prepared everything for our perfect happiness. If it takes my dog being there in Heaven, I believe he’ll be there.“ Rev. Billy Graham
Her swing is the daily coveted spot, and come spring, I check the forecast nightly to see when she’ll be able to assume her position and do some composing on her keyboard.
Yesterday was the day.
Finally Outside
Though it was warm, I still dressed the Queen in pants and a long-sleeved shirt. She didn’t mind. Her excitement built as I tied her shoes. “Swing!” she signed. “Yes, you get to swing!” I signed & said back.
She squealed and flapped those arms as fast as they could go, so much that I had to tell her to calm down so I could walk her outside. Once on the porch, she turned, backed up, sat on the swing and immediately signed “music”. I already had her pink, sparkly keyboard tucked under my arm—Omma was one step ahead of her.
The Perfect Tune
Without missing a beat, she pushed off and began swinging—high—higher—higher—and turned her keyboard vertical so the speaker would be right against her ear. Her thumb pushed the melody button madly, each tune playing only a note or two until she pressed for the next one. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” began playing.
Success—it played in its entirety.
From age 6 to about 10, she had a small “jam box” (my 80’s friends know what I’m talking about) with Elmo’s face on it. It, too, played a variety of songs. Eleven to be exact. But her favorite was “Frere Jacques”. Each quick-press of her thumb created a cacophony of sounds until “Frere Jacques” began playing. For some reason that tune pleased her more than the others. And now, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” has the same effect. For added enjoyment, I’ll sing along…and sway…and provide an over-the-top theatrical performance as the melody plays in her ear. It elicits grins and laughter, and often a nodding of her head which is my cue to do it again.
So I do.
(Thank goodness she’s over the “I’m a Little Teapot” song for now).
Lost in her Music
As she played, I sat on the step and trimmed the woody stems from the lavender bushes. Occasionally, she’d say, “Omma!” and want me to turn to look at her. She would have her keyboard on her lap to free both of her hands, her right arm would be in the air above her head, her left hand strumming against her right arm, playing her air-guitar accompaniment in her best Eddie Van Halen-esque fashion. Funny how, instead of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”, I heard “Eruption” as she played.
Her music. Her swing. Her audience of one. They bring her joy. And I’m privileged to be witness to it. And part of it.
As expected, she wanted to come off the porch and into the direct sun. She signed “stand up” then “go”, and I knew where she was headed—the sidewalk. She sat on the warm concrete, keyboard on her lap, and began playing. Delight seemed to overtake her as she realized she created a sharp, dark shadow. She turned—positioned herself for the best shadow effect–and began conducting her orchestra.
Discovering her shadow
Arms outstretched, overhead, down low, flap up, flap down, raise the roof. When she realized she couldn’t see her hand-clapping shadows, she turned 45 degrees so she could. And resumed. She even incorporated her legs now. Up, down, up down, then clap clap clap. Her music had long since stopped, but the melody in her head continued. The sunshine, the warmth, the reply from her shadows, all brought contentment and joy. And not just to her.
Conducting the orchestra
The Overflow
I never tire of these scenes. This tiny, 90lb, 5-feet-tall young lady lives life largely. She lives it with reckless abandon to the joy that bubbles in her soul. That effervescence elicits the same response from me. It reminds me to stop. Enjoy. Notice. And sing another round.
Take me out to the sunshine
Take me out to the yard
Bring me my keyboard and watch me play
I don’t care if we stay here all day…
Omma is thankful to have such a sweet reminder in her life.
My husband’s work car had been idle for 2 months and was in desperate need of a good washing and some TLC. I arrived home from work at the farmers market with energy to spare and wanted to do something productive.
“Want me to wash your truck?” I asked.
“Well, the White Car (she’s so old & reliable she deserves caps when referring to her) needs it badly.”
I looked over by the garage & saw what he meant–the grass was higher around her tires and instead of white, she now looked like a mottled grey. I was ashamed of my neglect.
“Oh yes, I’m washing the Grand Am.”
Husband started her right up & drove her into the bottom driveway while I retrieved the bucket, soap, scrub brush, and every other apparatus I thought I may need in her transformation. The music was playing on my blue tooth speaker, the sun was shining, and I was ready to get it done.
I’m going to add a side note here: I love washing cars. I love clean cars. I love cars. No, my husband isn’t horrible for “letting me” do it instead of him doing it. In truth, he never has an option. I wash the cars in the family. And I love it. Few things bring me as much satisfaction as seeing a car so clean and tires so black and knowing I did that.
But I digress.
I begin washing, husband sits on his tractor observing. Three minutes in to it I realize I’m going to have to use a toothbrush to clean around the trim, emblems, reflectors, and front & back glass before I do a full-body wash. Yeah, she was that dirty. <hangs head in shame>
Without saying anything, I go inside to get my detailing toothbrush. When I come back outside, husband says, “Aww…the car doesn’t need all that.”
“OF COURSE SHE DOES! What? Because it’s 20 years old and a “work car”, does that mean I shouldn’t show her as much care and attention as I would my Lincoln? Of course not! She deserves just as much—if not more—attention and care! She’s older! She’s weathered! She’d earned it!”
And I carried on.
Husband laughed & shook his head because he realized to whom he was speaking.
Attention to Detail
As Van Morrison played in the background, and the toothbrush flicked out all those bits of grime & dirt that my car wash mitt wouldn’t get, the thought occurred to me—isn’t that how some of the elderly in our society are treated?
Those who are older–those who have “more miles” on them so to speak–whose bodies are starting to rust a bit–do we look at them and think, “They don’t need that much attention—they’re old”?
Are they not as valuable?
Not as revered?
Not as appreciated?
I think that’s why I love seeing a 95-year young lady with red fingernails and learning that the activities director at her assisted living home painted them for her. Even better is learning that her great gran-daughter did it. Or seeing her with pretty pink lipstick and a touch of rouge (that’s what ladies over 70 always call it!)
My Mom and I smile as we share stories of “elderly encounters”. It seems inevitably she and I are asked for assistance while we’re out in public. Perhaps to reach a peanut butter jar. Or to read an expiration date on a package of bacon. Or carry an umbrella while they traverse across the parking lot with their walker.
Sometimes they just want to talk—and at length. I made two good friends through chance encounters at Fresh Market in Roanoke—one was a beautiful Italian lady who passed away fewer than a year after we met, the other a stylish, retired teacher who said I reminded her of her daughter who’d passed away a few years before. We became pen pals with the occasional phone call. She’s 93 now.
I remember combing my Pop-Aw’s hair for him about a year before he passed away. He couldn’t lift his arms enough to comb his hair as neatly as he liked, so I offered to do it. I even ran the electric shaver over his face and neck to help prepare him for his day. He always liked to look his best—no matter what the occasion. When I was done, I handed him the mirror to make sure he approved. He did.
I recall the October day I rubbed my Mom-Aw’s knees with Icy Hot. She was riddled with cancer, and it had moved to the bone. Her knees hurt. Mine didn’t. So I knelt, and rubbed her knees, lingering as we talked. I could tell she didn’t want me to stop, and honestly, I didn’t either. I wanted to extend that moment as long as I could, bringing relief to her in the only way possible, while talking about things that would make her belly laugh & throw her head back. That old, familiar laugh…..
She passed 3 months later.
While my car is just an inanimate object, I realized something out there in the heat of the sun while washing it. Attention to detail—it matters. Those “little” things. The toothbrush on the trim reminded me of combing Pop-Aw’s hair and rubbing Mom-Aw’s hurting knees. The little time it takes, but the difference it makes. Yes, I will take care of the older things in my possession, but I’ll take even greater care of the older souls in my life. Because here’s the thing–things can be replaced. Loved ones cannot.
Regardless of whether it’s an aged parent, or grandparent, or friend, or even stranger in the supermarket, take the time to notice. Be available. Listen to them. Smile. Be interested. Show them they’re just as important and valued and needed as they always were—or perhaps even more so.
May I always be conscientious of the details that need attention, and may I never be too busy to tend to them.
We set out on a Tuesday morning, headed north on I-77 for most of the trip. In one vehicle was Mom, Dad, Robbie, the Queen, & me. Meeting us at the hotel from the D.C. area were my brother & aunt Betty.
On the agenda was Moundsville, the West Virginia Penitentiary, downtown Wheeling & Independence Hall, Oglebay Park, and the suspension bridge on Wednesday, and Golden Palace on our way out Thursday. Lots to cram in to one day and one morning, but we did it. I have 854 photos to prove it (no worries—all won’t be posted here.)
All of us are native West Virginians except for the Queen, but she is by proxy. None of us had ever traveled to Wheeling, which is in the northern panhandle. You can create the shape of West Virginia by holding your hand in the air, palm facing you, thumb out, middle finger up, pointer, ring, & pinky fingers down. Wheeling would be at the very top part of your middle finger/northern panhandle. If you tried this, hopefully no one is sitting in front of you, or else you’ll have some explaining to do.
But I digress.
Like clowns in a clown car, all 7 of us piled into the mini-van and set out Wednesday morning (my sweet little mom sat in the very back with my brother and me—bless her heart.) First stop—Moundsville.
Pre-historic musings
Most things historical I’ve even been to have been—at the oldest—250-300 years old. The Grave Creek burial mound was begun somewhere between 250 – 150 B. C. by the Adena people. So when Jesus was across the pond feeding 5000 with some fish & bread, or calming storms & healing the sickly folk, the Adena people’s culture was already on its way out—had already made its mark in what would eventually be called “Wild, Wonderful West Virginia.”
Wow.
From below, I looked to the top & wondered what prompted the Adena people to choose that spot—that particular spot out of all the land around. After traversing a few hundred spiral steps that led me to the top, the 360* view offered a theory. It appeared this was smack-dab in the middle of the valley (I’m in WV, so I have to use our terms and descriptions,) and the view was beautiful. I imagined no roads, no houses, no power lines and bridges and 7-11’s. Indeed, whatever the Adena people’s belief in the afterlife, certainly this was their way of getting their loved ones to heaven just a bit quicker.
It felt reverent. Peaceful. I could have taken in the mountain breezes and soaked in the rays of the sun for hours. What a grand piece of history to experience.
Who knew that a giant mound of earth could blow my mind?
The museum was awesome, too. From Ron Hinkle glass, Homer Laughlin china, Marble King, and Pete Ballard fashion dolls—to dioramas of miniature Adena peoples building huts and killing mastodons and replicas of bones & authentic fossils found in the area on which I stood—all of it was not just educational but fascinating.
And of course, purchases from the gift shop were necessary. A blue “Grave Creek Mound” shirt for the Queen with the state of WV proudly displayed on it, a geode for me to crack with a hammer in hopes of finding crystals, and a WV-shaped magnet with “Grave Creek Mound” on it to display on our fridge were placed on the counter and rang up by a fellow Wonder Woman loving West Virginia gal (kindred spirits, yes?) Our first destination didn’t disappoint.
Next stop—across the street to the West Virginia State Penitentiary. Now, I’ve never really been fascinated by prisons, but this place had 3 things going for it. Location (West Virginia—duh,) architecture, and history. We didn’t expect to do the tour since it was 90 minutes long. We did, however, pass between the barbed wire fence and through the heavy doors to visit the now-gift shop.
It was creepy & cool all at the same time. The first thing you see when you go through the door is “Old Sparky,” the electric chair. Nearly 100 prisoners were either electrocuted or hanged here—which brings the creepy factor. This place was built just after the Civil War and is on the National Historic Register—which brings the cool factor.
West Virginia State Penitentiary
Old Sparky
It opened in 1866 and closed in 1995. In the gift shop, you could see artifacts in glass cases that included a rope that hanged the condemned, a letter from Charles Manson asking to be transferred there, and batons and uniforms of guards to name a few. Huge combo of creepy/cool there, too. (Sidenote: I noticed that while Charles Manson’s handwriting wasn’t terrible, his grammar & spelling were.)
Site number 3—downtown Wheeling, specifically Independence Hall.
Independence Hall, Wheeling, WV
Now, this place absolutely filled me with awe. Our home state was born here. We were enthusiastically greeted outside by a tour guide who was full of smiles and information. Upon entering, we met yet another lady who eagerly welcomed us into the historical site. We first went downstairs to watch a 15-minute movie that was a recreation of how it all unfolded. Made in 1977, the movie had that film-y sound even though it was now on DVD. It was just the 7 of us who sat in the dark on the church-like pews, watching on video the way our state came to be. I learned a lot in that quarter of an hour, information I’d never known in my 46 years. I’ll be completely honest here—I got choked up. The loyalty to my home state runs deep, as it does with most West Virginia natives. Seeing how it all came to be caused my roots of loyalty to run even deeper, my pride to swell even more (didn’t think that was even possible,) and my appreciation of West Virginia and our people to heighten.
After the movie, we made our way up to the first, then second, then third floors, relishing all the history and architecture and thankful for the preservation that has taken place. If I lived in Wheeling, this would totally be a place where I’d volunteer.
After a quick lunch, we headed to Oglebay Resort (locals seemed to pronounce it “Oglebee.”) Regardless of pronunciation, it’s beautiful. It was originally owned by a frontiersman named Silas Zane in the late 1700’s. After changing hands a few times, Earl Oglebay purchased it in 1900 and spent 25 years creating the beautiful estate and sparing no expense. He passed away in 1926 and willed it to the people of Wheeling, so long as they used it for the public.
We didn’t spend a lot of time there—just stopped to look at some gardens, have an ice cream, and buy a couple souvenirs. Oglebay Resort showed us a lot of deer, vacationers, flowers, and of course, provided that cleansing mountain breeze that seems to be unique to my home state.
Fountain & gardens at Oglebay Resort, Wheeling, WV
My only regrets are that I wasn’t there at 11:00 to visit the zoo, and that I didn’t bring any closed-toe shoes. Why? I could have had a hands-on experience with a two-toed sloth. Yes. A sloth. My favorite animal ever. I could barely look at the zoo sign when driving by it because I knew that just down the road there was a sloth.
After this full day, Tim, Robbie & I ventured out on our own and the rest of the crew chilled out at the hotel. The three of us were on the hunt for two things—a spot for me to get night photos of the suspension bridge, and a place to eat. The plan? Find the spot in the daylight. Go eat. Come back after dark. Take photos. Go back to the hotel.
The suspension bridge was awesome. On our way to Wheeling, I said I was eager to go across it. The tour guide at Independence Hall changed my mind, though. When we told her we were going to it, she quickly and emphatically shared that she has been across it once, and never again. A bridge built in 1849 of course didn’t have to pass all the regulations we have today. I quickly changed my mind about crossing it when I learned….
….there’s a weight limit of 2 tons
and
…vehicles must maintain a lengthy distance between them.
Why would they do that if there wasn’t a question about its integrity?
So, I decided I’d remain safely on the shore and take my photos, and cross the large, new, safe bridge that runs parallel to this old, historical, swaying, spooky, scary, unstable one.
Tim, Robbie, & I quickly find a place right by the entrance of the bridge where I’ll be able to set up my tripod and get some long-exposure shots of the bridge & river. Satisfied with the location, I tell Tim we can go on & find an eatery.
I hop in the backseat of his compact car and we pull out. Tim turns left (it’s a one-way street,) then right, then left again. Back toward where we were.
“Um, that road was one way, Tim. We won’t be able to do anything but make another circle.”
He continues on.
Robbie turns and looks at me with an evil grin as Tim drives up to the bridge’s red light (remember what I said about the limits?) There was nowhere to go but across.
My heart sinks, my stomach burns, and doing what all photographers do, I grab my camera. I remove the lens cap and let the two men in the front know that when they find my camera at the bottom of the Ohio River, they’ll see the last photos I ever took. The light turns green. I put the viewfinder up to my eye, and begin screaming, “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE! OH MY GOSH, WE’RE GONNA DIE!”
Click
Click
Click
We’re All Gonna Die!
I continued taking photos through the bird-doody-covered windshield.
The car felt like it was doing mini-fish tails as we rode across the uneven iron surface. My heart pounded. I continued clicking. By golly, if this was my demise, I was going to document it.
We made it to the other side. My hand was too shaky to get a good smack to the back of my brother’s head, so instead, I called him a jerk—then thanked him. I knew, once I uploaded photos when I got home, I would have said, “Man, I wish I’d gone across that bridge!” Tim said he struggled with his decision to deceive me, buy my sweet husband convinced him it would be okay. (I’ll smack him later.)
We make our way to the Centre Market. Though still daylight, all the businesses were closed except for 2 eateries—“Later Gator” and “Vocelli’s”. We decided to keep looking, made a circle around the Centre Market, and on our way out, passed the local fire department guys outside on the street playing stickball. Next door to the station was a group of college-aged looking kids sitting on the stairs of what once was a church, but the sign outside read “Towngate Cinema,” so apparently it is now a theater.
As we passed, I said, “I wish I could’ve gotten some photos.” Without giving it thought, Tim turned the car around, and that’s what I did. I snapped photos of the firemen (with their permission, of course!) and while I did, my brother chatted with the young folks next door. Conveniently, they recommended Vocelli’s as a great place to eat. Locals always know, so we took their advice.
Wheeling Fire Department guys playing stickball
And they weren’t wrong.
We went inside the small restaurant & ordered, then went outside to dine al fresco. I had a salad, Robbie had a turkey club, Tim had cheese pizza & salad, and of course, Robbie & I had to get pepperoni rolls since we were in West Virginia (Tim had garlic rolls—he’s vegetarian—and he said they were awesome, too.) The pepperoni rolls were absolutely the best I’d ever had in my life. Ever.
Scenes near Centre Market
Dining al fresco
With our bellies full and the sun down, we headed to the suspension bridge so I could get nighttime photos. What an awesome end to an awesome day.
Scariest bridge I’ve ever crossed, but most awesome.
Ohio River as seen from Wheeling Island
Sweet Bessie & Some Peacocks
The next day we left about 10:00 a.m. and headed to The Palace of Gold at New Vrindaban, about 45 minutes from the hotel. The grounds were covered in ornate buildings, two temples, thousands of flowers, a lotus pond, cabins, a vegan Indian restaurant, a gift shop, and a lake. Because of the Krishna’s view of cows, they’re protected (read: tame) and cared for until they die. I was able to do something I’ve always wanted to do—pet a cow. And I did! They were so clean and soft, and they ate grass right out of our hands. Peacocks and a peahen (maybe there were more, but I saw only one,) roamed the grounds by the lake, and bullfrogs were evidenced only by their croaking. The visit was tranquil, and the scenery, of course, breathtakingly beautiful.
We headed south to Morgantown and stopped at Chili’s for dinner. From there, we parted ways—my brother & aunt went back to Northern Virginia and the rest of us to Southwest Virginia. We all agreed we needed another few days to take in the sights of Wheeling & the surrounding area, to show some love to the northern panhandle we’d all but neglected. The area is rich in history. Beautiful in scenery. Full of hospitality. And a sloth lives there.
25 years is 9131 days (have to figure in leap years, of course.) 25 years is a quarter of a century. 25 years have passed since I lay in a hospital bed in Roanoke terrified of delivering my baby because I’d been told she wouldn’t survive birth. At 6:37 p.m., as Charlie Daniels played at Victory Stadium during Festival in the Park, she met this world as a whopping 8 lb. 13-ounce bundle of sweetness that smelled like cake and looked like Don King with her cap of hair. It stood up on her head like the hair on those troll dolls from the 1960’s.
She looked like she had apples in her cheeks. I was told it was because of hypotonia (low muscle tone)—I didn’t care. I just wanted to kiss them.
Extended Childhood
25 years. That’s how much time I have had so far being the Queen’s Omma. We travel. We shop. We laugh. We watch Barney (still) and we swing. We laugh so hard her one eye closes & no sound comes out. We enjoy life. We love watching “Good Times” together (she loves her some J. J. DYN-O-MITE!) And we love DQ.
Oh, how our town needs a DQ.
She’s my perpetual kindergartener–even younger in some ways. But that’s okay. I relish the fact that she still wants to sit on my lap, and play with bubbles, and finger paint, and scribble with crayons. Then there are the random times when she acts a bit older. Her love of dinner theater and her sometimes sassy tone (which I love) reveals there’s a mix of ages intertwined in her “medically impossible” genetic makeup.
Aside from a few uniquely-said words, she’s non-verbal. Non-verbal doesn’t mean she can’t communicate, however. It can be frustrating for her sometimes when she’s trying to tell me something but just
doesn’t
know
how.
It can also be interesting for me, too, trying to decipher her words, or learn her signs—like the time she watched me stand at the counter & snarf down dinner and was persistent in telling me something that was on her mind. Omma was in a rush. Had things to do. Had to get her bath ready. Dry her clothes for school tomorrow. Gave no thought to dining etiquette.
The Queen had been poring over a Barney book before my eating caught her attention. She tapped the back of her little hand underneath her chin and would giggle and giggle and sign it again. I kept asking her, “What are you saying? What are you trying to tell Omma?” The next day at school I mimicked the sign and asked her speech therapist, “What does this mean?”
“That’s the sign for pig,” she replied.
And B giggled and giggled…
Blessed–indeed.
25 years I’ve had so far. My blessings are not lost on me. I do not—ever—take for granted a single day I have with her. Nope. I won’t. I can’t. Each day is a blessing. Each day is a gift. And today—May 29—is a day of celebration—a celebration of the amazing, unique, 95 lb., petite young lady who fills my days with joy and awe.
Happy 25th Birthday, Punkin. I love you with every fiber of my being and I’m so proud to be your Omma!
We have this ritual, she & I. The Queen loves her music. To play it. To sing it. To listen to it. For, oh…about 3 years now…we’ve had this ritual. She sits in the bathroom while I shower, and she makes requests.
Usually, it’s “Wheels on the Bus”, replete with all the verses. How does she let me know? She does the universal “shhhh” sign—pointer finger in front of lips.
When I get the signal, I commence.
The driver on the bus says move on back (throw arm backwards) move on back, move on back; (repeat and add “all through the town.)
The babies on the bus go wahh wahh wahh (rub hands at eyes as if crying) wahh wahh wahh, wahh wahh wahh (repeat and add “all through the town.)
The mommies on the bus go shh shh shh (finger in front of mouth as it makes “shh” sound) shh shh shh, shh shh shh (repeat and add “all through the town.)
Depending on how quickly I get through with my shower, this song has been sung upwards of 6 times.
I love that she and I sing together. Frequently. Loudly. She directs. I sing. And sometimes, she claps enthusiastically and bounces where she sits. We aren’t limited to bathroom singing, either. This can happen anywhere—kitchen, porch, back yard, the Piggly Wiggly. Her enjoyment has prompted me to sing sometimes for 45 minutes or more, until my throat is sore and I’m dreaming the lyrics that night.
So, it was no surprise to me the other day, as we were riding north on I-77 on a sunny afternoon, that she had this request. My iPod was playing our tunes, a mish-mash of Journey, Will Smith, The Marshall Tucker Band, Heavy D, Evelyn Champagne King, Betty Wright. The Queen usually sits in the backseat, tapping her foot and slapping her leg (depending on the genre, of course,) as we enjoy the melodies and head to our destination.
I began singing… “Just a small town girl….livin’ in a lonely worl…” when I hear an “Omma!” over Steve’s beautiful voice.
I turn the stereo down (she’s the only one I will turn Steve Perry’s singing off for.) “What is it?”
She signs “shh.”
So I begin………..
“The wheels on the bus go round & round, round & round, rou…” I’m interrupted again by her Highness. I turn & see her signing “shhh.” She wants me to jump to that verse. I oblige.
“The mommies on the bus go shh shh shh, shh shh shh, sh…” and finally, a louder, more insistent and drawn out, “Ommmmmmaaaaaaaa!” from the back seat.
“What is it?” I ask, confused by what she’s trying to tell me. She leans forward as far as her seatbelt allows, and taps that tiny pointer finger to her lips slowly, deliberately.
“Did you just want me to quit singing along with Steve???” I asked.
She flings herself back on the seat as if exhausted from trying to communicate with her slow-to-understand mother. “YES!” she nods. “SHH!” she signs. Then signs music.
Apparently, I annoyed her with my singing. I didn’t know whether to be hurt that she wanted me to shut up, or proud that she wanted to appreciate our Portugese crooner in the fullest capacity. Perhaps she just requires–as I do–that no one is to speak/sing/make any utterances when Steve sings.
I’m going to believe the latter. At least until she tells me otherwise.
You can read more about Britni here.