Memorial Day Observance

Like so many of our holidays, Memorial Day has taken on a meaning that is far from its original intent.  Far too many people, both young and old, do not know its origin, nor cherish its meaning.  It has become another three day week end of gathering together for frolic and fun.  A three day week end to start off the summer months. History is being forgotten, distorted, and trampled.

Originally called Decoration Day, the town of origin is not known.  Perhaps it started simultaniously in towns through out the states involved in the Civil War.  Memorial Day was officially proclaimed by General John Logan on May 5, 1868 and observed on May 30th, as flowers were laid  on the graves of both Union and Confereate Soldiers at Arlington National Cemetary.  Even though its actual beginning is not known, LBJ, in 1966, declared Waterloo, NY, as its birth place.  (Didn't sit well with those in the south and probably still doesn't.)

The first state to officially recognize the holiday was New York and followed by all the northern states. However, the south refused to honor their dead on this day until after WWI, when the the holiday was changed to honor all who have died in all wars fought.

Remember the red poppies?  Many of our nation do not even know the term, but the red poppy got its start when Moina Michael wrote a response to the poem "Flander's Field."

We cherish too, the Poppy red

That grows on fields where valor led

It seems to signal to the skies

That blood of heroes never dies.

Ms Michael then conceived the idea of the red poppies to be sold on Memorial Day in honor of those who died serving the nation during war.  The money was given to charities supporting the veterans of these wars.  I wonder if we could bring this tradition back?  

In 1971, the Memorial was set as the last Monday of May by the National Holiday Act, and this began the three day week end.  It also began the demise of the original intent:  that of honoring those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for their country and its liberties. 

There is nothing wrong with having family get togethers and fun on this day, but let us, please, take time to give honor where honor is due.  Personally, I want to thank Issac Diaz and Justin Hebert's families for their sacrifice...  These deaths in the WAR ON TERROR touched home.  May God richly bless the families of our fallen and give them peace.  May the God of all Glory protect and keep those serving today.

Critters in MY Back Yard

Many days I am able to sit and look out through the doors that lead from the kitchen to the deck, and I am amazed at the variety of birds (nope, I don't know all the species) and large number of squirrels.  I have feeders hanging from the tree just out from the door, so this certainly helps keep the "drama" before my eyes.

I love to see the cardinals, blue jays, mockingbirds and doves as they interact with all the others that I truly can not name.  Of late, there has been an unusual romance taking place in front of my eyes.  A dove and a blue jay seem to have hit it off.  The dove usually shows up first with the blue jay close behind.  If there are no squirrels at the feeders, they will sit on the flat feeder and eat, but if the squirrels are there, they will sit on the tree branch above.  Now, I have to admit up front that I do not know the difference between the sexes of these particular birds, but these two seem quite smitten with one another.  This is not normal...

Blue jays and mockingbirds are normally territorial, and they will chase off other birds, even other animals.  Doves are quiet and gentle and will hang around the ground beneath the feeders when either of these two species are around.  So, what is going on here?  To be sure, I am not complaining, just curious.  It is amusing to watch.

Most days the feeders are full of squirrels, so all of the birds eat from the ground.  I have noticed that the doves will allow all other species to eat first and quietly wait their turn.  The thought came to me today of the dove used in Genesis and then again with the baptism of Jesus.  Their gentleness is certainly documented.  I wonder what lesson we could learn from these beautiful creatures?

Squirrels are a totally different story!  They are entertaining, but self-centered and messy.  They have no respect for others and seem to have a me first mentality.  They do not care about others of their same species, let alone those of another.  They remind me of the occupy group that is trashing some of our major cities...  Chattering and fighting for the right to take over and get all the free handouts, but won't lift a finger (or would that be a toe????) to assist another: just grab and take. 

Strange how one can see animal traits in humans, but even stranger to see human traits in animals--like this dove and blue jay.  Surely, there is a message here.

Written during the summer of 1990: Strength from a Troubled Heart

Strength from a Troubled Heart

Annette Tewell

     Sitting at the window, trying to concentrate on the task as hand, my mind has been doing some really crazy things.  I keep darting back in time, flitting from one thing to another:  the love I have felt, the difficult times, and the tragic memories of far too many dreams smashed against the rocks.  If a person’s life truly flashes before them prior to death, I wonder if this is to be my last day.

     I feel reasonably sure that my confrontation with Mr. Dee is the reason for my mixed emotions.  The years I have spent, and the long hours I have poured over books and papers seem to have been for naught.  One more time my dreams and desires are in the hands of a seemingly,  uncaring individual.  One more time I am left to pick up the pieces and try to find a place to start over.  Is this another trial?  Is the Lord trying me for a reason?  What in my life is so unpolished that the Lord finds need to chastise me over and over with one heart-rending trial after another?

     Mom is there, along with Richard, Tony, and David.  The ups and downs of my early years flood in like the rolling tide in the midst of a storm.  The day we left Pennsylvania, never to see our family and friends again: David chose to stay, and one piece of my heart was left to wiggle and wither in the dust of our home place.  Our new home would become a jungle of terror and confusion.  The man mom had chosen to marry became a tyrannical madman.  His crazed notions of what home life should be nearly drove all of us insane.

     The memory of Tony boarding the bus in San Antonio, to return to Pennsylvania because Bill could not accept him as a son, still causes tears to spring to my eyes.  His last words as he boarded that bus, “Vaya con Dios,” still ring in my ears.  His teasing laughter gone from our midst caused another piece of my heart to be ripped from my chest and thrown to the tear-streaked ground.  What with David and Tony both gone, I became the oldest child at home, and life took on some unexpected twists.

     We were in Texas for about Two years, and most of that time is a blur.  Only short, occasional memories float in and cascade through the rivulets of my mind.  Like the time the road near our building was re-tarred and, on a dare, I ran across it only to have to run back across it with masses of warm sticky tar bulging from my feet.  Walking across the lawn and drive way proved to be a nightmare.   All the grass, rocks, and burrs became part of that oozing mass attached to my once bare feet.  With all the other army brats standing around jeering, I made my way to the second floor landing and called to Mom.  It took nearly a week to get all of the tar and foreign objects off of my feet!  I was not only homebound and humiliated; I was sentenced to sleeping on the bare floor to keep tar from staining the furniture and sheets.

     We moved to Louisiana when Bill was transferred to Germany.  We lived near my step- grandfather until we were able to leave for Germany, too.  Christmas that year proved to be an exceptionally different one.  At home, in Pennsylvania, we had big wonderfully decorated trees.  The Christmases spent in San Antonio were a far cry from the beautiful white Christmases celebrated back home with huge family gatherings that proved to be quite boisterous and fun-filled, but even these toned down Christmases did not prepare us for the one in Louisiana.  To begin with, we were to leave for Germany the following January, so most of our belongings had already been packed and picked up by the government movers.  As near as I can remember, we had just enough dishes, sheets, towels, etc. to make do.  As Christmas day approached, Richard and I began to trouble Mom for a tree.  Her explanation of no decorations did not squelch our desire for the traditions of Christmas.  About two or three days before the big day, we stepped out into the yard and broke a big berry-studded holly branch from a tree.  Singing and joking we carried it into the big room that served as both bedroom and living room.  Standing it in a milk bottle, we stood back to admire our Christmas tree.  It definitely needed some decorations.  For the next few days, Richard and I made foil bells out of foil milk jug caps, and we made a multi-colored paper chain to wrap around our tree, while Mom made cookies and sang Christmas carols. 

     Finally, Christmas Eve!  That night, as Richard and I lay in bed, I recall trying to convince my baby brother that there really was a Santa Claus.  In my heart I knew that a big part of the joy of Christmas ended when the greatest myth in the world was no longer believed.  The fire in the fireplace and lights from the kitchen reflected on the foil bells, cookie aromas hung in the air, and we were happy.  Sometime during the night, Santa did make his appearance.  That was the last merry Christmas for many years to come.

     I enjoyed living on the various bases in Germany because military people away from home are like a close knit family.  There were no hateful prejudices, and everyone was accepted.  I was able to visit old castles, the Guttenberg Bible Museum, walk through forests, climb up mountains and stroll through quaint little villages.  School was great, and I made many lasting friendships. Home life was hell.  Bill’s drinking and rages became daily events.  School and friends became my oasis, and these are memories I welcome: playing and chasing our fox Rex, learning to ballroom dance, playing baseball, learning to play the accordion, playing Betsy Ross in a play at school, buying Mom yellow roses for Mother’s Day, and riding the bike day in and day out.

     I have sat here for hours allowing my mind to take me on one journey after another.  It was good to be involved with Mom and the boys again, but reality is Mom and David are gone and Tony and Richard are far away living their own lives, and I have got to get on with mine.  I, too, have family to support and, if Mr. Dee feels that I am too soft spoken to do the job he wants done, wait until I get through letting him hear what I have to say to him come Monday. I am quite capable of handling anything that comes my way.  The Lord and I make a majority, and Mr. Dee is going to find this out!

Unpacked Boxes

Strange how things happen.  I was on my out through the garage Wednesday afternoon to do some yard work.  I wanted to snip the growth on my crepe myrtles before it became unmanageable, when I noticed the boxes I had yet to unpack.  (They have been sitting there for six years.)  Most of them are books and I have no place to put them because I do not have a bookcase large enough to hold them, so I have left them packed.  But, Wednesday I stopped and looked at the boxes and thought, "Why not."  So, I began to open the first box. 

As expected the box was full of books for the most part.  Not ordinary books though, this box was filled with bibles that had, at one time, been used by my children, a close friend, and me.  As I took them out to examine them, memories and tears began to flood.  My mom's bible that Claudette used after her grandma died was the first.  Mom, how I miss you...  Aren't you glad you went to church with me that long ago Sunday morning?  I was so surprised that morning.  As we were dressing I noticed you were dressing too, and I asked you what you were doing.  You told me that you thought you would go with me and the kids.  I nearly danced a jig!!!  How many times before had you said no when I asked if you wanted to go?  I finally told you that I would not bother you any more about going but that when you got ready, just let me know and you would be more than welcome to go with us.  I didn't stop praying though mom...  I am going to give Claudette the bible when I see her next.  I think she will enjoy having it.

I also found Chrystal's and Booger's bibles.  More memories and more tears.  I will keep Booger's for awhile; maybe, one day I will give it to David, if he wants it.  I gave Chrystal hers on Thursday, during lunch.  It put a smile on her face...  so many memories tied up in their childhood bibles.

I found one of mine that I had used for years.  It is probably thirty-four or thirty-five years old.  There is a poem tucked into its pages entitled "God's Loan."  It starts off with "I'll lend you for a little time this child of mine, he said, For you to have the while he lives and mourn for when he's dead..." The poem was given to my sister-in-law to give to me after the death of Johnny. 

Another paper tucked into those pages was something I had written years ago about two of my sons.  About them standing with the wind running its fingers through their blond hair.  Man, am I the biggest cry baby or what?  Old memories are so very precious, but they certainly have a way of brimming the eyes with tears...

With in that box I also found a pair of tennis shoes that Booger and David wore when they were very small.  It is hard to believe that they were once very small.  At least at that age I was able to protect them from some of the pain and troubles of this old world.  It would be nice if that were possible again.

Along with the shoes I found a bootee that I had crocheted for Booger while he was in the hospital trying to grow enough to come home.  It is so very, very tiny!  Those who knew him would not believe how small he once was... I miss you boys so much!  Are you giving grandma a run for her money?  She never knew you this side of heaven, but I know she would have recognized you immediately.

The next box was filled with old year books:  so many books and so many memories.  Memories of my children and their friends locked into the pages of these reminders of a different time.  I don't know what I will do with these books.  I couldn't bring myself to look into them, but I will at another time because tucked into one end of that box were two folders and a booklet that needed examination first.

One folder contained cards and notes that had been given to me from the members of one of my psychology classes and work Booger and David had done in elementary school.  Yep, more tears...
These really cute pieces of work brought a chuckle too.  One was a poem David wrote about a pig!

One folder contained John's journal from Mr. Pope's English class.  He hated journal writing and probably would not have been pleased to know that his mother would one day use the same technique with her students.  Some of his entries were similar to ones I have seen many times:  "Why do we have to write these dumb journals?  No one likes to write them.  Doesn't Mr. Pope have anything better to do than to make us write these?..."  But, then there were the ones that nearly stopped my heart.  One in particular asked the question, "If I died, would anyone remember me?"  Oh, Johnny, if you only knew how often you are remembered and by how many.  You have not been forgotten son, not by a long shot.  In another he wrote of how he wanted to join the army but felt that they would not take him because of the surgery he had had to mend his intestines when they were ruptured.  I never knew this about you John...   Another was his descriptions of his brothers' and sisters' personalities.  That was cute and right on!!!

I didn't open the booklet Booger made in first or second grade.  I just did not think my heart could take it.  So many sweet, sweet memories mixed with the pain of separation.  Nope, that booklet will have to wait for another day.

I never made it to the crepe myrtle and then the rain started.  Perhaps tomorrow, if it does not rain.

Fathers and Their Influence

Last week I received notice of a writing contest, of sorts, being offered by Focus on the Family.  They were calling for stories on the importance of a father in the home.  There is nothing I would love more than to be able to write about the influence my father had on my brothers and me.  But, there is nothing I can say.  I didn't know him.  I remember seeing him one time, and his lie to me of, "I'll be here when you get back," is probably the basis of many of my quirks.

This evening I was watching a Dec.16, 2008, rerun of NCIS entitled Silent Night in-which a father and daughter were reunited after seventeen years.  A truly happy ending... I cry at happy endings as much as I cry during sad ones.  But, it made me think once again of my dad and the pain of not having him in my life.  Why?  So very many questions that have been unanswered over the years, and the pain is still very, very real.

Wouldn't it be great if I were the only one to ever hurt because of an absentee father?  I mean if I were the only one to have ever walked through life not knowing where her dad was day in and day out, wouldn't that be great?  There are far too many of us out here;  far too many women still longing to hear a father's voice encouraging them, feel his arms protecting them, and way, way too many young girls looking for this love in all the wrong places.  Fathers are needed!!!

Some of the things a loving father in the home can give to his children are confidence, encouragement, pride, and a strong sense of belonging.  Those of us on the other end of this spectrum feel rejected, unworthy, shameful, and have no sense of belonging.  Add to this the impact of possible failed relationships due to this baggage, and you can have a lifetime of pain.  I don't believe this is what fathers are wanting to do...  Not years ago and not now.

The influence a father has on his children reaches far beyond the developmental years.  It spans an entire lifetime... 

My oldest brother went to live with an aunt and uncle when he was around fourteen, but prior to that he spent every weekend and summer with them.  I hardly knew him, and did not see him again until he moved to Rio Hondo, after returning from his military service, when I was about fifteen.   My older brother was sent to live with another family member about a year later.  I was twelve when I saw him again.  The pain they experienced can not be measured.  Their insecurities and alcoholism caused them much grief.

My younger brother and I were raised, in part and briefly, by a step-father who grew more abusive toward my mother with each passing day.  That nightmare ended when a doctor told my mother to get me out of that stressful relationship, or I would end up in the hospital.  She left him and continued to raise us on her own.  But, once again, my brother and I lost a father figure--albeit a dangerous one.

The influence of a father reaches far beyond childhood...

Being married to an abusive husband was not easy, but I did not want my children to grow up without a father.  I did not want my daughters to go through life feeling they were less than perfect.  Girls definitely need their dad!!!

When the divorce did occur, my two youngest sons were the ones most hurt.  I was past feeling, but they still needed to know dad cared.  The happiest scenario would have been them spending weekends and every other holiday with him, but they didn't... 

One son left this world and went to the arms of a real loving Father and the youngest fell into the only comfort he could find... drugs.  To be sure, the influence of a dad goes well into adulthood.

Friends, over the years, have told me to allow Christ to be my father, and I have, for  the most part.  But, I would be lying if I said I never feel the need to have a hug from a real human being.  I know that most of us who grew up without a dad in our lives feel this way.  I have forgiven my father, step-father, and ex, and I truly hope they found happiness; I could not hang on to the anger I felt.  However, the pain of rejection and shame still haunts this old lady and causes me to want to shield the younger ones who are experiencing the same thing.  The influence of a dad reaches ... and reaches...

If you are a father, whether in the home or out, please, please, find the time to hug your children close and SHOW them that you love them.  Allow the influence of a dad to reach directly into the heart and give your children a strong sense of confidence, pride, and belonging.  They will have no trouble believing they are also loved by a heavenly Father!  The influence of a father is that important.