The Milledgeville in Me

I've been thinking a lot lately about my childhood. It's probably because after having been with my late husband for 40 years, I'm trying to figure out who I am without him. It seems a logical part of the process to try to remember who I was before I met him.
The picture above is of my great-grandmother's house in Milledgeville, PA. I looked it up on Goggle Earth and was glad to see it's in good shape, although it looks different now than when I lived there in the 1950s.
My great-grandpa died in this house in 1938 after being severely burned while trying to start a fire in a stove using kerosene. My great-grandma lived out the rest of her days there for the next 25 years, until she passed peacefully at 93. She attributed her longevity to clean living, hard work, and sassafras tea.
This time of year during my childhood invariably included an annual trip to the nearby woods to gather sassafras roots. It took nearly all day, with Mom doing the tree-spotting, and Dad, the digging. It was always cold and dreary; the ground was usually muddy.
Once we got home with a full sack of roots, Mom would wash each one before beating it to a pulp with a hammer. Then she'd simmer a pot of the mess for at least an hour, until the water had a reddish amber color.
The resulting tea had a heady, distinctive aroma, sort of a cross between root-beer and Great Grandma's liniment for her rheumatism. If I caught a whiff of brewing sassafras at this moment, it would take me right back to those days. I've never smelled anything else quite like it.
The finished product had a bite to it, even when tamed for us kids with sugar and milk. The liberal addition of milk to my cup of tea made the little woody flakes floating around impossible to ignore. They were hard to extract with a spoon, but I'd spend an inordinate amount of time trying, which served as a lame but effective stalling technique.
I can't say as I remember the digs as a lot of fun or the tea as a tasty treat. It was more like a wintertime tonic, a family tradition we believed was good for us. Since then, however, sassafras has been shown to be carcinogenic. So much for Great Grandma's health tips.

Here's a picture of my other grandma's house, just down the road from my great-grandma's. My mom, an only child, grew up here during the Great Depression.
Her father, my grandpa, was in poor health from being gassed in the trenches of France during World War I. He left home in 1935 to enter a Veteran's Administration hospital, never to return.
My grandma lived on alone for 33 more years after her husband left. Here's a photo of her and my mom in about 1939, with the old Milledgeville School visible in the background.
In my quest for self identity, it's sometimes helpful for me to remember my Milledgeville roots, so's to speak, sassafras as they may be. Both of my grandmas lived for many years after losing their husbands. They carried on alone because that was their nature and their upbringing; to do anything else was not an option for them.
My mom had her own battle with widowhood, living alone for 22 years after my dad died. They were married for 46 years. Their simple wedding took place in my grandma's home in 1942, right before my dad took off to fight in World War II. I can imagine what was going through my grandmas' minds that day.
Thinking about all this has made me wonder if facing long years of living alone late in life runs in my family. Whatever the case, I'm up to the challenge. I believe I'm capable of doing many things without my husband. It's just not wanting to that makes it difficult.
If I get too down, I'll try to muster up the Milledgeville in me. It's a brave spirit of toughness, endurance and duty. It's worked for three generations of women before me, so with such a solid foundation, I should be all right.

Life Is Like A Mountain Railroad

I took this photo when visiting my childhood home in Milledgeville, PA, a few years ago. This is the country road to what was my grandma's farm when I was a kid. It's no longer in the family now.

This picture seems symbolic as I reflect on the long and bumpy road where my life has led me.

There was a time when I knew every bend and tree along this dusty dirt road to my grandma's. I knew nothing, however, about the world beyond it.

I had no way to visualize back then what my life would be like in 2009 as I near my 60th year. It was incomprehensible to me then, as a child.

But even a year ago, I could never have foreseen my present reality. Being so alone and sad is nothing I would have dared to contemplate.

Some people by my age have already made out their wills, planned their funerals, bought scenic cemetery plots and plenty of life insurance. My husband and I never did. Neither one of us could bear to think that far ahead. We didn't realize our end was so close at hand.

I've come a long ways since my Milledgeville days, but I've made even greater strides since just this past June. That's when my husband, my forever love, suddenly died.
Here's a picture of us at a high-school dance in 1969. Forty years is a long time.

For several weeks after his death, I didn't want to live. I just couldn't see how I could. When I tried to visualize a future without him, it was blank.

Jack Daniels and Marlboros were my main sources of comfort. Their effects on my nerves were welcome; their familiar smell and taste reminded me of my husband. I was also attracted to their dire consequences of fatal disease. When I heard on TV that smoking one cigarette takes 11 minutes off your life, I ran right out and bought a carton.

I was consoled by well-intentioned folks who said that when God closes one door, He opens another. I thought, "Sure he does. But when?" I'm beginning to see it happen, finally, in my life since I started this blog.
It was hard at first. I'd have to sober up enough to write. Then I'd cry as I read what I'd written, wondering if anyone else would ever read it. But I felt I had to do it. I was being pushed by an invisible hand.
Now I'm receiving support from people all over the country. Let me take this opportunity to tell each of you this right now: Your words are a kindness I can feel. They're flowing like a healing elixer through my veins. I don't need any whiskey anymore. The nicotine will be gone soon, too.
There's a song in my heart tonight from my early days in rural western Pennsylvania. It seems appropriate to end this post with the lyrics, which ring as true today as when they were written 100 years or more ago. I'd add the familiar tune on this page, too, but such tricky widgetry eludes me yet. You can go to my Profile page and click on "audio" to hear the tune, if you'd like.
It's an old-time gospel song, a bluegrass classic, I guess you'd say. It's long been one of my favorites. Maybe you've heard it. It's called "Life's Railway to Heaven," by Charles D. Tillman:

Life is like a mountain railroad,
with an engineer that's brave,
We must make the run successful,
 from the cradle to the grave;

Watch the curves, the fills, the tunnels,
never falter, never quail;
Keep your hand upon the throttle,
and your eye upon the rail.

Blessed Savior, Thou wilt guide us,
till we reach that blissful shore;
Where the angels wait to join us
in our praise forevermore.

You will roll up grades of trial,
you will cross the bridge of strife;
See that Christ is your conductor
on this light'ning train of life;

Always mindful of obstruction,
do your duty, never fail;
Keep your hand upon the throttle,
and your eye upon the rail.

Right on, Mr. Charles Tillman. Amen, brother.

A Fire Rainbow Speaks To Me

It's a natural inclination we've had since ancient times. Mankind has always looked to the sky for assurance that we're not stumbling around down here on our own, clueless.
Generations of imaginative insomniacs studied the stars and handed down beliefs we now call astrology. I've always dismissed mass-media astrologic predictions as too generalized and open to immensely subjective interpretations.
When you lose someone close, especially a younger person, it's impossible to not wonder why. It's been five months since my husband died from a motorcycle crash on the same day my mom passed away at age 86. Maybe questioning this quirk of fate is why I looked up my astrological chart on this intriguing web site, Infinite Quest: http://www.infinitequest.com/
I'm unsure exactly what a "transit report" supposedly reveals and I'm definitely unfamiliar with such oddly astral terms as, "Pluto in conjunction with natal Chiron," but I typed in my birth data and hit "create report" with a what-the-heck click.
Nine pages of star jargon began to spew from my printer, but I got distracted and ignored them until bedtime. When I finally began reading my specific predictions, I almost sat straight up in bed with amazement.
Even my loudly snoozing sleep mates, three German Shepherds who keep tabs on me even while busy chasing squirrels in their dreams, were momentarily disturbed.
"You are in for a rough time, as structures of your life that had previously supported you come crashing down around your head," began one Henry Seltzer. "You are forced into transformations far more massive than anything you would have anticipated."
"Well now, don't that just about sum it all up nice and neat in a nutshell," I mused out loud to the dogs, who received the "all-clear" tone with heavy sighs. Stretching dramatically as their big heads flopped back down, each one's moan of irritation, relief or lingering concern reflected its level of obsession with my security. My laid-back female, as usual, resumed snoring first.
"How weird," I thought, reading on. It was a long time before I fell asleep.
This dreary Sabbath morning I decided to attack the avalanche my double dose of grief dumped in my in-box this spring. So many expressions of sympathy simply overwhelmed me. I've had no strength to read and appreciate most of them until just recently.
At the in-box bottom linger some cherished emails from my mom and husband's last days on Earth. I've let these lay, dormant and unread, unwilling to dare deleting them without first reading their possible "messages from beyond the grave." Opening the precious few from my husband is as insurmountable as climbing Mt. Everest to me yet.
Maybe because Pluto is in trine with my natal Mercury, I clicked on one from my mom sent in January. The incredibly colorful photo of the sky shown above popped up with this caption: "This is a Fire Rainbow, the rarest of all naturally occurring atmospheric phenomena."
"Oh, sure, Mom," thought this skeptic. "Looks computer enhanced." Curious, I followed the accompanying link. It's pretty convincing. I’d be shattered to learn National Geographic posted a doctored photo on its web site. I believe in their integrity.
"Known in the weather world as a circumhorizontal arc, this rare sight was caught on film June 3 (2006) as it hung over northern Idaho near the Washington State border," I read. It lasted about an hour, according to Nat Geo. That’s a long time for a cloud formation.
"Wow," I said to the dogs, underfoot now, dozing. "That's practically right out our window."
I'd have been impressed to see the unusual celestial display in person. I'm sure the word "sign" would have come to mind.
When it comes to signals in the sky, I have a lot more faith in the Gospel of Mark than anyone's astrological report. In Mark 15:33, we're told of an atmospheric anomaly that occurred as Jesus was crucified: "And when the sixth hour had come, there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour."
This might have been an eclipse of the sun by the moon; maybe Seltzer has figured that out. Whatever it was, Matthew 27:45 also describes the strange temporary absence of light that day in nearly identical words.

There was more to my mom's email. "Life is a miracle, don't let it slip away," I read, eyes welling with tears. "Open your heart to others, give of yourself each day."
Here's a photo I took of her about 20 years ago as she was happily getting plates out of her cupboard because we were there for dinner.

This method of communication we call the Internet is a marvel some folks before our time would certainly have deemed miraculous. Maybe it is.
Was my mom's message left unread because it means so much more to me now than when she sent it 10 months ago?

On a June day in 2006, could the cirrus clouds overhead have been at a perfect elevation with just the right amount of ice crystals, so that when the sun hit the heavens, the Lord could say, "Look up here! It's going to be okay! This is what my love looks like!"

This I do know: I didn't miss the Fire Rainbow. Thanks, Mom

The Regret Factor Can Mess With Your Memories

Dear readers (all three of you, now listen up), you may recall a recent post in which I pondered the reason behind this creative effort. All past mental meanderings, grief issues and dog stories aside, there is more at stake here than initially meets the eye. I want people to read this and there’s good reason why.

I’m approaching retirement age but can’t collect all the huge Social Security funds earmarked for my golden years just yet. I’m not broke, but with a steady income of zero since my husband’s been gone, it doesn’t take a financial wizard to figure out that at this rate, I’m going to run out of money.

As a senior citizen looking to re-enter the job market for a few years, I have a vision of my dreaded future, wearing a blue vest adorned with lots of little pins, greeting Wal-Mart shoppers with forced cheer. My preference is to try to find my niche in the once-elite but now nearly extinct journalistic specialty field known as a syndicated columnist.

So this little blog o’mine is an attempt to revive a weekly column, “Between the Lines,” that I wrote during my heyday as a newspaper editor. I had many more devoted readers back then; I can name at least five off the top of my head, including two who weren’t related and three who are still living.

Of course I’d like to reach out to others who, like me, are coping with personal loss, undeniable aging, questionable sanity, potential addictions, suspected eating disorders, adult children living in their basements, peeping toms lurking beneath their windows, IRS confrontations looming, mildew spreading like wildfire on their shower curtains, pesky chin hairs sprouting in alarmingly larger numbers every day and a pack of dogs snoring in their beds every night. Yes, mine are all fairly common conundrums to which readers can relate, I’d say.

Should these intriguing dilemmas eventually peter out as hot topics, I have a vast reserve of untapped ideas to explore; whatever may happen to pop into my mind, out my fingers, onto my keyboard and thus into your brains. I apparently haven’t lost my gift of gab, a friend recently observed.

So this just might work. I could sit on my butt at home and make money by regaling readers with my take on just about everything. Well, theoretically. So, with that in mind, it’s time to get to my topic for today, a recent revelation I’d like to share with you about grief. All kidding aside now, everyone, and you two in the back row, stop messing around.

As I wade these days through the big sinkhole in the Grand Canyon of my life, I’ve made an observation: It’s very hard to deal with the loss of a loved one at any time, under any circumstances. Nobody can argue that. I’m convinced, however, that losing someone you love unexpectedly is a special kind of grief in a category of its own. It’s complicated due to what I call the Regret Factor.

I’m referring to, in my case for example, negative things I said to my late husband I shouldn’t have said, or positive things I wish I had said. I have a huge collection of regrettable conversations, for which I’m now powerless to make apologies or amends. In my head I can watch reels and reels of my own home movies, rewinding and replaying the worst dramatic scenes over and over again.

When the Regret Factor kicks in, you begin to see in retrospect that incidents you once thought so crucial were clearly only trivial: Why did I get so mad at him just because he left a wet towel on the bed? Formerly annoying habits begin to seem endearing: What wouldn’t I give to see his dirty socks on the bedroom floor again, carelessly tossed just inches shy of the clothes hamper, like always.

The Regret Factor can also make what was originally just a simple oversight now loom large in the past like an enormous dark cloud of neglect. How could I have let him leave that morning without telling him I loved him? Come to think of it, I didn’t even tell him goodbye.

Before you shrug your shoulders and say, “Hindsight’s 20-20; not much you can do about it now,” at least try doing this for me: Make sure today that someone you love knows how you feel about them. Tonight, should you be fortunate enough to find comfort in the arms of someone kind, count your blessings, my friends. Count your blessings. Or here’s an easy one: Is there a grudge you’ve been holding onto for too long? Drop it. It’s only a burden you don’t need.

If any of you will do any of this because of anything I write, then surely a rope of hope may appear for me to climb my way out of this sinkhole. Working together, maybe we could continue to spread love in ever-widening circles, like rings in a pond where a pebble has been dropped.

I believe that if we try hard enough, maybe we could even make an angel smile, and on the day I can feel that smile in my heart, that’s when my healing will have truly begun.