Cousin George has holes in his socks. There’s a hole for his foot to go in, and there’s a hole for his big toe to go out. I think my dad bought his socks at the same place because that’s how his socks looked, too. The only difference is, Daddy’s socks weren’t pink.
Of course, who am I to talk about their socks? In warm weather I don’t wear socks. In cold weather I wear my socks a few times then switch feet so there are two matching toe holes in each sock. Then I have to get new socks. I don’t like my toes hanging out. Daddy didn’t like new socks. He liked his old socks so his big toes could stick out. It was too much trouble to break in a new pair of socks and the holes in his old ones were in just the right place.
My big toes turn toward the sun and my second toe looks like a camel, too. It’s a family thing!
This is a picture of a pair of my holey socks. I don’t have the heart to throw them away because they are my favorite frog socks.
Light streamed through the window as we crowded into the little room. The figure in the hospital bed lay contorted from a body ravaged by sickness. His head fell to one side, chin pressed to his shoulder, his mouth opened and twisted. With eyes immovable, his stare was fixed on the foot of his bed. His bride of untold years sat by his side.
As voices were raised in song of declaration of God’s grace, the woman lovingly took his hand. She gently stroked it as tears streamed down her face. Her voice could be heard mingling with the others. It was strong and confident. She knew his remaining time was short. She anticipated his last breath at any time.
As I watched her, I wondered what she saw. Did she see a twisted man with life fading away? Did she see a strong handsome young man from days long gone? Did she relive the moment she met him? Did she remember that moment when her heart flipped, and she thought she would love him forever? Did she envision their wedding day or his face when he held their child for the first time? It’s almost as if she was trying to gather time in her arms and hold it tight so it could not escape, daring the memories to fade.
Her tears fell unashamedly as she lifted his hand slightly, lowering her head to give it a tender kiss. I thought my heart might stop as I witnessed the scene. The twisted man I saw was the object of a woman’s love and devotion. Somehow, the room appeared even brighter. As we prepared to leave, we all held hands. I stepped forward and took the hand she had kissed through her tears. I was surprised that he gripped my hand while he slowly moved his other hand toward hers. No other visible emotion or movement escaped him. His hand was soft and warm. Life could still be felt pulsing through his veins. As I closed my eyes, the smell of disinfectant and distinct odors that had followed us into the room were snuffed out. I noticed a sweet fragrance. I knew it must be the perfume of the lady who sat within my reach, but maybe it was the fragrance of her love mingled with the sweet aroma from the prayers that were being lifted to the heavens. Time is indeed short. We cannot hold it tight for it will slip right through our fingers like sand in an hourglass.
I poked my head in the window of the car. “What’s for lunch?” That day lunch was a homemade pimento cheese sandwich and diet coke. “What’s for dessert?” That day as well as all days, dessert was a kiss from the girl he loved, and his eyes twinkled when he said it. I blushed a bit and said, “That’s more than I want to know,” and walked off with my lunch girls. He parked there every day. His “love” came out the side door of work and walked toward the car. He jumped out of the car, walked around and opened the car door for her. They drove across the road to the parking lot or to the City Park and shared their lunch under a shade tree where they parked. When he brought her back, she waited until he opened the door for her to return to work.
For a couple of days, I noticed the car was not there at its usual time. Then someone asked, “Have you heard?” Cancer. A form of leukemia. He was immediately admitted to the hospital and administered intense treatments. She told me, “If he’s feeling better on Sunday, we are going to get married in the hospital.” Sunday came, but also fever and sickness. He was not better. In just a matter of days, he was gone.
Memories flooded her mind. Her heart was broken. This wasn’t the first time she had mourned. She lost her husband seven years earlier, his life stripped from him from a similar form of leukemia. The memories were too fresh. It was as if the reels of a movie replayed all over again.
It was years after her husband died when a gentleman she had known for some time, a widower, set his affections on her. She is very naïve, and didn’t believe it when her coworkers said, “He’s sweet on you.” She thought he brought sweets for all of them, but it was evident his eyes were only on her. She finally consented to go out with him. Years were erased. Walls of grief were torn down. Once again, she was a giddy teenager finding a first love. Giggles, smiles, and dreams escaped from her spirit and her lips. She glowed and her cheeks blushed at just the mention of his name.
I watched her suffer the loss of the man she had come to love, her second love, the one who doted on her and showered her with affection. Though my heart was broken for her, I could not help but think how fortunate she was to have been so loved, not once, but twice. She married her first love right out of high school. Her second love came after years of grief. It was a breath of fresh air, sweet and pure.
Her faith in God sustains her and her spirits are lifted by a soft breeze whispering memories of those whom she loved.
My grandmother used to make homemade noodles with tomatoes. When I serve them to guests, most say they’ve never had homemade noodles and are amazed. Many have asked how to make them. Here is a short very unprofessional video of the process.
A reverent silence lay like the morning mist on the tombstones of the old cemetery. An occasional rustle of dry leaves in the cool winter breeze and a bird’s soulful song could be heard. I stood still taking in the scene before me. Dry broom straw and tall grass with tiny white plumes grew in patches. Scattered gravel rested on barren ground where nothing grew. The hilltop was scattered with headstones. Many had been forgotten over the years. Grass and wild blackberry vines grew among the stones. Broken headstones lay half buried in the weeds. Fire ants set up housekeeping beside old stumps and broken stones. Faded silk flowers were scattered in the tall grass. Some headstones were intricate in design while others were mere unadorned rocks taken from the lake shoreline just a stone’s throw away. Yet both were lovingly placed to mark where a loved one had taken final rest. Names and dates were worn away by time, though some did not even have that luxury. Some names were hidden under moss that grew in the etched letters.
My imagination ran away with me. I saw grieving families by freshly dug graves. I heard the soft “thud” as dirt fell onto the wooden casket that lay in the ground. I smelled fresh roses splashed with daisies that covered the dirt mound. I felt the tears fall like raindrops as last goodbyes were spoken.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet on bare ground. I lifted my eyes and saw a stooped old man. He walked with a cane, poking it along in front of him to find solid ground on which to place his unsteady feet. He leaned on his cane and peered over a tombstone. I studied the scene before me. None of us are guaranteed tomorrow, but as age creeps upon us, each breath brings us one step closer to our mortality. Life is fleeting.
I watched the little man as he wandered through the tombstones. He would bend to look at one, then another. I wondered what was going through his mind. Was he, too, brought face to face with our mortality? His 89 years had been lived to the fullest. He had stories to tell, memories to share, wisdom to impart.
The little bent man had told me just minutes before that the first 80 years of life were traveled on the designated road. Everything after that was a shortcut – some were just longer than others. I certainly understood his words. I had traveled with him many times. He would take the road off the beaten path. His shortcuts turned into long-cuts, but they were laden with adventures. I did not begrudge any of those shortcuts. Now he rode with me on my adventures and would often ask, “Is this a shortcut?”
Whenever I looked out my back window and saw my mother walking up the driveway, I knew some tale awaited. Either she had been to town and saw a fat woman at the food bar or Daddy wouldn’t do something she thought he should. It was usually the fat woman. My mother had an aversion to fat. Actually, I think it was more deep-seated than that. It was more of a self-esteem issue that stemmed from her childhood. She thought she was too fat – which she wasn’t. She thought she wasn’t as pretty or smart or friendly as others. She was a people watcher and, more often than not, judged accordingly. Understand that words others judged as her being judgmental were actually spoken as constructive criticism. She never intentionally hurt someone’s feelings though they may have walked away with shoulders sagging a bit because of the weight of her words.
Often when she came to my back door, she brought along the excuse for her visit which was to bring some little trinket, an article to read or an occasional loaf of fresh homemade bread. She did make the best bread ever! Daddy would listen with a “humph” or “un-huh” that didn’t satisfy her need for conversation, so I became her sounding board. After she talked nonstop for a while, she would pull her scarf around her head, tie it under her chin and walk back up to her house.
One afternoon she came to the house wearing a big smile and a new necklace daddy had given her for their 60th anniversary. She was absolutely glowing. That was the first and only time I had seen her look like a teenager. She talked about the trip they had taken to a little Bavarian town for their anniversary. They had visited little shops, and she had to tell me about each one. She told me about some dishes she would like to have gotten for me if she “had enough money.” They went into one store that had a long counter that had come from the general store of one of the little towns where Daddy had preached years earlier. I don’t think I ever saw my mother that excited. It was as if years had been erased, and the hands of time had been turned back to the mid ‘40’s. That was one of the last visits she made to my house. Little did I know that within a couple of weeks her life would be taken prematurely. As I sat by her death bed and held her hand, I did not begrudge one of her backdoor visits. Sometimes I still look out my back window and imagine a shadowy figure wearing a scarf coming to my back door.
