There is hope after all…

With the devastation taking its toll on the residents of Texas, it is heartwarming and downright encouraging to see the real soul of humanity being exposed for the world  to see. Raw and unembellished stories of people risking their lives helping others without a moment’s hesitation, forming human chains to rescue a stranded driver of a stalled hurricane_harvey_gi-800x445vehicle or an animal caught in a swirling current, steering their fishing boats and checking houses one at a time. The rain, dumping buckets of water, washed away homes, cars, enveloped major highways and buildings. But the rain washed away something more. In the midst of this deluge, the rain washed away color, ethnicity, religion and thankfully, division. Without fanfare, unsung heroes and heroines jumped into action to help their community. Why does it seem to take a catastrophic event to bring a halt to the division and bring back the best of human nature again?

I believe I found my answer one afternoon at my son’s swim meet.

I like to think my son is athletic…not the football, muscle bound type but rather the lean, running type. He’s always been involved with one sport or another but usually when he felt the urge. Long ago, as a tadpole, he loved swimming but that particular urge had faded nearly five years ago. So, when he decided to join the high school swim team his senior year, the announcement left his father and I scratching our collective heads. My son is no Michael Phelps…far, far FAR from it. But his exuberance was so contagious, we kept our opinions to ourselves, shrugged our shoulders and went along for the ride.

swim meet

Yesterday, he and his team competed against another local high school. As far as crowds go, a fair number of parents, friends, siblings and visitors gathered to watch their diversified team despite a threatening thunderstorm which failed to materialize. A nice cloud cover provided a respite from the sun and the meet began.  I snagged a chair with a bird’s eye view near one end of the pool, took out my tablet to pass the time while waiting for my son’s events.

If you have personally ever watched a swim meet, the first thing you realize as a parent is this. Once they put on the swim cap and goggles, it’s very hard to identify your child. Secondly, once they hit the water, it becomes damn near impossible. Thirdly, unless your child is a super, superstar, it’s kind of like watching paint dry…no offense intended.

Since I hadn’t spied my son on deck, I took an interest in the ongoing relay taking place in front of me, hoping I hadn’t missed his leg of the race. Being a relay, there were four team members ateam swimmingnd although they had already called the winner, everyone was waiting for the last straggling swimmer to complete his leg. Out of the four or five lanes, he was the only one remaining in the pool.

I can’t think of anything more agonizing…knowing the race is over and you have two laps left to finish. There’s just you…silently struggling to keep your mind on the task at hand, battling the fatigue and numbness overtaking your limbs, your arms now slapping the surface instead of slicing through the water. Coming up for breath, your throat burns as your lungs strive to suck in as much as air as possible, your legs slowly losing the will to kick and fighting the discouraging knowledge everyone is watching you.

As this young man struggled to reach my end of the pool, I could hear him gasping for breath as he paused before turning for his final lap…seemingly a mile away. He was a strapping fellow, broad shouldered and strong but this particular event was kicking his butt. I remember thinking, “He’s not going to make it. He’s completely exhausted.”

Then a surprising thing happened. Everyone rose to their feet, approached the edge of the pool and began shouting, encouraging him, loud and strong. The separation of team colors melted away as they came together to yell their support, willing him to find that last ounce of reserve to make it to the finish line. The sound was almost deafening.

Three races later, the same thing happened happened again. The race had been called leaving one lone swimmer to complete his last long leg by himself. Everyone, including me, rose up again to shout words of encouragement and cheer him to the finish line. They continued to applaud as his two of his friends, including my son, pulled him out of the pool when he touched the wall, his legs unable to summlone swimmeron the strength. It didn’t matter what school they represented, what religion they observed, the color of their skin or where their family came from. They were simply young swimmers doing what they loved.

And there is was…a golden nugget of evidence that all is not lost. That the thread of unity and love for our fellow man does exist in everyday circumstances. It’s there and it’s something we need to hold on to.

In the universal scheme of things, this meet will soon fade into the memory banks of most of the parents, swim coaches and team mates. Then again, maybe not. I know for certain there are at least three people who will cherish this event: those two swimmers who will forever remember the cheers, encouragement and vocal support urging them not to give up at a point in time when they probably felt most alone.

And me…who was lucky enough to witness something so very special first hand and write about it.

 

 

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The “Village” is Disintegrating

It Takes a Village was the catchphrase in the late 1990’s. According to Wikipedia, it proclaimed a vision for the children of America mainly focused on education. The tenet was simple. For better or worse, individuals and groups outside the family impact a child’s well being and that society should meet children’s needs. The vision, an admirable goal, had and still has chinks IMHO, but that is not the issue.

The “Village” is theoretically comprised of not only children but of young adults, mature and elderly.  The picture isn’t as pretty for those at the other end of the spectrum.

Recently, I had a distressing conversation with a physician’s wife. Her husband had scheduled major surgery for a patient who had been under his care for a number of years. This was no ordinary procedure but a life saving operation. The next day,  he was stunned to learn this patient had contacted the office and cancelled. He, of course, returned the call as soon as possible and asked why? Why would she cancel when the procedure was crucial?

The answer literally broke his heart.

She had no way to return home afterward.

She explained that her husband had passed over a year ago. Her children lived out of state and couldn’t return at that time and her neighbor, the only one she could think of, was under the weather. There was no one to drive her home.

How sad that our lives seem to revolve around smartphones, ridiculous sitcoms and communication today consists of texting instead of face to face conversations. How utterly grim to learn that an elderly woman would call off a life altering procedure simply because she had no one to call.

My fervent hope is this is not the norm but a sad singular situation…that most respect those who have achieved those “golden years”. Stories such as these always remind me of a particular epigram.

“As you are…so was I.  As I am….so shall you be.”

There is a wonderful conclusion to this story. Not only did the physician drive the patient home, his wife cooked several days of food for the patient. Now that’s the definition of a hopeful village.

It happened When I blinked.

I have to confess…I postponed and delayed it. I prevaricated and accidentally on purpose, forgot. I cajoled, scolded, denied, the request. I danced around the subject so well, Mikhail Baryshnikov would have been impressed. I found every opportunity to waylay the inevitable. But like any young buck, chomping at the bit for that first taste of real freedom, I realized he could no longer be ignored.

So today, as my son sauntered happily into the DMV with me slowly  plodding along, bringing up the rear I watched as he crossed yet another threshold. I am, of course, talking about the dreaded upgrade from Driver’s Permit to Driver’s License.

“Did you bring your permit”

“Yes , mom. Do you have the insurance information?”th

“Yes.”

“Did you bring the registration?”

“Yes, Chase. In the glove compartment.”

“Did you bring my  birth certificate?”

“WHAT? You never told me you needed your birth certificate!!”

“Just kidding, mom.”

We made his appointment with literally a minute to spare. Darn..I was so close!”

Given only three minutes to cram from a one page, laminated study sheet, the Official Driving Instructor called his name and off my “little” man went. He returned about twenty  minutes later, walking two feet above ground.

“I passed, Mom! He said I was the best student he’d had that day! Can you believe it?”

Actually, I believe I can. Life is a wonderful enigma. The Rites of Passage of have existed throughout time. Oh , the characters and the scenery have changed. Even the definition of what we consider Rites has changed. And yet, it all remains the same. The “little” man who went out the door returned simply, a young man well on his way to wherever his dreams may take him. Our parents watched us venture out alone as did their parents before them and so on. It makes no difference if was on the family mule or the horse and buggy , the Model T, the family station wagon or Dad’s pickup truck. That very first taste of freedom is intoxicating and first only happens once. So although I approached this moment with very mixed emotions, I wouldn’t take away one minute of the euphoria from my son. He’s earned it.

I hear him call from upstairs.

“Hey Mom. Didn’t you need something from the grocery store? I can go to Publix if you want.”

Ah, I remember those days too.

And so it begins.

Riding with a Rat

They come with the territory. Anytime there’s feed for horses or cattle or even dogs, they’re going to arrive to see what they can salvage from the smorgasbord. You may have the cleanest barn in the neighborhood, which we do, thanks to my OCD husband who blows out the barn aisle at every opportunity.

For the first time last evening, we saw a little unwanted guest. I, of course, am using that particular adjective loosely. Anything larger than a chipmunk should be charged rent. I heard my husband yelling, “Did you see him? Did you see him? You almost stepped on him!” That was a tidbit that I didn’t need to hear.

It turns out the interloper ran from the front of the barn all the way to the other end and disappeared. The little bugger. I never got an eyeball on him.

“Was it a mouse or a rat?” I’m not sure why that really makes any difference but it does. We horse people are a weird lot. Mice….hmm. They’re cute. Rats! It’s like the elephant in the closet.

“It was about this big.” He held his hands apart about 6″…. yep that’s a rat.

“Well he’s gone now and honestly, all the food is in a metal container. I wouldn’t worry.”

We headed up to the house without a second thought.

The next morning, my husband decided to mow the front lawn before noon. I don’t know about you, but I love the sound of a mower. It brings back childhood memories; the smell of fresh-cut grass, the distance hum of the mower and the memory of my father whipping around on his riding mower with his favorite farmer’s cap perched on his head. My husband is the same. He loves his zero turn, taking great pride in making sure the lines are even and level. Wanting to complete the lawn before the sun got too hot, he was in a particular jaunty mood, turning corners on a dime, zipping right along. Not only was my husband enjoying the ride, so was the rat.

Of course, the stowaway wasn’t discovered until my husband stopped to blow off the debris that collects in the filter. While he’s at it, he blows everything off. That’s when he discovered “Harold” literally flying off the mower when he got caught in the crosshairs. Then the real fun began.

In an effort to hide from both from my husband’s blower and further airborne torment, “Harold” darted into, of all things, our garage which was only open for the guy working on our base boards. In hot pursuit, my husband followed, cornered him and revved up his blower again. Once more, “Harold” was sent airborne, flying in a perfect five foot arch before landing outside the garage. His little legs working overtime, he scrambled toward the screened portch in the back of the house, my husband unsuccessfully trying to send him airborne into our neighbor’s pasture.

I heard a frantic thumping on the door.

“Get Charlie! CHARLIE! Come here Charlie! Rat! Get ’em boy!”

Charlie is our jackshitz…part Jack Russell, part Shitzu. Now you would think any dog with Jack Russell blood would take off like a lawn dart after such a prize catch but after leaping out the door in excitement, all Charlie could do was look up at my husband as if to say, “Yea, so? What am I supposed to do about him?”

“Harold”- unable to climb up the screen eventually took off toward the back yard and tried to disappear into the brush, with my husband, blower revved up to the highest rpm level, right on his tail, no pun intended. I would like to be able to say there is photographic documentation of this. An airborne rat is not something you see everyday. Unfortunately, as with most delightful escapades, it’s a visual one can only imagine.

Ah, life on a farm. It’s never boring.

Three Little Wrens

Spring and early summer means birds nesting, hidden eggs in some hideaway, the loud chirping of mother birds and the eventual shallow squeaking of the babies when they respond. This is especially true in barns. I mean, what bird could possibly resist? Shafts of golden straw and hay, strands of long hair from horse rubbing their manes on fences all woven together with Spanish Moss from nearby Oak trees.

We were lucky to have two separate nests this summer…of course, when the mother flew up from seemingly nowhere, it caused our hearts to jump. Fortunately, she situated her second nest in a less conspicuous stall and we were able to monitor the babies from a safe distance.

One morning, while emptying the water buckets to refill while the horses were in the paddocks, we were alarmed to discover what I previously thought to be a “road apple” turned out to be drowned wren. Could it be the mother? We crept into the unoccupied stall to check out the now fledgling babies. Immediately three gaping mouths reached upward to receive food, obviously hungry.

Damn!

As animal lovers, we were worried without their mother they wouldn’t last much longer. Immediately, we googled “what to feed fledglings”. Isn’t Google wonderful? I never realized I’d done it wrong all those years ago. Under definite no-no list was bread and water. Surprisingly, soaked dog kibble (very soft) or crushed meal worms. I opted for the soaked kibble and a small syringe, all the while reminding myself their stomachs were half the size of a pea.

Frankly, we didn’t think they would last throughout the night but we tucked them in, made sure their nest remained intact and placed a small wool towel around the base.

The next morning we were greeted with three gaping mouths and high pitched squeaks. Hallelujah…we hadn’t killed them.

About two days later, we heard what was definitely a mature wren chirping quite loudly. Who knew suchIMG_3898 a small bird could emit a sound 10x its size? We continued to feed them but since we were now being scolded, we let the male bird take over…or what we thought was the dad.

Doing night check the following evening, we noticed the wee three amigos perched together on the stall door. We had watched the activity from the previous day. Obviously IMG_3901the parent had encouraged his entourage to spread their wings. It had only taken 24 hours for them to leave the comfort of the only home they had known up until then and begin their journey into the great beyond. Fortunately, we were able to photograph them before they disappeared entirely.

We are happy to report, the next morning they hopped from hay bale to hay bale before flying to the window and taking that final leap into the unknown. I’d like to think we played a small part in their success if only with a few meals.

 

Memories of Summer

In response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/summer/

 

Lazy afternoons,

Lying in the tall grass

watching billowing clouds

slowly floating past.

Grilled hot dogs, chips

and root beer floats.

Jumping in puddles

wearing yellow raincoats.

Running with sparklers

on the Fourth of July

capturing lightening bugs

right out of the sky.

searching for crawdads

 in the creek down the road.

The smell of green grass

that has been freshly mowed.

“Hide ‘n Seek”, “Red Rover”

“Ollie Ollie Oxen Free”

Games played with friends

when we were carefree.

Catching a snowflake

on the tip of your tongue,

climbing a tree

just because it’s so fun.

Tire swings that arc

over the swimming hole

and the best cannonball

was the ultimate goal.

Those nostalgic moments

that I can recall

Were idyllic moments

all in all.

 

 

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The True Definition of Perfection

In response to  DAILY PROMPT   https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/perfection/ 

They sat together as they had for years, tucked away in their booth, out of the way from the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. Close enough to watch the fascinating dance of waiters carrying well balanced food trays weaving between tables covered with white linen cloths.

Slowly, he reached across to grasp her hand in a loving gesture of perfect harmony. He felt the softness of her skin and rubbed his thumb over the familiar simple gold wedding ring. A perfect moment where the din of the banging cutlery and china faded into silence. It was their anniversary and here, they could have their own miniature celebration before joining friends later that evening.

For those sitting nearby, their display of perfect affection drew slow smiles of appreciation and yet those witnesses probably didn’t comprehend the thoughts behind the value of perfection.

Perfection to him didn’t mean flawless or a fashion magazine’s interpretation of ideal beauty. No. As he caressed her hand, he could feel the soft skin dotted with well earned age spots and permanent creases. Cerulean blue eyes met his gaze…ones that had seen much edged with radiating crow’s feet signifying decades of laughter and joy. Lines from the corners of her eyes showed where life’s tragic events created a path for tears. Together, they had survived life’s struggles, family tragedy and experienced the most joyous moments life has to offer. When he looked at her, he saw imperfect perfection. The silver hair, the glasses, the soft lines of living and the knowledge that together they had weathered the good and the bad. In sadness, they had discovered  strength. In happiness, they had experienced inner peace. In frustration, they had learned the importance of patience. Ultimately, their imperfect life was perfect.