Sunday, November 28, 2004

Grandma's eulogy

Grandma Cora

Ah, our sweet little Grandmother has gone home to stay. Several times over the years, didn’t we think we had lost her as she was rushed to the hospital for this or that? But even as her Schwann’s French Silk pie (did she make any of you eat that? Honestly, we were going for the door after the lengthy quilt tours, and she insisted that we eat just a sliver of this pie that was “good, it’s sooo good!”) sat thawing on her counter to bring to a family Thanksgiving meal, Grandma had gone home. By now we all know that she died lying snug in her bed, curled up with her hands under her face, as if in a pleasant dream, although her body had flu-like symptoms. Yet there was no cold hospital room, no nursing home (although she appeared to like the social life there), no long-term sick room. For that, I’m incredibly thankful and thankful of that last image of her departing life in a peaceful, gentle way.
Grandma was such a peacemaker herself that in the end, she must have negotiated with God to let Him carry her on his back across the great divide. And can you just imagine her now with Grandpa Harold, speaking in full and complicated sentences, telling him about how we’ve all (children, grandchildren, cousins, friends) grown up and how she likes Schwann’s French Silk pie because it’s absolutely delectable, and is there any of that around here in Heaven?
Imagining Grandma in Heaven is a fun activity. She acted as if heaven were here on earth a lot of the times. Remember her with flowers? Or with quilt blocks? Or, remember her at Christmas time? I have a picture of her from last year with a bow on her head and surrounded by lots of smiling great grandchildren. She was in lower heaven then as well, despite her walker-encumbered body. We brought her lots of joy because she chose the way of love all of her life.
I think of this more than anything else in relation to Grandma. Yes, she had her hobbies which she shared abundantly and stubbornly with all of us, but what I think we all will remember most is her ability to love people. People walking by at Wal-Mart that she thought that she knew (maybe she did). Women in her Sunshine Club. Neighbors. Preachers who were faithful every Sunday. Babies of all smells and sounds. Nurses and doctors in the hospital. I mean, honestly, who loved more than Cora Coble? We all have our individual stories of her love pouring over us like warm anointing oil.
Mine is going with her to Norwood’s flower nursery each Spring and choosing each other potted flowers for our birthdays. This past year, she sat in the van and pointed at the flowers for me to run and fetch for her to get a closer look at. Afterwards, we’d go eat at Sonic, and she’d look at me beaming and say, “We’re just the same! We’re just the same! We like the flowers! Yes, we do!”
It felt good to be just the same as Grandma Cora.
By being so loving herself, Grandma taught each of us how to love better. Any time, we’re giving to someone else with time or any other resources; any time, we drop grudges we have amongst ourselves; any time, we laugh and beam and stretch our hands in greetings to each other or express our love to each other in words, well, we can say that we’re the same as Grandma Cora. We’re the same!
I can’t, in conclusion, separate the fact that Grandma Cora’s love was a living embodiment of her faith in Jesus Christ whose love she was compelled by. “For Christ love compels us” says the Bible “because we are convinced that one died for all.” 2 Corinth 5:14. She was convinced of Him, she chose to allow Him room in her heart, to teach her the trade of love. She was faithful. Like Grandpa, she gave us a heritage of faith, which in some ways is a bit of a rarity these days. I can just sense her presence too wanting to know what we’ll do with something like this which is more precious than a handstitched quilt, or an exotic iris. It’s an admittance of the heart more than anything, an admittance that we can’t love like her without Christ, without all the meaning that he can bring into each of our individual lives. She would want that for us. She would want us to receive the gift of Christ this year during this holiday season. Her last gift too. We don’t have to live perfect lives hereafter if we receive the gift. No, no one does. We’re human. But, to be given a sanctuary, yes, she would like that. To be given a hope, yes, that would be good. To be given a fresh start, just amazing. Mostly, though, from now on I’ll be thinking of Harold and Cora waltzing in a garden of daylilies, on a huge intricate quilt, eating French Silk pie, hugging every one who happens to walk by, as a huge incentive to turn to the faith again and again despite my weaknesses and false starts. It’s kind-of a Coble thing to do, you know.
May we all open our hearts today to the compelling love that comforts us in time of our great loss and our lovely gift in the person of Grandma Cora. We were certainly blessed to have been loved by her.

Friday, November 26, 2004

The shot of a pistol

My mother just called and left the dread-details with me. The visitation is Sunday from 6-8, and the funeral is at 1 p.m. at Craig-Hurtt Hutsell, the dread funeral home which we've been avoiding these last several years in our town. It has nasty, white fake columns like it's dignified.

Mom would like for me, and maybe two other grandchildren, to go up front and speak in eulogy. Why did I agree when I know that I'll be bawling with the rest of the grandchildren? That's what we did at her husband's funeral. We all exited the Pleasant Home Baptist with red eyes, blinking in the ferocious, cold sunlight having been battered down after Grandma refused to let go of his coffin. His death was enough without having to see her deep pained wailing sorrow. Yet isn't wailing appropriate? I'm glad that she had the emotional gutsiness to show her feelings like the biblical women who knew pained separation even within the promise of eternal life.

I'm not sure what I'll say yet. I am used to public speaking, so apart from the tears and choked throat, perhaps I can bring her back to life again momentarily with memories and attachment and the sound of giggles. That damn funeral home probably has no technology to show pictures of the gleaming Grandmother that she was. Word images will have to do.

I loved her so much. And, I'm scared now about what new turn of the soil the next day will bring. Thankfully, the Holy Spirit broods over me, cooing and holding me in feathers of down. Seriously, Grandma Cora is most likely digging into some black soil now and exclaiming, "Ohhhhh, I just knew! I just knew!" as she beams solidly into Jesus' face. She always acted as if she knew instead of being bothered by the angst of the age that so many of us like to wallow and waste time in because it's the existential-wimp thing to do.

I will have to sleep on all of this tonight. The right things to say. How to approach the podium. How to avoid the strangulation which prevents the shot of a pistol, the truth of Cora to shoot out in order to provide nutrients for family blooms. She would want me to plant a few seeds along the way, I'm sure.

Bien nuit, mon chere grand-mere.

Ohhhhhhh my!

My kitchen counters are a mess. Old poppyseed muffins are still in the tin on the stove. An empty sandwich bag container needs a receptacle. My comforting Cheerios box stands stalwartly next to the sink. Mail, matches, a candle's lid (why do candle containers have those irritating useless lids, driving up the price everywhere?), a half-used Hi-C drink box, a top of a pixy stix, a black rubberband.
Yet, between pages of my most recent book "Operating Instructions:A Journal of My Son's First Year" by Anne Lamott, I find myself staring and thinking the same thought that I did while tossing and turning in bed last night: I don't have my Grandma Cora any more.
I try to imagine her in heaven with Grandpa Harold, looking like they did -- two young in love people holding hands -- under the black and white tree in an old photo. And, I can hear her laugh with him. Yet she's not in Mountain Grove to visit, and life is not fair to those who loved her here because we're left behind with lesser people who don't know how to love as well as she did. Nor can they quilt or grow African violets or bake a killer Angel food cake like her. So, I'm sad for us on this biggest shopping day of the year, as if we can find in stores what my grandmother possessed.
My husband was so sweet last night, hugging me each time he found me staring off, saying that he was glad that he married me, a good person. I think he's better by far, but that's an old argument.
Well, I'm going to the church in a little while to decorate for Christmas. Grandma loved Christmas so much and eyed her quilts merrily as she chose a fortunate recipient. Last year, we were all together (her clan of Cobles), and I have a sweet picture of her with her great grandchildren. Her face looked as sweet and fresh as theirs; she was smiling with a glee and enthusiasm that transcended her 88 years of tired old life. She had a package bow stuck on her head and a present on her lap. We would all only bring her presents and would gather around and watch her wondrous reactions to each gift. "Ohhhhhhhhh my! Ohhhhhhh. I like it! I like it!"
There are lots of things to remember this season.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

From quilt to quilt

Her French Silk pie, thawing on the counter for the morning, never made it to our Thanksgiving meal. My sweet Grandmother Cora passed away peacefully in her sleep last night. Her hands were positioned under her cheek as she lay curled up on her side. I think I will always have that image as a gift for she was such a peacemaker in life, so she went softly and gently into that good morning. Thank you, God, for that.
Ah, but things are sad. I can't get my mind off of her and all the gardening love that we shared. Every Spring, we would make a trip to a nearby town's nursery. This past spring, she stayed in my van, and I pulled it close to the greenhouses. I can still see her white hair and hear her laughing out the window as she pointed to a plant for me to survey. It was our personal tradition to buy each other birthday flowers, and this year, we bought two just alike.
"We're just the same!" she'd say emphatically with glee. "We like the flowers!" We would giggle and then head off to Sonic for lunch.
Grandma Cora taught me to love people better. She would see people in Wal-Mart that she thought that she knew and approach them with a hug. Sometimes I've felt as optimistically affectionate, despite any negative experience, and I'm always reminded of her in myself. Yes, I've learned to love better because of how she loved. And, everyone loved her. She was entirely good and sweet. White hair, giggles, stroke-impaired child-like speech, bright blue eyes, steady smile, energy.
A gifted quilter, she would give us quilt tours as she shuffled on her walker from bedroom to bedroom. She was in process with about four quilts which she always wanted to finish before dying. She lived from quilt to quilt in her last years.
This entry cannot do justice to her memory. I'm tired from the drive back and just feel depleted and sad right now. Grandma Cora, just know that I love you always and always want you to be reflected in me. Your life was a gift.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Yellow and red in the morning mist

We lifted our faces up for a mist spa this morning after our two mile run. My friend, with blond hair and joyful face, could easily be compared to the beautiful yellow leaves still clinging to the dark limbs. She has shown since I've known her. A spirit of love and joy make her radiant. Her music, piano and voice, extend her vision and soul to others; it extends her source, Christ, to dimmer places. She is blessed while blessing.

And so, nonfiction knocks against the fiction. This morning, I've just finished the book, "The Red Tent". In fragments, I recognize good things from this fiction about women, women who bless, women whose stories have found voice, women who try to discover purpose, or companions.

I feel this after reading the book:
* all the women stories in the Bible that have been forgotten, unread, unscribed are amazing in imagination, perhaps in reality. Why don't we know more? As Joseph said in this book, "The name of Dinah is forgotten in the house of Jacob." Yes, the rule of the patriarch. Yet, the water of the woman cannot be ebbed, and feelings continue without stark storylines. The same markings of a woman's life: girlhood, menstruation, sex, the leaving of a mother, childbearing and rearing, obligatory duties, old age ~~ continue on with similar stories and courage. Dinah is not forgotten amongst the women of her Canaanite tribe ... a story is passed on; a child is named out of reverence.
** I want to know more about the religions of the women outside of the Judeaic upbringing passed down from Isaac to Jacob. The women brought their own into the marriages. Some of them are old myths accounted for in 'The DaVinci Code' or in a Joseph Campbell rendering. What did the earliest religions look like? I'm still intrigued in all of this and need to do more reading. I love my religion, yet I'm curious as to other attempts at understanding. It feels important to me.

I don't have time right now to continue with these thoughts, but, please read the book if you have a chance. It's excellent.

Saturday, November 20, 2004

Softly humming and swaying

And here is the missing piece that I have found. Even if there is not a God, the only way to protest against the absurdity of a Godless universe is to act as if there were one. Thus if the absurdity is that we are capable of loving but the universe is not, my protest to cosmic lovelessness is to love widely and deeply until my dying breath.
If the absurdity of the universe is that it is drenched in death and dying, then my protest is to affirm life and fight death at every juncture. And when death inevitably reaches out for me, may I have just enough time to laugh in death's face. Not to act in this defiant fashion would be to affirm suffering and death as the way things should be. In so doing, I would be death's accomplice.
This, then, is my resolution. Objectively speaking, whether there is a God or not, I shall act out of the belief that God is my healing companion. And if it turns out that there is no God, my life shall be a rebellion against a godless universe. In either case, my actions will be identical. Either way, what matters is courage in the face of one's honest wager. Indeed, faith is belief and will, in determination of a vision. W. Paul Jones in Teaching the Dead Bird to Sing.

I'm not sure what sways a person to the above acceptance. It's existential philosophy, n'est-ce pas?, with a theistic angle. Theism is admitted due to a yearning for love that's deep within, pounding, humming, swaying, within all of us. Why do we not accept this? Why do we substitute with simply stories, or simply tangential experience? There must be a Reality, and there must be a Reality which holds hands. I offer mine out: I feel the pressure when I do. Ah, and it speaks of a deeper life. Thank you, Mr. Jones, for those beautiful words. He seems to take Pascal's le pari (the bet) a step further, one which means something for this life instead of just for an eternal consequence. I like it.

My week was full of pies; eight pies to Wednesday evening for our Bon Appetit! Les Femmes! French country pie supper. Pies, existentially speaking, soften our abandonment to the wolves. Pies represent fullness, harvest, love. Thank you, my sweet little Ozarkian mother for teaching me that!

Thursday afternoon, I met an old friend at a local brewery. She had the afternoon off, and like her mother at lunch a week before, she wanted to talk about theater and religion. She's not sure what she believes yet, but she feels that yearning for love in her spirit. She detests and distrusts the Protestant conversionary injunction (understandably), but I believe that she wants to board a boat before too long. Too much treading results in weariness and a sense of purposelessness for her. What will she choose? We talked about Buddhism and Tao-ism as religions and then Christianity (whose proximity, particularly after the bad-rap from the election, is unfortunately negative right now) which offers the Personal in the form of a covenant, and then later, a person. She was raised Catholic, so perhaps that will soften and allow her to view faith less rigidly(or most likely, it could work in reverse of that). I told her that "admittance" or "allowance" is what conversion can simply be about. That a moment in time is often remembered when one does hold out her hand in acceptance. Then steps begin to happen. It was a cool conversation. I pray that she makes the choice that is the best for her. (Of course, I have a certain hope in mind due to personal experience!) I've never had a conversation like this one where the other person initiates her own route so eagerly.

Must go. Have a foggy football game to attend!

With Love,

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

For the love of scents

It's a delicious slip of a morning. The gray kitten lies curled on the deck chair outside in the misty morning. A hot cup of ginseng tea offers itself to my left (a whiff of it takes me back to the barnyard -- decomposed manure? Yes, either that or cow's cud, but I've never kissed a cow to discover that aroma. Kicking around dry pies were common, though, particularly when bored or mad. Ah, a hot tea of crap.) A church meeting is being skipped. Pages of two books are awaiting to be turned (Red Tent; Teaching the Dead Bird to Sing), and two moist delectable apple pies are being baked. The oven hums for the love of scents. And, at 11:30, I will meet a laughing friend at a downtown ethnic restaurant.

Yet, stop.

Time won't stop. I must grasp this fully. Things could change.

Just two nights ago, my husband asked me what we would do at retirement. The thought devastated me. Retirement means a jump ahead in time. It means that those whom I cherish will most likely not be around. My dad. Mom. Some friends who are precariously fading even now. I'm afraid that I was unsupportive of his thought of release. I'm afraid that I had to go to bed early to release myself into sleep. Themes of the unlived life, the removal of loved ones, the aging, the focus on the trite (cleaning, medicine, aches, etc.) .... It was a completely negative reaction.

But mornings like this one give me hope. Apart from others and regrets, slips of still life occur. Birds still busy themselves, calling hopefully to each other. Cats still look up at you with these needful adorable eyes. Pies send out aromas for your soul. Memories of barnyards float into cul-de-sacs (or condo, or nursing home). A few friends will remain, and new ones will be made. Parents will still make their impact known.

Alright, acceptance of the inevitable is difficult. But, the morning beckons, and I can sense a source of joy to steady that which is fluid. Perhaps it dances along with the movement.

Time to read what others make of this spirit, life, and source.

Take care dear friends. You give me hope!

Friday, November 12, 2004

Find his own way

The young man was moving to Seattle; his grandparents tried all sorts of tactics to keep him home. Then, he left, and his grandparents died off gradually. But, the grandson did what he should have, in the tradition of his grandparents and their parents ... to find his own way. While he was alive, Frank, the cynical grandfather, summed it up best, "Ach ... everyone goes!"

A former teacher colleague of mine, Heather, and I let our tears run down. The young man actor was her husband, and his parents sat on the other side of her crying too. The slice of life that we hate was upon us in the play's theme. Departure. The inability to stay.

Afterwards, I gave her a snug hug, and then I drove back home. I love the theater. I must go more. Yes, the tears were induced by dialogue and drama, yet that emotional reaction is life. I must remember not to dislike my emotional reactions which I sometimes want under lock. I've been doing that lately, but drama, tells me the story that emotions are life. I agree, yet they're uncomfortable at times.

Other happenings ... we went to the endocrinologist this morning. With lots of waiting, Cody and I engaged in wild thumb wrestling matches. He construed rules for everything, until I demanded old-fashioned southern thumb wrestling, where we just tried to pin each other down. The doctor came in then, brusquely, after his gentle student doctor had already looked Cody thoroughly over, and the big sweating doctor said brusquely, "We need to do lab work!" "Perhaps he has tuberous sclerosis with those skin patches!" "I want immediate followup after we get the results!" "Get another CF test!" And, he stormed out, with his gentle student doctor smiling apologetically backwards at us.

So Cody and I went to do some lab tests.
"Just sit over there. Put the slips of paper there. And wait."
X-ray of his hand.
Another blood draw.
Pee in a cup. A nice nurse graphically explained this procedure to me, and my role in it, in the bathroom.
Set up a new appointment.

The nice bathroom nurse came to get another patient, and across several heads, she looked at me, and said, "You have extremely pretty eyes." No one behind me. She kept looking at me without breaking her gaze. "I noticed them in the bathroom. Is that your natural color?"

I hope that we don't have many more doctor appointments, because these "mystical" stranger encounters in the waiting room are turning creepy. Finally, she broke her mesmerized stare (am I a snake?), and we were free to run free in the rain to the van.

Have you ever felt each minute before? What would that be like to savor each thing that you do? Brother Lawrence in "Practicing the Presence of God" says it's possible, it's gift, it's grace before death. Yet does the death shower up into light permanence, into no departure?

All I seem to want to do lately is to live and feel each minute. Perhaps I won't make it through the winter (each winter, someone dies on the roads). For these moments, I'm glad.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Pumpkin ale

Alright. They lived in their van. How funny is that in retrospect?
I am envious of living in a van and using gas stations for bathrooms? Have you consistently smelled the inside of a woman's bathroom at a convenience store? Have you consistently had to wipe the rim clean, or flush the tampons down that someone else left behind?
How romantic is that? I have windows, cats, flowers in my garden, musical instruments laying around, books on shelves, food, stable friends.
Ah, my day has been just like that. One moment, I want escape, the other, I am kissing things around me. I know one thing: I am okay with my lived life. I love the stretching between two worlds, the longings, the stabilizing, the dancing, the spirals, the ascents. Yes, I want more, but, hey, come on in to right now. It's good, and I'm good. And, come to think of it, I think I have one pumpkin ale left in my refrigerator. Why not celebrate?
Tonight at church, I was so hungry for the eucharist. Carrying the body inside of me. The symbolism. The intake to take me to strength. Yet, there were baptisms instead. People telling their story of acceptance, people going under water, people hugging and cheering. It was symbolic. I was thoughtful, though. I'm in a different place. I do love symbolism, however. Then, my young bosom postmodern friend joined me while our hubbys went to get the kids, and we related our quirky thoughts which don't fit in. And, it was fun. I laughed hard -- I expressed myself in a lively way. She's the best. We want to carry forth our different ideas and .... we don't know what. I said, "Write!", and she said, "Yes! Or divide the church!", and I agreed with a hearty laugh. Thank you, Good Spirit.
My moroseness is gone, and I feel lighter like the lady in the reception room earlier today. And, yes, I'm envious of those trail walks and bird watching and the freedom from stuff. I love the woods. I'm a Woods. But, living in a van .......
Thank you also, Viv, for a long hug in the parking lot of a place that served us soup over lunch. I am truly blessed!

We lived in our van

An older couple stood at the desk when we entered the one-woman blood drawing center.

The harried one-woman team took forms from us, and then we sat in the cramped reception office to wait. The wife smiled at Cody and looked at him longingly. I recognize that look from an older woman who maybe never had a chance to have children, or whose small sons are now grown up. It irritates Cody who thinks he's being treated like "a little kid". The woman said one or two things to him, and then she and her husband were called into the needle room.

After them, we were ushered in too. Cody amazingly relaxed his arm while the needle inserted.

We were asked to again wait for paperwork in the reception room with the couple.

The older woman then began to amaze me.

I felt tight, withdrawn, upset in a former mood, and she began to talk comfortably with Cody about a) taking blood, b) her husband's mother's 100th birthday party, c) blowing bubbles, d) moving to Missouri. She was plain with a huge smile. Her husband was gray, grumpy looking until he smiled a wonderful wide smile with dimples.

I managed to talk a bit, "Where did you guys live before you moved here?"

"In our van," she answered. "For six years, we hiked, traveled, birdwatched, did photography. We had a little stove in our van that we used. We loved it." She relaxed me; I think she could have talked a long time, and I could have listened a long time too.

The unlived life theme came up again for the third time this week. I could cry about it (which I want to do), or I could take the middle way, taoistic, christian, which when applied makes good balance. Yet, I found it interesting; I find all encounters with strangers to be interesting and, although I resist this attachment, I find them to be mystical in a way. I will never see them again. What word did they leave with me?

Did they leave the words about un unlived life? That it's possible? That it's a choice? I need to investigate this more. What would that even look like for me without damage?

I have McDonald's coffee in front of me now, and I'm a bit blue. Thankfully, there are no ministry obligations this week. I'm grateful to be thinking, though, grateful for the call again.

Thursday, November 04, 2004

the Western front

"You're off, aren't you," she said with her huge blue eyes of discernment.
"Don't beat yourself up," she said with her day-research data imploring eyes.
"You know, we're all not as intellectual as you. Believe me, if I thought it was horrible, I would tell you. It was good. People were talking," she said with toss of her voluminous mane.
I hung around weakly last night after it was over. Performance anxiety. The class didn't flow. Fragments. Pieces. I didn't hook and knit, hook and knit for greater awareness. It wasn't good. I hated myself. I hated serving.
But, before I flung myself into the rainy p.m., and stepped one by one alone towards an incrimating van, they had stopped me.
It's less than you're making it out to be. You're good. We believe in you. You can't mar the higher God-factor.
Women can gossip and dash and judge and advise; however, the women whom I hang out with now are not like this. It's possible to know authentic, caring, encouraging women. I know so many and am truly blessed.
My Thursday a.m. class was wonderful; it wasn't about me hooking and knitting. I 'led' yet it's a support group for a beautiful young attorney whose husband doesn't want her any more, and a sweet person who lives in a world of feelings and colliding intellect and creativity (wow, I can relate to that) with a crappy legalist-religious joy-stealing Christian wrong upbringing, and another woman's close relative's suicide, (among others issues) which cause us to dig a trench to discover a position.
A position. The WWI soldiers in trench warfare always had to run from one to the next. Back and forth. Surely there's a respite.
In "All Quiet on the Western Front", one of their best respites involved emptying their bowels together on buckets placed around in a circle. They'd laugh, joke, curse, cry, and enjoy the break from the battlefield. Of course, they'd go back out to be part of their generational force of death or curse. But, they had their moments of grace.
Yes, unlike those boys, we have clothes, makeup, and high-heeled boots on. But, I'm telling you, stuff is going down. Shit is happening. A lot of other people don't care or won't relate.
Community helps. I would die in my natural loneliness without it (although, paradoxically, I must learn to live in my loneliness comfortably).
Merci le Dieu. La vie est etrange and belle. I want to be a part of it despite the difficulties!
Au revoir!

Wednesday, November 03, 2004


I swear that my life is about one thing and one thing only. On my lap, that thing rubs next to me before jumping down to play with a marble. Those thing(s) (it is a plural raison d'etre) need my butler, maid, and cook services. Seems like every time, I look at my door, I see an imploring head with ears, with whiskers staring steadfastedly at me. Boring a hole into my blindness. Telling me how things are in the cold, hungry world. Every so often, they show me a big mole, or a baby rabbit, or a shredded bird. They say, "That Meow Mix is dry. You force us, you know." I know, and I'm sorry so I let them in. Trixie (the babiest) was born in May to Cassie (the cuddly calico); Sammy, old, grumpy, is beautiful with creative&stark black and white markings. He growls upon the other cats' approach. He is the untouchable, czar-ish. I serve.

Serving is common when you love, I guess. These past days, I've been serving, researching my son's chronic cough. I looked at all the lung diseases on a helpful site, and I've conferred with the doctor. Seven-nine months out of the year for the past 4-5 years. Too much suffering. Surely the doctors can help us. Today, after my crown replacement (too much candy pulled it off!! The dentist is a friend, and he made fun of me!), I went to the pediatrician's next door and talked to her, and we have a plan. Blood work. Lung x-ray. More allergy tests. Another Cystic Fibrosis test. Sinus medicine. Scripts and more scripts. C'mon now. It's gotta be found. We go to an endicrinologist on November 11th due to his delayed growth. Surely all of these physical/neurotic symptoms fit together. I'm not going to stop searching. Please, help, divine mother and father, uncover. I love him so much.

The election, c'est fini! Kerry conceded this morning to Bush. Although not an overt Bush supporter at all, I agree that the transitionary new government phase will be avoided this way. Our country probably needs as much security as we can get.

I have much to do today (tomato soup to eat on the stove. Love tomato soup; florentine tomato soup is wonderful, probably easy to imitate and make. Soup is soothing. Tells me that 'things will get done' and 'life will be lived in a good, deep, interesting manner'. Need the soup. Slurp.). Our Wednesday evening group meets tonight, and I've not focused much. All I'll have to do with the larger group is to introduce a dance number and a speaker. My details, though, have not tied together well this week. I think it will go well, though.

Until another day,

Monday, November 01, 2004

Soybean field to doom

Tomorrow is the election. The weather forbodes, slashing sprinkles everywhere at all minutes of the day. Will I have an elated daughter or a dejected son? Will I face my choice and darken in the Democratic circle? Will I stop talking in questions after tomorrow? Perhaps the third party is the way to go, like through a field instead of taking two marked, well-known, established roads?
Speaking of fields, here I am, fieldfleur, and I haven't been to one for a long time. At least not a southern field. A couple of weeks ago my son and I tromped through a central Missouri one because we found a creek that we decided to get a closer look at.
We went through soybeans and briars, and we arrived at the steep bank which was covered with roots, stray beans, and mud. We went down, and we didn't stop. The mud was slime; the slime was snotty-slick, and we slid. I stopped on a root. Cody was in the water's edge. I decided to laugh at him in order to waylay his frantic anxiety.
"Ha, ha [more natural laugh than this], you're stuck! Just lift your foot up and climb on out, Mountain Goat! What an adventure!"
But, he continued crying wildly, screaming, "Help! Help me! I hate this farm! Help!"
I laughed out of anxiety some more, but he really was stuck. To retrieve him, I slid down the dark mud into the water, and it was then I realized that the snotty-slick mud sloped steeply down in the creek, and I was up to my thigh already before I lunged for the bank.
No more humor.
Somehow, I got behind him, fastened my foot sideways into the mud, and hoisted him up. My arm and legs were wet with water in the cool fall day. Yet, I felt like I was in a survival mode. Cody grabbed onto a root, and with intense coaching made it up behind a tree, nearer to the open field above. I crawled up on my knees and hugged a couple of trees before I made it out.
The rest of the day, we would retell our drama to one another. "Yeah, I couldn't believe it." "We were lucky we made it." "I never want to go to a creek around here anymore." "Me neither."
A trip down south to the Ozarks is way overdue. I'm getting a bit better on the mandolin. The trees are dropping, swirling, their leaves. Mom and Dad are waiting and bored for children. The fields are shedding, piece by piece, the brown weeds. It would be a wonderful, refreshing walk outside away from the world.
We'll see .........