FEBRUARY, A TIME TO REFLECT ON THE MEANING OF LOVE

Wedding Day, August 8, 1958

My husband is not particularly “romantic”.   He does not always know the right thing to say, when it needs saying.  He has difficulty expressing emotions, but then, so do most members of his family.  Spontaneous hugs rarely happen among them.   I am more expressive, and  I am an emotionally needy person.  Since that is my nature, there have been times when I yearned for the  gestures  that  are commonly considered  “romantic”.  There have even been discussions on this topic over the years,  and tears shed on my part,  because I am also prone to the occasional dark mood of depression .  When these discussions took place, I could  see the  confusion on his face,   the complete lack of understanding and  the  “What are you talking about? “ look, followed by the comment, “I am sorry.  I will try to do better”.    At least for a while,  bouquets of flowers,  purchased for no reason at all,  would appear,  and there would be  an unexpected hug,  or my hand reached  for without my initiating it.  Eventually, however, life would slowly return  to the usual.

The Usual.

I have now accepted with total and complete conviction, that the “usual” from my sweet husband is just fine and more than I often deserve. This man is exceptional in his goodness in so many ways, there is nothing wrong with “the usual”.    I have never had to question a roving eye, suffer any type of physical or emotional abuse, endure any character or life-destroying addictions or vices, observe  any mean-spirited behavior toward me, our children or  anyone else.  I have never feared  betrayal of any sort.  He has been an exceptional father and grandfather.   He is dependable, kind, considerate, generous, witty , fun-loving, and honest beyond exception.  Although he grew up  at a time when there were distinct traditional male/female roles, strictly adhered to in his home,  he supported me in my wish to return to college and earn a degree .  He assisted in every aspect of child rearing and household chores along the way,  and continues to do so today.  There have never been arguments over money, or how to spend it, and it has always been considered “ours” and not “his”, even when I earned none.  He has been patient through my “dark” periods  of depression and former bouts with PMS.   I have always had complete freedom to pursue any personal interests, come and go anywhere I wish at will.  There are controlling  husbands, but  I do not have one of them.  We have always appreciated and supported the need to have personal time, so I have never felt stifled in any way.   For fifty-two years, he has shown his love for me in so many  significant, though often unrecognized or fully appreciated, ways.  When  he invited my ailing brother, whom he hardly knew and had seen only a few times, to come and live with us and daily treats him with such kindness and respect,  he expressed   his love for ME, in a way that is more valuable than a single one of  a zillion other silly things I used to think were important.  In comparison, they are meaningless. To top that off, he has brought me a cup of coffee in bed almost every single morning of our married life simply because to him,  I am  “Queen Marie”.

I feel blessed.  I am grateful.  I love Tom and feel loved by him.  I thank God that it was he whom I married and who is the father of my children.

Marie, February 5, 2010

HAIR CUT

“I feel pretty, oh so pretty. . . “  Well, maybe not as pretty as that song would lead you to believe, but I do feel better.  I just had my hair cut at a beauty shop.  With the exception of about three or four times, I have cut my own hair for over ten years.  I got a really bad cut in Mission, Texas way back then, by a Hispanic woman who could not speak English very well.  Something was lacking either, in my communication abilities or her cosmetology skills, and I ended up with a cut I felt like covering with a hat or scarf!  Since I wear my hair in a simple swing bob anyhow, and have so little of it and what I do have is as thin as tissue paper, I figured, heck, might as well stand in front of one mirror with another behind me on the door and do it myself.  While the results have been unpredictable and many times as bad as or worse than that historic cut, at least it was free.  I may retire as a hair cutter, as this one is not too bad today.

Marie

I AM NOT GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY!

I do not like what I see in the mirror.  I do not like the aches and pains of arthritis. I do not like the decline in stamina, muscle tone, good vision, hearing, libido and memory.   I do not like age spots, wrinkles, or bags under my eyes.  I simply do not.  Sure, these wrinkles on my face are supposed to represent “character”.  Sure, I am supposed to be (and am) glad that my wrinkled hands work, my wrinkled, saggy body functions as well as it does, and that I CAN see, hear and do so much. I know many other 71-year olds are not even this fortunate. It is not that I lived my life seeking beauty.  Heck, I have never had a professional manicure, acrylic nails, pedicure or body massage.   I have not wanted to and do not want to now.  I have cut and colored my own hair for years, and keeping up with the latest fashion has not been a priority, ever.  I sewed my own clothes for years and now I buy almost all of them at a Goodwill store!  I have never been obsessed with weight loss or weight gain.  I do not consider myself vain, valuing physical beauty over inner beauty, but gosh,  it is so discouraging to feel I have to wear long sleeves all the time, no matter what the temperature,  to cover arms that look more like the skin of a starving elephant than the human arms I remember from my past.  It is so discouraging to have hair which seems to become thinner and thinner with each day that passes.  It is so discouraging to realize this is only the beginning of worse to come.  I must try to be more thankful for what I do have, good health, great husband, wonderful son, daughter, grandchildren, daughter-in-law, son-in-law, brothers and friends, and that they do not seem to mind WHAT I look like!  I must try harder to age gracefully.

October 17, 2009

YOU CANNOT TAKE ALL OF THE KENTUCKY AND TENNESSEE OUT OF ME

Sure, I have been living in Missouri since 1958.  Sure, I have adapted many of the ways of my “Northern” friends and neighbors.  I do not say “soda pop” anymore.  I do not say “Lite Bread” anymore.  I do not say “rag or sack” to denote a cloth or a paper bag anymore (although Tom still does), or “pack” for carrying something, and folks do not ask me as frequently “what part of the South are you from?   Yes, I have made some real progress toward acclimating myself to a different region.  For sure, I am far more liberal in my thinking than many of my Kentucky and Tennessee friends and relatives.  I enjoy live theater and orchestra music and I prefer baseball to basketball.   My experiences with food have certainly gone full circle.  I enjoy many different regional and ethnic foods.  I have eaten, and even cooked, such things as Boeuf Bourguignon a La Julia Child (I admit, I have her cookbooks), Coq au vin, Sauerbraten, Paella, Pozole, Spanakopita and Moussaka.  I prefer French Onion Soup to Campbell’s Tomato Soup.  You can keep your Velveeta and American Processed cheese and give me Gouda, Sharp Cheddar, Bleu, and Gruyère.   I have made, and like very much, Crepe Suzettes, Cherries Jubilee, Canola,  Bananas Foster and Black Forest Cake. I love the Italian food so popular here in St. Louis, and the Creole/Cajun foods of Louisiana, introduced to me by our son, Vincent.  With all of that said, I have to confess that sometimes I yearn to have some good ole’ Southern cookin’; foods that I used to eat often, like white beans, okra, boiled potatoes and meatloaf, macaroni  and cheese and fried chicken (haven’t had THAT in a long time).

Today, sitting on my stovetop is a huge pot of Collard and Turnip Greens from our garden and a pot of Black Eyed peas.  Come dinnertime, ( and I do say “dinner” instead of “supper” now) , I will bake some sweet potatoes, cook some turnips and make some cornbread.  Maybe I’ll “fry” a pork chop or two.  Certainly, I’ll accompany this meal with sliced onions and vinegar on the side.If I am ambitious enough, I may whip up an apple pie or a banana pudding for dessert.  I admit, I now season with Extra Virgin Olive oil instead of bacon grease or Fat Back Pork, and I do like my green beans a bit more “al dente” than those of my past.  Even with these  modifications,  I have to tell you, a good meal that reflects my Southern heritage is mighty hard to beat, no matter what else might be served anywhere in the world.

I Loved Her Before I Saw Her!

She was our first grandchild.  Her conception followed on the heel of two failed pregnancies, so she was never, for one single moment, taken for granted.  Both anxiety and anticipiration were daily companions for all of us.  We hoped that she would make it to full term. Her Mom spent the week before she was born in the hospital, hooked up to many monitors.  I sat in the room, listening to her little heartbeat, which was surprisingly strong and steady.   Thanks to expert high risk medical attention, the healthy diet and lifestyle of her Mom, and most important of all, daily prayers for her life and safety, she  was only four weeks short of achieving full term.  She weighed in at 6 lbs 4 oz, not bad for an early birth, and she passed the Apgar test, given one minute after birth to determine general health,  with excellent scores.  The birthing room was crowded, with Mom, Dad, doctor, nurses, and both grandmothers.  The grandfathers chose not to be witness to either something they perceived to be inappropriate to watch, or perhaps too traumatic.  After all, they are from a generation of men who anxiously awaited the birth of their own children in the comforts of the waiting room.

She was given the name of Jessica Ashley Renz.  She was welcomed with excitement and love into a large extended family, each of whom arrived at the hospital for an early introduction.   She moved from the intensive care ward of the hospital, where they take all preemies at least a short time for observation, to her home within a few days.  A huge stork sign greeted her and her parents in the yard, announcing her birth and welcoming her home.  This was a gift from Grandma and Grandpa Renz.  Unfortunately, colic interfered with her comfort, and the peacefulness and adequate rest of her parents for weeks, which seemed like many months.  After that was over, she was a placid baby, who made few demands beyond the notification of hunger or discomfort from a wet diaper.

We all adored Jessica from the first heartbeat we heard, and continues to do so.  She has always been a delight to all who have been lucky enough to know her.  Her beauty was evident in each stage of her development; from a tiny baby to the fourteen-year-old teenager she is now.  She inherited her physical attributes from the Renz side of her family, a complexion that is peaches and cream in its perfection, a body that is tall and slim in stature, with long arms and legs.  Her disposition leans more toward that side of the family too, quiet and dignified, and perhaps a bit shy until she really knows a person.

Jessica is growing into a lovely young woman, beautiful inside and out.  She is intelligent, sensitive, caring and considerate.  She wants to please and would never willingly do anything to hurt another person’s feelings (well perhaps on occasion, her sister’s), and she is a person of deep faith.  She can be counted on for prayers of healing, protection, or other blessings. She is talented, with special abilities at swimming very fast and for long distances, and as an artist, who loves to draw.  After visits to our house, she has left behind wonderful drawings and messages to us, which we treasure and I save in my “Memory” box.  She has been willing and interested in exploring many different extracurricular activities, including dance, gymnastics, swimming, volleyball, violin and keyboard.  She is a good student, whose favorite subjects are science related ones, and an excellent daughter and granddaughter. She loves to read, and spends hours doing so.   She loves to help her Mom, and me, cook and serve food.  She is patient and kind with younger cousins and the children of friends.  She will be a terrific Mother, someday.

Jessica started her first year of high school last week.  She is attending Cor Jesu Academy, an all-girl’s parochial school, with very stringent standards for acceptance.  She is excited about high school and delighted that Molly, her best friend, was also accepted there.  I look back at the past fourteen years, which have passed so quickly, and realize how blessed all of us have been to have Jessica in our lives.  I know she is changing, growing into a young woman, and that before the blink of an eye, she will be dating.  I am positive that there will NEVER be a boy, or man, worthy enough of her attention.  My prayer now is that when she does start dating, she will be treated with the utmost respect and kindness, and that eventually she will find a person to love who will treasure the person she is, and who will make her feel like the princess she is to us.

Marie

August 27, 2009

The Many Faces of Jenna

JENNA

How do I begin to describe this little girl?  I could start with her present physical description.  She is a petite eleven year old.  She has the distinction of being the shortest, or almost, of any other player on any of the team sports she is involved with; volleyball, basketball, or softball.  Never mind that minor fact, she holds her own as a good team player!  Her tiny face, liberally sprinkled with freckles,  especially prominent in the summertime, breaks into a broad smile with the slightest provocation.  She has brown hair, not quite to her shoulders.  It is often in need of a brushing, but she is just too busy having fun or doing something else to be bothered with such a minor thing as that.  She is thin, limber, and in each stage of life so far, she reminds me so much of  Alison, her mother, at the same age, both in appearance and in personality.

I could describe her abilities.  She is smart and talented.  She could read before she started kindergarten and all of us soon learned we could no longer spell words we did not want her little ears to hear.  She has broad and varied interests.  At various times she has shown an interest in designing fashions, or interiors.  She has spent hours, quietly drawing pictures and adding captions.  There have been page after page of “Jenna’s Designs”, covering clothing needs for all seasons, with both “fancy”, (she loves fancy) and casual wear. As she so aptly put it on one of her design pictures, “Nothing is better than some nice style. ”  She is a creative artist, and loves to design and draw – anything.   .  She veered off from fashion designs to designing rooms, for a brief time.  This girl loves color, and she sees no problem at all in a bedroom with maybe two very pink and two bright orange walls.  In fact, she was successful in persuading her Daddy to paint her room in some such combination.  She has even sat for several hours, designing a board game.  I took her shopping once, to spend some of her Christmas money.  It is not easy for her to spend her own money, and although she wanted a particular board game, she would not turn loose of her cash for it.  She said, “I’ll make one like it”.  She spent the rest of that weekend at our house doing just that! Lately, her creativity is leaning more toward writing.  She has been interested in that, off and on  for several years.  Unfortunately, she gets stuck, unable to develop her plot, and gives up on a particular story and starts another one, never finishing any.  She loves to cook, and to watch cooking shows.  Her artistic nature surfaces in her desire that the “presentation” of the food should be attractive.  I am sure a lot of this has come from watching the cooking shows on TV.  When she was about three or so, and had misbehaved, her Dad told her she could not watch the cartoon show on TV that she liked,  meaning she could not watch any TV, but he failed to say that specifically.   She replied, “That’s OK, I like cooking shows”.  She, and her sister Jessica, have “helped” both their Mom and me in the kitchen since they were old enough to stand on a stool and reach the counter.

I could describe her energy level.  Like a tightly wound spring, she seems to just be waiting to be released, and when she is, she runs, jumps, bounces and moves.  About the only time she is still is when she is drawing, writing, or watching TV.  Her bedroom at our house is next to ours.  Often at night we hear, “thump”, “thump”, as Jenna practices some gymnastic move she has learned!  She turns summersaults in the back yard and rides her bike at home. No wonder she is thin.  That girl burns calories before they ever settle in her tummy.

I could describe her entrepreneurial nature.  She is always looking for an angle to earn a little money.  When she was about eight, and heavily into story writing, she offered to use Tom, her PaPaw’s name,  in her story, IF he paid her a quarter.  Another time, both she and Jessica were whipping out finger crochet chains right and left, fast as could be, and forming them into circles that they called “bracelets”. Jessica, who is extremely generous to everyone, gave us several.  Jenna offered to sell hers to us for a quarter each!  Her bedroom is a disaster zone most of the time, with everything she owns seemingly on the floor or under the bed.  I think she plans it this way, knowing that eventually her Mom or Dad will offer to pay her to clean it up!  She likes to earn it, but she does not like to spend her own money, especially if she can figure out a way to get her grandparents or parents to fork over the cash for this or that.  Once we went to Six Flags over America, near St. Louis, with the kids and their parents.  Jenna was about four then.  We had given each of the girls $5.00 to spend that day. Well, she just loved the Carnival area there, where you could take your chance at winning  “made in China”  item, worth nothing.  Gary allowed them to throw a ball or two, but then suggested we move on, explaining that it was just junk and hard to win and not worth spending money on.  Jenna had a melt down.  She threw a fit!  She sat down and cried and cried.  Daddy tried all manner of reason, but nothing seemed to help.  Tom and I, as grandparents, quietly watched, wishing the screaming would end. Finally, he said, “Well, if you want to, spend your own money here, go ahead”.  She promptly replied, “No, I don’t want to WASTE  my money!  I want you to pay.” That’s Jenna.   With that said, she came home from school one day, after the disastrous Katrina, and emptied her entire piggy bank, which held close to $200.00, I believe I heard, and took it all to school to donate to the relief fund for the people in New Orleans.

I could describe her personality, or try.  She is witty and cheerful.  She loves to joke around.  She generally wakes up in the morning before Jessica does, in a good mood and ready for action.  We bought a white noise machine for each of their bedrooms because one weekend they spent with us,  Jenna and I made too much noise the next morning, laughing and having fun as we a card game.  We woke Jessica up way BEFORE she was ready to get up.  She explained to us that we had been extremely rude to make so much noise, which was true!  Jessica and I are similar, in that we need to slowly move into the new day, while Jenna bursts into it more times than not, and attempts to draw the rest of the family into the action.  Jenna can drive her older sister crazy, wanting to do whatever she is doing, and to be wherever she is at a given moment.  Although she is not likely to admit it, she loves Jessica very much, but she can surly be a pest to her at times.

Finally, I could describe her sense of justice.  She does not like it one bit if she thinks anyone is treating someone else unfairly for no reason.  Actually, both Jessica and Jenna are this way.  She has developed an interest in the Civil Rights movement of the Sixties, and Rosa Parks is her hero!  She was so happy that a black man, Barack Obama, was elected president of the United States.  She would never even think of saying anything mean about any child with a handicap, or staring unnecessarily at them.  She is patient and kind with younger children, as is Jessica.  She will patiently spend time playing with our four-year-old neighbor, following her around and keeping a watchful eye on her, simply because Haley wants to play.

We are so fortunate, first to have such a good daughter and son-in-law, to guide and teach our grandchildren.  They do things differently from what we did, and probably from what Gary’s folks did as parents, but no one can dispute the good results of well-adjusted  kids who are smart, kind, generous, and fun loving.  The goodness of these girls is a testament to their love, wisdom, patience, and the amount of personal time that their parents devote to every aspect of their lives.  We are thankful for them, and for Jessica and Jenna.

Marie,

proud Memaw of Jessica and Jenna

August 27, 2009

Beautiful Granddaughter, Vintage Dress

It was hanging in a consignment shop when I saw it, about fifteen or twenty years ago.  The actual time is a blur now.  I noticed the perfection of it.  This simple, yet elegant dress had tiny seed pearls around the rim of the neckline, a slightly dropped waist, princess seam lines in the bodice, elbow length sleeves, which were lightly shirred, twenty-five tiny covered buttons, fastened by loops, that cascaded down the back, and it was tea length.  There was no brand label inside.  I knew someone had made this dress for a very special occasion, probably a wedding.  As a seamstress, I recognized the fine workmanship and the intense labor that went into this work of wearable art.  I don’t remember how much they were asking for the dress, but I had to have it.  Never mind that it is probably a size 1, and nothing I could ever fit into.  Never mind that even if I could have fit into it, I had absolutely no need for such a dress – no appropriate place to wear it.  I did not even have a granddaughter at that time, but for some reason I felt a compulsion to buy that dress, and I did.  I don’t remember what I paid for it, but it was probably something like $8.00, as I think that is the price range of the clothing in that shop at that time.  I bought it, and it just hung in the closet.  When we decided to live the nomad life, traveling around in our camper, I got rid of all but a few things that were nice enough for church or dinner out someplace special, and kept mostly casual things.  I did not get rid of this dress!  I packed it away into a plastic container and stashed it in the basement.  Don’t ask me why I removed it from there, and hung it in the bedroom closet of the room that we refer to as “Jessica’s Room”, but that is what I did when we returned to the house after about ten years of wandering.

Jessica is fourteen now, graceful, slim, tall, and absolutely stunning.  I never mentioned the dress to her, but she tells me she had seen it in the closet many times, and thought, “That  is a pretty dress”.  Well, this weekend she surprised me.  She came out of the bedroom, barefoot, wearing that dress.  She looked drop dead gorgeous in it.  She needed help buttoning it in the back, which I gladly did.  I insisted we had to take some pictures of her wearing “my” dress.  She loves to pose for me, so we took lots of them.  It fits almost perfectly now, but could use a tiny bit more filling up in the top.  Give her another year and I think that will be nicely taken care of.  She insists that someday she will wear it to a school dance.  Her little sister, Jenna, who considers herself a “fashion consultant” tells her it  is  ”old fashioned” looking.  Her Mom and I tell her it is beautiful on her, and a “classic style”.  We’ll see if this orphaned dress ever gets worn again in a festive place.  If not, it can continue to grace my closet, giving me the pleasure of remembering how perfect it looked on  Jessica, the day,  without any prompting, she tried it on.

August 25, 2009

He Is My Brother, and I LOVE HIM

He, Robert Thomas (Tommy) Yates,  is kind, generous beyond reason, helpful, friendly and extremely social, as well as boastful.  He absolutely loves to talk – to ANYONE, ANYTIME, ANYWHERE!  He talks to receptionist at doctor offices, nurses, doctors, and clerks in any store, bank, or restaurant, to neighbors or strangers he meets on his walks.  Folks in a doctor’s waiting room are captive prey.    A person taking a walk or working in the yard on his walking route is at mercy to his tales.  He is cunning and knows just how to get attention.  First, he will complement them on their “dog”, “cat”, “child”, beautiful flowers or yard.   They will hear, whether they want to or not, how he had seven operations this past year, including a total knee replacement.  He is proud of that, and may even pull up his pant legs and show them his scar.  This is impressive, especially after they learn that he walks three miles a day (with conversation breaks, of course).   He loves to talk about gardening, and tell folks about our battles with deer that nibble on flowers and vegetables.  Yes, he has many stories to tell, and we have probably heard them all a hundred times.  A meal can bring a memory of “When I cooked on the boat”, and off he goes telling us how he cooked this or that and how the men all loved it.

My brother is unique in many ways.  His arms and some areas of his chest are decorated with crude tattoos.  By crude, I do not mean vulgar; just extremely poor art work, done by friends when he was very young, and the artist were too.  He was a natural guinea pig for anyone wishing to practice their craft, and willingly allowed them to work on him with their very basic, and no doubt, unsanitary, tools.  He will forever sport the name “Cindy”, and when you ask you will learn that she was just a friend, not a sweetheart.  Now he is embarrassed about his tattoos, and says he would have them removed if it didn’t cost so much.  Somehow, they seem appropriate for him, and  they are a statement of the life he lived in the past, as an emotionally needy little boy who would do almost anything to please others, including allowing friends, to practice their art on him.

In addition to tattoo’s, his body, especially his hands, is adorned with scars from burns he received in a home fire at the age of five. He spent almost a year in a Shriner’s Hospital, undergoing skin grafts and therapy to learn to use those badly burned hands, and learn to he did! He spent most of his life doing all sorts of hard manual labor with them, and takes pride in the fact that he paid taxes and earned his own way.

Life has not been easy for him.  When he was released from the hospital, he came home to a place and people he never expected and was not prepared for.  He came home to an absent father, two sisters and a brother, all of whom died in the fire.  He came home to a place in Kentucky, not Tennessee where he had lived his first five years.  He also came home to a stepfather, whom he had never met, and deprivation of the most basic of needs, including adequate food.  Most damaging of all, he came home to abuse and neglect.  It is no wonder that this little boy, so traumatized by the fire itself, his injuries, separation from the family for almost a year, and a totally different family dynamic, wet the bed almost each night for a long time.  At a time when he needed love, understanding, and compassion, he was severely punished by the wicked stepfather for wetting the bed, and anything else that his evil mind thought warranted correction.  Nothing in his life was what it had been before, and everything was very bad in comparison.  Eventually, at the age of eight, court intervention catapulted him into the previously unknown nightmare of the foster care system.  In many ways, it was as bad and in some cases, worse than the home he was taken from. Although he does not dwell on it, or talk about it often, now and then it comes up, usually to explain why he thinks he never learned to read or write.  From the age of eight until fourteen, he was in many places; some were farms where work took preference over education.  One was The Kentucky Boy’s Home, near Kentucky Lake, which was apparently a place right out of Oliver Twist.

For whatever reason, he did not learn to read or write.  He tells us teachers, when he did attend school, put him in the back of the room and gave him a sheet of paper with arithmetic on it and otherwise ignored him.  He learned to do basic addition and subtraction, but not to read.  He admits to playing hooky a lot before he was put in the foster homes, and that he misbehaved in school when he was there.  Reason dictates that there were probably many factors that contributed to his illiteracy; the emotional turmoil of the fire, physical separation from the family, abuse, hunger, neglect, lack of encouragement or assistance from teacher, no role models to pattern after,  relocations to many different school settings.  Perhaps also, there may have been some damage to the brain from the effects of the fire itself.  He has accepted not being able to read or write and shows no interest in learning now.  I believe it is because he is afraid he would not be able to and has managed to get along all these years without knowing how.

Foster care ended at the age of fourteen, when he was returned to live with our mother and stepfather.  Life had not improved there, so he did not tarry long.  He went to live with Aunt Pearl and Uncle “Dobbie”, our mother’s sister and brother-in-law.  They lived nearby.  He worked a laundry in Paducah for two years, and helped them buy groceries with his earnings.  He left that job at eighteen and took one as a deck hand for a riverboat company.  He was on a boat more than off, for forty-one years afterwards, and became known as “Towboat Tommy” to many friends.  It became the closest thing to a home that he had known since the fire.  He loved the work, felt important and useful, and found the trips up and down the mighty Mississippi  exciting, though hard and dangerous work in harsh climates.  Over the years, he suffered several severe injuries, one when a tow hit him in the eye, nearly blinding him in it and another when his right leg was crushed between two barges.  Twice, he fell into the river and had to be rescued.  Eventually,  after arthritis and age made doing deck work too dangerous for him, he was trained to cook for the crew.  I asked how he could cook, when he did not know how to read recipes.  He explained that he watched the cook and  that didn’t cook anything fancy.  His meals were things like Chile, BBQ, fried catfish and chicken, beans, and breakfasts for fried potatoes, eggs, bacon and gravy.  One captain from Louisiana even requested Red Beans and Rice on Monday’s, as he was used to.  He taught him how to make that.  He is very proud of his years as cook!

Tommy married twice during those earlier years, and again when he was near fifty.  The first two marriages each lasted about one year.  While he was rarely at home, his paycheck went directly to the wife.  Apparently, they liked it that way; steady check, absent husband.  One marriage ended, he said, because his wife did not like for him to work on the boat.  The other ended when he returned home unexpectedly and discovered that wife in bed with his best friend.

As long as he had money he was an easy target for “loans”, which were never paid back, and for the purchase of  expensive items, like cars, for half-brothers, friends, or acquaintances who, momentarily showed him attention and let him know of their needs/wants.  There was a settlement for the eye injury.  His lawyer encouraged and assisted him in investing  most of his share of the money, so he could draw interest on it.  Everyone knew about his new “wealth”, and it was during that time that he became everyone’s friend and both they and family took advantage of him unmercifully.   As I understand it from Tommy and others who knew, one “friend” suggested he go into a flea-market, used car business with him and leave the riverboat life.   He suggested he withdraw the money he had invested and put it into a safe deposit box on the premise, readily available when needed for the business.  Tommy said he went to work every day, arriving early and staying late.  His partner only worked on occasion.  One day Tommy went to the safe deposit box and found it empty.  He complained, and the partner fired him!  He went to see the lawyer, who pointed out that there was absolutely nothing that could be done.  There were no legal documents of any sort that proved a partnership.  Everything had been word of mouth.  That was the end of his business venture and his money.  He returned to work as a dock hand, working for a different company, with a half-blind eye and as a penniless person once more, but no less trusting than before, unfortunately.

During those years, my brother developed a love of alcohol.  A lot of his time off duty from the boat was spent in bars, where he would treat his friends to free drinks, and of course, he had a lot of them as long as the money lasted.  He tells us he never drank on the job; that they were not allowed to bring it on the boat.  Eventually his drinking got so bad, when he was not working he would have a shot of whiskey before he had a cup of coffee in the morning, and he would be in the bar every day until time to return to the boat.  It is not at all uncommon for some wounded souls to mask emotional pain and suffering with drugs or alcohol.  Of course, while alcohol IS a drug, he does not see it that way, and hastens to point out that “I never did drugs though”.  Most of his income went to support the alcohol and the cigarettes he became addicted to, and buying friendships.  That changed when he was near fifty.  At that time, he met and married a woman who was truly old enough to be his mother.  I have always felt he was looking for the love of a mother in her.  Geneva had been married three times before, but was widowed when they met.  She had grown children, one older than my brother.  She pursued him, they both said, and they married a few months after meeting.  As his story goes, she told him that two of her husbands had been heavy drinkers, and that she wished he would not drink.  There was a carton of beer in the refrigerator at the time of that conversation.  He said he took it next door and gave it to the neighbor, and that he never drank again.  Geneva died of congestive heart failure after they had been married about five years.

Tommy came to live with us on February 4, 2008.  He was alone, and in very poor health.  He had just undergone surgery to clear a clogged artery, and his Type Two Diabetes was completely uncontrolled.  He walked with a cane,  breathed heavily from the onset of emphysema.  His right shoulder pained him so badly he could hardly sleep, and he had bone-on-bone in his right knee.  He needed help.    In spite of all his many health problems, which now include a slow-growing prostate cancer, and all that he has endured throughout his life, he never complains.

The transition has gone well for both him and for us.  True, he can test my patience, since I have less of it than my husband does, with his incessant talking, which starts early in the morning when I don’t do well with even a “hello”, much less a long monologue, and lasts until his “good night folks” in the evening when he retires to his room.  He is known to interrupt a conversations, much as a child will do before they are taught differently.  He talks during TV shows and critiques commercials, deeming most of them “stupid”. He is unsophisticated and speaks a language almost foreign in the St. Louis area, with his poor grammar, unique pronunciation and very strong Southern Accent.  He starts many stories with “I ain’t lying”.  He craves attention and praise, which is understandable, since he had so little of it as a child.  Our lives, and his, have changed.  We have less freedom and more responsibility.  He gave up people he knew and had come to feel comfortable with, independence as he had known it before, driving and smoking.  Nevertheless, both he and we, have benefited from having him become a part of our family here.

His health has improved.  The diabetes is completely in control and he no longer has to have insulin, only medication.  He had a complete knee replacement, surgery on his right shoulder, cataract surgery and is now treated for glaucoma (undiagnosed before coming here).  Regular phlebotomies are keeping his haemochromatosis in check, and he had his broken dentures repaired.  He has no trouble breathing anymore, walks unassisted an average of three miles most days.  He has the immediate neighbors wrapped around his fingers, as he joyfully volunteers to trim the grass for one and sharpens the lawn mower for the other, and of course, refuses any pay for his efforts.  Everyone who meets him, likes him.  Simple things give him such pleasure.  He enjoys spending time with Alison, Gary, Jessica and Jenna.  He loves to go watch their sports games and to be a part of family celebrations.  He takes pleasure in attending church, going to Ted Drew’s, our favorite soft custard place,  or outdoor festivals during the summer. Much like a child, he beams with pleasure as he tells us about anyone who shakes his hand, pats him on the back, gives him a hug, or complements him on what he is wearing.  He feels loved and appreciated, and he no longer has the stress of wondering if his money will last through the month for food, shelter, or medicine.  He does not seem to mind no longer driving or smoking!

As for us, I am grateful for the opportunity to have this time with my brother,  to get to know him better, and to learn some important life lessons from him.  With his sweet nature, trusting spirit, and lack of bitterness in spite of all that has happened to him, he has taught me a lot about the importance of forgiveness. His arrival in our home has made me even more aware of the special man I married.  I recognize him as the remarkable person he is to have willingly accepted my brother into our family, and for being such a good companion, friend, and teacher to him. He treats him with such understanding and respect.  Although it is not possible to have an in-depth intellectual discussion on politics, social events, movies, a good book, or even a TV show, he never “talks down” to him.  He interacts at his level and at the same time manages to show him how to do new things, or points out a different perspective on a topic without being obvious in his doing so. His excellent qualities as a teacher surface in his patience and with his “show and tell, and then you try”, approach to the use of a new shop tool or any task that is unfamiliar to my brother.  I watched them cane some chairs this past winter, and while my brother’s stiff fingers did not have the necessary dexterity required for the  weaving, he was a constant “assistant”, cutting, wetting, and handing Tom each of the strips of caning material that was used.   My brother did the sanding and refinishing of those chairs, so both took pride in their accomplishments. I admire his desire to “help” Tom, and he truly does help him, mow, trim the yard, work in the garden, wash the truck or car, tinker in the basement shop, etc. This guy loves to organize and Tom’s shop and the garage greatly benefited from his skill and efforts.  His room is never disordered nor his bed left unmade.   He is very appreciative and gracious.   He NEVER gets up from the table without thanking me for preparing whatever it was that I made for us to eat, and always tells me “how good it  is”.  Of course, he loses some credibility as a food critic by never pointing out anything negative, and declaring everything is delicious, no matter how bad might be.  He thanks us for each and every thing we do for him, no matter how simple it is

In conclusion, my brother is a special and good man.  I love him, and I am thankful for whatever time God allows me to spend with him.

Marie Chaney

August 21, 2009

SLOP!

Yes!  My Grandma’s slop bucket is what this reminds me of.  All summer I have been “composting” kitchen waste. My powerful Vita Mix Food Processor,  formerly seldom-used, now sits out on the counter all the time, and into it goes the peelings, trimmings, corn husks (cut into smaller pieces with kitchen scissors), onion skins, herb trimmings, coffee and tea grounds, peach seeds, and even used paper towels. I pour in some water and chop it all up, so it will decompose faster. Each time I process a batch I pour it into a covered plastic container that holds about three or four gallons.  It sits on the deck outside the kitchen door, until Tom makes a daily run out the spot behind our garden, where he dumps grass clippings, leaves, and other such yard waste over it.  It is turned frequently and slowly but surely, decomposes and turns into a rich, dark mixture that is supposed to be great for gardening. It is astonishing how much we have accumulated this summer.  There is absolutely no odor, and pests have not bothered to get into the compost.  As I recall, Mamaw used to throw all kitchen “garbage” into a large bucket that sat in the kitchen.  Even dishwater, I believe, was dumped into it.  That mixture was called “slop” and fed to the pigs. I hope this rich compost, which is lessening the disposable waste and therefore supposed to be an environmentally friendly thing to do, will grow some great plants next spring and summer, to feed the human pigs of our family.