Posts
Memorial Day brings memories of friends and family who have passed away and of time spent at various cemeteries on this day. Besides my own family and loved ones, I most often associate this day with my high school and college friend George Brian Allison. His is one of the 50,000 or so names engraved on the Viet Nam Memorial Wall. It is his death in that war that has left me always questioning the minds and the motivations of leaders who decide to send young people into battle. How does one differentiate national defense from something different than the desire to dominant regions and resources for purposes of national self interest?
George was a complicated guy; an impish redheaded, freckle-faced boy. He was simultaneously funny, friendly, sarcastic, smiling, sneering, creative, aloof, and downright difficult to deal with. We spent a lot of time together through junior high and high school. Shop class is one of the memorable scenes I associate with George at school. We talked a lot as we worked on our projects. We stuck pretty close together, always working at the same table and doing similar projects.
Driver's Ed was another similar case. George had the most hilarious laugh. When he got tickled, his nose and lips would curl and contort and his pale complexion turn a rosy red, as a humorous or tense moment got the best of him. And believe me, Driver's Ed provided us with many a funny time as we sat in the back seat while some very inept students attempted three-point turn arounds and parallel parking in the 1962 Chevrolet stick shift vehicle. The harder we tried not to laugh out loud, the more difficult it became.
Heading off to college at Northeastern State in Tahlequah is another unforgettable time. We each had packed our stuff into our cars and drove our two car convoy down the main street of Chelsea and out Highway 28 toward Adair. He was driving that green 1953 two door Chevy, the one his folks bought new and then gave to him when he turned 16 in 1963. I was driving the 1951 Ford two door hardtop that I had bought from the Simmons family after it had sat parked along Route 66 in Chelsea for quite a while. It was a solemn but exciting Sunday morning.
When George was killed in Viet Nam in April, 1968, I felt so bad for his parents, John and Mildred. I only saw them a couple of times after his death. Years later, on a Memorial Day in the late-1990s, I called them and enjoyed a nice talk.
More recently, I saw Wayne Stinnett, who is now married to George's sister and enjoyed talking about George and getting an update on the family. John and Mildred have passed on by now. Last year, I also talked to Lloyd Huffman who still lives in Chelsea. He is friends with George's nephew, Donnie McPheeters. Lloyd obtained some pictures of George and the 1953 Chevy which George had done a lot of work on prior to his death. I am now happy to have electronic copies of those photos.
In earlier years, my memories of Memorial Day involve time spent with my cousin Bobby Middleton at Salem Cemetery, a small rural cemetery southeast of Henryetta, Oklahoma. I recall the two of us sitting in his family's red 1959 Rambler station wagon listening to the radio broadcast of the Indianalpolis 500 race while the older folks decorated the graves of our ancestors. A large family gathering of aunts, uncles, and cousins was usually held at Nichols Park in the afternoon.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
TWILIGHT TIME IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN
Twilight time in the Garden of Eden and surprised I have not been
thrown out.
Heavenly shades of night surround me, sitting on a lawn chair in
the doorway of my garage.
Towering pines across the street form a majestic silhouette against
the whitish gray sky.
A cool evening breeze caresses my face as I admire once
lowly yaupon scrubs; since transformed into massive sculptures.
The gas light by the walk lights up the coy faces of pansies and
highlights the grille of the new Civic, dwarfed beside an aging Acura.
Yes, at times like this, I do believe, I occupy a better place than
Adam or Eve.
For it is my choice to rest here and be the one who decides,
when from the garden I will leave.
Will I return? Who can say?
But for now I dwell here at the end of a beautiful day.
thrown out.
Heavenly shades of night surround me, sitting on a lawn chair in
the doorway of my garage.
Towering pines across the street form a majestic silhouette against
the whitish gray sky.
A cool evening breeze caresses my face as I admire once
lowly yaupon scrubs; since transformed into massive sculptures.
The gas light by the walk lights up the coy faces of pansies and
highlights the grille of the new Civic, dwarfed beside an aging Acura.
Yes, at times like this, I do believe, I occupy a better place than
Adam or Eve.
For it is my choice to rest here and be the one who decides,
when from the garden I will leave.
Will I return? Who can say?
But for now I dwell here at the end of a beautiful day.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Saw My Father On The Bus Today
Saw my father on the bus today.
Imagine my surprise as I caught his gaze.
The western sun shown across his face,
Creating contrasts in shadow and light on a monitor
Hanging from the ceiling a few rows ahead.
There was no video or movie on the screen today,
As the glare of the late afternoon sun,
Transformed the monitor into a mystical mirror.
For the image of my father with life’s experience
Etched in each wrinkle, line, and lump,
Was only me after all, peering back across time.
Saw my father on the bus today.
The commute was oh so sweet.
Imagine my surprise as I caught his gaze.
The western sun shown across his face,
Creating contrasts in shadow and light on a monitor
Hanging from the ceiling a few rows ahead.
There was no video or movie on the screen today,
As the glare of the late afternoon sun,
Transformed the monitor into a mystical mirror.
For the image of my father with life’s experience
Etched in each wrinkle, line, and lump,
Was only me after all, peering back across time.
Saw my father on the bus today.
The commute was oh so sweet.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Tour of Henryetta - 2010
When Mom passed away, the funeral service was scheduled for Tuesday, January 19, 2010 at Shurden Funeral Home in Henryetta, Oklahoma. The Henryetta area is the geographic center of my family’s history from the early 1900s. Both Mom and Dad were born within 10 miles of town.
On Saturday prior to the funeral, we drove from Houston to Henryetta and checked in at the Henryetta Inn about 10:30 P.M. My sister Geraldine Williams and her husband Glenn had arrived the previous day and were staying in room 114. We were assigned room 120, a few doors down. Traveling with me were my wife, Judy, and our son, Jon.
We knocked on Geraldine’s door after placing our luggage in our room. She had asked us to stop by for a minute after we arrived. So we did and had a nice visit with them before going back to our room for the night.
We didn’t get up until around 10:00 A.M. on Sunday morning. Jon went to the lobby for coffee while Judy and I were getting ourselves ready. In the dining room, Jon saw Geraldine and Glenn who were just finishing their breakfast. They recommended we eat somewhere else as the food there was not so good.
So Judy, Jon, and I walked a block over to the café which is associated with a motel. This is a place where we have enjoyed eating in years past and it was still nice. There were customers at several tables and the staff was very friendly and attentive.
After that, we got together with Geraldine and Glenn and I suggested we take a drive around town to reminisce. The five of us fit into our Acura sedan ok. It was not the most comfortable arrangement for Judy who ended up in the center of the back seat but was good for a brief tour.
We first drove over to Cameron Field, stopping to read the sign about Troy Aikman on the old rock wall. Geraldine and I both commented on the significance of the wall in our memories of football games and Labor Day fireworks shows we had attended as kids. We noted the more recent addition of some sort of public health or services building on what used to be a vacant lot where I recall playing football games during our elementary football league seasons and later practiced junior high football during 7th grade as a young “Chick”.
I related my first memory of attending a high school football game at Cameron Field on a cold Friday night when I was maybe 9 years old. Dad, Geraldine, and I had gone to that game. She was a high school student and may have had a crush on one of the players. Also, my older cousin, Joe Middleton was suited up and probably played in the game.
I remember being very impressed by the shiny football helmets that the players had lined up in a neat row either on the bench or on the ground along the sideline while they did their calisthenics and other drills before the game. And of course the bold and excellent sound of music by the Henryetta band with its heavy drumbeats, the smell of cigar and cigarette smoke mingled with wafting aromas of popcorn, hotdogs, and coffee, all created quite an impression on me that night. The football players seemed to me to be some sort of gladiators preparing for battle, the pads and uniforms of the home team and the visitors under the bright lights of the stadium making for a rich and dramatic scene. I mentioned how my feet we so cold by the end of the game and remember shivering in the back seat of the car as the three of us left the parking area just inside the curve of the street which leads away from the stadium entrance over to east Main Street a block away.
From the stadium our Sunday afternoon tour took us over to Trudgeon Street and on west over the railroad tracks where Geraldine talked about the old Frisco Railroad Depot area where they used to drop dad off for work or pick him up after he had completed a run to Dennison and back as a brakeman back in the 1940s. The depot is gone and we speculated that the street must have been widened after the depot was removed because there didn’t seem to be much room there by the tracks for a depot today.
Arriving at Main again, we talked about the old Georgian Hotel where dad used to take me for haircuts. I think the barber was a man named Rogers. As we drove along, we must have commented on just about every building we passed. We took the first street south along the tracks, past what was once the Broadway feed store where dad would buy feed and supplies when we had horses and cows.
Our tour took us to Moore Street and we stopped in front of what had been the home of Geraldine’s best friend in high school, Cathy Parker. Geraldine recounted memories of Cathy and her mom, about how nice they both were and how they made her feel right at home there. I noted that Cathy’s father had been a barber in town and one day had come home for lunch, laid down on the bed, and died. That is something I believe happened while Geraldine was in high school.
Straight ahead, we could see the Henryetta Territorial Museum. It was not open for business but I suggested we park the car there and take a walk around. For quite a while, we moved slowly along the walkway surrounding the gazebo which sets just east of the museum building, reading the names of people listed on the individual bricks of the walk; stopping to comment on many familiar names; names of school friends, old family friends, and prominent family names of Henryetta. Eventually we made our way to the spot where the entry arch from the old high school building has been so nicely preserved. I noted that I had never entered beneath that arch while Geraldine spoke of her memory of doing so and of all our other family members who had attended there.
From there we walked north to the next block up 4th Street and crossed to the east side of the street, entering the alley which holds so many memories of years gone by. This is the alley that led to the rear entrance and parking area of the Square Deal grocery store, a place that is very very significant in our lives. That is where mom shopped and had a charge account, where Uncle Robert Middleton worked part-time as a butcher, and where as kids, we accompanied Mom each Saturday on her weekly grocery buying day.
Our tour took us on around and half a block north to Main Street;crossing to the north side. While we strolled along at a leisurely pace we commented on our memories of the various businesses that had been active in our days as residents of Henryetta, primarily during the 1950s. At some point we ended up in a store front where about four nice photos were displayed in the windows of what was probably once a clothing store in the 500 block of West Main. One of the photos was of a Labor Day parade which we speculated was probably around the end of World War II. Geraldine had already made mention of the award winning photographer, Joseph Hardin, and I assumed from the angle of the photograph that it must have been taken from his studio window or from the roof of his studio building across the street. Looking closely at the building in the center of the photo and then stepping out onto the sidewalk, we could verify that indeed building in that old photo was the building which still stands on the northeast corner of the intersection of 5th and Main Streets. The clue that clinched our assumption is the appearance of the second decorative brick stack along the top edge of the west wall of the building. Unlike the other similar stacks or columns, this one is missing its cement cap and appears to have been damaged in some way. It was in that same condition when the photo was taken some 60 plus years ago.
We continued our walk, stopping at the former post office building, now the library, and admiring the old Doughboy statue; getting a group picture in front of it.
No tour of Henryetta would be complete without pointing out and raving about the Patty Ann, that special landmark and outstanding restaurant of our youth. Just a half block west of the Patty Ann was the Henryetta Bakery where our Aunt Bertha Fulton worked for many years and where our family bought Freshy Bread and delicious pastries on many a Sunday night after attending evening services at our little family First Church of God on Barclay Street.
We then headed south on 6th Street, pointing out where dad had once worked as a mechanic at Tiger’s Garage. The upstairs portion of that building had housed Teen Town back in the 1950s and holds significant meaning for Geraldine and I, as well as for anyone who grew up in Henryetta during the 1950s.
The final leg of our little tour took us east along Broadway past the old Henryetta Hospital where Aunt Bertha had also worked and where our Uncle Robert had been treated more than once for severe burns received on the job at Eagle Picher Smelter.
We concluded our tour by recalling the old fire and police stations and the skating rink where I spent many Saturday nights in the time around 1956 to 1959. From there we completed the loop, walking the half block back to the museum parking lot.
This was my first walking tour of Henryetta. But over the years since we moved away, I have often driven around town and even took a bike tour of town about 10 years ago.
On Saturday prior to the funeral, we drove from Houston to Henryetta and checked in at the Henryetta Inn about 10:30 P.M. My sister Geraldine Williams and her husband Glenn had arrived the previous day and were staying in room 114. We were assigned room 120, a few doors down. Traveling with me were my wife, Judy, and our son, Jon.
We knocked on Geraldine’s door after placing our luggage in our room. She had asked us to stop by for a minute after we arrived. So we did and had a nice visit with them before going back to our room for the night.
We didn’t get up until around 10:00 A.M. on Sunday morning. Jon went to the lobby for coffee while Judy and I were getting ourselves ready. In the dining room, Jon saw Geraldine and Glenn who were just finishing their breakfast. They recommended we eat somewhere else as the food there was not so good.
So Judy, Jon, and I walked a block over to the café which is associated with a motel. This is a place where we have enjoyed eating in years past and it was still nice. There were customers at several tables and the staff was very friendly and attentive.
After that, we got together with Geraldine and Glenn and I suggested we take a drive around town to reminisce. The five of us fit into our Acura sedan ok. It was not the most comfortable arrangement for Judy who ended up in the center of the back seat but was good for a brief tour.
We first drove over to Cameron Field, stopping to read the sign about Troy Aikman on the old rock wall. Geraldine and I both commented on the significance of the wall in our memories of football games and Labor Day fireworks shows we had attended as kids. We noted the more recent addition of some sort of public health or services building on what used to be a vacant lot where I recall playing football games during our elementary football league seasons and later practiced junior high football during 7th grade as a young “Chick”.
I related my first memory of attending a high school football game at Cameron Field on a cold Friday night when I was maybe 9 years old. Dad, Geraldine, and I had gone to that game. She was a high school student and may have had a crush on one of the players. Also, my older cousin, Joe Middleton was suited up and probably played in the game.
I remember being very impressed by the shiny football helmets that the players had lined up in a neat row either on the bench or on the ground along the sideline while they did their calisthenics and other drills before the game. And of course the bold and excellent sound of music by the Henryetta band with its heavy drumbeats, the smell of cigar and cigarette smoke mingled with wafting aromas of popcorn, hotdogs, and coffee, all created quite an impression on me that night. The football players seemed to me to be some sort of gladiators preparing for battle, the pads and uniforms of the home team and the visitors under the bright lights of the stadium making for a rich and dramatic scene. I mentioned how my feet we so cold by the end of the game and remember shivering in the back seat of the car as the three of us left the parking area just inside the curve of the street which leads away from the stadium entrance over to east Main Street a block away.
From the stadium our Sunday afternoon tour took us over to Trudgeon Street and on west over the railroad tracks where Geraldine talked about the old Frisco Railroad Depot area where they used to drop dad off for work or pick him up after he had completed a run to Dennison and back as a brakeman back in the 1940s. The depot is gone and we speculated that the street must have been widened after the depot was removed because there didn’t seem to be much room there by the tracks for a depot today.
Arriving at Main again, we talked about the old Georgian Hotel where dad used to take me for haircuts. I think the barber was a man named Rogers. As we drove along, we must have commented on just about every building we passed. We took the first street south along the tracks, past what was once the Broadway feed store where dad would buy feed and supplies when we had horses and cows.
Our tour took us to Moore Street and we stopped in front of what had been the home of Geraldine’s best friend in high school, Cathy Parker. Geraldine recounted memories of Cathy and her mom, about how nice they both were and how they made her feel right at home there. I noted that Cathy’s father had been a barber in town and one day had come home for lunch, laid down on the bed, and died. That is something I believe happened while Geraldine was in high school.
Straight ahead, we could see the Henryetta Territorial Museum. It was not open for business but I suggested we park the car there and take a walk around. For quite a while, we moved slowly along the walkway surrounding the gazebo which sets just east of the museum building, reading the names of people listed on the individual bricks of the walk; stopping to comment on many familiar names; names of school friends, old family friends, and prominent family names of Henryetta. Eventually we made our way to the spot where the entry arch from the old high school building has been so nicely preserved. I noted that I had never entered beneath that arch while Geraldine spoke of her memory of doing so and of all our other family members who had attended there.
From there we walked north to the next block up 4th Street and crossed to the east side of the street, entering the alley which holds so many memories of years gone by. This is the alley that led to the rear entrance and parking area of the Square Deal grocery store, a place that is very very significant in our lives. That is where mom shopped and had a charge account, where Uncle Robert Middleton worked part-time as a butcher, and where as kids, we accompanied Mom each Saturday on her weekly grocery buying day.
Our tour took us on around and half a block north to Main Street;crossing to the north side. While we strolled along at a leisurely pace we commented on our memories of the various businesses that had been active in our days as residents of Henryetta, primarily during the 1950s. At some point we ended up in a store front where about four nice photos were displayed in the windows of what was probably once a clothing store in the 500 block of West Main. One of the photos was of a Labor Day parade which we speculated was probably around the end of World War II. Geraldine had already made mention of the award winning photographer, Joseph Hardin, and I assumed from the angle of the photograph that it must have been taken from his studio window or from the roof of his studio building across the street. Looking closely at the building in the center of the photo and then stepping out onto the sidewalk, we could verify that indeed building in that old photo was the building which still stands on the northeast corner of the intersection of 5th and Main Streets. The clue that clinched our assumption is the appearance of the second decorative brick stack along the top edge of the west wall of the building. Unlike the other similar stacks or columns, this one is missing its cement cap and appears to have been damaged in some way. It was in that same condition when the photo was taken some 60 plus years ago.
We continued our walk, stopping at the former post office building, now the library, and admiring the old Doughboy statue; getting a group picture in front of it.
No tour of Henryetta would be complete without pointing out and raving about the Patty Ann, that special landmark and outstanding restaurant of our youth. Just a half block west of the Patty Ann was the Henryetta Bakery where our Aunt Bertha Fulton worked for many years and where our family bought Freshy Bread and delicious pastries on many a Sunday night after attending evening services at our little family First Church of God on Barclay Street.
We then headed south on 6th Street, pointing out where dad had once worked as a mechanic at Tiger’s Garage. The upstairs portion of that building had housed Teen Town back in the 1950s and holds significant meaning for Geraldine and I, as well as for anyone who grew up in Henryetta during the 1950s.
The final leg of our little tour took us east along Broadway past the old Henryetta Hospital where Aunt Bertha had also worked and where our Uncle Robert had been treated more than once for severe burns received on the job at Eagle Picher Smelter.
We concluded our tour by recalling the old fire and police stations and the skating rink where I spent many Saturday nights in the time around 1956 to 1959. From there we completed the loop, walking the half block back to the museum parking lot.
This was my first walking tour of Henryetta. But over the years since we moved away, I have often driven around town and even took a bike tour of town about 10 years ago.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Mom's Death
My Mother: Lillian Berneice (Childs) Middleton
October 5, 1922 to January 15, 2010
Mom had been in declining health so I knew it was just a matter of time before she would die. But when I went to Bartlesville the first weekend of October, 2009 for her birthday party, I was very surprised to find that she knew who I was. All five of us kids and other family members met at her nursing home, Heritage Villa, in Bartlesville and enjoyed a good feeling of being together as a family.
At first I thought Mom looked so awful and, likely too confused to know who I was. We were in a large room. Mom was in a wheel chair. The foot rests of the chair were pulled up so that her stocking feet partially touched the floor. As everyone was eating ice cream and cake and engaging in lively conversation, Mom began to move her wheel chair with her feet pulling herself along slowly with very tiny steps as she turned it toward the large open doorway to the corridor. I stood by her side, curious about what she was doing and thinking that she was just aimlessly pulling herself along.
To my surprise, she continued into the hallway then turned left down the hall leading past the lounge or TV room toward the lobby. As she progressed down the hall, I thought about how strong she had always been for such a little lady. As a child and teenager, her only means of transportation had been on foot. And in their later years she and Dad walked a four mile walk once or twice a day when the weather permitted. So, this feat of pulling herself along in that wheelchair in spite of her horrific looking physical condition really impressed me and made me question my assumption about her physical health.
When she came to the lounge area, she parked herself beside a nicely upholstered wingback chair. I could tell by her expression and posture that she wanted me to sit in the chair beside her. From our position in the hallway we had an excellent view into the TV lounge, a very lovely well decorated large room with a big fireplace at one end, large open entryways on each side, and lots of comfortable chairs with an assortment of nice tables and lamps. In the room, were a number of residents, some with family members or friends visiting them; each in various states of mental and physical impairment. But most prominent and interesting to me was the big flat screen TV on a wall directly across the room in front of me where a Dallas Cowboys game was being broadcast; the volume barely audible. As we sat there, I only smiled at Mom and touched her hand occasionally, thinking it futile to try to converse due to her confused mental state and the fact the she was no longer wearing the hearing aids that had been her lifeline since about 1962; ten years after she had lost practically all her hearing due to an ear infection which resulted in nerve damage.
Occasionally, a worker would pass by us and stop to greet Mom and me. I assumed this was done as much as a PR gesture as out of sincerity. But after a few more folks had greeted Mom and told me how much they enjoyed her spunk and spirit, I began to take them more sincerely. Finally the most incredible and unexpected thing happened. This very nice and energetic staff lady stopped to say hello to Mom and wished her a happy birthday. Even though Mom could barely speak and her voice had been basically incoherent before, I distinctly heard Mom tell the lady, “this is my only son”. That moment will be one of my most precious memories of Mom for as long as I live. With those few words, she made me realize that I had been wrong to avoid visiting her in these last three years of her life. But it also made my day because I knew that she was able to understand and appreciate the fact that her children cared enough about her to come together to honor her on her 87th birthday.
But still looming in my mind that afternoon was the dread of trying to say goodbye, knowing that she would likely begin begging me to take her home, to get her out of this lockup. Because I was the only child of hers who was not a regular visitor, after all the sisters and family members had gathered around us and one by one began to leave, I was left there with only sister Sandra, the one most dedicated to Mom’s care and personal oversight. She lived nearby and had been Mom’s closest family contact, taking her to church two or three times a week and to lunch on Sunday for several years until Mom became too ill to go out. Eventually, Sandra told Mom that she had to leave. Naturally, Mom began to ask Sandra in a barely intelligible voice to take her home with her. Sandra gently but firmly said no, offered reassurance that she would be back in a few days and walked away.
Now, I was there in the situation and circumstance that I had feared. What would be her reaction when I got up to leave. After all, my wife Judy was waiting for me out in the parking lot and I needed to handle this in the best way possible. To my surprise and to her eternal endearing credit, as I held her hand, stood up, and kissed her forehead; saying “Goodbye Mom, I love you”, she simply looked up at me peacefully with a loving look in her eyes and asked “when will you come back”? “Soon”, I softly replied, “soon”. With that I turned and walked toward the lobby and on out the door where Judy and others were waiting nearby. A strong feeling of emotion and many thoughts rushed through my mind as I left the building. My greatest fear or dread had only been a figment of my imagination. I know that Mom had often made life difficult for Sandra as she left after frequent visits. So why was she so kind and accepting of my leaving? Did she know it would be the last time I would see her?
Three months later, my sisters got the call. Mom was gravely ill and might last only one or two more days. So the three who were within 50 or so miles of Bartlesville came to her side and along with Hospice caregivers began what turned out to be a four or five day ordeal. On Thursday morning, the day before she finally died, the girls called me on my cell phone. I was in my office at work in downtown Houston. The Hospice workers were concerned that Mom continued to hold on, even after the girls had given her the most loving and tender care, letting her know that it was ok, that she had been a wonderful mother and lived a good life; that it was ok to go now. Even Geraldine had called and said goodbye from her home in Seadrift, TX. Now they felt that if only I would say goodbye that perhaps that would allow her to let go of the extremely determined and labored effort by which she continued to doggedly cling to a bare semblance of life.
On the phone with Elaine, I struggled with my thoughts on the subject, knowing that I didn’t believe in that concept of people maintaining life through sheer will in such a condition. But not wanting to add more stress to the highly emotional state they were already in, there in the room with Mom, I agreed. The sounds of Mom’s breathing and efforts to hold on were very unnerving as they held Elaine’s cell phone next to Mom’s ear; an ear into which they had inserted one of her hearing aids. Softly, I told Mom how much I loved her and told her what a great mother she had always been. I refrained from telling her to go.
After another long and tiring day, the sisters finally left for the night to get some rest, pausing to call me with an update. Elaine said that miraculously Mom’s color had returned to a nice pink after having been in various stages of blue with appearances of death. They were awakened around 1:45 by a phone call from Hospice. Mom had died quietly at 1:40 A.M. on Friday, January 15, 2010; the last of Willie and Katie Childs' children to die.
October 5, 1922 to January 15, 2010
Mom had been in declining health so I knew it was just a matter of time before she would die. But when I went to Bartlesville the first weekend of October, 2009 for her birthday party, I was very surprised to find that she knew who I was. All five of us kids and other family members met at her nursing home, Heritage Villa, in Bartlesville and enjoyed a good feeling of being together as a family.
At first I thought Mom looked so awful and, likely too confused to know who I was. We were in a large room. Mom was in a wheel chair. The foot rests of the chair were pulled up so that her stocking feet partially touched the floor. As everyone was eating ice cream and cake and engaging in lively conversation, Mom began to move her wheel chair with her feet pulling herself along slowly with very tiny steps as she turned it toward the large open doorway to the corridor. I stood by her side, curious about what she was doing and thinking that she was just aimlessly pulling herself along.
To my surprise, she continued into the hallway then turned left down the hall leading past the lounge or TV room toward the lobby. As she progressed down the hall, I thought about how strong she had always been for such a little lady. As a child and teenager, her only means of transportation had been on foot. And in their later years she and Dad walked a four mile walk once or twice a day when the weather permitted. So, this feat of pulling herself along in that wheelchair in spite of her horrific looking physical condition really impressed me and made me question my assumption about her physical health.
When she came to the lounge area, she parked herself beside a nicely upholstered wingback chair. I could tell by her expression and posture that she wanted me to sit in the chair beside her. From our position in the hallway we had an excellent view into the TV lounge, a very lovely well decorated large room with a big fireplace at one end, large open entryways on each side, and lots of comfortable chairs with an assortment of nice tables and lamps. In the room, were a number of residents, some with family members or friends visiting them; each in various states of mental and physical impairment. But most prominent and interesting to me was the big flat screen TV on a wall directly across the room in front of me where a Dallas Cowboys game was being broadcast; the volume barely audible. As we sat there, I only smiled at Mom and touched her hand occasionally, thinking it futile to try to converse due to her confused mental state and the fact the she was no longer wearing the hearing aids that had been her lifeline since about 1962; ten years after she had lost practically all her hearing due to an ear infection which resulted in nerve damage.
Occasionally, a worker would pass by us and stop to greet Mom and me. I assumed this was done as much as a PR gesture as out of sincerity. But after a few more folks had greeted Mom and told me how much they enjoyed her spunk and spirit, I began to take them more sincerely. Finally the most incredible and unexpected thing happened. This very nice and energetic staff lady stopped to say hello to Mom and wished her a happy birthday. Even though Mom could barely speak and her voice had been basically incoherent before, I distinctly heard Mom tell the lady, “this is my only son”. That moment will be one of my most precious memories of Mom for as long as I live. With those few words, she made me realize that I had been wrong to avoid visiting her in these last three years of her life. But it also made my day because I knew that she was able to understand and appreciate the fact that her children cared enough about her to come together to honor her on her 87th birthday.
But still looming in my mind that afternoon was the dread of trying to say goodbye, knowing that she would likely begin begging me to take her home, to get her out of this lockup. Because I was the only child of hers who was not a regular visitor, after all the sisters and family members had gathered around us and one by one began to leave, I was left there with only sister Sandra, the one most dedicated to Mom’s care and personal oversight. She lived nearby and had been Mom’s closest family contact, taking her to church two or three times a week and to lunch on Sunday for several years until Mom became too ill to go out. Eventually, Sandra told Mom that she had to leave. Naturally, Mom began to ask Sandra in a barely intelligible voice to take her home with her. Sandra gently but firmly said no, offered reassurance that she would be back in a few days and walked away.
Now, I was there in the situation and circumstance that I had feared. What would be her reaction when I got up to leave. After all, my wife Judy was waiting for me out in the parking lot and I needed to handle this in the best way possible. To my surprise and to her eternal endearing credit, as I held her hand, stood up, and kissed her forehead; saying “Goodbye Mom, I love you”, she simply looked up at me peacefully with a loving look in her eyes and asked “when will you come back”? “Soon”, I softly replied, “soon”. With that I turned and walked toward the lobby and on out the door where Judy and others were waiting nearby. A strong feeling of emotion and many thoughts rushed through my mind as I left the building. My greatest fear or dread had only been a figment of my imagination. I know that Mom had often made life difficult for Sandra as she left after frequent visits. So why was she so kind and accepting of my leaving? Did she know it would be the last time I would see her?
Three months later, my sisters got the call. Mom was gravely ill and might last only one or two more days. So the three who were within 50 or so miles of Bartlesville came to her side and along with Hospice caregivers began what turned out to be a four or five day ordeal. On Thursday morning, the day before she finally died, the girls called me on my cell phone. I was in my office at work in downtown Houston. The Hospice workers were concerned that Mom continued to hold on, even after the girls had given her the most loving and tender care, letting her know that it was ok, that she had been a wonderful mother and lived a good life; that it was ok to go now. Even Geraldine had called and said goodbye from her home in Seadrift, TX. Now they felt that if only I would say goodbye that perhaps that would allow her to let go of the extremely determined and labored effort by which she continued to doggedly cling to a bare semblance of life.
On the phone with Elaine, I struggled with my thoughts on the subject, knowing that I didn’t believe in that concept of people maintaining life through sheer will in such a condition. But not wanting to add more stress to the highly emotional state they were already in, there in the room with Mom, I agreed. The sounds of Mom’s breathing and efforts to hold on were very unnerving as they held Elaine’s cell phone next to Mom’s ear; an ear into which they had inserted one of her hearing aids. Softly, I told Mom how much I loved her and told her what a great mother she had always been. I refrained from telling her to go.
After another long and tiring day, the sisters finally left for the night to get some rest, pausing to call me with an update. Elaine said that miraculously Mom’s color had returned to a nice pink after having been in various stages of blue with appearances of death. They were awakened around 1:45 by a phone call from Hospice. Mom had died quietly at 1:40 A.M. on Friday, January 15, 2010; the last of Willie and Katie Childs' children to die.
Friday, January 15, 2010
She Is Different
Once, as a teenager, I paid a visit to relatives back home,Along with cousins and aunts; stopped by to visit one of Mom’s sisters. I grew bored with the porch swing and remember going into the house; sitting on a couch.
After a time, I grew tired of reading True Romance and detective magazines.
Walking back into the kitchen, I overheard the women talking on the back porch;
Their conversation was about Berneice Middleton; my Mom………
“I know what you mean”, I heard someone say; “she is kind of funny; she is different”.
Those words troubled me; leaving me with a feeling of sadness and concern.
Funny how the years have changed my perception and feelings about that day.
Yes, Mom was DIFFERENT! Mom was different in so many ways. Mom was a nervous, discontented sort of woman at times. But she compensated for those traits with a strong compliment of determination. Determination and hard work; all the while with a song or a poem on the tip of her tongue. Yes, she was different and so am I; proudly so. From her, I inherited a nervous discontent, along with a good deal of skepticism and call to action.
She was rarely content, often interested in the world around her; always eager for a change of scene. With Dad, she shared many quiet evenings reading and listening to music in their later years. But as a young mother, she was quite attentive and concerned about her family. She was always busy tending to the house, the garden, and the laundry. Life at home was very peaceful, secure, and predictable; every meal at the expected time. There was never any question about the daily routine; she saw to it.
Yet ever present in her emotion and demeanor one could see or sense it…. Yes, she was different. She was an impetuous dreamer and sometimes very demanding Mom. She expected a lot from her family but was always an enthusiastic participant as well.
Because she loved poetry, I have come to feel her spirit in some of my favorite poems and readings. Here are a few excerpts that for me will represent the essence of my Mom’s memory which I carry now and in years to come:
From “Song of the Open Road” by Walt Whitman
Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune---I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more; postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.
From Orion Mountain Dreamer “The Invitation”
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living,
I want to know what you ache for,
And if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are,
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
For your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
From James Kavanaugh “Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves”
Some people do not have to search,
They find their niche early in life and rest there,
seemingly contented and resigned.
They do not seem to ask much of life,
Sometimes they do not seem to take it seriously.
At times I envy them – but usually I do not understand them,
Seldom do they understand me.
I am one of the searchers.
There are, I believe, millions of us.
We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content.
We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret.
We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand.
Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter.
To share our sadness with ones we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know,
Unless it be to share our laughter.
We searchers are ambitious only for life itself,
For everything beautiful it can provide.
Most of all we want to love and be loved.
We want to live in relationships that will not impede our wandering,
Nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls.
We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.
We are wanderers, dreamers, and lovers,
Lonely souls who dare to ask of life everything good and beautiful.
One final thought about Mom
Recently, our daughter Jaci asked us to adopt one of her cats because it was sick and needed special attention. Judy took Rhoda in and nursed her back to health. It wasn’t easy, because Rhoda is DIFFERENT.
No, Rhoda is not like most cats, not mellow, cuddly, and purring; but rather wild and skittish.
For days, she hid in the laundry room behind the washer and dryer and then in the family room behind the entertainment center. Gradually, she began to trust us enough to let us watch her eat.
After weeks, she began to sneak into our bedroom and sleep under the bed. Next thing you know she had taken over my favorite rocking chair in our bedroom. That is now her chair and her bed. In the early morning hours while we are clinging to the last hour or so of precious sleep, Rhoda jumps up on our bed and stands on us as if demanding we get up and feed her.
In a different sort of way; in a way others may not understand, I have come to see Mom in Rhoda. Rhoda is nervous and slow to trust, but full of energy; sometimes bounding up the stairs and swatting one of her play toys.
Like Mom, Rhoda enjoys being outdoors, but keeps a careful eye on the back door; always worried we might close it and lock her out. She watches us closely and sometimes comes near, allowing a brief caress but afraid of getting too close. Somewhere in her past, she learned not to trust but to fear.
I will always treasure my Mom for the dedication she showed to our family in spite of her own upbringing in the midst of sadness and deprivation.
After a time, I grew tired of reading True Romance and detective magazines.
Walking back into the kitchen, I overheard the women talking on the back porch;
Their conversation was about Berneice Middleton; my Mom………
“I know what you mean”, I heard someone say; “she is kind of funny; she is different”.
Those words troubled me; leaving me with a feeling of sadness and concern.
Funny how the years have changed my perception and feelings about that day.
Yes, Mom was DIFFERENT! Mom was different in so many ways. Mom was a nervous, discontented sort of woman at times. But she compensated for those traits with a strong compliment of determination. Determination and hard work; all the while with a song or a poem on the tip of her tongue. Yes, she was different and so am I; proudly so. From her, I inherited a nervous discontent, along with a good deal of skepticism and call to action.
She was rarely content, often interested in the world around her; always eager for a change of scene. With Dad, she shared many quiet evenings reading and listening to music in their later years. But as a young mother, she was quite attentive and concerned about her family. She was always busy tending to the house, the garden, and the laundry. Life at home was very peaceful, secure, and predictable; every meal at the expected time. There was never any question about the daily routine; she saw to it.
Yet ever present in her emotion and demeanor one could see or sense it…. Yes, she was different. She was an impetuous dreamer and sometimes very demanding Mom. She expected a lot from her family but was always an enthusiastic participant as well.
Because she loved poetry, I have come to feel her spirit in some of my favorite poems and readings. Here are a few excerpts that for me will represent the essence of my Mom’s memory which I carry now and in years to come:
From “Song of the Open Road” by Walt Whitman
Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune---I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more; postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.
From Orion Mountain Dreamer “The Invitation”
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living,
I want to know what you ache for,
And if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are,
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
For your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
From James Kavanaugh “Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves”
Some people do not have to search,
They find their niche early in life and rest there,
seemingly contented and resigned.
They do not seem to ask much of life,
Sometimes they do not seem to take it seriously.
At times I envy them – but usually I do not understand them,
Seldom do they understand me.
I am one of the searchers.
There are, I believe, millions of us.
We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content.
We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret.
We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand.
Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter.
To share our sadness with ones we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know,
Unless it be to share our laughter.
We searchers are ambitious only for life itself,
For everything beautiful it can provide.
Most of all we want to love and be loved.
We want to live in relationships that will not impede our wandering,
Nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls.
We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.
We are wanderers, dreamers, and lovers,
Lonely souls who dare to ask of life everything good and beautiful.
One final thought about Mom
Recently, our daughter Jaci asked us to adopt one of her cats because it was sick and needed special attention. Judy took Rhoda in and nursed her back to health. It wasn’t easy, because Rhoda is DIFFERENT.
No, Rhoda is not like most cats, not mellow, cuddly, and purring; but rather wild and skittish.
For days, she hid in the laundry room behind the washer and dryer and then in the family room behind the entertainment center. Gradually, she began to trust us enough to let us watch her eat.
After weeks, she began to sneak into our bedroom and sleep under the bed. Next thing you know she had taken over my favorite rocking chair in our bedroom. That is now her chair and her bed. In the early morning hours while we are clinging to the last hour or so of precious sleep, Rhoda jumps up on our bed and stands on us as if demanding we get up and feed her.
In a different sort of way; in a way others may not understand, I have come to see Mom in Rhoda. Rhoda is nervous and slow to trust, but full of energy; sometimes bounding up the stairs and swatting one of her play toys.
Like Mom, Rhoda enjoys being outdoors, but keeps a careful eye on the back door; always worried we might close it and lock her out. She watches us closely and sometimes comes near, allowing a brief caress but afraid of getting too close. Somewhere in her past, she learned not to trust but to fear.
I will always treasure my Mom for the dedication she showed to our family in spite of her own upbringing in the midst of sadness and deprivation.
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