Bittersweetness of April
flowers and memories in bloom
The Way It Is
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about this thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
Or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
—William Stafford
Smell the privet in the air, watch as it spills from the roadsides reaching for the purple spiderwort blooming in the ditches. April, my Daddy’s birthday month, full of so much blooming life all around. The pink primrose he started a patch of near the old clothesline has spread all over the farm and been given to others to spread at their places. Warning K not to mow the side of the yard where Daddy’s wild verbena, collected from the side of the road and transplanted on the western side of the house, will bloom in a sprawling purple fury. Thursday was his birthday and I watched a group of monks from Thailand walk along the roadside in their orange robes as they were traveling from Key West, FL to Niagara Falls, NY for world peace…thanks Daddy. I had a site evaluation to conduct behind the old block building where he told me he used to watch the slot cars when they lived on that road. I found two handfuls of juicy blackberries on that site…thanks Daddy.
This year his flowers seem more vibrant than usual, or perhaps it’s because I realize I’ll be 52 years old on my birthday this year and that was all the birthdays he got to enjoy on this side of the veil. It makes everything seem deeper and richer, and I think it is the thread that is pulling me into writing. I’m also beginning to understand that not everyone in my life is supportive of this path, and that’s ok, that is their choice. I am beginning to understand that my stories bring up hurt feelings for some and they do not wish to revisit the past. I don’t want to hurt anyone with the things I write, they are my truths, although my feelings are often hurt by insinuations made on how things were left. I would implore anyone who is estate planning, to please speak with your family about why you are leaving things the way you are, so that no feelings of resentment or guilt are placed on those who are left behind.
My Daddy spent the majority of his life on this farm and down in the ‘Hoopee swamp. According to my Granny, he was a precocious young man. When they paved the highway in front of the house, he did his best to dig up all the asphalt. He didn’t want to attend school. He would ride the bus that came through to the end of the line, several towns away.
Things didn’t get much easier when he was a teenager and met my mother. He suffered through mental anguish and bouts of what we always called “a case of the black ass” where he would stay in the bed for days at a time. That’s a long story that will be described in more detail in my memoir.
After his death, I found a manila envelope among his things that he had written “Do Not Read: Burn” across the front of. I feel like he knew me well enough to know, that wasn’t going to happen, he should’ve done that himself, but he couldn’t because what was in that envelope was his memoir. These were love letters that were written to my mother in 1996 after he attended a Thanksgiving dinner at my home where he saw her again for the first time in almost 20 years. I remember the feelings I had of having both of my parents together at a family gathering, but I had no idea the strong emotions it would bring out in him. Reading these letters now, brings me great comfort despite the loneliness I often felt growing up, it’s a good feeling to know we were so very loved. Here are a few excerpts from his letters…
(On our raising…)
I always knew and I still believe that I did the right thing by them. They never had a lot of material things, but they have had more love and concern than most children can ever hope for. They are the only thing that ever caused me to almost despise you. Maybe you have some idea what if feels like to hear your little girl of five to thirteen years old cry for her Mommy almost every night of her life and to see your little son being happy, but always just a little different because he really doesn’t know how to show his feeling of loss. And while I was dealing with this, I also had to deal with my own loss of the most important thing in my life. I never tried to impress a dislike for you in our children because I knew that they needed to love you and I know that they both do and I think that’s one of the best things I’ve ever made a good decision about. They always knew they had a Mommy, but I don’t think they ever really understood why she wasn’t with them.
(On our adulthood…)
I’m very grateful for the two wonderful children you gave to me because they have been the light of my life for many, many years. Perhaps it’s because I can see so much of you in them. Michael is so much like you in ideas and mannerisms and I love him all the more for it. And Becki has your deep feelings and tender emotions. She’ll cry at almost anything and I see so much of you in her. They’re both very wonderful people and I’m extremely proud of them. You’ll never know how very hard it has been for me since they’ve been “grown up”. I don’t have my babies anymore to remind me of your beautiful face and personality, so all I have now are my memories, and I am really blessed with lots of them!
(On his only grand child…)
I haven’t seen Ean in over a week and must see him soon. He’s such a lovable child, just like Becki was when she was his age. As soon as I can have time to get this mess cleaned up around here, I’m gonna get him and let him spend a couple of days with me. I want to take hime to McDonald’s and get him some chicken McNuggets. I think that’s his favorite thing! The last time he stayed with me, I asked him if he wanted to stop at McDonald’s on the way home and get a hamburger. He liked that idea, so we went in and I order a hamburger and fries for him and McNuggets for me. When we sat down, he only took a couple bites of his hamburger, then said he wanted some of what I had. He ended up eating all my McNuggets and I ate his hamburger!
The story of his journey to the other side. I’ve told this to a few but I’ve never actually written it. Warning: it’s not an easy read but it does have a happy ending and is the reason I am so connected to this place. This event completely changed my life. It brought me back to a place I couldn’t wait to escape when I was eighteen, but now hope I never have to leave. It changed me as a person, as a wife, as a mother, as a sister, as a daughter, as a co-worker, and as a family member. I will never be the person I was prior to this event. I lost the keystone of my foundation and had to rebuild again.
Just Hold Your Breath
As I held his hand, the smell of the morphine being pumped into his arm seemed to permeate through his skin and into the small living room. His breathing was labored and it sounded like his lungs were congested. The hospice nurse said to expect to hear “the death rattle” soon, as he was in the final stages of life. I had left and gone home around 3am to get some sleep but was awakened around 8am by something telling me he needed me. I jumped in the car and drove the mile from my little house in the swamp up to the farm where his hospital bed was set up in the living room. It had only been three months ago when I watched Grandpa going through the same stages at his house while my brother cared for him. Grandpa fought all the way to the end, clawing at his neck and I’m sure he was cussing although his speaking was unintelligible. All the while, we tried to calm him. It was heart-wrenching and I couldn’t stay until the end. This time I had no choice, I had to be here to hold his hand, as my Daddy slipped under the veil.
Folks with a strong religious background would probably pray, or read from the Bible, but I chose to tell Daddy a story about his beloved Ohoopee river. A place he had spent his whole life swimming in, fishing in, and missing terribly when he was stationed in Germany in the army. A river, just a mile from where he lay drawing his final breaths, continuing to meander to the Altamaha on its journey to the ocean.
I began, “Daddy, everyone is gathering and waiting for you at the river. They’re gathering oak limbs to make a fire, and it looks like there’s going to be a fish fry. Ahhh…there’s nothing like the smell of oak limbs burning in the swamp. Pappy is holding up a fine stringer of redbreast. Some of them are as big as my hand! I see Grandmama and Pa and Mom’er too. There’s Uncle Rabbit, Uncle Roger, Uncle Hammond, Uncle Ed, and Aunt Willie sitting over there with Grandpa and Grandma Elaine. I wonder what kind of stories he’s entertaining them with. Aunt Donna just walked up holding little Scotty’s hand and she has the old black skillet for frying.”
Daddy’s breathing was becoming more labored and full of fluid.
“Daddy, I think Scotty wants you to take him down to the river for a little dip. Why don’t y’all wander down there and cool off awhile. Aren’t the birds singing beautifully today? I hear chickadees and wrens, cardinals and warblers, I even hear a wood thrush with his song of tintinnabulation.”
I continued to hold his hand as his color became more gray and ashen.
“Dip your feet in that cool water, ain’t nothing like it in the world is there? Wade on in, it’s not over your head. There you go. Now lay back and let that cool water calm you. You can go under if you want, just hold your breath, and go under.”
Daddy gripped my hand, opened his eyes and locked on mine. He took a deep breath, and went under. His spirit left his body. I got up, walked out the back door, and ran to the edge of the pasture and woods willing myself to keep breathing despite the horrible pain in my chest. I could hear the wind whispering through the longleaf pines and the cows were out grazing trying to make the most of this cool September morning. I watched a red-headed woodpecker swoop from a dead snag further into the woods. I remembered Daddy always called them “white shirts” because they looked like they were wearing a white shirt when they spread their wings to fly. Daddy’s spirit was free from his cancer-riddled body and he was free to be among the birds and the cows, the woods and the pastures, and to travel down the road to the most beautiful river in the land, the ‘Hoopee.
Thank you to all who journey with me, your support means more than you’ll ever know. My wish is to write words which touch and move your soul, while sharing the memories that made me who I am.
Blessings to you all! 🪻🌺🌸🌝💜
B
You're very good at expressing your feelings in writing, Becki. Love you!
As always, when you share stories about the members of your family that have passed, I am bawling my eyes out. I love all of your stories of everything on the farm. Hugs and love to you. Never stop!!