When he came seeking help, he captured our attention with his blunt refusal to give us his name or any other data. He captured our hearts with his spirit.
Some times he came to us for help on a regular basis, which we encouraged, but most often it was a hit-and-miss situation. He never had money and all of us, including him, pretended payment wasn't necessary.
He said he had a place to stay and family to help. If so, it didn't extend to the zipping of pants and tying of shoes. Probably, he didn't have relatives, but he didn't need them. He collected caring, sheltering friends like a magnet.
We didn't press him for too much information for fear that he might not come back. The first fact he gave us was his name. The next time, he told us he was a runaway. And then a few weeks later, he quite proudly gave us the telephone number of the home from which he had run.
His room hadn't been a comfort, for all its niceness, he told us. It had been a holding place; it held him from freedom. He'd watched from the window until he had been sure of the schedule and saved his money until he'd been "near about" sure he had enough.
Then, and only then, he packed his suitcase and walked to the corner. Within minutes, a Greyhound Bus appeared. How he got from there to us, we never knew. Whether it took more than one bus ticket we didn't ask and, at the moment, he wasn't divulging any additional details.
When I called the home where he'd lived, the man in charge said, "He's a charmer." Then added, "I'm glad he's safe." They knew he hadn't wandered off because his suitcase and clothes were missing.
Our Emergency Room staff continued to treat him for his diabetes and, each time, they called me to come from the Business Office to approve his free care. After a while, he gave us his social security number and then we knew, for sure, who he was and where to find him. And where to bill for his care in the future.
Lookin' back, I wish he'd been more inclined to talk. I wanted so much to know what strengths I'd need to run away from a nursing home at the age of 82.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
My Best Friend
Always, she was my best friend. Some times the only one.
She was older than me, nearly twenty years, but she's the one who shared and kept my secrets. She listened to me talk about my fears and never belittled them. She let me whine about the class bully, the teacher who just didn't like me, and she celebrated my successes with me.
Best of all, she understood how teenage disappointments could truly be heartbreaking.
In turn, she shared vivid accounts of her life. Such as the poverty she had experienced during the 1920s and the Great Depression. She was the second oldest of nine children and told me she felt like a hired hand as she milked cows on the family dairy farm before and after school while only about eight years old.
She talked about how unappreciated she'd felt caught between an older brother who was the favorite and a younger sister who was a hair-pulling hellion. Her comfort came from mothering several younger siblings. She told funny stories about the "little ones" and their adventures.
I moved away. She didn't, but our friendship endured. She had as many pictures of my children as I do. I'm godmother to her youngest daughter and her son is one of my best friends.
Our relationship endured difficulties. At the time of my dad's death, she was newly widowed and needed my attention most when I was in the depths of grief myself. During the worst period in our lives and friendship, we couldn't comfort each other. But we continued to love and respect one another.
Along with her son and daughter, I helped plan a surprise party for her seventy-fifth birthday. We were excited and the event took place in our hometown in Oklahoma. A crowd of about fifty people gathered to honor her. Two of her remaining three siblings were there, along with her children and most of her grandchildren. Two of her sisters-in-law came, along with their children. They came from as far south as Houston and as far north as Oklahoma City.
Seems they all loved her as much as I did. The year was 1993 and she lived another nine years. At 84, I let her go, not because I was ready, but because she had given up the fight.
Perhaps you've guessed this great lady was my mother and her children are my brother and sister.
Lookin' back, I've said it before, but it bears repeating, "I love you, Mother. As I told you every time we talked, you were the best Mother and Memie anyone could have. Thank you for that."
She was older than me, nearly twenty years, but she's the one who shared and kept my secrets. She listened to me talk about my fears and never belittled them. She let me whine about the class bully, the teacher who just didn't like me, and she celebrated my successes with me.
Best of all, she understood how teenage disappointments could truly be heartbreaking.
In turn, she shared vivid accounts of her life. Such as the poverty she had experienced during the 1920s and the Great Depression. She was the second oldest of nine children and told me she felt like a hired hand as she milked cows on the family dairy farm before and after school while only about eight years old.
She talked about how unappreciated she'd felt caught between an older brother who was the favorite and a younger sister who was a hair-pulling hellion. Her comfort came from mothering several younger siblings. She told funny stories about the "little ones" and their adventures.
I moved away. She didn't, but our friendship endured. She had as many pictures of my children as I do. I'm godmother to her youngest daughter and her son is one of my best friends.
Our relationship endured difficulties. At the time of my dad's death, she was newly widowed and needed my attention most when I was in the depths of grief myself. During the worst period in our lives and friendship, we couldn't comfort each other. But we continued to love and respect one another.
Along with her son and daughter, I helped plan a surprise party for her seventy-fifth birthday. We were excited and the event took place in our hometown in Oklahoma. A crowd of about fifty people gathered to honor her. Two of her remaining three siblings were there, along with her children and most of her grandchildren. Two of her sisters-in-law came, along with their children. They came from as far south as Houston and as far north as Oklahoma City.
Seems they all loved her as much as I did. The year was 1993 and she lived another nine years. At 84, I let her go, not because I was ready, but because she had given up the fight.
Perhaps you've guessed this great lady was my mother and her children are my brother and sister.
Lookin' back, I've said it before, but it bears repeating, "I love you, Mother. As I told you every time we talked, you were the best Mother and Memie anyone could have. Thank you for that."
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
It was the most fun I ever had. I promise.
We were in my grandfather's 1936 Ford car slowly bumping across the pasture when Peggy, my cousin who was 13, said she wanted to learn to drive.
I was only seven, but old enough to begin having misgivings right off when Bryan, our uncle, quickly agreed to teach her. For a 19-year-old, I thought he could be an old fuddy-duddy at times, however, I also knew he could be a daredevil.
The car was 9 years old and looked 30. It had hauled hay bales, hogs, and baby calves and been used to push-start everything from tractors to stubborn bulls. Wrecking it wasn't a worry. Evidently, neither was concern for life and limb.
From the back, standing on the hump in the floorboard, it looked to be a wild ride, so I grabbed hold of the front seat and hung on.
Once situated behind the steering wheel, the first thing she did was kill the engine. The first thing I did was get the giggles.
"Give it more gas," my uncle yelled over the roar of the motor. But she popped the clutch, killing it again. That move threw me down onto the back seat, from which I arose laughing and hoping she'd do it at least once more. She did.
"Let the clutch out slower," he shouted. That was easy, but she forgot to give it more gas. We bucked across that field as if we were bronc riders, me laughing harder with every bounce.
Here's where my misgivings proved insightful. When she got it started again, he stuck his foot on top of hers and on the gas pedal. Straight ahead we went like a shot.
She was screaming and begging him to take his foot away and I was giggling so hard I could hardly stand on my perch. Even Bryan was laughing.
The lesson the next day was the best of all, if only for the anticipation.
Lookin' back, I think my memories of that summer are so vivid because of the shared joy of those wild rides. And, too, it was the last summer the three of us got to spend that much time together.
We were in my grandfather's 1936 Ford car slowly bumping across the pasture when Peggy, my cousin who was 13, said she wanted to learn to drive.
I was only seven, but old enough to begin having misgivings right off when Bryan, our uncle, quickly agreed to teach her. For a 19-year-old, I thought he could be an old fuddy-duddy at times, however, I also knew he could be a daredevil.
The car was 9 years old and looked 30. It had hauled hay bales, hogs, and baby calves and been used to push-start everything from tractors to stubborn bulls. Wrecking it wasn't a worry. Evidently, neither was concern for life and limb.
From the back, standing on the hump in the floorboard, it looked to be a wild ride, so I grabbed hold of the front seat and hung on.
Once situated behind the steering wheel, the first thing she did was kill the engine. The first thing I did was get the giggles.
"Give it more gas," my uncle yelled over the roar of the motor. But she popped the clutch, killing it again. That move threw me down onto the back seat, from which I arose laughing and hoping she'd do it at least once more. She did.
"Let the clutch out slower," he shouted. That was easy, but she forgot to give it more gas. We bucked across that field as if we were bronc riders, me laughing harder with every bounce.
Here's where my misgivings proved insightful. When she got it started again, he stuck his foot on top of hers and on the gas pedal. Straight ahead we went like a shot.
She was screaming and begging him to take his foot away and I was giggling so hard I could hardly stand on my perch. Even Bryan was laughing.
The lesson the next day was the best of all, if only for the anticipation.
Lookin' back, I think my memories of that summer are so vivid because of the shared joy of those wild rides. And, too, it was the last summer the three of us got to spend that much time together.
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