For Julie and me-to help us remember the stuff we are made of, by Charlotte Boquist

Do you know what you are made of? This is a powerful tribute to the women in Charlotte’s family. It is a reminder that we are connected to the past and the future in ways we seldom understand.

 (Looking back so we can look forward)

These women whose genes we bear,

A common thread will soon appear,

Determined looks, a musical ear,

Their belief in God carried them through.

These women whose genes we bear,

All had courage beyond compare,

Standing tall, beside their men,

Clearing the unbroken dry ground,

Of its sagebrush and cactus.

Together they turned the hard rocky earth,

And harvested crops to see them through.

These women whose genes we bear,

Were survivors, following their men,

Though not always in agreement,

Were steadfast and determined to the end.

These women whose genes we bear,

Were cooks for the family and crew,

Baking many loaves of bread and pots of stew,

Washing and ironing, all by hand,

They had babies, though not all survived.

These women whose genes we bear,

Had an artistic side,

With needle and thread,

With pen and paper,

 With paint and canvas.

They left behind their creations for us to treasure,

As we remember these women whose genes we bear.

B is for “Bonnie’s Bunch”, By Randy Brandemihl

This short piece is especially poignant because we so recently lost Randy. It is a good reminder that life is short, and we need to cherish our time with those who mean the most to us. ~ Bonnie

When I joined the senior memoir writing class, I found something that had been missing in my life, a group of real and beautiful friends. They were much like a military boot camp, Boy Scout pack, or any group of friends that I’d known in my younger years, who gather together to share and practice their common interests or needs.

But these people were more important because as you grow old, these groups no longer exist for seniors. That’s why this group of friends is special, so special that it is irreplaceable.

We’ve shared our entire life experiences, love, family, heartaches, joy and victories and, yes, on occasion, the loss of one of our own. And, like family, when we must part the pain will be unbearable for us all.

It is for this reason that I’m thankful for every day I spend with this beautiful bunch of friends. . . Bonnie’s Bunch.

A Design From The House Of Eva, by Barbara Sparks

Barbara's beautiful tribute to her mother is modeled after a poem called, "My Mother Pieced Quilts," by Teresa Palomo Acosta. To read the original, please click here: Original Poem. After you have read and commented on Barbara's inspirational piece, try your own hand at this model, writing about someone special in your life. I will post those that are submitted according to the guidelines. And I'll publish my own version in honor of my grandfather, who baked bread.~ Bonnie


They started out as
simple bolts of cloth
without shape
without a defined purpose
sitting idly on a table
without a hint of what they were to become.

Choose me, use me
make me come alive
may have been their cry
if they could speak.
They longed for that loving touch
of a skilled seamstress
to transform them
to give them a home
away from that lonely, cold store.

Mother, you came and rescued them
You had that loving touch
Your hands gave life to the cloth
Your hands turn cloth into works of art.

You may have chosen the special form it took
from a pattern book
But sometime patterns were not good enough
so you searched the expensive stores for that special look
that you couldn’t find in the pattern book.

You wanted the outfits of the rich and powerful elite
and when you spotted them
you simply sketched a picture of what you felt was worthy of your child
added your special unique touch
drew a pattern on newspaper
cut it out and the the magic began.

Sometimes you transformed those bolts of cloth into
an entire wardrobe for summer camp
or a wardrobe for a new year of school
A bolt may have been a beautiful dress for a fraternity court.

What a sight your daughter was as she entered the room
on that special night
No one knew how small the price for such magnificent clothing
No one knew that your daughter’s outfits were not from a store but were one of a kind
A Design from The House of Eva
More precious than any commercially made ones could ever be
Mother, the creations made with your hands were yet another way you expressed your love for me

Remembering My Mom, by Charlotte Boquist

Here is a short sweet memory, appropriate for the month of May, when we remember our mothers. ~ Bonnie

“Hi mom,” I said softly, rousing her from a nap. She was sitting in the recliner in her room at the Good Shepherd nursing home, where she was spending her last years. “How are you this morning?”

She smiled, “Oh hello honey, have you been here long?”

“Just got here,” I assured her, “The weather is gorgeous this morning the sun is out and not a cloud in the sky.” I sat down in the other chair and felt a pang of sadness, looking at her once robust body now so shrunken and fragile.

Mom replied that she already knew it was a lovely day, the nurse had described it for her earlier. My mother has lost her sight to glaucoma and now must rely on others to describe the delights that lay outside the big window of her room. She had been an artist, creating beautiful paintings of landscapes and the animals that populate the Wyoming mountains and prairies.

“There is a robin hopping around on the lawn this morning”, I said.

“He is probably looking for a worm for his breakfast”, she said with the authority of an avid bird watcher.

“I’ve brought the paper, should I read to you for a while?” She smiled and I unfolded the newspaper and began to read the news of the day.



________________________________________

Randy and Margaret

I received an email from Nora this morning, telling me that our dear friend, Margaret, had passed away peacefully on Saturday, May 7, 2011. Within less than an hour of reading that email I received a call from Kacie, telling me that she had some sad news. I assumed that she was going to tell me about Margaret. Instead she informed me that another former member of our class, Randy, had also passed away this weekend, just shy of a year after the passing of his wife and another special friend of ours, Judy.

As a tribute to these two precious souls, I have posted a story from both Randy and Margaret. The stories were written several years ago as a part of a class anthology, in which each writer wrote about their memories connected with our class.

As you consider posting comments on the following stories, please think about your memories of these friends and use this space to share your thoughts with other readers of this blog.

Thank you.

Two by Randy

V is for “A Valued Class of Vintage Memoirists”

By Randy Brandemihl

My senior memoir class is a very special group of people. The variety of their vivid backgrounds is one of the very things that make them valuable. Their vintage years and vivacious friendship is the very thing that binds us all together.

In the very beginning, we all came here seeking a variety of pleasurable pastimes, such as humor, knowledge, companionship and, of course, memoir writing.

Of that goal I feel, without a doubt, that we have all vanquished a darkness and found a very fine and victorious bright day.

Viva la Vida!!!

What Makes this Group Special?

By Randy Brandemihl

I would like to say thanks to this special group of memoir writers and explain what makes you more special than any group I’ve ever known.

The groups I’ve known in the past, beginning with my youth in grade school and going forward into my high school years and then my military service, all provided me with great memories. We were young then and shared such good things as movies, birthdays and first kisses. The groups in the military were different from the school groups. We were no longer children; we were men and women. My military friends and I shared good memories, but we also shared our fears and losses. My memories of those years are some of the worst and some of the best.

As we grow older we make all these great memories as we move down the long epic road of life. I’ve come to this group, here in one bright cheery room in Norwalk, all these years later and a million miles from where I was born. I’ve found a place where I could tell all my stories that I’ve collected over these years; not only that, but I’ve found great people that will listen and even enjoy my stories as I enjoy theirs.

Unlike the stories we told in school that revealed our youth and inexperience, the stories in this room are stories that reflect, collectively, over a thousand years of lifetime experiences. To tell them and to tell them well, we have become poets, storytellers and playwrights. Each one of you has touched my heart.

Thank you and our great group leader, Bonnie.

L is for “Love, ” By Margaret Takacs

“L” is the beginning letter of the most powerful world of our dictionary. It covers a multitude of emotions, which can trigger a multitude of events from history and from individual lives.

“Love is a Many Splendored Thing;” so says a lovely old song I have heard my daughter Kathy sing so many times. It can take many forms: love of family, friends, cherished pets, plants, favorite possessions, and foods – all the colorful mosaics of our lives. It surely has taken me to the pinnacle of happiness and to the depth of despair in my lifetime.

Throughout the years, as my daughters heard (maybe too often) the stories of my life, they always encouraged me to put those stories down on paper. I don’t know what held me back: maybe procrastination, laziness or reluctance, not knowing how to reveal the tumult of my life.

Then in my retirement, when my physical disabilities started to affect the vitality of my life, came an unexpected pleasure I greatly value and enjoy today. Before that, one of my daughters, Judith, gave me a book to read and record the important events of my life.

It touched my cord of resistance, and I thought it would be a lot easier this way. And then my other daughter, Kathleen, met by chance with Bonnie Mansell, and she sort of enlisted me in Bonnie’s memoir writing class, leaving me no more excuses.

Joining Bonnie’s memory writing class brought many pleasures into my life. Her sunny-spirited guidance overrides my occasional glum and my resistance to writing. We have a wonderful company of classmates who become friends while sharing each others stories ~ sometimes with tears of sorrow, sometimes with joy, sometimes with great humor and laughter. We value and enjoy the stories of each other’s lives.

In my writing class I find companionship sharing each other’s joys or sorrows or burdens, and in the process we rediscover that love is a many splendored thing, which can teach even my ninety-year-old heart to sing. Yes, love is truly a “many splendored thing.”

MY ONE-ARMED FAIRY by Peggy Knorr

I had purchased a little fairy figurine just a few days before Joe, my husband, became ill. I had bought her even though one of her arms was broken off because she was so especially beautiful, and I had planned to place her on a shelf in a way so the missing arm would not be noticed. As the time went by during my tending to Joe, I began to realize how she was symbolic of that which he and I were going through at that time.

Poised in dance-like abandon on my dining room table, she was my comfort and guiding light when I would sit down for a needed break, while Joe, lying in the hospital bed in the living room, was slowly and gradually slipping away each day.

My fairy would give me of her delicate strength that assured me that this situation was in divine order, totally in God's control and playing out in the way it was supposed to be doing. This little soul had suffered the loss of her arm and yet was intrepidly giving forth of her beautiful spirit in ecstasy and rapture. Her severed limb spoke of the coming loss which I was about to go through, the separation of a vital part of me, my right arm, that which Joe was to me, even during the time his torn mind had hidden itself into obscurity. But my fairy reminded me that at his death I could continue in elegance and faith, still looking upwards to my highest good, soaring with Joe's spirit into acceptance of what was yet to come.

I will continue to dance, despite my loss, like my inspired little fairy, a fractured but triumphant spirit, who was still poised and able to hold her head high in acceptance of God's wondrous ways. My companion and husband, my right arm.... gone.... torn asunder by the reality of the order of life; but because of the fortitude of this luminous little being my exultant spirit is joining with him in higher realms of faith and hope and courage.

photo by Mary Ramirez

A Life Spared, by Charlene Farnsworth

In an instant I could have tragically lost my father. Through Dad’s calm response and our good fortune, his life was spared.

Dad had a very stressful job as Shop Superintendent for a sheet metal manufacturing company. He was responsible for efficient product manufacturing, effective time management, and managing employees with a variety of personalities and skills.

To temporarily escape from his stressful environs each day, Dad would drive a short distance to the Zody’s department store parking lot. His “oasis” was in a less populated area under the shade trees where he enjoyed the good lunch Mom packed nightly for him in his black metal lunch pail.

After lunch, Dad would read a few pages from the newspaper, Reader’s Digest, Golf Digest or Popular Mechanics. After his daily respite, he returned to work to fulfill his management responsibilities.

On June 30, 1980, Dad’s pleasant routine was interrupted by a life-threatening event. Dad always sat in the passenger seat while lunching in the Zody’s lot. Short bushes separated him from the sidewalk and the highway.

A nicely-dressed man walked towards Dad’s car and passed by the open window. He was carrying a brown paper bag and, after making an about face to return to Dad’s window, pulled a knife from the bag placing it at Dad’s neck. He commanded that Dad get out of the car; however, due to impaired hearing, Dad did not immediately comply.

Dad then experienced extremely good fortune in an extremely tense situation. This man did not misinterpret Dad as being non-cooperative and repeated his command. Dad then quickly stepped out of the car. In an instant, this terrible intruder took Dad’s wallet and keys, jumped into Dad’s car, and sped away through the bushes. My stunned Dad was left standing with his precious life intact!

Dad handled this situation with amazing calm. He called the police, his family and the insurance company. This was at a time when one’s car registration paperwork was mounted on the steering column. Thus, Dad wisely called our neighbors immediately to alert them to the possibility that this malevolent individual might also attempt to burglarize our home. I believe Dad walked back to work.

At home, Dad calmly narrated all the details surrounding this horrific event. It was a total switch in personalities. Typically, in our household, Mom and I approached life’s challenges less emotionally than Dad. However, this time Mom and I were quite disturbed while Dad’s thinking process and emotions were perfectly synchronized.

Dad’s car was eventually found at an intersection in Riverside. The police explained that often a criminal will take such extreme measures to simply have “wheels” to get to a particular destination. The car’s interior was burned, and the police further explained this is done to assure no fingerprinting is possible.

Although Dad’s car and a set of golf clubs were taken that fateful day, the life of a very principled, hard-working man was most thankfully spared.

Valentine's Day Memories, by Bonnie Mansell

On Valentine’s Day Steve and I drove down to Balboa to have dinner at BJ’s. We parked on Park Avenue, next to the alley that runs behind the old Island Rooms Motel, where I used to stay as a child with my mom, her sisters, and Grandma & Grandpa, along with all the cousins.

Steve and I walked down that well-lit alley and I showed him the tiny house in the back that we used to rent. Tiny as it was, we only rented half of it. I can hardly believe how many people we got into that little space.

We walked down to the ferry and rode it across the bay to the peninsula. We were the only pedestrians on the ferry on this calm cold night - a contrast to the bustling crowds drawn to this spot in the long, warm evenings of spring and summer.

The quiet atmosphere and clear sky encouraged both romance and nostalgia. We reminisced about crossing on the ferry with our children when they were little, about my own childhood memories of that same crossing, and about my parents as they enjoyed grandparenting our children.

The ferris wheel was turning, but only a few brave souls were riding it on this windy night. We were not even tempted. As we walked through the fun zone, we remembered my mom riding the merry-go-round and ferris wheel with our kids, while my dad watched. We passed the bakery and I remembered the doughnut holes that Grandpa used to buy for us.

When we got to BJ’s we found to our relief that it wasn’t crowded. This was the BJ’s where we took the kids to celebrate their birthdays, so our memories were filled with the chaotic joy of those days. We used to sit in a booth, crowding in as many people as possible and putting high chairs at the end.

It was here that my mom showed the kids how to tear off one end of a straw wrapper, blow through the straw, and “shoot” the wrapper across the table at each other. She also showed them how to scrunch the wrapper, accordion style, into a teeny ball, drop small amounts of water on it from the straw, and watch it “grow” and wriggle like a worm.

After dinner, we took the ferry back to the island. We walked around the island before going back to the car, another tradition full of memories. I could see that Steve’s hip was hurting, but this is part of the way he gives himself to me. He knows how much I love walking, so he walks with me, even though it hurts.

As we walked, we talked of simple pleasures – Balboa Bars, kids walking on the retaining wall, the changes that time brings. I am grateful for places like this in my life – places I couldn’t afford to live, yet completely accessible for pleasant evening walks, places of beauty and wonder, where the memories are free.

The Race, by Charlotte Boquist

Fall comes early in Wyoming. Usually by the middle of August you wake one morning and know that it is fall. There is a feel in the air, a smell that is fresh and crisp and you know….. It won’t be long until the night turns cold and one day very soon snow will cover the fields and the garden. This morning with the first hint of fall, you feel an urgency not fully realized in the long summer days before. You know that soon the garden’s bounty will have reached its limit.

For several weeks we have been harvesting the bounty from our garden, racing against time to “put up” our winter’s food. This morning it is green beans being picked. The bucket is brimming and you carry it to the welcome shade of the back porch where Grandma has been waiting impatiently to get started. Her age hasn’t allowed her to take part in the harvest and she misses her garden. She is happy that she is still able to be useful. You sit with her there in the cool of that protected space as the two of you spend an hour snapping the fresh green beans.

It is a pleasant time of companionship. Two generations working together toward a mutual goal. Chatting while you work, grandma passing on her knowledge and history of the family to you. It is a lovely time of communication; the two of you working together accompanied by the steady “snap, snap, snap” of the long crisp beans.

Soon the bucket is emptied and the process moves to the kitchen where the vegetables are prepared and packed into sterilized jars. The filled containers are then moved into a kettle where they are further processed in a hot water bath. This is boiling the jars and their contents for a certain amount of time, which makes the food safe for consumption for as long as a year afterward.

Day after day the process has been repeated through the hot summer. Lining the shelves of the root cellar are jars of red tomatoes, green beans, peas, and brilliant maroon beets. We’ve make pickles both sweet and dill, lovely applesauce and apple butter, rich with cinnamon. Peaches and pears have been canned and currant jelly joins the parade. Potatoes, carrots and squash are stored whole in bins in the dark, cool space.

We know that we are in a race against Jack Frost’s inevitable visit that finally ends with the first snowfall.

IN THE DARK ON DR. KING'S DAY by Kacie Cooper

On Disneyland commercials on TV I would often hear the "Happy Birthday" song. They were singing to Goofy's birthday I think. Yet it wasn't till this morning as I was watching the Tavis Smiley show that I learned that Stevie Wonder actually wrote it for Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday. Why am I always the last to find out these things? Is it just me? Maybe it's a matter of being at the right place at the right time.

Growing up in Southern California in the 60’s I was never aware of all the injustices going on in the world. Was it my young age? My location? The Anglo leaders in my life? I'm not sure, but I hope to make a difference in my "One and Only Granddaughter" Tiana's life.

In school I never learned what the African-American went through with horrible hatred and lynchings. Never heard about the discrimination the Mexican-American went through. No clue to what the Native-American suffered or how the Japanese-American felt being hauled off to internment camps. Nothing was said to me about what the Jewish people being gassed must have felt during the holocaust. Perhaps if I had known then, I might have died from the fright of it all. My heart, at this age, dies a little each time I read about it.

I just finished Anne Moody's book "Coming of Age in Mississippi" and I still can't believe "man's inhumanity to man." While I wish I had known the truth years ago, I want to educate my Granddaughter on the history so that she will know. . . now. She is of English, Irish, Welsh, German, Mexican, Native and African-American descent.

It is not good being in the dark. Dreams come true with our eyes open. Dr. Martin Luther King's life was dedicated to the dream that he had for the future: that children and adults of all races, creed and religions would live together in harmony. He gave his life for that dream and it will stay reality if we don't live in darkness. Dreams come true with our eyes open.

Stevie wrote that birthday song for Dr. King's birthday. We celebrated it just a few days ago. But I believe we should celebrate it every day in the way we live our lives....

Christmas, 2010 -- by Peggy Knorr

Christmas was different for me this year. 

 

I was surrounded by a multitude of wonderful friends, both in physical and spiritual form, who gave me of their limitless love and caring while Joe, my husband of just under 65 years, began his final journey into the great beyond.  

From his 95th birthday on December 13th, to Christmas Eve, when he slipped peacefully away, I was comforted and supported by their great and bountiful caring. 

Especially, I hold my undying gratitude to Michelle, my beautiful neighbor, who was constantly present in every aspect of this difficult time. From every turn this drama took as it unfolded, from the decision making times, the exasperating times, the physical strength-needing times, the spiritual wisdom-needing times, to the inevitable comical times, and her willingness to be available at any hour of day or night with her undivided, support, I am awed and eternally thankful. Because of her it was possible to have this hallowed experience at home where we all wanted it to be.

For all my friends and family, known or unknown, I send this message of love and appreciation.

The Rose Parade, by Evelyn Watson

Parades were never much of a big deal for me, even the world famous Rose Parade on New Year’s Day didn’t much thrill me, except it was special time with my dad. Dad loved the Rose parade and looked forward to it each year.

Just he and I went; mother wasn’t really able to endure the long day of standing and, like me, I don’t think she relished parades much either. She never said that, but I never got the impression she felt she was missing anything by not being able to go.

We never sat in bleachers or camped out on the streets as is done today. In fact we didn’t leave the house until about time for the parade to start. We didn’t pack a lunch or take anything with us except dad’s camera and film.

I don’t remember any of the details of where we parked or where we were positioned to watch the parade, but we never had any traffic or parking difficulties. We heard and saw everything without difficulty being able to view the floats and bands up close as they passed by.

Dad was in his glory and took lots of pictures with his slide camera delighting in showing slides to family and friends afterward. I’m sure they had all watched the parade on television and seen the floats, but dad enjoyed this tradition and no one ever refused looking at them.

After all these years I still have those slides. Dad was so proud to show his slides and brag about going to the parade without the hassle of traffic or parking problems. How we did that I can’t imagine and the fact that we never had anyone ask to go with us seems strange because it seems everybody is thrilled by the Rose parade except me.

I don’t bother to watch the parade on New Year’s Day. To me it is boring. That is not to say the floats aren’t beautiful and clever, because they are. You marvel as to how they were able to create them.

A few years ago we went with friends a day or two after the parade to where the floats are taken for viewing. I was not happy being charged to view them and as beautiful as they were I grew bored and tired before we finished.

But I’ll never forget dad’s love for the Rose parade. It was probably the thing he looked forward to the most.

Treasures of Darkness, by Evelyn Watson

“I will give you the treasures of darkness” Isaiah 45:3
It was Christmas 1973. My parents had both died that year during the summer, in June and July. This was my first Christmas with them gone. It was planned that we would spend that year in Connecticut for the holiday. I was not looking forward to going; in fact my heart was heavy with the idea. I wanted to be close to Christian friends who had known my parents and who had been there for me during this devastating time of my life. I was going to be without my parents, and not having my friends with me for the holiday magnified my sorrow.

For days I felt the weight of sadness and as each day approached closer to our departure, my spirit kept spiraling downward. I told friends and the Lord that I felt as though I was going into darkness. I didn’t know Dwight’s relatives really well, but I knew that their belief in God was mostly a ritualistic traditional doctrine without knowing a personal relationship with Jesus.

On the morning of December 13, I was in the shower once more pouring out my heart to the Lord when He spoke, “Read ‘Streams in the Desert’.” My daily devotional had been forgotten in my despair for several days. When I read the message that day immediately my spirit was lifted. It was a direct answer to my prayer. “I will give you the treasures of darkness” I wasn’t aware of that verse. The message was a beautiful story of what God does with us in those days when it is so dark. The last sentence read, “God is watching, and He will bring good and beauty out of all your pain and tears.”

As our plane rolled down the runway for takeoff, I thought of the song, “I Left My Heart in San Francisco”. Yes, I still felt like I was leaving my heart behind, but I was no longer weighed down by it and was able to go through the holiday knowing God had heard me and was with me.

Memorial Christmas Trees for Mom and Dad, by Charlene Farnsworth

My best friend, my dear mother, passed away in November 1998 at the age of 85.  This was a particularly difficult time as it was the week of Thanksgiving. 

With my significant loss, particularly at the holidays, I needed an extra push to accomplish the usual “much-to-do.”  To ease my loss and better my motivation, I decided to decorate a Christmas tree that would be a dedicated memorial to Mom.

I felt the most appropriate decorations for Mom’s tree would be hearts.  In my craft supply, I already had a variety of dainty doily hearts in red, white and gold.  There were many family members and friends who had comforted my Dad, brother Jim and me in our loss through beautiful flowers and plants and lovely cards and notes of sympathy. 

How could I use the doily hearts to acknowledge the thoughtfulness of so many?  With my own heart filled with love, it was easy to answer that question.  I went about decorating the hearts with various Christmas seals - candy canes, wreaths, snowflakes, etc. 

Added to each heart, in script, was the name of a person, family or couple who had lovingly remembered Mom and acknowledged our loss.  Fortunately, I took a picture of Mom’s unique Christmas tree to capture forever her special remembrance.

Two years later, in October 2000, our Dad passed away at the age of 88.  Again, Jim and I received a significant outpouring of kindness and sympathy from other family members and friends. 

Dad, of course, must have his own memorial Christmas tree in his honor.  Mom and I had learned how to make envelopes of various sizes when we were struggling with the art of origami.  That was the inspiration for Dad’s tree. 

I made colorful miniature envelopes of like size with a facsimile thank-you note peeking out from the top of each envelope.  These brief notes were typed in script and acknowledged each family member or friend’s personal contribution in offering comfort.  I had the good fortune to also photograph Dad’s memorial Christmas tree to reflect upon for years to come.

Although few of the people who were identified on the hearts and envelopes that decorated Mom’s and Dad’s memorial trees were present during the Christmas holidays, those who were present enjoyed the enchanting effects.  Personally, it was an immense comfort to honor and pay tribute to our parents who were no longer with us during the holiday season.

Country Road, by Noemi S. Rabina

I am a country road stretching from town to a remote village. I am being traveled by all people from all walks of life. Employees from town will walk in groups to the end of the road where they work in a Power Plant. People from the village will also walk to town for different purposes; like selling their goods, or buying commodities they need at home.

Being in a rural place, I am not as attractive as those in the metropolitan areas. I look rugged especially where I have lots of turns. Wild trees have grown on both sides, their leaves as big as elephant ears.  As the wind blows, it gives a whispering sound. Who would dare walk alone on this lonely road?

However, I always look forward on Sunday mornings when five sisters will come out and joyfully walk together on my humble path. It is a joy for me to listen to their laughter, their songs of hymns, and their words of inspiration. I bet they are going to church, rain or shine. They will take off their shoes and walk bare foot to feel the cool earth on my side and the running stream of rain water. 

One will describe the beauty of the wild flowers unnoticed by other passersby, the dancing leaves of the wild trees, and the song of birds, big and small. Showers come and they were drawn closely together under a big black umbrella. Three heads drawn sided by side; one small head in front and another small head at the back. They move slowly as one, to my delight, as they scream with laughter that echo all the way.

Before sunset, they are on their way back home to where they call their paradise hill.  They started as five going to town and returned with gentlemen escorts from their church. The air is filled with brotherly/sisterly love. I am not a lonely country road after all. 

My Thanksgiving Flower, by Margaret (Peggy) Knorr

Today my husband brought me in a single flower from the profusely blooming camellia bush in our garden. Let me explain why that to me was such a momentous experience.

Joe, at almost 95, is in the netherworld of dementia. He pretty much lives wrapped up in himself and his own immediate needs and affairs, most of which are off balance with what we perceive as reality. His idea of thankfulness has never been very present in his psychological makeup, and at present he seems to have little or no awareness of the extent of the loving care and attention he is receiving. He is angry in moments when he realizes his entrapment and then his moods usually turn to helpless and hopelessness, but in between times his underlying sweetness often comes into play changing his behavior for a little while into child-like living.

Today, while he was wandering around the garden, he must have been awestruck when he came upon this glorious bush, covered with brilliant pink flowers. I would have loved to have heard his inner conversation. Was he drawn to the innocence of the blossoms, something like he himself, blooming for no apparent reason, or did he just have a sudden urge to pick one and bring it in to give to me? I wonder what tickled the remnants of his mind that prompted him to break a single branch and come inside the house, saying simply "I have brought you a flower. It's for you."

This may not be so full of wonder had he ever given me flowers before! He never had! He was just not that sort of a person. This was the first flower he had ever given me in all the 64 years of our marriage! My treasured thanksgiving flower speaks testaments of love and faith and thankfulness.

I wonder if he had caught the Thanksgiving energy that is circulating in our hearts at this season. Had it automatically seeped into his psyche? It sometimes seems to me that demented minds have keener sensibilities in different dimensions than those we ordinarily have. To me, that calls for us to dwell on lofty ideals. To do that has awesome power to work for good.

A post script, added at a later date:

Since writing about this happening, which lit Joe's mind with thankfulness and lifted my spirits so much, his recall of it became engulfed into the dark caverns of his unconsciousness to become yet another forever lost memory. It is now locked inside Joe's ever diminishing capacity of remembering....a sweet thing living where all the other orphaned memories reside. They call to me fervently to recreate them once again. My answer is that thankful deeds of kindness can never be forgotten. I tell them that my pen is the sacred instrument through which they shall live again.

Thanksgiving with God, By Yolanda Adele

It was 1991. Getting together with the family for Thanksgiving Dinner was not something that I was looking forward to, having lost my father, whom we called Popi, just two months earlier. Yet I felt an obligation to my mother and the rest of the family to be there to help alleviate the obvious void that was left in my parent’s home.

On holidays before my dad died the house and neighborhood had been filled with the sounds of Mexican music blasting from dad’s reel-to-reel tape-recorder. That tape recorder could play non-stop for 24 hours and sometimes did, often times to the annoyance of the neighbors, and always to the frustration of my mother, who was hard of hearing. I could hear it the minute that I turned on to their block in Huntington Park, though their house was almost at the end of the street.

Popi enjoyed having lots of activity around him, especially since my eldest daughter Yvette made him a great-grandfather, first with Jaime, born in 1986, then with Brandon who was born in 1990.

It amazed me to watch Popi interact with his great-grandchildren in a way that he never could with his own children. I came to realize that both grandparenting and great-grandparenting were God’s way of giving parents another chance to get the bonding thing right if they didn’t fare well the first time.

Jaime loved her Popi. The last time that she saw him alive she was five years old. She came with her parents to visit with Popi in his bedroom where he lay on a hospital bed. My mom called us to the kitchen to eat. I told Popi to rest and that we’d return in a bit.

After a while Jaime left the table. I got up to look for her. I went to the living room where her toys were spread out on the floor; she was not there. I checked in the bathroom; she was not there either.

I walked down the hall to my father’s bedroom. There I saw the sweetest sight. Jaime had somehow managed to squeeze through or climb over the hospital bed’s metal side guard and was lying on her side facing her Popi. They were both smiling at each other as Jaime gently stroked the top of his head.

Now the family gathered without any lively Mexican or any other kind of music playing. In fact the only sounds beside our voices were the harsh clattering of the dishes, and silverware. I didn’t know how I was going to get through this strained family gathering.

We held hands around the table and said grace. Then, with a voice like an angel, Jaime proclaimed, “Popi is so lucky. This is his first Thanksgiving with God.” Suddenly I felt all the bent up tension leave my body. A smoothing peace washed over me. Someone turned on the radio, filling the house with a joyful noise… then I knew Jaime was right.

LIFE IS A CHANGEABLE THING, by Dora Silvers

Faye, my friend of 35 years, is in a home for Dementia.  It is very heartbreaking, how she has changed in the last year. Faye was an excellent cook and loved making lunches and dinners at our Temple. Faye has traveled to many countries and collected souvenir spoons. We went shopping together and the four of us went to the movies and theater together. 

Faye tuned to a completely different person.  Her quiet personality changed completely.  Her husband had to call 911; she was put into the Hospital.  Now, she will be going to a facility in Anaheim.  Her husband Joe is selling their lovely two story home, he will be moving into an  apartment.  It breaks my heart to know this is really happening.

Joe is going through a changing lifestyle.  They were married for over 60 years.  I was thinking that "Life is not fair".  I wrote this poem for Joe.

AFTER THE CLOUDS, THE SUNSHINE.

AFTER THE WINTER, THE SPRING

LIFE IS A CHANGEABLE THING

AFTER THE NIGHT, THE MORNING

THEN ALL DARKNESS CEASES

AFTER LIFE'S CARES AND SORROWS

THE COMFORT AND SWEETNESS OF PEACE.

Bless you, Joe for being such a caring husband.