Giggleville

A few months ago, my granddaughters and I played a storytelling game.  We would give each other  four or five words that had to be used as we made up stories.  The following is what happened when Rosie (7) was given the following words: mayor, underwear, rain, giggle.  She told a wild and funny story....which  became this poem.  

Our life stories are priceless gifts we give our loved ones...whether a child's fantasy or a grandparents childhood memory.   

Listen,  Ask questions. Know that sharing something about yourself can live for generations to come. 

Rosie

Giggleville

The mayor of Giggleville 

Stomped through the mud

She stopped in a puddle

And gazed out at the flood

Rain dripped from the rooftops 

And poured down the streets

The clouds in the sky 

Hung like huge wet sheets

April showers are welcome

But please, not every day

We want to be able to work 

And to play

The grownups were grumpy 

Because their shoes  were a mess

The kids were tired of being inside 

Playing Checkers and Chess

The mayor of Giggleville 

Missed the sounds of folks having fun

And asked the citizens 

What they thought could be done

The adults huddled on a porch 

And came up with a plan

To create a dry space

Where people could stand 

From lamppost to street signs

Mammoth umbrellas were strung

And to add extra cheer 

They looked like the sun

From treetop to treetop

Tarps were hung in the park

So all could stay dry

From morning till dark. 

But when it rained a bit harder

 It all came crashing down 

And the mayor of Giggleville 

Couldn't help but frown

Droopy umbrellas and tents

Covered the square

But the people looked up 

And couldn't believe what was there

The girls and the boys

Borrowed some clothes

And sewed them together

Into a giant rainbow 

From the flagpole up high

Flying alone

A colorful banner 

Stood on its own

Blue and yellow PJs, a violet swimsuit

Red, orange and green underwear

They raided someone's bedroom

Who could it be?  Oh my!  Would she care? 

The Mayor of Giggleville saw her undies fly by

And was totally shocked

But listened to the laughter

And said "giggling rocks!"

It brightened them all

Though it didn't stop the flood

They sang and danced

In the puddles and mud

When May arrived and

The sun shone all day

The mayor of Giggleville 

Declared a holiday

The citizens packed

And left by car, boat and bike

To swim oceans, see friends 

and find mountains to hike

But nowhere else flies undies

And giggles at rain

So the mayor and everyone

All came home again 

Legacy

Happy 87th Birthday to my lovely mother, Luci Dannar!  May your day be filled with many reasons to smile and celebrate who you are....

I wrote the following  seven years ago, to celebrate my mother's 80th birthday. The photo is from my recent visit. 

Mom and me.....Sept. 2014
 photo by Marty Bruce Scheall

                                                                                                 Legacy

      Across the room, Rose, my one year old grand-daughter, beats her drum and sings, while Fern,  her older sister, tap dances and plays her ukulele.  Sara, my daughter, joins her daughters on viola and West African rhythm instruments, while I play piano. 
     Music and dance are as present in our family as the nuts are to the squirrels outside the window.  
     My three sisters and I were driven routinely to  various lessons from our rural home---which meant a lot of driving for Mom and a hefty financial burden for the family. 
     Our two-bedroom home--without plumbing and heated by a coal stove--was on ten scruffy acres, twenty minutes from Columbia, Missouri. Orchards, vegetable gardens and pastures provided most of our food--raised and preserved by my parents and grandparents.  On Sundays we  attended services at  a little country church, in our matching home-made dresses. Then, a couple of times a week, we made the trip into town to study dance, piano, violin or anything else we might want to explore. ( I had a brief stint as a baton twirler!)
     "How come you and your sisters do all of that fancy stuff in town?" my friend asked when she came to my dance recital.
      "Mom was raised in the country and moved often. She didn't get to take dance or music lessons, so when she ended up with all of these daughters she decided to make sure we got what she missed." I had heard that story often so it t made perfect sense to me as I explained it to my friend, but I didn't realize at that time how powerful and influential those opportunities were.  
     Mom infused us with her love for fashion, literature, writing, music, dance, religion and theater as  she exposed us to as many cultural events as she could manage. Although she doesn't play an instrument, she often sings hymns --as her mother did --while working in the garden, scrubbing floors or ironing clothes.
    We all grew up, got married and became mothers. Mom's influence has continued as many of her grand children now study music and dance. 
     Mom's legacy of introducing us to a broader culture--one of fancy stuff--is evident now as we gather to celebrate her birthday with instruments, dance and songs. 
      The beat goes on. 

      
     








'

Happy New Year

Wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.                                                                                                                           Khalil Gibran

I read the words again, on the small brown card balanced on my knee; yesterday’s gift from a friend. I hear in it a call to live lightly, with gratitude and seize the moment to love. I consider the card a celestial message, rather than the random prize it was intended to be. 

I woke up this morning in a tent snuggled with Peter.  The beauty of Madera canyon surrounds us, on this cusp of a new year.   We came here two years ago for New Year's Eve, camped, made resolutions around the campfire, reflected on the past, expressed hope for the future and felt more peaceful with each other than we had for quite a while. 

Last year on December 29th we packed the car, ready to repeat the previous year’s journey, but got sidetracked by illness. Establishing a tradition apparently takes time, patience and some level of predictability.  Is that why I have felt sidetracked more often than not this year? 

We are back now, braving 25 degrees at night, and soaking the sunny warmth of mid-fifties later, to explore not just the canyon, but also our relationship to each other, ourselves and the world. 

Last night as we cuddled against the cold, we listened to Jon Cabot-Zinn's meditation instruction.  We practice meditation together, and I do solo sessions, but we both want to delve deeper into the meaning of awareness through mindful practice. 

Wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving....

We woke before sunrise, stayed under the warm down blanket, and I read aloud from Julia Cameron's book The Writing Diet.  The chapter about a daily writing practice to encourage creativity, resonated with both of us. Yes let's write, let's make healthy choices.....let's get back on track with.....oh, so many things to examine, evaluate, explore. 

I sit alone with the mid-morning sun on my back.   The waning campfire, which  warmed us, fed us breakfast and encouraged us to get out and enjoy this moment, is no longer needed for comfort.

Mexican Blue Jays, chickadees and titmice flit around me. I love being surrounded by birds, but have never had much interest in learning to identify them or their songs.  When I feel lonely I often seek a place where their presence comforts me; a park, a shore, a forest. 

Years ago at a Buddhist weekend retreat, a man approached me at a meal break.  "I am sure you were a bird in a past life.  I've been watching how you sit on your cushion. Look at you now, perched on the picnic bench." I nodded, whispered Namaste, and smiled. 

My family still teases me about my need to escape them by shimmying up the rope of our tire swing and sitting on an oak branch much of my childhood.   I nod at them, and smile. 

The park ranger drives by and checks the document that proves we are legal residents here. Our dues are paid. 

The jays attempt to steal granola from the picnic table, stymied by the Ziploc bag and my laughter. A bee insists on exploring my neck, so I shoo it toward nearby berries.  The wood smoke moves skyward, carried by a determined breeze.  Dry yellow, knee-high grasses bow slightly toward the altar of glowing coals.

Peter is off doing his favorite thing here; walking a trail. He will return eager to tell  me stories of woodpeckers, trees, clouds. 

I will be happy to see him and  to share my morning of stillness. 

I love it that we each listen to our heart and move accordingly on our individual paths. 

Wake at dawn with a winged heart......

Holding Hands

Dear Fern and Rose,

     Yesterday started out as another day of  third grade and kindergarten for you;  folders of completed  homework in your backpacks,  you counted the days until Christmas break.  Laughter, songs and last minute instructions filled the car as your traveled to school. 

      Shortly after you arrived, four hundred miles away, kids and adults died by  the hands of a murderer, in a school similar to yours.  

E P and Clara Fern Moore
my grandparents

     How do we all get through this?  "I want everyone I love within my eyesight, with my arms around you"... I wrote on my Facebook page a few hours afterward.  My first reaction was to want to  gather up everyone precious to me and retreat behind protective walls.  I especially  wanted to protect you, my dear grand-daughters.

     Is that the best I can do for you?   

     When I was a young girl, my grandmother protected me.  She did not build walls around me, but instead encouraged me to venture out into a world bigger than anything she had experienced  herself.   

     She protected my with her presence.  She was available;  I knew I could talk to her about anything---first love, nursing school, marriage, parenthood, moving  away,  divorce, traveling to Africa, my sister's death....and she would listen without judgment.    

      She protected me by embracing the changing world--not running from it.   The world may be more violent than when she grew up, but she managed to survive hardships I can't imagine--- a third grade education, serious illnesses,  the death of her mother when she was still a child, marriage at age fourteen, poverty, economic depression, the dust bowl, sending  her two sons to war and living off the land as farmers.  

     She protected me by offering me a real, authentic relationship.  She celebrated my victories, comforted me when I failed, walked with me through loss, encouraged me to stretch and take advantage of opportunities. 


     What does all of this mean to you?

     We mourn for the tragedy yesterday.  Violence  does not make sense and never will.  One of the surviving children said he was  told to close his eyes and hold hands, to avoid seeing the carnage.  Wonderful advice for the moment.  

     Today, I acknowledge that danger is unavoidable, but living a restricted life based on fear does not allow me to see the needs of others, the possibility of wonder, the magic of relationships. 

      We need each other--the merging of youth and life experience. Together the possibilities are endless.

     With our eyes open wide, holding hands--with each other, friends and strangers--we will change the world, one touch at a time.  

     You are my sunshine.

                                                                   Love Always....Gram

     



      


    


   

Protection

I questioned my ability to care for burn patients as I drove to work, when the only thing I could recall from anatomy lectures seemed utterly trivial:  The skin is the bodies’ largest organ. Its main function is to shield and protect.

The sting of betadine, alcohol and floor polish saluted me when I entered the restricted Burn Treatment ICU.  Overhead lights illuminated the nursing station like a night-time road construction zone.  I introduced myself to the charge nurse, as the nurse from the supplemental staffing agency.   An advantage to employment as an independent contractor is being able to choose the place and time to work.  But that perk was overridden earlier in the day when the staffing coordinator called.

“I don’t do ICU assignments,” I told her.  “Check my profile: no ICU, no ER, and no pediatrics.  I don’t like trauma; especially fresh, serious suffering.  And, I don’t like seeing kids sick enough to be hospitalized. It’s hard enough to keep my own daughter healthy.” 

“How bad could it be?”  She asked.  “Just one evening shift in the burn unit, OK?  They really need a nurse there tonight. Finish making those cupcakes and get your nurse groove going.  You’ll be home by midnight.”

The timing of the shift worked.   John and I juggled schedules to reduce childcare needs for Sara, our five year old daughter.    When an overlap was necessary I took her to a neighbor’s house for a couple of hours. Our recent move, from co-op housing in a risky neighborhood to a ranch house on a quiet street, reflected our shift from a counter culture life to mainstream living; all efforts to keep Sara safe.

“Mom, please don’t ask to see my cards during the party”, Sara requested as we decorated Valentine treats.  She was fine with my role as the kindergarten parent helper, but wanted me at a reasonable distance in the classroom tomorrow.  Cornrow braids of long blond hair framed her face. Her green eyes searched mine.   The delicate balance of protector mother versus promoter of independence was already a daily dance.

I brushed flour from her face; it clung to her smooth, moist skin. I pinched her cheeks the way my grandfather used to do mine.  “Sure.  But if a boy tries to kiss you I will break his knees”, I called as she ran away squealing.

“You’ll l have two patients this evening.  Molly, age six, fell into a campfire—burns on her back and arms.   Amanda, age 7, burned her face and chest when her dress caught fire at a birthday party” the charge nurse said.

She pointed across the unit to two small, bandaged bodies in adult-sized beds.  Molly’s mother was reading Winnie the Pooh.  Amanda’s mother knitted while her daughter slept.   Valentines and red streamers dangled from the bed frames.  Both mothers looked exhausted and sad.

 Children?  Young girls?  I expected the patients to be adults. My mouth went dry and my hands shook.

 “Where were their parents?  How could that happen?”     

“The parents were there. Just not close enough.” She explained the circumstances: normal, everyday events that just turned out wrong. 

Memories of Sara around fires flashed in my head:  my parents’ fireplace, fireworks, barbeques….

I donned the required isolation gown, mask and gloves and immediately felt hot, stuffy and clumsy. The incessant monitor alarms seemed to shout these lives were forever changed by one fleeting, unlucky moment, when parents were not able to keep their children safe.

The evening seemed to last for days.  Each painful bandage change, request for pain medication and tears of frustration and fear, pierced my heart so deeply that I still hear their cries  and see the crimson, wet and tender skin.  

The house smelled like chocolate cake when I walked in the front door, well past midnight.  I sat in the quiet kitchen and read the Valentines Sara had created with her dad. The cupcakes, sporting heart-shaped candy, were lined up in neat rows in a cardboard box, ready for the class party.

I knelt by Sara’s bed, swept long, loose hair away from her prefect skin, stroked her face and whispered, I am the largest presence in your life.  My main function is to shield and protect.

 Video made for Sara, Mother's Day 2011

Birth Stories

What is your earliest memory? Mine is not my birth, but I have a sense of what it was like from the family stories I have heard.  It seems important to have a sense of the surroundings, who was present, what the weather was like, the phase of the moon, current events. In other words, what the world was like when we arrived.

I was fortunate to be present at Fern's birth--my first grand-daughter; which was also my birthday. My son-in-law coached my  daughter for several hours.  Fern was not in the ideal position for delivery--face-up, which causes painful back labor.  When she was born the doctor said  "A stargazer girl!...that's what we call these baby who arrive face up".

Fern is eight now.  For the past five years she has waited for me to write her a bedtime song.  Every time I tuck her in and sing "You Are My Sunshine", she reminds me that I always sang that one to her mother. She wants her own song now.

The ceiling above her bed is a starry night sky.   She is a StarGazer Girl.

What is your birth story?  Has it shaped you? Informed you?  If you don't know what was happening in the world when you arrived, go on a search. Celebrate your arrival and the ways the world welcomed you.

Without You

I was alone on a cruise ship in a foreign country and found a leather-bound book of poems on a table.  In the lower corner of the soft red cover, I read the author’s name, in faint gold script.

The gilded pages felt fragile and sacred. Silently I touched the columns of short poems and noticed each poem contained the words "without you", in bold print.  My tears dropped onto the pages and the dark ink began to run and smear the words.  

“This poet has the same name as my sister. How can that be?”  I asked.

“She is well-known in this world” a voice answered.

I woke up crying; my empty hands clinging to the book of poems.  It had been a long time since I wept for my sister and it felt right to surrender to the sorrow and let my tears continue to flow.  I don’t think of her every day now, but when I hear Love Me Tender, catch a whiff of Channel No. 5, or when she visits me in a dream, I am reminded that she still lives  in my heart and in my life. 

I recorded the dream by candlelight and encouraged the pleasant feeling of being together again to linger.  Thanks for stopping by Kat I whispered. What does “without you” mean?  What am I supposed to do with that? Did you write poetry in this life that I didn’t know about?  Does time have any meaning where you are?  I continued to pose questions and wait for responses from somewhere in the darkness.  I struggled to visualize her before cancer:  clear, dark brown eyes; long, curly dark hair; devilish smile; perfectly manicured nails; flawless make-up.  The healthy image of her faded, replaced by the night she died, small and frail.

When she took her last breath twelve years ago, I struggled to breathe for the first time in my life without her in my world, as I held her lifeless hand. 

During the year of her illness, my multiple roles—researcher, caregiver, organizer, listener—swallowed me whole.  If I just worked harder, maybe the inevitable would go away.    After she died I attempted to resume other roles—daughter, sister, wife, mother-- and promptly discovered I felt vulnerable to lose every precious relationship in my world.  I wanted everyone I loved to be within my eyesight.

I was paralyzed by exhaustion, fear and anxiety; all normal reactions to loss. 

When I left Missouri and returned to my home in Michigan, the harsh winter added to my sadness.  I curled up beside the wood-burning stove and didn’t leave our farm house willingly until the earth began to warm again.  

Each spring Kathe, Kristy, Kelli and I watched for dandelions to surface, shining like miniature suns.  A fistful was usually the first bouquet of the season we picked for our mother.

When dandelions appeared in the spring after Kathe’s death, I sat on the grass in the backyard wrapped in an old wool blanket, and asked the sun warm my heart and soul.  I picked a bouquet of four flowers and spread them in front of me; the stems joined to create a pinwheel.  

My naturalist daughter taught me each part of the dandelion is edible and useful.  During its life cycle-- from seeds sprouting to seeds flying free— it is both a fetching spring flower and a gangly weed. Each stage is valuable in different ways; each stage is necessary.

When the expression of grief is rushed, emotional well-being and the journey back to wholeness is short-changed.  A three day funeral leave provides an opportunity to participate in death related rituals, but does not allow time to grieve.    Well-intentioned friends often encourage returning to usual activities immediately.

Klara, Kelli, Luci (mother), Kristy, Kathe
Thanksgiving 1999....one month before Kat's death

Unexpressed grief—even years after a loss--can become the force behind disabling depression. 

Healthy grieving takes time and patience.  Acceptance that it is essential and the willingness to abandon notions that it is a linear event helps.   

The raw, overwhelming ache of loss lasted only a few moments after the dream. Followed by peaceful memories and new insights.

I am always grateful when you when you return to remind of  the stages of life, death and grief.

Without you…I am whole, though forever changed by your life and your death.