What's In a Man's Heart

"A father should be his son's first hero, and his daughters first love."

When I was a child of five or six, I climbed into my father's lap as he sat waiting for my mother to finish dressing. Without objection, he stubbed out his cigarette, and pulled me close; his right arm held me protectively against his chest.

Freshly showered and shaved, Daddy smelled of Skin Bracer, and Lucky Strike cigarettes.

Comforted, I breathed deeply, and burrowed my cheek into the front of his crisply, starched shirt.

We sat there, just the two of us, in the quiet, semi-darkness of twilight. Safely wrapped in my daddy's arms, I was profoundly content. In my innocence, I knew what it was to be loved.

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom . . . with my ear pressed warmly against his chest . . . ba-boom, ba-boom . . . I could hear the rhythmic beat of my father's heart . . . Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom!

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, I was afraid.  Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom! I couldn't help but wonder . . . BA-BOOM . . . what would happen if . . . BA-BOOM . . . it stopped?  The thought was too painful to consider!

Panicked, I sat up, and broke the spell.

In every lifetime, there are defining moments. In that moment, I knew death, and understood what it meant to be mortal. My daddy, the person I loved more than any other, wouldn't be mine forever.

I was overwhelmed with fear. I simply couldn't bear the idea of a world void of my father's love.

Daddy's heart beats on into it's eightieth year, a milestone I tearfully celebrate with the little girl I once was. Our relationship with my father didn't end overnight in an exchange of angry words, and the slam of a door. It slipped away like water through the fingers of a cupped hand.

I accept responsibility for the role I played in the disintegration of our relationship, but still I wonder, did Daddy just forget who I was? I tried to remind him that I was still here, but he didn't seem to recognize the face of his child in the adult I'd become. I could speculate forever on the whys and wherefores, but in the end, only God knows what's in a man's heart.

For most of my life, my father made me feel loved, and for that I will always be grateful.

Happy Birthday Dad - we will always love you.

Dancing In the Rain

A single word can be a powerful thing. It can be the ripple in the pond that changes everything. It can be sharp and biting or rich and soft.  From my own personal experience, it can be a catalyst for enriching your life.  Ali Edwards, One Little Word 2013

Two years ago, an ill wind blew a rather large, dark cloud into my little corner of the world and parked it directly over me and mine. The ensuing storm dumped buckets and buckets of water, caused the creek to rise, and temporarily knocked me off my feet.

In response to the rising water, I sought shelter in the warmth of our home, affectionately referred to as, the Ark, and prayed on a daily basis for an end to the menacing weather.

And while I still believe, that the shortest distance between a problem and a solution, is the distance between my knees and the floor, I now recognize that affecting climate change in happy valley isn't on God's immediate to-do list.

A pragmatic being, I realize that life is short.  Compelled to make the most of my time on earth, I hesitate to waste a moment more brooding about my misfortune, while watching the world go by my rain-streaked kitchen windows.  Surely, God wants more for me. Certainly he expects more from me.

Still, there's risk associated with wandering into a storm.  No matter how well I prepare, or clothe myself against the elements, I could be lost in a torrent of rain or overwhelmed by a flash flood.  Is it really worth taking the chance?

Yes! Behind the dark clouds, there is light, beauty and goodness. Further, I know that God doesn't want me to spend the rest of my life cowering in fear of the darkness. As a Christian, I am called to step into the light, to seek out, and celebrate each and every ray of light that peeks through the clouds, no matter how briefly, even if it means I end up dancing in the rain.

Four years ago, I began the tradition of selecting a single word each January that I reflect and meditate on throughout the year.  Words that have enriched my life in the past, are simplify, forward, mystery and resignation. 

While I may be an ordinary person, my life-journey has been extraordinary - full of blessings, travel, adventure and opportunity. My word is a companion on my journey along the road-less-traveled, challenging me to step outside my comfort zone, encouraging me to think outside the box, and comforting me in the darkness.

I stand at the threshold of the new year, in my pink wellies (English rain-boots) and raincoat, umbrella in hand, with a new companion - a new word - CELEBRATE!

I've resolved to step out into the rain, eyes to the clouds, in search of light and silver linings.  I will be happy, and I will celebrate the goodness.

(left) Granddaughter Regan, who shares my taste in rain boots.

Click here for more information on the one little word concept and Ali Edwards.




   

All I Want For Christmas is You

You are the angel atop my tree
You are my dream come true
Santa can't bring me what I need
'Cuz all I want for Christmas is you
    Vince Vance & the Valiants (click)

She was my dream come true, my Christmas angel, born just ten days before Christmas, 1982.  We brought her home from the hospital, lovingly swaddled in a handmade blanket, and placed her under our Christmas tree, the greatest gift.

Twenty-nine years, and seven months later, I received a simply worded text message, sent from the number I recognized as my daughter's phone, indicating that she'd passed away. In utter disbelief, I reread the text, checked the number, and read the text again.   

Only an hour before, while driving home from the city, I'd called that number, left a heartfelt voicemail, and requested a return call. The text message I received, came as I was slowing to exit the freeway. Gut-punched, I kept my wits about me long enough to safely pull the car off the roadway.

Our daughter was seven months pregnant, a horse trainer and riding instructor.  It was conceivable, that she'd had an accident, been kicked or thrown from a horse.  I tried to stop my heart from racing - to catch my breath. My only thought, not my baby!

Ten minutes later, after multiple hysterical phone calls, I confirmed that my daughter was alive and well. The text was merely a monstrous joke.

Twenty-four hundred miles, separate my daughter and I - my middle child - my Christmas angel.  The call I'd placed earlier that day, was only the third I'd made to what I believed to be her phone in almost two years.  I really hadn't expected her to answer.

I loathed the distance between us, but can't fully explain why I didn't do more sooner, to mend what was broken between us.  In spite of the love I felt for my child, I stubbornly clung to my pride, and hurt feelings. Further, I'd inadvertently left the door open so others could meddle in what should have been a sacred relationship.

The cruel text I received was sent in response to the emotional message I'd left on a stranger's phone that morning. My daughter's number had been reassigned. That text, was my wake-up call!

To be estranged from one's own child seems inconceivable to me, yet there I was - here I am.  Did the physical miles between us make it that easy to forget the love I felt for her, and the pain I willingly endured just to bring her into this world?  Had I taken my daughter for granted?  Was I asking too much?  Did it matter?    

Yesterday, while once again driving home from the city, I thought of my daughter, on the occasion of her thirtieth birthday. I hummed softly along with the radio, the words of the song made famous by Vince Vance & the Valiants, grateful that I still have an angel to place atop my tree when so many others do not.  While the road between us is still bumpy, most of the potholes have been filled.

As a nation, we mourn the loss of innocents in Connecticut - death at the hand of a madman.  By the grace of God, I was able to wish away the tragic ending to my story.   Rather than mourning the lost years and distance between us, I'll celebrate my daughter's life, remembering the love and joy I felt the morning I placed her under our Christmas tree.

All I Want For Chistmas is You, was written by Mariah Carey

Resignation

Each January I choose a focus word for the coming year (aka one little word) which I use as a prompt for personal growth.  This year, my word was resignation:  the acceptance of something undesirable but inevitable.

I recently began blogging again, after a two-year struggle with literary laryngitis. My loss of voice can be attributed to a series of tragedies (for lack of a better word) that consumed my once tightly-knit family over the course of five years, under the guise of dementia, alcoholism and estrangement.

The sweet little house my husband and I call home, sits on the bank of a rocky creek that spills endlessly down the side of a woodsy mountain. Ironically, I successfully managed the construction of the house, while my extended family fell apart. I sought comfort in the serenity of my wooded environs.  So while the following water-related analogy makes perfect sense to me, I can only hope that it does so to others.

To sum it up, my collective tragedies were to me, like stones fallen into the creek - at first causing little more than ripples in the water.  With time however, the protruding stones gathered debris; other stones washed downstream and collected around them. The ripples became dark, raging rapids.

Each year, those of us living along Mill Creek must wade in and remove the larger stones and obstructions that threaten to turn our serene little waterway into a tumult.  If we don't take action, water will eventually wash up over the bank, causing chaos and destruction.

Spunky little go-getter that I am, I never hesitate to do what I must to avoid pending disaster, or to lessen its impact.  But, in the case of my family, the stones I attempted to move, had been in the water too long. Try as I might, they were either too slippery, or too deeply embedded in muck to be moved. A flood was inevitable.

I'd like to believe that I fought the good fight against the darkness that enveloped my world, but I couldn't prevent the blackness from spilling out when I put pen to paper (or, fingers to keyboard). I felt I had no choice but to resign myself (there's that one little word) to the fact that I was speechless.

I stopped writing altogether (a welcome end to hours spent staring at a blank computer screen), and threw my creative energy into something else, my photography. Through the lens of my camera, I found I could still successfully focus on other things in my life.

Months have crept by.  Most of the immovable stones remain in the creek that is my life, but I've learned to accept the white water around them as a new normal.  I've resigned (there it is again) that I am powerless to heal my broken family, but I'll never stop hoping that it might be healed.

Years ago, I had the joy and honor of attending seminars by one of the world's greatest living equestrians, Germany's Conrad Schumacher.  The advice Mr. Schumacher offered his students for successfully riding a 1000 pound animal competitively, was to concentrate solely on controlling the controllables.

In deference to Mr. Schumacher, I put my energy into healing what I could of myself, letting the rest go. And while still a bit raspy, I rejoice in the fact that I'm no longer silent.

Grandson Conor, sitting among the stones. 

Accepting That It's Simply So

"How is one to lead a moral and compassionate existence when one is fully aware of the blood, the horror inherent in life, when one finds darkness not only in one's culture, but within oneself?

If there is a stage at which an individual life truly becomes adult, it must be when one grasps the irony in its unfolding and accepts responsibility for a life lived in the midst of such paradox.

There are simply no answers to some of the great pressing questions.  You continue to live them out, making your life a worthy expression of leaning into the light.  Barry Lopez, Arctic Dreams

I was born and raised a Catholic Christian, attended Mass on a regular basis throughout my life, raised my own children Catholic, sent them to parochial schools, studied at a small Catholic college, and worked for several years as a parish director of religious education.  I even had the honor of attending a seminar program held by some of the most celebrated moral ethicists in the contemporary Catholic Church.

So you'd think I'd have a fairly thorough understanding of what it means to be a Christian, from a behavioral standpoint.

In my last post, I wrote that during my time of crisis, I looked for help, but found little offered.  By help, I mean compassion and understanding, the proverbial shoulder to cry on. I wasn't expecting, nor was I asking for someone to solve my problems.  I just needed a little relief from treading water now and then.

I was, and continue to be eternally grateful to the handful of souls that did in fact come to my rescue.  Ironically, those that did so were not the strongest swimmers, or the bravest of those that stood on the shore.

For the most part, it was the battered survivors of previous storms, victims of earlier shipwrecks, some still wading in waist deep water themselves, that threw me a line, or swam out to tread water beside me.

I've asked myself why?  To idly sit on a beach and watch as somebody sputters and flails in the waves a few yards off-shore, without even running for help, is reprehensible.  Yet it happens every day, on some sandy slip, in some dark little corner of the world. Self-absorbed people watch, as somebody drowns.

Another paradox.  Another unanswerable question. Accepting that its simply so, will have to be enough.

I'd Like To Report a Drowning . . . My Own!

No, the creek hasn't risen and washed me away in the wake of Hurricane Sandy. Though no less real from a psychological standpoint, I'm speaking figuratively here.

Actually, my drowning began almost two years ago, when a tsunami-like personal crisis knocked me off my feet, and cast me adrift in a sea of fear, where I've battled waves of insecurity, self-pity, and distrust.

For a long time, I thought the water would recede and leave me where it had found me, safe, and secure on dry land.  So, I set my mind, on simply trying to stay afloat.

My father taught me to swim in the water off the coast of New Jersey, where we lived for several years in the late 1960s. My dad had determined that I would be a strong swimmer, so he paddled me out beyond the surf, and commanded that I swim a few yards parallel to the shore before riding the waves back to the beach.

I was a tough kid, and eager to please, so it wasn't long before I was swimming confidently against the waves and the current, waving proudly to my father, as he stood watching from the shore.

For some, a crisis can be a turning point, or a crossroads. Mine wasn't.  It was a full-blown catastrophe, the sort that devastates everything in its path, only no disaster declaration was issued.  No aid or relief was available.  I simply had to suffer through it.

As any surfer will tell you, its impossible to simply stay still in the ocean.  The current and the wind will eventually carry you further up or down the coast, and eventually, out to sea.  At some point, one must take action.

At times during my drowning, I contemplated giving up. The water wasn't receding. No help was forthcoming and one can only tread water for so long, without suffering exhaustion.

I let the current carry me further out into deeper and colder water.  There was comfort in the numbing darkness.  If things wouldn't get better, maybe they couldn't get worse.  But still, the waves came, along with the occasional storm, pulling me under, prodding me to fight.

It was the laughter of the children I heard on shore, that motivated me to do what was necessary to save myself.  I swam.  I swam the way my father taught me, through the dark water, against the current, and finally toward the shore.

While no longer in over-my-head, I'm not exactly on dry land either.  In the wake of my tsunami, I'm wading in knee-deep water, trying to regain my footing.

I stopped blogging shortly after my drowning began. I tried for a while, but I simply had no words.

I'm not sure what led me to once again put pen to paper.  Perhaps it was the email I opened this morning, sent from a dear friend.  It read, "With God, all things are possible."  Matthew 19:26

JESUS SAVES!

Peace of Mind

(A One Little Word Post - the fourth in a series.  To read my last OLW post, click here Key To A Treasure Chest)

My OLW is Mystery

With phase-one of our move to the country complete, and the last of the brown boxes, either emptied, or stowed away in the large metal container nestled in the trees, I decided to take a day for myself, to catch my breath.

After coaxing my faithful canine companion, and travel partner, Gracie, into the car, I lowered the top on the Z-4, and set off for a day of photo-pickin'.

I had every intention, of heading directly to the lake to photograph the geese, but turned the wheel impulsively to the right at the fork in the road, opting for the little dirt road that leads to one of my other favorite places, the local cemetery.

When I was a young mother, we lived in a tiny-mountain-community, in central Pennsylvania. We were known as townies, which meant that we lived between the river and the railroad track, within the confines of the city. Suffice it to say, the only real green-space within the city-limits, was the local cemetery. 

With only one car, which my husband used to travel to work, I found myself pushing the baby carriage up the steep hill that led to the cemetery on almost a daily basis, weather permitting.  

I was awed by the quiet beauty of the place, and never tired of reading the chiseled epitaphs, imagining the decedents as characters of historical fiction.  Any worries, cares or concerns I may have had while climbing the hill, were forgotten once I became lost in the mystery of those buried there.

   

For the next four to five months, we'll watch from our cottage window, the construction of our new house in the country.  I'm sure there'll be more stress and anxiety along the way, as there always are during times of transition.  But, sitting today in another cemetery in Pennsylvania, among those no longer bothered by worldly concerns, I felt certain, there is peace-of-mind ahead.  I need only be patient a while longer :)

Living With Mystery

(A One Little Word Post - the second in a series - to read the first, click here, Believing in Angels)

Let mystery have its place in you; do not be always turning up your whole soil with the plow-share of self-examination, but leave a little fallow corner in your heart for any seeds the winds may bring . . .  
                    Henri Frederic Amiel

By nature, I'm a seeker of explanations, a problem solver, someone that tries to make sense out of everything.  I strive to find meaning beyond my understanding, and motive behind strange behavior. Its no wonder, I spend countless nights lying awake in bed, pondering some daylight encounter or occurrence, trying to remedy some situation, or solve some dilemma.

But, the older I get, the more I realize that there is just too much that I don't know, and I'm willing to concede, that I simply don't posses the intellect, to solve every riddle.  Nor am I willing to sacrifice anymore sleep, puzzling over every conundrum.  In fact, I think there must be some peace, in simply not-knowing!

So, from here on out, the flight of the bumble bee, 

the bloom of a flower,  

the bond between a mother and child,

things I can't see,

things I don't understand, 

and thoughts I cannot hear, shall remain a mystery to me.

If you are a member of the One Little Word Blog Hop, welcome!  Your link to the next hop is http://k84mansramblings.blogspot.com (Katrina).  Sorry, but I had trouble posting the entire blog list.

All photos taken by Mrs. Green Jeans (Karen) in northwestern Pennsylvania, 2010-11.

Affirming Faith in Myself

What lies behind us, and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.                                                                             Ralph Waldo Emerson

A few weeks ago, I suggested that in lieu of making well-intentioned but, shallow resolutions, we plow forward into the New Year, intent upon digging our personal furrows a little deeper. As any good gardener knows, you've got to dig deep when planting to loosen the soil and expose any barriers to growth beneath the surface.

Taking a good, hard look at ourselves, from the inside-out, isn't always an easy thing to do.  In fact, it can be downright scary.  The prevailing philosophy is to leave the past in the past, and move on.  It sounds good in theory, but doesn't work too well in practice.  In fact, it may explain why some folks make the same resolution year after year, failing miserably in every attempt.  Its worth taking the time and the risk to do a bit of soul-searching before making yearly resolutions.

About twenty years ago, my mother gave me a book for Christmas that changed my perspective on living.  The Road Less Traveled, by renowned author and doctor, M. Scott Peck, opens with the premise, that life is difficult, accept it, and learn how to deal with it!  Of course, that book and several others that followed, offer insights on how to navigate those bumps in the road, by drawing upon strengths that lie hidden within each and every one of us.  I spent the month of January, that year, reading and meditating upon what I'd read.  By February, I felt ready to challenge myself.

From that year forward,  I've made it a practice, to spend the month of January in self-reflection.  I love to read, and look for any excuse to hit the neighborhood bookstore.  I make my way with a little handful of clipped book reviews, titles and authors, and try to decide in what direction I'd like to dig.

This year, I found myself headed to California the first week of January, to meet my two-week old grandson, Padraig.  I had mixed emotions about my trip.  I was most anxious to spend time with my daughter's family, but realized that going to California would force me to confront some personal issues I'd been struggling with for several months.

Though I enjoyed my visit, my time spent with my family was marred by the profoundly dark cloud that hung over my head.  I had a few minutes to spare before boarding my plane to return home, so hit the bookstore in the sky-mall.  The first title my eye lit upon, was the new book by Glen Beck, The 7 Wonders That Will Change Your Life.    

I'd already heard about the book and was intrigued, as it details the author's fall from grace into alcohol and drug addiction.  Beck, a controversial television personality, narrates his struggle with, and eventual victory over, his own personal demons.  The book is coauthored by psychiatrist, Keith Ablow, who provides a running commentary on Beck's narrative.

The two, who met on a work assignment for a cable news station, became good friends, while realizing that their life stories had seven key principles in common; seven wonders that seemed to be essential ingredients for anyone attempting to transform their life.  The book poses these seven questions, among others:

Where does the courage to persevere come from when everything seems hopeless?  Why is it nearly impossible to succeed without faith?  How much do family and friendships matter in our journey?  How do we break down our walls and reveal our inner truths?  What does having compassion really mean? How do you tell real friends apart from those who are holding you back?  If there's no one to blame for your past, what do you do with your anger and resentment?

Though my history and personal struggle differs from Beck's, I felt the book speaking to me, more so than anything I've read since I picked up, The Road Less Traveled! Beck's story is humble, yet profoundly inspiring.  As I read, I felt the dark clouds I'd parked myself under, lifting.

The faith I'd lost in myself began to surface, and I was able to affirm, that I only had to dig a little deeper to overcome barriers of fear and self-doubt.  With a little help, and a bit of digging, I managed to once again, unearth the strength that lies within me.


The questions quoted above, are from a Glenn Beck website. The words I've italicized are six of the seven wonders - the seventh wonder, is common sense :)


Photos by Mrs. Greenjeans, 2010

The Gift of Peace

                       God, grant me the serenity 

to accept the things I cannot change;

courage to change the things I can;

and wisdom to know the difference.

Its Christmas!  Time to celebrate the birth of Christ with family and friends - time to sing and dance, and make merry, with gaily wrapped gifts, festive foods and beverages.  Most of us barely have time to breathe, with decorating, shopping, and baking on the agenda.

But, along with the merriment associated with Christmas, there is often some sadness too.  The sentimentality of the season, makes it very hard to bury the melancholy felt for loved ones, mourned in death, or separated from us by estrangement, or other circumstances.  Some grieve for opportunities missed, or dreams relinquished, unfulfilled.

Living one day at a time;

Enjoying one moment at at time;

Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;

Christmas-time (Advent) is a season filled with expectation, on both the spiritual, and secular levels.  While children await the arrival of Santa, their parents spend weeks preparing for the main-event.  Its easy to feel under-appreciated if the response to our effort to produce the perfect Christmas for family and friends, is anything less than overwhelming.  People-pleaser that I am, I admit to feeling a bit sorry for myself each year, whilst sitting amongst a pile of spent wrapping paper, and a kitchen full of dirty dishes.  Foolish, I admit.

Taking, as He did, this sinful world

as it is, not as I would have it

So what's the cure for the holiday blues?  A first-step, is admitting they exist, and cutting yourself, and your loved-ones some slack.  I'm not advocating wallowing in self-pity, guilt, remorse or regret, but lets face it, the holidays can be a funky time for all of us.  We are after all, human, and subject to human emotion.  Go ahead and grieve if you want to.  Have a good cry, and put your feelings into perspective.

Trusting that He will make all things right

if I surrender to His will;

Then, give your soul the gift of peace.  Put your worries, expectations and anxiety to rest.  Newly married, with small children, I'd run a tub of hot water, light a candle and turn off the lights.  Sitting there in silence, breathing in the steam from the bath-water, made the world melt-away.  I could feel my heart beat.  What a relief!

Later, as an evening-school administrator in a Catholic parish, I'd slip into the sanctuary after work, and sit in one of the creaky, wooden pews, close to the altar.  The old church smelled of holiday incense, and lemon furniture polish, which was comforting in a familiar way.  The filtered light from the streetlights beyond the gothic, stained-glass-windows, cast a knowing-glow upon the worn faces of the century-old, hand-painted statuary, making the figures appear to beckon me to unburden myself.  For a time, I found great solace and serenity there, under the watchful eyes of St. Rose of Lima.

Last week, I took a day and drove north to our cottage which has been closed and devoid of heat, for the past month.  I didn't need to go inside.  A simple walk around the grounds was all I required.  There's comfort in the knowledge that some things remain the same - the towering dark green hemlocks standing protectively over the little dwelling - the winter wind rushing through the treetops on the ridge line above - the icy water flowing swiftly through the frozen creek-bed below.  I sat for a few moments at the waters' edge, remembering warmer days, starlit nights, and laughter. God exists!  I just needed a little reminder.

That I may be reasonably happy in this life 

and supremely happy with Him, forever in the next.  Amen  

The gray skies seemed a little brighter, as I drove back to the city that day.  By taking those few hours for myself, I managed to put the blues behind me, and felt ready to start celebrating again.


The Serenity Prayer was written by R. Niebuhr and published in 1951.  It is used by Alcoholics Anonymous and other twelve-step programs. 

Into Each Life, Some Rain Must Fall

Into each life, some rain must fall,
But too much is falling in mine.
Into each heart, some tears must fall,
But some day the sun will shine.
Some folks can lose the blues in their hearts,
But when I think of you, another shower starts.
Into each life, some rain must fall,
But too much is falling in mine.


I don't know when I first heard that old song, recorded in 1944 as a duet by the late-great Ella Fitzgerald and the Ink Spots, but I'm ever grateful that I did, for whenever I'm feeling truly blue, and sorry for myself, it worms its way into my head, and reminds me to put things into perspective.

Life is difficult.  That's a fact!  And, no matter how we try to sugar-coat those bitter pills, we still need to hold our collective noses, swallow hard, and take our medicine.

Americans today, seem to have a really hard time accepting this premise.  Rather than facing adversity head-on, and sailing directly through rough waters, they either retreat, drop anchor and pray the storm dissipates, or try to sail around the dark clouds.

Retreat is not the answer!  No matter how hard or how fast we run, the storm still follows.  Seeking shelter or safe harbor might seem like a good option, but what if none can be found?  Eventually the storm catches up, and swallows us.

Refusing to admit there's a problem, or dropping anchor out of fear, self-pity, remorse or grief, while praying for someone to stop the rain, doesn't seem a viable option either. The end result is usually death by drowning.  Its always best to remember that, the Lord helps those that help themselves!  

Sailing around the storm, is the option most often chosen when dealing with life's difficulties.  Side-stepping the issue, or setting a course for calmer seas, may seem the easiest way of handling a brewing storm.  But how do we judge the length and breadth of the problem?  Isn't that simply prolonging the inevitable?

No sane human being wants to charge head-on into a confrontation.  But, if you want to be the captain of your own ship, you must accept what's before you, and navigate through, not around, rough water.  You may want to pray for a miracle as you do so, or shed a few tears of fear, or sorrow, but you mustn't hesitate to take the wheel, step on the gas, and move forward.

When we confront our problems, and deal with them honestly and directly, we learn from them.  The more we learn, the stronger we become, and the better our chances are of confidently navigating, and surviving the next storm.


 So, whenever I find myself tempted to slam the door on the world, throw-in the towel, or drown in self-pity, I remind myself that, into each life a little rain must fall. . . some day the sun will shine!
Into each life some rain must fall, but too much is falling in mine. (click on this link to hear Ella and the Ink Spots) Written by Doris Fisher, the song was based upon a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, entitled, the Rainy Day.  
Photos by Mrs. Green Jeans, 2010

Mama's Mama

Mama and her Mama, standing in the back row, left and center.

A sad consequence of the women's movement of the second half of the twentieth century, was the debasement of the traditional role women held within the household.  Rather than exalting the work women did at home, feminists threw the baby out with the bathwater, stripping the stay-at-home woman of her dignity, and denigrating the skills that made her good at her job.

One of the things I love about country-living, is watching women be women, in the traditional sense.  Rural women still love to do the things their mothers and grandmothers did.  There's a rebellious pride about them, and their homes.  They aren't afraid of getting their hands dirty, whether it be in the garden, the pasture or farmhouse kitchen.  They're modest, unpretentious, and aren't afraid to say, "I made it myself," or "I've had it for years."

Women of this ilk remind me of my grandmother, whom I dearly loved for being the gentle, straightforward woman she was.  I never pitied her for spending so much time in the kitchen, or for taking pride in her laundry or darning.  I remember looking on in fascination, as she'd clean a chicken for dinner, holding a match to the stubborn pin feathers.  Everything she did, was done with skill and precision.  She was a joy to watch.

The feminist movement successfully convinced women that they are victims of a male dominated society that forced gender specific roles upon them.  The following poem was written by an 85-year-old woman as a tribute to her grandmother.  When reading it, I couldn't help but wonder what was so gender specific about this woman's job skills.

Mama's Mama

Mama's Mama, on a winter's day,

Milked the cows and fed them hay,

Slopped the hogs, saddled the mule,

And got the children off to school.

Did a washing, mopped the floors,

Washed the windows and did some chores.

Cooked a dish of home-dried fruit,

Pressed her husband's Sunday suit,

Swept the parlor, made the bed,

Baked a dozen loaves of bread.

Split some wood and lugged it in,

Enough to fill the kitchen bin,

Cleaned the lamps and put in oil, 

Stewed some apples she thought might spoil,

Churned the butter, baked a cake,

Then exclaimed: "For Mercy's sake,

The calves have got out of the pen!"

Went out and chased them in again,

Gathered the eggs and locked the stable,

Returned to the house and set the table,

Cooked a supper that was delicious,

And afterwards washed all the dishes,

Fed the cat, sprinkled the clothes,

Mended a basket full of hose,

Then opened the organ and began to play,

"When You Come to the End of a Perfect Day."

                 -Anna Rees Henton, 1953
Dedicated to my Mama's Mama, Gertrude Catherine Barrett, July 12, 1907 to Nov. 26, 1986, pictured above with her Mama.
For more of my views on feminism, visit http://womenontractors.blogspot.com/2010/03/another-round-with-gloria.html