The wait of responsibility

Being entrusted with words is a big responsibility. I was just thinking this today, as I was trying to find the right words to tell the story of an inspiring 99-year-old woman from Rolla, Mo., who has crammed so much into her life that it makes me feel like a lazy Susan... her story is so big, it's hard to wrap my thoughts around, and do it justice.

Being entrusted with telling someone's story... what an awesome, ominous onus. I've been writing for 20 years now, and somehow this part of writing never ceases to make me stumble. Or at least to pause and reflect. Oh, I'll get there eventually... and give it my best shot. But there will always be one final thing I wanted to say, a feeling that I didn't pack the story with all the power I'd hoped to.

I guess all I can do is be as present and open about it, and as honest as possible. Here's to you, Mildred Leaver... I hope I can tell your story with as much inspiration on paper as it exists in reality.

Remembering 50 years ago

Well, it's over... this huge event we planned and stage in Newton, Kansas. Last Saturday, we read the names of about 50 men who helped move Santa Fe Engine 1880, a Prairie-type steam locomotive, into Military Park.

The older guys were surprised we had such a large turnout. I can't say I was surprised, but I was especially pleased. For months I'd worked to track down these men, their wives and kids, in hopes of finding people to invite. Turns out only about six of the original movers survive. We did pull in about three of them into the event, along with wives and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

The best thing to come out of it? I can say all the hard work was worth the looks on the faces of kids standing in front of the engine with proud looks on their faces, waiting to have a photo taken. We've reached yet another generation. They've bought into it all... Newton railroading history, Engine 1880... assuring a loyal group who has emotional ties now, and no longer will think of the engine as a heap of black metal in the park.

Gotta love it.

Well, it was ALMOST healed

Remember when I posted last time that I had hurt my knee and it was almost healed... Well, it was... almost. And then it got worse. More pain. And better. Then more pain.

An MRI later, and I found out why all the pain. Torn meniscus, torn ligament. Now I'm scheduled for the doc to take a look and smooth out all the rough places.

He's kind of like the Great Physician in that respect, don't you think? Smoothing out the rough spots... taking away some of the pain... trying to undo what we've done to ourselves.

In this place in time, I am learning to rely more. Not only on the Great Physician, on my knee physician, but on the friends who surround me. It's the only way we single moms can survive.

January was a lesson in leaning on something besides my own strength. Of leaning on a crutch. Of leaning on friends who saw I was leaning on a crutch, and decided to help out on their own, offer to help in any way.

I will need their help. God is helping me to appreciate health and wholeness, once again.

At the Palace 

A blanket of ice

Just got out from under a blanket of ice... boy, was that cold!

Newton and the surrounding areas were covered in a nice, thick layer of ice last week. I had just messed up my leg on Sunday, given three days of bedrest from my healthcare giver... Tuesday, things started getting messy.

Throughout the neighborhood, trees snapped like twigs under the weight of the ice, sounding like gunfire or thunder. I stood out on the front porch and watched one-third of our tall tall cedar snap like a matchstick and fall to the ground.

By 1 pm the boys were home from school, thanks to my friend Marilyn picking them up. By 3 or so, we were without power... and getting chilled. There is little insulation in a 100-year-old farmhouse, and only one storm window upstairs makes things even worse...

We loaded up blankets and clothes and flashlights and toys and headed over to Marilyn and Eric's house, which was toasty from a gas fireplace. They also have a gas stove. Marilyn cooked scrambled eggs and breakfast by flashlight... it got even colder. The best bed in the house (my opinion) was a sleeping bag by the fire. Stifflers braved it out in bedrooms across the house.

We woke up two mornings to the same view out the living room window... ice, a couple of Cox Communications trucks, some city/park trucks, NO Westar electric vehicles of any kind... it was rather disheartening.

My mother decided to tough it out in her home with a fuel stove, shutting it off overnight. On the coldest night, I lay at Stiffler's house, worried beyond comprehension. The next morning I called her, trying to think of someone she could stay with. The night before had shaken her so, that she called my sis and headed to Wichita for the night. Her power came on the following day.

We loaded up the car and headed to another friend's house... this outage was stubborn, and the power wasn't coming on anytime soon. Grateful for a hot shower and a heated recliner, I finally got my leg up again and relaxed.

Then I got attacked by a big, white bird. Kathi inherited Luna from someone who inherited it from our mutual friend, Madeline... for some reason, Luna decided to lunge at me in the kitchen, and wrapped her claws in my hair. I came undone. Kathi said she'd never seen Luna WANT to GO to someone... (read: attack!).

Three nights at Kathi's house, and Sunday evening, our power finally came back on. What a relief. We'd all had enough of each other. A few hours before, Stiffler's power resurfaced. I can't tell you what a mess it all is... tree limbs everywhere. I know Newton will return to its Tree City, USA glory one day, but it will take years, I'm sure.

My knee is almost healed. What an ordeal. The boys have been especially helpful. I owe so many people a debt of gratitude.

Last night I dreamed of my father

Last night I dreamed of my father

He was as elusive in the night as he ever was

And has been in my night thoughts since he was gone

Last night I dreamed of my father

But he did not speak

Did not speak to me

As once my grandfather did

I heard Poppie’s voice ring out

And spoke to him in my half-waking reality

A dream within a dream until awakened

Connected to heaven for one soothing moment

My father was nowhere to be found

Tho’ everywhere I looked for him

Just one step ahead out of sight was he

And never did I catch up

And yet he was my ride home

Perhaps he is waiting

Just out of sight

Over the hill

Beyond the horizon

Waiting for me

Telling me he is there

He signals to me even in daylight

Sends me messages to let me know

That though his body is cold in the ground

His soul lingers still

Calling to me

A photograph of him sent in the mail

His death certificate fallen to the garage floor

The first was a crystal spinning light against my wall

A prism of hope

A promise not to be left behind

I do not talk to him as others do

I grow used to the lonely train whistle

And it does not shake me as it once did

But the bagpipes, oh the pipes

Never will they lose their thrill.

Days and months and years pass

My father is with me still.