The Pinches and the Priest

This story is from Linda Benoit, a friend of mine and of many others in my local church. (That's BEN-wah for any of you non-Louisianians out there. *grin*) A woman in her mid-60's, Linda is married to a really friendly, down-to-earth man named Larry who can play a mean lick on a guitar.

Larry and Linda are very involved in our church, helping in numerous behind-the-scenes functions. Together, they have previously received the church's annual Discipleship Award. Both have always had a smile and a kind word to offer to anyone I've seen them interact with. I caught up with Linda after service last Sunday and got a quick story from her while she ate a doughnut in the church kitchen.

"Okay. I grew up Catholic. And so, my mother always said that we had to go to church no matter what. Only way you could not go to church is, you had to be really sick or dying."

I did not learn specifically where Linda grew up but I do know that, down here in south Louisiana, many families are Catholic. Many are seemingly more Catholic as a part of Louisiana culture than in strict practice of the religion, but many are SERIOUS about getting to Mass every Sunday.

Linda continued, "So, one Sunday we went – we were little – and my mother always sat on the right side, and that’s where the priest would come, give his morning message. And my brother was misbehaving, and she kept pinching him! And he said, 'You’re hurting me!'”

"Finally," Linda told me, "after 3 or 4 times, the priest said, 'The lady in the front row who’s pinching her little boy, please stop.'”

I cracked up laughing. "What did your mom do?" I asked.

"Well she didn’t like us anymore after that. Well not really, but we calmed down. And she fussed at my brother and he said, 'But you were hurting me!' And… but we didn’t do it anymore. But she still sat in the front row. I don’t know why…"

"Was she embarrassed?" I probed.

"Oh! She was very embarrassed! She was like… and you have to know my mom… she’s been dead 4 years. She’s ALL-ways right."

Seemingly in effort to salvage my opinion of her mother, Linda went on to say, "And she was one Go… she was one of God’s busiest people. She always flew… we were the first ones there and the last ones to leave. So, I grew up with, um, church."

Childhood memories that shape our perception of our present daily everyday lives. I have my own set of them, and I'm sure you do as well. I believe things like that shape who we are and how we behave when we grow up. And thankfully, despite some of our parents' fears and regrets, most of us turn out okay.

I appreciated this little glimpse into Linda's world!

The Mind of Scott

“I saw a lady give birth. Okay. I walked in there after the birth. Okay. What I saw… no man should have to see ever happen.”

Talking to Scott is like talking to one of my younger brothers. My brothers are different in many ways, but they both love to talk about topics that interest them. And they both seem to enjoy equally enthusiastic conversationalists with whom to have these verbal expeditions.

Most of the time when I talk to Scott, these crazy random topics come up and we discuss and dissect them until we get bored and move to some other train of thought. Scott is a friend of mine. We have some truly interesting chats, so I asked him if he would tell me a true tale for my blog. I got several, and have had to pare the conversation down to blog-sized. But they're all really intriguing tales. And now, back to our story.

“It’s the magic of the human body. I guess. But… I stood there for a couple seconds; it got weird in the room. Cause it freaked me out! I wasn’t expecting that when I came in; the doctors over here, standing side by side, and they just had… presentin’! For whoever walks in the room!”

Scott, an insightful African-American young man in his early 20’s, went on to describe this life-altering experience he’d had.

“And it… it freaked the (expletive) outta me! I still… it was AWKWARD! Then, I went over to the side to see the little baby, he was all ashy lookin’… I would think they would give him lotion or something, you know, they just came outta someplace moist; I’m surprised it was that… ashy. That was weird. It was really weird to me.”

I interjected, “I can only imagine. I saw a video of that happening when I was in college but…”

“Well, it’s even nastier when you see it come out with the sac,” Scott added.

“Ohhh…”

“Yeah,” he said. “The little… it looks even nastier, cause it looks like a bunch of iodine… just popped out.”

“Okay!” I didn’t know what else to say, ha!

“I… I’m serious. And it’s… and it’s very disgusting. Giving birth is one of the horriblest things you can ever see in your life.

I ventured to ask him, “Do you want kids?”

“Kids?” Scott thought for a second. “You know what, I’m not opposed to it but I’m also not jumping towards it or looking for it really cause… if it happens, it happens.”

Pushing the envelope slightly, I continued. “If you had a kid, would you want to see it being born?”

“I would be in there… but I would be cussin’ myself in the head the whole time,” Scott declared. He went on, “Cause she be cussin' me out, I be cussin' myself out cause “you know you don’t wanna be here right now for this” …cause you know what’s bout to happen. You SEEN it; it’s horrible.”

Scott went on to describe the variety of fluids and… other matter… that escapes a woman’s body during labor and delivery. I’ll spare you his descriptions. *grin*

It can't be THAT bad... can it? I mean, if nothing else, the end result has to be worth all the work, sweat, tears, cursing and... fluids...

“You can’t ev… you can’t lie and say when you were in high school and they showed you the health video and they… did they show everything?” Scott asked.

In MY high school? I never even heard of such a video being offered. Could have been due to the conservative climate of the area I lived and went to school in... who knows. I told Scott, “No, I didn’t see that in high school.”

Scott, however, was more than happy to elaborate. “They didn’t sh… okay, they showed us. They showed us the egg, and how hard one sperm has to fight to get to that egg. It’s a battle to the death! It is. You should watch the video. And you will realize that you were the toughest outta all those (sperm). You made it; they didn’t. They lost; you won.”

Yes indeed.

Scott concluded with the postulation, “To the victor goes the spoils of life.”

Amen, and amen.

Change of topics. We went on to discuss the trials and tribulations of getting your initial driver’s license, the evolving processes of getting your license renewed, explored several other topics, finally reaching the point at which we discussed job interviews.

Scott led in. “It makes no sense. It’s just like a job interview. Do you get sick of them asking you the same damn question 5 times in 10 different ways? You’re like… LOOK. I SAID I WORK OKAY WITH PEOPLE. Stop askin' me if I like people or not!”

I have taken issue with these interview methods before. “You know what gets me is those… those, uh… those questionnaires they make you take to see if you’re telling the truth and they ask you the same thing over and over in a different way?”

Scott knew what I was talking about. “Oh, the one that takes 10 hours to fill out?”

My rant continued, “Have you ever stolen a pen from work? Have you ever stolen office supplies? EVERYBODY’S taken office supplies!” I wondered aloud if the interviewee is expected to admit to past grievances or tell the truth and, thereby, paint him or herself as a Sticky-Note Crook. This is one of the multiple life-quandaries I have yet to figure out.

Scott contributed, “I’m not gonna lie, the first time I started doin’ em, I said no. Now I say yeah, you know what, I’ve taken a pen from a job; I’ve taken a stapler from a job!”

“Yeah.” I understood perfectly.

Feeling maybe just a little vindicated, Scott tossed out a “Thank you!”

I added, laughing, “Well I’ve done it both ways and I’ve never gotten the job either way. You know? Neither way worked for me.”

At this point, Scott grew ambitious in the face of ambiguity. “You know what, I’ma work for myself. I’m… I’ma work for myself. I don’t know what I’m gonna DO…” he thought aloud.

Scott is so smart and great with computers and electronics. In fact, at his home, he built his own tailor-made computer! I stated what, to me, was an obvious opportunity for him: “You’ll have a computer business!”

Scott agreed that was a possibility. “Either that or… draw. I don’t know.”

I love these little tidbits I learn about people I know when we get into these conversations. A fellow artist!

More pondering aloud… “Probably not for money but I would just like to draw, free time. I would like to, you know, make commission off of it but, you know, it wouldn’t be a source of income… that way it’d just be something I’d… but what I would do for…“

Scott stopped. A thought had hit him, and he had discovered the answer to his own life dilemma.

“You know what? I’ma win the lottery.”

He wasn’t going to hear any criticism. Solemnly, I agreed: “That is my goal.”

“It’s gonna happen,” he declared.

“That’s my goal,” I firmly repeated.

Scott continued, “Lottery? It’s happenin. 20… something. Lottery.”

Wishing big… one of my favorite things to do. It’s kind of a game I play in my head, not ever really taking it seriously… but oh, if I ever did win the lottery… man oh man oh man. I would be one grateful girl, let me tell you that.

“A nice little ca… you know what, it don’t even have to be a million dollars!” Scott mused. “50 grand. To where they don’t have the… or I have to get a lawyer so they don’t say my name, cause I don’t feel like moving.”

With no hesitation, I stated, “Oh, I’m moving! I get the money, I’m GONE.”

Scott agreed. “I… I understand. I would probably move somewhere else better.”

The conversation turned to the topic of Lena’s and my plans to move as soon as we get the money… we’re thinking Albuquerque… somewhere drier and cooler and… WAY out of the reach of hurricanes. (If you live in south Louisiana like I have most of my life, or anywhere along the Gulf Coast, you know exactly what I mean.)

“I can’t wait,” I said wistfully. “We’re work, I mean, we’re working on it.”

Hopes, dreams and everyday life. Those are part of the reason I have these conversations with people. I get to hear their hopes and dreams, learn some of their life stories and, hopefully, we both come out of the conversation having learned a little about each other and about life in general.

That is my hope, also, for the readers of this blog. Have a great week!

Coal Miner's Daughter

“I was born in southwest Virginia. My dad was a coal miner.”

Picture it: 1940's, rural area in the Appalachian mountains of southwest Virginia. This is where my friend Julia Young spent her childhood. She was the youngest of five children, and her father worked in the coal mines to support their family. Her story gives credence to the truth that having a lot of money is not a requirement for enjoying life.

When I think of Julia, I see a great big smile! Julia has lots of smiles to share and lots of hugs to give. Now in her early 70's, she is a working woman pulling 40-hour weeks and going home every evening to her life partner Kathy and their "son" Beau, a cute and energetic little Westie puppydog. I met Julia at the church we both attend, and ours is one of my most valued friendships.

A "game night" at church... Julia on the far left, Kathy on the far right.

Julia began telling me about her growing-up years. She told me her family didn’t live in a town but in a “place” where 25 other families lived. Blackwood is an unincorporated area in Wise County, VA. Blackwood was a coal town near the farthest southwest corner of the state of Virginia.

"There was a store, and a post office, together."

"And that was it?" I asked.

"That was it. But yeah, that’s where I grew up and it just really cool. And… we moved there when I was… almost 5. We moved there in the summer that I was 4, and that’s where I remember most of my CHILD-hood childhood.

Julia told me about being the little sister to four older siblings: "My oldest brother joined the Navy when he was 17 and I was 4. And he used to come home and ride me around on his 'soldiers' - pick me up on his shoulders," she smiled.

"My other brother Ron is seven years older than I am. I was in the 6th grade when he graduated High School. He was like, back a year or something. I was telling Kathy last night, I don’t even know wh… oh, we were watching a football game! And I said, 'I wore his football suit!' And she goes, 'Football suit?' How ‘bout uniform?' And I went, 'Oh, yeah, that!'"

Julia and Beau

Julia continued, "But he, that brother, was closest to me, the one that’s… I only have one sister and one brother living. I have one sister and one brother who died."

Her living brother, she told me, is in North Carolina. Her sister lives in Jacksonville, FL.

Julia resumed telling me about her years growing up in Virginia. "You know. Christmas was because of United Mine Workers, which was a union that the coal miners belonged to. And they would give a bag of candy and fruit and nuts, about this big, for each dependent that my dad had. And my brother was 'too old.' You know. 'Can’t have that. You girls have that. I’m too old; I’m a teenager,'" Julia laughed. "But, yeah. We had a lot of fun, though."

"We, um, everything that we played we just about made, you know? I remember playing baseball. I was the only girl on the team, and we, our bat was a piece of wood that my dad had whittled a handle on."

"And we played with that, and we had a softball, my softball, that was so cheap that if you, if you hit it with a bat - *WHAPO* - you’d get it out of shape!" Julia chuckled at that story, still vivid in her memory.

While Julia talked, I could imagine snapshots of the experiences she described. Five kids and maybe some of their friends, getting together and laughing as they ran, played and got sweaty while throwing, hitting and catching a lopsided softball. Those sound like good, fun memories to me!

"Um, we used to go up in the woods," she told me. "I loved that, used to go up in the woods and we’d pick flowers, wildflowers for our mom. There was a stream that ran from the reservoir and… violets, BEAUTIFUL violets and if you’d… um, my brother taught us, well, if you’d follow the stem of a flower as far as you can, then it would be long and then it would fit in the vase… not the vase; the… jelly jar," Julia laughed.

"...Fit in the jelly jar better; it would be a long stem. And he taught us… he taught us all kind of things, taught me a lot of things." Julia's love and admiration for her brother glowed in her smile and warmed her voice as she spoke.

"But yeah… and then, he and I used to go up in the woods in the summertime and look for trees that were already down – felled – for, that were still good that we could cut up for…"

"To dry out for winter?" I asked with a smile.

"To dry out for winter," Julia affirmed. "And then we would haul them down to the house. We didn’t have a saw or anything."

"Well what’d you do?" I asked.

"Axe," Julia answered matter-of-factly.

"Axe… oh!! That’s work!" I laughed, impressed.

"Then," Julia added, "we would get two tons of coal that cost twenty-six dollars. I remember that so well, my dad sayin that! 'I got… 2 ton of coal cost $26!'" In Julia's voice, I could hear the echo of her father's pride.

She went on, "And my brother built a basketball goal for us. We put it in the ground and had a basketball goal to play basketball. My sister played basketball; Peggy. She was taller than me and… all the time taller than me. And I’d jump and jump and jump and try to block her shots and she’d go step back one step and go, 'PLOOP!'" I gathered from that, despite all Julia's efforts, Peggy would usually make her shot.

I shared with Julia how the sight of Lena and me playing basketball is something akin to watching an episode of The Three Stooges. We laughed awhile and settled back down into our conversation.

When Julia was 13 years old, her family moved to Washington, D.C. "We moved to D.C. because the mines had shut down. There was no more operating. There’s coal there, but there was no more... I don’t know exactly for sure... I’m thinking there was no more operating money or something."

"The thing that I find fascinating about my life," Julia later added in an email to me, "is the integration of schools the year after we moved to Washington D C. It was scary and interesting at the same time. We went to junior high that year, thank God we were in the same school because we stuck together out of fear. There were white and black kids both inside and outside the school... screaming slurs to each other... threatening close to death if you go inside...". Julia went on, "Police men there controlling kids and finally getting everyone inside and it continues inside also. We were terrified!"

I can only imagine what it was like to be a kid in school when all that took place. As people, we all grow comfortable in our accepted social norms. When major changes take place, we are shaken. We are "put out." We are sometimes afraid. Two races, previously divided, encountering one another in a mixed setting for the first time... yeah, I bet that was hard for both sides to adjust to.

But both sides DID adjust. And, while things are still not and will never be perfect, integration has become our "normal." Interacting with people of different races every day is something we are used to; something we are comfortable with. Adapting to changes is something we have the ability to do. Still, it is our CHOICE. We can stay stuck in old, rigid mindsets, or we can grow and change with the world around us.

Julia told me that, even though she and her sister grew up in a the "racially-segregated south," she is proud of the interracial friendships she has formed and has come to greatly value.

So Julia from southwest Virginia, an Appalachian girl who grew up in the woods and around the coal mines, found herself up north in Washington, D.C., teased about her southern accent but learning and growing up. Since then, life has taken her many other places... but I'm glad she's here now, in Baton Rouge. I told her once she's the big sister I never had. She told me I am the little sister she never had.

And that is just fine with me. :)

Julia and Kathy with Cindy Williams from "Laverne and Shirley" at a theater in Florida

Promotion Gained... Prosperity to Come!

In the early afternoon of Sunday, December 29, 2013, I sat with my friend Leslie Palmer on metal folding chairs at a white plastic table in the church’s dining/fellowship area. Lit only by the sunlight slitting through the window blinds, the room was a tranquil setting. The distant chit-chat of others who had attended that morning’s service slowly diminished as, a few at a time, they left the building and headed out to enjoy the rest of a beautiful, cool Sunday afternoon.

Leslie and I remained, because Leslie had a story to share with me.

A bright light in her early twenties, I have come to know Leslie as a good friend over the past few years and sometimes call her my little sister. Often appearing quiet and contemplative, Leslie has a Grand Canyon of depth inside her gentle heart. On the other hand, she often is bounced around like popping corn in the whirlwind that her life can sometimes be. Ever learning and growing, sometimes unsure of herself yet always willing to share, I see Leslie as having a humble, open heart not hesitant to reach out to anyone in need. In this vein, she is a member of the Kappa Omega Omicron Fraternity, an organization whose website declares, “We believe in helping the community (regardless to gender, religion, age, or nationality) with the God given talents that we possess.” ( http://www.kappaomegaomicron.org/ )

Additionally, Leslie serves as an Active Reservist - Specialist in the United States Army Reserve.

Leslie began: “Well, I know you haven’t been knowing but there was more of, uh, a opportunity; I recently got a new job. And, how it worked was, it was actually the company that I’m at now, I actually used to clean their building. And how remarkable, how God works is, you don’t know who’s watching you until you see – you notice – someone’s watching you, always.”

That statement stood out to me. You never know who is watching your life, observing your behavior, maybe because they appreciate something about you.

“Um, how it happened, just to be brief, um, I’m so used to going around, cleaning a building, saying hello, speaking to people and always having a smile on my face. No matter how… even if at the bad times, I still had a smile on my face.”

She continued, “I didn’t realize who I was speaking to was actually the manager of the corporate center. And, uh, she noticed that.” Leslie said, at one point, a team lead in the department where she was working “actually pulled me to the side and just commended me on my work ethics.”

“Then,” Leslie told me, “she just all the sudden out of the blue asked me would I like to work in the position that was being offered. And I was like, ‘Um, I would love to!’”

Time passed. Leslie waited to see what would become of this job offer. In my own life, I have learned that many time people speak words but fail to follow through. Without patience and a focus on Something higher than ourselves, we could easily become cynical in today’s world.

“It took a lot of patience, time, length of time and I just waited, waited until they actually called me,” Leslie stated. “It’s just amazing,” she reflected. “I’ve been there since October and it’s just so much give thanks to God.” Leslie told me she puts effort toward remembering to “always stay humble” and not forget where she started off. “And it’s just very much… so that’s a time in my life that I can say has changed for the better… my, you know, opportunity.”

“So would you say you’ve… turned a corner? What kind of work are you doing?” I asked.

“Well, actually, it’s a, it’s a really big change. You know I was doing janitorial for 2 ½ years and, and that last part I actually got promoted to supervisor, for a site!” Excitement radiated from Leslie as she told me, “Now I work for the actual insurance company as a clerical specialist.”

A “Wow!” leapt from my mouth.

“Mmm-hmm,” agreed Leslie. She added, “It’s very different.”

“You know what, I’m much so blessed and happy because, you know, the field, being a clerical specialist, I actually do that in the logistics field in the military.” Leslie has been given an opportunity to take this same skill set and use it in a civilian job. “I have my own desk… cubicle,” Leslie laughed, “and I’m actually, uh, got a set schedule, Monday through Friday, 8-5.”

“So it’s steady,” I added.

“It’s very steady like, where I have my 40 hours. I really do not have to worry for anything. The company has very great benefits as well so, I must say, I’m very thankful.”

I am strongly reminded of the Bible story of Joseph… sold as a young adolescent by his jealous, cruel older brothers, Joseph found himself a prisoner under the rule of the Pharaoh of Egypt. Time passed, Joseph’s gifts, talents and skills were noted and, after the passage of time and the use of a whole lot of patience, Joseph was gradually promoted to the position of Pharaoh’s second in command. Joseph spoke and business was handled. Joseph heard from God that a famine was coming and directed the Egyptians to store up food. When the famine finally came, Egypt was prepared and many were spared from starvation as a result.

Genesis 41:39-44 - "'...clearly no one else is as intelligent or wise as you are. You will be in charge of my court, and all my people will take orders from you. Only I, sitting on my throne, will have a rank higher than yours.' Pharaoh said to Joseph, 'I hereby put you in charge of the entire land of Egypt.' Then Pharaoh removed his signet ring from his hand and placed it on Joseph’s finger. He dressed him in fine linen clothing and hung a gold chain around his neck. 43 Then he had Joseph ride in the chariot reserved for his second-in-command. And wherever Joseph went, the command was shouted, 'Kneel down!' So Pharaoh put Joseph in charge of all Egypt. 44 And Pharaoh said to him, 'I am Pharaoh, but no one will lift a hand or foot in the entire land of Egypt without your approval.'"

Here is what I take away from Leslie’s story:

- · Do your best at whatever job you are given to do.

- · Do everything like you’re doing it for God Himself. People will notice, and God will open up to you opportunities you might not have otherwise had.

- · Never forget where you’ve come from. Never forget Who made you what you are.

I hope this story is as much as an inspiration to you as it has been to me. Leslie's story is just one more good example to back up my strong conviction... that everyone's stories are worth hearing and every person has something worthwhile to say! I believe much more good is in store for Leslie! (You never know what's waiting just around the next bend in the road of your life!)

“A man’s pride brings him low, but a man of lowly spirit gains honor. ‘ - Proverbs 29:23

Beauty for Ashes

It was Sunday evening, December 22, 2013. We sat in the warm and cheerful living room at our Pastor’s house, enjoying the soft Christmas music and glittery holiday decorations. The room was filled with chatter and laughter. As we sank down into a velvety, plush couch, I began talking to my friend Darralyn Delaughter who, more often, simply goes by “D.” Her graying blonde curls and sparkly brown eyes sit above lips always ready to curve into a warm smile. She sports a pair of snowflake earrings I suspect she made herself. D has a crafty knack for creating beautiful pieces of jewelry.

She began telling me about being raised in Arizona.

“Yuma, Arizona is the town that I grew up in. It was 20 miles above the Mexican border.” D explained to me, Yuma is set on a raised “table” of land called a mesa. Marvelous purple mountains surround the mesa, some 20 to 30 miles in the distance.

“It’s just beautiful. And the Gila river comes down through Yuma, by Yuma, and, um, it’s a good way to cool off!” The Gila river, I learned, ran along the edge of Yuma and was, I inferred, a popular place to play in the hot summer months.

D continued, “They had several parks that we’d go picnic at when I was a kid. And the one, there was one, my favorite one was the Yuma Territory Prison Park.” The park, D told me, was by the Gila River and was “a big, long park with different things to play on.” D appreciated the pretty green grass in that park. Extra effort, she said, was exerted to keep that grass green out in the arid desert climate.

The Yuma Territorial Prison has a museum, with a prisoner graveyard nearby. “We didn’t ever go too much into the museum… but, um, they had a graveyard and it was up on a little mounded hill – a natural hill, but that’s where they would bury the prisoners… and we used to go play tag up there,” she chuckled.

“So you would hide behind the headstones?” I asked, amused and intrigued.

No, she corrected me, there were no headstones; “There were just mounds. And… didn’t have any names on them; no crosses or nothin’.. And we’d go play tag and run around and laugh and giggle on those graves! And.. I loved to go up there. Used to go there a lot.”

Her mother lived in Yuma until she died last year. D has one older and one younger brother. She told me a little about her family.

“My two brothers are still there. I think my younger brother is still there; we don’t know where he is; he’s kind of disappeared on us.” After a pause, she went on to describe her older brother. Carefully choosing her words, D described him as “hateful.” And she didn’t say “hateful” in a… hateful… tone but, rather, with a gentle timbre of sadness and a touch of hurt, the end of her word rising as if followed by a question mark. In a calm, matter-of-fact tone tinged with sadness, she went on to tell me, “He’s run off his wife and he’s run off the rest of the family.”

“So… um… I… have been disappointed in them,” D went on to divulge to me, “because they never have called me to tell… to talk to me about Mama dying.”

Neither of her brother nor anyone in her family has yet to tell her about her mother’s passing. “So…. I haven’t talked to them at all.”

All I could say was, “Wow.”

D is still close to her brother’s ex-wife, whom she refers to as her sister. Stumbling over her words, she explained, “And my, uh, his ex-wife… his ex-wife was the one the called me to tell me that she had passed. She died of pneumonia. And, um, she was 90. Yeah, she was 90.”

Because of a medical condition at the time, D was not able to travel to Yuma to attend memorial services for her mother.

“I couldn’t go. And, um, they said she looked really pretty; they really did her up nicely. And she wanted to be buried and… my brother made the decision to cremate her. And then he wanted to sprinkle her ashes on her mother’s grave. And I didn’t like that idea but I didn’t have any input. And I don’t think they’ve ever sprinkled the ashes anywhere; I don’t know where the ashes are.”

Ashes. “She didn’t want ashes,” I thought silently. Looking up, I asked D, “So you don’t have any kind of place to visit her?”

“Well I…” she patted her heart and beamed. "I got her!”

Understanding instantly, I nodded and smiled back. Many of us can relate to stories like this… of hurt and loss, of being treated unfairly or being left out, or of feeling… forgotten.

Many of us have come to realize that, like D, our “families” can be made up not only of people related to us genetically, but of people we CHOOSE as family. Because they are kind. Because they love us. Because they accept us, unconditionally. Those qualities, to me, form the base definition of what a true FAMILY is.

Perhaps it is through her own life experiences that D has become such a caring person. I have observed her over and over… giving people a ride, helping people move, inviting people to social activities so they won’t feel lonely. At church, D is quick to spot a newcomer and introduce herself and even sit beside them in the service to help them feel welcomed and comfortable,

Perhaps some people who have experienced the lack of a family, or a family that has fallen apart… know best how to fill in that same kind of gap for other people. A woman with a heart that is humble yet strong, I think D “got” it, when she heard Jesus say through His word, “Love one another.”

Arizona is where a big piece of D’s heart will always be. “I want to go back,” she said, “My niece, in Prescott Valley, is pregnant. They’re due in the end of March, I think. She’s had a couple of baby showers; I’ve seen some neat pictures. And I told her I’d come after she was born.”

"To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the LORD has planted for his own glory." - Isaiah 61:3

Hangin' with Mr. Harry

It was December 15, a cold, gray Sunday afternoon. I went to visit my grandmother at her nursing home in Denham Springs, LA. In the warm, quaint dining area next to the small galley kitchen, I sat with my Ma-Ma at a vinyl cloth-covered table and made my best efforts to convey my love to her through words, touches and hugs. During this time, a man I would come to know as Mr. Harry pushed his grey metal walker into the room and sat down with us.

Starting a conversation with Mr. Harry was easy; he was a laid-back, friendly fellow. His thin, gray hair was gelled and combed back neatly. A tall man, his skin appeared reddish and worn with age.

I do not know his exact condition, but Mr. Harry’s way of speaking reminded me of my grandmother’s way of communication when she was in her earlier stages of Alzheimer’s; the use of many "I don't know"'s and contradictions.

While I sat at the table with my sweet Ma-Ma on my right, I talked to Mr. Harry who was seated across from me.

”Mr. Harry,” I began, “do you know any good stories”

”Nah.”

” You don’t have any good stories from your life?“

Mr. Harry told me he had no good stories at all. So, laughing, I asked if he would share a bad story instead. We laughed more, then I decided to use more specific questions. This technique proved effective and, from there, his story unfolded.

I asked Mr. Harry what kind of work he had done. ”Well," he said, "I was an accountant for quite a few years.“

He continued, “And I worked in grocery stores and drug stores and… I started working when I was… actually I was too young to be working but I worked anyway.”

Mr. Harry said he worked and stayed in school at the same time. I know many people my grandmother’s age had to drop out of school in order to work, to help their families during the Great Depression.

My turn came to field a question from him. He asked, “What kind of work do you do?“

I told Mr. Harry I work for a plant out where the Ethyl plant used to be. When I’m talking to an older person about my job, that’s how I explain it. A lot of older people have never heard of Albemarle. When I say “Ethyl,” though, their eyes light up in recognition. My late grandfather retired from Ethyl. A lot of men of my grandparents’ generation were employed at the Ethyl facility here in Baton Rouge, working to produce leaded gasoline until that era ended and the age of unleaded gasoline began. At that time, Ethyl was renamed Albemarle and the facility’s use branched out in new directions.

At the mention of Ethyl, Mr. Harry proudly told me he ”spent 20 some-odd years in chemical plants.” I asked him about his function in those plants. He replied, “I done accounting.” Mentally kicking myself for not remembering that, I continued my exploration through Mr. Harry’s life and experiences.

He told me he had worked for BF Goodrich in Beaumont, TX. “If you ever go from here to Houston, you could see the plant on the I-10. I it’s about 10 miles out of Beaumont on the way to Houston. It’s a rather large plant.”

I mused aloud that, working in accounting, he didn’t have to get his hands dirty out in the plant site. “No,” he agreed, and we both laughed.

” Well that’s good! You retired from there?”

” No, I didn’t retire ,” Mr. Harry replied.

” Okay.”

He continued, “But I’m not working now.”

A little confused, but with no grounds from which to argue, I simply responded, “Nothing wrong with that.”

Mr. Harry agreed.

”Twenty years,huh? That’s a long time,” I commented.

“You know, I tell ya, you need 20 years to have a decent retirement nowadays,” remarked Mr. Harry. I nodded. I know that all too well. I know many people, myself and my parents included, who do not stand adequately prepared for retirement. I made a mental note to put more emphasis on improving my savings habits.

I asked if his family came to visit him in the nursing home very often. “Well, most of my family is in Kentucky and Indiana,” he said. Mr. Harry told me he was the youngest of five children. Before him came three brothers and one sister.

At that time, a nursing home employee named Cathy walked in. Cathy is a slight, small lady, full of smiles and good conversation. I have witnessed her always being friendly and caring to the residents she assists. Mr. Harry spoke up, asking Cathy, “Is it safe to be in here?”

”No,” Cathy answered in a teasing tone.

”Huh?” inquired Mr. Harry.”

Cathy repeated, “Nope!”

I injected my two cents into this new conversation with, “I think she’s teasing you, Mr. Harry.”

Eyebrows raised, Mr. Harry leaned toward me and repeated, “She said no!”

Cathy filled me in: “He said while ago, well the other day, well you know the women mostly eat in here. And I said, ‘Mr. Harry, you can’t come in the kitchen. It’s a danger zone.’ I said, ‘They got women in here; it’s a danger zone!’ And I meant, you know, the kitchen’s not safe.”

Cathy also informed me that Mr. Harry is often caught trying to get his own coffee, which of course is not safe for residents to do on their own. He uses all kinds of tactics and sly means to try and get his coffee. But he usually gets caught!

Turning his attention back to me, Mr. Harry asked if I lived in Baton Rouge. I told him I did; that I lived out near LSU.

Mr. Harry inquired as to whether I was a student at LSU. Laughing, I told him I was not. “Oh, I’m old. I’ve been… I’m done with college. I’m on to… working and not making enough money, like most of the rest of America.” I laughed.

Banging noises came from the open, adjacent kitchen. Mr. Harry called to Cathy, “Could you keep it down in there?”

Cathy shot back, “NO! I’m-a hit you with my broom!”

” You’ll get me?” grinned Mr. Harry.

Cathy teased him that yes, indeed she would. “He told me one day I was to pretty to be so mean!” she told me with a twinkle in her eye.

”Ohh!!” I adulated. “Well that is a sweet talker if I’ve ever heard – with those big blue eyes!”

A moment passed. Then Mr. Harry piped up to Cathy, “You know I hadn’t had any coffee this afternoon?”

At a nursing home, you can almost always find someone ready and willing to chat. I appreciate the learning and laughter I experience with people there, residents and staff alike! Good times visiting my Ma-Ma and making new friends.

I didn't get a shot of Mr. Harry but here is one of Ma-Ma and me. I had just given her a Christmas card and we were looking at it together. Love that lady.

Lena in a Winter Wonderland

On the evening of Sunday, December 8, 2013, I was at the top of the Reunion Tower in Dallas, TX with Lena Costello. We had been staying in iced-over Dallas since the previous Thursday afternoon, and were scheduled to fly home the next day.

The Reunion Tower is a beautiful sight to see. 55 stories tall, it is capped with a globe-shaped top covered all over by white lights. Inside the round Five Sixty restaurant by Wolfgang Puck, we sat near the windows on a slowly-revolving floor to see a 360-degree, rotating, panoramic view of beautiful downtown Dallas with its skyscrapers and artistic lighting.

Up there in such a stunning setting, I decided to conduct with Lena my first interview for this new blog. Everyone’s life is full of stories to tell. The following includes just one of Lena’s delightful and engaging life stories:

This December trip to visit Dallas had been planned since the preceding February. There is no way we could have predicted or planned for the exceptionally freezing weather we encountered in the "Big D." The weekend we spent there was iced over with freezing rain, freezing fog, sleet, sludge, closed roads and airports. Motionless 18-wheelers packed truck stops and lined the sides of the interstates, unable to proceed safely forward. Lena and I were able to get out and creep around the somewhat less-affected center of the city in the afternoons, making our way back to our hotel room by dark. Each evening, the night brought an even harder freeze turning to solid ice anything that had melted or softened during the daylight hours.

But there, above the world in our temporary rotating refuge and wonderland, we were free to be ourselves, to sip expensive glasses of Riesling and share laughs, smiles, and stories.

When asked what her favorite experience in Dallas had been, Lena giggled and answered, “Kissing the tree.”

Earlier that day, we had gone walking downtown. We came across a welcoming coffee shop bragging that they served breakfast all day.

Across the street was a TGI Friday’s. After coffees and a bite to eat, we struck out for adventure and photography. There are no longer any TGI Friday’s restaurants in Baton Rouge, where we live. I got a picture of Lena hugging the Christmas-light-wrapped tree outside there. In the process, she had leaned over and given it a little peck.

One of my favorite things about Lena, and about our relationship, is the lighthearted way she (and we) can just have fun. Laugh about the little things. Every day, every experience has the potential to be fun when we are together.

Downtown Dallas boasts the Bank of America Tower, a 72-story marvel with green argon lights tracing the edges and corners of the building. Up in the Reunion Tower, I asked Lena to describe what she was seeing from her vantage point.

“I am seeing green liquid coming out of a building far away in a tower.”

Very poetic of her, I mused aloud. She continued, “It looks like…Kryptonite….”

Lena went on to tell me that the nearby Omni Hotel, with its dazzling, flashing waves and patterns of lights reminded her of Las Vegas.

“When I was 16 years old, my parents took me to Las Vegas and I dressed up and passed as 21.” Young Lena was admitted without question into the luxurious Las Vegas casinos.

Asked about her favorite thing in Las Vegas, excitement gilded Lena’s voice as she replied, “Oh, a lot! It was New Year’s… New Year’s Eve!”

Lena told me she stayed up all night having a grand time playing slots and drinking alcohol. As a 16 year-old girl, I imagine the thrill of it all was monumental to her! “I guess I can’t remember the rest,” Lena confessed with a chuckle, “because I drank so much.”

When I asked if she won any money, Lena was quick to answer, “No, I didn’t really win because… I guess I really couldn’t win because I was 16 at the time.”

In other words, even if she would have won the whole house, she couldn’t have cashed in her winnings because she was underage.

Lena added, “I was praying that I didn’t win!”

There she had been, in lighted Las Vegas, all dressed up and out on the town. I had to ask Lena if she’d been approached by any men!

“No, not at all!” she answered emphatically. Then she went on to share a short tale about her interaction with one particular fellow.

“There was one guy, after New Year’s, who had a New Year’s Eve hat. It was like a cowboy hat… he took it off my head! And I’ll never forget that day. He stole it from me. He just took it off my head and just walked away.”

Soon, the conversation turned back to Dallas. I asked Lena what she’d thought of the weather since we’d been there.

“I love it! Ice!” Continuing, she compared the freezing Dallas weather to, “Ice Capades!” Said Lena, “Icicles, frozen ice...!”

I lived in Dallas for about 5 years in the early 2000’s. The metroplex had large-scale ice and snow MAYBE twice during that period but never to this massive extent. So I asked Lena what she thought about the fact that such weather “never, ever, EVER happens except for the weekend we’ve come?”

“Only when Lena comes,” she smiled.

“Tomorrow, we’ll be going home,” I said to Lena. “What’s your favorite thing about going home?”

“Um, my favorite thing?…” she pondered briefly… “is my bed!”

“Okay! Thank you, Lena!”

“Thank you, Nicole!”

“I love you!”

“I love you too!”

So we decided to stop sipping with our glasses still ¼ full and take the minute-long elevator down to the first floor, through the adjoining Hilton and out into the cold where we continued our adventures until it was time to head to the room and pack!

I love hearing her stories.

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Written and copyrighted by Nicole Henderson

Photographs copyright of Nicole Henderson

December 11, 2013