NOVEMBER 2001
It is the fall of 2001. There is a faint chill in
the evening air. My wife Barbara sit
quietly as I drive
into the large parking complex of East Jefferson Hospital.
People scurrying back and forth in blue scrub suits and white
lab coats suggests that the shift is changing. The staff leaving
for the day seems anxious to get home to their families. The
staff arriving seems
anxious not to be late for patients who await
their care.
Entering the main door of the hospital's massive
lobby, its extravagant design
appears
inappropriate for the pain found inside its walls. Such luxury
provides no relief to the
suffering. Perhaps it is meant for those who visit. Perhaps the
decor is for those who grieve. As I walk through the
hospital's long corridor, mechanized voices emerge from the
intercom with tones of urgency. The solemn eyes of those who sit
in a large waiting room reach out to
mine, but
quickly withdraw into silent thought.
Barbara and I approach a patient information desk
to the pleasant welcome of an aging man. The gray-haired clerk
wears a volunteer name -tag below the left pocket of his
starched
white shirt. I ask for my mother's room number and his prompt
reply that she is in
T-2 suggests that other family members have
already arrived.
As we exit the
elevator on the second floor and approach room T-2, we
immediately hear the sound of
my father's voice. We enter Mom's room to the cautious smiles of
my
sisters, brothers, nephews, and aunts. She is
scheduled for surgery in less then three hours. Mom has cancer.
I find it so very difficult to say the word.
Dad sits nervously
on the edge of Mom's hospital bed. Almost like a child clinging
to his mother, he caresses her left arm with gentle hands.
Although she appears upbeat, her eyes
express concern. Surgery is
to take two to three hours. We are hopeful that things will go
well, but the thought of losing her is daunting. I glance at the
clock that hangs on the bare
wall. It is
3:30PM. I look again and it is only 3:34. Seconds seem like
minutes, minutes like hours.
Mom is to be taken into surgery at 5:45PM. Time seems to move so
slowly when anticipating such events.
At 5:40PM, a young
man with dark hair and kind eyes enters the small room. He has
come to transport Mom to surgery. He seems instinctively aware
of our distress and concern.
Like his eyes, his demeanor is soft and warm. His voice serves
as an antidote to the anxiety we feel. After receiving Mom's
assurance that she is ready, he carefully guides her hospital
gurney out of T-2 to the loud whispers of our silent prayers. I
notice my brother's eyes and cheeks are red. He has been
crying in an adjoining room. Most of my family cries in private.
I
often cry alone, so that I don't intrude on others.
We gather in the
spacious area of the hospital where those in waiting measure
time in microseconds. On my
left is a large screen television that no one watches. Its
muffled sound serves as a placebo, like the white noise of a
ceiling fan. On my right is Dad. He drifts deep into thoughts
that only husbands or wives have at times like this. In an
attempt to separate myself from the uncertainty of the moment, I
allow my mind to drift into pleasant memories of my
childhood.
As I retreat into the past, my mind's eye
projects bright images that encompass the
spectrum of the
rainbow. Although I dream in black and white, I recall my
childhood in vivid color. I
see Mom spraying my tiny worn out penny loafers a bright shiny
red. They are as bright as the candy apples that she gets me
when we go to the circus. They are as red as the fire
truck with the bell and ladders that she got me for Christmas.
She makes such a fuss over
my shoes that I feel good inside. Although it is difficult to
explain the significance of those tiny red shoes, they were the
earliest memory that I possess of life around me, and I am
blessed to have shared it with my mother.
I shut my eyes and continue the search for more
of my past. I see Mom placing the shiny silver and gold stars on
grammar school papers of which I am so proud. She places a star
above all of my A's and B's and tells me what a wonderful job I
did. She gives me a kiss
and another
special star, one that is ocean blue. I never told her that for
years, I kept the papers with the glittering stars hidden away
in a secret place. I would always look at them whenever I wanted
to feel reassured. I only wish that I could find my shiny stars
this night. I always associate bright colors and pleasant
experiences of my childhood with my
mother. I
see her attaching deep blue and sapphire green reflectors made
of cut glass onto my homemade skateboard. I sit and watch her
plant dark- red poinsettias, with green-red centers, in her
little garden in front of our home. On yesterday's Halloween,
she carves a smiling face
on a large
orange pumpkin and lets me pull the seeds from its belly with my
small hands. I
help her
wash our new canary- yellow Buick convertible. Its heavy metal
grillwork resembles
an exposed
steam heater in an old office building. Although I don't fully
understand why I
associate
bright colors with my early life with my mother, such
reflections seem to rescue me
from
moments of darkness. But this is not a time to be analytical. It
is a time to visit my past
so that I may endure the present.
As I continue my search for other treasured
memories, I hear the echo of Mom's
voice from
another distant time. I see her as a twenty-eight year old
woman. A young woman
with soft
blonde hair and fair skin who brings ice cream to eat and comic
books to read as I
recover from
tonsil surgery. She reminds me of a beautiful actress I saw in a
late night movie. Her name, Johnteen, is the prettiest
name I've ever heard; prettier than all of the colors of the
rainbow; prettier than a dark- red poinsettia
with it's green-red center.
My private reflections of life with my mother are
interrupted by the nervous stirrings of my father. It is now
8:45 in the evening. It has been nearly three hours since she
has been
taken to
surgery. Dad is beginning to worry that they are taking so long.
He begins to question why no one comes with a progress report on
her condition. With hands in both pockets, he paces up and down
the waiting area's wide corridor. Although he doesn't sob on
the
outside, I know that he cries within his soul. After my aunt and
sister reassure him that it
is still too early to anticipate word on Mom's
progress, he settles back into his chair and escapes into the
empty sound of the big screen television.
Treasured memories of my mother always merge with
those of my father. My mind
blinks to
the sight of Dad coming into the bedroom in which I sleep. I am
five- years- old and
always lie
in Mom's bed on Thursday nights when he goes bowling. I don't
know why, but
their bed
always seems warmer than my own. As Dad lifts and carries me to
my own bedroom, he hugs my body as I pretend to sleep. I want to
feel his touch as he tucks me into my bed. I want to feel him
kiss my cheek as he arranges the pillow beneath my head. Such
kisses are so much better when he thinks that I
am sleeping.
As I struggle to evade the stress of Mom's vigil,
my mind continues to meander into my past with Dad. I am ten-
years- old and sit on the porch of our home. I watch him load
trucks in a pouring rain. He is the shipping clerk for our
family business. His company faces the front of our house.
School is out for the summer and I sit on the porch in eager
anticipation of bringing him lunch. Mom lets me bring Dad his
sandwich and chocolate bar that she stuffed in a brown paper
bag. He shares his lunch with a white pigeon that always
seems to
know the hour of the day. Dad goes to work at 6:00 in the
morning and doesn't
return until
sunset. His twelve-hour workdays are his way of telling us how
much we mean to
him.
In yet another image of Dad, I am
fifteen-years-old. He sits quietly at his desk in
our
spacious new home and pays the family bills so that we don't
have to worry. I am old
enough now to realize how much he has done for
us. A blue- collar worker who made our lives comfortable through
sweat and workdays that often extended into the night. Dad has
provided us with a life frequently taken for granted. I am proud
that he is my father. Perhaps I need to tell him so.
It is 9:33 in the evening. My welcomed flashbacks
are broken by the sudden approach
of my
mother's surgeon. Dad jumps from his chair and rushes towards
the doctor. As he
questions
the surgeon concerning her condition, my heart seems to
momentarily stop as we
await a
reply. Like the young man who escorted Mom to surgery, the
doctor has dark hair,
kind eyes
and a bedside manner that is soft and warm. As the surgeon
speaks and makes eye
contact
with Dad, she appears cautiously optimistic. She explains that
most of the cancer has been removed and that Mom has been placed
in the recovery room. Dad presses the doctor for absolute
assurance that Mom will be okay. She responds by saying that
while the cancer is advanced, her post-operative condition is
favorable. She further explains that
chemotherapy
should eliminate what could not be removed in surgery. For the
first time since
early evening, I notice that my father is
smiling.
It is 10:30PM. We enter the area where my mother
is recovering. Tubes and an oxygen mask are attached to her body
like the tentacles of an octopus. Her breathing is
labored and
she appears in distress. My heart quivers until a nurse enters
and reassures us
that her condition is stable. I only wish that I
could bring Mom ice cream and comic books to relieve her pain. I
only wish that I could find my bright shiny stars and stick them
on the medical chart that hangs above her bed.
OCTOBER 2002
Although Mom has done relatively well since
surgery eleven months ago, she
recently suffered a
series of setbacks. For the third time in less then three
months, she has been
readmitted into East Jefferson Hospital with a high fever.
Chemotherapy has ravaged her body and spirit. Although
she tries to remain upbeat for us, her face cannot conceal her
pain.
My wife and I enter
the elevator to the whispers of another couple discussing the
plight of their own mother.
She is also hospitalized with cancer. Although I feel like
holding both of them, I remain empathetically silent as
they exit in tears. Once again, we
enter the
fifth floor to visit my mother. We are not certain that she will
see tomorrow.
At 8:30 P.M., as our family sits near Mom's
bedside, her face becomes swollen and bright red. She begins
shaking violently and whimpers with pain. My sister Jeanne
and I
rush to the nursing desk to alert the staff of the crisis. A
clerk filling out medical
charts tells
us they are short staffed but will immediately call for a nurse.
Fifteen minutes pass
and she still shivers and moans. We nervously wait for someone
to assist us. The sheets on her bed are drenched with sweat. I
feel my heart pounding in my
chest. I am terrified that she may die before anyone arrives. In
a desperate attempt to address her pain, Dad climbs in
bed and embraces Mom's body.
At 8:50 P.M., a tall
nurse with silver-white hair enters the room. She apologizes
for the delay. She explains
that employee reductions have left her almost helpless in
responding quickly to such situations. After addressing her
immediate needs, the nurse tells us that Mom is scheduled to
take her medications at 9:00 P.M. She assures us that
she will
return momentarily. Mom's fever is dangerously high.
It is 9:20 P.M. but no one has arrived. She
begins to shake so violently that her
bed vibrates in
rhythm. Dad continues to cradle her. Once again, Jeanne and I
rush to the
nursing station seeking assistance. As before, we
are informed that personnel shortages have caused them to be
behind schedule. We are told they are doing their best.
We return to Mom's
room, but I station myself in front of her door hoping to find
someone who can help. I see
a nurse at the far end of the long empty corridor and
approach her with a tone of urgency. She tells me that she must
first take care of a patient
whose
medications were due an hour ago.
At 9:50 P.M., the nurse that I met in the hallway
hurriedly enters the room. She rummages through my mother's
medical chart to determine which medications are due.
Like the
other nurses on the floor this night, she is polite, but
stressed. After giving Mom an I.V., she takes her temperature.
Dad watches and reads the numbers as they rise on the
thermometer. Her temperature
has risen to 104.3.1 silently pray that it will stop. The nurse
explains they cannot monitor patients as often as they should.
She offers to leave the thermometer with us. We agree. I
wonder about patients whose families are not close
by. I dismiss
the thought. The possibilities are frightening.
It is almost
midnight. Mom's current crisis is over. Her fever has passed.
She no
longer shivers. She appears exhausted but speaks
hi a manner that provides us with temporary relief. With the
reassurance that Dad and Jeanne will stay with her for the
remainder of the night, I kiss Mom's forehead to let her know
that I love her. My wife and I leave for the evening so we can
face the next day.
Within three days of
Mom's hospitalization, we are present as the doctor releases
her to go home. She is to
resume chemotherapy within a week. As a nurse's assistant
helps her into a wheelchair,
I notice Dad making 'the sign of the cross' with his
fingertips. The same hand movements that he makes each time he
passes hi front of a Catholic Church; a symbol that reveres a
higher power.
After arriving at
Dad's car, the attendant lifts Mom into its back seat. As a
light
rain falls, Dad drives from the parking garage towards a home
they have missed, the home where we were raised as children.
NOVEMBER 2002
It is 6:30 on Saturday morning. The piercing
sound of the bedroom phone
awakens me. It is my
father. His voice is stressed. He tells me that Mom relapsed in
the middle of the night. She is in the ICU at the hospital with
a high fever. Dad tells me that
she is only
semi-conscious. His words are those of worry.
I quickly shower, dress, kiss my wife, and rush
to my car. Barbara tells me that
she will meet me in
an hour. As I speed towards the hospital, my mind wanders to
places
I don't want to go. I feel emotionally numb by
the thought of losing my mother. Once again, I cry in private as
I drive into the hospital's garage.
I easily navigate the corridors that once
confused me. The meandering hallways of the hospital have become
too familiar. As I enter a crowded elevator, I now find
myself
avoiding eye contact with the people inside. I don't want to see
their pain. Grief is
not unique. It only appears to be when it is your
own.
I enter the waiting
area to the sight of Dad sitting alone in the corner of the
room. He stares blankly at the early morning news. My brothers
and sisters have not yet arrived.
I want to hug Dad, but
inhibitions restrict my movements. Although he informs me that
visiting hours are over until 10:30 A.M., I cannot bear
the thought of losing Mom without saying goodbye.
I enter the ICU and
plead with the nurse to let me see my mother. She hesitates,
but reads my eyes and asks
that I be brief. Thanking the nurse for her kindness, I
hurriedly walk into Mom's room. Although she breathes through an
oxygen mask and cannot speak, she seems to welcome me with a
warm expression. I speak the words " I love you." I tell
her that I hope I've been a good son. As my eyes moisten, tears
run down
the sides of her flush face. I realize, until
now, I have never seen my mother cry.
It is now 10:00 P.M.
We have been here for nearly fourteen hours. Mom received
a transfusion
and has miraculously recovered from a near death experience. Her
fever is gone and she is, for the moment, out of danger. Her
legs, however, remain red and swollen. Dad massages her feet
with cream and tells her that she is his baby.
Our entire family holds vigil around Mom's bed
and tries to remain positive. Barbara tells my mother how young
her hands look as she proudly holds them up for all to see. My
brother, Barry, reflects on a funny story about our childhood.
My sister,
Brenda, comments on her beautiful ocean blue
eyes; eyes highlighted by a hairless scalp;
eyes as
beautiful as her name; eyes prettier than the bright red
poinsettias she once planted in her garden; eyes that watched
over us as children.
By Tuesday evening, we take a deep breath knowing
that once again, she is
coming home. We are
aware, however, that this is a process that could end tomorrow;
that additional time with her could be brief. Denial has become
our friend. It whispers
untruths so
that we can face another day.
DECEMBER 2002
It is a chilly
Christmas Eve. A cloudless sky reveals the beauty of bright
twinkling stars. My wife and
I travel towards our family's Christmas party hi anticipation of
seeing my mother. The thought that she will celebrate
Christmas with us overwhelms me. I pray that it will not be her
last.
We enter the party to a flurry of children who
eagerly await the arrival of Santa
Claus. Mom
sits in the center of the den surrounded by my brothers,
sisters, aunts, uncles,
cousins, nieces,
nephews and friends. Dad sits by her side and openly displays
his love. Mom is wearing a
pretty red dress that brightens the room, a dress that reflects
the colorful memories of my childhood.
It has been thirteen months since she had
surgery. Her courage over the last year has been remarkable. Her
will to survive so that she may continue to share her life with
us is
heroic. As a tribute to her spirit, I present her with a red
poinsettia in a vase covered with shinny gold paper. The paper
shimmers like the gold stars that she once gave me as
a child. I
whisper that I love her and I am proud she is my mother.
Within an hour, my
cousin Kevin arrives at the party. He is dressed as Santa and is
ambushed by anxious children. It occurs to me how quickly the
years have passed. My memory
recalls a scene in which Kevin's father played Santa at our
Christmas party when I was a child. I still recall the
anticipation of receiving my gift. It was a gift that
came from Mom's heart. It was
a gift that came from Dad's twelve-hour workdays. On
this
night, however, the greatest gift I receive is Mom with her
glowing smile. I don't want this night to end. I don't want this
to be her last Christmas.
For the remainder of the night, we eat, drink,
and tell stories of Christmas' past;
stories that lay
buried within our hearts; stories of precious moments that we
have shared together; stories of love. Even within the absence
of words, we let one another know how
much we
care. We hug and kiss, laugh and cry, and share glances that
reaffirm our
oneness. And then the night is over.
JANURARY 2003
We gather in the waiting area of the ICU. Mom is
critically ill. Her kidneys are
now
poisoning her body. She has requested that she not be attached
to a dialysis machine.
It is apparent she is prepared to enter the
tunnel that will terminate her pain. She has suffered so much.
It would be cruel to go against her wishes and attach her to
wires and tubes that will prolong her agony.
As hi the past, in small groups, we enter the ICU
to say our good-byes. While I stand by her bedside, once again,
I reflect on images of my past. I suddenly see Mom
standing
over my hospital bed feeding me ice cream to soothe my pain. I
see her placing
Dad's
sandwich and chocolate bar into a brown paper bag before he
leaves for work. I
see her
changing the bandage on my older brother's arm following an
accident hi which
he fell. I see her hugging my younger brother as
he wins the race at the annual picnic. I see her giving my
little sister medicine that will reduce her fever. I see her
cuddling my youngest sister shortly after she was born. Mom was
always our caretaker. Now we are hers. It seems so strange how
roles become reversed.
Dad holds a straw to Mom's lips in an effort to
quench her dry throat. He gently
strokes her
forehead and face with his right hand. He reminds her how much
she is loved.
He tells
her that she is his baby. He tells her how he would like to take
her home so that she could sit in her favorite chair. I
momentarily retreat from the room in an effort to
regain my composure.
It is 8:30 PM. The visiting hours in the ICU are
over. During the course of the
day, an endless
stream of family members have come and gone. My sisters are
weary. The hours they spend at the hospital are excessive.
Recognizing their fatigue, I suggest that they go home to rest.
I offer to spend the night.
Dad refuses to leave
Mom's side. He knows that the end is very near. He knows
that the woman who has given
him five children, his wife of 59 years, is about to leave
this life until they are rejoined in the next. Jeanne,
Brenda, and the rest of my family go home for the evening.
Brenda kisses Mom's forehead and tells her that she will return
in
the morning.
Following everyone's departure, the waiting area
and surrounding corridor
become quiet
and still. Dad stays in the room with Mom while I try to sleep
in the lobby. The blend of distant voices coming from a
television, the hospital intercom and staff
members walking the
hallways provides me with the comfort that I am not alone. I
slowly fall into a twilight sleep.
At 1:00 AM, the
sound of a hallway door closing stirs me from my restless sleep.
Knowing that the nurses have
given us permission to come and go as we please, I get up
and walk into the ICU to check on Mom. As I approach the door of
the small room where
she lies, I see Dad standing near her bedside. He
is sobbing. Without intruding on his private moment, I retreat
into the lobby and cry until sleep comforts me.
At 3:30 AM, I am
wakened by muffled voices coming from the corridor. I quickly
rise and re-enter the ICU to
see if Mom is okay. Two nurses reviewing a patient chart smile
empathetically. I enter the small cubicle hi which Mom and Dad
sleep to reassure myself that she is still breathing. Although I
know that we need to let her go to the other
side, the thought of her
leaving us terrifies me. It seems so odd how life repeats
itself. It was only yesterday that my parents opened our doors
to see if we were okay. Now we open theirs. Dad sleeps in a
fetal position on the floor in the corner of the room. He has
not left her side for a week. I cannot comprehend
his pain.
JANURARY15.2003
Although Mom is slipping further away, she has
survived the night. She has been transferred to the floor where
patients go to die. All machines and substances that would
prolong her
life and suffering have been withdrawn. She is being allowed to
enter the
tunnel; the
tunnel that will transport her into the arms of loved ones that
wait on the other
side.
Dad stands over her bed and sobs. He tells Mom
that he would give all his wealth to spend just one more day
with her. Dad strokes her hair. He caresses her face. He kisses
her lips. Dad tells Mom how much he loves her and
says good-bye. It is then that she begins to enter the tunnel.
It is then that she begins to travel to the other side.
Suddenly, Johnteen begins to hear a
familiar voice in the near distance. "Michael
is right, you do have one of the most beautiful
names that I have ever heard. I should know. I am the one who
gave it to you."
As Johnteen looks up, her mother Eva, who
passed before her, extends her hands
and lifts her from the other side of the tunnel.
And then there is light.
"Welcome home, Johnteen. I've missed you
so. What a beautiful name."
Third Place
Old Maid
Circa 2007
By Gerry L. Cofield
I
found myself in a small country church staring at a
broad-shouldered rugged male
specimen, wondering if he was single. After the
service his teenage son appeared and a
henpecking wife wasn't far behind. This is
what it's come to- scoping out middle-aged farmers.. ..lusting
after someone's dad while the fire and brimstone is stoked.
A
little over a year ago I left the bustling city of Atlanta for
rural Alabama. A benefit of
leaving was
breaking away from the "boyfriend" who had happened into my
life. "Boyfriend" is a silly term for people over the age of 18-
he's not technically a boy, and
the relationship
isn't exactly that of friends. We were admittedly all wrong for
each
other. Strangely, we refused to do
anything about it. Maybe it was comfortable, maybe we were just
lazy, maybe my credit was good and he didn't complain about my
weight.
I've experienced various other relationships, but
they were also less than ideal. I even
dated the "perfect" guy. He was nice, handsome, had a good job
and a decent family.
Yawn…. I was bored.
Match.com proved to be a colossal disappointment. How can you
seem so compatible in
emails and phone
conversations to be so completely incompatible in person? One
example: online- nice guy, educated, good job, funny,
relatively intelligent, and attractive. I spent 2 hours
perfectly fluffing my mane, selecting the absolute best black
pantsuit, applying make-up thicker than an auto paint job, and
dabbing on trendy
overpriced
perfume. He showed up at my house in a t-shirt that said "big
daddy" and picked his teeth with a sugar packet at the table. I
was still trying to be open-minded
when he put the sugar packet back into the sweetener caddy. It
wasn't a match.
So
here I am, single at 33 and doing just fine. But many people
seem to find this strange
and want to "fix" it. They think I'm missing something, bless my
clueless heart.
I
get a lot of suggestions. "Don't be so independent." "Meet men
at church." "Ask guys
out." "Dress up and wear makeup more often."
"Smile and laugh more." "Don't be so
smart." "Don't be so
cynical." "Don't be so sarcastic." Don't get me wrong, I
appreciate the concern. But
they probably want me to "always be myself like it says in
my high school yearbook, too. How long am I supposed to do all those
things? Until I get
him to propose? Until our wedding night? Until the first
anniversary? Then what
will change about him?
Someone may have had some suggestions for him too, you
know.
People ask, "What type of man are you looking for?" Well, if I
knew for certain, chances
are I'd have
him by now. The best I can do is to tell them I want someone
like Shawn
Mullins. Then I either sound like a stalker or I
confuse those who are unaware of this god of music. He seems
like the perfect combination- peaceful, kind, intelligent,
well-read, well-traveled, sexy, laid-back, talented, passionate,
the kind of guy who can befriend anyone, nonjudgmental, earthy,
loves animals and children, appreciates the
wisdom of old people... I could go on. But thanks to fate and
his lovely wife Kelly, I must look elsewhere.
The upside is my biological clock isn't ticking so loudly. It's
been drowned out by the
fits of
2-year-olds every time I visit the grocery store. Besides, I
have 2 dogs and a cat to
qualify as my
children. They usurp almost as much time, energy, and income as
actual human offspring. And if I loved anything more than them,
it may just be too painful.
I'm not saying
I'm completely opposed to the idea of having children (see, I'm
flexible-someone
suggested that).
A
recently divorced, and somewhat bitter, male friend suggested I
forget an actual relationship and find a "bed buddy". I tried
explaining that, for a female living in the same small community
as her doting father, this is not a viable option. Although it
sounds
fun, I'm a little too evolved for that arrangement and it
usually doesn't end well.
So, I've lost some weight now. I walk everyday, with my dogs and
an aunt whose advice
I try to accept with an open mind. I've filled my wardrobe
with lovely girlie items and
enjoy frequent pedicures. My hair is freshly cut and
colored and a fresh makeup palette
almost covers the bathroom countertop.
I'm still independent, because I've earned this one honestly.
But, I will let a man open a
door or carry
something heavy without making a scene. I smile and laugh as
much as is
possible without making people nervous. I'm trying to curb
the cynicism because I want
to be more positive, but I'm still sarcastic because it's part of my
personal charm. If there are men to meet at church, I'll meet
them- but I still won't ask them out. I'm just
not comfortable being the "asker". And, I don't know if I'm "being" smart
or am smart, but that just doesn't seem like a bad thing.
Therefore, I'm trying to become smarter- I've
increased my
magazine subscriptions, started online classes, and take a more
active role
in
politics. So, here it is guys, the sort of new and somewhat
improved me. Take me or leave me, I'll be just fine.
Honorable
Mention
Small Katrina Miracles
By Brenda Finnegan
When Hurricane Katrina washed away our home, our
rental house, a small guesthouse, my car, and my husband's truck
on Belle Fontaine Beach in Ocean Springs on August 29, 2005, we
lost everything we owned except what we had taken when we
evacuated.
For over a year, we have searched through the
debris across the road, and in the 20" of
sand left on
top of the slab that was once the cottage we lived in, for
anything of
sentimental value.
Some items were found on top of the ground in our
neighbor’s yard to the west. Some we have dug up. Our property
has looked like an archaeological dig, with shovels and carts
for removing sand, and sieves, spoons and hand rakes and
shovels.
There are a few miracles that we have realized
throughout this time. Most of them
happened on
the tidal-swept beach lot. Some happened elsewhere. Here are
some of the
most meaningful
Mother's Quilt
Among the many items I grieved over, as I walked
through the debris that was our home
and
belongings was my mother's quilt. The quilt was a gift to her
from the family on her
75th birthday on August 20, 1994.
Each of her four sons and four daughters created
his or her own square, sometimes with
the help or
input from spouses. My older brother was a retired postal worker
and his
square
included a rural mailbox with his name and "#1 Son" on it. Each
one of the
others was just as personal.
There were twenty-two squares around the
perimeter for the twenty-two grandchildren.
The seven
great-grandchildren had their hands traced onto their squares
with their names.
An extra
square was added with "invisible" quilted handprints for future
"babies."
Mother's
square was a big "75;" Daddy's (who passed away in 1981) was his
CB handle, "Nickel Nose," cut from a denim shirt I had
embroidered for him. Two more squares had
a fish and a cabin for our fish camp in Gautier,
where we spent every summer, swimming in the Pascagoula River.
The quilt became mine when Mother passed away in
2004, and was in our home that
washed away.
For weeks I walked the woods, looking mostly in
the trees where most of our clothing and linens hung. One day,
about seven weeks after the storm, I stumbled over something
pink wrapped
around a wild grapevine. With shaking hands, I began to unwrap
it, believing it would be shredded like most of the comforters I
had found. Unbelievably it
was intact!
Though dirty, and with a couple of small tears, it was in good
shape! A small
miracle!
The Dog Tags
For several months, my husband and I dug in the
sand left over our slab, mostly alone. We did have a few family
members come, but after the first of the year, several groups
came and gave us a hand. What a blessing they
were!
One group was from Harvard University. I believe
they were divinity students. One was a young beautiful, happy
African-American woman named Rejoice! Her name fit her
perfectly.
While digging in the sand, she unearthed a small
rectangular piece of metal. Not knowing
what it was,
she called to me. I looked and was astounded. It was one of my
husband's
two dog tags
from his service in the U.S. Air Force from 1959-1963. My
husband, also
nearby, was so thrilled to have it.
He said that his dog tags had been left in a
jewelry box on top of a dresser in the
bathroom.
(Never dreaming that our house would be washed away, we left
most of our
jewelry in the house when we evacuated.)
We all stopped to rejoice in the moment, and I
took a photograph of Rejoice and my
beaming
husband. About thirty minutes later, Rejoice unearthed the
second one! My
husband was so thrilled to find the dog tags he
believed he would never see again!
The lady who bought it was not Catholic, and
passed it along to her friend, who was. Her
friend, who
was a friend of my aunt's, recognized my name, and knowing I was
her
niece, passed the Bible along to my aunt, who
placed it into my hands.
So, a twenty-two year old Bible, with our names
inside, found its way back to us after we
lost our own.
A Large Wooden Cross
When I retired from my fourteen years as an
elementary school secretary in a parochial school, the staff
gave me a truly unique gift, a large artist-designed wooden
cross, about
two feet wide
by three feet long. The cross was in three layers. The first was
a simple unpainted cross, whose wood had come from one of the
old parish buildings. On top of
that was a whitewashed Celtic-type wooden cross
with an unpainted wooden fish in the center of it.
There were beautiful cobalt blue tiles in a
pattern at each end and seashells at the end of
each
crosspiece. "Pearls" adorned the shells and the eye of the fish,
made from old
jewelry the staff gave to the artist to be melted
into "pearls."
For eight years, it hung proudly in our hallway
(one of the only places large enough for it
in our little
seaside cottage). When Katrina hit, it was lost as our house
dissolved like a
sandcastle on the beach in the tidal surge,
estimated to be about thirty feet high.
We spent a good many weeks searching the woods
for anything that was salvageable.
One day, my
husband literally stumbled on the cross and excitedly brought it
for me to
see.
It was battered, missing all its seashells and
the "pearls." Several of the tiny tiles were gone, but the
wooden fish was still on the layered cross. To me, it was
beautiful! I scrubbed the mud off it and thought about taking it
back to the artist to get it repaired, but
I think the
"Katrina patina" makes it even more unique, so it is now hanging
in a new home on a new hallway wall. It is truly a small miracle
that it was found in mounds of
splintered wood and debris.
St. Nicholas & Santa Claus Figures
For years, I have collected Santa Claus statues.
I preferred the antique-looking ones of the St. Nicholas
variety. I had them in ceramic, resin, cloth, papier-mâché' and
plastic. Many had a "beach motif (Santas in swim-suits, with
fishing gear, etc.) I estimate that I
had between 40-50 of them.
About a week after the hurricane, while wandering
in a daze on our tidal-swept property,
I walked over to our neighbor's.
Looking down, I noticed a tiny face looking up
out of the sand. It was one of my Santa Claus figures. Nearby
was another; then another. Soon, I had about ten of them in my
hands and had to go for a bag to carry them back
to the tent.
Over the next several weeks, more turned up. My
neighbor would yell across the downed
fence and I
would go over to see if it was mine. Some had names on the
bottom; the
name of the person who had given it to me,
usually a teacher or staff member in the elementary school where
I was secretary for 14 years. Some had the name of the artist;
such as a wooden figure my daughter bought me in the French
Quarter in New Orleans.
All were boxed away waiting the day when we would
have a home. That time came in December 2006, when we were
decorating our new "temporary" home. Each Santa was taken from
its storage place and cleaned of leaves, twigs and mud inside.
Some missed limbs; some missed paint, but all two dozen were
beautiful on our new mantel!
The Christmas Cactus
When we were decorating our home for Christmas in
2006, with the decorations we salvaged from the hurricane
debris, I mentioned to my husband that I sure missed our
beautiful Christmas cactus. He had given it to me as a small
plant years before and it had grown very large. A beautiful
salmon-color, it sat (before Katrina) in a tall pink flamingo
wire plant holder on our front porch, where it bloomed
profusely.
A few days later, we were invited to our former
neighbors' home for a glass of wine.
While there, I
couldn't help but notice the beautiful salmon-colored Christmas
cactus on her dining table. When I remarked that we had one like
it before the hurricane, she said,
"It's yours."
Thinking she was just being kind, I declined to take it. "No,
she said, it's
really yours!"
She explained that her husband had found several
pieces of it that had taken root in their
yard. He put
them all in a pot, and it began to bloom just before Christmas
and they
brought it inside.
How it survived the salt water of the tidal
surge, I will never know. She was very happy
to find its
owner, and we were delighted to have our beautiful plant back,
after sixteen
months!
Another small miracle!
The Christmas Stocking
Our first Christmas, in 1963, was spent in a tiny
apartment near Mississippi State University. We were "poor as
church mice," so when Christmas rolled around we looked for
something to use as decorations.
We had cut down a small pine tree on a friend's
father's farm and split a box of eighteen
ornaments
with the other couple. My husband and our friend had met in
registration line;
Steve, fresh
from the Army, and my husband, just discharged from the Air
Force. They
were among
the "older" freshmen on campus, and since they were former
military, were
not required
to have their heads shaved, though they did have to wear the MSU
beanies
on their heads!
Scouring our apartment that December, we happened
on a pair of military woolen socks,
which my
husband had worn in Thule, Greenland, where he was stationed
during the
Cuban Missile
Crisis. I embroidered our names in sequins and added some
festive trim
from my sewing
box. They looked good enough for one year, and we fully intended
to eventually replace them. Somehow, we grew to love them and as
years went on, we removed the tattered sequins and added silver
holly leaves on our twenty-fifth wedding
anniversary.
When Katrina took our home, it also took those
Christmas stockings. Later, while
walking the
woods, looking through the neighborhood debris, we found his.
Though we
never found mine, it was a joyous thing to hang
his once again in our "new" home.
Oh, and yes, my husband had the usual onion in
the toe of his stocking, in memory of my
father, who dropped one in his woolen stocking
our first Christmas together.
The Kumquat Tree
We planted the tree in
the early 1990's shortly after moving to Belle Fontaine Beach.
After living in the
"big house" we remodeled the cottage and moved into it in
November 1997. Thanksgiving
dinner was the first meal we ate there, and the kumquats from
the tree outside by the shed were decorations on the
table. Every holiday after that, we enjoyed fruit from the
tree, often made into marmalade.
Hurricane Katrina's
surge of salt water washed over all of the trees and plants on
our acre of land. Many not
toppled, slowly died over the next year. It was sad watching
their demise. Beside the beautiful kumquat tree, which
was filled with tiny green fruit that hot August day, there was
also the grapefruit tree planted by my husband's father from
seed, which after seven years on our property, had just begun to
bear beautiful pink fruit.
Shortly after
Christmas, an attorney friend, who rented our "big house" for
several years
after we moved to the cottage, called to invite
us to dinner to meet his fiancé'.
"Remember those bags
of kumquats I used to take to the youth court?" he asked. "Well,
one of the ladies who worked there planted some of those seeds,
and she has a little
kumquat tree to give to you!"
What a Christmas miracle!
My I. D. Bracelet
When my husband and I were high school
sweethearts, we exchanged photo I.D. bracelets, which were
popular in the late 1950's. His was silver; mine was gold. They
had our names engraved and contained photos under the
nameplates.
All of our jewelry, except what we carried when
we evacuated (and not expecting such a
catastrophe, we didn't take much) was lost in the
hurricane.
In the first weeks after the storm, his bracelet
was located, very much damaged, but
repairable. Mine was not
On January 3, 2007, slightly over sixteen months
after the hurricane, I was walking in our
neighbors'
front yard. He had a contractor come and push the sand that had
piled up on his lot back toward the beach. The scraping with the
equipment blade had left a smooth
sandy lot,
which he encouraged me to walk through, as his daughter, whose
cabin also washed away, had recently found some of her dishes in
the sand, and most of our things
had washed in that direction.
While walking about five feet from our property
line, I noticed something gold pressed into the sand, round and
shiny. I picked it up. Incredibly, it was my gold I.D. bracelet,
as pretty as it was the day I received it, though covered with
grit and sand.
I brought it home and cleaned it with naval jelly
and silver polish. My name was still on
the top, and my husband's name was on the
reverse. What a blessing! What a miracle!
Honorable
Mention
Bow-Quet
by Jerusha Bosarge
The day Jordan was born, the nurses at River
Oaks Hospital twisted a tiny, peach-colored ribbon into a
make-shift bow, and “glued” it to her dark, fuzzy head with K.Y.
Jelly. I gently lifted all six pounds, fifteen ounces of
swaddled, wiggling warmth from the glass-sided hospital
bassinette, and fell in love. Everything about her was perfect:
her crooked little toes escaping the pink and blue hospital
blanket; her huge bright eyes, an enchanting blend of slate gray
and baby blue, her fuzzy, chestnut hair reflecting the
fluorescent lights; and that bow. .. a tiny, perfect fragment of
ribbon sitting daintily on the top of her head.
Jordan is four, now. She has worn a bow in her
hair every day for four years. Well, okay, maybe not every day.
Certainly there have been times when she was sick in bed, or
perhaps just lazing around in her pajamas without a bow (we’re
not obsessed or anything). But, in general, if Jordan is fully
dressed, then she is wearing a bow in her hair. It is simply a
part of who she is.
Naturally, Jordan was wearing a bow the day Mary
Clare died. It was black. Looking back, I wonder why I didn’t
see that as an omen. She never chooses black. “It’s too dark,”
she protests. But that day, she chose it of her own free will to
match her denim zoo-animal dress. She said it reminded her of
Daniel.
Daniel’s last visit was in July. It took Rebecca
and her four boys eighteen hours to get to our home in
Jacksonville from Little Rock, Arkansas. Jacob and Joshua were
the oldest (8 and 6 respectively)
and rode in the “way back” of the brown van. That way,
Rebecca could have easier access to the younger kids: Daniel
(3) and David (1). Mary Clare rode inside Rebecca’s swollen
belly.
Rebecca and the boys lived with us in
Jacksonville for nearly a month. It was close quarters. Nine and
a half people (including Mary Clare) were crammed into a two
bedroom apartment with less than 1300 square feet of living
space. But that didn’t bother us. It never did. Rebecca and I
had endured far worse. Nothing could shake our friendship.
The highlight of our visit together was a trip to
the Jacksonville Zoo. Jordan’s favorite part, as usual, was the
reptile room. It was so funny to watch such a seemingly prissy
little girl captivated by the dark and mysterious creatures.
But, that’s Jordan. She often understands things that most
people misunderstand. She sees beauty where others can not.
Jordan and I both cried when Rebecca and the boys left this
time. It was the last time I saw Rebecca’s true smile.
It was only a month after our trip to the zoo
that Jordan chose the black bow to wear to pre-school. She
seemed so grown up. The phone call came after I dropped her off.
It was something about a twist in the umbilical cord, although
they can never be certain. We left for Arkansas the next
morning.
It’s hard to believe, sometimes, that tragic
moments can happen on beautiful days. That’s how it felt on that
unseasonably cool September morning in Arkansas. There wasn’t a
single cloud in the brilliant blue sky. A steady, gentle breeze
bathed the landscape in sweet soft birdsong.
It was difficult to comprehend the
contrasting sorrow that filled the church. Every eye
wept, transfixed upon the tiny doll-sized coffin draped in white
and surrounded by candles. Mary Clare. When Mass ended, the boys
helped their father carry their sister to the hearse.
“Where are Mary Clare’s flowers, Mommy?” Jordan
asked softly. “Big Mama had lots of flowers when she died. Where
are Mary Clare’s?” Big Mama was Jordan’s great grandmother. She
died two months before.
“Every funeral is different, Sweetie.” I replied.
She frowned as the long procession of cars wound its way toward
the cemetery. I opened the window of our minivan, struggling for
a firmer grasp on reality. The birds were still singing. Jordan
was wearing a white bow with a pink and white smocked dress.
Could this really be happening?
Mary Clare arrived first, and was
gently suspended above a deep
hole in the earth. The burial service began as darkly-clad
mourners filed between rows of fold out chairs. Jordan pulled my
sleeve, “Mommy, I still don’t see any flowers.”
“It’s okay, Sweetie. Not all funerals have
flowers.” I tried to redirect my attention to the service, but
Jordan would no longer look at the coffin. From the corner of my
eye, I could see her head turning to look around the cemetery.
After a final prayer, we were dismissed. Jordan,
Abigail (Jordan‘s baby sister),
and I walked around a bit while waiting for the receiving line
to dissipate. Jordan searched the ground intently. “What are you
looking for, Sweetheart?”
“I’m trying to find flowers for Mary Clare.”
“That’s really sweet, Jordan. But, it’s okay that
she doesn’t have flowers. She has our love.”
“I know, but I still want to give her some.”
Together, we searched the cemetery for
wildflowers, but found only brown grass and weeds. “Don’t worry,
Jordan. We can buy her some from the store and bring them back
later.”
“But her funeral is right now!” Jordan was
plainly distressed. She walked mournfully back to Mary Clare’s
coffin, as I checked on the status of the receiving line. Almost
done. I glanced back toward Jordan, and decided to join her
beside the coffin.
As I began pushing Abigail’s umbrella stroller
over the dry, uneven lawn, I paused in mid-stride. Jordan was
talking to Mary Clare. ‘What is she doing?’ I thought as
Jordan reached up to her head with both hands. She was
struggling with something. Then she pulled the white, satin bow
from her hair.As she refastened the bow’s metal clasp, Jordan
spoke a few more words before placing it on top of the tiny
coffin. Then, with a gentle flick of her fingers, she waved
goodbye and walked away. Jordan never mentioned the flowers
again.