V is for Valor

The Oxford American Dictionary defines the word ‘valor’as courage in defense of a noble cause.

The 9/11 Heroes Medal of Valor, awarded by the government of the United States, was created specifically to honor the 442 public safety officers who were killed in the line of duty during the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks at the World Trade Center and The Pentagon.  

Several states, including Maryland, New York and Texas, have established a Medal of Valor which is presented to those serving the public for acts of outstanding personal bravery.

But many acts of personal bravery go unnoticed. I am thinking of a recently-made friend who is deserving of a Medal of Valor. Although restricted by the wheelchair that dominates his lifestyle, my friend faces life with a bravado of wit and humor. He is just one of so many who daily overcomes challenges in their lives to reach out and touch others with the goodness within.

U is for The Unending Love

Lying in the examination room, an idea took hold. It distracted Cathy, helped to while away those wasted hours spent awaiting appointments that always ran late. She would make a flower bed; smack-dab in the middle of her lawn to be viewed from several areas of the house. She’d cram it full of flowers in shouting colors; each time she saw it, she’d be cheered.

Through all the tests and examinations, she escaped her surroundings by envisioning the garden with her mind’s eye. By concentrating on the garden, she blocked out the cacophony of monitoring machines that surrounded her. She shifted its shape, changed color combinations, imagined this and that until the design seemed perfect.

The day of her first radiation treatment, a neighbor dug up the area she’d staked out. All the while her body was being invaded and bombarded, she focused her thoughts on planting her new garden. In her imagination, she could feel the crumbly earth slip between outstretched fingers. Taking deep breaths, she could almost taste the satisfying fragrance of newly-turned earth. She couldn’t wait to begin.

Several weeks passed before she recovered sufficiently to begin work. The summer sun caressed her pallid skin as she sank to the grass beside the kidney-shaped area. A gaily printed bandanna, her badge of defiance, wrapped a balding head. Eager fingers reached to pluck away stray bits of uprooted foliage and remove stones marring the garden’s smooth surface. Beside her lay a yellow mesh plastic bag bulging with promise. As her fingers curled around each odd-shaped bulb, she could almost feel the throb-beat of life enclosed within.

From high overhead, a melodious tune floated down and she paused to locate the songbird. Among the hickory tree’s branches, she spotted a flash of red and flashed her appreciation toward the serenading bird. As probing rays of the sun’s heat penetrated her blouse, she felt the knob of bone-cold at her center melt into a warmth that dispersed throughout her body. She disdained a trowel, preferring to plunge her hands deep into the waiting soil. With bits of earth clinging, she scooped out a hollow for each bulb, then nestled each promise of life into its place, pausing often to catch her breath.

Spasms of pain would interrupt her efforts and cause her to halt until they pass. Yet she savored each moment for its simplicity and pure enjoyment. She looked forward with anticipation to when tiny shoots of green would break the bounds of their brown covering. Her thoughts flew to the future, to the promise fulfilled, when this patch of earth would bloom in a riot of colors.

Tomorrow would come; another day in another week spent battling this relentless enemy. But even on those days when she couldn’t rise from her bed, a turn of her head would bring the garden into view. And, yes, even if her struggles ended in defeat, she could pass along hope and a vision of God's beauty to others through this garden.

It’s been four years since my friend lost her battle against cancer. Soon afterward, her home was sold and a new family moved in. I pass by frequently on my way to the post office. What I saw today brought a smile. A mass of blue Salvia spears poke up above a patchwork of zinnias. The garden remains a tribute to her memory. I smile, remembering Cathy’s spirit and I feel Cathy’s spirit smiling back.

Time for the Thymes

'Thymes Square' reads the hand-painted, wooden sign my sister made for me. Proudly it proclaims one of my favorite spots in the herb garden - a  patchwork of alternating squares of 12-inch concrete blocks and open spaces bordered on three sides with narrow raised beds. A primitive post-and-board-fence arrangement that supports the sprawling growth of grapevines provides dappled shade from a hot summer sun that bores down at mid-day.

Even their names evoke a fragrant melange - Coconut, Blue Balsam, Caraway, Camphor. The staid English and  frivolous French halt their feud and share the sunshine with Creeping Red, Woolly and Golden. One of my favorite thymes is 'Odena's Kitchen' named for Odena Brannam, my mentor. It was she who introduced me to and educated me in the world of herbs, just as she has done for many, many others here in East Texas.

My assortment of thyme varieties spill over the neighboring stones. As long as I remember to provide adequate water, these sturdy herbs thrive in their sandy soil, tucking their spreading, shallow roots beneath the protective shade of nearby concrete slabs. Most prolific of all is the green variety of Lemon Thyme and in its persistence, it has sprawled its dense mat to encroach into the gap up to the fence-line. One of my favorite uses for its lemon-tasting leaves is to mince and add a teaspoon or two to a melt-in-your-mouth sugar cookie recipe.

This is the earliest thyme each season to offer its pale pink blossoms for my pleasure - another reason for favoritism. I'm careful to share the tiny blooms with busy bees who add their accompanying hypnotic hum to the melodious rendering of a nearby wren. And abundant pleasure I receive, even when I'm hard at work pulling weeds with the blazing sun boring into my bent back. The still air is filled with a delicious blend drifting upward from the disturbed plants.

Through an unhappy experience, I've had to concede that Elfin Thyme is too fragile to withstand the fierce onslaughts of our Texas summer sun in the open garden. After watching its minute growth struggle and finally shrivel away in August's intense heat, I decided to give a new plant special attention. Tucked into the soil of a large clay pot, it is protected beneath the sheltering arms of a rose geranium. Just like some people, this herb chooses to 'walk a road seldom traveled.'

Experiencing Stonehenge

A leaden sky encompasses the sentinels while a cool mist falls on the flat, open plain that spreads to the far distant rolling hills. Today, there are no milling masses, only a handful have dared the bitter elements to pay their homage. Slowly we walk the graveled path approaching the wonder that is Stonehenge. A brisk wind tugs at coattails and tumbles hair-dos. My father must lean close to keep his words from being snatched away.

The giant stones tower over we few humans scattered at their feet, making us appear as insignificant insects in comparison. Their precise formation remains as it has for centuries.

Along with the millions of previous visitors, my credibility is overwhelmed by the immensity of this accomplishment achieved by ordinary mankind, unassisted by modern technology. Who? How? Why? In spite of past suppositions, the questions remain unanswered.

I sense an almost physical feeling of timelessness as I stand at their feet, a feeling that echoes the forces of nature now invading my contemplation. In spite of the cold and wet, I remain a vigil, held by the presence or aura of the place.

Then, seeing my father shiver inside his long wool topcoat, I agree to reluctantly seek shelter. As we drive away, passengers are spilling out of a tour bus.

R is for Rosemary

Ah-h-h, the trials a person endures to grow a rosemary. At first, the only way I could tell the difference between it and lavender was to take a big sniff of their distinctively different-smelling leaves. Never being one who had too much success growing from seed, I decided to adopt one of those bedding plants you find in the spring; plush and green, bulging out of its four-inch pot. Be forwarned, you will not relax until it enters the teen-age years.  Moving it into a clay pot helps, but you must be sure it doesn't get too dry or too wet.  When you bring it inside for the winter, be sure to set aside your sunniest window for this plant known as 'dew of the sea'.

If it survives past its third or fourth year, like all young adults it should be encouraged (change that to forced) to move out into the real world and make it on its own. Hopefully, you can provide a spot in the garden that has excellent drainage, receives some welcome shade from our intense Texas sun and will have some kind of barrier to shelter behind when Old Man Winter blows his harsh winds. If this sounds like a difficult plant-child to raise, let me say that is true through the teen-age years only, like most children.

Once permanently established in your garden year-round, you will be rewarded with an evergreen, fragrant shrub that delights you with pale blue blossoms in the middle of February. And, it will continue to bloom off and on way into summer. If you are lacking a garden, let me recommend the prostrate variety. It looks loveliest cascading over a stone wall or spilling out of a wooden barrel. The Botanical Gardens in San Antonio have a gorgeous display of prostrate rosemary as you exit the parking lot and head for the entrance.

So, don't be discouraged; someday you, too, will be able to brag about enjoying the piney fragrance of a rosemary who has been a faithful friend for ten years or more.

Q Is For Quilting Memories

The special appeal of making patchwork quilts is that you find yourself crafting with your soul. Woven into every quilt we make are bits of imagination, history and memories. One of my most rewarding projects is a special collection of miniature quilts.

Even the materials used had special significance. I had the privilege  during her last few months of caring for my youngest sister who died of a brain tumor. We worked together, tying up the loose strands of life’s business as she prepared for her homecoming. Also an avid crafter, she gave me permission to pack up anything I wanted to take home with me.

Upon my return, there were several boxes of material I had shipped confronting me. I gave some thought to what I’d like to do with all this newly acquired supply. I wanted some task that would commemorate my sister’s passing and help ease the grief of her loss. I decided to use Jeannette’s material to construct miniature quilts for my three remaining sisters and myself. Since we all live in different states, these quilts would be a way to remember one another and the sister who was no longer with us. To make them extra special, I used my sister’s accumulation of Christmas prints.

I am a novice quilter, seeking only to create a pleasing finished product. So, my first attempt was a basic Nine Patch quilt and was destined for a sister who lived in Connecticut. My next project followed a pattern called the Snail’s Trail. I knew the intricacy of the pattern would be appreciated by a sister who also loved to sew. This challenged my skills but after a few false starts, I was satisfied with the results.

By now, creating quilts took up an ever-increasing part of my life. For a third sister’s quilt, several patterns appealed to me. I couldn’t decide which to do. I solved the problem by making my next quilt a sampler. I made individual blocks of each of those patterns and put them together in a quilt which would go to my sister living in Arizona.

The following Christmas, each quilt was lovingly packaged with an explanatory note and mailed. Not until a year later did I find time to make that last quilt–my own. Each time that season of the year comes around, I take out my special quilt to display it. It has become a constant reminder of my “growing up years” in the midst of a loving family and causes my thoughts to dwell on those I love, both here on earth and gone ahead.

Un-explain-able Peace

It had been a year since I was last able to visit my father. I wondered if he would remember who I was. Eighteen months ago his deteriorating condition from Alzheimer’s made caring for him at home impossible and he now lived in a full-care facility. I live in Texas which makes the trip to Conn. to visit him difficult.

While my sister stopped at the reception desk to sign in, I went looking for Dad, expecting to find him in his room. He wasn’t there but later I found him in the sunlight-filled library. It was a logical place to look since I knew how much he loved books. He looked up from the book spread before him and I saw puzzlement come into his eyes. He sensed he should know me; that I was someone whom he should be familiar with. Yet even though he couldn’t label this person standing before him, he didn’t become anxious.

We exchanged polite conversation for twenty minutes or so. All the while, I noticed how he sent piercing glances my way as if to spot some clue that would solve the puzzle. I could almost see the atoms scurrying about in his brain as they ducked into one memory-filled section after another, trying to find my identification label.

Then the sudden remembrance entered his eyes. His face spread into a welcoming grin and a series of questions erupted: “How’s the family?” “How are you?” “When did you get here?” “How long you staying?”

I answered each in turn, realizing these questions helped him solidify his grasp of reality. Never mind that each time I visited, whether days or weeks had passed, he would repeat his I-don’t-see-you-very-often kind of welcome as if it was the first time. He joked about my head of gray forgetting it had been that way for several years. I told him Diana was also here and we left to find her. I picked up his forgotten cane which he had left hooked over the back of his chair.

When I suggested getting a breath of fresh air, he zipped up his lined jacket before stepping out into the enclosed garden. We took a turn around, a dozen steps or so, then paused to sit on a convenient iron bench. A breath of wind teased his white locks. Within minutes he was clutching his collar closer even though the sun was warm on our faces. I caught the shiver he tried to hide. “We’d better get back inside before you catch cold,” I said.

We met Diana in the hall. My father hooked one hand in each daughter’s arm and we  matched our steps to his faltering ones. As we shuffled along the facility’s corridor, he would stop often to introduce me as “his daughter from Texas” to every passing attendant and nurse. He stopped to pat the hand of an elderly woman in a wheelchair. “How are you today?” he asked before moving on as if he knew she couldn’t respond. “Sometimes you just have to do the little things,” he said to me, embarrassment forcing an explanation.

As we pass a recreation room, I glanced in and caught sight of solitary woman seated beside a window, golden sunlight flooding the card game of solitaire she played. She never looked up. I wondered at her concentration in the midst of this constant activity. Perhaps she, like my father, had learned to draw on the peace within.

Poet Dylan Thomas advises in his familiar poem: “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” But what if your life’s journeying is not leading you into a fearsome blackness, a deep blank of unknown to struggle against? What if instead, you find yourself moving toward a light, a light that grows brighter the closer you approach? Shouldn’t that be the experience of every Christian who take that walk from this life into eternity?

I sense this is my father’s experience. As time passes and he draws closer to the source of the light, it’s as if the trappings and necessities of his human existence loses significance and falls away. Those activities and involvements that drove or maintained purpose for so much of his life seem to have lost importance and have simply faded away. The closer he gets to the light at the end of his life, the more the “hay and stubble” of his life is erased from his memories.

I’m not disturbed by it. I recognize my father is at the end of his life’s journey. The light which fills his days with so much peace and joy erases the imperative to hold on to yesterday, even the immediate past. He no longer has to concern himself with temporary matters. My father lives in the now and is content.