A thought while I am gone. . .

Love is the Greatest: Here are two different loves.

BEING IN LOVE

©2011 Pam Wilkie

I remember being in love. Oh, that wonderfully glorious feeling that nothing else in the world mattered. It was the single most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me. We saw each other for over ten years and for the entire time we remained in love. I’d hurry to see him, always anxious and a little bit nervous. He’d hug me tightly, say Hi, kiss me and then we’d sit down and share the past twenty four hours with each other. We sat close, holding on, touching while we chatted and ate our lunch. We’d talk about what we did the evening before, trying to block the inevitable feelings of jealousy we knew would come, but we smiled and listened to this part of our lives anyway. Sometimes we wouldn’t have lunch at all – we’d make better use of our time.

Leaving was the hardest part for us – we simply didn’t want to go. Driving off, I was both sad yet exhilarated by being in his presence and knowing I might see him again on his way home after work. Those ever so brief encounters would have to last until the next time; and they did. The memory of my moments with him didn’t leave my mind until I saw him again.

At first we would meet at the park and I’d sit across from him, face to face. Looking each other in the eye, we talked of nothing important. But we laughed and acted silly and we knew it was good. We could feel the bubble that enclosed us from the world. We heard and saw nothing at all but each other. He told me how pretty I was; he stroked my face and hair. He kissed me softly and all my muscles relaxed and I blended into his arms. We talked of a time we could really be together and how good it would be.

I would leave there and go home with butterflies in my stomach from the excitement of spending even such a short time with him and the anticipation of the next time. In those days and for every day ahead for many years, it was always the same; hurrying to get there, to see the sparkle in his eyes, to smell his cologne, to hear his voice, just being two people in love, and later having to force ourselves away.

A dinner and a movie for us was a special occasion. Most of the time it meant we had the whole night together. We’d go to a favorite restaurant – a fine dining institution just outside of town – and drink our wine, feeling very sophisticated. The tables were set with lovely, white linens and heavy flat wear; the walls covered with red fabric and dimly lit sconces reminiscent of a saloon from a hundred years ago. It was perfect!

Our love was genuine and all encompassing. I knew it, I felt it. It was real and it was comforting. No harsh words ever passed between us, through good times and bad. We were level with one another; soft, happy. We brought out the best in each other and it was good and I understood this is the way it’s supposed to be.

Once, on a hot mid-summer day at our meeting, I was distraught over a financial or parenting crisis and ran into his arms crying uncontrollable. When he asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t speak. He sat me down and went and found water and brought it to me and then he did the most extraordinary thing…he washed me feet! He gently washed my feet. The effect that had on me was immediate and powerful. My crying stopped – I was utterly in awe of this man. Never before had I experienced such caring tenderness, nor have I since.

We made the most of our time together. The years flew by and then it was time to part. We both knew it, but even so, it was hard to do. There was no fight, no argument, still no harsh words, just a mutual understanding of how it must be.

That was many years ago now. We’ve had no contact since then, but I often think of him and those days we enjoyed. I can see now what he taught me about how to love. I was given a great gift by him; knowing what true love feels like, of being secure and safe in that knowledge and not having to question it. I’ll always have that part of him for myself, but I knew all along he was not mine.

This is a love of longevity and loyalty

Wimbledon White Mustang

©2011 Joyce Seeger

     As our two-year Peace Corps assignment in the Philippines was ending, Connie McPherson and I enjoyed planning our trip home. Since we had come across the Pacific Ocean, we decided to travel home through Asia and Northern Europe. I would also make a stop in New York City. I had a friend there, named Anne Guilfoile, whom I had met during a summer job while in college. One of the things we would do was go to the World’s Fair in New York City.

      I remember as we neared Kennedy International Airport from London, the pilot announced that because of severe weather in New York City, our flight would land in

 Boston. After going through customs there, we were bused to New York City, but to

 La Guardia Airport rather than JFK. I was a little worried about the airport change, but

 Anne had been informed and met me at La Guardia.

      We enjoyed the fair, and two things still stand out almost 50 years later. One is that

 Pepsi-Cola sponsored a ride called “It’s a Small World” and after the fair this ride was

moved to Disneyland in Anaheim.  The second is The Ford Motor Company Pavilion where I saw their newest car on display. I looked up at the rotating rotunda and fell in love with what I saw.

I decided right then and there that when I got a job I would save my money and buy that car.

      My job was teaching 6^th grade in Racine, Wisconsin, and my salary was $6,600. a year.

 I lived in a room at the YMCA, rode the city bus to my job, and by March 1965 I had saved

 enough to buy my first car, a 1965 Mustang. It was Wimbledon White with black interior, a six-cylinder and three-speed stick shift.

           Because I had gone to college in Iowa and was teaching in Wisconsin, the requirements

 for a teaching credential in Wisconsin specified two additional courses. I needed to take

 these during the summer, and now that I had a car, I decided to register for summer school

 at UCLA. My parents drove to California with me, and after visiting friends in Inglewood

they flew back home. But before we left Wisconsin some friends of theirs reminded them

 that mutual friends, Henry and Irene Seeger, lived in San Bernardino, and suggested

to my parents that they stop and visit them on the way to Los Angeles . So, after a few days

of traveling west in my new Mustang, we checked into the Valley Motel on Mt. Vernon

 Avenue (Route 66) in San Bernardino . After we had some dinner, my mother found the

 Seegers’ number in the phone book and gave them a call. They offered to pick us up at the

 motel and take us to their home for an evening of visiting. These Seegers were people I did

 not know, so I said I would stay at the motel, but when the Seegers arrived , my parents had talked me into going along. When we got to their house I was introduced to their son, and fourteen months later we were married.

The lady, who would be my mother-in-law, served us homemade chocolate cake with ice cream that evening, and throughout the years she always had a homemade dessert on hand to serve to guests or family.

      I drove back to Wisconsin alone at the end of that summer, and since then the Mustang

 has gone across the country often: to the edges of the continent, the bridges and water   

of the Florida Keys, the Canadian countryside all the way to Halifax, Nova Scotia. This included the steep  hills of San Francisco where STOP signs at the tops of the hills, with a stick-shift, were always a challenge. My children both learned to drive in the Mustang, and I still drive it regularly.

I Am From

©2011 Ethel Mitchell

I am from Souix City, Iowa, a city of stock yards, corn fields and Loess Hills.

I am from Sundays spent at church and the cemetery cleaning

the ground around the graves, listening to the band playing in the kiosk,

playing tag with my cousins, eating our lunch

on a blanket spred on the ground.

I am from East Seventh street

extending up a hill that was just made

for sledding in winter and picnics

by the river while men cut ice.

Ice skating, roasting marshmallows over bon fires

on the banks and going home cold but happy.

Wrapping a blanket around me, reading

one of my many books

and drinking hot cocoa.

I am from paper dolls made out of Sears Roebuck catalog,

taught to me by Enid Bow,

southern belles dancing in the cotillion dresses

from hollyhock dolls, jacks on the side walk

and playing house with doll

furniture my father

had made for me.

A three mirror dresser,

a bed like my parents only small,

a reclinging chair

plus

table and chair for tea parties.

I am from panties made from flour sacks

or bloomers made out

of the same material as my dress,

long stockings that always wrinkled,

long handled underwear.

Being bundled up so I could hardly move.

Buster Brown hair cuts.

I am from starting school walking in sunshine, rain, or snow,

trying to see how high I could pump the swing

on the playground, teeter tottering the fastest,

liking spelling and arithmetic. Ivy Brown my first

playmate of the same age.

I am from Sioux City, Iowa

DIRT

©2011 Barbara Dickenson

Big city dirt is different than country dirt. In Momence Illinois, in the late 1930's and early '40's we lived about l½ blocks from a train track. In those days the big black engine was fueled with dirty black coal that spewed from its funnel-like smoke stack. Tiny particles floated in the air and in our homes. When I played outside I would soon have a grayish sheen to my skin.

In those days our neighborhood was true ethnic cultures. We lived close to each other and they were the sort of people that hung over the fence or sat on their stoops to hold conversations. For a yard to play in, well they were all dirt. No one could afford to grow grass, but a few would grow flowers in pots. As children, we would sit on the steps and play with our dolls. This was a cleaner dirt, by that I mean it did not cling to our bodies and clothes. However, it showed up in the bath water.

Camping dirt back East and camping dirt, here in the mountains are pretty much the same. The sort of dirt one gets while climbing trees or scamping around fallen tree trunks, or sitting around the fire ring. Now that was dirt. Back East, we picked up a bar of soap and jumped in the river to bathe. Here in the West, we heat beach. up a bucket of water on the fire ring and get a 'marine bath'!

The dirt in the desert or wash is actually sand and it clings to your skin, even if you brush it off, you feel dirty. The sand blows in and leaves a layer everywhere. It is not as bad now that we have grass and trees.

The question is should children get dirty? I hope so, whether we live in a city or the desert or mountains and even the beach, every year of growth for a child is a learning experience. From digging holes to planting gardens or making mud pies,. these are treasures to be found on the earth.

When my daughter was two years old, I looked out the back door, where she stood outside with a toothy grin. She looked like a chipmunk with small stones in her cheeks and some in her pockets. This was her comfort zone and eventually gew out of it. However, if Peggy is stressed I will still say, “Suck a rock Peg!”

I AM FROM by Pam Wilkie

I am from big rollers in my hair, from Ivory Liquid and Wonder Bread.

I am from ever changing places, foreign, different, and frightening.

I am from the ocean and sand, the wind and snow, the cactus garden at my grandmother’s house.

I am from holiday gatherings with laughs, cocktails, food and always high drama from someone or another.

I am from the strength to cope and thriftiness. From “you kids better straighten up and fly right” and from “get on your horse and get out of town”.

I am from Vacation Bible School and from sitting in the pew of a centuries old church in a centuries old country.

I am from California and Germany and Ireland, from the Amish and Ancient Romans, from my mom’s enchiladas which were really Granny’s and her mother’s before her, and my father’s pea bean pop that morphed into “Moat Soup”.

From the loss of a beautiful brother gone far too soon, a mother who slept till noon, and from husbands who flew the coop.

I am from the slides my father took and kept in a metal box (where are they now?), a scrapbook from my teen years that protects every secret note and Christmas gift tag and the oath of three blood sisters sworn to nearly fifty years ago. I am from airplanes, bowling, baseball and a dog named Gunner.

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