A Southern Grandmother's Reflections on Life, Love, and the Pursuit of Happiness
Author: southerngrandmother
My hone is in North Carolina, my residence is the in the Western NV Mountains. I am an educator, poet, published author. At this aging stage of life I find wonder in the manifestations of creation, continue to seek wisdom to guide my path. I cherish being the mother of four, and soon the grandmother of four. My pleasures include hiking, playing dulcimer, and dabbling at art journaling.
Ask me my greatest dream. I will tell you, world peace.
No, I don’t suppose there has ever been a time when love and justice fully ruled; just pockets of places, people gathered together to make goodness happen.
Peace, peace isn’t scattered, it must be sown, tilled into the very ground of our being. So much work to be done. Sounds scriptural, doesn’t it; We must be the seeds and sowers, reaping the fruit of our labors together.
Peace-making requires wisdom, collaboration, empowerment, kindness, compassion; just forces of change
Birthed in the waters of the Atlantic, like my mother and grandmother before me; a girl child, wet braids, skirted bathing suit, ankle deep in foaming surf, discovering the pull of the undertow before taking that first dive. Where did you discover freedom?
Observe me glide deeper into the ocean, treading waters, waiting for the crest of a perfect wave, the rush to rise up, plunge deep, ride to shore, arms outstretched, self emerging triumphant, baptized again with the spirit of joy. Where did you learn to read the waves that wash over your life?
Now imagine teen youth, stepping from familiar tidal waters, a cooling breeze brushing my body. I chill when I recall machines shoveling landmass into an end-of-beach channel, plans to connect two islands. Dunes and sea oats vanished, no more games of hide and seek, no sea creatures playing around my feet at low tide; parcels of my paradise marked “no trespassing”. Where did you first discover a line drawn in the sand?
W. Szymborska “I prefer …oaks along the river …Dickens to Dostoyevsky …exceptions …the color green …I prefer to leave early …desk drawers …to knock on wood.”
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I prefer kindness to brutal honesty, banjo to mandolin, casual living, harmony to discord, a landscape that transforms each season into its own realm of glory; purple ink, simplicity, the written word
Rick Hanson writes that having faith, a visceral conviction, means not having to figure things out from scratch every time. ”Have faith in the best parts of yourself.”
I believe in finding goodness in chaos, that love is empowering, truth really is the way, it only takes one light… laughter is life-giving and writing is essential to my good health.
My daddy did not take summer vacations, Neither did our family. He was a hard working man. Going to visit relations however, was an altogether right thing to do.
I was twelve when our family, packed arm-to-arm in our blue and cream ‘54 Desoto, traveled back mountain roads. looking for Daddy’s home place. He was a jokester, a trickster, a ghostly storyteller who never stopped working.
The closer we got to Great Aunt Libby’s place the more carefree he became. Suddenly our car veered to the shoulder of a narrow country road.
Late July corn grew high on both sides of the hot pavement, fields with tall tassled stalks as far as I could see, ”Just look, here” he said. ”Fresh corn for the pickin’. Nobody is going to miss a few of these good-looking ears.”
Two steps into carefully planted rows, a man appears with a shotgun. Daddy, all smiles and grins, his firm hand extended for a neighborly shake, says “Well hi there. I am out looking at these fields of corn, mighty tempting for tonight’s dinner. Would you sell us a bushel?”
Daddy stood so proud, tossing ears of corn into the trunk of the car. Still grinning. Did I tell you Daddy was a salesman? He liked a good deal.
Green leaves wrapped around tawny husks, waiting to be shucked. Most days are so ordinary. Shedding the outside wrapping, fingering strands of silken threads, I pull dreams from rows of juicy kernels, savoring sweet tasting memories of a golden summer day.
She asked if I had an accomplished childhood. I learned to tie my shoes, ride a bike, play hop scotch, scout out a game of sandlot baseball, climb a tree, build a fort.
Raised near the ocean, I learned early to feel the pull of tide, strengths of waves, and the dangers of jetties.
Lying on my bed, reading a book in the middle of the day was stolen pleasure with occasional consequences. Chores always came first, clean dishes, fresh laundry pinned on the clothesline, corn husked, beans shelled, porch swept.
I never minded school work though once when I was in 6th grade I received a low mark in initiative. I asked the nun to tell what that meant so I could improve.
A compliant middle child raised by parents with a strong work ethic, I could memorize well - spelling word, catechism, all the US capitol cities, and how to judge moods.
A latch key kid, before neighborhood locked front doors. Both parents worked, I rode the city bus, and picked roadside black-eyed susans.
I felt sorry for the girl with the birthmark and the boy who never fit in, though I don’t recall reaching out to those pushed to the edge. Compassion grows.
That girl nursed my father back to health when she became a woman, and the fragile young man committed suicide.
Looking back, I played well, worked hard, readily obeyed, learned from mistakes how to find better paths to a more meaningful life.
Unspoken thoughts Cloud my mind, Not the Hosanna Glory-be-to-God kind of words that make my heart sing - burdenson words, fear, failure, if only or need to. I hold shadows up to the light, and recall the way I wish it had been, the pain of impossible past or unlived future. I do not store up hurt of anger, but the times I “should have” collect like stones. When the weight becomes burdensome I breathe deep, stretch my taut body, murmur a mantra, note what waves creation stirs- bird song, dance of trees, flowering flashes of color, reminders of divine presence. I scatter my thoughts with paper and pen, and then give thanks.
Living in squalor Housed together No one sees Nineteen years old, His bedridden grandmother, Or Great grandmother with dementia, Eight year old brother,
Mother deceased, Father unknown. Grandmother lies dying, Teen Grandson next of kin Making end-of-life decisions While DSS removes his brother Some say all for the better; Landlord evicts family Teen-adult folds in tears.
Convicted by life chances And changing circumstances, How, where, with whom Does he start over when Only the streets offer space And companions who Understand that life doesn’t Always play fair.
It’s not my narrative, But it’s our story, Lives lived under same clouds, Landing on different paths, I am protected by opportunity. Encountering his history I ponder how knowing This story might change my life.
How About That 