Hardships, Blessings, Lives Well Lived, Joy on the Horizon

It's the depression. A father leaves to find work. The mother and two young daughters never know if he met his demise or simply chose not to return. At 23, the mother dies from a streptococcal infection about a decade before mass-produced penicillin was available to tame it. The girls, four and six, lived with their grandparents for a time, but due to the hard times, were ultimately put in the care of the Baptist Orphanage in Jackson, Mississippi. When the eldest graduated from high school, they moved to Baton Rouge to live with a great aunt.

In the year following high school graduation, the youngest marries and 11 days shy of a year later gives birth to a son. Four and a half years afterward, the couple is blessed with a daughter. In fourteen months, the girl child is stricken with encephalitis and is left with severe brain damage and destined to live out her years in a persistent vegetative state. The young couple dutifully commit to attending to their ill daughter. It is initially assumed at the time that she will not linger beyond a year or so. In truth, she lived and was lovingly provided with home care until just short of her thirty-ninth birthday. A deep and abiding love enabled this good woman and this good man to live a life close to home, one much less footloose and fancy free than their contemporaries, despite the hardship.

So rich was the woman’s caring for her husband that she took in her mother-in-law, a victim of a stroke, a little more than a decade before the death of her daughter. With the need for around-the-clock care, she handled the eight-hour overnights while private nurses helped with the other 16 hours a day. Also in a persistent vegetative state, the mother-in-law eventually passed four months later.

I am the son. Three months after my parents’ marriage, my conception signaled an abbreviation of carefree days. My birth truly made carefree a term of their past. Not until the passing of my little sister did Mom and Dad have the simple pleasure of just being alone together once again. Regrettably, that togetherness was all too short, as Dad went to meet his maker only five and a half years later. I miss, think about, and talk to that good man every day of my life. They were the closest and most loving couple I have ever known, and I can only imagine the size of the hole his absence leaves in each and every one of Mom’s days.

It is my great blessing to have twin daughters, Erin and Regan. Despite having an invalid child for whom to care, Mom provided daycare for those two rascals during their first few years. Through them, she finally got to enjoy some of the fun things, such as girly toys and frilly attire, missed as a result of my sister’s illness. As I mentioned in an earlier post, Regan and her husband, Brad, are now expecting a little one. Whether she’ll get to see the pink side of things again rather than the blue is not yet determined, but it will be fun to see Mom enjoy this addition to the family. There will be sadness in my heart that Dad will not be physically present to share in the joy, but gladness will be there, as well, in the knowledge that he’ll be smiling with us in spirit.

QWERTY Connections

Two links have been added to My Blog List on the front page of Red Stick Writer. If you have a few extra moments when you visit here, do yourself a favor and visit these linked pages. I call them QWERTY connections because they are top of the heap just like the letters on the keyboard.

One page is for Erin Peterson Art, which belongs to one of my twin daughters. She is a nationally certified art teacher who mentors other teachers and exposes some lucky fifth graders in my home country of Louisiana to the joys of artistic creation. Her paintings are displayed for your enjoyment and available for purchase. There are also some fun examples of some creations by her students. Additionally, she provides some interesting blogging regarding teaching, life in the arts, and the culture of the Bayou State. If you stop by, be sure to leave a note and tell her that her dad sent you.

The other page is the entrance to Christine Harris's Photo Galleries. It has been my pleasure to work with her for nearly 10 years now. This good friend was kind enough to serve as one of the readers of my agent-needy novel. Two of her photos have graced the Red Stick Writer page. From the splendor of spring blooms to cute shots of pets to awe-inspiring landscapes to interesting views of everyday items, Christine shows us how beautiful our world can be if we just look at things the right way. Leave some breadcrumbs in her guestbook so she'll know your dropped by.

I don't know if life is like a box of chocolates, but I do know that's all I have to say about that. Enjoy.

High per Links

Playing golf is joy. I once played regularly, dreamt of par golf, occasionally achieved even-bogey rounds, and worried over closing the gap. Circumstances and obligations of life turned regular play into infrequent play, and my scores turned unattractive. Yet, my appreciation for hitting the links has never diminished.

Have you noticed that, like parks, cemeteries, and the places where lighthouses are found, golf courses are some of the most beautiful venues we have? Realizing that, I stopped worrying over my scores and accepted golf as way for me to commune with nature. Given my level of golfing skill, I have communed with parts of nature most folks have never dreamed of, much less seen.

Today, while in Tulsa to visit my stepdaughter, Amy, her husband, Troy, and their five-week old son, I experienced the joy of golf with the new daddy. What with the significant changes in his life, it was the first time in a while that he has gotten to play. The weekend visit has been my first opportunity to see the new grandson. I hope to someday share a day on the links with Luke Edward Johnson.

Golf joy has only been a part of the goodness of the last several days. On Thursday, I got a call from Regan, one of my twin daughters in Baton Rouge. She was excited to tell me that she and her husband, Brad, are expecting a baby in April. My wife and the exclusively female offspring from her side of the family were surprised when a Luke popped into their lives. I'm wondering if Brad, like Troy, despite the prevailing wisdom of an equally estrogen-pumped sisterhood of Ya-Yas, will end up with a tiny golfing buddy of the male persuasion. Whatever the case, excitement is abundant, as will be welcoming arms when the time comes.

Is the caffeine making them move that fast?

Earlier posts of mine have mentioned that I wrote much of my completed and agent-needy suspense novel, By the Light, in the loft of the City Market Coffeehouse here in Kansas City. To get into the loft, one has to climb an iron spiral staircase. The loft consists of couple of tables with chairs, a couple of cushy chairs, and a couch. The only restroom in the joint also resides at loft level. There are functional paned windows through which you can look down upon the ground level of the cozy bean beverage establishment.

Over time, the regulars got to know me and knew that I was writing a story about a serial killer and the profiler and the journalist tracking him across the country. It was my custom to write at one of the tables in the loft. From time to time one of the regulars would come up to the loft to use the restroom or wash their hands. They were friendly folks and usually would inquire as to how my writing was going. "How's the murder business," or "have you killed anybody lately?" they would ask. It was amusing, both to me and the inquirers, to see less frequent visitors scarf down their scones, guzzle their coffee, dizzy themselves by hasty descent of the spiral steps, and precipitously put as much distance between themselves and me as they could. As departing, they invariably looked over their shoulder to find me looking down at them from the loft windows with my best look of mock menace.