Worth the silence of waiting

Calculating all the hours of sitting in silence with Dad would be too big a job. His responses are rarely more than a few words, limited mostly to a delayed reaction of nodding his head. Conversation (if one could call it that) is almost never initiated by him.

Mostly, I'm OK with that.

It's a privilege to sit by his bed or wheelchair and simply watch him sleep. (There are occasions of desperation, less frequent now, when I silently implore him to remember---teetering between sadness, the "giving-up" kind, and anger of wanting to shake him to remember---to say anything, to string a few words together, even if they don't make sense.)

Today was one of those common "sleep in the wheelchair" days. Sometimes I can tell his sleep is more peaceful than others. Out of the blue, his left eye peeked open and he spied me. I was clearly in his line of vision. Recognition crossed his face. "Hi there!" he said. ".....beautiful...."

I came closer to put my hands on both of the arm-rests of his wheelchair, so I was right in front of him. "I'm glad to see you, Dad, I love you."

"I love you, too." He held my gaze a moment longer.

Then, like somebody flipped a switch, it was gone. He was back into oblivion, out of my reach. He slept soundly again.

I can visit Dad for "a month of Sundays" and not have as much lucid "conversation" as I did today. Those 15 seconds were worth countless hours of his silence. The sunshine streaming through the window seemed to shine a little brighter.

On Our Morning Jog

I can't even remember why I was offended, but it caused me to quicken my steps in an attempt to get ahead of him so I didn't have to subject myself to his teasing.

I could never outrun my husband, even if I tried, but he allowed me to gain the lead, if only for a few yards. He laughed at my feeble, yet sincere, attempt to race ahead like a stubborn child, "You run just like your dad; short little legs and all! Remember the time he surprised us all by jumping over the creek? That's what you remind me of just now."

It slowed me almost to a stop. I smiled at that memory, too. But I was not prepared for the wave of sadness that appeared out of no-where and washed over me. "Oh, how I miss him," was my only response.

Wraps

Dad was always worried about us being warm enough. (Evidenced by the thermostat in the house set at 70* or higher!) "Dress warmly," he'd say. Which always confused me--and I was always trying to correct him--since I was already dressed for the day. He meant outer garments, or "wraps."

I chuckled at my husband when he called the sweatshirt a "wrap." It sounded foreign coming from him, but coming from my dad, I wouldn't even think twice.

Now Mom is left to chase after her warm-blooded grandkids trying to get them to wear "warmer wraps."

"Look it up on the map"

"Hand me the map," I said to my daughter who was sprawled out on the floor of our office examining the over-sized World Atlas picture book. "I want to look at it."

My husband snorted a laugh as he looked up from his work. "OK....Poppy!"

So I come by it naturally, what can I say? Dad loved to read maps (hey, at least it's not as dull as reading the phone book---although he did like to scrutinize the Bledsoe County phone book whenever he could get his hands on one!) Geography interests me as well. He had a very keen sense of direction, despite some of his infamous "short-cuts." (Which is why it was so alarming at the beginning stages of his illness when Dad got lost driving to church and looked up from the newspaper one day to ask "Where's Gordonville?"--a town only a few miles from his house) On more than one occasion, a brand-new, up-to-date, Rand McNally Road Atlas was among the brightly-wrapped packages on Christmas morning or among birthday gifts, regardless of his retorts of "I'm not opening any gifts this year."

Dad and I had a box of the 50 different United States flashcards. Designed to help school children learn the geographic location of each state (the featured state was highlighted in red while the rest of the map was tinted blue), Dad and I would make a game out of this resource. No words on the front, but of course, on the back of each card, the state's vital information was listed--name, capital, "nickname" (i.e. Pennsylvania is the Keystone State), population, etc. So we'd put them into a pile face-up and shout out the state's name as soon as new card was revealed. Correct answers allowed the winner to take possession of the card and the player with the most cards at the end won. Naturally, Dad cheated (sometimes instead of counting our cards at the end of the game, Dad would suggest we just compare piles. He would stack his cards with spaces in between so it appeared his pile was bigger than it actually was)--we'd have to call in Mom as the judge--to which Dad would laugh uproariously! (We had a box of U.S. Presidents flashcards, too, and these "flashcard games" aren't the only card games where Dad cheated!! I have fond memories of playing SNAP in the living room, with me perched on a little chair, the piano bench doubling as our "game table" positioned between my seat and Dad's recliner. And it wouldn't be a complete, authentic game of SNAP unless Dad cheated!!)

I'm anxious for my children to learn about other places in the world---I am always thrilled to see them trying to find some distant location on the map. It helps, too, that this week is Missions Conference at our church. It's exciting to hear firsthand about how God is at work around the world. We did break out those old "State" flashcards last year as we were preparing to embark on our cross-country family road trip, hoping to instill in them some sense of locale/ distance/ geography, but there's nothing quite like experiencing it in person. That was one thing I thought about a lot as we traveled, not being able to tell Dad, "Hey, you know route 80? We drove it all the way across Wyoming today Dad!" I can guarantee Dad would have had out good ol' Rand McNally, following right along with our itinerary! How do I know? Because he did that very thing when my brother took his family on their own cross-country tour more than 10 years ago (Something like 44 nights in a pop-up camper!! Oy!!). That was at the beginning of the cell-phone age and Dad thought it was the neatest thing to hang up the phone after a conversation with his son to report to us, "They were sitting by the campground's pool in Reno, Nevada.... (or wherever they might have been)....drove 600 miles today...." or "Wonder where they are now, they should be in Kansas by now." I wonder what Dad would think now if he could appreciate satellite maps!?

Typhoon

My children would never tire of hearing Dad tell about living through a typhoon.

Dad was a music major at Tennessee Temple when the draft notice came. He made one last trip North to bid good-bye to his intended (Mom!), leaving her to watch him disappear down the lane into a snow storm as he hitch-hiked to his call of duty for his country. (She recalls it was snowing so hard that the flakes stuck to his eyelashes!) He flew to Seattle to catch the boat to his assigned station in Japan.

The storm began to brew in the Pacific, building to a terrible crescendo. All were ordered below deck. Being the adventurous (or foolish?) type, Dad sneaked back up to catch a glimpse, despite the danger warnings. The enormous waves as high as he could see, were like hideous walls of water dwarfing the boat, crashing furiously and thunderously over the deck, like arms sweeping to steal anything on board to the depths of the turbulent sea, threatening to tear the ship into pieces. All was dark, even if during daylight hours. Men were terribly sea-sick. The boat reeked with the stench of their sea-sickness mingled with the smell of oranges given by the commanders to aid their ailing stomachs. The boat lurched and rocked for days while the storm raged.

And then tragedy hit. Two men at the hull near the engines. Wrestling? Fighting? Playing? The reason mattered little as suddenly voices screamed in terror, "Man overboard! Man overboard!" Confusion ensued as the search and rescue began. But sadly to no avail. The boat turned around and scoured the water for hours, looking for any sign of life.

"The man was from Norristown, PA, " Dad would always conclude, "they kept his tags to send home, but slid the rest of his belongings out to sea."

More grandparent pictures

This is a photo of grandparents I never knew. John Edward and Stella Ferguson. My dad's parents. Everyone called them MaMaw and PaPaw. Not sure where or when this photo was taken but I love the caption on the back....it reads:

"Us. HA!"

Here's Mamaw with her chickens! (June 1955)

I wouldn't want to even begin to count the number of poor chickens that met their death at her beckoning! She had a large family to feed after all!

And my dearly loved Aunt Luella and Uncle Dock, my "pseudo-grandparents." Two very special people, a rare treasure of a pair! My brother says they were teenagers trapped in old people's bodies!! To say Aunt Luella (the oldest of the Ferguson sibling clan) had "spunk" would be a severe understatement. Ferguson fire flowed in her veins! But she also had a generous and giving heart. I loved going to visit their clapboard house that Dock built at the base of the mountain. The wide front porch was lined with rocking chairs to be filled in case of visitors. That picture wouldn't be complete without Uncle Dock---the most gentle man I ever knew---(when he wasn't working) resting his bum knee, swinging slowly on the porch swing sipping Luella's fresh homemade sweet *and I mean dead sweet* tea! (Uncle Dock was only on the porch swing when the Atlanta Braves weren't playing baseball on TV, or else you knew exactly where to find him!! Especially when the Braves were playing the Phillies!)

And yes, of course, Aunt Luella, we will stay to supper. She desperately wanted to serve us almost as badly as she wanted to be in on all the conversations. I can just see her now, hanging out the front door talking with a half-sliced tomato and a paring knife in her hand! Just interrupting Dock before he could speak, "Well, Luellar, as I's a-sayin...." (His famous joke: "When we got married, I loved your Aunt Luellar so much I could just eat her up, then after we got married, I wished I hadda!")

And speaking of hanging around, even when it was long-past time for us to leave, she'd hang on the open car door or the rolled-down window to talk for another hour or run back into the house for some intended-but-forgotten Avon gift. I don't even know how many years she sold Avon.

As a child, I was always fascinated by Aunt Luella's hair. She always wore it rolled up and twisted beautifully around her head. On one particular visit (I was visiting without mom and dad this time---it was such a treat to be left there to be spoiled by them while my parents visited other friends or a distant relative I didn't care to visit), I mustered up enough courage to ask if I could brush (with a black-bristled, pink-handled Avon brush, mind you!) those long flowing locks, gray with age and wisdom. She unpinned her hair and it tumbled nearly to the seat she was sitting on!

I don't know if that was the same visit when I'd ridden into town with Uncle Dock in his pick-up (Old Blue?) to the store to buy Cokes (Mamaw was the one who liked the taste of Pepsi better) and snacks--I'm sure Mayfield milk products were among the items purchased! (I was allowed to eat at the kitchen table with the open bag of cheese curls and dip to my heart's content!) Or if that was the Sunday afternoon visit she insisted on ironing my slacks on the couch before evening church! (She probably wore a dress every single day of her life!) She and Dock had recognition pins from their local church signifying that they had not missed Sunday School in two decades!

Aunt Luella promised me that she was going to live to be 120. Do I feel betrayed that she didn't keep that promise? Not a bit, but I do know my heart stopped and then wrenched terribly at that Sunday afternoon phone call from family the day she died. She collapsed in her kitchen, clearing away Sunday dinner. She was a very young 81. Mom told me later that she had already been planning to make the long trip north for my high school graduation to surprise me.

I recently came across a letter that she wrote me. The envelope was addressed to: "Little Miss Kimberly Ferguson." I'll treasure it always.

Thinking of the grandparents today.....

I'm making Grandma Berkheimer's homemade chicken pot pie recipe today...(shoulda added a bit more flour to the noodles!) ....wishing she were here to taste-test!

Any guesses who she's holding?

Pop-pop Berkheimer (died in 1995) would have had a birthday yesterday; he would have been 101!!

This week marks 3 years (really?) since Peter's Grandmom Johnson began eternity in heaven with Jesus. Grandpop joined her 5 months later. Their wedding anniversary is in just a few days. My mind can hardly imagine them as a young bride and groom, SEVENTY years ago!! (March 21, 1942)

Oh, how I miss these dear ones!

(l to r: Harry and Thelma Johnson, Peter, Emily, Iva Berkheimer, me)

circa: 2001

A Drive Down Memory Lane

I recently drove past this gorgeous church, where more than 2 decades ago I nervously performed (for several years in a row) on warm [ahem, sweltering] June Sunday afternoons for a small audience of faithful family members who would gather to listen to yet another rendition of "The Entertainer" or "Fur Elise," plunked out on the keys by children aspiring to someday become famous concert pianists. (I must stop now to thank my own faithful family members who came to support [read: ENDURED] my faltering, timidly-played melodies.)

In the 25 years since I was last there, the church has become stunningly beautiful (and I'm sure the enormous pipe organ housed inside has become considerably smaller as well). I was filled with nostalgia, considering the recent tragic death of my kind and patient childhood piano teacher (read the aforementioned church's tribute to her here--she was privileged to play that astounding pipe organ for 58 YEARS!! Even with her red hair and the same last name, our families were not related, except through unity in Christ Jesus.)

{My summer piano lessons were scheduled for 10 am Thursday mornings, usually starting late due to conversation between Shirley and Mom and almost always followed by a stop at "Dad's Ice Cream Shop" walk-up window for my "usual"--small chocolate cone with rainbow jimmies. }

My mind recalled that Dad had actually been given Shirley's name as a devoted piano teacher by a mutual friend Jim Burns. Jim sang with the Coatesville Choraliers and Shirley was the accompanist. (Did Shirley's husband work with Dad and Jim? I can't remember...although in its glory days, who DIDN'T work at "the mill"?!) I remember attending Christmas concerts of the Choraliers at CASH.

Along the same road as that church is the store of Jim's current employment--he bags groceries and greets the customers. Jim was not just my dad's co-worker, but trusted friend, for more than 40 years now. I would love to find some of the old photos of their hunting days, their sons included! Jim would often call (on the phone or in person!) late in the evening, pulling into our drive-way with in his blue (or was it green?) Ford pick-up (and in later years, in his wife Dottie's Cadillac!) bringing paper bags full of candy bars or at Christmas time the infamous specialty-brand fruit cakes! "Could I bother you for a cup of tea, Loi-ey?" he would ask my mom. Jim would always tell the greatest stories. We knew we had an open invitation every summer to swim in their family's pool on Bailey Road. And by the next season, he would always check to see if Dad was up for taking in to some high school football, especially the game between rivals, Downingtown and Coatesville. There's a picture somewhere of the time when Jim went with our family to the Meadowlands Stadium in NY to see the TN Vols play!

(found it!!!)

Dad also had a connection via work of someone who constructed wooden playhouses. I believed he lived in Cochranville. (Not an important detail, just a random piece of information--I vaguely remember at the intersection of 10 and 41 trying to see his house on the next street over....wish I could ask Dad his name.) Right about the time that my photo appeared on the front page of the local paper (*that's a story for another day*), sometime in my second grade year, the long awaited playhouse arrived at my house and was positioned along the hedge in the back yard! Joyous day! I had envisioned my little table and chairs positioned just so with a white picket fence surrounded by happy little flowers out front. The playhouse dream was nice while it lasted; but alas! the playhouse was constructed with non-treated wood and soon was bug-infested. I believe before it fell in completely, it was even home to a family of raccoons (or skunks!)---that was after it was piled high with old newspapers that never made it to "recycling heaven."

"Thanksgiving"--the power of a word

Psalm 100:4 "Enter into his gates with _____________, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name."

Mom read this passage of Scripture to Dad yesterday and he supplied the word "thanksgiving" when she paused!

Thanksgiving. I was reminded again recently of having a thankful heart IN all circumstances. Tears stung my eyes as my husband prayed for my father, as we do so often, for Dad to be peaceful and comfortable and "thank you, Lord, for the gift of this extra time that we have with him."

Ah, truly it is a gift.

"Enter into his gates with THANKSGIVING and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name."