His Name is Daddy

No furniture was needed as his presence filled the room.

Everyone remembers his birthday.

He was stronger than John Wayne,

Yet often as tender as a child who doesn’t want to step on the daisies.

He loved the land, horses, cars, cows, tractors, and his grandchildren.

There was never a toy, a bike, a tractor or a car he couldn’t fix.

His mind was a virtual computer with calculator and endless gigs of memory.

His son, truly his moment of joy

For he never had time to be a boy.

Many the story Larry could tell,

Guns by their sides, dogs on the trails,

How to make beauty from wood and some nails.

Seasons came and seasons went.

He always said the next one would surely be better, and each one was.

 

Though I was blind, I know Daddy believed that if I had wanted to, I could have put a tractor together as good as he could.

He drove a hundred miles while running a fever, just to hear me sing in church one Christmas.

When very sick, he wondered out loud if we would all forget him if he was not around.

Happy birthday, Daddy!

 

 

Thoughts about Childhood Diseases

At the NC State School for the Blind in the 1950’s, it was very common to catch all sorts of cold germs and childhood illnesses. There was an infirmary on campus where we lived while in school. Most of us enjoyed a short stay in the infirmary if we were not too sick to enjoy it, where we could lie in bed, listen to the radio all day long, and drink juice and eat chicken soup. I think back now on my times in that particular place.  

 

In the second grade I wrote this childish poem:

 

I had some little measle bumps as pesky as could be.

But when I started to scratch them the nurse caught me.

She put me into bed and gave me an old pill.

All day long I felt very ill.

It was late at night when I started to cough.

I went to get the butcher knife to cut those measles off.

But the nurse heard me and spanked me instead,

Took away my butcher knife and put me back to bed.

 

My second-grade teacher, Ms. Ethel Lewis, liked the poem and encouraged me to keep writing, although this is the only early poem I kept.

 

Anyway, back to childhood diseases. Lots of my friends and students at the school were there because our mothers contracted measles during the pregnancies, resulting in the germ settling in the eyes of the unborn child. Today it is usually mandatory by physicians for expectant mothers or, in fact, everyone, to get the measles vaccine.

One night after spending a weekend at home, I told my housemother that my brother had the mumps over that weekend. Immediately arrangements were made for me to be sent home before the disease spread all over campus; it was too late. My friend Ann, ended up in the infirmary a day after I left for home, and  I had not been home but a few days before my face swelled and I ended up in bed while there. For some reason, the doctor in that day thought a good dose of Milk of Magnesia was in order. As Mom prepared the dose, for the first time, I thought it might be better to be at school in the infirmary. Anyway, I fussed and spit the laxative right back at her, for which my Daddy was furious. Even though he was not supposed to get close to me, he fixed another dose and forced it into my mouth. I swallowed the awful stuff and Daddy came down with the mumps. He got over them quickly, just in time to get chicken pox. The small town local paper thought this worthy of an article.

Of course I got chicken pox too. Even though this disease seemed to be less threatening, it seemed to always last an entire week. I didn’t write a poem about the chicken pox, but I do remember being in the infirmary. One of the teachers, Miss Agnes Ellis, visited me. She brought me a book with large pictures. The book was “The Ugly Duckling.” Thinking about it now, even though it was a gift of love and I did enjoy it so much, I smile when I realize surely chicken pox can cause anybody to appear as an “ugly duckling.”

In 1955, we had to get written permission at school to be given the Salk vaccine for polio. There were quite a few students at the school who had suffered polio in early childhood and had some permanent effects, mostly those of limping and some wearing braces. This was one disease nobody wanted to get, and my parents very willingly gave their permission for me to receive this new immunization.

Even though there were what we called diseases such as “three-day measles,” poison ivy/oak, colds, flu, sore throats, whooping cough, no really serious diseases seemed to penetrate our little school world. My mom and daddy were positive I had whooping cough when little, leaving me with a chronic cough to this day. As a small child the housemother gave me horehound candy many nights to try to soothe the throat and cough. It tasted like kerosene smells to me, yet, even today, it is widely used for medicinal purposes, and many people enjoy its taste. Check it out on the web; it has quite a history all its own.

They performed tonsillectomies and adenoidectomies at the infirmary. My parents gave permission for me to have my tonsils removed, with the condition that they be notified when it happened. They were notified after it was over. Mama mailed a package to me with the most beautiful doll I ever had, and she even had a change of clothes. I wish I had kept her; to me she was prettier than Barbie.

My daughter, Christi, did have chicken pox, and I think Kevin has now had the chicken pox vaccine. Kevin had scarlet fever resulting from a Strep throat, immediately cured with Penicillin.

As I think back now from when my mother was young in the 1920’s through today, it is amazing to see all the treatments for serious childhood diseases that have been developed. Yet there are horrible diseases still in our world both in children and adults. Maybe in another hundred years more cures will be found, in fact, more cures than diseases, especially those that affect children.

  

Writer's Block

I am complimented by my own brain to realize I have stumbled over writer’s block for the past two months. Surely this must mean that I am a “writer”? Well the truth is, most writers probably don’t take that as a sign that they get a vacation but instead find motivational literary tools to inspire a new thought. At my age, “new” thoughts don’t jump out of my head as often as they used to, but I find myself looking back too often. In doing so today, I decided to look back as far as I had ever copied off any of my poems into Braille, find a few midway to now, and then find a few of the latest ones written. Will it jump start my writer’s block or make it worse, I don’t know. Let’s see what happens.

THANK YOU DEAR GOD, 1957

Today I saw a brand new flower, it’s petals not yet showing.

Round it grew protective leaves with heaven-kissed dew drops glowing.

Today I saw a butterfly with wings of sparkling gold;

I thought of all God’s miracles as I watched them unfold.

Today I heard a lovely song with lyrics that made me pause

And realize that in God’s ways Of life there are no flaws.

Today I held my boyfriend’s hand; and walked though in a trance;

We watched the moon rise over the hill, cause God gave us romance.

God gives us beauty, hope and love as through our lives we trod;

And yet we do not stop each day

To say “Thank you, dear God.”

DREAMS, 1963

When old folks speak of youthful days with memories in their eyes,

What makes their voices light and gay;

What makes their counsel wise?

Is it not dreams they knew when young,

Dreams that lived on and on?

 Dreams much brighter than the days

That grew with every dawn?

Dreams that must have brought with them

Much time, much stress, much work;

The path seemed long but hope went on

And did not let them shirk.

They say in voice unanimous to build and hold young dreams,

For life is like a storybook, And shorter than it seems.

Is this not proof that youthfulness,

So happy, rich and pure

Possesses in its treasure house, the key to life secure.

This key can open doors of steel,

Or strongest medal lest,

Composed of substances that are weak and cannot pass the test.

Pick up this key of youth today

 And make its presence lasting.

Don’t blindly wander through a life of pain

And hopeless grasping.

Let your key be made of love to open up the doors

And live a life your dreams has built that can be only yours.

A PSALM FROM TODAY, April 1978

Nothing touches my thoughts like the presence of your name!

The butterfly whispers your praises with its wings!

The dolphin stands in the footprints you left on the water!

Boulders roll like marbles at the touch of your finger!

I pray to imitate the stars

Whose wills are but to go as you direct.

Life’s galaxies nudge me and my orbit slips;

Yet you lift up fallen stars.

If your miracles shone from the heavens

We would see the diseases you healed,

The people you fed,

And forgiveness… The light of the sun!

FIRST IN LINE

Dedicated to Linda Goodson,

My sweet spiritual School Friend

Written in 1980

Her voice still speaks in my head.

I enjoyed wearing emerald green so she called me Scarlet O.

I called her “Friend.”

“Multiple sclerosis,” she said;

“Please let me tell you.”

“No,” I said … because I knew she was going to die.

She wrote a poem called “Last in line.”

“You remind me of Elizabeth Barrett,”  I told her.

“Then where’s my Robert Browning,” she said.

Surely she knew that boy she was dating was too young and immature for her.

He must know … she’s going to die.

“You won’t let anybody love you,” she said to me …”

But listen to me, there really is God!”

By the time I found him I wanted her to know,

 But she was already there.

HARMONY

By

MYRA DEBRUHL

2001

Early Childhood

Music—A heavenward ladder for me;

I knew Jesus loved me before I was three.

Hank Williams sang about seeing the light;

Mammaw  said that was totally right.

School days

My voice teacher said country people can’t sing;

They bellow and slide and make twangs with their strings.

That I should experience Handle’s Messiah;

My soul did grow wings and flew higher and higher!

Adulthood

Sometimes minor chords played in my spirit;

I turned up the volume so Jesus could hear it.

Transparent overheads now are the rages

And genderized hymns on hers or his pages.

Nearing Sixty

I drop from the ladder and fall to my knees;

I sing with a choir ages one, two and three.

Innocent voices, surely the sweetest;

Like Handle and Hank writing music for Jesus.

LOOKING BACK, 2014

Sometimes you think you know the song by heart;

Then you stop and listen to someone besides yourself singing.

It’s like hearing the words for the first time.

No need to enunciate clearly or breathe at the right spaces; it’s already there,

Like the sound of a forgotten memory.

Sometimes you think the memory is just a re-run from older times.

Then you realize it’s the same song, just different meaning.

You no longer have to try to remember the moments; they are already there,

Like the heart’s metronome timing out the heartbeats.

The last time your heart breaks is not the same as the first.

It’s more like a dream you forgot to open.

The memories are silent words that live there

Singing through the melody of your life.

WHERE DO YOU GO, 2014

When your mind wanders through paths and finds no flowers, where do you go?

When one baby step feels like climbing a tower, where do you go?

How can you pick up the words that you said,

The unkind things that live in your head,

That keep you from peaceful sleep in your bed;

Where do you go.

When every hour is just seconds counting, where do you go?

When the little things to do in one day seem like mountains, where do you go?

And all the words you can’t replace

Are only thoughts to take up space

That cannot find a hiding place,

Where do you go?

Go to a place like a little child where everything was real.

Ask God to come and meet you there, and then believe He will.

Even if your place was sad, He doesn’t mind the rain,

He will stay through all the time until you smile again.

When your mind dances through woods of raindrops, where do you go?

When you reach the summit of towers of rocks,    where do you go?

When people don’t understand who you are,

How did you ever come so far,

You look like an ant but you shine like a star,

Where do you go?

When the colors of flowers light up your life, where do you go?

When the simplest of words play the  song in the night, where do you go?

When people tell you that you are naive,

Just because you do believe

That every day should be  Christmas eve,

Where do you go?

Go to that place like a little child where Jesus shines His light,

Sing a simple song of praise that burns throughout the night.

Be a troubadour of life that all will want to know

How can they be just like you; show them where to go.

Goodness, no funny poems here? I think I just broke through the writer’s block.

What it was---was basketball

 

It could be any day of any season in the neighborhood. The neighbors had heard the sounds before, coming from the DeBruhl house. I wonder what they must have thought as they looked out their windows. Christi, age six, probably was running from house to house anyway, gathering her own group of neighborhood friends, bringing them to the front yard as she told them that we were all at it again. Our patio was huge and was surrounded by the proverbial  white picket fence. Only four people lived in this dream house, but the patio was full of teenage boys’ voices, along with Jim’s and Kevin’s. There were both black and white boys, totally involved in this event. Words like “Mine!” “No!” “Foul!” “out of bounds!” “Where’s the ball?” “Kevin go get the ball!” “Jump!” “Sorry!” “Move!” “Too short!” “You missed!”  “Time out!” could be heard clearly, probably for half a mile down the road.

Kevin was nine. One day he came running in the house crying. “Their arms and legs are all over the place,” he complained. “There is no way I can ever win! I don’t know if I am going to play anymore. They can go get their own stupid ball!” Then the door slammed as he retreated to the safe walls of his room, only for a little while. Somehow the challenge just could not keep from beckoning to him. Soon he would be out the back door once more, jumping into the middle of the group, trying to duck under the tall legs that seemed to be like octopus’ arms to a child.

Above the voices and the sound of a ball being batted around, was the sound of music coming from high in the air. Sometimes the sound would seem to be muffled as a loud noise banged into it with a vengeance.

Many days I might be found inside preparing a picnic for everybody, often with Sharon, who was married to James, who belonged to one of those voices outside. Other days I would light the grill and the smell would mix with the sounds coming from the patio.

 

What it was, was what we all referred to as “blind basketball.” All the boys were blind except Kevin, and then there was Jim and a few other boys with very limited vision. The goal was in front of the picket fence and often the ball would go out of bounds into the neighbor’s yard, sometimes rolling into tall weeds where only Kevin could find it. Jim had hooked a small radio onto the goal, just in back of the basket so the boys could hear where to throw the ball. When a blind boy got to shoot a basket because of a foul, he would often walk up, touch the rim, step back a few steps and most times almost lay the ball in for the point. To everybody, it was just as real a game as though the teams were the Wolfpack and the Tar Heels.

Today there is a new form of our original clumsy little improvised basketball in the back yard. It is now called “goal ball” and is played in real gyms with real teams and no make-shift radio speaker for the prompting. Of course Kevin grew up, and was able to beat all those big boys who played blind basket ball on our patio. Yet, even today, if by chance Jim or I happen to meet any of those boys. “Remember me? We played basketball in your yard,” they remind us, even though whatever the season …   it was thirty years ago. 

 

TBT

One day many years ago I was watching Oprah Winfrey on TV. If I remember correctly, she was visiting Durham, NC and filmed her program from there. I surely do hope she does not see this and take me to task over it, but I do remember that the program was about weight. During the program she, or someone on the show, made a remark about how blind people can be overweight easily because they cannot see how they look. At the time I wanted to talk with her about that remark. However, of course I never tried, probably because I knew my comments would never reach her... and because at the time, this blind person was overweight.

It is amazing to me how soon in life food seems to have a viable part of all we do. As a small child, I just knew that food was something you ate three times a day. Once I attended the NC School for the Blind in 1950, I learned it was something you did three times a day... like it or not. I was so small that my bottom lip fit right underneath the plate on the little table. We were supposed to eat everything on the plate. If I raked the food off the plate with my fork it would land right in my mouth. Once there, I would chew it up if I liked it, or if not, would swallow it whole, pushing it down without tasting it with a big swallow of milk. Of course all of us, when we were children heard the story of all the hungry children in the world who had nothing to eat. All of us probably like me, said at least one time, “Please send them this.”

Okay, before everybody in America and beyond starts bombarding me with books, supplements, drinks, newest diet fads, programs, sports equipment, apps, advice and then some, let me just say that this is only a fun blog, and at this time I am doing well with changing my life style and realizing its necessity, and the fact that it is not just a change for today, but for always. Please just send me your sincere prayers that I will remember. I just want to share a few dieting adventures.

Most of us have done all kinds of diets, including starvation ones when we believed we had learned just how the hungry children must feel. I have done liquid diets which only gave me bad breath, chicken diets where you eat chicken every day and come to meetings where you make faces to keep wrinkles at bay. Those faces probably gave a whole new meaning to a chicken dance. There have been package food diets I sold at a yard sale. Once I even did a diet through my church which might have worked except I knew if I messed up God would forgive me. I do not know if Oprah is thin or heavy at this time since I cannot see her, but I know how heavy I was at the beginning of my journey to a new life style. This silly little poem was written maybe thirty years ago, but it could well have been written today. Hope you enjoy it with me.  

TEMPTATION

The devil appears to me wearing a coat designed by Hershey’s to …

Take the knowledge of taste right to my waist.

“Aha!” I laugh; “I know who you are,

and my God is bigger than a chocolate bar!”

So he sends out his workers.

They arrive with the heavenly taste and crackling crunch

Of a potato chip.

“Now, retaining fluid is nobody’s fault,”

they tell me from under their blankets of salt.

“I recognize you—every one!”

And I send them away—

And I think that I’ve won.

Then comes the weekend.

Oh no!  Right in the middle of my garden of Eden has

sprouted up a Pizza Hut!

“with mushrooms, pepperoni, sausage and lots of extra

cheeze—please!”

“Oh, God,” I complain;

“All Eve had to turn down was one little old dumb apple.

Why do you allow the enemy to tempt me with pizza?”

“Maybe they were BIG apples,” He gently says.

“Maybe they were Granny Smith’s or Red Delicious.”

“Well, God,” I protest, “I can turn down barrels full of all

kinds and sizes of apples.”

“Perhaps not,” He gently reminds me:  “Not if you thought

the recipe for pizza was inside one of them.”

A Saturday Morning

This poem may sound a bit cheesy, but it was fun to write as Vivi and I met up with all these things on our walk this morning.

A SATURDAY MORNING

Grass mowers,

Leaf blowers,

Weed hoers,

Seed sowers,

Garden growers,

Fertilizer throwers,

Curb trim roar-ers,

I don’t knowers,

Hardware store goers.

Not to Mention

Crowded stores,

Signs for wet floors

Cash no mores,

Which bathroom is yours,

Not like befores,

In and Out doors.

All negated by

Walking with ease,

Holding Vivi’s leads,

Knowing she sees

Every one of these.

We hear birds in the trees,

Smell the fall leaves,

Feel a cool breeze,

Sunshine to please

As the day proceeds,

Everything I need,

And there are no fees,

For God’s peace is free.

Throback Thursday from Journal

  November 9, 2004

I knew working was going to be a challenge, but I didn't realize the challenge is not the work, the challenge is working to find time to play around the work. Time has seemed to just ball itself up in a little ball and roll right on out my front door. Then, when I go to tell somebody all I've been doing it sounds like I've not been doing anything at all.

November 12, 2004

I have made a dent in my Christmas shopping at least. I have Mom's stocking done; that's my dint.

December 4, 2004

Yesterday something came up to start Taylor and me talking about God. I asked her if she believed in God and she said that she did. I asked her if she knew about Jesus and she said that she knew that Jesus is God also. So, I began the long process of trying to put the entire Bible in two minutes. She wanted to know who was in the world first and how far back did Mammaw's mama and her mama and her mama and all mamas go. So, I figured I'd start at the beginning and tell her that in the beginning was always God and the first man was Adam and then God made Eve. She said "And they were the first people?"  I told her they were and she got really excited and said "Then we are all in this world just one big family!"  I told her that was entirely correct, that we are generations and generations of one huge dysfunctional family. then as her Oodles cooked I was telling her about sin and Jesus and his dying and coming back to life, living with God now and would live in her heart. Her noodles were done and I knew I was losing her, yet it felt like something was pushing words right on out of me and landing in that bowl of noodles. She was more interested in eating than listening until I told her that if she would pray for Jesus to come into her heart then she could know He would always be there for her to pray to and would help her. Suddenly she became excited again.

“Will He help me do my homework?” she asked.

 

Temper Tantrum

 

 

I thought I’d just throw today’s journal right onto my blog, written as though you all were not reading it.

On the news, several teens lost their lives today and over the weekend in car accidents. I found tears in my eyes just hearing about it and did more than thoughts and prayers, but earnestly got on my knees and thanked God for my family and offered heartfelt prayers for those terribly bereaved grief-stricken families who will not see their teens grow up.

Then in a matter of minutes I received a phone call from the surgeon’s office I have an appointment to visit tomorrow for gallstones. The receptionist called just to ask me to bring someone in with me tomorrow because there would be papers to sign. I feel so selfish, turning my thoughts inward when there are so many larger problems in our world. Yet, in my little selfish world as a blind person, I found tears in my eyes again, for all those with disabilities who keep on being asked to do things differently. Since this was just an office visit, not a procedure, this is unacceptable to me. As this was a message left on my machine while I was outside, I immediately called the number right back, and was thankful the office had already closed, causing me to stop before blasting the nurse. Then, I called back to the nurse’s line to leave a message and blasted her anyway. I reminded her that, according to the American Disabilities Act, it is their responsibility to make things accessible for me, not mine to make it easier for them.

Well, guess what? The nurse called me back and apologized. IN our conversation she said that everyone was asked to bring someone with them, whether they had a special need or not. I reminded her that if that was part of their protocol I would have been informed at the time of my appointment, not called back an hour later.

Now, for a funny note:  Has anyone gotten the I phone 6 yet, a rhetorical question. Well, I updated my I pad and turned on the feature that lets Siri speak with no hands. You are supposed to begin by saying “hey, Siri.” With all the electronic talking things I own, Siri keeps answering them.

It is a rainy, gloomy Monday. Just thought I’d let you know … I have them to.

However, it is time to turn my thoughts to God who will surely teach me tolerance one of these days. All I need to do is listen.

 

HOW TO MAKE A SANDWICH WITH YOUR EYES CLOSED

First of all, you must know where all the ingredients and/or condiments are kept. Otherwise, you will have to feel around the pantry and refrigerator, wasting time and becoming hungrier while you do. Let’s make a sliced turkey, tomato, and lettuce sandwich.

Open your pantry door and pick up loaf of bread from shelf where you store it. Place it on the cabinet counter top. Close pantry door, otherwise you will run into a half opened door which could cause a nose bleed, while wasting time, and becoming even more hungry.

Open refrigerator and take out sliced turkey from drawer or from where you have stored it. Take out tomato from its place in fridge, as well as lettuce. Place on counter top next to bread. Go back to fridge and pick up mayo from storage place, probably on refrigerator door. Close door and set mayonnaise on counter top.

Roll off a paper towel from roll and place it on counter top. Open loaf of bread and take out two slices. Lay the slices side by side on the paper towel. Go to cabinet drawer and take out knife. Open mayonnaise and put knife in jar to get enough to spread onto bread slices. Put the bread slice in your hand to keep from spreading mayo all over the sides of the bread down onto your paper towel, making a mess when you pick up your sandwich. Lick (I mean wipe) off any mayonnaise that might have gotten spread onto your hand accidentally. Once you have spread the mayonnaise onto the bread slice, lay it down beside the other slice of bread on the paper towel. You can put some mayo on both slices of bread if you wish. Close mayonnaise jar or you may forget where you placed the lid, thus having to hunt it, wasting more time while you get hungrier.

Open package of sliced turkey and place as many slices as you wish on top of mayonnaise spread. Close package. Wipe off with corner of paper towel and use your mayo knife if you wish to slice the tomato, being sure you slice the tomato away from your fingers. When you have as few slices as you wish, place on top of turkey slices on bread. Find a small sandwich bag and put left-over tomato inside, seal it up and place it next to mayonnaise on counter top. Open lettuce and tear off enough to top off the sandwich. Seal up lettuce head or bag. Now, place the unused slice of bread on top of your lettuce. Remember, bread slices go together in the right way, otherwise your sandwich will feel crooked and  you will not know where to start eating because there is no bread continuity. Take loaf of bread back to pantry, being sure it is sealed tightly. Close pantry door. Put lettuce, left-over tomato, and turkey slices in fridge where you will know how to find them again. Be sure the door closes.

Get a brand new paper towel or a paper plate and place your sandwich on it. Throw away used paper towel, rinse off knife, and place in dish washer. By this time you should be thoroughly hungry, as well as tired if you have never done this before. Carry your sandwich out of the kitchen, sit down and enjoy your lunch. I hope by the time you get settled you won’t remember that you wanted a pickle or something to drink with your meal.

Throwback Thursday from Journal

January 26, 2008

Stream of Consciousness

Somehow feelings that run through me seem so cold once just laid out on paper. I have spent today reading a Jan Carron book and realizing why I have not been writing.  It is because I have not been reading.  It’s easy to cover over those strong feelings inside my heart with life.  It’s even easier not to let myself feel them at all but just bury them in the days that slip through the telling of the heart’s story.  And detail?  Who cares about the tiny incidences inside one day?  How did the cold metal mailbox feel to a hand pulling out the day’s mail?  I open my back door to let Mego (my black lab) run outside.   From a business across the fence in back of me, a 1960’s folk song plays loudly, causing a slight shock-wave as it almost seems to skip right past all my ears into another time.  It was a time when people advised everybody not to have babies because the days ahead were too uncertain, but it was too late.  I remember the unrest of 1968 when Kevin was less than two months from being born and the apartments in back of our own burned to the ground. 

…

Mego runs past me back into the house and I close the door on the music and sit down in my chair to read some more, but I have to stop because my mind is too full of feelings with no words to go with them.

Where are my children?  Christi calls every day.  We’re quite a pair, she and I.  We hug each other through chain mail and phone calls and sometimes for real.  But today my children are off with their own adventures, with their own children and memories and lives, looking forward.  I sit here looking backward, gathering up memories from the past like a bouquet of bright flowers placed on the dining room table inside my thoughts.

My chair is warm and comfortable and I rest my head as I can smell those flowers as if they were five minutes ago.  My chair reminds me of the front seat of our 1955 Pontiac where I sat between Mama and Daddy.  I was twelve years old, much too old to still ride up front like that. 

But the feeling jumps away as quickly as it comes, and I scan my life as quickly as one watching it before their eyes when dying.

Suddenly I see my friends; Laverne’s face young and pretty and Belvia’s blonde hair all beautiful, and it feels like we are hugging each other someplace I have never even been.  It has no walls or shape like in a dream and I hear us laughing.  Then that hug too is gone.

“Where is everybody?”  I think in my half-awake half-asleep place in my chair.  I called Winnie at 9 A.M. but she was already out for the day.  Winnie is my most special friend, but I doubt she knows it.  What is wrong with the words “I love you,” between two hearts on this earth?  Maybe it would make us too vulnerable?  Of course a woman and a man can’t say the words to each other without being thought of as “in love”.  

That reminds me of Mac, my best guy friend.  Like my children, he is off with his wife and his own family.  I’m just his work-spiritual-email-friend who will fade away too once he retires.  I add another flower to my bouquet of memories with his name on it. 

Work has crowded out my ability to feel, to experience, even at times to care as so many experiences crowd themselves around me.   There’s no time to write them down anymore and before I can truly digest one moment it has vanished and I’m reaching backward to pull it back at the same time I reach for the next one to take its place. 

The phone rings but it isn’t Winnie.  Jim needs to know how to turn off Jaws (a screen reader).

I call Nancy, my new violin partner and make a date to play Monday evening.

Then I turn back to the Jan Carron book and let the feelings wash over me and take me away.

Books don’t really do that however, they just reach in and pull out something inside us that has been there all the time … a time we cried, laughed, were afraid, angry, confused, silly, anything. They play with our emotions and drag them from those places in life we tuck away.

 

The phone rings.  My granddaughter Taylor’s cheer leading team was disqualified because they did a stunt that was not supposed to be done in that particular session.

 

Mego’s hair is black and slick.  He won’t sit still and let me pet him on the top of his head but when I’m sad he lays his head in my lap.  I wish I could see his eyes because I know they are full of expression and as close to actually seeing love tangibly as it could ever get.  He hears those “I love you” words more than anybody and I ask God to let him know exactly what they mean. 

So finally we get around to God who covers EVERYTHING.  There is no need to interject every single sentence with His name because He’s the one who provides the space in time for it all.

The phone rings.  It’s Winnie and we will go running errands.  As she walks in the door the phone rings.  It is Margaret.  Again I see my life before my eyes as I hear her voice, but I don’t have time to talk now.

…

Margaret sounds a little sad but we won’t talk about why.  Did she know how much I love her when she left?  She’s really gone now and I believe when she was here Christmas we both came face to face with the truth of it.  Never again will I pick up the phone and thirty minutes later hop in her car for a day of shopping, food, or fun.

 

Dorsey called while I was out and wondered why I had not called her.  I wonder too.  I just settle back into my comfortable chair, turn on my book, and disappear.

January 27

Now it’s past midnight, on Christi’s birthday.  I really hope she likes her gift.  I kiss my beautiful black Labrador’s head and turn down the heat.  The air blows from the vents and touches my face making it feel sunburned.  Jonathan and the pool thoughts splash a smile across my lips. 

Soon I will work eight hours, go to a meeting at church and then celebrate my girl’s 37^th birthday.  In three months it will be Kevin’s. Maybe I’ll write an entry on his 40^th.  

Mego's Tribute

My trainer called to tell me I was going to get a black Labrador guide dog.  “I don’t especially like black dogs,” I thought, but had sense enough not to say.  On Friday of Memorial Day weekend 2002, the trainer, Kathryn, delivered nineteen-month-old Mesaad (pronounced meh-sod) to my door.  He had been born in Florida and was raised by a fourteen-year-old as part of a 4H project.  My now retired eleven-year-old Golden Retriever, Holly, was spending the next two weeks with my friend Margaret so Mesaad and I could get acquainted.

“You don’t look like a Mesaad to me,” I told the new black dog.  “The first thing I am going to do when the trainer leaves is change your name.” And I did.  (We will call him his real name, Mego (pronounced mee-go) from now on. 

Probably if somebody had told Mego he was fixing to get a fifty-something-year-old owner he might have thought, “I really don’t especially like older women.” 

So we spent our first weekend together.  We didn’t fall into instant love like sometimes happens with dogs, but we decided to see what happened. 

What happened was that on the very first day we were to go to work, I held his harness in my hand, stood a second, then put my left foot out and said, “Forward.”  He stood his ground.  I tried again, no movement.  After three tries the trainer said, “Pop the leash.”

“What?” I thought.  “He doesn’t like me and now you want me to correct him?”

“Pop the leash,” the trainer corrected me.

I did as instructed and Mego started walking as if he was going to the vet. 

It took almost the entire two weeks of training to get him to walk at a nice pace, do what he was told, and at least pretend to like it.  Then Kathryn left us.

Mego seemed to perk up when Holly came home, and I knew at least he had a friend to love as we got used to each other.  Every day we went walking and walking and walking.  Mego did everything I told him to do perfectly, yet something was wrong, and it wasn't with the dog.

One morning I took Mego outside and in the bright sunlight I looked into his eyes as closely as I could and believed I saw something in there, something sad, and it broke my heart.  I felt tears in my own eyes as I realized I had expected him to be just like Holly.  “You can’t help it that you are not Holly,” I told him.  You don’t have to be.  You just be Mego and we will just see all the things Mego can do.”

Some of the things Mego could do: 

Clear a bed in one leap as he chased my grandchildren through the house or hotel room;

Make Polly Pockets disappear;

 Open a loaf of bread with a single claw in a straight line from top to bottom,

Eat all the bread almost as quickly as I could get from one room over to stop him;

Dance on his hind legs when I told him to do the Mego dance;

Unzip a suitcase and pull out his food, or find any other dog’s food anywhere;

Understand and jump up because church was over when the pastor said “Amen”;

Part the waters of over a thousand souls and get me out of church so quickly I didn’t have to speak to anybody—whether I wanted to or not;

 Shred a rope toy and swallow the shreds until he had to have surgery;

Open any door just slightly opened, or push it open if it was going his way;

Open every trashcan I owned, until I bought all of them to work with a pedal;

Find my purse no matter where I might have put it down;

And put up his ears when I said the word “Listen.”

Mego and I grew closer than Forest Gump’s and Jenny’s peas and carrots.  It never occurred to me to second guess him when we walked.  Once we were at a shopping area and I was lost in the large circular space in the middle.  Streets, cars, stores, sidewalks, and people were in all directions.  Literally I found myself going in circles.  Finally, in desperation I said to Mego “Just FIND something!”  I knew if we got to any store in that area I would have an idea where we were and could get anywhere else.  He definitely took me to find something…  PetSmart.

I taught him places in the gym, such as “weights” for the resistance training, “tread” for the treadmill, and “my machine” for the elliptical.  I would go down the weight machines making comments at each one.  There is one in which you raise your hands up over your head lifting the bar, which is the hardest for me to do.  Several times I called it a “nasty machine.”   One day we went to the gym and everything was changed around.  I was surprised when Mego could still find the treadmill and the resistance training area, although the machines were not in the same order.  “I wonder what they did with that nasty machine,” I said almost under my breath.  Mego started pulling me as though I needed to hurry and get out of the way of something.  He stopped at the machine with the heavy bar to lift up.  He was named “Super Dog” at the gym and often at other places by people who watched him work.

When he was two or three-years-old he went with my son’s family and me to Disney World.  He sported a pair of Mickey Mouse ears all through the park and never complained.  He rode with me through the haunted House, and sat in the front row of Indiana Jones, never fearing when the explosions and heat seemed to be very real.

As Holly grew weaker, Mego could often be found lying beside her, washing her face and cleaning her feet.  After she left us, he always did a little crooked step every time we passed a Golden Retriever on our walks.

He rode on the floor at the bulk head of the jet when we flew to New Mexico, leading me to and through the terminals as though he might be the pilot.  On vacation once, he knew where his water and food were and he could find our room from anywhere.

One Christmas he wore a Santa Claus suit for the children at church.  Another Christmas he wore angel wings and laid at my feet as I sang in the Christmas cantata.  Every Christmas he waited for the family to leave and then stood at the closet door where he knew Santa had put his Christmas gift.  Before gifts were placed around the tree, his place to sleep was on top of the tree skirt. 

More than anybody Mego loved me, but he also loved Dr. Berry, the vet who took the rope and other things out of his tummy.  He loved all my friends and knew which ones he could count on for a stolen bite when we went out.  He loved all my family and especially my mom, who I could never get to stop feeding him fries. He was always ready to jump up quickly when he knew we were going somewhere, or even if he just thought I was about to move to get up.  Although he loved people, he always acted like he was just with ME when entering anywhere, never trying to steal the show, yet it always happened anyway.

If I watched TV he laid on the hearth in the summer time or against the couch in winter, just so he was close by.  When I worked he laid against the side of my computer desk.  At night he slept on the foot of my bed for over ten years, until arthritis set in and he could not jump up anymore.  We had to stop taking long walks then, but I always took him when I went with someone in a car.  Finally people noticed his limping and told me I was being mean to my dog.  Dr. Berry recommended a medication to try, and that medication gave us two more years of limited walks together.  I had put in for a new dog so he could retire and rest when he was twelve, but I worried because I knew he would never be happy being retired.  He was fourteen on October 19, 2013.  He was beginning to have a lot of stomach issues.  In December this got much worse and Dr. Berry and I did all we could so he could enjoy Christmas.  He fell right into the season, claiming the Christmas tree skirt for his favorite resting place, and going to Lexington to see Mom on the 31^st.  I found out that I would be getting a new guidedog on January 4, 2014.

Vivi came into Mego’s and my lives on January 4, 2014, about 2 PM.  It was a Saturday.  Mego had not done the Mego dance in months, but he did it then.  Vivi is as white as Mego was black and they did seem to fall into instant love.  However, in just a day or two after her arrival Mego began being sicker than ever with his stomach.  Ironically, Vivi began vomiting.  On the night of Tuesday January 7, Mego became so horribly sick I had to get him back to the vet first thing Wednesday morning.  Vivi’s trainer was in town and I was supposed to be training with the new dog.  I had watched Mego lie beside Vivi’s kennel every time she was put in there and wondered just what kind of conversations dogs might be able to share. 

To make the story less painful than it was, just let me say that Mego had a large tumor on his spleen and on Thursday I went with him to the vet for the final time.  I felt like a traitor, a murderer, and most of all heart-sick and grief stricken.  My trainer realized this and went to work with other people while I tried to heal.  Tears still fall as I visit the time.  If Mego were lying beside my computer desk right now he would come over and lay his beautiful black head on my lap to let me know everything is all right.

…

Vivi comes over from lying beside my computer desk, licks my leg from ankle to knee, arm from elbow to hand, then turns around and gets a toy to put in my lap.  You may not believe it, but the toy she chooses is the last one I gave Mego, his Santa Claus from last Christmas.

Mego smiles down at me from his picture.  His ears are up, his eyes are shining, and he and I do the Mego dance in my heart.   

…

“And we’ll fly across the mountains past the skies to Heaven’s doors;

Only God can find a way to make a heart as beautiful as yours.”

(From Holly’s, and now Mego’s, guide dog  song Find the Way).