ABOUT THE BOOK

In case anyone may be wondering whatever happened to me or the book I have been talking about for quite some time … here’s the update. In about two weeks it will be ready! I know you aren’t as excited as I am about all this, but after learning the stages and work it takes to get to this point it is a little like a daydream coming true. Once it is out there I will send you an update as how to get a copy. IN the meantime, here’s just a little teaser, just in hopes you will remember and want to join me in this endeavor as life still is going on, in and after the book. Thanks to all who have encouraged me.

Now, from the book jacket:

In 1950, Myra Yarborough, age six, finds herself transported from rural North Carolina to the NC State School for the Blind in the state’s capitol of Raleigh. The family she loves seem far away as there are no phones in her home and a six week long stretch between visits. As America is changing, the school for the blind has an archaic feel and the housemothers seem to have stepped right out of one of Grimm’s fairy tales. Follow the challenges of growing up in an environment that seems resistant to change. Many people and friends contribute to Myra’s search for balance between a blind and sighted existence, between smiles and tears, and between opinions and reality. As you follow Myra’s growing years, you will get a glimpse of being blind through this perspective, and come away with a new understanding of blindness in the 1950s, as well as what it is like today.

Still more Blind Things

Since it is a rainy and dreary appearing day I thought I’d try to help someone smile by reliving a few interesting things that happened in my life this past December. I will not mention the time Vivi and I stood in a department for fifteen minutes waiting for a lady who said she would be “right back,” or the other helper who told me that scarves were “right over there,” or even the clerk who asked me if I was sure I knew what I was buying. We won’t mention the server at Chic Filet who told me to go find a table and she would bring me my order of grilled chicken nuggets and fruit cup. Just suffice it to say she had disappeared from the table Vivi found for us  before I could let her know I did not order fried nuggets and fries. All these things did really happen, and I smile about them as I think of them now; hope you will smile too.

… December

This night I am wrapping gifts. I find a big bag perfect for one of the gifts. The bag seems to appear in my closet from nowhere. I am now wondering if I have put that gift in a Victoria Secrets Bag, and whether it is a tensile Christmas scene or skimpy dressed little model under my tree.

…

Always I put Braille on my to and from Christmas gifts. No one gets to pick up their gift and shake it unless they crawl under the tree and bring it out for me to read. This year I put two Brailed labeled gifts in one family’s bag, not realizing the person ignored the second Braille name and kept both gifts.

…

I was a little disappointed when I brought home two very light pink pillowcases, until the wash when I fixed the problem by not paying attention and added in a red shirt.

…

In that same wash I put in my black jeans which fit tight. I thought they were my blue ones which fit just right. Oops!  Well, at least I surely won’t have to iron them.

…

I asked the waitress for more water. She sat it down in a new glass on the table. Not realizing that she had already put a new straw in the fresh water, I took the straw from my other glass. When I touched the glass to drink I realized there were two straws. The next time I raised my glass to drink, I thought it was cool that I did not have to touch the top of the glass with my finger in order to find where my straw was; surely my mouth would hit one of them. You guessed it, I missed both straws and my second glass of water flowed down my shirt. There was more ice than water.

…

Vivi and I had walked flawlessly from the mall entrance to the Apple store. Vivi had surprised me by finding the store by herself as we had only been there twice together, the last time six months earlier. Relying on her confident stride leaving the store, we increased our speed and whizzed right past a lady who, if driving, would have been too far into my lane, not looking at all where she was going. Suddenly she realized something white brushed her leg. Her voice was as loud as a siren as she leaned toward me and screamed close to my face. Vivi didn’t miss a beat but kept on wagging her tail as she charged on toward the door. My tongue hurt after biting it to keep from saying something mean to the woman. Is this how drivers feel?

  …

Pepper? … in my pop corn?

…

 

 

TBT from journal

 

January 1, 2008

It’s quiet and peaceful inside my heart. There are no problems to clutter up my communication with my own soul, so I am free to truly feel and enjoy this large portion of emotions God has given me. Because of Him I have lived to be sixty-four years old, to have a family to love, and a sweet black lab angel lying beside me ready to jump up just in case I might think of moving. I wish I could explain to some human how it feels to have a moment of peace like this. It’s like hearing the sigh of a tiny baby sleeping, or a beautiful song that drops chill bumps from heaven into a heart. Then there is a mom somewhere exhausted knowing she still must get up and finish the dishes but lies down for a quick rest on the sofa, only to notice the hands of her husband placing a soft throw over her tired body, warming her through and through as she hears the table being cleared. It’s the place in a strong man’s heart that melts when his child smiles; it’s every peaceful place I have ever experienced or read about all wrapped into a New Year’s package delivered today. It’s because there is truly a God and he  loves me and my family and the special friends he has allowed me to know.

There is not one of my friends or family I can think of today without loving them. There’s Mom with her eighty-seven years that have molded her life making it ready for heaven. I was fifty years old before I knew how shy she is. She’s just a little southern Baptist girl inside looking for a day like this one.

As I feel the warmth blowing from the vents in my heart I turn toward Jesus and pray that my friends and family experience such a time as this on this brand New Year’s Day.

It is with a heart filled with peace I begin to allow myself once more to touch the tender places inside me, even the tearful places I can only touch while God holds my hand; childhood tears that can still live if I let them, and I choose to let them only because those are the places that write sad poems or songs, so we can understand how to smile. Frankly it feels good to pick up a day of sadness and hold it in the hands of understanding, only because now seeing it clearly, stroking it’s pain, I can  put it away until my heart needs that kind of tenderness once more to remind me of God’s amazing grace.

 

2015

Today it is a sweet yellow lab, white like angel wings, who lies next to me just in case I think about moving. Pictures of my family grace my living room walls and heart. Has anything changed while the earth has circled the sun for seven more years? Certainly not God, and thank him for that! This year I feel it most important that I step out from the walls of my journal and let those I care about so much know how special they have been and are in my life! For those of you who have taken your time to read this, you are one of those people!

 

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.