Anniversary Song

Love Stuff

Perhaps Valentine's Day has just been dreamed up to put a lot of money in the coffers of the Greeting Card companies, but, with all the gloom and doom news we keep hearing, it IS kind of nice to take even one day to celebrate love. One way or another, every human being needs and wants love, and even when we lose in the game, the Bard says, "It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."

After my mother became a widow for the 2nd time, I was comforting her to the best of my ability, and she said something that has really stayed with me: "Not only do you grieve for them, you suddenly realize you're not number one with anyone anymore." She went on with her life, of course, and had lots of love from her children, siblings and extended family, but I knew none of us could give her that special love she missed. That wonderful, mysterious, thing called love between two people that can be immortal, or, sadly, sometimes disappear like a vapor.

Here is a poem I gave to my husband on our 47th anniversary. Almost 10 years later, it still seems to say how much I value being number one with him:

Anniversary Song

We've kept our promises, spoken
or unspoken
in the language life mates adopt.
As birds who commit to mate and nest,
and wait patiently for cheep and sign
to reveal again the reason
for promises made and kept.

And, old love, tried and true, is
our fountain of youth, allowing
love filtered eyes to rest gently,
seeing else but the half that fits
perfectly to each separate,
incomplete soul.

Now, when bluebird calls his mate
in tones soft and scarely heard,
I think of you, my love, and promises
you've whispered to my heart,
and, you must hear my heart's reply:
"You are my life, as long as I live."

Carole

Three Little Words

It occurred to me as I was enjoying an eggplant sandwich today, that words can be compared to eggplants. You either love them, or you get along nicely with as little of them as possible. For instance, I find it very difficult to simply write, "Love Carole"on any sort of greeting card. If I begin to just add a little note, I start out writing normally, then seeing I'm running out of room, begin making my words smaller and smaller, and usually end up writing up and down and around the edges and on the back. When my youngest daughter was in elementary school, she told me one day how she hated to take the "excuse" notes I wrote to school. She said her teacher always put mine last. I fixed that teacher. The next one said, "She weren't there. She were sick." Let her think what she would.

My best friend, Ginny, solved her Christmas card problem. (I don't think she likes eggplant) She orders cards early and has the family name printed below the greeting. She doesn't even initial them. She hands them off to her attorney husband, who hands them off to his secretary, and she runs them through the office postage meter. Done! However, Ginny has kept every little note or poem I have sent her over the many years of our friendship. She does put little three-word messages on my birthday cards: "I miss you" or "I love you". They certainly suffice.

Then, on the way home from Gainesville last week, my husband and I were chatting happily; going slow in the traffic around Cleveland. I remember we were enjoying a debate about whether sour cream cake donuts were superior to glazed raised donuts. My eyes came to rest on a torn cardboard sign nailed to a creosote fence post. Three little words and a phone number were scrawled there in dark pencil: "I Need Work". They spoke volumes. I have grieved for that man and felt utter frustration ever since. I know he is just one of so many that are in this terrible situation. I keep thinking that this person probably has children, and how much those kids would enjoy a bagful of donuts--most any kind.

The House of Cards

Several weeks ago, I mentioned a poem I had written about 4 years ago. There was a very small old house just off Hwy 129N that had so much character. I didn't know it had an occupant until one Spring day I saw this bent over little woman watering her front porch plants. She was quite old, and wore the old fashioned sun bonnet and apron so typical of mountain women. I was inspired to put something down on paper to remember the woman, and the little house she lived in. I'm so glad I did, because she died less than a year later. The little house was pushed down and removed. It was replaced with a vinyl sided mobile home. Nothing to write about there!
This poem was published in A Sense of Place, New South Poetry Chapbook.

THE HOUSE OF CARDS

There is a tiny house that sits askew
in silent patience, holding out, holding on.
Winter paints ugliness on its bleak, leaning timbers,
no smoke curl charms the view or adds warmth;
I wonder how it can stand.

Inside, a very old woman waits, rocking
to a song with no words or music, remembering.
Neither joyful or sad, she numbly endures
the repetition of years and seasons.

If she lives till Spring, she will emerge
one day, much like her tulips, urged by the warmth.
Her gnarled hands will bring out rusty coffee cans,
watering every living thing, tearing away dry vines,
exposing new shoots to sun and rain.

She will be about her garden till Autumn frosts
shrivel the blossoms, and chill her ancient bones.
Then, she will shut the door of her tiny fortress,
remaining unseen, like the tubers now sleeping
in her garden, caring little for passing strangers
who gape and wonder how the little house still stands.

Carole R. Thompson

It Must Have Happened in Appalachia...

A great deal of the things that come my way via email aren't worthy of notice, but something came in today that I wish I had written. There was no name of the author so I could offer my praise, and no title, either. Maybe you have received it and wondered if the story was true or a work of fiction that reflects life as it should be. It is a Christmas story that could have happened, especially to folks living in our Appalachian mountains, where winters can be bitter cold, and life is such a struggle if you are poor. Here it begins:

" Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in lifecomes from giving, not from receiving. It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted for Christmas. We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible. After supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in frontof the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures. But Pa didn't get the Bible, instead he bundled up again and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we had already done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long though, I was too busy wallowing in self-pity. Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good, it's cold out tonight." I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, andfor no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all thechores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed doing,especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa was not verypatient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened thedoor to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what. Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it waswe were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never hitched up this sled unless we were going to haul a big load. Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy. When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and Ifollowed. "I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help me." The high sideboards! It had been a bigger jobthan I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on. After we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood - the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all Fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing? Finally I said something. "Pa,"I asked, "what are you doing?" You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what? Yeah," I said, "Why?" "I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood, Matt." That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him. We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses wouldbe able to pull it. Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, thenwe went to the smoke house and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he returned he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand."What's in the little sack?" I asked. Shoes, they're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got the children a littlecandy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy." We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, son we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy? Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us; it shouldn't have been our concern. We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then we took the meat and flour and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?" "Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt, could we come in for a bit?" Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all. Widow Jensen fumbled with a matchand finally lit the lamp. "We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Pa said and set down the sackof flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one foreach of the children - sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that wouldlast. I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out. "We brought a load of wood too, Ma'am," Pa said. He turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring in enough to last awhile. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up." I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat and as much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes too. In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks with so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak. My heart swelled within me and a joy that I'd never known before, filled my soul. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people. I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a long time. She finally turned to us. "God bless you," she said. "I know the Lord has sent you. The children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels to spare us." In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true. I was sure that a better man than Pa hadnever walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it. Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get. Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes. Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to leave. Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their Pa, and I was glad that I still had mine. At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'llbe by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to have some little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two brothers and two sisters had all married and had moved away. Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don'thave to say, May the Lord bless you, I know for certain that He will." Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn't even notice the cold. When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and said, "Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square. Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that, but on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunnysacks and I knew what I had to do. Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand." I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it. Now the rifle seemedvery low on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children. For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or splita block of wood, I remembered, and remembering brought back thatsame joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night. Pa had given memuch more than a rifle that night, he had given me the bestChristmas of my life. "

Don't be too busy today. Share this inspiring message. God bless you!
Carole R. Thompson

Thank you for visiting my new blog!

Today was so beautiful in our part of the world, with Fall colors reaching their peak against the October blue sky. North Georgia and Western North Carolina are blessed beyond measure with natural beauty. Is it no wonder that we who write poems and stories are given so much inspiration just by the very fact of living in the protective custody of these gentle mountains. Even those of us who weren't born here want to send down deep roots into this rocky soil, hoping to strike a permanent kinship. Even the oldest and crudest homes here take on a beauty of their own. One day soon I'll share a poem I wrote about about a little house, just about on its last "legs", and the occupant, quite ancient herself. But not today--today I just want to give you a warm welcome to my blog.