REST IN PEACE, MAMA

In 2009 my beloved grandmother battled her way back from severe pneumonia, proving that some doctors don't always know what they're talking about.  After days in intensive care, she and death butted heads and death turned tail and ran in the opposite direction.  That time wasn't her time, the old bird proving that a fighting spirit can surpass the insurmountable. 

Sadly, death came back for a second try and this time he won.  Yesterday, the old woman took her last breath shortly after midnight as I sat by her bedside, holding tight to her hand.  Although I called myself prepared for the inevitable, I was ill-prepared to wish my dear granny goodbye.  And despite the depths of my faith, God's will was clearly not my will.

My heart is broken now that she is gone and I have to wonder if it will ever again be whole.  Next week we will celebrate her life and wish her a final farewell.  And although my beloved grandmother could be a prickly pain in my left cheek, I would give anything to hold my grandma's hands just one more time.

Rest in peace, Mama.

Susie Musethel Fletcher Cole

March 5, 1921 - February 23, 2012

SCRATCH THE HURT

This past Thursday I arrived at the nursing home to find my grandmother a semblance of her usual self.  She has been hospitalized ever since, our family sitting in anxious vigil by her bedside.

On Friday morning, a compassionate emergency room physician sat toe to toe with my father and gently told him that our matriarch was dying.  He warned that with her rapidly failing health there would be some difficult decisions that would have to soon be made.  In that moment I instinctively knew that despite our mutual concerns for our loved one, we would be a family at odds over those decisions.

Despite my continuous struggles with my faith, when it comes to death I have always trusted that God knows best.  Even as a little girl, the prospect of death did not scare me and mostly because my beloved grandmother too frequently intoned how blessed we would all be on the other side.  I can still envision those promises of an eternal Eden and even now I believe that she herself trusts in that as her wakeful moments are spent beseeching her “sweet Jesus” to come for her. 

Since Friday I have slept in the hospital each night and only a few times has she known who I was.  Last night, after calling me by her late sister’s name for over three hours, she woke from a restful sleep and questioned what took me so long to come.  I had to smile as I told her that I had never left her side and would be there until she was ready to go home.  She nodded and told me how much she was hurting as she cried over and over for Jesus to come help her.  She told me she was tired, and I understood that even though we might not be, that she was ready for whatever might come.  I held her hand and squeezed it tight, and told her that everything would soon be fine.  Then she called me by my name and asked me to scratch the hurt out of her head.

In that moment I could no longer hold back my tears.  I was suddenly reminded of how, as a little girl, my grandmother would scratch my scalp whenever I felt bad, intoning that a good head scratching could take the hurt of anything away.  There was overwhelming comfort as I sat on the floor between her thighs, my arms wrapped tightly around her legs as she meticulously parted my hair, gently oiled my scalp, then braided love back into the loose strands.  We bonded in those quiet moments, that time together all our own as we lost ourselves in conversation.  So, in the wee hours of the morning, tears streaming down my cheeks, I scratched my granny’s scalp, remembering how she had once scratched mine. 

My family and I continue to sit vigil, still at odds over what should happen next.  None of us want to lose her, but not all are trusting, believing instead that the most intrusive procedures might inevitably do what God will not. 

There are no words for the bond between me and my grandmother.  My love for her is immense, the old woman occupying every square inch of my heart.  Since I was a little girl she has trusted me with secrets that I will take to my grave, where I know that she will carry mine.  I have done the unimaginable for my grandmother, very few others coming close to moving my spirit as she has. 

And now, when she doesn’t know that I am there or even remember my name, all that I can do is hope and pray that a plastic comb and a gentle touch will bring her a semblance of comfort and help scratch her hurt away.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

Yesterday I watched a young friend who was struggling with what to do for the new love interest in his life.  His female friends were bombarding him with more ideas than he could comprehend.  As he stood in line at the mall, having selected what everyone else perceived was the perfect gift for his girl, he suddenly had a change of heart.  Nothing about the gift reflected who he was and what he stood for.  Nor did it speak to the relationship he had and was wanting with his companion.  He asked for advice and I told him to keep it simple.   I reminded him that it was more about them being together, sharing time and space, and capturing memories that would last her a lifetime, whether they remained partners or not.

One of my most memorable Valentine’s Days was my high school honey who convinced me to skip Spanish class and steal away early from school.  He’d packed a picnic lunch (turkey sandwiches, Cheetos, brownies, and bottles of coca cola).  We spent the afternoon at the beach, our butts plastered with damp sand, the one blanket he’d bought wrapped around our shoulders to ward off the cold temperature as we sat staring out over Long Island Sound.  They were the best sandwiches and brownies I’d ever tasted and to this day, Cheetos are one of my favorite feel good snacks.  We talked and laughed and had a great time and his simple gesture made me feel immensely special.

This year, Valentine’s Day came a few days early for me, with a life-changing proposition that I just had to say YES to.  So being in such a very special frame of mind on such a very special day means even more than those turkey sandwiches and Cheetos.  I’m on a path of establishing a wealth of memories that will surely last me and mine a lifetime.

This Valentine’s Day go make memories.  And know that those memories don’t have to be about any one man or woman.  Those memories should always be about an expression of love for anyone who has managed to occupy a place in your heart.

It’s Valentine’s Day.  Let everyone special in your life know how much they are loved.

WHITNEY HOUSTON

God called his Angel home today,

To lead the comeback choir.

To lift her voice in adoring praise,

And still the flames of hell's fire.

He called his Angel to his side,

Having missed her gift of song.

And now she'll sing like once before,

Having found her way back home.

Rest in peace, Whitney Houston

August 9, 1963 - February 11, 2012

HIS LASTING LEGACY

He was a man of means who led a simple life.  And despite the jobs he may have done, or the titles he might have held, he was first and foremost a father and a husband.  And it was what he did in those two roles that will be the most lasting vestige of his life.  

He was a man of great faith, respecting the high priority God put on his role as a husband and a father.  And it was what he gave to his family that defined the enormous impact he had on those who loved him best. 

His success is evident in the children that carry on his name.  His sons and daughters understand the value of an education and the importance of hard work.  They know sacrifice and persistence, possessing impeccable work ethics.  And they know that family and their unwavering faith in God has been the cornerstone of all their accomplishments.   They live the lessons their father taught, passing his wisdom down their family tree.

His daughter recently paid tribute with words of love that moved me to tears, writing--

Prayers went up and blessings came down.  God asked me how bad did I want this and I held up my hands, closed my eyes and started to walk by faith and not by sight.  When most kids were catching rides, he bought me a new car, gave me a home to house my family to make nursing school easier for me.  There were at home bible lessons for me, then years later for my daughters.  It was an honor to give up one of my jobs to take on my most important RN role, caring for my daddy.  Once in a life time when you have unconditional love, you know your purpose because God clearly orders your steps.  All that you have is nothing because you have only one reason to fight, a million reasons to not let go.  You said you were tired and I begged you to keep going.  You said you were in pain and I begged you to endure.  Procedure after procedure, pain after pain, you did it for us and in the end, we did it for you.  You are the best.  I will remember your lessons -   "Daughter, all that glitters ain’t gold.  Watch who you keep around you, everyone smiling in your face ain’t your friend.  Stay on guard because every shut eye ain’t sleep.  Believe none of what you hear and half of what you see.  Lean only on God’s word and my favorite, remember every goodbye ain’t gone. " So with that I will see you later, dad.  You beat cancer, you are finally free.  When you told me you saw Jesus I realized that letting go didn’t mean giving up, it meant placing you in better hands.  I love you, Daddy.  Rest in peace. (Tawana Harrison)

He is gone from us now, much loved and forever remembered.  And the greatest lesson he has taught all of us is that those lives that you mark at home; whether it's by your involvement positively or your neglect negatively, will be the lasting legacy of your life.

I am in awe of the legacy that that my dear cousin has left behind. 

Rest in peace, Robert Lee Fletcher, Jr.

 January 29, 1953 - January 28, 2012

A PIECE OF A MAN

I eavesdrop on a lot of conversations.  It’s a bad habit of sorts but eavesdropping on some verbal exchanges helps me determine how some of my characters may or may not interact with one another.  It gives me material to pull from when I have to write those verbal interactions. 

Today, as I shopped my favorite store, I couldn’t help overhearing an exchange between a group of young women.  Young being old enough to know better.  They were lamenting men and fathers and sperm donors---  "baby daddy" being the term of choice.  One of them was bemoaning her boyfriend’s other lover forcing her child into the neat little package that was now his life.  The current girlfriend had issues with him and his responsibilities. 

One of her friends had the audacity to comment that were that man stepping up to the plate to be a decent father and take responsibility for the child that was his child, then that baby’s mama wouldn’t have to force anything on any of them.  After their terse discussion I didn’t get the impression that the two women would continue to be friends. 

It made me revisit my book The Right Side Of Love.  There was a father in that story who didn’t want to be a father until it served his own personal needs.  The main character was a woman who didn’t force him to be responsible for his son, not wanting to be that kind of woman.  This father turned his back on his family, moved cross country and suddenly set down roots with a new wife and new kids, proving himself to be quite the paternal figure, all the while ignoring that he had another child who also needed him.   It was one of my best books and, of course, there was a very happy ending.

The young woman with the issues couldn’t seem to grasp that if her man could so easily dismiss one child, then her own children with him might not stand a fighting chance.  Heaven forbid if her children might one day have need of a father and his new woman needed him not to be. 

Her friend tried to make her understand that if the boyfriend were half the man she thought him to be then he would be gladly making himself emotionally and financially accessible to all of his children, their well-being first and foremost in his heart.  She stressed again and again that it should only have been about his child, who didn’t ask to be born in the midst of all their mess. 

But girlfriend wasn’t hearing any of it.  As long as her man was playing daddy when she needed him to, she wasn’t concerned about any of his other offspring.  She couldn’t comprehend wanting better for herself, and more importantly, wanting a better example of a man for her own children to one day admire, respect and emulate.

Sadly, for her, having a small piece of a man was better than not having a man at all.

A DAY OF SHEER PERFECTION

It was a rough start to the day.  A wild night left me with little sleep.  Then my rest was disturbed by the loud thump of a teen’s rude stereo.  Crude rap should not be the first sound heard on a beautiful Sunday morning.  To make up for it the kid gave me ten minutes of gospel and I was appeased.  Then the day improved significantly. 

I caught up on some writing while the men were off doing men things.  It was quality alone time.  Then I was in the mindset to go prowl the stores to buy myself something pretty.  But it was cold outside and I don’t like cold.  So I decided instead to stay inside and make a pot of homemade soup. 

I made the meatballs first.  Ground beef with just the hint of breadcrumbs and an egg, then seasoned to perfection and rolled into picture-perfect orbs.  While those were browning in the oven I caramelized an onion in my cast iron soup pot, adding a crushed clove of garlic, julienned carrots and diced celery.  When those onions were translucent and ready, I threw in two bunches of fresh, organic spinach and tossed them just until they were wilted.  After adding eight cups of chicken broth, two freshly diced tomatoes, a few ounces of elbow macaroni and a spattering of seasonings I left the whole pot to simmer slowly atop the stove.  Twenty minutes later I tossed in those browned meatballs and soup was ready.

The meal was complete with grilled cheddar cheese and tomato sandwiches on thick, crusty whole grain bread and deep glasses of rich, red merlot.

Now I’m curled up beneath my favorite blanket with a new book, Bernice L. McFadden’s latest release Gathering of Waters, while brownies are cooling on the counter.  I am certain that after a few chapters, a decadent dessert, and a large mug of hot chocolate tea, my day will end on a note of sheer perfection.