Whenever I called out at night to my parents from my bedroom, they were there in a flash asking what I needed. Blanketing me with their love, they comforted me in every way possible. At bedtime, my father checked underneath my bed for monsters. After a bad dream, or after interpreting lights on my windows from passing cars as men climbing up ladders to the roof, my fear was quelled by my father’s voice. On a sick day, I could count on my mother to bring me chicken noodle soup and toast and Seven-Up in a glass (with a straw!) on a tray. I had it so good.
My carpenter-father could make almost anything, even my first handmade blocks with Alphabet letters on them, and he could fix things. Inclement weather meant he couldn’t work, but we never went hungry. He let me help him plant his yearly garden on the side of the house, and my mother filled freezer boxes and bags with vegetables. My father taught me to salvage good things that others had thrown away at the trash pile in the woods across the road. When I was a young teen, he glued the wooden lid of a castoff silverware chest, re-varnished it, and gave me the best jewelry box that I would ever have. I never wanted for things that mattered.
By age nineteen I was married and living in another state, and the next year my parents’ house burned down. They were settled downtown in an older house when I returned six months later, and my stomach sank when I saw the empty place where our house had once been. My mother hemmed skirts for me from donated clothing. Before the end of that year, I went to Germany to accompany my husband with the Army, and returned almost two years later. My father passed away that year.
Eventually, we moved out of the apartment into our brand new house, and two years later we had a child, and then one more a year later. Sometimes things were hard, but we had food and other necessities. My mother died. The children grew up, one married and moved far away. The separation came, leaving me and my disabled son at home. The house was foreclosed on, and we had nowhere to go except to move into a trailer.
Recently, the Flu hit me, and it was much harder than I remember from long ago. It took every bit of strength I could muster in order to get out of bed and fix myself some chicken noodle soup, and for some reason I remembered how it used to taste, much better than nowadays. Lying in a fevered stupor, I attempted to focus on writing this column, but it wasn’t materializing.
Normally, I begin a poem in my head, and that has become part of the writing process for me. Gazing across my tiny bedroom, my weary eyes landed on a book that my parents gave me for Christmas fifty years ago, a Webster’s New World Dictionary, College Edition. It has followed me throughout my lifetime. A while back, talking by phone with my old newspaper editor, I let him know that I had gone back to poetry and had discontinued writing columns and feature articles. “Don’t put up any stop signs,” he urged.
Researching online about the topic of uncertainty, I found several articles that seemed to apply to my present situation, that of being a senior citizen. One suggested that the way we deal with uncertainty impacts our sense of well-being and general health. Although I consider myself to be a strong woman and a survivor, many situations have made me
fearful, in spite of my inner faith. Fibromyalgia is something that I deal with; some believe it manifests itself as a result of stress.
Uncertainty and change are expected in life, and if we know how to adjust we can have better, happier lives. I wonder what the impact would be on future generations if those types of life skills could be taught in schools. Not coping with uncertainty and change can affect our minds as well as our bodies.
The handwritten life story that my mother left me in a spiral notebook speaks to me of her challenges and how she dealt with them. Staying calm in the face of despair gets harder for me as I get older, but when I do, I can think more clearly and rationally. As a result, I can lead a productive and happy life, which is my ultimate goal. As I tell my friends, life is like a board game, one square at a time.
