Words on an angel

26 Wednesday Mar 2025

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Some folks are on the edge.

Between writer and reader, they are frozen. Is the next step worthwhile? Consider the following words by the late writer Janet Frame.

“I am not really a writer. I am just someone who is haunted and I will write the hauntings down.”

Driven by her curiosity and deep observance of the ordinary, Frame’s real-life stories made it down on paper — detailing her family living in closeness — at times, in flimsy railroad housing — four sisters in one tiny bed.

Frame was born in 1924 in Dunedin, in the Southeast of New Zealand’s South Island. With her father’s job the family moved several times. Her early childhood years were spent in various small towns in the country’s South Island provinces of Otago and Southland including Outram and Wyndham, before they eventually settled in the coastal town of Oamaru.

For some, her reality may not have been worth noting. Her father, George, was a railway engineer for the New Zealand Government Railways, and her mother, Lottie, served as a housemaid. She had four siblings of which she was the third.

Her words are far from translating exciting events or exotic travels. But it was within the small and intricate she had found keen interest, which is vital to a composition’s success. The details in her writings take one inside small daily events, such as the outdoors she adored including fishing trips.

“This passion for the outside world was strengthened by the many journeys we made in dad’s grey Lizzie Ford to rivers and seas in the south, for dad was a keen fisherman, and while he fished, we played and picnicked and told stories, following the example of mother who also composed poems and stories while we waited for the billy to boil over the manuka fire,” she wrote. “The poems that mother recited to us on those picnics were prompted by the surroundings — the lighthouse at Waipapa, the Aurora Australis in the sky. ‘Look, the Southern Lights, kiddies.'”

While fun was had, Frame also wrote about the tragedies of her two adolescent sisters, Myrtle and Isabel, drowning in separate incidents and the hardship on the family, and her brother George who suffered from epileptic seizures at a time with little information of treatment and understanding.

Misdiagnosed with schizophrenia in her early 20s kept Frame in New Zealand psychiatric institutions for eight years, receiving more than 200 rounds of electroshock therapy, according to research. Her first published book, “The Lagoon and Other Stories,” won one of the biggest, most prestigious literary prizes in New Zealand, the Hubert Church Award — just as she was scheduled to undergo a lobotomy.

The award canceled the lobotomy, and Frame went on to write and publish 21 books in her lifetime. Some of her collection includes 11 novels, short story collections, a volume of poetry and a children’s book. One of her autobiographical works, “An Angel at My Table,” was made into a television series by Jane Campion in 1990.

This was the beginning of my love affair with Janet Frame. After watching it twice, I sought out her writings. As a fan I am in good company as in addition to the Hubert Church Award, some of her numerous honors include membership in The Order of New Zealand, the Prime Minister’s Award for Literary Achievement and was named an Arts Foundation Icon Artist.

Janet lived to be 79. Her poem “The End” was printed on a giant electronic billboard in Times Square in February of 2012, about two years before her death. It announced a list of New Zealand poets and was read in a live performance on Feb. 28. Her reading was recited by her niece, Pamela Gordon.

The book containing the poem,” The Goose Bath,” was printed posthumously, collected and arranged by Gordon, Denis Harold and Bill Manhire. Reportedly found in a stack of other writings, it is hard to say when “The End” was written. I have included my favorite stanza, showing the writer’s ongoing incredible depth and imagination. Through some of her ideas, she is truly the mother of invention.

“I suppose, here, at the end, if I put out a path upon the air
I could walk on it, continue my life;
A plastic carpet, tight-rope style
But I’ve nothing beyond the end to hitch it to,
I can’t see into the mist around the ocean;
I still have to change to a bird or a fish.”

I am not really a writer; and that is all.

Published in The Herald.

Let’s play ball

09 Thursday Jan 2025

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In his 1961 inaugural address, President John F. Kennedy said the world is very different now.

“We dare not forget today that we are the heirs of that first revolution,” he said. “Let the word go forth from this time and place to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans — born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage — and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this nation has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home and around the world.”

While America has always been divided, today’s problems seem to have escalated — not us against them, but us against us. President Donald Trump said in his acceptance speech in 2017 that it’s time for America to bind the wounds of division.

“We have to get together to all republicans and democrats and independents across the nation,” he said. “I say it is time for us to come together as one united people.”

Did it happen?

The inauguration of President Joe Biden in 2021 brought his pledge to be a president that seeks not to divide, but unify, who does not see red states and blue states, but only United States.

“I sought this office to restore America, to rebuild the backbone of this nation — the middle class — and to make America respected around the world again and to unite us here at home.”

Maybe there weren’t enough hours in the day.

Again Donald Trump will be sworn in, this time as the 47th President of the United States, on Jan. 20, 2025. Folks have heard him say that he will try to unify the country. With its approximately 335 million people, no matter the president, that is and always will be a lofty goal.

What about us?

During my high school graduation ceremony a few years ago, one speech I will always remember was from Woody Hayes, the late great Ohio State football coach, who found time to visit what was the little farm town of Heath, Ohio, stand on a tiny podium in a country field, and deliver some impactful remarks to the 95 graduating students and their families. Paying forward was his theme.

Take this attitude toward life, he said, quoting Ralph Waldo Emerson. “He said you can pay back only seldom,” Hayes said. “But you can always pay forward, and you must pay line for line, deed for deed, and cent for cent. He said beware of too much good accumulating in your palm or it will fast corrupt. That was Emerson’s attitude and no one put it better than he did.”

No matter the president, what are we doing to our fellow Americans or to each other in this wild and wonderful world? What can we bring to the table?

“In football, we always say ‘That other team can’t beat us. We have to make sure that we don’t beat ourselves.’ And that is what a person has to do, too — make sure that they don’t beat themselves,” Hayes said.

Let’s play ball; and that is all.

Published in The Herald.

A rite of passage

30 Monday Dec 2024

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Whom do we follow?

Holding onto what we think we know can sometimes find us on unsure footing. Terry, a long-haired Vietnam Veteran from West Virginia was the sharpest shrimp peeler in the West, sometimes peeling 10 at a time with his eyes closed. Every day he wore an old, brown leather belt with “John” carved in it, formerly belonging to his wife’s ex.

Some folks thought Terry deserved his own belt, and just in time for Christmas, they chipped in and bought him the best hand-carved one money could buy with his name handsomely inscribed. Christmas came and went as did the subsequent seasons, and Terry never wore the belt.

The lesson for me was said best by John Lennon, “The more I see, the less I know for sure.” While it seemed that Terry was in need, he liked John’s worn-in and comfortable belt.

I sometimes see similar misunderstandings in the perception of my preferred art style. Abstract Expressionism is a post-World War II art movement in American painting developed in New York in the 1940s as the New York School. It put New York City at the center of the Western art world.

Many purveyors and consumers alike have rejected the nonrepresentational markings and gestural lines. But some have found them exciting and worthwhile. Opening up to something new is refreshing and a formidable endeavor, especially in a world where we consume a lot of what is fed.

The late Robert Motherwell was one of the founders and principal advocates of Abstract Expressionism and was among the artists working in Manhattan. He is credited for coining the term New York School. “I almost never start with an image. I start with a painting idea, an impulse, usually derived from my own world,” he said.

His black and white photo is taped to my handmade easel thoughtfully crafted by my brother about 30 years ago. And when I am stuck in my creating process, I lean into Motherwell’s face as he casually smokes a cigarette and say something like, “Come on, help an old girl out. What should I do here?”

Some other Abstract Expressionists include Motherwell’s wife, Helen Frankenthaler, Jackson Pollock and his wife Lee Krasner, William Baziotes, Grace Hartigan, and one of my favorites — painter and sculptor David Smith who bent metal into wild strands taking us beyond our wildest imaginings.

And while viewers may not recognize anything, they almost always bring something new to the exchange, describing what they see or feel. That guidance and those ideas are what I value the most, even if they are negative.

What we think is valuable can change on a dime. I once put a lot of power in people’s perceptions of me. Seeing a stack of vividly colored vintage suitcases featured in a local thrift store window reminded me of those days.

One Monday morning just after walking through the double doors of my high school, which spilled into a main hallway where everyone gathered, I was jerked into a bad day by my brother who was a popular eleventh-grader. Merely a freshman and trying hard to blend, I had arrived early because I was carrying an ugly flowered suitcase to return to my friend in private.

My brother plotted and schemed and greeted me with “Look at my sister everyone and her flowered suitcase!” Responding quickly, I ran back out and slid on the shiny tiles into a side door only to find that he awaited with the same glaring announcement.

While it was horrible, in hindsight, I thank him for that rite of passage from which came a “who cares” attitude, because nobody really did. When we find our minds are guided and influenced by others, it is helpful to ask “why.” Things aren’t always as they seem and sometimes deserve a closer look.

Working on discovery; and that is all.

Published in “The Herald.”

‘Do not be too moral’

18 Monday Nov 2024

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In kindergarten, I learned to make a paper turkey with my hand.

Spreading my fingers wide, I traced each one, drawing round the bottom of my palm for its stomach, adding lines for legs and feet and a gobbler under my thumb. Who looked at a turkey and decided a hand would make a great pattern? Was it the same person who designed the heart shape made into cookies and drawings for Valentine’s Day?

The beauty is in the simplicity making every child a success. Every turkey is shaped the same. But then the freedom comes — decorating each finger shape as a feather, adding an artery and vein extending up, wild hues and stripes transforming the drawings into exquisite creatures as varied as the fingerprints making them, reminding me of a Sunday when Father Pius Wekesa shared a lesson about compassion.

“Our fingerprints never fade from the lives we touch — it is our legacy,” he said. “Never look down at someone unless you are picking them up.” And while Father Pius has this down, I struggle with the simple instructions in the Corporal Works of Mercy: feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, clothe the naked, visit the sick and imprisoned, bury the dead and give alms to the poor.

I seldom go out of my way to help folks. But I had the opportunity to visit my cousin in prison several times for the charge of cold-blooded murder. This man was one of my favorite boys growing up — a little older, always playing around and thinking of unique ideas — placing spoonfuls of frozen juice concentrate in his mouth, taking a drink and jumping up and down to mix it all; allowing us to make doughnuts in the snow with his car (prelicense); and sharing tales of suspense much more shocking and important than our tender ears were accustomed.

I learned he had lost his way and started using drugs, crushing my heart and jamming my mind with a new inconceivable worry. The discovery of his imprisonment wounded me to the core. This boy that I love was in a cold cell subject to ANYTHING. When he was arrested they called him Jesus because of his long hair and beard that framed his interesting, angular face.

Bringing him cartons of Pall Mall, I enjoyed our conversations against a graphic mural painted on the wall by other inmates, while others visited their loved ones. He taught me even in the dark there are flowers as his prison sentence helped his father overcome the racism he had learned and taught in his life. Some of my cousin’s newfound friends were of other races and cultures and were kind to him.

During one visit I remember looking at his hands, the same hands of the boy racing out in play, lighting sparklers on the Fourth of July and grabbing mine as I ran in fear of the fire. He showed me a few inches up where his arm no longer straightens at the elbow. The crank he injected eventually became straight ether, causing the permanent curve.

Out of the list of the Corporal Works of Mercy, visiting prison seems the most unlikely, but if you get the opportunity, I promise you will find it worthwhile.

“Do not be too moral,” said Henry David Thoreau. “You may cheat yourself out of much life, so aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something.”

Working on it; and that is all.

Published in The Herald.

‘Darkness there and nothing more’

29 Tuesday Oct 2024

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The Poe Museum lives in Richmond, Virginia, where I traveled during the height of COVID-19.

Located in the Shockoe Bottom neighborhood, it was closed. Though the late Edgar Allan Poe never lived in the building, it serves to commemorate his time there. Without entrance to the museum, you’ll find plenty of Poe everywhere, including inside an old book, “The Pocket University, Volume XVIII, Part 1, Autobiography Writers,” edited by George Iles, published in 1923.

Printed in the book is a letter, by Poe, as quoted in the Yankee and the Boston Literary Gazette in December of 1829.

“I am a young — not yet twenty — am a poet if deep worship of all beauty can make me one — and wish to be so in the more common meaning of the word.

“I would give the world to embody one-half the ideas afloat in my imagination. [By the way, do you remember — or did you ever read the exclamation of Shelly about Shakespeare? — What a number of ideas must have been afloat before such an author could arise!

“I appeal to you as a man that loves the same beauty that I adore — the beauty of the natural blue sky and the sunshiny earth — there can be no tie more strong than that of brother for brother — it is not so much that they love one another, as that they both love the same parent — their affections are always running in the same direction — the same channel — and cannot help mingling.

“I am, and have been from my childhood, an idler. It cannot there be said that I left a calling for this idle trade, a duty broke, a father disobeyed — for I have no father nor mother.

“I am about to publish a volume of poems, the greater part written before I was 15. Speaking about heaven, the editor of the Yankee says, ‘He might write a beautiful, if not a magnificent poem’ [the very first words of encouragement I ever remember to have heard]. I am very certain that as yet I have not written either — but that I can, I will take oath, if they will give me time.”

His promise was fulfilled in a volume of poems, “Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems,” published that same year.

On July 7, 2007, a popularity poll resulted in an announcement of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World: The Great Wall-Beijing, China; The City of Petra-Jordania; Christ the Redemmer-Rio-de-Janeiro, Brazil; The Machu Picchu-Cuzco, Peru; Chichen Itza-Valladolid, Mexico; The Colosseum-Roma, Italy; and the Tag Mahal-Agra, India.

If people were considered, undoubtedly Poe would have made the list. He was described by fellow scribe, George E. Woodberry as:
“An artist primarily whose skill, helped by the finest sensitive and perceptive powers in himself, was developed by thought, patience, and endless self-correction into a subtle deftness of hand unsurpassed in its own work, he belonged to the men of culture instead of those of originally perfect power; but being gifted with the dreaming instinct, the myth-making faculty, the allegorizing power, and with no other poetic element of high genius, he exercised his art in a region of vague feeling, symbolic ideas, and fantastic imagery, and wrought his spell largely through sensuous effects of colour, sound and gloom, heightened by lurking but unshaped suggestion of mysterious meanings.”

Poe died Oct. 7, 1849, at the age of 40. On Oct. 3, Dr. Joseph E. Snodgrass received the following note from Baltimore City, according to the Poe Museum website.

“Dear Sir, There is a gentleman, rather worse for wear, at Ryan’s 4th ward polls, who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe, and who appears in great distress and he says he is acquainted with you, he is in need of immediate assistance. Yours in haste, JOS W. Walker.”

Without an autopsy, some of the theories causing his death include beating, epilepsy, dipsomania, heart, toxic disorder, and diabetes. How fitting of Poe to shroud his death in a mystical aura.

“Darkness there and nothing more.”

Published in The Herald.





Preparing for the storms ahead

17 Sunday Sep 2023

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The truth is in the trees it seems.

When my siblings and I were little, our dad — the late Bob Kaiser — gave us little tidbits of wisdom. One was to look at the trees for signs of an impending storm.

“When leaves show their undersides, be very sure rain betides,” goes the old wives’ tale.

The Farmers’ Almanac calls this weather folklore. Coming from a time without science to predict the weather, folks relied on their senses and the power of observation passed down and down from generation to generation, ultimately relying on each other.

And it works — dad was right. Whenever I saw the leaves turning inside out, I dropped my tennis racket, grabbed my Free Spirit bicycle and headed for home, pedaling as fast I could. Getting caught in thunder, lightning and strong gales of wind have been some of the most frightening, motivating experiences of my youth, nearly causing me to wreck getting home.  

In this case, it seems the science also backs up the claim. The leaves of deciduous trees, like maples and poplars, do often turn upward before heavy rain, the Farmer’s Almanac reads. The leaves react to the sudden increase in humidity causing those with soft stems to become limp in response to the change, allowing the wind to flip them over.

But with the modern reliance on weather reports, some of those keen observations have gone by the wayside. The buildup in the media, for most, was larger than Friday morning’s storm — thank goodness.

And while the damage was limited in this area, except for a few very sad and tragic cases, we were prepared. Town officials creatively reacted with limited resources and shelters, and the usual lineup of reliable utility truckdrivers waited to deploy and help with power outages.

Another great man once said it is in the nature of humans to face challenges. In 1930, a fellow Buckeye Neil Armstrong was born. He became the first person to set foot on the moon in July of 1969, spending eight days, 14 hours and 30 seconds in space.

“I think we’re going to the moon because it’s in the nature of the human being to face challenges,” Armstrong said during the Apollo mission press conference. “It’s by the nature of his deep inner soul…we’re required to do these things just as salmon swim upstream.”

And the willingness to explore vast continents doesn’t just come from humans. My little cat Rudy survived long enough for his discovery under a tree during a blustery thunderstorm where he was crying and crying, barely audible above the roar. To him, the vast openness of the Enfield prairie must have seemed impossible to conquer with his tiny legs, but he persevered.

The nature of his inner soul kept him swimming upstream, unaware of his smallness. Had he not been alone, he may have missed a reason to become extraordinary, overcoming any doubts and dark imaginings to live a happy life.

And so we go.

“With every mistake, we must surely be learning,” the great, late and beautiful poet George Harrison wrote.

Keeping the faith; and that is all.

Published in The Herald

My Santa was the greatest of all

24 Saturday Dec 2022

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Memories can make or break our Christmases.

Mine fall into the category of greatness — followed by frenzied, hysterical, warm-hearted and glowing.

Raised by an orphan starved of big Christmases, my dad, the late and authentic Bob Kaiser, bountifully bestowed them upon us. It was not until I had grown I realized the great efforts of him and my momma, Janice, going into providing the magic.

Nothing was visible before Christmas — except for the extensive baking and the yule log made of driftwood found on a trip to Lake Michigan — until the wee hours of Christmas morning, when the first of us awoke, dragging the others down the steps. We were greeted by my dad in his 1960s red-quilted long johns; ravaged hair; and wide, gap-toothed grin; with only the lights of the Christmas tree glowing in the dark ’round his head like an angel’s halo.

For him, the reward was watching our excited glee, wide-eyed in complete awe of the shocking splendor.

Little did we know he had been at it all night long, decorating the tree, hauling the wrapped gifts out of hiding and arranging the pile for seven into a beautiful, peak of colorful breathtaking beauty and lighted glory. Adding to the atmosphere, he played one of our many Christmas albums, featuring Bing Crosby, Perry Como and Andy Williams.

As his most important project unfolded, he inhaled the joy of each gift unwrapping — one by one — we watched. He handed them out thoughtfully, saying our names “Robin,” “Della,” “Mikey,” “Carolyn,” and “Mindy.” And then came the hush over the room as something was handed to my momma, watching her reaction to the personal — perfume, furs and fancy gowns.

Reminding me of “A Christmas Memory,” the short story by the late great Truman Capote. Originally published in Mademoiselle magazine in December 1956, it has since been reprinted and televised.

Research says the story is mostly autobiographical taking place in the southern 1930s, describing a time of the 7-year-old narrator, “Buddy,” and an elderly distant cousin and best friend. Focusing on a hard, poor country life, and a great and valuable friendship, the story centers around the two saving pennies and trading tin to purchase ingredients they collect in a wagon, to hopefully make enough fruitcakes for Christmas gifts. As usual, Capote’s details are not spared in this story of love, holiday spirit and loss.

I first discovered “A Christmas Memory” in a book of Capote’s short stories published in the 1950s, featuring “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” “House of Flowers” and “A Diamond Guitar.” I have since purchased the story in a hard-bound Reader’s Digest collection of Christmas stories, letters, history and art.

Reading it to myself, the story has become a part of my holiday tradition but always beginning with trepidation. As a spoiler alert, the ending is sad, but the journey is so enriching and worthwhile — kind of like life.

We all know how it ends, but making the most of the gifts we receive is the larger idea here.

Capote wrote in his personal way some words for the old cousin, “My, how foolish I am! You know what I’ve always thought? I’ve always thought a body would have to be sick and dying before they saw the Lord. And I imagined that when He came it would be like looking at the Baptist window: pretty as colored glass with the sun pouring through, such a shine you don’t know it’s getting dark.

“And it’s been a comfort: to think of that shine taking away all the spooky feeling. But I’ll wager it never happens. I’ll wager at the very end a body realizes the Lord has already shown Himself. That things as they are, just what they’ve always seen, was seeing Him. As for me, I could leave the world with today in my eyes.”

Merry Christmas Santa; and that is all.



The dog, the paperweight, the house and the tree

25 Tuesday Oct 2022

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A group of vultures lives near me.

Its roost, a tall tree is dead with few branches but no less intimidating in its starkness against the sky, especially loaded with them, all darkly powerful and ever-watchful.

Vultures are family-oriented and their roosts are known, in some cases, to be more than 100 years old.

Why that tree? It doesn’t seem to have much to offer in its deadliness, but something about it has drawn the birds. At one time, it was alive offering shelter and beauty. It could have been in the family for a hundred years and its death went without notice.

But who knows? Maybe it is better bare and old for finding prey without interference from lofty branches. Regardless, the birds have found value in the tree.

I wonder sometimes why folks value what they do. Things that are very often left behind after they die for others to find.

A recent trip to the Tar River Flea Market, near Rocky Mount, found me wondering about a large display of ceramic figurines including one very stained dog. I wondered what the vendor was thinking, hauling them all in and lining them up or who the owners are.

Who would save them — who would buy them?
But then one of my most beloved treasures came to mind. It is a white paperweight with an eye printed on it in black ink. Years before, when I was but a sapling, I picked it up and said, “Momma, when you die this is all I want.” She said, “Take it now.”

It is proudly displayed in my bedroom next to the sparkly green paperweight with the scorpion, which lost its life for me, forever preserved in some type of liquid under a plastic dome. I took it from my son’s bedroom after he left for college.
 
Before I moved on to other worlds, long ago I grew up in Ohio in a modest home that I found enchanting. I have since sat outside of it and looked from window to window and at the yard, conjuring those voices from long ago of my four siblings and my parents who have all also moved elsewhere.  

Some of those include my then very innocent young brother running the Nazi flag, bestowed upon him by our uncle Richard a veteran of World War II, up our flagpole — too young to know what it meant; my oldest sister sneaking out of her bedroom window to go on dates late at night; and my dad fixing our lawn mower in the kitchen on Easter Sunday.

It was the first time I learned how loud a lawnmower sounds running inside the house after he started it in the kitchen among my mother’s specially prepared ham and holiday feast.

Our two pine trees that were once so small now have outgrown the house and the property. The pale, yellow siding has faded and the red and white work shed that my dad built out back is now gone. The backyard fence that housed so many games of kickball, my momma’s garden and the sweet, green smell of the neat, diagonal rows in which my dad mowed the grass, is also missing.

When my dad was still living that home came up for sale. In a moment of hope I called him up and said, “Dad, let’s buy the house as a time-share.” To which he replied, “Are you drunk?”

It was then that I realized sometimes we are alone in what we love and value. We think that others see it too, but how cold the realization can come when they don’t. Just like that stained ceramic dog, the paperweights, my childhood home and the vultures’ dead tree — approval is not required when we decide something is valuable and worthwhile.

We love what we love; and that is all.

Published in The Herald

Bicycling with Seals & Crofts

02 Friday Sep 2022

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Undoubtedly, the advantages of new technology help us all.

Through developments in medicine, communication, construction and education — we benefit.
While some in this world were born in these modern times — I feel lucky having experienced pre-internet.

Motivated by the threat of boredom, the practiced skillset required to find fun is still in motion. Imaginations were fine-tuned and road-tested with memories of the interconnectivity between activities the most lingering.

A bike — the most valuable component in the plan — was often a shared asset. The first with a friend Laura Hartley, her pedaling and me on the handlebars, singing “King of Nothing” by Seals & Crofts, over and over and over and over again — a first obsession.

A typical day — traveling for miles then stopping at Smiley’s Pizza in Heath, Ohio, for a sundae bar, then riding to her aunt Cindy’s apartment, running up to the hot attic and poring over vintage, bound Life magazines.

Burning inside forever includes the photographs contained in the Dec. 6, 1963, edition of the assassination of President Jon F. Kennedy. The motorcade through downtown Dallas left him shot twice, leaving most Americans in a silent despair — remembering where they were.

The still snapshots came with the shuttering sound of the camera in my mind, as eyes darted from one to the next, examining. Seeing the reaction of First Lady Jacqueline, all dressed up leaning over her bleeding husband, one of the first fearful ideas shattering through my innocent, rose-colored view of the world.

Another bike shared with a friend Susan Price, was a 10-speed with her standing on the pedals driving, while I sat holding on. We were older with our travels including tours by the homes of cute boys or teachers then stopping by Hoback Park, eating the nonpareils on chocolate purchased by the pound from Sears, Roebuck and Co.

The Sears where in third grade my Halloween drawing was one of the few chosen to be painted on one of the large windows. It was also the Sears where we purchased Brach’s malted milk eggs at Easter time and caramel-coated marshmallows wrapped in wax paper — my dad’s favorite; the Sears where my little sister’s best friend soared through on roller skates while being chased by the manager; and where community parades passed by in which my brother, Michael, was a common feature once pulling a rusty, red wagon decorated by American flags, containing our dog Scamper.

It was also the place where my momma dragged me to purchase my first bra when I was shocked to learn — following years of topless freedom, the last memory of which I stood on top of a doghouse, barefoot in pedal-pushers — the repulsion of the daily strapping of tight elastic around my chest. The reality stung, realizing my life had changed — forever.

“Oh , the humanity.”

While considering growing up in a less-advanced time a privilege, looking back sometimes brings sadness. These words written by Bill Lane and Roger Nichols are the first paragraph in my sister, Della’s, Heath High School yearbook.

“Good morning, yesterday
You wake up and time has slipped away
And suddenly it’s hard to find those memories you left behind
Remember, do you remember?”

Reading them always brings the same longing — for Sears, and the bikes, and my parents waiting for me to rush through the door to the smell of apple dumplings cooking on the stove with the sun dwindling into the imminent nightfall, exposing the hope the shimmering stars might bring.

While enjoying the new, I am grateful for those long-ago days at 101 Fieldpoint.

Thanks be to God; and that is all.

Adventures in West Virginia

10 Wednesday Aug 2022

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Over the weekend I was reminded —

Home is where the heart is. One of those places is West Virginia, inhabiting my son Joey within its majestic beauty.

As the twists and turns of the turnpike brought me closer and closer to my love, I thought of the few places considered essential on my itinerary.

One is the Spring Hill Cemetery towering over the city with its ancient and newly buried. In 1794, Charleston was authorized as a town and until 1869, the municipal cemetery was a small plot next to the Kanawha River on the James River and Kanawha Turnpike, according to research.

By 1869, the ground had run out of space, and the city began Spring Hill Cemetery on a hill overlooking Charleston. After more than 130 years, the sprawling grounds have grown to more than 150 acres, marking it West Virginia’s largest cemetery.

Designed by civil engineer A.J. Vosburg, the Old Circle section — my favorite — incorporates thoughtful geometric patterns for the walkways typical of the Victorian era, where I have spent some hours creating stone rubbings. One made its way into a painting, which through a judgment process, landed into a juried exhibit, where at the opening one of my art professors said it was his favorite piece in the show.

The logistics are a bit of a challenge, crossing bridges and one-way streets to the furthest edges of town, holding secrets of the past in what lies beneath. History here is rich and powerful, guarded by the holy statues and monuments of marble.

To the old space I have also brought a tape recorder, part of a paranormal experiment for a research project as a psychology major. Leaning in, Joey and I thought we heard a woman’s voice on the tape, but we still are unsure. We played the three second bit over and over for awhile, scaring folks with the possibility of proof — afterlife exists in Spring Hill Cemetery.

Other memories include a history alive, sitting among the tombstones to hear not once — but twice, the riveting history of the embalming process by a fellow from a local mortuary. Laying out his casketry he shared examples of old, including some wicker caskets once housing bowls of ice under the head, for preservation purposes.

While it is a place of sadness for some, the towering view of the city reminds one of the living, especially when lit by the twinkling lights of the motion below. I also enjoyed many a hike there, hosted by the Handlan Chapter of the Brooks Bird Club, whose members listen and identify birds by their beautiful and unique songs.

Another must stop is the Big Loafer in Huntington, where everything is encased in homemade bread dough and baked to a puffy wonderfulness. The big loafer is more sophisticated, with its meatloaf and tangy sauce, but the smell of yeast is strong when biting into my favorite choice, the simple American cheese sandwich with two ingredients — cheese and the doughy goodness. A sprinkling of salt makes this delicacy the richest in the western world.

Not that it holds a candle to pizza, but between the two — it is a true tug-of-war. Speaking of another stop, Husson’s Pizza, with its thin crust at the point expanding into a thick edge. The sauce is sweet and generously applied for a sweet chorus of banana peppers and pepperoni.

My favorite supposedly haunted Carriage Trail, leading up the Sunrise Mansion in Charleston, is on the list. Folks parking their cars at the bottom benefit from the winding gravel that once carried horse and carriage to the massive overbearing structure. Along the way old steps are visible, once taking folks up the steep incline to the back of the house — dried up, once regal fountains, rot along with the stone walls going up to the road above, skeletal survivals of that once upon a time.

Closing my eyes can bring the sound of clomping hooves, whinnying horses and wagon wheels, scraping along the way. Signs of the past are tucked in, including the first and the spookiest of all — an engraved monument of two lady spies who were tried, found guilty, taken to the site, shot and buried there, then relocated some years later.

It is said the ladies’ spirits roam the trail still, contrasted by a sacred heart of Jesus statue resting peacefully.

The last stop Monday morning, was the best. Gina Puzzuoli, owner of Stray Dog Antiques on Hale Street, opened for a special appointment for us to shop. She is a psychiatrist in Charleston, who opened the magical store, full of books, antiques, clothing, art — you name it. She also passes down her discounts to shoppers, regardless of the item’s value. We purchased an old photograph, a vintage robe dress, a book and a couple of purses.

But the inventory is not the reason to shop there, it is Ms. Gina, enriching our lives with her very presence. She is one of God’s gifts to the world — and then there is my Joey.

Feeling grateful; and that is all.

Published in The Herald

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