A Gift for Dan

I didn’t like Dan Case the first time I met him. He clearly doted on my sister, but there was something about him that made me uncertain. I perceived him as arrogant, but over time, I came to see him differently. I came to see the real Dan. I came to see him as a man who cared deeply and loved big, especially with my sister. They eventually married and he became a permanent part of my family. We all came to love Dan Case.

In early December of 2014, Dan was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the effects of the cancer and the necessary treatments hit Dan quickly. Over a period of months he changed from a bold, dynamic man to someone who couldn’t get out of bed. Following several hospitalizations and a brief stay in a full-time care facility, Barbra brought Dan home for the duration of his illness. It was the summer of 2015. Barbra was trying to balance caring for Dan with normal daily tasks. She was also working full-time in her floral design business while trying to negotiate its sale. She was exhausted and Dan was bored at home. I was able to visit him in their home every few weeks during the summer and early fall. We spent the afternoons discussing politics, good food, family, travel, and horses. Dan, and his family, raised racehorses and ran them at Remington Park. He loved to talk about horses. 

He continued to ponder future events and planned things he was going to do in the coming months and years. Only on a rare occasion did he indicate any acceptance of his predictable death. On one visit, our discussion turned to my upcoming trip to the United Kingdom. We talked about how exciting it would be to be surrounded by such history. Dan asked me to get his wallet off the dresser. He thumbed through it and handed me $200 in cash. He told me to bring him something from my trip. He wanted something old. He suggested a coin. Actually, he mentioned a coin several times, but he told me to surprise him. I promised I would find just the right thing.  

Dan died the next week. We threw ourselves into grieving and navigating the new normal as the departure date for my trip neared. I asked Barbra if she wanted me to use Dan’s money to buy his surprise gift or if she wanted it returned. She instructed me to buy Dan’s gift. So I tucked the bills into a separate section of my wallet and reaffirmed my intention to find the perfect gift for Dan; a remembrance gift.

The little stash of money was never far from my mind as I walked the streets of London and browsed the local shops of the Lake District. Nothing stood out or spoke to me. I stopped in multiple shops in Inverness with the sole purpose of finding the right gift for Dan. I held many items in my hands, but nothing resonated. I came up empty every time. There were a few moments when I was afraid I would not find exactly what he and I had discussed. But I quickly pushed such thoughts out of my mind and stayed focused on remaining open to the gift finding me.

After Inverness, I traveled to the Isle of Skye where tourist shops were almost nonexistent. In Broadford, I passed by a small metal building set in a parking lot in the middle of town. The sign on the building read, "Antiques, Bric-a-Brac & Curios". I pulled in and parked. As I walked up to the door, my steps crunching on gravel, I was greeted by a friendly black cat. This place had good energy. Maybe I would find Dan’s gift here. As I stepped into the store I chuckled to myself. Every surface was covered with treasures, knick knacks, and antiques. There was a narrow path that meandered among the possibilities. I looked carefully, but nothing stood out. Maybe I needed to look more closely. I circled back through the maze of jewelry, small furniture pieces, and pottery. I picked up a Beatrix Potter piece for a gift and a brooch of sterling silver with a beautiful black stone for myself, but nothing for Dan. The next stop on my trip was Edinburgh. 

I spent my first morning in Edinburgh dodging the rain and visiting traditional stops: St. Giles Cathedral, the Grassmarket, and Edinburgh Castle. After leaving the castle, I started the long walk toward my hotel. As I strolled down the Royal Mile, I glanced across to the other side of the street and my gaze was drawn to a small shop snuggled in a row of mismatched buildings. I really can’t say what drew me to the shop, but I felt an insistent need to stop.

The sign above the front window read, "Royal Mile Curios, established 1875" and I crossed the street to see what treasures were on display. As I stared through the glass, a medallion stood out among the exquisite jewelry and antique coins. The medallion looked to be silver and "For Best Foal" was engraved on one side. I caught my breath! This might be it! My hands shook slightly as I opened the heavy door and entered the tiny shop. I approached the counter and was greeted by an elderly Scotsman wearing a lovely wool suit complete with a vest and bow tie. I asked if I could see the medallion in the window….the one with the "best foal" engraving. The distinguished looking gentleman retrieved it and carefully laid it on the counter. It was secured in a smooth leather case. He explained, as he opened the case, that he also had its original velvet bag. He took the medallion out of the case and handed it to me. When the cool metal touched my skin, I felt a tingle of energy run through my hand. I turned it over and read the inscription, “For Best Foal, 1886”. My whole body trembled. I looked at the price and with a quick mental conversion from pounds to dollars, I realized the price was just under $200.

So there I stood, turning the medallion over in my hands, reading the engraving over again and again. I couldn’t believe it was real. Tears quietly ran down my cheeks, my legs felt weak, and my hands continued to shake. The kind man behind the counter said in his heavy Scottish brogue, “I am not going to ask, but this is obviously important to you.” I nodded and stammered, “It is. It is perfect.”  

The price of the coin was almost exactly the amount Dan had given me. It was old, just as Dan had wanted. It was a type of coin, just as Dan had mentioned. It was engraved with a horse, which represented Dan perfectly. This was exactly the item which I had been seeking.

The dapper gentleman carefully placed the medallion into the leather case and slipped the case into the velvet bag. I wiped my tears, retrieved Dan's cash, and paid for my prized purchase. I then slipped it into my purse along with the change. 

As I exited onto the bustling High Street, I was a bundle of mixed emotions. I was excited that after weeks of traipsing about England and Scotland….searching through antique stores and curio shops…..wondering if I would find the perfect item….I had found it! I also realized I was grieving for Dan. I wanted desperately to take this purchase home to him. I could only imagine what he would have said....what his expression would have been. I could only imagine the conversations we would have had about how I found his perfect gift.

I carried Dan’s horse medallion in my purse for the remainder of my trip, not trusting its safety in my luggage. It accompanied me through the streets of Liverpool, into the Welsh mountains of Snowdonia, and across the English countryside of the Jurassic Coast. At long last, I brought it home and presented it to my sister, Barbra. The exchange was a mix of emotions: tears of grief, hugs of joy, and exclamations of amazement about the appropriateness of the medallion. We both agreed that Dan would have loved it. It really was the perfect gift. And, without a doubt, I did not find it....it found me! 

 

Father's Day 2020: A Difficult Year

The bouquet of wildflowers gathered from my
property in memory of my dad. 

Many years the day comes and goes without any noticeable change in my energy level or emotion. This is not one of those years. Perhaps it is the added emotion of world events. Perhaps it is the sense of upheaval and heaviness that has been weighing on me for the past several weeks…..a sense of massive misunderstanding, disrespectful behavior, and a lack of compassion in the world. I truly don’t know why this year is different, but the arrival of Father’s Day has pulled the energy right out of me. I miss him. Every damn day, I miss him. My mother says I am a lot like him…..that I remind her of him. I will take that as a compliment.

It is so hard this year to not focus on everything we were denied. The weddings, holidays, special occasions that have come and gone since his passing. I feel a bit of anger and a whole lot of sadness. I think of him daily. This summer has been a “catch up” year on my property. I have been digging thistles and cutting dock with a vengeance. He is with me every time. When we were young, he would offer my younger sister and I a small amount of money for each thistle we cut or dug up. I sure wish he was here to pay me now! Actually, I would love to have him next to me with each step on the shovel or cut of the loppers. I would love to tell him about the huge buck that is grazing my property or about the wild blackberries growing in the fence line. He would have loved my place. I can see him fishing at the pond and walking the paths with me. He would have given me wonderful advice on how to be a good steward of this 21 acres.

My Dad sighting in his deer rifle. It had more
kick than he thought and he cut the bridge
of his nose. He didn't seem to mind!

There was a brief time after he was diagnosed with cancer that we thought he was going to recover. He received a great report with one of his scans….the original spot of cancer was gone. I stopped by their house the day he received that news. When he gave me the update, I ran to him as he sat in his recliner. I sat on his lap with my arms around his neck and my head buried against his chest. I was a child again. I wept. He pulled me close and we sat there for several minutes….relieved….grateful….feeling blessed. It was only a matter of weeks before the cancer returned.

I had stopped by to see how my parents were doing. My mother was not at home. I don’t remember where she was, but my dad and I sat in the family room and talked. He was telling me that he was getting rid of some coins he had collected. That was quite surprising, because the jar of coins was something we would take to the cellar with us if a tornado was coming. They were a valued possession. I was startled that he would be giving them away. I asked him, “What is going on, Daddy?” He said there wasn’t anything going on. I insisted that there was and that he tell me. After several exchanges, he told me that the cancer was back. It was located in several spots in his body and because it had spread while he was taking chemotherapy and radiation treatments, the doctors said there was nothing they could do. This was it. It was the final diagnosis. Terminal.

Then my dad said something to me that has haunted me to varying degrees ever since. He said, “Don’t tell your sisters.” I should have argued with him over that. I should have tried to convince him that it wasn’t fair to them to keep that secret. But I didn’t. I went along with his plan of secrecy and I have always regretted it. It is one of the reasons I am as direct with my words today. Lack of directness and honesty seldom plays out well in the end.

A few weeks later I delivered some items to my parents’ house on a Monday afternoon in mid-August. My mom was home and my dad was in town drinking coffee at the local convenience store with his group of friends. My mom and I were visiting when the back door opened. Through the door to the family room came two men assisting my dad. He could barely walk. He was nauseated. He was complaining of a severe headache. He looked awful. We asked them to help him to my car while my mom and I gathered up her purse and other things she thought she might need. Then we drove him to the local hospital.

My Dad and me at a school function for my daughter. 

The next hours are ingrained in my memory with great detail and yet the evening is also a massive blur. Nurses who didn’t pay attention….last conversations that I didn’t realize were the last….a doctor who couldn’t believe he hadn’t been notified of my dad’s condition….helicopter flights to a bigger hospital….the waiting room….attempts to notify everyone….a sister bringing a gift for her father only to collapse on the floor when she is told he is comatose and won’t be waking up…..family and friends supporting each other….change for the vending machine….denial….reality….saying goodbye…..holding his large, calloused hand in my own…..crying….regretting…..accepting…..knowing things would never be the same.

My sisters never got to tell him the things they would have said if they had known his terminal diagnosis. I cried many tears over that fact. They never saw anything to forgive, but it has taken me a long time to forgive myself. Truthfully, I am not sure that I have really done it. I simply sit in varying degrees of forgiveness with myself.

I loved his hugs. We are at my nephew's birthday party....
many years ago. 

Today is a rough one….this Father’s Day. I didn’t scan the cards at the store this year. I didn’t stand there imagining what one I would have bought for him. There is no family gathering, just a quiet drive to his grave with my dog, Pepper. He would have loved her as much as I do. There is the snack of a pack of cookies and a bottle of milk. That used to be the menu for lunch when we were on road trips with my dad……a big package of cookies and a quart of milk to share. He usually bought chocolate sandwich cookies. No cups….no napkins….no worries.

Yes, I am a lot like him. He called me his baby bull. I will own that. He used to tease me because I picked bouquets of wild flowers for my bedroom when I was in junior high and high school. He thought it was great that I found such beauty in the blooms of the thistle and other “weeds”. Today I remember him on paper with this post and by creating a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers for my living room. Each black-eyed susan, stalk of dock, yarrow blossom, and wispy bloom is a remembrance of my love for him and his love for me.

I miss you, Daddy. I always will.

The Ants Go Marching One By One....

I see the scurry out of the corner of my eye; dozens of subtle, but hurried, movements. A steady row of ants are traversing the taut, silver strands of a barbed wire fence. They are obviously on a mission. Their black and russet bodies shine as they retrace the steps of the comrade ahead. This is life. The tiny beings are doing what they do every day. My gaze follows them to the right and into the boughs of a massive cedar tree. Looking to the left, the line of ants travel along the barbed wire to a wooden fence post. This is where the two lines seem jumbled together….the north bound line and the south bound line. No doubt, there is more order than I can see or understand, but to my eyes, it is chaos at this junction. There, where the wire and the wood intersect, so too intersects the lines of ants. Then I see the south bound bodies. They have not lost any of their determination as they travel along the horizontal wooden post that anchors the corner of the fence. I follow their journey as the line marches down the angled wire and becomes lost in the tall, winter grass. There is water close by. Perhaps they are collecting water. I ponder for a while. Are they moving water to the cedar tree? Are they moving something from the cedar tree to their nest in the ground? Are they moving their nest? Watching the ants reminds me, once again, that Nature does not alter its design in response to the occurrences of the outer world.

I am basically “sheltered in place” as directed, to slow the pandemic spread. It doesn’t feel like a burden most days. I have the luxury of working from home, which gives me back an hour and a half of my day. I currently have a 10-second commute. I rise with the sun and enjoy a strong cup of tea on the patio or at my writing desk as I check in with my coworkers and start my work day. My lunch hour allows time to walk to the pond, prepare potato soup for dinner, or get in a training session in the barn gym.

It’s so easy to forget why I am getting to enjoy this temporary lifestyle as the last clumps of daffodils bloom at the edge of the yard. Their bright, yellow color cries out against the grays and browns of the trees and the rocky ravine just behind. Their only competition for attention is the bold fuchsia of the native redbuds. The song of the birds add another dimension to the rhythm of my days. How can there be such heartache and uncertainty in the world? How can so many people be hurting, ailing, and dying? The wrens are fighting over the birdhouses on the back patio. How can this make sense?

I allow myself no more than one daily hour of news. That keeps me current on new rules and regulations mandated by the federal and state authorities, but does not overwhelm me with fear and emotion. It’s enough. Too much news and I can begin to feel hopeless and helpless. That’s where the power of Nature comes into play. It grounds me. It always has.

Nature has long been my stabilizer. And I am not alone. I have had several conversations on this topic in recent days. Many friends have stated the healing power of nature in their lives. In the midst of this public health and economic crisis, Nature reminds us that some things are truly stable and consistent. Look for those things. Seek them out. Go outside, if at all possible. Search for the new growth of Spring….the call of a bird….the blooming flower…..the pattern in the bark of a tree. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.  Look for the design and architecture of the trees….how they lean into each other and reach for the sun. Lay on your back and watch the clouds, pondering their shape.

I remind myself that I can only make an impact within my circle of influence. That’s all any of us can do and that circle is different for each of us. I use my time in Nature to balance the outer world chaos with some inner world calm. I highly recommend it….because the ants still go marching one by one…..Hurrah….Hurrah. 

Journey Back to Jefferson

R.W. and Verna Sharp,
my maternal grandparent

The drive into the decaying Oklahoma town brings back a flood of memories. Most of them are good. The early ones are beautiful. The ones from the middle years are wonderful. The memories from the later years are more melancholy.

The once bustling community is an abandoned jungle of rusty cars and empty houses. They compete with young outlaw trees for attention and air. It is beyond sad. I recently returned for a family reunion in the church where my grandfather preached. This community was their home for many years and at several different times. My mother graduated from high school in Jefferson. Her former school only a derelict shamble of bricks and beams. Only a few walls remain,

My grandparents were so proud of their little house. Grandma Sharp tended her roses, iris, and lilies. Grandpa grew gardens of corn, peas, beans, and potatoes. He raised chickens and enjoyed watching them chase grasshoppers throughout the yard. It was a simple life. It was an honest life. It was a beautiful life. And it gave me a foundation for living that I continue to build upon today.

My grandparents cozy home years ago. They took great pride
in caring for the little house and gardens.




The same view of their house.....2019. It saddens me to
see it in this condition.  

The central hub of my grandmother's kitchen was the wooden pedestal table. The middle of the tabletop was home to all the necessities for doctoring a meal; shakers of salt and pepper, jelly, honey, napkins, and the current copy of a devotional book. Usually, it was the Upper Room. The stash of paraphernalia was draped with a worn cotton tea towel between meals; protecting the yummy contents. I ate many meals at that table; fried bologna, fresh green beans, orange salad with shreds of carrots, pie, and biscuits. Oh my word! Grandma's biscuits would melt in your mouth! You had your choice of toppings. You could add butter, sticky honey, or homemade jelly. Or...you could layer the flavors for a combination beyond description. That is still my favorite way to eat biscuits!

The RW and Verna Sharp home had a solid tradition of resting after lunch. Everyone rested. As a young girl, I didn't appreciate the forced pause in the middle of the day. However, I treasured it as I got older. Thirty minutes of reading, resting, or napping. Mandatory rest! What a beautiful notion.



The garage framed by the
garden.

I spent a week at their house almost every summer. As a young child, the days were filled with cousins, drive-in movies, Bible school, mud pies, and dress up. Everyone fought over the clear plastic heels because they reminded us of Cinderella. As I moved into my teens, I helped Grandma bake, prepare meals, and clean the kitchen. We snapped beans and shelled peas. When I was 16, she taught me how to tat following several failed attempts at crochet and knitting.

My time with Grandpa was just as enjoyable. We fed and watered the chickens and worked in his garden. One of my favorite memories is helping him rob the bee hives. I remember him cutting the thick comb out of the frames, dropping the chunks into layers of cheesecloth draped tightly over a large bucket. He broke the honeycomb up with his hands, the thick golden liquid oozing out between his fingers. After the bucket was full, the golden reward was carefully poured into pristine jars.



Grandma Sharp with her great-granddaughters, Karolyn
and Kathryn.

On my visits, I often slept in the attic. There was a bed in one end of the room, nestled among the purchases from dozens of auctions. The early morning breeze of summer cooled the space and skimmed the cotton sheets carrying the aroma of the dirt road and the pending heat. The roosters would announce the start of the day and soon after you would hear Grandma bustling about the kitchen. 

In one corner of the living room stood a bookshelf with volumes of Grandmothers books. The top shelf held a menagerie of turtles and roadrunners. They were presents to my Grandpa from his grandchildren. Every summer, a massive water cooler hummed in the living room window. It cooled the living room with heavy, humid air. It was enough to take the edge off the Oklahoma heat. It was wonderful.

My grandmother and me enjoying
her garden with my daughters.

A McCoy cookie jar sets on the shelf in my kitchen. It is a Dalmatian dog and her puppies snuggled in a rocking chair. The cookie jar was a gift from my grandparents. They bought it at an auction in a box of random items. I love that token of their love.

Their home was small, but it was filled with love. They saw the good in others. They saw the good in me. They set an example of helping others and giving of their talents. They gave when they didn't have much to give by typical standards. They made love a verb.... an action....They lived love.



The remaining structure of the Jefferson
schools.