This is a story of my brother, John. He was a very complex figure in my life and for the rest of my family members, I suspect. As the youngest I was shielded from the more intriguing family matters, so I can not be certain of how others felt about him. Though the mixed emotions that I had for John would be clearly defined one day.
His fine intellect was not always apparent as he held people’s attention at the level of his mysterious and sometimes frightening countenance. I admired and respected him, though. I could see beyond that to another part of him, I thought. I was so pleased believing he was able to see that I could be trusted, and talk to me the way that I wanted, without looking down and making exceptions for the little sister. He always had my respect and admiration. And he would come to be my hero.
He saved my spirit and I loved him for the incredible bravery and generosity that he brought forth on my behalf. He put himself in harms way for me in regard to a matter that we never shared with anyone.
That night, when I returned home, John was there and quickly realized something had gone wrong in my life. He demanded to know the trouble and when I told him about what transpired, his disposition immediately changed. He took control of my fear with a response seeming to reveal at least a part of his mysterious nature. He was completely prepared for the situation that I presented to him, so much so that I feared for his safety. Thank heaven, my prayers were answered and no one was confronted that night, but not for lack of John bringing his considerable might to the situation. He went looking for the person involved but could not find him.
John was consumed by the incident so I left him alone to settle down in the aftermath, so that we might, after a reasonable interval, enjoy something of our usual repartee on the ride home. But we had a completely silent ride in our parent’s car, which as I recall, he had started without the benefit of a key. He was so enraged, there was no asking permission which would not have been granted.
His bravery saved me from the depths. Selflessly, he brought all that he had to my defense. He healed me then and even now, I feel he shields me from the memory. Unless I make the decision to recall that day, it is far away from my life. And, when and I do, with each recollection, what I remember is more of John. It is the amazing thing that I’ve noticed. It is the love that remains…and grows!
I love you, John. I thank you. I miss you.
Years had gone by without a thought of the summer at my grandparents farm in Virginia. Then suddenly one day it was there, this forgotten experience, unprovoked and effortlessly revealing itself to me to become my little book of 50 pages.
This extraordinary childhood experience took place in 1957. As I wrote, I felt the warmth and comfort of that time so long ago and so very dear to me now. I was unaware of how much meaning it had brought to my life, this glimpse into their world. It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family. It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.
Truth is Beauty is Love
Turn on tune in drop out.
So many friends never got back from there, that mad, crazy time.
what even brought me to it, still wondering…
Took hold of us and then it was over.
there’s some unforgettable music
every decade has that
We were so special
My friends back home wished they had come.
try anything…freak said, “don’t let it worry ya”.
mind-blowing who knows what where…
i still needed to work.
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As the years go by, along with the changing capacity of a physical body is a really good thing. Is it possible only with the passage of time and the experience thereof? After it all, it could be correctly described as an exchange for a potential to understanding of choices made; a perspective of things that came before, and perhaps the realization of the amazing harmony of life.
I will suppose it is the limited understanding that children posses which allows an experience to settle so completely into recesses of the mind…just as though it never happened. In 2010, an occurrence opened the door to a time and a memory which became a story that I found myself writing.
The following is an excerpt:
Two Little Girls
As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.
There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.
I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same. My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.
My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.
Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.
~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~