Coming Home for Easter

 

The tree-shaded cul-de-sac looked familiar with neatly manicured lawns boasting the first blooms of Spring. I pulled into the driveway and turned to park under the porte-cochere. They didn’t notice my arrival, and so I parked and walked around the corner of the house. My parents stood at the doorway of their beloved greenhouse, hand in hand, observing the promises of a new growing season.

Mom’s walker was standing sentinel on the footbridge that provided access to the greenhouse—a kit structure Dad had purchased a few years earlier. It held all manner of exotic and not-so-exotic plants, the names of which I couldn’t begin to recount. But my parents knew them all by name, and my mother was gifted with the ability to coax to life anything with chlorophyll. My father complemented her skills with his undying discipline and precision in caring for the assortment. The result was a 10 x 15 oasis that harbored all manner of organisms of flora and fauna, the proof of which was an explosion of colors and new growth this early in the season.

And so they stood holding hands, my father leaning into the doorway, my mother pointing at something just beyond—a snapshot of how their time together has been for the past 69-years of their 93-year existence.

I had driven up to retrieve them for the long Easter weekend. Mom no longer drove, and Dad had finally accepted, begrudgingly, that the three-hour drive over the rivers and through the woods back to our house was a bit too much for the comfort level of his children. Never mind the fact he was nearly deaf in one ear. He was still confident in his abilities to drive, especially with a newer car “that practically drives itself,” he proudly proclaimed at his last checkup. Yet, he still insisted on driving a nearly ancient pickup truck that definitely did not drive itself.

The Easter weekend here provided my parents with a chance to see more of the family, including a recently engaged granddaughter and her fiancé, and a still somewhat shy great-grandson. Their visit, however, was too short, and the return trip home seemed to fly by. Dad commented that he noticed a lot of changes in the scenery along the way—probably a side benefit of not having to drive!

On my next visit, we’ll pull all of the plants out of the greenhouse and arrange them around the backyard, under a gazebo, and along a flagstone patio Dad laid by hand years ago. And they will sit under that gazebo and admire their handiwork and each other.

A COVID Christmas

 

So, it’s the night before Christmas, and down at the HEB
not a parking spot remains as far as the eye can see.
People are pretty jovial, in a gallows-humor kind of way,
They know there’s no such thing as Santa and his sleigh.

The bake shop is bustling, home-shoppers are hustling,
and the food samplers are holding sway;
‘Cause who doesn’t like free food while bumping elbows in the store on the night before Christmas Day?

This year’s Christmas is different in so many ways…
the anticipation of family together for a few days
has been shattered by diagnoses of COVID and such,
we’re not getting to spend that time together so much.

So, my wife swapped her kerchief for a face mask instead,
as she’s in quarantine--we must sleep in separate beds.
We watch separate TV’s, and sit five yards apart;  
this social distancing thing really is such a farce.

The stockings were hung from the mantle with care,
in hopes that our grand-kids soon would be there;
But COVID’s put a kabosh on our plans for family fare--
they’ve bugged out to Hempstead to spend their Christmas there.

We’re spending Christmas with each other and the nasty, ol' ‘VID;
watching holiday movies and swilling NyQuil, this illness to rid.
As for Fauci and the others who’ve politicized this craze--
We’ll have a Merry COVID Christmas in spite of you.

(With apologies to the estate of Clement Clarke Moore)

Cousins

“God made us cousins because He knew our mothers could not handle us as siblings.”

Cousins are the collaborators in the petty crimes of our youth. They are the brothers and sisters that siblingless children didn’t get, the Confessors to our untold sins, bridesmaids and groomsmen at weddings, and bearers of the pall at funerals.

Cousins are who you call as a last-minute “second” to an event for which you have no legitimate date. Instead of friends with benefits, they are friends with no-strings-attached, no judgement with which to reckon, and little remorse when things blow up, because you, as cousins, are their entertainment.

Rebecca was my cousin.
She, of raven hair and fair skin that browned and freckled in the summer, was three years older, and always two-steps ahead. She spoke fluent Spanish, lived in Mexico, and was seen only once a year at family Christmas gatherings (we were convinced she was a CIA operative working the drug cartels.) She was a teacher to many, a mentor to most, and was forever posting corniness on the internet—the usual tripe about puppies and kittens, John Wayne and Jesus—but those were all a true reflection of the genuineness in her heart. She loved animals. She adored John Wayne. She loved Jesus—and that was the source of her eternal lightness when all around her was dark.

Becky would greet me on Instant Messenger, early on Saturday mornings, as I prepared for an airshift. No sane civilians were ever up at that hour—but Becky was—posting clever platitudes and encouraging words to her newsfeed. Always a source of positivity—that was my cousin Becky.

Despite setbacks that would overwhelm any of us—the early passing of our Aunt Shirley, a foundered marriage, the untimely death of her brother, Bill, battles with cancer, the death of a beloved brother-in-law, Russell, and most recently, the passing of her father—Rebecca’s faith kept her going. Her compass always pointed true north. Her Faith gave her traction when everything else seemed to be slipping away. And when that car swerved out of the fog and into her lane on Wednesday morning, Becky faced a final test—and passed—into the arms of Jesus, and Shirley, and Bill, and William, and Russell, and other of our cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents who have already gone on before us.

To the students Ms. Harlow touched, remember: Her kindnesses to you all, regardless of what was going on in her life. Remember how she treated you all, regardless of skin color, language, or social status. All were beloved by her. Emulate her example with everyone else that you touch. Honor the memory of Ms. Harlow by serving others as she served and taught you. The world will be a better place for generations if you do this simple thing.

Marion Garretty once wrote, “A cousin is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.” Perhaps so. But a portion of my childhood has passed from this playground to the next.
I shall miss her.