What We Leave Behind

(All pictures are by Marylin Warner unless otherwise identified.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In 1937, the term “time capsules” became popular. The purpose was to bury and preserve items that would be a future communication, to be opened at a specific date.

There are numerous time capsules around the world that wait to be opened. For instance, the National Millennium Time Capsule in Washington, DC, will be opened in 2100. It holds assorted objects from history, including a piece of the Berlin Wall, a Hostess Twinkie, a helmet from WWII, a cell phone, and Louis Armstrong’s trumpet.

But what about the things we leave behind without burying them to be found later?

During this year’s Labor Day Art Festival in Colorado, a rock balancing display—with no support of any kind for the rocks—was held in Fountain Creek. The artists knew this would not be permanent art; they did it for the challenge and the joy of creating.

(Rock Balancing in Fountain Creek. Photo by Jerilee Bennet.)

More lasting things we leave behind are memorials to those who have gone on ahead: cemeteries, monuments, statues and dedications of poetry, music and art. In Oklahoma City, at the site of the 1995 bombing, artists created 168 chairs as a beautiful and lasting memorial for those killed, including the 19 young children who died in the day care center.

On the Kansas plains, lonely cabins hold the spaces where settlers once made their homes.   At the Rolling Hills Zoo near Salina, KS, two African message sticks are preserved along one the paths. We don’t have to know who created any of these things, or exactly when or where, to appreciate the work and beauty that someone left behind.  (pictures above)

Other things left behind are rules, laws and warnings.  In towns wherever brick streets were popular, we can still find bricks with reminders like “Don’t spit on sidewalk”

This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for my grandmother and all she left behind. She was a hardworking, kind, faithful and remarkable woman who, after her husband died, continued to run the farm and raise five children, including my mother. Neither woman would have assembled and buried a time capsule to be opened in the future. All my grandmother’s life, and until my mother’s dementia, they were too busy living in the present, doing what had to be done, facing challenges and embracing joys, and making a difference in the lives of others. Those are their legacies.

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: “The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common.” With all that is happening in the world, may we be wise and grateful enough to appreciate the miraculous in common acts of kindness, goodness, love and hope.

(My grandmother’s five children; my mother is in the middle.)

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Rotting Fish and Sweaty Socks

All pictures of the Corpse Flower in bloom and the visitor drawing the flower were taken at the Denver Botanical Gardens by Fox News photographers and shown on Fox 21 News.  They did a great job!

 

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s long “Hamatreya” isn’t his best known poem, but four of the words within it are very well known and often quoted: “Earth laughs in flowers.” It was one of my mother’s favorite phrases. Before her dementia, gardening was her much-loved early morning activity, and flowers were a joy to her.

It wouldn’t be Mom’s dementia, or the long drive between Kansas and Colorado, that would prevent me from taking her to the Denver Botanical Gardens this week. It would be the smell. And the long lines, with waits as long as five hours to get in.

The Amorphophallus titanum was in bloom for less than forty-eight hours, and it will be another 7-10 years before the “corpse flower” blooms again. The plant earned this nickname for a reason, and at the entrance to the Botanical Gardens, barf bags were available for the visitors. To give you a general idea, I’ll share two popular descriptions of the smell of the “corpse flower”: 1) a combination of limburger cheese, rotting fish, sweaty socks, and mothballs; and 2) the carcass of a chicken in a trash bag inside a metal trash can, left outside for a few days.

I think it’s safe to say that the Amorphophallus titanum isn’t on the top ten list of most popular flowers for wedding bouquets and Mother’s Day corsages.

Maybe Edna St. Vincent Millay had “corpse flower” in mind when she wrote these lines: “I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.” Or maybe touching the “corpse flower” wouldn’t be a good idea either.

Flowers—like art, movies, books, politics and religion, etc.—are open to interpretation and valuable for personal reasons. The typical appeal of most flowers is usually the beauty, colors, scents and symbolism. But maybe the infrequency of the bloom of the “corpse flower” and the short life of the blossoms are popular considerations. Or maybe the novelty of the startling, staggering smell is also a draw. Mom always said that every thing God created has a purpose and fits somehow into the scheme of things, even if we don’t quite understand what it is.

I think she’s right. I just don’t know about the purpose of the “corpse flower,” except maybe as the prompt for writing a horror story. It does seem to be a possible flower of choice for zombies, tied with a wire and presented in a barf bag.  But I’m certainly open to other possibilities.                                 

There are Doors…and then there are DOORS

In architecture, protection, and decoration, doors are getting second looks…and second lives. One new trend combining all three is “door fences.”   My favorite example is pictured above.  These very old doors were given new function and appreciation as a privacy fence entrance to a charming Kansas farmhouse, built in 1881 and then restored after a tornado in 2008. Only one door actually opens and closes. Can you guess which one?  (Answer at the end of the post.)

In moments of confusion and forgetfulness, doors offer an opportunity for clarity. For instance, when you go from one room to another, intent on getting or doing something, if you can’t remember what it was, turn around and go back. Crossing the threshold of the original doorway often triggers the memory.

In life and literature, doors are metaphors for opportunities and choices.  Boris Pasternak, author of DR. ZHIVAGO, advises us to listen closely because    “…when a great moment knocks on the door of your life, it is often no louder than the beating of your heart, and it is very easy to miss it.”  Actor Milton Berle’s advice is to choose our “tools” and take charge: “If opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door.”  Whatever our approach, Ralph Waldo Emerson says, “Be an opener of doors,” and Emily Dickinson reminds us to be open and ready: “Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.”

Building on the words of Emerson and Dickinson, here is a contest to open the door for a writing opportunity. The contest asks: what would be the title of a book written about your life—and then made into a movie? This is not a time to be serious or profound.  Interesting titles that make the judges smile, or even laugh, will have an advantage.  For instance, here’s a sample idea of a title and tag line from the contest judges: A LITTLE OFF THE TOP ~ One man’s struggle with male pattern baldness.

There’s no entry fee; length is a maximum of 50 words total for title and tag. The online deadline is August 17 (come on, you aren’t actually writing a book or movie script; have some fun with this!). The winner will be posted in early September, and the prize is the online Gotham writing class of your choice. This is open to everyone. https://www.writingclasses.com/contest/movie-of-your-life-contest-2015 

Charles Dickens wrote: “A very little key will open a very heavy door.” Try this contest and see if a very few words will gain you a very good prize.

(Answer to the question in the first paragraph: The door that actually opens and closes is not the door on the side, next to the bird cage. It’s the white door with the glass pane.)

Look closely at doors and keep them in perspective. What do you see in this door picture?

The door on the left is regular size; the door and little window on the right are actually much shorter and more narrow, almost child size. (all photos by Marylin Warner)

A NEAR MISS

Be grateful for calm skies.
“Forever is composed of nows.” ~ Emily Dickinson

There are many days to celebrate in March.  Birthdays of family and friends, St. Patrick’s Day, the first day of Spring, and depending on our country of residence, some of us celebrate Mother’s Day this month, while others celebrate in May.

Regardless of where we live, we all should celebrate March 23^rd.   BIG TIME, with grateful hearts, and champagne toasts made in joy.   March 23^rd is “NEAR MISS DAY.”

On March 23, 1989, a mountain-sized asteroid passed through the exact position of the earth six hours earlier.   Had it collided, it would have released energy comparable to the explosion of a 600 megaton atom bomb and caused the largest explosion in recorded history.

But it didn’t.  “Near Miss Day” acknowledges and celebrates exactly that, a near miss.

We all know of many “near misses” in our lives and the lives of those we love. Every day is precious. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: “Write it on your heart that every day is the best day of the year,” and my favorite appreciation for each day is by A.A. Milne, creator of Winnie-the-Pooh. “What day is it?” ~ “It’s today,” squeaked Piglet. ~ “My favorite day,” said Pooh.

This Monday, March 23^rd, and every day, may we be grateful for the near misses in our lives, and doubly aware of and grateful for the many blessings we receive.  Take nothing for granted.

 

“Winnipeg”–or Winnie–the female black bear that lived in London Zoo from 1915-1954 and inspired Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh, here with veterinarian Harry Colebourn.

Maya Angelou: “Be present in all things and thankful for all things.”

March is also “Deaf History Month” — here is the chart for American Sign Language.

A SPY IN THE HOUSE OF LOVE

 

 

Years ago, Hallmark had a great line of “retro” Valentine’s Day cards. This one was about a mother who made dorky mother-daughter matching dresses. (Click on pictures to enlarge for reading.)

 

 

 

 

In this card, kids figure out the awful “cafeteria surprise” lunch recipe.

In addition to Valentine’s Day, February 14^th is also the date of many other “special” days as well, including these: “Ferris Wheel Day” ~ “Library Lovers Day” ~ “Quirky Alone Day” ~ “National Have A Heart Day” ~ “World Marriage Day” ~ “St. Valentine’s Day Massacre” ~ “National Donor Day” ~ and “World Whale Day.”

In her novel A Spy In The House of Love, Anais Nin writes this: “As other girls prayed for handsomeness in a lover, or for wealth, or for power, or for poetry, she had prayed fervently: Let him be kind.”

Before dementia blurred her thinking, one of the qualities my mother valued most in a person was kindness. Because it was one of her many wonderful qualities, and a quality of my father, too, before the Alzheimer’s took over, I grew up looking for—and profoundly appreciating—kind people. My husband Jim is a man with many exceptional qualities, but when we were friends and co-workers, it was his genuine kindness that first drew me to him.

To all of you, on Valentine’s Day and every day, I wish much kindness in your lives.

“A tree is known by its fruit, a man by his deeds. A good deed is never lost…he who plants kindness gathers love.”            ~Saint Basil

“You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

DOLLARS AND SENSE

  

In Marvin Williams’ devotional about the price of getting what we think we want, he begins by giving examples of some unbelievable things.  Here are two: ~ for $90 a night, a person can buy a cell upgrade in some prisons; ~ or for $250,000.00, if you know the people to pay, you can buy the right to shoot an endangered black rhino.

There is a flip side to every coin, however. If money CAN buy those things, what things CAN’T money buy? Here are a few things I thought of:   respect, common sense, world peace, true love, lost memories, and the cure for Alzheimer’s, though this is one place where additional funding would help the research…and it would also be a much better investment than bagging an endangered black rhino.

Look at the pictures above for three more things money can’t buy: extra hours in the day; the ability to turn back time and prevent a fire or other tragedy; and this one, especially ~ ask any woman who has lost a baby how much money it would take to fill the void in her heart.

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “Money often costs too much.” Fill in the “prices” you’ve paid to have money and see if you agree.

On a lighter note, February 8 begins “Love Makes the World Go Round, But Laughter Keeps Us From Getting Dizzy” week. To jump-start the week, the day of February 8 is “Laugh and Get Rich” day. Interpret this as you will, but poet E.E. Cummings can get you started: “The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.”

On February 8, find something that makes you so happy that you laugh out loud, from deep in your belly. Better yet, find someone to laugh with. Not AT, but WITH. This is just my opinion, but I’m pretty sure it will make you happier than shooting an endangered rhino, or paying $90 a night to upgrade your prison cell when you get caught.

And if you do get caught shooting a rhino or doing anything illegal, look on the bright side; you can always make the most of February 13’s “Blame It On Someone Else” day.

“Earth laughs in flowers.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson.       My mother carried Lillies of the Valley at her wedding to celebrate the happiness of the day.

“From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.” ~Dr. Seuss

HANDED DOWN TO US

My mother’s parents, front row, far left.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their five children: (l to r) Wanda, Sam, Ruth, Mary (my mother) and Ira.

Of the thirteen grandchildren, these are the five girl cousins:  (l to r) Beth, Karen, Marylin, Sandee, Glee.

 

This week when I visited my mother in Kansas, I learned three things. First, when she leans back in her recliner and closes her eyes, she is often still listening, so I can’t assume she’s taking a nap. Second, she’s still a very pretty lady at 96, even with half of one eyebrow accidentally shaved off. (From now on, when I use an electric razor to trim away whiskers and curling eyebrow hairs, I will not assume Mom will sit still…I will hold the razor with a steady hand, prepared to stop if she turns her head quickly. Lesson learned.)

The third thing I learned is this: with dementia, the dominant remaining sensory details are not just taste and smell. Touch is still a significant sense. Mom did recognize the little metal wagon she left between tree branches as a child. When I put the little wagon-in-the-wood in Mom’s lap, she didn’t open her eyes, but her fingers touched the metal wheels and traced the lines of the wood. When I asked if she knew what this was, she nodded, yes. Still with her eyes closed, when I asked if she remembered the toy…and did she remember putting it in the tree, both times she smiled faintly and again nodded, yes. She held it for a while, nodding, and then she folded her hands and fell asleep.

The quaint little keepsake has become a tangible reminder of my connection to other generations. My grandchildren have traced the wagon with their fingers, just as my daughter did, and as I did. When my mother was younger than her great-grandchildren are now, she put the wagon in the tree branch, where it was later rescued by my grandfather when he cut down the tree.

As Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “The ancestor of every action is a thought.”   As a six-year-old, my mother had her reasons for hiding the wagon in the tree; my grandfather had his reasons for preserving it when he cut down the tree; and as the heir of these thoughts and actions, I will pass the keepsake on to the next generations…along with the stories.

Wilbur Wright (of the Wright Brothers) wrote, “The desire to fly is an idea handed down to us by our ancestors who…looked enviously on the birds soaring freely through space…”   Possibly my desire to create came from the same ancestors who passed on to my aunts and uncles and cousins the desire to sing, to teach, to play musical instruments, to heal, to cherish and care for children, and numerous other talents and desires.

Native American writer Linda Hogan wrote this: “Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.”

During this month’s visit with my mother, I’m not sure that for even a moment she actually recognized me as her daughter. But still, she reminded me of who I am, and how we’re both connected to those who made it possible for us to be here.

The little metal wagon left in the tree branch. (full story in the July 26 post, “A Mistake?”)

FLOWER GIRLS

“Ginger”–a 10″ painted china vase by Ganz@ Susan Paley–my favorite gift vase from Jim.

A “flower girl” vase from Kress Store, 1950, $1.99
(all photos by Marylin Warner)

A Napco vase, 1958, another of our “flower girl” favorites, only 6″ high.

Dear Mom,

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “The earth laughs in flowers.”  While I was growing up, you always planted our back yard with vegetable gardens, fruit trees and grape arbors. You also kept the front and back yards colorfully bright and happy by planting flowering bushes and assorted perennial flowers, and bulbs for tulips, lilies and gladiolas.  From the time I was seven, I got to choose packets of seeds and plant new colors throughout the flower beds.

After I moved you to Presbyterian Village, I  emptied the house you and Dad had lived in for fifty-two years. Among your big kitchen cupboards filled with spices, plates, glasses, canisters and pots and pans,  two top cupboards were filled with colorful gift vases, pottery and cut crystal vases, and my favorites: two porcelain “fancy lady” vases. We called them the “flower girls.”  I remember picking summer flowers from all around the yard, filling jelly glasses and many of these vases, and setting them on tables and window ledges throughout the house.

You, on the other hand, were more like Edna St. Vincent Millay: “I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.”  Early in the morning, before you went to work with Dad at the dealership, you spent a contented hour working in your gardens.  You carefully weeded around the vegetables and flowers,  but instead of bringing in cut flowers, you often brought in huge Beefeater tomatoes, fresh green onions, and zucchini.

When I drive to Ft. Scott to visit you each month, I always stop by Woods’ Market to choose tempting foods from their deli. I also check their flowers and plants for something special that might make you touch the blossoms or sniff and smile. And sometimes, for a just a moment, I think you remember…

The #1 Flower Girl!

Our Word for 2012: HUCKLEBERRIES

Dear Mom,

Years ago, when I was teaching the play THE NIGHT THOREAU SPENT IN JAIL to my high school English students, you weren’t all that excited about the Transcendentalist philosophy, but you had two favorite parts of the play.  Henry David Thoreau was in jail for refusing to pay his taxes, and he shared a jail cell with a young man named Bailey.  Bailey couldn’t read or write, so Thoreau taught him to write his name in the dust of the cell floor.  You loved that scene.

Your second favorite was when Thoreau talked about rights:  every human being had the inalienable right to snore, he said…provided it did not interfere with the inalienable right of another human’s ability to snore.  You laughed at that, saying you were going to quote that to Dad.

My favorite Thoreau story comes from the time when Thoreau’s friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson, was very busy traveling and lecturing,  so Thoreau went to help with the chores on his farm.  One sunny day Thoreau took Emerson’s son Edward on a berry picking adventure in hopes of gathering enough huckleberries for a pie.  With the exuberance of a child, the young boy ran to show Thoreau how many berries he’d picked.  Edward fell, the berries spilled everywhere, and the boy felt clumsy and embarrassed.  Thoreau, in true form, assured the boy that nothing was wasted.  What Edward had done was brilliant; he had scattered berries that might someday seed more and more huckleberries.

Nothing is wasted, not when a pail of berries is spilled, or when we make honest mistakes like forgetting names or details, and it’s not even a waste of time when we spend much of our day napping in a recliner.  Everything has a time and a place, Mom, and nothing is really wasted, not if we view it with a grateful attitude.

So this will be our word for 2012, Mom:  HUCKLEBERRIES.

It will be our reminder to look for the value in each experience.

Happy New Year, Mom.

Love, Marylin