Mother of Exiles

 

    In the summer of 1876, a woman named Frantiska embarked on a journey. She left Caslav, Czechoslovakia on a steamship called the Rhein. She was accompanied by her husband, parents, and a three month old son. Sailing to America reportedly took ten to fifteen days. The traveling party arrived at what was then Castle Garden in New York City on July 4th, 1876. New York was celebrating the Centennial. 29 year old Frantiska was reported to have believed that due to the celebratory shouting, shooting, and general mayhem, the end of the world was upon her. Frantiska and her party traveled by train to Fremont, Nebraska and were met by relatives who drove them by horse and wagon to Weston, Nebraska. All told, Frantiska had traveled nearly 5,000 miles. 

    Frantiska's grandson became my grandfather. 

    Those are the things that I know. 

    The things that I don't know are heavy on my mind lately. 

    I don't know what prompted Frantiska to make a decision to change her life so drastically. It could have been economic. It may have been political. It's possible it had something to do with religious reasons. 

    I don't know if Frantiska complained. I don't know if she was thrilled to welcome life anew and tossed herself fully into her new circumstances. 

    Whatever her motivation, Frantiska found herself living in a dugout home on a an unforgiving prairie where she faced a language barrier, little water, blazing summers, blizzards and prairie fires. 

    When I think about her, I am forced to compare the two of us. Around the same age as she was when she embarked on her journey to the States, I moved my family 300 miles west of where I grew up. I nearly came unhinged. Frantiska traveled almost 5,000 miles with an infant. When my kids were little I didn't even want to take them to the grocery store. Frantiska raised children in a dugout house, and later a sod dwelling. I can't sleep without my ceiling fan on high and the proper arrangement of pillows.

    Frantiska and I? We are so different. And yet....I am of her. 

    I don't know whether Frantiska was a democrat or a republican. I know she wasn't granted the right to vote for herself for another forty-four years after she arrived in Nebraska, which would have made her around 73 years old. I know she died at 76 or 77 years old, so I don't know if she voted at all. I don't know if Frantiska leaned to the left, or if she was a conservative woman. I don't know what Frantiska believed about the state of the world in her time. 

    But I know this: Frantiska wasn't from here. 

    Frantiska's grandson defended his country in World War II. Her grandson's grandsons have spent years in America's military. 

    The choices Frantiska made that led her to land in rural Nebraska led to a soft, spoiled lady, living in rural Nebraska. I don't know if she would be proud of her legacy, but I know that I am proud to be hers. Somewhere in my DNA, bravery, boldness, audacity and grit live. Deep down, in the marrow of my bones, lives the kind of strength that I simply can not imagine. But it's there, and I think I could mine it if I needed it. And I gave it to my children. And I share it with my brother. And on bad days, when I read the news and hear the horror that lives in our world? I think about Frantiska. 

    Frantiska was welcomed to the United States,  her new country, by a poem, The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, with conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand a mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. 

From her beacon hand glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she with silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempts tost to me. I lift my flame beside the golden door!"

    The poem tells us that, at some point, the masses were welcome here.  That immigrants should be welcome to America's promise of opportunities and freedom. As my great, great grandmother was welcomed. Incidentally, or perhaps not, the poem was written by a woman of Jewish heritage inspired by her experiences working with refugees and the plight of immigrants. The plight, perhaps, of a 29 year old woman and her three month old baby who had traveled over four thousand miles and still had another thousand miles to go? The plight of people who were brave, and bold, and audacious enough to leave whatever was behind them for the promise of something better. And maybe 'better' meant surviving fires and blizzards and arid, scorching temperatures but that also means that whatever they left behind was worth the risk. 

    Almost 150 years after Frantiska arrived in New York, I find myself disillusioned at the world around me. Exiled by a sea of red. Living in a world that tries to tell the granddaughter of a World War II veteran that she did not see what she knows she saw. Alive in a time where being "other" is terrifying. I'm trying to figure out how to live in today's world. I'm grasping at straws and praying and hoping. I'm asking my great, great, grandmother to send along some of her grit and strength and bravery and boldness and audacity down the ancestral pipeline. 

    Like Frantiska, on the Fourth of July in 1876, I look around me and I listen and I am frightened that the world may be ending. But, unlike Frantiska, I know some of what is coming after me. The children of the grandchildren of the grandchildren. And I am comforted to know that they will do better. Yes, they have anxiety and we maybe coddled them a little, but they recognize that "other" is beautiful and right. They have the ability to see more. And if generational trauma is a thing, then so is generational badassery. So, I have faith. Faith in us, the great great grandchildren of the people who were. Faith that even though it seems like such dark times, Frantiska laid the groundwork for us to follow her, because she followed the beacon and by all accounts, she did okay. 

    So, here's to Frantiska. And to those of us who came after. May we be bold, and gritty and strong and brave, so that our great, great grandchildren will write about us someday from the safety of a world that looks vastly different from today. 

    

Victories and Defeats

 

    A few weeks ago, I posted on Instagram that I had a great day. I did some things that usually make me uncomfortable, and they....didn't. So I celebrated the victory. 

    Every coin has two sides. A few weeks ago, anxiety didn't win the day. Sometimes it does. Yesterday was one of those times. I can't post about the victory if I don't also admit the defeats.

    On my way to work yesterday morning, a semi pulled out onto the highway in front of me. The roads were wet from rain, and it startled me into a state of hyperawareness. I felt shaky and overwhelmed the rest of my drive to work. Which irritated me, because I was absolutely fine. There was no accident. I slowed down in plenty of time. 

    But suddenly, a perfectly good morning turned into a struggle of a day at work, where I quietly questioned my knowledge and abilities. I stood and convinced myself of all the old Anxiety Standby's: So and So is mad. Somebody thinks you're an idiot, etc, etc. And the hours ticked by until it was time to meet John at his doctor's appointment. He's dealing with a back injury, and while there was nothing earth shattering about the appointment, when he left the exam room to be taken for a CT scan, I was asked to wait in a waiting room. On it's own, there's nothing to think about. On a day like yesterday, I was fiercely aware that I was alone in the room and I had to pick a spot on the wall to stare at to avoid crying. What's taking so long? What if something happened? Am I in the right waiting area? 

    As expected, he came out eventually and all was well. Because we met at the office, I got in my car to head home while he finished a phone call. When I backed out of my space, I thought to myself, "I can not wait to be home where it's safe." 

    I hopped on one of the busiest streets in Omaha, headed for a safe space, traveling the speed limit, at 60mph. A car in the lane next to me decided to switch lanes. I veered right, trying to avoid him. But he was veering right to make the exit. So I slammed on my brakes and veered left and nearly lost control of my car. I have no good idea how there wasn't a collison. I'm sure that whoever or whatever was looking out for me had to take blood pressure medicine afterwards. 

    I got off at the next exit, in search of somewhere safe. I found a parking lot. I pulled into a spot far away from all the other cars. And I fell apart. Struggling to control my breathing, crying, shaking. I tried to call John. Straight to voicemail.  I used the 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 trick. 

    Five things I can see: I see grass, trees, pink flowers, the tail lights of a royal blue car....no...that's not right. Grass, trees, pink flowers, my phone in my hand, and the purple sparkles of my water cup. 

    Four things I can feel: the smooth skin of my shaved leg, the pain in my foot from stomping on the brakes....no. The smooth skin of my shaved leg, the ice pack from my lunch against my neck, sweat, my heart pounding, no air......no. Try again. The smooth skin of my shaved leg, the ice pack from my lunch on my neck, the roughness of the zipper of my purse against my fingers, my hands running through my hair.

    Three things I can hear: Tires squealing. Nope. The wind, as it blows through the car windows, traffic from the nearby road, sirens.....STOP IT. The wind, traffic, my phone ringing.

    Two things I can smell: cigarette smoke and cut grass. Ok.

    One thing I can taste: my Wintergreen Life Saver. 

    Ok. Ok. Ok. I keep repeating to myself. You're ok. It's ok. Ok , ok, ok. Like a mantra, I struggled to ground myself back into reality. I answer the phone, and the second I answer, John hears that something is wrong and immediately asks where I am. I started crying again, ugly crying. I couldn't make words. I'm back to breathing too fast and too shallow and the phone disconnects and I do it all again. 

    Five things I can see: grass, trees, pink flowers, phone, purple cup

    Four things I can feel: skin, ice, zipper, hair. 

    Three things I can hear: Wind, traffic, phone.

    Two things I can smell: smoke and grass.

    One thing I can taste: Life Saver. 

    Ok. Ok. Ok. 

    I called John back, He was already on his way towards me and is there before I know it. We parked and locked my car, I got in with him and tried to get on with the day. But I was so fucking angry! Who behaves like this? What kind of grown woman can't drive her own goddamn car? WHY does my brain do this? I am faithfully taking my medicines. I am limiting my caffeine intake. I felt defeated.

    And I was defeated. Briefly. 

    But then, my son and his fiance came to help John get my car home, and she brought me a pink, metal flamingo and I decided to ride with them to get the car. On the way, they made me smile and laugh. When I got home I took my medicine and went to bed. I got up this morning, even though every muscle in my body was telling me not to, and I got in my car to go to work. 

    I was nervous to drive. I drove anyway. 

    At the end of the day, I was nervous to drive home, but I drove anyway. And when a little blue car cut me off while changing lanes.....my stomach dropped, but I kept driving. Ok. Ok. Ok. 

    I write this, not for sympathy, but because even though yesterday was a Win for anxiety, today was not. Today was ok. Tomorrow might be better. Ok?

Ms. J and The Grapes of Wrath

 

    I have a thousand other things I should be doing this Sunday morning, but I find that there's a memory stuck in my head that I can't let go. 

    I have always, as long as I can remember,  a lover of books. I use them to escape reality. It's not that there's anything in particular that I NEED to escape from, it's just that I WANT to escape. I want to immerse myself in someone else's world and think about someone else's life. I want to travel to different places and learn about other lives. And since the budget doesn't allow a lot of travel, and honestly never has, I do it by reading. I'd rather go to the library than Target. I'd sit in a bookstore from open to close before I would sit in a movie theater. 

    When I was in middle school, I had an English teacher who took a passing interest in whatever I happened to be reading at the moment. I had a much used Wahoo Library card, back when the library was next to the police and fire station. One day, I pulled a book off the shelf and checked it out. The book was The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck. I don't remember how I came across it. I just know that I started reading it, and keeping in mind that I was somewhere around thirteen years old, it was a bit of a struggle for me to understand the themes in the book. But I do love a challenge. When I showed up with the book at school, sitting on top of my text books and notebooks in English class, Ms. Jacobsen noticed and commented, "That's quite a book." And I must have kind of smiled? And she said, "I worry that this book is going to break your heart a little. Come talk to me about it if  you want."

    We all know I love the dramatics, but when I say to you that the book changed my life, I leave the drama behind and mean every word. I didn't know how to talk about it. I didn't have the words for what I felt, but Ms. Jacobsen was absolutely correct. And some days later, when she asked me how it was going, I all but burst into tears. She said, "Jenny, (because I was Jenny in those days) do me a favor and read this book again in a few years. You'll be surprised at what you learn from it all over again." 

   So. Shout out to Ms. Connie Jacobsen, wherever she may be. I have my doubts that she would even remember this, but I am happy to report that I took her advice, and not only reread the book once more, but actually several more times throughout the years, each time I set it down I learn a little something new. She could have told me not to read it. She could have suggested a more appropriate book. She could have called my parents and insisted they be a little more careful about what I checked out at the library. Instead, she said, "Come talk to me about it if you want". We really don't give teachers the credit they deserve for what they do. Ms. J. knew enough about her student to know that a little heartbreak might be necessary. 

    As an aside, Steinbeck's novel met with controversy. It was burned and banned and criticized. But, years later, when I pulled it off the shelf of my local library, I didn't know any of that. I sat down in Small Town, Nebraska, in a bedroom carpeted in green, on a twin bed, and absorbed a story that had the power to break my heart and fill in all the gaps in one fell swoop. I had a teacher who was willing to help me understand it. 

"I ain't gonna try to teach 'em nothin'. I'm gonna try to learn." John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

Small Word

 

    When I open my eyes, I know, from the feeling in the pit of my stomach, that it is Mother's Day. I take the dogs out in the budding light of the day, stand and look at the sky and smell the Spring air. It rained last night. It feels like the perfect day to visit my mom. 

    I get dressed and go to a graduation, because someone, somewhere, decided that the day wasn't fraught enough for some people. A graduation for a boy who never met his grandma. I cry, because I met this boy at the hospital, hours after he was born, and I would put money that that event was just a few weeks ago. I take pictures. I wipe my eyes and find the top of Zoe's head. She's playing in the band today. This time next year, it'll be her graduating. Zoe, who never met her grandma. After the ceremony, I hug and laugh with my brother. Who barely remembers his mother. 

    I go to the store and pick out flowers. Coral pink roses for my mom, purple for my grandma. I don't know if they will like them, but I think they're pretty, and festive and appropriate. The short drive down a paved county road leads to their place. It's quiet and green. There's a little noise from traffic, but mostly, what I hear are the birds. I exit the vehicle, walking with flowers in hand, seeing the different granite markers. Some with flowers, some without. There's someone new, just a row behind my mom. There's a huge old tree, and the wind whispers through the branches. 

    My mom's place is marked by rose colored granite. It's got dirt and grass clippings and John goes back to the truck to get a rag and a bottle of water to clean it up. And I stand there, staring at her words and listening to what's going on around us, and I wonder. I imagine. I pray. I wash the stone, the middle part, where her words are, gets darker with the water. The few minutes it takes to clean up the stone offer me something active to do for her. And so I spend just a few more seconds on it. It's not her arms wrapped around me, but it's the best I've got. John goes and does the same for my grandparents, resting next to their daughter. I think maybe they would appreciate it? Maybe someday, a long time from now, someone will do the same for me? 

    When I've stood there, staring into the words on the stone for awhile, I read them for what must be the hundred-millionth time. Loving Wife and Mother. I focus on the word Mother. It's a small word for such a title. It means so much. It means that I exist. That my brother exists. It means that my family is. But it also means that I will never know so many things during my life. It means that I will always wonder and think and grieve. I say goodbye as I always have. I kiss my finger tips and run them across the granite over the word. Mother. 

    I get home and find the picture I have. The one of twenty-seven year old Mom. She's a month from turning twenty-eight. A month from giving birth to me. She's wearing a white. long sleeved shirt with a plaid sweater over the top. If it didn't say on the back, in her loopy handwriting, that she was four weeks from having me, I don't know if I would be able to tell that she was pregnant at all. It's physical evidence to hold in my hand, that once upon a time, forty-four years ago, she and I were together. 

    I have dinner with my son and his fiance, with John and Zoe, and I open the gift they give me. Inside is a small wooden sign. It reads Best Mom Ever. And I don't think that's true, but the tears come falling down because I focus on the word Mom. I focus on all it's brought me, and all it's cost me. And I know, down in my soul, where my connection to my mother still lives on, that it's a small word for such a title.

  

Salt and Light

 

In the last few weeks, the phrase "salt of the earth" has kept popping into my mind. What does that really mean? A little research shows that the phrase derives from Jesus' sermon on the Mount: "You are the salt of the earth" Matthew 5:13. Jesus preached to the common people, fishermen, shepherds, laborers, farmers, that they were worthy and virtuous. He was alluding to the value of salt, which at the time, was highly prized, and so precious that it was used as money. He suggested that virtuous people are connected to the land, either literally, as farmers and herders, or figuratively as down-to-earth people. A little further into the reading of Matthew, Jesus says to the commoners, "You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl, Instead, they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in Heaven" Matthew 5:14-16.

I can't think of a better way to describe my Uncle John.

John J. Sabatka Jr was a lot of things to a lot of different people. He was a husband and father, a brother and friend. To me, he was Uncle. To me, he was, and will always be, fifty percent of the team, who in late 1979 or early 1980, made a promise to a dying young woman, and then kept it. It was no small promise. `

My earliest memories of him are watching him walk across the farm yard from the front window of the dining room of the farm. Off to do chores, dressed in a brown coat, while I stayed inside where it was warm. Later, I remember following the same brown coat into a building on the farm, and realizing, suddenly and shockingly that he had been hunting. There was a deer carcass hanging from the ceiling. He put his arm around my shoulders and led me away from the horror, and if I remember correctly, he snickered the whole time. 

On at least one occasion, while celebrating a holiday, he snuck me a cookie after Aunt Paulette had told me that I had had enough sweets. One time, at the end of a visit, he found me sulking at his kitchen table. When he questioned what was the matter with me, I admitted that I wasn't ready to leave. When he asked why, I told him that I would miss him. We stayed another night. 

I once heard him whispering and cooing to someone on my way to the kitchen, and slowed my step on the off chance that I was about to interrupt a tender moment between a husband and wife, only to find Aunt Paulette coming up the stairs from the basement, and Uncle John murmuring to their little dog.

Often, I found Uncle John on the edges of the party. He always seemed to be standing off to the side, a pillar of quiet strength.  He may not of used a lot of words, but I often found that standing next to him and slipping my hand into his offered me comfort and reassurance. 

He danced with me at a family wedding and whispered to me that he was sure that my mother was proud of me. We two, swaying to the music, tears rolling down our cheeks, didn't say another thing to one another for the rest of the song. 

John J Sabatka Jr was not famous. He was a farmer. He was a laborer, he shepherded his family. He lit a light and let it shine on whoever happened to be in the area at the time. I sit here, a living, breathing reminder of one of his good deeds. Salt and Light. 

To a good, kind, gentle, patient, hard-working man: Rest Easy. Thank You. 

The Farmer

 

        Two nights ago, I posted about a trip I took to the moon Bruno, Nebraska with my unwilling co-pilot, my brother, Joel. It got me thinking about the second and last time I ever visited the village. This is how it works with me now. A memory sparks a memory, which hopefully sparks a memory that is worthy of spending some time sharing it with an unwitting reader. 

        My grandparents on my dad's side lived on a farm when I was growing up. They were Max and Cheryl "Billie" Kliment. He was a farmer, she, a housewife. Their farm was located between Saunders and Butler Counties. It was in the middle of a section, with a long, gravel driveway, where my brother and I searched for the best and prettiest rocks on our trips to get the mail for Grandma. The driveway led to a pale, yellow house, trimmed in white, with a large tree out front, whose trunk had long ago split into two giant branches. There was a barn, and several out-buildings, and set further from the house, a machine shed. There were goldfish in the cow's water tank, and a creek bed that ran one side of the property. Sometimes the creek had a little water in it. Most of the time it was dry.  It was a place ripe with adventure for two young explorers. My brother would grab his plastic machine gun that made noise when you pulled the trigger, and we would set off, spending hours just wandering and seeing what there was to see. 

        Often, on our visits, we were under my grandma's feet, and I remember following her around her house. The washing machine was on the enclosed front porch. She had a giant cook-stove in the corner where I saw the first ever poached egg of my young life. Her kitchen counters were low enough for me to reach, because they were custom build for her stature. There was candy in the cupcake shaped candy dish on the dining room table, where I never remember sitting, even though it had the good, soft cushioned chairs. Grandma saved her empty makeup compacts for me in a box on the front porch, so I could 'put on my face' when I was visiting.  During our times there, despite Grandpa being home, he busied himself with other activities. There was, I am sure now, plenty for him to do that didn't involve two little kids. 

        Grandpa was a quiet man. He had a facial tick,which made it look like he winked a lot. He wore overalls a lot of the time. He walked with a cane. He drove a Mercury Marquis and a Ford F-150. He upgraded the years occasionally, but never the models. He drank a lot of coffee. I was later to discover that he had a wicked and biting sense of humor. He never appeared to be in a great hurry to get anywhere, in fact, I believe that the only time I ever saw him rush to do anything was finish his cup of coffee. Black, strong, Butternut coffee. None of this cream and sugar nonsense for Grandpa. He would often ask if we wanted a cup, and if we said yes, he would tell us that it was too hot.  He had an outside, long haired cat, named Diana. He fed the cat in the machine shed, and closed her in it every night for her safety. During the day he left the doors cracked, just enough so she could come and go as she pleased. He came to my house and played with our dog, a Dachshund named Kandy. She didn't like his cane, and tried to bite it, while barking and growling. He laughed and shook it around at her.  I suppose that a person who didn't know him may have been intimidated by him, but to me, he was just Grandpa. He had the best little half-smile when he found something funny. As a young girl, I once asked him why he walked so bent over, and he told me he was looking for pennies on the ground. I spent the next three days of my life with my face turned downward, thinking that I had been missing a plethora of pennies that had been unknowingly scattered at my feet. He sold seed corn. I once mailed him poem, cut from a magazine, entitled The Farmer, by Amelia Barr. He never acknowledged it. He teased me that his middle name was a secret, and it drove me crazy with curiosity, until my grandma told me that he didn't have a middle name.  I was thirteen years old before it occurred to me to wonder why we didn't have the same last name. As it happens, he was my dad's step-father. He was married before my Grandma, having lost his first wife and newborn son within days of one another in 1950. He was a World War II veteran. He liked playing cards, and taught his young granddaughter how to play Kings In The Corner by thoroughly trouncing me several times, despite my grandma pleading with him to play nicer. He was a serious Pitch player. I once cost us a game of Pitch and I'm not sure he ever truly forgave me. 

        Grandma and Grandpa lived on the farm until the summer before I entered my Freshman year of high school. At that point, they auctioned their belongings and moved to a house in David City. There, grandpa kept his yard in tip top shape and had more time for friends, coffee and cards. 

        When I was in my early 20's, I got a call that my grandma had been admitted to the hospital. I traveled the 50 miles from where I lived, and joined family at her hospital bed. If my memory serves, she was suffering from a ruptured hernia, which required surgery. As we waited in the small hospital, my grandpa said very little. When we were able to see her after surgery, I heard his sigh of relief, as if he had been holding his breath for all the hours he had been there. My groggy grandmother said that she supposed they wouldn't be going for dinner in Bruno that evening. Grandpa looked slightly distraught. She, from her bed, still woozy from the anesthesia, worried about what he would do for dinner. I offered to take him home and cook him something, but he instead asked if I wanted to go with him to Bruno, so the two of us said our goodbyes and headed for the parking lot. My grandpa stopped several times along the way to greet people he knew. I climbed into the passenger seat of their Mercury Marquis, an impeccable silvery car that was approximately 948 feet long. I've sat on couches that were less comfortable than this car seat. Off we went, just the two of us. It was the first time in any memory that I was truly alone with my grandpa. 

        David City to Bruno is roughly fifteen miles, though I didn't know that at the time. I knew that he sat behind the wheel with the confidence of someone who had a lot of things to look at, and all the time in the world to see them. We left the hospital sometime around four o'clock in the afternoon. We pulled up in front of the bar in Bruno sometime close to five. I hadn't paid that much attention, as I was trying to formulate a plan to ask my grandpa about himself. Instead, we rode in silence, except for a moment when he pointed out a deer in a far off field. Truth be told, I never saw the deer. I looked in the direction he pointed and I pretended, because I didn't know what else to do. 

        I was in a place in my life where I had started to seek a wider view of the people I loved. To see the very human, loving interactions between my grandparents had kick-started a curiosity in me. Who was this man, outside of being Grandpa? How does one go about asking questions that I was ashamed I didn't already know the answers to? 

        Upon entering the bar, Grandpa was greeted by several friends. It was a booming business. I think there were fifteen people inside. We took spots at the end of a long table of his friends, and someone came to the table and asked, "Where's Billie?" My grandpa responded that he had "traded her in for a younger model". He got a lot of laughs. It took me awhile to realize that he never expanded on the point. He just went about his dinner, visiting, and drinking coffee, letting the people believe whatever they wanted. An elderly woman sitting next to me asked, as the waitress was taking my plate away, where Billie was, and I told her the story of my grandmother's surgery. She gently scolded my grandpa, telling him to let my grandma know they'd be stopping by the following day. 

        Here again, was evidence that my grandparents existed in a world far outside of the one they lived in in my narrow view. They had an entire social circle. I sat, ever the observer, and watched many interactions between my grandfather and the people coming and going from a small town bar on a warm summer evening. It only fed my need to know more. When he drank down the last dredges of coffee in his cup, he gave everyone's favorite, mid-western indication that it was time to go. "Welp." He refused to let me pay for dinner, and we returned to the silver land yacht of a car that had delivered us to the village. The sun was fading in the sky. 

        I am confident in guessing that the speedometer never surpassed twenty-five miles an hour during the trip back to David City. I was nervous about starting a conversation, and when I get nervous, I usually have to pee, so my bladder was even more full than my mind, when I smelled something putrid. Initially, I blamed some farm animal. I cracked the window on my side of the car, and realized very quickly that it wasn't a smell from outside the vehicle. I said nothing. Grandpa rolled the window up from the controls on his side of the car, also silent. Several minutes later, a similar smell wafted in the air, and I again, opened my window. And again, he rolled it up. Twice more, we battled the stench and the window with a pregnant silence. I was a millimeter from laughing myself silly, and I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't want to call him out, no one could have paid me to embarrass him, so I bargained with myself that the best course of action was to avoid the subject completely. I erupted with, "Grandpa, tell me something about yourself!"To which he replied, smirk firmly in place, "I got gas." 

        Be still my curious heart. (And tell me something I hadn't already learned myself in the worst possible way!" 

        We howled the rest of the way back to David City. It took one hour and ten minutes to get back to David City, and I know that because the laughing hadn't helped the situation with my full bladder, and I watched every minute tick by on the green digital clock in the dash. Because we had all met at the hospital, we returned there, where I (blissfully!) emptied my bladder, and where I watched, from the doorway, my grandfather lean and kiss my sleeping grandmother on the forehead. He patted her hand, and slowly turned to shuffle away. 

        My grandfather joined his first wife and baby son in the fall of 2003. When he died, my grandma found an envelope with my childlike handwriting, holding the poem I had sent him years before.  I suppose that's as sentimental as he was comfortable being.  He was reunited with my grandma fifteen years later, in the spring of 2018. I don't know if he was allowed to escort her through the pearly gates, but if he was, I am sure she had plenty of time to see all the sights on the way. 

        He never really answered the questions I had, but nonetheless, he told me all I needed to know. 

The Farmer by Amelia Barr

"God bless the man who sows the wheat,

Who finds us milk and fruit and meat;

May his purse be heavy, his heart be light,

His cattle and corn and all go right;

God bless the seeds his hands let fall,

For the farmer he must feed us all.

A Celebrity Tale

        Yesterday's Random Stranger asking me if "it was the driver" triggered a memory that I feel some way about, so I thought I would share and make some long, long overdue apologies. 

      

        As with most siblings, my brother and I went through quite a long period of not liking each other much. We loved each other, and I am confident that at any time, my brother would have had my back against pretty much anything, and I know, with certainty, that I had his. Mostly. I was the little sister. I had a tendency towards 'brat' a lot of the time. When I was sixteen, my brother joined the Army, and when he left for boot camp, it tore my heart out. We discovered that we liked each other a lot more than we thought. Or, perhaps, *I* discovered how much I liked him and he just kept being him? At any rate, we weren't in the same state for months at a time, so I wrote him letters and he called me and our relationship grew to a more adult sibling/friendship situation. When my brother came home on leave, I tried to hang out with him as much as he would allow. We usually weren't engaging in a ton of wholesome activities. There was usually beer. There were definitely cigarettes. There was always music. And there were laughs for days. Our parents were maybe a little bit oblivious, because he was my older brother, and they counted on him to keep me in line. 

        On one such occasion, Joel was home on leave and we, along with our parents, were invited to meet our grandparents in Bruno, Nebraska for dinner at the bar. If you've never been to Bruno, well......it's pretty much just a bar. There may be a church, but I can't confirm that.  The bar served food. My grandparents liked to go there to eat occasionally. Somehow, on this particular occasion, we drove separately from our parents, them in the truck and Joel and I in the car. 

      In the mid 90's, my parents owned a four door, navy blue Chevy Celebrity and a black and red Ford F-150. My dad mostly drove the truck and my stepmom drove the car. Dad's truck wasn't shared often. So as a teenager, I mostly drove the car. The Celebrity had, at one point, an arm rest that was removed in the middle of the front seats, resulting in there being two small metal armrest holders exposed to an unlucky number of people who either sat in the front seat or caught elbows, purse straps, grocery bags, etc on them. 

        So, Joel and I set forth on a miniature road trip to Bruno in the Celebrity. Something important to know about my brother- he didn't like driving. So, I was behind the wheel, despite not actually knowing where Bruno was located. No matter. That was minor. I had my brother, his unique sarcasm and sense of humor, a warm early summer day, loud music on the radio, a full pack of Marlboro Reds, a bottle of Dr. Pepper and a light heart. We were cruising, a favorite activity of mine in those days. Windows down. I was feeling good. When we turned off the highway at the sign that directed us to Bruno, we turned onto an unfamiliar gravel road and, no doubt, cranked up the tunes a little louder and kept on keeping on. 

        As is often the case with young drivers, I was going too fast on a road that I didn't know. You know how sometimes you drive over a small bump in a gravel road and it makes  your stomach do that little flippy thing? We did that a few times. We laughed about it every time. It felt like we had been driving for a long time, and I was starting to wonder if we had missed a turn somewhere when I entered an intersection of gravel roads whose elevations did not match up and I accidentally launched the navy blue Chevy into orbit. We came back to Earth with a loud crunch, and a yell from my brother. I was in stunned silence. I had not intended to visit Heaven, but I bumped my head on a cloud. My brother let out a string of Not Safe For Work Words and yelled for me to PULL THE......HECK....over. I complied, absolutely mute. 

        We got out of the car on the side of the gravel road, no other cars in sight, and my brother took a long drag from a cigarette. I walked around the car to be sure that all of the tires were still attached. Joel checked the road for errant car parts. He laid down on the road and checked the underside of the car for leaks. The entire time, we said nothing. I sheepishly asked him if he wanted to drive. Unbelievably, he said no. He climbed into the passenger seat and lit another cigarette. I sat behind the wheel for a minute and gathered myself together. I don't remember the rest of the drive to Bruno. I just know that we got there in relative silence. When we parked out front, I discovered that, in landing, my (high-waisted) jeans had gotten caught on the metal piece that once held the arm rest, and had ripped. Luckily, at that point in my youth, I was a member of the No Flannel Shirt Left Behind Movement, and I grabbed the one I had tossed into the backseat and tied it around my waist in the hope that no one would notice my jeans. 

        Joel and I entered the bar, quickly found our parents and grandparents, and took a seat. My legs were still shaky. I ordered a Dr. Pepper and Joel a Mountain Dew, and we said our hellos. No one questioned why I needed a flannel on a 80 degree day. We sat through dinner, never making eye contact. I was secretly panicking that he was going to tell my parents about our brief foray into working for NASA. He said nothing. After dinner we returned to the car, again astonishingly, my brother declined the driver's seat, we headed for Wahoo and whatever awaited there. About halfway home, my brother started to laugh. We cackled the rest of the way back. 

       So.   

        First and foremost, all apologies to my brother. I don't know what to say. If you called forty-ninty-six right this very minute and told the whole truth....I couldn't possibly blame you. I'm so glad it didn't all end for us on a county road somewhere between Saunders and Butler Counties. That we lived to grow up and get married and have kids of our own who, with any luck, will not attempt to launch themselves off the planet. I....I'm just......sorry, man. That was all on me. 

          Sorry to Jeff Bezos and anyone else who thought they were the first private citizens to leave Earth, but you were not. Joel and I did not need a penis shaped rocket to leave the gravitational pull of the Earth. We did it in a late 80's model, four door Chevy Celebrity with a missing arm rest. I had a cigarette in my hand the whole time. Pretty sure he was mid-sip on a bottle of Mountain Dew. And all it cost us was the gas money my dad gave us before we left. ($10, if memory serves.)

        Sorry to my stepmom, who had to field the question of what she had been doing in her car when my dad changed the oil and found scratch marks on the undercarriage. I would have confessed, but I am a notoriously big chicken shit and I wanted to be allowed to drive the car again. (And months later, ditch it, ALSO unbeknownst to either of you, and you ALSO had to answer for THAT when dad checked the tire pressure and found weeds stuck to the bottom of the car, and angrily asked if you had been off-roading.)

        Sorry to my Guardian Angels, who probably had a migraine from the time I was sixteen and a half until maybe last week? 

        Sorry to my kids. I am the reason I do not trust new drivers. It's me. It's been me the whole time. 

        Whew! I feels so good to get that off my chest!