Love Is Forever

Story Time with Grandpa

This time, I'm gonna do something a little different. Rather than just share my own opinion on life, I want to introduce you to one of the main players in my novel, The Sleeping Giant. 

Richard “Doc” Mayfield is a small town veterinarian on the verge of retirement. He loves to maintain a "grumpy old man" facade, but doesn't really fool anyone who knows him. Here is a small excerpt that tells more about what a great guy Doc is.

*** 

[Thursday, 8:00 a.m.]

Doc pulled into the parking lot of the Middleton Cemetery and killed the engine. He sat there for a minute gazing across the green lawns, interspersed with headstones and angelic statuary. Climbing out of the truck, he winced as the arthritis in his left knee gave a little holler. He tolerated most of the aches and pains which accompanied aging, but the darn arthritis wasn’t always easy to ignore. He supposed he might have to use some of that Icy-Hot stuff, but Lord, it smelled so bad!

     Reaching into the back of the truck, Doc retrieved a small plastic bucket, containing gloves, a whiskbroom, and other small yardwork tools. He also grabbed the small bouquet of lilies he’d picked up on the way here; lilies had always been Aggie’s favorite.

     He approached the familiar headstone with reverence, as he had almost every week for the last thirty-five years. Setting the bucket down, he leaned over and removed the stems of what had once been fresh flowers before replacing them with the bundle of lilies. He was careful not to drop the old stems, but instead folded them and placed them in his jacket pocket—he would deposit them in the can by the entrance on his way out.

     He grabbed the whiskbroom from the bucket, and lovingly brushed the surface of the headstone, then slowly traced the words with his fingertip.

Agnes Lucille Trindle

15 Jan. 1943 – 18 Jun 1961

Fly With Angels, Beloved

     Often, especially when he was younger, seeing her name engraved on this stone had brought him to tears. Her name should have been Agnes Mayfield . . . and it shouldn’t have been here at all. Although he had come to terms with his grief many years ago, he still missed her every day; he always would.

     “Aggie my love, I’m sorry I didn’t make it out to visit you last week. Between delivering a foal on Wednesday night, and surgery on a dog on Thursday morning, it was just too hectic. I know you understand sweetheart.”

     He pulled the only weed he could see growing at the base of the stone, and using the spade, he edged the entire plot where she was buried. Her grave was the most well kept one in the cemetery, due to his weekly upkeep, and it saddened him to think how so many folks had no one to do this for them.

     His mind returned once again, as it did every time he visited her, to that night many years ago, when his future father-in-law had come to the door, tears streaming down his face. The news of the accident had shattered Doc’s world forever. The worst part was, he had no one to blame except maybe God, and somehow his anger never seemed to impress God much. He even found his faith hadn’t been completely destroyed . . . and once the anger had been replaced by acceptance, he had even started attending church again, if only intermittently.

     Doc had discovered a sad truth on that long ago day—losing your soul mate permanently divided your life, into a before and an after. Once, he had been a carefree young man looking forward to becoming an animal doctor, with his wife standing by his side; now he was a lonely old man who found solace in treating the animals of his friends and neighbors, and in his surrogate family at the clinic.

     “I think I’m going to give young Peter a raise. I’m pretty sure he intends to ask Amanda Donner for her hand in marriage. A young man with matrimony on his mind needs all the financial support he can earn; besides, he really is the hardest working young man I’ve ever hired.

     “I gave Grace some roses for her birthday yesterday, and you’d think I’d given her a gold mine. It warmed my old heart to see how much some silly flowers meant to her, and it made me realize yours were getting old, after a missed week. I hope you like these new ones.”

     He stood, and as the muffled popping of his left knee disturbed the stillness, he glanced at her gravestone again, then reached down and picked up his bucket of tools.

     “As always, my sweet, sweet dear, I’ll see you again, when God calls my number. Until then, I love you.”

     With that he turned and slowly walked back towards the parking lot, and the quiet ride home in the truck.

***

If you haven't yet read my novel, I would be honored for you to take a stroll with me and the residents of a little town, in the shadow of a waking volcano. There you'll meet many more characters and see how their lives intersect and unfold, as they travel unknowing toward the largest natural disaster in US history.

Thanks for joining me and for letting me tell you a bit of a tale,

From Grandpa's Heart...

Society's Invisble Members

 

Time to Be Serious

Many times, as I write these posts, I find myself in a humorous or playful frame of mind, but sometimes the subject matter requires a bit more decorum, and a pause to reflect on the truth that can sometimes sail under the radar as we go about our day-to-day lives. The issue of the homeless among us is a topic that fits this category.

I once wrote a poem, titled “Do You See Me?” and when I published it, there were some disagreements with my take on the issue of helping those who have fallen into the cracks in our society. Here is a link to that poem:

https://theprose.com/post/184992/do-you-see-me

Some of the criticism I received was about the portrayal of hatred on the part of the passers-by. To clarify, I don’t think that most people feel hatred for those who live on the streets or panhandle on freeway on-ramps; more often I think it is just that we can’t identify with them. This poem however, was written from the “invisible” person’s point of view, and in it he is saying he would rather you hated him, than pity him—it hurts less.

The other comment that I seemed to hear the most was that helping these people out with money is in effect, helping enable their lifestyle. 

A Strong Disagreement

Now, it is true that some people have to hit bottom before they can see they have nowhere to go except up, but I firmly believe—having been homeless myself at one point in my life—that MOST people who live on the streets (or in the woods, or in a tent, or behind the grocery store) aren’t there by choice, but have found their way to these places through fear, resignation, and ignorance; and most of them simply have no idea about how to get out.

Monetary help for those who live at the lowest levels of our society is not the need that we should be most concerned with; rather, we should offer them the basic emotional human needs of empathy and compassion. A smile and a kind word just might be the tipping point that tells them someone still sees the person behind the problems, and they are still worth saving. That simple message, that they aren’t invisible at all, might be all they need to help them reignite the spark of hope, and maybe even rebuild the desire to look for a way back.

The one class of people who are the most accepting, and who live with the least amount of judgment, fear, or condescension, are those who have the most issues with fitting into society themselves. Sadly this often includes those who have turned to drugs to escape the problems. When you have nothing, it is easy to lose hope, and with that loss, the willpower to fight. When you don’t have the basic foundation of knowledge, or even a way to eat later in the day, it can be almost impossible to do anything but drift along, and find a way to escape. Those easy escapes almost always involve making the wrong choices, and they end up making a bad situation even worse—widening the gulf that must be crossed to rejoin the rest of us in the “real” world.

Try Not to Pass Judgement

If you have never faced the circumstances that put these fellow humans there, you can’t understand how it could happen—and it is all too easy to dismiss them all as habitual drug users who put themselves there. Addiction does play a role in the problem, you would have to be blind not to see that, but for every person you see who is begging on the street because of addiction, there are three you don’t see who are simply trying to find a way to feel like they still matter, and have no clue how to connect to the help they need. When you haven’t brushed your teeth for three weeks, it is embarrassing to talk to others, let alone ask them for help, or a job, or even something to eat.

A simple smile and saying hello, may make more difference than you realize. Choosing not to enable what you see as a continued voluntary lifestyle may be a great goal, but for most people this is not a voluntary choice, but one of circumstance. Refusing to “see” them—even if it is just in their minds that you don’t—sends the message that you have judged them and found them unfit for human contact. Even though this may not be true, it is how many of them feel, when you avert your eyes and hurry past.

A Basic Truth

Everyone has a story, and most of them are sad and probably could have been avoided at one point or another, but could-have-beens aren’t helpful . . . they are merely reminders of all that they have lost. 

I don’t think you can help anyone who isn’t ready to be helped, but if you are worried about the way even a small donation might be spent, keep in mind that a bagel and a cup of coffee can’t be traded for drugs, and can fill another void that all of us experience—hunger happens every day, even to the lost—without making a huge dent in your lifestyle.

If even that is more than you can do, then remember this: Smiling is free, and saying “Good Morning” just may be more important than the $1.40 in change you have in your pocket.

Try to remember that we are all human, and deserve at least the chance to feel that way. As always this message comes to you...

From Grandpa's Heart...

The Ultimate Magic Power

I am a writer, and like all writers, I use very real true-life magic to cure many of the issues I face. If you don’t believe it, take my hand and follow me as I explain not only why I believe in this ultimate magic, but how it can help you—and anyone who reads the words you write—at some point in their lives.

The Problem

Since the dawn of time, mankind has had to deal with a somewhat unique problem. We possess not only a powerful analytical mind, but a very highly developed sense of emotional sophistication as well. These attributes often end up at war inside us, with the stronger of the two deciding our actions.

The times when our emotional side is in charge can lead to some of the best, and worst, decisions of our lives. The problem is that most of us try very hard to make sure our analytical side leads the way, and quite often that means we must bottle up and shut down our emotional selves. We also sometimes need to suppress the strength of our emotions, in order to survive the heights and depths they can take us to.

When we lock our emotions away, we tend to hide them from ourselves as much as the rest of the world. This repression of emotions can lead to many different mental, and even physical conditions, so it becomes beneficial to find a way to release them.

A Solution

Fortunately, we humans also have a unique ability, that no other animal has. We can communicate abstract concepts to others, in ways that leave indelible imprints on the world around us.

When we express ourselves in a way that conveys not just thoughts but emotions as well, we call this art. The source of our inspiration to create art—whether it is through speaking, creative writing, sculpture, painting, music, or whatever other outlets we choose—is, if we look deeply, the wellspring of feelings inside us.

It has been my observation that the most powerful of these bottled up emotions can be released through artistic expression, and for many of us, that means the written word.

Some writers love to use one of the languages we share, in short clips and bursts of audible and/or visual imagery to express themselves. These communication artists may write in rhymes, metered forms, or free verse, but their poems and/or songs make connections and touch others; this writing often helps them not only heal themselves, but their audiences as well.

Others may find that writing poetry and/or songs just isn’t enough to satisfy their need to create images, characters, and worlds. Their written creations, in whatever length they work in—flash fiction, micro tales, short stories, novels—can transport others into worlds of their imagination. There, others get to share and experience a wide variety of emotional and mental images, sensations, and expressions. This is yet another way for a creative person to release the feelings in their hearts and souls, and help others do the same.

The Result

One of the best results of this process is that writers can craft unique pieces of permanent communication, allowing them to transmit and share their thoughts, feelings, and ideas across generations. They can touch people who need to know they aren’t alone, who need to escape into a world of imagination, or who need to release their own pent-up emotions in one way or another.

This makes writing both the ultimate catharsis and the ultimate form of telepathy; writers may, in their own way, become healers and magically transform the lives of others, by sending their concepts, emotions, and stories out to other people beyond the limits of time and space.

We have all experienced a work of art at some point—written, drawn, sculpted, or sung—that has touched our hearts, moved our souls and/or healed our troubled minds. This art may have been created today, or hundreds of years ago, and it may have been crafted by anyone, anywhere. 

Someday, you yourself may share your thoughts and feelings with someone, somewhere, and help improve their lives.

You just can’t get much more magic than that. 

As always, this bit of writer's wisdom comes to you directly...

From Grandpa's Heart...

A Basic Truth

Who is in control of your life?

At it’s heart, this question contains an element of what I subjectively refer to as ‘basic truth’ regarding life. You may not agree, but because of my belief in this truth I am a happy person, and it is one I have tried to ensure that all of my children, grandchildren, and indeed, every young person I have mentored in any fashion, have not only grasped, but committed to heart.

Before we can honestly answer this question of control, we have to agree on exactly what it means—as a concept, “control” is difficult to pin down. Keep in mind that there is a percentage of people who, through physical, mental or emotional disability or immaturity, need others to be in charge of some, or even all, of their daily lives. This message does not apply equally to these folks, whether children or adult.

For the rest of us, the basic truth that I have found is this: 

You cannot truly control anything in life, except how you react and respond to what happens to you, and the choices you make.

Please, read that again—it is that important.

Society imposes certain limitations and expectations on us and our behavior, but we must choose to respect those. The law says I can’t speed in my car, but the truth is, I choose to obey that law. If I choose to disregard this societal imposition, it may well cost me my money, my freedom, or even my life; choices have repercussions... most of which I also have no control over. If I drive in traffic, I cannot control how the drivers around me handle their vehicles, but I can choose to get angry and curse them, or turn on some jazz music and relax. That choice is up to me.

You can be victimized by outside forces, people and events, but that doesn’t mean that anyone or anything can dictate how you respond. There are those who are physically, mentally or emotionally abused and imprisoned by others [if this is you, please reach out and find help] but for everyone else, those people you love and/or hate only have as much power over you as you let them have.

No one can make you have a bad or good day, feel angry or excited, make you smile or hurt your feelings... unless you let them. 

We all know of people who let life’s miseries bring them down, and others who rise above the turmoil… for the most part this is a matter of them exercising control of their reactions, and then choosing how to move forward.

As humans, there is very little about the physical world around us which we can actually control. You can’t do much about the wind, the tide, or the seasons. Weather, like most of the environment, is something we can work to modify and learn to deal with… but controlling it is fantasy at best. You can shape your surroundings; you can build a place to exist in which you have some measure of impact on the forces around you; you can choose which people to associate with, and thereby gain a bit of control of the energy (both positive and negative) around you.

The Key

The key element is choice—and we must remember that choosing NOT to choose, is also a choice we sometimes make.

In the end, as much as I would like to be able to blame someone else for the bad parts of my life, and take credit for the good parts, all I can honestly say is that I have, with time and effort, gained a fair amount of control over my reactions and responses, and I am actively working on making the best choices I can to ensure that the majority of circumstances in my life are ones that I want to happen.

I choose to be a happy person, and I am in control of that choice. I also choose to share this message... 

from Grandpa's heart...

© 2020 - dustygrein

 

Thanos Denied!

 

A Challenge 

If you weren't aware, Grandpa frequently writes on one of his favorite social sharing sites, Prose (https://theprose.com/).  The writers, poets, and administrators  on this site post challenges, and many of them are fun and create a special spark that ignites either a poem, a piece of flash fiction, or both.

Here is my response to one of these challenges. The challenge was to write about a close encounter with death, and I had the perfect experience to draw on.

Through the window in the back, I watched traffic fall behind us as the ambulance flew down the freeway. The young paramedic next to me was telling a joke, but I was having trouble paying attention . . . morphine is a powerful attention disrupter.

My day had started normally, although I did notice during my morning constitutional that my neck felt a little stiff.

[No big deal, maybe I just slept wrong.]

Breakfast didn’t sit real well, and soon after I began to feel a heaviness in my chest and weakness in my arm that wouldn’t go away. By afternoon, I realized it wasn’t just an upset stomach, and the pressure in my neck had intensified, so I had my oldest son drive me to the local hospital.

The doctors and nurses in the local ER are great people. Well, most of them are. There is one old nurse who seems to think that if you aren’t a victim of a car accident, you are just a whiner. Luckily, she wasn’t in charge of my care. The young doctor who was, hardly looked old enough to be out of high school. He ordered an EKG test, and although he didn’t see anything unusual, he decided to have the lab run a workup on my blood.

It took about a half-hour to get the results back, and when they did my room become a flurry of activity. Doctors and nurses rushed in, popped nitroglycerin under my tongue, gave me four baby aspirin, and hooked me back up to the EKG machine. The young doc came in looking gravely serious and said, “I need you to relax as much as you can. You are having a heart attack.”

[A heart attack? I can’t be having a heart attack . . . I’m only 49!]

He ordered a huge dose of morphine for my IV; once they pushed the plunger down, the whole thing seemed a little out of focus, and almost comical. It certainly didn’t seem bad enough to be worried about, but they started talking about life flights to the big hospital in the city, about a half-hour away. When they found out it would take almost an hour to get a helicopter there, they called for an ambulance, and I found myself riding on a gurney, with a comedian by my side.

Between bad jokes, he seemed to know what he was doing; he was on the radio with the hospital off and on the whole way. I could feel pressure in my chest, but it didn’t really hurt. I remember when I was a kid I got the mumps, and my throat swelled up. It felt a little like that, but the morphine kept sending my thoughts off on tangents.

[Maybe that’s the whole point.]

We pulled up to the hospital, and suddenly I found myself in what seemed to be an episode of a reality show, with white gowned figures rushing me into a prep-area. They stripped my clothes off me, grabbed a razor, and draped a huge paper sheet with a large square cutout across my naked body, exposing my nether regions to the cold bright world. The razor was applied to the spot where my leg joined my abdomen.

I remember joking with the no-nonsense nurse wielding the clippers. I told her she should at least buy me dinner, since we were now such intimate friends. She winked, looked down at her handiwork and said “It’ll have to be a little snack.”

[Great. Comedians all the way around. At least she’s cute.]

They wheeled me into the Cath-Lab, and after transferring me to a steel table, the cardiologist came in and sat down. I could see part of the bank of monitors above me; they would have made the crew of Star Trek jealous. The doc made a small incision in my freshly shaved skin, inserted a tube, then guided a catheter up through my artery and into my heart. I remember watching the screens, like it was happening to someone else, and thinking it was the most awesome thing I had ever witnessed.

He inserted a small stent—a wire mesh tube that most closely resembles the little Chinese finger trap toys we had as kids, but much, much smaller. He then used miniature balloon to blow up the tube, opening up the blocked part of my coronary artery.

[Ahhhh!]

The relief was instant. The weight disappeared and breathing was much easier than it had been only seconds before. I asked if he could do it again, and he just smiled and had the nurse give me more morphine. After that, it all went a little blurry.

I woke up in a room the next morning, with the birds singing outside, and a large bandage covering the incision on my groin. When the doc who saved my life came in, I asked him how serious it had been. He told me that I probably would have survived another day or so, but I should keep in mind the rest of my life was now mine to enjoy, and that I had to start taking daily medications, and start taking better care of myself.

Death had knocked loudly, but—thanks to modern science, a great doctor, and a couple comedians—he hadn’t made it through the door.

It’s been seven years since that day. Truth be told, I’m actually a much happier person now. I enjoy the little blessings more, and don’t take anything for granted. Life is short, and it is as sweet as we want to make it, while it lasts.

[I’ll have the rest of mine with a smile, thanks.]

© 2019 - dustygrein

A New Lease 

This experience was the primary reason for creating my blog, and it fundamentally changed my outlook on a lot of things. This second chance has not been wasted, and I am striving, every day I have left,to make the world a little bit better than it was the day before.

Sometimes that knocking on the door can be dismissed, and you can discover opportunity is already in the room with you. Something to consider...

From Grandpa's Heart...