RUTH WOULD ATTEST to the fact that nursing does not prevent pregnancy, since she conceived the couple’s second child while nursing, a year and a half after Elizabeth’s birth. And so, it was that on a hot summer day nineteen-year-old Ruth called from the cabin door, “Charlie, I think it’s time! You better get Doc Perkins!”
Charlie had been adjusting the tractor carburetor with a small wrench when Ruth called. He slipped the wrench in his pocket and hurried to her. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure,” Ruth answered.
Charlie grabbed the car keys hanging from a nail beside the door, kissed Ruth, and hurried to undo the boat. While poling across the river, he spotted one of his buddies, Johnny Kamaski, wading along the shoreline, fishing. Johnny was about Ruth’s age.
“Hey, Johnny,” Charlie called. “Ruth’s gone into labor. I’m getting Doc Perkins. Would you go over and stay with her?”
“What?” Johnny asked.
“Go stay with Ruth. She’s going to have a baby,” Charlie repeated.
“Oh, okay. Okay, I guess I can,” Johnny replied nervously.
BETWEEN LABOR PAINS, Ruth prepared for the birth. Though the day was hot, very hot, she started a fire in the woodstove and heated water, covered the bed with layers of newspapers and placed clean towels made from a discarded flannel bedsheet at the foot of the bed and two pillows at the head. While she did this, toddler Betty watched from her crib, and Johnny Kamaski watched while standing in the open door.
Ruth was at the kitchen table when her water broke. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I guess I’m having this baby now!” She waddled to the bed, lifted herself onto the newspapers, and braced herself against the cabin wall as she recalled Doc Perkins’s words, “Bear down. Bear down.” She bore down, and her second child was born.
“Johnny,” she said. “You have to cut the umbilical cord.”
“What?” Johnny questioned in disbelief.
“Take the scissors off the table and cut that,” she said while pointing to the cord connecting her to the baby. Johnny’s face turned a pale green as he gingerly lifted the fleshy cord and snipped it.
“Now tie it,” Ruth directed. “Tie both ends.” Johnny’s hands trembled, but he did as he was directed. Not long after the birth, Doc Perkins arrived with Charlie.
“Well,” he said. “Looks like you managed just fine. Very resourceful. Very resourceful.”
When Ruth told the doctor that Johnny had cut and tied the umbilical cord, Doc Perkins said, “Oh, that wasn’t necessary. It could have waited. The fluid in the cord turns to gel once exposed to air.”
And so it was that Charles Leroy, Jr. was born on July 28, 1934. From that day forward, Johnny Kamaski was known by many as Doc Johnny.
THE FIRST WEEK of December, Papa came home for several days before having to haul a house trailer to Florida, and while he was home, he proposed cutting some of the spruce trees that were growing in a swampy area north of the pasture. “I can haul them to Illinois and sell them for Christmas trees. Ten trees, each ten dollars, an easy hundred,” he calculated, and while looking at me, he added, “You can ride on Joe and pull them home in a tarpaulin.”
“It’s mighty swampy down there,” I said. “Last summer Joe sunk in muck when we tried to explore that area.
“It’s winter now, and the swamp is frozen,” Papa replied.
So, on a sunny cold morning, Papa and Ted walked to the woods with Papa carrying hand axe and Ted carrying a Swede saw, a saw with a large toothed blade attached to a rounded metal arm. Shortly afterward, Joe and I followed, Joe wearing a harness and me carrying a canvas tarpaulin and tug lines, ropes that are fastened from the harness to the load being pulled.
Papa was right, the swamp was frozen and it didn’t take long for Joe and me to reach the spruce and tamarack thicket beyond the swamp edge. Grey and brown tamarack branches and trunks stood out against the green of spruce boughs. The tamaracks had lost their needles and looked dead, but I knew they weren’t. I broke off a twig and examined its bud scars. “New needles will poke through these little bundles in the spring,” I informed Joe. “It’s like magic.” He just kept plodding through the frozen swam moss.
Ahead, I could hear Papa and Ted talking. Then Papa started chopping. Shortly afterward, I watched as a spiraled spruce tree disappeared from where it had stood among other spiraled tree tops. When Joe and I reached the spot where it had stood, Papa had only cut the top off and was trimming branches. The topless tree lay half covered in snow. I looked around at all the spruce trees. They were all very tall, about the height of a telephone pole, and they all had beautifully shaped tops, perfect Christmas-tree-shaped tops. “Aren’t there any shorter ones?” I asked.
“No, the underbrush is too thick, they have to grow tall to get sunlight,” Papa explained. “There are plenty of them. We’ll cut just ten.”
“Make that eleven,” Ted called. “We need one too.” He was already sawing at the base of another tree with the Swede saw.
I slid from Joe’s back and helped Papa spread out the tarpaulin. “That’s one,” said Papa as he laid a nicely shaped Christmas tree on the tarp.
“Here comes another,” Ted announced as the tree he had been sawing toppled to the ground.
After cutting and trimming a third and a fourth tree, Papa said, “The snow is pretty deep. Four is about all Joe should drag out at one time. Take these home and when you return, we’ll have four more ready.” While saying this, he wrapped the tarpaulin around the trees and tied a rope snuggly around the load. He then fastened the tug lines from Joe’s harness to metal rings on the tarpaulin and boosted me onto Joe’s back. Then I headed for home. Earlier the sun had been shining, but now it was cloudy and light snow had started to fall.
While riding, I thought about the first time I had put the tugs on Joe. Papa had brought them home with a harness, another a gift from Mr. Altman. He told Papa that he thought Joe would make a good cart horse, and Joe did. During the summer, Ted and I made a cart out of an old lawnmower. After removing the mower blade and placing a wooden box over the engine, we fastened tugs to the handle and took turns sitting on the box while being pulled by Joe. We called it our lawn mower buggy. Ted and I also had Joe pull us on snow skis, alternating turns riding or being pulled. The one being pulled held onto the tug straps. Tugs, I thought to myself. That’s an appropriate name since they are used for tugging things.
When I arrived home, I untied the tarpaulin ropes and leaned the trees against the garden fence. Mama came from the house wearing a heavy sweater and stocking cap, and after looking at the trees said, “They’re shaped perfectly, and look, they have little pine cones on their top branches.”
“All the spruce trees are like that,” I replied and then added, “All the tops of the spruce trees, that is. Papa chopped down very tall scraggly trees just for their tops. He said they’re like that because of the thick underbrush, only the tops of the trees get sunlight.”
As we talked, I folded the tarpaulin and laid it and the tug straps over Joe’s withers before Mama boosted me onto his back.
“Wait,” she said. “I baked oatmeal cookies. You can take some with you. They’ll taste good about now.” She hurried into the house and returned with the cookies in a brown paper bag.
The wind had picked up and it was snowing more heavily when I turned Joe back onto the trail to the spruce swamp.
I could smell the cookies but didn’t take one. I didn’t want to risk having snow blow into the bag. I bent my head down and leaned over Joe’s withers to keep gusts of snow from blowing into my face.
When I reached Papa and Ted, they were standing with their backs to the wind. Ted turned and called, “What took you so long?”
“Oh, I went inside and read a book and Mama gave me a cup of hot chocolate and that made me tired so I took a nap,” I answered sarcastically.
And Ted sarcastically replied, “That’s what I thought.”
“We’re going to call it a day,” Papa interrupted. “We cut four more before the snow made it impossible to see the tree tops. We’ll wrap these in the tarpaulin and you and Joe can head for home.”
“Mama sent some oatmeal cookies,” I said while handing the bag to Ted. “Now you won’t starve if you get lost on the way.”
By the time the tree tops were snug in the tarpaulin and the tug lines fastened to Joe’s halter, the heavy snow had become a whiteout.
“I can’t see the trail!” I yelled to Papa.
“Just let Joe find the way!” he called back.
“Okay, Joe! Home! Let’s go home,” I shouted into the blowing snow. After entirely wrapping my face with my scarf, I leaned over Joe’s withers and rested my head on the side of his neck. Again, I shouted, “Home Joe! Home! You know the way!”
I could feel the tug straps pulling the tarpaulin. I could also feel the warmth of Joe’s back and thought about how much better it was to ride bareback in a blizzard. I also thought about Papa and Ted finding their way home. They’ll be okay, I told myself. Papa is a walking compass. He never gets lost.
When Joe eventually stopped, I sat up, uncovered my face, and looked around. We were standing at the pasture gate. “You did it, Joe. You did it,” I said softly.
After unfastening the tug lines and removing the halter, I walked Joe to the barn and put him in his stall. He nickered to Lovey while I brushed the snow from his coat. “Yes, tell her all about it, Joe,” I said while filling his hay rack with fresh hay. “Tell her how you found your way home all by yourself.”
At the back door, I kicked snow from my boots and used a boot jack to pull them off. When I stepped into the kitchen, I was greeted with warmth and the smell of fresh bread and vegetable soup. Papa and Ted were in the living room sitting close to the wood burning stove.
“Good to see you made it home,” Papa said. “We saw the tarpaulin and thought you were probably in the barn with Joe. Did he find the way on his own?”
“Yup. I wrapped my scarf around my head and leaned forward out of the wind. I had no idea where we were going. His body kept me warm too.”
Two days later, after loading the spruce trees into his truck, Papa told Mama, “I’ll be back in three weeks, expect me a week before Christmas.” Then he headed for Indiana where he planned to pick up a house trailer that he was scheduled to haul to Florida. While on the way, he also planned to stop and sell the trees to his Illinois buddies and their friends.
After Papa left, it continued to snow almost daily for two weeks and then it stopped. Gray skies changed to deep blue and the temperature dropped. It didn’t just drop, it crashed to 44 degrees below zero! We had been told that when it dropped near that temperature school buses wouldn’t start, and we were advised to listen for school closings on the local radio during such weather. Ted and I got up early on bitterly cold mornings to listen for these reports, and when it was announced that there would be no school, we jumped around laughing and clapping our hands. Ted was happy because he would be able to sleep in and read when he wasn’t sleeping. I was happy because I would be able spend a whole day with Joe.
Two weeks before Christmas, Ted and I convinced Mama that it was time to put up the tree, and when we went to town, she bought a tree stand and a box of tinsel. We had never needed a tree stand before because the only Christmas tree we ever had was a live one growing in a bucket. That was when we lived in Illinois. Illinois was corn country not spruce tree country, and Christmas trees were expensive. So, instead, we had bought a bucket tree. At Christmas time, a green towel was wrapped around the bucket and tiny baubles were hung on the tree. It was small, about a foot tall. But this year we had a real Christmas tree.
After securing our real Christmas tree in the stand and setting it in a corner of the living room as far from the wood burning heating stove as possible, we were faced with the challenge of decorating it. All that we had was the box of tinsel.
While we were carefully placing tinsel on the tree, Ted asked, “Do you smell cat pee?”
“I sniffed and replied, “Yeah. Maybe Bart sprayed it outside.” Bart was a stray tomcat that sprayed on things he thought were interesting.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” Ted said, and I agreed. By the time we finished hanging the tinsel, the smell had disappeared or we had grown accustomed to it.
We didn’t have bobbles or lights, but we had paper and flour. We mixed the flour with water to make paste and cut the paper into short strips that we linked together into a long paper chain. We kept making links until the chain was long enough to wrap around the tree several times from top to bottom. We also cut symmetrical angels by folding three-inch squares in half and cutting out the shape of a half angel. When the paper was opened it became a full angel. Mama taught us how to do this, and her grandmother, Ted’s and my great-grandmother, had taught her. The three of us also cut six-sided snowflakes. We covered the tree with snowflakes and angels. At night they reflected the lamplight beautifully.
Several days after decorating the tree, Red Monzell, a grizzled old bachelor who sold firewood, stopped to ask Mama if we needed any.
“We’re okay for now, but stop back in a week when Charlie is home. He might want to get some more.” Mama said.
She invited Red into the kitchen for a cup of hot cholate, and he gladly accepted her offer.
“Would you like to see our Christmas tree?” I asked.
“Sure would,” he replied. Before going into the living room, Red looked at his boots. He had knocked most of the snow from them but a little remained.
“They’re okay,” Mama said. “The snow is clean.”
Red followed Ted and me into the living room and stood looking at the tree for a while before speaking, “Did you know that’s a swamp spruce?” he asked.
“Well, we got it from our swamp. Papa cut some to sell to friends in Illinois for Christmas trees,” I replied.
“How long ago did he cut them?”
“About three weeks ago. But we just put ours up yesterday.”
“Sorry to tell you this, but swamp spruce don’t make good Christmas trees. They look nice when they’re first cut, but their needles drop off and sometimes they smell skunky, like cat pee.”
Ted and I looked at each other and nodded.
“Some people call them cat spruce because of the smell,” he continued. “Your tree will hold its needles because you kept it outside in the cold, but expect them needles to start dropping in about a week.”
After Red left, Mama, Ted, and I talked about our cat-pee Christmas tree and wondered whether the trees Papa had taken to Illinois still had their needles and whether they also smelled like cat pee.
Five days before Christmas Papa had not returned home. We didn’t have a phone, so there was no way to contact him and learn the reason for his delay or find out when to expect him. Ted and I were concerned about gifts, receiving them and giving them. When we told Mama this, she said, “Well, I don’t have a lot of cash, but I can give you each five dollars to buy gifts.”
“That’s enough,” Ted and I agreed. “When can we go shopping?”
“How about tonight? Stores will stay open until nine, and you’ll do all of your shopping at Ben Franklin’s.” Ben Franklin’s was a department store that sold everything from nails to nylons.
Of course, Ted and I eagerly agreed.
Brightly colored Christmas lights and spruce boughs hung across Main Street, and the sidewalk was filled with shoppers. Mama parked on a side street and we quickly walked to the department store. Once inside, Ted and I headed straight for the items we had earlier discussed and decided upon, a pair of lumberjack socks for Papa and a potato masher for Mama. We pooled our money to buy these, and after equally dividing what was left, we went our separate ways to buy gifts for each other. I bought Ted a small single-blade pen knife and he bought me a 48-count box of Crayola crayons. With the little change we had left, we bought a box of candy canes to hang on the tree.
Two days before Christmas, Papa came home and that same afternoon, he
and Mama went into town to pay for the gifts that had been put on lay-away. Ted and I stayed home and wrapped our gifts with lunch bag paper that we flattened and decorated with crayon-drawn Christmas trees.
“I wonder if Papa knows whether the trees lost their needles,” I said.
“Yeah, me too,” Ted replied.
We didn’t have to wonder long. That evening Papa told us that a buddy contacted him and told him to stop and talk to his Christmas tree customers. “That’s why I was late getting home. I had to go to each home and return the money they had paid. Every tree had lost its needles, and some complained that the trees smelled like cat pee.” Then he added, “It was embarrassing.”
Ted and I told Papa about Red Monzell’s visit and what Red had said about swamp spruce losing their needles.
“They’re also known as cat spruce because they smell like cat pee. That’s what Red said,” Ted added.
“Hmmm,” Papa replied. “I guess we can chalk this up as a lesson. No more cutting swamp spruce for Christmas trees.”
Throughout my childhood and teen years, I remember my mother helping people who were poor. It wasn’t because she was wealthy, it was because she understood what it was to be poor. This photo reminds me of the old men she helped. They lived on what we called Bachelor Avenue, a country road that had several one-room shanty bachelor homes. When Mama took baked goods to them, my brother and I accompanied her – this fellow is dressed the same as the men she helped, and the stove is also similar. Typically, there was a wood-framed key clock and maybe a faded print hanging on a smoke-darkened wall. Clothing was hung on pegs or nails above a quilt-covered cot. Cabins were lit by kerosene lamps, and typically a water bucket with ladle was on a corner of the stained kitchen table. The men all reused their dishes without washing them, just turned them upside down on the table to prevent the fouling of mice. Each cabin smelled of wood smoke and tobacco.
Following is a related excerpt from my mother’s biography, Nettles and Roses, A Story of Resilience and Redemption (available on Amazon ISBN 979-8-711962-90-8).
BACHELOR AVENUE NEAR the small town of Ladysmith, Wisconsin was a gravel road that cut through the woods and joined two main county roads. It was appropriately named because three old bachelors lived along this road, each in his own little one-room shack. Their names were Silas, Everett, and James. We first met Everett when he was hitchhiking to Ladysmith. Mama always picked up hitchhikers, especially if they looked poor, and Everett looked poor. His jacket was frayed, and he wore checkered wool logging pants. He smelled of wood smoke and dirty hair.
After Everett seated himself in the car, Mama asked, “What’s your name?” Everett didn’t reply. He just sat looking straight ahead.
“We are new to the area,” Mama continued. “We moved here last September. We love it. How long have you lived here?” Everett didn’t reply. He just sat looking straight ahead.
“Maybe he’s deaf,” I said softly.
“Can you hear me?” Mama asked loudly. “What’s your name?”
“Everett. Everett Palm,” he answered.
“We moved here last September. We love it. How long have you lived here?” Mama repeated loudly. Everett said nothing. It was apparent that he was a man of few words.
“Where do you want to be dropped off?” Mama asked loudly.
“The A&P Grocery,” Everett replied.
“That’s where we’re going. If you want, we can give you a ride home.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Everett replied softly with a slight nod of his head. When we left the store after buying groceries, Everett was waiting for us at the car.
“I’m glad you waited,” Mama greeted. On our drive back to Bachelor Avenue, Everett answered Mama’s questions with single-word responses or not at all, but when we stopped at his little home and he opened the car door, he looked at Mama and said, “Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” Mama replied.
Our first interactions with Silas and James were similar, but over time, all three came to value our friendship. Ted and I accompanied Mama when she stopped at their small shanty homes. At first, she dropped off oatmeal cookies. Then she gave them fliers describing the message of Jesus along with the cookies. She made certain each had a Bible. She also invited them to church, and occasionally one agreed to attend. I remember Silas walking to the car, carrying his Bible, with his hair slicked back and wearing a wrinkled grey suit coat.
Mama also befriended Virginia Barns. Virginia was a widow who had a small farm with ten cows, which she milked by hand. Having no car, she drove a tractor to town. She was tall and skinny with long grey hair that hung to the middle of her back. Her face was weathered and dramatic. She must have been beautiful when she was young. She typically wore a long coat and skirt and tall rubber farm boots. If the school bus happened to pass her driving to town on her tractor, some kid would murmur softly, “There’s the witch,” and everyone would stop talking and turn to stare at her. Her unpainted double-storied house was spooky too. The uncurtained windows looked out from the house like vacant eyes.
I don’t know how Mama made Virginia’s acquaintance, but she did, and occasionally when we drove to town, we stopped to visit. The inside of her house was as stark and grey as the outside, without rugs or comfortable furniture. Hanging in her kitchen were braided strings of onions and garlic, bundles of dill and herbs. Preserved jars of green beans, beets, and tomatoes added color to her bleak décor, but the most unusual feature was a tall undecorated Christmas tree, a balsam with wide-spreading branches, positioned between the kitchen and sitting room, still appearing fresh four months after Christmas.
“I really don’t like cutting an evergreen, but it wouldn’t be Christmas without one, so I try to extend its beauty as long as I can,” Virginia explained. I understood why Mama liked her; Mama was a collector of interesting people, and Virginia was certainly interesting. Their conversations focused mainly on religious topics. Ted and I would sit on straight-backed chairs listening as the two talked about eternal hellfire, a favorite topic because Virginia was a Catholic.
“I certainly wouldn’t want to have a child of mine suffer in purgatory or burn eternally in hell, and I’m merely a human being. God is the embodiment of love and compassion, and we are his children. Burning and torturing His own children just doesn’t make sense,” Mama would reason.
“Yes, that is sensible,” Virginia agreed. “But what if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not wrong. I can’t be wrong. If I’m wrong, then God is not perfect.” And so, the conversation would continue.
Mama also befriended Liz and Luther Breme. They had six children: Gladys was five, Pearl was four, Billy was three, Arthur and Dennis were two, and Matthew was ten months. The family was extremely poor, living in a long one-room shed without running water or electricity. The shed was set far back from the road in a low area among poplar trees and tag alders. Liz was a large Ojibwe woman who preferred living in the woods. Luther was a little man with a stubbly beard and unkempt light brown curly hair.
Again, I don’t know how Mama made their acquaintance, but she did. It is possible that she spotted them at the A&P Grocery and introduced herself. It is possible she said something like, “I can see your quiver is full. God has blessed you with beautiful children.” And the children were beautiful. Mama visited them in their home, taking Ted and me along only once. She sensed that Liz didn’t want two teens standing awkwardly in her shabby home. Of course, Mama talked with Liz and Luther about the love of Jesus, but her service with this family was to lift Liz’s spirit by gifting her curtains, rugs, and pretty dishes. When Mama baked, she made an extra loaf of bread or cookies to take to them. Mama was always at her happiest when helping a destitute family.
One day, Mr. Pederson from the Social Service Office came to our home. “Mrs. Towne,” he said, “Liz Breme is in the hospital with pneumonia. We were going to place her children with foster care, but she objected and asked to have you take them until she’s better. Would you be willing?”
“Of course,” Mama immediately replied. Then she added, “Just yesterday I found an old-fashioned baby cradle at a rummage sale. I felt the urge to buy it and did. Come look,” she said while leading him through the kitchen and into the dining room to show him the wooden cradle.
“How wonderful. Only a day after buying this, it will be blessed with a baby,” Mama beamed.
“I’ll let Mr. Breme know to bring the children,” Mr. Pederson said while walking to his car. That afternoon, Luther Breme brought his six children to our home, their clothes in a pillowcase, and left them in Mama’s care for two weeks.
Throughout her life, Mama cared for many individuals who were considered by most others as social burdens, and she became known for her compassionate service.
Following is a chapter from the recently published children’s book title Daffy: A Monkey’s Tale (available on Amazon).
Pooping on the classroom piano wasn’t the only behavior that gave Daffy notoriety.
He was a free-range monkey, going in and out of the house whenever he desired through a small window in Ted’s bedroom. He especially enjoyed exploring the side yard while dragging his best friend, Ginger Cat, around with him. He couldn’t
carry her; she was too large. So, he dragged her. Surprisingly, she did not object.
He also enjoyed climbing the trees that were close to the house, an apple tree and a basswood.
Yes, his was a life of freedom and adventure until he one day when he wandered about a block away to the neighbor’s house.
Mrs. Brumble was elderly and overweight. She heaved herself slowly between her bedroom, kitchen, and a large, overstuffed chair in the living
room. One morning after preparing eggs, bacon,
and toast, she settled herself for her morning feast, and that’s when it happened.
“Tell me everything that you can remember exactly as you remember,” the officer said to Mrs. Brumbles.
“Well, I had just settled down to eat when the screen door slowwwwly opened. I looked up to see who was coming in, but no one was there.”
“You didn’t see anyone at first?” the officer
questioned.
“No, but the door kept opening wider, so I
looked down, and this little man was standing there! He had brown hair all over his skinny little body! Why, it scares me to think ’bout it! He had little beady black eyes and a funny nose.”
quick! Jumped up just like that.” Mrs. Brumbles demonstrated this by lifting her hands up above her head.
“And then?” the officer probed again.
“He ran right across my table, grabbed a piece of toast, held it with his mouth, jumped down and ran out the door!” Mrs. Brumbles exclaimed while gesturing from the table to the door. “Oh, I forgot,” she added. “He had a long tail.”
“Can you remember anything else?” the officer asked.
“That’s about it,” Mrs. Brumbles answered.
“But if I were you, I’d go over to the new people next door. They’re from Chicago.”
Ted and I were in the garden with Mama when the police car pulled into the drive. An officer stepped from the car, settling his cap on his head while walking toward us. “Good morning. I’m Officer Tanner,” he
greeted. “Your neighbor, Mrs. Brumbles just made
a complaint that a little man with a long tail stole
a piece of toast from her breakfast table,” he
explained. Then he asked, “Are you the people who have a pet monkey?” His son attended the elementary school, and Officer Tanner had heard about Daffy pooping on the top of the piano in Mrs. Taylor’s classroom.
The next issue of the local newspaperprinted a story titled “Monkey Business” reporting the theft of a piece of toast. The story firmly established my family’s quirky reputation.
”Jack, leave Boots alone. Miss Lilly will get upset if you frighten her cat, and she’ll be ornery,” Mr. Butler grumbled to his dog.
Jack ignored the grumble and barked loudly while racing up the walkway. When the cat yowled loudly, the door flew open! “You know better than to bring that beast here!” Miss Lilly harangued.
“He’s my partner,” Bill grumbled. “Where I go. He goes.”
“Well Boots is my baby,” Miss Lilly whispered soothingly while cuddling the cat and glaring at Jack.
“Come in! Come in and shut the door. You’re letting the cold in,” Miss Lily ordered.
Mr. Butler stepped inside and leaned his walking stick in a corner while hanging his hat and coat on hook.
“I came as soon as I got your message. What’s wrong? It doesn’t look like you need wood.”
“No, I’ve got plenty of wood, thanks to you,” Miss Lily replied. “It’s Vincent.”
“Vincent?” Mr. Butler questioned in surprise.
“Well, he’s been stopping by too often and it makes me feel uncomfortable.”
“Come. Sit. Sit.” Miss Lilly directed as she continued. “Two days ago he brought me a bag with five apples and asked me to bake a pie for him.”
“That seems reasonable,” Mr. Butler mumbled. “Everyone knows your apple pie is the best.”
“Thank you, Mr. Butler. You always say the kindest things,” Miss Lilly replied. Boots nestled comfortably on her lap.
“But that isn’t all. The next day when he came back for his pie, he suggested that we each have a piece, enjoy it with a cup of coffee.”
“Sounds sensible to me. That Vincent is a sensible man.”
“You men always stick together,” Miss Lilly whispered defensively.
“It wasn’t that he asked for a piece of pie, it’s what he did when I gave it to him!”
Mr. Buttler raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“When I handed him the plate, he took my hand and smiled at me.”
“Sounds like he was showing his gratitude,” Mr. Butler mumbled.
“Then, then,” Miss Lily continued, “He told me I was pretty. Maybe I was pretty years ago, but I know I’m not now. That Vincent is a liar!”
“Miss Lily, don’t get upset with me, but I have to disagree. Vincent is right, you are pretty,” Mr. Butler mumbled.
Miss Lilly blushed and smiled slightly, “Do you think so, Mr. Butler?”
He tilted his head and smiled shyly while slowly nodding.
“What is it you want me to do?” Mr. Butler mumbled.
“Tell Vincent that I think he’s a nice man but he mustn’t get notions about me, and tell him not to visit more than once a month.”
“Sure seems like a strange thing for me to tell Vincent,” Mr. Butler mumbled.
“You have to. I can’t,” Miss Lilly persisted.
“Maybe it would be best if Jack and I left. Maybe you don’t want us to visit but just can’t say it,” Mr. Butler mumbled.
“Ohh, no, no!” Miss Lilly contended. “Boots and I love having you and Jack visit.”
“That’s good. Jack and I enjoy your company too,” Mr. Butler mumbled.
The two sat quietly for a few moments before Miss Lilly advised, “You had better go. The snow is supposed to get heavy.”
While picking up his walking stick, Mr. Butler turned to Miss Lilly and mumbled, “I’ll talk to Vincent.”
Miss Lilly smiled and, while tucking four napkin-wrapped cookies in his coat pocket, said softly, “Now you come back, Mr. Butler. You and Jack come and visit whenever you want.”
Three days later, when Mr. Butler and Jack walked the snowy path to Miss Lilly’s, he was carrying five pie apples in a bag and wearing a contented smile.
Excerpt from Nettles and Roses: A Mother Remembered. (Elocution hand positions pictured.)
Before church service each Sabbath, the head elder, Brother Lane, gave announcements, and one Sabbath he announced that the church had a piano to give away. Before heading home, Mama told Brother Lane that she wanted the piano for her children. He didn’t immediately reply. Instead, he crossed his arms and said, “I’ll have to speak with the church board.”
The following Sabbath, Mama asked Brother Lane about the piano.
“Well,” he replied, “it was the consensus of the board to give it to the Martin family.”
“Why?” Mama questioned. “I know I was the first to ask.”
Brother Lane cleared his throat before explaining, “Well, the board knows that your family has a hard time financially, and paying for piano lessons would be a burden. Remember, your children’s tuition is sponsor-paid. The board felt the Martins would be able to make better use of it.”
Mama straightened her shoulders, lifted her head, and replied, “I understand.”
As she turned to walk away, Sister Swan stopped her. Sister Swan liked Mama. She liked how Mama contributed to the Bible study sessions before the church service each Sabbath. Mrs. Swan was also a member of the board.
“Ruth,” Sister Swan said, “I’m sorry the board didn’t give you the piano.”
Mama looked at her and quietly nodded. “I wanted it for the children.” “I understand,” Sister Swan replied. “I would like to make an offer. I will give your children free elocution lessons if you bring them to my house.”
Sister Swan was an elocutionist. People who wanted to improve their public speaking ability, theatre students, and individuals with speech impediments went to her for instruction.
“It’s not the same as piano lessons, I know, but it will help develop speaking skills and poise,” Sister Swan encouraged.
“That’s wonderfully kind of you,” Mama replied. “When should I bring them to your home?”
And so it was that three children wearing faded clothes and scuffed shoes found themselves sitting on carved mahogany chairs in an elegant living room.
Sister Swan was tall and slender. She smiled occasionally but was quite serious.
“Children,” she addressed Steve, Ted, and me, “do you know why you are here?”
Steve and Ted were quiet, but I said, “Because we didn’t get the church piano.”
“That’s partly true,” she said. “But there is another reason.”
“To teach us to speak properly,” Steve answered.
“Properly. Good word. And you’re right.” Sister Swan nodded. “You will be coming to my home five times,” she continued. “And I’m going to give you something that you will be able to keep forever. I will give you the ability to speak with poise and confidence. Let’s get started.
“I want each of you to stand, one at a time, and tell me your name and where you live. I also want you to tell me something that you enjoy doing. And when you are talking to me, I want you to look in my eyes,” she said and then added, “Take time to think about what you are going to say.”
Steve spoke first, “I’m Steve Towne.”
“Let me stop you there,” Mrs. Swan said. “I want you to say, ‘I am Steve Towne.’ Do not use a contraction. Be very precise. Start again.”
And so, my brothers’ and my elocution lessons began. Before leaving our first lesson, we were each given a short poem or Bible text to memorize and prepare to recite the following week. Because I had a sh lisp problem, I was given a tongue twister that contained the sh sound:
Sally sells seashells by the seashore
She sells seashells on the seashore.
The seashells she sells are seashore shells,
Of that I am sure.
“Ruth,” Mrs. Swan said to Mama, “you can help them at home. Your enunciation is excellent, and you have a beautiful accent.”
“Oh, I will,” Mama agreed. “And as for my accent, I think it’s a blend of Swedish and English. My grandmother spoke Swedish often when I was growing up.”
The following week, when it came time for me to recite, Sister Swan directed, “Now when you recite your piece, before you begin, I want you to stand quietly for several seconds, make certain that your breathing is steady, look at your audience, not just at one person, and when you say seashore, I want you to sweep your hand outward as though you are showing your audience the seashore.” When explaining this, Sister Swan demonstrated by gracefully sweeping her hand outward and gently turning her palm up.
I remember standing, walking shyly to the center of the room, and looking down before turning to look at my brothers, Mama, and Sister Swan.
Sister Swan immediately stood and walked to me while saying, “Hold your head high. Keep your chin level with the floor. Straighten your back.” She cupped my chin in her hand and pressed gently against my back. “Now, return to your seat and start over.”
I did as she as she directed and then began to recite, “Shally shells shesells by the shesore.” I stopped with a look of horror on my face. “I did it right at home,” I lamented. “Didn’t I, Mama?”
“I’m certain you did,” Sister Swan consoled. “And you can do it here. Just take your time. One line at a time. Think about the words. Pause to swallow. You have too much saliva in your mouth.”
Several years after Sister Swan’s articulation lessons, my fourth-grade teacher gave me a poem to memorize and recite for the Thanksgiving program. The poem, When the Frost is on the Pumpkin, by James Witcomb Riley, was filled with colloquial expressions and was lengthy, twenty-four lines.
When I handed Mama a copy of the poem, she said, “Apparently Mr. Hindel believes you can do it. So do I, but when you recite it, you’re going to use proper English, not slang phrases. We aren’t hillbillies and I don’t want you sounding like one.”
Riley used words like punkin’ instead of pumpkin, cluckin’ instead of clucking, a-feelin’ instead of feeling, risin’instead of rising, feller instead of fellow. Mama scratched over the colloquially spelled words and rewrote them properly.
When Mr. Hindel asked me to recite the poem to check my memorization progress, hecommented, “You aren’t reciting it the way the author wrote it.”
“I know,” I replied. “Mama said that we aren’t hillbillies, and she doesn’t want me sounding like one.”
At first Mr. Hindel just looked at me. Then he said, “Okay.”
The evening of my recitation, Mama sat in the front row with Papa. “If you forget a line, I’ll prompt you,” she promised. Then she added, “Don’t rush. Pause between sentences. Look at the audience, not just at Papa and me. Remember what Sister Swan taught you.”
I remember reciting the entire poem with confidence and precise enunciation.
When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder is in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the
strutting turkey cock,
And the clacking of the guineas, and the clucking
of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
Oh, then is the time a fellow is feeling at his best . . ..
I finished reciting the poem without making an error. I remember Mama nodding her head in cadence to the rhyme and smiling. Sister Swan gifted my brothers and me a desire and ability to speak with poise and confidence. But she didn’t do it alone—Mama reinforced Mrs. Swan’s lessons.
This piece was written for a writing contest that required having a little black book and $20,000 incorporated into the story.
Ben and Nan sat at the side of their uncle’s casket, Uncle Zack’s casket. They had arrived early for the visitation and now were the only ones remaining. The room was silent, dead silent. Nearby, a candle on a small table burned with a steady flame and a single pink rose rested on the table. There were no other flowers.
“A rose,” Nan whispered. “Of course, he would have asked to have a pink rose at his funeral.”
“For Mom,” Ben replied.
“He thought of everything, no flowers. Donations to be sent to Smile Train. Only a candle and a pink rose.”
“Mom would have approved. It feels like she’s here. They were real friends.”
“She has come to journey home with him,” Nan agreed.
“What flower do you want at my funeral?” Ben asked jokingly.
“A daisy. Just a single daisy,” Nan replied with a smile.
“I’ll remember that.”
“The candle. The flame,” Nan whispered.
“I know, I was thinking the same thing.”
“I’m glad the undertaker didn’t put concealer on his skin. He wouldn’t have liked that.”
They moved close to the coffin and leaned in to look closely in their uncle’s terribly disfigured face.
I think he looks noble. The candlelight makes him look like he’s glowing,” Nan observed.
“It’s the taught skin. Remember, it always looked like his face was shining. No wrinkles. No worry lines, just skin pulled tight across his cheek and jaw bones.”
“And no lips, no eyebrows or lashes,” Nan added.
“If you don’t like the way I look, look the other way,” Ben repeated his uncle’s words.
“God doesn’t look on a man’s outward appearance. God looks on the heart,” Nan finished their uncle’s oft spoken dictum.
“It must have been awful. Imagine the pain. He was only eleven. He didn’t know the difference between kerosene and gasoline.”
“He just wanted to get a fire burning quickly. He and Mom were cold. If it hadn’t been for her winter coat, she would have been burned worse than she was.”
“Her hands were terribly scarred,” Ben murmured. “I wonder if some of his face skin grafted onto them.”
“Rose petals. Mom always said the scar on her left hand looked like pink rose petals, “ Nan added.
The funeral parlor director busied himself arranging chairs and dimming lights. “I plan to leave in fifteen minutes,” he said quietly.
“We don’t mean to keep you,” Ben replied. “It’s just that Zack’s estate executor asked us to meet him here this evening. He said he would arrive no later than seven.”
“It’s seven twenty now. I planned to be home by eight,” the director replied after checking his watch.
Just then a short bald man hurried in. “Hi, Nan. Hi, Ben,” he greeted while shaking rain from his coat. “Miserable night. Rain’s turning to sleet.”
Nan and Ben looked questioningly at the parlor director.
“Fine. Fine. Take as much time as you need,” he consented.
Matt Downer joined the brother and sister at Zack’s coffin.
“Thanks for coming, Matt. Is the estate pretty well settled?” Nan asked.
“Yes. Your uncle was very organized. He started working on his will four years ago. Didn’t expect to make it to ninety-eight.”
“He was a master of order,” Ben agreed.
“However, even though his estate is huge – – stocks, bonds, property, settling it will be simple. All proceeds are to be divided equally between six charities and all donations anonymous.”
“That’s the way he was,” Nan affirmed.
“He was a very private man. Kept to himself. It was because of his face. He hated pity, and when someone appeared revulsed, he became angry. He didn’t like being angry,” Ben explained.
“It doesn’t bother you that he left everything, I mean everything, to charities?” Matt asked.
“Oh no,” Ben and Nan answered at once.
“He did so much for us. He paid for our schooling, even our children’s college,” Nan volunteered.
“He paid for our mom’s care after her stroke. He kept her at his home with a private nurse,” Ben added.
“If you don’t mind my asking, how did he make his money? You don’t have to tell me. Apparently, he wanted it kept a secret because nobody seems to know. There are stories about him bootlegging,” Matt looked at Zack’s scarred face when asking this question. “Accident at the still?”
“No. He wasn’t a bootlegger,” Nan answered. “It was oil. He left home after Mom married. He was sixteen. She had always been his go-between, but he didn’t want to go-between Mom and Dad, so he left.”
“He went to Texas and got a job as a wild-cater. Signed on with one of the Spindletop companies and became an expert at capping gushers,” Ben explained.
“He said he didn’t mind getting covered with oil because it covered his face. He also took risks other men refused to take. It’s not difficult guessing why,” Nan added.
One of the oil moguls recognized his skill, respected his work ethic, and long story short, Zack inherited the mogul’s wealth,” Ben explained.
The conversation ended when the director stepped into the room and cleared his throat.
“We’re sorry. Didn’t mean to take this much time,” Ben apologized.
“Sorry,” Matt agreed as he handed Ben a manilla envelope. “Your uncle asked me to give this to both of you. He said you’d understand.
Ben undid the envelope clasp and looked inside. A smile spread across his face. Turning to Nan, he said, “You take it out.”
When Nan extracted a small black notebook, a smile also beamed across her face. “Oh my. Oh my,” she whispered.
“Your uncle said you would know what to do with it,” Matt commented.
“Yes, we know,” Nan said softly.
“That’s all,” Matt added. “Like I said, he left his entire fortune to charities.”
“This is enough. It’s a game we used to play when we visited Zack as kids. He wrote clues in a little black book, and we scavenged while he and our mother visited. Over the years, he filled several books. We enjoyed many treasure hunts,” Ben explained.
“The key to his house is in there too. I’m arranging an estate sale sale, so you better do your scavenging soon. I wouldn’t want his clues disturbed,” Matt suggested.
“We’ll go after the funeral,” Nan replied. “What a beautiful way to celebrate his passing.”
Zack’s funeral was sparsely attended. By avoiding people, Zacchaeus Lindon made few friends. The estate caretaker, cook, and house keeper attended, as did Matt and two brokers. Pastor Tyson, Zack’s only close non-family friend, officiated. Ben and Nan’s spouses, children and grandchildren also attended. When the small group gathered at the gravesite, sunbeams shown through cumulus clouds and warmed rain-soaked grass. The air was moist and refreshing.
“Today we lay to rest one of the finest men to walk the earth,” Pastor Tyson said. “Few know the goodness of this man’s heart. Few know the fact that he lived to give. Matthew 6:21 was his guiding text, Where your treasure is, there shall your heart be also, and I Samuel 6:7 was his consolation, For the Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”
While driving to Zack’s estate, a perfect rainbow arched in the sky. Tears streamed down Nan’s cheeks as she whispered, “He has crossed over, and his face will be beautiful.”
The key rattled in the keyhole of the stately door, and it swung inward freely as though opened by a welcoming friend. Nan and Ben, sensing a sacred presence, stepped respectfully inside.
“Here we are,” Ben spoke softly.
“Yes, here we are,” repeated Nan.
Just at that moment, the deep gong of a grandfather clock reverberated through the room accompanied by a cacophony of chiming clocks: cuckoo clocks, musical clocks, a rooster clock that crowed, bird song clocks. Nan and Ben looked at each other and laughed. “He loved his clocks,” they said simultaneously.
“Okay, the book,” Nan directed. “What is the first clue?”
Ben opened the book and read, “I will wash away all sins. Hebrews 10: 10.”
“It’s got to be in the bathroom,” Nan surmised.
“Which one?” Ben asked.
“The one we used when we were kids.”
Sure enough, an envelope was tucked beneath a soap dish on the sink.
Nan opened the envelope and together they read, “Full turn right 3 times. Stop on 0. Turn left. Stop on 68.”
“Only four more to go,” Ben said before reading the second clue, “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap. Galatians 6:7.”
“I remember that one,” Nan said. “It’s in the solarium where he started his seeds.”
Nan was right. A hand trowel rested on an envelope in the center of the potting table.
Nan opened it and read, “Full turn right 2 times. Stop on 95.”
Next Ben read, “Look at the birds of the air. Your Heavenly Father feeds them. Matthew 6:26.”
“The taxidermy display,” Nan said. “He’s used the same ones he used when we were kids.”
“Well, he knew we’re getting up there in age and probably didn’t want to make it too difficult.’
“Or he enjoyed going down memory lane.”
The third envelope was taped to the glass dome covering a display of stuffed songbirds.
After opening the envelope, Nan read, “Turn left. Stop on 55.”
Ben read the fourth clue, “Hast thou entered into the treasure of the snow? Job 38:22.”
“The snow globe,” Nan stated confidently.
Beneath an unusually large snow globe was the fourth envelope. The scene in the globe was serene: a spiraled church, a horse drawn sleigh, and pine trees. Ben turned the globe over and then righted it creating a snow storm. “He loved the snow. Do you remember?”
Nan nodded.
Nan opened the envelope and read, “Turn right. Stop on 7.”
“And now the last clue,” Ben announced dramatically. Once again, he read from the little black book. “Be ye kind one to another. Ephesians 4:32.”
“The kindness jar,” Nan said confidently.
They walked to the front entry and found the final envelope tucked under a large glass jar placed in the center of a side table. A notepad and pencil were also on the table. The jar was filled with yellowing slips of paper.
“You know, we were blessed. Zack was amazing. Before anyone entered his home, he asked them to write down a good deed that they had done or seen someone do,” Nan reminisced. She pulled a strip of paper from the jar and read aloud, “I saw Maxine give a pencil to Billy.”
“Sure brings back memories,” Ben mused.
After opening the envelope, Nan read, “Full turn left 2 times. Stop on 10.”
“And now to the vault,” Ben commanded with dramatic authority. “You read the combination, and I’ll turn the dial.
Inside Zack’s office, Ben slid a familiar bookcase aside to access the vault. After turning the dial clockwise several times, he directed, “Okay, start.”
“Full turn right 3 times. Stop on 0. Turn left. Stop on 68.
Full turn right 2 times. Stop on 95.
Turn left. Stop on 55.
Turn right. Stop on 7.
Full turn left 2 times. Stop on 10.”
Gears clicked and the vault handle turned easily in Ben’s hand.
The vault was empty except for one envelope.
“You do the honor,” Ben directed.
Nan carried the envelope to Zack’s desk, snipped it open with a thin pair of scissors, and
slowly withdrew two $10,000 bills and a note written in Zack’s barely legible script.
“Those bills were discontinued many years ago,” Ben said. “They’re worth much more today.” Then he added, “Let’s read it together.”
And so, together they read, “I ask that you each donate $10,000 to those in need, for the best gift that I can give you is the gift of giving. Love, Uncle Zack.”
To Aboriginals, dreams and inner promptings are as real as the telephone or radio to us. Carl Jung called these connections synchronicities and suggested that they lie outside the normal confines of causality and physical law. They are not restricted by time or space and transcend the boundaries between matter and mind.
– Physicist, David Peet
Early in the morning when I’m sitting in my third-grade classroom, usually after math class and during silent reading, I get a warm feeling, a cozy feeling, a feeling that I am loved. When this happens, I know that my grandmother, Gram, is taking her morning walk and has sent me a heart hug.
I live in Tucson, Arizona, and my gram lives in northern Wisconsin. According to MapQuest, we live 1,893.3 miles apart. However, my gram’s heart hug travels all that way and finds me.
You might be thinking that this is impossible, but it is beyond possible, I believe it is REAL and amazingly interesting. Let me explain some of the things I’ve learned about heart hugsand how they work.
Last summer, I flew from Arizona to Wisconsin to visit Gram. She and Grampa John live in a little log cabin next to a beautiful lake. Every morning Gram takes a long walk, a very long walk all the way around the lake, and when I visited, I walked with her. During one of our walks Gram told me that every morning while on her walk she sent heart hugs to her children and grandchildren. She explained, “When I send a heart hug to you, I think about how you look and who you are. Then I fill my heart with love, smile, and send you a heart hug.”
I told her I liked the idea, and she said it was more than an idea, that it scientists called physicist say it’s scientifically possible.”
“How does it work?” I asked.
“Like a cell phone,” she replied. “When you talk on your cell phone, your voice changes to an electrical signal that travels on radio waves to another phone. You can’t see the radio waves. They’re invisible, but they are real.”
“Do computers work the same way?” I asked.
“Yes, basically. Both rely on electrical signals, invisible electrical signals, that can travel around the world and over 200,000 miles to satellite stations in space.”
“The people who figured out how to do it had to be very smart,” I observed.”
“For sure,” Gram agreed. “But,” she continued, “I believe it’s possible for people to send messages with just their minds.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Some people are able to send thought signals. It’s called telepathy, and scientists are studying how it works. It’s also called brain-to-brain-communication. Australian Aborigines have talked to each other this way for very long time, but they call it heart-head talking.”
“How do they do it?” I asked.
“From what I understand, they think about what they want to say and send messages with their minds. They also believe that it’s not enough to think something, you have to feel it in your heart because they believe the heart is a transmitter and a receiver of feelings. Aborigines also believe that if someone is not being truthful when sending a message, the connection will break and they won’t be able to communicate using head-heart talking.
“But, how do they do it?” I asked again.
“Well, all living things, plants and animals, are made of cells, think of cells as building blocks of the body, and every cell has electrical energy. This energy is what keeps us alive and makes it possible for us to move, think, and feel. We are actually run by electricity.”
“Sort of like robots?”
“I suppose you could say that, but a robot uses very few electrical signals compared to a human, and a human doesn’t need to be plugged in or charged the way a robot does. Comparing robots to humans is kind of like comparing cars to horses; the life force operates in a very different and much more complex way with living beings.”
“I understand, a robot is a machine, but a human is alive,” I replied.
“That’s correct. You are made of living cells. There are around 37 trillion cells in your body, and each cell has an invisible electrical signal.”
“There’s electricity inside of me?”
“Yes, there is, but invisible electrical signals are everywhere. They are in our bodies, in the air around us, in outer space. And there are even more electrical signals now because of computers and telephones. Think of these signals like electrical paths or trails that build a very intricate web of pulsating energy.”
“Do you think the air could be filled with too many signals?” I asked.
“Some scientists think so. They even think that electric signals cause migrating birds to get confused and that this might actually be what is causing some species to become extinct.”
“That’s terrible!”
“I agree, it is a big problem that needs to be solved! And in order to solve a problem, we first need to understand the problem and what contributes to it. One thing Scientists have determined is that migrating birds have tiny magnetic particles in their brains that act like compasses. You know what a compass is?”
“My dad showed me how it works. The black end of the needle always points north.”
“You’re right, and these magnetic brain particles help tbirds determine which direction is north; this helps them figure out where to fly. But now that the air is filled with so many invisible electrical signals, the particles have become jumbled and so some birds can’t tell where north is.”
“Oh, that’s awful! I wish there was a way to keep that from happening.”
“I agree, and maybe you and other kids like you will care enough and work to figure out some way of helping fix the problems that these electrical signals are causing. But as sad as this is, it does help to prove the fact that invisible electrical signals fill the air and effect all living organisms. Understanding this helps explain why heart hugs work. Basically, a heart hug is a very subtle electrical signal sent from someone’s brain and heart to another person. It’s not the same type of electrical signal as a phone or computer. The brain heart signal wouldn’t cause a bird to get confused, probably because it is gentle and has a softer energy frequency,” Gram explained.
“But how does the brain know which path to use to send a message? To send a heart hug?”
“I believe something else makes this possible. I might be wrong, but it makes sense to me,” Gram answered.
“What?”
“Well, scientists using powerful microscopes have discovered that inside every cell are extremely small things called molecules. There are millions of molecules in just one cell, and every cell of every living thing has these very, very tiny molecules.
“So, our body is made up of how many cells?” I asked.
“About thirty-seven trillion,” Gram replied.
“Trillion? How big is a trillion?” “It’s so huge that it’s almost impossible to imagine, but we can try! One trillion is a million millions or one thousand billions, and if you write it as a number, it is a one with twelve zeros after it. One way to think of it is with time. One trillion seconds is about thirty-two thousand years. And think of this, if you spent one dollar every second – – not every minute but every second, it would take you thirty-two THOUSAND YEARS to spend one trillion dollars!”
“Holy cow! A trillion is a huge number!”
“It sure is,” Gram agreed. “But there’s more. There are thirty-seven trillion cells, and each cell has molecules. A human cell can have as many as two trillion molecules!”
“Holy moly! Trillions of trillions of trillions! Molecules must be very tiny! How do they know there are that many?”
“I don’t understand it,” Gram replied. “But there are scientists called physicists who calculate this type of thing using special microscopes, electron microscopes. But there’s something else. Inside molecules are even smaller particles called atoms. Physicists estimate the average cell contains 100 trillion atoms. The number of atoms in a molecule is about the same as the number of cells in a body.”
“Holy moly, moly! That’s a lot of atoms! They must be very, very, very tiny!”
“Yes, there are a lot of really tiny atoms! But these tiny atoms are made up of even smaller things called electrons, neutrons, and protons. So, inside a cell are molecules, and inside molecules are atoms, and inside atoms are electrons, neutrons, and protons.”
“It’s kind of like a Russian Nesting Doll,” I suggested. “You know, one doll inside of another, inside of another, and how the dolls get smaller and smaller?”
“That’s a good way to remember it, Gram agreed. “But just because they are small doesn’t mean they aren’t important. Actually, the movement of the electrons inside the atoms causes the electrical spark that keeps every living thing alive. The electrons move from one atom to another, and when this happens, a tiny electrical path or current is made. This is why you and I and every living plant and animal are loaded with electricity.”
“Is that why I can make a spark when I touch the doorknob after sliding my feet across the floor?”
“It might be related, but there’s something more, and this something is what I believe makes it possible for me to send a heart hug to you. Atomic physicists, the scientists who study atoms, discovered that tiny particles inside of atoms twist around each other. They call this entanglement.”
“Sort of like when my hair gets tangled?”
“Well, sort of, but tangled hair is just a mess. However, there is something about entangled atoms that is fascinating. If an entangled atom is split, cut in half in some way, and each part is separated over a long distance, even thousands of miles apart, when one of the entangled parts is poked, the other part immediately reacts as though it was also poked. Somehow the halves communicate with each other at the exact same moment, faster than the speed of light, instantaneously!”
“You mean, like if I had an orange and I cut it in half and sent half to my dad, if I squeezed it here in Wisconsin, juice would squeeze out of the other half in Tucson?”
Well, that’s a way to think a very mysterious fact. Now, I’m going to return to talking about heart hugs – – I believe this entanglement fact proves why it’s possible to send heart hugs to family members and friends. I believe it’s because we share entangled electrical pathways with people we love. Remember I explained how Aborigines send mind-heart messages? Well, long before there were molecular scientists and atomic physicists studying cell entanglement, Aborigines knew that their hearts and minds were connected to people they love. Poets know this too. Poems have been written about people being connected with what poets call “heart strings.”
“Are heart strings like electric pathways?”
“Same thing,” Gram stated. “I know this is mighty complicated. It is for me. Are you sort of understanding why I’m able to send you a heart hug?”
“Yes, it’s sent on an electrical path from you to me.”
“Yup, that’s the way heart hugs work,” Gram agreed.
Gram and I didn’t talk for a while. We just walked. Then suddenly an amazing idea flashed into my mind. I stopped walking, looked at Gram and said, “I think prayers are sent on electrical pathways the same as heart hugs.”
Gram looked at me and smiled.
Bibliography
Peet, D. (1991). The philosopher’s stone: chaos, synchronicity, and the hidden order of the world. Bantam Books, New York, NY. pp. 4-5.
I love Valentine’s Day. I love red hearts and lace doilies, heart shaped boxes of chocolate candy, sentimental messages in beautiful cards and silly messages in funny cards – – “Roses are pink. Your feet really stink.” I love large February snowflakes that can be heard and felt when they thud on my parka. I love memories of exchanging valentines in elementary school, of slipping carefully selected cards into classmates’ decorated valentine boxes, usually a decorated shoe box with a card slot on the top.
One of my earliest Valentine’s Day memories involved a contest, a valentine box contest. I was six and in first grade, and, like most of my classmates, had never exchanged valentine cards. My older siblings had, so I knew about the tradition.
My teacher, Miss Green, also loved Valentine’s Day. By mid-January she had covered the tall classroom windows with hearts and hand-cut snowflakes. She also displayed beautiful valentine cards on top of the piano. But what really made the occasion special was a bag of candy kisses tied with a pink ribbon. Miss Green had placed it on the corner of her desk after explaining, “The student who decorates the most beautiful valentine box will win the candy.” Then she added, “You may have someone help you decorate your box, a brother or sister, mom or dad.” Apparently, Miss Green intended this to be a family project.
I wasn’t especially interested in winning the candy, but I knew exactly who I would ask for help. I would ask my big sister, Betty. She was fourteen years older than I was and was a busy mom, but I knew she would not be too busy to make me a valentine box. Betty was an artist, a real artist. I loved watching her fingers when she drew. Her pencil strokes could magically make Snow White or Bambi appear on a scrap of paper. After I explained the contest to Betty, she agreed to decorate the box and promised, “It will be perfect.” And it was.
On the day of the party when I placed my box with the others on the long shelf beneath the classroom windows, my fellow first graders stared at it in awe. “You won!” Billy loudly exclaimed. Billy was the loudest kid in the class. All of the other children agreed, and so did I. It wasn’t that the other boxes were not beautiful, it was that my sister’s creation was stunning. She had first covered the box with red construction paper and over this had glued paper lace doilies. On the lid of the box, she had glued a garland of red and pink paper roses with green leaves that she had cut from construction paper. She had curled the leaves and petals to make them appear real. Finally, she tied the box with a red ribbon topping it with a beautiful bow.
Yes, I was awarded the candy and now seventy-one years later I don’t remember whether I gave it to my sister or shared it with my classmates, but each year during valentine season, I remember my sister’s valentine box for A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Keats.
As the Crow Flies 