It's About My Brother

He’s a surviving Veteran.  Well his body is alive; his will to live is solid.  By the definition of ‘surviving’, he existed.  Now he is living.  

Only in recent months did he move out of his car. Yes, he has once again taken residence in a house!   For many years he lived ‘on the streets’, parks, and beaches in sunny California. 

Three or four years ago he headed northeast, home!  But he wouldn’t come out of his car.  He claimed impaired breathing due to a lung problem caused by working in construction wouldn’t let him breathe when confined in a room, in a house.  He had to be in fresh air.

He had served in Viet Nam.

That unconventional brother of mine had a stroke, maybe five or six years before leaving California.  It was serious.  His good ‘street friends’ telephoned another sibling, my twin, and me. 

Jim, long distance helped him manage life so he could begin receiving veteran’s benefits.  Still that stubborn, now seriously afflicted brother of ours would not accept housing from anyone or any agency.

He checked himself out of the hospital.  Family shrugged shoulders, shook heads, and waited.  He was grown.

Then that spring night three or four years ago I got a call from Jim.  Our brother was in St. Louis.  He wouldn’t come into his home, said he would be okay in his car; had Jim meet him on a street corner; drove Jim back home and said he would be on his way.  Didn’t say where. 

We were thinking he was coming to me.  I was shaken, didn’t want someone, brother or anyone, living in his car in my back yard.  I kept reminding myself, “you’re a Christian woman; you are your brother’s keeper, even your blood brother.”  Agony and prayers that night.   Yes, those previous five words are not a sentence, only a fragment, just like the varied, unkind, and selfish thoughts tumbling about punishing me all night long.

He didn’t come to me.  He kept going northeast, home.

So for three or four years, his car was his home hidden, on the acreage my father bought in 1950.  It was so – until recent months when he moved into a house.  He called to tell me, proudly proclaiming he had windows on the north, east, south and west.   “Marv, there’s excellent ventilation. I’m fine!”

I was motivated to write this blog post when I sat to craft a suggested ‘thank you’ letter requested by my brother.  He claims it will help him write a letter of appreciation regarding the outstanding service he received from his Veteran’s Administration based social worker.  She helped him find a suitable home, deal with his insecurities and use his resources for an improved quality of life.  A letter to the woman's boss is certainly a good thing. I’m thrilled he’s determined to write one.

To the VA Social Worker, my heartfelt thanks for your expertise in bringing such a great difference to my brother’s life and to the other Veterans you help.

MEMORIAL DAY - 2016

This morning, coffee mug in hand, sitting on my back porch, looking at the tree two backyards down – I was filled with gratitude.  That tree has beautifully graced my horizon through many years, many changes of season.  This Memorial Day morning it didn’t disappoint.

 May 30th 2016 - Leafy abundance before summer

Reaching up to grey white clouds, huge stagnate puffs minimized any blue sky that might try to peak through.  Still I was grateful, grateful for the peace and beauty of the moment.

Memorial Day is almost over as I write this. 

I’ve been spared the agony of losing a friend, relative, or neighbor who put on the uniform and went off to War to keep this nation 'free'. (I have worried about the safe return of many family and friends who served this grand, though imperfect, country of ours.)

I am grateful for those who made the commitment; mourn those who lost lives and limbs and well-being. Yet, I will never (I hope) let other grief cloud my deeply sad emotions for those who sacrificed to serve; plus the families who live ever after, only 'remembering' their loved one - that 'remembering' having to be enough for them to go on living constructive lives.

There is no perfect world on this earth. We must do the best we can with what we have to overcome challenges, those large and small. May the sacrifices of the men and women of our armed forces serve to keep us filled with the hope of a better tomorrow and the determination to personally make a positive effort to that end.

The same tree on a beautiful almost fall day.

Don't let our gratitude for their service and sacrifice diminish.   Continue to inform the young ones and truly appreciate your blessings and all blessings possible in the United States Of America....not promised, but possible because of the commitment and sacrifice of those who served.

The tree on a cold but lovely and serene winter day in my neighborhood.

May your heart and soul be blessed with peace and beauty where you live.  

To the servicemen, servicewomen, and families of those who didn't come home, "Thank You".   I leave you with a question.  "But for their sacrifice, what might we be doing today in this country they fought for us to keep?"   

Winter Memory

                                 “Wheel spinning,

                                  Much noise accomplishing nothing,

                                  At first,

                                  Sludge spit backward,

                                  Then just tremendous tire rotation.

                                  They seemed bald,

                                  Slick, shiny,

                                  Wet with the water of what was ice and snow.

                                  Traction hindered,

                                  Fancy sunny-day vehicle,

                                  And determined driver,

                                  Went nowhere.”

                                                                               -- M.L.Stith

Another Quilt Story

Early morning, making my bed, the thought I surely could crawl back in bed and watch movies all day attempted to override productive plans. 

I had things to do.  I was able, so I must.  Others counted on me.

Tossing that quilt, arranging it on the bed resurrected the usual, good memories, made me melancholy, happy too.

The quilt takes me back to the day I bought it.

My sister Sharon with husband Pete was driving out from Ohio to spend a long weekend with us.  My ‘us', two small children and a wonderful dog.  My ‘us’ once included a husband/father, who, half a decade before left 'us' for another love.  So welcoming Aunt Sharon and Uncle Pete was a fantastically happy diversion in our one-dimensional household.

It was already late Saturday morning.  I was rushing about transforming home into loving, visitors-coming comfortable. 

Pete and Sharon would get my room.  Everything was ready except I wanted to run to Sears for a new quilt.  For some time, I intended to improve my bed linen.  Their visit would be the catalyst ending my procrastination. 

Gathering my bag, heading to the back door, I heard a car come into the driveway.  They were out there! 

We ran to greet the broadly smiling, travel-tired couple unfolding themselves from their car.  They had left Ohio before sun up! 

Getting them inside, I casually let Sharon know I had to dash out for a bit, “I’ll be right back.”  She had to know what I was up to and, just as controlling, insisted on coming along when I told her I needed something from Sears.

She didn’t know the objective of my shopping; had no idea until I actually began considering which quilt to purchase.  Of course, she insisted I shouldn’t do that - just for them.  Then I saw it; the choice was an unwavering decision.

I adored Sharon and Pete’s loving relationship. Additionally, though, I’d always been a romantic.  The design was beautiful and comforting to my senses.

In 2003, Sharon died, suddenly.  She suffered a brain aneurysm.  It was many years after our hasty trip to Sears.  She and Pete were married until death parted them.

When the heart adorned quilt is part of my bed making, those memories flood my mind.                                     _____________________________

In the interest of transparency, I’ll tell you I did not do the tasks I felt I must get done as I began making my bed that morning.  The memories inspired me to sit down and write.  So I did.

Branch Rickey, Jackie Robinson, and My Dad

Yours truly was 9 years old, going on 10 when Branch Rickey’s stock with my father went through the roof.

Spring 1947 Branch Rickey, owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers signed Jackie Roosevelt Robinson to a contract with the Brooklyn Dodgers.   Daddy was overjoyed; calm and thoughtful, but thrilled.

It was happening.  My father’s upbeat perception of the future for black people in America was coming true.  Branch Rickey brought integration to Major League Baseball.  Things were changing just as my dad said they would.

Daddy, a prolific reader, thinker, and commentator to his family, if to no one else, couldn’t exalt Mr. Rickey’s humanity enough.  

And if I had any lingering doubts, I now accepted the premise my brothers, John Wesley Woods III (Johnny) and James Franklin Woods (Jim) could be the professional baseball players daddy had said would be possible.

 I remember growing up black in America in the 40’s and 50’s dreaming of a good future, or melancholy because it would be tough since I was black.  Success could easily be mine if I had talent.  But I didn’t.   So thank heaven I loved school.  College was always my father’s plan for me.  My academic credentials could open the doors to a prosperous happy future. 

I remember Branch Richey’s bold, aggressive approach, putting Jackie Robinson on his baseball team, as the first of the doors opening to improve opportunities for black Americans.  Every boy did have a chance.

 In the tight grip of struggling with America’s widely accepted discriminatory practices and laws that supported injustice based upon the color of ones skin, thank God this black child was blessed with intelligent, optimistic parents.  I would be qualified to become whatever I chose to be.  And I was. 

This book first belonged to Johnny.  Jim inherited it from him.  I received it when my twin brother died.  

                                            My brothers loved baseball their entire lives. 
                                      After school days, the game was not a career option.