She hikes with her grandmother’s Sunday handkerchief. Yes, a vintage handkerchief. 100% cotton with a floral print around the borders. She layers it between the disposable rain poncho-which is 20 years old and not yet ready for the landfill – stuffed into the bottom of a bottle sling with the full water bottle on top. These are the essentials for a daily hike: rain poncho for a sudden downpour; handkerchief for bites the nose winter or spring allergies, and water bottle. It is not a new handkerchief by any means. Nor is it carried as a talisman. Grandma has been gone since 1965 and this is the year 2020. In her memory these are Sunday best handkerchiefs, too pretty for daily use. They are Pentecostal handkerchiefs once used to dab off the tears of joy while murmuring, “glory!” And they are babies in a blanket handkerchiefs, quiet, soft-as down distractions to keep toddlers occupied during long sermons. These handkerchiefs – there are four of them- have been carefully stored for 56 years. They came to her in an old-fashioned cedar chest this year upon the passing of her mother. Mother never thought to use the handkerchiefs for herself because disposable tissues have been the norm since the 1950s. For the last 50 years, Scotties and Kleenex and Puffs made the weekly rounds to church and office, carefully folded and tucked into purses. But these handkerchiefs are practical gold for the leave no trace hiker. Before COVID, on longer hikes, she traveled with two bandanas – one for wiping the face and nose and spills and the other for use as a tablecloth for lunch in a beautiful place. That was how she came to have 15 cotton fashion bandanas to choose from for face coverings. Now every hike requires a jaunty bandana tied around the neck at the ready to lift to the nose – but not to wipe the nose. So, she chooses a bandana carefully to match her mood or outfit and she heads out into Nature to meet and greet strangers by hoisting her bandana into place over her nose, slick as a cow puncher keeping out the dust. Between times, when her nose gets so chilly it drips or when the bridge of her nose has been pressed so often by the bandana it runs, she pulls out the Pentecostal handkerchief to gently dab at her nostrils. Nowhere is the likelihood of her becoming charismatic most strong as out on the trail – in Nature’s beauty, where all creation sings and blesses her and restores her spirit; where the sight of a mountain or a waterfall or a glimmering icicle provokes an exclamation of “hallelujah” or “glory,” – most generally translated “wow!” or “awesome!” and a spontaneous waving of a handkerchief.
Monthly Archives: December 2020
Chapter 29 My Berra (from The Cemetery Wives)
29 MY BERRA
In celebration of Christmas week, I offer you a rare mid-week post, Chapter 29 taken from The Cemetery Wives, by Cherry Odelberg. Now available on Amazon as an ebook or softcover. The Cemetery Wives is a work of fiction. Chapter 29, however, is pretty much how it happened.
The seminary patrons had done it again! The last Tuesday of classes, the school paper, Kathive, came off the presses proudly displaying a black and white picture on the front page. The picture was of a ten-foot, fully decorated Christmas tree in the lobby of the president’s office. Close to one hundred wrapped gifts were stacked around the base of the tree. A plush teddy bear with a huge bow sat looking at the spectacle with large, warm eyes. “Students, are you married with children?” asked the caption. “Be sure and check your box for a ticket to pick up your numbered gift on Friday.” Jon was elated when he showed the student papertoCarriethatafternoon. Shequicklycaughthis excitement. Then, Abby leaned out from her place on Carrie’s hip and pointed, “Das mye berah. Dat berah for Abby. Hug.” She tried to mash the paper to her.
The Wednesday morning MOPS meeting was alive with rejoicing and celebration among the cemetery wives. Poppy Sue listened to their chatter with a knowing smile on her face – the type of smile that inevitably goes with Christmas secrets. In her morning announcements, she explained,
“There are some people, three or four families actually, closely connected to the seminary, who have made it a tradition to give a family gift to the seminary
107
CHERRY ODELBERG
each year. As I said, these are families. They believe children and a secure family life are the backbone of ministry and the hope of our nation. These donors chose to give anonymously, sometimes through me to MOPS – that is where your MOPS reading library came from – sometimes through Luke’s Closet or the President’s office. These are the same people responsible for the highchairs in the student center. This year, they thought presents to the children might be nice.” Who knew whether Poppy Sue was the instigator, or maybe a combination of the women who volunteered at Luke’s Closet? Sally Bancroft clearly knew, but wouldn’t tell. The young mothers charged Poppy Sue and Sally with the responsibility of conveying to the anonymous families how excited and thankful they were. Again, just like Thanksgiving, there was a turkey for each family at the food pantry that afternoon.
By Thursday, Jonathan Bach had his numbered ticket. On Friday, he stood in the queue of sport coat and tie clad students to match his number. Thirteen shouldn’t be hard to find. Still, he had to ask for help from one of the ladies. After turning over a few of the packages herself without success, she said, “Let me check the list. What’s your name?”
“Jonathan Bach.”
“Bach? Like the composer?” She consulted a clipboard. “Oh here you are. The bear is for you. We clipped the number on the backside of the bow, to hide it for the picture the other day. No one turned it around.”
Jonathan was speechless. He could barely breathe out a thank you.
108
THE CEMETERY WIVES
“Are you okay?” asked the woman. Jon collected himself.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” he said, “your daughters will prophesy.” She waited. “Last Tuesday night,” said Jon, “when Abby – she is 18 months old. When Abby saw the black and white photo in the student paper, she said, ‘that’s my bear.’”
“Mr. Bach, That’s a story that Mary Eileen and Vonnie will love to hear over and over,” said the woman. “Merry Christmas!”
And so, Christmas came to the beleaguered little Bach family. There was a new teddy bear for Abby. There was Christmas turkey with all the trimmings on the table. There were the little niceties only a creative and frugal woman like Carrie could provide; a new tie and matching pocket hankie for Jon, looking suspiciously like a dress Carrie made a few years back. There were hugs. There were tears. There were phone calls home to distant family. There were six more days to the end of the year in which to eat turkey leftovers. But there were no more weekly food pantry portions. Everyone was on Christmas break.
Go Go Power Ranger Mamas
He doesn’t ask for much. Her grown children rarely do. So when a request comes through, she is usually happy to comply. She jumps at the opportunity. Her adult children are all independent, successful – and often give her more than she was ever able to give them during their growing up years. She hears from her youngest least. He is thoroughly autonomous though gracious and loving when she does get to interact with him. He’ll turn 30 this month. Mother and son are separated by more than a thousand miles. She has seen him once in the last 22 months and that was Mother’s Day. Typically, in the weeks preceding his birthday, she will text: what do you want for your birthday? Tell me something cheap and something expensive. He will answer. She will place an online order and he will text his thanks and surprise when the gift is delivered. Over the years these gifts have included anything from quarter inch monster cables to socks to trendy sport shoes to this year’s wood travel chess set.
She was sitting across the table from her roommate last night enjoying a late evening snack and a rundown of the day when the text came in.
Youngest son: Do you have any pictures of me in that power ranger outfit you made?
Now I ask you, what mom doesn’t have pictures? Hers have been stored in albums and shoe boxes in an old wooden toy box for the past 10 years as she moved around the region. Only recently has that wooden chest been unearthed from storage in a basement. For 10 years nobody but Mom needed anything from that chest.
Mom: Yes. How soon do you need it? All old photos are in the teaching bench underneath the live Christmas Tree….
Youngest son: Jist send me a cell phone pic real quick!
(Real quick? Does he know what he is asking? It will take two people to lift the lighted, plugged-in, tree-in-a-pot down from its perch on the teaching bench. She knows. Already she has been through this process for one of her own memory projects, despite thinking ahead and insuring all photos were thoroughly tucked away – unneeded – before installing the tree).
Mom: We didn’t have cell phones back then.
Youngest son: no like just take a picture of it haha
Youngest son: (attaches cell phone picture of his band mate / roommate as green ranger)
This is a picture of our guitarist! His mom made this, and I want to show him mine.
She shows the photo to her roommate. Without a word they rise, lift the tree from the riser and set it on the floor. She hinges back the lid and puts her hand on the most promising album.
Halfway through the pages chronicling 1994 to 1997 she finds the photo, slips it out and snaps a picture and uploads to text.
Youngest son: that’s amazing thank you
She and her roommate sigh and finish sipping tea while the memories percolate. Her roommate is, after all, the pink ranger – and she is, to this very day a ninja – as is her brother.
The Ghosts of Christmas Past
The memories belonged to her. The memories were hers to keep. For a long time, she didn’t know that. Some of the memories were too wondrous to believe. Other memories were so painful she didn’t ever want to revisit them. She noticed that even with the wonderful memories came that twinge in the side, the catch in the breath, the knowledge that those good times were gone forever and would never return. So, because even the good times hurt; because she chose not to revisit the bad times – to ever think of them again; she boxed up those memories, labeled them, “do not open,” and stored them in the attic of her mind.
Somehow, she thought she could no longer use the silver and gold and the good china simply because it was all packed up with the shattered crystal and the refuse of past relationships. It was a tangled mess. But there is a difference between untangling and unraveling. Once the years had run their course and she was healed of her unraveling, she began the untangling. She separated the paper roses and shards and discarded them. And she resolved not to be any longer robbed of the good memories. The good memories belonged to her. She was an active participant in those memories; not a passive, shriveled up defeated observer. There were memories of diamonds and rubies and stars and constellations and melodies and stages. There was snow and sleigh rides; warm beaches and plane rides. There were memories of small children and grown children and parents and grandchildren. And yes, sigh, there were memories of lovers and proposals – – and betrayals.
“Only a friend can betray a friend, a stranger has nothing to gain (Michael Card 1984).”
When a friend comes close enough to be a real friend – to actually mean something to your heart – there is always the potential for pain. If not the pain of betrayal; then certainly, some day, the pain of loss.
And this was the year she decided to actively, intentionally unpack the memories; to savor the good memories. To experience joy. To be at Peace. With her past and with her future.
The Ghosts of Christmas Past Slide Show by Cherry Odelberg 2020. Smile At This Lovely Time of Year, written and sung by Cherry (Cheryl Shellabarger) Odelberg, Produced and Arranged by Harvey Schmitt. Recorded at WHS recording studios, Dallas Texas first released on Christmas With Jonah and the Wailers CD and cassette at Fellowship Bible Church, Dallas Texas circa 1995
All I Want For Christmas
All I want for Christmas
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth. Well, actually, I got that wish way back in 1963 when I exited third grade. However, time has run its course and I did have all my front teeth filled and sheathed in early 2020. It was one of the gifts I gave myself this year.
All I want for Christmas is you? Frankly, my dear, having you under the Christmas tree would only complicate things. It has been a wonderful year of innovation and self-actualization. Not like the year I hung the mistletoe in a prominent arch and waited – for two years – without result. In that case, the gift I tried to give was not reciprocated. I’ve learned to live without kisses – just as many have learned to live without hugs this year.
Mostly, my grown up Christmas wish list is still intact.
No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
And everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end…This is my grownup Christmas list – and I wish it particularly for the families and friendships that have been damaged and distanced in this vicious and heinous election year. It is not worth it, friends. In the end you alone cannot control the outcome of world events by your rhetoric. But you can make it your business to love your mother, your father, your sister, your brother; to love your neighbor as yourself – and to never, never, give up on your children.
What do I want for Christmas? In the course of the year I have provided for myself a washer, a dryer, bass amp, power drill and driver, a down sleeping bag, down vests, smart wool socks, a kayak, and some smart wool underwear. Once I get waterproof winter hiking boots I will be better equipped than ever before to get outside and keep myself healthy; physically, mentally, emotionally and especially spiritually.
Even though I don’t need my two front teeth or someone or something wrapped and under the tree; I’ve been thinking a lot about gifts this December.
A few years back I was traveling with my daughter in the Rocky Mountains. Snow still lay on the ground so it was probably April, my typical vacation time. We parked at the lovely rock chapel of Saint Malo Retreat. We tried the door. It was unlocked. Empty chapel. Available piano. I sat and played a chorus; Ode to Joy. Other tourists passed in and out. A mother and nine-year-old daughter stood behind me and watched. “How does she do that?” whispered the daughter. “Darling, it is a gift,” replied the mother. This simplistic answer irked my daughter who had just completed college with a minor in music. It niggles in the back of my mind this Christmas season as I contemplate gifts and all I want for Christmas.
A Gift takes you nowhere unless you receive it, open it up, and use it. The drill I bought myself in October? If I leave it in the tool bag on the shelf in the laundry room, it does nothing. I have to get it out, insert a drill bit or driver tip, practice, actually apply it to the antique furniture it was bought to bolster. The genetic gift of a good ear and predisposition for music is nothing without application and practice. The unquenchable urge to write – to be heard – is nothing but a constant emotional battle for me if I attempt to squelch it due to fear or embarrassment.
This year I gave myself permission to be about my bucket list with full confidence. My time on earth grows short. The ghosts of Christmas past may try to haunt me, yet I will align myself with Christmas present! I will climb every mountain. I will paddle every lake and stream. I will sing and make music on eighty-eight keys and six strings and four strings. I will write the books that have simmered on the back burner for three decades. I will find my voice and be heard. How about you? What do you want for Christmas?
