Emotional Health, Family

Chapter 29 My Berra (from The Cemetery Wives)

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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

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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.

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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.

Family, Health and Long Life, Holidays and Traditions

Go Go Power Ranger Mamas

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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.

Books and other Soul Food, Character, Emotional Health, Family, Goals and Dreams, Holidays and Traditions, Music and Theatre, Relationships, Uncategorized

The Ghosts of Christmas Past

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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

Books and other Soul Food, Character, Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Holidays and Traditions, Metaphor, Relationships, Uncategorized, Write

All I Want For Christmas

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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?

The Cemetery Wives, by Cherry Odelberg. Full cover art for The Cemetery Wives, created by Courtney V. Harris – available as an ebook on Amazon
The Pancake Cat by Cherry Odelberg, Cover art by Andrea Shellabarger, Available to order wherever books are sold
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The author’s confession part 2:

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She never intended to write Christian Women’s Fiction – or Christian anything. She wanted to write mainstream fiction. She wanted to be able to use some words she was not allowed to use in Christian fiction. She wanted to explore some concepts, some doubts, some gray areas that were not allowed by Christian publishers. She wanted be frank about sex and frank about challenges – to be a normal writer, not someone with an evangelistic agenda or a one-size-fits all Band-Aid. True, the writer is advised to “write what you know,” and she did know Christian women’s fiction. She grew up on it. She knew it all too well. She wanted something more. There was an emptiness. She wanted something that was not as cliché as the man always being right because he was a man, nor as trendy as being comically wrong because he was a man. She wanted a story where women were neither subservient or stupid, rebellious or dependent – unless they wanted to be -where the story didn’t end just because the heroine got married. She knew better. The troubles were only beginning when the heroine married. She also knew something about seminary life and the unrelenting grind of an impoverished marriage. So, she wrote a story about a woman married to a seminary student. By and by, she had opportunity to pitch the first five chapters to a bona fide literary agent. And the agent told her his publisher wouldn’t even look at it with a title like that. Apparently there is something inherently sinister or ghoulish about a cemetery and therefore evil or occult about the two words, “wife” and “cemetery,” coupled together. But the author didn’t feel that way. She knows it is customary to consider several title choices for a work in progress, but in this case, there was one title and only one that would work for the plot. Another agent didn’t like the timeframe crucial to the climax. She knows, how well she knows, that you must often give up the lines you most cherish in order to move forward. In this case, giving up title and timeframe is to give up the entire story. And so, she has written a very unconventional love story, chock full of scripture and seminary speak, and religious thought and tragedy and the triumph of Providence or Fate or Destiny or the Universe or God by whatever name you call him or her. And who will it offend? Only the most hard-hearted of biblical legalists; the ones who fault her for not having an agenda.

She never, never intended to write Christian Women’s Fiction

The Cemetery Wives will release on Amazon as an ebook before the end of November, 2020

The book cover will look something like this. The cover, also will be released from the artist by the end of November.

Books and other Soul Food, Goals and Dreams, Uncategorized, Write

The Author’s Confession Part 1

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She never intended to write children’s fiction. No. It had never occurred to her. When she first became enamored with writing (along about the eighth grade) she wrote what was in her heart. She did this via short paragraphs – expanded captions for photos. She revealed herself and her thoughts through her perspective on the photos. What were the individuals in the photos thinking? Her thoughts, of course. In high school, she wrote teenage romances. She wrote the kinds of stories she wanted to read. Mostly, she wrote stories that came from her journal – the things she dreamed would happen to her: high-school sweethearts, first and life-long love. 

Once she exited high school, writing consisted of 12-page tomes to her sister-in-law or newsletters for every company she worked for. Experts still admonished beginning writers to write what you know! Experts also recommended taking classes or workshops in writing. Going to workshops was out of the question. She was raising young children. The only course available to her was via Institute of Children’s Literature-by correspondence – snail mail. She took it. She completed assignments. She garnered both praise and criticism. She finished a children’s book. She had it printed and crudely bound and gave it to her family members for Christmas. But she never meant to write a children’s book. A few years later, she attended college. The college accepted her credits from the writing institute but they still wanted tuition – imagine that! She entered a writing contest for children’s books. In addition to publication, the grand and only prize of $10,000 would have funded her final two years of college. The publisher canceled the contest. By 2009 she had invested so much time in research and editing that she published the book independently. She believed in the content. The Pancake Cat was rereleased in 2020 with an all new cover and is receiving more than double the attention previously afforded. But she never intended to write children’s fiction.

cherryodelbergbooks.com

Character, Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Hiking and outdoor beauty, Metaphor, River, Spiritual Well Being

River Reprise

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When the Universe speaks, I try to listen. Winter cometh. I offer this reprise:

A Trickle or a Flood, June 7, 2016 She sat on the banks of the muddy San Juan, in the shadow of a bighorn sculpture and watched the river roll away lazily to the Southwest. It made her long for the beach. That is where the river was headed, after all – to join the mighty Colorado at Lake Powell and finally empty into the Pacific Ocean.

But she knew something the river did not yet know; it would never make it to the ocean. It was headed for the beach, but along the way destined to recreate, irrigate, hydrate, relax and refresh millions of people. Somewhere, 50 miles or so short of the Gulf of California, the river would trickle to a stop.

So she pondered this truncation, this travesty, this unavoidable change of plans people foisted on the river and she asked herself, “How are you doing on your own bucket list? Are you headed for the beach? And whether you ever make it to the beach, will you restore and refresh and recreate and relax? How much of you will be absorbed and diverted into the schemes and needs of others? How much of the landscape of your life will you beautify along the way?”

Live. Love. Laugh. Learn. You do not know if your end will be part of a cataclysmic flood or simply trickle away.

San Juan River, Bluff Utah, May 2016

Emotional Health, Health and Long Life

Paddle Your own canoe

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Paddle your own canoe

Goodness knows, the saying and phrase paddle your own canoe has been around a long time. Probably ever since man first hollowed out a log to float upon the water. We are each responsible for our own journey although it is nice to share the load with a partner, a team, a family. Another important thing to remember is not to put your oar in other people’s business. So yes, paddle your own canoe, chart your own course; row, row, row, your boat gently up the stream.

And that is exactly what she did. She launched her kayak for the grand finale float of the season and she paddled upstream. Upstream – even when the river has dwindled to the breadth of a creek – requires that you paddle constantly. No need to paddle frantically, power paddle, or exercise a stoic focus. A gentle stroke is all you need, but you must be consistent and regular. The moment you rest your paddle to fish for your phone, camera or water bottle you will begin a lazy 180 degree turn, a drift toward the riverbank, or a sideways bob down the river.

She moved gently, consistently, without urgency and without pause up the river. An hour took her through four miles of lazy river meanders that equaled 2 miles of straight roadway. Not another soul was on the water. She passed by a preserve trail peopled only by a toddler who pointed and a dad that waved. The Oxbow Preserve Park sported a new boat ramp and a beach empty but for the socially distanced middle-aged couple and their bandanaed dog. The canine seemed eager to be an uninvited passenger so she moved farther toward the other side of the river to appear less attractive. She did not hello them. Bounded on both sides by private property riverbanks she saw two swaybacked horses out to pasture, seven geese a laying that followed her from sand bar to the next sandbar, heckling. From somewhere in the lingering golden leaves of fall she heard the piercing call of a hawk.  Even in a state of near relaxation she learned things. Mesmerized by the autumn beauty, she yet absorbed what the river had to teach.

You will move faster if you launch into the deep. Caution may keep you in shallow water. Nevertheless, choose the deep waters. It is tough going in shallow water. You make less progress in the shallow – even paddling upstream. And it is not one bit safer.

In a meandering river, the laminar will take you only a few yards. No matter where you catch the downward current you cannot rely long term on the energy of someone else. 

If you should get stuck on a sandbar, don’t hesitate to rock the boat – a little or a lot – to get back out where you need to go. 

Have a plan for loading and unloading your vessel. If you look like you know what you are doing, you will attract less outside advice and interference. 

So yes, paddle your own canoe through life. And when it is time to cease paddling for the winter and put the vessel away – keep putting one foot in front of the other, and remember the lessons learned from the last kayak trip of the season.

Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Music and Theatre, Spiritual Well Being

The covert bassist

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The Covert Bassist

So. I’ve been learning to pay the bass – for about eight months. No amp. No teacher. Just reading the books and the notes and learning. She is home now. Home from six months of backpacking and back country rangering and so the dance of living in a music house begins again.

I wait until she goes off to noontime martial arts class before I practice my vocal exercises because I don’t want to scream her ears off and I am trying to break through that barrier, to give it more, to be a better, stronger vocalist than I have ever been before. I play piano in the evenings. Often with the door ajar. Piano I have under my belt so it is a good thing to share with the neighbors; not so my siren wailing. Once the door is closed, I woodshed on the guitar. Anytime of day I can play the bass because I don’t have an amp. So really, I can’t play the bass when someone else – like the off-season ranger – is playing mandolin and singing at performance pitch. Actually, who would want to practice bass anyway when you can listen to such heartfelt and talented protest folk tunes coming from the other room. 

Let’s rethink that. Who wouldn’t want to play along to such anthems? Mandolin. Voice. The only logical complement to the sound is bass. Preferably upright bass. But here I am – the mom in the other room with a horizontal bass and no amp. An aspiring bassist who can’t help but move toward the music. So, I head to the kitchen. Two walls and the thickness of a closet between us. 

When she plays, I play. When she falls silent, I fall silent. But I am cloistered around the corner in the kitchen and she doesn’t even know I am there. When she stops to ferret out the next gem of a lyric, I hold my peace. I look around the kitchen to see what is at hand to occupy my time. Sadly, what is at hand is carob chips, a cask of peanut butter, bags of corn chips, a plethora of natural snacks. I’m going to have to move to the other room and confess before I gain 20 pounds. While there’s not too much unusual or interesting about a mom hiding in the pantry and eating herself into obesity; and there may be a little something romantic about a covert bassist; it’s probably time to come out of the closet. I’ve ordered an amp. That way I can plug in the headphones and no one will ever know.

Emotional Health, Health and Long Life, Hiking and outdoor beauty, Spiritual Well Being

Turning gray with dust

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You see, I tried washing my hair this morning to no avail.

October 18, 2020: Andrea and I traveled two hours up a dirt road yesterday – to a ridge dense with lodgepole along the Colorado Trail behind and beyond Purgatory Ski Area – almost to Rico. We hiked for a couple hours and then returned via the same dusty road, coughing and sputtering and sneezing whist reminding ourselves to keep sipping from hydration packs. Arriving home, we exited her trusty 4-wheel drive truck, stomped our feet at the door and entered our apartment. We smelled like dust. In our wake, the kitchen smelled like dust.  My hair, freshly washed before setting out, was grey and smelled like dust. As I brushed out my hair – billows of dust scattered everywhere. I thought of my Mom and her stories of traveling the Alcan Highway in 1953. Her hair turned so gray from the dust – she said – that the inn keeper thought she was Dad’s mother when they found a room and stopped for the evening. She remedied this by washing her hair in water dipped from the nearby stream. Her hair returned to dark brunette. I tried washing my hair this morning to no avail. I’m still sporting long shimmering gray over light brown locks. Maybe I need to fetch water from a stream?

Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!