Sad walks with happy talks.

Sad Walks/ Happy Talks

I have walked the streets of Country Village for forty years.  I know every elm, sycamore, and linden tree.  I know when pumpkin décor becomes the norm and to which house each autumn display belongs. Each time I walked in a gentle snowfall, I marveled  at the Christmas trees in windows with sparkling white lights.  I knew which neighbors would adorn their yards with manger scenes declaring the real purpose of the season.  I looked forward to the wild light displays of some enthusiastic home owners. 

I have walked my dogs Penelope, Ezra,Malcolm Forbs, Fergus, and Dobie Gillis.  Dobie and I have walked these streets together for ten years.  We seldom miss a day.  Dobie knows where each dog lives and the trees that hold his hunted treasure.  His prey flees at his presence.  Their shaggy tails and beady eyes gawk at his awkward attempts to catch them as they quickly climb a tree.   Clutching a nut,they watched him with little interest as he smelled around and around the tree.  He was never a threat to them ,  and they knew they could torment him with their chatter and scolding.

Suddenly, these daily walks are more important.  In fact, I have cried on each of the walks for the last couple of weeks.  On each walk, no matter what time, someone comes out to greet me or a fellow walker stops to tell me they will be sad not seeing Dobie and I on our walks.  Today, an old friend with her walking stick stopped to chat.  I told her we would be leaving in a week.  She teared up and said she understood why, but I would be missed.  We have been friends a long time and had history together.  Thirty-five years ago her husband flew her , Denny , John Foster, and me to Naples , Fla. to spend spring break with  my parents.  It was a chiller trek of near misses.  The plane was so small that John sat amidst the luggage.  We were such responsible parents in 1975. Even with our poor judgement, God saw us through fog, we missed a tower by few feet, and dodged an unexpected plane in our course, or were we in its path?  We just trusted God would protect and He did.

Once again I am trusting God to protect and guide us on our new move.  He has gone ahead of us every step of the way.  Selling and buying a house in less than a month seemed a simple task with Him in charge.  Now, Dobie and I will walk new streets alone.  No former students will wave hello.  Walkers won’t stop to ask for prayer requests for their family.  Neighbors won’t wander to the curb to tell me their latest story about their child’s success.  I won’t know who decorates until I see the orange pumpkins and lighted Christmas trees.  Dobie must discover  where the Fort Wayne squirrels hang out.  Our walks may be a bit lonely at first.  I will have ample time to pray and seek, but I will miss my morning and evening greetings from my long time neighbors, friends, and former students. 

I realize in one week this chapter ends.  These streets will be exchanged for new streets.  However, I know these neighbors can never be replaced.  The Bozes, Hills, Calverts, and Headricks have been my neighbors for forty years. We reared our children together and watched over them as if each were our own. They are my family and will be sorely missed. Newer neighbors that have occupied our block for the last twenty years include Davises , Hartsocks,  Ringos and Barb Norrick.  They too have fit into our Yosemite family and become wonderful friends .  This Yosemite  community has proven true  the proverb, " Love your neighbors like yourself."  When someone needed  laughter, consoling, help, prayer, a fresh tomato or a simple cup of sugar, these people provided those needs.  Thank you, Country Village, for giving so much love and support through our  forty years.

A New Chapter of Life

 

A Most Unusual Memorial Day

            “To every thing there is a season.”  I was so excited in 1973 when we moved into our new home. We had it built to our specifications and were ready for our new chapter of life, living in Country Village.  We had only one child, age three, at that time.  Life was good and new neighbors were friendly. The years brought another baby boy and twenty years of Young Life meetings in our new home.  Church friends and prayer meetings filled our living area.  I loved cooking and they loved eating here and praying. 

            Teens hung out in our garage and played pool and stayed all night.  Those same teens appeared at Delta High School in my English classes.  Hours of planning and grading papers took up many evenings.  Weekends were filled with soccer, wrestling, football and tennis games as we watched our sons compete.  Holiday meals and celebrations filled every corner of our home and remodeling projects continued through 2010. 

            We love our house, and the endless borders of gardens around our lawn.  But, the season is over.  With a beginning prayer, meditation, discussions for a week, and a continued confirmation that God wanted us to move, I biked over to a stranger’s home around the corner.  A friend at lunch told me this family was renting and looking for a house in Country Village. I appeared at their door , introduced myself, and said, “ I  think you need to see our house.”  They had three real estate visits that evening , but said they could come to our house on Friday.  They loved our house, confirmed on Sat. they wanted it , and bought it on Memorial Day.   

            Now, I am rejoicing that I can live in the same town with my granddaughters, and stay longer in Englewood, Fla. during the winter. My sister sold her house the same week and for the first time in over sixty years, we can live near each other and paint together.
      It is bittersweet rejoicing because I am leaving my neighbors of forty years.  We have shared joys and losses together.  We helped raise each other’s children.  My best friend and I have walked the Country Village circle hundreds and hundreds of times discussing our lives and our children’s lives.   We know every tree, house, and crack in the streets.  However, everything has a season and my time in Muncie is over.  I am sad to leave good friends, Commonway, my church, my writer’s groups, my art friends, and the countless number of students I have taught and watched grow and have families of their own. 

            Denny and I begin a new chapter in our retirement.  I am sorting, purging and selling household items.  I want to travel light in these next years.  I have so many things for sale: arts and crafts, dishes, furniture, linens, and antiques.  I will be posting soon about sale opportunities. 

            However, my facebook friends come with me wherever I roam.  For that I am grateful. By blog will help me stay in touch with my friends and followers.  My heart will always remain in Muncie because this town has given me many close friends and opportunities.  At the end of July we will move.  I suspect my blog may be a little neglected these next couple of months,  but I will continue it when we get settled in Fort Wayne. Thank you, Muncie for all your love.

Envelope Lesson Two-Greed

Greed

            An old, grumpy woman lives on the beach.  She bellows out at beach goers,       

“This is my property.  Get off.”  We have to pass her each day because the beach easement is beside her house.

            She is an example to me.  She has lived her life holding so tightly to her privilege of living on the beach, that she has destroyed its beauty and her own peace.  Juanita is staunchly protective of her beachfront and has cluttered it with several “no trespassing” signs, ten or fifteen rusty beach chairs, and rotting umbrellas.  The natural beauty is sorely diminished. She has frequently called police to remove unwitting beachcombers from lounging on" her" stretch of the sand.  Juanita has been taken to court for her unruly behavior toward others and told repeatedly that her property line begins above the high tide line.

            Now, she has been arrested because a loggerhead turtle made a nest on her beach and she destroyed the nest.  Loggerheads are considered at risk for extinction and are protected by  the Endangered Species Act.   Witnesses saw Juanita removing the stakes placed by authorities around the turtle nest.  She removed the stakes, threw sand on top of the nest, and covered it with one of her rusty chairs.  

            At 75 she has been convicted of this third degree felony that carries a penalty of up to five years in prison and a $5,000 fine.  Wouldn’t you hate that to be the ending of your life chapters?  She will probably get off with fines and community service, but I am sad for the turtle and her. This is how she will be remembered.

            She had a wonderful house on the Gulf, which to many of us would be a completion of our lifelong dream. Yet, she didn’t want to share it with man or loggerheads.  She clutched the beauty so tightly that she destroyed it as well as herself.  The greed ate her.  Ironically, it is God’s creations she was trying to possess.  Juanita is a constant reminder to me ,  not to clutch my blessings so tightly that I lose them.  They are given to me to be shared.

            While hiking yesterday, I passed a pair of loggerheads returning to the sea from the mangrove forest.  I talked to them and told them how cute they were.  They went on their way as did I.  I appreciated their slow and steady movements and their decorative shell.  Why would anyone want to harm them?

            I shall seal into my envelope this memory of Juanita’s greed and how it destroyed her life as well as the loggerhead’s future.  She allowed that demon to lure her into a life of darkness.  Please Lord, let me always remember to share my blessings.

           

One Universal Song

            My intentions of visiting New Orleans were to reconnect with former students and faculty.  I wanted to interview them for my memoir.  I spent endless hours of research trying to find these people after Katrina had stolen their homes, their lives, and their phone lines.  My constant “people searches”  netted few results. 

            However, by the grace of God, one phone number had not changed.  It was Arthur McClain’s.  I left a couple of messages that went like this.

            “Hello, I am Mrs. Baron, your former Speech teacher at Carter G. Woodson.  I am coming to New Orleans and would like to meet with you.  If you are the Arthur I taught in 1967, please return this call.”

            I had left many such messages to several other numbers to no avail.  I was getting weary and asked God to intervene.  As I came in the door from my walk, I heard the phone ringing.  I hurried to answer it and the softest, Southern drawl said, “ Ms. Baron, this is Arthur McClain.  I can’t believe you still remember me.  I thought I would never see you again. “

            I squealed into the receiver, “ Arthur, Arthur, it is you.  I can’t believe I found you.  Oh, Arthur, I have the poem you wrote two days after Martin Luther King was killed, and I would like to return it to you personally.”

            At first there was silence.  “You mean you still have my poem.  Really?  I can’t wait to show it to my kids.”

            “Tell me about your kids, your life.  “

            “I was relocated by Katrina for a couple of years, but I am back in New Orleans now.  I have three kids.  One graduated from Tulane and my daughter is in college and her younger brother works here in the city.  I have changed since you knew me.  God is first and foremost the center of importance in my life.”

            All this information was found jewels.  I talked to him about loving Jesus and made an appointment to meet him the last week of January.

            I was ecstatic.  I called my writing friend, River.  I called my neighbor.  I called my sister.  He was my first contact from our teaching experience of being the token integrators for the city of New Orleans.  This black community had shaped Denny and me and I wanted to go back and thank them.    “ Thank you, Jesus,” I repeated at the thought of actually seeing and interviewing Arthur for my memoir.

            Finally, the time to see Arthur had come.  Denny and I sat on a bench waiting for him, and my heart was thumping and my mind trying to recollect what Arthur would look like as a fifty seven year old man.  My student, Arthur. It seemed surreal.

            Denny spotted a couple coming up the escalator.  It was them.  Arthur sported a sassy, straw hat.  His smile was contagious.  I grabbed him and hugged and hugged him.  I reached to hug his wife and then just stood back and looked at Arthur and then kissed him on each cheek.

            “Ms. Baron, you look just as I remember you.”

            “ Arthur , I was 23.  Now, I am 67.”

            “I don’t care, I would still know your smile and those blue eyes.”

            “Lets’s go to Acme and have some good Cajun food.”  Arthur suggested.

            He was amazing.  Arthur could remember stories that I would tell to keep the class’ attention.  He remembered the first day he came in his room and saw a white teacher.  He couldn’t believe his eyes.  He said all the kids were talking about the two new white teachers at Carter G. Woodson.  He laughed and reminisced about the first play I directed with such a large cast.  I admitted that I had written new dialogue into the play so everyone who tried out could get a part.  His wife was so grateful that  I cared enough to keep his poem and return it.  Our evening was filled with long conversations, Cajun food, and laughter and one song.  Arthur taught me no matter how we might separate into individual notes, we still are involved in one song.  Arthur and the faculty and students at Carter G. Woodson showed me I was a part of that uni(one)versal melody of hope , love, and  relationships.

HHH

            

Leaves of Meaning

Copyrighted art by Sandi Baron

Each autumn season reminds me of one very special fall ten years ago.  Our youngest son, Adam, moved to Seattle that previous summer.  I was missing him so much.

  I am always humbled by the beauty of the color of the leaves and the response of the trees to shed on God’s cue each fall.  This colorful rhythmic pattern is evidence of our Father’s masterful plan. 

I taught our sons to enjoy jumping in the leaves when they were small.  Now I jump in the leaves with my granddaughters.  It is the right of passage to celebrate the oncoming holidays.  

I remember leaf collections were assigned as science projects in the fall.  Adam and I would tromp through our neighborhood, the woods, and the unoccupied back streets searching for each kind of leaf.  We would return, mount them as instructed, label them with the label maker, and gloat over our leaf knowledge.

However, this year there were no leaf trampers or rakers, or no leaf projects. I returned home and as I walked in the door the phone was ringing.

“Hey, Mom, I’m thinkin’ of fall...really miss the colors.”

“ No autumn in Washington?” I asked.

“Nope, just not the same kind of trees here. No golden coins flying through the air.”

“ Well, what was your adventure last weekend?” I asked.

“Climbed a trail.  Saw a bear.  Met a new climbing bud.”

“Oh, my gosh.  That sounds exciting.”

“Hey , Mom, send me a fall photo, OK? Gotta run. Bye.”

I had an idea.  I would collect leaves in the neighborhood and put them in a mailing envelope.  I started my journey by walking across the street to the Calvert’s and Hill’s yards.   They were outside visiting and I told them my mission and they entered in enthusiastically.

“Put in my red maple leaf.  I know he will remember playing in these red leaves,” said the neighbor.

As I reached the corner, I explained to another neighbor my project ,and he chimed in, “ Hey, tell Adam hi and this is my best sycamore leaf.”

I rounded the corner and walked past his middle school principal’s house.  I told him I was sending leaves to Adam, and he offered greetings and a perfect oak leaf.

Next, on the street was Adam’s former librarian, “ Here, take these two giant bronze leaves and tell Adam they remind me of him, shiny and bright.”

My collection was increasing as were the greetings.  It touched my heart how neighbors admired their leaves and gave warm salutations of love.  I continued collecting burgundy, gold, bright neon green, and golden leaves.  When I returned home, I added the greeting each neighbor had sent on the back of the leaf they selected.  

I mailed my package and waited to hear from Adam.

“Hey, Mom, my floor is filled with colored leaves.  They even smell like Indiana.  I really enjoyed all the notes from the neighbors.  It feels like autumn. This is the best gift ever.  I love you Mom.”  I hung up the phone and his words have lingered in my heart for ten years. So, I share this very special autumn memory as I realize the leaves are all gone, and now I must prepare for winter memories.

Tree Timing

Tree Timing

God’s trees have been my refuse and my help since I was a small child. I remember sitting under a palm tree and talking to God.  He was my friend, and I talked to Him daily.  I would seek refuge from soft rains under the palm branches and feel so safe.

When I was seventeen, I had no money to go to college.  My parents were getting a divorce and had not saved or predicted I would go to college.  I was the first person of many cousins and relatives that decided go to a university.  Since my parents were selling our home and land, I asked if I could have five walnut trees cut before they put the land for sale.  Those five walnuts trees provided my first tuition deposit.  God provided the next four years.  That is another story for another time.  So, again,trees made provisions for me.

Today I still see trees as living creatures that give continually.  They give shelter to the hot and weary.  They bear fruit for all to eat.  I see oranges and grapefruit on trees and realize how generous each tree is.  Sweet cherries in Michigan bring many smiles to children’s faces.  Trees hold fame positions especially in the garden of Eden.  We all wonder what   kind of fruit could have been so tempting.

When we was rearing our sons, I used to claim they would grow as strong as the cedar trees of Lebanon.  Scriptures always referred to their strength, and when I saw them I knew why.  They are strong, resilient, magnificent trees.  I still claim that growth for our sons emotionally, physically, and spiritually.  

Trees are an integral part of my life.  I marvel at their spring beauty lit with dainty pink and white blossoms.  Those trees bring hope of warmer weather. I cherish old trees that have housed our children’s playhouses over thirty years ago.  I pray that I may be like a” tree planted by the water” as stated in Ps. 1:3.  I thank God for His gift of trees.  They show favor to humanity as does He.