Discovering the World

When I heard this sound emanating from our television set as a kid in the 60s I exhibited an almost palovian response, dashing to take my place in from of our trusty RCA. With no VHS, DVR, or streaming access to replay, it was do or die, watch or forever miss out. The horns, drums, and cymbals heralded a TV show filled with a glimpse of forgein lands, continents away or oceans away or galaxies away. It was an invitation to glimpse  a unique cultures or native peoples. It was a scuba dive with Jacques Cousteau, or a chance to peer into volcanoes, or to summit Mount Everest. or to meet Jane Goodall and her gorillas in Tanzania. 

The show of course, was National Geographic Presents and it exists today in new incarnations on both cable TV  (Nat Geo and Natgeo Wild) and Disney +. 

For a young girl in the 60s, in a rural corner of North Carolina and many, many Americans it was a marvel and a not-to-be missed event. I didn't fully understand the true value at the time but I had a neighbor that did. 

"Miss" Bertha Parker lived in a stately brick home two doors down from our house. She was a big part of the extended community that raised me and modeled so many behaviors that helped shape me. She loved and supported our Methodist Church with her time, talents, and cooking. She was a woman of faith as well as being smart, astute, and plain-spoken. And she had a backbone.  She was an avid reader of The News and Observer, firing off Letters to the Editor (once to express her outrage at their risque XXX movie ads.) She kept up with politics and was very concerned about what was happening in Raleigh and Washington. 

Mrs. Bertha Parker in her later years.

In addition Miss Bertha recognized her place as a citizen of the world and worked to share that understanding with me and my family. Every year, without fail, she gave us a gift subscription to the National Geographic Magazine.

 As soon as I was old enough,  I took over the task of walking the half block downtown to get the mail from the post office. On the days we received our monthly issue of the National Geographic Magazine, I rushed home to curl up on the couch in the quiet front room to take a look.  The magazine's distinctive cover always featured a striking photograph framed with a yellow band and intricate black scrollwork. The glossy pages inside featured  similar marvels to the television series but in dynamic and dramatic photographs. If we were lucky, a map might tumble out or we'd dsicover foldout pages inside. The writing was superb and well researched, the explorers, scientists, anthropologists, archeologists, paleontolgists, primatologists, zoologists, all the "-ologists"  absolutely top notch. In a very real way, this magazine, and the remarkable woman who gifted it to us, opened my eyes to the world.  

Foldout from the July 2023 issue

I now look forward to walking down to my mailbox at the end of my driveway and finding the latest edition. These days the magazine covers stories similar to those on which the National Graphic Society was founded in 1888, but now includes topics as far ranging as scientific discovery, world politics, art, space, climate change, and memorably, COVID-19. As the National Geographic Society website states they are dedicated to the "increase and diffusion of knowledge." It continues to state that "National Geographic Explorers are continuing to push the boundaries of knowledge, uncovering new insights about the natural and cultural worlds..." 

 Today, my mom and I sat on our front porch and I read her an article about elephants from a recent issue. When I was done, she took the magazine from me to peruse the photos again, then put it in her lap, patted it, and said "It's a good magazine." 

It is, Mom. It really is. 

IF YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW

This blog entry is a shout-out to all the caregivers out there. I visited with Dwight this week, who is an "adopted" uncle to my daughter-in-law. He recently lost his wife, and he cared for her dutifully until the end. He "got" what caregiving is about because he'd been there, done that. The further Mom and I go in our caregiving journey (11 years and counting) the more and more I realize that understanding the rewarding, sometimes daunting, sometimes frustrating, sometimes hilarious life of a caregiver is strictly a "If you know, you know" situation. It's difficult for anyone who hasn't done it to understand it. 

I survive because of my love for my precious mother, my deep faith in God, the support of my husband and girlfriends, my endless supply of Diet Coke, library books checked out electronically via the Libby app and my Zoloft prescription. Thankfully, I am usually able to see the humor in the situation instead of the frustration.. My husband keeps me grounded, calling me "Serving Girl" a la Buttercup in The Princess Bride calling Wesley "Farm Boy." It fits. Here's the first hour and a half or so of my Sunday. 

7:15 am: I see on my Nest Camera that Mom is up. 

7:17 am: Mom is up and on the move to the bathroom before I can get to her room. I assist her in the bathroom. 

7:20 am: Assist Mom to back to her bed and layout her clothes for the day. She dresses herself as I dash to put my own clothes on.

7:25 am: I put Mom's shoes on and comb her hair. 

7:27 am : Back to the bathoom, assist.  I make her bed .

7:30 am: Follow behind Mom with a wheelchair as she walks to the den in case she needs to rest en route. Am called "Serving Girl" by the peanut gallery.

7:35 am: Position pillow behind Mom in her recliner, cover her with blanket, put lap desk in her lap in preparation for breakfast which husband has prepared. Turn on TV,  put on Mom's headphones. Bring Mom her pills.

7:37 am: Remove lap desk (and breakfast) because it is "not right."Adjust blanket. Replace lap desk. 

7:45 am: Mom says "Okay." This means she is done with breakfast and would like the lap desk and dishes removed asap. Husband again intones "Serving Girl" from his perch in the kitchen reading the paper.

7:50 am: Mom says "My headphones aren't right." I hop up from my spot on the couch where I am trying unsuccessfully to read a short essay in Quietly Hostile by Samantha Irby. I adjust headphones and put them back on, verifying that Mom can hear better. Back to essay.

8:00 am: Mom says "Okay." I hop up and ask what she needs. She gestures like the grand lady that she is towards the empty juice and milk glass on the table by her recliner. "I'm done with that." I remove the dirty dishes and try again to read the short essay.

8:05 am: Mom says "okay" and sits up in her chair. She reaches for her walker and starts taking off her blanket. She needs to return to the bathroom.

8:10 am: We make the slow and ardous journey back to her bathroom, her entourage (me) trailing behind with the wheelchair, just in cae. I get her settled and I sneak off to take my morning pills and zip back to the bathroom.

8:15 am: "I'm done." I'm convinced she peed about a thimblefull. I again assist and we walk back to the den, with me and her chair just steps behind. I think to myself what good exercise this is for her, mentally checking it off my to-do list. 

8:20 am: Get her settled back in her chair, reposition pillow, blanket and headphones. Flop back on my couch and pick up my ipad to continue reading. 

8:30 am: Mom says "Okay." I again hop up and ask what she needs. She says the bathroom. I remind her she just went ten minutes ago. She says, well then, she's okay. Okay, then. 

8:35 am: I settle in to write this blog as I am again called Serving Girl by my husband on his way out to "walk" our ancient pug. Our pug that is so old and blind that "going out" means getting on her harness and leash and going outside to the porch with Earle and simply standing, barking a bit, and then coming back inside. I call him "Serving Boy." 

....

9:00 am: Mom says "Okay," sits up, removes blanket, grabs walker, and prepares to stand. I hop up and stand-by in case assistance is needed and we conga-line back to the bathroom as Mom needs her "morning moment." Thankfully, she arrives in time despite our slow approach. 

9:10 am: I assist and we head back to the den and repeat the process: Mom sits, adjusts recliner. I put the blanket back on her, the pillow behind her, and put on her headphones. She's ready to enjoy the morning news. 

9:15: I collapse on the couch to finish this blog and hopefully finish reading my essay before time for ZOOM church. 

Okay, then!

IYKYK!

Mom, aged 97.5, minutes before I publish this blog. 

Time is Elastic

Think of memories as beautiful jewels strung on a sturdy piece of elastic. Each memory is full of color and light and evocative of a distinct time in your life, filled with people as they were. The hairdos may be different, certainly the styles will be different, and most noteably the wrinkles on a loved one's face will be different. 

But the elastic that ties together these glimpses of a past event is fickle. Sometimes the elastic is taut and the memory is within reach, details fully present. Other times the elastic is overstretched and saggy, and the memory is vague and frustratingly just out of reach. 

Memories come unbidden to my 97 year old mother as they will, but when they are beckened, they notoriously hide behind a veil of fog. When Mom and I get nostalgic, I might say "Mom, do you remember when..." and she will respond with "I can't quite remember, can you remind me?" It's a call and response performed between generations for as long as there have been elders and their children. 

This morning, after a remarkedly good night's sleep, Mom awoke delighted with three distinct memories. 

AUNT VIVIAN 

Aunt Vivian was my paternal grandmother's sister-in-law  lived with her in herwith whom she lived in her snug little home in Boykins, VA for many years. As a young child, I remember Aunt Vivian being smartly dressed with a typlical 60s wash and set and eyeglasses, formal and ladylike. I delighted in spending time  at her home with "Mom" in my very early years. My grandmother introduced me to sewing (I wish I had paid more attention), thrift shopping (I paid attention), and Star Trek  (I most definitely paid attention.) But she always made sure I behaved around Aunt Vivian. 

As formal as she might seem, Aunt Vivian was always considered  part of our extended family, included in all our Draper get-togethers. But whenever a meal or a Christmas party was being planned Aunt Vivian always, always made sure to tell us "I can't eat nuts." We were not unsympathetic, but it was repeated time and time again. To my memory there was never a jello mold with walnuts or pecan pie. Nuts were verboten, and we were diligent in our avoidance of them. We had heard in detail about Aunt Vivian's diverticulitis. 

My sister, Elaine, nine years older than myself, my mom and I weaponized this oft repearted phrase for years. If Mom was cooking or the topic of baking came up, one of us would innocently drop the bombshell into conversation, "Well, you know, Aunt Vivian can't eat nuts." Oh, we knew alright. We'd been told 50,000 thousand times. And the fact we knew so well would invariably set off cascades of giggles. Each useage funnier than the last. Making fudge? "Aunt Vivian can't eat nuts." Picking up a slim packet of Tom's peanuts at the Drugstore? "Did you know Aunt Vivian can't eat nuts?"  Eating a slice of my mom's Date Nut Cake? "Poor Aunt Vivian can't eat nuts."

So this morning, my mother looked at me with a wicked gleam and stated gleefully, "Aunt Vivian can't eat nuts!" 

NELL AND THE GIRL SCOUT CAMPOUT

When I was in the 4th grade, Momma became our Girl Scout leader  along with her friend Bert Ramsey. She had a heart for it and the town girls flocked to join. We did all kinds of fun things from "laying trails" at the town cemetary, riding bikes from Ramsey's Crossroads (3ish miles!) or camping. Mom and Dad would borrow pup tents from the local Boy Scouts and we'd camp in the yard of Frances Magee on the edge of Jordan Lake. We'd work toward badges, swim, cook out complete with s'mores, and settle in for a night in our tents. And like any campout, Girl Scouts or Cub Scouts with my own kids, it rained. So there was damp, there was rain pattering on the tent, there was wind, and there was dark. broken only by the thin beam of our flashlights. 

On our first campout, one of our younger campers was Nell, who was two years younger than myself. She was the younger sister of my girlfriend, Jill, and was a bit of a minx. Always full of fun and mischief, she threw herself into everything we did whether making pinwheel pimento sandwhiches or sit-upons (IYKYK). On her first night camping, bereft without her best friend Danya, homesick and possibly slightly spooked, she made her way to Mom and Dad's tent and as Mom remembers, spent the night with them. 

So Mom's second memory this morning was "I remember when we went camping at Gaston Lake and little Nell crept into the tent with Jack and I!" 

Mom and her Girl Scouts. And me with the striped pants which  I have thankfully blocked from my memories. Nell is front right.

TEACHING SUNDAY SCHOOL AND PRUDEN'S OFFICE SUPPLY

One of Mom's more enduring memories is her time teaching Sunday School at Seaboard United Methodist Church. She taught for 50 years, originally for the high school/young adult class and later for the whole church. Mom prepared diligently for each lesson, researching the day's scripture and bringing in contemporary stories to add additional meaning. I saw her many times in our living room with her red pencil, making notes and underlining passages in preparation for Sunday.

Part of her process was going to Pruden's Office Supply in Roanoke Rapids, NC to purchase each year's Tarbell's Teacher's Guide to the Internation Sunday School Lesson. I loved to tag along to Prudent's. I can remember the scent of crisp new paper and the shelves of books. In fact, I very specifically remember when I was 3 or 4 years old and having a tantrum because my Mom wouldn't buy me the cutest litttle Joan Walsh Anglund book. Apparently I was so out of sorts that the shopkeeper wanted to give it to me, but of courst Mom said a very definitive "no." 

Despite the trauma of being denied a book I desperately needed, (the reason for my book hoarding today?) we continued to enjoy going to buy the lesson book year after year. The promise of new year of teaching and learning brought her great joy. She often remarked that she learned more than her students did. 

So this morning, at 97 and a half years old, Mom was given the gift of the memory of what she considers one of her proudest accomplishments, and what I consider her biggest gift to others: fifty years of service, Sunday after Sunday, to the members of our church. The lessons she taught, and most noteably,  her witness in just being herself, touched so many lives. A memory, a jewel, to revisit and appreciate again and again. 

From the book, Our Church Then and Now (1958) in the ECU Digital Collection

                                                        Mom and my sister marked.

        

Fond Memories of Seaboard High School - Mary Frances Stephenson (Draper)

This week I was cleaning out boxes of mementos, cards, and letters, and came across this piece in my Mom's hand written in ink  on a yellow legal paper. It appears it was written  preparation for a class reunion at the age of 65, nearly 30 years ago. She enjoyed this walk down memory lane as did I. Hope you enjoy as well! 

                                            FOND MEMORIES OF SEABOARD HIGH SCHOOL

                                                                 The Graduation Class of 1942

    We went to school for eleven grades with eight month school years. In the fall we went for half days so some students could return home and help harvest the crops.

    I remember the flag flying in front of the school and the big rope in the hall that was pulled to make the bell ring when school started and closed each day. There would be lots of sawdust on the floors that Uncle Robert Clark put there to help settle the dust before he swept them. The fire drills were carefully observed by everyone. 

    The chapel programs were always the highlight of each week. We went to Chapel everyday, however, and marched in with someone playing the piano. Edward Bottoms played the piano for many years. Songs were sung from the Golden Song Book. Miss Grigg played The Glow Worm and Miss Marjorie Williams played the Glee Club Song. 

    Miss Garris, the first grade teacher, always had her children tell their names and where they lived. Many children lived so many miles from Bealie Taylor's store near Galatia. 

    Miss Bickley had lots of marching programs with drills, using sawed off, painted broom handles. Sometimes, she gave quiz programs with proverbs that were acted out. I remember "A stitch in time saved nine." 

    Movies were shown about once a week, largely about how things were made. I always enjoyed these and enjoy documentary films to this day. 

    We helped plant pine tress when  Mr. Everett was principal. Some of these pines are still growing on the school ground today. 

    We picked up the trash on the grounds and ran a lot at recess. Mostly we played dodge ball or softball. 

    One week during the year, the older grades in elementary school had bathroom monitor duty. A desk was placed in the hall outside the bathroom door. A student could get up homework, spelling work for the whole week, or read library books. No one seemed to mind this duty at all. 

    I remember the stories that Miss Betty Walter Jenkins told in the second grade. They made me cry lots of times. They were good but I have no idea what they were about as I try to think back. There were two grades in several rooms. This was more work for the teachers but we didn't worry about that. 

    The big map of the US in Miss Rebecca Peeble's 5th grade room was most impressive. We enjoyed finding places on it and even learning the states and capitals. We played games inside like Good Morning, Judge and Steal the Eraser.  I enjoyed this grade so much that it influenced me to become a 5th grade teacher myself. when I finished college. This was the year that the Dr. Doolittle stories were read to us. 

    In the 6th grade, we memorized lots of poems under Miss Fannie Emma Bickley Bullock. We went to the auditorium and learned the names of the pictures on the walls about Rome and Greece. Each year the Coca Cola Company gave everyone in school a tablet, red pencil and ruler, with Coco Cola printed on them. We really used those in that room. 

    It was during this year that Lillian Ruth Gates, Mildred Maddrey and I were some of the fairies in the Midsummer Night's Dream that was given in the football stadium at Duke University. Mrs. Bullock was the narrator for part of it. I was sent to find her that night when it was time to start. I found her by the rock wall in her long white robe with her black hair hanging down behind her back. Her hands were folded, eyes closed and she was praying. This was truly a moment of inspiration for me. 

    Then  in Miss Mabel Powell's room, we were read The Man without a Country and Miss Minerva and William Greenhill. This was a learning time in Math as well as other subjects. She really could explain things and was so patient with all of us. There was always a 7th grade graduation exercise and she spent much time on this each year. We did the Maypole Dance for a part of it. I picked up the wrong streamer. She whispered for us to drop them and start over. This time it worked out just right. 

    Miss Anna Bert McCrummin "was high school." This teacher loved and worked with every student to help them to be the best they could be. She read Shakespeare's plays to us and made it all so meaningful. We, again, memorized lots of poetry. She directed many plays and they always were fine. The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come was lots of fun. It was our senior play. Bascum Hurley prayed for rain: " Lord send us rain, not just a sizzle sozzle but a gully washer and a sod soaker!" His real father was a preacher so he knew just how to do this. 

    Ruth Vick Everett gave a reading of The Cremation of Sam McGee and it was so interesting! That is one one my very favorite poems. She was such an outstanding person but we never had the opportunity to have a class under her as she resigned by the time we got to the 9th grade. 

    Miss Cannon came from a theatrical company and worked for two weeks and put on a play. The costumes were furnished and many students were in it. I remember the songs You Ought to See Hezikiah and Me By the  Back Yard Pump. She did her Minnie Pearl skit and told us that she was thinking about doing it full time. We were "so proud to be there" with her before she was famous and known all over the country as Minnie Pearl. 

    Miss Martha Furchess was the phys ed teacher. She wore a gold college sweater with a big "A" for Appalachian State. We knew it took lots of hours to win that letter and she was "A Okay" with us!

    Miss Helen Williams was so sincere in trying to teach the girls cooking and sewing. She never gave up on any of us. I'm sure, with me, it must have been a struggle. Everyone was so proud of her when she joined the Navy and became a WAVE during the war. That made her special!

    When war was declared in 1941, Miss Mary Williams, math teacher, told us that we could best help by being the best students we could be right where we were. 

    Dillard Drewitt, our classmate, gave a news report in Chapel each day. he listened to the radio and read the evens in the newspaper. He had the gift of explaining the events so all could understand. 

    The school year came to a close during the first week of May. A May Day celebration was held in which every student in every grade took part. There was a King, Queen and Court. The May Pole dance was always a part of the program. Costumes were made for the various dances and the whole affair was very pretty. It was always attended by proud parents and friends. 

    Now, at 65, when I look back over the school years, they seem like a short time. It seems that none of us have really changed a great deal. Our teachers and the experiences we had at school helped us to form some of the ideals that we now have and we can be thankful for the good things that were installed in us. 

    These are things that I, Mary Frances Stephenson Draper, remember about school days. I, like a sundial, have recorded only the "sunny hours". 

Mary Frances in the School Yard

    

Mary Frances  and Emma Jean Edwards Flythe

Emma Jean Edwards Flythe, Mary Frances Stephenson Draper, Scottie Harris Sarvay

Mary Frances on Her Bike

Mary Frances in Elementary School

Source Material

The Teeth of the Matter

Mom - a year ago today

A year ago today, my mom lay in intensive care at Duke.To say she was near death would be a grave understandment. After  a morning ride in to the ED with Durham's finest Emergency Medical Technicians, and then holding court in a ER bed all day, she was moved to a room. She was alert and talkative and then she wasn't.

A GI bleed  had been hiding coyly behind low blood pressure symptoms. As evening approached it erupted with the speed and horror of volcanic eruption. Staff scrambled to manage her body which became something horribly beyond  her control. Her eyes rolled back and her eyelids fluttered closed. I held her head, helped  clean her up again and again and snagged her dentures, tucking them in a styrofoam cup - thinking she would either need them again to eat or to look nice in her casket. Soon  an "all call" went out and her snug room became overpopulated with doctors and nurses. They were the holy men and women of medical experience, who spared no patience for Mom's befuddled resident. At their directive, she was quickly she  moved to the ICU.  I trailed along-  numbstruck yet somehow impossibly rational.

Once there, she was placed on a ventilator. And she bleed, and bleed some more. She was given blood,  again and again and I offered a prayer for thanks for each donor.  GI staff was called in on their weekend off and she moved to a procedure room and back. Night turned into day. My family appeared to wait with me- their presence  an enveloping balm. They brought with them a big bag of survival gear - a throw, water, snacks, books.We settled in and waited.

We were told there were two major bleeds and with Mom's age, her prognosis was not good. Interventional Radiology was called in and the team's lead spoke with me honestly explaining that cauterizing the bleeds gave her a chance, but to be prepared - it was a long shot.

We bore witness to her time in limbo- nurses moving in careful choreography and flocks of doctors making rounds. More blood.   Evening approached. Mom had survived the procedure, she had a chance, she was stable, though still on the vent. My family took me home. I'd been at the hospital 36 hours.

I slept fitfully and arose early to arrive before rounds. I found my bag, determined to give Mom's teeth a good scrub before I returned to Duke. I reached into the bag where I remembered tucking the styrofoam cup and it simply wasn't there! I panicked. I pulled everything out and put it back in. No cup! No teeth!

Some calm inner voice spoke to me - telling me to call the ICU waiting room attendant. Perhaps a family member had thrown it away thinking to help tidy up my bag.  It was still dark outside and I imagined the janitorial staff already silently sweeping  and tidying the expansive area. The attendant on duty was the one I had met the night before. I asked her if the trash had been collected. No, not yet. And then I asked her, would you check the trash for a styrofoam cup with a lid on it - and look for a set of false teeth?

I remembered her clearly as a tiny bird of a woman, compassionate and professional, and I imagined her  fetching rubber gloves and inventorying each trash can, pulling out the cast off coffee cups and snack wraps. After what seemed like an eon, she returned to the phone, breathless. "I have them!" she exclaimed.

Relief coursed  through me and praise and such gratitude for this small mercy. My mom's teeth found safe and sound! And found, within minutes of the arrival of the cleaning crew!

The attendant put the cup in her work area.  When I arrived, I found that shift change had sent her home to bed and put a new worker in her place. When I asked if there was a cup for me, she turned with a puzzled look, plucked it off her desk, and placed it in my hand. I peeked inside, humbled and assured.

Assured because I felt at that moment very close to God. I had no idea or expectation on how things would turn out, but I knew t that God was with my mother. That He would lift and protect her, that He would wrap His loving arms around her and whether He took her home or healed her fragile body He would not let her go.

And He anointed her with His presence - through every painful step of healing, through her time of confusion ("ICU psychosis"),through every moment  of rehabilitation, through her return to my home. She has basked in His presence. And not a day goes by that she doesn't express appreciation for the life she's continued to live and thanked God for it.

It's not been easy - for her - for me - for my family. The GI bleed, ultimately attributed to a prescription she was taking, turned out lives sideways. But the richness of each "bonus day" that Mom has been given has been deep and precious and good.

And the styrofoam cup? It still sits on her sink, holding her denture brush and denture paste. A constant reminder of how God lifts us and holds us and cares so much for us that He reunited my mom and her teeth.

Mom - today - a year later

The styrofoam cup - God's miracle vessel 

The Viral Cafe

Henri, the Maitre D' of the Viral Cafe: Ah, Madame MacHardy! It has been long, long time since we've seen you at the Viral Cafe! You have been well, no? 

Jackie: Yes, Henri. I've been very well. This is all very, unexpected. 

Henri: Well, yes, that is how it is with the virus, no? You get cocky because you are well and then, BAM, you find yourself here. Now we do have several specials today. 

Jackie: I'm listening. 

Henri: Well, as you know, women of your age, you have different versions of le virus and we have two unique options for you!  First, we have the Caregiver Package. This special is for la personne who has care of an aged relative. This one comes complete with facemask and nitrile gloves. It has a special little puzzle of making you come up with ways to work around sharing le virus.Very challenging , the Caregiver. It includes at no extra charge, worry for your loved one. Is this the one, Madame?

Jackie: Well, it sounds like the right one for me, but what else do you have, Henri?

Henri: We also feature the Middle Aged Female Package. This one includes, well,  worry that when you cough, well... (Henri mumbles, somewhat embarrassed.) 

Jackie: Oh, I get it. Sounds miserable, but about right. What else does it include? 

Henri: Well it is very complex this package. It includes le couronne, in English, the Crown. A new crown so no eating ice chips! And for the eczema, we include a set of unna boots; bandages from foot to knee, to allow your dermatitis to heal. so we promise that will be really itchy. But this is a really nice option because you will need much of le Benadryl for BOTH your your ailments. See how good! Fresh for you today! Oh - and this one is very interesting, it includes an incontinent pug! So you cannot go barefoot because you might step in a warm puddle! Yes, this package is very well thought out! You will assuredly be miserable! Both of these packages include cough, fatigue, sinus involvement, erratic temperatures. We have a full suite of le Kleenex for your use! 

Jackie: Well, I know this sounds terribly greedy, Henri, but I think both packages for me today! 

Henri: Very good Madame! We have a little something extra we know you will love! We will populate your kindle with a library copy of A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles! You've been wanting to read this! 

Jackie: But Henri, I don't feel well enough to read? My brain is fuzzy. 

Henri: That is too bad; you have my sympathy. that is the only good thing about having a virus. But have no fear, we have America's Got Talent Champions on your DVR to watch with your loved one! 

Jackie: Perfect! 

Henri: But so sorry. You loved one can't hear it very well, so it will be cranked up to a loudness of 53. So sorry.

Jackie: Figures. And you promise to  arrange for me to step barefoot into warm dog pee?

Henri: But, of course! Perhaps more than once! And Madame, I personally encourage you to have your husband, who shared this virus with you, bring home the perfect pairing. Le hot et sour soup and le eggroll  from the joint on the corner! Shall we phone ahead?

Jackie: Thank you Henri.  That sounds great. I've only had a Slim Jim, left over from the hurricane, and 3 chocolate oreos today. 

Henri: Perfect, Madame! We hope you enjoy your virus! Keep drinking fluids! And we certainly look forward to serving you again! Please share with your friends! 

Late Bloomer

Mom's Camellia 

The Camellia was as old as I was. It grew and thrived next to the side porch at my parent's brick house in Seaboard  for more than 50 years. My dad and his friend, Bill Davis, finished building the house in 1959 and I was born in 1960 so we grew in parallel. Mom recalls putting in a few boxwood, azaleas, and the Camellia soon after the house was built and I was born. Details are cloudy in her 93 year old mind and she thinks perhaps she may have planted it as  a shoot from the shrub next door, where her parents, and her young family lived before I was born.

The Camellia was a vital part of our lives. We thrilled to see it's fuschia blooms in the otherwise grey landscape  of  winter. Time and time again, we plucked  blooms surrounded by glossy green leaves, which were invariably sturdier than the delicate pink blossoms and brought them inside to add a touch of color. Beginning in my UNC years and extending for decades, my mom adopted a ritual  that she practiced each blooming season. Before I pulled out of the driveway to head to the Triangle, she would pick the choicest flowers, wrap their stems  in wet  paper towels and then secure that with aluminum foil and they would ride shotgun on my trips back to first UNC and then my Durham home. We continued this practice when she began living with me and we visited Seaboard for a few days each month. But then, she became too infirm for the trip - and the Camellia's roots had begun to infiltrate the foundation of the home, so both the visits - and the Camellia became, regrettably, things of the past.

As a young homeowner, I dug up a root from  my grandparents' house and it grew like wildfire beside our snug starter home in Durham. Every winter it was laden with blooms and one glance  made me feel closer to Seaboard. The shoot was from a variegated variety, but when blossoms first appeared we were astonished to see that they were pure white.

Seventeen years and two teenage boys later, we needed more room and bought a new house across town. I was sad to leave the Camellia behind and lamented often my lack of foresight. Why didn't I start a few shoots  to take with us? Just last week, mom and I drove by the old house to see it if was there and still blooming. It was - tall sturdy- and full of blooms.

After my family moved into the new house, and Mom's  Camellia was still thriving in Seaboard I did dig up a shoot and plant in my new yard. It was tiny  but the leaves were glossy and healthy so my hopes were high.

It was painfully slow growing - we seemed to gain about 2 leaves a year. I was terrified it would be the victim of a lawnmower and checked on it time after time to see if it was still there. But blooms? None. Nada. Zilch. I began to wonder if there was such a thing as a male camelia and if I had unfortunately selected one of those. (No, Google tells me they are actually bisexual.)

I admit, I simply forgot about the non-bloomer. My hopes had been set on a shrub of glorious blooms like the one that shaded our side porch for decades in Seaboard.

But...

This morning when I walked out to get the newspapers I was despairing of the deep mud ruts at the edge of the road. Our driveway can't hold many additional cars, so guests are forced to park at the street. I was looking about to see if there was a way to fit an additional concrete slab and eyeing the yard.

To my utter disbelief, the Camellia had a bloom!After at least ten years of nothing! It was perched at a jaunty angle on a new branch, an explosion of color amidst the colorless winter landscape. And tucked underneath was a new bud! I photographed and showed mom, not daring to pick it's first bloom. We were elated! Despite the odds, when I had long ago given up hope, that little Camellia produced a glorious blossom.

What an astonishing message for the New Year. No matter how inadequate we may feel as we ring in 2019, there is always room for growth, always room for success. We can keep striving, keep growing - even when others have counted us out - or worse - we have counted ourselves out. Sometimes change is slow to appear. Sometimes we need life experience to help us grow. But we can grow - we can open ourselves to it - to be kinder, to be more patient, more generous, more compassionate. We can eat healthier, exercise more. We can volunteer to help others. We can try our hand at something new, or resurrect something old. And we can bloom!  Right where we are planted!

So this year, be patient with yourselves. Be patient with the people, known  and unknown in your lives. We are all growing, just not at the same speed. And we won't stop, can't stop, until our final blooms fall gently to the rich soil beneath us.

The NEW Camellia!