Here's to my friends across the pond who are well into their special day as the light just creeps across my morning sky.
Hope Has a Place in a Lover’s Heart
One look at love and you may seeIt weaves a web over mystery,
All raveled threads can rend apart
For hope has a place in the lover’s heart.
Hope has a place in a lover’s heart.
Whispering world, a sigh of sighs,
The ebb and the flow of the ocean tides,
One breath, one word may end or may start
A hope in a place of the lover’s heart,
Hope has a place in a lover’s heart.
Look to love you may dream,
And if it should leave then give it wings.
But if such a love is meant to be;
Hope is home, and the heart is free.
Under the heavens we journey far,
On roads of life we’re the wanderers,
So let love rise, so let love depart,
Let hope have a place in the lover’s heart.
Hope has a place in the lover’s heart.
For hope is home, and the heart is free.
(as sung by Enya)
When Artio first shared this song with me near 2 years ago my heart was sore and my spirit battered yet from the loss of my Jim. I saw no hope that life could ever have the joy it once did.
What a journey, she, BobW, many others and I have shared to prove that this is not so. For even in the saddest heart glimmers the most infinitesimal spark of hope that life does indeed spring forth from the darkness of a shattered heart just as the Phoenix raises from the ashes of death to spread it’s wings and take to the sun again.
In watching Artio (Michelle) and BobW (Robert) grow together as a couple so publicly they also gave the gift of hope not only to myself, but to many others who inhabit these cyber walls. I miss you, my friends.
Today Robert William McCallum and Michelle Miller Allen join their lives, their hearts and their memories of Mo and Rick to become husband and wife in Scotland amid a small circle of family and friends. That I had to cancel plans to be there to witness their joy is a sadness to me. Yet, I am blessed in sharing their friendship though we are miles apart.
So, I raise a wee glass o’ the Macallan (single Highland malt Scot’s Whisky) and salute the pair of ye as Enya plays in the background…hope does indeed have a place in a lover’s heart.
“May the best you've ever seen,
Be the worst you'll ever see.
May the mouse ne'er leave your girnal
Wi' a tear drap in it's e'e
May your lum keep blithely reekin'
Till ye're auld enough to dee.
May you aye be just as happy.”
(auld Scottish toast)
I love ya both and the Handyman and I are still committed to New Mexico when you return this side of the pond next year.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
I'm Not Dad
This September melancholy finds me questioning perceptions of a world I did not choose to inhabit.
I am a stubborn woman…single-minded…tenacious…determined. It is the double headed strength and bane of my nature. A character flaw that has fueled my steps along this uncharted journey called Widowhood. I know no other path than to hitch up my boots and doggedly slog my way through every boggy step.
For a space over 3 years I’ve sustained the phantasy (spelling mine) that I can be “just like Dad”…a psychological drive that I owed my children (albeit grown) and my grand a continuation of life set by his example.
Yet…the price of maintaining this mirage was not evident until plowing headlong into the wall that surrounds it…I am NOT Dad. And, the naked truth is that the illusion is both unsustainable and unrealistic. Possessing neither the resources nor the creative skill to do so I have nearly paupered myself emotionally and financially in the attempt.
Another truth is that they never asked this of me…it has come at my own doing…my misguided attempt to make things easier by pretending I could carry on this aspect of his legacy…that things could somehow still be normal within the abby-normal world of death and loss.
Living within this fiction, I believe, has also hampered my children’s ability to cope as reasonable and practical problem solving young adults in their own right. My misguided sense of what I owe them has stunted their own emotional and financial growth.
The blunt fact is that this pipe dream must end.
Pounding into my brain the stark reality that I have to alter the status quo…that I must deal them a different hand…is testing both my natural stubbornness and my willingness to modify something that is obviously not only not working but, inherently, unhealthy for all of us. Dr. Phil’s “How’s that working for you?” echoes in my brain even as I write the words. (His brand of blunt “this is how it is” psychology just happens to be harmony with my nature.)
Mayhap, it is that very same innate mulishness that has led me this far that will work to my advantage at this juncture in the unwelcome saga that is my altered life.
Still… as I sit before this keyboard telling myself I will and must try…I hear a small, greenish Jedi master whisper in my mind’s ear… "NO. Do…or do not…there is no try."
I am a stubborn woman…single-minded…tenacious…determined. It is the double headed strength and bane of my nature. A character flaw that has fueled my steps along this uncharted journey called Widowhood. I know no other path than to hitch up my boots and doggedly slog my way through every boggy step.
For a space over 3 years I’ve sustained the phantasy (spelling mine) that I can be “just like Dad”…a psychological drive that I owed my children (albeit grown) and my grand a continuation of life set by his example.
Yet…the price of maintaining this mirage was not evident until plowing headlong into the wall that surrounds it…I am NOT Dad. And, the naked truth is that the illusion is both unsustainable and unrealistic. Possessing neither the resources nor the creative skill to do so I have nearly paupered myself emotionally and financially in the attempt.
Another truth is that they never asked this of me…it has come at my own doing…my misguided attempt to make things easier by pretending I could carry on this aspect of his legacy…that things could somehow still be normal within the abby-normal world of death and loss.
Living within this fiction, I believe, has also hampered my children’s ability to cope as reasonable and practical problem solving young adults in their own right. My misguided sense of what I owe them has stunted their own emotional and financial growth.
The blunt fact is that this pipe dream must end.
Pounding into my brain the stark reality that I have to alter the status quo…that I must deal them a different hand…is testing both my natural stubbornness and my willingness to modify something that is obviously not only not working but, inherently, unhealthy for all of us. Dr. Phil’s “How’s that working for you?” echoes in my brain even as I write the words. (His brand of blunt “this is how it is” psychology just happens to be harmony with my nature.)
Mayhap, it is that very same innate mulishness that has led me this far that will work to my advantage at this juncture in the unwelcome saga that is my altered life.
Still… as I sit before this keyboard telling myself I will and must try…I hear a small, greenish Jedi master whisper in my mind’s ear… "NO. Do…or do not…there is no try."
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Wish You Were Here
Wish You Were Here
So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
Try as I might to stay in the here and now, this change of season draws me back into a past where I struggle with the sadness that can still reach deep into the darkest canyons of my soul.
I wish that snake had never slithered from her hiding place in that old camper, that the artery to his brain had not exploded from too much adrenaline, that his heart had not stopped beating at a time in our lives when we were reconnecting as just us, that he had not left me behind…
…and I wish he was here.
Yet, there it is…
…immutable…
…indelible…
…infinite…
…he is not here.
For a time - a short season - I am bereft again…
…and I wish he was here.
"
So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
Try as I might to stay in the here and now, this change of season draws me back into a past where I struggle with the sadness that can still reach deep into the darkest canyons of my soul.
I wish that snake had never slithered from her hiding place in that old camper, that the artery to his brain had not exploded from too much adrenaline, that his heart had not stopped beating at a time in our lives when we were reconnecting as just us, that he had not left me behind…
…and I wish he was here.
Yet, there it is…
…immutable…
…indelible…
…infinite…
…he is not here.
For a time - a short season - I am bereft again…
…and I wish he was here.
"
Friday, September 16, 2005
Change of Season
Change of Season
Dark-eyed Susans on the roadside’
Pumpkins in the fields;
Wood smoke in the air;
Leaves turning color on the trees;
Shorter days;
Longer nights;
Changes on the lifting breeze.
Our time;
Hunkering down;
Drawing inward;
Remembering.
Melancholy settles around my shoulders
Like a well worn sweater;
Ragged;
Torn;
Comfortable;
Familiar.
I know this place;
Visited here before;
The stay will not be long.
Gone as the dry leaves
Skittering across a broken sidewalk
Pushed by bony fingers
Of a chilled Halloween wind.
I’m OK;
Grounded in the present;
Living in the now;
Just old skeletons
Rattling
In the dusty closets of the past.
Yet……
Hot tears flow at sweet memories;
His dear face;
The touch of his lips on mine;
The scent of his skin while in warm embrace;
Burnished indelibly in my heart.
The gentle touch of a hand
Brings me back;
Light in twinkling blue eyes
Quickens the slowed beating
Of my heart.
I smile
At the gift
Of love…
Old
And
New.
Outlaw 9/16/2005
In the latter years of our life together Jim always saved a couple of weeks of his vacation for our time together in the fall when the children were all in school and the hectic pace of summer had slowed.
Roaming cemeteries to complete family histories, pouring through archives in neighboring towns, day trips to “our” mountain just for the day enjoying the time spent doing not much more than nothing…as long as it was together.
And, then there was Halloween.
The man loved Halloween above all holidays that were celebrated en La Casa Hacienda del Outlaw. Even when the children were young he scheduled a week of vacation to decorate the yard the way most folks around here do for Christmas.
Starting in August, he poured over servos and pneumatics to power the coffin lids, inflating lungs, beating hearts and what have you that dotted the yard and porch. The week of found him on ladders and hanging from tree limbs to place the cobwebs “just so”.
Floating apparitions, tombstones, black lights, dry ice and scary soundtrack…all a necessary part of the night’s entertainment.
He’d dress like Frankenstein’s monster and answer the door with that sweet, slow southern drawl….”Mastah…children at the door…are any required for experimentation this evening?”…sending the children into squeals and laughter.
Over the years the neighboring children knew “Mr. Jim’s” was THE place to go for the best treats of the night. They’d stop by the week prior, down on haunches, babbling questions, “oooooh and ahhhhhh” over the latest creations as well as the familiar standards.
He shop for candy like Christmas presents….picking out what he thought the kids would like….CHOCOLATE. We’d have enough left over to keep him jacked up for weeks after finishing it up “before it went bad.”
The children and the parents who remember from their visits miss him as Halloween rolls around and the yard remains empty with only the porch light evidencing the probability of sweets.
I miss it and I miss him most at this time of year…our time.
Thus comes the melancholy as the season changes. I know it will not last long and I no longer fight the effects...it will soon enough be gone.
Dark-eyed Susans on the roadside’
Pumpkins in the fields;
Wood smoke in the air;
Leaves turning color on the trees;
Shorter days;
Longer nights;
Changes on the lifting breeze.
Our time;
Hunkering down;
Drawing inward;
Remembering.
Melancholy settles around my shoulders
Like a well worn sweater;
Ragged;
Torn;
Comfortable;
Familiar.
I know this place;
Visited here before;
The stay will not be long.
Gone as the dry leaves
Skittering across a broken sidewalk
Pushed by bony fingers
Of a chilled Halloween wind.
I’m OK;
Grounded in the present;
Living in the now;
Just old skeletons
Rattling
In the dusty closets of the past.
Yet……
Hot tears flow at sweet memories;
His dear face;
The touch of his lips on mine;
The scent of his skin while in warm embrace;
Burnished indelibly in my heart.
The gentle touch of a hand
Brings me back;
Light in twinkling blue eyes
Quickens the slowed beating
Of my heart.
I smile
At the gift
Of love…
Old
And
New.
Outlaw 9/16/2005
In the latter years of our life together Jim always saved a couple of weeks of his vacation for our time together in the fall when the children were all in school and the hectic pace of summer had slowed.
Roaming cemeteries to complete family histories, pouring through archives in neighboring towns, day trips to “our” mountain just for the day enjoying the time spent doing not much more than nothing…as long as it was together.
And, then there was Halloween.
The man loved Halloween above all holidays that were celebrated en La Casa Hacienda del Outlaw. Even when the children were young he scheduled a week of vacation to decorate the yard the way most folks around here do for Christmas.
Starting in August, he poured over servos and pneumatics to power the coffin lids, inflating lungs, beating hearts and what have you that dotted the yard and porch. The week of found him on ladders and hanging from tree limbs to place the cobwebs “just so”.
Floating apparitions, tombstones, black lights, dry ice and scary soundtrack…all a necessary part of the night’s entertainment.
He’d dress like Frankenstein’s monster and answer the door with that sweet, slow southern drawl….”Mastah…children at the door…are any required for experimentation this evening?”…sending the children into squeals and laughter.
Over the years the neighboring children knew “Mr. Jim’s” was THE place to go for the best treats of the night. They’d stop by the week prior, down on haunches, babbling questions, “oooooh and ahhhhhh” over the latest creations as well as the familiar standards.
He shop for candy like Christmas presents….picking out what he thought the kids would like….CHOCOLATE. We’d have enough left over to keep him jacked up for weeks after finishing it up “before it went bad.”
The children and the parents who remember from their visits miss him as Halloween rolls around and the yard remains empty with only the porch light evidencing the probability of sweets.
I miss it and I miss him most at this time of year…our time.
Thus comes the melancholy as the season changes. I know it will not last long and I no longer fight the effects...it will soon enough be gone.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
A Tooth's Tale
“Remember…the Tooth”
That line from Dune and the ensuing gaseous green vapor when Baron Harkonen poked at it kept coming to mind as the tooth yanker stuck his big paw in my small jaw to remove that problematic sucker making my life a misery the last few months.
Of course, I didn’t wish the dentist’s demise…still, the thought kept occurring that my tooth was so decayed and infected that it could be the scenario as he grabbed it with what seemed like awfully large pliers for my little mouth.
The recovery has been as challenging as the time prior to removal…giving me fits of pain and swelling...leaving me to wonder when it will feel like it was worth it to sit through the cattle call to have it removed.
Cattle call…polite term that...for sitting around in waiting room of the only cheap clinic in town for folks like moi with no insurance coverage. Doors open at 7:45 a.m., at which point you may get in line to get in line to wait around for your name to be called a mere 4 hours later.
Life in all its flavors and varieties come through those doors. Poor. Poorer. Retirees on fixed incomes. Minimum wage workers with no benefits. Welfare parents and their children…some well behaved…a number not so. Young, old and everything in between.
All with dental needs and minimum funds to have them done.
This visit was fraught with anxiety. Same issue almost 3 years ago played out like a torture scene from a badly acted “B” movie:
Anonymous Doc walks in, mask in place, pokes frightened, pain ridden patient’s gum with Novocain filled syringe, carelessly yanks tooth from not yet numbed jaw, shoves gauze in bleeding hole and exits…stage right.
No howdy, no kiss good-bye…just slam, bam and no thank you ma’am.
I was not looking forward to a rerun of this one run play.
Imagine my surprise when the scenario turned out the polar opposite:
Introduction; what can I do for you; let’s take a look; this will sting a bit (it did) ; you’ll feel a little pressure (I did); you say it still hurts; it’s almost out…can you stand it; it’s out; you did great; keep this gauze in for at least 30 minutes, however with the aspirin you’ve been taking I think it may take a few hours to stop (it did) ; take the pain med right away (I did); if you have any problems give us a call (wonder how long I should wait).
Except for the phantom tooth discomfort, the swelled gums and bouts of sporadic, intense pain...thanfully dulled by a medical wonder called Lortab 5…which have served to keep me from my writing…I reckon it was a successful morning’s adventure. At least until the next episode in the Tale of the Tooth that requires a return visit.
The joys of no health insurance in modern day America from the mundane depths of the foothills of lower Podunk, SC.
That line from Dune and the ensuing gaseous green vapor when Baron Harkonen poked at it kept coming to mind as the tooth yanker stuck his big paw in my small jaw to remove that problematic sucker making my life a misery the last few months.
Of course, I didn’t wish the dentist’s demise…still, the thought kept occurring that my tooth was so decayed and infected that it could be the scenario as he grabbed it with what seemed like awfully large pliers for my little mouth.
The recovery has been as challenging as the time prior to removal…giving me fits of pain and swelling...leaving me to wonder when it will feel like it was worth it to sit through the cattle call to have it removed.
Cattle call…polite term that...for sitting around in waiting room of the only cheap clinic in town for folks like moi with no insurance coverage. Doors open at 7:45 a.m., at which point you may get in line to get in line to wait around for your name to be called a mere 4 hours later.
Life in all its flavors and varieties come through those doors. Poor. Poorer. Retirees on fixed incomes. Minimum wage workers with no benefits. Welfare parents and their children…some well behaved…a number not so. Young, old and everything in between.
All with dental needs and minimum funds to have them done.
This visit was fraught with anxiety. Same issue almost 3 years ago played out like a torture scene from a badly acted “B” movie:
Anonymous Doc walks in, mask in place, pokes frightened, pain ridden patient’s gum with Novocain filled syringe, carelessly yanks tooth from not yet numbed jaw, shoves gauze in bleeding hole and exits…stage right.
No howdy, no kiss good-bye…just slam, bam and no thank you ma’am.
I was not looking forward to a rerun of this one run play.
Imagine my surprise when the scenario turned out the polar opposite:
Introduction; what can I do for you; let’s take a look; this will sting a bit (it did) ; you’ll feel a little pressure (I did); you say it still hurts; it’s almost out…can you stand it; it’s out; you did great; keep this gauze in for at least 30 minutes, however with the aspirin you’ve been taking I think it may take a few hours to stop (it did) ; take the pain med right away (I did); if you have any problems give us a call (wonder how long I should wait).
Except for the phantom tooth discomfort, the swelled gums and bouts of sporadic, intense pain...thanfully dulled by a medical wonder called Lortab 5…which have served to keep me from my writing…I reckon it was a successful morning’s adventure. At least until the next episode in the Tale of the Tooth that requires a return visit.
The joys of no health insurance in modern day America from the mundane depths of the foothills of lower Podunk, SC.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
I Die Again
Sonnet XCIV
If I die, survive me with such sheer force
that you waken the furies of the pallid and the cold,
from south to south lift your indelible eyes,
from sun to sun dream through your singing mouth.
I don't want your laughter or your steps to waver.
I don't want my heritage of joy to die.
Don't call up my person. I am absent.
Live in my absence as if in a house.
Absence is a house so vast
that inside you will pass through its walls
and hang pictures on the air.
Absence is a house so transparent
That I, lifeless, will see you living;
and if you suffer, my love, I will die again.
Pablo Neruda
"Absence is a house so transparent
That I, lifeless will see you, living,
and if you suffer, my love, I will die again."
February 10, 2005:
My friend, April, posted this poem today. The above stanza hit me like a ton of bricks and I hear Jim’s basso voce’ as I read the words.
The only way I know how to do this is get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other. Some days I'm slogging through mud with an anvil on my back. But, at a bit over 2 1/2 years into this most days the load is much lighter.
I will not let death defeat the love my husband and I shared if I have to grit my teeth till my gums bleed.....our love is stronger than his death....his life means more than his leaving me behind....I will do this or die trying.
I'll be truthful and admit that I have most unexpectedly and surprisingly found love again...yet, it does not take away the pain of losing my Jim....that will be with me forever. However, I WILL rise and I will stand in the sunlight, see the rainbow, watch the moon and stars and appreciate the gift because he needs me to and I will honor that need because I will always love him.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005:
I had not yet had my second phoenix moment when writing that piece. Still dragging a foot in the past, Jim died again each day that brought me tears. How it must have hurt him to see me still have those days where the breath caught in my throat as I sobbed seeking to ease the pain. And, how fair was it to the man who now shares my life and all but that tiny piece of my heart reserved for what was.
My Handyman brings a joy, light and sweetness to life that I thought would never be again. As an also widowed soul he understands the luggage we carry into this relationship. Yet, as a man who processes things in a different manner, it must have challenged him to figure out what to do with the yet grieving side of me.
They will forever be a part of who we are…we bring their lives into ours. And, while sharing the sadness is difficult…sharing the life is easy. We speak of our spouses, our lives and raising our children. We shared the challenges of being parents and the balancing act required in providing a living. I see in his eyes and hear in his words the woman who shared his life for nearly as many as Jim shared mine.
Terry is never a ghost nor an adversary. I feel no jealousy in listening to him talk about his former life. It gives me a more rounded view of who he is that he is comfortable talking about her. Knowing how he loved her gives me peace in accepting that he loves me as well.
In thinking about that, I had realized for a time that I owed him more than he was getting in our partnership. While the past colors who I am, it should not overshadow who WE are.
It may sound crazy, but in order to let Jim LIVE as the spirit he should be I had to finally let him die one final time. He and our love for each other are precious threads in the tapestry that is my life.
If I die, survive me with such sheer force
that you waken the furies of the pallid and the cold,
from south to south lift your indelible eyes,
from sun to sun dream through your singing mouth.
I don't want your laughter or your steps to waver.
I don't want my heritage of joy to die.
Don't call up my person. I am absent.
Live in my absence as if in a house.
Absence is a house so vast
that inside you will pass through its walls
and hang pictures on the air.
Absence is a house so transparent
That I, lifeless, will see you living;
and if you suffer, my love, I will die again.
Pablo Neruda
"Absence is a house so transparent
That I, lifeless will see you, living,
and if you suffer, my love, I will die again."
February 10, 2005:
My friend, April, posted this poem today. The above stanza hit me like a ton of bricks and I hear Jim’s basso voce’ as I read the words.
The only way I know how to do this is get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other. Some days I'm slogging through mud with an anvil on my back. But, at a bit over 2 1/2 years into this most days the load is much lighter.
I will not let death defeat the love my husband and I shared if I have to grit my teeth till my gums bleed.....our love is stronger than his death....his life means more than his leaving me behind....I will do this or die trying.
I'll be truthful and admit that I have most unexpectedly and surprisingly found love again...yet, it does not take away the pain of losing my Jim....that will be with me forever. However, I WILL rise and I will stand in the sunlight, see the rainbow, watch the moon and stars and appreciate the gift because he needs me to and I will honor that need because I will always love him.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005:
I had not yet had my second phoenix moment when writing that piece. Still dragging a foot in the past, Jim died again each day that brought me tears. How it must have hurt him to see me still have those days where the breath caught in my throat as I sobbed seeking to ease the pain. And, how fair was it to the man who now shares my life and all but that tiny piece of my heart reserved for what was.
My Handyman brings a joy, light and sweetness to life that I thought would never be again. As an also widowed soul he understands the luggage we carry into this relationship. Yet, as a man who processes things in a different manner, it must have challenged him to figure out what to do with the yet grieving side of me.
They will forever be a part of who we are…we bring their lives into ours. And, while sharing the sadness is difficult…sharing the life is easy. We speak of our spouses, our lives and raising our children. We shared the challenges of being parents and the balancing act required in providing a living. I see in his eyes and hear in his words the woman who shared his life for nearly as many as Jim shared mine.
Terry is never a ghost nor an adversary. I feel no jealousy in listening to him talk about his former life. It gives me a more rounded view of who he is that he is comfortable talking about her. Knowing how he loved her gives me peace in accepting that he loves me as well.
In thinking about that, I had realized for a time that I owed him more than he was getting in our partnership. While the past colors who I am, it should not overshadow who WE are.
It may sound crazy, but in order to let Jim LIVE as the spirit he should be I had to finally let him die one final time. He and our love for each other are precious threads in the tapestry that is my life.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Daddy Let Me Drive
It's just an old worn out jeep
With rusty ole floor boards
Hot on my feet
A young girl, two hands on the wheel
I can't replace the way it made me feel
And he'd say, turn it left now, and steer it right
Straighten up girl now, you're doin' just fine.
Just a lil' valley by the river where we'd ride
But I was high on a mountain,
When daddy let me drive
Daddy let me drive
Oh, he let me drive
(Drive by Alan Jackson)
Teaching our daughter to drive was not my forte’. Acknowledging my ineptness, I passed the buck to Jim. Patient to a fault and having just finished a professional driving course through BellSouth he took her out to an abandoned airfield one rainy Saturday and put her through every grueling maneuver. 8 hours later my two adventurers returned home tired, hungry and happy.
Her daddy taught her to drive in a rusty little old Toyota $500 pickup truck that had resided at the bottom of a local farm pond for over a year.
It took her 4 tries to get that darn license and the girl still can’t back up straight. Inheriting her dad’s lead foot she received the first of many speeding tickets over her driving career less than 30 days later half a block from the high school.
“Rustie” was destined to be resurrected.
After draining out all the water and mud that little 30-R engine was run through with kerosene, hooked up to a battery and tank of gas and she fired up first turn of the key. The hood was black primer, one fender was grey and the rest of the body was dotted with rust from head to toe. The floor board became so holey Jim had to weld in a new one. (I remember getting wet feet when it would rain.) But, she ran like a charm.
Tune-ups and oil changes were a waste of time and money as she didn’t like them being done. Rascally truck would run rotten until she readjusted everything just the way she liked it...slightly off center…the dirtier the engine and the cheaper the gas the better she ran.
The manifold was haunted. Jim would repair or tape up the hole with heat resistant tape repeatedly only to find within days that it had reappeared. Towards the end of Rustie’s life you could hear her coming half a mile away.
When she died 10 years later on a highway in southern Louisiana…the rear axle literally rusted off…she had over 500 thousand miles on her. Half a day on the side of the road, Jim pulled that 30-R, hauled it home to SC, gave it to his mechanic brother and it lived another few years in a another little old rusted pickup truck driven by a niece.
After 3 years, my daughter cannot yet hear that song without thinking of Jim, driving lessons and that rusty old truck with tears in her eyes.
She is her father’s daughter…she still drives too fast.
With rusty ole floor boards
Hot on my feet
A young girl, two hands on the wheel
I can't replace the way it made me feel
And he'd say, turn it left now, and steer it right
Straighten up girl now, you're doin' just fine.
Just a lil' valley by the river where we'd ride
But I was high on a mountain,
When daddy let me drive
Daddy let me drive
Oh, he let me drive
(Drive by Alan Jackson)
Teaching our daughter to drive was not my forte’. Acknowledging my ineptness, I passed the buck to Jim. Patient to a fault and having just finished a professional driving course through BellSouth he took her out to an abandoned airfield one rainy Saturday and put her through every grueling maneuver. 8 hours later my two adventurers returned home tired, hungry and happy.
Her daddy taught her to drive in a rusty little old Toyota $500 pickup truck that had resided at the bottom of a local farm pond for over a year.
It took her 4 tries to get that darn license and the girl still can’t back up straight. Inheriting her dad’s lead foot she received the first of many speeding tickets over her driving career less than 30 days later half a block from the high school.
“Rustie” was destined to be resurrected.
After draining out all the water and mud that little 30-R engine was run through with kerosene, hooked up to a battery and tank of gas and she fired up first turn of the key. The hood was black primer, one fender was grey and the rest of the body was dotted with rust from head to toe. The floor board became so holey Jim had to weld in a new one. (I remember getting wet feet when it would rain.) But, she ran like a charm.
Tune-ups and oil changes were a waste of time and money as she didn’t like them being done. Rascally truck would run rotten until she readjusted everything just the way she liked it...slightly off center…the dirtier the engine and the cheaper the gas the better she ran.
The manifold was haunted. Jim would repair or tape up the hole with heat resistant tape repeatedly only to find within days that it had reappeared. Towards the end of Rustie’s life you could hear her coming half a mile away.
When she died 10 years later on a highway in southern Louisiana…the rear axle literally rusted off…she had over 500 thousand miles on her. Half a day on the side of the road, Jim pulled that 30-R, hauled it home to SC, gave it to his mechanic brother and it lived another few years in a another little old rusted pickup truck driven by a niece.
After 3 years, my daughter cannot yet hear that song without thinking of Jim, driving lessons and that rusty old truck with tears in her eyes.
She is her father’s daughter…she still drives too fast.
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