Thanks to Those Who Have Mothered Me

I have been luckier than many.  I've had four women in my life who have "mothered" me -- given me love and advice, taught me lessons, shown me patience and paved the way for me to become a mother, too.  These women--my mother and the mothers-in-law of two marriages and the older sister who took me under her wing--have given much and made such an impact on my life.

Mama

The mother who bore me gave me her feisty spirit as she pushed and pulled me through childhood.  She knew tough love before they wrote the book. Her intelligence was a beacon and her tireless care a gift for my siblings and me.  The tales of her leaving home and family in Atlanta as a young woman to find work and an independent life in southwest Georgia were part of family lore.  She loved her parents and brothers, but valued her freedom and the possibilities for a career.  She met and married our father.  Their partnership was an example to us all.  Not bound by the "traditional" roles for husband and wife of their era, they were true partners, each strong-willed and outspoken.

She went back to work when I was in elementary school, but there was no sense that we were "latchkey" kids as our father went to work early each day and was home in the afternoons when we came home from school.  Mama was an accomplished cook of southern staples, but counted on Daddy to grill often enough so that we learned our cooking from both of them.  They shared duties around the house and were wise enough to engage we three kids in chores as soon as we were capable of helping out.  For some years, my father's father lived with us, his later life folding seamlessly into our younger ones.  Somehow everybody was fed and clothed, taught to enjoy fun and humor, as well as responsibility.  Looking back, Mama and Daddy's teamwork made it all seem simple when it's clear today that money was tight and our middle-class life didn't happen without struggle.

The mothers-in-law that have enriched my adult life were from my Mama's generation and brought many of the strengths of their time.  These women had experienced the deprivations of the Great Depression and the sacrifices of World War II.  None of them had the advantage of a college education and all had worked to help support their families.  All of them put family first and encouraged their children to value education and a strong work ethic.  My mothers-in-law welcomed me into their homes on the arms of their sons, extending themselves to make me feel welcome and part of the family.  Both became friends to my mother and, interestingly, both became friends with each other.  Long past the end of the first marriage in divorce, my first mother-in-law continued to share her affection with me.

Pat

The fourth mother of my life is my sister, Pat.  Five-and-a-half years old when I was born, she has always been my champion.  She taught me "the ropes" in childhood, motivated me with her grit and determination through my growing up years and has inspired me as a woman.  Always a leader, she shined a light on a path that I have attempted to follow.  It has been an important incentive for me to live up to her example.  She has always made me proud.

In fairness to my four "mothers," I have not been as easy as I might have been to mother.  Whether by genetics or just my own native orneriness, I have challenged them all one way or another.  I have, in fact, resisted all forms of maternal control and admittedly deserve to be seen as the proverbial "ungrateful child" at times.

So on this Mother's Day, I owe them all my gratitude.  Thinking about what they have given me humbles me.  There are lots of schmaltzy greeting card sentiments about mothers that are available in stores.  None of those seem to say enough.  It is not the perfection of a woman that makes her a good mother, but the striving for the best for another.  There is, I think, in that striving, an honest effort to see in one's child his or her particular strengths and needs and guide the child accordingly.  There are no manuals that cover all the particulars of parenting, but I feel lucky that these women and others I've watched and admired, have made their own discoveries, drawn their own maps and given their kids a chance to live happily and successfully.  

So thanks to Mama and to Margaret and to Willie Mae and my dear Pat.  Whatever I am, the brush strokes you've added to the picture of me are the ones that make me better.

Unforgettable Stella

            

We came to remember a beloved wife, mother, grandmother and friend, our Stella.  We gathered together on a rainy Sunday afternoon with the fog hanging so low that it obscured the treetops and enveloped the roadways in a soft gray blanket.  But within the warmth of our gathering there was light and, amidst the tears, joy.

            We watched the video of photographs and music lovingly assembled by her granddaughter.  For some who had known her only in recent years when her hair had grayed there was surprise when they saw the younger Stella with that abundant dark curly hair that was envied by many.  For those who knew her better back then, but had not seen her in recent years, there was recognition that she had changed as we all do with aging, but joy that her smile was as big and happy as ever.

            For all of us there were oohs and aahs over the baby pictures we had not seen and the high school beauty we had not known.  There were so many photos that included some of us, laughing together as we did so often.  There were the pictures of Stella dressed for costume parties, showing off her creativity and her sense of humor.  There were photos full of the love and pride she felt for her family.

            As those gathered remembered her, there were tears and laughter in almost equal measure.  We wept for our loss of this indomitable soul of fun, this tiny embodiment of love and life.  We laughed as we thought about our times together.  For someone who was small enough even as an adult to squeeze into a child-size chair, she created a big presence wherever she went.  Stories were told and her abundant spirit was very much alive in the room.

            The conversation flowed among those who had known her for more than forty years and those who knew her for just a short while.  "Do you remember when she...?"  "I will never forget the way she..."  "She made me feel so welcome, she made me laugh, she was so feisty and so sweet, she had a way, I knew we would be friends..."  These were the words of remembrance, the legacy of a woman who made a difference in the lives of all who knew her.

            And as we remembered, we drew closer to one another.  We embraced those we had known for years and reached out to those not met until love for her brought us together on that rainy day.  We ached to hug her and in lieu of that, we hugged each other.  We comforted one another as she would have comforted us.  Her spirit was not just with us, but it moved us to find solace in each other.           

 Our memories of Stella will be both poignant and powerful.  Already they flood in as something reminds me of her.  An old song brings back my friend, as will a silly joke, a glass of wine, a pair of earrings, an old shirt and a thousand other memory triggers.  The memories of our friendship are in my mind as sights and sounds and feelings like the squares of outgrown clothes my mother used to sew into the patterns of old-fashioned quilts.  And as the quilts warmed cold nights, these memories will fill the empty space Stella leaves in our lives.  She will be with me and part of me from now on and I will both yearn to have another hug or laugh and be grateful for all those we shared.

            Rest in peace, beloved unforgettable Stella.

Five Things My Father Taught Me

           

It is said that actions speak louder than words.  That always reminds me of my father.  He was a thinker and a talker, but more importantly he saw things that needed doing and got them done.  While I remember many things he said to me, I remember more importantly the lessons learned by watching how he lived his life.

1.     Family Matters.  We are born into families that nurture and sustain us and we create families which we are responsible to nurture and sustain.  These ties of blood and commitment demand much of us and give much in return.  They are ours to foster, ours in which to find ourselves, make mistakes within and in which we will forgive trespasses and debts accrued.  We owe our family  honesty which might cause us to argue among ourselves.   Honest disagreement is healthy.  We will, however, defend one another against any pain and suffering to the best of our ability.  I saw all those tenets played out as I watched my father interact with both his family and my mother's family.  He spoke his mind in all cases, whether it was comfortable for others or not.  They all also knew that he would open our home to them with warmth and give them the proverbial "shirt off his back" in support of them when needed.

2.     True Friends are Extended Family.  Daddy grew up as an only child, thus appreciated the value of friendships.  We kids heard stories about friends throughout his life with whom he shared adventures as well as the simple pleasures of debate when they were serious and partying when they were having fun.  Some of my earliest memories are those in which I saw my parents playing canasta with friends or heard my father talking with visiting friends late into the night.  He was a friend of many years with the principal of my elementary school, too.  That was a relationship that probably kept me out of trouble as I knew any transgression on my part during the school day would be communicated to Daddy quickly.

3.    Our Community is Our Responsibility.  If something needed to be done, Daddy didn't wait for someone else to volunteer. He often worked nights, so he had days free.  I know he slept, but in retrospect I'm not sure when he had time.  He volunteered with first the Cub Scouts and then the Boy Scouts from the time my brother became a scout till long after my brother was grown and out of the house.  Scouting was a passion of Daddy's.  He loved the outdoors and liked introducing kids to it.  As he did with his own kids, he did with the scouts.  Late in his life, Daddy volunteered with a scout troop of special needs kids, an experience that touched him deeply.  He was a also mainstay of the PTA's in our schools, loved running the fundraisers, cooking the hamburgers and hot dogs on a grill and playing host.  That was just an extension of neighborhood gatherings that were a part of our lives back then.

4.    We are Our Brother's Keepers.  Daddy was only partially a product of his time. Born into the segregated South early in the 20th century, Daddy believed in "separate but equal" but had no tolerance for the idea that any human was less than another. He occasionally  took the initiative to speak quietly on behalf of those whose voices were not being heard, intervening when he could offer a solution that would make a difference.  For a man with a sometimes bombastic personality, he worked on behalf of others without fanfare.  He did not claim to be an perfect man, nor was he.  He just did what needed to be done.  We were far from wealthy, but he could always find a few dollars for someone who needed it more than we did. 

5.     Life Itself is a Gift.  Daddy was not a religious man, but had a certainty in his unique beliefs that was deep and thoughtful.  Illness made him leave college after only a few months, but he educated himself throughout his life.  He read widely and loved history, geography and philosophy.  He was fascinated with "what makes us tick," from how our minds work to what natural remedies might "heal what ails us." My impression is that all those interests fueled a sense that he belonged uniquely in this world created by what he referred to as "our Maker," that he was living a life of discovery, not so much to explore the broader world, but to examine the world within his reach with curiosity and reverence.  He seemed always to be searching, reaching for that next sight or sound or breeze that comes to remind us that we are alive and it is good.  Behind those very blue eyes was a being in touch with his world.

            On this Father's Day in 2015, I appreciate my great good fortune in the father to whom I was born, who nurtured and sustained me for the years he was given on this earth.  He was honest enough to understand his own shortcomings, but played to his strengths most often.  He encouraged his children to be true to ourselves and strive to make that truth positive and meaningful in whatever ways we could.  As we celebrate this day I am thankful for my husband who is a father to our son, for all those I know to be loving fathers -- and I remember Daddy.  I am inspired anew by all of them to celebrate the good in all of us. 

At the Top of the Hickory Nut Gorge

              

               Follow US 74A from Lake Lure up through Chimney Rock and Bat Cave as it climbs its winding way until you come to the upper end of the Hickory Nut Gorge.  You'll find yourself in Gerton, an unincorporated community that traces its roots as deeply into North Carolina's history as some of the oldest trails that thread through these mountains.

               Here there are hardy citizens whose families have lived in this spot for centuries.  Here, too, are newer folks who came into these wooded hills to find the peace of nature only to find that its beauty captivated them and they couldn't leave it behind.   Some live here just part-time, when they can get away from other places where they have found work, places where most of the residents walk upright on two legs and don't know a hemlock from an oak.  But here is where those lucky city folks really live, coming fully to life here amid the tall trees and steep slopes, here where that sound outside isn't the newspaper boy, but just might be a raccoon or a fox or even a bear.

               It would be easy to treat US 74A just as a way from Lake Lure to Asheville.  It's a pretty drive, though its hairpin turns are not for the queasy.  But it's worth taking your time to savor both the roadside points of interest visible from the highway and the special places that you'll find by wandering down some of the side roads.

            

The "Welcome to Gerton" signs going toward Asheville are followed in short order by the Post Office on the right and a fire station on the left.  Though unincorporated, Gerton has its signs of order and civilization.

               

                       In no particular order, you might want to stop to take a photograph of the Bearwallow Baptist Church.  It's a picture postcard opportunity, this little white clapboard church with a wooden bridge across a rill in the front yard.  If you check out their Facebook page before going, you'll see their slogan, "Searching for Souls since 1868," prominently displayed.  There's history here for sure.

               
              Just up the road is "Hillbilly Sam's" place.  It has the look of the backwoods about it though it sits immediately adjacent to the highway.  Sam's sign says that photos are possible; we've heard small fee for the pleasure might be appreciated.  Sam, who is most often shirtless, clothed only in his jeans and a prodigious beard, was not in sight on our last trip, so no hillbilly photos for us.

              

            The Upper Hickory Nut Gorge Community Center building once held a small store that we visited years ago.  Though the store is gone now, the center remains.  A sign at the door says it was home to the first Adopt-a-Highway program in North Carolina as designated by Governor Jim Martin in 1988.

              

               On up the road a way (just were you leave Henderson County and enter Buncombe County) is the marker for the Eastern Continental Divide.  It marks the height here as 2,880 feet at the crest before the highway descends on the other side of the ridge toward Fairview, Reynolds and Asheville.  The Eastern Continental Divide is an invisible line separating the two watersheds of the Atlantic Ocean, one whose rivers flow over 2000 miles to the Gulf of Mexico and the other whose rivers flow about 300 miles toward the Atlantic Seaboard.  You can see other such markers through these mountains, each marking the height at its particular location.

               Now, back to those side roads.  You can take Bearwallow Mountain Road and follow it over the mountain to end up on US 64 between Bat Cave and Hendersonville.  Parts of this road are unpaved, leading to a hiking trail that will take walkers up to the summit.  The pavement picks up there for a beautiful drive past both bucolic scenery and a very high-end development with those coveted mountain vistas seen for miles around.

              

              Our favorite side road thus far is Bearwallow Cemetery Road.  Up the road a short distance we found the cemetery of Bearwallow Baptist Church.  Rising above and around the grave markers are trees that reach for the heavens and create a natural cathedral vault.  Though you can hear the sound of cars on the highway nearby, that noise is muffled and peace settles over the hillside as you step into this resting place.

              

As with such cemeteries the world over, history is written in the family names on the tombstones, each marker telling a story of its own, however simple.  There are stories of love and loss, touching memorials to marriages and births followed too quickly by deaths.  There are stories of service and sacrifice, including those who served in the American Revolution, the U.S. Civil War and World Wars I and II.  Whatever their battles in life, now they find only peace here.

               This is a place of remembrance, lovingly kept, its grasses mowed, stone walls gently bringing order to the ground in which loved ones have been laid.   It tells the history of this place and its people. including those who have farmed, fished and hunted in these mountains from the birth of our country till today.  It seemed to us the soul of this place lies here at the top of the Hickory Nut Gorge.

           Photos by Mike  Lumpkin    

Becoming Myself

          

"It's not the years, it's the mileage." --  Indiana Jones

           

So the latest birthday behind me, candles extinguished, love shared with friends and family and now I'm 68 years old.  It's a number that would have horrified me when I was younger, but one of my discoveries through these decades is that it is just a number.  Sure, I've entered what some call the "Golden Years," but our friend Ackie calls the "Medical Years."  Yep, there's a touch of arthritis, the "heartbreak of psoriasis" (as the TV commercials used to call it) and other assorted anomalies of the body.  That said, I wouldn't be any other age than the one to which I wake up each morning.

            [As a quick aside, I need to put this blogging thing in some perspective.  I don't write out of a sense that I have any particular wisdom to offer, but just because I've always been verbal and enjoy writing a lot.  I share the blog because any writer likes to be published in some form.  There's a lot of other writing I do that doesn't fit this venue, but maybe someday I'll do something with that, too.]

            Now back to this aging thing.  I like the age I am as well as any that has gone before.  It seems wise to do so since there is really no alternative, but I've never spent a great deal of time wishing for the past.  If I could have more time with loved ones who are no longer here, I would absolutely want to do that.  I certainly would ask them many more questions about their lives and I would take notes to remember.  Having no chance of that, I cherish the memories and realize how lucky I have been to know and love those who have been part of my life.

            The mileage has been instructive, sometimes fun and joyful, sometimes sad and disturbing.  I have learned from all of it, sometimes forgotten lessons that had to be relearned, but always have been affected by the experience.  I've learned enough to know I'll be learning all my life and that makes me happy because curiosity has driven my life's journey.

            Thanks to my parents Billy and Frances for giving me the gift of reading.  Books have taken me all over the world and into times before I was born and a future we can only imagine.  Authors have inspired me to try new places, not to fear taking chances and, of course, they inspired me to express myself with the words I learned to love so young.

            My sister Pat, about whom I've written many times, set the odometer of my life turning when she allowed me to accompany her on her own teenage adventures.  She taught me to drive in the sand dunes and state parks around Albany, Georgia where we grew up.  She neglected to share with Mama and Daddy the story of how I got the 1948 Chevy stuck in the sand and we had to get help to get it out.  She prevaricated when Daddy wanted to know how the car's bumper got dented, avoiding telling him that I drove into a pine tree at Chehaw State Park. I suspect he wondered how I learned how to drive without his help, but he agreed to take me to the Driver's License Bureau when I turned 16 with one caveat.  Though he had never ridden in the car with me driving, he said that if I could get him there without incident, he would support my getting the license.  I did and he did. 

            Not every part of the journey has been smooth sailing.  I made misjudgments, as most of us do.  Luckily those cost me less than I gained.  A first marriage that went awry gave me the gift of a cherished son. The second marriage gave me a husband who has loved me and forgiven my foibles for more than three decades while loving our son and parenting him with love and guidance.  Some choices that seem so right prove to be wrong.  Sometimes that which seems a devastating loss turns out to be a lesson that heals and nurtures. 

            There are days when my curiosity and thirst for life create anxiety.  I don't want to miss anything.  I can never seem to get enough traveling done to soothe my wanderlust.  Other days I find the comfort of home so appealing that I can't imagine leaving for even a short while.  But this, I believe, is life, that seesaw between desires yet unmet and the satisfaction of having found serenity in one's nest.

            I have few regrets.  None of them has to do with what I've missed.  The only things I rue are the times I let someone down.  Some of those probably happened without my realizing another's disappointment.  I'm convinced that the true gift of experience and aging for me is this awareness that I have had -- and I continue to enjoy -- a life in which I'm learning every day.  How can I regret a moment when the joys so far outweigh the sorrows?  I cannot.

            So I celebrate becoming 68.  The number is insignificant.  The journey that brought me here is what I cherish.   I look forward to whatever lies ahead and plan to embrace each day as it comes. 

Photo by Mike Lumpkin

Recipes and Memories

              

So I decided it was time to clean out my recipe box.  The way I figured this out was I realized for the umpteenth time that I could not only not put any additional recipes in it, but it was so full that I couldn't get any recipes out of it without extreme effort.  And with that decision, I opened the box and the memories flowed out of it.

               This lovely wooden box with its hand-tooled leather top was a wedding gift from our friend, Stella, almost 32 years ago.  It has decorated our kitchens through the decades since, slowly filling up along the way.  We enjoy using it because it reminds us of a dear friend whom we love and of the place where she bought it, a wonderful shop in Chattanooga, TN, called Plum Nelly.

               The Plum Nelly shop took its name from a "clothes line" arts and crafts festival that took place for 26 years on the back side of Lookout Mountain at a place that was "plumb out of Tennessee and nearly out of Georgia."  The name lives on, evoking a time and place where creativity came alive.

              

The woman who began that festival was named Fannie Mennen. Fannie was an artist of great talent, working for many years in block printing.  The Chattanooga shop delivered a couple of other wedding gifts to Mike and me that we cherish.  There are two pillows displaying Fannie's block prints on fabric, attached trapunto-style to the pillow covers.  There is also a beautiful wall hanging of lilies. Her gifts grace our home all these years later, long after her death.  I am sure that many other folks still treasure the works of Fannie Mennen.

               The shop in Chattanooga was begun by Fannie's sister, Celia Mennen Marks, a longtime food columnist for the Chattanooga Times.  Celia, who passed away in 2005,  had an eye for arts and crafts and stocked the shop in Chattanooga with an array of items that was as much fun to browse as to own.  She favored the work of artists who were members of the Southern Highland Crafts guild, but found pieces from as far afield as Texas. The Plum Nelly shop is still in Chattanooga, now with different owners.  We proudly display in our china cabinet the dinnerware set begun there, what our son calls the "good pottery" from  the Texas clay artist, Michael Obranovich. You can see Michael's current work at http://www.obranovichpottery.com. 

              

But back to the recipe box and the memories inside it.  As I cleaned through its collection of recipes, both those used and those considered but never tried, it was a trip through time.  Alongside the items snipped from magazines or scavenged from cookbooks were the recipes given to us by family and friends, including a couple that have become family favorites passed on to an ever-wider circle of friends as we shared the dishes with others.

               There's "Miss Marcia's Quiche" recipe.  This has become one of Mike's favorites.  He has found a myriad of twists on the basic ground beef recipe that was originally given to me by our friend Marcia Kling with whom we worked at WTVC in Chattanooga.  After 50 years on the air in many roles, Marcia retired recently, an icon to generations of Chattanoogans.  She remains one of the people I consider influential in my life, a mentor and friend, a model of grace and goodness.  Her quiche recipe delights many folks she hasn't met, but we faithfully give her credit.

              

There's a little piece of paper in the box that holds the hand-written recipe for Mike's mother's chocolate cake, his favorite.  The secret to this one is the frosting with sugar as its preponderant ingredient.  This recipe was apparently one passed down by Mike's paternal grandmother who was famous for the frosting and its more liquid equivalent that is still revered as "chocolate syrup," served by multiple generations of mothers on biscuits and pancakes.  For chocolate lovers it puts maple syrup to shame.

               There's my own mother's recipe for cheese straws, a simple mix of butter, flour and Kraft Old English cheese that came in five-ounce glass jars.  I'm not sure how easy this cheese (actually a cheese "spread," which is code for processed) would be to find today.  Despite my having become a bit of a cheese snob in my adult years and an enjoyer of fancy cheese straws from various bakeries across the South, I have never had any that tasted more special than Mama's.  She had a knack for getting just the right amount of red pepper in them.  Her recipe calls for "red pepper to taste," but there's where the magic comes in.  Her sense of taste rested on the perfect edge between just enough and not too much.

              

Another treasured and much-shared recipe in the box is one for Corn Casserole, still used on the original recipe card from Linda Eller, a co-worker at WFAA-TV in Dallas.  She brought this sinfully yummy dish to a potluck luncheon in the Channel 8 Promotion Department, circa 1983.  It is a bit like corn pudding, but thicker with its added touch of Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix.  We've served it many, many times over the years, distributed the recipe and been told by more than one friend that it became a  Thanksgiving dinner tradition at their table.  Thank you, Linda.  You started something that has taken on a life of its own.  [The recipe is available at the Jiffy website.]

               Thumbing through the box further, I found several of those recipes passed along by moms and aunts that remind us that the "Greatest Generation" also lived through the Great Depression.  We, their children, grew up on meals that might have been light on the meats that were too expensive to feed several kids, but were heavy on the starches that would fill our little bellies.  There were one-dish meals with a pound of ground beef and three cups of rice with home-grown tomatoes, onions and peppers to spice them up. 

              

There were also, it seemed, dozens of variations on Jell-O salads.  Many of these recipes came through church cookbooks and included a wide array of ingredients added to the requisite fruit cocktail.  These "unique" additions to Jell-O included the much-loved Cool Whip enhanced variously by nuts of every stripe, cereals and even pretzels.  I think there were probably contests to see who could come up with the most outlandish yet edible combination.  The "J" section in my recipe box contains none of these.  I ate enough Jell-O as a child to last my whole life without ever having more.

               Truth is, the recipe box is a tribute to those Great Depression survivors.  They learned as children that food is, in fact, love.  After their generation, most of those who followed have not known the widespread hunger that left so many vowing never to know that feeling again.  We not only have more food available, but more varieties of food are shipped from near and far.  Meals that would have taken our mothers hours to prepare could be quickly readied in a microwave or even made in a slow-cooker while we were off to work outside the home. 

               Despite the fact that I don't spend the time in the kitchen that my mother did, I relish the memories of the dishes she cooked and the recipes she left me.  We memorialized even more of her dishes in a family recipe book that my sister and I put together for Mama's 80th birthday almost 20 years ago.  Like the recipe box, that little spiral-bound book is filled with love and memories of good times gathered around the dinner table.  I am grateful for the recipes, but even more for the memories.

Photos by Mike Lumpkin

              

               

Poetic License

            The trees in the photo above immediately brought to mind the words of poet Joyce Kilmer, first published in 1914, still ringing in my memory.  In the simplest of words, he captured a thought that would  last long beyond his death at such a young age, fallen to a sniper's bullet in World War I when he was just 31 years old.

"I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree."

            As I've reflected on the death of Maya Angelou in recent days, I've been reminded how much poetry enriches our lives.  It's an art form that some find off-putting, much as some find Shakespeare's plays troubling.  Poetry, like Shakespeare, makes us think.  That's not an activity we always come to with enthusiasm in today's hurry-up, get-it-done, ASAP world.

            Angelou's words do make us think.  But even as they are provocative, they are beautiful, singing with the rhythms of her struggles and her victories.  In "Still I Rise," she wrote:

" Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide."

            Poets tell stories with words that paint pictures, words that evoke feelings and stir us to follow them in their thoughts.  As I read Angelou's words, I think of the poems that have been part of my life, from childhood to today, from the simplest verses that spoke to me of things seen, but not yet understood, to the more complex stanzas that urged me to interpret experiences that I've not had and may never know except through the words of others.

            The first poem I can remember hearing and memorizing was a child's prayer. 

"Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take."

            This prayer, recited nightly as we were going to bed,  was comforting initially, not because I knew what it meant, but because its cadence was soothing.  As I grew up, I began to reflect on its somewhat morbid tone. 

            In conversation with friends, I found that others had found this a frightening prayer.  The specter of death was not a comfort to them.  My early lack of fear was, I think, engendered by the fact that we were taught to end the poem with asking for blessings on our family.  We learned to extend the list of those blessed to include little-known relatives and pets, alive and dead, thus attempting to delay bedtime.  When I researched the words later in life, I found only vague references to its origin in the 18th century.  Some say it was written by Joseph Addison and first appeared in 1711 in The Spectator.

            Another childhood poem comes to mind whenever I lift my eyes to the night sky.  It is yet another perfect connection between rhyme and meter that will stick in our minds forever after just one or two recitations.   The origin of its words reputedly come from an Englishwoman, Jane Taylor, who published it with other nursery rhymes in 1806.  The music it has been set to is attributed to Mozart as an adaptation from an old French tune.

"Twinkle, twinkle little star

How I wonder what you are."

            My father, a man who was born and lived all but a very few years of life in Georgia, loved his state and its most famous poet, Sidney Lanier.  Thus I heard Lanier's "Song of the Chattahoochee" many times through my young life and can even now recite its first few lines.  Aptly named a "song," it still speaks to me as a soaring tribute to the river for which it is named and the path of that river from Georgia's mountains to the sea.

"Out of the hills of Habersham,

Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall."

            I was thrilled when I was given a small volume of poetry in high school to find Lanier's "Song" there along with other famous poems.  I was moved again to remember its words when we became part-time residents of Lake Lure and, while roaming the countryside in Western North Carolina, came across a roadside plaque marking the home near Tryon where Sidney Lanier died.

            Poetry often drives the songs that we sing for decades, remembering words and verses when we can't even remember personal information that would be useful to keep in mind.  The strength of rhymes and poetry, according to those who have studied this more than I, is the combination of rhythm and imagery that simplifies information by putting thoughts together in a form we can recite and thus remember. 

           

            One of my all-time favorites is the Eagles' "Desperado," its haunting lyrics certainly aided by  an equally touching melody, but its words are among those I can never forget, such as the stanzas that say:

"Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger
Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home
And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin'
Your prison is walking through this world all alone.

Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?
The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine
It's hard to tell the night time from the day
You're losin' all your highs and lows
Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?"

            Written by Glenn Frey and Don Henley, the song is said to have been about the trials and tribulations of being an artist, but the word pictures drawn in song always evoked in me the sense that it was a cowboy's lament.  Its words captured a solitary life that was meant to be free, but was instead achingly lonely.

            Angelou's passing encourages me to  seek anew the words of poets, those who find the way to touch my heart and move my mind as Maya Angelou touched and moved so many with her honesty and her passion.  Perhaps even a few well-crafted lines each day are the best medicine we can find to slow the frenetic pace that technology allows and fill the tiny spaces that we allow ourselves for reflection.  As written long ago, there should be "A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance..." and perhaps a time to breathe in beautiful, lyrical words that touch our souls and linger in our dreams.