Feeling Frank's Loss by Richard Warren

I found Frank to be a very open individual with a warm and dry humor. He was always trying to “gig” others whom he liked and loved being gigged back in return. I thought of him as a combination of imp, leprechaun, and elf with a little gremlin thrown in.

He was always ready, willing and able to offer and give me help and advice. He was a very devoted son to his 89 year old mother, Mamie. My wife, Yvette, and I worked with Mamie this year in planting a vegetable garden on her property. Frank and Frank’s son were always available to till soil with their tractor, when requested.

I last spoke to Frank 2 days ago. I was in his mother’s back yard picking field peas. He had come over to check on her, but she was off getting physical therapy. He drove out to the field in his ‘rice burner car’ and asked me if the battery in my truck was really good. I said that it was, and he replied the he figured it was since I had left my lights on (a classic Frank style gig). We then talked about the grapes in the yard, and he commented that this was going to be a very good year for the grapes. Frank certainly loved the outdoors, the mountains, and active involvement in as many things as possible.

We then talked about corn shocks for the Autumn Gold Festival. I volunteered to make the shocks using the corn stalks in his mother’s garden but had not found the proper twine yet. He immediately volunteered that he had twine at home, and that I should drop by and pick it up. While in the garden, I also harvested carrots.

I washed the carrots last night, and I picked some nice ones for Mamie. Ironically, I was at her house earlier this afternoon to give them to her when ambulances and police cars with sirens blaring speeded by her house on Hwy 68. I commented to her “I don’t know what that's all about, but I hope they do OK”. She replied adamantly “Me too”. She found out later what had happened when the Baerrises came over and broke the news.

You can’t ‘make sense ‘out of something like this. We can only fall back on our belief systems, accept the loss and go on. We hope that, with time, the pain will fade and all the good memories will emerge and comfort us. We think ‘He died at a bad time’ a good man in good health doing good things’. But, is there ever a good time for a man like Frank to die? I don’t think there is. In the Jewish belief system, it is believed that when one dies, he leaves behind his good deeds. In Frank’s case this would clearly indicate a very successful life.

When I face losses like this, I cope by imagining plausible reasons for their occurrence. In Frank’s case I think his case just came up for review by HE WHO IS IN CHARGE. HE reviewed the record and saw a lifetime of public service, a great deal of help for his fellow man, a loving husband, a loving and dutiful son, a loving father, and few, if any, ‘problems’. HE then noted that Frank had several years of insulin dependent diabetes and was developing problems (blindness in one eye). HE noted that Frank was due for some serious diabetic complications with chronic pain and disability.

HE then checked on Frank’s status and found that he was operating a tractor on a beautiful day doing work for a very worthy cause that he loved, and was with many very close friends. HE then decided “Perfect. I’m flipping your tractor, Frank. See you in a minute”. This may be fanciful, but it helps me. It’s my truth and I’m sticking to it.

Facebook and Family

I was already feeling a bit antsy on the day that my son-in-law posted on Facebook, “H1N1 Sucks!” I posted, “Who has H1N1? Do you?” Last I checked before going to bed, there was no reply.

So the next morning, I write my blog, drink my coffee, check my emails, and log onto Facebook. Larry has posted that he’s feeling better. As I watch the screen, a post comes up from Rachel stating that she’s doing better after her bad reaction to a pneumonia vaccine. What reaction? Enough already with the Facebook!

I pick up the phone, and dial Rachel’s home number. I don’t know if she’s home because I know she has parent/teacher conferences all week. But, I figure Larry will probably be home if he has the flu. Rachel answers, sounding like death-warmed-over. She says she’ll be okay because Larry’s home – A man with the flu nursing a woman with a fever. This I gotta see.

I know the girls have school and multiple activities, and I don’t think Larry’s going to feel up to running the taxi service. Anyway, what does Rachel think retired moms are for? I packed my bags, gathered groceries (for chicken soup and such), kissed Richard, and headed back down to Georgia.

I walk into their house fussing about finding on Facebook that they’re sick. Rachel is melted into her big recliner with several glasses of fluids, tissues, and a thermometer on a table next to her right arm. This is because she can’t move her swollen left arm, the sight of the injection reaction.

Larry is in a rocker a few feet from Rachel with the TV remote and his computer on a table in front of him. On his computer screen is a graph tracking the trend in Rachel’s temperature, which Larry tests every half hour.

He is also tracking her Tylenol and Ibuprophen rotation, bringing each dose to her in a clean medicine cup. Around Rachel’s swollen arm, Larry has rigged a Ziploc bag of ice held in place with an Ace bandage. He’s up and down, removing and reapplying the ice pack at Rachel’s request. I only wish Richard had received such attention from his ICU nurses when he was in a coma and post-transplant.

I was free to concentrate on laundry, meals and transportation for the girls – or I should say transportation for Rebecca. Larry had arranged with their friend Marian to transport Sarah, who was dropped off at the house with fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. What a nice network they have.

The second day, Rachel spent in the ER receiving IV fluids, with Larry in attendance. I was able to continue concentrating on granny and household duties in preparation for Mr. Stability (Rachel’s daddy) to arrive from Louisiana to check on his baby. (We’ll admit that we are a bit overprotective of Rachel since she was diagnosed a bit over a year ago with leukemia.) Thankfully, Rachel didn’t have to spend the night in the hospital.

As I got ready to take Sarah to piano lessons, Richard called with the tragic news that Mamie’s older son had died in a tractor accident. Larry was feeling better enough to take over Sarah’s transportation while I spoke to Richard. When I finished the call, it was time to get Rebecca from cross-country practice and another trip to the pharmacy for medication for Rachel.

Mr. Stability was at Rachel’s house when I got back. I was sure glad that Richard had insisted that I take the paprika chicken he had made for my last arrival home. He thought it would be good comfort food for me. If he only knew how right he’d be…

That “Funny” Fall Feeling

I awoke to a perfect fall day with dappled sunlight through thinning leaves and a nippy breeze billowing the hammock strung between the boughs of the front yard trees. I answered the early-morning ringing of the phone with slight trepidation, as is usual when the phone rings late at night or early in the morning. What a nice surprise! -- the delighted and delightful voice of the Marine mom to whom we brought the furniture and other household donations. She spent several glorious minutes commenting on what a blessing our family has been to her family.

I was glowing as I answered emails, blogged -- which are two of my favorite activities – and spoke to my son, Scott, and my daughter-in-law, Buffy. Richard and I relaxed over breakfast -- as only retirees can do – discussing our plans for the day. Richard then went to Mamie’s to cut the spent cornstalks for making decorative shocks for the Autumn Gold Festival. While there, he cut okra, picked peas, and pulled up carrots. I began organizing the house in preparation for week-end guests. And, I finally found a family in need of a free washer. Richard made that delivery.

Like we needed any more fresh produce in our house, I had placed an order last week for the world’s finest, fattest, sweetest pecans -- (Schermer Pecans, for those who may want to know) in preparation for making Cajun spiced pecans. This year, in addition to making them for Christmas gifts, I may attempt to sell them at the Autumn Gold Festival. Since Jack and I will have a booth at the festival to sell his book, I figure “why not?” When my case of twenty-four pounds of pecans arrived by UPS, I could hardly wait for Richard to carry them to the kitchen.

I can lose myself in the kitchen and computer for days. Between cooking and writing, I could find myself out on the street for forgetting to pay the power bill, if I don’t discipline myself. And I can always find something better to do than cleaning house. I bribed myself to finish my filing before I could reward myself with shelling peas and other kitchen tasks, like roasting pecans.

We eased into the evening – me with white wine and Richard with faux wine. For dinner, we feasted on more of Richard’s sumptuous salads, Richard’s roasted root vegetables, and rotisserie chicken. We ended the day with a CSI fix, as usual.

I should have been basking in a glow of well-being. But when change is in the air, I become suspicious. My moods alternate between anxiety and anticipation. Our dog, Gypsy Woman, and our cat, Buster, also change their behaviors on fall days. Buster takes longer naps and Gypsy seems suspicious of everything that moves, patiently patrolling for what Richard calls “beasties and ghoulies” until Richard signals her that she’s off-duty after dark. Buster, oblivious to Gypsy’s jumpiness, spends even more time snuggled up with his favorite fluffy friend – Gypsy. Maybe Buster has the best idea – We should spend more time snuggling. Or should we become extra vigilant, like Gypsy – preparing our property for a long, cold winter?

I know that in the spring, we call the restlessness “spring fever”, but what do we call that “funny” feeling in the fall?

Following the Flood

I should have known better than to think that Camille could simply load a few items in a truck and head out for Atlanta. Not Camille. First, she went out to unload a couple of years’ worth of “stuff” off the table and desk tops in preparation for dusting the items. Then, she had to locate gorilla glue to repair the legs that had fallen off the antique table. After that, she had to rent a trailer – only to realize that her vehicle didn’t have a tail light harness. My mind had exploded by this point, so we agreed to coordinate our meeting place when she got closer to Atlanta.

Meantime, Rachel and I were having one of our “Lucy and Ethel” adventures finding the home of our Atlanta Flooded Family. Long before arriving at the address we’d been given, we saw the distinctive signs of flooding. Mud-frosted foliage lined the roads, and every road suggested by my navigation system for leading into the area sported several barricades with signs declaring, “Road Closed”. We were unable to call our AFF for alternate directions because the phone in their new apartment hadn’t yet been connected. Never the type of gals to be deterred by having no clue where we are, Rachel and I laughed along, alternately barreling forward and backing up for quite a while before finding our destination – we thought.

Well, it seems that there are adjoining apartment complexes with matching numbering schemes. We knocked. We asked around. We didn’t locate our AFF, but we ascertained that there were a lot of families in this area who were in need of a full complement of household goods. With promises of returning to the wrong address with our donations if we were unable to find the right address, we soldiered on. It may have taken us a bit longer to find the right address because we always treat being lost as just another adventure -- but find it, we did.

By the time we got to our flooded family, another of their friends had given them a washer. We got everything, except the washing machine, unloaded with still no sign of Camille. The last I spoke with her, my sister’s saga was too complicated to comprehend. I never did see her, but I think her carport is cleared.

We were thrilled that one of the parents is in the US Marines and the other works for Fed-Ex and at contract remodeling and renovations. We felt so productive knowing that crisis is not a way of life for this family seeking emergency intervention. And we could feel patriotic, to boot, helping someone who earns her living defending our country. Talk about enlightened self-interest.

I’m still driving around Atlanta looking for someone in need of a washer. Maybe I could be Atlanta’s Wandering Washer Woman if I didn’t need to head back to the holler.

Rains of Ranchipur

While studying for her MBA several years ago , my sister Camille decided to go into the antique furniture business. To this end, she and her daughter Alyssa loaded her carport with their “finds”. Then, reality intervened. Camille got a real job, and Alyssa went to missionary college. The furniture is still under the carport. With the Atlanta Flooded Family (AFF) needing everything to resettle themselves, I had a deal for Camille. I’d pay for the truck if she’d donate the furniture. She can think of it, not as “parting with her stuff”, but as reclaiming her carport.

Camille is always up for a roadtrip. She and I decided to meet in Atlanta to give our gifts to the AFF. Alas, the Rains of Ranchipur revisited Georgia and Coker Creek. I couldn’t see twenty feet out my bedroom window. In order to get the donations to the AFF in Atlanta, I figured it was imperative that I be able to see where I’m going. Driving into the rain, down mountain roads with ninety-degree curves may not be the best idea. So I loaded the van for an early a.m. departure -- and took a long nap. When I awoke, Richard had taken photographs of the swollen creeks racing across our property. The insurance company can laugh, but I know that where there is white-out rain, there is the potential for waist-high water.

Charlie and Deborah donated a washing machine, some kitchen ware, and some of Deborah’s clothes. Since Deborah is one of the best-dressed females in Coker Creek, her donations are divine. Betty, at Coker Creek Consignment and Storage, offered a television set, but with all this digital signal business, I figured the family would only receive snow on an old TV. And they probably don’t need snow added to their rain. Betty did give me some coffee mugs for the cause. Others are waiting to see what comes in before going through their stored treasures.

I’ve heard from friends all over the United States offering to help. Some are sending clothing. Some are sending linens. Some are sending money. – Simply because we asked. My daddy used to have a favorite saying, “People are no damned good.” I haven’t found that to be true. I know that some people aren’t good. But, I find that if you ask people to help in the best way they can, most people are pretty darned good.

Like the Girl Scout song says, “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold.” They’re both precious.

An Overdose of Okra

We hadn’t been to the garden in over a week. With Richard being puny from the flu, my travels, and the rain, we’d let the garden go native. I suspected that there was a great deal of okra crying out to be picked, but I was intimidated by the scope of the project. The problem is that I feel guilty if I let any of Richard’s and Mamie’s hard gardening work go to waste. I had a good excuse for not visiting the garden as long as the rain continued. And I was busy writing my blog and lining up donations for our niece's flooded family.

It hadn’t rained in two days, so it’s a good thing Richard woke up in a “harvesting mood”. He headed over to Mamie’s where he found at least a bushel of mutant okra so big it tipped the plants over. We could have used them for billy clubs, but they’re not so good for food. Upon his return home,he heaped high the kitchen counters with fuzzy green giants for me to sort.

While I was cutting the tenderest pods, Jack called. He reminded me that his okra also hadn’t been harvested in over a week. I already had a couple of bushels of the slimy little seedpods. Where was I going to put more? Oy vey! Such an overdose of okra! I wonder if the Israelites had this problem with manna. Did they fill every goat skin bag they had with milk and honey, and then feel guilty because there was no way to use all of God’s gifts at once? There are now two large roasters of okra in the oven, and plenty of pods in the compost heap.I saved the babies for pickling.

That bodacious bounty taken care of, Richard decided to pick up the black walnuts littering our lawn. I’ve been told that the only way to crack them is to place them on a concrete driveway and run them over with your car. We don’t have any concrete, so Richard tried cracking the shells with a hammer. He allowed that the bodily injury this method could cause far outweighed the value of the nutmeats. Now he’s waiting for the walnuts to dry, so he can try other methods of black walnut extraction. I guess we know why the hand-picked pieces of black walnut at Designs by Baerreis are so pricey.

We’re having a lot of company in October. I know I’ll be serving oodles of okra, gobs of green beans and mounds of Maque Chou. And since Jack and I are renting a space to sign and sell his book at the Coker Creek Ruritan’s Autumn Gold festival, I might just decide to sell jars of jelly and other goodies from our garden.

I’m off to Atlanta again to deliver to our flooded family the harvest of household items from our kind Coker Creek friends. I wonder if they’d like some smothered okra…

Never Kiss Your Cousins

Can you believe that there’s a diagnosis for being too happy? I once went to psychologist who gave me a personality test and decided that, “There’s nobody that damn happy.” He then sent me to a psychiatrist who told me I needed a mood stabilizing medication. I knew enough about this medication to know that it could kill my liver. I also knew plenty of people who were on three or four mood altering medications and were still in a bad mood. It seems that when one doesn’t work, the shrinks keep adding more. I refused the medication. Anyway, who ever heard of trying to cure happiness?

People seem to get an itch whenever anything unfamiliar rubs up against them. One thing I like about country people is that they don’t think everything has to be “fixed”. Lots of their people are different; but they seem to celebrate differences, as long as the “different” folks are their folks. They even have a phrase to describe the mentally ill and brain damaged in their families: “He/she ain’t right.” In the country, people seem to look at themselves and their familiars for a way to accommodate the itch. In the city, they seem to look to the experts to “cure” the itch – and cure it in a hurry.

I’m generally considered “not right” by folks whether in the country or in the city. A lot of people like that about me. Richard married me to “bring some life” into his house. Richard is a stoic New Englander who grew up on a nice, stable chicken breeding farm. I tried to warn him that he wasn’t ready for the life forms that I was going to drag through his home. He didn’t know better because he had never been married, even though he was forty-eight years old. So he took the plunge.

My Cajun grandma used to brag that my sister married one of our cousins. She grew up in an era when you judged marriage prospects by who “their people” are. In order to make a good match, you had to have close interfamily ties. When my daddy brought my mama from Bayou Teche, less than one hundred miles away, to Bayou Lafourche to meet his mama’s mama, his grandma started crying, “Oh, Leonard, why you marrying a foreigner?” Daddy’s grandma spoke only Cajun French; Mama’s people spoke only English. And Daddy’s grandma didn’t know any of Mama’s “people”. By great-grandma’s standards, Mama could have just as soon come from another continent.

I guess my mama’s folks weren’t foreign enough. While it’s true that sometimes you win in genetic roulette by breeding like with like, often the weaknesses in the offspring far outweigh the strengths. Even though rural folks used to marry their cousins because they lacked transportation into and out of isolated pockets of population, today’s country people generally like hybrid vigor in their livestock.

I’ll admit that I’m rather high strung, but so are thoroughbred horses. My family all tends toward the “high strung”, and most of them married high-strung people – and have high-strung kids. That makes for family gatherings with a “whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on”.

Richard hasn’t yet asked to get off the roller coaster of our combined lives -- not even when I dragged him to a reunion of our family one summer. I like that about him.