Memories
20 Jan 2012 1 Comment
in breathing, change, family, mother Tags: child, family, mother, spiritual
Today, I sit at my laptop, logged into by remote to my office computer, my i-phone and kindle charging on my desk.
Life was so different while we were growing up.
We had a party line for our phone, when we had a phone; party lines are a great way to keep up on the neighborhood doings. I remember many lovely conversations, overheard as a child. My hand covered the mouthpiece, muting my giggles. Children, (and nosy neighbors) learned how to quietly pick up the phone, and quietly replace the receiver in its cradle. If I did not know what time it was, I would simply pick up the phone, dial O and ask the nice operator.
I remember a old gray washtub, that Mom would bring into the kitchen and fill with hot water for our baths. a privacy blanket over the door, (as the youngest, I was able to bathe first) and going out to the milk house in the cold of a winter night to stand under the cold hose there for a shower, with a little blue kerosene heater to keep us warm, or in the summer, a hose thrown over the clothesline, and showering with our swim suits on.
Mom worked hard to keep our home comfortable. Aluminum foil placed over the windows on sunny summer days to reflect the hot sun away, and the bowls of ice placed in front of the fans for our air conditioning. In the winter Mom would fill mason jars with hot water, wrap them in towels, then we would place them at our feet in bed at night to warm us into sleep.
Flashing back to a time I can only imagine, Mom, 16. just a child herself, newly married, and spending her first wedded year living with a mother in law who scared the beejeez out of her, and then, when dad came home from the service, moving out to a lonely farm in the back 40 acres of Iowa. No running water, no indoor utilities, only a wood stove for heat, pregnant, and working the farm. Mom persevered, as she always did.
She spent her years out there, working hard, bearing children, bringing more children home to us, and raising us all in a tumble up fashion.
In the summers she raised a garden, canned, worked the fields, put up hay, picked corn, had babies (well she had us in the summer, fall winter, and spring really)
Remember, she was still a child herself through much of this; she raised herself while raising us, and she lived, she persevered…
Flashing to another memories, this one I own. Sitting outside of a church under a shady tree, our bible school teacher is telling us about Jesus, showing us a picture of him, tiny, standing atop a green leaf, explaining that he is everywhere, even in a blade of grass.
I have had this view of God and Heaven since that time, everywhere all at once, in us, outside of us.
And that is the vision I have of our Mother, everywhere, inside of us, our hearts, and outside of us as well, a bigger view: Mother as part of Heaven, as part of the universe, on a greater adventure than even her life here, Mother now with Linda, her sisters and brother, her Mother, her soul spirit, all together,
Mom is planning her garden now, carnations, lilies, gladioli, and tomatoes. I am pretty sure a fluffy white kitten has found her way to that garden spot, and sits on Mom’s lap, while she herself sits under a tree, in a comfortable wooden rocker, at her ease, in her glory. Still living, still persevering.
Celebration of Life
23 Dec 2011 2 Comments
in breathing, change, family, freedom, little girl, mother, passing, words Tags: family, freedom, mother, passing, people, sisters, spiritual, women
Our Mother has passed, we will mourn her absence, but mostly, we will celebrate her life. Our Mother lived strong, wild, ferocious, bodacious. She lived with faith, and joy, and strength.
She left us much, her joy of flowers, her affinity for sunshine, fresh air, natural living. We will, all of her eight children, numerous grand children and even more countless great grandchildren remember her daily.
Countless gestures; we find our hand placed over our forehead, shading our eyes with exasperation. hear ourselves with small phrases, “For goodness sakes.” “Good Grief”. sound like her, we hear her with our own words.
We enjoy chickens, well, some of us. Fresh eggs, apples, bananas. I never could get the hang of Rocky Mountain Oysters and frog legs but I think some of us have.
We have countless house plants, knick knacks, and candles scattered about our homes. Just like our mother.
We have a a stubborn determination to live and survive, our Mother taught that to us as well. She lived greatly.
We will miss her, and we will celebrate her always.
The magnificant Ya Ya’s
26 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment
in daydreams, family, freedom, gypsies, palm reading, People I Know, random thoughts, witness Tags: family, freedom, friends, gardens, palm reading, people, sisters, women
Last night presented me with the marvelous chance to read palms for a beautiful, dynamic group of five women, They call themselves the Ya Ya’s, in honor of the intense friendship they have shared for years!
The setting for this small gathering was in the home and garden of one of these fabulous friends. Her home was simple grace, replete with warmth, peace, fulfillment and lovely heart. Her home presented a sense of cherished space
Doing a night of reading for a particular group is an interesting experience, always a theme. These women share not only their love for one another but also the traits of humour, strength, and determination that have allowed them each to travel through independent lives with amazing spirit.
If all my evenings were so blessed!
Memories
24 Aug 2011 1 Comment
in breathing, change, daydreams, family, freedom, little girl, People I Know, random thoughts, travel, witness Tags: change, childhood, family, freedom, friends, memories, mother, people, sisters, women
My friend from high school, Irene is a major proponent of memories, Irene was the most awesome girl I knew back then, she introduced me to LIFE. She did things, knew people, and although she had her own problems, she continued to grow and live. I missed Irene, and am so happy to have her back in my life through the medium of social networking. Reading her posts, looking at her pictures, I understand the full, active , and most important honored life she has lived.
I am part of a facebook page, postings of memories from people from my home town. Reading them, I have an opportunity to remember my own past and in that way, reconnect with the little girl that left home in a head long rush towards freedom. I love having the memories. Mine have not been so complete. Memories can heal. After over four decades of forgetting, it is wonderful to begin to regain them.
Here are a few of my own;
The town square and stuffing myself on watermelon during watermelon days. and the best carnival a child ever did attend.
An easter egg hunt downtown, I won a silver dollar in a pink plastic box from Doctor Byram’s office.
My more than pitiable attempt at archery down by the old elementary, ( also remember a bad experiment with copper tone that day)
Comic books bought at the 5 and dime.
An equally pitiable attempt at golf in high school, I have never understood while we hit the balls toward the windows, did Ms Ahrens just know we would all miss?
Stumbling going up the steps during graduation and Bruce Robinson telling me I would be fine, (forever grateful for that Bruce)
Walking miles on country roads
Canoeing at Hanon Lake.
Eating at the maid rite, french fries, cherry coke, and ketchup
My first pack of cigs at Old Style Tavern I was 12, they cost 20cents 
Riding the square and honking horns
Just some memories….Love memories!
A short story
08 Aug 2011 3 Comments
in daydreams, freedom, gypsies, stories, words Tags: family, fiction, Irish Traveler, short stories, spiritual, women, world
How Matilda came to be. A short story to be believed, or not…
My name is Matilda Evan Jones. I am an Irish Traveler. Often, I am confused, by non-travelers, with the Gypsy. But I am not such. My kind has always been traveling in Britain, from before even the Celts traveled to Ireland to conquer and control. We are not Gypsy, we are, and will always be, Travelers.
Even so, we share much in common with the Gypsies, journeying from place to place, and share much with this country’s own native tribes. We are persecuted for our beliefs, and often find ourselves hiding in order to survive. Survive we do. We make our way, moving from village to city to ocean to mountain to plain, working hard; using the strength of our minds and our bodies.
My own Gram had a sight, the ability to see past the veils of this world into others, and could reach into the soul of another to understand and hear their hidden secrets. From her I received these gifts, and with them, I make my own small living, as I too travel. 
We look to the other world for our spiritual delight. Mab, Queen of all the Fairies we call our own, and the Fairies we are cousin to. My ancestors danced with the Fairies on many a midsummer eve, and many a hallowed eve, ensuring our prosperity and comfort. Together we drew down the moon, and made the small magic’s that kept our world turning.
I can tell you many a tale of my five decades here on this earthly plane, tales of visits with my cousins, tales of time spent with this United States own native people, and tales of my travels, sorrows, and joy. But I will begin, with just the small beginning. To say how I came to this vast and wonderful land of ours, this Western glory.
My Ma; as a Lass, came across the great ocean on a merchant ship bound from the port of Liverpool, in the year of 1825, headed to a port of New York City. Her passage was paid by a grand and fine Lady, and for this Lady my Ma fetched and carried, helping to achieve all of the fuss and froofa that great Ladies must have.
Her private time was little, but one fine morning she happened above decks, to stand with the salty breeze blowing through her hair, and the feel of the sun on her face. A swell rocked the deck, and she tumbled, crying out in alarm.
Now above her was the man who would be my Da, a Traveler as well, who had hired on the ship to earn his own safe passage to the America’s. He worked the sails, climbing up and down the masts, doing all those things that sailors do. Hearing her cry, he looked down, and saw her coppery curls glinting in the light, and her slight form tumbled about the deck. And she, lying on that deck looked up into the sky and saw himself, sun browned and lean, hanging above her.
Quickly he clambered down the mast, and rushing to her, helped her back on to her feet. Looking into one another’s, faces they knew, with their souls that they were meant to be together.
Later that evening, my Ma once more crept above deck, to find Da, waiting, where her heart knew he would be. And thus I was created, and still to this day, I hold in my mind a connected memory of the sound and smell of salty waves rocking against the wooden sides of a ship, and the sight of stars shining down into the water.
I have more tales to tell, if those you would choose to hear. 
Sincerely;
Tilly Jones
My Grandma Schumacher
19 Jul 2011 2 Comments
in daydreams, family, history, little girl, random thoughts, words Tags: child, family, grandparents, women
In the summers I stayed at my Grandma’s and Grampa’s home (my father’s parents) for a week with my female cousins. Honestly, for the most part I hated it, except for a few things. I was homesick, and more than likely a little snot, and Grandma responded in kind with impatience. My hair snarled and she cranked at my tears when she combed it. Did not know my cousins well, never did get to know them.
Here is what I did like…
She had a wonderful wrap around screened in porch on her house and a spiked wrought iron fence around her yard.
My grandpa’s lap
the lonely yet exotic sound of the trains going past at night, while I sat by the window.
My dreams of flying high in the air, and looking at the world below.
And one time, one time only, Grandma unbending, sitting in her rocker, singing.
My best memories are the ones I keep.
Cheri is cherishable
30 Jun 2011 Leave a Comment
in family, little girl Tags: child, family, sisters, women
I cherish you my sister Cheri, although I never let you know.
You are the woman who helped to raise me, you moved through life, guiding me, tending to my needs, loving me, with little or no feedback or appreciation given.
When I was a little girl, I believed you the most beautiful and elegant and successful woman in creation. I still do, although, I think, being you that you would scoff at such an assessment.
You left home when I was still so young, 17 years to my seven, married to Clyde, and bore him two sons, who in turn presented you with grandchildren of your own. Clyde was, in my small opinion, a piece of work. He treated you poorly, not at all up to the standards you deserved. And I consider you successful, simply because you persevered, and Cheri, you never say a bad word about him. Myself, I have not that type of forbearance. 
And you married John, who helped you raise you boys, who again, you say nothing but good about…when did you learn to be so very forgiving and kind?
You lived through poverty, money, moving, break ups, happiness, sadness, and always…even when you were pretty much all alone out in Colorado, you survived. Quietly, struggling, living on your own, taking care of you own wonderful self.
You gave up your life there to return home to help our sister Linda while she was passing from cancer. You work hard, without stop at jobs that would give a weaker woman pause. And you did those jobs well and faithfully.
You are funny, kind, and have many strong opinions. I admire that about you. You cut through nonsense, and get right to the point of the conversation.
You love animals, and care for your dog with joy, he in turn is devoted to you. You have our mother’s love of plants, and I remember gladioli you would buy from the farmers market to place in your home.
Your boys, raised by you, are amazing. They are both successful and determined men. They have themselves created loving families that they care for. They were raised patriotic, intense and talented. Congratulations.
As with all of my siblings, I see you seldom, not as much as I could. But know this, I love you.
My Mother’s Hands
18 Mar 2011 4 Comments
in family Tags: family, mother, spiritual, women
My mother has hard-working hands, fingers bent, somewhat gnarled from arthritis, knuckles turned large from worry, life. Blue tinted veins prominently run under her skin; skin that has turned translucent, fine, almost parchment through her years. Her nails, at this time, are manicured, acrylic, colored. And she is quite proud of them. That was not always so. Her nails were tough, I remember, worn, sometimes brittle from the harsh environment of her daily life. It used to be, she would take gelatin capsules to keep them strong. In my childhood, I thought it oddly circular that she would take extract of cow hoofs to make her own nails grow.
Her hands have touched children in love and yet in anger, the men she has loved, with tenderness and delight. They have held babies close to comfort tears, and gently to give them grace. They have touched the cheeks of her men, after they passed, with sorrow. And those cheeks of her daughter, our sister, with greater sorrow after she also passed. No mother should have the need to hold the hand of a departed child.
They have gardened, farmed, milked cows, swung hammers, sewed clothing, washed clothes, washed backs, changed diapers, mopped floors, butchered chickens, paid bills, fixed hair, slapped faces, made bread; her hands have lived, and still live.
They are a picture in my mind, my mother’s hands, of strength, sorrow, and life.
Des is desirable
22 Feb 2011 2 Comments
in family, People I Know, random thoughts, travel Tags: cowgirl, family, friends, old west, people, pirates, spiritual, travel, women
We have a marvelous friend, Des. (Some of you call her Peachy) Des is a dastardly pirate, Des is a rooten-tooten cowgirl, Des is a gentle spirit, and Des is a strong, strong woman.
Des lives in Oklahoma, in a comfortable home filled with old west memorabilia, piratey plunder, pictures of her many friends, mementos of her incredible adventures and a lot of pink stuff. She cracks me up with her multitude of personalities and interests. The thing is, she does all of her interests fully, nothing partial for her.
Last year Des acquired a small pull behind camper, that she has named her pink armadillo. At this writing she has spent the winter rebuilding the inside, complete with pink walls, a hand pump for water, screen doors, pretty curtains, and in general a lot of froo fra. It fits her, and it is magnificent. In the summer she will begin the outside, and personally I think we her friends must start a pink armadillo fund, so that she has all of the where with all to complete this amazing monstrosity! Every highway needs a giant pink armadillo roaming its lines!
Des loves with all of her heart, and she is so easy to love in return. She shines love from her eyes. Des walks into a room of strangers, and leaves that room with life long friends! My admiration for this talent of hers is unceasing.
We here in the snow packed plains of Minnesota miss her, and have not nearly the amount of time spent with her that we need for our own spirits growth. Des brightens our lives and is an important person to have here on earth. Her desire to live life fully inspires us to fully live.
Zau has Zest!
21 Feb 2011 Leave a Comment
in family, People I Know, random thoughts Tags: child, family, friends, minneapolis, people, spiritual, travel, women
My friend Zau is from Angola, born there during a war-torn period. My understanding is that he grew up in a pretty normal environment, had a loving father and mother, siblings, cousins; a complete life. His normalcy changed at the age of 12. At that age he was removed from his home and impressed into the Angolan Army.
His normal existence was still that, normal I mean, a new normal. Brutal relationships replaced loving ones, his companions were still similar in some ways, and childhood friends grew with him into strong soldiers. Normal became a tough, unyielding, day by day process of staying alive, staying healthy, living under a shadow of fear.
Zau’s spirit stayed strong through this all, continued to grow, perhaps overwhelmed by the meagreness of his existence over the years, but his spirit prospered. He continued to love and honor relationships…
When Zau turned 18 his closest companion was killed during combat. Now understand that the normal procedure for fallen comrades was to bury them at the site. Zau did not want that for his friend, and did not want the family of his friend to always wonder what had happened to their cherished son.
So, picking up his friend, he left the battle field, making an irrevocable choice to truly believe in compassion and freedom. He carried his friend home, and left him in the village of his heart and life.
With that choice he also made the choice to leave the war, and the control and sadness that he had lived under, unwillingly for his past years. He left the county of Angola, and traveled, eventually ending in Rio de Janeiro, where he earned a living creating wonderful jewelry and leather work, and fathering the child of his heart, Zinga.
It came to pass that while he was selling his art in a city bazaar in Rio, he met the woman of his heart, my friend Karen Sorbo. They recognized the correctness of their love and he eventually left Rio to come to live in Minnesota with Karen. I had the honor of performing their wedding ceremony a few years ago, and it was right.
Every departure has some grief, and Zau was not able to bring his daughter home to Minnesota, she to this day remains in Rio with her mother. They live in a destitute area of the city, filled with gang fighting and drugs. He is unable to convince her mother to move.
At this time Zau visits her as often as he can, supports her and her mother. He wants to bring her home with him, but is not allowed by our governments to do so; he has no real rights as her father.
If any story I write has a goal, the goal of this story is to send out waves of love to Zau and Zinga, to send out waves of hope, and compassion and awareness. It is my goal to help Zau bring his daughter home with my words, and hopefully with the spirit and heart of you who are reading this.
