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.
Memories of our Mother
13 Dec 2011 1 Comment
in breathing, daydreams, family, mother, passing Tags: breathing, dreaming, mother, spiritual, women
Mom lay quietly in her bed these days, her last stroke destroyed half of her brain, her ability to move on her own, and her ability to communicate with more than a few one syllable words. She is waiting.
When I visit her I sorrow. Her tiny body is weak, her face still beautiful. Half of her body does not move. But her eyes…her eyes sometimes still burn with that flame of life that has carried her through so much. At those times I feel a surge of hope, unwarranted hope, that perhaps she will pull back from this determination of death.
Each time I visit, she looks at me, and her eyes are tender, telling me so much with a look or a small smile. As I sit and talk, she watches, nods, responds for a bit.
Sunday we talked of the past, growing up on her farm.
Our Mom had chickens, many chickens that lived in a good-sized chicken house, surrounded by a tall dog – proof fence that was partly roofed by the large branches of overgrown apple trees. Watching them was a wonder, they scratched about the dirt, heads bobbing, sometimes pecking at each other, other times mindlessly flapping their wings, chasing one another about the yard. Autumn days, the apples hanging above their yard dropped down, some would ferment before the chickens devoured them, and then, I swear, the little creatures would eat the fermented apples, and chatter drunkenly about.
In the spring time Mom bought baby chicks, and nestled them in our basement, in a wire enclosure, with straw spread over the concrete floor. Above she hung a warm light to keep them warm. We could hear soft chirps and scratching coming up the stairs. I was forbidden to touch them, but of course I did, cuddling their tiny bodies close to my face, smelling the freshness of their new beginning
At times it was my job to gather the eggs. The chicken house was magical to me. I entered it and the warm earthy smells of life rushed to greet me. Hens laying in their boxes would let out soft, sleepy sounds. Reaching under them, my hands enjoyed the cozy feathers of the creatures, and quietly as I could I pulled out warm eggs for the basket.
Always since, when I have been able, I have had chickens, and enjoyed again the beauty of new eggs, and mother hens. One more of many parts of me left to me by our Mother,
Leaving home was the only thought in my mind when I turned 17, but now, nearing 60, I have learned that home has never left me.
Who we are
23 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
in change, freedom, random thoughts, words Tags: dreaming, freedom, inspiration, spiritual, women
Question for the day.
Who are you? What is your definition of yourself? Hmmm. are you possible to define?
So often, others views define us.. Looking in the mirror we find that the eyes looking back out at us are not the eyes we expect, the face looking at us, though familiar may have shadows of other people’s reality blurring its image
So today, look into the mirror, and see yourself!
Stars
14 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
in change, daydreams, freedom, gypsies, random thoughts, stars, words Tags: breathing, dreaming, freedom, inspiration, spiritual, stars
There are stars whose light only reaches the earth long after they have fallen apart. There are people whose remembrance gives light in this world, long after they have passed away. This light shines in our darkest nights on the road we must follow. – The Talmud
Message found on a wine bottle
28 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment
in breathing, clouds, daydreams, freedom, gypsies Tags: dreaming, spiritual
The beauty of wasting a day away, is that it is wholly yours to waste! Enjoy your day my friends!
Magnificant Mary
24 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment
in breathing, family, palm reading, People I Know, planning Tags: MDK hair, palm reading, spiritual, women
A few years ago I had the amazing privilege of meeting a woman named Mary, owner of MDK for hair in Hastings, MN. I have had the pleasure of attending her business on many occasions to read palms, and get to know her wonderful circle of employees, friends and customers.
The atmosphere at her place is amazing, love, compassion, friendship, sisterhood. I feel it all when I visit Mary’s shop. MDK has gathered together an amazing collection of women, women who have healing in their hands, hearts and souls.
Love being there, love reading there.
And happily, I will be there again! Hope to see you there!
Wednesday, August 31 from 2-8! Call the salon to schedule your appointment! 651.437.8704
A tribute to Sweet Annie
09 Aug 2011 1 Comment
in breathing, family, freedom, gypsies, little girl, old west, words Tags: breathing, cowgirl, dreaming, freedom, friends, mother, sisters, spiritual, women
Sweet sweet Annie
of many faces.
hippie,cowgirl
earth-mother, gypsy.
Gardener, provider.
Sweet sweet Annie
Kind of heart,
fair of face.
She does not see
What I see.
Sweet sweet Annie
Sexy,Vibrant.
Savior to critters.
She does not see
what we see.
Sweet sweet Annie
Beauty. Lover.
Mother,Sister
Lover,Wife.
You should see from these eyes.
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
