I Was an Immigrant
Debra Kelley
Richardson
The
village looked like a war zone without the holes and smoke, however if you
opened some of the doors to the houses, smoke would roll out. And it was not from a fireplace or wood
stove. This village was the pride of
the town not too many years ago. The
neat, frame houses with front porches crowned by the wooden rocker and the smaller chairs and gliders like jewels
surrounded it. Everyone knew who had the
place of honor in the rocking chair. The
porch rails and fences were heavy with Cherokee roses like paintball gun
splatters in pink, white and red. Each
backyard boasted a garden patch and competition within the village over the
largest tomato or best apple preserves was fierce. Now it was just uneven dirt spots that made
you wonder just what had been buried under that apple tree with the shovel
tossed aside. Children roaming the
sidewalks would make any decent mama stop and yell “who is watching these kids”
at the top of her lungs, frustrated over the lack of supervision. But had she stopped, eyes watching from the
closed shades and curtains of windows would have turned into bodies standing on
the damaged porches to question her intrusion. Missy seen all this on the way to the ball field.
Pushed
for time Missy wheeled the white Chevy Suburban in the baseball field parking
lot pondering for the zillionth time the change in the Village. The twins were pushing the red button of
release to escape their second home and head toward the practice field. Baseball season was such a hectic time but
Missy loved the sights and sound of the eight field baseball complex. It was a social event in the small town of
Needle Springs and Missy loved to join the other mamas on the bleachers to
watch their kids show off and discuss what was going on in families, church, the
community and who was doing what these days.
She avoided the cliquish moms with the special pocketbooks from the
special store on Main Street that people shopped to be seen but had to use
their credit card to make a purchase.
Missy was more down to earth and her pocketbook was leather from the
Goodwill store. That didn’t mean she
didn’t love those moms because Missy loved everybody. The Bible said so.
Missy had lived all her life in
this small town and used to know everybody but the last few years strangers had
begun to show up. People she couldn’t
understand and they dressed different.
The grocery stores carried special food that she had to be told was from
another country because she didn’t recognize it and had certainly never seen it
advertized on television. None of their
children went to the kindergarten at the big Baptist church in town where the
twins, Rhett and Brett, attended. And
they didn’t attend her small country church or the Kiwanis Club or help out at
the Missions Food Pantry. But she had
heard some came to the food pantry on Wednesdays when they opened the door to
the public for anyone needing assistance.
Sometimes when Missy grocery shopped, she felt like going on Wednesdays
too.
As Rhett and Brett swung the bat
and caught the ball she hollered to lend her support and let them know she was
watching. That was important to the boys
because Missy was good at giving advice after practice of what they did right
and what could be improved. She loved
baseball, not as much as football and a lot more than basketball. She could quote the rules and knew when you
tried your best or had a lazy day. Missy
grew up around sports with three brothers that breathed to play and still had
the letter jackets to prove it. She knew
all the slang and the passions. It was a
necessary part of growing up for kids as far as Missy was concerned and even
though her husband could have cared less, she was determined that her boys
would rule the field, if they wanted to.
It always amazed Missy that the bleachers were filled with women. Wasn’t sports a man’s world? The coaches were men but the team mom was the
glue. Everyone knew that and it wasn’t
just about Gatorade at the end of a practice.
Last year the coach asked her what time practice started. She was the team mom. This year she just didn’t have time. As the librarian at the local library, Missy
was working hard to keep the library a place where kids liked to go and she was
competing against things called x-box, game boy and Nintendo. The bike rack in front of the library was
useless these days and Missy was bound and determined to make that change!
Walking carefully down the
bleachers to collect her two dirt covered and smiling boys, Missy could glimpse
the big boy’s field behind the t-ball triangle.
Several of the boys practicing on that field resembled the kids from the
Village. She wondered when they started
playing baseball and why. She thought
they had their own kind of ballgames in the field over by the old plant
site. She seen them on Saturdays and
some even had jerseys that matched. She
hoped none of those boys over on the big field lived in the Village. Sometimes mamas had to drive kids home after
games and practices if their parents were late or couldn’t pick them up. It would be dangerous to stop in the Village. Grabbing two grubby hands, Missy headed to
the parking lot and the Dairy Queen.
That was tradition, baseball then ice cream. The teenager at the counter took their order
and Missy noticed her face didn’t match her bleached blond hair and her voice
had an accent. “Who is that young girl
at the counter?” Missy asked Gabby’s mom, Lisa.
“I think “one of them”, with dyed hair” said Lisa. “She probably really needs the job”. Missy
wondered if she lived in the Village.
Waking up around 4:00 the next
morning, Missy headed toward the coffee pot.
She flipped the remote control of the mini television in the kitchen and
pushed the red light that blinked “good morning” as it cranked up that
smell. This was her time. She prayed, washed clothes, started supper
and watched Andy Griffith reruns.
Sometimes she got on the computer but that kind of activity disrupted
her early morning world. It was an
intruder. The Bible and Andy were the
only ones allowed but this morning was different and Missy was on a
mission. Look out world. She wanted a way to breathe new life to the
library. She had explored so many
options from promoting baseball books, which she did every year, to contest and
treasure hunts. She had drawn several
different themes on paper trying to come up with a brilliant decorating scheme
to entice the normal kid that would bring along their normal parent. But she was stuck on how to pursue this
mission. Popping open her email she
begrudgingly started checking off deletions when one hit her eye, “Try Ancestor.com
for 30 days free”. Well, that was
interesting, Missy had always wondered about the name of her ancestors. She knew a little Irish mixed with a little
Cherokee on her daddy’s side made up for a spiritual soul ready to defend the
least little thing as long as one believed.
Wondering if she would remember to cut it off after 30 days, Missy
clicked on “accept” to find out what should have been told. She plunged into her ancestors and was
totally amazed at all the information available. She could hardly keep up with all she learned
and several cold cups of coffee later, she closed the computer in shock. As the house began to wake up, she pushed the
past behind and turned on the stove to prepare fuel for her family’s day.
One hour before the doors opened to
the public, the library was quite, luxurious and smelled of old leather and
spring air. Later in the day, the
constant hum of the computers and the different bodies would take that image
away but right now it was Missy’s love.
Books had always been her constant companion, had never done her wrong,
lied to her or broke her heart. She
could be anything, do anything or go anywhere and fall in love with a new hero
every day in a book. She wondered if
that is why she was so content with her small town life because she could open
a cover and transform. The computer was
calling her name and she automatically signed on to the ancestor web site for a
few more minutes of past. She was stunned
at the list of Irish relatives that came to the United States in the early 1700’s
with names that rang bells, names that were repeated in her grandfather, her
uncles and aunts. The O’Callaghan name
had survived several changes from its original form and had stopped at Callaghan
with her dad. A little girl to the
family would be Callie and she actually seen that name as it branched off the O’Callaghan
tree through the daughters wanting to hold on to their family name. True to her Maw Maw’s story of the Cherokee
princess that married the four foot Irishman, Jonathan O’Callaghan, in 1858 and
died at the Battle of Peachtree Creek during the Civil War leaving two sons
that eventually made it to her daddy. On
an impulse, Missy started reading about the people that had deserted their
beloved country because of famine, war and horrible living conditions. Glancing at the little numbers on the corner
of her screen, she realized time was up and the day must be dealt with and
appeased.
Over the next several days, Missy spent every
available time she could at her desk or her home computer, reading, searching,
documenting and getting to know her kin.
She read how the Irish were scorned from the first footstep on New York
soil to the treacherous and deceitful way the Native Americans were
cheated. It was if she was searching
for that one piece of information that would link it all together and she just
couldn’t find it until one night as she lay in bed, cozy, warm and praying for
sleep, the missing piece literally pulled the light bulb string that popped on
the light. Missy jumped out of bed, dug
in the closet for old, warm clothes and woke up her husband. “I am going to the library, I will be back in
time to get everybody up” she whispered.
“Have you lost your mind?” “No, I
have found it”.
At the library she switched off the
alarm and let herself into the dark building.
Flipping her cell phone out she dialed 911 and as the operator started
her speech, Missy stopped her, “Joan, Missy.
Let Jack know I am at the library working so he want freak out when he
patrols around the building.” “Gotcha,
call if you need us.”
Up in the attic, Missy had dust
flying. She opened unpacked and repacked
boxes as she found the items she needed.
Finally, three hours later, she hooked up the wench to drop down the
boxes and material she had found. Four
hours till she had to be home and she had tons to do. Missy was on a mission. Finally, 5:00 was looming as she once again
sat down at the computer but this time
she didn’t sign on to a website or open her note pad to take notes about her
people. She began to make a banner and
after viewing the finished product she shot it to the big printer. She took her tool and made several small
holes in the banner, tied good, strong nylon rope and pulled the ladder from
the closet. Easily fitting the hooks
already in place, she looked back at her handiwork. Then walked around the seven different displays
she had pieced together from stuff in the attic. Tired, dirty and excited, Missy grabbed her
keys and headed for the white Chevy Suburban to take her home and meet the new
day. She smiled, hoping that the banner
with the bright red letters would impact her community as it had her. She prayed each person would realize they
came from somewhere and people were still coming to this country. She had read enough to proudly proclaim….
I AM AN IMMIGRANT
WE ARE ALL IMMIGRANTS
Free Entry Week 8
A Typical High School Day
Twenty six bodies line the wall, eyes flitting, fingers
snapping.
Some in deep reflection, not worried that a black square is
the only
shield separating them from cinder blocks.
Gaming, socializing, videoing, creating but none pursuing
the gift of wisdom.
Where are they from, where are they going, do they know, do
they care?
Moving as bells peal not realizing their
Automation is doors opening under pressure.
A superior look on a face that whispers
I look down at you controller. Your words are a rushing
river past me.
Respect – not you aged and unwise caretaker of my school
day.
The colors of each expression as sand, each grain different,
Struggling to stay on land or rushing to the tide that will
flip them over and over.
Be crushed or grab hold.
The tension is like a snapped wire live but broken,
a disturbed ant hill struggling to restore order.
Contentment does not suit as a toy wagon with square wheels.
What is their purpose?
Are they seeking, waiting, breathing for a flash
like the arrow on the
screen of the black square?
Or is their world only seeking Camelot and glory days.
I know the secret of Camelot. I hold the secret
And offer it as salvation but they see me as the enemy.
Oops! A small flash
of victory ….one smiled.
FREE ENTRY WEEK 9
ATTITUDES
I hate attitudes. Not
the people owning them, just whatever is on the inside that causes a person to
adopt that ever so present, not to be missed, holier than thou attitude. It is easy to see. The receiver has a much
easier job than the giver. The observer
in the range of vision witnessing the incident also has a much easier job than
the giver. Although the receiver carries
the unhappiness like the proverbial rocks on a shoulder, wounds do heal. The
distressing part is the giver of the attitude usually does not realize the magnitude
of the dose they serve to the unsuspecting.
The receiver and observer bear
the full weight of the giver’s actions.
I love people. I
ponder on the genetics of the individual that displays raw attitude regardless
of the impact on the person receiving it.
The slight roll of the eye balls, the intake and output of breath, the
drop of the shoulder along with lowering of the eyes, the voice that drips with
sarcasm and, the ultimate, the absolute ignoring of an individual and making
sure they know they are being ignored.
That particular attitude takes practice and has to be perfected to be
used. The blow has to be delivered at
just the precise time and while it may have several variations, a certain
ritual of body actions has to accompany the blow. It is an art and some people have it
mastered. The Michelangelo’s and Yeat’s
of the art of attitude should be placed in high esteem and recognized for their
talents. But their rewards come from the
look of pain that crosses the face of the receiver as their art is
delivered. The hand of discouragement
that is offered from their lofty position of self placed hierarchy knows the
damage it can inflict and so offers it readily and without shame.
I sympathize with both parties. My heart goes out to the people on the
receiving end of someone’s attitude. I
have literally walked in their moccasins.
The ability to recognize the humiliation, misunderstanding and wonder
that another human being, possibly a friend or family member, could
purposefully wound the very heart offered in admiration and friendship. At some point in time we have all been on
both sides of this sad part of humanity.
We have offended and been offended.
Many people worry about each cut inflicted to the very core of their
being. I know. I am a member. Others worry that the attitude they have
mastered will not be strong enough and repeat words and phrases and bodily
actions over and over to make sure perfection is delivered at just the right
moment.
In one sentence I can honestly say I hate attitudes, I love
people and I sympathize with both parties that give and receive of
attitude. I suggest we lose it. If you repeat this to yourself in a pleasant,
southerly drawl, you can create that four count beat so natural to
writing. Loose the atta-tude. Try it………next time. The hurt, humiliation and grief saved, may be
your own or someone you profess to love.
EASTER MORNING
“The tomb is empty” I explained to my five year old for the
hundredth time as we rushed down the driveway, jerking and swaying like the old
roller coaster at Six Flags. Trying not
to juggle the sausage and egg casserole snuggled on a towel in the back seat, I
keep a cautios eye on it in my rear view mirror. A quarter till seven and the Sunrise Service
starts promptly at seven. It is always held
in the church cemetery in complete view of the parking lot. No sneaking in like a good Baptist sliding into
the last row fifteen minutes late for Sunday service. “But why do we have to go so early” my little
asks, again. I patiently go into the
story of how the women came to Jesus’ tomb at sunrise to find it empty and the
Sunrise Service is a time of reflection to be outside and watching the sun come
up. The same as the women at the
tomb. This was just too much for him to
gather so he snuggles into his car seat and about to drift off when I sharply
turn into the church parking lot. I know
I am going to have to tote him.
Two minutes till and most of the
die hard congregation is gathered at the wooden cross driven into the ground at
the edge of the cemetery. Everyone looks
as my big, red Chevy pick up comes to an almost screeching stop. “Let’s jump out little one and hurry.” Here it comes. “Tote me Mama”. I gathered the boy up in a body hug, balanced
the casserole and hurried toward the church house. Dropping it on the table, I rushed back
outside to join the others gathered at the cross.
After a brief service and
breakfast fellowship, I snapped my little boy back in the car seat for the ride
home. Watching the clock, I mentally
calculated the time I had left to bath, dress, gather up my Sunday School
lesson and Children Church stuff and make it back by ten. Guessing my time would be cut short by some misshap
or another, I knew I would not have time to put the dozen dyed eggs and pinto
beans and corn bread for the family Easter egg hunt in my truck before
church. I’ll just have to run back home
before going to the Easter egg hunt.
Gas, time, a waste.
Back at home it is hurry to the
tub, hurry to get out and hurry into clothes.
I almost forgot pinning the little red rose on my son’s smart, new
Easter outfit and another for my old recycled dress from several years
back. Having a new outfit for him was a
lot more important. Back in the truck we
headed down the country two lane road to the church for the second time. I prayed those crazy motorcycle people would
not run me off the road today. I just
didn’t have time for it.
The Sunday School lesson I taught
was all about the empty tomb. As I stood
in the choir and sang “He is Risen” with all my heart, I kept one eye on my son
sitting on the front row. He gave me a thumbs
up as we walked up front to present the Children’s message to the little
kids. He is my helper. The message the preacher gave was on the
empty tomb as I calculated how much time I had to run home, change clothes,
pick up the dyed eggs and food and get to my aunt’s house, 30 miles away,
without being late. As the service ended,
I had convinced myself I could make it.
Back in the truck, down the road,
up the driveway and hurry to change clothes.
I loaded the truck again and off we went to hunt Easter eggs with all the
family. Sitting on the front porch with
my cousins we all talked about family, babies, deaths and jobs. I love my family and enjoyed the time. By late evening everyone started heading for
home and my son and I loaded the truck again with Easter basket and eggs and
left overs. Driving the 30 miles back
toward home, I asked my son how he had enjoyed his Easter day. “I had fun Mama, but you said this morning it
was all about an empty tomb”.
