Free Entry

Week 6

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.

 FREE ENTRY WEEK 10

                                                     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”.