The Poor Relations

When I was about ten years old my mom and I made one of our usual trips to visit my grandmother; her mother. My grandma was in advanced age and widowed, and so she lived with my uncle and his wife and son. I looked forward to these trips, usually made by bus, earlier to Waxahatchie, Texas, then later to Tulsa, Oklahoma, where my uncle and aunt were joint pastors at a church they had founded. I enjoyed being with my mom's brother and family, and even more I enjoyed being with my grandma who would play board games with me, and tell me stories of her childhood and of her children. We sang hymns together, and we would sit on the patio for hours where she would talk about the birds, or she would teach me how to embroider and sew. 

My uncle and aunt were fun to be with, as well, though I was just a bit shy of and intimidated by my aunt. She was 4' 10" of dynamite, talked fast, and was sharp tongued when she wasn't pleased. It was fascinating to watch her chew ice from her empty iced tea glass, which she did following every meal. She and my mom would sit and visit, and my aunt would chomp continually on ice until there was no more. I've never seen anyone chew so much ice at one time, and with such enjoyment. She also ate burnt, black toast, a delight that she shared with my grandma and even my own mother. This was appalling to me.

My uncle was great fun. He did shocking things at the dinner table to make me embarrassed and laugh, like use his tongue to flip his false teeth in and out of his mouth when no one but I was looking. My aunt would catch him eventually, but meanwhile I couldn't eat for laughing so hard.

It was a beautiful summer day in Tulsa, and my uncle had told at the dinner table the night before of a distant cousin of theirs who, along with their very large family of children, were living a few miles outside of Tulsa. They were a very poor family who had no place to live, so they had settled themselves in an old abandoned gas station. He asked if my mom would like to visit them, and, of course, she wanted very much to see them again. I'm sure she hadn't a clue what to expect.

The next morning we all, except my grandma, prepared for the short trip; I venture to say it was about twenty-five or thirty miles out of town. We arrived there within an hour, I am sure. My uncle pulled his car into the front of an old, dilapidated and dirty looking gas station. When we got out of the car the first thing I remember was the smell, like a filthy barnyard. I had been on farms enough to know the difference between a dirty and a well-kept barn yard. There was also the stench of old. standing water.  Immediately children came running from every direction, some in diapers and hardly walking, and some were teens. All of them were barely, or poorly dressed, and none wore shoes.

The adults were greeted by the mom and dad of these poor children, and they also wore no shoes and were very poorly dressed. The woman wore a half apron, and I can't imagine why. The man wore overalls with no shirt. They were not clean. They hadn't known we were coming, and they weren't a bit embarrassed. They were happy to see us.

The smell intensified as we entered the open doors of the station, and as soon as we entered we knew why. Chickens, ducks, goats and a cow ran free throughout the living area which was very small. I haven't a clue how these people were able to purchase these animals, and I'm not sure I want to know. But, the chickens gave them eggs, the cow and goats gave them milk, and I imagine some were butchered and eaten at some point. There were a couple of old straight wooden chairs, as I recall, and there were dirty, brown mattresses here and there on the floor. I don't remember if there was a table. I don't think there was more than one room. But I do remember there was no glass in the windows, there was no door to shut out the weather, and there was dirt and filth everywhere. And, they all seemed to be very happy, though I have to believe that there was some shame in what we were witnessing.

We left after a few minutes visit, my uncle promising to visit again soon, and my mom went around and hugged every single child, along with the dad and especially the mom. My mom had had a hard life, but she hurt deeply for the harsh life this family lived.

In the car there was a sad discussion of what we had witnessed. My mom quietly shed some tears. My uncle said that he visited them, and he would always give the dad a little money to help them out, but the dad wouldn't allow my uncle to give him much. He said that they did just fine, and with just a little extra they would be well enough off. It was pitiful, and I remember how I realized that fact, even at my young age.

Mom and I never went to visit them again when we were in Tulsa. I know my uncle visited and helped, but the opportunity never came up again for us. I don't know how long the family lived in that old gas station. Today, the family would be arrested and their children removed from their custody. I hope that these poor relatives of ours were left alone, unmolested by the government and busy-body authorities who think their ways are better. I doubt that the children attended much school. I wonder about them sometimes, how they fared, if they had better days ahead, if they made something of themselves. I wonder how many of them are still alive. After all, they were all around my age, and you never know what will happen in a lifetime. One thing is for sure. My mom and I thought we were poor. My mom knew that she had lived a very tough life. But we both realized that there is always someone worse off than you. It was very sobering for me at the time to know that they were related to us.

Things I Learned From My Father

Life is hard for some.  Most of the time it is because of the choices we have made and the paths we have chosen.  Other times it is because of the choices of other's that have effected us. My father's life was very hard for both reasons.  He was born in the early 1900's when life was hard for most who had little education and even less money and opportunity. His hard life made him a hard man, and it shaped him into the kind of dad that I learned to love with admiration and hate with a vengeance. Early in my life I made the unconscious choice to be just like him, and that choice cost me many years of heartache and regret, not to mention the heartache I caused my parents. I am forgiven and have forgiven myself, but the regret still haunts me today.

My dad taught me to work hard. He awoke early and put in long hours. Sometimes he did hard physical work, other times it was mentally taxing. He worked six days a week, and he seldom took a vacation, though we did take a few fishing trips. My parents lived on a farm in the 1930s, a few years before I was born, where my dad and mom slaved with manual work, having no motorized farm implements and only some farm animals to help with the field work. I heard a few of the stories of their struggles on the farm; enough to realize how hard life was. The words were never spoken, but the example was there before me each day except Sunday; you go to work, you work hard, and do what is required of you. Once in a great while he would complain about a boss, but not often.

My parents had a hard life, therefore,  I expected to have a hard life.  I had no delusions that I would ever have more than a little bit in life. I expected to be low middle class, work hard, and marry a hard working man. For many years that was good enough. But in my later teen years I began to dream a little bigger, and I realized that it might be possible to have a better life, if I could just find a way to get out of the town where I grew up. If I stayed, it would always be the same, and I was beginning to want more. I believe in some way my dad taught me to dream, taught me to want to break out, because I know that was a constant dream; to break out. It never happened for him.

My dad taught me to cuss. He was very good at it, and he seldom held back in front of me, though mom would try to stop him.  If he was angry about his boss, I could expect to hear some very clever concoctions of colorful words to describe his feelings. My mom was a Christian woman, and she didn't want to hear it any more than she wanted me to hear it. But I listened with delight, took mental notes, and carried everything that I learned to school to impress all my classmates. I don't remember who was impressed and who wasn't, but I was pretty impressed with myself.  I heard a comedian once say he could cuss the wallpaper off the wall. And I would say that I could cuss it right back up the wall again. I was a very good student.

Dad taught me how to drive. He was an excellent driver who never had an accident nor a ticket in his fifty-nine years of life. So far I can say the same thing, and I am older. He taught me to love to drive in the rain, how to safely do great donuts in an icy or snowy parking lot. His only advice for driving was, "Always drive for the other guy." I have never forgotten that, and I believe that is what makes a good driver. 

The most fun I ever had with my dad was when he taught me how to fish and hunt. In Nebraska, both are excellent ways to compensate for the lack of meat during the year. Our freezer was always full of fish, squirrel, rabbit, pheasant, quail, and deer. An occasional side of beef or pork might show up if the price was good enough, or sometimes dad would do something special for a farmer somewhere, and the meat would be payment. We fished from the river bank, seldom in someone else's boat. Sitting on the edge of the water would be a quiet time to watch the wind in the trees, or watch the bubbles the fish made when they came to the top. This would be the time to tell stories of his boyhood. It would also be the time to tell me made up stories that would make me move closer to him for protection. Some of his stories made the hair on the back of my neck stand for days. And, when I was sufficiently frightened, he would laugh and laugh so loud it would echo across the water. I loved that man so much.

He bought a .22 rifle just for me to use when we went hunting. He taught me how to load it and carry it when we walked in the fields. He told me how to shoot the gun, but he let me teach myself when it came to finding my target and shooting. I was a fairly good shot until one fall morning when I was about 16. Dad saw a squirrel in a leafless young tree not 30 yards from the road. I stepped out of the car, lifted my rifle and aimed. That squirrel looked right back at me and continued to chew. I don't think he blinked. He just stared at me, daring me, accusing me.  I could not shoot that squirrel, and I never went hunting with dad again.  Our relationship was very cool at the time, and he died a couple of years later. Childhood and innocence have such advantage in our relationships. Or is is just naivete?

My dad taught me to laugh; and laugh loudly. My mother loved to laugh, as well, and listening to the two of them together laughing out loud was some of the sweetest music I have ever heard. Their life was tough, and laughing heartily was a great release. He was a great tease, and to this day I love to tease. I tease the people I love, just as he did. He had no time for people  who didn't want to laugh or have fun, even at their own expense. He laughed at himself, and he laughed at others.

Dad taught me that the people I love the most in this world will disappoint me, betray me, abandon me in some respect, and it will be the hardest and most destructive thing that I will ever endure. I haven't lost a tremendous ability to trust, but sometimes the fact of such disappointment will cause me to lash out at whoever has the misfortune to be present. My dad taught me how to be angry at the one you love and adore, how to resent and hate from the sheer pain of betrayal.  I learned that even someone who is overflowing with love and devotion to his wife and family can make selfish choices that estrange him from those who love him most. I learned that the most perfect man in the world was not perfect. I'm not sure that wound has ever healed.

Fun and delightfully funny. Sullen and angry at the world. Crass and unforgiving. Charming and handsome, a singer with a sweet bass voice. These are some of the things in life that my daddy taught me. I've gotten over some of them, others still haunt. My temper gets better with age, and with temperance from my Savior, and I am a forgiving person, though still crass when behind the scenes. The Holy Spirit checks me on that, too. I am my father's daughter, to my dismay, and I loved him with such a devotion that saw no flaws, no reason to doubt, until my innocence was gone. And, then, so was my dad.  

A CHANCE MEETING

It was a beautiful spring morning, and I was driving home from I know not where when I saw her pass me in her car driving the opposite direction.  I hadn't seen this woman in years, but I could never forget her face.  That face had haunted me time and again, and I was convinced I would never see her again.  I always look into oncoming cars as they go by, and I knew without a doubt that it was the same face.  I had to act fast.

The street that we were on was a quiet residential area, so I pulled into a driveway and turned my car around to follow her.  I caught up with her in no time because older ladies tend to drive slow, and, I confess, I drive faster that most.  I settled in behind her and patiently followed her to whereever she was going.  She could drive out to another city for all I cared.  I wasn't about to leave off tailing her.  I was on a mission, and I knew God had set this up for me.  I had no intentions of blowing it.

The lady pulled into the parking lot of a nursing home.  Aha!  I thought.  She's a volunteer here.  That would be just like her.  I parked my car a few cars away from her, and when she got out of her car I called to her.  She stopped, smiled, and turned towards me.  By this time I was so excited I wasn't sure I could say what I needed to say, but, I thought, here goes.

I am a tall woman, and she was no more than five feet.  We must have looked a bit comical to passersby.  "I'm sure you don't remember me," I began, "but you and I worked at Control Data.  One day I was very sick with a headache and was resting on a cot in the nurses station.  You came into the room and prayed for me.  Do you remember that?"

No, she didn't remember that, but she did slightly remember my face.  I continued.

"About five minutes after you prayed for me I felt much better.  I was very embarrassed when you prayed for me there, and I had made fun of you before that for being a Christian.  So I didn't hesitate to make fun of you again in this situation.  I went back to my office and making sure everyone in the area heard me I shouted out mockingly, 'Praise the Lord and Hallelujah!  I've been healed.  She laid hands on me and I am healed!' Then I continued to tell the story and made sure we got a good laugh at your expense."

"First of all I want to tell you how very sorry I am.  I was a nasty person back then, and I don't know if you knew what I had been doing or not, but I have to apologize to you now because God expects me to.  You see, I have since accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior, and I have repented and turned from all that kind of behavior.  Making fun of you was the same as making fun of Him, all because I was full of evil and pride.  Please forgive me."

The two of us laughed and cried together, one with joy and forgiveness, the other with shame and regret.  We hugged and hugged, and we continued to visit and cry and laugh for a few minutes.  She forgave me lovingly.  She didn't care what I had done.  What was important was that I had been redeemed and was living in and loving the Lord. 

It was an amazing encounter that lasted only a few minutes, but it was one of the most important days of my life.  I never saw her again.  But I will someday.  I don't even remember her name.  But we are sisters in Christ, and we will have eternity to get to know each other again, in love.

A THANKSGIVING TO REMEMBER

Our friends, Don and Donna Moore, have two Vizla dogs. Ron and I love dogs, and since we live only five miles from them we enjoy going to their home to feed and tend to the Vizlas whenever the Moores need to be out of town for a time. We have done this quite a few times with no trouble and enjoy being available to help our friends.

This Thanksgiving our friends had the opportunity to travel to their son's home for the holiday, and so we were glad to help them out again.  Ron would go over in the mornings to walk the dogs, and I would go in the evenings to feed and walk them. I must mention that there are also two cats that I made sure were fed and watered, but you know how cats are. They really don't need much attention. Our task would be for five days, and, as usual, all went smoothly, that is, until the very last night.

I had fed the dogs and walked them.  When we came back into the house I removed the leashes from the dogs and commended each one for their wonderful cooperation. (They are very, um, rambunctious, not to mention large and strong, dogs, and can be a real handful if not guided with a firm hand.) Now that I had the dogs taken care of I walked to the back of the house to make sure Sidney, the cat, had plenty of food.  Sid and I talked as I prepared a bowl for her, but I suddenly realized how quiet the house was. I walked toward the hall to find the dogs and saw the second cat who had been outside walking toward me. I looked up to see the front door standing open.  I had not shut the door tightly enough to latch it, and this sweet little black cat had pushed her way in. And the dogs were long gone.

I dashed out to the yard, first listening, then calling their names into the empty night and into the empty woods that surround on all sides.  I heard nothing. And I knew without a doubt that since the house was located less than a mile from the lake the dogs were at this very moment having a wonderful, albeit cold, swim and enjoying their freedom. In my mind I just knew that they were also chuckling in their little wet beards at their little coup. Thanks to that black cat.

I locked up the house and jumped in my car to drive down to the lake, but this was the end of November, and the entrances to the lake were all closed for the season. I had no choice but to turn around and go home. I didn't have my phone with me, so as soon as I got home I called my friends to give them the good news.  Your friend has allowed your multi-hundred dollar dogs out of the house, into the woods, and no doubt gone forever.

My dear friend laughed. These two had pulled this little trick a number of times, and I was aware of the stories. But none of those times were they in my care. That made this totally different.  Donna assured me that they would come home, wet and ready to come in, and that by morning we could go over and let them in. 

About three hours later I was just climbing into bed when my phone rang.  The Moore's neighbor had called them with a report of seeing one of the dogs at her door. I scrambled out of bed, threw on my big fuzzy red robe with the big white flowers on it, slipped into my moccasins and ran out the door. It was no matter to me if I wasn't dressed. The neighbors across the road hadn't been home earlier, and there was no one else to see me.

When I got to their house there were no dogs. The neighbors were now home so I rolled my window down to inquire about dog sightings, but they hadn't seen them. As I drove back up the hill I saw one of the dogs in the woods, so I stopped and began to call to them.  Immediately they came to the car. I was shocked! I didn't think it was going to be that easy. Well, it wasn't.

They did come up to the car, but I had only one leash with me.  The first dog that came to me was the smaller male, and I slapped the leash on him. That was a mistake.  When the larger female came up the only way I had of keeping her near me was to hook my hand around her collar. That's a very big dog, a very strong dog, and holding on to her while trying to control the male almost put me in the ditch beside the road. I was finally able to stand up long enough to open my back door of the car, and I looked in with a sinking heart. My Jeep back seat is not very big, and locked into place by the seat belts were the two small dog car seats for our little dogs, a chihuahua and a Boston terrier mix. I wasn't sure these two were going to fit in my back seat, but I had no choice. I couldn't walk them home while bent over holding on to one of them, the strongest one, by the collar. Especially since I was wearing my big fuzzy red robe with big white flowers on it.

I tried to get the female, Cinco, in the car first so I could let go of her, but as big as she was she just couldn't get in.  I told Jack to get in and he jumped in immediately, but he stopped at the first doggie car seat and would not move on. I turned to Cinco, and by this time she had decided that she was staying on the road. I pushed and I shoved, but she would not get in the car, and Jack wouldn't move over to give her more room. Finally I drew a big breath, this dog weighs 75 to 90 pounds, wrapped my arms around this animal and heaved her into the car. She wasn't happy, but in she was, and I slammed the door shut before that black cat showed up.

I jumped into the driver's seat. Jack was sitting in one of the car seats in the back with his head on my shoulder in the front seat. Cinco was fighting the small space she was allotted, and I just knew that there would be little left of my back seat by the time we got back down the hill.

I backed all the way down the hill, not willing to drive any farther than I had to.  I pulled into the drive, drew a deep breath and announced, "Everybody stay right where you are. I'm going to go unlock the door."  There were no objections. I unlocked the door of the house, reached in to grab the second leash before going back to get my little vagabonds.  Jack jumped out as soon as I opened the door.  I looked in and there sat Cinco, this big brown hunk of an animal curled up, no, wadded up, as small as she could get to fit into that little doggy car seat. She looked miserable and pathetic. But when I called her she wouldn't budge. She just sat there daring me to make her move.

Now, I'm not a young girl anymore, and I had just had knee surgery two months before. My other knee had been giving me fits, and I could stand to lose a few pounds myself. I had been stressing for three and a half hours about my dear friends' dogs, and I had had to fight to get this one's fat butt in my car. I had done that with the neighbors still out in their yard, so I knew that they had seen me wrestling with these dogs while I was wearing my big fuzzy red robe with the big white flowers on it.  I was in no mood to mess around any longer with Cinco's stubborness. I climbed into the car, snapped the leash on her collar and dragged her across the seat. But she would not jump down. So, once again, I took a deep breath, wrapped my arms around her and lifted her down. I slammed the car door. I was almost done.

We got to the front door, and I have this rule, this ritual that we go through, and as tired as I was, we were still going to follow my rules. Caesar Milan says to always go in or out the door before the dogs to show them you are in charge. So, I said, "Sit!" Nobody sat. "Sit!" They just looked at me. "Jack, sit!" I bellowed. "Cinco, sit!" Jack finally sat, but Cinco, who is usually the most compliant with me, the first to sit when I ask, just looked at me. I could read it in her eyes. "You screwed up, lady, and if you think I'm going to obey you now, you're nuts!"  I pressed on her backside. "Sit." I picked up her face in my hand to make her look at me. "Sit!" I demanded. Nothing.

Let me just say right here that I am of Welsh and Scottish decent. I invented stubborn. Before we went into that house that dog sat.

By the time I got back home I was exhausted, but more than that I was angry. I was angry at the dogs, which certainly makes no sense at all. Dogs are going to do what dogs do, and these dogs love to run and play and swim.  I was angry at that darn black cat, though I admit and repent of it that I didn't say "darn" the first time. But mostly I was angry at myself for allowing such a thing to happen, angry that I had worn myself out getting the job done, and definitely angry at myself that the Moore's neighbors watched it all happen with me in my big fuzzy red robe with the big white flowers on it. Well, at least I wasn't wearing my big pink pig slippers!

The Day Jill Tried To Kill Her Mother

This story is a hoot in retrospect, but at the time, I didn't laugh much.  After all, how many mothers can say that their daughter ran over them with the car?  Today we can laugh at how comical, or frightening, the scene must have been for anyone who happened to see this assault in progress.  I'm sure they also got an earful.

Jill says it was the afternoon that she had passed her driver's test and received her driver's license.  I declare that this is just an excuse for dimwitted behavior in a moment of confusion.  We both were certainly confused, though for different reasons. 

Jill, along with her friend Dawn, was driving somewhere, perhaps to take Dawn home, and I was going to walk the few blocks from our house to downtown Havelock.  Jill agreed to drop me off on her way through town, so I went along riding in the back seat, passenger side.  I wanted to go to the drug store, so I asked her to stop directly across from it.  I remember distinctly saying the word "stop" in my request.  Evidently, she didn't quite get my meaning.

Unfortunately for me there was a car behind us, and I'm sure that makes a new driver a little nervous and uncomfortable.  No new driver wants cars honking at them on their first outing, though I am positive that wouldn't have effected me if it had been my mother as the victim.  Nevertheless, as I opened the back door and began to step out, Jill was paying more attention to the car behind her, nevermind that I was halfway out of the car hanging desparately to the car door.  Jill's car never stopped.  It just kept rolling.  Forward.  Over my foot and up onto my ankle.  All the while I was saying to her, louder and louder, "Jill.  Jill! Stop!! JILL!!!  STOP!!!"

Finally Jill stopped with my foot still braced between the asphalt and the rubber tire.  "BACK UP!"  I screamed at her.

She pulled forward.

"NO!  REVERSE!"  I screamed it over and over.  What part of this didn't she get?  I was being run over by a two-thousand pound machine, and I didn't want to die!  But poor Jill was so befuddled and frightened that she didn't know where the gearshift was.  I still think she was frightened of the car behind her.  Running over her dear, sweet, helpless, dying mother just wasn't important at the moment.  She just didn't want to hold up traffic!

When Jill finally put the car in reverse, and I had freed my foot from under her car, I finished stepping out of the car, and, in severe pain, I stepped away from the car and slammed the car door.  Jill shifted into drive and quickly drove away, leaving me standing in the middle of Havelock Avenue, watching her leave me in the proverbial dust and wondering how I was going to hobble around town with a broken foot or ankle and bruises up to my knee, not to mention how was I going to get home?

My wounds were very limited.  Regrettably, but thankfully for my daughter.  I was able to navigate my errands and walk back home again.  My ankle swelled quite a bit, and it was, indeed, bruised.  But I had no real reason to do anything more than scold Jill's ability to become befuddled at my expense.  I'm sure it took a very long time for me to get up enough nerve to let Jill deliver me anywhere in her car again.  And now we laugh about it, or at least, she does.

Telling On Myself

I'm always preaching to members of my family about speaking clearly and distinctly because I have begun to lose some of that wonderful gift that God gives most of us, the blessed sense of hearing. I haven't reached the hearing aide stage yet, but that sense has diminished somewhat, and I am very sensitive about not being able to hear as clearly as I have in the past. I have great empathy for those who cannot hear.

I wandered in my mind this morning to two separate occasions from long ago when I had misunderstood certain phrases or titles because I either didn't hear it spoken clearly or maybe I just wasn't listening, and these when I was a much younger girl.

When Richard Nixon was president of the U.S. we often heard about his home estate in California. One day at work my friends were talking about it as I approached them. "Sam Clemente," I echoed what I had heard them say. "I have heard of him somewhere. Where do I know that name from?" They all laughed and answered that they were speaking of the President's estate, San Clemente. "Oh, yeah. I knew I'd heard that before." Truly, I needed to pay closer attention to the newscasts.

The first time I made such an error I was ten years younger, and at least I didn't have to face my embarrassment immediately. It has given my own children much laughter whenever they recall my telling of the story. Truly, I do understand, because in my mind it is funny now.

It was circa 1966, the years of much partying and dancing and enjoying our youth. We spent most of our Friday or Saturday nights going to a small town night club/dive to drink and dance to live music played by upstart local bands. Some of those bands went on to record some pretty good music, and a couple of them became mid-western legends and played together for many years. The bands played the popular music of the day while we danced the nights away.

One night, as often was done, I approached the band during a pause between songs and asked them to play one of my favorite songs of the day. I yelled as loud as I could to call out to them over the noise of the crowd even though I was no farther than four feet from them. "Will you please play State Trooper?" They looked at one another then looked at me with questioning eyes. "What?" one of them called to me. "STATE TROOPER!!!" I screamed it as loud as I could, and still they just stared at me with blank expressions. I made my request one more time, but all they could answer was that they didn't know the song and had never heard of it.

I was pretty disgusted by that time. I had heard this band play on a number of occasions and had heard them play this song. I just couldn't figure out why they weren't understanding me.

I have to admit that it was a few years before I finally realized why my request had fallen on deaf ears. And I am so thankful to this day that the guys in that band really didn't have a clue as to what song I was really wanting. At least, I hope they never figured it out. And I'm glad I didn't mention it to the group I was with so they didn't have the chance to realize my error. They certainly would have gotten a good laugh. You see the musical group that made this song popular was The Beatles, and the song that I loved to hear was "Day Tripper."

The Lightning Express

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1vs_cMZWo8 The Lightning Express by the Everly Bros.

Two days before my mother died I was on a Greyhound Bus headed south to Tulsa. I had been informed that day that mom had been in a car accident with my Aunt Marian driving, and both were hospitalized, my aunt with broken legs, I believe, and my mom had a broken pelvis. Both were stable, but I still was anxious to get to Tulsa to be with mom.

It was December 8th, 1978, and I had boarded the bus on a typical winter night in Nebraska, leaving Lincoln in a snow storm. The weather halted any flights that were going out of Lincoln or Omaha, so I was left with one alternative if I were to go; Greyhound, which was fine with me since I had never flown and was not anxious to. We didn't trust either of our automobiles to travel that far, so here I was, one bag, dressed warmly, and hoping with all my heart that the snow would ease up the farther south we went so that there would be no problems reaching my destination.

The bus had traveled from Lincoln to Omaha to pick up more passengers, then headed straight south to Nebraska City. One of the biggest deterrents of riding a bus is that it stops so many times to load or unload passengers. Nebraska City is fifty miles south of Omaha, and we had gone no more than ten miles when the bus driver pulled the bus over and told us that he was going to have to turn around and go back to Omaha. The roads were becoming slick and snow packed, and they were not safe.

I was stunned. Surely this great big piece of machinery would have no problem getting through all this snow. I thought it could just plow right through it. All I could think of was that my mother could be dieing in a hospital somewhere and I had to get to her.

I literally jumped up out of my seat and cried to the driver. "Please don't stop! We've got to keep going! This is important! My mom has been in an accident, and I have to get to her!"

The driver said that he was sorry but to remember that I wasn't the only one on that bus. He had all our lives to think of, and he had no choice but to return us to Omaha.

I remember pleading with him once more, but I knew that it was too dangerous to go on, even dangerous to turn and go back. People around me were sympathetic, but I was completely broken. I cried softly for much of the trip back, but I knew there was no question about his decision.

We reached the Greyhound station in downtown Omaha at 2 o'clock in the morning. And the news wasn't any better there. Greyhound had halted all buses indefinitely, and I was to be stuck in this bus station. However, they announced, Continental Trailways buses were still running, and a bus to Lincoln was leaving in one hour. The Continental station was three blocks away.

What I did next I just can't believe to this day. I grabbed my suitcase, lifted the collar on my grey down-filled coat and headed out the door to walk three blocks in a snow storm at 2:30 in the morning in downtown Omaha. I was thirty years old, tall, slim, a virtual sitting duck for any evil that was lurking. And I didn't care. I just wanted to go home.

I had walked a block and a half when I saw a man across the street at the corner. He was watching me, and waiting. It was so quiet that every crunch of the snow under my feet echoed between the tall buildings. There wasn't another soul in sight. My heart began to beat very fast, and I wondered what in the world I was going to do. But I kept walking, and he kept staring. I wonder if he was as surprised as I was at what was happening. I'm sure he seldom saw a woman alone on the street in the middle of the night.

I wasn't quite to the corner when he called across the street to me. "What are you doing out here? Where are you going?" I told him that I was going to the Continental terminal. What I didn't tell him was that I honestly didn't know where it was; if I was to turn left, right, or stay straight. I just kept walking. "Where are you headed?" he asked, and I told him Lincoln. Then my guardian angel stepped in and the man said, "You just keep going straight another block and then turn left. It's right there. And I'll be over here watching. Don't worry. I'll keep you safe."

Well, I didn't know whether to believe him or not, but I had no choice. I followed his directions and in no time was safely inside the bus terminal purchasing a ticket. Minutes later I was sitting warmly on a bus as we safely traveled home.
I had thanked the man. He had said to me, "You're welcome. But I don't think you should do that again. It's not safe out here alone." I knew that, but in my grief I just didn't care.

The next morning I called mom at the hospital to tell her what had happened and that I was so sorry I couldn't get there. She told me it was okay, she knew that I tried, and oh, how she wished she could see my face.

My mom died two days later. The nurses had gotten her out of bed, and she was laughing with them when the aneurysm went to her brain and she was dead instantly.

The Lightning Express is a song I had sung as a young girl, had the 45 of it and played it often. I loved to harmonize with the Everly Brothers with a third part. But that song has been with me, haunted me, the rest of my life. I can never sing it without remembering that night and crying.