Bologna and Blessings

This Easter weekend I prepared my first bologna sandwich since the days my father packed four school lunches in small, brown paper bags. He would tuck in pieces of fruit and if we were lucky; a “Little Debbie” snack cake. The tiny bags and shiny dimes for milk money were lined up each morning as my brothers and sister clamored to school. Some 40 years later, the white bread had changed to wheat; the mayonnaise to light and the pickles to sugar free, but the thick bologna bore the same distinctive red band. Shortly, I found myself humming the old Oscar Mayer commercial tune.

My father and I carried our sandwiches outside and sat on the porch overlooking the rushing creek. Swallowtail and monarch butterflies floated above the school of minnows darting in the cold water and hiding under cloak of tree shadows. The season’s first hummingbird came in the annual search for food. Dogwood trees and blackberry bushes alike bloomed and I remembered my granny’s cobbler. Thinking back, I also remembered the long eight hour car rides to this land of his parents. I hated the trip, the heat, the gnats and sleeping with my sister in the same bed. I hated dusty roads, cow patties and unpasteurized milk. I hated the loud crows of the rooster waking me up and then having to get up before dark in order to eat the only food available until lunch.

And yet, here I was, excited about my bologna sandwich and spending time with my father in this familiar place. I suddenly longed for time with my sister and family and wished for breakfast with my grandparents. I wanted to pick along the land with my granny and search for polk and turnip greens and stroll in the dark to the hen house and gather the morning’s eggs. I wanted to play in the barn with my cousins and hide in the scratchy hay. I wanted to walk up the country road to my uncle’s small store and be rewarded with a small glass bottle of coke. I wanted to bite into the cold flesh of ripe watermelon after swimming in spring creeks. I wanted to go pond fishing for catfish with my uncle and let anyone bait my hook.

I turned to my father and asked, “Did you ever imagine growing up that we would be so blessed and have all of this…?” He looked up from his sandwich and with a knowing smile replied, “No.”

Pink Carpets

My father’s house has a room with pink carpet. Soft, plush pinkness oozes between toes and splashes the walls with more cotton candy color. Aged pink curtains cover two windows and line an entire wall revealing splatters of bright pink roses and faded green vines. This room was created during a time when someone followed some long forgotten trend and perhaps never imagined another marriage. I’ve always thought she left behind her poor taste and Pepto-Bismol styled room as a way to haunt the survivors of her life.

I didn’t think about the pink room on the day the cherry tree in front of my house reached peak. I simply stared at it reaching towards the blackened grey sky with plump pink arms heavy with soft cotton balls. Tender green leaves were hidden beneath decadent pink blooms and I was transfixed within a single moment of nature bursting into focus for even those with heavy lidded eyes to see. It was gloriously spectacular and wondrously perfect and gone by afternoon.

Heavy spring storms wreaked havoc across the suburbs. Dangerous winds swept roofs off businesses, shutters into yards, and sent objects flying to unknown destinations. The beautiful cherry tree, which had unveiled itself that morning, still stood but no longer wore a cover of solid satin bloom. Instead, a pink carpet lay under the tree. Soft petals covered the grass and reached into the driveway. Long fingers of muted color gently hid fresh mulch and scattered under the adjacent dogwood just revealing the white blooms of Easter. This new vision, so different than the morning, was even more stunning. I imagined walking amidst the pink carpet and feeling the softness on tender feet.

Perhaps that is how it felt to have pink carpet installed surely some 30 years ago in a strange house nestled against the panoramic view of the mountain. A carpet to walk on barefoot while dreaming the dreams of the free; a carpet to enjoy while remembering the magnitude of windswept color the softness of fading sunlight going down over white beaches and aqua oceans. A carpet overlooked by some and overdone by others, but for the ones moving along life’s tumultuous straight line winds and lifted by gentle breezes – a carpet representing another view of perfect beauty.

I wonder what my father recalls when he steps into the pink room. I hope he is able to see what I now see. A room that was glorious in a particular time and yet, with a different view remains stunning. A room that contains good memories and glory among the branches and leaves: that was and is a showcase: that is beautiful for those who survive the storms and still view life through rosy pink glasses.

Living

I’m back. I’ve been living for some time in the darkest chambers of the heart. Places that beat out of rhythm for guilt and shame. Echoes from the past bouncing off weakened walls. Passageways narrowed from fear. My blood pumps images of futuristic visions and merges them with realities and soon this present become normal in the dark of night. Strange voices whisper in the sounds of water falling and swirl in layers of stormy air.

Sometimes I am hurled into a chasm of space and remain frozen in time watching the world go by. Effortlessly others flow through life seemingly without cares or concern. They wander aimlessly or live in pursuit of the unknown while passing without empathy for those who carefully place wounds in scarred hiding places.

Struggling for air, I go down but each time, I fight back. My hand reaches out for something to believe in and someone to hold. But it’s my struggle. I am both rescuer and victim. I am both saint and sinner.

In the mazes of my mind, I search. In the trials of the world, I breathe. In the pursuit of peace, I exist. I am alive and blessed. I am my journeys and no matter where they take me, I live.