Our visit completed, I offered my goodbyes–without realizing she was hearing them [...]]]> I saw her for the last time on such a rare and wonderful autumn day as this. With fall crispness charging the air, our long, lingering stroll around the campus let her enjoy the unique texture of October breeze and sun upon her cheeks.

Our visit completed, I offered my goodbyes–without realizing she was hearing them for the last time. But it’s not ordained for us to know the times or epochs of our lives, to read with full comprehension the great plans indelibly etched upon the scroll of eternity.

I returned home that bright October afternoon to mundane duties far less significant than the one just completed. We retired as usual that evening, around 10:00, only to be jolted awake at 3:00 by the telephone call many parents silently fear deep within their souls.

“Jenny is in cardiac arrest,” the voice dutifully reported. “You can meet the ambulance at the emergency room.” We numbly scrambled to pull ourselves together.

We were there when the ambulance arrived, and a group of medical personnel hovered over Jenny, frantic in their attempts to revive her.

“How long has she been this way?” I asked, dreading the answer. The terse reply came: “Twenty-five minutes.”

“There’s no use continuing,” I acknowledged. “Let her go.” They questioned my decision. “Are you sure?” I was.

Then came a few moments alone with her, the formal documents to sign, the sober trip home, the decisions about what to do first, the long wait until daylight before making the requisite calls, the cleaning and the tentative plans.

Mary shopped for a suitable outfit, one of soft, respectful pink for the daughter who would, after all, need to look lovely for friends coming to see her for one last time. And she did. Mary called me from the funeral home. “I’ve just seen the most beautiful girl in the world.” And she had.

Along with Mary and me, her brother spoke at the funeral. Then we three offered our goodbyes–knowing they were for the last time.

On rare and wonderful autumn days such as this, I sometimes wonder: Is there really a heaven? What will it be like? Will we remember our times together? Will we know each other? Will we be able to take long, lingering strolls and feel the October breeze and sun upon our cheeks?

But in those moments of evaluation, Jesus’ assurances from the Bible spring up within me. “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”

Thus I seldom recall that particular rare and wonderful autumn day — October 2, 1995 — with any residual sadness. For it was, and still remains, one of the few great watersheds of our lives, defining the terrain and landscape in which we will live out our remaining years. And the last times of that unique October confirm the beliefs we truly call our own.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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—–

Golden Autumn by name, she heralds inevitable liberation from the restricting bonds of summer heat. [...]]]> Autumn is my favorite season of the year, and the weather I have come to expect and enjoy in October has just arrived in the last few days. Thus I post an older article about the feelings Autumn brings with it.

—–

Golden Autumn by name, she heralds inevitable liberation from the restricting bonds of summer heat. And brushed by the train of her garment, summer’s prickly greens and blues soon transform to longer, softer wavelengths of red and orange and yellow.

At about this time each year, I watchfully await signs of her coming — not on a specific calendar day, but in a particular season of pleasantly distinctive and remarkable quality. This week, Golden Autumn, crouching just outside my door, unexpectedly sprang upon me. And as with her previous annual visitations, she caught me not disappointed.

Surely because our house faces directly west — and no trees shield afternoon’s sun — summer has lain upon us like a blanket, hot and heavy. Stifling, stale air, tempered infinitesimally only by a layer of insulation just added to the door, saturates and permeates our garage.

So when I slightly cracked the front door early Friday morning and felt lightness in the air, I silently rejoiced. “Autumn,” says Gregg Easterbrook, “truly is what summer pretends to be: the best of all seasons. It is as glorious as summer is tedious; as subtle as summer is obvious; as refreshing as summer is wearying. Autumn seems like paradise.”

But for the unforgettable pungent odors of burning leaves wafting through our neighborhood, few autumn memories of my own childhood linger. But decades later, our son would often indulge himself with flying leaps into the copious windrows of fallen leaves snaking about our yard. At least, that is, until he had more intimately associated himself with the work which had created those fluffy brown dunes.

For several years, autumn announced my pilgrimage back to college, a ritual I never warmly embraced. But on the other hand, Golden Autumn still brings balance by also staying tedious and tiring lawn care.

Today, varied enemies have entrenched themselves on several fronts to launch guerrilla warfare at their discretion against my contentment. But enter Golden Autumn — bearing the hopefulness of plunging once again into coolness and color for both respite and renewal. For Golden Autumn speaks of new beginnings.

But why the acute interest in autumn — especially this autumn? Perhaps because my own season of life impels me to carefully count remaining autumns as a miser his gold, to treasure them as a definable and finite resource. And perhaps because physical infirmities have recently barred me from activities I’ve sorely needed — to be out and moving, experiencing the solitude and majesty of God’s creation as man pits himself against the outdoors.

Summer inflicts pain only autumn can salve, puts wrinkles in life only autumn can smooth. And like a mother with her hurting child, Golden Autumn heals the soul by touch and words alone.

Copyright 2003 James McAlister

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—– As many [...]]]> Following is the talk given by my son Barrett at his mother’s funeral. I post it again for Mother’s Day as a reminder of just how quickly our time with our mothers, wives and daughters can slip away from us. There are other Mother’s Day posts under the Holidays category on the right-hand side.

—–
As many of you know, my mother had a great love for literature, especially children’s literature. And there was one book that she got years ago that’s entitled Love You Forever. It’s a story about a mother who sang to her baby son, “I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” She continued this throughout his life.

Eventually, however, their roles reversed. The mother got sick, and her son took care of her. Then he went home to his son, held him in his arms and sang, “I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” Mom and I read that book countless times–and always cried.

This book was much on my mind as I wrote this letter to my mom after seeing her in the emergency room. I was badly shaken, and there were so many things I wanted to tell her. I read this letter to her the following evening in the hospital.
—–
Dear Mom,

I have so many things I’d like to say to you, but I’m not sure if I can get the words out of my head onto the paper. So this might ramble a little bit.

When Brandi and I walked into the ER, we were taken aback. You and Dad hadn’t exactly told us how sick you really were. Seeing you made me realize how short life is and how so many memories come to mind at such times. Memories like…..

“Mommy, rock me in the red rocker.” This is probably my first real memory.

Caffeine-free Diet Coke. I didn’t know there was anything else to drink.

Putting war paint on Wesley and me and sneaking in crosses so we would be Christian Indians.

Lunch at Pizza Inn. We played games, and you attempted to make me do some homework.

Shaving my head before BMA camp. What a haircut!

Scrapbooks for every year of my life. I still love to look at them, and I’m sure that your grandson Jackson will as well.

The detailed journals you kept. Do you remember that when we were having fights you would pull out the journals and read them to me? Hearing how much love you had for me always seemed to shape me up.

You always took me to soccer and baseball practices and to baseball and Tae Kwon Do as well.

Countless costumes for dress up.

Playing dodge ball in the hall. Playing Pente, Aggravation, Sorry, dominoes, and 42. Trying to teach me to play the piano.

Tricking me into believing that Grandpa was giving me a hoe for Christmas–and it was really a microscope.

Encouraging me to go and do without being afraid of the world.

Standing by the convictions God had given you and Dad without caring whether others agreed.

Producing amazing productions for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Presidents’ Day–and anything else than could be used for a learning opportunity.

Crazy birthday parades and banners that found their way into the newspaper.

Never showing different amounts of love to Jenny and me. You loved us both the same.

Giving up a career to stay home and teach me even though you had never even heard of such a thing.

Summer reading programs. Reading to Dad, Jenny and me. Instilling in me a love for literature.

Mom, I regret that I have wasted so many years in not loving and appreciating you and Dad in the way that the two of you deserve. But I want you to know that the things that you tried to instill in me were not wasted. I look forward to instilling them in Jackson. Your legacy will live on. I also want you to know that you and Dad are my heroes. I hope that Brandi and I can be the parents that you have been.

I love you, Mom, and I treasure the time that we have left together. And whether that be one more day or twenty years, I want you to remember one thing: I’ll love you forever; I’ll love you for always; As long as I’m living, my mommy you’ll be.
—–
Barrett was able to spend eight more days with his mom. You can listen to his talk at www.james-mc.com.

Copyright 2007 James McAlister

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Robbed not of money, but of the touch and feel of an [...]]]> June 21, 1932. After Max Schnelling loses a 15-round heavyweight boxing title fight by a decision to Jack Sharkey, Schnelling’s manager, Joe Jacobs, makes grammatical history by exclaiming, “We was robbed!” In considering the New Year, “we was robbed” verbalizes some of my sentiments.

Robbed not of money, but of the touch and feel of an earlier age of simplicity and innocence many of us knew. Affluence and technology have added years to our lives but have also robbed us of much of the pleasure of living.

Having grown up in town in the 1950s, I recall numerous simplicities we accepted as part of life’s routine. How many of these can you remember?

When tearing into an oatmeal box and digging to find a drinking glass or saucer to add to your everyday dishes brought a tingle of excitement.

When going to the city dump assured marveling that anyone would toss out such good stuff. And then you hauled a few irresistible prizes back home.

When carrying out the trash meant toting it to the back yard to burn in an old barrel with air vents cut into the bottom with a cold chisel.

When jeans and shoes with holes weren’t tossed out, but actually repaired, sometimes repeatedly.

When an afternoon was devoted to pasting a drawer full of S&H Green Stamps into booklets for redemption. When communities sometimes pooled green stamps to buy school buses, fire trucks and, on one occasion, a gorilla and an elephant for a local zoo.

When overnight trips in the family sedan were transformed into an adventure by orange crates trimmed to fill the space between front and back seats so the kids could sleep, play and picnic.

When a radio the size of a small refrigerator drew the family together in hushed silence, waiting for the next thrilling installment of Fibber McGee and Molly, Amos and Andy or The Shadow.

When putting up a fence to contain the family pet meant digging holes for smelly creosote posts, stringing wire with a borrowed stretcher and hammering staples (and fingers) by hand.

When fast food meant picking up five BBQ sandwiches for a dollar from the Minit Shop.

When watching Saturday morning cartoons meant waiting for the TV test pattern to disappear and actual broadcasting to begin.

When Winky Dink was more exciting than any of today’s flying, killing superheroes.

When houses and cars weren’t locked because trust and respect were words of real clout.

When loose pieces of string were methodically added to a growing ball of twine–just in case.

This golden age is decidedly past, and with it a particular way of life. But since today is the yesterday my grandchildren will speak about tomorrow, should I not view this New Year as an opportunity to thank God for letting me be a part of it? Then if they look back and complain that “we was robbed,” they won’t be blaming me.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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Still, a subtle exchange is underway as “first times” are seamlessly displaced by “last [...]]]> Childhood is incredibly fragile and fleeting. And though its passage can be gauged in finite increments of months and years, parents easily identify with the “first times” which punctuate their memories. Some, such as first words and first steps, are rarely forgotten.

Still, a subtle exchange is underway as “first times” are seamlessly displaced by “last times.” The last ride on the merry-go-round and the last story book and the last tuck into bed all seem to make their escapes without any of the fanfare of the “first times.” We don’t even notice their absence until someone says, “When was the last time….”

But all the while, childhood–with its wonder and hope–has been slipping through our fingers. It once seemed to have substance, even an intense presence, but like the morning mist, it dispersed before our eyes. In its place we found something else: obstacles and challenges that we couldn’t see before because of the mist. It was then that a new set of perhaps-not-so-thrilling “first times” emerged, and some of them weren’t much fun.

Parents have told me some painful stories about their children in recent weeks. They simply don’t understand how such magical, enjoyable childhoods could have turned into horrifying nightmares.

The stories vary, or course, but there is a common thread: adult children are making some terrible choices. One has moved out because he doesn’t like being told what to do; he’s joining the Marines. Another has fallen into gross immorality inconsistent with her upbringing. A thirty-year-old can’t keep steady work. Another’s drug use has caused her to abandon her children. And these aren’t the only ones.

Why have such horrendous difficulties crept in when childhood seemed so pleasant? I don’t have any pat answers, but I will share one thing that surfaces far too frequently. Deal with it, and you solve a lot of the problems.

One father told me that his son was doing fine… until he fell in with bad friends. They partied so much that the boy had to drop out of college. Another young man was indignant when his father tried to control the company he was keeping; it was too late for intervention. Friends are so influential that parents and children need to learn how to spot and avoid the bad apples early on.

Though one’s physical companions are extremely important, the issue of “friends” is far broader. It extends to the music we listen to, the movies we watch, and the books we read. In such activities, relationships and bonds develop, and bonds are hard to break.

“My best friend,” said tycoon Henry Ford, “is the one who brings out the best in me.” And that’s a good test. If a friendship–physical or otherwise–does not inspire one’s best, perhaps it should be avoided. Otherwise, the morning mist of childhood may suddenly swell into an angry storm from which there is no relief.

THE MORNING MIST

When morning mist is heavy and
It thickly blankets all,
It mutes the harshness of the world,
And problems seem so small.

It’s then that dreams can reach the sky
With future looming bright,
For nothing is impossible
When morning mist is right.

But as the day begins to dawn,
And vapors dissipate,
The challenges we see unveiled
Can cause our hearts to faint.

And though we cannot ever hold
The mist with tightened grip,
`Twill be so sad if when it’s gone
We’ve let its wonder slip.

For childhood is just such a mist
So quickly come to naught
And often taking with it all
The magic that it brought.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

As part of the painful post-death process of deciding what [...]]]> Early in my career, I’d sometimes have to travel. And when Mary packed my suitcase she’d always hide little notes for my discovery. One, a long-lost, hand-sketched rendition of the cozy den in our tiny house in Sherwood, reminded me that “home is waiting for you.”

As part of the painful post-death process of deciding what should stay and what should go, I determined to dispose of an old bench Mary had loved. But just this week I rediscovered this sketch and a lengthy description Mary wrote about it in 2002.

Here’s how she put it:

“The framed ‘With Joy We Greet You’ over the bench was sewn by me. The doll on the shelf is 108 years old and a family heirloom. The little car on the shelf is James’ toy jalopy from 50-plus years ago. The rooster is composed of various kinds of beans and was made by me.

“Amos is chasing the original Puddy Tat… but only because she was already running away. She was definitely ‘the boss.’ Jenny is lying on her little pallet listening to a tape recording of her daddy playing his harmonica–and awaiting his return home.

“I have now had the bench for 30 years. It came from a huge house that was razed in order to build the Wilbur Mills freeway in Little Rock. The bench was old then. What was interesting to me was that when I went to look at the bench I recognized the old house!

“The house was one that had been divided into many small apartments when I was a little girl. I had visited with Mother’s friend there many, many times as a child. The bathroom was down the hall, and I am still reminded of it by soaps with an old-fashioned smell.

“I had never thought about where that house might be, had never even thought about it since childhood. So imagine my surprise when I started up those long steps at the back of the house to see the furniture!

“I remember going there when I was four or five. We lived in Crossett then, and I was so homesick as I went up those steps that I was nearly ill. Grief stricken as if a death had occurred. How can a child explain these things? Of course, I never told anyone how I felt.

“Martha Rogers’ son worked for the owners, and he is the one that took me to see the furniture just before the house was torn down. Remember, we played Forty-Two with the Rogers. Oh, those precious times. Why do we not recognize them? Let us recognize today for what it is: precious, no matter what happens.”

And much has happened since we moved from the little house in Sherwood in 1980. Now gone are the cozy den, the rooster, Amos, Puddy Tat… even Jenny and Mary. But the bench endures. And through this unusual epiphany of loss and discovery, the bench will stay, perhaps creating a meaningful link to a pleasant past for someone in a future generation.

Though time invariably tears apart the picture of life as we once knew it, memory is the glue that puts the pieces back together.

Copyright 2007 James McAlister

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In bygone years, whenever I’d yell, “Let’s go to the lumber company,” Barrett’s response [...]]]> “Now you know that Saturday morning is when we go to the lumber company, don’t you? They have gum and candy machines, so we’ll need to take our money.” Thus spoke the young man to his tiny three-day-old son–and our first grandchild.

In bygone years, whenever I’d yell, “Let’s go to the lumber company,” Barrett’s response was predictable. Rustling, scuffling and scratching sounds would emanate from his room, and he’d eventually emerge with a pocket of loose change. Though we tried to moderate his sugar intake, trips to the lumber company fell under a different dispensation. When men go to the lumber company together, ordinary rules of conduct are temporarily set aside.

Regrettably, the day inevitably came–somewhere between ages 10 and 12, I believe–that he no longer wanted to go with me. Instead of telling me outright, however, he complained to Mary. “Why does Dad keep talking about the lumber company? I really don’t want to go.”

Mary broke the news to me as gently as she could, initiating me into a new phase of fatherhood. I passed into another phase this past Friday as I heard Barrett tenderly introduce his new son, Jackson Barrett, to the once-familiar but long-dormant lumber company mantra.

He shared another revelation as well. “Brandi and I were wondering last night how our parents could have kept loving us even when we talked back. Now we understand that you were remembering this.” And as if I didn’t understand already, he held up little Jackson so I could see his face. But what he doesn’t yet realize is that countless other precious memories spawned over the next few years will eventually swell into a tsunami.

Jackson Barrett entered the world with a unique heritage few babies enjoy: to be brought into the light by the same skilled hands that had delivered his father. I well remember that anxious evening 26 years ago when Dr. Orman Simmons sat on the end of Mary’s hospital bed just prior to Barrett’s birth. Though terribly busy, he spent an hour comforting and encouraging, providing assurances that this new baby would not suffer with brain damage as his sister older Jenny had. He said, “You have prayed for me, haven’t you? You’d better.”

But a more compelling thought grips me today. Teaching is not so much what we say, but how we live out the ordinary moments of our brief times with our children. And in time the day comes when they begin to replay the tapes of episodes, both good and bad, we may have considered insignificant.

Saturday morning is when we go to the lumber company. And I trust that before many years expire, we three men, pockets stuffed with loose change, will journey to one together. The older two will watch with wonder as the little one excitedly plunks his coins into the slot, tugs at the lever–and gapes as goodies clatter down the chute. And we’ll have witnessed the rebirth of heritage.

MY CHILDREN

I watch the golden grains of sand
Now sifting slowly through my hand:
They are my times with my children.

And as they each fall into place,
Upon the ground their patterns trace,
I see the lives of my children.

Thus one by one they mold and make
The shape and course young lives will take
In my few days with my children.

Eventually the grains are gone
And leave behind a haunting song:
Have I been true to my children?

So while I hold them in my hand,
Those precious golden grains of sand,
I’ll give my all for my children.

(James McAlister © 2000)

Copyright 2006 James McAlister

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Nevertheless, dawn brought the persistent question common to children of [...]]]> Still in our pajamas, my sister, Sara, and I had been tucked into the backseat to sleep on makeshift beds Daddy had fashioned from orange crates. Departure time was usually around midnight to avoid the scorching daytime heat; cars in the 1950s didn't have air conditioning.

Nevertheless, dawn brought the persistent question common to children of every generation–Are we there yet?

Travel in those pre-Interstate days moved at the plodding pace characteristic of countless rural towns peppered along two-lane highways.

Without today's high-tech audio/visual options–or even a radio–we fabricated our own entertainment. Sara would shout, "Riddle, Riddle, Marie! I see something that you don't see, and it's a …!" Accepting her challenge, my guesses would begin. License plate and alphabet games also erased some of the monotony of miles click-click-clicking under the tires. So did counting cows.

And should those activities lapse into boredom, a vigorous round of "Red Truck No Pinch Back" (where whoever spotted a red truck would pinch the other) eventually invoked motherly intervention.

Scant reading material–Boy's Life and Mad Magazine–whittled extra minutes here and there.

But the ultimate thrill, now dangerous I realize, required casting paper cups attached to long strings out the open windows. Who could reel out the most line and still keep his cup aloft?

The only time I recall our buying prepared food was for a "country breakfast" somewhere deep in Alabama. I recognized grits but puzzled over the sprig of unfamiliar "green stuff" on my plate. Parsley, Mother explained, added color and decoration; I didn't have to eat it. My 12-year-old intellect never grasped the benefit.

Near mealtimes we'd hunt for a clean roadside park (virtually extinct now) with a shady picnic table. With slices of "lunch meat," homegrown tomatoes and mayonnaise from the cooler, Mother slapped together tasty sandwiches we washed down with cool water from a plastic jug. Then we'd set off again, probably to seek out a service station (likewise extinct) with, if possible, public restrooms.

Our little Kodak Brownie camera occasionally compromised my well being. In the Great Smoky Mountains I stretched precariously from the car window to photograph a bear I had surreptitiously enticed with tossed bits of food. Not smart. Mother hauled me back to safety with sufficient screams to slow the lumbering bruin.

Then unwilling to pay the requisite dollar for a North Carolina Cherokee in full headdress to officially pose, I dashed through the trading post and furtively snapped his picture on the run. Sara, of course, reminds me of these misadventures; I remember nothing of them.

We seldom stayed at a motel (mom and pop operations back then), but when necessity required it, Daddy sought one with a "AAA Approved" sign. Cleaner and fewer roaches he reasoned.

Today, essentials include chargers for cell phones, laptop computer, digital camera, and PDA–plus stacks of books and magazines. We gravitate to daylight, Interstates, bottled water, organic food, medicines and convenience. Undeniably bland.

Travel then and now: a picture of life where each successive decade erases a swath of the flavor and savor of an unappreciated past.

Copyright 2006 James McAlister

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