A poet asked me the other day if I were a lover of the earth, and I was uncharacteristically speechless. What does that mean, I asked? She said lovers of the earth are just that, they love the earth, care for it, try and protect it, appreciate it. Don’t we all love the earth, I asked? She said no, we don’t, and when I thought about it, I could see she was right. The earth is not loved. I am considering this, and thinking more about what it means.
I was startled to walk out back behind the farmhouse and see a single tulip sprouting up out of the ground, it wasn’t there a day ago. There must have been a lot more than one. This patch of grass was obviously one of Florence’s gardens, long overgrown and left behind. Florence was 104 when she died, was not able to care for her gardens but we see that they are everywhere, flowers still pop up in unexpected places. Maria says we should replant this tulip, move it to the garden in front. That seems right to me.
My angel texted me, she has a new job, as a congressional assistant on Capitol Hill,
she was tired of long hours, all the paperwork, unrepentant sinners,
weekend work, no benefits, she loves the free gym, the jogging track,
the yoga classes and personal trainers,
complete health care package, pension and free cafeteria food.
The money, she says, is great. Government work is for her, it reminds her
of the Heavenly Bureaucracy before the Great Recession, plenty of money, lots of help, no rush.
Mostly, she says, everybody
begs for money all day, it’s not her business.
My angel even gets a free Ipad. She says she loves
to ride the elevators and text the other angels,
who are begging her to come back, they miss her, before God finds out
where she is and bangs some big drums.
She says she knows she should start a blog, but she is
nervous about opening herself up like that, she doesn’t want to go on Facebook
and send “go, girl” messages all day to people going shopping and telling everybody that they
are at the bus station now.
She loves the feel of a paper book, she says, change gives her a headache,
and she has borne all of the change she can handle.
She says she’s been laid off for six months
now, they’ve outsourced the angel work to Bangladesh, no more personal visits,
just e-mail and texting, call 1 800-Angel if you need salvation or guidance,
your call is very important to us, our angels are handling calls from other
pilgrims, seekers, aspirants and fallen souls, your call will be answered in the order in which is was received,
and if you wish, leave your number and an angel will call you next Tuesday at 8 a.m. We appreciate your business.
Besides, she says, I have no need of a blog now, I don’t need to listen to people where I am,
they just complain.
Nice photo of Simon, she says, can you e-mail me an image? I need a screen-saver.
Florence’s family life was upended when her mother announced she was pregnant at age 46. Betty Marie was clearly disabled in some way, and her sister’s birth and life was to become one of the most painful experiences of Florence’s young life. As always, she rose to the crisis and went to work helping her family. In keeping with the tradition of the time, Florence never explicitly says what illness her sister suffered from, she only said she was “slow.” Betty Marie’s birth was to change Florence’s life.
“Many times I wished for a little sister, thinking how nice it would be. As I got older, I forgot about a little sister but there were unforeseen events. Mother came upstairs one morning, woke me to tell me she was going to the hospital. I said for heaven sakes, what for. The answer – a baby. The shock stunned me. Mother was forty six and I could not believe what she was telling me. Mother had not told anyone. That day, Betty Marie was born. History has repeated itself as Grandmother Dillon had Raymond my uncle about the time Ralph was born. Only Grandmother died a week later.
Betty was a beautiful baby looking just like Mom. After the shock I got things ready for the baby as best I could. Mother had a vary hard delivery and never seemed well after that. When she came home I took over as best I could so Mother could get as much rest as she could. Everything seemed O.K. with the baby until time for Betty to talk, she learned, Mom and Daddy also Bye Bye. At the age of two Betty had pneumonia. The doctor said don’t let her cry for a minute. We took turns walking day and night. We played records all night, she liked music and that seemed to quiet her. We played the records over and over, not taking time to change them. In due time she got better, but when we would out she had bad tonsils and at the age of three, down to Troy to a specialist she went. After having them out, we expected she would soon pick up on her talking. She learned names and talked some very slow. Betty was never able to to go school. I stayed home to help Mom with her. She understand everything we said to her but could not express itself.”
Next: The heartbreaking story of Betty Marie was far from over.
Red is like Waldo, when the sheep are out, he is everywhere. Sometimes you have to look around to see him.
