My Final Article of 2015 - Keep Walking!

Where to begin? On this Third Day of Christmas, while me three French hens are a-stewin', I must take some time to reflect upon what's next for me on life's road. No, I'm not going to make or discuss New Year's resolutions, as I don't believe in them. Short, attainable goals are fine. But resolving to do this or that in a world where we promises are not guaranteed, is fruitless, and sets us up for added pressure and stress. However, we do have control over our motivation to get to our destiny.

If you know me well, or at least keep up with me on social media, you will know my mantra; Keep Walking! This can mean a lot of things to different people. When I first started randomly posting these two simple words on Facebook and Twitter, I would include an image of a pair of shoes – often very beautiful, elaborate shoes in order to get one's attention. However, most people were more interested in the shoes (“where can I buy them?”) than the humble little message. Keep Walking. So, I stopped the shoe pictures, and folks stopped “liking” the posts. They didn't get it. It merely means Keep Walking (towards your destiny).

Before you can keep walking, you must know where you want your life to go. I was told to reach for the moon, because if you fail, you'll still land among the stars. The idea is to keep it moving, no matter how many obstacles, pain, detours and confusion may be on your life's road. If we stand still, and keep looking back at our failures, heartaches and losses, we will never see the gifts ahead of us. We will never know the tiny blessings that add to the richness of our life. We will have missed our bus, and thus, have to keep walking anyway.

I could look back and dwell upon the tragedies on my road this year; the loss of my mother; the trauma of financial breakdown; the humbling things I had to do in order to survive; the inability to manage my life and take care of basic responsibilities most of us take for granted, like, keeping utilities on or maintaining a running car; and ultimately, a life threatening illness I will continue to manage the rest of my life. I could; but, why? I'm not the only one who has lost a loved one this year, became destitute or sick. There are always those who have it worse than others, and some worse than them.

In September, I wrote about how I had found the love of my life and how vibrant the future looked. What I did not write about in October, was how quickly that love changed to revelations of a hopeless situation. Oddly enough, while it was painful, it was not excruciating. And, despite it all, my gratitude for 10 weeks of happiness I would not have had otherwise, over powered my disappointment. I chose to get up and keep walking.

It's true, when you are dying, your life does pass before your eyes. In my case, while I was in the hospital, mine passed before me in an endless parade of visions and memories. My hardships were the last thing on my mind. Instead, I saw the wonderful blessings, experiences and opportunities that I was granted this year.

My mother was gone, but she left me a legacy of laughter – she was one of the funniest people I ever knew. She taught me to stop and think clearly, and that it was better to look towards the future and be prepared; rather than look back with regrets. She taught me to forgive, even if forgetting is harder. She taught me to poach an age when I was 56, and how to tell the difference between good gin and bad. She taught me to never give up my faith, and to NEVER let anyone ever walk on me or block my view. She taught me to keep walking.

While I worried about how I would make ends meet, my creativity began to blossom, and a new passion for my life long love of art bloomed once more. I quickly learned how to redirect this passion into a possible way to generate income. But, more importantly, other people's love and appreciation for my painting validated me as an artist, but also my worth as a person. Having my paintings shown on television was one thing. But what touched my heart was all of my friends – and people I didn't even know – who cheered me on and encouraged me – to keep walking.

Through these steps on my life's road, I was discovered by those in a larger art community, who gave me the opportunity to exhibit with them throughout Indianapolis, and more recently in other larger cities. And, as my friend and mentor, Salkis Re (a California artist) told me, my tribe will find me. But, I also have to put forth the effort to find them. So, I keep walking.

Also, the gift of writing – to share my feelings and experiences with you here – have led to the publication of my new book; something I had put off for years.

My health threw me for a loop. I still have haunting feelings about how close to death I actually was – even though I did not feel I was in such danger at the time. Because I felt the power of my God and my ancestors with me. They kept telling me to fight, take control of my health – learn about my illness and grab it by it's mane, and get the heck back on track. I saved myself because I kept walking.

If we look upon our disabilities, we will never see our strengths or growth. I know I will have moments of sadness and fear throughout the coming year(s); we ALL will. But, if we hold onto the good stuff – it's in there, if you look close – it will become easier and we will become stronger.

A friend lost an infant child many years ago. She never got over that, and asked me recently why God took her baby. I don't know the answer to that. Maybe he saved that child from years of unspeakable pain and suffering. Did you lose the job you had for 15 years? How else would you have been able to walk into the career of your dreams that you now have, had you not been freed from your limitations? Was your car towed while you ran into the dry cleaners? Had it not been, perhaps you would have been involved in that fatal car accident two blocks away 10 minutes later. We don't know these things. It's not for us to know. But it is our responsibility to KEEP WALKING towards our destiny – toward 2016 – and all the riches and blessings to come. Bad things happen to all of us; and so do good things. Cherish those things and those people around you. It's been said many times before that yesterday has passed, but today is a gift; that's why it's called The Present.

Please, keep walking.

http://www.thecouriertimes.com/neighbors/article_446dac4e-a82d-11e5-a842-5772463bb5ea.html

FRIENDSHIP PEARLS ARE REAL GEMS

This year, in my own simple way, I am celebrating FRIENDSGIVING in lieu of Thanksgiving. Giving thanks is something I do every day, and most recently with due diligence. However, Friendsgiving is a practice many have adopted – some without even realizing it.

Friendsgiving is a casual potluck supper where the host often prepares a turkey (or other festive meat or main dish of choice), and guests bring their favorite side dish or specialty; no matter how humble or elaborate. The gathering is often the Wednesday before or the Friday after Thanksgiving. But it can also be held on Thanksgiving Day for all practical reasons. In fact, Friendsgiving can be any day in autumn.

The idea is for friends to gather together to celebrate their friendships, reflecting upon how they met, and how they all have cultivated and valued their ties together. There are many people who are far away from home, at school or work, without families of their own, or who have lost their loved ones. Friendsgiving allows them the opportunity to give thanks and feast together. It is also customary to include new friends or acquaintances in the spirit of fellowship. Their friends have become family.

Friends are very precious gems. Sometimes we take them for granted. But we all have people who have come in and out of our lives randomly throughout the years. Sometimes they stay a while; some leave without warning; and there are some who are there for the duration; often returning after decades of going our separate ways, yet never losing touch.

But there is a unique and glorious type of friend also – the ones you know, or barely know, who perform acts of great love, compassion and humanity towards you – when you least expect it, and when you most need it. I call these friends “Pearls.”

This is not what I intended to write about this month; even as things began to unfold in my life during the last few weeks, I did not want to write about this. But there is no way I cannot. Now that I have seen first hand how brief and fragile life is, I must address this subject for the goodwill of all of us.

On October 30, I developed severe abdominal pains on my right side, radiating to my back. It was excruciating, and by Friday I was heaving and regurgitating blood. My neighbor, a retired nurse, rushed me out to the ER, where their initial thought was I had gastroenteritis. I was admitted for overnight observation. My neighbor stayed with me, even going up to my room with me and helping me answer questions during my admission. She also volunteered (with trepidation, however) to help Rudy, my not-very-friendly Blue Heeler, who was left at home unattended. This in itself is huge, because he suffers from fear aggression, and most people are afraid of him. As an animal lover, she took it upon herself to be his caregiver as long as was needed without bloodshed or drama. He continues to pretend not to like her. She has also checked on me diligently and made sure I was okay at home alone. And took it upon herself to spruce up some of my landscaping. How can you not love a Pearl?

My overnight observation turned into a four-night stay. I was much sicker than originally thought. There was no gastroenteritis, instead, a UTI (urinary tract infection), which dehydrated me, causing my kidneys to fail and ultimately, I developed Septicemia. When I learned this, I was devastated and terrified. For three nights, I suffered through fever, hallucinations and violent body tremors. But it was my decision to fight like hell, and rather than stay for weeks and weeks passively allowing the sepsis to take me out, my doctors deemed me fit to go home in short measure.

It was upon returning home when reality set in and I immediately sank into a deep depression filled with fear, anxiety and the terror of what I had experienced. Mostly, my emotional state was haunted by the fact that this was the first time I truly needed my mother's presence, and she was not there. Delayed grief soaked me like a wet blanket, and I cried and prayed, and cried and prayed some more.

Then, I met with a urologist who informed me that I have a rare kidney stone that comes from a genetic condition. This stone is what set all of the other conditions in motion; beginning with the UTI.

Soon some other Pearls began to appear – like those angels unaware we hear about. The morning after I arrived home, a Pearl left some cans of soup on my front door. Another Pearl made me beef stew, corn muffins and a small pan of brownies, along with a basket of fruit and bath tissue. This Pearl also took me to a few doctors appointments. One lustrous Pearl made me my favorite meal; liver and onions! A very dear Pearl brought me a turkey dinner that lasted me a few days. And, another Pearl brought me a very special lunch on Sunday. Then there was a rare Pearl who unexpectedly helped cover some expenses without my knowledge, removing a tremendous burden from me. Of course, there were those who visited, called and wrote me. My mother would be very happy to know how many people have shown their love and support for me. This was her biggest fear that after she left, I would not be cared for; not so. This is how Pearls come together and form the friendship strand that binds us all together.

My surgical procedure to blast my kidney stone was scheduled for November 23. Let me tell you, I'm the most frightened wuss on earth. Immediately, I began to fret and worry; not one for hospitals or procedures I'm not familiar with. I won't lie – I've been scared! Mostly, I worry because I'm alone and don't know what to expect, still recovering from my hospital stay. But, other Pearls in the strand have reassured and comforted me with their experiences and expert knowledge. Yet, more than anything, all of my Pearls have covered me with their wisdom and undying faith in our Creator. I am told I have many, many “prayer warriors” lifting me up. I am certain it is these glowing Pearls who have helped me through this thus far, along with my fierce faith in God. My personal relationship with Him has grown stronger – as I am.

So, hopefully, by the time you read this article, I will have successfully made it through this procedure (yes, lots of people have it done every day; but remember, I'm a wuss); passed said stone fragments with little disturbance to my neighbors; and, I will have ideally celebrated my 62^nd Birthday yesterday.

But most of all, with or without a big feast, in my heart I will have – and will spiritually continue to celebrate Friendsgiving with all of my Pearls – As I will for the rest of my days.

As Seen in THE COURIER-TIMES

A Halloween Treat To Remember

To begin with, this story is Faux Fiction. You, the reader will determine what's real … or not …

When I was 7, I longed for a shiny acetate store bought Halloween costume. They were glorious to look at, and if you got one, you were mighty special. You could be Dale Evans, Peter Pan, Mighty Mouse, a clown or the Frankenstein monster. Maw had made mine, and I endured it for years – A furry monkey costume, complete with mask and tail.

The thing about that costume is it itched me to death! I broke out in hives every year, but was too proud to admit it until I was safely at home with my bag full of candy, oranges and pennies. Making matters worse, I was forced to wear my costume over my school clothes, including tights, a pair of wool leggings with stirrups that fit over boots, and a heavy coat. On top of that, I had a tight hood secured to my coat, placed over a woolen cap. My monkey mask was tied around my bulky head, and my tail stood straight up. It's a wonder I could move at all. My friends never waited for me. By the time I got down our front stoop, it was almost November 1^st.

It didn't matter because I was not allowed to go out on Halloween with my friends. Rather, I went with Maw, who stood right behind me as I went door to door down our long block. Maw hated the ordeal as well, but it was that way or no way.

At each and every door, Maw would stop; look the house over; and either nod or shake her head before I could approach the door. Then she would prompt me, “Say trick-or-treat!”

“Trick or Treat, Mam.”

“Say Thank-You!”

“Thank you, Mam …”

And it went on and on. She was selective as to which houses I could stop at or not, and this always made me mad. I could see my friends running in and out of the street like banshees wailing and hissing in the night. I wanted to run wild and out of control too. I always wished Granddad would come with me, but he was left at home to pass out candy to the other children.

My friends never missed a house, and they always had bigger bags than I did; some had two. “Why can’t we go to the Rozelle’s house?” I would wail. “All the others are going there.” She'd say,

“Because you are neither a vagabond nor a scalawag, and you’ll go where I tell you … where the food is safe!” I rolled my eyes safely behind my mask.

Towards the end of the block, up by Marsden Street, there was Mrs. Hazel’s lonely little house, set farther back from the street than the others. We all had standard “Jamaica Houses,” with three windows and a door, but she had a tiny bungalow that was nestled back in the trees that shook when the Long Island Railroad rumbled by. This was the first year that we noticed Mrs. Hazel decorated her house for the holiday. She played in Maw’s bridge club, and she and her husband, a short quiet man, had no children of their own. Since she recently retired, we figured she'd be home. On her little porch was a pumpkin with a candle burning inside, and seated in a large cane back rocking chair was one of those big, stuffed effigies. You know, how folks take old clothes and stuff them with newspapers so that it looked just like a real person, placing them in chairs or trees to scare the kids. Back then, stuffed people hanging from trees weren’t too popular in our neighborhood. But Mrs. Hazel had a good size person on her porch. It was headless, with a large pumpkin for a head, and wore a red plaid shirt and old dungarees stuffed into some scruffy boots. His arms were folded across his chest and he was slumped down in the rocker.

I was terrified. “I don’t want to go there, Maw,” I whimpered. None of my friends were there to go with me, and frankly, Maw was even standing closer to the street than usual.

“Don’t be foolish, go on!” she urged. Chills tickled the small of my back, and I suddenly wished I had on even more clothes. I was so cold, and scared of the pumpkin goblin. I hate those things, and the pumpkin itself was beginning to ripen and stink. I rang the bell and ran back to Maw in a snap. “What are you doing, silly? Go back up there!” Just as I was about to defy Maw and fly home, the door slowly opened. Maw pushed me back towards the door.

“Say trick-or-treat!”

“Trick or Treat, Mam.”

The door opened wider, and the warm light from inside lit the porch completely. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hilda, is that you?” Mrs. Hazel hollered?

“Yes, girl! I’m out with Irene.”

“Well, well, well, is that you in there, Miss Queen?” She patted my layered head.

“Yes, Mam.”

”What you supposed to be?”

“A monkey again, Mam.”

Mrs. Hazel was silent for a while, and then mumbled, “Sure you are, heh. Come on in!” Before I could protest, Mrs. Hazel grabbed my arm, pulling me in past pumpkin man, and Maw quickly followed behind. “Come in and warm up. I’ve been waiting for some nice company.”

Mrs. Hazel led us to her small kitchen with the aroma of meat roasting and hot cider. It was quite warm and cozy in there. Her little round table had an orange linen table cloth and displayed a large milk glass punch bowl filled with hot cider, plates of cookies and candy corn.

“Wow!” I shouted. “Look, Maw!”

“Mind your manners,” Maw reminded me.

“Oh, Hilda, it’s Halloween. Let the girl enjoy herself. Here, Queen, help yourself.” She handed me a little china plate and I loaded it with cookies, ignoring Maw’s warning glance. I knew the gluttony lecture would be given once we got home. I sat sipping hot cider, which was very, very spicy and had an odd taste. I figured that was just Grown Folks Cider, and I was feeling very full and sleepy, while the two older women sat and gossiped quietly.

“Where is he, Hazel?”

“I don’t know, Hilda. It’s been two weeks. That woman stopped calling here and he hasn’t come home since. I know he’s with her!” Mrs. Hazel began to sob softly.

I had learned long ago from Maw what my place was and not to butt into grown people’s business. But this was good stuff! I tilted my head back in the chair, closed my eyes and pretended to doze off so they could speak more freely.

“Did he take his clothes?”

“No! That’s just it. He left for work that morning, and he never got there … Neither did she!”

“Nooooo,” Maw crooned.

“Yes, the dirty blood clot even took his lunch that day! The police ain’t doin’ nothin’ to help find him. He’s just an old man who run off wit de woman, that’s all.” They had both reverted from proper English to their more comfortable West Indian dialect they fall into when angered.

Through the slits in my eyes, I watched as Maw took another sip of cider after Mrs. Hazel doused it with a big splash of sugar cane brandy. Oh, brother, this is going to be a long night. Eventually, I really did sleep, and the next thing you know, Maw’s dragging me back out into the cold, past the pumpkin man and down our long, lonely street. It was dark and scary. All of the children had gone in, and I couldn’t even see our house at the end of the block. I was grateful when Maw grabbed my hand in hers and we trotted the rest of the way home.

I was freezing cold, and the frost from my warm breath in front of me swirled above my head like a ghost. The big Jamaica houses loomed on either side of us, and I was too afraid to even mention there was not a soul nor car out on this Halloween night. Finally, we reach the comfort of our house, and found Granddad waiting at the door for us.

That night, I didn’t even bother to sit up and count or sort my candy. I washed my face, piled into a pair of warm pajamas and climbed into bed without being made to. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning, enduring nightmare after nightmare. Soon I was awakened with a start by the sound of sirens wailing down the street.

That’s our street, I thought! I sat bolt upright in my bed, just as our doorbell rang. Who could that be so early in the morning? It was not even daylight yet. I heard Granddad at the front door talking with someone; who, I don’t know. He walked back to him and Maw’s bedroom, where they spoke in hushed voices. Suddenly, I heard my grandmother’s familiar bawling, “Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no! (her favorite expression),” then, “No, no, no, no!” They talked some more, and there was nothing to hold me in my bed any longer.

I stood outside my grandparents’ bedroom door and listened to him relay the story to her again. A neighbor had heard a gunshot coming from Mrs. Hazel’s house. When the police arrived, they found her shot to death at her kitchen table; apparently it was a suicide. Our finger prints are on that table, I thought. Something was burning in the oven. When they opened it, they discovered cooked human remains – a woman’s body stuffed in a big roaster, all fixed up with potatoes, carrots, onions and celery. On the porch was a headless Mr. Hazel propped up in a rocking chair with a pumpkin stuck where his head should have been. His own head, by the way, was found brewing on the stove in a large cider-filled stockpot full of cloves, cinnamon and apple peel … Grown Folks Cider ...

I never dressed for Halloween after that, and the monkey costume was finally put to rest. Today, as I sit sipping my hot espresso, and spread orange marmalade on my muffin, I am busy planning. How shall I dress my pumpkin man for my porch this year?

Excerpt from my novel “Queen Irene: A Garden of Easters,” not yet released.

Originally published in The Courier-Times, Oct. 25, 2015

Loving This Place Where We Are Right Now

The power of Sankofa. In Ghana, West Africa, the word “Sankofa” means to 'reach back and get it.' This phrase is often symbolized by the Asante Adinkra symbol of a bird, with his head looking backwards towards the middle of his back in order to pick up an egg that had been resting there. Reach back and get it; meaning, your heritage, your history, or something from your past that was lost, but is sorely needed now. One cannot move forward without claiming the past. You must reach back and get it, and savor the gifts within your egg. The bird flies forward while looking backwards at the past, in order to assure the future journey will be fruitful. Another symbol representing Sankofa is a stylized heart; which brings me to my message. Once again, I am speaking of love.

Sankofa-2 by StaceyTorresART

Love has a tendency to spin things to appear to be what they are not. Like things we hope for and long for. Some of us live for it. Love can be elusive, fleeting in its appearances, and will often take leave for years; decades even. Love can come and go in and out of our lives throughout these years. And, for a few fortunate souls, love can stay and last a lifetime. But, sometimes we have to remember that love may be misplaced at times, and we think it is lost forever. Yet, if we look back to our past and gather our eggs, we move forward with clarity, and love will find us.

Not long ago, a close friend introduced me to another very close friend of hers. It was a casual introduction, certainly not intended as a “hookup” or a matchmaking effort. She was merely introducing her friends to each other. However, there was something more – much more.

Very quickly, we discovered we had more things in common than most people do in several lifetimes. Both of us had cared for our mothers, who have since passed on. We like the same things -- unusual, quirky things that few people could even relate to. Within a few short days, our lives became entwined, in a wonderful positive way, and life as I knew it would never be the same. I suppose it's safe to assume life for him has changed as well, but I won't speak on his behalf. Things are still quite new for us. Without going into details, “smitten” would be a good word to use to describe our current situation.

The grin on my face feels permanent, my outlook on life is much lighter. I am happy. I have not been nor felt happy in many, many years. I sing again. I laugh a lot more. I feel giddy … silly … much like a school girl – an almost 62 year old school girl. There is peace and sweetness in my life again, and the pain and darkness from the not too distant past is beginning to fade more and more each day.

So, what does the power of Sankofa have to do with all of this? Well, one evening during one of our marathon telephone conversations, I mentioned something about a building I once lived in many years ago in Indianapolis. This prompted some distant memories and several questions ensued. It was then that we realized we had actually met briefly 34 years ago. On that night, we shared a pot of tea and talked for hours; much like we do today. But, what happened to us? How did I let him get away? How did he? We don't know … nor do we really care. At that time in both our lives, neither of us were ready for each other in any way. We needed to grow, to live and experience love, hurt, disappointment, joys, grief and tragedy all in our own time, in our own ways. While our lives did have some parallels, we simply were not prepared to even know each other. Life had to happen. Love had to happen. And, love had to leave in order for the process to continue. Our pasts had to happen in order for us to journey towards our futures. And, as our lives began to unfold and open like a late blooming rose, love came back again.

At a time when I truly thought all was hopelessly gone … When I believed that love only happens to the young and those who have been steady on the path … When I believed it was all over for me, and I was ready to just give up on everything and resign myself to being an old cat lady (without the cats), love stepped out of the shadows and offered the egg.

My guy has an amazing mind for remembering millions of song lyrics. And he's fond of an old Cole Porter tune, “What Is This Thing Called Love?” Well, we don't know. What it is to me, may not be for him, or vice versa. However, it seems to work for us. We're just enjoying the view and basking in the comfort of each other and our new-found friendship. Last night, he told me that when he woke up in the morning, he felt completely surrounded and engulfed with love. I'm still trying to imagine what that feels like. I'll be honest, he remembers far more about that night in 1979 than I do. At first I doubted his revelation, but his recollection of the evening – of me – and other details validate our little miracle.

Last month, I wrote about what “Love Is.” It can be so many different things to everyone – it does not have to be about romance, but it should always be about passion. Your love of your family, your friends, a career, a pet … anything … Put your all into that love. As we all know, life is so terribly brief. Grab what you love and hold it dear. And, of course, give as much back – and then some. Please don't deny the ones dearest to you the knowledge that you love and care for them. Tomorrow is not a promise; nor is the next hour.

What I realize now, is love never really leaves. It stays around, but not necessarily in the way we expect or hope it will. Sometimes we don't recognize it. In my life, I know I have loved many people; and in all due respect, many men. And, I am being candid when I admit I've never been in love until now. And for what it's worth – whatever this thing called love is … whether it be for a minute, a year, or if it is the beginning of everlasting … Love is Always Here to Stay. Open your heart, and reach back and get it.

Stacey Torres is an artist, dancer, and the author of “Jewels Of My Soul,” available on www.amazon.com.

First Published in The Courier-Times, September 27, 2015

Loving The Place Where We Are Now, The Courier-Times

Consider For Yourself Today All That Love Is

As you (should) know by now, I am very candid in my messages to my readers. Being at a stage in life where I no longer feel the need to be who or what I am not, I write things the way they are. Today, I sat in the waiting room of a local food pantry – no longer concerned with what anyone else thought. After all, they're there too. Today was interesting. Hard times have hit many of us in ways we never expected. And I began to think of two words a new friend said to me the other day; “Love Is.” We are in a world of overly processed hatred and envy; prejudice and jealousy. So, I thought about those two words.

Love is the gentle rain soothing the parched yellow corn in the late August sun.

Love is the grape throbbing in the heat of the afternoon as it clings to the vine that gives it life. And the grape, in turn, will give life to others.

Love is the gift of forgiveness, even when we admit we can never forget.

Love is the strength and lessons we learn from that painful incident we can never forget.

Love is the gift of patience – you give to yourself.

Love is the gift of forgiveness – you give to yourself.

Love is the baby sparrow, who prances proudly before me with his spike “hairdo,” showing me that he can walk. Love is also the watchful eyes of his parents, confident he can fly – After all, he did not fall from that nest.

Love is the first time I saw his smile, and knew God's gift was before me.

Love is the water that flows when the faucet is turned on, when you thought you didn't have a dime to pay for it. Love is the simple mercies that made it possible.

Love is the gift of the elderly, whose wisdom and experience brought us here.

Love is the one who hears your cry in the dark, and comes to your aid.

Love is the one who hears not your cry in the dark, but comes to your aid anyway.

Love is his voice, soothing and comforting when you feel life and love have left you forever.

Love is she who stops to comfort and shelter a wounded animal.

Love is he who makes room in his life to comfort and shelter a child with a wounded heart.

Love is acceptance.

Love is diversity

Love does not judge or assume the virtue of the diverse souls our Creator placed on this earth.

Love is the melody of a language unknown to you that speaks of peace and freedom and the chance to live and work with dignity and pride.

Love is he or she who is strong enough to embrace those different from themselves, and learn to exist globally in unity.

Love is not being so ignorant to believe what they read or hear about others – without knowing FACTS.

Love is not being so shallow to spread False Evidence Appearing Real (FEAR) because they were so ignorant to believe what they read or hear about others – without knowing FACTS.

Love is a tomato, right off of your own vine.

Love is knowing your neighbor's name, and knowing you can count on them to help you when you are alone.

Love is knowing that even if they cannot or will not help you when you are alone, that you will be there for them just the same.

Love is the light at end of your street after a long journey.

Love is a cup of tea in a worn, chipped mug with an old friend.

Love is a warm loaf of bread you've baked for a new friend.

Love is his laughter, when your heart is aching.

Love is a three-legged dog who wins the race, because he's too grateful for the three he has to be worried about the one he lost.

Love is knowing your soul mate was there all along.

Love is being humble enough to put aside your pride and ask for the help you need.

Love is giving it back when you are able.

Love is the effervescent memory of a mother, father or grandparent.

Love is their surprising visits to us in the night in the form of a dream.

Love is taking a fish and feeding yourself; or, add some bread crumbs, and feed your entire family.

Love is sharing your talents with the world.

Love is that strange, unidentifiable scent – like powdery flowers, or a faint perfume from ages past. This fragrance lasts a brief second and then it is gone... I am told it is the scent of an angel, a lost loved one, or the Holy Spirit.

Love is knowing we happen to love the same dish.

Love is the choice collection of friends who will listen to your pain while silently bearing their own.

Love is strong coffee and a handwritten letter.

Love is that 50 year old rose bush that still blooms humbly in spite of your neglect.

Love is realizing that it's never too late – for anything.

Love is a welcomed phone call – even at 5 A.M.; and,

Love is wishing you had thought of calling him first.

by Stacey Torres

Originally Published in The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN 8/30/2015

Mojito Watermelon

I discovered this luscious recipe on Pinterest (via countryliving.com) this evening. While there is no alcohol in the recipe (and there's absolutely no reason why you can't add a touch of run to the mix), it's still a beautiful and refreshing side dish and/or dessert. In my case ... a summer evening snack.

http://www.countryliving.com/food-drinks/recipes/a35606/mojito-watermelon/

Mojito Watermelon

On My Stay-Cation -- Wish You Were Here

Stay-cations are not new. They became begrudgingly popular in the 90's when we all had sticker shock from gas prices hovering around $2/gallon. So, we were encouraged to stay at home and take “one tank trips” on weekends in lieu of the classic summer vacation. That was fine for some folks, but for those of us with wanderlust tendencies, that was never quite enough. However, in 2002, as things began to change in my world, I came to the realization that I may never get a real vacation again. Sure, I've had working trips, and a journey or two that took me to family funerals. But, no, those aren't vacations. And, I longed for one.

It took me a while to make up my mind, but that July, I decided to plant a small (3x4') bed of perennials in our 9^th Hole-looking backyard. I found an old outdoor chaise lounge and a table with an umbrella from an antique shop, and created my own getaway. I reinvented “stay-cation” to suit me … Thus, it became a vacation taken at home without the cost of gas or expensive lodging. True, there was no beach, no swim-up bar, no sounds of the surf at night, no sexy waiters, no island music or exotic foods … all deal breakers for me. But, I'm a damn good cook – especially when it comes to island fare; I have my own music – can't swim to the bar if there was one – And, I bought some of those mood enhancing seashore audio tapes (a poor facsimile; but better than nothing). And, well, no, I never replicated the sexy waiters either, but I'd sit in my comfortable Adirondack chair with my iced tea, close my eyes, and imagine.

Over the years, things began to develop. I spent an entire winter growing (winter sow method) dozens of plants from seed, including Rugosa rose bushes, perennial Maximilian sunflowers, Bee Balm, Daylilies, Oriental Lilies, Asiatic and Orienpet Lilies, lots of Rudbeckia … even a yellow trumpet vine (yes, I knew better; but after 8 years, it is finally blooming, and is magnificent). What began as a humble little 3x4 foot perennial bed, has evolved into a quarter acre of green chaos.

There is even an accidental peach tree growing right outside the back door. Initially, I purchased a small ornamental patio peach tree (traditionally grown in containers, and moved inside during the winter). In true Stacey form, I planted it in the ground, figuring it would only grow the average four feet, and I would keep it pruned. It was a pretty little tree that survived two Indiana winters, and then gave up the ghost. So, in the following spring, I took a saw to it and cut it down … I thought … What I had not noticed was the little sucker I left sticking up out of the ground. That sucker is now 12 to 15 feet tall, and my not-so-patio peach tree bears fruit – the sweetest, tiniest little peaches ever. The sucker was from the original root stock.

So, for several years, I tended to my little piece of Eden, and that's how I have enjoyed my summers. Every year, something new was added … four Rose of Sharon trees (gifted to me by my mother); Viburnum, Hydrangea, Hostas, an American Plum; Bradford Pear; and a couple of Mulberry Trees are allowed to stay because they give good shade, and fortunately, no berries. I've added archways, and a couple of paths …

But two years ago I became ill with chronic anemia, which had me in a terrible weakened state. I had no idea anemia could be so debilitating, even though it was the initial cause of my grandfather and aunt's deaths. It blindsided me, and so I struggle with that, along with my asthma, on a daily basis. Some days I feel great, other days, I can't leave my bed. Needless to say, my garden suffered for my lack of energy and ability to care for it. What was once my sweet stay-cation getaway, became a horrifying man-eating jungle of sorts.

Because I do not have (nor can I afford) help with it, a lot of it was left to fend for itself. To make matters worse, the Indiana Monsoons of 2015 have not helped at all. I dreaded even looking outside. But one day this week, something told me to look out my back door. In the pouring rain, I noticed my favorite Tree Lily had been broken off at the ground from a horrible storm we had last week. I went out to see the damage, and was shocked at what else I saw … My fickle Sumatra Lily was blooming, and I could smell her strong perfume through the rain. I had brought the bulb home from the Patio Show in Indy years ago. All of my Daylilies, their bed hidden by Rudbeckia and some Wild Roses, were shining like yellow beams of sunlight in the rain. The Rose of Sharon trees were starting to bloom, and a rich and flamboyant “After 8” Oriental Lily was giving a show to beat the band. The biggest surprise was the lavender Bee Balm (Monarda), which was spreading and had grown to at least eight feet tall! I've never seen those heights before. So there were some surprises.

I have learned, that no matter what, God will take care of nature – with or without me. I see peaches; I see my Dinner Plate Hibiscus coming along … and some Dames Rocket that should have been done months ago, still blooming beautifully. I need to get out there and clear away the overgrowth, but I still don't have the stamina – or help. I do a tiny bit at a time. It would be wonderful to sit on my tiny mulched patio and sip tea again. You know, I would love to have a pond … Yes, I know you're thinking, “that's all she needs!” But I do. I've come to love the countless birds and other wildlife that visit me. But, there is a place in my Secret Garden where a pond would be charming.

With this wet weather, however, much of my summer life has been put on hold. This stay-cation is different than years past. My dog has been very patient with me; we don't walk as much as we used to because of the rain and humidity, and I spend my days painting, eating fruit or liver and onions. I do practice my dance when I can, or troll the catch and release ponds (a/k/a online dating sites) – not exactly the type of pond I had in mind. Moreover, my little neighbor, Willie the Siamese Cat, makes regular stay-cations to my habitat to hunt on safari. I've gotten used to him, and he's a good mouser, and moler and chipmunker. He now leaves my rabbits (and me) alone.

So, today I'm standing here in my gardening costume; old baggy jeans, long sleeve shirt, a straw hat, boots and my leather gloves … I'm ready to face the Hoosier Rain Forest and do some work. I plan to have supper outside tonight; a Jamaican Beef Patty, Coconut Rice, Salad and a Mai Tai … And I don't have to tip anyone! Oh, wait! What's that I hear? Can it be? Thunder again! Ah, well ...

Where Do I Go When ...

Some days we just have to face it -- life can be a challenge. In my case, yesterday was a roller coaster - a fusion of joy, fun, compassion, anger, frustration, more anger, relief, comfort and then trepidation ... all in one day. What's up with that?

As I get older, I am constantly learning new ways to decompress, regenerate, and de-stress without destroying. So, yesterday, I found a spot in my secret garden (at home), where I sat in silence and solitude for several hours. There, I was able to breathe, clear my head, create some art, and cry ... and cry ... and cry.

Two days ago, I received an annual piece of mail - the one that comes from the County Assessor that gives you the current assessed value of your home. It comes every year. Only this time, it was addressed to me. I have not stopped crying yet (except for a brief hour or two spent with two girlfriends having lunch yesterday). It was the sudden shock value of seeing it - the finality of it - the surreal reality of it - the fears. Here it was in my hand, and it was real. It also meant that my mother and dad are truly gone. My mother passed six months ago, and he died 17 years ago. I never expected these emotions to overwhelm me. So, it's mine now. What do I do? How do I fix it? I'm tired, confused, and clearly in over my head ... The symbolism that they are gone from me. The grief has come back like gang busters.

I'm Back

Yes, I have returned - after a very long hiatus, I have returned to my beloved blog - and you. I have much more to share than before. Please come back and check on me when you can. Namaste

As The Sun Goes Down On My Life, by Stacey Torres (Acrylic Paint on 14x11" Stretched Canvas

Just Be An Instrument

Exactly one year ago, I picked up my brush and began to paint again after a 40 year hiatus. Having studied art decades ago, it was assumed that I would pursue a career in art, but it was not in my cards. So, in 1974, I gave up my childhood dream of being an artist. Last year, I returned to my first love, and commenced to create as a means of therapy as I dealt with my mother's failing health, and my inability to “fix her.” With art, I have complete control of what I manifest on canvas or paper.

Unexpectedly, things began to happen for me rather quickly as far as my artwork goes. At almost 62, I never dreamed I would see the word “artist” after my name. But it is there, and it has taken my life down a new and wondrous path.

Last fall, I painted a portrait of an African woman. Usually, when I start a painting or drawing, I rarely know what I'm creating until it is done. When I was finished, I looked at it somewhat in awe, because it was not something I had planned, nor the type of portrait I usually do, or someone I would have normally been drawn to paint. The woman in my painting was young, with dark skin, gray eyes, a crooked smile, and a short blond Afro hairstyle.

My process is, once I've completed a portrait, I study it and imagine who the character I've created may be, where he/she may come from and what type of life they may have had. Sometimes, I'll include the story with the artwork.

I named the woman in the painting LERATO, which means “love” in Sesotho, a Bantu South African language. This painting was slated to be entered in Indiana's Lt. Governor, Sue Ellspermann's Hoosier Women Artist Contest. At the last minute, I withdrew this entry for another. I don't know why I pulled it, but something told me to. I held onto it, and on January 29, 2015, I listed it on Etsy for sale.

I thought no more about Lerato for a while. Some paintings sell rather quickly, and others linger for months. On May 26, I received an email from a woman I did not know. With her permission and blessing, I am sharing a portion of her message to me.

“ … This is so crazy. I have the wildest story to tell you. Is there any chance you painted this after someone named Lerato Moletsane? I am thinking there must have been some way you knew her? My name is Asheley ***, and I live in Louisiana, but I met this Sotho girl named Lerato about 13 years ago when I was working in an orphanage in Lesotho. Her and I became like sisters over time, even though we lived on separate continents for the majority of our friendship. I saw her as much as I could and she became like blood to me, even though our lives were so opposite. Anyway, she suddenly passed away recently and I was thinking of her tonight, and had the idea just to type her name into Etsy and this painting is the only thing that came up. I couldn't believe the similarity this photo has to Lerato, and even she had her hair dyed blonde when she passed away. Your description could not be MORE SPOT ON for her and that's why I keep thinking you must have actually known her and created this piece after her. What's more -- and God as my witness -- and I can prove it -- you posted this painting to your site the DAY Lerato died -- January 29, 2015 … I posted a photo here so you can see the uncanny resemblance. Did you know her somehow? This can't be just a coincidence ...”

Even now, a month later, I still get chills when I read her letter and think of all the events leading to the morning of May 26. Why did I paint that portrait? Why did I pull it from the contest? Why did I list it on that day – January 29? I've never seen her before in my life, knew nothing of her existence, nor Asheley's. And, why did I name her Lerato, and even reference her hometown and heritage? Moreover, how did I paint a portrait of a woman who looks almost exactly like the “real” Lerato?

I've included the photo Asheley sent me, along with my portrait of Lerato. Some people have looked at the two and just assumed I painted her from the photograph. No, I never saw the photo prior to painting the portrait.

The original painting is now in the hands of Asheley, purchased for her birthday by her loved ones. She says it has brought her much comfort and closure. I have a myriad of mixed feelings flowing through me, and don't understand any of this. But a friend told me to just be an instrument. I feel God directed my hands as I painted her; and things began to fall into place from that moment on. So, I AM an instrument. Perhaps some day, Stacey “the artist” will make a small fortune – perhaps I won't. But nothing will ever compare to the peace and gratification I continue to feel knowing that God used me as an instrument to do some good for someone else. Our talents go much deeper than the product. Sometimes they can work miracles and heal a wounded heart … and bring souls back together.

First Published, 6/28/2015 by The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN

We Get By Giving

We Get By Giving

It has been around since the beginning of time -- Bartering. For centuries, people have survived on it; families thrived on it. This very simple exchange brought people together, saved money (especially where there was none) and cultivated forgotten talents and gifts.

The concept of bartering is very simple ... trading goods and/or services for other things without ever using any money. Communities grew by using the bartering system. Going back in ancient history, the Phoenicians adopted a simple bartering system that they picked up from earlier tribes, such as the Mesopotamians and Egyptians. It started out very simple, among family members, villagers, and grew rather quickly wherein the Phoenicians developed a very sophisticated network and bartered with people and far away nations. There was no such thing as money in Ancient Egypt, and their bartering system included food, textiles, livestock, jewels and spices ... even slaves. And, because certain minerals were such a rare, commodity in those times, it was quite common for Roman soldiers to be paid with salt, which was highly coveted.

Craftsmen bartered for grain, barley and other precious sources of food, and animals, using their skills as potters, weavers, goldsmiths, etc. The exchange was both powerful and practical. I've got what you need; you've got what I need; let us help each other.

So, the practice has been in existence for thousands of years. In our country's early years, people bartered for health care, paying doctors with a chicken or preserves. In some cases, an education may be bartered for other skills, such as cooking or sewing. Transportation was often paid for with eggs, a piece of carpeting or boots. To some, this may sound archaic, stupid and very impractical. Think again.

We are still in an economic crises, and things we took for granted for decades are now hard to come by. Baby boomers, like myself, are aging and while we are still in the mainstream swing of things, we are beginning to know our limitations, and because we are who we are, we know how to delegate tasks to others. However, many of us can no longer afford to. Life changing situations have put some of us in a tailspin. My grandfather always warned me that everyone -- everyone -- is one paycheck away from being homeless. Sit in denial if you wish, but 30 years ago, none of us thought we would have to work until we were 70; not by choice, but by necessity. Now, we are learning to sacrifice more and more. We talk about having more than our parents did at our age, but at our age, our parents were able to sit down and enjoy retirement.

In the State of Indiana, the minimum wage is $7.25/hour. Sure, you can live on that - but what quality of life do you have? What level of nutrition are you able to afford yourself? Everything you read about healthy eating tells us we must have five to 10 servings of superfoods per day. Really? Some of the foods on the short list include Blueberries, Blackberries, Spirulina, Wheat Grass, Asparagus, Seafood, Cherries, Pomegranate, Acai Berry, Maqui Berry, Goji Berry, Sour Cherry Juice, fresh powerhouse vegetables ... Fine. But, have you priced those lately? I've made the analogy before: a young single mother with two children reads this data in a magazine and wants what's best for her family. So they go to their local grocery store, and cherries are $6.99 a lb. That's barely enough for a one-time healthy desert for her children -- and maybe herself. Perhaps she could bag them up in sandwich bags for a healthy snack at lunch -- again, one time. Or, she can choose a sugar-laden dry cereal for the same price that will feed them for a week. Which do you think she is forced to choose?

Not long ago, it would not have been unheard of for her to barter her services -- perhaps tutoring, sewing -- anything -- for food. And nobody would have looked down on her. Today, there's this lame predicament called false pride that prevents us from reaching out to others when we (desperately) need help. And for some of us, when someone seeks help from us, while we may give it, it comes with a cost ... gossip, judgment and conditions.

As my life evolves again and again, I have been forced into situations that were not necessarily ideal for me, but I know I am in survival mode. I do believe in the law of abundance and prosperity thinking, but not in a cash or economical manner. I believe we get by giving, and we are all in a situation where we must lift each other up -- regardless of our predicaments. My yards (front and back) have been in disarray for two years. My garden was my pride and joy, but because of health and economic issues, I'm unable to tend to it the way I have in the past. Dependable/affordable landscaping is no longer in my budget -- and, so is concrete. So, I came up with what I thought was a brilliant idea yesterday. BARTERING!

I posted on social media that I truly needed help. My proposition was, "I bake; you mow!" Being a skilled baker, I was certain people who know this would jump on the opportunity. Well, it wasn't quite like that. You know, it was one of those posts that everyone reads, but quietly ignores. The concept of bartering terrifies some folks. It's as if you are asking for their first born child, or favorite chair. "What's in it for me?" Homemade breads, muffins -- a Key Lime Cake -- whatever! "How much cake would I get?" Well, that depends on what you think the yard work is worth ... I've paid $20-$60 to have it done in the past ... I also know my breads and cakes are priceless.

Then, finally, a friend messaged me that she thought she had someone who would be very interested. Praises Be! Without going into the details, I'm quite comfortable with this. So, I think I would like to continue bartering for other things. As an artist, I have tons of people who tell me they love my work, but don't know much about art, or don't have the money to invest in good artwork. Can we barter? Last month, I made another offer on social media - car repair for a couple of my original paintings (I even offered commissioned artwork) ... They laughed. The car repairs came to $862. The paintings (which had been on Criminal Minds, CBS TV), sold for more.

And so, I think we should look, step and walk way outside the box when we are faced with challenges we may not be able to afford, or can no longer physically do. There are always safe, comfortable and creative ways to get what we need and help each other out. About 40 years ago, I used to walk an elderly woman's dog in NY. In exchange, she gave me what she said was "junk" jewelry. It was not; it was estate jewelry that I cherished for many years. Of course, I sold that about 20 years later ... Life is full of investments. And sometimes the best investments we can make are in each other. Bartering is also an excellent way to get to know your neighbors better, and meet new people. We never know what one may have to offer -- unless we ask.

First Published 5/31/2015, by The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN

New Beginnings

Once you've lived or worked among different textiles and fabrics, you develop a talent for recognizing them by scent. Organza, while very beautiful, has an olfactory sensation slightly different to Organdy, both of which sparkle like magical gossamer wings in the sunlight. The faint smell of Organdy, daffodils, natural straw, patent leather, powder and Arpege signaled a very special, but familiar event. In the distance, was always the distinct savory aroma of roasting lamb. This was the scent of Easter Sunday Morning as I remember it growing up. To this day, the fragrance is like comfort food to my nose.

Nana was born early on Easter Sunday Morning in 1896. That year, Easter fell on April 5, as it does today. Easter always comes on the first Sunday after or on the first full moon after the spring Equinox. According to Nana's (Episcopal) Common Book of Prayer, it has only occurared on April 5 five times since then. But my grandmother insisted that our family celebrate her birthday twice, on both April 5 and Easter Sunday. We indulged her this accolade because it humored her and, well, we liked a reason to celebrate.

A few years back, I started to pen a fictitious autobiography titled, “Queen Irene – A Garden of Easters.” I say fictitious, because I embellished it with all sorts of madcap events that never happened. Some of the stories, however, were true, and each of these had some sort of right of passage for me. Such as the absence of my birth father for several years, and his unexpected arrival one Easter morning before church, brandishing a huge Pepto-pink bicycle, and a hideous brown plaid cotton dress that would fit a 40 year old matron. I was only 9. It was the worst dress ever, and I glanced at the beautiful powder blue Organdy confection my Nana had made for me that hung on my bedroom door. Did he really expect me to wear this – on Easter Sunday? It wasn't that I was spoiled or felt I was too good to wear the brown plaid dress on Easter. No, I believe it was what that dress represented to me at that time; a person who felt entitled to walk in and out of my life at will, simply because he was responsible for making half of me. My father was someone I resented horrifically for many years thereafter.

Sensing my dismay and making no effort to hide her own outrage, Nana explained to my father that the dress was “too big” for me, but once I grew into it, she would see that I wore it proudly. After he left, she carefully folded the brown plaid nightmare, muttering something about it being made for a god horse, and not a little girl, as she put it in her cedar trunk. I never saw it again.

Me, in my Nana's Garden 1963

The Easter prior to my mother and I moving to Indiana, she and I had walked home from church. I was upset because that morning, I discovered a baby robin had fallen from its nest and I tried to comfort it by placing on the Easter grass inside of my basket. I didn't realize that the mother would not approach the foreign object that held her young one. When we got home, the baby was still lying among the purple grass, candy eggs and jelly beans (I had salvaged the chocolate cross my aunt had given me), but I had hoped it would feel well enough to nibble on the candy and get well. Surely I was old enough to know better. But there is a side of me that remains to this day, that thrives on the hope of things not likely to ever happen. Gramps came out of the house and quietly took the Easter basket and baby bird to a small grave he had dug in the back garden of our house on 118^th Avenue.

Birds have a way of reminding you of certain things. My family always associated the presence of a cardinal with a deceased loved one. Gramps died at Easter in 1985. I remember his home going service was more of a celebration of the Resurrection. It seemed to make perfect sense. Upon his death, we brought his body here to New Castle for burial, and that was when my grandmother and Aunt Thelma moved here and made this their home. Whenever Nana saw a cardinal, she swore it was Gramps. I never had the heart to tell her that it was our state bird, and they were everywhere.

Then, about 25 years ago, doves built a large nest at our backdoor on top of the electric meter. Every Spring, my step-dad, Lewis, would remove the nest; and the doves would rebuild it. He too died at Easter (1998), and upon his death, I decided to leave the nest alone. The doves continued to use it for many years. Mom developed a relationship of sorts with “Mrs. Dove,” as she called her. Interestingly, about 10 years ago, robins began to show up and they would fight the doves for residency. Usually, the robins win. It's still there, and has become petrified. The year my mother went into the nursing home, a robin built another nest at our front door on top of the porch light. I removed it, and they rebuilt. This went on for a week. As usual, the robins won. So, Thursday, I watched the robins battle with the doves in the front lawn – along with some other “odd” activity I won't describe here. They made a ruckus! And lo and behold, during the deliberations, a small sparrow perched herself on the ready-made nest, and has been there ever since.

This made me think of a lot of things. Easter is the season of change and transition. Through it all, we continue to move on and hopefully grow and thrive. This is my first Easter without my mother, whom I lost in February. The numbness is as bitter as ever. However, in the midst of my pain, I was contacted by ABC Studios about featuring some of my artwork on an upcoming episode of “Criminal Minds.” I almost missed this opportunity, because in my grief, I was not reading emails. They selected a total of seven of my paintings, with the hopes that they will air on CBS (not ABC – confusing; I know) April 8, and possibly the 29^th. I was reminded that there is a possibility that my work could very well end up on the cutting floor and not be seen at all. I don't care! The fact that the network was interested enough to even look at my art, let alone choose some is validation enough for me.

This is bitter sweet. In my grief and sadness, this ray of light, which in all honesty is HUGE (for me) has reminded me that there will always be change – and New Beginnings.

First Published, Easter Sunday, April 5, 2015, by The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN

My Mother's Precious Gem Eyes

I received a phone call the other night from the nursing facility where my mother resides. Of course, seeing that number on Caller ID at 9:30 p.m. sends chills up my spine. They advised me that she had stopped breathing twice, and called for paramedics. It was one of the coldest nights so far this year. My car had not started in days, and I panicked.

As I waited for my uncle to pick me up to take me to the emergency room, my mind was flooded with emotions, fears, madness, memories, and the constant overwhelming feeling of guilt I continue to battle ever since I was forced to place my mom in a nursing facility.

I've spoken of these feelings before, and I work at feeling more confident about my decision every day. You know how they say when you have a near-death experience your life flashes before your eyes? Well, this was a similar experience —  but, instead of memories, it was the urgency of wanting her to wait for me — give us one last chance to be with each other and say a proper goodbye; for me to see her eyes one more time before they closed.

"Beryl," by Peter Cristofono

Precious gem

She was born in 1923. In those days, doctors placed drops of silver nitrate in a newborn's eyes, and they sometimes did not open them for a couple of days. When my grandmother got her first glimpse of her second child's eyes, she saw they were a very pale green; the same color as beryllium — one of the precious gems of the Bible — the eighth stone in the New Jerusalem, Beryl. And so, my mother was named Beryl.

I've been thinking of some of the wild-and-wacky experiences I shared with her. Because my father was in Germany at my birth, and Mom went back to work within weeks, our extended family helped her raise and nurture me. Her older sister took me on several trips with her. By the time my mother was ready to take her first plane ride to Canada, I was to go with her as her escort. I was five. She was terrified and pretty vocal about it. I told her to calm down and put her seat belt on, because (I thought) they kept the plane from falling.

We took the subway to the World's Fair in Flushing Meadows again and again, eating huge Belgian waffles with powdered sugar and fresh strawberries; Japanese food, escargot, crepes and my favorite, Polynesian food.

Baseball and The Beatles

She loved baseball, and went to the last Brooklyn Dodgers game at Ebbets Field (supposedly, I was too young to go, so she went with friends). However, she and I went to the first NY Mets game at Shea Stadium when I was 10. Two years later, she braved the young masses (and my mania) and took me back to Shea to see the Beatles — what were we thinking?

Before we moved to Indiana in 1967, Beryl had a different persona. She worked at Lever House in Manhattan for Lever Brothers, and wore these amazing tall, skinny stiletto heel pumps ("Mad Men" style), with pencil skirts and flamboyant dresses my grandmother made her.

I remember sitting on our stoop in Queens during the summer waiting for her to get off the bus, which she took from the subway home. When I heard those heels clicking, I knew she was coming. She played poker and wore the same hair style from 1949 until just a couple of years ago, and the same lipstick, Revlon's Cherries in the Snow. Yes, they still make it; there are a few tubes around here somewhere. And, she always wore eye shadows in shades of purple to enhance the soft, green beryllium color of her eyes.

She was stabilized while in the ER. But, I watched her cry endlessly for her mother, and I felt the presence of our ancestors in the room. She's changed though. Now she appears less tense and fearful; a bit more peaceful and comfortable. Today, she stared at me a long time with those eyes, and I knew there's just a short time left to bask in them. It made me uncomfortable, and I looked away. For a brief moment, we connected again in our sweet, but awkward way we have with each other. How does one prepare for that end?

You were in Eden, the garden of God. Every precious stone was your covering, the ruby, topaz, and emerald, the chrysolite, onyx, and jasper, the sapphire, turquoise, and beryl; your settings and mounts were made of gold. On the day you were created they were prepared. — Ezekiel 28:13

In Memory & Gratitude of
BERYL MOORE MAUPIN POINDEXTER
June 3 1923 - February 16, 2015

First Published 1/25/2015 by The Courier-Times, New Castle, IN

Photo, "Beryl," by Peter Cristofono