Old Photo's & Stories They Tell

    One day last week I posted a picture of my brother, Walt  and me on Facebook. It was one of those photo's popular in the early 1960's where companies solicited doting mother's to have a 'professional'   picture of their children taken for a   low cost,  while at the same time  cleverly advertising  their company brand. For this photo,  the company was  Foremost Dairy. It's a sweet picture, made more fun and memorable with the Foremost logo in upper left hand corner, and  1963 calendar below.
                                                 

   I recently came across it in one of my Mother's albums; Seeing the picture brought a sense of happy nostalgia and made me smile,  but not until a writer friend of mine commented  "there must be a story to tell behind this photo"  did I think of it from that perspective.  So I decided to look at the picture more closely to see what story there might be.

    I studied the  girl and boy in the picture and knew we were happy kids,   our lives still young and innocent, secure in our Mother's embrace. I thought about our parents  being divorced and Walt longing for our father's attention, how the world had been in the midst of the cold war and drop drills were the norm in classrooms throughout southern California.  How after my parents divorce we moved to an apartment next to the  railroad tracks.   I remember the  first  night after we moved  in  a train loudly  chugged by  with all  its bells and whistles,  and  my little brother ran from his bed to mother's room asking if the Russian's were coming. While it seems a funny story now, then it was tender and endearing , and completely understandable that a frightened  9 year old might ask that question, especially since the week before he and other classmates took cover under their desk in response to a drop drill in fear of the Soviet Union bombing the U.S.   Only mother's assurance  'all was well ' gave Walt  comfort and peace before he could fall back  to sleep.

    In 1963 I was at that awkward age, 13. Kind of twixt and in  between. No longer a little girl, but not yet  grown up. I still wanted to play outside games with the MacInnis kids, ( our good Catholic  neighbors and school mates),  but also wanted to be popular and pretty  enough to have a boyfriend.

    I suppose if there is  a story to be told, it's  my brother and I were always the best of  friends. We liked each other, had fun together.  Oh, that's not to say we didn't get mad at one another,  we  surely did, and  Walt would be the first to tell you, I was his bossy big sister. And  as we got older,  I was  sometimes  disappointed  in decisions he made, like one that took him far from his roots and home.  But no matter, whatever differences we may have encountered were overrode by the bonds of love we shared -  a bond  that our Mother instilled  in us from the day she brought Walter Rod Cooney  home from the hospital, and introduced me to my baby brother.

   

   

   

  

   

   

   

My Brother Walt ( May 30, 2014)

                                                  Walt & Mom    

       Many of you, like me, may remember Memorial Day was always  May 30, and  only in recent times  is  Memorial Day celebrated on the closest weekend to that date,  to allow for a  three day holiday.  No matter the date change ,  I  will always think of May 30 as the traditional and true  Memorial Day - not only because I recall the sweet stories  my mother told  me from the time I was a young girl of  how she and her family drove each Memorial Day  from Council Bluffs  to  the cemetery in Odebolt, Iowa  to place a fresh bouquet of Peonies on  grave sites of aunts and uncles and other beloved , but because May 30, 2010 is the day my brother, Walt Cooney passed away.

        I'm  not alone in knowing the pain of losing a sibling, there are many, including friends who  have lost a  beloved sister or brother . How  easily I can  sympathize and  understand their anguish and sadness of losing one so dear, one  they were so connected to, one   so cherished.

      My brother was very dear to me, I loved him unconditionally, and was always proud to be his  big sister - from the day our Mother brought Walt home from the hospital I was his champion, he was the most perfectly beautiful baby - from the beginning we were simpatico, and I instantly   felt  called to be his protector, a feeling that would remain with me throughout my brother's life.  I'm happy to say Walt and I  would always have a close bond - we shared and experienced so much together.

     On this day, the fourth anniversary of his death I especially think of our mother who lost her youngest child, her only son - the one she called her 'Golden Child', and the lifeline they had one to the other.   And Dad, too , who just last month showed me a view  near his   house in The Village's my brother liked very much when he visited there - a place Dad  now calls 'Walt's View'.
                                                                                              

 

     Mom and I often talk of Walt, about some fun thing  he said or did - how for so many years we were the "Three Musketeer's".  Today,  mother will share how Walt called her the morning of May 30 to tell her he would be there (at her house) in a month to help clear out her garage, and fix  bathroom plumping, and how she couldn't wait to see him.  I will silently relive  mom calling that evening to tell me my brother had died  -  how together,  our hearts were  broken and  our sorrow,  at that moment seemed unbearable.

      But for the grace of God, and the promise of His enduring love in the glory of Jesus Christ ,  we would not have been able to carry on. We know Walt is with the Lord - praying for us,  waiting in Heaven, like we are here on earth until one day when we'll  meet again.

     
                             Walter Cooney 1954 - 2010  RIP+

Precious Moment

O peaceful morning!
How lovely you are
the sun rising
over the mountain
streams light across the lake;
It glitters like gems found
in a treasure chest
The red fir , white fir and
pines are still shrouded
in a dewy mist,
the air is fresh and crisp
The busyness , the noise
of the day is yet to come
and I'm grateful for
this moment of solitude
to ponder, and give thanks
for God's creation and
nature's beauty

Bird Song

(for my Dad, who recently read aloud to me the verses of  Kate Greenaway)

I sit on an old
stump of a log
and watch as
early morning sun
shines like a spot light
on a forested  stage
and listen to 
a chorus of birds
perform their sweet
Spring song, making
me wish I could
sing along



 

A Walk With My Son

    No high  dollar adventures, small pleasures suit me fine,  like today when my son, Gavin  came upstairs and said he was going for a walk and asked if I'd like to go with him. It took me less than a second to say yes. I quickly changed my shoes and off we went down the old rock road. Our dog , Maggie doodle trailing happily behind.

                                             

    The sky overhead a beautiful blue, the  April sun warm against our still   wintery, pale white skin. I thought about long ago years, that don't seem so long ago,  when my son and I spent hours together sharing, and playing with Fisher-Price  Litte People , Disney characters,   and Ninja Turtles. Throwing the ball back and forth.  Reading books and coloring books. 

    Gavin is no longer a little boy , and has his own view of a grown up world , busy with life and work and love,  but  happy am I  on our afternoon walk as  he tells me about his  hopes and scope of future dreams.  I listen , and my heart smiles as  he talks of possibility and  his goals to achieve.

 

    

The Lovely Mrs. Wagner

 

 

     Some people we meet at a very young age, and their influence leaves a lasting impression throughout our life. I'm blessed to have many such people in my life,  and think of one person now who is very dear to me. It  was 1957 and I was  in second  grade  when I met Mrs. Wagner. My mother had arranged  for me to  ride   to school with the Wagner's.

  The Wagner children , including daughter , Susan attended  Zion Lutheran, while I went to St.Rose of Lima on the opposite corner.  Over the years , Susan and I would become best of friends and share many adventures and momentous times together.

   But at that first meeting, I was a kid who didn't much like being away from my mother and dad, or familiar folks and was a little shy to be riding to school with people  I didn't know. It was Mrs. Wagner's  kindliness and happy  smile that helped me feel secure, and welcome. March 10th, Mrs. Wagner will be celebrating her 99th birthday, and  her smile is the  same great smile  I remember from long ago - a joyful, happy smile that still makes me feel secure and welcome, and  makes me want to smile, too !

    While Susan and I got a ride to school with her parents, we would often walk home. I must say, a walk much easier for me than for Susan as she suffered with Leg Perthes and had to walk with metal crutches and a brace strapped  around her waist until she was ten years old. In my youthful innocence, I'm not sure I really understood Susan's challenge, but am happy to say,  intuitively , I knew  Susan had to walk at a slower stride , and so  never tried to outpace her, but always walked by her side.  Well, until we got into high school, and Susan had the fastest time around the track !

     At night Mr. and Mrs. Wagner set up an apparatus to keep Susan from putting any weight on her foot and  used a 5lb. bag of sugar as a pulley to keep her foot suspended in air. Susan remembers her parents never complained about that chore they did night after night, and says  watching the care her mom and dad so lovingly gave, helped shape how she cares for her own children and grandchildren;  and   how her  difficulties at such a young age molded her determination, competitive  spirit  and can do personality.

       Throughout our teenage years, Susan and I were always at each others house - I don't think a day  went by we didn't see each other or talk on the phone.  One afternoon while at Susan's, Mrs. Wagner was  gently  reprimanding  her older brother, Terry for neglecting a chore. I remember Terry picked up a broom , danced around the room, saying  in a teasing, light hearted  way, "Here, Mom! Go ahead,  take it , and give me swat". Mrs. Wagner got the giggles , and we all started to laugh. It was an endearing moment, and one that has stuck with me all these years. The last time I visited with Mrs. Wagner, a year or so ago,  I shared that memory with her, and she got the giggles all over again.
                                               

 

        I don't recall seeing Mrs. Wagner ever wear slacks or capri pants, only dresses , like Mrs. Cleaver on Leave it to Beaver.  Even when she drove Susan and I to the beach after our 9th grade graduation , she wore a summer dress. Her example of how women should look and live, and conduct themselves  was a positive role model to all of us young gals.  Both Mr. and Mrs. Wagner lived their faith by example - Mr. Wagner owned Don's Hamburgers  on the corner  of Heliotrope and Randolph. My mother, brother and I lived across the street.

    One Saturday evening  when mom stopped in for hamburgers for us, Mr. Wagner  added 3 vanilla malts. Mom, looked surprised, and told Mr. Wagner she only ordered hamburgers. At that time  Mom was on a pretty strict budget, and the malts would have been an extravagance.  Mr. Wagner told her, " You just take these home to Kathy and Walt, Mrs. Cooney, it'll make their hamburger taste better, and add a little calcium for their bones".  My mother has  never forgot that kindness, and said it is one she has tried to immolate.

       Don and  Neoma Wagner were married in 1944, and together raised five children -  Don (Mike), Terrence, Susan, Pamela, and Reid - all  of which I'm privileged to have  known.  Mr. Wagner passed away at age 67, and eldest son, Mike,  two years ago.  The Wagner's were, and are a wonderful family.  And as anchor and guide, their dear  mother, Mrs. Wagner!,  who leaves  a  legacy of wisdom and joy,  deep faith in  our Lord and  Savior,  Jesus Christ,  and love - not only to her children, but also her grandchildren and great-grandchildren - and to all, like me,  who have been graced by her goodness.

                          Happy Birthday, Mrs. Wagner !
    

       

      

       

        

        

  
        







      

      

      

   

   

    

   

Winter Camp

     One of my favorite memories growing up is going to  summer camp. I was a member of Junior Catholic Daughters - an organization similar to Girl Scouts and Camp Fire, and many of us looked forward to making the 75 mile bus ride from  Maywood to Wrightwood, California to spend a week at Camp Teresita Pines.  I can still picture the metal bunkbeds  in our cabin, and screen windows - they looked a lot like the camp cabins in the classic Disney movie, Parent Trap.

 

     All week long we swam, did crafts, played games; went on an overnight hike where campers cooked hamburgers wrapped in tinfoil in a hole in the ground, and attended daily Mass  at what looked like an outdoor amphitheater; We played a lot of volleyball,  sang around the campfire every night, and visited the camp store every afternoon.  I still remember counselors, Miss Sue and Miss Pat, and how I teased Miss Sue by continually calling her Sappy Sue. She took it all in good stride though,  and retaliated by calling  me Looney Cooney.

                                                  

     For most of us our camp experience ends when we reach our teen years ,  and what remains of that special time is only a memory.  That's one reason I looked forward to  Winter Camp.  To make a new camp memory! Although , not the same place or same season, and definetely not the same age ,  it was fun to gather with a group of women who cherish their own camp experience as much as I did.

 

 

   I first met these ladies , who call themselves The Goldens when we paddled the shores of Lake Coeur d Alene last September for PaddleFest . Our 104 mile journey around the lake was  a fund raiser for Camp Sweyolakan in Mica Bay to help bring attention to the camp's unique legacy and present day financial needs. It's the camp these women, now in their 60's attended when they were Camp Fire Girls ,  and later served as camp  counselors.                                              

                                                       

 

     Hearing their stories about camp, and the bond they share made me wish I had been a Camp Fire Girl, too. Several months ago while at a pot luck dinner for the paddlers, I was delighted when Mitch presented me with Honor Beads. Each color represents a particular achievement, i.e. Brown - Outdoors, red-Sports and Games, green - Creative Arts, and so on. They are called Camp Fire honors because when you have done any one of these successfully, you have the honor of wearing a bead. I was proud to wear mine at Winter Camp !
                                                      

 

     It was a great couple days, too !  We  played marathon games of Progressive Rummy and Mexican Train, did some bird watching - even saw a magnificent Eagle glide slowly across Scottie's deck to perch in a nearby pine tree. Some of us  enjoyed a cold, snowy night sitting outside in the Hot Tub.  Huck gave instruction about Tatting, and shared pictures of her talented work. Cooking was no problem as we divided into teams of three, and took turns preparing Brunch and dinner - all the meals were wonderful ! Including,  Miss Jonny's  best ever Blueberry Waffles with her specialty, homemade Blueberry syrup.

     I happily learned during PaddleFest, singing camp songs play a very rich and important part of the Sweyolakan tradition, so was pleased at Winter Camp we continued that tradition by singing the blessing before each meal.
                                             

    What's fun  is the Goldens still call each other by their camp  (counselor) names - Huck, Scottie , Mitch, Miss Margie,  Miss Jonny, Miss Kari, MoJo. These women ,  most of whom are now retired had successful careers, raised families and continue to be active with Camp Fire and Sweyolakan.

     I admire loyalty. Perhaps that's another reason I like The Goldens, not only are they loyal  to Camp Sweyolakan, but are loyal to one another.

Angry Wind

The wind blew angry
all through the night
whipping through trees
like hurricane waves
slapping hard against
a sandy shore, reminding me
of my own angry mood
when I lose my temper
or feel misunderstood
The churlish sound
constant and loud
like the night of
the dead on
All Hallow's Eve
pounding my head -
while  quiet sleep
escapes my realm
Oh! How I long
for soft lullaby
of gentle breeze
and whispering pines
to sooth my soul

Old Log Swing in January

Here's  the  old log swing
where I sit and gaze
at the dark blue water
of Lake Coeur d Alene
and its shadowy shoreline
in the distance
to contemplate life
and its living and loving
and goodness and giving
throughout the ages;
Its magnificence
and beauty
even on this cold, bleak
January day

Is Letter Writing a Lost Art?

    A sweet, lovely gift arrived in my mailbox Saturday, a letter  addressed to me from my dear friend, Phyllis.  Letter writing is considered somewhat of a lost art these days, so it was with great delight I opened the lengthy missive to  read the salutation that began,  Dear Kath

     As I curled up in my favorite  comfy chair to sit in  front of the warmth of the fire and leisurely read the  newsy details of a family Christmas, a grandchild's  soccer game,  a younger brother living in Oklahoma , and  movies ,  a warm , easy feeling fell upon me ; one so familiar between trusted friends. 

     Phyllis  also shared  her thoughts  about an article she recently read in the Los Angeles Times titled A love letter to the letter where  featured columnist, Simon Garfield laments  the loss of letter writing , and what society misses  by only texting, tweeting  and email.  I , too, lament the loss of letter writing and have blogged on this subject before.  Garfield rightly points to Keats and Dickinson suggesting what we know about their lives , their creative talent  and style primarily from letters they wrote.

    The same holds true not only for people of fame - authors, poets, politicians, but those within our own life circle.

     I thought about the box of letters I have from family and friends dating back to the late 1950's , and  how they describe place and time, activities and adventures,  mood and emotion . Sometimes they express encouragement, other times great sadness.  But what they always do is  leave a history , if even a glimpse,  of who we were, and how we lived.

    To write a letter takes some effort, it is sharing, a giving of oneself. There was a time, for  30 years or more  I received a letter from my Grandmother Vera Cooney every week. She was always interested  in how we were doing - mother,  my brother, and me. Then  she'd  write about her  activities - catering a big wedding and decorating cakes,  China painting, church,  an Altrusa club meeting, and  news about aunts, uncles and cousins, and about the weather in Council Bluffs.   I always looked forward to a letter from Grandma, and am happy I kept so many of them. There are other letters in my box - from Grandma Blanche, Aunt Nor, Dad, Uncle Lloyd,  Grandma Viv, and cousins , including  Lynn,  Shauna and Nicole, and  long time friends who wrote about their summer vacation  at the beach, or some feeling of great angst or  delirious  joy.  Each letter important, and held very dear. Each one a small  part of the larger story of family and friends.

    I once considered myself  a good letter writer, too,  but must admit in recent years have fallen victim to the  quick and easy text and internet as so many others have,  where texts never linger long, and email deleted. In his L.A. Times article, I appreciate what Garfield writes:

    And if we replace simple letters with their instant always-on alternatives, we relinquish so much epistolary architecture too. The elegant opening address and sign off, the politeness of tone and the correct grammar and spelling. And before this there is the nice flowing pen and the stationery, and after it the scuttle for the stamp and the rush to the last post.

    Receiving Phyl's letter helps renew my hope for letter writing.  I'm grateful to my friend for her letter, and the joy it brought me,   and because of my friend's letter, I'm  prompted  to  take pen and paper in hand   and  write a letter, too.



   

New Years Eve

The house is quiet, the night is still
only a few more hours until the
end of another year, I celebrate
with no loud reverie or
dancing on the table, but our
family tradition,  Chinese food to go.
My husband and I
play a game of Cribbage and
listen to Johnny Mathis sing
"Auld Lang Syne".  I watch
 shadow flames from the
wood burning stove move
across the wall, and reflect
on the miracle of life
in each passing day - days
quickly passing by, like
a passing parade.  The blessing
of family and cherished friend,
of love and laughter and
happy times. And long days
laden with sorrow and fear -
death. Like winter; cold and
gray, bringing a heavy heart,
and tears.  But  the days
carry on, until Spring again,
bringing new life and birth, and hope.
And so it is, the New Year comes.
 

Fifty Years Ago/John F. Kennedy rip+

    Fifty years have passed since President John F. Kennedy was killed. It hardly seems possible so many of us, who were so young when the President was shot on November 22, 1963 , are now older than he was when he died, and yet we remember that horrific day and where we were like it was yesterday.  Several 'friends' on Facebook  posted memories :

*    I remember the day like it was yesterday! I was in choir and Mr. Salter talked to us after the PA announcement. Then we gathered in the cafeteria. No one was eating, and you could hear a pin drop.

* I was standing in the East Quad when I heard the news on the PA system. No one spoke, many shed tears, and most of us held our breath hoping it wasn't true.

* I was in P.E. and walked into the gym and saw Mr. Taschner sitting in the bleachers with his head in his hands, crying. I don't think I had ever seen a grown man cry before.

* I remember being in science class. It was such a sad day. I remember going home watching TV, and crying for days. I still have the newspapers from that horrible time. No matter the politics, everybody loved Kennedy.

   Yes ! I remember too, I  was in 8th grade  at St. Rose of Lima school in Maywood, California,  and  can see in memories eye,  an obviously sad, teary eyed  Sister Mary Agnesine tell the class the President had been shot, and feel  the solemn silence that followed like a darkened room after the lights are turned off. Then we prayed.

    That following Monday school was closed so students could be at home to watch the coverage of the Presidents funeral procession. Perhaps the image of Mrs. Kennedy and her two children standing in front of the White House, and little John-John's sweet salute as his fathers caisson passed by has left the most lasting impression on us. So tragic, yet so tender.  If the bombing of Pearl Harbor joined our  parents generation together , the assassination of President Kennedy certainly bound ours. And television played a big part. For the first time as a nation we not only grieved singularly , or within our own community , but collectively as a nation, witnessing together on live TV the killing of a president, his funeral and burial, then the murder of his assassin.

                                                                                               

     In a recent New York Times Book Review article titled Kennedy, the Elusive President,  Jill Abramson, executive editor of the Times wrote , An estimated 40,000 books about him (JFK) have been published since his death, and this anniversary year has loosed another vast outpouring. Yet to explore the enormous literature is to be struck not by what's there but by what's missing. Readers can choose from many books but surprisingly few good ones, and not one really outstanding one.

  Whoa! That 40,000 books have been written about President Kennedy is amazing to think about, but what strikes me more is Abramson's contention that none are worthy, that not one is really outstanding. She sites biographer Robert Dallek as saying historians are not really impressed with him , they see him more as a celebrity who didn't accomplish very much.

    In  the scheme of things , I suppose  a thousand days isn't all that long to accomplish goals set out in campaign promises.  But I would submit Kennedy's mark isn't necessarily his political imprint, but the imprint he left on the American psyche, and how his glow, and positive outlook  attracted young and old alike. And today, let  his  words sound loud and true,  Ask not what your country can do for you, but what can you do for your country.

   


 

 

Cast Your Cares

When the dark of night seems long
and sleep escapes me
because thoughts unwelcome
replay again and again
in my head - I try to
divert worries about
my mothers health,
my fathers health,
my husbands well being,
my sons well being
about present day finances,
and future concerns;
Wars, and rumors of war;
 and the sad state
of world affairs by thinking
of a  movie I saw, a
song I heard or book
I read. Sometimes I practice
a method dear Grandma Cooney
used when she had trouble
falling asleep - to mentally name all the
presidents of the United States in
proper order. This night,  I find
by the  time I get to
Fillmore, Pierce, Buchanan
I'm more awake than ever.  It's
only when I open my eyes to
see soft colored moonlight
stream through an opening
in the slated shade
opposite the king size bed
my husband and I share
that I'm reminded
of the perfect Light , Jesus Christ
and how I can cast all
my cares on Him, because
He careth  for me, and  for all (1 Peter 5:7)
The worrisome thoughts once
twirling and swirling around
like an enemy wanting to
deprive  me of sleep
are quieted now. The peace of
The Lord fills my soul, and sweetly,
sleep comes

September 4 - Blogs, Self-Help Books & My Brother, Walt

    Writing a blog has become quite popular over the past years, and for a variety of reasons. I believe many of us, including me, like to express ourselves via of the written word and pictures. Some write a blog to document their  family life, others to expound political views. Some as a pulpit to share religious faith, or  to promote a recently published book. Or perhaps tell about a hobby, recipes or game. All have their place, and shed light on topics that meet someones interest.

    I write 2 lane highway, my own personal blog of One woman's reflections of past and present - people, places and things that contribute to the joy and sweetness; the sorrow and hurt of an everyday, ordinary life. Every six weeks, I also blog   for Writing North Idaho , a web retreat for writers, news, opportunities, and knowledge sharing. 

      I posted a blog  this morning  on  WNI about self help books. While  its purpose was to share about  a genre  different from fiction, non-fiction, mystery and romance,  it  was  also to  honor my brother, Walt as it would have been his 59th birthday today, September 4.  If you click onto link below, I think you'll see the connection between the two;  Self-help books and my brother, and why the memory of what we shared will always be with me. 

http://writingnorthidaho.blogspot.com/2013/09/self-help-books-my-brother-walt.html

           

The Lake,Water Skiing & Uncle Lloyd

I put away my iphone and ipad today
and sat on the old log swing
in peaceful reverie
looking out over the bluff
at Lake Coeur d Alene
watching boats stream
by like a slow passing
parade. I heard the sweet
sound of joyful laughter
echo through the trees
of family and friends
sailing and skiing and
swimming in the
cool, deep blue water.
In memories eye I  turned
 to another summer
 and another lake a
long time ago  - 1963. I
was 12 years old,  visiting
my Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Betty
and cousins, Shauna, Kevin and
Kim. We were at  Bear Lake
in Utah, and my uncle was determined
I would learn to water ski  - and indeed
I did, but only after his persistence and
patience in teaching  me how, and calm
reassurance not to be afraid, that  I could.
For many summers after, I skied  a lot,
now that I'm old, not so much. But ever am
I grateful for an  uncle's loving guidance
to broaden my world to include
the joy of water sport,  and help  build
my self-confidence. Back in the present
I study the lake  and watch
those on the water, hoping
another uncle is  with his niece
doing the same for her
as my uncle did for me

The View

  A few weeks ago a visitor to my home asked if I ever grew tired of the view from our deck. I honestly answered, "No, not ever".  One reason , the view is never really the same - but ever changing and different, not only with each season, but day to day, sometimes hour to hour.

   In early morning  the lake glistens in the rising sun,  as though covered with a million billion  jewels. By  late afternoon,  the cool blue water is  more  like a mirror reflecting a perfect image of curvy  mountains and majestic  trees  bordering  the shore.   This evening,    the sky,  so  vast and wide is clouded in blueish gray, the   mountains  underneath  shaded with a   muted , purplish  hue. The scene  seems  other worldly and surreal, making it easy for me to envision   a land of make believe - a  distant place far, far away where dreams come true, and loved ones dance and sing through wooded land, greeting each other with  joyful embrace.    Yet, what I see isn't make believe,  but  up close and personal, very  real and nearby. It's as though nature's beauty  wraps around me,   like a cape keeping one warm in winter .

     All  is quiet, the air is still. A ray of light peeks through the heavenly sky, and  a moment of grace  engulfs my soul.  I am roused  from my reverie , and grateful for the view I see every day , close to home where family and friends come and go, building sweet  memories for us to grow.

 



    

Sundays in Summer

    One of my favorite things to do on Sunday in summer is to sit outside on our back deck  in the early morning, before my corner of the world is awake and rustling about.  I drink a cup of coffee and read my devotional; I give thanks to God for the gift of nature, and the beauty that surrounds me.  All is peaceful. Calm.  Flowers are full of color.  Evergreen trees, like royal stewards of the forest, provide cool shade for birds taking rest, and deer in the meadow. 

    Looking up at the  pale blue sky,   lightly clouded over with strands of wispy white adds to the  serene way I feel. The lake glimmers under the first bright rays of sunlight, and I'm  reminded of diamonds and glittering jewels , but that comparison  seems too cliche. While  diamonds can be beautiful to behold, and have monetary value - or can be the cherished keepsake of a beloved family member,  looking at one  doesn't help   elevate the soul, or draw us to consider ways  of the spirit or   ponder the  wonder of life  like the splendor we find in  being still,  contemplating God's glorious creation.

   A soft movement of air brushes against  my arm, I look up at the sky once more,  and smile. 

Summer Rain

No warm  sunshine
this summer day
only rain, like heavenly dew
falling from a cloudy sky
to wet the fields,
and help keep our forest
green; to splash the birds 
and bathe the deer, 
giving drink to a 
thirsty garden
like waters of baptism
refreshing  the soul

May 30 - In Memory of My Brother Walt Cooney

   May 30, 2013.  My brother passed away three years ago today. It's not the kind of anniversary one marks on the calendar and looks forward to with anticipation and glee, but   melancholy that a life is no more , gone too soon from his mother and dad, and  family and friends who loved him

    I choose not to wallow in grief, but to commemorate the life of  my beloved brother, and life long friend. I remember his walk and the way he stood straight and tall, the color of his eyes and happy smile, the sound of his voice, and how he laughed  when he got really tickled over something silly  someone did or said.

   Walt  died and left this earth to be with our Lord on the other side,  but he also lives in my heart and memory. And I know , come what may,  some things can never change. He will  forever be his mothers only son, and my little brother.

   Posted below , a  memory of Walt titled Lil' Cowboy, a poem I wrote three years before his passing. It was published in Write On ! Poetry Magazette   February 2007.   The verses  came to me as I   had been thinking of a time when Walt and I were kids, visiting our Grandmother's house in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Walt loved everything cowboy. Clothes, hats, boots.   His favorite was Roy Rogers.  Mother enjoys telling  the story, and I remember it, too when a neighborhood boy knocked on Grandma's front door. When  mom opened the door the little boy asked if Roy could come out to play. Mother replied,  "Honey, There isn't anybody named Roy  here". The boy  answered with a  definite  "Huh-huh ! My new friend, he said his name is Roy Rogers!"

                                                                       Lil' Cowboy

                                                               When my brother Walt
                                                                was just a boy
                                                                he dressed like his hero
                                                                a cowboy named Roy
                                                                in his cowboy shirt
                                                                and cowboy pants,
                                                                cowboy boots and
                                                                cowboy hat.
                                                                A holstered six-shooter
                                                                at his side,
                                                                he walked around
                                                                with cowboy pride
                                                                Eating cowboy cookies,
                                                                singing cowboy songs
                                                                his cowboy cat
                                                                tagging along
                                                                He aimed to please
                                                                and do only good
                                                                just like his hero
                                                                Roy Rogers would


                                                          

    

Memorial Day

A day  of remembrance
for the fallen brave,
those that died on the battlefield
in a land not their own, far away
from family and home - Oh!
the anguish, the tragedy of war

We decorate their graves
with flower and flag, sing
patriotic song and march in parades
And with somber thought
remember, freedom isn't free
the cost is high, 
the lives of beloved
sons and husbands
no longer here

                   *** My great-great Uncle Andy Norton
                           died in France World War I  (RIP+)