Dad shares words of wisdom in his final days of life, and my brother and I captured many of his stories by audio recording so that we could return to the nuggets of wisdom again and again as we work through the grief process. Today’s poem is an acrostic, where each beginning letter of each line spells the word PEACE vertically – – the pursuit of peace is where he was in these final days, and he shares more about this in today’s clip, which you can hear below:
This month, I’m sharing some of Dad’s final conversations with us in the last days of his life. In this one, he urges us to live to the fullest and to make every minute count as he did a lot of hospital waiting. I chose the etheree form for this poem, created with his exact words, since the etheree form (ten lines with each numbered line having that many syllables in it) visually shows the diminishing time and creates the sense of urgency to live.
Dad told the Secret to Happiness story best and referenced it often in his sermons. In the photo below, the fairy fable from Leo Buscaglia’s Loving Each Other is one he took to heart. He was always meeting the needs of others, always illustrating lessons through stories. This month, I’m sharing some of the audio clips I recorded as my brother and I talked with him in his final days. His words live on.
secrets lie within
the pages of obscure books
read widely: you’ll see
Dad gave me this book for Christmas one year – I always got a box of recommended reading, sometimes with exact references – as Loving Each Other by Leo Buscaglia had in the side note.
Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers at Slice of Life
Today’s Shadorma was inspired by Dad’s views on women in leadership roles. You can listen below to his story he shared about the power of women in ministry, words from the heart spoken by our Southern Baptist father as told to his two Southern Baptist children (one of us is currently married to a member of the Catholic faith, and one of us formerly was) in his final days of life. The thing about Dad was his love for others. ALL others, even those who believed differently from him. His full embrace of humanity far exceeded differences of religion, politics, sexual orientation, and race. He even loved those who didn’t like Georgia Bulldog football or the Atlanta Braves.
It all had something to do with the way his mother demonstrated this first. He learned from her. Take a listen:
Like John Muir, I often feel the mountains calling…..and I must go.
I was reminded of a story Dad told about his grandfather who once lived in Gainesville, Georgia, a mountainous area of our home state. Somewhere along the way, a rock marking his homestead was moved from that place in Gainesville by a family member to Dad’s house on St. Simons Island, Georgia, and one day this month, my brother and I will be retrieving it to go to our cousin Kathy Gilmer’s house. Kathy is compiling a book of family stories and will be the next keeper of the rock. I’ve often wondered where my inner mountain calling came from, and now I know how the mountain spirit got in my soul. Over the years, people have asked me how I could move away from the beach. Let me tell you something: densely-populated tourist-thronged beaches ripe with heat and humidity hold no sway over the tranquility of mountains in the early morning when the mist is rising and a veil of silence hangs low before sunrise. The clean air, the cool temperatures, the majestic views, and the vineyards are just as pure as the ocean, without the need for flood insurance.
So I did what any good daughter channeling her inner mountain gypsy would do right after Dad died and there was a space of resetting between the final days, the death, the funeral, and the business of closing down shop.
I rented an Airbnb in Ellijay and took my soul Schnauzer, Fitz, on a dog-friendly vineyard-hopping tour. Our first stop was Engelheim (translation: angel home) Vineyards, where Fitz’s German roots inspired me to order the Riesling, and every last sip was divine.
We must keep our sense of adventure alive…..whether with wine or with travel excursions or with ice cream, as we discussed in some of Dad’s final days of his life. The nurse in the hospital had offered him only vanilla or chocolate, and my brother, sister in law and I were discussing this with Dad. You can listen here:
Engelheim Vineyards
a glass of Riesling with Fitz
perfect afternoon
My vineyard hopping buddy Fitz with a glass of Riesling at Engelheim Vineyards in Ellijay, Georgia – cheers to the German breed and the German wine!
Throughout the month of July, I’m using Dad’s stories I recorded in the final weeks of his life to share poems about things that were on his mind. I’m dedicating some of the days in July to capturing what he shared with us that was on his heart in these days – and I’m using the actual words from recorded audio, preserving the wording the way he spun it.
Today, I share his fragmented story of his aunt Claudine, one of his paternal grandmother Lena Mae’s nine children, who lost a toe making lye soap in the back yard of her Waycross, Georgia childhood home. There were three girls and six boys, all told, and my grandfather and his brother Virgil were making lye soap in a big pot in the back yard one day. They were cutting the wood to kindle the fire under the big iron pot where they made the soap, and somehow Claudine’s toe got involved. I’ve heard the story two ways: she lost it and she almost lost it. Depends on who tells the story. In Dad’s version, it was just “cut real bad.” When I called Dad’s cousin Kathy, she assured me that part of the big toe was missing because she’d seen Claudine’s foot. She also said it flew into the chicken yard and nobody ever found it.
As I listened to Dad tell his stories, the repetition of common words and phrases led me to choose the Pantoum form, since that is a form that uses repetition. He also had a notebook he kept at his bedside for writing, and it was heartbreaking to see the plummeting handwriting and broken thoughts, like jagged pieces of thick glass on the page. I’m glad that I captured so much audio during these final days so that I can revisit his voice and put the stories into words. A good friend at work, Janette Bradley, inspired me to do this, and I cannot thank her enough for her foresight.
I’ve spent some time back “home” in coastal Georgia this summer, far more than any ordinary summer, and I’m sharing stories this month about time with Dad in his final days and the stories he shared. Dad was a Baptist minister who served twice as pastor of First Baptist Church on St. Simons Island, Georgia – so my brother and I grew up there – learning to swim and ride bikes, learning to read and multiply and add, learning to crab off the pier and fish and learning to live. We lived a few other places over the years, but St. Simons came full circle as the beginning and the end of Dad’s career as a family of four.
I think what I loved most about growing up on an island wasn’t really ever about the where, but about the what and the whom~ more specifically, the what of childhood and its carefree nature. The friends, the family time, and the things we did together. It surprises me when I go back there that I ever lived and played in all that extreme heat. As a post-menopausal female now, I much prefer cooler places with drier air. While I love the beach, I’m not a fan of swimming in any ocean because Jaws came out when I was ten years old and wrecked my ability to see anything but a place where hungry sharks lurk when I look to the sea. It scared me so bad I didn’t even want to put my hands in the kitchen sink to wash dishes after that – – let alone go down to the shoreline.
My good friend Lisa Warren and I used to ride our bikes to church back in the 1970s when the world was a safer place, and I remember Dad’s sermon jokes he told from the pulpit. He told so many of them that always helped break the ice and get the sermon going. In his final days, I recorded a retelling of a favorite joke that you can hear him tell in his own voice below.
Earthworms and Moonshine
The Sunday School teacher had a mason jar of moonshine and an earthworm. He drops that earthworm in that moonshine, and it disintegrates.
Now, boys and girls, what does that teach you?
A little boy said, “If you drink moonshine, you won’t have worms.”
Today, I salute childhood summertime memories in a tricube: three stanzas of three lines each, each line having three syllables.
Today is Slice of Life Tuesday, and we’re writing to a prompt shared by Jenna Komarin: “The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next.” — Ursula K. Le Guin
That quote aptly describes the past six weeks, from the time my father took a steep nosedive the last week of May after finishing chemotherapy treatments and died of complications from Pulmonary Fibrosis on Friday, June 13. Even though there was a known certainty in the dense fog of uncertainty, the glimmer of hope in the uncertainty is what kept us all going.
Throughout the month of July, I’ll be using Dad’s stories I captured in the final weeks of his life to share poems about things that were on his mind – and I’m using the actual words from recorded audio, preserving the wording the way he spun it. I’m grateful to my friend Janette Bradley for sharing the idea to record these conversations to play again whenever I need to hear his voice.
When my brother Ken and I were there with Dad as he was rapidly deteriorating, we asked him to tell stories of family and his younger days to pass the time and keep his (and our) mind off the endless waiting and dreadful reality as things kept taking turn after turn like some sputtering single-plane engine spinning wildly out of control before the crash. It took some effort through broken breaths and the din of the oxygen machine that reminded me so much of a noisy generator, but he managed to share priceless treasures full of nuggets of wisdom from a life well lived with rich descriptions of family and friends from long ago.
In one story, he spoke an unintended haiku about his mother out of thin air. He told us, “Your grandmother said, ‘we dig our graves with our teeth,’ and she was not wrong.” I counted the syllables and captured the wisdom that he was sharing with his children ~ wisdom that his grandchildren and great grandchildren will appreciate in the coming years as they continue to remember Dad. Even when – – no, especially when – – life feels so uncertain.
Media Clip: Dad Telling About His Mother’s Sayings
Dad’s Thin Air Haiku
your grandmother said
we dig our graves with our teeth
and she was not wrong
Note: My grandmother’s quote is attributed to Thomas Moffett, a physician from the 1600s, and later to Thomas Edison, who often gets credited as the originator.
Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers at Slice of Life
I came to love birdwatching when, as a child, my mother pointed out every bird and called it by name. Wherever we were, she’d point to cardinals, chickadees, bluebirds, and tell us about them. On drives from our home to visit our grandparents, Mom spotted every hawk and announced it – Cooper’s Hawk, Red-Tailed Hawk, Red-Shouldered Hawk, and so on. She knew them all. My mom’s mother was known for her landscaped yard with flowers and shrubs of many kinds – – along with her bird feeders and bird baths. There was never any doubt that I’d take their legacy of their deep love of birds into future generations.
It’s also why I feel their presence most closely where birds are concerned. And it’s why sometimes I wonder if birds are angels, of a sort. It’s why my heart has been so heavy since they clear cut all the trees on our farm, save for a few hardwoods – after putting out specific seeds to attract specific birds over the years and then celebrating when they showed up. We will replant, but tall trees are years away.
I doubled down on my hummingbird feeders for that reason, and was delighted to see that my favorite hummingbird from last summer has returned. I cried when she left last year, lingering longer than all the rest, and I’d know her anywhere. She’s the only one who gives thanks for her food, looking me straight in the eye with sincerity. She’s back.
Common Threads 