A Monumental Family Project

Descendants Gather Funds to Mark Graves

The great-grandchildren of Harm and Elena Ottersberg can’t fill in all the historical gaps, but they are providing touchstones for future generations. (Lincoln Journal Star, Larry Peirce, February 6, 2000)

Journey with me from May 1999-May 27, 2000 as you read several articles and Scripture references pertaining to the year long, nationwide Ottersberg Monuments Project.  Be sure to note the dates for better understanding the path taken by a family’s desire to remember, honor, and respect their ancestors.  Goal:  purchase headstones for seven unmarked Ottersberg graves, four infants and three adults.

Celebrate with me now as this Monumental Family Project  is overviewed on its 12th anniversary.

“And looking upon them Jesus said to them, “With men this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”  Matthew 19:26

 

The Lord gave me the following Scripture reference in August of 1999 when I was in Wake Forest, North Carolina, waiting for our fifth grandchild to be born.  This one Bible verse was my prayer throughout the entire Ottersberg Monuments Project, and each of the other seven committee members was asked to participate with me in doing likewise.  These words would sustain me in the days throughout the project.

“And let the favor and beauty of the LORD our God be upon us;  And do confirm and establish for us the work of our hands;  Yes, confirm and establish the work of our hands.”  Psalm 90:17

 

On October 5, 1999, Proverbs 4:11-12 would be the encouragement and validation I would need to pursue heading the Ottersberg Monuments Project.  On this day the initial information letter was mailed nationwide to 100 Ottersberg family members concerning the Zion Lutheran Cemetery Ottersberg Monuments Project.

“I will guide you in the way of wisdom and lead you along straight paths.  When you walk, your steps will not be hampered; when you run, you will not stumble.”  Proverbs 4:11-12

 

The Ottersberg Monuments Project Invitation—mailed mid May 2000

You are especially invited to attend the OTTERSBERG Monuments Dedication on Saturday, May 27, 2000 at 2 p.m., a special event to show respect and honor for our ancestors.  Ceremony will be held at the Zion Lutheran Church Cemetery, rural Pickrell, Nebraska.

Beatrice Daily Sun article written by staff writer, Joy Brown, published on Saturday, May 27, 2000.  (I have inserted photos for further clarification even though they were not originally in the newspaper article).  All credit given to Ms Brown for the write-up.

New Headstones Honor Family’s Heritage

Voices of a distant time

Speak softly thru the years

Carried on winds of ages past

Whispering gently in our ears.

 

Seeking to be remembered

Rather than forgotten as though never here,

Reaching out to their children’s children…

“Do they listen?  Will they hear?”

 

PICKRELL—So begins the poem, “The Legacy” by Rebecca Watson Walker.  Although many may not hear or just choose to not listen, one local family has heard and responded.

For 101 years seven graves have laid in wait, unmarked but not unnoticed.  The wait will soon be over.

It has taken a year of planning but Saturday, May 27, at 2 p.m. descendants of Harm and Elena Ottersberg will gather at Zion Lutheran Cemetery, rural Pickrell, to dedicate four newly laid headstones in honor of their ancestors.

Cheryl Meints, great-granddaughter of the Ottersbergs, headed a committee of eight family members to oversee the process of obtaining the headstones.  Although Meints has known about the graves since childhood, it has only been in the last 10 years that her interest has grown into action.  The desire to finally have her ancestors’ graves marked led Meints to form the committee.

This is not the first time someone has tried to place headstones on the unmarked graves.  “Some family members have tried in the past,” Meints said.  “I don’t know what it was (that prevented them from succeeding).”

She went on to say that the reasons for failure in the past do not really matter.  All that matters is that the graves will indeed be marked now for future generations.

More than 100 letters were sent to family members around the country in October 1999 informing them of the quest to place markers on the graves.  A fund was established that same month at the First National Bank of Beatrice so interested family members could contribute to the effort.

The committee decided to take the next step once 75 percent of the needed funds had been collected.  In just six weeks they were able to order the headstones.  The prompt response reaffirmed the family’s certainty that they were doing the right thing.

“I believe this whole project is God ordained,” Meints said.  According to Meints, one Bible passage in particular confirms her belief that this is the time for the wait to end.

Ecclesiastes 3:1, 11 states, “There is a point of time for everything and there’s a time for every event under heaven…He has made everything appropriate in its time.”

“I was driving down the street…and it’s just like a lighting bolt hit me,” she said.  “I thought I was going to drive off the road.  God waited 101 years for this to come to pass.  For this was the appointed time, and he chose me and seven other people to do this,” she said.

The process of obtaining headstones has not been taken lightly by committee members.  According to Meints, they have considered being able to do this for their ancestors not only a privilege but a great responsibility as well.

“This family historical endeavor has been a labor of love.  It has been a tool of reconciliation.  It has been an act of selflessness.  And it is and will continue to be an example of respect and honor for others, particularly for our ancestors,” she said.

On May 3, the committee’s vision became reality when Keith Stewart and Jim Anderson, Speidell Monuments, Beatrice, laid the four new headstones in the earth.

Meints was able to be there while the headstones were being laid.  Speechless is the only way she can describe the way she felt that day.

“I’m watching him dig these holes knowing that my ancestors are buried here and knowing that not only have people in the past been affected by this little plot of ground, but those now and in the future will be also,” she said.

Through the act of placing these headstones, the family hopes to convey their appreciation to their ancestors for choosing to settle in America.  A challenge is also extended to future generations to continue this sense of gratitude.

“It’s something that’s been in the hearts and minds of many people,” Meints said.  “It’s become a reality now.”

Even though today’s dedication is bound to stir up a lot of emotion, the family does not want the experience to be one of complete sadness.

Meints recalls one committee member saying, “We should have called it a celebration instead of a dedication.  It’s a time of beginning for the family.” (end of article)

Beatrice Daily Sun editorial, Saturday, June 24, 2000—Voice of the People

Cemetery Project Much Appreciated

Editor:

We have experienced a very special event at our cemetery this past month thanks to the descendants of Harm A. and Elena J. Ottersberg and families for four new monuments.

It is especially gratifying in this day and age when the younger generations show their respect for their ancestors by initiating a project like this.  Not only did they follow through with this endeavor and were successful in honoring seven of their ancestors with four new headstones which cover a span of 102 years, they also contributed funds to the cemetery perpetual fund which will ensure maintenance and care for these graves in the future.  This entire family has given an example of their dedication to honor and preserve the memory of their ancestors and certainly are commended for it.  We sincerely thank them.

Zion Lutheran Cemetery Association, Pickrell

Walter Meints, sexton

Personal response to Walter Meints, June 29, 2000

Dear Walter and Katie,

What a pleasant surprise and blessing to read the letter in the Beatrice Daily Sun about the Project.

It’s been quite a year, as you well know.  But we have had no regrets about anything.  May God continue to bless the generations to come because of this past year.  May the Project be an example to our children and grandchildren of His faithfulness to an obedient servant.

Thank you both.

Sincerely,

Don and Cheryl Meints

Postscript:  Day of the Ottersberg Monuments Project, May 27, 2000—around 3 p.m.

The 50 Ottersberg family members slowly dispersed after the singing of the doxology, some mingling afterward in conversation around the headstones.  The prairie winds blew fiercely, and the threat of rain imminent the entire day.  A reporter from one of the Lincoln, Nebraska television stations approached with her huge camera and tripod, perching it directly in front of my face.  I had not known she would participate in the entire dedication ceremony nor that I was to be interviewed.  Just as well.  The reporter shared after the interview that she was caught up in her emotions during the ceremony, similar to the winds whipping the clouds around overhead.

I shuffled the papers I held and waited for her interview questions.  It went well, but by now my own emotions tethered around me like string and ball wrapping itself to the pole.  Gripping—any moment to be released in a flood of tears.  Later that evening the 3-minute interview was on the 5 p.m. and 10 p.m. Lincoln news.

Few were left now at the cemetery, mostly committee members.  Standing alone, almost frozen in time myself, one of them walked over to me.  She placed her arms around me tightly, hugged my neck firmly, and whispered in my ears, “Well done, Cheryl.”  Absolutely no one knew I had begged the Lord the morning of the dedication to somehow confirm to me that I had been a faithful, obedient servant.

“His Master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant…”  Matthew 25:21.

I could let it all go now.

God had spoken…again.

Note: my mother (maiden name Ottersberg) was not able to attend the dedication on May 27, 2000.  However, the photo below was taken in June during one of our afternoon outings.  She mentioned several times before her death in 2003 of helping her mother as a small child clean the graves that were now marked.  I feel there must have been wooden markers which rotted and memory of them lost over the years.

For anyone wanting to know about the Ottersberg family or this project, I can be contacted at corinthrose@gmail.com   Please include Ottersberg Monuments Project in the subject line.

If anyone would have knowledge of Harm and Elena’s Germany port  and emigration date  as well as port and date of American immigration, oh how I would like this information.  At this point in time my best estimate has been Germany emigration in 1892.  This date was calculated by comparing various documents.

The following website provides a wealth of information for Gage County, Nebraska, including a burial index plus headstone photographs of those whose final resting is at Zion Lutheran Cemetery, rural Pickrell, Nebraska:

http://www.usgennet.org/usa/ne/county/gage/index1.htm

Now if you aren’t on genealogical information overload by now and interested in historical information about the Ottersberg’s German origins near the North Sea, definitely visit my friend Jürgen Adams website at http://www.wiesmoor-info.de/  Click on English for pulldown menu.

“Now to Him who is able to do exceeding abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations forever.”  Amen.  Ephesians 3:20

(Next post in two weeks:  June 9, 2012–Where’s the Birds?)

Clouds-Light-Job 37:21

The May 15 devotional that follows is from Streams in the Desert by Cowman.   It was read on Thursday, March 22, 2012 around 4 a.m.—from my hospital bed.  Struck by the relevant subject matter (clouds and light) while remembering our last evening perched on one of Big Bend National Park’s hilltops while photographing a gorgeous sunset just days before, the Job scripture reference and that morning’s devotional message were encouraging whispers of love and comfort from my Lord during a difficult time.  I’m sharing those moments now with you.

 “Men see not the bright light which is in the clouds.” (Job 37:21)

Much of the world’s beauty is due to clouds.  The unchanging blue of a beautiful, sunlit sky still does not compare to the glory of changing clouds.  And earth would become a wilderness if not for their ministry to us.

Human life has its clouds as well.  They provide us with shade, refresh us, and yet sometimes cover us with darkness of night.  But there is never a cloud without its bright light. God has told us, “I have set my rainbow in the clouds.” (Genesis 9:13) If only we could see clouds from above—in all their billowing glory, bathed in reflective light, and as majestic as the Alps—we would be amazed at their shining magnificence.

We see them only from below, so who will describe for us the bright light that bathes their summits, searches their valleys, and reflects from every peak of their expanse?  Doesn’t every drop of rain in them soak up health-giving qualities, which will later fall to earth?

O dear child of God!  If only you could see your sorrows and troubles from above instead of seeing them from earth.  If you would look down on them from where you are seated  “with Christ…in the heavenly realms” (Ephesians 2:6), you would know the beauty of the rainbow of colors they reflect to the hosts of heaven.  You would also see the bright light of Christ’s face and would finally be content to see those clouds cast their deep shadows over the mountain slopes of your life.

Remember, clouds are always moving ahead of God’s cleansing wind.

I cannot know why suddenly the storm should rage so fiercely round me in its wrath;

But this I know—God watches all my path, and I can trust.

 

I may not draw aside the unseen veil that hides the unknown future from my sight,

Nor know if for me waits the dark or light; but I can trust.

 

I have no power to look across the tide, to see while here the land beyond the river;

But this I know—I will be God’s forever; so I can trust.

 

 

  “Men see not the bright light which is in the clouds.”  (Job 37:21)

Remembering Mom

Mom.  I miss her deeply.  The older I get, the more she is cherished.  Mom loved flowers, particularly violets in her later years. As a youngster, I remember zinnias of every color and size growing alongside the tomatoes and pole beans in our two-acre garden area.  Hiding and playing in the garden rows was frowned upon, but the smell of ripening tomatoes hasn’t ever left me.  Nor has the memory of the cutting edges of wire tomato cages whacked across my arms.

A few years ago, a visit was made to this former plot of ground, now green space in a designated flood zone.  Even on that day as I stood at the edge of the road peering across the carpet of green, memories visualized of flourishing strips of flowers meticulously aligned like rows of corn.  One could truly have been overwhelmed with emotion at the floral display stretching alongside the vegetables.

I don’t believe I could ever disassociate the love of flowers with my mother, and some would say the same of me.  Yes, there has been a passing down of her passion.  The following black and white images plus the floral bouquets are shared in honor of Mom.

“For You formed my inward parts; You wove me in my mother’s womb.

 

I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Wonderful are Your works, and my soul knows it very well.

 

My frame was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret and skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth.

 

Your eyes have seen my unformed substance; and in Your book were all written the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them.”  Psalm 139:13-16

 

 

One late afternoon in 2002 as I stared across the dreary Nebraska landscape from the third-floor window—waiting hour after hour for the third physician of the day to pop through the door—I whipped around to answer the same question my mother had asked me repeatedly from early morning.

So fatigued and so preoccupied with the serious medical matter at hand, I said for the umpteen time only with a slightly different response, “No, mommy, I don’t know.”  I was 51.  My life changed from that moment on. Roles reversed once again as I took on the responsibility of her caregiver, protector, and defender.

“No weapon that is formed against you shall prosper; and every tongue that accuses you in judgment you will condemn.  This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their vindication is from Me,” declares the Lord.  Isaiah 54:17

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are Mine!  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they will not overflow you.  When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, nor will the flame burn you.”  Isaiah 43: 1-2

Please call your mother if she is alive.  Look at photos or write about your mother if she isn’t.  There may be a time when all you possess are memories and old photos to hide in your heart and clutch in your hands.

Magnolia Grandiflora: An Unfolding of Beauty

What a show-off!

The single, saucer shaped blooms sitting atop clusters of long and broad, dark green lustrous leaves would tempt any passerby with a camera.  Try walking past these lemon-scented, 8-12 inch white beauties without turning around to further investigate.  Each magnificent bloom presents 6-12 textured waxy petals emerging from tips of twigs on mature trees during late spring just waiting to be captured for all time.

As indispensable as fried catfish and grits are to the Southern lifestyle,  the Southern Magnolia (Magnolia Grandiflora) is an historical time-honored landmark on the southeastern United States landscape.  Preferring to exist with consistent moisture, it has adapted to a variety of habitats, including the tidewater areas of Virginia.  As a native Midwesterner and accustomed to the wide open range, I will never forget the first time I walked into a Mississippi welcome center.  Overcome with sheer awe at the varied exhibits—paintings, photographs, and ceramics of this Southern floral showpiece.  I’ve been in love with the show-off ever since.

Flashy red or pink magnolia fruits displaying red, orange, or pink kidney-shaped seeds, hang from the reddish-brown conelike fruit, often by a thread-like strand during early autumn.

So infatuated with this Southern delicacy in the 1980’s, I preserved the glossy elongated leaves for dried floral arrangements.  Shelves in my south Arkansas laundry room were dedicated for this purpose and lined with jars of mature Southern Magnolia leaves, soaking up a glycerin/water mixture.   Glycerizing foliage such as magnolia or mistletoe foliage is quite easy but can be expensive.   Visit http://www.clemson.edu, search for drying flowers, and you’ll find a wealth of information about drying a variety of flowers by multiple means.

As with all of life, seasons come and go on a regular basis.  The life cycle of Magnolia Grandiflora blossom is no exception.  Even though I have been taken with the beautiful creation for the past 20 years, the tedious task of raking up to 8-inch long leaves and 4-inch seed cones in autumn can definitely test one’s character.  Then after you’ve conquered this daunting task for a meticulous yard, what do you do with the knee-high piles of thick-leafed debris?

Shred with a mower for compost?  Watch out for those flying cones!  Other than never planting a Southern Magnolia in the first place, just don’t trim the lower limbs.  As the seasons change, shove it all underneath the branches out of sight.

Both Louisiana and Mississippi claim the Magnolia Grandiflora as their state flower.  While researching for this publication, the information found at the following website was of particular interest to me  since I live in the Magnolia State.

http://netstate.com/states/symb/flowers/ms_magnolia.htm

 

It seems the flower or bloom of the magnolia (Magnolia Grandiflora) wasn’t adopted as Mississippi’s state flower until 1952, fifty-two years after the fact.  A designated election was held in November 1900 by Mississippi school children for the sole purpose of selecting a state flower.  More than half of the 23,278 children voted for the magnolia blossom.  However, no legislative action was taken as a result of the contest even though most Magnolia State residents have considered it the state’s flower since then.

In 1935 Mississippi’s Director of Forestry initiated a movement to adopt an official state tree to represent the state.  Again, Mississippi’s school children were offered the opportunity to vote, and the Southern Magnolia proved to be the overwhelming favorite.   On April 1, 1938 the Mississippi Legislature officially approved the Magnolia Grandiflora as the state tree of Mississippi.

It wasn’t until February 26, 1952 the Mississippi Legislature approved the spectacular showpiece of this publication.  Interesting indeed.

Did you know?

• Magnolia flowers are typically pollinated by beetles, not bees.  Magnolia flowers do not produce nectar, but they produce large quantities of pollen.  The pollen is high in protein, and the beetles use it for food.
• Magnolias are some of the most primitive of all flowering plants.  Visit the following website to learn why.      http://www.backyardnature.net/fl_magno.htm
• Magnolia genus was most likely named after the French botanist, Pierre Magnol.

As I mentioned earlier, there is a plethora of ways the Southern Magnolia blossom has been presented or exhibited, such as in paintings and the artistic realm.  Adding now my own version of delicate artwork, I hope you will drink in the fragrance of these two stunning performers.

There have also been rave reviews of the following floral artists:

The Opening Act 

Supporting Actress 

A Peek Into the Dressing Room 

The Leading Role 

The Southern Magnolia blossom shows off  in May here in northeast Mississippi.  You can be confident I will be out and about with camera and a passionate determination to capture its unfolding beauty.

Note:  these images can also been seen at www.corinthrose.com under Flowers.

Repeat Photography: Pairing Past Images with Present Ones

Long lives yield many treasures:  pictures, keepsakes, property, or savings, the standard currencies of inheritance passed on from generation to generation.  But there is another precious legacy, one that is often lost:  memories, the closely held images of people, places, and things that are the blueprint of a life.  In To Our Children’s Children best-selling author and nationally syndicated columnist Bob Greene and his sister, journalist D. G. Fulford, have created an attractive and engaging guidebook that makes recording a personal history as uncomplicated and easy as writing a letter.

A life goal:  write my memoirs using the outline presented in To Our Children’s Children.

A short term goal to reach this life goal:  continue writing blog posts, using each weekly post as a learning experience on the writing curve.

There are days when creativity and inspiration ooze from the deep recesses of my mind, coursing through the fingertips and squeezing thoughts into words onto the waiting keyboard.  Eventually, some semblance of meaningful words and phrases fill the blank computer screen, and the bombarding words flow out from within.   No writer’s block here, only a writer’s dream come true, no doubt.

The stacks of sticky note hen scratches and scratch paper scribbles to the left of my keyboard also jostle for my attention.  These scrawled flashes of inspiration eventually weaved between prepositional phrases and verbs.  All in an attempt to convey meaning and insight to the reader.

Over the past twenty years, many family treasures have been entrusted to me; in particular, old photographs and a few vintage postcards.  As family historian, this privilege—and responsibility—taken seriously.  In an attempt to cautiously approach my life goal with this post of repeat photography, I have chosen to publish seven historical postcards from Monticello, Jones County, Iowa.  Several of my maternal ancestors emigrated from Wiesede, Ostfriesland, Germany to Jones County, Iowa in the late 1800’s.  These 1930’s penny postcards were sent to my maternal grandmother after migrating to southeast Nebraska, and eventually the cherished possessions handed down to me.

Even though any remembrance of my maternal grandmother is nonexistent, these closely held printed images have revealed a brief moment in her young adult life.   Whether she ever returned to the northwest Iowa farm country is unknown, but the changes that were captured in my 2001 visit to the area would have astonished the immigrant from Germany’s North Sea area.

Repeat photography is a technique in which historical and modern photographs are compared and contrasted.  This efficient, effective, and useful pairing of the past and present has been used to study changes in the landscape since the late 19th century, beginning as a way to document European glacial retreating.  A valuable tool I’ve grown to appreciate over the years, particularly with family photographs.

Journey now through time—1930’s-2001—and explore cultural and natural history through a few closely held images of a place called Monticello, Jones County, Iowa.

Kirkwood Community College

 (2001 photograph unavailable)

 

(2001 photograph unavailable; creamery no longer in existence) 

 

Now ten years post the 2001 images, I’m sure the cultural and natural history of this small northwest Iowa farm town changed even more.  Feel free to email me at corinthrose@gmail.com if you would like to acquire or share a copy of any of these Iowa vintage postcards.

Note: the Monticello, Jones County, Iowa postcards were also published in the July 2007 issue of the American-Ostfriesen Zeitung.  http://www.ogsa.us/

For further Jones County research, visit the Iowa GenWeb Project website at:  http://www.rootsweb.com/~iajones/

For fun visit http://www.usgwarchives.org/special/ppcs/ppcs.html (Penny Postcards)

Tim’s Roses–Gardens in Full Bloom

Roses—those fragrant, evocative expressions of love, emotion, and beauty.  Each radiant bloom imbued with a different color and meaning.

Did you know roses have a language all their own, conveying certain moods or feelings?  If you listen carefully with your heart, you might hear the traditional red rose shout respect, courage, passion, or even I Love You.

The white rose may whisper innocence while the pink rose speaks softly of happiness and grace.  Yellow roses have long stood for friendship and may sigh in delight as a type of congratulations.  Peachy roses impart a feeling of appreciation or gratitude whereas orange roses often imply desire or enthusiasm.

No matter the delicately created blossom color, texture or even its implied meaning, Tim’s roses were superb.  It was love at first sight in May 2006.  The instant I cupped one of his prize-winning specimens in my hands, I knew I had encountered beauty from the Creator.  Tim’s roses—the eternal symbol of love from above shared with me.

Privileged—privileged to photograph Tim’s roses for three years in a row.  Strolling alone through his full-blooming rose gardens while the dew drops dripped from the petals, the early morning light subtle…privileged.  I can still recall thanking the Lord those mornings for Tim’s expression of friendship and kindness in allowing me this freedom.  Truly, I Came to the Garden Alone.

Not only was I allowed to flit from rose to rose with my camera unhindered and with total abandonment, but I was also encouraged to use the pruning shears.  As the photo attests, I used the pruning shears effectively.  When my husband opened the refrigerator door one evening after work, he found the entire refrigerator filled with roses.  Roses in gallon milk containers, roses in fruit jars, roses in plastic bottles…roses, roses, and more roses.

Days of capturing the allurement, exquisiteness, and symbolism of Tim’s roses.

Over the past several years, many of my best flower images were captured in my makeshift light tent.  More than half of the rose images at www.corinthrose.com were from Tim’s rose gardens.

Was I taken with Tim’s Roses?  Definitely.

Please carefully read the following devotional from Springs in the Valley by Mrs. Charles E. Cowman (1939) as you stop to smell Tim’s beautiful roses.

“That it may bring forth more fruit.”  John 15:2

Two years ago I set out a rosebush in the corner of my garden.  It was to bear yellow roses.  And it was to bear them profusely.  Yet during these two years, it had not produced a blossom!

I asked the florist from whom I bought the bush why it was so barren of flowers.  I had cultivated it carefully; had watered it often; had made the soil around it as rich as possible.  And it had grown well.

“That’s just why,” said the florist.  “That kind of rose needs the poorest soil in the garden.  Sandy soil would be best, and never a bit of fertilizer.  Take away the rich soil and put gravelly earth in its place.  Cut the bush back severely.”

Then it will bloom.

I did—and the bush blossomed forth in the most gorgeous yellow known to nature.  Then I moralized;  that yellow rose is just like many lives.  Hardships develop beauty in the soul; the soul thrives on troubles; trials bring out all the best in them; ease and comfort and applause only leave them barren.

Did Tim severely cut back his roses?  You be the judge.

 Come to the Garden Alone

 I come to the garden alone

While the dew is still on the roses

And the voice I hear falling on my ear

The Son of God discloses.

 

Refrain

 

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,

And He tells me I am His own;

And the joy we share as we tarry there,

None other has ever known.

 

Refrain

 

He speaks, and the sound of His voice,

Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,

And the melody that He gave to me

Within my heart is ringing.

 

Refrain

 

I’d stay in the garden with Him

Though the night around me be falling,

But He bids me go; through the voice of woe

His voice to me is calling.

 

Refrain

 

The Rose

It is only a tiny rosebud, a flower of God’s design.

I cannot unfold the petals with these clumsy hands of mine.

 

The secret of unfolding flowers is not known to such as I.

The flower God opens so sweetly in my hands would fade and die.

 

I cannot unfold a rosebud, this flower of God’s design.

Then how can I have wisdom to unfold this life of mine?

 

So I’ll trust Him for His leading each moment of every day.

I’ll look to Him for His guidance each step of the pilgrim way.

 

For the pathway that lies before me my heavenly Father knows.

I’ll trust Him to unfold the moments just as He unfolds the rose.

 

Anonymous

 

Immerse yourself in Tim’s rose petals, buds, and blossoms at www.corinthrose.com under Flowers, or linger a bit at the initial slideshow.  Maybe I’ll see you in the digital flower garden sometime.  Look for the once faded flower now blooming where planted.  Thank you.

 

The Road Less Traveled…by foot that is

Have you ever taken your life in your hands by attempting to cross a busy intersection on a weekday afternoon between 5 and 6 p.m.?  A convergence where drivers are driven, almost possessed behind the wheel, as they fly through the crossroad beating the red light.  Four directions of traffic—12 lanes of cars, semis, buses—all converging at one location, a hill.

The shadows of the late November afternoon flickered on the horizon as I shivered patiently at the intersection of Donelson Pike and Royal Parkway in Nashville, Tennessee, just three blocks from I-40, exit 216C.   There I stood at curb’s edge—alone with all that zooming, noisy, insane traffic—desperate to return to the Super 8 Airport just across the street.

An hour earlier I had followed closely behind an elderly couple as they shuffled arm in arm inside the four-foot death trap, daring any driver to interfere with their crossing Donelson Pike.  At one point I grabbed the old gentleman by the collar as two drivers from behind us swerved in front of them.  I guess each of us was anxious to get to the restaurant across the street and were driven ourselves.

However, the scene was even more intense now as I stood there alone.  After four complete traffic rotations, the reality of the traffic-pedestrian situation became apparent.  Even if the pedestrian crossing light device was operative, drivers were not going to stop, let alone allow a pedestrian to cross to the other side.  It was time to take matters into my own hands.  The mindset of two years as a school crossing guard kicked in as I glared at the driver beside me, left arm raised high in front of her vehicle—daring her to dart in front of me.  My eyes vacillated between driver and traffic light above while right foot inched slowly down the corner curb and eased onto the pavement.  At just the right moment, my wobbly legs stepped out into the insanity of the moment.  Head bobbed back and forth, side to side across the traffic lanes, much like those bouncing dashboard hula dolls.

I hugged the traffic pole on the other side of Donelson Pike seconds later, praising God for His deliverance in my stupidity.  It was a long night under warm covers—recovering from the incident—waiting for morning so that I could catch my early flight to Norfolk.  Next time, I believe I will drive to the restaurant even if it three blocks away.

A similar traffic-pedestrian situation occurred in 1996, Norwood, Massachusetts.  My writing skills in the infant stage then but nonetheless were developing a life-long interest in formulating words.  As now painting word pictures, crafting story lines, and detailing day-to-day activities have fostered my love for creative writing.

The following is a true story written within days of the incident.  Portions of the writing have been edited for clarity, but the overall composition remains as written in 1996.

Walking to Star Market

A loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, and stamps were all I needed.

Staring out the Ramada Inn third floor window, my eyes blurred as I watched the constant throng of cars whizzing in both directions on the Boston Providence Turnpike, also known as Route 1.  The two-foot metal barricade between lanes the only safety measure preventing collisions and pileups.  I had been cooped up in a dinky third floor motel room enduring another day of despairing isolation, thousands of miles from family—without a vehicle.  Another cross-country move, and here I was again…alone.  I needed to break loose from my lonely confinement on this lonely afternoon.

Surely, Route 1 in front of the motel could be crossed, the walk to Star Market on Nahatan Street such a short distance away.  Cross Route 1 (Boston Providence Highway), stroll over to Star Market, and purchase those items on my list—it shouldn’t be that difficult, I thought.  Some fresh air would do me good.  However, I should have suspected the unending complications of walking to the supermarket when I tried to get some information from the motel clerk.

“How do you get to Star Market from here,” I asked the cheery front desk clerk.  “Just cross the highway by means of the rotary?”

“It’s just 15 minutes,” she answered.  “They have a wonderful produce department.  Do you have your own car?”

“No.”

 “I could call a cab for you if you like, she offered.  It only costs around $5.”

“Wait a minute.” I responded a bit impatiently.  “How do you walk over there?” pointing across the road.

The woman stared at me, her jaw dropped.  “You want to w-a-l-k?”

“Yeah.  Now how far is it?  A mile or more.”

“I don’t know,” she managed to whisper under her breath.

All the enthusiasm and color drained from her rosy red cheeks at the thought of walking anywhere.  She took a step away from the counter almost like she hadn’t wanted to be in the same room with me.

“Are you really sure you want to walk?” she finally inquired again.

I turned and tromped away from the clerk, not bothering her any longer for directions.

Minutes later, I was trekking beside Route 1 on my way to Star Market, dodging poison ivy most of the way, hoping I was going in the right direction.  Always praying a semi truck driver wouldn’t lose control of his rig, my knees hugged the guardrail.  The scary hike along the shoulder of this thoroughfare a bit like balancing on a tightrope, rush-hour traffic on one side of the cable and a steep embankment on the other.   I tried to ignore my visionary thoughts of dead bodies thrown in the trash-filled ditches, also.

My first major obstacle was to cross the rotary from the highway to get to the exit for Star Market on Nahatan Street.  When cars weren’t pouring off it, they were pouring onto it.  There was no traffic light or walk sign, only this roundabout I was determined to cross.

However, I soon realized I was not supposed to be in this traffic versus pedestrian position.  My personal vulnerability—and precarious stance—quite apparent as I waited for an opportunity to dart between the moving vehicles.

As the cars streamed around the roundabout, drivers slowed and gawked at the frazzled woman beside the road.   Passengers had quizzical facial expressions.  I felt exposed…defenseless.  The whole world surrounded me and passersby possibly thought, Why isn’t she in a car?  It must’ve broken down.  Poor woman.  Maybe she’s delirious!  What is she doing out here?

The whole fiasco was an out-of-the ordinary encounter in the rotary Twilight Zone.  Appearing nonchalant yet terrified, my body darted past cars onward to the rotary exit, across exit lanes to one of the ramps, and onto the vibrating bridge overhang.  Cars screamed beneath me and near my side, only two feet from the path of death beside me.

I felt like a homeless person, standing there on the quacking bridge, waiting for something to happen to my heart throbbing body.  I looked homeless; I felt homeless.  Who else but a homeless or careless person would walk to the grocery story alongside a main thoroughfare with all this traffic.

I was not supposed to be walking to Star Market.  I knew it but continued on my seemingly impossible mission anyway.

Just over the bridge with the heavy traffic far behind me now, I read the street sign, Nahatan.  My eyes focused on the Star Market parking lot off in the distance.  Was it a mirage on this hot, sultry day?  Oh, I hoped not.

My legs staggered into the promised land of milk and bread, imagining the cashiers knew I had arrived on foot from a distant land.  Something like the alien creature from another planet who walked to Star Market along Route 1.

I stood just inside the entrance door—speechless, disoriented.  The realization I had arrived at my destination unscathed was more than what I could grasp at that delirious moment.  One of the cashiers seemed perplexed as I approached her lane.

“My goodness.  Where did you come from?”

“I walked, I gasped.”  My hair disheveled, hands shook, and frightened eyes widened.

“I’m sorry.”

I stared at her.  Repeating my answer, I said “I walked.  I walked to the supermarket.  Now please tell me where is the milk?”  My frantic appearance must have been unsettling to the stuttering clerk as she pointed toward the back of the store.

Clutching the gallon of milk to chest and allowing the loaf of bread to swing from my fingertips, my guarded approach back to the counter just minutes later.

 “Your total is $5.50.  Cash or credit?” the cashier inquired.

“Credit.  ATM.”  My response stilted.

 “Plastic or paper?”

I leaned across the counter and whispered to the cashier, “I really walked to the market across all that traffic.    Paper, please.  Thank you.”  She stared.

While leaving the checkout area and with transactions completed, I shoved a shopping cart to the side as a act of courtesy for a young man wanting a newspaper.  In the process my purse fell to the floor scattering papers, pens, and money.  This same young man grabbed his newspaper, vaulted over my personal possessions, and charged out the door.

“Will you look at that!” exclaimed an elderly woman approaching me.

 “I was just trying to get out of his way,” I sobbed as I bent down to recover my things.

“Men!  They’re all the same.  You were stupid for being kind to him,” she blurted as she handed me one of my pens.

“Thank you.,” I gasped as tears streamed down my cheek and onto the floor.

Gathering everything and the two purchased items from the dirty floor, I dashed from the store, scurried across the parking lot, trekked down Nahatan Street, darted between cars, marched across the bridge, and hopped over poison ivy—one more time.

The motel front door flung open as I lunged through it.  The clerk looked up at me.

“Did you get what you needed?”

 “No stamps, but now we can have cereal in the morning,” I said toting the sack of groceries over to her.

“Is there anything else you need?”  She seemed genuinely interested and not quite so offish as earlier.

“Yes,” I flippantly said as I leaned heavily over the counter, breathless.  “Where’s a good restaurant?”

“There’s a great one across the road.”

“Fine, make me a reservation for six o’clock.”  My heart sank as I turned toward the front window and peered across Route 1.

 “Fine.  Six o’clock it is then.”

“And one more thing,” I said as I leaned even closer to her, perspiration still dripping from my shiny red face.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call me a cab for 5:45 p.m.”

Note:  It is my prayer that you enjoyed reading this 1996 true story.  Three months after this incident, my beautiful, hot red Skylark became my mode of transportation.