I talked to Mom today. She sounded so good, so happy, and that makes my heart sing. I love my mom as much as any man can love another person. She’s my mentor, my guide, and my light. I just sometimes wish I could be the man she hoped I would be.
Her husband, Ray Brown isn’t well. So many things going on with his poor old body I can’t begin to list them all. But they keep praying and believing for his healing, and I pray with them. He’s a good guy, Ray Brown is, and I should have shown him more respect and given him more love these past 25 years or so. But I’m not that good a guy sometimes.
As mom and I talked, while I walked, this morning she told me how much it meant to her that I’ve started calling Ray every now and then—just to talk. Then… she told me about a dream she had last night. She said she doesn’t dream that often, and when she does, her dreams are vague and disjointed. But she said this one was vivid and clear. She said she dreamed I was sitting across from Ray, me in a chair facing him in his chair, and I was just holding his hand and smiling at him. But here’s what broke my heart and left me crying off and on the rest of this day. Mom, trying her best not to cry, said, “There was nothing but love in your smile, Charlie. I can’t even describe it.”
I don’t deserve a dream like that. I just don’t.
Gliding in the old wooden swing on the porch
I’d just finished the yard—which is looking pretty good, if I don’t say so myself—and was sitting in a lawn chair cooling off, when I noticed a guy looking at the house behind ours. He was about my age and looked to be very interested in the house. He must’ve walked around it five or six times. As he finally seemed to be finished and started toward his pickup, I went over to the fence and said howdy, then asked him if he was looking to buy the house or paint it. He caught my sarcasm and chuckled, then said, “Buy it. The realtor hasn’t shown up yet. She’s late. You know anything about the house?” I said, “No, but I do know the nearest neighbor’s kinda mean and can be pretty difficult sometimes.” He glanced around then asked, “Which one?” I threw a thumb over my shoulder at my house. He grinned, frowned, grinned, frowned, then looked at me like we might be fixin to fight. I laughed, put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Don’t worry ‘bout it though. Her husband’s a real nice guy.”
Day number 25,202 started like most of the last 1000 or so; about three cups of coffee and some sweet cakes—always have to have something sweet with my coffee—been doing that every morning for about 35 or so years. That said, I then read our morning devotional, and Sherry and I talked about God and our many blessings for a bit. We’ve been doing that for almost 24 years now. After that, I did a four-minute plank, then Mom called and we talked about God, which is mostly what we talk about in our weekly chats. And then, I put on my shoes and was about to walk out the door and take a quick five-mile walk, when son, Bill called. We talked for a good while—we always do—but I had to smile after we hung up. I told Sherry I knew it was my birthday, because Bill let me talk quite a bit. We laughed, because she knows when Bill calls, he usually does most of the talking. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I love to listen to him and get the low down on what him and his boys are up to. When Trevor and Nathan were playing football in high school, Bill would call on Saturday or Sunday and literally give me a play by play of Friday night’s game. Being so far away was hard—never getting to see the boys play ball—but Bill’s account of the games took away some of the pain. So, anyway, after we talked, I went for that five-mile walk, then came back and fixed me and Sherry a PB&J on some of my grilled homemade jalapeno bread. (Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.) Now—it’s straight up noon—I’m going to run to the store, then come back and mow & trim the yard. Probably take it easy the rest of the day, then go out for a celebratory dinner this evening. Early evening, of course. I mean, after all, I’m 25,202.5 days old, ya know. Who’d a thunk I’d last this long?
I’m certainly no Hemingway, but I bleed, and I cannot stop the bleeding. I’ll let you know when the book is finished.
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Marbles In My Pocket ~ The Official Blog of Charles L. Mashburn ~ Poems, Short Stories, and random thoughts from the author of "Be Still... and know that I am God" 