The River, the Color Blue, and the Gold Beads 

    Janet Margaret Bell, 10/15/1924-01/10/2023 lived her life joyfully.  Her desires were few but those she held were not a requirement for happiness.  She welcomed new situations and people with a contagious curiosity always looking for the good in people and situation..  That doesn't mean that she was never sad or disappointed.  She would have what she called, "pity parties" and then move on after a good cry.  She recommended to everyone, a tear duct flushing when necessary.  

    She cherished the gold beads and every picture from the time her mother passed until the day I removed them from her neck as my sister and I prepared her body for her final journey.  That was except for the one week they went missing.

    Mom was living at American House Assisted Living near me in Charlevoix, MI.  One day she called, frantic, "My beads are missing!!!.  I can't find them anywhere."  As I drove over, I knew how important they were.  She and her sister had split the necklace in half when their mother died and each had completed their necklaces with new gold beads.  We all knew the story of how our Great-grandfather Kleihower had purchased them for his wife at the Pan-American Exposition in 1901.  It was the very place that President McKinley was assassinated. When anyone commented about the beads she would launch into the story.  

    As I drove I could not imagine how they would have been removed and then lost.  Mom's eyesight was seriously affected by macular degeneration and the clasp required sight and agility having a double catch system.  She was also affected by a worsening short-term memory loss.  (She liked to say, "my memory is getting shorter." 

When I arrived she was visibly upset and I began searching her small apartment, over, under, between, behind and in every bit of space.  Nothing.  I went out to the director because I knew someone had to have helped her get the necklace off but I could not imagine why.  I tried not to think that anyone who worked there could stoop so low as to steal it.  She knew nothing but would pass the word for everyone to keep an eye out.  I had done all I could and was heart sick about the loss of one of the most precious items my mother owned.  She had long ago instructed us to divide the beads between her 6 grand daughters when the time came. They would skip the daughters as her sister, Lois had also done.  

    The trouble wasn't over because Mom could not remember from one day to the next.  I got the same frantic call every day, sometimes twice in a day.   I would go over and search again and comforter her.  "We'll find them."  We prayed to St. Anthony.  I thought of telling her the beds were out being repaired.  I had been on line researching a necklace that would maybe feel like the missing necklace.  She could reach up and touch it and think nothing of the loss.  

    About a week later, I stopped by and saw that the missing gold necklace was there, on  mom's neck in all its glory.  "Oh mom, you have your gold necklace on!!!"  She answers, "Of course, I never take it off."  She had no memory of the recent loss and search.  When I asked the administrator, who found the necklace.  She had no idea either......if she did, she was not saying.  More grateful than wanting to get to the bottom of the theft?, I pursued it no further.

    Recently, while spending some time with a local member of the Anishinaabe Band of Odawa, he mentioned the almost universal presence of "little people" who populate stories in Native Cultures across all regions of our country.  I remembered my mom talking about the Lutron's and Pipsiwas (little people) who could be blamed for unexplainable mischief such as missing objects when we were kids..  That is the only explanation that makes sense to me.

Blue

Blue

She smiles and turns to the water's edge, wades up to her knees,

fingertips gently combing the surface, welcoming the wetness.

Lifting and bending knee and waist,  

her body propels forward into an arc that pierces the surface.  

She disappears below.

Ripples mark the spot and sparkling reflections follow the form below

With a flowing motion she rolls and wet face emerges  in the setting sun.

Reborn in River-water, she smiles, turns, swims with graceful strokes trailing memories that glow in the wake.

Written on the first anniversary of my mother's death, Jan. 10, 2024 

WHAT IS IT MY LITTLE CHICKADEE?

What Is It My Little Chickadee?

    It is a cool Fall day.  I am putting a shine on my windows.  I see a dark darting and then BOP next to me.  There, at my feet, a crumpled chickadee lies, neck twisted, beak open, toes curled, motionless.  My heart sank.  Are my window efforts worth this tiny life.  This joyful, brave and curious bird endures the cold Michigan winters, visits the feeder, flutters near me.

    Scooped into my palm, the body still warm, I kiss the black cap and am so sorry for the mirror windows.  I say, "Shake it off my little chickadee."  The bird is still except a tiny vibration under the chest feathers.  I lie the body down on the deck and continue cleaning.

    At the table inside, I am not so happy with the sparkle.  Out the window expecting a corpse, I see a chickadee standing, appearing to be disoriented.  Getting bearings my little chickadee took flight and so did my spirits.

      

                                                            HOMECOMING

  

In 1980, Bill and I and our three young children moved back to my home town, St. Clair, Michigan on the St. Clair River.  I had been away for 15 years but I had friends and family still living  here.  

I loved our mid-century cape cod house.  I could never leave home without first admiring the traditional blue color, the white shutters , two dormers evenly spaced on the steep roof, flower filled window boxes and a white picket fence.  

And so it was, that I stood on the sidewalk admiring my house on an August summer day in 1981.  I was on my way to teach a Lamaze Childbirth Class at a local church within walking distance. 

The three children were inside with a teenage babysitter, Maryann.  I needed a babysitter because their dad was 15 miles away leading a board meeting at his office in Algonac.  

I was in mid-sentence of explaining how the partners were to time contractions during labor when two men burst  in.  I recognized the friends as they came toward me, men on a mission.

  "Betty, you need to come home, Ross is missing!"

My first reaction was to laugh at the absurdity. " No, not Ross," my  extremely shy 4 year old middle child.  In crowds or unfamiliar surroundings, he hid behind my legs.  He rarely spoke to adults, even relatives he new.  

The two looked back at me solemnly, "Betty, many people have searched your house, yard and neighborhood, Ross is gone. 

My class surrounded me, silent,  staring blank-faced.  I threw my self into the best defense humans have against the unthinkable, complete denial.  Even though I was told he was not in the house, I knew he was.  He had to be. 

It was denial speaking when I told my class I will be back in 20 minutes.  Walking out, I made a plan B,  "If I'm not back in 20 minutes, leave and the door will lock behind you."

The ride home took just a few minutes.  I was too dazed to think anything. 

My yard was filled with people. A police car with the blue light flashing had pulled up to the curb. Neighborhood kids hung on the fence and everyone was very concerned about Ross, the missing child.  The atmosphere was electric.  

My dad was there, too.  He had been in the Special Police, a volunteer group supporting the local police during emergencies, festivals, Friday night football games and also helped form search parties.  He was busy doing just that.  He looked  professional, giving instructions and asking for volunteers to search the nearby field and woods. My other two children were safe in the back yard with my mom.  The babysitter was being consoled by her mother.  

My sisters met me in the driveway.  "Let's search the house again." We went from room to room starting in the basement and systematically searched the house top to bottom.   We did not find him.  I felt  cold fear creep up my spine.

That same year a little 6 year old boy, Adam Wash. went missing while shopping in a mall with his mother.  The family tragedy was carried non stop in the news.  The missing children milk carton  campaign had started with pictures of young children and the words, "Have you seen me?"   The Stranger Danger instructions to school age children had created a general panic.  

After the fruitless search, I told my sister to go outside, leave me alone, I will make one more search.  I began to talk to Ross like he was there and could hear me.  I fought to stay calm as I began in the finished basement.   

I told a favorite story that I read at bedtime almost every night, "The Spooky Old Tree."  I knew it by heart after so many readings. "Three little bears, one with a light, one with a rope and one with a stick. A spooky old tree...Do they dare go into that spooky old tree?  Yes, they dare."

I searched every room down there, under and behind every object.  I struggled to stay calm.  Ross had to be here, somewhere. The alternative  was that he had  been abducted.  

On the first floor, the house was as quiet as a tomb.  I continued with the Spooky Old Tree Story in a calm and gentle voice.  I was being comforted, too, by the familiar story.  I looked everywhere, even impossible places like the stove and refrigerator and down the laundry shoot.  I looked in closets, behind the hanging clothes, the curtains the  couch.  Under tables  and beds, in the bathtub behind the shower curtain.  

I heard a sound and turned to find Ross standing in the hallway.  "Here I am Mommy."

I swept him into my arms with joy and blubbered, "Sweet mother of God, all the angels and saints Alleluia and amen."

So relieved to see him, in an instant  my worst fears were cast away. I teetered on the  edge of both laughing and crying.  

I rushed outside  with Ross in my arms, the gathered crowd let out a collective gasp of both relief and wonder like a crowd watching a magic trick.   "Where was he?" someone shouted.

My house had been searched multiple times, his name being shouted in the house, yard and neighborhood.  

Some of the faces, including my father after first  appearing relieved, became shadowed with exasperation.  "Aren't you going to spank him?"  After all, he had caused my family to 

panic concerned the neighbors, terrified the babysitter brought the police.   Couldn't he have just come out and spared us all?

Ross hugged me tight and turned away from the gathering not wishing to be the center of attention.  First the police left and  eventually all went home relieved if not overjoyed.

Once inside, I asked Ross to show me where he had been.  I had not found him.  He had revealed himself.

He took me upstairs to the master bedroom, rounded the end of the bed and pointed at a space below a built in-desk in one of the dormers typical of cape cod houses. We didn't use the desk and there was no lamp.  It was like a cave underneath.  He had hidden there after an embarrassing accident.  Unwilling to go to an unfamiliar babysitter, he found safety in a little hidey-hole.  The unfamiliar voices made him draw further into the shadows. Refusing to come out until he heard the familiar voice of his mother.

I put the kids to bed following the usual night time rituals which included reading the Spooky Old Tree, a Bearinstain Bear story, a momma, poppa and three siblings bears matching our own family.   

I heard the back door open as Bill returned home oblivious to the chaos  that ensued while he was gone.  Pre cell phone era and no  office staff to answer phones kept him from being contacted.  Fortunately, I didn't need the Algonac Police.   I gave a blow by blow account.  We were comforted by the angelic sleeping faces of our children.

  Ross is 47 now, has his own family and is anything but shy.  After marrying, his first house coincidentally was a cape cod.    The ending of book I was reciting that day in 1981 has become  a sacred incantation for our family when we return from trips.

In the story, After many  big scares in the Spooky old tree, the three little bears run home to momma's open arms.  Every one says in unison, "Home Again Safe at LAST.

Nevermore, The Covid-19 Effect

Unsung             

04/20/2020

Outside my mother’s assisted living here in Charlevoix are signs that say, “Heroes Work Here” I noticed them set up like the old Burma Shave signs along the busy highway as I turned into the parking lot.

All of the doors are locked now at American House. An Alexa Ring door alert blue-lighted iris circles the clear lens of the camera watching the entry. A warning sign cataloging the restrictions is fixed to the door. Pressing the doorbell, a merry chime sounds.  The wait is indeterminate. “Keeper of the gate” is a duty added to the already busy staff.  The heavy door clunking open always startles me.  A hand sanitizer container stands silent century while my temperature is checked and paper work attesting to the lack of any symptoms is filled out and signed.

Once inside, I am reminded of an empty church or funeral home without mourners or the smell of flowers for the quiet yet pregnant silence.

Today, Leslie is my admitter.  She is the activities director of which there are none.  Most are cancelled. No bingo, or outings, the dining areas is closed while residents are served meals in their rooms and eat alone. Leslie and I exchange pleasantries, we are both “fine.”  Only our eyes are visible above our masks.   Mentioning the hero signs out front, she glumly replies, “I don’t feel like a hero.”  Leslie went her way and I went mine, to room number 4.  It’s shower day for my 95 year old, wheel chair bound mother.  I’m a nurse, who happens to be a family member.  That’s my lucky ticket in to an environment where people have not been allowed visitors in weeks. 

At 10:30 there’s a knock on my mom’s door and it’s Leslie.  “Janet, time for exercise.”

Residents move to chairs outside their doors and safe distances from each other.  Leslie starts into the arm exercises with weights in a drill sergeant voice.  She’s at the end of the long hall with a microphone and speaker.   The short session ends with leg marching and singing Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In.  I come close to crying with the irony of it all.

Heroine implies heroics, brave action in a time of need.   However, unsung reminds me of the question, “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?”  Unsung, unrewarded, unrecognized.   This pandemic has an army of souls who risk their lives, some because they have chosen but more because they must.  It is the job that feeds their families and pays the bills. It is a profession or career chosen while never imagining the danger.  Hired as an activities director, now Leslie is the resident life guard for her beloved residents.

Yesterday, a Raven dropped down like a black parachute to the ground beside the bird feeder visible from my kitchen window.  This was the first time I had seen a raven so close.  A black beauty, sleek and gleaming in the morning sun strutted, pecked and tilted her head in silent queries before taking off in graceful flight, body tilting through the close stand of pine.  In the reverie of the moment, I thought of Edgar Allen Poe’s poem and the Raven’s reply, “Nevermore.”

Nevermore will the world be the same.  Our unsung heroines such as Leslie are reluctant heroes caught in something new and bewildering but requiring brave action or brave forbearance or brave imagining.    Nevermore will I sneeze or hear a cough and not think of my own mortality.

Tomorrow, I will thank Leslie. And all the unsung heroes that walk and breathe and work among us; the transit workers, health care professionals, clerks at pharmacies, hardware stores and groceries, police and emergency responders.    

How will it end?  When will it end?  How will we all be different or the same?  When Leslie said, I don’t feel like a hero, her eyes were weary as if they could see a long difficult road ahead.

Pink House Dream

    This is the house I remember from the earliest days of my childhood.  Grandpa and Grandma Bell lived here.  The small cottage size house had a clear view of the St. Clair River flowing with water, boats, lake freighters, summertime inner tube float downs and winter ice flows.  Grandpa had a small dock and fishing boat.  M-29 separates the house from the River with a steady stream of traffic.  

    I never questioned the color, watermelon pink,  for a house.  It was simply grandma and grandpa’s house, a house that announced itself boldly, though it was tiny.   As freighters from the Interlake Steamship Company passed going up and down, it was easy to pick out retired Chief Engineer Chester Bell’s house for the greeting salute of a long and two shorts from the steam whistle.  I’ve never seen any other watermelon pink houses.  Grandma had her house painted her favorite color.  

     

                                          

Some Thoughts on Roe vs Wade

 Pro-life, anti-abortion, Pro-choice,  Pro-safe, legal abortion, a woman's right to choose are all 

words that

entangle our society in an emotional and often violent tussle for a permanent solution. 

What does it mean to be pro-life?  If a person also believes the government has the right to send men and women to war, to use war strategies that give a high probability of civilian death, or deal the death penalty to convicted men and women for crimes even though some may be innocent, they are merely anti-abortion.  Those who are pro-life respect all life and the commandment, though shalt not kill.  This includes war, the death penalty, assisted suicide.  What about the agents of death such as social decay,  violence in our families and culture and environment, the availability of lethal weapons of mass casualty and a willingness to make profit the bottom line driving our economy?

A Pro-life commitment does not mean just being anti-abortion.  Think of the environment where the seeds of Roe vs Wade were planted.  Women have always born the consequences of  sexual encounters.  A man can walk away and perhaps be totally unaware that a life has been created.  Uncommitted or committed relationships have no bearing on this biological fact.  Most stable cultures created elaborate social structures and courting rules that encouraged marriage commitment prior to sexual intercourse.     Pregnancies that occurred prior to marriage or worse as a result of casual encounters or forced sex either by situation or physical strength or plain ignorance of bodily function happen every day.  Under the beating heart of a woman, a new life is created in the warmth and protection of the womb another heart begins to beat.  Bringing love and kindness to both will raise up all.  May we move toward a pro-life society that protects the body, mind and soul of she who holds the miracle of  two beating hearts.