A Crabby Old Lady Wrote This

No, the crabby old lady isn't me - at least not yet, I hope! I found this poem in a magazine over 25 years ago at a time when my own grandmother lived in a nursing home. No author was given. The poem helped me understand my grandmother's girlish giggles and encouraged me to really hear her stories. Now, as I look to it to gain perspective, I will admit that I liked it better when I was younger! But it helps me understand how I can be applying for Social Security, yet still feel like a little girl inside!


A Crabby Old Lady Wrote This

What do you see, nurses, what do you see?
Are you thinking when you are looking at me?
A crabby old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with far-away eyes.
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, “I do wish you’d try.”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do.
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe.
Who unresisting or not, lets you do as you will.
Is that what you are thinking,
Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse. You’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still;
As I do your bidding, as I eat at your will.

I’m a small child of ten with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who love one another,
A young girl of sixteen with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover she’ll meet;
A bride soon at twenty – my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep;
At twenty-five now I have young of my own
Who need me to build a secure, happy home;
A woman of thirty, my young now grow fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my man’s beside me to see I don‘t mourn.
At fifty once more babies play round my knee,
Again we know children, my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me, my loved one is dead.
I look at the future. I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own.
And I think of the years and the love that I’ve known
I’m an old woman now and nature is cruel
‘Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.

The body it crumbles, grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone where I once had a heart;
But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living all over again

I think of the years all too few gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

So, open your eyes, nurses, open and see.
Not a crabby old woman, look – see ME!


Yes, little Linda Sue is still there inside of me! But, as I look ahead and feel a touch of dread, I remember that the Holy Spirit also lives in me.

"We do no lose heart, but though the outer man is decaying, yet the inner man is being renewed day by day. We do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal." 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

I also remember that even if no one else really sees me, God sees ME! And if He dwells in me, I am never really alone. This is not the end of the story of the "Crabby Old Lady". She will spend spend eternity with the loved ones she mourned and with the Jesus who gave her hope.

Summers on the Farm

Chink. Chink. The swing rocked to the rhythm of our feet skimming across the thick gray paint of the porch floor. My grandmother and I sat together on the August afternoon. The mist of the sudden shower dampened our faces, a welcome relief from the heat. As the rain stopped, steam arose over the lush green pasture, the musty smell of wet hay replacing the freshness of the rain.
My brother and I spent a week each summer at our grandparents’ farm in Enon, Louisiana. My grandmother indulged her passion for family heritage and storytelling during those lazy afternoons on the front porch. I was her only audience, the only family member who seemed to value her stories.
“Tell me about when your mother died.”
“When I was three years old, my mother died of typhoid fever and left seven motherless children.” Then, she told how her 16-year-old sister Evie took over the daunting task of running a farm household. I cringed at tales of the cruel woman who became her father’s second wife.
“She died after only one year of marriage.” Her soft face crinkled with a touch of mischief as she admitted that she was not sad at all. “Later Daddy married the kind woman we called Mother.”
Of our ancestors, she always said, “we are of pioneer stock, sturdy and dependable.”
The white farmhouse was full with treasures. I learned where and when each piece of furniture was bought. Little notes were taped onto the back of photos, pieces of jewelry and other items.
“Remember to tell your mom and uncle to look for these notes. I have already decided who gets what.” She pointed to a photograph of herself and chuckled “They can use this to scare away the rats.”
“Now this has your name on it. Remember, this is a real antique, so take care of it. It is a rose bottle and used my mother to make perfume from rose petals and water.”
I examined each of the miniature knick-knacks on the shelf hung on the living room wall and looked at the black pages of her photo albums. MawMaw watched, hoping that I would remember and appreciate the heritage she had worked so hard to preserve.
The smell of biscuits and bacon reached my room at the front of the farmhouse. It was summer vacation at my grandparents’ farm.
“I thought I heard little feet padding around,” MawMaw laughed and said softly. She wore a cotton housedress, its printed fabric not much different from the worn curtains that rustled in the window above the sink.
“Odell, would you take the children to the watermelon patch this morning?”
“Hmmm.” PawPaw continued to read the Bogalusa Daily News at the white enamel kitchen table.
“Will you drop me off at the garden so I can finish picking the sweet corn Mike likes so much?”
“Um hmmm.”
PawPaw finally looked up from his paper and said, “Do you kids want to take a ride to the watermelon patch after breakfast?” PawPaw finally looked up from his paper and asked.
I put down my fork and answered, “Yeah!” I was a big fan of Washington Parish melons. PawPaw always let us thump them to see if they were ripe.
“Okay. We can pick those round little melons you like so much. Now hop on the back of the trailer.”
We all jumped onto the wooden bed of the trailer. Mike said, “Don’t forget to drop MawMaw off at the vegetable garden,”
PawPaw started the red tractor and began to drive slowly in the direction of the garden.
“Hold onto your hat, Rose,” he said and chuckled as he floored the tractor and took off, not to the garden after all, but through the woods.
MawMaw shouted, “Now, Odell, you stop right now!”
We held on as tightly as we could as the trailer bounced and tree limbs pelted our heads. PawPaw was well satisfied with the result of his escapade--MawMaw’s screams and our delight.
On Sunday, we’d go to Enon Baptist Church in the center of “town” on Highway 16 between Franklinton and Bogalusa. “Town” consisted of a caution light, the church, Enon School for grades 1-12 and Cousin Hollis Green’s gas station. My great-grandfather Green had helped build the original church building in the late 1800’s. The rustic church pew I used in my home for over twenty years was a reject from those he built for that church. The present church building was built in 1938 of large chunks of Mississippi sandstone. My grandparents took pride in showing us off to the “community” of Enon. On Monday, we would visit Aunt Evie Green Magee who lived in on the adjoining Green property, the sister who raised my grandmother after her mother’s death. Stately at almost six feet tall, Aunt Evie was the kindest woman I ever met. We sampled her famous egg custard pie and carried home jars of crisp sweet pickles. Then we went across the street to Aunt Maude Jenkins’s weathered farm house, where all the Green siblings had been born. Aunt Maude’s pale blue eyes welcomed me as her weathered face krinkled around her loving smile. Also tall, Aunt Maude was a little more stooped and frail. MawMaw said it was because she had worked so hard helping Uncle Fred with farm chores. MawMaw thought of her and PawPaw as more “city folk” They had lived in Bogalusa most of their married life where he was postmaster until his retirement. Unlike Aunt Maude and Uncle Fred, their farm was “non-working”, except for a garden and a fledging Christmas tree crop. Aunt Maude also had her specialties, fresh churned country butter and the rich pound cake she made with it. There were more rounds to be made: Uncle Hollis, Uncle Arthur and Cousin Glenna. Each relative commented on who Mike and I resembled. I envied the third-cousins we played with because they saw each other every week of the year.
After getting a pound of butter from Aunt Maude, MawMaw gave me a cooking lesson, along with a lecture about the importance of learning how to cook. The recipe for Aunt Maude’s pound cake called for six eggs, still warm from Uncle Fred’s hens. MawMaw would take out six custard cups and break each egg into a separate cup before it went into the rich batter. By the time the cake went into the oven, the entire kitchen was a mess. I’ve been accused of inheriting her habit of dirtying every dish in the kitchen.

During the week, we visited each aunt and uncle. Aunt Evie had baked her legendary egg custard pie. Aunt Maude supplied fresh eggs and soft butter to make MawMaw’s famous pound cake. The relatives thought of my grandparents as “city folk.” They had lived in Bogalusa most of their married life where he was postmaster until his retirement. Their farm was “non-working”, except for a vegetable garden and a fledging Christmas tree crop. I envied the third-cousins we played with because they saw each other every week of the year.
We left at the end of the week stocked with packages of frozen vegetables, jars of sweet pickles and dozens of little round watermelons, feeling a part something solid and lasting. We knew that when we returned next summer, everything would be exactly the same.

HAPPY 101th BIRTHDAY!

Hattie Rogers Broadus is 101 years old today! This picture was taken in 2002.

My grandmother Winnie Chatman Mizell, who died in 1982 at age 76, was her first cousin and friend. When MawMaw Winnie was in a nursing home in Gulfport, Hattie, who was older than she, would ride her bike to visit.

When my parents moved to Gulfport after their marriage, Hattie helped them move many times from apartment to apartment, as they didn't have a car. After Daddy died in 1992, Hattie welcomed me into her home where I stayed as we took care of getting Daddy's house ready to sell. Staying there made me feel "mothered" or "grandmothered" again. She's an amazingly strong Christian woman with an admirably positive attitude in life.

This is the story she told me about when she had smallpox as a young adult:

“Tell me again your job at the Edgewater Gulf Hotel,” I asked, hoping to put together more pieces of the life of my extraordinary cousin, Hattie Broadus. She was my grandmother’s first cousin and, since my grandmother died over twenty years ago, my adopted grandmother. At 100 years old, she still stands tall at almost six feet although she now uses a tri-wheel walker for balance.

“In the 1930s, I was a cashier at the Edgewater Gulf Hotel on the beach in Biloxi. I was already dating Maxie, who was away at college in Texas.” Hattie continued the story for my sake. Without my prodding, she would have preferred asking me about my family and my life or playing a game of gin rummy.

I remembered the huge white structure with the sprawling green lawn and said, “How I wish they hadn’t torn down the Edgewater!”

In sharp detail, Hattie continued the story, “Employees were allowed to live in the hotel during tourist season. One day at work, I suddenly developed a raging fever. The doctor at the hotel told me to go home, so I drove myself the forty miles to the country town of Perkinston. As I drove, I got sicker and sicker, but finally reached the small doctor’s office. I forced myself to get out of the car and enter. The nurse looked at me and quickly left the room. I heard her whispering to the doctor.”

Hattie leaned back in her mahogany rocker and said, “When she returned, nurse stammered, ‘get back in your car and wait for Dr. James.’ Dr. James quickly came out to the car, took one look at me, and said, ‘Hattie, you have smallpox. Go home!"

“What happened then?” I was stunned. I could remember my grandmother complaining that, because Hattie had never been sick in her life, she had no sympathy for those who suffered. (Of course, my grandmother could never get all the sympathy she wanted from anyone!)

“I went to my parents’ home and shut myself in my room. I wouldn’t let Mama come in, so she left my food at the door. Sixty or seventy people saw me before I was diagnosed, but all were vaccinated and did not get sick. My hands swelled to twice their size, and I worried about scarring. People came to my window to see me.” Hattie chuckled and said, “I worried that Maxie’s sisters would write and tell him that I was scarred, but, when it was over, I was surprised to see that I didn’t have any scars. Maxie and I were married about two years later.”

I wondered if surviving smallpox had made her strong or if she survived smallpox because of her strength. Either way, Hattie Broadus is one tough lady.

P.S. I had written this post in February 18, 2008--Hattie's 101th birthday. On April 15, 2009, Hattie went to be with Jesus. About a week before, Ralph and I visited with her. She had been asking her minister why she was still here. She held my hand and said these most precious words to me: "I'm so glad we still love each other."

BEAUTY FOR ASHES

WARNING: MEMORIES REFRAMED! To those who were part of my past, my memories may surprise you. They have been reframed in light of what I now know about God—that He formed me in my mother’s womb and was always with me, working for my good and to answer my little-girl prayers. They have been reframed with God in the picture. They have been reframed against the backdrop of God’s attributes—who He is.

In one of her Bible studies, Beth Moore said, “You have not gotten this far in your journey with God without His footprints planted all over your path, and without His fingerprints all over the doorknobs of your life.” God was present “then and there”. He can and will heal the pain of our difficult memories.

Therefore, although my stories are absolutely factual, I cannot help but see them in the light of the work that Jesus has done in my life. Therefore, ashes may appear as beauty; mourning may appear as joy; the spirit of heaviness as gladness. According to Isaiah 61, the good news Jesus came to bring included “binding up the brokenhearted”, giving “beauty for ashes," joy for mourning" and the “garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.”

Photo: Spring tulips at Duke Gardens 2005

COURAGE

The doctor struggled to look his patient straight in the eyes as he quietly said, “I am afraid that you are in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease.”

My mother-in-law stammered, “Are you sure?”

“Well, I am sure that you have it, but Alzheimer’s can only be definitively diagnosed by autopsy.”

“Well, that’s a little premature!” she quipped. She had obviously not lost her quick tongue and sharp sense of humor. Her son and the doctor both laughed.
Over the next few years, she entertained us by making jokes about her memory lapses. She cackled even louder when she caught one of her baby boomer children in their own senior moments.

In my youth, courage was not at the top of my “wish list”. The need for courage inferred that circumstances would arise requiring it. I thought that that if I mastered the “how-to” of being a Christian, all of my circumstances would be perfect, calm and good-- certainly not such that required courage. As I watched this courageous woman face her frightening future, I began to pray for courage in my own life.

I had taken to heart Psalm 71:18: “Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, O God, til I declare your power to the next generation, your might to all who are to come.” I thought of mentoring and teaching as ways to transmit knowledge of the Lord’s faithfulness to the next generation. My mother-in-law’s unexpected modeling of courage made me wonder, are values taught or caught? What better way to declare the Lord’s power to the next generation than to face with courage the challenges that life brings.

A Child's Prayer

My prayers were about to be answered.

My eight-year-old grandson was the messenger.

For five years, I had prayed for a child for my youngest son and his wife. Expensive and painful fertility treatments had failed. Month after month, year after year, they experienced heartache and disappointment. The excitement of a pregnancy ended in the sorrow of miscarriage. Another baby was lost when the birth mother decided at the last minute to keep her baby. I hurt so much for them. Would this trial ever end?

One Sunday morning in October, my eight-year-old grandson Braden and I sat across from each other in the reception area of our small church. It was unusual that no one else was in the room with us. Braden, my most affectionate grandchild, reached for a Bible lying in the middle of the round table.

He thumbed through the pages and said, “Matthew.”

He quickly flipped through a few more pages and declared, “Mark.”

With what appeared to be purpose, he continued, “Luke.”

And he added, “Oh, yes, John,” Braden stopped at John’s Gospel.

His finger moved down the page to verse 14 and he read, "You may ask me for anything in My name, and I will do it.” Moisture filled my eyes as he closed the Bible and just looked me straight in the eye.

I leaned slightly toward him and said, “Okay, Braden, you know how we have been praying for a baby for Uncle Joel and Aunt Jennifer?”

“Yes,” he said, lowering his eyes and raising his shoulders slightly in a shy little shrug.

“Well, Jesus tells us here that if we ask anything in His name, He will do it.” I continued in spite of my concern about what would happen to his fledging faith if God did not answer our prayers in the way and time we expected. I decided to take advantage of an opportunity to transmit my faith to him, so I took courage and said, “Let’s pray right now. You and me.”

“Okay,” he said cautiously, still looking me intently in the eye.

I gently wrapped his hand in mine and prayed this simple prayer, “Lord Jesus, the Bible tells us that if we ask anything in your name, you will do it. We ask you right now for a baby for Joel and Jennifer. We thank you for answering our prayer. Amen.”

Then, with all of the confidence I could muster, I said, “Braden, we asked so we now believe that our prayer will be answered.”

My quiet little grandson simply smiled and nodded.

As we left church, I told my husband about the prayer, “I have never seen Braden open a Bible and read a verse. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get good news this week.”

On Wednesday afternoon, as I was straightening my house, Joel called and said, “Another young woman has chosen us to adopt her baby, who is due in February.” I was stunned. As the good news reached Braden’s house, my daughter, Braden’s mother, got out her Bible, sat her three active boys around the dinner table, and read John 14:14. As she told them the news of the coming baby, she reminded them of Braden’s prayer.

The four months of waiting for the baby to be born were a grueling stretch of patience and holding onto faith. The last birth mother had changed her mind a week before the baby was due. Could they bear another heartbreak? Could I? As I waited and prayed, I read scriptures about the faithfulness of God throughout the Bible, and I reminded myself of the day Braden and I prayed.

Our sixth grandchild, a healthy boy, was born a week early! When we all welcomed the much-anticipated child home, Braden could not take his eyes off his tiny cousin. As Rylan’s long fingers wrapped around Braden’s forefinger, I told the story again of how Braden asked and God answered.

I will continue to tell this story and others because throughout scripture God’s charges his people with passing down the faith to the generations to come. In Psalm 71:18 (NIV), the psalmist says, “Even when I am old and gray, O God, do not forsake me, until I declare your strength to this generation.” The story of Braden’s prayer showed me how opportunities arise in everyday life to teach about God’s continuing faithfulness.

Old Friends

As I sat alone on the front steps of our new house, I saw a girl about my age walking down the street wearing a crisp white middy blouse and tan Bermuda shorts. I was surprised to see her turn into my yard and walk toward me. “Hello, my name is Cheryl. I live three houses down.” A jaunty sailor cap covered short brown hair.

I was eleven years old when my family moved into a new neighborhood, only ten blocks from our old. I transferred to East Ward Elementary on Beach Boulevard in the middle of sixth grade. East Ward was only two or three miles from my school of five years, North Central Elementary, but it seemed a universe away. North Central was one of the poorer school districts in Gulfport and, although my dad worked as a cable repairman for the telephone company, we were rich by North Central standards. My mother made the plaid cotton dresses I wore to school, but at East Ward, most of the girls wore dresses from Northrup’s, the most expensive store in town. Some went to New Orleans every season to shop for new wardrobes. I was surprised to learn that Gulfport had a yacht club and that kids hung out there in the summers, sailing their sunfishes around Gulfport Harbor, and going to Ship Island on private yachts. The children at North Central had taught me compassion for those who had less than I. Now I was the one who had less, but with Cheryl’s help, I made new friends. During the summers, when the others were at the yacht club, Cheryl and I made up our own fun.

I spent a lot of time at the Rose house. I noticed that Cheryl’s family had problems similar to those in my own family, but shame kept us from talking about such things as our fathers’ anger and my mother’s drinking until many years later. Today we would call our families dysfunctional, but back then, before Oprah and Dr. Phil, family problems were secret. Old friends know where you came from.

On summer evenings, a few window air conditioners purred, but mostly the rumble of attic fans muffled the squeals of children playing outside. Summer was rerun time, and there was no cable TV. People didn’t stay inside all the time, and neighbors knew each other. On hot afternoons, kids played softball on the empty lot and, on summer nights, we chased each other around the neighborhood, playing hide and seek. Any adult on the block could be trusted to watch out for the whole gang.

Neither Cheryl nor I had sisters. Her three brothers felt like my own, in good ways and bad. I remember riding bicycles down twenty-fourth street after a “make-over” session while our brothers ridiculed our bright blue eye shadow. Cheryl’s big brother Jim rolled his eyes at brush rollers covered with pink lacy caps and then charged after us like Frankenstein through the dark house after the Dr. Shock late night horror flick. Cheryl remembers my long blonde ponytail. I remember her bouffant hairdo and mini skirts. Old friends knew you when.

Most of all, I remember most is the giggling! One day, while Cheryl and I smeared oatmeal masks on our faces in my bathroom, men working on the back of our house told my dad “they sure do laugh a lot.” Each summer we would devise beauty plans and declare, “We’re coming out of our cocoons!” We would vow to get a boy friend the next school year. Then, of course, we’d giggle. Through high school and junior college, we giggled. We still do. Old friends have lots to laugh about.

Cheryl and I were both “good” girls. We did our share of sneaking around and doing things we shouldn’t, but our antics were tame and lame even by sixties standards. We were terrified of being caught. We strattled the fence between hanging out with the popular crowd and our own goofy brand of nerdiness. When we first began driving, someone taught Cheryl how to make skid marks. “Riding around” was our favorite activity. When she stopped at the gas station in mother’s grey Studebaker, she told the attendant, “fifty-cents worth.” On deserted streets, she rolled backwards, and then jerked the car into drive, the tires screeching and leaving rubber. I didn’t dare try such a thing with our 1959 Ford because my dad drove a telephone truck. It seemed that either he or one of his friends saw anything and everything my brother or I tried to do on the streets of Gulfport.

If either Cheryl or I dated a boy, the other usually dated the boy’s best friend – the double dates lasted through college and until my wedding when Cheryl, my maid of honor, dated the best man. Though Cheryl stayed in Gulfport and I moved to Baton Rouge, she was my sounding board when my mother was sick and dying. She supported me as I raised my children and rejoiced with me over the birth of grandchildren. When I complained about my “boss from hell,” she chimed in and ranted with me. Old friends stand up for you.

In January 1992, my brother walked into my widowed dad’s house on a Sunday afternoon and found him dead. Cheryl, who was visiting her mother on the street, heard the sirens and ran to my dad’s house. Once she saw what had happened, she stood alone in the yard while the coroner arrived and then left. For more than an hour, she stood in the cold until Daddy's body was taken away. She said wanted to be there because I couldn’t. I remember Cheryl in her sailor outfit, but mostly I remember her standing alone in my dad’s yard that January day, standing in place for me.

Almost exactly a year later, I stood in Cheryl’s place. Her brother Jim had a heart attack while visiting Baton Rouge. I rushed to the hospital to find that Jim had already died at age 45. I called Cheryl with the tragic news. I met with the coroner and stayed until family arrived. I was honored to be there when Cheryl could not—to stand in her place. Old friends stand in for you.

Old friends cannot be replaced.