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Age is time worn out

Now 62, I wrote this in my mid-thirties. I still find it to be true…

Photo by Denis Vdovin on Unsplash

Age is time worn out

by all the shifting winds

cutting into what is soft

leaving what is hard

Age is seeing the end

and knowing the life blood

will color the sand

before the heart is done

Age is the ache of all

that is unsaid and undone

beneath the weight

of regret’s heavy hand

Age is time spent.

© 2025 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate your support.

Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing at

Joyce Martin on Medium If you choose, you may tip my writing at:

Substack link to the Joyous Road newsletter: joyous461.substack.com

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Reality

The only constant in grief

Image of Robert by Author

If I pretend hard enough, this awful reality won’t be true.

Robert’s truck is in the driveway. He must be out in his shop working.

He isn’t in his chair. He must have gone to Braum’s to buy milk.

A delivery came to the door. No doubt more car parts he ordered!

He receives emails and text messages on his phone. He has to respond.

See? Proof he’s still with me.

All his medicine sits on the bathroom counter. I need to remind him to take it.

HIs rumpled, dirty clothes lie in the hamper. He had to be around to wear them.

Ads and bills arrive in the mailbox in his name. He has to be here to open them.

His wallet, keys, and glasses rest on the buffet. He will grab them up on his way out.

Then the stillness returns, dragging reality along. Robert is gone. Physically gone. Gone in all the tangible ways.

He died of a heart attack in the yard. Period.

Reality sticks his foot in the door and won’t budge.

Yet I hear Robert in my ear:

maintain the cars–tend to the oil changes and start them regularly;

be fully present and make the most of every day;

help someone and reach out if you need help;

change the filter in the heat pump when the season changes;

your students rely on you because teaching is your purpose;

check on our friends and welcome them into our home;

take care of our girls for me…

But the girls–daughters, granddaughters, sisters convulse into sobs, the primal moans and language of denial and grief ripping across the house.

I cannot shield them from this agony. We cling together until the wave subsides.

Reality invades.

Even the men–strong, protective, stalwart–cry, which leaves me totally undone.

Yet the memories bring laughter.

Remember when L surprised Papa, but he thought M had a boy in the house?

Did y’all know he and I nearly broke the recliner when we both sat on it?

Oh, yeah! And that night when you-know-who tried to get Robert to dance, and he retreated behind the car?

Or the day he lost the tool he needed, bought another one, and found the original immediately after he finished fixing the car.

So we all laughed and cried and remembered, over and over, until the sharpest pain eased.

But then reality roars back in.

Now it’s harder to hear Robert in my heart’s ear. What would he want me to do? How can I honor him? Will I have the strength to push through?

Reality has nothing to say.

Silence remains.

****************************************************************************

We are trudging up a long, steep incline, but this is the Joyous Road, and we will find memories and experiences that restore us.

Please share with me how you traveled through grief and found your way back to joy.

We need each other to lean on sometimes, and a faith in better days ahead.

Thank you all for your sympathy, love, and kindness. It helps.

© 2025 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate your support.

Please subscribe!

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium

If you choose, you may tip my writing at: 

https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Substack link: joyous461.substack.com

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You have to fly to be free!

Life has a way of happening. 

Remember the bumper sticker from Forrest Gump? Shit happens.

So does life, and almost always not the way we planned. 

The limits of opportunity, and the currents of expectations often sweep us away when we’re young. Our elders urge us to be practical. So I became a teacher of language and raised a family. Then I had so many years invested in teaching, it wasn’t practical to change careers. 

We have obligations, responsibilities, restrictions. Our loved ones depend on us. We have to make that mortgage payment and pay the electric bill. Stability gives us security, and we and our families need that.

By the time we are in our 50’s or 60’s, it’s even more difficult to change course. We may be nearing the end of a full career but want something more.

So now what?

I’m likely in the last year of my teaching career, and retirement looks like a precipice. I am headed right for it, and I don’t know what awaits me.

Keep in mind I am speaking from a place of fragile self-esteem. I crumble under criticism, sensitive to scrutiny of any kind. It’s much easier to hide under the fear of failure than to brave success. 

But those dreams from our younger years still live. Is it too late? 

Is it ever too late? 

I had dreams of being a published writer. I’ve written poetry, short stories, fragments of books, and have journalled for years.I even wrote a few pieces for print newspapers when they still had a paying audience–a tiny taste of what might be possible.

As I begin writing again, I expect to feel some satisfaction and to encounter some challenges. I’ve already encountered both. In the coming months, I hope to find fulfillment and a modest income to supplement my retirement.

I am stepping off the cliff, and I still don’t know if I will soar or fall flat on my face. 

How do I direct my course? A tip of the wing here, a slight adjustment there… 

What I didn’t expect? Others flying with me, to curb the turbulence. Look at the view!

I feel light and free!

Can anyone relate? Are you struggling with a turning point in your life, a pivotal moment in which you might change the trajectory of your future? It’s terrifying, but exhilarating! 

Give yourself permission to go for it, to take the chance, to put yourself out there. 

In the smallest and largest of ways, step out and fly! 

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium & http://joyous461.substack.com

You may tip my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

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I come from a long line of………………………….wait for it……………………………………….procrastinators!

You may have seen the joke: 

I’m such a good crastinator… that I went pro!

Sorry, I had to do it! Anyway, the point is, (if I ever get to it) I often put off until tomorrow what I could do today, which is not the way it’s supposed to go.

Can anyone relate? Am I a lone voice shouting in the wilderness, or are there others?

I have battled this tendency all my life, with some success. I have managed to raise a family, teach for 30 years, and keep body and soul together. Yet I have postponed pursuing some of my deepest ambitions. Frankly, I’m running out of time.

Causes of procrastination–

Why do I procrastinate? Lately, I have scrutinized the root causes of what may be slowing me down and found ways to get past them, at least some of the time. Maybe some of this applies to you as well.

Feeling overwhelmed:

So much to do and so little time! Life is hectic for most of us. I’m still a full-time teacher, and I work two side hustles. Add onto that trying to launch my writing online and manage a household and personal life, and I have a recipe for exhaustion and discouragement. I suspect you face similar challenges. 

Some of us do not multitask well. I have tried to skip from one thing to another; sometimes my jobs demand that. Then I end up highly distracted and frustrated, starting various tasks and completing none. Not a recipe for success.

Fear of failure:

Most of us know this insidious feeling of possible failure. It can be quite subtle and vague, taking form in excuses like, “I need to wait until I know more,” or, “My work isn’t polished enough yet.” We practice and we dawdle, we meander and chase wild geese. We fantasize and romanticize future possible success, but do nothing to achieve it.

Perfectionism plays into this. Those of us who want our work to be absolutely the best will overthink, tweak, and edit until the cows come home. Sometimes we have to give ourselves permission to just get it done. Nothing will ever be absolutely perfect, so let it go!

Let’s face it. We are afraid of falling flat on our face. Once our creative content or work is out there, it’s out there! Conversely, we are sometimes afraid of success! What if we can’t handle it? As long as we stall, no one knows how good or bad our work is. We can escape scrutiny and criticism. We also cheat ourselves out of growth and progress. 

Low self-esteem:

This one is painful and hard to admit. Sometimes I just don’t believe in myself, or don’t value myself enough to think I am worth the effort. Why try if no one cares, or if they will ridicule my efforts? If I’m so–insert negative adjectives here–why bother? How ridiculous to think that I could ever–insert positive accomplishments here. How dare I think I’m like other people! I’ve always been less…

This kind of negative self-talk often comes from trauma in childhood or early relationships. I don’t know about you, but once it starts going around in my mind, it’s tough to squelch. This leads to “imposter syndrome” and a sense of not belonging. Combine that with a timid, self-reflective nature, and you have an effective roadblock to self-worth and motivation. 

Laziness:

Okay. This one is embarrassing, and you don’t often see it recognized as a cause for procrastination. It applies to me, though, if I’m honest. I am basically a lazy person! Would I rather read, watch movies, doze, and snack on the couch rather than tackle that next article or pile of papers to grade? Duh! I think I could benefit from a lazy support group, set up like AA, where I have to openly say, “I am a lazy person.” 

My excuse? I’m tired. All the time. So it’s hard to push on and do one more thing. But everyone has the same 24 hours each day. Successful people don’t quit until they are done. I want to quit when I get tired and discouraged. Where can I find the drive to break through that languor?

Strategies to overcome procrastination–

Ironically, the best way to overcome all these roadblocks is to successfully meet some of the very goals that I believe I can’t do. But how, exactly? I need specific strategies!

Prioritize and schedule:

The need to succeed is not immediate. Necessity is the mother of invention. Why? Because if you have to get it done or you will not have food, clothing, or shelter, will lose your job or the house, or something equally dire, that’s enough of a kick in the pants to get us going. So we have to find ways to trick ourselves into a feeling of urgency, but everything cannot be considered urgent at once. 

First, list your goals. Under each goal, list the specific tasks needed to achieve those goals. Then, under each goal, prioritize those tasks that must be done first. If each task still feels overwhelming, break it down into smaller chunks, so it isn’t as intimidating. 

Some people love online time management tools. I’m old-school and still prefer paper planners and calendars. It doesn’t matter, as long as you can see and organize all the tasks you have to do. Prioritizing is essential, though, to establish and fulfill a plan and get it done!

Require Accountability:

This is a tough one. To establish accountability, set some deadlines for yourself. Ask a friend, or even your creative community, to hold you accountable, if that helps. These deadlines might coincide with what others expect of you, or they may be totally up to you. 

We have to make accomplishing these tasks worthwhile in order to achieve them. How do we do this? One way is to withhold from ourselves small rewards, such as going out for a movie, buying that coffee, or reading a favorite book, until after we mark off a task from our list. Control your work and  leisure time. Work before play, as the old saying goes

Self-discipline is tough! Try to visualize the smaller, specific accomplishments along the way, and not just the larger goal. For example, imagine the day when you will have your first 50 subscribers on Substack, and not just the vague day when you will have a successful newsletter.

Empower yourself:

It’s easier to play the victim. Then we can blame someone else if we don’t succeed. But we are better than that! We are capable. If we are lacking skills, we have the power to learn, practice, and improve. Life will happen, whether we are passive or active. Obviously, we cannot control everything, but we can control our actions and reactions.

The more we accomplish, the more motivated we will be. Momentum is a real thing. Success is empowering!

It’s a journey. Let’s go!

Please understand. I am writing this to clarify for myself what I need to do. I hope it helps you as well.

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium

You may tip my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Substack link: Joyous Road on Substack

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The world will see her again!

At first I didn’t see the tiny child on the floor by the window seat. I had taken the first aisle seat available on the rapidly filling flight. The slight young woman in the middle seat gave a faint, but not unfriendly, smile. 

As we readied for takeoff on the flight from Philadelphia to Nashville, the mother coaxed her child into her seat and explained that it was time to buckle up. Squirming and protests ensued, but mom persisted, and the curly-headed girl gave in. Her mother murmured, “I hope we don’t bother you.” I assured her that they would not.

I soon gathered that the child’s name was Eleanor. Judging by her well-developed speech, I guessed she was about four years old, though small for her age. During the safety presentation, she divided her attention between the flight attendant and reorganizing the placards in the seat pockets. 

Then she quite sensibly said she needed a nap, and her mother, who had shadows under her eyes and a weariness in her voice, heartily agreed! But they would have to wait until the seat belt sign went off. This explanation did not pass muster with Eleanor, who unleashed a barrage of questions:

Why do we have to wait? If it’s not your rule, Mommy, who made the rules? Why can I take the seat belt off then and not now? What does the seat belt do? How long do we sit here? How far to get home? I need to sit on you to sleep. Can I sit on you and wear the seat belt? How much longer?

Mom, with strained patience and a low tone, tried to answer each question, but Eleanor didn’t have time for the answers! Her thoughts raced on to the next topic, so her mother tried distraction next. They discussed cloud shapes, and what clouds are made of, and how home is under the clouds.

Mother and daughter shared a symmetry together, a rhythm in gestures and voice that reflected many hours of happy chatter and play. When at last the plane leveled off at the adequate altitude, Eleanor escaped the seat belt and sat on her mother’s lap. Within minutes, they both drifted off to sleep. I couldn’t help but glance over at them. 

The mother looked to be in her early 20’s, with glowing alabaster skin and a slender, petite frame. Her golden and barely auburn curls, clipped up haphazardly on her head, fell against her neck. Eleanor, with her own blond curls, clutched her flannel blankie in her sleep. Her tiny toes peeked out below, sporting sparkly purple nail polish. 

Eleanor fit into the curve of her mother’s body perfectly, as if she remembered the womb from which she came. The mother’s arm wrapped gently around her child, laying claim to this young soul who still felt part of her own. 

The sight stirred motherhood memories in me, since buried under 35 years of living and tension, changes and growth. Once I held my babies just so, until they elbowed and kicked their way free and flew away. Now their children push away from them, chasing adulthood. I am two generations away from the symbiotic love and pain of holding my little ones in my arms. 

Sometimes, in the tableau of life, we come upon a scene so breathtakingly beautiful that it burns away all the dross and debris of humanity, and we can see the best of us. Time takes a deep breath. Then the clouds change shape, and the moment passes. 

Eleanor stirred from her nap, and her mother sighed and sat up. As Eleanor made a tent with her blankie, then ate a snack, climbed in and out of her seat, and finally settled into a movie on mom’s phone, we visited. They had travelled from home in Houston to New Jersey to see the grandparents. 

Even after reaching Nashville, they had a two hour layover and one more flight to go. We deboarded, and I took a short walk before finding the gate for my connecting flight to Dallas. By chance, I saw Eleanor and her mother at the opposite gate. Eleanor had found a second wind, cavorting around the chairs and giving commands to an imaginary playmate. 

Her mom was just about done, slumped in a chair, with her hair almost totally escaping from its clip. Her fatigue palpable, she struggled to stay vigilant and keep a watchful eye on Eleanor. Unaware and innocent, Eleanor knew her mother as an extension of herself, and had no idea of her mother’s struggle. 

I walked over to ask if I could pick up some food and bring it to them, but Eleanor had eaten a Lunchable, and mom said she didn’t need anything. The mother in me wanted to make her eat; she looked way too pale and fragile. But I also wanted to respect boundaries, so wished them well on the last leg of their journey home. 

Eleanor won’t know or understand until much later in life the thousands of sacrifices and gifts of the heart, from tiny to grand, that her mother laid down before her. The world will know intelligent, spunky Eleanor someday–maybe as a prosecutor in a courtroom, or as CEO of an innovative company, or as a scientist on a relentless search for a cure. 

And perhaps we will also see her as a mother, shaping a young character with selfless love and gentle wisdom.

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved
Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on joyous Road on Substack & Joyce Martin on Medium

If you would like to support my writing, please do so here: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

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Also, why I may not teach much longer…

Pristine stacks of fresh paper, ample supplies of pens and pencils, and books unexplored all suggest days of learning and discovery to come. Now we also have shiny keyboards, glistening computer screens, calculators, and a dazzling array of modern communication tools. The delicious anticipation is the same.  

As a child, I always loved school and the worlds hidden in books and the mysteries within words. Before I could understand sentences, I puzzled over words. Before I could decipher words, I admired the curves and strokes of letters.  

I was convinced at an early age, by some sweet collision of environment and inborn belief, that within language live the secrets of knowledge and humanity. I became a devourer of words.  

Now I am a teacher, still learning and searching, on my quest for an elusive holy grail of knowledge.  

While our courts and legislature debate the purpose, financing, and structure of public education, those of us within the current system continue with the daily business of learning and teaching. Valid concerns about funding, class sizes, testing, and curriculum abound, but I have felt compelled to step back and consider what education is and should be, and where we are in that larger analysis.  

To do that, we must understand how America’s schools got their start.

The United States Constitution did not specifically address education; the education of children fell to private citizens and the states. Texas enacted its first public school law in 1840, with many modifications since.  

Traditionally, the federal government has become involved only when education affects individual rights, as in the desegregation ruling of Brown vs. Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas, in 1954, or the passage of Title IX in 1972, designed to end sex discrimination in education. A conglomeration of local, state, and federal court rulings and laws have developed into a huge and entrenched public school system.

It wasn’t always so complicated.

Schools in the 1800’s often served the local needs of the people, designed to provide students with the education to function well as adults within that community; a one-room school house in a remote agricultural area might emphasize different content than a larger one in a more urban, industrialized area. Technological developments of the 20th and 21st centuries have transformed the world, and as a result, education. The capabilities of mass communication and a more mobile population have had a leveling effect on the needs of students in different locales.  

An adequate education now demands consistency and relevancy in all parts of the country. Both the child in Kansas and the one in Los Angeles need to acquire computer literacy, basic mathematical and scientific concepts, and world and national history. But without the ability to interpret and analyze all the information now available, it serves no purpose.

Can the education of children only be addressed in the traditional model of public or private school? Perhaps we confine education too much within the walls of those institutions instead of also valuing the experience of living, working, and coping within the broader world.   

When my classroom hums with activity, when students prod and argue while finishing a project, or when papers rustle quietly as they confront a written task, we are learning, and school is what it should be. Education is no less evident when young people organize a fundraiser, deliver meals to the elderly, or face the challenges of a first job.

Operating from the premise that human nature has not fundamentally changed over time, and from my own experience, I believe some other platitudes still hold true:

Everyone learns better in a safe environment. Life is not fair all the time in every case, but integrity has its own reward. We learn by doing. Kids are people too. We don’t teach subjects; we teach children.  

If we hold to these underlying principles, we can free our children to think for themselves, to be literate, and to treat others with kindness. They will have the tools to live and live well in this complex and sometimes baffling world. Education is the right hand of liberty, but it demands constant exercise to retain its strength.

When I step back from the day to day flurry on my desk, computer screen, and smart board to look at the children, I realize why I am still here. The stuff of education may change, but the underlying principles do not.  

When a 13 year old realizes that she can write, and that her thoughts are worth keeping, her smile can outshine the sun. When a visiting graduate stops in for a hug and update on his new life as an adult, the warmth lasts for a week. When a little one grabs me around the knees on the playground and gives me a playful greeting, I see the promise of what she will become in her eyes.  

We are not preparing them for life; they are teaching us to live.  

I am a confessed bibliophile, but I am beginning to realize that the essence of knowledge is beyond words. I will continue my search for a holy grail, but it is the children who have my loyalty and dedication. Maybe I already have what is most precious and worthwhile right here. 

Note: I wrote much of this piece quite a few years ago. On a good day, I still feel that teaching in public education is worth the struggle. However, in recent years I am more often exhausted by playing a game with the cards stacked against us. Students will not win until we all–parents, educators, and policy-makers, play on the same team.

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on joyous Road on Substack & Joyce Martin on Medium

If you would like to support my writing, please do so here: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

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Teachers drown every day.

They disappear beneath the surface of overloaded classrooms, waves of paperwork, and micromanagement with hardly a splash or a sound. With every teacher that surrenders to the deep, our public education problems worsen. We are hemorrhaging the best, brightest, and most experienced teachers.

I’m a teacher, and I’m drowning. In the metaphorical sense only, thank goodness, but I imagine being overwhelmed and hopeless somewhat resembles physical drowning. All my flailing and reaching for a handhold just takes me deeper. 

I am exhausted and stressed, which exacerbates my health issues. While working two side hustles on top of my teaching job, I am still not able to pay my bills. When I am awake, I am working (about 60 hours per week on teaching tasks, and another 20 to 30 on my side jobs). Having a healthy work/life balance is a pie-in-the-sky dream.  

This is my thirtieth year of teaching junior high and high school in Texas. The continual buffeting through the years of the unrealistic expectations of standardized testing, federal and state regulations, and the demands within the classroom and from the community have eroded my resilience and positivity. That’s on top of the blatant disrespect and misbehavior we often deal with in the classroom, hostility and mistrust from some parents, and administrators with a “gotcha” approach. 

At least I am now in a situation better than many of my peers, where some of my students are respectful and want to learn, and many parents work with us to help their children succeed. The administration in my school supports staff as best they can, trying to ease the tides of federal and state expectations and smooth the waters between parents and teachers. 

I’m exhausted, folks, and I’m not alone. The teacher shortage is real and growing every day. How do I motivate students who see no value or purpose in learning? How do I help those who are 2 or 3 grade levels behind, while challenging a few high achievers, without neglecting the average students? More often than not, I teach to the lowest common denominator because they require more of me. That is the reality. 

I’m tired of policing cellphones and trying to determine the fine line between teaching the correct use of technology versus using it as a crutch. Now we have AI to deal with. The widespread cheating just became exponentially easier. Yet AI can be a useful tool that students need to learn to use when appropriate. No one knows where the perimeters are anymore. It is all changing too quickly. 

Teaching has never been easy, and never will. As one colleague said long ago, “It’s only easy to be a bad teacher. If you want to be a good one, it will be one of the most difficult jobs you’ll ever have.” A good teacher pushes to be great against a current of unrelenting pressures: unmotivated students, unreasonable parents, micromanaging administrators, and the rapidly changing topography of education. All that struggle comes at a high price.

For me, this all culminates in retirement from teaching at the age of 61, probably next year. Then I must find enough work that my pension plus wages will equate to a living wage. My heart will break because I still enjoy many aspects of teaching, and it is a huge part of my identity and purpose. Yet I cannot continue. All things unsustainable must come to an end.

I’m going under, and I am one of many teachers. Did anyone see us?

Note: I understand that many jobs are quite demanding–not just teaching. My sympathies to all! The demands of my life at the current time have severely limited my ability to grow my writing, but I won’t give up. Please don’t give up on me!

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on joyous Road on Substack & Joyce Martin on Medium

If you would like to support my writing, please do so here: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

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That’s too many. Even if we are on the wrong end of middle-age.

It seems quite frequently we lose another old classmate, friend, or extended family member. But this last round was rough.

*********************************************************************************************************

First, my partner lost his brother. 

He’d spent many years disabled after a stroke, but it still hit hard. Doesn’t it always? Yet when someone is expected to pass, we can find some solace in the memories shared with those left behind, the pics of our loved one cradling grandchildren, and the boisterous gathering of all the scattered family. 

The funeral passed in a blur, with my love doing his part as a pallbearer, in spite of still recovering from back surgery. He comforted his sisters in quiet corners at the dinner afterward. Hugs and tears all around. Then everyone dispersed, pulled back into the minutiae of the day-to-day. 

Until the next family funeral.

**************************************************************************************************************

A few years ago, I made the agonizing decision to leave a long marriage. 

I did not know where I would land that night. Someone’s couch? A hotel? But Miss Evelyn and her clan took me in and let me rent a property from them in the very small town where I taught. Most of her children, grandchildren, and even some of her great grandchildren knew me from school and events around town, but I had not met the matriarch herself. 

Evelyn took me into her great heart and nurtured me, just as she had her six children and all their offspring and friends young and old. I spent many hours next to her chair as she stroked my hair, and I talked through the hurt and confusion and grief that clouded over me. Sometimes we sat in silence, but genuine caring needs no words. It was then I understood why so many people adored this tiny powerhouse of a woman. 

The small Catholic church overflowed at her service, with every heart a witness to a life well-lived. At the country cemetery out on the prairie, the wind sighed through the old oak trees. Evelyn would fly from here, light and free, every task finished and all duties fulfilled. All is well with my soul. Go in love, Miss Evelyn, go! Catch the capricious breeze and dip up and over the grass and flowers, past the old church and the simmering heat into the depth of the bluest sky. 

We will remain here for a time, but we are well because you loved us so well. 

***************************************************************************************************************

Did you hear about Tony? 

My daughter called me on the day after to ask if I knew what had happened. Did my young friend change jobs? Move? That he had driven to the end of the road, literally, and taken his life did not compute. No, that can’t be Tony. I just talked to him not long ago. He’s a teacher, a giver, a musician, a dream weaver. He’s alive!

For several days I simply refused to believe it. I reviewed the last messages from him, looked at pictures of him, remembered our conversations about education, teenagers, travel, and a myriad of other things. Yes, I knew he struggled with depression, but he was climbing out of that. He had hopes of finding his soulmate someday and raising kids of his own. How had I failed him? What did I miss? His brother confirmed the worst.

At the funeral, his mother sobbed in my arms, and I had no comfort to give. I heard the rumbling of the priest’s voice during the funeral mass, offering prayer. I whispered the response, Lord, hear our prayer, but God felt far removed. The suffering of his family lay like a heavy blanket of sorrow over his assembled friends and students. I was an intruder in their grief because my own already engulfed me. I gripped the wet tissue in my hand and held on to a faint faith. Alleluia. Alleluia.

Inwardly, I screamed all the way to the gravesite. It is not right to bury a child before his parents! Has the earth reversed course around the sun, or day turned to night? All is not well in the universe when a young man of promise, who gave so much to others, loses his hope. The pallbearers placed flowers on the coffin, and a child in front of me played with his father’s shoelaces. 

Alleluia. Alleluia.

*********************************************************************************************************

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on joyous Road on Substack & Joyce Martin on Medium

You may tip my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

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The valley sloped down in a sweep of color and texture, rich even in mid-winter. The tiny white church rested on the facing hill, just visible through the bare trees. Behind me stood my childhood home, vacant but recognizable.

I could picture myself hurdling down the sidewalk in my wagon and crashing into the yard gate, or sledding down the hill after a good snow. We sheltered in the cellar during storms, and Mother made it a cozy and secure refuge.

This was home. And with me were my two brothers and sister. We all came to be here again because of Grandma. Grandma’s death had brought us all back to Missouri. We had buried her in the cemetery at the end of the valley, and we had lingered to visit the old farm and piece together our past.

Grandma, like many of her generation, grew up poor and hard. She lost her hearing and her mother to scarlet fever at the tender age of 7. When she married, she and Grandpa raised their children in the cradle of the Meramec River Valley in Missouri in the 1930’s. Times were hard, and Grandpa would hire out to work when he could, while they struggled to keep their own farm going.

Their community life centered around the church and school on one side of the valley. Neighbors shared their struggles when in need and bounty when they had it. They knew each others’ faults, many trials, and tiny triumphs. They were a family of common experience, isolated from a changing world by the hills surrounding them.

Grandma was often called out to serve as a nurse, working up her home remedies for those recovering from childbirth, fevers, and countless ailments she had no medical name for. She took pride in her reputation as a healer, but quietly resented her lack of opportunity to become a properly trained nurse. Over her lifetime, she developed an odd collection of superstitions, folklore, herbal acumen, and medical knowledge. We all learned not to mention any symptoms, serious or otherwise, around Grandma unless we were ready for a thorough treatment with one of her mysterious concoctions.

Economic necessity forced the little family to eventually leave the country and move to the big city of St. Louis. Steady work and modernity beckoned. They lived frugally, but they had enough. Later they moved further out to the suburbs. But in all those years away, home always meant returning to the connections and memories of the little valley.

Grandma and Grandpa had 3 children. Grandma outlived her husband and my mother and uncle. She lived a long time, serving as a grandma and neighbor to many. She could be stubborn and superstitious. She had a capricious and mischievous sense of humor. She loved kids because she still wanted to act like one. She was a teller of tales, mostly embellished with each telling, which made them all the more interesting.

She hoarded everything from fabric to old magazines, and canned enough fruit and vegetables for an army division. She knew the old ways of making soap and making do, but she adapted to the new ways too. For a time she drove the winding Missouri roads with a speed and fearlessness that belied her age.

Age and illness finally caught up with her, and in her 90’s she had to be placed in a nursing home. She scarcely recognized even those closest to her and lived within a confusion of past memories and current experiences. We were grateful when she eased out of this life and into another. Grandma would not have wanted to linger in a fog of dementia.

Life is circular. My mother had married a young man from the other side of the county, and they came to live in that same valley that follows the way of the Meramec River. They spent years there, cradling the growth of their young family. I was the youngest of 4 children, and we moved from Missouri when I was 3. My memories of that time are snapshots in my mind, vivid but fleeting and few. The family stories fill out the gaps in my recollection of that time and place.

To stand in the yard of the old farm house with my grown siblings was a moment of exquisite meaning.  It was the closest I have been to the beginning of who I am in this world.

Grandma’s life spanned almost an entire century and touched hundreds of souls.  It gives me hope that we can all live in a way that brings good to the world. Thank you, Grandma, for this last gift.

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

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It’s about time someone wrote some instructions for porch sittin’, which is becoming a lost art, especially among folks who rush about in a hurry all the time. Be forewarned. Porch sittin’ is not a sport. It is not competitive, and everyone is a winner.  Most people can achieve a high level of success in porch sittin’ with minimal effort. In fact, arriving at and maintaining a condition of total lack of exertion for a prolonged period of time is the ultimate goal. 

Any porch with room for sittin’ will do, whether the domicile is in the country or the city. A front porch, back porch, side porch, balcony, patio, or stoop will all do just fine. A view of the neighbors’ may be preferred by some, as keeping tabs on their comings and goings may add to the sitter’s pleasure. A sitter can choose a lawn chair, rocking chair, bench, swing, or a step for sittin’. Dawn and dusk are prime times for porch sittin’, but any time works well too.

Reading the newspaper or a good book is certainly encouraged when a sitter is sittin’ solo, but only as a means of winding down. Activities like crocheting and whittling are likewise acceptable, as they keep the hands busy and the tongue free if company is about. Cards or dominoes are fine, but an intense level of competition can be detrimental to the porch sittin’ process of relaxation. Taking a refreshment of personal choice is almost essential, and having it in hand before sittin’ down is recommended (with refills nearby). 

After all the practical details are tended to, a porch sitter can concentrate on the fullest porch sittin’ experience. Considering the way things are in our hustle-bustle world, porch sittin’ is an excellent way to step off the fast track and watch the train go by, so to speak. If we’re always in motion and never see how fast we’re going, we can’t see the progress we’ve made or tell in what direction we’re headed. We might solve a few more knotty problems in the world if we all did a bit more porch sittin’ and a little less jostling and shouting. 

Some of life’s most momentous events, such as marriages, business ventures, and career changes have their beginnings while porch sittin’. Either we first conceive of them while in our contemplative state, or share our first thoughts of them while porch sittin’ with our loved ones. The porch generally provides a better place for sharing those things that are too momentous to toss out in passing. 

Porch sittin’ is all about perspective. When we’re porch sittin’, we’re looking out at everyone else, and not in on ourselves. We’re sittin’ still, and the rest of the world is speeding by. Porch sittin’ requires consideration and reflection on where we’ve been and where we’re going, and most importantly, where we’re at right now.

How do we tell if we’ve achieved porch sittin’ success? Well, that’s the beauty of it. That state of ultimate relaxation is different for everyone. For me, I consider it a success when the birds and squirrels take me as part of the landscape. My worries leave my mind, and contentment seeps down into my bones. Regret and sadness ease into memory. Time hovers between early and late. Life is what it is, and that is enough. 

Take my advice if it’s been a while, and try porch sittin’ again. I’ve found that indulging in this particular activity won’t increase my bank account or my IQ. It won’t make me or my better half more attractive or more accommodating. The problems I had when I sat down will still be there when I get up. In fact, porch sittin’ won’t change anything, except maybe me. We have nothing to lose and much to gain. Happy sittin’.

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

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