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Eleanor on the Plane

December 10, 2024 by joyousroad

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.

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

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Why I Still Teach

November 28, 2024 by joyousroad

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

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Another Teacher Down

November 8, 2024 by joyousroad

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

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Three Funerals in Three Weeks

October 15, 2024 by joyousroad

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

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Grandma’s Last Gift

October 3, 2024 by joyousroad

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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Porch Sittin’

October 3, 2024 by joyousroad

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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The Roosevelt Post Office Rebellion

September 25, 2024 by joyousroad

Some acts of rebellion, like the Boston Tea Party or the stand at the Alamo, go down in history as turning points in the destiny of an entire people or country. Historians record them, school children commit them to memory, and the courage of a few takes on mythical proportions for the many. Other, smaller acts of rebellion in everyday life serve as reminders of who we are, and that to be free requires a thousand conscious decisions to remain so.

Roosevelt, Texas, is a tiny hamlet off of Interstate 10, about 110 miles west of San Antonio, Texas. Roosevelt was named in 1898 for Theodore, not Franklin. The locals claim that Teddy, the valiant leader of the Rough Riders, came there to hunt bear around the turn of the century.  

In the early 1900’s, cedar cutters swarmed through the area, getting by as they could. Goat and sheep ranchers, many of German heritage, scrabbled out a living in the rough hills and hollows along the North Llano River. Some enterprising folk even raised polo horses there for a time, and fur traders came and went. Now only a faithful few call Roosevelt home, and ranchers rely on the pecan crop and deer hunting to make ends meet. 

My family, having purchased a farmhouse and small acreage, landed there when I was eight years old. Though ten years later we were still considered newcomers, the community there came to be home. When I dream of my childhood home, I dream of Roosevelt. More than the powerful, winding river, the limestone hills, or the herds of graceful whitetail deer, I remember the spirit and strength of the people. 

Growing up, I loved to walk down the lane that led past our house and around the corner to the general store. As the ranches in that area are scattered and isolated, the store served as a community center of sorts. The post office occupied one corner of the mercantile. The brass-colored doors of the individual post office boxes winked at me as I entered.  The owners of the store served as the postmaster and clerk and would often greet me from the service window of the post office cubicle when sorting the mail. 

Everyone in Roosevelt and the vicinity who received their mail there had an assigned mail box. Most of us knew the location of most of our neighbors’ boxes as well as our own. Through the mail box doors with their tiny windows, we could tell who had received several letters, an assortment of junk mail, or the local newspaper. We would often linger for the final result of the mail sort, sharing the excitement of a package or a colorful card with the friendly nosiness and genuine interest unique to close communities. 

It was not uncommon to pick up mail for an indisposed friend at their request. The thought of stealing mail or taking it without permission was out of the question. It would have been an inexcusable violation of the trust we all shared, and it would have been difficult to do such a thing undetected. In all the years I lived there, I do not remember any such incidents. 

About the time I left for college and the big, wide world, a federal mandate came down from the highest level of the United States Postal Service (unfortunately for posterity, I do not remember the exact date). All mail boxes were to be locked, with keys issued to the mail box holder and no one else, with no exceptions. They locked the mail boxes in such places as New York City and San Francisco, and would do so at all post offices, big and small, everywhere. This was to ensure the security of the mail and the privacy of the recipients. 

When the dismayed postmaster told the locals, they talked in whispers of sedition and uprisings in the tiny café in the back of the store.  Residents milled nervously around the mail boxes, debating whether to use the keys and get their mail, or to protest by letting the mail back up until it buried the Roosevelt Post Office in a heap of paper fury. Most decided to get their mail, as life must go on. Besides, this was not the postmaster’s fault. It was yet another interference by the looming federal bureaucracy, another application of one-size-fits-all rules from some yahoo in Washington, D.C. Worst of all, it felt as though outsiders were telling us that we could not trust each other when we made the choice every day to do so. 

I never found out who came up with the Solomon-wise solution, but it aptly met the requirement of the rule while allowing us the freedom to continue our community trust. Someone (I cannot divulge their identity for obvious reasons) erected a large pegboard in the middle of the store floor, located conveniently between the wall of mail boxes and the checkout counter. On it, twinkling and triumphant, dangled neat rows of keys for all the mail boxes.  Those folks who felt comfortable doing so hung their mail box keys there. Some even labeled them with their mail box number or name, just in case a neighbor needed to pick up their mail for them. 

I am happy to say that, when I stopped in many years later, the pegboard still resided there. It was a bit dingy with dust, and the keys were not so shiny, but the resourceful, humorous, stubborn spirit of the Roosevelt Post Office Rebellion lives on.

© 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

Thank you for reading! If you would like to support my writing, please go here: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

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LIfe on a Leash

September 16, 2024 by joyousroad

 When our Jack Russell Terrier bounds through the house, lurches into the glass of the front door, and gazes longingly at the world outside, I don’t always want to drop my activities for a stimulating walk around the neighborhood. After all, I have urgent matters to tend to, like bills to pay and laundry to wash. All those immediate needs pile up like fall leaves, cluttering my life. Still, I usually relent and follow her lead; she has the world to explore. So we venture out, my companion strutting at an angle, like an old pickup out of line. 

We pick our route carefully. My confident canine, endowed with more than a sensible dose of self-confidence, feels it her personal responsibility to challenge every four-legged animal, regardless of size or potential threat. I have learned, through past encounters, which streets have resident Dobermans or German Shepherds. Now we avoid those houses! Though most of the dogs in our town are chained or penned, that is not always the case. Besides, in the heat of the moment, they could burst free in all their excitement, and then all would be over for my little ferocious one. 

          Once out and about, discoveries await.  When I walk, I see with whole eyes, not in glances from a car window. I have time to take in what I see, and contemplate what it might mean. I have found my neighbors to be an interesting, varied, and sometimes noble lot. Come with me, and I will show you what I mean.

          Around the first corner, I see a new business has gone in, with handmade signs in the window and high hopes for the future. Optimism and free enterprise live on. 

A gentleman gives me a friendly nod as he cleans his flowerbeds. Well-tended but small lawns give way to the school yard. The high school kids make their final rounds on the track as the late afternoon heat gives way to evening.  Their lively voices catch the interest of my little companion as they chime together and recede. 

          We walk on. My terrier bounds with excitement as we pass a large lot with a huge beast. This new discovery calls for two spins, frantic lunges, and one tangle with leash and telephone pole before I convince her that it is only a horse, and we must move on. 

Colorful rows of small square houses face each other across a broken and uneven street. Children tentatively come off of the porches to greet us while adults softly speak in Spanish from the shade. A little girl smiles shyly as we pass, my dog leaping in delight. We step aside as a young man turns in the drive in his battered black Corvette, in a hurry to come home and leave again.

We follow a lane into the town cemetery, down through the historic graves whispering tales of lost joys and sorrows. We find the angel statue, and sit for a moment in the full sun, considering how we came here and how far we are from home.

My Jack Russell watches attentively, and springs up as soon as I stir from the bench. She tolerates my slower pace, glancing back to signify her thanks for the outing. Suddenly, she sees some chickens scratching peaceably in the dirt.  Their cackling reaches a crescendo as we pass their pen. She strains to investigate this new phenomenon. I pull her away, and she follows reluctantly. 

A woman, with graying hair pulled back and plastic sack in hand, moves along slowly, picking up aluminum cans. After she gives us a careful appraisal, she nods in acknowledgement and returns to her search. Tears sting my eyes as I realize with something like shame and guilt that she should be living the leisurely life of old age, cared for within a family of loved ones.

Approaching a nursing home, we encounter one whose lot in life is considerably better. The family has come to take grandma for an outing, and she sits safely ensconced in the back seat of the Suburban.Her wheelchair follows behind, perched precariously on a lawn mower trailer, comic in its incongruity. 

We turn the final corner toward home, and the yellow light glows from the front door. My neighbors wave as their grandchildren play in the shade of the sheltering oak tree. My canine companion rollicks with a satisfied air now, sated by a thousand sights and sounds. She is happy to smell the scent of home. It is good to take walks, to know our neighbors, and to come back where we belong.

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

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

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The House Grandma Built

January 2, 2008 by joyousroad

My siblings and I are all converging on Missouri, to lay to rest and pay our respects to our grandmother. She had a long, healthy life, crowded with the challenges and blessings of living for others.

For each of us remaining, it is a time of self-reflection as much as it is a celebration of her life. My sister once said, as scattered and busy as we have all become, probably the only time we’ll all get together will be at weddings and funerals. That has proven to be true, but even at these times we are not all, down to every member of the same generation, able to arrive at the same destination at the same time.

Even so, these occasions we label with words like ‘funeral’ are opportunities to see where we are as individuals and as familiies, and to appreciate the house of love that Grandma built.

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Love, Peppermint Oil, & the Glory Train

December 29, 2007 by joyousroad

           A train whistle woke me the other night.  We can hear the trains coming through more clearly when our small town has gone to bed.  The melancholy calling of the whistle brought to mind the recent passing of my uncle, and his trip on the Glory Train.  In the weeks preceding his death, he would tell his family that he had a ticket, bought and paid for, on the Glory Train.  After months of illness and suffering from the cancer that had ravaged his body, his daughter sat at his bedside.  When they heard the train whistle, she gently reminded him that he had his ticket, and it was time to get on the Glory Train.  Soon after, he boarded that train for his last journey. 

            This episode reminded me of other goodbyes.  As is true for us all, the older I get, the more of them I have to remember.  I have become a collector of memories and mementos, of sights and smells, all of which I carry about in my mind and in my life as a living memorial of those who have gone on.  I can still have a few things about me that my loved ones used and loved, even if I can no longer have them with me.

            My mother often made biscuits in a green milk glass mixing bowl, with a handle on the side and a notch for pouring.  I can picture her strong hands tossing in the ingredients in short order, mixing with a few powerful strokes, and ladling the batter onto the floured counter for kneading.  Perfect biscuits every time, and a beautiful illustration of her nurturing love.  The beloved green bowl sits in my kitchen, and when I use it, I remember her.  When she died, love was literally the last word on her lips.  She breathed the word over and over, until she had no more breath.  To her, it was the most important thing to say.  And to me, how she lived is as important as how she died.

            Daddy had a different lesson to teach.  He lived a contentious, turbulent life, with his dreams always just out of reach.  They were grand dreams, too.  He was a man of ideas, but for him, reality and hope never reconciled.   He was opinionated, obstinate, and ornery.  In the years after Mother died, and without her as his saving grace, he alienated almost everyone who had been close to him.  Even his articulate and piercing intelligence could not save him from himself. 

When I went down to care for him during his last illness, I found a changed man.  Redemption came with the realization of his own mortality.  He let the walls down and let us in.  He gave up his pride and his need to be right, and we, just as we were, loved him, just as he was.  He asked for potato soup, like Mother used to make.  It had been years, but I made as close a facsimile to Mother’s version as I could, and we sat and ate it together. 

Later, when my siblings gathered in and we shared his care, we resorted to waving a bottle of peppermint oil under his nose to ease the waves of nausea that would come over him.  The clean, refreshing scent of peppermint still recalls the poignancy of those last days with him.  Daddy taught me that a death with dignity and honesty can heal a lifetime of anger and hurt. 

Now, as I move into the midday of my life, it is time for me to live my lessons learned, to heal every hurt as I can, and to love with a free and generous spirit.

© 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 http://joyous461.substack.com & Joyce Martin on Medium

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

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