Often, I find myself thinking of the wisdom of my daddy. His observations and experiences continue to guide me daily, 11 years after his departure from what he sometimes called, "this ol' vale of tears and sorrow."
You know, it's beginning to occur to me that I'm not sensitive enough. This is quite a revelation since I spent a goodly amount of my life being told that I was too sensitive. As a child, Mama said I got my feelings hurt too easily and I needed to snap out of it.
In a small town in Arkansas, I was leaving a social gathering of divorced women who had found solidarity in their situations. Many are women who, later in life, have found themselves divorced from influential men. And, as far as I could decipher, none of the divorces were of their choosing.
Years ago, before fuel conservation became popular and trendy, I was a forerunner to saving gas by combining errands. When I go into town, I spend several hours doing errands that I have been waiting to do. It saves both gas and time.
It was one of those crowded events a while back that I didn't want to attend. But courtesy and obligation dictated that I put my wants aside and be a big girl about it all. So, I put on a pretty dress, a gorgeous pair of high heels and plunged in.
When she talked about those tribulations back in 1937, her feeble voice crackled with both age and emotion. With more than 70 years separating then from now, the grief still lingered but wisdom had covered it like moss on a riverbank.
Only one thing scares me about dying. It is so momentous it rocks my heart with grief whenever I think of it. It is a tumultuous rocking that resembles the Mississippi River in New Orleans when the ocean is signaling that a vicious hurricane is headed that way.