CHESAPEAKE HOUSE: A CHRISTMAS MEMORY

 

When the snowy-haired hostess returned from seating a guest, she found me waiting alone in the cozy, warm lobby of Chesapeake House. I stood beneath the decorative shark hanging on the wall. A Santa hat rested atop the shark's head, with a small red and white blanket surrounding its fin and an unfortunate elf's legs dangling from its jaws. "Do you like that?" asked the hostess. "How many are in your party?"

"Just one," I smiled back. "I called in a reservation earlier today." 

She confirmed my name in her reservation book: "Oh, I see you wanted a window seat." She looked behind her, where the dining area was only half-full. "Unfortunately," she apologized, "it will be a few minutes before your table is ready." I could see other guests occupying the coveted window seats beside the famed Chesapeake Bay alligator pond.

I smiled and sat on a bench behind me. "I have plenty of time and can wait for the table." The sky outside grew darker as the glow from the Christmas lights inside illuminated the entranceway, welcoming guests to the fireside happy hour. "It's pretty here this time of year. I like how you have the restaurant decorated."

"Thank you. We try to make everything nice for Christmas." The hostess smiled and continued to greet the periodic customers arriving for dinner. "I see you are here by yourself. Is this a special occasion?"

I caught the hospitable genuineness in her eyes as we continued the conversation while I waited. "Yes, it is kind of odd," I began. My family loved coming to Myrtle Beach during the summer, and my parents always took us to Chesapeake House to eat each visit. This place is a Myrtle Beach tradition."

"Over fifty years," the hostess added. "I have been here for over forty years myself."

"Wow. That's amazing." I paused slightly, believing the lady would appreciate my reason for being there. "So my Mom passed away this past August…"

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

"Thank you," I smiled, oddly having grown more comfortable with condolences over the past several months. "Mom loved Myrtle Beach. I brought her and my aunt down here years ago. That trip was the last beach visit she had. Of course, we came here for dinner and requested a window seat by the pond. So, I kind of thought…"

"Oh, that is sweet," The hostess nodded as she caught her breath. "How old was your mother?"

"Mom was 94. We were blessed to be able to keep her at home until she passed. Not easy to do." 

The hostess took her own slight pause before continuing, "My mother passed two years ago. It is always tough for the family around Christmas. We do what we can to remember her. I love your idea, though."

Eventually, we wound through the numerous tables, some arranged for large bus groups and others for more intimate family gatherings. My table was in the far corner of Chesapeake House, directly beside the window adjacent to the pond, which was vanishing in the darkness of the December evening.

"Good evening. My name is Donna. I will be your waitress." She began removing the extra place settings. "Would you like anything to drink with your meal?"

Sometimes, we recede into ourselves and the quietness of our hearts. Other times, we can listen to a voice telling us to venture forward and embrace our reasons and feelings for arriving at the moment we have placed ourselves. The magic happens when we can be both outside and inside ourselves in the midst of the moment, watching as both spectators and actors in our own lives.

"Hi, Donna. Could you leave the setting on the other side of the table?"

"Sure. I thought you were dining alone."

"I'm not." I chuckled to myself. "Could I have a glass of pinot noir?"

Donna smiled while tilting her head oddly at me. "Sure. I will be right back with your wine and a basket of hushpuppies."

Donna left me at the corner table at Chesapeake House, where I envisioned myself sitting weeks before Thanksgiving when I planned this trip. Over the past year, the inevitable nature of life reminded me how beyond my control life appears to be and how easy it is to succumb to stress, hopelessness, and loss. 

I reached into my jacket pocket and slowly pulled out my effort to take back control of how my story unfolded. I did not need to fear discomfort and loss, and I certainly did not need to run from it. I opened the easel on the back of the small picture frame and set the picture directly on the table across from me, beginning a new memory this Christmas.

Donna's eyes locked onto the picture frame as she set down my wine and hush puppies. Since this entire meal could become uncomfortable for both of us if I did not explain myself, I shared my heart, pretending that I had known Donna for longer than ten minutes.

"Donna, this is my Mom, Betty. She passed away last August. I am not nuts or anything, OK?" I guess I needed to clarify that before continuing. "Mom loved coming to Chesapeake House, so - you know - I thought this would be good for both of us."

Donna jumped head-first into my Hallmark moment and said Mom was beautiful. I explained that this was a picture from the last time we visited Chesapeake House, pointing out the pond and the view from a side table. "I think she is even drinking some sweet tea."

"Oh, I don't think that is tea," Donna said, leaning closer to the picture of Mom. "We use different glasses for tea. That looks like a glass of zinfandel."

"Really?" I looked closer at the picture myself, struggling to recapture that dinner from years ago. Donna may have been right about this.

"This is sweet," Donna said, then taking a beat, "Would you like to know the specials?"

"Actually, no. I may not remember what Mom drank, but I know what she would want if she were here to see the menu. I will have a cup of fish stew, a salad, and fried prawns with a baked potato." I looked at Donna to see if she understood. "She always ordered that," I added. 

"Perfect," Donna laughed graciously. "I will have your stew here in a minute."

I edged the candle closer to the frame to illuminate Mom's face in the darkened dining room. After adjusting my place settings, I lifted my glass of wine to the picture. I smiled, realizing the significance of the toast: "Merry Christmas, Mom. This is for you."

Across the alligator pond, winter's darkness had replaced the early summer evening, but the tastes, the view, and the feelings remained as they had years ago. The fish stew's spicy broth blended with the sweetness of the round, golden hushpuppies. The homemade Thousand Island dressing topped the crispy salad. I sliced the cucumbers into smaller pieces, doubling the number as if Mom had offered hers to me the way she used to do. 

Donna returned, carefully clearing away the empty soup cup and salad bowl. She refilled my water glass, avoiding disturbing the candle and picture frame. "Is your dinner good so far?"

"Everything is perfect. Thank you for being so kind."

"Wonderful." Once she had her tray in order, she stopped to smile. "Well, your dinner will be out shortly." She took a step away but immediately turned back uncomfortably to the table. "Do you mind if I tell you something?"

Donna looked back at Mom's picture before I could say anything. "What you are doing here really moves me. Two days ago, I lost my mother-in-law. My husband and I had brought her here to live with us a couple of years ago. Her health had deteriorated so much."

"I am so sorry to hear that."

"Thank you," then slowly moving on, "My husband plays guitar in a Christmas show up at the other end of the beach. He had to play the night she passed because they did not have a replacement for him. I couldn't believe he went to play."

I sat there, enraptured in Donna's story, recalling how those first days after Mom passed were so overwhelming. "I can barely imagine how he felt playing that night."

"But, here is the thing," Donna added. "He has this huge part at the end of the show where the cast gathers around a fireplace on the corner of the stage. He plays the guitar as they sing carols while classic pictures of Christmas flash on a huge screen behind them."

I imagined sitting there, listening to the carols and remembering Christmases past. "That sounds like a great show."

Donna wasn't finished.

"When they started playing, the crew surprised my husband by putting a picture of his mother on the screen behind him. I started crying when he looked up to see her there." Donna glanced at Mom's picture and then back at me. "So when you did this tonight, I couldn't help but be moved."

 

"I don't know what to say. Thank you for sharing your story with me." I took an endless moment to consider the different emotions stirring in me. "You kind of make me feel normal pulling out this picture here." 

She nodded. "Hold on to those memories." Donna left me to my thoughts as she left for the kitchen.

The mood turned celebratory when Donna returned to the table with my meal, Mom's favorite at Chesapeake House. I dipped a crispy prawn into the sweet cocktail sauce and immediately ate one. Delicious. After tearing off the aluminum foil, I sliced the steaming baked potato down the middle, chopping up the insides before adding Mom's two pats of butter and two dollops of sour cream. 

Mom would always lecture me about chewing my food. I tended to gulp bites and finish before she ate half her meal. "You need to slow down when you eat. Chew your food." I took my time tonight, bite by bite, savoring each morsel in the spirit of a moment I wanted to last longer than it would.

The alligator pond was no longer visible. Darkness filled the wall alongside me, and emptiness crept onto the table. The glow of the candle near my picture frame remained steadfast, fortifying our meal for the remainder of the evening. For once, I felt comfortable and secure in my thoughts.

Life inevitably sends those we love into the darkness—not darkness in the evil sense, but darkness as in the unknown. As we search for their presence, we no longer see them but know they are with us. We find them again in our individual ways. They are there as we sing a Christmas carol, light a candle on a cold winter's night, listen to another person's tale of joy or loss, or glance at a picture in a dimly lit restaurant. 

HALLOWED GROUND

The white marble memorial stood quietly amidst the dusty snow covering the hauntingly deserted Flight 93 National Memorial. A stiff wind turned the already low winter temperatures into a bitter obstacle for anyone wishing to explore these hallowed grounds.

Only half a dozen cars sat in the parking lot when I arrived. Several vehicles remained running, pushing warm, foggy exhaust into the crisp air as passengers remained inside to wrap themselves in winter clothes for a short trek to the visitor center. I did the same, pulling on my work gloves from home and wrapping my heavy winter coat atop my hoodie.

I do not mind cold weather inside my house, where I can snuggle under a blanket beside a warm Yankee Candle and a cup of coffee. But when I am outside, I need to be thoroughly swaddled, the way Mom would layer our clothes when my brother and I were young. When I returned from those winter adventures of yesteryear, I would need to peel off the snow-encrusted layers slowly in the basement.

I was not nearly as heavily dressed as I wished I had been—poor planning on my part. So when I exited my vehicle, I imagine a casual observer inside could have mistaken the briskness of my walk for excitement about seeing the exhibit. Point A and Point B were never this far apart in recent memory.

I pushed the handicapped square on the wall to trigger the automated doors. As the heavy metal doors slowly opened, I turned my body sideways to enter more quickly to escape the cold, stomping bits of snow onto the oblong weather mats spread across the doorway. 

Within the quiet darkness of the exhibit hall, only the winter light from the windows faintly illuminated the stone interior. Smaller lights uncomfortably lit the path for visitors down the hallway into the walls of exhibits. A retelling of the events of September 11, 2001, awaited each visitor, more specifically, the tragic fate of United 93 on this very field in Eastern Pennsylvania.

Out of respect, I removed my hat, unwound my scarf, and unsnapped my winter coat. I forced myself to take a deep breath to slow down. I didn't want the energy of my mad dash through the frigid cold to continue inside the solemnity of the display on numerous walls in front of me. My self-guided tour started at the beginning, reliving the historical context and my own memories of the events unfolding on 9/11.

Looking back, we may not find particularly comfortable memories. We encounter ghosts of the good and bad in the world, the depths of the world's anger embracing the heights of its triumphs. We feel the heartbreak, loss, and the world's inability to ascribe meaning to the past while acknowledging we can never change it.

My journey throughout the stone walls of the memorial took me across time, through the very minutes and hours of that day, and how life was somewhat normal until it wasn't, perhaps ever again. I saw the map of the United States, aglow with tiny green lights showing the number of planes in the air when two planes flew violently into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.

I traced the red path of United 93 as it left New Jersey and made a pointed turn near Cleveland, Ohio. The hijacked plane flew over the tip of the northern panhandle of West Virginia, only an hour or so from where my own family lived. I revisited the uneasy feeling of the unknown and the helplessness of being so far away in North Carolina when I first heard about its flight path and crash site.

I looked through the glass to see actual remnants of United 93, the plane whose 40 passengers and crew members heroically rushed the cockpit. Circuit boards, phones, jewelry, and tickets were my physical connection to the moment and the passengers. But listening to recordings of voices through an earpiece, the last messages three passengers sent to their loved ones haunted me even more as I stood alone inside this cold memorial.

Moving on was difficult. Seeing pictures of each passenger and crew member was not easy. Having the ability to access older pictures of all of them with loved ones long before 9/11 happened was surreal. The loss of life enveloped me. I wanted to leave, avoiding the feelings this exhibit evoked inside of me. But I felt compelled to continue to pay my respects.

One of the memorial attendants explained the various ways to travel to the Wall of Names. "In this weather, you would be more comfortable driving down. It is just too cold out there." I shook my head. "I will be OK. I am all bundled up." I felt I would be less of a person, disrespectful, or, dare I say, sacrilegious if I did not walk the journey - for them.

I hiked down the nearly two-mile trail to the marble Wall of Names, using my walking stick for support, but that did little to help with the cold of such an isolated walk. Occasionally, I would look for others who had ventured down the hillside. I found no one. The frigid Pennsylvania wind spun around me, icily encouraging me to return to the warmth of my car.

But a presence was there with me, unseen. Forty people, actually, and countless others who suffered from their loss. They stood with me beside the forty individual polished marble slabs lining the area near the crash site. We walked together, reading each solitary inscribed name on its cold marble slab.

A wooden angel rested on the ground near the beginning of the wall,  directly beside Christian Adams, whose name is etched into the first slab. The rest of the slabs were linked to the previous one, representing the unity of their heroic actions on that day over two decades ago.

I asked myself how long I should stay there. In my heart, I need permission to leave. 

A darkening sky encroached upon me as an early December snowfall headed this way, and I knew I had a long walk back to my vehicle. I walked ever so slowly back up the hill. I hoped to preserve the memory of those recognized here on this cold winter day, knowing that the angel would remain with them through the cold night until the sun warmed the ground months from now.

 

WALKING THE TRAIL

Across the beautiful fall landscape of Oglebay Park, many solitary, paved trails wind the hills. The trails connect expansive hillsides with the quiet, flat areas encircling the stillness of ponds. Like all paths in life, they share tales of different journeys, those subtle differences a result of a casual choice to make a left turn up a hill or remain on a straight path down the side of a long grade. As the sun sets and an amber hue lights an orange-yellow leaved path, the shade from tall trees begins to merge with the incoming darkness, slowly becoming one as I continue my journey.

I have trekked the paved trails in the park for a while now. Over a month ago, I grabbed one of my walking sticks out of the decorative milk container on the porch. The sticks had remained there for the longest time as I caught my breath while sitting comfortably in a chair on the porch, watching the world go on without me. 

"Go for a walk," a voice told me. "Go for a long walk." As I climbed that first big hill above Schenk Lake, I carried my solitude with me, where the empty docks wept for the missing giant swan paddleboats. My legs were so stiff, and my breath so labored. I stopped to rest at the first park bench atop the hill. 

Below me, an older woman tossed a large blanket onto the ground amidst the leaves along the hillside. Beside her, a young boy and girl held a white pizza box, eagerly eyeing the woman's effort to quickly spread the blanket for what would probably be their last picnic of the year. All sat down beside one another on the blanket. The woman opened a pop can and then filled paper cups for them. They quietly ate their square pieces of pizza and looked at ducks floating across the still water.

The wind blew dry leaves around us. I knew I needed to keep walking. I stood up and leaned against the back of the bench, the way Mom would against the kitchen counter, before she walked around Bellovedere with her neighbor Chris. 

Despite my stretching, the walk did not become any easier on me. The walking stick helped me climb hills and maneuver down steep paths, but I struggled. The steep rise to the trellis below the greenhouse nearly had me turning around. Maroon flowers had managed to fight off the impending winter months and offered inspiration to continue my journey to the amphitheater. 

I slowly climbed the amphitheater's steps, the pain in my legs finally disappearing. The area was empty except for piles of leaves that the wind had blown into inescapable corners of the stage. The brick walls shared little with the rows of vacant wooden benches stretching up the concrete hillside. No music, no plays, no graduations. All would need to wait for the warmth of summer and for visitors to return. Now, only the whispered echoes of celebration remained.

I grew cold as the emptiness and fading light left me uncomfortable with the solitude who had been my companion for most of the journey. The light of the yellow Mansion Museum reminded me of warmer places and a pathway to return home. I walked along the rust-colored brick path to the front of the museum, where I found I was not as alone as I thought.

An organized group of young people laughed while standing in two lines around the front of the mansion. An anticipatory excitement permeated the cool air. Men and women were equally divided, with a solitary pair at the forefront. A single woman referred to a clipboard she carried close to her chest, checking off what appeared to be a list of tasks to accomplish before it became too dark. "OK, everyone. One more time. We are almost finished." The lines quieted as they retraced steps through the leaves, only to begin a procession toward the front of the mansion again. 

Looking to the horizon as the sun began to sink lower and lower, I moved the walking stick with greater imperative. I crossed back toward my starting spot near Schenk Lake. The hillside opposite the one above the lake was just as beautiful, but I hesitated to slow down to enjoy the view. I eventually circled the lake and headed toward the shelter above the playground I occasionally visited as a child. I wanted a spot where I could write.

Under the shelter, huge, red shuttle buses nestled together for the winter. More leaves, some crunchy dry with others mushy wet, accumulated beneath picnic benches. The benches rested atop one another in a long row, not to be used for gatherings until spring. I crept through the dark and damp shelter to the other side, where I found some remnants of light shining down dully on a park bench perched above the miniature golf course.

I rested my stick against the bench. I swung off my backpack and removed my journal. And that is where I wrote, taking stock of thoughts about my walk, what I had seen, and life.

The season had long closed this portion of the park, and in early November, the dark was supplanted by Christmas lights meticulously scattered throughout the park, ready to be ablaze for the Festival of Lights. The seasons wait for no one. 

We scamper about, trying to find a place that will hold the last lights and memories of seasons long past. Soon, no place will remain for those wandering around in the late fall still wearing shorts and hoodies. The cold of winter will soon envelop us, forcing us to search for warmer confines. Such is life; such are the seasons.

MESSAGE AT THE BOTTOM OF A PINT

“Shags, what are you doing?”

I kept working. I knew Chaka was laughing at me, probably thinking I was being stupid intentionally. He was right to be suspicious, but I am not the same person I was forty years ago. I am older and more mature.

“Shags,” he repeated, chuckling a little at my dogged determination.

I heard him but continued using my butter knife to dislodge whatever I saw resting snuggly at the bottom of my empty glass pint of beer. With my tongue sticking out as the legendary Chicago Bull Michael Jordan would, I worked the tip of my knife under the edge of the small disc. Eventually, I flipped the disc onto the side of the glass where I could easily remove it.

“Ah-ha! Look!” I showed Chaka. “See, I am not crazy.”

My voice was loud, but only two other tables were at the spacious Route 22 in Weirton, WV. Chaka wanted to show me a sports bar he discovered after returning from San Diego to his hometown to live after retiring from teaching.

Route 22 is a gigantic place. The bar extends lengthwise, with a massive collection of beer taps in the center. HD television screens stretch behind the bar, making it the perfect place to watch Steeler games on Sunday. But I was more invested in my beer glass than anything else.

The waitress brought us a couple more beers. I had another Summer Shanty on draft while Chaka opted for his usual, the alluring darkness of a bottled Guinness. Our tastes had vastly improved over the kegs of IC Light of Beta Hall at West Liberty.

I pulled my empty glass away from the waitress’s extended reach, pretending some Summer Shanty was still there. “I’m not done with this yet.” I kept it to continue my obsessive investigation of the glass and the disc. I looked into the empty glass and saw a half-inch opening in the bottom. Once the waitress left, I turned to Chaka as he poured Guinness into his glass. “Look at this!”

Another hole, just like the first glass, was on the bottom of the new pint. “How can this be? Let me see your glass!” I looked at the bottom of Chaka’s glass only to discover that he had no such hole. “Why is she giving me glasses with holes in the bottom while you get the glasses with none?”

“Shags, let it go,” Chaka laughed. “It’s not that big of a deal, is it?”

“Oh, I think it is,” I said in my best Jerry Seinfeld voice. “Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you or make a scene when I talk to the waitress. I don’t do that stuff anymore.” Chaka and I laughed. I guess it all depends on a person’s definition of a scene. 

Chaka and I are Phi Sig brothers, members of a now-defunct fraternity at West Liberty State College, long before our alma mater became the high-falutin West Liberty University. Since last summer, we have alternated months visiting each other to reminisce during our talks about living the retired life. 

So we passed the time by drinking our beers, finishing our lunches, and sharing experiences from long after we went to different coasts after college. Life is so new now, but it is still old in some ways. What once was hope and anticipation for a boundless future has evolved into a slow-moving Disney ride back through the lives we have led.

As the waitress returned to our table, Chaka raised his glass for a drink and muttered, “Please, don’t.” I looked at him and rolled my eyes, leaning forward with a pleasant smile and a hint of mischievous curiosity.

“Ma’am,” I began, slightly apologetic. “I am not trying to be stupid or anything like that, but the glasses you gave me…”

“...have holes in the bottom, “ she laughed while finishing my thought. “You are not the first person to ask about this.”

I looked over at Chaka defiantly, giving him an I-told-you-so expression. He shook his head, then leaned forward with me to hear her explanation. We were two old fools who would never admit to knowing everything, so we just sat and listened to our twenty-something waitress.

We were both amazed. This bar has a bottoms-up draft system, which “fills” draft beers from the bottom. Many bars have a tap the bartender pulls to pour beer into a tilted glass. The bartender places the specially made glass atop a kegerator, filling the perfect glass of beer from the bottom.

The round disc? It is a magnet that rises with the pressure of the beer only to fall when the filling automatically stops, effectively sealing the magnetized hole at the bottom. Some businesses put their logos on the magnets; others print promotions. Mine? I had a promotion magnet and one with a message similar to a fortune cookie I would grab after eating at a Chinese restaurant.

“A glass half empty is still a glass of beer,” mine read.  

We asked the waitress to take pictures of us before we left. Afterward, she said I could keep my two magnets as souvenirs. I chuckled and stuck them both in my shirt pocket. Two beers are plenty for lunch at Route 22.

 

MARK 6

For the longest time, Charlie-Bear always relished sitting on the porch from the early morning until the late afternoon when the sun grew too hot for man and beast. For Charlie, life was good when there was a cool summer breeze, a shady porch, chirping birds, and occasional deer crossing the yard. He watched the comings and goings in our neighborhood but rarely moved a paw from his prized spot.

Charlie has been showing his age lately. Sure, we still take our walks, but we cut them shorter now since his legs are not quite as energetic as they used to be. When we come home, he slurps water from his bowl and heads to his bed inside to rest. I like to keep him outside, though. I want to remind him how much he loved sitting out here in the past. His joints no longer allow him to lie down easily, so Charlie paces across the porch and wanders down and back along the sidewalk, looking for something or just standing guard. 

I grow sad and frustrated watching him endlessly walk to and fro, eventually letting him inside. I can relate to how he is feeling. It is like being on high alert when you anticipate some forthcoming event that never seems to arrive. You keep going, unsure about what is driving you, until you just need to stop. Unfortunately, this is how I spent most of my life.

I could barely keep my head above water when I started teaching in North Carolina. Like many people, I wanted to ensure I was doing everything and anything to succeed in my career. I was tired, but I managed to power through attending training meetings, preparing seven different classes, meeting hundreds of new people, and setting up my classroom from scratch. To say I was drowning is an understatement, but I did it all with a smile on my face and occasional hidden tears on my pillow. 

At the time, I found some misguided joy in this daily marathon. My efforts, numerous activities, countless hours, and little personal time for rest and reflection must be synonymous with what it means to be an outstanding and effective teacher. Undoubtedly, I thought, a person would need a blind dedication to the never-ending grind and continual personal sacrifice to experience success in any career. I am unsure where I developed this attitude, but I may have blurred a necessary line between professional success and personal well-being.

The next thirty-three years offered numerous subtle and more than enough brutal reminders that life offered more than I was asking. I learned the hard way that regardless of whether I arrived at school an hour before it opened and left hours after the final bell, work would always remain. With age came wisdom as I learned to heed the messages emanating from the back of my mind, from deep within my heart, and from the soles of my aching feet.

I went to mass at Saint Michael Parish a couple of weekends ago. Father Luis has been taking time to visit Mom lately here at home. The three of us have spent some wonderful Friday afternoons talking about the more treasured aspects of life, like family and God. Mom has been sending him on his way with coffee cake and cookies recently, so I was happy to see that he was celebrating mass. 

To be fully transparent, I disappear into my thoughts during most homilies. I want to listen from beginning to end, but unfaltering attention is challenging sometimes. I have so much on my mind, so I grant myself a little grace. However, this afternoon was different, as Father Luis started on the subject of that day's Gospel: rest.

Father Luis referenced Chapter 6 in The Gospel of Mark. The Apostles are worn out from the pressures of their ministry, tiring from large crowds of people and meeting their needs. Father Luis thoughtfully explained how they felt and related it to how many of us feel today. We are always on the go and seldom listen to what our bodies tell us about the need to rest. He referred to verse 31 and what Jesus said to His Disciples: "Come away by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while."

The other morning, as I was drinking coffee and welcoming the new day, Charlie sat beside me. The rear of his body was already planted, tired from an early-morning walk, but Charlie could not make those front legs commit to relaxing. He fixed his legs straight before him as a child would push away a plate of unwanted food. I crawled onto the porch beside him, whispering, "Charlie, relax. Relax. Shhhhhh." Charlie-Bear sighed, then slowly lowered himself to the floor, finally putting his head down and closing his eyes for a nice early morning nap.

Back in my chair, I sipped the last cooling bits of my coffee and picked up my book where I had left off. Occasionally, I looked out into the uncut yard with its patches of dry grass from the summer drought, then over at my soundly sleeping dog whose legs ran in some faraway meadow. My opened calendar sat on the table next to me. My weekly things-to-do list was long, but I could push several items to the following week. This moment won't last forever.

Charlie-Bear resting.

Father Luis and Mom hanging out.

U.S. HIGHWAY 264

A hard rain pounded down on my Dodge Shadow as we drove a long stretch of U.S. Highway 264 in Eastern North Carolina. Sheet upon sheet of warm southern rain slapped the windshield, the wipers frantically sweeping back and forth in a futile attempt to provide even a few seconds of visibility. The numerous vehicles traveling the highway with me crept along blindly, all of us searching for a safe place to stop.

I could see the blurry taillights in front of me as drivers slowly navigated their way to the safety of the shoulder. The dark shadow of a large overpass had appeared through the heavy drops and offered shelter for those lucky to park under it. The rest of us gratefully created a community of travelers content to wait out the storm on the side of the road even though the storm continued to pelt us with unending rain.

I took a deep breath and sighed in relief as I parked the car. I looked over at my mother, who rode shotgun on my trip to Wilson, North Carolina, for my interview at Ralph L. Fike High School the next day. She made the sign of the cross and thanked me for pulling over. I did the same, praying that the water would not generate a flood that would wash us away.

We watched brave souls in their cars slowly inch past us into a dark, rainy horizon. Their red brake lights periodically flashed as if sending a distress message in Morse code. Eventually, those flashes faded and disappeared as they moved just yards down the road.

We passed the time ourselves straightening up the car. Before folding the unfoldable AAA paper map, I traced the highlighted path to see how far we had traveled that day. Occasionally, I glanced in my rearview mirror to see if the storm had subsided behind us, but I only found darkness and the blurred yellow headlights of other cars as the rainwater washed down my rear window.

After what seemed to be an eternity of rainfall, the gathering of dark clouds drifted off, carrying its power and majesty away from U.S. 264, where it would slowly dissipate into nothingness. Windshield wipers began sweeping off the dwindling remnants of rain as cars slowly rejoined the road to their destinations.

Mom and I continued our trek towards Wilson, enjoying the ever-changing scenery beneath the reemerging light of the southern sun. Behind us were the snaking turns through the mountains of West Virginia and Virginia and the growing developments along a busy Interstate 40 from Winston-Salem to the outskirts of Raleigh. After nine adventurous hours of map-referencing, an occasional missed exit or two, and numerous rest area stops, we had made it to the proverbial home stretch.

The landscape settled into a double-laned highway whose edges bordered a beautiful expanse of flat farmlands interspersed among sections of untouched groups of tall, thin pines whose tips touched the blue sky. Rows of crepe myrtles and spent daylilies separated the east and west sides of the highway, which shot forward in a straight line through a late afternoon sun that knew nothing of the storm that rested here a short time ago.

I am amazed that this memory has remained with me for over 30 years. Anxious anticipation and desperate indecision filled my first journey along U.S. 264. Two years after graduating from West Liberty State College, I was excited about landing my first teaching job, yet moving 500 miles away made this a difficult choice. The moment left a bittersweet indelible mark, not of a completed story but of one chapter in a life full of enduring memories like this.

Wonder, excitement, and anticipation surrounding a new chapter in life can accompany the subtle discomfort of change, which can take the form of loss, fear, and regret. Disparate emotions converge to form imperfect storms that can slow us to a stop, cleanse us, refresh us, and then send us on our way, perhaps even bring us back again.

ALL IN GOOD TIME

Father Jim sends miniature Daily Reflections prayer books like a ticking clock every Advent and Lent. I recognize Father Jim’s black ink and hard-pressing penmanship on the outside of the standard white envelope. I can feel the boxiness of the prayer books as I hand the gift to Mom.

I always keep my copy on my nightstand, where I plan to read it every morning. Of course, my plan succumbs to an unfortunately more dedicated scrolling of X or Facebook on my phone. A subtle pang of guilt hits me anytime I move the prayer book to dust or reorganize my clutter. I will pick it up, read the devotion for that particular day, and then casually flip backward through the numerous days I have missed, making a half-hearted internal promise to catch up soon.

I carried Daily Reflections for Lent to the Easter vigil at Saint Michael this past spring. Reading the numerous missed pages would fill my soul during the quiet time before mass. As the few dim lights exorcised some darkness throughout the church, I found the March 21, Thursday of the Fifth Week of Lent passage: “Reimagining Time.”

I read this passage about time and how we perceive it. I sat quietly in my pew as my thoughts caught fire. I reread it, dog-eared the page, and then dropped the prayer book to my side as the service began with a quiet opening hymn.

I took the prayer book home and returned to moving it from place to place, occasionally glancing at the unopened book, leaving it untouched long after Lent had passed. I had all the time in the world and simply let my questions and answers about that passage continue to simmer.

The mid-June heat wave had kept many people inside during the week's blistering afternoons.  Other than watering the plants in the morning or late evening or occasionally walking Charlie-Bear from shady spot to shady spot in the yard, I spent little time outdoors. I had already experienced enough of those oppressive summer bursts of intense heat and humidity when I lived for twenty years in North Carolina. I am older now, perfectly content to close the blinds, turn off the lights, and catch up on chores inside the house.

I found myself with time on my hands amidst all the unfinished projects and clutter stuck in the unseen nooks of my world. I began to organize the seeding containers, starter mix, and LED lights I used this past winter, placing them in random boxes in the basement and garage to be merged later. For months, Google has pressured me to buy storage space for my overflowing Google Photos account; hence, I sat at my computer, completing two years of photo saving and purging a day, leaving the hope of organizing my favorites into themed folders for a later time. I found plenty of projects to start but none to finish, and, quite honestly and surprisingly, that was fine.

Thoughts of the dog-eared Daily Reflections prayer book and the “Reimagining Time” passage returned with crisp, cool air as the heat wave subsided. 

“Our worldview is usually quite linear,” the author writes. We view life as moving from one event to the next, seeing everything as having a beginning, middle, and end. The author also talks about other cultures that do not “perceive things” as a “series of events” but as “an enduring circle of relationships” extending over time. 

These concepts are simple to understand on the surface but are worth more exploration. If you live the linear philosophy, you must find a balance within society’s movement from one task to the next, from one event to another. We know how taxing life can become, constantly checking a calendar and reading the notifications on our cell phones of where we need to be. Advances in technology have certainly helped to “move us along.” We genuinely yearn for the balance a circle of relationships brings to restore our depleted emotional and mental health from running on a never-ending hamster wheel.

What do I consider reimagining time? It is easier for me now as I am retired from teaching. But, Lord, I recall being on that treadmill going nowhere: working longer hours just to finish a project in one day when I should have taken two days, always hoping to arrive at the end instead of enjoying the process, not being mindful of the signals my body sent to take more care of myself. I needed a better philosophy because the one I had was not working.

I wanted to listen more and more to the world's rhythm and my body and heed the influence of the changing seasons. I wanted to not think of myself as procrastinating when I simply wished to wait until a better time. The passage in the prayer book I read at Easter is a great example. Months ago, I felt guilty and beat myself up for not returning to it at that specific time. I like that I finally explored the passage in my own time. It was worth the wait.

That heatwave represents the exhausting effort and work we put into maintaining a schedule and living within that linear worldview. In the past, I would have been passionate about finishing the boxing of the seed starter materials and been angry with myself if I had not completed the project the way I had wanted. All my pictures are still in Google Photos and awaiting sorting. Could I have finished the project while the sun beat down on the house? Will my life fall apart if I wait until a later time?

Without a need to rush, I can spend time elsewhere. I can make a nice meal for Mom, one we have never had. I can be OK with her saying I did not cook the pasta enough since I can always try it again. I can spend more time giving my son Robert a regular call in North Carolina instead of feeling too tired finishing projects I had started as I kept my nose to the grindstone. I can finish that challenging Sunday crossword puzzle, ignoring the 67-minute time limit that used to remind my self-conscious self to hurry up. 

I wish I had reimagined time decades ago. I wish I had prioritized aspects of my life better than I had. I would have been much happier if I had learned to balance a beckoning impersonal list of things to do with other pleasures like lunch with a friend, an extra-long trip to visit family, or another walk around the park with my dog. 

Last summer, shortly after closing the door to my classroom for good, I made a bucket list of the things I wanted to do now that I would have so much time on my hands. Much to my surprise, I am far busier than I thought. I have experienced one or two things on that bucket list in the past year; however, when I look at it again on the first anniversary of its creation, I want to do so with a healthier and wiser attitude. I want to look at the remaining list and say to myself: all in good time.

Upchurch, Catherine. Not by Bread Alone 2024: Daily Reflections For Lent, Liturgical Press, 2023