He stood up

Memorial Day is a pretty special day

My father was very patriotic. He was the first young man from their community to enlist after Pearl Harbor and was in the Pacific for 43 months. He was in the Army Air Corps. That meant he was a little bit army and a little bit air force. He never lost that keen spirit of patriotism and our family and friends have agreed that he really was a part of what Tom Brokaw said was "The Greatest Generation".

Even at the end of his life, daddy always wanted to be sure that mother or I had put the flag out - especially on a day like Memorial Day.

I went to the World War II Memorial in Washington DC in 2005 and when I returned home, daddy was really filled with questions. I remember that he said if he ever got a chance to go, he was going.

So, when he read about the Orange Park Rotary-sponsored trip for World War II veterans, he wasted no time at all checking it out. His trip would be paid for. He just needed to have a "chaperone".

My son, Tray, who is daddy's #3 grandson, was all over that. He would love to go. He has inherited a lot of that same patriotic spirit that was a big part of daddy's life. Chad and Brad (grandsons #1 and 2 respectively) also share that spirit and all three of them have spent time serving our country.

Daddy was so excited as they planned their trip. He supposed he might be the oldest person traveling (he wasn't) and was peeved as he waited for Tray to arrive for the ride to the Orange Park High School. My mother and I rode over for the pre-trip meeting and were there as they boarded the busses headed to JIA.

When they arrived in DC, they were surprised when Chad and Brad arrived. Daddy was thrilled. All of his "soldier boys" were with him to honor him and his comrades. It truly was a day that none of them would forget.

Tray called me several times during the day to give me a report. He would start to tell me something and get choked up. He would say, "I'll have to tell you that in a minute, mom." It would be when they got home that night, daddy a whipped puppy, but with a beaming smile, before Tray could tell me what he had been trying to say all day.

"Here granddaddy was in a wheelchair," he said. "And every time a band would strike up that song - you know the one that features all the branches of the service...when they got to granddaddy's part, he stood up."

I didn't see this happen and yet I know exactly how it must have been. I can just see him. I know about the effort involved and the importance of this experience.

So, on this Memorial Day, our first without our patriotic patriarch, I am remembering that experience shared between my daddy and my son - and I am thankful all the more for our heritage. The music is playing over and over (I googled it) and if you listen, maybe you can hear it too! (The US Armed Forces Salute)

Precious Hands

My hands are a mess.

Wait let me be more specific.  My nails are a mess.

I'm one of many women who have become accustomed to manicured nails  It's now been more than two months since I have seen Lisa, my nail tech.  The word I've heard is that she won't be back at work until the first of June.

Of course, that's not the end of the world.  Nothing has prevented me from using my hands to wash dishes, fix a meal, do the laundry, and most of all type.  I would really miss my fingers.

I've been thinking a lot about hands lately.

I wasn't there, but I have heard that on this day 49 years ago, my sister, Cindy, sat by my grandma Nesmith's bedside, held her hands and told her what a blessing she had been to so many for so long - caring for the sick, arranging flowers and making yeast rolls - all with her hands.

I was there when this photo was taken of my daughter Renee holding my mother's hands.  An interesting note is that Renee's hands are very much like her other grandmother's hands. However, Renee is like my mother in that she is very caring.


We have learned that when we have something we need to tell our mother, someone holds her hands.  We held her hands when we told her that her dear friend, Merle had passed and when our sweet aunt Gloria had gone to  Heaven.

No bad news in this photo, just love.

May 20, 1971, will be a day that always gives me pause.  And this year I've thought so much about my grandma Nesmith's hands.  Many lives were touched because of her hands.  And the number of lives has grown exponentially.

These are the hands that first knew the love and care of her touch.

They are the hands of my mother and her sisters.  I believe they are in order counterclockwise, beginning top right: Iva, Thelma, Carolyn, Ann, and Beth.  The photo was taken just a few days before Thelma passed away.  The caption says "Life is a balance between holding on and letting go".

I'm sure that as my mother and her sisters and their sweet daddy stood around grandma Nesmith's bed early on that May morning, they knew that it was time to let go.  And yet I have no doubt but they have all continued to appreciate her hands - and what they meant to so many!

And as far as the exponential thought.  If you multiply the hands of five sisters times their 18 children and keep multiplying - well I believe you'll get it.

This makes me just one of many who really appreciate the fact that these five sisters grew up to have the same sense of using their hands to help others.

They are, like their mother, a great example of Precious Hands.

                                                                                               May your life be filled with enough Sunshine 

to make you appreciate the Shadow

Glad to be your child

She probably doesn't remember this.  But something that I did just this week reminded me of the day.

First-born Rebecca was six years old.  We lived in Chattanooga and she had a friend whose name was Ed.

It was a cold, but sunny January afternoon.  Becca and Ed were playing in our backyard.  She knew the boundaries, but when I went to check on her - you guessed it - they had ventured a little farther to the iced-over puddles at the bottom of the hill.

I watched as they ran and slid on the little patches of ice. 

To say that I was not amused is just scratching the surface of my emotion.  I could make an excuse and say the reason I got so upset was that I had a newborn and a three-year-old as well as the independent Becca.

Later that night she sat by my side at a church service.   On a broad ruled tablet and with some crayons, she wrote something:

"Dear Mommy, I love you and I am glad to be your child".

Still makes me smile.

Fast forward more than 40 years.

I participated in a webinar that focused on how we as caregivers are handling not being able to see our loved ones.  I've said many times that this is one of my most difficult experiences.  Twice a week Facetime visits of about 15 minutes with my mother have replaced the three or four visits of a couple of hours.  When I am with her, I write on a whiteboard.  When we are trying to have a conversation she has to repeat again and again - "What's she saying?".

It's emotionally draining to say the least.

However, the facilitator of the webinar suggested that we do things to make us feel "closer" to our loved ones.  I've already been using the moisturizer that she had used for years.  I have a cup of tea in a china cup. A day or so ago I even had a Wendy's Frosty.

And I write her letters.  Just letters about life on the "outside".  I'm "isolated" but not as much as my mother is.

And here's what reminded me of Becca's note:

I love you, mother and I am glad to be your daughter.

That's the way I closed the letter.

This is Iva Louise Nesmith Huffingham's 73rd Mother's Day.  It surely will not be as special as some of those we have celebrated together.  This is my 49th Mother's Day.  It surely will be a bit different.

Life is just not the same/

But one thing remains - I love my mother and I am glad to be her daughter - and I'm pretty sure that my three bundles of joy would say the same.

May your life be filled with enough Sunshine 

to make you appreciate the Shadow