traveling up and down the blind highway

This day has bitter sweet memories for my family. Twenty three years ago, our mother, Rita Heatley -Turnbull left this life for another. Mother Rita was an organized woman. It was no surprise that she orchestrated her departure. The week before Mother’s Day, all the siblings were told to come to visit Mom on that weekend. We were informed by the hospice nurse that Mom was in the last stages of life.
When entering her bedroom, I expected to see a comatose woman. Instead I met a feisty woman with an agenda. She did not want a vigil of all her children at one time. Instead, she called us in one at a time. When it was my turn, I had a difficult time understanding her words. Thinking she might need a drink of water, I offered her a sip, spilling some on her clothing. With agility, Mom swatted my hand away and called for my brother, Mike. Gently, he held the cup and allowed Mom to get a sip of water. He was in tune to her needs and wishes.
Dad told us that Mom had seen our local priest. She received the last rites of confession and communion. When the day was done, we started to leave. We promised to return the next day after John mowed the grass and checked on Ruth and Grandma Helen. My sister in law, Karen volunteered to stay until we returned. We didn’t want my parents to be alone. Karen was nervous and made dad feel the same.way. He told her that we would be there shortly, and she could leave. Between mid-afternoon and the six pm news, mom arose from her dozing to look around. Spotting Dad in his easy chair, she remarked,”Bruce I really love you!”
Dad watching the sportscaster replied”I love you too.”
That was the last words she spoke. After that she slipped into unconsciousness and quietly died before the end of the news.
When we returned, Dad had called the nurse but she had not arrived. The respirator was still on but Mom no longer needed it. When the nurse arrived, she quietly turned off the the machine. The silence marked her passing.
The day of the funeral was rainy and cold . The weather matched my feelings. The last day of her life the weather was warm and sunny.
Sitting between Dad and Ruth, I I felt the love of Mom for all of us with many memories and stories of a family bonded together with love.

Ritual Nightly, on her knees, she prayed.
Watch over my children.
Be with them, when I cannot.
She planned her death, as she did her life.
With faith and love.

carolaspot@aol.com May 15, 2023

One of my earliest memories of fragrances is of lilacs. My bedroom was over our garage. Outside my window was a old lilac bush. Towering 18 feet, it filled my bedroom in the early summer with the smell of lilacs.
I opened my window to pick bouquets of the blooms. The color of the flowers were a light blue. They hung heavy on the bushes. Care was taken when picking blooms. The scent and colors attracted many bees to gather nectar. I would pick the flowers in the early morning when the worker bees were not as likely to be present.
In the back yard, a hedgerow of lilacs spread across the back of the garden. The were purple except for one bush. This one was creamy white. When gathering the blooms for a bouquet, I would be sure to select white and purple blooms.
As an adult with my own home, I planted a pink flowering lilac to remind me of the lilacs of my youth. The scent of lilacs can evoke memories from my childhood.
On my block, there were many lilacs in neighbors yards. On the corner, three houses away was a grouping of dark purple lilacs planted on the corner close to each other. They grew, intertwining their buds and branches to create an oasis of shade for children to play unseen. My friend Cheryll and I would meet there and spend long hours reading books or talking. The flowers created a pleasant smell. The buzzing of the bees combined with early summer days to create lasting memories.
Recently, I visited the old neighborhood to discover many of the lilacs no longer grow there. But they will remain in my home of the past. Who needs photos, I have my recall of those sweet flowers.

Carol Farnsworth

carolfarn@aol.com

After a long winter, many people celebrate the coming of warm weather. Some of us are delighted to be able to experience another season.
The rites of springtime celebrations go back to Celtic and Norse cultures. Longer days and warmer temperatures lift spirits. In Northern Europe, the day includes cake, , drinks and of course, traditional maypole dances. Many countries have made May 1st a national holiday, having the day off from work.
The traditional May pole dance is performed with young couples swirling and weaving around other couples. Each dancer twirls a long scarf. Originally the scarves were attached to the top of a pole and formed a decorative pattern from the dance.
Other May Day activities include, large bonfires along with the dances. In 1815, The American Indian counsel approved and designated the second Saturday in May for Tribal dancing. This tradition continues. Tribes gather to pow-wow ,to dance, chant and perform drumming. Native crafts and food vendors sell their wares.
The oldest and largest May Day celebration is found in the Hawaiian Islands. There the schools perform Hawaiian Lei making with materials of shells, flowers and vines. The leis are given to friends and family members. On May Day, students show their knowledge of Hawaiian history and culture. Groups compete to win top honors in ancient story chant, hula, and costume making. Each Island had a different dance and story to tell of the myths and stories of their inland.
So on May Day this year, take time to appreciate the diversity of the cultures that encompasses our Spring celebrations.

May Day leis hang from the pole.
Children weave, greenery as they dance.
Practicing all year for dancers to shine.
Reciting ancient Hawaiian rhymes.
Pele and Laka smile down.
From the volcano’s rims.

carolaspot@aol.com May 1, 2023

There is a rite of spring that can be dangerous. After Easter break, new high school drivers beg their parents to borrow the family car to propel the 2000 pound weapon legally down the road. The drivers may be more interested in being seen by their friends rather that watching for bikers and walkers sharing the road. This week my husband John returned from a bike ride with a tale.
“How was your ride?”
“I had a stand off over by the high school”
“What happened?”
I had a green light to cross. The dismissal bell had rung. Halfway across the intersection, a car, driven by a student, turned in front of me. I stopped to wait to see if he saw me. He stopped but didn’t indicate with a gesture for me to continue. A second car turned right and went around the stopped car. Now there there were two stopped cars in the intersection. I got off my bike and pushed my bike towards the roadside. A third car attempted to pass on the side of the road. Traffic was stopped in both directions. Finally the first driver indicated for me to proceed.
The crossing is several blocks from our home. We live in a subdivision with young bikers and pedestrians and one blind walker. How safe are we at busy times?
As a blind walker, I was trained to listen for the direction of traffic flow to determine when it is safe to walk. With the increase of electric cars, this is difficult. Since 2010, regulations for electric vehicles, mandates the car emit a sound when the car is moving up to eighteen miles per hour.The sound may be a chirp, beep or other sounds. One car engineer stated,” With each car model there could be a different sound. A biker or walker may or may not recognize the sound as an electric car. If several electrical cars are in the road, the sounds may be masked by gas engines.
So what can I, as a blind person do to protect myself.
First, I can wear clothing that is bright and use a white cane when walking. Second, try to to cross intersection at less busy times of the day. Third, when at a busy crossing, wait for another person to cross at the same time. Drivers may see several people crossing.
Being aware of your surroundings may save your life.

Crossing
I wait.
listening at the crosswalk.
Hearing cars move my way.
Quiet, cars start to move with me across the
intersection.
Safe crossing.

carolaspot@aol.com
April, 24, 2023

Spring can be a time of quick changes. Saturday evening, in shorts and short sleeves, rode our tandem to evening Mass. Today my back yard is covered with a light blanket of white. A lone squirrel scampers onto the deck to stare at me. I ignore him as I drink my second cup of coffee.
I start my indoor chores, long deferred with the 80 degree temperatures. The winter clothes could be exchanged for summer attire in the closet. I need to wipe down the kitchen drawers removing the crumbs accumulated during the winter. Finally, there is the matter of straightening the hall linen closet to put away the odd and ends of items that don’t belong.
I ponder my options…then get myself another cup of coffee.

Spring Snow

Soft flakes,
Soft blanket of white,
Covers the yellow forsythia bushes.
Splashes of green, gold and white potpourri.
last hurrah.

carolaspot@aol.com
copyright 4/17/2023

As a child, the season of Lent dragged on and on. The seven long weeks bridging the winter to spring season. Coming from a strict Catholic mother, we were also expected to not eat between meals, and to not have meat on Wednesdays or Fridays. Instead of using our allowances to buy candy and go to the movies, we were encouraged to place our coins in the offering basket each Sunday.
My brother Craig’s birthday fell in mid April. This year, his special day fell after Easter. Often, it landed in Lent or specifically, in Holy week, the last week of Lent. During Holy week my Mother buckled down on the family to eat only two small meals with no food on Good Friday until sunset.
I recall one such year, Craig wanted to go to the movies with his friends on Holy Saturday. Mother and Dad discussed the problem and decided to allow Craig to go to the movies with two friends and take me along. Looking back, I think that mom had last minute work to assemble the Easter baskets and wanted to do so without interruptions.
There was a children’s matinee each Saturday. The cost for a ticket was 35 cents. The movie was a Disney or a Lone Ranger offering. Before the show, the manager would take the ticket stubs and put them in a bowl to have twelve tickets pulled for a contest and prizes.
This Saturday, my ticket number was selected but not the birthday boy. I made my way to the stairs on the side of the large screen to claim my prize. There was a large apron of the old Vaudeville shows. I sized up my competition. I was one of the youngest and only girl. The ushers passed out large balloons with the instructions to start blowing then up on the count of three. The first child to blow up and pop his or her balloon would be the winner. I received a bright red balloon, my favorite color. I hated loud noises like bursting balloons and I was sure that I couldn’t beat the competition.
On the count of three, I blew up my balloon but didn’t pop it. Letting out the air, I carefully folded it in my pocket. Now I still had my balloon to use later.
“Why didn’t you pop your balloon?”my brother asked?
“I like red balloons!” I replied.
Later, when I was older, I would explore the stage and dressing rooms of the old theater. That is for another story. For now, I was content with my prize.
Happy birthday Craig

Lenten Woes

No candy
or snacks
Don’t eat between meals
Fish every Friday
coins to pay

For seven long weeks
we waited out Lent
longing for Easter
with the promise of spring.
until Lent was over
no candy, pop, nothing!

carolaspot@aol.com April 10th, 2023

When I was a coed at Eastern Michigan University, a group of my dorm mates selected as a service project, to visit prisoners at the Ypsilanti State Prison. It is classified as a maximum security facility. My dorm was an all girls dorm. Most of the young woman were eighteen to twenty. We had a romantic notion of having a relationship with a prisoner. What we got was a life learning experience.
A prison bus picked us up at the dorm for the drive to the prison. The inside of the bus was cleaned but had seats that were well worn with several ripped cushions. The windows did not operate but were covered by metal mesh . Before entering the bus, a guard checked each girl’s purse looking for contra band and items. Personal possessions were placed in a lock box.
“Your purses and personal items will be returned on the return trip.”
Many of the ladies nervously looked around, as we were led , single file, into the welcome center for visitors.
Two female guards patted down each person with professional detachment. The contents of our pockets were scrutinized before allowing us to proceed into the prison. Many of our items were placed in labeled bags to be returned upon our departure. We were left with pencils and scraps of paper. Finally we entered a multipurpose room sporting basketball hoops and heavy tables and chairs. There was a punch bowl with paper cups and a tray of cookies with napkins. Looking around we wondered where were the prisoners?
A door on the opposite wall opened. A line of young men entered ringed by armed guards. They seemed as scared as I felt. One guard read from a sheet the rules for the dance.
“Ladies sit at the tables. You will be asked by an inmate if you wish to dance or talk. You may refuse. Select only one inmate, he will be your partner for the evening.”
Nervously, the two groups eyed each other. A tall black youth, sauntered to one of the tables to talk with a girl. Gradually more men crossed the middle ground to meet us.
I lowered my eyes to not make eye contact.
“Hi, my name is John, my friends call me Jack. Would like to dance?
I raised my eyes to see a slight man with red hair and freckles smiling at me.
Sure, I guess.”
I was swept away to the tunes by popular bands from the 1970s.
After the song ended, Jack led me to a table, where he got two cups of punch.
I was worried what would I say to this stranger, but Jack did most of the talking. Occasionally I answered with a nod or a quiet yes. I found that the men at the dance were doing time for white collar crimes. They earned the privilege to attend the dance for good behavior.
Looking around at the seated and dancing couples, I was struck how normal we looked, that is until I noticed the guards circulating around the dancers and the armed guards near the doors.
Jack was talking.
“What did you say?”
“I was wondering what you are majoring in?”
Music and theater,” I replied.
“What are you in for?”
Jack smiled,”I wrote some checks that were overdrawn.” “They didn’t come to the dance if we had a committed a violent crime.”
I realized I was way over my head here. I just wanted a little diversion for a Saturday night.
My growing alarm increased when a loud siren began. All the inmates were lined up on near the opposite wall. One by one, each man was searched. One man was lead away through the door.
When Jack returned, he was quiet.
“What that was all about? I inquired nervously.
Some fool tried to pass an item to one of you girls.” That will end the dance.”
Soon several guards entered and positioned themselves around the walls of the room.
“Men, ladies, please say your goodbyes. No touching.”
Jack slipped me a note and without a word he returned to the door on the outside wall.
I didn’t open the note until I was outside and in the prison bus.
” Here is my name and my address. I hope you will be my penpal.”
To this day, I am sorry for not ever writing to Jack. But I did learn about the desperation of prison and what it can do to one’s perceptions.

in a box
no escape from the truth
I am changed.
carolaspot@aol.com
March 27, 2023

I can’t write about family without mentioning our four legged members of the household.
I recall two pets growing up. A large long haired tabby cat named Fluffy. I have a photo of her perched on the side of the bathtub watching as I bathed. Unlike most felines, Fluffy loved to play in water. She would swat at the soap bubbles. A floating translucent globe bitten breaking it’s escape.
A rescue white American Eskimo Spitz, he was named Koke after he wouldn’t respond to his first name, Panda He would bark at UPS trucks. Jumping three feet in the air, he was intimidating behind a closed glass door. I thought he had a bad encounter with a driver in his youth. He was afraid of thunder storms. he would hide in the shower under the shower chair. This was a dark and quiet place to hide. John had a an English Setter named Junior. John he referred to him as his son. Junior was also afraid of thunder. He would lay at the edge of the living room carpet and look longing at John in his easy chair. Slowly, Junior would creep towards John and safety. He would end up in John’s lap.
John’s tells stories of the collection of mixed breed mutts that were kept when he lived in Detroit.
My father in law, worked as a heavy equipment operator for the city. He had a soft heart for the stray dogs that would beg from the workers. Bringing many of them home, to my mother in law’s chagrin. The pack included Puddles and Poo, two labradors with little common sense. Two black and tans named Big face and little face. Little face would issue one large woof to alert the household to a visitor then he would lay down. His work was through.
There was a beagle referred to as Mike. Having grown up in the city streets, he had a bit of an attitude. But the most aggressive of the pack was Rex, a scrawny German Shepard. He had a fierce growl that scared many of the neighbors. No one messed with Rex.
There were many other dogs but they moved on before they became a part of the family.
When I visit local animal shelters, I remember the kindness of one man who adopted dogs from the Detroit streets.

Homeless
by Carol Farnsworth
The city burned with turmoil.
Flames engulfed abandoned houses, leaving pets behind.
One man took pity, sharing his lunch with them.
They didn’t want to leave him.
He took them home to his inner city home.

They became the protecters of the home and family.
Isolating them from the burning world around then.

carolaspot@aol.com March 20, 2023

I grew up one of five siblings.My father , an ex Marine, expected his sons to be able to take care of each other. They fought, competed and played hard. My oldest brother Bob, recalled a time that he was angry with his brother Mike and took a swing at him. Mike was the bigger and stronger of the two. Laughing he wrapped Bob in a bear hug.
“Whoa there ,!”
Bob had to calm down before Mike would release his hold.
Brother Craig was not immune to rough play. Once, when the boys were playing on the basement steps, Craig tumbled down to the bottom ,I never heard what happened but I suspect that a tussle occur and Craig being the youngest lost.
The dynamics of sibling interactions changed when I was added to the mix. We would play in our back yard in the evenings. Usually, the game was badminton, croquet or kickball. One evening one of us had the idea to have a tussle with Craig on Mikes shoulders and I on Bobs shoulders. We fought, trying to push our opponents off their perch. My mother, watching from the kitchen window came running out.
“Stop!, be careful of your sister!”
After that, it was assumed that the boys had to treat me differently. I tried to join in their play with boxing, baseball and shooting baskets but I was treated with caution. I was ,”the girl.”
After six more years, my youngest brother , Brian was born. There was almost sixteen years between the oldest and youngest siblings, almost a generation. Both of my parents were in their forties. They had relaxed their rules . My older brothers complained that Brian got away with many small discretions that would not be tolerated in the early years of childrearing.
Brian loved cars. He and Dad would drive down to the local Ford dealer to check the latest arrivals of new models.
Brian had a car to drive to high school while the rest of us had to use the second car occasionally.
I enjoyed having a younger brother tag along with my friends. It helped that my two best friends had no siblings and enjoyed the novelty of a baby brother. As we grew, we became close sharing many stories and adventures. When I needed a car, Brian scoured the local paper for the perfect car for me. He would show me several cars each week. Finally , he found a yellow Trans Am with white leather seats and black interior.
“I love it!”
“You do?”
I bought it. Brian promised to keep the car in good repair. The first summer, he and his friend John, had a accident crossing 8 Mile road and true to his word he and John worked to repair the car. while I used his station wagon to get to work.
Sadly ,my brother Mike had cancer several years ago and is with us only in memories. I have special stories about each of my siblings and growing up in a post war era.

Brotherly Love

“I’ll give you a push.”
I swung higher , wondering if the swing would go over the top.
Using a teeter totter with my brother, he jumps off.
I hit the ground and topple off.
I follow him as he crosses a creek on a log.
I lose my balance tumbling into the water.
Tough love but if I am threatened, I know he has my back.
Thats brotherly love.

carolaspot@aol.com March13 2023

My Dad, lived just short of 99 years. In the last months/years of his life, He decided that He couldn’t give up his eating habits. His favorite place to shop for groceries was his local drug store. There he could pick up Better Made potato chips, Breyers Vanilla Ice Cream, peanuts and maple syrup, Goebel beer and fixing for a Manhattan drink. He had difficulty with swallowing, but Dad swore the alcohol helped him. His was his daily intake along with macaroni and cheese. Sometimes he added shrimp to the dish.
He was hard of hearing. His hearing aids were often plugged with wax. Pretending to hear a question, His favorite phrase,”Well… any ways.”” was used by Dad to steer the topic to one of his choosing. Because of his hearing facts of the stories were added, omitted or changed to fit the current memory and the story line. When the conversation took a turn or changed to a subject that Dad didn’t want to talk about, He would say well, any ways. This was his way of not agreeing with the speaker and starting a new story. My brother Brian would clean out Dad’s ears with peroxide and warm water. Even if his ears had been recently cleaned, dad wouldn’t try to understand a question that he didn’t agree with.
In his later years, I was a willing listener to his memories and stories. As one of my brothers once remarked,”There was the truth and then there was Dad’s story of the truth.”
He loved to talk of people and events in his life. Living through the Great Depression, serving as a Marine in WWII, to raising a family in the small town he grew up in, Bruce was a wealth of interesting facts. Some of them were true.
On his last Christmas, Dad wanted to give us his grandfather clock. He wanted to keep it in the family. We accepted the gift but never started it. The ticking was too loud in our small house. This past year, we presented to my nephew Jason and his fiancee Samantha. We full filled Dad’s wish to pass his clock to a family member. As I wind my own mantle clock, I recall Dad taking care to wind each of his fourteen clocks so he could hear every striking of the hours. I smile as I count the strikes in the middle of the night thinking of my Dad saying,”Well… anyways.”

Clockworks

The old man walks slowly to the mantle clock.
Reaching behind for the winding key,
inserting the key, he turns to the left five times.
Removing the key, he winds the second spring to the right.
Using his finger, he lightly taps the pendulum, starting the ticking.
Moving from room to room, he repeats the task.
As his father and grandfather before him, The ticking marks his life.

carolaspot@aol.com
March 6th 2023