Brenda Knight Graham's Blog

Last week was special–no ribbons and balloons, no ceremonies, no bands playing–just a special week with grandchildren on fall break. They helped host a ladies meeting, worked in the yard, enjoyed a guest from afar, and even had fun with crisp, warm elephant ears.

Tuesday Charli and Caitlin arrived early ready to get out pretty cups, make coffee and cinnamon rolls, and serve our monthly meeting of Prayer Sisters. They did a great job and earned accolades with the ladies. Of course Nana found other things for them to do around the house that afternoon. But the girls found time to play badminton and enjoy just being girls.

Charli and Kaison came at 7:30 Thursday ready for breakfast and a day of being at Granddaddy’s beck and call. I settled on the front porch to watch the drama unfold. Charles, with help of caregiver Tasha, moved from place to place to oversee from a chair the raking and distributing of straw. The two young teenagers tried to listen to Granddaddy’s quiet voice and figure out just where to rake and where to tuck pine straw around shrubbery. Charli became the main raker while Kaison hauled and scattered. Charles sat down beside me for a few minutes. He said with a glint of humor that the kids had misunderstood him and raked farther than he had intended. “Won’t hurt them,” he said.

Harley Rollins, Charles’s college roommate and our friend for sixty plus years, arrived Thursday afternoon, much to everyone’s delight. Harley had been to Nassau to visit a mission ship called Logos Hope. He said it was much bigger and better equipped than the one he and his wife lived on for a year in the 1960’s selling Christian literature. He came from the ship Logos Hope to our house with a plan to help his old friend. As he raked straw from the carport roof, the rest of the strawing team took up various roles. The roof no longer looks like Anne Hathaway’s thatched roof cottage.

After the strawing job was finished and Kaison had blown debris from the driveway, the young people went to the kitchen to make elephant ears. After simple instructions from Nana they went to work spreading melted butter, sugar and cinnamon on soft taco shells and baking them to crisp curled perfection. This recipe has been a favorite of theirs since they were little. They graciously served all of us on the porch, a festive fall occasion with temperatures turning cooler and a feisty little breeze stirring the scent of cinnamon.

Saturday night we were biting our nails over the Georgia/Auburn football game when a beautiful message pinged on my phone. Our Birmingham granddaughter Mattie had been crowned Miss Trussville, Trussville being a suburb of Birmingham. She was so lovely in a stunning blue evening gown. Can’t wait to see more pictures. It was a very exciting climax to our fall break week!

With the help of our caregiver, Denise, I made grape jelly yesterday. The batch turned out a pretty pink, not very grapey looking. I guess a drop of red food coloring would have brought out the purple, but it is the natural color of a mix of scuppernong and muscadine and it does taste like grapes.

Our walk this morning was so refreshing with a cool breeze blowing oak leaves across our path. Conversations with family and friends include football, school dances, country fairs, as well as grades on calculus and science mixed with antics of pets, even a pet raccoon. We thought this might be our first year to have no pumpkins on the front porch. But, while on an errand in Thomasville, we spied pumpkins at the farmers market. Our caregiver, Alex, was able to pull off and grab a couple of nice ones for us. Later, the kids set them on the porch for us. They look so merry, ready for feasting and fun.

Our cat, Dinji, snagged himself a baby squirrel one day and brought it to the back porch where he ate its head and left the rest for us. Maybe he thought he was blessing us with a gift but I didn’t view it that way. I would have used the picture I made of him devouring his prey, but it was a little too gross. It was good that Charles and Kaison were able to dispose of the poor little squirrel.

October skies always seem bluer than in any other month. Such a beautiful background for the shades of autumn color beginning to develop. The Indonesian cherry tree leaves are the color of pale persimmons but, beside that tree, the Japanese maple has hardly begun to blush.

Pine straw has gathered thickly on the carport roof reminding us of British thatched roofs. In the yard, the straw is so thick in places that the grass hardly shows. Kaison blew off the driveway only three days ago and already it’s strewn with a carpet of red-brown.

We’ve seen few hummingbirds at the feeder all summer but now, on the brink of their return to tropical climes, they have become very active. Sometimes there are two or three vying for spots to enjoy nectar. Are they storing up for the long trip? What an amazing event that is–tiny hummingbirds taking off on a thousand-mile flight. Their GPS is true and accurate, unlike our electronic ones that can land us in a lake if we’re not careful.

This afternoon Charli will be having a photo shoot with friends on our lawn, pine straw and all. Her school’s homecoming dance is tonight. We look forward to the drama!

With pumpkins on the porch and heavenly breezes blowing, we’re ready for October. Our hope is that each of you has a beautiful beginning of autumn as well.

Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning; for in thee do I trust: cause me to know the way wherein I should walk; for I lift up my soul unto thee. Psalms 143:8

It’s fall butterfly time. I remember in past autumns how butterflies feasted on fallen overripe pears, how a studious William worked diligently many afternoons making an insect display for his 5th grade teacher, including butterflies. I remember a beauty Charli netted and put in a jar for observing and releasing. I remember the one we found by the driveway, not broken or crushed, just dead, a yellow and black swallowtail with no more flight in its four wings.

This time of year the butterflies flit faster and higher as if they’re intent on soaking up every last bit of summer’s sun, every single fragrance and tasty delight. The bright little yellow ones fly across the yard, into the neighbor’s garden, and back again. Awesome swallowtails and monarchs clad in orange and black, yellow and black, or deepest blue and rusty gold light momentarily and then are off again to take in one more adventure.

I find it so interesting that butterflies feed on flowers through a straw-like proboscis, that they smell with antennae, and they taste with their feet. They are coldblooded so cannot fly at night as their cousins the moths do. Butterflies have four scaly, colorful wings and, true to the anatomy of all insects, have six legs. Who but our amazing God could have formed such fantastic critters!

According to a report from the Georgia Department of Natural Resources, there are 160 species of butterflies in the state. Those butterfly enthusiasts who study their habits, life cycles, and preferred plants might likely have as many as thirty different species in their back yard. We are not so deliberately enthusiastic. We just enjoy the ones that come, maybe only four or five species, or at the most ten. Our main butterfly magnet is the yellow lantana which blooms from May to October. The butterflies are also attracted to our Mediterranean blue plumbago bush.

I love the analogy of the butterfly’s metamorphosis to a Christian’s spiritual growth. As Christians we, too, are transformed from “the darkness of the cocoon” to the light and freedom of life with Jesus. We are instantly transformed when we make a decision to be a Christ follower. But there is more. As we study and obey the words of God and grow more like Him, we’re transformed daily, or renewed crisis by crisis, as we walk dark valleys and climb rugged mountains.

Speaking of transformation, Charles particularly likes these words in Romans 12:2: And be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.

In observing the butterflies these weeks of September I couldn’t help writing this poem.

Oh, butterfly,
Tasting every flower,
Flying high, dancing
In the sky,
Show me how
To make each moment
The best--
Each sip, each flurry,
Every tilt and turn.
To you
Time means nothing,
Every moment is the essence
Of everything.
From chrysalis to wing spread,
From blossoms below
To ever-stretching sky,
You're ready,
Beautiful and bright,
Making the most
Of your short life.

It was a beautiful Saturday in spite of rain predictions. Doug arrived early and started unloading tables, chairs, a fire pit, and a great generous pot big enough to be a witch’s cauldron. He moved our car out of the carport and set up tables and chairs with help from Jared who had arrived on the scene. It was the first time in our lives we just sat back and watched as others set up the tableau for a family feast in our own yard.

A week before, Doug had called talking about doing a low country boil. I thought he was inviting us to his house in Tallahassee. I told him I didn’t think we were quite able to do that. He hastened to say he meant to bring the low country boil to us. “All you have to do is be there and be ready to eat lots of seafood.” We couldn’t turn that down!

We learned from his daughter, our granddaughter, Amanda, that the low country boil was in lieu of Doug’s birthday party. We began to anticipate the occasion and speculate on weather conditions. What a generous thing for Doug to go to all the trouble of bringing the low country boil to us!

Alex, our caregiver, was with us for the day and was excited about the festivities. We three had ringside seats to watch as Doug, Jared, and Charles Douglas piled potatoes and corn in the now steaming pot of water. The girls–Doug’s wife, Summer, her friend Yolanda, Amanda, and Allie—all brought out delicious dips and we nibbled happily.

The young people were in and out of the activity, always ready to eat, but steering clear of being put to work. Caitlin grinned, half enjoying the teasing about her beginning driving skills. Charli got permission to move PawPaw Doug’s car from one place to another, proving she wasn’t far behind Caitlin in driving skills. Kaison surprised me time and again as he sneaked up beside me to speak to me in his new very deep voice.

Pounds and pounds, bag after bag, of seafood were slid into the steaming pot—crawfish, crab claws, clams, scallops, and shrimp. Then Doug began adding seasoning, lots of it. The aroma was tantalizing.

Finally, Doug and Charles Douglas lifted the steaming basket out of the pot and poured contents with great flare down along the newspaper covered table. Bright corn, crab legs, crawfish, everything all mixed up, laid out for feasting. I was overwhelmed with thanksgiving to God when Charles stood, took his hat off, and asked the Lord’s blessing on the food and the people. Amazing that he felt like standing and speaking! Someone brought colorful steaming plates to us and the rest gathered around the table, leaning this way and that to reach their favorite choices. There was the sharp cracking of crab claws and much laughter as hot seasoning began to burn our lips.

Two of our Cairo Animal Hospital veterinarians dropped by to see Charles, adding even more enjoyment to the afternoon. Though neither Alex Greenberg nor Bo Curles would sit down with us and eat, they enjoyed watching us peel shrimp and bite into the best scallops I ever ate.

When we thought the feast was over and all were nursing our burning lips and stinging eyes, Allie appeared back from a run to Dairy Queen with a big box of ice cream sandwiches. Amazingly, the ice cream instantly calmed the fire on our lips and was such a fun ending to a great time.

When I came across this picture in my photos file I immediately smelled the salty sea and caught a whiff of sunscreen. I remember the blue skies, happy shouts from the beach as swimmers and beach combers played. I took this picture last year when we went to St. George Island, Florida, on a day trip with Will, Christi, and Mattie.

Charles and I sat comfortably in a shady shelter watching the waves, the sun bathers, and the kite flyers. We enjoyed the tales of family members as they came to report on: a crab with one claw, a gigantic wave, and a sand castle of coke-cup-shaped turrets. At noon we spread a delicious picnic for those with sun-kissed cheeks as well as we onlookers. All along, seagulls flew over the waves, then perched for a minute in contemplation on rafters or rails within feet of us. Now and then the birds made some sort of announcement with their distinctive call.

Since I couldn’t roam the beach hunting seashells as I loved to do, others brought shells to me. I listened to an echo of ocean waves in a large broken clam shell. I ran my fingers along the swirls on a hermit crab’s little home. I dusted white sand out of a dark oyster shell. I arranged all of them on the table, along with numerous other shells bearing a hint of sunset on their silky smooth insides. I took a deep breath of salty ocean air and only wished for a moment that I could stand in the surf and feel the sand sucking away from my toes. A seagull lit on a beam above me and stared at me, maybe wondering if I didn’t have a handout. He is a very opportunistic bird.

Years ago I would have been able to shower the gull with bread crumbs, back in the day when that was allowed. With a squawk sounding like an ungreased screen door, he would have snatched a piece of bread right from my hand. Scavengers of the shore, that’s the seagulls. I love to watch them fly just above the water, then dive under and come up with a hapless sea creature. Did I say these birds are opportunistic? It’s not surprising that one will eat absolutely anything he has an opportunity to grab, dead or alive.

Here I am sitting on my porch, far inland, thinking about that seagull who stared at me for a full five minutes. Turned sideways, his distinctive bill looks ready to scoop something up. Idly, I skimmed through online fun facts about seagulls and learned they, unlike most animals and birds, have glands above their eyes that remove salt from the water so they can drink from the sea or from lakes and streams. Being a very sociable bird, the seagull adapts to various locales, though his favorite is the seacoast. His white and gray coloring and vocalization make him readily identifiable.

Thinking the particular bird I met that day is probably dead, I was surprised to learn that seagulls live for 10-20 years, the oldest known being 49. I was not surprised to learn that the Bible mentions seagulls in the long list of unclean foods we should not eat. If I were starving, I’m sure I’d be thankful for a seagull wing or breast. As it is, I do not relish the thought!

I’m glad the seagull can squawk its call, wheel freely over sand, sea, and palms, and come to rest for a short time where I can see him up close and personal. He knows how to make good of any opportunity. I guess I might learn a thing or two from him.

I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. Philippians 4:12 (NIV)

I looked forward to the day when my cat, Bertha, could come home from the vet’s. The ten-day hospitalization for various procedures, shots, etc. seemed so long. Dinji, Charles’s cat, didn’t have the complications Bertha did, and came home after an overnight. But Dinji, as sweet as he is, sits only in Charles’s lap. The cats claim us individually as their humans.

Our grandson, William Jr., was visiting us and doing a lot of helpful things like pruning the blueberry trees under his Granddaddy’s instruction. He was the one who went to get Bertha when she was finally ready. He set her carrier on the porch floor. There were several family members, the nurse, and others circled around that morning. The moment William opened the carrier, Bertha shot out like a bullet, and she was gone. We saw her white and gray body flash down the driveway towards the barn, a picture of utter panic mixed with relief. She was out of jail free!

Bertha is a cat with a free spirit. She does not cotton to “towing the line”; her feet don’t dance to a common drumbeat. In other words, she is even more of an independent cat than the usual feline. She doesn’t like crowds and she doesn’t like change.

She went into hiding after her hospitalization. She didn’t show up at feeding time. She didn’t come to cuddle in my lap or sprawl under the swing on the porch. It was two days before anyone saw her and then it was only as a shadow one day slipping behind a caregiver’s car. I began to worry that my cat was holding a permanent grudge against me for sending her to the animal hospital. I missed the comfort of her warmth, and her purring presence.

One morning as I walked I was talking to the Lord and I said, “Would you please send my cat back from the bushes or wherever she’s hiding. I miss her so much.”

That very afternoon Bertha came strolling up as if nothing had happened. She didn’t immediately come sit with me on the porch but finally she was really back. As I stroke her white and gray fur and fondle her ears I say, “Thank you, God. I really needed my cat.”

Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. Philippians 4:6

We had no idea in May when Charles planted a small patch of okra that he wouldn’t be able to cut the pods as they matured. He planted twice because several plants never poked through the soil. Finally, 26 stalks were headed upward, some taller than others because of their earlier planting. We noticed yellow blooms on two or three stalks as we drove out one morning for a regular visit to Charles’s oncologist.

Dr. Esther Tan listened intently as Charles told her he had no energy and was again losing his appetite–and pounds. Then she looked down at the report on his bloodwork. “I’m afraid your cancer is back,” she said solemnly. “We’ll need to do a bone marrow biopsy.”

Charles checked on the okra every day. If it needed watering he sat down in a chair to spray it. After fertilizing the patch, I noticed, his steps were dragging. Our son Will came to take us to the hospital for the biopsy after which Charles became so sick he landed back in the hospital where he was given fluids and a blood transfusion.

We were in the hospital when Dr. Tan called to report results of the biopsy. “Acute Myeloid Leukemia,” she said.

Back at home, Charles was very weak. He no longer felt like checking on the okra himself but regularly asked our granddaughter Amanda, “How’s the okra today?” He was so pleased whenever she could show him even two or three pods.

A seven-day series of chemo shots was followed by oral chemo. Charles totally lost his appetite, could only swallow small amounts of applesauce or jello or thin soup. He had major difficulty swallowing the huge chemo pills and even more difficulty with side effects of those pills. He could no longer walk, dress himself, mostly slept all the time. His voice got quieter and quieter. I missed so much hearing his enthusiasm for life, his jokes and stories. But no matter how quiet he became, he’d hold up a finger when Amanda walked in and whisper “How’s the okra today?”

Dr. Tan, a native of Indonesia, a compassionate Christian, became much more than our doctor. She became our friend, even like a member of the family. She prayed for us on several occasions. It was hard for her the day she told us that unless the chemo began to make a difference, Charles might have only six months. He needed blood transfusions almost every week. Then came the day when she told us with the glint of tears in her eyes that the chemo was doing more harm than good. She said she needed to take him off those dreaded pills and put him in a Hospice program where the daily goal would be to make him comfortable and give him quality of life.

It has been a huge adjustment for us—round-the-clock nursing care, a complete change in food preparation, almost total confinement, not even doctor’s visits anymore. Yet there is a sweetness to this time that is unexplainable. I feel sometimes as if I’m floating just above the storm, aloft because of prayers of friends and family. We are blessed, not only by wonderful paid caregivers, but by loving family and friends from Birmingham, Cairo, Tallahassee, Thomasville, Cleveland, Athens, Clarkesville, and beyond.

And now Charles is feeling better, so much better! He is stronger, is walking with a walker instead of being wheeled. He has a growing appetite and is awake more and even able to enjoy talking with friends and family. We actually went to Sunday School and church Sunday with help of our caregiver Alex and were blessed by having the deacons come pray over us in our living room that afternoon.

We enjoy sitting on the porch watching the birds or, sometimes, like today, watching the rain soak the okra patch and run in rivulets down the driveway. I love to fry him an over-easy egg for breakfast. I think tomorrow, after this rain, there may be enough okra to pan fry a small batch.

We do not know what the Lord has in store for us, maybe a miraculous healing, maybe just a reprieve. Charles’s prayer is always that he be ready for whatever the Lord has in mind. Our hearts are full of gratitude for all the many prayers. My motto for these days is this: Treasure every day and look forward to heaven.

Photo by Alex Walden

We were not at Lake Blackshear near Cordele, Georgia to fish, or boat, jump in the lake, or swim. Our group of siblings, three of us and four chosen ones, all in our seventies and eighties, rented a cottage for the weekend. Our plans were to eat, tell old and new stories, sing, pray, and laugh a lot. From the very beginning yarns were spinning like a banana spider’s web–colorful, intimate, and incredible. There was a shadow, however, over our usual gaiety. My husband, though he had insisted on going ahead with our reunion plans, was feeling quite rugged.

At one point, following a dinner of barbecue pork and roasted potatoes, three of us girls (yes, we’re still girls) walked down to the dock. I felt sad that Charles didn’t even feel like going that short distance on a paved walkway but I shed my wistfulness when I saw the sign. Elaine spied it first. The sign read quite plainly JUMP AND SWIM. We burst into laughter.

We could tell someone had painted over some words so the sign no longer read DO NOT JUMP AND SWIM but was changed to a positive command. We looked over the railing at the waves washing in from a passing boat. Somebody said, “Well, I’m not tempted.”

We watched boats churn by beginning a trip around the lake; others cut their motors as they slid into the boat landing next door. We watched birds diving for supper morsels. The lights on the boats reflected in the rippled water were so pretty. But the stunning sunset was far more beautiful. It looked like fingers of fire rising into the sky. Some cloud formations reminded us of the mountains where our little group normally meets every year.

During the weekend we shared pictures, songs, and poems, and we reminisced. One of the times we remembered was the year our group boarded a train at Veterans’ Park and rode to Plains. We visited downtown Plains, having lunch together in a deli near the railroad tracks. We went to Jimmy Carter’s boyhood home and marveled at its simplicity and charm. Though I’ve lost the picture of the ten or twelve of us on that train, I remember what a fun day it was.

This time was different. We didn’t ride the train. We didn’t take long walks around Veterans’ Park. Certainly none of us took the sign seriously and decided to jump in the lake for a swim. In fact, that shadow hampering our usual hilarity became more and more apparent as the weekend passed. Charles was weak and pale facing what we would soon learn is an ugly type of cancer, Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Our weekend at the lake was far more sedate and solemn than in years past. But still it was a good time. Spending time with kindred spirits is, to me, like a hint of heaven. Sharing hard times makes the burdens immeasurably lighter.

Followers of my blog know my love of children climbing trees. Inspired by this picture of great grandson Kaison up amongst the limbs of a maple, I must again write a tree-climbing blog.

Kaison and Charli have grown up in the arms of that maple tree. Our grandchildren in Birmingham when here, particularly Mattie, have found lofty book reading perches or practiced their own brand of gymnastics on lower limbs. (The boys are both 6’4″ now, no longer climbers of this tree.) When I watch the children climbing like jubilant monkeys I’m reminded of the sensation of both peace and power one can experience in the swaying branches.

Though it’s been decades since I climbed a tree, I well remember how it feels to be perched almost in the sky amongst the scent of pine or hemlock. I always wanted to go as high as I could. Dogwoods and sourwoods were fun, nice and easy for private or shared spontaneous picnics. But there was a comforting rhythm in a tall tree’s response to wind currents. I could look down on chickens foraging for snacks in the back yard, or a sister throwing out potato peelings. Unless I let out a triumphant yell, I might not be noticed high in a 100 ft. white pine.

Climbing a white pine takes a certain amount of skill. First, you really need long legs. The limbs grow in sets about three feet apart. You have to stretch to reach from one set of limbs to the next, pulling yourself up with a firm hold. The higher you go, the more exhilarating when you look down at the dog who cannot climb or watch birds flying into their nests far below. When you’re high enough to look down on everything around, you can hug the tree and stay awhile before you start back down.

No doubt you will have a souvenir of your trip up a pine tree. Your hands will be smeared with gray sticky pine tar. It smells really good until you have to scrub with kerosene. But the climb is worth the scrubbing. You can lie in bed and go to sleep with the feeling of rocking and swaying in a breeze.

I learned years ago that, though no longer agile enough to climb a tree, I could project myself mentally into the top of a tall pine and feel the breeze swaying me back and forth. For a moment I could be separate from earthly cares, get a grip on priorities and, best of all, get a quick dose of heavenly pleasure. In my mind I would know my feet were still on solid ground but in my soul I’d be tasting an extra bit of God’s grace.

Looking down from a tree is somewhat akin to swinging high like the child in Robert Louis Stephenson’s poem The Swing. “Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide, Rivers and trees and cattle and all Over the countryside–“

Charli saw the lizard first poking his head up through a maze of flattened cactus stems. We laughed about the cute little anole, wondered how long he’d been there, and agreed he was okay to stay for then. It seemed appropriate somehow that a lizard, kin to strange desert creatures requiring little water, should choose to camp in a cactus plant.

A week later I walked out on the porch and was startled to see the lizard still hanging out in the cactus. Maybe he wasn’t just camping. Maybe he was homesteading. I wasn’t keen on having him reside right by our back door. Suppose he decided to take a tour of his neighborhood and ended up on my neck? Rather than rudely extract him from the cactus plant, Charles kindly took cactus, lizard and all, out to the patio.

Now he seems to be gone. Seems to be. As I walk past the cactus, restored to its usual place by the back door, I wonder if the little brown anole is hiding down amongst the prickly branches. I like to think he’s out exploring his own world, climbing up monkey grass blades, skittering up brick walls warm from the sun, or measuring the heighth and breadth of the porch screen–on the outside.

The anole was cute camping in the cactus. I guess he felt safe there from our cats who jump on anything that moves. But I’m sure he’s happier in a bigger world, even if there are dangers. A safe refuge is important but even a lizard has a heart for exploring.

The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats; and the rocks for the conies. Psalm 104:18