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4/19/2010 A Life Worth Living
I am surrounded by water. I float in this sanctuary
alone except for muffled voices that grow familiar over time. I recognize my mother and father and eventually the persistent
sound of my older brother. My home remains comfortable and safe.
Lately, though, my environment
changes. I grow cramped. I draw my mother's voice when I stretch, and she reaches down to rub her hand against me. I love
her sound and touch so I launch an elbow and knee often. Soon I am unable to move at all. I don't like this. I want to remain
free-floating.
But that's not the strangest part. The voices I've grown to love assume
an edge, and I become uneasy. They speak of how to get me "here" faster in case something happens. The name Phyllis
is repeated over and over.
I recognize the name. My mom and dad refer to her as Physi. My dad talks
about his big sister in a tear-soaked voice. She's sick.
My mom moves her hand over
my head. "How can this happen to someone only 27 years old with two young daughters? Lane is what, four? Five? And Lyn
is only two." She doesn't wait for me to answer.
Mom continues to caress me as
the decision is made to bring me into the world. I hear "induced labor" and wonder what that means. My mother taps
on something, waits and then speaks again. "Hey. It's Marsha. The plan is to have our baby on May 28th in San Antonio
so Ed can be available to go to Atlanta if something goes wrong during Physi's surgery the next day." There's a pause,
and then she continues. "We don't know. The doctors think it's a blood clot. The surgery is not supposed to be invasive,
but Ed needs to get there if necessary." Her voice grows distant, but she continues to rub my back so I sleep.
I don't
wake again until an unbelievable pressure rolls my body into a ball. My head is forced against something hard over and over
until I break through a tiny opening. Light blinds me and blasts awareness through every fiber of my body. I scream for my
mother and father, afraid to open my eyes.
Christina Jane Kyser is born.
My aunt,
Phyllis Kyser Kratochville, is re-born the next day on May 29, 1970, when the doctors open her skull to remove an anticipated
blood clot and find a benign tumor with tentacles knotted around the base of her brain, close to her motor-skills unit. Hours
later, the doctors inform the family of her paralysis and short-life expectancy. As her two young daughters wait at home,
Phyllis wakes to a future viewed from a wheelchair.
Her illness does not define her
existence. Physi cheats death over and over while creating a fulfilled life. She attacks her interests with vigor. She
loves the Atlanta Braves, pictures of sunsets and sunrises, and her family. Sometimes in that order; sometimes not. She is
editor of the nursing home's newsletter, creator of touching computer-generated cards and the genius of newspaper crossword
puzzles. Phyllis laughs often and hard. So hard she loses her breath - shaking all over with tears streaming as her hands
wave wildly in front of her face. She collects clippings of my senior year in high school by subscribing to
my hometown newspaper, The Demopolis Times. She gives me a photo album for graduation. I cherish it today.
Most of all, Physi loves her Lord and longs for the day she can run to Him on healed legs. After many years of defying doctors,
she does just that.
I might have been born on May 28, 1970, but Aunt Physi showed me
how to live every day thereafter.
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| Me and my aunt, the late Phyllis Kyser Kratochville. |
Enter subhead content here
4/20/2010 Baby Smuggler My cousin and fellow writer, Lane Kratochville Gresham, sent an email to me following yesterday's
entry. Through the eyes of a five-year-old, Lane watched her world collapse following her mother's surgery. Though reconstructed with
an eyeball on the original set of plans, life would never be the same. My dad smuggled me up the hospital elevators to
meet his big sister days following my birth and her surgery. This is Lane's memory: The elevators whirred to life. My round brown eyes peered up at my uncle's green eyes. Confused
at the pain I saw reflected there, I wondered why he looked so sad. My 5-year-old mind was at odds with what I knew to be
a bedrock happiness indicator; fresh babies guaranteed pleasure as far as I was concerned. I couldn't know the raw terror
that circulated through my Godfather's emotional center. With a soft whimper sounding much like a kitten's purr, Christina
Jane Kyser wriggled her way into her daddy's heart as he cuddled her close. He was determined that his big sister would meet
his newly-minted baby girl-child. The obstacle of a stern-faced nurse and a few hospital regulations couldn't prevent this
introduction. Nor could the paralysis that had stolen the life force from his sibling's limbs keep the love from flowing between
the ebony-haired
bundle of pinkness and her aunt Physi. I
watched the meeting from the edge of the hospital bed. Fearful of hurting my mother, I stood still, taking notice of the walls
covered floor to ceiling with cards. The room smelled like a greenhouse, heady with the scent of rotting floral arrangements.
The heaviness in the air settled into my spirit and I wondered how our lives had changed so quickly. One day we were a family
and the next day I watched my own Daddy collapse in tears. As we drove away from him and the physical wellness of my mother,
she offered an optimistic farewell. "We'll be back together in a couple of weeks," she reassured me. This was pre-surgery
for a brain tumor buried deep within her cerebellum; none of us had any idea of what the future held. My mother before: vibrant, sassy and breathtaking and after: weary, still and looking
much like a holocaust victim. My life after the surgery was bereft of Mother. My sister and I were robbed of a vital maternal
connection. Lives forever changed; roles forever voided.
This
new baby represented a tiny slice of hope. While Phyllis' life was suspended, new life blasted onward. Christy was that tantalizing
hint of the abundance that was ahead of us all. Our family was altered by the twisted path of Phyllis' fate. We watched her
struggle back to a semblance of normalcy. She created her own normal. What is normal, anyway, but a cycle on the washing machine?
So we adjusted.
As Christy grew, our family absorbed
her life, merging the possibilities of her future with the loss of Phyllis' expected path. Other babies came into the circle.
Phyllis loved them all. Her awkward embraces grew stronger with each year and with the weights she lifted. Compensating
for her inability to get out of the chair and walk, she would grab hold and hug with a surprising force.
Phyllis greeted a pink-bundled papoose in May 1970. The life represented in the pink
fuzzy blanket held the promise of a family's faithful devotion to a beloved mother, daughter, sister, aunt and friend. We
loved her good. She loved us back. She watches from above. Waiting for all of us to join her in the dance she has choreographed
in heaven.
Welcome to the other side, Christina Jane,
Lane 4/21/2010 A Cup of Sin While I type at the computer this morning, I notice
my 13-year-old daughter’s Independent Decision drug testing card beside me. When I told her that I had signed her up
to be randomly drug tested at her school, she looked at me and asked, “Mom, do you seriously think I am going to do
drugs?” The
question made me sad because, no, I do not think she’ll ever do drugs, have sex or drink alcohol in her lifetime. All
her children will be miracles (I don’t want to say immaculate b/c that’s vain), and I intend to make sure she
never feels pain stronger than a Tylenol could handle. What? Do we not all look at our children at birth and vow the same? What I did want to provide for
her was another reason to say no. Although those that know the heart of my daughter can attest that the first time someone
asks her to do drugs, she will march them to the altar for communion and the knowledge of Christ. One because she has a heart
for sharing Jesus and two because she has her mother’s strong will. The first serves her well; the second, not so much.
But I digress. The
card made me think of my faith. What if I were a card-carrying member of the Independent Decision club? Oh, wait, I am. It’s
called Free Will. I have the freedom to choose whether I sin or not. Or do I? Personally, I think I’m doomed to a life
of sin. I’m guaranteed it. Paul even warns, “There is no righteous man. No not one.” So does that mean when
I pee in my cup of righteousness the sin indicators are going to weigh down the results? Probably. So why carry the card? Why not hide and avoid the testing all together? Because ever
since Jesus came into my heart, I long to see my sins before me. Each one represents a stripe* upon His back that I’d
like to not put upon Him next time. I’m sure to replace it with a stripe from a different sin, but at least I’m
working to minimize the strength of the whip. So test me, Lord. Hand over my little plastic cup and show me to the bathroom. And then give me
the courage to see my results and to hear Your plan to minimize the outcome next time. *I read that back in Jesus’s time, 40 stripes were
the maximum punishment. Coincidence? I think not. Funny
story – After the birth of my fourth child (three I birthed, one bonus child), I worked contract jobs.
One required a drug test so I took my then two-year-old son with me to Columbus, Ga., to take the test. After the 110-year-old
man gave me my plastic cup, I proceeded toward the bathroom with Trent in tow. The old man shuffled toward me while waving
his hands. “You can’t take him in there.” I looked at the bathroom and then back at my son. I said, “I
guess he can stay out here with you.” I chewed on my lip in an effort to figure out my dilemma. Finally,
I said, “Sir? Could you at least stand outside the door and talk to me? I haven’t gone to the bathroom by myself
in 11 years and don’t think I can go unless someone’s saying ‘Mom? Mom? Mom? MOOOOOOM!!!!!” 
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| A live oak at the Demopolis landing. |
4/23/2010 Water Logged The river pulls me. The speed of our car dips from 65 to 55 as we cross the city limits of the
town that raised me. I hear her siren's call through the windows of my RAV 4 as clearly as if I swam in her womb. She meanders
around Demopoliswith white bluffs topped with mimosa trees. Her banks look like slices of wedding cake
capped with pink bridal bouquets. I think of inner tubes going air born once the bass boat completes a 360. I see my friend
Frances Hitt Webb slicing through a bend in the river on one ski like Michaelangelo crafting David. Her long legs
that I envy today were endless extensions of nature. I think of crossing a rickety bridge in early weekend evenings in a car
full of teenage girls on the hunt for teenage boys. I see bonfires with souped up Trans Ams blasting Van Halen through speakers
that cost more than the car. The same car chases a curfew hours later. This band of females skip school to do nothing more than dip their toes in her molten waters as a barge throws
waves across their lower legs. We play lassie league on the field with the river over our shoulder while Daddy Van schools
us on the art of sliding. Our parents bathe us in bug spray that river skeeters lap up during sultry summer game nights. I
see lighted boats drift down her waters while Christmas music wafts through the Civic Center speakers during Christmas on the River. I see people I love gather along her borders to watch the black night explode in fireworks. The river calls to me as I ride through my hometown on my way to Texas. Or
maybe it's the simple whisper of my childhood.
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| This is the largest Laurel Oak in the US on my Uncle Charles' farm. This tree has the ear of God. |
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| Perspective - this is me at her base. |
4/24/2010 Hat Tippin Last night, I attended a steak dinner that preceded today's cattle sale in Jacksonville,
Texas. I had no idea what to expect, but my husband ensured that I was dressed appropriately after our Wednesday evening run
to Bridges. I was dressed in my white snap-down shirt piped in light pink; I would say button-down, but the only button was
the top one. Every other one snapped. I donned my Jessica Simpson boots I bought at Dillards, but hoped to dirty 'em up enough
that no one would notice. We turned off the main road onto a sliver of asphalt. Pines and
oaks canopied the drive as we kissed battered farm trucks that passed us on the narrow road. We rattled over a cattle
guard and onto Joe Cavenders' property, the Neches River Ranch. Commercial cows meandered across the road and stared at us
as if we've interrupted dinner. Green pastures rolled in waves dotted with pines, oaks and scattered ponds. We continued to
drive and drive and drive. This place should have its own zip code. We topped a hill to view a horse barn that I'd move my
children into tomorrow. The sun set over its shoulder blanketed by a mist the earlier rain created. My mind took a snapshot
of a moment that only Texas could provide. Cowboys poured over the
cattle arranged in pins. I'm introduced to one after another. Each tipped his cowboy hat and offered a "Ma'am" before
taking my offered hand. I have to admit I was flushed by this. There was an element of respect in these Texas men. They took
off their hats during the meal, lifted them during introductions and gave you their full attention when you spoke. They
danced with little girls, got their women drinks and called you ma'am no matter your age. I met couples with more money
in their pockets that I have in my checking account, but you would never know it by their graciousness. I found the epitome of southern charm in Texas last night. In my first return to the
state of my birth, I'm humbled by the instant acceptance of this Alabama girl into the centuries-old embrace of a cowboy. P.S. I also learned of Semen Brokers, but that's a whole other post. LOL 4/25/2010 Sellin Our Children I attend my first cattle auction. In a barn the size of my hometown, bleachers form an arch with
a half-pen centering the room. A flat-screen TV sits above the ring while two monitors flank the rails. The sale begins at
1 p.m. and my bottom doesn't leave the bleachers (excluding potty breaks and water runs) for the next three hours. Four cowboys
point and yell at the auctioneer who speaks a language I can't understand. The auction starts. Texans corral mamas and their babies along with bulls as large as semi trucks through one side
and encourage them with a gentle touch to parade around the small pen. A Miss Bovine America pageant continues as lot after
lot of cattle are shown while cowboys slightly nod their heads, tug their ears or lift a finger to pay broad ranges for pieces
of flesh. Excitement builds as the auctioneer's assistants shout their orders and encourage the escalating price. Stress seizes
my breath when a lot from Truitt Brangus farm enters the stage. And then panic holds my air when the auctioneer starts and
no one bids. I physically restrain myself from jumping up and shouting, "What's your problem!! These are our children!"
Luckily, an assistant bellows and the bidding begins. Although the bids remain low, consistent with the other more experienced
ranches, it's still disheartening when the shouting stops. Another product of a shrinking economy. Cattle auctions have definitely entered the 21st century as men bid with cell phones pinned
to their ears, others monitor Internet posts and most in the room have a blackberry hanging over their skoal-ringed back pocket.
But there's something organic about this room. America permeates the siding and not necessarily because a giant flag hangs
behind the auctioneer. Maybe it's the genteel manner of its occupants - a place where the women embrace you as a long-lost
sister and take you shopping even though you don't spend a dime and cow dung clings to BMWs and $400 boots. Texas is a place
where the men punctuate each sentence with ma'am and rub their heads raw from tipping their hats. All you hear and smell (outside
of the music of the auctioneer) is what God created. I enter Texas
in an effort to gain an appreciation for my husband's mistresses - his cows. I leave with a longing for this God-given way
of life. 4/26/2010 A Walk to Remember I have an upcoming feature in East Alabama Living magazine where I profile several "green
families" in East Alabama. I don't mean families that have eaten mayo left in the sun too long. I'm talking about families
that choose to live a more environmentally friendly life. One quote from a subject resonates within me. She rides her bicycle
to work each day with her toddler strapped to an XtraCycle because she wants him to see the world from somewhere other than
the back of a car. Since that interview, I've tried to make better
consumer choices. For example, I quit buying those little Gatorades in plastic bottles and instead purchase bulk cans of powdered
Country Time Pink Lemonade. The boys pour a glass of water, scoop out some lemonade and, poof, instant drink. I'll try line
drying our clothes again now that last weekend's rain tamped the pollen down to tolerable. Yesterday, the boys and I decide to go to the pool. Instead of grabbing my car keys, I suggest we
walk the mile to our neighborhood concrete pond, as Elly May Clampett used to say. I know this will go over positive
with the boys. If this were my girls, well, teenage girls apparently can't be seen walking anywhere - especially with their
mother. But in typical boy's fashion, Trent and Billy look at it as an adventure. We collect leaves and point out interesting waves in the sidewalk begging for a rip stick. We laugh at a squirrel
who scampers off after checking on his flattened companion tossed around by someone else's wheels. I learn from my 10-year-old
that elementary Korean girls tend to stick within their ethnic group, that you can avoid the fog on your goggles by spitting
on them and that a walk to the swimming pool is fun and allows for "family conversation." The 5-year-old remains
a few yards ahead of us. I don't mean yards as in measurement. I mean yards as in what you mow. Everything's a competition
to him, but that's OK. I guess the thing I learn is while trying
to do a little something extra for Mother Earth, I gain a little motherly time I would have missed in the split second it
would have taken to drive to the pool. And I learn what to do when my goggles fog up. We could all use a little clearer vision
from time to time. 4/27/2010 The Enemy He becomes the enemy as soon as he steps onto the field - a nameless, faceless person existing for no
other reason than to strike out my children, call out my children or flat out deny my children the ballgame of their lives.
I loathe him, and I don't even know him by any other name than umpire. Every
spring, I vow to do better. Some people issue resolutions the first day of a new year. Me? I issue my one and only for the
year before my child's first ball game. I will not yell at the umpire. I will not yell at the umpire. And yet, at the first
disputed call, I am out of my seat. I don't name call, per se. I focus on the action. But believe me, the action gets attention.
"THAT IS THE WORST CALL I HAVE SEEN IN MY EVER-LOVIN LIFE!" I yell at a decibel that wakes sleeping astronauts.
Does it have the desired effect? Nope. In fact, probably just the opposite. I've been told by those who have been umpires
or related to umpires, "You're dang right it has the opposite effect. You want a game thrown to your opponent? Yell at
the umpire!" That's probably untrue, but it's what I've been told. Then again, maybe my fellow parents are simply trying
to get me to shut my mouth. Quit laughing. It is possible. At least that is my resolve every year. To be fair, it's not just umpires who enter my cross-hairs. It's bad teachers, bullies, even my
husband when he jumps ahead of me in the punishment line. I draw back my bow at anyone who dares deny my children joy.
Makes me want to chew 'em up and spit 'em out only because they'd upset my tummy if I swallowed. Wanna be my enemy? Mess with
my chillun. I believe the closest we will ever know in our knower
the power of God's love is through loving children. Whether you birth them, adopt them, foster them or simply mentor them,
an unconditional love blossoms that clouds your vision whenever they are threatened. The difference in God and me, though,
is God also loves the person throwing the rock as much as the one ducking the shot. Me? Well, it's a work in progress to do
the same. I mean, seriously, it was a bad call. 4/28/2010 Spirit Ribbons One of my favorite memories from high school is a Friday afternoon before a home-football game.
As a cheerleader (I know, shocker), we pile up and ride over to Westside Elementary School to sell spirit ribbons to the kids
for a quarter. Do they even do that any more? Maybe I love it so much because we are like rock stars. I have two precious
cousins, Emily Mayton Johnson and Leah Wilson, who think I hung the moon. Guess what? I think they do as well. What a wonderful
time. We park our cars and walk onto the playground. The kids jump around us like we are the Salvation Army with food for
a third-world country. Emily and Leah hang onto my arm to lay claim by blood. Every child gets a ribbon. Even those without
quarters. Makes me think of Heaven. I imagine stepping out of my
golden carriage to cross through St. Peter's gates. The angels rush toward me as if God announces my arrival over the intercom.
They pull at my skirt, hang onto my arm, stroke my hair, anything to show their sheer excitement at my arrival. I am lost
in their adoration. The best part is, I don't have to return to Demopolis High School and Mrs. Rinehart's Algebra. I get to
sit and wait for the next cheerleader to show up on the playground. Maybe I'll get a ribbon too. 4/29/2010 Crossroads Note - yesterday I issued a challenge
on facebook for someone to email me a random topic about which to write a short story. Below is the result of that challenge.
Enjoy! I slow
to a crawl after entering the school zone and obey the traffic guard who orders me to stop. The ache from last night’s
cheap scotch spreads across my forehead. I’m tempted to turn around, but my rearview mirror shows a woman in an SUV
applying lipstick. An empty church parking lot sits to my left; the road to the interstate to my right. And in front of me?
Work. Or what used to be work. Now the only thing at the end of the road is a boxed-up office and a sorry excuse for severance
pay. A disappointed wife remains a few blocks over in our upscale home, asking questions to which I don’t
know the answer. How am I supposed to know what to do after thirteen years with the same company? Why should I
have planned for B when A seemed good enough all these years? “Sorry, Frank. Company has to cut back. Your numbers haven’t been up to
par for quite some time. We gotta let you go.” Just like that, I become a grease spot on the road folks drive over
on their way to better lives. I’m left behind. The traffic guard continues to hold up her hand. I remain motionless in a car I can no longer afford.
The interstate roars beyond my sight, and I envy every one of those people who travel with a destination ahead
of them. The accelerator presses them toward security, familiarity. A dog barks from the church parking lot as a man in overalls steps out of the front
door to sweep the sidewalk. He stops, leans on the broom, and offers a hearty wave. I return his wave without the
heart. I don’t want his joy right now. I want his job. Waving turns into beckoning. He’s older than I first thought, maybe in his fifties.
A broad smile outshines his simple clothes. My sunglasses probably cost more than his shoes. The older man continues to gesture
as if to say “Come on over,” as the sun climbs over the white church steeple behind him. I look to the interstate to my right, imagining
the flight across her asphalt that would take away my problems and the look of failure in my children's eyes. I don’t
even glance in front of me, but turn once again to the man insisting that I come to him. The traffic guard gets my attention,
gesturing for me to move. I volley my gaze back and forth once more and then turn on my blinker.
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