THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA

by Danna Shirley

          He sat at the table, his hat atop flowing white hair and a long gray beard. His gnarled and arthritic hands grasped a mug as he stared out the window at the sea. He had a gloomy countenance and I wondered why he was sad. As an American visitor to this small hamlet, I didn’t know if I should intrude on his solitude or try to engage him in conversation.

          My gaze moved toward the window but I saw nothing that would absorb his attention. The sky was clear and faint signs of dusk painted the horizon. All was still and the sea was like golden crystal reflecting the setting sun across the window.

          I rose and moved toward his table. “Sir, do you mind if I join you?”

          He gave me a slow nod to be seated.

          “I’ve taken the Standish Cottage for the summer,” I continued. “I thought I’d come down to the pub and meet some of my neighbors.”

          He raised his mug to me and gave another nod of his head. He had still not said a word as his eyes returned to the window.

          I sat there quietly for a few moments, sipping my drink as I, too, contemplated the closing of the day. I had come to Ireland a week earlier, sent by my publisher for solitude as well, in order to finish my novel. My timetable of completion did not match theirs and so I was hustled off to seclusion away from any distractions. I had come to a standstill in my inspiration, however, and immensely needed a diversion, ergo, the trip to the pub.

          A writer always looks for something or someone to capture on paper and I was no exception. This man stirred my curiosity. “Sir,” I broke our silence, “may I ask you a few questions?”

          He turned his head toward me but his hat hid his eyes so his expression gave me no clue until he spoke. “Humph.”

          I took that as a yes. “My name is John Cooper Bristol and you fascinate me. What is your story?” Usually that one question will either open up a floodgate of information or will draw silence. Actually, though, I learn from the silence that the person has a lot to hide. My companion was silent.

          Finally he took another drink, then set his mug away and turned to me leaning forward on one elbow. He pushed his hat further back on his head and I saw his face for the first time. A face lined and weathered from the sun and the sea, but the most distinctive feature was the vacant eyes of a blind man.

          “Well, John Cooper Bristol, I’m Angus MacSweeney,” he almost smiled. “So ya want ta hear me story, do ya? Well, here ’tis. Born seventy-five years ago and raised right here. Married and raised me five sons and two daughters here. Buried me darlin’ Katie and two a me boys, Sean and Evan, to the flu epidemic. The other three; Conner, Luke, and Thomas, were lost at sea. Me Lucy married and followed her husband to America. I ain’t seen her since. Me youngest, Ellie, died in childbirth and her little girl is all I got left of me family. Abbie has stayed right with me all these years; never married. But I told her to get on with her life; I told her to find a nice young man and have lots a wee babies but she won’t leave this old, blind man, not until I’m dead, so right now I’m just waitin’ ta die.” Angus reached for his mug and banged it on the table. The bartender brought another round.

          “So John Cooper Bristol, does that answer yer question?”

          “Please call me Coop, and yes it does somewhat, but you left out one piece of information. How did you lose your sight?”

          “Oh, that. That’s just old age . . . and glaucoma.

          “Why do you stare out the window, Angus?”

          “Memories, mostly memories of me days out on the boat, fishin’, haulin’ in a catch. I still like the smell a the sea and the sound a the waves, the ships comin’ back in. Good memories and me mind still has perfect eyesight even if I don’t.”

          Angus downed his drink and slowly stood, his body stiff and unyielding from not moving most of the day. He reached for his cane in the chair beside him and then turned to me. “Coop, me boy, whatcha doin’ for dinner?”

          “Nothing, sir.”

          “Why don’t you come home with me? Abbie cooks a good meal.”

          John Cooper Bristol may have had his sight but he was blind; blind to the designs of an old man who wanted to introduce his granddaughter to her future husband.

Assignment for my Creative Writing class at Bartlett Senior Center, TN.

THE MOUSE THAT ROARED

Danna Shirley

It was 1986 and Ron and I had just moved into our new home in Vancleave, Mississippi. We had been living in Gautier on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi and Vancleave was about ten miles north of the gulf waters. It was a lovely little place on 4.38 acres with a stocked pond, greenhouse, workshop, fruit trees, and grape arbors. This was country living at its finest and we were going to love it! 

The house originally had been a four-bedroom but the previous owners had taken out one wall to expand the living area. We, however, needed the fourth bedroom so we were going to replace the wall. In the meantime, we placed Russ in Aaron’s room until the work was completed and we stored Russ’ bedroom furniture in the garage. This was a project that got immediate attention, unlike other “Honey Do” items that were ignored over time. Sawing, nailing, sanding, and painting took place every afternoon and the wall was up in record time (wall is behind us in the picture to the right).

When we moved the furniture in and set up the bed, no one noticed that a small hole had been eaten into the underside of the mattress. A few days later we awoke to discover the carpet going into our laundry room had been gnawed and was unraveling. Believing that the little critter had probably come in with Russ’ furniture, we started searching for his mode of travel; thereby, finding the hole in the mattress. My skin crawled as I visualized my sweet little boy sleeping on top of a mouse run amuck.

Ron pulled the mattress out in the yard and gave me his shotgun while he jumped up and down on the mattress hoping the critter would jump through the hole and I could shoot him. Never mind that I had never fired a gun in my life and could just as easily have shot Ron as the mouse. What a sight to behold; Ron systematically jumping up and down on that mattress moving from side to side and working his way down to the hole. Well, you guessed it! The mouse never emerged but I wouldn’t take the mattress back inside. Russ went back to sleep in Aaron’s room until we could buy him another one.

The next morning we awoke to more carpet unraveling by the laundry door. This went on for about four days. “At least he’s trying to get out!” my friend Lilly said. “Why don’t you help him? Leave the laundry room door and garage door open tonight and let me escape!” We did and that was the end of the mouse that roared.

Several months later when I was having overnight company, we pulled out the hide-a-bed and found his nesting place. There were sunflower seed shells and bits of paper inside the couch but the worst discovery was finding one of Ron’s Plankowner Certificates that I had placed under the couch for safekeeping. The critter had chewed along one edge and it was totally ruined. 

At this point I wished I had another chance with that shotgun. I wouldn’t have missed!

THE KEEPSAKE

by Danna Shirley

It was something everyone in the family would love to possess but I was fortunate to have asked for it first. My father had carved it during World War II while he was stationed in England. He brought it home in the little silver tin that the Army Air Corp issued to hold a bar of soap. That was sixty years ago. It has been a special treasure in our family ever since.

I remember it being pulled out occasionally throughout my childhood to admire but I didn’t realize the God-given talent bestowed upon my father in fashioning it until I became an adult. I wish I could have inherited this gift as well, but I have “two left thumbs.”

It seems while everyone else was marking time until their return home from the war, my dad was using his time wisely. There was a cache of damaged windshields from B-17 bombers that were discarded when the flyers returned from their missions. These windshields were made of Plexiglas so there was a vast goldmine of materials to craft anything desired. Several of the men needed their watch crystals replaced and my dad would make them for 10 shillings ($2) a piece. Of course he didn’t become rich making watch crystals but he was always money-wise.

Sometimes Dad would trade his ration of cigarettes for real food, which was a treat from whatever graced his mess kit. Other times he would bicycle out to the country and trade his cigarettes for fresh eggs while the others back in camp were eating powdered. It was a blessing that he never smoked so he could use his cigarettes for bartering.

When Dad arrived home to Arkansas, the little carved treasure came with him. Its strings were made of thread from the sewing kit that was standard issue. He glued it all together with acetone. Years later he mounted it in a pretty little gift box and glued all the sides together so that it would not get damaged or be handled unnecessarily.

       Dad carved wooden objects as well, cars with door handles that turned and opened, trunks that raised, and steering wheels that really turned the tires. The little clear violin, however, was so delicate to me, so reminiscent of what the angels might be playing in heaven, that this is my special remembrance of my dad. It now has a place of honor in my china cup cabinet with a spotlight above it to illuminate its priceless worth and precious value among my other possessions.

August 2005

     Now, September 2011, the violin sits on my daughter, Kristen’s, bookshelf in her new home to be loved and protected for the following generation, for her daughters Emma and Bella.

                                                                                          September, 2011

THE GIFT OF GRACE

by Danna Shirley

            I was sixteen and my dad had allowed me to take our family’s second car to the football game on Friday night, “But don’t go to the Pizza Parlor afterward and DON’T cruise the main,” he warned. “Come straight home!”

            Everyone who was anyone cruised the main after the game to celebrate our victory (or mourn our defeat) and to see who was doing what, in what, and with whom. After a respectable amount of trips traveling up and down 23^rd Street in front of our school, everyone went for pizza and dancing.  I even had classes with one of the band members and I wanted him to see me.  It was always the place to be. I called a few girlfriends so I wouldn’t be alone, a sure sign of popularity suicide.

            Well, we made it up and down the main a few times and even got parked in the pizza lot without mishap. We had a great time eating and dancing and flirting but I didn’t want to stay too late because Dad knew when the game was over and when to expect me home. I already had my “story” ready to give him about why I was late, “I had to take my girlfriends home after the game.”

            When it was time to go, I gathered up everyone and out to the car we went. My little Monza was parked next to a big Cadillac. All of my months of driving insured that I could back out of the parking space with confidence. However, my inexperience didn’t prepare me for the deep scratch and scraped paint that went all the way down the side of my car from bumper to bumper as I tried to maneuver my exit. Of course, I didn’t have the foresight to stop with the first sound of metal . . . I just kept right on going. My friends were like Job’s friends, bad advice!  They said, “Run for it, nobody saw you!” 

            Well, I at least knew that I should get out and look at the damage and leave a note on the Caddy. We all piled out to look at this huge dent on my car but there was no evidence of anything on the Cadillac. Again they said, “Run for it!” After surveying both vehicles and seeing that I was the only one that had to face the music, I took their advice and left the scene.

            I drove slower and slower as I dropped off each girl at her house, trying to delay the inevitable. I knew I would confess my disobedience because lying would dig me a deeper pit and the evidence was sitting out there in the driveway. The worst part of the whole fiasco was facing my dad’s disappointment. He was so good to me. How could I have been so terrible? By the time I pulled into our driveway, I had worked myself into an emotional wreck. I walked in the door in tears and stood at the foot of my parent’s bed sobbing so that I could hardly get my confession out. 

            Dad looked at me and asked if I was alright. “Yes,” I bawled as I waited for him to come down on me with both feet. I was prepared for restriction, losing my driving privilege, and anything else he could think of as my punishment and I knew I would have deserved every bit of it. 

            He very calmly said, “Well go to bed, honey, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” I am now 56 years old and we still have never talked about it! 

            The next day I was his shadow as we walked the length of the car. The damage in daylight was more than I could bear. Dad never gave me a dirty look or said a negative word to me. He just said he could fix it. He banged out the dent and sanded it down and painted it. I didn’t want to leave him with all the labor but the only thing I could do to help was witness his body work and learn from my mistake! 

            Years later I asked my dad why he didn’t punish me. He said he could tell that I had punished myself that night on the way home far more than he ever could have done. That day he gave me the gift of GRACE . . . undeserved mercy. I learned that I never wanted to disappoint my dad again and I hope I never have. 

Today, 2005, he is 84 years old. He is still healthy and active; still wise in the eyes of his daughter . . . and still banging out dents—restoring his Model A’s. 

I love you, dad . . . Howard Eurbie Goines!!!

THE EYES HAVE IT

Danna Shirley

           I recently woke with my left eye red and irritated (2005). I rubbed it all day long and by evening I knew this was not going to be a “wait and see” kind of condition. When I called the optometrist the next day, they could work me in sometime in the afternoon. Since I was a new patient, I had to complete the paperwork drill. The new patient information sheet was a copy of a copy of a copy, and so on . . . it was hardly legible. I had no idea what I was signing but I did it anyway. It was comical to be a patient with a sight problem going to an eye doctor who used forms that no one could read. The secretary in me couldn’t resist so I took a blank form home to retype it and returned it to them. The doctor was young, looked fresh out of high school, and I was a bit concerned if she knew what she was doing. She prescribed drops during the day and drops at night.

           After two weeks with no improvement, I called an ophthalmologist who could work me in sometime in the afternoon. The new patient information sheet was a pleasure. I could actually read every word. As I sat in reception, the doctor bounded down the hall and gleefully called, “Where’s my next victim?”  J  He was older and I hoped wiser. He put me at ease immediately. Upon examination he said, “You’ve got a pretty angry eye, there.” He prescribed drops during the day and drops at night. Within three applications my eye was much better.

           I am telling you about EYES because they are very precious. We only have two of them and if we lose one, we could walk funny. If we lose both, we can’t walk much at all. My mother has had two cornea transplants in each eye and is now legally blind so I had the doctor examine my eyes thoroughly while I was in the chair. He said everything looked good for now but that didn’t mean something couldn’t develop as I got older. Seeing my mother live with her sight problem for the last thirty years has given me a great appreciation for total eye care.

           We see grass and trees and flowers, birds and dogs and cats, family and friends. We can watch television or drive to the movies, see things worth seeing and things we shouldn’t. Everything is recorded in our memory banks and can be recalled at any time and to any degree, accurately or vaguely. Our physical eyes can see this world all around us—but what about our spiritual eyes?

           Spiritual sight is just as precious but if out of focus or impure, a doctor cannot prescribe eye drops to make it better. When God shines His spotlight on our life, He exposes things we probably don’t want to see—like our faith, or lack of it; our prayer life, or lack of it; our attitude, good or bad; our tongue, sweet or sour; our relationships, in tact or alienated. 

           He also knows if we have a critical, judgmental, or unforgiving heart. All of these areas can have infections, too, if our spiritual eyes don’t or won’t see them. If left to ourselves, we can justify anything and everything we do, but God wants us to see clearly—with spiritual eyes; to look deeper within, not to condemn us but to expose our shortcomings so that we can change them.

           God shines His light into my life to bring to my attention areas I need to examine, to help me change for the better, to be more like Christ in all of my dealings. He is my Gentle Reminder when I tend to be blind. He is my “Eye Drops” to cleanse and refresh my spiritual eyes!

P.S.  I was in that first doctor’s office recently (2008) and they are still using the form I typed three years ago.

THE EMPTY KEYCHAIN

by Danna Shirley

          Have you ever thought about how your keychain defines you? I was pondering mine the other day with all of its tags from the local businesses I frequent—Family Christian Stores,  Petco, Kroger, Lowes, Club Lifeblood, Memphis Public Library, and of course the Bartlett Senior Center where I attend my favorite weekly class of Creative Writing.

Then the keys are added for my house, my car, two at my church, my fireproof safe, and my daughter’s house. My keychain defines me by where I shop and how many keys I possess. When I moved to Napa, California to live with my sister, I removed each, one by one, from my possession.

There was no Family Christian Store in Napa. No Christian bookstore at all. Ugh! Leave that one behind.

My Sweetie Petey teacup poodle had been given to a good home—no more Petco dog food purchases. Give that one to my daughter for her cockapoo, Mozzie.

California has Safeway groceries, not Kroger. Leave that one behind.

Living with my sister wouldn’t require any repairs from Lowes. Leave behind.

No Club Lifeblood in Napa to continue the tally on my donations. Leave behind.

No Memphis (TN) Public Library in Napa (CA). Leave behind.

No Creative Writing class at the Napa Senior Center. Leave behind.

Keys give us a sense of status by how many can we possibly have on our keychain?

My house key was left with Theresa, a friend from church who rented my house.

My car keys were left with my daughter, as was my car.

The keys to the church office were sadly returned to my pastor. I would have to find a new church in Napa. 

I left the key to my fireproof safe inside and stored it in my daughter’s closet. It contained only birth certificates, passports, pictures, etc. for safekeeping.

·        I returned the spare key to my daughter’s house because I wouldn’t be close enough to pop in for a visit anymore. 

I left Memphis with an empty keychain. How sad is that? It was like I had faded into the sunset. I had no more status. No keys to define my importance. Even a maintenance man has keys to every room in a building—he is very important. I was lost.

I arrived in Napa to be caregiver to three members of my family, my mother, my sister, and my brother-in-law. My sister gave me her extra car key, credit card, and garage door opener. My mother gave me her house key and credit card, and I use her car whenever I drive her to appointments, shopping, etc.

I have found a wonderful church family at Napa Valley Baptist. I have always had a church key in the past because I have volunteered in the office everywhere I’ve lived. However there will be no volunteering @ NVBC for I’m too busy with my family.

My keychain is filling up again. Hallelujah! I’m alive and well and living in Napa, California.