NANA's BOOKS

by Danna Shirley

Nana’s collections encircle the room, line the window sills, the shelves, the bookcases; some even hang from the ceiling like wind chimes. Anytime there was an occasion for a gift, Nana got a bell or an angel or an oil lamp or a framed “Mother” plaque or anything Model A.

Nana always claimed those collections were everyone else’s; books were her collection—lots and lots of books! She was an avid reader and taught two of her three daughters (Nan and Danna) to love reading as well.

Eventually, her eyesight began to fail due to macular degeneration. In the mid-1990s she had cataract surgery and cornea transplants in both eyes. At this point large print books were much easier for her to read. They weren’t easy to find but her daughters would peruse the thrift stores, the yard sales, the Good Will, etc. and buy up all they had. The Napa Library had book sales regularly and we would search for romance and western novels. Nana didn’t like mysteries. She always went to the back of the book to find out what happened; she couldn’t wait. Sometimes we would buy her a brand new large print and she would scold us for wasting our money. She could read a book in two or three days.

Nana was also able to read the newspaper which she did every day. Sometimes she needed a magnifying glass but that didn’t deter her. She cut out interesting articles to keep in her little file box for future reference. She would pass along tidbits to the kids and grandkids. Most of the time we were unaware of the subject matter until she passed it on FYI. I was glad she kept up with current events because I sure wasn’t. We had our differences about politics and religion but it was okay to share articles about vaccinations, nutrition, and education.

Then the worst thing happened! On December 1, 2014 Nana either fainted, slipped, or stumbled in her bathroom at 3:00 a.m. and struck the side of her face against something. When I arrived to help her up, there was blood, lots of blood on the floor and door frame. She had a laceration on her right temple and her right eye (the good eye) was dripping blood.  We learned later that she had also fractured her eye socket and cracked a tooth.

When the ambulance arrived I told them she had Kaiser coverage (15 miles away) or if they felt she needed immediate care, take her to Queen of the Valley (3 miles). Queen of the Valley won out. Five hours later she was transferred to Kaiser in Vallejo and five hours after that she was in emergency surgery to reattach her cornea. They sent us home that afternoon with eye drops and pain meds.

After several trips back to Kaiser over the next two weeks for ophthalmology appointments, the doctors didn’t give her much hope of regaining her sight. One doctor even told her, “If we can’t get the eye pressure and pain under control, we’ll have to remove the eye.”  

She hasn’t read a word since the accident which is a double tragedy because she loves to read. Books have been her life. Now she sits and holds her head. Very depressed.

PETEY

by Danna Shirley

I grew up in a home without pets. Oh, we had a puppy for about a day and a few kittens until they ran away, but the norm for us was a goldfish and seven birds (one at a time) named Chirpy (#’s 1-7). 

When my husband, Ron, and I finally lived in our own home and could have a pet, we got a dog. I would have preferred to start out small but the first dog Ron brought home was a golden retriever. Eventually we graduated to a Rottweiler. I never could warm up to our big dogs for I couldn’t tolerate them chewing on our garden hoses (five of them), or chewing on the BBQ grill, or chewing on the back porch columns. There was also the shedding, the fleas, and the dog smell. Our last furry friend was a small, cream-colored dog we named Daisy, but we had to give her away in 1992 when we moved to Japan. She was our last dog until Petey came to steal my heart in April of 2008.

Petey is a pedigreed Teacup Poodle weighing four pounds. He doesn’t shed, he doesn’t have fleas, and he only has a doggie smell when he needs a bath, which is about every four weeks.  He was already named when he came to live with me. I thought he should have a name that suited his pedigree so I unofficially named him Sir Peter Piper Pepper or Sir Petey. He also has his own wardrobe; winter and summer, Halloween and Christmas.

It was warm when Petey came so he started out in the garage, then moved to the floor in my bedroom, and in two short weeks he was sleeping on a blanket on top of my bedspread. This, I told myself, was so that I would know when he needed to go out in the morning. Now we are close companions. He cuddles up next to me on the couch, but if I’m in the recliner, he wants on my lap. If I quit stroking him, he’ll put his nose under my hand telling me he wants more. 

Petey has the cutest little hobble; usually on three feet, sometimes on his two front if the grass is too tall and it scratches his belly. My niece, Rhonda, christened him “Hopalong” the first time she saw him. I’ve been told I should send a tape to “Funniest Home Videos” of him scampering across the yard on his two front paws. Maybe I’ll win $10,000.

Petey is mine until my son, Russ, enters the room. Then he follows him step for step and I am demoted to the back of his mind. No matter. When I take him out for his last business of the day, and say, “Come on, Petey, let’s go to bed,” he rushes past me and into my room, climbs up the ramp and onto the bed, plops himself down on his blankey, and waits for me. I snuggle him under his covers and rub his back until we both fall asleep. We are truly “buddies” of the best kind.

January, 2010

            Petey developed an enlarged prostate in January, 2012 at almost six years old and had to be on medicine morning and night for three weeks. The vet said it was time to neuter him to avoid any further complications in this area. The first night after surgery, I tried to give him a pain pill and he nipped at me. “Sorry, Petey, you’re just going to have to tough this one out because I’m not going to try that again.”

            He is a persnickety little guy when it comes to his food. He wants it fresh in the bowl whenever he sits there waiting for it. If we don’t come soon enough, he lets us know.

            He’s my Sweetie Petey and everyone at the Shelby Center Hospital for Animals calls him by that name. J

MY SISTER PAULA

by Danna Shirley

            I would never have believed that my sister, Paula, and I would become so close as adults considering the miles that separated us over the years and all the battles we fought as children. She was the middle daughter and I was two years younger. I suppose as the middle child she had to “try harder.” 

            As all siblings do at times, Paula and I had our differences . . . dare I say fights? She would sharpen her nails into daggers and then come at me ready to scratch my eyes out. I remember going to her closet and pulling all of her clothes off the hangers and letting them drop on the floor. When she found the pile and screamed, mom came running and saw what I had done. 

            Mom said, “Well, that’s the only way she can get back at you. She won’t come up against those fingernails.”

            At other times, the one on the losing end, usually me, would run to the hall bathroom and lock the door. She was smart enough to pick the lock and get to me anyway. Once I was the one chasing her into the bathroom and when I was able to pick the lock, she had pulled out one of the drawers and blocked the door from opening. She was always one step ahead of everyone!

            The only injury suffered during these years was a broken finger . . . mine! She attempted to slam my parent’s bedroom door shut trying to get in their room to lock it behind her. I thought I would be smart and put my hand in the door jam to stop her. Not smart! We only lived about four blocks from our doctor’s office so she walked me all the way to Dr. Berger’s on San Pablo Avenue. I fell asleep in one of the examining rooms and when I awoke, Mom was there to take me home.

            Nan, our oldest sister, was pretty docile and I was pretty docile, but Paula could spin us up the walls in a heartbeat. Nan and Paula used to play Canasta and Rummy and I would watch. Paula was a card shark and I mean a “shark.” When I finally grew old enough and learned to play with them, it was frustrating to say the least. I could never win against Paula; very few people did! One of her tactics was to discard something she would want later so she could pick up the whole pile when it was full of good cards. Nan and I struggled to just keep our hands going while Paula gloried with the table full of runs and three of a kind and would go out on us, always her goal from the beginning.

Now as adults, we play Hand and Foot. It’s humorous to still see the wheels of conquest in motion behind her eyes. She hasn’t changed a bit. Today, though, the competition isn’t fierce. We’ve all mellowed considerably and enjoy each other’s company immensely.

            When my husband died, Paula (in CA) would call me (in MS) every morning and every evening to check on me. I told her it wasn’t necessary to call twice a day but she insisted saying she didn’t want me to wake up alone or go to be alone without a “good morning” or a “good night.” She let me talk and cry and never got tired of being there for me. When a friend moved in four months later, her calls became less frequent because she knew I had someone to be with me.

Now that I’m in Bartlett, TN, and still alone, she calls almost every day. I’m going to CA to see her in August and she’s coming to TN to see me in October. Our plans are to kidnap our sister, Nan, for her 65^th birthday and we’re all going to Pigeon Forge for a girl’s getaway.

            I thank God for my sisters.  Such good memories are even more special at our age.

June, 2007

I'LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU...

by Danna Shirley

          Two people can get very comfortable with each other after thirty-four years of marriage.  Our nest was finally empty and my husband, Ron, and I were enjoying our warm and contented, quiet and peaceful life together.  We had worked hard, he more than I, and every so often he would figure our finances calculating the exact date we could retire and still live well on our savings.  Every day was harder and harder on him physically for he suffered with fibromyalgia, a chronic disorder that causes pain and tenderness in the muscles and soft tissue, as well as insomnia, fatigue, and any number of other problems. On top of his daily ration of pain from the fibromyalgia, he developed the flu at Christmastime. He seemed to recover from everything but that nasty cough that wouldn’t let go.        

            Ron worked in the defense industry in Pascagoula, MS (Navy ships; Aegis weapons, etc.) and although he knew that everyone is replaceable, his boss did not want any testing done without his watchful eye. It was not until February that he surrendered to go to the doctor.  Why? The Iraqi War began in March! By the time he sought medical help, the cough had a firm grip on him and he was now diagnosed with pneumonia. The doctor wanted to put him in the hospital but he refused. He had his five prescriptions filled on Tuesday and called his boss that he would be out on Wednesday but would return to work on Thursday. Thursday never came!

            Wednesday morning I woke to find Ron barely able to sit on the side of the bed. I begged him to let me take him to the Emergency Room but he insisted that he wanted to give the medication time to work. I called often throughout the day; he was in a lot of pain. When I arrived home, he was sleeping. He got up once and we talked for a short time then announced he was going back to bed. That night I slept in the other bedroom so I wouldn’t disturb what little sleep he would receive. Surprisingly, I slept peacefully, never waking, which was unusual for me. 

            Thursday morning I woke and went into our dark bedroom to get ready for work. I passed by our bed several times thinking that I mustn’t disturb him. I never noticed the silence in the room.  As I was leaving for work, God spoke to me so clearly, “You need to try and wake up Ron.”  When my spirit heard the word “try,” I immediately knew something was wrong. I couldn’t see him in the dark but when I touched him, he was cold. I knew he was gone but I expected my continual shaking to awaken him. It was February 20, 2003. He was fifty-six.

            The day continued with the 9-1-1 call. My pastor arrived and my church family took over my every move. I was numb. I couldn’t think what should be done next. Thank God for friends!  I had to tell my children. “Oh, God, how can I live through this day? How can I tell them they have lost their father when I still had mine?”

            My children, Kristen, Russ, and Aaron arrived one by one; his mother and brothers arrived the next day. The arrangements were made; the visitation would be Saturday and the memorial service on Sunday. We marveled at how God buoyed us through the whole weekend. I know the prayers of the saints sustained us. I have pondered since then just how and why I did so well that day. I believe one thing that was a tremendous blessing was Ron’s wish to be cremated. He had told me for years if I ever put him in a box and put him in the ground, he would come back and haunt me. At least that decision was made and out of my hands but there were so many more to make. 

            Kristen and I put together a memory table and a picture collage of Ron with each of us over the years. It was comforting and very therapeutic to go through photos and select memories of our wedding, his Navy days, building our home, fun times with each of the children, and the precious few photos we had made of him with his only grandchild, Emma, just four months old when he died. The memory table consisted of all his plaques, awards, letters of commendation, and pictures of the ships he had worked on over the years. We were able to share a side of him most acquaintances didn’t know and many said how much they appreciated it. We opened the memorial service to comments from family and friends. We laughed, we cried, we were all blessed!

            Ron wanted to be sprinkled in the Gulf waters of MS where he loved to fish.  I, too, have decided to be cremated and have already made my arrangements so the children can follow through with the same measures for me. This has also been very therapeutic and I give praise to God for His comfort and peace during those first difficult days. God is sovereign and I have received great comfort from the Lord in many ways. Among them knowing:

·     Ron is no longer in constant pain from fibromyalgia.

·     God knows the end from the beginning and I trust and believe that His wisdom has prevailed.

·     God could have aroused me that night; awakened my spirit to go to Ron, but He let me sleep so peacefully it was almost as if He and Ron were having a special time of their own together; sort of like they were taking care of business.

·     God is in control of all things and if He had wanted a different outcome, we would have had a different outcome.

·     I know where Ron is and I know I’ll see him again some day. 

            I’ve since learned that those first few days were the easy part of this ordeal and the hard part was just beginning. Our empty nest was not content anymore. I was given books on grief from well-meaning friends. All they did was remind me of the pain I felt instead of helping me to get relief from it. One friend suggested that I should write the book for which I was searching. Another recommended that I write a letter to Ron, putting down on paper all of my feelings: anger, loneliness, regret, guilt, all of it. Others suggested that I should attend grief recovery groups. All I knew is that I didn’t want to have grief or even talk about it . . . I just wanted to have my memories. 

            Bottom line, I didn’t do anything except go to work every day and come home every afternoon to live in my bed . . . not my bedroom, but my bed! I would watch television, read the mail, take a nap, wake up, eat dinner, go back to sleep for the night. I was thankful when the alarm would sound so I could get up and start my routine again. Work gave me a reason to get up; to keep my mind busy on daily duties. 

            At home, however, there was still Ron—thinking of him, longing for him, lonesome for him, and crying out to God to help me get through another day. Although my desire for God’s Word waned, I still went to church because I had a responsibility to conduct the open assembly for our Sunday School. God faithfully gave me a message every week and I was able to share it but my heart was somewhere else.

            I felt if I could make it to the first anniversary of Ron’s passing, I would be over the hump and my life would finally fall into place again; my emotions, my thoughts, my desire for the things of God, everything that had been numb for one year would awaken and I would be alive again; but it doesn’t take one year…it takes so much longer! 

            Three months after that first anniversary was Mother’s Day. My children couldn’t be with me but they all called and I assured them that I would be fine! The tears began on Friday night and by Saturday afternoon I was calling my pastor to withdraw from my church duties the next day. He immediately put me on the prayer chain; the prayers went up and the phone started ringing. Kristen called and said it was time I thought about moving to TN to be closer to her. My first thoughts were, “I can’t leave my home, my job, my church!  My life has been here for 23 years.” I told her I couldn’t promise anything but I promised that I would begin to pray. 

            A week later while in the shower, I was again praying for the direction God wanted me to take. The water was spraying down and I actually felt God physically move across me sensing Him saying so unmistakably, “You are released!” My house sold in three hours, I gave six weeks notice at work, and I was in Tennessee by the end of July.

            Now, when I have the opportunity, I tell other stubborn husbands, “If Ron knew he was leaving me a widow at age fifty-four, he would have gone to the doctor sooner!” 

            If God chooses for me to continue my life alone, then I bow to His will; however, I still feel the deep loss of a continued life with my love. It is said that time heals and grief lessens and life goes on, and it does during the day-to-day activities; but the special days, the birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases, and the day he died will never diminish. On those days I sense the glaring reminder of how much I miss him and how I see my future alone!  I say alone by choice for I feel a reserved contentment as a widow.  He was the only love of my life!

             Ron never knew what to give me on birthdays, anniversaries, or Christmas. When I got my ears pierced, he blessed me with diamond, emerald, and opal studs. I told him what I really appreciated would be a nice card that spoke from his heart and conveyed exactly how he felt.

            Here is the last anniversary card he gave me (Christmas 2002) before he died in February 2003:

For Our Anniversary

Somehow, beyond all expression, I knew right from the start

that you’d be the light, the sweetness, the comfort in my life, my heart . . .

Each year we’ve journeyed together we’ve arrived somewhere new . . .

and we’ve forged a bond of trust, creating one life out of two . . .

And in countless tender moments of appreciation and care,

we’ve discovered ways without words to nurture the joy we share . . .

So today, as we talk about memories, I look toward the future we’ll spend

with confidence in each other, in love without end.

Happy Anniversary

 Summer, 2011—

            It is now eight years later and I can say I have survived.

            I am still single but I am not alone.

            My life is filled with God, family, and friends.

            I have three wonderful grandgirls and my children are close by.

            I am pursuing what I have always wanted to do . . . write!

            It is not a betrayal to say I have thrived, but I do confess that I am content.

HAPPY 89th BIRTHDAY, PA

By Danna Shirley

You have given me some wonderful memories of my childhood and beyond. I recall when I was a little girl and was riding down the Buena Vista hill on my bike. A car came around the corner toward me and I went off the road to avoid being hit. I skinned myself up and you doctored me.

Then of course there were the many Saturdays that I was your helper as you continued the never-ending construction on the house; from changing out the louvered windows in the front bedrooms and the living room, to adding the den and brick fireplace off of the kitchen, to adding the master bath so we weren’t a one-bathroom family anymore. I suspect you planned that so you could have some private bathroom time away from your four females. J

I loved it when you had to work on the roof because I got to climb the ladder and look out over the water toward the hacienda. The hacienda always fascinated me . . . but I never even drove up there to get a closer look. Maybe that’s what kept the uniqueness of it so special.

On one of those trips up the ladder you found my leather jacks bag that I had thrown up there. Why, I don’t remember! It was faded on one side and still colorfully bright on the other. I still have it . . . and the original ball and jacks, too.

Then came the teen years and my driver’s permit. My first experience behind the wheel was in a large empty parking lot. After just a few turns around the course, you put me on the freeway. I was scared to death. I couldn’t believe you would let me loose that quickly in California traffic.

When you finally let me drive to my own orthodontic appointment, I was afraid to change lanes. I wasn’t secure enough to turn around and look, as you had taught me, nor did I feel safe enough to take my eyes of the road to use my mirrors.

Your favorite greeting after one of these appointments was, “Let me see what they did to your teeth today.” I would give you a big smile and then you would say, “That’s the first time I ever saw teeth in a horse’s arse.” J  I fell for it every time. Now, at 61, you still try to catch me but I think I’ve gotten smarter to know what you’re up to . . . I hope!

Shortly afterward came my first accident, the infamous dent down the side of the Monza from the front bumper to the back. Of course I was where you told me not to go, doing what you told me not to do. I cried and cried all the way home and was more upset than you were. Why? Because I had disappointed my father and I didn’t ever want to do that again.

My first job came after high school graduation. I worked for the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC) near the UC Berkeley campus. It took a while for me to save enough money to buy a car so you drove me to work every morning before you went to work at Dymo in Emeryville. Then you would brave the University traffic to pick me up every afternoon. You put your work hours on hold to get me to my job on time.

Ah, my first car—a 1957 Chevy BelAir two-door, hardtop. You found it for me, checked under the hood, kicked the tires, and it passed inspection. It was a beauty! Unfortunately, by the time I sold it, the back seat and lighter had been stolen while it sat in a church parking lot. Green primer paint was on one door panel because someone had hit me while it was parked.

Then came my elopement to Ron in 1968. It was December and we drop over Donner Pass and into Reno, Nevada. Wow, what an experience. I know I let Mom down by being the third daughter to go to Reno and not let her give me a wedding as I had promised. I think you were relieved, though—there were no months of planning or having to dress up in fancy clothes. It was short and sweet. Two months later, however, you had to work on Mom’s “Honey-Do” list to get the house ready for our wedding reception.

One year later Ron got new orders that took me from my home and family to begin a thirty-four year trek all over the world.

In 1980 you stopped in Alabama on your way to Georgia hoping to see my expected third child (Aaron) but he was stubborn and did not cooperate. You called on your return trip home to see if there was any reason to stop back by—but to no avail. You missed seeing him until much later.

In all of my travels I learned one thing—home is wherever I am with my loved ones. You taught me that. You loved me unconditionally—through all the disappointments, car accidents, and even my five-month separation from Ron. You never judged, never criticized, never told me what to do, but your wisdom was invaluable and I will always appreciate your advice.

Now you’ve reached your 89^th year. How awesome!!! You’ve had a wonderful life and you’ve blessed so many others with your love and generosity. It’s been my privilege to share you not only with those you know but with those you’ve never met, for I have told my many friends in all of my travels about my wonderful father . . . and they are j-e-a-l-o-u-s!!! J

MAY GOD’S MANY BLESSINGS BE YOURS

ON THIS SPECIAL DAY!

 I Love You So Much, PA --

WRITERS WRITE

by Danna Shirley

            I’ve always been a reader thanks to my mother who was an elementary school teacher for over thirty years. She encouraged my sisters and me to “turn off that television and pick up a book.” Nan and I became avid readers and still are to this day. However, my sister Paula said, “I never want to read another book in my life!” after she spent 7½ years in college trying to figure out what she wanted to do.

            Children could walk home from school in safety in those days (1950s) so I would go by way of the public library. I always had books to return and then would select more. I remember checking out one particular book that had difficult words for my age. I got frustrated trying to read it but my mother kept encouraging me to sound it out. I was very proud of myself when I finally finished that book.

            I was probably in my 40s when I began thinking to myself as I read, “I wish I could write like this.” Then my thoughts graduated to, “I can write like this!” Little by little an idea would come to me for a story or the name for a character that I thought was inspiring. Nothing came to fruition, however, until I was 56 and began working at the Bartlett Senior Center. They had a creative writing class at one time but the leader had moved away and so the class had disbanded. The director asked if I would like to start it up again. They had one member I could call who was interested.

            I didn’t believe I could actually be considered a “teacher” so my daughter and I put our heads together and decided I would be the “facilitator.” When my first writer joined me for my very first class, I finally began to really write.

George Mitchell taught me more than I ever taught him. He had many stories in his portfolio and I had none. At the end of class I would throw out some ideas for a short story assignment but George didn’t like assignments. He also didn’t like to start at the beginning. He would write the ending first and fill in the blanks later.

All writers have their own style. One is not better than another.

It’s just what works for them . . . and what doesn’t.

            I remember sharing one prompt with the class and as I wrote my supposed “short story” I knew there was so much more I could add. I envisioned a book . . . my first novel, Sleepy Bend. It flowed easily through my fingers and ended at page 230. I got one of the character’s names from two road signs as I traveled through Alabama—Jemison and Thorsby. My hero would be Jemison Thornsby. (see book on my blog: danna1966.blogspot.com)

My writing is my passion, my mission; just as an artist paints or an athlete trains. I have a thought and immediately the story unfolds. I read a headline and can direct it into a fictional tale. I view a picture and see the word play behind it.

Thank You, Lord, for imparting to me this insatiable hunger for writing. It is my outlet, my therapy, and my ministry, as I share Your love with others. 

I WANT A MACHO MAN

by Danna Shirley

          It said Sam on the name tag but I couldn’t determine if Sam was a Samuel or a Samantha? I was the third in line at the Customer Service counter in Wal-Mart. Now I’ve seen plenty of “Wal-Martians” online and all could be considered as wearing Halloween costumes; men dressed like women, skimpy clothing that shows too much, purple hair, tattoos, piercing in the oddest places. But this was October 26^th and I couldn’t tell about Sam.

          As the line moved forward, I noticed more; taller than the customer being waited on, shoulder-length hair, purple eye shadow and black eyeliner, a black lace camisole under the traditional blue polo shirt, and slight breast bumps. Then a move from behind the counter revealed black flats with a bow on the toe.

The line moved again to reveal long painted nails with beautifully manicured cuticles. I still was questioning if this was Sam or Samantha. No good clue was adequate enough to reveal the mystery.

          Now it was my turn. Sam was probably six feet tall. Not unusual for teens today, boys or girls. I saw a faint mustache above the upper lip but I have one of those myself. Then the mouth opened and the voice boomed out loud and low . . . “May I help you?”
          Sam was a male! But was he dressed for Halloween or was this his every day appearance? No other employees were wearing costumes. I was baffled and a little uncomfortable not knowing how I felt about this discovery.

Sam didn’t look natural for what our society and culture dictates. I understand that Sams and Samanthas are now out of the closet but my hormones, even at age 65, still desire the tall and handsome; the courageous, patriotic, and faithful men of this world.

Where are the James Bonds, the Supermans, and Captain America? I still love to see the action movie man trounce the villains, get the girl, and come out as the hero . . . without eye liner and lipstick!

I love a macho man!