Echoes of His Mind

What follows is a manuscript I wrote about my father once he suffered from a life-altering stroke.  Although he lived the last two years of his life in a nursing home, he was always cheerful when I'd visit him.  His true character and brave personality during that period of his life inspire me even today. 
 

ECHOES OF HIS MIND

The windows of the day room were flung open; the air—light and fresh—gently blew the curtains to and fro, but the air within the enclosed corridors—heavy and stagnant—wafted down the hall with the sound of choking coughs, the blended noise of televisions broadcasting different channels, and the distinctive smell of urine.

            When I entered the day room, I felt a surge of shock.  Many residents slept in their chairs; a wheelchair swallowed the tangled skeleton of a woman—her head flopped over her chest and her leg bones twisted uncomfortably.  Joyless inertia permeated the room hinting at Timber Rock Manor’s unspoken function—caring for elderly people who are dying. 

            Behind me a raspy voice said, “He wanted ta go fishin’ after dinner,” said Anwar—the aide who cares for my father and his roommate, Henry.  “I tries ta oblige Edwin whenevers I can; I wheels him down to da creek ta sit fer a bit whilst I’m tendin’ ta Henry.  Mosey on down there; he’d loves ta see ya!  Careful so’s not to spook him, though.”

            I glanced out the windows and saw my father sitting outside in his wheelchair near the edge of Timber Rock Creek.  His left arm over which he has no control was propped up by pillows.  His olive skin—once tan from fishing during long summer days—was now ghost white.  A white paper bib hung from his neck in a rather undignified manner. 

            I approached the creek bank not wanting to disturb either the fish or the angler who was casting his line into the shallow creek waters.  As I drew near, a small twig snapped like a guitar string underneath my feet; small birds scattered above me—disrupting the tranquility. 

Pop shifted his head in my direction.  “Hi, sa..sa..saweetie pie!  Ca..ca..caught 59 fish t’day.”

 

His eyes danced; a familiar mischievous smile raced across his face as he demonstrated how he’d cast his line into Lake Tawakoni.  He knew its choicest spots, for—when the lake was but a river—he’d hunted the area as a young boy and gathered Indian arrowheads. 

“What did ya use to catch those fish, Pop?”

“Crickets ‘n blood bait…..da fa..fa..faish nibble sla...sla..slowly..ca..ca..caught…59 fish t’day!  We havin’ fish fry!”

I choked back the tears remembering that summer day in 1961 when Pop actually caught 59 fish and brought them home for a fish fry.  Since Pop’s stroke, though, both time and space lost their relevance—happily happily frozen in the recesses of his mind. 

“Fantastic!  I’ve been wantin’ some fried fish and hushpuppies.  You iced ‘em down, right?”

“Yep!  Wha..wha...where’s Anwar?  He..he..he said he’d clean ‘n filet fish.”

“He’s waitin’ for ya up at the Manor.  It’ll be dark soon—let’s head back inside.”

“Okay, sa..sa..saweetie pie.  Love you!”

So I pushed Pop’s wheelchair across the winding trails toward Timber Rock Manor.  When we arrived in Pop’s room, Anwar was tending to Henry—who was clearly at the brink of death. 

Anwar spooned water into Henry’s mouth and asked, "Dat frog still in your throat? Youz needs to drink.  Please now, Henry," he begged.  When Henry accepted some liquid, Anwar approvingly said, “Wunnerful!”  Anwar massaged Henry’s shoulders, arms, and hands then gently cleaned his mouth with a small medical sponge.  Henry’s eyes didn’t open, but he uttered a sound that could be either a sigh or moan. 

 “Edwin,” he said, “Your daughter brought cha a choc-lit malt.  I knows youz loves dat malt!  Why don’ts I eases ya up into be sos youz can drink it?

            Pop nodded affirmatively, but a frustrating frown crossed his face.  Although Pop’s stroke took away his independence, it hadn’t eliminated the emotional anguish Pop faced each day adjusting to his inability to do even the simplest things—walking, bathing, eating, lifting himself into bed, and going to the bathroom.  Pop glanced at me; I instinctively knew he’d rather me not see him vulnerable and physically incapable.

            Yet, I desperately wanted Pop to know that—despite his current condition—he was still my inspiration and hero.  I wanted to find the word that would express how much I admired his courage even at this stage of his life, for he’s never once complained since the day his stroke forever altered his life.  I stood next to his bed struggle with what to say and do at this particular moment.

            Then I remembered that Pop, too, sometimes struggled with what to say and do whever I was troubled or sad.  Often he walked to the local convenience store; bought two small, nickel-size bags of plain M&Ms; then we quietly sat together on the back porch sharing our M&Ms.  Eventually, he’d touch my hand; give me a hug; and say, “I love you.  You’re gonna be alright.”  I treasured those moments of comfort and understanding.

            Then I remembered that I’d seen packages of M&Ms in the vending machine in the lobby.  So, I slipped out the door; headed to the lobby; and bought two packages of M&Ms.  By the time I returned to Pop’s room, Anwar was gone, but he’d left Pop sitting up in bed.  So, I scooched a chair next to him; tore open a package; and placed some M&Ms into his right hand.  He glanced down at his hand, then back at me pouring all the candy from his hand into his mouth and chuckling.  I opened my bag pouring some M&Ms into my hand then directly into my mouth.  We continued eating our M&Ms silently sharing a moment of deep understanding.  Eventually, I touched Pop’s hand; gave him a hug; and said, “I love and admire you, Pop.  Thanks for loving me!”

            “I love you, too, sa..sa..saweetie pie!”

            Tears quickly filled both our eyes.  Before awkwardness ruined the moment, I squeezed Pop’s hand; hugged him around the neck; then walked down the corridor toward the dim evening light—grateful for the echoes of his mind where Pop could live in the midst of his memories without pain. 

 

Ticket to Ride

This story, "Ticket to Ride," is one of my favorite.  It is a true story about my summer of creativity with my Aunt Betty Stainbrook.  She was a true gem of a lady whose spirit remains a part of me even to this day.  I read this story before a live audience at Tales from the South in Little Rock, Arkansas, in July 2012.  I've enjoyed sharing this story and hope you enjoy it as well.

TICKET TO RIDE by Sara Etgen-Baker

At 61, Sara Etgen-Baker still enjoys Ferris wheels and setting her spirit free.  She’s found that that living life beyond convention has filled both her spirit and her life with adventure, eagerness, creativity, and soulfulness.  

“You gotta have a ticket to ride!” snapped the Carney. “Get a ticket or move outta da way, kid. You’re takin’ up space!”

I stared motionless—hypnotized—as the magical wheel with its clockwise, circular motions cut through the heavy August clouds.

“Here’s her ticket, sir. We three are ridin’ together.”

“Not happenin’, lady—only two per chair. One of youz has to ride by yerself.”

“No problem, sir…she’s the oldest; she’ll ride by herself.”

“Whatever ya say, lady. She seems a bit scared to me though.”

Aunt Betty scooted me to the next seat and said, “You’re okay with that, aren’t you sweetie?”

I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Unable to speak, I nodded yes hoping not to show my fear and doubt.

Within an instant, I sat paralyzed and alone in the seat, waiting, pushing aside my fear of heights and wondering why my dear Aunt Betty left me to ride alone.  Just two days earlier I’d stood on the banks of the Mississippi River and watched the Ferris wheel being assembled on the fairgrounds.  I imagined climbing aboard one of the cars; riding the circle of lights; watching the sun set over the Mississippi; seeing the city’s lights from atop; and feeling the chair sway in the summer breeze.   My fascination had turned to fear—fluttering in my stomach like crazy butterflies.

“Single rider!” shouted the Carney. “Put down the bar so we can all go!” the Carney barked.

The wheel turned slowly, then faster; the earth below me moved and became smaller; then the chair rocked back and forth, and I came to rest high upon the apogee—stranded, alone, looking across the Mississippi River at the Old Mississippi River Bridge and the Old Lorimier Cemetery.

Above me soft white clouds drifted by.  Below me, a Mississippi steamboat—reminiscent of the one that Mark Twain piloted—glided its way through the mighty river’s current. I followed the muddy river as it snaked its way through the countryside below me. Every inch of the legendary waterway brought something new into view—odd little islands, hills, woods, and towns.   For a brief moment I thought I saw Lewis and Clark standing atop the bluffs mapping the river’s course.

No longer landlocked, I sat silent between anguish and ecstasy—suddenly empty of fearful thoughts and full of soothing thoughts. I closed my eyes as the Ferris wheel slowly turned round ‘n round and carried me to heaven. As I re-opened my eyes, evening approached; I felt as if I was traveling into space. The rhythmic rat tat tat tuh of the Ferris wheel’s machinery freed my thoughts as my spirit soared high above the ground. Inspired and unexpectedly shaken from my self-imposed timidity, I was forever transformed.

The rhythmic melody slowed then ended; when my chair approached ground level, the Carney released the safety bar and growled, “Careful, now girlee. Ya looks a bit dizzy.”

I stumbled anyway and fell backwards, looked up, and found Aunt Betty’s face smiling down at me.

“Yahoo, sweetie! I knew you could ride alone. I’m proud of you! Stand next to the Carney, and I’ll take your picture with my new Polaroid.  Okay, smile!”

Later that night Aunt Betty gave me that picture and said, “You grew up tonight.  So, tomorrow you’re going to work with me. Get a good night’s rest!”  I lay awake most of the night wondering just what she might have in store for me at the office where she worked.

The following morning, she took me into a poorly-lit, musty-smelling back room and sat me down at an antiquated, wooden office chair that was as stiff as an old man’s arthritic joints. She rolled me in front of a vintage Royal manual typewriter; placing my hands on the “home keys,” she demonstrated the reaches.  “You can read, can’t ya, sweetie? Now follow the instructions on each page; you’re old enough to type.  Remember… sit up straight and keep your wrists up.”

With that, she abandoned me—just as she’d done the night before.  For a week, I accompanied Aunt Betty to work where I silently sat perched at the keyboard, practicing until my wrists ached and my fingers numbed.  When boredom set in, she handed me a shoebox full of postcards and photographs.  

“Hey, look inside. Aren’t these pictures interesting?   Why not use them to type and create some stories?   I’d love to read ‘em when you’re finished.  How’d that be, sweetie?”

I nodded—relishing her suggestion like a new pianist who embraces reading sheet music for the first time.  Before summer ended I typed several stories carrying them home in a shoebox I aptly labeled “Shoebox Stories.”

The years since—like summer days—have burned and melted, leaving me to wonder whatever happened to my Shoebox Stories. Then while cleaning out my parents’ attic, I uncovered a somewhat dilapidated shoebox that smelled dusty like memories waiting to be explored.

As I gingerly opened the shoebox, a heartwarming aroma flooded my nostrils. I sniffed the yellowed, timeworn paper that smelled a bit like grass with a hint of vanilla over an underlying mustiness. I opened the folded pages and recognized the faded ink of the stories I had created so long ago.

The photographs—discolored and worn—immediately ignited memories of both the enchanting Ferris wheel and my summer of creativity when Aunt Betty gave me more than a ticket to ride a Ferris wheel. As I rode above the horizon, she unknowingly gave me a ticket to ride above convention—past my fears—into a life filled with anticipation, adventure, courage, resourcefulness, and a level of inspiration enjoyed only by those who have had their spirit set free.

Now I appreciate the beauty in sunsets and the joy in unexpected, sweet surprises. Although the Mississippi River inspired Mark Twain and gave birth to his creativity, the magical Ferris wheel transformed me and gave rise to my imagination—ever flowing like the river—ever turning tales to be told.

Here's what the editor at Page and Spine said about "Ticket to Ride"
Bloody brilliant!
This is very good. The writer leads us into the story with perfect timing and intrigue. The emotional roller-coaster of emotions cleverly introduced made me think of facing my own fears and being abandoned.I swore I thought it was fiction and only in the last two paragraphs does the writer reveal it is autobiographical---a fact that made it an even stronger story to share with readers.I’d congratulate the writer on a well penned piece of writing and I’d publish it in a heartbeat. -Jade

View the story at the following digital magazine: 

 http://halcyonmagazine.blogspot.ca/p/2013.html

The Best Gift

I enjoy writing for Tiny Lights--an online writer's exchange.  What follows is one of my essays posted on April 15, 2012, in response to the question Why Do You Write?

On the surface, I write because it's what I love to do. I write because I can't help myself; writing is as much a reflex as breathing and equally essential. I write because it gives me satisfaction and a sense of completeness that nothing else can.

Writing also quenches my desire to create-—to transform the abstract lines and circles that represent the 26 letters of the alphabet into vivid, memorable experiences. During that transformation, images and words come; and stories are put together one sentence at a time.

What hits me during those transformational moments is not so much my own effort but gratitude for the wonder of the gift that is writing. All too often, words are just given to me. So-—during those moments when words seem so absent-—I remember that writing is a gift and remember to be grateful for it.

Because stories and books shaped my life, I'm also grateful for the opportunity to give back to the world that which was given to me. Ultimately, my giving attitude liberates me because I realize I can only give what I have at that moment. I don't necessarily have to be a brilliant writer or a best-selling novelist; I simply need to write and give from my heart. That is gift enough.

I acknowledge that writing-—in and of itself-—is an awesome gift and a beautiful form of art. I write because that's what I was meant to do. I write because painting stories with words is what I'm compelled to do. I write because-—hands down-—it's the best gift I can give the world and myself.

Here's the link to Tiny Lights:
http://tiny-lights.com/searchlights.php?id=1372#1373

Tales From the South Videos

A writer's dream--an opportunity to share a story with a live audience!  I was both excited and nervous when I was asked to perform at the Starving Artist Cafe in Little Rock, Arkansas.  Here are some links to YouTube videos of those performances. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Am6xaTQuu20 (He'd Walk a Mile for a Camel)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDEsDT-0KHg&feature=youtu.be (Ticket to Ride)

Easter Greetings!  I just learned that my manuscript, "Ticket to Ride," appears in the spring 2013 issue of Halcyon Magazine.  The photos and artwork are simply breathtaking.  I think you'll enjoy taking a look at this issue.  When you click on the link below, turn the digital pages to page 18.  That's where my story appears.  Enjoy!
http://halcyonmagazine.blogspot.ca/p/2013.html

Remembering My Mother

In 1944 my mother met my father at the airfield in Liberal, Kansas, where she was living and working.  Despite the war, my mother was hopeful about her future.  In 1983 my mother returned to Liberal, Kansas.  Although she didn't take any photos of her trip, she shared some of her thoughts and feelings with me.  I share that recollection with you now.  Enjoy! 

I’LL BE SEEING YOU

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” announced the captain, “in approximately five minutes, we will begin our descent into Liberal Mid America Regional Airport where the weather is slightly windy and 78̊.  At this time make sure your trays are clear and in their upright position.  Please, fasten your seat belts and remain in your seats until we are safely at the arrival gate.  Thank you for flying with us today.”

Just as I fastened my seat belt, the plane tilted slightly to the left and began a slow, steady turn.  I looked out my window; the ground below looked like square plots on a huge map of some kind.  Gradually, the Kansas prairie came into view with its wheat fields waving as if to welcome me home.  As the plane neared the ground, small cars heading down long highways of black ribbon appeared, as well as homes of different sizes and shapes.   

Then a sudden bump—I jumped slightly as the landing gear was released.  Trees and rooftops whizzed by as the aircraft made its final turn toward the waiting runway and ended with a mild rumbling as the tires kissed the tarmac.   Once the plane taxied to a halt, I was the only passenger who walked through the fuselage door onto the jetway bridge disembarking into the airport.    

Once inside the airport, I found it virtually empty—still with anticipation with a tinge of sadness in the air.  As I made my way toward baggage claim, the floor beneath my feet creaked with the voices of the pilots and soldiers who once worked at this airfield during World War II.  I glanced out the huge plate-glass windows and spotted the deserted AAF classroom buildings, abandoned hanger, and empty storage facilities.  I fought back the tears wondering “Why did I expect this place to remain the same when nothing else does?” 

At baggage claim the skycap handed me my luggage.  “If you hurry, you can catch the cabbie before he leaves for town.”

So, I scurried through the lobby toward the automatic sliding doors, stepped outside, and stood at the crosswalk waiting until the cab appeared.  “Let me help you with your luggage, ma’am.”   I watched as the young cabbie easily lifted my two large suitcases into the trunk of his vehicle.  He opened my door and said, “My name’s Tom.  Where ya headed today?”

            “I’m heading into town….734 North Webster Avenue.  Do you know where that is?” 

            “Certainly do, ma’am.”  Tell me...,” he paused, “are you from around here or just visitin’?”

            “Both.  I grew up in Liberal.  During the war I worked as a clerk at the Liberal Army Airfield.  Then when my parents moved to Missouri in 1943, I moved into my Uncle Claude’s house on North Webster Avenue.  He recently passed away so I’m here for his funeral.”

I looked out the window as the cabbie turned onto 8^th Street heading west past the fairgrounds and Bluebonnet Park.  The cabbie turned right onto North Webster and said, “Here we are ma’am…734 North Webster Avenue.  I’ll pull into the driveway.” 

Before getting out of the cab, I stared at the vacant, old house not knowing what to expect.   Although it looked familiar, the paint was weathered and peeling off in spots; the slats in the shutters on the upstairs windows were mostly broken out.  A slight breeze made the shutters tap against the house, and the hinges squeaked.  Despite ivy clinging to the outer walls of the house, I could see inside the front door into the house past the banister and stairway that led upstairs.

“From those second story windows, I watched as the airport, hangars, and runways were constructed.  From there I also watched the military parade march through downtown Liberal the day many of the soldiers and pilots arrived at the airfield for their training.”

“A parade during war time must have been moving,” he commented.

“Yes, it was, Tom.  Those parades kept us all—civilians and military—motivated and focused on the war effort.  That parade convinced me that I somehow needed to join in the war effort.”

“So, what did you decide to do?” he asked.

“I took a job working as a clerk at the new airfield.  When not working, I tended to our Victory Garden.”  I pointed to the vine-covered backyard.  “As a matter of fact, my Aunt Jean and I planted it back there.”

“A Victory Garden?” he raised an inquisitive eyebrow.  “What was that?”

“Because sacrifice was part of the war effort, the government rationed foods like sugar, butter, milk, cheese, eggs, coffee, meat, and canned goods.  So—like many other women—we planted a garden so we’d have our own fruits and vegetables.  At some point we canned our fruits and vegetables leaving commercial canned goods for the troops.  Later, I built nest boxes for eggs and raised chickens just so we’d have eggs for eating and cooking.”

“Must’ve been hard to make those sacrifices,” he said.

“Like most Americans I didn’t feel like I was making a sacrifice at all.  I felt patriotic doing my part—however small—to insure America’s victory.”  I opened the car door.  “Tom, would you mind waiting for me while I go inside?”

“Sure thing, ma’am.  I’ll wait as long as you need me to.  Take your time.”

I stepped onto the gravel driveway and gingerly climbed the rickety steps onto the porch.  Using my antique skeleton key, I turned the rusty lock and opened the front door fully expecting Uncle Claude and Aunt Jean to greet me.  As I entered the house, the sun—now low in the sky—illuminated the downstairs rooms.   

Although the old house was decaying, the floors inside were not rotten and looked sturdy enough to bear my weight.  As I walked through the entryway, I found the grandfather clock had long since stopped.  I closed my eyes and imaged myself in another time altogether when blackout curtains hung over the windows and I sat in the living room listening to radio shows like “Amos ‘n Andy,” Bing Crosby,” and “The Green Hornet.”  I even thought I heard the old phonograph playing songs from big band leaders like Duke Ellington and Glenn Miller. 

I opened my eyes and discovered the chandelier that once shone upon the piano was now covered in cobwebs and dust.  I headed toward the kitchen; looked back; and caught a glimpse of Aunt Jean—her hands dancing across the keyboard—playing her favorite wartime song, “I’ll Be Seeing You.”  The buffet and china cabinet were just as she’d left them; but mold from damp nights had seeped into the walls making gray streaks across my aunt’s favorite wall paper.  In the kitchen I found an empty teakettle sitting on the stove patiently waiting for Aunt Jean’s return. 

Soon, ribbons of moonlight drifted through the kitchen window and shimmered across the kitchen table where I often drank coffee and talked with Uncle Claude about the war.  At this table, my future husband—a mechanic on the flight line—asked Uncle Claude for my hand in marriage.  Despite the war, the old house was alive and always full of people—a sort of wartime oasis for soldiers, pilots, and locals that my uncle invited to his home. 

Now, though, the old house—hallow and lifeless—echoed with memories.  Although the night was new, darkness soon forced me to say goodbye to the old house.  So I walked through the moonlight down the driveway turning back as though summoned and drinking in the sights—relishing the flood of memories.  I stared up at the moon.  Then something caught my eye.  On the second floor, the curtain moved; and I saw the woman I used to be—an innocent, patriotic wartime bride full of hope and anticipation about her future.

Just as we pulled out of the driveway, I thought heard my aunt playing her piano and singing her favorite song to me: 

“I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces all day through.  In that small café, the park across the way, the children’s carousel, the chestnut tree, the wishing well. 

I’ll be seeing you in every lovely, summer’s day; and everything that’s bright and gay; I’ll always think of you that way.  I’ll find you in the morning sun; and when the night is new, I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.” 

**Written in honor of my mother, Winifred Christine Stainbrook-Etgen as I imagined her returning to Liberal, Kansas, where her married life with my father began. 

 

Writing Throughout the Seasons

Here's one of my short manuscripts that recently appeared at Tiny Lights.  I thought you might appreciate the perspective, Sara

First, Last, and Always

by Sara Etgen-Baker

When my husband introduced me to running, I loved it. As I ran alongside him, my body felt weightless as I soared through our neighborhood—my feet pounding, legs and arms pumping, lungs filling like bellows, my body having fun.

In short, I felt remarkable, magical, and unstoppable—-until I decided to train for my first 5K race and learned that I needed to run properly: Knees up!...Elbows in!...Eyes forward…Keep your head up!...Lift your feet!...Remember pace! After a few weeks' training, I was amazed that I could walk across the street, much less run! I entered my first race only to have a woman a couple of years older than me pass me in the first half mile.
So, I joined a running club and emulated other runners' styles and techniques-—giving up that part of me that loved running. After a few more disappointing finishes, my enthusiasm died; the joy was gone. I got so caught up in running competitively that I lost sight of why I was running until I realized that--given my talent-—I must run my race my way.

When I began writing a couple of years ago, I loved it. As I sat at my laptop, my fingers felt weightless as they danced across the keyboard-—my mind running free, stories magically appearing on the screen, and me always having fun.

In short, I felt creative, alive, and whole-—until I decided to enter contests and learned I needed to write more professionally: Use spell check!...Write proper sentences!...Use proper grammar! Follow submission guides!...Develop a web page!...Remember to blog! After a few months of writing, I was amazed I could think about a story, much less write one! I entered a few contests receiving more than my fair share of rejection letters.

So, I joined a writers' group and emulated other writers' styles and techniques-—giving up that part of me that loved writing. After a few more rejection letters, my enthusiasm waned; the joy was gone. I got so caught up in writing competitively that I lost sight of why I was writing until I realized that-—given my talent-—I must write my story my way.

So, I learned this important truth: Cut loose…run…have fun…and find my story—-first, last, and always.

Sara Baker is a retired educator turned freelance writer. In addition to writing memoirs and personal narratives for fun, she also runs 10 miles a day—-just for fun!