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Nature

Trail in the woods

My husband and I like to go for walks, whether in a park, the woods, or just in our neighborhood. In the woods, we look for deer tracks; and we look and listen for different kinds of birds. But you know, I must admit, I am not the most graceful hiker in the world. I always seem to get myself in some kind of trouble. For instance, why am I always the one to step in deer doo-doo? Why am I the one who always gets smacked in the face by a low-hanging branch? And why am I the one to walk right into a huge spider web?

I remember one time we were hiking up this long, steep hill. I thought I would have a heart attack before we reached the top, but it was well worth the view when we finally climbed to the top. After we rested, we started back down, and I got to tell you, going down the hill was a different story. I don’t think God ever intended for short, stubby legs to run so fast. I think I outran a deer on the way down the hill. I was going so fast – I think I entered another time warp. I think I saw into the future. I think I saw Elvis! Well, maybe not!

Anyway, the point of this story, and it does have a point, is this. The next time you go out into your yard or walk in the woods, take time to notice all the different kinds of flowers, bushes, and trees. Smell them, touch them. Notice how the leaves and petals feel in your hands. Listen to the different bird calls. Let your mind imagine what they might be saying to each other. It’s all part of nature. It’s all God’s creation. Nature is all around us – God’s arms embracing us. And who doesn’t need a hug from God?

Written by contributor:

Julie Renouf

Marilyn’s Story

Marilyn the pickup truck

This story is also featured in LMC Truck Life.

She wasn’t much to look at, but her body enticed my husband the moment he laid eyes on her. He saw something others were simply too blind to see. He saw through her shattered exterior. He saw potential.

This is a story of love, devotion, and legacy. This is Marilyn’s story.

For as long as he could remember, Eddy had his eye on a 1971 GMC step side pickup. It rested on blocks at Performance Auto and Marine in Chickasha, Oklahoma. It was just a shell of a truck – no wheels, tires, transmission, or motor. It didn’t even have seats or a steering wheel. The telephone pole imprint embedded in the grill was evidence it had suffered a collision, which would explain the missing hood. Despite its imperfections, Eddy saw potential and every time he and his dad drove by the shop, Eddy looked to see if it was still there.

At age 14, Eddy convinced his dad to drop by Performance Auto and ask the owner, Garry Snow, if the truck was for sale. Garry said he planned to run it across the scales at the Dog Leg Salvage Yard that week. He thought he’d get about $50 for the scrap metal; if they were willing to pay that, then the truck was theirs. With the money Eddy earned roofing houses for his uncle, he happily forked over the cash.

The truck was hauled and stored at his uncle’s mechanic shop, and for the next two years, Eddy and his dad scouted local salvage yards for parts. Piece by piece, the truck was reassembled and slowly brought back to life. However, the build was far from perfect. Although Eddy did his best to straighten the grill, the telephone pole imprint was still clearly visible. It was missing the tailgate, and the wooden liner was so eroded, you could literally see the ground through the rotted holes. The transmission and motor were the final two components needed to complete the project, however, finding ones that fit Eddy’s budget proved challenging. Luckily, both became available the day his dad wrecked the family’s 1964 Chevelle. The car was no longer drivable, but the transmission and motor lived on in Eddy’s ‘71 GMC.

The blue directional wheels and white-letter Daytona Radial tires Eddy bought from Ralf & Sons Tire Center complemented the cheap $400 blue paint job. It was not the prettiest or safest build, but by the grace of God, it passed inspection and was ready to drive just two days before Eddy’s 16th birthday.

Eddy drove and drag-raced his ‘71 GMC until he joined the Air Force at the age of 18. On December 26, 1991, Eddy parked his truck in his dad’s backyard and handed over the keys with the promise he would return soon to reclaim her. He had no way of knowing at the time that this agreement would eventually land his dad in the Grady County jail.

Twelve years of neglect and rodent invasion took its toll and in 2003, an Enforcement Code Officer told Eddy’s dad that the unsightly truck needed to go or else it would be impounded. His dad informed the officer that he had no intention of getting rid of the truck, as it belonged to his son who was currently fighting the war in Iraq. Furthermore, he said, if the officer ever stepped foot on his property again, he would shoot him. Now, threatening an Enforcement Code Officer was obviously not the proper way to handle the situation and his utter lack of judgement cost him an entire evening in a cold jail cell. The next morning when he went before the judge, he provided the same explanation (minus the threat) as to why he was not going to move the truck. Although the judge did not approve of his misconduct, she dropped the charges since the vehicle was indeed owned by a military member deployed to a war zone.

Eddy honorably served our country for 20 years and retired from the Air Force in 2011. He planned to return to Oklahoma and retrieve his GMC soon thereafter, but found it difficult to take time away from his new job. Therefore, in September 2014, his dad hauled the truck from Oklahoma to be reunited with its original owner. Eddy was shocked to see how much it had deteriorated over the years. All four tires were flat, and it had been overtaken with animal waste, nests, and tree remnants. Critters chewed through the wires and left massive holes in the seat cushions and carpet. Eddy immediately began nurturing her and for the next three months, he called his dad every Sunday to brief him on the progress and his vision of turning the ‘71 GMC step side into a ‘68 Chevy short wide bed. Sadly, on December 10, 2014, the phone calls came to an abrupt halt upon learning the devastating news that his dad passed away due to a massive heart attack.

For 7 years, this restoration project was a weekend escape for Eddy. From mechanical to electrical, to paint and body work, he accomplished every bit of the work himself. Though he executed this project solo in our garage, I am confident my husband was never alone. Just like all those years before, my father-in-law was right there with his beloved son – building, smiling, and encouraging. And when the day came to take Marilyn for her first joy ride, he was right there, riding shotgun.

 

In loving memory of Pop.

~Viv

 

My Calling_A Poem

Created with Purpose

It was there all along,
Never elevating past a whisper.
Patiently it waited,
The time would come.
Life was noisy,
I could not hear.

Selfish existence is hollow,
I always knew there was more.
But life’s purpose won’t intrude,
It wants our full attention.
Life was noisy,
I could not hear.

Sometimes bad things happen,
For me, it was cancer.
But good can come from bad,
If we simply choose to learn.
Life was noisy,
I started to hear.

Trials build character,
If we refuse to faint.
Preparation for destiny,
Often occurs through tears.
Life was noisy,
I needed to hear.

One step of faith,
Leads to another.
Confirmation, then peace,
Renews mind, body, and soul.
Life was noisy,
I wanted to hear.

Obeying without knowing,
Requires undisputed trust.
Doing what we know to do,
Allows God to do the rest.
Life is noisy,
But I finally hear.

~Viv

The Taste Left in My Mouth…In Memory of Mama Betty

Have you ever eaten something that left a taste in your mouth? The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines aftertaste as the persistence of a sensation (as of flavor or emotion) after the stimulating agent or experience has gone. Things that come to my mind that always leave a taste in my mouth are onions and garlic. Good thing I love them both. However, just like the bitter or sweet aftertaste left in our mouth after food or drink consumption, so is our legacy after we are gone.

I have to be honest, I never thought of legacy in terms of aftertaste until today when I listened to one of my favorite podcasts, “Coffee with Chrystal“, hosted by Chrystal Evans Hurst. Leaving a taste in someone’s mouth, she explained, simply means leaving a lasting impression on another. Listening to Crystal’s podcast this morning while brushing my teeth, my thoughts immediately drifted to Betty, my mother-in-law from my first marriage. Today is her birthday. She would have been 68.

I met Mama Betty when I was 17 years old. I had only been dating her son for a few weeks; she predicted right away we would be married and referred to me as her daughter-in-law well before her son and I said “I do” two years later. Wanting to surprise my new young husband with his favorite side dish, I asked Mama Betty to teach me how to make her famous potato salad. “It’s all about the pickles,” she would profess. The Vlasic Dills had to be cut into thick chunks and there had to be a lot of them. On the day of my cooking lesson, she made me do everything while she leaned against the kitchen counter and provided directions. I remember her saying it was better to do than watch if I wanted to learn. She didn’t use measuring cups or a recipe – she tasted as she went and encouraged me to do the same.

I have thousands of memories of Mama Betty. She was a bonus mom during my teen years. She became my biggest supporter the day her son and I divorced. She was the loudest cheerleader at my second wedding. But the fondest memory I have of her is the love she displayed the day she taught me how to make her potato salad.

It was simple. It didn’t cost a dime. It was an expression of who she was.

That is what legacy is – the taste we leave in others’ mouths when we are gone. This is the taste she left in mine.

Happy Heavenly Birthday Mama Betty. I made a batch tonight, especially for you.

Vivian and Mama Betty
Me and Mama Betty at my second wedding. She was front and center – just where I knew she would be.

~Viv

This is 50!

Half a hundred. That is how old I am as of 9:04 a.m. today.

Some would call 50 ‘middle-aged’. I suppose that is true, but I choose to think of 50 as a re-birth. A time of reflection – a time to look back on the past and recognize the growth that has occurred. As I do so today, I am reminded of moments of pain, happiness, fear, joy, and uncertainty. I am encouraged to worry less about things I cannot change, and to say no to things that do not matter.

I won’t lie; it is difficult for me to fathom that I have reached this age. My body reminds me often that we are no longer 20, my mind still remembers my youth as if it were yesterday. I vividly recall memories from my childhood, high school, and my twenties. Oh how I would love to go back and mentor my younger self.

The first thing I would tell her would be to stop striving for perfection; that only stresses you out and makes you miserable. Nobody is perfect. Next, I would tell her to wait for the man God has for her instead of rushing to get married right out of high school – marriage is such a gift when you marry your best friend. I would encourage her to not climb the ladder of success so quickly; there is something beautiful in pacing. I would remind her to call her parents more and not wait until she wasn’t so busy with her career – family is more important than your livelihood.  I would steer her away from bathing in the sun and visiting tanning beds in an effort to keep the cancer away. And I would tell her every day she was beautiful, especially on those days that others told her she wasn’t. I would be her cheerleader; her biggest fan, and best friend.

I cannot go back in time. And to be honest, I wouldn’t even if I could. The experiences I have had over the past 50 years are testimonies. We all have them and I believe we have a duty to share them in order to help others.

Age is just a number and today, dear friends, my number is 50!

~Viv

Vivian and birthday cupcake

Labels

Hat and flowers

Assumptions, accusations, pity, and blame

All emit from a society, uneducated in me

Questions, inquiries, probes, and shame

Try to blanket my existence; why can’t they see?

 

Offspring is tied to a woman’s worth

But her significance is rooted deep within

Her value is not attached to giving birth

A childless womb does not equal sin

 

A nurturing spirit is a gift from above

But some narrow it in scope

You don’t get to decide whom God gave me to love

For when He made me, He gave her hope

 

Two broken spirits, a single dad, and disrupted life

God chose to heal us, one-by-one-by one

Our lives were changed when I became his wife

Abandonment faded – I became her bonus-mom

 

Women nurture their kids, pets, and children of others

These words reflect  my life – my fable

There are many like me – idle wombs, yet loving mothers

Respect a woman – don’t judge, assume, or label

 

~Viv

Just Kiddin’

stacks of money

“Babe, Babe, stop. Put the phone down.”

“Why? I need to call somebody!”

My husband, Eddy, grabbed the phone from my hand. He was in hysterics. Barely able to speak through obnoxious laughter.

“What are you doing? I need to call somebody!”

“You can’t quit your job. It was a joke. You didn’t win.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “What? But the numbers match.”

For one minute – 60 blissful seconds, I floated on a cloud of reprieve. I was free. Free from embarrassment. Free from guilt. Free from a 10-year marital mistake, which left me floundering in a sea of red.

I was a newlywed, yet married to my past. The debt I owed had been a miraculous conception, as I had no part in creating it, but the law said I was responsible. I hated that I brought unfinished business into my new life.

“I just need enough to pay off these bills,” I had told my new beau as I climbed into the passenger seat of our Chevrolet Silverado. Our state didn’t have a lottery; we had to embark on a one-hour journey to Idaho, where, I was certain I would purchase the winning ticket. I talked of nothing more than my winning ticket all the way home. The suffocating excitement that pervaded the truck cab must have fueled my husband’s plan. Engrossed in his plot, he wouldn’t remember driving home, an eerie feeling, he later acknowledged, as we pulled into our driveway.

Three hours later, my life changed.

The prank was locked and loaded, ready to fire with one click of the refresh button.

At exactly 7:00 p.m., I sprinted upstairs to log on to the Idaho lottery website.

“All ya gotta do is click the refresh button,” Eddy instructed.

The refresh tested my patience. I was reminded of a time I waited for a tardy passenger bus in the middle of a Florida monsoon. “Hurry up already!” I yelled. “Why is our Internet so slow?” My husband didn’t answer. I was unaware he had tip-toed out of the bedroom, into the hall.

My saucer-sized eyeballs were fixed on the monitor; my body became tense as my left index finger traced the numbers when they finally appeared on the screen. The first two numbers matched. The third number matched. “Shut up!” I screamed.

I felt a shockwave of anticipation and a blinding flash of hope when the fourth number also corresponded with my ticket. I continued to scream, “Shut up!” (To this day, I do not understand my choice of vernacular during such excitement. Who, exactly, did I want to ‘shut up’?)

The fifth identical number caused me to rise from my leather chair.

The sixth number, the one that controls the jackpot, ushered in a tidal wave of hysteria.

“Shut up! Hey Babe, we won! We freakin’ won the lottery! I need to call somebody,” I squealed, reaching for the cordless phone.

Eddy came rushing into the bedroom. He hadn’t been far; he witnessed the whole spectacle from the neighboring bathroom. He was all smiles, but for an entirely different reason. He wasn’t smiling because he was a millionaire.

You see, Eddy was a gifted web designer. His talent included the ability to mimic websites. Three hours earlier, he copied my numbers into a fake Idaho State Lottery website, to which he developed. It looked real, thus creating the illusion that mine were the winning numbers. Gifts and talents should be used for good, not evil, just sayin’.

“Babe, Babe, stop. Put the phone down.”

“Why? I need to call somebody!”

“No”, you can’t quit your job. It was a joke. You didn’t win.”

And just like that, I went from being poor, to rich, then back to poor. All within 60 seconds.

As far as jokes go, this was, by far, one of the best. Yes, I eventually paid off that pesky debt. Yes, Eddy and I are still married, though he was in the dog house for a while after the prank. But, I am happy to report, a few years later, I played those same numbers, and guess what? I actually won the Idaho State Lottery!

Just kiddin’.

~Viv

Just Breathe

Poppy in field of Baby's Breath

Heavy. I can not move. My right leg is eager, willing to handle the weight of my body, but it resents having to do so. Sure, it is a part of a team, but for an entire year, it has had to carry the left. It is tired, worn out, disproportioned. Not as disproportioned as her sister, for she is disfigured in a different way.

Cancer has a way of taking something away from you. Your hair, your life, your dreams, your mobility – and sometimes it takes away your lymph nodes, those tiny nodules that you never think about until they are stripped from the confines of your body. Though there are many, removing just two can disrupt the entire system, creating heaviness, burning, and a sense of fullness from deep inside. Some days I don’t want to get out of bed, despite my doctors assuring me that the pain I feel when my foot hits the ground is good for me; it is worth it, they say, walking is medicinal.

My toes, now fat little sausages, burn from the inside out as thick fluid builds up begging for a place to escape. I wish I could drill a hole in them to relieve the pressure and drain the pain. I wish I could feel my skin, but it is blanketed with a layer of scar tissue that has left a scaly, lifeless indention. I used to have cute feet. The bubblegum toe polish is just a façade.

I am told to breathe – that deep breathing helps move trapped lymph fluid. I have to admit, I don’t do it. Seems like a bunch of bullshit to me – breathing can’t possibly relieve the constant pressure and pain I feel in my lower extremity. And it certainly can’t take away the disfigurement; the crater that stage IV melanoma so cruelly left behind. But today I tried. Today I took deep breaths. I concentrated on my fat toes. I visualized my reddish-purple foot and ankle releasing the evil toxins that hold them captive. I imagined the crater closing up and the thick juice turning into a flowing river of necessity. My thigh welcomed the prodigal solution – it had been waiting for its return. The system had been restored, if only for a while. It will take repetition; a concentrated effort of self-love to reunite, but the time invested is worth it. Breathe my sweet sister; you are alive. Breathe, my love, for you have been healed. You are a survivor. Just breathe.

~Viv

Just Breathe Rocks and flower
                                                                                                                                          Photo credit: Vicki McLead

 

My First Job

Mason jar of lemonade

I was finally going to make some real cash. I was tired of being broke and unable to have the finer things in life. Becoming an entrepreneur and selling my own product was a surefire way to guarantee home ownership.

This is what I told my two homeless Barbies in the summer of 1978. I just celebrated my sixth birthday and was having regret that I didn’t ask for the pink and yellow Barbie Dream House I saw in the Sears catalog. My Barbies had never owned a house. Instead, they lounged around my parent’s house all day. When bedtime rolled around, they retired to the cramped quarters of my old Raggedy Ann and Andy lunchbox. I apologized to the plastic beauties every night as I shoved them inside and blanketed their contorted bodies with piles of tiny clothes and accessories. “I am opening a lemonade stand; I’ll be able to buy you a home soon,” I promised as I closed the lid on their hopeful faces.

Thanks to my Grandma Schmidt, I already had a fine collection of inflatable furniture for my Barbies’ future home. I had a living room, bedroom, and kitchen set. The orange floral print of the couch, chair, and coffee table didn’t match the green design of the bedroom furniture, but it wouldn’t matter once inside the Dream House. The kitchen furniture was yellow. My older sister wasn’t into Barbies anymore, so she gave me a plastic Barbie bathtub she acquired years earlier. I don’t remember there being a toilet, sink, or vanity – surely I had those too, right? The bathtub was cool though – it made bubbles. With a little bit of water, a drop of kitchen soap, and a few pumps of a button at the foot of the tub, I was able to create a mountain of fluffy white suds.

When I told my mom about my career choice, she was supportive. She even helped me procure the supplies necessary for my lemonade stand: a Tupperware pitcher, a stack of Dixie cups, and a tiny packet of yellow lemonade. I insisted on making the tart liquid myself. Mom smiled as she backed away from the counter and let me take charge. I had seen her do it thousands of times – empty the lemon-flavored powder into the pitcher, add sugar and water, stir, and then add one more cup of sugar. Okay, my mom never added a second cup of sugar, that was my idea. Nothing but the best for my customers.

Real estate was easy to come by for my business. I simply chose the front yard of our house. Between the street and sidewalk, I erected a folding T.V. tray and metal chair in the grass. I placed the pitcher of lemonade and stack of small Dixie cups on the T.V. tray – I don’t remember displaying a sign, but each cup of my lemon brew would cost consumers 10 cents.

My mom suggested I have a change box in the event someone gave me a big bill, like a dollar. I repurposed an old “My School Box” that previously held Kindergarten supplies. What once housed pencils, crayons, scissors, and Elmer’s School Paste (I can literally smell that paste as I write this!) now held loose change for my lemonade business.

I only had one customer that day, but I will never forget him. Not because he was my one and only customer, but because I almost killed the man.

He was a police officer. One of Chickasha’s finest, who patrolled our small Oklahoma neighborhood. I waved at him as he approached my stand in his police car. When he pulled up alongside the curb. I could see inside the passenger window. There were lots of flashing lights and buttons on the dash.

“Whatcha got going on over here?” the police officer asked as he exited his car. His thick brown mustache couldn’t hide the handsome smile on his face.

“I’m sellin’ lemonade. Do you want some? Ten cents a cup!”

“Why, I was just thinkin’ I was thirsty,” he said reaching for his wallet.

Ecstatic, I immediately went to work, carefully pouring the yellow juice into one Dixie cup. The police officer held the cup for me; the pitcher was heavy – I had to use two hands.

Once filled, I handed him the cup and he, in turn, handed me a crisp one-dollar bill.

“You can keep the change,” he informed me as he lifted the cup to his lips and took a swig. Suddenly, he started gagging and coughing uncontrollably. I watched in horror as he attempted to catch his breath and gain  composure. His eyes watered and bulged at the same time. When he could finally speak, he muffled, “It’s good.” He managed to choke down the rest of it and handed me the empty cup with a weak smile.

“Good luck with your sales,” he said as he walked back to the driver’s side of the police car, still coughing.

After an hour, I decided I no longer wanted a career in lemonade sales. I didn’t want a Barbie Dream House anymore either. I had made a whole dollar – not bad, I thought, for my first job. A dollar was more than enough to buy a new bag of shiny marbles from TG&Y – and that is what I did.

~Viv

 

Me at a lemonade stand I found while exploring Bodega Bay, California (November 2021)

 

Love Your Heart

Red High Heels

One year ago, I found myself in a hospital bed in the Emergency Room hooked up to all sorts of machines. The little sticky pads on my chest were making my skin itch. I was having trouble breathing, even with the oxygen mask covering my nose and mouth. The nurse had trouble finding a vein in my right arm, so she took blood, which would be tested for the protein, Troponin T from the top of my right hand. What a horrible place to stick a needle.

Thirty minutes earlier, I passed out at home while teleworking in my office. I had been feeling tired for about a week and my heart seemed to be beating extra hard. It fluttered, then felt like it would stop, then restart within a matter of seconds. The restart felt like a kick in the chest, but from the inside. The start-stop ritual had been going on for a week; it kept me up at night. Yet, it took me hitting the ground to do something about it.

Why do we do that to ourselves? Why do we procrastinate when it comes to our health?

Another nurse came in with a tiny cup of water and one aspirin. “Take this,” she instructed. It wasn’t until I was given an aspirin that it dawned on me how dumb it was that I drove myself to the hospital. My husband, Eddy, and our kids didn’t have a clue I was there.

I was being carefully monitored by nurses and machines, but I was all alone. I managed to stay connected to the machines as I leaned over to the visitor’s chair in the corner and grabbed my purse. I pulled out my phone, but before I could dial Eddy’s number, it rang in my hand.

“Hello?” I inquired, not recognizing the phone number.

“Ms. Cumins, this is Dr. Neuenschwander’s office with Tanner Clinic, Dermatology. We received the results of your biopsy; it is cancer and we need to schedule you for surgery immediately.”

“Is this seriously happening”? I said aloud.

“Excuse me?” The women on the other end said. Bless her heart, she had no idea what I was currently going through.

“Nothing,” I replied.

I had gone to the dermatologist a week prior and had a biopsy on a spot on my left shin. Honestly, I didn’t think about that visit until right then. I could hear the beeps coming from the machine next to me. My heart was starting to beat faster. I needed to call Eddy; this was all just too much.

“Hey babe, don’t get mad or freak out, but I am in the Emergency Room. They are checking my heart,” I told him. My voice started to quiver. “And I just got a call from dermatology that the spot on my leg is cancer and I have to have surgery.”

I can only imagine the shock, worry, and anger that flooded over my husband in that moment. I quietly accepted the lecture coming through the receiver. I shouldn’t have driven myself; I should have called him or an ambulance – he was right in all he had to say. I could hear the worry in his voice, so I simply listened, and agreed. Then, as is typical for my husband, he provided comforting, positive words of wisdom that promised we would get through this together. If you follow my blog, you already know my cancer journey. If you don’t know, you can read the story here.

Two hours later, I walked out of the Emergency Room with referral paperwork in hand. Thanks be to God, I had not had a heart attack; however, my heart rhythm was severely ‘off’ and I was being sent to a Cardiologist, where I would undergo an echocardiogram and a nuclear cardiac stress test.

I was in the middle of two major health crises; which one do I tackle first? My newly acquired medical team suggested we get to the bottom of my heart rhythm issue first, then take on the cancer surgery. So, that is what we did.

Premature Ventricular Contractions”, otherwise known as “PVCs”. That was my diagnosis. My heart was throwing in extra heartbeats – 400 extra beats per minute. The good news was my heart was otherwise healthy. Medication would bring my heart rhythm back into sync; and to this day, I remain ‘flutter-free’.

Today, the first Friday in February, is about the HEART.

National Wear Red Day is celebrated each year on the first Friday in February. On this day, people wear the color red to raise and spread awareness in hope to help eradicate heart disease and stroke across the nation. Check out the links below for more information.

I am Crazy Blessed, y’all. A lot has happened since I was in that hospital bed in February 2021. I am still here. I have purpose and a calling. I accept each day as a gift. And I take care of myself.

Love your heart, my dear friends. Not just today, but always.

American Heart Association

National Wear Red Day

Women and Heart Disease

~Viv

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