Lucky

 

Last year on 11-7-11 our family adopted a kitten named “Lucky”.  I often look at her and think about what she endured at just 10 weeks old, and how she appears to have absolutely no attachment to the pain or to the loss that she may have experienced as I watch her playing with her toys, chasing what seems to be nothing, and begging for treats next to the dogs who have trained her so well.  Maybe she understands that she had to experience some hardships in her short life to get to the life that she was destined and blessed to live? 

Lucky was left for dead in a school yard in one of Chicago’s worst and most violent Southside public schools.  Someone had placed a miniature noose around her tiny neck and attached it carefully to a wire fence on a school yard leaving her there to die.  I would imagine that the people who did this have done terrible things to other animals.  I would imagine the people who did this have had horrible things done to them.  But I do not feel that I should judge them sitting here in my suburban glory; I do not feel that the lesson of the kitten lies anywhere within the pain that someone felt they needed to inflict upon the kitten to alleviate the pain of a life that someone like myself could not even begin to understand.

 Conversely, I do find within myself very deep appreciation for, and a reflective need to honor the children who found her in time.   It is profound to imagine the children who must have been brought up in very much the same environment as the ones who inflicted the death sentence on the kitten.  But instead of leaving her there, these children chose love over pain, and saw some value in her little life, and perhaps at that moment, the kitten had awakened some value in their own lives too.  The children who were running and playing were given an opportunity on that day to be more than just kids playing.  Those kids were given the opportunity to be heroes in a place where heroes are rarely seen; Right there opportunity met them on their own playground. 

When they found the kitten, I can picture a scene where one of them lifted her away from the tension of the noose and held her still, while the other child untied her as friends looked on. I can imagine how they felt empathy maybe for the first time, while speaking of how cute she was, and how everyone together wanted to help too.  I envision the one who was holding her above her noose, putting her neatly into his coat and zipping it up to help to protect and warm her as he ran her back to the safety of the inside of the school to tell his  teacher.  I picture the feeling of warmth inside his heart, as he felt the safety of the kitten, so very small, resting calmly within the security in between his coat and his warm body. I envision the kindness within the hearts of the others, when they realized that they had done something good in a world where it often seemed that little good could be done. 

When the children got to the doorway and brought the tiny infant kitten to their teacher they were worried about what would happen to her now.  These kids had seen so many horrific things in their short lives, and they could relate to the pain of the kitten who like themselves, had seen too much pain in her short time here on earth.  She seemed okay though, and she still looked back at them with love, for she held no resentment towards people, but instead the kitten basked in the gratitude for the moment of the celebration of her survival, as she purred in the arms of the child who found it within him to save her.

The teacher made sure that little Lucky found her way to an animal shelter where she would remain until our family found her.  My cat Jake had just died three weeks prior.  Jake was also found in a situation that seemed to have no way out.  He found warmth on the gas tank of a dually pickup truck hauling horses from the stable where he was born to be one of many barn cats.  The driver kept hearing what sounded like meows coming from somewhere inside the cab.  When they found the kitten still hanging on for dear life to the gas tank after hours of driving in the rain, they decided to name him Lucky.  Twenty years later, after a blessed life, he passed the torch to the new Lucky in our lives. 

When Rene and I walked into the Pet Smart on that Saturday we had no intention of getting a kitten.  I was looking at pure breeds, like Ragdoll kittens and Bengals, online all night the night before, and I really had completely convinced myself that I wanted to buy from a breeder this time.  Rene was convinced that we were not getting a cat of any kind, so when he said, “Let’s go look at the cats”, I almost fell over.   

“Okay.” I said surprised, but I got really keyed up inside, like my intuition was speaking to me to go and take a look, especially since Rene had suggested it, and he was so against getting another cat.  It was an unusual day at Pet Smart, and on that particular day the Safe Harbor Shelter was there, and there were many, many kittens visiting for the weekend in the hope that someone would take them to their new forever home. 

I curiously looked into all of the cages. They were placed on stands that were right out on the sales floor, not inside the cattery behind glass as they usually were.  Many families were there holding kittens.  We had our dogs with us on leashes, and they were curiously looking in at the kittens, and behaving respectfully, as they always do.  I spotted a little gray and white female kitten in a cage of three or four black kitties who were playing wildly while she sat contently and watched.  I stuck my hand inside her cage and she bent her neck so that I could scratch her behind her ears.  She was so beautiful and delicate looking, and seemed so sweet and quiet so I asked if I could hold her.  “I have never had a female pet.”, I thought, and I was drawn to her.  I pictured a pink girly bedroom for her full of frilly pink toys, and pink bedding.   

 A woman from the shelter came up to me and said, “Oh, you’re holding Lucky.”

“Lucky?” I said. The woman who ran the shelter told me about Lucky’s story, and I was positive that she would be coming home with us.  I was overwhelmed right then, with the awareness that she was indeed our cat; that for certain she had been sent to us and for us. No more dreams of pure bred Bengals and Ragdolls, we had most certainly been called to this rescue and rescue now we would.  I have never once regretted this kitten, and she has become one of the greatest gifts of my life, one of the greatest blessings of our family.     

This kitten was not ever intended to be a cat of the streets of Chicago, hunting for food and living out her days in a cruel and harsh world, but while she was there she had to endure, she had to fight, and she had to push through those horrible and frightening days in order to find us.  I often think about the lessons in the story, and I know that her destiny, her purpose was wrapped and packaged so neatly within those lessons. I think that we are often times put in agonizing situations to teach and learn lessons, and in turn we are rewarded for our sacrifices when we see our way through, and we can look back and see the path which was to be our own fate both as the student and as the teacher. 

Perhaps it is simply that the lesson of the kitten is found within the journey; as she offers us a lesson of endurance, of fortitude, and a lesson in patience, as we trudge along to overcome hardships in our own daily lives.  Perhaps her message is simply to teach us that if we learn to walk through our lives unafraid of the pain, with very little attachment to the outcome, and with no worry; there will undoubtedly be a promise of freedom, peace, love, and serenity right there waiting in front of us.  The lesson of the kitten is one of great hope and optimism.  Hope for the future of the kids who saved her in their school yard, hope for us that we can endure anything, and hope for the kitten who was graciously rewarded the beautiful life that we are blessed to be able to give her. 

On November 7, 2011, Lucky became another lucky cat, who will live out her life blessed with gratitude, as she is forever carrying the gifts of the lessons her sweet soul came to leave us with on that day. 

(In keeping with the tradition of the Lucky who came before her, Lucky’s name has been changed to Coco.)   

Herd Bound

This is the story of the special herd saved by a caring individual, who found another caring individual who knew just what to do to get this herd home. This story is nothing short of a miracle, and has provided me so much hope for the future of all of us. (Our girl Sara is pictured here resting her head on a friend)   

Paint horses are mystical creatures surrounded with spirit, and each one has as much mystique as the divinely designed flawlessness in the markings that make them each so distinctive. I now own a Paint; she was one of a herd of nineteen others, mostly Paints like herself, that I played a part in rescuing this past summer.  I witnessed proof of compassionate humanity existing among us as I saw hundreds of friends looking at posts of pictures of the almost forgotten ill fated herd on Facebook. This group grew to become an unstoppable force of hopeful humanitarians that magically orchestrated a new and hopeful reality for these horses.

 I took an enormous leap of faith and picked the mare out of a lineup of photos. I couldn’t stop going to her picture and looking at the side view of her face and eye. It looked like there was a beautiful painting of a swan on her right side and a dragon with a full wing span on the left. Up by the top of her neck near her ear was a tiny picture of a horse that looked like an Egyptian cave drawing I thought.

Her eyes were what really struck me though.  They had bold expression in them and though you could see the white, like so many paints, it was not like a mistrusting eye that makes a person leery of a horse, it seemed more like an intelligent eye that could look right into your soul. Her eye was one that could soften you, explain your fears, your pain, or anything that deep kind eye needed to teach you at the exact moment you needed to learn the lesson. That eye could demonstrate kindness, bring you warmth, understanding, and an eye like hers could even heal you. I saw in her something that I desired, and although initially I knew that I would be rescuing her, I also knew with great faith and clarity that she would come into my life to salvage me, to awaken me, to heal me, but most importantly to teach me.

 

The herd, which had learned to move like an easy river over rock, and sludge, and any further difficult terrain put before them, was in trouble. There were nineteen horses all total, and each had been fattened up, and housed drug free for the 90 day waiting period needed for a kill buyer to ship them alive to Canada and then onward overseas to countries where eating horse meat was now a popular delicacy enjoyed often by patrons of fancy European restaurants.

The herd’s original owner was a dying woman who was given an ultimatum by her husband. She had spent years laboriously developing this herd of beautiful breeding stock which she had enjoyed and loved like her very own children. They each had registration papers and pedigrees miles long that seemed to tell the story of a proud woman who could boastfully talk about the horses she owned and bred for pleasure. When she was weak and ailing, the resentment her husband felt from the time lost to her prized horses, coupled with the expense of taking care of an entire herd of horses, had overtaken him enough that he forced her to sell the last facade of joy in her life to a single buyer. Sadly, the rare buyer buys herds of beautiful horses, so they were sold to a horse dealer, a kill buyer we call them in the industry, who would prepare them to be sold for top dollar by the pound for overseas slaughter, a fast growing and lucrative business in these hard economic times.

In our country, horses are a national treasure that have enriched our history so much that we can hardly even imagine the horrors that go on, and we often choose not to acknowledge these misfortunes as horses are shipped out of our country where they can be consumed in cultures that accept them as food. I have been blessed to know enough of horses personally to believe that whenever possible, they should be given a chance at the best life we can offer them.  Sadly for this herd, the house of cards they had fallen victim to, had finally come down, and they were no longer safe from the harsh reality that existing here on earth can sometimes bring.

 

 

The herd knew nothing of their impending doom as they moved quietly through a simple life that had defined them for so long. They worked cooperatively as one pack and no horse among them was either the leader or the follower. They had learned to live together without competition, they were a team, and they had learned to move as one strong entity. They shared space, food, and water; they groomed each other, and slept outside together under trees or shelters that may or may not have been provided them by the humans who were to care for them. They had developed love and affection for one another over years of shared experiences, and each individual in no way felt that any of the others were separate from them. Bound for slaughter, though they had no way of knowing, they had formed a pact that together they were safe, but separate they were uncertain.

 

The hired driver of the goose neck horse trailer pulled into the kill buyers’ driveway and loaded the first ones she could catch. She immediately took note as to how magnificent they were, and when she was handed the appropriate paperwork for slaughter bound horses, something in her drove her to plead with the kill buyer. Maybe it was the colorful herds’ uniqueness and oneness that had saved them, and somewhere buried just below the surface of the kill buyers own humanity was enough consideration to impel him to give her permission to sell them, if she did it quickly enough, and he received his money. Facebook lit up as the message of desperation and hope was passed along from the shipper to her friend who runs a Michigan horse rescue who quickly moved and decided it was right, as animal rescuers know all too well, to get the word out about this herd and their dire story as this was their only and last hope.

I see countless horse’s faces every day on Facebook that need or are looking for homes, they all have a story in their eyes and it all seems so hopeless. When the first post caught my eye, I admit ashamedly that I glazed over it thinking that I would share it but it would end there. There are so many dismal pictures plastered over my wall that I am overwhelmed by them all, thinking that I cannot possibly do anything to stop this madness of homeless horse after homeless horse. “Too many”, I thought with a head shake. “But I will pass the word along anyway.”

My friend who owns the rescue did not share my languid attitude at all and instead stressed the urgency of the looming situation at every turn and enough times that I could no longer ignore her pleas. “These horses have until Friday to live, and there are many more where these came from.” the post read. There was a photo of a beautiful bay gelding that caught my eye immediately. He was a thick and sturdy looking quarter horse, who somehow was thrown into the mix of breeding mares.

 

“How on earth did this guy get here?” I thought as I looked at his picture, which showed his confident demeanor and strong stance, “He looks like a riding horse, not a brood mare.” I thought out loud.

As a riding school owner I was in need of a lesson horse perhaps, or even a horse I can lease out to one of my clients. We can train any horse if they are level headed enough and this was a robust, handsome quarter horse, so I inquired. When I spoke to the driver she had a strong voice with heart and mileage behind it. She was a trainer too and she informed me that this horse was very sensitive to leg aids and probably could not have a beginner rider on him.

 I really appreciated her honesty, and thought that even though she only had a few days to home this group, she was not going to sell him to the wrong home. So he was not to be my horse, but now the seed was planted that I should continue the search for the right horse. I watched facebook all night after that and noticed that there were some takers on this first group. “If we get this first group homes,” my friend from the rescue posted, “We can get the next group homes and keep on going.”

 

The first group of four was sold before the Friday deadline. It seemed like a miracle as we all held our breath and looked at the daily reminders and the comments from onlookers. There were plenty of “I wish I had more room”ers  and “I wish I had the money”ers, and an abundance of oohers and aahers, but the actual buyers, those willing to take a leap of faith and listen to instinct and intuition from just a cell phone picture, those were the people we needed to find, and the rescue farm owner knew that the only way this herd would survive was to share, share, and share some more.

 

The next group of four was picked up by Monday and we were off to the races yet again to find the next batch of would be owners for them. There was a handsome chestnut gelding in this bunch that interested me but he was described as too green for my needs, and the others were not exactly right either. One by one we shared and shared the pictures of the innocent faces of these kind horses, and had to watch with our breath held as the owner of the Michigan rescue stuck the neck of her rescue efforts out to save them, pleading with the Facebook community to share and repost so everyone could see them. She actually had people asking her why they weren’t free horses, questioning her integrity, and the integrity of the rescue, leading her to pose the question “What is a horse rescue?” and “Who qualifies as a recue horse?”

 

I watched in anguish as she fought for her cause as she so often does, but knew that my horse was not in this second group. Some of my fellow trainer friends were getting agitated on my shared posts saying things like, “Come on people! These horses deserve homes, they deserve a chance.” Someone even reminded us all that the famous Snowman was once a rescue horse and he was bought for $200 and went on to become one of the greatest show jumping legends of all time.

“One of these could be the next Snowman”, she pleaded, which lead one of our peers, a professional horseman within the hunter jumper community to step up and become a Facebook hero when he bought the chestnut gelding who had such an innocence about him that we could hardly stand waiting to see if he had to be shipped to a deadly fate. All four were sold by Friday and the kill buyer got his cash in hand late that afternoon. I heard a collective cheer seemingly through the vibration of my laptop on Facebook that night, and I cried for the horses that had no idea they were in danger, no idea that tonight they had been saved.

 

Pleased with his fast money, he told the shipper to take the last group of horses in their entirety and sell them. She was given two weeks this time. When she arrived there, she put as many in her trailer as she could catch and made a few trips. She had to leave two behind because one was a stallion who was too wild and unruly to load into the trailer, and the other one was so lame and elderly that she could hardly stand up any longer.

Her heart was broken as she drove away unable to keep her promise to the herd. When she got the horses to her farm she tied them all to a hitching post to bathe them and assess the situation. Some of the horses were very rarely handled by people and were frightened. One horse was so afraid that she tried to break loose from the holding area and tragically slipped, fell, and broke her neck. The horse had to be destroyed the old fashioned way with a bullet at the scene with the whole herd looking on. The kill buyer insisted that the shipper pay for the dead horse, so money had to be added to the prices of the last group in order to make up for the one that had died.

It was to her the worst most heartless experience of her life, and although she was doing the best she could and felt called to do the work, she could not help but feel the enormity of the tragedy which had unfolded before her. Unfortunately she was not a Facebook user, and she had no idea of the rally that was going on behalf of the herd.  She had no idea that people across nations were now rooting for them, and the driving force behind finding the members each homes had become virtually unstoppable.

The powerful determination of Facebookians far and wide would see nothing but a happy ending to this story. With the rescue owner at the helm of the motion to push through, the wall post read, “Slaughter Bound herd in Michigan in need of homes now!” We all shared, and shared again the message of impending doom each day, posting the album of the individual pictures of each horse like “wanted” signs all over our walls and the walls of our friends, and pretty soon we had roughly a thousand onlookers behind us.

 

The final and largest batch was posted on a Friday. I remember getting very restless to see them and knowing that my horse was probably among this last group of horses. I recall checking my facebook page, my friends’ personal page, and her rescue’s page several times that day, and when the pictures finally came out I saw my Sara. She was called “Honey” because her papers said “Honey Dus Print”. I looked at her photo for a long, long time. People were making comments beside her picture saying things like, “This is my pick.” “Save this one for me.”, and, “This is my dream horse can I have her?”

 

Honey Dus Print

 

 

I said nothing, made not one comment or even a “like”, as I did not want to bring any more attention to the photographs of the horse I knew would be my own. I remember calling my husband on the phone at work and asking him to look at her photo. “She’s nice.” he said with indifference behind his tone.

 

           Saturday and Sunday, I looked at the photo several times, and looked deeply into the one showing eye of the horse I had already named Sara after my guardian angel.  I could not stop thinking about her. “She is not a beginner horse you know.” my pragmatic husband said with a coolness in his voice. “If we are going to buy a horse Rhonda,” he said sensibly, “We really need a horse that is useful to us right away.” I stayed quiet because I knew he was not wrong about any of it, his reasons were realistic, and practical, but I couldn’t stop staring at her photograph. More and more comments were lining up underneath her photo as the hours went on.

“SLAUGHTER BOUND HERD IN DANGER AND IN NO WAY SAFE!!!” The haunting description read, “We have only two weeks to sell the rest of them or they WILL get shipped.” The photo share caption threatened and I shuddered to imagine that beautiful, perfect mare on a trailer heading to a holding pen, and eventually on to an airplane, and then perhaps countless more dangerous holding pens preparing her for a devastating fate. It was her journey that worried me the most, and I thought about the immeasurable number of other beautiful horses who never even get the chance to be seen on facebook.

I stared at her photograph all night until it seemed that I knew her. The vibrant colors on her sides seemed to blend now, morphing into one large painting of another perfect horse losing hope.

 

          No one had taken any of them in yet and it was Monday morning. “Two weeks from last Friday comes so fast.” I thought out loud. “Someone else would have bought her already if she was not meant to be ours.” I convinced myself. I was folding laundry and feeling so anxious about her and in a moment of hopeful panic I picked up the phone and dialed the number of the shipper who had stumbled upon the ill fated herd. I felt I could trust her because she had been so very forthright with me when I called about the bay gelding from the first group.

If she hadn’t have answered the phone I would have questioned myself and might not have attempted another call. She told me that she had never seen such a horrible scene, and that she would never do anything like this again, as she was affected so profoundly that she would never be the same. I remember thinking with great clarity and conviction that she was being utilized as an angel, and how through the wreckage and the heartache she could not see this yet.

I remember trying to comfort her in vane as she shared with me the story about the dying woman who had owned this herd, and how she could never forgive herself if she didn’t see this herd through, and finally she told me quietly about the two whom she had to leave behind. Tears streamed down my face as I listened and empathically felt her pain, noticing the words weakening as they came from her once strong voice which now cracked as she spoke to me.

My reply felt cold but I was honest. “I don’t think I can do it because she is not exactly what we need.” Then with a softening voice I told the truth, “There is something about her picture though that I just can’t shake.” I spoke with hope in my voice, “I promise you,” I said with sincerity, “I will call my husband and call you right back if I can take her.” As I hung up the phone I was confident that she would never expect a call back from me, and I also knew for certain that I had only a moment to get my husband on the phone.

 

I contemplated the uncertainty of his answer and knew that I had to be careful. But I also knew that my husband understands how fate and intuition play a large role in our lives way more than I ever give him credit for, so I spoke from my heart. I spoke of my experience on the phone with the woman and told him the story she had shared with me. He was quiet but he knew that we had to do what was right by this mare. He too had gone back to her picture several times, though he had been much more discreet about it. “Let’s get her.” He said in a calm strong voice.  I sat stunned for a moment, “Go ahead and call her back.” He repeated, noting my breathless silence. 

 

I am not sure if I even said goodbye to him, but I do remember that I couldn’t hang up the phone and redial fast enough. My hand fumbled recklessly on the keys once or twice.  I then had to concentrate and redial the number more slowly as I was not going to make an untimely mistake in dialing it again when I had only moments to spare.

I anxiously asked how to pay for her.  I could feel my heart beating strongly against my chest as I momentarily assessed the impulsivity of the act I was about to embark on. Nevertheless, when she sent me to her PayPal account, I spared not even a minute before making the transfer, and within moments she was ours.

I pensively sat on the bed where I had made the calls, sitting precisely where I had spent hours looking at her photo and the photo of the herd together so many times, and recognized that I had just made a profound and significant decision for all of us. Chills blew through me as I connected gratefully with the guidance that I had listened to, and I knew, without any evidence of remorse, that I had done the right thing and that Sara was finally coming home.

 

I proudly posted a comment under the beautiful photo showing our Honey, my Sara, declaring that she was sold and confirming to all of the onlookers that we had bought her. A sudden and immediate barrage of posts flooded the photograph. There were now 30 or 40 comments underneath her picture congratulating me on our new horse. I felt completely uncertain of what journey lay before me, but I knew one thing, at that instant I knew that I could breathe again because she was safe. I had never felt so much relief, and now I could wait for her safe arrival, and deal with the next chapter of our journey as it came, knowing with great faith that I had listened to the right voice this time. I was now able to continue to help find homes for the others, as I was now able to begin to lead by example.

 

          All of the horses found homes and followed suit after Sara was sold. No horse that was taken to the shelter of the kind shippers’ barn would have to endure a grueling slaughter journey. The final horse that remained from the herd did not find a home within the strict time frame. She was an older mare who was plainer looking than the others, and barely broke, but she was slow and kind. An anonymous donor from our group of faithful Facebook friends, found it in their heart to pay for the last and final horse so that the shipper could put the payments behind her, on time, and begin to heal herself as she now had the occasion to find the perfect home for this final mare, which she did just a couple of weeks after the deadline.

The more time I spend with our Sara, the more that I appreciate how the herd acted as one. I think about the parallels of the work we all did together that was much like the work of the herd, and how really simple our place and purpose is as individuals. We are here to learn that we are all more the same than we are different; That when the universe asks us to step up, we can either choose to disregard the call, or we can become a powerful force that rallies around each other sharing the simple message before us, because after all we do recognize the idea that as one we are just one, but as a working herd we are the sum of our whole.

Together, we witnessed all of the posting and sharing that began with one and multiplied into a flock of many who had just one goal in mind. The goal, though it seemed to be as simple as the saving of some horses, was about the humanity that binds us together and the hope of people who proudly want to proclaim that love always wins. The herd was nothing but a reminder of the lesson, and living with the blessing that is Sara in my everyday life, I am reminded of the power of all of us together for one purpose, as we are as strong or as weak as the herd that was built out of a dream of one, which went on to become a vision of hope for so many.

When we glance back at the tragedy of the misbegotten herd, separated but bound as a whole, living forever within each of us who were lucky enough to be touched by this story that we all chose generously and collectively to share, we can hear a quiet undertone that reminds each of us that wherever we look, we will always find love seamlessly within one great herd moving together steadily throughout our lives.

 

If you would like to help rescued horses like Sara who are still looking for permanent placement, sponsorship adoption, and donations, please visit www.sandstonefarm.info

Call From a Seraph

 A call from a seraph you did ascend

From the ashes of your elapsed herd

You knew not the danger of your present

 You moved as one  

A herald found you there

Before you to be saved  

But you did not know

 From what or where you would be

Your mane shown the colors of the sun

 Bleached with stories of collective love

 Ambitious love found no arrangement within your spirit

You stayed close to ground

 Let naught interfere with the pitch of nourishing love

You acted collectively

Moved gradually through your fate

You were found singly

 Pried apart like layers of wallpaper 

Separated from your group

You stood strong in your wisdom unaided

But aching to know that the others were okay

 In doubt of your conclusion

Troubled only on behalf of the prospect of the group

You found solace as you moved through four walls of unfamiliar concrete

 Bravely with a now guarded heart

You walked through the gates

Knowing to trust directly that the universe would care for one such as you

We looked at each other with immediate

 Unadulterated understanding of the enormity of the moment  

 You breathed life into my ear and inhaled my core

Our pain was vanishing now and we could return to the calm we knew before

 It would never be the same

Your new herd approaches

 You rest tranquil upon the humanity and compassion of a fresh life

 Cosseted asylum from a destiny that was not to be

The walls which encircle you surface as fitting now

Our authentic work can at last commence

The Every Mother

In honor of Mother's day, may you each be blessed with an 'Everymother'

"She is like a second mom to me."  Music to my ears as my son Ryan describes the mother of one of his closest friends.  I know that his 'everymothers' are so important to his becoming a great man who has learned to appreciate the effortless thoughtfulness of great women.  And my heart is full when my neighbor's son Matthew asks me why my mashed potatoes taste so good.  I readily reply, "Because I've cooked them with love sweetheart."

"I could tell." he says, with a full mashed potato cheeked twinkling smile.  Only an 'everymother' could appreciate that kind of heartfelt admiration.  My mashed potatoes have become my 'everymother' staple.  I even have one 'allchild' that receives them in a take home container for her birthday every year.   

I myself was a lucky 'allchild' to several 'everymothers'.  Ginger's mom was an adventurous 'everymother'.  Mrs. Ross taught me how to eat artichokes, walk two Great Danes at once, and she had Maryland crabs shipped to their home, live and bedded in huge boxes of seaweed a couple of times a year.  I remember having crab races on the linoleum floor in Mrs. Ross's kitchen.  I often make artichokes and think of Mrs. Ross and the excitement that seemed to swirl around the Ross home, and I still can walk two large dogs with the best of them.  The crab racing however is best kept as a fond recollection, as some adventures are not for every 'everymother'.

I was an 'allchild' to Molly's mom too.  Mrs. Stephenson could bake a key lime pie that with each bite would take you straight into the deep south.  Her graham cracker crust was incredible.  I still can not quite master it, or perhaps because it was made with her loving hands it just does not come out the same.  Mrs. Stephenson would always set an extra place at the table for our dolls, and during sleep overs she would tuck the dolls in too and kiss them good night.   Mrs. Stephenson loved animals as much as she loved children.  She especially liked the wild ones, and was often known to leave treats for the squirrels outside and I loved how she giggled when she watched them take her gifts with their cute little paws.  Being the good 'everymother' that she was, she even took in a stray motherless raccoon into her home.  She bottle fed the little guy until it was time to set him free, and she told me in great detail with tears in her eyes about how she felt when she let him go.  I have never forgotten her selfless and gifted way with children and animals alike.

 As I became a teen, the 'everymothers' slipped into the background, as did our own parents. Except for one, and my memories of her tireless pursuit to be a mother to all who knew her, is the origin of my desire to carry the 'everymother' torch.  Other than my own mother, she was the person who I knew truly cared about and loved me in a way only a true 'everymother' could.  She had the ability to show her children and 'allchildren' a positive and simple world in a way that is so easy to forget in the midst of the everyday complexities of teenage life.  This kind of caring is the central mission of the 'everymother', and Mrs. Nemer had a way of making us see, and smell, and taste, the glory in each day.

Mrs. Nemer was the mother of six kids.  When I embarked on the doorstep of the Nemer family home, and was quickly made an honorary Nemer, I was a senior in high school who had just relocated from a different town.  Her two daughters were my fast found best friends and I always felt as though we had all known each other forever.  The four Nemer boys ranged from ages 9 to 21.  The Nemer home was an entertaining place to be all of the time, with a constant flow of 'allchildren' there enjoying the freedom of being in a house with six kids, all with different personalities, and six different groups of friends.  There was always something to do when you were there.  We played games in their pool, cards at the card table, and we talked and talked while listening to fantastic music, and watching many sunsets and sunrises from the front porch of their Michigan house. 

I spent so many summer nights with my friends Mary Ann, and Anne, and the three of us, with the complications of our youthful angst, could always count on their mom to remind us of the simplicity that surrounded us.  "What a beautiful night." she would proclaim.  With the timing of a master she would ask, "Have you ever seen so many stars?" We hadn't bothered to notice, but when she said it, it was like a dose of a noteworthy moment in an unpredictable future, and she knew exactly how to teach us to try to stay in that moment and not worry about that which we have no control.  The struggle still exists, but as a lucky 'allchild' of Mrs. Nemer, I honor and think of her each time I notice a beautiful summer nights' sky.

I can not talk about Mrs. Nemer without mentioning her ability to cook and bake.  She loved to bake pies, and her Christmas cookies were unforgettable.  She would present plates of them to us every night during the holidays.  And in the summer months she would bake pies in her trademark bikini, while she cared for other lucky 'allchildren' in her home based day care.  One of Mrs. Nemer's 'allchildren' told me that if you lived within walking distance of her house, you could go there each day before nap time for a snack and some juice that she had readied for each neighborhood child. 

Mrs. Nemer was an 'everymother' to so many 'allchildren' that at her funeral her own children were overwhelmed by the droves of us who came to celebrate her life.  Each of us there to tell our own stories of her special kind of maternal love that we fondly remembered, which later became a legacy of her life as one of the truly great 'everymothers'.  Our relationships with her were both cherished and significant to each of us who were lucky enough to be her 'allchildren'.  Through her simple caring, and the sum of all of the little things we each remembered, we were significantly impacted throughout our lives as she showed us that people can deeply care, and show real love, even when they are not from our own family.

Being the blessed daughter of an 'everymother' has been a moving gift for me.  Like favorite teachers I will never forget, the impact of these thoughtful caregivers in my life can never be underestimated, as they gave the gentle gift of making my life seem a little less complicated. It is in this light that the chronicles of the experiences with my 'everymothers' impact the way in which I love each 'allchild' in my life for their own unique individuality. The gifts that I in turn receive by giving them the time and patience that I learned by example are beyond any measure. 

           

20 Years of Being Jake

1991 Jake found his way to me. He rode underneath the hood of a dually pickup truck hauling some horses. He was found holding on to the gas tank with his claws, and had been clinging there for two hours on a stormy, rainy night trip. He was only 3 weeks old. His destiny was not to be a barn cat after all. He loved to be held and kissed on the top of his head, right between his eyes. He would spend the next twenty years seeking those forehead kisses every chance he got.

1992 Jake lived with my roommate Mo and me on Armitage in Chicago. She made me neuter him early because she had a fear of male cat spraying. He lived his whole life with a kitten like mew and a small head. She will never live it down…but consequently no spraying ever happened on her watch. He enjoyed the chaos of all of the dirty clothes we strewed on the floor and enjoyed making a bed out of them. He once got lost in my closet for two days and found his way out when he was good and ready. He enjoyed the single life, and heavy partying that first year.

1993 Jake and I moved in with my now husband Rene. He did not like the cat because he would step on fresh cat vomit in the middle of the night and it would get between his toes. He met his first dog Rene’s Australian Shepherd “Patches”. Jake loved to sit in our bathtub when it was wet and watch the drain. He did not mind getting wet. We would watch him sit on the toilet seat while watching the water go down. Once he actually fell in and jumped out seemingly in the same second. Sometimes I felt like I was watching a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

1994 Jake watched Rene and I come and go from our apartment. He saw me in my wedding dress. He and Patches became quite close. When Patches passed we allowed Jake to sleep with us in our bed. He was an only child again.

1995 Jake was officially adopted by our new Australian Shepherd puppy “Oliver”. Oliver cleaned him so much that he completely stopped cleaning himself. Instead he opted to lie underneath Oliver awaiting his scheduled bathing times. Oliver always allowed Jake to eat from his bowl first during feeding time. Oliver and Jake were best friends.

1996 Jake moved with us into our new town home. He was so used to the confines of apartment living that he chose to hide under our bed often; it was his favorite spot in his new great big world.

1997 There was a new sheriff in town. Time spent sitting on my lap was replaced by time spent sharing my lap with a nursing baby. He seemed so light compared to the baby. I remember that well.

1998 Ryan the sheriff became mobile. Jake was afraid of him grabbing his fur all of the time. He never once bit or scratched Ryan but he warned him often. We used like to entertain our friends by asking Ryan what sound does a cow make “MOO” What sound does the dog make? “Woof…woof…” What sound does the kitty make? “Hissssss”

1999 We moved to a bigger house once again. This one had a large basement. Jakey found a hiding place underneath our basement stairway. He made a home there and when visitors came by he would make sure he was in his safe place. People never believed that we had a cat.

2000 The millennium. Jake enjoyed his life at the bigger house. He could get away from the boy, enjoy his dog, and sit with his mama chewing my hair whenever he got the chance. Life was good.

2001 Jake spent a lot of time at the house alone. We had bought a barn and worked day and night taking Oliver with us. He was always happy to see us and did not resent it. He knew we were busy.

2002 Jake discovered green lush grass and the great outdoors. We let him outside to walk on the back patio. He would touch the grass with his front paw and quickly retract it. He tried this again and again, and finally made the big plunge on to the grass floor. He ran into the house and sat in the back window and watched the dogs play from the safety of our kitchen. He seemed proud of himself for his great outdoor adventures. He would try to go out often after that for a short explore. He was finally coming into his own.

2003 Jake got a new puppy. Austin came into the family and did not adopt Jake the way that Oliver had. Jake always accepted new pets into our house willingly and even with Austin’s raucous behavior he was not impressed or intimidated. Oliver still protected and cared for him every day.

2004 Oliver died suddenly from a fast moving cancer. Jake missed him but never left my side. He understood loss and seemed to know that his spirit friends were never far away. He helped me heal and didn’t mind the streams of wet tears I left on his fur. He completely stopped cleaning himself and had to be brushed by us instead. Oliver had spoiled and loved him unconditionally for nine wonderful years.

2005 Jake still looked like a youngster. The early neutering had served him well after all. We found paw prints on the counters from him jumping up on them when we were not around. I started counting past nine lives at this point…and couldn’t believe how strong he still was.

2006 Jake learned as many dog commands as he could. He could come and sit for a treat. He followed me around faithfully.

2007 We brought home yet another puppy for Jake to raise. He got chased but knew how to hold his ground with the strong and foolish boxer pup Baxter. He had no problem with all of the neighbor’s dogs either and their comings and goings. Even with Austin herding him constantly he learned to ignore him and understood that dogs will always be big part of his life.

2008 Jake ate out of Baxter’s dish when I would put the dog food down. Baxter stood way back and whined at him while Jakey ate his food without ever looking up. Baxter just lets him do it now and waits patiently until Jakey is finished.

2009 Jake figured out that people who came to visit were not there to take him away or harm him. He found bravery somewhere within himself on his own terms and actually started to come out to see people when they came over. He sat on laps on the couch, got hugs from family and friends, and he let anyone pick him up and pet him. It was a strange and fascinating metamorphosis. I was so proud of his personal growth, and he taught me that it is never too late to change.

2010 He started to show his age. He was well past his ninth life. His days were quieter now and his nights were spent at the bottom of the stairs calling to me and looking up for me to come to him. During the day hours he enjoyed sitting on the laps of the wonderful kids who came to hang out with Ryan and Jake played Call of Duty with them for hours.

2011 Jake gave me plenty of time to say good bye to him. I had a chance to tell him what he had meant to me, and how we had grown up together, raised a family, many dogs, and a boy who had grown up to become his friend. He let me know that he is ready to take his great and joyous journey home. He let me know in his quiet way that he will be greeted by his Patches and by his Oliver. He will be with his abuela, and my grandpa Max who so loved cats. There will be a great celebration of his life and how proud they have all been of how he took care of me, watched over me, and protected me with goodness and unconditional love everyday of his twenty years.


Sleep well my sweet boy…you deserve all of the glory you will receive after living a perfect and wonderful life of service to the forever keeper of your heart. I will be eternally grateful for each of our twenty years together and will remember you with great admiration for the life you lived and the soul you grew to be. When our journey began and you arrived in my life at just 3 weeks old, I thought I was there for you, but in fact it was you who was sent here to be with me. Thank you for all that you taught me about goodness and purity, about living, and about letting go. It was perfect. I will see you at the bridge…I know you will be waiting for me there.

Significant Purpose

We are all looking for purpose. Often, it seems that life's most profound lessons are found in the experiences we have with the most unlikely of people. It seems easy to cast aside the significance of a moment with someone, the subtleties of simple relationships; like how you felt about the man who held the door open for you at the store today, or perhaps you felt deep compassion for a beggar you felt compelled to give money to, or the more complex relationships; like time spent with your family and friends who surprise and disappoint you, guide and enlighten you, change you, and even solidify your existence here.



My uncle Cordell could easily have been forgotten by any one of us. His importance in our lives could have so easily gone unnoticed, and his role in our lives could have been regarded as burdensome and hopeless to all of us, even though we loved him. Instead, because of the loyal and perceptive wisdom of my mother, my very existence relied upon the important influence that my uncle Cordell became for her. It has been my great fortune, because of the relationship that I built with my uncle, that I have an astute understanding as to the reason people like my uncle exist in the social order. This insight became apparent to me from my early childhood experiences with this captivating man.



I always looked forward to having a visit from my uncle Cordell, and I imagined the adventure that would ensue having him home with us for a day. I was mesmerized by him and his hard-wearing reactions to the world as he saw it. I sat quietly by him for hours like an omniscient voyeur, studying him at our kitchen table, while he sat completely unconscious of who I was and why I was there.

Sometimes I would make a vain attempt to interact with him, "Uncle Cordell, I am your niece, Rhonda." looking closely for any glimpse of recognition.

On a good day he would answer me with a robotic parroting response, "My niece Rhonda...Yah..Do you like Elvis Presley?" and he would begin to snap his fingers with delight loud and strong to the perfect rhythm of the Elvis song that must have been streaming through his head. I would smile and marvel at his ability to go to a very present moment when Elvis topped the charts, and imagine what it would be like to live these moments in his mind, as only he experienced them.



My uncle Cordell always acknowledged my mother with comfort and recognition, even on days that she called "bad days". I remember the way he subtly searched for her by peering up through a subconscious, rhythmic rocking, slumped over state. The endearing way he called her name like she was the only person who understood him. "Say Delores? Got any coffee?" a question which he asked and re-asked again and again, day after day, year after year.



My mother has been his sole life line to the outside world since he was born when she was just nine years old. Their mother was loving and kind, child like and vulnerable. My grandmother possessed a sweet naivety which made her ill-equipped for the complexities and emotions of raising a child whom she painfully watched slip deeper and deeper into his own world with each passing day, during a time in our history when having such a child was unspeakable; a parental providence to be profoundly ashamed of.

My mother however, found no place for shame, and was always my uncle Cordell's primary care giver. She accepted this duty with no complaints, she always held a deep love and devotion for him, and has since continued to take to task his quality of life; insuring him the dignity that he always deserved by advocating for his well being at every turn. The Example that my mother set forth for us was that of compassion and caring for all beings, as each one is unique and significant, each one of us is born with a purpose. Though for some, purpose at first glance can be blurred by the day to day struggles of humanity and public disapproval or great personal sacrifice for the well being of another, whose very existence stands in judgment as a castaway of society.



As merciless as all of this may sound, as a child I encountered some marvelous glimpses of what it was like to care for my uncle, and although it was arduous there was often great joy. There was a comedic complexity in his simple, socially unacceptable behaviors that just cracked us up, and trying to make sense of them all became like a laundry list of diagnoses that just kept piling up. When he would visit us, we would have to watch him closely and follow him around like he was a big overgrown toddler. He loved to take things from anywhere and from anybody. He would mostly take small objects that he could fit into his pockets. Like paper weights, soaps, change, and anything else eye catching or shiny.

My mom would look at us and say, "Well he is a kleptomaniac." then turn to my uncle, "Empty your pockets Cordell." Most of the time he would comply reluctantly but sometimes he would put up quite a struggle which made my mom look like a triumphant alligator wrestler, a ninja like super hero. My brother and I always thought twice about messing with her after witnessing the five foot, 100 pound woman go a round with a frenzied, 200 pound grown man.



He would also pop used cigarette butts into his mouth, scooping them up with his cupped hand from every available dirty ash tray that we came into contact with. Sometimes he would even take a burning one right out of someones mouth and swallow it like it was candy. The shocked expression of the person who was accosted by the cigarette eating man was priceless, and though we were apologetic, my mom, my brother and I would laugh uproariously when we got back into the car, while my uncle the ever innocent, finger snapping Elvis fan carried on contently with his day.



He also loved to eat used coffee grounds from the coffee maker like he was eating a hand full of granola. My mom would say, with readied paper towel neatly folded in her palm, "Okay Cordell spit it out", then turn to us explaining, "He has pica."

When he would use an entire bar of Dove soap, lathering his face, hair, and up to his elbows with bubbles in our guest powder room, she would say with patient exasperation, "Oh geez...we need to rinse you off don't we." We always watched, my brother and me, shocked by the colossal mess. She would calmly look at us and say, "There goes his obsessive compulsive disorder. Get some towels."



When we would count playing cards with the speed of a Vegas shuffling machine, and recite from memory every math problem robotically for hours well into the billions, she would say, "Autistic savant. Well...there it is."

Sometimes, when he would show us a new socially offensive behavior she would simply say, "He's mentally ill honey."

Amusingly, in my ten year old mind, when people would say 'There is always one in every family' I assumed this was what they meant. I just kept calculating his abnormalities and adding to the inventory of disorders each time he would come for a visit. When my friends would ask what was wrong with him I would answer with great pride and exuberance, "My uncle is a mentally ill, manic depressive, paranoid schizophrenic, obsessive compulsive, kleptomaniacal, autistic savant, with pica. But other than that," I boasted,"he is actually just like you or I."



Growing up with a family member like my uncle Cordell came with other advantages too. Because of his oddities, my mother was able to determine with great accuracy the worth of a person's character immediately upon meeting them by noting and analyzing the reactions of people interacting with her brother. Were they the kind of people who understood true human compassion? Or, were they ordinary people who were fearful and ashamed to be seen with him?


This gift became a fateful one when she met my father while she was a student nurse. The reckless teen was in a serious car accident when he was 18 years old. He lay toothless and hairless in a hospital bed, and with the ego of the typical boy his age, he attempted to catch her attention. My mother was smart enough to ignore him, and she was completely uninterested in his courting methods. Insistent on luring her with his charm, as looks alone were surely not enough to do the trick, he would grab her arm when she was taking his blood pressure and complain about the pain, searching for some compassion from his adorable nurse.

None of this was terribly impressive to her, but even so, without an intimation of encouragement, when he was released from the hospital he was determined to get her to go on a date with him. My mother assumed she could effortlessly chase him away by accepting his offer with the stipulation her brother would need to come along. A tactic she often used to dispirit unworthy suitors. "No problem, bring him along." My dad unknowingly replied. A common reaction most people had when they were forced to be in the presence of my enigmatic uncle for any period of time was of shock, fear and most assuredly, loss of interest in any further encounter with her, much less a second date.



In the 1950's people like my uncle Cordell were outcasts, and most people had no coping skills or tolerance for such social pariah, and felt that people like my uncle should be locked away and hidden interminably. My dad was different. Not only was he non-reactive to the extreme social malfunctions of this boy, he also made a gallant attempt to engage with Cordell on his level. My mother watched in absolute awe as her future husband helped her baby brother learn to catch and bat a whiffle ball. My mother witnessed this man, whom she was ready to chuck aside, pitch balls to her blissfully contented brother all afternoon. She had never seen any one interact with him in this way; he showed the young troubled boy acceptance, kindness, care, and no glimpse of pity; she now looked at this man who was to be her life long companion with new eyes. After all too, his hair had grown back a bit and the new teeth really helped. All totaled, my mom knew she had found a keeper, and she most assuredly did; for even today, on "good days", my father still pitches the ball to my uncle Cordell, while he methodically counts out his goal of a hundred home runs with each glorious hit.



Cordell, at 61 years old, lives a life that is much different than the days of institutionalization which he unfortunately had to endure for much of his early adult life. My mother was unable to care for him full time at our home, and she accepted that life in an institution was the only place society had set aside for people like her brother. Visiting him at the Kith Haven Institute in the 1970's is a memory that I will never forget. A troubling memory that I am grateful to have had, as from an early age I learned compassion for people misunderstood by society and what they endured during this time in American history.

Fortunately, time has educated our society, and today my uncle lives in a group home with others who need constant care. With my mothers' close and watchful guidance, my uncle Cordell is fortunate to have individuals caring for him who are devoted to his well being. In fact, his social worker has been with him for many years, and my mother often speaks of the positive, loving influence that she has had on his life, and so admires her dedication and commitment to caring for her brother with the same sense of humor and adoration of him that we always had.

My uncle Cordell is obsessed with coffee. I remember on several occasions watching him empty the contents of a scalding hot, 12 cup, Mr. Coffee carafe into his mouth like it was a bottle of Evian. Some years ago when my grandparents were no longer able to make decisions regarding his care, my mother applied for legal guardianship. When their day in court arrived, my mother, his social worker, and my uncle were to stand in front of a judge and ask for permission to make my mom his legal guardian.

As they entered the court house, two fully armed deputy sheriffs were seated near the metal detector at the entrance of the building. My Uncle Cordell noticing that they had large cups of coffee, walked up to them, plopped his dollar on the counter (my mother and father always give him a dollar), and asked them if he could buy a cup of coffee. They both laughed, and smiled with my mom and told him that they 'don't' sell coffee', they just want him to 'walk through the metal detector'. My mom and the social worker were able to deter him from further confrontation by corralling him into the court room.

A few minutes went by, and he asked if he could go to the bathroom. Forgetting about the officers and the coffee they both followed him out. In a flash of an instant he was behind the unbeknown sheriffs, reaching in-between them, ready to pounce the Styrofoam coffee cups. Fighting him back and forth, four hands on the doomed cup, the metal detector smashed to the ground. With that, one of the officers screamed out, "Let him have it!"

My mother mortified, glaring at their fire arms and the overturned metal detector, closed her eyes and thought, "Please don't let him have it."

The officers let go of the cup at once after an insurmountable few moments, which in turn sent coffee flying all over the front of both uniforms, Cordell, and all over their table. My mom, mortified, apologized profusely. Frazzled, and back in the court room, tardy for their hearing and clearly shaken, the judge asked my mother. "Delores Hoskins would you like to be the legal guardian of your brother Cordell Cull?"

Still rattled from the chaos just moments before, she blankly shot out a simple audible "Yes".

Conversely, the judge asked Cordell, "Cordell Cull would you like your sister Delores Hoskins to be your legal guardian?"

With his once white shirt, now soiled in wet coffee, looking up from a slumped over, stupefied state, he answered the question with shocking clarity, lucidity, and a strong resolve. He looked squarely into the judge's eyes and replied, "Yes. I would like my sister Delores Anne Hoskins to be my legal guardian."

Afterwards, with the calm familiarity of day to day experiences with my uncle Cordell, his social worker explaining today's lesson told him, "Cordell, it's not cool to steal from the cops." He replied with perfect timing, "No, it's not cool to steal from the cops."

For me, my uncle Cordell represents with great clarity the significance of compassion, patience, kindness, and tolerance. At first glance, I imagine that all of these things were unclear to me as a child growing up with a mentally challenged uncle, and I did not see that the significance of his purpose in my life would materialize in such a profound and real way as I grew into an adult who learned to appreciate each individual for their unique gifts.

Even now, when I see a mentally challenged person working at the grocery store, or a group out with their care givers, I always feel compelled to smile at them, say hello, or put my hand on their arm. There is a familiarity and warmth that runs through me when I see someone who reminds me of my uncle. There is a feeling of a profound understanding of their place in our world, and the gifts that they give to those in their lives who love them; the kind of blessings only a few of us have been lucky enough to experience, reminding me that each relationship, momentous or inconsequential, joyous or painful, in a moment or in a lifetime, may significantly shape my life, shape my own purpose, or as in the case of my uncle Cordell, secure my very existence. How very fortunate I have been to have had him to teach me so many things about life.