The Peach Trees are in Bloom
by Jamie Pope, School of Nursing
My grandfather had a way of finding the silver lining in just about any situation
and seeing the best in people, often despite their circumstances. He wasn’t
what you’d call a jovial man, but certainly a congenial and compassionate
one. He never forgot a name, or their line of work or distant relations and
family connections. Granddaddy was always the one out front of his small,
rural church with the umbrella in the rain, running back and forth between
the cars and the front door sheltering congregation members, many decades
younger than he. At my grandfather’s funeral, innumerable people told
me of acts of kindness and ways that my grandfather made them feel significant
and remembered.
My grandfather was raised in rural Bedford County on a farm with three brothers
and two sisters. His parents, Amos and Eliza, instilled an appreciation of
family and faith along with a love of learning and hard work in all their
children. Granddaddy went to Middle Tennessee State College during the depression,
working during the summers on the family farm and working between and after
classes at college. I remember him telling me of serving ice cream in the
school cafeteria and laughing as he told me how his right arm muscle overdeveloped
as a result of hours of scooping. After college, Granddaddy taught in a one-room
schoolhouse boarding with a nearby family during the week and walking close
to 10 miles back and forth to his parent’s farm on the weekends. He went
on to attend George Peabody College for Teachers, earning a Master’s
Degree in Education. Granddaddy then taught and served as principal in Kingston
Springs, where he met, courted, and married my grandmother, Ruth Mae Parrish,
a second grade teacher at the school. Granddaddy earned a second master’s
degree in meteorology and worked for the National Weather Bureau in various
parts of the country until his retirement. He took an early retirement and
bought a farm near his birthplace, in part so my brother and I could experience
and enjoy the rural life while we were still young enough to appreciate getting
mud—and more—between our toes. As a “gentleman farmer,”
Granddaddy raised cattle, grew vegetables, humored grandchildren with horses
and mini-bikes, served as a deacon in his church, participated in the historical
society, and taught part-time at Motlow College.
Granddaddy stayed on the farm until just before his 89th birthday, the fall
after my grandmother passed away in July. He moved closer to his only child,
my mother, to a nice assisted living facility in Nashville. He surrounded
himself with his favorite books, pictures of my grandmother and our family,
rocks and Indian artifacts that he had found and collected since he was a
boy, and slept under a quilt that his mother had made.
In April of the year my grandfather died, my two-year-old daughter and I picked
Granddaddy up (dressed and waiting out front) at the retirement center to
take him to the annual “Friends and Family” day at his beloved church
outside Shelbyville. As we entered, people’s eyes genuinely sparkled
with excitement to see him and handshakes and hugs were more than a gesture,
they were warm expressions of the love and appreciation they had for this
remarkable man. We sat in his “usual” spot, third pew from the front
on the right side. We were all keenly aware of my grandmother’s absence.
Her petite, always well-dressed figure didn’t take up much space, but
after 64 years of singing hymns by his side, the old Baptist songs of faith
and forgiveness didn’t sound quite the same. But he smiled, he nodded
at others as they acknowledged him, and he humbly and eloquently prayed when
the preacher asked if “Brother Gilley” would lead them in prayer
that morning.
After the church potluck in the fellowship hall, a new addition to the church
that my grandfather was so happy to see in person, we headed towards the 100-acre
farm where he and my grandmother had lived for 30 years after their retirement
and then sold to a neighbor, who had rented out the house. It had been a showplace.
Granddaddy kept the lawn manicured, the large, white house well maintained,
the pastures free of thistles, bushes trimmed and fields cleared and bushhogged.
We drove up the quarter mile driveway that led to the house and pulled up
behind the old one-car garage that stood by the house. I was surprised and
appalled. There were beer cans scattered in the yard, the grass was overgrown,
various items littered the lawn, and a large, worn area of dirt encircled
an old dog house where a chained dog ran and barked in the once immaculate
backyard. A man and woman stood just feet away from us beside a running diesel
truck. They were engaged in such a heated argument that they could be heard
above the diesel engine. They didn’t even look our way or lower the level
of their voices or refrain from using explicit names for one another. I felt
sad and somehow violated, and turned to look at my grandfather in apology.
He was looking out across the backyard towards the barn. I backed up, headed
back down the driveway, and said, “I’m sorry, Granddaddy….”
He turned to look at me pleasantly and said “Did you notice that the
peach trees were in bloom?”
As he had done so many times before, amidst the turmoil and changes, he had
focused on the beautiful and chosen to put the other aside. I am so thankful
that my Granddaddy chose to also see the best in me—the tiny blossoms
amidst the debris, the worn spots, the conflicts, the mistakes, the noise,
and the selfishness. I never knew if inside he thought about the less-than-good
in people or in situations, but he made me believe he didn’t and by that
inspired and taught me to also always try to believe the best.
“Finally…whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right,
whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything
is excellent or praiseworthy, think about these things”— Philippians
4:8
Honorable mention
Hillbilly Love
by Linda S. Timmons, Medical Special Events
It comes to me every spring — an overwhelming urge to put to paper my
experience with first love. Maybe if I write it down, the memory will give
me a rest. You’d think since it is such a distant memory, it would have
dissipated on its own. This being my fortieth year, the time has come to give
it a try.
Twenty-seven years ago, I fell in love with an angel, not the man I eventually
married, but a boy who would be forever that thirteen-year-old with rosy cheeks,
milk-white skin and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. Even now when I see him,
he appears in my mind’s eye just as he did the first time I laid eyes
on him—a time forever burned into my heart. . .
The trip from Atlanta in the rental truck had been August hot and uneventful.
Sandwiched between my father and my uncle, I was looking forward to the end
of our dusty travail though I was not looking forward to reaching the destination.
You see, I was being uprooted from my home in the genteel south and taken
to a place known only to me for its whiskey hoisting, corn-cob-smoking, shoeless,
illiterate hillbillies. Needless to say, my preconceived notions did not make
for a pleasurable trip.
But, at least the trip was almost over. I knew this by my father’s inevitable
(and irritating) declaration “We’re coming down home stretch.”
“Home for whom,” I thought. I felt I was being violently dislodged
from an important part of my anatomy (which I later recognized as my heart).
His next statement was even more annoying.
“Close your eyes,” he said. Close my eyes indeed! Obviously he wanted
not to overwhelm me with the shock of my new surroundings. “Close your
eyes,” he repeated, “we’re almost there.” I shot one quick,
furtive look around the terrain, which looked fairly normal as hillbilly surroundings
go I suspect, and obediently but with outward disgust closed my eyes. Almost
immediately I felt the truck jerk to a stop. Then I could feel it turning
left. We began ascending a hill. At what felt like the crest of the hill,
Dad announced, “Okay you can open ‘em.”
“Open ‘em” I did but not to some dirty, decrepit log cabin
with a yard full of hound dogs and vagrants but to the most beautiful site
I had ever seen. There before my eyes, in the late August afternoon sun were
rolling hills filled with verdant trees in endless colors of green and dotted
here and there with brown, lazy, chewing cows. My breath was taken away; my
jaw went slack. Dad’s irritating laughter brought me back to sharp reality.
I quickly closed my gaping mouth, and assumed my cynical countenance (with
no little difficulty) all the while stealing glances at those hills. Dad wasn’t
fooled.
He laughed, nodding his head. “I knew one look at those hills and you’d
be sold on Tennessee,” he said victoriously.
“A lot you know,” I thought looking straight ahead with my chin
jutted out as far as it would go (to emphasize my lack of interest), “the
newness will wear off soon enough.”
Just to my right, at the top of the hill was an ordinary grey brick house.
To my surprise, we turned into the drive. “This is it,” he said.
“This is it?!” I echoed in disbelief. It was a far cry from what
I was expecting though Dad hadn’t given me a clue as to our new home
(not that it would have mattered anyway seeing as how it was to be temporary
for me). My plan was to escape at my first opportunity to my grandparent’s
home in Atlanta. I was sure they would take me in and surely once they did,
my parents wouldn’t expect me to return to this place.
Anyway, here we were. So, we got out of the truck, stretching our rusty limbs
and filling our nostrils with the sweet smell of green onions and freshly
mown lawns and the occasional sound of the cows as they lazily conversed.
The house was certainly nothing spectacular. But, as I was expecting dirt
floors, it was a pleasant surprise. We began unloading the truck.
The next few weeks were uneventful. We unpacked and slowly I began to feel
somewhat comfortable in my new surroundings. We all worked very hard (Mom
saw to that). And finally, one late August afternoon after I’d had my
bath and was smelling so sweet of talc and starch, I put on a pair of pedal
pushers and ankle socks, combed my bangs and stepped onto the front porch
to enjoy an orangesicle (“Push-ups” to you natives). (You see, ankle
socks, pedal pushers and crisp-starched white blouses were the standard attire
of every self-respecting young lady of my station and I was not one to overlook
a single detail.)
So, there I stood, confident in my good looks, demurely pulling at my frozen
treat when suddenly, before my eyes were three of the strangest creatures
I had ever seen. I narrowed my eyes and wrinkled my brow to see if I could
identify what kind of wild thing they were. They were all pedaling furiously
up the hill in front of my house on what appeared to be very primitive bicycles.
The two in the lead were shirtless, shoeless and wearing what appeared to
have been perfectly good blue jeans that were cut off to just above the knees
and quite frayed. Behind them was the strangest creature yet. Also pedaling
furiously and at the same time uttering a loud, shrill, piercing cry was a
“thing” of nameless gender. It had a head full of blonde, tousled
curls and was the only one wearing a shirt.
I gasped, putting my hand to my chest and dropping my popsicle. At last, I
thought, I was to come face to face with some of those wild hillbilly creatures
that lived hidden away in the hills. Perhaps they were escaping their abominable
surroundings.
The next thing that happened was truly amazing. All three stopped dead in
their tracks in front of my house and stared shamelessly at me. I braced myself,
taking a deep breath and standing as straight as a poker. We all stood silently,
exchanging curious stares for what seemed an eternity. Wild thoughts were
racing through my head. What were they thinking? Were they going to snatch
me away? Do hillbillies eat people like cannibals do. Finally, the silence
was broken by another piercing cry from the blonde with all the curls.
“Haaaay-eeeee,” it cried and to my horror approached the porch.
“Ei’m Donna,” it said in the strangest vernacular I’d
ever heard, “and these hyar are by bruthers Daevid and Waine. Whut’s
yer naime.” (It must be a girl, I thought, it has a girl’s name.)
Frozen with fear but with the courage of one about to be martyred, I swallowed
hard and quietly but clearly answered in my sweetest southern drawl, “Mah
name is Linda Susan Karr. Ah’m from Atlaintuh, Gawiguh.” I wanted
them to know right off the bat who they were dealing with.
“Well, oh yeah,” she said furiously poking out her chin for punctuation,
“my Daiddy got us culer TV and we got ayer conditionin’.” Why
whatever would a Georgia Peach want with air conditioning, I mused. After
all, we have our fans and lemonade to cool us off. But that color television.
I must say I was intrigued.
“Ah bet its got such a little pictuh you can’t even see it,”
I said challengingly with all the sweet sarcasm I could muster.
“Well, ‘hit don’t neither,” she said throwing out her
thumb toward the taller one to her left, “and if you don’t believe
me, jes’ ast my bruther. Ain’t that rite, Daevid?!”
“That’s rite,” he said. “Why don’t you jes’
cum see fer yesef?”
Well now, that conjured up a horrible thought—me trudging through the
mud in my maryjanes up into the hills to some old shack where the only modern
conveniences were air conditioning and color television.
“Why, Ah’m shouah Ah couldn’t do that. Y’all must live
a long way from heah,” was my sweet-as-sugar reply.
“Naw, we jes’ live rite down hyonder,” was her quick response
as she pointed over her shoulder.
Well, before I could protest, I was being pulled along by Donna as she pushed
her homemade bicycle just three doors down the street to a house very similar
to ours—ordinary and brick—no dirt floors, no hound dogs. I must
say I was somewhat disappointed. Where are those hillbillies I had heard so
much about?
We all walked in. Immediately I felt this cool, refreshing air blowing in
my face and drying up all my sweet, talcy sweat. Donna had not missed my reaction.
“Aire conditionin’, she confirmed lifting her chin and looking down
her nose.
“Well, wheuh’s that tv,” I prodded impatiently.
“Hit’s down hyonder in the basement,” she replied. “Jes’
foller me.”
I was about to follow her, anxious to see this marvel of technological advancement,
when I was stopped dead in my tracks. There in front of me, sitting disinterestedly
at the kitchen table, eating leftover breakfast toast piled high with about
a ton of jam, was the most angelic creature my eyes had ever beheld. I stared
in amazement (although I knew it wasn’t polite). Then our eyes met and
were immediately locked as if his very heart reached out and grabbed mine
right out of my chest. I dropped into the chair across from him as if I’d
lost all will.
“Aw, that’s jes’ my uthur bruther Dainee,” she said. “Come
awn.” (Now she was impatient.)
But my interest in that color TV suddenly vanished. We sat visually examining
one another. Surely he’s not real, I thought. It was the most genuine
incidence of true love at first sight that I’m sure the world has ever
known.
From that moment on, we were constant companions, Danny and I. It seemed our
very souls were entwined in some mysterious, indefinable union. It was an
innocent love that developed slowly, progressively. First, we simply held
hands. Later, we stole innocent, uncertain kisses that unleashed feelings
neither of us was prepared to understand but which have only sweetened with
time.
I never saw those hillbillies nor did I escape to my beloved Georgia (though
I did make one attempt). But for what it was exchanged that summer so long
ago made the sacrifice all the more sweet—timeless, immortal first love.
Eventually, over the years, we grew apart and married different people. Yet
the wonder of that first look, first kiss and the thrill of that warm and
tender love will always be with me as well as the comfort of knowing that
together we experienced a love that time cannot destroy —even if its
only in our hearts.
I know now that writing the words will never diminish those feelings but it
is comforting to know that young love can still be young at forty.
EPILOGUE: For those of you who still carry the memories of first love, there
is hope. When I found myself divorced and alone at 45, I called my old flame.
To my surprise he, too, was divorced and lonely. “You’ve been on
my mind,” he said, causing my heart to skip about a hundred beats. We
made arrangements to meet for lunch at the Cracker Barrel. The moment our
eyes met, the years melted away and we were once again those thirteen-year
olds. Almost immediately, the smoldering flame became a raging fire and in
September of 1994, we were wed. We have had to date nine, wonderful years,
which proves that young love can be young at any age.
Here’s hoping you get your second chance at first love!
Honorable mention
A Meditation on Psalm 46
by Felicity Peck , Medical Special Events
It is some seven hundred years before the birth of Christ.
The Assyrian armies invade the Northern
Kingdom.
The people of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob face defeat.
Deportation begins.
Families are torn apart.
The foundations of society are wrecked.
The psalmist offers words of strength,
consolation and hope:
The Lord of Hosts is with us
The God of Jacob is our stronghold.
The year is 1945.
The sound of the air raid siren pierces the night.
The mother and grandmother hurry the
children under the reinforced kitchen table.
Planes are heard droning in the distance.
They get louder.
Anti-aircraft guns begin firing from the gun site down the street.
The grandmother prays silently—her lips move.
Bombs screech toward the ground.
Silence.
Where will the bombs land this time?
They explode.
The cottage shakes and shudders.
Windows break.
Across the street a fire rages.
The all-clear siren sounds.
The Lord of Hosts is with us
The God of Jacob is our stronghold.
The year is 1954.
The wind howls.
The sea is as grey as the sky.
The waters rage and foam.
The waves smash against the cliffs.
Spumes of seawater sprinkle the town.
The lifeboat siren wails.
Under the desk a child clutches the hand of her best friend.
The child’s uncle is coxswain of the lifeboat.
The friend’s father is the first mate.
The teacher prays for the lifeboat men and those in distress at sea.
The children sit still and wait.
The siren sounds again, the lifeboat has
returned to the harbor.
The Lord of Hosts is with us
The God of Jacob is our stronghold.
The year is 1998.
The sky is turning a sickly yellowish-grey.
The air feels heavy.
Uneasiness pervades the people.
The sky darkens.
The wind howls.
The building is enveloped in a swirling, grey, cotton candy-like cloud.
Restaurant signs and billboards tumble through the air.
The metal window frames begin to buckle in and out.
Electric transformers blow up.
The people run to the basement.
The people pray for themselves and others.
A tornado sweeps through the city.
The Lord of Hosts is with us
The God of Jacob is our stronghold.
It is some two thousand years after the birth of Christ.
The bombs are falling.
The fires rage.
People all over the world are being forced from their homes.
Deportation is in effect.
Families are tearing apart.
Terrorists attempt to destroy the foundations of America.
The Lord of Hosts is with us
The God of Jacob is our stronghold.
It is the year 2003.
The people of the old Assyrian empire are
invaded.
Bombs fall.
Buildings shatter.
The dictator is destroyed.
Statues are toppled.
Some weep.
Some rejoice.
We read the psalmist’s words of strength,
consolation and hope.
We are confident God will triumph.
We are confident God will make war to cease in all the world.
We are confident God will be exalted among the nations on earth.
We are confident our ultimate security lies:
not in our own strength,
nor our own efforts,
but in the presence and power of God.
“Be still, then, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations
I will be exalted in the earth.”
The Lord of Hosts is with us
The God of Jacob is our stronghold.
Honorable mention
Pink and Blue
by Kashonda E. Babb , Vanderbilt Medical Group Guest Services
From the time the umbilical cord is cut like fresh grass or new material
Our identities are water colored by skully hats and blankets
We are created at least it was thought, to combine those colors to represent
a ying yang pattern
Sorta like the usual carnival cotton candy colors mixed together
To our bliss it’s like feminine and masculine, Mrs. and Mr., She and
Him,
girlfriend and boyfriend, wife and husband
The mystical differentiation by colors before we’re given names sometimes
before we even come out of the womb
Color Ordination
Ying Yang Placement
God’s Determination
Pink and Blue Relations
Honorable mention
Life with you
by Frank Scholl , Cardiothoracic Surgery
The way I feel when the sun warms my face on a cold winter’s day
Or how calming a stream sounds as it gurgles and splashes down a mountain
valley
The feeling I get from cool sand at the ocean’s edge as it squishes between
my toes
The way my heart races as I begin to fall
Like I can do anything
Wanted, needed, loved
Perfect.
Honorable mention
Who Am I?
by Kathleen Stephens , Urology Clinic
Who am i?
I am a carbon-based life form existing on the 3rd planet from a sun in the
Milky Way Galaxy
The minerals which compose my body are worth $12.63
I am over halfway through my projected lifespan
I am one among trillions
(Yet my DNA is unique)
Who am i?
I am descended from centuries of Celtic warriors, druids, and bards
Their physicality lives on in my hair, my eyes, my skin, and the length of
my bones
Their spirit lives on in my passions: for words, for music, for nature, for
God
(Yet i am adapted to the 21st century)
Who am i?
I am daughter and granddaughter of Appalachian hillbillies
The Celtic rhythms tweaked to New World adaptations
Independence like a rod in my spine
Clinging to traditions of food, music, family, religion
Fearful of and resistant to change
(Yet I have ventured far and away)
Who am i?
“Baby girl” to my mother
“Little sister” to my siblings
Best friend slash sex kitten slash housekeeper to my husband
Loving maternal authority to my children
Trusted friend slash rock slash emotional train wreck to my friends
Contradiction to myself
(Yet who am i to God?)
Who am i?
I am the sum total of all the choices, both good and bad, that i have ever
made
And the consequences of those choices
I am my DNA and my heritage
I am above, and none of it
I am a ragamuffin, begging at God’s table
I am a child of God, the apple of His eye, the inscription in His hand, the
lost lamb, the rescued lamb, the sparrow that fell
The blessed recipient of His lullabies
My life is just a blip on the timeline of humanity
But not a finished blip yet.
It is not quite decided who i will be.
The deciding factor will be:
How much room in my life; give over to Him
Who can mold my clay into something beautiful