Audience to a seldom spoken story

Months ago, I received a phone call from a local veteran who suggested a column featuring our American heroes -- those soldiers who faced war's battlefields to never return home -- or those whose return was marked by the scars of lost limbs and paralysis. 

 

Despite my conversation with the surviving veteran, research that followed, and numerous hours recrafting this column, I repeatedly collided with my failure in capturing the essence of war's sacrifice -- a sacrifce that grants us today's celebrated freedoms.

 

As I've reflected on my conversation with this local veteran, and grappled with putting such plight into words, I've recognized that there are no words that adequately channel the emotional wreckage of war.  

I am humbled by the incomprehensible courage it commands to die in battle.  Although I strive to envision what my grandfathers, or this anonymous veteran,  faced in war's hell,  I'll never understand the advancing enemy's attack, nor grasp the cry of a fellow comrade exploding into a confetti of red, white and army green. 

 

"What do you think about when you know you're going to die?" the local veteran asked during our conversation, remembering a young soldier who awaited death's defeat following a gunshot wound to the head.  With no nearby medical unit, the veteran recalled, the soldier sought the solace of a cigarette, while life's blood drained with the drags of his smoke.   

 

And as I've considered this veteran's question, asked not necessarily of me but to the echoes of war's wandering ghosts, I can only imagine such panicked final thoughts were most certainly a prayer of, "God save me ... I don't want to die."

Our war heroes answered a sometimes unavoidable fate, not by choice, but by Uncle Sam's draft card.

 

"They were only boys," the veteran paused, recounting the many 18 and 19 year-old fallen soldiers whose last breaths were not in the farm fields of home, but on foreign battle fields.  "They'd barely lived life."  

Scribbling shorthand as our discussion ended, I asked the veteran when we could talk again.

"I can't do that," he choked, followed by the click of his receiver.

And as I dropped the silenced phone from my ear, I realized that regardless of war's waving surrender flags, the battle never dies in a soldier's mind.

Published in The Daily Dispatch, May 30, 2010

Don your hats and extend your pinkies

It was tea time for the Granville Health System Foundation, as china tea cups and saucers were assembled last Saturday afternoon for the organization’s annual Royal Tea Party and Silent Auction.

Both tea enthusiasts, my sister and I drove the back roads of three counties to attend this festive fundraiser, held at the Granville County Shiners’ Club.

Although my current bank statement prohibited bids during the silent auction segment of the affair, my taste buds and new, expanded hem lines provided ample allowance for savories and sweets, and of course — tea!

Marcia Roots, guest speaker and certified tea specialist, guided this year’s tea partygoers through the four course royal tea, accompanied by the musical backdrop of Nancy Snyder’s String Trio.

And J.F. Webb High School students administered the pour of the day — a hot cinnamon spice tea from John Harney and Sons Fine Teas. This medium-bodied tea, naturally sweetened with three varieties of cinnamon and nutmeg, suggested no need for added sugar.

Perhaps it’s not the syrupy solution most Southerners sip these days, but tea consumption has long been a savored satisfier, dating back over 5,000 years with its origins in Southeast Asia. 

And as Roots explained, tea parties were originally a man’s sport.

Long before bra burners and women’s liberation, wealthy men entertained with tea-cup companionship, consuming this imported elixir among cohorts — not the likes of the gloved and hatted ladies that were seated around the decoratively draped tables at last Saturday’s tea. 

Much has changed since this bygone era.

These days, you’d have to bribe most men — or pull them by the britches — to convince them to attend a tea party.

The once-masculine tea time has transitioned to one of femininity and grace, an elegant art form of etiquette. Tea parties are ceremonies of service and civility. All gathered at the tea table are participants, rhythmically passing portions from one guest to the next. 

Although tea is not a spectator’s sport, one could have easily skirted the sidelines last weekend to view its fashion influence.

Hand-made hats sparkled on the fashion circuit, while store-purchased versions were likewise modeled on the runway during the Parade of Hats contest, another segment of the Royal Tea Party event.

And it was during the Parade of Hats that a “parade of words” was exchanged, severing the tea time civility between my sister and myself.

“I absolutely adore that hat style!” I whispered to my sister, pointing toward a petite-framed woman modeling a tan cloche hat, a single flower capping its small, curved brim. 

“You can’t wear that style,” she insisted. “Your head’s too round. You’d look like a pumpkin.”

And so began the sisterly squabble.

“Go to the devil!” I blurted, jolting the attention of a few ladies seated at our table.

“Shhhhhh!” Sister insisted, while I frowned at her own head, which I likewise considered rather large. I quelled the thoughts with a cucumber sandwich and, with great effort, regained my lady-like manners.

The Parade of Hats winners were shortly announced, followed by final auction bids and closing remarks.

And as the afternoon tea concluded, one of the lone gentlemen attending said, “Perhaps next year we can encourage more men to attend.”

“No, let’s not!” whispered a nearby lady, joined by a rally of female chuckles that culminated in the clinking of a tea toast.

No shoe rack necessary in Granny's closet

My Granny's love affair was divulged late last August — my sister the spectator on that steamy summer evening. Such was the heat of the moment that Sister slid her sweaty palm across her dew-drenched face, while Granny grinned despite her panty-hose, which moistly clung from her black trousered thighs to her pink-painted toe nails.

"What do you think?" Sister asked, clasping a pair of black-strapped sandals in one hand, and a similarly fashioned brown pair in the other.

Puckering her lips in a protesting pout, Granny nodded her noggin in dissapproval.

"I just can't find what I'm looking for!" Sister squabbled, returning the rejected sandals to their prolonged shelf life. Sister's spitfire was accompanied by her protruding, clenched jaw and the murmur of quite a few choice words.

It was at this moment, before God and a local shoe store full of female footwear, that Sister became a witness to Granny's tryst.

With the shimmying of black trousers and the hoist of her pant legs, Granny Virgie signaling downward at her feet. Sister gasped and then faltered a few paces. Of most significance, Sister shielded her eyes from Granny's shimmering, shuffling shoes.

Granny's bronze sandals.

Slipping on sunglasses to shield their shine, Sister leaned towards the snazzy sandals that donned Granny's feet.

"You can wear bronze sandals with anything," Granny explained.

Sister opted for a tube of lipgloss and SPF 100 sun block at the next-door dollar store. And following the drive home, after delivering Granny to her doorstep, Sister stopped by the Eaves home place to report the evening's events to my family.

"You look a bit red in the face," I said to Sister, placing the backside of my hand over her forehead, checking for fever, only to realize her flush was actually a burn.

"It was the bronze sandals!" Sister cried, as I clipped a thick sprig from Mama's aloe plant, applying the slippery goo to her sandal-burned face.

Mama interrupted the conversation with concern, instructing us daughters to carefully apply sun block to all exposed flesh prior to any future Granny visits.

Ours was a fear-induced obedience.

Granny's bronze sandals became everyday attire. Grocery shopping, hospital volunteering, weed-pulling — Granny sashayed in her glittering bronze sandals. Granny even wore the sparkling sandals while baking biscuits and frying fatback for our Saturday morning breakfasts.

The Eaves sisters likewise sported protective sun gear, while Granny's fair skin trasformed into a golden brown — or was it bronze?

Perhaps it was autumn's end that signaled the demise of Granny's love affair with the glimmering bronze sandals. Because following a few chilly days, I don't recall seeing them any more. And although cold days have now departed, and spring's return has heralded warm, sandal-wearing weather, Granny's bronze sandals remain out of sight.

Only days ago, as I strolled the aisles of a local shoe store, I was seduced by luring whispers from a nearby shelf. I reached for the enticer, sighing at its hypnotic touch. And as my sole slipped into the fold of the first sparkling sandal, I beamed with the euphoria of true love.

"Bronze goes with everything," said the sales clerk as I slid my gladiator-styled sandals onto the check-out counter and reached for my credit card.

"So I've been told," I smiled, until finally noticing the price tag.

A "Tipp' of the hat to a departed friend

There’s an old pecan tree that towers beside our kitchen window, the offspring of a seed planted by my great-grandparents many years ago. The scene of many a bird-perch and cat-climb, this now flourishing pecan tree brandishes a few crooked branches, evidence of its long-lived years. And last week, my aging cat, Tippy, chose the cool shade of this backyard resting spot for one final nap. Lying on her round, fuzzy side with back paws sprawled in her typical Tippy fashion, Tippy closed her eyes “farewell.”

Grief laid claim on each member of the Eaves family. Mama’s shock turned to panic, swiftly slipping to sobs. Mine was a similar tale, unrealistically asking God to “bring Tippy back.” Daddy’s was a quiet mourning, his steadfast silence interrupted only by the breaking of earth with his rusted shovel, tucking Tippy to sleep forever. 

Of all God’s grand gifts to his “human” children, pets are among the most precious. Their comforting companionship and unselfish, unconditional devotion are as much a reflection of Christ-like love than any we experience in our earthly lives.

There’s a bittersweet beginning and ending to our companionship with pets. Unlike our human counterparts, we observe our furry loved ones in their infancy, nestled among a tight row of siblings, their tiny, damp paws pressing persistently on their mother’s belly for milk. Likewise, we witness our pets’ inevitable aging and failing health, as was the case with Tippy’s arthritic hind legs and her once loud meows which had evolved into mere chirps.

Despite Tippy’s failing vocals, her deep purrs persisted — specifically at meal-time — as she dipped her hunger-driven head into an olive-green food bowl, sliding it across the kitchen floor in her impassioned eating frenzy. A hefty helping of morsels later, Tippy would likewise dunk her head into the neighboring water bowl, raising her head gulps later, modeling dew-like droplets that dangled from her whiskered chin.

As a teenager, I’d spend evenings playing with the solid white, frisky feline. Her spunk persisted, even after I departed for college. Returning home on school breaks, Tippy greeted me with a meowing melody. And as bedtime approached, she would perch on the foot of my bed, purring as she and I both drifted to sleep. Despite the numerous times I’d leave Epsom, Tippy appeared to await my return. Although years advanced and her perky pace slowed, Tippy would paw her way toward my entrance as if saying, “Welcome home.”

This past year, Tippy had difficulty climbing stairs — or jumping on beds for that matter. Most of our conversations occurred downstairs while I brushed her hair, rubbed her soft stomach, or fed her dinner. And in her final months, Tippy appeared more eager for the outdoors, opting for nature’s living space versus our house. Mama, Daddy and I often gazed from the kitchen window as she prowled across the yard, sprawling in the grass or on the back steps, absorbing the springtime heat, her eyes half-shut.

“I’m going to walk out to Tippy’s grave,” I said to Mama a few days ago, inviting her to join me for an afternoon stroll to Tippy’s final resting spot. Already having paid her respects that day, Mama declined, and with teary eyes said, “She was a good little friend.”

Like many outdoor afternoons Tippy and I shared, I was transfixed by its beauty. The crickets, beginning their nightly serenade, were accompanied by the birds, chirping their final notes of the day. The duet continued as my stroll ended by a grove of flowering spirea — and a newly unearthed patch, marked by cinder blocks. A few winged insects buzzed among the white blooms, and the nearby woods echoed with activity.

The Bible says that we will all return to the earth. Despite our rank in the circle of life, we share the same creation, and ultimately the same conclusion to this life. And as teardrops fell with the uttered words, “I miss you, Tippy” I felt the spirit of paw prints and whiskers dancing among the drifting breeze.

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.

Would-be spinster attends Southern 'bridal tea' social

The card was delivered by way of the United States Postal Service, specifically by our Route 1, Henderson, mailman. Once I had ripped open the envelope in a most unromantic fashion, I cheered at its contents — an invitation, with edges trimmed in a floral bouquet and a cursive header that read "Bridal Tea."

Being both a Southerner and socialite, I skipped about the house, flapping the card-stock invitation in hand. The pre-nuptial tea would honor a high school crony, Katie, whom I hadn't seen since our 10th year reunion.

Only days prior to the gathering, I enthusiastically chirped about the upcoming bridal tea while at work. A fellow colleague, stationed at a nearby computer, interrupted me.

"Doesn't it really depress you that all of your friends are getting married, and you're 30 years old and have no marriage prospects?" he inquired, peevishly peering through black-framed glasses that hung down the middle of his freckled nose.

"Absolutely not," I affirmed.

His questions continued, insinuating that my aging body and diminishing chances of male companionship would all culminate in the likelihood of my dying alone with a house full of felines. My colleague's crooked brow was accompanied by a glare as I declared I had no need, nor desire, for romantic companionship. He was aghast!

"I shall happily live and die an old maid," I said, stacking a bundle of newspapers below my desk and turning my attention to other matters.

Despite my spinsterly covenant, I eagerly planned my bridal tea attire. Shuffling through a closet of dresses, I opted for a sleeveless, green floral design, and a yellow cardigan to match.

"You look lovely," Mama confirmed with a grin, as I curtsied to her before shuffling out the door and onward to Louisburg.

Teas epitomize Southern grace and hospitality, as did the afternoon's affair. A table showered in decadent delights embellished the dining area. Chicken salad cupped in pastry shells, thinly sliced chocolate and lemon cakes, cheesecakes squares daintily dolloped with fruit — such were the sweet-tooth fancy fares. The attending ladies, each befittingly dressed for the feminine festival, waltzed from one welcoming embrace to the next.

The ease of the gathering was enhanced by the absence of men.

"Gina!" cried a former teacher, as we hugged one another and then exchanged our lives' happenings since my Louisburg High School graduation.

"Are you married yet?" came the question repeatedly asked that afternoon.

"Oh heavens no," I laughed. "I haven't bumped my head that hard!"

But just as my provoking colleague had reasoned days ago, most of my high school classmates had wed, and many were starting families.

"Where are you living now?" came the next inquiry.

No need to flaunt the reality. But had I, it would have sounded a bit like, "Oh, you know ... I've moved back home with my parents because I am absolutely broke. I have a pile of student loans, credit card debt and a failing FICO score that are forever my fate, that is, unless I purchase the winning lottery ticket from the Epsom crossroad's convenience store. And if I dared move out on my own, running water would be a luxury, as would Spam and Vienna sausages."

Luckily, a simple "Epsom" sufficed.

Despite my financial and unromantic lot, I beamed with genuine joy. And sharing an afternoon with my Franklin County counterparts, I was encouraged by their gaiety as well. Although our personal journeys varied, the afternoon tea provided an opportunity for sisterly communion. And with equivocal merriment, we celebrated our friendship while cheering the bride-to-be on her wedding, her fortune and her forever.

The Daily Dispatch, 2 May 2010