The Saturday Journal: How Do We Love Well?

Recently I visited a Hospice Home–my first ever visit to a Hospice facility. A dear friend of my family is dying. He’s lived close to nine decades.  And just this week, the doctor shared the message with his family–72 hours–maybe, a little longer.  

My great-aunt Lena–I’ve shared a little about her before.  She was my bonus grandma–my Grandma Lackey’s sister.  Her house stood in the middle between my childhood home and my grandparents–Papo and Grandmudder Lackey.  

She was an independent woman–driving to town every Saturday–shopping at stores such as Eagles, Crest Family Dollar store, the “S & H Green Stamps” store--when she had enough stamps to redeem, and always a trip to Lowe’s Foods located in Midtown Plaza to get her weekly groceries.  And on some Saturdays she would let me ride along with her–she and I would get into her little Dodge Dart–the one with push buttons on the dashboard for the gears.  

I loved going with her–especially to the Green Stamps store–it was like you were getting things for free–no cash needed–just pay with these sheets of little green stamps.  And another place that was the absolute best favorite thing to do for me--on our Saturday journeys--eating lunch at the Red Cross Pharmacy.  

The Red Cross Pharmacy was located on the corner of 10th street–open six days a week. You could get your medicines filled in the back with Doc Brame and eat lunch at the lunch counter while you waited.  It was a long narrow building–resembling what architecture calls a shotgun building–still many of these styles of homes and buildings seen today in old textile towns near major railways.  

The lunch counter was perhaps a third of the building–the seats were spinning stools of silver posts bolted to the floor--the seats covered in red vinyl and from the ceiling hung these huge black fans. There wasn’t any music playing overhead from the loud speakers–like in some diners and restaurants today. At the Red Cross, it was only the sounds of the creaking fans, the splattering of grease, the sizzling of meat frying, and the roar from the grill fan. It was the best of music.  

There were two older ladies who cooked at the lunch counter–a lady named Ethel, a family relative and another lady–her name was Lillian.  Ethel, her hair was as white as the foam from ocean water and Lillian–her hair was black with a sprinkle of salt.  Customers at the Red Cross diner not only experienced the sounds and smells of this tiny lunch counter--they had the blessing of watching these two ladies–butter sandwich bread and hot dog and hamburger buns before placing them in the flat-iron grill and toss the fresh hamburger patties and hot dogs on the open grill--in bacon grease and no doubt--a little Crisco added. It was like watching a well-oiled machine work. And when Ethel or Lillian slid your order across the counter–it was always with kindness no matter how busy they were.

The food at the Red Cross Pharmacy–oh my goodness–it was always a hard decision–do I order a split-fried hot dog with the special “Red Cross Pharmacy” chili and slaw or a grilled egg salad sandwich.  Or a hamburger with just chili and slaw--all my favorites!  Lena would never allow me to order all three–as much as I begged–her favorite was the split fried hot dog--burnt.

And the fountain drinks at the Red Cross Pharmacy lunch counter–it was always a Dr. Pepper for me.  The syrup was so thick–like molasses thick, and sugary sweet.  It’s no wonder us kids at the lunch counter would get scolded every now and then when our bar stools went to spinning out of control.  

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I was a little anxious walking into the Hospice House the first time–however within minutes I quickly learned not only about the beauty of this facility and the care and thought in how it was designed with large windows in every room–insuring every person could see outside--living out their last days in the comforts of what resembles home--I learned about the caring hearts of the many health care workers I came in contact with too.

And on the way out, I saw a sole candle–in an open frame–near the fireplace. The candle is only lit when someone passes–in memory the sign said, and on this day–the unlit candle sat quietly without a flame. 

Our family friend–as I got to know him more–I learned he loved sweets, so one day I took him part of a vanilla pound cake I had baked.  He said it tasted just like his Mama used to make.  And he began asking for a few more. You see he would share slices of the cakes with the health care workers at the Alzheimer and Dementia facility where he would drive twenty to thirty minutes every day to visit his wife–before he received his diagnosis of cancer.  

As I sat at the coffee shop on this rainy and dark morning, I noticed this gentleman sitting at the table behind me–his journal is spread open--wide, and he's writing. He is left-handed like my Daddy.  His hair–long–the colors of salt and pepper sprinkled throughout. 

And after a while, I watched him leave–walking toward the door--his jeans faded, just like my Daddy wore, and in his hand he carried the tattered leather journal.  My Daddy wrote his thoughts in spiral bound notebooks.  

The man's hair was longer than I noticed at first glance.  And I remembered my Daddy saying on occasion–if he could, he would let his hair grow long–wear a ponytail--like Willie Nelson. I wish he would have–if only for a short time.  

The days here on this earth--while we're here--yes, we are to love and be grateful for the time we are given--but how is it we truly love one another well? This question can be answered in so many ways--in each of our own thoughts and opinions--ways too numerous to count.

For me, I'm learning--deep within my being–one of the most profound ways we can show our love to those who have touched us the most–is to never forget them.

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Thank you for your continued kindness in reading The Saturday Journal.

I am grateful for each of you--more than you will ever know.

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bring a smile or remembrance, and bless you in some small way.

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