Author: stephsimply

            “No person was ever honored for what he received. Honor has been the reward for what he gave.”—Calvin Coolidge

The year was 1987. 21 years wise and freshly graduated from college, I was ready to begin my teaching career.   After making the long walk from the main part of the building that contained classrooms and administrative offices, through the cafeteria, past the concession stands area used during basketball season, through the entire length of the gym, up the back stairway that led to the underside of gym bleachers, through two other makeshift classrooms, separated by rolling chalkboards, I finally arrived in my “classroom.” I sighed, in a state of shock and dismay.

One “wall” was literally the underbelly of the gymnasium bleachers. Another “wall” was the rolling chalkboards by which I had passed. A third wall, across from the bleachers, was a painted concrete wall stained with yellow mold; and, the final wall, was a padded medal door that I would later learn was filled with weapons used by the Greenup County High School ROTC students. And, with those students would enter a man I would come to know as Marine retired Lt. Col. Vance Huston—a man I would consider a mentor during my first year of teaching and during his last year as an educator.

However, on that first day, weeks before students arrived, I looked around this so-called room and wondered if I had made a huge mistake. Was this the job meant for me? How could I ever be expected to teach in such dismissal surroundings with no window or source of natural light? I sat and stared. This was not the setting for which I prepared in the idyllic world of textbooks, professors, and idealistic future teachers.

Nonetheless, I threw back my shoulders and began the task of cleaning, tidying, and arranging the room as best I could. I was able to hang a few colorful posters/charts on the two-door metal cabinet that stood along the concrete wall, stacked a few battered textbooks that my 9-12 grade special educations students were supposed to use, as well as a few of my own reference books. I would make the best of the situation.

Thinking determined thoughts on that long ago end-of-July-day, I was startled by a man quietly entering my room.   While I do not recall his exact words, I do remember his kind, twinkling eyes and warm smile. He said something about the fact that he wasn’t used to seeing teachers in their classrooms so early before the start of school. Then, he introduced himself as, “Col. Huston,” and offered his hand to shake.

He was relaxed, confident, and warm. Sitting on the top of a student desk, he began asking questions, seemingly eager to figure out who I was. As I answered, I remember the way he would nod his head and simultaneously close his eyes as if trying remember each word I stated. He smiled frequently, and continued to engage me with questions.

After asking numerous questions, he launched into a personal story meant to serve as a mini-life lesson for me. That was the beginning of what would become a nearly daily occurrence at the end of each school day.

“Ms. Musick, how are you today?”

“Ms. Musick, did the kids treat you well?”

“Ms. Musick, how are you getting along?”

“Ms. Musick, how are you liking it here?”

No matter what question with which he began our conversation (after he was certain the padded door to the weapons rooms was locked and secure) he managed to turn my answer into a story/mini-lesson.

During these conversations, he revealed he was originally from and educated in California, and that I, too, must one day acquire a Masters Degree in Education as he had earned. He frequently talked of his Marine service that followed, for which he was commissioned in 1955. Never once, however, did he reveal that he was White House Helicopter support for Presidents Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Johnson from 1960-1964. He did certainly share that he flew Marine C-130s during two tours of Vietnam from 1965 (the year in which I was born) to 1970. And, while I knew he had survived a horrific helicopter crash that ultimately served as a vehicle for his deeply convicted faith, I never realized how bad the crash was until recently viewing the picture of mangled, twisted, and warped metal that was once the helicopter from which he, and the other men, miraculously walked away.

After his service in Vietnam, Lt. Col. Huston was a Commanding Officer of a wing equipment and repair squadron at Cherry Point, North Carolina. Next, he served as Executive Officer, Marine barracks, Subic Bay, Philippines. Finally, he rounded out his Marine service in Public Affairs at Marine Headquarters, Pentagon. Even with all his honors and experience, he spoke more often about his love for his wife, his children, his extended family, and his profound faith than anything else.

No matter what had occurred during a school day, I could count on Lt. Col. Huston to end my day with a smile. On days I was down, from lack of appropriate supplies, facilities, or plain of feeling isolated and lonely, Lt. Col. Huston was there to offer a quick story and smile. I never shared with him how lonely I felt that year, but I think he knew. In fact, I am fairly certain he was responsible for ensuring that one of the Assistant principals, Mr. Lyles, invited me to his office at least twice a month for coffee to “see how I was doing.”

When I began to show an interest in running and biking as a hobby, Lt. Col. Huston encouraged me. He offered tips as he was an avid runner, running 5-6 miles at a time, several days a week. In fact, it wasn’t unusual to drive down US 23 and see Lt. Col. Houston running alongside the road in grey sweatpants and a grey sweatshirt. Fitness, he stated, was an important discipline for the mind, body, and soul.

Near the end of my first year of teaching, I shared with him that I had met man for whom I felt deep love and affection. His eyes truly shone then. From that point on, he gave me daily advice on how to make a relationship work and how to, one day, be a good parent.

“Put your spouse and children first. That is the key.”

After my first year at GCHS, Lt. Col. Huston retired, but he would regularly drop by school for visits just to, “see how I was getting along.” When he learned of my engagement to my now husband of nearly 30 years, he simply smiled and said he hoped I was as blessed as he had been in the love of his wife.

June of 1989, Lt. Col. Huston honored me by making the 45-60 minute drive to attend my wedding in South Point, Ohio. He was stunning in his Marine dress blues. For a wedding present, he gave my husband and me an electric carving knife attached with a note of advice: “The words of the reckless pierce like a sword, but the words of the wise brings healing.”—Proverbs 12:18

Lt. Col. Huston recently flew, this time on eagle’s wings, to meet his Creator, on March 1 of this year. He was 85 years old.

On March 7, my husband, John, and I made the 45-60 minute drive to pay our respects to his wife, Ella Mae, of 65 years, and the rest of his family. I learned upon his retirement from GCHS, he had not stopped mentoring others. His ministry continued through service to Meal-on-Wheels, Prison Ministry at the Federal Penitentiary in Summit, Bible study groups in the Greenup Country Detention Center, Gideon’s International, and at his beloved house of worship, Green County Methodist Church.

I was blessed to have been under Lt. Col. Huston’s watchful eye, even for a short time; and based on the number of people attending his viewing—there were hundreds, if not thousands more, that could also consider their lives enriched because of this honorable man.

May Lt. Col. Huston’s wings of faith eternally fly as inspiration and example to all.

            “The river is one of my favorite metaphors, the symbol of the great flow of Life Itself. The river begins at Source, and returns to Source unerringly. This happens every single time, without exception. We are no different.”—Jeffery. R. Anderson

Beginning in her first year of life, my husband, John, and I traveled frequently with our daughter, Madelyn. The road trips took us to locations all over the United States and several locations in Canada. It was common, when Maddie was a young girl, for her to break down and cry dolorously for an hour or so, on our return drive home from these trips.

The first time this occurred, I asked her, with great concern, what was wrong. She explained that she did not want the vacation experience to end, and she wanted to remain in the location in which we had stayed.   John and I would attempt to explain that the place would no longer seem special if we lived there. We further encouraged her to focus on all the good memories we created, and how wonderful it was to spend time together in such a special way. Despite our best efforts to cheer her, she was attached to her feeling, to her story. She had to cry as a way to release her grief and her attachment to the illusion that life should always be like vacation.

Likewise, the Ohio River has risen due to frequent and heavy rains and snowmelt. In fact, the mighty Ohio has risen to such levels that I recently watched with great interest as the floodwall gates, along the Ohio River in Huntington, WV, were closed to the public and sturdy-looking metal inserts were tightly locked into place. Furthermore, streams, such as nearby Symmes Creek, a 76.4-mile-long tributary of the Ohio River in southern Ohio, began to overflow their banks and spill out into roadways making travel challenging if not impossible.

Numerous residents were trapped in their homes unable to report to work due to road closures. Those who could get to work were often spending double, or even triple, the amount of drive time traveling to and from work. Additionally, there were homes either destroyed or damaged by floodwaters. These stories filled the news each evening as more predictions of rain filled the weather headlines.

Even as the waters began to recede though, other negative concerns have arisen. Roads that were already pocked with the small potholes from the freeze-thaw cycle of winter are now burgeoning with ever expanding potholes caused by the erosion of floodwaters. Furthermore, trash, debris, refuse, and junk litter the river and stream banks as well as the roadways. While our tendency is to focus on such negative implications of floodwaters, we tend forget that by their nature, rivers flood. It is part of their natural process; and, yes, there are actually benefits of a flood.

As best I understand it, the right amount of flooding is good for the flood plain lands that are often used for agriculture. Flooding makes these grounds more fertile and productive by overflowing the soil with vital and enriching nutrients. In return, fresh nutrients from the soil are also infused back into the rivers, lakes, and streams thereby improving the vitality for the fish and other wild life contained within. Sometimes, floodwaters relocate fish and other living organisms into other water bodies. This often improves and brings increased balance into the ecosystem as new predators and prey species are introduced into the aquatic population. Floodwaters also recharge the groundwater, which has overall benefits for humans and wildlife alike. Finally, I have to believe that the powerful way in which floodwaters spew out the physical trash also offers an overall benefit to the health of the water. Despite these benefits, it is human nature for us to resist flooding in the same way Maddie sorrowfully resisted the transition from vacation to normal life.

Both of these stories are a metaphor to an issue with which I have been wrestling– attachment to the story: How life should flow as written by the great know-it-all Steph. Life, like the Ohio River, should flow smoothly and remain within its known boundaries. Sure, the river bends and curves, but you see those ahead of time and know how to prepare for them. The fallacy with my attachment to this story is that if I were to really examine the river, I would see that it is in state of continual change. Some changes are almost imperceptible while other changes occur dramatically and sometimes cataclysmically.

Like the flooding, life’s so called catastrophes, as bad, as awful, and as troubling as they can seem, often have a positive side—even if those positives may not be recognizable until years later. Sometimes, the benefit may be as simple as an enhanced appreciation for health, family, and/or friends, while other advantages may include a more resilient immune system, mind, or emotional-well being. In spite of all of Maddie’s tears at the end of a vacation, she still grew and gained insight from each new place visited; and, as a result, she is more knowledgeable, open-minded, and can adapt easily to new situations.

When we attach to the story of how things should be, we actually create more personal mental suffering and anguish. Thus, we often cry and/or mourn what we perceive as loss, losing sight of all the good and wondrous events occurring all around us. It is often through those watershed moments, life is infusing us with nutrient-rich experiences that greater inform us, introduce new people and understandings, create more balance and harmony, as well as clears mental and physical debris and clutter.

Meanwhile, during all of our collective worry and focus on the flooding, the cycle of life renewed itself. Spring peepers can now be heard at night, hyacinths have quietly bloomed, grass is beginning to grow, and our willow trees are sprouting new green leaves. When we detach from the story, we are able to see our watershed moments do indeed lead to our own spring-like renewal and return to us our source in the same way the river starts and ends at its source.

“February 15 is national gumdrop day.”—Foodimentary

            “Gumdrops, a fruit or spice flavored sugar coated gelatin candy, usually conical in shape. Other shapes and flavors: orange slices, licorice babies, and spearmint leaves.”—Foodimentary

The glow that hovered over the valley area in which my home sits became more luminous as the garage door gradually lifted, bursting through the opening as if there was a nearby three-alarm fire creating brilliant radiance. Instead, it was the light of sunrise filling the air with a soft blush. Glancing toward the hillside over which the sun was rising, the sky was filled with color like that of the interior flesh of a blood orange, then gradually became a more vivid orange—like biting into the middle of a candied orange slice that my grandfather, called, “Papaw” kept by the back door at the end of the kitchen counter.

Over the past two weeks, I have been fully blessed to bear witness to several blazing sunrises much like I was witnessing on that particular day.   For whatever reason, these spectacular events of flame have recently been filling my heart with memories of Papaw and his candied orange slices. It is fitting, that on the day after Valentine’s Day, a day devoted to love, is National Gumdrop Day—which is what orange slices, by definition, are.

Still, I cannot talk about Papaw without also talking about his wife of over 60 years, the woman I called, “Grandmother.” These were my maternal grandparents with whom I spent a plethora of time during my childhood, teens, and even my young adult years. The mark they left still flows profoundly through my spirit much like the sunrise I described. Copious happy memories tied up in a simple house, with simple, but deeply proud, genuinely faith-filled, and ever loving people. Were they perfect? No, even in my idealized memory, I can recognize their flaws, but that does not reduce their love or my love for them.

What was once my grandparents house.  My Papaw was so proud of this home he built on “high ground” as he had been flooded out of two other previous homes.

“Stethie,” my grandfather could never seem to say, “Stephie,” correctly. “Be sure and get you an orange slice as you go out the door. They’re good and fresh. Your grandmother just bought ‘em yesterday.”

I now recognize that was my Papaw’s way of he saying, “I love you. I am sorry to see you go—take something sweet with you as a slice of sweet love from your ol’ Papaw and Grandmother.”

My Grandmother, Helen, (middle) and my Papaw, Check, (right) sitting with one of their son’s (Leo) mother-in-law, that I only knew as “Nannie.”  (Left)

Papaw loved to talk with strangers. In fact, in his later years, there were a few times I would take Grandmother and he grocery shopping. It seemed during those visits, Grandmother and I would often “lose” him. Grandmother would send him to get some particular item from across the store, and he would not return.

“Oh Dear, who is Check (my grandfather’s nickname) talking to now?” she would say after some time had past with worry and aggravation in her voice.

“Stethie, would you go see if you can find him?”

Papaw and Grandmother one Christmas at my childhood home.

Sure enough, I’d walk up and down the aisles and eventually spy Papaw with eyes a’twinkin’ as he talked-up another shopper. Sometimes, he knew them; most of the time, however, he did not. His fine, long-boned fingers, empty of the grocery item for which my Grandmother had sent him, gesticulated this way as he attempted to make his point. I would approach with respectful, polite caution, especially once he was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, as I never knew what he would be saying.

His faded blue-gray eyes though never failed to light up upon seeing me approach as I often took him by the forearm and attempt to lead him away. Sometimes, he would stay put insisting upon introducing me to the person I rarely ever knew. Other times, he would nod his head as if that were his signal to suddenly remember what he was supposed to be doing and politely excuse himself.

Papaw on the front porch of his home with one of his great-grandkids, Wesley, from Texas.  Wesley is wearing a blue suit sewn to match Papaw’s.  

One time, I found him near tears, having dropped an egg and broken it on the grocery floor. I was reminded of a long ago story in which my middle sister, Traci, was a mere child and had accidently broken eggs while tagging along with Papaw at the grocery store. She cried so much, I am told, that it caused Papaw to cry too.   There he stood, looking around, much in the way Traci must have looked as a child, guilty, shamed, and extremely sorrowful. I tried to get him to laugh it off, but it bothered him, as it was one of the few times he realized his mind was changing. Even as I type these words, my heart breaks for him in that moment.

There were a couple of other times in which he suspected the claws of Alzheimer’s were beginning to burrow into the recesses of his brain. His eyes would click, he would pause, shake his head, and return my gaze as if to say, “I am trying, Stethie, to clear the fog, but I can’t. Help me.” Sadly, I could not.

I was the first family member to recognize that Papaw had Alzheimer’s. At first, I was doubted, written off, or simply dismissed. I get it. Who wants to believe the gray cloud of Alzheimer’s had infiltrated their loved one’s brain like an identity thief stealing a credit card number. Where did the memories go? How could this happen?

It wasn’t too long after I took this picture that I began to realize Papaw was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. 

The gift of these sunrises reminds me of Papaw’s love. I was “his girl,” he would often say as he grabbed my arms and looked lovingly into my eyes. He told me to be like his sister and become an educated woman, because in his words, “Your ol’ Papaw here, only made to fifth grade, but I was the teacher’s pet! She kept me near her desk, and tied a string from her finger to mine, so I couldn’t get too far from her.”

My absolute favorite picture of my grandparents taken in the side yard of my childhood home.  They drove all the way to Athens, Ohio to watch me graduate from Ohio University.  The pride written all over their face in this picture brings tears to my eyes to this day.

He loved his church, football, National Geographic magazines and learning random facts of trivia; traveling and gardening; railroading (CSX proud) and clipping coupons; Boy Scouting and collecting coins; saltines crumbled in bowl with milk poured over them on Sunday nights after church, sorghum on buttered canned biscuits, glazed donuts, and candied orange slices in a glass jar on the kitchen counter beside the back door. It is his memory, bound up in the orange-slice sunrises that have been warming my mornings of late. I feel his heavenly smile. I know he is telling Grandmother, “There goes my girl,” as I drive towards the embrace of the rising glow of love.

As seen on Instagram at meditation_mum.

Written with great love for Chester Arlen Slater aka “Papaw,” aka “Poppy-Check.”  May his memory and love forever shine.