It's a Travesty What They've Done to Our Flag

 I have been meaning to put this post up for a long time. A fellow-writer, Mark Hummel posted a lengthy piece recently on his site, Organic Matters on this subject, and has given me permission to quote him briefly. His was entitled "I Want My Flag Back."

Another sight prompted me just the other day to finally express myself. I saw a pickup truck with an American Flag and a Confederate Flag mounted on the back. I was appalled. This is one of the most disrespectful sighs I've seen, and there are many more. Our flag has been hijacked to stand for only one side's point of view, and disrespected as a result. It is meant to stand for all of, "the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave" with "Liberty and Justice for All." Of course these quotes are still dreams, especially the last one. There has never been justice for ALL in this country. I pray it's not too late.

Mark mentioned some other thoughts: "Just as civil discourse used to exist even among those running against one another from opposite points of the political spectrum, there were once rules regarding display and handling of the American flag. Recognizing the symbolic power of service to country, they are rules those who have survived military combat have forged as ways to show proper respect. Whatever your personal beliefs about politics, please consider the following rules of flag etiquette provided by the Veterans of Foreign Wars."

Before I list these, I have to note that any of us who grew up in the 1950s and 60s were taught these things in school, or in Scouts. I know I was.

Special Rules

Do not let the flag touch the ground.

Do not fly the flag upside down, unless there in an emergency (mainly meant for maritime vessels.)

Do not carry the flag flat, or carry things in it.

Do not use the flag as clothing. (I've even seen beach towel flags--talk about touching the ground!)

Do not store the flag where it can get dirty.

Do not use it as a cover, except on a veteran's coffin.

Do not fasten or tie it back. Always allow it to fall free.

Do not draw on, or otherwise mark the flag.

(I also remember being told that if displayed with other flags the American flag should be on a higher pole.)

Illumination Guidelines 

Per Federal Flag Code, Section 2, Paragraph (a), it is the universal custom to display the flag only from sunrise to sun set on buildings and stationary flagstaffs in the open. (Not pickup trucks or other vehicles.)

However, when a patriotic effect is desired, the flag may be displayed twenty-four hours a day if Properly Illuminated during the hours of darkness.

I must add a couple of observations of my own here. I was told the flag, if damaged or worn, was to be disposed of by burning it, not burying it or throwing it away. It makes my heart ache to see flags that have been flown 24/7 in all kinds of weather, becoming worn and in tatters, and still flying.

Thank you, Mark Hummel for giving me permission to summarize some of your message. It's something that has been bothering me for a long time. 

Sometimes I Wish I Could Change Places With Her

 

A Lost Connection

By Mary Frances Erler

 

          As I approached the small gravestone, lying almost even with the grass

around it, my legs began to weaken. Before I knew it, I was on my knees, tears streaming down my cheeks, as I read the letters I’d never been able to read:

          The last time I’d seen my little sister’s gravestone I was probably only three or four, too young to read the letters. This was at least 67 years ago. I had no idea why my parents took me to the cemetery almost every Sunday afternoon. I thought it was something everyone did. I wasn’t quite three when my brother Robbie was born. They must have brought him some as a baby. All I know for sure is that we never went to the cemetery after we moved to Magnolia Drive, and that was right after I turned five. Mom probably couldn’t handle it anymore, I suppose.

          In fact Mom never mentioned a word about Roberta Lee. Dad told us when I was about eight years old, I believe. We’d just watched an episode of the old show Wagon Train. In this episode a newborn baby had died.

          “It’s so sad that the baby died,” I remember saying to Dad.

          He nodded and took Robbie and me aside. I think Mom left the room to put our baby brother to bed. “We had a baby that died like that,” he said. “She was born too soon and only lived for a couple of hours. We named her Roberta Lee.”

          As soon as he said this, I knew what those Sunday afternoon visits to the cemetery had been for.  Robbie was too young to understand, but it all made sense to me. I had a little sister who died. By this time I had a second brother, baby Danny. So I grew up with two brothers, but I always wondered what it would be like to have a sister.

          The knowledge that I did have a sister somewhere—maybe in heaven—left a huge impression in my heart. And the name Roberta Lee meant a lot, for Dad’s first name was Robert, and Mom’s middle name was Lee. I began to include my sister in my childhood bedtime prayers: “God bless Mama and Daddy, Robbie and Danny, and Roberta Lee, wherever she may be.” Neither of my parents ever commented on how I worded my prayer for her.

          As grew older, another memory was added to the story, at least in my own mind. On February 10, 1954, I was within a week of turning nineteen months old. People say this is too young to have a memory, but I know I do remember an event the night my sister was born:

          I am sitting on a brown area rug on the hardwood floor of the rental house we lived in until I was five. There is a cup of cold water or juice in my hands. Across the room I hear my father and my mother’s mother, Nanny, talking in anxious, upset voices. My mother is not in the house. Somehow I know that she would be there with Nanny, unless something was very wrong.

          The most distinct part of the memory is the feeling of cold liquid running down my chest when I spill the cup as I try to drink from it. That is another hint that tells me I am under two years old. My adult mind has now reasoned that I picked up on the tension in the room, and that’s why I spilled that cup. And I can think of no other reason for all those things to be happening—except the birth of Roberta Lee. Mama wasn’t home because she was at the hospital in premature labor, and that’s why Daddy and Nanny were upset.

          My brothers had no memories like this. Robbie was born just over a year later in 1955, and Danny came along in 1958.

          There’s another strange twist in the story, though. When our father died, in August 2010, I was in Montana and my brother Robert (no longer Robbie) was the one who saw Dad the day before he died.

          As soon as Robert had come into his room at the nursing home, Dad had told him this story. “I had the most wonderful day yesterday. I spent it with my daughter.”

          “But Dad, Frances is in Montana, not here.”

          “No, my other daughter,” said Dad. “She has such beautiful eyes.”

          After Robert’s visit that morning with Dad, he had to go to work. Dad died a couple of hours later.

          When he called to tell me about Dad’s passing, one of Robert’s first questions was, “Did our parents have a baby girl between you and me who died?”

          “Yes,” I said. “Dad told us about her when I was around eight. You would have been only five, so you don’t remember. And of course, if they took you to the cemetery when I was three, you were just a baby.”

          That event left me wondering if somehow as Dad approached death, he had crossed over just far enough the day before he died, to see the daughter he’d never known on earth but would know in heaven. And the more I wondered, the more I wanted to go find that little grave and see it again.

          The website FindaGrave.com told me she was buried in Arlington Memorial Cemetery in El Dorado, Arkansas. This was the town we’d lived in until I was eleven. There was a photo of the gravestone, and this was the first time I found out exactly when she was born.

          Arkansas is a long way from Montana, so I wondered if I’d ever get back there. But in February 2024, we were visiting my cousin in Jefferson, Texas. When I discovered El Dorado was only three hours’ drive away, my husband Paul agreed we should take a day trip to my birthplace.

          The first thing we did was find the cemetery, but it was huge. Since we had no idea which section to look in, it would take all day and maybe more to find one small grave. After wandering and searching on foot for about half an hour, we finally found a phone number on a sign at one of the cemetery entrances. Paul called the number, and a woman answered. He explained our situation, and she told him the information office was right across the road from where we were sitting in our rental car.

          With great relief, we drove to the office and showed her the photo I’d printed from the FindaGrave.com website. I think she recognized the name of the person who had posted the picture. It didn’t take her long to locate the gravesite, and she printed a map for us.

          “I’ll take you there,” she said.

          “Oh, that’s very kind,” said Paul.

          “No problem,” she replied. “I do this often.”

          So we followed her car as she drove back through the cemetery gate. We hadn’t gone far when she stopped and pointed to a corner lot. It had only a couple of gravestones, and no tall headstones like most of the rest of the graves in the cemetery. Fuzzy childhood memories of trips to the cemetery fell into place: the grave was near one of the cemetery lanes, and there was a woodland several yards to the left. She drove away, as we walked toward the place my heart so desired to see.

(In the photo below, my sister’s gravestone is the one on the left in the foreground. Just as I remembered, it was not near a lot of headstones, and near a road. The woods I remembered are out of the picture to the left.)

That’s when I fell on my knees. I had no words, just tears of joy that I’d found my little sister at last. There was grief, too, for the years that she had missed. We were there on February 5, 2024—just five days short of what would have been her seventieth birthday. An entire life missed.

Yet as I sat on the damp ground, I couldn’t help but think perhaps she was the lucky one. She’d gone straight to heaven, while I had endured seventy-one years of the trials and heartbreaks of life here on earth. Oh, there had been joys, too. But right at that point my joy and pain all merged as I sat and talked to my sister.

          Paul gently told me, “Take all the time you need,” and went to the car.

          As I looked at the stone and ran my hands over it, I was amazed that it still seemed new. The letters and numbers were still sharp and deeply cut. There were no signs of weathering. Running my fingers on the polished granite around the name section, an eerie sensation came over me. My brothers and I had chosen the same shade of pink and grey granite when we picked our parents’ headstone for their grave in Rochester, Illinois.

          I told my sister about her younger brothers. As I told her the color of everyone’s eyes in the family I wondered what color her “beautiful eyes” were.

          “I’m looking forward to finally meeting you,” I said, as the tears kept cascading down. “I’ve wondered my whole life what you would be like. Someday I will know.” (Even as I write this, the tears are falling again.)

          With a quavering voice, I tried to sing some favorite songs to her. The only one I could get all the way through was Jesus Loves Me.  I forgot to tell her that this was one of our mother’s favorite songs when she was in her eighties, had Alzheimer’s, and was approaching death. For some reason I talked more about our father, for he was the one who had told me about her. I know the two of them are together in heaven forever, and now Mom has joined them.

          Finally, my tears ebbed and I rejoined Paul in the rental car. We drove around my old hometown. Many things had changed, but some hadn’t. I recognized the school where I had attended first through fifth grade, and started sixth, before my dad’s work forced us to move to Illinois. We drove around my old neighborhood, and it was good to see that almost all the houses still looked loved and cared for. The magnolia trees on Magnolia Drive were fifty feet taller than I remembered, but everything else looked smaller. Our former house looked beautiful, as the owners had bricked the front. I could still see the rectangular wrought iron Mom had chosen for the front porch; she wanted nothing to do with curls and leaf patterns.

          We even found the rental house where I had spilled that drink on myself almost seventy years ago. It looked well cared for, too. And down the hill there were the railroad tracks that Dad liked to walk me to. Sometimes we even saw trains going by. Dad loved trains.

          Our visit to El Dorado ended with a late picnic lunch in a park near the rental house. Perhaps it was the park I remembered walking to with Mama on sunny days when Daddy was at work.

          A Bible verse came to my mind, “Lord, now let your servant depart in peace…for my eyes have seen…” The verse is telling about a priest seeing baby Jesus, as God had promised he would before he died. I guess I was feeling that I could die in peace now, too, for I had seen with my own adult eyes the place where some treasured childhood memories dwell, of the sister I hope to get to know in heaven. Then I'll get to see what color her beautiful eyes are, just like my Dad did.

Circles of Time

 We've made it to August 1. In ancient times this was a holiday called Lughnasa or Lammas, and was celebrated as the beginning of the harvest season. It marks the halfway point between the Summer Solstice and the Autumn Equinox. 

There are 4 of these quarter feasts, but this is the only one that has been lost in modern times. The halfway point between the Autumn Equinox and the Winter Solstice is October 31, when we celebrate Halloween. The next one is between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox on February 2, when we observe Groundhog Day. And the fourth is Beltaine, May 1, when May Day falls. 

To me, these ancient feasts, celebrated for thousands of years, show that we as humans are not able to control the forces of nature and the passage of time. Only the Creator can. Whenever we humans think we can seize control of nature, the results are pollution, a decline in our environment, and unbalances in the Food Web.

In our human self-centeredness, we forget that we are part of that Food Web, too. When we hurt or destroy parts of this delicately balanced web, we are also jeopardizing our future. Eventually, the things we do will tip the scales, and our Mother Earth will be uninhabitable.

Past geological records show that there have been several mass extinctions in earth's past. We don't fully understand what caused these mass extinctions, and we understand even less about what the next one will be--or when. But it appears that the next one--the first we know of since humans appeared on the earth--will be caused, or at least exacerbated, by humans. 

Something Is Wrong Here, Part 2

 

In Post #1, I mentioned that I fear some Christians are not following Jesus's example and teachings, especially when it comes to treatment of what society considers 'outcasts.'  Sometimes I feel like our Western Society has sold out to selfishness and capitalist empire-building. Unfortunately, it started in the early centuries of the Church, around the Third Century AD, when the Church began to buy into the Roman Empire's power-structure way of thinking. Power over others became a higher focus than witnessing to and helping others. In my opinion, if Jesus had thought power was the answer, he would have overthrown the Romans and started an earthly empire of his own.  Many of his early followers expected him to do exactly this.

Instead, Jesus told Pontius Pilate (the representative of the world power of Rome who claimed to have power over him), "You would have no power over me if God had not permitted this." And Jesus added, "My kingdom is not of this world." Over the centuries, the Church sought to establish 'peace' by overcoming the foes they disagreed with. Forgetting that Jesus had promised them "Peace the world cannot give."

But the focus of the church, especially as it moved into the Medieval years, became accumulating wealth and political power, and Jesus's teachings were gradually pushed aside. There were a few 'revivals' over the centuries, but they came and went. Selfishness and thirst for power took over again. In a world where we are supposed to be compassionate and cooperative, instead we fight and compete over the earth's finite resources.

I see our country following the path of the waning Roman Empire--the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer. The ones with the power are considered above the law. Just look at the recent ruling of the Supreme Court about former presidents having immunity from prosecution. If they weren't guilty of anything, why do they require immunity in the first place? This is so far off-base from the system of Checks and Balances the founders of our nation tried to put into the Constitution that it breaks my heart.

Our nation is headed down a very dark path that has led to the fall of many nations over the centuries. And too many people deny it. Bob Dylan said it well decades ago in his song Blowin' In the Wind: "How many times can a man turn his head, pretending he just doesn't see?"

It may take decades, but we will go the way of the falling Roman Empire, and all the fallen empires that preceded it. The men with the military backing will seize more and more power in order to overthrow the duly elected government. True freedom will be sacrificed for 'comforts and the good life', but at a great cost. (Another picture of this was drawn by George Orwell in his prophetic book 1984.)

Those who don't have the security and comforts of a good life, will be told it's their own fault for being lazy and inferior. At times the masses will rebel and be put down. Leadership will become dictatorship for the sake of  'national security', at the expense of personal liberty. The Pledge of Allegiance will be a pitiful echo of an achievement and dream never reached: "liberty and justice for all."

Perhaps it was a bad omen from the very start that the Liberty Bell cracked. 

Something Is Wrong Here

 I like to watch the birds at my feeders. It's kind of discouraging sometimes, though, to see how they fight over the food. Naturalists would call it "Survival of the fittest." But I see selfishness, especially when two hummingbirds fight over four flower-shaped spigots. Why can't they share?

I guess it's part of our fallen world. Humans do it, too. We want to hoard our possessions, build fences around our property to keep others from having a share. Some have way more than they need, and others have too little. Republicans bristle at the concept of equal distribution of wealth. But it's just plain old selfishness--like little children refusing to share. I know I'm guilty, too. I don't give to charities as much as I should. I have more "stuff" than I need.

America is full of this greed and selfishness. We consume many more times than our share of the earth's resources. And now the little bits that were set aside for the future early in the Twentieth Century--our public lands, national forests, and national parks--are being greedily eyed by the rich industrialists and entrepreneurs to develop--as if they haven't abused and raped enough of the land already.

Some even want to build a "fence" around our whole country to keep the "undesirables" out--the people they don't want to share with or help. Sure, we let some immigrants in, in the past. In fact, unless we're Indigenous People/First Nations, all of us are immigrants.  And look at how we treated those First Nations, plus the poor immigrants who came after the first settlers in this country. Unfortunately, many of the people who fled to America in the 1800s were paid sub-low wages and forced to work in sweatshops and undesirable, dangerous jobs--only allowed the "left overs". A few have risen to the top, and even fewer of those have turned back to help those below them. Instead of building decent housing for those less fortunate, the successful ones build second, third, etc. mansions for themselves. 

The worst part in this century is that many "Christians"--the groups that used to lead the charities, have turned to building their own "empires" instead--bigger and fancier church buildings, for instance. The leading voices who should be advocating for the poor, outcast, "undesirables", are the very ones speaking out against them and supporting the agendas of the rich, who want to turn our country into their private playground and estate--locking the rest of the world out.

Have they completely forgotten that Jesus had "No place to lay his head"? He was homeless! Besides that, he went out of his way to help those undesirables and outcasts. The only people he criticized were the rich religious establishment. I fear that there are way too many people these days who call themselves Christians but are not following the example and teachings of Jesus.

Tune in to my next blog for more on this subject.

WAYS TO FIND MY BOOKS AND SUPPORT THE WORLD OF PRINT PUBLISHING (Books are not obsolete!)

 Looking for my books?  Here are some ways to get them:

1. Go to your local bookstore and ask them to order them, if they don't have them in stock. I believe in supporting local brick and mortar stores!

2. Go to online sites such as Amazon or Barnes and Noble. Search by author M.F. Erler. You may have to scroll down past some other stuff to find them.

3. Google "Books by M.F. Erler"  Sources for both new and used books will come up. (If it matters to you, I don't get any royalties for used book sales.)

4. Contact me directly at my domain: mferler@peaksandbeyond.com

5. Check out my site, Mary Frances Erler on the Artists and Craftsmen of the Flathead website. 

    Right now, April 2024, ACF is having an online sale. Prices listed for the online sale include shipping.

6. Come see me at The Bookshelf, 101 Main, Kalispell, MT on April 20 for my book signing!

7.  Contact my publisher at  https://www.firststepspublishing.com/authors/mf-frances-erler/

Here are photos of the covers:

These three are my newest books, and each stands alone, not in a series.

These two are modern, contemporary stories, and don't involve time travel.

They deal with current hot topics like mental health and gender identity, among others.

These are the updated versions of my 7-book fantasy fiction series, The Peaks Saga, 

with time travel, and an underlying Christian message in the spirit of C.S. Lewis.

Here's a closeup of the cover of Book One in the Peaks Saga.

This is my first Historical Fiction Novel, based on my German ancestors.

It takes modern characters into the past to experience what their ancestors did.

I am currently working on another time-travel historical fiction novel,

based on my Irish ancestors.

    

I write for my own enjoyment, but I also feel I have stories that need to be shared. My hope is that by doing so, I can help others who may be facing similar life challenges to mine.

I have been writing most of my life, among other pursuits. My first work was a poem about Mexico that I wrote in third grade. My next was a little story I wrote in fourth grade called "The Mouse on the Mayflower". I followed it up with "The Mouse at the Alamo".

A Lost Connection

 

As I approached the small gravestone, lying almost even with the grass around it, my legs began to weaken. Before I knew it I was on my knees, tears streaming down my cheeks, as I read the letters I’d never been able to read before.

The last time I’d seen my little sister’s gravestone I was probably only three or four, too young to read the letters. This was at least 67 years ago. I had no idea why my parents took me to the cemetery almost every Sunday afternoon. I thought it was something everyone did. I wasn’t quite three when my brother Robbie was born. They must have brought him some as a baby. All I know for sure is that we never went to the cemetery after we moved to Magnolia Drive, and that was right after I turned five. Mom probably couldn’t handle it anymore, I suppose.

          In fact Mom never mentioned a word about Roberta Lee. Dad told us when I was about eight years old, I believe. We’d just watched an episode of the old show Wagon Train. In this episode a newborn baby had died.

          “It’s so sad that the baby died,” I remember saying to Dad.

          He nodded and took Robbie and me aside. I think Mom left the room to put our baby brother to bed. “We had a baby that died like that,” he said. “She was born too soon and only lived for a couple of hours. We named her Roberta Lee.”

          As soon as he said this, I knew what those Sunday afternoon visits to the cemetery had been for.  Robbie was too young to understand, but it all made sense to me. I had a little sister who died. By this time I had a second brother, baby Danny. So I grew up with two brothers, but I always wondered what it would be like to have a sister.

          The knowledge that I did have a sister somewhere—maybe in heaven—left a huge impression in my heart. And the name Roberta Lee meant a lot, for Dad’s first name was Robert, and Mom’s middle name was Lee. I began to include my sister in my childhood bedtime prayers: “God bless Mama and Daddy, Robbie and Danny, and Roberta Lee, wherever she may be.” Neither of my parents ever commented on how I worded my prayer for her.

          As grew older, another memory was added to the story, at least in my own mind. On February 10, 1954, I was within a week of turning nineteen months old. People say this is too young to have a memory, but I know I do remember an event the night my sister was born.

          I was sitting on a brown area rug on the hardwood floor of the rental house we lived in until I was five. There is a cup of cold water or juice in my hands. Across the room I hear my father and my mother’s mother, Nanny, talking in anxious, upset voices. My mother is not in the house. Somehow I know that she would be there with Nanny, unless something was very wrong.

          The most distinct part of the memory is the feeling of cold liquid running down my chest when I spill the cup as I try to drink from it. That is another hint that tells me I am under two years old. My adult mind has now reasoned that I picked up on the tension in the room, and that’s why I spilled that cup. And I can think of no other reason for all those things to be happening—except the birth of Roberta Lee. Mama wasn’t home because she was at the hospital in premature labor, and that’s why Daddy and Nanny were upset.

          My brothers had no memories like this. Robbie was born just over a year later in 1955, and Danny came along in 1958.

          There’s another strange twist in the story, though. When our father died, in August 2010, I was in Montana and my brother Robert (no longer Robbie) was the one who saw Dad the day before he died.

          As soon as Robert had come into his room at the nursing home, Dad had told him this story. “I had the most wonderful day yesterday. I spent it with my daughter.”

          “But Dad, Frances is in Montana, not here.”

          “No, my other daughter,” said Dad. “She has such beautiful eyes.”

          After Robert’s visit that morning with Dad, he had to go to work. Dad died a couple of hours later.

          When he called to tell me about Dad’s passing, one of Robert’s first questions was, “Did our parents have a baby girl between you and me who died?”

          “Yes,” I said. “Dad told us about her when I was around eight, You would have been only five, so you don’t remember. And of course, if they took you to the cemetery when I was three, you were just a baby.”

          That event left me wondering that somehow as he approached death, Dad had crossed over just far enough the day before he died, to see the daughter he’d never known on earth but would know in heaven. And the more I wondered, the more I wanted to go find that little grave and see it again.

          The website FindaGrave.com told me she was buried in Arlington Memorial Cemetery in El Dorado, Arkansas. This was the town we’d lived in until I was eleven. There was a photo of the gravestone, and this was the first time I found out exactly when she was born.

          Arkansas is a long way from Montana, so I wondered if I’d ever get back there. But in February 2024, we were visiting my cousin in Jefferson, Texas. When I discovered El Dorado was only three hours’ drive away, I convinced my husband to take a day trip to my birthplace.

          The first thing we did was find the cemetery, but it was huge. Since we had no idea which section to look in, it would take all day and maybe more to find one small grave. After wandering and searching on foot for about half an hour, we finally found a phone number on a sign at one of the cemetery entrances. My husband Paul called the number, and a woman answered. He explained our situation, and she told him the information office was right across the road from where we were sitting in our rental car.

          With great relief, we drove to the office and showed her the photo I’d printed from the FindaGrave.com website. I think she recognized the name of the person who had posted the picture. It didn’t take her long to locate the gravesite, and she printed a map for us.

          “I’ll take you there,” she said.

          “Oh, that’s very kind,” said Paul.

          “No problem,” she replied. “I do this often.”

          So we followed her car as she drove back through the cemetery gate. We hadn’t gone far when she stopped and pointed to a corner lot. It had only a couple of gravestones, and no tall headstones like most of the rest of the graves in the cemetery. Fuzzy childhood memories of trips to the cemetery fell into place: the grave was near one of the cemetery lanes, and there was a woodland several yards to the left. She drove away, as we walked toward the place my heart so desired to see.

That’s when I fell on my knees. I had no words, just tears of joy that I’d found my little sister at last. There was grief, too, for the years that she had missed. We were there on February 5, 2024—just five days short of what would have been her seventieth birthday. An entire life missed. Yet as I sat on the damp ground, I couldn’t help but think perhaps she was the lucky one. She’d gone straight to heaven, while I had endured seventy-one years of the trials and heartbreaks of life here on earth. Oh, there had been joys, too. But right at that point my joy and pain all merged as I sat and talked to my sister.

          Paul gently told me, “Take all the time you need,” and went to the car.

          As I looked at the stone and ran my hands over it, I was amazed that it still seemed new. The letters and numbers were still sharp and deeply cut. There were no signs of weathering. Running my fingers on the polished granite around the name section, an eerie sensation came over me. My brothers and I had chosen the same shade of pink and grey granite when we picked our parents’ headstone for their grave in Rochester, Illinois.

          I told my sister about her younger brothers. As I told her the color of everyone’s eyes in the family I wondered what color her “beautiful eyes” were.

          “I’m looking forward to finally meeting you,” I said, as the tears kept cascading down. “I’ve wondered my whole life what you would be like. Someday I will know.” (Even as I write this, the tears are falling again.)

          With a quavering voice, I tried to sing some favorite songs to her. The only one I could get all the way through was Jesus Loves Me.  I forgot to tell her that this was one of our mother’s favorite songs when she was in her eighties, had Alzheimer’s, and was approaching death. For some reason I talked more about our father, for he was the one who had told me about her. I know the two of them are together in heaven forever, and now Mom has joined them.

Finally, my tears ebbed and I rejoined Paul in the rental car. We drove around my old hometown. Many things had changed, but some hadn’t. I recognized the school where I had attended first through fifth grade, and started sixth, before my dad’s work forced us to move to Illinois. We drove around my old neighborhood, and it was good to see that almost all the houses still looked loved and cared for. The magnolia trees on Magnolia Drive were fifty feet taller than I remembered. But everything else looked smaller than I remembered. Our former house looked beautiful, as the owners had bricked the front. I could still see the rectangular wrought iron Mom had chosen for the front porch; she wanted nothing to do with curls and leaf patterns.

          We even found the rental house where I had spilled that drink on myself almost seventy years ago. It looked well cared for, too. And down the hill there were the railroad tracks that Dad liked to walk me to. Sometimes we even saw trains going by. Dad loved trains.

          Our visit to El Dorado ended with a late picnic lunch in a park near the rental house. Perhaps it was the park I remembered walking to with Mama on sunny days when Daddy was at work.

          A Bible verse came to my mind, “Lord, now let your servant depart in peace…for my eyes have seen…” The verse is telling about a priest seeing baby Jesus, as God had promised he would before he died. I guess I was feeling that I can die in peace now, too, for I have seen with my own adult eyes the place where some treasured childhood memories dwell, of the sister I hope to get to know in heaven.