I’ve written here before about my “Ramble” creative writing project. On Dec. 30 of 2009, I sat down to write a Ramble entry for my late grandmother Beatrice Ridings, who was widely known to many as Granny Bea, Aunt Bea, or Ms. Ridings. I had two wonderful grandmothers who have now passed on, and luckily for me, Grandma Eileen Darnell, who we called Bam, was also tight with Granny Bea, so on more than one occasion, I was able to enjoy them both together simultaneously. I am in the gathering process for a future post about Grandma Bam, but I’m very proud to finally share something with you that I feel is a suitable tribute to Granny Bea.

When I was studying communications at the University of Central Florida, I had a professor named Tom Morgan. One of the sage bits of advice Mr. Morgan shared was a suggestion that we do video interviews with our grandparents, parents and others we love while they are still around. I took that advice and sat with Granny Bea in her kitchen one day back around 1989 or so, asking her questions about her life and recording her answers. Much to my dismay, I have not been able to locate that videotape since she passed away in 2001. Since going through that experience, I recorded an interview with Grandma Bam before she left us, and I look forward to sharing that with others who knew and loved her. In the meantime, for Granny Bea, we have pictures like the ones you can hopefully see above, some great video footage my cousin Bart Ridings shot during the time of my and Beth’s wedding in May of 1992, and lots of warm stories. In my Ramble project, I also wanted to dedicate one of the few remaining entries to this phenomenal human being, who is still in my thoughts so often. Jan. 8, 2010 would have been her 100th birthday, and I was hustling to prepare this entry at that time, but the photo research has taken this long for me to complete. And so, it’s my sincere pleasure to share these words in honor of Granny Bea on what for the next 10 minutes remains Mother’s Day, 2010, when the absence of her and Grandma Bam in our lives is once again especially felt.

Ramble #7
by Roger Darnell

Always stirring up food for those to come,
making each arrival feel right at-home…
otherwise busying herself knitting love into
treasures for so many she yearned to hold
there with her in her quiet place, forever…
these scenes of Granny Bea at home give
off such a glow, it still warms the heart.

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Aunt Honey, thank you for your gift of pure love throughout every day of my life. You will be missed!

Helen Ridings
COTTAGE HILLS – April 13, 2010 4:40 PM – Helen Marie Ridings, 84, died at 1:50 a.m. Tuesday, April 13, 2010, at Saint Anthony’s Hospital in Alton. Born May 10, 1925, in Carlinville, she was the daughter of William Howard and Marie B. (Loges) Casey. She was an operator for Olin Corporation for 43 years before retiring in 1987. She was a lifetime member of the Westerner Club.

Surviving are a daughter, Debra Barrett of Hartford; two grandchildren, Scott L. (Julie) Barrett and Stacey Barrett Adams; and three great-grandchildren, twins, Nicholas and David Barrett, and Ryan Adams. Preceding her in death were her parents, a great-grandchild, Megan Elizabeth Whitehead, and a sister, Bernice Henrichs. Burial will be at Rose Lawn Memory Gardens in Bethalto.

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How to Change Neighborhoods in Only Five Days

by Roger Darnell

Day One: Thursday, January 1, 1998: “Flaming in Florida”

We managed to get on the road pretty early, knowing that our goal was to travel 500 miles during the day, which would carry us to Mobile, Alabama, by day’s end. We’d stayed at my mom’s for our last night, the fitting place to begin a long journey, considering how many we’d begun from her mother’s over the years, pulling out so early in the morning it was nearly impossible to see the sad granny, waving her Kleenex in one hand from inside the window, tooting the signature honk as we went. So, without further adieu, we played the honk for my mom on the 15′ Budget truck containing all our stuff, and we pulled away from her cozy little place, watching her wave good-bye over our towed Accord in the rear-view mirrors. After so much preparation and so many sad partings, we were on the road, pursuing our “mission” (in the words of a friend from Houston, Tommy Ewasko) of relocating to Hollywood.

The world most certainly looked brand new as we rolled up the Florida Turnpike we’d traveled so often on our trips, the first or last three-hour leg of each trip northward. With plenty of room to ramp-up, the truck made 65 fairly easily, but lost 15mph on even the subtlest of hills. In north central Florida, we connected with I-10, perhaps 90 or 100 miles west of its eastern termination in Jacksonville. We headed West, which we’ll do all the way to the other end of the 2,600 mile interstate.

The trip meter rolled past 200 miles and I checked the rear-view mirrors; unless I was mistaken, blue-purple smoke was pouring from the left wheels of our car carrier. The question answered itself as I watched flames appear from the wheel well and start shooting out the side. I hit the brakes and started working the vehicle over onto the median as Beth asked, “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“Well,” I started to answer, trying not to alarm her, “the trailer’s on fire.” By the time I got the load stopped, the flames had gone out. We climbed out and walked back to inspect the trailer, and that left rear wheel was hot, hot, hot. As we stood looking at it, it caught fire again and the flames shot out dramatically.

“Oh-my-god!” Beth yelled as I ran back to the cab for the fire extinguisher. Again, the flames went out, but not before we both imagined the disaster playing out with our kitties in the carrier. Well, it seemed to be cooling off but out of service, so we carefully off-loaded the car and, in language all Trekkies will appreciate, we launched ourselves in the “Accord” shuttle and called in the repair.

Two hours later, the repair man confirmed that the trailer wasn’t going anywhere and offered to take it in for us. Beth helmed the launch and I climbed back behind the truck wheel and we were off. Before the flame-out we’d been discussing visiting Beth’s sister Ann and her husband Chuck in Tallahassee, so we followed-through and paid them a brief visit at their home. Once back on the road, as we realized when we compared notes later that night, it had felt like our last outpost. We wouldn’t know until the next day how comfortable we’d be made to feel in Houston. We drove and stopped, figured and planned, and made our way to Pensacola for the night. In the hotel room, we were too exhausted for showers that night. The kitties found a nook under the bed and we fell asleep quickly.

© Copyright 1998 Roger K. Darnell. All rights reserved.

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Flipping through that folder, looking for something to share with Mom when we visited in January to celebrate her retirement, I found a handwritten poem that’s not mine. At the bottom, the writer signed the piece “Terrapin Ridge,” which is that lovely area in Illinois everyone in my mother’s family remembers as being “home” for a very long, short period of history. I sent this poem, entitled “The Joy of Words: Who Lives Alone?” to Mom, with a query… she replied to say she had not seen it before, and felt surely it was her father’s handwriting. How did I come to have this? While I’m very sorry to say that I don’t have a clear answer, the poem is very special to me, as another of my Grandpa Urban’s gifts that, like the many I’ve received from his daughter, I just want to cherish and keep forever.

Mar. 13 Update: I am embarrassed to have to report findings from my brother (thanks Scott) confirming that “Who Lives Alone?” is actually the work of the gifted poet, Grace E. Easley… and I regret not having better researched this myself before jumping to the concusion above. We live and we learn, and I beg forgiveness. Though I am disappointed to learn that the poem below is not the creation of my grandfather, what remains true is that it was very important to him, and others in our family, and he is very deeply connected to the poem’s poignant sentiments, and to the poem itself, in my family. Spirituality, poetry and written words were of clear interest to Grandpa Ridings, and his passions remain alive in me and my family. I will relate more details on the handwritten poem which made it into my collection as I get a better handle on them. In the meantime, thank you very much for your interest, and I hope you’ll be encouraged to explore other works of Ms. Easley.

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Sweetness in the flesh, sunshine itself,
in feminine form, the essence of youth.
Deep of spirit, light of heart and touch…
her happy meditations are illuminating.
Her calm is radiant, her troubles tempests.
Stand in her way at great personal risk.
Anything might come to pass in her lifetime.
God loves Amelia… eight and growing.

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Circa 1985, Roger, Maxine and Bud.

I learned today of the passing of my Aunt Maxine Ridings.  Talking about her with my mom this evening, one of the things that came up was how she has just always been part of our family, forever.  Also, for her nieces and nephews, I think we all always knew that we would get her smile, her wry sense of humor, and her easy laughter, each time we saw her.  She seemed to laugh as easily as she breathed… and for my Uncle Bud, whom we all respect and love dearly, she has been the perfect match.  Our thoughts go out to Uncle Bud, and to Dena, Janie and Keith, Bill, Marilyn, Blair and Josh. 

I wrote the following poem 21 years ago, at a time when “home” had a very special meaning to me… implying certain places in and around Greenville, Illinois, security, and many specific people in my family.  Aunt Max was certainly part of the family that I carried with me everywhere I went, that was constant, loving, and an inseparable part of my self-identity.  Of late, her health had taken a turn for the worse, and so it seems mostly a blessing that she is now at peace.  She will be missed; she was a great lady in my life, and in the lives of many other people I love.  We will remember her laugh and her smile always…. 

Aunt Max, thank you for your love, and for helping to make me who I am.

The Different Drummer
by Roger Darnell

I don’t know why I had to go
Back home in summer’s early glow…
But in my feeble state of mind
I felt a loss I had to find.

The great escape some said I made—
And true:  to sense the solemn shade
Of home, and leave the world behind
Which made me cold and scared and blind.

In all pursuits I pushed myself
Beyond the pack that somehow shelve
Their hopes and dreams for social norm
And fear the lonesome, ruthless storm.

In battle-youth, I made my way
Through acid rain of dream decay,
And while the storm’s calm eye drew near
My bravery was turned to fear.

With summoned strength I fled the storm
And limped in semi-shattered form
Toward the place where life began
To find The Answer to The Man.

I found the place I’ve always known:
Aunts, uncles, grandmas, cousins grown,
The trees that fell that I know well,
Whose echoes clang a rusty bell.

The native country took me in—
It mattered not where I had been;
It saw me as I was, and still
Gave praise for all my vital will.

I rested there, and took my time.
I slept amid the dew-cool thyme.
Serene, I saw what life could be…
Then spread my wings and flew off, free.

I don’t know just what made me go
Back home in summer’s early glow…
But on the heartfelt, wholesome track
I found my strength and brought it back.

…

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