The Watching Tree

Missouri Veterans Cemetery

I make my home among the rows of little white marbled stones,

And watch them stand silent on hills of green.

Somehow they remain unphased by weather and time,

preserved in their sacred scene.

As gentle breezes bring down leaves of Fall,

and Winter is summoned by whirling snow,

my arms spread wider with each spring and summer as new life emerges

among those who will wake no more.

Row by row and hill by hill,

they are standing tall, forever still,

robed in white forever encased,

as new recruits join their ranks.

They stand upright, unflinching through the ringing gunshots and bugles song.

As people honor them for answering the call.

Some chose, others were chosen.

All together they earn one final promotion.

Day by day and year by year

I'm slowly growing as new places are cleared.

Occasional spots with earth displaced

They lay down and rest in their allotted space.

Many have come to stay

Beneath the comfort of my shade.

I've watch husbands join wives and fathers join sons.

Weeping together for their lost loved ones.

Over the years, I have heard the sorrowful cry of a broken heart,

laughter of sweet memories, and silent longing when words seem to fail.

The folded flag, the empty shells,

the mournful cry of the bugle rang,

But today it was not the same

Today they laid to rest

A marine, a sailor, a soldier, an airman.

I have guarded his Tiny love for many years, since that frigid February day,

waiting til the time when he would join her.

Today he earned his final pair of wings.

Today he joined the greatest of ranks and I watched as his family gathered.

I saw their tears and heard their laughter and witnessed their silent longing.

I wished I could reach out, let them know that I will be here,

standing guard, through summer and snow,

preserving for them that sacred place under the watching tree.

Written By: Shani (Pyle) Simpson October 16, 2018

[I wrote this on the drive back to the hotel the day of my grandpa's funeral.]

I took my kids to the grocery store like this...

Today, like any other day in the Simpson household, was filled with wild boys, adventures and lots of food! The weather has been so beautiful this last few days, that even though we just went to the park yesterday, we went again today. After running around, eating a snack, running around some more, and eating again, we packed up and headed home. You know you've done a good job of expending all that energy when they fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow.

This afternoon, Raylen and I made our homemade uncrustables to restock our freezer (picture below) and we realized we had run out of baggies. So, we loaded up and headed to the store. Fortunately, Walmart is about 2 minutes from our house, but let me tell you, that was anything but an easy trip.

We pull in, find a parking spot, get loaded in the stroller and find our stuff, no problem. We get out to the van and Asher has poop exploding out his diaper. Let me just say, my kids never had blow outs as babies. Well, the twins did once, but that we because they were in their car seats. Anyway, blowouts are not things I am accustomed to, nor am I prepared for. I cleaned him, the stroller and my van carpet up get him in his car seat with only a diaper on and drive to Publix. (Yes, I know I made it hard on my self by going to two different stores, but Publix had a sale on frozen fruit and I had coupons. Need I say more?) I get naked Asher out, put him in the stroller, unbuckle Leland and wouldn't you know it, that little poot had blown out his diaper! There I am again, standing in a different grocery store parking lot, wiping poop off another behind. (Motherhood is so glamorous.) We finally get in to the store, both twins wearing only diapers when I see the dirt. Since they passed out as soon as we got home from the park this morning, I didn't get a chance to wipe off their legs and tops of their feet. I sighed, shrugged my shoulders, embraced it and walked confidently in to the store. Sure, people stared and the sweet lady at the bakery counter even pointed and said, "they must be crawlers." But, who cares, I rocked two grocery stores with my half naked children and we made it home in just over an hour.

Sometimes life may seem crazy and messy and that is probably because it is. I am learning to not just survive or live with it, but to confidently embrace and boldly approach this wonderful season. I am also learning to always have extra wipes, clothes, and trash bags for those unexpected explosions.

I hope you all have a blessedly messy day!

Long Goodbyes

As I drove the familiar country road with its hills and turns, my heart pounded with anticipation. It had been years since I'd laid eyes on these scenes, yet I could walk them in my mind with such ease it was as if I had never left. That final curve, the approach, the hedge standing tall like a sign that I was home. I didn't grow up there, but I left my heart there long ago. We pulled into the gravel drive, to my right the gate once red now barely hangs on to its rusted hinges. The patch of trees so overgrown with the giant hogweed I used to pick for my grandma, not knowing it was poisonous. The old garage leaning, more than I remember, the white paint almost gone. Then my eyes turn to the house. It disappeared in a flood of tears for a moment, but I blinked and there it was. Every piece as I recalled, a little older, a little more worn, but still my favorite place on earth.

To my left the grass has grown over the path once marked by daily use. The trees are bigger, we have grown older since last we met. That faithful old walnut greeted me as I start toward the house. The sidewalk that once was home to chalk drawings was almost gone, crumbled through the years. The concrete steps were replaced with new wooden stairs leading up to the enclosed porch. Amid the cobwebs and dust, images flash through my mind of how many times this room changed. A big hanging rattan chair spinning around in the glow of a summer afternoon. Empty Folgers containers with little holes in the green lids to capture fireflies. Random tools, including a brand new hammer that mysteriously disappeared during a winter trip to be discovered in the ice on the lane leading to the field. The barrel filled with walking sticks and fishing poles just begging to be taken out to the fields and ponds.

I leaned on the red door with the latch I could never open as a kid and stiffly shoved into the dining room. Once again, everything momentarily disappeared in tears quickly blinked away. This house was once so filled with life, so warm and bright. Instead it was humid and musty. Layers of dust covered all the things in their same old places. The huge china cabinet that occupied an entire wall filled with dishes I was never allowed to touch. The table that always had a colorful new plastic tablecloth each time we came to visit. The huge floor radio that I never heard turned on. The hat rack filled with close to one hundred hats of various designs. My favorite room through the next door way, the kitchen. The floors were a red brick linoleum, the cabinets white and stretching to the ceiling. The black and white vintage magazine ad patterned paper covered the walls by the stove and a window framed above the over-sized farmhouse sink. So many times we prepared dinners in this room. We made salad and fruit salad and meatloaf and tacos. The orange bowls we put all the things in now reside in my kitchen, but they seem so out of place there, so homesick for those pale yellow tiled counters. So many years have passed since I sat on the floor and played with left over pie crust while she worked, humming along to some tune I can't remember. How long has it been since we raced in to fill bowls of sherbet for everyone? Rainbow was my favorite. The dishwasher rolled over and connected to the sink like some contraption I had never seen before, or since, yet it was so familiar to me.

From there I saw the breakfast room, which for my entire life served as an office. As a child, I was terrified to walk past those windows at night. For some reason, I thought the coyotes were going to see me and snatch me out the windows and carry me off, so I would get low on the floor and army crawl to Grandma's room. Oh, that room. I learned later it was the family room when my dad was growing up, but my whole life it was Grandma's room. A large bed on an oak frame with sliding doors on the headboard used to reside under a large window. When I was very young, a tree fell in the house and the window was replaced with a wall. The bed is still there with the same blue floral bedding. Somehow preserved by time. To the left a large mantle and fireplace filled with large candles. The mantle was lined with trinkets and pictures that have remained frozen in time for the last 16 years. In the corner is a pink shoe box. Inside is an old band-aid gum container. Each piece of gum carefully replaced and re-wrapped. Inside each wrapper, little notes written in children's handwriting encouraging their Grandma to get well. She never did. On the other side of the room, is a desk filled with all sorts of treasures from the past. I always remembered a radio rested there and the Left Behind series that I raced through late into the nights of one summer trip. One of my favorite spots in the whole house was the sewing alcove separated from the room by curtains that matched the bedding. All sorts of treasures could be found in this particular spot.

Back out toward the kitchen was the door to the second floor. Then the one to the basement. Both the top floor and the basement were a little scary to me even as a teenager. They were oddly quiet and spooky from years of things being tucked away in corners. We never liked having to go down to switch the laundry over and raced back up as fast as our feet could take us. Back past the kitchen and the breakfast room was the hallway, another favorite spot. Both walls lined with photographs, old and new, well, 20 years new. Every trip I would stand and stare, soaking them up.

At the end of the hall a long mirror was mounted to the wall and a wicker laundry basket stood beneath. To the right a bedroom that once was the room my sister and I slept in, but for the last 20 or so years, it was Grandpa's room. It was what you would expect from an old man with a lifetime of memories. Pictures of military aircraft, tokens from service, clothes hanging in the closet, more hats. A dresser with pictures of all his special people, organized chaos of papers and he knew where everything was. For many years a dog bed laid at the foot if the bed, but that Lady has long since passed. I've stood in that doorway so many times, listening to stories, soaking up my history from a man with white hair and a prickly mustache. He loved to teach us and tell us stories. And we loved to listen.

The only working bathroom was green, green and more green. The floors later laid over with carpet were also green. You could never have a shower if the dishwasher was running and if someone used the kitchen sink the water turned to ice. There is a little basket in the cabinet above the toilet that has her pick comb in it. His too. The old heavy scale and cast iron frog door stop rest beside the heater grate.

Through the next door was the twin bed room that passed through to the living room. I somehow always persuaded my sister it was her turn to sleep next to the window because I was too scared. The room had three dressers filled with random things and tops with family pictures, a radio clock and a triple way lamp. The two paintings across from the bed were gifts from my Dad, but I always thought they were what the road looked like before it was paved. I loved those pictures.

The living room was the picture of the heart if this home. Brownish yellow shag carpets, a couch under the window and three recliners. The huge box of a TV in the corner was always turned onto Gunsmoke, Bonanza, or Price is Right and some crime show in the evening. My favorite spot was on the couch looking out the window at the bird feeder that once stood between the two huge trees. ( I don't remember what kind.) We would watch as the red-winged black birds swarmed to snack on seed and fight off pesky squirrels. Above the fireplace was another mantel filled with trinkets. Silver and glass dishes once filled with chocolates and peppermint patties still occupy their spots. The huge, ornate mirror reflects the backs of picture frames lined along the shelf. There was a clock under glass identical to the one my parents had in our house growing up. It moved some unique way that I can't recall.

The grandmother clock was in the corner of the dining room just inside the door. I haven't heard it's song in such a long time. I wandered back out the door and down the steps to the garden. There were slate tiles hidden somewhere in the green. They were from the roof of the courthouse in town. Grandma worked there. When the roof was redone, she brought some home. I'm not sure why. The middle flower bed had some sort of ever green coverage and there used to be a stone birdbath with a stone eagle statue, but time and weather have disintegrated them.

The little path between the house and the leaning garage led to the back lawn. The tree that fell on Grandma's room used to stand there. I looked up and out into the,field, but that's not my favorite field. My favorite field is to the right, past the back of the garage and the old ruins of barn that once housed bunnies. Past the old metal sink and burn barrel. I walked toward the white washed cement block barn and looked left. There it was, I saw it. My favorite field. It had the biggest pond, and a huge gnarly tree, but out past the water and the ruts in the grass, that is where my tree used to be. The stump was guarded by metal posts. Thorns grew up around it and it looked like the occasional coyote sought refuge next it. It is like they knew it was a place of great love and they felt safe there. I called this my tree because my named was carved in it. Or maybe they carved my named in it because I called it my tree. I don't remember.

I do remember walks to the tree, in the evenings with Grandma and the walking sticks. I remember catching crappie (they call the brim in Florida) with my dad on my little Mickey Mouse "pishing fole." I remember tractor rides through the woods, over Bear Creek, and up the hill to my Aunt and Uncle's house. I remember walking back to the house under the row of huge pecan trees crunching the pecan shells already enjoyed my the squirrels. I remember the cows in the field across the road were as much apart if this place as the house and barns and the trees. I started to walk toward the old chicken barn to see if the old cages were still there, past the three evergreen "Christmas" trees when suddenly my eyes fluttered open. Tears poured down my cheeks as I realized it was all just a dream. I didn't want to wake up, I wanted to go back to that place. I wanted to live in those sweet memories forever.

It's hard to say goodbye to this place and the person I love so much. They have been etched in my heart. Every detail remains encapsulated in a sacred corner of my mind, just waiting for me to venture there. As I prepare to say "goodbye for now" next week, that is where you can find me. I'll be in the kitchen, looking at pictures in the hallway, hunting treasures in the attic, running under the trees and laying down in the tall field grass. I'll be there, taking my time, saying my long goodbyes.