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Rita Dukes
Anchor
still holding
When
rains come in July,
they’re usually
welcome.
The
recent rains were certainly
appreciated by area
farmers as well as nature.
On
a recent moonlit night,
my daughter and I drove
down a country road
and were amazed at the
seemingly spontaneous
growth of the surrounding
fields of corn.
The
corn tassels seemed
to be stretching with
all their might toward
the sky and appeared
to be celebrating the
cooling moisture they
had received.
The
sky was clearer, the
stars were brighter
and we took the time
to appreciate the beauty
of the masterpiece overhead.
“You
know all this rain and
cooler temperatures
have come up from the
south where they’ve
had that hurricane,”
I said to my daughter.
“They had to endure
a bad storm while we’re
getting the benefit
of all this rain.”
The
rest of the way home,
I contemplated how passing
storms sometimes clarify
our own lives.
Storms
come. Storms pass.
There’s
a song our youth group
sings which says, “The
anchor holds, though
the ship’s been
battered. I have fallen
on my knees and I faced
the raging seas, but
the anchor holds in
spite of the storm.”
I
shuddered when I thought
of that statement.
I
thought about the storms
in my life, not only
just the wind and the
lightning that caused
me to say a prayer of
safety for my family;
but also the storms
that rage within my
own psyche. Battles
are fought daily in
our spiritual lives.
Sometimes
I take things too hard;
sometimes my spirit
takes a beating. Sometimes,
I’m too weak to
stand and I fall, but
I know where my help
comes from and I look
up.
The
ship is battered but
the Anchor holds.
September
Rain
By RITA DUKES
Leader-News Editor
Have
you ever noticed the smell
of a September rain? The
rain smells different
than in other months.
Perhaps it comes from
the aroma of the August-weary
ground as it soaks it
up.
I’m
not sure why I like rain.
And I’ll admit,
I like thunderstorms,
too.
I love
to walk out on the porch
during a storm and listen
to the calming repetition
of raindrops on the roof.
Claps of thunder are like
applause to the rain for
a job well done.
I’ve
never been afraid of storms,
and have never understood
the fear. Some people
may think that I am brave,
but really, I have no
fear in something I know
man cannot affect. And
I personally know the
Master of the wind.
It
seems I can think more
clearly when there’s
a good downpour outside.
At
those times, it is as
if my thoughts have no
limitations as I sit and
listen to the raindrops
falling in perfect synchronization.
When
I as a teenager, I wrote
a poem that has a line
about the smell of rain.
I don’t really remember,
but I like to think it
was raining the day I
wrote it.
I have
the poem tucked inside
an old greeting card box
inside another old box
on my closet shelf.
Once
or twice a year, I get
the boxes down and go
through them.
First,
I pull out my children’s
first baby shoes and lovingly
admire them. Next, I take
out my husband’s
cherished basketball net
from a Central City Tide
tournament win long, long
ago.
And
then, almost reverently,
I take out the greeting
card box. Although it’s
worn with age and use,
it still feels smooth
and nice. It has Bible
scriptures printed in
gold on its faded pink
front.
Inside,
there are two exquisitely
embroidered hand towels
that my mother gave me
a long time ago. I have
never used them because
they’re just too
good for my kitchen.
As
I unfold the two mint-green
linen towels, I see the
face of my father smiling
up at me in an old U.S.
Army photo. He looked
so much different than
the man I remember.
In
the photo, he had a full
head of blond hair and
a great smile.
The
man I remember never had
hair on top, and his smile
had faded along with the
years. The father I knew
and loved died of cancer
at the age of 53.
Long
before I was born, my
father served our country
in the U.S. Cavalry during
World War II and later
as an instructor during
the Korean Conflict.
As
children, my brother and
me would ask Dad to tell
us about the war, but
he wouldn’t talk
much about it. I knew
he didn’t receive
a Purple Heart with Oak
Leaf Cluster and Bronze
Star for nothing. And,
I was always proud of
the part my father played
in ensuring our nation’s
freedom. I was 16 years
old when he died, and
I spent the last few months
of his life recoiled in
my own little world. I
cried a lot but I didn’t
let anyone see me.
I went
through the motions of
going to school and playing
softball, but inside a
dark fire was burning.
People thought I was a
brave young girl then,
but I realized no human
could fix what was wrong
in my world.
Underneath
my dad’s photo in
the greeting card box
is an aged piece of notepaper
with the poem I wrote.
It reads:
When
on your plate you find
nothing but bitter herbs,
may you still cherish
the taste of freedom.
When
your ears are filled with
cries of anguish; may
you hold in your heart
the sound of music.
If
your hands are tied, may
you still touch and be
touched.
In
an artificial world, may
you always appreciate
the aroma of flowers and
the smell of rain.
May
you never be so blind
that you do not see, only
the body can be bound,
for the soul flies free.
It
was pretty deep for a
16-year-old I suppose,
and I never really associated
the words with my father
until lately.
It
is the only poem I’ve
ever written, and this
is a rare occasion that
someone else has read
it. I’m not sure
why I shared it today,
but as I walked out early
one September morning,
the smell of rain brought
a flood of memories to
my mind.
The
aroma brought the recollection
of the greatest turmoil
in my life and the greatest
loss I’ve yet to
know. And yet, I felt
at peace.
As
the raindrops began falling
harder, I stood there
under the oak tree and
let the soothing sound
and smell of rain replenish
my soul.
‘Snow
daze’ still
brings a smile
By RITA DUKES
Leader-News Editor
December 11, 2002
Back
in the early 1980s, we
seemed to have a lot more
snow that we’ve
had in recent years.
In
fact, in the late seventies,
there was a three-year
stretch of Arctic-like
temperatures and snows
which kept schools closed
for as long as two weeks
at a stretch.
The
recent snow we’ve
had has helped get people
in the Christmas mood.
Trees
have been hastily thrown
up so that the lights
look more beautiful against
pearly white landscapes.
While
most of us love the beauty
of snow, those who have
to drive to work don’t
enjoy the extra time it
takes to get there or
the dirty, slushy stuff
that gets all over our
vehicles.
Driving
into work at Leader-News
on a recent slippery morning,
I started thinking about
the first time I had to
really drive on the snow,
and it brought a smile
to my face once again.
I was
very young and working
my first job. I knew I
couldn’t call in
and say I wasn’t
coming because that would
look bad.
So,
I cranked up my mother’s
big Ford and cleaned off
the windshield.
A lady
in our community worked
at one of the local motels
as a housekeeper, and
called to ask if she could
get a ride into town with
me. I told her I’d
do my best.
I tried
to remember all the things
my father had told me
about driving in the snow.
One thing that stuck out
in my mind was that he
told me not to hit my
brakes if I started to
slide because I could
lose control of the vehicle.
So,
I slowly headed down the
big hill where the lady
lived on a one-lane road.
I drove so slow that I
didn’t have to put
my brakes on once.
After
picking her up, we topped
her hill and then I saw
the downside of the hill
before us. It was much,
much steeper on that side
of town. But it was the
route I had to travel.
I made
it pretty good at first
and was gaining confidence
in my driving skills.
The
road there, prophetically
named Rex Hill, was narrow
as well as steep; and
all that kept going through
my head was not to put
on my brakes.
But
I’d underestimated
the amount of speed I
was going to pick up.
We
passed New Hope Baptist
Church doing about 35
mph, which isn’t
that bad in good weather.
After
the church, there’s
a small hill that I hoped
would slow me down. However,
the big Ford actually
picked up speed.
At
the bottom of the little
hill, there were some
railroad tracks. Immediately
after the tracks, you
had to turn right or left.
My
route required the sharp
right turn. By the time
we neared the tracks,
I was swerving a bit but
still felt I could make
the curve without touching
my brakes.
Things
were going well enough
until I caught the glimpse
of a pedestrian on the
road.
I could
tell we were going to
pass each other at the
railroad tracks.
I started
blowing my horn to warn
him of the looming light
blue Ford tank that was
about to invade his space.
When
I got close enough to
recognize the fellow,
I knew we were in real
trouble. He was a deaf,
mute gentleman who had
walked to the little neighborhood
grocery store.
He
was carefully watching
his step as he carried
his grocery bag, and was
not looking up. He couldn’t
hear my blaring horn either.
So,
there was nothing left
to do but hit the brakes.
And
I did.
I remembered
my dad telling me that
if I had to use the brakes
to pump them on and off
rather than locking it
up.
I started
pumping and then I started
swerving. I went this
way and that and so did
poor old Otis.
Although
I believe the fellow was
in his sixties at the
time, he had catlike reflexes.
In fact, it looked like
he jumped straight up
in the air two feet and
then over.
I missed
him or he missed me, and
I never took my hands
off the wheel.
He
looked at me and I looked
at him in the split second
I passed him. We both
smiled in relief and I
think he was also slightly
amused.
We
made the right-hand turn
also but it was something
out of an old Dukes of
Hazard show.
By
this time, I turned to
look at the little old
I’d forgotten was
in the car.
She
was hitting her hand on
her knee and laughing
uncontrollably.
Then
she let out a “Yee
hah,” like a cowboy
on a wild mustang.
I laughed,
too. But was more because
of relief.
Now,
I can’t keep from
laughing when I think
of how that elderly gent
jumped into the air and
out of harm’s way.
The
look on his face was priceless.
In that split second,
it said, “I’m
glad you didn’t
run over me,” and
“There goes a young
woman learning how to
drive on the snow.”
Amazing
gift for only a penny
By Rita Dukes, Editor
It’s
amazing what a penny will
get you these days. Note,
I didn’t say what
a penny will buy you,
I said what it will get
you.
Very
early one Saturday morning
I ran into a store to
pick up just one item.
With a world of problems
on my mind and too little
time to handle them all,
I stood tapping my toe
in the “speedy”
checkout lane.
After
waiting some time, my
unrelenting fascination
with people took over
and I centered on the
lady in the checkout line
in front of me.
She
had long hair with parts
of it pinned back. She
wore a common dress thatcame
just below the knees and
very basic, black tennis
shoes. I figured her to
be one of those people
who look older than they
really are due to a lifetime
of hard work.
Though
her face was worn and
haggard, I guessed her
to be only around 40.
I also
noticed that she had shopped
very carefully. She held
some money rolled up in
her hand as she watched
the checker scan each
item. One item she held
back – an alarm
clock.
When
her tally was complete
she owed $28.65. She very
gingerly handed the checker
all she was holding, two
$20 bills. After the checker
gave her the change, she
placed the alarm clock
on the counter. The checker
said, “Let me scan
this.” And I assumed
she did this so the woman
would not be embarrassed
if the clock was more
than the $11.35 she had
left.
The
total of the clock was
$4.26. I noticed the woman
looking at the quarter
and dime as she gave them
both to the checker along
with a $10 bill.
I knew
the woman would have liked
to have a penny to go
with her quarter. So I
said, “Here, I have
a penny.”
The
_expression on her face
struck me. She thanked
me genuinely twice. Each
time I said, “Oh,
you’re welcome,”
trying to brush off the
insignificance of the
gesture.
But,
as if her “thank
you’s” were
not enough, she turned
again before she walked
off and added, “God
will bless you for that
some day.”
The
checker was looking at
me as I watched the lady
leave. She gave me a pleasant,
satisfied smile as I distractedly
placed my merchandise
on the counter.
And
just as I handed her my
money, I felt curiously
weak. My legs felt like
they would give out, and
I leaned against the checkout
counter.
I must
admit, I’ve never
felt that way before.
The only way I can describe
it is to say that I swooned.
I’ve never done
that before. I mean I’ve
seen Elvis and I didn’t
swoon. So, I knew that
feeling was something
special.
The
feeling quickly passed,
and I gathered my change
and headed out the door.
But
I couldn’t get the
woman’s words, or
the way she said them
out of my mind. She was
so appreciative of my
minuscule courtesy as
if I had given her a great
gift. I wondered, “Was
this a favor this woman
rarely receives?”
As
I drove down the highway,
I forgot where I was really
headed and began, instead,
to think about God’s
blessings.
I thought
about my home and family
and even my job. I thanked
God. I thought about my
good health, and again
I thanked God.
As
I counted my blessings,
I wondered about the blessings
I’ve never thanked
Him for. I wondered, “Had
He ever healed some innermost
part that I didn’t
even know was sick?”
Maybe
I received something very
special while standing
in the checkout that day.
Maybe swooning is the
way you feel when the
Master touches you.
But
the bottom line is this
— all of my inner
reflection; the pleasant
feeling the checker had;
and an act of kindness
shown to someone who might
not be considered one
of the world’s “beautiful
people” was quite
an encounter for three
people one early Saturday
morning.
And
to think – all of
this for a penny.
Country
Store
By RITA DUKES
Leader-News Editor
As
I stood in line at a one
of the last remaining
small country stores in
the county a while back,
I took a few moments to
bask in the ambiance of
its atmosphere and the
interaction of the people
inside.
It
is the old-fashioned kind
of store that has the
tongue-in-groove wood
floors that sway here
and there with old, floor
furnace grids that make
a ruffling sound when
you walk across them.
This
store sells cold “dranks,”
out of a pop machine.
It
is also the kind of store
that doesn’t offer
many items like canned
peaches or packs of pudding;
but it sells delicious
breakfast and lunch sandwiches,
and a heck of a lot of
pop.
Patrons
place orders for sandwiches
by hollering over the
meat counter to the cooks
in the kitchen area where,
since the wee hours of
the morning, they have
been busy preparing bacon,
eggs and big ol’
biscuits for the hungry
people who will be stopping
in.
Inside
the meat counter, there
are neatly arranged rows
of meats and cheeses which
are sliced in the kitchen
and weighed on a scale.
On
the top of the counter,
slices of pie with mile-high
meringue sit waiting to
tempt those who usually
decide that they’ll
cut back on calories tomorrow.
On
that day, the cook and
a customer were involved
in some good-natured banter,
and I smiled as I listened
in.
It reminded me of the
country store I in the
neighborhood where I grew
up. While the topics of
jokes and conversation
differ, the genuineness
of its people is the same.
“The
store” back then
had one gas pump out front,
which had a round light
on top and sold regular
for around 50 cents a
gallon. Ethyl was a little
higher.
That
store had the swaying
wooden floors, too, and
had a big gallon jar of
pickled eggs on top of
the meat counter that
I would stand and stare
into. There was a coal-burning,
potbelly stove in the
center of its one big
room where old men would
sit and tell jokes and
tales.
I would
listen in on their conversations
when I went there.
“Jack,
these Twankies taste kinda
stale,” I heard
one day from one of the
regulars.
“Well,
anything tastes stale
after you eat five of
them, Earl.”
The
men sitting around the
stove erupted in a round
of knee-slapping laughter.
I remember laughing, too.
And I felt particularly
honored to have been there
at “the store”
the day of the famous
Jack-Earl cake story which
was retold many times.
Some
customers didn’t
order a pound of bologna
at the store. Instead,
they’d order a-dollar’s-worth-of
bologna. The storekeeper
would wrap the meat in
waxed paper and tape it
closed.
Riding
down the one-lane blacktop
road toward home, I would
hear the names of my friends
being called in to supper
and the sound of a bat
cracking against a softball
somewhere in an unofficial
backyard game; I would
see how many bugs I could
run over with my bike
and how many times I could
swerve from the right
side of the road to the
left on may way home,
making the circles tighter
and tighter the closer
I got.
Coming
back into the present,
I realized I had stopped
thinking about the multitude
of work piled on my desk
at the office and the
number of chores I had
left at home.
Instead,
I indulged myself for
a few moments and reminisced
about a golden time in
my life. I needed that.
Ripples
By RITA DUKES
Leader-News Editor
Jan. 15, 2003
When
I was a child, there were
always water puddles around
our house after a rain.
I used to like to drop
pebbles into the water
and watch the ripples.
What
began as small circles
eventually became larger
and larger until the minute
shock waves reached the
edge of the puddle.
Whenever
I went fishing with my
uncle, I’d spend
more time throwing rocks
into the water than I
would trying to catch
a meal. I used to think
that the ripples formed
by the rocks wouldn’t
reach the edge of the
pond and would fizzle
out somewhere in between.
As
I got older, I studied
about Einstein’s
theory of relativity and
began to understand that
all actions no matter
how small change things.
This
became more evident when
I visited with some friends
at a funeral home where
services for a young man
were being held.
The
size of the crowd wishing
to pay their respects
during visitation was
overwhelming.
Many
people stood in line as
long as an hour just to
grasp the hands of his
family members for a moment.
Looking around the funeral
home at the memorabilia
lining the hallways, I
began to think about the
people the young man’s
short life had touched.
I knew
that the boy was a strong
Christian and that his
faith had endured throughout
his battle with cancer.
When
I reached his parents
and took their hands,
I told them of the prayers
I had said for them. I
also told them that while
their son’s battle
with cancer had been lost,
the war had been won.
His
parents were obviously
saddened by their loss
of someone so precious,
but I marveled and how
they encouraged others
to keep the faith.
Never
before had I realized
the true depth of meaning
of I Corinthians 15:55
as I did that night.
“O
death where is thy sting,
O grave where is thy victory.”
When
I talked with his grandparents,
they told me that one
of the young man’s
physicians and some nurses
from Louisville had paid
their respects that night.
The
doctor told the grandmother
that his life had been
changed by the young man.
I began
to think of all the lives
that doctor will touch
in his lifetime —
hundreds, perhaps thousands.
I thought
about the ripples caused
by one little rock.
The
circles get bigger and
bigger until the whole
pond is changed.
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