Bridges take us through the mayhem

This week we introduce Karla Lester, a new member of the 5 Women Mayhem bloggers. We're excited about Karla joining us to spread the mayhem. You're gonna love her writing. She'll offer up a full blog next week and introduce herself further at that time. Meanwhile, enjoy a sample in this week's group blog on the bridges that take us through life. And thanks to our loyal readers for following us through this mayhem.   

My sweet farm Grandma

 

By Karla Lester

Growing up, I thought everyone had a sweet farm Grandma with a big farmhouse filled with

wonderful food like my Grandma Mershon made. Every time my mom, Barb, drove my two

sisters and me the twenty minute drive from our house to the farm in the clunky Ford Fairmont,

it was always the same when we got there. Grandma would meet us at the side door. Her face

would light up when she saw us. We’d walk in and wrap our arms around her waist. She smelled

like Estee Lauder and powder and wore a house dress. Hugging her felt like the safest place in

the world. I’ll remember the feeling forever.

Her house was pristine, and her food was the best. She always had the fridge, and the pantry

filled. There may be some leftover meatloaf or her pork chops, the favorite, stored in tin foil.

 

I still know exactly what her hands looked like with her crooked knuckles and how her arms felt

when I used to rub my face on them hoping mine would be as soft as hers someday. She would

waddle on her arthritic knees, never complaining about the pain, except when she got up from

the living room chair, she’d say to herself, “Mercy.” 

 

The best thing she did for me was show me unconditional love. No matter how I acted, or if I was sad or mad, it didn’t matter. She would pat me on the knee and say, “You’re awful sweet and you’re mighty fine.” 

 

She was a bridge to so many things in my life and out of so many things in my life. My Grandma

Mershon was the only person whose face lit up when she saw me. 

 

Every now and then, when I’m feeling down or being hard on myself, I feel a pat on my knee

and hear, “You’re awful sweet and you’re mighty fine.” 

 

(Picture of my Grandparents from 1924)

 

One step at a time … crossing paths on a trail

 

By Mary Kay Roth

I’m not sure how long ago this happened, certainly it’s been three decades or

so. My son was around 12 at the time and now he’s 41.

 

But I remember it with such clarity.

Josh and I were climbing our first mountain together in Rocky Mountain

National Park. We had chosen the Chasm Lake trail. a very tough climb with

countless switchbacks, rock scrambles, pine forest and alpine tundra.

 

Perhaps around halfway up, weary and sweaty, reaching a moment we were

ready to give up, we sat down on a huge rock to chug water.

 

Right then an older couple came strolling along the trail, heading down from

the peak, noticed us and asked if they could sit beside us.

 

They sympathized with the rigor of the hike and offered us apples.

 

The man chuckled and said the combined age of his wife and him was 160

years. They had been climbing mountains forever.

 

“And do you know the secret to climbing mountains, young man,” the

gentleman asked Josh.

 

My tired son shook his head.

 

“Here’s the secret: Don’t think about the mountain and the long trail ahead.

Always take it one step at a time. As long as you keep putting one foot in

front of another – just one foot – then you’re making progress. And I

guarantee you’ll make it to the top.”

 

Eventually the sweet couple wished us good luck and headed down the trail.

Josh and I looked at one another, smiled and started walking.

 

Step by step. One foot in front of another. Glory be, we made it. I danced a

happy dance when we reached that sparkling gorgeous lake at the top, both

of us pumped with a giddy sense of accomplishment.

 

We probably spent 15 minutes with that couple, no more. Yet I’ve never

forgotten them. And to this day I never climb a mountain without thinking

about their words. Step by step. One foot at a time.

 

I wondered if my son remembered their words, so I texted him this week.

 

“Of course, I’ll never forget that hike,” Josh texted back. “Made me want to

hike for the rest of my life.”

 

Of course, both of us did keep hiking, eventually conquering most of the

trails in Rocky Mountain National Park.

 

One step at a time.

Building bridges to possibilities 

By Marilyn Moore 

Mrs. Teter was a most unlikely teacher at Wilsonville High School in 1967. The school, like many small schools in Nebraska, was mostly staffed by new graduates, starting their first teaching jobs, and experienced teachers who were members of the community and had been there for years. Mrs. Teter was a little of both…. She and her husband were farmers in a nearby

community. Like many women her age, she had taught in rural schools when she graduated from high school, then stayed home to be a mom and farm wife after her children were born.

The summer of ’67, she decided to renew her teaching certificate with coursework from what was then Kearney State Teachers College and return to teaching. So, in her late ‘40’s, she did ... and became my high school senior English teacher. 

She was not conventional. She asked interesting questions, she taught us to explore divergent

paths as we read literature. She directed the senior class play, and filled it with sight gags and

one-liners that were genuinely funny. (And she cast the lead, written as an older teenage male,

with a female, the best athlete in the class.) Being the mom of children the age of her students,

she knew all about teenagers, and she liked us anyway.

 

She assigned the usual senior research paper, with what were all the usual steps at the time:

identification of topic, starting outline, research recorded on index cards (remember those?),

second outline, first draft, second draft, final paper. And she read it all at each step of the way.

I do not remember the topic I chose. I do not remember the grade I received. I will always

remember the comment she made on the last page: “Well-researched. Good organizational

structure. You will use these skills when you write your dissertation someday.”

 

That comment planted a seed I had never considered. Me, write a dissertation? I just wanted

to graduate from high school and go to college…not much thought beyond that. But once

again…she made me think.

 

Teachers build bridges in all kinds of ways…from one grade to the next, one reading level to the

next, one discipline to another, one student to another, one reality to one future. The bricks at

the Teachers Fountain are filled with names of teachers who were bridges to their students.

For the 1967-68 school year, Mrs. Teter built that bridge for me…not just to a dissertation, but

to a possibility, to a writer and a scholar. And I am forever grateful.

 

Sometimes you’ve got to just close your eyes and trust 

 

By JoAnne Young

Thirteen months ago, in the Friday dusk of a September evening, I missed a step off an unfamiliar deck, and fell hard onto a concrete slab. The left side of my pelvis sacrificed itself so that my upper body, my head in particular, remained safe and secure and able to process what was happening then and all that was to result when a pelvis cracks into several pieces. 

 

The next day, through a bit of an opioid cocktail fog, I heard a recommendation for a surgeon who had a gift for putting Humpty Dumptys back together. I’ve always been pretty careful about choosing a doctor, and I was unsure about this one ... I’d never heard of him and he was in a solo practice. So I had to take another unfamiliar step, one that was important to get right. I did a little research and with a bit of hesitation said OK. 

 

Dr. David Samini turned out to be the absolute right choice, and the first step onto the bridge that would take me from this foreign land of disconnection, change and at times frustration, to finding my way back to normal. I needed a Golden Gate magnitude span in front of me, and he and his team were there to get things rolling with support, confidence and encouragement. 

 

Bridges provide a path over the obstacles between where we are and that sometimes faraway destination we want to reach. While it would be nice to be able to always rely on our choices of people, places and things that serve as our bridges, we sometimes have to hold our breath, lift our feet, and trust.

 

Dr. Samani started my journey and stuck with me for a good long time, while my husband, children, good friends, and a line of enlightened, problem-solving and compassionate physical therapists and other health professionals accompanied me. I pitched in with a bit of resolve and persistence also needed for the crossings. 

 

I have now pulled up to the destination and am eternally grateful for the sweetness of this year-long passage. 

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