Betty and Ike

Betty Louise Hadfield was born on December 24, 1924, in the front bedroom of the small house on Pennsylvania Avenue in Downingtown, PA. She was the youngest of five children of George Lincoln Hadfield and his wife Ethel Darlington Hickman. Her mother died almost two years later (December 12, 1925) from complications of childbirth. She had two sisters and two brothers. Betty had a lonely childhood since her sisters were the two oldest children and closer to each other than Betty. Her brothers were the next two oldest children and were also closer to each other than little Betty. Betty’s father remarried twice. The second marriage produced another daughter who was now the youngest in the Hadfield household. Growing up during the Depression was not easy. Many days Betty went hungry. She would rush home from school when lunch period arrived because she was embarrassed she had nothing to eat. There wasn’t a need for Weight Watchers during this period of American history. However, there came a day when Betty was 16 years old that changed her life. She had a double date with her best girlfriend Edie Lemon. Edie was dating a young man who came to Pennsylvania with his family when he was 10 years old from the hills of western North Carolina (read “hillbilly”). Betty was dating Charlie Hank. As the jalopy pulled up to the curb, Betty took one look at the driver, Edie’s date, and told Edie to “get in the back.” Thus began one of the greatest love stories of my life. My mom met my dad. She was beautiful. He didn’t have a chance.

Mom

Mom was sitting in her usual chair when I made an unannounced visit to her this past Saturday. I didn't tell her I was coming because she would just worry. I find it’s better to just walk in and say “Hi Mom!” just as I did for years when I lived one road across from her home in Pennsylvania. She had a new haircut and fresh perm. Molly, her 14 year old calico cat, was languorously stretched out on the back of the couch facing my Mother. The TV was on as usual. She didn’t turn it off. She never does. It’s something I find older people do, they’re so used to having TV as company; they don’t think to turn it off when they get real company. That’s alright with me. It’s my Mom. She’s 84 years old now. Widowed since August 22, 2000 when my father died of lung cancer after a long illness. She lives with my younger brother Isaac in the same modest ranch house that was built in 1958. Isaac is the sibling who takes care of Mom. I have a room set aside for her as does my other brother John, who lives in South Carolina. However, she prefers to remain where she spent many happy years with Pop, her husband of 60 years. Mom, Isaac, Molly and Molly's brother Rusty, all call home the white stucco house that sits on three acres of East Brandywine Township highly taxed land. I brought along the gossip magazines I had accumulated since my last visit. Mom loves the National Enquirer just as much as her son. Enquiring minds want to know. My partner Bill also contributed his accumulation of Reader’s Digest magazines. We are a family that recycles. We couldn’t stay too long. It is a 2 ½ drive from Delaware to Pennsylvania and another 2 ½ drive back. I had hoped to also visit a friend and see his newly remodeled kitchen. Also on tap was a visit to Wegmans supermarket. A visit to Pennsylvania is not complete unless we stock up on the Wegmans goodies. We have lunch at their Asian buffet bar. It is a gastronomic adventure not to be missed. Slower Lower Delaware knows nothing like it, to my great regret. After a short visit we were on our way but not before giving Mom a big hug. Our family was never into hugs, but now as I’ve gotten older I have found the value of hugs. I only have one Mom. I have to let her know I love her. See you next month Mom.

The Empty Bird Box

“You see these eggs? They’re brown. They’re no good.” He then threw the eggs across the gravel road that borders my property, into the newly planted corn field. “See this nest? It’s a sparrow’s nest. You don’t want this nest. They’re trash. I shoot sparrows. They’re not a native bird.” He then tore out the carefully constructed nesting material and also tossed it across the road towards the same area where the broken eggs laid in the corn field. He saw the look on my face. I was dumbfounded. First, he destroyed a living thing, if a bird’s nest could be called living. Also, he was presumptuous in deciding for me what birds are allowed on my property in my birdhouses. His name is Frank. Frank the Birdman. I had recently contracted with him to install a Purple Martin house on my open acre of land behind my house. I called him in today because the nor’easter of yesterday had permanently tilted the long pole which held the birdhouse he installed two weeks ago. I wanted him to fix it. I also arranged for a delivery of mulch. He looked at me and said “Don’t you want to be a good landlord to the right birds?” Of course I did want bluebirds in the four bluebird houses that lined my back yard. However, last year and this year the sparrows had taken over. It is not in my nature to destroy a living thing. I become upset whenever I see the chicken trucks that daily haul thousands of chickens to slaughter in this area of Delaware where I live. Frank turned to look at my other bluebird houses. I knew one at the other end of my property had birds ready to come out. I was trimming the grass around the base of the birdhouse on Sunday and I heard the baby birds making a noisy racket. They were ready to come out any day. He asked if there were sparrows in that bird box. I didn’t answer except to say “I don’t want to bother baby birds.” He looked at me like I just stepped off a space ship. I could surmise what he was thinking: “Oh, one of those bleeding hearts.” He told me that sparrows and starlings are not native to this country and are driving out the native species. He said I needed to see a dead bluebird on her nest then perhaps I would change my mind. I changed the subject. I gave him his check for the mulch delivery. He said he would be back later in the afternoon to fix the Purple Martin House bird pole. After he left, I checked the bluebird house that housed the baby sparrows. First, I tapped on the box. No sound. Then I ever so slowly opened the front of the box. Five baby sparrows were revealed to me. They were motionless. I thought perhaps they were taking a nap. But I knew better. Baby birds, when they’re about to leave the nest, make lot of noise because they’re hungry and anxious to go. I closed the door and went back to my shed to do some chores. I couldn't get the baby birds off of my mind. I looked back at the bird house to see if the parents came back. They were there, sitting on top of the bird box. Still, there was no cacophony of noise from the inside the bird box. Curious, I went back and again slowly opened the front door to the bird box so as not to disturb the baby birds inside. They were in the same position. I looked closely to see if they were breathing. I could not detect if they were breathing. One baby bird was at the top with it mouth partly opened. I got a small stick and gently pressed it. It did not move. Then I gently lifted the small frame of the baby bird. Still no movement. Lifting the bird, I saw four other smaller baby birds below in the nesting. They did not move either. The nest had a foul damp smell. They were all dead. They probably died by drowning yesterday during the nor’easter. Frank the Birdman would be pleased.

After the Storm

The winds have died down, the rain has ended. The sun burns brightly in the clear blue morning sky. It is the dawn of a new day. Not only for this speck of land that I live on in coastal Delaware but in my life as well. A nor'easter blew in from the Atlantic Ocean early Sunday night and lingered all day Monday. Wind gusts up to 50 MPH tore the new green leaves off of trees. Roads in low lying area were flooded. Sporadic power outages testified to the relentless fury of the winds. Yesterday I was scheduled to work the evening shift at the Inn in Lewes. I drove the mile down the rain swept Route 1, buffeted by the high winds. Turning on New Road, I had to slow down to drive through the portion of New Road that was flooded by the Rehoboth Canal. Arriving at the Inn, I made sure to park where there was little chance of a tree falling on my car. The few guests in the hotel took the bad weather in stride. They were appreciative they had shelter from the storm. We joked about the fact that the computer local weather had forecasted “sprinkles” for the day. After checking in one walk-in couple from the United Kingdom (they were on their way to Montchanin, Delaware), the night was quiet. I had time to reflect on the storm and its aftermath of last Sunday night at the Purple Parrot. I do believe things happen for a reason. Sometimes the reason is not evident. However, with time the reason or reasons come into focus. When one is treated with such casual disrespect as I was over a period of time, sooner or later a reaction is going to happen. The fact that I couldn’t resolve this conflict in a more respectful manner to my friend is my fault. My personality is such that it doesn’t fit into the derisive, caustic, cutting, and arrogant personality of my former friend. Since I’ve retired and moved to Delaware I have attempted to “fit in” groups, which I have avoided all my life. For most of my life, starting with my childhood years, I have been a loner. Along the way I have made a few friends. My three best friends from my school days are still my very good friends. Although we lost touch for a number of years after school, we all reunited in person or through e-mail during the past ten years. These friends are my true friends. They understand me as I understand them. That is the definition of a true friend. Someone who accepts you as you are, warts and all. Someone who doesn’t accuse you of being a drunk because you take offense to the disrespectful way you are being treated by your so called friend. A true friend is one who values all the shades of your personality and truly cares about you. In return you keep their friendship because you care about them. A true friend seeks the cause of your anger rather than to justify their own arrogance by their baseless assumption you must be drunk or have “issues.” Since moving to Delaware, I was with a group of friends who regularly went out Wednesday night to different restaurants. One was a longtime friend from my Army days back in the 60’s. He and his partner would take out another older friend of theirs (85 years old), “just to get him out of the house.” Unfortunately, this older man has an incurable case of logorrhea. Dining out with this person, with his affliction, was very difficult. He had an inability to listen to anyone. It got to be a joke, that whoever sat opposite him would be “blasted” non-stop with his current diatribe, often repeated. That also got to be a joke as to how many times we would hear the same story. Dining out with this man was not a pleasant experience. Last winter, after a particularly rude action by him, I decided to no longer dine out with this group. I wasn’t missed. Because I didn’t willingly subject myself to his torrent of endless words, he had long since ignored my presence. What was the point? We also had a Saturday morning breakfast group at which this person would attend. The other members of the group would jockey for a position so they would not sit opposite him. Though I had stopped attending the Wednesday night dinners, I continued to attend the Saturday morning breakfasts. However, there came a time when I had to end that also. When it gets to the point where you might as well be invisible, it is time to say “this isn’t working.” Thus I started another “night out.” I started to meet another friend, who had recently suffered the breakup of a long term relationship, at the Purple Parrot restaurant in Rehoboth Beach. We would meet almost every Sunday night. Occasionally other friends would join us. I recognized immediately that my friend had a personality that I didn’t feel comfortable with. Loud, caustic, and dismissive; he had a personality that I instantly found uncomfortable. However, I was willing to accept these personality characteristics, thinking I could change. That was my mistake. My discomfort would grow whenever my comments were dismissed airily as ill informed or non-consequential. From a matter as small as dismissing my claim that it was my pen that was with the restaurant check and not the restaurant’s pen to that it was my fault that I wasn’t served until half an hour after all the others at the table. I let my anger build up until it exploded in frustration. I tried to make it work. It didn’t. Thinking about my situation last night, I came to the conclusion that it looks pretty good. I still have my true friends, who know and accept me as I am. I have my passions, which are genealogy, photography, and gardening. I have a beautiful home and a partner who loves and respects me. Even though we have our differences from time to time, we know one another and still love each other, flaws and all. From most of my former friends, I have almost always taken something positive. From this friendship that is now lost, I have also taken something positive. He has shown me the therapeutic value of keeping a daily journal of my feelings, observations, and journey through life. It really is excellent therapy to write it all down. For that I give him thanks.

Monday Morning Rain

Rivulets of rains slowly slide down the window at my left shoulder. The wind driven rain beats against the side of my house, as if seeking shelter inside. The clouds of Sunday have morphed into the wind and rain of Monday. As I sit at my computer, composing this journal, I think of how fortunate I am to have a safe and secure home that shields me from the elements outside. All my life I have toiled, struggled and sacrificed to arrive at this time to have this oasis that is my home. With this thought in mind, I am not heedless to those who are not as fortunate as I am. Critters such as stray dogs and cats, who do not have a warm and dry home to protect them from the cold, wind and rain, and must seek shelter where ever they can. Perhaps they gained entrance in an abandoned building through a broken window or unlocked door. There they sit cuddled into a fur ball patiently waiting for the storm to pass. Perhaps they find shelter near a dumpster with overflow trash. There, under wet cardboard boxes, they have partial shelter from the fury of the wind and rain. For those living creatures I have a profound sense of empathy. I wish I could save them all. I also think of those who are our best and brightest who are serving this country in Iraq and Iran under extreme weather conditions. I vowed not to make political statements when I began this journal, but I do want to make the reader know I am mindful of the sacrifice these brave and loyal Americans are making for us so we can live in our safe and comfortable homes. When I started this journal I made myself a promise that I would have a personal journal that is unique to me. Each of us is unique. Each of us has value. We all have a story to tell that may or may not be of interest to someone else. However, it is important that I record my thoughts, experiences, hopes and dreams in a format that perhaps will be of value to someone in the future. To leave a legacy. One thinks of such things at this time of life. Life waits for the answer, but the question is why? We all have a journey that to take in this existence called life. Some of us are more fortunate that others in the circumstances of our life. For that I will always be thankful.

Cloudy Day

The clouds rolled in today. Gray and dreary. Temperature falling. Wind picking up. I missed my Sunday night outing at the Purple Parrot with friends. A chill in the air. The realization that I wasn't wanted in the group. Painful but probably true. Again, that incurable naivete of mine. The day is ending. Rain is beginning to tap on my window. Life goes on. The sun will shine again.

Pennsylvania Visit Part 1

Morning daylight revealed blue gray clouds heavy with rain on the far horizon viewed from my great room's wall of windows. This Saturday morning Bill and I planned to visit Downingtown, PA, near our former home in East Brandywine Township. As much as we would like to visit our old home, we could not because the new owner and his family now occupy the house and grounds we so lovingly developed, nurtured and cared for from 1976 to November 17, 2006, the date we settled on the sale. We would ride past and longingly look up the lane which we had driven up so often. We will always miss our former home. Our trip to Pennsylvania was fourfold this morning. We make our obligatory Mother's Day visit to Mom. Also, a visit to Wegmans supermarket would be in order to stock up on some of my favorite items from that outstanding establishment. There is nothing like Wegmans in Slower Lower Delaware, which is very sad. The lack of a Wegmans is perhaps my biggest loss after moving to Sussex County, Delaware. This trip I had also planned to visit an old friend and his wife who recently remodeled their kitchen. We left early, around 8:45 AM. The trip to Pennsylvania takes approximately 2 ½ hours, depending on the traffic. Shortly after the wheels of my Subaru Forester turned on Route 1 north, a sprinkling of raindrops fell on my car windows, creating rivulets through the dust on the car window shield. Road spray muck on my car would definitely be a factor on this trip. I set my cruise control to 60 MPH, and headed north on Rt. 1. As we barreled north, Bill and I checked the gradually rising price of gas at the many gas stations that lined the highway. We pulled in at a Valero gas station and I filled up my half empty gas tank at $3.69 per gallon. The total bill for a half a tank of gas was $30.02. That fact will affect the number of trips to we make to Pennsylvania in the future. We arrived unannounced at my Mom’s place. My brother Isaac was in his workshop. He retired in April from R. V. Industries. Isaac and I sometimes have had a contentious relationship as brothers are wont to do, so I never know what kind of greeting, if any, I will receive from my younger brother. This morning he greeted my surprise visit with a relaxed smile. I could tell immediately that retirement is agreeing with him. Isaac is my brother and I know him as well as I know anyone. Like me, he gives his all at his workplace but, as the years have accumulated, his body has gotten older and he tires more easily. He appreciates his new found freedom, which is the wonderful gift of retirement. He was more relaxed since the last time I saw him. The strain has left his face. He told me with embarrassed pride how the plant, where he works, had closed down half a day to acknowledge and honor his retirement. He didn’t expect such a fuss to be made over his retirement. He was uncomfortable telling me about it but I could tell he how proud and grateful he was that all his years of hard work was acknowledged and appreciated. He ask me to go into the house and look at the flyer his company had made, that was on the refrigerator door, proclaiming his retirement. I was so proud of my brother. Like many of us, he has had a difficult life. He has endured job loss, a divorce, health problems and the loss of his good friends through death. He loves to work with wood in his workshop in peace and solitude. He has that now. I wish him many years of happiness in his retirement.