Jane Doe Chronicles

Tales of the Heartland: "Finding compassion and Stephono"

JDC America's Heartland:  From the melodious voices of the Oak Ridge Boys rises a greater musical understanding:  "We all are part of the story of an American family." with all that makes or breaks our relationships, influenced by imperfections and our "silly ole pride." 

Like the echo of soft whispering winds, I still hear mother's gentle matriarchal voice: "Life is short-lived 'dumpling' glutted with agitation in need of the blossom of compassion; and my dear, the only road to peace and reconciliation."

"Ya sure mom."  How many times before had I heard this lady with a sophisticated flair basically tell me I would be sorry someday if I threw "compassion" out the window just to satisfy the state of my hurt feelings. 

Stephono and I grew up to understand: Compassion is a road to be traveled, which develops from within the vine of family love.  Sprouting its shoots as we travel down the different streets of life, we hope to gain the inner strengths that build our character of humility, long-suffering, endurance, spiritual goodness and a mildness of speech.  Stephono and I were a continuous work in progress often waylaid by our emotional state and a vain enemy. . ."justifiable pride."

Our mother's love helped us to translate compassion and concern for others into concrete action, and to not have an "I don't care" ideology in life.  She gave us the warmth of her love lifting us up with motherly compassion, showing us one of the secrets of life. . .happiness and joy.

When trouble wiggled its way into our sibling lives mother could be heard In a sweet yet authoritative voice: "Life isn't fair children even when you are compassionate and try hard."  How true rings the echo from days gone by as Stephono and I have allowed a breakdown and fracture of compassion for each other to be made brittle by time and distance. 

Ridiculous how we allowed a waterfall of misunderstandings and hurt feelings to be fired by our pride and a larva of building anger.  Neither of us willing to give into the other, neither of us willing to give of the compassion from our childhood, we had given so freely to others.

My brother Stephono was always a laid-back gentle soul, of soft-spoken wisdom and heart.  I on the other-hand to this day, feel the fire in my belly, grabbing life by its tail ready for a roller-coaster ride.  Both of us have been nurtured by the one person who can explicate the art of "caring," an emotionally sensitive mother, a counselor of love, of altruistic values and support, who if anything, gave too much of herself to so many. 

So how did Stephono and I get side tracked off the balanced road of life onto the side-street of broken compassion?  Pure stubbornness.  

Most of us preach a good talk, but when it comes down to enduring, we fall short.  So it is before Stephono's passing our heartfelt childhood compassion flowered once again into moments of laughter, and days filled with the joy of living.  Barriers melted away by a brother and sister's return to their childhood roots overriding the foolishness of the heart and adulthood.

Our children have seen our division and rebirth.  They have learned sometimes with difficulty, to climb out of their own skin into other's, channeling . . ."I see your need" into an unselfish act of moral awareness to impact the world and themselves.

I would like to believe Stephono and I have given our children the gift of being able to forgive themselves and others and not waste precious moments of life.  Whenever we give, we always feel its reward somewhere along the way, as "compassion road" curves, zig-zags and cuts into the road of life. 

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CeCe Day Hill, Copyright (c) 2009 - Jane Doe Chronicles, All Rights Reserved - 349 West Circle Dr., New Lenox, IL 60451 - (815) 485-4871 - Email:  janedoechronicles@comcast.net

To view other articles and Author Profile visit:  http://www.janedoechronicles.typepad.com

Tales of the American Heartland: "New Year's Resolutions Gone Awry"

JDC AMERICA'S HEARTLAND:  How big of a deal is your New Year's Resolutions?  To a young man named Gary it changed the course of his life leaving him in a virtual limbo. . . .

With each new year we are vexed into the making of resolutions that somehow should mystically occur as if we have nothing to do with it.  We are emotionally charged with intent, then waylaid by our human imperfection.  We may surmise, "It's only a resolution.  What's the big deal?"

As I look across to room 214, I see no changes.  A young man with handsome features, the resemblance uncanny.  A Ben Aflack look-a-like lies in a coma, a prison shell, an inert mental state of none existence.  Kept alive by a healthy beating heart perhaps for decades of future New Year's Eves.

I fought back tears as his mother's reminiscence reminded me how frail life is.  "My Gary graduated last year with a master's degree and was taking time off to travel the U.S.  Two of his New Year's resolutions were to wear his helmet and to see the world before settling into his new field of work."

As his mother wipes away a tear from her swollen red eyes she cries out: "It's over, all over.  If only he had put on his helmet.  He hated that thing."

He would joke laughingly and tell me: "I wanna feel free like a bird in flight, unrestricted, a Marlon Brando, cycling down the carefree road of life and untold adventure.  To feel the slicing cool winds and cutting breezes whipping about me.  Breathing in that scent of freshness that whips against the face surging upward spiking through my hair."

As his mother I understood for it seems not too long ago, I was cruising in my Mustang convertible down the main street of our Western town feeling that same thrill.  Now, I lament for my boy and any that straddle over a Harley motorcycle believing in their invincibility.  I shudder: "Yes, you know who you are hitting the road with a helmet that's sitting everywhere but on your head."

As I listened I thought: "How heartbreaking," Then found myself shedding a tear and reflecting as so many of us do:  "It seems like there is always an 'if only' in our lives.  . . . If only I followed the diet, if only I had said, 'I love you more often,'  if only I had saved more money, if only I had taken that job, if only I had been there for my family.  If only - if only - if only.

Yes, if only the New Year's wish for ourselves was important enough, had priority, Gary would be alive and well.  Bill would be the svelte vision of health, Pierce and Angela might be happily together, Margot could be financially sound instead of on the brink of bankruptcy, Roger wouldn't have thrown away a prosperous future out of the fear to act, and Jeff would have been there more often for the magic and wonderment of his children's lives while building his business.

New Year's Eve is societies official call to chuck the past and start again.  By itself the inability to keep a resolution may be no big deal or is it?  After all, aren't New Year's resolutions connected to our lack of commitment from earlier in the year?  In Gary's case, that lack literally changed the precious viability of his life.  Is there anything in your unresolved resolutions that may sadly leave you between the layers of two worlds like Gary, deadening you, yet keeping you alive?  What do you think?

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By: CeCe Day Hill, Copyright (c) 2008 - Jane Doe Chronicles, All Rights Reserved - 349 West Circle Dr., New Lenox, IL 60451 - (815) 485-4871 - Email: janedoechronicles@comcast.net

To view Author profile and other articles visit:  http://www.janedoechronicles.typepad.com

Tales of the American Heartland: "Are You Filled Up Yet?"

JDC AMERICA'S HEARTLAND:  Maybe mothers shouldn't panic over unusual eating habits of their unpredictable fledglings, who seem to miraculously make it to adulthood.  All those lost moments of peace of mind when it all turns out anyway.

"We grow them big in the country,"  Ellen reminisced.  Mothers do worry you know whether they cover it up or not.  I look at David and can't believe he was ever a six pound chubby-cheeked bundle of love.

Eating to my David has been "Yum Yummmm,  mommy yum - more."

Shaking my head I've wondered like many mothers, "Why can't I fill this kid up?"

The doctor assured me: "He's just a growing boy, 'worry' if he stops."

I guess along with the title "mother," the big W is just part of the job.  Some of us do it better than others. We range from the maniacal mom, to the complacent, who isn't a worry-wart, yet cares nonetheless.

On the list of motherhood is the doctoring, country style with potions and natural remedies and routine visits to the Doc.  I've learned its O.K. if a mother gets carried away falling into that state called temporary "nutsville," the realm between sanity and insanity, a controlled place of mental refuge that keeps you from wanting to hit your head against the wall.  I kept telling myself: "So long as my child grows up happy time should take care of the rest including his eating choices. Oh, please God let it be so." 

Amazing how each child differs.  My nephew Loni, a city boy, sustained his life eating balogna, know today as baloney.  I remember the smell of fried baloney, baloney sandwiches, baloney mac 'n cheese, baloney cream cheese roll-ups, even baloney salad.

Both boys have weathered the adolescent years of quirky eating habits.  My roley-poley chub sprouting an Abraham Lincoln stature in the teen years, has become a bruiser and healthy specimen qualified for the National Football League.

To this day, when he is in town he sits down to Sunday dinner with his gregarious nature, infectious smile and robust appetite and dives into a bit of southern comfort - food.  He makes a point of rolling his eyes, smacking his lips and saying: "Yum Yummmm Mom - more."

I have to chuckle and wonder: "What was the fuss all about?  Of course now I know my complacency is Monday morning quarterbacking, but then it was a whole different ball game.  Thank goodness kids have a way of developing into resilient adults despite their often worrisome and crazy food manias. ____________________________________________________________________________________

By: CeCe Day Hill, Copyright (c) 2008 - Jane Doe Chronicles, All Rights Reserved - 349 West Circle Dr., New Lenox, IL 60451 - (815) 485-4871 - Email: janedoechronicles@comcast.net

To view Author profile and other articles visit:  http://www.janedoechronicles.typepad.com

Tales of the American Heartland: "A Gift of Choice Paid in Full"

JDC America's Heartland: The ultimate sacrifice the gift of freedom and life.

Because of someone's precious child, I can look out my office window into a world of opportunity and freedom, given by those I will never know, who paid the ultimate price so that I might have the "gift" of choice.

"Why won't Daddy come home?" asks little Billy.

Similar words resounded for generations throughout the American Heartland as the Horsemen of the Apocalypse Death and War, ride shattering family lives. Drowning them in a cold dark ocean of wrenching emotional pain, broken hearts and a waterfall of tears visible in the silence and private depth of night.

In an instant, gone are once vivid moments of human love and interaction, now fading reflections of past memories - infectious smiles of joy - echoes of laughter, and the hopes and dreams of a once vibrant voice.

A sprouting teenager Billy asks: "Why do we have to fight?"

His mother raises her eyebrows, thinks for a moment searching for the right words to answer her inquisitive yet impressionable son, who no longer just accepts, but seeks the insight of reasoning:

"Well Billy," she says, "All we have in this country has been purchased by guardians of
freedom, who endured difficult trials, bitter oppression and religious opposition. Americans who decided to fight to make things better for themselves and future generations. They and your Dad have given us a special gift so we could be free to live the way we choose and too be able to speak our minds, even if it's wrong."

"But Mom," Billy interrupts, "People on TV are yelling at each other about not fighting and how bad people are who want to."

"Oh, Billy, no family wants their loved ones to fight, but there are times when you must stand up for a principle such as freedom or lose it."

I think of my own children and the same visions are all too clear and chilling, repeated throughout the heartland, as now I walk to take my place among family, friends and wide-eyed innocent children standing in silence, lining the streets three-deep in the Town of Proud Americans.

I sense the soft whispering winds and blinking sunlit shadows of a summer's day. There is an air of somber pause and community pride masking sallow faces, swollen eyes and a occasional tear wiped away by the cuff of a hand. A convoy of brightly polished motorcycles and a sea of American flags vibrate with life over the saddle-bags of veterans from around the state, who have descended upon "Any town U.S.A." Side by side they roll down the old Route 66 escorting one of their own to a place of peaceful solitude.

A silent world free of tribulation; bathed in floral scents and surrounded by the drying dew of freshly cut grass and the flicker of one destined eternal flame. Soaring seagulls flutter and dive playfully over a glistening pond of Water Lilies, oblivious of the fact that another American has given his life that all men might live free.

Feeling a chill run down my spine, my thoughts are one of anger and sorrow. "There is no way I will be able to comfort my friends who grieve such a loss. As a mother, I can only offer prayers and grateful thanks for the sacrifice another family has made, asking for God's grace to get them through this."

Suddenly, my subconscious reminds me of a high-ranking civil servant in Mexico who wrote: "I am convinced that as parents we should inculcate in our children values that allow them to discern how to act and then help them to become capable people and to conduct themselves with respect and honesty in a world lacking these things. . ."

I find myself sighing, almost shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head when the silence and my train of thought is broken by a twenty-one gun salute, and a weeping family, as Billy's mother her hands shaking reaches out to receive the folded red, white and blue emblem of our country, the American flag, and the material finality of a life and service of her son Billy, the grown boy who didn't want to fight in a war, yet decided as a man there was a job to be done. . .and did it.

Army PFC Billy Jakes was a young man who grew up not afraid of anything. Wrestled on the high school team, was a consummate prankster, a buddy's buddy and as his mother said: "A kid who understood the meaning of the word respect, and did what he believed was right."

My son told me: "When Billy was home on his last leave, one of the things he did with his buddies was to light up a cigar. He smoked a little bit of it, then wrapped it up and stuck it in his friend's freezer to finish when he got back."

While in the ravaged dusty terrain of Afghanistan his Humvee was attacked. Though Billy was hit in the leg, he continued to fight to the end. Our little Billy Jakes is an American hero like so many others.

"When I heard he had gone down fighting and saving others, I was not surprised," said his best buddy Steve. "It sounded exactly like something he would do."

As I look around into the military faces I see the melting pot of ethnic backgrounds. I see eyes blurred with redness of human emotion hiding behind the military stance of men affected by the loss of one of their own. I shed a tear as the lump in my throat grew tighter, sadden, yet grateful that I live in an American Heartland, a country with a gift of free choices provided courtesy of all the Billy's male and female, who have served in the many wars and skirmishes.

As for the frozen cigar, when Billy's friends heard he had gone down fighting, they gathered over the weekend, together, lit the cigar and passed it around while telling stories about their boy hood friend. The little boy who as a Peewee B didn't want to go onto the football field and cried before each practice, the grown teenager of their football and state championship days and the craziness of being young and of testing boundaries. Billy's buddies agree: "It is what he would want us to do with the cigar. That is why he left it. He wants us to remember all the good times."

Billy's loss has touched my life, and has touched my soul. How do I cope with the loss of a child I watched grow from a toddler to manhood? I am in emotional turmoil and dig deep inside the spiritual realm of my being. I have hope for that strapping young man who once downed a number 54 red and white football jersey, and the ultimate football mom, who once was filled with bubbly emotion and proud smiles, will one day hear the voice of God:

"Rise Billy Jakes - Mother forever behold your son."

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By: CeCe Day Hill, Copyright (c) 2008 - Jane Doe Chronicles All Rights Reserved: 349 West Circle Dr., New Lenox, IL 60451 - 1.815.485.4871, Email: janedoechronicles@comcast.net

To view Author Profile and other writings visit: www.janedoechronicles.typepad.com

Tales of the American Heartland: "Text Messaging Can Kill You or Your Children"

JDC America's Heartland:  Reprint of the Heartland story that affects families on the roadways and every nook and cranny traveled in the heartland of American life.

With the use of modern technology, the need arises to not blindly use selective choices that prematurely change the course of one's life or others.

What does daily stress; hectic schedules and distractions have in common?  ... One individual's right to freedom of choice, the potential of an accident, premature death and a couple minutes of notoriety in the obituary column.

Our world is truly a wonder and marvel of nature, and man-made technology.  In the covered wagon days, the strong willed risk takers of the West, would never have envisioned what we deem, the tools of modern day prosperity.  Things placed in plastic casings with chip memory capability to do just about anything, perhaps even future genius secretly able to rule the world.

In the perfectibility of things, man too often forgets: it is the human element of an imperfect being, lack of experience, the stress of the times or just pure stupidity that changes the equation of how one's reaction to a situation can change the course of one's life.

Why is it one bypasses common sense in lieu of expediency?  What can't wait?  In place of practicality we vie and cultivate patterns for the advantages of the "now" in haste!

A recent incident in the State of Illinois magnifies a growing trend of text messaging while driving.

Modern technology of text messaging appears to have played a significant part in the loss of life of five cheerleaders.  -- Teen girls, marked by beauty that delights the senses, with prized shinning glory of the well coiffed long hair and an air of pride beaming back from class pictures; youthful smiles and a vision of the fragile spirit of youth.

The sadness in this tragedy is the loss of the potential of each of these five women.  Personalities the world shall never get to know, or to envision what special gifts or contributions they may have accomplished and made to the betterment of society.

The investigation is leaning toward the fact that the driver may have been at fault in text messaging while driving.  Somehow in a matter of seconds: a message was sent, replied to and in the course of those actions, the driver lost control and hit another vehicle.  Several seconds later, a call to 911 was made for help - - - seconds of time recorded on modern technology and then silence.

We are all someone's son or daughter.  We are a legacy to our parent's love, their instruction, guides by word and example.  When our children complain, "because they have heard it before," how can one assume they truly get it?  The fact that there would actually be severe consequences to their actions, floats obliviously through their brains.  Perceived as innocent nothings, low on their gage of importance. 

Sharon Montgomery a safety advocate interviewed on The Newsroom indicates how serious and ever increasing the situation of cell phone and text messaging use while driving has become.  Presently there are only five states in the country that have restricted cell use and one restricting text messaging.  In the State of Illinois the only place where restrictions are in force is in the City of Chicago.

The question arises: As adults do we need to be forced into restrictive practices? . . . Apparently with our precious children, yes, we do.  Man has to find the happy medium between expediency and common sense so that anyone of us is not the next victim.  Maybe like the issue of seat belts, this too, will require a mandated law unless man can better monitor himself.

If we refuse to let our common sense guide us - what good is it?  Do we as a society wait for that knock at the door, opening it to a sinking feeling down to the pit of our stomach - the palpitation of a pounding heart - the outcry of a loving mother, when she sees the vision of two men in uniform, with badge numbers and holstered billy clubs, officers of peace now unwanted bearers?  No officer wants to be at that door for you to open, but it is part of their job to not only protect, but to bear the ugly burden of notifying a parent of the loss of a precious child.

Is your life worth losing over a few minutes of delay to do something"  Is it worth it to continue to breath and enjoy all that life has to offer, by pulling over for a few minutes to answer a cell phone or text a message?

What seems to be missing in the selective evaluation by individuals of why accidents and deaths happen is: The perception that one can do more than one thing at a time while driving.  On the road the pressure mounts, distractions occur, delays and setbacks affect our psyche.  It only takes "one second" in time, - to kill you or mangle your body forever and tear a family apart.  Are you willing to take that chance?  For just a few minutes of gain?  If you are ask yourself why?

How sharp or stupid can a driver be?  -- As Forrest played by Tom Hanks in the movie, Forrest Gump says: "Stupid is what stupid does."

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About the Author:  To review Author profile, writing background, and thought provoking articles by CeCe Day Hill visit: www.janedoechronicles.typepad.com

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                                           CeCe Day Hill  Copyright (c) 2008
                                    Jane Doe Chronicles - All Rights Reserved
                       349 West Circle Dr., New Lenox, IL 60451 - 1.815.485.4871

                                       Email:  janedoechronicles@comcast.net