Bud’s Bed Stories

 

Short Stories about Dad's "Bud's" Bed 

DAD’s BED

THE DAY BEFORE

THE MIRACLE BED

THE BED GIFT FROM DAD

WRITING BRICK BY BRICK IN DAD'S BED

WRITING DEAR ELEANOR IN DAD’S BED

THE COLOR OF GOD

DAD’s BED

 

I don’t remember exactly when Dad made the bed, between 1991 and 1993, but I remember him talking about making it. I was living in Rochester NY. He told me over the phone he made a replica of the bed he had as a child living on the farm. My father was eleven years old when he visited the farm of his neighbor’s relative, John L. Jones in Urbana, Ohio during the Great Depression in 1933. Dad said, when they sat down to eat at the table, he had never seen so much food before. When the summer ended and it was time to return home to Springfield, Ohio, Dad asked if he could stay. John L agreed and built him a bed. Dad said, he had never had his own bed before.

John L. made him a bed out of split logs with pegs on the footboard to hang his clothes. I could hear the pride in his voice as he told me about his first bed. He didn’t use any glowing words, just sort of matter of fact, but it was where he placed his pauses and accents as he spoke that told me his heart, the “heart behind the facts,” as my old professor Howard Lester used to tell me about my script writing. The heart behind the facts was Dad telling me how special the bed was for him, the actions of John L. to make him a bed. And now in his early 70’s, Daddy was reliving that tender memory, some 60-years later as he told me about his latest project.

Made with Love

When I came to Cleveland and saw the bed a few months later, it was nice, nothing fancy. The wood was a light color, maybe maple (Maple Heights, my parents’ suburb where I grew up, has a ton of maple trees). It was a queen size bed with a large flat wooden headboard, like a kitchen sink’s splashboard. The headboard was made from two 12” wide wooden slates, laid together like flooring forming a backboard with the rough part of the wood exposed. You could run your fingers over the backboard and feel the smooth raised knots in the wood, like reading brail. Affixed on top of the backboard was a long split log, one end curved and smooth and the other end chiseled, forming a wedge shape. The difference between the two ends made it unique, asymmetrical, more aesthetically appealing. The top split log was sanded, smooth and made from the same light color wood.

The foot board at the end of the bed had the same design, two backboards laid next to each other like floor slates, with a running board like split log over the top, but this log was symmetrical, smoothed and rounded from end to end, giving the foot board a nice curve shape like a sleigh bed. And affixed on the other side of the top of the footboard were pegs, four wooden pegs for hanging clothes. The wood was not polished; it kept is natural rustic appeal. Dad wanted to wear it out naturally by the oils and friction from our hands, from touching it and using the bed over the years. He was so proud of how it came out, how it reminded him of his first bed in John L’s attic in the 1930’s.

The Bed’s Room

What surprised me the most, was that the bed was setup in the extra bedroom, Shelly’s old room which originally was John’s room when he was kid, the bedroom next to my parent’s room. I thought he made the bed to replace my parent’s bed, that it would be in their bedroom. I wondered why he made the bed in a separate bedroom. Were he and Mom not sleeping together anymore? Was something wrong in paradise? The bedroom was not only filled with his new bed, but he had a radio in there, a nightstand, and some of his clothes were hanging in the closet. Well, I’ve come to learn that it’s not unusual for men to gravitate towards having their own room or rooms. Perhaps it begins as a “man-cave,” a place where the man of the house can go and be alone, have his own stuff, such as big screen TV, smoke, do crafts or work on stuff or entertain his friends. For most men it may be the garage, basement, den, or the extra bathroom. Men claiming a separate room doesn’t mean they don’t want to sleep with their wives, partners, anymore, it just means they want their own space. Perhaps men are more territorial, studies have suggested this.

Sleeping in the Bed’s Room

I spent many a visit talking and laughing in my father’s room as he would stretch out on his bed and tell me stories about his life or asked for updates on mine. Whenever I visited, I always slept in Dad’s bed. It was expected. He would sleep in his “other bedroom,” my parent’s bedroom with Mom. I recall when I came to visit with Aaron when he was a toddler, and we slept together in Dad’s bed. After we returned home, his babysitter Brenda told me how much Aaron was thrilled to have traveled alone with me, and his biggest joy was sleeping together in “Papa’s bed.” Aaron didn’t tell me, I didn’t know how much he enjoyed our trip, but that was the first thing he told Brenda when I went to work on Monday after our weekend visit.

I remember Dad bringing me a cup of coffee, more milk then coffee, and a biscuit or piece of toast. I usually slept in whenever I drove to Cleveland from Rochester with the kids, about a 4.5 hour drive. The kids would wake up, eat breakfast, relax, and play around the house. It was like an adventure because Mom and Dad had interesting things, like “Papa’s” work area in the basement where you could make stuff out of wood blocks and drink chocolate milk, a treat Dad always got for them, and Mom would make pancakes. Years later Dad started cooking more, and he would try his hand at making biscuits. It was an iterative process, but they got better.

Sometimes I would wake up in Dad’s bed to the sound of the kids laughing and talking with Mom downstairs having morning Bible study, and next to the bed would be coffee in a cup and saucer with a small, buttered biscuit. Sometimes Dad would be at the door after hearing me stir or standing at the foot of my bed grinning, as if he knew the aroma of the coffee and biscuit would wake me up. His smile was infectious. “Good morning, George,” he would say beaming. “I made biscuits,” and he would glance at the side table with his prize biscuit and coffee. Maybe this was batch number 11 over the past two weeks of perfecting his biscuit making. My mother had been making very good biscuits for years. He may have asked her once how to make them, but now this was his project, he wanted to get them right his way, and asking Mom for advice was out of the question. So, when he got it right, baked a good batch, he couldn’t wait for us to try them.

I chuckled, as I stretched and sat up in bed, sensing his excitement and joy that the kids and I were there, and that I had a good night sleep in his bed. I sat, up pulled the cup and saucer to my lap and bit into his warm buttery biscuit. And it was good. It was moist, tasty and flaky. “It’s good Dad. What did you do differently this time?” Now he would move closer, having allowed me to wake up and try his offering, was a cue to talk, George was awake now, and we could talk. “Oh, I used more baking powder,” or he would say, “Butter milk; I used butter milk this time.” Dad was a hoot. And anyone who slept over would sleep in Dad’s room in his bed.

Dad’s bed was special; in ways I would come to realize years later.

-o-

THE DAY BEFORE

 

It was late, around 2:30AM November 1, 2006. Jose was massaging my feet and legs as we sat on the veranda of our suite. The Moon painted parts of the ocean with light under the black sky, and the fresh breeze cooled our skin as our ship parted the waters of the Mexican riviera like shears cutting a bolt of fabric. We had been dancing at the ship’s Halloween Party and big band performances. I wore my Stuart Weitzman “hot” red pumps, and my legs and feet were sore. I was very tired and began to doze as José and I sat on the veranda with my feet in his hands. My dad’s voice came to me, and I could see his face in front of me, high and to the right. He said, “Now ya’ll go ahead and do this, take care of this little piece and get it out of the way.” –meaning, go ahead and get married now and get it out of the way –"I know you two want to do a lot of other things, but take care of this, first.”

The Vision

I woke up and told Jose about my dream, but it wasn’t really a dream, because I didn’t feel like I was asleep, only relaxed and dozing a bit. But I “awoke” from whatever state I was in with a clear memory of what I just experienced. I didn’t know why I had the vision. I knew Jose wanted to marry me. He had asked me about a year earlier. I said, yes, but then got cold feet and said we should wait until my youngest child, Ana, graduated from high school, which she did, and we took her to Kent State University in August, but I was still not ready.

Dad’s Request

My parents loved Jose and wanted to see us together. My father referred to us as “the kids;” although, I was 42 and Jose 58. During one of our visits before Dad became sick, my father insisted Jose and I sleep together in his bed, the one he made. Dad said to Jose, “I want you to sleep with the daughter I made, in the bed I made, in the house I built.” I was shocked. Jose had always slept on the couch or at Lynda’s house down the street whenever we visited because we weren’t married. Mom said she didn’t want Jose going to Lynda’s or sleeping on a couch anymore. She felt bad, that it was too disruptive or uncomfortable for him. And so, Dad’s room became our room whenever we visited.

 Perhaps it was after Jose personally asked my parents for my “hand in marriage” and they saw the loving person he was, and they wanted us to have their full blessing, or perhaps my father had a premonition that he may not be here to see us tie the knot and wanted us to know he approved. Well, I was still hesitant. My father told me, “If you don’t marry the man I will!” Once again Daddy was funny, seriously funny.

Dad’s Last Request

The 2:30am vision from Dad was surprising, but his message wasn’t; however, I was surprised to experience his message in a vision, in the middle of the ocean, in the Mexican Riviera. Jose and I went to bed in our cabin. Later that morning, around 8:30am, my cell phone rang, unusual to have cell service at sea at that time. It was my nephew, Eric calling from Cleveland –

Hello?

Hey George. This is Eric… Papa is gone…. Passed around 5:30am.

 

We disembarked in Fort Lauderdale from The Jazz Cruise, and Jose and I made it back to Cleveland for Dad’s funeral.

The Funeral

Most of it is a blur. I remember riding in the limousine to the service at my hometown church, Antioch Baptist Church, lining up with my family to enter. Seeing my friend Gisele dressed in white who greeted me warmly. I didn’t view his body. I didn’t want to see him like that. I didn’t want his remains to be my last image of him.

I remember my childhood friend Vonda and her sisters there, stepping out of the aisle and hugging me. I remember adults and children crying. I remember Rev. Dr. Marvin McMickle doing the eulogy. I remember being at the grave site, standing on the lumpy grass surrounded by people, but only seeing my cousin George. He was standing near me; his presence was comforting. And I remember Jose by my side the entire time, from lining up to enter the church, sitting next to me and somehow getting me to and fro.

The Revelation

I don’t remember anything else about my father’s funeral, which is unusual for me, I take in details and then write about my experiences and what I felt, smelled, and saw. But on the ride back in the limo, it came to me that Dad’s time of death, 5:30am on the East coast, and my vision of him, 2:30am on the West coast, were the same time, and as Daddy was transitioning from his earthly body to Heaven, he stopped to see me, to tell me don’t be afraid to marry Jose. Wow! At that very moment, I turned to Jose and told him I was ready to get married. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I asked Mom if we could get married on their wedding day, May 26, to honor their love and their love and support for Jose and my relationship. My mother said, “Yes.”

-o-

THE MIRACLE BED

 

The Miracle bed is where I awake from with fresh ideas to start my day. It could be a tough film script I’m struggling to write, and I go to sleep in the bed (or pass out exhausted, anguished, from fear of missing my production deadline and holding up the projects), and I awake with a breakthrough idea. Is it the bed, or is it the restful sleep? What if it’s the bed? Our miracle bed is my father’s bed, the bed he made when he was in his 70’s; a replica of the bed John L. made for him when he was 11 years old living on John L.’s farm.

 

We all have some type of miracle bed. It’s our bed, sleeping mat or rug. It’s where we lay our heads when our bodies need rest, where we fall asleep. Perhaps that’s where the idea of the magic flying carpet came from; the writer slept on a rug, and received so many wonderful ideas, dreams and breakthrough awarenesses, that they called it a magic carpet. And that carpet could fly! Well, my daddy’s bed has magic, and it can fly too! Ideas and words fly around my head whenever I write from my dad’s bed, whenever I awake from a nap in this bed, or awake in the morning from one of the most beautiful slumbers in his bed. Everyone who comes to my home and stays the night, must sleep in Dad’s miracle bed.

This bed has healing powers. Rub your hands over the split log footboard or headboard and be connected with all those who have come before you, like rubbing the big tree stump at the Apollo Theater in NY. Performers rub the sacred block of wood just before going on stage to increase their chances for audience praise and not “boos.” Rubbing your hand across the bed’s well-worn wood planks can endear you to a larger community of love and heal your soul. And if you can lay across the bed, your whole body can be lifted, cradled, embraced by the healing powers of this bed, your burdens lifted. If you get to sleep in this bed, you will be transported to a place of endless possibilities, but you must come with an open and clean mind.

Cleanse your mind before laying down on your miracle bed or mat. Before entering the room, leave the day’s endless stream of demands outside the door. Take time to transition from work emails, family duties, reading or listening to news reports of exceptionally bad behaviors, from eating too much, and allow those thoughts to pass, to be closed like books in your mind and put them away. Take 10 to 15 minutes to detox by going for a walk, reading a happy book, listening to gentle music, and pray for the answers you seek. Then enter your miracle bedroom.

Our miracle bedroom is the room where we setup Dad’s bed, in our home in Rochester, NY after my father died in 2006. Mom said Dad always wanted Jose and me to have his bed. Many years later we brought it back to Rochester.

-o-

THE BED GIFT FROM DAD

 

JOURNAL MONDAY NOVEMBER 19, 2013

Thank you, God, for a renewed lease on life. Yesterday, Monday 11/18/13 at 4:40am could have been the end of my life. It could have been the end of my abilities that I had, e.g., walking, seeing, talking, thinking, looking beautiful; my face could have been cut up, broken, ripped off. All the glass was at face level. My car could have veered off the road and hit trees, a ditch, or a fell in a whole below the road. José could have struck my car with the 8ft long U-Haul truck he was driving. José could have been slammed into by the 12 wheel semi-truck traveling close behind him. We all could have crashed into each other like a chain reaction and plunged off the road into the dark below. BUT that didn’t happen…

 

The Accident

My mother, age 77, moved from our family home, a 2-story brick house my father built in Maple Heights, Ohio around 1964, to a nearby independent living apartment for seniors in November 2013.  A few weeks before her move, Jose and I traveled to Cleveland to pick up Dad’s bed.

It was around 4:22am when I got into our Camry, and José in the U-Haul truck. I ran back into the Hampton Inn and grabbed two handfuls of mints from their display counter bowl. The lobby was empty, except for the desk person who just smiled. It was early. I ran over to the truck and handed José his mints and then got into my car. I said a quick prayer for traveling mercies, checked the food bag José gave me from the hotel, an apple, breakfast bar, and muffin, nothing I could eat except the apple maybe (I have a gluten intolerance), and backed out. José followed me in the truck with Dad’s bed securely packed inside.

The sky was black, there was no sign of the rising sun, it was still sleeping. We got onto Interstate 90 East towards Erie. We were just before the Ashtabula exit. I think the sign said Ashtabula 9 miles. I noticed how much easier it was to see the road compared to last night. When we left Mother’s house last night the rain and blowing winds on I-90 made it difficult to see the road and maintain a steady speed. The reflectors from the road construction were highly visible casting a halo type glow that was magnified by the rain and my car’s headlights. I had a hard time seeing the road lane markings and I couldn’t see too far ahead. I discovered later this was the beginning of my eyesight changing, night driving would become a thing of the past until I was able to get glare resistant glasses and a new lens prescription, a common occurrence for people approaching 50. 

We pulled over and I told José I was having trouble seeing. He suggested we spend the night at a hotel and continue driving in the morning. I was so relieved to hear him say that. We agreed to leave by 4:30AM to make his 8AM meeting. My meetings were later in the day.

Now at just past 4 AM the next day, the rain had stopped, the road was dry and clear; although, it was still dark. I set the cruise control to 70 mph but then hit my brake to slow down a little. Normally I traveled at 72 on a 65mph highway, just a bit above the limit but not too far to gain the attention of a police officer trying to keep us safe, but it was dark and I didn’t feel comfortable at 70 or 72. Around 68mph felt better to me. I remember looking up into my rear view mirror to gage how fast José was driving. Does he want to go faster, I thought. Did I put us back too far in time by suggesting we spend the night and head out in the morning? Will he make his 8am meeting on time? This is what was on my mind. I noticed José wasn’t right on top of my car, he was back a bit, and I could see the lights of a semi-truck behind him. I gathered that my speed was fine, he wasn’t edging me to go faster. So, I concentrated on the road and traveling at 68, and that’s when I saw it.

Suddenly my lights shown on a deer standing almost in the road, in the left lane or edge of the median. I was in the right lane. The deer took off running down the road in the direction I was going but coming nearer to my lane. I honked trying to scare it. I stayed in the right lane and hugged the right edge of the road. The deer kept coming. I tried to brake but before I knew it, the deer slammed into my car, up against the driver side, its head on my windshield, I could see its eye looking at me.

The impact was loud but mixed with the tinkling sound of glass, like a glass blowout. I felt pelted by tiny balls. I gripped the steering wheel tighter. I thought the impact was going to send my car to the right, maybe tip it over towards the right side of the road and into or down to whatever was over there.

As soon as the impact happened it was also over. The deer bounced off my wind shield, and I saw it run away down the road in the front of my car. My hands were still gripping the steering wheel as my car sort of drifted to the right shoulder and slowed down. I don’t remember if I looked in my mirror for José. It all seemed like slow motion then. My car rolled to a stop. I think I did look in the rearview mirror and saw the truck behind me. I remember seeing the semi-truck roar by. I was hoping it would stop and help me, but maybe the driver didn’t see what just happened, the semi-truck just rolled on by. Then I looked around and saw all the glass. I was cold. My side window was GONE.

Chards of glass were everywhere, all over me. My hand was bleeding; my left hand was resting on my lap and there were spots of blood and one dime size spot that was gushing out like a tiny fountain. I touched my face and felt pieces of glass, small chards of glass on my skin. I wondered if my face was cut up, covered with glass. I glanced up to look at my face in the mirror. To my relief, my face looked normal, my skin that is. My eyes were wider and scared looking. Then I began to shake, my entire body, like a tremor, slowly at first then it building to a crescendo. MY cell phone rang. It was José.

I could barely tap it, slide the bar to answer it. I couldn’t hold it, so I dropped it on my lap, and I tried to form words of help loud enough for him to hear me. Maybe he didn’t know what happened to me. I was expecting him run to my car, not call me from the truck. Then he appeared standing next to my driver’s side door. He was wearing all black and it was dark outside. I was afraid he would get hit; I told him to get into the passenger seat. He walked around the car and got in. I think he pushed my food back and onto the floor from the seat, got in and sat down.

The first thing I remember him saying is “Close your window it’s cold.” I replied but could barely get the words out, “It’s gone.” Then it hit him, I think. He looked around and saw glass everywhere. He saw he shattered windshield with the massive spider web type pattern of the left side of the windshield caused by the dear’s head. There was a spot of blood the size of a half dollar on the edge of the windshield.

I finally stopped shaking and told José what happened. He told me he saw the deer but didn’t know I hit it. He said my car didn’t waiver more than three feet left or right. I think he gave me a napkin for my bleeding hand and he called 911.

The Rescue

José grabbed my black leather coat from the back and put it around me. He had been holding my hand, so I remember pulling my right hand out from under my coat so I could continue holding his hand as we waited for the police and ambulance. I remember when he called 911, he got out of the car to find the mile marker. He had to walk along the road. I prayed again asking God to protect him from being hit by a car. It was pitch black. When José got into the car initially, I turned on the overhead light. Now I was glad it was on, hoping other cars would see us. I had forgotten my car was still running and the lights were on. José found the mile marker, #286, and got back in the car.

I remember the ambulance backing up in front of me. The paramedic getting out from the right or maybe it was from the rear, and walking towards me. The person was small; I wondered if it was a woman. When the medic walked to my driver’s window and bent down to talk to me, I could see it was a woman. I told her, “Be careful they can’t see you out here.” I was concerned she would get hit.  She told me the trooper or fire truck was here and sort of pointed with her head towards vehicles behind me that were kind of flanking her, the edge of the road where we were parked (the U-Haul and my car). She looked at all the glass around me. José was sitting next to me. She didn’t think I could get out through my door without getting cut, but I could. She walked me into the ambulance. Her name was Erin. We were in Kingsville, Ohio.

Erin put on her gloves and wiped my hand with a gauze pad and removed the glass. She put a band aid on my cuts. She wiped the glass chards from my face and tried to pick out the glass from my hair but couldn’t get it all. Erin wiped my pants, knit leggings, trying to remove the glass but it was too much. José brought me my weekend bag, and I changed by pants while Erin held up a white sheet over the back door windows. We laughed a little while I changed. I had to remove my tennis shoes and socks and shake out the glass. Her partner came in and took my information. I made a joke about trying out my husband’s name, and he laughed (my new married name, “DaCosta” was always a transition for me, having changed my name before and now with children under my former married name, I wasn’t so comfortable changing it again). Erin told me they just got the call at 4:50am. Her shift starts at 5am and she was still getting ready for work, that’s why her hair was wet.

Erin and her partner told me most deer accidents are much worse. The windshield falls into the driver, the air bags deploy, she said it’s like hitting your face on something at 60mph. “Most women who are small get injured in their face and shoulders where most men take it in the chest, and with all that glass…” It could have really been much worse, or drivers turn and run their cars off the road or into other cars causing more damage.” She said I was fortunate. I told her I was blessed, about how I prayed before we left. I asked her if she prayed. She said, “sometimes.”

A Life Spared, A Life Taken

The tow truck came. Erin’s partner said I should take my husband to breakfast because he was working so hard moving all my things from the car to the U-Haul. I said he could have whatever he wanted. Erin’s partner walked me back to my car and that’s when I saw the outside damage. I knew the windshield was shattered and the side window gone, but I didn’t know the driver’s side dents went as far back to the backseat door. There were even hairs sticking up from the handle. The side mirror was gone. They suspected adrenaline kicked in and the deer ran off but died due to internal injuries.

I shook the state trooper’s hand and got into the U-Haul with José. We followed the tow truck to his garage, my severely damaged Camry on its tow bed. I took some pictures of the car, and José and I went to breakfast at the TA Travel Center. We celebrated God’s grace!

We called Mama. It was now 6:16am. We told her what happened. We chatted with a truck driver at another table, and he told us about living in China with his Chinese wife and how he was driving in the states until January to make some money. He was going back to China to start a turkey distribution business. He said they didn’t have turkeys in China. He was going to have them raised in China and he would handle the distribution. Interesting man.

Well, we thanked God for our delivery and got back on the road. Now the sun had risen. All was clear. We noticed a dead deer in the grass just beyond the right shoulder, as we passed the accident area, at mile marker #288.

The Bed’s New Home

We set the bed up in the attic of our house in Corn Hill, an 1837 built brownstone in Rochester’s historic 3rd Ward and later Corn Hill area. The house also had a hidden space in the cellar used as part of The Underground Railroad. The bed became my go to spot for writing. When I began writing my Thesis, that’s when I discovered more of God’s miracles associated with writing in Dad’s bed. It seemed I naturally gravitated to Dad’s bed whenever my writing was stuck.

-o-

WRITING BRICK BY BRICK FILM SCRIPT IN DAD'S BED

 

ELZIE, ANNA and JOHN LEGEND SCENE

As a little girl, I remember visiting Grandpa Elzie and “Aunt Ann,” that’s what my sister Shelly and I called her, and I didn’t know Aunt Ann was white, nor did I take notice of calling her “Aunt” and not “Grandma.”  I don’t remember much else besides, climbing the long stairs to their apartment with them waiting at the top landing whenever we visited after church with my mother, and sitting in their kitchen playing with Aunt Ann’s cats as they went in and out of the open fire escape window.  Aunt Ann was nice to my sister and me.

About 40 years later, I helped my mother pack her household belongings for her move, and I discovered my grandfather Elzie’s obituary in my father’s basement workshop.   Elzie and Anna were married.  This discovery opened my eyes more to the “heart behind the facts” about my grandfather.  This wasn’t just an illicit affair that caused a riot; it was a love story, just like my parents, Buddy and Eleanor, had a love story unfolding on my pages.  When I wrote the obligatory scene about Buddy and Elzie talking about the events that separated them in my feature film script, I was sitting on my father’s bed in my attic-writing-lodge in our Rochester, NY home.

It was a late Sunday night in 2014, and my radio was tuned to WDKX.  The song “All of Me,” written by John Legend and Toby Gad and performed by Legend on his 2013 album “Love in the Future,” began to play.  John Legend, whose real name is John Stephens, is a Grammy Award singer and composer from Springfield, Ohio.  How appropriate that a love song by a Springfielder would be played while I wrote a scene about other Springfielders.  Some of the lyrics are:

 

[Pre-Chorus:]

My head's under water

But I'm breathing fine

You're crazy and I'm out of my mind

[Chorus:]

'Cause all of me

Loves all of you

Love your curves and all your edges

All your perfect imperfections

Give your all to me

I'll give my all to you

You're my end and my beginning

Even when I loose I'm winning

'Cause I give you all of me

And you give me all of you, oh oh.

 

The song, “All of Me,” reminded me of my love for my husband Jose.  The song made a connection with my deepest feelings, like a person reaching inside, embracing my spirit, and together dancing the dance of love.  It’s one of my favorite songs.  Suddenly, I realized this may be what Elzie and Anna felt for each other, and what Buddy and Eleanor felt.  Experiencing great adversity together can create a deep love between two people that forever binds them together and helps them weather life’s storms, like a ship in a storm securely anchored to the bottom of the ocean.  I got it!  I understood my grandfather’s actions, I found his heart behind the facts, and I knew his voice for my story.  I was able to see them crawling into their respective beds with the women they loved, surrounded by the environments they’ve chosen –Elzie sleeping with Anna in a rented room, and Buddy lying next to Eleanor with their son Lee sleeping on his chest after a long day’s work building their house.

-o-

WRITING DEAR ELEANOR IN DAD’S BED

 

When I was rewriting parts of “Brick by Brick” the feature script into what became Dear Eleanor, I was writing in Dad’s bed. This time we were living in Chili, NY, and Dad’s bed was setup in the second floor bedroom of our townhouse. I was less than six weeks out from my film production deadline, and I was struggling to finish the script. I kept trying to change it. The setting was 1941 and 1942 Ohio, but if I made the setting more modern, at least set in the 1970’s, perhaps I could find the right props and shooting location to meet my deadline. I did not have any of the critical components, such as 1941 Tuskegee Airmen’s airplanes or airplane hangar, or a 1941 sewing machine or typewriter. I was struggling and “life was life’n,” as my friend Marilyn Grant says, and the “Lord was Lord’n,” as my new-son Reggie says. I expressed these moments in my journals, and I’m letting my journal entries of those times tell the story of writing Dear Eleanor in Dad’s bed.

 

JOURNAL MAY 15, 2021: PRAYER FOR CHUCK AND HELP

Thank you, Lord, for this beautiful day! Thank you for Reggie’s love and this journal book he gave me from his White House visit and interviews last year. Now he’s interviewing for another position at the White House! In the name of Jesus, please Love, allow him to succeed in this position with your blessings, prosperity, and love!

Please comfort Chuck, please heal his body and his mind, In the name of Jesus. But I want the best for him God, to live without pain, to live in peace and comfort like my Mom. Thank you for her life. Can we visit her tonight and tomorrow?

Please guide my writing. Please show me which to keep and which to change. Amen. Please continue to bless my children, husband, mother, siblings, and their families, cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends. Bless all my relationships. Please send help for what is needed to honor my mother and father, to love and serve you. Please take my work and use it to build your kingdom of Love on Earth! In Jesus’ name I ask these prayers.

Amen. Ashé.

 

JOURNAL 6/2/21: WRITING DEAR ELEANOR AND THE GOLDEN HOUR PRAYERS

The deer are outside grazing in the field behind my townhome. About four of them, standing golden brown against the lush green low cut grass. Lately, the field has been getting cut. The grass is low, no more high weeds to hide the deer’s lower bodies, now I can even see their hoofs. The birds sing sweetly in the trees. One is perched upon the highest branch of the young weed tree. Two weeks ago, that tree was barren. Now it’s adorned like a Christmas tree, full of green leafy branches, nice and plump like a skinny kid who grew up into an obese adult. The bird, a small sparrow perhaps, belts out a tune for all to hear, then flies away to a lower bush nearby. The hum of the traffic is heard in the distance like crashing waves on a shoreline. The beeping sound of a truck backing up interrupts. The construction work must be underway next door.

Our townhome complex owner is building Phase III, a multiuse set of buildings, residential on top and commercial businesses below. Phase III sits between our townhomes, which are Phases I and II, and our beloved Wegmans grocery store. Actually, being within walking distance of Wegmans has been one of the perks living here. I’ve always lived 15 minutes driving distance away from Wegmans, Rochester’s premium produce and service store. There’s nothing else like Wegmans for selection, quality, service, and price as a single package. They’re “Tops.” But what does that say about living here? Is Wegmans the only perk, the only highlight? Of course I love my neighbors, they’re tops too! And my backyard view is peaceful and comforting. Home is what you make it, and sometimes I only make it about working and quickly eating, quickly eating because I don’t leave time to cook, to really enjoy cooking anymore, so José does most of it. Having Wegmans nearby is very handy.

I want to make this film, Lord. I want to honor my mother very much. And I feel that my cousin Toni is speaking to me, Anthony “Toni” Spence. I don’t know how he died. I’ll have to find out from Cousin Roy maybe. I called Aunt Stell, Toni’s grandmother, but couldn’t reach her. Perhaps cousin Dee knows, or Donna Sapheria, Stell’s other children. I want to give a voice to Toni too. Please Lord, help me to do this. I have funding and four weeks, exactly 28 days.

 

JOURNAL 6/4/21: JOSÉ’S BIRTHDAY

The first bird chirping of the new day is heard, gentle, like trickling water. The chirps seemed to be testing out the air like a runner warming up their legs by doing a few runs in place. One bird, now two; two different birds with two different calls. One like big droplets of rain, the other like a babbling brook. Dawn light is so special, it illuminates the earth. A light Gray mist covers the dew wet field like heaven, like a layer of heaven is suspended over the land, soon to disappear and absorbed back into the air, rejoining the sky.

Everything in my room looks peaceful, at rest, or in a ghostly state. Nothing is colorful. My colorless room is like a watercolor painting in shades of gray, waiting to be washed with color. All the textures are there –wood, fabric, glass, bamboo, and cotton –just waiting to be brought to life again by light. The break of dawn is a special time. Maybe that's when the Saints are nearest to us. What a lovely transformation from soft, gentle and colorless to brightness, textured, and colorful. And the birds know it, they see it, they feel it too.

Today is José's birthday. His 73rd I believe. What's it like to be past 70? To be young, gifted and 73? Jose has surpassed the years of both his parents. He had to carry the pain alone when Kenyatta had his accident in 2002, I think his parents were gone. Oftentimes we are so inwardly focused we miss connecting with another who's hurting, especially if we only see that person as our strength, our rock. But rocks crack under pressure too.

Yesterday, I surrendered. I gave in, following my inner spirit, against all logic or my mental understandings. I let go of changing the script setting, it will be the way my spirit intended it to be, the story I wrote seven years ago.

Lord, please keep my channel open, both ways: to receive your light, your messages, wisdom, feelings, knowledge, peace, and power, and to pass it through me, to be transformed by me using what you’ve given in me, to be released into the world, to others, the love in all I produce! Amen! Ashé!

 

JOURNAL 6/5/21: DISCOVERING THE WAR PLANE MUSEUM

I prayed for everything I needed… the film project deadline is quickly approaching. I’ve been literally sick about it with worry. But I’ve been able to let go of fear of failure, accept the best outcome possible, and realize, I am a channel, the project belongs to God. I will continue to work, to do my part, and let God do the rest. Aisha reminded me of this when she and Rudra stopped by on Memorial Day and she saw my pain; and so, I pressed on.

The Blessings

Yesterday, June 4, was José’s birthday! Oh, how I love my baby boy! It was a glorious day, beautiful weather! I let him sleep while I wrote during the 4AM hour. I dashed to the grocery store, Wegmans, at 7AM to pick up bacon for his breakfast of pancakes and eggs and his favorite smoother – and I needed a card and flowers. I bought him a gorgeous orange burst plant. While he was in the bathroom, I setup his bed for breakfast, placing the flowers and card on his breakfast bed tray. After he let me tuck him back in bed, I streamed Al Jarreau’s greatest hits from my phone to a tiny speaker on his tray. He took birthday calls and texts while I prepared his meal, our birthday tradition that I began with my children. He slept again after eating. I went back upstairs to write.

Donna from the National War Plane Museum in Geneseo, NY returned my call. We made connections to RIT and Chuck, Charles Price, my godfather and a Tuskegee Airman who passed unexpectedly two weeks ago. I told her we were coming out there today for a tour, “Lovely,” she replied. José insisted we do the tour and not go hiking at Letchworth Park for his birthday, well, the tour was a lot of walking anyway.

Treasure Trove

Wow! Wow! Wow! It was a treasure trove of EVERYTHING WE NEEDED for our film DEAR ELEANOR! Meeting Donna and Austin and the other two gentlemen who worked there was a blessing! They have 1940’s planes, training and commercial and combat planes, a large hangar, plane engines and parts, 1940’s wardrobe, uniforms, a briefing room, and several 1941 domestic rooms: living room, kitchen, laundry room, AND a 1940’s sewing machine and typewriter! And Chuck’s picture was prominently hanging in their Tuskegee Airman exhibit! I didn’t know Chuck knew about this place and was giving talks to kids. My God, our Saints, the Heavens! Love me. Provide for me! Forgive me! My weaknesses give more room for God’s love to fill! THANK YOU, GOD!

-o-

THE COLOR OF GOD

 

I am in love – I am in love with God, my creator, my protector, my loving parent/sister/brother/friend! I am in a love relationship with God. All God asks is for me to be open to receive God’s love, and to “do” with it.

I am in a love relationship with God. God is so loving towards me. God makes possible all things my true heart desires. When I ask God for my needs, God always provides. If I were to describe God as a man, I would say, he listens to me, he cares about me, and will bring things to me that I need, it could be people to help me with a project, resources like money, and all things needed when no one else can or believes it can be done. He is a healer too! Whenever I am sick, he heals my body. He’s a comforter too, Whenever I am scared, he sends José, my mom, my friends, my children, my siblings, Aisha. When I’m confused and can’t see my way, He shines a light, he sends a guide for me. He loves me and mine. He does these things for my children too!

He loves me so much, he wanted me to be happy and not physically alone – so he brought me a companion – José! A wonderfully loving companion who loves me too! And God loves me so much he increased my territory! He grew my family more than tenfold. I have over 10 members - 11 children and more we call our children too! He won’t let me want in vain. He hears my petitions. And he prunes me like a magnificent fruit tree. My branches are strong and growing stronger before growing longer. My fruit is sweet and good. Yeah, though I walk at times through the shadow of death, He guides me. He gives me light along a path; he teaches me to rest and be peaceful. He gives me still waters and oceans of blue to bring me back to center balance. His staff directs me and my purpose.

At times, he gives me glimpses of the road ahead, of the shadow of the mountain top ahead. But I press on. Why? Because, like homing pigeons or leatherback turtles, I know where I’m headed. I have a dream, a strong desire to go this way! To tell, to shine, to splash across the empty spaces between us, between me and others, and to fill those spaces with COLOR! The kind of COLOR that makes a baby smile, that makes a cat rub your leg, that makes a dog play with you, that makes school boys and school girls giggle, that makes an old woman laugh out loud, that makes a dolphin follow you, that makes a lone bird on top of a tree sing, that makes you stop and watch the sunset, that makes you mesmerized as you watch and feel the sunrise. And it’s the look shared between mother and son when he returns home after a long trip. And it’s the sound between your voices; the first time you hear your mother’s voice over the phone when you call her because something is wrong. And it’s the feel of your lover’s hand when they hold yours. It’s shared in the eyes, ears, hands, and nose. The COLOR is the offspring of my love relationship with God! Amen. Ashé.

 

What’s your Bud’s Bed Story?