Colors of Kindness
Pat McGrath Avery
ISBN: 978-1-937958-00-8
Cover Design: Joyce Faulkner
Published by River Road Press for Smashwords
Copyright: 2012 Pat McGrath-Avery
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Introduction
Life is composed of vignettes, small or large happenings that taken together shape who we are and who we become.
Have you ever defined the color of life? Is your life filled with rainbows or gray skies? Most likely it’s a mosaic made up of a multitude of colors.
Have you ever tried to color life’s little vignettes? What color would be a kind act, a grateful heart, a passion for life, the righting of a wrong or a memory?
If life were a painting, each human interaction would brush a dab of color on the canvas of your heart. Does an act that touches your heart splash on more and brighter colors? Only when you stand back would you be able to observe the color scheme.
A heart filled with human interaction will be a heart of many colors. As life moves forward, each person has opportunities to brighten their own lives and the lives of others.
When something or someone leaves a mark on my heart, I like to write it in story form. It helps me to take it apart and re-examine it. The people in these stories have touched my life. All of the following stories are about people or stories that have inspired me or given me cause to ponder life’s meaning.
I have been touched by so many acts of kindness and listened to the similar experiences of others. Amid all the negatives in our world, I believe that the core of the human heart seeks to give and receive kindness.
My hope is that these seven stories will make you search for the small moments that have inspired you.
There’s not a story here that would make the evening news. Our day-to-day lives are typically not the stuff that entertains audiences. They are, however, the brush strokes that color our lives.
Table of Contents
The Thanksgiving Call
Butter and Gems
A Gift of Memories
Learning Gratitude
The Prayer
In Search of Beauty
Erasing the Past
We wildly underestimate the power of the tiniest personal touch of kindness.
Anonymous
The Thanksgiving Call
“Is this Pat McGrath Avery?”
“Yes, it is,” I answered his opening question. Turkey time had passed and, replete from too much food, we lounged around the house. I had even thought about not answering my phone.
“I just wanted to tell you I’m going to read the Sunchon Tunnel Massacre Survivors,” he said. “I bought it several years ago when the guys were all here – at Celebration City (in Branson, Missouri). When was that, by the way?”
“2007,” I answered.
“That long? Well, I opened the book and found your phone number in the front. I wanted to tell you… I’m 93 and I don’t get out much anymore,” he continued. “I use a walker and watch a lot of TV but I thought you’d want to know I’m reading your book again.”
“Thank you for telling me. Are you a veteran?”
“World War II, ma’am. I was in World War II,” he paused. “I’m sorry to pull you away from your family but I thought you’d want to know. It’s a great story.”
“Do you have a story about your service,” I asked.
“Yes, but I don’t want to pull you away from your family today.”
“No problem. Will you tell me your story sometime?” I encouraged him.
“Yes, but for now, I want to read your book again. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Thank you so much. Will you give me your name and may I call you back sometime?”
“Sure.” His pleasure at connecting with me came through voice.
He did give his name and I will ask to hear his story about his World War II service.
Aside from that, he brought out a renewed sense of gratitude. I thanked him for his call and for his service. He gave me a Thanksgiving gift that touched my heart. He simply wanted me to know that he appreciated the story that Joyce and I told in the Sunchon Tunnel Massacre Survivors.
What writer can ask for more?
That best portion of a good man's life; his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
William Wordsworth
Let each man exercise the art he knows.
Aristophanes
Butter and Gems
“I have to go on a “low-iodine” diet for three weeks before my radiation treatment,” I told my brother Jim.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can’t eat anything I like.”
“Such as?”
“Butter, shrimp, sea salt, eggs, breads, salad dressings. If I like it, I can’t eat it.”
“All of those things contain iodine?” Jim’s incredulity would have made me laugh at any other time. Today it was too close to home.
“Yep, anything from the sea, anything dairy because cows eat grass and the soil contains iodine, commercially prepared foods; like I said - anything I like. There’s an unsalted margarine if we can find it.”
“Not a problem,” he smiled. “Why don’t I cook for you three nights a week and fix enough so you’ll have leftovers.”
“Are you kidding?” I need to tell you that Jim does Julia Child proud in the “It’s all about butter” department. He lavishes his recipes with butter, sea salt, eggs, cheese, marinades, shrimp, Italian sausage and a lot of other now-forbidden things. He loves bread, sauces of all kinds and salad dressings.
“Okay, do you have a list of what you can and can’t eat?”
“Yep, got it off the thyroid cancer website. I’ll bring you a copy.”
“I’m ready to start this week if you are. I can make it work if I plan well.” The challenge lit his eyes.
I couldn’t believe it. My “I-love-to-cook” brother offered to prepare his typical gourmet menus without the stuff that made it gourmet. Although my “diet from hell,” threw my lifestyle out the window, he turned it into a contest of mixing tasty concoctions out of new and bland “allowed” foods.
Bring on the Fleischmann’s Unsalted, Non-dairy Margarine and non-iodized salt. Forget the bread, eggs, sea salt, dressings, sauces and most of the food I ate and the recipes he used every day.
His back-deck herb and vegetable garden produced seasonings that delighted our taste buds; his grill became the center of attention.
“I love the tacos tonight,” I told him. “You didn’t use salt in anything?”
“I bought non-iodized salt. That part was easy. My challenge was finding taco shells that didn’t have salt.”
“What about the salsa?”
“I made it with the new salt. Hey, I heard a new joke today. Wanna hear it?” That started the nightly repartee that entertained us until we left.
I took leftovers and other treats home with me each time. We ate ribs, pesto, chicken salad, tacos and chicken kabobs over couscous.
“Have you missed the bread, shrimp and other stuff? Jim asked at the last meal before my test.
“You bet but you know what? You met the challenge; no, you surpassed it,” I answered.
As I waited in the hospital the next day, I remembered Jim’s smiles and humor. Instead of drudgery and focusing on the things I couldn’t eat, we laughed and focused on the sumptuous dinners he created with all the things I could. I realized if I could make a wish for others on special diets, it would be: If you’re ever faced with a “special-needs” diet, I wish you a gem like Jim.
The past is never dead, it is not even past.
William Faulkner
A Gift of Memories
He sat alone in a booth at McDonald’s, reading the paper and eating his breakfast. A crisp new blue cap with the US Marine Corps logo caught my attention. I knew him and even when I’d lived next door to him, I’d never seen him wear a hat that told the world he was a Marine.
That interested me. Jake is a veteran of World War II. He served in places we all know by name – Guam and Iwo Jima. I knew little beyond that. A couple of years ago I’d asked to interview him about Iwo Jima. After giving much thought to my request, regret tinged his voice when he refused, “No. It’s something I still can’t talk about.”
Today I thought of a question I wanted to ask – not heavy but still related to his wartime experiences. He’d recently lost his wife, Donna, and I didn’t want to dredge up painful memories.
“May I ask you a couple of questions about World War II?” I asked.
With a smile that lit up his face, he said he’d answer a couple of my questions. I wanted to know about his experience with USO Shows – if he’d seen any and what they’d meant to him at the time.
“I saw one show when I was in Guam,” he told me. “It was a lady who sang. I don’t remember her name. But she reminded me of home – made me think of Donna.”
“Were you and Donna married at the time?”
“Yes, we were. Do you want to hear about that?
“Sure,” I smiled back at him.
“We were high school sweethearts.” His bittersweet smile tugged at my heart. “I played football and baseball. She was a year ahead of me and I didn’t know her. I had an appendicitis attack and was rushed to the hospital for surgery. I received so many cards from my classmates.” Another smile. “But one stood out. It was written in red ink – from Donna.”
“When I returned to school, a friend pointed her out to me. I got up, walked over and sat down next to her.” He laughed at the same time tears gathered. “That was the start of something big.”
Graduating in 1944, he and his buddies knew the draft was right around the corner. Jake started college with football and baseball scholarships in place. His friends kept telling him that he needed to enlist in the Marines before he was drafted. Even his mother agreed and signed for him to do so. He and his buddies decided to join the Marines while they still had a choice. After basic training, Jake had a seven-day leave. As he packed to head home – a two-day trip – he received a phone call.
An excited Donna couldn’t wait to see him. “Well, are we going to get married?” she asked. “I talked to your mother and she said it’s fine.”
“Sure,” his answer was immediate and decisive.
“We were married sixty-four years, you know,” he teared up again.
“As soon as I reported back for duty, we shipped to Guam. It wasn’t too bad there except when someone was shooting at us,” he reminisced. “But I wanted to be at home. When I saw the USO Show it reminded me of Donna.”
He told me about a couple of incidents in Guam, saying that funny things happened even in the midst of the war. He skipped over Iwo Jima as I expected him to. “I still can’t think about it, buddies dying all around me.”
After the war, he returned home, finished college and started his family. His career took him to Nashville and then St. Louis. His retirement brought him and Donna to the Ozarks.
“What about the hat?” I asked.
Another smile. “My son sent it to me and made me promise to wear it. I’d never wear it on my own.”
We laughed and he talked about his family. Then we moved on to Donna’s illness and her last hospital stay. Fresh pain permeated the telling. I wondered if anyone ever recovers from losing someone he spent a lifetime with.
“I haven’t talked this much since Donna,” he offered as wistfulness colored his voice. “You know the two hardest things? Eating alone and evenings alone.”
“I’m so glad you joined me,” he continued.
“I’m going to Florida to my son’s for Thanksgiving,” he told me. I glanced at the Marine hat he wore for a son so far away. His hand touched the bill of the cap. “Christmas I’ll spend here with my daughter and her family,” he finished.
After a few more minutes, I thanked him and said my good-bye.
Our smiles graced ourselves and each other on that morning I’ll not soon forget.
Gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from the soul.
Henry Ward Beecher
Learning Gratitude
April 28, 1945
Dear Stella,
Gertie wiped tears from her eyes as she started the letter. She wished she had a pen. The pencil in her hand brought a wave of shame. How could she even thank Stella properly? Etiquette required a pen to write a letter. But with the pencil in her shaking hand, she continued.
I thank you for that good dinner you sent me. It was a blessing from God.
Pride reared within her. “I’m a good person. I can take care of myself,” she thought. “I’ve always taken care of myself. Lord knows it’s not been easy to be a black woman alone. I worked hard to get an education. I worked hard all my life.” She let the pencil slip out of her hand.
More tears to wipe away, an unexpected sign of weakness. Sometimes she thought it even harder to grow old than to be a black woman. But she could still recognize kindness when she saw it.
Gertie knew Stella slightly. She was the woman with several children, one boy and the rest girls. She was a single mother raising those children. Well, Gertie knew what kind of strength that took. She admired that in any woman.
Stella spoke to her whenever they saw each other. “She’s a kind-hearted woman,” Gertie thought. She accepted the friendliness easily. Some women naturally understood each other, and Stella was one of those women.
This was harder. Pride kept telling her it was charity, but her heart said, “No, it’s kindness.” Yes, she needed help, but she hadn’t asked for it.
It was April and already hot. The war still raged on. Would it never be over? She’d already lost two nephews. She wouldn’t think about that.
Her husband had been gone for years, leaving her to raise their only child, a son she hadn’t seen in several years. She had a grandson in the war, somewhere over there. She couldn’t remember where, but it didn’t really matter. Stella suspected she might never lay eyes on him again. She remembered when he was a little boy – so many memories that sometimes they got all jumbled up in her head. But she couldn’t think about that now. Everything was more immediately personal.
Gratitude for just being alive was her focus today. She’d been so sick and couldn’t do anything for herself. At least she still had her own place. That was good until she was too sick to take care of herself. But she’d get better. She took up her pencil again and wrote:
I was near starvation and thought I had to die. I had food in the house but was too sick to cook it. I have been sick all this year and I’m blind in my right eye.
Would she have died without that meal? Gertie thought it was probably true. She laid down the pencil. The meal was more than just something to build strength and health in her body. It replenished her soul and her heart. She hoped Stella realized that.
A delicious meal like Stella’s can have an immediate effect. She was already feeling better. Warmth filled her on the inside today. It’s funny how cold it can feel on the inside even when it’s hot outside. Maybe the weakness would be swept away by the warmth.
She picked up her pencil again. This time her hand didn’t shake. She signed her name.
Gertie Harris
She hoped Stella read between the lines – that she had given Gertie so much more than just a meal.
Excuse my pencil.
Based on a letter a retired priest found in his mother’s belongings. He had no idea why his mother kept this particular letter. He shared it with his congregation, binding generations with an act of kindness.
I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.
Maya Angelou
The Prayer
“May we say a prayer with you?”
The question startled and dismayed Rebecca. She sat in the quaint little church telling God that she didn’t understand why He let her dad live in so much pain. Am I so emotionally transparent that anyone passing by would notice? Apparently I am, she admitted to herself.
“We don’t want to bother you but…”
“It’s okay,” she replied. A young man and woman with a baby in a stroller stopped next to her. Blankets covered the baby and coats protected them against the cold fall morning. They looked at Rebecca with a kindness that she badly needed. She found no questions, no arrogance nor pity in their expressions. She saw only concern.
Rebecca’s dad had been slowly dying for several years. She couldn’t face the fact that she could do nothing to help him, to make his life easier, or to lessen his misery. That day she felt that God had deserted him and her. Most of all, she felt totally alone.
The man sat down beside her and reached for her hand. As she hesitated, the woman took his other hand and reached for Rebecca’s. She reluctantly took their hands and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer with them.
“Our Father who art in Heaven…”
Rebecca wondered if He heard the prayer. Could a God who cared let a good man like her father suffer for so long? Hadn’t he earned an easier time in his final days?
“Hallowed be Thy name…”
As they prayed, the darkness and the heavy weight slowly lifted. The caring spirit of the man and woman shone in their voices and in the healing touch of their hands.
“But deliver us from evil…” After they finished the prayer, the man asked God to give Rebecca solace and assure her of His love. Then the man and woman wished Rebecca God speed and left the church.
If only for a little while, she no longer felt alone. Though her dad was no better and nothing had changed about his prognosis, a change occurred in Rebecca’s heart. She realized that God had heard her prayers and that He sent this young couple to lighten the burden and to offer hope.
She left the church and walked around the small town, hoping to find the couple and thank them. She had no luck.
Rebecca visited her dad that evening in the nursing home. He seemed better and her heart was lighter. Another long year and many visits later, his illness took his life. She missed him and often thought over the conversations they shared during his declining years. She remembered the depth of her despair, the visit to the little church and the couple who offered strength against her weakness.
She never knew their names, their beliefs, or anything about their lives but she knew their hearts on that long ago morning. For the rest of her life, Rebecca never forgot the simple act of kindness that renewed her faith in her God and in the world.
Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.
- Rachel Carson
In Search of Beauty
Over coffee, hot tea and chocolate éclairs, John Bax shared his early filming adventures.
“Tell her about getting lost,” Alice (John’s wife) encouraged. I smiled at her enthusiasm for stories she must have heard a thousand times. Throughout our conversations, she prodded his memory for the details of his early years.
“She’s my assistant, you know.”
“I bet she’s a good one too,” I smiled back at John.
Smiles played an important role in our interview sessions. Anytime John talked about his work, a smile lit his face. Alice laughed at each adventure and pulled out old photographs. Some days my face ached from too much smiling.
I smelled the heat and touched the cold as John related how he traipsed through the wilderness looking for birds. I marveled at the sights he’d captured on film.
“See that picture,” John pointed toward the wall. “That’s a sword-billed hummingbird from Ecuador. Tony (Mercieca) took that. I think he’s one of the top photographers in the world.”
Our conversation bounced back and forth with little relationship to chronological detail. Memories colored John’s dialogue as he led me helter-skelter through countries and bird species.
“I’d like another éclair,” John told Alice. “How about you?”
I shook my head and concentrated on my notes.
“John likes chocolate.” Alice put another éclair on his plate.
The above is an excerpt from Emergence: The Story of Cinematographer John Bax, which is scheduled for publication in 2012.
John Bax, a nature cinematographer, had agreed to an interview. I didn’t know the purpose yet, but I knew I wanted to find out more about John’s passionate love for nature, particularly birds.
Those in the filmmaking industry call him a pioneer. Born in Belgium in 1925, John learned skills to survive poverty and war. Poaching, smuggling and running away from the authorities were the first lessons his father taught him. Nazi Occupation defined his teen-age years. With the skills he had learned, he became part of the underground smuggling ring.
“When I ran to Holland, I had to jump over eighty-two barbed wire fences. I was good at that and finding places to hide,” John said.
“I learned about birds from a birding group in Belgium,” John began his story. “I loved birds as long as I can remember. Even when the German soldiers were everywhere, I could sneak away and watch the birds.”
John is a self-taught man and a study in contrasts. The boy who stayed one step ahead of the law and German soldiers taught himself English, filming, and the business of cinematography while adapting to a new culture. At the age of 39, he bought his first car; a year later he immigrated to Canada. At the age of 40, he started a new career.
I pictured John’s early life as he described his dad. “He wasn’t a good father. I was scared of him but he taught us skills that helped us survive Nazi Occupation during the war.”
“Tell me about the occupation,” I encouraged.
“I remember always being hungry, German soldiers everywhere and thousands of planes overhead.”
“Were you frightened?”
“Everyone was frightened…”
I thought of the millions of children that grew up during World War II. We count wars in military deaths, equipment destroyed and dollars spent. Maybe we should count it in the faces of children.
By the time I left the first interview, I knew that I would write John’s story. The “from ugliness of war to the beauty of nature” story fascinated me. This man let his passion grow amidst the troubled times of his youth. He emerged with an eye for beauty, a love for nature, and soon, a camera in hand. He spent his life enriching ours.
Peace begins with a smile…
Mother Teresa
In a gentle way, you can shake the world.
Mohandas Gandhi
Erasing the Past
He sat on a bench in front of the Jim Stafford Theater in Branson, Missouri. It was the second time he’d come to town for a veterans’ event.
Korea seemed so very long ago. No one remembered or cared but he needed to think about it. He thought about the faces, the battles, the cold, and the hills they took and gave away. It was the worst time of his life and yet it stuck to him like glue.
Yesterday he had attended a reunion of Korean War veterans and listened to stories but he certainly wasn’t ready to share his own. He couldn’t explain the nightmares and even if he could, he didn’t want to. He’d watched his buddies die and he knew he had killed. When there was gunfire all around, morality wasn’t an issue; you didn’t think about anything but survival.
I wasn’t raised to kill, he mumbled. It’s been sixty years and I still see the face of that young soldier. He was probably still a teenager like I was. He’d been so close we practically ran into each other. If he wouldn’t have raised his gun… Was the war really worth it? Did it make a difference?
A few years ago, he had accepted it as his destiny. It was the soldier’s face that would live in his heart, closer than the faces of his wife and children. He’d lost his wife last year and he already had trouble picturing her ready smile. How was that possible?
Lost in his own thoughts, he failed to see the girl who sat down next to him.
“Are you a Korean War veteran?”
He turned to see a slender Asian girl offering him a timid smile and realized how unapproachable he must have looked. His expression froze.
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m a student at Missouri State University. I’m here because of you.” He stared at her face but couldn’t get a word out.
“I’m…sorry,” she backed away and he saw the hurt in her eyes. Time stood still as the moments dragged.
She reached for her bag and started to stand. “Don’t go,” his words sounded like the croak of a frog.
“I’m sorry. I saw your Korean War hat and I wanted to say thank you.” She waited for his reaction before she continued. “You saved our country and we owe you so much. I just wanted you to know.”
Emotion, raw and overwhelming, slammed into his heart and cut off his breath. Was that pounding in his ears his own heartbeat?
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I guess you caught me by surprise. I was thinking about Korea. It’s been sixty years.”
“I know. You should see it today. Our cities are beautiful. I’ve seen pictures of our cities after the war and listened to the stories from my grandparents.”
“Did you lose any of your relatives in the war?” He wanted to know that the soldier in his nightmares wasn’t family to her.
“No. My grandparents lost some friends but the Americans came and stopped the North Koreans.”
He searched for words as the ice around his heart cracked.
How could he tell someone that her unknown friendly face was slipping over the well-known young soldier’s face of his youth? How do you say ‘I should be thanking you’?”
“Was it horrible for you?” Concern tinged her question and darkened her eyes.
“Yes, yes it was but I never talk about it.” Please don’t ask me questions…please, he couldn’t speak the words out loud.
The girl’s eyes searched his face.
“If you ever want to, I’d like to listen. By the way, my name is Sun Ye but my American friends call me Sunny.” She held out her hand and graced him with another smile.
He hesitated.
“Hello Sunny. I’m Edward,” he gingerly reached out to her. He gripped her hand and suddenly didn’t want to let go. “Maybe someday soon….”
Other Recent Books by Pat McGrath Avery
Fiction
Murder Takes No Prisoners (2012 publication)
Murder is for the Birds
Murder Takes a Ride
Non-Fiction
Emergence: The Story of Cinematographer John Bax (2012 publication)
The Sharon Rogers Band: Laughed Together, Cried Together, Crashed & Almost Died Together
They Came Home: Korean War POWs
Co-authored with Joyce Faulkner
Role Call: Women’s Voices
Sunchon Tunnel Massacre Survivors
If we are facing in the right direction, all we have to do is keep on walking.
Buddhist Proverb