Photographs of my Family

Here we are when I was just 6 minutes old. Papa snapped the photo and got yelled at by the nurse. Mom wrote on the back of this photo “Wendy Gale and I coming from the delivery room. Check her long fingers.”

I remember when I was a little girl we were out in the front yard. It was one of those days that had been very hot, but with the coming of dusk the temperature dropped to a very pleasant temperature. During the day you just sit, trying to breath, but with evening you feel more lively. I was running while turning into a butterfly. My wings unfurled and my feet lifted from the ground. As I flew up even with the eaves of the porch, I yelled to her, “Look, Mom; I’m a butterfly!”

She looked at me and the sparkle she sometimes had appeared in her beautiful blue eyes. Looking at my big colorful wings she nodded, smiling. She could see them.

She died from cancer when I was 16. It took her two years to die; she fought every inch of the way. Papa and I did our best to help her die with as much dignity and love as we could. She has been around since then. Every time I make what I consider to be an achievement in my life that I am very proud of, I know that she is there sharing it with me.

Mom, Dad and Me

I was home just after school one day, opening a bag of potato chips in the kitchen. I thought I heard something, stopped rattling, listened. I had developed a sense about things in the last several months. Hearing nothing, I continued with the bag. Then I definitely heard my name called, weak, barely audible.

In a second I was running, bag forgotten in one hand, around the corner, down the hall of our big old house towards the bathroom. Rounding the door I dropped the bag as I saw Mom on the toilet. She had fallen to one side and leaned against the wall, too weak to push herself back onto the seat. I rushed to her, gently pulled her back, center on the seat and knelt, hands on her knees to steady her. Her breath was ragged and I kicked myself for not responding sooner; faster.

Only a few moments had passed when Papa peered around the door frame, potato chip bag in hand. “What’s this--?” Then he saw me on my knees next to Mom on the toilet.

Our eyes met. We had been through so much together over the last year. We knew more than we should; had a common depth of experience that few will ever have with another person. No words were necessary. We were so far past that an almost psychic link existed between us.

It was just a couple of nights later that I heard her alarm, maybe 2 AM. Papa had rigged an electric signal from her big metal hospital bed in the living room back to the rear of the house where the bedrooms were. There was a button she could push anytime she needed to. I jumped out of bed, met Papa in the hall, and we were both rushing to the front of the house in seconds.

She had had an accident. Papa and I had handled this before; had our routine down. I turned off the slow fan that gently blew fresh air on her buttocks. Papa had designed and built a small doughnut to raise her buttocks off the bed and let the air flow around her when she started developing bed sores. None of the equipment available was adequate to what Mom had been comfortable with and Papa had taken foam rubber, cut it out at a very precise depth and shape and sewn several coverings for it, then formed a tube and slowed a small fan to just the right speed to put the slowly circulating air just where it was need.

Now, we lifted her, removed the thin foam doughnut, rolled the sheets away, began to clean her up, and I recovered the doughnut with a fresh cover. We kept up an animated conversation as we worked. Mom hated, with a black and ferocious hate, to be helpless and dependant. It was something she had fought all of her life to be since polio at the age of 8—physically independent. And in the last year of her life she was again being taken care of by others. I knew how much she hated it; but she always pretended to be cheerful, making jokes about the mess she’d made, her loss of hair from chemotherapy, her “urpe bucket” she had to keep with her.

But I knew; I knew. And so did Papa. Our eyes met frequently as we smiled and returned her banter. Later, when she was finally comfortable again and sleeping, we stood outside on the uncovered back porch. The stars were bright, the breeze cool. We stood next to each other, not needing words, taking comfort in each other’s presence. Our nerves were raw, we were exhausted, but could not go back to bed just yet; sleep was out of the question. We passed a joint back and forth, one of only three times I have smoked marijuana with my Dad.

That night we knew it would be soon. And within three months, she was in a box in the ground. For several days her big metal hospital bed sat in the living room, stripped, and a new piece of furniture occupied a place by the door; a stand from the funeral home with a book to sign in and a little light shinning on it. The house was more silent than it ever had been and Papa and I stood together, alone.

Never has there been a man who loved his wife and daughter as much as my Dad. Never has there been a stronger, more beautiful and loving mother than my Mom. I am humbled to know that within me, they both live on.

"She's Gone, But She's Still Here"
My Father's Words

He wrote down some random thoughts about it and gave me two pieces of paper from a yellow legal tablet, words big with lots of space between thoughts. In some places you can see where his hand was shaking… from memories... from grief and love still raw after all these years; she left us in 1978. They were together 31 years and he has not remarried. It seems those we truly love and have allowed to become a part of us never really leave; they continue to hold our hand during the stillness of special moments. Here are his words.

The phone rang--

But—I see the moon, shining Thru the winter’s Bare Branches and think, “It would thrill her with its beauty.”

I drive to Town and see an Angus Bull, standing on a Huge Rock, surveying his Kingdom and Think, “She would Love The feeling of Contented Power he projects.”

I see a small waterfall and listen To the song it sings and think, “She would Love this spot.”

I watch a pair of wrens Building Their Nest and think, “She would want to watch them work and want to see the whole Process of a family as it Fulfilled its Process of new life.”

She’s gone—But She is still here.

This one on the right is one of my favorite pictures of my father taken in 1992.

One of the classes I took when I was a grad student
at UGA was a photography class. We took, developed and printed our own photographs. So, this is REALLY one of my very own photographs. It hung in the gallery at the Tate Center in Athens, Ga.

This one on the left and the next few that look similar were taken at my “graduation” from 7th grade. Mom made my dress.

Below left is a more recent one of us up on The Ridge in 2003. Notice the pink flamingos.

In the middle is one of my favorite photos of my Dad and his brother, Lewis. Quite handsome, aren't they? They clean up well.

The last one is from my graduation from UGA in 1985. The whole family came down, including Great Aunt Dolly. I earned a BS.

He is an enigma wrapped inside a contradiction. His Father was in the military. This photo was taken in France during WWI; that is Lewis Beryl Thurston, Sr posing with skulls. But the other half of his genetic heritage came from Grandma, Mary Hays Thurston. Here she is in her college years.

So, I believed him when he offered to break someone’s legs, but at the same time, I still preferred to go to Papa when I got bubble gum or a big tangle in my hair. Mom was very quick and efficient, but Papa would patiently and gently untangle or remove the gum, taking care not to hurt me.

My sister Niki and I went to visit my Father’s brother, Uncle Lewis in Virginia Beach in 2002. A car broke down while we were crossing one of the many bridges up there. Folks finally got out of their cars and we visited each other. There were people from all over and while we were looking off the side of the bridge one of the biggest sting rays I have ever seen swam under us. It was an unfortunate occurrence that turned out pretty cool.

We did a little Thanks Ritual on the beach. Uncle Lewis took a few photos of us and we had a few folks stop and watch, but no one gave us any grief at all.

She earned her Associate’s Degree in Sign Language and the whole family was so proud!

This last photo was taken of Niki and John the year I was born, 1962.

One of the many talents John has is stonework. Here is one of the many stone walls he laid up on The Ridge. He does not use cement or mortar and he has a good knowledge of plants, so he's experimenting with what looks good in front of or beside his walls. This is a domestic Iris.

The middle photo was taken at some friends' place sometime in the early to mid 80's (I think).

We each had whatever we wanted for our birthday dinner (within reason) and John always had fried chicken—especially drum sticks. Here is at maybe 14 or 15 with the remains of one of the meals.

In 1988 I went through a major transition. As a symbol, I had my Father cut off my hair. He is the only one who has ever cut my hair--usually just a couple of inches to keep the split ends from getting bad.

This particular time I was making lots of massive changes in my life--or these changes were happening & I was just trying to hold on tight enough so I didn't get thrown off!

Anyway, he made the first cut there, but the pony tail I still have is quite long, as he cut my hair above my shoulders. I had never had it that short before and didn't much like it.

I still have this part of myself, curled up in my jewlery box next to my fake pearls and glass beads. Maybe some day I will burn or burry it, but for now it is where it needs to be.