ROXIE, MY BLIND GRANDMOTHER In a world veiled in darkness, my grandmother found her light in the tactile whispers of point print. At three months old, her eyes may have betrayed her, but her spirit was as sighted as ever. The Bible and books that filled her days were not defined by their heft or the thickness of their pages, but by the life they breathed into her through their raised dots-a language of touch, a precursor of Braille. Her slate and stylus were her instruments of correspondence, a bridge between her world and that of her blind friends. With each letter she crafted, her thoughts were etched into existence, her words a tangible presence in a world she could only hear and feel. Her books would rest on her lap, a foundation of knowledge and faith as solid as the earth itself. Her fingers, nimble and sure, would dance across the pages, a ballet of sensation and understanding. The dots beneath her touch would rise to meet her, eager to share their secrets and stories. I remember the sound of her voice, rich and warm, as she read aloud. It was a melody that resonated with wisdom and resilience, a testimony to her ability to navigate a world that was not built for her. Her dexterity was a marvel, her fingers moving with a grace that belied their age. Those books, the stylus, the slate-they were more than mere objects. They are the legacy of a woman who refused to be defined by her limitations, and who embraced the world with hands wide open. They are cherished not only for what they are but for what they represent: the indomitable will of my grandmother who saw more clearly with her heart than most do with their eyes. Roxie, a name that echoed within the walls of our home, was a beacon of resilience and grace. Blindness never dimmed her spirit; it only sharpened her other senses, transforming other daily chores into a display of her remarkable capabilities. Roxie, her domain was the heart of our household kitchen- where she reigned with gentle authority and an unerring touch. As our dishwasher, Roxie's fingers were like whispers over porcelain, detecting and erasing the slightest imperfection. Plates and utensils gleamed under her meticulous care; each one emerging from her hands as if they were new. It was a dance of fingertips and water, a silent symphony played out on ceramic and metal. The snapping of green beans was a ritual she performed with a surgeon's precision. Each bean was a conversation between her fingers and the vegetable's hidden strings. She would hold the snapped pieces to her cheek, a gesture as tender as a mother's touch, ensuring not a single string remained to mar the perfection of her task. Shelling peas was a task she cherished, a moment of peace in the rhythm of the day. The pea pods would yield to her deft fingers, splitting open to reveal their hidden treasures. The bowl would fill, each pea a testament to her skill, and the sound of the shells parting was a familiar refrain in the melody of our family life. Grandma Roxie, as we fondly called her, was more than just a member of our family. She was a symbol of unwavering strength, a reminder that the human spirit can adapt and thrive. Her legacy is etched not only in the well-worn pages of her point print books but in the very essence of our home. She is unforgettable, a cherished memory that continues to inspire and guide us. This is proudly my memories of a grand blind lady who greatly influenced my life and character. Her grandson: peppermiller3011@gmail.com
When I was young, a red-headed little munchkin, I could not or would not go to sleep without my teddy bear. To me he was much more than a pacifier blanket. Teddy was my loyal companion in all things and decisions that mattered.
At some point I grew up. WOW!!!
After being so important to me for much of my childhood, Teddy was vanquished into the dustbin of my youth.
I excelled in high school, winning a National Science Scholarship to study geology at Emory University’s geology camp in Ringold, Ga. This was at the end of my junior year. I always wanted to go to Colorado School of Mines in Golden, Colorado. However tuition was much more than I could afford, and I wound up at Clemson University in my home state of South Carolina.
Near the end of two years at Clemson, and having goofed off by playing too much bridge, along with a total lack of interest in my education, I realized that I had a real chance of being drafted which I did not want. Thus, I joined the US NAVY’s submarine service. I figured I would be 600 feet under the water, and nobody would be shooting at me. I have a very strong phobia of bullets tearing into my flesh.
After spending so much of my military time as a “squid,” I went back to Clemson and completed my degree in English and Secondary Education, and built my first house in Walhalla, SC, thanks to the GI BILL.
I was married at this time and still am to the same wonderful woman for 57 years. We had two children, a son and a daughter. My daughter, Meg, died eight years ago at age 39. She was my much loved “wild child.” But that is another venue for another rant.
I'm 80 and my wife is 78. our son and daughter-in-law wanted us to downsize before we got too old to do it so they could care for us in our declining years. The house on the corner next door to them came on the market. We left our home of 40 years across town and bought the 1924 Craftsman style home which was in utter disrepair and considered a tear down. Having found a fantastic builder who saved us a bunch of money, he began reconstruction. After three months we had a "brand new" home, complete with new electrical, plumbing, and exterior. Our new neighborhood was so very welcoming, and we had found the last home we would spend our lives in, a welcome respite from so many uncertainties.
Our daughter was Meg, and our daughter-in law is Meghan. My wife had given Meghan some of Meg's clothes that fit her. Another neighbor who is an excellent seamstress, asked her for one of Meg's blouses, because she wanted to make something for us in rememberance of our Meg.
A week later she presented us with the most beautifully made and professionaly put together TEDDY BEAR. It was made from one of Meg's old blouses, and on one of the feet, she had embroidered the quote: "IN MEMORY OF MEG."
Now I do not know of any other 80 year old man who sleeps with a TEDDY BEAR NAMED FREDDY. Every night when I say my prayers and meditations, I reach out, gently take hold of that little foot, squeeze it softly, and tell my Meg how much I love her, miss her, and that me, her Poppie, will see her soon, according to whatever God's plan is for the rest of my life. Freddy gives me so much of a feeling of love and the presence of Meg, and I can't thank my neighbor, who barely knew me at the time, for such a caring gift. WOW! I shiver for the caring nature of such wonderful people. We are all a part of the whole and need to lean on each other in times of grief and longing. What a God given blessing.
I will detail more terrible memories about our Meg's battles with her additions at a future date. Stay tuned for some terrible memories of the past.
Tell me, if you can, of any of your experiences and memories you would like to share, either glad or sad. A burden shared is half as heavy!
This is lovely Hege ✨
Makes me think of all that's grey here in Southern California since the fires and how the sun will breakthrough eventually. ox
Thank you Deborah. Sending prayers to SoCal and everyone affected by the fires. 🙏✨
Beautiful work
Thank you! ✨
ROXIE, MY BLIND GRANDMOTHER In a world veiled in darkness, my grandmother found her light in the tactile whispers of point print. At three months old, her eyes may have betrayed her, but her spirit was as sighted as ever. The Bible and books that filled her days were not defined by their heft or the thickness of their pages, but by the life they breathed into her through their raised dots-a language of touch, a precursor of Braille. Her slate and stylus were her instruments of correspondence, a bridge between her world and that of her blind friends. With each letter she crafted, her thoughts were etched into existence, her words a tangible presence in a world she could only hear and feel. Her books would rest on her lap, a foundation of knowledge and faith as solid as the earth itself. Her fingers, nimble and sure, would dance across the pages, a ballet of sensation and understanding. The dots beneath her touch would rise to meet her, eager to share their secrets and stories. I remember the sound of her voice, rich and warm, as she read aloud. It was a melody that resonated with wisdom and resilience, a testimony to her ability to navigate a world that was not built for her. Her dexterity was a marvel, her fingers moving with a grace that belied their age. Those books, the stylus, the slate-they were more than mere objects. They are the legacy of a woman who refused to be defined by her limitations, and who embraced the world with hands wide open. They are cherished not only for what they are but for what they represent: the indomitable will of my grandmother who saw more clearly with her heart than most do with their eyes. Roxie, a name that echoed within the walls of our home, was a beacon of resilience and grace. Blindness never dimmed her spirit; it only sharpened her other senses, transforming other daily chores into a display of her remarkable capabilities. Roxie, her domain was the heart of our household kitchen- where she reigned with gentle authority and an unerring touch. As our dishwasher, Roxie's fingers were like whispers over porcelain, detecting and erasing the slightest imperfection. Plates and utensils gleamed under her meticulous care; each one emerging from her hands as if they were new. It was a dance of fingertips and water, a silent symphony played out on ceramic and metal. The snapping of green beans was a ritual she performed with a surgeon's precision. Each bean was a conversation between her fingers and the vegetable's hidden strings. She would hold the snapped pieces to her cheek, a gesture as tender as a mother's touch, ensuring not a single string remained to mar the perfection of her task. Shelling peas was a task she cherished, a moment of peace in the rhythm of the day. The pea pods would yield to her deft fingers, splitting open to reveal their hidden treasures. The bowl would fill, each pea a testament to her skill, and the sound of the shells parting was a familiar refrain in the melody of our family life. Grandma Roxie, as we fondly called her, was more than just a member of our family. She was a symbol of unwavering strength, a reminder that the human spirit can adapt and thrive. Her legacy is etched not only in the well-worn pages of her point print books but in the very essence of our home. She is unforgettable, a cherished memory that continues to inspire and guide us. This is proudly my memories of a grand blind lady who greatly influenced my life and character. Her grandson: peppermiller3011@gmail.com
WOW, Hege, you have knocked it out of the ballpark with this one. Thanks for sharing yourself with me and many others.
Thank you so much Pepper! 🙏 How lovely to hear ✨
Thank you Elizabeth ✨
A poem of hope - rays will always break through whatever ‘grey’ is going on in one’s life - that’s what I took from it. Loved it
Thank you Kevan 🙏✨
Thank you
Wonderful poem. Thankyou. Dave
Thank you Dave ✨
When I was young, a red-headed little munchkin, I could not or would not go to sleep without my teddy bear. To me he was much more than a pacifier blanket. Teddy was my loyal companion in all things and decisions that mattered.
At some point I grew up. WOW!!!
After being so important to me for much of my childhood, Teddy was vanquished into the dustbin of my youth.
I excelled in high school, winning a National Science Scholarship to study geology at Emory University’s geology camp in Ringold, Ga. This was at the end of my junior year. I always wanted to go to Colorado School of Mines in Golden, Colorado. However tuition was much more than I could afford, and I wound up at Clemson University in my home state of South Carolina.
Near the end of two years at Clemson, and having goofed off by playing too much bridge, along with a total lack of interest in my education, I realized that I had a real chance of being drafted which I did not want. Thus, I joined the US NAVY’s submarine service. I figured I would be 600 feet under the water, and nobody would be shooting at me. I have a very strong phobia of bullets tearing into my flesh.
After spending so much of my military time as a “squid,” I went back to Clemson and completed my degree in English and Secondary Education, and built my first house in Walhalla, SC, thanks to the GI BILL.
I was married at this time and still am to the same wonderful woman for 57 years. We had two children, a son and a daughter. My daughter, Meg, died eight years ago at age 39. She was my much loved “wild child.” But that is another venue for another rant.
I'm 80 and my wife is 78. our son and daughter-in-law wanted us to downsize before we got too old to do it so they could care for us in our declining years. The house on the corner next door to them came on the market. We left our home of 40 years across town and bought the 1924 Craftsman style home which was in utter disrepair and considered a tear down. Having found a fantastic builder who saved us a bunch of money, he began reconstruction. After three months we had a "brand new" home, complete with new electrical, plumbing, and exterior. Our new neighborhood was so very welcoming, and we had found the last home we would spend our lives in, a welcome respite from so many uncertainties.
Our daughter was Meg, and our daughter-in law is Meghan. My wife had given Meghan some of Meg's clothes that fit her. Another neighbor who is an excellent seamstress, asked her for one of Meg's blouses, because she wanted to make something for us in rememberance of our Meg.
A week later she presented us with the most beautifully made and professionaly put together TEDDY BEAR. It was made from one of Meg's old blouses, and on one of the feet, she had embroidered the quote: "IN MEMORY OF MEG."
Now I do not know of any other 80 year old man who sleeps with a TEDDY BEAR NAMED FREDDY. Every night when I say my prayers and meditations, I reach out, gently take hold of that little foot, squeeze it softly, and tell my Meg how much I love her, miss her, and that me, her Poppie, will see her soon, according to whatever God's plan is for the rest of my life. Freddy gives me so much of a feeling of love and the presence of Meg, and I can't thank my neighbor, who barely knew me at the time, for such a caring gift. WOW! I shiver for the caring nature of such wonderful people. We are all a part of the whole and need to lean on each other in times of grief and longing. What a God given blessing.
I will detail more terrible memories about our Meg's battles with her additions at a future date. Stay tuned for some terrible memories of the past.
Tell me, if you can, of any of your experiences and memories you would like to share, either glad or sad. A burden shared is half as heavy!
peppermiller3011@gmail.com
The flow of words cascade wonderfully. Very nice Hege.
Thank you so much Donald ✨
"I've outgrown the results
Of the old methods"
I think this is the bit that really describes a lot of where we are these days.
I agree Jenn. Thanks for highlighting this ✨
I appreciate your video readings very much.
Glad to hear this Douglas ✨
Beautiful!
Thank you Sarah ✨
Thank you Elizabeth ✨🙏