Grampy Lash

It was a hot Sunday morning in July.  I lingered outside the room to allow myself a few more moments to decide if I really wanted to do this: to enter a room full of people like me, the detritus of broken relationships. I could hear the chatter, laughter and murmurings of people who had already crossed that threshold, and although they sounded happy, I wasn’t sure that I was quite ready to join them in their apparent merriment.  I doubted that I would know anyone there.  I was not looking for love, although a church Sunday school class probably was a good place to find it – agape love that is. I certainly was not on the prowl for a new somebody to establish a new long-term relationship with: I had dropped the word, marriage, from my vocabulary.  In spite of the preparations I had made to come here, the days of angst and dithering while trying to work up the courage to actually do this, my feet had suddenly become  frozen to the floor. I was losing the impetus that had gotten me this far. I needed a nudge. Help me Lord! I prayed.

“Here’s something that I thought might interest you,” my sister, Vickie, had said to me a few weeks earlier.  She handed me a weekly newsletter from a large west side church, Chapel Rock Christian Church, that offered a variety of programs, including a Sunday school class for single adults.  She drew my attention to an invitation on the backside of the newsletter to attend their New Beginnings class: a coming together of adults who were single for whatever reason.  My initial reaction was one of self-pitying sarcasm. Sure, a place to gather with marital misfits like me, I thought.

Prior to my divorce, I had been actively involved with church. I had taught an adult class for several years, had served as a deacon, was ordained as an elder; I had even counseled others who had experienced the same kind of distress as I was now enduring.  When word got out that my marriage was coming to an end, I lost my halo. I was suddenly out of tune with most everyone I had joyously worshiped with beforehand. My former friends there had distanced themselves from me: and I from them – with one exception.

On the other hand, my pragmatic self whispered, this might be an opportunity to meet new people, perhaps make some new friends. “New Beginnings”. Sounds appropriate. Maybe I should give it a try.

“Thanks,” I said to Vickie, “I’ll think about it.” I folded the newsletter and stuffed it in my pocket.  Later that day I re-read it several times, and decided that I would give it a try.  I called my sister a few days later and told her that I was going to do it. I felt that by making a commitment to her, I would not be able to renege on my decision.

Still rooted to the floor, my hand nervously roamed through my pocket in search of my car keys. I was losing my nerve. The first thing I felt was that newsletter that I had crammed in my pocket that morning for whatever reason. It reminded me that I had told my sister of my intentions. I could not turn back now.  It was the nudge that I needed. I stepped into the room, hoping to see at least one familiar face.

It seemed like there were at least a thousand people there and that their chatter and conversations amongst themselves had suddenly ceased the moment I stepped into the room. All eyes were on me. The new kid in school. Fresh meat!

This was not true of course. It was probably more like fifty people. Most of them were holding a donut and sipping coffee, and so actively engaged in individual conversations that few, if any, noticed me at all… Except for one.

I had no sooner entered  the room when things were called to order by a lovely little lady who cheerily welcomed the group, and proceeded with the “announcements” part of the class.  All attention was on her, and it was well deserved. She was gracious, well poised, and seemed very comfortable speaking in front of the group. She had a nice little sparkle too.

After the morning announcements were finished, more time for socializing was allowed before settling down for the class lesson. As I nervously stood there, still hoping to see a familiar face, the sparkling little lady who had just delivered the announcements approached me with a heart warming smile.

“My name is Claudia Williams,” she said.  “You may not remember me.”

Her blue eyes and sweet little smile were already beginning to capture bits of my soul.

“I think we were in the same class in Speedway High School, the class of 1967. There was a boy in my class named Shelly” she continued, “and I’m pretty sure it was you. My maiden name is Ryden.”

Earlier that summer I had encountered an old church friend who had remained a true friend.  Mike had also been a member of the class of ’67.  We had reconnected years later and our friendship was strengthened while working together on several church projects. He was a little excited; had something important he wanted to discuss with me.

“Hey man!  Last Sunday, when I took my daughter to Camp Allendale, I saw somebody from our high school class. Do you remember Claudia Ryden?”

“It’s been twenty years Mike,” I replied. “I can vaguely remember seeing her in the hallways, but I don’t remember talking to her or anything like that. Why… ?“

“I think you need to get in touch with her,” he interrupted.  “She’s going through the same thing you are. You both have a lot in common – and she’s really cute.”

“Thanks Mike, but if she feels anything like the way I’m feeling right now, I doubt that she would be interested in talking to me.”

“You need to give her a call!” he persisted. “Here’s her phone number,” he said, and shoved a small paper note into my hand.

Later that day, I threw the note away.

You’re right Claudia Ryden Williams, I was thinking, I don’t remember you.

“It’s been twenty years since we graduated, but I do remember you,” I lied. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“When I saw your name on our guest list, I remembered a boy in our class named Shelly who was tall and had blondish hair,” she said. “I never knew any other men named Shelly, and I was pretty sure it was you who came to mind.”

“Yes, that was me; not too many men named Shelly.” I was never thrilled with my name, but that’s a whole nother story.

“Well,” she said, “welcome to our class and we hope you will return. We also have several social events planned that you might like.”

“Maybe I will,” I replied.

Mike was right.  Claudia Ryden was “really cute”.

A few days later, I received a card in the mail. It was from the New Beginnings class, beautifully handwritten, thanking me for joining them this past Sunday, and inviting me to come back again if I liked: Signed by Claudia (Ryden) Williams… A few kind words.

That was nice, I thought to myself.  And it was another nice little nudge that made me decide to go back.

I went back several times; never missed a Sunday. And ever so gently we were drawn together. It wasn’t because of my charm and good looks either. Money? No way! Neither of us had much of that.  I think it was those few kind words – they never stopped coming. Neither did the sparkle, the sweet smile. Eventually, on March 24, 1988, we joined hands, gathered our children – Jennifer, David, Brian and Joshua – and graduated from the New Beginnings Sunday school class, the class of 1988.

I kept that “Thank You” card, stuck it in the sleeve of my bible.  I have read it many times over the years. I can still remember how, at the time when I first read it, I didn’t think much more of it other than a simple invitation to return and mingle with a group of wounded people, who were seeking solace in Christian fellowship. When I read it now, I can still feel that subtle nudge at my heart that I was almost too numb to feel back then. A gentle tug that turned into an impenetrable bond – not only between us, but with our children, our beautiful grandchildren, and the many friendships that have been nurtured over the past thirty years… And our Lord of course.

A few little nudges…

A few kind words…

A little sparkle…

New Beginnings…

I love you Claudia Marie (Ryden) Lash!

I absolutely adore you!

Shelly E. Lash

March 24, 2018

One of our greatest pleasures while spending time with our grandchildren, is reading to them or having them read to us.  Bedtime stories are essential at the end of the day. It is a time of warmth and closeness sandwiched between fidgeting and giggling, and prayers. It is mandated not by us so much as it is by them.

Last night, when Rachel and Aaron were ready to hear their bedtime story, I decided to take things up a notch. In the past, I had always asked them to choose their favorite book for me to read.  I have to admit that over time I had become somewhat lazy about this.  Instead of challenging them with a new story, and facing the possibility of rejection, I would select from their group of favorite books – usually picture books, and robotically read them until the task was complete. I had also been reluctant to start a chapter book because of the lack of continuity to keep the story ball rolling. It may be several weeks or longer before we are able to resume reading to whichever group of grandchildren we had at the time.

Last night I decided that I would move up to a picture-less chapter book, and challenge them with painting their own pictures in their minds.  We have quite a variety of chapter books on hand; from Mary Pope Osborne’s Magic Tree House books to Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief. My challenge would be to pick something that I hoped would appeal to both members of last night’s audience – Rachel, and her brother Aaron.  They both love animals, so I decided to try The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham.

Because this would be a new reading experience for the three of us, I decided, perhaps presumptuously, that it would be a good idea to offer a preamble on how they would need to use their imaginations to make their own pictures in their minds.

“There are no pictures in this book,” I reminded them, “so you will have to make up your own pictures in your heads. So, let’s close our eyes and see if we can see a picture of a tree.”

“I can see a tree!” exclaimed Aaron.

“I can’t see the tree,” said Rachel. The wrinkles around her tightly squinched eyes told me she was trying really hard to see a tree.

“Okay,” I continued. “Think about what a tree looks like. It has a trunk, some limbs and lots of leaves.  What color are the leaves?”

“My tree has green leaves!” said Aaron.

“I can’t see the tree,” said Rachel.

I needed to add some action. “What happens to the leaves?”

“They fall!” said Aaron.

“And what happens before they fall?”

“They change colors,” said Aaron.

“What colors?”

“Red. Orange. Yellow,” said Aaron.

“I can’t see the tree,” Rachel giggles.

“Okay. Let’s try to make a different picture.”  Rachel dearly loves our old house on Presto Avenue, and we had been there earlier in the day, so I thought I would give that a try. “Can you see our old house on Presto?”

“Umm… I can’t see the house on Presto,” she said. Her eyes were still squinted, her glasses had slid down near the end of her nose, and she was sweetly smiling. She was not the least bit frustrated with me.

Aaron’s eyes were getting heavy.  I decided to ditch the exercise in mind-picture-building and get on with the story.

“How about I start reading the story?  And if you decide you don’t like it, or if you get sleepy and want me to stop, I’ll stop.”

“Okay!” they chimed.

And so I began. “The Mole had been working very hard -“

“Hold on! Hold on!” shouted Rachel. “I can see the house on Presto! And the tree in the front yard! And the red shutters on the front of the house!”

While fighting against my tightening vocal cords, I asked her if she wanted me to stop reading. “No!” was her response.

It was getting late. Aaron fell asleep after a few pages had been read, but Rachel would not allow me to stop until we had completed the first chapter.  When we finished, Rachel recounted Mole, Water Rat, Toad and the Badger. Then she turned and quickly fell asleep.

I have a new story. It starts like this: “The Girl had been working very hard…”

Shelly E. Lash

October 8, 2017

The venetian blinds buzzed as small gusts of wind passed through the open window, and gently awakened Frank from his dreamless sleep.  He yawned and looked around the room, searching for something familiar.  Whether it had been a full night’s sleep, or just a short nap, he never seemed to recognize his surroundings when he first woke up.  It had been that way for as long as Frank could remember.  Across the hall, a flashing light and its chirping partner began in unison as if they too had just been roused by the buzzing blinds.

Frank stood up and stretched, then sat back down on the edge of his bed. He looked at the photographs hanging on the doors of his chifforobe.  The pictures gently waggled on their hinges of tape in the stirring air.  Time had curled them into faded green and yellow troughs.  He studied the images of his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but they failed to become little more than vaguely familiar to him.  He knew that he should recognize them, and felt ashamed because he could not.

His mouth was dry as cotton.  He smacked his lips and reached for the styrofoam cup sitting on his bedside table. The ice water rattled and slushed when he grasped the cup with his shaky hand. The straw scratched in the cup’s cover like a whistling violin string as he slowly sucked the water over his parched tongue.

“Aah… That hit the spot!”  He licked the lingering drops across his lips for good measure, smiled at the cup and set it back on the table.  The light across the hall continued blinking rhythmically with its chirping companion.

Nurse Peggy’s rubber soled shoes squeaked on the freshly polished floors, announcing her arrival.  “Hello Mr. Anders!  How’s my favorite, sweet, handsome man doing this morning?”  She jiggled the pills, Frank’s morning dose, in a small plastic cup.

“Well,” he chuckled, “I just woke up and nobody was throwing dirt in my face.  I guess I’m doing okay … um …”  He winked and nervously smiled.  He couldn’t remember her name.

“What would I do without you to brighten my day Frank?” she laughed.

“Well …”  Frank shrugged his shoulders.  “I expect you’ll get by okay.”

She handed his pills to him, along with a fresh cup of water.  “I expect we’ll both get by okay after you take your pills for me.”

Frank swallowed his pills and took a long drink of water.  “Aah … That hit the spot!  I was getting pretty thirsty.  I don’t think I’ve had anything to drink all day.”

“Okay honey.”  Peggy wiped a little dribble off Frank’s chin.  “I’m going to see what’s going on across the hall with Mr. Oswald.  I’ll be seeing you later.”  Her smile concealed the melancholy she felt for his confusion.  Such a sweet man, she thought to herself. The light stopped blinking; the chirping ceased.

Frank leaned over and slipped his swollen feet into his oversized walking shoes.  He stood up from his bed, waited until he felt steady on his feet and shuffled over to his window.  Dust sprayed and sparkled in the sunlight as he raised the blinds to look outside.  The autumn breeze was warm and dry.  Each new gust of wind set the Stars and Stripes in motion, flipping and popping atop the flagpole in the courtyard.  The metal flag snap on the halyard banged against the pole. Clang, clang. Clang, clang …

Frank pulled a chair alongside the window and sat down.  The warmth of the sun on his face softened his wakefulness.  His eyelids were becoming heavy already, and slowly covered his Swedish blue eyes.  Another brief gust brushed wisps of his hair, tingled his scalp, and tried to stir old memories.  Some people standing outside saw him sitting by his window and waved, but he did not see them.  Frank had drifted into the hypnotic murkiness that is the gateway to sleep.

Clang, clang. Clang, clang …

***

The clanging bell perched on the front of the Union Pacific locomotive reminded Frank of the bell that had called him to school just a few years ago.  What he heard now was a call to war.  Steam hissed, smoke billowed.  The softness of Mary’s parting kiss lingered on his lips.  “I’ll be back before you know it,” he told her. Mary’s hands slipped away from his shoulders as he turned and boarded the train.

From his window seat Frank could see people waving little flags, mothers capturing their tears in lace handkerchiefs, fathers fighting back tears that would betray their stoicism, sweethearts holding each other – all hoping for a safe return of their soldiers, marines and sailors. The big steam engine was poised like a Belgian draft horse eager to pull its load.

“All aboard!” the conductor shouted.  He made one final visual check up and down the line of cars to make sure they were clear to proceed.  He raised his extended arm up and down, the highball signal to the engineer that it was time to go.

Frank’s ears were filled with two long mournful wails from the train’s whistle.  He felt the shudder of the locomotive as its big steel wheels churned and slipped against the rails, grasping for traction.  The steel horse lurched forward, and each coupler banged in succession to the last car.  Frank leaned out of the window, and waved to Mary.  She was standing on her toes and waving back to him.  They waved until they lost sight of each other.

The train picked up speed and rumbled away from the platform.  Black smoke belched from the locomotive’s chimney and washed over the cars in tow.  Soot swirled through the open passenger car windows.  Some of the fine black powder peppered the shoulder of Frank’s khaki shirt and settled next to Mary’s evaporating tears.

Frank watched the backyards of houses pass by.  Children ran to the fences and waved at the passing train. Women held clothespins in their lips as they hung their laundry out to dry.  Startled birds flew away from their perches on the phone lines that paralleled the pathway of the train.

***

When Peggy stepped out of Mr. Oswald’s room, she saw Frank vacantly staring skyward through his window.  “You doing okay Mr. Anders?”

“Oh. Hello,” he said. “Is today laundry day?”

“Not today Mr. Anders. Laundry day is Thursday. Today is Monday,” she replied. “Do you have something that needs to be washed?”

Frank dismissively turned toward the window.

***

Frank felt the rhythm of the clacking wheels wane.  The passengers began to stir in response to the long shrill blast of the train’s whistle.  The conductor strode midway down the aisle and shouted out, “The train will be stopping at North Platte, Nebraska for approximately ten minutes to take on coal and water!”  Frank had never heard of North Platte, but he would soon learn that it was a place he would never forget.

The train came to a jolting halt.  Everyone jumped up from their seats and made a rush for the exits.  Frank adjusted his garrison cap, brushed some soot off his uniform and joined the tail end of the group.

When he stepped off the train, he was greeted by two women holding baskets filled with fresh apples.  Their floral aprons lightly fluttered in the breeze.  “Welcome to North Platte!” they said. The apples gleamed in the late afternoon sun.

A large sign hung over the arched entrance of a red brick building – North Platte Canteen.  Another sign was stretched across a window that simply said, Canteen. Sparrows were building nests on the ledge below.  When Frank crossed the threshold of the open door, he was greeted with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

***

Mr. Oswald pressed his call button again, and the annoying buzzer came to life. The rusty red bricks quickly turned to dull yellow plaster; the sign was a calendar, anchored to the wall with nests of cobwebs.  For some reason, Frank had a hankering for a cup of hot coffee.

He slowly lifted himself from his chair and shuffled into the hallway.  The tongues of his laceless shoes waggled with each step.  Peggy saw him and stopped before entering Mr. Oswald’s room.

“You okay Frank? she asked.

“Well,” he replied, “I think I would like to have a cup of coffee.”

“No problem Frank. The dining room is on the other side of the nurse’s station.  Just go in there and help yourself.”

Frank smiled, raised his eyelids, and ran the tip of his tongue across his upper lip like a child who had just been offered a chocolate bar.  He steadied himself with the handrail along the wall and slowly made his way down the hall, stopping at each doorway until he found the one that led into the dining room.

“Hello Frank,” said the dining room attendant.  “Can I help you with something?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Frank.  “Could I get a cup of coffee?”

“You came to the right place!” she said, and poured him a cup.  “Would you like some help?” she asked.

“No thanks.  I can handle it,” said Frank.  “Can I take it back to my room?”

“You sure can Frank,” she replied.  “I’ll have someone pick your cup up later.”

***

There were plank tables filled with homemade multi-layered cakes, fruit pies, cream pies, platters of donuts.  Cheerful women carried trays filled with sandwiches.  The room was filled with giddy laughter.  A group of singing people had gathered around a sailor who was playing a slightly out of tune piano.  The room was filled with a gaiety that dispelled the darkness of wartime.  Their spirits were flying.  It was almost as if someone had just announced that the war was over.

Frank grabbed a donut and started to reach for a coffee cup from the neatly aligned row, but hesitated.  “Go ahead soldier,” encouraged the lady standing behind the counter, “and help yourself to a fresh cup of hot coffee!”

“I would sure like to have some,” said Frank, “but I don’t think I’ll have time to drink it before it’s time for the train to leave.”

“That’s okay,” she said.  “You can just take the cup with you.  When the train arrives at the next stop, the conductor will collect the cups and leave them at the depot.  The next eastbound train will pick them up and bring them back here.”

She grabbed a cup, filled it and handed it to him.  “Here you go honey! And you be sure to stop by here again on your way back when this war is over!”

***

Frank found his way back to his room – without spilling a drop.  He sat down in his chair, gingerly took a sip and resumed looking out his window.  The metal flag snap on the halyard banged against the pole. Clang, clang. Clang, clang …

***

“All aboard!” cried the conductor.

Frank watched the stragglers running to get on board.  Chatter came from everywhere as the men scrambled down the aisle way, bumping and shoving until they found their seats.  For the time being, they had forgotten about their prevailing uneasiness of what was to come; the places they would go where they had never been. Their anxieties had been set aside for ten minutes by people they had never seen before, and most likely would never see again.  The memories of the North Platte Canteen, the love and support that had been offered there, would remain in the hearts and minds of these young men when all else had been forgotten.

The train chugged away from the platform.  It looked as if the entire town had gathered on the platform to wave; many were calling out the names of the young men on the departing train.

Frank settled back in his seat and sipped sparingly from his cup. He wanted to savor the warmth of its contents as long as he could. He thought about what just had happened.  He thought about how the day had started.  He thought about his sweet little Mary.

***

Mary was standing just inside the doorway, watching Frank sip his coffee.  He was staring out the window towards a far-away place only he could see.  He hadn’t heard her come in.

“Frank,” she whispered.  She didn’t want to startle him. She walked across the room and gently touched his shoulder.  “Frank. It’s me – Mary.”

His head and shoulders stiffly turned to face her.  A smile of recognition spread upwards to his heavy-lidded eyes and lifted his bushy eyebrows. “I told you I would be back before you knew it,” he said, “and here I am.”

Mary smiled and lovingly ran her fingertips through his white hair.  He often said things that didn’t seem to make sense.  She kissed him on his forehead.

“What have you been doing today Frank?” she asked.

Frank lifted his cup in a goodwill toast.  “Oh, I was just sitting here drinking my coffee.” He emptied the cup with a final sip to complete the toast.

“Would you like for me to take your empty cup back to the kitchen?” she asked.

“Oh no.” said Frank.  “That won’t be necessary.  The conductor will collect the empty cups and leave them at the next depot.  The next eastbound train will carry them back to North Platte.”

S. E. Lash   January 25, 2017

On the morning of December 5, 2016, my father, Ed Lash, peacefully passed away. It was time for me to execute a commitment that I had made to both Ed and myself a few years earlier: to deliver a eulogy for him when the time came. A few years ago, before he had slipped too deeply into dementia to understand, I discussed my willingness to do this. His acceptance was genuine, the commitment was made.

Ed Lash had endeared himself to many people during his ninety years of life; outlived many of those people as well. Among those who are still living, there were many who were unable to attend his funeral services, especially his kinfolk from Kentucky who had been such an important part of his life. I feel that I should extend my commitment to him by making his eulogy available to those who were not able to attend.

Ed Lash’s Route

December 10, 2016

Some of my most memorable childhood memories were the times we traveled to Kentucky. We were always well received by our Kentucky kinfolk. Often times there would be a large gathering complete with a meal of every kind of comfort food imaginable. After the meal was finished, the menfolk, my dad and my uncles, would retire outside. They usually inspected one another’s automobiles, kicked the tires, and bragged about things like horsepower and fuel mileage. They would eventually find a cool place, pull up whatever might be handy to sit on, and spin their yarns while sipping sweet tea, puffing their pipes or cigars, and blowing smoke rings that seemed to drift for acres.

One of the first items for discussion was usually initiated by my Uncle Punk (Henry Long).“Well Ed, tell us about your trip and the route you took to get here.” And my dad would tell them precisely which route he took, whether or not there had been detours, and about any stops that were made along the way. My uncles seemed to savor every detail of his narrative.

That is what I would like to tell you about today, Edward Lash’s route that brought him here. Some of what I have to tell will be in his own words.

Ed developed dementia several years ago, possibly caused by Alzheimer’s disease.

He accepted this condition and struggled valiantly to exercise his mind; working on crossword puzzles, playing bingo, reading, and writing poetry.

After his wife, Ressie, passed away, I found a few scraps of paper scattered about their room. On these scraps, he had written an account of the first few years of his life, the beginning of his route. This was another attempt, I believe, to exercise his mind.

My name is Edward L. Lash, born June 25, 1926. My father is Harry E. Lash, born January 4, 1904. My mother is Ethel May Parsons Lash, born April 11, 1904.

I was born at 1248 W. Eugene Street, Indianapolis Indiana. I went to kindergarten on W 26th St. at age 5. I went to first grade at the school on the corner of Franklin Street and Lynhurst Drive. We moved to 15 Spring St, Mount Sterling Kentucky [where I attended second grade]. We moved to West 56th Street in Pike Township in 1933 and I began third grade. My dad, Harry Lash, was a bricklayer.

I later came upon a diary that Ed had used to record some of the big events of his life when he was seventeen years old, written in 1944..

Age 17 – 1944

3-Jun: A very important day! I passed my exam of the Navy. It took six hours.

6-Jun: I borrowed my dad’s Hudson this evening. Ressie Parrott and I attended a wrestling match. Ressie works at the plant [Bridgeport Brass where they met]. I find it hard getting acquainted with her.

18-Jun: Spent my last day home with my folks. It is very hard saying goodbye to those whom I love

19-Jun: Today is the last day. I am due to leave for Great Lakes [Naval Station]. Due to war conditions, I will not be able to resume making [diary] entries until I return.

Age 18

27-Jun: This is the day I was discharged from the Navy; disappointed in a way, but glad to be coming home.

28-Jun: Arrived home from Great Lakes about 2:00 AM this morning.

30-Jun: Went out to visit Ressie Parrott tonight. She was the first person to answer my letters at Great Lakes. She leaves for Kentucky tomorrow.

4-Jul: Went to see a wrestling match with some friends.I was thinking of a girl in Old Kentucky; I’ll be glad when she gets back.

10-Jul: Got my job back at Bridgeport Brass today. Went out to see Ressie tonight. I sure like that little gal!

13-Jul: I went out to see Ressie tonight. We stayed home tonight. Starting today, we are going steady. I’ll never regret this! I know I won’t!

13-Aug: Ressie and I have gone steady for one month today.

22-Aug: Ressie received word that her brother, Essie, was wounded in France. She was very worried.

13-Sep: Ressie and I have been going together two months today.

13-Oct: I got the sweetest card from Ressie today. We have been going together for three months.

3-Nov: Ressie and I will become engaged tomorrow.

13-Nov: Ressie and I have been going together four months today.

1-Jan-1945 (Monday): Ressie Parrott and I have been going together for 5 months, 2 weeks and 3 days. She is very good to me and I love her very much. We have been officially engaged since November 4. We have been saving our money and at this time have over $700.00 together. June 10 is the date set for our marriage.

The past year has been one of many lessons and happy memories. The happiest time was when I found the one that will live in my life forever!

***

Later that year on May 26,1945, Ed and Ressie married. And Ed was true to his word. They had been married for 71 years when his beloved Ressie died, but she continued to live in his life until his ended. He was never able to hold onto the memory that she had died. He always seemed to think that she was somewhere down the hallway.

In 1949, his family of two grew to three. I led the way of course, followed by my sister six years later, and my baby brother six years after that. In between my and Vickie’s arrival, Ed decided he wanted to establish a home in a place where he thought his family would be safe; where his children could receive good schooling and grow in a wholesome environment. His route continued to the little Town of Speedway.  He settled and remained there for over sixty years in the little house on Allison Avenue that he loved so much.

It was also about this time that he started another route – his coffee route. Ed Lash began working for Cook Coffee Company and soon became known as the Coffee Man. Few people nowadays remember such things as Cook Coffee, Jewel Tea or other such home delivery services that existed in those days. At that time, most homes were single income families, few had more than one car. There were no shopping centers, strip malls or quick marts. Ed brought a mini-department store right to their living rooms on the wheels of his orange and black truck, delivering non-perishable foods, small appliances, blankets, and his cornerstone product – coffee. Ed sold a lot of coffee over the years. He left his house each weekday before sunrise, seldom returned before sunset, and drove thousands of miles through every kind of weather to sell his goods. Up until just a few months ago, he could still recall some of his experiences on his coffee route.

Ed never really retired. When the home delivery service melted away, he sold Avon products for several years – one of the best Avon sales people in town. He drove a delivery truck for a local florist. He washed dishes at a nearby nursing home to be near his father when he was failing. He picked up litter in the local Dairy Queen parking lot for a few extra bucks a week. His last job was at Burger King. He was 86.

Ed always enjoyed his work, and he really didn’t care that much about what the job entailed, other than it be wholesome. He gave it his best effort, and he kept his family clothed, schooled and well fed. I think the thing he enjoyed most about his jobs was being with people. He was a likable man – a lovable man. He got along well with everyone. He never appeared to be shy about getting acquainted with someone he didn’t know. And he wasn’t afraid to share his faith.

Ed’s route included his travels to and from Fleming Garden Christian Church. He was baptized at the age of nineteen, and from that moment onward his faith in God became the foundation of his life. He seldom missed a Sunday worship service, and he did much more than simply attend on Sunday. There was: Sunday night worship, Wednesday prayer meetings, men’s fellowships, Thursday night choir practice. He served as a: deacon, elder, Sunday School teacher, Sunday school superintendent, bus driver – and sang in his famous gospel men’s quartet. One of his primary objectives was to see his faith perpetuated by his children, his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren.

Near the end of Ed’s journey, his route took him on a significant detour to a nursing home in Avon Indiana. He justifiably resented this at first, but seemed to adapt over time. He made new friends, told corny jokes, won many stuffed animals playing bingo, entertained others with his piano playing, and garnered the love of many people there. He often told me that he felt like a millionaire. He expressed his gratitude for the care he received. Several of the staff wept when he was carried away. Ed Lash was a peacemaker.

Ed’s faith in God never waned. Even when he had lost track of all worldly things: his surroundings, the year, the month, the day, his wife, his children – he would still raise his hands upward and pray: “Thank you Lord for blessing me!”

Perhaps the most important part of Ed’s route, was his roadmap – his Bible. Ed loved to read his Bible, and study those words of scripture. I asked him some time ago if he had a favorite passage, but I was too late in the asking. He was unable to recall. So, I have chosen the first scripture that came to mind, something that I feel is appropriate, and what I believe is one of the most powerful verses in the Bible – and the shortest.

John 11:35: Jesus wept.

Jesus was having a difficult time. He had been persecuted by his own people, accused of blasphemy and threatened with death by stoning. He had fled to a safe place, a place where many believed in him. Shortly after his arrival there, he received word from Mary and her sister Martha, that “the one you love is sick” – Lazarus. By the time Jesus arrived at Judea, Lazarus was dead and had been entombed.

Upon his arrival, Jesus consoled Martha. “Your brother will rise again.”

Martha answered, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”

Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life.  He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.”

Then “Jesus wept.”

Jesus wept tears of sorrow.

• he had been persecuted by his own people
• he knew that he would be tortured unmercifully, then experience an excruciating and painful death
• his friend Lazarus was dead

Jesus wept tears of joy.

• he knew that he would conquer death
• he knew that all of those who believed in him would receive life eternal
• his friend Lazarus was about to have his life restored

Jesus wept tears of love!

Then Jesus went to the tomb of Lazarus, and called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”

I believe that when the time is right, on that day of resurrection in which Ed Lash so strongly believed, Jesus will go to Ed’s tomb and call in a loud voice, “Ed Lash, come out!” And perhaps he might also say, “Let’s go have a seat under a shade tree, drink some sweet tea, and you can tell me about your trip, and about the route that you took to get here.”

Along with millions of other Americans, I cast my vote in the 2016 General Election today. On October 22, my ninety-year-old father cast his vote on an absentee ballot. When the polls close today, both votes will be tallied along with the other millions nationwide. I should be pleased for both of us, especially my dad – but I’m not. I’m angry!

Several years ago I received my daily telephone call from my dad at the long term care facility where both he and my mother lived.

“Hello,” I answered.

“I don’t want you to sell my house you son-of-a-bitch!” he shouted. He abruptly hung up.

I was shocked of course. I had never in my life heard him say such a thing. He seldom said anything stronger than gee whiz; maybe son-of-a-gun a few times. He never cursed. Admittedly I was slightly angered as the shock quickly receded. Sadness was the last emotion I felt as his words continued to repeat in my mind. Just a few days earlier, he had been thanking me for taking care of him; he felt quite content where he was; he said that “he felt like a millionaire.” I was saddened because I knew that this was out of character for him. He had been influenced by others who were angry with me, but lacked the courage to confront me themselves. Another cord of the rope that kept him connected to reality had frayed and broken.

Although Dad was also under the corrosive influence of Alzheimer’s induced dementia, he was able to eventually pull his thoughts together long enough to feel remorse. He called me back a few days later to express his regret. He didn’t remember exactly what he had said, but he knew it was bad. He was weeping. He begged me for forgiveness. I assured him through my own tears that everything was okay.

Over the years, Dad’s condition has worsened. The dementia has accelerated. He can no longer pull his thoughts together. He can no longer participate in conversation. If I walk out of his room and return a few minutes later, he greets me as if it were the first time. He looks at the bird cage in the leisure room and asks how the birds got in there. He can no longer convey his need to go to the bathroom and has digressed to palliative (hospice) care. The drugs he receives for pain and depression have become teammates with the dementia in virtually destroying his cognition. His wife of seventy-one years died this past August. He never mentions her. Sometimes I wonder if he remembers her. He is no longer capable of making decisions of any kind.

Two weeks ago I went to visit Dad. He was sleeping as usual. My attention was drawn to his hat sitting on a shelf that bore an oval shaped sticker with an American flag that appeared to proudly wave out the words, “I Voted”. This was my first clue that something fraudulent might be afoot. I went back a few days later and the sticker was still on his hat. The thought that Dad had been treated unfairly made me feel as if someone was rubbing that sticker in my face.

I went to the administrator’s office and asked him if he could inform me as to whether or not Dad had voted. The administrator knew nothing, but led me to a staff member who might know. The staff member told me that Dad had most likely voted, threw her hands up as if surrendering to some unseen authority and said, “Indiana state law says that these people have the right to vote.” She was referring to all residents of the facility. “Most of them vote a straight ticket though. One lady wanted to vote for Franklin Roosevelt,” she laughed. She went on to tell me that there was nothing they could do to interfere with the process. They merely stayed out of the way when the voting people – the Traveling Board, came in.

The essence of fraud strengthened and it stunk. Although I was not one hundred percent sure that Dad had voted, I felt compelled to file a grievance with the Indiana Secretary of State HAVA (Help America Vote Act) office. I continued to explore other resources and learned that on:

• March 11, 2016, Dad was registered to vote (he had no valid ID)
• March 30, 2016, Dad cast a 2016 primary election vote via the Traveling Board
• October 22, 2016, Dad cast a 2016 general election vote via the Traveling Board

The following HAVA law portion is vague to me as to whether or not voter fraud has been committed:

“Voters that require assistance or are experiencing mobility issues are welcome at the polls on Election Day, where poll workers will assist them throughout the voting process.  A voter may designate a relative or friend to assist them at the polling place.  If the voter requests assistance but does not designate someone else to help them, two poll workers (one from each political party) will be available to assist.  Those assisting a voter must complete the Affidavit of Voter Assistance at the Polls, available at the polling station, before entering the voting booth.

If you are uncomfortable receiving assistance at the polls, you may request an absentee ballot from your local county clerk’s office.”

This was all done without the knowledge of me or my siblings. No attempt was made by the Traveling Board to contact us. The nursing home staff made no attempt to notify us. Optics is a popular word nowadays and these bad optics are stirring my anger. I believe that the law was not followed.

Prior to the 2014 elections, I asked both of my parents if they wanted to register to vote. They both declined for the same reason: neither were interested in voting. They no longer understood politics and did not feel the need to vote. This is my basis for believing that Dad would not have wanted some stranger to help him vote this year.

I do believe that I know how my dad would have voted in 2016, but I know that he is not capable and I believe that it would have been unethical for me to help him vote. If I had been contacted by the Traveling Board as seemingly required by law, I would not have given them my approval to use Dad to fulfill their zeal. All eligible citizens have the right to vote. They also have the right not to vote.

Someone told me that Dad’s vote was miniscule. I don’t believe that any vote is miniscule. Otherwise Americans would not be told to “Get out and vote!”, or “Your vote counts!”, or that so many people/organizations would be willing to risk fraud – actually commit fraud to garner votes. At the most simple level, each fraudulent or questionable vote cancels one legitimate vote. My dad’s vote cancelled one legitimate vote. And Dad is just one of many thousands who may have been used this way.

If Dad knew that he had been used the way that I believe he has been used, he might very well be calling the folks at the Traveling Board. And when they answer the phone, he might very well exclaim, “I don’t want you to cast a vote for me you son-of-a-bitch!” And then he would abruptly hang up.

And he would feel no remorse.

Shelly E Lash

November 8, 2016