Proof Positive - A Picture of the Greatest Love - By Shawn Boreta
My mom reminded me of this one. I was pretty small, maybe seven or so. We were out and about one day at a local store. In those days (gee, I sound like my mom), people dropped things off behind the stores. Anyway, my mom saw this recliner - well, I'm not sure that it could be called a chair because of its torn upholstery and broken frame - behind the store. She stood admiring this heap when a man came up to see if he could help her with something. She went on to tell him how her husband would just love this chair and how great it would be to surprise him with it. The man, obviously confused and concerned offered to help. His thoughts might have been "can you imagine this poor woman being so excited over this dilapidated old chair?" The hilarious thing is that my mom, innocent and sincere and caught up in the moment about getting this chair, didn't see what the man saw until later; that man must have felt so sorry for her, because she went on and on about how her husband would just love this chair, and how would she get it home. If she left to get help someone may take it first. The man offered to help and followed us home, and dropped it off in our driveway. The scary thing is that this was normal for me. I wasn't even phased by the interaction. And, today, it may be considered child endangerment.
As a team, my mom and dad had over a hundred children come through their home. My (foster, and later, adoptive) parents, God loving people who care for the rejected and neglected, and loved and nurtured so many children in addition to me have been a true gift from God. They are such a strong reason for my faith, and that all is done with purpose and that paths are crossed for a very specific goal in mind. Whether we ever know the reasons are not, the purpose is set and the plan is played out.. I thank God that they allowed one more to come in, me. I was chosen, but what a gift I received.
The story goes, in the Forties, boy meets girl on a blind date, falls in love, commits to a life of love, loyalty and dedication. Bits and pieces of the history become a lifetime of overcoming challenges and living life. Not too long ago, I had no idea where my perseverance and drive came from. Growing up to parents who were older gave me insight to times past - like stories of growing up in the depression. My mom was the youngest of four, surviving a twin brother, and as she often said, she had the most. She bragged about lunches of "torn bread and bacon drippins". Both of my parents were from and grew up in North Adams, Massachusetts. She spoke of her father, a grandfather I never knew, who dug graves in the winter to pay for the basics during the depression and his family always ate. What a testimony for work ethic. A grandmother, who my mom swears I was named for her mom, Delia Dupra. My mom says she adored me, especially because I had her name. I recall Gramma Delia very little, mostly a dream-like memory, her smile and great hugs, and of course the verbal memories of my mom and a few pictures. My grandmother was in her eighties when she died, and her death was devastating to my mom, and still today it stabs at her heart.
My mom is a humble and noble lady. It's a stretch to say she's 5 ft. tall, gramma type. All my years she was grey; thick and wavy hair of her heritage. With a kind face, sun soaked and love-filled. She tells every story with her eyes and from the depths of her soul. Still today, her 85 year old eyes are as vital as my earliest memories. She still sparks. As a child she would sit in the kitchen, very early in the morning, listening to her grandfather, an Indian Chief do his chants and praises at dawn. She loved that sound - the singing of a proud man, who had no tribe, but did have an adoring child to listen. She probably told me that story a hundred times during my childhood, and that's all I remember from it. But I swear that I heard that song as she told the story, every time, and still do today. No matter how deep I pry into my filing cabinet, my mind, I remember nothing else. Maybe there is nothing else or everything.
Looking back, I can't remember my dad talking about his childhood. I know he had one brother, who died very young, Uncle Howard, who I never knew. My dad was a very quiet man - soft-spoken with overwhelming honor. He served in WWII, an Army soldier. His story was never told from his mouth to me, but his words telling his story ricochet through my mind. When I was eighteen or so, my mom let me read his journal. A time log of his stay in a German prison camp, starved, demoralized and isolated from everything he ever knew before the war. His imprisonment was journaled in pencil, neatly written; a documented account of the meals he would have when he returned home. I remember crying as I read about a steak, prepared rare, and a baked potato.
The feelings he would have seeing his beautiful wife and son, who he had not yet held. Reading his words that never dwelled on the severity of his fate or of the desperation of the camp. Once in a while he would note that the live stock, the pigs, had better meals than the prisoners. He would mention, chatting occasionally with a guard, about family, or bumming a cigarette. He said he spoke enough German to be conversational. The picture in my mind is a youthful, handsome man with a white t-shirt and rolled up pack in his sleeve. A snapshot I once saw. When he was freed by the Russians, my dad weighed under 120 pounds. At 5'9" and medium build, he was severely malnutritioned. It was at that moment that William Charles Therrien vowed never to go hungry again. My dad loved to eat. He was a full-bodied man by the time I happened onto the scene.
Copyright © Shawn Boreta 2010 My life is very average, and on occasion extraordinary circumstances or situations arise. In these words, are tid-bits of that life. My name is Shawn Delia Boreta and I am a fortunate woman. God has provided me many gifts, my parents, both sets are just the beginning. Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Shawn_Boreta
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