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Life’s Reflections from the Hot Tub

carriesuepepper • Nov 21, 2010

This morning, as I open the cover on our hot tub and slide down into warm water, looking up through bright yellow leaves to a clear blue November sky, I am greeted nearly instantly by our little hummingbird who comes to the yellow flowers Kevin has planted, ones that now tower over the corner of the tub.  He has come to say good morning and as I am filled to the depths of my being with joy over his presence, I remember where I was just a few short hours before.

I drove through the heaviest winter storm of the season, waves of rain pouring down from the upper level of the Oakland Bay Bridge, waterfalls on my windshield.  We sat in nearly-stopped traffic on the approach, red tail lights blurry through the glass, as sheets of rain buffeted vehicles inching their way toward the bridge. 

HIGH WINDS ON BRIDGE the sign flashed ahead and I was so very thankful I was traveling eastbound, on the lower level where those high winds wouldn’t cause the sway I would feel up on top.  I’d done that, gripping the wheel against the gusts, imagining how it might be to have a sudden gust sweep me off into the cold water below.  The rain came down in such heavy waves; it was like being in a high powered jetted car wash.  I sat still, listening to it drum on the roof and windows, looking about at other vehicles, hoping everyone had a dry, leak-free car, remembering times when I did not.  I noticed one sad little Toyota truck with a smashed-in driver’s door; there was a sizable gap around the top window edge; I hoped he wasn’t getting soaked inside.  I said a prayer that I was warm and dry inside my car.  Then, the sky lit up with a brilliant flash of lightening, the bolt bright and jagged across the skyline and I cracked my window just a bit and waited anxiously for the thunder, which came nearly instantly, shaking the bridge and everyone on it.  How exciting to be here in a warm glass bubble, watching this storm that was pummeling the city, sending torrents into storm drains and down the streets sweeping along leaves in the gutters.  I imagined all those who were out in this, scurrying for cover, huddling back in doorways with thin sheets of plastic, the cold soaking into their too-thin clothes, rain dripping off scraggly beards of homeless men and I said a prayer for them, and I thanked God for putting me in a safe, dry spot. 

I am sure there were those who agonized over the traffic which didn’t move for nearly an hour.  I am sure that there were tempers and headaches and folks anxious over the delay to get to their destinations.  I was grateful I had a place to be dry and warm, greatful that I was able to watch this storm with a bird’s eye view of the bridge, the city and the bay, grateful that I had plenty of gas in the tank (I’ve watched a needle on “E” many a time, praying that I would not see that light come on, knowing that there was no money in my wallet to stop).  I knew it would take me longer to get home than normal; I knew that I would have to drive much slower than I liked, and I knew that I was right where I was supposed to be – all alone with my thoughts of the day, the day that I spent with over 100 family members who all gathered together to learn more about the ongoing efforts of the military to recover their loved ones – ones lost in our nation’s battles from WWII to Korea to Vietnam.  All the information I’d been exposed to during the day was sitting in my head and heart, soaking in as this rain was pouring down from the heavens, soaking into Mother Earth.

Carrie Pepper

Relaunch

By Carrie Pepper • 15 Feb, 2024
Separate Lives

Time to Fly

By Carrie Pepper • 04 Feb, 2024
Today, while out on a walk in a very high wind, I spotted a little bird way up in the tip top of a bare oak tree; she was holding on every so tightly as the wind tossed and shook the branches. Hold on, little one, I thought. And just then, this quote came to mind. “A bird sitting on a tree is never afraid of the branch breaking, because her trust is not in the branch, but in her own wings.” ― Charlie Wardle As I watched her, I imagined my own wings and wondered just how hard the wind is going to need to blow in my life for me to loosen them, pinned tightly to my sides, unfurl them—then TRUST as the currents lift me off my (branch) and I soar effortless and without fear.

Street Signs Can Be Memory Joggers

By Carrie Pepper • 30 Nov, 2023
Out on my morning walk, street signs acted as memory joggers. Perhaps they were nudges so that I could remember, and be grateful for, these two women who were there for me as a kid. BRADFORD was the first sign. Grammy Bradford. I never called her anything else and I have no idea what her first name was, but I do remember she was there to tend to me when I was little while my mother went off to work at her government job "in procurement," which she hated. I know nothing, really, of what she did there, but I do remember the room. It seemed there were hundreds of desks in this huge room, no partitions. Dark grey desks and heavy black telephones. I visited her there a few times and she'd give me tablets and pens to keep me busy. I was ALWAYS thrilled to have a tablet and a pen! What she did there is a mystery to me, but when she and my father would argue, which was often, she'd always say, "I want my own money," and so off she went to work every morning at the Defense General Supply Center. He told her she didn't need to work, that he could support her, but, again, she wanted her own money. Back to Mrs. Bradford, Grammy. She was a bit on the heavy side (which I thought made for the best, most cuddly hugs) with long grey hair that she wore up with tons of bobby pins. She always wore a floral bib apron with large pockets and she'd fill them with pears when we'd go to that special corner of our back yard. Oh the smell! Those yellow pears and the carpet of yellow leaves. Memories of Grammy Bradford brought back memories of Thelma Massenburg. She looked exactly like Aunt Jemima (OH FOR HEAVEN'S SAKES, we can't say Aunt Jemima anymore!) Recently a friend told me he'd made pancakes and I asked what kind of syrup he used. When he said, "Pearl Milling," I thought it sounded kinda cool, but when I looked it up I found out it was the new name for Aunt Jemima syrup. SERIOUSLY? Anyway, she was wonderful. She cleaned our house, scrubbed the floors and walls and worked harder than anyone I'd ever seen. I loved her. She always wore a bandana tied around her head. She lived in a tiny reddish tar papered house with ten children. Who knows where they all slept! She was diabetic and I was a little stinker and liked to tease her with Hershey Bars. I'd wave one in front of her nose and she'd smile and say," "You bad, chile." The last time I saw her she was in the hospital and her eyes were very, very yellow. Liver disease. The scarf that was always wrapped around her head was gone and I am sure that I could hear her say, "You bad, chile," although she probably didn't. Thank you my sweet Thelma. My Aunt Jemima.
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