Blue to Beyond

Tag: writing

  • Remember Hasu “Love”

    In an increasingly digitized world, where self-proclaimed realities often replace genuine human connection, our spirits can become hollow, distant from the enriching interaction of others. Love, social engagement, and the profound opportunity to share our individual narratives are often sacrificed at the altar of a 3×5 screen. This past week, a routine dental appointment with my son, initially scheduled for an hour, unexpectedly stretched into three. Lost in the digital maze of my phone, I was oblivious to the extraordinary person just a few feet away—a woman who would become the most remarkable individual I would encounter that week.

    Her name was Hasu, an elderly Indian woman who sat two seats over from me. She had entered with her 90-year-old husband and their devoted son. Hasu, at 88, carried her years with an astonishing grace; her frailty was masterfully concealed by an elegant posture and a perpetually hopeful smile. Like me, she was held captive in the waiting room while her husband underwent dental work. Later, she would tell me her name, “Hasu,” means “love”—a designation that perfectly encapsulated her vibrant zest for life and her innate desire for human interaction.

    Initially, Hasu was quiet, but a sudden sound from her phone prompted a gentle apology. I quickly assured her there was no need for such. This simple exchange became the key that unlocked a floodgate of conversation—a conversation that felt as nourishing as a wholesome meal placed before a starving child. She explained how her son often cautioned her against talking to strangers, yet she relished the banter, eager to share the rich tapestry of her life experiences.

    She began by recounting her early life in Kenya, painting vivid pictures of attending school amidst the natural beauty of the forest. Around the age of 10, her family moved to Nairobi. The schooling she received in the forest had been subpar; good teachers were a rarity, leading to a less desirable and comprehensive education. Upon arriving in Nairobi, she faced the daunting task of catching up, even having to repeat a grade to grasp the academic concepts that had eluded her before.

    Hasu married at 19, a union that reflected the prevailing culture and customs of her upbringing. Her family home had been a vibrant sanctuary, filled with the joyful noise of laughter and merriment. However, once married, she moved in with her husband’s family, and her father-in-law proved to be exceptionally strict, allowing for far fewer “shenanigans” than Hasu was accustomed to. She transitioned swiftly from the carefree existence of a daughter to the demanding role of a wife, navigating the myriad facets of her new responsibilities without the full understanding of the intricate tasks that lay before her.

    It was evident that a cap had been placed on what I could perceive as a truly vibrant soul—a soul yearning to share life through words and laughter, constantly seeking moments like this one, where she could share her story, compare life experiences, and offer encouragement to those around her. Now 88, she and her husband have moved in with their son, preparing to walk the final miles of their lives together. 

    This week, instead of staring at a screen, turn your attention to the people who matter most in your life. Engage in meaningful conversations with your loved ones. Listen attentively to their stories, share your own, and rediscover the joy of face-to-face interaction. These connections are the true essence of life, far more valuable than any fleeting digital trend.

    And as you navigate these interactions, always remember the profound power of Love. By “Love,” I mean Hasu. Her wisdom, her compassion, and her unwavering belief in the good in humanity are beacons for us all. Let her spirit guide your interactions, fostering understanding, empathy, and genuine affection in every relationship. Let her memory be a constant reminder of the importance of human connection and the enduring strength of love.

  • Mountain Roots and City Moves

    I grew up on top of South Pittsburg mountain, in a home that was once the old schoolhouse. In fact, our road, Patton School Road, was named after it, turning off the main winding path up the mountain. Life back then just seemed simpler.

    My mind still flickers with memories of bottle rocket wars and Roman candle target practice. It was a true Gen X “trial by fire,” a type of childhood adventure almost unheard of today—and likely why warning labels are found nearly everywhere now! Our family history was a fascinating blend of handmade fishing lures, dachshunds, and yes, even moonshine. We were a tight-knit family: Granny, Uncle Sammy, Aunt Donna, Mom, Dad, my brother, and I. We relied on each other as our own small community to support, grow, and survive the best way we knew how. My Uncle Carl and cousins lived nearby too, though they were a bit older than me.

    My dad was a laborer by trade, working hard at one of the factories in Chattanooga, TN. He was a great example of a hard worker to everyone who knew him. I always remember him bringing a treat home from work at the end of the week, whether it was a sugary delight or some novelty he’d found. His thoughtfulness made the anticipation of his arrival that much greater. It wasn’t until much later in life that I truly understood the sacrifices and burdens my dad must have carried during those years.

    Then came 1984. He was laid off from his job, forcing us to pull up our country roots and embark on a new chapter in Atlanta. We moved into a small Winnebago—two adults, two children, and our dachshund, Sweet Pea, all squeezed into that tiny space for what felt like the coldest winter on record. I remember my 10th birthday quite vividly: receiving a bingo game and a store-bought cake. I dared not complain, because even then, I understood the immense challenges we were facing.