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Wednesday, August 31, 2016

The story of Rose



Rose has been my massage therapist for several years now. Usually I don't talk much during my massage—just lie there and enjoy. But yesterday, I was in the mood to ask her questions about her and her life. I knew so little about her.

Now in her mid-fifties, she has been in this country about sixteen years. Originally she and her family are from Croatia, a country east of Italy and north of Greece.

Rose has a rather strong accent and sometimes still struggles with her English. She will pause in talking to me and say almost to herself, “How to say . . .” She told me that when she first came to the United States, she talked a lot with her hands to make herself understood. Now as a massage therapist, she talks with her strong, caring hands to make others feel better.



She was already married with two children when her homeland of Croatia began a bitter, harsh civil war. Money and food became scarce, and Rose and her family had begun to sell the things in their house to buy food, but the things of value were getting to be fewer and fewer. Many were illegally leaving the country.

Rose's only sibling, a beloved brother had been killed before the war in an automobile accident. His girlfriend whom he was going to marry was pregnant with their son at the time of his death. Her brother's girlfriend had already fled to Germany with her young son, Rose's only nephew.

With her two children, a nine-year-old son and a toddler daughter, Rose went to “visit” her young nephew in Germany. The young family was actually fleeing to the safety that was Hanover in Northern Germany. Her husband came many months later. Rose and her family lived in Germany for five years.

In the meantime her husband's brother and his family had relocated to Minnesota. Rose and her husband moved there when their children were 14 and 8 years old. A year or so after that move, they came to the warmer climate of Nashville.

Of course, the family spoke the Croatia language. Rose's children were learning English in their respective schools, though her teenaged son in particular was shy about speaking English for fear of making a mistake and being ridiculed. Rose herself had not been exposed to much English. 

Her husband became a truck driver, and she began to work at Target on White Bridge Road, near where they first lived. Working the 11pm til 7am night shift to stock shelves, again Rose was not exposed to many English-people speaking. Because she could not speak English and communicate with customers, she wasn't allowed to work at Target in the daytime. The night crew was encouraged to work faster and faster, thus sometimes when the work was done, they would be sent home at 4 or 5 or 6 am. Of course, they lost income. While there she met another woman from Croatia, and they became fast friends. Her new friend Lucy had two young sons.



Rose did not like the job at Target nor the hours. In her home country she had worked in a hospital. So she began to work at an assisted living center in Bellevue, taking care of the residents. For her, it was a job filled with sadness because the people would sicken and be moved to another facility or die in their sleep. She would miss them too much after they had left. By now her family was living in Bellevue.

Her son mentioned that a friend of his had become a massage therapist and really liked her job. He said that perhaps Rose would like that kind of work. But first to get into massage school, she had to pass a test. It was, of course, written in English. The first time she took the test, having to read each question several times to understand it, she only got about half way through the test, and she failed it. Ten days later, she went back to take the test again; she was praying to God to help her. About two-thirds the way through the test, the time was called for “five more minutes!” She prayed again, and without time to read, just went through the remainder of the test, marking answers at random!

As she sat in the lobby, waiting for her results, she just knew that she had failed again. But soon the proctor came out and told her that she had passed, and that's how she got into massage school, where she found everyone so helpful to her! She continued to work at the assisted living center and went to school in the evenings. School was challenging, but she worked hard and graduated.

Once she got her massage license, she worked a while for a chiropractor in Cool Springs—a long drive. Then she heard about her present job here in Bellevue and has been there for six years. Recently her 24-year-old daughter, who is in law school, married one of Lucy's son; and now her 30-year-old son will marry next May, a young woman from Lavern, TN.



Rose's story is unique, yet it is probably representative of many people who immigrate to the United States. Most of them leave their homelands because of strife, face the unknown with enormous courage, and work hard against untold odds to make a home in this country. We who have never been forced to leave our homelands are fortunate, and I, for one, am pleased that so many people have found a sanctuary for themselves in the USA, as did most of our forefathers and mothers.

Friday, August 5, 2016

The call of place

There's a place that I love. Before my granddaughters were born here in Nashville, when I retired, I was going to move to this place to live out the rest of my life.

Now, of course, I choose people over places and stay here in Kingston Springs, so that my granddaughters can visit with me weekly, so that I can see them and touch them and love them. 

A river runs through it.

In stark contrast to the Rockies, these mountains are older and look softer, worn down by time and weather.

But this place still calls my name from time to time, and I still occasionally dream of moving there. But as year leads to year, I doubt I'll ever live there.


Truly, the mountains look smoky or misty at times.

It's Bryson City in Southwestern North Carolina. The little town is surrounded by the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains or the Appalachians.

It's cold white water rivers for kayaking and smoky mountains for hiking. I first went there when I was nearly forty and had just begun white water kayaking. And I fell in love with the place.


Blue grey and hazy from many perspectives, the colors are magnificient.

I was there again this past weekend, kayaking two white water rivers with friends--the Tuckaseegee (Cherokee for turtle place) and the Natahala (Cherokee for river of the noon day sun).


The mountains in all their glorious textures.

To honor my age, I have quit camping, which is what I did for the last 25 years when I went white water kayaking. And by the way, that was the first time that I had ever camped! We would usually camp at Lost Mine Campground, back in the mountains.

I have fond memories of one campsite, in particular, I named it the waterfall campsite. It was a quiet, private site behind a huge natural-made rock wall; it had a tumbling creek on two sides and a waterfall streaming down into that creek. The water sang us to sleep each night.

Now I stay in a sweet little 1950's hotel in Bryson City called the Rosewood Inn. It's right on the Tuckaseegee river, and I always get one of their "river rooms." As a matter of fact, here was the view as I drank my morning coffee on my little balcony this past weekend.



This is the Tuckaseegee River as it winds its way through Bryson City. It is white water further up the mountains and up stream, where we put in at Dillsboro.




Here is my little friend that comes back year after year. It is a rather large gold fish (that someone must have released into the river long ago), and her grey buddy (can you see him?). that swim right below the balcony.

I want to go back to this place more often and explore all of its ins and outs. My plan is to return for a couple or three weeks at a time in every season (but in the off-seasons)--winter, spring, summer, and fall. Instead of taking one big trip in 2017, I would like to return to this place several times next year.

Because the place calls me back year after year. And this next year, I want to listen to her and fully heed her call.