The Dogwood Tree

Most of you know that I grew up in a lovely little Kentucky town called Pewee Valley.  It did not get its name for its size, although it was indeed small.  Nor did it get its name from its geography, because it is actually located on a ridge and not a valley.  Supposedly the town leaders named it after the Eastern Wood Pewee bird, whose song they heard during one of their meetings.  Our town’s growth began in the mid 1850s when a rail line was completed between Louisville and Frankfort.  A rail stop was positioned at what was then called “Smith’s Station,” and gradually a community developed, particularly attracting Louisville residents who could build either year round or summer homes and use the rail line to commute to downtown Louisville when a daily line was begun.  When I was a kid, Pewee Valley was separated by hill and dale and winding roads from the furthest eastern suburbs of Louisville.  Now it is pretty much connected to those eastern suburbs, and suffers from rush hour traffic on roads that haven’t kept up with the growing population.

Our home in Pewee Valley was a large 2 story white Queen Anne style home that was built in 1890.  Its interior had been altered several times during its 100+ years of existence, but still retained many old features, like the second staircase that my family closed off and used as an unusual stepped closet.  My parents bought this home, moving from their small suburban house in the eastern suburb of St. Matthew’s, about 5 years before I was born.  By then they were already the parents of three boys and one girl and I suppose they were desperate for a bit more room.  The house was a bargain.  In the mid 1950’s new and modern suburban houses were all the rage, and not many young families wanted an old house far from the city and the newly emerging suburban centers.  Dad was in the construction business, which must have given him confidence that he could handle any needed repairs and renovations.  They filled its large rooms with furniture bought at estate auctions and left over from their own dying or moving relatives.

Our yard was almost 3 acres and filled with large trees of many varieties.   But, one of the most beautiful trees was a mature dogwood that filled with pink blossoms each spring.  It was situated on the side of our house and could be seen from any windows on that side, including the kitchen window above the sink, where my mother must have spent a good portion of her time.   The dogwood was broad and rounded in shape, with lower branches that swept down and almost reached the ground.  I have never seen so large and broad a dogwood since.  I praise its beauty now, but to the "child me" it was just another of the many trees in the yard and not one that was particularly good for climbing, which seemed to be my tomboy test of a tree’s true worth.  It’s downward swooping lower branches did make for good cover when hiding or playing some of the various make believe games children play.

Eventually I came to my adulthood and left little Pewee Valley for bigger and better things.  I was ready to delve into the world and like many that age, anxious to venture away from my small town.  I attended college in Carbondale, Illinois, a place that its many Chicago-native students referred to as small, but was certainly bigger than Pewee Valley.  Carbondale was about a four-hour drive from Pewee Valley, so I usually only returned home for holidays.  Even my summers were spent away from home on archaeological excavations.  During my last year of college the pink-blossomed dogwood tree apparently became ill, a fact that I hardly noticed on my brief visits home.  My mother’s health also began to falter at about this same time.   During my senior year of college she quickly progressed from being sickly to severely ill.  At some point during that next year the tree died and had to be cut down.  Although I have combined these stories here, at the time I did not associate the illness of the dogwood tree and that of my mother.  

After many attempts by various doctors to determine the cause of my mother’s illness, she made a trip to the Mayo clinic where she was told that she had an incurable disease called scleraderma.  It was too late for treatments that might have brought her comfort or prolonged her life a bit, and several months later she died.  But, during my Thanksgiving visit home before her January death, she told me about a connection that she had always felt between herself and the pink dogwood tree.  She said that as long as she had lived in that house, which had been about 27 years, she had felt that somehow when that dogwood tree died she would die also.  According to her, she was telling this only to me, claiming that I was the only one who would likely believe her and understand that she had always felt this way.  I’m not sure that I really was the only one to hear her story.   Perhaps she told this to my father and siblings also.  But I do know, that I had never known that she had a particular attachment to that tree.  At the time I did believe her, but over the years my analytical side has had doubts to any “spiritual/cosmic” connection between my mother and the tree.  I’ve wondered if perhaps she used the story, the way parents often use stories with their children, to help them grasp something that is easier learned in the context of a story.

I’ve only lately begun to realize the meaning and importance this story holds for me as a symbolic representation of the peace and acceptance that my mother had for death, even though she was only 55 years old, an age that looks younger and younger to me as I approach it myself.  My mother had great faith in God and seemed to have no fear of her impending death.  She was so comfortable about it that I felt incredibly comfortable and accepting of it too, despite the fact that I was only 22 years old.  There were times—later in my life --- that I felt duped by her---leading me to be so accepting of her death.  I think now, that perhaps she was trying to teach me something that I would only fully understand in bits and pieces later, as I progressed along in my adult life without her guidance.  Maybe her lesson was, that some things are inevitable, especially death, but that faith is a shield against fear of the unknown.  It has taken awhile, but I hope she somehow knows that eventually I did get it, thanks to her.   

Often when I think of my mother, I picture that pink flowered dogwood tree in our Pewee Valley yard, and remember this verse:

To every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven.

A time to be born, and a time to die.  

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away

-Mary

This is a photo of the dogwood tree in full bloom.

One of the last pictures taken of my mother.  March 1981- My wedding in the living room of the Pewee Valley home.  She died the following January.

Close Calls

Recently  I was in an auto accident.  I’m fine and lucky to have only suffered a bruised wrist and sore hand.  My Kentucky built Toyota Avalon suffered extensively and is being pieced back together like the Bride of Frankenstein.  A young man driving a Chevy Silverado hit me, along my passenger side.  The strange thing about the accident is that it occurred along the one lane stretch of a long freeway exit.  You’re probably wondering how I could get hit on the passenger side of a one-lane road.  I’m still perplexed myself.  Traffic was not slowing down.  I was unaware of the truck until the moment of impact.  Crazy driving is probably the cause.  We’ve all seen those drivers that are flying along, lane jumping, and calling it close.  Have you seen drivers like that and thought, “they’re going to cause an accident somewhere?”  Well, as I found out, they can and do.

I’m still a bit shaken by the experience and can’t help but ponder on the question of how close I, and my 86-year-old father-in-law, came to death or harm that afternoon.  How did I keep the car on the road?  What would have happen if we had been sent into the oncoming traffic of the on ramp loop that was downhill on our left?  It also got me to thinking about other close calls.  We’ve all had them and perhaps this will remind you of some of your own experiences.

When I was a sophomore in high school I was in a serious car accident.  It happen on a Friday night, after the high school football game.  My boyfriend, Roger, drove the car and the passengers in the back seat were my good friend/neighbor John and his girlfriend.  It was about this time of year.  The roads were wet and fall leaves covered the ground and back roads.  We were taking John’s girlfriend home first and she directed Roger along an unfamiliar dark and unlit county road.  He was going too fast and suddenly, from the back seat the girl yelled, “Roger there are 90 degree turns ahead.”  The next thing I remember was the sound of the car skidding and hitting the fence posts that lined the road--- “bam, bam, bam, bam” and then a loud “thunk” as we were eventually stopped by the impact of a telephone pole.  Then, my friend John, from the backseat yelled, “Get out it’s going to blow up.”  I suppose he’d watched too many movies!  Considering that the car was totaled, it was remarkable that none of us were hurt.  After the police arrived and took the report, they dropped John and I off at a gas station so we could call our parents to come get us.  I remember that John called my Dad who came to retrieve us on that cool wet night.

Sometimes our close calls come because we, for some reason or another, adjust our plans, only to find out later that by doing so we avoided disaster.  They are situations like those who decided to take a day off and didn’t go to work at the World Trade Centers on 9/11.  My next close call was of that type and oddly enough it also involved my good friend John who lived on the street behind ours in Pewee Valley.  It was the spring of our senior year (1977) and my parents were planning to get tickets to the Beverly Hills Supper Club for the May 28th show featuring John Davidson, a popular singer at that time.  They invited my friend John and myself, as kind of a graduation treat.  We were excited.  My parents had been to the Beverly Hills Supper Club (in Kentucky near Cincinnati, OH) for other events and thought we would enjoy the experience.  Dinner was included and the show was more of a nightclub type experience rather than the large rock concert type venues, John and I had attended.   We were disappointed when we found out that the event was sold out and we would not be going after all. 

Many of you, who are from Kentucky, will remember that on that day, May 28, 1977 there was a terrible fire at the Beverly Hills Supper Club.  165 people were killed in the fire that night.  The club did not have a sprinkler system, those became standard everywhere later, and there were no audible automatic fire alarms or fire stops.  Much of the construction and decorative materials used in the building were not fireproof and there were too few exits for the size and capacity of the building. The early show of the evening had just begun in one of the two performance rooms.  Many of the 3000 people there that night were finishing their dinners in the variety of dining rooms and bars when the fire broke out a little before 9 PM.  Some remember that there was no sense of panic or rush. The supper club had many rooms and my parents remembered it as being almost maze like.  Many were saved that night because a busboy ran through the building warning about the fire and pointing out exits.  But, it took a while for people to find their way out.   The major cause of death was smoke inhalation.  My friend John’s next-door neighbors, the Fawbushs, were there that night.  They were able to escape the building, but 70-year-old Bill Fawbush went back in to rescue others, resulting in his own death.  It was tragic and we were lucky that fate had prevented us from being there that night.  I’ve heard that many of the safety features we take for granted now are the result of regulations enacted after this terrible tragedy.  So, think of the Beverly Hills victims each time you see a fire sprinkler, lighted exit sign, posted capacity sign, or fire alarm.  Afterward my father always told me that the first thing I should consider when in any building, is how I would get out if there were a fire.

Perhaps these close calls are good for us.  Maybe they help refresh our appreciation of life.  I suppose that for a time at least they challenge us to evaluate our current life and behavior.  Maybe we become a little more grateful for those around us and acknowledge them in a more determined and consciousness manner.  I lost track of my friend John after we graduated.  His family moved to another part of the county and so it wasn’t as easy to connect with him, as it was when we could just cut through back yards to each other’s houses.  I went away to college and only came home for short holidays.  Later, no one seemed to know where he was, as his parents had moved yet again.  A number of years ago I was able to track down his mother in Florida and she informed me that John had died of AIDS in 1993 at the age of 34.  I still regret that I’d put off my efforts to stay in touch until it was too late.

Oddly enough, about 8 months ago, I had a close call on that same stretch of freeway exit where my recent accident occurred.  No accident occurred that time but I remember having a feeling of being spared great harm.  So, I’m thinking that for a while, at least, I don’t need any “wake up” calls by God or fate or anything else.  I’ll appreciate life and those around me even more than I normally do and perhaps make better use of my time and myself.  The Gospel reading in church on Sunday was from Matthew 25 and ended with the words, “Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”

-Mary

Article about the Beverly Hills Supper Club Fire