THE CHAIR

 

A series of essays….

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Sometimes all it takes is a pinched finger to feel you are truly alive!

With tummies satiated after devouring a rather large, pristine white bowl of chicken curried soup awash in stalks of fresh basil, a spritz of citrus, and the clean crunch of a slender sprout, we hug our friends good-bye at Phở Vinh, our favorite Vietnamese restaurant in Orlando. Dan brought me here for my sixtieth birthday and we’ve been returning on a monthly basis ever since, until our move in 2018. Also, we think their beef phở is the best in town.

Today’s story originates from what I saw and imagined in the back parking lot of the building. And, so the story goes…

My life began all handmade and new—not mass produced—with the idea that the young family who owned me would sit together for family meals. The grandpa (known as papa) of this family worked with his hands to make most of the furniture adorning the simple three bedroom ranch-style home while saving the young couple a bit of money and allowing them to choose the style and wood tones of each precious piece. 

I emerged with style and grace as a set of six dining room chairs. Two of my pine siblings boasted arms while carrying the title of ‘captain’s chairs.’ I liked being armless because this meant that the two rambunctious children of the household could slide and squirm a little bit more as they sat down at the oval table we pulled ourselves under for the duration of each meal. I’m all about having room and a bit of freedom no matter how old we are.

Well, let me be the first to say that those two kids shined my finish so well throughout the years that when papa passed away and mom and dad, now empty nesters, decided to downsize and move a few states away, I was sold (I prefer to say handpicked) to a college student who planned to provide more seating in her dorm room. She chose to bring another of my siblings along for the wild and crazy ride. What happened to our two ‘captains’ and the two remaining armless pieces in my family, I will never know.

In the beginning, we lived life on the edge with clothes of all varieties thrown randomly and in large quantities on our backs and seats. Nobody actually sat down on us, simply because they couldn’t. One day in late spring a mother of one of the students stopped by and removed the clothes. I felt I could breathe once again. After mom left that evening, I overheard our two girls planning a spring party for the next evening right there in the dorm. 

The party was wild with open beer cans tipping over on us, the contents soaking into my tired wood fibers while denim-clad bottoms soaked up their own fair share. As the night wore on and excessive verbiage turned into unrecognizable babble, the overhead fluorescents suddenly clicked off and peace regained its hold on our little world.

By the end of spring semester, our girls abandoned us and rented a furnished apartment just off campus. We had served their purpose and I couldn’t help but wonder what our fate would be. Evidently, the college, being very charitably minded, donated all of the furniture left behind in the dormitories to people in need and I soon found myself alone; my trusty sibling was not by my side on this particular roller coaster ride.

Even though I still felt sturdy enough to take on a sizable human being without difficulties, was I prepared for my new position as ‘chair of all trades’ within a commercial paint shop downtown? At first I allowed customers to sit down and relax in the small waiting room. Then, someone decided to give me a fresh coat of white paint in order to dress me up a bit and make me look new. I had never had paint coating the seasoned pine of my early existence and decided that it really wasn’t so bad after all. Actually, I felt protected by it.

By the time the elongated brown bench arrived to take my place in the waiting room, I was relocated to the business end of the paint shop and that’s when all hell broke loose.

I was misused as a small ladder with the soles of work boots grinding into my seat and the fresh, white paint began to wear off like yesterday’s news. If I could shed actual tears—I would have. My delicate spindles designed to comfort a weary back were being used by the ‘creative’ little daughter of the shop’s owner as the bars of the gorilla habitat at the local zoo. In her mighty attempt to escape between the cage’s bars, she would flex my spindles until they spread apart taking on a new life for themselves.

But, like time itself, things can change in any given moment. And, I had to change right along with it. You see, the little girl’s uncle, her mother’s brother, owned a Vietnamese restaurant and saw me wasting away in his brother-in-law’s paint shop. Since his lobby was rather small, he’d decided that I was a perfect fit, along with one other misplaced chair sporting horizontal slats and painted a deep green, for a place to sit while his customers waited to be seated at a table.

He graciously placed a small, round table between the two of us that sported a clear, cut-glass vase and colorful fresh flowers. I felt very dignified, once again, and proud to be serving others as I did so many years ago in that small, ranch-style house in the city.

The months and then years progressed. The little girl’s uncle, salt and pepper hair thinning, and owner of my little restaurant made some changes of his own and handed down his highly acclaimed eatery to his oldest son. Like his award winning signature dish, beef soup or phở, that is such a staple of Vietnamese restaurants in America, he left on a high note to walk white, sandy beaches and soak-up the glorious heat of the sun. 

My slatted friend and I were well maintained throughout the following years and the many displays of fresh flowers between us. One day, we coud feel the cold, slender fingers of change lurking around the corner and braced ourselves for it. The new owner decided to place me in the restaurant’s cozy kitchen for the staff to rest their weary bones when needed. I enjoyed all of the wonderful delights the kitchen had to offer by way of wholesome smells, delightful warmth, and the good people who sat down for a brief respite from working hours on their feet.

It was all done for a very noble cause and the time passed by with convivial laughter surrounding my own weary bones as my paint began chipping away and my spindles became weak and misshapen. I began to forget how gentle papa’s hands were as he shaped me from raw wood and held me together with glue and lots of love. 

And then my services were reaching a completely new dimension when my friend, Nhieu, decided he wanted to sit down outside at the rear of the building to smoke his cigarette at break time. Did he forget about me after that first incident? Didn’t he understand that my real home was in the corner of the kitchen? For the first time I truly wished I could somehow communicate with him, but knew that wasn’t how it worked.

For a long, long time I sat like a terracotta warrior propped-up against the chipping stucco, proud and strong as any aging artifact can be. The Florida sunshine and heavy rains seeped into my bones, my very soul, but my crusty exterior refused to cave even when the humidity aged me and did all it could to strip my dignity to shreds.

Then, one summer evening, as I silently wallowed in my dismay, a couple who had just finished eating dinner at the restaurant were getting into their car in my parking lot. I listened for the sound of gravel beneath the tires but it wasn’t happening. The woman removed her Smartphone from her purse and stared at me with devoted interest. I hadn’t a single clue about what her intentions might be.

Centering the phone’s camera right at me, she took several pictures from a vertical perspective and then several focussed horizontally until her curiosity thoroughly intrigued me. Who was she? What was it about me that interested her so much? I wasn’t sure. I knew that I felt excited and, almost, important once again. I’d hoped she found what she was looking to capture and that I didn’t disappoint her. 

I think I knew what the answers were by looking into her green eyes and feeling hopeful and vindicated by the possibilities. One day she will write a story about my life and illustrate it with the only pictures she has of me and everything will be set right and my purpose for being will be revealed to those who care.

CURRIED CHICKEN SOUP

Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

Photo Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes 

All rights reserved

HOW TO DETERMINE IF WE ARE GROUNDED AND HOW DID WE EVEN GET THERE?

 

A series of essays….

MY BEAUTIFUL UKRAINIAN FAMILY ~
I AM SEATED ON GRANDMA’S LAP AND RONNIE IS TO MY RIGHT.
MY MOTHER IS IN SECOND ROW FROM TOP, SECOND FROM THE RIGHT.

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

To be grounded is to possess a firm and unwavering foundation, an internal strength and self-confidence that sustains you through ups and downs and from which deep and enduring success can be found. It’s simple to describe someone who is grounded as one who is sensible and down-to-earth or, plainly, having one’s feet on the ground.

Are we born grounded? Or, would our place of birth encourage us to become grounded through the sense of ancestry, community, responsibility, and location?  We may ask ourselves what is it that sustains us—strengthens and supports us both physically and mentally—and then come up with examples that have helped to keep us grounded and true to ourselves and those around us. 

The meaning of being grounded, for me, holds such diversity from generation to generation considering I’d spent many of my early years in the home of my Ukrainian grandparents in Mishawaka, Indiana. My grandparents were raising their five youngest (adult) children who still lived at home as they were pursuing their higher education, work endeavors, and even just graduating from high school. The six older siblings had already left the nest to find jobs and raise families of their own.

It was a whirlwind arrangement that tossed my older brother and me between the Ukrainian language spoken by my grandparents and English, the preferred language of my aunts and uncles, as the younger generation planted their feet firmly onto the New Land and the modern ideas they embraced. Sadly, distancing themselves from their parents and the Old World (Ukraine) that represented their heritage was their desire and main goal as they spread their wings and learned how to fly in America.

My brother and I could see and feel the distance growing between parents and children. With grandma working constantly to maintain the house and ‘feed the troops,’ and grandpa spending his time raising a vegetable garden in the back yard, their younger children pursued personal happiness and did very little to assist their parents. 

Ronnie and I were grandpa’s faithful students and learned how to grow and maintain the veggie patch. Grandma would spend days canning what she could to supplement the family meals during the winter. The five children at home wanted to flaunt their youth and ties to freedom during the early 1950’s, after WW2 had ended, and frequently showed their distain towards the two people who helped to make their lives comfortable. They were, indeed, their own generation.

Our parents both worked throughout the summer months and depended on my mother’s parents to watch over us during the week. Grandma would have a huge meal prepared as everyone slipped into the backdoor around five-thirty in the evening. Soon, after dinner, my parents would scoop Ronnie and me up for the short drive home only to repeat the day beginning in the early morning hours.

My grandpa and grandma fought a long, difficult flight to avoid the Bolsheviks back in the Ukraine (Soviet Union) as this group, led by Vladimir Lenin, would soon become the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and represent the animosity and hatred that the Communist Party opened-up and enforced on the people. 

My grandparents were so proud to have been able to bring over from the Motherland pieces of furniture that were a part of their heritage via their own parents and would serve to keep them grounded in this foreign land they had adopted as their own. This land is where their own children were born, loved, and raised as citizens of the United States. My American (Ukrainian) aunts and uncles became math teachers, a Russian History and Language professor, a Master Electrician, an Executive Secretary, mothers and housewives raising their own young citizens in a land that opened its arms as wide as possible to those seeking refuge and kindness while their feet were being planted firmly on the ground.

I am most proud of the fact that both of my grandparents studied the Constitution, passed the test, and became citizens of the United States in the mid 1950’s!

Late summer of 1975, we were invited to a family reunion which included my Ukrainian relatives living in the States and a large contingency of Ukrainian relatives who had remained, survived in, or returned to the Motherland to settle in or around the city of Kiev. They flew over to the Chicago area for several weeks to meet their American relatives. How fortunate we all were to mingle with and talk about our own experiences and try to understand what gave us internal strength and self-confidence along the individual paths we followed. 

I am very proud to acknowledge my Ukrainian roots—even more so now that my maternal ancestry, including the land, her people, and politicians, has been enduring an unwanted conflict with Russia for over two years and, miraculously, continues to hold tight even when recent aid has not been forthcoming! They are a strong, resilient people who, because they remain grounded to their heritage and the land they love so much, fight long and hard and by whatever means necessary to keep what is rightfully theirs. 

As a citizen of the United States living in America, I feel I am grounded by family and the long roots of freedom that my ancestors desired and fought to achieve. Arriving in a new land to work and put down your own roots without speaking the language or knowing how family and friends were surviving back home, had to be difficult. To find employment, marry, and raise children in this new land is quite admirable. 

I am a product of sturdy, ambitious, and brave individuals who escaped death only to bring life into this world—including my own. I am eternally grateful for this. Because of Alexandria and Antone’s hard work and belief in themselves, I live a sustainable existence today and possess a firm and unwavering foundation with love in my heart and feet planted firmly on the ground.

Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

WHAT IS BEAUTY?

 

A series of essays….

TAKEN NEAR STIRLING CASTLE IN SCOTLAND.
I FIND TRUE BEAUTY IN HONORING THE LIVES THAT 
PRECEDED ME AND CONSIDER CEMETERIES 
VERY ENDEARING AND BEAUTIFUL.

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

When I began my Blogging career over ten years ago, I was a bastion for all ideas past, current, and future that related to anything regarding the travel life. I was out of the league of a Samantha Brown, but I held the travel bug deep inside me and called on the beauty of travel to guide me through its inner landscape and feel comfortable sharing my personal experiences with readers like you.

This particular trip to The Wild Atlantic Way of Ireland was our fourth as we continued to work our way north along the coast and the outstanding beauty of Western Ireland. Four years before, traveling with friends, I’d booked a two night stay at Craggy Island B&B in Doolin and Dan and I became friends with the owners, Adrian O’Connor and his extremely kind wife, Bev.

Irish traditional music has been a central part of life in this area of County Clare for many years and Doolin has become known as the traditional music capital of Ireland. Our host was an essential component of this vibrant music scene throughout the year and played various instruments with other local musicians in all three pubs in Doolin. Adrian created and produced his own music and contributed a haunting CD which we gladly purchased to bring back home.

ADRIAN’S LOVE FOR DOOLIN SHINES THROUGH

The enlightening music that he composed and for which he was loved and known for suddenly became a part of us and was instantly embedded in our hearts. We realized that we were being called to his music and willingly traveled the path it had taken us on. As in his music and the poetry within his music, I have always likened this enlightenment to literature and ask, why do we read books? And the most simple and direct answer is always, because that is where the wisdom is. Wisdom and pure emotion is in Adrian’s music.

Since meeting Adrian and Bev and sharing the fullness of their lives, we knew that life itself would never be the same. Life was richer now; so full and complete it was almost exotic, in a sense. 

The Burren, the villages of Lisdoonvarna (home of the Matchmaking Festival each year) and Ballyvaughan, Cliffs of Moher, and Doolin itself, one of the last stops before sailing out to the amazing Aran Islands, County Clare and its people have so much to give and we were the willing recipients of all this area had to offer. By the time we came back to Ireland in 2010 to rent a small cottage north of Galway City, we’d heard that Adrian’s health had been severely compromised. We took a chance and stopped by Craggy Island on our way back to Shannon Airport with the hope of talking with him, once again.

This beautiful man, pounds lighter, more frail, but without having lost any of his innate vibrancy, greeted us with grace and charm and invited us in for coffee. Many of us had asked him to create another CD, more beautiful music, but his illness was too strong to have him comply. He did, however, claim his Irish Uilleann pipes and played us several songs while we sat out soaking up the warm, Irish sunshine.

ADRIAN GETTING READY
TO PLAY HIS UILLEANN PIPES

ADRIAN AND ME AT CRAGGY ISLAND B&B

Bev, a nurse, was at work and Adrian promised to give her hugs from us upon her return home knowing that she would be disappointed having missed us. 

In September of 2018 we had set-up a visit with Adrian and Bev in Doolin. We were traveling with good friends and were delighted to share our Irish friends, the trad music, and the warmth of Gus O’Connor’s Pub with Michael and Marsha. Surreal might be the best way to describe this beautiful evening; the perfect mix of fact and fantasy! The inner landscape of beauty that pulled us in and surrounded all of us with its deep, lasting love can be conjured up each time I think about that night. It will, gladly, stay with me throughout my lifetime.

So, if you should ask me the question, what is beauty?, I would reply, that magical night in Doolin, for certain. I would be quick to add the images of our daughters and grandchildren, new buds on the trees, a rolling Yorkshire landscape, poetry read aloud for all to absorb, our dog named Bree, any and all music that stirs the soul and puts a swing in your step. Beauty is everything you want it to be and even…nothing at all; the blank slate of pure emptiness when we close our eyes and all is silent, all is still.

BEV AND ME CATCHING UP WITH LIFE

 BEV, ADRIAN AND ME AT GUS O’CONNOR’S 
PUB IN DOOLIN IN 2018

MINE WERE TEARS OF JOY WHILE TALKING
WITH MY FRIEND AND HERO, ADRIAN O’CONNOR

The late Irish philosopher, poet, and author, John O’Donohue, writes about beauty from every aspect in his book of the same name and asserts that beauty is a gentle but urgent call to awaken and celebrates it as a homecoming of the human spirit. Beauty is the hope we should never relinquish. O’Donohue opens our eyes, hearts, and minds to the wonder of our own relationship with beauty by exposing the infinity and mystery of its breadth. He reveals how beauty’s invisible embrace invites us toward new heights of passion and creativity even in these uncertain times of global conflict and crisis.

The word glamour does not apply here. Its superficial and exciting attractiveness is usually associated with striking physical beauty, luxury, or celebrity. Love, kindness, hopefulness, joy, and contentment define much deeper forms of beauty and personal satisfaction.

In early September of last year, we met a couple while having a drink in a hotel bar in Burford, a beautiful village in The Cotswolds Hills of England. They popped over from Chipping Camden, just up the road, to enjoy dinner and a night out.

We talked about travel, life experiences, and everything that made us truly happy. I told of our friendship with Adrian O’Connor in Ireland. Dan, phone at the ready, looked Adrian up to show them who he was and relay his ties to trad music considering our new acquaintances were in the music business, as well.

Sadly, we discovered that Adrian had recently passed away from the cancer that ultimately consumed him. Had beauty failed us, lost forever by the absence of this man, our friend? Tears arrived later that evening as Dan and I reminisced about the many years we shared Adrian with the world. Instinctively, we knew that the beauty he represented within our lives had actually expanded, released into the entire world for all to cling to, rejoice in, and immortalize for all of eternity.

Adrian’s death was a call to be awakened. We knew we must celebrate his passing as a homecoming of the human spirit. His life, his story, would offer all who knew him the comfort and hope required to carry on and pass the beauty we knew in this world on to everyone else. Your kindness, Adrian, will be remembered and passed down through your spirit to all who knew you and all who find solace in good people who care about others and set positive examples for us to follow.

Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

Photos Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes 

All rights reserved