Consider the Lilies

By Terry Hickey Abercrombie

In Consider the Lilies, author Terry Hickey Abercrombie presents a heartwarming collection of stories and poems for her high school friend, General Wayne Downing; her dad, D. H. Hickey; and her large familyincluding six grandchildren. Her family and friends have provided much of the inspiration for this collection. In these personal stories of triumph over loss and of joy in the simple moments of life, she captures the true emotion and loving Christian spirit of the holidays, from the turkey she won but decided was designated for a higher purpose to the hug and kiss she received from her son on Christmas. She shares spiritual as well as emotional insights in each of her stories and poems. Consider the Lilies offers an inspiring glimpse into a life well-lived. Waiting for the Sunshine Oh! Its so cold, dark and dreary. When I go out I feel weary. The sun wont shine just for a while. Just to see it could make me smile. Windows are iced up as can be. Cars wont start even jauntily. Everyones sick with colds and flu. Sub-zero weather makes me blue. I cant wait till the sun comes out. It will warm everything about. Oh! To see the green grass and trees And hear birds singing melodies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: Nov 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462400348

Terry Hickey Abercrombie

Terry Hickey Abercrombie is the youngest daughter of harness racing expert D. H. Hickey. She has been involved in prison ministries and co-founded Northwest Christian Singles. Presently, she spends her time scrapbooking and designing greeting cards. She resides in Peoria, Illinois.

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Copyright © 2011 Terry Hickey Abercrombie

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ISBN: 978-1-4624-0033-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0034-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011943039

Printed in the United States of America

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/17/2011

Contents

Introduction

Dedication

Epigraph

CHRISTMAS

VALENTINE’S DAY

ST. PATRICK’S DAY

EASTER

FAITH

THE SEASONS

MOTHER’S DAY

GRADUATION/COLLEGE

WEDDINGS/ANNIVERSARIES

FATHER’S DAY

MILITARY

TRIBULATION

SAYING GOODBYE

BIRTHDAYS

CHILDREN/GRANDCHILDREN

FRIENDSHIP

Afterword

Conclusion

Bibliography of References

List of Illustrations

1. Pastel painting—Terry and Anne Hickey 1943

2. Oil on canvas—Michelle Lynn Mahrt

3. Oil on canvas—Shirlee and David Hickey 1934

4. Wayne Downing and Friends—newspaper photo

5. Wayne Downing—1944 photo

6. Angel sculpture

7. Pastel painting—Marjie Hickey Hull and rainbow

8. Chuck Perry—1971 photo

9. Oil on canvas—Cheyenne and Ethan Perry 2002

10. Lilies

Introduction

I have always loved to write—from the time I was a young girl—and was influenced by my Aunt Inez Killey, who worked for Women of the Moose of Aurora, Illinois as a writer and later, National Geographic in Washington, D. C. She died in 1946 of tuberculosis when I was six years old. My Dad, D. H. Ham Hickey was also a writer for harness racing magazines and eventually started his own monthly periodical, The Standardbred Horse.

My first poems were for greeting cards I made Mom for Mother’s Day. At school, the teachers had some greetings already printed up for us to choose for the inside of our cards. One Mother’s Day card I made had a sympathy message inside. Of course Mom never told me that I chose the wrong message. After the holidays Mom would give them back to me to put in my scrapbook.

It was only natural that I would continue writing as an adult. The oldest poem in my book was written when I was nineteen to my first husband and I continued to write even while raising my three sons. Whenever I had special people in my life, some devastation or happy moment, I would write poems or stories about them.

My large family and vast friendships I’ve had through my volunteering have given me much opportunity and inspiration to write about.

Most of the poems I’ve written were based on the theme of a particular greeting card that I used for the inside—for a family member or friend. It’s a way of expressing how special they are to me.

I had also written some of my stories and poems for the opening of my talks for the singles groups, different prison ministries or a Cursillo team that I was involved with. When I volunteer, it seems like I get more blessings than what I give.

Dedication

My life experience with my family and friends was the inspiration for most of my stories and poems. Some have already gone to be with the Lord, some I haven’t had the opportunity to spend a lot of time with lately, and some I’m able to see only on occasion that live close to me. No matter where they are, they have not been forgotten; for they have helped mold me into the person I am today and have brought me great joy. Without them in my life, there would not have been much to write about. My large family—one brother and six sisters—and friends have brought me so much happiness, as well as, most importantly, my three sons and six grandchildren that are truly the best things that have ever happened to me—besides my Lord—Who will always be number one in my life.

Epigraph

Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, O you of little faith! And do not set your heart on what you will eat or drink; do not worry about it. For the pagan world runs after all such things, and your Father knows that you need them. But seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well. Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will not be exhausted, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys.—Luke 12: 27-33 NIV Bible

CHRISTMAS

1.jpg

Pastel painting - Terry and Anne Hickey 1943

The Doll in the Picture

My Dearest Daddy,

I don’t quite know how to begin this letter. So much has happened that I don’t fully understand. I try to put myself in your shoes, but it’s impossible to do that. I thought that my only memory of you was that dreadful day when you and Mom had that big argument. When Mom died in 1986 (I was given two pictures—one of Anne and me on Christmas Day in 1943 and another of just the tree and our presents—and it jogged my memory a bit. I never thought that any picture would or could mean so much to me. I know that that is me in the picture, but I really don’t feel like it is. It’s like seeing it in a dream and that little girl sleeping isn’t really me. Does that make any sense?

Anne named her doll Shirlee after our oldest sister. Shirlee named my doll after me—Fair Rosemond Terry. It was a fitting name for such a beautiful doll. We both treasured those dolls. I used to pin fabric around Fair Rosemond to make different outfits for her; then, when I was old enough to thread a needle, I started designing her clothes.

I noticed that the presents weren’t wrapped. They were perfect presents, especially the doll. There are three dolls amid the other presents on the floor, one for us three youngest girls, Janet, Anne, and me. In the eyes of a three-year-old, that Christmas tree seemed magnificent, but looking at it now, it looks like there was only about one string of lights and just a few ornaments on the tree. How could there be, with a wife, one son, and seven daughters to feed?

I remember sitting for hours, looking through the tiny hole in the kaleidoscope at the pieces of color that seemed to dance into all kinds of exquisite designs. The clock on the console radio says 3:00 a.m. I guess that’s when you took the first picture, probably right before you went to bed.

I recall the hours we’d sit around that console radio, listening to Inner Sanctum in the dark to make it scarier (per our brother Dave). Then there was the Fibber McGee and Molly show—did you know that they were from Peoria? The noise was horrendous when Fibber opened his infamous junk closet. The clanging and banging was enough to set off a racecar at the Indy 500—let alone the hollering that Molly would do about how Fibber ought to clean it out someday soon. I can just about hear Molly hollering, Fiiiibberrrrrrrrr!

Five-year old Anne is wide-awake—sitting on the floor beside me—engrossed in the Magic Slate and holding a doll like mine. I am in the large stuffed chair, sound asleep with my thumb in my mouth clutching onto a blanket. My other arm is wrapped around Fair Rosemond. I remember the black-and-white panda bear that’s lying beside me also. There is a flat, rectangular-shaped box with pictures of boats and airplanes on it and titled Fleet—a typical present during World War II. There must have been a small war raging between you and Mom at that time that would soon invade the heart of a three-year-old girl, changing her life forever.

Daddy, I really have no way of knowing what part—if any—Mom played in your running around on her that subsequently led up to your leaving; but that’s all in the past. I’m going to close my eyes right now and pretend that I am watching you picking out our presents for our very last Christmas together in 1943.

I see you, tall, thin good-looking, walking down the aisles of toys looking rather forlorn until your eyes catch sight of a beautiful doll. As you pick up the doll to look at it, you see that one hand is missing. You set it back on the shelf and start to walk away. Suddenly you go back and pick it up again. You start walking with it. I think you’re searching for someone. Yes, you’re looking for a salesclerk. You see a young woman straightening the coloring books. You walk over to her and show her the doll.

I notice that this doll has a hand missing. I wonder if you would sell it to me at a reduced cost. I think my baby girl would love and treasure this doll even without the hand. I have eight children to buy for and only a modest amount of money.

Let me see if I can find the department manager. I’ll take the doll with me if you don’t mind.

Yes! The clerk goes off to find her manager and explain the situation to him. The manager is very accommodating and says she can sell the doll for one dollar. She goes back to tell you that.

Thanks! You hand her the money plus enough for two more. She puts the dolls in a sack. You’ve really made my day. Have a Merry Christmas!

You too.

Daddy, in my imaginary story, you were right. I really did love that doll. My enchanting memory was shattered to pieces that following spring. Anne and I were the only ones home at the time. You and Mom had gotten into a big argument. The dialogue that took place is unclear to me now, but the next thing I remember was Mom searching for her shoes so she could leave. Anne and I knew where they were, but you wouldn’t let us tell Mom. That was very painful for me to see Mom hurt like that. Her shoes were under the chest of drawers in your bedroom. Mom finally left the house barefooted. She stayed with a friend, Lucille Grove. It must have happened sometime before Easter, because I recall the new coats and hats that Mom and Lucille made for us four younger girls to wear to church on Easter Sunday. Mine was my favorite color—blue.

Shortly after Easter, Mom came home, and you left. I had no idea the years that would pass before I would see you again. Eleven years had elapsed since the happenings in the picture took place until our next encounter at the funeral of Grossie How could a young girl of fourteen erase eleven years of heartache? I had no pictures of you so I couldn’t even remember what you looked like. I doubt you would have known me if I hadn’t sent you my school pictures. At night when I said my prayers, I always asked God if He would bring you back home so I would have a dad like all my friends had.

Daddy, I’ve heard so many bad things about you, I don’t know what to think. I don’t want to remember you the way everyone else does. I’ve been taught that there is some good in everyone. (Fourteen-year-old Anne Frank wrote in her diary while hiding from the Nazis in World War II, In spite of everything, I really believe that people are basically good at heart.) But if that’s so, why don’t I have something good to remember you by? Sometimes I thought that maybe it would have been easier on me if you had died. Now, fifteen years after your mom died, your own death has come. It is so sad for me. As I looked at you one last time in your casket, I wondered who you really were. Were there other children in your life to take our place? Did you miss being a real father as much as I missed you being one? Will I ever know? I look for something of yours to grasp. Anything. I find nothing! At twenty-nine years old I still don’t