Bobo




	WRITE 2 THE HEART Stories that are aimed "Write 2 the Heart" April 22, 2003 Cheryl Speir, Editor, moderator@write2theheart.com ----------------------------------------------------------- Welcome to your latest issue of "Write 2 the Heart" You are receiving this newsletter because you requested a subscription or a friend generously forwarded their copy to you. To subscribe send a blank e-mail to subscribe@write2theheart.com. ------------------------------------------------------------ The people who love us, touch our hearts forever, and help shape our lives! This is Michael's first story to Write 2 the Heart, and he writes about the enduring love of his Bobo. Look for more from Michael Anderson in the future. ----------------------------------------------------------- Every Boy Needs a Bobo By Michael Lee Anderson ------------------------------------------------------------ For Heaven's sake! Can't a five-year-old boy take a nap in the backseat of a '51 Plymouth without all this commotion? What was she doing? She almost rolled up her window on that policeman's face. As my hands rubbed the sleep away from my eyes, I could hardly hear myself think. The car was stopped smack dab in front of a railroad-crossing signal. Clang-clang-clang! The noise was nearly deafening, but then.thud! The car shifted into reverse. We were going backwards. What was going on? Then we stopped. Another thud; and the car began to turn and go forward.around the railroad- crossing gate and onto the tracks! "What's happening?" I thought, still groggy from my nap. Why was my grandmother driving this way? "Watch out for the train!" I think I shouted. I sat up even higher and whipped my head from side to side frantically looking out every window for an approaching train. The car slowly rumbled across the many tracks in front of other staring people, stopped cars on both sides, and that policeman too. I remember thinking, even if we make it to the other side alive, that policeman would surely put us in jail. The clamoring of the bells grew louder as the car weaved around the end of the other crossing gate arm - the longest one I had ever seen in my life. My grandmother seemed so calm with her hands gripping the steering wheel. Did I mention how loud the clanging was? And did she see those flashing red lights? How could she do this? How could she cross the tracks when the crossing gate was down? How you ask? Because she loved me. I later learned that my grandmother had waved a policeman over to the car and asked permission to go around the crossing arms. After all, some men were just working on the tracks. There was no train coming. My grandmother had promised me if I took a good nap, when I awoke we would be at the grand opening of the big new Jewell supermarket to see the real Elsie the cow in their parking lot. She was keeping her promise to me, like she always did, and a maintenance crew working on some railroad tracks wasn't going to change that. She would never put me in harms way. She loved me. This grandmother I called "Bobo" really loved me. She could have been a ballerina. She could have been a nurse. She could have been a movie star. Instead she became a Bobo. I don't know how or why I gave her that name, but it stuck and she never complained about it. I didn't even know she had another name until I was much older. Her real name was Anna Juanita Snow, but I never heard anyone call her that. Sometimes I heard grown-ups called her Nita. Summer and Christmas vacations from school meant a visit to Bobo's house. My parents would drop me off and I would sometimes stay there for weeks. Each new day seemed like an endless series of play and pretending. I could be Davy Crockett, Captain Midnight, and Roy Rogers all in a single afternoon adventure. I never wanted those days to end. When I visited her home near Chicago, I was treated like a young prince. She would stock her pantry with my favorites like strawberry jelly, Sugar Corn Pops, and Ovaltine. She allowed me to eat lunch in her living room on my own special tray and sliced my jelly-only sandwich into four small pieces. It tastes better that way, you know. She would fix my favorite suppers like chip-beef gravy on toast with hot chocolate pudding for desert. Her cookie jar was never empty. Bobo always made me feel I was important to her. When we went to the grocery store, she wanted me to push the cart because I was "a good driver." When it was time to carry the groceries to the car, she requested that I be the one to carry the watermelon because it needed two strong arms to keep it safe. One day when I felt sad for something I had done, Bobo went with me to apologize to the little girl and her mother. I didn't mean to hit Linda's finger with the hammer. We were just trying to crack open rocks from Bobo's driveway to see what was on the inside. When I had an allergic reaction to a new soap called Lifebuoy, it was Bobo who called the doctor, then bathed me in cool water until the itching stopped. She would tuck me in at night and leave on a light just for me. We stopped at a diner once; my first. It looked like a shiny trolley car. We slid into the booth and Bobo said she was introducing me to something called a cheeseburger. No jelly sandwich today for little Mikey. Over in the corner stood a jukebox. Bobo gave me a quarter and suggested I play some tunes. I eagerly obeyed with nervous excitement. I read the titles, dropped the quarter into the slot, and quickly pushed the buttons. I jumped a little on my way back to my seat as the first song began playing loudly. But what a fabulous feeling! My Grandmother had just made me the coolest kid on the planet. Here I was, sitting in that diner; in a booth across from Bobo, eating my first cheeseburger, and everyone there was listening to the songs I picked. Suddenly all the patrons started dancing in the aisles (just kidding). Bobo told me she liked the tunes I selected. And that was just like her to praise my accomplishments and say nice things about me. She was firm when it came to my welfare. She would not allow me to run through the sprinkler before Memorial Day as I might contract polio. I could not swim in my kiddy pool for at least 30 minutes after eating lunch or I might get a cramp and drown. I could not look at the eclipse of the sun except through a shoebox (and I never figured out that one) and I was not to eat wild rhubarb (I didn't like rhubarb anyway, so she didn't have to worry.) Bobo had a husband; I called him "Gramps." He loved her very much. I know because they would sit together on the screened porch on hot summer nights and just smile and hold hands as they watched me play. He loved me too. Gramps died one day while working at the Lever Brothers' soap factory. I was eleven. Bobo lived all alone after that. She never talked much about her life, but I recall a time when she did. Once, as a grown-up boy, I took her on a trip with me to southern Indiana, a place she called "home." It was one of those first warm days of spring. Picture Bobo and I just cruisin' down those Hoosier highways. If we had a convertible, the top would have been down for sure. I wasn't that little boy anymore and I saw her, at times, getting old, but that never seemed to matter when we together. We went to some places she used to go to as a girl. Her memories seemed to come alive briefly and she would talk about them and smile. It was a trip I will never forget and I'm so glad I took the time to do it. My wife and our own boys called her Bobo too and she loved them. As she got sick and her days dwindled to a precious few, I feared each visit might be my last with her. I recall sitting with Bobo on her living room sofa one day and I asked her if we could pray together. She agreed. I don't recall what words I spoke, but I know in my heart I wanted to be assured she knew the Lord in a personal way. I was in my forties when Bobo died. She still lived in that same house I will always remember. I surely grieved that season of my life because I lost someone I loved, however I grieved much more because I lost someone who really loved me. Bobo loved me. She really did. Michael Lee Anderson new.song @ juno.com You are encouraged to write to the authors to let them know what you think of their story, just remember to remove the space before and after the @ symbol. The space is placed in the address to protect our writers from viruses and email harvesting programs. Have a comment on today's story? Send it to: moderator@write2theheart.com ---------------------------------------------------------------- Michael Lee Anderson works for the Parable Group, an association of Christian stores. He is the Treasurer of the Cherokee Christian Writers Group and lives with his wife, Kathy, in Ball Ground, Georgia. -------------------------------------------------------------- Last Thursday, I made a mistake on Nancee's name. No, not her first, but her last. It is Donovan. I told you last week what a great encourager she is. Well I have since found out what a wonderful caring person Nancee Donovan is. Each week she gets together with others in her '59 club to send out cards of celebration, encouragement, and sympathy to any of their old classmates who may need a pick-me-up. -------------------------------------------------------------- Letters From Our Readers -------------------------------------------------------------- Good Morning! This is an absolutely wonderful story, just like the person who wrote it! God Bless You Nancee! Michelle Cholar South Carolina What a great story Nancee told of the Chocolate Mint Cake! Nancee is a great encourager, with an eagle eye, I can vouch for that. She is fast becoming a dear friend. She has helped me in more ways than she can ever know! Betty King www.betty.newsmoose.com --------------------------------------------------------------- Military Prayer Reminder --------------------------------------------------------------- As you read over this list of names, please take that moment to pray for these young people and their families: Chris Speir Tim Speir Alan Thaddeaus Howard Todd Holland Graham William Julie Sagel Jessie Marshal Thompson Jason Eric Hernandez Kristin Danielson Please continue to pray for our country, our leaders, and our troops at this time. If you have loved ones in the military, or who are being called to go overseas, send their names (first and last or first only) to be included in our prayer reminder. --------------------------------------------------------------- Chocolate Alert! I know that got your attention! I am working on a chocolate cookbook to be given away on Write 2 the Heart's web site. This work in progress is tentatively called "Write 2 the Heart of the Chocolate Lover." Anyone who would like to join in the delicious fun, send a chocolate recipe with a brief bio to be included after each recipe. Send as many as you wish. --------------------------------------------------------------- Cheryl's Corner Well, he's done it! David has had his annual spring accident. Every spring he has to do something that could cause harm to him. One year, he cut his leg to the bone with a chainsaw while forty feet up in a tree. Another year he had a run in with a camper shell he was discarding and dislocated his leg. One year he fractured his foot, we never did figure out how. Last Saturday, he was mowing an incline when the wheel got caught in a hole. He rocked the mower gently to try and get it going forward. When he did, the blade hit the ground causing the mower to flip with him on it. He and the mower rolled together once, and separated; both continued down the hill. Praise God he is alive! I can't say the same for the mower. God Bless, Cheryl ----------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------- © 2003 Write 2 the Heart Nothing may be reproduced or published without the written permission of the individual author or copyright owner. All rights belong to the authors.