gratitude – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

(dear readers, thanks for kindly indulging a shout-out. We celebrate a granddaughter’s graduation and commissioning tomorrow, May 23, 2025, at the U.S. Naval Academy, Annapolis. Well done, “amazing” Grace.)

Social media was abuzz a while back as myriads of accolades found their way to devices of all kinds, lavishing praise upon a host of individuals – daughters, wives, mothers, sisters, grandmothers. A nonstop flow of celebration spotlighted this distinctive sector of humanity occupying our planet.

Women.*

Which prompted me to reflect on a select list (not exhaustive by any means) of ladies who’ve especially affected my life from “back when”. The exercise gave rise to awakened feelings of gratitude.

*My country-girl mother, Thelma Christine Bay Lout, riding urban buses day after day across the busy metropolis of Tulsa, just to sit for hours at my bedside. Prayers accompanied her presence through those three months of my residency in Hillcrest Hospital’s Polio Ward. When specialists voiced no assurance that my paralyzed legs might ever again bear up my body’s weight, mom weathered the prognosis. Loving me. Interceding for me.

*The evening eighteen-year-old Alice Ann Barnes – sitting next to me beneath a Billings, Montana street lamp – pondered my request as I timidly asked her to become my wife. The marriage proposal included a fine-print detail I felt I should in fairness share, “You and I would likely be living overseas. Probably Africa.”

Ann Smiled (a positive sign?). Then responded,

“When I was nine-years-old I told my parents I was going to grow up and be a missionary in Africa”.

Ann’s ‘yes’ resulted in some daring moves. Leaving her Big Sky country, venturing to live in Oklahoma, Texas, then New York. Afterwards, it was Kenya and Tanzania. Our first child (Julie), then our second (Scott), and finally our thirdborn (Amy), each drew in their first baby breaths in a delivery room of Nairobi Hospital. In time – decades later – Ann would work as a Registered Nurse in a large medical center back again in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

The facility’s name rang a bell. Hillcrest Hospital, whose original facility (same location), had once served as a place of shelter and care for the uniquely ill. Children and youth besieged by a virus called poliomyelitis.

*She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future. (The Proverbs Woman, Prov. 31:25)

The Kevin Costner ‘Dancing With Wolves’ title sparks memories from my childhood days on our family’s acreage north of Okmulgee. My LIMP memoir* features a tweaked label, ‘Dancing With Snakes’. The pages capture a bladder-triggering moment when an unsuspecting serpent concealed in tall, meadowland grass suddenly spiraled its body straight up my blue-jeaned leg.

Meanwhile, at this Fourth of July season, I call up a different encounter – one mildly competing in terms of drama with that of the pastureland jig.

I was ten, and our family was enjoying an Independence Day outing at a modest cabin on the banks of the Neosho River. . .

“Come here you. Now stay put, little froggy.”

I was fishing with a simple cane pole and line, and had run out of worms when the frog risked hopping into view.

Threading it to my hook, I cast the line and waited for a fish to attack my new bait. I lingered a minute or two. Nothing.

Drawing the pole back, I retrieved the line and lay it and the pole down. The frog continued stirring.

“I’ll be back, frog.”, I called as I moved out of the clearing and headed for a potty break.

On my return I puzzled at the scene before me,

“Where’s the hook, the sinker? Where’s the frog?”

The far end of the fishing line no longer rested above the ground. It had vanished into a hole some feet away.

Raising the cane pole, I felt resistance. Hoisting it higher, I let out a short gasp. From the hole in the ground rose the sinker —and, to my wonderment, a snake – busy swallowing my frog. (a bad day to be a frog, laboring to free itself from both a fish hook and a highly focused snake).

While the hopping amphibian never made it to another sunrise, the snakes’ day likewise failed to end well. Armed with a couple decent-size sticks, my brother and I stepped up to our self-assigned task.

Here’s hoping for you a very special weekend. With gratitude for Liberty. And for you, my reader.

Tag: gratitude

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Froggy’s Fateful Fourth