Category Archives: Rogers/Lunsford

Still Sleeping Sweetly

Mark Leon Rogers was the youngest of five. He was born to Don and Sarah during a time of hope and promise and new beginnings. It was a time of Cowboys and Indians, Pinochle and Dominoes. It was a time of faith in America. It was October 1953.

It was a time when newborns slept sweetly snuggled between their parents. Like the four children before him, once Mark grew bigger, he would sleep in the small wooden crib against the wall in Don and Sarah’s bedroom. Then, when he out grew the tiny crib, he would share Donnie and David’s room, where model airplanes hung from the ceiling tiles and mischief was often conducted.

Donnie was the eldest. Donnie was the one who held Mark. Mark seemed incredibly tiny, even in Donnie’s childlike arms. Mark’s skin was warm and soft. His breaths escaped in tiny waves of heat, and his eyes were a shiny bright blue, holding endless possibilities. Donnie had just turned nine, but he would remember Mark’s eyes the rest of his life. David nor his sister’s had eyes that bright. Donnie doubted any baby had eyes so bright and full of the future. They were shiny blue eyes he would again see in his daughters’ faces and again belonging to his granddaughter. Maybe it was genetics or maybe nostalgia, but Mark’s eyes would always seem to hold more blue.

On that brisk October morning, Sarah was woken by the sleepy sunlight peering through her window. She had slept well and felt refreshed. Mark hadn’t woken her up to eat. He laid next to her, his lips slightly parted between his chubby cheeks. She ran the back if her hand over his tender flesh, but he lay there still sleeping sweetly. Her thumb fluttered across his lips, but there was no heat. Her heart became heavy. It dropped into her stomach, growing into an unbearable weight, as she frantically shook Don awake. 

The assumption was that Don or Sarah had rolled over on Mark in the night, which was not uncommon at that time. Later, it was reveled that there was a hole buried deep in Mark’s tender heart. Since his first hot breath, each one was bringing him closer to his future. His fate had never meant to bring him far. Mark’s blue eyes shone for four brief days.

20130724-232546.jpg

Advertisements

the American Adventurer

20130721-102714.jpg
Donald Aubry Rogers was a respectable man. Adventure littered his youth. He had hitchhiked across the country and hopped trains back. He had rustled cattle cross states and accidentally driven dealership cars into Mexico (even though he was trying to make it to California). He’d been a soda jerk, a pharmacist and a bronze-star awarded WWII medic, but that was all behind him. Now he reveled in the lack of adventure.

Don had missed the first part of his boys’ lives. He hated to miss more, but despite his desire to be home, he knew his duty and followed orders to Germany. A promising career had laid before him when he was finally relieved of duty, but holding the horrors of a war medic deep inside, the last thing he could stomach was a career in a pharmacy or a hospital. Little did he know sickness and medical demands would haunt him, stealing a wife and child, permanently marking his daughters, and eventually claiming him. He would never truly escape it.

For now, he relaxed into the American Dream. His beautiful wife, Sarah, kept the house and four kids in their quaint, yellow and orange, two story home. Each day he walked to work at Montgomery Ward in his freshly pressed shirt. Each day he walked home for lunch, where Sarah would be waiting for him with another freshly pressed shirt. After a modest lunch and changing into his fresh shirt, Don would start his walk back to work. He walked through the Southern heat and under the ancient magnolias. A Camel Straight frequented his lips, and a grateful prayer escaped in each smokey exhale. For in 1952, Don Rogers was finally living his greatest adventure.


%d bloggers like this: