On memories

Memories are a funny thing. We all know what a memory is, but we cannot find it, elicit one on command, or pinpoint the area of the brain where memories are formed. Metaphors abound that try to describe a memory: watercolors, clouds, wisps of smoke, lines on a leaf, a bank, file cabinets, books, a safe, writing in the sand. These metaphors attempt to corner something abstract, to capture a memory so it can be put in a jar, examined, measured, recreated, but it is all pointless. I have often wondered where our memories go when we die; do these memories just disappear like water down the drain (see there, another metaphor)? Or do they merge with God, where these memories actually began. I know, confusing, but since God created us, and knows what happened, what is happening, and what will happen, doesn't it make sense to assign the job of memory storage to him?

Regardless, the older I get, the more I wonder about memories: my own, my family's, my friends, and the world at large. Our memories are formed somewhere (we do not know where, although scientists have tried to figure that out) by not just our visual experiences, like photographs, but in a much more complex way. All our senses have a hand in creating memories--our smell, taste, touch, hearing, and sight--and how we feel at that moment. Are we happy? Sad? Worried? Afraid? Excited? At the time a memory is created are we recollecting other memories? Our environment, the weather, family relationships, our health, what is going on around us--is the TV on? Music? something cooking?--weaves tendrils into our memory bank and creates a new one. 

Memories sometimes build on each other, or draw parts from other memories. I look at a photograph of myself as a child, imagine what I was doing then, and then voila! there is a brand new memory; I  place myself into that photograph, and then create a memory of that event, even if I did not remember it happening before I saw the picture. The resulting memory is not real--it was manufactured by looking at a photograph and either someone told me about it, or I made it up; it is a false memory. For example, there is a photograph of me, probably 3 years old, sitting on the grass at my Nana's house, and my sister is sitting on my lap, laying her head on my shoulder, and my mouth is forming a little oval. In my mind, I think I remember that moment, and that I was saying "Aw she loves me." Is it an authentic memory? Who knows? But I have created that memory in my mind (somewhere) so many times it has become real.

We can repress memories of painful or shameful, embarrassing moments (but those memories are always there.) We can also manipulate our memories by our moods and make them larger than life, or practically nonexistent. Other people can twist and bend our memories by talking about how they remember it. And well-meaning and not-so-well-meaning self-described "experts" can take an innocent occurrence, or something that happened to someone else and make it our crosss to bear, or our victory. Three people involved in the exact same situation at the exact same time in the identical place will remember an event, a feeling, a situation, in three (or more!) different ways. We ascribe memories to the wrong people, the wrong time, or the wrong place, or worse yet, create our own memories as a buffer from something too painful to face. 

People recount memories to justify their own actions, reactions and feelings toward someone or something. Memories are great, because they can make us feel wonderful or they can help us not make the same mistake. But they are only memories, and these memories are only real to the person who made theme; my memories are only accurate (to a point) for me, and nothing I do or say to anyone can make them see and relive my memory the way I do. 

So yeah, memories are great, they are different for everyone, they are elusive little buggers that shift and change and hide and pinch. The most important thing about memories though? They are in the past. They are done. They are gone. And to live in the past in our memories, real, imagined, or manipulated, does the memory maker no good.

The moral of the story? Don't trust your memory. Trust God. Love him. Love others.

Form new memories.

Reminiscing

After my parents divorced in 1964, we visited Dad every other weekend (when mom would let us) and for two glorious weeks each summer. Those summer vacations were a welcome escape from a less than pleasant childhood, and some of my most precious memories. Every summer Dad would drive all five of us kids to Florida for two weeks of sun and tourist traps and sunburns and cheap hotels (all named the Pelican or the Sand Dollar or the Seafarer or the like), and each year we’d end up in a different city.  

One year it was Treasure Island, where we visited the Sunken Gardens in St. Petersburg (formed by one of the huge sinkholes that frequently plague south central Florida.) We saw the replicas of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, and attended a great dolphin show at the local outdoor aquarium where trained porpoises jumped over bars and leapt high in the air to grab fish out of trainers’ mouths, and seals thrilled audiences with their comical belly slides and rollovers and flapping of flippers. We went to Busch Gardens and sampled beer when Anheiser Busch was still American owned,  and attended a  bird show, watching in wonder as trained parrots, cockatiels, and parakeets slid down slides and pushed tiny wheelbarrows around a stage, and beautiful pink flamingos stood on one leg and peacocks showed off their magnificent fantails.  Another year we visited St Augustine, where Dad made sure he took us to every single, historical building: the oldest school, church, jail, courthouse, fort, etc, making sure to take movies at each one.  Dad’s penchant for taking a movie of the historical signs, moving the camera back  and forth as if the camera was “reading” the sign always made us laugh.  

A visit to Daytona Beach had us marveling at cars driving on the beach, and of course we collected tons of seashells and even rented a paddle boat to trek out to a sandbar for a picnic lunch. As luck would have it, though, paddling back to shore was a lot harder than paddling out, as we were going against the tide, so my sister and I had to get out and swim to shore; I got the worst sunburn that year and spent most of the rest of that trip pouting, wearing a long sleeve shirt and putting vinegar on my blisters.  

Yet another year found us in central Florida at Cypress Gardens watching pretty ladies in swimsuits waterski across blue waters, and later we would be traversing lakes in glass bottomed boats, our little faces plastered against the glass to see manatees and fish and alligators. We visited Weekiwatchee and watched, enthralled, as “mermaids” performed underwater and waved to us.  Walt Disney World was still a dream in Walt’s head, and Orlando’s biggest attraction was Gator Land, where kids could feed live gators, and watch big, burly trainers throw sides of beef to crocodiles as audiences screamed in mock terror. We saw beautiful birds with feathery plumage: snowy egrets, great blue herons, pelicans, and shorebirds.  

The trip down was never boring, albeit five kids in a car for two days got a bit noisy at times, and there were the requisite tussles and spats.  The interstate wasn’t completed all the way from Ohio to Florida back in the 60s, so we’d have to take US 41 through the Tennessee Valley, but we loved stopping at all the roadside stands, where locals sold handmade quilts, pillows with pom-poms, freshly made jam, and local honey; seeing all the dams created as part of FDR’s New Deal was quite the educational bonus.  Then there were stops at Stuckey’s, home of the famous (and deliciously sticky sweet) pecan log, the various welcome centers at the borders of each state we entered, and overnight motels. The Florida welcome center served fresh squeezed orange juice back then, and we’d eagerly line up for cup after cup; now all they have is vending machines. One year we even stopped at Rock City in Chattanooga, TN, and spent three wonderful days exploring the caverns and magical gnome dioramas; if you’ve ever seen the words “See Rock City” painted on the side of a barn, you’re seeing roadside marketing at its finest.  Then there was the year of the ham:  Dad decided he’d buy a huge ham to help defray meal costs.  We had ham and eggs, ham sandwiches, ham soup, ham and beans, even ham and potatoes; it was like the Bubba Gump of Ham, and we never let him live that down.  

How my dad managed to retain his sanity for two weeks taking care of five children (four girls and a mentally handicapped boy) is a mystery—our ages the first year were 2, 5, 7, 9, and 12, and believe me, as we grew into puberty it didn’t get any easier. We all had our share of temper tantrums and teenage angst.  One year he did hire a college girl, a daughter of one of his friends, to help him wrangle us girls—two of us were adolescents and he did not want to deal with questions about feminine hygiene products or processes 

One of the stories Dad loved to recount concerned my stubborn insistence on ordering the soup du jour for lunch, even though I had no idea what that meant-it just sounded grown up, and at 14 I really wanted to be grown up!The soup arrived at the table:  clam chowder. I hated clam chowder, so I just refused to eat it and demanded a hamburger instead.  Dad told the waitress no way, and told me I had to finish that damn soup; I did, and I learned a valuable lesson that day: know what you’re ordering, and eat what you get. Dad never tired of regaling my friends and husband and kids with  that story. 

As far as I can recall, Dad never alluded to the cost of anything, or denied us souvenirs, or neglected to take us to any attraction in the city being visited.  He let us be kids.  We’d climb on fort walls, shoot imaginary cannons, swim in the hotel pools until we were waterlogged and had bloodshot eyes, and build countless sand castles.  Somehow we’d all make it down and back safely, and we’d wait with anticipation until the next summer.  The days, weeks and months seemed to drag on and we thought summer would  never arrive.  But it inevitably did.  

Those cherished memories will always be with me, and I count myself blessed to have experienced places and things and events of yesteryear. Busch Gardens no longer showcases  cool bird antics,  and the old Busch clock tower and beer gardens are overshadowed by modern roller coasters. Legoland sits where Cypress Gardens once was, and the pretty ladies waterskiing are long gone; only a few acres of the botanical gardens remain.  Most of the open air aquariums and amusement parks in Florida have succumbed to the “progress” of giant corporations such as Seaworld, Disney and Universal, and the quaint pink and blue Sand Dollar and Pelican and SeaFarer motels are gone, replaced by shiny modern, towering condominiums and resorts. Little did I know we were receiving a priceless education in history, zoology, geography, and the like, but isn’t that always the case with children? Experiences taken for granted then  are that much more  appreciated now, both new and old, and I’m all the more complete  to have experienced both.  Divorce is never easy—for parents or for children. But my dad made sure he made the most out of every moment we spent with him, and for that, I am eternally grateful.  

Putting it out there

Over the past 11 years, I have shared my joys and sorrows and disappointments on this blog. Actually, this endeavor began as three separate blogs: Nana's Nook, dedicated to my experiences as a grandmother; Faith, Grace, and Fibromyalgia, an exercise in finding God through my struggle with chronic pain; and Growing in Grace, an introspective self-study into Romans 8:28. I have entertained and amused with photos and anecdotes of my grandchildren, and shared the pride of accomplishment I feel as a parent of three beautiful daughters. Every significant life event (and some not so significant)--births, deaths, illness, birthdays, vacations, elections--has merited space here. Most of all, though, I have chronicled the journey I am on as I undergo trials, tribulations, and sanctification. Through it all, I have bared my soul and shared my deepest fears. This process has truly been a catharsis. 

My intention was never to glorify or call attention to myself, nor was it to vilify or judge or shame anyone. What began as a tongue-in-cheek way to highlight my own shortcomings and faults evolved into its present form: an online journal of my innermost thoughts, and a way to work out my salvation with fear and trembling. Sure I could have merely journaled these events in a diary or a personal journal and not have posted it online, but the very act of putting myself out there, naked and afraid, for anyone to see, is what has made this blog authentic. I admit, on a few occasions, it has been a way to vent, to answer unfounded rumors and false accusations, saying what I never had the chance to say, but that was few and far between. Writing, telling my story, is how I stay sane.

Numerous acquaintances, friends, and even strangers have told me my posts have touched their hearts, reassured them, and strengthened their faith in God. That means so much to me, that I could highlight in a very concrete, public, and, at times, disconcerting way the impact God's marvelous grace has had on my life, and make a difference in someone's life. Despite how undeserving I am of God's forgiveness, He continues to bless me and challenge me to become what He has planned for me, and to submit to His will. Looking back over the 286 posts to date, I see in black and white how much I have grown, how much my faith and understanding have matured over the years, and how I have come to grips with who I was, who I am now, and how I got here. Experiences that at the time seemed totally devastating, leaving me spent and gasping for air, not only no longer have that power, they actually point out where God was working in my life. Always teaching, the Spirit is there, urging me on, comforting me, encouraging me, uncovering my innermost self. This endeavor has motivated me to continue to discover myself, to persist in uncovering God's fingerprints on my life. It is not always pretty, or fair, or palatable, but it is, at its very core, me. And God is obviously not finished with me yet. He continues to confront me with my sins and convict me without condemnation, teaching me, leading me, guiding me (isn’t that a song?). Every time I try to go it alone, to control my life, He allows me to wander, until I cry out for Him to come find me. And while I persist in this futile behavior, those occurrences are fewer and farther between. Thank God for that!

As long as I am on this earth, I will continue to reach back, to make some sense of my life: the heartbreaks, the victories, the struggles, and the achievements, all the moments and minutia of my life that made me who I am today. Then, as I am a work in progress, a new creation, I will take all those events and bump them up against who God says I am, and measure my worth against His Word, throwing out all the chaff and debris. My writings are not self-serving, or vindictive; they are leadings by the Holy Spirit, and how God shows me how He is working in my life. By exposing sin in my own life and heart, and sharing that with others, God can touch their hearts, and if it upsets them, perhaps there is some truth pricking at their conscience. 

Perhaps Anne Lamott says it best:

Giving Thanks

For me, Thanksgiving has always been synonymous with family; as far back as I can remember, Thanksgiving has been a day for family to travel from near and from far to gather round the table and eat and talk and make memories. When I was little, it was with grandparents and cousins, aunts and uncles, and the kids were always relegated to a small folding table to the side of the big table where the adults sat. Later, after I had gone off on my own, I would always travel back to my dad's house and celebrate with him and my stepmom and my brother, along with some of the same aunts and uncles (a bit older, of course); we would have the same fare, and watch football, and talk and laugh and relive Thanksgivings past. One year I even flew from Cleveland to Cincinnati in my then-boyfriend's plane, arriving at the house just in time for dinner. As the years went by, and I was married, then had children of my own, our house became the gathering point for those memorable turkey dinners--sisters, nieces and nephews, parents, and sometimes even friends would gather round the table and in the living room afterwards, reliving the experiences of Thanksgiving Days past. Even when my family suffered fractured relationships, and some no longer joined us, we continued to gather--my parents, my in-laws, our kids and their kids--we would celebrate that special day, and plan ahead for the following Thanksgiving Day and discuss the details: who would host it, who would come, who would make the pies. Then, in 2018, we celebrated our final Thanksgiving with my parents--just me, my husband, and my brother gathered around my parents, holding hands, and giving thanks for the years past, the memories we shared, and later partaking in a catered turkey dinner picked up from a local restaurant.  Six months later, both my parents and my in-laws had died, gone on to celebrate a heavenly Thanksgiving. The next year, neither my husband nor I could bring ourselves to celebrate the way we had in the past--the pain was too fresh, and the memories only brought tears. Now I sit here on another Thanksgiving Day, remembering all the Novembers I have had, the memories pouring in and cascading through my mind as tears fall down my face. Today we have simple plans, no extravagant, giant turkey in the oven, or myriad of sides, or even the ubiquitous pumpkin and apple pies.  Acoustic praise and worship songs are playing on the TV, Alex is cooking up a double batch of goetta, and I will be planting 150 spring blooming bulbs, and then we will have a simple dinner at Cracker Barrel with my brother. 

Looking back, there are memories and laughter; I can hear the voices of people long gone, see the smiles of loved ones unable to join us, smell the familiar aromas wafting through the house. 

Looking forward, there are memories to be made, laughter and the tears; Thanksgivings will be different, and we will reminisce about the holidays past, but we will have no regrets. 

Looking up, I praise the author of Thanksgiving and all the days, and I am thankful, for every day is a day of thanksgiving, no matter who we are with or where we are or what food we prepare. 

Insignificantly significant

The older I get, the less significant I  feel, the more trivial my worries seem, and the fuzzier my memories become.  I wonder why I ever believed what grades my kids got mattered, or why it was so damn important for them to clean their plates.  The day-to-day moments of life with kids have all just melted into a giant conglomeration of individual moments, events, and flashbacks, almost impossible to distinguish what happened when and where and to which kid.  My recollection of my life from ages 25-50 is like that PlayStation game, Katamari, where you push around a sticky ball and collect any items you see. The more stuff you roll up onto the ball, the bigger the ball gets, and you can then pick up larger items--even cars and whole cities.  

Somewhere in my katamari are potty training successes and failures, first steps, emergency room visits, report cards, first dates, countless military deployments, arguments over whose turn it is to do the dishes, admonitions to clean up rooms, and countless other moments, the significance of which in life as it is today escapes me.  I try to recall.  I really do.  But when I try, one (or all) of my adult children challenge my memory recall skills with a roll of their eyes and an “oh mom.”  And God forbid I share a story with their kids without first clearing it with my daughters.  I mean seriously?  Give me some credit here—I am not going to embarrass, shame, or expose horrible secrets or bad behaviors to my grandkids.  It’s as important to me as it to them for my daughter/their mom to be seen in a good light. 

All of this leads me to my point.  (You were hoping I’d get here eventually right?).  Which is:  all of those memories, that ball of stuff collected over the years, it makes up my life, a lifetime of big and little and minuscule moments in time.  Some good, some not, some horribly painful and quite a few breathtakingly joyful—but every single thing in that glob is both gloriously insignificant and significant.  It’s who I am.  Who I was.  Who I’m becoming. And why does it matter if I don’t remember the gerbil’s name or whether I never apologized for missing a 6th grader’s basketball game?  Why do I beat myself up for things I said or did or didn’t do when I cannot go back and redo those moments?  I cannot separate it all and line it all up in a nice neat continuum in sequential order.  My memory is not capable of that. 

I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night.  

But...and here’s the kicker...I can make new memories and tell new stories and sit back and be a part of my daughters’ memories, and my grandkids’ recollections, as they create their own balls of stuff, collecting moments and treasured points in time.  

I cannot think of any greater joy and privilege than to be rolled up in their  ball of life. 

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'"  Jeremiah 29:11

Missing You

A year ago I wrote about Thanksgiving (Giving Thanks)--how it has always been my favorite holiday, how the traditions and the family and the food and the memories all wind together like a big pumpkin-colored ribbon, melding into one giant memory of food and smells and laughter and tears.  I talked about how different our Thanksgiving was in 2018, but we still celebrated it, giving thanks for the decades of memories and laughter we had experienced with family, but realizing that it would, more than likely, be the last Thanksgiving Day we would break bread with my parents.  I was right.  Ten days later, you died at home, and six months after that, your wife went to join you.  So for me, this is the first Thanksgiving in 64 years that I have not spent with, eaten with, or at least talked and laughed with, you, my dad. And I miss you.  So much that the food I just ate just sits in my stomach like a giant rock. 

As I watched the preparations and the kids' craft session, and smelled the turkey and the stuffing and the pies all baking, as family and friends arrived and filled the kitchen and the house with laughter and joy and stories, as the wine flowed and the gravy was passed, as the dishes were dirtied and washed and dirtied and washed again, I heard your laughter, saw your face, felt your hand on my shoulder as you said, "Damn it, Barb, I love you."  And I missed you, so much it was palpable, and the tears would just start to flow and I would have to run to another room or go outside just to get away and not have to talk about it.   Ben cooked up the gizzards the way you like them, but they just sat in a bowl on the counter because you aren't here to jokingly fight over who is going to get the bigger piece. I ate one, but it wasn't the same. We had turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes, cranberries and rolls and green bean casserole, and the pie is still to come, but without your raucous laughter and comments about how this turkey was the best ever,  how no one knows how to slice turkey right except you, it wasn't the same. David is wearing your 90th birthday T-shirt from five years ago, and I spoke to Uncle Rob a few minutes ago, but I kept feeling like I was forgetting something, that there was a crucial part I was missing.   

You, Dad.  

I miss you.

Yes, I am thankful.  Yes I am blessed with so many countless blessings and riches.  I revel in the joy and love of my daughters and their husbands, my brother and my husband, my grandchildren near and far.  We have so much, so much more than I will ever deserve.  But I will always, always, miss you on this day more than any other time of year.

For you, above all, taught me the importance of family and love and memories made together.

And for that I am thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.

Letting Go

I miss these people, these parents of mine. So so much. It has been such a rough weekend, starting with that all too familiar drive through the gorge from our house to Knoxville. I couldn't help but cry because this trip is so different, so final. Weird, because I have made at least 25 or so trips over the past 18 months that were ten times more urgent--Dad at the ER, Dad getting worse, Dad dying, Sheila getting sick, an emergency admission. But this one? Driving to their old house to clear it out, to sell and give away their belongings. Friday night it seemed overwhelming, a Herculean task, as if I would never be able to empty it. Sorting through their things, emptying drawers and closets, moving books and dishes and trinkets and clothing, pricing furniture and odds and ends. How in the world do you put a price on a lifetime of memories? 

Finding odd little things that made me catch my breath and cause actual pain in my heart, like my daughter's wedding invitation and the corsage Sheila wore, pressed into her Bible. Or my dad's high school yearbooks and a pile of Father's Day cards he'd kept for the past 60 years. Even in the garage--crazy mementos, such as the disposable ponchos you wear at Niagara Falls when going on the "Maid of the Mist" boat--they actually kept them! And everywhere I turned I could feel my parents, smell them, sense them, hear Sheila tell me "jiggle the toilet handle or it won't stop running." 

Then the actual "garage sale," and dealing with strangers touching everything, critiquing things, asking about sizes, or age, holding up an object and asking for a price, and I would look at what they were holding and could only see my dad's face under the ball cap in their hands, or smell Sheila's perfume emanating from the familiar grey poncho being held up. Not wanting to haggle over prices, but at the same time not wanting to just throw things away, I spent two days watching their home become just another house, as one thing after another got loaded into a truck or a car. Marveled at the kindness of these strangers who paid me more than what I asked, who thanked me, and blessed me, and even helped me clean up; one really kind woman even brought me some fruit. 

Then, without any warning, suddenly the house was practically empty, with only a few things waiting to be given away. I walked through all the rooms, turned the thermostat back up to a respectable, Dad-approved setting, and went outside to close up. Suddenly, a golf cart pulled into the driveway and a friendly older couple waved and asked innocently "hey where's the lady of the house?" And I had to tell these former neighbors, who had moved away six months ago, that it was too late--she'd gone. We talked for 30 minutes, and amazingly enough, I didn't cry, or even tear up--it was as if I was unloading my heart, and I wanted to be gentle, to tell them they did not shock me or hurt me. 

I do regret neither of my sisters were here to help, to grieve with me, and none of their children, my parents grandchildren, even bothered to reach out, to say well done, or thank you. But in a way, it was better this way, to be alone, alone with my feelings and memories and emotions. And I know Dad and Sheila are together again, and they are no longer hurting, or worried. And I know they loved me, and that they knew I love them. And I am ever so honored they trusted me to take care of things for them in the end. 

Love you both. Thanks for all the memories.

One More Day

In one more day, it will be Christmas...so much excitement, baking cookies and our traditional candy cane bread, wrapping gifts and filling stockings that are all hung by the chimney with care.  Excited anticipation as to what the next 24 hours will bring.  All of the preparation--the shopping, wrapping, decorating, dressing up, pulling things out of the attic, rearranging the living room, making sure the Christmas tree has enough water--all will come to fruition in one more day.  

In one more day, my youngest granddaughter will come up the stairs, open the door, and will behold a beautiful, magical sight--the entire living room transformed into a winter wonderland, complete with twinkling lights, snowflakes, tinsel, garland, ribbon, and "snow."  And she will gaze on it with childlike wonder, and then the melee will begin!  Sophie will wake up from her big girl bed to a wonderful Christmas with her Mommy and Daddy, her Grandma and Grandpa, and her Uncle David, in one more day.

In one more day, carefully wrapped gifts will be excitedly and hurriedly unwrapped, paper and tags going every which way; bags will be filled with wrapping paper and boxes and plastic, and David will separate recyclables into the appropriate outside bins.  Candy cane cake will be sliced and eaten with a delicious, hot cup of coffee, and I will manage to not eat any, or any other sugar, for just one more day.

In one more day, we will all call our families and friends, near and far, who cannot celebrate with us this year.  We will wish them Merry Christmas, compare Christmas morning gift bonanzas, tell them we loved what they got us, chit chat for a few moments, and then quickly end that call and make the next one.  Yes, there are fewer calls to make this year--both of Alex's parents, my dad, a few friends--all dead and gone.  We will pick up the phone, look at a photo, an ornament, or perhaps even a gift that brings their memory painfully clear for just one more day.

In one more day, we will celebrate, not just commemorate, the birth of a tiny child who came to save us all from sin and death.  And hopefully, we will realize, that in one more day,

It is not

Just one more day.

The Long Goodbye

A little over a year ago, you were celebrating Thanksgiving here in our home, and like every other year before, showing mock disgust at how Alex carved the turkey.  We shared a wonderful time with Alex's mom and brother, and talked about doing it again the following Thanksgiving.  But when we said goodbye that weekend, I knew in my heart it was the beginning of a long and painful goodbye, and I knew neither you nor my sweet mother-in-law would ever grace our table again.  Less than two months later, a panicked phone call from Sheila--you were in an ambulance enroute to the hospital.   I drove out and picked up David, moved him in with us, and then spent the next several weeks preparing myself mentally and emotionally for the final goodbye, spending time with you, laughing with you, praying with you, reliving so many memories--oh so many memories.  Memories that kept popping into my head at odd times, appearing more frequently every time I had to say goodbye.  Each time I left to go back home, I feared that goodbye would be my last. But then miraculously (or stubbornly), you seemed to get better--you were back up, walking around, cutting the grass, even imbibing in your daily "martini" by the summer.  We visited frequently, and there were a couple more scares, but when we would say goodbye I felt a little better about it.  Until two weeks ago--as soon as I saw you, I knew the final goodbye was not long off.

Memories...it would take a lifetime to capture them all--simple yet seemingly inconsequential moments.  A trip to Frisch’s Big Boy after I broke my arm riding my friend’s bike; eating cotton candy at the annual St Williams fall carnival.  The annual excursions to Coney Island, accompanied by your customary “oh no I forgot the tickets" and the wonderful picnic lunches we shared in the picnic grounds there--Sheila's awesome potato salad, fried chicken, and iced tea.  Dancing in the basement  to Mary Poppins.  Showing you my report card and beaming when you hugged me and said how proud you were.  Car rides to Florida every summer, visiting every tourist attraction along the way--and taking movies of every single one, panning the camera over the historic marker signs as if the camera was reading the signs, and perching all five of us kids precariously on the top of some rickety old monument to pose for photos.  Our weekend visits with you made more special by bakery treats from Aunt Teresa, and visits from Uncle Ed and Aunt Ginny, followed by the obligatory poker games in the basement.  The speeding tickets, and oh my the trouble I got into driving the car, you feigning belief in my cockamamie stories; the way you made my best friend Jenny laugh hysterically when you suggested we buy sheep to cut our grass.  You driving to Cleveland to help me move back home, towing my broken down car.   Advising against obviously bad decisions yet being supportive and understanding when I foolishly ignored your advice.  Taking inventory in your drugstore and being amazed that you could look at huge bottles of pills and accurately predict the quantities in each one. Walking me down the aisle at my wedding even though your knees were killing you.  The childlike wonder and excitement you showed whenever I would explain what I did in the Air Force, especially when you’d get to see, touch, and yes, even ride in the aircraft.  The overwhelming look of pride on your face and in your voice at my every accomplishment, your sincere interest in everything I did, your quiet understanding when I just needed to vent.  Sharing holidays and mundane moments with me and our family, your special bonds with my children, and my children’s children, accompanied by your perennial affirmation that you had never changed a diaper.   

Helping me through the hard times, the hardships, the trials and tribulations, moves across country and deployments and separations from family.  Listening, always listening--not always understanding, mind you--but always listening.  Letting me sort it out, letting me think out loud.  Asking the tough questions, the ones you knew I was avoiding.  Not always agreeing with me, or placating me, but respecting my individuality and my way of doing things (even if your way was the only "right" way).  Discussing money, finances, politics, and religion--nothing seemed to be off limits. And of course, the Sunday phone calls.  At 8:00 pm, every Sunday for so many years I've lost track.  Those phone calls were our lifeline to each other, so much so that if I could not call we both felt lost.  Heck, even if I just saw you Sunday morning, if we were in different area codes, a phone call the day before or a recent visit did not count as the Sunday call.  We would talk for 2 minutes or an hour--it didn't matter--as long as we reached out and heard the other's voice.  There were other calls during the week (especially since I retired), and some were quite humorous; you'd leave voicemails that you were bored, that it was sunny out, or tell me what you had for lunch.  Nothing though took the place of Sunday calls.  Yet over the past several weeks, you were too sick to talk, sometimes too sick to even hear me.  Sheila told me though that you would wake with a start on those Sundays, and sadly say, "Barbara didn't call...isn't it Sunday?"  Last Sunday I called--we spoke very briefly--and when I said goodbye, I love you, I felt a deep ache in my heart.  The next day, I was on my way to see you...this time, I knew it was for the last time.   You didn't even know I was there for two days, and by the time you realized I was there, it was time for me to go home.  You were sleeping peacefully, so I kissed your head and held your hand and whispered "Goodbye Dad.  I love you.  Talk to you next Sunday."

Such a long long goodbye...the past eleven months. From January 3rd until December 6, I have been struggling to say goodbye.  To let go and let you go to God.  

God be with ye....

Godbwye....

Goodbye

Until the eternal hello

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday--always has been--and possibly my parents' favorite as well. To me, Thanksgiving is synonymous with family, and all the baggage that comes with throwing 10-30 related but totally different individuals into a room with lots of carbs.  Of all my memories over the past 63 years, I have the most memories (good and bad, sad and funny) from Thanksgiving celebrations.  There was the time my crazy biological mother threw the turkey into the bowl of mashed potatoes because she was, well, unbalanced.  Another Thanksgiving found us in a Holiday Inn in North Dakota the day before Becky had a bone barrow biopsy during her cancer treatment, and more than a few when Alex was deployed overseas, and on a remote tour in Korea.  One year, my dad flew out to Minot, ND, alone--seems he was in the dog house again.  That was also the year Scruffy the cat walked all over my freshly baked sweet potato pies and I was so mad I threw the pies at her and got pie filling all over the kitchen.  And one year, we got a call to pick up a new foster daughter from the juvenile psych ward--an hour before we were to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner.  We've celebrated at our house, at our parents' homes, at the homes of our grown children, and once on the beach.

We have had smoked turkey, roasted turkey, deep fried turkey, brined turkey, and even just turkey breast one year--sometimes the cook even remembers to remove the wax-coated bag of innards from the inside before putting it in the oven (not naming names here, girls).  Cranberries are always the REAL kind, the whole berries, not canned, but the rest of the sides vary depending on who is hosting the meal and how receptive the hostess is to input.  Sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes with gravy are pretty much a sure thing, and of course there is the stuffing (although the stuffing ingredients and method of baking, i.e. in the bird or not in the bird) is variable.  Vegetables, however, are the wild card--peas, green bean casserole, beets, Brussel sprouts, and even squash with pecans have shown up.  Pies?  Too many to mention, but always yummy, with whipped cream or Cool Whip or ice cream or even plain.  The one constant, though, that makes it a day of giving thanks, is the presence of family, namely my dad and my stepmother.  If they are present, it is Thanksgiving.   

I've lost count of how many Thanksgivings we have shared with them--they are both so much a part of our Thanksgiving tradition that it doesn't really seem like Thanksgiving if we aren't together.  A week before each Thanksgiving, every year, you can bet my dad will ask me "what are you doing for Thanksgiving next year?"   Every year we watch the stupid Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV, followed by football.  Then, when all the food is presented on the table, of course someone must take numerous photos of the feast before we can even begin to eat--heck, he even used to take movies of our Thanksgiving dinner table...movies.  Of food.  That does not move.  It's a tradition.  Just as it is a tradition that he brags he is the only one who knows how to carve the turkey, or that someone will make a construction paper pilgrim hat for him to wear, or one of the children would make some crazy centerpiece out of Legos and dead leaves and sticks and we have to say how beautiful it is before we make room for all the dishes.   

A meal that took a year to plan, two weeks to shop for, and 48 hours to prepare, is gone in less than 30 minutes.  We talk about whether this year's turkey was the best, whether we should cook it upside down next time, and if speedy buns are better than crescent rolls.  We sit and pick at the little pieces of turkey on the platter and dream about that turkey sandwich with mayo that we will have in a couple of hours, and we protest how we couldn't eat another bite--until the pies come out.  Then we watch more football, kids go off to play, and we all sit around and talk or play cards or charades or fall asleep in recliners.  And we talk about the logistics of next year's Thanksgiving--where, who, what side, who is going to bring pie, etc.  

Last year, we had Thanksgiving at our log home in North Carolina--me and Alex, his brother and a friend, my mother-in-law, my brother, and of course, my parents.  Dad at the head of the table, and Alex at the other end.  During pie we planned for 2018--we will have it at our place again!  Same company!  Awesome!  A month later, my dad nearly died--took him four months to recuperate--and my brother moved in with us.  By spring, we planned tentatively to celebrate at our house, or even at their home in Knoxville.  Then my mother-in-law got too ill to travel, so we talked about having Thanksgiving at her assisted living facility.  

She died September 23rd.  

We did not even feel like celebrating Thanksgiving at all, not 60 days after a funeral.  But, we gingerly and cautiously started thinking about having my parents to our home--then, after he had a major setback, at their house.  A week before Thanksgiving, though, my dad fell, and could not get up--he was now completely bedridden, and they did not even feel like celebrating.   I arrived four days early to help care for Dad, who was now in a hospital bed in the living room, and Alex and David drove out Thanksgiving Day.  No one cooked a big turkey, or made cranberries the night before.  There were no arguments over which sides to make or whether stuffing should be traditional or cornbread, or if sweet potato pie was better than pumpkin.  Nope, we picked up a "feast for five" from a local BBQ restaurant--turkey with most of the trimmings, cranberries (canned), no sweet potatoes, and a pumpkin cheesecake.  I transferred all the food into real dishes to make it more like the real thing,  and, yes, my dad asked me to take a picture of it all. 

But this year, there was no kidding about carving the turkey (it was already sliced), or whether the Detroit Lions would actually win this year, or how great the house smelled all day.  And for grace, we held hands around my dad's bed, my brother said grace, and then three of us ate in the dining room alone, while Sheila fed my dad what could very well be his last Thanksgiving meal.  

Yes, I said it.  Perhaps his last Thanksgiving with us.  Heck, it could even be mine, or Alex's, or David's.  But still, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, even this year.  It has been a rough eleven months--illnesses, broken relationships, arguments and conflict, and a funeral.   I am thankful, so very thankful, for every day, and especially thankful for all the memories of Thanksgivings past--some painful, when thinking back on what was and now is lost, and some poignant, like the ones with three or even four generations around the table.  But all of them, for all of them, I give thanks.  Because thanksgiving is not about football, or parades, or food, or Black Friday savings, or even health or good times, although for all those things I give thanks.  Thanksgiving is, by definition, giving thanks.  

Thank you, God, for all of the memorable Thanksgivings I have shared with my family.   And thank you, Dad, for teaching me how special this day can be.

Peace and Quiet

Finally.  

After three months of traveling, visiting family, changing time zones, and coming and going, I'm finally home. Alone. In my own bed.  On my own schedule, no flights to catch or people to meet. Passports are safely stowed away until next time. Only one language to speak, and no need for Google translate or crappy sign language communication just because I'm too lazy to become fluent in a second language. I can safely drink water from the tap and mosquitos are again simply a nuisance.  

At home, the duplos and Legos are back in their big crate in the basement, instead of threatening to exact excruciating pain to my instep if I dare to walk around barefoot. High chair and pack n play are put away upstairs, kid-friendly dishes and sippee cups and bibs and plastic spoons are on their appointed shelves. The living room and basement are no longer a play zone, an obstacle course, or a tripping hazard. No more diaper-filled wastebaskets in every room in the house, or daily loads of laundry requiring pretreatment of mysterious food stains.The refrigerator is empty of half-eaten bananas, toddler leftovers, and freshly made veggie-fruit juices, and the giant box of goldfish crackers is empty.  

My camera is back in its case on the hook by the door, and random phone charging cords aren't hanging empty from every electrical outlet in the house. There are only two pair of shoes by the front door. I can go to the bathroom without locking the door, eat an entire meal without interruption , and sit in my own chair. No more worries about dogs getting out or cats getting in. Alex can cook a meal without concern of sixteen variations of dietary restrictions or picky eaters, and I am not on high alert for coaster-less, sweaty drinks threatening to leave watermarks on the tabletops. I can watch any show I want, skip right past Daniel tiger and Dinosaur Train, and get on the Internet without being slowed down or kicked off due to power surges, no service, or too many users.  

No more urgent calls for Grandma or Nana or Pappy or Grandpa or Mom, and no more worries of little ones hurtling to their death off stairs or rock walls. No more reading the same board book 12 times nonstop, or tickling, or card games or hearing  "I'm bored" or being the jungle mom in a make believe forest. No more tears or tantrums or car seats.   

No more hugs or kisses or "you're the best Nana" proclamations, or high-pitched squeals and giggles, or shy smiles or arms reaching up to be held. The house is quiet. My life is quiet again.I look at the photos and relive the glorious, breathless, back-achy, sleep-deprived madness of the past three months.  

I'd do it all again in a heartbeat

And I can hardly wait till December when its a madhouse again.

I'll clean in January

Paying it Forward

This month, August 2016, marks twenty years since Becky was diagnosed with leukemia--more specifically, August 19, 1996, was the day we rushed her to a hospital in Bismarck, ND, to begin a 2.5 year journey toward remission.  She was only 12--my sweet and sensitive daughter, the light of my life, a joy to be around.  Time stopped for us that day, and it didn't start up again until over three years later.  This is not about those three years, though, or even about that horrible sickness.  This is about the child, the teenager, the young woman, student, sister, daughter, and amazing person Becky has always been.  This is about the wonderful young wife and daughter-in-law who is now also a mother, a survivor, and sponsoring yet another fundraiser to battle childhood cancer.  

I've lost count of how many events she has organized or participated in.  The earliest one was when she was only 7, and again at age 10, when she participated in a St Jude's Hospital Bikeathon--I can still see her corralling her little friends in the driveway in Ruthville, ND, and then leading a procession on her little pink and white bicycle, streamers flying.  I remember her showing the St Jude promotional video to us, her friends, our friends--basically anyone who came within a mile of our house--to tug at our heartstrings and get us to reach into our wallets.  That first bikeathon was five years before she fell ill.  I think she raised a little over $250.  

Since then, she has organized countless Leukemia Light the Nights, volunteered annually at Camp Kemo, and set up at least four fundraisers with the St Baldrick's organization.  She has made videos, promotional flyers, and been an honored patient several times.  

Every business she has been a part of, whether it was as a server at Red Lobster or Outback, or a consultant for Mary Kay or Scentsy, she finds a way to tie it all to raising awareness and donations to fight cancer, especially childhood cancer.  She is passionate about the cause, and not just because she is a childhood cancer survivor.  It is as if God created her specifically for this special mission and purpose.  No matter where she goes, where she lives, or who she meets, you cannot know Becky without realizing this is her mission in life.  

And one look at that smile or those giant eyes and you know it is futile to resist.  

In April 2017, she is the driving force behind yet another event--a St Baldrick's Shave-a-thon in Waynesville, Missouri.   This one is even more special--because she is not just a wife, or daughter, or cancer survivor.  She is a mommy to Sophie--a happy, healthy (thankfully), and beautiful little girl.   

You see, August 19, 2016, not only marks 20 years since she nearly died--it also marks the day Sophie turned six months old.  

Let's help Becky and Sophie pay it forward.