Can we be clear on this?
Joy is bigger, better, more lasting in many ways, and specifically is, joy.
It is NOT pride.
I have mentioned joy in context with a grandchild twice recently. Both times, someone has commented, "Grandma's pride."
One is a woman who never got along with her own children. The second never had children.
I wanted to punch the first in the nose. I explained to the second.
"Grandma's pride" is what I feel when they say "please" and "thank you." Grandma's pride is when they make the honor roll and you already know they are smart, so.
Joy is so much more.
Joy is transcendent. Sometimes, it simply happens. Sometimes, it is your happiness when you, or someone you love, does something they wanted to do and loved to do, and did it. Maybe they, or you, didn't know if they, or you, could. That ramps it. Simply said, it is the joy of:
ohmyGodI/shediditsobeautifulhowdidthishappenthiswillneverhappenagainjustlikethisandIfeelIfeelIfeel!
This is not Grandma's pride.
Well, it can be, I suppose. But pride involves achievement, and joy?
I have to think on that. Okay. Well, pride sometimes lasts. For generations. It can last. Maybe it is just me. I have felt pride for my family, myself, for others. Some has lasted. it has. I know it can be visceral.
But pride has different coats, different gravitas.
Joy. It just is. Telling you what it is like if you have never experienced it--and I fear some may not--is like---
Space. Filled with fullness. No fear, and limitless happy. No pain that I notice for this instant. No smell I do not love. No sound I do not welcome. Expectation, spiraling understanding that this is, this: is joy, and we welcome it, remember it, touch it again in memory.
If it lasts a second, it may be worth a lifetime. But if it goes on, or recurs, it carves itself into who you are, and no matter what comes next, you never again will be without joy, because it has become a part of you.
Some watch their children and grandchildren live, achieve, perform, and maybe they smile, are happy, and feel pride. That is good.
But when I say I have felt pure joy, whether it involves a grandchild, a friend, an institution,whatever. It is not pride. Of any kind, of any generation. Joy is meant to be danced, and sometimes sung, and at least written about as I have.
I have felt joy today, and it isn't frequent. Happiness is within reach so easily, if we are open to it. Joy is a different level, and I am so glad it is a part of my life.
Joy transcends.
And for a few minutes today, I flew.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Saturday, October 10, 2015
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Visceral Music both Great and from Family
See, we don't look forward enough.
But sometimes, wonderful happens, and it happens to someone in your family.
Not only is the experience wonderful, but knowing your kid is part of it is ...transcendent.
Never in my life had I expected to be standing and clapping with cheering, sometimes crying parents, teachers, friends, siblings...and old grandparent farts like me.
I don't call it crying when beauty is involved--just overflowing from beauty.
My granddaughter was part of the music. She made it happen. I didn't know she could do that, or that the rest of them could.
A concert. Of the best in many, many counties.
It was beyond good.
Details? In this part of Texas it was the Regional Concert. Only most had qualified for Area, the next step up, and 13 of those had made All State. In Texas. That's a bigger deal than usual. Texas is bigger than most countries. Texas is huge. Getting All State? Big deal.
No, granddaughter didn't get that. She's a sophomore. And she's good. And she was a part of this symphonic band. Wow.
I didn't know kids could play this well. Their conductor also is a composer who recently was asked to write the commemoration for New Town Sandy Hook School tragedy, and I have read about it.
He chose two pieces from other composers, two from his compositions. One was a commemoration for a happy two-year-old who died in a freak accident. He called it "Mountain Thyme", and my granddaughter said he and many of the band cried as they played it.
The last was a composition for the Calgary Stampede--full of fire and explosive emotion.
The band was so damn good. I wasn't expecting them to be so good. They got a standing ovation. I have loved my granddaughters. They are stellar. I didn't ever see this heartfelt standing ovation coming.
And I thought, "What other wonderful things will happen that I haven't imagined?"
And I clapped even harder.
But sometimes, wonderful happens, and it happens to someone in your family.
Not only is the experience wonderful, but knowing your kid is part of it is ...transcendent.
Never in my life had I expected to be standing and clapping with cheering, sometimes crying parents, teachers, friends, siblings...and old grandparent farts like me.
I don't call it crying when beauty is involved--just overflowing from beauty.
My granddaughter was part of the music. She made it happen. I didn't know she could do that, or that the rest of them could.
A concert. Of the best in many, many counties.
It was beyond good.
Details? In this part of Texas it was the Regional Concert. Only most had qualified for Area, the next step up, and 13 of those had made All State. In Texas. That's a bigger deal than usual. Texas is bigger than most countries. Texas is huge. Getting All State? Big deal.
No, granddaughter didn't get that. She's a sophomore. And she's good. And she was a part of this symphonic band. Wow.
I didn't know kids could play this well. Their conductor also is a composer who recently was asked to write the commemoration for New Town Sandy Hook School tragedy, and I have read about it.
He chose two pieces from other composers, two from his compositions. One was a commemoration for a happy two-year-old who died in a freak accident. He called it "Mountain Thyme", and my granddaughter said he and many of the band cried as they played it.
The last was a composition for the Calgary Stampede--full of fire and explosive emotion.
The band was so damn good. I wasn't expecting them to be so good. They got a standing ovation. I have loved my granddaughters. They are stellar. I didn't ever see this heartfelt standing ovation coming.
And I thought, "What other wonderful things will happen that I haven't imagined?"
And I clapped even harder.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
It may not be a worm, in her ear, but Malaguena is in her heart forever.
My granddaughter is a gifted French horn player. She also practices a lot. She has been a freshman in high school this year.
In the olden days, bands practiced, starting in the summer at 6 am and going till 8, when the heat started. They marched. They played. Every week, we got a different halftime show. There was no UIL. I was in orchestra, so I don't know, but I bet bands worked then as hard as they do now.
It has changed. There is competition. There are Standards. I recently saw a video of the Texas all-state winners this year. It was magnificent. Amazing.
But I am not writing about that except--since competition is the key, the marching band performed, and played, the same music over and over for four months.
"Maleguena."
My granddaughter doesn't know it yet, but she will never forget that music, nor her part of the tune. It is embedded.
I once spent four months as a teenager playing Mozart's "Eine Kleine Nacht Musik". My spelling may not be perfect. I can no longer finger the notes. I remember the bow strokes. And I jump to attention every time,50-some years later, when I hear it again.
There is a certain exhileration. Joy in the music. Remembering the actual feeling that I helped that sound to be made.
I hear business-minded idiots saying that music doesn't matter, that we should just pay for readin' writin' arithmetic. Actually, that no longer fits state standards, thank goodness.
I recently went to a band concert where half was the directer talking. She said music expands the brain, the intellect, and she pointed out, of the 10 best students in America recently, 7 had band credentials. The other three had orchestra.
I don't know where that leaves voice students. Anyway.
My granddaughter will carry this music with her lifelong. She doesn't know it yet.
It will enrichen her life and broaden her parameters.
I know. It did so with me. My instrument was the violin. I practiced at home in the early years. I had forgiving and hopeful parents.
I listen to Schubert's "Unfinished Symphony". I listen to Handel's "Messiah", and I remember both playing it and singing it.
I remember being part of the music.
My granddaughter will, too.
In the olden days, bands practiced, starting in the summer at 6 am and going till 8, when the heat started. They marched. They played. Every week, we got a different halftime show. There was no UIL. I was in orchestra, so I don't know, but I bet bands worked then as hard as they do now.
It has changed. There is competition. There are Standards. I recently saw a video of the Texas all-state winners this year. It was magnificent. Amazing.
But I am not writing about that except--since competition is the key, the marching band performed, and played, the same music over and over for four months.
"Maleguena."
My granddaughter doesn't know it yet, but she will never forget that music, nor her part of the tune. It is embedded.
I once spent four months as a teenager playing Mozart's "Eine Kleine Nacht Musik". My spelling may not be perfect. I can no longer finger the notes. I remember the bow strokes. And I jump to attention every time,50-some years later, when I hear it again.
There is a certain exhileration. Joy in the music. Remembering the actual feeling that I helped that sound to be made.
I hear business-minded idiots saying that music doesn't matter, that we should just pay for readin' writin' arithmetic. Actually, that no longer fits state standards, thank goodness.
I recently went to a band concert where half was the directer talking. She said music expands the brain, the intellect, and she pointed out, of the 10 best students in America recently, 7 had band credentials. The other three had orchestra.
I don't know where that leaves voice students. Anyway.
My granddaughter will carry this music with her lifelong. She doesn't know it yet.
It will enrichen her life and broaden her parameters.
I know. It did so with me. My instrument was the violin. I practiced at home in the early years. I had forgiving and hopeful parents.
I listen to Schubert's "Unfinished Symphony". I listen to Handel's "Messiah", and I remember both playing it and singing it.
I remember being part of the music.
My granddaughter will, too.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
The Rule of Three
This week, I am trying to teach my fifth grader the Rule of Three.
At first, she was resistant. Now she's getting it. I didn't learn the Rule of Threee until my 30s.. She is way ahead of me.
The Rule of Three is exaaaaactly that.
So many of us grew up believing in Either-Or.
That leaves us stuck in the box.
Look for the third alternative. Life is NEVER either-or. Always we have a third or more alternative. Three is good. Three is simple. I can deal with that.
So how are you doing with Either-Or?
What would the third alternative be? Is that the one that works? Bet it is, but don't rule out fourth, fifth or sixth alternative. You just don't have to rely on old Either-Or.
We are humans. Isn't that astonishing? We have so many choices if we choose.
We do choose.
At first, she was resistant. Now she's getting it. I didn't learn the Rule of Threee until my 30s.. She is way ahead of me.
The Rule of Three is exaaaaactly that.
So many of us grew up believing in Either-Or.
That leaves us stuck in the box.
Look for the third alternative. Life is NEVER either-or. Always we have a third or more alternative. Three is good. Three is simple. I can deal with that.
So how are you doing with Either-Or?
What would the third alternative be? Is that the one that works? Bet it is, but don't rule out fourth, fifth or sixth alternative. You just don't have to rely on old Either-Or.
We are humans. Isn't that astonishing? We have so many choices if we choose.
We do choose.
Monday, May 10, 2010
When You Get So Much More Than You Pay For
I have had a new job this last month, and yes, I'm paying for the privilege.
It's called Buying a House, something I never expected to do again. This week we should close. I'm starting to pack. Arranged the electric today. Have to nail down the house insurance.
It's been so long since I was an owner, I qualify for firsttime buyer bonus.
It's a little house, perfect for one or two, although I am sure a whole family could be fitted in comfortably should someone wish. Hardwood floors. A large, screened front porch. A big deck, which faces west and won't get much use until fall, when I hope I have a table and chairs for outdoor eating after summer heat gets below 90 degrees--around October.
A large backyard. Small front yard with some nice plantings and trees. The neighbor who is selling it has promised to continue mowing.
I asked my son for a gate in the backyard fence, because that fence separates his larger home from my new home. The gate will facilitate passage back and forth for all of us.
I do not have a big fortune, but I have some savings. I also haven't had a credit card in seven years and haven't had a time payment in more than ten. And yes, I have had to work hard for this. I have considered this my job. What the banker has wanted, I dropped everything else and got it. Twice, I was sure I wouldn't get it. Each time the glitch resolved. And they were big glitches. Actually, they were problems I couldn't do anything about but pray. So I did. Each time I was at peace with whatever the outcome would be. And we have gone forward.
I'm nervous about talking now, before we close, but you know, I'm going to (or as we say here in Texas, "I'm fixing to") be really really busy, and when I move, I'm going to be offline a week or more while I change service.
I look at the future and I see so much I'm going to have to do. And I'm joyous.
My paternal grandmother was really mean to my mother, so much so that Mother told me once to make sure I lived across town from my inlaws. And yet, when my mother was a widow and slipping into illness herself, she went over every evening to pick up my grandmother and brought her home for the night when my grandmother became afraid to stay alone at night. My grandmother looked at me with wonder when I came home from college to visit. She told me how kind my mother had been, when she had been so mean to her. She asked God, and my mother, to forgive her, and she cried a little. She was at peace.
I was thinking about that yesterday. Wasn't I lucky? Maybe my mother's legacy has made me someone who my daughter-in-law actually wants to live next door. I am very honored. My son is delighted. My granddaughters already refer to it as "grandma's house." My younger son anticipates the happiness with which my granddog will explore the fenced lawn.
I know it is doable to grow up without security and support and become an adult who can be kind and supportive to others. It is easier if one has grown up with a good role model, or two, or three. But I have friends who grew up with the bad example and turned away from it to find a more satisfying, happier way to live.
Multi generations are important. While not the majority, many families choose to live together with three or even four generations together. I know a good half dozen with side by side homes like we will have, many others with a suite or outbuilding on property for the grandparents. I knew a family where the woman had her adult daughter and granddaughter living with her and her husband, and also her mother, who was quite active. The toddler was taught to call the oldest family member GiGi, or really, GG for Great Grandmother. I thought that was charming.
The grandparents died off early for my sons, and I always thought they missed out. My granddaughters have three grandmothers, a grandfather, three uncles and an aunt. Whew. They have a richness of love and connections.
Soon, one of those will live next door. I promise to do my best in the years to come to contribute as much as possible to the happiness we all feel today.
I can't wait to find out what comes next.
It's called Buying a House, something I never expected to do again. This week we should close. I'm starting to pack. Arranged the electric today. Have to nail down the house insurance.
It's been so long since I was an owner, I qualify for firsttime buyer bonus.
It's a little house, perfect for one or two, although I am sure a whole family could be fitted in comfortably should someone wish. Hardwood floors. A large, screened front porch. A big deck, which faces west and won't get much use until fall, when I hope I have a table and chairs for outdoor eating after summer heat gets below 90 degrees--around October.
A large backyard. Small front yard with some nice plantings and trees. The neighbor who is selling it has promised to continue mowing.
I asked my son for a gate in the backyard fence, because that fence separates his larger home from my new home. The gate will facilitate passage back and forth for all of us.
I do not have a big fortune, but I have some savings. I also haven't had a credit card in seven years and haven't had a time payment in more than ten. And yes, I have had to work hard for this. I have considered this my job. What the banker has wanted, I dropped everything else and got it. Twice, I was sure I wouldn't get it. Each time the glitch resolved. And they were big glitches. Actually, they were problems I couldn't do anything about but pray. So I did. Each time I was at peace with whatever the outcome would be. And we have gone forward.
I'm nervous about talking now, before we close, but you know, I'm going to (or as we say here in Texas, "I'm fixing to") be really really busy, and when I move, I'm going to be offline a week or more while I change service.
I look at the future and I see so much I'm going to have to do. And I'm joyous.
My paternal grandmother was really mean to my mother, so much so that Mother told me once to make sure I lived across town from my inlaws. And yet, when my mother was a widow and slipping into illness herself, she went over every evening to pick up my grandmother and brought her home for the night when my grandmother became afraid to stay alone at night. My grandmother looked at me with wonder when I came home from college to visit. She told me how kind my mother had been, when she had been so mean to her. She asked God, and my mother, to forgive her, and she cried a little. She was at peace.
I was thinking about that yesterday. Wasn't I lucky? Maybe my mother's legacy has made me someone who my daughter-in-law actually wants to live next door. I am very honored. My son is delighted. My granddaughters already refer to it as "grandma's house." My younger son anticipates the happiness with which my granddog will explore the fenced lawn.
I know it is doable to grow up without security and support and become an adult who can be kind and supportive to others. It is easier if one has grown up with a good role model, or two, or three. But I have friends who grew up with the bad example and turned away from it to find a more satisfying, happier way to live.
Multi generations are important. While not the majority, many families choose to live together with three or even four generations together. I know a good half dozen with side by side homes like we will have, many others with a suite or outbuilding on property for the grandparents. I knew a family where the woman had her adult daughter and granddaughter living with her and her husband, and also her mother, who was quite active. The toddler was taught to call the oldest family member GiGi, or really, GG for Great Grandmother. I thought that was charming.
The grandparents died off early for my sons, and I always thought they missed out. My granddaughters have three grandmothers, a grandfather, three uncles and an aunt. Whew. They have a richness of love and connections.
Soon, one of those will live next door. I promise to do my best in the years to come to contribute as much as possible to the happiness we all feel today.
I can't wait to find out what comes next.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
A young child's wish
On my way to church last Sunday, I saw two crude signs on scraps of plywood. One said parade floats, with an arrow, pointing left. The other said public parking, pointing right. The church I attend is in a small community part of the Metroplex where I live. I asked about the signs when I got to church.
Oh, that was the parade last night, I was told. If I had been watching the news on TV, I would have known.
A little girl named Raney is dying of brain cancer. She is 5 or 6 years old. She is not likely to be here by Christmas. And her greatest wish was one more Christmas.
Family lives in an HOA. So Dad called and asked if he could put up his Christmas decorations for Christmas in July.
I'm not a fan of HOAs. The regimentation home owners agree to is not my style. But this HOA came through. They not only approved the father's request, they went a lot further.
So last Saturday, his decorations, including the yard decorations, were up. So were the neighbors'. And the annual Christmas parade was held 6 months early.
No publicity beforehand, all word of mouth. It was on TV on Friday night. And Saturday, after the parade. But mostly, persons telling their friends, neighbors,extended family, by phone, email, etc.
Someone hired a snow machine for the day, so the yard was covered in snow, even on a hot Texas day. The parade was large, with many floats, 150 motorcyclists, the local high school band, etc. And Santa Claus. Now there's a sacrificing person in 90-plus degree heat.
I understand there were a thousand or two spectators, many bearing gifts.
I am told she already has lost sight in one eye. But she had a glorious day.
Her family hopes she will actually make it till Christmas, but prognosis is not hopeful.
Such a frivolous thing to do. Other than bringing a dying child temporary happiness, what did it accomplish?
Answer for yourself. I was moved, almost to tears. I wish I had known, had been there. Not just for Raney, but as a witness to community and goodwill.
We keep harping about indifference. And then things like this happen.
Oh, that was the parade last night, I was told. If I had been watching the news on TV, I would have known.
A little girl named Raney is dying of brain cancer. She is 5 or 6 years old. She is not likely to be here by Christmas. And her greatest wish was one more Christmas.
Family lives in an HOA. So Dad called and asked if he could put up his Christmas decorations for Christmas in July.
I'm not a fan of HOAs. The regimentation home owners agree to is not my style. But this HOA came through. They not only approved the father's request, they went a lot further.
So last Saturday, his decorations, including the yard decorations, were up. So were the neighbors'. And the annual Christmas parade was held 6 months early.
No publicity beforehand, all word of mouth. It was on TV on Friday night. And Saturday, after the parade. But mostly, persons telling their friends, neighbors,extended family, by phone, email, etc.
Someone hired a snow machine for the day, so the yard was covered in snow, even on a hot Texas day. The parade was large, with many floats, 150 motorcyclists, the local high school band, etc. And Santa Claus. Now there's a sacrificing person in 90-plus degree heat.
I understand there were a thousand or two spectators, many bearing gifts.
I am told she already has lost sight in one eye. But she had a glorious day.
Her family hopes she will actually make it till Christmas, but prognosis is not hopeful.
Such a frivolous thing to do. Other than bringing a dying child temporary happiness, what did it accomplish?
Answer for yourself. I was moved, almost to tears. I wish I had known, had been there. Not just for Raney, but as a witness to community and goodwill.
We keep harping about indifference. And then things like this happen.
Monday, June 8, 2009
3D AND emotional depth in one movie
Took the granddaughters to see UP last Friday. I had missed the reviews, only knew it was age appropriate and something we would enjoy.
The night before, my son said his best friend, also late 30s, had seen it and reported he cried three times. Huh? I thought. A cartoon? Well, I decided, I wouldn't cry in a cartoon movie.
And then we went. I have some extenuating circumstances I could mention, but that also would give away part of the movie. And sure enough, I fought sobs about 10 minutes in. Didn't sob. But I couldn't describe the scene afterwards without tearing up. It is a good movie. Multigenerational. Not many of those around. The kids really enjoyed it. The adults laughed in different places than the kids, and sometimes in the same places. Wow.
We got the 3D glasses, which did me no good since I have mono, not binnocular, vision. We turned the glasses back in. The kids enjoyed the 3D, but weren't that impressed, and since I couldn't see it, I wonder if our next movie --and a bunch more are coming--may be just regular 2D.
The parts that were really sad weren't so much for kids. It was a good story, and a fine afternoon.
Have to repeat one part. The old man is walking along with the Cub Scout, who is, naturally, talking,talking,talking. Ever spent time with a 6 or 7-year-old? Finally, the old man says, "Let's play a game." The kid says, "Oh, yes, I love games."
The old man says, "Let's see how long we can go until one of us talks."
The kid says, "Oh, the Silence game! I know that game! My mother loves it!"
That's an approximation of the dialogue, but it seemed like every adult in the audience laughed. Definitely including me.
Afterwards, my newly 7 grandaughter asked me, "Grandma, why did you laugh when he said that?"
And I laughed again.
I hope I gave her a good answer, but I don't remember.
We had a good day. Less memorable for them than for me, probably. The movie was part of it, but it was only a part. The rest of it was laughing, and loving, and being together.
For those of you with grandkids, I give a thumbs up. And I am glad I have them, so I had an immediate excuse to go.
Now need to go see "Star Trek" alone. Sigh. I don't mind eating alone, but I like movies with someone else, which probably explains somewhat my low TV usage. But I will go. Just not this week.
The night before, my son said his best friend, also late 30s, had seen it and reported he cried three times. Huh? I thought. A cartoon? Well, I decided, I wouldn't cry in a cartoon movie.
And then we went. I have some extenuating circumstances I could mention, but that also would give away part of the movie. And sure enough, I fought sobs about 10 minutes in. Didn't sob. But I couldn't describe the scene afterwards without tearing up. It is a good movie. Multigenerational. Not many of those around. The kids really enjoyed it. The adults laughed in different places than the kids, and sometimes in the same places. Wow.
We got the 3D glasses, which did me no good since I have mono, not binnocular, vision. We turned the glasses back in. The kids enjoyed the 3D, but weren't that impressed, and since I couldn't see it, I wonder if our next movie --and a bunch more are coming--may be just regular 2D.
The parts that were really sad weren't so much for kids. It was a good story, and a fine afternoon.
Have to repeat one part. The old man is walking along with the Cub Scout, who is, naturally, talking,talking,talking. Ever spent time with a 6 or 7-year-old? Finally, the old man says, "Let's play a game." The kid says, "Oh, yes, I love games."
The old man says, "Let's see how long we can go until one of us talks."
The kid says, "Oh, the Silence game! I know that game! My mother loves it!"
That's an approximation of the dialogue, but it seemed like every adult in the audience laughed. Definitely including me.
Afterwards, my newly 7 grandaughter asked me, "Grandma, why did you laugh when he said that?"
And I laughed again.
I hope I gave her a good answer, but I don't remember.
We had a good day. Less memorable for them than for me, probably. The movie was part of it, but it was only a part. The rest of it was laughing, and loving, and being together.
For those of you with grandkids, I give a thumbs up. And I am glad I have them, so I had an immediate excuse to go.
Now need to go see "Star Trek" alone. Sigh. I don't mind eating alone, but I like movies with someone else, which probably explains somewhat my low TV usage. But I will go. Just not this week.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The Little Princess with Killer Shoes
I was in Piggly Wiggly the other day when I saw a little girl, about 2, sitting in the basket and wearing killer shoes. (I love shoes and would own far more than the three pair I have if my foot size wasn't extremely hard to fit and thereby expensive, and I AM cheap.) Sandals, designs on them. They obviously did NOT come from Payless or Walmart. In fact, I doubt if they came from any retail store in the neighborhood. Little girl was well behaved, a head of curly strawberry blond ringlets, and a cute toddler sundress. The woman pushing the cart was casually dressed.
"Nice shoes," I commented, nodding at the little girl.
The woman laughed.
"Aren't they just too much?" she said, patting the little girl. "My brother is 47 and this is his first child. I'm afraid he goes over the top now and then on things for his daughter. The shoes are nice though. She'll grow out of them in another month or two and they cost $70."
I nodded. That's pretty much what I figured.
She went on.
"I'm her aunt and also her nanny. I moved down here from Idaho to help take care of her until she starts to school. Her mother is an attorney and didn't want to give up her career, but they didn't want anyone but family taking care of her. This way, no one is around her who doesn't love her and will be around all her life."
"Wasn't it hard to give up your own life for this?" I asked.
She smiled. "Not at all. My brother is paying me the same salary I was making, and I bank most of it. I'll be able to get back into professional work in a few years. Meanwhile, we're family, We like each other. We all love this little girl."
She leaned over and hugged her. The child grinned and hugged her back, and then, of course, pointed to a snack she wanted and begged, "Please?"
Her aunt said no, that they would have a snack when they got home.
Huh. The Pig is in a working class neighborhood, but it is on a main street. The little girl did have killer shoes, and she and the woman were obviously affectionate.
No reason to make up the story that I can see.
An extraordinary tale to be sure. That's why I love talking to people. Someone is always doing something I would never think or or would never have the opportunity to do.
"Nice shoes," I commented, nodding at the little girl.
The woman laughed.
"Aren't they just too much?" she said, patting the little girl. "My brother is 47 and this is his first child. I'm afraid he goes over the top now and then on things for his daughter. The shoes are nice though. She'll grow out of them in another month or two and they cost $70."
I nodded. That's pretty much what I figured.
She went on.
"I'm her aunt and also her nanny. I moved down here from Idaho to help take care of her until she starts to school. Her mother is an attorney and didn't want to give up her career, but they didn't want anyone but family taking care of her. This way, no one is around her who doesn't love her and will be around all her life."
"Wasn't it hard to give up your own life for this?" I asked.
She smiled. "Not at all. My brother is paying me the same salary I was making, and I bank most of it. I'll be able to get back into professional work in a few years. Meanwhile, we're family, We like each other. We all love this little girl."
She leaned over and hugged her. The child grinned and hugged her back, and then, of course, pointed to a snack she wanted and begged, "Please?"
Her aunt said no, that they would have a snack when they got home.
Huh. The Pig is in a working class neighborhood, but it is on a main street. The little girl did have killer shoes, and she and the woman were obviously affectionate.
No reason to make up the story that I can see.
An extraordinary tale to be sure. That's why I love talking to people. Someone is always doing something I would never think or or would never have the opportunity to do.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Anticipation-I think there's a song about that
Anticipation.
You can't buy it, but sometimes you pay for it.
Anticipation is an integral component of Christmas spirit, and mine has been in short supply for a number of years. In part to protect myself, I think, from that possible payment if disapointment set in.
Anticipation has ingredients of hope and faith in the future. I haven't always been good at that. Maybe that's why I've always had a short Christmas season--two weeks or so. I couldn't sustain anticipation for much more than that.
This year, I wake up with anticipation for almost every day. It makes a difference.
A friend commented to me once that of course not all Christmases are equal. Not every Christmas can be great, or you wouldn't have any baseline to compare to the great ones. I'm already anticipating this one. I will be with my family. We'll have a good time. And I have my novel stashed to begin reading on Christmas night when everything calms down. Been doing THAT for 40 years or so.
I bought a tree. It's a little one about 31/2 feet, very full "real" fir. It looks like it belongs out in a magic glade with lit candles on it and all the animals slipping in to look in wonder. Call me just a wide-eyed woodland creature. I've put tiny gold lights on it, and my grandmother's clear glass ornaments that this year are 105 years old. I haven't bothered with much else. It just doesn't need it. WRR is playing classical and Christmas music. I am baking, and the smell of warming evergreen and melting chocolate fills the air. (I really think smell is my most enjoyable sense for both Thanksgiving and Christmas.) I've talked to many friends, seen a bunch more, and actually attended parties this year which I couldn't do in my last career because of work pressure. The first year or two I retired, I maintained my basic love/hate don't go out at Christmas stance. I've mentioned a tree and family, but you know, anticipation doesn't rely on that. We manufacture our own ingredients for anticipation.
And I anticipate my Christmas spirit will continue to change. Yep, I anticipate. I can't buy it. It isn't one of the five senses. I can't touch it.
And it makes a huge difference in the quality of life.
You can't buy it, but sometimes you pay for it.
Anticipation is an integral component of Christmas spirit, and mine has been in short supply for a number of years. In part to protect myself, I think, from that possible payment if disapointment set in.
Anticipation has ingredients of hope and faith in the future. I haven't always been good at that. Maybe that's why I've always had a short Christmas season--two weeks or so. I couldn't sustain anticipation for much more than that.
This year, I wake up with anticipation for almost every day. It makes a difference.
A friend commented to me once that of course not all Christmases are equal. Not every Christmas can be great, or you wouldn't have any baseline to compare to the great ones. I'm already anticipating this one. I will be with my family. We'll have a good time. And I have my novel stashed to begin reading on Christmas night when everything calms down. Been doing THAT for 40 years or so.
I bought a tree. It's a little one about 31/2 feet, very full "real" fir. It looks like it belongs out in a magic glade with lit candles on it and all the animals slipping in to look in wonder. Call me just a wide-eyed woodland creature. I've put tiny gold lights on it, and my grandmother's clear glass ornaments that this year are 105 years old. I haven't bothered with much else. It just doesn't need it. WRR is playing classical and Christmas music. I am baking, and the smell of warming evergreen and melting chocolate fills the air. (I really think smell is my most enjoyable sense for both Thanksgiving and Christmas.) I've talked to many friends, seen a bunch more, and actually attended parties this year which I couldn't do in my last career because of work pressure. The first year or two I retired, I maintained my basic love/hate don't go out at Christmas stance. I've mentioned a tree and family, but you know, anticipation doesn't rely on that. We manufacture our own ingredients for anticipation.
And I anticipate my Christmas spirit will continue to change. Yep, I anticipate. I can't buy it. It isn't one of the five senses. I can't touch it.
And it makes a huge difference in the quality of life.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Stockings of Christmas
Listen up, children and grandchildren. This includes, I think, anyone under, say 60.
Once upon a time, in the lifetime of some people still roaming the earth, there were Christmas stockings. But they weren't decorations. You put them up on Christmas Eve, just before bedtime. And no one saw them but the persons who put them up or their caretakers.
We children were told if we weren't good, we would get only hard lumps of black coal in our stockings. I, for one, knew what that was because we burned it in our fireplace. The fire was nice. It burned, though, to keep us warm. We didn't have furnaces, most of us. We had fireplaces and maybe a gas heater or two in the most frequented rooms. I knew what coal was, and I didn't want any, and in the childhood grapevine, we all had heard of some child who misbehaved so badly, especially in the weeks before Christmas, that they received only a lump of coal. Or maybe two. And the kids I knew, we all believed in Santa Claus. In my family, I was told that while Santa put presents under the tree for me, even my parents got goodies from Santa in their stockings. Not the good--er, big--stuff, but something from Santa.
So when I went to bed Christmas Eve, I hung up, not my stocking, but my sock, preferably the oldest, most stretched out one I could find in the drawer. And my father hung HIS black sock, fitting a size 12 foot, and also old and stretched. And Mother hung one of her nylon stockings, one with a run in it--do you know what a run is in hosiery, people much younger than I? Most practically, it's one that was also stretched out and tattered and ruined and due to be thrown out, but great for Christmas Eve.After all, the neighbors weren't going to see these. Only the people who hung them.
I remember sighing with envy when I saw Dad's much bigger sock, and sighing even more heavily when I saw Mother's stocking, which hung so low it had to be hung on the side of the mantle away from the fireplace so it wouldn't catch fire.
Christmas morning, no matter how tempting the array under the tree, first we had to take down our socks and open them. Mine always had a candy cane, I remember, and Christmas ribbon candy, some of which I liked and some of which I didn't, and a few things, maybe a tangerine as well. I loved tangerines. Maybe a package of No. 2 pencils with my name printed on them, and/or a yo-yo or some such. Jacks. Pickup Sticks. (yawn) Pleasant. I always checked, and my mom's looong stocking was never more than half full, with stupid stuff like an apple and an orange in it. Ha! Dad's usually had monogrammed handkerchiefs in it, which he always seemed pleased with. Well, Kleenex hadn't been invented yet, either.
Sometime during the 50's, Christmas stockings became ornaments for decorating, with our names on them. Someone made a killing churning these out for the new refurbishment of Christmas decorations, but no cigar or patent, I think, for the first designer/originator. With uniform sizes, it did away with some significant whining ("his foot's bigger. It's not fair!") And so Christmases became, more festive, more merry, more festooned, and for some merchants, more profitable.
In families with multiple children and a paucity of beds, stockings always were hung in twos or threes on the foot of the bed. And with the cheap felt, uniform red stockings with white fluffy tops, again, decorative and uniform for all children in the house, Christmas decorations invaded the bedrooms, not just the room with the tree.
American women across the country still sew or knit and design their own. I was one of those grateful for the storebought ones. I say American women. How chary of me. Some men across America are doing the same thing.
In my own sons' youth, stockings always had some kind of chocolate, and usually windup toys that included robots, and didn't necessarily come first. In fact, they often came in the interim after Beneath the Tree and before Christmas breakfast was served. My own stocking once had an opal ring in the toe, which made me cry emotionally with happy tears.
Christmas stockings have come a long way, baby.
Once upon a time, in the lifetime of some people still roaming the earth, there were Christmas stockings. But they weren't decorations. You put them up on Christmas Eve, just before bedtime. And no one saw them but the persons who put them up or their caretakers.
We children were told if we weren't good, we would get only hard lumps of black coal in our stockings. I, for one, knew what that was because we burned it in our fireplace. The fire was nice. It burned, though, to keep us warm. We didn't have furnaces, most of us. We had fireplaces and maybe a gas heater or two in the most frequented rooms. I knew what coal was, and I didn't want any, and in the childhood grapevine, we all had heard of some child who misbehaved so badly, especially in the weeks before Christmas, that they received only a lump of coal. Or maybe two. And the kids I knew, we all believed in Santa Claus. In my family, I was told that while Santa put presents under the tree for me, even my parents got goodies from Santa in their stockings. Not the good--er, big--stuff, but something from Santa.
So when I went to bed Christmas Eve, I hung up, not my stocking, but my sock, preferably the oldest, most stretched out one I could find in the drawer. And my father hung HIS black sock, fitting a size 12 foot, and also old and stretched. And Mother hung one of her nylon stockings, one with a run in it--do you know what a run is in hosiery, people much younger than I? Most practically, it's one that was also stretched out and tattered and ruined and due to be thrown out, but great for Christmas Eve.After all, the neighbors weren't going to see these. Only the people who hung them.
I remember sighing with envy when I saw Dad's much bigger sock, and sighing even more heavily when I saw Mother's stocking, which hung so low it had to be hung on the side of the mantle away from the fireplace so it wouldn't catch fire.
Christmas morning, no matter how tempting the array under the tree, first we had to take down our socks and open them. Mine always had a candy cane, I remember, and Christmas ribbon candy, some of which I liked and some of which I didn't, and a few things, maybe a tangerine as well. I loved tangerines. Maybe a package of No. 2 pencils with my name printed on them, and/or a yo-yo or some such. Jacks. Pickup Sticks. (yawn) Pleasant. I always checked, and my mom's looong stocking was never more than half full, with stupid stuff like an apple and an orange in it. Ha! Dad's usually had monogrammed handkerchiefs in it, which he always seemed pleased with. Well, Kleenex hadn't been invented yet, either.
Sometime during the 50's, Christmas stockings became ornaments for decorating, with our names on them. Someone made a killing churning these out for the new refurbishment of Christmas decorations, but no cigar or patent, I think, for the first designer/originator. With uniform sizes, it did away with some significant whining ("his foot's bigger. It's not fair!") And so Christmases became, more festive, more merry, more festooned, and for some merchants, more profitable.
In families with multiple children and a paucity of beds, stockings always were hung in twos or threes on the foot of the bed. And with the cheap felt, uniform red stockings with white fluffy tops, again, decorative and uniform for all children in the house, Christmas decorations invaded the bedrooms, not just the room with the tree.
American women across the country still sew or knit and design their own. I was one of those grateful for the storebought ones. I say American women. How chary of me. Some men across America are doing the same thing.
In my own sons' youth, stockings always had some kind of chocolate, and usually windup toys that included robots, and didn't necessarily come first. In fact, they often came in the interim after Beneath the Tree and before Christmas breakfast was served. My own stocking once had an opal ring in the toe, which made me cry emotionally with happy tears.
Christmas stockings have come a long way, baby.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
The Best of Holidays
How do I say this?
Life is GOOD.
LIFE is good.
For me, this year has been full of blessings So many, I can't count them. But you know what? We get them all the time, and so often, we don't count them or notice them. When we do--well.
I't's overwhelming.
I would say the same without the past two weeks. There's a Russian saying, "Pray to God, but keep rowing." You don't have to believe in God, though it is easier, but you do have to believe in the future, and you do have to keep rowing. I don't know which is the harder part.
I do know that optimism and hope has allowed me to do things in my life I thought logically were impossible, but with hope and faith, I did them. And I thought, "wow!" A little startled, a lot happy.
And on to the next challenge.
I have had a very ordinary life. Nothing spectacular. But, of course, very special to me, because it is mine.
About two weeks ago, I went in for my first mammogram in 25 years. My doctor explained that as I age, I am more vulnerable. So I went. And they found two spots in my right breast. I came in for a followup diagnostic. Without a database, they still couldn't tell, so I went in for a biopsy.
Results due in two to three working days. So at the end of two, I had no report. 80 percent chance benign. But by noon the next day, I was basically non-functional. Parrt of me looked at me, and thought that if it was malignant, I was still blessed. It had been caught early and would probably not be life-threatening. Exactly the purpose of mammograms. Still a blessing. Later I got the report. Benign, come in next year for the annual. NOW they have a database.
So, get your mammogram. But that's not really the purpose of this, although it is a part.
Keep rowing. I didn't on the mammograms, so a little extra.
I am having my family of five over for Thanksgiving dinner. Something I haven't done in a dozen years. So little. And so huge.
I've been exercising regularly. I've been eating right. I am not back to where I have been, butI am so thankful. My cup is so full. Even if the food stinks. But hey, there's optimsm here. So it probably won't.
Thanksgiving isn't about perfection. It is about gratefulness, for life, for those around us. Reach out as far as you can, the phone, or neighbor. Thankfulness is one of the best parts of being human,and of being an American. Being thankful is the best part of being alive.
Hey! better than sex! and I say that with true belief. To greet the day, being thankful for it--there really is nothing better.
.
Life is GOOD.
LIFE is good.
For me, this year has been full of blessings So many, I can't count them. But you know what? We get them all the time, and so often, we don't count them or notice them. When we do--well.
I't's overwhelming.
I would say the same without the past two weeks. There's a Russian saying, "Pray to God, but keep rowing." You don't have to believe in God, though it is easier, but you do have to believe in the future, and you do have to keep rowing. I don't know which is the harder part.
I do know that optimism and hope has allowed me to do things in my life I thought logically were impossible, but with hope and faith, I did them. And I thought, "wow!" A little startled, a lot happy.
And on to the next challenge.
I have had a very ordinary life. Nothing spectacular. But, of course, very special to me, because it is mine.
About two weeks ago, I went in for my first mammogram in 25 years. My doctor explained that as I age, I am more vulnerable. So I went. And they found two spots in my right breast. I came in for a followup diagnostic. Without a database, they still couldn't tell, so I went in for a biopsy.
Results due in two to three working days. So at the end of two, I had no report. 80 percent chance benign. But by noon the next day, I was basically non-functional. Parrt of me looked at me, and thought that if it was malignant, I was still blessed. It had been caught early and would probably not be life-threatening. Exactly the purpose of mammograms. Still a blessing. Later I got the report. Benign, come in next year for the annual. NOW they have a database.
So, get your mammogram. But that's not really the purpose of this, although it is a part.
Keep rowing. I didn't on the mammograms, so a little extra.
I am having my family of five over for Thanksgiving dinner. Something I haven't done in a dozen years. So little. And so huge.
I've been exercising regularly. I've been eating right. I am not back to where I have been, butI am so thankful. My cup is so full. Even if the food stinks. But hey, there's optimsm here. So it probably won't.
Thanksgiving isn't about perfection. It is about gratefulness, for life, for those around us. Reach out as far as you can, the phone, or neighbor. Thankfulness is one of the best parts of being human,and of being an American. Being thankful is the best part of being alive.
Hey! better than sex! and I say that with true belief. To greet the day, being thankful for it--there really is nothing better.
.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Farewell to a Well-Loved Friend
Eugenia Faye Foote weighed two pounds when she was born July 7, 1912. Miraculously, she survived to go home from the hospital with her mother, but she wasn't expected to survive. Her mother made a bed for her baby in a shoebox she kept in her bed to keep her warm. She fed her with a medicine dropper. And Faye survived.
They were a hard-working, poor Texas family, and the big vegetable garden provided a lot of their food. Faye's mother was ill most of Faye's childhood and taught her young daughter how to can and cook from the bed. Faye would get up at 4:30 a.m. to iron and do chores before going to school. She was a good student. She loved to learn something new all her life.
Although they didn't have much, they had more than some of their neighbors, and Faye's mother sometimes gave away the supper Faye had already cooked to needful neighbors who had nothing. And Faye would go back to the kitchen to see what else they had she could fix for supper. And, she said, there was always something.
A new-fangled operation in the late 1920s or early 1930s gave new health to her mother. Back on her feet, she asked her teen-age daughter what she would like to do. Faye said she would like to be a nurse but there was no money for school. Her mother said not to worry. They'd find it. And they did.
So she became an nurse. She said proudly that the doctors used to assign her some of their highest risk patients because she had a reputation for fighting for them so fiercely. She prayed for them, too. That former two-pound baby knew all about fighting for life.
The vivacious, tiny (5'1") nurse caught the eye of a young Texan named LeRoy Foote who was at least a foot taller than she, and he gently courted her. They fell in love and she agreed to marry him. He was very kind to his mother, she said. That was a good indicator he would continue to be so sweet to her. And he was.
I've heard two stories about the wedding, but the one I like best is that the young couple had no money to waste on embellishments beyond her wedding dress --I believe her mother, a talented seamstress, made it-- and Leroy's good suit. There was no money for flowers. But when they came into the church, they found the front of the church covered with vases and jars the neighbors and townspeople had gathered from their gardens to provide flowers for the wedding. She said it was very pretty.
So they married, and World War II came along. He enlisted, and they wrote, and then his letters stopped and she and his mother learned he had been injured. They hung to their hope and prayers. After months, a letter came. Censors were so strict, he couldn't tell her the extent of his injuries. But he wrote that he walked to the window--he could walk, his legs were all right--and leaned on his arms on the windowsill--he still had both arms--as his eyes viewed the sunny day--he could see. He was home before they learned how close he had come to dying, and he carried shrapnel in his body the rest of his life.
She stayed home with their two sons until both were in school, then returned to nursing, this time as a school nurse. Long before there were government programs to help the impoverished, she had persuaded (read, bullied) the local stores into providing school clothes and shoes for needy children and collected gently worn jackets and coats from every member of the church. She knew who needed medicine and knew how to get it if the family couldn't pay. People knew she would ask politely and sweetly for her kids, but if you said no, she'd be back, and then she'd be back again. It was easier to give in and do the right thing the first time. (I think she also used this technique in raising their sons.)
She and Leroy bought an RV they enjoyed for a number of years in their travels around the country. After their retirement, they decided to see more of the world and led tours to China, New Zealand, Australia, Europe--was Egypt in there? I think so. Their older son was living with his wife and son in South America and they made several trips to visit there.
They were active in their church and community, of course. LeRoy was active in Boy Scouts, and also a mean cook. (She hated to admit it, but his pancakes were even lighter than hers.) She loved to "gussy up" and go dancing with LeRoy, and despite their disparate heights, they danced very well together. And she loved to gamble once in awhile (with the money carefully budgeted).
When LeRoy finally died sometime after their fiftieth wedding anniversary, she told me later she was glad she lived alone because the first couple of weeks after the funeral, she sometimes would roam the house, howling like a banshee. Of course, she soldiered on and got on with life, and one day, she looked around and realized there were a lot of grieving survivors, so she started a grief group in her 80's. It is still going, too.
Faye and LeRoy were friends of my parents, and their oldest son and I were really good high school friends (we did our geometry homework every night together on the phone.) When my dad died when I was 19, it was LeRoy's arms I ran to when I got home from college. And when I put Mother in a nursing home when I was 23 for Alzheimer's, Faye and LeRoy quietly stepped up as extended family. When I could get out to Alamogordo, N. M., with my sons, Faye and LeRoy provided the only grandparenting available after their dad's and my parents had died.
I remember one glorious summer day when they took us up to a friend's cherry orchards in LaLuz Canyon, in the lower foothills. Mint grew between the rows of trees, our feet crushing the fragrant plants as we walked under trees sweetly smelling of sun-warmed ripe cherries, the breeze down the canyon bringing the additonal scents of pine and cedar....we laughed and talked and picked and ate that day. There was a snake on the road on our way back, and LeRoy and Matt leaped out of the car to see what kind it was. On another occasion, we joined Faye, her son Bill, and daughter-in-law Cheryl at the High Rolls cherry festival. There was the scent of Indian fry bread with honey, and New Mexico -grown pistachios soaked in green chile sauce (mmm). Two perfect days to remember.
When my uncle needed help and I came out for a week to help him close up his house and move into a nursing home, Faye insisted I stay with her. Each evening, we would sit on the porch, not facing the sunset, but the eastern Sacramento Mountains, listening to the tinkle of the windchimes she had collected from all over the world and watching the colors and light change on our beloved mountains as the sun set. And we talked. Many of the tales I've recorded here--and so many more--I heard then, but most she also had told me over the years.
When my uncle died six years later and I came for his funeral, Faye told me then she had been diagnosed with what the doctors thought was Alzheimer's (it was dementia, which has different symptoms). It was a double hit.
Bill and Cheryl moved her to a fine place in Albuquerque that caters specifically to memory care, and near their home. After a few months of fuming over the move from Alamogordo, she adjusted beautifully . As usual, she became a darling of the staff. As long as possible, she attended church on Sundays with her son and his wife, but she became unable to go. In October, a year ago, she became unable to visit any more with me on the phone. She was already in hospice care. She sank and rallied, sank and rallied. The hospice nurses said they had never seen such a fighter. Three weeks ago, while she was on a morphine drip and lying in bed with her eyes closed, her nurse told her it was okay to let go and go with God. She said Faye opened her eyes, raised her hand and shook her finger under the nose of the nurse.
Yes, that was Faye. And her suffering those last months has been so hard on her family, but she just couldn't give up. My fantasy is that LeRoy finally came to get her, held out his hand, and they walzed off into eternity. She died in her sleep early Sunday morning, Aug. 31, 2008.
She is not related to me by blood or marriage. But she is the last of my chosen extended family. I had prayed for this day, the end of her suffering and her family's, but it hurts a surprising amount--selfish grief, I know. And reality. She's been lost to me for awhile, but she is really, really gone.
She was 97. Not a bad record for a puny, two-pound baby girl. She left a legion of friends, a plethora of family, and an incredible number of known and unknown kindnesses throughout her life.
She wasn't particularly sweet, but she was joyful, and she loved life hugely.She was bossy, but she didn't ALWAYS insist on having her own way. And she loved with her whole heart, and I was fortunate to be one of the people she loved.
This is my memorium to a woman who will always make me smile when I remember her. As will many others.
They were a hard-working, poor Texas family, and the big vegetable garden provided a lot of their food. Faye's mother was ill most of Faye's childhood and taught her young daughter how to can and cook from the bed. Faye would get up at 4:30 a.m. to iron and do chores before going to school. She was a good student. She loved to learn something new all her life.
Although they didn't have much, they had more than some of their neighbors, and Faye's mother sometimes gave away the supper Faye had already cooked to needful neighbors who had nothing. And Faye would go back to the kitchen to see what else they had she could fix for supper. And, she said, there was always something.
A new-fangled operation in the late 1920s or early 1930s gave new health to her mother. Back on her feet, she asked her teen-age daughter what she would like to do. Faye said she would like to be a nurse but there was no money for school. Her mother said not to worry. They'd find it. And they did.
So she became an nurse. She said proudly that the doctors used to assign her some of their highest risk patients because she had a reputation for fighting for them so fiercely. She prayed for them, too. That former two-pound baby knew all about fighting for life.
The vivacious, tiny (5'1") nurse caught the eye of a young Texan named LeRoy Foote who was at least a foot taller than she, and he gently courted her. They fell in love and she agreed to marry him. He was very kind to his mother, she said. That was a good indicator he would continue to be so sweet to her. And he was.
I've heard two stories about the wedding, but the one I like best is that the young couple had no money to waste on embellishments beyond her wedding dress --I believe her mother, a talented seamstress, made it-- and Leroy's good suit. There was no money for flowers. But when they came into the church, they found the front of the church covered with vases and jars the neighbors and townspeople had gathered from their gardens to provide flowers for the wedding. She said it was very pretty.
So they married, and World War II came along. He enlisted, and they wrote, and then his letters stopped and she and his mother learned he had been injured. They hung to their hope and prayers. After months, a letter came. Censors were so strict, he couldn't tell her the extent of his injuries. But he wrote that he walked to the window--he could walk, his legs were all right--and leaned on his arms on the windowsill--he still had both arms--as his eyes viewed the sunny day--he could see. He was home before they learned how close he had come to dying, and he carried shrapnel in his body the rest of his life.
She stayed home with their two sons until both were in school, then returned to nursing, this time as a school nurse. Long before there were government programs to help the impoverished, she had persuaded (read, bullied) the local stores into providing school clothes and shoes for needy children and collected gently worn jackets and coats from every member of the church. She knew who needed medicine and knew how to get it if the family couldn't pay. People knew she would ask politely and sweetly for her kids, but if you said no, she'd be back, and then she'd be back again. It was easier to give in and do the right thing the first time. (I think she also used this technique in raising their sons.)
She and Leroy bought an RV they enjoyed for a number of years in their travels around the country. After their retirement, they decided to see more of the world and led tours to China, New Zealand, Australia, Europe--was Egypt in there? I think so. Their older son was living with his wife and son in South America and they made several trips to visit there.
They were active in their church and community, of course. LeRoy was active in Boy Scouts, and also a mean cook. (She hated to admit it, but his pancakes were even lighter than hers.) She loved to "gussy up" and go dancing with LeRoy, and despite their disparate heights, they danced very well together. And she loved to gamble once in awhile (with the money carefully budgeted).
When LeRoy finally died sometime after their fiftieth wedding anniversary, she told me later she was glad she lived alone because the first couple of weeks after the funeral, she sometimes would roam the house, howling like a banshee. Of course, she soldiered on and got on with life, and one day, she looked around and realized there were a lot of grieving survivors, so she started a grief group in her 80's. It is still going, too.
Faye and LeRoy were friends of my parents, and their oldest son and I were really good high school friends (we did our geometry homework every night together on the phone.) When my dad died when I was 19, it was LeRoy's arms I ran to when I got home from college. And when I put Mother in a nursing home when I was 23 for Alzheimer's, Faye and LeRoy quietly stepped up as extended family. When I could get out to Alamogordo, N. M., with my sons, Faye and LeRoy provided the only grandparenting available after their dad's and my parents had died.
I remember one glorious summer day when they took us up to a friend's cherry orchards in LaLuz Canyon, in the lower foothills. Mint grew between the rows of trees, our feet crushing the fragrant plants as we walked under trees sweetly smelling of sun-warmed ripe cherries, the breeze down the canyon bringing the additonal scents of pine and cedar....we laughed and talked and picked and ate that day. There was a snake on the road on our way back, and LeRoy and Matt leaped out of the car to see what kind it was. On another occasion, we joined Faye, her son Bill, and daughter-in-law Cheryl at the High Rolls cherry festival. There was the scent of Indian fry bread with honey, and New Mexico -grown pistachios soaked in green chile sauce (mmm). Two perfect days to remember.
When my uncle needed help and I came out for a week to help him close up his house and move into a nursing home, Faye insisted I stay with her. Each evening, we would sit on the porch, not facing the sunset, but the eastern Sacramento Mountains, listening to the tinkle of the windchimes she had collected from all over the world and watching the colors and light change on our beloved mountains as the sun set. And we talked. Many of the tales I've recorded here--and so many more--I heard then, but most she also had told me over the years.
When my uncle died six years later and I came for his funeral, Faye told me then she had been diagnosed with what the doctors thought was Alzheimer's (it was dementia, which has different symptoms). It was a double hit.
Bill and Cheryl moved her to a fine place in Albuquerque that caters specifically to memory care, and near their home. After a few months of fuming over the move from Alamogordo, she adjusted beautifully . As usual, she became a darling of the staff. As long as possible, she attended church on Sundays with her son and his wife, but she became unable to go. In October, a year ago, she became unable to visit any more with me on the phone. She was already in hospice care. She sank and rallied, sank and rallied. The hospice nurses said they had never seen such a fighter. Three weeks ago, while she was on a morphine drip and lying in bed with her eyes closed, her nurse told her it was okay to let go and go with God. She said Faye opened her eyes, raised her hand and shook her finger under the nose of the nurse.
Yes, that was Faye. And her suffering those last months has been so hard on her family, but she just couldn't give up. My fantasy is that LeRoy finally came to get her, held out his hand, and they walzed off into eternity. She died in her sleep early Sunday morning, Aug. 31, 2008.
She is not related to me by blood or marriage. But she is the last of my chosen extended family. I had prayed for this day, the end of her suffering and her family's, but it hurts a surprising amount--selfish grief, I know. And reality. She's been lost to me for awhile, but she is really, really gone.
She was 97. Not a bad record for a puny, two-pound baby girl. She left a legion of friends, a plethora of family, and an incredible number of known and unknown kindnesses throughout her life.
She wasn't particularly sweet, but she was joyful, and she loved life hugely.She was bossy, but she didn't ALWAYS insist on having her own way. And she loved with her whole heart, and I was fortunate to be one of the people she loved.
This is my memorium to a woman who will always make me smile when I remember her. As will many others.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Countcher blessings and quitcher bitching
Some years back, I was making a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving. I was using an old, glass pie plate that certainly was inexpensive, but old enough it was deeper than its counterpoints today. The crust was already rolled out and lying in the pan as I combined the ingredients for the filling. The oven was heating.
Suddenly, I had one of those moments where I felt so connected to the generations before this present moment. My grandmother, who married in the 1890's, had bought this plate--I don't know when--and used it. My mother had made pies in this plate. And here was I, making my filling from my mother's recipe in a 1935 church cookbook, before stoves had thermostats. Recipes called for a hot oven or a moderate oven or a warm oven. My mother's recipe differed from most modern pumpkin pie recipes in its use of ginger. It always seemed to me her pumpkin pie was just a little better, but that may simply have been love and tradition. But there I was, at the kitchen counter, making a pie as my mother had, as my grandmother had, using the same dish. And for that moment, we were connected. I wasn't a lone woman standing there but a link in a chain of women, each of whom had loved the next generation and cooked for them. And, I feel quite sure, giving thanks for what they had. Because I DID know those women.
When I was growing up, there was always seven for dinner--my three grandparents, my uncle, my parents and me. We raised turkeys, so the bird was very fresh. Dad made the dressing the night before. (As I've blogged, I've come to wonder where he learned to cook, because he did, quite a bit. And he always made the stuffing and cooked the turkey.) As I got older, he delighted in showing me how he made the stuffing. The secret, he said, was to go by the smell. He cooked and stirred until it SMELLED right.Celery and onions, and he always added a finely diced apple. Fresh cornbread, still hot from the pan. Stale bread that had been bought a week before and sat on the refrigerator getting stale. Less bread, I think, than cornbread. Salt, pepper, poultry seasoning and a little sage. Smelling right had to do with the spices. A can of chicken broth,maybe, or more likely or he would boil the neck for broth, to provide the flavorful moisture to bind it together.Then refrigerated overnight to ripen the flavors.
The next morning he would waken at 4:30 a.m. to stuff the turkey with the dressing, saving enough for an 8X8 pan for my mother, who preferred a dryer stuffing with giblet gravy. It went in a large roaster and into the oven. In those days before infusion, he was pulling it out every 15 minutes or half hour to baste it again. His turkeys were always juicy and flavorful. I would awaken to the wonderful aroma of baking turkey and stuffing throughout the house, in addition to the possible breakfast smells like frying bacon. Since the turkey had to stand for awhile when he pulled the finished bird out before he could cut it, there was plenty of time to cook mother's stuffing and the Hubbard or acorn squash, each with their pat of butter and salt and pepper. They weren't SO bad, just not my favorites, but my history buff parents insisted that at the first Thanksgiving, the Indians brought squash and maybe succotash. THAT I really liked. Mashed potatoes, and no, we didn't do gravy, unless someone wanted to use the giblet gravy, and I think some did. Mother always made a sweet potato casserole, too, which we ate on the day, and she mostly threw away a few days later. A relish plate full of cut celery stalks, black and stuffed olives and maybe sliced dills. Mother served store-bought rolls, but always put out a compote of cherry preserves. Cranberry sauce.And then, while I carefully cleared the table, Mom would go whip the whipping cream to go on our slices of pumpkin pie.
Grandaddy was a Methodist minister, and we always asked the blessing before meals anyway. The Thanksging prayer was longer, but, I think, pretty interesting as he thanked the Lord for stuff I had just taken for granted during the year.Much conversation and laughter. A lot of love at that table.
The first time my husband took me to his grandmother's in Oklahoma for Thanksgiving, I realized how different holiday customs can be. Here, too, was custom and tradition. The same white tablecloth. But my word. First, his cousin and her husband and his aunt and uncle were there, as well as his mother and brother and us and his great-aunt. Secondly, there was a turkey and a ham and was there a roast? maybe. Dressing, and her recipe required eggs and was baked outside the turkey and was delicious. Giblet gravy and regular gravy, and yep, the same store-bought rolls, and at least three kinds of congealed salads and green bean casserole and...I can't possibly remember. Fruit salad with marshmallows, melt in your mouth pound cake and at least three kinds of pie. I think it was more like five kinds. And again, a lot of laughter and conversation. There was a lot of love at THAT table, too.
As I like to think there was at my own. I never provided the bounty his grandmother did, but I added ham to the turkey and extra dishes. One year, instead of turkey or ham, we had fried quail breasts and grilled sirloin steak. And I made more than one dessert. Some years, we invited friends to join us, and my late brother-in-law and his children were regulars at the table for several years after his wife was killed in a traffic accident. I have not cooked such a meal since the arthritis hit about 10 years ago. I am struggling to get back some of my coping skills to do more than simple cooking now, but it will be awhile. But in my whole life, I have never sat at table for Thanksgiving with anyone but people I really liked and enjoyed. Something to be thankful for.
Friday, on the radio, several persons were sharing stories of Duty Gatherings, where at least some if not all the persons dislike or feel contentious about the others and someone always takes umbrage, grabs their family and storms out. A friend told me she had a Duty Thanksgiving which wasn't so bad because they mostly got along and the food was good. But there was no question of her spending the holidays with her parents. It Wasn't Allowed. And this doesn't even get into the nasty drunk family member who destroys the peace. I guess, maybe after a few years, you get used to it? But how horrible to say, "I have to go" rather than "I want to go."
But this is the holidays, the time of illusion, where fantasy is in full force. Someone was saying recently that this is no longer a period of truth, but of image. So many of us care more about the appearance of how things are to the reality. (Huh. wonder how holiday dinners are for members of Congress.) There are as many expectations and traditions as there are families.
I simply give thanks this year for the many, many happy holidays I have shared and the love my family has shared. How lucky, lucky I have been.
One man on the radio said his family, he and siblings all grown, were simply having more and more trouble with a traditional dinner since his mother's death. She had always done it. Getting together wasn't the problem, they all really like each other. But a few years ago, they said the heck with it, pulled out the grill and had a delicious holiday meal of grilled hamburgers and French fries. It was, he said, a great relief. Makes sense to me.
Well, next week is round one. The easy one. Just a meal and family. The big, complicated doozy of a holiday is ahead. I'll probably run into you at Walmart sooner or later. (Did I mention I really hate to shop, almost ANYtime?) But at some time, maybe not till Christmas Eve but sometime, I will get to awe and wonder. And then all will be well.
Suddenly, I had one of those moments where I felt so connected to the generations before this present moment. My grandmother, who married in the 1890's, had bought this plate--I don't know when--and used it. My mother had made pies in this plate. And here was I, making my filling from my mother's recipe in a 1935 church cookbook, before stoves had thermostats. Recipes called for a hot oven or a moderate oven or a warm oven. My mother's recipe differed from most modern pumpkin pie recipes in its use of ginger. It always seemed to me her pumpkin pie was just a little better, but that may simply have been love and tradition. But there I was, at the kitchen counter, making a pie as my mother had, as my grandmother had, using the same dish. And for that moment, we were connected. I wasn't a lone woman standing there but a link in a chain of women, each of whom had loved the next generation and cooked for them. And, I feel quite sure, giving thanks for what they had. Because I DID know those women.
When I was growing up, there was always seven for dinner--my three grandparents, my uncle, my parents and me. We raised turkeys, so the bird was very fresh. Dad made the dressing the night before. (As I've blogged, I've come to wonder where he learned to cook, because he did, quite a bit. And he always made the stuffing and cooked the turkey.) As I got older, he delighted in showing me how he made the stuffing. The secret, he said, was to go by the smell. He cooked and stirred until it SMELLED right.Celery and onions, and he always added a finely diced apple. Fresh cornbread, still hot from the pan. Stale bread that had been bought a week before and sat on the refrigerator getting stale. Less bread, I think, than cornbread. Salt, pepper, poultry seasoning and a little sage. Smelling right had to do with the spices. A can of chicken broth,maybe, or more likely or he would boil the neck for broth, to provide the flavorful moisture to bind it together.Then refrigerated overnight to ripen the flavors.
The next morning he would waken at 4:30 a.m. to stuff the turkey with the dressing, saving enough for an 8X8 pan for my mother, who preferred a dryer stuffing with giblet gravy. It went in a large roaster and into the oven. In those days before infusion, he was pulling it out every 15 minutes or half hour to baste it again. His turkeys were always juicy and flavorful. I would awaken to the wonderful aroma of baking turkey and stuffing throughout the house, in addition to the possible breakfast smells like frying bacon. Since the turkey had to stand for awhile when he pulled the finished bird out before he could cut it, there was plenty of time to cook mother's stuffing and the Hubbard or acorn squash, each with their pat of butter and salt and pepper. They weren't SO bad, just not my favorites, but my history buff parents insisted that at the first Thanksgiving, the Indians brought squash and maybe succotash. THAT I really liked. Mashed potatoes, and no, we didn't do gravy, unless someone wanted to use the giblet gravy, and I think some did. Mother always made a sweet potato casserole, too, which we ate on the day, and she mostly threw away a few days later. A relish plate full of cut celery stalks, black and stuffed olives and maybe sliced dills. Mother served store-bought rolls, but always put out a compote of cherry preserves. Cranberry sauce.And then, while I carefully cleared the table, Mom would go whip the whipping cream to go on our slices of pumpkin pie.
Grandaddy was a Methodist minister, and we always asked the blessing before meals anyway. The Thanksging prayer was longer, but, I think, pretty interesting as he thanked the Lord for stuff I had just taken for granted during the year.Much conversation and laughter. A lot of love at that table.
The first time my husband took me to his grandmother's in Oklahoma for Thanksgiving, I realized how different holiday customs can be. Here, too, was custom and tradition. The same white tablecloth. But my word. First, his cousin and her husband and his aunt and uncle were there, as well as his mother and brother and us and his great-aunt. Secondly, there was a turkey and a ham and was there a roast? maybe. Dressing, and her recipe required eggs and was baked outside the turkey and was delicious. Giblet gravy and regular gravy, and yep, the same store-bought rolls, and at least three kinds of congealed salads and green bean casserole and...I can't possibly remember. Fruit salad with marshmallows, melt in your mouth pound cake and at least three kinds of pie. I think it was more like five kinds. And again, a lot of laughter and conversation. There was a lot of love at THAT table, too.
As I like to think there was at my own. I never provided the bounty his grandmother did, but I added ham to the turkey and extra dishes. One year, instead of turkey or ham, we had fried quail breasts and grilled sirloin steak. And I made more than one dessert. Some years, we invited friends to join us, and my late brother-in-law and his children were regulars at the table for several years after his wife was killed in a traffic accident. I have not cooked such a meal since the arthritis hit about 10 years ago. I am struggling to get back some of my coping skills to do more than simple cooking now, but it will be awhile. But in my whole life, I have never sat at table for Thanksgiving with anyone but people I really liked and enjoyed. Something to be thankful for.
Friday, on the radio, several persons were sharing stories of Duty Gatherings, where at least some if not all the persons dislike or feel contentious about the others and someone always takes umbrage, grabs their family and storms out. A friend told me she had a Duty Thanksgiving which wasn't so bad because they mostly got along and the food was good. But there was no question of her spending the holidays with her parents. It Wasn't Allowed. And this doesn't even get into the nasty drunk family member who destroys the peace. I guess, maybe after a few years, you get used to it? But how horrible to say, "I have to go" rather than "I want to go."
But this is the holidays, the time of illusion, where fantasy is in full force. Someone was saying recently that this is no longer a period of truth, but of image. So many of us care more about the appearance of how things are to the reality. (Huh. wonder how holiday dinners are for members of Congress.) There are as many expectations and traditions as there are families.
I simply give thanks this year for the many, many happy holidays I have shared and the love my family has shared. How lucky, lucky I have been.
One man on the radio said his family, he and siblings all grown, were simply having more and more trouble with a traditional dinner since his mother's death. She had always done it. Getting together wasn't the problem, they all really like each other. But a few years ago, they said the heck with it, pulled out the grill and had a delicious holiday meal of grilled hamburgers and French fries. It was, he said, a great relief. Makes sense to me.
Well, next week is round one. The easy one. Just a meal and family. The big, complicated doozy of a holiday is ahead. I'll probably run into you at Walmart sooner or later. (Did I mention I really hate to shop, almost ANYtime?) But at some time, maybe not till Christmas Eve but sometime, I will get to awe and wonder. And then all will be well.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
What I Want May Change, but Give It To Me And I'm Happy
For the last couple of days, I had been feeling snarly. I wasn't too interested in what you had to say, and I wasn't too interested in what I had to say, either. I basically wanted to curl up with a good mystery where I couldn't figure out the killer until the last 30 pages or less, is that too much to ask? Often, it is. I had the radio on, and the pillows plumped nicely on the bed for reading (don't have a couch any more). Food didn't sound interesting, and although I wanted to drink water, the lake has turned. I am unaccustomed to buying bottled, so I had a choice of Diet Dr. Pepper or dirt-flavored water. I wandered over to the computer a time or two, said, "nah", and went back to my book. Better for the universe and me both, I figured.
But yesterday afternoon, I had Something to Do, and I actually perked up a bit.
My oldest granddaughter and her mom were finally going to see "Harry Potter." Youngest granddaughter and I were going to see "Underdog", decidedly not two thumbs up, but what the hey, it's wholesome and she's five, and we would be going together. And she was pretty revved, herself. So they left, and then we did, and we got matinee tickets and then....movie food. I had neglected to buy and stuff candy in my purse, which is so small that's about all from outside I can bring in that will fit. I've decided I need a bigger purse again. I'm not sure about what that says about my respect for movie rules or if I'm breaking any laws or what. I usually don't eat or drink at movies, which is a good thing. Youngest granddaughter got one SMALL bag of popcorn. one SMALL soft drink, and a package of fruit chewies. Total was $8.75. I boggled and paid. No wonder they can afford the lower matinee prices.
We got seated, and the previews began, then snagged. Time sped by. She and I were seated comfortably, she had started on her chewies, the air conditioning was on, and we were having a good time talking with each other. It took something like 20 minutes, I think, and then they started the movie. Which she thought was very funny and I found funny enough to be pleasant. We should have been out of the theater first, but with our delay, we got out after mom and big sister, and they were waiting for us. As we left the theater, a nice man in a suit pushed two tickets in my hand. "What's this?" I asked in surprise. "Two complementary tickets as an apology for the earlier glitch."
I laughed. "Didn't bother us, but thank you" I said. I mean, how many of us have wickedly crowded schedules after a Disney movie? But hey, I have two more tickets now. Free.
Sisters compared notes. Both felt they were the winners. The oldest got to see Harry Potter. I mean, we're talking Harry Potter. The youngest got candy as well as popcorn and a drink. We're talking sugar. Both were well pleased. So were mom and grandma.
A front passing through had dropped a little rain, and the recent high temperatures were subdued to a low 90 with a light breeze, very pleasant. My snarly mood just evaporated.
This morning I got up fairly early for a Sunday to meet a friend from Midland, 41/2 hours away, who was in town briefly. We met at a little cafe about a half mile from my home where they serve nothing but breakfast on weekends. Really good breakfasts. Really fast, efficient friendly service. And they have huge mugs for hot tea and coffee. As usual, one of the fire station crews had shown up enmasse (they have some incredible three egg omelets stuffed with meats, cheeses and or vegetables), really good hashbrowns, huge biscuits you can get with a side of sausage gravy....and more, of course. They have much smaller breakfasts, too, or I would never go. You have a choice of about six kinds of toast. You can order sliced tomatoes or fresh fruit instead of the hashbrowns. You have Choices. I love that in a restaurant.
I love breakfast outings like this. Genelle and I had not seen each other in at least six months or longer, and spent a couple hours catching up. It was such a nice way to start the day.
So I am socialized again. Smiling at strangers. Interested in what others have to say. And I still have about a fourth of a pretty good mystery to finish. And everything I thought of to write about would take more effort than I felt like putting in this afternoon, to tell the truth. So I, too, am journaling a bit.
I try not to do it often because my life,though satisfying to me, is pretty mundane.
I resolve never to be reduced to telling you I washed clothes and then the dishes. I test out about 50-50 on introvert-extrovert, so my reading regimen might have gotten me to the same emotional place just about as soon as two visits with people I care about.
Seeing the family and my friend, I suspect, left my smile bank with more deposits.
But yesterday afternoon, I had Something to Do, and I actually perked up a bit.
My oldest granddaughter and her mom were finally going to see "Harry Potter." Youngest granddaughter and I were going to see "Underdog", decidedly not two thumbs up, but what the hey, it's wholesome and she's five, and we would be going together. And she was pretty revved, herself. So they left, and then we did, and we got matinee tickets and then....movie food. I had neglected to buy and stuff candy in my purse, which is so small that's about all from outside I can bring in that will fit. I've decided I need a bigger purse again. I'm not sure about what that says about my respect for movie rules or if I'm breaking any laws or what. I usually don't eat or drink at movies, which is a good thing. Youngest granddaughter got one SMALL bag of popcorn. one SMALL soft drink, and a package of fruit chewies. Total was $8.75. I boggled and paid. No wonder they can afford the lower matinee prices.
We got seated, and the previews began, then snagged. Time sped by. She and I were seated comfortably, she had started on her chewies, the air conditioning was on, and we were having a good time talking with each other. It took something like 20 minutes, I think, and then they started the movie. Which she thought was very funny and I found funny enough to be pleasant. We should have been out of the theater first, but with our delay, we got out after mom and big sister, and they were waiting for us. As we left the theater, a nice man in a suit pushed two tickets in my hand. "What's this?" I asked in surprise. "Two complementary tickets as an apology for the earlier glitch."
I laughed. "Didn't bother us, but thank you" I said. I mean, how many of us have wickedly crowded schedules after a Disney movie? But hey, I have two more tickets now. Free.
Sisters compared notes. Both felt they were the winners. The oldest got to see Harry Potter. I mean, we're talking Harry Potter. The youngest got candy as well as popcorn and a drink. We're talking sugar. Both were well pleased. So were mom and grandma.
A front passing through had dropped a little rain, and the recent high temperatures were subdued to a low 90 with a light breeze, very pleasant. My snarly mood just evaporated.
This morning I got up fairly early for a Sunday to meet a friend from Midland, 41/2 hours away, who was in town briefly. We met at a little cafe about a half mile from my home where they serve nothing but breakfast on weekends. Really good breakfasts. Really fast, efficient friendly service. And they have huge mugs for hot tea and coffee. As usual, one of the fire station crews had shown up enmasse (they have some incredible three egg omelets stuffed with meats, cheeses and or vegetables), really good hashbrowns, huge biscuits you can get with a side of sausage gravy....and more, of course. They have much smaller breakfasts, too, or I would never go. You have a choice of about six kinds of toast. You can order sliced tomatoes or fresh fruit instead of the hashbrowns. You have Choices. I love that in a restaurant.
I love breakfast outings like this. Genelle and I had not seen each other in at least six months or longer, and spent a couple hours catching up. It was such a nice way to start the day.
So I am socialized again. Smiling at strangers. Interested in what others have to say. And I still have about a fourth of a pretty good mystery to finish. And everything I thought of to write about would take more effort than I felt like putting in this afternoon, to tell the truth. So I, too, am journaling a bit.
I try not to do it often because my life,though satisfying to me, is pretty mundane.
I resolve never to be reduced to telling you I washed clothes and then the dishes. I test out about 50-50 on introvert-extrovert, so my reading regimen might have gotten me to the same emotional place just about as soon as two visits with people I care about.
Seeing the family and my friend, I suspect, left my smile bank with more deposits.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
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