Poke fun at the door dings, not the kids

Self-deprecating humor --- it has made millions on the comedy circuit and eases awkward situations for myself and countless others. Our culture values humility and we consider making jokes at our own expense honorable.

Our offspring – bless their hearts – we consider an extension of ourselves, don’t we? So, doesn’t it really make cultural sense to poke fun at their expense? Because I am a new resident in this area, I meet new people often and have those howdy-do meet-and-greet conversations.

Recently, upon being introduced to someone new to me, she commented that with two twenty-something children, she moved and decided not to give them her new address. “Hoping they don’t catch up with us.”
Then, this supremely awkward question followed that quip, “do you have children?”

This empty nester humor is meant to be funny because we hope for our children’s success, but don’t want to seem brash by bragging. We want them to achieve self-sufficiency and we feel proud of their every accomplishment. So, for some reason, rather than express that thought, or even our pride in them despite their struggles, we make jokes that essentially devalue them.

I had a similar experience recently in another of those meet-and-greet moments where I asked the mother of young adults what her children were doing. She answered simply, “finding themselves.” I liked that answer. She stated so succinctly that her children were in a transitional stage without rendering judgment or casting shadows on them.

Probably the most valued possession in my wallet is my credit card. Yes, because of the cool stuff it brings me, but mostly because of the card itself. Capital One allows cardholders to order cards with a submitted picture as the front of the card. Two years ago, we ordered cards with a picture of the kids during a vacation day on the Great Wall of China. That day was one of our very favorite vacation days, and I love the picture.

My joke (humble justification) for the picture on the card has been “what better place to put the little money suckers, than on the front of my credit card?” Where once, I found this jest extremely funny, it no longer gives me belly laughs. Now, every time I pull my credit card from my wallet (not that often, Roger), I pause to look at my very favorite people in the entire universe and remember a special moment with them.

Who could have dreamed that the tall young man in the foreground of the picture would fade from the world as we know it just two short years later?

I puff with pride when I think of each of my two children, as does every person reading this blog when they think of their own kids. I tell Elise how proud I am of her often, though not often enough. Same when we had Nicholas with us. But, maybe it is because we think of them as extensions of ourselves that we get embarrassed and stop short of showing that pride to others.

Perhaps we should actively treasure what is precious and make jokes about superficial flaws and imperfections in our lives: frays in the carpeting, shopping cart dings in the car door, and weeds in the flower garden. Those are worthy of our wise cracks; the kids are precious.

Find beauty in our walk - a story of rain and clover

On the bleakest, darkest day we can find beauty if we open our eyes to find it.

Today’s posting is my 50th and I would like to commemorate this round number with a special story from my niece, Melanie. Melanie is the youngest of a tight family trio. The oldest clump of grandchildren on my side of the family, Elise, Nicholas, and Melanie stuck together like glue, especially in the years before the next wave of grandchildren came along to provide diversion.

Buddies, Nick and Melanie played together since they were both, well, old enough to play. The summer of 2009, Nick worked as life guard at the pool where Melanie served as manager, and he lived at her home. The two shared many memories, and I am sure secrets that summer.

Last weekend, Melanie took a trip to the Smokey Mountains with some friends. It was her first time in Tennessee since the days that followed Nick’s passing, and her first time hiking in the woods since last fall when he died. Nick became his true self when he walked in the woods; on the hiking trails, his spirits soared and the trails of the Smokey’s were no stranger to his boot prints.

Rain poured on the plans and spirits of Melanie and her friends last weekend. They found themselves stuck in the cabin looking out at unseasonably cold weather, gray skies and dripping air. Mel told me that to be in Tennessee, and in sight of the mountains made her miss her cousin more than ever. Grief’s pain gripped her and she longed for more time with Nick.

Despite dreary weather, Mel, her boyfriend, Troy, and friend, Amanda set out for a hike on the Chimney Tops trail. This is a tough hike that is not long, but features a sharp elevation gain. A hike Nick loved. They ascended as the rain descended, and strangely, Melanie started to feel emotional burdens lift. She said she felt peaceful and lighter as they trudged up the muddy path.

Hiking companion, Amanda holds a degree in plant biology and identified greenery along the path. The mountains had not fully awakened into spring, but Amanda found enough new plants to keep them entertained. As they hiked up the steep path, Melanie said she felt the comfortable and relaxed feeling that she would have if Nick were around. Only two years her junior, Nick and Melanie maintained a special camaraderie.

Just past a fork where the Appalachian Trail splits to the left and Chimney Tops veers right, the hikers stopped for a breath. Melanie needed a quiet moment to stop and reflect on her memories. She looked down and thought she saw clover beneath her feet. She asked Amanda about clover so early in spring and high in the mountains. Amanda, catching up, said it would be impossible to see clover at this elevation and so soon following winter.

Sure enough, as she approached, Amanda identified the field of green where Melanie was standing, about two thirds up the Chimney Tops trail, as clover. Those who knew Nick, know of the special place this plant held in his heart. He could spot a four-leaf variety in the smallest patch of clover. He named his beloved dog, Clover, and I wrote of their connection in an earlier post:

On the darkest and dreariest of days, gray clouds may drip misery, and wind may chill to the bone, but beauty abides where we seek it. Around us there is beauty if we open ourselves to find it, just as Melanie did.
Oprah Winfrey describes a spiritual person as one with an open heart.
As I close this round-numbered post, I will take the liberty of repeating one of Nick’s favorite poems that I included in a previous blog. This is a Navaho walking meditation:

I walk in beauty;
With beauty before me, I walk;
With beauty behind me, I walk;
With beauty above me, I walk;
With beauty about me, I walk;
It ends in beauty.

Walk on, my sweet boy, and keep showing us beauty.

Small steps make great work

As I look over my freshly cleaned house, the squeaky bright feeling runs much deeper than a dust-free coffee table and shiny floors.

Sometimes little stones become great boulders in our minds and tiny speed bumps morph into enormous roadblocks. This is what I have experienced lately with housework. Now, very few people who know my home would characterize me as meticulous, but I like a tidy and clean house and am willing to work on keeping it that way.

Growing up, my mother set the standard of “weekly cleaning.” She worked as a school teacher and Saturday mornings served as cleaning time. No matter what we had going on Saturdays, we could not leave until the whole house was cleaned – to her standards. My sister, brother, and I could move like white tornadoes when we had a deadline and needed to be somewhere. This practice of cleaning the whole house in one weekly pop has followed me through my life. Granted, the weekly thing has, in recent years, stretched into an every two week thing, but the task is the same – the whole house in one swoop, then don’t worry about anything but picking up debris in between crazy cleaning days.

As I read about the journey through grief, I intellectualize that healing is a process, and takes time. Everything I read validates the fact that the process works out at different rates for every person, and it cannot be rushed; it must happen in due time. In past writings, I have spoken of the ebbs and flows of grief and some days certainly mete out better than others, but I definitely see a particular pattern of when the pain and pangs of sorrow ooze up from a deeper place and break through scarring that has already taken place.

Recently, I have been operating on a very comfortable and even keel. My downs have not been terribly down and I find enjoyment in my days. But, an obstacle that just would not get out of my way was housework.

Procrastination has never been a problem for me, but a lifestyle. I know I am a procrastinator and work around that issue. Day-to-day responsibilities and activities are getting done; I have groceries in the kitchen and meals on the table, but somehow, when it comes to pushing the dreaded vacuum cleaner around the room, or picking dirty clothes off the floor, I seem to have been immobilized.

The worst part is that I would think of cleaning up around the house, picture myself doing it, but could not bring myself to action. Something as simple as putting the mail in its proper place seemed to be out of my reach. Create a visual of trying to take care of tasks with cement shoes, a snorkel and mask, while submerged underwater; that is the world of grief.

My great news is that today I tore through the house like the cleaning tornado I know how to be. I set out a goal and completed it with energy, and had my first “weekly cleaning” in well over a month. That felt so good. I think back to the many times in my pre tragedy days when dreading a task would get in the way of doing it, and before I knew it, my dread that started as a speed bump became the brick wall that I would have to tear down. Yes, procrastination can grow into a mushroom cloud, but I have always been able to manage the ‘shroom.

Now, as the journey of grief continues, elements like this become exaggerated and I am learning the art of trudging through the muck to achieve some level of normalcy. Days like today give me such an accomplished feeling, where I achieved a seemingly small goal, but it represents so much in the realm of getting back into life. This gives me the courage to tackle the big goals in this process.

And, I have a clean house ----- for the moment. Clover spent the day at the groomers and she is home now. We’ll see how long the squeakiness lasts.

A resilient spirit is a giving spirit

A resilient spirit is a giving spirit.

We all know that people who give of themselves are those who gain the most. We see it in the elderly person who with arthritic hands knits prayer shawls for those in nursing homes. We see the gains of giving in mothers of young children who willingly pitch in and babysit for their friends. We see it in those who work long hours, yet somehow find the time to cook a meal for a neighbor in need of recovery.

The effects of kindness and giving ripple far beyond the act itself. Sometimes just a kind word makes the type of difference in a recipient’s way that he or she follows suit and spreads the kindness. I remember a “pay it forward” campaign a few years ago where people would commit “random acts of kindness” toward others and in turn, so would the recipient.

I taught a student last year whose face seemed fixed in a smiling position. With the greatest sincerity, she exuded positivity every time I saw her. She had a class in consumer sciences where students learned to sew. After finishing the required project, this student made a baby overall for a teacher who was expecting her first grandchild.

This student truly enjoyed making others happy. She and her grandmother baked, and she brought treats to her teachers – a rarity in a high school setting. Noticing that I wear scarves much of the time, she presented me with a new scarf at the end of the school year. This student gave enough with her kindness toward others and sweet smile, baby clothes, cookies, and end-of-year gifts were just icing.

My maternal grandmother became widowed far too young. Her husband, my grandfather, suffered Parkinson’s from a very young age. At the time of his death at age 49, my grandmother had two young sons at home and a tough road ahead. At one point when grief came in a rough wave, my grandmother, an artist, bought wooden hairbrushes and painted pretty scenes on them. She then took the hairbrushes to the nursing home where my grandfather had lived and handed them out to the residents. This act of giving brought her spirits out of the deep wet well and into the sunshine.

People who knew my son Nicholas knew him as one who took joy in giving. When his aunt was selling jewelry at a festival last summer, Nick arrived to help just as a rainstorm kicked up and threatened to damage vendors’ tents. Without prompting, he got to work and helped her and surrounding vendors to batten the hatches and protect their wares.

When I think of my own bruises and fractures of heart, I know healing depends on my willingness to give to others. I also know in my heart that as I focus my sights more outward than inward, true healing takes place.

No matter what our situation or walk in life, we have all been blessed by others. I know I have, and I know that my recovery process depends on my willingness to give back. Sometimes all I can muster is a forced smile, but I try to give what I can, not only for my own health and healing, but because I feel called to share my own blessings. We are all called to share our talents and blessings, and sharing them truly helps us more than those to whom we give.
When I envision resiliency and the spirit of strength, I look back to the many people who have meandered through my life and touched me in so many ways. Those who inspire me the most are the givers who looked outward to share themselves to others when it might not have been entirely convenient.

A life committed to beauty, benevolence, and quirks - Awesome

She scandalized Victorian Bostonian society when she wore a Boston Red Sox hat band to a symphony performance; she led women’s suffrage movements, and established one of Boston’s most eclectic and stunning art museums.

Yes, not just the benevolence, but the quirkiness of Isabella Stewart Gardner (1840-1924) most fascinates me. She caught my attention when I walked through the posh and historic Back Bay section of Boston last week. As we admired the beautiful grand estates on Beacon Street, we noticed a sign indicating that the house number 152 had been retired after the demise of Gardner’s home.

Now, that is an interesting concept, I decided. Long before athletic enterprises retired their stars’ jersey numbers, Boston city administrators reconfigured the numbers on Beacon Street to memorialize this woman’s home. I had to learn more.

We found her museum in the Fenway neighborhood the next day. Gardner and her husband travelled the world in the late 1800s collecting art. Their collection so filled the famed house on Beacon Street that following Jack Gardner’s death, Isabella purchased a marshy area in Fenway to build a museum. The art museum opened in 1903 and thanks to a generous endowment from Gardner, today stays mostly intact as she established it.

We entered a gallery of ancient Chinese art, not knowing just what to expect when we encountered the centerpiece of the museum – a breathtaking four-story atrium garden filled with orchids, water features, and oodles of greenery that she patterned after a Venetian palazzo. All rooms and galleries of the museum flow from the sun-filled courtyard. One gallery features a collection of doors and stained glass. Upstairs, we viewed a myriad of religious art and collections of letters and postcards from around the world.

Gardner procured her prized artwork in a most sporty manner. She admitted in letters that acquiring some of her possessions required bribery, smuggling, and trickery.

A reputation for stylish taste and unconventional behavior, Gardner purchased a great assortment of art for personal enjoyment, but preserved it for future generations. She was a reported fan of the Boston Symphony, the Red Sox and Harvard football, hence the Red Sox hat band worn at the Symphony. Thanks to Gardner’s love for beauty, generous spirit, and quirky nature, Harvard Library employs a florist to arrange fresh flowers every day.

Local press of the day followed her escapades and gossiped regularly about her. In responding to stories of unscrupulous activity that scandalized Victorian Bostonians, the candid Gardner stated “don’t spoil a good story by telling the truth.” This socially progressive woman entertained artists and intellects shunned by other Back Bay hostesses.

Through all the pomp and excitement reported of her life in the press, she was no stranger to personal tragedy. Her son, “Jackie” died at the age of two, and she is buried between her husband and son. A two-year depression followed the passing of her child, and Gardner’s husband took her on an overseas tour that kicked off her art and travel fascination. She travelled the world, meeting people, sharing stories and culture, and acquiring the artwork of these cultures. Later, her brother-in-law died, leaving Gardner and her husband to adopt and rear his three children. The eldest of the children took his life at the age of 25.

After sorrowful and traumatic events, Gardner girded up her life to create meaning, enjoyment, and legacy. She gave her time, talents, and money to preserve beauty in the world, and in terms of resilience, I would say, she serves as a model.

So, if you send a letter to 152 Beacon Street, no such address exists anymore, as some of the best legacies are but a memory.

A short walk for sushi

Sushi and doughnuts between the train stop and the front door are about as good as city living gets.

Last week we visited our daughter and son-in-law in Boston and enjoyed a taste of life for two small-town kids who have landed in arguably America’s coolest city. On the morning of Elise’s birthday, she awoke early to work on a paper for school and I sat in the living room perusing the Internet when the idea hit that I needed to take a walk and get her a treat. Between her house and the train stop is a Dunkin’ Donuts – a ubiquitous sight in Boston. In less than 10 minutes, I was able to deliver my faithful studier her favorite coffee and a bagel.

After living the gamut of small town and suburban/country settings all my life, we recently took a three year hiatus and lived in Shanghai, China, a city of 20 million people, where I fell in love with the conveniences and hustle of city living. Visiting Boston and spending a chunk of our time at the kids’ apartment, we were able to rekindle memories of picking up food on the walk home from a long day and padding in time for train waits.

I know the commute gets tedious for those who have to do it every day, but for me who gets around solo in a Pontiac with only NPR for company, train travel served as much as entertainment, as it did a way to get from point A to point B. March Madness kicked off during our visit and Boston College had just lost the game to place the team in the tournament. So, when I saw the really tall young guy in a BC basketball hoodie with a number on it, he piqued my interest. I noted that he drank two Mountain Dews and gobbled one of those vending machine packages of powdered doughnuts. I paused to wonder if he had been fueling himself similarly during the season and if they might have had the kick to make it in the tournament if he had been drinking protein shakes instead.

One evening about six, we were standing in a crowded train on the way back from our touring pursuits. A little girl sporting a pink butterflied backpack, who looked completely tuckered from day care, asked her dad where they would be eating dinner. He answered that they were eating at home. She started to cry and repeat “I hate home food!” Life is tough and I am sure the one who prepares it during the chant hates home food also.

A man with a white cane cautiously entered the train and three beleaguered commuters hopped up to offer him their seats. Mostly, I observed people eager to get to their destinations in a no nonsense kind of way. I enjoy seeing folks whose walks of life differ from my own and I always wonder.

As we walked home from the train with Elise one afternoon, it was so easy to stop and order sushi rather than go back to the apartment and rummage through the kitchen for lunch. I write these words, however, from my desk at home in Michigan where I look to my front and see pine trees, and to the back to see woods. We do not see another house from any window in our home, and instead of city noise, we have wind whistling through the trees. Even though I love to visit city life, and enjoyed living in a city apartment for a few years, the quiet of the country calls me home.

While buying coffee and sushi on the way home from a walk is great fun, I know it is a quick way to go broke. Elise and Scott love living in the hustle of city life and I am so happy for them that they have the opportunity. Next month, the Boston Marathon will stream by their first floor apartment and they will be able to watch from their kitchen table. Life takes us in so many different directions, and I am glad to be able to experience their world – one so different from my own.

Give blood: A pint can mean so much

When I know I saved up to three lives yesterday, I can look back on it and say yes, I had a good day.

In my son, Nicholas’ short, but well-lived life, he saved many more than three lives. Nick believed in giving blood, and gave as often as the blood bank allows. Because he was a big guy, he gave the double dose and wore his T shirts proudly.

In Conway, Arkansas, where Nick studied at Hendrix College, he served as a regular blood donor. At the community blood bank there, staff members sent postcards when a donor’s blood significantly impacted the life of another. Nick received many postcards and delighted in phoning me with news that an accident victim was able to receive his blood. He had O positive blood, a universal blood type that is always in need.

I rejoice at the thought of his blood coursing through the veins of people whose lives depended on it, and I am glad Nick gave so willingly. Terrified of needles as a child, I have watched him tense his muscles enough to push a vaccine shot out, but as a young adult, he had no problem rolling up his sleeves to donate. After spending a summer with us in China, he counted the days before his blood would be cleared and eligible to donate again. I will never forget him non-chalantly telling about donating a double when the needle slipped from his vein and shot through his arm under the skin. He described the experience as cool and continued to tell me about his day.

Until yesterday, I had never given blood. In college, when many of my friends donated plasma, I did not meet weight requirements; I was too petite. Later in life when weight requirements were no longer a problem, schools where I have worked held blood drives, but I felt I might be lethargic or woozy and unable to teach afterward.

My excuse bank ran dry this week when visiting my sister, Joy in Ohio; she reserved space for me to give at her church’s blood drive. The summer of 2009, when Nick stayed at her house, he volunteered at this blood drive with her. She wanted me to give in his honor, and I could not refuse. The 53-questions were more amusing than daunting, as I have never received money for sex, nor have I served time in prison. The nurse pricked my finger and I was glad to see my blood held enough iron to donate, so I hopped up on the gurney to contribute in a way so many have before me.

I would like to say that giving blood was easy, but on the five-month mark from his passing, the needle felt the least painful.

As the blood left my body and filled the bag, tears flowed for the loss of my son. I felt the familiar and sorrowful pangs of his absence, but also felt great joy at knowing I could continue his wonderful legacy in this way. When a life is saved by my blood, I will also honor the fine life of Nicholas and the giving practices he passed along.

Roger and I have both agreed give back to the community that gives so much to us, and honor our boy in this way. When each of you gives blood, please remember this giving and gentle man who gave so much to so many.

dusty old books on a new spring day

Nothing beats getting lost among the dusty shelves of a used bookstore. When the bookstore moves its shelves outside with breeze blowing, and the early signs of Boston spring, the experience reminisces “the best of times.”

Last week, Roger and I spent St. Patrick’s Day week in Boston meandering down streets, taking in an art museum, playing with our sweet grand dog, and generally enjoying the city and our kids. In the street meandering portion of the trip, we came across a used bookstore that where they push rolling carts outside for bargain basement prices. We were hooked before our first jay-walking step.

Funny, how personalities emerge when entering a book store; a group of people can walk in together, and possibly shop together elsewhere, but entering the world of adventure on paper, they splinter and gravitate to where their imaginations and hearts take them. Some stop and ponder non- fiction, others science fiction and fantasy literature, best sellers, travel books - the possibilities seem endless.

In a new book store, or an online store, I will look over the best sellers list before jutting off to other pursuits, but in a dusty, bargain-bin cornucopia of possibilities, I don’t know where to start. I saw a mobile cart of poetry. Three dollars for a collection of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow called my name. Then, my eyes drew toward a Tennessee Williams Play collection, and as my sights grazed across the discarded Norton’s Anthologies, I stopped at an old book of Emerson’s poetry and pulled it off the shelf for a longing look.

Brushing my fingers across the books, I pictured the hands that have held them over the years. My imagination drifted to students who stayed up in wee hours reading Homer’s Odyssey from the Norton’s before an early morning test; I thought of literature shelved in libraries of the stately homes on cobbled streets near Boston Commons, where on a sleepless night, their owners may have brought them down from a shelf to peruse the pages and give their minds a place to rest from life’s troubles.

As Elise delighted in finding a 1950s copy of Margaret Mitchell’s classic Gone with the Wind, I encountered the travel section and continued to imagine the adventures Bostonians created and experienced after consulting these books. We did have a full day of touring the city before returning to Elise’s apartment that evening, so we yielded to the temptation of purchasing the great bargains and ultimate finds that we would have to schlep in our bags all day.

I did buy a 1940s edition of a story about the Wright Brothers for my sister, Joy, a Wright Brothers enthusiast. Elise decided she would worry about carrying heavy things another day and bought Gone with the Wind.

Soon afterward, we reluctantly abandoned the outdoor used book store nestled among the historic buildings in the city that holds so much of our country’s story. We did not buy all that we wanted to buy, and walked on with a budding spring day ahead, but as we did, we discussed the books we saw. We spoke of the poetry, talked about some of the differences in movies from books. As we walked, Elise opened the international cookbook she picked up for Scott and mentioned how much he would enjoy the recipes.

Even though we wander in different directions among the shelves, books bring us together. Even the jackets of books unread give us pause for thought and reflection that give us a chance understand each other and ourselves better. Words on pages not only take us to worlds beyond, they give us a bond as well. We stopped at many more places in the course of that day – Elise’s 25th birthday – and took in many sights, but the dusty outdoor bookstore holds a special memory.

A passport packed with memories

Today, I set my passport out on the counter – of course I have no clothes packed, nor do I even have a suitcase selected, but tomorrow this time, I will be on my way to Boston to see Elise and Scott.

Now, it may not seem to make a good bit of sense that I need a passport to get into Boston, but we actually drive south from here in the Great White North, to get to Canada, then over to Niagara Falls where we will re-enter the US and drive on to New England.

If I forget my passport – as could easily happen – we will drive the long way. Even though the drive through Canada, I am told is about as exciting as I-75 through Ohio, custom officials must have official documents to let us in and out. This document not long ago was practically an empty blue book, but the last four years have opened it wide and brought the world to my fingertips.

As I thumb through the now worn pages, I see the many stamps returning into China. Each bears a date, several of which are January and August, all representing a time home with the kids and reconnecting with my special life back in the US. I especially enjoy visiting in my mind, my winter holidays, when I would return to Tennessee around Thanksgiving and stay until Nick left to go back to school in January. Both of those winters, I substitute taught at Franklin High School where I reconnected with old friends and enjoyed the classroom experience again.

A favorite activity during those times home in Tennessee was the grocery visit. This ritual that was so rote and usual before moving to China, but coming home with a new viewing lens, the grocery came alive with readable labels, recognizable pre-packaged products, big push baskets, and the sweet familiarity of home. Of course, I would pause in the meat section to muse back on whole plucked ducks hanging, bins of bony little chicken feet, live, squirming snakes and frogs, but I did not miss them too much. I really do like having no idea of the origins of my meat. In Kroger, meat looks like it was born on yellow Styrofoam and wrapped in plastic, as it should be.

Grocery store visits also meant I was cooking for the family. My meal planning expanded from quiet dinners with Roger and me, to Elise and Nick – possibly their friends, extended family and more. I bought turkeys, packaged bags of stuffing, cranberries, and all the fixings to remind us of bounty and rituals that warm our hearts. My cart overflowed with bags of chips, jars of salsa, jugs of fresh milk (we did not buy that in China) and all the reminders that our home would once again serve as a gathering place.

I close the passport and again remind myself that life is different now. Change is inevitable and change is life. Change is also not easy and takes great adjustment. But, I have great blessings to ease me through and give me a cushion in these seasons of change. Elise, my leprechaun, turns 25 on St. Patty’s Day, and we will be with her and our wonderful son-in-law to celebrate. She will finish graduate school in May, and is looking for a job in the noble field of college counseling for urban youths. Scott continues to make great strides in his research at Massachusetts General Hospital. We burst with pride for these fine kids and their contributions to the world.

While I look back at my passport, a stamp book that holds so many stories of romance, adventure, home and family, I also think back on the change that brought sorrow into our lives. I have to step back and relive the happiness in the memories and acknowledge the blessings that enrich my life every day. And, Wednesday, I will be in the presence of my family --- Roger, my hero and daughter, Elise, Scott – and the memory and spirit of Nicholas. My blessings are great, and I do need to pack my clothes.

Clover shares her day as an "pup-cicle"

Clover had a very busy morning, and as she is just awakening from a long, needed nap, she would like to guest blog and share her adventures.

I lie nestled in my usual space where I help Mom write in the afternoons. While she works at the desk, my favorite spot is below the desk with her slippers tucked under my chin or belly. As I hear clank, clank, clank on the key board, feel her wiggling her toes underneath me, and see Bing snuggled nearby, I know all is well and I can tell you about this crazy day.

This morning, Bing and I awoke to more snow, and lots of it. Mom assures Bing and me that we will have snow every week until July, and I could not love it more. Snow is about the most exciting thing ever, and as soon as Mom opens the front door, Bing and I bolt out quick as a wink and start our favorite game of leap frog. Mom gets a little cranky waiting for us to finish this game, but we have so much fun.

Usually, a truck with a giant scoop comes and clears the snow on our sharp uphill lane, or Dad goes out and shovels. The truck did not show up today, and Dad is out of town, so with snow about knee high to me, Mom knew what she had to do. She started to bundle up, which did not impress me too much, as she always does this just before closing Bing and me up in a crate, but when she called us to the door, we nearly knocked her over in pursuit of slushy excitement.

Snow in March feels much spongier than snow in January and February. Then, the snow is very dry and blows all over the place. Bing and I just plow through cold winter snow and it falls right off us. Spring snow is altogether different, and that is where my story gets sticky – literally.
Wrapped in a bundle of wool, Mom grabbed the snow shovel, and before she started to push, she signaled to Bing and me that we could play in the woods. Oh boy. Oh joy. Fox squirrels in our woods grow very big while feasting on a generous supply of Dad’s bird food, and the squirrels taunted us to bark up trees and chase in circles. Snow splattered everywhere. Bing and I played some more leap frog and we played so rough, Mom yelled at us something about hearing our skulls clank together and that we needed to tone it down. So, up the hill we ran following a deer trail, and hoping to find something squirmy or a great stick.

Bing can be so clumsy when she runs and as we were playing the game of dodge the brush and trees, while jumping over top each other, Bing tripped me and we both rolled down to get stopped by a tree. Mom continued huffing and puffing while pushing heavy wet snow so she could get the car out of the driveway, and I ran to her with a headache and a panicky look because I could not see.

My eyesight was not the dilemma and hitting the tree smarted, but my problem was wet snow stuck all over my fur and completely covering my eyes. Mom laughed like she heard her first joke of the day, and decided we needed to go in and dry out. She locked us in the crate to drip dry and just headed back out to the driveway like nothing was wrong.

If Mom would have noticed, she would have seen something very wrong. I had snow caked in my fur over my entire body and still could not see past the mound of frozen slurp on my face. While she finished the driveway, I lay in the crate next to cold, but no-so-frozen Bing and I felt like an icicle. With my entire body caked in ice, I lay there and shivered.
When Mom came in the house ready to clean up and head out the door, she saw me shivering. Finally. She ripped off slush stuck in my face to reveal very sad eyes, and I dipped my face into my curled-up frame. Mom rushed me into a warm shower and I let the water wash over me until all the slurp melted at last.

I shivered and shook until she wrapped me in the best blanket in the house -the afghan that my daddy, Nicholas, kept on the couch in our Murfreesboro apartment. My shakes released and I nestled my head on Mom’s lap as she sat on my bed with me, wrapped up in a bundle of warmth and the kind, sweet scent of love. All afternoon, I slept and dreamt of squirrels, deer, and special memories of people I love taking care of me.

Even though I have not attempted to go back out in the snow today, I am sure I will be ready to do it all again tomorrow.

Ears, tails, fins, and hope

Ever plow through the last chapters of a book, racing to the end, only do feel let down on the last page – not disappointed at the ending, but sad and empty over the fact that the story that came so to life stopped and you are left with blank paper and the dreaded back cover?

One thing you know is the author did his or her job, and kept the story alive until the bitter end, but I think we miss out on something when we rush to finish lines without enjoying the journey unfold.

I have a secret (well, not anymore). I have been working on a silly project and I have given it an inordinate amount of time. The project is a knitted Noah’s Ark – complete with seven stuffed animals, seven matching appliques, an ark applique, and blanket. For the uninitiated, an applique is something you sew on top of something else for decoration. Why would such a project be silly, or make me feel like I need to keep it underground? Well, there are no little children in my family, nor will there be for the foreseeable future. I am not trying to press the issue of grandchildren or great nieces and nephews, all will come in due time; I just found a book of really cool patterns, so to avoid feeling like a goofball, I went underground.

I bought the book for future use, which I thought was a little silly, as there are no buns in any ovens in my world – but I love pattern books. What is the harm, I thought? Three weeks ago I sat down just to read the patterns. Just read. What is the big deal in reading a book? Then, I innocently pulled out an errant ball of yarn that would make a good blue bird, and before I knew it, I was digging through a yarn bin for the perfect shade of beak orange.

Because I had already broken into orange scraps, I felt might as well knit up a gold fish… no big deal…then a giraffe…and the monkey looked so cute. OK, to make a long story short, I not only have six stuffed animal toys complete, six appliques done and the last one – a yellow lion, in the process.

And that brings me to the point of this crazy true confession story. Process. When I could be spending my time in much more productive pursuits, I felt guilty spending hours knitting toys to be put away in a box. Then, a few days ago, I had an epiphany – the story of Noah’s Ark is a story of hope. This season of my life is one of seeking hope and searching deep within myself for a sense of calm and peace.

Each one of these little animals has tiny little parts like ears, fins, and tails. The parts must be constructed with knitting needles, then stuffed and sewn together. The process is very tedious, as you would know, if you had ever stuffed filling in a half-inch turtle leg. As I knit the little ears and spots, sew on manes, and then embroider eyes and noses; I concentrate on an almost meditative level. Dogs nudge me and I cannot believe enough time has passed that they need to go out before bed. This process has overwhelmed me with calm and peace, which is what I must have to be able to grasp the hope in my life.

In teaching writing, I have always stressed that the process of creating a work far outweighs the product. When students attend to the complete writing process carefully, their final work shines much more brightly. It seems we live in a society that values the finish line over the race. Why choke down the food, only to be disappointed when Thanksgiving Dinner is over so soon?

My Noah’s Ark project has no recipient waiting. I cannot picture the little toddler whose hands may someday choke the giraffe’s neck, but at a time in my life when I need relaxing activities to anchor my calm, I will build an ark – as my life boat of hope. And, I will not rush to the end, but focus on the journey.

Memory Lane is good for a rainy day stroll

This afternoon, Memory Lane proved to be a lovely place to stroll.

One of the very good aspects of living in Michigan is I have the opportunity to reconnect with friends from our time overseas. Many of them resided in China with ties to the auto industry, so they hail from Detroit. Today, I met with a special friend who lives in Georgia, but has family in this area. Because she is here visiting a new grandbaby, we had the opportunity to revisit the way we spent afternoons back “on the other side.”

I remember one afternoon in my apartment in China. We sat on the sofa and I taught her some knitting techniques. She worked on her project, and I on mine, as we discussed the fun and pratfalls that are part of the package in living overseas. She had much more experience with the expatriate life, as her adventures took her through 13 years of living in Chongching, Bangkok, and Moscow. Where I could share knitting expertise, she advised me on her experiences.

As the subject of American Women’s Club events came up, she laughed heartily, telling me she WAS the American Women’s Club in Chongching. Almost a decade ago, in that Chinese city, she did not have the luxury of Shanghai’s westernization. I remember my friend telling me of living in a hotel where they converted a couple rooms into an apartment, and she bought meat from the chef in the restaurant downstairs.

I helped her pick up a missed stitch here and there as she fascinated me with stories of living in Russia, Thailand and a more remote China. Now, we are both permanently back in the US, living in suburbia, and we were able to get together over tea and knit from the same furniture we as we did on the 39th floor looking over the Huang Pu River. It was wonderful. Our conversation drifted in the same directions; we caught up on family, shared news of mutual friends and acquaintances, and discussed where life has taken us. The feeling of a warm blanket washed over me.

What is the noteworthiness of friends catching up on old times? I have met some terrific people since moving, and look forward to more gained friendships, where these relationships are fresh and new, - we share and get to know each other, but do not yet have history. I hope to create history with friends from here, and that will happen, but it felt so good to be with someone whom I knew in another time, another place. She is someone who knew me “before.” I don’t know why that is so significant to me, but, bottom line it is, and it felt good.

As she learned to knit in the round, I worked on an ongoing project. We worked side by side with some chatting and some comfortable silence as we concentrated on our tasks at hand. You never want to let a stitch drop. She shared that if she never knits a sweater, that’s OK, she can knit other things. I told her I have knitted sweaters, and they seldom come out just as you imagine they will. Funny, how conversation about knitting can mirror life.

Hate to sound cheesy, but I remember the song from Girl Scouts – make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold. In our fast-paced world of change, change, and power change, it is nice to carve out an afternoon with no more on the docket than connecting stitches and reconnecting lives. Yes, Memory Lane is very good for a stroll, even on a rainy day.

Resiliency in third culture kids

Imagine a child joining up with a group of kids from the old neighborhood, where he no longer lives, but his parents still maintain a house. The group is laughing, talking with regular pre-teen banter about music, school gossip, all while using colloquialisms unfamiliar to the visiting neighbor. They were all once buddies, but this new/old kid definitely no longer fits in to the group.

Back at his new home, this child lives in a foreign country where he knows some language, but is worlds away from locals with culture and language. At school, an international school in his home away from home, this kid finally relaxes among his peers. They banter about music, school gossip, all the while using language and phrases unique to this community of students.

This is the unique and fascinating life of a “third culture kid.” During my years in Shanghai, this phenomenon interested me greatly. This particular example of a third culture kid is the child of an expatriate (one living and working in another country) who when going back on the once or twice-a-year home leave does not assimilate well with his cousins or old crowd. Their clothing trends may not match up; popular music of his home country may be unfamiliar to the third culture kid, as well as phraseology of the day.

This child may or may not be included in the “pack” of his new culture, and for many expat kids, the new culture means international school, where they do not have great opportunity to study and hang out with local kids. Especially in Asia, the American kid seldom becomes part of the culture – despite what is shown on the newest Karate Kid movie.

At the international school, students from all over the world and from a wealth of ethnic and religious backgrounds, come together to form a diverse and tightly knit “third culture,” one uniquely their own. What they are experiencing in their daily lives can be shared with so much in common by the others who all reside in pretty much the “same boat.”

An American student I tutored in Shanghai chatted with me one day about having to dodge the bicycle repair man on the sidewalk on her way to a local market to buy an ice cream bar. Her description made me laugh and I could totally picture the scene of this eighth grader walking down the sidewalk where a man set up a semi-permanent bicycle repair center in the middle of the walkway. She had to comically climb over and side step “business” to continue down the sidewalk. She continued that when she returned home to America for the summer, she could not easily share stories like these with her friends. These kids had never experienced sights of laundry dripping on city sidewalks, babies in “split pants” with no diapers, and the acrid smell of stinky tofu on a typical afternoon jaunt – not to mention the bike man.

The high school son of one of my American friends ran with a group of buddies from the international school who loved to feast on noodles from a street vender. He delighted as the boys called him “mien ren” (noodle man), a title the boys concocted.

I think back to last spring when I was teaching 10th grade back in Tennessee. Roger still lived in China and I tried to explain the short-lived fad of kids singing “pants on the ground,” a spin off from an American Idol audition. Kids were singing and imitating the song all over the school for a couple weeks until the phase passed and they all forgot about it. He could not pull up the clip on YouTube, as that site is blocked in China, and when I told him about how funny the kids were singing the song, it just sounded ridiculous to him. He and I are certainly of the same culture, but we were not sharing the same cultural experiences. I no longer lived in China, so when he expressed frustration at difficulty in communicating with a taxi driver, I had all but forgotten that feeling of helplessness and vulnerability.

I admire the strength and resiliency in third culture kids who create their own cultures of like-minded peers, where they live, work and play who are not only empathetic to their challenges, but are living them out in their own lives. Adaptability is one of the hallmarks of resiliency and my hat is off to this trait in third culture kids.

Airport body scan produces neither trauma nor drama

I have never been too terribly self-conscience having to disrobe at the doctor’s office – I figure in the course of a day, we all run together in their minds and well, seen one of us, seen us all.

So, last fall when the new supersonic tell-all scanners became all the rage among airport security, I saw having to view personal too-much-information as more of a hassle for them than for me. News reports showed people all antsy and upset about the detailed pictures airport security would see on the new scanners and I just thought it would be cool to imagine myself in a Dr. Who styled time machine.

Security at airports has (knock on wood) never been a problem for me; I just follow rules and as long as they leave my knitting project alone and do not allow stitches to fall off the needle, no one gets hurt. When security tightened with liquid restrictions, I decided that was fine, I would just check my luggage – now they are charging, which infuriates me, but another topic for another day.

Last month in the Detroit airport, mindlessly waiting in the security line, I noticed the new wide-bodied leave-no-secrets behind scanner. I must admit, I got a little excited, wondering if I could possibly be transported into another dimension. The line moved a bit sluggishly because of the extra time for the scanner – I mused about Roger in the time machine, wondering if personnel would have trouble lining up pictures of the right parts (my husband stands six foot seven inches).

Advancing in the line, I commented to the woman behind me that we would be famous going through the super-sonic scanner. She smiled and said something to the effect of wondering what it was like. Her husband, on the other hand, craned his neck prairie dog style and discovered that these were indeed the full-body make-a-pin-up poster scanners. He made the choice to refuse. There was a sign posted that anyone not wishing to submit to the time travel machine could take the same-sex-pat-down route.

So, with my mind on the over-priced water bottle and Hudson News magazine on the other side – and the outside possibility of the contraption really being a time machine, I stepped into the round scanner to wonder how I would be spat out. It made some pretty impressive space-age noises, and took a few seconds. I did let it pass through my mind the icky behind-the-skivvy images those poor TSA folks had to view, and out I came on the beyond security side. No time travel, nothing exciting, I just picked up my shoes, belt, scarf, purse, and knitting bag (they did not bother it, which was wise on their part) to proceed to a bench where I could re-organize and re-distribute my stuff.

Roger seemed to come through the big beast unmangled, so he gathered up his shoes, belt, laptop, carry-on bag, and coat to find a seat next to me to tie shoes, pack the lap top and his stuff from maladjustment. Within a couple minutes, we reconstructed and were ready to buy that water bottle and make any necessary stops before the world-wide-wait at the gate. I happened to notice the couple from behind me. Oh my. The man who denied himself the little thrill of the time machine which turned out to be just a scanner and did not teleport at all, both he and his wife (who submitted to the super-sonic scanner) had all of their carry on and everything on them searched. They both had to have the whoo-hoo pat down, and who knows how long they were held up. I surely hope they made their flight.

The way I look at it, airport security is in place to protect. I really don’t see the workers as anyone but people just trying to do their jobs. Granted, some are friendlier about it than others, but they have procedure they have to follow and I seriously doubt they harbor any secret thrills for what shows up on the scanners. Just like at the doctor’s office, we all have the same parts, and taking care of their business is all in a day’s work. I am very happy that I can fly feeling safe.

Pull the purse out of the trash

I found my favorite hairbrush yesterday and felt so relieved to have it back in its proper place that I did not even stop to wonder how it got in with the cleaning supplies.

The stopping and wondering part came just about an hour ago when I returned from errands. I removed my slurpy shoes, held on to the junk mail, let the pups outside, put my purse in the kitchen trash, and caught myself as I headed for the coat closet. The mixed-up life of those in the throes of trauma includes wearing contact lenses in the wrong eyes, attending an event and realizing the outfit choice does not really fit the occasion, and throwing a purse in the trash – I must admit, for the second time.

Of course, my daughter and husband would tell you that I have been committing such foibles for a very long time, but trauma does give one a heightened sense of absentmindedness. Adversity renders one unable to think clearly, make decisions, and remember details. It feels like walking with fog all around, but the others do not experience the same fog. Roger and I have avoided making life decisions as best we can until next fall. We have actually granted ourselves permission to give our minds time to rest in the aftermath.

We grieve actively and passively and fully accept this aspect of our lives. My toothbrush came up missing recently until I found it later on the mantel piece. But one thing we do not give ourselves permission to do and that is accept victimization. We are survivors of the death of our child – one of life’s worst blows, but we are not victims. I picked up a book at the library and started it today titled Back to Life by Alicia Salzer, a psychiatrist who worked with survivors of the September 11 tragedy.

Ruminating on the event of trauma itself does not necessarily help one to overcome the pain. Salzer writes that for many years therapists were trained to have victims share and relive their stories over and over to be in better touch with their feelings and uproot buried issues. Grieving, I have found to be about as personal a thing as choosing a toothbrush color – and remembering to keep it in the bathroom. Some people need to relive traumatic events, others do not. This author validates both approaches, as what is right for one can be wrong for another. I tend to be a waffler. I talk about my son’s passing some times, but at others, I just cannot approach the subject.

Resilient survivors choose to have an overall outlook of optimism that allows them to thrive. When we think in the positive, it allows us to see light on the other side of the pain. Optimism does not take away pain. Pain is part of the process, but to look for a hopeful outcome separates survivorship from victimization.

I made a difficult phone call this week to a grandmother who recently lost a granddaughter about Nick’s age. We had so much to share, and I found myself encouraging her that each passing month is a little bit better than the one before it. I have not gone the distance on this journey, but can see that healing is already starting to take place. We were able to share the similarities of our situations and hearing her very raw, new pain gave me a chance to look back and see that time does help – it gives perspective. When setbacks occur, and they do, the time helps me think back to moments when I could power through the pain and feel peace.

As far as my purse, toothbrush, hairbrush, and more… they are just things that surface eventually, and I am glad it is not trash day. I fed the dogs the right food in the correct bowls this evening, and Roger a different food, so I am moving in the right direction.

Awaiting the meltdown

Clover looks up at me with button eyes from her self-assigned spot under the desk, sighs and lays her head back down. Life here in our post-winter where-the-heck- is-spring life is so tedious that even the dogs are bored – when they are inside, that is.

We have seen the grass twice since the first week of December, and I am actually excited about freezing rain starting this evening because that may melt the old gray snow. Now, I am not complaining (well, I kind of am) about the snow on the ground because it certainly has its advantages. Mine is the home to Clover and Bing, both one year olds who have not gotten the memo that after their birthdays, they are no longer puppies. So, that means, I have a combined weight of 99 pounds of puppy energy rolling and romping in the yard.

Chase was a game for amateurs before Clover and Bing came along to refine the art. We have a bell hanging from the front door that Clover uses as her mouthpiece. She is only in the house for about 10 minutes when something clicks in her mind that she forgot to do outside. The bell starts to ring. When I give a kind and caring response like “you don’t need to go outside,” she bangs on that daggone jumbo-sized jingle bell until the last one even fell out of its casing. The first thing I hear when I step out of the shower in the mornings is Clover banging on that bell because it has been 15 minutes since she last tended to her duties of overseeing the yard.

Honestly, as I wrote the last sentence, she rang the bell, watched me roll my eyes, and came back under the desk to lie down. She now knows the cues when I am not budging.

But, back to the snow. OK, maybe I am starting to feel a little weary from the dad-blasted white crap everywhere, but it is nice when the pups come charging at the house at full tilt, to open the door and not give a flying hoot what drags in with them. I learned early on that snow melts invisibly and mud – which will surface when all this lovely, glistening, pristine crud melts – sours my pleasant demeanor.

When I lean out the front door into below 20 temperatures to call them in, I like to see my little darlings perk their ears in alert admiration and willingness to immediately obey. That really only happens when the summons includes the word “treat.” Usually, they are involved in a very intricate and complicated game of “run around the pine trees” when I call them. They know and diligently follow the very detailed and precise rules to this game.

When I open the door just because I love the feeling of frigid wind smacking me in the face and call for them, they stop immediately in their tracks, look at me, and then look at each other. They freeze – and by that, I mean figuratively, as I am the one freezing with the door open with dry snow blowing in my face – give the other a concentrated stare, wait until the other gives in first – which can take a while, until my pitch raises enough to pull them out of the trance, then at the exact moment, they bolt for the front door in an all-out foot race. I just hold the door open and allow the thunderous herd to plow into the house full battery with the declared winner of that round spinning in a circle on the tile.

So, with that description that plays itself out four hundred times in the course of my day, I am not ready for the mud that the spring thaw brings, but we are bored and would like warmer temperatures to lure me outside to enjoy the sunshine with these silly girls. March 1, I looked at the temperature first thing in the morning – 18 degrees. I call that coming in like a lion. So, come on crocuses get ready, I know the thaw will come.

"You're off to great places"

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away! - Dr. Seuss

Today is “Read Across America” day and if I were working with high school students today, I would surely read aloud something fun and whimsical from my hero, Dr. Theodor Geisel, better known as Dr. Seuss to honor the beauty of literature and his birthday.

Reading with my children as they were growing up has been one of my greatest joys of parenthood. We stretched our reading time well into the chapter book years, and I don’t regret one minute spent turning pages with them, experiencing adventures about dinosaurs, where sidewalks end, fuzzy caterpillars, trees that give, and so much more. Some of the greatest wisdom of our day is spelled out and illustrated in children’s literature.

As I read through Oh the Places You’ll Go today, my mind drifted back to the many times I read this story to students. Even though they hear this book exhaustively during senior year, students visibly relax their gazes, sit back and absorb the cadence of the words and wit of Dr. Seuss when read aloud. Always.

I read this book today with my mind focused on resilience and how we manage adversity in our lives. Even though I have read Oh the Places You’ll Go many times before, each time is new because reading gathers meaning based on what we bring to the table at the moment we read. Never hesitate to re-read a novel; stories are different every time we read them, as we ourselves change in perspective and situation from month to month and year to year.

Geisel encourages in such a realistic way with his whimsical words. He promises the reader of great potential, yet assures the reader there will be bumps in the road, and the bumps can and will be overcome through strength of character and resilience of spirit.
“I’m sorry to say so but, sadly, it’s true that Bang-ups and Hang-ups can happen to you.

You can get all hung up in a prickle-ly perch. And your gang will fly on. You’ll be left in a Lurch.

You’ll come down from the Lurch with an unpleasant bump. And the chances are, then, that you’ll be in a Slump.

And when you’re in a Slump, you’re not in for much fun. Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.”

He goes on to tell us that we will get confused and run down wiggled roads at breakneck speed. Words take on new meaning depending on the moment we read them. Yes, I know the downhill, winding road taken at break-neck speed, and I know the slump. There have been times in my life when I would have read this to students and thought of their anticipated disappointments and speed bumps in the road to success. Facing tragedy of my own would have been the furthest thought from my mind.

But adversity happens. The master word crafter soundly expresses: “I’m sorry to say so but, sadly, it’s true that Bang-ups and Hang-ups can happen to you.” None of us is immune to difficulty, but we have the choices to right the wrongs and come out on top, or bury ourselves in the muck and wallow (which I do from time to time, and it is totally allowed, as long as muck wallowing creates needed release and a hot shower follows).

When things down the road “between hither and yon” frighten us so much that we feel like quitting, the doctor confidently predicts we will go “onward up many a frightening creek, though your arms may get sore and your sneakers may leak. On and on you hike. And I know you’ll hike far and face up to your problems whatever they are.”

Nothing feels better than someone expressing confidence in me and Dr. Seuss certainly delivers. He knows I can climb that hill, that I am strong and capable – and I like reading books that don’t hesitate to reinforce my potential.

“Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!”

I smile when I think of my own mountain waiting; I am not yet ready to rise to great heights, but have confidence that with God’s help, I can. I also really like hearing it.
So, in honor of the great writers of children’s literature – read something special a kid, or a dog, or a bird – or yourself today!

A tale of church food and knitting unraveled

Someday archeologists may dig around my residence, and my goodness, would they be in for a treat. In among the raw hide bones and unstuffed toys, they would find small balls of yarn and what appear to be unfinished knitting projects. They might wonder what kind of person lived in that home in that era wearing a sweater with all but a left sleeve, then a sweater with all but a right sleeve. I delight in how my cultural relics would confuse the future, but as I live in the present, I wonder what artifacts and relics in my possession would represent my household.

Recently, Elise told me about her class assignment to bring in a relic representing her culture. She said she thought and thought until Scott suggested she take in the church cookbook. She did and it worked very well for class discussion, as students brought artifacts such as flags and artwork. I cannot think of anything more fitting for her than a compilation of food recipes from the people who raised her.

Some of my fondest memories center around church food. As a little girl, my grandfather preached in country churches. I remember fidgeting in my seat as the aroma of fried chicken wafted up to from the musty basement to the airy sanctuary where we had to wait until the sermon concluded before heading down the creaky stairs for lunch. While Elise and Nick were growing up, our favorite night of the week was Wednesday when we shared dinner with our church family, then scattered to choir practices. I pause, as my mind floods with the joyful and warm memories of sharing those Wednesday night suppers.

Dessert was, and still is a special treat every Wednesday night when the children, young and old, converge on the sweets table as a first step before filling their plates with a meal. So many talented cooks feature signature dishes. During Miss Eulalie Jefferson’s lifetime, who knows how many people consumed her caramel pies. In one of the old church cook books, she included taking the phone off the hook before heating the sugar for the caramel in the recipe instructions.

As much as we like to think of the monumental in representing our lives, such as our job accomplishments, formidable vehicles and spacious homes, but the little details of our daily existence are what really define us. I mentioned in an earlier blog that my heart melts when my mother visits and leaves my house with a forgotten cup of cooled and overly steeped tea in the microwave.

I have a friend who introduces me to the very best books. If she recommends it, I know it will be a good read. My sister leaves a trail of knitting stuff after staying at my house and I am reminded of sitting in the living room with her, watching the kids, while knitting and gossiping. I have also been known to keep the craft tools left in her wake. That falls into the snooze, you lose category; she has good stuff.

Roger reads trail guides of trails he has never hiked, but hopes to someday. When reading trail descriptions and looking at the maps, he says he feels like he has hiked the trail. Out in the yard are two long hiking sticks the dogs have dragged off the porch from a recent hike he took with our nephew, Joey. I think archeologists may find a worn pair of boots to define one of Roger’s great joys.

The relics that define us as people or part of a culture, I believe are small in structure, yet huge in significance, as they are how we will be remembered. If those confused archeologists come upon our household in the unforeseen future, I hope they can weave a good story with the drawer of unmatched socks, box of single mittens, and of course, the knitting projects that will someday be finished.