family

Family Mugs

May 14, 2020 Leave a Comment

My husband, Rick, keeps telling me we have too many mugs – that they are taking up too much space on our shelves, and I need to get rid of some of them. But which ones?

How about this one – my Mama Bear mug? It’s the companion to his Papa Bear mug. Every time I see them sitting on the shelf, I think about the year we really started to feel like a family. I can’t give that one up. It took so many years to get it.

Or how about my big green Tinkerbell mug? We got that the year we took the kids to Disneyland – our first real “family” trip together. It’s a big, two-handed mug that holds nearly twice as much as Mama Bear. I reserve Tink for my Sunday Cocoa and fill her to the brim.

How about this one? My camp sister, Dottie, has one just like it: I gave it to her for her birthday a few years back. I love the image; yellow stars peek from a black night sky, haloing a galaxy of raucous, Rubenesque women whooping around a campfire, sparks rising to meet the stars. Whenever I wrap my hands around their warm, gently sloping curves, I am lost in a thousand memories of smoky, crackling fires, campfire singing and soft guitars.

See this one with the unicorn? I think it’s the oldest in the cupboard. It sat on my desk all through college, where it held my pencils, pens, roach clip, scissors. When I hold it, I remember moving into Mehling Hall freshman year, carefully placing it on my desk beside Rick’s picture. I remember when I put his picture away.

And this one with the cowboy boots, sitting on the windowsill? If you look closely, you’ll see its broken: split right down the middle. My second daughter, Gracie, sent that one to us from Wyoming, the year she spent teaching and volunteering and waiting to go to Brazil. It was broken when it arrived, so I superglued it and set it up there to hold my basting and baking brushes. It’s been there ever since.

Maybe I could part with the volunteer mug Rick got for helping out with Emily’s Girl Scout troop. Or the one we bought on our first Valentines weekend at Hood River. No. No, I need to keep that one. You never know when a moment will change the course of your life, or the ambitions of your heart will be inspired.

Which ones should I keep? Which do I let go?

The funny thing is, most of the mugs I love aren’t that comfortable to hold. They’re not shaped exactly right. Some have rough surfaces that make my fingertips feel anxious, or lips that curl in ways that make it almost impossible to the gracefully take a drink. Some have handles that were clearly designed by someone who had never before held a mug in their lives, while others are too heavy, or uneven, slumped from the heat of the kiln.

Still, I love each one. They hold my memories.

I have learned to form to their curves and find comfort in their rough spots. Even the broken one, I have found a place for.

Four Keys to a Long, Happy, Purposeful Life {An International Women’s Day Tribute}

March 8, 2020 Leave a Comment

After my father died too soon from Parkinson’s complications, my mother’s older sister Dorothy Ellen assumed, in no uncertain terms, the mantle of family matriarch. Known to everyone as Auntie, Dorothy Ellen went on to lead our family for another ten years before she passed away at the age of ninety-four.

I know that Auntie would be pleased that I chose this particular day – International Women’s Day; a day set aside each year around the globe to celebrate the social, economic, cultural and political achievements of women – to pay her tribute. She was a strong, life-long supporter of equity and education for women and girls (long before it became fashionable to do so), and exemplified throughout her life that a woman can be strong, independent, happy, and capable; married or not.

Like my father, our Auntie was a teacher, and I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t teaching me something. She inspired me and cheered me on in my first artistic endeavors. She impressed upon me that attention to detail matters, and if you are going to create something, make it the best you are capable of.

Auntie taught me countless lessons passed on from her Girl Scouting days, which later motivated me to become a Girl Scout leader for all five of my own daughters. She introduced me to Native American art and cultivated my appreciation of our local indigenous peoples and cultures. She taught me what it meant to be a big sister, long before I discovered I had a little sister out there in the world. She helped me with my homework, and encouraged me in my pursuit of a teaching degree. She taught me that little things matter.

However, while I appreciate the lessons of my youth, it is the lessons I learned from my aunt as she got older that I am finding the most valuable now. Auntie did Old Age right, and I took notes, because I can already hear that train in the distance, and it’s coming faster than I ever imagined.

(If you are 20- or 30-something, and are skimming over this because you think you have all the time in the world, be careful not to blink.)

Sure, physical, emotional, and mental health are somewhat reliant on genetics, but Auntie showed us all that living into your nineties with a sharp mind takes more than good genes, and it doesn’t happen by accident: among other things, it takes drive, dedication, tenacity, and a solid group of friends and family.

Four Keys to a Long, Happy, Purposeful Life

1. Cultivate and nurture a strong, supportive circle of friends.

Auntie taught us all that aging with grace takes work. (A bit of a stubborn streak probably doesn’t hurt either.) She exercised, she read, and she challenged herself mentally and physically. She stayed actively engaged with her book club and other organizations far longer than anyone ever thought she could. But most important, at least from my perspective, was the circle of friends she fostered and kept close around her to the end.

As she got older, Auntie wisely made friends with younger people, and by the time she hit 90, nearly all of her close friends were younger than her by at least a few decades. (I mean, when you’re 90, you don’t have much of a choice.) But really, she loved her friends – especially those longtime neighbors who supported her, kept her company, watched all those hours of basketball with her, shared their families with her, took her on outings even when it became cumbersome – and even pushed her when she needed it. Particularly in these last few years, She would not have had the quality of life that she did without them.

Right out of Better Homes circa 1957. Auntie is standing in the center.

2. Express gratitude.

I don’t think there was ever a time when Auntie didn’t say thank you when something was done for her. She meant it too, and that made a difference. Even hard things are easier to do for others when you know that your efforts are appreciated. Moreover, there is significant research to suggest that having a grateful heart can improve overall health and happiness, and extend life as well.

3. Be where you need to be. Be present.

There wasn’t much else I could do for our Auntie in the last days of her life, but I could read to her, so that’s what I did whenever I went to visit.

On that last day, I read to her from “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” It was a favorite book of both of ours. As a child, I was a precocious reader, and I can still remember the day my aunt pulled her copy off the shelf from its place next to For Whom the Bell Tolls and put it into my hands. I was ten or eleven, and it was my first “grown-up” book.

Anyway, on that last day, I sat there reading chapter after chapter to Auntie as I had on previous days. Unlike previous days, however, her eyes were filmy; and only once – for a flickering moment – did I catch even a glimmer of life. Her fire was gone, and I had the overwhelming impression that this would be the last time I would read for her.

That day, we were planning to take our youngest daughter downtown to celebrate her birthday, and I knew we needed to get going. But I kept on reading, because I wanted to end on a happy chapter. I knew in my heart that this would last time Auntie would hear anything from any of her beloved books, and I wanted to give her something beautiful to take with her as she passed from here to what lies beyond.

In that moment, I felt to my bones this lesson: Be where you need to be. Be present. So I kept reading.

4. Leave a legacy of love.

I had the privilege of being in the room on one of the last visits from her neighbor and dear friend Elizabeth, and as I watched Elizabeth lean over my aunt’s bed and look into her eyes, I saw so much love.

In fact, every person I witnessed come through my aunt’s bedroom in her last days – including off-duty caregivers who came on their own time – who came because they loved her – every one of them seemed to offer her this singular message: Thank you for being in my life. You are so loved.

In that moment, watching Elizabeth say goodbye, I thought to myself; that’s what I want. That’s what I want.

When I leave this earth in my last days – if I can be surrounded by people whose only message is, “You are so loved,” I will know that I have lived well. If I can do that, then I will leave the legacy that I want to leave.

The legacy that Auntie left to me.

Originally published March 19, 2017 on The Good Hearted Woman

Alzheimer’s Prayer

February 6, 2020 Leave a Comment

When I cannot recall your face or name,
Come visit me.
Sit close and paint my memories
with your words.

When my joints are gnarled and useless,
Hold my hand.
Warm my tangled fingers between your
praying palms.

When my bones ache and my body fails,
Take me to the ocean.
Let me face the falling tide and breathe in
sea’s last light.

When my words are gone and evening falls,
Sing me Shenandoah.
Hold me close and let the last notes ring, long after
I am sleeping.

Alzheimer's Prayer

In memory of my mother, Clella Mae [October 1926 – January 2020]

I Already Miss Your Smile

March 30, 2018 1 Comment

For Leslie

I already miss your smile. I know you had to go, but we are left heartbroken. I don’t even know where to begin.

Maybe I should start at the beginning, back when we both had far fewer children and you and Larry were still living in the little shaded trailer in the woods. Just after Michael was born, I think, or maybe Hannah. Definitely before Rebecca. Back when Caroline had to stand on a kitchen stool to stir blue box mac and cheese on the stove.

Or maybe I should begin in the mother’s lounge at church, because that is where we truly became friends. The kind of friends who laugh together and share secrets and let the other one see our tears. I remember vividly how we would sit and talk the hours away as we nursed our babies, enjoying the luxury of doing just one task instead of twenty, as toddlers played around us.

I remember when my last baby outgrew the ritual, but I was not ready to give it up. From that day on, I kept an eye out for Rebecca (or whichever child trailed behind you) on your way out of the chapel, hoping to be of help to you; taking the trailing child’s hand and following you quietly out of the chapel. I was so grateful to you for letting me help, though it was always you who was thanking me, as if I was doing the favor. I wish I could say that my offer of help was entirely altruistic, but that would not be true: helping you with your little ones gave me a higher purpose than sitting in the pew watching the clock painstakingly tick-tick-tick away, not to mention the free pass it gave me back into that all too exclusive young mother’s club once again.

Those long ago days, sitting and talking with you in the mother’s lounge, surrounded by our little ones, are some of my favorite memories from those days. As we often remarked, we all worship in our own way.

Or maybe those early years when Rebecca and Emily were new babies who grew to be the best of friends, and we made more trips back and forth between our two houses than I can count. Over the years, even after they drifted into separate lives, there remains a heartfelt affection and trust between them that will endure beyond either one of us, and that brings me a sort of peace in this moment.

Maybe that year when my one of my girls was struggling to fight her demons, and you opened your home and your heart to her, and asked her come over and help you out with the babies. As if you needed another child in the house. But despite my best efforts, she was feeling alone and alienated in her own home, and you made her feel needed and wanted and important when she needed that most of all. So many others turned away from her…us…silently, tacitly registering their judgement and fear, but not you. You reached out and pulled us both closer. I will never be able to thank you enough for loving my sweet daughter when she needed it most.

Maybe the rabbit, or the dogs, or the chickens, or the kittens, or a million kids bouncing and giggling on the trampoline out back. All those memories we made together over the years – the rocks and pebbles and sand and water all together, filling up life’s jar.

Maybe that day when I shared my most terrible secret with you: that my world was falling apart and I feared I had lost my faith. Once again, you opened your home and your heart – this time to me. You made me feel loved and needed and accepted at a time when so many others couldn’t turn away fast enough. I will never be able to thank you enough for loving me when I needed it most. So many, many people claim to follow Christ. You radiated Christlike love simply by the way you lived your life.

Maybe that night when you invited us – the new Us – over for a family barbecue, and treated Rick like, well, like a person. Instead of a curiosity. Or a pariah. You and your family never once made us feel out of place. Our visits to your home were always a high point in our week. I don’t know if I ever mentioned how much that meant to us both. I hope you knew.

Maybe all those times when we talked about life and love and faith and the nature of God. I think I will miss those talks most of all. You were fearless in your faith, unthreatened by my existential ramblings, and always open and ready to share your thoughts as you listened to mine. It meant so much to me that we could have such honest conversations and be so open about something so sacred. You never made me feel “less than” for taking a different path, and your friendship and love never wavered: you were a profound and enduring example of unconditional love.

Maybe that day when you shared your most terrible secret with me, when for the first time I saw a flash of fear race across your face before you could catch it and reel it back. Thank you for letting me cry with you that day. Those tears cemented our friendship into the eternities.

Maybe that last visit, when we talked and laughed and considered the great unknown while I did the dishes and we ate warm chocolate chip cookies together. Even as your strength waned, you were fearless in your faith. Dishes, as you know, are my least favorite household task ever, but I did them with a truly grateful heart that day. I would wash dishes for a thousand days for just one more of our talks.

Maybe all the laughter. About our little kids, and how they survived despite their best efforts to break themselves. About our teenagers, and their gangly, angsty, long-legged, hormone-fueled attempts to make us crazy. About the church ladies who thought you were “practically perfect in every way.” (If they only knew, as you used to like to say.) About the never-ending loads of laundry, even as we spent the afternoon folding and talking for hours, slowly moving an Everest of freshly washed clothes from one side of your long couch to the other, transforming it into a folded fabric skyscraper by the time it reached the other side.

Maybe all of those. But most of all, your smile, because that is where it all begins and ends. I will miss your smile most of all, my dear friend. In it, I found comfort, and friendship, and acceptance, and love. I know that this was a gift that you gave freely, to all who would receive it. It was one of the precious gifts you were given in this life – the gentle, abiding faith that at their core, people are genuinely good, and that love transcends everything.

Till we meet again, dear friend.

* * *

Note: While sitting on a plane waiting to take off on a five-hour cross-country flight, I learned that my dear friend Leslie had lost her battle with pancreatic cancer. She was 47, mother of twelve, and one of the kindest people I have ever known. With no other outlet for my grief, I wrote this while in flight, and published it here the same day, in its rawest form. My apologies to my in-flight seat mates for all the tears.