the old Christmas trail

This post, by Donna Boucher (a blogger and photographer I love) set my mind near an old familiar trail. I took this trail every Christmas for too many years.

It started the year my mother died, 1979. Bill and I drove to Memphis to spend Christmas with my dad and siblings. Though we went through the motions of roast turkey and a trimmed tree, a heaviness hung over the house. Always the maker of Christmas in the family, my mother's absence was raw, sharp and devastating.

As the years went on, little things hit me. "Angels We Have Heard on High," a favorite carol of Mom's, would bring me to tears. Gifts hidden in closets. Christmas morning coffee cake and cheese grits. Once our children came along, emotions only heightened. I tried to make Christmas wonderful for my kids, to give them memories they'd always cherish. But by December 24, as much as I tried to ignore it, the combined stress and sadness swept over me. It really wasn't the proper focus at all, for me or the kids. I hope they "got" Christ at Christmas despite my gloominess.

My mother's death pre-dated my spiritual rebirth by 8 years. But by the time I yielded my life to God, habits were firmly rooted. Habits like fixing my eyes on the seen, not the unseen. Valuing a worldly view over an eternal one. And yes, allowing memories and the idea of a picture-perfect Christmas to overwhelm me.

These days? It's much better, though my mind can dally near that old trail. I pray for a heart focused on Christ and his will for my December. To give, to serve, to love better. And to be comforted by God.

Still, perhaps I'll always struggle with a damaged heart around Christmas time. It seems to be a condition shared by so many. If you find yourself there, I understand. As Donna Boucher says,

 

"I won't tell you to snap out of it. I can only say, I know."

I pray blessings, peace, contentment and eyes ever on Christ this Christmas.

Simsbury summer

How to describe that particular smell: the steamy, oily, tar-laced goo of summer? It's unmistakable but it also takes me back to summers as a girl in Simsbury, Connecticut. It seemed the day school let out in June, the tar trucks began their rounds and continued all summer.

The 300-year-old town of Simsbury spread for miles in all directions so I couldn't ride everywhere on narrow back roads. But I rode my bike through those summers: through neighborhoods the back way to the dime store and to friends' houses. Sometimes I simply jumped on my bike and rode our one-mile circle like a maniac for the pure freedom it offered. I loved how the wind whipped my hair (no helmet of course) and the cool New England  air cleared my head. And mixed all through was that smell of winter-beaten streets being repaired and resurfaced.

Yesterday Bill and I biked to a city park for a picnic by the Olentangy River. About halfway there, I smelled it: Simsbury in summer. That is, a tar truck was surfacing a street or perhaps it was only a driveway. Immediately I was ten years old again, riding to the dime store, hair flying and legs pumping.

Amazing how the sense of smell stays with us and carries us. What smells take you back?

under the bathroom sink

Despite the fact that I've bragged in the past about my campaign to de-clutter,

there are still untouched areas of the house needing attention.

Witness: under the "kids" bathroom sink.

It is jammed with stuff and since

Katie's home this week, she took a stab at it.

It's outrageous what was lurking there ...

bath toys,

old sheets I used to spread on the floor during boys' haircuts,

the instruction booklet from the hair trimming kit

(not sure which son took the kit),

lice shampoo (only a year old, a precautionary purchase when Katie went to Paraguay),

at least 10 bottles of shampoo, conditioner, suntan and body lotions,

cotton balls by the hundreds,

travel-size plastic bottles,

Sun In,

Dixie cups,

and hair brushes and soaps of every description.

Someday when we move,

 all the cabinets, drawers and closets

will be stripped of every trace of our years in this house.

I imagine it will be a clean and liberating experience.

But for now, as we sort occasionally,

we rerun in our minds the memories of family life ...

the buzz haircuts, bath nights, and packing for summer camp;

freshly-bathed little boys and a pig-tailed little girl.

And though we welcome new seasons and new grandchildren,

each memory is packed away with a tinge of sadness.



2.20.62 and other thoughts

The 50th anniversary of John Glenn's historic mission snuck up on me; it was yesterday. Mom sat me down on the cold floor in front of our black and white television that day: February 20, 1962. I had little interest in watching a space launch since I was just seven years old. "You're going to watch this," she ordered. "Someday, you can tell your children and grandchildren that when you were just a little girl you watched the first American orbit the earth, ." And so I watched .

I'm not sure my children or grandchildren are very impressed by my witness to history but it's special to me. I had a mother, a 1960's traditional homemaker, who thought higher and broader than some. She didn't send me to pre-school, nor was kindergarten offered in the public schools, so she accidentally schooled me at home until I was nearly 7. Mom taught me to read as she hung clothes on the line. She had a crazy curiosity about everything, showing me that learning - and life itself - was an adventure.

Mom drove us all over Detroit, Michigan, our home for 15 months, exploring Polish bakeries and meat shops and other wonders that were foreign to a southern family. She traded her amazing southern friend chicken for homemade meatballs with our Italian neighbor, Mrs. DiPasquale, who spoke no English. Mom bought ice skates for herself and me and we learned to skate alongside teenagers playing ice hockey: the national sport of Detroit.

Look for the wonder in ordinary days and adventure in your neighborhood and share it with a child. It holds the makings of memories and relationships.

the grinder

From the time I could peer over the edge of the kitchen counter, I'd watch Mom grind with this grinder, tomato juice dripping onto newspapers spread on the floor. This little beauty has been in my kitchen for over 30 years. And it was in my mother's kitchen for almost 30 years, too.

I only saw Mom use it for grinding two things: green tomatoes and ham. She ground green tomatoes and onions in the summertime for tomato relish, which my dad and older brother absolutely loved on black-eyed peas.

Then, after Christmas or Easter, the leftover ham was ground up for ham salad. And honestly, that's the sole reason I hang onto the grinder. We like a little ham salad now and then.

I don't know if the grinder was handed down from my grandmother or perhaps was a wedding gift to Mom in 1950. While it's a bit clunky to pull out and clamp onto the counter, there's something comforting and loving about using it as my mother did many years ago, my hand grasping the wooden handle, smooth from decades of use.

I might not have a huge Kitchen Aid mixer or other trendy gadgets, but somehow my kitchen seems complete.

2011 in review, part 2

July

(it cannot be just one photograph!)

A full and relaxing month at our cabin.

Sunsets. Wind and water. Ice cream.

Fun photography.

Time together

Visits from friends

Being fine with just being

August

33 years on August 10

September

Photo shoot for baby girl Haller!
She's beautiful, don't you agree? You'd better agree.

My sister and I visited our dad in Nashville - sweet time.

October

I adore October.
The air, the colors, the warm turning to cool, the bike
rides with my hubby!

November

Late-October visit to Charlotte

Love my pizza pie kitchen!
I'll always remember the morning Bill asked me what I was doing that day and I said,
"paint the kitchen!"

My son David's guest post on the brothers' N.C. mountain adventure was popular.

I love that the brothers went adventuring.

December

My family: love 'em like crazy!

Christmas 2011

I made it: this is the 200th post of the year! Thanks to those who read and encouraged me as I plodded along.
I'll be doing some magazine writing in 2012,
but will continue to blog.
A safe and healthy new year to all!

2011 in review, part 1

With permission, I'm borrowing this idea from Donna Boucher, a blogger and photographer I admire ... especially since she's closer to my age than many photographers I know, and a grandma, too! Check her out at http://www.booshay.blogspot.com/

Today, some favorites from the first half of 2011.

January

Ari turned one on New Year's Day ... and I celebrated being a grandmother for one year!

February

Snow ...

and ice. Lots of it.

March

Favorite little girl, favorite book.

April

Uncovering long-forgotten images.

My daughter, age 11.

May

A mother's day treat: two days with our oldest, David.

He makes Cleveland a beautiful place!

I love being a mom. I think it's made me a better person.

June



Ashlyn Claire. June 24, 2011.

We're blessed again.

Mary's secret

Mary wasn't a huge presence in my life, but she most definitely made an impact. To a lanky girl of ten like me, Mary was a solid, robust woman with mahogany skin and a kind face. She cooked for my father's family for many years in Arkansas, then accepted occasional jobs from them when they moved to Memphis.

I once wandered into the kitchen to be with Mary. She looked into my face and asked, "You smart? You look so smart." I loved Mary from that moment on.

My mother spent time in Mary's kitchen, too. She learned to make cornbread dressing by watching Mary carefully on Thanksgiving. Southern cornbread, some stale white bread, cooked onions and celery, all saturated with chicken broth until it resembled a floating bog. Bake for an hour in a hot oven. Heaven!

But Mary had a secret which my mother discovered by observing the dressing-making from start to finish.

"Mr. Matlock doesn't like no egg in the dressing," she whispered to Mom. "But I always puts one in."

I think this delighted Mom, being privvy to Mary's little secret to making excellent dressing.

So today I remember Mary, a fabulous cook who also took time to build up an awkward girl. I'm making your dressing today, Mary. Including the egg.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Gratitude challenge day 24 - I'm grateful for family and God's provision and also people like Mary.

camp!

My good friend Patti emailed this photo yesterday and the memories came flooding back. It was summer 1979 at Girl Scout Camp Welaka in Jupiter, Florida. Patti (front and center) was camp director and I (right of Patti) served as her assistant. I think I have that right! We were both 24 and my mother had just died in May. I doubt I was totally focused on camp that summer.

It was my second summer at the camp ... I remember the sandy trails to the units, palmetto trees, mosquito nets draped over our cots, the extreme heat and midnight beach trips to watch the nesting sea turtles. And the squealing, giggling, energetic girls. I loved camp and spent six summers working at Girl Scout camps. 1979 would be my last.

Those were summers of discovering my strengths and weaknesses, forging friendships, and learning a lot about children and myself. Without a doubt, working at camp helped prepare me for motherhood.

Gratitude challenge day 4 - How grateful I am for friends like Patti, who befriended me so many years ago, taught me much, and took time to send this photo!

the $5.57 date

Bill and I have this idea to take turns surprising each other with little dates. So yesterday morning, spontaneous me said, "ok, get ready for our lunch date, and don't dress up!"

So off we go, Ellie too. First stop: Wendy's drive-through. They have a pretty good chicken sandwich for $1.69. Two of those and a large chili, please. Total: $5.57.

Next stop: Mingo Park, a city park where we spent hours and hours and HOURS with our little soccer and baseball players back in the day. Mingo is undergoing a huge renovation. New fields, more parking, improved bike trail. So we took our lunch and our pooch and checked out the Mingo re-do ... and reminisced a bit.

I spotted the water fountain where Grandma Haller got creamed by a careless hoodlum running from his friends. The benches where we sat when Mark pitched the winning game for his championship Mustang team. The diamond where David worked as an umpire, learning to stand his ground with over-zealous coaches. The soccer fields where Dan and Katie first played what we called "magnet ball."

Trips to the concession stand. Bored siblings begging to run to the playground. "Hey, batta, batta, batta!" from the outfield. The crack of a baseball against a bat.

Though the sounds of game nights echo in my mind, now it's not my children racing across Mingo, just the wind whipping over an empty park.

ten years ago

Ten years ago this week we delivered David, our oldest, to college for his freshman year. And except for a period of about 18 months, we've returned to Taylor University's campus many times over these ten years. David, Dan and Katie spent their college years there.

I think I'll save my sentimental Taylor-ramblings for another post - namely the end of the coming school year, when Katie graduates. (You WILL graduate, Katie?) For now, I think back to that August day in 2001 when I was going to bravely deliver David to college. Oh, I wasn't one of those blubbery moms who sobbed all the way home. This is what we'd prepared for: encouraging our kids to take flight, go away to college, and learn independence. I was not a clingy, hanger-on mom. I had this all under control!

Until it was time to go. The sun had just slipped behind the football field at Taylor, and our family of six stood in the parking lot outside the chapel. David was due at a freshman event, so we really had to leave. And the tears came. Not just mine. Bill's. And all the siblings'. And David's too. It was the most unexpected, extreme display of emotion I'd ever experienced. We all sobbed and hugged, as if our hanging on could delay our separation. 

I was so very proud of David and happy for this time in his life. But I very mother-ly realized that our family would never, ever again be the same. I'd have to stop and count out five plates instead of six for dinner. One less boy eating gobs of food. Less laughter from my very good-natured son. As his world broadened and became more, mine became less.

The change would eventually be good, I just didn't yet know what that good looked like. In the week or two after David left, I felt adrift. With a husband and three kids still at home! I missed him. Horribly, terribly. I have never admitted this to anyone, but I pulled his baby blanket from my bottom drawer and slept with it a few nights. All crazy "me" stuff .... not really "him" stuff!

By week two, as David would call us occasionally (I resisted calling him), my gloom lifted. He loved classes. He was making friends. The dorm brotherhood was awesome. Taylor was the place he was meant to be. And I knew he had begun growing into the young man God desired. And that we desired.

Letting my son go meant I would lose his boyhood, but I would witness his growing manhood. And that was a very good thing indeed.

bicker-ball

Ahhh, summer. Lemonade stands, fireworks, road trips, picnics and .... bicker-ball?

That's what our neighbor, Rob, nicknamed my boys' pickup baseball games in our front yard. Poor Rob, relaxing quietly on his front porch after a hard day's work. His tranquility was often smashed by three rambunctious boys - and often a little girl - who tumbled out our front door for for the umpteenth game of baseball, which always turned into bicker-ball. I can hear their shrieking conversations ...

That's the base.
No, THIS is the base!
You're out!
No, I'm safe!
No you're NOT!!
She's on YOUR team!
No, she's not!
Don't hit it so far!
It's your turn to chase it!
No, yours!
And finally, "smack," goes a whiffle ball against someone's head.
OWWWWWWWW! MOM!!!!!
I'm telling!

One year a friend's cheek got smacked with a bat, requiring stitches. Those were intense, seemingly interminable years.

The yard is quiet now, the maple too big for ball games, and grass has grown over home plate.

But hearing one more game of bicker-ball wouldn't be so bad.

Mother's Day

Try as I might to make it otherwise,

this weekend always delivered a mixed bag of emotions.

My mother died on May 7, 1979.

I wish like anything it hadn't been Mother's day week.

For a few years, I'd tear up when I walked past
the displays of Mother's Day cards.

I told myself to get a grip, to accept what is.

But it took many years for me to see God's gentle hand

in the loss of my mother.

Though I sought the friendship, advice
and encouragement of other women,

I also learned to be a strong and resourceful mother on my own.
I learned to appreciate my children and focus on them more than my loss.

Recognizing my shortcomings, I also learned
that I needed God more than a mother.

I am learning to be an encouragement to younger women.

Titus 2:4-5 says:
... train the younger women to love their husbands and children,
to be self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind,
and to be subject to their husbands ...

Mom was selfless and humorous, enormously generous with her love.
I know she'd tell me to quit whining about her not being here,
and get busy loving others.
   Mothers shape their children, but also the parents they might become.
It's a two-for-one deal and it's powerful to ponder.

Whether or not you are a mother, and whether or not your mother is in your life now, think on the valuable lessons she taught 
and seek to share them with others.
 That, I think most mothers would say,
is the best way to honor them.

the one-crate trip: on the road with Big Red

In 1998 we went a little crazy and drove with our four kids to Montana and back. It was, hands down (kids, correct me if I'm wrong) the most memorable and fun family shenangigan ever. A few highlights:

* We rented a 12-passenger van that we named BIG RED. The back bench seat stayed home in the garage, providing us plenty of cargo space. Four kids got three bench seats which of course lent itself to some riotous, sibling-type situations.

* I gave each kid a plastic milk crate for the 15-day trip; an 18-inch square cube. No duffles, no suitcases. If it didn't fit in your crate, it stayed at home! I was that bossy. Hey, we stopped in campgrounds along the way, equipped with laundries. The crates stacked perfectly and worked! We also threw in sleeping bags, two coolers, food crates, propane stove, dishes, pots and pans, and a pillow for every head.

With the exception of a swanky resort in Whitefish, Montana for Bill's business conference, we stayed in KOA campgrounds. I let go of my tacky, Yogi Bear-stereotype of these facilities: they were actually ideal while traveling with four squirrely kids. We'd pull into Devil's Tower, Wyoming or where-have-you and the kids would leap from Big Red and head for the pool or playground, happily occupied while I began assembling the dinner grub. Camping, as one mom aptly put it, is just taking your housework to the woods. But I capitalized on the opportunity to teach the children some life skills ...

We once met a family whose rule was that only children over age 6 went on the family vacations. I thought this a little extreme until our Montana trip. Let's just say our youngest family member, age 8, was tired and cranky approximately 14 and 1/2 days of the 15-day trip.

I went a little overboard with my enthusiasm for history. The kids were ready to gag me as I said for the 15th time in North Dakota: "Gee, imagine being a settler and doing this in a covered wagon!" Poor kids.

We discovered history (Little Bighorn battlefield my favorite), saw buffalo, cooked and did dishes together, got up extra-early to beat the crowds to Old Faithful, slept in a tipi and tiny cabins in rain and wind storms, and rode "to the sun" in Glacier National Park in "jammers." We especially built memories as a family that will last forever.

I have a hunch our kids will find a way to take their little rascals on such an adventure. That is, after they turn 10.

a grandparent's legacy

(This post didn't come easily, but it's actually been in my heart for many years.
I hope it hurts no one who reads it.)

I came across this photo recently. It's the only photo I have of my paternal grandfather and me together.
I'm about six years old and Granddaddy is about 75.

I didn't have a real relationship with him.

Granted, we moved far away when I was just seven,
but I hold many memories of other people in my life at that age.

This is what I wish my grandfather had chosen to do:

Be happy to see me. Though he might have been happy when I visited,
I never sensed it.

Be demonstrative. I never remember hugs nor sitting on Granddaddy's lap.

Share stories of his childhood.

Find out what interested me and talk with me about it.

Ask questions, tell me a joke.

Tell stories about life on the farm when my dad was a boy.

I doubt that my grandfather, a hard-working Arkansas farmer who
in the prime of life fought through the Great Depression,
gave a moment's thought to the legacy he was leaving
his children and grandchildren.
Maybe the terrible reality of survival sapped his capacity to love.
At least that's how it seems to me.

I don't mean to disparage the memory of my grandfather,
but he died over 40 years ago and I don't know who he was.
That saddens me. And if he had an unspeakably horrible childhood,
that saddens me, too.

I know this sounds judgmental,
but sometimes I wonder why some people have children at all,
if not to love and know those children, forge relationships, teach compassion,
and pass on the baton of faith.
Parenting means sacrifice and a commitment to mold little hearts to
love, respect and serve others.
I think the same can be said for grandparenting.

These memories have helped me decide what sort of grandmother I want to be.

I will hug the daylights out of my grandchildren, if they're ok with it.

I won't demand affection from them, but I hope to foster it.

I will be more tender and patient with my grandchildren than I was with my children.

We'll get lost in books, especially the ones their dad or mom liked.

I will pull a chair to the kitchen counter and let them bake cookies with me.

I will tell them a joke and laugh at myself, never at them.

I will spend time outside in the sun and snow, or walk with them in the rain.

In summer I'll sit with them on the sidewalk and draw with chalk. We'll stay at the pool as long as they want.

I will listen to their fears, hold them close and pray with them.

We'll go to the park and swing, slide and climb together.

I'll tell them about my pranks at Girl Scout camp and of my childhood with no computers, cell phones, or DVDs, how we'd wait a whole year to watch "The Wizard of Oz" on TV.

I will talk with them about God and point to everything around us that speaks of His creation and love for us. 

I will take a moment every time we're

together to look

deeply into their eyes.

I will spoil them rotten. Ok, I know I'm not

allowed!

I will remember they are children and delight in them.

My grandchildren will know my smile,
my touch,

my laugh, my tears,

and especially my heart.

Without a doubt they'll know that

I love them fiercely and forever.

I won't waste time silently sitting on a chair

as my grandchildren walk through the room.