In the Margins--Words of L. Phillips Thune

Sister...

When I hear the words "baby sister," I think about how I once had real baby sisters.  I was thirteen when Andrea was born. 

My dad was in Vietnam; I remember my mom taking her to Hawaii for my dad's R&R, his first chance to meet her.  I chose her name--after my dad.  They suprised me with her middle name--Belinda.

My second little sister arrived three years later.  I was newly sixteen and remember getting a call from the hospital. My dad wanted to know how to spell the name I had chosen...Adrianne.  Again, they surprised me with her middle name--Melinda.

I only had two years with them since I left home at eighteen.  Our mother had her own challenges that prevented her from being as...kind...perhaps as she could have been.  I remember wanting to make them happy...they were such little, little sisters. 

We played with dolls and drew pictures; I still have some of the drawings they made for me.  I remember rocking them, feeding them in their high chairs, reading my homework to them, taking them to the park or even just picnics in the back yard or in the living room--the same things I would do years later with my own daughters. But one memory is clearest...so clear that I wonder if it's even real:

It was late, close to bedtime; it had been an upsetting night, and our mom and dad had left. When it was time for bed, I got the girls bathed and in their nightgowns.  Then I got us all together and lit a candle. We said our prayers together.  Then I sang a song and danced for them.  My pajama bottoms were a bit loose and they began to fall down--I grabbed them and kept on dancing and singing.  Andrea and Anna, as we called her, just laughed and laughed--then I started laughing...we couldn't stop laughing.  For many nights afterward, they asked me to do "the candle."  I can't remember if we ever did it again.

I have lost my sisters--or we lost each other.  I'm not sure how, but I have always regretted letting it happen.  Whenever I see my girls together, how much they love each other in every thing they do--instant forgiveness, generous gifts, supportive calls, and free-flowing hugs (in Asha's case, even licks--but that's another story); how they know that no matter what happens, they have each other, how they know that with one phone call, within hours a sister would be at their door if needed with whatever is needed; whenever I see these things,  I think of how I loved and lost my own little sisters. 

 I miss what we could have been. Three best friends...singing and dancing in the candlelight. 

for my girls--the sisters--with love,
Mom   

Mwah.

Anniversary: 9-23

Thirty-two years ago, on the first day of fall (our favorite time of year), Peter and I were married in an aspen tree grove in the mountains of Colorado.  Around fifty family members and friends made their way for miles to the beautiful spot that days before was lightly covered in snow.  But on that day, the sun was bright, horses were grazing nearby, and the snow--all but a few small, scattered mounds of memory--was gone.

I made my garden-length dress out of pale ivory and rose-embossed silk. Peter had light pants, vest, and brown shirt.  My father was in full-dress uniform-- Special Forces splendor.  Aunts and in-laws had come from other states,  friends and co-workers from the city; the horses were already there--it was their home, and they peacefully shared it with us for the day.

I will always remember my friends playing guitar and singing "Sunshine on My Shoulders" and how Peter promised the weather would be perfect--and it was; my father bringing cases of champagne and cooking hot dogs and hamburgers;  my applesauce wedding cake; pretty wrapped gifts stacked high on a table inside a log cabin; the surprise diamond on the gold, braided band we designed ourselves, the cool and perfect air,  the yellow dancing aspen leaves that whispered "happiness."

We did not know then that we would have five daughters as beautiful as our wedding day, that we would have great joys and pain, that we would feel close some days and worlds apart on others.  There were no hints of national terrrorism or economic collapse or war.  The idea of any of the Beatles being shot or dying of cancer was outside our imagination. 

Blessings, in disguise or crystal clear, will continue.  Thirty-two years pass like an evening. 

Sit, rest, remember...

     Lee Mannix was a unique trainer and personality, the spirit of the Lee Mannix Center for Canine Behavior.  He made saving dogs from their owners one of his missions.  I first met him when I took my daughter, Annie, to a week-long class about working with dogs.  The class was for individuals facing any and all kinds of challenges.  Realizing Annie was discouraged about her deafness, in his loud (who couldn't hear that voice?), of-course-you-can-do-it way, Lee imagined the possibilities for a dog trainer who happens not to hear.  "Heck, you think dog trainers on movie sets use their voices--it's all signals--it's watching the dogs and signals; @#$%, you could do that!"  Burly--a pretty good way to describe him, burly--with cuss words.
     This burly man called my home after Annie died to offer his condolences.  A few days later, I was told he wanted to dedicate a bench to Annie on his training center grounds.  A few days after that, Lee Mannix died in a car accident.  "The Irish Dogfather," I was told at his memorial service, had been very upset about Annie's death and insisted on having the bench made for her. 
     Several members of his staff, after completing a bench for Lee, followed through on his wish:

      
The message for the bench, what I told one of Lee's assistants, is what I imagined Annie would say--she was always telling me to "chill" and I so didn't like hearing it.  I'd listen now: 
     just slow down, have a seat, and hug your dog. 

Thank you:
*Martha, Inka, Jyl, Shari
*so many others whose names I may never know
*Philip Hogatt, owner/carver, and wife, Michele
    Carved Stone, Inc.

Thank you Lee.  Forever.

 

The Flip Side of Sadness

Humor heals.  It's been proven--I think. 

Here is what I know--
After posting "Going Home," I felt a certain peacefulness about this mile of our family's journey, of my road, through this lifetime.  But I want people to know--we had laughter:

   It was funny fighting the "lean" of the airport shuttle--

   and watching Halla insist she is the strongest sister--

   and wondering who invented the first "group hug"--

   or imagining what other inappropriate comment I could make to get a laugh--

And then...there was the bear:

 

    This little guy, who looked exactly like Merete's giant stuffed bear, Blackie, she received many years ago, was walking across the road  as we were driving up Cheyenne Canyon.  Over the next 24 hours, we saw a total of three bears along the road from Colorado Springs to Aspen.  When we were visiting Maroon Bells, the tour guide mentioned not having seen bears in many  years--they don't come down this far into town...hmmm.   
     So, as  we are standing in the woods high above and away from a beautiful quiet trail and stream having our own little ceremony with Annie's ashes, feeling the sun blessing the area, hearing the traffic far enough away to make you feel safe and yet feel alone, as I offer the idea of getting a snack from the car and coming back to the spot and having quiet time with Annie a bit longer, my son-in-law says, in a knowledgeable, soft, calm, respectful voice,  "Um, I'd suggest we not go to the car for a snack and come back because...of bears...the scent..." 
     I'm not sure what he said after that because now my mind was in panic overdrive for a moment, hoping beyond hope that he wasn't talking so softly because he actually saw one standing behind me.  "Bears?"  Then, someone spotted a bone--a bone that looked like part of my leg--after all the meat is eaten off--still fairly damp--like it had happened only weeks or days before--or hours.  At some point, I ask, "And what does one do if one should see--a bear?"
"Do not run...you will be prey; he will run after you; you can't outrun a bear.  You should curl up in a ball, don't make any sounds."
     Maybe it's just me, but I wasn't sure how that was actually possible--I can get my body into nothing more than perhaps a boomerang shape in Pilates, and I'm not sure how I would remember not to scream at the very top of my lungs the very thing I always scream at Peter when I, let's say, have a fire in the oven, "OH MY GOD,PETER, DO SOMETHING!"  My other son-in-law said he'd take his chances with some weaving and dodging "moves" as he ran.
      But all was well.  Of course, rather quickly and oh so quietyly, we turned our attention back to the task at hand; shared our quiet with God and Annie, or as my friend, environmentalist and scientist, Susan J. Tweit informed me, the Annie-Canada-Jay.   Of course, they kept us safe and blessed our sacred area.   Of course, between the laughing and the crying, we shared our love.
      Humor heals?  Of course it does. 

 
 
Mwah. 
 

                                                                                                                               
                                                                               

Going Home

This past weekend, I took my daughter’s ashes to Colorado—her birthplace and where she often mentioned she wanted to return; she liked the cold. Returning there felt like visiting a place so uniquely yours, it is a part of your every breath.  My husband, Peter, and I spent precious few minutes with the family and friends we could fit into that narrow window of opportunity we opened to receive condolences, share memories and laughter, and accept love.

As much as I’d love to return to the Colorado of my life long ago, a life of cycling and hiking and playing in the snow; impromptu trips to Rainbow Falls or Aspen; having babies and nursing and diapers; making my own yogurt and baby food; as much as I loved that life, I can’t get it back.  The world of my past cannot be visited again, even in memory. 

Colorado, now, for me, is the moment I touched my daughter’s ashes in a small space dug out by my husband and sons-in-law, behind a large white stone on which the sun shone, solely, through an opening in the aspens and evergreens near Independence Pass.  My younger daughters held each other, a choir singing a soft hymn of tears.  As I began to cover the ashes with some of the dug-away earth, I felt the hands of my older daughters reach down, ever so gently, and help place the earth over their sister, the touch of their hands softer than a whisper.  My new sons helped Peter collect the stones to cover Annie’s grave; he then created a cross of fallen tree limbs over her. Every move in silence.

A small, white and gray bird landed on a branch just inches from where we stood saying our private goodbyes.  For several minutes, we all watched as Annie flew from branch to branch, from tree to tree, all around us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Andreanna with love--Mwah.                                                                                             

Falling

Last week, I left class late on a rainy night; it had been a long day of teaching, grading, reading, then my three-hour class on playwriting. Walking down the sidewalk toward where I thought I'd left my car, I stumbled, and in slow-motion, fell to the ground with my books landing just beyond my reach.  That slow-falling moment triggered memories of other such Audrey Hepburnesque times in my past.

I'd like to think falling down has nothing to do with age, but the older I get, the more I fall down.  I truly don't remember falling down as a kid.  I think I had those parents that either didn't let me do anything, or were always within reach.  There are many little-girl pictures of me  in very pink, very frilly, ruffly dresses with lace-trimmed anklets, patent-leather Mary Janes, white gloves, and a hat. That kind of child does not fall down.

Then, somewhere in my forties and five children later (maybe it's the children, not the years), I found myself on the ground often.  Once upon a time, there was this thing called a pay phone.  I pulled into a gas station, shut my four young girls in the van, and walked the ten or so feet to the phone.  I hung up, turned around, walked three feet toward the van and right smack into a sign.  I saw everything go bright, then dark, then starry; seconds later,  I was down on the sidewalk looking at my girls and saying, "Lock--the--door--and--do--not--get--out--of--the--car." 

My girls seem to have a favorite fall.  They reported looking at me at one point coming down the stairs from where we'd eaten at a restaurant on the second floor of the Hyatt Regency.  Next thing they knew, I was at the bottom of the stairs.   I thought it took a little too long for anyone to come and help me up; then I realized that they were staring in disbelief--probably hoping I would not indicate knowing them.

My biggest fall happened not so long ago--just as I was turning fifty.  As I recall, the day even started badly--I had lost a favorite bracelet at a gas station and was late for a meeting with my graduate advisor.  While hurrying across campus, I came to the top of the stairs in front of the library building; they continued down the hill in separate sets of perhaps ten or maybe five hundred. I stepped off into the air, even had the time to think:  I just stepped off into mid-air like that coyote--I'm going down--I'm really falling down--oh ____, this is going to hurt.  At least I was able to land protecting my laptop and my skull.  I was splayed out on the wide landing like a starfish; very kind, very young,  students, including what must have been half the football team, came over and asked, "Are you all right, maam? Oh,  I did say I was wearing a skirt, right?  Never had I felt so old.  But I did manage to get my bleeding arm and shoulder to the campus infirmary under my own steam. 

My plan now is to get back to the gym, to yoga, try to get my "balance" back.  Although, I seem to remember one visit to the gym, when my daughter was showing me how to get the most out of a treadmill workout.  She said to turn around so I'd be going backwards, great for the legs; now I know why.  I had to hang on with my arms and legs to the bar to keep from flying off the end.  Hopefully, whatever I do, I'll be doing it from no more than six inches off the ground.

  

  

Birthday Heaven

September 13

What is your birthday like there?
Nothing to need or want,
nothing to die without or for.
No more dying, crying, or wasted desires.
Is there singing--or candle-blowing
like we used to do--leading the birthday people
down the stairs, eyes closed, lights off
with only those candles burning to release their wishes?
Do you miss your dad and sisters--
eyes glowing--
wishing the best for you?

Do you miss me
missing you?

In memory of my Andreanna, 4-5-10 (your new birthday)

 

 

Unexpected Gift

How we came up with names for our children would be a harbinger of the way many decisions were made between the Engineer and the English Major.  Just as I brought home tile after tile for an opinion of how the new floor would look, just as I brought home several shirts or pants or shoes for a pick of what felt right, that was the pattern for choosing baby names:  I brought home books from libraries, used bookstores, or searched lists of family members for names that would get the nod from both of us. 

The A-list names evoked an immediate positive reaction.  B-list names were worth consideration for sentimental reasons even if we didn't fall in love with them at first sound.  We considered our cultures, backgrounds, the length of syllables, the potential nicknames; I, of course, had to see how the letters looked on the page and feel the rhythm of those letters as I said them again and again. 

After four daughters, we realized very quickly that the boy names were a cinch--one was used as a middle name since it sounded non-gender specifc (Perren--old English for Peter). But that fifth potential daughter's name was quite a challenge.  I had recently finished a wonderful book, Giants in the Earth, whose character, Beret, however tragic, was a woman I loved. The Norwegian immigrant tale embraced my husband's heritage and reminded me of the tales of my own African, Cherokee, and European roots.  Beret seemed lovely, although we thought about how many people would think we named our child after a french hat or a hair clip.  Option two, Halla.  We were attracted by the meaning in African as "unexpected gift."  Although, as a fifth child, how unexpected could she really have been?  We knew that Margaret would be the middle name--after her paternal grandmother and maternal great-grandmother. 

Interestingly, we couldn't decide which we liked better.  Seventeen years ago today, September 12, around 5:00 pm, and after a little scare, this nearly eight-pound, beautiful baby girl arrived into our lives. A bit dazed, I asked my husband, "What does she look like--a Beret or a Halla?"  I will always remember the slow, soft sound of his voice as he said, "Oh--she's a Halla." 

What made her an unexpected gift?  It was unexpected how much excitement she brought to four big sisters, the youngest of whom was six years older than she, a real-life doll to hold so tenderly and dress and kiss.  It was unexpected how much life she brought to our new Texas home after leaving Colorado, a place we loved so much and missed so dearly.  It was unexpected how easy Peter and I accepted the fact that we were going to do without a lot perhaps, but gained something beyond measure.  It was unexpected how much more we could love.

Happy Birthday, Halla-berry-pie.  

I suppose there must be some subconscious symbolism to my very first post being on 9-11.  Nine years ago, with disbelief at the unfolding tragedy, I made a call to my husband to say, at first, that there'd been a horrible plane crash. But as the minutes and hours went on, the reality of terrorism emerged, the United States united, heroes were born...and died.  My youngest child was eight years old, my oldest was twenty, and there were three in between.

On this 9-11, I face a very different reality.  At Eastertime, my husband lost a daughter, four sisters lost their sibling, and I lost the baby that shared my breath, my blood, my heartbeat. In the worst moments, I ache from a piece of my soul that is missing.  In the best moments, I hold on very tightly to the four daughters who want me to laugh again, to the man who's held on tightly to all of us--to me--for decades, to friends who have made the unbearable bearable, and to a faith that says this, too, shall pass.

We'll see you again, Annie.  Mwah.