In the Margins--Words of L. Phillips Thune

"Let's Do This Thing"

      All of my daughters and grands have especially cool names and they all have the best, most interesting personalities ever. Okay, I better say my husband and sons-in-law are also fabulous, but this is ultimately about one of my grands today. I love talking about how we chose our daughters' names, but there're a few of them, so I'll start with our second daughter whom we named Asha Perren.  For starters, we limited our choices to names in our families and/or heritages so we checked out library name books or bought a few, and searched for names from Native America, Africa, England, Norway, or considered any family names.  Asha, is Swahili for "life." It also has the added lovliness of being an Indian name meaning "hope."  When Asha let us know her daughter's name would be Perren, it was perfect!  And three years after that, Asha called and asked if they could use the name Pierson for their son.  Of course! (I mean, at 57, I pretty much figured I wouldn't be having more babies--although I told my girls, I'd always be a surrogate if they needed me--which creeped them out immensely.) Pierson was one of our boy names (remember, for in case we had a boy) of English origin that means "son of Peter." Ahhh.  
      During this difficult time of election stress, racial tension, pandemic sadness, I often think of my Perren and what she used to say when we went on little adventures like looking for volcanos or dodging shadows or watching ducks at the duck pond behind the bookstore. You always have to be brave for adventures you know.  And I'm trying so hard as I miss doing such special or simple activities like visiting my daughter and her new baby girl or going to restaurants and the opera and, to be honest, just walking to the mailbox.  Outside has turned frightening. People seem angry; others are hurting.  But on those pretend adventures, (with a lot of faith and diligence on all our parts, we'll have them again before very long), she'd turn, look and me and her little brother, and say, "Let's do this thing." 
Be strong and true, look up and feel the sun, and hold our branch/swords high!

      So today, that's what I'm going to do...      

Mwah!  

        

 

 

How I Spent My Friday the 13th -- A Short Story

          The last message on my cell before it died was "Tornado Warning, Seek Shelter." I wondered: Does that mean ‘go inside’ or ‘get in the bathtub’? And there I was, alone with my one- and three-year-old sleeping grandchildren, in my daughter and son-in-law’s home on two acres of cedar-filled, deer-munching, Texas landscape. A lightning show was underway while thunder, hard winds, and rain blasted three sides of the house. Water came in under French doors in the master bedroom; then, the electricity died leaving us without running water, appliances, air conditioning, or most importantly, television. Their two dogs were panicking, so I put them in their "bed-time" in the laundry room. After placing blankets and pillows in the hallway between the babies' rooms and closing their bathroom door and the pocket door to the rest of the house, I made a little, confined area away from external walls and without glass (I never realized how many floor-to-ceiling  windows were in the house until I had to avoid them.) I spent two hours crouched in the hall, ready to grab them out of their cribs at the first sign of an exterior breach (my Army daddy would've liked that!). All I can say is: Thank goodness for my Kindle Paperwhite—I read a few chapters from Dominick Dunne's A Season in Purgatory.  
            I found my emergency cell charger and with a couple minutes on my phone was able to see that the storm rating went from a warning to a watch; I actually slept a bit.  Around 3am, I heard the doggies crying and thought--oh, they should go out. With one of the three flashlights I found along with a pink canister of mace, I unbolted the dining room door so they could run right out. (Well, I didn't want to face a panicked deer or other wild creature without some kind of weapon.)  It was so dark...one doggie came back quickly, but the runner, Archer, was nowhere to be found. I started calling him and prayed that at least one of the many dogs I suddenly heard barking was ours. (Is it possible that a coyote would answer to “ARCHER!”) At some point, I saw a dog-like shadow running along the OUTSIDE of the fence. What the…? A Chevy Chase movie came to mind. I checked the gate and found that half the length of the wire and post fence had blown  down! Luckily, about twenty minutes later, Archer was at the back door.

 

            At 5am and still no electricity, the time came to create an exit strategy. My emergency charger was dead and babies would be waking up soon. I decided to just pack them up and drive up north to my house. Then I remembered the garage doors—run on electricity. I know my husband mentioned something about a release for an emergency just like this.  With my tiny flashlight, I try looking for that release; surely it would be a giant red handle with a sign that says, “Pull this to open manually!” Silly me, I actually pulled down one of the hanging outlet strips for my son-in-law’s woodshop equipment. Now, eight hours into this tornado adventure, I was beginning to panic.
            I needed Peter, my husband who can fix anything, my rock, my rescuer, the man who told me eight hours ago when I had a phone and a television and a tray full of warm, chocolate-chip cookies:   “Don’t worry, it’s just a storm; it’ll pass; get some sleep.”  Bright idea: I decided I could surely start my car, plug in my cell, and have one minute to talk very fast and explain my situation before passing out from fumes or blowing anything up.  Unfortunately, Peter wasn’t the best choice for anything fast; he needs a lot of 'processing' time. I’d have to wake up my daughter who, along with her husband and baby, was living with us for another few weeks until moving into her new house.  I said something like:
     Asha, I’m so sorry to wake you up but I have only a minute to talk because the garage is filling up with fumes since my cell is dead and I had to plug it into the car; the electricity is off, the fence is blown over, there is no AC and it’s getting hot; the refrigerator is starting to melt, the babies will be up in an hour, I can’t get the garage door open to drive them to my house, and I don’t know what to do. I’ll call back in ten minutes.
     At least I think that’s what I said—it all sounded like Charlie-Brown-Teacher-Talk.  But bless her, she responded, “I’ll tell Daddy.”  I do love my honey, but if I’d had to explain it to him, the police would have found me on my cell in the garage, unconscious; I couldn’t chance it.  When I checked back, he was on the way. I also saw the door to the back yard from the garage right there, big as life, behind my car. There was no need to have risked our lives.
        It turned out to be quite a scene; when Peter arrived, he said he’d helped several people clear tree limbs from the road to even reach me.  When we looked at the back yard in daylight, chairs and toys had been tossed around, a window screen was found thrown across the yard, and the large gas grill, now uncovered, had been blown sideways and left about one inch from crashing into the living room window. We were fortunate that only a part of one of their trees had been split and blown down. Across the road from us, electrical lines were lying across the neighbor’s front yard.  It was eerie, and I felt badly about those anywhere who had gone through such a storm with far greater loss than I.
            After a little trip to McDonald’s to give the kids a quick breakfast and a stop at Home Depot for wire to mend the fence, all seemed right with the world.
            Peter and my grands, after all, were the only things that mattered.

MWAH!

                     
   
           

Another Year, Another Writing Chance

    Fall certainly came and went with its cooler winds and falling leaves, confused by the triple-digit, on again-off again temperature changes. One day I'm preparing for a new semester in 2013 and the next...well, starting a new spring semester in 2014.
    Last August, my grandson turned the big 2! Holden is still golden, full of questions and observations and concerns and wonders. His eyes can sparkle with mischief and in seconds be shrouded in annoyance. But his clouds don't last long. That's what I loved about having my babies...there was always that energy-filled eagerness to return to joy.

 
     Baby sister, Harper, now 1 in December, is already her own girl, always sizing up the room. You have to work hard to gain her audience...and it's worth it.

    And granddaughter, Perren, is right in between her cousins, having turned 1 in September...absorbing, dancing, always engaging.

     I've kept sewing, too.  'Alice and Lula,' my one-woman sewing room is still percolating, growing closer to fruition. The quilt above that Perren (along with a very old Ellie Belle) is sitting on is a Lone Star pattern I recently learned to make; it became a September wedding gift for one of Annie's friends. The sewing business my family is helping me develop is named after my two grandmothers, both sewists: Alice, my maternal grandmother who was a silk presser and could make couture pieces, and Lula, my paternal grandmother who made quilts that, from the two that I've tracked down, are as beautiful and current as ever. Unfortunately, I never lived close enough to know them very well or to learn from them many of life's secrets; maybe they're guiding me to a connection delicately drawn by silver threads.
                   

     I even got brave enough to make a dress although Annie's doggie, Princess, is the real star of this picture. (However, I should win an Oscar because I'd just stepped in 'doggie presents' trying to be a model!)


    I enjoyed taking youngest daughter, Halla, 20, to the Austin Film Festival (my fourth year) and Tiera, now 25, to see the musical, "A Night with Janis." Both were amazing events made more special by the company. Thanksgiving dinner brought most of us together at our oldest daughter's home. Christmas Day again found Santa (and his helpers) filling stockings, wrapping presents, and feeding my lovely girls, sons-in-law, and grands at my house.  It means more than I can put into words how hard my girls work to be with me on Christmas morning. When they were growing up, Christmas was a story I loved creating year after year:  Santa was coming and bringing gifts to teach us how to love and share and believe. Peter still makes Christmas breakfast: his grandmother's sweet bread rusk; this Christmas, the request was for his home-made doughnuts. Now, Merete and Asha, their husbands and children all come to the house, along with Halla and Tiera (who is a pro at making the four-hour drive at the drop of a hat--and in only three hours) all surround Peter and I with the greatest gifts we could ever receive.
    It's not quite right when I say the holidays are hard without Annie; every day still contains at least one moment of disbelief or sinking sadness or just soul-deep longing. Yet there are also moments of remembering her funny walk, how she thought many things were "stupid" or "a bad idea," how she, deaf, was the best dancer in the family, and how she never got lost--although she seemed to hit quite a few curbs, deer, and other strange objects along the way.  Her Princess still sleeps with Peter and me (in the center of a king-size bed!) for what will be four years this April. Peter and I just curl around her and hope that Annie is smiling. I sometimes wonder if the Grand Scheme had her adopt Princess so we'd have some of Annie to hold onto for a little while longer...anything is possible. I'll ask her when I see her again.

    

          Mwah!      
  

 

The Shot

      For all these years, I've said I feel the pain my children feel, their sadness is mine, their disappointment is mine, their joy is mine.  One of my daughters has been insulin-dependent since age two.  It hurt my heart so much giving her those injections.  When I'd cry,  she'd say, "It's not you, Mommy, it's the shot."  She was very brave and strong and must have worked quite hard all those years not letting me see her hurt.  That's quite a sacrifice seeing as I've always been known for wearing my heart, and pain, on my sleeve; I feel and express much of what's going on with me "in the moment." Not always such a good idea.  I have another daughter who's done weekly injections for her condition. That needle was quilte large; it looked like jabbing a pencil into your leg.
        Now that I have a daily injection for the next couple of years, I can say that my heart may have ached deeply for my children's hardships, but I can't know completely what they go through.  Giving myself a shot every day is a hard, unnatural thing to do  (and that's only one--nothing like the thirty blood tests Asha did each day during her pregnancy or the every-three-day rotation of her insulin pump site--a plastic canula is injected under the skin for continuous insulin delivery). Peter, my husband, did the first couple for me because I just couldn't press the needle into my leg.  I've done it once and felt quite silly getting all nervous and sweaty and afraid of doing it. I was upset that I just couldn't nonchalantly stick that puppy in there and move on to something else.  We take turns.
          So although I still think I still feel quilte a lot of what my daughters go through--illnesses, losing their sister, jobs, houses, worrying about their new babies (although they are all doing such great jobs as superwomen), I can't truly understand their pain completely--not exactly like they do, nor can they mine. I can also appreciate how our other two daughters worked so hard to make their sisters and their mom forget about the pain. For the next two years at least, I'll be thinking of my brave, wonderful girls who didn't want their mom to be hurt or ever see them hurting.
          I love my girls. MWAH. (And Peter, too.  Don't worry, Pete:  "It's not you, it"s the shot.)

Food Personalities

  
     It's great fun having daughters...they each have their own personalities--quieter or louder, more serious or more silly, more put-together or more "elastic".  But it's been serious joy watching them grow into their own cooking personalities, too.  
     In a nutshell (!), our oldest, Merete, at one point, found boiling water a challenge.  Phone rings:  "Hi Mom, so what does "boil" mean exactly?  When it's smoking hot, or when these little bubbles are just around the edge, or is it a certain time period it's at a certain temperature...what's the deal?"  (Her father, the Engineer, is responsible for that.)
     Tiera, (the deep, still waters child), observes.  Phone rings:  "Hi Muva!  So those french fries you make, you had put some kind of spice on them before you covered them with flour...what was that?"  Who knew she was watching?  Paprika. 
     Annie--well, this is easy.  Hates cooking, hates leftovers, hates mistakes.  Make it right or she's out the door to Chipotle.
     Halla--the youngest, still at home, still in charge.  Phone rings:  "So Mommy-o, I'm going to make some no-bakes, okay?  And maybe some chocolate chip...but if I get bored, will you finish them?"
      Then there's Asha.  I can tell that the whole family has decided that if they ever need to spend a night anywhere, Asha's is the place to be--you'll get, as big sister and brother-in-law say, many "Tasty Treats."  Asha cooks for the same reason she loves vacuuming...it makes her feel good.  She's the one who will say, "Hmmm, I'm in the mood to bake."  Next thing you know, there's a few dozen cookies ready for her work the next day.  I'd like to think she got that love from me...and in some way, being able to stay home with her and her sisters when they were little and using cooking as an activity to entertain ourselves, might have helped.  But Asha says she "dreams in flavors."  Could be the diabetes talking.  She actually will invent things with spices and skinless chicken breasts and dried cherries and white chocolate chips, and so on and so on.  In fact, the call goes a little differently with her:    
     Phone rings:  "Hi Ashie, it's Mom. I just tried my first invention.  Okay, how does this sound?  I tried mixing some lime juice, ancho chile powder and melted butter and injected it into my roast chicken....do you think it'll work?" 
     You have to be in the mood for food to give that a try...
      
     

 

Father's Day-2012

     My dad died May 20, 1985--four months before my third daughter, Annie was born.  She died April 5, 2010. I like to think of them together, getting to know each other while they wait for the rest of the family.  He was only 59 and had been a stellar soldier in the 82nd Airborne Division. Two days ago, my father came to me in a dream: 
        A phone was ringing; when I answered it, my dad's voice said, "Hey, how you doing? You     doing okay?"  It felt so amazing to hear his voice, as if, even in my dream, I knew it couldn't be     true--but maybe it was. Our conversation continued; I told him I was coming to see him     soon.  We then chatted about one of my cousins coming to see me and that I should call my     aunt (his sister, Mary Louise, who died recently in real life) and tell her I'm coming.  
I woke up with that melancholy feeling that happens often after having an experience you don't want to end but you know it will. Every year, on May 20, my husband and I send a balloon to my dad.  His father died about fifteen years ago, in 1997.  He was in his late 70's; a gruff and loud man who liked laughing and traveling and being with family. I'll never forget how he arranged for us to meet former Galludet administrators when we found out our Annie was deaf; he even tried to learn some sign language.  We were glad our fathers had a chance to meet each other a few times over the short years their lives overlapped.
    I feel blessed that the man I married over thirty years ago has been the kind of father we both were fortunate to have:  loyal, generous, smart, and loving.  I'm grateful that he's loved his five girls as much as any father could; he's worked long and hard for them to have as much as he could give (when our youngest was a baby, she would say, "You're going to work to buy me toys, right Daddy?").  There have been a handful of times I've seen his heart broken; of course when his parents died--but those losses, although painful and sad, were expected in a world where parents passed on and children carried on. But then there are those unexpected events: a toddler developing diabetes, a baby becoming ill and losing her hearing, a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis...events that felt like punches. But he worked through every one, providing a job with benefits that cared for us all and doing all he could at home.  There wasn't a diaper he couldn't tackle; there wasn't a school project he couldn't build or a field trip he couldn't chaperone. He was there when I went to school and graduate school and back to work.
    Losing a daughter, though, has broken both our hearts in ways we still can't grasp all the way. We take turns having our harder days, days we feel responsible. Recently, I listed all the motions I should have made to help Annie fight for her life. He said, no, that he was the one who couldn't help her.  But that is how it is right now with a loss this great. It is with us every minute of every hour of every day; "it" is like a dark and dangerous monster we work to keep at bay--the pain of it, the sadness of it. But it's stronger than we are sometimes.  We help each other through, we try anyway, and then just take it on a breath at a time and keep moving.
    So Happy Father's Day, Peter.  You are the father I loved, the father you respected, and the father our girls know will always find a way to be there for them.  
    Whenever I see you with our grandson (the first of our grandchildren to come), I know we both go back in time and remember the unbearable joy in hearing "Daddy!" 

 

                                             
Mwah!

Going 'Down' to Gran's

 My grandson, Holden, is now almost six months old. He brings the same light into our world--his grandparents, aunties, his mommy (our Merete) and daddy--that my girls brought to my life beginning thirty years ago. Although I'm still learning to balance the loss of my Annie with the joy of "Golden Holden," each time I see him, I can feel my heart healing beat by beat. There is no cure, but there is wonderful respite.

Last month, the moment I'd been waiting for had arrived; Holden was coming to Gran's for a sleepover. Even after raising five girls, I was so nervous. I kept asking Peter, "Do you think we can do it? Are you scared?" He said, "Yes...Yes." I thought we were goners. I reminded him that he couldn't be scared when I'm scared. We had to have a plan. Then, it hit me. If Holden's very, very, very unhappy and just horribly miserable with us (and this is the miracle of grandchildren that others have been telling me for years) we can...DRIVE HIM HOME! Our daughter only lives thirty minutes away! Heck, years ago Peter drove one-year-old Asha around for hundreds of miles, spending hours in the mountains of Colorado, fishing, to help her stop crying. Surely this would be a cake walk.
We set up his portable bed in the bedroom across from ours, set up the room monitors, made sure we had diapers, wipes, sheets for the little bed, night light, white noise machine (a radio with static works great!), new batteries in the swing, etc. I bought a stroller so we wouldn't have to worry about forgetting to get his back home or vice versa. Already purchased were a bottle warmer, pacifiers, and extra bibs. This was fun...this I can do. Like riding a bike.

  Going to pick Holden up was like going to get my lottery winnings--well, I imagine that's what it would be like. We got his car seat in, buckled him in nice and snug with his little shoulder buddies on the harnesses like little angels whispering in his ear: "Don't worry buddy, we'll get you there."
I remember the map Peter drew when Merete was born outlining the safest route to the pediatrician's office for her two-week check-up. Not sure if that was a comment on my driving or just for baby safety...we felt that fragile. 
.
First stop, Carter's:  new onesies, play outfits, a super-soft blue and white teddy bear, and of course--SHADES!

When we got home, some of our neighbors were outside. Peter went in to get the doggies fed, so I thought I'd take Holden over to see them.  I remember saying, "Look who I have!" Then, everything went into slow motion; I stepped in a utility hole--Holden and I were going down! My brain felt like it went into another gear...first, I thought, "NO!"  I felt my whole body resist the urge to throw out my hands.  Next, I thought...this baby cannot hit the ground...oh my God, please don't let the baby hit the ground. Somewhere between the middle of the fall and the thump onto the grass, I turned my body so that it was between the ground and Holden.  There we were; I was on my back and Golden Holden was on my chest wrapped in my arms.  Suddenly I realized six people were staring at me. All I could do was ask my neighbor, Margaret, "Did Holden hit the ground; did he hit his head?"  She told me, "No, no part of him touched the ground at all...are you all right?"  Well, after a couple people pulled me up, I checked him all over.  He had a look on his face that I'm sure meant, "Gran, What the ____?  That was fun; do it again!"

What a great boy. I've decided that the thing to do is NOT worry about something bad happening.  Oprah was right...you just make happen the very thing you're worried about, something to do with putting all that negative energy into the atmosphere.  When I called Merete, she said, "Mom, he's rubber; he won't get hurt. You're the one with two back surgeries, a recent wrist surgery--how are you? Are you all right?"  Who raised such a great daughter.  
So, I haven't lost my Gran title. In fact, now I'm SuperGran. But I did learn something. I'm not such an old, wimpy lady after all.  When it counts, I can do what it takes. 
I love you, Holden.  Next time, it's the sidewalk and park for us!

Happy Thoughts

"Think happy thoughts...and you will fly."  Hook
____________________________________

My happy thoughts:

Asha licking her sisters' faces--an expression of intense love, of course!
Asha's biggest smile--rare and wonderful, like my dad's.  Also, her addiction to frozen yogurt or gelato.

Merete when she says "Ya dig?" or "Stat!"  I guess her EMT days are never forgotten.
Merete shopping:  buy one of everything at any price, take it home, try it on, take back what doesn't fit.  Or ask Asha.

Tiera and mom at a poetry slam.
Tiera's "Thanksgiving To Go"
Tiera's surprise visits from the north country.

Halla's observations:
"I like the way the driveway looks after it rains."
"That dress, Mom, is never okay."
"Aw Mom, that man is digging in the trash..." (only happy because it shows her compassion that is sometimes hidden.)
"I had a good day, today!  I feel good."

Annie's profanity in sign language.
Annie's excellent imitation of Donald Trump saying, "You're fired!" including his hairstyle, too.

Peter when he actually wants me to go shopping with him!!!
Peter making my garden.
Peter letting me be in charge even when it makes him really, really, really nervous.

My Ellie when she doesn't attack the squirrels or knock over our neighbors.
Annie's little Princess tipping around me in the night and curling up into a ball and getting right next to my back to sleep.
Princess looking at me like, "I do love this family, but please put me on my pillow--Now!"

The way the front of my house looks from across the street when the evening sun lights up its facade of white rock, red door, tile house numbers that I found in Santa Fe, and the gigantic oak that was a sapling when we had the house built over twenty years ago.

How I made my wedding dress.

To be continued...
 

First Christmas

     It's a strange feeling, ushering in a new year without one of my daughters.  I never could have imagined it--getting through such a thing.  How do you go shopping for Christmas presents when one of us is missing, or open gifts, or have Christmas dinner, or take pictures...how do I keep myself, my family, walking into the new year with hope, joy, and faith.
     As is often the case, my daughters, my sons-in-law, my husband all came through and provided the answers.  My first instinct was to stay home and just absorb the pain--but my second daughter, Asha, had a better idea: a visit to New Orleans to see her husband's family and friends.  
     We left at sunrise and by afternoon, I was in another world:

   

Peter and I had never been to New Orleans--it is a beautiful city filled with the lingering echo of loss and yet a clear renewal of spirit.  Within the water, the buildings, the signs I could release a bit of my own pain and let it be healed, even just a little, by the prayers and dreams of the city.

      
      


   

   

 And just as I had always told my girls, there is a Santa--he managed to follow us to New Orleans, even if he did have to draw a soap Christmas tree on the mirror:
 
 

      My son-in-law's mother, father, aunt, uncles, cousins, brothers, sister, and numerous friends and their families all accepted us as their own.  And in their smiles, I found hope, joy, and faith.

 

(Happy New Year, Annie--Mwah!)

 

Family Ties

     I have often looked at my girls and thought how amazing it must be to have lived on one street most of your life--to have a "hometown."  As a child of the Army, I don't remember a home surrounded by extended family members; I remember temporary housing on military bases--even though they felt like home at the time. Peter and I moved to Texas when our own children were eight, six, four, and two.  The oldest remember their birthplace, Colorado, and still feel a strong connection to the Springs and the mountains, their blurred memories of Garden of the Gods and Cheyenne Mountain as familiar as a warm favorite sweater that has been stored away because it's no longer cold enough.  But the younger ones don't remember the street on which we lived in our first house on Aspen Glen Lane (a sweet harbinger when the lot was for sale since Peter and I were married outside in an aspen grove).  The fifth baby was born in Texas--with all her sisters and mom and dad and neighbors growing with her.
    I've wondered how special it must feel to have a group of people that are your own...a family that forms a net in which you can forever fall.  Recently, a beautiful surprise arrived in my mailbox--a reminder of the people to which I belong:
 
 My paternal grandmother stands in front of seven of her ten children after my grandfather's funeral.  My daddy, Andrew, is in the Army uniform in the far back.  I'm told my grandmother was part Cherokee...a whole other history to explore.  I know my Aunt Irene, on the far right, became like a mother to me in the future beyond this photograph. To her right, my Aunts Arnetha and Louise, came to my wedding in the mountains those decades later.
  
 I've yet to learn more about my other aunts and uncles:  my father is on the lower left (isn't that a smile from heaven?); my Uncle Wilbert is on the lower right...they're so beautfiful.  I remember visiting my cousin, Evelyn, Wilbert's daughter.  Since I was nearly an only child, seeing Evelyn was like having a sister for a few days; Uncle Wilbert is my dad's brother I remember most; he once called me "one of his girls"--a long time ago.  
      I'm honored and proud and blessed to realize that I do belong to part of someone as I hope my children feel blessed to belong to part of me.  And like looking in a mirror within a mirror within a mirror, we can go backwards--and perhaps even forwards--through hundreds and hundreds of hearts that beat within my chest at this very moment.   I love you all.

For Wilbert and for Andrew, my father and light in the dark.
      
Mwah.

 

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. 

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. 
 

                                                                                                                               
                                                                               

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.