The River Of Life

Mom and Dad married on June 28, 1958. They began their journey on the river of life in a little house along the highway, one in which the five of us would end up spending a good chunk of life at, in our own circle of love – our family.

Through the years on this river of life, there were tears, laughter, sadness and joy – family, sharing, learning and loving.

In the tough times, we stuck together. Together we survived Dad’s bout with an infection that kept him hospitalized for over thirty days. Together we shared in the household chores – cooking and cleaning while Mom spent several times in the hospital herself, for various illnesses. As a family we held each other tight when we lost our grandparents and other special people – aunts and uncles, family and friends.

In the joyous times, we celebrated together. There were awesome birthday parties – home made cakes and sleepovers. There was a move to the farm – remodeling our bedrooms, with each of us picking a totally different theme. We celebrated weddings, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and today – an anniversary.

When Mom and Dad look back on their life to list their accomplishments, they don’t have to look much farther than this family. They have raised three pretty decent children, with admittedly, a few family quirks, but nonetheless, decent children.

Accomplishments in life may mean giving birth to three children while wheelchair bound, stretching meals when times were tight, or pitching a tent in the back yard and roasting marshmallows for entertainment. Accomplishments may mean always providing for your family, working long days to make sure their needs were met, or spending time with them at the lake, not letting them know that you really hated fishing.

Mom and Dad continue to live their river of life as an example to us all.

Fifty years ago, he lovingly carried her over the threshold and today, he lovingly carries her out of bed into her chair. Fifty years ago, she lovingly cooked a special meal for his birthday, and today she lovingly puts a meal on the table for him when she can.

As this river flows, the caring and commitment is never ending, around the bends and turns, through the turbulence and calm waters, through the highs and lows of the tides. The river changes as it runs – sprouting forth new streams, each by themselves insignificant, but together – all a part of the mighty river of life.

The River of Life is a true journey – and we are all in it together – as a family.

Beautiful? Ugly?

It’s amazing how something so beautiful can turn into something so ugly. Take wallpaper, for instance. Fifteen years ago, with great exhilaration, I covered my mismatched off-white painted and wood paneled laundry room walls with beautiful wallpaper. It had a cream colored background, with blue vertical lacey stripes on either side of rows of country red stenciled apples. And better yet, I found it on the clearance rack at the hardware store! Finally, I could stand in the center of my laundry room, turn a complete circle and see only one continuous pattern of this beautiful wallpaper, no matter which way I turned.

Today, in continuation of the kitchen and laundry room remodel I started a couple weeks ago, I started removing the old wallpaper. The strips above the washer and dryer came off in big sheets. A little spray of water softened up the remaining paper backing and it peeled off in sheets almost as big. Rounding the corner towards the half bath, getting the peeling started was the hardest part. I found that if I held my putty knife at a slight angle, I could start tearing a section that also peeled off pretty easily. I also found that if I held it at too much of an angle, the point of the putty knife would dig into the drywall and make a hole. By now I was working up a sweat.

The last wall was where I really started hating this ugly wallpaper. This wall was built and covered with unpainted drywall.

I remember someone telling me once that you should always prime and paint new drywall before you cover it with wallpaper. That seemed like such a waste of money, time and effort to me. I guess that must be why I just wallpapered right over the new drywall. I certainly wasn’t thinking ahead fifteen years in the future when I might want to remove the wallpaper. After all, this wallpaper was so beautiful I must have planned on keeping it up forever.

The ugly wallpaper finally came off the unpainted drywall after an hour or more of scraping it inch by inch, re-soaking it with water from my spray bottle, and scraping some more. Sweat was dripping down my forehead and I was covered in little flecks of wallpaper gone wild.

My arms and legs are sore, my back and neck are aching. Yet, I’m celebrating the fact that I finally got rid of the ugly apple wallpaper.

Behind it I am looking at the off-white painted wall, leftover from years ago, and I’m thinking – isn’t it beautiful?

Strawberries, No Shortcake Please

‘Tis the season. The berries are ripe for picking. I prefer not to pick them, however. I buy them in a carton – already picked – from a local grower.

Today I purchased two quarts of ripe, red strawberries. This would be enough for a batch of strawberry shortcake. I made a quick stop at the grocery store on the way home from work to pick up some whipped cream topping.

Feeling very domestic, I stirred together a recipe of shortcake and quickly put it into the oven. While the shortcake was baking I picked over the berries, added some sugar, stirred and put them in the refrigerator. I called my daughter-in-law and invited her and the girls over for dessert.

Next thing I heard was the sound of little footsteps. After greeting them in the hall, I quickly led them into the kitchen and asked, “Girls, do you like strawberry shortcake?”

“I don’t know, Grandma, what is it?”

I explained to Chrissy and Kaitlyn by asking each of them –

“Do you like cake?”

“Yes (in unison).”

“Do you like strawberries?”

“Yes (in unison).”

“Do you like whipped cream?”

“Yes (Chrissy).”

“No (Kaitlyn).”

“But this is the fun kind of whipped cream,” I told them. “It comes in a squirt can.”

“Yes, we like whipped cream (in unison).”

Chrissy adds, “can we both squirt it on the cake?”

I reply, “sure”, and then happily show them each how to run the squirt can.

About one minute after both girls had their dishes full of cake, berries and whipped cream, Kaitlyn says, “Grandma, I don’t like this.”

Chrissy says, “I don’t either. Can we just have a dish of plain strawberries with some sugar to dip them in?”

I smiled and told them, “sure you can.”

After all – their Mom would be the one who had to take them home and get them off their sugar highs, right?

My Gene Pool

Apparently my love for the orange-handled crow bar is genetic. My dear Aunt E, upon reading my last post about how I tore down the paneled walls in my kitchen, informed me that my grandmother did a little demolition in her day, too. Grandma cut the “horns” off the wooden chairs and the “claw” feet off the side table to modernize things a little. More importantly, Aunt E told me that Grandma got so sick of looking at the wainscoting in her kitchen that one day she ripped it off. After all, if she didn’t do it – no one would. Truth be told, if I were living in Grandma’s farm house today, I would probably put the wainscoting back on. But nonetheless, it is delightfully awesome to find out why I love the crow bar so much.

Excerpts from the writing I did when Grandma passed away back in September of 2001 –

Grandma is still very much alive in my senses.

Thinking back to when I mowed her lawn, I can smell the flowers growing in Grandma’s yard - lilacs, snowballs and peonies. In spite of being deathly afraid of bees, I would cross my fingers and duck around each bush with the mower, being very careful not to nick one.

My mouth puckers when I remember Grandma’s home made dill pickles. In the cookie jar, I can taste Grandma’s cookies with butter frosting and her cake doughnuts rolled in sugar.

In Grandma’s bedroom on the farm, I can see Grandma’s big bed with the soft white blanket with roses on it. I can see her tiny shoes, neatly paired up under the chair in our living room. I can see Grandma’s garnet ring on her finger and her purple sweater lying over the chair. One last thing I can see and never will forget is the love in Grandma’s eyes, as she looked at my little girl.

I can feel the love in Grandma’s hands as she wiped the grease and grime from mine, standing behind me at the sink with her arms around me and holding my hands under the water with hers, rubbing with soap and then rinsing both of our hands together. Snuggling in bed with her, I can feel her soft, silvery gray hair.

I can hear her telling me about her life as a young girl. With sadness in her voice, I can hear Grandma tell me about her sister Christina, whom she lost when she was young. I can hear Grandma talking with great pride about Grandpa, and what a wonderful man he was. I can hear the pride in her voice as she spoke of her Norwegian heritage. I can hear Grandma talking with pride about Dad, Aunt E and Aunt J, and in later years, about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And most recently, I can hear Grandma calling “take me home”.

Our family touches us and gives us a sense of belonging and a place in this world. Grandma and Grandpa began their own circle of life many years ago, and I am here today because I am a part of it.

This is what makes me who I am, orange-handled crow bar and all.

Tear Down

All winter long I have been dreaming of the day I could begin to remodel my kitchen. My original plans were drawn up last winter, when there was still at least a foot of snow in the yard. They were erased, redrawn, erased again, and in the end, pared down quite a bit. One thing remains true to the original plan – rip down the paneling that has two layers of wall paper glued to it and put some drywall up!

I had one request for my husband. “Can you get me a crow bar, please?”

Much to my surprise, he actually came back from the shop with two. One was terribly greasy and heavy – it looked like something that could do some serious damage. The one I chose was lighter in weight with a cool orange handle. I thought to myself – if you don’t just do this now, it will never get done. After all, I know very well how intended projects go in this household.

I called Mickey in from the living room. “Would you please carry these coats down to the basement and hang them on the coat hooks at the bottom of the stairs?” I took the coat rack down. I moved the storage cabinet and bench to the other side of the room.

The trim around the doorway was so loose, it practically fell off. The wooden wallpaper-laden paneling came down in nice big sheets, exposing the old exterior house wall. Hey, this eating area used to be a porch! Look, that’s probably where the front door was. And next to it, a window. A few scribbles of an old green color crayon decorated the old and well-worn wood. I wonder who left me this art? A little boy that lived here? Or a little girl? These mysteries of yester year entangle in my brain. I called to Mickey again, “Hey, come in here. See this? You should get a marker and sign your name on this board too, before we cover it up.” Her name … is now preserved in time.

Ripping off paneling and trim pretty quickly, and rounding the corner to the current exterior house wall – guess what? Underneath all that paneling was drywall. The excitement mounted. Could this be true? Nothing good like this ever happens to me! Awesome! As I try to piece together this puzzle of days gone by – how this used to look, why they covered it up like they did, I really find myself wondering – if there is drywall under here, why in the world did they cover it with paneling? Why not texture and paint it like the rest of the house? I was tempted to call the people we bought this place from to ask. But I didn’t.

Oh, and by the way, my husband helped me take the last two pieces down. If by chance, at that moment, you had stopped in to visit, I would imagine you would have seen him standing there with the crow bar in his hand and thought – it sure is nice of you to do that for your wife.

But now you know the real story.

My Number One

Today my number one child turns twenty-nine.

Being number one can be good – or not so good.

You get a lot of new clothes that no one else has worn. All of your toys are new. Your parents have tons of time to spend playing with you and holding you. The photo album is filled and bursting at the seams. Your baby book actually has things written in it. You have your own room. Grandma and Grandpa ask to have you over. You don’t have to share anything. And your parents will give in to just about everything.

On the flip side, you have to endure your mom changing those outfits 4 times a day, just to make sure they all get worn once before you grow out of them. You sometimes wish you had someone your age to play with. And probably the biggest disadvantage – you have to train your mom and dad how to be parents. Yes, the number one child has the disadvantage of inexperienced parents.

At age one, dad handed him an ice cream cone and he didn’t know what to do with it so it went “plop” on the floor of the car. At two, his mom gave him hard candy and he nearly choked. And then at three, when he was just potty trained, Mom let him stand in front of the toilet like a big boy and the lid came crashing down. Ow! When he was five his mom put him on the school bus and waved good-bye - she didn’t take him on the first day to make sure he found his classroom.

In spite of growing up with inexperienced parents, my number one found his way. He learned how to do things for himself. He became an intelligent and creative man. He learned responsibility and thoughtfulness. He turned out just fine in spite of his incredibly inexperienced parents.

However, from time-to-time, I do have to let my daughter-in-law know that "no, I didn't teach him to be that way", or sometimes admit, "yes, I'm so sorry, he got that from me."

Happy Birthday, Dear Child of Mine!

Love, Mom

42 cents and an old Oldsmobile

I got home from work today and lay down on the sofa to watch the news. The cool breeze was blowing in the living room window – it felt good, but I was compelled by a shiver to grab the afghan and pull it up over my shoulders. I tucked it in snugly around myself and it wasn’t long before the drone of the news was far off in the distance.

In the course of just under an hour, I found myself navigating our big old 1976 burgundy colored Oldsmobile (the one that my dad had back when I got my driver’s license). Going up and down some pretty steep bluff terrain, I struggled a bit to get the old car to stop. It was apparent that the brakes were not working completely. I coasted into the gravel driveway of someone’s trailer. Two big, fierce looking dogs rushed over to the car, barking and jumping up on my door. Because the brakes weren’t working, I was able to coast right on through the driveway, out the other side and back onto the bluff road. Again, I pushed the pedal in to the floor, as hard as I could with my dress shoes on.

Around the corner and just like that, I was in a public building. Maybe it was a school. Or maybe it was a library. No, there were no books. I was in a restroom. There were private facilities and facilities right out in the open, in front of the massive wall of windows. I guess you could choose where to sit. Someone must have told me that for a mere 42 cents, you could enter the private facilities. I dug through the change in my purse, trying to count out the exact amount of coins needed. Before I got the change counted, I was suddenly conversing with some young people outside on the sidewalk. As I made my way up the hilly path (on foot, not sure where the car was) … I heard the telephone ring.

Thank goodness this dream was over.

Isn’t the mind mysterious?

Please don’t offer me any explanations – it sounds to me like my head is a jumble of messed up thoughts today – and I don’t think I care to know its meaning.

Unless it has something to do with the cost of postage.

The Valley

We took a drive to check the crops on the 95 acre parcel of land we purchased from my husband’s parents. As our pickup truck ever so slowly maneuvers over the bumpy field terrain, my husband is looking to the ground, seeing the small plants just appearing, almost overnight. Scrutinizing the soybeans and corn, his eyes are like a microscope as he looks for the tiniest hint of weeds.

My eyes are not looking to the ground. I look up and see the beautiful valley in front of me. The valley is overwhelmingly green with a forest of tall hardwood trees surrounding it from all three sides. Where the hills meet the flat, tiny corn and soybeans plants are emerging from the soil, just starting to make the rows that wind around the bend and over the knolls. Separating the two fields from each other is a narrow road, flanked on the right with a pond which stays filled with water with runoff from the hills. Deer and other wildlife are abundant. The valley is beautiful - just about as close to God as one can get here on earth.

As we drive along the field road my thoughts retreat to thirty years before, when his family was actively farming this same land, spending many hot summer days baling and chopping hay, when the cattle grazed in the nearby pastures and the hustle and bustle of the busy farm life wore his family ragged – in a good way. They were hard times, but they were good times. We didn’t notice the beauty of the valley then - we were too busy. But memories were made from those times – children grew up, had families of their own and have since moved off the farm. My husband’s parents have just sold the last piece of the home farm – the house, barns and outbuildings. There is no hustle and bustle here anymore. Left now is just the immense peace and quiet, the beauty … and the memories.

Although my husband isn’t looking at what I am looking at on our drive today, I know that deep down in his heart he sees the same beauty of the valley, and treasures the memories made here.

To My Brother, With Love

My brother requested this post – indirectly – so I’d like to take this moment to share with you as well, this entry from my October, 1999 journal. Some of you might even remember this one.

It all started two years ago, this fall. I decided to wallpaper the kitchen. Prepping the room for the paper hanger, I removed all the light switch and outlet covers. The paper hanger came, did the work and left. All was well.

Except for the one outlet cover and tiny little screw left behind. I searched high and low throughout the kitchen to find an outlet without a cover. None were to be found. So I strategically placed the cover and its tiny little screw into protective custody on the countertop, behind the flour canister, in anticipation of the day when it would find its home.

Two winters have come and gone, with a third beckoning at the door. The outlet cover and its tiny little screw have traveled up and down the countertop, from behind the flour canister to behind the radio – and back.

Yesterday, I decided to thoroughly clean off the countertop, from end to end, from top to bottom. I pondered for a moment what to do with the outlet cover and its tiny little screw. Like the flash of a lightning bolt, all of a sudden it came to me. Why not search other rooms in the house for a missing outlet cover? Okay. It didn’t take long and I found one missing in the laundry room – by the dryer. I jumped for joy, rejoicing in the fact that finally, my outlet cover and its tiny little screw would have a home.

With a quick “pouf”, I blew the dust balls (yes, dust balls – imagine that …) off the outlet and the surrounding wall. They fell down behind the dryer, into the dust ball haven, safe and sound from my hap-hazard vacuuming. I proceeded to put the outlet cover in place and gently took the tiny little screw and lifted it into position. Wait – I should get a table knife to use as a screwdriver. Back from the kitchen, I ever so carefully again resumed my position - turning the tiny little screw into the hole.

It made one turn and fell out of the hole. The outlet cover, along with the tiny little screw, fell down – deep down into the pile of dust balls behind the dryer – never to be seen. At least until the Maytag repairman comes again - which, according to my experience, is seldom.

Enjoy The Mess

Who ever said boys and girls are similar, obviously never raised both. Raising two boys had its advantages – and its disadvantages, depending on your point of view. With the boys, there was no everlasting shower or bath, no hair curling and styling, no seven different outfits before you find the right one. With the boys, I could shout, “come on, let’s go!” and they were instantly calling “shotgun” for the front seat.

Yes, it has taken me quite a while, but I have finally learned that if we are going somewhere, Mickey needs an hour to get ready. That’s an hour after the hour long bath.

Sharing a bathroom with Mickey tests my unconditional love for her every day. Amidst the puddles of contact solution on the countertop, strands of foot-long hair wrap themselves round and round into never-ending circles, and every container in her basket lay open on the countertop, leaving the basket itself, empty. Two pairs of flip-flops, along with yesterday’s socks are scattered over the floor, strewn together with the nine million towels – some hung over the rods and some just laying limp on the floor. Her job is to clean the bathroom, and now you know why.

Driving past a nearby house, I think to myself. Their two girls are gone. Graduated from high school, college and moved on. I’ll bet their bathroom is as clean as a whistle.

So I take a deep breath and try to somehow enjoy the mess while I can.

The Little Red Tree

My son and I planted a tree the second summer after his best friend died.

Early in the spring of 2005, I asked Jonathan if he thought it would be a good idea to plant a tree to remember his friend, Kyle. He agreed. I asked Jonathan what kind of tree he thought we should plant. It didn’t take him long to decide. After just a split second, he replied, “a red one.”

His friend Kyle loved red tractors and red barns. A red tree would be perfect. Jonathan and his dad dug the hole in the back yard. Mickey and I added water and packed the dirt back into the hole, making sure the tree was in the ground straight. I watered the tree faithfully, protecting it from drought. I carefully pruned a few branches, sculpting its shape, ever so slightly. Each spring I marvel to see how the little red tree has survived the long, cold winter and I wait anxiously for the leaves to magically appear, almost overnight. The tree is filled with life, it’s is one of God’s most beautiful creations.

As the little red tree grows and transforms itself into a mighty maple, I am comforted by its beauty and its strength. This mighty maple will someday tower above us, have branches that will eventually shade us, and the wind through its branches will cool us from the hot summer sun.

Every single time I mow around the little red tree, I fondly remember Kyle spending quite a bit of time mowing this same lawn. He wasn’t very good about going around the trees without bumping into them. I remember gently reminding him to watch out for the trees. Thinking about him mowing, I quietly laugh just a little to myself and then wipe a tear from my eyes as I make another round past the little red tree, wishing Kyle was still here, offering to mow my lawn.

The little red tree points straight to heaven. And, as I make a final round past this special spot in my yard, I feel that Kyle is probably looking down on me as I mow – making sure I take care not to bump into the little red tree.

The little red tree - as reminder of how beautiful heaven is.

Like A Sponge

At age four, like a sponge, Mickey soaks in all the letters of the alphabet, the numbers to one hundred, colors, shapes and even beginning social skills. It is her first experience with preschool and I am amazed at how much she can learn. At age six, she can read a book. No longer is my Christmas list safe in my desk drawer. Like a sponge, at age eleven she learns the names of all the states and their capitals. At age twelve, about the world – the history of Egypt, Greece and Rome. This year at age thirteen, like a sponge, her brain sorts and stores information about the branches of the government, the election process; along with cells, vertebrates, and animal kingdoms, circle graphs and percents.

In my second trip around parenting, this time I am much more in awe of the learning process and how much my daughter really wants to learn (even if she doesn’t admit it). I realize now that the people she spends more time with than her parents indeed shape and mold her mind with every little speck of information they throw at her. They are a very important part of her life, because they are teaching her things that I can’t, things that she will someday pull from the catacombs of her mind for retrieval when her daughter asks her, “Mom, what does biological diversity mean?”

Like her mother, she probably won’t remember exactly, but she will know how to figure out the answer, and like a sponge, her daughter will soak it all in.

Kudos to all the teachers of our children.

My Thoughts Wander

As I drive past the neighbors, I see they are re-shingling their roof. My thoughts wander.
We re-shingled our roof over four years ago. I can remember debating on the color for months, driving around town looking at houses, riding across the creek on the 4-wheeler, gazing back towards the house from a distance, imagining different colors. I always feel like these kinds of decisions will be easy. Until the time comes to actually make the decision - then it’s always hard. Finally, I decided on green. My thoughts wander.
Back then, when I was worried about what color shingles to put on the roof, I had no idea that in the near future, life as I knew it would no longer exist. There would be twists, turns and detours. Hopes and dreams would be put on hold indefinitely. My thoughts wander.
Today there remains a true dividing line in my life, an instant in time if you will, in which every thought I have either happened before or after that time. My thoughts wander.
Over four years later, I wish I would have chosen charcoal shingles instead of green. Over four years later, I wish things could still be that simple and carefree.

The Best Mother's Day Gifts

Toast. I’m already awake but I lie in bed for just a while yet. I hear the slamming of the bread drawer, the sliding of the kitchen chair across the floor, and the click of the toaster as she pushes the lever down. The microwave is humming, most likely bringing a cold cup of water to warmth - just enough to dissolve the instant coffee crystals. I sit upright in bed and perch my head on the mounds of pillows. I look forward to this every year – and as Mickey gets just a little bit older, she adorns the tray with a few more fun things. I might get jelly on the toast this year, or maybe a small hand-picked bouquet of whatever flowers she can find outside – dandelions, violets, or maybe a tulip. I most likely will get a half-dozen “coupons” for free hugs and kisses, and maybe even one for a break from doing the dishes, and several “I love you"s. The youngest child, oh so special.

The bargain shopper. He thoughtfully picked out a pair of flowered garden gloves for me, added a bag of malted milk balls to his cart, and then at the last minute, waiting in the checkout line he tossed in a roll of duct tape just to make sure he had a decent sized gift. A couple years later he brought me a nice hanging geranium, boasting that he got it on clearance for $8.00, because he bought it on Mother’s Day morning. The middle child, oh so special.

Just hugs. A hug from his big, grown-up arms,laced with the gleam of love in his eyes, is plenty for me and always has been. His wife adds her personal touch with a beautiful card, signed by both of them – and the granddaughters too. The oldest child, oh so special.

Each of my children show their love for their mother in very different ways, and each of these are the best Mother’s Day gifts ever – because they all come from the heart, with love and devotion, and I truly cherish each one. I have everything I need.

Are You His Mother, Or What?

I just got back from a weekend trip to visit my son and his roommate, an old high school friend. Although both boys have grown up in the ten years following high school, I couldn’t help but reminisce to myself just a little bit.

From my June 14, 2000 journal -

Jonathan calls, “Mom, how does Cody go about going to the doctor?”

“What happened?”

“He hurt his foot at the rodeo.” (He was not participating – he was too old.)

“He was sliding down the tent pole and probably broke his ankle.” (At two a.m. - you do the math.)

“He should probably call his mother and find out if he has to go to a certain clinic, then call that clinic and tell them he needs to have an x-ray. Oh, and make sure you tell Cody to call into work and let them know what’s going on also.”

Cody is now in my basement 24 hours a day until the doctor says he can go back to work. Should I worry that he has only microwave popcorn to eat? Should I worry that he might need some movies to watch or something? Should I make sure there’s plenty of ice?

Last night I fed him broasted chicken and macaroni and cheese. Then I invited him upstairs for a change of scenery. He sat in the recliner for a while and watched tv with Mickey. I offered to get him a bag of ice for his foot. I asked him if he needed any ibuprofen.

Mickey says to me, “Are you his mother, or what?”

I shrugged off her question, but realized that there is an instinctive part inside all mothers to take care of anyone’s children, not just their own. Besides, this is how they learn!

The next day I fed him two BLT’s and a chocolate malt, to which Cody replied, “I tried to pick up my room a little today. It was kind of hard to do though, because I had to crawl on the floor to do it.”

Ten years later, Cody is now a successful manager at a large retail store – still going to rodeos almost every weekend. But these ones, he is participating in.

I Can Do It By Myself

Kaitlyn will be four in about eight days. I remember the day she was born. We were out in the yard, picking dandelion bouquets, anxiously awaiting word from my son – to find out if we had a new little boy or little girl.

My granddaughter came into this world with a head full of black hair – much to my approval. She is the spitting image of myself at about three, in fact I recently showed her a picture of myself and asked her “who is this?” to which she replied, “Kaitlyn”.

In the last year, Kaitlyn has gone from a toddler who needed help reaching the sink to wash her hands, and help getting dressed, to a little girl whose favorite line to me as of late is, “No, Grandma, I can do it by myself.”

“Do you need help getting your jeans on?”
“No, Grandma, I can do it by myself.”

A few minutes later, I hear sobs coming from the bedroom. Seeing big crocodile tears, I ask, “what’s wrong, Kaitlyn?”

“I can’t get the snap, Grandma.”

“You did a good job getting your jeans on by yourself. I’ll help you with the snap. Those snaps are hard to do!”

As this little girl becomes more and more independent, I rejoice – seeing her take pride in the abilities she has attained. Next thing I know, she will be telling me to let go of her hand as we cross the street or to let go of her on her two-wheeler. Letting go. It will come all too soon.

In the meantime, we celebrate this little girl and the place she has found in our family and in our hearts. Our family is a circle of love that will never end and Kaitlyn is a part of it.

Until The Cows Come Home

It seemed that my seventeen year old son was constantly testing my unconditional love for him. Whether it be a call to the principal’s office (the principal was my boss, mind you), or something he clearly did without thinking first, what sticks in my mind is the fact that he literally begged me to allow him to stay out later than his set curfew of midnight. It seemed that most kids in his class had no curfew at all. Unbelievable. Too bad. I told him time and time again – there is nothing someone your age can do between midnight and 2:00 a.m. but get into trouble. He still complained, and tried in every way to twist my arm. As a compromise, and after calling several of his friend’s parents to survey them, I did extend his curfew by an hour. This brought him home while I was usually up anyway with his baby sister at her 1:00 a.m. feeding, which in the long run, worked out well to my advantage.

Our middle child, age 15 at the time, soon found himself in the possession of his learner’s permit. In a short while I would have two teenage boys on the road. Eewww. This time around, I lectured about the dangers of being called to the principal’s office. I forewarned him of his mother’s wrath him by telling him that he had better never behave in a way that would warrant my having to type a letter to myself from the principal. This seemed to work. In fact, I eventually ended up telling him, “it’s Friday night, please go out with your friends.”

A year later, out of the blue, my husband bought a herd of dairy cows. Not for the love of dairy cows, mind you - but I think it was to give our boys a reason to go to bed early at night – and not stay out until the cows come home.

Milestones

My dad would not think of letting me use training wheels. But his promise of a new bike when I mastered the art of riding a two-wheeler was enough incentive for me. I think I borrowed a second hand bike that my cousin had used the year before. I can’t actually remember learning to ride it, but I can remember the trip to town to the North Star station to get my new bike. It was royal blue. I remember riding it all day and into the night, back and forth in the yard. Up and down the driveway on the south side of our house that led to the neighbor’s. I remember riding until the sun went down. I definitely remember riding until my behind was so sore I couldn’t ride anymore. Certainly worthy of a milestone.
Enter graduation, marriage and the birth of our children. Classic milestones – boring!
When Mickey was four she started pre-school. Since I worked in the office at school, I simply took her to work with me every day. At about a 7:45 every morning, I would escort her to wait for the shuttle bus to the elementary school. We had a routine, and she would not permit me to leave without giving her a hug and a kiss when she got to the bus. Imagine, hugging and kissing your mom in front of fifty other little kids! I knew that this would not last forever, but that I would cherish it as long as it did.
At bedtime one night, Mickey asked if we could just talk for a while. She turned to me and said, “Mom, I just want to be your friend forever.” I hugged her and said, “me too”.
I’m glad I celebrated these milestones when I did … Mickey is thirteen now – and you can imagine I am not the only one she’s thinking of hugging …although she is still one of my best friends!

My Mother

My Mother will turn 77 years old in a couple weeks.

She has not had an easy life, by any means. Mom fought a battle with polio at age 25, which left her unable to move her legs ever since. She and Dad married in 1958, despite her disability. She gave birth to and raised three children, all while wheel chair bound.

Mom would not brag at all about her life, nor take credit for any of the accomplishments she made. She sewed almost all of our clothes, making me a special winter coat, red with fake fur trim on the collar and sleeves from an adult coat she salvaged and recycled. Mom was always an artist at heart. I have a collection of oils she painted in the 1960’s. She also dabbled in pottery, doll making and quilting. Each of her grandchildren is kept warm with a hand made quilt from their Grandmother.

Her hands are too feeble to do quilting anymore. Her eyes are too weak for painting. Her mind is failing with every passing day. It seems as if she is much older than she is. Mom is aging right in front of my eyes.

As life makes it’s circle, I find myself taking care of my mother in some of the same ways she cared for me. Making sure she eats well, takes her medicine and gets to doctor appointments. Making sure she has flowers to see out her window and someone to visit with on Sunday afternoons.

Glancing into my mother’s eyes, I see her younger self – aching to get out, wishing to live life a little bit more like she did ten years ago. Glancing into my mother’s eyes, I see my own mortality – and my daughter being left with the same burdens I am now.

Except, they are not burdens to me at all. I love my mother, and love is never a burden.

I Hate To Rake

Today was one of the first days we have had sunshine and a temperature above 50 degrees since, well – probably since last October. I grabbed my winter jacket before heading out the office door for the short drive home. No need to actually put the jacket on today. A few tenths of a mile out of town I noticed my neighbor raking the lawn. Oh no. The “r” word. Everyone is doing it. Everyone is talking about doing it.

But I hate to rake.

Thankfully, when I get home, Chrissy, my 5-year old granddaughter, is there to meet me at the door. Her dad comes in the house to grab a snack too. After some small talk, Chrissy declares to her dad that she is ready to go home. Unfortunately, he is not done working so he tells her that they cannot go just yet. So as to avoid a scene with my darling granddaughter, I nonchalantly say, “Good, then we can go outside and rake a little.”

Did I mention that I hate to rake? Here is where a grandmother’s love surpasses all understanding. Here is where I dig out the big person garden gloves, and also the little person garden gloves. We don our jackets to protect us from the wind and go outside to get the rakes. I take the big one and she takes the little one.

We journey over to the flower bed behind the house. I roll the dead Christmas tree off the tulips and iris that are popping up out of the ground.

“Chrissy, look – there are tulips coming up! Oh, don’t step on them.”

“I won’t, Grandma. But I can’t get this rake to work right.”

“Let me show you how. Oh, but you’re standing on the tulips. You’ve got to move your foot just a little.”

“Grandma, how about if I just look for the painted rocks and you rake the leaves out of the flowers?”

“Okay, Chrissy, that’s fine.” She quickly finds four of them and places them in protective custody on the sidewalk.

“Hey, Grandma - (she points to the rain gauge she sees in the garden) this is almost empty. Do you know that it used to be full?”

“Really. No, I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, it elaporated. And then after that happened it went up to the sky to a cloud and it turned into gas.”

“Wow, you must have learned that in Science class!”

“How did you know that, Grandma?”

“Because I know that evaporation is something kids learn about in Science.”

“Grandma, do you think we can put our rakes away now and go look at the trees?”

“I think that would be a great idea. Let’s put our rakes in the shed.”

We quickly walked to the garden shed, put our rakes away and headed over to check out the little red maple tree in the yard. I pointed out the buds on the tree and we also saw some sap running down the trunk. Next we walked to the big pine trees bordering the edge of the lawn. I told Chrissy that these trees were about this tall (using my hands to designate about 12”) when Mickey was born – which was thirteen years ago. I looked up towards the sky and marveled myself at how tall these trees were – thinking how fast time had gone in those last thirteen years, and how I had lost track of just how tall they were. How can time go so fast?

Our last stop was to find some pine cones. Chrissy and I walked to the little Norway Spruce tree in the front yard and found a bunch of “baby” pine cones, then also picked up a couple bigger ones and took them into the house. She remembered right away that I have a basket on top of the cabinet by the coat rack filled with pine cones. She added the cones to the basket. Aside from the ones she added, all the rest of the cones are from the decorator’s aisle at Wal Mart.

Chrissy doesn’t need to know that. And she doesn’t need to know that I hate to rake. She just knows that her grandmother loves to spend time with her. And look for painted rocks. And talk about Science.