The Silver Chalice

The black hands on the clock were motionless; its timekeeping mechanism was silent. The clock had stopped keeping time at 6:10 – I wondered what year its batteries had finally lost their charge. An old bulletin remained on the table in the narthex.  Before plumbing was added in 1978, a black-rimmed, white porcelain bucket filled with fresh water, accompanied by a slightly dented aluminum ladle, would have been at home on that table.  The stack of aged hymnals was covered in dust.  Cobwebs were draped from pew to pew, creating a barricade from the front row to the back row. A sun-faded church banner, hanging on the wall between the two lancet-shaped windows facing the road, bore my mother’s familiar handiwork. The altar was barren, its contents relocated to a temporary home for the service in the dining hall.

The drab, gray sky of this October day echoed its somber ambiance into the hall.  The Rite of Disposition of the church in Modena felt like a funeral.  It was, indeed, final. Today – after about one hundred forty-four years of worship – would be the last time St. Paul’s Lutheran Church would be St. Paul’s Lutheran Church. 

I noticed my cousin, Jeremy, sitting in the back of the room, and as I gazed across the small group that had gathered, I realized that most of us in attendance were descendants of the very community members who started the church back in 1870.  My dad was baptized and confirmed at St. Paul’s.  My grandparents' funerals were in the church.  My great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather were members.  Great-great-grandfather Adolf was one of the first Pfunds to set foot in the original one-story log structure built in 1872 before it was moved to the present location.  Great-grandfather Rudolph and Grandpa Eugene were council members.  For a time, my dad was an Elder and Trustee.

After the short worship service concluded the Rite of Disposition began.

“Lord, we give thanks to You for Your presence in this place,” Pastor Pfaffe prayed.

As we neared the final act in the Rite of Disposition, several of the worshipers were asked to carry out the vessels and articles of the church as Pastor Pfaffe named them and gave a blessing for each:  the brass candelabra, with dribbles of wax that had once been a molten stream;  the silver chalice, which was once used as a common cup for communion;  the brass offering plates, dull from age; the brass cross from the altar, still erect and strong; the Gospel stand, which for so many years had held the Word of God; and the pastor’s stoles, untouched for over seven years.

With reverence, I held the silver chalice in both of my hands. In a solemn procession, we left the dining hall and moved toward the narthex to the door, which for many years had been the main entrance to the church, but now was partially hidden by an overgrowth of rogue tree saplings. Once outside, our cavalcade continued down the set of seven concrete steps.  I looked at the black iron railing.  I couldn’t help but remember how many times I’d slid down that railing as a young child, waiting for my dad to pick me up from Sunday School, laughing and playing with my friends.

Pastor Pfaffe inserted the key into the lock on the door.  With the twist of his wrist and a final prayer, the door was locked. With finality in his voice, he said, “Let us go forth in peace.”

Like a dying man exhaling for the last time, the church was no longer a church.  

My cousin, Jeremy, and I were the last of our Pfund family to walk down the steps at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Modena, and those who gathered with us were the last of their family members to do the same. 

Without warning, a tear trickled down my face. Its saltiness touched my lips and I grabbed a tissue out of my pocket.  The sorrow I felt was not for the building, but for the sudden recollection I’d had about all the people in my life that I’d known and loved that were no longer with me.  My parents and grandparents, as well as the great and great-great-grandparents whom I’d never met, but who existed in the words I’ve read and stories that have been told about them. My aunts and uncles, along with those greats.  My Sunday School and Bible School teachers.  The church family I had while I was a member at St. Paul’s Lutheran.

With a longing to hold my memories close, I paused for a moment to reflect, to ingrain them forever in my mind.

Every church has a seating chart.  Not by design or requirement, but by habit.  I remember where our family sat in church.  I’d often sit next to my grandparents because Grandpa always had a lifesaver in his jacket pocket.  He’d slip a lifesaver into my hand and when the time was just right, I’d sneak it into my mouth.

There were summer Bible School days, filled with memory verses, freshly baked cookies, and chocolate milk. Our Christmas Programs were complete with each child reciting a passage from the Nativity, the singing of Silent Night, and other carols, followed by treat bags filled with salted-in-the-shell peanuts, chocolate angel food candy, and colorful ribbon candy. The Easter service celebrated our joy of Jesus’ resurrection as well as the fellowship that goes hand in hand with warm and fluffy pancakes, savory sausages, and sweet maple syrup.  

The Tabitha Ladies Aid members served lunch in the parish hall after my grandfather’s funeral and another lunch twenty-eight years later – after my cousins and I carried our grandmother’s casket out of the church and into the hearse for the short trip over the hill to the cemetery to join Grandpa.

Eventually, my life took me away from Modena, until the last time I had been to St. Paul’s before the Disposition – at my mother’s funeral in August of 2011. With just a handful of members left, St. Paul’s was already feeling the decline of its membership roll. Pastor Pfaffe noted at the Disposition that the last worship service was held in 2014. 

In 2016, a few years after St. Paul’s had discontinued their worship services and I’d had my own share of life-changing events, my dad asked me what I thought about helping him find a new church. I slowly inhaled, then exhaled, and without hesitation, suggested he consider Zion in Mondovi – and I offered to go with him. 

Dad and I attended Zion that summer and it wasn’t long before I asked him if he wanted to join. “I’ll join with you,” I offered. I had already been in contact with the pastor at Zion and after a pleasant conversation, he had welcomed both of us with open arms. 

With my dad sitting next to me in the church pew and kneeling beside me at the Communion rail at Zion, I felt true peace. I felt like I’d come back home to my roots. I felt as if the turmoil in my life had been extinguished and with my dad at my side, I’d come full circle, once again worshiping with him in God’s house. 

Recently, as I ambled up and down the grassy green hill in the cemetery past the gravestones, I paused to look around myself in every direction. Fluttering in the breeze I caught a glimpse of red roses and white daisies, placed with love at several of the stones, as well as a multitude of familiar names. I could see the names of most of the people from my church family at St. Paul’s Lutheran and the names of relatives that I knew, along with some I’d never met, but in my heart, loved them all just the same. My feelings were manifested in the realization that almost all of these people were a part of my life in one way or another.

St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Modena was formally disposed on October 24, 2021. As I held the silver chalice in my hand and walked down the steps in the solemn procession, I also carried with me all the warm and loving memories of my childhood there in Modena, and I was sure that everyone who was there with me that day must have done the same.

The testament of our ancestors to the Lord our God was not solely in the church building, but in their very being, and this testament was passed down from one generation to the next. That door of faith they opened for us can never be closed.

Pastor Pfaffe’s words resonated with me, and now I can proclaim the same.

"Lord, I give thanks to You for Your presence in that place and I thank you for the ministry of your Word carried out there, which was a strong pillar of my religious education and will abide in my heart forever."

The Yellow Rose Wallpaper

I tiptoed delicately around the ridges of snow and ice that the tire tracks had left behind, not wanting to fill my shoes with the wet, freezing mixture.  As I neared the pile of rubble below the balcony door, I prayed that I would find a shred of the wallpaper. The rubble had been haphazardly pushed into a pile, intertwining the plaster and lathe with shreds of paneling and wallpaper - all mixed in with a light dusting of snow from earlier in the day. I picked up a piece of the lathe to dig with.  Wedged underneath a section of the wall, I saw the yellow rose and gingham check pattern I’d been hoping to find. By now, the snow had packed into the sides of the shoes I was wearing.  Cold feet and all, I tugged at a large piece of the wallpaper, but it was still glued to a piece of plaster.  I grabbed a piece next to it that was loose. It’s yellow roses and gingham checks still intact, I’d found the wallpaper from my bedroom at our farmhouse.

As a thirteen-year-old, I begrudgingly moved to the farmhouse with my family after my grandpa died.  I dug my heels into all the plans that Mom and Dad had made.  They tried everything.  “You’ll have your own bedroom.  You can pick out the carpet.  You can pick out what you want on the walls.  You can have wallpaper if you want.”  I was determined to hate it there. Not because it was a less than desirable place to live - the farmhouse was a huge home with seven rooms upstairs and six downstairs.  But because I didn’t want things to change.  I wanted my grandpa to be alive and I wanted life to stay as it had been forever and ever.

With careful hands, I loosely rolled the yellow rose and gingham check patterned wallpaper and grasped it with my gloved hand, and headed toward the farmhouse door.  The door opened almost effortlessly, just as it had ever since I could remember.  I stepped inside and immediately was overcome by the boundless expanse of the empty farmhouse. The plaster and lathe were gone - all that remained were the wooden studs that had once defined the rooms that our lives revolved around.  I peered up through the ceiling where the staircase once was to see my bedroom, and I carefully climbed up the makeshift ladder to the second floor.

Dad and I had wallpapered my bedroom one Saturday.  It took us all day - or maybe longer.  Dad's mathematical skills came in handy as we cut and pasted each piece, plumb, and level onto the seventy-five-year-old sandy plaster walls.  “We don’t want this to fall down,” Dad said.  I didn’t want it to fall down either.  I’d finally resolved to the fact that we were indeed moving into the farmhouse.  The loss of Grandpa was still in my mind, but my grandpa had grown up in the farmhouse, and just maybe Grandpa wanted me to be happy within its walls, just like he had been.

The snow pile outside glistened as the late afternoon sun sank in the sky.  Standing in my bedroom, I stared at the vastness of the second story. I could see from one end of the farmhouse to the other.  East to west. North to south. My bedroom.  My sister’s room.  My brother’s room.  The sewing room, where Mom and I had stitched many hours away.  We lost my dad in the fall and the farmhouse had passed to another generation.  In the coming months, new life would once again be breathed into the farmhouse.  My bedroom would become my granddaughter’s bedroom.  

The color was a grayish purple.  I balanced myself guardedly on the stepladder, hanging tightly onto the top step as I meticulously brushed the soothing color on the top edge of the one-hundred-year-old wall.  I was ever-so-careful not to get a speck on the freshly painted white ceiling. “We want this to be a perfectly straight line,” I told my granddaughter, as she doused her paint roller in the tray on the floor. I was overjoyed that there would be another family in the farmhouse. The loss of my dad was still fresh in my mind, but I knew that I wanted my granddaughter to be as happy within the walls of the second story bedroom as I had been.

Except for the piece I salvaged that day, the yellow rose gingham checked wallpaper is gone.  I imagine my dad would say, “it’s just wallpaper.”  

I imagine I would politely argue with my dad just a bit.  “It’s yellow rose gingham checked wallpaper.  Permeated with memories.”

December 9th, ‘31

My phone chimed, its tone too soft for a text message.  The calendar reminder popped up on the screen.  December 9 - Dad’s birthday.  I didn’t need a reminder.  I’d been thinking about it for a week.  That last time he was in the hospital.  How every nurse or doctor who stepped in the room asked him, “what’s your date of birth?”.  After a few days, when anyone sporting a stethoscope came in the room, before they could ask, Dad blurted out, “December 9th, ‘31”.  

Dad was a generous man. He made so many things possible for others.  

The best birthday ever was the one before the last one.  Just Dad and us kids, sitting around the farmhouse kitchen table.  Seven of us.  Low key.  Chili and crackers, birthday cake, and ice cream.  A little food and a lot of conversation. Reminiscing.  Sharing.  Storytelling.  Not to mention, gut-wrenching belly laughs.    

Dad was a thinker.  A list maker. Maybe even a hell-raiser once in a while.  

When someone says to one of us, “oh my gosh, you sound just like your dad!”, we grin, ear to ear.  Quite a compliment.  No matter what we were caught doing.  And lately, I catch myself asking, “hmmm...what would Dad do?”

Near the end, as Dad sat at the farmhouse kitchen table his head was propped up on two elbows.  Glancing at us, his dark and tired eyes sagging under the weight of the past eighty-seven years, he asked, “how do people who don’t have kids get through this?”

We didn’t have an answer for him.  Because we never, ever, considered it any other way.

Helping Dad was never a chore.  It was a privilege.  

Dad was a farmer. He was a businessman.  A statistician.  Dad was a husband.  He was a father. A friend.

I looked down at my phone.  I pressed delete on the calendar reminder.  December 9 - Dad’s birthday.  I didn’t need a reminder.  I would never forget.

But How Does It Work?

“No!  Don’t touch that!”  

I screamed at my sixteen-year-old daughter as she reached for the long, skinny black arm on the record player that was stationed as a display at the mall department store.

“What?  Why?” Her hands flung backward as if they had touched a red glowing stove burner.

“There’s a needle in there.  It’ll scratch the record!”

“A needle?  I don’t get it.  How does it work?"

“The needle is what plays the music.  If you grab it, it’ll slide across the vinyl and put a big scratch in it.”

Michelle was born in the nineties.  When my cassettes were stacked on the bookshelf in the living room, right next to the cassette player deck that was hooked up to two bookshelf speakers.  Music arrived monthly in my mailbox via the RCA Music Club.  I vacuumed and dusted to the Beach Boys and Chicago.  Planted on the floor in front of the stereo, I did sit-ups to Jane Fonda’s 30-Minute Workout tape.

In the nineties, my shoulder-length permed hair didn’t require L’Oreal Dark Brown 4N.  It wasn’t spoiled by gray.  Michelle’s brothers played catch with a baseball in our backyard.    And went to Cub Scouts.  I drove a blue Chevrolet Impala.  A far cry from the bright orange Trans Am – complete with the eagle on the hood.

“But, how does the music get on the record?” Michelle asked. 

“I don’t know.  Google it.” I said. 

The 1976 Trans Am was orange.  It was a four-speed – fast and loud.  Sandwiched between the round black volume and tuning buttons on the radio and the cigarette lighter was an 8-track player, factory installed.  My Neil Diamond tape blasted out “I’m A Believer” as I cruised up over the hills and Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” carried me down into the nooks and crannies of Gilman Valley to the house we moved to after my Grandpa passed away. 

“I mean – I can understand how music gets put on a CD,” Michelle said.  “I just don’t get the record thing.”

“Figures you would understand that,” I said.  Truth was – I didn’t know how the music got on the vinyl either.

 I didn’t care that the small round, black 45 singles with the big hole in the middle cost ninety-seven cents.  I just wanted to play them all in one big stack.  Nights in White Satin, Twist and Shout, and Good Vibrations.

“Grandpa, could I borrow some money?” I asked.  “I’ll mow your lawn for you all summer and pay you back.”

 Grandpa Eugene tugged on his wallet.  

“What for?” he asked.

“There’s a record player at the Farmer’s Store.  It’s only twenty-three dollars."  At five dollars per mowing in the late 60s, I could pay him back in a month.  I added, “You don’t have to tell Mom.

“Just accept the fact that music can be recorded on vinyl,” I told Michelle. 

“I can’t!” she replied.  “I have to know.”

The 33s were in the closet.  Mom didn't know we were messing with them.  I gawked at the brightly colored jackets that held the pieces of vinyl, revealing Brenda Lee’s dark red lipstick and teased hair, plus Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass of the 50s.  Mom wiggled her toes and bounced her head to the music as she sat in her wheelchair.  Not to Brenda Lee – but to my absolute favorite - The Chipmunks. 

"Maybe your Grandpa will know," I said.  "You can ask him."

Upstairs at Grandpa and Grandma's, the old Victrola stood in the corner of the spare bedroom in a walnut cabinet.  I pulled out a thick, black disc. The 78 was a lot heavier than the modern 33s.  I blew off the dust and opened the cover on the Victrola to see a shiny silver metal arm, shaped like a goose neck – with a sharp needle on the end.

“Mom!  I hollered down the staircase.  She wheeled over to the doorway.“How does this old record player work?”

“Put the needle down on the record and crank it."

"No - I mean - how does it work?”

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. No, it wasn’t the ancient oil furnace in the dirt floor basement firing itself up. Although, it sure sounded like it. My pursed lips tried to hold back the snicker that was on the verge of bursting through my mouth. I had to compose myself. Getting a case of the giggles at a funeral was a no-no. Getting a case of the giggles at a funeral when you were over forty-nine was really forbidden.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I glanced at my sister Kathy. Our eyes met for just a second. Mistake. The giggles were instant. And explosive. I slammed my hand onto my mouth. Maybe no one noticed as my shoulders rocked up and down. I looked down at the wood floor. Years of varnish had collected in the spaces between the maple boards. The white baseboard along the wall was draped with cobwebs. Kathy once sat in this same pew, her short legs swinging back and forth in anticipation as she waited her turn to file up in front of the pulpit to say her part of the Christmas story. She did a good job. And as soon as the program was finished, she vomited. Stage fright? Or too much Christmas candy?

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I couldn’t look at Kathy again. I grasped my forearm with my two fingers, digging my fingernails into my flesh hard enough to leave a mark. Would that stop the laughing? I winced, and for a second – the uncontrollable laughter bubbling inside me subsided. The picture of Jesus still hung on the wall between the two arched windows in the same place it was forty years ago. Except now the windows were trimmed in peeling white paint. I glanced at the second pew from the back. That was our spot. My cousin Jane and I sat between Grandpa and Grandma that Sunday. Grandpa handed me a cherry lifesaver. “Hold it in the palm of your hand like this,” he whispered. “Then slide it into your mouth.” I did what Grandpa said and coasted the piece of sweet candy between my lips.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. Compassion for my brother, as he fought the invasion of the post-cold coughing fit, enveloped me. At the same time the giggling reiterated itself. I put my finger in my ear and pressed it tightly. It was Easter Sunday. We’d just filled our tummies with pancakes and sausages in the church hall next door. My brother David was fiddling with the blue egg-shaped container of Silly Putty that the Easter bunny had left in his basket. He rolled it into a ball and squished it onto his hand, leaving a replica of his fingerprints in the putty. And then he rolled it into a ball again. Kathy tried to grab it. David resisted. The Silly Putty dropped to the floor. And bounced. And then rolled. All six of our eyes peered up over the heads of the congregation as we watched the little ball make its trek toward the pulpit. It stopped next to Oscar, the usher – and then rolled into the corner.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I bit the inside of my lip until my cheek twinged in distress, focusing my eyes on what extended beyond the window. The teeter-totter was long gone, as well as the summer Bible school kids that took turns going up and down on it. The chocolate chip cookies and the milk for dunking them in hadn’t been around for ages.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. Water. I wished I could get my brother a drink. But the square oak table in the corner of the entrance was empty. The white enamel, blue rimmed water pail and tin ladle that we took our drinks from had succumbed to days gone by – long ago replaced by a modern kitchen in the church hall. The tiny little church that I grew up in all those years ago is still tiny. The hustle and bustle of the congregation has since moved on.

As a lone tear escapes the confines of my eyelid and slides down my cheek, I foster the fond memories that are still alive in the tiny church.

And no disrespect was meant as I uncontrollably giggled through the solemn funeral service.

In fact, in an odd sort of way – thank you God, for helping me remember a very special time in my life.

The Smokestack

“Wanna drive by yourself?” Dad asked back in ’68.

“No, I can’t!” I cried.

“Sure you can.”

My legs were jelly. My hands were flopping. “No, no, I can’t.”

But Dad let go of the wheel despite my begging him not to.

My heart was in my throat and my toes were nervously dancing in my tennies. I had no choice but to steer the monstrous piece of equipment. Thus, I learned to drive the tractor at about age eight, standing in front of my Dad as he was seated on the black naugahyde seat in the big red tractor with the cab on it – the IH 806.

Two years later, my friend Zoe and I sat pretzel-legged in the brown loose dirt next to the tractor pulling track at the county fair. My tummy was full of cotton candy and caramel apples, and my bare feet wore the brunt of the day’s grime. At almost midnight – way past my bedtime - the finals had turned into a pull-off between Dad’s red 806 and the enemies – Dux & his brother. Dad told the sled crew, “load ‘er down!” The sled was weighted down with tons of bagged lime. The bugs swarmed around the street light shining down on the sled’s hitch as Dad backed the 806 up to hook.

The engine revved in second gear as Dad thrust the throttle wide open – torque back. The back wheels were weighted down with a thousand pounds of solid cast iron and the lugs quickly dug in. The RPMs wound out and the tires squatted as the straight-off-the-farm tractor went heaving down the track. As Dad passed each mark, two more men jumped on the back of the skid, increasing the load he was pulling by whatever those guys happened to weigh. At the 17 foot mark, in the black of the night, the red 806 bit its tires into the dirt, thrusting the tractor ahead its final inch.

“Whrrr…whrrr,” went the whistle. The official holding the red flag batted it up and down. A rope and tape measure revealed the results.

Dad took home the trophy that night, beating Dux and his brother by less than two inches. The trophy was a maple block of wood with a shiny gold tractor perched on the top and a gold plate engraved with “Buffalo County Fair 1970.” The trophy stood about five inches tall – pretty small.

But it was huge. The trophy was the carrot dangling in front of my dad’s nose.

It wasn’t long before Dad’s Farmall 560 graduated from the cultivator to the pulling circuit with me in the driver’s seat.

On a Saturday afternoon in Downsville, circa 1976ish, I was concentrating so hard on the sequence: listen for the gear to softly grind into third, slip the clutch until the tires started squatting, quickly move the throttle half way and then as it began moving, full throttle. As the tractor pulled out of the gate, I reached down for the governor wire. I tugged on the wire until my knuckles turned white, squeezing out every single horse from under the hood to dig those wheels into the track.

As the tractor lugged down the clay track, its monster roar reverberated inside my rib cage. Almost in slow motion, it seemed to be taking forever. I saw my brother and one of his friends standing on the sidelines. Dad didn’t say a word about the fact that I had the tractor in first gear instead of third gear – he just smiled, knowing I wouldn’t make that mistake again. My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

In the 1980s my brother David caught the tractor pulling virus and was handed down the reins to the 560. The pulling circuit became more sophisticated. David and my dad tinkered and toyed with the red tractor. The block was bored, three carbs stood in line under the hood, and a secret weapon - nitrous oxide, shot itself into the air intake. Down the track David went. My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

The trophies came in droves. Some towering over two feet tall, they lined and overflowed the shelves in Dad’s office.

My brother quickly graduated from farm puller to NTPA puller as the innate desire for more dirt flinging sprouted within him. The speed necessary to generate that dirt took on the form of the Acme Wildcat, a 1066 International diesel, rightly named. After a few wild, hair-raising rides, things settled into place with Mr. Ed, “the horse with a name” a 766 IH. With plenty of horses sending a black column of diesel smoke towering above the crowd, Mr. Ed brought my brother numerous honors.

Despite the fact that David roared from state sanctioned tractor pull to tractor pull, the 560 gathered no dust.

My son, Nathan, then seventeen, sat in the driver’s seat. Nathan was a natural tractor puller – wearing the genes of the third generation of family to drive the notorious tractor. Local fairs, county fairs and tractor pulls nearby all welcomed this familiar tractor into their gates.

Countless hours of tweaking the 560’s well-worn parts went deep into the afternoon. Its pistons, frequently charred from the high heat generated by the nitrous were replaced time and time again. The tires grew in width, creating more bite into the clay track. Its wheels revolved at warp speed, compared to the early days of the tractor that came straight off the cultivator.

In 1998, as I stood watching my little girl ride the merry-go-round at the local fair, I could hear Nathan revving up the tractor. Its distinctive roar was ingrained in my head. Other tractors tried to mimic Dad’s 560, but came up short.

Michelle and I quickly scooted from the carnival rides to the tractor pulling track and took a spot by the wooden snow fence that lined the track on both sides. The old fashioned lime-weighted sled was replaced by a modern, mechanical version for safety. As Michelle pressed her face between the slats of the fence, I stood beside her, my heart pounding inside my chest. “We’re just in time,” I said. “Here he comes!”

Nathan listened for the gear to softly grind into third and slipped the clutch until the tires started squatting. He quickly moved the throttle half way and then as it began moving, full throttle. As the tractor pulled out of the gate, he flipped the nitrous switch. He squeezed out every single horse from under the hood to dig those wheels into the track.

The familiar monster roar still reverberated inside my rib cage. A quiet sort of pride burst from within. My toes danced in my shoes as I shouted silently to myself “that’s my son – and that’s my dad’s 560!”

My dad stood at the end of the track, inside the fence, grinning.

In 2007, as I stood watching my teenage girl ride the tilt-a-whirl at the local fair the pulling track was silent to me. For the first time in over thirty years, I didn’t hear the distinctive roar that was forever ingrained in my head. For the first time in over thirty years, the smokestack on Dad’s 560 was silent. The red tractor took its position of valor in the shed, while cobwebs draped themselves from the smokestack to the steering wheel. The dust was thickly piled on top of the greasy hood. The red paint was faded to a pinkish-gray and the white 560 painted on the side of the tractor was barely visible.

For a second I was crushed. It was the end of an era – the end of a most exciting time in our lives. The 560 snuck onto the pulling track straight out of the cornfield and surprised ‘em all. Likewise, the legendary tractor disappeared without notice, to put its weary pistons to rest after one heck of a thirty year run.

But I grinned as I remembered the five inch maple trophy that still remained on Dad’s desk. Tractors will come and go – but the monster roar of the red 560 will remain in my head forever.

'68 Firebird

“Look at his drawing, Mom. Isn’t it good? He loves old cars.”

The car drawn in pencil came to life on the paper. Perfect shading defined where the hood of the car met the fender. Each headlight popped out in front of the car, encased by the trademark grill design made famous by Pontiac. The grill that I waited to see coming around the corner of my parents’ driveway on a Saturday night.

Yes, the drawing was good. It was very good.

“Go show your dad,” I told Mickey.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him over to the display that hung on the wall in back of the high school gym.

“Look at this one, Dad,” she said.

He looked, and with a gleam in his eye replied, “I used to have a car just like that. It’s a ’68 Firebird. Mine was green.”

He went on with more details.

“Yeah, I put a 428 in it.”

I remembered that it went pretty fast.

“And a 3 deuce carb.”

I remembered that it was really loud.

“Had a 3-speed on the floor.”

I remembered him shifting the car effortlessly as we cruised down the highway, while the two of us smiled and laughed.

“I put on quite a few miles with that car,” he finished.

I remembered all the fun times. And shenanigans. And things I probably don’t want to tell Mickey just yet.

Her friend’s drawing took her parents back in time. To a time that doesn’t seem so long ago. A time separated only by the years of raising children, working hard and surviving what life has thrown our way.

The drawing was good. In more ways than one.

Someday I’ll tell Mickey the rest of the story.

A Lie From Day One

“Ma’am, excuse me but I don’t think you filled this out correctly,” the black-haired gentleman with glasses of the same color called out to me as I sauntered away from the counter.

Crap. Now what? My faced turned habanera pepper red.

I slung my purse back up over my shoulder and took two steps backwards.

I hadn’t renewed my driver’s license for ages. Not since they changed the renewal period to eight years. Eight years is a long time to hang on to a piece of plastic. And eight years is a long time to look at a less-than-desirable mug shot. After all, my hair was flat that day. And I never knew that my smile was crooked. Yes, literally, crooked.

Hmmm … I thought I had filled out the renewal form correctly.

Eyes – hazel. Check.

Hair – black. Well, L’Oreal black #4D, but they didn’t need to know that. Check.

Address – yup, that’s still the same. Check.

Weight – well, hello – that’s been a lie since day one, but nobody cares, right?

Oh, my gosh! I’m busted. My face quickly turned from red to white. My mug shot would be plastered in every post office in the tri-state area. I quickly looked for the exit door – so I could bolt out and disappear. Mr. Black-rimmed glasses was going to call me on my weight.

He peered at me through the Coke-bottle lenses. I looked at him, the word GUILTY plastered across my forehead, bracing myself for the condemnation.

“Ma’am, you didn’t write your social in this box.”

“Oops, I didn’t even see that box,” I replied very nonchalantly while my insides jumped up and down shouting 'whew'!

I quickly scribbled the nine digits inside the allotted space and hopped on over to the camera. This was the moment that I’d prepped all morning for – blow drying, straightening, painting on my face. After all, I would have to look at this picture for the next eight years.

A gray-haired lady stood behind the camera. Dressed in a blue flowered dress that was regurgitated from the seventies, she looked as old as my grandma. After all in driver’s license years, I was only about 7. All she had to do was push the button on the digital camera. I guess it couldn’t be any harder than it was for me to use my cell phone for texting.

“Stand on the blue box,” she barked. I looked up, licked my lips to give them a quick shine and faced the camera.

Click. Flash. Done.

My new driver’s license would be good for the next eight years. My hair was black – L’Oreal Black #4d. My eyes were still hazel. My smile was still crooked.

And my weight hadn’t changed at all. A lie from day one.

“Enjoy your birthday,” Mr. Black-rimmed glasses said.

I smiled, shoving my new license into my wallet. “Thanks, I will.”

Two Minutes of Tears ... Every Two Days

He would be the first to say he hates living here. After all, he’s an adult. And out of work. And squished into the bedroom in the basement. Most of his stuff is packed in storage. He has had to share the kitchen with us. And the sofa. And our car. For the last six months.

The shower isn’t his either – it’s filled with girl stuff – fruity shampoo and conditioner and perfumed body wash. He stands outside the bathroom door, patiently waiting for his sister to come out. The pink razor pushes his soap off the shelf in the tub, and it slides down the river of bubbles towards the drain.

I would be the first to say I hate having him here. After all, he’s an adult. And out of work. And his stuff is all over the basement. And the kitchen. And the sofa. And the car. For the last six months.

But I don’t hate having him here. I just hate the fact that he had to be here.

And now I hate the fact that he’s leaving.

And most of the time I can take it.

Most of the time.

Except for that time where I cry two minutes of tears … every two days.

Because he’s leaving. And because he’s been through so much. And because I wonder when it will end. And when the door will be opened for him.

The door to success and happiness.

My dear aunt once told me, “Let go and let God”. What comforting wisdom. You have to assume that you’ve given all the advice you can give, you’ve given all the tools for living. You have to let go and let God.

And yes, there are occasional tears as you think of the distance. That time when you cry two minutes of tears … every two days.

The Wreath

The satin ribbon, months earlier faded from the summer sun beating down upon it, blew haphazardly in the November wind. A dull gold bead, once a glittery spot in a nest of greenery, plopped down onto the floor, rolled into the crevice between the boards and disappeared under the porch. And the ragged pine needles, though artificial, looked weathered and worn from hanging there since the Christmas before.

Although I’d turned my head and glanced at the wreath every time I left the driveway, something inside me could not bear to take it down. Not yet.

The wreath was just one of a few Christmas decorations that never made it back into the box that January.

The January that my life stopped in its tracks.

And because of that, I couldn’t take the wreath down. I just couldn’t.

The wreath was a part of what defined my life before, before my life changed that cold and bitter day. Looking at the wreath reminded me of what I had lost and the pain that I still felt. Taking it down would somehow signify that life was normal again - except it wasn’t. And I didn't want to pretend that it was.

As the winter snow melted, exposing the fresh new sprouts of grass, the wreath hung there. Dandelions speckled the spring lawn like yellow bursts of star light in a dark green sky.   The wreath hung there. Through the hot summer days, the wreath was dry and parched, only to be dampened by the humid clouds that created a hazy backdrop. The seasons came and passed, and still as the cold autumn winds of November rustled through the brown corn tops in the field, the wreath hung there.

Almost a year had passed, and I was still not able to take it down.

I prayed for a Divine intervention.

A week later,  returning home from a day at work, I walked up the sidewalk to the kitchen door.  As I swung the door open, there on the kitchen table, I saw a new green wreath, embellished with a red and silver satin ribbon, sparkling burgundy poinsettias, walnut colored pinecones, and shiny red cranberries.

The boys bought it for you, my husband explained.

Heaviness was lifted from my heart that afternoon, as I took the lifeless wreath down from its hanger on the front door. The wreath had served its purpose. A symbol of pain and suffering no longer, I tossed it into the trash, held the match close enough for the flame to set it afire and watched it disappear.

As I hung the new Christmas wreath on the front door, I stood back and marveled at its beauty. Its freshness indeed signified a fresh start, a new beginning.

A perfect circle- of unending love.
.

True Meaning

The old man sat on the edge of the bed. I watched him with utmost preciseness tear off exactly the right amount of tape. He knew the routine well. Five pieces of tape, criss-crossed over each other in the shape of an asterisk would cover her incision perfectly.

His eyes were filled with love. Love for this woman he met over fifty years ago. A woman he had spent most of his life with.

Fifty years ago, vows were said.

At that time, he probably wasn’t paying much attention to the words. He repeated the words “to love and to cherish”. He repeated the words “in sickness and in health”. And he repeated the words “‘til death do us part”. Fifty years ago they were likely just words.

It would take a lifetime to bring true meaning to them.

A lifetime learning to truly care about this other person.

Caring through sharing life’s experiences – the happy times, the sad times, and even the angry times.

As he placed the last piece of tape over the incision she muttered something he couldn’t understand. To satisfy her inquisitiveness, he calmly agreed with her.

Fifty years ago, vows were said. Today they have true meaning.

Maybe Tomorrow

I’ve driven past the spot many times. No, I will never forget what happened there. Each and every time, my mind pauses for a second as I remember.

But tonight I’m all alone. It’s dark. As I crest the hill, like a skipping record, the scene plays over and over just as it has a hundred times before in my mind. His car was on the wrong side of the road right here. And in a split second, quicker than I can inhale a breath of air, I’m over the hill.

A tear escapes the confines of my body and gently rolls down my cheek. It had to have happened that quickly.

The event had one common thread – it changed the lives of six families forever. Some lost their lives and some lost life as they knew it.

But everyone lost something that night.

Something that they will never get back.

Whether we’re struggling to recapture a piece of ourselves that we lost that night, or struggling to hold on to the memories we have – I’m sure we’re all still struggling.

Because life changed forever that cold January night.

Tonight as my car drives past the spot, I can’t believe I’m still stuck in this whirlwind of life – trying desperately to find something tangible to cling to - something to help define who we are now – anything at all to comfort me and reassure me about the doubts I have for our future.

No, it never goes away.

I wipe away the tear with the back of my hand.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day I will find it.

A Special Gift from God

“Mom, I think he’s the one,” the daughter excitedly bursts out. Mom tries to hold in her joy so as to not look overanxious, even though she’s doing flips in her head. Mom is there for her daughter, her best friend. Mom listens when needed, and gently gives advice. Mom and her daughter are connected, just as they were in the beginning.

Dad watches his daughter from afar. As she matures and blossoms into a beautiful young woman, he can’t help but think of all the times he pushed her on the swing – her feet almost reaching the clouds. He can’t help but think of the times he helped her with her homework – even when he really didn’t remember Algebra that well. He can’t help but think of the times he changed the tires on her car – so that she would be safe on the road. And he can’t help but think of the time he proudly watched her walk down the aisle at commencement.

A mom and her daughter plan the wedding. It will be the day of her dreams. They choose the dresses, the wedding party, the reception, the food. They get their nails done. They get their hair done. A mother and her daughter share each other’s company and each other’s time – precious time together.

Truly, Mom and daughter share a special connection – woman to woman. But Dad and daughter share a special connection as well – he is the man in her life. Dad holds her tightly in his arms so nothing can harm her. He is her rock; her strength.

As she walks down this next aisle – the wedding aisle, Dad will be there to guide her on the way – but then must carefully let her go, as she begins the next part of her journey in life. He will no longer be the only man in her life, and he lovingly entrusts her to another.

God plants the daughter in her mom and dad’s life as a seed and entrusts them to nurture, care for her and watch her grow. God stands by her mom and dad as they protect her from harm. God helps Mom and Dad keep her from growing in the wrong direction, to stand tall and to reach towards heaven.

A daughter is truly a special gift from God, and as my two friends prepare to let go of their baby girl, I wish them all the most joy that life can offer.

Off To College

Reprinted from August 28, 2008 - in honor of all the moms letting go as their kids pack up and head out to college.

I could just tell they were “college shopping”. The mom and her son were putting a set of bed sheets into their cart. Right away I thought of the day ten years ago that Jonathan went off to college. In fact, it was our first experience with one of our children living away from home.

Oh my gosh, I thought we would never get going because he waited until the day before to pack. That night when he was wandering around aimlessly, I made him a little checklist. Good thing I did, because he would have forgotten his alarm clock.

In less than 24 hours I think I managed to tell him everything I thought he needed to know. Not that I hadn’t been trying to teach him all along, but you know – it’s the last minute second-guessing, wondering if you did the parenting right that gets you.

The drive into unknown territory took a couple hours. As we were parked outside his dorm unloading our car, I quickly realized that the girls I saw moving in were carrying quite a bit more than we were. Lamps, furry chairs, bulletin boards – lots of big stuff. I do remember picking out a set of extra long twin sheets for his bed, plus a basket to carry his shampoo and soap in to the shower, but other than that – he packed up the most important things – his computer, stereo and television. Oh, and some clothes. Plus his school supplies - a pen, notebook and folder.

As we stood in line to check in, I found myself leading the way. All of a sudden I realized – I have to let him do this by himself. So I stepped back.

And waited.

Finally he got in line. He picked up his keys, filled out the paperwork and we trudged upstairs to find his room. Why are dorm rooms always on the top floor?

I did the introductions to his roommate. Well, someone had to say something! You guessed it, he is very shy. So shy in fact, that he proceeded to put his computer together without even looking at the other guy in the room. So I did the small talk - my thoughts are in parenthesis here for you to read.

Where do you live? (Just got out of prison.)
What do your parents do? (Alcohol and drugs.)
Do you have brothers and sisters? (In half-way houses.)
What are your hobbies? (Playing with knives and guns.)

We walked around campus and took care of some business. I think we walked about ten miles – or at least long enough for my feet to really hurt. We ate some lunch and then went back to the dorm room. His roommate wasn’t there right then, so I thought we should say our good-byes and get going. No eighteen year old guy wants a kiss from his mom in front of his new roommate. Plus, we had to pick up Mickey at Grandma’s.

That’s right, I still have a 5-year old at home to take care of. Almost forgot.

I gave my son a big hug and kiss and told him I loved him. I told him to call me. (This was before cell phones, texting and even before instant messaging, mind you.) Then we left.

About twenty-nine miles out of town, my eyes welled up with tears. I silently sobbed for a half hour and then was real quiet the remainder of the trip. Finally I was okay - until that evening, when I went downstairs to his bedroom.

As I got to the bottom of the steps I looked around. A lot of his things were gone – but a lot of stuff was still there. His golf ball collection and the posters on his wall. His cds and dart board. Plus the clothes he didn’t need to take along.

I don’t know why, but I opened his top dresser drawer.

Staring at me were fifty-two white socks that were missing mates.

And I bawled my eyes out.

Blessings to all college kids on the brink of independence. And blessings to their parents during this tough time of giving them wings.

M-O-M

Yesterday at a trip to the garden center, I spied something that immediately brought me back about ten years, when Mickey was just four years old.

Mickey and I were shopping. Just like always, I got to push the cart and she got to add things to it. In the same way, she usually got to take the things home and I got to pay for them. (Unless the things I bought were groceries, then I also got to cook with them, do the dishes, plus clean up the kitchen after them.)

Sorry, I got sidetracked.

Back to ten years ago, when we were shopping. This time it was for flowers for our garden. We chose yellow marigolds and put them in our cart. (They don’t smell so pretty, but they are very hardy and look pretty from a distance.) We added pink and purple petunias, which of course were Mickey’s favorite colors. Finally, I spotted a beautiful red geranium – my favorite.

Our cart was full.

At this point, I had to take over steering the cart through the maze of aisles, past the sprinklers and over the garden hoses. Nearing the checkout, Mickey stopped, grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. “Oh, Mom, look at this!” she exclaimed. “I want to get you these for Mother’s Day!” (I forgot to mention that at this point in the school year, her four-year-old reading vocabulary included recognizing the important words - Mom and Dad.)

Mickey saw a beautiful flower arrangement, with purple, pink and white carnations arranged in perfect formation, spelling out her favorite word, M-O-M.

I gasped.

What she didn’t know was that it was a memorial arrangement, one made to put in the ground in front of a headstone.

In a cemetery.

I smiled at Mickey, trying not to laugh. “They really are beautiful,” I told her. Hugging her, I added, “you can get me one like that when I’m older … (hopefully a lot older, I thought).”

So Mickey went home with her M-O-M and we planted our flowers. Yellow marigolds, pink and purple petunias, and one red geranium. And they were beautiful.

Faded White Letters

As we came closer to the homestead in Little Tamarack Valley, a red barn came into view. The faded white letters K.K.J . stood out against the red barn boards. I knew that these were the initials of my great grandfather, Knut K. Jordet.

In 1865, after coming from Norway to America, Knut Jordet and his wife Olia left southeastern Wisconsin and settled on eighty acres of fertile land in west central Wisconsin, in Little Tamarack Valley. On this homestead, my great grandfather Knut K. Jordet was born.

In the front of the house, perched up on the gable of the porch roof, friends and family were greeted with this carving, made by a local woodworker.



Translation:
Knut K. Jordet settled here in the year 1865.
Stands here my house in peace for every envious eye, and to the ground that lets itself be plowed.
Here I eat my bread, Here fear I my God. Blessed is whoever here goes in and out.
Modena 4 December 1896

The year was 1895. Knut K. Jordet and his wife, Gunhild Bjorgo were young newlyweds. They raised seven children here, one of whom was my grandmother Olia, the oldest Jordet daughter. My great-grandfather lived his whole life in Little Tamarack Valley. He worshiped the Lord at Lyster Lutheran Church, just a few miles over the bluff, and in fact, was the first child to be baptized there. He walked this land in Little Tamarack Valley, plowed the soil, and raised his family here. He died on the farm in 1954.



Knut K. and Gunhild Jordet

As we rounded the curve in the patched blacktop road, I couldn’t help but think about my great-grandfather. I wondered if he drove his horses over this road in the cold Wisconsin winter, the sleigh packed with his family as they headed to Sunday worship at Lyster. I wondered what he was like. I wondered what it would have been like to meet him.

Although the buildings at the homestead are still there, visible to anyone passing through, by far the most meaningful to those of us who remain are the faded white letters.

K.K.J.

To most they are just letters. But to me, these letters fill my heart with love for a great-grandfather I never even knew. A man who walked this land. A man who raised a family here. And a man who helps me define my place in this world and who makes me a part of who I am today.


Note: Thank you to my Aunt E. for recording the Jordet family history back in 1978 – where the historical information in this writing comes from.

Food For Thought

My mom was usually in the kitchen when I got off the school bus, sometimes surprising me with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a glass of fresh, cold milk. Sounds cliché, but really, it’s true.

Other days my sister, brother and I raced into the house, threw our coats haphazardly down on the floor, and high-tailed it to the kitchen. Once there, we flung open the pantry door and fought for the box of Rice Krispies on the top shelf. Mom was at the oven, tending to the dinner. The scrumptious smell of roast beef poured out of the oven door, permeating our taste buds.

In either scenario – Mom was there. And my life was comfortable and secure.

Today my daughter beats me home. I surprise her with a phone call, asking her if we need anything from the store on the way home. She usually says, “Milk”.

I arrive a little later. By then Mickey is doing her homework. Or chatting on the computer. I sort the day’s mail – tossing the junk, keeping the rest. Mickey and I have a short chat about today’s events. We go about our business – homework and the ever-present, burning (no pun intended) question of what to make for dinner.

Quite a different scenario, isn’t it?

Thirty-five years ago my mom being there for me when I got home from school was comforting. It made me feel safe and secure.

Our world has changed.

How can I give Mickey that same sense of comfort and security? Or better yet …

What exactly is the comfort and security – the chocolate chip cookies or the fact that we know what to expect when we walk in the kitchen door?

Think about it. Food for thought, if you will.

Faith

A young woman I know who had just lost her mother to a three year battle with cancer summed her feelings up by saying, “even though I’ve prepared myself for this day for the last three years, there is never a right time to let go, it’s still so hard.”

A friend of mine who had unexpectedly lost her mother over a weekend’s time summed her feelings up by saying something very similar. Even though she knew her mother was now where she wanted to be, the loss of someone we love is never easy.

And a young man, whom I didn’t even know personally - who lived so many more years than any doctor had ever expected him to, left his family on earth just recently. His aunt says, “We were all blessed to have him in our life to teach us many things. I’m glad he is at peace and no longer in pain.”

Still, loss is more than a human being can handle alone. It takes years for the pain to subside. It takes years to turn heartache into memories. And whether our loss is a loss of a human life, or a loss of a part of ourselves through accident or injury, we need to pray for the strength to overcome. We need to pray for the strength of our faith to carry us through. And we need to pray for the strength of our family and friends to help us live again.

Because that’s the hard part. Living again. While the world around us moves on with each sunrise and sunset, our world is at a standstill, empty and void. It takes a lot of patience, perseverance, and prayer to overcome this loss. And faith that God will show us the way – to find our lives again.

As written in Hebrews 11:1, "Faith is being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we do not see".

These are truly comforting words. Faith that our loved ones are at peace with the Lord. Faith that we will see them again someday.

A Revelation of Sorts

This past Wednesday, Ash Wednesday - marked the beginning of the Lenten Season in the Christian church. I have never been on board one hundred percent with some of the traditions and symbolisms found in my church, but instead, choose to worship in my own personal way – quietly and by myself.

But as the parishioners made their pilgrimage to the front of the church on Ash Wednesday to have ashes traced onto their foreheads in the formation of a cross, I couldn’t help but notice something very special.

In front of me and behind me, no longer did anyone differ by the color of their hair. No longer did anyone differ by the color of their skin or other features of their face. No longer did anyone differ by the clothes or jewelry they wore. No longer were there people of different occupations, different intelligence, and different opinions. No longer were there men, women and children filling the pews.

As I gazed out across the people before me all I saw was crosses – made with the ashes of this very special Wednesday in our Christian faith.

Behind the crosses I saw people, myself included, humbled, and filled with the desire to become closer to God and to share in the promise of God.

Amidst all this symbolism I had a revelation of sorts, and feel I have gained an understanding into one of the most revered traditions celebrated by Christians over the world.

Thank you, Lord.

The Icing on the Cake

At age 34, I asked my doctor, “Do you think it’s too late to have a baby?”

She said no.

This one little word had just validated and sealed the thoughts inside my head – the longing all mothers have from time to time – the desire to hold a newborn baby in their arms, to share their love with another , the desire to extend their own mortality through another.

A year later, Mickey was born. Not an afterthought, certainly not an accident or surprise – but a blessing from heaven – and with a set of parents who were armed and hopefully ready for the second round of parenthood, this time with the added benefit of experience.



Mickey graces our life with her bubbly personality, keeping us ever-entertained with her wit and humor. The charm she possesses works well for her, whether she is twisting her mother’s arm to go to the mall, or gracefully coaxing her father into giving her money from his wallet (except she would do the coaxing first, then the twisting).

And she keeps us young.

Or perhaps, she just doesn’t let us feel as old as we sometimes feel.

At a time in my life when parents our age are seeing their children graduate from college and move on to start their lives, our daughter is just beginning to plan her future – thinking about careers, where she would like to live and what her hopes and dreams are. I pray that her future is bright and her aspirations in life are achieved.

Mickey is truly our icing on the cake and we wouldn’t have life any other way.



Plus, she did say that when she is living “some place where it’s warm” six years from now she would still come and visit us at Christmas.

I said, “I'm glad, but could we see you more than once a year?”

She pauses to think and then says, “Sure, you can jet out anytime you want.”

Our daughter. A blessing in our lives, her personality molded and shaped by those who love her. Here with us to live, learn and grow, preparing to fly away just like a balloon drifts off into the sky, not knowing quite where it will land – but enjoying the ride.

That’s Mickey. The icing on the cake.

Happy birthday, sweet daughter.