Tough times

This picture of my dad at his desk was taken when he was a young architect just starting out in business. Now all these years later, he is in the last stages of Alzheimers and is very close to death. It is a difficult time for all of us and during these heartbreaking days of waiting and praying for an end to his suffering, I am reminding myself that most of us have within us what we need to deal with difficult and troubling life events. We just need to give ourselves a chance to get in touch with it. And I suspect that one way for me to do that is by trying, to the degree that I am able, to make sure there is consistency between the things I say and do, and the best things about who I am. This can be tricky because I think there is a tendency for the opposite to happen in stressful and tense situations. Times like this can often bring out the worst things about a person.

And yet I have always believed that even though I cannot control the tough stuff that happens in the course of my lifetime, I have a great deal of control over how I am going to deal with it. The problem of course is how to stay centered and focused when bad things happen so that I can avoid being overwhelmed by them. Because once that happens I start feeling fragmented and disoriented by the anxieties and worries that surround me and soon I begin to lose perspective. It is as if my world shrinks and becomes a very small place where all my attention gets focused on what is troubling me – so that I end up forgetting all about everything else that matters in my life.

What I need to do when this starts happening is to find a way to reclaim the things about who I am and how I live that will help restore peace and harmony and perspective in my life. I need to take time not only to restore my energies, but also to give myself permission to go beneath the surface of what’s troubling me – not to dwell on how hard it is but rather to try to search for the deeper meaning that is usually to be found there. I have always suspected that the only way I can ever pay attention to how God is present in my life (whoever and whatever God is) is by looking for the deeper meaning in things. And so it makes sense to take this same approach when confronted with difficult and troubling life-events.

I also believe there is wisdom in making a point of remembering the things that I have always found most meaningful, significant and beautiful about life. Perhaps this is why one of my favorite scriptural quotes comes from Philippians 4:8-9. It is a reminder that when life gets hard, it is good to think about those things that make it worthwhile: Think about what is good, what is enduring, what is affirming. Think about the people I cherish and those that cherish me. Think about everything I have learned about what it means to live my life attentively...and then keep on doing it. Keep on keeping on and sooner or later I know that I will find my way back to being the person I know in my heart I really am.

While it is tempting to wish I could avoid the pain of what’s going on in my life right now, I know the only way through it is….through it. Rather than letting myself be overwhelmed by the problems, difficulties and sorrows I’m encountering these days, I think there is wisdom in letting myself be immersed in them instead. Language teachers know that “immersion experiences” are the best way for a person to learn a new language. So I suspect being fully immersed in whatever is happening in my life - including the sorrow and pain of waiting for my dad's death - will help me learn a little more about what it means to be me.

The Things I Save

“I am memory’s guest....I hear lost voices speak to me” (Linda Pastan)

After more years than I can even remember I’m finally getting around to something that was at the top of my list of projects I intended to tackle when I retired: to go through and organize the contents of all the drawers and chests filled with things that belonged to grandmothers and great- grandmothers and assorted other relatives (many of whom died long before I was born.) Actually I have no choice but try to get organized once and for all now that our dining room has become the holding area for the boxes of stuff we keep bringing back with us as we get ready to sell Denny’s mother’s home. It’s a daunting task because I have yet to finish the boxes we brought back with us a few years ago when we went through the same thing with my folks.

As we were going through my mother-in-law’s house trying to decide what to save and what to include in the auction, my sister-in-law kept asking how many years have to go by before something ceases to have sentimental value. A practical question I suppose. But for someone like me (who has been accused of going a bit overboard when it comes to saving stuff) I think the answer is: for as long as there’s someone to remember why it’s important to hang on to it. Or as long as whatever is being saved is a link to someone who belongs to the “we of me.” That phrase from Carson McCuller’s novel, The Member of the Wedding, has always struck me as a good way to think about the people in our families.


Being part of a “we” adds layers and layers of depth and significance to my life and makes being “me” a lot more interesting. Without the we of me I wouldn’t be the person I am. And my life wouldn’t be as full of the joy that comes with belonging. So I suspect one of the major reasons I hang on to things I simply can’t part with is because they have so much to do with the we of me. They connect me in one way or another to people who matter in my life - those who are still an active part of it as well as those who have been gone a long long time. It’s why I keep the box full of letters Denny wrote to me the year before we were married (which he keeps hoping I’ll eventually burn) along with all sorts of other things that are connected to memories I’ve accumulated in 41 years of being married to him. It’s why I have two big file boxes, one marked Casey and another, Brendan, filled with pictures, drawings, notes, letters, school work, and heaven only knows what else that reminds me of the little boys they once were.

Brendan Day, 3rd grade

Casey Day, 7th grade

And it’s why I’ve been spending the last week going through what we brought back from my mother-in-law’s house and getting into what I had already squirreled away from relatives of my own. And even though some of it once belonged to people I have never met, it's a reminder that these people are all a part of the we of me. Here for example is a little bag I found in the bottom of one of the boxes I unpacked today. Inside was a faded scrap of paper with a note written by Nellie Miller, Denny’s grandma.


Both Grandma Miller and her mother, Augusta Hart Thomas have been gone a long long time, but they are still part of the we of me. Interestingly, I have recently learned to crochet and when I found this little bag I decided not to pack it away but rather to keep it with my own cache of crochet materials. I love the unmistakable sense of being connected to these two women this way. The little blue bag with its tiny beads and faded ribbon will be there each time I pick up my own crocheting – a sweet reminder that I have something in common with Grandma Miller and her mother, Augusta, who both loved to crochet.

And here’s something else. I found it while rummaging through some stuff my mother gave me several years ago.

This is the sleigh blanket my Grandpa Ray Toomsen used to tuck around my mother’s lap and legs after he lifted her into the sleigh on frosty mornings when he’d have to hitch up the horses and drive her along the icy lanes to the one room school house she attended.

My Grandpa Ray Toomsen with his team of horses

Mother told me that the heavy woolen sleigh blanket kept her warm and toasty as she sat bundled inside it, with her feet tucked on the soapstone that had been taken out of the stove and wrapped in newspaper to retain its heat. I like to imagine what those sleigh rides must have been like and to picture my gentle Grandpa, (someone I loved so dearly and still miss), talking quietly to my mother while keeping a watchful eye on the horses as they pulled the sleigh over the snowy fields.

And one more thing (although I could go on and on with this). This little 3”x6” notebook, with First State Bank Wellsburg, Iowa embossed on its cover was originally intended to keep track of financial transactions long before the advent of on-line banking.

I've kept it, along with a packet of letters that date back over one hundred years, in a tattered black leather “pocketbook” that once belonged to my Great-Grandma Martha Tjaden Riekens. But Grandma didn’t use the little book to keep track of her bank account. Instead, frugal woman that she was (and having just come through the depression), she used it as a diary. Having kept journals of my own for the past 40 years, this little diary of Grandma’s is especially precious to me because it proves we share something in common: a need to write down bits and pieces of our lives.


Grandma’s diary entries, (which record what the weather was like that day, the floors, walls, windows and workwork she washed, the cookies she baked, and the friends who came to call in the forenoon or afternoon or evening for tea) leave me with the impression that her life wasn’t terribly exciting – at least from my perspective. And yet there are about 10 pages at the end of the diary that have been neatly cut out, leaving me to wonder just what exactly had she written and later decided to destroy. It’s a compelling reminder that there’s so much more to the people we love than we’ll ever be able to know. All the more reason, perhaps, to hang on to what we do know – and love – about them.

We’ve all heard it said (usually at funerals) that people live on in the memories of those who are left behind to remember them. Perhaps saving the things that once belonged to people we remember helps keep those people with us for a little while longer – even those who died long before we knew they had even lived. And so I hold the little blue bag Augusta Hart Thomas crocheted so long ago, and I run my hands across the coarse wool of the heavy sleigh blanket my Grandpa Ray once used to keep my mother warm, and I thumb through the pages of my Great-Grandma's little diary and I remember them...these people who will always be a part of the we of me.

My Grandpa Ray Toomsen and my mother, Vivolyn Toomsen Keninger

Courage....

We tend to associate it with the spectacular and newsworthy – rescuing children from burning buildings, struggling to survive earthquakes, floods and all sorts of other natural disasters, fighting for freedom. It all takes courage. But so does much of what needs to be faced about the ordinary business of living a life. And at age 91, my mother-in-law is a good example. It takes courage to accept the difficult limitations that come with old age. It takes courage to face up to the fact that she simply can’t look after herself the way she has done all her life. It takes courage to leave the home where she’s lived for the past 46 years and move into a much smaller space in an assisted living facility. And it takes a lot of courage to come to that decision by herself, thus sparing us the heart-wrenching task of having to do it for her – the way so many adult children of aging parents must do.

Nora made the decision on her own a little over a month ago, and then she told us she wanted to move as quickly as arrangements could be made. Fortunately there was an apartment available in an assisted living complex nearby and so for the last couple of weeks we have been helping her move in. It’s a lovely place with lots of amenities, staffed by genuinely caring professionals. Her new apartment - consisting of a kitchenette/living room, a bedroom and a large bathroom - is roomy enough for many of her favorite pieces of furniture. And we were able to have the pretty living room drapes she was so fond of altered to fit beautifully on her living room windows.


We brought over as many of her treasured possessions as we could, spending a fair amount of time hanging pictures, arranging photographs, and finding places to display the little knick-knacks she’s accumulated over the years. We even managed to deck out her bathroom the way she wanted it – with lots and lots of purple accents!


But as charming and cozy as her new apartment is, I know it’s not going to be easy for her to settle into living there. As much as we would like to think that she is happy and content living in her new place, I wonder if it is really fair of us to expect her to be. We have no experience with the kind of leave-taking that she has had to go through these past few weeks as she prepared to walk away from the home she and her husband built and raised their family in. Each and everything she left behind was attached to a memory. Leaving it all behind must surely have been an ordeal.

Nor do we have a clue about how stressful it is trying to adjust to an entirely new lifestyle at the age of 91, or the inconvenience of no longer being able to live according to her own schedule as she has for such a long time, or the annoyances that go along with being surrounded by other people she doesn’t know all that well (and may not even care to.) And above all, we know absolutely nothing about what it’s like to recognize deep in our heart that we can no longer be the independent, energetic, capable and confident person we’ve been all our lives, adept at doing all the hundreds of little things we have gotten used to doing for ourselves ever since we became adults.

I think it takes a great deal of courage to bear the difficult burden that comes with extreme old age. It’s the kind of courage that Nora has demonstrated ever since she made the decision to move out of her home and into assisted living. Despite how comfortable and attractive her new apartment may be, it will never replace what home has meant to her. Hers is the kind of courage I may someday need to have myself. And if and when that time comes, I hope I will be able to remember the example she has set for me.

A very special gift from a very special person

If ever I’m asked to describe one of the most wonderful presents I’ve ever been given, I think I know what it will be:  this hand crafted lap desk my brother Ed made for me as a special gift.

It’s something he’s been working on for a long time and although he claims it’s full of mistakes, as far as I’m concerned it’s absolutely perfect. It’s beautifully made and fits perfectly on my lap creating a smooth surface for writing. There’s a deep well along the top that is ideal for books and letters.  Inside there’s room for paper, pens, envelopes, and odds and ends. The inside of the hinged lid has a magnetized surface and three little magnets so that’s where my to-do lists  will go along with notes about other things I don’t want to forget.

I know this little lap desk is going to get lots and lots of use because I love to write and now I’ll be able to take my desk with me wherever I go because it snaps shut and has a handy carrying handle.  But most of the time it’s going to be waiting on a little bench next to my favorite chair in my favorite room of our house – the spare bedroom we’ve turned into a library.

There’s another reason why I think this is one of the most wonderful presents I’ve ever been given.  It’s because Ed made it for me and that makes it priceless.  My little brother Ed has had more than his share of heartache and misfortune in his life.  He was a premature baby, born years before it was discovered that leaving tiny babies in oxygen-filled incubators could have harmful effects on their development.  It seriously affected Ed’s vision making it necessary for him to attend a special boarding school for the visually impaired, located far from home. He has always occupied a special place in my heart ever since he was a little boy and used to tell me “you is my honey and my sweetheart.”

I have a feeling the lap desk Ed made for me is destined to be one of my most cherished possessions.  It's because it will always remind me of Ed....and why he is so very special to me.

Dishcloths (Trisha)

For the past week I have been trying to break down the steps that are involved in wringing out a dishcloth the way my Grandma taught me to do it. I only have a few more days to come up with a description of what’s involved if I’m going to make the Sept. 1 deadline for participating in a project I heard about recently in honor of the special relationship between President Obama and his grandmother. The idea is for Americans of all ages to submit personal reflections, poems, photographs, memories, etc, about their grandmas to be included in a special book to be presented to the president later this year. Never mind that he won’t have time to read it. I still think it’s a lovely idea. (http://www.peaceabbey.org/confcenter/grandmother_love.htm)

Which brings me around to what’s involved in wringing out a dishcloth. It’s because it reminds me of my Grandma. We used to do the dishes together every night after teatime. Teatime was a nightly ritual during my summer vacations at Grandma and Grandpa’s. Grandma would put the black tea kettle on the stove and get out the teacups and saucers. It was my job to spread the tablecloth on the dinette table and set each of our places with silverware and paper napkins. Next came the cream pitcher, sugar bowl, and dessert plates - because “tea” wasn’t just something we drank. Like every other woman who had lived all her life in the small German community where she had grown up, Grandma was an excellent baker and she always made sure she had something on hand to serve whoever happened to stop by for a visit. If no one stopped by, so much the better as far as I was concerned because it meant there would be more for us at teatime. In addition to sandwiches made with dried beef from the butchers shop and served between thick slices of bread that had been liberally slathered with real butter, there was always a platter of homemade cookies along with generous slices of whatever pie, cake or bar happened to be in the cupboard that day. As soon as the kettle whistled, Grandma poured the boiling water into the teapot where the loose tea waited in its little ball to steep. Once everything was ready and Grandma had poured the tea, she’d call Grandpa to come in join us. We’d bow our heads and listen while he said grace in his gentle way, “come Lord Jesus be our guest and may this food to us be blessed.” (His soft German brogue always turned Jesus into Yeesus.) But it was the washing up afterwards that got me going on this particular trek down memory lane. One night, after Grandpa had gone upstairs to bed, Grandma and I were at the kitchen sink tidying up the tea things. I was washing and Grandma was drying (usually it was the other way around) and at one point, after I had squished the soapy dishcloth together the way I always did at home, Grandma put down her tea towel, looked at me and said “Oh my dear, let me show you how to wring out a dish cloth!” It had never occurred to me that there was actually a technique one had to learn in order to wring out a dishcloth. But apparently there was and Grandma was shocked that I had never learned about it. Taking the soggy dishcloth from my hands, Grandma demonstrated the procedure I have been using every since. But like so many other ordinary little things we do each day that become second nature to us (try writing out the directions for how to tie a shoelace, or brush your teeth!), grandma’s technique for wringing out a dishcloth is so simple that I can’t figure out how to write out directions for doing it. It has something to do with folding a sopping wet dishcloth in half, grasping one side firmly with the right hand and reaching over to grab the other half with the left hand. Then you squeeze tightly, while rotating the right hand forward and the left hand backward. Obviously it’s not as complicated as it sounds. Which is a good thing because otherwise I’m sure I would have quickly reverted to my earlier, much sloppier, approach to dishcloths and never given another thought to what she showed me that night. As it turns out, I have been following Grandma’s procedure ever since she taught it to me. And the best thing about it is that every time I do the dishes I think of her.