Monthly Archives: December 2023

Season of Change

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Since ancient times, people have observed days growing shorter and dreaded winter’s coming darkness, which culminates at winter solstice. These days, many of us barely notice this natural shift, but instinctively we light candles, fill our homes with tiny twinkling lights, and gaze at crackling fires—all in an effort to push back the darkness. Beyond being the shortest day of the year, winter solstice can be thought of as a time of change, when one era or year draws to a close and a new one dawns.

Some personal events parallel this natural cycle of transformation. My family is expanding—a welcome change—and our tradition of hosting several days of long elaborate holiday meals will evolve. Next year, there will be a little person in a highchair who won’t be able to sit still and wait while we linger over a second glass of wine. We’ll let go of our current traditions and invent new ones that are more kid-focused. That’s as it should be.

I’m also aware of another coming transformation. One of the writers’ groups I’ve been part of for 15+ years will change when a core member moves to Michigan. Because we write memoir and personal essays, we have shared our secrets and personal truths—first in stories with the group, later in writing launched into the big world. Consequently, we have developed an extra measure of trust and acceptance other friendships might not achieve. We support each other when our lives are troubled and when our writing stalls. We celebrate our personal triumphs and our publishing successes. The idea for the WordSisters blog came from this group—you’ve read our writing over the years. 

Of course, we’ll continue to meet via Zoom. We’ll still share our stories and writing, provide encouragement, and offer personal and writerly advice. We’ve pledged to stay part of each other’s lives, but we all understand our current way of meeting is ending. 

I’m at the cusp where I can see the past and the future—acknowledge what’s changing and welcome what’s coming next. My family and my writers’ group will move into a new era. In the natural world, the days will begin to grow longer and brighter minute by minute, and spring will arrive as it always does.

From the First Time We Held Her

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Sitting across from Crystel who was with her ‘squad’ as she would come to call her eleven nieces and nephews, Jody and I watched her draw the children to her. A magician she was. Instead of pulling scarves one by one out of a hat she charmed each child and tenderly tucked them around her heart. The children, enchanted and mesmerized, enveloped her, this aunt from the United States. This aunt they were meeting for the first time.

Where was Juan?  Alarmed, I stood up and quickly scanned the dining room. Eight tables had been strung together to accommodate Crystel’s twenty-five Guatemalan relatives. Fried chicken, burgers, and pizza permeated the air. Chatter of families, scraping chairs, little kids running.

Of course. He was sitting directly across from Crystel. Silent, strong, and loyal he was smiling broadly at her playfulness. That morning Crystel insisted that Juan sit next to her in the van on the way to meet her birth family. Since both are adopted, only he could understand the anxiety of meeting strangers connected by blood and the intense three-hour reunion that would occur.

Adopted together at seven and eight months old, they were only six weeks apart in age. Now, both 21, they have had a lifetime of knowing each other. Juan would remain nearby, available. Crystel would do the same for him one week later when it was his birth family reunion.

“Jody, I’m going to ask Mayra if she wants to sit closer to Crystel,” I said. Mayra, Crystel’s birth mom, was sitting quietly next to Juan. Mayra shook her head, no. She encircled her arm in front of her. “This.” Her eyes brimming, “I love watching all this.”

I understood. I, too, have given up an infant in adoption. I imagine meeting my birth son. Sitting across from him, looking closely for resemblance in the eyes, face, and mannerisms. I’d want to intimate who this child is. Ask, Did you have a good life?

Mayra had met Crystel twice before. When she was nine years old and again at eleven. Jody and I had initiated the birth family search and made the reunions possible. After the second visit we were notified by Mayra that Crystel’s birth father had threatened to kidnap her and return her to Guatemala. Crystel was the 8th child in a family of 9 children from the same biological father. She was the only child given up for adoption. Every time Mayra was pregnant, the father said the child was not his. After learning about Crystel from our visit, he threatened he would claim her back because he didn’t want any of his children to grow up apart. He was going to claim her as his own. Jody and I knew this threat to be real. Her estranged birthfather was living illegally in Chicago. A drive of 6 hours and 3 minutes separated us from him. Or was he right down the street, waiting to grab our daughter?

Boxes of Pollo Campero and cheese pizza materialized on the tables. A whirl of activity, Crystel’s brothers and sisters, ranging in ages from 18-34, sprang into action, doling out plates of fried chicken and small bags of fries. Hands reached for slices of pizza. Bottles of soda were poured into smaller cups. Our voices filled the space as we sang “Feliz Cumpleanos” to Juan’s girlfriend, Aryanna. Celebrating her 19th birthday, she blushed, and accepted tres leches, a sponge cake soaked in a sweet milk mixture, and topped with fresh whip cream and a cherry.

Mayra approached Jody and me. Standing next to her, waiting to interpret, was Freddy, Crystel’s eighteen-year-old brother’s boyfriend. He was the only person in their party that was bilingual. Mayra reached down for our hands, brought them together and cupped them in her palms, cradling us. “I can see that my daughter is happy. That you took great care of her,” she said in a burst of Spanish. Tears fell onto her cheeks. “I’m glad that you … you … were the ones that adopted her.” Jody and I teared up. Our eyes were steady on Mayra’s soft round face. Mayra made no attempt to stop crying or to wipe her tears away. Her hands tightened around ours. She continued in her emotion-rich voice, “You … you …  brought her back.” She placed her hands to her heart.

I looked over at Crystel. Sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews gathered around her. Loud animated laughter. She wasn’t ever ours to keep, I thought. Ever since we adopted her our goal was to bring her back, to her birth country, her birth family. Everything Jody and I have done has been to that end.

She came home to us at seven months old, underweight, and developmentally delayed. The doctors could treat her feeding issues, scabies, and the viral infection. What she needed most of all was the will to live. Jody and I nurtured and loved her, and she found that will within herself. Speech therapy for an articulation disorder addressed her inability to correctly produce speech sounds. Until she didn’t need it or wouldn’t allow it, Juan interpreted for her. They both attended Spanish dual language school in elementary, middle, and high school.

I turned to face Mayra and took a sharp breath. I wasn’t sure if it was the appropriate time to ask but I wanted to know. “What about her birth father?” She brandished the air in front of her. “Don’t worry about him. Erase him from your thoughts.”

Crystel was 18 when she asked Jody and I about her birth father. I showed her his Facebook page. “Why does he have pictures of me on there?” she asked. “He’s been stalking you,” I said. “When you were in fifth grade, he threatened to kidnap you.” She pondered. “I always wondered why my name on class rosters had a note saying I wasn’t to have any visitors.” I explained further, “Schools, law enforcement, friends, neighbors, aunts and uncles all knew. It’s what we did to keep you safe.”

Jody and I have noticed how Crystel has taken responsibility for her own wellbeing. She completed her college sophomore year in Hawaii as a national exchange student, successfully navigating school, friendships, surfing, and a job. At the end of the school year, she traveled independently to Vietnam and Korea. She and I had just completed a month-long homestay in the mountains of Guatemala to take Spanish classes. After school, Crystel climbed volcanoes and managed other excursions without me. She is an accomplished adult. The threat is no longer viable.

Voices became spirited, higher pitched around the tables. Talk of rollercoasters. Mundo Petapa Irtra amusement park where we were was the perfect place for this reunion. Rides, entertainment, playgrounds, restaurants, and a walking zoo were spread over the grounds. Chairs were pushed back. Cleanup started. A trail of children to the bathroom.

Mayra took this moment to walk around the dining area to sit next to Crystel. Both shifted in their chairs to greet each other.  Mayra laid her hand on Crystel’s arm resting on the table. Though Jody and I couldn’t hear the conversation, I imagine Mayra telling Crystel that it had been a difficult time in her life when she surrendered her in adoption. That she missed her every single day. How she carried her in her heart. What a beautiful woman she was. Both had a ready smile and bubbly laugh that leaned toward boisterous. One could easily discern that they were mother and daughter. The same high forehead, cheekbones, distinctive eyebrows, narrow chin, and small lips.

Observing Crystel and Mayra, my eyes glistened. I swiped at my tears. My tendency is to cry when I am moved by the expression of love. I wasn’t raised with love or safety. I was sexually abused and neglected on a constant basis. There was violence. What I wanted for myself, Jody, and our children, was to see what continuous love would look like in a child. I saw the answer in Crystel. She was full, meeting with her birth mom, siblings, nieces, and nephews. She knew where she came from. She knew love was abundant. Jody and I had only gained by this reunion. We had Crystel for 21 years and all her firsts. She’d be ours for the rest of our lives. She’d also have her birth mom, siblings, and her squad.

Daughter, did you have a good life? Mayra knew the answer.

Holiday Traditions

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I could have talked with Santa longer. Maybe left the photography backdrop, grabbed us both a few cookies, and hashed through life experiences. Could he have been the same Santa who visited our house in Luxemburg, WI sixty years ago? Was it possible this was the real guy (at least to schmooze an introvert) with gentle dark eyes, weathered skin and a medium deep voice that wrapped around those sitting nearby

The Gibraltar Fire and Rescue of Fish Creek, WI held the annual visit and photo with Santa event as a fundraiser. Being a volunteer firefighter in a small community makes every neighbor’s life safer. A firetruck parked outside the small former town hall to answer any major fire call and the Santa team needed to leave. 

Stuff some money in a firefighter’s boot, fill out limited personal information, and help yourself to cookies or candy while waiting in line. We were not the only people with a dog instead of a child. Thankfully the dogs seemed to accept the event as just another outing while the children struggled to keep their excitement, and hungering for more cookies, under control. 

Adults drinking eggnog and eating more cookies than the kids, grandparents helping with a third or fourth child while the parents made each one presentable, and a warm feeling of enjoying holiday traditions started December on the right foot. We were there because our two-year-old granddaughter thought meeting Santa frightful but might smile seeing that Rocky liked the old guy. Two of her age group needed everyone’s encouragement in the town hall, including two dogs, to turn off tears and sit near the guy in red. 

Most of us were strangers, but for forty minutes we shared happiness and hope while playing the roles most appropriate for the time—child, parent, grandparent, community protector, human or canine. Shoulders were nudged and compliments shared about sweaters or bows or big smiles while posing with Santa. “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays” flew out of mouths naturally.

May these last weeks of 2023 bring you calm, peace, health and smiles.  I hope that each of you have someone share a Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays greeting. 

The comfort of traditions brings the warmth of friendship among strangers.

Reflections from My Great Grandmother’s Rocker

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Some nights sleep is elusive and I’m up earlier than expected—an experience I share with many people my age. At 6:15, I sit in my great grandmother’s rocker reading a book about baby care, since I will be a first-time grandmother in a month or so.

I try to imagine Anna Kuntz Pleitz and wonder what she was thinking when my grandmother, Helen Wagner Pleitz was pregnant with my mother, Eileen Pleitz Shriner in 1921. I wonder how Anna would view my self-assigned reading.

Anna lived with her son Frank and daughter-in-law Helen and would have been on hand when they were having children. I speculate that her knowledge of babies and mothering was held in high regard. Anna would have known the secrets of nursing and how to soothe a fussy baby. Like I do. In her day there may have been magazine articles and books about the ‘modern’ methods, but I don’t envision her reading them. She and Helen would have been confident of her skills. 

Or maybe not. Throughout the 20th century and into this one, each new generation has had their own take on parenting and baby care. So I volunteered to read the Mayo Guide to Your Baby’s First Years along with the What to Expect website to learn what’s new in the 30+ years since I had newborns. I want to be familiar with what my daughter-in-law and son are learning. 

My mother said my great great uncle, whose name I don’t know, made this beautiful platform rocker and matching footstool for his sister Anna. Making furniture was his trade. Anna’s husband George also made furniture, so perhaps it could be his handiwork. It is in the Eastlake style, so its design and decorations are simpler than ornate Victorian furniture. I don’t know if Anna brought it from Alsace (on the border of France and Germany) when she emigrated from France or if it was made in the U.S. 

It’s a ladies rocker, which means its frame is smaller and lower. It’s very comfortable and fits me perfectly. More than 100 years later, the rocker doesn’t even squeak. A couple of years ago, I had it reupholstered and replaced the antique-looking gold striped fabric my parents had chosen with an off-white tweed with threads of red and gold and blue. I wanted the rocker to be used and not be a museum piece.

I silently rock and think of Anna, Helen, and my mother sending their love and wisdom.