WordSisters

Author: Ellen Shriner

  • Because You Never Know

    I was in the National Gallery restroom washing my hands when another woman asked where I was from and if I was enjoying the museum—the sort of chitchat that happens in Washington, D.C., where so many people are from somewhere else.

    The woman was a bit taller than me and blonde, about my age. She told me she was from D.C. and used to work at the museum. Then she announced, “I’m a famous artist, you know.” 

    I thought, Seems unlikely you’d have to announce it in a restroom if you really were famous.

    Figuring she was joking I raised my eyebrows and said, “Infamous.” 

    She didn’t laugh as I intended but went on, “I’m 78. I can say I’m a famous artist. Who cares?” 

    I get it. Claim your power. Don’t let others define you.

    I smiled and we moved on to drying our hands by the paper towels.

    She told me she lived alone and can paint whenever she wants. How much she likes that. Then she said, “I’ve dated around, but my last husband was a psychopath and tried to kill me.” 

    Wait, what?!? I felt a bit of deer-in-the-headlights uncertainty but dismissed it. She’s a dramatic person. Probably exaggerating that, too. 

    We were still alone in the restroom. Wiser people might have said, “I’m so sorry” and left, but I was more intrigued than concerned. That plus ingrained Midwestern politeness kept me there. 

    “I met him a few years after my husband died of cancer. I was so devasted and lonely,” she said.

    “You were vulnerable.” 

    “He got mad one day when I told him he couldn’t sit around all day watching porn on his laptop. Then he threw the laptop at me, pushed me against the wall, and started choking me.”

    Oh, wow. That’s awful!  I nodded for her to continue. 

    “I got out of there and went to the police station. The next day I came back with the police. When they knocked, he opened the door thinking it was me. They took him to jail. Turns out he’d done this before. Preyed on women. Assaulted them. He had a record. He’s still in jail.”

    “You were lucky. I’m glad you’re OK.” 

    I became aware of how long I’d been in the restroom while my husband and friends waited outside, so I eased us toward the exit. To shift the conversation back to neutral chitchat, I admired the top she wore. We wished each other a good visit and I left.

    What’s the right thing to do in a moment like that? Was she lonely and simply needed to talk? To be seen? Did she consider her story to be a cautionary tale? And why did she share her story with me?

    I’ve shared plenty of personal stories in this blog, but they are chosen and crafted, not spontaneously blurted. I can’t imagine telling a stranger my worst experiences. Even when my husband and I sat in an OR waiting room in the middle of the night, while our son was in the midst of a six-hour emergency surgery, I didn’t go into detail about his accident or my fears to the other woman waiting with us. When it comes to my deepest feelings, I have a strong reserve.

    But I’ve learned sometimes your words or presence matter more than you realize. So, I listened to the woman in the restroom on the off chance I was in one of those moments. Was it? I’ll never know.

  • Traditions Evolve

    Great Aunt Wilma was a fixture at our Thanksgiving gatherings during her latter years. She was widowed with no children, so my parents invited her to join us. 

    Elegant with her silver French twist, stylish earrings and deep brown eyes, she preferred to sit with the guys talking sports or politics (back when that was an acceptable topic). We had plenty of help and cooking wasn’t her forté, so she didn’t don an apron and join the women.

    We gathered at my sister’s home in Ohio. After years of hosting, Mom was ready to let her kids handle holiday meals. Until my parents died, our sons, my husband and I traveled from Minnesota to celebrate Thanksgiving with my extended family. My husband’s family had different Thanksgiving traditions, so we didn’t have to choose.

    For years, my husband and I have been the creators of holiday gatherings like Thanksgiving and Christmas. Days before, we’d clean the house, finalize the menu, make an epic shopping trip, check the table linens, plan the flowers, and start prepping dishes that could be made ahead, then cook and clean up on the actual holiday. As our sons got older, they and their wives also prepared key dishes. However, my husband and I were the event managers who were responsible for making the meal go smoothly. We were happy to do it.

    But family traditions evolve. When our sons married, we began sharing them with their wives’ families. Each year we’ve had conversations about which day to hold our Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings. After a bit of trial and error, we determined that Thanksgiving dates could be flexible but Christmas was less so. 

    When grandchildren came on the horizon, my husband and I understood our traditions would change again. We are welcome and important, but as grandparents, we are stepping back to a supporting role for holiday gatherings. 

    The focus has shifted to our granddaughters’ needs. Younger babies might be content to be held during a lengthy Thanksgiving meal, but older babies are not. They get bored and want to play. Ideally, both babies should have a quiet place to nap. This year, that will be at the home of our oldest son and his wife, where both babies can be accommodated. 

    Shortly before the hungry horde descended last Sunday

    Similar things are happening in the larger circle of my Ohio family. My sister no longer hosts a large family dinner at Thanksgiving. Now she visits two of her daughters who live in a nearby state. My brother and his wife will join friends for Thanksgiving since their children are also hours away.

    My bachelor brother, who used to help my sister and me with cooking and cleaning up at our large Thanksgiving gatherings, is now slated to become a guest at a niece or nephew’s Thanksgiving table. When we spoke of the changes, my brother and I joked that now he has become Aunt Wilma. 

  • Thinking of Mom

    Sun pours in our bedroom, a converted attic. When I make the bed, I pull the sheet and quilt back together and snap them like Mom used to do. They settle into place with a tiny poofing sigh. The golden wood floor is warm as I circle the bed and fluff the pillows.

    Coming in from the car, my sack of groceries is heavy. I shift hands to lock the garage door, shift again to unlock the back door. I ponder dinner possibilities and think of Mom facing this daily challenge. Although she was a good cook, plenty of times she wasn’t inspired either.

    Some nights, I gather up our crumb-laden tablecloth after dinner to shake out on the back step like Mom used to do. Nobody does this anymore. Not tablecloths. Or shaking out crumbs. But I like it. Before dinner I clear the dining room table of clutter and set the table the way she always did—forks, knives, spoons, and napkins. We often put away the spoons unused but it pleases me to do it her way.

    Minutes after we sit down, I hop up to blow my nose and dab my eye. Whenever I start to eat, they run just like hers did. Some neurological blip we share.

    In the evening, my husband reads the news on the sofa and I read in my chair. We comment on the day’s events, share something about our sons and their families or tomorrow’s plans. Ordinary things, but we’re so content and companionable. I think of Mom and Dad doing the same.

    Mom was 67 and already a grandmother to my brother and sister-in-law’s three, when our oldest son was born. When our youngest son was born she was 70. Even though we lived four states apart, we talked often, so she was familiar with our sons’ personalities and milestones. 

    Mom with our oldest

    I think of the way she got down on the floor to play with them. I do the same with my 10-month-old granddaughter, who crawls over me to get a toy or bounces in time to the music I play for her. When a diaper change upsets my 8-week-old granddaughter, I lean in close and say, “It’s OK little one. You’ll be alright,” in a low quiet voice, the same way Mom soothed our youngest.

    Mom with our youngest

    Mom comes to mind often and I wonder how she felt going about her days. At 70, was she achy in the mornings like I often am? Was she happy and looking forward with pleasure to most of her days? Was she carefree? Nah, my life is good but not carefree—hers wouldn’t have been either. 

    How often did the specter of aging shadow her? She had to be aware that one day her health would decline, friends and family would grow ill and die, and she would probably outlive Dad. Could she keep all that in the background? Did she think—like I do—that “I’m still healthy and capable. These are the good years”?

    Mom died 10 years ago on Election Day, the only time I didn’t vote. Instead, I got in the car to begin the long drive to Ohio for her funeral. It wasn’t a presidential election, but I felt bad about missing the vote. Mom and Dad were part of the Greatest Generation. They were fierce believers in democracy. Dad fought and Mom sacrificed during WWII so democracy could thrive throughout the world. Please support democracy with your vote.