WordSisters

Author: Ellen Shriner

  • Mom’ s Closet: Treasures and Surprises

    While helping move Mom last month, I unearthed a number of artifacts from bygone eras—hers and mine.

    P1030680How can you not love polka dots? They’re whimsical. Cheerful. And in the 1960s when Mom carried this clutch bag and wore these gloves to church, they were a stylish accent to her navy blue spring coat . . . and perhaps a reminder that she hadn’t always had four kids, dinners to cook, and laundry to do.

    P1030674If you’re not a Baby Boomer, you probably don’t recognize this item. I didn’t recognize it either because math has never been my forté, but it’s my slide rule (look closely—you can see my name on it). Before pocket calculators were invented, we used them for logarithms and trigonometry—skills that I’ve completely forgotten after high school.

    When the Apollo 13 space module malfunctioned, Mission Control engineers used slide rules in the calculations needed to get astronauts back to earth. Slide rules! One of the best-known Mission Control engineers was Gene Kranz, the flight director whose famous line in the Apollo 13 movie was, “Failure is not an option.” When Mom and I were talking about slide rules and the near disaster of Apollo 13, Mom mentions in an offhand way, “Yeah, I went to high school with Gene Kranz.” What? Why hadn’t she ever mentioned that before?

    hankyMom knows I collect and use handkerchiefs for my watery eyes, so she offered me this one from my grandma. Mom never carried hankies. Instead she keeps Kleenex in her pocket. If she doesn’t have a pocket, she tucks a Kleenex up her sleeve or in her waistband—something you have to be at least 80 years old to do.

    I love old hankies. Before Kimberly-Clark marketed Kleenex in 1924, people relied on handkerchiefs—elegant linen ones for good and simpler cotton ones for everyday. But even after Kleenex became commonplace, the humble hanky remained popular, especially among little old ladies. They were an accessory carried for show, not hygienic use—something that could be embroidered or bordered in lace—a little bit of pretty in a workaday world.

    This Thanksgiving, I hope you’re blessed with the treasure of fond memories and stories shared with family over a second cup of coffee and piece of pie.

  • Paying It Forward . . . And Back

    Blue weavingThis past October, my 92-year-old mother and my Aunt Corinne, her 88-year-old sister, both needed to be moved. Mom was moving from the house in Ohio where she’d lived for more than 30 years to a seniors’ apartment. After breaking several vertebrae, Aunt Corinne has been in a rehab center for months. It’s unlikely she’ll be able to return to her costly assisted living apartment, so her belongings had to be packed up and put in storage.

    Each move involved some emotional upheaval. And there was the usual packing process—coordinating with the movers, wrapping precious items in bubble wrap, and figuring out what to do with quasi-useful stuff (Is this worth keeping? Will she ever use this again?).

    Since both moves had to happen within a week of each other, my siblings and I divided up the work. I organized Mom’s move from her house while my sister and brothers emptied out Aunt Corinne’s apartment.

    We’re hardly unique. Many middle-aged people are called on to help elders, often while still raising children. We feel the pull of threads woven when we were still children—unaware of how we mattered to our family.

    When my siblings and I were kids, Aunt Corinne and Uncle Bob were fun to visit. He owned a vending machine business, and they always gave my sister, two brothers and me candy, pop, and snacks from the supplies stored in the basement. Although they didn’t have children, they knew what kids liked, and they always remembered our birthdays with nice gifts. Thank goodness they had a poodle to play with, because we quickly grew bored and squirmy when the grownups talked in the living room. Aunt Corinne had a beautiful flower garden but never fussed if the ball or the dog got into it. So when poor health got the best of Aunt Corinne, we stepped in to help.

    Similarly, my husband, his sisters, and brother began helping their uncle manage his affairs this year. He is fiercely independent, never married, generous to a fault, and blind since he was 40. He finally agreed to move into a nursing home after his last fall and hospital stay. At 92, he has Parkinson’s, cancer and a failing memory—too many issues for him to continue going it alone. When my husband was a teen, his uncle gave him a job in the cafeteria he managed. Since they have that history, he was better able to accept my husband’s suggestion that living alone was no longer a good idea.

    From the vantage point of middle age, I can now see how we weave each generation into the sturdy cloth we call family.

    A nephew on my husband’s side of the family recently got married. He’s a chef, so preparing wonderful food for the wedding was his gift to the guests. Unfortunately, at the last minute, some of the people he had counted on to help weren’t able to come. So his parents, grandmother, my husband and I, along with a handful of others, helped him and his fiancée pull together the many details of the wedding. We cooked, washed up, ran errands, and made decorations. The main entrée was a whole pig that needed to roast all night and most of the day. Our sons agreed to monitor the roasting pig during the middle of the night. That way, their cousin was able to grab a few hours of sleep the night before he got married. His parents rested easier, too.

    Through their willingness to help, our sons deepened their relationships with their aunt, uncle, cousin and his bride. John and I reinforced our ties with our nephew and new niece.

    But more than that, our help affirmed how families pay it forward . . . and back. Giving and receiving are the warp and weft that create the enduring fabric of family.

  • Where Are You Most Creative?

    Some writers may be able to write anywhere—but I’m not one of them. I have a few key requirements:

    I need to be assured that I’ll be left alone for a while.  If the house is full of family who might pop in at any time with a question or request, I have trouble focusing on the scene in my head that I’m already struggling to envision. I’m easily distracted and soon I’ll wonder about whatever I was asked—if they’re going to Target, will they remember to buy milk? Equally distracting is the peevishness I’m likely to feel—really? Can’t I even be left alone for an hour? That’s why writing before everyone is awake often works or writing when my husband is the only one in the house.

    The place doesn’t need to be perfectly quiet, but I can’t listen to music.  It’s too interesting and soon I can’t hear the words inside my head. Ambient noise is OK, though. The dull roar of a coffee shop is fine. The sound of my husband practicing guitar doesn’t bother me. People laughing or kids squabbling in the distance barely register.

    Physical comfort matters. If I feel a chilly draft or sweat trickles down my back, I’ll lose concentration. Similarly, if my chair is uncomfortable, a niggling twinge will gradually become an insistent backache. At that point, I’m done.

    But aside from these basic features, some places simply have a better vibe than others. Some times it’s history. If I’ve written well and easily one place, I’m apt to go back to it. And usually there’s some appealing quality of light—bright daylight that energizes and cheers me or cozy lamplight surrounds and comforts me.

    I’ve returned again and again to these places:

    P1030545Lebanon Hills Park, 15 minutes from home – Halfway down the hill overlooking the lake, I set up the lawn chair that lives in my trunk during the warm months. I bring my laptop, a bottle of iced tea and a snack, and I’m set for a few hours. When I need to stare into space, the lake shimmers before me. Sunlight filters through the trees, and periodically as partial shade turns into full sun, I slide my chair out of the sun. I’ve written and revised large chunks of my memoir here.

    My bright back porch in warm weather and my sunny family room in cold months.

    Most coffee shops  . . . as long as I won’t run into anyone I know!

    Where does the muse find you?