Category Archives: Family

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.

Being a Matriarch

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A big misconception about retirement is that it’s slow-paced and carefree. I’m busier than ever. Although I no longer fret about work problems, other concerns take my attention. Managing family dynamics and planning family get-togethers (like a recent baby shower) are the business of my days—where much of my mental energy goes. What matriarchs do.

‘Matriarch’ sounds grandiose, but the dictionary characterizes us as powerful older women in charge of a family, or female leaders. Respected. My definition is adjacent: we’re strong, influential older women who use our talents and love to strengthen our families, friends, or other groups. Not queens or rulers. Ordinary women. We may be grandmothers—the two roles can overlap—but women don’t have to have grandchildren to be matriarchs.

Examples come to mind readily. One friend juggles half a dozen complicated schedules to plan holiday celebrations. When her adult child fractured an arm, my friend stepped in with meals, groceries, and good cheer. Periodically, she has done daycare and shown up to care for a sick grandchild. Beyond child care and grandmothering, she mediates behind the scenes when adult children are at odds.

One woman regularly drives to another city when one of her married children needs help. She has provided relief post-surgery, offered support after a death in the family, and made getaway weekends possible for her adult children. She is wise and comforting, but above all, she shows up. 

Another matriarch I know focuses on maintaining ties among friends, former students, and godchildren scattered across the country. She writes the notes, makes the calls, sends the gifts, and organizes the visits that sustain those relationships.

For years, I have organized a yearly reunion with my side of the family, fostered connections with my husband’s extended family, and coordinated gatherings with my sons and their wives. In addition to the practical details of all those events is the need to consider participants’ feelings and circumstances. 

Matriarchs’ work doesn’t have to involve a crisis and it is often invisible. We operate in the background to care for and support our people: do shuttle diplomacy among various personalities, advise about jobs, and organize celebrations.

Being in the background means our efforts aren’t always obvious, but when I look around, I see plenty of matriarchs who are enriching lives within their circle of influence. There’s so much we can’t change out in the big world. Our focus is making a big difference in the smaller—but more important—world of family and friends.

Three Summertime Favorites

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This summer’s smoky air has forced me to confront the many effects of climate change. While I shop for an electric or hybrid vehicle, I’m consciously turning away from my anxious dismay to remind myself of three favorite summertime experiences.

Fireflies at the University of Minnesota Arboretum 

Walking the hardwood paths and wildflower fields at dusk, when the grounds are usually closed, was magical. The air was warm and still. The land exhaled. At first, we saw a spark of light here and there in the shadows. As dusk deepened to near dark, small clouds of fireflies shimmered in meadows and swamps. Flashed On. Off. On. Off. A silent conversation. A symphony of light.

ShrinerFest 

In a week, my extended family will gather for a weekend in Chicago we call ShrinerFest. I continue to be delighted and surprised my siblings, their far-flung children, spouses or beaus, and grandchildren love this get-together. We’re all so different—from introverted scientists to outgoing sales managers—and hold a range of political and religious views. But we sidestep all that and just enjoy catching up, eating, laughing, eating, teasing. One young niece even illustrated a book about ShrinerFest for a school project.

Drinking wine on my small porch in the evening

We sit in the glowing circle of lamplight. I stretch out on the loveseat reading a novel while my husband reads tomorrow’s news today. The dozens of birds inhabiting our blue spruce are silent. City buses trundling by interrupt the KBEM jazz or blues on the radio. Now and then we hear the cry of a small animal—a rabbit? Chipmunk? I’m not enough of a naturalist to know. The ceiling fan stirs humid air that’s cooled to comfortable by 10 o’clock. The neighborhood quiets. We sip and read.

In the Company of Mothers

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“You are such a good mom.” Ah, I leaned in, these words meaning more to me than my friend could know.

I had been talking about the latest challenges with my young teen, where everything felt new, unfamiliar, and uncomfortable. I took a minute to let the words sink in. It was the kind of thing my mom used to tell me.

My mom and I talked frequently when my baby was a baby, me needing to hear the calm of her voice, steadied by years of mothering. She seemed to meet with ease all the challenges of raising four kids close in age. Or at least that’s the way it seemed to me.

By the time I became a mother, my mom had been a grandparent to nine already, the oldest in college and the youngest just into the double digits. I was late to the game and met motherhood with a fair amount of hand-wringing. Those early days were especially fraught-filled. Was my baby sleeping enough? Eating enough? Hitting all the right growth markers? There was so much to worry about.

My mom didn’t always know how anxious I was, but I would call her just to hear her voice. In my postpartum funk, I couldn’t tell her I was scared and lonely—I don’t know why—but I might instead give her a mundane update of how the day was going with my infant, hoping she could intuit my struggles. I was afraid of my own fear and questioned everything I did.

As my child grew, my mom was a steady source of reassurance and always wanted to know what my little one was up to. I would tell her some tale of my busy toddler, then preschooler, then elementary student. The stories were mostly amusing, but sometimes I was exasperated or uncertain. “You’re doing a good job, Brenda,” she would say. I’d always think, “Really?” It never felt that way. But she knew what I needed to hear.

~

I miss that. My mom is no longer here to comfort or commiserate, to offer hope for parenting through the teen years. She passed away right before the pandemic and right as my child was entering the tween years. Now I find myself among the many motherless daughters out there, feeling my way along. While I know that I am lucky to have had my mom for as long as I did, I still miss her and her unconditional support. And I really want to know how she made it through parenting four kids from infancy to adulthood—especially through the teen years.

The author and her mom Lois.

She used to say that she had a lot of help, especially from my dad when we were all younger. And that having a lot kids close together was just what people were doing at the time. Now she would probably tell me she did the best she could and that she was far from perfect. And that she was also buoyed by a loose network of family, friends, neighbors, and others.

~

I wonder now what she would say about the precocious child who has turned into a strong and independent teenager. I imagine telling her of the latest tale and hearing her say, “Oh, Brenda,” lowering her voice on the “Oh” to add to the sense that she knew it was hard. Or maybe she’d shake her head and murmur words of commiseration. My child is much like one of my siblings, whose teenage years were punctuated by frequent conflict with my parents. Would my mom tell me she could understand the challenges of parenting an iron-willed but sensitive child? Or would she think of herself as a teenager, wishing that she had been nicer to her own mother? I never imagined my mom as a teenager but only as my mom and was surprised when she told me she regretted clashing with her own mom when she was young.

So perhaps this tells me that we never quite get it right and despite the anxiety, the self-doubt, the struggles, and even the loneliness, we are making it through.

My mother leaned on her own sisters, neighbors, friends, colleagues, and I am, too. I am banking on the collective wisdom of this vast community of mothers I am part of. They look like the friend who laughs with me and the one who offers a listening ear or a word of advice and then the one who just tells me I’m doing a good job.

Mortal

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Daffodils and forsythia are in bloom here. Egrets and ducks have returned to the pond. We all made it through another winter, a difficult season with plenty of cold, snow, and ice. 

When I was in my forties, I wrote a short story about a woman whose first serious high school boyfriend was drafted to serve in Vietnam. He would die in battle and be remembered as perpetually nineteen. She went on to college, married, had children. As her son prepares for junior prom, she is reminded of Bernie. On the anniversary of his death, she writes him a letter about what it has been like to age decades beyond her teens.

Late in 2022, I prepared for serious surgery. The surgeon called me a ‘low risk’ patient and young for my physical age. Tests showed no other options. All was successful, except emotionally I landed in part of the world described in Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal.  He writes that we tend to consider aging a failure, or weakness, rather than a normal process. As we live longer and longer, medical processes becomes part of our experience. Doctors know how to preserve life, but not how to help patients cope with how life continually changes.

Like most surgery nothing looks different to others, but I know where the scars are and what each means. I know the medications that support carrying me through a normal life expectancy. I am also learning their downsides. I haven’t returned to tap dancing because the studio floor is slippery, and I am still fighting to return to my prior rock-solid balance. Down dog is back on my aspirational list, but for different reasons than undeveloped muscles.

In the weeks between the first time a doctor said, “maybe six months, certainly not more than a couple of years,” and the night before surgery, I thought about not seeing my granddaughters grow up, about the writing projects that might not be published, about my unwillingness to let life go. When I stopped pushing to be the person folks expect, my fatigue was immense. With surgery on the schedule, I slept a lot, read a lot, thought even more. Because I am used to being productive, I labeled that week practicing recuperation. 

I have had friends die of cancer without the medical miracle surgery offered me. I am humbled and so respectful of how they faced the eventuality of their passing. 

This spring I wonder how to make these next many years meaningful. A wise friend told me the body needs at least six months to recover from major surgery then encouraged me to give my emotions the same time. A good plan. I’ll enjoy the daffodils and forsythia, then the tulips and lilacs. The demands of regular life are close enough.

With love to my brother, Darrell J. Frisque, who passed too young on April 14, 2007.