WordSisters

Category: Legacy

  • Holiday Presents

    In response to queries about what I might like as a holiday or upcoming birthday present, I am wondering if I have hit “that age” or developed a stronger sense of being part of the universe?

    With the evil spreading in our country that has stripped families apart or made the simple costs of food, shelter and other necessities too expensive for others, how can I want anything? If I need to think about creating a list for days, I think I know the answer

    First, my deepest wishes: food, safe shelter, healthcare and education to be accessible in our country. People with compassion, wisdom, morals, the ability to use real language when talking, willingness to listen, commitment to collaborative decisions to lead government at all levels, in all nations. Narcissistic strong men be removed from positions of influence or power.

    On the personal level: A giant gift would be securing my family’s futures so that those of us aging don’t burden the younger, the middle generation continue to live the modestly comfortable lives they have achieved, the children reach maturity in a country that has found its way back to peace and prosperity while honoring the Statue of Liberty‘s invitation. It would be grand to find a small house for our last decades and free our family home for a family.

    But if my stumbling over the gift question is about approaching “that age” and actual physical items must be named, my gift list is simple: warm socks, two books, a box of English Toffee, framed photos, individual time with each family member in the coming year, donations made to food shelves.  

    Add new pajamas and a couple of white long sleeve polo shirts, this might have been my father’s list twenty years ago when he was the age I am now. And he is a good reminder of what holiday presents should include. He was someone who gave to others at holidays: food boxes we packed, a canned ham, cookies we baked, wrapped toys, sweaters and pajamas for others’ children, cash in a card, and because it was Wisconsin sometimes a bottle of brandy. 

    Time to get busy.

  • Gathering

    Gathering

    On days when November winds scour the streets and heavy gray clouds lean on the landscape, I feel Nature’s rhythms more deeply. Summer’s flowers have died and the natural world is dormant. I’m reminded that many of my elders are no longer with us. Even in my awareness of death and departures, I’m also comforted. These cycles are natural. This is how it’s meant to go.

    Although I’m not a farmer, the idea of gathering the harvest resonates. Instead of crops, I gather my family. At Thanksgiving, we relish the ritual and continuity of turkey. My mother’s stuffing recipe. My husband’s mashed potatoes. My pecan pie. Foods we don’t crave any other time of year. Beyond the food served is a yearning to reaffirm our ties to family and tradition. This is what we do, have done for years (Even though our customary foods have evolved. Smoked turkey is tastier than roasted. None of us miss the yams.) We give thanks for what we have and who we have in our lives.

    Nature’s rhythms are also woven into the circle of my extended family. Recently, we celebrated my mother-in-law’s 100th birthday. Four generations gathered in one place. There, too, we enjoyed the ritual of eating our favorite deep-dish pizza, fresh veggies, rich desserts. We honored her along with our connection as family. We reminded ourselves of who we are and who we come from. 

    For the first time, all three great granddaughters were able to attend. One of my granddaughters sat in my lap clapping with delight as the group sang “Happy Birthday.” Her newly met cousin danced and serenaded Gigi (her great grandmother) at the party’s end. Later the little girls played with abandon in the center of the living room surrounded by their grandparents and great aunts and uncles—just as my sons did 30 years ago. 

    Our circle is warm and loving. The cycle continues. 

  • 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.