Category Archives: Past we carry

Holiday Presents

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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.

To Louis and Octavia

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An enthusiastic three-year-old ran craft materials to the kitchen table. She had a project in mind, a puzzle to build out of tongue depressors. 

I was not enthusiastic about the project which, as many projects, would lead to painting which might lead to painting herself. In fact, I was tired and working hard to be gentle as she taped sticks together. When a washcloth became necessary, I got it damp at the sink, looking at her head bent over a row of painted wooden sticks. 

The oak table where she worked on a protected area was made in 1902 when Louis Cravillion married Octavia Orde, my paternal great grandparents. How I miss my Grandma Tavy. My grandmother died following childbirth, so Octavia cared for her grandson. As a woman of the age, I am now, she cared for me. I sat on one of these chairs while she braided my hair, ate meals she cooked, or colored. My mother worked in town.

After my great-grandfather died, we had moved in with her. My parents remodeled the kitchen and dining area storing this oak table for a new Formica and metal model. Eventually an apartment was finished upstairs so she would have her own place. The table returned. Eating breakfast in my designated chair, it was possible to watch everyone come to the new post office across Main Street. Patterns were cut to make clothes, cookie dough rolled out, homework completed.

After her death, the table was refinished and set up as my parent’s game table. As they downsized, it came to be mine. Our children ate and did homework and projects on a glass surface that protected the oak. Today’s artist is one of their children. 

Stories of six generations of my family have been exchanged here. Men have returned from wars to a first home meal, baptisms and weddings celebrated, hard decisions made, children loved. Great grandma’s quiet and calm presence participated in half of its history. I see her hands now show in mine; her brown eyes look back from our mirrors. I can only hope I carry some of her wisdom to those who sit at this table, her blood mixed in their veins. I am not so tired.

Mom’s Afghan

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Mom had a soft ivory afghan her cousin Kathleen, my godmother, crocheted. When they were younger, Mom and Kathleen were close. They didn’t see each other as often when they got older, but that connection remained. The afghan is made of intricate lacy stitches and generously sized so your feet and shoulder and hip will still be covered if you turn over. It’s a work of art and a gift of love.

But Mom rarely used it. She cherished Kathleen’s beautiful handiwork and wanted to preserve it. It was too good for every day. Instead, when she napped on the sofa—I’m just going to close my eyes for 20 minutes—she used the one Aunt Bertie crocheted, which was skimpier and had scratchy yarn. 

When did Mom start taking naps? In her 60s? 70s? My age? 

Now I assume she napped when didn’t she sleep well at night. But my younger self just took Mom’s naps for granted. I never asked or even wondered what kept her from sleep.  

After Mom died, her afghan from Kathleen came to me.

This morning I woke up predawn. Hot. Restless. My brain whirring with stray busy thoughts. I moved downstairs to the sofa and pulled the afghan from Kathleen over me in hopes I’d be lulled to sleep. I wasn’t. But on the day after Mother’s Day, the memory of Mom and my godmother covered me like a blessing.