Two things consistently start my day on the right note: 1) Quiet time with God; 2) Wordle. There’s just something delightful about having to wait an entire day to guess a five-letter word that is the same for other Wordle players the world over. So much divides people now; it’s refreshing to have a simple game that brings a sense of unity. I realize it’s trivial in the grand scheme of things, but any step toward each other feels like a win.
I’m not sure whether the Wordle inventor studied human psychology, but there is something addicting about the color-coded tiles flipping over one at a time. Will it be “no joy” gray? “Close but no cigar” yellow? “Bingo” green? And what if you win the Wordle lottery and guess the right word right away? So many possibilities with each guessed letter, so much potential for elation and mind-breaking frustration. Egos can be made or broken by the rows of squares: guess the right answer in two, you’re Einstein; get the dreaded X/6 and you feel the dunce cap pressing into your head.
If you’ve played Wordle long enough, though, you might come to the same conclusion I came to recently. The gray tiles are just as important as the yellow and green ones. With only 26 letters to choose from, revealing the “no joys” is not as alluring and exciting as flipping the “bingo” greens, or even the “no cigar” yellows, but the process of elimination is crucial to any puzzle solving endeavor.
The same could be said about making decisions in life: degree, career, relationships, which entrée to order at a new restaurant. Have you ever narrowed down your top choices on a menu but couldn’t decide between two? If you’re like me, you told the person you were dining with to make the choice for you. But perhaps when they made the decision, suddenly you realized that you actually wanted the other option. You didn’t know which one would flip up green until you eliminated the gray one.
If you feel like you’re coming up with more grays than greens or yellows these days, be encouraged! Take note of what’s not working, what you don’t enjoy, what the right answer isn’t and realize that they’re doing their job of directing you to the right answer. Even if it takes more than six tries.
October in western Washington is an unpredictable cat, warm and purring one moment, cold and hissing the next. Today is the warm, purring version where sunlight kisses everything and air caresses bare arms. It is the collectively held breath of summer, not yet ready to give up the ghost.
The quiet hush of gentle breeze carries the hint of fires still lingering in a distant forest and the sea salt mix of California Creek. Sky and earth meet as gentle friends today, passing time in relaxed quiet and contemplation. Comfortable silence.
This moment carries no urgency, no sense of rush or importance. It is a halcyon day my future self will think on and smile. Like the golden hours of childhood summers, when my rainbow striped bathing suit had mostly dried and the tangy sweet scent of grape popsicle eclipsed pool chlorine. Sweet, innocent, sacred.
It is rare, this idyllic combination of weather, time and place. My heart feels centered in a way completely foreign to the frenzy of cold, stormy days when there is always so much to do inside the house. I’m not ‘doing’ in this moment, I am being.
Sunlight dapples the Japanese maple, casting golden speckles on my upturned face. “Stay with me a while,” it says. I will. I know that a cold, hissing cat is not far away.
[Note: I wrote this as a narrative exercise for my writing group. The assignment was to take a well-known family story and tell it from someone else’s perspective. I told this story, about my Great-Grandmother, Artie Derting, from the perspective of her daughter (my Great-Aunt), Lila. I fabricated most of the story, since the version I heard was only a few sentences long. Aunt Lila read the story and gave her blessing to share it with other readers.]
Dayton, Tennessee, 1942. It’s June 10th and already so hot and sticky, my nightgown keeps clinging to my body like a second skin. I try soaking a washrag in the basin on my vanity and pressing it to my neck and face, but any relief is short-lived and the added moisture simply evaporates into a steamy cloud around my head. I can tell my sisters are sleeping soundly in their beds, but I am thrashing around like a fish on the shore, and sleep is not coming.
Strategically avoiding the creakiest boards, I creep to the stairs and step lightly down until I reach the slightly cooler floor of the foyer. I relish the feeling of lower heat, splaying my toes on the wood boards and pulling the front of my nightgown out, billowing the sodden fabric to fan my body.
The sound of clack-clackity-clack snaps my foggy brain to attention. Isn’t everyone else in bed? It takes a moment for me to realize it’s Mother, sitting on the screened-in porch, working at her typewriter.
Looking at the front door, which is propped open, I notice the faint glow of a lamp. Like a moth, I feel uncontrollably drawn to the glow and before I realize my feet have started moving, I’m padding out to the porch.
Mother briefly pauses typing. “Can’t sleep?”
She doesn’t turn around, but she knows it’s me. She says she can tell which of us girls is approaching her by our “signature footfalls.” Personally, I think she also has eyes hidden somewhere in the mass of brown, wavy hair on the back of her head.
“Too hot,” I reply.
Mother resumes her typing, pausing briefly to say, “Go ahead and lay on the davenport a while. See if that helps.”
I walk over to the porch sofa and lay flat-backed on the velveteen cushions, feeling sweat instantly forming under me. Figuring there’d be less of me actually touching the tickly fabric if I lay on my side, I turn so I’m facing the porch screen.
My eyes shut on their own, so heavy with sleepiness. Drifting in and out of sleep to the rhythm of typing, I dream of clattering train wheels, snapping turtles and click beetles. The sounds of cicadas, crickets and frogs soak into my dreamworld too, brining rain showers and creaking doors.
***
I’m on a train moving at lightning speed, through dark tunnels and winding mountain passes, pelting through sheets of torrential rain. The train car rocks back and forth violently, rattling and shaking so I feel it might come apart. A door at the front of the train car opens and closes erratically, with each turn and jarring shake.
I can’t see what’s beyond the door, but I’m certain I have to go through it to find the engine room and pull the emergency brake. But I’m terrified of the yawning blackness I see every time the door swings open.
I steady myself, hanging on tightly to bench backs, and creep forward toward the door. As I approach and reach out my hand, the door swings closed with a deafening crash and I jump backward.
***
Startling awake, I look over at Mother who is staring at me with concern. “You alright, Lila Lee? You yelled out just now.”
“Did I? Sorry, just a bad dream.”
“The train again?”
“Mmm hmm.”
Mother turns back to her work, saying, “One of these times, you’re going to have to walk through that door. Face your fears, honey. That’s the only way they’re gonna leave.”
Trying to settle again proves impossible, with my heart beating so fast and my mind replaying the door scene endlessly. I decide to get up and make some warm milk, despite the heat of the night. It always seems to help when sleep evades me.
Shuffling into the kitchen, I light a candle and hold it in front of the open icebox to find the milk jug. It looks mostly empty, but I know Mr. Stephens will arrive before dawn with fresh bottles so I don’t feel bad taking it. Filling a saucepan, I slowly stir the milk over the stove until it simmers slightly, then pour it into a tin mug.
I walk back to the open front door and lean against the frame, sipping my milk carefully so I don’t scorch my tongue. Eyes closed, I listen to the continuing symphony of critters outside accompanied by Mother’s typing percussion.
The warm milk starts to do its job, calming my nerves and drawing me back toward sleep. Just as I turn back toward the kitchen, I notice the cicada chorus suddenly stop, as if a conductor pointed at that section and made a slashing motion. The frogs and crickets taper off bit by bit as well, until there is complete silence.
Slowly turning back to the porch, I see a large, shadowy figure just beyond the screen door. I stifle a shriek as the remaining milk in my cup sloshes over my bare feet.
I look at Mother, who continues to stare intently at her typewriter. At first, I think she doesn’t notice the figure standing there, but then she starts hen-pecking keys with her left hand, while her right hand makes sharp gestures behind her back, motioning me into the house.
Looking down at my mug, as if realizing I’ve spilled and need to clean up, I turn around and walk unsteadily into the dark recesses of our front sitting room. I crouch down next to Mother’s reading chair and place my mug on the floor.
My heart beats like a hummingbird’s wings and my breaths come in gasps. Who is out there? Part of me wonders if I’m still sleeping and this is a nightmare. I pinch my arm to check. Ouch! No, I’m definitely awake.
I hear Mother’s chair scrape across the floor as she stands. Oh God, please make her be careful! That could be a dangerous criminal out there. With Daddy gone and only the three of us girls and Grandmother here with Mother, I feel as vulnerable as a fawn when its mother searches for food.
Mother walks slowly into the house and directly toward me. I stay crouched, staring up at her with saucer eyes.
Stooping down right next to me, I think for a moment she’s going to embrace me in a hug. But she reaches out to the side table next to her chair and pulls open the little drawer while pressing a finger to her lips with her free hand. I nod, maintaining eye contact and biting the insides of my lips together to keep my mouth closed.
She pulls something heavy from the drawer, making a faint scraping noise as she lifts it out. From the corner of my eye, I see a metallic glint. Granddaddy’s pistol! I gasp, then immediately press both hands over my mouth, meeting Mother’s gaze again and trying my best to convey, “What are you doing?” with just a look.
Cool as a cucumber, Mother straightens up and turns toward the door again, holding the gun behind her back and walking slowly to the porch.
Instinctively, I stand up and follow her, careful to keep to the shadows and walk quietly. Oh Mama, please be careful.
Standing just inside the doorway to the porch, I peer around the frame with as little of my face as possible, allowing just one eye to witness the unfolding scene. Maybe if I only see a little bit, it won’t be as scary – like hiding under covers from the resident ghost.
Mother is now directly in front of the screen door, standing straight as a summer corn stalk, right arm bent behind her back, cold steel clutched tightly in her hand. The shadowy figure in the doorway stands just as still, just as quiet. The cicadas have cautiously started their shrill song again, a few at a time.
Suddenly, Mother flings open the door and whips out the gun, straight into the face of the lurker. By the lamp light, I can see his startled face – Mr. Benson! I briefly take in his bulging blue eyes, saggy jowls and sputtering fat lips before snapping my eyes back to Mother.
“What are you doing here, Benson?” Mother asks, almost conversationally. She could be talking about the weather based on her tone, if it weren’t for the peacemaker adding its own punctuation.
“I, I,” he croaks.
“You trying to finish our conversation about me and my girls?” Mother interrupts. “I told you, we’re not moving. You’ve got plenty of land to farm already.”
Mr. Benson takes a step backward, stumbling off the wood stairs and sprawling on the grass. Quick as a rabbit, he springs up and whirls around, running as fast as his fat legs and portly frame will allow.
Mother keeps the gun trained on him, but I can see her hand beginning to drop as Mr. Benson keeps running for the fence. In the full moonlight, we can see him leap up and over the split rails dividing our properties.
Mother laughs as though she’s never seen anything quite so funny in her life. “Lila, I do believe we’ve just witnessed a miracle. Pigs can fly!”
I start to laugh too, despite my shaking fear, high-pitched and a little hysterical. We continue watching as Mr. Benson leaps from furrow to furrow across his plowed fields, and Mother says, “You see, my girl, that’s what can happen when you finally walk through the door.”
Let me tell you something I’ve learned about friendship. Each of us is like a puzzle piece with unique curves and edges that only occasionally finds another piece that perfectly clicks into place. It’s a kindred spirit connection that doesn’t depend on blood relation, age or other commonalities, just the sense of finding someone who’s part of your tribe.
Jenny Hanks is one of my puzzle pieces. She is 83, laughs loud enough to be heard a block away, and always, always makes people feel important and loved.
She moved to New York recently, to live with her daughter, and I miss her fiercely. But in my mind, I can still drive just a few minutes to her house and hear, “Come on in, darling!” when I reach the door. So, here’s what tea time at Jenny’s looks like:
Walking from my car to Jenny’s front porch, I am transported to the English gardens of my teenage and early adult years: perfectly manicured bushes flanked by flowers that bloom in every season; a wire bird cage filled with succulents and ferns; bird feeders teeming with goldfinches, flickers, chickadees and doves.
I hear Frisbee announcing my arrival with loud barks, nails clattering across the wood floor. Jenny says, “It’s okay, Frisbee, it’s just Hillary! No, she hasn’t got any treats.”
Jenny laughs with her whole being, opening the door wide and enveloping me with a hug. “You alright, darling? Here, let me take your coat,” she says, in her beautifully posh London accent. “Oh, that’s a lovely sweater! The color looks gorgeous on you.”
I scratch Frisbee’s back and assure him he’s a good boy; Jenny fetches him a treat so he doesn’t feel neglected.
We chat about the weather, how so-and-so is doing, what’s happening at the church. Jenny boils water and pours it into a large ceramic teapot, covering it with a cozy while the tea bags steep. The air in the kitchen smells like freshly baked scones and the blooming scent of tea leaves.
“It’s Yorkshire Gold,” she says. “I hope you like it strong.”
I assure her, I love my tea strong.
We sit at her kitchen table, set with proper English china cups and saucers. Jenny pours tea into my cup, festooned with delicate flowers and winding vines. She offers milk and sugar. I take both, as does she (we don’t care if the Queen only takes milk, hah!).
“Will you have butter or cream on your scone, with the jam?” she asks. “I put on lots of both because I’m naughty.”
We both laugh, and I opt for cream with jam. The scone is buttery and flakey, the clotted cream indulgently rich, the jam a perfect sweet-tart blend. Between sips of tea and bites of scone, I get a glimpse of heaven for a minute. Jenny encourages me to have more, tells me I can get away with it because I’m so thin. I laugh at her cheekiness, then have another scone.
Jenny tells me stories: life in London during World War 2, when she was a little girl. How she saw German planes fly overhead during the Blitz, how she befriended prisoners of war and shared her rationed sweets with them while they worked at construction sites near her home. About the fresh vegetables and honey her father brought to her family from their back garden, when her mother took the children out of London for safety.
She tells me about raising three children while her husband worked in banking, living for a time in Zambia. They loved living in Africa. Years later, she had a multiple-story house right in London, where Princess Diana passed by in her carriage.
I could listen to her stories for days on end and never tire of them.
But then she asks me how I’m doing, how my family is doing, if I have updates on people I’ve asked her to pray for. She smiles enthusiastically about all the reports of happiness and good tidings; says “Oh dear, oh dear” with earnest sympathy for the unhappy things.
“We know the Lord loves us and that He is good,” she says. “Sometimes the only thing we can do for people is pray, and let Him handle it.”
Rarely have I encountered someone so stalwart in her faith, so ready to share it with those around her. If you were a bank teller having a bad day, she would tell you how she’ll pray for you. And you would feel truly loved and cared for, even if you’d never met her before.
Jenny tells me all about her kids and grandkids in effusive, glowing terms. She is so proud of each one. She laughs just thinking about how much they all laugh when they’re together.
We flow easily through conversation and time leaps ahead. All too soon, I have to go. It’s okay, though, because I’ll see her again soon. In the meantime, I promise to get her some cherished British imports through Amazon: Bisto gravy mix, Marmite, Heinz salad cream, another box of Yorkshire Gold tea.
But of course, this is all in my memory bank now. Her house, the clock marking hours with different bird calls, all her perfectly maintained house plants, the oversized coffee table book with stunning bird illustrations, her Union Jack tea bag tin: all moved to New York with their owner, or otherwise given away.
The painful thing is, I don’t know whether I’ll have tea with Jenny again. I so badly want to, but distance, time and life are not in our favor. So phone calls and video chats will have to do for now. And, as Jenny would say, “If the Lord wills it, we will see each other again!”
This afternoon, I’ll be taking my 13-year-old son to his annual checkup. Thinking about the appointment, it suddenly occurs to me: when do I stop going back into the exam room with him? I’m guessing today is that day, and the unforeseen milestone has caught me off guard.
From the moment we knew I was pregnant, we read about all the stages of baby development: now your baby is the size of an almond, now an apricot, now an avocado (what is it with all the food comparisons, anyway? LOL). He’s developing organs, skin, hair. Now he can suck his thumb in-utero.
We prepared for birth, for bringing him home, for nursing and bathing and loving him. And while reading all the “What to Expect” books and actually having a baby are two very different things—sort of like studying a medical textbook versus performing surgery—we felt prepared for this new chapter. Swaddling blankets? Check! Diapers for days? Check!
Fast forward a bit through the dense fog of early newborn days, and we had a general idea of when to expect rolling over, stranger anxiety, self-soothing and crawling. Each time I brought my son to the pediatrician for the next checkup, I was provided a list of all the things he should be doing at that developmental stage. Can he grasp a Cheerio with thumb and index finger? Does he follow my finger with his eyes? Is he babbling, trying to form words? It always felt a bit like a midterm exam, but for the most part he aced the tests.
Then came the milestones that weren’t included in any parenting book I’d read: when a child should learn to floss his own teeth, tie his own shoes, cut his own fingernails, go to bed at night without needing to be tucked in (insert mom crying here). The milestones that are actually little feathers forming on wings that will one day help my child fly, leaving the nest.
It makes sense, of course. People aren’t like giraffes, standing on wobbly legs mere hours after birth, then leaving home shortly after their first birthday. Thank the Lord for that, right? Maturity is incremental and slow. I guess that’s why fledgling milestones pack more of an emotional punch. The first time he gets dropped off for school and doesn’t cling to my leg. The first bike ride without training wheels. The first time he shaves peach fuzz off his top lip.
And with all those first times come lasts. The last time he says “Mommy do it” when trying to zip his coat. The last time he asks me to read him a bedtime story. The day he’s finally too big to pick up. The last time I get to snuggle next to him on his bed and squeeze him tight.
So, what are the ages when your child should dress himself, cut his own nails, walk into the doctor’s office without mom? Well, I can’t answer that for you. Each child matures differently. But I will tell you this, mama: be on the lookout for those fledgling milestones. They are bittersweet.
If you’ve ever read my blog before, you’re probably saying, “I thought you dropped off the face of the earth. Eight years since your last entry??” And you’d be right. Not about me dropping off the face of the earth – I’m still here, thankfully – but it has been eight years since I posted anything.
Why? Well, I could come up with the usual excuses: parenting through some challenging years, the usual distractions of adulting, too much time on social media, the stress of current events, having a part-time job until late last year, blah, blah, blah.
The truth is, I never prioritized it. I always thought of time spent on personal musings and story writing as self-indulgent, and I have a tendency to back-burner that sort of thing. I mean, I will do mindless chores because I want to get them done before sitting down to write, after which I have no more time to actually write. Call it the “tyranny of responsibility” (a nod to the “tyranny of the urgent” concept).
But guess what? I did a thing during all the at-home time last year: I wrote a book! It’s a story set in current time but with a magical twist, in which triplet teenagers have to work together to solve a mystery and save everyone and everything they love. Will I try to get it published? Sure! Will I succeed? Maybe! As I’ve discovered, the road to getting published is 100 miles and writing the book is only Mile 1. But it feels absurdly accomplished to have finished even that first mile.
One thing I’ve learned during the book writing process is that coming up with a great story and checking all the boxes of plot, character development, reader engagement and likeability is not the sum total of becoming an author.
Writing is re-writing, as they say. And writing is art. Just like any other medium, there must be an element of talent and of practice. So, I must write more than just a solitary manuscript; I must make writing part of my “responsibilities,” just like thinking up meal ideas, cooking, doing laundry, whatever. It has to become essential.
I’m not making any promises about keeping this blog updated. That’s just asking for trouble. But the journey of 1,000 miles (or even 100) begins with a single step. Or a single blog, in this case.
I didn’t have a TV in my house until I was 10. Sure, I got the occasional cartoons at a babysitter’s house (He Man!), some shows here and there when I visited Dad for the summer (Reading Rainbow! C.H.I.P.S!), and sometimes a TV show or movie at a friend’s house (Back to the Future!), but for the most part I didn’t have television as an entertainment option. Now before you go judging my parents as hippies and mourning over my deprived childhood, or before you say to yourself “here we go – another self-righteous rant against TV”, know this – I had a wonderful childhood full of fun, and I currently own a TV (and yes, my son watches it).
Since I lived with my mom and step-father, and didn’t have a younger sibling in that family unit until I was 10, I lived a quasi-only-child life. I have a brother (4 and ½ years younger than I am) and a sister (8 years younger), and did see and play with them during the summers, but during the majority of the year I was flying solo in the kid department. All that to say, I had to come up with some pretty creative ways to keep myself occupied. I had friends, of course, but they weren’t always available to play and only one of them lived in my neighborhood.
From the time I was 7 years old until the summer I turned 15, I lived in a neighborhood that was perfect for exploring. Our property was surrounded by woods and had a creek running through it. Beyond the creek were more woods and open fields. I became a pioneer who dragged fallen branches together to form my log cabin, gathered wild onions beside the creek for my dinner, and dug for buried treasure (antique glass bottles inexplicably dumped near the edge of the woods). Many times I simply walked as far as I could go back into the woods, just to see what was out there. I can’t imagine letting Luke do anything like that, even when he’s older, but it sure was fun for me!
When I wasn’t playing outside, I was creating my own little worlds inside my house. At times, I was a reporter, interviewing my friends and parents with a tape recorder. Other times I was an author, making up stories (my first publication was “The Bloody Snake at Midnight” – a great read, by the way), writing poetry (heavily influenced by Shel Silverstein), or a princess who liked to reign supreme over any poor friend who happened to be over. On cold days, I would sit on a couch in our basement next to the piping hot wood stove and read stacks of books from the library. I also listened to books on vinyl record (if you don’t know what that is, stop reading this please – I already feel old). My imagination was alive and well during those formative years.
When we got a TV, there were very strict rules about when I was allowed to watch shows (after dinner and homework), and for how long (no more than an hour per day). I enjoyed watching TV, especially since it had been withheld and was therefore very intriguing, but I didn’t have the desire to simply sit around all day and veg. My TV-deprived years had helped build a foundation of imaginative play and a hunger for exploration that TV couldn’t hope to replace.
Okay, so what is my conclusion? Am I saying that all children should be prevented from watching TV in their early years so they develop imaginations? No. After all, Luke is almost 5 and he watches TV shows almost every day. We do restrict the amount he watches, and for the most part he watches show that are streaming and have some educational quality (e.g., no TV with commercials), but the fact is that he does veg out in front of the boob tube. When he’s not watching TV, though (which is a majority of the day), he’s roping his Daddy and me into imaginative worlds where we hide from “shadow people”, provide medical care to his myriad stuffed animals, line up Matchbox cars for the ferry, and pretend to be cats. Sometimes he likes to play board games, draw or paint, play with Play Doh, etc. I guess what I want to keep in mind is that my goal should be to foster my son’s development and imagination by letting him do what I did as a child (within reason) and live in his made-up worlds. Sometimes to be good parents we need to remember what it was like to be a child.
I have two warring aspects of my personality: one loves to purge my house of all non-essentials; the other can’t bear to part with anything of sentimental value.
For example, I have a compulsion to sort through the mail immediately when it arrives, put the envelopes and all junk mail in the recycling bin, and sort personal mail and bills into separate piles. All personal letters and cards go into storage boxes in our bonus room closet. You might think I mean letters from the past few years – oh no. I mean letters and cards from as long ago as my 5th birthday. Whatever my parents saved and passed along to me, I have kept. I have everything from hand-written notes between me and my high school friends, to Christmas cards simply signed with a name (barely qualifying as “personal” but addressed to me, so there you go). It’s almost as if I have this commandment engraved on my brain that anything written by family or friends can’t be thrown away, or even recycled. I feel guilt associated with getting rid of even the most cursory expressions of well wishes.
I’ve never really questioned it until now because the practice of saving everything didn’t seem to be hurting anything (or anyone), and I even found attractive photo boxes to keep all the letters and cards in. Think of it as pretty hoarding. It hasn’t gotten out of hand yet (I have perhaps a dozen boxes), but now that I have a son I’m realizing that my collections of what-have-you will eventually end up in his hands and he’ll have to figure out what to do with all of it (being a male, his solution would likely be to chuck it all in the garbage). For the sake of my son’s future sanity, I suppose I better face the pretty hoarding issue and figure out what to do about it.
So why do I have a compulsion to save everything? Is it because I want a historical record of correspondence and life events? Is it because I want my letters and cards to other people to be valued, therefore I wouldn’t get rid of letters and cards to me (even though the people who gave them would never know)? Is it because to get rid of some things, I would have to figure out the rules of “save versus pitch” and I don’t want to deal with it? I don’t know. What I know is that the practice of saving every card ever sent needs to stop. I have many more years in this life (God willing) and I can only imagine the quantity of boxes when I reach the age that I no longer have the energy or ability to sort through it.
Steps to recovery: 1) starting now, only save letters or cards that include very personal messages and would assist a walk down memory lane; 2) at some point, sort through all the boxes and get rid of non-essentials. The time for this will probably present itself when Luke grows up and leaves home.
For those of you wondering about this blog entry’s title, “Antenna” is the nick-name my Mom had for her Aunt Anna. Said in the correct way, Aunt Anna sounds like antenna. Get it? Okay, now that we’ve got that covered, I would like to say a few words – or maybe a lot of words – about the larger-than-life woman who was my Great Aunt, Anna Jean.
Some of my first memories of AA (as she abbreviated Aunt Anna often) include her singing “Baby By, Here’s a Fly” and “Rock-a-bye, Hush-a-bye, Little Papoose.” I would sit on her lap next to the fireplace in the living room and she would point to a fly way up near the ceiling, singing “let us watch him you and I; how he crawls up the walls but he never falls.” I imagined a black fly climbing around on the wall with six little shoes made of hairs (that he always wears).
I spent many a weekend at AA and Uncle Paul’s house as a young child, climbing up and down their steep stairs, exploring Uncle Paul’s wood working shop, trying to throw a baby gate down their laundry chute (see full story in AA’s own words further on), and trying to “feed” their dog Bruno his water. Since my mom’s parents lived so far away, AA and Uncle Paul became surrogate grandparents to me. They would call me their “almost granddaughter.”
As I grew older, I never tired of listening to AA tell stories of when was little. She had a knack for storytelling and wit matched only by her own mother. One of her favorite stories involved my Dad trying to feed me in my highchair when I was about 2 years old. I was refusing to eat whatever was proffered (as any good 2-year-old would do) and my Dad said “Well I guess someone isn’t very hungry”, to which I replied “Yes, I am hungry, and that’s a very dangerous thing for you to say!” I can just picture my Aunt Anna laughing with her dimpled smile upon finishing the story.
As an adult, I enjoyed keeping in close touch with AA via email. She was a champion email correspondent, and a talented writer. In addition to keeping me apprised of everyday life stuff, she recalled stories from yester-year in true AA fashion. When she passed away, I dug through archived emails to find stories that really showcased her talent and the personality I knew and loved so dearly.
Here are the excerpts I chose:
Uncle Paul’s first love: This evening an e-mail came, “Activity Update for Paul Allen.” They wanted him to be on Dr. Phil to reunite with his first love! I laughed for about 5 minutes. We don’t know how he happened to get signed up for reunion.com notices. Can you imagine? Someone who has been married over 46 years to the same person!
The really funny thing is, I WAS his first love. He had the odd date here and there (and if he told you about some of them, you would know “odd” is the right adjective) but did not “go” with anyone until we started going together his senior year of college. During his academy and early college years, he worked a lot; had no financial help at all. In academy he worked the first 2 years he was at Collegedale Academy (sophomore and junior years) in the woodshop. Ran a planer, they didn’t know at the time it ruined people’s hearing, that is why he has had hearing loss in his left ear forever. Then he started running a linotype his senior year of academy, did that all through college. In the summers he ran a linotype for the newspaper in Batavia, OH–would you believe he hitchhiked to and from work every day, 30 miles or so (lived in Cincinnati). He says only once did the same person pick him up twice; and he was late once. In college he was intent on his work, his premed studies, AND his music practice. He was very skinny in the olden days, weighed 136 when we got married. And we all thought he had “gotten fat” the summer between his junior and senior years of college; before that he weighed 128! After we got married my Southern cooking started to fatten him right up. I have told him he was the best return I ever had on an investment, who’d-a thunk he’d ever have a weight problem?
Uncle Paul’s visit to the South in 1986: He went to the South when his mother was terminally ill in 1986, she was with his niece in Deer Lodge, TN at the time. As soon as he decided to do that, he told me he was going to rent a car and drive on over to visit Roy–that was in September before Roy died in January. UP was glad he had gone; he took piano music and played for Roy, which Roy loved. And Ted came down to Morgans’; he and Paul told funny stories and Roy laughed so hard the tears rolled down his cheeks. UP elected to stay at Mother’s for the duration, and the two of them had a blast. He called me one night at 9:15, they were still going strong. I said, “Do you know it is 15 minutes after midnight there?” He hollered, “Artie, Annie says its a quarter past midnight.” She hollered back, “Well, I guess she’s right, that’s what the clock in here says.” I did not know Mother was a Night Owl until fairly recent years. She always HAD to get up when I lived at home! In recent years Aunt Lila used to fuss at her when she had seen the light on late down there–so Mother snuck around and fixed it so the light couldn’t be seen from Lila’s house!
From 2006 – when UP was in the hospital: I have felt so alone, and not for lack of love and support, but from being in alien territory and here by myself, it has been frightening. After this, I realized that I am NOT alone, but in the most loving Presence in the Universe. That is not hard to believe intellectually, but is sometimes hard to internalize emotionally.”
Aunt Anna talked to a neighbor’s land-scaper: The owner of the gardening outfit, a man named Ly (pronounced Lee) was telling me that what we saw around the shrubbery in ReNee’s yard was not beauty bark, it was Kapu (sound like Kah-PU). I had never heard of that, thought it was some fancy new formula. So I just nodded my head and tried to look wise. He finally mentioned that the Kapu also had shickamanoo in the mixture. Finally the light dawned–he was saying cow poo and chicken manure. Some fancy formula…
Uncle Paul’s hearing aids (2006): This afternoon we are to be in Woodinville Costco at 2:30 to have Paul’s new hearing aids fitted and programmed. We are both excited! I know it has been hard on him to not hear what is going on around him–and hard on me to shout, repeat, rephrase. Long since I had to stop talking to him unless I am in the same room with him, preferably standing right in front of him. He has had hearing loss since he ran a planer in the woodshop in academy and the first year or two of college. I was afraid for myself, with Granny’s profound lack of hearing, but so far I am second only to your Grandpa Max. UP is going to have to learn how to pay attention, too! When he had on the testing device, the audiologist put a snatch of Bach on for him to hear. I have never seen such a look of rapture, it was total disbelief. I was so moved that I almost started to cry, but thought if I did I would probably wail and might not be able to stop. They are expensive (although at Costco, half what they are other places), but are the latest digital technology and we have high hopes that they are going to open up the world for him. He can hardly hear what they are saying on TV these days.
Wardrobe malfunction! [That] reminds me of a story about me from the long ago. It was when Lisa was in grade school, and I was teaching a junior SS class which included her, must have been sixth grade. When I got to the church and got out of the car, I discovered that I had forgotten to put on a slip, and the dress I had on was clinging around and through my thighs and upon my hips, VERY noticeably. Ruth was the junior leader at the time. I went in and told her I thought I would have to come home to put on a slip, because I had to play the accompaniment for the soloist for the church service and didn’t think I could walk up to the piano that way. She said she was short of teachers, so could she just loan me the slip she had on–it was a whole slip. We repaired to the rest room, got into adjoining booths, and proceeded to make the switch, with her handing me the whole slip over the top of the booth. (She had on a loose wool dress that was completely lined.) When I got back to the junior room, I sat down and discovered that I had a large hole in the leg of my black pantyhose, (just below the knee). It was quite apparent, as dresses were mid or above knee in those days. Showed Ruth–she had a great idea. She had her daughter, Darla, go get a black felt pen and I colored my skin beneath the hole black. Far from perfect, but much less glaring. Got through SS, went to church. We knelt for prayer, and when we got up lo and behold the stocking had moved and the felt pen mark no longer covered the hole, just showed up to the side of it under the stocking. I was on the front row, and was trying to unobtrusively move the stocking back over the hole, with very little success (as you can imagine). In no time they announced the special music, and I walked up to the piano, kind of shuffling as I went so nobody would notice the holey stocking. When I sat down, I was so unnerved by all the preceding distress that my fingers came down on all the wrong keys. It was like I was on the wrong “home keys” on a computer keyboard. The soloist’s eyebrows shot up and she looked around wildly, but I found the right keys and proceeded with the intro. Fortunately, she was the sort who enjoyed singing solos and never got nervous. I believe that may have been the last time I played in public…
Not Beverly: Here is a story that may amuse you. Yesterday afternoon UP and I went to Costco, then back by Albertson’s to buy, as Granny used to say, a “bill of groceries.” Was feeling done in from having felt pretty good and done a load of work the day before, and I am sure I looked pathetic. Had not done anything to my hair but washed it and run the pick through it yesterday morning. Felt too bad to even care. Had on my ancient cotton cardigan sweater which I wear to hide my unsightly, spotted arms. I was in the aisle where the lawn and leaf bags are, and Paul had gone on to the next aisle. As I was eyeing the stacks of boxes trying to find what I needed, a woman ahead of and to the side of me was talking, I decided, to me. Looked her way, and she had a rather quizzical look on her face, and said something as she looked my direction. I didn’t understand what she said, so said, “Pardon me?” She then said, “Bev–Beverly?” Guess I was gazing at her blankly, then she grinned wildly and said, “No, no–never mind, never mind…” I grinned back, and went on my way. Obviously she thought I was Beverly. (I’m not…) Picked up my lawn bag boxes and went around the corner of the aisle to rendezvous with UP, and thought, “Pore ol’ Beverly–she must be looking really bad these days.” Wished I had told the lady that, and thought I would if I ran into her again but I didn’t–maybe she had fled the store after our encounter! I do feel for Beverly, though…
A little “Hilliary” snippit: Last night they were giving a consumer’s report on KIRO on baby gates. UP and I were reminiscing about your putting the Bruno Gate down the laundry chute, and were having ourselves a good chuckle. We could just see you working your little self soooo diligently to get that gate pushed down there. Maybe you wanted to give “Beuno” more freedom!
Silly patient syndrome: One of our former patients (who beats all), an elderly woman, had a throat culture done years ago. When I called her with the report, she said, “Anna, would that report tell me where I got that illness?” Say WHAT?! I wanted to say, “Why, yes, Ella–it says you picked that up on the corner of Fourth and Virginia.” Instead, I just thought, “I will not scream, I will not scream” and I didn’t.
Another silly patient: Did I ever tell you that a patient called one day and told me she just called to ask how her autopsy turned out? Gave me a nasty turn, I’ll tell you. I said, “Wh-wh-whaaaat?” She said, “That autopsy Dr. Allen did on my breast.” “Ah,” said I, become very brisk and businesslike to keep control of myself, “Yes, of course, I’ll check and find out.” She is the same one who later had to have her breast aspirated, and called and told me she wanted to make the appointment to have her breast exasperated. You should have seen our well-endowed medical assistant, Marcia, doing her impression of THAT one. Lisa and I purt’ near injured ourselves.
Uncle Paul the cheerleader: He is my biggest cheerleader, thinks anything I do is wonderful. What a guy! Years ago when we would have guests and, for instance, have spaghetti for dinner, he would sometimes say as we sat down at the table, “Now you are about to taste the best spaghetti sauce you have ever put in your mouth.” I would be humortified. Flattered, but embarrassed. What are they gonna say? “No it isn’t, this is not good at all.” Or, “My Aunt Betsy’s is good, you have not even tasted good.” I would implore him not to do that. He wouldn’t for a while, then he would forget and was up to his old tricks. Back when we both felt better and I cooked a lot, he would often say after dinner, “Now, Annie, we could eat anywhere in the Metropolitan Seattle Area and the food would not be this good.” Can you imagine how I would miss such support? Not that I think he is right, but it is what he thinks and that is what matters.
I used to be able to have good old-fashioned arguments over who was singing what on the radio. “That was Steve Miller Band. Yes it was. Yes it was. I know it was. Because it totally sounded like another song I’ve heard by them. I just know, okay?” Now, all my opponent has to do is whip out his smart phone, pull up the SoundHound app, and hold his phone up to the speaker – boom, I’m proven right or wrong after a short pause and a little vibrating sound. Same goes for the name of an actor guest starring on our favorite show. “That was Ricky Schroder. It totally was. Yes it was. Don’t you think I remember Silver Spoons? I had a huge crush on him!” Now, my opponent pulls up the IMDB app. Finds out I was right after all – hah! Mr. Smarty Pants Phone knows everything.
These days, “there’s an app for that.” You name the need (except maybe doing stuff like washing your dishes for you), and you can be pretty well guaranteed to find an app to address it. There are apps to help you get fit, make all sorts of new and exciting meals (which sort of counteracts the getting fit efforts), compose songs, learn languages, keep up with your friends, and 600,000 other things. I even read somewhere about an app where you can pull up your contact information and bump your phone against someone else’s phone to share the info. Just tap your phones together and voila! – shared contacts. Now that is something.
With new apps being developed daily, no doubt, I thought I’d come up with my own app wishes. Who knows – maybe there are already apps out there for some of these: Get my son to obey me immediately without the need for threats; Figure out what I want to feed my family during the week and auto-generate a grocery list; Do whatever I need to do but don’t feel like doing (can’t there be an app for cleaning the humidifier? I hate that job!).
I enjoy the apps on my smart phone as much as the next person. I like the easy access to information and fun little do-dads. It makes my life a bit easier; a bit more cushy (isn’t that what all new inventions accomplish, when it comes down to it?); it also takes the fun out of arguments and bets. Because no one can out-smart a smart phone with a bazillion apps. Humph.
Because Three 