To Life

Often in my blog, I write because I am moved by something.  This year I have been moved by the beauty of life, the struggle of raising children, the joy of births, the sadness and sometimes celebration of deaths after a life well-lived and day to day living.  I write because I observe something but usually it is because I am wrought with emotion about what I have observed.  This post exemplifies that process.

Today, I attended another funeral, or as they are generally known, a Celebration of Life.  But this funeral was not for an elderly relative who lived fully and saw generations come up behind him or her.  Rather, this was the funeral of a co-worker who succumbed to a brave and ferocious battle with cancer.  She was only 46 years old; just four years older than I am now.  And while I am moved by her life and the person that she was, I am completely and utterly angry about her death.  I know that there is a plan and universe has its reasons for plucking someone from us at such an early time but it is hard for me to celebrate a life cut short. 

She was an amazing person, loved by many, never an unkind word and while I appreciated knowing her the little that I did at work, I was even more amazed by her courageous battle she raged for the last three years.  And yet, I am left with a pit of sorrow because she should have won that battle.  She did everything she could, everything she should; she followed all the instructions.  She had a positive attitude and used humor as well as all the medical treatments.  She really gave her all.  And all is what the cancer took from her. 

Not fair!!!  Not fair that her teenage son is without her, not fair that her husband who loves her so much is now a widower, not fair that her parents outlived their child.  I’m not celebrating that.  I’m incited over it.  As I was listening to the pastor telling us to turn to God, I have to admit I took comfort in the reminder that we are small in the scheme of the universe.  But as I was leaving, my sadness over the loss turned towards anger.  I celebrate the woman, but I’m not happy about losing such a soul. 

Death is such a scary and dark place to think about; when will it all end, how will it end, will it hurt, is there a heaven?  And so in the face of death, I will turn to life.  I vowed in my sad anger that I will love more fully and be more present.  I will put my iPhone down more often and listen more to my kids and husband.  I will DVR less and dance in the living room a little more.  I will take more vacation days and give myself a break about the house not being clean.  So even though I am angry that Deb was taken too young, I learned some things from her death. 

1. Take pictures of yourself with your loved ones and friends; I am often trying to not be in front of the camera because of my battles with my weight but no more  - I want people to be able to see my laughter after I’m gone
2. Live in the moment; I think anyone who is taken from us after a battle with an illness knows that life is fleeting.  We need to be present and act today; not with reckless abandon – but definitely standard-issue abandon. 
3.  Love openly and feel deeply – don’t leave room for doubt or distance.  Don’t let your loved ones question how you felt – make it known. 
4.  Be brave; in the face of life, be brave, bold and dare to dream your best dream.

After leaving the funeral, I called my husband and asked him to bring the kids for a lunch with me.  I needed to see them.  My sadness and anger about the death of this young soul was lingering over me and I needed to turn to my life and start to make the changes I just mentioned.  What I got was so much better than I had hoped for – my children ran to me with genuine happiness to see me; my husband gave me a giant smooch and told me he missed me all day.  I mean, honestly, just when I am mad at the Universe – I get a dose of love big enough to fill any void.  How can one be mad after that?

So as you can see I have run the gamut of emotion today; I wept over the loss of a truly wonderful person, I got angry at the Universe and beings higher than myself for taking a mother from her son, a wife from her husband and a daughter from her parents; I felt happiness when I gazed onto my adoring and adored family as they met me for a much needed family lunch after the funeral.  But these emotions I have felt do not make me feel tired or empty but rather I feel full of life, however fleeting, I feel full of LIFE.  Now you, my dear reader, go LIVE….

Hate is a waste of time

In my life, I have the unfortunate situation that I know a hater, a true meanie.  Now, this person - we'll call her Person X - is not a close friend of mine.  She is someone that I only know through others.  But she is mean and nasty.  Every time, without exception, that I have been in her presence or heard about an exchange that someone else has had with her has been full of her venom.  She never a nice thing to say about anyone; she is always the victim - everyone is a horrible person and she a saint among saints.  She will tell how she's been ripped off, abused, taken advantage of, walked upon, etc.  Yet it is she that claims income from two different ex-husbands, and has her bills paid by her current, this poor soul who never gets treated right.  She rarely lifts a finger for herself but instead has her children running her household for her - cooking and cleaning.  She'd cuss you out just to look at you.  Person X is not someone that you'd want in your life.


Now, I'm lucky, I don't have to deal with her often nor be in her presence much but she is someone that I have known for the past decade and a half and will probably have to come across her through our mutual connections once or twice more in my life.  And while I have no interest in being a close personal friend of Person X, I will say she has taught me something.  Through her vile ugliness of a disposition, I have learned that hate and anger is a total waste of time and energy.  You could match her hatefulness toe-to-toe, word for word and I guarantee you that she can out ugly you.  It isn't pretty when you have to be in the presence of such a person; it is a drain on your life.  I've seen her scars on people - the people that I know that have to deal with her much more regularly.  They are beat down, worn out by her nastiness.  All the while she's beating them with her sharp tongue, she's telling them it is their fault and not hers - that hers is the sorry lot in life.  I have expressed to our common friends that they are not to blame and should not take on that burden of her meanness.  There is no sense or purpose to her hatred - she hates everyone equally and is mean and nasty about it.


And so, she has taught me that it is far better to hold your tongue and say nothing when you have nothing but hatred to speak.  It does only damage to be mean and nasty to people.  I say, be kind - or be silent.  Spewing hate and making people feel terrible serves no purpose here.  If you seek only to hurt those around you, your life is empty and meaningless.  I can say I am not and will not ever be this way; and for that I am so glad.  My only wish is that I could help those she has hurt more than I can; I wish they did not have to deal with her at all, but it isn't within my control.  All I can do is send out my loving prayers that they have peace in their lives, despite Person X and that they can one day realize that her hatred, while hurtful to them is a waste of time just the same.  I hope one day they can be free of it and that I never have to lay eyes on Person X again.

Lest We Forget

This weekend in our little town of St. Joseph, Michigan, we have a really cool event happening.  The Lest We Forget (www.lestweforgetusa.org) organization is doing WWII re-enactments; including taking the beach along Lake Michigan.  My son, Jake, and I stopped by our regional airport to check out the campgrounds and we took a few pictures.  


I wasn't sure what to expect but honestly, it was like walking back in time in many ways.  I'm always trying to have a teaching moment with my kids and this was no exception.  I quizzed Jake on the name of the British Flag (the Union Jack) and we talked about the issues during WWII.  All the while, Jake was asking if the airport where the re-enactors, their tents, gear, guns, food, and vehicles including trucks, jeeps, planes and helicopters are parked, has Wi Fi access so he can play some games on his iPod touch.  I just shook my head and tried again; we saw the Allied Camp; US and Britain well represented there.  Across the way were the German and Japanese camps; Jake liked the story we heard about a little boy wandering in to the Japanese camp and having the soldiers there shoo him out for having gone into enemy territory.  


This event puts at the top of mind all the sacrifice and honor of our soldiers and veterans.  I am amazed at the camps that have been recreated with authentic WWII gear; I can't imagine living in such a small space for months or a year at a time; and yet thousands of soldiers have done this and sacrificed for centuries.  These men and women are truly incredible.  I have a grandfather (now deceased) who was a WWII Veteran.  He served at Iwo Jima; which they are re-enacting tomorrow.  Ron has two grandfathers (also now deceased) that were WWII Vets; we believe one was at the battle of Pearl Harbor.  My Dad was in the Marine Reserves during Vietnam and my father-in-law was in the Military Police at Leavenworth.   With that family history in mind, it makes seeing an event like this even more special.


I feel so blessed at being able to walk through such a great, living reminder of our soldiers.  I can't wait to see what we can do at tomorrow's events.  Thank you, Lest We Forget, for reminding us.

Allied Camp

Jake with one of the vintage motorcycles

WWII Jeep

US Camp

Jake was asking about WiFi at this point

One of the larger tents with cots.

Becoming a Step Mom

When I met and later married my husband, Ron, he came with a little extra gift.  That little gift's name is Rachel.  I met Rachel when she was just 2-1/2 years old.  She was just a little blond cutie, she smiled all the time and she was the apple of her Daddy's eye.  The very first time I met her, she was holding on to a kitty just as proud as she could be - the poor cat dangling from her chubby toddler hands.  She wanted to show her Dad what she was holding.  He nervously said, "Rachel, this is my friend Laura."  To which, she replied, "I caught this kitty," and then left the room.

Truth be told, I fell in love with Ron in part because I saw the kind of Dad he was to Rachel.  One of the early established 'rules' of our dating life was that I had to be willing to accept that he was a father and that Rachel came first.  I was fine with that - I appreciated that he so guarded his daughter.  As our relationship blossomed, I tried to interact with Rachel as a loving friend of her Dad's.  She was so young, there was no point in trying to explain our relationship to her - more important to just be a nurturing adult.  Rachel, from the start, was an openly loving little girl.  She hugged and cuddled and wanted to be around us all the time.

By the time we married two years later, we were a happy family unit.  Rachel was four years old when we got married.  I remember laboring over every detail of her involvement in the wedding.  She was a flower girl for us, we made sure to have a family picture of the three of us, I wanted her to have a special Daddy-Daughter dance but we decided it was too much for one wedding to do everything.  So instead, she danced with both of us and played with her cousins in her white flower girl dress and her hot pink tennis shoes.

Time, as it does, marched on and we brought first a sister and then a brother for Rachel.  By the time she was eight years old, she had two siblings with our family and another two on her mother's side. She was surrounded by younger children!

As I think back on those busy first few moments of dating, marriage, new step-parenting, babies, etc., I am struck by how many years have gone by!  Rachel is now 16, she is driving and she is a fully-fledged teen.  Our once warm relationship is cooler, partially by her age, partially by the physical distance between us - we live some 90 miles from her now but still try to see her every other weekend if she'll have us (remember - she's a teenager) and of course on school vacations and holidays.  But there is a coolness, too, fueled because I am her step-mom.  I think back on all the moments we've had with her and I miss so much of her when I think about how her as a child instead of the teen in front of me.

I remember going to pick Rachel up on her first day of Kindergarten.  We were so proud of her.  I took her picture at the school and I cried because she was so big.  We took her for ice cream to celebrate her accomplishment!  She was such a great kid, always helping with whatever was going on - always wanting to be with us.  I remember those times and held on to them because as time goes on, those opportunities get smaller and smaller.

I have always tried to treat her like my own child and I believe in my heart I've done that.  But that doesn't always cut it for a step-parent.  Step-parents (at least this step-parent) don't have the built in luxury of unconditional love from the child.  Rachel has always been more stand-off-ish with me as she has gotten older.  She's afraid of disappointing me, or upsetting me in some way (afraid, mainly, of a potential lecture if I am disappointed, I suppose), but what she doesn't realize is that even though she may not feel unconditional love for me, after all - I am not her Mom - I do love her unconditionally.  I have always loved her, which makes the teen distance all the more painful for this StepMom.  We don't see eye to eye on much these past few years, and it is hard for me.  I feel I don't have a say, don't want to impose my opinion although I find it very often choking the very air out of me to not speak up.  Particularly as she looks ahead to college, a subject I am afraid to broach with her because I have upset her so many times already.

I want so very much for my step-daughter.  I want her to know what success feels like, how wonderful life can be.  She has had a rough go in life, what with not having her parents together and then watching new children emerge from other relationships.  Having to get to know and understand new step-parents; watching a step-father go and another take his place. This has not been easy for her.  When she was little, she would creep closer to me, hoping for a hug, never asking.  I would often get frustrated with her quiet need, wanting her instead to just give me the hug.  I wish now I could go back in time and give her 100 hugs for every one I ever gave her.  I think what she needed was even more reassurance that I love her.  I try now to let her know through other ways that I love her.  I clean her room while she is gone, I encourage her to drive me around while she is here.  I get upset if we don't see her on our appointed visitation because I know that too soon, that will be gone.

Becoming a Step-Mom has been the most difficult thing I've ever done.  It is by far the most thankless of my roles, at least so far.  I don't know if I'm doing it right or wrong most days because I get just marked indifference at this point from our teen.  I just hope that when a few more years have passed we can look back on these years as something that eventually brought us closer.  Otherwise, I'll be just another one of the Wicked StepMothers for the fairy tales.  Only time will tell.

Appreciating our furry family members!

     Recently, I have been reminded of how important our furry friends are in our lives.  Yesterday, our cat, Rascal, was missing-in-action.  He lives most of his life outside in the warm months.  He claws at our curtains to remind us that he prefers the outdoors, he attacks us instead of the mice and chipmunks he stalks outside when we refuse to let him out.  Because we are constantly reminded that he prefers the outside to the in, we normally don't worry when he is gone for hours on end.  Until yesterday, when he hadn't been home for a full 24 hours.  I started noticing his absence in the morning, when he is usually my steady companion.  He wouldn't come when I called him, another oddity. I assumed that he was too busy to be bothered with me, although it was a nagging concern throughout the morning for me.
     By about 1:00pm I had reported his obvious absence to my husband, who helped me call for him- to no avail.  We hadn't told the kids we were worried but they came to their own conclusions and around 4:00pm they started canvassing the neighborhood, asking our neighbors if they had seen our little Rascal.  When they returned from their long search empty handed, they wanted to make Lost Cat signs.  We told both kids that it would all work out, but inside, we were both feeling very nervous that maybe our predator, outdoor cat had finally met his match.  
     After all, we live near a ravine that houses foxes and coyotes; it was very possible that he had met up with a faster, larger predator.  We started driving through our neighborhood calling for him, we drove to a nearby park that shares our ravine.  We came back to the house without him.  
     When we arrived home, after calling to him along the way home, we started all saying how much we missed him.  Just as we sat down for dinner, my husband yelled, "Cat!" and pointed at the sliding glass door. There he was, looking no worse for the wear.  To his surprise, he was scooped up almost immediately by both kids and myself.  The sheer joy was apparent on both kids faces, and I know my own as well.  
      Rascal was plunked right down for a full can of cat food; a rare treat.  He was brushed, held, cooed at and in all fashions - spoiled.  I think we all realized when he showed up at the door how much we love him; even though he spends a lot of time away from us.  He graced us with a rare indoor night and morning, enjoying all the special attention he continued to receive.  Both my husband and I took turns holding and petting him - another rare treat for him as we are usually as aloof as he is.  Lucky for us, we got to enjoy him; we didn't have a tragic ending as we were all afraid to have.  
     So for each of you that has a pet, or anyone thinking of getting one; for all the work and sometimes worry than can produce, these furry family members really add so much joy to our lives.  Give them an extra hug tonight!

Rascal on his way to a vet appointment.
Since he doesn't like to be kept inside, this is one of my favorite, "Get me out of here" pictures.

Encounters with Venus

Today, June 5, 2012, Venus will orbit between the Earth and the Sun.  This event takes place once every 105 years; the last time it occurred was 1907, the next time will be in 2117.  These events, and many others, tend to make me think about history – both personal and world history.  I do tend to look backward as much as I do forward and wonder about how things were before my time, and what will occur in my lifetime and after. 

In 1912, my oldest grandfather would be born – today he would be about to turn 100 years old.  When the Venus event occurred in 1907, his father, Irwin Miller; was 22 years old.  He was living in Chicago, ready to make his mark on the world.  I doubt that Irwin knew the Venus event even occurred; maybe there was a small write up in the Chicago Tribune but he was more than likely working or just not paying attention to such things as astronomy.  My family comes from working-class stock so I’m sure being a practical, meticulous young man, the son of German immigrants; that he was busy, head down, trying to make it through each day as he aspired to achieving the American Dream.

This celestial event has given me pause to think about Irwin Miller, my Great-Grandfather whom I had the pleasure of knowing, appreciating and loving for my first eleven years of life. I, of course, knew him as a 95 year old man, but here I am pondering his life at age 22.  What must his life have been when Venus last made her appearance?  I assume that he didn’t know about the Venus orbit between the Earth and the Sun but did he note the turn of the century that he witnessed at 15 years of age?  

Being born in 1885, he was surely aware of that event; he witnessed the birth of the 20^th century.  When I was a child and I thought about my great-Grandfather being born in 1885 I was amazed that someone could watch the world pass from one century to another.  What he must have seen and felt as the Great War was breaking out and he had two small sons at home!  He moved his family to where our family came to be ‘from’ sometime in the 1920’s; by then adding a daughter.  Irwin saw many things:  Moving from Chicago to St. Joseph, Michigan; World War 1, the Great Depression, the New Deal, World War II, the birth of grandchildren, the death of a grand-daughter after a long battle with leukemia, the Korean War, the death of his wife, my great-Grandmother, and so on and on.  Happy times, sad times alike - he saw the passing of one century to another.

I think about my great-Grandfather because it strikes me that not only do we have this once-every-105-years planetary event that makes me ponder what was happening in my roots 105 years ago but very nostalgically, I reminisce about the fact that I, too, have seen the turn of a century.  I saw a new century AND a new millennium dawn.  I laugh sometimes at the Y2K scare and I struggle sometimes to help my children understand the years that started in “19” instead of “20”.  I was married in the year of the new Millennium – Y2K itself.   

           My great-Grandfather lived through historic events; and so have I.  I was in 5^th grade when President Ronald Reagan was shot, I remember the fall of the Berlin Wall, I was watching live TV when the Space Shuttle Columbia exploded mid-air, I attended protests for Apartheid in college, wrote letters to the President about Desert Storm, watched as our soldiers went from peace to war in the early 1990’s, saw the dot-com bubble, I have a friend that was in the Twin Towers the day the planes crashed into them and I saw the turbulent years that followed.  We straddlers of these centuries, my great-grandfather and I , have much in common.

          All these thoughts – comparing what is happening today to what happened in the past – the parallels between the two are entertainment for my brain.  I put like against like as I think back in my family history and try to figure out what was going on 100 years ahead of my time.   

          I wonder what stories my children and their children will tell of their old grandmother that lived in the 20^th century and the 21^st century.  Surely they will be amazed of all the events that happen in my life, like I revel at what my great-grandfather must have seen.  It shows us, we small humans, how big our universe is when one minor event for Venus can envelope 105 years of our history at a time.  How much will happen before the next encounter with our friend Venus?

Celebrating a Life

                This week, I attended the Celebration of Life for my Great-Aunt Gerri.  As with all funerals, there is the normal sadness that the person is no longer with us, this was no exception.  We talked about how she loved to wear hats on special occasions and at church, in fact the ladies in her large family were wearing all 17 of her hats; three daughters, eight grand-daughters or grand-daughters in-law and six great-grand-daughters.  The minister talked about her great love of family and God, talked about her devotion to her community, her entrepreneurial spirit and her general love of life.  She was 90-years-old, so we truly celebrated a life well lived.  But the most touching, the most poignant, the most tear-jerking story was listening to the long descriptions of the love she and my Great-Uncle Walker shared.  They were married 70 years, until 13 months ago, when he passed away at the age of 90 as well.

                As my husband and I sat and listened to Aunt Gerri’s eulogies, we were both struck by the love story that was unveiled before us.  Through the words of Gerri and Walker’s daughters and grand-daughters, we heard about their love for each other.  Married at the ages of 17 and 19, surviving service in WW2, raising and loving three daughters, camping, fishing, helping the church, starting businesses, selling homes, retiring, helping with grandchildren and great grandchildren (including triplets!), travelling and finally, taking care of each other in their senior years, finally losing a battle with Alzheimer’s.  Then we watched the movie made out of old pictures; pictures of high school sweethearts, newlyweds, young family, all the way through their 80’s.  As we watched the pictures, we saw the love on their faces; we watched this beautiful life they had lived. 

                I’ve pondered their story ever since, I want to know their secret sauce, the recipe for making such a beautiful life.  I think the messages are in the story itself; in the description of how they struggled together, laughed together, worked side-by-side and really cherished each other as friends and as husband and wife.  Today, their story would be tragic.  A 17 year old marrying a 19 year old?  That sounds absurd!  But in 1941, not so tragic; and right away, they  persevered.  My uncle was drafted for WW2 and served three years in the war.  By 1943, they had their first child; no easy task to raise a baby while your husband is off at war.  The stories that were told about how they had little money and had to be creative to make ends meet remind me of how we each have to start out together, scratching our way through those first formative years of marriage.  No matter the challenge, you have to rise to meet it together.  My Aunt Gerri was a strong woman, she really ‘wore the pants’ in the family in some respects.  That reminds me a lot of the descriptions I hear about myself; so I really loved the touching parts about how, when my Uncle Walker was in thick of his Alzheimer’s, long after he had been able to reciprocate their deep love for each other on the outside, Aunt Gerri made sure that he had a good meal, maintained his dignity and woke up next to her in the morning. 

                When I held my husband’s hand as we walked out of the funeral, we both had the same thoughts that we shared with each other.  When our time is done, our hope is that the descriptions that were shared at my Aunt’s funeral, are similar to those that are shared about us.  How do you build a great love story?  One day at a time; loving, laughing, crying, enduring, appreciating, hugging and bonding; being constant, being all that you can be for each other.  What a mighty goal for each of us!  I believe we’re on our way.

For Ron

It is funny how one’s interpretation of love changes over time.  When I was a teenager, love was all consuming, my entire being absorbed in being “in love” with my boyfriend.  If he should forget to call, or not say he loved me or failed to mention my socks, I would fall apart into tears of despair and abandonment.  This would be followed by the highs of him brushing a wisp of hair away from my face and telling me my eyes were pretty or leaving a flower for me on my car after high school.  I would float away on Cloud 9, feeling all of my bi-polar happiness. 

As a 20-something, I was interested in a slightly more esoteric, mature feeling of love; something of substance, a coffee house experience – smoky and slightly Hemingway-esqe, but still a romantic; wanting to be at least a little swept off my feet.  I thought that I had wanted the romance Prince Charming mixed with intelligence of Albert Einstein.  However, when I met my husband, I was still not sure what true, enduring love, felt like.  At 28, I had had all these relationships that had been more of a sprint in the race for love – leaving me winded and out-paced in the marathon that love turns out to be. 

As it turns out, love and it’s endurance now fascinates me.  When I married my husband some 11 plus years ago, I had thought marriage and our love would be a lengthy honeymoon and as my kids like to say, “Nothing but cakes and cuddles”.  Reality would prove me very wrong.  Our first year of marriage was a rude slap in the face.  We had to combine money, share house work and basically live with the other person’s annoyances.  What we found in the midst of our nesting period and all the petty arguments of who should take out the garbage and/or do laundry was that at the base of it, we have a deep and abiding respect and friendship for each other.  We really like each other as people; I have found that to be enormously important years later. 

When I reflect on this love that I have for my husband, I think about falling in love with him the first time.  I thought I could do without him, the independent woman that I was, until we decided that we should take some time away from our budding romance for reasons that seemed reasonable at the time.  When he left my house after we talked about backing off for awhile, I thought I’d go to the gym but instead I collapsed in a heap on my couch after I thought about what we had just decided (I think it was my idea, mind you) and cried until I fell asleep.  I had never done that.  I woke up early the next morning and cried some more before heading off to work.  I didn’t even know why I was crying but I knew then that I was falling in love.  That was only the first leg of the race. 

And now, many years later, I have fallen in love with him so many other times since then that I really can’t recall every time.  This feeling of falling for my husband is usually after a cycle of wondering what I was smoking when I married him and I’m sure of him wondering what had possessed him to ask such a harpy for her hand.  But after such a cycle, I reflect on what makes our marriage endure and at the heart of it is the truest love that I have ever felt for another person other than my children and my parents.  It is the glue that keeps us together, binds us as no legal document ever could.  When we were married, this Shakespearean sonnet was read and I think it speaks volumes of the type of love that lasts:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark 
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come: 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

I knew that we were in for the long haul but now with our first decade under our belt and safely onward to the next one, I realize that I am now a cross-country runner in the marathon of love; well seasoned to the long miles we must run together, side by side.  I’m as happy as I could ever be with my husband, my best friend, my mate.  And now I feel our poem is like this one from Elizabeth Jennings:

Tell me where you go
When you look faraway.
I find I am too slow

To catch your mood. I hear
The slow and far-off sea
And waves that beat a shore

That could be trying to
Call us toward our end,
make us hurry through

This little space of dark.
Yet love can stretch it wide.
Each life means so much work

You are my wealth, my pride.
The good side of me, see
That you stay by my side

Two roots of one great tree.

We are two roots of one great tree, we are the pair in a three legged race, holding on to each other for support as we run our marathon together, picking up memories along the way, falling in love with each other over and over.  

Dear Time

Dear Time;

As I sit here pondering, I thought of you.  I wanted to reach out and write you a letter to let you know some of my thoughts.  I know you wait for no one.  I understand it perfectly.  It just dawned on me, though, how much of, well, You, I’ve seen fly by!  Why, just the other day I was a young woman of 19 or 20, walking along the banks of the Red Cedar.  I turned to cross the street and suddenly, it seems, I was already 24 or 25.  And then, as I was adjusting to that age, I realized I had just turned 30.  Then, Time, you seemed to really pick up speed.  In a matter of just a few turns of the dial, here I am a newlywed, another blink and I’m with my three children, already skyrocketing through to my 40’s.  

It is true, what people say, that Time is like smoke through a keyhole…just gone so quickly.  And the more that you pass, the more I appreciate what has been, what was, and I look forward to what will be.  I am so glad for the moments, as an example, that I had as a child with my grandparents.  At that second, I was impatient and unappreciative of what I had, as most children are.  I took for granted the hours upon hours that I spent with my grandparents, not knowing how short our time together would be. 

And now, many years later, I wish that I could bend you, Time, to my will and return to my great-grandmother’s kitchen where she was baking a blueberry pie.  I wish I could go back to my five-year-old body with my 40-year-old mind and ask her a few questions about her life.  Questions I would not have thought of until much later in my own life.  I would ask her if she was having a good life and I’d ask her for her blueberry pie recipe.   Or perhaps I could convince you, Time, to give me a few moments back with my Grandfather.  I’d really like to know some family history from him and find out about why our name was Miller and where his grandparents were born.   

And still, I would bend you further, Time, my dear friend.  I would ask you to move me through to my teen years so I could whisper to myself – “Don’t date him” or “You should be a foreign exchange student”.  Ah the things I could do with a turn back of your hands, Time.

Or what if we took a journey to the future?  You and I could check in on my darling husband and see what he is doing.  Has he stayed healthy and happy?  Is he as wonderful of a grandfather as he is a father?  Have we gone to Europe yet?  What about my children?  How tall is my son?  How beautiful is my daughter?  We could visit my parents and see how they are or check in on dear friends that I haven’t seen.  Time, you and I could really have an adventure.  I would like to see if I have enough money for a comfortable retirement.  I would like to know that my plans that I am making now are really coming true for us.  

But mainly, Time, I have just a simple request for you.  I would ask you, from the deepest part of me, to slow down.  I would like to know as I come to the end with you that I have had a chance to feel and appreciate every minute that I am given.  I want you to be good to me, Time.  Is that too much to ask?  Please do let me know your thoughts on this.  Perhaps you could change your Facebook status to “Just wasting Time” or “Taking the slow lane”?  Thanks for your consideration on these points, and if you’d like to take that adventure with me, I’m ready to go!

Very truly yours,

Laura   

Family is how you define it

I have a foster sister whom I love dearly.  She lived with us most of my childhood to age 15.  I was the youngest, my biological sister two years older and Mari three years older than me.  We, all three of us, had been raised very close knit and we remain that way today.  I was in her wedding, she in mine and we talk every week as sisters and as friends. 

As children, Lisa, my biological sister, and I were used to Mari’s comings and goings.  When her Mom was “well”, she lived at home and when she became “ill”, Mari came to our house.  That was our normal.  While she was with us, we behaved as sisters do.  Lisa, as the oldest, would enlist Mari, who was an only child, in torturing me since I was youngest and most fun to persecute.  We would play board games and swimming games and hiding games and girl games together, all three of us.  Mari and I would pretend that we were Mom and Dad and dress up in their clothes.  Lisa would tell us ghost stories and when I fell asleep, Mari and Lisa would usually pull a prank on me. 

The best prank they ever pulled was when I was about eight years old.  They put an old alarm clock in my pajama bottoms and set the alarm for the middle of the night.  The bell went off and I was panicked looking for it; chasing my own tail of course.  They still talk about that one.  I had my revenge, though.  In high school, Mari was always the first one up to primp in our bathroom.  Since she was used to getting up while it was still dark, Lisa and I decided to set her alarm for 10:30pm, just an hour after she went to bed.  She got up and nearly got ready for school; our Mom stopped her and sent her back to bed.  We still talk about that one, too.

But there were things we didn’t talk about.  Partially because Lisa and I were pretty oblivious to WHY Mari would come and go from our house.  We knew and liked her mother and knew that she sometimes became “ill”.  We even knew what it was called.  She was Manic-Depressive, my mother told us.  I took that to be a very serious illness because of the way my mother said it.  She also told us that Mari would tell us what she wanted to tell us and we should not push for more information.  As the youngest, I had no idea what additional information Mari would have but also had no idea that I should be concerned about getting said information.  So, there were no questions unasked due to general childhood oblivion.  

As we grew up, we argued and laughed and hung out just like siblings.  We didn’t dabble into what happened with Mari’s mom.  Mari never seemed overly upset about anything.  Unless Lisa and I fought, that was the only time that Mari acted peculiar.  She would sit on the couch or on the stairs in a little bundle if Lisa and I were gnashing our terrible teeth at each other.  God forbid it become a physical fight, Mari would practically ball herself up in the fetal position.  I remember, I was probably in middle school, when I finally said, “Oh knock it off, we didn’t hurt YOU.”  And Mari went to her room after saying, “Don’t get us in trouble.”  Lisa and I decided Mari didn’t want to be grounded and we thought nothing more of it. 

So, as adults we have talked a little more openly about Mari’s childhood.  Certainly her version of time at our house is fairly consistent with ours.  Although she missed out on most family holidays to be with her Uncle or her Grandma when her mom was sick; her family wanted to have her with them during those times.  Another thing we came to just accept as normal.  But I have learned so much more about what she endured.

She still won’t talk about everything.  She and I are working on that; she wants to get some things out but is afraid of releasing the flood gates. 

One event haunts me, though.  She has told me that one of her earliest memories is when she was probably no more than four years old.  Maybe younger than that.  Her mother had begun a manic episode, and these often were accompanied by a flurry of activity, paranoia and wild accusations or actions.  Often, in her manic episodes, Mari’s mom would marry a random man or run off to another town.  Usually, she had the forethought to drop Mari with my Mom before the episode became too much.  But when Mari was just a pre-schooler, she hadn’t planned ahead.  The memory that Mari has shared with me is that of being in a bar, somewhere in Chicago.  Her mother was screaming at the customers and became such a disturbance that they called the police.  Mari, who was wrestled away from her mother in the struggle, watched as her mother was taken into a police car.  She was left at the bar.  Somehow, someway, she knew her Uncle’s telephone number and the bartender called him.  He picked her up but she doesn’t remember that part of it.  Her memory is just of her mother being driven away, screaming, and of being left behind. 

Now, forty years later, that little girl has grown into an amazing woman.  She has endured things I still cannot fathom and kept her sanity.  I know that the fear that she had of getting in trouble at our house was one rooted in fear of abandonment.  I know that her life’s dream is to feel a sense of security, safety and above all, love.  I didn’t ask her what happened to her when we were kids, but really, none of it mattered because for all the unknowns, I know now what I knew naturally as a child; she is my lifelong friend and sister.  I know that she was and is loved by me and that my family is her family all the days of our lives.