Change Is Hard

…but change is certain.

Category Archives: memories


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Getting her affairs in order

Yesterday when I heard that Elizabeth Edwards had only “weeks” to live I was reminded of a friend of mine.  Sallie and I had been friends since junior high; played in the band together since 6th grade, designed the “senior show” together for the high school marching band our senior year.  When as a kid I got my drivers license the very first place I drove alone was to  Sallie’s house a couple miles down a empty country road.  We went to college together and were roommates our senior year.  She went on to be an executive with a big accounting firm in Denver.  I became a bank manager in Michigan.  We stayed in touch and she surprised me at my wedding by flying in with her husband unannounced to attend.

Shortly after my wedding she was diagnosed with leukemia.  A rare childhood version of leukemia.  She fought it valiantly, and none of us thought it would kill her.  If anyone could beat this illness, Sallie could.  We never doubted that.   She went into remission.  Then came out.    She went to Seattle and had a bone marrow transplant and went back into remission.  Then it struck again and she went to Houston for treatment.  My husband and I went down for a week to take care of her while her husband went back to Denver to check on the dogs and their mail.

Back in remission she was sent home and was well for a few months but then it was back.  The doctors told her, like Mrs. Edwards, that more treatment would not be beneficial.  That she should get her affairs in order.  She called me that night from Denver.  “This is the call you didn’t want to hear,” she said.  I sank to the floor as she told me the news.  “They told me I have a couple of months.”  I couldn’t breath, couldn’t speak.  I told her I needed to get my head around this news, and that I’d call her the next day.

Her husband called me later that evening and told me it wasn’t likely to be a couple months, more likely a week or so.  I spent that night writing Sallie a letter, telling her how much I loved her, how much we all gained by knowing her, having her in our lives.  I went to work late the next morning so that I could go to the post office and overnight the letter to her.

Sallie died while I was standing in line.

So when I heard the news yesterday that Elizabeth Edwards had a couple of weeks, that treatment wouldn’t be productive I knew.  Sadly I knew that it wouldn’t be a couple weeks, it wouldn’t likely be a couple of days.  This morning as I drove to work I thought of her.  On my drive home I heard that she had died today.

Perhaps when the end is near terminally ill people – those safe in the knowledge they are loved –  can relax and just let go.  They’ve already done everything they need to do, said all they need to say.  I want to believe they peacefully move to the next space.

Sallie was valedictorian of my high school class, brilliant at accounting, , a talented musician, athletically inclined.  She was generally first to do anything and always did it well.  Over these many years since she died I have often thought that she was just doing her job by being the first of all of us to move on to the next adventure.  I know she’s waiting for the rest of us to join her someday.

I hope Mrs. Edwards is beginning a new adventure as well, and that those she left behind can take some comfort from knowing that she knew she was loved.  In the end that’s all that matters.

Some day I’ll tell you all about Sallie and my “Adventure in the North with the Wandering Tree Planters.”  I have lots of Sallie stories.  May the Edwards children hold their own stories close to their heart.

God speed Elizabeth.


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Grindstone City

I bet you all know that Michigan is shaped like a mitten, but did you know there is a grindstone cemetery of sorts at the tip of the thumb?  Grindstone City was named in 1870 for the large grindstones that were mined and shaped there, then shipped throughout the country.  You can read more about the city in this short historical essay. (The picture above was borrowed from this website)

As a youngster I stood with my Dad along the shore of Lake Huron at the tip of Michigan’s thumb among huge grindstones that had been dumped there years and years ago.  I’ve held this vague memory for decades, and last weekend I stood in the same place again, feeling Dad with me, as my husband and I explored  the shoreline until we found the grindstones.

It amazed me that the grindstones were still resting on the shore much the way I remembered.  To think they’ve been there all these years…that I didn’t know exactly where we’d been more than 40 years ago and yet here I was again feeling the same sense of history and wonder I’d had as a kid.

I walked among the grindstones, touching the rough surfaces, the square holes in the centers, thinking about the people who had made these stones, and wondering about the reasons these particular stones had ended up as defects on the shores of the big lake.

The sun was warm on our shoulders, the water lapped peacefully near our feet, the stones offered up their stories silently.  I could easily have sat on the warm stones imagining history and remembering that trip with my Dad all afternoon.

Just another place that holds a piece of my heart.


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Melon memories

I bought a melon with my Mom yesterday.  Not literally you understand, as she’s been gone six years now.  But she was right there.

Mom told me years ago when I was a teenager that you could tell a ripe honeydew melon by feeling the rind.  The ripe melons have a softer, more velvety feel, rather than the slicker skin of an immature melon.

I’ve never tried to buy a honeydew before, but somehow when I saw that stack of melons displayed at the store yesterday I reached out to touch.  And I found one, just one, that had that velvety texture.

I smiled, along with Mom, as we rearranged the display to take home that one melon, way at the bottom of the pile, that we both knew would be just perfect.

Moms.  Always there.  Always right.


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Saturdays

When I was a kid my parents had a list of chores that had to be done Saturday mornings.   The list was generated after we were in bed on Friday nights, and awaited us on the kitchen table when we got up the next day.   Chores were grouped in relationship to how hard they were.  And every chore had a little box in front of it where we would put our initial, indicating we’d do the work described.  We each had to chose one of the harder ones first, and had to finish it before we could choose another easier task.  We were allowed to sign up for only one chore at a time.

Here’s the trick and the reason this worked.  There were four of us.  And if any of us wanted to make sure we didn’t  have to do the really yucky jobs we’d be up and out of bed before our siblings so that we could claim the least worst job for ourselves.  And we didn’t dawdle doing the work either, because we wanted to make sure we got the next least horrible chore.

So this Saturday as I mentally list the things I should get done I picture that chore list with it’s little boxes ready for initials.  And I smile.  We might have thought it was terrible back when we were teenagers, but right now I’d be thrilled to share my list of jobs with my three siblings!

Cause there isn’t anyone else here that’s going to initial the boxes on my list of things to do!


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Blueberry mist

My aunt called me the other evening and suggested we meet midway between our homes and pick a few blueberries.  While it’s still blueberry season.

It’s been so hot.  Oh yes, I think I already told you that, but anyway…it’s been so hot I haven’t wanted to go out and pick any fruit, though as a kid we always went strawberry, cherry, and blueberry picking.  And as an adult I used to try really hard to carry on the tradition.  But picking fruit alone turns out to be less of a fun adventure and more like hard work.  Especially when it’s hot.  Which it is.  As you know.

Anyway, we decided to get there when they opened, early in the morning before the heat became intolerable and as luck would have it we drove into a heavy mist as we approached the blueberry farm.

And I confirmed once again that picking fruit with someone on the other side of the row is much more fun that wistfully listening in on other family’s discussions.

Yum!


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Morning discoveries

This morning I went out to the attic over the garage to look for an empty box that I could use for my brother’s Christmas present.  I figured it made sense to wrap it up here in the South and leave it with him rather than ship it down later.  On my way to the garage I noticed the normal spiderweb over the walkway that gets rebuilt every night.   Then I saw the smallest, most beautiful web being spun about 4 inches beyond the first, bigger and more rustic web.

Can you see it?  Look up near the eves of the garage, though it is really right in back of the bigger web.  It is about the size of a CD, and the sun shining through makes it glow.  I watched the tiny spider move around and around, making close, delicate webbing.  It was fascinating how quickly she was building it.

Then I went inside and up to the attic in search of a box.  Searching for an empty one I noted how organized Mom was, boxes neatly labeled, stacked under the eves.

Each box was inexplicably tied with twine that over the years must have loosened with age as none of them were tight anymore.

There is a box covered in wallpaper filled with my grandmother’s china painting supplies, duly labeled.  The box itself reminds me of the wallpaper in my grandmother’s front parlor in the big old farmhouse where my mother grew up.

Grandma’s box reminded me that I’d been wanting to look for my mother’s pastels.  I used to use them as a kid and somehow the pastels I’ve purchased since then just aren’t the same.  Given my mother’s organizational skills it was easy to find the box of her art supplies.  Maybe she was a librarian in another life!  It made me sad to think that these things were tied up in boxes in the attic, and that I hadn’t found them being used in the house.  But it made me happy to find them at all!

I’ll take them home and see what I can create, with a little bit of her spirit for inspiration.

As I headed back to the welcome of air conditioning in the house I stopped by to check on my little spider.

Her web was complete, absolutely perfect, shining in the morning light.  And right in the center the little spider sat, waiting for her breakfast.

I smiled as I headed inside to make mine.


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A new day

Early this morning I was sitting on the deck looking out at the lake.  It’s the first morning of my entire 3 week stay that hasn’t dawned sunny and calm.  This morning the lake has little ripples on it and the sky is gray.  I’m eating my blueberries and cheerios, feet up on the deck railing contemplating nothing much at all when I happen to glance over at the neighbor’s pontoon floating gently at their dock.

It’s the pontoon we used to spread Mom’s and later Dad’s ashes.  The pontoon that held my remaining family and my parents’ minister as we said our last goodbyes.  I could see us all standing on it, crying and tossing flowers into the water.  I remember the words their minister used to try to console us.  I remember the deep, dark place we were all in.  And tears slid down my face.  Mom died six years ago this Sunday and this morning I am sitting on their deck eating my breakfast and remembering.  Missing them.

Then from across the lake somewhere a dog barks, a lawnmower starts, a fishing boat chugs.  A new day has begun and I take a deep breath and head out to the airport to pick up my husband.


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Life lessons learned from water-skiing

When I was a kid we lived on a largish inland lake and we’d go water-skiing most summer evenings after Dad got home from work.  We had a little blue boat with a 35 horse power outboard engine and all four of us plus Dad and sometimes Mom would pile in the boat along with our skis and life vests, towels and other debris.  We’d ski till it got dark, then we’d head home exhausted, sopping wet and very happy.

Lots of time has passed, I haven’t lived on a lake in thirty years and now if I’m lucky I might ski once a year.  Sometimes not even that.  It has become more intimidating, less familiar and much scarier to try.  When I was a teenager I could stand on one foot ankle deep in the water, ski on the other foot resting on the surface, yell “hit it!” and pop up behind the boat with no problem.  I’d land back at the same beach barely damp.

Now we ski in deep water and I struggle to get the unfamiliar ski on my foot as the life jacket floats up around my ears and the ski rope slides by behind me and the boat idles as everyone waits on me to get ready.  I panic a bit as the line pulls taut and I’m not at all sure I’m going to be able to heft my larger self out of the water.  Different boat.  Different ski.  Different me.

This week I went skiing with one of my brothers.  I was kind of afraid to try, sure that I wouldn’t be able to get up, but it was just him and me, and the water was a sheet of glass, what we used to call “water-ski water” when we were young.  So I decided it would never again be a better time to try.  Into the water I went, but two attempts later I couldn’t get myself up.

Lucky my brother is ingenious and he gave me a different, flatter, less competitive ski.  Part of me rebelled because I had always been able to use the fancy competitive ski, but part of me was resigned to accept the changes in me that meant I was less athletic.  And of course part of me thought that if I couldn’t get up on this “beginner” ski, well… I won’t go there.   But even though I was tired from being dragged twice along behind the boat, I tried a third time.  And guess what?  YES!  I popped right up! *

It was magical.  Nothing but flat water, mountains and clouds reflected as if in a  mirror, nobody else out there but us.  It’s as close as I’ll ever get to flying like a bird.  You float effortlessly through the images of trees and clouds, soaring across the water toward freedom.  It’s a feeling that is almost indescribable. 

So here’s the lesson to be learned from water-skiing:

Sometimes if you just hang on you can fly.  And sometimes you have to let go in order to regain your freedom.   The feeling can’t be bought;  if you find yourself in a position to experience it – do it.

Even if you’re really really afraid.

*disclaimer:  these aren’t pictures of ME skiing, these are my two brothers who went skiing on a previous day this week.  It’s so much fun to watch them!  And I had my camera on a stupid low resolution and didn’t realize it…so they’re grainy…but you get the idea…right?  🙂


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Celebrating

I celebrated the 4th down here in Alabama with family and friends.  And a whole lot of boating, swimming and eating.

When we were kids we lived on a small inland lake and always took our boat out to watch the fireworks the city was shooting off from the boat launch.  We’d pull into that bay and watch all the action directly overhead.  Sometimes bits of burned out fireworks would fall sizzling into the water nearby.  It was a wonderful way to spend a late evening, and I was always sad in later years that I  couldn’t watch fireworks with my family bobbing in a little boat, covered in bug spray, sweating slightly in the warm, humid Michigan night.

Well last year and again this year I got to watch fireworks from a boat filled with family and friends!

It’s just the best way to enjoy them.  Saturday night we were in my brother’s big boat on a big lake and along side of us are at least 1,000 other boats, bobbing peacefully in the evening sunset filled light.  As darkness sets in the crowd settled back and we all enjoyed the amazing colors and loud bangs of a first class firework show.  We munched on homemade salsa from my sister and smoked chicken tenders that my brother made.  What a life!

The next morning we took the boat out again, this time to watch the annual jet ski parade on the lake.  This year close to 50 jet skis, most decked out with flags and red, white and blue tinsel, gathered near an island, then took off in single file to run the entire circumference of the lake.

It was sort of heart stopping when they all took off, and in an odd sort of way it made you tear up when the long line of people proudly flying their flags roared past.

My sister was standing in the back of our boat playing patriotic songs on her bagpipe as they flew by and the jet ski drivers waved and grinned back at us.   I was grinning too, at the absurdity and beauty of it all.

After the last buzzing jet ski was long gone up the shoreline, we moseyed over to the “church island.”  It was, after all, Sunday the 4th, and there was going to be a preacher doing a church service there.  Every Sunday boats anchor off shore while a minister or preacher provide a service from the island.  This Sunday I listed while floating with my family in the cool lake water, boats bobbing all around, the sound of music and prayer filling the air.

Sunshine, flags, blue skies, music, good food, family.  Can’t think of anything else I need right now.

Well…maybe my husband and my Katie girl.


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Happy Father's Day

My Aunt (Dad’s sister) found some old family photos, and gave me this one of Dad.

What a serious little boy; wonder what he’s thinking about?

Maybe he’s considering what he’ll be when he grows up.  What choices he’ll make and how his life will turn out.  Maybe he’s imagining a long and satisfying career as an engineer.  Or thinking about all the exciting and interesting places around the world that he’ll explore, all the wonderful things he’ll learn, all the people he’ll meet, all the friends he’ll make, all the good he will do.  He can’t know yet the mark he’ll make in the world, but I bet he has an inkling of the family man he’ll become; a wife and four kids, two girls, two boys.

It was a wonderful and full life.  And those four kids?  They turned out all right too.

Celebrating you today Dad.