Change Is Hard

…but change is certain.

Category Archives: relationships


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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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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.


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Aunt V is out of the hospital!

Quick update.  Aunt V got discharged this evening.  I’m home for a moment to pack a bag, then I’m going to go stay at her place.  Maybe one night.  Maybe more.  We’ll see.  She, of course, insists she doesn’t need any help.  Maybe not, but I need to know she’s able to get around before I’ll be able to leave her alone at her apartment.

Doctors never did figure out what caused the blood pressure to spike above 200.  So the underlying problem is not resolved.

Thanks for all your kind thoughts.

Aunt Vi Uncle Warren 2010 005


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Haiti

I feel an extra emotional connection while I watch news footage of the massive 7.0 earthquake in Haiti.  It doesn’t look like many structures survived, and there are likely thousands dead.  The extra little tug I feel is caused by the fact that the truck driver that killed Dad in 2004 was from Haiti.  He had been in the US only a couple of years.  Likely he has family still in Haiti.

I only saw him once; at his only court appearance.  For whatever reason, killing someone with a semi is only a misdemeanor.  So when we went into a Georgia court to find out how he was going to plead we were dismayed to find ourselves in a courtroom filled with people there for nonpayment of child support, under age drinking and one guy who had burned tires in his yard without a permit.  Then there was us.  We were the only people there dressed in suits, other than one man and his attorney.  We knew instantly that the well dressed man nervously sitting with an obvious attorney was “our” driver.  Turns out he had been advised to plead “no contest” which doesn’t admit guilt but also meant he didn’t have to go to trial.  I think his attorney had worked out a deal with the Prosecutor that if he plead no contest he’d get off with probation.  They didn’t count on our family showing up from all over the country and providing the judge with heartfelt impact statements.

We had a wonderful judge that allowed us to make our impassioned statement and who took the time to silently read statements we had sent to the Prosecutor previously.  I remember  being in that courtroom, my brother standing beside our driver reading the family’s statement of grief and loss.  I remember the driver rocking back and forth on his toes not looking at us.  I remember the noisy courtroom hushing as people realized what we were talking about.  I remember the stifled sound of  sobs from some women, people we didn’t know, when my brother said that my sister couldn’t listen to Christmas music without crying anymore.  I remember a court officer, guarding the back door, wiping his eyes.

We wanted some jail time, to make the point that killing someone wasn’t just the cost of doing business, and the judge gave the driver the most she could, 30 days.  We were grateful.  The driver’s attorney protested loudly, saying that people fell asleep driving all the time.  The judge responded with a quote from our impact statement; “We expect more from professional drivers.”  The driver was escorted out and it was done.

The judge asked for a recess, and we all started to move out of the room.  Along the way people we didn’t know and would never meet again stood up, offered their hands and condolences.  It took some time to get out of the room.  Out in the hall I felt a bit of a letdown as I moved toward the exit.  Then I realized none of my family was with me, and I turned back to find them.  They were standing in a clump in the middle of the hall…with the judge, still in her robes.  She had come out to tell us she was sorry.  She was sorry about our loss, and she was sorry she couldn’t have done more.  She didn’t understand, you see, that we were thrilled with her ruling.  We had been warned that he would likely get off with probation and that we would probably be disappointed in the process.  Instead she did just as we asked, and we thanked her for that.  She had tears in her eyes.  So did we.

The driver  risked being deported back to Haiti by pleading no contest to a misdemeanor.  I have no idea if he ended up being sent back but I hope not.  It has always been my hope that he was able to stay and raise his two children here, that he turned out to be as fine a dad as ours was, that he used the lessons he learned from this experience to raise wonderful, contributing children. That in his own way he makes the world a better place  just like Dad made the world a better place.

So as I watch the footage of Haiti I hope that he and his family are not there.  I hope they are safe in Florida and that he has found peace.  But I know that very likely someone he loves has died a horrible violent death and that even if he is not there himself  he now knows the intesne grief that sudden death brings to survivors.  I hope he can cope, I hope he has the support we had.  And still have.

I wish him and his family well.


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Irony

This morning as I make my way down the driveway to the mailbox I am struck by the irony of the two cards I am sending.  One is to my husband’s aunt who turns 94 this week.  The other is to a friend whose father died this week at a young 72.

I am slapped up the side of the head again with the fact that you just don’t know how long you get.  Walking back to the house I smile at the little sheltie girl waiting for me behind the glass door.  She’s happy Happy HAPPY for TODAY, right here, right now.  Not going to worry about tomorrow Mom, going to have fun RIGHT NOW!

Lucky dog.  Lucky me.

Katie 1847


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Back to the future

Earlier this week I had a day off and I didn’t have any other appointments or commitments.  A whole day to myself!  It was rainy and cold, but still, a whole day off to myself.  I have a number of “things to do” on a list I keep in the back of my mind for just such a day.  Most of them would be more fun on a sunny warm day, but you take what you can get.  So I headed off to Hidden Lake Gardens, about two hours south of me and just north of a town I lived in when I was a little girl.  My folks used to take all four of us there on occasion; I can remember a narrow road and big willow trees near a pond which held the best thing of all:  swans.

Back then there was no such thing as the internet, heck we still had rotary phones, but today I can share the gardens with you by providing this link:

http://hiddenlakegardens.msu.edu/

And these pictures I took on my dark and dreary cold rainy afternoon trip.  Which was, by the way, a blast from the past. (You can click on the first picture to make it bigger, and then move through them by clicking on the “next.”)

Sadly there were no swans at the small pond, but the willow trees were there.  And the winding drive through the woods was really fun.  I could just image Dad maneuvering our big station wagon full of kids around the hairpin curves, the rear view mirrors just fitting between the trees.

At the rare conifer garden it began to rain in earnest, so I packed it in and drove the rest of the way to the town I lived in until I was ten.  Nothing much looked familiar as I drove into town.  But I just stopped thinking and let my heart drive the car and low and behold, with only one missed corner, there I was in front of the house we all lived in way back in the 60’s!

Hidden Lake Gardens and Adrian Aug 2009 079

I sat in front of the house long enough that someone finally came and looked out the window.  I moved along then, not wanting to appear to be a stalker!  When we lived there the house was gray with either white or black shutters.  I say black, my Mom always said they were white.  She was probably right.  The house next to the one I lived in is for sale.  I went online later to see what the values are on that street and was amused to see they are just a little over 10 times what my parents paid for the house back in 1961.

Hidden Lake Gardens and Adrian Aug 2009 080

Driving around the neighborhood memories popped into my head, along with the names of  friends who had lived in some of the houses I passed.  I even found the first little house we lived in initially when we  moved to town; the house my two brothers were brought home to from the hospital when they were born, almost 50 years ago.

Hidden Lake Gardens and Adrian Aug 2009 081 The only way I could find my elementary school was to drive along the route I walked way back when I was five.  I remembered my Mom saying I had to cross two “big” streets, so again I just let my brain follow my heart, and there was the school.  Funny how much you can remember when you stop trying.

On my way out of town I stopped at the public library where I first discovered my love of reading.  It looks like a castle, doesn’t it?  It’s a museum now, but when I was a little girl we came to this building once a week;  we were all allowed to pick out books for Dad and Mom to read to us, and later, for us to read aloud to them.

Hidden Lake Gardens and Adrian Aug 2009 086

In front of the library is a sculpture of a little boy in glasses, reading a book, sitting on top of the world.  That wasn’t there when I was a kid, but it sure is cute!

Hidden Lake Gardens and Adrian Aug 2009 083

I stopped at a diner for some supper before leaving town, read the local paper and remembered.  Everything here was the same but not.  Since I had been so young when we left, I didn’t have clear memories of much of the town, so changes didn’t feel like changes to me.  The main buildings of my youth— my homes, my school and my library were still there, still largely unchanged,  a time capsule waiting for my discovery.

This place was the beginning of who I am today. The preamble to the now.  It’s nice to know that it’s still out there.

On the way home, listening to a country station I realized through the haze of my musings that someone was singing the chorus to a song:  “There’s too many memories for one heart to hold.”   True.

Hidden Lake Gardens and Adrian Aug 2009 038


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When 27 is all there is.

Yesterday afternoon I sat in a hot and stuffy church sanctuary waiting for a ceremony to start.  In some ways it felt like I was attending a wedding.  There were flowers.  And people dressed up.  And we kept glancing toward the back, waiting for the family to enter.  But it wasn’t a wedding, and the people sitting in the pews were sniffling, wiping tears away, hugging those long clinging hugs of grief.  The person this ceremony was for was only 27 when he died last Tuesday.  I never met him; he was the husband of a running buddy of mine who lives over on the other side of the state.  Yesterday, the day of his funeral, would have been their first wedding anniversary.

I heard the news Saturday night late, and the funeral was Sunday afternoon, coincidently not far from where I live.  Of course I had to go.  All night I slept fitfully, waking with his name on my mind.  Because you see, he chose to leave this life.  Something inside of him was so painful that he couldn’t see a way to stay.  And I’m trying to understand that now.

The parking lot was full, the sanctuary was packed.  There were probably 200 people attending the service.  I watched young men arrive, eyes red and swollen to sit alone.  I watched the family standing near, still in shock, trying to give and receive comfort.  I saw people sitting quietly watching a slide show of a young man growing up with tears sliding silently down their faces.  And I wondered the obvious.  Did he not know that all these people loved him?  Or maybe it just wasn’t enough.

So as I listened to one of his brothers and his sister-in-law sing inspirational music, to his youngest brother, maybe 17, read a poem that he had written, my eyes filled up as well.  I never met this man, but I wish somehow he could know.  And I, like everyone else there, wished I could turn back time, unravel the past, make him see.

Twenty-seven.  Life is so much bigger than twenty-seven.  The weight of the world can seem too heavy when you’re that age, but it’s just the beginning of so much more that will be wonderful.  So in honor of this young man whom I’ve never met I will try to spend more time looking around, checking on my friends and family.  I need to make sure that no one feels so alone that the weight of the world hangs so heavy, no one feels so alone that the only option is to give up.

Because yesterday two hundred people cried while singing Amazing Grace…and someone wasn’t there to hear it.


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trees-1061 A couple days ago I went berry picking at a local farm.    The blueberry bushes are about five feet tall, and as you pick, sheltered under your particular shrub, you hear the conversations of the people around you.  Most people were there with families, complete with lots of little kids.  I heard innumerable Moms and Dads explain to excited elementary schoolers and toddlers to “only pick the blue ones, the pink ones are yucky!”  Generally after that would come a chorus of “Is this one a good one Mom?” and “Dad!  Dad!  I found a BIG one!”  Followed shortly by “MOM!  Eli HIT me!”

I heard many of the adults talk about  how peaceful it was to be out picking berries.  Mostly it was mothers who were out with their kids, chatting with their friends or relatives while the kids crawling in under the bushes to find the “bestest” blueberries.  But on one occasion it was a dad who exclaimed loudly that “picking berries is the most peaceful thing in the whole world.”  To which his son disagreed. “No it isn’t Dad.”  “No? Then what is the most peaceful thing in the world?” asked the Dad.  “EATING them!” triumphantly crowed his son.

We all chuckled in agreement.


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Reconstruction

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You know when you watch people on the news after a tornado or a hurricane has ripped their lives and homes to shreds,  how they look around with tears in their eyes, in shock at all the damage, but still grateful that they’re alive?  And how they always say that no matter how bad things are, regardless of their terrible loss, that they’re going to rebuild?   Well, I always wonder how they’re doing after the news trucks and reporters have gone on to other stories.  How they are months later when the really hard work of rebuilding is happening and no one is there to notice.

In a smaller, more personal and more human way I’ve witnessed something similar; the destruction of a lifestyle, of a commitment, of certainty.  The confusing disbelief, the crazy anger, the debilitating sadness;  the hopelessness, the exhaustion, the constant and wearing questions and lists.  And as time went on  I’ve also seen the hope shining through the tears, the growth of a human spirit, the strength  growing, and the rebuilding beginning.  Out of disaster, disorder and deconstruction, through heartache and hard work, comes a new life.  Here’s proof that reconstruction is possible; that’s it necessary and difficult, but satisfactory and joyous all at the same time.  Even when no one is watching.

Congratulations little sister on your reconstruction of a deconstructed life.  You’re on your way, no time to look back, the future is yours now.  Go with it.  I’m proud of you.

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Yesterdays

It completely slipped my mind Saturday, when I was so busy with my list of things to do, that it was the fifth anniversary of the day Mom unexpectedly died.  I knew earlier in the week that Saturday was the anniversary, and I remembered again on Sunday while watching a special about the life of Walter Cronkite.  When they talked about his wife of 65 years I thought of Mom and Dad, married 52 years when she died.  If they had lived another 13 years they’d have been 88 and married 65 years.  I was doing the math when I realized that I had missed the anniversary.

I don’t think that not noticing the anniversary of Mom’s death, on the day itself, means I love her less, or mourn her loss less.  I choose to think that some healing has occurred, a bit of the overwhelming sting has lessened, gotten a bit more fuzzy around the edges.  Loosened it’s grip on me.  This is such an interesting experiment, this walk through grief, if it weren’t that I had to lose two of the most important people in the world.  It used to scare me when people whose parents had died many years ago told me they still missed their parents every day.  I was depressed to imagine living with such an intense pain every single day.  So it has been good to come to know that yes, you miss them every day, but it is a manageable pain, livable.

So today, as I’m baking bread I think of my Mom, and the last time she was in my kitchen.  I don’t have that loud wailing going on inside of me anymore.   It used to shriek “Moooooommmmmm!” constantly, interfering with thought and logic and every day tasks.  That’s subsided and in it’s place is just a warm, slightly sad, quiet place.  I can still conjure up the wailing, if I think about it too much and sometimes I do it just to prove to myself that I can, that she’s still right there so to speak.  But it’s not interfering so much, and the pain is a little softer, and I can say for sure now to other people who are just at the beginning of their loss that someday, in their own time, it will get better.

Another lesson I’ve learned from my mother.  It will get better.

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