10 posts tagged “memories”

What is your favorite memory of your grandfather?

Oh my, there are so many!  How could I choose just one?

So, instead, I will post a blog entry from my old on-line journal, written in the summer of 2002.

Yesterday was my grandmother's birthday, my mom's mom. I was a bad granddaughter and neglected to send a card. I used to be so good at sending cards; now I just call. It is easier.

But Mom-Mom likes to get a card. By the time my mom reminded me of this, it was too late to get one in the mail.

I left two messages on her machine and will call again today to grovel.

I have always been close to Mom-Mom. I spent two summers down Ocean City with her and my grandfather, Pop, during my teen years. Since Mom-Mom and Pop lived in Ocean City throughout my childhood, we spent almost every vacation there. There is nothing quite like Ocean City, MD in the summer time. And I loved every minute of it, especially those two years that I stayed for an extended time with them.

We had Christmas gifts during the lean years before and after my parents lost their business because Mom-Mom and Pop signed our parents' names to the gift cards. I didn't know that until years later, and only because my mom told me. Rather than leave us all a bit of money at their passing, they took us to Disney World. They breezed in and out of our house in the winter months (the off-season from their OC jobs) as they traveled here and there, bearing gifts and edible treats, taking us out to breakfast and dinner buffets, whipping up strange (spaghetti sauce with pigs feet; I did not eat that!) and wonderful recipes (sour beef, Maryland style crab soup, chicken cacciatore, walnut cake).

Pop spoiled me, but not in the way that makes one haughty and ungrateful. He would slip me money to which I would reply, "Mom-Mom already gave me some, Pop." He would say, "Shhh. Don't tell her."

He is the only person in my childhood that I remember taking up for me.

As the oldest sister and cousin on that side of the family, I was often, and naturally, the recipient of the "you're the oldest; you should know better; you should be the responsible one" treatment from my mother and grandmother.

But Pop called it like he saw it, and if he thought they were being too tough on me, he stepped in.

"Lena, that's enough," was all he had to say, and Mom-Mom backed down.

At first observation, one might have thought that Mom-Mom ruled the roost, but Pop led with a quiet strength that was respectful of who she was as a woman. He knew when to draw the line and tell her it was time to retreat. Their marriage was a partnership of an amazing kind, rivaled by few that I have ever seen.

They eloped when she was just 17 and he 24. The went back to their respective homes that very evening and kept the secret for several days before Mom-Mom confided in one of her sisters.

It was Mom-Mom who told me that I would have a "one and only" love (she was right); I think she knew because that was how it was for her.

Pop was not a demonstrative man (though Mom-Mom says he was terribly tender when they were alone), and perhaps that is where I get that tendency from. Even as a young girl, I avoided hugs and kisses from family members. A goodnight from across the room sufficed. "Please don't get any closer"; for reasons I have yet to totally understand I kept my family at an arm�s length, and still have that propensity today.

And perhaps that is partly the reason Pop was so endearing to me. I didn't need hugs and kisses to know that he loved me unconditionally. I just knew. Perhaps it was that ever present twinkle in his eye. Perhaps it was just because he was there.

My mother felt the same way about him. She was daddy's girl. "Pop is the only person that you ever felt accepted you for who you are, loved you unconditionally," I once said to her.

We both began to cry.

I have never felt closer to my mother than in that moment.

Even as Parkinson's and arthritis began to ravage his body, he could still throw a withering look at any man or boy who dared whistle at his daughter or granddaughters. It amused me then. It touches me deep within now. Someone was willing to fight for me, even if the odds were against him. And no one would disrespect me if Pop was around.

I can still hear his hello whistle. It was unmistakable. And loud. So loud that when my mom was young he could stand at their door and whistle and she, my grandmother, and my uncle could hear it through the neighborhood. It was his calling card, his way of letting you know he was there. Mom-Mom has told me how she would wait a minute or two and then excuse herself from her visit with a neighbor. Folks wouldn't understand being paged by your husband's whistle. And to this day, do not whistle at me to get me to come to you. But Pop's whistle was different. It meant no disrespect. It simply said, "I'm here."

What I wouldn't give to hear that whistle again today, even just one more time.

Parkinson's changed the strongest man I'd ever known to a man dependent on everyone around him. In the ending months, they had to shave off his beard and mustache; it was just too much to keep up with. I didn't see that until the viewing, and it was unsettling at first (I had moved to the Midwest a year and half before).

What I then noticed was nary a wrinkle on his dear face. His hair still dark, dark brown. The man who couldn't stop shaking over the past few years had finally stilled.

But that wasn't the Pop I knew in that satin-lined box. He had gone "home" after the assurance from his children that they would take care of his Lena, the woman he had spent more than 50 years with. And even my daughter was unafraid to reach out and touch the soft coolness of his cheek.

The smell of Thanksgiving turkey mingled with sauerkraut (he always cooked the turkey), a salty sea breeze, the scent of Brut cologne.

Twinkling eyes and handle bar mustaches.

Quarters and dimes jingling in deep denim pockets.

Simple thoughts, scents, phrases to try to sum up a giant of a man.

I went to a conference last summer and they told us to close our eyes and imagine that we were sitting in God's lap in a big rocking chair. They then asked us what we saw, who we saw there in our mind's eye.

I saw Pop.

Show us a photograph that makes you remember.

Sisters

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I set the alarm clock for 8 AM this morning so I could get up and finish the baking I am doing for my mother's open house this afternoon.  Wouldn't you know I'd wake up at about 6:30 AM, lie (or is it lay? I can never remember that grammar rule for some reason...) awake for an hour or so, only to finally fall asleep with only 20-30 minutes before said alarm went off?

Despite that annoying start to my day, two cups of coffee, three final gifts wrapped, and a loaf of banana nut bread later, I can say I am having a pretty darn good Christmas Eve thus far.

I love the way the house smells right now - all bake-y goodness-y.  I am still baking -  chocolate chip-n-walnut cookies now.  I love to bake.  I mean, it is kind of a hassle - the gathering and measuring and mixing, but I love the end result.  I love that I am actually quite good at it.  I don't toot my own horn very often, but I have some signature baked goods that are oft enjoyed by family and friends alike.  And that makes me insanely happy.

Much as hanging blinking lights on the entertainment system did this year.  If you know me, you know that generally I hate blinking lights.  Especially when they don't blink in tandem.  It has always been a holiday pet peeve.  But this year, I took a string of lights, added blinky bulbs, and draped them over the speakers atop the entertainment system, and for some unexplained reason, they bring me giddy joy in their mis-coordination.

But I digress.

I asked my mother what she needed me to bring for the open house and she didn't give me an answer, so I baked.  Bread, cookies, pretzel kisses, and Mom-Mom's walnut cake.

The only thing that could make this day more perfect would be showing up at the parental's and finding Mom-Mom there.  This is the second Christmas without her.  Last year I adeptly avoided the potential melancholy at her absence by spending the holiday in California with Rob's yuppy parents.

(Which added it's own fun twist to the holiday, but that is another tale for another day.)

This will be the first Christmas Eve I've ever gone to my folks' and she won't be there.  Not that we've been able to spend every Eve there - we haven't.  We've lived in too many different states and towns over the past 20 years to afford that luxury.

But the Christmas Eve's we've been "home", she has been there.  Until this year.

And I will giggle when I take that first bite of her walnut cake.  The one she made for so many years until I took over whist she complained that the walnuts were too small or the texture a tad too dry - in the meantime quietly asking for a nice slice to take home.

I wonder if she will giggle too...

Happy Christmas Eve.

Music-wise, what was the first 45, single or download you bought? 
Submitted by Paddy Melt Wagon.

I remember receiving some money for my 10th birthday and purchasing three 45s.  This was the first time I purchased any music with my own money.

But alas, I only remember two of the titles: Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall and Blondie's Call Me.

Funny thing is, I don't even recall really liking those songs then.  I think a friend who came along with me recommended I buy them.

Oh, wait!  I think the other song was The Rose by Bette Midler.  I did like that song.

Over the past week, Rob has been transferring our family videos to DVD.  A formidable process, to say the least, but a priceless one as well.

We started with a tape from the winter of 1995.  The Daughter was just under 3, and The Middle Child was about 18 months old.  The Youngest wasn't even a thought yet, as this mom was overwhelmed with two toddlers in the house!

I am not sure why we didn't start at the "beginning" of our lives together.  I believe it had something to do with the aforementioned tape getting caught in our old VCR.  Once Rob pried it out, he set it aside for transferring, hopeful there was no permanent damage.

We have completed three or four video tapes now, spanning nearly two years.  We have had the bittersweet pleasure of seeing loved ones no longer with us.  We have re-witnessed family members and friends entering our lives (you should see my sisters' eldest children as a precocious preschooler and sassy tot).

But the best part of reliving these days is watching our first two children.  What often was perceived as trying to videotape way too much ("Would you put that thing away?!) now seems as nearly not enough. 

Eleven to twelve years passing had erased so much in my mind.  And yet there it is on the screen: 

• The Daughter at three helping with groceries and exclaiming to all within earshot with almost perfect diction and an unmistakeable northeastern accent, "I do not like this cereal.  Mommy, I do not like this cereal.  I do not!" as she puts it in the cabinet. 
  
• The Middle Child, just two, playing in the tub, making gurgling noises with his bath water and trying to say hi as water dribbles down his face, his effort coming out as "Hrrrggggg". 
  
• The Daughter kissing her great-grandfather and feigning displeasure as his beard tickles her face while his eyes crinkle with laughter.
• The Middle Child mimicking each word I say until I reach "Mommy", to which he responds with great pleasure over and over at each prompt: "Daddy!", his wit making an appearance before he reached his second birthday.
  
• The two of them tackling and tickling Daddy, paralyzing him with giggles as The Daughter manages to work her tiny chin into the crook of his neck.

The milestone days are all accounted for - Christmases, birthday parties, Easters, dance recitals.  But it is the every day footage - finger painting, bed time stories, playing in the snow - that makes my heart catch and wonder how that spirited, blonde bundle of energy who refused to dance while Daddy watched and that toddling, giggling wee boy who loved Snow White and Dopey became a tall, willowy young woman and deep-voiced, shoulder-broadening young man so quickly.

A poignant reminder on this almost-autumn morning over a decade later to enjoy every moment.

...about what yesterday was.

It is not that I have forgotten or that it impacts me any less than it did six years ago.  I did think about it.  I just didn't have any words.

Not that I do today either.

I was thankful to wake up yesterday to a cloudy, rainy morning.  That day six years ago, when so much of what we knew - of what we trusted - was stolen, dawned so bright and beautiful.  So different from how yesterday looked, as clouds hid the sun and rain fell like tears.

As I sat in a waiting room yesterday afternoon, I looked up with a start when I heard someone ask what the date was.

What?!  How can you not know what today is?

I don't want to forget, but in my humanness, I do.  I don't want to see the fire, the smoke.  I don't want to see those towers fall again.  I don't want to see that image of a man plummeting, knowing now that he probably jumped.

But neither can I look away. 

I do think we need to be reminded, that seeing those images again - as horrific as they are - reminds us of not only how much we have lost, but how precious life is and how much we do still have to be thankful for.

Now go hug someone's neck and tell you that you love them.  Why? 

Because you just never know when that might be your last opportunity.

...you probably are.

For those of you who do not know this, Rob and I planted a church in the St. Louis area (a county outside of it) almost 8 years ago.  He pastored there for 4.5 years before we felt God was moving us back to the part of the country where we now live.

Yesterday, we drove down near DC to meet a friend of ours and her niece who were visiting from that area.  Linda was one of the first people we met in the area.  She attended the small home Bible study we started prior to launching the church.  She began a relationship with Christ at the first service.  And she was vacationing within a two hour drive of us, so we knew we needed to make the trip and share a meal with her.

When Rob and I felt that God was moving us on from that church, it was easy in some ways - we had felt a sense of unrest for a year or more.  But it was difficult to leave the tiny flock at that church.  Planting a church is a lot like having a baby and then raising a child.  There are plenty of times of struggle and frustration and heartache, but there were many more of joy and pride and victory.  Those folks became our family in every sense of the word, though we did wonder if they felt that way about us (the pastor/congregation relationship is an interesting animal that I may discuss at a different time).  We knew it hurt many of them that we left.

Through the years - about 3.5 now - we have tried to stay in touch with as many of the folks as possible.  But life goes on.  People move on.  That little church started in the fall of 1999 is, unfortunately, no more. 

So we met Linda and her niece for lunch, and without too much delay, the conversation turned to the "How's so-and-so" that these types of reunions often do.  Linda smiled brightly and reached into her purse.  She handed us a photo envelope and encouraged us to look inside.

Picture after picture of familiar faces - some that have changed so much, some not at all - all waving and smiling.

Anchor family

Linda had spent the week before she flew halfway across country for her vacation tracking down our church family, going to their homes, and taking their pictures.  For us. 

Face after beautiful face - all so dear to us still.

I wanted to write this wonderful entry - a soaring tribute - to this experience, but I am finding that words still escape me.  How do you describe a sacrificial, priceless gift from a friend?    How do you process realizing that even when we cried and questioned and struggled, that God was working?  That in some small way, He allowed us to have an impact?

It is overwhelming.

Show us a cityscape.

Chicago

Audio: It's 70's music Wednesday.

Take Me Home, Country Roads

John Denver

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Me, my dad, and his guitar.  I am five or six, and I am belting out this song,

balancing precariously on a red bar stool in our patriotic-themed basement.

Show us something you've had for a really long time. 
Submitted by dee.  

Smokey the Bear

I remember taking this guy to kindergarten with me the day we went to the fire station for a field trip.  That would have been over 30 years ago!

Where has the time gone?

But Smokey is even older than that, because he was my dad's toy.  Somehow I managed to hang on to him all this time.  I really have no idea how old he is, but I am guessing at between 50 and 55, since my father turns 60 this year.

He now sits with the Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls that belonged to my grandmother and used to sit on her bed when I was a girl and she and my Pop lived "down d'ocean", as all good "Bawlmer" folks call it.