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SPACE OF HER OWN

/ middlesisterkathleen / Leave a comment

 

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SPACE OF HER OWN

A woman needs many things to flourish.  Her own time.  Her own money.  Her own dreams.  Her own space.

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SOHO is an area of lower Manhattan in New York City that is known for its artsy scene, shopping and upscale restaurants.  It was named as such because it is the area South of Houston Street, thus the acronym SOHO.

For us, it means Space Of Her Own.  Therefore, a woman needs a SOHO to flourish.

I have my own.  It is a loft space, formerly our boys’ room when they were much smaller.  It is attached to our bathroom, and accessible only through our bathroom that is attached to our master bedroom, the only rooms on the upstairs floor of our home.   It is highly private, except for the loft side that opens to a TV room downstairs.

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In an earlier professional incarnation, I rented a tiny office space in town in an historic building.  My son, at about age 11, said, “Mom, this is like your fort.”

When my office moved home, it, too, became my fort.  My husband aptly named it “Fort Kathleen.”  The name stuck, and Fort Kathleen it is.  Anyone I’m close to knows what I am talking about when I refer to it as such.22491932_1875431729138409_5026347766623251897_n[1]

Gail revamped and revitalized her now-33 year-old daughter’s bedroom into her own space.  She aptly named it “Camp Gail.”22491863_1875384582476457_1055352693184709282_n[1]

My younger sister had her own room in her old house, she simply called it her lair.  She recently moved, and has turned one of her small bedrooms into her space.  She hasn’t yet named it.

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These spaces are highly personal, personalized and privatized.   There are no rules of decorating or arranging made or broken in them.  There are no outside influences allowed in when decisions about where to put what, how much or how little is the right amount, or if something should stay or go.  My beloved, in his never-ending effort to make my life easier, simpler and to share his ideas that are usually good ones, was shot down once in a decision making process, and he hasn’t tried again.  He did build the house, paint this room a warm, sunny orange color for me, hang pictures, change lightbulbs, suggest the name and will gladly hang out in here with me by invitation, so his contributions are much-appreciated.

My college-era futon occupies the space where blue-blanketed bunk beds once stood.  On the floor in front of it is a beautiful rug that came home from my office in town.  On top of that is a yoga mat so I can drop and stretch at will.  Built-in shelves, stacks of books, my grandfather’s wicker chair and small table all call this space home.  I even found room for my professional stuff—books, files and supplies make it my official office.

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**

It is 62 degrees and stormy on this mid-October Saturday.   On days like this, I hole up in Fort Kathleen and languish in my space and get in the flow.  So far, in F.K. today—and it is only 1:56 p.m.—I have:

*Talked to both of my sisters on the phone.

*Found the perfect spots for 3 garage sale treasures I picked up this rainy morning.

*Hung the beaded curtain that has been waiting patiently to be hung.

*Took a nap on the futon.

*Read from one of the 17-or-so books I have started and stacked beside the futon. 

*Refilled and turned on the oil diffuser.

*Surfed the web.

*Ate leftovers for lunch

*Colored in one of my many color books.

*Wrote this blog post.

**

I am alone in my castle today, and this room is my preferred hideout, even when there is no one to hide from.  I opted out of an informal family gathering in order to languish in my alone-ness, something I don’t get enough of.   While they kindly requested the pleasure of my company, I politely declined.  They understand.

**

My sisters and I grew up in a tiny, four-bedroom, one-bathroom farmhouse in our family of seven children.  Nine people occupying such a small space.  Thank God we had the great outdoors to escape to on the farm.  I think we have all earned this space.

**

Our dad turned 65 in the year 1999; he promptly retired from farming and handed the farm over to the capable direction of one of our brothers in 2000.  Dad had already called him “The Boss” for some time, and it was a title aptly and respectfully earned.  He was ready to get out of the biz, and my brother was ready to take it over.   Dad and Mom then moved into a small house in town.  Not the grand space Mom had always dreamed of, but it was her new dream home.   She promptly staked her claim to the room at the end of the hallway in their new home as her own, filling it with exactly whatever she wanted, however she wanted, whenever she wanted.  She had her own TV and a stack of books, as well as a futon.  It is only as I write this that I realize the similarities between her space and mine.  Perhaps she inspired me without my even realizing it, so that thirteen years after she claimed her space, I claimed mine.  Minus much of the stuff, she had her own Fort Liz.  She knew for years how important it was for a woman to have her own space.  She just never got it—until she was 62 years old.

**

Many of the decorations and treasures in Fort Kathleen have come from garage sales, the ultimate destination for anyone like myself looking to define such a space as one’s own, in one’s own style, on one’s own budget in the family years.  And there are many treasures.  There is little space left bare both on the walls and shelves, as well as any nook, floor space, or other flat surface.  Even surfaces that are not completely flat are fair game.  It is fair to say that I have a lot of stuff in Fort Kathleen.  And I want more.

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While I cannot name one single piece as my favorite—that would be unfair, not to mention impossible—there is one treasure that defines my style, my vibe, my decorating essence in Fort Kathleen.  It is a small, stitched rectangular pillow bearing the name of one of my mother’s favorite artists:  Mary Engelbreit.  Her design accompanies the quote from another legendary woman; one who, while she was known to be spirited and saucy, obviously had great fun in her life.  I want to be like Mae West (only in that respect) when I grow up.  The quote reads:

“Too much of a good thing is wonderful.”

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To add a fourth legendary woman to the trifecta of Mom-Mary-Mae, it must be known that this pillow came from the garage sale of one of my dearest former patients—we will call her Mimi.  I adored her when I had the privilege of treating her, and she recovered well, regaining her spirit and sweetness.  Although she was quiet like Mom, she had that deep sense of knowing what it was all about.  After her recovery, she moved away to a larger city with her daughter, thus the garage sale.  I got to see her at the sale, and her daughter was there too.  I let her know how much I adored her mother. Several months later when Mimi’s name was on page 4 of our local newspaper, my heart broke a little.  I knew she was a woman of great faith—just like my mom.  I knew she was ready for whatever she had to face in life—and death—just like my mom.

I know now they occupy that same space-less space in the great beyond, the ultimate Space Of Her Own.

God bless you Mom and Mimi, Mary and Mae—and thank you for the inspiration.  We will enjoy our spaces of our own in your honor.

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A few more pics from Camp Gail…

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And, of course, our signature picture, which was taken in Camp Gail last year on Thanksgiving weekend, where we always spend my favorite holiday.

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A few more from Fort Kathleen.

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NAME THAT SPACE

So Suzanne has been in her house now for seven months, and she has yet to arrive at a name for her SOHO.  Perhaps one of you can offer a name for this beautiful room.  Remember, Suzanne is so wisely a minimalist, so she has kept her space relatively bare, in comparison to her older sisters.

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Some facts about Suzanne to remember when you are suggesting names for her space:

*She spends most of her time in this space working puzzles.

*She also loves to color in there, and anywhere.

*She has a tiny little obsession with mermaids.

*Like Gail, she loves bicycles.

*The picture above the shelf is the only possession she would rescue from her house if it  were on fire.  She only has one print of her daughter at age 3 pictured with Elmo, and it is her greatest material treasure.

*She has no desire to fill (overfill?) it with stuff like her sisters have done in theirs.

Feel free to suggest a name for her SOHO, and thanks so much!

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Remember:  Good vibes only, and it really IS okay to have too much fun!

May you be blessed with enough time, money, dreams and space to be fulfilled. 

 

 

 

LET THERE BE PEACE ON EARTH

/ middlesisterkathleen / 7 Comments

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Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.

Let there be peace on earth, the peace that was meant to be.

If you haven’t read PEACE, SISTER, one of my earlier posts dated July 16th, that is required prerequisite reading prior to reading the rest of this post.  My mother had a plan for moving forward after a mess like this.

Sometimes, I am sorry to say, my posts will not detail an excursion with my sisters.  They will not tell a funny story about some aspect of our lives.  They will not be light and airy, and they will not have many pictures.

We have all seen enough pictures lately.

However, from time to time, I may spotlight one of our brothers.  Oh my.

With God as our Father, brothers all are we.

Let me walk with my brother in perfect harmony.

We all woke up last Monday morning to the news of more heartbreak.   We are all thinking the same things:  How can this happen again?  Why does this happen over and over again?  Who can do such a horrific thing?  Where will it happen next?  When?  And ultimately, What can we do?

We can start within.  We can look inside ourselves and find any thoughts,  feelings or ideas that  may cause harm, even to ourselves.   Especially to ourselves.

Let peace begin with me, let this be the moment now.

With every step I take, let this be my solemn vow.

Because, after all, that is where it starts.  Peace isn’t out there somewhere, it is in here.  If the scientific axiom energy can neither be created nor destroyed is true for human interaction as well, then our job is to turn any negative energy into positive energy, starting with our own.

Pray for good things to happen. Send good vibes.  Do good deeds.  Smile more.  Forgive more–including ourselves.  Believe that humans are capable of more good than bad, and act accordingly.  Believe the world is a good place.   Above all,  do something.

The ripple effect is real, so make sure your ripples are positive ones.

To take each moment and live each moment in peace eternally,

Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.

I wrote the next part of this nearly two years ago.  It has sat on my computer since then; I didn’t have a plan for it.  I simply wrote it because it came to me that day.  I found it a few weeks ago, and though about posting it for International Day of Peace, which was September 21st.  Obviously, I didn’t.  Now, it is time.

I have some work to do.  I am not fully meeting my mother’s challenge I described in PEACE, SISTER.  I am not doing all I can to let it begin with me.  As long as there is something I can change within, something I can work on to bring peace to others,  I cannot feel powerless.  I cannot feel like there is nothing I can do to prevent any more tragedies like the one last week.

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LET THERE BE PEACE ON EARTH

“…and let it begin with me.”

This was the opening line in a one of my favorite songs we sang in the church I grew up in.  It was typically sung as the closing song, sending us on our way with a positive message.   I remember the priest who sang it joyfully as he walked out of the church.  I won’t forget the song or the words.

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I went to a shop in Breckenridge, Colorado about six months ago while I was there with my son and his friends on a ski trip. (There were many shops I went to, but I digress…)  This shop—The Joy of Sox—had a wide selection of socks, but other gift items as well.  I am drawn magnetically to the clearance rack in any store, and way in the back, I found it in this store.  It was filled with various gift items, and several clothing items.  There was one shirt on this rack, a long-sleeved, rust-colored tee-shirt that featured the iconic PEACE sign, with these words underneath:  Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.  It was my size, and the only one there.  Like the peace sign, I took it as a sign.  So I took it to the register, and then I took it home.

Since that was in March, I put it away in my stash for the next season.   I pulled it out the other day, and decided it was time for its debut.  Today, Thursday, November 19th, 2015, I wore it for the first time.  I felt empowered by its message, I felt accountable to those words somehow, but I wasn’t sure how.  I didn’t act on it right away, I just wore it.  I looked down at the symbol and words on my chest several times throughout the day, and thought perhaps I should do something to be an instrument of peace, like my mother so kindly asked me to.

But I didn’t, really.  I just went about my day.

My last appointment of the day was with a woman younger than me who was rendered almost speechless by a stroke nearly several years ago, just days after her birthday.  She lived with her husband and young son in what I perceived as substandard housing in my perception of a substandard marriage.  When I arrived, there was no peace to be found.  She was in tears by an accidental, minor physical injury inflicted upon her by her husband, which was apparently overshadowed by the emotional injury due to his apparent lack of concern and caring.  Clearly, through her tears, we would not be accomplishing much today.  Her injuries needed to be examined, and our protocol was to call the Home Health nurse in charge of her plan of care, so I did.  I wanted to leave and let the nurse take over whenever she got there, but I sensed she needed me for the female companionship; the understanding I could provide until the nurse arrived about an hour later.  But–selfishly–I was impatient with this situation because I had things to do, groceries to buy, gas to put in my car and a sick teenage son to tend to at home, but I stayed.  I realized I needed to take the advice on my own shirt, so I let it begin with me.   I continued to attempt to provide speech therapy, mostly to distract her from her physical and emotional pain, not expecting any measurable results.

Perhaps rage can bring new strength, or a hotter fire burning inside to move forward and work harder, because on this peace-less day, in what a appeared to be war-torn marriage, in this shambled house, with one of her young sons present, she spoke her son’s name for the first time since her stroke.  It was a moment speech therapists live for.  The joy on her son’s face was priceless, and brought us all a small measure of peace.  It began with me.

I left her home an hour and fifteen minutes later after the nurse arrived–she was okay, and proceeded to the grocery store for my weekly triple-digit expenditure.  It usually takes me about an hour, and I typically treat a trip to the grocery store as the business it is, hoping not to make it a social hour.  In my small city, however, it is difficult to go out to any public place and not see someone I know.

Today, I kept my head down and my nose to the grindstone, and got my shopping done.  At one point, I thought I saw that one woman, the one, who, for reasons I won’t explain, I don’t feel completely at peace with.  I have toyed with the idea of seeking her out to offer an apology, but part of me doesn’t feel it was my fault.  Perhaps I should let it begin with me, but then again, maybe she should let it begin with her.  I’ll let you know how that works out.

I avoided the woman, just in case it was her.  I made it out of the store, and headed to the parking lot.  I reached my car with my cart, and had to turn around to do a double take.  It was another woman I knew; she and I had not always been at peace.  We resolved that about four years ago, just after her mother died.

I saw her at a public event shortly after her mother died, and, feeling her pain, I reached out to her.  I approached her, and offered her my heartfelt sympathy.  I told her how sorry I was, and that I knew the pain of losing one’s mother.  I knew her mother, she was kind and full of love, just like mine was.  I moved cautiously closer to suggest an embrace, perhaps a light hug, and she reciprocated.  We hugged that day, and the old pain fell away as we both felt the new and more acute pain of being motherless.  We soothed each other; I felt better too.

“Thank you for reaching out to me,” she said.  She meant it.  It felt so good to me, I had made peace.  The old hurts—whatever they were—had fallen away because both of us knew that pettiness had no space in our lives any more after a loss of such great magnitude.  We both spoke a new language, and we understood it too.

Today, in the grocery store parking lot, we hugged again.  We spoke of life after loss, and how good it can be; how good it is for each of us, and the peace we feel, as well as the feeling we both carry here:  I placed my hand on my heart.

“They are with us here now, all the time.  It feels good, doesn’t it?”  I asked her.

She smiled, and agreed.  “Yes.  Yes it does.”   We hugged again, and parted ways.

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Perhaps there is a space created in a woman after her mother dies, a space her mother so carefully carved throughout all her years on earth with us, a space she wanted us to fill with peace and positivity after she dies.  Perhaps all the love she showered upon us here on earth is the seed she so purposefully planted in her daughter’s heart for her work to continue through her daughter after she leaves her.  Perhaps the death of a woman’s mother, her departure from the earthly plane into the next dimension can ultimately propel a woman forward to create a life of greater meaning, depth and, of course, peace.  Perhaps, like the woman I saw today, I have accepted the challenge, and it will be a lifelong goal of mine to do my best to live it out.

Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me. 

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Sitting with my brother, in perfect harmony.  Ryan and his family came to town last night, and we enjoyed the evening together.  It was the perfect time to wear the shirt.

 

Dedicated to all those affected by the Las Vegas tragedy.

 

DAYJOBS AND DAYDREAMS

/ middlesisterkathleen / 4 Comments

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DAYJOBS AND DAYDREAMS

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“If you love your work, you will never work a day in your life.”

“Find whatever it is that makes you lose all track of time.  This is the work you should be doing.”

That’s what they say, whoever “they” are.

I believe these to be true, but most of us are still calling it work—at least some of the time.

I have a love/hate/love relationship with my work, and love always wins.  Almost every day, I have the opportunity, the privilege to try to make a difference in someone’s life, and most days, I think I can say I have at least given them a small sliver of hope; a tiny measure of joy.

I am a speech-language pathologist, a.k.a. a speech therapist.  I work primarily with adults after a stroke, head injury, brain tumor, diagnosed with a progressive neurological disease such as Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s, as well as multiple other diagnoses.

I love the fact that I can help them to return to a higher level of function, even if it is not where they once were.  I love that I can help them regain their ability to engage with their loved ones and the rest of the world through communication.  I get to help them improve their swallow function—an ability that is often affected by any of the diagnoses I work with.  In the happiest of endings, I help them return to eating and drinking again after being fed through a stomach tube, and re-engage them with their world.

But there are no guarantees.  Many times I can’t make a difference, and the sickness and the sadness override my love for my work.  The system I work within plays a part too.  Some days I feel defeated.

Then, someone tells me they couldn’t have made it without me, and I love my work again.

Love always wins.

I engage in my own kind of therapy.  I stumbled upon it accidentally when a friend talked me into doing a project with her.  Much like my life after loss, and my patients after illness, I take broken and random things and try to make them beautiful again, albeit in a different way than they were before.

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The above project is the largest one I have ever completed; it is in my (overachieving) husband’s garden.  Have you ever been in garden that needed to be swept?  He tiled it when he was bored, but I digress…

When I am working on projects such as this one, the handles on the clock spin, and I am totally unaware.  Much like when I am writing.  Chronological time goes out the window, and I am in the zone; in the flow.

If I could just find a way to make these pursuits pay the bills.  I do get paid for a few writing gigs, and that is sweet.   The thought of leaving my career behind, however, is bittersweet.  Twenty-three years as a speech pathologist (SLP) have wormed their way into the annals of The Loves of My Life, and while I think I could call myself a writer/artist instead of an SLP, I just might miss it a little too much.  My daydream of walking away from it all when the sickness, sadness and the system overcome my passion may not be ready to come to fruition just yet.

So, I keep doing it on the side.  I keep nourishing the need, writing and creating.  Like this project I made for Suzanne to welcome her to my small city almost a year ago:

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One of her friends she left behind saw it and loved it, so I made one for her.   Let me preface that with this picture:

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This brings me to Suzanne’s story.  While she works with money, she maintains the daydream of leaving it all behind.  In my estimation, her sense of humor is waiting to take her places, just not quite sure yet where.

Her friend has yet to see this piece, but Suzanne wanted to continue the theme.

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Time stopped for me until I was finished; hours had passed.  I delight in turning broken pieces, old jewelry, tchotchkes, bottle caps and repurposed finds into a new creation, specially tailored to the recipient.

Much like writing, it moves me to a higher plane.  And I want to stay there.  I do get paid for it, but it’s not in the currency I need to pay the bills. I get paid with a sense of satisfaction, a feeling that I have tapped into a well that will feed and nourish my heart and soul if I simply keep revisiting it, keep doing the work.

Suzanne has some unique talents—too many to list.

Her sense of humor should be apparent in the “You’re dead to me” theme, which was a standard exchange between her and her friend, carried to the extreme on going-away cakes and art projects.  She could perhaps parlay this talent onto a stage somewhere, but she has yet to find that route.

Among the others I can write about include an extremely satisfying and incredible ability to put together jigsaw puzzles.  She has been known to start one like this with 1000 pieces at the beginning of the day,

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and have it done by the end of the day.  She delights in this pursuit, and if only she could find a way to get paid in the kind of money she handles every day…

Then there is the Big Dream.  The Dream that she has recently brought to my attention, the Dream that likely cannot be fulfilled in our small city in this landlocked area.

She wants to be a mermaid.  There are such professional incarnations in large cities in tourist aquariums, but to that end, she has not exactly had a professional background that would lend itself to that, say, as an expert swimmer with extensive experience in holding her breath.

Still, her Dream persists, as evidenced by the fact that she has yet to remove the necklace she got in Florida.  And if her pursuit of this dream would allow her to lounge about on the beach in the sun and sand all day, that might just be close enough.

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Gail’s middle name is Jean, and she will easily answer to “Mean Gail Jean,” even though she is far from mean.  Which, is doubly ironic because she has a dream that would paint her as a true meanie.

Recall from Love of Labor, Labor of Love  on September 3rd, that Gail is already a workhorse.  Her primary day job is that of an office manager for a chiropractor, as well as several other side jobs.

Gail has had a long-standing pipe dream; a Big Idea:  she wants to have her own place, likely to be  called Mean Gail Jean’s.  Against her nature, she would actually be mean to the customers–all in fun, of course, insulting them in whatever way possible.  She is living out part of her dream now as a bartender/cook in an historic building, a former opera house-turned pub.  To my knowledge, she doesn’t purposely insult anyone.

Apparently, there is a restaurant chain that has pioneered the market on this idea, so the road is paved for her.  Hers, however, would likely include an obligatory hug from Mean Gail Jean as the customer leaves, just to show them she really does love them.

She loves people, and I’m not just saying that.  She loves to interact with, talk to, engage with relate to people.  Which is why she has an alternate idea.  Her other nickname, rhyming with Gail, is Whale.   “Whalin’ Gail’s” would be a bar and grill that provides all the fun and games adults once enjoyed as kids:

*Ferris wheel

*swings

*slippery slide

*slip-n-slide

*trampoline

*dance music from the 70’s and 80’s at all times, including The Bee Gees, John Mellencamp and all manner of big hair bands that she loves to listen to on satellite radio.

She would like either of these ideas to come to fruition in Colorado or Florida.  Florida, of course, would be closer to Suzanne as she lays on the beach and/or swims about in the ocean with her big tail fin.

Yesterday, Gail brought her road show in my direction.  She also has a flair for repurposing, and she traveled to Abilene, my Someplace Special (September 10th) to exhibit her work in a vintage craft fair with her sidekick, Sylvia, as well as many other women-and men–who are living their Dream.

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My home is adorned with many of these pieces that are made primarily from antique ceiling tin and second-hand wood.  She and Sylvia become treasure hunters from time to time, scavenging abandoned buildings (with permission, of course).   They, too, take something broken and random and make it into something beautiful.

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And, to add to my collection, I picked up a few more from the show yesterday:

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Working for a living is a beautiful and honorable thing.  Except when it gets in the way of living.  Most of us have been through times in our lives where we need to take stock of where we are, where we have been, and where we are going.  These times often happen during a crisis, often born out of tragedy.

“They” say you shouldn’t make major life changes in the first year after losing a loved one.  Well, losing two loved ones in one moment prompted some serious reconsideration on our parts, and they likely haven’t lost two loved ones in the same moment.

Gail, realizing life is indeed too short, closed the doors to her donut shop of seven-plus years about seven months after that day.  She doesn’t regret it.

Suzanne’s only child, at age 12, spent the after-school hours with her grandparents.  She suddenly had nowhere to go, and no one to help her through those tough few hours every day, let alone the entire day.  Suzanne took a year off from her banking job and worked in the school as a para-educator to help them both adjust to not seeing our parents every day.  She then went back to her banking position.

It took me several years, but I broke out on my own.  I serve in a contract/private capacity now, as opposed to an employee.  I am a woman of my own mind, so I love it here.

My mind, however, once played a trick on me.  A good trick, a favor; it gave me a gift.  Exactly one year before Mom and Dad died, I had a “career” position in the lone hospital in our small city.  It was a great job, and I enjoyed it.

Something, however, nagged at me.  The little voice inside begged me to move on, to find something else.  The only reasonable alternative I could see at that time was to enter the regional nursing home circuit, and that didn’t seem all that reasonable.  The pay was a bit better, but the hours weren’t guaranteed, there would be a lot of travel, and the progress, if there was much, would be significantly less than in the rehabilitation setting I was in that brought me so much fulfillment.

The voice persisted, so I finally listened.

The eleven-or-so nursing homes I covered included the one in my parents’ small town.  It was 87 miles from my home, and while I didn’t go there on a regular basis, I did perhaps log 15 visits there that year.

Every time I went there, I stopped to see Mom and Dad—at least for a short visit, sometimes lunch.

Every time.

I got to see them that many more times in their last year, and I am forever grateful that I chose to listen to that little voice.  It was the voice of wisdom, and it knew what I needed, long before I did.

Mom and Dad instilled in each one of us the power to believe in ourselves, including our dreams.

Dream on, sisters.  Keep working hard until we all find whatever it is we’re looking for.

That’s what Mom and Dad wanted for us.

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Gail, Suzanne and I believe that laughter together brings our dreams a little closer…

 

 

SHE CAN DO IT!

/ middlesisterkathleen / 4 Comments

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SHE CAN DO IT!

I am so glad I didn’t push Suzanne down the stairs all those years ago.

I wanted to, I really did.  And now, 35 years later, I am ashamed to admit that I actually wanted to.

She made me so mad.  We shared a room and a closet upstairs, and I loathed the fact that she wanted to be like me.  She wanted to wear my clothes.  She would only buy clothes that I already had.  I was about 15; she would have been 11. She made me crazy then.

Not so much anymore.

Now, we can share some of our clothes again, and I love it.

And I love her.

I love Gail too.  So much that I realize I am doing the same thing Suzanne did to me all those years ago, but Gail doesn’t seem to mind.  She actually seems quite flattered.

I’m talking about a mutual obsession, something I started liking and collecting just because she did.  Something Gail has collected for years, and now, for about nine years, I have been collecting the same thing, all because Gail started it.

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Rosie The Riveter.  The iconic symbol of women who went to work in factories and shipyards during World War II out of necessity.  They rolled up their sleeves, left their work and children at home, and did what they had to do, because they had to.

And they did it.

Rosie is not one single woman; not an actual person.  She symbolizes all the women who became the mainstay of the factory and shipyard workforce when the men went to war.

Gail, being the perpetual working woman (see September 3rd, Labor of Love, Love of Labor if you don’t recall her work ethic), was right on her wavelength.  Gail always had work to do, and she always rolled up her sleeves and simply got it done—just like Rosie.

I recall only one small metal picture of Rosie on her wall in her last home more than 20 years ago, but I sensed Rosie’s importance to Gail.  In the last five years or so, her collection has multiplied.   Cups, keychains, socks, shirts, and all manner of memorabilia.

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About a year after Mom and Dad died, I was at the Eisenhower Museum in Abilene with my boys—recall my Someplace Special post—ending the visit in the gift shop.

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Because Dwight Eisenhower was a rock-star Army General and the Supreme Allied Commander who led the Allied Forces to victory in World War II, there was much WWII memorabilia for sale in the gift shop.  Among the gifts were Rosie T-shirts; including a bin of long-sleeved shirts on clearance.  I decided it was time to get Gail a Rosie T-shirt to add to her collection.  She had been so strong for all of us throughout the darkest time in our lives, and she needed a special thank-you.

She loved it.

I got myself one too, and I loved it.

I started thinking about how, yes indeed, Gail was our rock-star fearless matriarch now, our Supreme Allied Commander, and did lead us bravely through the darkness to victory, but there were so many other women, so many important soldiers in my army of friends who were strong for me in those dark days.

To honor Gail, I wrote a little story to explain her indomitable strength.  Then, I went back to the Eisenhower Museum gift shop and got some more T-shirts for each of these women.  And some more.  And I went back again, and again.  The ladies in the gift shop looked at me a bit more strangely each time.  My list kept growing, and I kept buying each of them a Rosie shirt to honor them and Gail, including a copy of my story about her.  My list grew to somewhere around 40.  There were so many women who were so strong for me when I was so weak, and to honor them—as well as Gail—I got everyone a Rosie T-shirt.

They were on sale, and while I did have the money, I realized perhaps I had gone a bit overboard.  Perhaps I should have kept the list shorter, and put the money in the bank instead.

But the deed was done, the shirts were purchased; the money spent.

Within a few weeks, I got an interesting piece of mail, something I didn’t expect.  A check for almost exactly the same amount I had spent on the shirts arrived in my mailbox.   We had overpaid on our mortgage escrow account, and it was a refund check.  While it was indeed our own money, it was truly a surprise, and again, it was almost exactly the same amount as my T-shirt expenditures.

I am convinced that had I not purchased the shirts, the check would not have come.

I believe in Karma.  And Rosie.  And Gail.

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Of course, I believe in Suzanne, too.  However, being the minimalist she is, she is not a Rosie collector.  And we respect that.  She is strong.  And she can do it.  She has done it, and she continues to do it.  Right now, however, she is on some beach, somewhere, with someone else.  So, at this moment, we are a bit jealous.

Because many of the original Rosies were also mothers, their husbands absence essentially made them single mothers.  These women were known to form communities whereby they would help each other with childcare, laundry, housekeeping and cooking.  Some shared homes, taking turns with their shifts so that they could share childcare on their opposite shifts. They did what they had to do.

Gail and Suzanne have something in common with Rosie that I don’t.  They also did what they had to do when they were single mothers.  They worked harder than I will ever know, making sure that ends met, children were fed and clothed, and I remember them each having enough left over for some fun, too.  They learned the hard way how to save not just for essentials.  Perhaps this crucible also taught them how important it is to save time and money not for the finer things, but for the funner things in life.

I will always look up to both of them for staying so strong when they were on their own with their children.  They could do it, and they did do it.

Rosie was a central theme in Gail’s donut shop when she had it.  It signified the fact that she could have her own business, and she did.  She could do it.

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In honor of her mother, Gail’s daughter Lydia recently dressed as Rosie for some of her senior pictures:

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In about a month, I will be dressed as Rosie for Halloween.  All I need is the polka-dot headband—and Gail’s continued infusion of strength.

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We are doing it.

 

 

 

EVERY DAY SHOULD BE THANKSGIVING DAY

/ middlesisterkathleen / Leave a comment

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EVERY DAY SHOULD BE THANKSGIVING DAY

Just like my parent’s generation remembers where they were and what they were doing when they heard the heartbreaking news about John F. Kennedy’s assassination, mine remembers the day our country came under attack:  9/11/2001.

I was holding a sick baby, glued to the TV all day, staring in disbelief.

The sixteenth anniversary of that dreadful day passed last week, the same day our country came under attack from Mother Nature with Hurricane Irma.  I was glued to The Weather Channel all weekend, staring in disbelief at my beloved St. Pete Beach, and all of Florida as it was battered by wind, rain and the fury of nature.

My heart broke for everyone in her path.  But this wasn’t helping them or me, not one little bit.

I feel heartbreak as a routine part of my work.  People whose lives have been devastated by a stroke, head injury, progressive neurological disease or a myriad of other illnesses present themselves for my attempts at remediation of their communication and/or swallow abilities.

Most days I can make a small difference, but most days I want to make more of a difference for them.  Most days I cannot heal, I simply offer a new way.

Sometimes, at the end of the day, I think I can’t take this anymore.

But then I remember something I read in a book by one of my mother’s favorite authors:  I can’t take on enough sadness to make someone else happy, nor can I take on someone else’s illness in order to make them well.  The best I can do is do the best with what I have, and practice gratitude for all I do have.

Even if this regular practice of gratitude does make me feel guilty for all I do have, while remembering those whose lives are being torn asunder by an illness or injury, a hurricane, or the ongoing loss felt from all those affected by the senseless attacks of 9/11—I have to keep feeling it.

And so I try.  Every day.  Some days it is easier than others.  Some days, I really have to dig deep.

It’s always there, though.  Always.

I recently read a book that challenged the reader to write down three things every day they are thankful for.  Three different things every day; no repeats.

The biggies—health, family, faith, freedom, food, shelter and clothing are the easy ones.   I used those up in the first few days.   The hard ones are the ones that take longer to get on paper.  Sometimes, I have to sit and think for quite some time before I can find something new.

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It is typically something easily overlooked, something like the beautiful orange-pink glow of the sunrise.

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A luscious, tasty watermelon from the bounty of our neighbor’s garden–as well as their generosity.

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From earlier this summer: the reflection of the water in our above-ground pool on the porch roof.   Getting a hand-written note in the mail.   Beautiful ground fog in the morning.  My boys enjoying an evening frog hunting.

These little things, when focused upon, become larger.  Larger, and more worthy of gratitude.

Sometimes, however, I have to turn it upside down to see the positive side in order to be thankful:  Electricity, as we sat for three hours without it.  Good dental care as I dreaded my six-month cleaning that afternoon.  Surviving a bad Monday.  No headlines in our daily paper about North Korea–no news is good news.  Realizing the reason a colleague irritated me was because I despise that too-frequent behavior in myself.

After a few months of making a point to recognize these small gifts worthy of gratitude, it started to grow on me, just like the author said it would.  I started to try harder to find the positive in what I typically considered negative.

I felt—do I dare say it—a little bit happier (just like the author said I would).  I realized I didn’t have to see something as negative if I didn’t want to.  Turning many thoughts upside down proved to be a good thing.

I felt empowered.

So, of course I wanted to share this good thing, this new view.  I asked Gail and Suzanne to try it for one day, just for this blog.  They each had to come up with three things that they don’t normally give thanks for.

Suzanne quickly came up with this:  she hasn’t taken it off since she got it in Florida.

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And, as a fellow lover of puzzles, she and I worked on this one last night.  Dad made two of these puzzle boards for Mom, and Suzanne and I are both thankful to have one.  Gail is not a puzzler like we are.

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She can complete a 1,000 piece puzzle in a day if she sets her mind to it, and she is grateful for this hobby that provides her with countless hours of enjoyment.

The third one was easy for her to come up with, but it is also something Gail is grateful for, and wanted to use as well.  It is something I despise.  It will wait until after Gail’s other two.

For over seven years, Gail was the owner and sole proprietor of a Daylight Donuts franchise in her small western Kansas town.  The bobblehead below reminds her to be grateful for all the friendships this created–her shop was the a.m. social hub in this small town.

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When she closed those doors, the woman in the picture below opened another door for her, and she will be forever grateful to her.  It was time to move on, and April gave her the opportunity to manage her chiropractic office.  Their children were both members of the homecoming court on Friday.

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The third one for both of them sets them apart from me, and makes me wonder just how they can both so enjoy and be grateful for something I loathe, something I gladly leave far behind me in one of my special places when I travel there.  In fact, one of my favorite things about Colorado is the relative lack of it:  wind.

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They both love wind.  The windier the better.  They both got their wish two days ago.  Gail has thought about changing her name to Gail Force Wind. 

I can say this because they are my sisters:  they are crazy.

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Because the title picture for my blog was taken during our Thanksgiving weekend celebration last year, it needed an encore presentation today.  It is taken in Camp Gail, a very special place in her home that will be covered in a future post.

Gail is our Thanksgiving hostess every year, and she does it up right.  It was my favorite holiday before she started the tradition, but her soiree enhances it.

I like the fact that there are no commercial expectations for Thanksgiving, just family, food and gratitude.

I am separating the idea of a holiday from a holy day, as I look at them differently.  Christmas is my favorite holy day, but I don’t like the commercialized, societal aspect of Christmas.  I prefer to keep it a holy day, and let the holiday buzz go on without me.   Thanksgiving, however, is a holy holiday for me.  It is all about gratitude—and good food with my family.

**

Today, I am thankful for you, my blog readers.  My day so far hasn’t been among my best.  When I finish this post, I am going to turn a few things upside down to find two more.

I am challenging you to start this daily practice as well, and sit back and see if maybe your life doesn’t become a little bit happier too.

Thank you, and Happy Thanksgiving—every day. 

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Dedicated to the victims of the recent hurricanes, the ongoing grieving from 9/11 and my patients, all who fight their battles every day of their lives.  May you be filled with new hope for new and more frequent Thanksgivings.

Special thanks to my husband Mark, who suggested this post.

 

SOMEPLACE SPECIAL

/ middlesisterkathleen / 9 Comments

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SOMEPLACE SPECIAL

When I was perhaps nine or ten years old, our dad loaded all of his children—I think all seven of us were there, unless our oldest brother was already gone—and took us on a Very Special Trip.  I remember it well, because we went on very few Special Trips.

He packed us into the white, wood-paneled Plymouth Volare station wagon that was the family truckster back then.  We spilled into the back seat and into the way back, no seatbelts were expected or used then.  We were going two hours away, so this was Someplace Very Special, because we rarely went anywhere.

We went to Abilene, Kansas.  Abilene is the boyhood home of Dwight D. Eisenhower, former U.S. president.  His boyhood home, presidential library, museum and final resting place are located there.  It is a Kansas jewel.    Our parents wanted us to experience this piece of history.

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It is an experience that is imprinted in my long-term memory.  The historical significance was coupled with the sure knowledge that this was indeed Someplace Special because we were making this four-hour round trip.  Abilene, Kansas then became Someplace Special to me.

I now travel to Abilene at least several times every week, sometimes five days a week as part of my work.   It is 30 minutes from my home now. It is still Someplace Special.  When I drive into town, that old, warm familiar feeling of being a ten-year old kid on a special trip fills me.  It hasn’t waned in forty years.

Today, I was called there late in the afternoon.  I hit the road at 4:00 to see a new patient.  I had the time, and even though it is typically the time I start to think about heading home, I headed east, and it felt good.

Typically, around four in the afternoon, I feel a funk settling over me.  I have never liked that time of day.  I think it is because the sunlight is starting to wane, and I love sunlight.  I get a little sad thinking about the sun leaving me, yet again.  Today, however, the thought of heading to Abilene at this typically blue time of day perked me up.  I was going Someplace Special.

 

**

Our mom grew up in Wichita.  Her parents and three sisters lived there when we were growing up.  Our dad was an only child, and his dad lived in town close to our farm.  Visiting Mom’s family in Wichita was the only other traveling we ever did.  We would pile in the back seat or the way back, watching Dad navigate those three hours on the road from our farm right to the door of our grandparent’s home without a map.  He was so brilliant; he had to be to find his way each time.

Driving to Wichita became a profoundly memorable experience for me, just like Abilene was.  It still is.  Every time I drive to Wichita—perhaps ten times every year—I still get that feeling I had as a kid.  And, I can drive there without a map.  I’m not as brilliant as Dad was, but I do have a sense of where I’m going, even if I don’t know the exact direction I am traveling in.

 

Traveling by car now, while it is an everyday occurrence, can seem like a routine and mundane event.  That is, when I am traveling alone for work.  When I am in the car with my sisters, however, every trip becomes Something Special.  Much like a trip to Abilene or Wichita when I was a kid, a road trip with my sisters is always a special event.   As we continue to take more road trips, each holds special memories that are built upon the experiences from all the previous ones.

Traveling with someone can be an art form at best, and hell on earth at worst.  It is a delicate balance; a nearly-perfect blend that must be achieved in order for a trip with others to be a success.   I know this for sure, because I have travelled with people whom I would prefer never to travel with again.

Then, there are my sisters.  I could travel with them every day, and I would be a better and happier woman for it.  We know how to read each other, how to make our needs known, how to respect—and sometimes ridicule, in good faith, of course—each other.  We feel at ease in the car with each other, even if we don’t always agree where to go first, where to eat, when to leave, when to move on, or how to fit in all the fun we came for.

We make it flow, and we make it fun.

**

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Gail and I just returned from Colorado six days ago–another Someplace Special for me.  The morning of our scheduled return home arrived, and while the sun shone bright and warm—it felt warmer than 58 degrees beating down on us as we sat on the porch and drank coffee—the dark cloud of we have to go home today hung low and heavy around us.  We milked it.  We drank another cup of coffee, talked and laughed even more, finally packed up and went to see Christine at 9494 again for one last perusal of her baubles and jewels (maybe we each bought one more) and stopped at the casino one last time—I pulled Gail away when she was $10 up with that hand.

We departed an hour and a half later than I said we had to.  Since I was driving, and I had 200 more miles to go after I dropped Gail off, I tried to make the rules.  Even though she is the big sister, I laid down the law—at least I tried.  She mostly respected it, but given our mutual affinity for the mountains that enveloped us, we lingered, and I didn’t fight back much.

We bade adieu to our favorite mountain town, and began the initial ascent out of the valley, followed by a descent out of the mountains.  We continued to talk, laugh, reminisce and dream.  We spoke of things we don’t normally speak of at home.  Things that the mountains and their rejuvenating air breathe into us, and then gently coax back out of us.  Things that are more grand than those we normally discuss, things that the mountain grandeur inspires us to talk about.  Heavy, but positive and important things that we may not say otherwise.

And all because we traveled.

I know it is a gift to be able to travel with anyone harmoniously. For some, traveling with one’s sister is the greatest challenge.  For us, however, it is joy multiplied.  We recognize this as a gift, and we give thanks accordingly.

We know too that it is a gift to have the resources of time and money to travel.  We know not everyone has these gifts.  Besides these resources, it is also a matter of priority.  It is each of our individual decisions to spend the necessary time and money to travel, because it is a priority.

It is a harsh, but true fact of life that we spend our time, money and energy on that which we value.  For many, and in the past for us too, this trifecta of time/money/energy was nearly 100% focused on supporting our families out of necessity.  In large measure, we have realigned our priorities after the loss we suffered in our family, realizing that this time together is necessary for our own support.  We choose to spend our time, money and energy on this time together.

And we are all richer for it.

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**

I was in Abilene two days ago.  When I drove into town, I got that special feeling, the one I have had for forty years when I arrive there.  All because my parents took me Someplace Special.

Take yourself and/or your family to Someplace Special, even if it is only a few hours down the road, and especially if it will leave a lasting memory of why the place is indeed special, just as Abilene is to me.

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Abilene is also rich with Cowtown history as an important part of the Chisholm Trail.

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Your kids may still be thanking you forty years later, whether or not you are here to hear them say it.

Today, I am in Wichita, another Someplace Special.  We have the privilege of spending the day with this delightful family.

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My stepson, his wife and almost-two children are only 100 miles from us, and we are so thankful.  It is yet another reason to feel excited when I travel to Wichita.

I still get that warm feeling when I enter the city, and today, it was even warmer when I drove through the neighborhood where my grandparents once lived, the place my dad could always magically find without a map.

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Another Someplace Special from my more recent travels with my sisters is mercilessly being ravaged by Mother Nature as I write.

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My heart breaks for everyone in the state of Florida and northward as Hurricane Irma relentlessly pounds the entire area.  Our new friends in St. Pete Beach are in my heart today, as are all the residents and visitors in Florida and all the areas affected by this nightmarish hurricane.  Those affected in the Caribbean, as well as those affected in Texas are in my thoughts and prayers too.

No matter what happens in the next few hours and days, St. Pete Beach will always be Someplace Special for me.  My sisters and I made golden memories there last year, and Suzanne and I returned with her daughter not even two months ago, creating more memories.  We hope and pray that we will all be able to go back soon.  More importantly, may the lives,  pets and treasured possessions of all affected be safe, and may everything else be replaced in time by the grace, strength and generosity of the rest of America.

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If you have a sister or sisters, may you consider a trip to Someplace Special, if you aren’t already traveling there.

May you take your children Someplace Special that they will remember forty years later.

May you consider a day or a weekend in Abilene, Kansas.  I think you will agree it truly is Someplace Special.

May you find a way to balance your desires to travel with your responsibilities to others.

May you find a way to balance your time at work and at home with time spent going Someplace Special.

May you find balance.

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This post is dedicated to my Abilene friends–may you realize you live in Someplace Special.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LABOR OF LOVE, LOVE OF LABOR

/ middlesisterkathleen / 6 Comments

 

 

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LABOR OF LOVE, LOVE OF LABOR

I noticed a pattern when I was looking through the old family photos for Suzanne’s birthday post:  in all the group shots of any combination of the kids, Gail is actively mothering one of us five younger ones.  In the two below, she is helping me celebrate my first birthday.

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Apparently I had a love of books even at age seven.

Gail is the second-oldest; the oldest daughter.  After her, the rest of us arrived three, four, six, ten and thirteen years later.  It fell upon her to help Mom mother however and whenever she could.

And help she did.

Mom used to tell the story of Gail waking up from a nap in the afternoon, bleary-eyed and still half asleep, walking by Mom changing the diaper of one of us, picking up the (cloth) diaper while still appearing to be mostly asleep, and depositing it in the diaper pail.

She was well trained.  She knew what to do, even when she wasn’t fully awake.

Those years may have been the last ones that she ever got really good sleep.

**

I was not a teenage angel; I stayed out far too late many times.  I, however, could blame it on the two brothers just above me:  we had one vehicle to take into town—a five mile trip, and I had to carpool with them.  So, if they were able to stay out later, then so could I.  I don’t recall ever getting in trouble for getting home late.

Gail, however, did.  I can’t expand here; it wouldn’t be fair.  Suffice it to say she served her share of time grounded at home.  She played hard.

She worked hard, too.  She was responsible for so much of the day-to-day labor in our household.  In general, the four boys were outside, and the girls were inside.  Gail did both.  Unlike Suzanne and me, she knows how to drive a tractor/combine/truck.   While she was filling these outside roles, she also cooked meals, baked—doughnuts were her specialty, cleaned, did laundry, mothered and did whatever Mom needed her to do.

And she did it well.  Without complaining.  Day after day, year after year.  Suzanne and I helped too, but not nearly at the caliber she did.  Gail would be happy to tell you the story about when she was preparing to leave for college.  I was twelve.  Mom and Dad gently took me aside to firmly let me know that since Gail would be leaving soon, I would need to take on more responsibility.

I went to my (shared) room and cried.

**

Suzanne reproduced once, I reproduced twice and Gail x 4.  After caring for all of us for all those years, she had it in her to have her own brood.

And she had it in her to keep working.  Even in high school, she worked.  She waited and cooked at the Pizza Hut 20 miles away.  She would eventually go on to manage it; a fitting continuation of her humble food service beginnings at home.  After moving further west with her second husband, she would turn that love of doughnut-making into a Daylight Donuts franchise.

After learning the hard way with all of us that life is indeed too short, she closed the donut doors six months after Mom and Dad died.  Since then, she has served as the office manager for the lone chiropractor in her town.   She took several years to catch up on sleep—she was typically up all night—and then she undertook a part time gig as a bartender/cook at a local establishment.   She also has a successful side business with Pampered Chef.  It would stand to reason that she would seek out a business that involves cooking/baking.  She also continues to cook, bake, garden and can at home as well, she seems to have a non-stop whirling dervish quality about her.  Oh, and she has a little artistic quality that she parlays into another endeavor she calls a hobby; it could be considered a business.  That, along with Suzanne’s and my creative sides will be covered in the future; stay tuned.

This work ethic is deeply ingrained into her brain, likely never to leave.

Now, Suzanne and me, well, our productivity levels don’t quite match hers—alone or together.   We all work to pay bills, but Suzanne and I could walk away from it all much easier than Gail could.   We wish the work wasn’t a necessity, but it is.  We sometimes wish we hadn’t had to learn the Midwest farmer’s daughter work ethic, but it has served us well.

Gail defines enough work as anything past the standard eight-hour workday.  Suzanne and I define it as whatever it takes.

Suzanne works in banking; she has a sense of precision and accuracy with not only her own money, but everyone else’s.  She is responsible for large amounts of money every day, and she handles it well.  She handles transactions without handling money, and she physically touches large amounts of cash every day.

She works the standard 40-hour week.

My productivity and income is not measured by a clock.  In several of my previous professional incarnations I did punch a clock, and I did normally log forty hours.  Now,  I don’t have a regular schedule.  I have a loose one, and it can and usually does change.  When duty calls with my contracts, I provide my services, and it works for me.  My time measurement at work is fluid with actual delivery of my services, travels, time, paperwork, phone calls and infrequent meetings (ugh).  Best of all, I actually get paid for some writing gigs that I contract on the side.

I have a love/hate/love relationship with my day job, and love always wins.  I get to make a difference in people’s lives (hopefully), but the system and the sadness take their toll on me.

Unlike Gail, I really don’t want to work full-time; definitely not more.  Some weeks I do work full time; once in a blue moon I think I actually work more than 40 hours/week.  Ugh.  When I consider working as much as Gail does, it still makes me want to go in my (private) room and cry.

I learned the hard way that while hard work is honorable and sometimes necessary to be responsible for ourselves and our families, it doesn’t necessarily make a woman whole.  It may actually take pieces of her away, giving them to people, places and things that may not honor and respect the woman she is, or the woman she yearns to be.  For too many women, however, there is no other choice, and my heart goes out to them.

**

The eight-hour workday was a product of the Industrial Revolution.  Factories needed to run around the clock, and three daily eight hour shifts became the norm.  While this was a good fit for this kind of work, much of today’s labor force doesn’t have to show up for eight hours to keep the wheels turning.   It still works well for some folks.  Others, like me, thrive in a work environment that doesn’t tick-tock. This is the information age, and for many, hours logged at work may not look the same as they once did.  I learned this as a student of the most influential and brilliant professor of sociology, Rose Arnhold.  As my instructor for Introduction to Sociology as an elective class in college in 1985, she inspired me to become a degreed sociologist.  On the lucky and auspicious day of Friday, May 13th 1988, I walked across the stage, never to look at life the same again.  She gave me new lenses with which I could see the world in its broadest social form, granting me a greater understanding of the human group, and why we act the way we do with and without each other.

One of the greatest compliments several people have paid me about my blog involve the word “insight.”  I give credit to Rose for giving me the tools to look at things differently than I once did, differently than many people do.

At the spry age of 75, Rose just retired from that position.  I happened to be driving through my alma mater town on the way here, and she was home.  I stopped to see her, to let her know once again how much she inspired me, and how it has made all the difference.

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Having no one else to snap it, we settled for a selfie.  Noting that we are looking sideways, she aptly stated that as sociologists, we do look at things a little differently.  Indeed we do, and I will forever be indebted to her for that ability.

She will soon be moving to Denver to join her daughter, her only child.  She lost her husband of 53 years after a tragic fall late last year.  She speaks the language of loss, but also of moving on.  I offer her what solace I can from my experience, but I will never be able to repay her for what she gave me.  Hopefully I will be able to visit her here in Colorado after she moves.

**

Happy Labor Day.  As I write this the day before, I am sitting in beautiful Cripple Creek, Colorado, laboring only at what I love to do:  write.

Labor Day became an official federal holiday in 1894 to honor the American labor force that contributed to the strength and prosperity of this country.

Seven years ago this weekend, Gail, Suzanne and I were here, beginning a Labor Day tradition that we hope will be timeless.  Sadly, Suzanne did not get to join us—again.  Gail and I came in March without her, and we are here again without her.  She had a little thing called labor getting in her way.

The tradition started in March seven years ago, when we decided to celebrate the black square on the calendar and March Forth, instead of staying put on March Fourth and perhaps feeling more blue, as we had on the first anniversary.  We wanted to honor our parents on the day they died with joy, not sadness.

While not world travelers, they liked to travel.  One of their favorite destinations was Las Vegas.  Not to gamble, but to watch people.  Feeling that Cripple Creek was a more feasible destination than Vegas, and would indeed be a fitting tribute to their love of travel, we decided to come.

So we came.

And we had so much fun, we decided to come back exactly six months later on Labor Day weekend.  Except for last year, when we couldn’t swing another major journey on the heels of our Florida trip that began this blog series, we haven’t missed a Labor Day weekend here.  We haven’t missed a March Forth celebration since the first one either.

This town, Cripple Creek, is an historic gold-mining town, with some active mining still taking place.  The mother lode was struck here in the late 1800s, rivaling the California Gold Rush.  It is rich with history and heritage, and was a major national economic force in its heyday.   I titled The Sister Lode as such from the inspiration I got from this town.

Now, its economy is revitalized not just with efforts to celebrate this heritage and history, but with gambling as well.  I would be a liar if I said I don’t enjoy that part, I do.  Gail does too. Suzanne, being the smartest of us three with money both professionally and personally, chooses to leave it mostly behind.

Good girl.

On Sunday morning as I write, both Gail and I are still waiting to strike the mother lode downtown.  As always, we continue to strike the sister lode every day.

**

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We have found our own niche in this town, with the most gracious, hospitable hosts providing us top-notch lodging in what once was the county hospital.  Rick and Mike’s Hospitality House B&B/RV Park is our home when we are here, and they treat us with graciousness and kindness, likely more than we deserve.

 

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Christine.  We love Christine.  I mentioned her in the Nevertheless, We Persisted entry on June 25th .  She is the owner and proprietor of 9494, our favorite jewelry/gift shop.  It is aptly named after the town’s altitude, and her jewels, baubles and especially her sweet personality give us an even greater Rocky Mountain High than before we step in her door.

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Our favorite waitress, Kaitlin, works at our favorite restaurant, McGill’s Pint & Platter.  Irish pub fare always hits the spot for us.

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We partake not only of the heritage, gambling and shopping, but the natural beauty as well.

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I like to run and walk, so I hoof it through town every morning, just as the small herd of donkeys do.  They are descendants of the original mining donkeys, and they are treated with earned respect.  They mostly roam free, as they should.

 

 

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The casinos do back-flips to keep their patrons happy.  The easiest way—besides giving away money—is to provide a free concert.  Saturday night, Zac Charles and the Reds were giving it all they had at the Brass Ass.  I was ready to hang it up at my usual 10 pm bedtime, but when we crossed the street and heard live music coming out the door, I found a renewed energy to stay up a bit later.  Their country/rock music vibe spread through the place, with dancing and singing adding to the mix.  They are a local band  from Colorado Springs,but should be on the national circuit with their incredible talent.

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We have friends along the way too.  Just outside of Colorado Springs, lies Peyton, Colorado, home of the Pop-a-Top Saloon.  Gail begged us to stop for the first few trips, but Suzanne and I denied her.  Now, we don’t miss.  The locals remember us, and the barmaids, even though we don’t always see the same ones, quickly become our friends, like Krystal:

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Teddy sat next to us.  We swapped life stories, and will hopefully cross paths again.  If not here, then online.

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After that stop, and after passing through Colorado Springs and all the small towns along the way, it was once again time to hear John Denver serenade us.  This time, unlike last time, both of us packed our CDs.  Gail’s, however, was empty.  I checked mine before I left home.  We popped him in the CD player, and sang along like no one else could hear us (because they couldn’t).   I did check satellite radio before I put the CD in, just in case.  No luck this time.

Apparently, however, our special forces Above aligned with satellite radio down here, and John Denver did indeed, once again, perform for us while we were in Cripple Creek.  The Force was with us.

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Tomorrow we will drive home.  We will be greeted in eastern Colorado and western Kansas by the annual coming-out of the Kansas state flower.  Labor Day always brings them out in full bloom, and they help me make peace with the end of summer, my favorite season.

My mother loved sunflowers, my mother-in-law loves sunflowers, and my son’s girlfriend loves them, too.  Karlee loves them so much that she and Joel took the two-hour trip to Lawrence, Kansas, to visit a famous field.

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Happy end of summer to you. Thank you for your labors that continue to contribute to America’s strength and prosperity.

Happy Labor Day to you.  May your labors be labors of love.

 

 

 

TIME FOR LETTING GO: PART ONE

/ middlesisterkathleen / 3 Comments

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TIME FOR LETTING GO:  PART ONE

It’s peak season for maternal nostalgia.

It’s back to school time.  And I’m not talking about the partially-feigned sadness moms like me exhibit for the first fourteen or so of their children’s back-to-school years.

I admit it was mostly relief when the magic school bus showed up in our driveway like clockwork at 7:50 a.m. Monday through Friday.  God bless that bus, and the Superwomen drivers who commandeered it, safely shuttling my children back and forth for years.

I’m talking about when the children drive themselves away—to faraway lands where universities lie, not six miles down the road where the preschool-through-high school, all-under-the-same-big-roof school where our two younger boys spent their at-home school years.  My husband’s firstborn son lives just 100 miles down another road with his delightful wife, two-year old daughter and soon-to-be-born son.

This faraway land for Jude, my first-born son happens to be all of 70 miles away from our home.  Still, it is worlds away from where we once inhabited the same home, slept under the same roof each night and had dinner at the same table every evening.

**

We had our last first day of school this week.  Wasn’t it just last year, or perhaps the year before, when this was the scene outside our front door?

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Joel, my second-born son drove himself those six miles today, just as he did last year.  The magic school bus hasn’t been in our driveway for several years now.  If he chooses a post-secondary institution in a faraway land next year, the wound will re-open.

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I will survive.  Again.  After all, this is what we groom our children for during the first 18 years.  They are welcome to live in my basement, but I’d really rather they don’t, at least not forever.  The time comes when our goal of making them independent is met, so we should be happy, right?

 

**

When I was pregnant the first time, I recall secretly worshipping any woman who had already endured childbirth.  For surviving this rite of passage, she was a goddess in my mind.  Knowing full well I would have to endure the pain, I still somehow denied the inevitable.  How did she do it?  How could any woman do it? How will I do it?  There’s no way I can do it. Then I did it.  I had no choice.

Then, as I prepared to send that baby off to college, I secretly worshipped any woman who had already endured this separation.  For surviving this rite of passage, she was a goddess in my mind. Again, denying the inevitable, I asked the same questions:   How did she do it?  How could any mother do it?  There’s no way I can do it.  Then I did it.  I had no choice.

Four days ago, he left again.  This makes the third year.  It was easier, but the day was blue.  Here we go again.  There he went again.

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Joel followed him those 70 miles down the road with the big stuff in his little truck.

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They made it to the university, and Joel made it back.

I don’t recall giving a flip about how my parents felt when I left for college.  Granted, I was the fifth of seven children, so it was likely old hat for them.  It meant one less hungry mouth in the house, but still, I know they missed each of us.  Perhaps a little less acutely each time, but each of us had our own niche that we filled, and then vacated in our family of nine.

**

As I write, Gail is going through it again.  Wyatt, her third child, is moving into the dorm at the same university with my son.  She has two older daughters from her first marriage who are 33 and 31, and her two younger children are 18 and 17.  This is her first son, and her husband’s first experience with a child moving away.

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Her last child will be a senior next year, and, like me, she will have the empty nest the year after that.

**

Suzanne, the youngest sister, the expert on so many things Gail and I have never experienced, has lived in an empty nest for three years now.  Her only child, Julia, happens to be at the same university.

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There was no official departure picture, as she has lived there all summer.  We only staged this to match the others.

The cousins, as I write, are together at Kansas State University in Manhattan, Kansas.  Another cousin—my brother’s oldest child—is there too.  Another cousin graduated from there last year, and Gail’s oldest daughter graduated from there as well 11 years ago.

**

Six hundred is a conservative estimate for Gail’s CD collection.  Ever since they came into production, she has been collecting them.  Her tastes are mostly in country and rock, peppered with a little bit of everything else.

I recall perusing her behemoth collection 25-plus years ago when we lived in the same town.  She had the coolest bands, artists and soundtracks.  One artist jumped out at me because of his name:  Jude Cole.  That name sounded ultra-cool to me, and I tucked it away.  “That would be a great name for a boy someday,” I thought.  But that was pre-husband, pre-“he could be the one” days.  Still, I didn’t forget the name.

Seven years later, I had a baby boy, and we named him Jude.  My husband had a favorite teacher by that name, and he liked the name, too.

I have one of Jude Cole’s songs on my iPod.  Just at the right moment during my run the day before Jude left, it played:  “It’s time for letting go.”

Again. So we did.  All three of us.

**

A dear friend—as I write—is moving her first child into his dorm room further down the road for his first year.  I know it has weighed heavy on her for months; I know because I remember those months of carrying around that anvil of heaviness, dreading the departure day in months, weeks, and then just days away when it’s time for letting go the first year.  I told her there is nothing I can say or do that will prepare her for this.  No wise words, no gestures, nothing that will deaden the pain; lift the weight.  The rite of passage must be passed through.  Through, not around, not under or over, but through. 

Another dear friend whose mother has been ill for months made the decision with her siblings to place their mother in hospice care.  They, too, know it’s time for letting go.  I told her the same thing just yesterday:  my heart breaks for you, but nothing I can say or do will prepare her for losing her mother.  She, too, must pass through this.  She lost her dad when she was 17, so she knows the pain already. Still, there are no magic words.  She understands.  She knows her dad is with her, and her mother will be, too.

**

I survived childbirth twice.  I survived losing my parents.  I survived my firstborn leaving for college—again.  So have so many other women.  So many others will continue to survive all three rites of passage.  And their dads will survive the departure too.

If you are struggling in the process of going through any of these, or perhaps facing the pain in the near future, we are with you.  The girls of The Sister Lode have made it through, just like thousands—millions—of other women.  You will too.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY SUZANNE–BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

/ middlesisterkathleen / 10 Comments

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY SUZANNE—BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

She doesn’t remember, but I remember clearly that Suzanne said: “I wish for my birthday that everyone would bring me toilet tissue.”

It was perhaps six years ago on Easter Sunday.  She hosted dinner for our siblings and all the offspring, so there were likely twenty-plus people in her home.  She stepped into the  bathroom off the kitchen to change the toilet paper—again—and I heard her say it.

The ding-ding-ding of the great idea bell sounded in my head, and the light bulb lit up too.  “We can make that happen,” I thought to myself, but didn’t say a word to her.

That was Easter Sunday in the spring, and Suzanne’s birthday is August 16th, a few days from today.  She claims it as her day before she had to share it with Madonna when she became famous, and she had seven years of that day to herself before Elvis died on the same day.

I mentioned the idea to Gail, and she too, thought it was brilliant.  We let it rest for several months.  Then, in perhaps mid-July, we started making plans to make her wish come true.

Be careful what you wish for.

Gail sent out mass emails, and if we were even on Facebook then, we probably posted it unbeknownst to her; I don’t remember.  We spread it by word-of-mouth, with the admonition that A: it was to be kept secret from her, and B: there must be a card or note attached that read be careful what you wish for.

She was still living in the small town where our parents lived; she moved to my small city only six months ago.  She worked in one of the two banks there, and she knew everyone in town.  Gail had lived there as well some years prior, but, being Gail, she still knew everyone.  She got the word spread around town, and we sat back and waited.

It was a success.  Fortunately, her boss had a sense of humor, as multiple rolls of toilet tissue were carried in the door that day by customers and non-customers alike.

Multiple, soft packages were showing up addressed to her in the post office, and the postmistress was a bit confounded, but fully appreciated the humor when she found out the story.

There was personalized toilet tissue, toilet tissue with pictures, toilet tissue with jokes, as well as the standard garden-variety toilet tissue.

Still, she didn’t remember making that wish.

Be careful what you wish for.

At the end of the day, she ended up with over 300 rolls of toilet tissue.  She loved it.  Who wouldn’t love 300-plus rolls of toilet tissue, especially if you had storage space, which she did.

**

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SUZANNE—Love, Cancer.

Several years later on her birthday, it wasn’t so funny.

The generation before mine remembers where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news that John F. Kennedy had been assassinated.  My generation remembers where they were and what they were doing when they heard the devastating new on September 11th, 2001.

I remember where I was and what I was doing on August 16th, 2012 when Suzanne called to tell me it was cancer.  I was pulling into the driveway of a rural home health patient.  There was no way the strong, healthy and invincible Suzanne could have cancer.  I tried to collect myself and go in.  I was visibly shaken, but the kind gentleman and his family knew something was wrong.  They listened while I explained to them, and then I managed to get on with my business.

Suzanne tells me it was all business for her from that point.  She blocked out the ugly word and plowed forward with the doctor outlining the treatment plan with her husband beside her for support.  She continues to plow through the aftermath.

Suzanne is one of the strongest women I know.  As noted in Lessons From My Sister (July 30th), she passed the five year mark, and aside from the scar, there is no visible trace.

Suzanne, and all of us, wished for healing, and she got it.

**

I had the entire day yesterday to spend cleaning, sorting and purging useless stuff out of my house.  It had been too long.  Again, from the July 30th post, recall that Suzanne has inspired me to get rid of the useless stuff.   As I nodded off the night before, I sent up a little prayer, asking for bountiful energy to complete the herculean task of letting go.

Be careful what you wish for.

I woke with boundless energy, and tackled the house, but I wanted to work in every room at the same time.  I wanted to spin like a whirling dervish, getting all the work done in minutes instead of hours, so that I could move on to the basement, the garage, my car, the laundry, etc.  I found my attention splintered, so much that I had to sit for a bit and collect myself.  One task at a time.

I thought about this post I was writing, and wished I had more pictures of Suzanne in her younger years.  I had looked through a box of old pictures Friday evening, and found only one that was marginally suitable.

I did move on to the shelves in the garage, and there was a shoebox there that Suzanne had given me several months ago when she moved, but I had not addressed it since then.  I couldn’t even remember what was in it.  I took it down and took a peek inside.

Be careful what you wish for.

Inside was the mother lode.  It was a box full of pictures that Suzanne had taken from Mom and Dad’s home, and didn’t know what to do with it.  She entrusted it to me to share with the rest of our siblings.

I had to put the brakes on my sorting/cleaning/purging efforts, which were now in high gear.  I had to sit for awhile and take a trip back.  These pictures were gold.  Mom was so good about labeling pictures, and these two are the perfect additions to this post:

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Happy Birthday Suzanne, 42 and 41 years later.

**

Name this tune, again it is from the same artist in the July 30th post:

“You get what you want, but it’s not what you need.”

In my several-hundred song iPod, I heard this one Friday morning as I ran.  It is the same message; the same reason the age-old adage has stayed around.

A wise woman once told me that instead of wishing for a specific outcome, we should pinpoint the exact feelings we are seeking to find in that outcome.

I am a runner with no desire to complete a marathon, but I know many runners do.  A runner friend of mine held on to that goal for years, but finally admitted with a sense of defeat that he knew, for health reasons, that it would not be possible.   His friends in his running circle had all completed one, and he felt utter disappointment in himself for not reaching this goal.

I asked him if he would have had that same goal if his friends had not met his goal.  He thought for a minute, then looked at me for a moment without speaking.  After a bit, he said, in an introspective tone of voice:

“I never thought about it that way.  I guess I was holding myself up in comparison to them. If it were only me, I don’t think I would have cared so much.”

Getting to the heart of the matter; the real meat of the goal should be our first step.  If it is not the best thing for us in terms of positive growth, perhaps you should re-examine it.   Perhaps we should be careful what we wish for.

Life is too short to waste time on something we don’t really want.

**

Don’t get me wrong, goals are good things.  Wishes are good things.  I am simply suggesting you step back and look at it as an outsider.  If it is indeed what you want, then proceed full steam ahead, and Godspeed to you.  Make your wish and say your prayers, appeal to the universe or whatever force you seek to enlist.

Your wish for a bigger bank account or a smaller stomach, or whatever it is should be accompanied by your best efforts.  I believe God/The Universe/The Force treats anyone with a wish much like we should treat our children with their homework.  We should expect them to give their all in their homework efforts, and then we can help them if they still need it.

We need to do our homework too.  We need to make the wish and do the work.  We need to put our backbone where our wishbone is.

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May God/The Universe/The Force be with you.

**

Recall from last week’s post that fair only comes once year, so we seized the opportunity last night to savor it in our small city, complete with a demolition derby.

 

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On Wednesday, August 16th, I wish for my dear sister Suzanne to have the best birthday yet.  I may even throw in a package of toilet paper with her gift.

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Suzanne and me, circa 1973.

 

 

 

 

 

 

HAPPY SISTER’S DAY

/ middlesisterkathleen / 2 Comments

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HAPPY SISTER’S DAY

Typically, I don’t bat an eye at any specially designated day that is invented by someone trying to separate me—or anyone else—from time or money.

National Sister’s Day, however, is one I have decided to pay homage to.  However, Gail and Suzanne, you won’t get any gifts from me, not even a card.  You will get something better.

Let me first extend my heartfelt, genuine sympathy to any reader who is mourning the loss of their sister, and who may feel compounded grief from the observation of this day—without their sister.

It must be what I feel on and around Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.   I wish those two days were wiped off the calendar.

They should be.  In my egocentric, the-world-should-revolve-around-me mind, nobody should be able to celebrate them if I can’t celebrate them.  When I am ambushed by the Mother’s Day Card display, or the ads for Father’s Day gifts, I roll my eyes and give a strong, glottal teenage-girl “uh.”

Not fair.

But fair, as we all know, comes only once a year, and it may have already left your town.

**

Today, as I write this, those who choose to are observing National Sister’s Day.  According to several online sources, its beginnings are traced back to 2011, when the first Sunday of August was designated as Sister’s Day.   I was not able to find any concise report on how it started, or who started it.

Nevertheless, social media—and other forms as well—are promoting it as a day to be observed.  So for worse or better–as it has become in our country–if social media reports it, then it is noticed.

I, for one, am observing it.  I have two great reasons to do so.

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The sun smiles down on Gail and me, and the moon is smiling upon Suzanne and me.

**

I will not see either of my sisters today, but I will call them to let them know how glad I am they are my sisters.

* I will tell them how much fun I have with them when we travel, or when we get together for any reason.

* I will tell them I couldn’t have hand-picked two finer sisters if it were up to me to choose.

*I will tell them I cherish all the memories we made as children, and especially as adults.

*I will tell them how much I appreciate that they accept me for who I am; faults, foibles, foolishness and all.

*I will tell them that I couldn’t have survived the loss of our parents without them.

*I will tell them that I love them.

They likely know all this already, but I need to tell them again.

**

My mother had three sisters, and no brothers.  She had a unique relationship with each of them because of a series of events in her young life.   Her older sister, Jeanne, was diagnosed with retinoblastoma—cancer in both retinas—at 18 months of age.   This was in the mid 1930’s.  Her eyes were removed, and she was not expected to live a long and full life, yet she did.

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She went The Kansas School For The Blind in Kansas City, so she was gone most of the time.   Their mother passed away when our mother was eight, which would have made Jeanne about 11.  Their father remarried a wonderful woman named Madeline when Mom was a teenager, who became the only grandmother we ever knew because our dad was an only child, and his mother died when he was eight as well.

In the last few years, I found out just how excited Mom was to have a new mother.   She wrote in a journal as an adult, reflecting back on her excitement about her dad’s new wife.  She was so impatient at the prospect of getting another brother or sister, and she started a rumor that she was indeed getting one.  That fact had yet to be established, but Mom yearned for a sister.

She got two more.  Reitha arrived when she was 17, and Sharon came two years later.

They became our cool, younger aunts, only 10 and 12 years older than me.  They would often make the 3-hour trip to our farm from Wichita.  Jeanne sometimes came along, sometimes she rode the bus part of the way, and we would pick her up.

Jeanne, against medical predictions, went on to marry, have two sons, become a medical transcriptionist at the Veteran’s Administration Hospital in Wichita, maintain an active social life and play the organ like nobody’s business.  She passed away at the age of 71.  Her husband continues to live alone in Wichita.  He is blind too, but lives independently with a little help.

Reitha and Sharon would first bring their boyfriends to the farm, then husbands, and finally husbands and children.

In my mind, as a child, my mother’s singular role was that of a mother to the seven of us; it has occurred to me only as an adult that she, too, treasured sisterhood.

Mom remained close to Jeanne until she died.  Reitha, Sharon and Mom were as close as they could be with three hours between them, and they worked together to take care of their mother until she passed six days before Mom and Dad.

We have honored that bond Mom had with her sisters; they are pictured below with one of our brothers several years ago at my home for an Independence Day celebration.  (My 2nd favorite holiday, if you recall.)  Left-right:  Reitha, David, Sharon.

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I realize I am a fortunate woman to have a close relationship with both of my sisters, and for them to be close to each other as well.

I realize this may be more of an exception than a rule for many sisters.  I know several sisters who, at best, despise each other.

I realize many of you have a sister or sisters whom you are not close to.  Perhaps you simply don’t keep in touch.  Perhaps you don’t get along well.  Or, worst of all, perhaps you are at odds, and choose to remain estranged.

In keeping with my mother’s last wish, I feel I have a job to do.  On this day created to observe the joys of sisterhood, I feel that perhaps, I need to try to be that Instrument of Peace that she so kindly asked me to be (see Peace, Sister posted on 7/16/17).

Perhaps you have no desire to ever speak to your sister again.  Perhaps you feel she wronged you past the point of reconciliation.  Perhaps you wronged her, and you simply don’t know where to start.

Or, perhaps you have no idea what came between you and her, and has kept you apart.  Perhaps she has no idea either.  Perhaps you are both waiting for the other to start the peace process.

Worst of all, perhaps you hold a grudge, and have no desire to let it go.  As ugly as a grudge can be, it may have become a part of you, and letting go in order to work toward peace would be, well, work.  It may be easier to just hang on to it, as wicked as it may be.

But here’s the thing about grudges.  They are toxic.  Grudges grant precious real estate in your brain to someone else, rent free.  They hurt you more than the person they are against.  It is as if you are drinking the poison, and expecting them to be poisoned.   Further, they may not even have any idea why you are carrying a grudge against them.

Worse yet for you, they may not care.  Perhaps they did at one point, but gave up hope.  Remember from several of my previous posts that giving up hope when it involves changing another person is a good thing.

In the event that you are thinking, I should reach out to her, but I don’t know what to say, you are in luck.

Because my profession as a speech-language pathologist involves helping someone who is struggling to find words to do just that, I am going to give you a free session, no strings attached.

Because I am a wordsmith with the written word, I am offering below a bounty of words, phrases and sentences to say to your sister, just in case, like my patients, your words are hard to find:

*Can we talk?

*I’m sorry.

*I have forgiven you.

*I was wrong.

*There are two sides to every story.  I will listen to yours if you listen to mine. 

*I think we are looking at this in two very different ways.

*I know we may never be as close as we once were, but I think we can make this better.

*I know I have changed, and that may be hard for you.

*I don’t want us to end our sister relationship because of this.

*I don’t want to feel like this forever. 

*We don’t have to try to be friends, but we need to try to get rid of these bad feelings between us. 

*Let’s agree to disagree.

**

If you need to make peace with your sister, please think about doing it today, or as soon as possible.  Help me honor my mother’s wish by allowing me to be an Instrument of Peace, or at least a catalyst.   Just pick up the 500-lb. phone already, and call her.  Or email her.   Text her.  Send her a snail mail card or letter.   Send her this post.

And if the shoe fits, remember the lyric from that great 70’s song I referred to a few posts ago:  There ain’t no good guy, there ain’t no bad guy, there’s only you and me, and we just disagree.

My wish for you is that you have a sister or sisters to share the love with today.  Just be sure to let her/them know.

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Gail, Suzanne, me; circa (about) 1974.

 

This post is dedicated to Reitha, Sharon, Marilyn, Tracy, Denise, Gwenna, Sue and Tisha, and anyone else whose sister is smiling down from Above.