TIME FOR LETTING GO: PART TWO

October 29, 2017October 29, 2017 / middlesisterkathleen / 3 Comments

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In August, we said goodbye to our college kids in Time For Letting Go: Part One. I called it Part One because I was already saying another goodbye and planning Part Two in my mind for a future post.

Or perhaps instead of saying “another goodbye,” I should say I was saying “other goodbyes;” plural vs. singular.

Goodbyes that turned out to be joyous releases, not sad ones. Goodbyes that were probably meant to be said a long time ago.

On August 1^st, I accepted a challenge Gail posed to me long ago, a challenge that I didn’t accept then, but decided to accept now. She and I both decided to accept it now.

Suzanne didn’t need to accept it, probably couldn’t accept it. She didn’t have 497 material objects she could part with. Gail and I did—and then some. Suzanne was already living bare-bones, and Gail and I needed to take a cue from her.

Recall in Lessons From the Sea Creatures—And My Sister, that I packed way too much stuff for the Florida trip with Suzanne and her daughter Julia in July. Recall that I was lugging my way-too-heavy carry-on bag through the airport while Suzanne and Julia breezed down the airport corridors en route to our gates as weightless as feathers. Recall that (at least) three kind strangers rushed to catch up with me to give me back the things they picked up that had fallen out.

Recall that I look up to Suzanne in many ways, one of them is because she is a minimalist.

On August 1^st, I got rid of one thing. On August 2^nd, I got rid of two things. On August 3^rd, I got rid of three things. You get the idea. By the end of August, I should have been on schedule to get rid of 497 things.

I gave them away, threw them away, sold them or recycled them. I gifted some, I returned some recent purchases, and I donated some.

By mid-August, I stopped counting. And I kept going. It felt too good to stop.

Big things like the broken wicker basket. Little things like a stray golf tee. Pairs of things like socks—they counted only as one.

Extra things like coffee mugs. Ugly things like the totem pole that sat in the corner of my room for years. Pretty things like the scarf that my friend liked more than I did, so I gave it to her. Useful things like pens—I simply had too many. Useless things like an old phone charger.

Bags of things like clothes that I wore perhaps once a year—perhaps 30 pieces of clothing or so. My delightful step-daughter-in-law Lindsay is a willing recipient of many of my cast-offs; she and I have roughly the same size and same tastes. Either I am hip and cool, or she is mature and matronly in her tastes. Or maybe I should meet in the middle and call us both classy. Either way, we like many of the same styles and same brands, so we are a good clothes-swapping pair of women.

Soon, perhaps even by the time I finish writing this post, she will be able to wear most of her old wardrobe again—as well as the new ones, because she is due to deliver our second grandchild any moment.

We are so fortunate to be able to share their lives in such close proximity, just 100 miles down road. Now back to business.

Unbeknownst to Suzanne, and also in honor of Suzanne, Gail and I made a pact that we would indeed purge at least 497 things. We did this primarily to get rid of stuff, junk, crap—whatever, but also to honor her minimalism. We both look up to her—the little sister—in this respect, as well as many others. We want to honor her because she is honorable in many ways. We thank her for her good example to her older sisters, who, at least in this manner, are not wiser.

I must make it abundantly clear that it is not in my nature to be a minimalist, nor is that the effect I am trying to achieve. I must be honest to all of you in saying that this was really hard for me—at least at first. And, I must be honest in saying that—sigh—this really hasn’t made a dent. Just ask my husband.

But I continue.

I purged 36 books, and books are next in line in importance to my family in my heart. That was hard. I parted with a few CDs too; they are next in line after the books.

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I should have buckled up these bags of books in the back seat–they are precious cargo, just like my children. They made it to the thrift store safely.

And the clothes. What was too hokey for Lindsay, I needed to realize may have been too hokey for me as well. Someone, perhaps, will like them. That vest that I looked at several months ago and thought I can never let that go, today became that is the ugliest vest I have ever seen.

Shoes—I don’t need all those shoes. I refuse to tell you how many pairs I had/still have, but I have parted with five pair.

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Most of my home-health patients are relatively short-term; 1-2 months tops. Some, however, I keep for a longer term due to various factors. One such delightful patient has an equally delightful wife—we’ll call them James and Lucy—whom I’ve gotten to know quite well with frequent visits since early this year. We chat throughout our sessions, and I told them about this challenge. Lucy thought it sounded like a good idea, thought about it for a few days, then took off like wildfire with it. She told her sister about it too, and she was on board.

Every visit, we would discuss the day of the month, how many things we should have ridded ourselves of and how we likely exceeded that number. She kept me motivated, and I thank her for that. She, too, stopped counting, finished out the month, and kept going. Their home already appeared to belong to minimalists, but she said the basement was full. It was always neat, tidy and clean. I thanked her for that too—I told her I would eat off her carpet, and I meant it. I doubted she had that much stuff to get rid of, but she assured me that directly below us was a basement full of stuff, waiting to be purged.

I could write a book about all the homes I have been in during my career in home health therapy—perhaps 300 or so. I have seen everything from minimal and tidy, to full-on hoarding. Most are somewhere between. Most are comfortable and welcoming, some are scary. In the scariest home, I came home and threw my clothes away. That’s one way to get rid of stuff.

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My parents moved off the farm in 2000 into a small house in town. They got rid of everything except the bare essentials, and special things from us. That was a gift to us, because when it was time to clean out their house, it was still hard, but as simple as it could possibly be. I will be forever grateful to them for that.

I come home from some home visits and feel motivated to get rid of more stuff. I see what I don’t want to become; what I don’t want to leave my children with.

I saw James and Lucy today, and Lucy continues to inspire me to get rid of more. “It’s time for the season to change. Time to purge more stuff.”

Thank you James and Lucy. You both inspire me.

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Speaking of books, I did write one several years ago. I kept all the first drafts in print: corrected, edited, trashed, changed or otherwise. I thought that someday, it would be interesting to re-read them to see just how much I’ve grown as a writer.

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Why, I now asked myself, would I plan to bring myself down like that in the future? Why would I want to grimace at my novice writing skills, and my obvious mistakes? I wouldn’t, I decided, so I got rid of the whole box (it only counted as one thing). Now, the (almost) error-free version is available on Amazon, if you would like to check it out.

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Jettison: to throw or drop something from an aircraft or ship; to throw away as no longer useful.

I included this word and definition in Lessons from the Sea Creatures—and My Sister, and proceeded to put in writing that I was committing to jettisoning some of my possessions at home. I said that I was trying to recognize some of the patterns in my brain that lead me to repeat futile actions, such as accumulating more stuff.

Since I try very hard to be a woman of my word, and because I put it in print for the world to see, I kept my word. I went home from that trip in late July and began the quest on August 1^st. I haven’t stopped.

Just today, I have jettisoned the following items from my home:

*the stinky lotion in the pretty bottle

*the paisley curtain I will never use

*2 aprons–I have several others

*4 stained and/or torn tea towels. I sent them to the rag box in the shop. That counts.

*the sponge in the shower—I thought it was his; he thought it was mine

*2 beautiful pieces of blue glassware—I offered them to my neighbor because she likes blue more than I do. She can pass them on if she doesn’t want them.

*a meaningless refrigerator magnet—I have plenty of others

Gail was busy today too. She made two piles, and donated them to her local thrift store:

You get the idea. Large or small, new or old, useless or useful, these things needed to leave my home, and Gail’s too.

Greater than that, the act of purging keeps my brain thinking in that direction. It keeps refreshing my eyes to look at possessions with this question in mind: Do I really need that?

I follow two guidelines, one provided by each sister:

1: From Suzanne, because she recently experienced a move: If I were moving, would I take it along?

2: From a plaque on the wall in Camp Gail: It must make me feel good.

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This means that, even if it was a gift from Aunt Madge or my friend Sally, I don’t have to keep it if it doesn’t bring good vibes. Or even a gift from Gail or Suzanne. We made a pact that it’s okay to pass it on if it’s time. Or, if I spent too much money on those jeans, but they aren’t comfortable, they’re history.

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Less is more, and less is also less. In this case, less is good. Not only does my brain look for more material things to lighten its load, it has opened my eyes to the fact that I possess other non-material things I don’t need to hang on to. This is how my brain works, and if you are open to it, yours just might too:

Getting rid of that old heavy coat can make you realize that you don’t need to keep that heavy grudge either. Perhaps they didn’t even know they hurt you.

Letting go of that ugly sweater can dismiss that ugly regret too. Neither of them are serving a purpose anymore, if they ever did.

Those worn-out shoes served their purpose too, as did that worn-out friendship. Like shoes, not all friendships are supposed to last forever anyway.

Expired mayonnaise will make you feel about as good as that expired romance. Get rid of them both. I had a few in my single years; trust me on this one.

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Suzanne, unaware that Gail and I were conducting an ongoing purge in her honor, continues to purge useless stuff. She and I talked about having a garage sale, but never fully committed. She had a Friday off work several weeks ago, and I kept the day open just in case we decided to throw our stuff together and have garage sale at the last moment.

Knowing the life is short secret, we opted instead to take a field trip one hour south to Hutchinson, Kansas, home of a famous salt mine that stores Hollywood memorabilia. Below, like a good Kansas Girl, Suzanne is posing next to Dorothy II from the movie Twister. Along with many other props from many other movies–including some original movies reels, it is stored there for dry, safe keeping.

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We lunched at our favorite Mexican Restaurant, and shopped at my favorite store: TJ Maxx. Yes, I did bring home more stuff, but less than I would have, had I not undertaken this effort. I had several things in my cart that didn’t pass the would you take this with you if you moved/does it bring me good vibes test, so I put them back. Having Suzanne there was a good reminder to ask myself that question. Seeing her empty cart helped too. Unbeknownst to her, she was passively policing my purchases, and I thank her for that.

I know myself well enough to know that, at least not at this point in my life, I won’t completely give up on bringing more stuff in my house. Whether it is from a garage sale or TJ Maxx, there are certain things I like to buy. I am more careful now when I make that decision, and I am bringing home less, which is actually more. I am more careful now when I consider the usefulness of things in my home.

We took our potential garage sale stuff and gave it to a charitable thrift store. Hopefully, someone else will find treasures in everything we jettisoned.

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November 1^st is several days from today. Consider giving up one thing. Then, on November 2^nd, give up two things. On November 3^rd…

Thank you Suzanne for your inspiration, and to Gail for challenging me and joining me as well. Thanks also to Lucy—and her sister—for keeping me motivated to continue.

Thanks also to my minimalist husband Mark; he has infinite patience with me and my stuff.

SISTER SARAH

October 22, 2017October 23, 2017 / middlesisterkathleen / 3 Comments

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As I prepare my post for publication in three days, I am reflecting back on this day. Today, Thursday, October 19th, 2017, would have been our parents’ 60th wedding anniversary. I am celebrating their day in peace, remembering the party we had for them ten years ago just a few months before they died. It mostly brings me joy. It wasn’t always that way; it has been a long journey.

My parents, Ed and Liz, at their 50th wedding anniversary celebration.

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I pray, hope and wish for the same joy and peace for anyone enduring grief–new or not-so-new–anyone I know or don’t know who struggles along their way in this journey.

This post was written in April, and this week I am honoring my dear friend Marilyn for her birthday, with a tribute to her sister Sarah. Wednesday, October 25th is Marilyn’s birthday; send her a wish if you know her! The picture below was taken after Sarah’s funeral. As always, I am honoring my two sisters; I am so grateful for them.

Laughter after the tears.

Sister Sarah

I have something very important to tell you. Put your phone down, listen close and focus: you won’t want to miss this. I’m only going to say it once, and there will be a test. It is important to say the least. To say the most, it is the secret that, when realized, can bring you boundless joy. It is a lifelong quest, and I work toward it every day. Here it is:

Life is short.

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I went to Sarah’s funeral today. I didn’t know Sarah well; that didn’t matter. It was my turn to be there for Marilyn. Sarah was a 42 year-old woman: a wife, a mother of two sons and a daughter, a daughter of living parents, a professional in my field; a beloved sister. I put the professional part before the sister part for a reason, I’ll explain in a bit.

Six months ago, Sarah was a vibrant, healthy woman. Her smile and her spirit surrounded those around her. Then she was diagnosed with neuro-endocrine cancer. Extremely rare; no cure.

I met Sarah several times when she was perhaps ten, and then again briefly in her teens. I don’t remember how many times or when, but I do remember her smile. It was the same vibrant one beaming from her grade school picture on the table of memories at the funeral dinner today. It was a smile of knowing, even then.

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Marilyn was my potluck roommate in the dorm my freshman year of college. She was a sophomore, and advancing quickly toward her bachelor’s degree, with her sights set on a master’s degree in her field. I was intrigued by her major, and, like Sarah, her smile and spirit surrounded the people around her.

That was 33 years ago. I am still intrigued, and Marilyn’s smile and spirit still surround me every time I am around her.

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Four years after I graduated with a bachelor’s degree from that very college, Marilyn, unwittingly, inspired me to go back for an advanced degree in her field.

She inspired Sarah too. Sarah went through graduate school in the same program at a different college. Married. With a baby.

Sarah is Marilyn’s little sister by 10 years. I met Sarah when I went home with Marilyn during college, and likely saw her at Marilyn’s wedding, birthday party and the like. I have kept in touch with Marilyn throughout our lives, and I remember her speaking of Sarah—and her other four siblings—often. They are a close family, much like mine. They have incredible parents, much like mine were. It all seemed well and good, all of them living happily ever after.

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Then, in the one second it takes to deliver the diagnosis, all their lives changed. Six months later, Sarah was gone. For us, the one second was the final second. Either way, we both now speak and understand that language, the foreign tongue no one wants to be forced to learn.

Marilyn helped me work toward a degree to help others improve their language and communication, now I will help her with her advanced degree in grief-ese.

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I love, adore and cherish my sisters. I hope I have made that abundantly clear. Marilyn’s love, adoration and cherishing of her sisters is no less than mine. We didn’t lose the same loved ones, but it’s all the same language.

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Above left to right: Angela, Joyce, Sarah, Marilyn.

Below left to right: Marilyn, Angela, Joyce, Sarah.

Just like my sisters, they, too, know the importance of smiles and laughter.

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In our profession of speech-language pathology, we separate language into receptive—that which we take in from others typically by listening, and expressive—that which we put out to others, typically by speaking. A newborn child is exposed to receptive language in their environment (hopefully), and it usually takes a year for the baby to speak. One year, one word. That is our general guideline. They must first be exposed to their native language to understand it, then they can begin to speak it. They must take it in before they can put it out.

In the language of grief, this process is reversed. Those of us who have endured loss may never understand this foreign language, yet we speak fluently in this new tongue in an effort to understand it. We express in order to receive understanding. Sometimes we know what words to say, we just don’t know how to find the meaning in loss, how to comprehend the what and the why of it all.

Marilyn had six months to receive this meaning, yet it cannot be grasped before the loss, if ever. I had one moment, and while my learning process is slow, I continue to learn.

Sarah began making plans shortly after the diagnosis. Plans for her children, plans for her children’s future children, plans for her own funeral. She accepted her short future with faith, grace, bravery and action. She knew, short of a miracle, that her life was indeed short. Not many of us get that kind of warning for ourselves, or our loved ones. She took it and ran. She lapped most people with her energy, optimism and grace. She only stopped when she was physically unable to do anything else, but left no business undone. She brought peace to situations that needed it. She got her affairs in order in grand style. She traveled and lived it up with her family until she no longer could. She knew the life is short secret, and worked it. Her short life was boundlessly joyful before the diagnosis, and, as Marilyn reports, was even more joyful after the diagnosis.

Marilyn, in her trademark intuition, wisdom and advanced comprehension of all things linguistic, is unwittingly enhancing my understanding of this language of loss. The language no one wants to speak, and especially not to understand. Sarah, who was a sister in profession to me and Marilyn, and a beloved sister to Marilyn, gave me joy through Marilyn. She taught me, and I thought I was a master teacher.

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It has been said that if we could put our problems out on the table along with everyone else’s and have the opportunity to take back someone else’s instead of our own, most of us would take our own back.

I know I would.

I tell people who were given time to prepare for their loved one’s death that they got the better deal because they got the long goodbye. Except that I tell myself that I got the better deal because I got no suffering.

Now that I have made peace with my own form of loss, I wouldn’t trade it. I would, however, trade the valuable insight and the resilience I didn’t ask for to have them back. Even for a day. I have, however, grown quite fond of this insight and resilience. It is a part of me now, and it has enriched my life.

I have come to an understanding with my grief. It is mine, it knows me and now, after nine years, I know it too. The now-docile beast resides peacefully next to me, and only rears its ugly head once in a while now, instead of most of the time then. I have trained it well, and it usually behaves. Triggers like holidays and sad movies are its obvious green lights, but it sneaks in its turn even with obscure things like a certain song she liked, or a plaid shirt just like he wore. I have turned the lion tamer’s whip and chair around and am using them on the caged beast, instead if it using them on me. It obeys me. It knows I mean business.

Still, sometimes like today, when a patient’s family member talked about losing the love of her life in an accident, I got a little teary.

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I was once sure I would have to be buried next to either of my parents when they were laid to rest. I was sure I wouldn’t make it. Just bury me too. I didn’t let my thoughts go to that dark and scary place in my mind where, somewhere in the future, one of my parents would die. It was too much, and I was sure I couldn’t face it.

But I did when we buried them both on the same day.

On March 4^th, 2008, our parents were killed in a car accident. They were driving home the day after our grandmother’s funeral.

Now, nine years later, I would take it all back if it was put on the table with everyone else’s losses, because, I am sure now that I got the better deal. Most days, I am at peace with my loss. It wasn’t always that way.

We have done our best to turn that black square on the calendar into March Forth, and for the most part, we have left the darkness behind. Sometimes, it is one step up and two steps back, but we are so far ahead of where we started. It is a hard-fought, ongoing war, but we continue to win battles both large and small.

My wish for Marilyn, her family and anyone enduring grief is that you will arrive at a place where you can say you have made peace with the beast of grief. The beast typically never leaves, never vanishes, but we can learn to live with it, control it and shout at it from time to time, proclaiming “You’re not the boss of me,” and really mean it. “Maybe you once were, but not anymore. I am stronger than you now, so leave me alone. Get away. Shoo.” And it will.

I pray for strength for your journey.

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So here’s the test, and a lab assignment I didn’t warn you about: If you lost a loved one in the next second, or in the next six months, would you be ready? And would you survive and experience joy again? Or, if you were given a short time to live, would you live it to the fullest, like Sarah did?

And here’s the right answer: Yes, if you have fully embraced the non-negotiable truth: Life is short.

Now get out there and prove it. Have fun and be an Instrument of Peace where need be, just like Sarah was. Your lab assignment is life itself. Go live it like your life depends on it, because it does.

Every day.

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I had a great half-hour phone conversation with Marilyn one week ago. Among other things, she spoke of a visit we had one week after the funeral. Tracy and Denise, our other two former roommates from the 1985-86 college year, gathered in Wichita with us to celebrate Marilyn and the wonderful life of her sister.

Both Tracy and Denise have lost sisters. They, too, understand. We talked, laughed, reminisced, and enjoyed each other’s company. Mostly, we laughed.

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None of us would have missed this opportunity to re-connect, but Marilyn told me in our phone conversation that this visit meant the world to her. One week later, when she felt the world had forgotten, and that life surely could not go on without her sister, we were living proof that there is joy to be found after loss.

I wish all of you this same joy. It is out there to be found after loss, so please hold on and keep looking.

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Dedicated to the memory of Sarah Hageman Probst: September 22, 1974-April 15th, 2017. And, as always, to the loving memory of my parents. Happy Heavenly Anniversary Mom and Dad.

SPACE OF HER OWN

October 15, 2017October 15, 2017 / 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.

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

October 8, 2017 / 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 19^th, 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

October 1, 2017October 2, 2017 / 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 3^rd, 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 10^th) 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!

September 24, 2017 / 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 3^rd, 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.

SOMEPLACE SPECIAL

September 10, 2017September 13, 2017 / 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

September 3, 2017September 6, 2017 / 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 13^th 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.

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.

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

August 20, 2017March 7, 2018 / 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 SISTER’S DAY

August 6, 2017August 6, 2017 / 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 2^nd 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.

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