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It’s My Path. If you Follow, be Prepared…

I’ve been thinking about changing the name of my blog, but I can’t seem to find the right title to encompass all that I hope to accomplish by posting here. I’ve come to the conclusion that it really is Susan’s Path…no one else’s and unique to me.

I have a great fondness for metaphors. I envision all my readers following along as I go for a walk. A merry group of dwarfs following Snow White as she warbles and dances down the path? Err, no! Even if I’m known to sing to myself, no one would admit to knowing me as I dance down the sidewalk. How about the Pied Piper leading….oh…forgot he led the snakes, even if he does play a flute. Scratch that idea too.

Maybe this will be more like Gandalf walking at the forefront of a unlikely band of adventurers; some short, some tall, some handsome, some hairy, some happy and some grumpy? That sounds more likely. At least I’m gray, but I’m not so sure I possess the wisdom of the great wizard nor the devoted followers. Maybe if I fall into an abyss and come up glowing white? Not happening.

My path is not the “yellow brick road,” and it’s not always the “straight and narrow” either. It’s an up and down dirt road whose end I cannot see, but it promises to give me more experiences than I can ever imagine. It has those dreaded roundabouts I’ve come to hate in local traffic areas, where we all have to merge together and keep the same speed, make major decisions about our direction before we veer off into the unknown alone. At times, I find myself going in endless circles so I don’t have to take that exit and move on.

It has forks and convergent roads, and it has short cuts and dead ends. That dirt may be hard-packed and smooth, or it might be mucky, slippery, deep boot-sucking mud at times. And it may take me through dense forests, through fields of flowers or even the back yards of a subdivision.

That dirt may even turn to cement for brief moments while I enjoy the lights and sounds of the city, but it always leads be back to the country.

The most intriguing part of this walk through life is the people I meet along the way. They enrich my experience and give me stories I’d never have told without them. I’ve met the most interesting characters when I’ve taken a side road instead of the highway. When I make an unexpected turn, I find myself opening my mind to those who aren’t like me.

My stories reflect this path. One blog is a memorial to a loved relative, another is rambling thoughts (like today?), and yet others are my attempts at humor at the expense of my loveable redneck husband. I may be passionate about a cause and will try to get my message across this way, instead of crying out on other social media.

No matter the subject, the voice, or the emotion, I hope you follow along. I’ll try to make you think, to reflect on your own relationships, or chuckle at the silliness of which we are all guilty at times. And I promise to keep the metaphors to a minimum. Ok, I’m lying. I love them.

Beryl is Another Word for a Smile

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Time passes.  Another year, another decade, another lifetime.  Another member of our greatest generation has marked her last day here and moved on.  Aunt Beryl is reunited with my Uncle Roy now.  He and others are rejoicing while we weep.

Beryl married into our family with the creativity and grace that would mark all her days from that point on.  I remember Mom telling me that she sewed the dresses of her bridesmaids, of whom Mom was one.  Each dress had rows of fabric-covered buttons up the back and on the sleeves, as well as scalloped necklines.  Her prowess as a seamstress served as inspiration for me years later, but when faced with covering buttons I found myself severely lacking.

Into this boisterous and larger than life family, Beryl entered beside her loving husband.  Roy was no wallflower either.  Beryl was always his biggest fan and admirer; she truly adored him and laughed at his antics.  She would smile, nod her head and quietly watch as he’d tell jokes, dance or just be silly, as he was wont to do.

She was the only woman in a household of males.  Gary and Michael, as well as Roy, kept her busy throughout their years at home.  She not only kept house, but she also kept up with them as they participated in ham radio events throughout the region and beyond.  Avid campers, they all enjoyed travelling to those events as well as family get togethers, always tenting it rather than graduating to campers like the rest of us.  And we all know how much work tent camping can be, especially for moms.

Ever present throughout all of this was Beryl’s smile.  There were rarely times she wasn’t wearing one.  Her positive, loving nature was evident, even when faced with life’s toughest moments.  When she greeted me and other nieces and nephews at the funeral home when Roy died, I remember her hugging me and saying, “We lost our Roy.”  It was sad, yet she had a way of acknowledging the rest of us when she had to be hurting the most.  That somehow made me feel better. Later that same day, when things went wrong at the cemetery, she wasn’t phased by the logistical problems but met them with serenity that could only be evidence of her strong faith.

Many of us will cherish the hand-made gifts from her that marked graduations, weddings and births. Whether they were crocheted handkerchiefs or bookmarks, quilled shadowboxes or even beautifully knit baby sweater sets, these gifts were presentations of love for all of us.  I managed to save the sweater set she gave me when my daughter was born—made from yarn she had rescued from a knotted pile in a bin at church that took her days to patiently untangle.  I am so happy that my granddaughter will now be able to wear it too, because it means that Beryl’s love lives on.

Not that it takes a material thing to remember our beloved aunt, who called us all “kiddoes.”  We will forever think of her fondly as the patience and positivity we all wish we possessed.  And while the rest of the world sees a tie-dyed shirt and thinks of rock bands, I’ll think of Beryl’s creative streak and just how well she fit into our colorful family.

Rest easy, Aunt Beryl.  And should Uncle Roy be telling his favorite Norwegian jokes in heaven, we all know you’ll be shaking your head and smiling, as always.

 

Dad is the Funny Part of the Equation

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It seems that the Dad is always the funnier one of every two parents. Why is that? I’m not saying that Mom isn’t funny too. I know many silly and smile-provoking moms out there. But when I recall my fondest memories of my dad, grandpas, uncles, and even my husband, I see that the common denominator is the ability and willingness to get his family laughing. Note, I’m not talking about fathers here, as they are a different breed—people who have that more serious outlook whose families tiptoe around them. I’m speaking of “Dads.” These are the guys who will throw themselves on the flames of heavy conversations to save us all from being consumed by the heat.

My Dad was one of the best. (Yes, I know I shouldn’t capitalize that, but hey—it’s my blog.) As I think back to all the times he made us giggle at his mixed metaphors, groan at his puns, or laugh out loud at his silly antics, it makes my heart smile as well as miss him. And I recall both my grandpas–and my uncles, my brothers— doing those same types of things designed to make the youngsters grin.

Dad would scare Mom by pretending to jump over railings at scenic overlooks, just to laugh and smile when he turned to look at us to see if he shocked us. He’d be the first to put his head through any photo op board with a picture of a huge, muscled body under his funny face—then he’d make sure he’d also pose with his head in the bikini clad female form too. He loved to don all kinds of hats and pose. My sister took a series of pics of him wearing each of his multitude of hats he’d collected, making faces with each, as we went through the collection to pack it when they moved out of their house.

One Christmas season, as my little brother and I watched the Nutcracker on TV, he proceeded to imitate the male dancers, leaping and jumping around, scissoring his feet. He landed with a thud, put his hands on his knees and huffed out, “Now I know why they call it the Nutcracker!” We rolled off the couch in peals of laughter. Dad loved to dance. He was one of those guys who would walk through a room, doing a little polka step along the way to whatever music was playing (including rock).

His Dad as well as his Dad-in-law—my Grandpas—were also known for their comedic prowess. Although one’s humor took a more physical form in tickling us all before handing us a stick of gum, the other would entertain his grandkids by verbally sparring with Grandma and teasing her in front of us—then he’d turn to us with an exaggerated open-mouthed smile and wink. They loved to make us laugh, and they were good at it.

I’ve often wondered if my Grandpa Stevens purposely loosened his pants that day at the lake when we were trying to pound a well-head into the ground. We were gathered in a circle around the soon-to-be well pump, taking turns driving the pipe further into the ground. When Grandpa stepped forward to take his turn, he had us all watching as he lifted the heavy point-driver to drop it on the pipe. As he lifted, his pants fell around his ankles, leaving him standing in the middle in his boxers and all of us doubled over in laughter. Now that I think about it, he was never without his suspenders, but they somehow “came loose” that one time? Probably not.

My many uncles were known to entertain us too, sometimes to the detriment of their own health. My Uncle Bob once took part in a leaping contest with my cousins on a summer day. As he took his turn to jump over the blow-up pool filled with water, he slipped and fell, breaking his leg and ending his summer break early. I remember my Aunt Dorothy shaking her head and laughing as she told us about it.

Beyond keeping us entertained, they’ve always protected our hearts by providing a bit of levity during difficult times too. It may seem insensitive to some, but sometimes a well-placed quip can help us through the toughest moments. My brother told me about an uncle who greeted him at my Grandma’s funeral with a blunt, quirky statement that made him feel better than any platitude or soft-spoken condolence could have.

My husband was a master of producing giggles and laughs from our two kids, although usually at the dinner table when I wanted them to just eat and talk about their day. I’d play straight man to his silliness many evenings. All he needed to do was start sputtering and belly-laughing. He’d soon have them rolling in their seats with laughter and giggles as they’d watch me trying to keep a straight face.

Some Dads can keep their sense of humor even when disciplining their charges. My brother Jeff kept his cool when his kids would beg for something after pushing his buttons too many times that day. He’d stick to his guns, shake his head, smile and say, “The Whinery is closed!”

On social media, we see many people talk about “Dad jokes.” So, it’s not just my family! Many families know that the patriarch is usually the one who likes to entertain his troops. Whether they wear mismatched outfits or silly t-shirts, or they produce one-liners that make us grin and shake our heads, Dads provide us with laughter and memories that keep us smiling for years.

And to my son-in-law, Zach, who is now an expectant Dad, I say, “Sharpen your chops. You’re about to take the torch, so you better brush up on your puns.” I have no worries. I know he has a good sense of humor. He’ll be a great Daddy in a few months.

The silliest Dads are the ones who enjoy this day by eating burnt pancakes and reading crayoned cards and noodle-framed pictures. They relish in the sloppy kisses and kid-smeared creations full of love. The fathers are the ones who open beautifully wrapped flat boxes. But even the most serious among them finds a sense of humor in being Dad and laughs at the irony when he opens his 100th tie.

Happy Dad’s Day to all you Funny Fathers out there.

On Becoming Grandma

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Many of my peers have already become grandparents. I’ve gracefully viewed their photos and videos. I’ve oohed and ahhed at the right moments and have truly adored watching them bubble over with joy as they watch their grandkids grow. I have two grown children, and I’ve been hoping I’d be a grandma soon as well, but I never dared voice that wish too loudly, as I know that parental pressure is not what makes babies.
It’s been difficult at times. I remember my own dad yearning for a grandchild just a month or two before my sister announced her first pregnancy. I was struck by just how much he wanted it. Now I understand the feeling.
My daughter called me a couple months ago. The call dropped mid-conversation, so I called her back a little later. I felt she needed to talk to Mom, and I usually make those calls as I drive home in the evening. During our conversation about work, she texted me a photo of a book and positive pregnancy test with a note, “So…I gave this to Zach.” Imagine the reaction of fellow shoppers in Walgreens as I stopped suddenly, “Wait…what? Oh my God, really?” I looked over at the clerk behind the register as I wiped away tears and kept walking. She smiled slightly and shook her head as she went back to checking an order—she correctly guessed what my outburst was about. She told me later when I approached the counter that she had three grandchildren. I guess it takes one to know one—grandma that is.
I was sworn to secrecy until she could send an announcement package to us, because she still wanted to surprise her step-dad and other parents. I reluctantly agreed, knowing that the surprise would be worth recording when my husband opened the gift. The funny thing was, only a couple nights before we received it, he made a comment about becoming grandparents that was reminiscent of my dad’s, “I wish I was a grandpa” yearning years before.
The day the mail carrier brought the package, I texted Jeff to bring it inside.  I rushed home from work that night and tore open the package. She’d sent me a book to fill with stories and letters to this precious little bean, to be opened in the future. The T-shirt she sent for Jeff was a perfect salute to his off-roading hobbies as well as an obvious declaration. “Some GRANDPAS play bingo. Real grandpas drive mud trucks!” When he opened it, the smile only dimmed a little when I told him we had to keep this quiet for a couple more weeks—until her first doctor’s visit.
Two more weeks went by with me quietly perusing Pinterest postings about prenatal care, prepping for babies and positive grandparenting. If it weren’t for internet research, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from shouting out the news.
Fast forward a couple months, and I’m pausing on Mother’s Day to reflect on my baby girl having a baby girl. She learned the gender just this week, and we’re very excited. It’s difficult to see her progress, as she’s hundreds of miles away, but it now feels more real. I can buy things instead of just admiring cute baby items in the stores.
My crafting gene is getting itchy, but I know that Samantha has one as well. She’ll soon be making plans for decorating a nursery. We’ve compared notes over phone calls and Pinterest posts, but I know that Sam has her own style. I have to step back and watch the process, reminiscing the days when I was sewing up crib skirts and diaper holders that matched the wallpaper covered in rainbows and birdies I had found. Her grandmother helped me paste that paper the best we could to the very crooked walls, above paneling that I painted white, as a wainscoting. I even created a stuffed cloud and rainbow wall hanging. Of course, this was all before I knew she was a she.
I realize now that I don’t have photos of that nursery, but I can still picture it. I can recall rocking her on the hand-me-down chair she now owns, singing softly along with the lullaby cassette tape we bought and wore out playing each night as she drifted off to sleep. It was a small room tucked under the roofline of our old, first house, with a small deep-set window where I always set a couple stuffed animals. And now, the little one who lived there is looking to create her own nest.
Gone are the days when I wondered who she would become. Gone too are the days we both suffered growing pains between mother and daughter. It’s now time to look forward to meeting my granddaughter. I recall introducing Sam to the sky and the sun as we left the hospital for home that day long ago, and I know she’ll soon experience the same connection to previous generations that I so keenly felt when she was born.
On this Mother’s Day, my wish for my daughter is that she’s able to record these days filled with expectancy. I know that she’ll have them etched in her mind, like my memories are in mine, but I find myself wishing I knew more about how my grandmothers and my mom felt during those times, and I wish I had more of my own stories on paper. There are threads sewn into the fabric of our family history that are hidden from view, like a seam that holds the pieces together, but it’s more beautiful when there are also stitches embroidered on the front for all of us to see years later.
Happy Mother’s Day to my family and friends who are celebrating generations today. This will be my last one as “just” Mom. Next year I’ll be Grandma, and I’m sure looking forward to holding that title.

O Brother, Who’s Not Mine but Close

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I was driving home from work today when Luke Bryan’s Drink a Beer came on the radio.

photography of white and brown bird flying

Photo by Bhupendra Singh on Pexels.com

I turned it up, and I prepped myself to cry.  That song had always tugged at my heart, but today I was sure that the notes riding the air waves would rip it out of my chest.  A few days ago I received a call that told me that my oldest, best friend lost her brother suddenly.  Since that time, I’ve not only been wandering through some melancholy days, but I’ve also been grieving some nights.

I’ve not lost a sibling, but I know others who have.  And as my years begin to gain altitude, it’s a more frequent occurrence.  Having three brothers and a sister myself, I can’t imagine facing the rest of my days without any one of them.  Even when we are hundreds of miles apart, the bond that ties us is strong.  It’s an emotional shared history that can’t be matched by chosen friendships or other relatives, other generations.  I cherish their personalities, our similarities and our differences.  They are a part of me, and I am a part of them.  There is no choice.  It’s there.

So when I think about how my dear friend is feeling, I want to turn numb.  I don’t want to truly know.  Is that selfish?  I don’t think so.  It’s self-preservation.  It’s a fact of life that none of us wants to face soon.  But it’s not so easy to utter a few respectful platitudes and then push this to the back of my mind so I can move on with my days.  I can’t simply because, when I think about our shared past, I know that Peter, while not mine, was another brother.

Pete was three years our senior, and so he naturally extended his big brotherhood to the both of us as we worked our way through teenage trials that seem trivial in retrospect.  He coached us on everything from which classes to choose to discussions of the best rock music to our hair and clothes.  And that coaching also included the merciless teasing that seems the hallmark of brothers everywhere. I recall one such discussion with he and his buddy about girls’ bodies. The two guys critiqued us both from their preferences, and we hung on every word. There’s nothing like getting your nose bent out of shape over being told your butt is nice but a little large.  (And that was when mine was much, much smaller!)

He was able to poke us with a stick yet protect us with it too. While some may think it not wise allowing two slightly shy of legal ladies to follow him into the bar where he worked, I disagree.  In that way, he was able to keep an eye on us.  He knew we were destined for trouble if left on our own.  And who would mess with us when accompanied by a 6-foot-eight football player?   He couldn’t watch over us all the time, as we were wont to stretch the limit.

His stature was overshadowed by the size of his heart, although he’d not want to flaunt that.  His own siblings adore him, and it’s easy to see why.  He gave them direction all their lives as well as two large arms to hold them when their parents were gone.  He was a great listener too.  He and I spent one evening out when we were young, and I remember how he counseled me after I had shared some pretty hairy details of my own misadventures.  He didn’t judge, although he could have.  He just listened.

In later years, we’d occasionally see one another when I visited his family, but more often we’d bump into one another on the internet—usually from opposite sides of the political spectrum.  I learned to steer clear of some subjects online, as I never needed to spar with him. His intellect was far superior to mine.  We both knew that we’d better just agree to disagree.

I can’t physically attend his farewell, but his siblings know that I’ll be there in spirit.  I hope these words can bridge the distance to wrap them in love.  I pray that they find peace in knowing that he no longer knows sickness or pain.  I wish for Kathi, his wife and partner of more than 30 years, to hear in my words the respect I hold for her as well.  I’ve met her only few times, but she is a special person to have made this unique man’s world complete.

To Nancy, my dearest friend of longest duration, you know me.  You know I cry over a good cup of coffee.  Me not being there with you is somewhat a blessing right now.  We’ll see each other again soon enough, and you know I’ll shed tears then.  Be strong, as you’ve proven to be so many times before.

And to Pete, as I listened to the radio today, I imagined myself sitting at the end of a pier, watching the sunset and lifting a toast to you with a cold beer.  Somehow, after I’d expected to cry when singing along as I drove, I instead wore a smile.  Yes it was off-key and a little choked at times, but it brought me joy in knowing that you probably heard it, while having a cold one with your mom and dad watching the same sunset from the other side.

A Toast to Heroes…You Know Who You Are

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Most of us have our heroes in life, and I’m fortunate to have more than a few.

My heroes are abundant.  Heroes have appeared throughout my life in all shapes, sizes,Hero trees colors and genders.  They’ve taken on the bullies, the misfortunes, the embarrassments and the accidents I’ve suffered with grace, with strength and with compassion.  They’ve offered kind words when least expected or a laugh when needed.  They’ve been strangers or best friends, and I’m not including parents, spouses or children here—this time. They are uncles and aunts, cousins, boyfriends and girlfriends, brothers and sisters, in-laws and outlaws from all walks of life. Although, unlike Willie Nelson, mine are not always cowboys, well except one.

They should know who they are, but most of them probably don’t.  Heroes don’t normally think of themselves much.  They think of others, and they do for others.  Here are some examples, in no particular order:

  • A big brother who scooped me up after I’d fallen in the street while skipping rope, skinning both knees and hands, and he carried me all the way home.
  • A sister who half carried and half dragged me home with a bee sting in the bottom of my foot. The same sister who showed me the ropes.
  • A best friend who brought me and another girl together to “kiss and make up,” thereby ending the torture I’d suffered for most of the junior high year at the hands of opportunistic bullies. (Yes, mean girls are real, very real.)
  • A cousin who gave me her heart as I gave her mine, exchanging long letters across the miles that helped us both get through our teenage angst.
  • A big brother who brought all the neighborhood kids together to have a ballgame at the local park, serving as coach, umpire and pitcher for both sides.
  • Uncles and aunts who not only opened their homes to me numerous times, but who also welcomed friends I dragged with me to family events.
  • A little brother who defended my honor in the face of gossips after a bad break-up. The same little brother who asked several times over the years, “You want me to go over there and beat him up?”  Of course, he knew I’d say no, but he was ready.
  • A grandfather who packaged my ID bracelet in a cigar tube and mailed it to me when I left it behind, yet who never received my thank you letter.
  • An uncle who proudly proclaimed, “It’s noon somewhere!” when we sheepishly grabbed for a cold beer one morning while on vacation.
  • An ex-mother-in-law who hugged me and smiled with her tilted head and just laughed, “This sucks!” as she found me struggling to say how I felt about her fight with ALS.
  • A neighbor (the cowboy) who answered the call when our daughter had an accident while we were out of town, helping secure a tow truck and keeping her calm until her dad could arrive.
  • A talented surgeon who corrected my malformed upper jaw and gave me a face I could live with, yet who was so tortured he drank himself to death years later.
  • A friend who showed me the meaning of a “real” hug between girlfriends—one where you can feel each other’s heartbeat.
  • A stranger on a plane who offered a smile of understanding to me and my squirming 18-month old as we waited endlessly for takeoff.

This list is by no means exhaustive.  Every day my list gets longer, as I realize how many others touch my life in positive ways.

Our heroes can be our mentors, our guardian angels, our fellow travelers or our fellow line mates at the grocery.  Some give us quality time and others give us that important glimpse of the goodness of humanity; those who pass us throughout our lives and touch us in just a moment, with a penny offered at the checkout counter when needed or a warm smile as you nervously walk through an office door the first time.

But who has stopped me to have me write this day are my most important heroes.  They are those who have lived long, fulfilling lives and who have shepherded families through the good and evil surrounding us.  They are patriarchs and matriarchs who’ve left an imprint on us all with their strength, faith and especially their love.

I have several friends and family members who are now facing or are in the throes of the farewell moments with a beloved parent. This day they’ve given me the inspiration to toast our most important heroes. It’s time to reflect on their stories and accept their gifts of love and history as our own.  Even though these folks may soon say goodbye to us, they will live on because they are heroes.  These members of the greatest generation are moving on, but in leaving us behind they are leaving the world a better place, as we, in turn, share the true fruits of their labors—their optimism, their hearts for service and their strength in the face of adversity.

And to those such heroes who just may read this piece, I salute you and thank you for sharing your lives with me. (You know who you are.)  You’ve given me pause to reflect on what it takes to be a hero.  I don’t feel worthy, yet I’ll try to emulate your courage, your hopefulness, your spirit and your integrity.  I promise to try to be a hero to others, as you’ve been to me and to your families.  And when we meet again, we can join in the parade—the one where everyone is a participant and the curbs are empty, as all heroes go to heaven, and all in heaven are heroes.

Peace.

 

Uncles are Special

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Uncles are special, it’s true.  But when they’ve married into a family like ours, you know they must be characters as well as some of the “good guys.”  The Pedersens have been known to laugh a lot, to love a lot, and to gather together often and share fun…a lot.  We are that family others admire for our closeness in spitUncle Ede of our numbers and our geographic spread.  With eleven siblings, Mom’s family has populated a community in central Wisconsin and beyond with offspring, and we are proud to say that we know each other—all 39 cousins.  Many of us gather each year for a family reunion, but it seems we are meeting more often now at funerals.

My parents’ generation has reached that point in life where goodbyes outnumber hellos and when we are constantly reminded that every moment counts.  My Uncle Ed, husband to my mom’s youngest sister, Florence, passed away early this morning after a struggle with lung and heart problems.  While we family members acknowledge he smoked most of his life, we still didn’t expect this so soon.  I was with him at a family breakfast in April, and he was kidding with me then as usual.

Ed has been known to tease all his nephews and nieces, and we’d rib him right back.  He used colorful language even before we knew what colorful language was.  I remember playing outside at Grandma and Grandpa’s house during many family picnics, when I could hear his voice from the screened porch letting a “hell” or another expletive fly amid the conversation.  We youngsters would look at one another and giggle.

I remember him as part of the adventurous foursome of Ed & Florence, and Bud & Gladys.  Two of the younger couples of their generation.  They were always out together–riding, golfing, snowmobiling, dancing—having a great time.  We were in awe when they entered the room in their matching leather jackets with fringe.

As I grew out of my awkward teens during the late 70s, I found myself attending many of my cousins’ weddings as a single young lady.  I would join my parents at the receptions, where many of us danced the night away each event.  But before I ever reached the dance floor, as I’d walk into the reception hall, Uncle Ed and Uncle Bud would spot me and offer up their own greeting, by singing (loudly!) “If you knew Susie, like I know Susie…”  It became a recurring theme, to the point I would sometimes try to sneak in another entrance.  But they always found me out, and I’d hear that familiar refrain.   I’d blush a little, give them hugs and promise each a dance.  With all their nieces, they both had plenty of dance partners, besides their wives who also loved to dance.

As the years passed, we moved from weddings to family reunions with a multitude of children of the next generations. While Uncle Ed and Aunt Florence didn’t have children themselves, they have plenty of nieces and nephews, and great—even great, great—nieces and nephews who love them, and each has fond memories to share.

Uncle Ed has always been a favorite one to tease, just as he teased us.  I’ll miss that.  But I fully expect that when my time comes, I’ll enter heaven past the gates, turn left into the reception hall, and there, from across the dance floor, I’ll hear two guys singing, “If you knew Susie, like I know Susie!”

For living each day

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I recently read a quote in an email that was a wish for the coming year.  It sparked something in me this morning.  I began thinking of my life, of the things I enjoy and of those things that challenge me.  And I started to list those things in my head as a plan for living in the months ahead.DSCF9781

I prefer to think of these as daily thoughts to keep me on my path, rather than “goals.”  I realized that, while I hate making resolutions, I do like to remind myself of these things that bring me joy.  In no particular order:

  • I will read some and write some.
  • I will fearlessly tell and show those who matter to me how much I love them.
  • I will walk through the woods some–in the sunlight, in the rain, in the snow, and in the moonlight.
  • I will create some…using all the items I have stacked in my crafts room and then some.
  • I will make music–dusting off my flute, learning guitar, singing.
  • I will worship some, whether it be during those walks or sitting in a pew, receiving messages that will sustain me during my days.
  • I will work.  I will work on my never-ending lists of things to accomplish at work and at home.
  • I will visit some, contacting friends near and far and touching base some.
  • I will take road trips on unfamiliar country roads, taking in everything, meeting new people, and enjoying the time with my better half at my side.
  • I will sit beside a camp fire and drink in the breezes, living in the moment.
  • I will find a spot to fish some.
  • I will build something with my hands, anything small or big, just for the enjoyment of it.
  • I will learn some–online, in webinars, from books, from classrooms, and from older, wiser versions of myself.
  • I will laugh some, with family, with friends, with co-workers, with strangers in elevators.
  • I will surprise myself.

 

Susan Dempsey
December, 2017

I can write this now.

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Grief.  It’s a long journey where everyone follows a different path.  It’ll be four months on December 2nd since Dad died.  December 2nd is his birthday.  He would’ve been 89.  Most of the time I’m ambivalent, feeling that I should be sadder than I am, because I seem to be doing fine.  But then a small trigger sets off a burst of sorrow.  It may last for a few seconds, or it may last for a full day. holding Dads hand

Tonight I was checking some photos on my laptop and came across a photo I took of me holding his hand on that last day in the nursing home.  It’s a good picture, the light plays across the folds and rolls of the sheet, and our two hands show a history no words can tell.  I noticed my thumbnail had a snag.  I meant to file that down, but when I received the phone call from my sister, telling me to “come now,” I forgot any list of things I had to do and drove from Missouri to Wisconsin amid a bath of tears.  I remember taking that photo, thinking at the time that I’d want that to help me remember.  I don’t need the help.

I arrived in time.  But in time for what?  Yes, Dad was still living, but he was weak and unconscious.  We surrounded him.  Mom was there, siblings, a few of his grandchildren, other close relatives coming and going.  We understood the outcome.  We’d been anticipating this day and our reaction to it for the past nine years, when he was first diagnosed with cognitive issues that led to Alzheimer’s disease.   We’d been carefully girding ourselves with the strength we knew we’d need.  I’m thankful for that part.  I know too many others who weren’t given that opportunity.

I had said my goodbyes repeatedly, each time I left him at the nursing home at the end of a weekend visit home.  He didn’t really know me anymore.  I’d try to wheel him away from the activity to spend some time with him. I might take him out to the garden, or just down the hall to a different sitting area.  At times he’d welcome the change of scenery, but other times he’d scowl and say, “No, I want to stay here.” I’d try to draw him out by telling him brief stories.  I’d avoid asking too many questions, because he’d get frustrated when he didn’t know the answers.  Later, his reply might be a closed-eye sigh and an “Uh huh.”  Then I’d wheel him back to the common area and park his chair.   I’d lean over and kiss him on the cheek and tell him, “I love you Dad.” Then I’d walk out quickly trying to hide my tears until I got in my van and melted.

I’d usually cry for the first half-hour of my six-hour trip home.  Then I’d get caught up in dealing with traffic and navigating my way through Chicago.  I’d usually well up a few more times while driving, as I thought about the conversations we could no longer have.  I had always wished I could converse more eloquently and listen more, but I have learned to write to express my thoughts.  I always wondered if other people had conversations with their fathers like people did in movies. Were people really able to share feelings like that, and I’m just a schmuck whose stilted attempts felt more like a halting bus, lurching and swerving with each stop—the passengers holding on, so they don’t topple into the windshield?  Or am I normal; do we all have difficulty expressing our true feelings to our loved ones?

And here I am, writing again.  I need to do this.  I haven’t been able to write about Dad since I finished the obituary for the funeral home.  I wrote it the day I received word he had pneumonia.  My heart told me it was time.  Since then, I kept tucking my thoughts away; I enjoyed the memories others shared and left it at that.  I couldn’t participate in the funeral by doing even a reading.  My brother, Ron, asked me, “Are you sure?”  I just couldn’t.

2017 has been a hard year, and we’ve lost more than a few members from our family.  I wrote two pieces about men I lost after Dad died.  I even read one as a eulogy for a friend’s funeral.  But I couldn’t send my thoughts to my keyboard about Dad until now.  I have cards I meant to send to others who I know are hurting, but I’ve yet to address them.  I keep holding back.  I’ve been functioning at work and at home, somewhat.

It’s time to challenge myself and work to bring my life back to a happier state.  I told a couple friends the other day that I realized I’m depressed.  It’s not a major depression, but it’s there.   I feel it hanging on the back of my coat as I walk out the door.  I feel it holding me to my recliner under a blanket, obsessively reading one “feel good” novel after another instead of tackling my sewing projects.  I’m indecisive—more than normal—and I can’t make up my mind either.

I understand that grief is a process.  I’ll work my way through it, but I also understand it will never completely leave.  As I watch those I care about go through more extremes than I am, I feel guilty.  How can I be grieving so much for my dad who lived a very full life, while one of my friends is reeling from the sudden loss of her fifty-something husband?  I think of my cousins who lost their dads, spouses or brothers–some way too young.  I think of my mom, aunts and uncles who are hit by loss repeatedly now.  How can they stand it?  Some have felt this for decades, and for others of us it’s still fresh.

We each take our own pathway.  We each deal with our losses in a different way, but none is honestly more keen than another.  Sometimes it takes suffering to make us acknowledge the suffering of others.  To those who’ve lost their parent so much earlier, I owe an apology.  I always sympathized their losses.  But I could never know how deep their sorrow when they lost their dads too soon.  But I know the void I feel, even if I was able to inch up to it over the course of a decade instead of being pushed into its depths abruptly.  It’s still deep and dark. I’ll eventually climb out and then occasionally peer down into it from the edge.

Others have been here.  And others will be on this path at some point.  It’s the path of life, not just grief.  I understand that now.  I do.

Loren, This Pickle’s For You

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By Susan Dempsey       Sept. 28, 2017

Loren, one of my many first cousins, died last night after a long battle with debilitating Loren at heathers weddingillness that started when he was young.  He was 62, and he’d suffered, especially the past couple years, with a crumbling spine and all its effects on his struggling physique. I tell you about his illness, not to garner pity, but to set the stage to tell you about his inimitable personality. Loren was a positive force in this world, and I wouldn’t doubt he’s a strong one in the next as well.

First a little background:  My mom’s large family is centered around the small rural burg of Arkdale, Wisconsin, no more than a slowed-down-speed-limit curve on Highway 21 that includes the Old Mill bar, the local post office, a Lions park and the Trinity Lutheran Church amongst a few homes and old buildings.  It’s surrounded by farms and sand-bottomed woods.  Most of my aunts and uncles settled in or near that unincorporated town, many as farmers, and a few in nearby towns.  Loren’s parents, Uncle Helmer and Aunt Myrt, stayed in Arkdale and raised their family on their farm. His family has been, and continues to be, active in church, the Lions and other civic organizations. They, like the rest of this large Norwegian/Danish farm family, work hard every day, yet they love to play and laugh together. When our grandparents were alive we gathered at their farm.  Later, we gathered for annual family reunions at area parks, committed to stay in touch as our family grew exponentially and morphed along with the modern world.

Loren was first diagnosed with arthritis when he was very young, and as he grew so did his characteristic gait.  But it wasn’t the first thing you noticed about him.  You’d note his low-key manner of speaking and way of greeting strangers that usually included a generous amount of ribbing as well as a warm welcome.  He loved to tell and hear jokes, and he had a keen wit that could deliver a zinger when you least expected it. He’d remember your name after one visit, and he’d greet you the next time by name.  Any guests I brought with me to family functions throughout the years came away with the feeling of inclusion, in large part because of Loren. They’d remember him easily when I’d ask—not an easy feat considering the multitudes to whom they were subjected.

The second thing people would notice, and perhaps one of the first things they’d recall, was his long red, recently turning whiter, beard.  When I first quizzed my husband which cousin was Loren, he asked, “the one with the ZZ Top beard?”  Yes, that was Loren.  He was the bearded one in the souped-up, bumper-stickered electric wheelchair with one of a variety of hats perched on his head and perhaps a camouflaged or Green Bay Packer shirt.  As long as he was mobile, he was in the thick of things.

When he collapsed with severe back pain and landed in the hospital about 18 months ago, he endured surgery and therapy but was paralyzed.  Family and friends went into action to raise funds to assist him and his new wife, Peg, with the mounting bills.  Everyone in the community and beyond pitched in, many noting times when Loren had helped them.  But what amazed many was his unbeatable spirit.  He continued to smile and enjoy visitors when allowed.  He would still joke with family and have great conversations with friends who stopped by to check on him.  And he continuously expressed his thanks.  This man, who had served as a coach or a mentor to youth, was an active Luther League member and the first vice president and “tail twister” of the local Lions Club, was reaping what he had sown in the expressions of caring he received.

Loren could thank the devil for putting a log in his path because he knew he had someone with him in his UTV with a chain saw to make good use of it as bonfire wood. His positive outlook and creative spirit made him the mastermind behind the antics and crazy creations of his brother and cousins too.  He helped plan and create things like racing lawn mowers or even a Frankenstein-ish hillbilly-mobile from an old minivan, just to entertain family at our annual reunions.  The last time I saw him was at our reunion in August, where everyone greeted him with hugs—we were so happy to see him there again! During the past year, whenever someone visited his bedside, his eyes would light up and he’d thank them for coming. And he’d usually joke with them still.

That was Loren, always kidding.  But once, a few years ago, he told me something that stuck with me as a new way of looking at life.  It was during my parents’ anniversary party, and we’d just served dinner.  He called me over as I passed by his table and said, “Sue, the food is really good, but you forgot the pickles.”  At first, I thought he was kidding as usual, but when I laughed he continued, “You always have to have pickles.”  I walked away thinking, “Really? All this planning for the party, and that’s what he noticed?”

Now I look back, and I realize that short conversation always stayed with me for a reason.  Why would a pickle tray be so important? It’s a condiment—a second thought, isn’t it?  Or is it? Any self-respecting gathering in rural America should include a pickle tray.  It’s a display of artisan craft, as these are usually home grown and canned varieties of sweet and savory tidbits that provide the crunch and burst of flavor that many entrees miss.  This is the added detail that shows the dedication and love of both the cook and the party host.  They are a form of sharing our heritage with every meal, as pickles have been around for centuries and often provided the only form of flavorful green during hard winters.  They are love.  How can you not be positive if you’re eating sweet bread and butter pickles made by one of your favorite aunts?

Loren was right.  There should always be pickles at a party.

As I sit here two states away from Arkdale, knowing that I can’t join my family this weekend as they celebrate Loren’s life, his spirit and his energy, I felt I needed to share this.  It’s cathartic for me to write pieces like this, but I also hope it helps others remember.  And while you visit, share stories, listen to the service, I’ll be here.  But I know that the lunch after the service at the Trinity Lutheran Church will include tables laden with great sandwiches and casseroles, but most importantly, it’ll include a pickle tray.

May you all who attend choose a pickle for your plate and say a toast to Loren with it.  “Loren, this pickle’s for you!”  May we always remember to enjoy every moment and thank God for every sweet or salty taste he offers us, until we join Loren at that big party, where I’m sure there will be some fantastic pickles.