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.

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

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.

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, 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.

 

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.

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

Rodney Sherrill

As I received another message from a sibling about another of my aunts who left us, it hit me harder than I would’ve expected. I always thought it would become easier as I grew older, to say goodbye to loved ones who’ve left this world. But it’s not. It’s more like a sharp jab at a tender, bruised spot on my heart. You know, when someone hits you on a bruise that’s not quite healed? Like that, only deeper. Some people tell me they feel numb to that pain after a while, but I feel quite the opposite.

Perhaps the growing ache in my sentimental bones is due to the fact that I come from a large family, yet a close one. Mom is one of eleven, and Dad is one of six. These were prolific farm families who produced a multitude of cousins with whom we’ve shared our childhood, adolescence and even our young adulthood. We’ve always enjoyed each other’s company and rallied around one another in lighter times as well as in dark ones. Our aunts and uncles hold our past and history, but even more, they are part of the Greatest Generation. They’ve seen so much more than we have, endured more, worked through more, and guided us through more than we can fathom. To think that my own generation is next in line to lead our offspring is daunting at best. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we’ve just started out in this world. I have silver hair and most of us have grandchildren already.

My Aunt Viola passed away at 90 years old. She will be missed, not only because she was the living matriarch of my mom’s family, but also because she represents the fortitude of the true American farmer’s wife. She was one of the quieter ones of her sisters, but she still had fun and enjoyed the silliness they shared. But I’d often see her watching and smiling from the side of the room more than jumping into the middle of their dance. She had a strength about her, and sometimes a stern look for anyone she thought was out of line.

Vi and Clarence owned and ran a dairy farm for more than 25 years, then they decided to become school bus drivers. I often wonder if it was more challenging to herd and milk cattle or to shepherd kids aboard a bus while driving down the highway in snowy weather. After two and a half decades of farming in central Wisconsin, battling cold winters, soggy springs, sweltering summers and dry falls, who wouldn’t think you’d retire and move somewhere balmy and quiet? No. Instead they drove children to and from school each day for 18 years. Their Lutheran upbringing and work ethic told them they weren’t finished.

Not that they didn’t relax in their “spare” time, but Aunt Vi was known for her gardening, cooking, canning and baking as well as volunteering at the local VFW and Community Club. You need only pick up a copy of an old Trinity Lutheran Ladies Cookbook to see contributions with Viola York listed numerous times. She, my mom, and their sisters, were members of the local organizations and took turns as the leaders. What good Norwegian Lutherans don’t do that, after all?

There were eight sisters in the beginning, and Vi was the second oldest. While others among them were more outgoing and spontaneous, Vi was the depth. While on a long drive just after learning of her death, I realized that Viola was like the viola in a string orchestra. She wasn’t like the violin always in the front rows, with the highest soprano notes who usually plays the melody. No, she’s always been like the somewhat stronger, deeper viola who plays the alto harmonies and occasionally hits the melody during a few strains of music. Viola music is written most often in an alto clef, so it’s not meant to be played in the same octaves as others. It’s an instrument that is a little sturdier, it’s strings are tougher and it takes them a second longer to produce sound when a bow is drawn across them. So too, was Aunt Vi. She was not quick to react, but when needed she spoke out clearly so all knew where she stood. As I said, lower, softer, mellower yet stronger.

Aunt Vi, we know you’re now reunited with Uncle Clarence and with Cousin Donnie in heaven. You’re being greeted with open arms by sisters Caroline, Ginny and Verna and brothers Norm and Roy. They’ve been waiting, and now you’ve joined them in awaiting the rest of us. Meanwhile, we sit here thinking about how much we miss you–all of you–and how much more shallow life feels because we’ve lost that alto voice that bolsters us. One of my favorite hymns sounds best in that alto range, and I’ll think of you whenever I sing it.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I’m found.
I was blind, but now I see.

Godspeed, Aunt Vi, ‘til we meet again.

Susie

How many middle-aged women have had the epiphany that they’ve become their mother? And how many have come to realize that’s not such a bad thing? When I was a teenager, I’d have been horrified at the prospect, yet I now find myself both relieved and pleased that I am certainly my mother’s daughter. (Ok, you can skim over the fact that I’ve admitted I’m middle-aged, that’s another subject.)

So who is my mother? Esther Helen Pedersen Stevens was born in 1930, the middle child of eleven children who blessed Hans and Hilda Pedersen, Norwegian and Danish Lutheran farmers. Their home in Arkdale, Wisconsin was a sandy patch of corn, hay fields, vegetable and flower gardens the family shared with dairy cattle, chickens and pets. She and her siblings were all born in the farmhouse that had belonged to Grandma’s adoptive parents, the Olsens. They weathered the Great Depression as many farm families did; raising their own food and making do with what was available, fixing what broke and creating items they needed.

Grandpa worked the farm while Grandma fed and clothed them all. He was boisterous and fun-loving and she was quiet and shy. Mom inherited parts of each their personalities. She is introverted until she becomes acquainted with people, but if she’s among family she blossoms into a funny girl who loves to laugh and dance. (She and her sisters were notorious for dressing up in Grandpa’s clothes, giggling and dancing at parties.) Mom is musical. Some of her sisters learned the piano or other instruments, but she never had a lesson. She can’t read music, yet she plays the piano by ear. She is a smart lady who earned a high school diploma at a time and place many didn’t, as did all the Pedersen children. After graduation she worked in a doctor’s office.

Mom met Dad when she was 19 years old, and they married a few short weeks later. They had just moved to Minnesota when Dad received orders to report to active duty, so they repacked their home and returned to Arkdale. Mom stayed with Grandpa and Grandma while Dad was gone. She gave birth to my first sibling, Fred, Jr., while Dad crawled amongst fox holes near Korea’s 39th parallel. He sent letters home, never hinting of the danger he faced because he knew she worried. She and family took a plethora of pictures of little Freddie and wrote letters.

When Dad returned they moved 200 miles from home, and Mom was soon pregnant again with Ron. Polio struck both her and Dad, and they were quarantined while Grandma Stevens kept Fred. Mom told me nurses would walk down the corridor, closing all the doors whenever someone died on the ward. But they both recovered and returned home.

Ron was followed by Debbie, and then five years later came me and then brother Jeff. Our family was then complete. They bought a new home, and Dad worked while Mom watched over her brood. She managed to keep us fed and clothed on a limited budget, while serving as counselor, referee and sometimes warden.

In those earlier days, Mom would cook and clean, sew and paint. One of my earliest memories is sleepily wandering into the kitchen to find her on her hands and knees, hair tied up in bandana and arms working a scrub brush through a sudsy puddle. When she spotted me, she pointed toward the door and firmly said, “Out!” I backed up and sat in the bucket. She shook her head and fished me out and changed me. Seems she was always rescuing me like that. Another time she pulled me down from the neighbor’s slide where I was dangling when my sweater caught on the way down.

She baked bread each week. She’d hand me a lump of bread dough to knead and place into my own little pan. She baked angel food cakes. I recall them sitting upside down over a beer bottle on the counter to cool. She baked rhubarb pies. She braised beef pot roast with horseradish, just like Grandma made. She would let us help her make applesauce using a colander I now have, all five of us taking turns squishing the apple pulp through it into the bowl. At Christmas she’d cover the kitchen table with newspaper and mix colorful bowls of frosting and let us have at it with the stacks and stacks of sugar cookies she’d mixed, rolled, cut out and baked.

She took classes to become a keypuncher when business computers occupied entire rooms, and she returned to work when we were all in school. When the older kids were off on their own, Jeff and I would come home for lunch and after school on our own. I know she worried, but she was just a phone call away. I remember calling her whenever we fought, or to complain about the list of chores she left us to do, or to ask questions about the recipe we were trying for dinner. She taught us both how to bake cakes and pies and cook for the family.

Dad was always her back-up, but she was the one who disciplined us first. She commanded respect, even when we all surpassed her in height. She worried and loved us through our teenage angst, our failures, our anxiety, our broken hearts, our experimentation and our smart mouths. And we didn’t make it easy for her. One of her favorites to me when I gave her grief was, “I hope you have a daughter just like you!”

She is our heart, our compassion, our sense of fairness and our sense of humor. She’s the role model that I’ve tried to emulate. I once thought that a college degree and a great career would make me all I needed to be. I now know better.

I now know just how much she worked to allow us to be ourselves. When we camped on vacations, she worked tirelessly packing, prepping and throughout the trip. I still love to camp, but I do wish Mom could join us camping (I think she prefers hotels.) so I could wait on her this time.

I love to sew when I have a chance. I enjoy baking and cooking, but maybe not so much the cleaning, even if she did teach me the proper ways. I’ve baked bread, pies and cookies, and I still use the colander a few times each year for my own applesauce. I’ve gone back to school as my family’s needs changed, and I’ve worked at making a home.

I once called Mom after my own teenage daughter snapped back at me as any 15-year-old can do, just to tell her that I in fact do have a daughter just like me. She laughed, of course.

I believe I’ve gained her sense of humor as well as her compassion, her sentimentality, her music and her song. I only hope I also have the strength she’s shown in recent years, as much as she possessed earlier, only I didn’t realize it.

And I fervently hope my children see me as I now see my Mom. I can only hope that I am my mother.

I’m about to embark on a journey via this virtual path through the woods. Friends and family have been hounding me to start blogging. They understand that I enjoy writing almost as much as I like to talk. And they promised they’d read it. (I swear they did.) So I’m here. I do love crafting with words. I try to see the lighter side of life, and I admit to a long-held dream of becoming the world’s next Erma Bombeck. But I’ve also been known to write memorials, to share my sentimental side or to wave the flag and cry out for more apple pie. Now if I can figure out how to set this up with a few categories that will make my mind appear more organized than it really is, I’ll start. Follow me, and I’ll try to entertain you, to inspire you and to share some of my misadventures as well as successful ventures with you.  You may laugh, you may cry or you may just realize you’re not alone.  I’m failing and flailing, laughing and crying, and I’m learning my way through life just as we all are.