Found: Note from Mom

I wanted to make veggie and wild rice soup with the duck that was left from our anniversary dinner. I pulled out mom's old food chopper (because I probably didn't do the best job cooking the duck -- it was a bit tough and I was trying to think of an easy way to chop it up small) and was telling my son about how my mom used this handy kitchen tool all the time. I used think it was just her way of processing leftovers. We often had a "sandwich spread" of some kind after a roast, a chicken, a turkey, etc., but today I wondered if maybe she used it often because it was a good way to soften up those tough old birds (either as a result of poor cooking or the fact that they were literally old birds that had gone from egg producers to food on the table stage of life). Anyway, Kaman expressed surprise that the chopper belonged to my mom, and then as I was cleaning and putting it away, I found this in the bottom of the box. 

Mom was always labeling and dating every gift she ever got. I used to think it was a strange practice when I was a kid, but one I grew to appreciate. Today, it was as if she joined our conversation. Not only was it my mom's meat chopper, she got it for Christmas in 1962 from my grandparents (dad's parents). I love that she tucked the gift card inside the box. Maybe I have seen it before, but it didn't strike me as familiar. Her handwriting though, that I knew. And that 56 year old meat chopper still works like a charm!

Often I visit my childhood home

Age 7 - with my pig Molly

in my dreams. I lived there for the first 18 years of my life; have lived elsewhere for 30 years more. Yet in dreams I find myself climbing the stairs of the old farmhouse, looking out my bedroom window toward the barn (which remains standing when I sleep, even when my consciousness intrudes, reminding me of the fire), or exploring the secret attic passageways which are always bigger and more elaborate than they were in real life (also stuffed with treasure I always dreamed of finding).

Last night I was there with my son. He was still a small boy, and I was younger too. We were pulling long, thin boards from the biggest attic and talking about all the things he might build with them. I kept thinking the scene felt familiar. I told him about building a helicopter when the room was being remodeled for my brother. In real, waking life, the construction must have taken place when I was three or four. I did build a helicopter in that room. I nailed two boards together to form a letter X. I attached them to a larger board and added a small piece crosswise for the tail. I could spin the propeller with my hand and felt tremendous satisfaction with my creation.

I also visited a memory of jumping, years later, from a stack of bricks built with my cousins. We were flying then too. I don’t remember if we had propellers or wings (perhaps we were testing both) but the important part was the moment between jumping and landing, the brief span of time where I believed that anything--even flight--was possible.

As I woke, I told myself to hold on to the lesson, to remember that I built a helicopter when I was only four, and to hang on to even the littlest moments, those times when anything feels possible.

For the Love of Cousins

This weekend, one of my cousins said, "It's really too bad that it takes a funeral to get us to get together.

I agreed, but had to point out that at least we make the time for funerals. Sometimes it is hard to make time... except when you are being reminded that time isn't a guaranteed luxury. In memory of a cousin by marriage -- my Aunt Bonnie's son, Richard Powell -- I spent the weekend with some of my extended family. Cousins arrived from Alabama, Colorado, Texas, Indiana, and Kansas, of course. I had a rather short commute compared to most of them.

For about thirty-six hours, it was like diving headlong into the best best parts of childhood. I just circled and listened, circled and talked. Catching up on kids and partners, lives and jobs. Reminiscing and listening to others reminisce. Remembering those gone by interacting with those still with us.

I feel as if I owe a debt of thanks to Richard for the gift of time well-spent with family. I definitely owe a debt of thanks to Richard's wife, Deb, who opened her home and her heart to so many.

We're already planning an intentional reunion for next summer. Yay!

Life Archiving: Aunt Gerry's 85th Birthday

Aunt Gerry and Me

Today is my Aunt Gerry’s 85^th Birthday. I am reminded by her photo on the family calendar and a note on Facebook, reminding me to wish her a happy birthday on this day. Aunt Gerry won’t get my note on Facebook, however, because Aunt Gerry passed away on December 31, 2016. Her funeral was the first family event of 2017.

Here I am, coming up on a year of the anniversary of her death, and exactly a year ago today since I last spoke to her. I called her on her birthday last year and we had a great conversation. I remember feeling relieved that she sounded so relaxed and happy, a state of being that wasn’t typical to the one my aunt had a tendency to dwell in.