My father's daughter

Today my father would be 79 years old. I had him in my life for 36 of my years. He was 36 when I was born (well, until he turned 37 later that same month). I never thought about that until just now-- I was the same age when he died as he was when I came to be. I tend to look for significance in such things. We can force significance out of almost any 'coincidence' if we try. Why do we need 'coincidence' to create meaning? That is a question for another time.

Tonight I was thinking about how much of who I am came from growing up with him as my father. Better and worse, in theory, but on his birthday I prefer to consider the 'better' part. Which I also consider the bigger part.

For most of my life I would have said my dad (it feels like I should say father, but I never called him father. Or daddy. He was dad) was the smartest person I knew. I guess I wouldn't say that anymore. As much as anything that's because I've learned that calling anyone the "____est" does nothing but invite challenge and unyielding comparison. But when I was a young girl and young woman, he was IT. I didn't idolize him for his intelligence. But I was grateful for it. My dad wasn't the 'cool' dad and he definitely wasn't the 'modern' dad. But he was the smartest dad. And that counted for a lot. It may be because of him that I'm such a sucker for brainpower.

But smarts is the obvious legacy. Tonight I'm thinking of other things.

My father loved music. Loved it. But was the only one in our household who did not play an instrument. I never thought to ask him why. But music filled my life. From The Nutcracker to Benny Goodman to Roger Miller. But not rock and roll. My father graduated college in 1957. He was on the cusp of big band and rockabilly. He chose big band. The closest he came to rock and roll was Joan Baez and Herb Alpert. In other words, not very close at all. But he bought my sister Teresa albums by Pat Benatar ("she could be an opera singer if she wanted," he said). And he bought me the saxophone I started asking for after watching Sha Na Na on Saturday nights. And he danced the polka with my mother in the kitchen and with his daughters at wedding receptions. And one of the last moments of connection we ever had, after dementia had robbed him of almost all of his awareness, was me singing "Ave Maria" to him in his room at the nursing home and having him turn to me and say "that was good." A three word sentence. Perhaps the only coherent one he spoke that entire visit. That is the power of music that he shared with me.

My father also loved nature. And he was either selfish or prescient enough (or both) to force his children to accompany him on more hikes than I wanted. I didn't appreciate it then. But how I treasure it now. I feel closest to my dad's memory in the woods. He loved the woods in every season, and in a special way in winter when the limbs were bare. They appealed to him visually. He took more photos of winter trees than any other. And he was fearless. Twice we hiked Mt. Baker in Saranac Lake: 900' ascent in .9 miles. Me gingerly finding my footing on the steep trail; him bounding along like a mountain goat, in his late 60's and with bad feet. As his dementia progressed, along with his response to music, a walk at the old growth forest a few miles from our house was where he seemed most himself. My mother loved the sun. I get that from her. But my father took me to nature. It is him I likely have to thank for my summer in Montana. He reveled in God's wild creation. And I eventually came to revel in it too.

My father truly believed that, at least in sports, it wasn't whether you won or lost, it was how you played the game. It was that you had fun. And he was a good athlete. Successful as a boy. But he was passionate on this point. He came to my softball and basketball games. But only to watch. Not to scream. Perhaps not even to cheer. Or if to cheer, it would be as likely for a stellar play by the opposition as for me. And the only time I recall my dad ever confronting an adult on behalf of one of his children was when some kid's father got in my teenage brother Paul's face when he was umpiring a little league game. My dad was having none of it. I sat paralyzed with embarrassment but also proud as he stood between his son and this screaming man and put him firmly, ferociously in his place. "This game is for fun! You are not going to yell at my son. This is just a game!" For the same reason, he supported me fully when I dropped basketball my freshman year of high school because of all of the restrictions they required (no ice skating, no sled-riding, no missing more than 2 practices). It made no sense to him. The game is supposed to be fun. Indeed.

My father believed in speaking (his) truth. Even when he knew it wouldn't be popular. I always knew this about him, and yet I was still somewhat taken aback at his funeral when several of his work colleagues mentioned that he was known at his job (where he worked 40 years) for speaking his mind, popular opinion or not. Luckily, as least from their description, he normally turned out to be right. He exhibited the same commitment to forthrightness while serving on the Parish Council. It is his voice I have heard internally when I have struggled to determine when to speak up and when to back down professionally. Even with a wife and nine children depending solely on his income, his integrity would not be compromised. I don't know that any of us kids followed a career path he would have suggested, but one of the greatest signs of respect he ever shared with me about his children is when he said, with considerable pride, how much he admired the integrity each of us showed in our work. That meant more to him than our actual jobs. And him saying that to me meant more than he could ever have guessed.

If I do not end this now, it will no longer be his birthday when I do. And I don't want that. There is more to say, but I have more time to say it. And I will.

The birds in my heart...

The birds in my heart
want to live 
in an old growth forest
where stillness and sound
from the sky to the ground
are wedded and wound

The birds in my heart
want to live
in an unfenced prairie
where seed mixed with sun
by the rains are undone
and the west can’t be won

The birds in my heart
want to live 
by a spring-fed river
where the silt-polished stone
and the sycamore throne
welcome child and crone

The birds in my heart
want to live

-cakth started 9/7/2021, finished 6/22/2022

This poem is my response to a daily poetry website's prompt for September 7th, 2021 (my 50th birthday) — "the birds in my heart".  And I was so hopeful to finish it that evening. The first stanza came very quickly. Probably because of my father's love for Johnson Woods, an old growth forest close to my hometown where he enjoyed going for walks well into his dementia. 

The second stanza fought me. Through several iterations. It was finally finished last night, summer solstice. West is the home of sunsets and you need something prairie-like (or a large body of water, or some higher vantage point; an open sky in any case) to have them fill the horizon to its fullest glory. 

                                                                                     USFWSmidwest, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The final stanza was begun last night and flitted towards and away from me as I fell asleep and then throughout today (see what I did there? Flitted, like a bird. In fact, perhaps I can think of the entire 9 1/2 months as a bird flittering in and out of my sight, much less my reach). Anyway ... I had to look up what trees most commonly grow beside running water, and in the process learned the word riparian, meaning land bordering rivers/streams (ponds/lakes get a different word). Also, I was thinking of using "sycamore bones" and googled it and found a Folk/Americana band out of Western North Carolina with that name. They're lovely, and if you want you can check them out here. Sadly it appears they have stopped playing out (last show on their website is from 9/2021. Hope they get back out there!). And another fun find is Wicked Sycamore, a trio of women from Baltimore playing folk/roots/bluegrass. And they are out there gigging. Also, google some photos of sycamore roots. Swoon!

https://tree-pictures.com/sycamore-tree-nice.jpg

New Moons

Last January, a friend gave me a candle with a label on which I was to write my intention for the New Moon and then burn it completely. Choosing “one little word” to build a year around has become a popular practice. My sister started it before it went mainstream, but now it’s everywhere, at least if my social media advertising stream is to be believed. But this candle wasn’t for the year – just for the month. And the candle didn’t specify it was for January. Just for a new moon.

It so happens that I’m not all that comfortable with leaving fire of any size unattended. So I was already not going to fulfill the ritual. But I did choose a word and light the candle. And contemplated the word I had chosen for a bit. Then blew the flame out.

Since I wasn't going to allow the candle to burn fully in one session, I decided to observe the new moon monthly, with a different word each time. I did not fix a certain number of minutes for it to be lit - just as long as my reflection lasted. But somehow I chose well, because it lasted to December, and on that new moon I decided to let it burn itself out no matter how long it took. Which ended up being about fifteen minutes after I had set it aside on the table. So, that's something.

January 13th: Stamina

Had I known in January I'd be writing this a year later, I might have jotted down a few of my thoughts along the way to remind me why I chose each word. It's been a long twelve months. And that alone means I obviously chose well on that first new moon. It seems likely I chose stamina because of the nine months we'd all just been through and knowing we weren't finished. CoVid-19 was still a clear and present danger, though vaccination had begun. The exhausting certification of the presidential vote was ostensibly over, and yet, just a week before this new moon, open insurrection had come to the Capitol, and no one knew what awaited the nation at the Inauguration. But everyone knew or feared (and some, obviously, hoped) that the aftermath of the election was also, like the pandemic, far from over. So recognizing stamina as a need for the coming month is likely what was top of mind. What stands out to me now, however, is that to start 2021, I had chosen to restart regimented exercise. Work from home has many emotional benefits for me, but definitely reduced my physical activity. And I had a foot that was bothering me, and figured some regular movement of my molecules (as my mom liked to call it) would limber it up as well. But alas, I was wrong. I bought waterproof walking shoes and mustered all my energy towards the stamina I require to tolerate the winter wind and cold. And my foot got worse, not better. And I saw my doctor sometime that month. And thus began an almost year long journey to recuperate from a horrible case of plantar fasciitis (it's not completed resolved even today). With full awareness of my privilege for it to be so, the fact is that my foot pain ended up being a far greater challenge for me last year than CoVid. It was a bigger factor in the most of my decisions and because even driving made it ache, I was all the more grateful to be able to work from my couch. I chose stamina for other reasons, not knowing how critical it would become. Patience and stamina are related in some way. And patience could be my "one little word" every day.

February 11th: Focus

My ability to focus has always been top notch. Usually if I had been thinking about the word "focus" it would be about where to direct the attention - not how to be attentive, per se. I don't know what I was thinking on February 11th, but I do know that over the past couple of years, my natural proclivity to focus like a champ has faltered. My train of thought used to derail much less frequently. Avoiding jumping the track did not used to take such conscious effort. I don't like it. The pandemic has of course overloaded all of our synapses. Even those who perform well in crisis are likely to struggle with maintaining high-focus functioning day-to-day under heightened stress and especially unrelenting uncertainty about the future. So no doubt the slippage in my focus amid pandemic conditions is not unique. But, given that my life changed far less drastically compared to those who lost their jobs, or have young children, or had serious illness, CoVid or otherwise, within their families, I am skeptical that external stress accounts for all, or even most, of it. I don't know if I'd realized it in February, but I've come to believe that what is sending me sideways is not the changes in the world, but the changes in me. Specifically, my hormones. I've long known I get more weepy the week before my period along with a couple of other predictable aspects of my cycle. But predictable is the key word there. And, cycle. Every woman is aware that menopause can be less than pleasant. You hear about the hot flashes and weight gain, maybe learn about reduced libido, perhaps are warned about increased risk for some cancers.  But perimenopause? Oh the information is out there, but it's a lot less discussed. Not every woman experiences every symptom of menopause, but every menstruating woman's period at some point stops (whether through surgical intervention or the aging process). Not every woman experiences perimenopause identically either, but also, lots of women don't realize that many "menopausal" symptoms start well before that fateful final period. Hormones are no joke. Whether one has too many, too few, or a change in the ratios of each. My brain, now further along the elastic-plastic continuum, is not taking the new formulary well, and was taking it even less well before I realized what was going on. Interestingly, I've come to learn that some of my post-menopausal friends describe perimenopause as akin to pregnancy, when we know hormones go through massive shifts. Never having been pregnant, I couldn't pick up those clues. But now that I know, you can bet I'm going to help normalize some conversation about the adventure. Because it's hard enough without thinking you must have had well- controlled ADHD your entire life that is inexplicably now running rampant. 

March 13th: Hope

I got my second Pfizer-BioNTech injection on February 13th and my sisters were looking to get theirs before too long in March. So no doubt I was feeling hopeful as more and more people were getting vaccinated almost exactly a year from when the disaster began. Also, I had just seen my dermatologist the week before and he prescribed a new treatment for my psoriasis, which had been well-managed for three or so years but had moved on to the next stage of its progression (again - stress? perimenopause? coincidence?). I hadn't started the new medication yet, but he was confident it would be a success and I was excited to get relief. Also, my foot was getting no better just from staying off of it, and probably worse, and I had gone to Eliza for a massage intervention and started doing the stretches and icing it as she assigned me and bought a brace to wear at night and a pair of orthopedic slippers. I think that was a big part of my "hope." The season of lawn-mowing was looming and summer is when I get exercise much more naturally. I was intent upon not having that all disrupted by a bum appendage. Stamina is much easier to maintain with hope mixed in. And so I endeavored to embrace hope. Meteorological spring begins on March 1st. The earth was re-awakening. I was manifesting my own re-emergence as well.

April 12th: Diligent

This one I remember specifically being about my foot. It was unchanged. But plantar fasciitis gets better. That's what the interwebs and my doctor assured me. It's not forever. Stamina and hope had to be supplemented with diligence. It is painful to submerge one's foot into an ice bath. And leave it there for 10 minutes on, 10 minutes off, until you've iced it for half an hour. But I think I'd mowed my lawn once myself by then and the aftermath was unbearable. So I diligently tortured my inflammed fascia daily as prescribed. As I write this I am realizing that, though I already had recognized that my foot was central to the new moon words, I am a third of the way through the year, and it's ALL connected to my physical being. Covid, plantar fasciitis, perimenopause, psoriasis. I'm rather startled. I am stopping here for the night, but I suspect this theme is going to continue. And that is not at all what I expected when I started this reflection. Not beyond my foot, at least. 

May 11th: Purposeful

The day before this new moon, my sister, a friend, and I had visited a native perennial greenhouse and then walked in a nearby state nature preserve the horticulturist recommended. It wasn't good for my foot, but it was good for my spirit. Trees have no "brain." But nature is in every respect purposeful. Resplendently so. Though I don't remember if that is what nudged me towards choosing my word. Purposeful, for me, builds on "focus." If I give my brain some grace in its new struggle with focus staying power, that doesn't have to mean I'm surrendering to a mental free-for-all. I can shift my focus more frequently, if my brain insists. But wherever I land next, I can at least make it have a purpose. Not just a random scroll through Facebook, whether for funny memes or the latest (usually distressing) headlines. Which is not to say that mindless activity has zero purpose. But for it not be mindless, I have to stay aware of what purpose it is serving. I don't dismiss social media as worthless - it has allowed me to maintain and re-establish relationships with people from my past and present. Even the "para-relationships" I have in groups where I'll never interact with the person other than about (for example) our asshole felines, can give me a genuine chuckle, or a sense of connectedness with a like-minded person. But that is the key: the awareness. the intention - the thoughtfulness about what I am getting (and giving) in the interaction. Likewise, all of my work is important, but priorities do exist. If I switch from one task to another, am I doing so with a sense of the purpose and considering the colleague or team or student or client that is a stakeholder in the endeavor? It's okay if I want it to be just a "break" from some other task. But then the parameters shift. I strive to be purposeful. As my old friend Henry D. Thoreau proclaimed, "I went to the woods to live deliberately." Another good word.

June 10th: Faith 

It is 3 weeks past my first cortisone injection, and my foot felt great for 24 hours, but has regressed to the mean. This is not, says the sports podiatrist, to be unexpected. Keep icing, keep stretching, follow up on custom orthotics. Stamina can't wane. Hope must endure. A Bible verse, now ensconced in popular culture, talks of faith, hope, and love. I just now read the full chapter for context. It's a good one. But doesn't actually discuss how faith and hope differ. So why did I choose faith after having chosen hope three months earlier? (I don't think I remembered I had chosen hope for March, actually). I think hope is more generalized. You can have hope in a completely unorganized universe somehow still producing a wished for outcome. Faith, it seems to me, externalizes hope towards something/someone more concrete fulfilling that desire. Hope says it can happen. Faith says it will happen, and it will be because some power allows/causes it to. Was my faith in June directed towards my doctor or God? I'd love to say it was God. I'd love to believe God cares specifically to help my foot heal. But I think God's got bigger goals and my bum foot staying a bum foot might fit right in with them for all I know. But my doctor --  her education, experience, and goal is to make it better. And I decided to put faith in her assurances.

July 10th: Healing 

The third week in June, I spent a delightful vacation with my sisters, one of my brothers and his family, and a friend, in a beach house on Oak Island, NC. I had it in my head that walking on the sand would somehow be therapeutic for my foot. I was wrong. I came home limping. A few days later I got a second cortisone injection. Unlike injecction #1, this one didn't give me even 24 hours relief. In fact, it hurt. Immediately and for a couple of days. Not unexpected, and no cause for concern, per the good doctor. Keep stretching. Keep icing. Get your orthotics (those things take a long time to get made), keep paying someone to mow your lawn (argh!). In the meantime, the treatment for the psoriasis was working its magic. Well, not magic. Magic is magic. Science is science, even if "results may vary." One up, one ... treading water. Oh, and masks were finally optional, if you'd done your civic duty to be vaccinated. And it's summertime. Sunshine alone heals my spirit, even if my corporeal being is not cooperating. I was healing. We were healing. 

August 8th: Wealth 

On July 21st, I finally got my custom orthotics. And they were free (that's what we tell ourselves for all the medical care we get after meeting our giant deductible for the year, yes?). By August 8th, I'd given them a few spins. I was rather impatient regarding the gradual adjustment protocol  We generally are our own worst enemies. But the tide appeared to be turning. And I reflected on how much of my ability to roll with that tide was based on my wealth. Wealth, as I learned more fully in a grad school course I took in the College of Public Health, is not just about one's bank account or salary. It is the accumulated resources that are compounded within families, communities and nations across generations. The wealth to which I have access is preposterous, really. I don't recall what exactly made me choose wealth. But it is a word worth understanding and considering, humbly.

September 7th: Grateful and Curious

The September new moon fell sometime during the day on September 7th, my 50th birthday, but I actually burned my candle the night before. On September 5th, my sister lost her sense of taste and smell smack dab in the middle of my birthday celebration. She already had enough symptoms that my immuno-compromised friend had worn a mask during our time together. Knowing your baby sister has CoVid-19 is unsettling, no matter what. But she was fully vaccinated and I had confidence she would be okay, and that so would my other sister and I, should we end up testing positive too. The gratitude I feel for the scientists who sequenced the virus and developed the vaccines, and the public health apparatus that made it quickly available to us all, and the dumb luck that I was born in a country wealthy enough to make it all happen - that gratitude is big. Huge. September got two words though, because remaining curious (the midpoint of the mood elevator) about  the world around me is a life goal. And if turning 50 isn't a time to reflect on one's life goals, when is? My relationship to aging is an example of the dialectical in action. So much about it I love. So much about it terrifies me. But staying curious helps temper fear, anger, even sadness. I often founder on the rocks of of exasperation (and judgment) that others will believe and do things that seem so self-evidently the wrong choice to me. But at least I can (try to) remind myself that being "puzzled, not pissed" can help to right my ship.

October 6th: Shhhh...

So my sister ended up okay, my other sister and I were not infected (one friend was, though it is not certain she got it from my party). My foot continued to gradually improve. A possible detached retina a week after my birthday ended up being just a tear of the vitreous. Delta was everywhere, but I was more or less chugging along. But sometime in late September I was looking at a website and saw a coffee mug with the words "Shhhh... No one cares" on it. No question it was meant to be used as a snarky message to anyone reading the cup, but that was not how I absorbed it. To me, it was looking in a mirror. For all my life I've identified as an introvert. And really I stand by that statement today. But to illustrate a point, once in my mid-20s, I, along with the other members of the band I used to be in, were being interviewed by a local reporter. In response to some question, I declared myself an introvert. When the article came out, the interviewer wrote, "Catherine describes herself as an introvert, but she's the most talkative introvert we've ever met." Do I need to explain further? I have opinions. And I know lots of words. And I can, and do, go on. And I'm lucky people are (generally) patient with me. So, naturally I ordered that cup and on October 5th, I posted a photo of me holding it. Some people came to my defense and assured me that they care about what I say. But by and large what I got was a LOT of laughing emoji responses and comments like "this is awesome." As I said, I'm lucky people are patient with me. It's almost 3 months later and I'm still using this mantra. And my friend got me socks for Christmas with "Shhh" on one foot and "No one cares" on the other. She said they were in a subscription box - she didn't order them. The Universe is speaking.

November 4th: Listening

The Universe is speaking. Am I listening? That's the other half of "shhhh" of course. Achieving "shhhh" is only the first part of the process. Absence of speaking doesn't not guarantee presence of listening. There are, per some business consultant who probably got them from somewhere else, FIVE levels of listening. Not listening (not attentive at all), listening to tell your story (one up), listening for judgment (to argue), listening for application (necessary information only), and listening to understand. Listening for application and to understand are the two levels that intersect with being "curious." I'm trained as a therapist and any therapist who doesn't listen to understand is, well, not a therapist. But that doesn't mean we are universally listening to understand. So I could go from "Shhh ... no one care" to "Shhh ... listen." But, it's not as startling. I have to start with the Shhh still. And really, that includes with myself. Who hasn't gotten sick of their OWN _____ (fill in the blank: self-defeating, self-pitying, self-righteous, etc) talk on occasion. Who hasn't needed to find a place of "Shhhh" to really hear what we need to listen to within? 

December 4th: Reflect

And so I arrived at the final new moon last month. Our decision of where the "year" begins and ends is arbitrary. But the cycle of nature is not. The seasons do repeat, even if not in an exactly identical or precisely predictable fashion. And I don't know if the unexamined life is not worth living for everyone, but an unexamined life is unthinkable for me. And I am an outlier in many ways, but I am conventional in keeping track of time. Amongst us three surviving sisters I am known for it - the keeper of birthdays and anniversaries not just of weddings but of meaningful occasions of all types. I put stock in my own "year" of birthday to birthday for reflection. And I'm much more attuned to the rhythm of the seasons the older I get. But I don't mind our collective embrace of auld lang syne and fresh starts. And so reflection, yes. But we don't do resolutions in my sisterhood. We do affirmations. We speak in manifestation of what we believe is and can be. I'm still trying to settle on a word for 2022. I've got a concept but can't wrestle down ONE word to encapsulate it. Ahead of me lie twelve new moons and twelve full moons, twelve perfect waxing and twelve perfect waning crescent moons (my favorite), four seasons, 365 potential sunsets (and sunrises should I determine to be a daybreak person), countless blossomings and bird songs and lightning bug flashes, and cuddles with my boon companion, and exquisite morsels of food, and conversations with my loves, and opportunities to make a difference in someone's life. Also awaiting me ahead are tears and clenched fists and words I'll wish I'd swallowed instead of spoken. Tempus will continue to fugit. And I'll be clinging to its coattails. Marveling at the ride.

MEO 💗 JLH, 60 years

Sixty years ago on September 3rd, my parents got married. 

Last night (it was last night when I started writing this on September 4th) I went through some boxes of my mother's keepsakes for the first time in awhile, wanting to marvel again at her souvenirs of their  engagement and wedding. My mother, for all of the deep connection I felt to her, nonetheless remained mostly an enigma my entire life with her. If she ever shared those mementos with us while she was alive, I have no recollection of it. We got to see her wedding gown, which was created from her mother's dress. And her engagement photo and announcement were framed on her dresser. And their wedding album has been a source of endless fascination and joy to me my entire life. But my mother did, in fact, keep everything connected to that time in her life, including the letters she sent my father during the ten months they lived in different states before they wed. And we children, to my knowledge, never saw any of it before she died. I suppose I am just grateful she saved them at all, and we finally did get to discover and treasure them these last 20 years.

As I held her memories, I again pondered her secrecy with them. Although can I really say it was secrecy? Maybe it was not intentional at all. Perhaps it was the casualty of the exhaustion of keeping a home for a family of eleven. Perhaps she never opened those boxes herself in the 40 years of marriage she had before she died. Perhaps when she had moments for nostalgic sojourns, she preferred a different conduit, like her mother's piano in the family room where she could play her memories rather than look at them. Somehow I think it was more than that. But, as with many many (too many) things, I'll never know.

I didn't dwell on that question for long this time, however. Though my intention began with perhaps discovering some new insight into my mother, what pulled my attention instead was the ephemera itself, as a snapshot of a middle class life at the dawn of the new decade, in Louisville, Kentucky, USA, as seen through the time capsule of my mother's life from her engagement through her honeymoon. It was 1960, on the cusp of the "Happy Days" Fifties and the upheaval of the decade to come. Only twenty years had passed when I entered my tweens in 1981, but from my perspective it might just as well have been a century. Did 1940 seem as distant from 1960 to her as 1960 felt from 1980 for me? Do some generations just change more quickly? It seems likely. As the experience of the children of today, pre- and post-pandemic, is likely to epitomize. 

And so we begin our peek into 1960.

We start with the planning. Having never married, I am not aware of the range of topics the current wedding guides cover. But I'd have to guess it's both less and more than the one my mother had. (Whether or not she followed it, which I do not know). 

Who wouldn't want to visit Ms. Bea in "a pleasantly private nook of the Second Floor"? Note that the nook is "of," not "on," the second floor. Which suggests to me that somehow the nook is not fixed. Or maybe there are several "nooks" and Ms. Bea has a special one of her own? I like to picture my mother in such a nook, effervescently excited.

"Solemnity, beauty, and grace"; the goals for how one's nuptials would be remembered. I would wager that "solemnity" is the last quality that brides for at least the past generation, and probably longer, have connected to their weddings. But I'm less able to guess how long it's been since social customs required a woman to learn the difference between her "formal" and "informal" married name. And, while my spinster, liberated sensibility cannot imagine myself as Mrs. My-Husband's-Full-Name, my mother joyfully embraced that title.  

The guide goes on to provide a schedule of tasks to accomplish as the months then weeks then days count down, and one very practical area of focus is the preparation of the soon-to-be newlyweds' home, such as making sure to schedule the utilities to be on when the couple returned from their honeymoon trip to their new address. These endeavors were, it seems, primarily left to the woman, since the man, naturally, was busy working his 9-5 job. But, preparing the home as the woman's job aside, I would not have expected in the middle of the 20th century in the USA, to see that my mother was expected to arrive with a trousseau. To my ears that word is adjacent to 'dowry,' and equally antiquated (though I know that countries across the globe still, in fact, observe the custom even now). But, practically speaking, I suppose every modern wedding registry is essentially a very-well curated trousseau. So no sense my getting hung up on a word.

My mother had at least two bridal showers. She kept a record of them in this college blue book (I have a few of my blue books from undergrad; some things haven't changed), which she labeled with the charming romantic whimsy that she never lost and which we children cherished as much as I hope my father did (oh, yes, she romanced us children).

When my parents met, my mother was employed as a secretary by U of L but in some capacity attached to the military (so maybe ROTC?) and in one of her letters to my father she wrote about telling her boss, a Captain, about their engagement, and in another she writes of her last day at her job, not long before their wedding. So she came by that blue book honestly. And filled every page with the gifts received and from whom, in her meticulously gorgeous script.

And she kept every card that accompanied her gifts. As I looked at them again I was reminded that all progress is not progress. These are exquisite little works of art, in 2"x3" form. So vibrant. So colorful. So worth keeping for the images alone. Beautiful greeting cards still exist, but does anyone still go down to the 5 and dime store to get one to attach to a shower gift?

Here is a selection - my favorites - almost all with a "shower" theme:

Likewise with their wedding cards. For six decades they have sat unprotected in a cardboard box and yet they retain their rich hues and sparkle, perhaps because they weren't damaged by exposure to light and the oils found on human skin (maybe THAT'S why she kept them from us?). I doubt they were all chosen with particular care - but each one has unique loveliness. Or maybe not. I'm no artist. But it seems modern cards focus far more on words than image. But these images require no words.

And then there is this remarkable artifact of the most immediate means of communication available pre-computer and cell phones. A congratulatory telegram, sent directly to the reception hall, from friends of the groom's family, in his hometown of Queens Village, NYC.

 

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And here we are almost three months after I started writing these thoughts. It is now 11/21, my mother's birthday. She would have been 84 years old today. 

It's no surprise I left this unfinished. At this point I have about half as many blog posts in various stages of creation as I have that I've published. Writing is a discipline, like anything else. If it were an assignment, it would be done. But for my own enjoyment, I usually do not push myself if the thoughts and words are muddled. I'm not sure how they'll be tonight. But it's mama rabbit's birthday and it's worth the effort.

...

And so they were married...

I could look at the photograph probably forever without my joy at their joy being diminished by even the slightest degree.

As so many of their fellow newlyweds in the 50s and 60s also did, my parents honeymooned in Niagara Falls. But instead of traveling by train, as was evidently common and part of the Falls' draw, they drove, by way of Notre Dame, Indiana, my father's alma mater, where they paid $36 for 3 nights lodging (and $1.60 on one long distance call), at the Morris Inn, which remains "on the campus" to this day.

And somewhere along the way they enjoyed a meal at the Fantabulous Pizzaburg, and I am certain the modern Sonic and even Ohio's celebrated carhop Swenson's don't come even close to the ambience this advertising coaster proclaims. One has to imagine there weren't many "Pizans" (from Pisa or any other Italian heritage) any place near wherever this culinary mashup was located.

If the brand new Mr. and Mrs. John L Hechmer took any photographs along the way to or of their destination, those my mother did not keep. But I can easily see them strolling hand in hand along the promenade overlooking the Falls. I cannot imagine their conversation. But I can see their smiles and happiness. 

One memento does not fit the timeline. On September 4th, they were still in Indiana, but my mother saved a bulletin from a church in Toronto for that Sunday. Perhaps they went to Mass there when they passed through the city later that week on the drive to Niagara. I wonder if she read it, or just saved it as a souvenir. I am astonished by the subject matter. My parents were not liberal. But perhaps a living wage was not a radical idea in 1960? I did explore the history of the cathedral a bit and it turns out an order of nuns operated an orphanage and settlement house nearby starting in the late 1800s. And their investment in the disenfranchised continues to this day. But what a remarkable and remarkably timely exhortation. One that I daresay no Roman Catholic Church in the United States would publish today, if  indeed they ever have. But, lest one feel too thrown off, the Bingo is right there after the essay. The Bingo abides.

 

              __________________________________________________________

And so here I sit on the day after my mother's birthday, having once again not finished as hoped last night. On this day in 1961, my mother had her 1st child. Quite a 25th birthday present I'd say. He was the apple of my parents' eyes.

And there began the next chapter, or more properly, volume of my parents' story. One with memories captured on Super 8 film and more boxes and drawers and shelves and walls holding the souvenirs and mementos of a family that grew to be eleven. Nine children blessing (I am certain they did feel blessed) the lives of a big city boy and (by comparison) small town country girl, who met in 1959, at an ice skating rink when my dad was stationed at Fort Knox. It just now occurs to me to wonder when and why my mother, a Southerner in every respect (even if "real" Southerners scoff at Louisville as being "the South") learned to ice skate. But I have video evidence of her twirling with 7 of her children (I was the baby then!) on the pond in the farmer's field behind our home, so I know she did.

< And this is where I would insert said video or photo, except I captured them from one of those aforementioned home movies, transferred a few years ago to DVD, that I last watched on my previous laptop, which has finally decided it will no longer boot up even remedially for me to pull files onto a thumb drive. >

So here is where I will leave this. With an image that doesn't exist from a moment that very much did. And really, even where we have a photograph, we are not seeing just the photo, but layering it with our own memories, or our imaginings of the story behind the still life. As I do every time I open the foot locker and take out the boxes of my mother's treasures. And catch glimpses of a time, a place, a woman, and a love story.

All Souls and the Prairie

I woke up this morning with a vague plan that I would find somewhere to walk in the woods where there might still be fall foliage to enjoy. I decided to head west and stop by Der Dutchman in Plain City to check out the clearance section of their gift shop where, last year around this time, I found several wonderful Christmas gifts for my sisters. Alas, pickings were slim this time and it was a brief stop. But I did get a lovely coffee drink that kept me company for the next part of my adventure.

I knew I wasn't too far from a beautiful spot on the Big Darby Creek where my brother likes to stop when he's in town. But it isn't a park or preserve with a trail. Just some pull off from the road. Private property for all I know. I considered Prairie Oaks Metro Park but imagined it would be rather crowded on a Saturday afternoon when OSU football has a bye, chilly though it was today. And though I don't mind sharing the woods, I prefer the quiet if possible. So I hit up Google for other nearby options, and saw, just a few miles away, Smith Cemetery State Nature Preserve. Sounded promising so I headed out. 

Driving country roads, even in the flattest of flat farmlands, makes me happy. The trappings of modern life are still there, of course, but the land is the land and in large measure the barns and houses and fences and silos could have been standing there a century or two for all one can tell. So no matter where I was going to arrive, I was enjoying the few miles to get there. But as Google Maps was telling me I was on approach, around me all I saw were plowed fields. Nothing resembling any "nature preserve" I'd ever been to. But there was the sign, telling me to park on the road and walk in. And so I pulled off on the shoulder and looked to my right, and this is what I saw:

Uhm ... nature preserve? I was underwhelmed. But also intrigued. So I ambled on over. And wandered into perhaps the most unique place I've ever randomly discovered. There were criss-crossing narrow paths cut through a sea of grass up to my waist or higher, and scattered throughout were numerous headstones. Almost all from the mid- to late-1800s. An exquisitely perfect discovery on the Feast of All Souls. But why did this preserve exist? I soon discovered a few educational markers along the paths, placed by the Ohio Department of Natural Resources. It turns out, this part of the continent once had a prairie. Has a prairie? The ODNR website says ...

The Darby Plains supported a vast tallgrass prairie interrupted only by numerous scattered groves of oaks and hickories, especially groves of bur oaks. The dense prairie grass often grew to heights of 6-8 feet. The whole area was described as a sea of prairie grasses and colorful prairie wildflowers. Ohio's native prairies are an outlier of the extensive tallgrass prairies of the west. The pioneers called these grasslands the "barrens." Much of the year they were too wet to plow. Mosquitoes thrived within the dense, wet prairie grasses and were often intolerable. Yet, by late summer the soil would bake dry and crack. Consequently, these were among the last lands in this part of Ohio to be settled. However, between 1810 and 1820 the barrens were finally settled, mostly by families from New England. Eventually, through ditching and tiling, the Darby Plains were converted from inhospitable, wet prairie to some of the most valuable agricultural land in the state. In less than 150 years, the tallgrass prairie was almost obliterated. Today, only scattered bur oak trees and groves and infrequent patches of prairie plants are all that remain of the original vast prairie. Still, as if by design, the best remnants of the Darby Plains survive here at Smith and in nearby Bigelow Cemetery. In pioneer cemeteries, the original prairie sod supports relics of original prairie flora and serves as the final resting place for many of the first settlers whose lives were so interwoven with the prairie wilderness of the Darby Plains. (https://naturepreserves.ohiodnr.gov/smithcemetery)

Evidently, the flowers are brilliant in the spring and summer. But being there today, as autumn has taken full hold and winter is threatening, I would never have imagined the cemetery could be awash in vibrant colors. I could more readily imagine the harsh existence of one of the pioneers buried beneath my feet. The wind was relentless and biting at 45° and sunshine. How much more cruel it must have been in the dead of January.

But what I mostly pondered was my reaction to the cemetery itself. The gravestones are mostly very well preserved, and so it makes it all the more jarring that instead of the tidy well-kept rows of plots they undoubtedly were in the beginning, they now look more like boulders strewn across a field. The prairie grasses that those buried here had been the first to subdue have been given free rein to regain their former dominance, and now those settlers lie beneath the flora that their backbreaking labor had dug through to find the bountiful soil they coaxed into farmland that to this day surrounds this tiny raft of reclaimed biome. It was disconcertingly glorious. Or gloriously disconcerting. Either way, the dialectical in action.

Naturally, after reading that there was another similar prairie cemetery nearby, I had to investigate it as well. Just a little farther west, and this time directly adjacent to the road, but still with nowhere to park except a narrow shoulder. 

I suppose it might be because of the proximity of the road and farmhouse just across from it that this second cemetery had a different feeling for me. Or maybe it was the stately sign at its entrance that Smith Cemetery lacked. (Later, as I drove back through Plain City, I noticed a Bigelow St. and wondered at the probable connection between the two.)

Also, all while I wandered through the small enclosure, there was a combine in the field behind it busy with the harvest. At the first preserve, though there was a homestead visible in the distance, the sense was of utter isolation. Here, the living and the long ago dead are still side by side. There was, in fact, one gravestone of a man who was alive into the 1980s. A "man of nature" his epitath declared. But otherwise, the Bigelows and Smiths were clearly contemporaries. And I wondered at how much their lives intersected. Just over five and a half miles between them on current roads, which are pretty near what the crow would fly, most of it on the Old Post Road that is now 161, but is what the settlers traveled west from Pennsylvania, if I'm remembering what I read correctly. So over an hour to walk. And not all that much faster on horseback. Were some of those Smith women born Bigelow, and vice versa? How fascinating to contemplate. 

I also found myself mulling over the reason some gravestones look nearly unchanged 100+ years after being set, while others weathered far less well. And I marveled at the intricacies of some of the engraving. I wouldn't have expected Madison County in the 1800s to have so many options from which to choose. Did they design their own? One grouping of siblings who died as children had identical stonework. But otherwise I did not notice repetition in the size or shape or embellishments. 

And, as it was at the Smith Preserve, here, the prairie grasses are fully re-established. The wildness of the half acre cemetery so sharply contrasts against the perfectly plowed and planted expanse around it. Land that would, but for the sign and barely cleared paths, seem completely abandoned juxtaposed against land that is the anchor of life as we know it (in fact, while at the gift shop I saw a decorative sign with the last sentence of this quote from Daniel Webster, that leapt back to my mind as I reflected on how the farmland could not exist without the millenia of enrichment and protection provided by the prairie grasses, which the farmers had to remove to access that same soil: Let us not forget that the cultivation of the earth is the most important labor of man. When tillage begins, other arts will follow. The farmers, therefore, are the founders of civilization).

And if I wasn't fully enough engaged in meditating on the earth already, it decided to connect with me directly, perhaps just as a reminder that ultimately it is nature that will win the day, always. In this case the reminder was delivered by me stepping up to my mid-calf in a hole that I presume leads to some large rodent's underground lair.

Had I been moving at any kind of speed, I'd possibly be pondering surgery for a broken bone or torn tendons rather than merely anticipating that the soreness in my knee and hip and neck will be worse tomorrow than the slight twinge that started the moment I got back on my feet. It was not a graceful tumble. I just pulled another little piece of chaff from my hair a few minutes ago. 

And so, I had gone looking for a walk in the autumn woods. But instead I stumbled upon two little slices of reclaimed natural history, unknowingly saved for posterity by the interment of the very pioneers who engineered its widespread extinction. The same pioneers who, with their unimaginable grit and tenacity, are in no small measure what made it possible for me to be sitting here typing these words. I hope they are pleased with the prairie grass blanket under which they now have their eternal rest. And I hope that they enjoyed my visit on this All Souls Day. I know that I did.