We miss you, friend

Here is where Dwen sat, surrounded by friends. We miss him every day.


It’s a blustery day here in Illinois. Shouldn’t come as a surprise, though, since it’s past mid-January. I’ve been sitting at home trying to decide whether it’s worth it to slip-slide to the cold car and schlep to McDonald’s to read and write a bit.

I’ve been avoiding my favorite fast-food place for a while. Our friend Dwen and I met there lots of times and since he passed away at 11 a.m. Monday, January 4 I haven’t felt much like going there.

Dwen was most often seen sitting with his group on the northeast side of the restaurant, reading a paper and chatting with his friends. Once his buddy Derek left at 11, Dwen would walk over to talk with me about a lot of things, and I’ll tell you this: He was never dull—ever.

He was 94 years old, he collected unused napkins (everyone knew this, and they brought theirs to him whenever they spotted him), and he was sharp. There was nothing wrong with Dwen’s memory, whether you were talking about last night or 70 or more years ago. In fact, he often worried about friends much younger than he was who would show signs of faltering memories.

Dwen was opinionated and he pretty much didn’t care if you agreed with him or not. But unlike some folks with that attribute, Dwen didn’t get all huffy and hold grudges if you didn’t see things his way. I loved him for that, and for so much more.

I loved how he lived life, how he played tennis up until just a few months before he died. I think he finally quit playing sometime in September of last year but that was because, he said, a tendon in his right leg was hurting him. Still, he rode his famous white bicycle all over the place; it was a familiar sight outside of McDonald’s.

I miss seeing that bicycle, and I miss the man who used to ride it. My heart is heavy, still, and whenever I drive past McD’s, I find it impossible to glance to my right to see if Dwen is there. I know he isn’t, I know he’s gone, but I want to turn back Time and talk to him just once more. This time, I want to thank him for a friendship that meant more to me than I ever realized.

And now I must ask myself: Why do we too often wait until it’s too late before we say aloud what’s been in our hearts? I wish I’d told Dwen how much hubby and I loved him, how much we appreciated everything he ever did for his lady friend (hubby’s mom) for the past few years. Mom simply can’t see herself attending church without him; the breakfasts afterwards are not the same without the two of them arguing over whether to order oatmeal or pancakes.

My faith tells me we will see Dwen again someday, and we’ll comfort ourselves in knowing our friend is no longer in pain. We trust that he heard us tell him that we’ll take good care of Mom—he wouldn’t have it any other way.

See you later, Dwen—we all loved you. And though I know you might have scoffed at my tears over losing you, I want to share this quote by Washington Irving:

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief..and unspeakable love.”

And that, Dwen, is why we cry—still.

Living for just a little while in my imagination

Footprints in the snow. They tell a story, but you have to take the time to figure out what that story is, what it means. But it's worth it, trust me.

First, I’d like to send out a big “Hello!” to Carol. I know she checks in pretty much every day and although I’d like to have the time and talent to write in this blog more often, I just can’t do it. Too much stuff on the calendar. Maybe you could pop in once a week or so and I should have something up then.

Okay, that’s out of the way and now for what’s on my mind today. It’s been rainy, cold and windy for two days straight. That kind of weather can wear a person down (and a certain big, yellow Labrador named Sarah Jane gets awfully restless stuck in the house). Plus, I thought I was coming down with something but it just went away all by itself. There was a lot of sneezing for a couple of days, and a general yucky feeling but after a little over 24 hours, I feel pretty good except for my knees but that’s manageable.

Have you been checking out the holiday commercials? There are certain ones that can make me cry every time. Anything with the voice-over about “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” gets me. And there’s another with a mom showing her daughter the home improvements around their home. She thinks the daughter is off somewhere and they’re communicating with laptops and video cameras. When mom steps outside to show off what they’ve done there, of course her daughter is standing on the porch and they end up in a big hug.

But the one that really turns on the waterworks is a Folger’s commercial. Every year they do one with a child who returns home early one morning around Christmas. Seems like it’s always a son, and he lets himself inside, makes coffee and before you know it, his mom and dad wake up, tiptoe down the stairs and by then I’m crying too hard to see the rest of it. You get the idea.

There is one other commercial and I think it showed up again last year. It’s the one where a little girl approaches a Marine who is standing at attention. She walks over, looks up at him and asks him if he’s Santa Claus. For a few seconds, nothing happens, then he puts out one white-gloved hand to take her list. Just thinking about that one brings on the tears.

Not all commercials about Christmas touch my heart, but I cherish those that do. And at least one of them gives me hope that maybe this year, hubby and I will wake one morning to find our oldest son has come back home. I let my imagination go, especially this time of year, as I imagine him sitting at the table, petting the dog and sipping a cup of coffee.

It’s been too long—for all of us.

The toxic power poles made me do it

One of my desks sits in front of our big living room window where I have a view of a ginormous blue spruce tree that hubby planted almost 20 years ago. The tree is beautiful and a home to birds of many kinds and a haven for bunnies. Doves love it there.

The tree provides much-needed shade from the hot summer sun, and a wind break from chill winter winds.

But I haven’t been watching the action in the tree lately because my attention was diverted by work crews in the process of relocating electrical and other types of wires along with really really tall poles from the west side of the street to our side.

Our driveway has been partially blocked for several days and it’s been hard to get out to run errands or, even more important, to go to work. Plus, there is some kind of chemical smell on the poles that’s stinking up the neighborhood.

Maybe that’s what’s wrong with my mind—I’ve been subjected to some kind of toxicity that scrambled my brain cells. How else can I explain what’s happened lately?

See, I belong to our local group of Red Hat ladies. They’re such a fun bunch with never a dull moment during our monthly luncheons. I volunteered to be the one who sends out birthday cards and I love doing it. I get to make up unique cards for each woman on her special day, and I look forward to that. I try to be careful not to miss a single birthday.

One day I was perusing the list when I came across the next recipient. Thing is, I thought this lady had passed away so I put the list away and thought nothing more about it. That is until I was having breakfast one Sunday after church and that’s when I saw her—alive and enjoying her eggs and toast.

I had to tell the family around the table what I’d done. Some friends were with us, and I’m afraid my stature went down a few notches as soon as I told them. “What’ll I do now?” I asked. “I’m sure her birthday has passed by and I was supposed to send her a homemade card. She’s not dead, she’s sitting right over there!” I was mortified.

After breakfast I headed home and looked at the list again. Aha! I still had time to send the card after all, and that made me feel much better. I sat down at the computer, made my fellow Red-Hatter a special card, stuck a stamp on it and mailed it the next day.

A couple of days ago while our little group was gathered for our monthly luncheon, I mentioned mailing the birthday card and that’s when one of the ladies popped up her head and gave me an odd look. “You know she’s passed, don’t you? It’s been a while ago,” she said.

I felt strange and bit out of it as I shook my head. “You mean she really is gone? Then who did I send a birthday card to?”

I was afraid and embarrassed to look around the table that had suddenly gone quiet. “Don’t feel bad,” said the sweet lady to my left. “You know, they say we all have a double. Maybe you saw her double that day.” She patted my arm, conversations resumed and I sat there feeling like an utter idiot.

I think I will blame that whole mess-up on those toxic power poles. Sounds better than the alternative to me.

Seeing the future versus faith and strength

Do you ever wish you could see the future? To know whether you’ll get promoted or lose your job, whether a major decision will bring you peace or turn out to be a big mistake, or whether your friend will turn out not to be sick after all?

Could you handle knowing what the future holds? Yes or no? Are you sure?

I would have loved knowing whether the Yankees would win their 27th World Series. Sure, the TV would have been tuned into the games anyway but it might have been fun to know from the get-go. And I suppose I’d like to have a heads-up if my job is ever on the line so I could prepare ahead of time. No one likes or needs those kinds of surprises.

I’d love to know if our dog will ever stop having seizures, though we’ve stopped calling them that. I just say, “Look. She’s snapping at the air again.” Then I call out her name and (thank God) Sarah Jane turns her sweet gaze in my direction. Sometimes she looks like she’s trying to tell me she’s sorry, she doesn’t know what came over her but she just can’t help it.

I’m not sure I want to know how long I have with my hubby, or he with me. We joke about it now and then, both of us swearing we’d never get hitched again. In the early conversations I used to get angry that he said that because he punctuated his remark with an eye roll. I thought that meant that one marriage to someone like me was plenty, thank you very much. But now I think it’s because he knows he could never find a gem like me again, so why bother? Well, that’s what I tell myself and I’m sticking with it. As for me, it’s true. There is no one on earth like the man I’m married to so I won’t bother looking.

I would love to know if my book will be published, and if it is, will it be a bestseller? Will it make people laugh and cry and identify with my life? Or will my efforts be a waste of energy and time?

I’d like to know many things about my loved ones and myself, but that isn’t going to happen. I have to wait and watch and pray and cry out just like everyone else. I’m not psychic, nor do I want to be.

All I really want is unwavering faith, and the strength to handle whatever the future holds, without folding like a cheap tent.

I’ll take those things over seeing into the future any day.

Two messages, 16 faults and, finally, understanding

Life is a journey.

The message below was recently sent to me by a friend, and I have to admit that the timing was perfect:

“People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.

When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for that person.

When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support; to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend and they are. They are there for the reason you need them to be.

Then, without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end.

Sometimes they die. Sometimes they walk away. Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand.

What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done.

The prayer you sent up has been answered and now it is time to move on.”

This is just a portion of the message, but it was the part that applied to me at the moment so I kept it in case I needed to read it again.

I’m also reading an unauthorized biography of author Stephen King, and it’s been an eye-opening experience. The other day while reading I was astounded by some things, so I grabbed pen and paper and began making a list. Then I waited for hubby to arrive in the kitchen.

He poured his coffee and sat down at the table. “Let me read you something, and you tell me what it pertains to,” I said. He looked slightly interested, so he gave me his attention.

I read: “Two kids. Single mom. Mother was a worrier, and she worked several job. Kids were told to keep their fears and their thoughts to themselves. Kids watched lots of scary TV shows. Their fears grew to include a lot of different things. Relatives looked down on the small family, didn’t want them to hang around, which created a fear in the kids: What would happen to us if mom left us/got sick/died? One child was considered ‘sickly’ and that one read books—a lot. Family was very poor. One child had very poor eyesight.”

I finished reading and saw that hubby had an answer ready: “You’re talking about yourself, your mom and sister,” he said. As he stood to leave the kitchen, I said, “Nope. That was Stephen King’s childhood.” He could have replied that this explained a lot but he wisely decided to let it go.

The two instances above—the email about friends, and the insights into King’s childhood (and my own)—have had a profound effect on me over the past few days.

I had a friend for a few years who just recently pointed out all of my faults to me in an email that was four pages long (and there were 16 faults listed—I counted them.) I was told, for example, that although this person knew I had traumas in my life (who hasn’t, really?) and that those experiences make me who I am, it was clear that I hadn’t dealt with those rough patches very well, or, at all.

I was tempted to respond to each fault in detail but for probably the first time in my life, I kept silent instead of sending zingers. I’m kinda proud of that.

So here’s a heartfelt thank-you to the sender of the first email that explains the reason for some friendships. I’m also grateful to have found King’s biography. The jury is still out on whether or not I appreciate the list of all of my shortcomings, but I believe we can all benefit from constructive criticism, especially if we learn from it and don’t let it send us into a depression.

So, here’s a collective “thanks” to one and all. It’s been an education, to say the least.

Happy birthday, son

Dad, Clint and Mom in your Grandma Fran's kitchen


Has it been 36 years already?

I can remember exactly what I was doing when I went into labor that October in 1973. (I can’t recall what I had for supper last night, but hey, that’s what happens when one gets older!)

My mother, your Grandma Tony, passed away a couple of weeks before you were born. When I get in the mood, I sometimes imagine what you would have learned from her. You both missed something there, I’m sure of that.

After over 30 hours of labor, you came into the world on October 19, 1973. If that was a Saturday, that may have been the year your birthday fell on the Sweetest Day.

During my pregnancy I dreamed that you were going to be a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy. You turned into a handsome brown-haired, brown-eyed son who was the spitting image of his father.

There was this cold, early winter afternoon (you were two years old) when you came inside after playing down by the apple trees that bordered on Grandpa Washburn’s back yard. You walked into the kitchen, cheeks red from the cold and announced calmly, “God wants to talk to you.” I was stunned and speechless. Do you remember that? I hope I never forget.

Less than three years later, your little brother came along. He’s not so little now, but I remember when he was and how the two of you played together. You two were quite the team; what one didn’t think of, the other one did. Both of you kept us and your grandparents busy.

One of your favorite things to do was to ride on the tractor with Grandpa. I think you would have done that all day long. You, your brother and Grandpa were great buddies and you spent lots of time together. I’ll always be thankful for that.

The years have passed by so quickly, and all we have now are memories and pictures, and in my opinion there aren’t enough of either. We’ve all missed you over the past seven years and we never stop believing—even for a moment—that we’ll see each other again someday.

But what a gift it would be to us all if it was today, October 19, 2009. Happy birthday, son.

Love,
Dad and Mom

Journaling our way to the truth inside

Our giant yellow Lab let out a long snore, and hubby asked, “Was that you or the dog?”

See, he tells me that I snore—loudly. One Saturday afternoon I was sleeping on the couch and he claimed he heard me snoring through the ceiling and into the room above the living room, also known as The Bat Cave, or his man cave. A lot of guys have those.

Hubby and I have been married for 36 years. We’ve been through a lot together. During our marriage my mother passed away, as did his father. There have been, in my opinion, far too many sad times but in spite of them (or maybe because of them), we grow closer every day.

Humor gets the two of us through a lot. We both have a warped sense of what’s funny and that alone has helped us through many a serious moment. (If it wasn’t for my sense of humor, I would’ve clobbered him for the remark about my alleged snoring.)

I’ve kept track of much of our married life by keeping journals. It’s eye-opening to go back and read about what happened decades ago. When our youngest son was hospitalized for six months after his birth, I kept a daily record and those notebooks are boxed away in our attic. I’ve not read those since 1978, but one of these days I plan to sit down and read about Luke’s life again.

Every now and then I pick up a journal from three, four, five or more years ago and remind myself about what was going on then. Themes repeat themselves, like family relationships, friends that come into our lives, then leave, and the rare friend or two that will more than likely be around until one of the two of us passes from this world.

Pictures are nice and we have plenty of those. They tell stories too, but the writing down of what was in my heart at the time I wrote it is precious to me. Some folks write in journals but destroy them so that no one will know what they really thought and felt. That’s sad, in my opinion, because those words are insights into our true selves.

I still keep a journal and though I don’t write in it every day, it’s better than not having one at all. When I’m gone and the kids and grandkids read through the words, they’ll come to realize that maybe they didn’t know me as well as they thought.

And that’s something that bugs me in a big way: I wish there were more people in my life who I felt comfortable enough with to be myself. I can be who I really am with about three people, and that may not sound like many but they’re lifesavers to me.

That gift, and I believe it is a gift, should ideally go both ways. I need to be the type of person who allows her friends and family to be who they are and not who I wish they would be. It means overlooking faults and flaws and seeing through to the heart.

That reminds me of a Bible verse, and though I can’t remember the words exactly, it goes something like this: “For out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.” That tells me that whatever I allow to stew around in my heart and mind will eventually make it out of my mouth and maybe hurt someone.

It’s a constant struggle to push away negative thoughts and feelings, I know, but it’s worth the effort. And when I do mess up and shoot off my mouth it’s nice to have hubby, my sister and my friend Anna around to let me know that they still love me. Time to put that down in my journal before I forget how blessed I really am.