The Limits of Friendship

This photo... this time. I remember it so well. We spent most of Madi's 12-24 month age period in Children's Hospitals and Ronald McDonald Houses. We spent a very great deal of that time in Philadelphia.
Moms of ill children form a unique bond. We automatically and instinctively watch each others' children. We run loads of laundry for another family. We tuck special snacks away for the tired Mama who wanders in from visiting her child long after dinner time.
Many of my memories of this time center on the living room of the Ronald McDonald House. We would fill the floor with soft, clean, fuzzy blankets, lie our babies on the blankets, and chat and cry and commiserate for many hours.
I became very close with one mother in particular. We both had our first baby in our 30's. Her son and my daughter were weeks apart in age. We spent a great deal of time holding each other's babies and sharing stories of what we were like "before child" and what we feared and hoped for our future and our baby's future.
Then, poof, one day--- my friend stepped back. She didn't want to push strollers around the halls or pull babies in wagons. She wasn't available for a cup of late night coffee or to fold laundry side-by-side. I was a bit hurt and very curious. Had I done something wrong? Had I offended her?
Finally, after a long week, she came to me and sat nearby. For awhile, she said nothing. I was quiet, offering an occasional smile. I waited.
"I can't be your friend", she finally said. I paused. Tears sprang to my eyes. What had I done? As if she had read my mind, I heard her answer, "Your baby will live. Mine will not. Right now, I can't handle that. I cannot see you holding Madi and realize she will be here in a few years and my son won't. It is too hard."
I had no words then. What could I say? I knew she was speaking the truth. I could not imagine being her. In my heart, I felt her pain. I hugged her, smiled, and said, "I understand"... because... I did.
That was the day that I learned my Mommy Mantra: I have nothing to complain about because I get to take my child home. This mantra got me through years of surgeries and traveling to distant hospitals for procedures. It helped me when my child cried in pain and I could not fix it. It kept me sane during a difficult divorce and the unexpected death of my beloved mother.
I GOT TO TAKE MY BABY HOME.
I think of that friend I made almost 20 years ago often. I know she was right. Her son did die. My daughter did live. She taught me a great and heart breaking lesson.
As we near another Mother's Day and you celebrate, remember those missing their children. Remember the Mother's who ARE Mothers... even if their child has passed away.
Don't pretend to understand their pain. That is an injustice to the cross they bear. Just understand this- there are limits to friendship. Those limits should always be set by the one who has to endure the most. Look hard at their journey and respect them. Look harder at your journey, and be thankful.

Gramma and Walt

As I am doing some "Spring cleaning", I stumble upon some of the fondest memories....
"Gramma and Walt" Christmas 1983 was discovered in a golden frame... my gift to them that holiday:

No two people are alike;
Each differs- like a Snowflake
intricate i detail and
beautiful in an individual way.

When two people take time
to see what love is made of
They notice the beauty of a Snowflake
before it melts away.

What you two have given
to each other
and to others is Special.
In a storm, you are warmth-
and your love will never
melt away.

Love, Rhonda

The words may be flowery, but the sentiment holds true in 2017.

Down The Rabbit Hole with Alice

I would gladly follow my Grandmother, Alice, anywhere. She was "my person" when I was growing up. My memories of her are so bountiful and joyous that I have had a huge issue trying to put them on paper. How does one capture the soul of a person? How do I tell you about this woman who painted her house pink, who went to college in her 50's, who married more than once (oh, the scandal). How do I share the flour dusted memories of pie crust making and the loud crooning of her voice beside me in a church pew?
When I hear Amazing Grace or Rock of Ages, I burst into tears. The memory of her standing in her kitchen, in our church, or riding in her car as she boomed these hymns is palpable. I miss her so.
Alice was envelopes filled with cash on branches of the Christmas tree. She was a beauty salon on the side of her trailer and several bad hair cuts which I proclaimed to love. Gramma Alice was a poofy square dance skirt and bunions on toes. She was country fair concerts and too much ice cream.
Summers were spent with her. Endless days of sun and chats. Nights when thunderstorms rolled in, she rolled me out of bed and into the car, where we would be "safe". Regardless of the hour, we drove around until that storm ended. I found out, years later, that Alice had lost her home to a bolt of lightening when she was a small child, and thus the summer eve outings. Often, she found someplace (miraculously) where they made us 2 butterscotch sundaes with a cherry on top. I still love butterscotch.
Gramma Alice Did Things. She joined groups and took classes. She had parties and made new friends. Alice was a force to be dealt with. To this day, my father will shake his head and tell me that I am "just like Alice". I thank him- that is a tremendous compliment. One of the things I recall that Gram Alice did was take off to Alaska. She just decided she should go because she "always wanted to"- and so, she did. She came home after a month with photos we could spin and watch on a screen and stories of black bears and salmon "as big as your imagination". She talked about the weather and the scenery so vividly, I believed I had been there, too. Alice could weave a story from truth to make life as lovely as you wished.
My Gram had read the bible cover to cover twice and still listened to Bible On Tape as a leisure activity. She was a Real Christian. The kind of woman who lived on a dime and shared what was left with someone else. She had been widowed when I was a baby, and my mother never recovered. Mom was a Daddy's Girl. I was a Gram's Girl. Alice remarried. Twice. First to a pipe smoking man who smelled like timber and alcohol. He was nice to us, but not so nice to Gram when drinking. He wasn't around for long.
Next came Walt. Shiny Walt-the-car-salesman in suits and with a Manhattan in hand. He taught my little brother just how much vermouth was needed in his drinks and he adored my Gram. My cousins and I spent summer weeks in a camper in their yard and they took us to the amusement park every night to play skeet ball and ride the Ferris wheel. We planted flowers, ate bar-b-que and had many scoops of ice cream.
In college, Gram visited to tell me she was having heart surgery. She was always honest and told me that she feared she wouldn't see me again. We didn't cry. We just sat. She survived that surgery. And many more. I still laugh about the time she ate an entire bag of forbidden coconut and admitted herself to the hospital, saying she was having "an attack". The family rushed to our local hospital to say our good-byes. She was taken into surgery and we all held hands and waited. Soon, her surgeon stood before us, shaking his head and smiling. They had removed a huge ball of coconut from her stomach. She would be fine. My mother was fuming. How could she have not told us? Gram was sheepish, "I didn't want you all to be upset with me". I can still recall her looking so small in that huge bed. I couldn't wait to take her home.
I have photos of Gram holding my daughter the day she was born. More on her first birthday. She is always the same in these pictures- unaware of the camera and smitten with my sweet baby. Madi faced physical struggles, and we were not sure she would walk. She did. And when she was just two, we took her to visit my Gram, who was in the hospital and "just not herself". Madi toddled into the room yelling "Grammy" and Alice cried tears of joy. We talked as long as the self-propelled Madi allowed, and then I went home.
I awoke the next day to repeated ringing of my phone. It was my mom, and she was angry. Angry that I hadn't picked up sooner. Angry that her mother had died. Angry that she had died alone. The nurses told us that she was whispering her favorite bible verses as she passed, and I have no doubt that she was. I'm sure she is up there, square dancing, giving free hair cuts, and belting Rock of Ages. Thanks to Alice, I dream of pink houses and Alaska's sunrise. I can make pie crust and know a great deal about country music. I recall bible verses I didn't even know I knew and I am able to roll with life's punches. Alice, I will follow you- anywhere.

Aging with Grace

I blame it all on Grace. That fiery little baby born in the back of a wagon traversing from Canada to the United States a century ago. The one born so small, it was assumed she wouldn't live the night. The one wrapped in cotton batting and placed in a tissue box to be buried in the morning. The one who lived to be 83. Grace, my Greatest of Great Aunts. The woman who categorically kept every family event for posterity with her camera. The tiny, round woman with the big smile and loud voice. The one who never had her own children; just a man-child of a veteran husband who barked orders at her and she ignored with a smile, a laugh and a twinkle in her eye. The woman who brought all of her nieces and nephews and the grand versions, too-- into her home bedecked with trinkets so untouchable that you had to touch them. Bells and Salt and Pepper shaker sets much more breakable then the 1970's plastic version on my mother's kitchen cupboard-- They were everywhere in her home-- china closet, end tables, kitchen cupboards lined with them. My cousins broke a few. I, however, never did. I was very, very careful.
I was always very, very careful. I smiled and sat on her lap and listened to her stories. I carefully let her love on me. I carefully loved her back. My mother loved her Aunt with a monstrous capacity. I felt this before I realized it. I knew it the way only a child can know. I saw it in their every day encounters, in their tidy lunches and sweet sharing of record albums... Lawrence Welk, show tunes and Elvis among them.
Grace's conversations, in her last years, bored me. Always about the "lovely roll she had for breakfast. Well, half... the other half would be wonderful with a cup of tea for lunch" or "do you hear the phrasing in this music? The lilting of the voice?".  I was in college, then. Her gaudy trinkets alarmed me. Her touch was not welcome. I visited less. My mother visited daily.
She became ill. Silently, savagely, painfully, ill. Never diagnosed, but we assumed a form of cancer. And, quite quickly, she was gone.
This woman who had fought from the beginning, who had loved others' children as her own, who had survived a marriage others would have fled from... gone.
My cousins and I gathered at the back of the small town funeral home and, suddenly, massively, we were crying. My tall-stilt of an Uncle appeared in the frame of the doorway. He wrapped us in his long and lanky arms and looked us each in the eye. "I know", he said, "this is the beginning of many endings for you all.  Soon, there will be more funerals. This is the start of death for this group of our family and it is so hard. I know."
That was it, really. My Uncle, the man who climbed telephone poles and strung wire and smiled when others failed to, had stated the obvious. We dried our eyes and took our seats in the small viewing room. I sat, for the first and not last time, in the white, straight backed chair of that room and averted my eyes from her casket. I imagined her happy somewhere, anywhere else but here. I tucked my near-tears inside my pounding brain and constructed stories that became memories that I can find inside my head to this very day. It was a trick I designed at Grace's funeral. A trick that has gotten me through too many similar good-byes in my life.
I returned to college and received daily phone calls from my mom, who struggled with Great Aunt Grace's passing. She and my Grandmother and the other family women separated her belongings, and my mother came home with the lot of salt and pepper shakers and her album collection. The shakers were carefully placed in her china cabinet in matching sets of memories,and the albums were lined on the shelves of her den.
I blame you, Grace. You started it all. The tears and the aching- insides. The longing and the not knowing how to say a good-bye. The albums of photos are in my possession now. I see us collected on those pages at family reunions and baptisms and birthday parties. None of those photos show us collected at funerals, because you were never there to take the photo. You, Grace- you started it all.

Be A Bell

Be a bell. Yes, like the adorably irritating Rhoda and Rita from the endearing musical, White Christmas. Be a bell. Holler "ding-dong" and strut your stuff and go after what you want.

Ring loud for those who cannot. Be a bell. Make a statement. Shout from the rooftops or whisper softly. Put a star on your head or a Santa hat atop your hair and tell someone- tell anyone- that you, much like Horton, "are here".

I just wrapped up a stint as choreographer of our local Lyric Theater's production of White Christmas. Community theater is a bell ringing in a silent world. It brings culture, art, appreciation of music and song and dance to people who may never get to travel to the Great White Way. It is a gift tied with an elaborate bow. So many fingers are involved in tying that bow. 

The Production Manager who makes sure the performers have water in the dressing rooms, runs opening night gala, compiles and prints programs and generally runs non-stop comes to mind. The Music Director who runs scales and pounds keys and smiles, no matter how sour the note. The Sound Technician who continually works to find the right mix for fluctuating voices and deals with microphone idiosyncrasies. The crew who makes sets come to life and lifts and moves and constructs day and night. The parents who cart kids and retrieve them way past bed time. The Directors who set aside their real jobs and families to make a dream come to life. Of course, the actors who push through illness, exhaustion and final exams and light up the stage with their amazing talents.

Here, in our town, we did it. We rang our bell. We filled the house for four shows in three days. We worked together to "Make The Magic Happen", and we never doubted it would happen.

Wait. Well, maybe we had a bit of doubt... much like White Christmas' Stage Manager, Mike. But, what is life without doubt? What is success without trial and tribulation? What is that feeling of accomplishment without the nagging issues that arise to get to that point?

Ten years from now, much like in White Christmas, we may find ourselves far apart and separated by miles and other "distances". I'd like to remind each of you to always, somehow, ring your bell... share your talents, build your community and make your little corner of the world a better place to be in.

For now, you are "dismissed". Tomorrow-- "on with the show"!

Hands and Hearts

I have always memorized fingers. From a very young age, I recall looking at the lines in my Great Grandma's hands as she patted mine. We shared a birthday celebration every year, and I recall sitting in our tic-tac-toe backed lawn chairs in the warm August sun and having many long birthday chats.
Her hands were soft and her fingers were long and casually groomed. Sans nail polish, her palms smelled of Jergen's lotion and her warm fingertips would pat time with an imaginary tune playing in her head on the steel arm of the lawn chair.
I wondered then... if we shared such a special day, would I someday have her worn hands and lined knuckles, too?

When my mom was hospitalized in NYC, I spent hours sitting in a chair at her bedside. As she dozed in a medicine induced sleep, I held her hand... and stared intently at it. In the blurry- barely-there-light of her hospital room, I saw Great Gramma's hands again. Her perfectly oval fingernails were bare and her hands lay exposed from her blankets, and I held on for dear life. For her life-- for mine-- for her barely toddler aged grand daughter and for all I knew we would miss. That touch of her hand was a stable force in all of my memories.

I recall being very ill with pneumonia in kindergarten and waking to my mom's hand absentmindedly creasing my forehead with the repetitive force only a worn and weary mother can duplicate. In the final hours of my labor with Madi, there she sat, recreating her bedside ritual.

Those hands. Those woman's hands. The hands of the women of my tribe. My family's fingerprints are forever pressed into my mind. The hands that changed diapers and dipped into scalding dish water. The hands that patted pie dough and pinched the corners to hold the fruit inside the crafted pie creation. The fingers that wove yarn around them and guided the yarn onto needles to create scarves and booties. The hands that pulled weeds and braided hair and twisted garbage bags closed with a flair.

The hands of my Great Grandmother, my Gram Alice, my wonderful mother. I see them. I see them now, typing on my keyboard. My hands-- continuing to hold on so tightly to the hands of those gone. Pounding words into stories yet to be told. Holding their precious tales in their palm. Pressing on pulse points and weaving thoughts into whispered prayers. Let our hands touch you.

Living With Intention

"Set an intention that you are going to see only the best in everything and everyone."

My friend died today.
I am not saying he "passed", or he is "gone". I am not going to murmur that his "pain has ended" or tell of how he "fought a great battle".
He hasn't passed. He is with us. In the gentle smile of his son and the quiet humor of his daughter. He isn't gone. He is here- in the circle of the ring on his wife's finger and in the office where he worked so diligently.
His pain may have ended, but he embraced his pain. He rose above it. Yes, for a very long time. No, we cannot comprehend it.
He did, indeed, fight a great battle. He fought way longer and much harder than I can fathom. He fought to see his son graduate from high school; then for him to go off to college. He lived to watch his daughter grace the stage for her senior dance recital and to hear his son play the piano at Crane. He roasted hot dogs at his daughter's graduation party and smiled at our stories of friendship and family.
He lived life with intention. He sought reasons to live one more day. He reveled in the moments that he got to see, to experience, to enjoy with his wife and children.
My friend did not lead a boastful life. He did not need a spotlight or center stage. He was content to sit in the audience and watch others shine.
He was the Dance Dad who was brought to tears when his daughter competed her first solo at competition. He hugged me and sobbed as he said, "You did this. You did this for her; for us. Thank you." This was repeated often through the years, and culminated in a Senior recital that meant the need for an entire box of tissues. 
 These are moments that I cherish for their rarity and their raw and heartfelt purity. Robin wasn't just an amazing Dance Dad-- he was an amazing DAD.
My friend was a talented photographer- so apt at catching special moments and framing them as gifts. I will certainly always look at my gold-dressed-poised-and-posed dancers from a decade ago and think... "Robin captured this moment. Forever."
Forever- for as long as my mind can function and my body follows suite. Because, you see, that is My Goal.
What a world this would be if we all decided we would set goals... Set intentions-- and strive to achieve them. My friend did that for many, many years. He relished his journey and reveled in every family milestone. He lived his life in the shadow of his illness, but never let that shadow grow bigger than him.
Step out of your shadow today. Set an intention and write it down. Circle a date on the calendar and choose to LIVE your life in pursuit of a goal. My friend can't do that today, but you can. You can decide that the life you are given is truly worth living, with its bumps and bruises and its joys and agonies. It is yours to embrace and to fulfill. Stop waiting for a better time or a different circumstance and choose to live this day to its fullest. For my friend... for Robin.