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.

Tread Lightly

 

 

 

Do you hear that? The sound of someone stomping on someone else's thoughts or beliefs? The hard-heeled, rough embedded scuff mark left on someone else's rights?

I hear it in my head and I feel it in my heart. I see it on the news and in our political debates. I am requesting that everyone trade out their spiked heels and work boots for slippers... or- better yet- go barefoot.

I recently visited the ocean and this blog post trailed behind me as transcendent footsteps on the sandy beach. There for such a brief time, but once so solidly imprinted. There they were, my dancer-riddled feet and my ten bony toes. And, then.... there they weren't.

I offer you this thought; If I had worn steel-toed boots, my footprint would not have lasted any longer. Stomping an imprint into the wet sand would not have made a more lasting impression. My personal outline and imprint would not have been there- however briefly- if I had worn those boots. I would have only left a block with no identity for those few fleeting moments.

Is it not best to walk softly... and leave the Big Stick at home? Why must we feel the need to pound our beliefs into others? Our propensity as a race to embrace our singular beliefs and shun the zillions of others available in our humanity is a sad thing to realize.

On the way home from this trip to the beach, I stopped at a rest area close to sundown. Inside the cement walls of this mundane building, a large contingent of Muslims were gathered in one corner. They knelt and prayed in this public place. I paused and inhaled and appreciated this moment. I saw a group of people sharing their belief publicly; and yet, it felt so private. I was a bit awestruck. I was certainly appreciative. For lack of another word, their solidarity was beautiful.

Beautiful. Can we not see the beauty that lies in the simplest traditions and social aspects of other cultures? Must we be fearful and hateful because they may be different than our own?

This is certainly a broad and many faceted topic. I don't pretend to have an answer or demand one from you.

I'm just thinking out loud here.... I am going to tread lightly and always keep in mind that no mark I leave here is permanent or forever. My daughter is my gift to this world. My talents are for sharing. My heart will be open and my soul will flourish.

Fear lies darkly in a shadowed corner- always ready to flare and fly. We cannot even stomp that out. We must see it for what it is... a joy-stealer and a hate-maker.

May your footsteps take you home, my friends.

 



My unpopular opinion.

I am, as usual, stating what may be an unpopular opinion.  So... here goes.
I am sick to death of hearing the word "Bullying" thrown around.

Different opinion than someone?  You're a bully.
Offer constructive criticism?  You are bullying.

I feel there are REAL bullies in life.  True and   Terrible Bullies.

But this constant use of the term is a Henny Penny or Cry Wolf mentality.  It is an error of judgement and is labeling many who simply are FAR from being bullies.  Very, very far.

In fact, I would dare say, labeling people in a constant need for social media one-up-manship is the actual bully at work.


We live in a world of instant words and misread meanings.  Social media, texting, snapchat, vine, all the instant solution for an often over exaggerated problem.

Remember when you ran home and told Mom that someone picked on you?  She said... that's life... deal with it, sunshine.  Now?  Mom gets on Facebook and posts a long worded sermon complete with matching meme.  Usually, the "f" word is involved.  Classy.  Wait... is that Mom now the bully?
I say, yes.  Yes, she is.  She is using profanity, and a classless medium to support her side of a story that the other side often has no defense against.  Perhaps they have been "blocked", perhaps they aren't friends, perhaps it never shows on her newsfeed... But, there it is for the world to see.  A public (if not jaded) version of one person's truth.

This is not how I was raised.  This is disproportionately irrational behavior.  This is (dare I suggest), a form of bullying.

Hiding behind a social media facade and an army of so-called-friends may seem like the answer, but it simply is not.  And, lest we be mislead, no REAL bully has ever stopped their actions because of an Instagram meme.  A real bully could care less.

Anyone who doesn't play along; who refuses to say everyone is A-ok; who has an actual view point or opinion is the bully in today's warped world.  I take issue with that.  It is, by the way, my RIGHT to take issue with that.  It doesn't make ME a bully.  It makes me .... Me.  And I am quite alright with that.

Nan

It has happened.  Again.  A tragic, pointless, unfathomable youth taken from us with no meaning, no reason.  With no warning.

And, so, I am back to my days of Nan.  I still have the white board from my teen room wrapped carefully in tissue and plastic.  You can still see the trace of her writing.  "Nan will love Rhonda forever".

The irony is, that she will.  And I will love her.  We never had the chance to bicker in our late teens, or fall out of friendship in our twenties.  We didn't marry vastly different human specimens.  One of us never moved away while the other settled near home.  We never disliked that one partied too much or seemed pretentious after college.
Nan will love me forever; and I, her.

Nan is frozen in time.  Thick, round glasses masking startling blue eyes.  Blonde Farrah curls cascading down her back.  Cheerleader sleepovers and all night he-is-so-cute-I-wanna-die conversations.  Transistor radio blaring at the Beaver Falls Beach.  Thrusting our incredibly thin, tan bodies off the bridge and into the river.  Pink bikinis.  Ponies.  Oh.... sweet, much loved ponies.

I will remember sneaking one of her Dad's cigars down to the railroad tracks and puffing on them until one; or both of us; puked in the bushes beside the tracks.  I will remember watching TV late at night while we kept each other company as we babysat.

Nan remains the same.  Because she was gone too soon.  Beautiful 16 and gone.  A tragic accident.  So much pink satin.  So many crying children.  So much to remember and I beg myself not to forget.

I see this happening.  Again.  Again, the one with the brightest smile and sweetest disposition.  The one with talents untapped and relationships unformed.  The one with so much to offer and so much promise to bring to this world.

Ripped from his parents and brothers.  I see a teen bedroom enshrined.  Trophies gathering dust and a wall of certificates for accomplishments now somehow even more incredible.  I see pain in his friends eyes and I feel the punch in my gut over and over and I just want.... Nan.

I want to take back that late night phone call when I pulled the curly chord to its extreme point and sat on our stairway and just. started. shaking.  Because, I knew.  Even though her mom just wanted to know if I had heard there had been an accident.  Even though she didn't say what she already knew in her heart, too.  I shook.  I could not stop.  Nan was gone.

Gone.  Here at once and gone in an instance.  Here forever but with us no more.  Always with us but never to touch.  Hugs one-sided and conversations that hang in the empty air.  Frozen.  Time is.

I have that white board.  I can trace her writing and remember that spring day we sat on my bed and she left me that message.  I remember every detail because it is more golden than any object or than a pot of gold.  It is what I have, physically, of someone who is always spiritually beside me.

Again, now, each of you will search your memories and your belongings for your memories of Him taken.  You will wrap them in tissue and plastic and place them in a memory box.  You will pull them out as you age and, again, encounter this tragedy of life that is senseless death.  We each have our Nan.
Forever.