Back Yard Tour

My mom and her husband began planting trees in memoriam when my brother David died 23 years ago. It has transformed the back yard of my childhood. At the very beginning you may see an orange flag in the front yard. That is where they intended to plant the tree for my nephew Zac the day after I filmed this.



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Too Young to Die

I haven't had the heart or the time to write recently. In the month of May and the first half of June, I was just too busy preparing for the Buddhist Festival.

The day of the festival, my godson and nephew Zachary David Hoogstra was in a car accident. He died on June 15.

I flew to Wisconsin to be with my family and attend his memorial service. The room was filled with friends, family, friends of family, and work connections.

My family lost my brother when he turned 22. Zac was born 6 months later, and was given my brother David's name for his middle name. He brought life back to my family. Zac was shaped in some ways by the absence of his uncle, now he too is dead at 22. Zac was, as are his 20 year old brothers, very quiet, taciturn, with that wall-faced Midwest rock of a presence. I wished I knew him better than I did. At the memorial, his mother was gratified to hear so many stories of his life from his friends, so many things she didn't know. I wished I had stood at the podium and asked those people to be brave enough to share them again. When asked for a few words, his brother Jake said something about Zac's "silent faith." A young woman read a familiar poem between sobs, and the whole room was sniffling. Zac's mother hadn't known he signed up to be an organ donor. I was told 8 people were recipients of his organs.

Zac's brothers are slightly older than I was when my brother died. Right now I know they are planning their tattoos in memory. I am thinking I may do so too.

My brother and his family planted a tree in Zac's memory. His friends planted the bench next to it.

Zac lived most of his life on this land my brother bought from our grandpa's sister. It was our great-grandparents' homestead. My grandma told stories about stirring the syrup in the sugar shack with her guy. Most of the maple trees had been culled, but the apple orchard remained when my brother moved in. There are a few trees still producing apples. A pear tree once graced the back yard. Now, a coach has had a pear tree planted in memoriam.

My family started planting trees in memoriam when my brother died. Soon to come, a tour of the back yard of my childhood home. Many deaths to remember. No mustard seed can be found there.

2 1/2 Months ago: Wisconsin

I never really got a chance to write about my grandma's funeral and Wisconsin visit, did I? I meant to, but so many things crowd other things out of the way. I was glad I was there for the funeral. So many people that I've known over the years: relatives, my grandma's friends, neighbors. I spent a wonderful summer with my grandparents after I graduated from college. My grandpa played with my cat alot, devising toys from long girl's hair ties (perhaps they'd been mine from when I was a little girl). We played King's Corners a lot. My grandpa had pals that he played horseshoes with, and we women played cards inside. One of those guys wondered if I remembered him. Of course I did.

(Photo above: view from living room into kitchen. The mirror on the right is a door that leads up the stairs, or up one triangular step and down through another door into the kitchen. One of the peculiarities of the house that I will miss.)

I liked that the minister echoed pretty much everything my mom had been saying to visitors as we stood together in the receiving line. I liked that he is a third or fourth cousin of mine. I asked her later if he'd talked to her about that. I didn't like that he made it a pulpit for salvation or damnation. He said something like "we are so fortunate that we believe." This coming soon after mentioning my grandma's concern for her family, I had to wonder if he was trying to tell me something in particular. The Buddhist. The non-believer. That was so not my grandma. Much like this atheist encountered at his grandfather's funeral. I was surprised when he approached me about a tiny bit of research I did about our great grandparents for my grandma. He was hoping I could find out something further, like where they came from in Germany. I said I would try. I haven't had time, and not sure I have the ability. I couldn't help but wonder though, after the angels in heaven because we're believers speech, if I wasn't his mission.

In the month after I had disquieting dreams of being in my grandma's house, sorting through her things, sometimes with my mom, and my aunt, her sister Kay. Sometimes these things seemed so significant, now they are gone, like the non-corporeal whisps that they were. The hardest part about staying at her house was saying goodbye to all the memories, triggered by all her things. I talked to my mom about it Friday night...she and Kay had done that sorting for real, and had the big rummage sale this weekend. She also thought they might have a buyer for the house. That refuge will be there no more for me. We were sad that some things that meant so much would sell for so little. At least my nephew got the late 30's bedroom furniture set that was in "my" room. It was my grandparent's first bed when they got married.

My mom's husband is keeping this old thing from the door to the garage for the memories. He's going to have my nephews with touch it up with their airbrush. My grandma worked in a plastics molds and screen-printing factory, came home with these oddball things.

While I was there I got to see my twin nephews wrestle (not each other...the other team). Unfortunately they lost. I was struck by the sheer physicality of that sport, and amazed that it is so popular in such a homophobic state. Ummm, what happens if they get aroused. Somebody must?

I also got to visit with my stepfather's sister. The two families are not speaking. I encouraged her not to let that keep her from keeping connected to my nephews. She is a godparent to one of them. She and I went to the wrestling match together, after a long heart to heart about...er...stuff.

I also got to see my dad. Below is the first post I did on my library 2.0 blog, mentioned my visit with dad. He made pancakes for me after our little visit to the library. He plans to stay in Fond du Lac, closer to my brother. I ran out of archive on my lib 2.0 blog, oh that has been so annoying.

My first library blog post:

I recently made an unexpected visit to my home state of Wisconsin. One of the many reasons I escaped Wisconsin is the below-freezing winter norm. I feel I am slowly catching up after two weeks of vacation, a short week at work, and another week absent in Wisconsin. Now I just have a short time to get this blog started.

I already keep three other blogs, one personal (email me privately if you care to see it) and two for my volunteer work with the Buddhist Peace Fellowship. I think for this blog I will stick to library stuff, and will consider an audience wider than MCL employees, such as the folks in my branch's Pageturners.

Anyway, in Wisconsin I got to visit my dad, who is living in a new town for him. We went for a walk, and he showed me his library, the Fond Du Lac Public Library.

It is an award-winning library, looks beautiful inside.

Some features:

My dad amused himself while waiting for me to check it all out. I liked their signage, see above.

When the Time Comes...

In Blackwater Woods (excerpt)
by Mary Oliver

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

My grandma died last night. She was 89. When I talked to her a day or so before Christmas, she asked as she always asked, "When do you think you'll be coming to visit?" I couldn't say. I was prepared to take a leave of absence and help care for her if needed. She'd been under 24 hour care for a couple of weeks. My mom, my aunt, and a few friends were sharing caregiver duties. Mom told me that grandma was more confused, couldn't remember something that happened an hour before, but she could remember big pleasant things, like my calling. Mom tossed out the Alzheimer word, but it sounded more to me like the withdrawal that comes before death. The happenings of this physical world become less important. It also seemed Grandma was getting less oxygen, her lung cancer depriving her of that brain food. Mom told me they had a nice Christmas, with everyone remembering old times.

Now I am thinking about going back to Wisconsin, of visiting the house without my Grandma there. As much as her absence, I am thinking about the dismantling of her house, her big house that she'd always wanted, filled with the keepsakes of five generations. I think of sleeping for the last time on the bed that was always "my bed," and before my time, my aunt's bed. I think of the bed my grandma and grandpa shared for years, and my grandma alone for another decade. Who in my family will take these, or will they be sold, the past lives of these objects meaning nothing to the new owners? So many photos, scrapbooks, pieces of a life, how will they be scattered? We each will receive pieces of her, physical mementos, reminders for our hearts.

My grandma (and grandpa) and their house were always a refuge for me and my brothers. Theirs was a place we could find unconditional love, treats (ice cream every night), and none of the negative judgements. Even as I let her go, she will always be a part of me.

Another Wisconsin Visit

It seems like yesterday, but it was the week of the 4th that I visited my family in Wisconsin. My thanks to you who expressed concern about my dad. He seems to be doing alright. I think he wanted some way to take matters out of his own hands, and the structure of jail was suiting him for the moment. I went for a short visit, my days off from July 1st to the 5th.

I took my mom and grandma out to lunch several times, and they took me out.



My grandma is much more confused and forgetful, but still able to take care of herself. To recap: she's 89, has slow-growing lung cancer that she's elected not to treat, visits her doctor every two months, and my mom and her sister call her every day. I went to visit because my grandma kept asking me, "When are you coming to visit again?" She's full of stories of old, and I recorded some so they may end up here.



There was a small bit of drama on the plane as I traveled there. I had one stop in Phoenix, and the daily temperatures at the time were 115 degrees. We were all seated, ready to disembark when there was a small delay. The plane was hot, and we were told the air conditioning piped in from the airport lost its efficiency at around 105 degrees. Delay over, the captain announced our imminent departure. As if on cue a woman across the aisle from me threw up on her feet. The woman next to me worried the smell would get to her too.

Of course that caused another delay. They brought in a maintenance man, who cleaned it up, sprayed, threw some coffee grounds on it, and came back a second time to sweep them up. The flight attendant and others around me chatted about the smell-reducing merits of coffee grounds. The woman had been ushered to the front where they gave her a bag of ice for her neck. The man sitting next to me stirred fitfully.

Floor cleaned, woman given her seat back, we were ready to go again. Not quite. Now the jet engine wouldn't start. It stopped working as efficiently at temperatures higher than 105 degrees. They were sending a jump start machine, it would take about 5 minutes to get there. The woman held her head in her hand, ice still on her neck, occasionally exclaiming, "I was just so hot!" The man next to me stirred again. "Are you alright?" I asked him.

"No, I don't feel well at all."
"Do you need to get out?"

He responded by reaching for his bag, and I and our other seatmate stood up to let him out. At the front of the plane he spoke a few moments to the attendants, then dropped like a stone to the floor. They sat him there, got another bag with ice, and soon he was let out of the plane. I hoped he would be well. Me, I've learned the less I fuss, the less extremes will bother me, and then I enjoyed the empty seat next to me.

Back to my visit. My first order of business on the 2nd was to find out if I could visit my dad. I called the Sheboygan County Detention Center. The woman answering the phone was less than cordial. She confirmed my dad was housed at the detention center, and informed me the only exceptions to Saturday visitation would have to be approved by the Captain. She patched me through. I was cut off. I called again, and she patched me through to his voicemail.

When my dad first tampered with the fire sprinkler and was sent there, my brother Eric wasn't allowed to visit "due to his mental state." Later, when Eric was finally able to visit during the short visiting hours on Saturday, they told him my dad was moved to the jail. He wasn't allowed yet to visit dad at the jail.

Later that day I talked to my sister-in-law. She asked me to call the DA, that maybe I could find out what was going on. So I did, and I got the phone number for my dad's lawyer. He actually answered the phone himself. He was originally court-appointed, but when the court discovered my dad's money, the money was requisitioned (or whatever legalese term they use) to pay the lawyer's fees. That took care of my dad's worries over the burden of that money. His lawyer informed me that the DA was offering a plea that would mean only probation, and they were also looking into the possibility that my dad could be declared "mentally incompetent at the time." Something, he said, that would be complicated to establish, but would mean no charges. Either way, it sounded, mental health facilities would be involved. When I said my brother and I didn't try to raise bail because we wanted our dad where he could be watched, the lawyer agreed, saying that's why he didn't try to get the bail lowered.

The usual way one could get an exception to the Saturday visitation rule was if the inmate asked for a visit. I couldn't call my dad, only he could call me. Since I have only a cell phone, he couldn't call me collect. The only way for me to communicate with him would be through a letter. I was informed of this by the rather cold telephone operator at the Sheboygan County Detention Center. I asked the lawyer if he could get a message to my dad about visiting him. He readily agreed.

I never got a call back from the captain, so the next day I called the Detention Center again. The cold operator informed me the captain would not be back for the week, and if he didn't contact me, I obviously didn't have permission to see my dad. Wasn't there anyone else who could help me? No.

On the off chance my dad was in the jail, not the detention center (I don't know the difference either, just that they're two different buildings) I looked up the number and called the county jail. Yes, my dad was there, and yes I could visit him...someone was supposed to have contacted me. Wow. Excuse me, but what a bitch that other woman was. The holiday? Actually a holiday visit would be better for staff. I already had plans to meet my brother at my dad's apartment to pack some things, and it turned out the jail was not too far away. (There would just be a 4th of July parade blocking my way from one to the other, but I was prepared.)

My brother told me he'd received similar cold shoulder treatment at the county detention center. What did these strangers think of us? My mom told me her friend C. worked at the jail, as opposed to the detention center. Perhaps that was the kind person I spoke to that set up my appointment. Years back, we'd made horseradish together.

I was allotted a 20 minute visit at 11 am on July 4th, no physical contact. My dad was the only one there, we were alone in the row of booths. There was no phone, just an automatic intercom built into the separating wall.

They let us talk for 40 minutes instead of 20. My dad was still saying the Christian path was no longer for him. He knew he needed some kind of structure, couldn't really live in the city...unless it was a group home situation. He was doing better at the jail. The week before he'd stopped eating and taking his meds, so I wonder if that was why they moved him. We talked about his cat. He agreed that my brother could give it a try giving it a home at "the farm." (That's what we call my brother's place, even though it's more of a woods and orchard, with barn.) I was relieved the cat wouldn't be put to sleep. He'd seen his lawyer once. As far as he knew, the trial, if there was one, would be set at the end of the month. I suppose I should call his lawyer again and find out the latest.

My dad looked much older, scraggly with his beard grown out. When I asked if I could take his picture, he stood up, straightened his prison reds, tucked in his shirt, and stood back next to the wall.

He seemed to me to brighten a little, but that doesn't necessarily show in the photo. His glasses were still back at his apartment. Later that day my brother told me he didn't think they'd let dad have his glasses, so he hadn't tried to get them to him. Probably not, as my dad wasn't yet allowed even a pencil.

So that was my first, hopefully only, visit to a family member in jail. Here I've been facing the mortality of my grandma, but now I wonder how much longer my dad will be alive. All these years of taking meds, years of lithium, then the newer drugs I can't keep up with, I wonder what these do to him physically, and then there's always the allure of checking out. My brother bears the brunt of this. I am glad Eric has become softer, kinder in the face of this illness. More on my visit with my brother later. Hopefully not too much later, but I've got a zine to finish and other articles to write before the second week of August.

55 Gallons of Water per Minute

I am happy to report that my dad did not commit suicide. I suppose I should be more concerned that he has been charged with felony criminal damage, but he is alive, and he is under 24 hour supervision.

I finally got through to my brother Eric while on my lunch hour today. He'd checked on my dad: no one there; the cat spooked; wet floor; the place in chaos. He didn't need to wait long to learn, my dad made the headlines.

Sheboygan man accused of setting off fire sprinkler
Appleton Post Crescent, June 9, 2007

Man arrested for allegedly dismantling fire sprinkler
Sheboygan Press, June 8, 2007

Charges Filed in Apartment Flooding
Sheboygan Press, June 9, 2007

A 65-year-old Sheboygan man was charged Friday for allegedly dismantling a fire sprinkler head in his apartment Thursday night, releasing more than 1,000 gallons of water and causing thousands of dollars in damage to an apartment complex at 916 Huron Ave.

W**** H******, 9** H**** Ave., was charged in Sheboygan County Circuit Court with felony criminal damage to property and a misdemeanor charge of interference with firefighting equipment.

According to the criminal complaint:

Shortly after 10:30 p.m., Sheboygan police received a 911 call from J*** R******, another apartment resident, who said the fire pump next to her apartment was going off.

Six apartments, two storage rooms, a boiler room and a fire pump room on the first three floors were damaged by the
sprinkler system, which releases 55 gallons of water per minute. It took police and fire personnel about 20 minutes to determine where the water was coming from and to turn it off.

Officer Trisha Miller said H****** told her, "I set the sprinkler off. I wanted to have some fun."

H****** used a screwdriver to tamper with the fire sprinkler.

If convicted, he faces up to 27 months in prison.

My brother thinks Dad will be put in the psych ward at the hospital. The police won't let Eric see my dad probably at least a week, "due to his mental state." Actually when I spoke to him my dad did let slip something about breaking the head of the sprinkler, but I didn't know what he was talking about. He was saying something about things they did when they were in the service, that they did things like that.

Thinking back, I think perhaps this episode was triggered by bureaucracy. A while back Dad's brother gave him some money, $5,000 I think he said. He was worried about what he should do with it. He thought about getting his teeth fixed. The money was more of a burden than not having it, he told me. You see, someone on social security disability is not allowed to have more than $2,000. What the hell is $2,000? People on disability are not allowed to have an emergency fund. I told a friend that I thought this could have triggered the psychotic downturn, and she related a similar problem for someone in her life. A grandparent gave the person a CD, the family wasn't aware of the money, and the person on disability lost the funds for 5 months. This friend told me they are advised to spend gift money. Buy a car, buy anything, do anything to get rid of the money. Poor man's version of Brewster's Millions.

Eric told me he'd gotten harsh with Dad about the money, and he feels bad about that now. He'd asked, "What about your daughter, your son?" Eric pays $1,000 every 3 months to cover medical insurance for his family. He said Dad said something about not being able to give it away. Hey, let's make sure sick people can't get money that helps them survive! Let's make the rules byzantine and scary, and don't allow them to save money! What a recipe for chaos. Money worries make normal people sick. How many mentally ill people like my dad are tipped over into a bad state of mind thanks to well-meant gifts?

So here he was, meds changed back in December, money that felt like a monkey on his back, money that triggered a loss of welfare, facing bills and the tasks of getting back on disability, what could he do? I begin to realize somewhere in his schizophrenic-addled brain he found the thing that could solve his problems. He was afraid to go outside. Arrest would take the choice out of his hands. The pressure of reinstating his disability payments would also be taken out of his hands, once in custody. He would also have a place to stay. The burden of stuff would be swept away in a flood and a release. The burden of keeping himself alive would be in someone else's hands. I hope opening the release valve helped in some way. Perhaps his biggest worry was his cat Henry. My brother will be checking on the cat every other day.

At one point in my conversation with him on Thursday, my dad said, "I'm thinking about having some fun."
I shot back, "Why not?"
He let loose a wicked little chortle.
Er. "As long as you don't harm others."
He said, "Well that's the thing. There's a possibility it could."
I think that's when I reminded him to take care of his cat. Take care of himself. We love him. I like the cards he sends me. (Sometimes so bad they're good.)

I wish I could talk to him now. Of course that probably would be harder to make happen than my brother getting in to see him before next Saturday. I'm thinking about poor ginger cat Henry in that wet apartment. No lap to sleep on, plenty of places to hide but no reason to purr. I'm willing to bet Dad is worried about his Henry right now.

Tenterhooks

I don't know right now whether my dad is alive or dead. I'm terribly afraid it is the latter. Yesterday I called him to thank him for sending me a smoking stand with humidor, and a rag rug. For several months he'd been telling me he wanted to get rid of a lot of his things. Like me, he tends to be a pack rat, collecting quirky things, layer upon layer of decor the home designers would call clutter. Here is a photo of him framed by the rag rug he sent me:

It was kind of lurking in the back of my brain that it could be a bad sign that he was divesting of his things. When I called him, he sounded so subdued, quiet and flat, I knew immediately he was depressed. My dad has suffered from schizophrenia most of his adult life. He has survived several suicide attempts over the years, but I've heard about all way after the fact.

Like pulling threads from one garment to knit another, I pulled from within myself skills I've accumulated over the years. How could I help him? First surprise, he told me I was the only one he could talk to. He couldn't talk to the people there (in Wisconsin). He couldn't talk to my brother. He left his church. He said he no longer believed that. He was more interested in my thing. He confirmed that later in the conversation, repeating he hadn't been to the church for a while, couldn't talk to them.

In normal circumstances it might be gratifying to have your parent who feared your damnation suddenly be interested in your religion of choice. For me, this did not bode well. This fundamentalist vision provided him a structure through which to compose his life over the years. Without that, what would hold him together? If the church family weren't looking out for him, who would he see on a regular basis? Who could he talk to? Me, he said. Ulp. I'm 2,000 miles away.

Years ago I volunteered for a crisis line. I learned how to field suicide calls. He did not say he was considering suicide, but he hinted that he might not be around. The hint included the possibility that he might just take off. But he also said he couldn't travel, so couldn't come to see me. He talked a little of the dance with meds over the years: feeling like he didn't need them, taking them again after a crash. He'd mentioned in a letter he'd been hospitalized in December. Now he mentioned they'd changed his meds then. Now he was on something usually used for seizures. He had a doctor's appointment at noon today. He wasn't sure he could make it. He was afraid to go outside, even though it was only a few blocks away.

I learned he'd been sleeping a lot, not eating. He said he did just eat something before the call. I did what I could to draw his attention to those who need him, those who love him. His cat Henry. Me. My brother and his family. How I'd always liked his cards that he made for me. "Yes, people say that," he said.

This just occurs to me. I think it is the craziness that has him so depressed. There is no end. This is what he has to live with. He was thinking of how his mother dying when he was 4 years has affected his whole life. He was looking for his mother in all the women he's met over the years. He'd been afraid for me because something reminded him of his mother. Later when I talked to my mom to get another phone number for my brother Eric, she told me when my brother David died my dad got freaked over me, something about his mother, and it freaked me out. I didn't remember that? Not a bit.

I learned his mother did die of breast cancer. She was 44 or 46 thereabouts. He remembered something about someone hitting his mother, he thought his dad, and his sister Viva pulled him outside. His sister Viva also died of breast cancer. He learned from his mother's diaries that she was sick for several years. That his dad...what was the word...catted around. Soon after his mother died, his dad married Esther. There was a woman in his building he'd been interested, and he realized now because she reminded him of Esther.

You didn't know I had a brother who died? I was 19, we just passed the anniversary of his death. May 25th. Yes, my birthday. How can I avoid saying that dramatically? My brother also suffered schizophrenia, and he committed suicide on my 19th birthday, the day after his 22nd birthday.

I guess the thought that my dad could be succeeding at this act right now shocked me because I've been thinking he's made it this far, he will survive. He will die naturally. He wouldn't say outright he was thinking suicide, I think because he didn't want somebody to stop him. That scares me to the bone. He didn't seem to think he would make it to the doctor today. When I asked him about calling again, he said to call around the same time today, early evening. When I called, the phone was off the hook.

Last night I left a message for my brother, who has power of attorney. I left a message today. No response. I wish I'd thought of looking up the apartment manager earlier today, when there was still someone in the office taking calls. I haven't been my usual clever self with this; I can't be neutral so I can't think, apparently. If I can't get through to someone tomorrow, I'm going to look up my dad's neighbors and start making calls. I don't know any of them, but there are ways.

HNT: Favorite of 2006

The good Os, founder of , set us the task of finding our favorite HNT from the past year, no matter how short or how long we have been joining the gang. Hands down, my Grandma wins. I get so much more pleasure from looking at her than at me. When I see her hair, I remember visiting her hairdresser with her at an age before I understood that her hair would naturally be grey but the hairdresser kept it dark. When I see her hand, I see her ring and I am reminded of her long comfortable relationship with my Grandpa, but that after his death she became her own person again, and she seemed to enjoy that. Her papery wrinkles remind me of the many years of my life she has blessed with her love. The old Vaseline jar reminds me of her house filled with large and small mementos of a life and a family, my family. I am reminded of how soon she will die, and her family...her daughters, her grandchildren (including me) will sort through the remains of her life, and how hard it will be to throw away such things, even as we say, "Ew."

But, if I have to pick one of myself, I would pick the one from the week of the Boobiethon. Meant to be a hint of the photos to be found there, I liked this cropping, as did other HNT folks:

Happy HNT all, and Happy New Year.

Christmas Cookies

Today I had my second annual cookie-making fest with my friends, the family of my Little Sister in Big Brothers Big Sisters. All the girls, me, and Mom. This year though, the sister who loves to snap photos wasn't there. All I have is this that I took after everybody left:



I liked the way the frosting dried in the bowls with this cool snowflake pattern. The scotty dog looking cookie started out as a reindeer, but he lost his antlers.

I'd recorded Christmas specials on the Tivo in case any of the girls needed to chill in the living room. I turned out to be the 'cookie captain' making sure we got this rolled out or that cut out or the other thing washed so we could keep feeding trays of cookies to the oven. We made a double batch of cut-outs...I use the Christmas Bell recipe in the Betty Crocker cookie book. (All of these came from there.) Mom's and my favorite are the toffee squares. Brown sugary crust with chocolate chips melted on top. mmmm. We also made Russian Tea Cakes, but to this family, Daddy being from Mexico, they are known as Mexican Wedding Cakes.

Oldest sister fell asleep on the couch. Youngest sister wanted to get to the presents, until Mom said she wouldn't get to open them at all if she heard "present" one more time. So then youngest sister started saying, "I'm bored." Since I was so busy Captaining I didn't pick up on that until my Little Sister friend clued me in. We all, except the one who slept through it, had a blast frosting the cookies when we finally got to that. Little round sprinkles everywhere, and very red frosting. Oh, and we made Chocolate Crinkles, also one of my favorites as a kid, but I should have made my grandma's recipe rather than Betty's...my grandma's calls for more eggs so they're denser and more like brownies. (I made almost all the dough last with the Kitchen Aid I am so happy that Steve bought a couple of years ago.)

Making Christmas cookies with my mom was one of those very special memories that I was sad I couldn't create with kids of my own, having none. This way I have a whole family to create these memories with. This was a happy day. Tiring, but happy.

We made better time than we expected, so we all 5 played a quick game of Yahtzee. The youngest sister won with her magical throwing of a yahtzee, a bonus yahtzee, and a large straight.

I said "I love you" to my Little Sister when she called me after they got home. She said, "I know." I think that's the first time I actually said that to her. She's growing up, my little friend. We've been matched over 4 years. I'm the only Big Sister in Portland who has stuck with a match that long. As I told her and her family, she's got me for life.

HNT #2: My Grandma

I missed last week because of my visit to my grandma, so this week she is the subject. I was poking around in the medicine cabinet that is inside the newly installed half-bath that is um, basically in the kitchen. There was just no good place to put a bathroom on the main floor, and it's getting more difficult for Grandma to go up and down the stairs. Incidentally, the medicine cabinet is the same as was always there. Grandpa installed a second sink on the other side of the kitchen sink, and above that sink there has always been this medicine cabinet with a deep storage closet behind it. Grandma would climb up on the sink to get at the stuff in there, such as booze or flower vases. The contractors removed the sink, put in a toilet, a wall behind the kitchen sink, and a plastic accordion-fold door with magnet latch. I found this ancient glass jar of Vaseline in the medicine cabinet, and thought it would be goofy to take a photo of Grandma with her antique Vaseline. She blithely contined to read her paper.

I can't say that I have any bad memories associated with my grandparents. My sweetie Steve sometimes remarks I always seem to have bad stories to tell about my childhood. Not when it comes to my grandparents. My mother's husband once complained that we kids always escaped to the grandparents. Wait, stop. I wasn't going to share a negative story. (Two just reared their ugly heads.)

Of course there is the embarrassing story where I was 3 or 4 years old and there was some big family gathering. My grandpa got a pool table for his basement, and all the menfolk were downstairs in the basement, us kids buzzing around them and playing at bowling with the plastic bowling ball and pins. Those red and white chairs may very well have been lined up, and people helped themselves to Red White and Blue or Pabst Blue Ribbon in the fridge behind the bar. I loved the hand-cranked foghorn AhOOOOGAAHH. At some point one of the dads would have to tell us to knock it off. (You think kid's toys are noisy. Hah. ...Grandma sold that, sadly.) So, the embarrassing moment.

An odd thing about this house, no bathroom on the first floor til recently. There is a closet with a toilet in the basement, and a full bath on the second floor. Hmmm. Wonder where the outhouse was back when the place was built in the 1800s. I found out recently that when they moved in, my grandpa put that basement toilet in and fashioned the closet. I latched myself in to pee, and no sooner than I did, some uncle or second cousin knocked on the door and said he had to go. I thought it'd be funny to make him wait, so I stood up on the toilet and giggled while he said, "Come on out, Heidi." I was too little to understand that he was drinking and he really really had to pee. Giggling away, I peed my pants. I guess it hadn't been that long since I'd learned how to use the toilet, but I didn't remember that. Subdued, I climbed off the toilet seat lid, unlatched the door, and meekly snuck away. Upstairs in the kitchen all the women were doing womanly things like packing up or putting out food, washing, drying dishes, etc. I soon realized no one was noticing I peed my pants. After a bit it dried and I thought that was the end, but the next morning I woke up with a horrible rash. Mom asked what happened, and embarrassed again I told her about playing the joke and peeing my pants. She told me I should've said something, she could have washed me off! I was surprised that her reaction didn't match up with my embarrassment. She just considered it an accident, while I thought I'd been an idiot.

Another Thing My Grandpa Made

One reason I was surprised that my grandpa made that desk is because most woodwork he does has a crude style.

My grandma mentioned he also made the bed in the second spare room. I've rarely noticed that bed because I've always used the first spare room. I went upstairs to investigate.



The bed itself is covered various fragile seasonal decorations, which are themselves covered in plastic. (Such a grandma room.) The soldier in the photo in the center is my cousin Tim. He's been in the National Guard for years and I understand is a major. He came back from Afghanistan with a sore on his face that wouldn't heal, told me that kept him out of Iraq, round one. Now he is in Iraq. May love protect him. He has 2 little ones and another on the way. I'm not close to him, but my heart aches for him and his family. My aunt, his mother, gave my grandma some black and white copies of photos of Tim with his kids while he was in training before he left. He was in the pool with his daughter Gracie, her arms hidden in water-wing bubbles. It seemed to me I could see in his eyes he knew he was seeing the possibility of his own death while he held his daughter in the water, possibly for the last time. I looked at that photo and I thought I could be looking at the last photo of my cousin with his little daughter. Will that little girl remember him, or will her memory be of that photo of the memory of him?

Things My Grandpa Made

While visiting my grandma, I went looking in this desk for a pencil, because once again I forgot to pack a pretty hair stick, so I resort to the old standby, a pencil. Many of the memories in my grandma's house are comforting, and many of the things associated with the memories are still there, still in the same places. My grandparents were always the safe port in a storm. This desk has always been the phone desk. The molded fiberglass chair with the flattened pillow has allows been the uncomfortable seat in front of the desk. The Plymouth telephone book has always rested in front of the chair, open to the inside cover where Grandma wrote her important phone numbers. At some point she stopped rewriting and tore off the cover of the old phone book and paper clipped it into every new book that came along. Various other numbers were also paperclipped, whether business cards or ads from the paper.

The pencil had always been in the top right desk drawer, along with its other half-dozen companions. I realized those pencils had to be as old as me. (I brought the pencil home with me. Perhaps each time I visit from now on I'll bring one of those vintage pencils back.)

I must have made some comment about liking the desk, or the desk still being here, and Grandma said, "Grandpa made that desk."

"He what? He made it? I never knew that. When did he make it?"

Mom said, "Yeah, he made that in the 50s." All my life it never occurred to me it was that old, nor that he made it. To me, it never aged, but now as I examine the photo, I see the yellowing of the glue that peeks around the edges of the laminate. And now that I show Steve, he says, "My dad made one something like that too. I wonder if they both worked from a template in 'Popular Mechanics'. My mom had it in her hair styling shop."

I said then, "I wonder if I could inherit it." Grandma said, "I'll put it on the list." Mom commented it didn't go with any of her stuff. I'd kind of wondered about that. In the past Grandma told us who would inherit what particular antiques, mostly a few particular dishes. I wondered if plans were being made about the many things in her big house. She often says, "I always wanted a big house." I liked that it was kind of nonchalant. Yes, Grandma's stuff would have to go somewhere after she dies, and yes, if there are things we are fond of, we could ask for them.

I slid the drawers in and out just as I did when I was a little girl, and I wonder at how he made the drawers fit just right. I marvel at how all this time I took for granted that this thing came from a store ready-made. Suddenly this desk that embodied comforting memories now carried a piece of my grandpa.

The conversation moved on to other things my grandpa made. Grandma said, "That guy. He was always coming home with TV cabinets. Those chairs were made from TV cabinets." I didn't know that. I decided to wander around the house and take photos of things my grandpa made.

Of course I always knew the
bar was made from TV cabinets. (That's my mom.)

See? : more to come....

Speaking of Family

If there's anyone reading who is eagerly looking forward to the next installment from my New York trip, I must apologize for stopping just as I hint at fun things to come. I have been uber-busy preparing for the visit of the moms, as a new friend of mine termed it. This week, my mom is coming to visit, her first visit to my home in my adult life. Packed through the years of my homemaking are memories of me thinking to myself, "If my mom saw this mess she'd be horrified." There has been a bit of comfort in knowing she wouldn't see all that mess. I tend to be messy. Perhaps my slight addiction to HGTV design shows are the yearnings of a messy wanting to impress her not-present Mom. I'm not quite sure what it will be like, having her away from her manipulative, anti-social alcoholic husband.

Well, I did learn some things from watching Design on a Dime and Mission: Organization, and my husband and I have been busy putting the guest wing (otherwise known as the bachelor pad) into some kind of order and presentability. Late nights, allergens, physical exertion, I'm just too tired to put the kind of energy into remembering and writing about my trip that I would like to, so it may be a while before I get back to it. I will though. It is a memory worth keeping.

So, starting on Thursday, I get to show my mom My Life, but not all of it. It would open just too big a can of worms to tell her about my supraloving life, and I don't wish that to muck up the short visit. It won't be easy, me being the forthright person that I am. As I said to Krissy and Steve, my problem is that if a conversation is going in a certain direction and the natural answer to a question is to reveal certain aspects of my life, I do. It doesn't occur to me that I don't need to go there. How could I begin to explain that my husband loving another woman has brought more love into my life? She would never get that, but simply believe I was merely tolerating that, and acting a slut to retaliate. (I do still have some friends who say, "And you're OK with that?") It will make it easier that I don't have some pent-up need to reveal my true self to my mom. I love her, but don't have much in common with her any more.

A couple weeks later, my mom-in-law comes to visit. We are also not out to her. Before we got married, she liked referring to herself and her husband as my out-laws. I wonder if she'd like to be an out-law again? Steve doesn't think so. Tomorrow, the final mile-long to-do list, along with the help of professionals for house cleaning and yard work.

Prize blue vase

When I visited my family in Wisconsin last July I took a bunch of photos and had such good intentions of writing down the stories my grandma had to tell me.

One afternoon she told me and my nephews about the time she won this blue vase.

She decided she would get it out of the back of the closet and show it to us. (Later I noodled around with my new camera and took silly pictures of her with the vase.)

The vase was dusty and she decided she needed to wash it right then.

She won the vase when she was a young mother. My grandpa took her out to the Greenbush Fireman's Picnic. In rural Wisconsin the fire departments are all volunteer. I'm not sure if the Fireman's Picnics are fundraisers for running the equipment, or for thanking the firefighters, or both. I remember when I was a little girl going to the Fireman's Picnic (in my case the Waldo Fireman's Picnic) was a big deal. It was just about as exciting to me as going to the County Fair.

While the County Fair had rides and 4-H exhibits and plenty of carnival games, at a fireman's picnic I always won a prize. It could be a parachute man or miniature plastic doll. I especially liked the fishing game because somehow I always caught a 'fish prize'. I was just young enough not to realize there was a person behind that cloth 'water'. Somehow a lot of the adults seemed to know me, also magical. There were brats and hamburgers, and somehow all the stranger adults were happier and more boisterous (drunk). The one ride that was there at the Waldo Fireman's Picnic was the pony ride, and I knew them! My aunt Jean and Uncle Kenny owned the Sunset Saddle Shop and pony rides. I was disappointed when rides weren't always forthcoming. I couldn't understand why they didn't just offer me a ride, they were family weren't they?

So many years before my grandpa had taken my grandma
to the Greenbush Fireman's Picnic. People would travel from miles around to go to this one. I'm pretty sure Grandma said she won the vase at Bingo. She couldn't believe it! It was the first time in her life she had ever won anything.

Grandma turns 88

I woke up this morning with a dream that my grandma came to visit me and we were at the Oregon coast. A bus arrived, and my grandma realized there was an old friend on the bus, so this old friend (not someone I recognized, a black grandma type) got off the bus to talk to my grandma, and the bus driver pulled up to wait. I was concerned the bus had to go, but the bus driver nodded kindly and clearly indicated that there was no hurry, two grandmas catching up was more important.

I remembered on waking that it's my grandma's birthday, and she has lung cancer, so I wondered if this was a saying-goodbye sort of dream. I know she wants to see me again before she dies. Every time I talk to her on the phone, she asks when I'm coming to visit again.

Of course I called her today. My mom took her out to eat today, and my aunt took her out to eat yesterday. We talked some, and worried together some, about my cousin Tim. I won't pretend I'm close to him. He's a few years younger than me, and I remember the moment when I realized we just wouldn't grow up to have much in common. I think I was in high school, and we were having a conversation about things we liked to do. He liked to play war games and read about the history of the World Wars, specifically the weapons and vehicles of war. I couldn't understand the appeal of wars. Even then I carried the seeds of pacifism in me.

My cousin is a police officer, and is now a Major in the National Guard. My grandma was able to tell me this Friday he goes to train for a couple of weeks, then he goes to Saudi Arabia, then to Iraq. He has a little boy Alex, a little girl Gracie, and another baby on the way. Grandma tells me his wife Kristen is doing pretty well. She got really sick with the start of her first pregnancy, but this third one is not as bad. Tim hopes to be able to return for his baby's birth, but my grandma doesn't see how it's likely to happen. A couple or a few years ago he was sent to Afghanistan, and has been pleased, having a young family, that so far he hasn't been sent to Iraq. When I asked about the sore on his face that wouldn't heal (from Afghanistan), Grandma said she thought that was what kept him from having to go to Iraq, but she hasn't heard anything about that lately.

Grandma still does her laundry on Mondays, and still hangs them to dry on a clothesline outside. I think she has a small electric dryer but she never uses it. She prefers the feel and smell of clothes and sheets off the line. In the winter she hangs it all on lines in her basement. Today she told me she took a vacation, she's going to do her laundry tomorrow. Still, she sorted it today, because she "wants to get an early start."

The other thing on her mind is her roof. She has to get a new one. My brother and my uncle wanted her to get more than one estimate, but she doesn't want to deal with the aggravation. If she gets a decent estimate from the local guy, she's going to go with that, and I say why not? She needs to enjoy the life she has left. We chuckled in agreement.