Category: Everyday Life

These days when a couple is expecting a baby they generally have the opportunity to find out the child’s gender prior to the day of delivery.  Back in the day when my last child was born, ultrasound technology was not quite so accurate but just the same, to have an image of the child growing inside of me was still very exciting.  The resolution wasn’t good but the photo I got to take home with me clearly showed the top of a head and I proudly showed it to anyone who cared to see it.

In those days, with no clinical manner of determining gender, there were many unscientific ways of prediction.  One of the OB’s in the practice attending me swore that he could tell whether a baby was a boy or girl simply by the speed of the heartbeat.  His colleagues teased that he was consistently incorrect 100% of the time so whatever he told you, you could pretty much count on the opposite.  There were also tests involving pencils, string and a needle and one the involved mixing urine with Drano and some people claimed you could tell the gender by the size and shape of the baby bump; high and wide meant a girl, basketball shape out front meant a boy.  And so, it wasn’t until my second baby was born thirty-four years ago today and I heard the words, “It’s a boy!”, that I learned I was to be the mother of a son.

Even if an ultrasound could have determined that Andy was a boy before he was born, there was nothing it could have done to have predicted what an incredible impact he would have upon my life.  He was a cuddly baby, full of hugs and smiles.  I often caught him flirting with other women while perched in a shopping carts while we were in stores.  Maggie kept him amused and could make him laugh like nobody else.

Gifted with a razor-sharp mind and intellect, Andy kept me on my toes and at the edge of my composure most of the time until his chronological age caught up with his ability to reason.  Having an adult intellect in a child’s body is a frustrating thing.  In every argument he was always at least one step ahead of me and he never readily accepted, “Because I said so,” as gospel.   Because Dave’s Naval career kept him out of the picture so much of the time, I was pretty much on my own  fumbling my way through parenting him.  Looking back I sometimes wonder if I’d been a bit more mature at the time, life might have been easier but the struggle of growing up together brought us very close and today I wouldn’t trade that anything.

On paper, Andy has achieved many things parents could brag about and sometimes, like now,  I do.  But what makes me the proudest of him is the kind, caring man he has grown into.

Over the years our “Andy” morphed into “Andrew” to the world and at thirty-four is off on his own, as he should be.  But there are times, especially when I see young families, that I wish I could roll back the years just for a few moments and feel his chubby little fingers around my neck, giving me a hug.  He is my precious boy, my son.  Happy Birthday Honey!

While visiting Oregon last week Dave and I spent most of our time outside, enjoying the cooler temperatures.  Andy made sure we got out and saw as many of the local sites we could cram into our time out there without becoming too wiped out.  Here is a sampling of some of the things we experienced on the left side of the country.

Our first outing was to  OSU’s Peavy Arboretum where we hiked a three and a half mile trail through the McDonald-Dunn Forrest.  The trail was bordered by both cultivated and old growth trees, many which seemed to shoot straight to the sky.  But the ground was uneven so  it was really important to keep my eyes focused on the trail and     that’s where I saw some really amazing things!

There were bugs and berries and even the occasional wild flower like the little Iris pictured above. But the most impressive creature I saw was this giant Banana Slug I spied munching on a leaf.  Slugs have never been one of my favorite creatures, but this one certainly gained my awe and respect.

One warm sunny morning we headed west on US Route 20 towards Newport Beach.  These past six years living in Central Virginia have been the longest period in our married life when we’ve lived more than an hour’s drive to any ocean and we were ready for a fix.  What we found as we crossed Oregon’s Coastal Range was that the beach experience for the Pacific Northwest is vastly different from that in Virginia or Hawaii.  In fact, it was much more similar to Newport, RI where I never seemed to shake off a chill, even in the middle of the summer.  Instead of sunny skies and warm sands, we discovered air chilled by the cold Pacific water along with fog and mist.  I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such a high amount of humidity when it wasn’t raining.  In fact, it was so humid that my normally straight hair actually began to curl!

After making our damp pilgrimage to the shoreline, we hiked up to the Yaquina Bay Lighthouse which sits high atop a bluff.  Built in 1871, it is considered the oldest building in Newport.  When in operation from 1871 to 1874 it was home to the light keeper and his large family.  It has been beautifully restored and furnished, providing a glimpse into what life would have been like in a time when its location would have been remote.

Despite the gloomy weather in Newport, we did find one familiar sight at the marina that connected us to almost all of our other ocean front experiences;  a Wyland mural on the wall of the Depoe Bay Fish Company.  Seeing this beautiful painting more than made up for the weather!

Having been through the forest and to the shore, it was only natural that we check out what was between the two, the Coastal Range.  So, we took a trip up a long winding mountain road to hike up to Mary’s Peak in the Siuslaw National Forest.

Reaching over 4,000 feet in altitude, the view from atop this highest point in the Coastal Range was breathtaking, when the clouds and mist cooperated.

There was so much to see as we walked the paved trail up the hillside.  The rocky banks were covered with orange and purple wild flowers in such an orderly fashion that it looked almost as if they were the remains of an abandoned rock garden.  We spied a couple chipmunks scurrying between the rocks and there were enough songbirds filling the air with their sweet melodies to assure us that this was a very healthy ecosystem.

All in all, I truly enjoyed having the opportunity to get outside and explore the natural beauty of the Willamette Valley and Oregon coast.  This time of year in Virginia I seem to be stuck indoors, looking out my office window.  More times than not, even the most beautiful appearing day is hot and muggy and not at all pleasant for outdoor adventures.

I’ve hyperlinked most of the places we visited while on our trip so if you’d like more information on any of them, all you have to do is click.

Back in the last century, one of the first computer games my kids and I played was The Oregon Trail.  Through the early computing capabilities of DOS and a 528K hard drive, they were transported back in time to choose a profession, load up a wagon and set off on the Oregon Trail.  It took some planning because life along the trail was tough.  Along with the variables of bad weather, disease and angry native peoples there were also the consequences of the planning choices at the beginning of the game.  Was enough food and ammunition purchased?  If too much was purchased there might not be enough money left to buy things you needed along the trail, too little and starvation could be a reality.  How many oxen were needed?  Was it best to keep going or take a day to rest now and then?   Each delay along the trail meant you were one day closer to the early snows blocking the mountain passes.   I don’t remember how many times our attempts to reach Oregon succeeded,  just the hardships along the way. Usually most of us died before even reaching the half-way point.

Let’s face it, even today travel is still has its risks.  No matter whether you drive, fly or take a train, the potential for discomfort or even disaster exists.  Last week Dave and I made our own trip out to Corvallis, Oregon to visit our son Andy.  In the weeks before we left it seemed as though the news was full of the perils of air travel.  There were the all to common incidents of unruly passengers, cancelled flights and unpleasant gate agents all planting seeds in my mind that we were in for a very unpleasant experience.

Thankfully, there was nothing newsworthy about our travels.  Most of our flights were delayed and all of our seats were uncomfortable, but aside from the guy who sat next to me from Atlanta to Portland who felt compelled to hold his newspaper wide open allowing his elbow to constantly make contact with my ribs, our flights were uneventful.  We moved safely from one end of the country to the other in a matter of hours vice months and except for jet lag and some muscular stiffness, with no ill effects.

What we did experience in common with the early pioneers was the beauty of the Willamette Valley.  It is a place of immense natural beauty.  Bordered by the Cascade Mountains to the East, the Coastal Range to the West and the Columbia River to the North, with green in between, it is not hard to understand why anyone would have endured the hardships necessary to get to this spot to start a new life.

Aside from the greenery, the difference in the color of the rich loamy soil from the red Virginia clay in my own backyard was striking and the bounty of its richness was evident as we strolled by the stalls at the Corvallis Farm Market which overflowed with baskets of ripe berries, piles of fresh asparagus, kale, zucchini, peas and beans.  And then there were the roses which were blooming everywhere!

For the most part the weather was a nice change from the mugginess of Central Virginia as well.  In fact, each day and each different location we visited seemed to have its own micro-climate; cool and misty along the ocean front, mostly cloudy atop the mountains and warm but comfortable inland.  In many ways the Willamette Valley reminded me of my childhood home in Western New York. Because of this, I was tickled when I learned that connecting these two parts of the county is US Route 20 which runs 3,365 miles from Portland, OR through Western New York and then on to Boston, MA, making it the longest road in the county.

Sadly, US 20 wasn’t completed until 1940, more than one hundred years too late for the early settlers who braved the hardships of the Oregon Trail.  Today, most people probably would opt for driving on I 90 instead the stop and go of the US Route as it winds through town after town along the way and more probably choose to fly across county to save time.  But, whatever way you go, the destination is well worth the trip!

PS… While Googling for information about the Oregon Trail game, I discovered that you can play it for free online!  I tried it this morning and sadly didn’t even make it to Independence Rock before passing on!  Here is the link if you’d like to give it a try!    https://classicreload.com/oregon-trail.html

Every once in a while life presents me with experiences in groups of three; three different events that on their own are important but when considered together provide a unique perspective.

My most recent trifecta epiphany started when I decided a little reading before turning off the light at night might help me drift off a bit more directly.  Having heard that using digital devices before bed could  interfere with sleep, I decided to grab a paperback instead. Since acquiring a Kindle many years ago, my supply of unread books is pretty limited so I grabbed the first one I saw on the shelf, a statistical study of the antebellum free black population of Amherst County, Virginia called Strangers In Their Midst by Sherrie S. McLeRoy and William R. McLeRoy.  It’s a dry read, perfectly suited to directing my mind away from my own concerns an as I’d hoped after a few pages, my eyes began to blink indicating that it was time to turn out the light.

That isn’t to say the book is boring, because it is not.  In fact, the information it contains is really fascinating.  I’d never considered the possibility that there would have been any population of free blacks living in Virginia or any Southern State before the Civil War.  But there were.  And despite the fact that they were living in a place where most blacks were enslaved and not surprisingly there were laws in place restricting almost every aspect of their lives , many of these free blacks were successful people who owned property, paid taxes and made meaningful contributions to their community.  Somehow they managed to overcome the obstacles in placed in their paths just as countless other oppressed peoples have throughout history.  I’m finding that I’m looking forward to my fifteen minutes or so with this book every night.  I am glad it’s a slow-go.

The second part of my trio came last Thursday morning in the form of a question from an Afro-American friend of mine.  He asked me how I felt about a recent announcement in the news that the Ku Klux Klan has planned a rally in Charlottesville to protest the renaming of two city parks from Lee and Jackson Parks to Justice and Emancipation Parks.  A very tough question to answer.

After a brief discussion, we both concluded that the Freedoms of Speech and  Assembly guaranteed by the US Constitution must outweigh any repugnance we may feel about any  group.   But I couldn’t help feeling it was a little easier for me to feel that way since historically my family hasn’t been a target of the hate and fear mongering the Klan propagates.  Perhaps I’d feel much differently had someone in my family been dragged away by a hooded crowd or a cross left burning in our yard.

The final part of my trifecta came later that evening when Dave and I headed off to James Madison’s Montpelier.  We’ve been members of Montpelier for a couple of years and have enjoyed the special events they host for members.  Last night we were treated to a special viewing of their newest addition; an exhibit entitled “A Mere Distinction of Colour”  which chronicles the lives of some of the enslaved people who lived and worked on the plantation.

Maybe it was the complementary glass of Viognier I sipped as I strolled the path leading from the Visitors Center to the lawn of the grand home or perhaps it was the sum of my previous two experiences that had me fighting back tears as I watched the short introductory video that began my tour.  In any case, I found myself connecting with the enslaved population of Montpelier and was struck hard when I saw my first name flash by on a roster of enslaved people.

I believe the folks at Montpelier have done a very good job of humanizing the enslaved peoples who lived and worked there.  While there is no question that institution of slavery was anything but humane and systematically  dehumanized the individuals who were enslaved,  the furnishings in the cabins on the South Yard of Montpelier and the many interactive displays clearly show the humanity of these people who lived there, their hopes and dreams, their struggles to maintain their families and their herculean spirit that allowed them to persevere.  It is not a romantic vantage point, but a balanced one.

I know that as a white woman, there is little in my life or family history that can remotely compare with what it must have been like to have experienced anything as obscene as enslavement.  I could argue that throughout history women of all colors have been oppressed and continue to be in some parts of the world today;  like that would give me some perspective.

And I suppose there are some who fail to see the necessity of visiting places like Montpelier to do anything other than look at the architecture but I think this exhibit has helped us better understand the reality that these were not simply a group of “slaves” who lived at Montpelier.  There were men, women and children who lived their lives not for the benefit and enrichment of themselves,  but for the livelihood and benefit of other people who made all the decisions affecting them, with little or no regard for their desires.

For us today, it is difficult to understand the mindset of the slaveholders and some even perhaps naively believe this is an episode from our past that should be forgotten and put to rest.  But as the old line goes, if you don’t know your history, you are doomed to repeat it.  This is not a legacy that I think any of us would care to repeat.

For the past five and a half years or so my trainer Lorenzo has been offering me by-weekly opportunities to strengthen my body, improve my balance and coordination and keep my heart in good shape.  I never know what he’s got planned for me when I walk in the door and generally, when I get used to any particular exercise or routine, he mixes things up.  Sometimes after my first morning of a new set of challenges, I leave the gym a little frustrated that I’m either just not getting it or I’ve reached the age when I can no longer improve myself.  But other times, like today, I skip out the door as if I’m walking on air because I’ve been able to meet the challenge headfirst and have actually excelled.

What did I do this morning that was so special?  I pressed 505 pounds on the leg press machine exceeding my previous personal best by five pounds.  How did I do it?  I haven’t been practicing on that machine.  In fact, I haven’t even sat on it since I did my last press of 500 pounds just before Christmas.  What I have been doing is showing up twice a week and doing whatever Lorenzo has me do.  By keeping to the regular routine, I’ve been able to maintain my strength to not only handle what I could do before, but even achieve more.

Isn’t that how most things go in life?  We all have routines we are comfortable with.  And, even though we complain about it, we humans love to pretty much do the same thing day after day.  Unexpected change in our lives can leave us feeling uneasy and maybe a bit inadequate as we attempt to navigate through the uncertainty.  But, then there are other times when we are able to stay focused and are able to draw on all of our other previous life experience to carry us through.

Just as I was a late starter in getting myself in good physical shape by regular exercise, I have also been late in setting regular spiritual exercise for myself.  As a child growing up in the Catholic Church, I was taught many prayers which I dutifully memorized.  For me, prayer was simply reciting the words with some type of request tucked in the back of my head, “Please help me pass this test,” “Have Mom let me go to the beach with my friends,” “Make it stop raining.” The thing was, I knew God knew what was going on in my life, and what I wanted and needed, but I never quite learned that prayer was a two ended conversation and that I actually needed to listen to God.

Learning how to listen to God and disciplining myself to actually take the time to do it, have been a tremendous challenge for me.  To be honest, dieting is easier!  But I keep trying to set aside just a few minutes each day to quiet my mind, sweep away my own thoughts (I visualize the little street sweeper from “Fractured Fairy Tales”)and open myself to whatever I need to hear from God. I set a timer for ten minutes, close my eyes and sit back, waiting.  I think of it  as more like downloading information than an actual spoken conversation.  When the chime rings, I open my eyes, refreshed and go about my day.  I can’t tell you why these few moments a day strengthen work to strengthen my spirit, only that it does.

At the end of some days I still feel like I could have done better, but others, I have that some rush of pride like I had this morning in the gym, that I used all the skills I’ve been training for and have met the challenge of the day head-on.

I love little children.  I love watching their faces as the wheels move inside their little heads, pondering and interpreting the world around them.  Just the other day my youngest grandson Kaspar reached a milestone in his development that positively amazed me.  He was a bit fussy during our last FaceTime chat so I thought I would try to amuse him by singing the “Itsy-Bitsy Spider” song complete with hand gestures.  I caught his attention briefly but then he simply rolled his eyes as if to say, “Really Nana?”  I honestly wasn’t expecting such a mature expression of ennui from a 21 month old child!

So, I guess I’m going to have to step up my game with this kid.  The simple songs and nursery rhymes that worked for my children apparently aren’t going to cut it with this new crop of humans.  I suppose just as I made sure I was au currant with my kids when they were growing up by listening to their music, I may have to devote some time researching what the modern toddler is in to.  I’d sure hate to have a repeat of last week’s performance review!

Last night after returning from a very long weekend away, I sat down with my iPad which had sat untouched for the previous four days.  I gasped in horror when I saw I had over one hundred new emails waiting for me.  I didn’t have that much life in me to tackle that much stuff so I decided to “go light” and check out Facebook instead.

The first thing I saw when I opened my “news feed” was this photo of my daughter Maggie.  She’d mentioned that she’d sat for a photographer friend of hers when I spoke to her last week but I could never have imagined a photo as beautiful as this.  Not only did the eye behind the camera capture a good likeness of Maggie’s outward appearance, but he also somehow managed to bring into view the beauty of her soul, which I see radiating on her face.

Sixteen years ago today, Maggie did something extraordinary.  She gave birth to a perfect baby boy and then willingly and lovingly placed him in the arms of the couple who were to be his parents.  She didn’t have to give him to them for that matter, she didn’t even have to carry him to term.  If she’d been inclined to, she had alternatives.

But once she had recovered from the initial shock of her situation and had gathered the courage to come to Dave and me, she knew that in order to be true to herself, there was only one choice to make; to find a loving home for her child.  And that she did.

In countless ways the birth of Maggie’s first baby boy was the beginning of a bounty of miracles for us.  By living out her faith and trusting in God’s promise, a family was created; mother, father and baby.  I know it wasn’t easy for her to say goodbye to him they day we left the hospital, it’s a lonely feeling to find yourself without the life that’s been growing inside you.  But God kept us all so close though those early days that we all began to blend into one family, with our baby boy, Seth at its center.

Sixteen years later, Seth is no longer a baby but in so many ways his birth has been a defining moment for Maggie as well as the rest of our family.  If nothing else, Seth is the tangible proof that God is with us at all times, faithful to the promise that we are loved, even when we stray from the path.

A very wise friend of mine, Fr. Dan Bain has a saying that he imparts practically every time he speaks to a group.  He says,”There is NOTHING you can do to make God stop LOVING you.  And that is true for me too.”   Each time I look at Maggie’s radiant face in this photo, I know that is true.  God does not expect us to be perfect, only faithful.  And when you are faithful to God’s promise, miracles happen.

One of my guilty pleasures each Monday morning is watching the episode of “Call the Midwife” recorded the night before when I get home from the gym.  I can’t think of any other program on TV that takes me through as many emotional twists in one hour.  Each vivid representation of a baby’s birth catapults me back in time to the three time’s I’ve experienced birth firsthand; each so indelibly impressed in my being.

Each time I see a mother simultaneously fighting with and working with her body to send forth a new life, I feel my own gut tighten and tense as if I’m right there giving birth like my first two trips to the delivery room when I birthed my own babies.  I also feel the joy of seeing the miracle from the perspective of an onlooker as when my grandson Seth was born.

Memories of the moment of childbirth are almost always those kept as special.   Memories of labor are not as endearing, but all mothers seem to remember them and when the subject comes up, most tend to pipe in with their experiences sharing the duration, the pain, the relief if and when anesthesia was administered and finally the joy of holding that new life for the first time.  At that sublime moment the struggle into life seems well worth the price.

These past few weeks I’ve been reminded that passing on from this life works much the same way.  The real difference lies in just how much faith and confidence you have in whether there is a life that follows this one.  I am one who chooses to believe.

The other day I received a text from my friend Wendy letting me know she and her brother were by their father’s bedside in a Hospice center, attending to his final needs and waiting for his life to end.  When I checked in with her the next morning she told me how phenomenal the volunteers were in assisting them with all the stuff that needs to be done as someone prepares to pass on to their next life.  It occurred to me that as trained and experienced specialists, Hospice volunteers are in many ways midwives from this life to the next.

It almost makes me wonder if there is a group of folks on the other side sharing a pot of coffee (or whatever the eternal equivalent is) discussing their “birth stories”.  The processes seem very similar; a period of pain and uncertainty culminating in a change of status; from one state to another with ultimate awe and joy at the new life.  This time though, the men will have a chance to share their stories as well!

This week Dave and I drove back to Virginia Beach to bid a loving farewell to a dear friend. We hadn’t seen him in a few years but knew his health was fragile so his passing wasn’t as much as a surprise as a smack of reality.

Initially, John and Marlene Skiptunas were the snazzy-dressed couple who sat behind us at the 11:15 Mass at St. Mark’s.  Marlene especially seemed to delight in the antics our children, Maggie and Andy as they wiggled and wriggled through the hour-long service each week.  She would chuckle whenever she heard Andy ask, “How many more songs before we got to go home?”   (And he asked every week!)

Although we didn’t know each other, both Marlene and John always offered warm greetings at the “Sign of Peace,” and offer blessings for our beautiful family.  To me, she was the epitome of warmth and hospitality.

So, it wasn’t surprising that, a few years later, after I’d become a part of our newly formed RCIA Team (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) and was asked to find a buddy to help with my role as Hospitality coordinator, hers was the first name that popped into my head.  I called her, she answered and even after Dave received orders and we left the area for several years, Marlene stayed on, growing into a very important part of the team.

Over the years, Marlene has earned the reputation of being a crier.  Tears come easily for her not because she is easily upset, but because she cares so deeply for those around her.  She never offers friendship halfway, she is always fully invested.  Several years ago a friend made her at straw hat complete with tissue flowers and a slit at the top to access a small pack of tissues she’d attached inside so she’d always have one ready when needed!

When we moved back to the beach in 1998, Marlene and John occupied the seats in the front row, and for more than ten years, I usually sat behind them.  That was how I began to get to know John better.

Most Sundays before Mass, Marlene would be busy doing “stuff” and John would take his seat, sometimes with her handbag hanging from his arm.  After he sat down, he’d usually turn around to me and share some quippy tidbit or joke.  He was very funny and had a quick dry wit that I especially appreciated.  But most of all, what I noticed about them was how deeply  their love for each other showed in the comfortable way they sat together and the way their eyes would twinkle when they met.

Since moving away, my buddy, Deacon Mike Johnson has been kind enough to keep me in the email loop when there is important news to share about one of the parishioners.  St. Mark’s is a fairly good-sized parish, so when a note lands in my box concerning the passing of someone, many times I don’t know who they are.  That changed on Tuesday when I received the news about John.

Without hesitation, I forwarded the email to Dave with a note asking if we could attend the funeral and then texted my friend Patricia to see if she could put us up for the night.  There was no question if we would go, only how soon and for how long.

Thursday night’s celebration of John’s life was a good example of why Dave and I both have such warm spots in our hearts for St. Mark’s.  It is like going home to this very special  place where we see the familiar faces of folks who have played important roles in our lives over the past thirty some years.  It is a place where we receive plentiful hugs and kisses and genuine affection.   It is the community of believers where Dave was welcomed into the church, where we were supported after the loss of a child as well as years later as we anticipated the birth of one that was unexpected.  It is where we cut our teeth on ministry and were nurtured into the adult Catholics we are today. It is also the place where we learned the importance of celebrating the passing of a life  while showing love and support for those left behind.

Last night I found myself sitting in my old seat alongside my longtime Sunday companions, AJ and Mark.  As I surveyed the faces in the church around me, I noticed that almost everyone else I knew was sitting in “their” seat as well.  It’s funny what creatures of habit we are and only fitting that at a funeral we should seek out the safe harbor of our regular spot.  My regular spot sat behind the empty chairs where John and Marlene sat for so many years.

The Mass itself was a true celebration.The choir was jam-packed with current members as well as folks like Dave who had sung with them before and felt the desire to join in.  Marlene and her daughter Paige did the readings; Marlene in her sultry, clear voice read from the third chapter of Ecclesiastes, “To everything there is a season….” She is without a doubt the best lector I’ve ever heard.  But last night, to hear her echo the refrain we’ve all heard countless times, reminding us as well as herself, that our lives on this earth are fleeting, was such a gift.

Later, at the reception, I had a few moments to speak to her and share some hugs.  She said she was surprised that we made the effort to come out to share the evening with her and her family.  I told her we were always there for her, wherever we lived.  She smiled and kissed me.

As the years roll by, it seems as though we attend more funerals than weddings as we celebrate lives well lived rather than those starting out.  It’s not necessarily a bad or a good thing, it is just a thing.   Continue reading “Song of Farewell”