Tag Archives: memories

She was her own boss

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Leave it to grief.

Well that and an aptly timed phone call to change things around.

I have been experiencing a bit of a writer’s block.  Wait, that isn’t exactly right either.  I have been doing plenty of writing, just not the kind that appears here.  I began taking courses this summer in pursuit of my dream to earn a doctorate in education.  So I’ve been writing oodles of papers, video critiques, and discussion posts as a graduate student.  Back to campus happened and between lesson plans, emails to my students, and grading assignments, I have been doing plenty of writing as a teacher too.  Then there is that wonderfully amazing thing known as my book (to be released in November) for which I have been doing all kinds of behind the scenes writing with marketing and publicist teams. As excited as I am about my first book, this kind of writing is not fun.

So instead of writer’s block, I guess I have been experiencing blogger’s block.

But leave it to grief and a phone call last night from the dearest of friends to bring me back to the place where I have laid bare my heart.  Journaling on Caringbridge is where this crazy journey to become a writer started, and it was grief (that wretched beast) that taught me my hurts and my ability to share them bring comforts to others.

So am I back and I thank you for your patience.

My corner of the world grew a bit dimmer this weekend as my grandmother, Mama, passed away peacefully in her sleep in her own home.  She was one of the lights of my world and she was the last of my grandparents still alive.  Trust me, I don’t for one minute forget how blessed I am to be into my forties and still have my grandmothers.  My Nannie passed away four years ago and there isn’t a day that I don’t miss her either.

 

me-and-mama

The last day we spent together in June.

 

My friend, Karla, called last night just to check on me.  God bless her because she listened to me cry and laugh and cry while laughing for more than an hour.  She is a true second mile friend, the kind that just keeps on walking when everyone else dropped off at the first mile marker.  I am blessed to have several.

At some point in the conversation, she asked me to remind her how old my Mama (which is pronounced maw-maw) lived to be.  When I said, “ninety-two”, her immediate response was “Wow! And she lived at home essentially on her own all that time.”  That was just the way it was so this didn’t seem all that odd to me.  But what my sweet friend said next is where I started to see the light breaking through my heavy grief fog.

Kan, how many 92 year olds do you know who lived that successfully on their own?  You know, your Mama really got to live as her own boss.

I am sure she knew she had “released the Kraken” because after that statement I burst into laughter.  Having lived through many grief trials of her own, she had to know it was either a weirdly placed grief reaction or a true Southern story coming on.

Thankfully for me it was the latter.

I asked her if I had ever told her the “boss” story.  Even if I had, she let me retell it to her again.

My Mama Cloie loved gospel music.  By loved, I mean LOVED gospel music.  She and her friends and family would travel to gospel singings every chance they got.  Her all-time favorite was the “Dixie Echoes”, but with her Alabama twang it always sounded like the “Dixie Eckels” to my ears.  My mom always says my dad had a few of those language nuances when they met too.  The apple doesn’t fall far in Alabama.

Well a few years back, Mama, some of her cousins, and my Aunt Charlotte (my Daddy’s sister and Mama’s daughter) started attending the Gatlinburg Gathering for a weekend of gospel music and good ol’ fashioned preaching.  One of the cousins, who are closer in age to my Daddy, had a time share up in the mountains and this flock of Cunningham girls would travel to Tennessee for their annual get-away.

In between singings, they would sometimes hit the shops in the mountain town. On one trip, Mama had enough of shopping and told the younger ones to go on ahead; she would just rest on the benches outside the stores on the main street.  Every time, the shoppers would come out the stores, there she would be . . . sitting with another little old man.  As they moved down the strip, the scene replayed itself over and over.  Mama would be on a bench with a different little old man who had grown tired of shopping with his wife.

As the day went on, the cousins and Aunt Charlotte took to teasing her about how “they brought her all the way all to Tennessee for gospel singing and she was more interested in finding a boyfriend.”  True to our family’s style of teasing, the picking continued well up into the evening.  At some point, my Mama became like Popeye and she took all she could stands until she could stands it no more.

She let them all know what she thought of their boyfriend accusations.

Let me tell y’all something.  My Momma and Daddy bossed me for eighteen years.  Then Reed bossed for more than 60 years.  If it is all just the same to you, I’m going to be the boss of Cloie for now. 

Stealing a line from a Reba (who Mama adored too), and I guess she did!

I sincerely wish it wasn’t grief that brought me back here to the place of my roots. (Okay my writing roots because only my hairdresser knows exactly what color my other roots truly are.)  But I promise you that if this story about my grandmother touches you there are plenty more in my heart and definitely some about her and all my crazy people in my book.  And yes, grief gets a mention there too.

So for now I will be writing love notes to her in my prayers while my heart works to live without my “bossy” Mama.

 

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My two Cloie’s – Mama and our youngest child

 

 

 

The day his coat came home

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No matter how hard I resist, a good quality book fair will suck me in every time. The memories of all the hours cuddled up with my kiddos on the floor, beds, or couches, in the van, at the park, and on gymnasium bleachers fondly race through my mind. This is the only excuse I can proffer for the reason I stopped by the book fair organized by the EMSP club at the campus where I teach. Like a moth drawn to an inviting light, I tried hard to avoid the colorful display, but eventually succumbed to the adventures found within the pages of a good book. I perused the titles, read the jackets, and one book sang its siren song . . . until the next thing I knew I had purchased the hardcover wonder to take back to my office. Safely behind closed doors, I read The Day the Crayons Came Home by Drew Daywalt and laughed until my sides hurt. I couldn’t wait to take my new treasure home to share with my youngest, even though neither of us fit the book’s targeted demographic.

Much like the book’s story, a once beloved item recently found its way home to our house. I wish I could say its arrival brought celebratory joy. Unfortunately after it was dropped off, numb was all I felt. My sweetie confessed to having similar feelings and we decided we would tuck it quietly away. The day Reed’s glasses, well one lens, came back to us was a day filled with tears of joy, but we have been so overwhelmed with intense feelings of disappointment recently that when Reed’s coat was returned to us, it was just one more reminder of the pain we still endure.

Without fanfare, I hung the coat in the closet.

And there it has hung – a silent reminder to a boy who isn’t coming home.

Days come and days go and my thoughts don’t swirl around the camouflage winter jacket hanging in the front closet.

coat

Then in a search for a lost mitten, I see it again and stand frozen before the door, while everyone else is trying frantically to get by me. I stand in silent agony and let the tears fall.

In some small, weird way, I feel I owe the coat more. Reed loved that coat and all it signified. He was now a hunter, following in the footsteps of his dad and his Grandpa Earl before him. If the coat were like the crayons in the book that made me smile, perhaps it might pen a message to us about its journey home.

Dear Family –

I know you didn’t expect my return. I have been safely tucked away in a quiet corner at the house of someone you hold dear. The someone who was called to come and pick me up when the broken pieces of your life laid strewn across a highway, later to be scooped up and sorted through. Unlike the backpacks and shoes that never made it home, I was spared the fate of those other items. I see when you open the closet, you catch your breath. It is hard not to notice. I never meant to cause you any pain.

I remember the day our boy first put me on. He found me nestled under the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree, sitting next to a new duck call and a gift certificate for duck and goose decoys. When he put me on I could feel how proud he was, standing a little taller, officially a hunter with all his gear. Pride mingled with joy are amazing feelings. He wore me every day after that through all those cold and bitter days. The only day he didn’t wear me in the few months we were together was when he needed his parka to go skiing with his best buddies and Dad. I didn’t mind the slight, because I knew he always chose me when we romped and wrestled in the snow with Huck each day.

One of the best smells in the world is wet boy mixed with wet dog and I proudly wore it.

Our last day together wasn’t anything spectacular, other than being cold when we left the house. I waited quietly stuffed in his messy locker while he went through his day. I never complained how disorganized it was, because I knew our adventures would begin as soon as the bell rang.

I just didn’t know that day would be our last.

Why we got to the bus so early that day, I will never know, because most days we barely made it on in time. Sitting there behind Sawyer, it was time to go home . . . only I didn’t know which home that meant for our boy.

I know our story didn’t end the way you had expected. You know – the story where I either ended up well worn with holes or passed onto the next one in line or given away to someone more needy. I didn’t expect to be locked away in a box for over seven years, waiting to come home.

And while I want you to know I feel your pain every time you open the closet. I was proud to be the one who gave our boy his last warm hug, wrapping around him for one last time. There are others in the world who would feel the pride and joy he once had, and it is okay with me if you want to give me to another. My suggestion would be the cute little girl who will someday soon tag along on some really epic adventures.

Either way just know – I was proud to have been loved by our boy.

Sincerely

Camo Coat

10 days: the gift of a memory

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If you haven’t picked up on my reluctance to let this year fly by, then apparently I’m hiding my anxiety pretty well. This is the Boy Wonder’s senior year of high school, and I am going into this whole thing kicking and screaming. Twice yesterday I was asked about Christmas wish lists for my family. Even though my house would make me a liar, I am not a stuff girl (I just happen to live with a group of stuff people). The greatest gifts I’ve ever been given are a love for Jesus (but more importantly his love first), the love of learning, my kids, a great husband, time spent with family, laughter, a few family heirlooms, and I am not going to lie sweet tea and coconut body butter. What I really wanted to ask for was a way to turn back time to relive all the moments with my sweet little babies because I am not ready to launch one out of the nest.

When my trepidation meter is approaching a six or a seven on the Richter scale, God usually uses a friend to reel me back into the reality of he already has a plan for my good. So it was yesterday when with trembling hands, I began to thumb through old pictures because a yearbook deadline was approaching. Our school’s annual has a tradition of posting letters of encouragement and baby pictures for the senior class. Did I mention kicking and screaming? Anyways, the deadline for this whole shebang is tomorrow. As I was looking through the ones I felt wouldn’t have me shunned by a soon-to-be-eighteen year old (Yes all the embarrassing pictures did NOT make the cut). I looked really close at one of the pictures, and my eyes filled with tears . . . from laughing.

Here are a few things that I need to explain before any of this story will make sense. My sweetie and I are not rules people. Translation: As parents, we feel that we should have some basic principles like respect and love that guide what we teach our children. We have high expectations and hold our children accountable, but outside of that we believe our children should live life exploring the world around them. Creativity, imagination, exploration, individuality, and energy, are all embraced here. Yes, the occasional mess is a result, but messes and mistakes are how you learn to be kind to those who are struggling.

One time we had some friends who came to visit. They were rules people. Their children had to sit quietly and do what the parents encouraged for play time (which was typically quiet activities). After staying with us for an entire weekend, their parting words to our one year old daughter was “Good Luck, Erin, you are going to need it!” I don’t do judging others, and I abhor “the mommy wars”. I am certain their children grew to be fine young people, but I voted myself off their island and moved on.

As we grew up with our children, our friends changed over the years too. I think it is a natural evolution of friendship. Many of your friends are parents of kids your kids have as friends, teammates, or classmates. Face it people: these are the peeps you see most often.   There exists a small number of people who have journeyed along with us from toddlerhood to now, and they can testify (although much like I don’t like people seeing my storage room, I sincerely hope they refrain from doing so) to the energetic household we had. Oh, who am I kidding, we still live in.

This is where the picture I found comes into play. When we moved into our home Sawyer was only six months old. I was working full time at the university. We didn’t get all the safety measures in place like we had hoped because we were reminded yet again, despite our love of capes, we are not superhuman. It took three months or so just to get all the boxes unpacked. I needed to shower before work; so I took the necessary precautions: locked the outside doors, blocked the steps, grabbed the baby monitor, and took the quickest shower known to humankind.

When I opened the shower curtain, I saw my twenty-nine month old holding these:

Yes, that would be our carving set.

Yes, that would be our carving set.

I startled him with a blood curdling scream. Grabbing a towel, I asked Reed what was he doing with the carving fork and knife. In his defense, he was a huge fan of Bob the Builder back in the day. He answered honestly, “Fixing Sawyer.” Not exactly superhuman, but I daresay, I impressed myself with the manner of swiftness I used to scream once more, deftly nab the cutlery, skid still soaking wet across the bathroom floor, race down the hallway to find Baby Sawyer happily sitting on the floor playing with his toys. With laser vision, I discovered one tiny pin prick on his forehead directly above his right eye.

Picture taken one day after "the incident".

Picture taken one day after “the incident”.

Let me tell you. The existence of a benevolent God above was more than a Sunday School lesson at that moment. Rules or no rules! Those safety latches were put on before we went to bed that night. This is not the kind of exploration we had in mind – E.V.E.R!

Even though, I cannot get a time machine for Christmas . . . yet. I am really thankful for the gift of a memory, long since forgotten, but provided just when I needed it. I couldn’t ask for a better present than that. Unless of course, anyone knows a way to slow down time.

Day 21: That one Christmas

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Yesterday I had the very wonderful opportunity of attending my annual birthday “party” given to me by my children’s adopted grandmother. It is always such a blessing of a time! She is an amazing cook, but an even more wonderful hostess. Our tradition of making kringla and enjoying lunch with birthday cake is a refreshing blessing to me.

This year’s celebration was simply a little more special as we remembered a precious Christmas. Grandma and Grandpa only shared one advent season with Reed before he passed away. Their “adoption” into our family occurred in the spring. But we celebrated one annual Christmas sleepover together with all of us.

Best carrot cake ever!

Best carrot cake ever!

While enjoying bites of the most divine carrot cake ever made, our conversation settled upon quilts, like the ones I am making for gifts. Grandma asked if I had ever seen the beautiful quilt made for them by the local church. I had indeed. Then we both remembered my sweetie and I have used it at our family Christmas gathering. As my mind raced through the thoughts of that first Noel shared together, I remembered how under that quilt we were supposed to have a soft and cuddly fleece blanket. Grandma raced around the house looking for it to no avail. Eventually, we discovered a young redhead had snuck off to bed and was wrapped snuggly inside it. We survived, but were a little jealous of Reed’s snuggly blanket.

As we were cleaning up the table, I lovingly touched the cake stand. At my first birthday party Grandma did not own one, but wished she did. Her smile told the whole story when she unwrapped one that first Christmas. We all still laugh (and sometimes say in unison) Reed’s clarification of the significance of this gift. Upon opening, he blurted out, “That’s not just any cake stand! It’s a Martha Stewart!” For our little family, that little line is recited as precious way to breathe Reed’s memory into our presence.

Yet, the most special memory to me was the one Grandma had forgotten. One the drive home after our first year, Reed quietly said, “You know guys, I think Grandpa P is the real Santa Claus.”   After a little bit of questioning about this observation, he explained, “Didn’t you see how his eyes twinkle?”

That’s my boy! Keeping the magic of Christmas alive for us all – especially his younger siblings – while always loving Jesus more than most knew possible for twelve years old.

A scene from Grandparent's day - notice Grandpa with the twinkling eyes! Magic or mischief . . . we'll never tell. photo courtesy of Karen Berg

A scene from Grandparent’s day – notice Grandpa with the twinkling eyes! Magic or mischief . . . we’ll never tell. photo courtesy of Karen Berg

May you all have a moment as wonderful and special this Christmas!

22 days: not so silent night

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IMG_20131105_144141

One of the lesser publicized facts of a white Christmas in Minnesota (and just about anywhere in the Midwest) is dry air in homes and businesses. For a family riddled with allergies and sinus issues, there are definitely aspects that are not as appealing as idyllic Christmas cards of still, snowy nights. A few days ago, I purchased a humidifier for our upstairs to help with the onset of my seasonal plague of nose bleeds. Don’t get me wrong I am happy that I live in a warm (and draft-free) house on the prairie; yet, I am fully prepared to take counter measures.  I do, however, have to be very careful about which humidifier I choose because one daughter is off-the-charts allergic to mold. So there’s the rub – to find a humidifier that helps moisten the air but doesn’t moisten the air too much!

Perusing through the selections available, I purchased the one that seemed to fit best with the needs that we had. Here were the highlights of the one that made the cut:

  • Provides cool air (I am at an age where hot air is not on my wish list, unless of course, I’m going up in a balloon.)
    • Can provide moistened air to up to three rooms (exactly what I need)
  • 96% mold and bacteria free (due to UV light attachment. Well why not!!!)
    • Lasts for 36 hours (less filling and refilling!)
  • Quiet operation, fan will not interrupt sleep (Bonus!)

While I was gone for the evening, my sweetie unpacked, assembled, filled the water reservoir, and plugged ‘er in. When I got home, he was watching TV in our bedroom by the glow of the UV light sanitizer, which really had the effect of a fish aquarium for ambience. When we shut down the news, I knew we were in for a long night. I will be honest and say the light was mildly annoying (as I like it pitch black to sleep), but “quiet operation” must be industry code language for not as loud as a rock concert but definitely as loud as a jet engine.

Did. Not. Sleep. A. Wink.

As I lay awake, I started thinking about all the other purchases I had been duped by in my life. Nail art kit for kids was disastrous at best. Buns of Steel video in the 80’s could have been better labelled as a torture device. And my personal favorite was the first grill we ever purchased.

One Friday our best friends invited us over because they had bought a new grill and said if you help us put it together, we can all have a cook-out. Whipped it out the box, put the grill on the stand, and fastened two nuts and bolts, and we were cooking with gas. Literally. It was such a great evening we decided we too needed a grill. Off to the store, we found one similar to our friends with the same “Easy to Assemble” sticker on the box. Pork chops purchased, we raced home to assemble our new grill. Thank the good Lord we did not reciprocate the previous day’s plan with our friends. We opened our box to find 273 pieces and a 20 page manual of instructions. It took three days to complete. “Easy to Assemble” – my left toe!

When I returned the humidifier to the store this morning, the customer service lady asked me if it was defective. I explained it worked according to theory, but not according to needs. She could hardly contain her laughter when I blurted I probably would have gotten more sleep if howler monkeys resided in my bedroom. She read the box, gave me a understanding nod, and smacked a “Defective” label on the whole thing.

As I stood there waiting for the money to be returned, I realized how much like the misguided purchases in my past I had allowed my previous Christmas joy to be snatched away by flashy labelling, smoke and mirrors marketing, and shoulda’s (You should do this. Or you should buy that for your kids. You should have this.) I think you get the picture.

It was a pretty convicting moment.

When I pause and truly reflect, my favorite holiday memories are always about the simple things, and yet, I have been fooled more than once into believing I needed more of this or that to create a happy Christmas.

In reality, I don’t need anything more to be happy, and my kids don’t either. Why do I (or anyone else) allow the noise of the world to disrupt my heart’s contentment like crashing cymbals? I think my pledge to be present (even if it is the little moments this advent) is really rubbing off. So even though I have been functioning on no sleep, I have spent most of the day thankful for the realization of all the blessings I have, including the opportunities I have to spend with people I love.

And I am MORE than okay with that knowledge bringing peace to my mind and good will to my soul, especially if  it brings me closer to sweet sounds of a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger.

The Two Grandmas

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qwirkleFor a few days in August, we had something akin to a miracle occur right at my dinner table.  Most people would think that I am waxing poetically, but for me, it is a moment that I will treasure forever.  While I was on my train trip with Mr. Jimmy, my parents arrived for a visit with my family.  A few days after my return, we were also expecting the annual Grandma & Auntie Vacation visit from my other mom (Daniel’s mom) and sister.

We live in a humble-sized house, but like my husband’s ancestors, there is always room for one more in a bed, one more plate at the table, and one more chair for visiting at our home.  The problem with this scenario, due to the craziness of travelling and raising a busy family, was we neglected to tell either mom they would be here at the same time.  That task fell to my husband as I was soaking up every bit of wonder in a great place called Kentucky.

To most people, this wouldn’t seem like such a big deal, but I will be honest, our moms would have never met had their children not fallen in love. By never, I mean like that scene in Mall Cop where Paul Blart says at the intersection of “Ne and ver”.  That kind of never, as opposed to the never Hollywood uses when it tells us there is never going to be another sequel to a million dollar movie franchise. Yeah, right! (more on this thought on a later post)

It isn’t that our moms dislike each other; it simply is that they come from vastly different backgrounds and lifestyles.  Each one has her own “thang”, and no one should apologize for being herself.

They have been at some events together (our wedding, one baby shower, Reed’s services, and the laying of his headstone). Other than when Reed died and one time during a Reed’s Run, our two moms have never stayed in the same house together.  It just never happens. Even though they don’t normally hang out (which is geographically impossible with one being a native Floridian and the other being a North Dakotan), they do share one colossal common interest.  Both adore their grandchildren.

During one of the days of the “Grandma Invasion”, our littlest one says, “Hey Grandmas! Let’s play a game!”  Since the old standby preschool game, Ice Cream, a favorite of Grandma L, is soon to be outgrown by Cloie, we settled on a favorite of the big kids in our house.   Although neither had ever heard of the game, both grandmas were willing, if may be a little reluctant, participants.  There we were, seated around the table, two grandmas (well technically three grandmas as sister Rita had recently become one herself), one mom, and one spunky, little, eight-year-old girl.

It took a while to recall the directions for the game, but once we did, we settled into a routine of fun competition with a whole bunch of cooperation as we cheered each other on.  At one point, I distinctly remember wanting to scoop up my little Clo, holding her freckled cheeks in hands to breathe these words into her soul.

“You are the luckiest little girl in the world!  This moment – right here, right now – is one so many little girls never experience.  You are blessed to have both of your grandmas play a game with you.  Capture this moment! Cherish it forever because this will be one of the best days of your life!”

I am certain my far-away, captured-in-my-thoughts-look was not noticed by anyone present, but in my bottle of memories it will always be stored in the library of my heart.  I have a few of those moments with my own grandmothers, and every once in a while, I dust off its jacket and pull it out to revisit.  Every time I do, it is precious time well spent.

Someday, when Clo wants to revisit the amazing time she shared with Grandmas L and S, my heart library will always be open, and she is welcome to check this treasure out as many times as heart desires!

For this, I am so thankful!

Manny and Nora

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Dear Manny & Nora:

I  never had the opportunity to meet you in person, because you had already gone home before I came into your family.  My family and I just spent the weekend wrapped in love in North Dakota surrounded by ninety of your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and even one great-great granddaughter.  That was only the number of those who could attend this year, and a few of your cousins and second cousins came along too!  I had such an amazing experience (as did my whole family) that I wanted to write to you about the family reunion.  To the Dakota prairie we all travel as if spellbound for the lure of the sacred water gently calling our names like the siren song, only in our journey we wash up in the arms of a loved one saying, “I’m so glad to see you.”

Eighty-two years ago, the two of you were young and starting out a new life together, not knowing what legacy you would leave in this world.  The first description of that legacy would be a whole lot of family.  Whether by blood or marriage, we number well past one hundred and twenty-five.  After shaking the sheer overwhelming nature of headcounts, the only thing you feel is love – that holds us all together with heaven’s gossamer when we are away from this place.

Remaining Sisters (aka Queen's Court)

Remaining Sisters (aka Queen’s Court)

You raised a great group of kids, and your grandkids are amazingly talented people in all facets of life – hard workers and excellent parents.  (Of course, I am pretty partial to one of your grandsons.) Your sons married wonderful wives, and your daughters are the thread that holds this family together.   Like the reunion t-shirts proclaimed, family is cherished here.  Based on my personal observations as granddaughter-in-law, you raised people to love God, love each other, have fun, be lighthearted, eat and cook well, laugh heartily, enjoy life’s little moments, and make music with your voice and your heart.

I would have to write a book on the beauty of it all, but in a nutshell this is what I experienced over the weekend.

  • Piles and piles of rich foods (lovingly prepared, savored, and devoured) – including recipes passed down directly from you.
  • More hugs than I think have ever been recorded.  Some in greetings, some in farewells, but most, just because we were so glad to be together.
  • Tears of joy and tears of sadness for all of life’s miracles and heartaches.
  • Laughter that had to bring joy to the heavens.
  • Prairie winds, sun, and storms – which brought us together in more ways than one.
  • Swapping of old stories and family lines (who is related to whom and how)
  • Teenagers coming out their shells and emerging as beautiful people – ready to carry the torch of family for future generations
  • Godchildren and godparents
  • Healthy competitions and gentle ribbing
  • Quality time spent fishing, visiting, eating, playing cards, or gathering around the campfire
  • Babies and septuagenarians
  • Relationships strengthened and built
  • Handmade love lavished on the little ones.
  • Gifts that made thousand mile journeys.
  • Superheroes – those who made cabbage rolls, Ironman protecting us at supper, and who could ever forget Spiderma’am

ironmanspiderma'am

  • Legends – best cinnamon rolls in the world, first fish caught, and jokes that never get old
  • Singing around a campfire (or in a makeshift group out of the storm), but singing just to be together.
  • Songs in memory, in tradition, and in tribute.
  • So many pictures that we should all have eye troubles for a while
  • Reunion traditions – old and new – fashion shows that rival Paris runways
  • Sadness for those unable to travel and for those who have gone to join you, followed by happiness because we are cloaked in so many happy memories.
A small gathering

A small gathering

We have weathered life’s journey well.  We have sojourned through the celebrations of  births, baptisms, graduations, and weddings, mourning tragedies, deaths, and defeats.  Together we have hated cancer, loved each other, and rejoiced in gathering. As we prepared to leave that sacred and blessed time, it took at least an hour to say good-bye.  There were that many necks to hug, and I can only imagine that it will take us that long to enter heaven because of the hugs awaiting our arrival.

In case they don’t know already, we will just have to show all of heaven how we do things – Nowatzki-style!

Photos by Amy Schuler, Jason Schuler, Sawyer Stevens, and Emily Currier Nowatzki

For the love of boys and trucks

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papa's truckIt never ceases to amaze me. God will put something in my head as a topic for this blog, and then He gives my heart confirmation that He meant it.  It happens all the time.  In fact, it happened today.

I had been thinking about how I had never really written about my little blue pick-up truck.  Well actually, it was my Papa’s (pronounced Pawpaw) truck.  Long ago, I lived with my grandparents in graduate school.  That time of my life remains one of my most special.  One day after classes, my Mama (Mawmaw) told me that they were working on their will and were wondering if there was anything that I had my heart set on.  Looking back, the conversation was quite comical.

How about one of the cedar chests?

Sorry shug, your cousin has already asked for those.

How about your bedroom furniture?

No, I’m sorry that is going to your Momma and Daddy.

How about the kitchen chairs?

Well, um, no hun. Another cousin has already spoken for those.

(Eyebrows raised) The old stool we used to all play on?

Nope.

(Exasperated) Well, how about you just give me that old truck and the lawnmower.  That ought to be about good.

Done!

I don’t rightly know all the circumstances, but the old truck was sold off much to my broken heart. I loved that old green Ford my Papa drove when we carried out our adventures.  But some short time after “my” Ford was sold; he purchased a little blue pickup.

As time wore on, my Papa slipped further away from us due to dementia.  Slowly, his memories and recollections just faded away.  He began to forget generations of people.  All of us grandkids morphed into one of his children. By the time he arrived at the Alzheimer’s unit at the nursing home, there were only two things he remembered with certainty.

He knew that my Mama was his gal.  And the second thing he remembered was he had a little blue truck.  Of course, how we found out about that memory was something else.  Papa (who went by Mr. Reed at the home) was being pushed down the hall by another gentleman. When asked where they were going, the other man told the nurse that they were going to take Mr. Reed’s little blue pickup for a spin.

After he passed away, Mama gave the pickup to my dad.  I think he just felt wrong about it, and he turned around and gave it to me.  When we drove it back from our meeting spot in Arkansas, we told Reed that the truck would be his someday.  From one Reed to another.

As we know, that plan didn’t turn out as hoped.  For nine years, she’s been used to haul anything too large or too messy for our other vehicles. In January, plans began to fix up that little blue truck for Sawyer.  Eighteen years old and only 62,000 miles.  We figured she has a few more years left in her. My parents told Mama what we were doing, and one day I got a call from her saying that she knew that Papa had to be so proud knowing that one of my boys was driving that truck.

Today as I was driving down the road to one of my kiddo’s VIA (Very Important Appointments), I heard a song that had the tears flowing down.  It was the confirmation I needed to know that I really was meant to write this blog. My thoughts were tied to my heartstrings. I love it when God sends those heavenly assurances.

Take a listen below and hopefully you will see what I mean. And, in case you were wondering, the place I feel closest to my Papa is in that truck.  And you better believe if “Sweet Home, Alabama” or anything Hank Williams, Sr. comes on, we crank it way up!

The most amazing gift . . . the last Reed’s Run

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reed's eagleAs the CEM (Chief Executive Momma) of this family, it is very difficult to surprise me.  Oh, I love surprises. When there are always little ears and eyes, a lot of “oopsies” moments happen.  The other reason for the lack of surprises in my life is the fact that I am a planner.  When looking at details from carpools to holidays and from appointments to events, I am usually the keeper of all that goes on around here.

The ten months of planning that it took to pull off Reed’s Run each year were fraught with lots and lots of lists.  Auction lists, t-shirts, website updates, marketing, parade promotions, registration forms, medals, volunteers . . . the list went on and on.  Exhausting, but in the end so worth it.

On the actual day, I flit about often being pulled in many different directions.  I rarely eat, and I hug lots of people.  I share a few tears, but none have compared to this year’s finale.

Everything was running smoothly (albeit not without a few bumps in the road).  So to those that shielded me, THANK YOU and those that offered grace, THANK YOU even more!  We finally got down to the last parts of the evening, the awards ceremony, the Jesus Painter performance, and the movie.  I was up on the stage announcing the winners of the various medals and was to introduce Mike Lewis for the worship time.

As I concluded the awards, all of a sudden I see Matthew (my high school best friend) coming toward the stage.  I really wish this were videotaped, because I can only imagine what my face actually looked like.  My mind was thinking, “This is weird.  I haven’t seen you in twenty-three years, but I wasn’t expecting a deviation from my plan.”  As he came on stage and took the microphone from me, I am certain I was questioning his judgment and mine.

What happened next, I never saw coming.  But as I saw one of Reed’s former Scout masters in uniform also coming forward, my knees grew weak and the flood gate of tears opened up.  Matt explained how he was so excited to be here and about our friendship.  He then told the tale of how he had made arrangements with Reed’s former troop for this special occasion.  He shared about his summer long ago at Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico, and how I was his pen pal while he was gone.  They were special memories.

Because of some kind of rule on timelines in the BSA, Reed couldn’t be awarded his own Eagle Scout.   Sobbing in front of everyone, I heard one of the sweetest tales ever told.  My dear friend decided Reed would indeed be earning his Eagle Scout, just not in the normal way. The gift he gave in honor our sweet redheaded boy is truly the embodiment of scouting.

We were handed Reed’s Eagle Scout award, his Eagle neckerchief, and a Philmont Scout Ranch patch.  The Boy Scout Law states all the qualities that define scouts.  A Scout is: Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent.  What it doesn’t say is that a Scout gives sacrificially, because in this magical moment, that’s exactly what happened.

The award placed in my trembling hands was Matthew’s own Eagle Scout award, “re-awarded” to Reed.  Engraved on the award is the motto, Be Prepared.  There was no way my heart was prepared for this surprise as it was truly an amazing gift.

Sliding into home . . . the last Reed’s Run

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For those that personally know me, I hate good-byes. Given the story of my life, that isn’t all that surprising.  Reed’s Run has come to an end.  It was a wonderful four years, and the success of those four runs continues to inspire myself (and hopefully others).  There is much more to the story than the countdown blogs that occurred before the run, and I feel now is the appropriate time to share them.  But somehow, I just can’t just the word good-bye when describing a labor of love for the last five years.

It all started two days before the actual run.  My parents, sister, brother-in-law, and nephew had arrived, and we were all in final countdown mode.  I received a somewhat intriguing call from one of my “besties”.  Her call was that she was leaving work now, and she needed me to meet her at the street because she had something really important for me.  I knew that she was struggling with some health issues; so, I was nonplussed at the request for the espionage style hand-off.  In my mind, I thought she had a donation from her employer whom we had asked for a sponsorship for the run.

When we met for the transfer next to the mailbox, I knew immediately it wasn’t a donation.  She doesn’t have much of a poker face.  Her grin from ear to ear said it was something much more significant.  She told me that she had a story to tell before she gave me the surprise.

It started with a reminder that a gal with whom she works was having a garage sale today.  Okay, no big deal.  Then it transpired into details that another gal (also in on the sale) brought a big tub of toys for the sale.  Earlier they decided that the best approach for all those toys would be to dump them en masse on a big table and to offer a certain price for each item.  As the garage sale gals were sorting and arranging, one item jumped out at them.  The co-worker stood speechless.  She proceeded to grab the item, jump in her car, and head to work.

She pulled aside my bestie and asked, “Could it really be?”  To which my friend said, “It has to be because no one else in this town has this name and after all, that’s Kandy’s handwriting.”  Standing barefoot in the driveway, my hands received a gift straight from heaven.   With tears streaming down my face, I lovingly held Reed’s t-ball mitt, emblazoned with “R. Stevens” in my penmanship on the side.

At that point I knew that Reed’s Run was going to be a huge success because we were given a love token straight from Reed that day.  It was the boost we needed to finish out all of those last minute details.

It wasn’t Reed, but it was a piece of his story.  The memories we had with that glove, which was faithfully used for a few years until he outgrew it, came flooding back .  Eventually, we gave it to friends who must have given it to someone else until it landed in that garage sale.

The mitt’s history didn’t matter at that moment because the best part of the story was on a sunny September day, it slid right on home.

Reed's t-ball glove on his bed.

Reed’s t-ball glove on his bed.