MOBIUS STRIP

 

Whatever is inside us continuously flows outward to help form, or deform the world – and whatever is outside us continually flows inward o help form, or deform our lives  ~ Parker Palmer

And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.   ~ T.S. Eliot

You know that cool little anomaly when you take a strip of paper, bring the two ends together, but twist one end before taping the ends together. When you draw a pencil line through the middle of the whole strip the front and back sides become one continuous line.

 

When I read these quotes, they really hit a nerve. That same nerve that has been plaguing me all week and continues to throb incessantly like my back molar and the soft tissue underneath slowly swelling and causing more pain than I want to acknowledge.

But the emotional nerve is a new row with a loved one.  As much as I feel that she is the one who needs to read , understand, and relate to these sayings, my little back tooth is chanting, “Look only at yourself, look only at yourself…”

I've always quoted my dad whenever some adversity is haunting me with there are always two sides to every story. "You can’t have a piece of bread sliced so thin that there aren’t two sides to it."  Well, if the Mobius strip effect comes into play, this can’t be true. Both sides are one in the same.  A creation of reality are one in the same. But what is reality except perception?  (One man’s truth is another man’s lie.) Definitely a challenge to know which truth is right: the Mobius, or is it toast?

Look at me not her, look at me not her, lookatmenother…

We have endured a long journey together. No matter how much I want to scream out her injustice to me, to speak my truth, to get her to own up to the hurt she caused, I keep arriving at the same answer. We are back where we started. Yes, 2 sides are alike, but keep in mind to believe in the Mobius strip, you have to be just a little twisted.

Quilt of Valor #5: Full Circle

     There are really few times when I am rendered speechless. Even in this situation, I'm not so much speechless as I am awestruck. Because of this, I have struggled more than a couple of days to complete this post to let you know about the Quilt of Valor's last leg of its journey. I may be breaking my old teacher rule to "show don't tell" this story, but like I said, I'm really a loss for words...sort of.

    The simple idea to be a part of an organization that wants to offer some comfort to soldiers has melded into something on a scale I can't comprehend just yet.  Yes, this foundation did start as a small idea  from an individual and has mushroomed to reach so many. It would be so cool to such a "mustard seed."  We can all names such beginnings: Race for Cure, TOM Shoes....  

  

     But I am really getting away from my point.   This small idea to help a soldier may have been spurred by the  QOV Foundation, but my solitary motions triggered even more actions by others not even associated with the initial program. 

     Once I finished my quilt, I wanted to make sure that I made a personal connection, so I asked my brother (a retired Army Colonel) if he had  any ideas. He gave me a name of a Colorado Guard chaplain. Through emails and facebook messages, I eventually reached her.. I trusted this young chaplain to find a recipient.  She took it to several co-chaplains, and how the name was chosen was out of my hands. But in those few remaining days, my family was met with a grandmother's death and so too the chaplain  experienced the same loss.  Responsibilities of such events over and above this small mission created a break in the process.   This just had to take a backseat. Even so, the machinations were still spinning to completion.   The details were sketchy, erratic and by the morning of 9/11 I thought  the final delivery might not happen as I planned.  I tried to soften the disappointment with the idea that I at least met my goal to have it ready on that day.  (You can read my other QOV posts about why the date held more than the obvious reason.)

     At literally  "the 11th hour" I reached SSG May's wife through email. I think she must have recognized my desperation (or was it obsession?) to get this to her husband that day..  How trusting! She sent me directions to her house.  

     I'm not going to go into Marty's story to tug your heart strings and make you feel bad that you're feeling sorry for yourself.  He's the first one to admit there are many worse off than himself. I don't want to start a "his story is worse than your story" tug of war.  His experience is not much different than any soldier injured in a theater of war, but  the details of his story are unique to him. However,  it's his willingness to plod on to whatever his unknown  future holds, with not only his own strength, but also to hang on tightly to those who stand by him; in this case, his wife Wendy and his 3 children. He is a symbol of so many, yet I can't shake that he is just an individual, an THAT is just as important.

     We visited for over and hour in their kitchen, listening and connecting. Three strangers left as friends. We "friended" each other on Facebook, and I received one special message that Marty was curled up on the couch wrapped in his quilt in the waning colder morning hours,  "silently going out of his mind" waiting for the email that would determine his "rating" with the VA and the Army that could sink or keep afloat an uncertain future for him and his family.  

     We will always live in a world of doubt,  global unrest, indifference, family grief, economical woes, bureaucratic red tape. The media is bereft with such problems. We all experience them in our daily lives.  As we peel away that onion of life (my sweet brother's analogy) we meet individuals and make a tiny connection of commonality. This is the core of our existence...what's important. At least I think that is the reason for my  awe in the experience. The quilt was just the catalyst; meeting Martin and Wendy May was the result that matters. The realization that working with a string of unknown individuals can create a special moment for another. That magic maze of humanity circles right back to the beginning and sends currents of change to everyone involved. What a blessing to us all to have the ability to experience this connection to each other! I wish you all happy connections!

     

Quilt of Valor #4: Points and Borders

     I meant to post this on July 4th, and not until today did I realize it was a draft.  I have been absent from here far too long and I am finally getting my mojo back to keep going. hope to still see you here.

As a promise to myself, I finished the top today. It only required a strip of ribbon points on all sides and a solid border all around. It has been a fast and furious month full of family obligations in which I was not able to work on the quilt at all. I knew I would have only a day or two to complete this task.
     My thoughts about the soldier receiving this quilt was a bit sidelined in the past few days, because my dearest friend (my long-arm friend)  has been evacuated from their beautiful mountain home in Wyoming.  With so many fires in the west right now this fire was getting little attention. It has now grown to the third most active fire in the nation, but there has been nothing in the news about this one. I have been glued to the tiny maps on the information website trying to see where the fire is going. My eyes strain to focus while I try to figure out which dot or X's is their hourse or fence.  It has been a search of points and borders of another kind. 
     As I continue on that thought of points and borders, I drift into how we have become a nation of pushing our points across to each other and the building up of borders to keep us from our neighbors. Whether it is a political division, or  a marital spat, or just a traffic lane change, we seem to take on a it's my way or no way. We may listen to, shake our heads at, and even pray for those devestated by fires, or battles, but very quickly we get back to our own lives and pay no attention to those around us. I'm usually wrapped up in my own sorrow that accompanies this day, and I forget that there is a soldier that will one day get this quilt who is fighting whatever battles still may remain with him or her.  I was stopped in my tracks to switch into a prayer and wait and see mode for my friend.   I remember hearing some saying that goes somewhat like this, "Be kind to everyone you meet because they too are fighting some battle." 
     A call this morning did give bittersweet news from Wyoming: she's fine and their home is okay...for now, but their old homestead ranch where she grew up and her brother lived was completely destroyed. It will still be a long wait until they are able to see their home and assess the damage to livestock and buildings and a lifetime of memories. Although this is usually a tough anniversary day for me and my family, my tears flow for my dear friend today.

Quilt of Valor #3 Decisions! Decisions!

 


      Except for one blue strip of the weave, everything has been placed on my design wall. This is called a scrappy quilt because the materials have come from my own personal "stash" of materials. Yes, we quilters have our private stash. Sounds clandestine, doesn't it? There have been a lot of jokes about how we hide our stashes and keep trying to find  places to put it all. My stash is really quite modest and I have pretty slim picken's finding the right colors and hues to create some order in the pattern, even though it really doesn't have to be, being scrappy and all.  I'm not the best colorist when it comes to this part of the quilt making.  When you get me together with my 2 quilty friends from 100 miles away, we become a dynamo team, selecting, scrunching, displaying, viewing all kind of color schemes.  It's such a joy to find that strength with my buddies.  But going this one alone really boggles me. Because I am limited to what I have, (yes, I could go to the quilt shop and purchase many more fat quarters to make the color scheme "pop") but I really wanted this to be from me, my stash and my heart.  Some of the materials carry precious memories of past works or favorite shop hops, and one is even a fabric gift from my sister when she was in Australia and wanted to send me something for my quilting. She sent me a huge bandana!  Do you see that one?  I like the idea of selecting all these mixed up pieces to create one new piece. Kind of fits what I was saying on my last post.
     As I am struggling to decide on the just right placement of the rows, I think about all the decisions we all have to make in our lives. As with most families, we are at the crossroads of many decisions, individually and as a family unit. My adult children struggle daily with the pressures of work and home that keep them from finding moments of joy.  My husband is trying to decide how best to help his aging parents when is he too many miles away from them.   I keep waffling in my decisions to find a happy medium between stepping in to "help" them all or standing back in love.  Then my mind goes to you. What decision you must be having to make. What struggles are you confronting?
     After staring at the wall all this time, I need to take a break as the colors are becoming a blur. I choose to do a mindless task of making the "flying geese" blocks that are the ribbon points  of each row. These are simple and no major thinking has to take place to get them done. Just 3 blocks, diagonal lines and little ironing and cutting and Viola! flying geese and my brain can relax for a while. A whole new lesson in this too: when the task gets to be too much and everything is rushing in, around, and by us, we need to stand down, walk away, and re-group our senses.
      So now, is there a better way to arrange these rows? I know in any art, the eye needs a resting place. Eyes follow to the light. I have a lot a patterns in here that are keeping the eye busy.  Then I go the the real purpose of this quilt. It's not supposed to be hung on a wall for the discerning art critics. This unknown soldier is supposed to take it to his/her bed or couch and snuggle under it and find some warmth, calmness, and love amid all these reds, whites, and blues. It should surround him with the untold stories of someone who is grateful for his service even if he doesn't know her, while he can hopefully and in the spirit of healing, reflect on his past, and rebuild whatever the future may hold. I know that the hardest struggle is in getting to the decision itself, because once it's made there is a clear path, and there's no looking back. No time for "woulda, shoulda, coulda.  Just keep on moving!

Quilt of Valor # 2 Order Among Chaos

     I have almost finished cutting all the red materials into the required squares and triangles.  I am lining them up on the table next to the un-cut blues. The table is beginning to really represent today's title.  It is easy to compare it to a unit of soldiers lined up and ready for whatever is commanded of them, while the rest of the world around them is jumbled into a chaotic hodge-podge.

    Adding to my chaos, a little diversion occurred  when the grandkids came with their dad to help Papa Wayne. Three little ones under the age of 5 do not allow for this kind of concentration. Only when they all went down for naps did I get a chance to return to this endeavor. But four year old Tayah woke early and came into the sewing room. I had her sit on a stool and watch. Needless to say, the curious questions and inquisitive fingers kept me from cutting accurately, and I messed up a fat quarter and will have to find a new one. 
    I stopped and spent a rare precious moment with the one singleton child to teach her how to cut fabric with little round tip scissors. What fun to see this new skill develop.

    Back to the quilt project:

         Every Quilter has probably been asked the same redundant/rhetorical question, "Why would you want to cut up perfectly good pieces of material just to sew them back together again?"   I hear a similar statement addressed to paratroopers on why they want to jump out of perfectly good airplanes.  Do they really want an answer? Whatever others think of our reasons for doing anything that brings us some kind of joy should not be a topic to address.  I do think the questions and our reasons pose polar views that may add to the scheme of things and how we do find some order.

         If anyone would want an answer to the cut up question, I would want to answer with the analogy of our lives.  We come into this world like a beautiful piece of fabric, untouched, pure, and beautiful. Some are richer than others, and some are stronger. The colors may be muted or vibrant.  There may even be some flaws, but that just adds to the beauty of the material and its unique individuality. Our life's journey can cause some pretty heavy slashes mentally, emotionally, and physically.  Whether it was the horrors of war, a loved one's death, a physical disability, or discord within a family or at work, these experiences cause severe cuts into our well-being.   It would be easy to end up in the scrap heap on the floor.  But working together with others, adding support to and from each other, we can stitch together a new being, more beautiful and stronger than ever before. We may not be the same as we started out, and all the cuts and slashes are still there, but we can create this new life to take on anything else that comes our way with a new found strength, purpose, and resolve to find some type of order in this chaotic world around us. 

A Quilt of Valor

I've been trying to wean myself from electronic devices because they have just invited more isolation from those around me rather than stay connected.  I was fearful that all this inward "acedia" as it may be was going to just sound like a pity party, and I didn't want this blog to turn into that, which seemed to be the path it was taking.  I have decided to make a move away from self-pity and just plain loneliness by turning my attention on to something/someone else. 

I have been hearing about the great organization that encourages people to make a quilt for a returning soldier. The requirements are quite specific...no quicky quilts, no tying, required dimensions, and it has to be quilted on a longarm! I don't have one, but I have a dear friend that does...3 hours away from here. So I am planing a great reunion with her in July for this.
Here's the plan...Today is Memorial Day. What a great day to start! Chris was born on Memorial Day and this year the date is the same as well.  I have been tear-y eyed all week anticipating the inevitable "Day." They say the hardest day for a mother who's lost a child is his birthday.   It's hard to put any day on a scale  because then there would be an "easier" day...ain't gonna happen.  Back to "The Plan" .... I want to have the top finished by the Fourth of July and have it ready to send off to the soldier by 9/11.

These dates have special meaning to just about every American, but they are especially poignant to me. Chris died on the Fourth of July, and when that horrible event of 9/11 happended we were just 10 weeks into mourning the loss of our boy.  The whole nation was forced into mourning, and I was angry that I was supposed to push aside my loss and join the nation. Besides, Chris wasn't a soldier, and his death seemed to pale in comparison to all those who had died. This is a terrible confession but an honest one about the horrors of grieving. 

It's been 11 years. and each of these dates bring too much sadness into my daily life.  It's time to create new memories and a purposeful gift to someone else. So this Quilt of Valor in my sewing room has been born today. Here's another quirky fact...the pattern I have chosen takes 9 red fat quarters and 11 blue ones.  This is meant to be.

Words that Stick

      A few  weeks ago I wrote about the idioms in our lives that were left to us. Those that inspired us, kept us going, or truths that help us go through this journey of life.  Many wrote to share their profound inspirations from fathers and mothers.  Today, I m facing those other statements or comments that have trapped us or kept us from growing.  Those that steal our creativity or our self-worth and chain us for a lifetime.  Whether it be a thoughtless remark about our weight, our nose, our profession, or how we decorate, the instant it is said, maybe falling off the back of the one standing beside you, but hits it mark on you; and it plants itself in the middle, germinates from that little negative seed and grows into a mighty oak of doubt and fear.  Most of these remarks were so off-handed or so flippantly made that the speakers probably don’t even remember saying them, but those words settled into the core of our being and shaped us into who we are.  It may have been so internalized that we don’t even know where it started but every incident closely related just intensifies the negative thought, and it grows.

     My issue is money…or  rather the lack of it. I don’t even remember the initial statement that might have caused me to feel that I can't spend my money because a sucker-punched incident will be around the corner, and I won’t be prepared.   I don’t hoard my money. If that were the case, you would see a large bank account or stuffed mattress somewhere.  I would be one of those recluses who when they died, left bajillions somewhere.  NO we live paycheck to paycheck, and I feel a constant struggle to keep on top of every debt, and literally shut the pocketbook before the month runs out.  Trying to plan trips is a nightmare because of the expense.  I don’t enjoy shopping (retail therapy? HA!)  and usually I look at the price tag before I even look at the style or color.  Now this may be considered a blessing to some; I know my husband doesn’t mind his wife’s desire to be frugal, but I am now facing the fact that my issue is not the lack of money, rather that it is me.  When something surprising happens, I want more than anything to erase that initial thought of “Oh God, how much will this cost us?”

      I have a classic picture of my sister and me at a market that shows the vast difference between our way of looking at the world. We are at an open market and Janie is showing me the wares of the booth, so excited to find something for me to pick out. I’m standing right next to her, and the clinched fists along with the look on my face says it all.  How did these two girls grow up under the same roof and be so vastly different?

     We weren’t considered wealthy but we certainly did not do without.  “Money doesn’t buy happiness”  we were told, but I sure would like to do a test drive.  My siblings have all been much more successful financially than I have been and they all seem pretty darn happy.  So what made me this way?  I remember my mother juggling the budget on my father’s feast or famine paychecks that was typical for  most salesmen.  I remember Mom saying,  ”Someone in this family has to be the Scotsman.”  “Don’t hang anything  on the walls in your room; we may have to sell the house soon.”  I remember choosing to stay in town and go to the local state college instead of going to the more private (and expensive) Christian College away from home because it would be cheaper.  I wasn’t told I couldn’t go, but I know it was a relief to hear me say it. Maybe the desire to please is attached to this money issue.  If that’s the case, I may have made a life time of pleasing others and never myself, and it just surfaces as a money issue.  If this is true, I am at least in the beginnings of recognizing it, so hopefully I can begin to work on it. I think I have heard that there is a book out there called Your Money or Your Life.  I think I had better go check it out. Then I can start working on those other past words cramming my head about my lack of decorating talent.

Lessons in Beth’s Quilt

Last month I had the complete joy in making something for someone in my family. Although I used the excuse that it was a belated birthday present, it was really a "just because, it's completely right for her now." Beth and her mother were overjoyed that I sent it, and while their precious and heartfelt kudos were treasures, I seem to relish the joy of making something just right for a dear one. While I was  making this quilt, I kept thinking how parallel the process was to living our lives. I sent her this message along with the quilt.
    I hope you can enjoy this metaphor and maybe find something in you life that so closely resembles how you manage to make the steps in your own journey. I'd love to hear how you created such a parallel.

You do the best you can,
 even if you really don’t know
 how it’s all going to turn out.

The pieces are put together as neatly as possible, 
but sometimes not everything lines up just right.

Even with the best instructions and the best of intentions, 
mistakes are made. 
Sometimes there are errors in judgment.

There may be a few kinks,
 but you have to press on and finish the job.

It’s a labor of love worthy of tender loving care.

Try not to look at the little mistakes and
 take in the overall beauty as a whole.

We never know how long it will last,
 but it’s worth bringing joy for the time we have it.

The Story of Rutledge Red

Several years ago in the frenzy of getting Christmas presents planned, I knew I would not be able to do all I wanted. The thought came to me that I would send out a request page of what kind of Quilt I could make for my brother and his wife. I knew that would buy me some time. By March they sent me their specifications – all that really stuck out from the page wasn’t the size (queen) or the type (traditional) but one little word – RED. I practically had red as non-existent in my stash. Not that I didn’t like it, I loved red, but I had never worked with it. Why? Fear of bleeding? Too Red Raider-ish? Too valentiney?      Nonetheless I began my red quest frenzy every time I came near a fabric store or went on a shop hop. By the end of April I had so many reds, blacks and pinks and every thing in between that I was ready to find the right pattern. First I had a great “scrappy” pattern and began slashing and slicing all the pieces. I followed the next step a quilter usually does and threw them up on a design board. “Threw up” is not to be taken lightly --- scrappy became crappy. My fears were realized; it looked like a chewed up and spit out Valentiney Red Raider horse blanket. I abandoned the whole thing – in despair.       Now what? I lamented my dismay to my dear quilting friends, Maureen and Beth, as we were walking into a favorite store. I pulled out my recent magazine on the subject and began flipping through the pages. I said if I really wanted to do one right for them it should look like—this--- pointing to a pattern featured in the magazine. “So let’s look at likely fabrics”, Maureen said. Thirty minutes later we were walking out the door with all the fabric for THE ONE. I was ready to “get’er done.”      Little did I realize that the 20 blocks had over 60 pieces in each of them, and I was also going to be tackling a never attempted skill of appliqué. This might take a little more than the couple of months I had planned. I didn’t even want to think about the quilting itself, so I proceeded to piece, and piece, and piece all summer long.      Finally in August the top was done! I called on a few friends and we “sandwiched” the top, batting and backing together in record time. Maureen offered to teach me how to use her big long-arm quilting machine. Pushing my new fears aside, I said okay. For about 3 weeks I would go over to her house after school and quilt. I soon stopped my “white-knuckle” driving and began to really see this beauty emerging. In spite of all the imperfections, I was proud to pull it off the machine and hurry home to bind it. That gave me the slow down time to think about the label, and what I would name it.       As I formed the pieces for the label Rutledge Red came to mind. That had to be it. Knowing how much Tricia loves red, and how much Tom loves Tricia, the two came together. The two words joined a perfect union, just like Tom and Tricia do.      I began quilting as a selfish act as a way to work through my own grief and healing, but it has now become such a piece of myself, that I want to share it with all whom I love. But, I also hate to “push my homemade-y” stuff on people. Hopefully this quilt created in love will be used in the same spirit it was given.

Making Chow Chow

I have been savoring MawMaw's Chow Chow in my memory for more than a year now. I resolved that my meager green thumb was going to somehow grow enough green tomatoes to make her delicious relish. Having a grandmother in the 50's usually meant canning days were a part of my life. Unfortunately Mom didn't can much, and I can only remember a day or two at MawMaw's where she was canning which was enough to instill a memory of a hot kitchen in August. My aunt and grandmother in sleeveless floursack aprons, Damp wisps hair plastered to their necks and foreheads, endlessly chopping green tomatoes, cabbage, and onions. Then the sweaty hot business of stirring and stirring with a large wooden spoon in a cadaverous black pot on the gas stove... forever. As a 12 year old it looked like too much work, no fun, and probably much like my mom...too old-fashioned to be a part of my daily routine. But... the end result was...heaven. I guess I never really learned that little lesson from Henny Penny to earn your rewards, so being able to take home a can or two of the rich green treasure wasn't like a job well done, or a deserved award...just a chance at a good meal of blackeyed peas with the spicy tangy topping of "MawMaw's Chow Chow." It was a great fall dinner and an absolute MUST on New Year's Eve. Years after leaving home, every begging year, I feared that my luck would be ruined because the idea of black-eyed peas (with that relish) was not the first thing that passed my lips.

Fast forward almost 50 years and for some reason I wanted to create that same scene, but this time I wanted to earn it. Wyoming wind never gave me a chance to grow anything successfully so my chance came when we moved to Colorado. It wasn't until our third summer here that I was able to grow enough tomato plants to produce the little green charms that I would need. I would shuffle out each morning to scan the plants to count the little yellow blooms and then the eventual bulbs that would be my "green 'maters". I figured that by the end of July the 'maters and I would be ready. Enter deck building weekends and a surprise 10 day visit from little sis and I woefully watched as the green gems began turning red. A delight for our daily salad but a fear that I would not be able to pick enough green ones and how am I going to find the time to let canning take over my kitchen? Especially with the memory of Two Sisters in the kitchen creating Mom's Merangue Pie?  Janie's fragile nerves from a trying year already was the reason for her visit, and was I asking for a meltdown (not sure from her or me) by inviting her to partake in this memory fest? Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. It was now or never for this season.

Two days after the Saturday Deck Party, a few donated green 'maters from a dear friend and my promise that he would get the first jar, Janie and I gathered the ingredients and began the New Millennium Chowchow Creation.

I had already bought the 2 heads of cabbage, the onions and the carrots. That morning before Janie got up, I chopped up the cabbage and put it all in large plastic bags. A little later,  the onions with the every present tearing eyes were packed away. After seeing Wayne off to work and a couple of cups of coffee and the needed "Gotta have my protein" Breakfast for Janie, I started to assemble the works.

"Do you have the cabbage?"

"Yes, all ready to go."

 "And the onion? I think she was beginning to think I was going to do this all alone. I had to give her something to do."

"Yep."

"Carrots?"

"Oh, no, would you chop those for me?"

After  the pound of carrots were chopped, we sat and looked over the recipe for the 10th time.

"I really don't remember carrots it it".

"Me either. It says here that she never used hot peppers but I remember the best part was that it was really spicy."

"Me too.and really GREEN. Maybe she put food coloring in it."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Well, it's getting late. Let's go to lunch."

As I looked over the assembled ingredients, the ready pot and the makings for the syrup, I didn't want to leave now. Our speedometers were definitely not on the same cruise control setting. Never has been, and certainly not this visit.

"Janie, we just got started; why leave now?"

"You know I need to eat lunch and I've got to not just sit here all day. I sit at home alone every day. We need to get out."

  Again, the kid gloves go on, and we pack up everything back into the refrigerator and off to NoNo's Cafe. I had promised myself much to my daughter's chiding that I give in to her aunt's demands way too much, to not make waves this trip. The woes of grown children and the typical husband bashing dominated the conversation once again with the repeated barbs of accusations that her daughter would lay on her mother that she was trying to manipulate her life..."How can she say that? I don't have a manipulative bone in my body."

In mid-chew of my hamburger, I had to say it..."Yes, you do." Uh-oh now I've done it. To my surprise the astonished stare from across the table only lasted a few seconds. No fire back, but a request for how that could be.  I tried my best to lovingly point out something that we all suffer from, not really knowing ourselves but how we are perceived by others. She seemed to just ponder the thoughts.

An hour later, we are back in my kitchen and the process of making Chow Chow was once again on track.

"No, no I think you've got it."

This time I know I earned it.

Like the chow chow, the memories of our lives are  bottled up into a conglomeration of  tiny little bits, some are sweet, some are biting or even a little burning hot, but together they can be combined to be stored and later opened up for all to enjoy who want to bring a little of us to the table. There will be someone who doesn't want to try it at all, some who will fondly remember and savor it, and others who will enjoy the newer version. 

Freedom

Aside from the immaterial irritations of society’s rules, I have really not known restrictions of any unalienable rights. I have not had to experience chronic mental illness, physical pain or disfigurement. I haven’t suffered through civil wars, rape, genocide, or totalitarian injustices, so I wonder if I can authentically express this exalted opinion of individual freedom.  I do know that on this 10^th anniversary of 9/11, I am reminded of that day when I was only a few weeks into mourning my own son’s death, and mixed in my sequestered grief for me and all the attention directed to this national tragedy.  To say the least, my mental state was not working toward the good.  Where do we not exercise our greatest freedom?

Customs and social mores fence us in. Society’s laws and red tape freeze us.

We are bound by the fear of failure, pain, reprisals, and rejection.  

Where can we go that we shouldn’t?

What can we do that we shouldn’t?

Who can we see that we shouldn’t?

What can we say that we shouldn’t?

Yes, we have “ties that bind” – by society’s laws or social customs, but as long as we exercise our freedom to have the attitude we want, how can we be enslaved?  If Viktor Frankl was able to withstand every atrocity imaginable during the Holocaust, and still say that no one can take away his attitude, then this has to remain true for me as well.

We are imprisoned by financial woes, children’s choices and consequences, parents aging with dementia, personal health issues to speak of exterior restraints.  There will always be some kind of tether that will keep us from moving the way or the direction that we want.

But a far greater, more horrific prison is that of our own attitude.  If  we put up barriers and walls that only make us look at the past, or “what could have been,” or “what we wish we had,” or that chokingly awful  “if only,” then we suffer a loss of freedom far greater than anything our fellow man with his inhumanity, laws , or customs can inflict on us.  If we have this power, and don’t exercise it, then we become our own jailor.  

The chains of un-forgiveness

The bonds of bitterness, resentment

The shackles of self-centeredness, self-doubt, self-worth

The ropes of regret, un-met expectations,

All of these put us in a solitary confinement. They separate us from unconditional love, unbridled joy, and unfettered acceptance.  These are the freedoms I can’t live without, and I am the only one who has the key to open them in my heart.

The Softest Thing

.       My first thought on this topic was only an image of softness, not a tangible softness. And not too long ago, that image was brought up in a conversation with my sister in which I had to tread “softly.”
        First, the image as I remember it. When we were little, mom would put my sister and me down for naps or for bedtime with stories of Miss Blue Mouse (for me) and Miss Pink Mouse (for sis). Mom would spin tales of details about what they were wearing, the friends they would visit. Picking out dresses, shoes, and purses. Planning parties. Her vivid descriptions helped fuel my imagination, and I knew that if I ever saw Miss Blue Mouse I would know her instantly. Years pass. Miss Blue Mouse was replaced with my own dresses, friends and parties. Although wee animals have been illustrated before by  such famous souls as Beatrix Potter, A.A.Milne, Richard Scary, and the close but not quite right Wee Village, I just never saw Miss Blue Mouse again.
        Mom got cancer, and by the time I was 22 she was only a few months from leaving us all. On my 22st birthday, I went over to the little apartment she and Dad had on Slide Road. After dinner she handed me a small package. It contained a small 4x4 blue frame surrounding her pastel drawing of Miss Blue Mouse. As the tears brimmed in my eyes, I said , “Her nose is so soft!” My gaze was met with her own tear filled eyes, and she softly spoke, “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Miss Blue Mouse was one of my first memories, and she was the last picture Mom (a devoted mother and talented artist) drew for me.
      Recently, Janie called me so excited about meeting a woman who struck up a conversation (Janie can talk to any stranger and leave a friend) about her own plans for a party she was planning. Janie told her about our Miss Mouse stories and the lady sparked Janie’s enthusiasm to write a children’s story about it. When she called, she was already talking about finding a publisher. Trying not to spoil her moment I told her to just write everything down, and we would go from there. We hung up, and moments later (really!) she called again to read her story to me. It did bring up all those wonderful stories again. They even added to the paragraph above. Again she was ready to call a publisher. Not being an expert, but at least a little knowledgeable about writing, I knew we would first need to work, draft, revise and edit it. I know that the publishing business can be brutal, and I didn’t want to go to that disappointing corner. I unthinkingly blurted out that we could even write it in 5 different perspectives to see which we liked best…..dead…silence. Then in her Janie way, she told me that she did not want my negativity (a REAL sore spot with me) to spoil this for her. She did not want me to overwork it so much that she would not want to do this any more. She didn’t want to change it at all, just find a publisher and an artist to illustrate it.  Although a trained and talented artist in her own right, she said she can't draw from her imagination and wanted me to do all the leg work with her story as is.
         It took everything I had to walk softly through this conversation. It easily could have ended up a yelling match bring up the old feuds we had when we were younger. I have achieved the dubious honor of being Miss Negativity and probably not without reason. I, of course, would consider it walking on the side of caution, but the reputation is solidly fixed. At the moment I felt I was being chastised for negative remarks that hadn’t even happened yet. In her perspective, Janie saw revision after revision as a killer overworking her inspiration. We did back pedal (both of us) to let’s just exchange ideas and see where it goes from here.
        Soft. Too many connotations that don’t even come close to the baby’s bottom, bunny nose, chinchilla fur touchables that most might think of. Then again. Memoirs are about connection and most of those are with people…not objects; and, with  people, emotions, actions, and relationships are more important. They have to be handled softly.

Disastrous Mission

Okay, not so disastrous but certainly an eye opener for us. April 15th. Tax time. Instead of using the $200 accountant, Wayne decided to do our taxes himself. It was just a day or two before he was to take off for AZ for his yearly cowboy ride, and taxes were not high on his priority list. I absolutely hate thinking about doing them, and I wanted to scream and whine and nag at Wayne to get them done. I don’t because I don’t want him to tell me to do them myself, so I stay contained.
       Finally, he’s finished. We write the shared exorbitant checks, sign the documents, and stuff it in the envelope. Signed, sealed, and stamped. Without changing out of our in-house grubby attire of sweats and flipflops, we head for the car to get to the post office. It’s only around 6:30pm, shouldn’t be too big of a crowd. We’re wrong. The post office is about 8 miles from our house. The line of cars started about 2 miles from the post office. Impatient as usual, I suggested that I take the envelope and run to the building rather than wait any longer. Surely I can run there faster than this snail train was going. We take about a half of a second to decide how we will do this. A half a second got us to the point of Wayne getting out to take the wheel while I run up to the PO; nothing about where we will meet up after the delivery. Shoot, we’ve been married 30+ years, we read each other’s minds, right? Wrong!
      We do a Chinese fire drill at the next light, and I sprint over to the PO a block away. Drop the envelope into the slot inside and snicker that we beat the crowd. On to the corner to meet Wayne…
      Only, he’s not there.
      Why didn’t I pick up my cell phone before we left? Well, I’ll walk on to the next corner where there is a street light. Surely he will see me there, and I have a good view of all the places he could be. I wait. I watch. My expertise of car identification kicks in. (read sarcasm here). I’ve had my Subaru for 4 years, and it’s nothing more than a “silver car” among the masses. Expertise, my eye! Did you know that ¾ of Highlands Ranch residents drive “silver cars”?! This is no good, I can’t just stand here; I’ve got to move. Surely he didn’t go into the PO parking lot. That was what we were trying to avoid in the first place. Going “around the block” covers a park, a driving range, and a big apartment complex. It would take him quite a while to do that, and again, the traffic was bumper to bumper. No he must have gone straight through the light, and maybe to the catty-cornered shopping center. I start a jog over to Walgreens. Not only do I have no cell phone, but I don’t have a purse, identification, or money. Maybe someone will let me borrow their phone. I get to the store and ask the clerk if I can use the phone. “Sure, what’s the number?”
      “Uhh… I can’t remember.”  My god!! Speed dial is the Devil!! I can only remember his business number, and I know he doesn’t have that phone with him. I go through mental contortions trying to remember the number. The clerk gives up and leaves me alone trying to recall his private line. I’m beginning to read everyone's mind? Is this woman all there?  Wait! I think I know Stephanie’s number. Punch in the numbers…voicemail. I leave a weirder than weird message that I am lost at Walgreens and I can’t find Dad. So, now what? I can’t just stand inside, I’ve got to be visible at least.
       By this time it is almost 8 o’clock and getting dark. I cross back over to the PO corner where the line of cars are still snaking (at a steady pace, mind you) through the parking lot and dropping off the confounded envelopes at the drive through lane. A couple of employees are there picking them up to make the line go quicker. If we had only been a little more patient, we would have been through the line and home eating supper by now. A patrolman is nearby and sees me walking up. How am I possibly going to sound coherent? I feel so utterly stupid. Through his genial conversation, he is obviously checking me out. He suggests that I go to the back of the building to check out the parking lot back there. I thank him and go off to see if that’s where Wayne might have stopped, thinking all the while that he would not be there, and besides I really didn’t want to wander around a dark parking lot alone at this hour…stupid cop!
      As I am walking back on the sidewalk, Wayne beeps the horn, and I climb in. He’s frustrated; I’m more on the verge of frightened, but relieved that the ordeal is over. He had gone into the parking lot and had even walked around looking for me. How we missed each other was really hard to believe. We just were not in sync. As for wishing I could remember his number, little good it would have done… he didn’t have his phone either. So we silently drove home vowing to never do that again. What exactly is “that” needs a little clarification. Never leave home without your cell phone? Communicate a little more clearly? Actually my “that” is to be a bit more patient and things will probably go smoother.

Chris's Tree

I wrote this 3 years ago when we were visiting the cabin. It seem natural to "talk" to Chris as the tree than just write about him. 


      Since you’ve been gone, I’ve watched you grow for 7 years now. I didn’t take much notice of you before that. But when Dad took most of your ashes and let the wind drift them around the foot of that little tree. It became you. Now I have some thing to watch grow even though you are not here. I have been searching for you, your spirit, your being, to no avail. It is what brings me to my knees about you being gone. I want to feel something other than this emptiness, this nothingness. So you are the tree, and if I am lucky, I get to see you once a year.
     I walked out there today and just sat in front and studied you intently. You are not especially pretty, other than the fact that any living thing has its own beauty. You’ve grown taller in the past 7 years. I don’t think you were 5 feet tall at first glance. Now I’m guessing that you are at least 8 or 9 feet tall. You have a bare side (I know, you’d say “bare-assed”), and you are definitely not symmetrical. Most pine trees have this Christmas tree shape of wide branches at the bottom and gracefully angle to a point at the top. Not you. Oh, there are some wide branches at the bottom, skimming your juniper bed for feet.  But, then the branches all but shrink in the middle and then about 3 feet from the top reach out again. There’s this one branch that is pretending to be a contortionist as it tries to twist itself the other way than the way it should be going. You have 2 topknots each about eight inches long, twisting in all sorts of directions. Actually, you Chris, would love it, because it is so unique. Something you always were so proud to claim. As your mother I thought you were just trying to compensate for your shortcomings, but because you were so good at it, and it made people laugh, you just kept it up. More power to you, kiddo.
      You have a beautiful view to look at right in front of the cabin. To the gentle right stands a tree-covered craggy hill. It reminds me of a majestic ancient castle because of its rocky top edge of vertical stones. The clearing of chopped down trees could be it moat, and another spine of rocks to the right looks like a road cut through the forest heading up toward the castle. [Spines of rock like a couple of sleeping green giants cuddled together into an unidentifiable single mass cover the surface. A clearing of trees is the only indication that Other Man inhabits this haven.] On the left are contrasting rolling hills with spots of rock, juniper, and sage. Behind them toward the north are other castle hills. You can watch the deer and occasional elk, maybe even a moose wander contently up the slopes.  Right now and for the first time in years, these soft hills are covered in a blanket of purple lupine on a green grass carpet. If you look a little lower, you see the community (gaggle) of young aspen, their feathery headdresses teasing the breeze, and their toes touching the small brook. A family of bluebirds come here every year to keep you company. On the far right is a dangerously deep precipice that drops several feet to the creek below. I can pretend that you are the king of this castle and lord of all you see.
       This probably isn’t where you wanted to be. You had only come here a handful of times and the only entry in the log is a drawing of you and your dad fishing when you were seven. But your dad definitely takes comfort that “you are here” (Remember, I can’t find you) And other people have expressed that we did a wonderful thing to have your ashes spread here. I just wanted you to be free and touch the water, earth and sky.
      The more I come here though, I try to imagine that you don’t mind it here. You love contradicting things and the land does have contrasting values. You were always on the edge of danger, and here you still have that. So, Chris, here you are…for us. Steph and Sam don’t feel it here…yet, and I try. But it is the one place I know your dad is at peace and can let go (for at least a little while) the anger of losing you.
6/19/2008

Mom's Meringue Pie

         One of my greatest joys in memory was taking a bite of one of Mom’s meringue pies.  Her meringue was the lightest, just right sweetness that ever melted in your mouth. If it was chocolate, the perfect combination of thickness, sweetness, and chocolate sent you to heaven. If it was lemon, your saliva gland under your jaw would be shot with a sweet tartness that made you beg for another hit.
      Wayne hates meringue, so I never worked at perfecting her recipe because he would never eat it, and I certainly didn’t need the temptation to have a whole pie sitting around. Janie and I worked at a microwave version of her lemon meringue pie when I visited her in Norway. It was wonderful. A fun time with her, too.
      So, a few years pass, and I pretty much fall back into not thinking about ever making it. Janie visited me this past March and we tried out the chocolate pie version. Long story short…too many cooks spoil the pie, but we did survive it, and it actually turned out great, in spite of us.
     Actually the long version is kind of fun to hear… I was reading off the ingredients while Janie dumped it in a bowl. Her portions were generously estimated, and before the 6 minute microwaving was up, it was a thick lumpy brownie. (We had also had a mess with the pie crust and redid it as well before all this "filling" mess. So the situation was already tense). I would take it out of the microwave and try to beat it to a pulp hoping to get the lumps out. All the while whining and going on about how lumpy it was. I know texture would be an issue with Stephanie when she came to dinner that night. So stir I did, but Janie just flipped her wrist and went to sit on the couch. I had lost my partner in crime, and I was pissed. She had just abandoned me and said big deal. I was left to figure out what to do. Finally I got it as smooth as possible, and Janie came back to make the meringue. By the time we had dessert and cut the pie, the lumps were gone and all enjoyed the pie. We had a good laugh about our reactions.
      So now I’m on a mission and want to see if I can get mom’s meringue just right. To heck with Wayne’s pickyness! The perfect opportunity --- Bonny and Gary’s first BBQ of the season. I’ll make pies. (Uh-oh! Here it comes!) I only had skim milk which I knew wouldn’t work. So I added some extra heavy whipping cream I had on hand. It became one huge RICH brick. Something set me off and I was mad. Embarrassed? Probably.  Frustrated? yes!  Hormonal? Without a doubt! ….But my mind said that I was mad at Wayne (get this...how do I turn this around and make it his fault?) This is how… if he had not been so against meringue all these years, I would have been working on the recipe to make it as delicious as Mom’s. So it was his fault and that’s why I was mad. I didn’t say this was fair or even logical…it was really insane.
      I went to that party in the most seething, foul mood I can ever remember being in, but I was not about to show it in public. I just renamed it a Double Chocolate Fudge pie and acted like it was supposed to be that thick, and then ordered a double scotch and water…the first of 3 that night. This is not my usual “sipping-one-drink so I can drive Wayne home” manner, and I am not a happy drunk under the best of situations. Morbid, morose, mourning come to mind if you want to know the truth. I hid in the bathroom until Wayne found me and we went home. I don’t even know if Wayne knew my anger was directed at him or not. I don’t think I told him it was his fault. I hope I didn’t anyway.
So the challenge of making a meringue pie has come to an end. No wait… we’re having Craig and Vickie over tonight. Steph is coming too. I think I‘ll try to make a lemon meringue pie. After all Tom is coming to visit in a few weeks and I would love to make him mom’s perfect lemon meringue pie. Am I ever going to learn?
6/11/2008