Memory

When they ask you where you worked
You can tell them
And give them details.

When they ask if you have children
You can name them
And give them details

And so they say,
"Your long-term memory is good!"
And they smile and you smile and I smile.

When we go to bed
You can't remember which side you have slept on
For twenty years.

When you sit in my chair
In the family room
You don't understand when I ask,
"Do you want to sit there - or here?"
Where you have sat
For eleven years.

When you make coffee
You remember to use four scoops of coffee
But not how much water.
You can't find the teabags
Where they have been
For twenty years.

You marvel at how well I navigate
The route home from the doctor,
Through curves and roads with oddly-shaped turns.
A route you taught me,
On roads you have traveled
A thousand times,
But claim you have never seen.

What are long-term memories made of?

Looking back

Saturday evening, a phone message at my sister's house was the first hint I had that our return to Miami might be different this time.

Ben and I were wrapping up a week in Portland which my sister and I had spent going through our mom's personal items following her death the previous February. It had been a bittersweet time, filled with both sadness and hilarity, seasoned with nostalgia and hard decisions. Claudia's phone message was something about a hurricane that was headed for Miami - "a bad one" - due to arrive Sunday night just a few hours after our own scheduled arrival.

I wasn't particularly concerned; it had been many, many years since Miami had taken a direct hit - never in the 23 years I had lived there - and most hurricanes tended to wander off course and not be nearly as awful as they were predicted to be. Still, we turned on the weather and watched as the meteorologist briefly mentioned it. We got to bed way too late, but still managed to make our early morning flight with its plane change in Dallas/Ft. Worth.

To our surprise, the flight out of DFW was packed - mostly with news people from everywhere, along with their cameras and other equipment. We were told that it was the last scheduled flight to Miami until after the hurricane danger was over.

It was an uneventful flight. Ben and I talked about our just-completed vacation in Portland, and I worried about the boxes of my mother's memoirs and how they were faring in the baggage compartment. As we approached Miami International, it was a shock to see how empty the expressways were! It had been a long time since I'd seen them without bumper-to-bumper traffic.

My then-husband met our flight, gathered up our luggage, and drove us home through a ghost-town-like city. He stopped to get cash from an ATM, but it had no money in it! People had cleaned out ATMs, grocery stores - wherever they could get cash. Stores were closed and shuttered, and Ed told us that he had put the hurricane shutters on our house. It was becoming real.

After we got home, Ed took Ben with him to his office at the airport to check on his crews and be sure all of the planes were safe. I started laundry and took a much-needed nap.

By the time it struck that night, we were prepared. Jugs of fresh water, all outdoor furniture, hoses, sprinklers, etc., were put away, and we were watching nonstop weather reports on the television.

We went to bed at our usual time, Ben crawling in bed with us because the wind was so loud and scary - not just to him, but to Ed and me, as well. When the power went out, I remember turning over to finally go to sleep, hearing the wind rushing past the house, branches snapping, things flying through the air - and the double front doors blowing open and slamming against the interior walls!

In a flash, we were out of bed and in the entry. There Ed and I spent the next five hours holding the doors shut, bracing ourselves against wind that gave us no rest, while Ben kept our pets and himself safely out of danger's way and periodically brought his dad and me cold drinks. We didn't dare let up our force against the doors - each time we did, they blew open again, once knocking me back about ten feet before I recovered and forced it shut again.

When finally - finally! - the wind died down, we carefully ventured outside to view our neighborhood. Where, just the evening before, had stood lovely homes with mature trees and manicured lawns, we now saw what appeared to be a war-torn neighborhood. Roofs were gone, fences were flattened, trees were either blown completely over with roots exposed, or snapped off completely. Roof shingles were embedded in tree trunks, plywood sheathing lay scattered around the neighborhood, garage doors were unhinged; it truly was a disaster.

We were without power for two full weeks. We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas living in a trailer in our front yard, and it was the end of January before we could move back into our house. It was a time to be thankful for so many things - mostly that we were all safe. We lost nothing that couldn't be replaced. We had good insurance, and they paid quickly. We discovered the value of real friends and community.

It was eighteen years ago today that Hurricane Andrew reminded the people of South Florida that nature will have its way, and that we are presumptuous to think we have all the answers. In the years since 1992, the southern US has felt the force of many hurricanes stronger and more costly than Hurricane Andrew. But he was the wake-up call.

In a way, Ben and I both still treasure the memories of that day and the ones that followed. It was hard, but we all pulled together, and there is a good feeling in recalling that. As I've often said, it wasn't the worst thing that happened to me that year - my mother's death was - but it was the event that taught me the most about myself. And that's not a bad thing!

The gift that keeps on giving

Each year, my sister and I try to get away for a weekend at the Oregon Coast. It's just sister time - no boys allowed - and we always have fun. We do have the occasional opportunity to rub each other the wrong way, but it's always fleeting and a whole lot less damaging than some of what we inflicted on each other as children!


This year, we chose to go on the weekend that encompassed the 90th anniversary of our mother's birth. In one of my more blonde moments, I commented to Peggy, "Ninety years! I'll bet she never thought she'd live to see this day!" And, of course, she didn't, having died 18 years ago. But it's a tribute to her that not only could the thought pass through my brain and out my mouth, but that my sister and I had a good chuckle over it. Mom was never one to mince words. You didn't "pass" or "pass away," you didn't go to "eternal rest," either. You died. And we knew what she wanted to be buried in ever since we were quite young. As it turned out, she was cremated and didn't get the ecru nightgown, but that was her choice. Ecru was so 1960s by then.


We played on our computers, watched Harry Potter movies, ate junk food, drank a little wine, a little Bailey's, a little Kahlua in our coffee. We had hot chocolate, popcorn, and I took along homemade clam chowder and some delicious biscuits my son had made. We watched the waves break, and the people and dogs on the shore. We went in the pool and the hot tub, and just generally had a high old time.

Then, Saturday night late, we each got a message on Facebook that our half-brother - from our dad's other family - had posted some photos and had tagged us. So, of course, we had to look!


All of a sudden, a little cloud crept into our cozy getaway. There, on Facebook, were two photos of our very own mother that we had never before seen. Our half-brother had scanned and posted them as "Old Florida pictures," and they were from our dad's photographs that Rodney has been kind enough to go through since dad died last October.

Also among the many that he posted were pictures of Peggy, our older brother, and me. Pictures that dad had kept for all these years - the most recent were taken in 1972, 38 years ago.


After my first reaction of stunned silence, and a momentary flash of anger that this should intrude on what was otherwise a perfect weekend, I shed a few tears and went out onto the balcony to let it all sink in. This man, this biological contributor, had cared enough at some point to keep these photographs of his children. The same children he abandoned and left to be raised by a crippled woman who was old before her time because of the long, hard hours she worked at physically demanding jobs. This man who had allowed our home to be foreclosed on, who had moved from Florida to Alaska and thus out of the reach of any enforced child support, this very same man had kept these photographs of his children.


Peggy thinks the keeping was not deliberate, but simply the lack of any need to weed out those things that weren't important to him. Perhaps she's right; she often is about things like this. But for a fleeting moment, it passed through my mind that maybe he had loved us after all. That maybe - despite vast amounts of evidence to the contrary - he felt proud of us and kept those pictures as a reminder of us.


Had he not avoided us on occasions when we could have seen him, and had he not shown his disregard for us in so many other ways, maybe I could eventually convince myself that he cared. Once again, I have proved to myself that being old doesn't necessarily equate to being wise!


Anyway, Happy 90th Birthday, Mom. We (mostly) enjoyed the party.

In Memoriam (thank you, Peggy!)

I remember civility in public discourse. For all the mention made lately about the courtly references made by Members of Congress to those on the other side of the aisle, it's certainly preferable to name-calling and thinly-veiled threats.

I remember when religion and politics weren't discussed at social events - or even within families if there were strong feelings on both sides.

I remember when children's eyes didn't have to be sheltered from television ads and bumper stickers.

I even remember when the only bumper stickers on the road were from your high school or college - and they didn't tell me that your kid was an honor student or could beat someone else up.

I remember when the doctor came to the house, and if you couldn't pay him in full you could pay a little as you could - and he didn't send dunning notices.

I remember when our elected politicians were treated with respect, even if they didn't really deserve it; the respect was for the office, not the person.

I remember when a newsman, Walter Cronkite, was among the most trusted people in the nation, and when we believed what we heard on the news.

I remember when the only people who said "fuck" were "hoods," and they only said it quietly and to peers; certainly not out loud on the street in front of children.

I remember when a kid who misbehaved in class was sent to the office, and then got punished again when he got home.

I remember when only kids who lived in the country rode a school bus; the rest of us walked or rode our bikes. It was safe enough to do that.

BUT...

I also remember when all of my classmates were white, like me.

And when my Jewish classmates were part of a chorus that sang Christmas songs, and we never heard of a dreidl.

And when my mother was denied a job, because they gave it to a man who had a family to support. She did too, but that didn't enter into their reasoning.

And when girls who got "in trouble" were sent away to have their baby, often forfeiting their education.

And when bathrooms were separate for "whites" and "colored." Water fountains, too.

And when incestuous actions were covered up and the victim was blamed.

It was the best of time; it was the worst of times...

Charles Dickens

A patchwork of life

Yesterday, my sister and I went to a quilt show in Portland. Neither of us quilts, although we both do/have done our share of embroidery, crochet, knitting, counted cross-stitch, applique, and plain-vanilla sewing over the years. There were some incredibly beautiful quilts and other sewing examples, as well as kits, fabrics, crafty items, and things such as spinning wheels and "long arm" quilting machines available for sale and for demonstration.

The place was packed with young and old, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, siblings, grandchildren, and just friends. All were oohing and aahing over the incredible display of talent and investment of time and money that filled the room - a smorgasbord of color, shape, texture, and imagination. It boggles my mind to think of the hours invested in the hundreds of quilts that were displayed.

So, you might ask, what were you doing there if you don't quilt? Well, I would say, it involves a story (as so many things do!). Once upon a time, back during the Great Depression, my Granny had a WPA job that involved sewing. And because everything was so precious during those years, any scraps that were left over were given to the workers to take home. I envision scraps measuring in inches, rather than yards, but something that could be put to good use by folks who had grown accustomed to hardscrabble times.

And so the scraps accumulated, and eventually World War II was declared, the Depression ended, my father joined the Navy and brought his pregnant wife home to her mother - and the pile of scraps. Although my mother would eventually go to work for the war effort, her "confinement" was a time for being at home and doing homely things. Like piecing a quilt. At long last, the scraps had a defined purpose, and I can almost see my mom sitting at home in her mother's house, waiting for letters from my dad, waiting for her first child to be born, patiently measuring, cutting, and hand-sewing all of those pieces carefully kept by her own mother.

Eventually, this work measured more than 9' long and 6' wide, and was made up of 10" squares, each consisting of 16 individual pieces - all stitched together by hand. Eventually, too, my brother was born, my mother went to work at the local air base as a mechanic, and the work of her hands was folded up and put away. Over the years I'm sure she must have thought of it, but her life was busy and she had children to raise, work to do, bills to pay.

Last year, my sister pulled down a box from her closet, and together we marveled over the tiny, uniform stitches made by our mother's hand more than sixty-five years ago. I vowed that I would find a way to finish it, especially after my D-I-L Jr. told me that I have a "generational imperative" to do so! (How could I possibly not do it after that statement?!)

So yesterday, when we weren't staring gape-mouthed at the creations of others, we were talking to experts in the field of quilting, garnering information, encouragement, and our own share of those who marveled at this patchwork from so long ago. I'm looking forward to adding my own stitches to those of my mother, handling the fabric so thriftily gathered by my grandmother. And I'm hoping that Peggy will find time as well to sit with me on occasion and stitch her memories into this work of love.

Memories are made of this

Anyone who reads this blog with any regularity knows that I have a strong interest in history and in family. I do strongly believe that "past is prologue" and that we can learn important lessons from those who have gone before us. And I also get a thrill from being in a place, or touching something, that has been seen or held by ancient hands.

I'm fortunate that both my mother and her father left written life stories, filled with details about life "back in the olden days." It gives me a sense of who they were and what life was like in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, during the Great Depression, World War II, and also sends me reminiscing about my own childhood. As a second-generation Floridian (although I no longer live there), I know that my own brain holds memories of Florida as it used to be - before Disney, NASA, and the Army Corps of Engineers got their hands on it! Those who came later, including my own children, have no way to experience the sleepy small-town atmosphere of Tampa, where I was born, or Miami - where I spent 26 years - prior to the great influx of refugees and the orgy of glitter and glamour that permeates the city now.

Jim, my dear partner, is native to the Northwest and has stories of logging, firefighting, hunting (he and his friends have hunted in the same location for almost 50 years!), white water rafting in areas that now require permits - Jim was there when there were no other rafters - and old growth trees that were so huge just one tree would fill a logging truck! He remembers our now-busy city before the interstate highway, when nearly all Oregonians were natives, and when the salmon runs were abundant in Northwest rivers.

In other words, Jim and I both have stories to tell of times that are no more. To us, they were just life and seem to have no special need to be recorded. But I remind myself often that my mother's and grandfather's lives must have seemed just as mundane to them and yet they had the foresight to know that those times deserved to be remembered. They took the time to write down those things - with pen and paper; no word processors for them! - so that future generations would know what had come before, from the viewpoint of those who had lived it.

Each of us has a unique story to tell, even those who don't think we do - like Jim. And I think - although not everyone shares this opinion - that we have a responsibility to future generations to leave a record of those stories. If you're inclined (and I hope you are) Story Corps has some information and help. And an online search for "oral history project" will give you links to some specialized oral history sites such as Vietnam Veterans, AIDS survivors, and a number of other organizations.

Each generation moves inevitably from making history to being history, and the only way future generations have to know our path is through our words. I hope you'll think about filling in some of the blanks for your family!

The Moving Finger writes...

"...and, having writ, Moves on;
nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

My finger moves only to keyboard nowadays, seldom ever to write. And when I do write, it's frequently - usually - illegible, even to me. My handwriting was never anything to brag about, once I was freed from the uniformity of first grade manuscript and third grade cursive. By 6th grade I had developed my own "ruffles and flourishes" if you will, with "g"s and "y"s trailing reverse fish-hooks (just like every other girl my age) and "i"s dotted with great circles (also like every other girl my age!). Fortunately, this was before the age of the smiley face, or I'm sure my schoolwork would have sported that degradation as well!

My adult handwriting was an improvement - of sorts. My mom used to say, "Cheryle's handwriting is a beatiful thing to see; you just can't read it!" And she was right: my college papers, letters, notes to my children's teachers, all swept gracefully, grammatically correctly, Emily Post-ly (Postally?) across the papers upon which they were inscribed - and there were NO spelling errors! Folding them to place in an envelope, or stapling the corners together, I would often feel a sense of pride in how pretty they were, never giving a thought to how difficult they were to read. After all, I could read them; what's wrong with you people?

Even through years of using typewriter and then computers, it was easier to grab a sheet of paper and write something than it was to type (or keyboard) it. After all, formatting, finding paper, turning on the printer - well it was just easier to grab a piece of notebook paper from the kids or a legal pad from my office and write the letter, note, whatever.

My sister and I used to write long chatty letters to each other. She lived on one Coast, I on the other, and whenever a fat, legal-sized envelope with my sister's handwriting on it showed up in the mailbox, I saved it for when I could sit and relish it. Cross-outs, digressions, coffee rings - all were dear to me and cherished. And I responded in kind. Sometimes our letters would start on one day and end 12, or 15, or 20 pages later, on another. What treasures they were - and are; I've saved them all.

And I loved - and still do - seeing my mother's handwriting. It takes me back to childhood notes for school, or birthday cards, or mementos for my children, and, of course, her letters to me. I enjoy my grandfather's handwriting, an art learned in the 19th century, with letters that look so different today, peppered with words and phrases lost in the whirl of progress. And I treasure the school papers and too few letters that I have from my own boys, benchmarks of their progress in school, postcards from far-away places, Mother's Day and birthday cards that can make me cry or smile - or both!

Alas! I have become such a slave to the keyboard and email that I can barely write any longer. Sometimes it's an effort even to sign my name on a credit card slip (well, not that much of an effort!). My hand shakes sometimes when I try to write; it's not a real palsy because it doesn't happen any other time (like when I eat). But frequently I have to stop and form each letter in a word very intentionally, otherwise my writing is illegible even to me.

I will not leave behind volumes of letters written to my children and grandchildren, nor will I have many to add to those precious ones tucked away in boxes. And I'm sorry for that.

My sister sent an article about handwriting to me over the weekend. It was sent, of course, electronically, which was kind of ironic. But it speaks to the loss of this once revered art form, and it made me nostalgic for the "good old days."

Progress is good and I love the convenience and speed of computers. Hey, if not for computers, you'd be missing all this musing! But I'm sorry that future generations won't have the evocative odor of letters stuffed in old shoe boxes and hidden away in closets. Or know that thrill of touching a piece of paper that grandfather rested his hand upon more than a century ago. Or finding that word that a relative just never spelled the same way twice. Or especially the quiet joy of holding a letter from a long-dead loved one, re-reading the words so carefully written in an ageing hand, the faded ink a testament to taking precious time to say, "I love you and I miss you. Write soon. Love, Mom"

Perspective

I'm multi-tasking this morning. I'm adding descriptions to family photos on my family tree site, recording episodes of "Little Bear" on a VCR tape for Addison, and watching the snow fall gently outside the window.

The snow is gentle and light, sticking to roofs and trees, and a little bit on the ground, but melting quickly on streets and sidewalks. It's so pretty when it falls and I do love it, although by noon it will turn to rain. We may have light snow again tomorrow morning, but then it will also turn quickly to rain.

In the 14 years I've lived in Oregon, we've had more snow this year than ever before, a sign, some say, of climate change. Whatever the reason, it's a nice change from our usual winter weather of rain, rain, and more rain.

It puts me in mind of the first time I saw snow.

As a Florida native, growing up in Tampa and Lake Wales, snow was never a part of my life. I do recall one winter when snow fell briefly, but melted mid-air. That was a big disappointment to me, since I read all the books that talked about kids playing in snow and was intensely disappointed in the eternal sunshine of life in Florida!

In 1964, however, I lived briefly in Portsmouth, VA. On a winter day around December 1st, I looked out to see snow! I was so excited! I put on my heavy coat and went outside and stood in it for about 15 minutes, marveling as it brushed my face and landed on my coat, melting too quickly to really count. But it was beautiful and I was young enough at 17 to be enthralled by the experience.

In subsequent years, we traveled to Oregon and Washington and I was treated to snow in the mountains, but never again to see it fall. Until 1991 when Ben and I lived for a fall and winter in Indianapolis.

That year winter came early - in October, I believe. Of course everyone blamed me for wanting it so badly, but I didn't care! Ben and I got up early in the morning and went outside and had a snowball fight. My 11-year-old son was as excited as I was and we laughed ourselves silly with the excitement of it all!

That afternoon as I gave a co-worker a ride home, the snow started falling again! She was telling me a story when I interrupted and said, "It's snowing!" She continued with her story, and I, in my excitement, repeated, "It's snowing!" "Yes," she replied, "I see it." "But," I exclaimed, "you don't understand: It's snowing and I'm driving in it!"

With exaggerated patience, she looked at me and said, "Cheryle, I'm from Buffalo, NY, and this just doesn't even count as snow!" I laughed and she continued with her story.

Perspective counts, but it shouldn't count for too much. Especially when it's snowing!

The Annual Christmas Tree Purchase

Last year, Jim & I took Addison and Ada to cut the "family tree" for Christmas and had a great time. So we thought we should make it an annual event and arranged to have both kids this afternoon. Since both toddlers are now in preschool, and both Jim & Addison are moderately ill (I'm just barely recovered), and with the cold weather and the early onset of dark... well, let's just say a trip to the tree farm wasn't in the picture for us. So we went to a local stand where organic produces is sold year 'round and where the trees come direct from the farm and made our purchase.

The kids didn't give a hoot that it wasn't a "real" tree farm - they explored and played and just generally had fun. After we took the tree home to put in water until Sunday's tree-trimming event, we went out to dinner - but not before Ada and Addison played "Tackle Grandpa" for about ten minutes and spent some time on their rocking moose and rocking horse.

(Prior to getting the tree, we kept them occupied with "Little Bear" on t.v. If you have a toddler and don't know about "Little Bear," you're missing a good chance to garner a little free time for yourself! There are some episodes on YouTube and it also runs on a cable channel called "Noggin." Just be careful with YouTube - there are idiots out there who will sexualize anything they can!)

We then went out for dinner - when we have Ada, dinner is always Mac & cheese. The girl really loves it! Afterwards, we looked at the lights, then I brought Addison home to bed and Ada stayed with Grandpa. She'll be with us overnight tonight and we'll see the local family on Sunday for tree decorating.

I love the memories we create with these two - memories for us and for them.