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.

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.

Okay, I'm excited!

Although you wouldn't know it to look at me today, when I was a small child I was very graceful and flexible. At age 4, I was the youngest child in the "Virginia Rey and Frank Dunn School of Dance" in Tampa, and was in both tap and ballet recitals. I had big dreams of finally reaching an age where I could wear toe shoes and become a toe dancer. Unfortunately, my dad decided we needed to move to Lake Wales where the opportunities for me to break into The Big Time were decidedly limited, and so those dreams died aborning.

I have, however, always thought ballet one of the most beautiful and enchanting forms of entertainment, and yet... And yet, Dear Reader, I have never in my life seen a professional ballet!

That is on the immediate verge of changing! Tonight, this very evening, my sister and I are going into Portland to have dinner and then see The Nutcracker. Peggy has arranged for seats that will give us an astounding view and - this is truly the best part - we sisters will enjoy a purely "girly" evening of dinner and entertainment. (Not that men don't enjoy ballet! But this is for US!) I am so excited that I can hardly stand it!

Now, you might like to know that the evening's forecast for sisterly fun is accompanied by an evening forecast for snow and freezing temperatures. I know for many of you that seems like No Big Deal. However, in the 14 years I've lived in the Portland area, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times it's snowed - and that usually happens in January, not before Christmas!

Snow. The Nutcracker. An evening with my sister. As an old friend used to say, "It don't get no better than this!"

(Note: The photo above is from February, 1952, when I was 4-1/2 years old. I am the cutie front and center. Please forgive the info about the show and the costumes; it was the 50s and it was the South!)

Giving thanks, Part IV

When my parents divorced in 1957, my mom was left to raise my 14-year-old brother, 10-year-old me, and my 6-year-old sister by herself. Although dad hadn't really been part of our lives for many years, this was official: a divorced woman, 1950s, three kids. Somehow, we made it.

My brother joined the Navy in 1961 and went across the country and, eventually, across the world. I married my first husband in 1964 and began my own life's journey. My sister and the man she eventually married moved to this corner of the world in 1972. Over the years, through marriages, divorces, the births of children, moves both near and far, we - my siblings and I - did not stay close, but did stay in touch. And we all remembered the difficulties of growing up together and the stigma of being "children of divorce."

We remembered stopping at the 7-11 on the way home from mowing yards (my brother) or babysitting to pick up a loaf of bread, milk, cigarettes - the staples of life that required our earnings to help purchase. We remembered the evenings mom had to work when she sold cars, or encyclopedias, or Avon; evenings we had to fend for ourselves and fend off our siblings! We remembered when she worked in an office and the last one home from school made the obligatory phone call to let her know we had all arrived. We remembered arguments, fights, tattling on each other, putting off our required chores till the last minute (you can clean an entire house between 5:15 and 5:30 if your older brother is yelling, demanding, threatening - and all of you work to get it done!). My sister called our brother "The Chief Spanker-in-Charge."

We also remembered our mother's oft-repeated fear that, if we didn't behave when she wasn't there we ran the risk of being "taken" from her and separated from each other. That seemed to be her biggest fear. I still don't know if it was true, but it had the desired impact. Most of the time.

Fast forward to 1992, when mom went into the hospital in Portland. We all feared the worst (and, indeed, we were right), so I flew out here from Florida and my brother (who hates to fly) came from Colorado. We stayed with my sister in her home as we made our 3 or 4 daily visits to the hospital, walking three abreast down hospital corridors to confront doctors, locate clergy, or find the coffee stand. For almost a week we were together again, this time looking after each other and our mother. When the doctor told me he wouldn't allow me to see mom if I was crying (it will upset her, he said), both of my sibs turned on him and said, "It would upset her more if Cheryle wasn't crying; that's what she does!" When the family (Episcopal) priest commented on my brother's cowboy hat, saying, "I need one of those! Maybe it would attract women!" we all laughed and Peggy and I looked at our tall, handsome brother with pride. When each of us had to return to our respective homes, my brother and I knowing we were leaving our sister to make hard decisions, we both said to her, "Whatever you decide, whenever it becomes necessary to do it, we are with you in our hearts. We will never allow anyone to second-guess your decision and we will accept it as if we had all made it." And we have stayed true to that promise, knowing that she had to do something a child should never have to do: tell the doctor when to let mom go.

After the emotion of that time, we took up the strands of our separate lives but tried to be better about staying in touch. It's been easy for us sisters; we now live near each other and spend time together whenever we can. Our brother still lives in Colorado and we don't see him very often. And he's a man who was raised in a time and place when men kept feelings mostly to themselves and relied on no one. But we email back and forth and speak fairly often. At our insistence he keeps up updated on his wife's ongoing battle with cancer.

My big brother has brought into our family the gift of his dear wife, our sister-in-law, whom we love and worry about. A few years ago, his daughter, whom he had not seen since she was an infant, was reunited with us and added her husband and son to our family. The "Chief Spanker-in-Charge" has become a doting father and grandfather even as he approaches late life.

My little sister - the only one who is still married to her original spouse! - has added to the family not only her husband but two wonderful kids - my niece, who taught me that I could love another child as much as I love my own; and my nephew, the baby of the family, who always wraps me in his arms and gives me wonderful hugs when we meet and when we part. She and her husband gave us a home when we moved to Oregon, and provided lots of emotional and moral support while we adjusted to our new lives.

My siblings - Martin and Peggy. Shared memories. Shared DNA. Shared lives. Shared love. Undivided gratitude for the many ways they enrich my life.

I've been tagged!

Well, this has never happened to me before, and it's kind of exciting. (Yes, I'm weird, and yes, I know it!) I've been tagged by one of my readers. It's a "4th of 4th" tag, which means I have to post the 4th photo in the 4th folder in my pictures.





Oddly, this is not a photo that I took! I've been recreating my son and d-i-l's photos (see here for the story), and this photo happens to be one of theirs. It was taken in Florida (I'm guessing Disneyworld - gee, I don't know why I think that!) in November, 2003, when they went to visit my ex and his wife for Thanksgiving.



The cuties are David on the left, who was just about three weeks shy of his 2nd birthday, and Andrew, who was 5 (and turned 6 the following January). It was so cool to open this folder and see these two guys when they were so much younger - and smaller!



I'm going to tag my sister Peggy, and my two d-i-l's, Lisa and Briana. You're IT, kiddos!

The sisterhood!

There is no better friend than a sister. And there is no better sister than you. ~Author Unknown

I'm off for a weekend at the Coast with my baby sister. We'll enjoy (most of the time) two days and two nights of each other's company, unencumbered by husband, significant other, work, household duties, and all the ordinary, everyday aspects of life.

I expect we'll eat too much, drink a little (really!), laugh a lot, reminisce a bit, disagree on not a few things, and perhaps even have to send each other to our respective corners of the room at least once. We'll read, shop, walk in the sea air, check our email, watch a movie or two (I do hope she remembers to bring "The Queen" so we can watch it again!), nap, and then do it all again.

We try to do this once a year, and it's usually in late summer that one of us will say, "Hey, we need to spend a weekend at the Coast!" We check our respective schedules, the bank balances, motel availability, and set a date. It's always great fun.

We haven't always been close: I'm 3-1/2 years older but the age divide often seemed much greater. Peggy's teen years spanned a time of great upheaval in this nation - Vietnam, student riots, the feminist movement. She was always (and still is) much more liberal than I. She moved to Oregon and - horror of horrors! - lived in sin for a few years before marrying the man she was living with - a marriage that has now lasted nearly 36 years. That's a record in our family for several generations!

I, on the other hand, married, had kids right away, and settled into my own smug, self-righteous little world, often barely tolerating my wild child sister and her hippie-dippie ways. (For the record, she also barely tolerated me most times, but living 3,500 miles apart helped!)

We stayed in touch, usually through long, hand-written letters, often composed over the span of days or weeks. We'd put them in the mail, then immediately call and say, "I mailed a letter to you today!" Sometimes I miss that.

When I moved to Oregon in '94, it was my sister's family who provided a home for my youngest son and me until I got on my feet. When I am happy or sad, she's still the person I want to talk to. When I miss our mother, it's my sister who stops what she's doing to listen to the loneliness, share the memories - and a few tears. I wouldn't trade her, or our relationship, for anything in the world. Okay, maybe for a smaller dress size. (Just kidding, sis!)

And awaaaaaay we go!

She is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities. She is your witness, who sees you at your worst and best, and loves you anyway. She is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark. She is your teacher, your defense attorney, your personal press agent, even your shrink. Some days, she's the reason you wish you were an only child. ~Barbara Alpert