I Just Don't Go to the Cemetery

With last week being Memorial Day and all, I thought about going to the cemetery to visit my parents' graves.  Once again, I didn't end up going.  I don't know when the last time I've been to their graves was.  Probably over a year ago at least.  I think, "It's Christmas.  I need to go visit Mom and Dad," or "Mother's Day is next week.  I should go plant some flowers." But I don't go.  I know I should feel ashamed, and I do a little, mostly because my sister who lives out of town visits more often than I do.  I remember my mom saying to me once,

"You'll never come visit my grave when I'm dead."

I replied with all sincerity, "Yes I will!" and I meant it.  I did!  But when reality was here, she was right.

And as much as I love poking around old cemeteries with other people's family members long buried, I don't like going to visit my parents' graves.

I'm not sure why I don't go except what is there to do really?  The cemetery takes care of the plot.  They mow and trim.  We've planted day lilies, and my other sister puts in annuals.  I feel stupid just going there and sitting on the ground by their stone.  I'm always trying to decided if I'm standing on their heads or what.  They are on a slope, so they actually have a footstone not a headstone.  I can't get my brain around that idea.  They are dead, so why does it matter what way they are laid in the ground? Isn't the hole level anyway?

Then there is the whole reality thing.  If I go and see their names and dates in the granite, it is just another slap in the face that they are dead.  I already know that.  No need to remind me.  I talk to them all the time, so I don't need to go their graves to do that.  I visit them in my mind where they are much more real and present.  I don't need to go to their final resting place to be with them.

I feel my dad when I'm tending my tomatoes, snapping off the suckers growing up between the stems.  He's with me when I open a jar of okra or olives or eat pistachios.  I read the paper and come across some political story and wonder what Dad would think of this new twist.  When I'm photographing grade school football games, I see him in the stands watching Kyle play.  Every time I see a little gold truck cruising down the street, he is driving it.  He is never far from my mind.

And Mom.  She is in all I do.  I take a recipe out of my recipe box and see her handwriting on lasagna or apple pie or summer salad.  She is in a trip to Huber's or strawberry jam or a slice of zucchini bread.  Every year when I hang my Christmas ornaments, I see her face in them, especially in the little gold balls that she was convinced made the tree perfect.  She's in the coffee that I drink and the cheese toast I eat and the lilies of the valley that I transplanted from her house to mine.  She is at every single party I host, and every time I hear, "Wanda would be proud," I know she lives within me.

So, she was right.  I don't go to the cemetery.  Maybe I should feel guilty, but I really don't.  My parents' headstone is there.  Their bodies rest there.  But their spirit lives in me and around me every single day of my life.  They will never be forgotten, and I don't need to see a marker to remind me how very much they are loved.

The Blessings in Laundry

Laundry is the bane of my existence.  I hate it.  It is a never-ending and thankless job, and no matter what I do, I am never, ever caught up.

If I don't put in a load at least every other day, the mound grows exponentially, and if, God forbid, a week goes by without doing any, the pool is full and overflowing.  But worst of all is when the kids clean their rooms.  Then I'm really in for some work.

Let me take a minute to explain our system.  We have a laundry chute on the second floor that goes all the way to the basement.  At the bottom of the chute is a baby pool that corrals all of the dirty clothes into a controlled pile, otherwise, they would spill out onto the floor and get mixed up with the sorted piles of darks and towels.  This way, at least it's somewhat organized.

I had gotten the laundry mostly caught up at the beginning of last week.  I had one more load to wash, and for that short day or two, I knew the laundry would be under control.  Then the end of the school year happened.  Short exam days for Claire.  Parties and awards for Emily.  Soccer games and recital rehearsal and then recital...By the time I knew it, almost a week had passed, and I hadn't put in a single load.  AND the kids cleaned their rooms.

So when I went downstairs today to start the miserable, never-ending cycle again, I was confronted by a pile of clothes about 3 feet high, spilling out of the pool and onto the floor of the laundry room.  As I set to sorting for the bazillionth time, I decided to make a gratitude check of my laundry situation and started listing all of the good things that my laundry tells me about how lucky I am.  Here goes:

1.  We must be very wealthy to have this many clothes.  Lots of people around the world would be amazed by how much we have.  Heck, we could probably clothe a small village with what is in the pool!  So, that must mean we are rich.

2.  I have healthy children and a working husband who need clothes washed.

3.  I don't have to wash these clothes by hand.

4.  I don't have to tote them to the laundry mat.

5.  I have a nice, big, front loader washer that can do super-sized loads right in the comfort of my own home!

6.  I am physically able to do laundry.  I can walk up and down my basement steps.  I can carry large laundry baskets of clean clothes to the family room to fold.  I can see to sort and fold them.

7.  I have children who can and do help me.

8.  I have a nice house in which to store my clothes.  I am not living out of a suitcase.

9.  I can afford to buy detergent so my clothes smell good.

10.  I have bedding to go on a bed that I don't have to share with anyone but my husband.  My kids have beds of their own in rooms of their own.

So, when you look at it, my laundry tells me just how very, very lucky I am.

Still, doesn't mean I have to like it.

Go Vote!

I voted today.  It wasn't much of a ballot this primary season.  A couple of candidates who are going to win no matter what and some judges for family court, but I went to the polls, and I voted.

I remember when I was a kid, my dad was a precinct captain.  I didn't really know what that was, but it sounded important, and every election day, he would take off work, which he NEVER did, and leave the house at the crack of dawn and head up to Stonestreet Elementary School with a box of donuts in each hand to watch the polls.

After school, Mom would stop by to vote, and we would get to go into the booth with her and stand there while she pulled the curtain shut.  It always reminded me of the Wizard of Oz the way it opened and closed, and there WAS something magical about pulling down the lever and having your voice heard.

At the end of the night, Dad would come home with a big piece of paper in hand, and he would spread it out on the kitchen table and note the final count of votes for each candidate.  Then he would call the district headquarters and report on the results.  I always found it exciting when "our guy," whoever it was, "won" our precinct.  It felt like a good omen to me.  Then we would sit down in front of the TV and watch the returns.  Invariably, The Wizard of Oz was actually on one of the channels, and every so often, it would get interrupted for an election update.  Still to this day, I am riveted to the TV every election night, memories of years gone by fresh in my mind.

Today, my son is eligible to vote in his first election.  He is not interested at all.  He is disillusioned with our country and how little voice we "the people" have anymore, and he doesn't see the point in voting because it doesn't really matter.  "Politicians don't care.  They are going to get into office and do whatever they want anyway.  Why bother?"

Why bother?  I thought about it.  I have never missed a chance to vote since the very first time I was eligible to vote.  I've voted in the pouring down rain.  In the cold.  When I've been sick.  With new babies on my hip.  But why?

I vote because I can.  I vote because some places in this world there are people who do not have the right to vote, and if someone told me I no longer had that right, I would be up in arms.  I vote because less than 100 years ago, women were not allowed to, and many women went to jail in order to have their voices heard.  I vote because men and women have died defending our freedoms, and my vote honors their sacrifice.  I vote because my ancestors came to this country to escape tyranny and intolerance, and my vote honors their choice to become American citizens.  I vote because I refuse to believe it doesn't matter any more.  I vote because I believe when people let apathy keep them from the polls, democracy dies a little bit at a time.  I vote because I am lucky enough to live in the United States of America, and while our system is not perfect, it is our system, and I want my voice, however small, to be heard.

I voted today.  Did you?

Finally, A Second Bloom

2011

2014

One day after school, Kyle, in the third grade at the time, came home excited beyond belief.  He dumped his backpack in the door and rushed to find me in the kitchen.

"Mom!" he exclaimed, "I have a surprise for you!"  And he reached in his pocket and pulled out a napkin, carefully folded into a tiny square.

With a little trepidation, I went to unfold it to see what was inside.  No telling what kind of "treasure" an eight-year old boy could fold up in a napkin!

Before I could get it open or even ask what it was, he cautioned, "Be careful!  It's seeds!  And they will grow into the most beautiful flower you have ever seen!"

Sure enough, three tiny, flat seeds, so light that they would blow away at the slightest whisper, were folded up inside that napkin and carried home in Kyle's pocket.

He continued, "Mrs. Lenihan said that if we put them in some dirt in a pot that in about 5 years, you will have the most beautiful flower ever!  I told her how much you love flowers, and so she gave me some seeds. Aren't you so happy?"  He smiled to break my heart, and I hugged him and said, "Thank you so much for thinking of me, Kyle!  I'm sure these will be beautiful one day."

We found a pot in the garage, filled it with some potting soil, and placed the seeds down in the dirt, where they disappeared almost immediately.  A sprinkling of water, placement in the kitchen window, and we were through.

Kyle checked the pot every day for about a week, waiting for the seeds to sprout.  Weeks turned into months.  I watered the dirt every so often, but couldn't bear to throw it out because of how excited Kyle had been when he came home that afternoon.  After a few months, I found a metal flower pick to stick down in the dirt, and I was really glad that we had picked a Louisville Stoneware pot to plant the seeds in so at least the pot was pretty.

Third grade turned to fourth, and just when I was about ready to toss the whole thing, I noticed a little nub of green beginning to poke up through the dirt.  Kyle was thrilled, and I was intrigued.  Never had I known seeds to take a year to germinate.

We watched as they grew overnight.  One inch, two, three.  Pretty soon, we had about 18 inches of stalk-like leaves, similar to a tulip leaf, but no stem for a flower.  The leaves stayed green for a couple of weeks and then began to die back.  Yellowing at the tips and then down the whole plant until it was limp and brown.  I pulled them off, and we waited to see what would happen next.

Nothing.

Nothing happened for several more months.  Then another shoot of leaves came up and grew and grew and grew, but still, no flowers.

Months turned into years.  The teacher who gave Kyle the seeds retired and moved away.  Kyle graduated from grade school and headed off to St. X.  The cycle of the plant kept up until finally, one day about seven years after we planted those three seeds, we noticed something different.  Coming up out of the leaves was a stalk.  It looked to have a bud on it.  We watched and waited.  A few days later, there it was, this beautiful amaryllis-type flower.  We had no idea what we had grown, but it WAS beautiful!  I took a picture of Kyle with it.  He was 15 and a freshman in high school.

The flower lasted about a week and then died.  I thought he had told me that it only bloomed once, so I was about to toss it once again.  But once again, he stopped me.  "No," he said, "it will bloom again.  It just takes awhile."  So I put it back on my window sill and kept watering.

About a week ago, after three more years of leaf cycles, I noticed another stalk popping up.  Two days ago, the flower opened up, and for the second time in TEN YEARS, we have more blooms, and ironically, tomorrow is his last day of high school.

I have discovered that it is an amaryllis plant, grown from seed, and it took so long to bloom because the seeds were forming a bulb under the soil.  Hopefully as the plant matures, it won't wait so long between blooms because it IS one of the most beautiful flowers I've seen, mostly because every time I look at it, I see those eager eyes, a gap-toothed smile, and three tiny seeds folded up in a napkin.

The Postcard

I don't even remember what it was that I was looking for, but a few weeks ago I found myself opening the drawers of the secretary in my living room searching for something.  What I discovered was my mom's scrapbook on Kennedy's assassination, a postcard, and old friends.

The secretary had been at my parents' house since my grandmother died in 1981.  They had left some of my grandma's things in the drawers and then had added their own items...yearbooks, a Rand McNally map book, and a scrapbook my mom had made on the assassination of President Kennedy.  My mom was crazy about JFK, and when he was killed, she must have been devastated because she cut out and pasted everything printed in the newspaper about his death.  I had looked at it a couple of times when I was a kid, but it was A LOT of news and not many pictures, and I was quickly bored.

When my dad died, I inherited the secretary and the items in it.  It didn't seem right to remove them after 30 and 60 years in one place, and so everything was where it had been left when I opened the drawers a few weeks ago looking for whatever it was I needed at the time.

I saw the scrapbook again and, curious to see it as an adult, I took it out. It's a handsome, leather bound scrapbook.  John Kennedy is poised regally on the front, framed in gold leaf, the Stars and Stripes behind him. I opened the cover.  The first things in it are entire sections of the paper from November 22, 1964, the year anniversary of Kennedy's death.  There is (was) a postcard of the grave site and three photographs of it wrapped in a work order (more on that later), and a copy of a comparison between Kennedy and Lincoln and the weird coincidences of their presidencies and assassinations.  Lots of tidbits and clippings of the anniversary inside the cover, as if, like we all do, Mom meant to add them later and just never did.

I turned the page and found the articles on the visit to Dallas from Nov. 22, 1963.  Glowing reports of how Jackie has captured the heart of Texas and how the president is courting supporters.  Pictures of the Kennedys and the Connallys together...The photo on the next page takes up the entire space.  It's the one of the Secret Service agent climbing over the back of the convertible.  The headline on the facing page reads, 

"President Shot To Death By Sniper; Johnson Receives Bipartisan Pledge; Red Sympathizer Charged As Killer."

And then page after page of clippings and articles from the next several days of shock and mourning.  

I read some of them, much of what I had already read in one way or another over the years, and decided to have a look at the postcard.  It said, "Dear Son..." and went on to talk about a trip to D.C. and the visit to Arlington and where the writer was staying.  It closed with, "Love, Mother and Dad."  The recipient was a man named Gnadinger who lived in the 40218 zip code.  The date was 1964.  Curious.  I had no idea how my mom got her hands on this, but I knew a Gnadinger from St. X, so I called her to ask if they might be related.

Turned out that the recipient had the same name as her husband's cousin, and his dad was still alive, so she promised to check into it.

Well, a few days later, I got an email, that the card WAS from her husband's Uncle Norb to his son when Norb and his wife were on vacation to Washington D.C.!  What a coincidence!  Kyle and Norb's great-nephew are in the same grade at St. X and are both in the play.  Small world!  I was glad to get that settled, but it didn't explain how my mom got the postcard.  They didn't live near each other.  They didn't go to the same church.  They didn't work at the same place.  HOW in the world did my mom get a postcard from the great-uncle of a boy Kyle knows from school just shy of 50 years since the postcard was written? 

This was a mystery, and I had to solve it.  I asked my aunts if they knew any Gnadingers or had any idea how Mom would have gotten the postcard.  No and none were the answers.  I sent an email back to my friend giving her detailed information on my mom and where she worked in 1964 and her maiden name...anything to make the connection.  I figured the postcard probably came from the recipient to Mom when he or his wife realized how much Mom loved Kennedy, but we just couldn't figure it out.  I went ahead and mailed the postcard onto my friend for her to give to her husband's uncle.  It belonged to them more than me, and I thought it might jog some memories.

Finally, I asked my friend where Norb worked.  She said Tube Turns.  My grandma worked there during WW2, but that was 20 years PRIOR to this postcard.  Then I thought I remembered that one of my mom's brothers also worked there.  I called my aunt back, and sure enough, my Uncle Jim worked at Tube Turns for many years.  He was a machinist.

I called Uncle Jim.

"Uncle Jim," I said, "did you know anybody at Tube Turns named Norb Gnadinger?"  

"Yeah I sure did," he replied.  "He was a good friend!  We used to bowl together..."

And so it went.

Uncle Jim reminisced about Norb for several minutes, and I told him the story of the postcard.  Thing was, Uncle Jim really didn't remember anything about the postcard.  I emailed my friend again.  "Ask Uncle Norb if he remembers giving the postcard to Jim Portman."

I got an email back yesterday from my friend.  This was Norb's reply:

"When Helen and I returned home from Washington, D.C., the JFK grave-site postcard was still safe in the house. Jim Portman and I were very close friends for many years. We did bowl on Tube Turns teams together. He and I shared quite similar averages around 160 – 170 and we enjoyed bowling together. If I’m not mistaken, Jim had his schooling at St Patrick’s on 18th Street (?) (Sharron's input: It was actually St. George). Jim’s main job at Tube Turns was the equivalent Machinist trade in the Laboratory Destruct Stress-Testing Dept. This means that as a machinist, he would make a test sample of aluminum or steel on a Lathe and then this sample was pulled apart on the testing machine and the resistance result numbers, if they were satisfactory to our customers, would accompany the materials as we forged various items for our customers. Of course, we also filed this information in our archives. (sorry I’m so wordy)

Every time I would leave my office to check out something in the mfg. shop, I usually visited with Jim and his co-workers. I know that I talked to him about our visit to the JFK grave-site because that was still of interest to everyone. Jim seemed interested in some way about the photo on the postcard and I offered to give it to him. I thought at the time that he just wanted the card to get an idea of what the Presidents grave-site looked like – as I described it to him – and also told him all about Arlington Cemetery and the ceremony carried out at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier (at that time). I don’t believe that we discussed this item again."

Uncle Jim then came home and gave the postcard to my mom, who put it into her scrapbook.  It was just a nice gesture at the time, but I'm sure she was thrilled.  Something fairly insignificant to him, but here we were, 50 years later, reconnecting dots and remembering old friends!

I called Uncle Jim to share the email, and Uncle Jim said again what a really nice guy Norb was.  He said, "He was a real leader!  Any time there was an event, Norb was the emcee."  He organized monthly breakfasts of the men once they retired and was just an all-around "great man.  Please tell him I said hello!"

Tonight, while writing this, I got the scrapbook out again and looked through it.  This time I paid more attention to the photographs I had always assumed my mom took when she finally made it to Arlington a few years later.  I would still think that she was the photographer save for one small detail.  They were wrapped in a piece of paper I had never looked at closely before.  At the top, it says, "Tube Turns  A Division of Chemetron Corporation." It's a copy of a work order from 1961 that was pulled out of a ledger and folded around three photographs of President Kennedy's grave.

I'll bet dollars to donuts, they were taken by Norb.

Life has come full-circle.  How very, very cool.

To Renew or not to Renew...That Is the Question

When my kids were little, they sold magazines for school.  It was a huge fundraiser, and if a family sold 25 magazines, the kids got lunch and limo ride to Gattiland.  My dad was always good for 2 or 3 magazines, so the kids hit him up every year, and every year, he ordered, without fail, Time and Reader's Digest.  Sometimes he'd get Sports Illustrated or Newsweek, but the other two were a given.

Now on the order form, there was always the option of one year for one price or two years for a cheaper price, and it took me awhile to realize that my dad had been ordering 2 years' worth of subscriptions for several years in a row.  The good people at the magazine companies just added those orders onto the existing account, creating a several years of pre-purchased issues.

When Dad died, I had the magazines forwarded to my house since they were already paid for.  Time ran out a few months  later, but Reader's Digest kept coming month after month, like a little present in my mailbox from Dad.  About a year after his death, I wondered how long the issues would continue.  I grew to look forward to seeing his name on the cover, like a little tiny part of him was still alive to someone.

So yesterday, when the March issue arrived with the notice

it took my breath a little.  Only two issues left?  Ouch.  I have grown to enjoy Reader's Digest.  The stories are interesting, the jokes are funny, and I pride myself on getting at least 13/15 on Word Power each month.  But more than enjoying the magazine, I loved that it was still coming from Dad, nearly 2 years after he died.  Now, it too, would be ending.  I felt like crying.

So I am faced with the dilemma:  To renew or not to renew?  If I renew, I will still enjoy the magazine each month, but it won't be the same.  It won't be from Dad, and that is where the ultimate pleasure lied.  If I renew, the magazine will be mine and not Dad's, but it will still be kind of a gift from him because he introduced it to me and got me reading it every month.  If I renew, I think I will leave his name on the subscription.  I'll know the truth, but Reader's Digest won't, and at least in somebody's mind, he's still here, chuckling at "Life in These United States," and that's something anyway.

The One That Started It All

The first Christmas we were home after Kirk got out of the army, we spent much of the time with Mom and Dad.  We had lived with them for about 9 months, and after our house was move-in-able in late November, we moved out of my parents' place and into ours, but we still spent a lot of time with them.  Their house was so much nicer and warmer and cleaner and warmer and finished.  Did I mention it was warmer?

Among Mom's Christmas decorations, Kyle fell in love with a wooden nutcracker.  It was a fairly traditional one, wearing a blue coat and hat with red knee breaches and white socks and black shoes.  The hair and beard were white, and Kyle loved to move the handle on the back up and down and watch the mouth move.  He made a game of putting a finger in the mouth and closing it, and he would laugh like crazy when Mom or Dad or I would put our finger in and then yell, "Ouch!" when he pulled the handle to close the mouth.

Mom used to let him carry the nutcracker around with him in his chubby little hands.  He loved to feel the hair and pretty soon, the beard started to come unglued.  The edge of the hat began to chip when Kyle would reach for the nutcracker, and it would fall onto the table or get dropped on the floor.  I suggested to Mom that Kyle was going to ruin it and that maybe she should put it up if she wanted to keep it nice.  She poopoo'ed me and told me not to worry about it, because if Kyle liked the nutcracker so much, he could have it.

Sure enough, the beard came off and the hair got messed up and the whole rim of the hat was chipped and worn.  But that nutcracker started a tradition that has lasted now 15 years and has landed us a veritable army of nutcrackers that come out every year.

Throughout Kyle's life, I have given him a new nutcracker every Christmas and tried to pick one that related to something he was interested in at the time.  There is an Uncle Sam from his patriotic period.  A cowboy and a Civil War soldier.  The year we saw "Pirates of the Caribbean," I found a pirate, complete with dreadlocks and parrot.  When Kyle was interested in sword-fighting, I found a knight with a shield and a resplendent robe.  When he learned to play the guitar, I found a rockstar with a mullet and sunglasses.  There is a gladiator and a football player and a nutcracker on skis and a New Zealand All-Blacks rugby player.  Last year, I got a real nutcracker from Fussen in Germany after we toured Neuschwanstein.  He's holding a beer stein from the Haufbrauhaus and a big pretzel.  This year, I have a nutcracker that looks like a medieval hunter with a bow and arrow to commemorate Kyle's role in "Robin Hood."  You can learn a lot about my son by looking at the nutcrackers he's collected over the years.  It's a fun trip down memory lane every time we put them out.

I'm already thinking about next year's addition.  Will it be a U of L Cardinal nutcracker or a NKU Norseman or a Hilltopper?  Who knows?  But whatever it is, it will take its place on the table with all of the rest, surrounding The One That Started It All, who stands proudly in the center with its missing beard and chipped hat, as if to say, "Look at me!  I was here first!"