The Wallet

I have no memory of the kind of wallet I carried before I got this one.   I’ve had it so long that I don’t even remember exactly when I got it.  High school?  College?  Probably college, but I’m not sure.  My mom gave it to me for Christmas, I think, or my birthday.  I remember she told me she agonized over what I would like, and settled on a practical, brown leather wallet similar to the one she had carried for years.

My wallet at the end of its life.

Her wallet was so full that it wouldn’t snap closed.  Besides her driver’s license and credit cards, it housed a little cash, photos, grocery lists (many were months old), receipts from Melton Food Mart, Target, and The Dollar Tree, holy cards, an “I am a Catholic. Please call a priest” card, odd scraps of paper with phone numbers or address on them, and an occasional quarter or dime that had found its way in between the papers when she dropped her change down into her purse.  Her checkbook and register were in there as well, although most of the time, her register was full, and she would write the check number and amount along the edge or back of it.  I don’t think I ever saw her balance it.

I asked her once how she ever found anything in that wallet and suggested she needed a new one.  She said liked her wallet and knew where things were.  She still had it, still stuffed with stuff, when she died.  I went through each piece of paper and holy card and receipt later, and kept a few things.  They were like little snapshots of her life.   The paper with the phone number from St. Elizabeth’s is where my sister had her daughter in 2004, but I kept it because Mom had blotted her lipstick on that piece of paper.  The Holy Family holy card was from a friend at church, and the Blessed Mother card was from one of my mom’s best friends. The picture of Kyle was taken his first Christmas when we lived in Hawaii.  The other inspirational cards and quotes just reminded me of how she lived her life:  for her family, with faith.

The items from my mom's wallet.  I keep them in my jewelry box.

                                          

Even though I didn’t really like this wallet when I got it, I kept it.  It looked like a “mom wallet,” and I was 19 or 20, but I didn’t want to hurt my mom’s feelings by taking it back. Then I moved to Texas, and it became a kind of connection to her.  It followed me to Arizona then Hawaii then back to Kentucky.  It got worn around the edges and the inside started wearing out, and I really needed a new one.  Then Mom died, and I just couldn’t let it go.

Over the years, my wallet filled to the point where I could no longer snap it closed.  Receipts from Kroger and Qdoba; rewards cards from Kinney Dance Store and The Popcorn Station; library cards and photos and holy cards made closing it all but impossible.  My only hope was that everything didn’t fall out inside my purse.  Once in awhile, I’d cull through things and get it to where it almost snapped, but that would never last long.  Soon, it would be popping open again.  One of my girls suggested I needed a new one.

This past spring break, we were staying with 8 teenagers in a rental house in Florida, and I wasn’t positive they’d remember to lock the door when they left.  I’m pretty safety-conscious, and so I always hide my wallet whenever I’m on vacation and not taking it with me.  This time, I put it in a pair of pants in my dirty clothes basket.  It stayed there all week with no problems.  Then on the last day, I did laundry.  I forgot my wallet was inside the pants, and when I opened up the washing machine, a big ball of wet paper gunk greeted me.  Credit cards and my driver’s license were stuck to the drum.  My wallet was destroyed.  So were my photos and my holy cards and the snapshots of my life over the past 25 years. 

After the wash.

I tried to dry my wallet out, but it was beyond help.  The only piece of paper that wasn’t shredded was a Christmas list from when the kids were little.  I’m thinking 2009 because it says Dad owed, “$10 poinsettia,” and Kyle was selling poinsettias when he was in 8^th grade.  It took me back to see what my kids were getting for Christmas that year.  It’s been a long time since I’ve bought them toys, and it made me nostalgic to remember that.

   

Christmas shopping list, 2009

I finally tossed my poor, sad wallet into the trash.  I took a picture of the Christmas list and then threw it away too.  I called my friend to see if she had another holy card she could send me to put in my new wallet whenever I get one.  My credit cards, reward cards, and IDs are in a Ziploc bag in my purse until I can figure out whether I want a practical, brown leather “mom wallet” or something more fun.

Not that there’s really any doubt what I’ll end up with!

Worry Wart

My son has been a little extra worried about his health lately.  He's almost 20 and living in an apartment while attending university, and he's at the age where maybe he's starting to realize he's not invulnerable to life's problems.  I've tried to reassure him that the ringing in his ears is probably from wearing his earbuds 24/7 and that he should maybe give his ears a rest;  that his eye strain doesn't mean he's losing his vision, but that just maybe too much screen time is causing his issues.  To be safe, he went to the doctor for both problems, and he is fine, just like I said, but it got me to thinking about worry and how it affects me. I realized that I live in fear and have for a long time.  I'm not sure what to do about it, if anything, but I wanted to acknowledge it, and by doing so, hopefully put it in its place.  Here goes:

I was not always afraid.  I used to be able to hike and camp and go tubing down rivers in Texas without a thought of a snake.

Our campsite.  Inks Lake, TX 1990

I even took a picture of a sign on one of our camping trips that said, "Watch for snakes," because it amused me.

Inks Lake, TX 1990

I didn't like heights, but I wasn't afraid of falling off a cliff while standing five feet away from the edge.  I wasn't afraid of terrorists on the airplane or worried about finding an exit in a crowded room in case I had to evacuate quickly.  A headache was a headache and not a brain tumor.  A mole was a mole and not melanoma.

Things changed for me when I had kids.  Kyle was my first.  I started to become hyper-vigilant about every sniffle and cough, where he was, who he was with. Was he still breathing? Was that person watching him as closely as I would?  What if they didn't have covers over the outlets?  What if they left the toilet seat up, and he fell in or the lid came down and hit him in the head?  Was his food cut into small enough pieces?  What if he choked on a hot dog or a piece of carrot?

As he got older and began venturing out, I worried that he would get lost in our neighborhood or sneak over to Kroger, crossing the busy road at the end of our street.  We had woods across from our house, but I didn't like him to play there because there were older kids from the high school who hung out there, and I worried what they might do to him.  Or what if he got bitten by a snake?  What if he climbed a tree and fell out and hurt himself? If he wanted to spend the night at a friend's house, I worried that they might have a gun that was not locked away.  What if he found it?  He knew not to pick it up, but I'd seen Dateline. That didn't stop those kids.  And when he started playing with airsoft guns with his friends, I worried that someone would think he had a real gun, even though his had the orange tips, and would shoot him.  What if?  What if?  What if?

After my girls were born, I got a whole new set of worries.  What if some weirdo tried to molest them?  What if a boy tried to take advantage of them?  What if someone put something in their drink?  What if a boy liked one of them and became abusive?  What if some girl was jealous of them and did something mean?

They played sports.  What if they got a brain injury?  What if their teeth got knocked out?  What if they had an undiagnosed heart defect and they died on the field?  What if a ball hit them square in the chest and stopped their heart from beating?

Worry fills my life.  I have been around long enough to see every single one of my own concerns become reality in someone else's life, but  when they were young, I had some control.  I could be around much of the time in case something bad did happen.  I became a most efficient helicopter parent.  I'm sure I have set my kids up for years of therapy, and I am not kidding when I say that.

Now that they are older, the worry has become a constant companion for me.  Two of my three kids are driving.  One doesn't live here anymore.  The anxiety I have on a day to day basis sometimes overwhelms me because I no longer have control and the consequences are even more real than they were when they were younger.

They could have a wreck when driving.  They could hit someone or be hit.  They could lose control driving in the rain or on ice.  They could see someone needing "help" on the side of the road and stop and be assaulted.  Or hit by another car as they get out to assist the first person.  They could get pulled over by someone impersonating a police officer and get robbed or raped.

I worry that they are drinking underage.  Many teenagers do.  I don't think it's an issue with mine, but I'll never say never.  What if they are?  My dad was an alcoholic, so they could become one easier than a kid who doesn't have that gene.  I've told them this over and over, but did they listen?  What if they didn't?  What if they decide to drink but have no idea how much is safe and then get alcohol poisoning and die?  What if they are at a party and they drink too much and pass out and someone does something to compromise them and puts it on social media?  What if they decide to start smoking cigarettes?  God forbid, what if, despite all their dad and I have taught them, they decide to use drugs?

When my son goes camping with friends at Red River Gorge, I worry about him falling off a cliff while hiking or during the night if he has to go to the bathroom.  What if he gets attacked by a wild animal or bitten by a snake while out on the trail?  What if he meets someone on the trail who has stepped out of "Deliverance"?  What if he gets lost?

When my girls want to go skiing, I worry that they will hit a tree or slide into the road or a creek or get a concussion.  What if they fall out of the ski lift?  When my son went sledding the other night, I worried that he would get frostbite.

My son is planning a study abroad in Germany next semester.  What if there is a terrorist attack?  What if he gets abducted?  What if he gets taken advantage of by some ne'er do wells?  What if he runs out of money?  What if he gets in trouble with the law and ends up in jail somewhere?  What if he goes hiking and gets lost?  What if he gets sick overseas?  What if he gets talked into doing something that he shouldn't do?  Can he use the subway correctly?  What if he can't and he gets turned around and ends up in the wrong part of town and gets robbed?

What if he uses a chain saw and cuts off a body part?  What if she cooks a quesadilla and accidentally catches the kitchen on fire?  What if she goes to a friend's house who has cats and has an allergic reaction and dies?  What if her headache is meningitis and not a plain old virus?  What if their harness on the roller coaster breaks on the way down the hill? What if they take the cinnamon challenge and choke to death?  What if the plane they are on crashes?  What if they go too far out in the ocean and can't get back in?  What if there is a shark?

I haven't slept well for about 19 years.  My ears are trained for any odd noise or stirring from a bedroom down the hall.  I sometimes still check in the middle of the night to make sure my kids are breathing.

I know most of my fears are irrational, and they don't keep me from doing much (except hiking and camping) or letting my kids do most of what they want.  I know these things can and do happen, and I know that they most likely won't happen to my kids.  Still I think that they happen to some people's kids.  God forbid it be one of mine!  I try not to let my fear and worry consume my life or interfere with my kids' lives, but I'm not always very good at it.  I am trying to trust that I have taught them well and that they know what to do in case of emergency. It's just really, really hard.  I treasure the days and nights when I have all my kids at home, sleeping safely in their own beds, and I know where they are, and I can rest.

This parenting thing doesn't get easier as they get older.  In fact, it's harder because the consequences are real and they are out of my control.  I am learning that I cannot obsess over the bad things that might happen but that I should enjoy the good things that are happening.  I have three great kids.  They are smart and aware and thoughtful.  They have good friends and make good choices.  Stuff can happen, but like my wise friend, Amy, says, "Why worry?  That just means if it does happen, you have lived it twice."

Honoring a Veteran

Some days you get to see the best in people.  Today was one of those days for me.

I read the obituaries every morning, and this morning, I saw the one for a Warren McDonough, age 91, and a WW2 soldier.  He had been in the invasion of Normandy and had only a niece, a nephew, and some friends listed as survivors.

I always pause when I read these old soldier obituaries and wonder what the war was like for them and what they did with themselves after they came home.  I said a silent "thank you" to Mr. McDonough and turned the page.

Later this afternoon on Facebook, I saw his face again on a post by WAVE 3, so I read it to see what it said.  The article talked about Warren and how sad it would be that there would be no one there to mourn him at his visitation.  It suggested that if anyone had a few minutes, to stop by and pay respects to this old soldier, veteran of Omaha Beach, and the Invasion of Normandy.

I decided to go.

All of my WW2 buddies are gone now.  Mr. Humphrey, Mr. Chard.  Mr. Donaldson.  I thought they would appreciate me stopping by to pay respects to a fellow soldier.

I pulled into the funeral home parking lot, and it was packed.  I wondered if there was another visitation or if all of these cars were for Warren.  Making my way to the lobby, the tears welled up as soon as I saw the Patriot Riders flanking the entry doors, American flags on each side.  One opened the door for me, and the tears began flowing freely.

I looked for the name plates to see where Mr. McDonough was laid out, and his name was the only one.  All the cars in the parking lot were for him.  The room was packed.  There were flowers from anonymous donors.  People stood at his casket.  They lined up to sign the guest book.  They sat in the chairs and visited.  One man stood at attention in the back of the room.

I kept crying.

I glanced over at a nearby table, and saw pictures of the young Warren and his name tape and a poem.

I went to visit the casket and saw where someone had put a silk poppy on his jacket.  There was a thank you card next to him too.

The tears continued as I looked at all of the people coming in to pay respects.  There was a soldier in his dress blues with his family.  There were bikers, police officers, and paramedics.  Parents came in with their small children or teenagers.  A scout master came in with a few Boy Scouts.  Old men in their VFW hats and young men in suits stood in line.  Another soldier.  Two more police officers.  A twenty-something in sweats.  A young couple prayed nearby.  Black people.  White people.  Old folks and young.  A wonderful slice of America, all there to pay respects to a stranger, to say, "Thank you" to a soldier who risked it all for people he didn't know.

As I left, I asked the funeral director if he had ever seen so many people come out for a total stranger.

"No.  Never.  I can't say I've ever seen this before," he replied.

"It's nice," I said.  "Makes you feel like there is hope for us yet."

The Patriot Riders opened the door for me as I walked out.  I thanked them for being there.

"It's the least we could do," one said.  "For all he did, it's the least we could do."


http://www.rattermanbrothers.com/obituaries/Warren-Mcdonough/#!/Obituary

My Daughter Is NOT a Princess!

My oldest daughter, Claire, informed me yesterday that she is NOT a princess.  Not no way.  Not no how.  Not.  A.  Princess.

This, coming from someone who, as a little girl, lived and breathed princess, made me scratch my head.  She had princess sheets, a princess comforter, princess curtains.  She dropped coins into a princess bank, carried a princess purse, and had a princess spoon and fork.  We had tiaras coming out the wahzoo and so many princess dresses, you would have thought we were the Disney costume shop.  Princess t-shirts, princess pajamas, princess toothbrushes, a princess backpack and a princess lunchbox.  We had lunch in Cinderella's Castle and met all of the princesses, and once, after meeting Prince Charming, she whispered in awe, "He called me fweethawrt!"

First trip to Disney World, 2004

It was all princess all the time.  Really.  All the time.

Second trip to Disney World, 2005

Of my girls, Claire is the one I would have least expected to say, "I am not a princess!"  

"Woah.  What brought this on?"  I asked her.

It seems that the day before, her boyfriend texted her something like, "Goodnight, princess."

"I am not a princess," she replied to him.  "I am a superhero historian scientist!"

"Okay," he said, teasing her.  "Goodnight superhero historian scientist princess!"

They got into a conversation about why girls are always called, "Princess."  Why NOT "superhero" or "scientist" or "astronaut"?

"Think about it, Mom," she said.  "Did you ever tuck me in and say, 'Goodnight my little astronaut?  NO!  Why?  Why do girls always have to be princesses???"

I had never really thought about it.  I did/do call my girls "princess," because what can be more special than a princess?  Think of the adjectives that "princess" calls to mind:  beautiful, delicate, sweet, dainty, lovely...I told her "princess" is an endearing term, that she shouldn't take it so negatively, that it's a way guys (and parents) show affection to the girls they love. She wasn't buying.

"Mom, a princess is someone you dress up in pretty clothes and marry away to a prince, who will become king.  So, yeah, she'll be queen one day, but she'll still only be second best!"

She bemoaned how society boxes little girls into pink and purple and princess, exclaiming, "Girls should be thought of as explorers and scientists and superheroes!  If I have a daughter, I'm going to call her 'my superhero' not 'my princess'."

Claire does have a great point.  It reminded me of the time when she was in first grade when she had to label a picture with the beginning sound it made.  There was a picture of a lady with a stethoscope around her neck and a cross on her hat.  Claire put "D" for doctor and got it wrong because it was "N" for nurse.  She was mad.  Her doctor is a female, and in Claire's mind, and rightly so, she saw a doctor.  I told the teacher her reasoning, but the teacher was old school and wouldn't budge.  "We were working on 'Ns'," the teacher said.

After contemplating our conversation about princesses and how we start so young indoctrinating our girls into the princess culture, I see that Claire is right:  She IS a superhero historian scientist.  I just hope whoever ends up sitting at her right hand is okay with sharing power because this girl isn't going to be second to anyone!

Other People's Dog Poop

I don't have a dog for a reason:  Three of us in our family are allergic to them.  But even if we weren't allergic, I still wouldn't have a dog because, well, I don't really like them.  Please don't hate me.  I'm sorry.  I've tried to like dogs.  We had a basset hound when I was a kid, and she was great, but even then, I really only liked her ears.

And as I've gotten older, I have pretty much stopped liking dogs altogether.

Don't get me wrong.  I like looking at dogs.  I think they are cute.

                                     

I know they are helpful.  They are great companions for kids and assistants for the disabled.  They rescue people and sniff out explosives and aid our soldiers in their jobs.

But they stink.  And they shed.  And slobber.  And poop great poops in the yard that have to be scooped up, usually by an adult, and carried down the street in a Kroger bag while the dog trots merrily along on a leash.  This visual is always amusing to me for some reason, but I digress.

You can imagine my frustration and utter disgust when yesterday, while working in my yard, my dog-free yard, I stepped in a big ol' pile of shit.  It squished up into the treads of my shoes and along the sides and sat there stinking.  I threw my clippers down in anger and dragged my shoe in the grass trying to get the worst out before I trekked over to the hose to clean the poop off.  I hosed it down, but it still stinks.

I don't care if you have a dog.  If you don't mind the smell and the hair and the slobber and the crap, knock yourself out.  Have 10 dogs.  Just keep them out of my yard, please, or if they have to take a dump here, pick it up and carry it home to your own trash can, because I don't want to be stepping in other people's dog poop.

Now. Not When September Ends

It's my melancholy time of year.  "Wake Me Up When September Ends" has been my theme song for this season.  Summer vacation is drawing to a close, and with it, the carefree days spent with my kids.  Soon we will find ourselves in a routine of school, dance class, volleyball practice, and homework.  I will be alone during the day once again, and when the kids are home, we will not have the time that we do now.  Kyle will be back at school, and his presence here will be missed.  I need to find something constructive to do to occupy myself, so I don't keep dreading the fall.

We didn't do a lot other than chill.  I mean, okay, we went to Europe for 10 days, but other than that, we just kind of hung out at home.  One day we went to Frankfort.  We went to the movies.  We went to the pool a couple of times.  The kids went to friends' houses or had friends over.  We stayed up late and slept in.  It was a relaxing summer, and while I sort of wish we would have done more stuff, I kind of liked just being home with the buzzing of activity that comes with three teenagers zipping about.

July, August, and September are how I count years now.  January 1st means nothing but the change of year in my check book.  But July, August, and September...Those months mark so many significant dates for me...Four years since Dad died...my birthday (another year older...ugh!)...seven years since Kris died...ten years since Mom...Wasn't I just dropping Kyle off at kindergarten?  I was pregnant with Emily, and I can remember Claire crying in the backseat, "I want Kyle!" as we pulled away.  Now fourteen years later, Emily is starting our final year at Holy Trinity.  What?  Claire with bows in her hair every day of first grade.  Emily and Ethan and our weekly lunch dates after preschool.  Where did the time go?

These months always make me reflective.  Remembering Mom's and Dad's last days, both so different, but each just as final.  The call from Pete that Kris had passed...I had just taken the kids to the state fair.  My birthdays.  Haven't I just turned 30?  How can I almost be 48?  My life is half over. What have I done with it?

See what I mean?

Every year this time is the same thing.  Sadness.  Melancholy.  Dread.

I hate the cold days and the long, dark nights.  I hate the bare trees and monochrome landscape that is winter.  I hate the layers of clothes and shoes that come with it.  Even though there are still many weeks until this reality, August reminds me that it is coming.  The occasional yellow leaf on a tree.  The odd cool morning.  The quiet in my house when the kids are back in school.

I know this about myself.  I get in a bad mood every year, and I don't like that.  Instead, this year, I will try to embrace this day.  This moment with my kids, my flowers, my summer evening.

I'm making plans for this fall.  I am heading to Boston for a few days at the end of August to visit my sweet Aunt Nanette and Uncle Jim.  I did that a couple of years ago, and it was such a wonderful visit and a great buffer between the end of summer and the start of school.

I hope to take my dear Aunt Jeri to West Virginia to see her daughter/my cousin.  I've been wanting to go, and she has no way to get there.  I can take her, so I think I am.

I'd like to go to Missouri to see Rocky Ridge where Laura Ingalls Wilder and her husband Almanzo lived.  I've seen her home on Plum Creek and have been to DeSmet, South Dakota and seen those places.  Missouri is next.

I may start a gratitude journal to remind me how truly blessed I am, how much I have to be thankful for, how fantastic my life is.

I do know that I don't want to sleep through September.

Uncle Joe, RIP

Uncle Joe, Uncle Bob, Aunt Nanette, Dad about 2006

My Uncle Joe died today.  He was 89 and 6 months.  I add the 6 months because he was determined to make it to 90.  Nearly every time I saw him lately, he would comment that he hoped he could at least make it to his next birthday, because he had to outlive his brother, Bob, who had died 4 months short of 90 while sitting on the couch. After that he didn't care; he just didn't want to linger.

He almost made it.

Not sure if he died from his COPD/emphysema or the aneurism in his aorta.  It doesn't matter.  He passed peacefully, sitting on his sofa in his pajamas, almost exactly like his brother.

He was one of the most interesting people I have ever known.  He was an artist, a free-spirit, a raconteur.  He was one of the lucky elderly who had his mind until the end.  He had a joke for every occasion and a story to match.  Often you wouldn't know if he was telling a joke or a true tale.  He would start out, "That reminds me of the time I was in this little pub in Ireland..."  And he had been in many little pubs in Ireland or France or Spain, so what he was about to tell could possibly be true, but 9 times out of 10, it was the set up for a fantastic joke.  I can't remember a single one, but he had hundreds tucked away in his mental file cabinet and could pull them out with ease.

He joined the Army Air Corps during World War 2 and trained to be a waist gunner in a B-17.  He was supposed to be shipped over to Europe to fight the Germans, but the war ended before he could leave.  He then got orders to head to the Pacific to battle the Japanese, but Japan surrendered, so he didn't go there either.  I think at one time, he might have had a little regret that he "missed out," but as an older man, he realized how lucky he was.  I can't imagine him fighting in a war.  He had too gentle of a soul for killing.

He led a most fascinating life, residing for awhile in Paris after the war.  He told the story about a time when he was sitting in a little cafe off the beaten path (yes, this one is true) when who should sit at the table next to him but Tennessee Williams!  He said he looked up, and who should be walking across the street loaded with books but Truman Capote.  He thought to himself, "Holy cow!  I wonder what kind of literary tete-a-tete I'll hear today!" and scooted a little closer to the authors' table.  Capote walked up to Williams and plopped his armload of books on the table and said simply,  "I'm pooped!"  Uncle Joe got a big kick out of that.

He was a glass is half full kind of guy.  An eternal optimist.  He had a full head of mostly black hair and wore glasses on a chain around his neck, which he needed mostly just for reading.   He was the last of my relatives to kiss me on both cheeks, the French way after my grandmother.  He always called me "Dear."

Uncle Joe could build just about anything.  He loved plumbing for the "puzzle-like" problems it presented.  He was using a jigsaw up until last year to build a desk for his computer and a work bench for his art but then the dust got to be too much for his lungs.

His closet was full of navy blue shirts and khaki pants with the occasional black or dark green shirt.  He said having all his clothes the same color cut down on decision-making and simplified his life.

He loved to cook.  He made Spanish rice and apple tarts and just recently, I got him some fresh rhubarb and cinnamon sticks so he could stew them together without ruining the nice pink color of the rhubarb.  He liked grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup from Panera, bread from Blue Dog Bakery, and bourbon, any kind.

He painted like a boss.  Watercolor in his later life, oil in the early years.  I hung rows of paintings in the hallway of his last apartment and other assorted paintings around the family room.  They were like snapshots of his travels through Canada, France, Spain, Ireland, the Bahamas, wherever he had been.  If the light fell a certain way along a hedgerow of arborvitae or against the side of a barn, he painted it.  He made amazing collages of tickets and napkins and programs of events.  He collected folk art and old editorial cartoons.  He read the New Yorker and had email and knew how to surf the web.

He donated his body to UofL School of Medicine.  He had been a professor, chairman of the art department at the University of Kentucky for many years.  He said he taught students in life and wanted to continue teaching after he died.  "I won't need my body anymore," he said.  "If I can continue to educate after I'm gone, why not?"

That was just the kind of guy he was.

I wish I could meet with the students who will learn from him over the next few weeks and months.  I would like to tell them that this was not just some 89 year old guy with COPD.  He was an extraordinary gentleman, a gentle and kind man, the kind that they don't really make anymore.  Be good to him.  Learn from him.  Then go out and make the world a better place.  That would make him happy.