Krissy

I thought I was in the hole before I even started. I had gone home with Kirk to Minnesota on a whim to meet his family, which consisted of his mom, dad, and his little sister. They were tight, since it was, and had mostly ever been, just the four of them. I was eager to make a good impression but afraid I'd be considered an outsider. I was in love with this guy, and I wanted his family to let me in.

Kirk called her “Krissy” all the time. In fact, he had rarely called her Kris. I’d never met her or even spoken to her on the phone, so when he called her at college and handed me the receiver after a brief chat, I said the first thing that came to mind,

“Hi Krissy! I can’t wait to meet you!”

His face went sober. His smile disappeared. His eyes grew round.

“What?” I mouthed. “What did I say wrong?” I thought maybe I had spoiled a surprise visit that he had planned. He just shook his head. I mumbled a few more sentences and handed back the phone.

“What?” I asked again.

He looked at me like I had committed the gravest of sins. “She hates when people call her that. Hates it.”

“But you call her Krissy,” I replied.

“Yes,” he said, "but I’m the only one who can. Nobody else. She hates it.” He drew his lips in to a line and shook his head. “I hope we can fix this, “ he said.

That afternoon, we drove to her apartment about an hour away. I was nervous. I kept thinking of how to best apologize and get back into my hopefully future sister-in-law’s good graces. When we got to St. Cloud, Kris met us at the car.

“Kirky!” she yelled, arms open wide for a hug.

“Kizzie!” he replied, picking her up off the ground.

“And you must be Sharron,” she smiled. “It’s so good to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about you!”

“I’m so sorry I called you Krissy,” I stumbled. “Kirk always calls you that, and I didn’t know you didn’t like it…”

“What are you talking about? Everybody calls me Krissy. Did Kirk tell you I didn’t like it? KIRK!” she scolded, “Ya big goof!"  She turned to me, "Come on in. Want something to drink?”

And so began my relationship with the best sister-in-law a girl could ever ask for.

Looking back, now that we are welcoming a new daughter and sister into our family, I see how blessed I was to have Kris in my life. From that very first day, she embraced me with 100% of her being. I never felt like an outsider around her or like I was a bother or an irritation to be tolerated. Whenever we were together, she was always asking my opinion on some trivial matter or if I would like to run errands with her. I was thrilled to offer my thoughts on which color nail polish I liked better or which shirt went best with which pair of pants. She took me to the mall and to drop off presents at her friends’ houses or to pick up something for her then boyfriend, Pete. She would send me cards in the mail with a quick note telling me to have a good day or a little present of something that she saw and knew I would enjoy.

During the lead up to the Gulf War, Kris had plans to visit Kirk for a long weekend in Texas. The airline tickets had been purchased long before Iraq had invaded Kuwait, and even though Kirk was gearing up to take off for the desert, she went down to be there whenever he got home each night. Then he asked me to come down too. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go. I wanted to be there whenever I could. But I didn’t want to horn in on their time together. I hesitated. Then Kris called me.

“Sharron,” she said, “please come too. Kirk needs you there, and I know you want to see him, and I want us all to be happy. I’d love it if you were there too!” And whether she was lying to me or not, I never knew because she was so kind that weekend. Whenever Kirk was at the base, Kris and I would just hang out at the mall or watch a movie. And when he came home, it was like we were a unit. We sat up late and talked and laughed, and I was so very grateful that she had let me in.

During the nine months Kirk was gone, Kris and I kept in touch. She’d call me if she heard from him, and I did the same. When he came home from the war, she was in Costa Rica on a study abroad teaching assignment, and she couldn’t get home. I missed her being there.

Kris was a bridesmaid in our wedding. She “loved” the salmon colored high-low dresses I chose and complimented everything else I picked out. She sent gifts to every bridal shower thrown for me, and for our wedding, she and Pete made us a quilt.

When she and Pete tied the knot, I was a bridesmaid for her. I actually loved the bridesmaid dresses she chose and even wore it to a military ball after. I sent gifts to her showers but never got around to making a quilt in return.

Kris visited us in Hawaii after Kyle was born, celebrating with us the week after Christmas. She doted on him like any aunt does to the first nephew or niece. We went to a luau and to the beach and shopping and out to eat. I have a picture of Kyle and Kris on a merry-go-round in Honolulu at a street fair. She’s holding him on a horse, and he’s smiling from ear to ear.

Whenever we’d go visit Minnesota, Kris would come by her parents’ house almost every day. She’d bring her Stamping Up kit and teach me how to make cards and ornaments and decoupage plates. When she got into scrapbooking even more, we’d develop pictures, and she tried to get me over my loathing of cutting up photographs to crop out the unnecessary stuff. She showed me how to tell the story of the event using stickers and fancy scissors and colored paper. I was miserable with so many choices, but she was a whiz and made 5 pages for my 1. Still, at the end of whatever we had done, she praised my talent and told me how amazing I was.

Kris never said a mean thing to me. She never acted mad or resentful that I was around. She only ever treated me with the kindest of hearts and always, always made me feel like she was thrilled that I was there.

Kris got breast cancer when she was about 36. Even when she was battling her illness, she still made me feel like I was a gift. As her time drew short, she called me and asked me to come visit her. She had been in the hospital for a few days, and she didn’t think she would be going home. She said, “I want to see you.”

I didn’t think I could do it. I remember sitting down in the middle of my kitchen floor coming up with all of the reasons I couldn’t go…too expensive to fly…the kids had too many activities…I had a commitment I couldn’t get out of…

“Please, Sharron,” she said. “I need to see you.”

After I agreed to fly up, I laid in a fetal position in the floor and sobbed. How could I go and say goodbye to this woman who had embraced me as her sister? Who had so selfishly shared her beloved brother with me? Who had given so much of herself to me over the years? How could I possibly say goodbye?

When I got to Minnesota, Pete picked me up at the airport. He told me she had been sleeping most of the time and that she might not be awake when I got there. I walked into her room, leaned over, and said, “Hi Krissy, It’s Sharron. I’m here.  It's my birthday, and seeing you is the best present I could have.”

She opened her eyes and smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you!” she said. I think she wished me a happy birthday, but I don’t remember. I was there for 2 more days, and she never opened her eyes again while I was around. She died less than a week later. The hole she left in my life has never filled.

Krissy broke the mold on how all sisters-in-law should be. I hope that my girls will embrace the love of their brother’s life with the same spirit that I felt from Kris. We are gaining a beautiful soul with Macey, and I want her to feel all the love I felt and more.

Dryers and clothes lines

The dryer in my grandma's kitchen was also her pantry.  It was full of boxes of crackers, bags of chips, and assorted cookies.  I don't know if she ever used the dryer for clothes, because there was so much food in the drum that it would have been a chore to clean it out for a load.  Her kitchen was tiny with just a couple of cabinets and nowhere to store much, so the dryer doubled as a pantry.  The washer and dryer stood sentinel against the wall across from the stove and just down from the fridge with their tops doubling as counters.  It wasn't odd for me to see the washer and dryer in the kitchen or to open up the dryer and grab a bag of Munchos.  It was just Granny's house.

She often had her blouses and pants hanging to dry in her bathroom on the shower curtain rack, and she had a drying rack in her back bedroom for smaller items.  I think I remember a clothes line in the back yard, but it's like a dream, so while I'm guessing she had one, I can't say for sure.

We had a clothes line pole in the side yard at our house when I was growing up.  It was about 5 feet square with concentric lines from pole to pole like a spiderweb.  There was a bag of clothes pins hanging on the line with both wooden and plastic clothes pins in it.  My mom would often hang our clothes on the line during the summer, and I can remember going out and pulling things off the line when the weather would turn and rain threatened.

My favorite thing dried on the line was our sheets.  We all had twin beds, and if we folded the sheets in half, we could get one on each of the outer lines with the fitted sheet on the second line in.  I can see those rainbow and flowered sheets dancing in the wind on that square clothes line.  They were like walls and almost made a little house, and I used to secretly walk between the sheets like they were a maze.  I loved the smell of those sheets the day after they'd been dried on the line.  They were so crisp and so fresh.  They just smelled clean.

During my old fashioned phase (which has never actually ended!), I used to wash my doll clothes by hand in a bucket and hang them on the line like I imagined Ma Ingalls doing on the prairie.  Tiny dresses and aprons, doll socks, and baby blankets dried in the sun while I pretended to be Laura gathering apples to put up for the winter.

I haven't had the occasion to dry clothes outside for a long while.  I really don't remember the last time I put anything outside besides my reenacting clothes, and then our dryer went out last week.  It ran through a cycle, and when I went to get the clothes out, they were still wet.  I ran it again.  Same thing.  After some investigation, I realized the heating element was bad, so I called a repair service.  Just to come out and take a look at it was $185.  To fix the 10 year-old dryer would cost about $400.  We could get a new one for just a little bit more than that, so I took myself down to Lowe's and got one.

There must have been a run on appliance purchases because it was going to be nine days before it could be delivered.  Nine days.  With no dryer.

I thought about going to the laundromat, and I still might, but we have a clothes drying rack for sweaters during the winter, so I decided to give it a whirl.  I brought the rack out to the patio and hung our clothes to dry.  It worked like a charm!  The clothes are not as soft as those dried in the dryer, in fact, the towels are downright scratchy. Everything is wrinkly and needs ironing once it's  dry.  But it's not been bad.  And the clothes smell so clean, just like I remember.

Hot Flashes, Hot Flashes...A Poem

By Sharron Hilbrecht

with a nod to Jack Prelutsky

Hot flashes, hot flashes,

I hate you!  You stink!

Your randomness pushes me

Over the brink.

I could be alone

Driving home in my car

Or out with my friends

With a drink at the bar

Or singing in church

With a hymnal in hand

Or lying in bed…

Who knows when you’ll land?

All of a sudden,

My cheeks will feel flushed.

My head starts to sweat,

And then I feel rushed

To find paper, a napkin,

A menu, a check,

Something to fan

the dew off my neck

My forehead, my chest,

And the top of my head.

My hair is all sweaty.

My cheeks are all red.

My shirt is constricting.

I really need air!

I peel off my clothes

Until I’m nearly bare

Then it’s over. You’re gone.

Now I’m wet, and I’m cold.

I’m wiping my face.

It really gets old!

You make me take baths

In a tub full of ice

or kick off the covers

(it’s not very nice),

Or turn down the air  

To 60 degrees

Until everyone’s freezing

Well, all except me,

or open the door of the

fridge for a breeze,

the heat and the sweat

just hoping to ease.

Hot flashes, hot flashes,

I don’t know why

You even exist.

I’m not gonna lie

Menopause sucks.

It really is wack.

Hot flashes, hot flashes,

Go away! Don’t come back!

Granny's Easter Eggs

When I was a little girl, I was amazed at my grandma's Easter eggs.  Their colors were so rich and vibrant that they almost looked painted.  Deep red, yellow, blue, and green, they were so unlike the eggs my sisters and I dyed each year.  Ours were pale, mottled things with our names scribbled in wax crayon on the shells, experimental drips of colors bleeding into each other as we tried in vain to make rainbow and tye-dyed eggs.  Don't get me wrong.  We had a lot of fun, each of us with our own dozen to do with as we pleased, but they never ended up looking like we imagined.

One year when I was a bit older, I asked Granny how she got her eggs to look so pretty.  She used plain old food coloring, she said, and let the eggs sit in the dye for 10 or 15 minutes at a time.  Ten or fifteen minutes?  My young brain couldn't imagine waiting that long!  Plus, with 36 eggs to dye, my sisters and I would be at it all day.  It would never happen.

When my own kids came along, they created the same eggs I did when I was little.  Who can wait 10 or 15 minutes for color when you are 6 years old and anxious to create the next beautiful egg?  Even when they got to be teenagers, they still enjoyed writing their names on the shells in that wax crayon and making two-toned eggs or double-dipped eggs.  We tried all of the Paas options over the years:  traditional, jewel tone, tye dye, sparkle, stickers.  Occasionally, we'd let the last 6 eggs sit in the dye for longer while we cleaned up the mess, and sometimes we got that deep color, but the Paas dye was not the same shade as Granny's food color eggs.

Last night, it was time to color our eggs.  Kyle and Claire are not around to help, and Emily was going out on a date and said for me to go ahead and do it.  It was a lonesome feeling dying eggs by myself.  I don't even eat them, but I felt like we had to at least have a dozen in the spirit of Easter.  I had not purchased a box of Paas dye yet, so I decided to do it my grandma's way with food coloring.  I also decided to let the eggs soak.

I thought about her working alone in her kitchen, getting ready to have the family over for Easter Sunday, while the eggs took on color in coffee mugs on her formica table.  I imagined her taking them out of the dye, wiping them down, and putting them back in the egg carton until Easter dinner.  I could see  them sitting in the bowl on the table amidst the ham sandwiches, potato salad, macaroni salad, deviled eggs, potato chips, and those green coconut topped cupcakes with the three little jelly beans in the center like colored eggs in grass. I thought about my aunts and uncles and cousins crowding in that tiny house enjoying a meal and each other.  It made me smile to remember all of us together.

So while my kids weren't with me to dye eggs for the first time in 23 years, I was still with family in my heart, and I made Granny's eggs just like she used to.

Recipes That Feed the Soul

When I moved away to Texas nearly 30 years ago, I asked my mom to write down her recipes for my favorite foods.  I wanted to be able to make her apple pie and lasagne and summer salad and potato soup and so many other dishes that she so effortlessly put on our table.  Mom was an excellent cook, and I aspired to be like her one day.  I made a list of recipes I wanted, and at some point, Mom copied them down for me.  I can imagine her sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by her cookbooks and recipe cards, carefully writing down the ingredients for her best meals. She made sure to put the name of the recipe, her name, how many it served and often put a smiley face at the end or wrote "Good luck!" after.  She enclosed each card in a plastic sleeve to keep the recipe free from splashes.  When she was finished, I had about 20 of my favorite recipes in a small plastic box ready for my trip to adulthood.

I referred to those recipes often.  We didn't have the internet to look up new ways of preparing pasta or chicken, so it was either those little note cards or one of the two cookbooks she got me: Where's Mom Now That I Need Her? or the tried and true Betty Crocker's Cookbook.

As I ventured out into life, I would come across delicious dishes at company cookouts or officers' wives' potlucks.  I'd often ask for the recipe for those foods and added the cards to my box.

While stationed in Texas, the parting gift when a woman left 1/8 CAV with her husband was a wooden recipe box with Texas bluebonnets painted on the front, and each officer's wife would add her favorite recipe to the box.  By the time I left, the commanding officer was single, and the tradition had floundered.  I did get the bluebonnet recipe box but no recipes from the other women.  Didn't matter.  I had my favorites ready to go inside when I got it home.  I have added to that box over the years, and it now contains all of my favorite foods written by hand by the women I've loved.

Of course, there are Mom's recipes, added to over the years, when I called her for how to make party mix or spaghetti sauce or a particular cheese ball.  She'd write down the ingredients and the steps and put it in the mail the next day.  I have Aunt Jeri's butter mints recipe.  (How many showers did I help roll those out for?  I can still remember pressing them down with a fork and hoping they didn't break in the process...)  Amy McDonald's sugar cookie recipe.  Hands down,  The.  Best.  Ever.  Julie Dalton's Swiss Pie that became Jack Pie by accident and a family favorite.  Cheryl Hahn's banana bread that I always use when my bananas get over ripe.  Betty Weber's sweet potato casserole, a staple at Thanksgiving...The best of so many women is in this little box.

With today's technology, it's so easy to pop open the laptop and google how to make anything.  There are always pictures, videos, and reviews for each amazing option.  I even have a folder on my computer with my favorite recipes, and I add to it all the time, but it's not the same.

Some of the recipes in my box were written nearly 30 years ago.  Mom's been gone almost 14 years, and I haven't seen Julie or Cheryl or Amy in 25 years, but  I can put a face with the handwriting on the card and remember when those dishes fed me body and soul.  Sure I can find anything I want to cook on the internet, but there's nothing like opening up my bluebonnet recipe box and thumbing through all of the cards inside, seeing the handwriting of the women who've filled my life with good food and good friendship and making those dishes and thinking of them.

Christmas Letter 2018

Christmas 2018

Have you ever fallen asleep while laying in the middle of a parking lot at midnight gazing up at the Milky Way?

Underneath your beach towel, the asphalt is still warm from the day, but the evening air is cool after the heat of the afternoon.  Crickets and frogs and owls serenade you from the edge of the surrounding forest as the stars slowly brighten before your eyes.  The Big Dipper comes into view. Orion’s Belt. There’s the Little Dipper and Polaris.  Could that be Venus, or is it Mars?  Is that a shooting star or a satellite? 

And as you lay there next to the four people who mean more to you than anything else in the world, with no cell phone service or television to distract you, you begin to contemplate the glory of creation, to think about how very infinitesimal you are in this incredibly infinite universe.  You realize that what matters most is right here and right now with these people in this place.  You feel connected to all of the hundreds of millions of people who have looked up at these very same stars for millennia, and you let the stress of 21^st century life slip away. 

You talk a little, not much though.  Nothing more than, “Did you see that shooting star?” or, “Look!  There’s the Seven Sisters constellation!” or simply, “Oh wow!”  The time between words spreads out until all you hear are the sounds of the night and the slow, quiet breathing of those around you.

And then time stands still, and the sky becomes one with the asphalt, and you are floating, falling, connected to those four people by an invisible, unbreakable cord that reaches out beyond you, and connects you to everyone who has ever gazed at the night sky in wonder, and those who will someday do the same.  And you feel yourself letting go, and peace washes over you.

At some point, you realize you’re all sleeping in the parking lot of Mammoth Cave National Park, and it’s well after midnight, and you should probably get up and go to your cabin so you don’t get run over by some late-arriving RV.  But you don’t want to break the spell of being surrounded by the people you love, so you linger a little bit longer while everyone else sleeps, drinking in the miracle that is this life, this place, these people.  And all you feel is love.

That is what I wish for you this holiday season…wonder and peace and love.

Merry Christmas!

NOW is better than THEN

I love reenacting. I love the clothes, the manners, the slow way of life, and pretending to be someone who lived nearly two centuries ago. So much about stepping back in time is just really, really fun, and we tend to romanticize how things were back in the old days.

And then every now and then, I am reminded, slapped in the face reminded, why NOW is so much better than THEN.

Today, while doing some genealogical research, I stumbled across a compilation of causes of death for people who lived in Grayson County, KY, where my ancestors had lived since the early 1800s. I began scrolling through the years to see if I could find any of my people. I ran across a couple, but what I found was one of the main reasons I am so glad to be alive now instead of then: healthcare.

Looking at the lists, one of the first things that struck me was how very, very young most of the people who died were. Babies, children, and teenagers made up the majority of deaths in several years. Hardly any people had "old age" listed as cause of death. Instead, what was listed time after time after time were deaths from illnesses that are basically non-existent (or easily cured) in today's world...typhus...scarlet fever...croup...whooping cough...fever...worms...diphtheria...measles...so many deaths that are preventable today. So many lives gone so very young. There were families that lost two and three children to typhus or scarlet fever. One family lost 5 family members. Another lost 4 children. My own great-grandmother lost one child to typhus and the other to the flu. I saw all of those causes of death listed and thanked God for vaccines.

Many people died from "milk sickness," which is caused by drinking milk from cows who have eaten the snakeroot plant, the same thing that killed Abraham Lincoln's mother. One family lost a father and 2 children. Another lost a mother and 3 kids. Just from drinking milk.

As I sat there skimming those names and ages and causes of death, I felt blessed to live during a time when so much illness and death can be prevented, when my kids are safe from measles, mumps, and rubella, diphtheria, pertussis (whooping cough), and tetanus, from typhus and scarlet fever and worms and croup. I thought of the night Emily had a croup attack, and we gave her a breathing treatment, but her lips started turning blue anyway, and we called 911. She got to ride to the hospital in an ambulance and come home the same night. What if that was not available to us? It makes me wonder what future generations will marvel at when they look back on our causes of death.

So, while I love dressing up and pretending it is 1816, I am ever so grateful to live in 2018.

http://genealogytrails.com/ken/grayson/graysoncountydeaths.html