The Morning After Christmas

In the quiet of the morning on the day after Christmas, remains of the holiday abound.  The tablecloth on the dining room table still holds crumbs from yesterday's dinner, the candles burned down halfway in their holders, a stray napkin and an empty glass sit waiting to be cleaned up.  The leaves remain in, stretching the table to its maximum length, filling the dining room from side to side.  Unused Christmas plates and cups, plastic forks and holiday platters collect on one end until the next trip downstairs puts them away until next year.

On the counter in the kitchen, dishes rest after air-drying overnight because we just didn't feel like drying them by  hand.  Things remain out of place, rearranged to make room for yesterday's spread.  The coffee pot is across the room on a different counter, and the fruit bowl remains upstairs and out of the way.  A carton of soft drinks, mostly empty, waits to be returned to the garage refrigerator, and the candy and cookies sit on the hutch, mostly uneaten, because we either ate too much to care for dessert or decided that peppermint ice cream was the better use of calories.

A few stray presents remain wrapped and under the tree, reminding us that not everyone we love was here yesterday.  Bits of torn paper and ribbon peak out from under a chair where they were pushed during the gift-giving frenzy.  New socks and pajamas and sweaters and books wait in piles in corners and behind the sofa, ready to be taken out of their packaging and worn or read.  The puzzle on the game table is finished, and an empty can of Diet Coke and a stray piece of party mix sit next to the puzzle box.  On the secretary, a camera waits for the holiday photos to be downloaded, to remind us of another year come and gone.

I turn the tree on again, not ready for Christmas to be over, and sit on the sofa sipping a second cup of coffee.   The kids still sleep in their rooms upstairs, and I'll stay in my pajamas as long as possible.  Clean up will be slow, if at all, because leaving things out extends the party and keeps the holiday spirit alive for another day.

My Cousin Donna

My cousin, Donna, died yesterday.  Colleen and I had gone to visit her in the morning, not knowing that she was so close to death.  We left thinking we'd see her again in a few days, and we were not prepared for the phone call that came last night.

When we got to Donna's room, she was sitting in a wheelchair, bent over, because she said it helped her breathe better.  She would answer our questions, but that was about it.  She was sick.  She was tired.  She said she just wanted to sleep.

A physical therapist was with her.  She had gotten Donna up and dressed and out of bed.  She said it was only the second time she'd worked with Donna, and I looked at my cousin and thought, "God, how I wish you could have known her like she was!"

This is the Donna I wanted to tell her about...the Donna that I will remember:

A cousin who took 3 little girls for sleepovers at her apartment and hid presents around the rooms for really fun scavenger hunts; who knew Crazy Foam was a favorite; who had bendy straws and made blue milk for breakfast.

A cousin who made polkadot ceramic mushrooms for those 3 little girls and Christmas ornaments for all the cousins one year.  (Mine still hangs on my tree.)

A cousin who let us use her house for our parents' 25th wedding anniversary, who probably paid for most of it, since we were young, but who never let on like we needed to pay her for anything.

A cousin who hosted bridal showers and baby showers; who handmade all of the invitations, each one different from the other, with teapots and flowers and ribbons; who gave the best, most perfect presents...a basket of pretty towels and washcloths rolled up with goodies tucked inside...diapers and baby toys and onesies made into a "cake" or a wreath...an Easter basket with a bunny book and then the bunnies to go with it...

A cousin who could always be counted on to bring not one, but six, pies to Thanksgiving dinner; who made the best potato casserole; who insisted on bringing all of those things and artichoke dip as well.

A cousin who always brought the cutest little hostess gift whenever she came to my house, even if she was bringing six pies, potato casserole, and artichoke dip.

A cousin who loved to go to lunch with cousins at the cutest places in town and then browse antique and gift shops after.

A cousin who filled 100 Easter eggs with candy and quarters and the occasional dollar bills to hide for a massive egg hunt where everybody wins.

A cousin who sent birthday cards to my kids with $5 tucked inside.

A cousin with a knack for decorating, who loved pottery and baskets and colorful chickens and little brown rabbits; who adored teapots filled with the flowers that she grew in her yard.

A cousin who was more like a sister or an aunt or a friend, who would always help if I needed anything, who loved my kids, who delighted in giving, who was always there until now.

I know this is the way of things.  That people die.  Families change.  Life goes on.  But damn, it just leaves a great big hole where they used to be. 

A Time Before Mass Shootings

I was thinking tonight that I remember a time before mass shootings. The first one I remember happened when I was in high school when someone went into a McDonald's in California and killed 22 people, but it was such an anomaly and so far away, that it didn't really register with me.


Then in 1989, a mass shooting happened in my town. The father of a friend was killed by the father of a boy I went to high school with. Seven other people were killed. That woke me up. It was hard to believe that something like this could have happened in my town to people I knew.


Two years later, I had moved to Texas and was teaching seventh grade in the Killeen Independent School District. One afternoon during a staff meeting, the secretary interrupted with the tragic news that a man had driven his truck into the neighborhood Luby's restaurant and killed 24 people. Teachers from the district were killed. Soldiers from Ft. Hood were shot. I worked for the school district. My fiancee was stationed at Ft. Hood. As I drove home, I had to pass the exit where Luby's was located. Traffic was blocked on the highway, and we had to take the access road to pass. There was a helicopter parked on the highway, which was packed with police cars and ambulances. It was a mile from my house.


Mass shootings became more frequent. Maybe it was the ability to get hands on more powerful weapons or maybe it was that cable gave us 24/7 news about them. Maybe it was both. The term "going postal" entered our vernacular. I started to feel less safe.


Then the school shootings started. Westside Middle School. Thurston High School. Columbine. Virginia Tech. Sandy Hook Elementary School. For God's sake, Sandy Hook.


Shootings at malls. Twice again near Killeen at Ft. Hood. In a temple. In a church. At a movie theater. At a Christmas party. A health clinic. A night club. An outdoor concert. The list goes on.


Places we should be safe. Places we should not be afraid. But I am afraid now. I was at an outdoor concert last week. It was crowded with thousands of people. The music was great. Everyone was chill. But my thoughts went to, "What if someone open fires? Where should I run?" When my kids go to Waterfront Wednesday or Forecastle or the Derby, I worry about general safety like drunk drivers or fights, but I really worry about someone opening fire on the crowd. I cannot relax until I know they are home.


I was at the Pegasus Parade last year when someone shot someone right across the street from where I was sitting. I heard, "Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!" and thought it was a weird time to be shooting off firecrackers. Then I saw people fleeing the area. I froze. It was like slow motion. I remember thinking, "Wait...was that gunfire?" and just standing in one spot, packing up my folding chair and trying to wrap my head around what was happening. Then a police officer yelled, "Run!" and I came out of my fog and took off running. I hid behind a car in a used car lot. I had no idea what to do.


And just as my kids do not remember a time when we were not at war, they also do not remember a time when mass shootings were not common. We have had 1,516 mass shootings in 1,735 days. They happen so often that we only hear about the big ones now. Nine people died in a shooting in Plano, TX last month. I barely remember hearing about it. Twenty five people were shot in Little Rock, AK in July. Six people died in Orlando in June. Eight people died in May in Mississippi. Fifteen people shot and two people killed in Cincinnati in March.  These are just a few from 2017, and I don't remember hearing about any of them.

And tonight we have 59 people dead and 527 people wounded. It took one man 10-15 minutes with a gun that fired off 600 rounds a minute to cause this massacre. He had 42 guns in his hotel room and house. What regular person needs that? I go from being overwhelmed and numb to being outraged and angry. We have a huge gun problem in this country, and nobody is willing to even talk about solutions. How many more schools and churches and malls and theaters and concerts have to become killing grounds before we talk? How many more moments of silence and candlelight vigils and "thoughts and prayers" comments do we have to have before people say ENOUGH? This was not how we grew up, and it's not how our children should grow up either.  They deserve so much better than this.

Aunt Jeri's Eulogy

My Aunt Jeri

As I sat at my computer writing Aunt Jeri’s eulogy, trying to condense everything she was into a few short paragraphs, the word HOME kept popping into my head.  Home:  A place where someone is protected, given shelter, loved, and that is what Jeri Clark was for so many people: a safe place, a refuge, home.

Her house wasn’t fancy.  She didn’t have a lot of expensive things.  What she did have was love.  She loved people, and they loved her.  I have never known a person with so many friends.  She never met a stranger.  She saw the good in everybody.  She always said, “I may not be rich, but I’m rich in friends.”  She was a people person, and she drew folks to her like a flower draws bees.

She hadn’t seen the world.  She rarely ventured farther than West Virginia.  She saw    the ocean for the first time in 1998 when she was 70 years old.  She used to say, “I’m not well-traveled, but if I’m in a rut, it’s a good rut because I’m happy where I am.”

And she was.  She loved her home.  Nothing made her happier than to be with her family and friends, and everybody wanted to go to Jeri’s house.  I can remember as a kid, when Mom would take us to visit her, 9 times out of 10, somebody else would already be there.  Aunt Mary and Uncle Jimmy, Uncle Bernard and Aunt Joyce, Uncle Charlie and Aunt Mary Ann, Kay and Mary Margaret…but she always had room for more.  

After I moved away, her house was the first place I’d visit when I came home. And after my mom died, her house became home to me.  I know Colleen, Jennifer, Angie, Kathy, and Laura would agree that after our parents died, she took us under her wing as her own and, as Colleen said, “she was the one person in the world who made me feel like I still belonged to someone, and she always, always told us how much she loved us.”

She was the most generous person I knew, and I never left her house without something to take home.  When I was a kid, she’d look in the cabinet and pull out a Little Debbie’s snack cake or a baggie of pretzels or give me a quarter if she was out of treats.  When I became an adult, she’d go look behind the door in the office where she kept her snacks and send me home with candy for my kids or the leftover pizza from lunch.  If she had it to give, it was yours, and she was glad for you to have it.

There was no better way to pass the day than to sit around Jeri’s dining room table with a cup of coffee and a Krispie Kreme donut and listen to her stories.  She was the best.  So animated and so funny.  Her stories were legendary, and she had a mind like a trap.  She could regale you with tales from her childhood during the Depression when a Mr. Goodbar cost a nickel at Money Penny’s store or life during World War 2, when shoe coupons were rationed, and you’d better not wear your cute cardboard shoes to a movie on 4^th Street in the rain or you might be limping home with them flapping behind you.  Then there was the time a flying squirrel came down the chimney and was eating Hershey Kisses behind the manger on her mantle.  It climbed up the Christmas tree and then onto the drapes to finally hide in the television stand.  Mike had to come over and shoo it out with a broom and a laundry basket.  Another time she went to get new glasses with Betty Jean, and the parking lot was getting repaved.  After the appointment, they went out the back door to avoid the mess out front only to be caught in the middle of more paving.  A very large, very friendly, very sweaty construction worker with a bandana around his head and a shirt with no sleeves, swooped her up in his arms princess-style and carried her to the car.  Ah those stories!

She wrote poetry and could remember poems she had crafted 20, 30, 40 years ago.  She loved Joyce Kilmer’s poem about trees and anything by Helen Steiner Rice.  One of her favorite songs was Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”

She was a life-long democrat and proud of it.  In 2008, she voted for Hillary Clinton because she wanted to be able to say she voted for the first woman president.  When Hillary lost to Obama in the primaries, she didn’t think she’d get the chance to vote for a woman again, but last November, Colleen and I took her to the polls so she could once again vote for Hillary.  It was her dream to see a woman be president of the United States.

Aunt Jeri was the first person I’d call whenever I had something to share.  If it was a secret, I knew it was safe with her.  I’d say, “Don’t tell anybody this, but…” and she’d say, “You know I won’t!  I have secrets I’ll take to my grave!”  If it was good news about my kids, I knew I could brag to her, and she would rejoice with me.  If I was upset and needed comfort, she would reassure me that it would be okay.  If I needed someone to pray for me, she would in earnest.  In fact, I think she was the most faith-filled person I have ever met.  When she could no longer go to mass, she watched it on TV, sometimes twice on a Sunday.  She had her morning prayer and evening prayer that she said every day. 

She prayed all the time, but she told me, “I don’t say regular prayers; I just talk to God.  He’s my friend.”  She always prayed for God’s will, and I don’t know how she was able to do that.  I’m still asking him for specifics, but she had enough faith to know that God would take care of her needs.  And her faith got her through, especially these last 5 months.  I don’t know how many times I heard her say, “God will help me.  He’s my friend.”

She missed CJ.  They were teenage sweethearts, married for 45 years.  He passed 24 years ago, and she still wore her wedding ring.  

She loved her children.  Donna, Steve, Lisa, Kevin.  You were her world, and I know you know she would have done anything to make you happy.  Chris, Bo, Nick, and Mindy, she was so proud of you and all of your accomplishments.  She talked about you all the time.  And you great-grandkids, you were the joy of her life.  You always made her smile.

Jeri Clark was a lot of things to a lot of people.  Wife. Mother. Sister. Aunt. Cousin. Friend. Confidant. Cheerleader. Therapist. Compass.  Glue.

If you were lucky enough to be loved by Jeri, then you know what it is to be the favorite in the room.  If you were lucky enough to be loved by Jeri, then you know what it is like to always be welcomed with open arms, a smile, and a cup of coffee.  If you were lucky enough to be loved by Jeri, then you know what it is like to be loved unconditionally 

To quote Colleen again, “She always made me feel like the sun was shining, and it was shining on me.”

Sharron Hilbrecht

July 1, 2017

The Morning Prayer

Good Morning God,
You are ushering in anther day
untouched and freshly new.
So here I come to ask you, God,
if you'll renew me too.

Forgive the many errors
that I made yesterday, and
let me try again, dear God,
to walk closer in Thy way.

But, Father, I am well aware
I can't make it on my own,
so take my hand
and hold it tight
for I cannot walk alone.

Amen.

I Believe

January 26, 2017

I believe

God made us all equal
In transparency, honesty, and truth
In generosity, kindness, and civility
In the right of women to have control over our own bodies
Torture is wrong
People should be allowed to marry the person they love
Religion and government should not mix
In science
People have the right to affordable health care
We should do everything possible to protect our environment
In clean water
In clean air
In safe food
We need to take money out of politics
That corporations are not people
We should not register people based on their religion or any other reason
In affordable higher education
We need common sense gun laws
That the arts and arts education are important
That building walls does not solve problems
In the sovereignty of the Native American people
In alternative energy
Black lives matter
Blue lives matter
All lives matter
In doing all that we can to make the world we live in a better place,
    not just for ourselves, but for the less fortunate, the marginalized,
    those without a voice
We have a lot of work to do.

That it's time to stand up for what I believe.

I Should Have Stayed One More Day

I accidentally hurt myself last night.  Doubled over in the hallway, tears streaming down my cheeks, unable to breathe, hurt.  Let me explain.

Kyle got home from 4 months in Germany on Sunday after a long three-days of flight delays and cancellations.  It was so good to see him, to finally have my children safe under one roof for a time.  We had family dinner three nights in a row, played a board game, watched movies, visited my 88-year old aunt...It was every mother's dream.

This semester, he is renting a house with four other guys, and his buddy said he could move in on Wednesday.  Like any other 20-year old, fresh off four months of total independence, he was ready to go.  He began gathering his stuff and asked me if I'd help him move today.  I said of course, with a sinking heart, and tried to make it as painless as possible.  We made a list of things he'd need, gathered up furniture for his room, and started packing.

Later, the five of us were in the family room, no TV on, just hanging out.  The girls were doing their homework, Kirk was planning his week, Kyle was watching something on his phone, and I was just sitting there taking it all in.  I started dozing off and decided to go on to bed.  I kissed the kids goodnight, and when I got to Kyle, he hugged me and said, "I had a good day today, Mom."

I hugged him tighter and replied, "I wish you didn't have to leave already."

He replied,  "I know. I know."

Trying to joke with him, I said, "One day you'll be a dad, and you'll understand.  You'll think, 'I should have stayed one more day.'" And I kissed his bearded cheek again and headed upstairs.

At the bottom of the steps, it smacked me in the face...

I, too, should have stayed one more day.  One more night in my childhood room.  One more dinner at the kitchen table with Mom and Dad.  One more afternoon on the patio.  One more breakfast.  One more cup of coffee.  One more anything.

And I doubled over and sobbed.  Kirk asked, "Are you okay, honey?" and I said, "Yes, I just hurt myself.  I'll be fine."

I stood there with tears streaming down my face, hardly able to control my sobs, and I couldn't go upstairs and leave them all in the family room.  I didn't want this to be over too, so I went in the kitchen and began washing up the few leftover dishes. One more minute, one more second.  I was still crying silently when Kyle came in to get a drink of water.

"You okay, Mom?  What did you hurt?"

I pointed at my heart.  "But it's me, not you.  I'm sad you are leaving already, but that's how it should be.  When I said, 'You'll think, 'I should have stayed one more day,' it made me think of myself and how I wish I would have stayed one more day at Grandma's.  When you are 20, all you want to do is leave, but when you are almost 50, all you want is to go home, and I can't."

Kyle hugged me then, and I pulled myself together.  I tried again to go to bed, but I just couldn't.  I realized I hadn't seen the pictures from his trip, so I went back downstairs and asked him to show me. He did, took his time, explained what they were and what he'd been doing, who the people in the photos were.  He knew I needed that time with him and didn't rush.  It was really nice.

I finally went to bed about 11:30, a jumbled up ball of emotions.  Who knew all of this would be so hard?  Today I will help Kyle move (again), and as it should be, he will start a new chapter in his life.  I'm just happy to be a part of it and really happy he'll only be 20 minutes away this time.

Oh Christmas Tree

Picking out our Christmas tree every year was always a major ordeal. Unbeknownst to us kids, it was Dad's job to take us out tree-shopping so Mom could sort and wrap the Christmas presents.  It was her way of making sure we were out of the house for an extended period of time and that Dad did something towards Christmas preparations.  But that wasn't the part that was the ordeal.

The ordeal came because no matter what, Dad and us girls never, ever picked out a tree that suited Mom.  That is until we came up with the idea for the Christmas tree lunch.

When we were very young, we would go to a nearby fruit and vegetable stand called "Jigg's."  Jigg's sold produce in the summer, pumpkins in the fall, and Christmas trees in the winter.  After Christmas, Jigg's would close up shop until spring.  The stand was on the way to church and school, and I always knew Christmas was coming when those triangle-shaped stands went up right before Thanksgiving.

There were always a couple of dozen trees hanging in the stands as well as a nearby pile to choose from if the ones hanging up didn't work.  We'd walk through the rows, looking at the merits of each tree, turning it to check for bare spots, making sure the trunk wasn't crooked, measuring the height.  It had to be about 7 feet tall and a douglas fir.  Mom liked that kind best because the branches were sturdy enough to hold the lights and spaced far enough apart to showcase the ornaments.

We would look and look, and I always felt bad passing by the ones that didn't measure up, until we finally found the right tree.  The worker would saw the bottom off and rope it to the roof of the car, and we'd head home anxious to show Mom this year's tree.

But every year, there was something...it was too short or there was a bare spot or the trunk was crooked...It didn't matter that once the lights and decorations got on, it would look great.  The imperfections just screamed at her, and that's all she could see.

Finally one year, after an argument because we'd brought home a tree that was so short we had to place it on milk crates covered with a sheet to make it tall enough, Mom suggested that next time we go to the tree stand in the Consolidated parking lot.  "You need to go to more than one place!" she said. "You need to SPEND SOME TIME looking for a tree!"

So the next year, we skipped Jigg's and headed over to Consolidated to see what their trees looked like.  We looked and looked.  Up and down row after row until we couldn't remember where we saw a tree that might have worked.  Finally, we found one that maybe had a bare spot or maybe a crooked trunk, but we didn't care.  We'd been looking for a Christmas tree for a couple of hours.  We were cold and hungry and just wanted to go home.

When we pulled it off the top of the car and showed it to Mom, she still wasn't satisfied even thought we'd gotten the tree from the lot she suggested.  My dad just shook his head and mumbled something under his breath and plunked the tree down in a bucket of water until we could get it inside to decorate.

At some point the next fall, my mom and dad were enjoying an evening with a couple they were friends with, when Mom and the other dad hatched a plan for the dads to take all of us kids over to Indiana to cut down our own tree.  We all thought that was a great idea! Visions of trekking through the snowy woods and finding the ultimate Christmas tree illuminated by a single sunbeam permeated my every thought.

On the appointed Saturday, we loaded into a leisure van my dad had borrowed from one of the Chevrolet dealers he knew, and we drove over to Indiana.  This was not a Christmas tree farm in today's sense of the word.  This was a farm that had an occasional Christmas tree-type of tree on it that we could cut down. We piled out of the car, the dads carrying axes, and headed into the woods to find "the tree," but all we could find were cedar trees, and we knew Mom wouldn't go for that at all.  We hiked and hiked, and it was cold.  I don't think we were even on the tree farm property at this point, but finally we found a tree that we thought would work.  It was nice and full and had a straight trunk and no bare spots, so we claimed it as ours.  Our friends found a tree too, and Dad and Mr. B proceeded to cut them both down.

Did you know that a tree out in the woods looks a lot smaller than it is in real life?

We hauled that tree back to where we parked, but we couldn't get it in the van.  It was too tall.  We got our friends' tree loaded onto their car, but ours wouldn't fit.  And as we tried one way and then another, the back window broke out of that borrowed van when someone tried to close the rear door and hit the trunk of the tree.

Needless to say that Dad was the unhappy one that year.

So, Jigg's was out.  Consolidated didn't work.  Cutting down our own tree, while scoring us a great tree, also incurred a broken van window, so that was a no-go.  It seemed like nothing we did worked.  We'd never find a tree that was the perfect tree.

The next year, with a sense of dread but a determination to make Mom happy, we piled in the car and headed out yet again.

"Where are we going this year?" one of my sisters asked.

"It doesn't matter where we go," I said, "we will never get the perfect tree."

The gravel crunched under our tires, as we pulled into Jigg's for the umpteenth year and tumbled out of the car to look.  And right away, we found a pretty good tree.  Not too tall, not too short, not too many bare spots, fairly straight trunk...So we bought it.

There was just one problem...If we went home already, Mom was sure to find something wrong with the tree, and then she'd tell us that we hadn't shopped in enough lots or spent enough time looking at trees...

So after we tied the tree to the roof of the car, Dad said, "Well, we can't go home yet.  Want to go to lunch?"

And that's how our Christmas tree shopping tradition started.  We'd go to one lot, pick out a tree, and then go to lunch. Sometimes we'd go to McDonalds, but we usually went to Mr. Gatti's so we could each get that personal sized pizza we so loved.  We'd even park in the back in the off-chance that Mom would be driving down Dixie Highway and see our car parked out front and wonder what the heck we were doing at Mr. Gatti's.  When we came home, we'd tell Mom that we looked all over and finally, FINALLY found this tree.  And you know what?  She usually loved them!  We had found the recipe for the perfect tree.  It had nothing to do with bare spots or straight trunks.  It had everything to do with spending the right amount of time looking for the perfect tree that made it so.

We didn't tell Mom for years.  In fact, I think I was well into my late 20s or early 30s before we finally spilled the beans.  She was not amused.  But those days of the Christmas tree lunches are some of my favorite memories, and I wouldn't trade them for the most perfect tree in the world.