Island of Three

The stomping of feet in the entry
Coat, hat, and boots removed
Hands rubbing together, Dad enters
"It's thirty below out there!"

Soup's on the stove bubbling away
Table's set - bread and leftover roast
Warms his hands over the radiator
"We need a Chinook."

At the big bay window
Mom talks to the bird
Gives him fresh seed
Waters plants, removes dead leaves

Wind beats at the window
Driving hard grains of snow
The stove is our center
Full of warmth and good smells

She scoops out the soup
With an old chipped cup
"Soup's on - come and get it..."
Our noon meal begins

There's talk of the greenhouse
The orders they've filled
Whose funeral's this weekend
What wedding's next week

After lunch there's deliveries
Do I want to ride along?
"Maybe..." for I know the layers
It takes just to walk out the door

"Go on, it'll do you good
Blow the stink off ..."
Mom's face is dead serious
Twinkling eyes give her away

I help clear the dishes
While Dad has his nap
Mom answers the phone
Writes out the orders

She pulls on her coat
Heads over to the store
Dad warms up the VW
Carries out the bouquets

Grab my mittens from the radiator
Step into my boots
Push open the storm door
Walk the shoveled path

Mom minds the business
While we make the rounds
A stop for pie and coffee
Hot cocoa for me

Darkness comes early
Lights twinkle on
As we drive down the alley
Through the drifts in the yard

"I need to lock up"
Dad says, "You go on."
I stomp my boots as he did
Hang my coat by the door

Mom's started our dinner
Kitchen's cheery and warm
I set the table and chatter
Telling all that I'd seen

The stomping of feet in the entry
"The boiler's holdin' its own"
Heating houses of glass isn't easy
When it's thirty below out there

Conversation and meals
Always went hand in hand
The household and business a blend
That I still contemplate

We three were an island
I realize now
In the midst of the cold
Montana winter

A Valentine Memory

On my way home, in the privacy of a restroom in the Spokane airport, I finally allowed myself to cry. Tears flowed and I sobbed like a child as the overpowering impact of reality hit me - my mother was dying.

She had been through so much those last few years: a broken hip and subsequent replacement surgery, a broken wrist, a debilitating stroke which affected her right side and left her unable to express herself as she once had. But it was this recently diagnosed lung cancer which would migrate to her brain, go into a brief remission then return with a vengeance, that would ultimately take her from us. Little by little, she was being stripped of her independence and dignity - I was beside myself with the unfairness of it all. I did not want to lose her, yet I wanted her misery to end.


We three sisters (Two of us flying in from other states) gathered at home over a long Valentine’s Day weekend - and clung to the promise of an approaching spring. My oldest sister brought a huge amaryllis bulb, so our folks could watch it sprout, grow and bloom over the ensuing weeks. I toted along three brightly blooming primrose plants, knowing the fresh blooms would be set in their sunny kitchen window. My second sister served Mom’s meals on a tray, fancied up and fit for a queen - anything to interest her in food. We tucked her in for her frequent rests with a kiss on her forehead and took family drives, as her energy permitted. Carrying snacks, we’d take turns handing her small bites, hoping she’d eat while distracted by the scenery that she so loved. The weekend passed all too quickly and as I hugged her good-bye tears welled up in her eyes. It was one of the few times I had ever seen her cry. We both knew her time was short.

We called often, sent cards and small gifts and visited her that summer. She died the following February; Dad told us it was a month he had been dreading. He knew seriously ill people could fight to make it through the holidays and winter only to lack the strength to get through February. It was a balmy month that year - shirtsleeve weather. We knew we had done all we could and I had no regrets. I’ve come to understand the importance of that. Mom’s crocuses bloomed extra early and large that spring.

 

Later that summer while Dad was visiting us, he told me of his vision. My father was not at all “that kind” of person. I had never known him to have, let alone speak of, visions. Still, he had had one. Shortly after Mom died, before we all arrived to help with the funeral, he was awakened in the middle of the night. Mom stood at the foot of his bed, radiant, young, lovely, dressed all in white and smiling. As he stumbled from bed to go to her, she raised her hand in characteristic manner to give a slight wave good-by and was gone. In his grief he was devastated at her departure and took no comfort from the vision, his voice trembling as he related it to me. Even though my father was terribly upset at the memory of the experience, I was truly awed and a strange sort of peace settled over me. I cannot begin to understand or explain his vision, but I believe with all my heart that he had it. And through his sharing it with me somehow I know that all is well in the end.

 

That was over twenty years ago, but every year as Valentine's Day rolls around, the memories come flooding back...and still I know that all is well. Love you, Mom.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place I am going...I am the way and the truth and the life”  John 14:1 - 4, 6

Live Your Fortune

For-tune n. 6. fate; lot; destiny; whatever my fortune may be.

I listen intently as my two sisters and oldest niece talk with Mom. They ask about her early memories and family history. Mom, then 78, did her best to answer all their questions, although the conversation was far-ranging and complicated. She said that around 1912, when she was 6 or 7 years old, a gypsy woman came to her house offering to tell her mother’s fortune - in exchange for some food, of course. Her mother said, “No. I live my fortune, whatever it’s gonna be.” She then took the woman out to her barn, gave her several chickens (alive, no doubt), some eggs, and a pound of homemade butter. Mom insisted those gypsies “...robbed the neighborhood blind”, but never touched her house because her mother always gave them something to eat.

I switch off the small Walkman and contemplate what I’ve just heard. The conversation took place 26 years ago, thankfully recorded by my niece. I had not known of its existence until a time when we discussed the family research I’ve been doing and she offered to send me the tape.

I try to look beyond the stereotypes of the era to catch a glimpse of the women one and two generations ago. Mom has been gone for 22 years and I knew very little of my Grandma. We lived far apart and I only remember visiting her once or twice - she never came to see us. My dim memories of her are not pleasant ones and she died when I was 7.

But with the passing of years, and older family members, I became curious about a number of people and events in the past. Bit by bit, my efforts have slowly divulged birth dates, places of origin, occupations, migrations and offspring. It’s been a tangled web, to put it mildly.

Grandma was born in Illinois in 1878, followed by one sister two years later. In 1880, her family traveled by train to a coal mining camp in Montana, where her father could work. He later died of pneumonia, leaving his widow alone to raise the children. Her mother stayed on in the camp, ran a boarding house, worked as a cook. I can only imagine how rough it was there - winter snows blocked the doorways; Liver-eatin’ Johnson and Calamity Jane frequented the area.

Grandma had her first child at 14 or 15 (probably out of wedlock), married, had a second child at 18. Her husband was abusive and, although they lived on an isolated ranch, she somehow found the strength to leave him. By 1900 her family had moved to Helena, where she supported herself and two small children by working as a cook and housekeeper. She was all of 21. She divorced her abusive husband, met and married my Grandpa. They had a baby boy who died at two weeks of age; he had been named after Grandma's father and her then husband, my Grandpa. Four more children followed, the oldest of whom was my mother. Sadly, this marriage also ended and she continued to help support her large family by raising chickens and running a dairy. She later raised at least one grandchild. Surely, Grandma knew what it was to be ostracized, poor, and hungry.

But there was something else - Grandma was a devoted Christian. Her children were baptized and my mother attended a catholic school. I believe she also knew God and I’m sure He saw her through a lot. I’ve heard the stories - she always found something to give.

 Crusty and tough as she was, I wish I’d known my Grandma better. I now think I have at least some understanding of her and the legacy she left. Thanks to you, Grandma, and Mom who followed - I live my fortune, whatever it’s gonna be.

The Lord will keep you from all harm -
he will watch over your life;
the Lord will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.
Psalm 121:7-8

Yo-Yo Connections

Mom reached into the stuffed plastic bag and carefully pulled it out, gently unfolded and spread it open, lovingly smoothing it with her hands. I had never known about this and it took my breath away.

My in-laws had reached the age when “down-sizing” seemed prudent and Mom, especially, had been trying to clear things out and get their house in order, so to speak. For the last couple of years she had gone through the things she treasured with me, asking what we might want. At first I’d been hesitant, not wanting to seem greedy or uncaring. I told her they should be the ones to decide what to do with their things. Mostly, I hadn’t wanted to face facts and the inevitable time of passing things down to the next generation. Finally, we had chosen what we most wanted and marked each with a small round sticker - B & B scribbled on as a reminder. Many of the things still lived with them, but their minds had been eased on the matter.

And then this - a multicolored coverlet made of myriad pieces of cotton fabric, each piece carefully cut into a perfect circle then hand-gathered into a “Yo-Yo”. The Yo-Yos were assembled - a solid colored one surrounded by 6 patterned ones, those surrounded by 12 more of the 1st solid color, then by 18 white ones - and hand-stitched together into a hexagon. Connecting the 6-sided figures, and along each edge, were green Yo-Yos. The overall effect of 3,325 small circles of pink, yellow, blue, lavender, orange, gray , white and green united into a beautiful honeycomb pattern was dazzling!

Probably begun in the late ‘40s or early ‘50s, this wonderful piece of needlework took all the time, patience, precision & love that Mom could pour into it. Bill remembers years of family evenings spent in their basement rec room with Mom diligently working away at this project. No one quite remembers how long it took nor when it was finally finished. Although it looked brand-new and as if it had never been used, she assured me it had been.

Did I want it? Mom’s memory was beginning to fail, so over the next couple of years she asked the same question many times; each time, I tried to reassure her that I did. One fall, I simply wrote & told them we would love to receive that coverlet for Christmas. It arrived the next week along with a note saying how relieved she was that we really did want it. Since then, we’ve enjoyed it covering our bed each summer, adding color, nostalgia and warm thoughts of family to our lives.

Each time I look at it I am reminded of the many connections we have in our lives. Each of us, as individuals, is surrounded closely by those dear to us: first our immediate family, then extended family, friends, co-workers, acquaintances and others we interact with from time to time. The color, pattern and shape of each life radiates outward through these connections until we all are joined together by a common thread. Without it, we are single Yo-Yos bouncing through life with no design at all.

When the thread is a strong one called LOVE - we become a living work of art.

Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God...This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him...God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him...We love because he first loved us.
1 John 4:7, 9, 16 & 19

Let Them Go

Fur flew, small tufts wafting away on the breeze, as she rapidly plucked it from her chest. I flew myself then, my 10 year old legs carrying me into the house, screen door banging behind. Concerned, I excitedly explained what I had just seen. A smile flickered across my mother’s face as I led her out to the cage. Potsy was nowhere in sight, having disappeared into the small wooden house. Peeking in, Mom nodded knowingly. “She’s making a nest. She’ll be having babies soon.” Babies!!

Potsy, my recently-acquired pet rabbit, had obviously bred before she came to us. This was before I knew that rabbits spend a good share of their short lives reproducing. I would learn this soon enough as my collection of rabbits - and their upkeep - multiplied way beyond what I had ever envisioned. But at that moment I was excited and could hardly wait for the big event. It would, after all, be the first time I had babies of my “own”.

Soon, Potsy had her litter and I had “my” babies, although I didn’t see much of them at first. She was very protective and hardly left her house, coming out only for food and water. Mom warned me not to bother the new family as sometimes mother animals get upset and may harm their young. We peeked in occasionally to see the blind, pink, thumb-sized creatures. Potsy made clear her opinion of this by leaping about the cage and stomping her large hind feet. As soon as she could she’d return to them, busily cleaning and feeding them.

In time, I won Potsy’s trust. I would gather up the whole litter, bring them into the house and place them on a towel on the kitchen table. How perfectly their tiny claws were formed; how flat their little ears lay against their bodies; how precisely their skin markings matched their fur. I was surprised at their reflexes - so quick, if not yet finely tuned. A litter of baby rabbits can resemble popcorn as their strong little legs jerk in preparation for real jumping.

Before I knew it the young rabbits were half grown, eating on their own, and spending little time in their house. Potsy was less concerned and began to “cut the apron strings” so to speak. Of course, in the wild she would have been on her way towards having another litter and perpetuating her kind. These young would have been quickly on their own to survive or not.

I’ve raised fish, gerbils, puppies, ducklings, goslings and lambs. I’ve known many kinds of mothers, from a Sheltie who nursed and raised an orphaned kitten to a neurotic gerbil who chewed off all of her babies’ feet. There are striking similarities, but animal mothers and babies are not the same as human ones. Observing is not at all the same as being. I wanted to be a mother and it took me a long time. I was never to have a baby, but after 14 years of marriage, we adopted a wonderful little boy. I finally knew motherhood with all its ups and downs, joys and pains. It is everything and nothing like I thought it would be - truly the experience of a lifetime.

Beginning way back with Potsy, I learned that children are not our possessions - they are only loaned to us. You prepare for a child as best you can, devote time and energy to their protection and care, love them with everything that is in you. Eventually, you must let them go. For they are all adopted children and must be free to become Who’s they are.

For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight. In love he predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will - to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves.       Ephesians 1:4 - 6

A Mother Lives On

Reflected in the pond, the magnolia unfolds its huge, saucer-shaped pink blooms. Planted years ago, it is a bit taller than I am - slow growing, this tree. Quiet, unobtrusive, steadfast - just as she, in whose memory it was planted, was. She’s been gone so long I sometimes wonder what I have left of her. Then I remember...

She chose a Weeping Birch for the front yard, a Flowering Crab, an apple, and a Black Walnut for the back. Her flower beds edged the yard and over the years she grew countless things I can, and some I cannot, remember. Fresh flowers, lovingly arranged, were a part of every holiday or special family occasion. In the cabin at the lake, or any place where we stayed more than one night, there might be a small bouquet of wildflowers. House plants filled the kitchen window. If she could not be outdoors, then she brought some of it in.

She nurtured us as well:
The body needs healthy nourishment - nutritious, made-from-scratch meals, every single day. Fresh fruit is the best thing for snacking. Use as much of the plant or animal as you can - waste nothing. Preserve what you can - for the long winter or the tough times. Risk a little, try new foods and recipes. SHARE your abundance with a neighbor - they will return the favor.

The mind needs stimulation - talk with your family, but more important, LISTEN. Encourage free expression of ideas, hopes, dreams and discussion of issues and events. Read to your children and promote the love of books, an interest in news and a passion for knowledge. Demonstrate creative thinking; dare to express your own view of things even if it is different from another’s point of view.

The spirit needs renewal and revitalization - SEEK moments of peace and quiet to reflect on the greater scope of life. Eliminate excess noise and distraction. Know that you are only one part of the natural world and learn your place in it. Find joy in the small things, awe in the great. Do what you love to do.

Choose your values and value your choices. RESPECT everyone, regardless of age, color, nationality or sex - unless they give you a good reason not to - then steer clear. Learn your manners and use them, they will get you through when nothing else will.

WORK HARD at what needs to be done. If you can’t have what you’d like, then make do with what you have - and be grateful for it. There are always others better off - and worse - than you.

FIND the HUMOR in life and enjoy it to the fullest; laugh ‘til your face turns red and tears run from your eyes.

BE KIND and gentle with all life, but hold your ground when you need to and fight back if necessary. Accept your family and friends for who they are even with their various faults and idiosyncrasies. The good Lord watches over children and fools - we are all one or the other.

One year, when I was away at college, I had no money to buy her a Mothers’ Day card or gift. Instead, I wrote her a poem, which ended with:

Although I am myself, it’s true,
part of what I am, is you.

Now I know - a mother lives on through her children.

Let your father and mother be glad,
let her who bore you rejoice.
Proverbs 23.25

Scratching in Dirt

My mother was a simple person - a humble, modest, unassuming woman who spoke her mind plainly and did what she thought was right, especially with her children.

Since I was the youngest child and raised as an “only”, I tagged along beside her often. She was nearly always busy doing something and I’m sure there were times when she would have savored some solitude. Nevertheless, she’d patiently listen as I’d rattle on and on about things that seemed important to me. In between my chattering, she’d share her thoughts and give her opinions. Sometimes, in no uncertain terms, she’d let me know how I’d gone awry. We did not always agree, and I did have to mind her, so sometimes the sparks flew! But that was the exception; usually we’d just be together, working and talking.

She loved the great outdoors. Sometimes, judiciously and with great care, she’d attempt digging up a wild plant and planting it in her garden at home. It did not always work - still, she’d share with me the care needed and emphasize our responsibility. She was very proud that wild ferns filled a shady spot in our yard, and even then I realized how special that was (That was in dry, hot Montana, not wet, cool Washington.) She explained how humans work the earth slowly - cultivate, grow, sometimes disturb and neglect. Nature reclaims quickly because each kind of living thing has its own particular niche. It is better to work in harmony with the natural world.

She loved good food and food is where you find it: apples gleaned from a deserted orchard make wonderful pies; wild berries, while a pain to pick, are well worth it when served with fresh ice cream; a hook, carefully baited, tossed into the stream to float down into the quiet, deep, dark hole, may grab the attention of that big Brook Trout; a Lake Trout may just be a “sick one, passing by” - but it nearly always took her hook. Holidays need home cooking to be complete. Food, and the pursuit of it, nourishes much more than the body.

She loved family. She told that the rabbit pulls soft underfur from its chest to prepare a nest for its litter; the bird does the same with its feathers - and so the parent gives of itself to its offspring. Abandoned young can sometimes be saved, but they must be individually cared for, kept warm, hand-fed and watered often. There is no guarantee they will survive, but if you take on the task, you must stick it out to the very end. Being a parent sometimes causes pain and heartache - it takes time, effort, unwavering commitment and the love of a lifetime. There is no greater aspiration nor joy.

She loved well. If she was around now to hear how our scratching in the dirt side-by-side influenced my entire life, she’d quickly pooh-pooh the idea. She’d be wrong.

Listen, my son, to your father’s instruction
and do not forsake your mother’s teaching.
They will be a garland to grace your head
and a chain to adorn your neck.
Proverbs 1:8-9

Gift Crow

(Web photo)

Standing in front of the large cage, I watched the small birds flit about. They all looked to be in good shape and healthy, with bright, clear eyes and smooth plumage. Many sported brightly colored throats, wings, or cheeks and all had the short, heavy beak typical of a finch. One in particular caught my eye.

Unlike the others, this one was not particularly attractive, being a plain brown with no distinguishing markings. It hopped back and forth between the perches; although its feathers were a bit scraggly, it looked healthy and alert, cocking its head and looking at me. The decision was made quickly. Gently and efficiently catching the small bird, the clerk asked if I was sure I wanted this one. As she placed it into the small cardboard box, I assured her that I did. After all, it was a special gift for a special person.

My mother had kept pet birds for years, usually a canary. I never thought to ask when or why she began, but had grown up with the sounds of their songs in the bay window of our kitchen. Recently she had begun to keep finches and we all were enjoying these lively little birds. Although busy with working in the family business and caring for our family, she always managed to keep their cage clean, their food and water cups full, and to have a daily conversation with them. But when one of the birds died unexpectedly, leaving the other all alone, I decided to surprise her with a new one. For me this was a major decision and a bold step, but after telling my dad of my plans and borrowing the family car, off I went to the town pet shop.

Full of excitement over my purchase, I presented Mom with the box. She could tell what was inside - she just didn't know the specifics. Carefully holding the box up to the open cage door, she watched as the new bird emerged. "WELL", she said. "It looks just like an old crow!" My heart did a flip-flop and I suddenly felt very ashamed. Mom studied me briefly, then she smiled and her eyes twinkled as she said: "SO, that's just what we'll call him. Crow. He is a cute little devil, isn't he?" And then, relieved that she liked him at least a little, my explanation tumbled out: how sorry I felt for this little bird, all the other birds were so beautiful but he was just so brown and plain. Sure that no one else would buy him, I feared he would be left all alone with no one to care for him. I knew that she'd accept and take good care of him - maybe even love him after awhile.

Crow lived for many years, not that his personality changed much. He still mostly just hopped back and forth in the cage and had a strange little chirp that he repeated over and over. Today we might decide that he had a psychological disorder common to caged animals, but we knew of no such a thing back then. He had been molting when I bought him but when his new feathers emerged, although he was still a plain brown, he looked very sleek and healthy. He always cocked his head and looked at you.

My mother did indeed take good care of Crow and we all grew to love him. More importantly, she looked beyond the superfluous surface details into the well-intentioned heart of the giver and was willing to accept this odd gift wholeheartedly. And, it turns out - with great amusement!

For if the willingness is there,
the gift is acceptable according to what one has,
not according to what he does not have.
2 Corinthians 8:12

A gift opens the way for the giver
and ushers him into the presence of the great.
Proverbs 18:16