Mother/Nonnie

July 13th was my Mother's birthday. She was Marguerite Marie Montgomery, born in 1904. A sweet, beautiful girl, she was Dolly and Ross's first daughter, second child. Although the family was poor, they loved poetry and music. Mother said her father (my Grandpa) taught them all to dance when they were little. I remember going to family reunions in Illinois. We always gathered in someone's basement (usually Aunt Ann and Uncle Carl's-Mother's older brother and my favorite uncle). There were tubs filled with ice and bottles of home-made root beer and no one counted how many you drank. About 10:00 in the evening, Grandpa would call out "Virginia Reel." We'd line up in two rows, facing one another. Those too little to stand were held by loving parents. The music started and we danced!

One of my favorite memories of Mother was from a time when I was in Kindergarten. Mother and Daddy were co-presidents of the Parent-Teacher-Association. They decided to do a show. Our house was the center of activities and I remember a lot of bustling about in our dining room. Mother made a gingham dress for herself with a full skirt and ruffled petticoat that peeked out under the hem of the dress. She braided her heavy hair with wire, tied huge ribbons on the ends, and curled them so they stood out on either side. With eyebrow pencil she gave herself freckles and then blackened one of her front teeth. Her shoes were leather high-tops, and the black stockings sagged and one had a hole in the knee. She was adorable! Daddy dressed in huge overalls and wore a red fright wig. The only part of the show I remember is Mother singing "In the Little Red Schoolhouse." I still remember the words--or most of them.

Verse #1: (*s are notes --missing words) In the little red schoolhouse with my book and slate. In the little red schoolhouse where I was always late. I remember ****in those days of yore. How we'd stand right up and holler "Two and two are four." When we shoulda been learnin' about the golden rule, our little hearts were yearnin' for the swimmin' pool. We could hardly wait for the four o'clock bell. The minute we would hear it we would run like MAD! O, gee! I wanna be--in the little red schoolhouse.

Bridge: Ten o'clock the spelling lesson's just begun. Johnny throws an ink ball just for fun. Hits the teacher's back with an awful SPLAT! Teacher turns around and says "Who did that?" Little purty Percy in the very front row, raises up his hand and says, "Teacher I know." Little Johnny whispers to the teacher's pride, "You just wait 'til I get you outside." Johnny's told to stand with his face to the wall. He says, "I don't wanna," and he starts to bawl. "If I turn around I take an awful chance, I've got a great big hole in the seat of my pants." O, gee! I wanna be--in the little red schoolhouse.

I don't remember ever again hearing Mother sing, but she was a big hit that evening.

Mother only completed the eighth grade as girls in those days were not encouraged to get an education, but she was smart, clever, and so talented. She could make anything with needle and thread. My sister Mary Ann and I were the best dressed girls in school. She knitted up a storm. I often came home to find her in her sewing room with a page from the "Mademoiselle" magazine. She'd point to a picture and if I liked it, she made it for me. She designed and made my wedding gown. She not only sewed, she made hats, felt and feathered. She taught all her sisters and sisters-in-law to make cloches from quail and pheasant feathers. They were beautiful. She won ribbons at contests with her applique and embroidery. She was also something of a mystery. Although I was her confidante, she was quiet about herself and didn't reveal many personal issues. People rarely did in those days. After all, she'd gone through WWI, a great depression, and another World War. I think she was lonely and missed her brothers and sisters. I also know that those grey months of January, February, and March in central Wisconsin were hard on her. There was no understanding of that dreaded illness Depression.

I know she loved me. She once told me she'd have breathed my every breath, but Daddy wouldn't allow it. She adored her grandchildren. We have been truly blessed.

I miss her. When I think of my Mother, of our Nonnie, I know we have all been truly blessed.

Father's day

It's Father's Day so I've been thinking about fathers. I decided I'd acknowledge all you fathers out there by telling you two stories about my father.
The first has to do with what we called him. My sister Mary Ann and I called him 'Daddy,' we still do. He was so affectionate and warm that the word father didn't fit him at all. Then John, the first grandchild, tried saying grandfather and it came out as Boppie, and all the children who followed called him Boppie. When John was about seven, Daddy said, "John, you're a big boy now and you could call me grandfather." John thought about it a moment and then said, "I would but you're Boppie." Daddy thought about that, smiled, and said, "You're right. I am." He went out a bought a basball cap and had the word "Boppie" embroidered on it.
It's easy to talk about fathers and sons--how fathers are role models for them. But fathers are important to girls too. I know my father was for me. I never heard Daddy tell me he loved me. He saved those words for our Mother. But I knew he did--he adored me. His actions proved it over and over. He was always willing to talk with me about anything I wanted to talk about. And I loved talking about big ideas -- God, the planet, life--issues like that. I was on the debate team, and so we often had heated discussions about things, but only once did we quarrel. I was fifteen. The argument was about money. I said it was important--number one on the list. Daddy said it was important, but never the top priority. He said there were qualities far more important. But I was fifteen and knew better. Our relationship cooled then and I drew away from my father with his old-fashioned ideas. And then there was a war and Daddy went up to Alaska to work. I turned sixteen and began to see more of what really mattered in life. The day came when I wrote a special letter. I remember beginning it with "I know that everyone believes that all a sixteen-year-old girl thinks about is boys, drinking cokes, and having fun. But sometimes they think about more important things." I then told him that he was right, had been right all along and that money was just one of the issues one had to consider in life and that there were more important things. His letters to us continued as before with no mention of my apology. Eventually he returned. We were thrilled to have him back with us. We were a family again. One day, he asked me to get something from his wallet. It was on top of his dresser. I opened his wallet, and there was my letter. It brings tears to my eyes now as I remember standing there, holding the well worn paper, recognizing my handwriting, seeing the words of apology. Neither of us ever mentioned it, but I knew I had been forgiven in the most loving way.
Fathers are special. So, to you who are fathers, thanks!

For Abbie Spellman

I got a letter from Joan in Camarilla, California, telling me they are holding the special charity races they did every year to honor Abbie Spellman. These races raised a lot of money for the charities that Abbie supported and were attended by all the groups she had so lovingly given her time to. Even though Abbie is no longer with us, her memory is so strong, she was so loved, they want to hold them again. Joan said to make my check out to a favorite charity. Her postscript said, "Do you have any stories you'd like to share for a reflection book on Abbie?"
I have dozens of stories. Here's one of my favorites.
Abbie had come into town to visit with me for a few days. We had a wonderful time, busy during the day, giggling in bed until the wee hours. Finally, the day arrived for her to go home.
"I'll take the bus," she said.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. I do it all the time. Peter will pick me up."
So I drove her to the bus station in downtown Los Angeles. I had learned how to get her wheelchair into the trunk of my tiny car, but getting it out was always a struggle. A group of street people laughed as they watched me fight with the chair. I got it out, got Abbie into it, rescued my dignity, and we went across the street to the station.
The bus station was being redecorated and instead of an elevator, there was what looked like a wide black rubber assembly line rolling slowly upwards. I worked and worked to get the wheelchair to go up, but the wheels just went round and round while we stayed in place. Finally, a drunk staggered up, reeking of whatever had given him his high. "Need some help?" he asked.
I was repulsed, but not Abbie. She laughed and said yes. He grabbed the handles of the chair, turned it around and walked backwards onto the rolling black thing. Smooth as anything, they rode up with me humbly following. At the top, the man took Abbie's hand and kissed it, then staggered off.
I bought her ticket and took her to the waiting area. The bus for Camarilla arrived and a burly driver got off. We were first in line. He took one look at Abbie then turned to me. "Are you going with her?"
I shook my head no.
"She can't go," he said. "She needs a care-taker with her."
I was stunned. I couldn't take her. I had business appointments I could not change on such short notice. I pleaded with him. He was adamant. He would not let her on his bus. He and I faced off, arguing. Then Abbie reached up and touched his arm. "Sir," she said quietly. "If I can get on the bus by myself, will you take me?"
He thought for a moment, then agreed. We stood silently while Abbie lowered herself out of her chair and began the struggle to board the steps of the bus. Every muscle in my body wanted to reach out to help her, but I knew I couldn't. I glanced at the bus driver and saw a look of compassion on his face. I knew he felt as I did. It took a while, but she did it. When she reached the top step, she turned, raised her hand, thumb up, and smiled. The driver clambered into the bus, picked her up, and put her in a seat by a window. I folded her chair and we put it in the luggage compartment. As the bus left, I'm sure Abbie waved, but I couldn't see her through my tears.

Mothers Day

One of the members of my on-line critique group is Lisa Lynch. She's a Mama and writes articles and stories for mothers. She recently had this poem published in the March, 2008 Northwest Baby and Child. I'm including and dedicating it to all the Mamas in my family--all you wonderful women who have children, teach children, and hope to someday have children. She called it "Mama Dance."

On the kitchen counter
amidst days-old muffins
and soft avocados
the radio sings to me

Arms up, I sway
gliding between the fridge and the sink
my reflection in the kitchen window
and I don't see what I feel

I'm a mama

My little Bee spins around me
princess constume awhirl
she is a mere novice at
kitchen dancing
one must feel every beat

"More!" baby squaks
from the high chair
all bananas and hotdogs and ketchup

I twirl
I bob and swirl
I'm a willow tree
moving in the wind
My arms bend, fingers quiver
like golden leaves
in sun

I'm a mama

"Done!" baby says
and puts down her spoon

I smile, my eyes closed
I'm a mama
Bee mimics my moves
I'm a mama
My hair in my face
I'm a mama

And I dance.

My Mary, the girl I got to be Mom for, sent me a darling little towel (along with a lovely card and some goodies). Beautifully stitched on it are the words: Home is where Mom is. Brought tears to my eyes. And so, I've been thinking about mothers. Seems ages ago that I had little ones under foot--one of the happiest times of my life! It's the qualities that make up good mothering that I've thought of the most--qualities that good aunts, sisters, fathers, uncles, and brothers also can manifest--qualities desperately needed in our world. So my heart goes out to all of you who love, teach, and care for children. Thank you!

There will be Spring!

I found this scene while walking Sunny early one morning and was impressed with Life's intention to live. Everywhere I've seen things coming up, budding, and blooming. Even on grey days here, nature is stunning. There WILL be Spring.

I had fully intended to make an entry monthly in my blog, but March got away from me. It's my birthday month and takes a full month to do all the celebrations. All the affairs were wonderful and I have gained 4 pounds. Looks like April will be bread and water.

I'm now 83. I never dreamed I'd be this age, not ever! I remember when I was 18 my doctor was an ancient 34. I was sure he had one foot in the grave! People often ask what it feels like to be 83. I always check, look inside and try to find the feeling. It seems to be the same as when I was 3, 21, 40...there's no specific feeling. There is one difference and that is that I am paying closer attention to my body than ever before. I always thought having a body was a pain in the you-know-where--such a nuisance (or nusums as Dylan used to say). But now I realize what a remarkable thing it is. After all, it gets me around. It was my body that so enjoyed all those celebrations; my body that carried and birthed my babies. So I am making regular appointments with the accupuncturists at Bastyr University. (I go to the teaching section. My sessions cost $15 and I get to interact with darling young students who are supervised by agreeable doctors.) I've made an appointment with my Western doctor for my yearly check-up. I'm eating well (sometimes TOO much so) and am content. I have the most marvelous family anyone could ever want, and that source of joy feeds my soul. I have lovely friends, live in a beautiful setting, do work I love--what more could anyone want.

Thank you for checking in with me. That means a great deal to me. I am not good about making phone calls so really appreciate it when you take the initiative.

Sunny is fine. Still sticking close. Still funny and sweet. She sends her greetings, or at least I think that's what she's meaning by sleeping right here beside me.

Sunny

As my intention with this blog is for my family to see inside my life--get to know me better, how I live, what I do, who are the others in my life, etc--I need to share Sunny with you.

Sunny needed a home. The people who owned her moved into a senior retirement home that did not allow pets. They had a friend who knew me. "You need to take this dog," my friend said and I did. The dog's name was Sunshine, but that was awkward and so I call her Sunny. She was about eight years old and although settled in her ways, she soon made her ways mine. I think she's the cutest dog in the world. She thinks she's a bloodhound. She's a mix of Llhasa Apso and Shi Tzu, mostly black, but with some white markings. We have a good relationship. I feed her and scratch those places she likes to have scratched. She walks me and loves me. She also watches me like a hawk. Don't ask me how, but she can tell if I'm going out. She then stalks me. If I decide she can go (she loves the car) I ask her, "Do you want to go?" Her ears lift and she gets tense. When I say "Yes," she leaps about and makes funny little yelping sounds. Other than that she only barks when the doorbell rings. She loves to have company. Even the UPS guy is a big event. I let her race down the hall and greet the elevator. Then she brings whoever it is back to the condo.

She's a good sleeper and often has dreams in which she yelps, cries, and moves her legs. She also comes in the middle of the night, sits beside my bed and makes a little 'please' sound. I get up, pick her up, and dump her on the bed. I guess she's here to stay.