…in my mind’s eye…

I’m blogging in order to document the fact that I actually did plant flowers this summer - unlike last summer when my urns sat empty on my front porch.  Above are my lilac-colored petunias - in the middle picture you see them in the urn.  Also displayed there are some leaves from my hostas, which I have not photographed, that my sister characterized as “frightening” because they are so large!

This is a double impatiens plant in a patio pot.

Here come the lily plants.  This one is an Asiatic Lilly and I love the deep color.  It’s also one of my patio pots - but in the fall I will plant them in the ground.

Finally, here is my daylilly - a plant that my friend Connie gave me from her garden at least 15 years ago.  It blooms non-stop throughout the summer and the fall without any attention.  It’s so forgiving of me.

 Tomorrow is my mother’s 79th birthday - or would be if she were still alive.  She died in 1990 and at times like this, when I write about it, I can hardly believe it has been 18 years. For the last slice of my life, I want to share something that I wrote a few years ago, inspired, oddly enough, by my mother’s death.

Deer Crossing 

This evening is the end of my spring break and I don’t want to go back to school tomorrow.  I know, it’s shocking to hear a teacher say that, but it’s true.  I worked all last week and still didn’t accomplish most of what I had hoped to accomplish - one more week and I think I might just get caught up.  But, probably like my students, I’m heading back to work with less finished than I had hoped.

I’m looking at a 4-day week, only because I have to go to Washington, DC at the end of the week - so I also start this week cramming 5 days of work into 4 days.  Fabulous.  The bright spot for the week is that our temps are supposed to head up into the 60s, although it’s also supposed to rain every day.

Right now I’m watching the Davidson/Kansas game and rooting for the underdog.  They are behind by 2 with 54 1/2 seconds left in the game.  I usually hate basketball but have to admit, the NCAA has had some good ballgames this year.

I’m rambling…it’s what I do when I’m having anxiety over re-entry.  I think I’ll stop now and prepare my slice for posting tomorrow (in case I don’t get to it tomorrow).

Conference time again!  This time, however, the conference is in my backyard - Marshall University is host to the Appalachian Studies Association conference this weekend.  I’ve been working on a presentation with the research team I belong to and we presented today.  It was fabulous - and I was so relieved!  The conference is really laid back - I went to it the first time last year, presenting with this same group.  Last year I was the facilitator, this year I was the organizer and planner and the “new kid” on our team facilitated (I was the “new kid” last year). [Some of my remarks are on my “school” blog.]

For some reason, I was completely exhausted afterwards.  Mike and I had every intention of attending the banquet, especially since we had already paid for it (as part of our registration) but about 30 minutes before dinner I though that I just needed to get home - so we took off and I am pleased to report that I was at home, in my pajamas long before that banquet was over!  I am relieved that this is over - I’ve put a great deal of time and energy into planning it.  It was good work - meaning it advanced my thinking a great deal - but I’m still glad it’s over.    Tomorrow I can go back and just be a participant - that will be enjoyable.  Now, I have a breather for presentations for awhile, although I think Linda wants me to work on something for the AESA conference this coming fall - but the proposal deadline is soon and they require 1000 words for their proposals.  We’ll see…

I’m sitting here watching my husband taking up the metal stripping that separated the living room carpet from the linoleum in the entryway.  Our floor has been rotting right inside the front door and we’ve waited until spring break to tackle the problem.  Mike decided he was going to tackle it himself, although I was willing to hire someone to fix it. 

It’s always fun watching Mike work.  He gets started a little bit and then he calls one of his brothers.  Mark’s here now and he helped us move the entertainment center out of the way, but they needed my help to do that.  Now, Mark’s laying on the floor and “supervising” the job and doing what Mark does best - telling stories.  Some engineer from up near Handley died on an engine the other day in Barboursville.  Died right on the train.  Mike shared the railroad engineer’s creed:  When I did I want to die peacefully in my sleep, not screaming in terror like my passengers.”  Some guy at Mark’s church has a son who is a police officer in Charleston and his son said he wasn’t involved in the car chase recently when someone stole a police cruiser.  “I told them boys they better not leave their keys in their cars - someone’s going to steal them.”  They did.

This is one of the things I love about Mike’s family, his brothers and sister readily and willingly drop whatever they’re doing and come to help.  Usually, once they get here, Mike gives up the tools and lets Mark or Matt (or cousin David when he’s around) have the tools and Mike tells the stories.  I tease him about being the “supervisor” and that’s what he does best.  But, none of them seem to mind and it’s just what they believe they are supposed to do for one another. 

“I told her, I’m not going under the house,” Mike said about a conversation he had at work with one of his colleagues today.  “You might have to,” she said.  “You don’t understand, Heather, I’m not going under the house,” Mike replied.  “If I wanted to go underground, I’d been a coal miner,” Mike said, “and retired by now.”  Or have black lung, or be dead, I remind him. 

If we find out that the joists need replaced, it’s pretty clear that Mike’s not going under the house.  I guess I’ll have to call someone who will go under the house.  Matt probably would.

Today was a girl’s day.  Katie’s home for a few days - and I managed to book a few hours with her for us to do a bit of bonding.  We met at the mall and I started with a haircut.  From there, we went to get a pedicure and found that it’s been a while since we’ve been there.  They have new chairs and they were nice, but what was nicer was the chance to sit beside each other and just chat.  It reminded me of when she was in high school.

While she may not want to admit it, Katie’s a bit like me in that she also has a tendency to over-analyze things and she likes to sort things out in her mind by talking.  When she was in high school, we got into a habit of spending a bit of time each evening talking.  It usually worked like this.  I’d go back in my room to read in bed and not long after she’d come in and climb into bed with me and say, “What’cha reading?”  I’d tell her and then she’d say, “Oh.”  Simple, but effective.  By the time I stopped to answer her, I was no longer reading, so I’d close my book and wait - and I never had to wait long.  We talked mostly about those things that were going on in her life - the things that happened at school, the issues she faced, and the future (I forgot to mention that she’s kind of a planner, an obsessive planner, like me).  Generally, as she talked she came to understand her life more clearly.  These talks always made me think about what Britton said about writing - shaping at the point of utterance - except Katie shaped her life by talking.  For my part, I listened, I told stories, I asked questions.  I didn’t realize it then, but now it makes more sense to me, I was teaching her all those evenings in my room talking before she went to bed.  I talked to her about what it was like for me growing up.  I talked to her about my family.  I talked to her about what she was like as a baby.  I talked to her about what Christopher was like as a baby.  I talked to her about being responsible.  I talked to her about being socially conscious.  I talked to her about God. 

When Katie first went away to college, I missed her and our talks terribly.  When she came home to visit she would always make sure we had our nighttime chat.  As she has grown up and gone out on her own, we haven’t done that in a while.  Today, our pedicure reminded me about how special those times were and how much I miss them.  I expect she probably remembered them, too, and I know that soon, she’ll come home and ask if we can “talk.”   I’ll be ready to put down whatever I’m doing and head back to my bedroom so we can talk about our lives.  I have a lot to learn from her.

Yesterday I wrote a bit about my religious/spiritual journey - a much abbreviated version with 1000 important slices in between each sentence.  This post focuses in one of those slices sandwiched between sentences. 

When we lived in Lake City, first across the street from the Methodist Church and then later across the street from the Presbyterian Church but only 3 blocks away from our Methodist Church, there were six of us, four children (I was the second born) and one income.  I can recall getting some specific outfits, probably because there weren’t very many of them.  My mother was a stay-at-home mom and devised all sorts of ways to save money - including sewing.  When it came to clothes, there were a few things you could just about count on.  First, whatever I got, my older sister also got (she would probably phrase that differently as in whatever she got, I also got).  My outfits were always blue, hers were always green.  Second, new outfits were typically homemade.  Third, Easter outfits weren’t all that common because Easter in northern Michigan typically was more winter-like than spring-like (for example, today the low there is 12 degrees and the high is 29 degrees). 

I do remember, however, one Easter when we did get new outfits (they were homemade) and I’m not sure why that year - perhaps Easter was later in the year suggesting the promise of warmer weather or maybe it was when we were baptized (which I believe happened when I was 13).  At any rate, my mother made a dress for my older sister and one for me.  You guessed it, the dresses were in identical prints except my print was blue and my older sister’s print was green.  These dresses weren’t the only creation of my mother, however.  This particular year she also made us spring coats!  They were in this stiff and spongy double-knit (her fabric of choice) fabric, knee-length, and mine was - no surprise here - blue!

Looking back on that, I realize what an investment that was for my parents - financially and personally.  I never really appreciated what it took for them to give us a good home, a mother who cooked and cleaned and took us to the beach every day in the summer.  Vacations, music lessons, instruments, educational opportunities, and those intangibles that have allowed me to persevere and fail and persevere some more and succeed.  They are both gone now, but it’s never too late to say, “Thanks, Mom and Dad.  Happy Easter!”

Easter Vigil.  It was only three years ago that I attended my first Easter Vigil, the one where I was confirmed in the Catholic Church and welcomed into full communion of the church.  Undoubtedly, that was one of the defining moments of my life, and I’m thankful that at my age I am still open to being defined and re-defined.  How did I get there?  That’s the memory of this slice of life.

When I was a child, I vaguely remember my parents taking my older sister and me to Sunday School at a Methodist Church (although, at the time I didn’t know it was Methodist).  In fact, they not only took us, they also took the neighbor’s boys who lived two doors down from us.  While we were at Sunday School, the parents went back to our house or the neighbor’s house and had donuts and coffee.  Someone would pick us up when Sunday School was over.  When we moved to Lake City, our first house was right across the street from the Methodist Church and this time, the whole family went.  We were active in that church, and I ended up playing organ for a number of years.  I recall having fights with my mom because I wanted to wear pants suits to church and she thought that was inappropriate (I won, arguing that I had more freedom to use the pedals in slacks and besides, I had on a choir robe and was seated before anyone arrived and left last); my sister singing, with me accompanying her, at the annual Mother-Daughter banquet; missing Easter for three years in a row because I had strep throat (even though my tonsils were long gone); and, Easter blizzards which didn’t stop the regular service (although they pulled the plug on the outdoor sunrise service) since everyone could just walk to church anyway.  I distinctly remember attending a Good Friday service - there everything closed on Good Friday and services ran from noon to 3:00 pm at one church or another - at the Presbyterian Church which was across from the second house we lived in.  I must have been 13 or 14 then and I recall noticing that the sermon didn’t really contain many references to God - it was about stewardship for some odd reason.  After that, I noticed the same thing in my church - God just didn’t seem to be a priority.

When we moved to Mt. Pleasant, we continued with the Methodist Church there, primarily because my older sister and I wanted to belong to the MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship) which was a good way to meet other teen-agers.  My parents went to church, sometimes, but they weren’t particularly fond of the minister there, although I don’t recall why.  My older sister and I sang in the choir.

When I went away to college, I did what many young people did back then when they went to college - I turned away from organized religion.  I never thought much about it, just kind of felt like I was away on vacation which meant I didn’t have to go to church because I wasn’t home.  At the end of my college career, however, I met Mike and started attending the Episcopal Church with his family.  I played organ again, and excellent job for a graduate student because of the limited time it takes - one afternoon of practice and one morning of playing.  Of course, we were married in that church and both of our children were baptized in the Episcopal Church.  I was confirmed in that church.  We stayed active in that church for many years, up until the time my mother died in 1990.  What happened then is the stuff of another slice, one I will try to write later this week.  Suffice it to say that we floundered without a church for another decade, periodically popping into other Episcopal churches, attending Catholic masses (we both had an attraction to the Catholic Church - partly because Mike’s second cousin was a Catholic priest and had been an instrumental part of his upbringing), but mostly just not going to church (although there was a long period there where we attended the Church of the Softball League because Katie was playing in softball tournaments almost every weekend during the summer).

Finally, in 2004, Mike and I found ourselves sitting in a Cathedral in St. Louis, MO.  We had gone to St. Louis for a conference in late May and one afternoon had headed down the street to the park.  We sat by the river, Mike went up in the arch, and it was extremely hot and humid.  After a while, we came upon the Cathedral and popped inside to rest and cool off.  The church was empty and it was gorgeous - although the Cathedral reminded us more of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Huntington than the Catholic Churches we had attended.  We sat quietly for a while, and then slowly began to talk about our longing to reconnect with God and a church.  We both knew it wasn’t sufficient to say we believed in God, we needed to commit to a church and needed to worship in a community.  We decided then that when we returned home we would start going to a Catholic Church and see where that led us.  When we returned home, we decided to attend Sacred Heart, a Catholic Church on the west end of Huntington - although we live in the eastern part of the county.  Soon after, we took the RCIA classes, and were confirmed the following spring. 

I always hesitate to write about my religion - I’m afraid I don’t often present an excellent model of a religious person and certainly wouldn’t want non-believers to judge the church by how they judge me.  That’s hardly fair to the church.  But, that day in the Cathedral was so monumental for our individual spirits and for our marriage, it’s important for me to think back on it often and remember how it felt to be called to God.

For the first day of spring and today’s Slice of Life, I’m resurrecting something I wrote in June of 1998.

Angels

I swallow hard to drown the panic
Faithless fear of losing something
I foolishly believe to be mine.
I forget that she is not the gift for me to keep
Instead, it is the honor of having her life touch mine.

When did I begin to think she was an angel?
Perhaps it was when she was three
Wearing that deep red velvet dress
Round face adorned with a halo of silver blond hair
Cropped just above the ears.

Her presence, more than her looks
Gave her sacred secret away.
People said, “She’s just an angel. She looks like one too.”

Even now, in this world,
The air that surrounds her is different,
Heavy, sweet and still.
I breathe deeply.

Happy Birthday, Scott and Shane!  Today, my twin nephews are 18!  Twins run in Mike’s family - his grandmother was a twin.  I’m glad that Betsy had the twins, however, there was a time when we thought we were having them. 

Christopher, my first born, was my second pregnancy.  The first ended when my baby died when I was almost 5 months along.  Too late for a “spontaneous abortion” as the doctor so delicately termed it, I had to have a D and C.  When I left the hospital, the doctor cautioned us to avoid pregnancy for at least six months.  That didn’t make much sense to us, we wanted a baby and thought the most sensible approach was to let God decide.  Not long after, I was pregnant again, with Christopher. 

I was healthy during the pregnancy - and I started showing early.  I was careful, monitored my weight, and kept it well under control.  I gained just at the rate the doctor wanted me to gain, until the last trimester.  Then, when I started going to the doctor every two weeks, I seemed to gain 4 pounds every visit.  When my visits went to every week, I kept gaining 4 pounds every week and grew at a ridiculous rate.  I was huge and by the last month I only had one shirt and one pair of pants that fit me.  I wore them every day and washed them every night.  By the time the pregnancy was over, my shirt had a permanent black line across the belly of my shirt where the car steering wheel rubbed because I couldn’t put the seat back any farther and still touch the pedals. 

When I finally went into labor - and that experience is for another time - the doctor x-rayed me to make sure he knew what we was dealing with.  One baby.  One big baby.  After it was all said and done, Christopher weighed in at 10 pounds and 6 ounces and was 21 1/2 inches long.  He was a big, strong boy and we have pictures of him the day we went home from the hospital of my mother holding him to her shoulder and he’s holding his head up!  The doctor’s advice was to stop and buy cereal on the way home because breast feeding or formula was not going to satisfy him.  He was right!

He started out big and strong and 27 1/2 years later, he’s still big and strong.  He’s 6 feet 4 inches tall, don’t know what he weighs, but at least he’s not pathetically thin like he was all the way through high school.  I’ve worried plenty about him along the way, and I’m proud of him for his accomplishments, but I’m glad there was only one of him!