Every year around the holidays in elementary school, each homeroom class would "adopt" a family for 100 Neediest Cases. We'd bring clothes and toys and food and LOTS of stuff for our family. I remember in 2nd grade we donated this red, white, and blue plaid suit that had been my dad's--my mom was so excited to get rid of that thing! I don't remember much about it, except for flashes of color and fabric and the memory that it was hideous.....ah, holiday generosity.
Yesterday, I sat down to look through the paper, and on the front page they had a little blurb about 100 Neediest Cases--it's still going on. My adult brain started pondering and doing some math, though. Surely, if every class in every grade in our one elementary school had one family, there must be more than 100 cases. What are the criteria to determine who is "neediest"? We don't really even use the term "needy" anymore, in favor of terms like "underprivileged." What must it be like for a family to be deemed among St. Louis's neediest? Are they proud? Ashamed? Encouraged?
As I've come face to face with my own neediness these past few months in big and small ways, I honestly would be a bit relieved if I got the label of "needy." I wouldn't have to ask for help but could readily accept donations. When I would receive help, I would instantly know my inability to repay favors and generous gestures. I usually don't feel the need to put on a front and be happy and cheery when I'm not, but I do fear that in the unlikely event that I ever need to burst into tears in public that I won't feel the freedom to do that. But if I were labeled as needy, like literally wearing a big sign on my clothes that said "NEEDY." "GRIEF ISSUES." "HELP HER," then I could somehow receive global permission to exist in whatever state.
Why this antagonism toward neediness in self and culture?? We don't want to be the needy girlfriend, the high-maintenance friend. We rotate the friends we ask for rides to the airport or "bother" for favors. But when it comes down to it, aren't we all needy? Like really needy? We have the option, the "privilege" perhaps, to hide it and mask it in any number of ways. Neediness only becomes more apparent in the absence of stuff and medical insurance. And even with my gaping wounds of needs, would I really even qualify for the 1000 Neediest Cases in St. Louis, much less 100 Neediest? Not to minimize my own neediness--believe me, I know it well--but rather to emphasize how incredibly needy we all are. So this holiday season, I am grateful for the needs that are met and grateful for the opportunity to recognize my needs.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Christmas Caroling
We just completed the 20th Annual Scarborough Christmas Caroling expedition this evening. It's a tradition my mom started to cheer up a friend of hers whose husband was in prison during the holidays. There's an organization here called the St. Louis Christmas Caroling Association that provides cans and songsheets to carolers who collect money which goes to local children's charities. So we pass out flyers in the neighborhood and tell people to leave their porch lights on if they'd like a serenade. I haven't been in several years--it's always the Monday before Christmas, unless that Monday is Christmas Eve, like this year--but I remember years when it was FREEZING and years when we only had us singing and years when we'd have 3 different caroling parties--one for me, one for my brother, and one for the grownups. One particular year, in 6th grade, I got to have my own party, and in my desperate desire to be popular and not exclude anyone, I invited the entire 6th grade, which consisted of 92 people. About 30 people showed up. And then it became the big news that the newly dating Aaron Lang and Melissa Hurley were going to have their first kiss at my party, which I found fairly devestating, but I don't think Aaron even came and the drama died down. How do I even remember this stuff?
Anyway, we had an amazing turn out this year....3 kids (who are always good for taking the cans for money door to door) and maybe 15 adults. One of the biggest groups I can remember. I guess it being the first memorial Christmas caroling really brings out the crowds. We always come back to the house for food and warm beverages. Mom used to put on an amazing spread with mini-cheesecakes made from scratch. We made do with the 2 hours between our arrival home from the airport and the arrival of people for pre-caroling pizza. And dad located the stacks of extra songsheets from all the previous years, which were needed with all the extra people.
One of our dear neighbors said, "When you used to come to the door when the boys [now 18 and 14] were little, I would make sure they came and listened, because I wanted them to think it was like this in every part of the world." That was mom, making the world the kind of place where everyone wanted to be.
I was singing some Christmas carols yesterday, and couldn't get through The First Noel, because I got choked up. You see, I love to sing harmonies, especially on Christmas carols, but it was my mom that first taught me to sing the alto harmony to "Joy to the World" in preparation for Christmas caroling when I was about 10 years old. My mom would also sing these pretty descants to The First Noel and to We Three Kings. So I was worried that I wouldn't be able to sing, but the joy of everyone gathering, of braving the cold together and singing and laughing with friends and neighbors new and old overtook any feelings of sadness.
And I'm sitting next to a fresh Christmas tree with bubble lights adorning its boughs. Does it get much better than this?
Anyway, we had an amazing turn out this year....3 kids (who are always good for taking the cans for money door to door) and maybe 15 adults. One of the biggest groups I can remember. I guess it being the first memorial Christmas caroling really brings out the crowds. We always come back to the house for food and warm beverages. Mom used to put on an amazing spread with mini-cheesecakes made from scratch. We made do with the 2 hours between our arrival home from the airport and the arrival of people for pre-caroling pizza. And dad located the stacks of extra songsheets from all the previous years, which were needed with all the extra people.
One of our dear neighbors said, "When you used to come to the door when the boys [now 18 and 14] were little, I would make sure they came and listened, because I wanted them to think it was like this in every part of the world." That was mom, making the world the kind of place where everyone wanted to be.
I was singing some Christmas carols yesterday, and couldn't get through The First Noel, because I got choked up. You see, I love to sing harmonies, especially on Christmas carols, but it was my mom that first taught me to sing the alto harmony to "Joy to the World" in preparation for Christmas caroling when I was about 10 years old. My mom would also sing these pretty descants to The First Noel and to We Three Kings. So I was worried that I wouldn't be able to sing, but the joy of everyone gathering, of braving the cold together and singing and laughing with friends and neighbors new and old overtook any feelings of sadness.
And I'm sitting next to a fresh Christmas tree with bubble lights adorning its boughs. Does it get much better than this?
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Love-Hate
It's been a hard week being back in Los Angeles. The reality that mom is gone has set in more here and now than it did while I was back home. This makes some sense, but it doesn't completely make sense. And rather than sit here and actually think about my mom being gone, I'm going to analyze how much sense it makes and doesn't make as to the locale and timing of grieving my loss. It makes sense that when I'm back in my everyday environment that the hole in my life would become apparent in a way that it wouldn't were I in an equally familiar though not as current environment (i.e. at home in St. Louis). I can analytically ring-around-the-rosie around myself to basically conclude, yes, I am normal. Yes, I am dealing with this in an appropriate and normal way, even though it makes and doesn't make sense. Whew, I'm OK. And at the end of the ring-around-the-rosie, we would all fall down in the face of sheer exhaustion from the over-analysis. Really?!?! Yes, really. All in the beautiful and glorious name of DISTRACTION. I can think about grieving and analyze grieving without actually DOING the grieving.
So I've come upon an analogy. I must grieve the loss of my mom. It's going to happen whether I want it to or not, and for the sake of the emotional health of myself and those around me, it is better that I experience this grief than not. So here I go. I'm going away to a beach house to sit at the edge of this gargantuan ocean of grief and pain. It's a forced vacation--a required sabbatical of sorts, and I have to live at the beach, which wouldn't normally be so bad, except that it's winter, and I think this fictional beach house is somewhere in the northeast, so the wind is cold and cutting, the waves ominous, and the sky an unending gray. And let's be honest, I'm a California girl now, and sand should remain sandy and never mix with snow, because snow and sand mixing just doesn't make sense to me. But I digress from the analogy--getting in touch with my grief means going down to the water. At least getting my toes wet, even though the frigidity of the water could take my breath away. Not to mention the fear of getting swept out to sea and drowning if I lose even a mite of footing in the undertow.
SO, brilliant woman that I am, I find ways to distract myself from a journey down to the water. There's a myriad of obstacle courses and activities on the beach to tease me on my walk down to the water. Or I don't even get down to the sand...I stand on the porch of the beach house and look out at the waves--"Why hello, all-encompassing grief-waves that threaten to swallow me whole. I think I'll go back inside and watch a movie, if that's all right with you." I play ring-around-the-rosie on the sand for HOURS, analyzing and re-analyzing my own behavior and the behavior of others as a way to disengage from actually being present in my behavior. This week brought about the tearing down of a campsite that has been a semi-permanent fixture on the sand the past few months--every woman's favorite distraction--a man. I got verbal confirmation this week of something I knew in my gut to be true--that my feelings for someone were not returned to me. But even in the midst of ill-treatment and confusion, rejection from a man is familiar. Losing my mom is not. So I would literally camp out in thought patterns that have been familiar to me since I first liked Benny Lam in kindergarten and got him a Skeletor action figure for his birthday and he didn't like me back. This campsite is well-used. It has a firepit and lots of trash all around. But this week, the wind just blew it all away and there is no obstacle, no distraction, between the water and me. This is a baptism I could do without, though, so I'm scrambling to find something to fill the space.
In the midst of my time in LA, I received (I say that like it was a gift or something) $90 in parking tickets, and I banged up my roommate's car, which she was so kindly letting me borrow during my stay. Really, I don't think I'm emotionally capable of operating heavy machinery. And then I heard a horrible argument in my apartment building and called the police to come check it out. It was one of those weeks that makes a person hate LA. But on Sunday morning, the sky was clear and I was driving the traffic-less freeways and listening to music, and I remembered that I love it in this chaotic, goopy, too much crammed together mess (I meant LA, but I guess I could also mean my life). I remembered why I love it. Even if it's hard. Even while it's hard. Because I also got to see amazing people (or greet my adoring fans, as I would joke in my more egotistical moments). Some of my customers at Starbucks remembered why I had left and were happy to see me back, even with the bad news. I have made genuine human connections with people across a coffee counter in this huge city, and maybe it shouldn't astound me, but it does. And my coworkers celebrated my return. I think I clocked more time inside of warm re-welcoming embraces than I did, I don't know.....in the bathroom? I really can't think of a decent equivalent. But I had a lot of amazing hugs.
And so maybe there's something in the loving and hating....in that dance between the grieving and the distracting, because that's where the majority of life takes place, not at either end of the continuum but on the ride from one end to the other, and if it's a ride, like a big ol' pendulum tire swing, maybe it gets to be fun even while it's hard. I'd like that. And maybe other people are willing to do the dance with me. Hey, if they're hugging me so much, we might as well start dancing, right?
So I've come upon an analogy. I must grieve the loss of my mom. It's going to happen whether I want it to or not, and for the sake of the emotional health of myself and those around me, it is better that I experience this grief than not. So here I go. I'm going away to a beach house to sit at the edge of this gargantuan ocean of grief and pain. It's a forced vacation--a required sabbatical of sorts, and I have to live at the beach, which wouldn't normally be so bad, except that it's winter, and I think this fictional beach house is somewhere in the northeast, so the wind is cold and cutting, the waves ominous, and the sky an unending gray. And let's be honest, I'm a California girl now, and sand should remain sandy and never mix with snow, because snow and sand mixing just doesn't make sense to me. But I digress from the analogy--getting in touch with my grief means going down to the water. At least getting my toes wet, even though the frigidity of the water could take my breath away. Not to mention the fear of getting swept out to sea and drowning if I lose even a mite of footing in the undertow.
SO, brilliant woman that I am, I find ways to distract myself from a journey down to the water. There's a myriad of obstacle courses and activities on the beach to tease me on my walk down to the water. Or I don't even get down to the sand...I stand on the porch of the beach house and look out at the waves--"Why hello, all-encompassing grief-waves that threaten to swallow me whole. I think I'll go back inside and watch a movie, if that's all right with you." I play ring-around-the-rosie on the sand for HOURS, analyzing and re-analyzing my own behavior and the behavior of others as a way to disengage from actually being present in my behavior. This week brought about the tearing down of a campsite that has been a semi-permanent fixture on the sand the past few months--every woman's favorite distraction--a man. I got verbal confirmation this week of something I knew in my gut to be true--that my feelings for someone were not returned to me. But even in the midst of ill-treatment and confusion, rejection from a man is familiar. Losing my mom is not. So I would literally camp out in thought patterns that have been familiar to me since I first liked Benny Lam in kindergarten and got him a Skeletor action figure for his birthday and he didn't like me back. This campsite is well-used. It has a firepit and lots of trash all around. But this week, the wind just blew it all away and there is no obstacle, no distraction, between the water and me. This is a baptism I could do without, though, so I'm scrambling to find something to fill the space.
In the midst of my time in LA, I received (I say that like it was a gift or something) $90 in parking tickets, and I banged up my roommate's car, which she was so kindly letting me borrow during my stay. Really, I don't think I'm emotionally capable of operating heavy machinery. And then I heard a horrible argument in my apartment building and called the police to come check it out. It was one of those weeks that makes a person hate LA. But on Sunday morning, the sky was clear and I was driving the traffic-less freeways and listening to music, and I remembered that I love it in this chaotic, goopy, too much crammed together mess (I meant LA, but I guess I could also mean my life). I remembered why I love it. Even if it's hard. Even while it's hard. Because I also got to see amazing people (or greet my adoring fans, as I would joke in my more egotistical moments). Some of my customers at Starbucks remembered why I had left and were happy to see me back, even with the bad news. I have made genuine human connections with people across a coffee counter in this huge city, and maybe it shouldn't astound me, but it does. And my coworkers celebrated my return. I think I clocked more time inside of warm re-welcoming embraces than I did, I don't know.....in the bathroom? I really can't think of a decent equivalent. But I had a lot of amazing hugs.
And so maybe there's something in the loving and hating....in that dance between the grieving and the distracting, because that's where the majority of life takes place, not at either end of the continuum but on the ride from one end to the other, and if it's a ride, like a big ol' pendulum tire swing, maybe it gets to be fun even while it's hard. I'd like that. And maybe other people are willing to do the dance with me. Hey, if they're hugging me so much, we might as well start dancing, right?
Thursday, December 13, 2007
A Free Day
It's amazing to me how quickly being back in LA my life has come to resemble an LA life again--filling up with activities exciting and mundane and leaving little time and space for solitude which I desperately crave right now. Life has only gotten heavier in the past week. It's been full of great fun and great conversations and wonderful friends, too, but the low, steady murmur of mourning underneath it all only grows in volume and intensity. For awhile in the car on Monday afternoon I was holding myself, because I literally wasn't sure if I would stay in one piece otherwise.
I am day by day losing methods and energy to flee from the inevitable void of pain. I know I need to be there for a time, but I'm afraid that it will swallow me whole and not return me the same person. I won't be the same person. I shouldn't be, and I hope to not be. My mom has been a very present force my whole life and now she's gone. That changes a person. I guess I fear the melancholy, the seriousness and deep processing I am so prone to.
So today I'm not working and I'm going to take myself on a little play date. I'm going to LACMA (the LA County Museum of Art, which is featuring an incredible Dali exhibit). I'm going to the beach. I'm going to bring one of my favorite books and a journal and a sketchpad (though I am SO not a sketcher), and maybe somewhere, somehow in the midst of today, I will have the courage to be still.
I am day by day losing methods and energy to flee from the inevitable void of pain. I know I need to be there for a time, but I'm afraid that it will swallow me whole and not return me the same person. I won't be the same person. I shouldn't be, and I hope to not be. My mom has been a very present force my whole life and now she's gone. That changes a person. I guess I fear the melancholy, the seriousness and deep processing I am so prone to.
So today I'm not working and I'm going to take myself on a little play date. I'm going to LACMA (the LA County Museum of Art, which is featuring an incredible Dali exhibit). I'm going to the beach. I'm going to bring one of my favorite books and a journal and a sketchpad (though I am SO not a sketcher), and maybe somewhere, somehow in the midst of today, I will have the courage to be still.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Birthdays and such
It was a really eventful weekend. I went to a movie with a friend on Friday night. We went to see "Lars and the Real Girl" which was laugh out loud funny and innocently charming. I really like going to the movies, I realized. And it was only $8! The $13 or $14 price tag in LA keeps me from going most of the time. And I tend to like artsy independendent flicks which most people steer clear of. Of course I saw previews for more films I want to see--Juno and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly to name a few.
Then Saturday night my dad and I went to the St. Louis Blues hockey game. He has a split season with a guy from work. They played the archrival Chicago Blackhawks--all the St. Louis-Chicago sports rivalries are so fun! I was born after a Blues hockey game. We would alternate going on season tickets growing up, even on school nights as a really special treat. This was also the night of the Mizzou/Oklahoma Big 12 football match up, which they showed on the jumbotron screens at intermission and afterward. Sadly, having been up for work at 6am that morning and having been out to see the movie the night before, I was falling asleep watching the Mizzou game, which they were losing anyway. Boo hoo. I definitely became a fan of theirs after Michigan bit it this season--from one block M to another, I suppose.
Then Sunday, my parents also have season tickets to the Repertory Theatre in St. Louis, a professional company that does plays and musicals through the winter months. My dad gave me the tickets to "Kiss Me, Kate" so that I could take an old friend from high school and growing up together at church who just lost her mom in July. We had a great time--the show was wonderful--just very well done, and then we got Ted Drewes Frozen Custard (a St. Louis classic on the old Route 66) and drove around looking at Christmas lights in South city. Too fun. One of the actors on stage was someone I grew up seeing at the Muny in St. Louis, where we also had season tickets growing up. The Muny is a huge outdoor theater that seats about 15,000 that puts on a different musical every week for 8 weeks in the summer. One of the standard supporting actors, who eventually would play leading roles like Daddy Warbucks and the like is an older gentleman named Joneal Joplin. I've seen him on the stage for at least 20 years, and I would guess he's about 70. He always gives such a solid, delightful performance, so I went up to him afterward and told him how much I'd appreciated seeing him, after being away from town for 10 years. I told him he was a St. Louis institution, which in my mind, he is. He seemed to appreciate. And now, making coffee for Jodie Foster and Elizabeth Reasor and Kristin Chenoweth, talking to Joneal Joplin isn't nearly as intimidating.
So it was a great weekend. Then it was my dad's birthday and we went out for such a pleasant dinner with two friends that he and my mom had met on a river cruise in Russia. We had a splendid time. I had amazing scallops, and I think my dad felt aptly celebrated. I sang to him in a scratchy, obnoxiously loud voice through his bedroom door as he was getting ready and I was going to work at 4:30 am.
And, having gone to a friend's band's gig in the city last night, I have now landed myself back in Los Angeles. I knew that when I left that the next time I would be back my mom would be gone. It was different flying in this time. It all seemed so much bigger and more expansive. The reality of mom being gone was settling in more as we descended through low clouds to LAX (that reality actually had been setting in the past few days...it's just been such a long time since I've talked to her, and I really wanted to these past few days, and I couldn't, and I won't be able to, and that was sad). But I'm excited to be back, to see friends, to be back at my Starbucks with my coworkers and customers. But my heart is definitely a little more confused, asking, "Where's home?" I've always appreciated how I've made a home in so many places--in little ways in that when I walk into someone else's house I don't really have a problem opening THEIR fridge--and in the larger ways of find a niche in a great big city or small college town. My time at home has been good, and I was antsy to get back to LA, but maybe I'm just too tired to handle this still, or it's too fresh and I realize the difficult road I have to walk ahead.
So take courage, dear heart. You do not walk this road alone.
Then Saturday night my dad and I went to the St. Louis Blues hockey game. He has a split season with a guy from work. They played the archrival Chicago Blackhawks--all the St. Louis-Chicago sports rivalries are so fun! I was born after a Blues hockey game. We would alternate going on season tickets growing up, even on school nights as a really special treat. This was also the night of the Mizzou/Oklahoma Big 12 football match up, which they showed on the jumbotron screens at intermission and afterward. Sadly, having been up for work at 6am that morning and having been out to see the movie the night before, I was falling asleep watching the Mizzou game, which they were losing anyway. Boo hoo. I definitely became a fan of theirs after Michigan bit it this season--from one block M to another, I suppose.
Then Sunday, my parents also have season tickets to the Repertory Theatre in St. Louis, a professional company that does plays and musicals through the winter months. My dad gave me the tickets to "Kiss Me, Kate" so that I could take an old friend from high school and growing up together at church who just lost her mom in July. We had a great time--the show was wonderful--just very well done, and then we got Ted Drewes Frozen Custard (a St. Louis classic on the old Route 66) and drove around looking at Christmas lights in South city. Too fun. One of the actors on stage was someone I grew up seeing at the Muny in St. Louis, where we also had season tickets growing up. The Muny is a huge outdoor theater that seats about 15,000 that puts on a different musical every week for 8 weeks in the summer. One of the standard supporting actors, who eventually would play leading roles like Daddy Warbucks and the like is an older gentleman named Joneal Joplin. I've seen him on the stage for at least 20 years, and I would guess he's about 70. He always gives such a solid, delightful performance, so I went up to him afterward and told him how much I'd appreciated seeing him, after being away from town for 10 years. I told him he was a St. Louis institution, which in my mind, he is. He seemed to appreciate. And now, making coffee for Jodie Foster and Elizabeth Reasor and Kristin Chenoweth, talking to Joneal Joplin isn't nearly as intimidating.
So it was a great weekend. Then it was my dad's birthday and we went out for such a pleasant dinner with two friends that he and my mom had met on a river cruise in Russia. We had a splendid time. I had amazing scallops, and I think my dad felt aptly celebrated. I sang to him in a scratchy, obnoxiously loud voice through his bedroom door as he was getting ready and I was going to work at 4:30 am.
And, having gone to a friend's band's gig in the city last night, I have now landed myself back in Los Angeles. I knew that when I left that the next time I would be back my mom would be gone. It was different flying in this time. It all seemed so much bigger and more expansive. The reality of mom being gone was settling in more as we descended through low clouds to LAX (that reality actually had been setting in the past few days...it's just been such a long time since I've talked to her, and I really wanted to these past few days, and I couldn't, and I won't be able to, and that was sad). But I'm excited to be back, to see friends, to be back at my Starbucks with my coworkers and customers. But my heart is definitely a little more confused, asking, "Where's home?" I've always appreciated how I've made a home in so many places--in little ways in that when I walk into someone else's house I don't really have a problem opening THEIR fridge--and in the larger ways of find a niche in a great big city or small college town. My time at home has been good, and I was antsy to get back to LA, but maybe I'm just too tired to handle this still, or it's too fresh and I realize the difficult road I have to walk ahead.
So take courage, dear heart. You do not walk this road alone.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Inventory
My upstairs neighbor at the apartment I lived in until August in Los Angeles was a big help in many ways, one of which was offering me occasional work to help out with his business. He's an insurance adjuster and spent a lot of time in Florida in the aftermath of all the hurricanes (and would let us use his laundry and HDTV with cable in the meantime, this is after GIVING us his old big screen TV when he got the HD). In the wake of all the fires in California, business is booming again for him, and he asked if I could do some remote work for him for some holiday spending money.
So my task is to get information off of these charts that measure the value of items lost in the fires--item, quantity, date acquired, and cost. It's the most mind-boggling process to enter someone's worldly possessions into an Excel data sheet. 6 belts, purchased 2001, $60. It gives new meaning to the way I am when someone compliments me on an outfit and I say, "Hey, thanks, I got it at Target for $10!" I've noticed before in these instances that I could probably calculate the value of my wardrobe, because I DO remember how much I've spent on just about everything. Maybe not as much anymore, but really, isn't it a value in our culture to get a bargain? Isn't every penny-pinching college grad conscious about how much we spend? Maybe it's so we can literally know our value. Imagine having to assign a cost to every possession in your living space, from the adhesive hooks that held up your dish towels to your computer and antique jewelry and, in my case, multiple musical instruments. You can kind of tell, too, what these people value by what items were most valuable. They listed no electronics--no TV or DVD player--did they just not have one? Are they listed on a sheet I haven't gotten to yet? They had $600 worth of sheets but little jewelry, a different value set from what I was raised with (basically I'm completely judging these anonymous, traumatized people who've lost everything by how they fill out a form).
But as I continue to enter these mindless numbers, I realize, too, that each item is an item of loss. These belts, these bed sheets, the wicker chair--it's all something that once existed that no longer does. I can't imagine what it would be like to calculate devestating loss item by item. Could I even remember all my possessions? It gives new meaning to the activity of hypothetically grabbing 3 or 5 things before your house burns down. If only assigning the losses to our hearts were so simple....unless, of course, you count the cost of therapy to recover from these losses. Ha! If only it were that measurable. Being called names in elementary school: $250. Losing Spot, the family pet, in a drive by: Cost for animal lovers--$450, for non-animal lovers $50. Having your heart broken: $1000. Losing your mom before you're 30: $5000. But the losses to our hearts and souls can't be measured, hard as we try, and I'm sure that, just like our material possessions, we have no idea the extent of what we've really lost. But we wouldn't want to be able to get rid of all the pain and get new experiences with a check from the insurance company. That cost would be far too cheap.
Maybe I've come across an idea for a new Master Card commercial.
So my task is to get information off of these charts that measure the value of items lost in the fires--item, quantity, date acquired, and cost. It's the most mind-boggling process to enter someone's worldly possessions into an Excel data sheet. 6 belts, purchased 2001, $60. It gives new meaning to the way I am when someone compliments me on an outfit and I say, "Hey, thanks, I got it at Target for $10!" I've noticed before in these instances that I could probably calculate the value of my wardrobe, because I DO remember how much I've spent on just about everything. Maybe not as much anymore, but really, isn't it a value in our culture to get a bargain? Isn't every penny-pinching college grad conscious about how much we spend? Maybe it's so we can literally know our value. Imagine having to assign a cost to every possession in your living space, from the adhesive hooks that held up your dish towels to your computer and antique jewelry and, in my case, multiple musical instruments. You can kind of tell, too, what these people value by what items were most valuable. They listed no electronics--no TV or DVD player--did they just not have one? Are they listed on a sheet I haven't gotten to yet? They had $600 worth of sheets but little jewelry, a different value set from what I was raised with (basically I'm completely judging these anonymous, traumatized people who've lost everything by how they fill out a form).
But as I continue to enter these mindless numbers, I realize, too, that each item is an item of loss. These belts, these bed sheets, the wicker chair--it's all something that once existed that no longer does. I can't imagine what it would be like to calculate devestating loss item by item. Could I even remember all my possessions? It gives new meaning to the activity of hypothetically grabbing 3 or 5 things before your house burns down. If only assigning the losses to our hearts were so simple....unless, of course, you count the cost of therapy to recover from these losses. Ha! If only it were that measurable. Being called names in elementary school: $250. Losing Spot, the family pet, in a drive by: Cost for animal lovers--$450, for non-animal lovers $50. Having your heart broken: $1000. Losing your mom before you're 30: $5000. But the losses to our hearts and souls can't be measured, hard as we try, and I'm sure that, just like our material possessions, we have no idea the extent of what we've really lost. But we wouldn't want to be able to get rid of all the pain and get new experiences with a check from the insurance company. That cost would be far too cheap.
Maybe I've come across an idea for a new Master Card commercial.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
And it continues....
The nostalgia, that is. I'm sitting in a coffeeshop/deli (Amer's for those of you who would appreciate) where I would meet friends and study for 8 wonderful years. They're playing music that I received as a birthday gift freshman year just down the street in the dorm. I just finished a sandwich that made me the happiest girl in the world. I haven't been able to find anything like this place in Los Angeles, except for maybe The Coffee Table in Eagle Rock.
My heart is full today. Thanksgiving was hard at first. I slept in and came downstairs and mom wasn't cooking in the kitchen, and it really didn't seem like Thanksgiving, or that anything really could make it seem like Thanksgiving. But we went over to a family friend's house and it seemed more festive. It ended up being a pleasant day. The pre-meal prayer was my favorite, "God, I haven't talked to you in awhile, but here we are. I have to say that I'm jealous of Barb, because she gets to be with you now. But thank you..." and the thankfulness commenced--for healing from his own bout with cancer and for family and friends and so many other things. I got to speak with my many families--my best friend's family in Michigan who I spent 3 Thanksgivings with through the years, LA friends who were all celebrating an "orphan" Thanksgiving together passed me around. A friend and I hung out later in the evening, looking through high school yearbooks to prepare for our 10-year reunion the next evening.
One of my favorite parts of the weekend was my dad's involvement in my finding an outfit for the reunion. I had gone shopping all day on Wednesday in search of something pretty and comfortable to wear, and just got overwhelmed by the plethora of options at the mall--really, how many different things can you wear with black pants? I didn't find anything, which meant I would have to wear something I had or go shopping on the day after Thanksgiving--God help me. When I came downstairs on Thanksgiving Day, my dad greeted me then said, "Well, I set aside all the ads for places where dresses or winter coats were on sale, so you can take a look at those." And a little later he chimed in, "Really what you need is a little black dress with a scoop neck, maybe with some scalloping on the edge. If you wear that with a strand of pearls, it would look just great." My dad the fashionista! He actually put thought into my outfit. I was really touched. And a little black dress is not something I've owned since high school, or early college, so an expansion of the wardrobe would have been helpful.
I had to work the day after Thanksgiving at 6:30am (I've been picking up some Starbucks shifts in St. Louis), so my dad offered to get up at 4am and go shopping with me to find something. So that's what we did. The crowds weren't too bad at Kohl's and I knew I had to leave with something or deal with something I already had. None of the little black dresses they had quite worked and after about three sweeps through the racks, I was feeling a little hopeless. But we found a nice sparkly sweater and a new pair of black dress boots, which I desperately needed. Dad was really great at helping me find something that would look good. And it was a special time for us--little did I know the fashion insights I'v been missing all these years. As we were walking into the parking lot, pleased with our purchases at 6am, my dad confided, "I really didn't like anything else you tried on, but I wasn't going to say anything. I'm glad we got what we did."
It wasn't until later that I realized that's probably something I would have done with my mom--she would have gotten up early. She would help me root through racks of clothes and approve or disapprove accordingly. So we have a new way of being that I think is harder on dad than he's letting on....
I had lunch with a high school friend who wasn't going to the reunion...we see each other once every couple of years, and it is always amazing, and this was no exception. The reunion was actually a blast. I'm one of those people that loved high school. I was excited to go the reunion and see people, even moreso people from elementary school. I went with a couple friends, and they were nervous to go. I wasn't really. The whole idea of being 28 or 29 and spending an evening with people you haven't seen in 10 years was certainly weird and surreal. It was awkward getting in the door, but soon the familiar faces began pouring in and hugs abounded. I didn't even get out of the front hallway for 2 hours, having one conversation after another until the wee hours of the morning. It was amazing what I remembered and what other people remembered about me. Some had heard about mom. Many had memories about her. The whole thing was beautiful. Seeing how people have found their niche or are still on the quest for it. Remembering my trip to Italy as a Latin student with others who had gone. Meeting people's spouses and hearing about children. It made me glad that I'm a person who can talk to anyone about anything for hours on end, because that was basically the evening, but truly, I have known some amazing people in my life, and I have been someone memorable to them, too.
Now I'm in Ann Arbor having gone to a friend's wedding last night with more old friends and more nostalgia and reminiscing. More familiar places and faces. Such good stuff, I'm bursting at the seams.
My heart is full today. Thanksgiving was hard at first. I slept in and came downstairs and mom wasn't cooking in the kitchen, and it really didn't seem like Thanksgiving, or that anything really could make it seem like Thanksgiving. But we went over to a family friend's house and it seemed more festive. It ended up being a pleasant day. The pre-meal prayer was my favorite, "God, I haven't talked to you in awhile, but here we are. I have to say that I'm jealous of Barb, because she gets to be with you now. But thank you..." and the thankfulness commenced--for healing from his own bout with cancer and for family and friends and so many other things. I got to speak with my many families--my best friend's family in Michigan who I spent 3 Thanksgivings with through the years, LA friends who were all celebrating an "orphan" Thanksgiving together passed me around. A friend and I hung out later in the evening, looking through high school yearbooks to prepare for our 10-year reunion the next evening.
One of my favorite parts of the weekend was my dad's involvement in my finding an outfit for the reunion. I had gone shopping all day on Wednesday in search of something pretty and comfortable to wear, and just got overwhelmed by the plethora of options at the mall--really, how many different things can you wear with black pants? I didn't find anything, which meant I would have to wear something I had or go shopping on the day after Thanksgiving--God help me. When I came downstairs on Thanksgiving Day, my dad greeted me then said, "Well, I set aside all the ads for places where dresses or winter coats were on sale, so you can take a look at those." And a little later he chimed in, "Really what you need is a little black dress with a scoop neck, maybe with some scalloping on the edge. If you wear that with a strand of pearls, it would look just great." My dad the fashionista! He actually put thought into my outfit. I was really touched. And a little black dress is not something I've owned since high school, or early college, so an expansion of the wardrobe would have been helpful.
I had to work the day after Thanksgiving at 6:30am (I've been picking up some Starbucks shifts in St. Louis), so my dad offered to get up at 4am and go shopping with me to find something. So that's what we did. The crowds weren't too bad at Kohl's and I knew I had to leave with something or deal with something I already had. None of the little black dresses they had quite worked and after about three sweeps through the racks, I was feeling a little hopeless. But we found a nice sparkly sweater and a new pair of black dress boots, which I desperately needed. Dad was really great at helping me find something that would look good. And it was a special time for us--little did I know the fashion insights I'v been missing all these years. As we were walking into the parking lot, pleased with our purchases at 6am, my dad confided, "I really didn't like anything else you tried on, but I wasn't going to say anything. I'm glad we got what we did."
It wasn't until later that I realized that's probably something I would have done with my mom--she would have gotten up early. She would help me root through racks of clothes and approve or disapprove accordingly. So we have a new way of being that I think is harder on dad than he's letting on....
I had lunch with a high school friend who wasn't going to the reunion...we see each other once every couple of years, and it is always amazing, and this was no exception. The reunion was actually a blast. I'm one of those people that loved high school. I was excited to go the reunion and see people, even moreso people from elementary school. I went with a couple friends, and they were nervous to go. I wasn't really. The whole idea of being 28 or 29 and spending an evening with people you haven't seen in 10 years was certainly weird and surreal. It was awkward getting in the door, but soon the familiar faces began pouring in and hugs abounded. I didn't even get out of the front hallway for 2 hours, having one conversation after another until the wee hours of the morning. It was amazing what I remembered and what other people remembered about me. Some had heard about mom. Many had memories about her. The whole thing was beautiful. Seeing how people have found their niche or are still on the quest for it. Remembering my trip to Italy as a Latin student with others who had gone. Meeting people's spouses and hearing about children. It made me glad that I'm a person who can talk to anyone about anything for hours on end, because that was basically the evening, but truly, I have known some amazing people in my life, and I have been someone memorable to them, too.
Now I'm in Ann Arbor having gone to a friend's wedding last night with more old friends and more nostalgia and reminiscing. More familiar places and faces. Such good stuff, I'm bursting at the seams.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Nostalgia
On Friday afternoon I was driving to Illinois to see some friends. I didn't have a deadline for when to get there and was moseying through town. "Do I want to go see the hippos again?" I wondered as I approached Forest Park. I really am enamored with those hippos. But I'd just seen them and my other best friend was going to visit with her daughter and we might go see the hippos. It was a beautiful day, and a shame not to be outside in the balmy November midwestern weather. But rather than another trip to the zoo, I opted for a trip to the art museum (just down the street from the zoo) to visit paintings that I have viewed my whole life that I love--an artistic re-centering of sorts.
I wanted to see the gigantic portraits of a husband and wife that were meant to be displayed side by side as each portrait points to the other. A black and white rendering of horse and carriage by one of my favorites, Thomas Eakins. A huge Chuck Close painting that looks like a detailed photograph. Georgia O'Keefe. Monet's "Water Lilies." Van Gogh. It was a delightful couple of hours.
But I started thinking as I continued on my drive, how would I communicate to someone how these paintings make me feel--this melding of an 8-year-old girl discovering art for the first time in a summer workshop with an educated officianado analyzing form and composition with a broken-hearted mourner wanting to connect with emotions through an artistic medium. I began to ponder what was the essence of nostalgia. If I wanted someone else to feel what I feel, the same resonance in my chest, how would I evoke that from them? Does nostalgia feel the same for everyone? How does one evoke communal nostalgia, especially, just for kicks, in the realm of film? Through a soundtrack, perhaps. Songs that were popular when I was in high school tap into an emotional reserve that transports me back to that era in my life. I recently saw a film that took place in the 60's and the fashion and cars may evoke nostalgia in a viewer familiar with that era, but for the most part, nostalgia is an extremely individualistic experience.
I have recently been realizing that communicating insights and lessons that I learn is a vital driving force to me. Whenever I discover something, I immediately begin to navigate how to tell someone else. So part of me is saddened that there isn't a way to communicate nostalgia, the power of my memories. Part of me is glad for the power of remembering that is solely mine....that no one else's journey through the St. Louis Art Museum (or the art museum of their youth) could compare.
I'm swimming in nostalgia in the face of attending my 10-year class reunion from high school this Friday. I'm excited to catch up with people, but can't find a top to go with black pants to save my life. Malls and department stores are overwhelming, and eventually everything starts to look the same. Perhaps I'll wear an outfit from the past, just to be nostalgic.
I wanted to see the gigantic portraits of a husband and wife that were meant to be displayed side by side as each portrait points to the other. A black and white rendering of horse and carriage by one of my favorites, Thomas Eakins. A huge Chuck Close painting that looks like a detailed photograph. Georgia O'Keefe. Monet's "Water Lilies." Van Gogh. It was a delightful couple of hours.
But I started thinking as I continued on my drive, how would I communicate to someone how these paintings make me feel--this melding of an 8-year-old girl discovering art for the first time in a summer workshop with an educated officianado analyzing form and composition with a broken-hearted mourner wanting to connect with emotions through an artistic medium. I began to ponder what was the essence of nostalgia. If I wanted someone else to feel what I feel, the same resonance in my chest, how would I evoke that from them? Does nostalgia feel the same for everyone? How does one evoke communal nostalgia, especially, just for kicks, in the realm of film? Through a soundtrack, perhaps. Songs that were popular when I was in high school tap into an emotional reserve that transports me back to that era in my life. I recently saw a film that took place in the 60's and the fashion and cars may evoke nostalgia in a viewer familiar with that era, but for the most part, nostalgia is an extremely individualistic experience.
I have recently been realizing that communicating insights and lessons that I learn is a vital driving force to me. Whenever I discover something, I immediately begin to navigate how to tell someone else. So part of me is saddened that there isn't a way to communicate nostalgia, the power of my memories. Part of me is glad for the power of remembering that is solely mine....that no one else's journey through the St. Louis Art Museum (or the art museum of their youth) could compare.
I'm swimming in nostalgia in the face of attending my 10-year class reunion from high school this Friday. I'm excited to catch up with people, but can't find a top to go with black pants to save my life. Malls and department stores are overwhelming, and eventually everything starts to look the same. Perhaps I'll wear an outfit from the past, just to be nostalgic.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
There and back again
There being Phoenix, Arizona, to which my dad and I have been there and back. Tomorrow I'm going to Illinois and back for the second time in a week and on Saturday my best friend is coming to town (from Illinois, just for good measure) with her 6-week old daughter so that we can have more voices together to cheer the University of Michigan to a victory over The Ohio State University on Saturday in the big rivalry football game. So much geography. So little time.
In Arizona, my grandma was witty and funny. I got to see my roommate and we stayed up talking for hours and hours just like at home (you really miss someone when you're used to talking to them for an hour a day and then you don't see them for a few weeks!). And I got to see my adored great Uncle Neal and great Aunt Mary. I was mistaken in my last post....Neal is 94, still drives (they have two 2007 vehicles), JUST got hearing aids, still passed his sharpshooter test for the volunteer police posse in his community which means he can PACK HEAT--like CARRY a GUN! He's 94!!!!!! And he knows everyone in town and they know him and he gives waitresses a hard time in a way that they love it. My Aunt Mary will be 89 on Christmas Eve and does beautiful china painting and makes jewelry. They live in a retirement community where you must be 55 or older to own property, so they've stayed young by being around active old people. And they've been married 66 years. When remarking on this to Aunt Mary, she said, "You know, it really doesn't seem like it's been that long." They are amazing and I'm related to them.
Today was Old Newsboys Day, which is a St. Louis tradition of over 50 years. The Old Newsboys organization makes one paper a year and volunteers stand on streetcorners and sell the papers for a donation to St. Louis children's charities. For as long as I can remember, my mom has sold papers at the end of our subdivision. Before I was in school, I would go in the mornings and help her and we would make a thermos of hot chocolate and bundle up and bring blankets. Everyone knows about Old Newsboys, unless, of course, you're new to town, and then I'm sure it's absolutely befuddling. And frankly, St. Louis is so elitist and traditional, in that many who grow up here stay here and so we expect that everyone know our traditions.
Back in July, the letter came from Old Newsboys asking for volunteers. Mom turned to Dad and asked, "Will you do this for me this year?" He said he would and they both started crying. So dad and I did it together this morning. Many drove by expressing their condolences. We notified others when they asked where mom was. One lady, not knowing us personally asked, "Are there new people at this spot this year?" Mom was an Old Newsboys icon in our neighborhood. More than a few tears were shed as people pulled up. I saw neighborhood moms and dads I haven't seen in years. It was a really beautiful morning. Dad already has an expansion planned for next year that we take over the subdivision next to ours, which means, I guess I'm coming back.
Clarification point: I think I confused a lot of people into thinking that when I left LA I wasn't returning....I was always planning on going back and just being in St. Louis temporarily. So I'll be in St. Louis until about December 4th when I'll go to LA. I'll leave LA for St. Louis on the 17th, making it back in time for another annual Scharnhorst tradition--Christmas caroling. I'll be back in LA for good sometime in January.
For my Michigan friends--I'll be in Ann Arbor from the 24th to the 28th of November--yippee! Many places to go there and back.
In Arizona, my grandma was witty and funny. I got to see my roommate and we stayed up talking for hours and hours just like at home (you really miss someone when you're used to talking to them for an hour a day and then you don't see them for a few weeks!). And I got to see my adored great Uncle Neal and great Aunt Mary. I was mistaken in my last post....Neal is 94, still drives (they have two 2007 vehicles), JUST got hearing aids, still passed his sharpshooter test for the volunteer police posse in his community which means he can PACK HEAT--like CARRY a GUN! He's 94!!!!!! And he knows everyone in town and they know him and he gives waitresses a hard time in a way that they love it. My Aunt Mary will be 89 on Christmas Eve and does beautiful china painting and makes jewelry. They live in a retirement community where you must be 55 or older to own property, so they've stayed young by being around active old people. And they've been married 66 years. When remarking on this to Aunt Mary, she said, "You know, it really doesn't seem like it's been that long." They are amazing and I'm related to them.
Today was Old Newsboys Day, which is a St. Louis tradition of over 50 years. The Old Newsboys organization makes one paper a year and volunteers stand on streetcorners and sell the papers for a donation to St. Louis children's charities. For as long as I can remember, my mom has sold papers at the end of our subdivision. Before I was in school, I would go in the mornings and help her and we would make a thermos of hot chocolate and bundle up and bring blankets. Everyone knows about Old Newsboys, unless, of course, you're new to town, and then I'm sure it's absolutely befuddling. And frankly, St. Louis is so elitist and traditional, in that many who grow up here stay here and so we expect that everyone know our traditions.
Back in July, the letter came from Old Newsboys asking for volunteers. Mom turned to Dad and asked, "Will you do this for me this year?" He said he would and they both started crying. So dad and I did it together this morning. Many drove by expressing their condolences. We notified others when they asked where mom was. One lady, not knowing us personally asked, "Are there new people at this spot this year?" Mom was an Old Newsboys icon in our neighborhood. More than a few tears were shed as people pulled up. I saw neighborhood moms and dads I haven't seen in years. It was a really beautiful morning. Dad already has an expansion planned for next year that we take over the subdivision next to ours, which means, I guess I'm coming back.
Clarification point: I think I confused a lot of people into thinking that when I left LA I wasn't returning....I was always planning on going back and just being in St. Louis temporarily. So I'll be in St. Louis until about December 4th when I'll go to LA. I'll leave LA for St. Louis on the 17th, making it back in time for another annual Scharnhorst tradition--Christmas caroling. I'll be back in LA for good sometime in January.
For my Michigan friends--I'll be in Ann Arbor from the 24th to the 28th of November--yippee! Many places to go there and back.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Farm cousins
I've been under the weather for nearly a week, hence the lack of energy and motivation (and anything eventful in my life) to post. I have decided, though, that I'd like to find a use for the term "above the weather" or "over the weather." I came down with a cold the day after the Memorial Service and Sunday brunch were over with. My brother and sister-in-law and niece left on Thursday and my dad and I headed to Quincy, IL--his hometown--on Friday evening to attend the wedding of my cousin.
Now technically he's my second cousin or first cousin once removed or something like that--the groom's dad and my dad are first cousins. And this particular set of cousins are what I affectionately refer to as my "farm cousins." The cousins in my generation literally still work the family farm, which I happen to think is the coolest thing in the world. I have fond memories of going to the farm. It's where I drove a huge tractor through the fields by myself (and the only time to this day when I drove a vehicle with a clutch). Once when I was about 8 years old, I stayed for a week and picked up the accent. Memories of the farm are full of summertime ball games, animals of all kinds, and getting really dirty. It was always different from what I was used to as a born-and-bred city/suburban girl. But I loved it.
The wedding was in the small Catholic church that my grandma grew up attending. Beforehand, we drove by the old farmhouse where my grandma had been born. We drove through Bentley, IL, a "suburb" of the county seat of Carthage, IL, population 2800, and my grandma showed us where the grocery store had been, and a restaurant. Now they are just the back yards of other houses. Grandma showed us her old schoolhouse--an amazing two-story structure that is remarkably still standing after years of obvious neglect. My grandma has never spoken fondly of her childhood--it was hard growing up on the farm during the Depression, and she had to work hard, was embarrassed to wear her older sister's too-big shoes. So this was a lighter-hearted version of those early days--and an insight into my own roots. Had I been born into the farm cousins rather than to the cousin with the PhD (my dad), my life would have been quite different, though really, of us all, the farm cousins are my favorite--the most sociable and friendly--the ones you know could blend in anywhere, even though they rarely venture far from their unlocked front door.
The wedding was beautiful, and many shared fond memories of mom. The groom actually lost his mom to cancer (his younger sister helped care for her in her last days), so it was very touching to see how they honored her with my own loss being so close. The unity candle is always a hard part for me--who will light my unity candle? One friend advised, "The unity candle is stupid. You don't even have to do it." True. We'll see....there's definitely plenty of time to figure that out. But the pang of mom's absence was closer this weekend. I would have been sitting next to her, sharing silly comments and laughing, linking arms with her in the cold wind...
Tomorrow my dad and I take my Grandma to Arizona where she winters (when it's a verb and not a noun). We'll meet up with my LA roommate there, which will be great. She'll get to meet Uncle Neal and Aunt Mary--my great uncle and aunt who are 93 and 88 and have been married 64 years. What a pair! Apparently, Uncle Neal saved a barn in Bentley, IL from burning to the ground and it stands to this day--we saw it with our own eyes. Can't wait to hear that story.
Now technically he's my second cousin or first cousin once removed or something like that--the groom's dad and my dad are first cousins. And this particular set of cousins are what I affectionately refer to as my "farm cousins." The cousins in my generation literally still work the family farm, which I happen to think is the coolest thing in the world. I have fond memories of going to the farm. It's where I drove a huge tractor through the fields by myself (and the only time to this day when I drove a vehicle with a clutch). Once when I was about 8 years old, I stayed for a week and picked up the accent. Memories of the farm are full of summertime ball games, animals of all kinds, and getting really dirty. It was always different from what I was used to as a born-and-bred city/suburban girl. But I loved it.
The wedding was in the small Catholic church that my grandma grew up attending. Beforehand, we drove by the old farmhouse where my grandma had been born. We drove through Bentley, IL, a "suburb" of the county seat of Carthage, IL, population 2800, and my grandma showed us where the grocery store had been, and a restaurant. Now they are just the back yards of other houses. Grandma showed us her old schoolhouse--an amazing two-story structure that is remarkably still standing after years of obvious neglect. My grandma has never spoken fondly of her childhood--it was hard growing up on the farm during the Depression, and she had to work hard, was embarrassed to wear her older sister's too-big shoes. So this was a lighter-hearted version of those early days--and an insight into my own roots. Had I been born into the farm cousins rather than to the cousin with the PhD (my dad), my life would have been quite different, though really, of us all, the farm cousins are my favorite--the most sociable and friendly--the ones you know could blend in anywhere, even though they rarely venture far from their unlocked front door.
The wedding was beautiful, and many shared fond memories of mom. The groom actually lost his mom to cancer (his younger sister helped care for her in her last days), so it was very touching to see how they honored her with my own loss being so close. The unity candle is always a hard part for me--who will light my unity candle? One friend advised, "The unity candle is stupid. You don't even have to do it." True. We'll see....there's definitely plenty of time to figure that out. But the pang of mom's absence was closer this weekend. I would have been sitting next to her, sharing silly comments and laughing, linking arms with her in the cold wind...
Tomorrow my dad and I take my Grandma to Arizona where she winters (when it's a verb and not a noun). We'll meet up with my LA roommate there, which will be great. She'll get to meet Uncle Neal and Aunt Mary--my great uncle and aunt who are 93 and 88 and have been married 64 years. What a pair! Apparently, Uncle Neal saved a barn in Bentley, IL from burning to the ground and it stands to this day--we saw it with our own eyes. Can't wait to hear that story.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
The Memorial
Today was a busy, but beautiful day. My brother joked this morning, "Anyone else feel like putting this off another few days?" Um, yeah. But really, the anticipation was far worse than the actual process. It was a beautiful day full of amazing people--friends of old and new and every one of them telling me how much I look like my mom. I ended up speaking, as did my dad. We had a wonderful meal prepared by some women from the church downstairs afterward, two of whom were moms of kids I grew up in Sunday school with.
Then afterward a bunch of people came over to the house. Good times. Good friends. But mom wasn't here, and that was clear. She was missed. I'll try to post as much of what I can remember of what I said soon. For now, I'm going to collapse.
Then afterward a bunch of people came over to the house. Good times. Good friends. But mom wasn't here, and that was clear. She was missed. I'll try to post as much of what I can remember of what I said soon. For now, I'm going to collapse.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Visitors
This week my best friend visited with her daughter for a few days, which was fantastic. We celebrated my birthday (29 on the 29th!), went to the zoo and watched the hippos and a baby elephant. I'm a new fan of the hippopotamus, and appreciate the fullness of the name hippopotamus. Just say it, "Hippopotamus." Watching these beasts swim makes me glad they don't always have to walk. Whoa. The comfort of an familiar friend and the joy of a little one were just the trick (and treat) this week.
My brother and sister-in-law and niece arrived today and will be here for a week. Sitting around the house this afternoon, watching my niece walk for the first time, it hit me that mom was missing. We are in this new phase of family--the grown up phase--we've entered the next generation and the floor we used to crawl around on is now where my niece plods and crawls. And mom is going to miss it. And we're going to miss her.
We're having a memorial service on Saturday at the church I grew up in. My dad is going to try to say something, and I think I will, too. I remember someone telling me once that you don't get too many chances to honor people publicly, and so I want to do that. And I think that I, more than any other human being, bear my mom's image--not only physically, but my laugh, my outgoing personality and sense of humor. So much of her is in me. People did say she was the most organized person they ever knew, though, and I know no one will deem me THAT.
But there's been a lot of planning and a lot of debating and discussing about planning. We'll have people over Saturday night and Sunday for a brunch that the neighbors and friends will make. Today we got cards from neighbors from a LONG time ago....one of them has a daughter who used to babysit my brother and me. Don't even know how these people found out. So much love, though. Such a life that was lived.
My brother and sister-in-law and niece arrived today and will be here for a week. Sitting around the house this afternoon, watching my niece walk for the first time, it hit me that mom was missing. We are in this new phase of family--the grown up phase--we've entered the next generation and the floor we used to crawl around on is now where my niece plods and crawls. And mom is going to miss it. And we're going to miss her.
We're having a memorial service on Saturday at the church I grew up in. My dad is going to try to say something, and I think I will, too. I remember someone telling me once that you don't get too many chances to honor people publicly, and so I want to do that. And I think that I, more than any other human being, bear my mom's image--not only physically, but my laugh, my outgoing personality and sense of humor. So much of her is in me. People did say she was the most organized person they ever knew, though, and I know no one will deem me THAT.
But there's been a lot of planning and a lot of debating and discussing about planning. We'll have people over Saturday night and Sunday for a brunch that the neighbors and friends will make. Today we got cards from neighbors from a LONG time ago....one of them has a daughter who used to babysit my brother and me. Don't even know how these people found out. So much love, though. Such a life that was lived.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Food
I realized something about myself today. Grocery shopping is a truly enjoyable, relaxing activity for me. I love doing it. I love dreaming of exotic and gourmet meals and dishes I can make for myself and other people. I could honestly wander the aisles for hours and consider it time well spent. Now, in the past, for good bonding with dear friends, we'd shop for ingredients and cook up a great meal together, but there's something about the people and the stuff of grocery stores....I could just get lost in all the cheeses and perfectly arranged colorful produce. And I love food, don't get me wrong, but I don't think I'm necessarily obsessive OR compulsive about it, and I absolutely have a problem with the excess of food in our culture (how many different kinds of Chex cereal do we really need?). But today, I'm just delighting in the fact that I have discovered what could be a beautiful coping skill when times get tough.
Tonight was the second night that friends have had my dad and me over for dinner. Our neighbor is an excellent cook, and I think she copes by cooking. There is something calming in assembling a beautiful, simple meal for people you love. And so we benefited. My shopping today was to get what I affectionately call "my food," namely avocados and hummus, cheese and bagels, and let's not forget Trader Joe's chocolate covered, peanut butter filled pretzels. THANK YOU that Trader Joe's has spread beyond the borders of California and invaded the Midwest.
It is SO beautiful here. The weather has provided spectacularly clear blue skies as a backdrop for leaves that seem to seep more color out of the soil by the hour. I love the fall. My neighbor said to me today, "It's because we were born in October." Neighbors came by to drop off a ham (why did I buy so much food again?) and we stepped outside to see them off and EVERYONE was on the street, walking dogs, raking leaves. There is something so resonantly comfortable about being here. I know how to exist here in the familiarities that are woven into the fabric of my identity. I live on Braumton Ct. We know our neighbors. You wave to anyone you pass on the street whether you know them or not. You bump into people you know at the grocery store (unless, of course, you're engrossed with all the cheeses). My dad and I went to church this morning, and everyone is the SAME, only aged a few years. And today, I held an appreciation for the people that have sustained this institution. Today I appreciated where I have come from. That this place, this culture, is a part of me. I'm friendly and I talk to strangers, because that's what you do in the midwest. Today, rather than resent the obligations and the "shoulds" that have hounded me most of my life, I saw the beauty in people who have have been truly fulfilled spending a lifetime doing what they should, what they're supposed to, just because that's what you do. This is not where I belong, but part of it certainly belongs in me.
Tonight was the second night that friends have had my dad and me over for dinner. Our neighbor is an excellent cook, and I think she copes by cooking. There is something calming in assembling a beautiful, simple meal for people you love. And so we benefited. My shopping today was to get what I affectionately call "my food," namely avocados and hummus, cheese and bagels, and let's not forget Trader Joe's chocolate covered, peanut butter filled pretzels. THANK YOU that Trader Joe's has spread beyond the borders of California and invaded the Midwest.
It is SO beautiful here. The weather has provided spectacularly clear blue skies as a backdrop for leaves that seem to seep more color out of the soil by the hour. I love the fall. My neighbor said to me today, "It's because we were born in October." Neighbors came by to drop off a ham (why did I buy so much food again?) and we stepped outside to see them off and EVERYONE was on the street, walking dogs, raking leaves. There is something so resonantly comfortable about being here. I know how to exist here in the familiarities that are woven into the fabric of my identity. I live on Braumton Ct. We know our neighbors. You wave to anyone you pass on the street whether you know them or not. You bump into people you know at the grocery store (unless, of course, you're engrossed with all the cheeses). My dad and I went to church this morning, and everyone is the SAME, only aged a few years. And today, I held an appreciation for the people that have sustained this institution. Today I appreciated where I have come from. That this place, this culture, is a part of me. I'm friendly and I talk to strangers, because that's what you do in the midwest. Today, rather than resent the obligations and the "shoulds" that have hounded me most of my life, I saw the beauty in people who have have been truly fulfilled spending a lifetime doing what they should, what they're supposed to, just because that's what you do. This is not where I belong, but part of it certainly belongs in me.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Real
My dad went back to work today, which is good for him. So I'm sitting in my family room while a gentle rain falls outside from a darkly clouded sky. The past few days have been kind of surreal. I have felt this overwhelming peacefulness (except for an awful crick in my neck). My dad and I have had some good times together; talking, making arrangements, watching movies, crying. But it doesn't always seem real that mom is gone, moreso that she's just at the nursing home, or just away for awhile, not that she's gone forever.
Then yesterday, I was putting some of my stuff away in my room and my bathroom and started clearing stuff out to make room for my stuff. As I'm sorting through old medicine bottles and jewelry boxes, I had all these questions, "Should we keep this? Is this sterling silver? Where's the jewelry cleaner to get this tarnish off? Do I just need to soak it or should I scrub it?" These are questions that my mom would know the answers to, and I can't ask her. So I lost it for a little while and told my dad and we lost it together. That made it more real.
The piano tuner came yesterday to tune our Baldwin baby grand--such a kick-ass piano. My mom had set up the appointment and the tuner was asking who played, more specifically if my mom played. "Well, she did," I said. "She died on Tuesday." Facts. I can state facts. And I am a person who loves intense experiences, who would forever swim in the depths of her emotions if she could. But today I am grateful that the human mind, body, and soul can state facts and do so without fully engaging the depths of human emotion. I can bear a lot, but even I am far too fragile to bear the fullness of the implications of these facts all the time.
"I'll be playing a lot while I'm here," I continued to tell the piano tuner. And I did this morning. I filled the quiet of my house with the sounds of a lament, just some simple chords without words to express a portion of the ache that threatens my heart. May that ache and that pain be consumed and expelled as something achingly beautiful.
Then yesterday, I was putting some of my stuff away in my room and my bathroom and started clearing stuff out to make room for my stuff. As I'm sorting through old medicine bottles and jewelry boxes, I had all these questions, "Should we keep this? Is this sterling silver? Where's the jewelry cleaner to get this tarnish off? Do I just need to soak it or should I scrub it?" These are questions that my mom would know the answers to, and I can't ask her. So I lost it for a little while and told my dad and we lost it together. That made it more real.
The piano tuner came yesterday to tune our Baldwin baby grand--such a kick-ass piano. My mom had set up the appointment and the tuner was asking who played, more specifically if my mom played. "Well, she did," I said. "She died on Tuesday." Facts. I can state facts. And I am a person who loves intense experiences, who would forever swim in the depths of her emotions if she could. But today I am grateful that the human mind, body, and soul can state facts and do so without fully engaging the depths of human emotion. I can bear a lot, but even I am far too fragile to bear the fullness of the implications of these facts all the time.
"I'll be playing a lot while I'm here," I continued to tell the piano tuner. And I did this morning. I filled the quiet of my house with the sounds of a lament, just some simple chords without words to express a portion of the ache that threatens my heart. May that ache and that pain be consumed and expelled as something achingly beautiful.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Promoted to Glory
She's gone.
Barbara Ann Lange Scharnhorst
Born July 14, 1944
Promoted to glory October 23, 2007
My mom (and her mom before her) did a lot of work with the Salvation Army. The officers in the Salvation Army, rather than saying someone died, would say they had been "promoted to glory." My mom always liked that, and I do to.
My dad and I were with her. More later when I'm not so exhausted. Thank you for all the love and support, everyone. It means the world.
Barbara Ann Lange Scharnhorst
Born July 14, 1944
Promoted to glory October 23, 2007
My mom (and her mom before her) did a lot of work with the Salvation Army. The officers in the Salvation Army, rather than saying someone died, would say they had been "promoted to glory." My mom always liked that, and I do to.
My dad and I were with her. More later when I'm not so exhausted. Thank you for all the love and support, everyone. It means the world.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Harder than I thought
This is going to be harder than I thought. It's times like this I'm grateful for my naivete, because if I knew what I was getting myself into, I don't think I'd do it. Denial can be a beautiful thing.
After taking my brother and sister-in-law and niece to the airport, I stopped by the nursing home to see mom. She was sitting in her chair, having eaten a little bit of breakfast. She didn't make much sense, babbling about numbers and letters, which I think were left over from one of her old jobs. I started to cry. She opened her eyes and looked at me, "What? You're sad, because I'm so confused?" she said, perfectly coherently.
So I put lotion on her while I prayed for her, and smiles would come across her face occasionally. My brother called to say they'd gotten on the plane, and as soon as she heard his voice, another big smile. I'm getting a small glimpse of a mother's love. Of my mother's love for me.
Needless to say, a lot of my grand plans for final bonding are going out the window. As I was putting lotion on her arms, a melodic spontaneous nonsong (see previous post) came into my mind about "the arms that held me, strong and loving," but I didn't sing it--courage, my soul! Be courageous! Instead, I asked if she would like me to sing to her, and she smiled, "You should sing Happy Birthday." My birthday is next Monday. Somewhere in the midst of the words and the cloudiness of drugs and cancer, she is making sense.
So now, off to get some of the things that will help pass the time while I sit with her.....a CD player and some CDs to drown out the TVs of the hearing impaired across the hall, books, yarn and crochet hooks, photo albums.
Yeah, this is going to be harder than I thought.
After taking my brother and sister-in-law and niece to the airport, I stopped by the nursing home to see mom. She was sitting in her chair, having eaten a little bit of breakfast. She didn't make much sense, babbling about numbers and letters, which I think were left over from one of her old jobs. I started to cry. She opened her eyes and looked at me, "What? You're sad, because I'm so confused?" she said, perfectly coherently.
So I put lotion on her while I prayed for her, and smiles would come across her face occasionally. My brother called to say they'd gotten on the plane, and as soon as she heard his voice, another big smile. I'm getting a small glimpse of a mother's love. Of my mother's love for me.
Needless to say, a lot of my grand plans for final bonding are going out the window. As I was putting lotion on her arms, a melodic spontaneous nonsong (see previous post) came into my mind about "the arms that held me, strong and loving," but I didn't sing it--courage, my soul! Be courageous! Instead, I asked if she would like me to sing to her, and she smiled, "You should sing Happy Birthday." My birthday is next Monday. Somewhere in the midst of the words and the cloudiness of drugs and cancer, she is making sense.
So now, off to get some of the things that will help pass the time while I sit with her.....a CD player and some CDs to drown out the TVs of the hearing impaired across the hall, books, yarn and crochet hooks, photo albums.
Yeah, this is going to be harder than I thought.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Road trip
I watched the sunset over the ocean in Santa Monica on Friday night. Hopped in the car after working on Saturday and watched the sunset over the Mojave Desert. Watched the sunrise over Albuquerque this morning and here I am at the kitchen table in the house I grew up in. Total travel time door to door: 32 hours, 25 1/2 of which were driving. I only stopped when I needed gas. Talked to friends. Started singing to myself in Oklahoma, beginning, of course, with all the songs I could remember from the musical, "Oklahoma," then began to compose a musical of my own. I began to compose a musical once when sitting in traffic on my way into Chicago one weekend. It went a little something like this: "I need to change my lane/before I go insane/change my lane/go insane/change my lane/go insane." It's amazing the creativity that oozes out of a road-weary, sun-baked brain.
Somewhere amidst the windmill strewn red dirt hills of Oklahoma, I decided I'm going to sing to my mom. I don't think she's ever had a song written about her, which is a tragedy, because she is definitely an epic, songworthy woman. And, singing spontaneously about the little things, "I'm getting you a glass of water, whether or not you think I oughta" could be kinda fun, and is, in fact, my specialty in songwriting. Melodic nonsongs. If that fails to be fun and cheerful, I brought fingerpaints and play-doh with me.
On a more serious note, how much more poetic would a lifetime of apologies be if it were sung as a ballad? Let's all admit it, we snicker at musicals, because they're really kind of cheesy, but somewhere deep in my heart, I wish the world were in sync enough that people would just bust out with "Lean on Me" in line in the grocery store. I FEEL like I live a musical, because of all the music that accompanies me in my head. So maybe, for one part of one day, I'll live a musical with my mom.
Time for bed, as I'm getting back in the car tomorrow morning to take my brother and sister-in-law and niece to the airport. It's good to be here.
Somewhere amidst the windmill strewn red dirt hills of Oklahoma, I decided I'm going to sing to my mom. I don't think she's ever had a song written about her, which is a tragedy, because she is definitely an epic, songworthy woman. And, singing spontaneously about the little things, "I'm getting you a glass of water, whether or not you think I oughta" could be kinda fun, and is, in fact, my specialty in songwriting. Melodic nonsongs. If that fails to be fun and cheerful, I brought fingerpaints and play-doh with me.
On a more serious note, how much more poetic would a lifetime of apologies be if it were sung as a ballad? Let's all admit it, we snicker at musicals, because they're really kind of cheesy, but somewhere deep in my heart, I wish the world were in sync enough that people would just bust out with "Lean on Me" in line in the grocery store. I FEEL like I live a musical, because of all the music that accompanies me in my head. So maybe, for one part of one day, I'll live a musical with my mom.
Time for bed, as I'm getting back in the car tomorrow morning to take my brother and sister-in-law and niece to the airport. It's good to be here.
Friday, October 19, 2007
The road home
I will arise at 4:45 am tomorrow and work a 6 hour shift before hopping in my not-yet packed car and starting the cross country trek to St. Louis. I talked to my older brother today, and he and my sister-in-law and niece were at the airport on their way down from Michigan for a trip they'd planned a little while back. Hopefully I will arrive before they leave so we can all be together. I am tired. But I am ready to be home, ready to get there.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The nursing home
Found out yesterday that they are moving mom to the nursing home today. She isn't safe to be at home alone anymore. When they called to tell me, I took the liberty of telling them I was coming home. It has always been part of the plan to go to the nursing home when the time came (dad doesn't want her to die at home), but I just didn't think it would come so soon. I didn't think any of this would come so soon.
The realities keep hitting me anew--that I will not see my mom in my house again. In my head all the conversations I've imagined having with her, I imagined in our kitchen or in her bedroom. Now I've started visualizing the conversations at the nursing home. It's one we know well--my grandma was there for a few years. My mom would visit every day, so all the staff know her and love her, so at least it's a familiar place. I think I'm going through all the moments people typically do when putting a family member in the nursing home. It seems cruel. I think I can take care of her. But there she has new people to talk to and people who know what they're doing. The woman can't communicate well to save her life, though, so I hope the nurses understand that....they've probably seen much worse.
So I think I'm going to leave Saturday after work, forgo my going away party, forgo the long trip planned with beautiful stops with amazing people and just get there as quickly as I can. The end is so very near, and there is no time to lose. My mom burst into tears when they told me saying, "I don't know how much time I have left." "Just hold on a little longer, Mama." "I'll try, Annie."
Please God let there be enough time to say all that needs to be said, to express the "I love yous" and "I'm sorrys" for a lifetime. Enough time and stamina to use the fingerpaints and play doh I bought for us to play with together. Will it just be enough.
The realities keep hitting me anew--that I will not see my mom in my house again. In my head all the conversations I've imagined having with her, I imagined in our kitchen or in her bedroom. Now I've started visualizing the conversations at the nursing home. It's one we know well--my grandma was there for a few years. My mom would visit every day, so all the staff know her and love her, so at least it's a familiar place. I think I'm going through all the moments people typically do when putting a family member in the nursing home. It seems cruel. I think I can take care of her. But there she has new people to talk to and people who know what they're doing. The woman can't communicate well to save her life, though, so I hope the nurses understand that....they've probably seen much worse.
So I think I'm going to leave Saturday after work, forgo my going away party, forgo the long trip planned with beautiful stops with amazing people and just get there as quickly as I can. The end is so very near, and there is no time to lose. My mom burst into tears when they told me saying, "I don't know how much time I have left." "Just hold on a little longer, Mama." "I'll try, Annie."
Please God let there be enough time to say all that needs to be said, to express the "I love yous" and "I'm sorrys" for a lifetime. Enough time and stamina to use the fingerpaints and play doh I bought for us to play with together. Will it just be enough.
Monday, October 15, 2007
good music
I'm moving home in a week, because my mother is dying, and a few people have asked me if I need anything. "Music for the drive," I always respond. I love good music.
I've been listening to Copland the past week or so....and I mean Aaron, the American composer, not the band Copeland, though I hear they're good, too. I have always loved his music and did projects about him in college. Something about the way that he writes expresses the things of the human spirit to me, and so after I got my car back from a month in the shop, I grabbed some CDs to load up the 6-disc changer. Among them was a gift from a family I used to nanny for, containing Fanfare for the Common Man and Applachian Spring Suite. Really, my speakers don't go loud enough to experience this music at the proper volume.
As I drove through the city last Friday, blasting Fanfare, seeing mountains and skyscrapers in the same view, I felt a nobility rise up in me, a desire to be great, to do great things, and it is a great and noble thing that I am doing to move home to be with my mom. But Copland's is a Fanfare for the Common Man, and it is also a very common thing that I do--I am going home, something so normal and natural, and doing so in the face of death--something common to every person. And somewhere in the comingling of nobility and commonness is where the essence of humanity lies. Somewhere between the grandiose notes an imagination can conjure and the limitations of our bodies to leap high enough or sweep big enough to express those notes in dance.
Later, in Appalachian Spring Suite, is a section where the lower strings lay a thick, velvety undercurrent as a solo flute dances sweetly up above. And it struck me that this is the state of my soul--a deep faith and rich understanding moving purposefully underneath and in the midst of it, the contemplative questioning heart of a little girl asking, "What will I do without my mom? Who will take care of me? Can I just play today?" But really, the deep tones are not entirely of me, but deeply ingrained into me from somewhere or someone outside of me, slowly becoming part of me. The double basses support the melody of the flute and counter its playfulness and its questions with strength and solidarity. In the same way, whatever the source of this current running through my soul is will bolster me and carry me along through the grandiose and common corridors of my humanity.
With any kind of good music, or good art, for that matter, words cheapen the experience, so go find some Copland to listen to and see if your soul doesn't soar. As for me, I can't wait to listen to it as I drive through the mountains.
I've been listening to Copland the past week or so....and I mean Aaron, the American composer, not the band Copeland, though I hear they're good, too. I have always loved his music and did projects about him in college. Something about the way that he writes expresses the things of the human spirit to me, and so after I got my car back from a month in the shop, I grabbed some CDs to load up the 6-disc changer. Among them was a gift from a family I used to nanny for, containing Fanfare for the Common Man and Applachian Spring Suite. Really, my speakers don't go loud enough to experience this music at the proper volume.
As I drove through the city last Friday, blasting Fanfare, seeing mountains and skyscrapers in the same view, I felt a nobility rise up in me, a desire to be great, to do great things, and it is a great and noble thing that I am doing to move home to be with my mom. But Copland's is a Fanfare for the Common Man, and it is also a very common thing that I do--I am going home, something so normal and natural, and doing so in the face of death--something common to every person. And somewhere in the comingling of nobility and commonness is where the essence of humanity lies. Somewhere between the grandiose notes an imagination can conjure and the limitations of our bodies to leap high enough or sweep big enough to express those notes in dance.
Later, in Appalachian Spring Suite, is a section where the lower strings lay a thick, velvety undercurrent as a solo flute dances sweetly up above. And it struck me that this is the state of my soul--a deep faith and rich understanding moving purposefully underneath and in the midst of it, the contemplative questioning heart of a little girl asking, "What will I do without my mom? Who will take care of me? Can I just play today?" But really, the deep tones are not entirely of me, but deeply ingrained into me from somewhere or someone outside of me, slowly becoming part of me. The double basses support the melody of the flute and counter its playfulness and its questions with strength and solidarity. In the same way, whatever the source of this current running through my soul is will bolster me and carry me along through the grandiose and common corridors of my humanity.
With any kind of good music, or good art, for that matter, words cheapen the experience, so go find some Copland to listen to and see if your soul doesn't soar. As for me, I can't wait to listen to it as I drive through the mountains.
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