Committing to the Way

If my parents had stayed married, today would have been their 67th wedding anniversary.

Back in 1990, when my father decided to call it quits on his marriage of 42 years, he also put a hard stop to any further celebration of anniversaries. For a number of years after he left, I would bring my mother a single red rose on May 22, just to let her know that I remembered, that I cared, that I grieved with her for the milestones they would not celebrate together.

On May 22, 1998, on what would have been their 50th anniversary, she accepted the rose, gave me a hug, and said, “Let’s stop remembering this day."

Obviously, that’s easier said than done, because here I am, still remembering it. 

Today, she and I went out shopping as we do a couple of times every week. She likes to go out to one of the “big box” stores like Target or Meijers, stores where she can walk around in a safe environment and pick up some items she needs or wants. It is de rigueur that she have a shopping cart to use for balance and support while walking, so our shopping expeditions are limited to stores that have these carts. I know -  she needs to use a walker, but she is adamantly against them.

“Why don’t they have something like a shopping basket for old people to use when they walk?” she asked me not long ago.

“But MOM,” I said, trying not sound like an exasperated 13-year old, “they do! It’s called a WALKER.” 

“Oh, those things,” she replied dismissively. “I’m not going to use one of THOSE!"

So. Target and Meijer’s it is. And Kohl’s! Thank you Kohl’s for having shopping carts.

Anyway, today neither one of us mentioned The Anniversary. We haven’t mentioned it in years, and although I’m quite sure she’s as aware of the date as I am, she never brings it up. We’ve simply decided “not to remember it” any longer. And so we don’t.

On my mantel I have three wedding pictures: One of my husband and myself, another of my son and daughter-in-law, and the third a sepia toned photo of my parents on their wedding day. My mother has dark, wavy hair that lies gracefully across her shoulder. She wears a brightly printed dress (no big wedding for these two - my dad had only $90 to his name on their wedding day, so they were married in the minister’s living room.) My dad is dark and exotic looking, with his olive skin tone, deep set eyes, and black hair. My mother looks directly into the camera lens in that photo, and she looks deeply sure of herself, relaxed, and happy.

But my dad is looking slightly off to the right, as if he’s not quite committed to the whole thing. I look at that photo a lot, and I wonder - was he a little bit unsure, even then, this handsome, dark eyed 20 year old, fresh off the boat from the Pacific Theater in WWII. Was he even then thinking about what might otherwise have been?

The poet Wendell Berry says this about Marriage: “Because the condition of marriage is worldly and its meaning communal, no party to it can be solely in charge. What you alone think it ought to be, it is not going to be. Where you alone think you want it to go, it is not going to go. It is going where the two of you  - and marriage, time, life, history, and the world - will take it. You do not know the road; you have only committed your life to a Way."

My parents committed themselves to a Way, back on May 22, 1948. The “Way” in that time was so much different from the “Way” it is now. People got married and it was expected they would STAY married. There was no trial period, no “shacking up” ahead of time to see how things went. Couples often married young (my parents were 20 and 21) because marriage was the only acceptable way for a young man and woman to co-habitate in those days. 

For my parents, the Way seemed clear cut and straightforward. They were, for the most part, happy couple. They each had their prescribed roles, they fulfilled them to the best of their abilities. They were the quintessential “Baby Boomers”: my Dad owned a small successful small business, my Mother kept a nice home, they had a smart, well-behaved, pretty daughter, a nice home in suburbs, and a new car every couple of years. 

The proverbial ALL - at least as far as the requirements of the 1960’s and 1970’s went.

Still, something was missing - the “something” that pushed my 60 year old Father into the arms of another woman almost 20 years his junior. I can speculate: He married too young in the first place; he didn’t get to sow enough wild oats; my mother was too “tame” for him; he wanted a more glamorous lifestyle. His life must have been a disappointment to him - and of course I have included myself in the list of things that must have fallen short on his list of accomplishments. I have often felt myself to be lacking in some important something that would impel my father to keep the family intact. 

Then I come back to those words of Wendell Berry’s: What you alone think it ought to be, it is not going to be. Where you alone think you want it to go, it is not going to go. It is going where the two of you  - and marriage, time, life, history, and the world - will take it. You do not know the road; you have only committed your life to a Way."

I’m not an athlete, but these words make me think of marriage as something like a Marathon race. Once you’ve committed yourself, once you’ve signed up for it, laced up your shoes, slapped your number on your chest, and bellied up to the starting line, you’re committed  to The Way: to the course, the track, the lane - whatever stretches out in front of you. You put one foot in front of the other, you huff and puff, get red in the face, you spurt and sputter. You keep pounding the pavement.

And when you break the ribbon at the finish line, whether you are first or one hundred and first, you rejoice because you made it. You may be exhausted and breathless, but you’re there all the same. 

When I was growing up, my parents seemed to have the perfect marriage. My Dad was always warm, loving, kind, and thoughtful toward my mother and me. Nevertheless, something inside him was deeply enough hurt that he was able to forsake his commitment to the way of marriage and family. 

Even after all this time, I still wish he could have stayed the course and finished the race he started 67 years ago today.

Getting Out of the Way

We don’t make a big fuss about holidays around here anymore. With just the three of us (Jim, myself, and my mom) in town, our celebrations are really low key. My mom doesn’t like to eat in restaurants, and really doesn’t like to leave home much at all anymore. It’s a struggle to get her to come to our house, and I can tell she’s not really comfortable here. So for Mother’s Day this year, she will do what she does so often - make a meal for us. I know that’s what gives her pleasure.

When Jim and I set our wedding date lo those many years ago, we weren’t thinking about the fact that it was the Saturday before Mother’s Day. This caused a few difficulties, not the least of which was that we had a tough time finding a florist willing to do a wedding on their busiest weekend of the year. Then it occurred to us that we would be on our honeymoon on Mother’s Day. So, like the dutiful (and perpetually guilt-ridden) only children that we were, we called our mother’s first thing from the hotel in Niagara Falls  on the morning after our wedding to wish them a Happy Mother’s Day. 

I had hardly ever spent a night away from home before, and to initiate my permanent move out of the family home on Mother’s Day was like rubbing salt into her wound. But I was young and in love and eager to set off into my own life. She was gracious about it, as she always is, and never revealed any sadness she might have felt. 

I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I know what a cruel blow it must have been for my mother to be separated from me for the first time on that day of all days. Something like the way I would feel about 20 years later, when my son moved to Florida at the age of 18, shortly thereafter married a young woman from another country, and settled out of state permanently. As for Mother’s Day, in the almost two decades since, I’ve actually only spent only one of those holidays with my son.

It’s a little bit sad, but as I said, we don’t make a big fuss about holidays in our family. 

One of the most important lessons I learned about motherhood is that you have to get out of your children’s way. You can’t be the security guard who stands at the crossroads of their lives, pointing them in the direction you want them to take or the one you think is best. You can’t put your arms out and block them from stepping into the future they want. The ability to do this  takes a lot of skill. And you will get plenty of practice as they grow from the completely dependent blobs of neediness that erupt from your womb into full grown people with very strange and rebellious ideas of their own. 

But as I wrote in Life In General, “there is nothing easy about this process. There’s no magic pill you can take to stop missing your children, to keep your heart from aching when you’re apart on birthdays and holidays, to prevent you from wondering what they’re doing or how their day is going, if they’re in a bad mood or on top of the world."

My mother, as much as I dearly love her, was not terribly good at getting out of my way. I had to learn that motherhood lesson on my own. And my son was a very good teacher. He had definite ideas about what he wanted for his life, was responsible enough to take charge of getting those things done, and simply refused to be held back.

So, I stepped aside and got out of his way.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if I stepped back too far. If I should have held on a little tighter, should have protested a little harder. I was so eager to prove that I wouldn’t be like my own parents who wanted to keep me so close, maybe I let go of him a little too easily. In contrast to my experience, where sometimes I felt loved too much - where the warm blanket of parental care and concern occasionally threatened to smother me and suck the life right out of me - I hope he felt loved enough. 

Now he’s 35 years old, with a growing family, a busy career, a home to maintain, plans for the future. He works incredibly hard, is a faithful husband and loving father. Nothing stands in his way, certainly not his mother. And I’m incredibly proud of him for all of that. 

And most of the time I’m proud of myself for having the courage to get out of his way and let it happen.

But there’s still that shadow of a crossing guard mother in me, the one that wants to go back in time and stand on the corner with her arms outstretched. “Stop! Wait! Look every which way you can before you cross that street! It’s dangerous out there where I can’t protect you."

And then enfold him in a tight embrace where I can keep him close and safe forever.

Thankful

In my tiny corner of the world, there is much to be grateful for this holiday season - good health,  family and friends who love me, a safe warm home, plentiful food to eat. They may seem like ordinary things, but in the overall scheme of life they are momentous. Everything else is just gravy (pardon the pun). Today’s post was originally written in 2010, and it's one of the essays included in my book, Life in General, which was published just this week.  Reading it brings back lots of memories for me, and I hope it will for you as well. Even more importantly, whatever you do this weekend, I hope you create some lovely memories to carry with you through the rest of your life in general.

"I can’t tell you how much I used to dread Thanksgiving,” my mother said yesterday as we headed out to the grocery store to do our shopping for the big dinner. “My mother used to invite everybody over and then bitch about it for days. She made life miserable for Dad and me for weeks.”

I looked at her aghast. My childhood memories of Thanksgiving were pure happiness. I never sensed any tension or angst...all I recall were the wonderful aromas and tastes of my southern grandmother’s cuisine. The huge turkey, slowly roasting all day long in the oven (“Oh, yes,” said my mother, “she woke us all up at the crack of dawn to get that turkey in the oven by seven o’clock so it could cook all day long”), stuffed with the moist, savory dressing (“I had to search all over town for fresh sage to put in that stuffing”), and smothered in rich brown gravy (“She wouldn’t let anybody else stir that gravy for fear it would be lumpy!”).

Well. Who knew? I was so tickled at the prospect of a house full of people, all my favorite aunts and uncles with their interesting conversations, laughing and telling stories about family members I’d never seen. And all the while the day had been filled with aggravation for my mother.

Of course, fifty years later, I’m no stranger to the memory of aggravating holidays. When Jim and I married, it somehow evolved in our little family that his mother would prepare the Thanksgiving Day dinner at our house. (The one they so graciously sold to us when we got married while they moved into a tiny apartment that was of course far too small to serve Thanksgiving dinner.) So every year she’d appear (at the crack of dawn so she could get the turkey in the oven) and then be puttering around in my kitchen all day, muttering about the way I arranged things or cleaned things or didn’t have the right kind of things.

However, if you were to ask my son, he might recall the times he stood on a tiny step stool and helped Grandma prepare the turkey, watching intently as she cleaned out the cavity and tied the drumsticks together with twine. Or he might remember running into the kitchen each time the oven door opened, so he could hold the baster and squeeze hot pan drippings over the bird’s golden breast. He might not have had any inkling that his mother was in her bedroom, silently screaming.

 All that’s left of those holidays are memories—for my son, who lives far away and is never home on Thanksgiving; for me, who has dinner with an ever-diminishing number of people; and for my mother, who prepares the meal for the three of us in her own kitchen and in her own expert and individual way.

 Thanksgiving is becoming more and more the forgotten holiday, crammed in between Halloween and Christmas, which garner a lot more attention in this consumer-driven society of ours. We’re even having our regular trash pickup on Thursday—as long as I’ve lived here, pickup was postponed until Friday on Thanksgiving week. I’m not sure I approve of that. I think the sanitation workers should have Thursday so they could enjoy dinner with their families and friends same as nearly everyone else.

Thanksgiving is a holiday built around emotions—of being grateful for family and friends, for health and happiness, and food on the table. It’s not about buying presents, or wearing costumes, or elaborate fireworks displays. It’s not even about concerts of beautiful music or rooms of gorgeous decorations.

 It’s simply about making memories, good or bad. I hope you make some lovely ones this year.

One Year Out

Were I living in the 19th century, today would be the day I cast aside my black clothing, stepped out the front door, and re-entered the world around me. Today my year of mourning for my father would be over, and I could take up my normal life once again. It’s almost laughable, isn’t it, the way this custom has changed. No year spent wearing black dresses and being tastefully excused from everything except church services on Sunday. When my father died a year ago today, I boarded a plane to Florida the very next morning and spent a couple of days helping my stepmother arrange for his cremation. That accomplished, I then flew back home where I went straight from the airport to a weekend spent rehearsing with my handbell group.

And then life returned to it’s normal pattern – not just musical rehearsals, but grocery shopping and dog walking, doing the laundry, cooking, cleaning, paying the bills, checking emails, talking with friends.

 But underneath all those regular everyday activities -  the things that grounded me in so many ways during this year of coming to terms with being really and truly Fatherless - there was always a pervasive sense of vulnerability, of teetering on a precipice of disaster. A deep chasm opened up beneath my feet, a large chunk of the very earth on which I stood was scooped out from under me. I sometimes felt myself free-falling into danger, with no one there to rescue me.

 I was one of those golden girls, the ones whose fathers protected them and coddled them and pampered them. All I had to do was ask, and it was given to me, done for me, made to happen. More than a protector, more than a spoiler, my Dad was my Champion, the one who believed in me, who never doubted my value, who thought I could do anything and be the best at whatever I did.

 One of my clearest childhood memories is of running a foot race at my dad’s Lodge picnic and seeing him at the finish line waiting for me, arms outstretched, a huge smile on his face as he cheered me on. “Come on Beck! You can do it!” he called.

I won the race, a truly amazing feat for a child who was never allowed to run because it might cause an asthma attack.

 But on that day my feet had wings.

 So it is that sensation I miss the most. I miss having the lasting support of that man who cornered my soon-to-be husband in the church basement minutes before our wedding with a solemn warning that he had “better treat my baby right.” And even though it had been years since my father could actually do anything concrete to help me, I believed he was still in my corner, still rooting for me to be happy whatever that took.

 Life goes on after loss, and it goes on faster in this 21st century than ever before. We present a semblance of normalcy to the world when sometimes we feel anything but. We wobble and waver when the bulwarks of our past leave us. We feel unearthed and unsettled without those people who gave strength to our weakness, added joy to our accomplishments and sustenance to our spirit.

Unlike my 18th and 19th century sisters, I never wore the outward trappings of mourning, didn’t spend the last 12 months sequestered away from polite society. But in my heart there dwells a small quiet chamber that holds only memories, the ones I keep like treasures to remind me of a man who held me so dear.

Presence of Mind

These is much talk these days of “mindfulness,” of “living in the now.” I’ve done some of that talking myself, here on this very page. We are all so busy, it seems, wearing our busy-ness like a badge of honor, teaching our children the dubious virtues of a “full life” with teams and lessons and after school study groups. And yet in the midst of all that productive busy-ness, something is amiss. We become aware of a gnawing emptiness, a feeling that surely there is more than all this running to and fro. During the past few weeks, I’ve been given many opportunities to be mindful and to live in the now, opportunities to practice paying attention and appreciating small moments.

Opportunities to be patient and present.

This gift (for I am calling it a gift, even though at first it seemed to be anything but - which is so often true of these kinds of gifts) began when one of my dogs became seriously ill. The details don’t matter, and he is doing fine now, but he was hospitalized for several days in a specialized veterinary hospital about 40 miles from our home. His doctor was the soul of kindness and compassion, combined with an obvious intelligence about the internal workings of the canine body.  He called me three times each day that Magic was in the hospital, giving me an update on current conditions and his treatment plan going forward.

One of our biggest concerns was that Magic wasn’t eating, had not been eating well for some time. I had been trying everything at home to entice his appetite, mostly to no avail. I would cajole and prod, but he only turned his head away at each proffered bite. I got frustrated.

On Friday evening, Dr. Becker calls me at 7:00 p.m. with some good news, that Magic has eaten at last. “I’ve been sitting with him for about an hour,” Dr. Becker tells me matter-of-factly, “coaxing him along, and he finally showed some interest."

My sense of relief was quickly followed by a sense of wonder. Imagine that this doctor, a man who surely is “busy” in every sense of the word spent an hour of his time on a beautiful summer evening coaxing my little dog to eat.

Such patience.

Suddenly all my striving, my agitation, my bluster and hurry seemed so silly. What was the rush? especially when most of my days are my own to fill or not as I choose? My dog, whom I love and who has given me 12 years of loyal faithfulness and joy, surely deserved better than my irritated impatience when he didn’t eat the food I provided for him. What is time for, if not to be lavished on what we love the most?

Magic is home now, and his feeding time has become my exercise in patience and presence. I sit on the floor, offering very tiny bites of things that will tempt him - roast beef, cheese, a little salami or ham. He is reluctant at first, he still needs coaxing, needs quiet attention paid and some gentle urging. But finally he will accede to one bite, one little morsel, followed by another, and then another, until the plate is clean.

I remain present, there on the floor beside him. I stop thinking about the phone calls I need to make, the kitchen remodeling I want to do, the book that needs editing, the music I should organize. I practice patience.

It seems to me that much of our drive to be busy is born from fear. We’re afraid we’ll miss opportunities to experience something wonderful, to create the next big thing, to enjoy life as it was meant to be.  We worry we don’t accomplish all that must be accomplished in order to have the perfect body, the perfect house, the perfect garden. We’re greedy - we want to gobble ravenously, when perhaps we should nibble decorously. Yet we say we must learn to be mindful, we must try to live in the now, adding those things to our already long lists of things to accomplish when we have more time.

But here’s the thing. We DO have time. Time is, in fact, all we have. This time, this minute. There is no guarantee about what comes next. Take your minute - one or two or nine million, however many you’re lucky enough to be given. Sit down and savor them.

Why worry so much about having it all, when really, you already do?

Feed your dog from your hand.

Breathe.