The year ends quietly

As this year draws to a close,
I am feeling the need for quiet contemplation, and very few words.
Today's slice is told through photos,

the family hike we enjoyed today:

___________________

It's Tuesday and I am participating in the

 Slice of Life.  

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for nurturing teacher-writers!

To bear fruit

Three year old granddaughter Frog was quietly engrossed with my doll collection, nestled on the hope chest in the hallway near our kitchen, happily ignoring the gathering crowd. There were too many new faces for her to feel comfortable, but she is social and curious enough to want to be on the periphery, listening in and watching. The hope chest and the doll collection were the perfect remedy.

My oldest brother and wife (her great uncle and aunt) were visiting from Maine - our first overnight guests since sometime before March 2020. How to describe the joy we felt to have overnight company? To have this sense of normalcy? I suggested a Saturday brunch for all my local family/relatives - my sons, my daughter-in-law, the granddaughters, a nephew, a niece, my younger brother and his wife. It was awesome! With all of us vaccinated (and many of the older folks with boosters, too), I had no issues with hosting an indoor brunch. 

I actually got a little watery-eyed when my nephew arrived, carrying a fruit salad - I hadn't seen him since before the pandemic began. What a gift to see him, to have him here with us! There was a chorus of hellos as he entered, and a sea of adults crowding in on him. As I reached to hug him, I managed to knock his carefully-balanced hold on the fruit - and BLAM! 
It splattered to the floor, 
the grocery store packaging split apart, and 
immediately 
fruit and juice were flying skidding scattering all about.
Instant chaos ensued amongst all of us loving greeters - some squealing, at least one loud "oh no!," a sister-in-law dashing to find paper towels, me running to the sink for a dishtowel, my husband racing for the trash can, others jumping back to avoid the syrupy mess, still others - not entirely understanding that there was mess on the floor - moving closer to loudly welcome and embrace my nephew. 

One small unexpected hug led to one small unexpected mess to one quick and wild clean up involving a rather ridiculous number of adults - oh how I have missed these party moments!! Truly, even the spills are delightful after so many many months of no parties, no get-togethers, no others. I stood at the sink rinsing out the dishtowel and chuckling, everyone chattering, 

when all of a sudden 

I heard this low, scared, whimpering hum that grew into 

a loud, frightened, wail  - 

"Nana! Nana! Nana!"

We had forgotten about Frog. Entirely. She had watched this frenzied fruit salad melee from her odd vantage point on the side, probably seeing little more than rapid, impulsive movement of unknown thighs and bottoms alongside a variety of equally unknown loud voices - leaving her completely surprised and confused. She couldn't see her parents, she couldn't see her grandparents, what was going on? 

I rushed to her - she was now in child's pose on the hope chest, hands over her ears, trying to melt into the furniture and disappear, while big sobs wracked her body. I scooped her into my arms, and we moved to a quiet corner in the back of the house, away from the others, where I calmed her fears and explained the craziness. She was quickly soothed, and later charmed my nephew by calling him "the fruit salad cousin." So adorable! 

Frog delighted in the rest of the party, as did all of us. Imagine, three years into life, and unaccustomed to the high and unexpected energy of large get-togethers. All of us have a lot of catching up to do!

To good health and gathering together!! 

The view from a three year old's perspective

Apr18Poetry - Both Sides

I'm trying something new, taking a risk this month - participating in
#VerseLove with Sarah Donovan,
hoping to write poetry every day this April.







Today's challenge is such a hard one! Oh my. The inspiration was Joni Mitchell's song "Both Sides Now" - we were to pick three topics and look at these from two perspectives. I listened to Joni Mitchell's amazing song, and could not get it out of my head. She focuses on clouds, love, and life. Here is my poem...I focus on night, home, and family. Ugh!

Monsters and bogeyman,

Ghosts hiding in the walls,

They’re awake while you sleep,

Don’t disturb them at all.

You stay in your bed

Pull your covers up tight,

Beware of the dark

In the middle of the night.

But now I see so much in dark,

Dreams, ideas, prayers, and books

When I wake in the middle,

It’s time for another look.

No reason to fear this

Instead take paper and pen

Write what I am thinking

Go back to sleep again.

I think and wonder about the night

I probably should know more,

What of stars, moon, owls,

and bats, to name only four?

No clutter and polished wood,

Sheets tightly made on beds

Mom kneels in prayer, curtains drawn

Dad’s working in the shed.

Follow the rules, no protest,

Be sure to do all my chores,

Then find my shoes and jacket,

Leave the cold and head outdoors.

But then I made my own home,

Wanting another way,  

The one rule: no silent treatment

We’ve honored to this day.

Three boys, messy rooms,

We laughed, sometimes we cried

All feelings were welcome

Home was a place we tried.

I think and wonder about home,

the touch of theirs on mine,

What changes might we make,

If we went back in time?

One man and one woman,

Holy marriage is the way,

Children need this structure,

Everyone would say.

Sheltered life limits the view,

Seems to shape children’s minds,

But I don’t think there’s any stop

To curious, over time.

Whether books, study, or travel,

I began to question it,

So many families

That this shell didn’t fit.

Teaching showed me even more,

Each family is unique

Together has so many ways

There is no one technique.

Whatever I think and wonder

About families, is just guess.

Isn’t it an illusion

To think we know what’s best?

A cruel focus

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

We said goodbye
to a family
that is moving elsewhere
to get the health support that one parent so desperately needs
as she recovers from a major health crisis.

This young family,
with little children,
has had an outpouring of support
from their extended family, neighbors, friends, colleagues, and church,
for months now,
and to say goodbye and wish them well,
even in this hopeful way,
was hard and sad.
Their children - oh, I know this is hard on their young children,
to weather such a big transition,
to see one parent in such pain,
to move somewhere new,
it must be so very confusing and stressful.

Yet,
how truly blessed they have been,
and we have been,
to know and support one another.
Their family,
despite acute challenges,
stays together.
This is a rich community.
We do not want
for support.

I think about how much trauma, and crisis, and pain
is man-made
in our world today,
and so many people
do not have the support and caring of others.

Our government is
quite pointedly
cutting off caring and support
in so many ways
to so many.

For example -
Policy changes for welfare,
removing families from rolls, and
poor families cannot get food for their babies.
A wall so impenetrable that
locals cannot pass even a bottle of water to the needy on the other side.
Purposefully separating children from parents at the border, and
not tracking where family members have gone.
Manipulating asylum laws so that many are forced to return
to cruel and inhumane situations.
Laws tightened and revenge sought so that
communities cannot offer sanctuary to the needy.

On and on and on.

It is a cruel focus.

Families suffer.
Children suffer.
We suffer.

Such love for me

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

The photograph of Mom fell off the piano.

Yes, it really did. Without any obvious provocation or antecedent. No one bumped it. No one stomped through the room. Nothing fell over and knocked into it. It was a quiet, early morning, and Tony and I were moving peacefully and ordinarily through our get-ready-for-the-day routine, when we heard it crash to the floor.

What was that?! I asked, and scurried into the living room, tracking the sound, only to find the picture of my Mom on the floor.

Turns out, that same early morning, my Aunt Louise died. My Mom's best friend.

Coincidence?

My friend Sarah says - when you think coincidence, think God.

I am so thankful for this dear woman. I am so thankful for my Aunt Louise. What an amazing woman. She was my Mom's very best friend, since they were young girls. When I was born, she became my godmother and we called her "Aunt." She showered me with love and affection all my life.  

She wrote me a letter every birthday. EVERY BIRTHDAY! I am not exaggerating. I was well into adulthood before I realized what a treasure this was, and I began saving these. How I wish I had kept every single one. 

Over the years, we became regular correspondents. I always looked forward to her letters, pouring myself a cup of tea and sitting down to savor her words. 

When Aunt Louise's daughter went through her mother's writing desk, one last time, after her death, she found an envelope marked "Maureen," filled with photos of me and my family, and my own mother's obituary. Who would've believed that anyone would be so organized, as to have photos and mementos ready to be handed out at their death? 

Who would've doubted that Aunt Louise would be?

In the days since her death, I have tried to slow down and reflect. My dear Aunt Louise is gone, less than one year after my mother, and I am all alone, truly alone, to mother myself.

I must try again today, and every day, to be loving of me.

SOL19 Slice #17: Not too long ago

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

I drop by to see him one last time, before leaving for the airport. He's sound asleep, snuggled in a nursing-home-issued blanket, mouth agape, his right hand folded gently under his chin, as if he is lost in thought, deep thought. I really haven't had very much "good" interaction with Dad on this trip. I spent most of the day with him yesterday, and he said only a word or two. It's as if he is here with us physically, only.

I want to interact with him before I leave; I only have an hour. Should I wake him up?

The nurse says he had a very wakeful night, very unsettled, that he kept getting up, coming out of his room (with his walker), making his way to the sitting area, then going back into his room and back to bed again, over and over. At one point, he curled up on the nursing home couch and fell asleep. The night caregiver covered him with a blanket, not wanting to disturb him, hoping he might finally sleep.

This image of my elderly father wandering, restless, searching, in the middle of the night, just breaks my heart.

I cannot write it, without crying.

Right now, it is morning, and sunshine streams in the beautiful large windows, a bright winter sun, gliding easily through the branches of deciduous trees. The day beckons. This nursing home sparkles. It is a nice place, well taken care of, with good, kind personnel. Truly, this nursing home is a lovely place, considering.

I think of him in the middle of the night and I think - this nursing home, this is not his home. He doesn't know where he is. She (Mom) is not here. He doesn't want to be here. My family and I wonder, is he - perhaps - afraid of where he's headed, what death means?

Disquiet.

Anonymous people caring for him, calming him, redirecting him, encouraging him. They speak gently. They give him space and freedom to wander a bit, keeping him safe.

This image of my elderly father wandering, restless, searching, in the middle of the night - maybe he's remembering making rounds at the shipyard? Checking on things.

I'll never know.

I decide to walk over and just stand at his bedside, quietly. Remember that trick we all had as young children, where you stare your parent into awake? Yes! I decided to try it again.

I stood next to his bed, bending over, looking, staring, sending him the unspoken message, "Wake up, I am here!"

He woke!!
Truly!
He sensed me.
His first thoughts were muddled - Who's there? What? Then, "Oh, yeah, Maureen, you have to go back this morning." (He remembered!!)

He is quiet for a minute or two. Then,

"Maureen, look at you in that picture. You were very little then, weren't you? It doesn't seem that long ago."

I turn my head to see the photo that he is looking at, hanging on the wall near his bed:




This photo was taken about fifty years ago.

"No, Dad, it doesn't. It doesn't seem that long ago at all."



Such a precious few minutes with my father. I am blessed.

SOL 19 Slice #13 Carefully

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

Four months old...
I look at her, she looks at me,
I coo at her, she coos at me,
I smile at her, she smiles at me,
back and forth, we play and play and play.
I know she needs a nap,
as her hands rub her eyes.
What was it the doctor said,
to aim for three naps a day?
How I'd love just a little more play.
Let me try a bottle,
let me hold her in my arms,
ahhh, just the trick, just the thing,
she falls asleep in my arms,
deep asleep,
before the final sips.
Carefully,
oh so carefully,
I slip the paci in her mouth,
and, carefully,
oh so carefully,
move her to the bedroom,
where her easy-on sleep suit awaits,
there in the bassinet.
Carefully,
oh so carefully,
I lay her down,
slip those tiny feet into the leg openings,
those tiny hands and arms into theirs,
and carefully,
oh so carefully,
I give a pull, to close the cozy suit.
Carefully,
oh so carefully.
I have been still, and slow, and soft.
I give one tiny pat of love on her tummy,
only to see
a smile, full smile,
breaking out around the pacifier,
eyes wide and looking,
at me,
searching.
"Don't meet the eyes," my son, her father, warned.
Those eyes,
now locked on me,
as if to say:
Who are you kidding, Nana?
You don't want me in here, with you out there!
I slip out, quickly,
carefully,
only to hear her fret,
then a stronger cry.
She knows,
and I know,
I'll be back in to get her.
Isn't there a better time to practice napping?
Isn't there a better enforcer than Nana?

SOL19 Slice #4: About that ice cream cone

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

After I ate the peas, I refused to eat another bite. Every fiber of my four year old self protested. I stared down at my dinner plate: six small chunks of Spam and a scoop of mashed potatoes glared back at me. Dad insisted, "Young lady, eat your dinner, not another word." Five slow, agonizing swallows of the tiny meat bites plus one lucky slip of the fork, which sent one flying to the floor, and the Spam was gone. The mashed potatoes loomed like an enormous white and crusty mountain. My eyes bulged in horror. There was no way I was eating that.

Dad's voice broke into my protest - "You are going to miss out on dessert, if this keeps up, young lady."

I began to whine. Being the only girl, and a young one at that, I received a little more slack for whining than my brothers. "I don't want to eat the po - ta - TOES! I don't like po - ta - TOES!" 

Truth be told, my brothers hadn't eaten their peas. I had eaten all my peas. I liked peas. Why was I being forced to eat everything?

My older brother (7) taunted me, "You're such a baby!!" Dad silenced him with just one look.

So began the stare-down between me and the mashed potatoes. Neither budged, though the scoop of potatoes loomed larger and larger. Mom got up to clear everyone else's plates. "Listen to your father and eat those potatoes."

Dad got up right behind her, to get the ice cream and cones, and grabbed my plate with the untouched potatoes as he went. "Okay, that's it. Time's up. You're done. No dessert for you."

I dissolved into tears, big sobs. Ice cream for everyone but me?

I overheard a happy tittering in the kitchen, Mom and Dad, a laugh, and then Dad came out of the kitchen - "I changed my mind! Second chance, Lady Jane - here's an ice cream cone for you." And with that he presented me with a big vanilla cone - of mashed potatoes.

I looked up expectantly, reached toward the mockery of a cone, and there was an immediate melding of my sobs of shock, disappointment, and hurt with raucous, teasing laughter from everyone else in the family.

This story is family lore that has been repeated throughout the years, and considered a great joke by everyone in the family.

Except me.

She's here

I am participating in the
Tuesday Slice of Life.
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

Sweet girl, so fragile, so impulsive. She's here. One small plastic bag of clothes, a laptop, and a phone. What are the five things you would grab if you were fleeing? She just took off. Hurt, frustrated, spitting angry, driving eight hours and mentally chewing through every slight, every unkind word, every thing her parents ever did or said. Of course, they love her dearly. Her Dad, so strong, always certain, always steady - he must be off balance now...thinking, what the hell? Where did this attitude come from? What was she thinking? How dangerous! To simply take off like that. Her Mom, like me, having had a troubled relationship with her own mother - now having to live out this dear child's rejection. Oh, I feel certain it is not a forever rejection. It's a heartfelt, 24 year old, nobody understands me period of rejection.

I'm in the midst of this mess. The thick of it. I feel strangely serene, sure. We need to shelter her for now. She needs to be here for a bit. The little girl in the spare room. Nothing fancy here. A bit of a retreat, I hope. A few days to look at things differently. Or longer? She spent less than an hour with us last night and went upstairs. I woke up thinking, she's going to need to wash those clothes soon and she doesn't know where our washer is. She knows not this house, she knows not the cereal, the downstairs shower, the toothpaste supplies, the dailyness. I'll be gone to work very early, without seeing her. What to leave a note about? We love you. Be well. It's going to be okay.

Beyond hope

So many people feeling so hurt, so disrespected, so denigrated.
Black men.
Muslims.
Hispanics.
Immigrants.
LGBTQ.
Women.
Daughters.

I believe
I am inextricably in the midst.
Your pain is my pain.
Your hurt is my hurt.
We are all connected.

Our divide is so painful.

In that hellish June,
with young Black men killed,
with police officers killed,
he spoke angrily to me
about Blacks,
spewing diatribe gleaned from his only news channel,
and I quietly, respectfully, purposefully responded

"There is pain on all sides...so much hurt and suspicion."

And he charged back, bitterly,

"You are beyond hope, Maureen."

There was no sarcasm in his voice.
No laughter.
No joking.

This is a frustrated, hateful, angry old man,
disappointed in my open-mindedness,
dismayed by my civility,
disgusted by my politics,
done with me.
His daughter.

Yes, the diatribe is more satisfying.
To be of his one clear opinion is more satisfying.
To be alone is more satisfying.

The words echo
"You are beyond hope, Maureen."

I squeaked back, quietly, reminding

"I am of you."

and was met by silence.