Grandma Willow; Trees hold the secrets to our lives

When I was very young, we took many small day trips, to places like Santa’s Workshop and the Enchanted Forest in the Adirondacks. I remember going to Wellesley Island, which is technically still in New York state, but on the St Lawrence right on the Canadian border. I remember seeing the river in all its majesty – crossing the 1000 Island bridge entrance to the island just before the border crossing. The river was huge in my young eyes, and in fact, it really IS huge and beautiful; it is truly a sight to behold. I remember riding in my mom’s station wagon, windows down, music playing, the wind rushing in smelling of the river and fresh air and sunshine. I think what cements that memory the most is the memory of being stung by a bee. A bee just innocently flying by got sucked into the crosswinds of the car, landed on me and stung my ear – like a piercing. I shrieked, my mom got mad because I scared her – then was empathetic and pulled over to be sure I was ok. I remember going to Panther Lake, where my aunt and uncle had a camp, going to Hyde Lake every year with a group of my parents’ friends in the fire department. And always, Black Lake. My aunt Leona had an old camp up there that she bought in the 1950’s. It was 2 hours northeast of Phoenix, where I grew up, and as a kid the ride seemed so much longer than when I could drive myself there later on in my teens. My mom would pack us up when we were little, drive north and we would sleep in old surplus army tents set up close to the lake. We used an old outhouse, and we bathed in the lake with Prell shampoo and bars of floating Ivory Soap. To this day the smell of old canvas, campfires and Ivory soap take me back to those days, and I now and then buy Prell shampoo to bring back the memories. My cousins and I would pile all together at night in the tents like puppies to sleep and our moms would drink their cocktails around the campfire. It was rustic and glorious. After my parents’ divorce, we still went to Hyde Lake, and we still visited Black Lake, and my dad and Carole ended up buying our camp off Mitchell Rd (always and forever known to us as The Lake). For all my youth and teenaged years summers at Black Lake were truly magical. We could swim, fish (but, if we caught them and kept them, we had to clean them, and my aunt would freeze them for poor-man’s-shrimp when enough of those tiny fish were gathered, so, the older we got the less we fished there were more important ways to spend our days!). We would at first row around our little cove, until we were gifted small outboard motors which allowed us the freedom to be kids on a lake, exploring every nook and cranny we felt like exploring. We would roam the dusty old unpaved roads, venturing off into the woods and exploring the rocky surfaces scratched out and left behind by ancient glaciers. At first, we lived in a travel trailer, upgraded to a single wide trailer, and then it evolved into a double wide. The Lake is still a glorious place to me; it is my safe-haven, my slowing-down place. It is home and it is in my heart and my soul.

One of the best parts of Black Lake is the old willow down at the water’s edge. Years ago, a swing with a heavy chain was installed and it is one of the first places I go when I get back to the lake and I can kick off my shoes and drift down barefoot, connecting to the earth again. It makes my soul smile. The ancient, huge willow at the water’s edge – I call her Grandma Willow, has seen well over a century of seasons. We know she dates to pre-Civil War; when we first began clearing the property one of my family members discovered documents near her base that date back to those days; I have no idea where those documents are now, but it is a true family legend that they exist, and that Grandma Willow is very old. Imagine if she could tell stories, what she could tell?

I love laying on the ground under her branches and looking up to the sky. She spreads her arms like a giant hug hovering over me, and she brings me comfort and joy. I imagine myself sinking into the ground under her, sinking down into her roots where she clings to life in the cold earth where the bedrock meets the water and her tentacles of life stretching far and wide under me like a superhighway filled with nutrients to heal and help her continue to grow. She has lost some large limbs over the years; branches folded and cracked under the extreme cold and snow of the northern tier of New York state just a few miles from the Canadian border. She sheds small limbs often, yet every year she puts out new limbs and leaves, persistently clinging to life. She is magical, consistent, constant in an ever changing, fast-paced world.

“I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off.”

― Willa Cather, O Pioneers!

I recently came across this anonymous quote – “Accept what is, let go of what was, and have faith in what will be.” It seems to me that there is comfort in Grandma Willow knowing everything I think, as she holds space for me. In a constantly changing fast-paced world it is perfection to sit a bit under Grandma Willow’s branches and accept what is and to let go of what was. Grandma Willow brings me comfort and hope. Last time I was home I gathered a few pieces of bark she had shed. It is here in my home, on my small devotional altar. She continues to bring me joy, wisdom and comfort and helps me cope with this world, until I can be in her living presence again.

Anniversaries - Moments Meant to Be

 

June 15, 2024

There are days to be commemorated. June 14 is one of them in my world. It marks, for me, the day my life turned in this direction to the here and the now - 43 years ago, We roll along in our lives never really knowing we are changing course. Is it changing course, or just really going in the direction we are meant to be in? Rarely do we know in a moment that yes, this is huge; this will send me in the right direction; exactly where I am meant to be.

When I was seven years old I had my first true epiphany. It was a moment of awakening, of pure consciousness. I have memories, or flashes of them, really, of moments prior to this seven year old awakening, but this was my first real conscious memory of being alive. I remember sitting at my desk in school; 2nd grade. At that moment as I sat, I remember the feeling of knowing. Of sitting there, feeling my legs dangling off the hard desk chair, hands clasped in front of me (I was such a good girl; a rule follower, especially back then). I knew without doubt that I was alive. It sounds crazy, perhaps. But it was as if the switch of life got turned on in my mind. I knew without a doubt that it was huge, I knew in every fiber of myself that at that moment I was truly alive, that I had a consciousness and it was awake. I knew the feel of the tights on my legs, the bend of my knees and the feel of the chair beneath my knees and under my bottom. I remember a deep knowing that I would always remember that moment of awakening, and I have. A lightbulb moment. I’ve thought of it so often throughout all the years since, and I imagine I have written about it, too. It was significant, though at the time I had no idea really what it all meant. There have been a lot of moments in time that have remained for me. The awful moment when my mother’s husband touched me the first time and I knew it was wrong. I remember a photo moment with Steve that first summer taken under a tree in my aunt’s front yard. I remember the feel of my favorite coral terry cloth one piece outfit, the warmth and hardness of his arm draped across my shoulders - our feet bare, the sun on our skin, love, youth and beauty on our faces. I remember the feeling of facing him on our wedding day, wiping a tear from his cheek and having absolutely no doubts. I remember the exact moment I realized I was pregnant; that hot intense joy and incredulity. And, I remember the moment, later on, when I knew I was losing our baby. I remember the moment I knew I had a choice to get up off the couch after I lost Steve and to move, or to remain on that couch and wither and die; to get lost in the mourning.

I had to step away for a while to compose myself again. I am so grateful for all the moments of joy and sorrow, yet reliving them sometimes can be overwhelming.

Memories and moments. They shape our lives whether we are conscious of them or not. I had no idea 43 years ago - the first time Steve and I were together - that it would shape my life as it has. Monumental. I wonder sometimes what life would have been life if I had not come to Florida, not met him, not ventured out as I did. For me, it is the Road Less Traveled. The paths were equally available, yet I took the one less traveled and it has indeed made all the difference. I was 18, learning how to navigate life, uncertain, unthinking, just doing, really. I remember that day in snapshots. The fan circulating the heavy air (no AC in that old cracker house, not for the next 15 years). I remember the gauzy curtains blowing gently, between what little air came in through the jalousie windows and the fan stirring them. The dim, but sunshiny room. His arm around me. The radio was playing Phil Collins In the Air Tonight, a song special to me even before that day in one of those beautiful prior imprinted memories which I did not know would impact my life as it did (a story for another day, but that song has been so vital in my life moments). I didn’t know how much my life would change at that moment; we never do until we look back. I was young, gorgeous, strong, healthy, and on an adventure. I was not in love that day, but I felt safe and valued. The love would come later; like a lightening bolt. Or not, maybe it was just gradual until I felt the trust come and I believed it was real. It was real. I still, despite all that transpired over the course of 21 years believe in that love. Because it ended makes it any less real years later. Regardless, it’s a beautiful day to remember with joy. I am so grateful to have it in my heart always.

I am grateful to have June 14 in my memory bank of moments which formed me. All of the moments of life bring us to where we are meant to be; we just are not always awake to know they matter. I’ve had a life full of blessings. Intermixed with the joys have been sorrows - incredible sorrows. Loss of grandparents throughout childhood, loss of friends, loss of a child and a husband. Loss of my mothers, both of them. Not getting stuck in those sadness’s is what truly matters. Recognizing we need the bad alongside the good; those are our lived experiences, and they help us become who we are meant to be; they help us learn and grow. I was fated to come to visit Florida, to meet Steve four days after I got here. To fall in love, to move here; to live our life together. I was fated to learn to live on my own, to grow into the me I am now, to have the experiences I have had since. As a child I did not have a perfect life, although it was pretty darn good. We were taught to be curious, to explore, to be inquisitive (to READ!), to blossom where ever we were. There was loss all along - there has to be. I have been on this planet nearly 62 years and I have lived through a lot of joy and sorrow. I have had love, heart ache, heartbreak, joys, fears, elation, beautiful, pride-filled moments, and I have been equally deflated, scared, frightened. All of that has led me to this moment of now. Mary Oliver asks “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” I am not done finding out, and we shall see what the future brings.

Aging with Grace.

 Ooo what a day to read this! I went to a party last night – the same party my friends and I have had for over 25 years. The same, yet different. Their kids are all grown now, and for the first time THEIR friends outnumbered us at the party we created so long ago. It was…humbling. I look at their youth and think, wow – that was us, once. But the most humbling part was my dearest friend in the world; the one who picked me up off the floor so many years ago when my husband left…and picked me up when she delivered the news that my mother had suddenly died…that friend; that true, grounded friend. Her husband, 25 years ago, was the life of the party. An annoying, boasting, vibrant very heavy drinker. Yet he was fun, too. I can still see him, drunk, but supple – laying down on the floor where his children slept on a blanket in my living room. He looked at my friend and he said, we made these little beings – aren’t they beautiful? He annoyed me, but he was like that. A few years ago he had a drink related stroke. He continues to drink, in “secret” and it’s impossible for him to stop – one needs a zest to do so, and all the imploring in the world can’t make someone do that. So he fades, becomes wizened, feeble, frail. He slurs, he wobbles – partially from the stroke, partially from the drink. But last night he broke my heart. This little shell of a man, once that vibrant soul – he wanted to dance with his wife in the middle of rollicking Irish jigs and reels. She said I’ll dance with you soon; I think you’ll fall. He wanted to dance, though, so in the middle of this line of dancers in their 20’s, early 30’s and us, aging (but not old yet) “grown-ups” he joined her. And she slow danced with him – he shuffled in place and leaned heavily on her. Her hips swayed and she put her head on his shoulder and the crowd was brought to tears. It’s aging in the worst way for him, and it broke my heart. Aging gracefully is in the heart, mind, and soul – and sometimes how you dance with your weak, wobbly, ill husband.

From a post I read from Elephant Journal" In fact, aging sucks.
There is no question about it. It f*cking sucks. I mean, who are we kidding? There is nothing even remotely romantic about having lines on one’s face that show the world every single experience you’ve ever had. And who wouldn’t want to travel the world, imbibe several cultures, meet amazing people, and have life-changing experiences, but still stay a perennial 27?
There is nothing joyous about watching your loved ones go from being dynamic humans to become shells of themselves…just because they got old. Even the strongest of them, the most forward-thinking and positive of them all, eventually get so weak and tired that they simply want to let go.
It can gut you when you see the change and havoc that aging brings on people, including our own selves."

 This book was like comfort food. for me. I saw it advertised, read the description and requested it from NetGalley. Elin Hilderbrand ranks high on my list of women's fiction summer reading, and I was interested from the start.

A blogging sensation, Hollis lives what appears to be a perfect life sharing recipes, tips and tricks with her faithful, immense audience.. One morning before Christmas her life takes a tragic turn and she is left to pick up the pieces of her life, alone and devastated. After months of grieving she stumbles on an article describing a five star weekend in which someone invites friends from all the stages of her life to celebrate and share their stories together. She adapts it to her own purposes, and invites her own stages-of-life friends for an unforgettable five star weekend at her Nantucket beach house. As we get to know her friends and all of their quirky connections, we also learn more about our own chances and choices in life. Hollis discovers more about her life and marriage than she ever expected, and she learns that the gifts of healing come in unexpected, unforeseen packages.

Women's fiction is an interesting concept. In the literary world it is somehow communicated that women's fiction and women's life stories are of lesser literary value than fiction written by other writers on more "important" topics.. Personally, I find reading true-to-life fiction inspiring and relatable. It inspires me that anything can and does happen to each of us. No matter how perfect - or imperfect - our lives are, there is hope and promise waiting for us, even during our darkest hours. I am grateful to Elin Hilderbrand for writing such fabulous stories, and I am grateful to Little Brown for sharing a copy with me to read and review. 

Thankful

 

For the past 10 or more years I have traveled over Thanksgiving, and often Christmas break. I have missed two years of my travels over the years; one because I tore my hamstring and was on crutches for weeks; the thought of SeaTac or Portland Airport was far too daunting to maneuver. The second time I missed was the Covid year that we all stayed home. This was a third year missed.

The first year I was alone in my life - 20+ years ago, my dear friend Edel shared her family with me - and for many years after that we had Thanksgiving here. My own family were far away; my aunts and uncles came to Florida after Thanksgiving, but I had always had Steve and his family to cook for; my first year alone was so scary. I always loved to cook and entertain, and Edel was gracious and kind enough to continue sharing her family as her kids grew up. We had a joke when the kids were really little that I was in charge of their manners and etiquette. It makes me laugh, but the value of our long friendship sometimes touches my heart so much it brings tears to my eyes. God and the Angels put us in each others path that day - quite literally - at a time when I would need her the very most. We met walking. I was recently "retired" from Publix corporate office, not yet working at Barnes & Noble; not yet even thinking of being a librarian, and I had a lot of hours to fill. Her youngest, Rebecca, was very young when we met; just 18 months old. We bumped into each other, on the road between our houses; we live 1/2 mile apart and had never met before; Edel walking Rebecca in her stroller, me walking Cisco. She invited me back for coffee and that was the start of our friendship so long ago. Rebecca is now 25. In those years since then her family and mine have intertwined, spent hours and hours, and multitudes of holidays together chatting, sharing, growing, living, learning, celebrating. We've been through happiness, silliness, illness, life, and death. They've been to New York with me, I went to Ireland and spent time with them. True blessings of joy - thick and thin of all the things life has to share. Friendship that I never, ever take for granted. Edel grounds me with her practicality when I need it the most. She makes me think, and we have fabulous moments of deep discussion, and sometimes just moments of silence that are true blessings. The first year we spent apart for Thanksgiving, when I started traveling, was really difficult; yet I knew it was time for new traditions and experiences, too. This year I did not travel for a variety of reasons, and she had to work, so this year it was dinner for just John and I. I found myself ok, yet missing the Pacific Northwest and Edel and her family in equal parts. I still counted my blessings.

In our travels out west we stay up in the mountains until dark - and when you are in the far northwest, dark comes fairly early. The first year we came down from the mountains and discovered most every place to eat dinner - let alone Thanksgiving - was closed due to the holiday. And eating places in that more rural region are pretty few and far between as well. Out west, too, even McDonald's closes on the holiday - as they should! We found a little restaurant; Shari's, which is a little like Denny's but with more cozy, comfort food. It was fun and dinner was good. From then on we would have "Thanksgiving" dinner at Shari's or Denny's in Kelso, WA. A few years back we discovered, by accident, a place called Grumpy's on Rockaway Beach, OR, about 15ish miles from Tillamook. That was a true fun find; a local bakery which serves a complete Thanksgiving meal. Last year we went back to Rockaway Beach, but we missed Grumpy's - we went into the hills near Tillamook and it was not yet open. We ended up in Denny's in  Tillamook. My sister said yesterday "well, at least you don't have to eat at Denny's this year". True enough, but part of the tradition we created is the fun of looking for someplace open to at least eat something! I missed travel this year. I miss the mountains - they are calling me, and I can hear them even from this distance of 3100 miles all the way across the country. I also know when I get a chance to go back, the steady loveliness will be waiting to welcome me with open arms. I will feel that comfortable feeling of a deep breath taken and held deep inside myself; of being surrounded by the steady rhythm of life out there. I cooked dinner yesterday - turkey and all the trimmings, and it was really nice; a quiet day spent in my home. Still, I heard the voice of the mountains calling deep within me all day long. For now, Thanksgiving, quiet at home - and I am counting the blessings of all life has given me, for the memories, and also, gratitude for what is to come. 

Here's to friendship

Rockaway Beach, OR

Windswept Rockaway Beach

Mortality

 Life and death are on my mind today. Our friends in South Carolina lost their father last night. He lived a beautiful life for 93 years. He was one of the kindest, sweetest men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. A long time ago - back in the early/mid '80s mom moved in to the house kitty-corner from the Thompson family; their backyards connected to a point, and both yards were fenced. Their grandson, Travis, was the first to meet mom, and soon the family became entwined. I think he told mom she would go to hell for cursing - or so the story goes - when he heard her out in the back yard. At first they used a stepladder to go over the fence to visit (going around the corner StreetSide was not nearly as fun!), and eventually they put a gate in for easy access. True backdoor neighbors. Mom and Jan drank coffee, smoked cigarettes, crafted and chatted for hours and years, seemingly on end. The Thompsons were second family to us all - even if we did not live close by. 

Life and death happen - mom died suddenly, then Jan a few years later, in a not so-sudden slower path. We have taken solace that mom and Jan were in heaven together watching all of us. Now John has joined them so many years later. His life without Jan was lonely, I know. Despite children and grandchildren close by - despite Kerri moving in with him this past year. He has to be at peace in the arms of his love again - and I believe that mom is right there in the house across the backyard, still.

Last week my friends lost their mother/mother-in-law, Veronica. She, too, was 93. She had 11 children and a plethora of grandchildren. Another beautiful life lived. She was a devout Catholic and supported her church in so many ways and capacities. Last night at the viewing I was enthralled by the family photos through the years; showing her young, progressing as the children came along, and life just continued into older age. Such beauty in a life lived so well and for so long. To be so adored by one's children; true blessings and joys. Life in a large family is not always easy. It is often messy and full of angst. But family, through thick and thin, bond in so many ways and it's lovely to live in the middle of that chaos.

Today is the "Deathaversary" of my friend Maryann's mom, Louise. Louise died just a few months shy of her 90th birthday. She was full of life - full of joie de vivre. She exuded it in her smile, in her appreciation for the smallest pleasures and her zest for being part of everything. Her death at 89 was sudden and unexpected; I truly believed she was a woman who would live until her 100th year at least. 

My own mother died young; just 63. Mom-Carole was 80. My mother-in-law was not yet 60, nor was my grandmother. Tammy's mom was young as well; just 70. Sometimes we lose loved ones when it feels they are not yet done living.

The legacy people leave behind is joyous, to me. So many experiences, so much happiness and sorrow; so many changes brought about by the world as a whole. To leave a family behind is to be remembered. I did not know Veronica, but I know several of her children, and I know that they live lives that reflect how they were raised. I knew Jan, John, Louise - my mom(s). I remember smiles and laughter; bountiful love and sorrow. I remember lessons learned, conversations both fun and heavy all around. Life is so very beautiful. And, in death, so are the memories. In a memorable movie line from Ghost with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, Patrick tells Demi - "it's amazing the love inside? You take it with you".

I started searching for photo's to share here with my words - and so quickly became flooded with thousands of memories. Mom's together, aunts, uncles, cousins no longer with us, yet preserved with smiling faces as we captured moments in photos. So many moments, so many blessings. The love inside - you take it with you, but it also stays inside to warm our hearts as we remember.