Dependability – A Love Story

It’s no secret, and most who know me would attest, I tend to be a daddy’s girl – though I need and count on my mother just the same.  But, this is a love story about the men (and boys) in my life.

The feeling of my own invincibility ended the morning I got into a car accident on the last day of high school. It was the busiest intersection in town.  In shock upon impact, I refused to get out of the car.  I sat still in my body as chaos flooded the scene.  Friends ran over to see if I was okay, traffic piled up and police officers arrived to assemble order.  Sirens, engines, horns and voices. I soon was sitting in an ambulance, still silent.  And only a few moments later, piercing through the noise I heard my father’s calm, steady voice.  He just happened upon the scene, noticed my mangled car and came searching for me.  As soon as I sensed his presence, I knew everything would be okay.

I spent the next several days being taxied around town by friends and family.  Afraid to re-conquer the driver’s seat, I never thought to ask about fixing my car or getting a replacement.  So, imagine my surprise one evening as my friend dropped me off when I saw my father, three of my uncles and my grandfather with their sleeves rolled up in the garage listening to music, telling stories and fixing my car.  They were repairing my vehicle, but also my self-confidence.

The day after Christmas 2010, we took my daughter and nephew sledding.  As we plunged through the snow toward the big hill, my four-year-old nephew offered to pull my toddler in her sled.  The snow was high and my daughter is no feather, yet he enthusiastically insisted.  Every time I checked to make sure he wasn’t exhausted, he proudly assured me he could take care of her.  He was being so careful.

When we reached the top of the hill, our daughter was eager to zoom down on her first snow ride.  As gravity pulled her sled down and I cringed thinking perhaps she was too young to take a risky run by herself, I looked up and saw my father positioned halfway down the hill, my husband positioned at the bottom and my nephew by my side.  All three were cheering her on.  The boys were going to make sure she made it okay.

At the bottom, my daughter turned around with a huge grin and begged for more.  I’ve always loved the men in my life and feel especially lucky to have them as the men in hers.

Caught Stepping Over the Fence

Remember what it felt like to have a world of possibilities scattered before you – endless opportunity and a clear vision of what you wanted from life?  Remember believing if you made the right choices and rang every bell in the maze, all of your expectations would succinctly fall into place?  Finally, remember looking at people who had given up on their dreams and thinking, “What a waste of time! I could NEVER give up on my drive/hope/spirit!” How frightened was I three nights ago when I discovered five of my toes firmly planted on that side of the fence…

In elementary school, we were always striving for top grades to read our names in the newspaper. In high school, our targets were four-point GPAs, scholarships and university acceptance letters. In college, it was the dean’s list, an internship and eventually, a full-time career.  You fly through all of this structure, concrete benchmarks and stationary milestones until you catapult into life without safety nets, expected to create (and achieve) your own measures of success.  Then one day you realize your past achievements are far behind, your future targets aren’t as definitive as you had once thought and you’re helplessly treading somewhere out in the open.

I always wondered how hopeless souls found satisfaction in their station, until I too started finding comfort in their ranks. It’s scary watching your spirit dampen and daunting to think your entire future depends on the next decision, next thought, next step you make. How easy it would be to give in and shake off my dreams leaving it up to my daughter to forge on toward greatness.  How soft the ground looks on this side of the fence – after all, I am getting tired.

Then, just as the ball of my foot rocks back on my heel, the calendar flips to a clean slate. I steal one last look over my shoulder and think, “What the heck? Why not give it one more try?”

Here goes 2011.

Who She Looks Like

Generations-old family photos are fun to flip through.  The people within might as well be strangers – until your eye catches one that looks exactly like you.

For some, the resemblance is obvious.  For others it’s captured in a gesture or a split-second expression.  As I get older, I notice – and have been told, I look more and more like my Great Grandma Corrigan. She knew me, but sadly I don’t remember her.  I’ve seen pictures, heard romanticized (and truthful) stories and wondered if she ever felt what I’m feeling or if my life would take a similar path as hers.  It’s both haunting and intriguing to catch her gaze in mine.

When I turn my gaze toward my daughter, I can’t place who she resembles exactly… if she takes more after my side of the family or my husband’s.  People try to put their finger on it, but I have yet to be convinced she leans one way or the other.  Chances are as she gets older, her features will become more defined and the mystery will dissolve.

But for now, I like to think she is the best of everyone leading up to us, as the teeny, tiny person connecting all of us.

Silver White Winters

The snow flies, the wind gusts and somehow this winter our drafty living room feels warmer than ever. I decided to stay home-bound today – not the easiest resolution to keep during one of the busiest times of year …and our little dear gets cabin fever as quickly as, well, she gets fevers!

Snow plows rumble past the house, neighbors scrape their shovels against the walk and pine branches occasionally brush against our front windows.  The heat kicks in, our kitty meows and holiday music fills in the empty spaces of sound that remain.

We put the finger paints away and she’s poised to take off running through the hallway.  Our one-year-old has wheels now to help her boundless energy take flight.  But seconds before her shot gun start, she plops down on my lap crisply mesmerized by images of a young woman and young man leaping through the air around a gazebo during a thunderstorm.  I turned on the DVD for a different sort of background noise, never anticipating she’d be enchanted by The Sound of Music – not this soon anyway.

As one song concludes she motions for another. One score after the next, I can see her falling in love with the magical melodies I grew up with and — somehow — I fall deeper in love with her.  That moment we shared is the same moment I shared with my mother, my sister, my cousins and my grandmother.  The richness of specific songs connecting me with my future at the same time as my past made me forget this blustery time of year.

She is one. Her attention span is extremely limited and yet she helped me focus.

…Silver white winters that melt into spring, these are a few of my favorite things.

Switzerland

Family secrets. Family feuds. Family hope. I have to assume the dilemma I’m about to share isn’t altogether unique. But when it happens to you, it doesn’t matter who else has faced it because, well, it’s happening to you.

The night, technically morning, Grandma passed we were all together – Grandpa, aunts, uncles, cousins, fathers, mothers, children, brothers, sisters, husbands and wives. The month-long nightmare had come to an end and as we collectively mourned our individual losses, we shot helpless glances at each other thinking: “What are we going to do now – Who is going to be our neutral zone, our soft place to land, our spring of hope? Who is going to be our Switzerland?!”

No matter how big the problem, Grandma was always the secret weapon we carried in our back pockets. If couples weren’t getting along, she’d counsel and pray for them.  If siblings weren’t getting along she’d encourage them not to give up on each other and pray for them.  If grandchildren weren’t getting along with their parents, she’d make us look at the big picture and pray for us.  She always welcomed us in and listened even during unannounced late-night visits. Broken hearts, lost jobs and traffic tickets. She never passed judgment and rarely took sides – unless, of course, the injustice we were experiencing involved someone outside the family who obviously was in the wrong. She was our harbor in every storm, healing us with conversation and a signature recipe MacGyvered in her kitchen or offering a quiet place to sleep.  Everything said in her presence never left those four walls – even if we regretted saying it.

As we began parting ways in the hospital parking lot that morning, I quickly turned around to one of my aunts and found the courage to ask what everyone had been selfishly thinking, “Who will we go to now?” I believe she answered we’d all have to do our part to be “Grandma” for each other.  And, as much as that is true, we’ve all dropped that ball to some extent.

Our collective compass, our Switzerland, is gone.  Some of us have found her in someone else. Some of us have found her in themselves and some are still searching.

Cold Crackers

Over the years, my career path has taken several seemingly random turns through a few different industries. For three years of my professional journey, I served as a teacher. In the early sun’s glow, my feet hit the ground in the faculty parking lot and didn’t get a rest until I turned my key back into the car ignition at day’s end.  I was trying to prove myself as a new practitioner and neither rest, nor nourishment, was an option.

Copy machines whirred, bells rang, lockers slammed and students flooded the hallways and my classroom.  Every hour the noise stopped, I was “on”.  My brain was teaching, asking, answering and planning every minute of the day… until sound slowly faded into the background as I purposefully returned to my car.  I’d sling my bags into the trunk and plant my bottom into the bucket seat when, like clockwork, my moment of bliss had arrived.

I swear the heavens broke to shine down on my lone, now cold (I taught in Wisconsin), beautiful box of cheese crackers waiting patiently in the passenger seat.  My rides home flew by as I reflected upon each encounter, critiqued every lesson and crunched those wonderful salty pieces of cardboard.  Often I realized upon pulling into the driveway, I had commuted the entire way in silence.  I desperately needed those crackers.

Whether seated on a chair in front of a computer or on my feet in front of a crowd, I’ve always found myself hitting the accelerator.  As a new mommy working full-time, moments of bliss have been replaced with grocery runs, gas station stops and planned phone calls to make doctor appointments or to catch up on the latest family news.

Some people get nervous in the silence, but stillness is necessary for a balanced soul. The breaks in commotion help me make sense of it all. Though fewer and far between, I savor those moments. I crave cold crackers.

Runaway Train

My daughter graduated from the nursery today.  For nearly two months she’s been uttering a handful of words.  She began stumbling like a drunken sailor literally two weeks ago.  I thought we’d have more time. More time to absorb each milestone. Time to snuggle her close and rock her to sleep.  Time to gobble up each word she worked so darn hard to pronounce.  Now suddenly, she’s flying.

As her words multiply and steadying steps turn into quick patters, I gather my thoughts and wonder what happened?  When did I lose track?  I cry out to her (but really, I suppose, to God), “Wait just a minute — I’m not ready yet!”

Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve wanted to do my own thing. Go my own way. Make my own fun.  I remember my grandparents always wanting to visit. And while more often than not I was game, a decent percentage of the time I thought one more visit would have been far too painful for my important schedule.  Been there. Done that. Right?

Even until my grandparents’ final days, they couldn’t breathe in enough life – in the form of their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.  I’ll never forget the shock in my grandmother’s face when I believe the realization of her own mortality hit.  Her eyes screamed, “I’m not ready yet!”  Though she lived a full life by many definitions, the finality of her time was so sudden, so abrupt.  A far different experience, my grandfather was given the unanticipated gift of a few extra weeks of life – filled with whole family visits, walks outside on the patio, togetherness and laughter. I left work and drove hours every chance I got to hold his hand, sing him songs, kiss his face and drink him up with my eyes.

I learned from them, we can’t slow down this train.  We’ll take for granted the occasional slow afternoon, but mustn’t forget to squeeze life’s juice out of every available moment.

My daughter patters laps in our living room now, as I sit in the middle of the floor, capturing each glance, flashing back each smile, echoing each giggle – inhaling each morsel she’s willing to share.

Re-married?

When listening to a radio program (a sign of my age) at lunch last Tuesday, the host mentioned people change so much every several years that every 5 to 7 years it’s as if you’ve married another person!  On many levels, I think this is true – but, I can only reflect on my own experience.  Every so often, my husband and I share a chuckle and wonder, “Seriously, how did we end up here?!”

The guests on the radio program were married-couple-turned-relationship-“specialists”.  They went on to share a story of a time when they feuded about something for more than a year and God divinely intervened.  As the story goes (paraphrasing here), the wife was striving to achieve a dream her husband didn’t share.  She needed his support, but he was holding back because he didn’t feel comfortable with the way it would change their family’s lives.  One day, for some reason, he realized perhaps his wife’s dream is what God intended.  He wanted to tell his wife of his change of heart, but knew a sudden one-eighty wouldn’t seem sincere.  So, he prayed for an opportunity to really prove he was on board.

A few days later, while his wife was sitting in a literature class discussing an excerpt from a novel, she began defending romance and pleaded good men still exist.  While the majority of her classmates argued against her position, her husband spontaneously slipped into the room with a bouquet of roses, kissed her on the head and slipped out.  (Sickeningly sweet.)  He didn’t know the topic of the discussion that day, but he sure shut a few people up!

Could it be true that marriages change drastically every 5 to 7 years?  If so, it definitely sheds some light on what my husband and I are experiencing right now.  Knowing what other couples have gone through over time, I hoped I’d have the energy to retool and recommit at the beginning of each new phase.

I banked that cute story, and marital deep thought, away and returned to work.  A couple hours later – no lie – a bouquet of gorgeous roses showed up at my desk.  My husband hadn’t heard the radio show.  We hadn’t even talked since parting ways that morning.

I’ll never know if God intervened that day, but I do know I’ve found someone amazing, who is worth every gear-change our future requires.

Footprints in Boxes

When I was a little girl, my father used to spend time working in the garage after dinner until sunset.  Until the sun went down, he’d have music or a ball game playing on the radio. Until the sun went down, I would share the garage with him by working on my own make believe project or riding my bike.  When the sun finally dropped, we’d put our stuff away and he’d close up shop.

My father just called.  He had a very productive day.  He finished staining the deck, seeding the grass and, perhaps most surprisingly (sorry dad!), began cleaning out the garage.  Over the decades, it’s accumulated some of his most prized possessions including my sister’s softball glove, a homemade kite and my tricycle – artifacts from our childhood.

In the middle of it all stood a pile of boxes.

These boxes contained my grandparents’ things – shoes, clothing, books and movies, things he remembered them wearing, reading and watching.  As my father continued to tell me his story, I realized many of the artifacts we leave behind are more than just objects we lived in and items we once enjoyed.  Through our things, we leave behind footprints that stir up feelings, sounds, tastes and memories.

Most of the artifacts my grandparents left behind were things they used to show people they were loved.  My grandmother’s sheet music, my grandfather’s mouth piece to his trumpet.  My grandmother’s aprons and recipes, my grandfather’s military badges and pins. Not to mention, lifetimes of photo albums, letters and cards.

As my father confronted the artifacts in his garage, he discovered my grandparents’ footprints in boxes, lovingly brought them inside where they belong …and then closed up shop.

Finding Comfort in a Smelly Car

“I hate when you park next to me!” I regularly exclaim to my boss.  He just shakes his head and chuckles as he sits at his desk.  This man washes his vehicle, not kidding, twice a week.  It glistens in the sun. It’s detailed on the inside – simply immaculate.  There are thousands of parking spots in our lot, but he insists on parking next to me.

My car is “lived in” — as in board books stuffed into the driver and passenger seat pockets, leftover snack pieces crowded in the creases, jumper cables holding the baby mirror in place, with a hint of ‘baby’ aroma baked into the cushions. (This could be a pleasant or awful smell – you decide.) There was a time I would have been mortified to have friends and co-workers, especially my boss, jump in for a ride.  I would have sneaked out early to pop into a car wash, wiped down the dash and then strategically positioned mini scented trees under my seats, in the ash trays and above my visor (only a slight exaggeration) before throwing the offer on the table. Not yesterday.

A group of my teammates naturally walked straight out to my car.  And, as a matter of fact, I smiled, jingled the keys and said climb in!  On the way to the restaurant, we discussed where we’d live and whether or not we’d continue working if we ever won the lottery.  When we pulled up next to a young guy rocking out to some bass-laden hip hop song at a stop light, we responded with a little Manilow “Copa Cabana” (CD 1, Track 9).  I captured the moment glancing in my rear-view mirror — all of my passengers were either laughing or smiling.

Growing up, I based each move on social acceptance. If I felt I didn’t fit in, I didn’t participate.  But, I never considered I had the power to set that tone.  Not once yesterday did someone mention the condition of my car.  I’m not sure they even noticed.  They felt comfortable because I was.

My boss rode shotgun. And he hummed “Copa Cabana” all the way back to his desk.