Soooo… I’m looking for challenges or prompts to inspire me.
You understand, right? I wantto post on a regular basis, but the question is what to post!
Dawn, a blogger that I follow, posted a photo that she called Triptych Crop. Her photo reminded me of a photo I have on my desk (someday I’ll post a picture of it) that is from Varde, Denmark, circa 1900. It’s the kind of photo that pulls you in. I followed Dawn’s rabbit trail which led me to a photography challenge called Unusual Crop.
Well, after looking at 60+ year old photos of my brothers playing chess, I went back to that album and cropped photos of each of my siblings (and me) from that same time period. I don’t know if the crops are unusual, but here’s what’s left of the photos I cropped:
I had put out a request asking for seniors who would be interested in playing games after school with the children who come to the facility where I work.
A man stopped in my office. “I’d like to teach kids to play chess,” he said.
He had a magazine that showed a large group of children playing chess on the cover.
“In a lot of places,” the man said, “kids start learning chess at the age of 6.”
I immediately thought of this series of photos of my two older brothers. It’s from 1963 or 64, which would mean my brothers were probably 6 and 9.
“We’re bored,” groaned Timmy. Jimmy nodded in agreement.
Their mother looked at the two boys and said, “Perfect! Today is the day of the Family Olympics.”
“What’s that?” Jimmy asked.
“It’s a competition. We’ll have a pentathlon today — that means five events. I’ll keep track of who wins each one.”
“What’s the prize?” asked Jimmy.
“Cookies,” she replied, and the boys could see the mixer and cookie sheets already out. “First event is called Strip-the-Bed. It’s a race for who can strip all the sheets off their bed and get them to the laundry room first. On your mark, get set, go!”
Both boys raced out of the room. She could hear them upstairs and hoped the bedroom wouldn’t be too much of disaster. She met them in the laundry room. Timmy was just ahead of Jimmy and declared the winner.
“Next event is the Sock-Matching Race,” she said, and showed them the laundry basket with an assortment of unmatched socks. “You get one point for every you match. Ready? Go!”
They dumped the basket and set to work, fighting over socks, fighting with socks, and ultimately matching a bunch of socks. Timmy was the winner again.
“This next event isn’t about speed,” Mom said. “It will be judged on neatness, thoughtfulness, and word choice. It’s called Write-a-thank-you-note. Think of someone you should thank — Gramma, Auntie Lisa, Uncle Scott, or anyone — and write them a note.”
It was an hour later when the boys returned. The cookies were cooling on the racks and smelled amazing.
“While I read these,” Mom said, “you can do the next event: Gather-the-water-cups. There’s one or more in each bathroom, and each person has one beside their bed. I want to wash them all. Ready? Go!”
Jimmy had strategically headed for the bathrooms and came back with four, while Timmy only had three.
“Timmy – two points, Jimmy – one,” said Mom. “I still haven’t had a chance to read your thank you notes, so I’ll give you the next competition. It’s the Make-the-Bed competition. The sheets are in the dryer. You’ll have to get them out, divide them up, and go make your beds. I will inspect and deduct points for sloppiness and untucked sheets and blankets. Ready, set, GO!”
This task took a little longer, but when the boys had finished, they raced back to their mother in a dead tie. She was sitting at the table crying.
“C’mon boys,” she said, as she wiped her eyes. “Let’s go see how you did.”
Timmy’s bed was made, but it was a mess. Jimmy’s was much neater, with everything tucked it.
“Jimmy gets this point,” Mom said.
“Who won the thank you note competition?” Timmy asked.
Mom’s eyes welled up again with tears. “You both did,” she said. “You both wrote notes that began ‘Dear Mom’. You both made me cry in the very best way. Thank you.” She hugged them both tightly. “Now let’s go eat some cookies.”
I can’t tell you the number of rude things that have been said to me because of the number of children I have. I have eight.
“When are you going to stop?” — said to me by a woman at church when I was pregnant with #4. She later said to me after that baby was born — a daughter after three sons, “You got your girl, thank God. You can stop now.”
Another woman told me, “You have too many children.” This was when I had, I think, six. I responded by asking, “Which one should I get rid of?” I received no answer.
I haven’t gone to high school reunions, in large part because I didn’t want to spend my evening answering questions about my family size. That — plus the fact that while my classmates went on to pursue careers, I chose to be a stay-at-home mom. I didn’t really want to spend an evening at reunion answering the question, “What do you do?”
I chose to be a mom.
And it was, without a doubt, the right choice for me. It shaped me. It allowed me to be creative and loving and strong. I developed patience. I learned that I LOVE taking care of people.
So much so that I took care of my parents, too.
Did I resent doing that? Never. Not even for half a second.
Now, while my age-cohort is retiring, I’m just a few years into my first full-time job since 1984.
I have an office where I work. People stop in a lot to say hi, to talk, to complain, to suggest. I have an open door. Just the other day I was telling someone how being a mom prepared me for the constant interruptions of having an open-door policy in my office. When you’re a mom, you learn that your interruptions ARE your work. The same is true for me today.
A man stopped in my office yesterday. He often pokes his head in to say hello. He was a caregiver for his disabled wife the last few years of her life. He used to bring her to the gym and wheel her around in her wheelchair so she could have contact with other people.
Then she died.
And it turns that by coming to the gym he was building his own support system. He comes every day — not to work out so much as to visit with people. He makes the rounds, and I’m on them.
Anyway, he poked his head in, chatted about nothing, and then asked about my necklace. My youngest daughter gave it to me and I always wear it.
It has three discs: one that’s a tree, and two progressively larger ones with the names of my children around the edge. When you have a large family, you have to be creative about mother’s jewelry.
I explained the necklace to him.
“You have eight children,” he said incredulously.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Did you adopt some?”
“No.”
“Did you have twins or triplets?”
“No,” I told, “they were born one at a time.”
I turned around to grab the photo I have of them on my bulletin board.
“There’re all adults now,” I said, showing him the photo.
“You have eight children?!”
“Yes, this is them,” I said.
He was shaking his head. “You have eight children?!?!”
“Yes –”
He was backing out of the doorway. I was feeling rattled and small and angry and sad.
“You have eight children?” he said again. “I need to process this.”
“I’m still the same person you’ve been talking to for a year,” I called after him, but I don’t think he heard me.
Don’t get me started.
There are so many things that can define a person. Mistakes made while young. How they invested their life over the past four decades. What they are doing today.
I have eight children. They are amazing people and I’m so proud of them.
Really. Don’t get me started.
This overly-wordy post is my response to the Stream-of-Consciousness prompt: don’t get me started.
True patriots are no longer champions of Democracy, Communism, or anything like that but champions of the Human Race.
Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark
My father was a man who was a champion of the Human Race. He dedicated his life caring for people.
I’m using my recuperation to sort through some of the stuff at my parents’ house. Today I came across a small collection of books that are Class Reunion Reports from Harvard Medical School. My father graduated from there in 1955.
In each reunion report, the class members submit updates on their careers and their personal lives. I’ve been leafing through each one to find what my father said.
In 1980, he said this:
We look back on the last 25 years with great satisfaction and pride in our family and their accomplishments, and with gratitude for having had an opportunity to be contributing members of our communities, for having the acquaintance of so many wonderful people, and for having witnessed such exciting change in our nation and our world. I still believe in the Red Sox, the United States of America, and the inherent goodness of our fellow man.
My father lived those words.
He died with the last Red Sox game of 2019 on the television in his bedroom. It was fitting.
He loved this country. He served in the US Army. Every year he would faithfully watch our local Memorial Day parade down Main Street, and stand at attention for the 21-gun salute. It was a huge honor when he was asked to Marshall the local 4th of July parade. He proudly walked (no convertible for him!) the whole parade route in his dress uniform.
And, he truly believed in the inherent goodness of our fellow man — although our current president gave my father a challenge there.
One of my funniest Emergency Room moments with my father was in 2017 or 2018. The staff was trying to assess his cognitive status by asking the usual questions:
Do you know where you are? (“Bassett Hospital in Cooperstown, NY”)
Do you know what day of the week it is? (I can’t remember whether his response was correct or not. That’s not really a fair question for older people who have less of schedule to mark their days.)
Do you know who the president of the United States is? (“I refuse to say that awful man’s name.”)
I think that makes him a patriot and a champion of the Human Race.
“Most highly creative people can remember ‘a moment, an encounter, a book that they read, a performance they attended, that spoke to them and led them to say, “This is the real me, this is what I would like to do, to devote my life to…”‘ says psychologist Howard Gardner.
That moment of memorable, dramatic contact with an activity of fascination is known as a ‘crystallizing experience.'”
Scott Barry Kaufman and Carolyn Gregoire, Wired to Create
Nothing crystallized for me Instead, I chrysalized Crawling into a pupating state Of home And children And family
While my peers were Making their mark On the world Through education And career And the upward mobility Of recognition, I was making soup On the woodstove And washing yet another load Of laundry.
I folded shirts Matched socks Baked cookies And bemoaned my untidy house
I read books Upon books Upon books Aloud to my children
One by one They left home For higher education
One by one (all eight of them) Graduated Found jobs In their desired field(s) Emerging from their chrysalides To live adult lives
Meanwhile I Am sorting Through boxes of papers They had written: Poetry Stories Notes Academic research
And I cry Not for sadness But for joy
They are beautiful people
Now it’s my turn To crawl out from this protective shell
My grandmother was a worrier (Or, some would say, a prayer warrior) She fretted all the time (probably from womb to Easter tomb) Her immigrant family worked hard At menial jobs for which they were hired. They moved up the social ladder. Education, honesty, and faith would lead her To a comfortable American life. You would think she turned over a new leaf! But she worried and worried and worried, Though her faith in God never wearied
This is my submission for the W3 challenge this week — brought by the host with the most, David himself.
Here’s the challenge: Write a poem using pararhyme throughout—where consonant sounds match but the vowels shift (e.g., fill / fell, stone / stain). Let this half-matching quality reflect a theme of incompleteness, near-misses, or strained connection.
Can I say that it’s not even a near miss to be a worrier and a person of faith?! The two stand in stark contradiction to each other, and yet, that was my grandmother.
There are people who use up their entire lives making money so they can enjoy the lives they have entirely used up. Jesus said that it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God. Maybe the reason is not that the rich are so wicked they’re kept out of the place but that they’re so out of touch with reality they can’t see it’s a place worth getting into.
Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark
My father used to tell me that I was the richest person he knows. Then he would add with a smile, “and maybe someday you’ll have money.”
Honestly, money has never been a motivator for me.
Is that because I’ve always had enough? Maybe, but…
Having enough money may mean
prioritizing
discerning wants vs. needs
delaying gratification
budgeting
living within one’s means
I was a stay-at-home mom. I used to joke with people that my husband and I had a good arrangement — he earned the money and I spent it. That’s truly how it worked.
I did little things to bring in extra cash: I baked cookies and sold them to a local business. I coached swimming. I officiated high school and college swim meets.
We also saved on spending. I made Christmas gifts or shopped thrift stores for them. We rarely ate out. Clothes were passed down.
I look back on all of it and see what my father saw. We were so rich.
During the process of divorce, our financial arrangement came back to haunt me. So many people cautioned me on “looking out for myself.” I hated being in that position.
But I will say today that I am still rich in the ways that matter to me.
Earlier this week a Russian couple brought me some chocolates from Russia as a thank you for something I did for them last summer. Another woman brought me a bag of thumbprint cookies from an upscale bakery in Boston — as a thank-you.
I guess sweets are a form of riches — but, for me, it’s the sentiment behind them that I appreciate.
On a regular basis different people poke their head into my office just to say hi or to thank me or to give me some little something. I have so many cards and chachkies on my bulletin board. Last week I came in to find flowers on my desk.
The Human Family. It’s a good phrase, reminding us not only that we come from the same beginning and are headed toward the same conclusion but that in the meantime our lives are elaborately and inescapably linked. …
It’s not so much that things happen in a family as it is that family is the things that happen in it. The family is continually becoming what becomes of it. …
It is within the fragile yet formidable walls of your own family that you learn, or do not learn, what the phrase Human Family means.
Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark
This is where my A-to-Z fell apart. I had planned to use a Buechner quote and make a tiny collage — about 2×2 inches. I totally misjudged how hard it would be to make those little collages every day. It was on this day — Family — when I struggled the most.
How do you fit a family into 2×2 inches? My immediate family is large: 8 children, 6 spouses/significant others, 5 grandchildren (one more on the way). I have three living siblings. Then, there are aunts and uncles and cousins. There are also friends who are as close as family. There are co-workers with whom I spend more time than anyone else so they might as well be family.
“The family is continually becoming what becomes of it…” My immediate family is in flux, with big changes at its core. It hurts to think about them.
But I do. I do think about them and the people deeply affected by it all.
I know, I know — there is a world of difference between HOUSE and HOME, but this house is almost a friend. I’ve known this house since I was 7 years old when my father pulled in the dirt driveway declaring it our new home.
Oh, there were out-buildings: the chicken coop, the spring house (not really much of a building), the hop barn, the milk house, the stable, the middle barn, and the 3rd barn. I could probably write essays about each building, but today I will focus on the house.
It was already over 100 years old when we moved in. It had one closet — a chimney closet in my parents room. My room was a real room (with a cardboard closet), my youngest brother’s room was a former walk-in linen closet, my oldest brother and middle brother each had smallish rooms, and my sister’s room was hallway that my father walled off.
Of course, I could have this all wrong. I was, after all, only 7 years old at the time, and my main focus was my room, in the front north corner of the house. As I mentioned, it had a cardboard closet, a dresser, a bookshelf and a double bed — yes, a DOUBLE BED for lil’ol me. I could hear the mice in the walls while I fell asleep at night, scritch-scratching so close to my head that it almost felt as if they were in the same room.
My middle brother had a door into the attic in his room. It was a small door that’s still there, although now it leads to nothing. (I suppose that now makes it a magical door to another world, right?) Then, it led into an attic space which still had a few things in it, one of them being a trunk with clothes in it. Old clothes. Fancy clothes. We played and played dress-up with those clothes — dressing up in them, and then standing by the road and waving at passing cars. I’m sure some of those drivers did a double-take at the 10 year old boy wearing a long dress waving at them.
Such memories.
The kitchen was blue, the color of watery mouthwash. We could see the pipes in the ceiling leading to… the bathroom? It must be. I don’t remember. My excuse is still 7.
Anyhoo, my parents put in a dropped ceiling in the kitchen. It gave the mice another place to run. My mother loved wallpaper and chose a 70’s-ish green floral paper that is still there.
Their china closet went into the dining room, where it rattled if we ran past. It still rattles.
The room directly below my bedroom was called The Study. It was where my parents played bridge with their friends. The heat to my room was a single vent from the study up. On bridge nights, I heard every conversation through that vent. Also, when I was trying to fall asleep, the mice in the walls were drowned out by the sound of laughter when someone playing bridge told a funny story. That made me jump more than once!
So many memories!
The cardboard fireplace so we would have a place to hang our stockings:
The upright piano that came with the house:
The summer kitchen off the back:
I could keep going and going — how it was, how it is today…
Ah, how it is today.
I live here alone now. It’s full of stuff and memories. I’m not sure which there is more of.
It’s that much older, too. I mean, I’m no longer 7, and the house is now more like 160 years old.
Of late, I’m realizing that I really can’t take care of it. A few weeks ago, I had to call an electrician because of some issues.
“It needs major work,” he told me. “It’ll be expensive.”
Ugh.
I was the one who took care of our parents in the final years. I believe the grief process is easier for those who have been closest to a person’s demise through aging.
What’s true with people may also be true with houses.
I love this house. I can’t even tell you how much I love this house.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 