Tag: family

Faith · family · Life

Growing Pains

Sally1 Comment

The RDP prompt for today is kindness. I searched my draft folder and found this incomplete post that had been written in October 2011.

When I read it this morning, I remembered some of the difficult circumstances of that time. It was years before my brother died, years before I was helping care for my mother, years and years before my father died.

Just because I wasn’t dealing with death, it doesn’t mean life was easy. I had my hands full in other ways. My children at that point ranged in age from 7 to 26. I was homeschooling two, had one in public school, some in college, some working, one married.

Without further ado, here is the unnamed post which I will call “Growing Pains.” If it feels incomplete, maybe it is.

One of the most profound things I heard Andrew Peterson say was not at Hutchmoot, but at a concert in Cortland.  He was talking about his books, the Wingfeather Saga. (Note: he was still in the process of writing the series. The final book wasn’t published until 2014.)  I didn’t write this down or record it so it may not be verbatim, but I think it’s fairly close.  He said,

The main character in these stories is a boy named Janner.  When I started writing, I saw the man he would become, but I knew that he would have to go through many trials and difficult situations to become that man.  I knew that he would have to suffer some terrible things…

I have been thinking about some of the difficulties my own children have had to endure.  They are rather small in comparison to Janner’s battles with Fangs and Gnag the Nameless, but they shape my children nonetheless.

And then I started thinking about that whole idea conversely.  If my children didn’t suffer anything, how would they turn out?

For instance, in order to develop perseverance, they need to stick with difficult situations and work them out.  If I allow them to quit every time the going was hard or not fun or required something of them, they would become the kind of adults who always take the easy path, who quit, who are unreliable.

In order for them to develop compassion, they need experience some hard times and also experience unwarranted kindness to them.  I imagine that the guy in the Good Samaritan story who had been attacked by robbers didn’t later cross to the other side of the road to avoid helping someone who was different from him, although without his experience, he may very well have looked the other way instead of helping.

To develop patience, they need some annoyances.

To develop peace, they need some turmoil.

family · Grief · Life

Terrible

Sally6 Comments

The RDP prompt for today is twelve. I searched my draft folder and found this incomplete post that had last been edited in February 2016. My mother died in November 2015. I wrote so many posts following her death. I think it was my way of untangling the knot—and it helped.

This post was never completed. When I read it this morning, a flood of memories engulfed me.

Here’s the post which I called “Terrible.” At the end, I’ll try to complete it — though the 10 intervening years surely have changed where I was going with the original.

THE ORIGINAL

The one nurse said, “Well, I guess you’ve never seen a dying person before.”

She was matter-of-fact. Tart. A little smug. Definitely too cheerful.

The other nurse was different. Compassionate. Caring. Gentle.

“Can I do anything for you?” she asked every time she checked on my mother. “Can I get you anything?”

With twelve hour shifts for the nurses, we mostly saw only these two.

When I would ask the first nurse

THE 2026 COMPLETION

When I would ask the first nurse for anything, she did her job, but with so little compassion that I ended up avoiding her. Truth be told, today I can’t even picture her.

Forgettable — that’s what she was. I’m glad I didn’t spend time dwelling on her.

What I remember about my mother’s final hospital stay are definitely the kindnesses:

The other nurse bringing food in for us.

The doctor who called a family meeting. She began with these words, “Mom is very sick, and she isn’t going to get better.” She went on to talk about the fact that modern medicine could keep her alive, but we should think about what was best for her. One of my brothers still refers to her as “the doctor that told us to kill Mom.” It’s that dark famiy sense of humor that we have. I have no doubt in my mind that it was the right decision.

A group of women from the church came to the hospital room and sang to my mother. They had all been in the choir with her, and now they sang for her. It still brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. Out-of-tune warbly voices of older women joined in some of the most beautiful music I’ve heard.

My siblings and I gathered around the bed, each telling my mother that we loved her. My youngest brother told my mother that it was okay for her to go. I had heard that it can be important to say that, and he said it, all the while rubbing her foot as he stood at that end of the bed.

I feel pity for that nurse whom I had labeled “Terrible.” Her words, I guess you’ve never seen a dying person before, are so hollow.

I don’t know what prompted them, but today, I would take her hands in mine, and say, “I hope that some day, you can gather with your family around the bed of someone you love very much, and you can be with them when they pass. It’s a beautiful thing.”

Terrible vs. beautiful. I’ll remember the beautiful.

Life

Sewing With Burlap

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The good thing about burlap is that it is inexpensive.

The bad thing about burlap is — oh, where to begin?!

Burlap wears its flaws on its proverbial shirtsleeve, although I shudder to think how uncomfortable a burlap shirt would be.

It is coarse and crotchety, like an old man who has worked hard his whole life and never been been appreciated for a single thing he has done.

It frays easily and often.

It does not like to be straightened.  Lesson #1 in 4-H sewing decades ago included straightening the fabric.  Burlap is just ornery enough to say no.  It sort of looks like it is willing to comply, and then, BAM, an in-your-face refusal when the cutting begins.

Despite all that, burlap is quite lovable — especially if you’re partial to cantankerous types.

I’m sitting here, staring at various burlaps, trying to think how I can get along with them.  How can I coax this rough piece of fabric into something beautiful?

IMG_4499[1]

In my first attempt, I lined it with a cheery cotton print.  The burlap lost its burlap-ness.  It was like taking a hobo and dressing him in a business suit.  What makes a hobo appealing is his relatively carefree life, hopping trains, bumming food, answering to no one, but a businessman has to present himself just so, and answer to all sorts of people.

No, I was glad the lined burlap cone was nixed. It was too incongruous.

DSC02204

My next attempt was a simple burlap sack.  Simple. Hah!  To make a casing for a ribbon to go through was nearly impossible. And then, I didn’t cut a long enough piece of ribbon.  And then I kept wondering if jute would be better than ribbon.  And then I just got mad at the whole darn thing because it refused to look like what I had pictured in my head.

I had an idea for my next attempt.  I would work with the fray-happy fabric. I saw it on Pinterest.

Except… I’m pretty sure all those wonderful Pinterest ideas require fingers, and, as it turns out, I’m only equipped with thumbs. Ugh.

The more I fuddled around with the burlap, the more I saw this as life.  Things don’t always turn out the way we hope.  Plan A becomes Plan B becomes Plan C.

And still we remain hopeful. Still we try again.

[I decided to started searching the Ragtag Daily Prompt word in my draft folder so I could relook at some of the things written years ago. Today’s word was HOPEFUL — and this post came up. This post was originally written in August 2014 as we were getting ready for son #2’s wedding.]

family · Writing

A Large Family

Sally9 Comments

Don’t get me started.

Family size is a personal decision.

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.

Linda Hill got me started on a rant.

Blather · Life

Before HIPAA

Sally3 Comments

I’ll admit — it’s a semi-irrational fear that I have of getting a fishhook stuck through my skin.

It may date back to the days when my father’s office was just off the Emergency Room. HIPAA hadn’t been born yet. I would cut through the Emergency Room to get to his office.

Which was a trailer.

Yes, it’s what you picture — the kind of structure that fills trailer parks.

When I got into the trailer, his office was on the left, opposite his secretary’s desk. Sometimes she was transcribing his dictated notes and would let me listen to his voice on the transcription machine as he said things like, “The patient was a white female, age 47, who presented with…”

Clearly another HIPAA violation. But HIPAA wasn’t a thing then. And I wasn’t paying attention to the words as much as his voice.

True story: These days I recognize people by their voices. More than once I would have walked right past my high school boyfriend had he not greeted me by name.

The other day, another person that I knew years ago walked past me and said, “Hey, Sal!”

The words got my attention, but the voice identified the speaker. I immediately knew him.

I mean, seriously, most men over the age of 70 look remarkably similar to me: gray hair or balding, scruffy beard, blue jeans, etc. Add a baseball cap and I’m sunk — until I hear their voice.

But I digress. I guess that’s how it is with stream-of-consciousness writing.

So, as a kid, I would cut through the Emergency Room on a daily basis. My pattern was to swim at the gym after school and walk to the hospital for my ride home. I would wait for my father to finish his day and we would walk together to his vehicle which was ALWAYS parked in the farthest spot available.

“It’s good exercise,” he would say as I complained about walking to the car.

One time, I saw one of my classmates in the ER. He had stabbed a pitchfork through his foot. Actually, through his work boot, and his foot, and out the other side. He was crying and cursing, obviously not having a good day.

I remember his name — but I won’t say it here. HIPAA and all that, you know.

The fishhook thing must date from those days. I think I saw someone in the ER with a fishhook in their cheek.

My father said, “They’ll just push it through and cut the barb.”

He made it sound easy.

But then, he didn’t have a fishhook in his cheek.

I remember my father explaining to me how the manure pitchfork through the foot presented a particular problem because of the risk of infection. Should they just pull it out? Cut the tip and pull it out? I think that’s what they did.

It doesn’t matter. The prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday wasn’t pitchfork. It was hook.

I can’t decide if I like stream-of-consciousness writing or not. It feels like a bunch of blather.

What do you think?

family · Grief · Life

An Essay about a House

Sally5 Comments

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.

But it’s time to step away.

gratitude

Starting #TToT

Sally3 Comments

One of the other bloggers who participates in The Unicorn Challenge, Clark from The Wakefield Doctrine, posts Ten Things of Thankful (TToT) every Saturday. He actually mentioned ME a time or two — when he liked the piece I had written for The Unicorn Challenge — which took me by surprise, but also got me scanning the list each week.

Looking ahead to 2025, I want to be more thankful. Life has been hard and pity parties are so easy to attend. I have other resolutions that I’ll post in a few days, but I’m going to start to today with this one: Post Ten Things of Thankful (#TToT) on Saturdays as a look-back on specific moments in my week.

My Ten Things of Thankful will NOT be things like FAMILY — even though I’m incredibly thankful for my incredible family — or MY JOB — even though I am mostly thankful for both my jobs. No — I’ll give you specific moments for which I am thankful.

  1. The 96 Chair Debacle — When an order for 24 chairs showed up as 24 BOXES of chairs (4 chairs in each box), I felt slightly panicked. They had been ordered for the senior program and I wasn’t sure where the error was. In the meantime, 24 boxes of chairs filled the lobby space. A little bit of problem solving and we all laughed. I am thankful for laughter. And an excess of chairs.
  2. Ready to crawl — I saw my newest granddaughter on Christmas Day on all fours, rocking, and smiling up at me when I went to retrieve her from a nap. Very cute.
  3. Woodstoves — I house/cat sat for a friend who has a woodstove. What a cozy source of heat! I love sitting by the stove and reading.
  4. Paid vacation — Do you remember the first time you were able to take paid vacation? I do. Forty-some years later it has not lost its luster. I took Monday off as a vacation day, then had Tuesday-Wednesday as paid holidays. With the weekend preceding those three days, it meant that I had FIVE days off in a row, three of which were paid. Heaven.
  5. Christmas dinner — On Christmas Day, my oldest daughter hosted the dinner. It’s always a joy to sit down to eat with family — four of my children, one spouse, one grandhcild, my brother, and one close family friend.
  6. Rum balls — Those rum balls given to me by a member/friend (I mentioned them in my Christmas 2024 post) have been AMAZING. He should add that much rum every time.
  7. A dead mouse — Yes, you read that right. I walked into my bedroom the other night and there was that distinctive “dead” smell. I was still house/cat sitting at that point, so I didn’t have to sleep in the room (yet), but I got out a flashlight and searched for the culprit. No luck. The next few nights I stayed in one of the other bedrooms and searched when I could. Today I cleaned. And cleaned. And cleaned. I still can’t find it. But I AM thankful for a much cleaner room!
  8. Swimming — only another swimmer would probably understand that Zen-feeling of swimming laps. I started swimming again because my hip is hurting, but it provides mental health as much as hip relief. Thankful for the pool, the ability to swim, and an aching hip that drove me back to the water.
  9. Brooks Chicken — I love Brooks Chicken! It’s a local barbecue chicken place. One of my co-workers retired and it was the chosen fare for his retirement party this past week. I was thrilled. If you’re ever in upstate New York, I highly recommend checking it out.
  10. Bowling — My 5 year old granddaughter came to where I work and went bowling yesterday. It was SO nice to see her and the whole family!
Bowling with a 5 year old

family · poetry

Inheritance

Sally17 Comments

In
Eighteen
Ninety-four
Great-grandmother
Pedersen arrived
In the United States
From Denmark with three dollars
And four children under the age
Of seven to join her husband who
Was a tailor working outside Boston

Her super-power: hospitality
Her home became a hub where Danish
Women gathered to drink coffee
And converse with each other
Without all the mental
Gymnastics that go
With translation
They relaxed
And smiled
[sigh]

My
Mother
Received that
Super-power
Hosting dinners and
Welcoming newcomers
And people in need to our
Home, church, and the community
She made it look so very easy
I thought I had missed that DNA

One day I was sitting at my desk when
A person peeked around the corner
“Can I talk to you?” he asked me
“Of course,” I said, so he came
In the office and told
Me a small story
A wee sliver
Of something
That was
large

I
sat and
I listened
To his words, awed
That he had chosen
Me to share his thoughts with
One day a woman sat down
With me and she started to cry
She told a wee sliver of her story
And I listened, gently holding her tale

They come. I listen. So many people
Some sad, some angry, some joyful, some tired
They all share different stories
“You should get paid for this,”
One man said to me
He doesn’t know
It is my
Super-
Pow’r

This is a double etheree times three. Does that make is a sextuple etheree?

An etheree is a syllabic poem — 10 lines with syllable counts 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. A double etheree has 10 more lines, counting back down 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1.

For the record, I work at a gym and when I’m in the office, I sell memberships.

And listen.

This is in response to this week’s W3 prompt: Write a poem of any style and any length on the topic of “Power.”

Blather · Life

The Last Thing I Emptied

Sally4 Comments

That’s the prompt — the last thing I emptied.

Well, it wasn’t the plastic container under the kitchen sink, although I’ve been emptying it fairly often.

The kitchen sink has been dripping. I watched a Youtube video on how to fix it and bought the parts I needed. I was almost successful, but needed a little help.

But then it got worse.

A lot worse.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Now I turn the water off completely to the sink when I don’t need to use it. When I do need it, I turn it on and hear the dripping.

When I turn it off again, I empty the container.

[sigh]

My two youngest daughters were home on spring break this week. I hardly saw them, though. Full-time job, you know, plus I had something every day after work:

  • Monday: appointment
  • Tuesday: church meeting
  • Wednesday: Gave a talk to one of the local historical societies
  • Thursday: Sign language class at the library
  • Friday: Different sign language class via Zoom

I still fit in several walks with one daughter.

I made some favorite dinners: baked ziti, broccoli cavatelli, and a chili-like dish called Turkey Taco Quinoa Skillet.

When I was making that last one, I found that I had run out of quinoa. I told the girls that I was doing a slight variation on that dish.

“What are you doing?” one asked.

“Skipping the quinoa,” I replied. I threw in handful of barley and hoped for the best. It was fine.

This morning, I said good-bye to one daughter who was driving herself back to school. Then I drove the other daughter to stay with her oldest sister before she flies back to college tomorrow. It was another long day for me.

The last thing I’ve emptied is me. My energy is gone.

I tip my hat to all you working women who for years and years have been working 40 hours a week outside the home. I’ve been a mostly stay-at-home mom. I know, I know — that’s work, too.

There’s something to be said, though, about getting up and dressed in the morning, and leaving the house every day.

There’s something to be said for working 8-9 hours away from home.

There’s something to be said for coming home to a dripping faucet.

On Friday when I got home, my daughters said, “The microwave is broken.” Sure enough, it wasn’t working.

I looked to see if the GFI had tripped on the outlet for the microwave. No GFI on that outlet.

I went to the basement to look at the breaker box. Everything looked okay. I flipped some switches back and forth, hoping that would do the trick. It didn’t.

I called the electrician.

Mind you, the last time I had called him it was because of a flickering light. I live in an old farm house and was sure something had nibbled the wires. He changed the lightbulb and solved the problem. He explained to me the likely cause for the flickering. I was embarrassed.

You can understand why I was reluctant to call, but I did. Our wi-fi was also on the same circuit as the microwave.

“Hi, this is Sally,” I said to his voicemail. After leaving him my phone number and address, I continued, “I don’t need you to change a light bulb today, but I’ve lost electricity to some things in my house –”

He picked up and cut me off. “I’m going to tell you what to do and I want you to follow these instructions. If it doesn’t work, you can call me back and I’ll come tomorrow.” He gave me some specific instructions and told me to call him back either way.

Suffice it to say, it worked. The microwave worked. The wifi worked. Everything worked.

I called the electrician back.

“Good job,” he said. “I’ll be sending your Junior Electrician certificate in the mail.”

“You really need to send me a bill,” I said. He wouldn’t let me pay him when he changed the lightbulb either.

He laughed. “No, I’m glad you got it. Call me, though, if you have more problems.”

I guess I’m really not empty. I’m full — with family and kind people in my life.

Do you think the plumber will be this nice if I call him?