Month: May 2011

  • My Rock Star Drum-Playing Sister

    The room was the size of a small gymnasium. The audience grew as the residents were wheeled in by caregivers. The band set up, plugging in cords, playing chords, adjusting levels.  Several clients took delight in the sound check, chirping "check, check" in an unintended call and response.  The pre-concert buzz was nonexistent.  Most folks stared stoically at the wheelchair ahead of them.

    The magic was palpable when the music began.  The Front Porch Band--a guitarist named Moon, a drummer, bass player and harmonica/lead singer--plays country, gospel and bluegrass. The set had songs that looked back on better times like Tennessee Waltz and King of the Road and tunes like I'll Fly Away and Never Grow Old that held a future hope. The lady on my left kept her eyes closed but sang her heart out. A handsome gentleman in front of me repeatedly jabbed his index finger in the air whenever the lyrics resonated with him.  After I've Got a Mansion Just Over the Hilltop one white-haired woman pumped the air with fists upraised. Yep, passion still resides in these residents.

    I was at this nursing home gig because the drummer/back up singer is my rock star sister-in-law. As she approached sixty, Karyl Lynn wanted to do something. What to do? When she told my brother she had always wanted to play the drums, he encouraged her to pursue her desire. She found a drum teacher in the classifieds, posted a notice on a radio station--Grandma taking drum lessons, needs drum--, installed her new used drum set in the corner of the parlor, next to the grand piano.  A few years later, when The Front Porch Band asked Karyl Lynn's drum instructor to play in their band, he recommended my sister-in-law.

    They play Monday morning gigs at nursing homes. Jim's song introductions have perfect pitch: straight-forward, moderately upbeat, genuine. When the bass player sang a solo, Jim coached the audience to say, "Good job, Bob."

    Music is magic. It travels up hairline fissures of our emotions and reaches places we had forgotten about. Here are people with cirrhosis of the soul reduced to tears by a familiar tune. The sight of music stirring people moved me. After her first gig, Karyl Lynn said, "While I was fulfilling my dream, I looked into the eyes of people who had lost theirs." When this gig ended the band members worked the room, shaking hands, looking into eyes, thanking residents for their attention. Playing the drums for an hour sapped the energy from Karyl Lynn, but facing the fatigued and diminished spirits of people was even more draining. Yet in giving folks a respite from their cares, she takes great joy.  

    No wonder this new avocation is so satisfying: it provides a challenge, an avenue to explore a new skill, a team to belong to, and the fulfillment of serving others. It makes me immensely proud of my rock star, drum-playing sister.
      

  • A Fitting Farewell


    Grandson pallbearers.


    The honor guard

    In a culture where casual is cool, the formal ceremony of military honors is arresting. It is sobering. It is potent.

    Every note of Taps, every fold of the flag, every word in the presentation of the flag is crystal clear, separate and distinct, heard and viewed while we all seem to collectively hold our breaths.


    I've written before about clean grief.

    Sorrow can be such a complicated thing. It easily gets muddied with regrets, splattered with the wrong actions of the deceased, splotched with omissions, and speckled with questions.

    One of the gifts we can give to those we leave behind is the gift of clean grief. The difference between clean and mucked-up grief is the difference between the cut of a surgeon's sterilized knife and the puncture of a rusty nail. Both are incredibly painful, both require a time of healing, and both leave scars; but the puncture requires much cleansing in order to avoid infection and heal.
     

    It is remarkable how satisfying a good funeral is. Harold's four sons spoke of their father, noting who he was, what he did, what he loved, how he loved.  They were proud of their dad, privileged to praise his life. When it came down to one phrase, my Uncle Harold's life was characterized by faithfulness outside the spotlight.

    The best funerals are the ones which leave you inspired to imitate the life of the deceased.  We will never know the full extent of my uncle's generosity, but I asked God to give me Harold's eyes to see needs and his heart to respond to them.  Although he loved golf and achieved one of his lifetime goals of a hole-in-one during his retirement, his sunset years were focused on serving others until his final days. He wrote letters, corrected correspondence courses, led Bible studies, connected with people. I want to be as other-oriented as my uncle was. 

    "Whenever I spend time with extended family, I learn more about myself," my young cousin Ashlee remarked.  I learned and laughed about my Harper traits: stubbornness, odd frugality, obsessive book acquisitions (I had to force myself to walk away from the boxes of books in the garage) and fondness of ice cream. 

    I came to Philadelphia to honor my uncle.  The friendship of my cousins is the only reason I have to return. It is, however, reason enough.   

    ~       ~     ~

    My Uncle Harold was three things to me.

    First, he was a bridge.  There was a time when my father and I had a little estrangement thing going.  Communication between us stalled, sputtered and stopped.  Uncle Harold loved both of us and used every opportunity to bridge the gap between us.  He did nothing heroic, but in his quiet way he worked for peace. [A cancer diagnosis was all my father and I needed to reconcile, which we did, thankfully, before he died.]

    He was a beacon. Uncle Harold's faith informed his opinions and decisions. His interest in my spiritual well-being was constant. I loved him for that.

    And Uncle Harold was a bonus. The uncle/aunt-nephew/niece relationship is much less complicated than the parent-child relationship.  There are not the same expectations or obligations.  Sometimes it is as simple as "I know he loves me, and I know I love him."  That's how it was with my uncle. He was not obliged to come see me.  But he did.  Because he always picked up the tab of a shared meal, it was not until ten or fifteen years ago that I realized that Harold was not rich.  His life enriched mine, and I will always be thankful. 

  • Edward's Abdication

      

    Because we loved The King's Speech, my husband knew
    I would enjoy reading the December 10, 1936 edition of the Oregon Journal.

    Um...yeah!

    The news of King Edward's abdication takes up six full pages.

     The "Queen-Apparent" Elizabeth received her share of the focus.
    The 10-year-old's newest accomplishment was climbing trees.

    She is beginning to understand the motto
    which her mother taught her almost as
    soon as she could talk--
    "duty first, self second."

    I wonder how Kate Middleton's experience compares to the Queen Mum's:

    Her final love match with Albert and his acceptance
    meant the beginning of a period of hard work for her.
    Every morning at 6:30 Lady Elizabeth arose and spent
    an hour studying private books dealing with the history
    of the royal family, reading works on the the constitution
    and other matters. At Buckingham palace each day she
    was taught all the important angles
    of precedent, formality and dress.

    Does anyone else like to read vintage books/publications?

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    Home organs were la-de-da!
    Do any of you know of a home organ that is being played now?

    ~     ~     ~

    Ever curious, I went online to see what happened to Wallis, Duchess of Windsor.

    She is said to have summed up her life in one sentence:
    "You have no idea how hard it is to live out a great romance."

  • Wooden Spoons That Make You Sing

     

    My kids/grandsons gave me a set of wooden spoons for Mother's Day.
    Yay! I love wooden spoons.



      Spoons with style!




    Drumsticks on the end!
    Hooray!
    Now you can stir your Puttanesca sauce,
    flip the spoons, and lay down a cadence as
    you merrily fling Puttanesca all over your ceiling.



    I love my Fred Mix Stix.

    Synchronicity, you make make heart beat!
    My husband's words matched the kids' gift.

    Your joy pushes us onward,
    expecting and anticipating more blessings up ahead.
    Keep singing your song
    and telling your story.
    We are honored to be included
    in your harmony and script.

  • A Twice Blessed Dress

       
     

    This is a blessing-saturated story.

    It is a story of a search for the perfect dress, of joyous overlapping friendships, of mothers, daughters and sisters, of a dress twice blessed by a beautiful woman wearing it, of the smack down cancer got, and how Facebook facilitated the fine exchange.

    The story begins one year ago when Katie became engaged. There are two major decisions after a ring finds its home on the bride-to-be's finger: the date and the dress. Katie's wedding required an abundance of dresses. Each one reveals a story: Katie's splendid wedding dress that Jan, Katie's mom, insisted on buying.  Jan's elegant mother-of-the-bride dress that Katie and her sister Abbey spotted, loved and made Jan try on. My ruched bridesmatron's dress that Abbey found.  The eight unique flower girl dresses that Abbey sewed. (See these wonderfully whimsical dresses at Katie and Jeff's Wedding Journal).

    In California another family was anticipating a wedding.  Two sisters, Jean and Joy, were searching for the perfect dress for Ernestene, their mom, to wear to Laura's (Jean's daughter) May wedding.  When Curt and I began our married life in 1978, Amos, Ernestene, Jean and Joy were family to us; their home was our home-away-from-home.  They fed us dinner at least once a week; we shared holidays; we were companions.  I can still hear the laughter that rebounded around their table.

    Amos and Ernestene's golden wedding anniversary in December was tarnished by a serious cancer diagnosis.  A lifetime of love, care, and compassion which Ernestene had cheerfully dispensed returned to her in effusive expressions of love and concern.  Chemotherapy, however, was nastifying Ernestene's life, making the basics like eating and drinking a challenge. "We just give her a variety of things to dislike." 

    Chemotherapy kept Ernestene from shopping.  Finding a dress meant finding hope, hope that joy and beauty lurked beyond this dire moment. Even a woman like Ernestene, who has cheerfulness woven into her DNA, who as a sick patient concerns herself with how her nurses are doing, needs occasional infusions of good cheer. When Joy saw Katie's wedding pictures on my Facebook page, she noticed Jan's elegant dress.

    And so began a fabulous correspondence through Facebook messages. 

    I copy and pasted like crazy.  Joy asked the label of Jan's suit; I sent it to Katie. Katie replied Jessica Howard including further details; I messaged Joy.  Joy: "Carol, I've looked and can't find THAT dress... crazy idea, but potentially the best...would Katie's mom tell us the size and be willing to sell or rent it to mom if it is a fit?"  Some of Joy's messages were written from the hospital by Ernestene's bed.

    It was a fit!  Less than a month after first message, Ernestene had a dress hanging in her closet for her granddaughter's wedding. Sweet relief! Jan had been wondering how long to keep a dress she didn't expect to wear again and was glad to send it to Ernestene.      

    When I saw the picture of Amos and Ernestene, two strong towers in our formative years, walking down the path to Laura's wedding, I wept. 

    Don't both women--who look alike and whose hallmark is kindness--look radiant in that Jessica Howard suit? 

    It's true that Facebook devours time, immobilizes people, and can keep us from partaking of the succulent bits of life.  But in times of distress, Facebook can disseminate information to people everywhere.  It allows friends to share pictures of their kids and grandkids. And it can bring blessings in the form of a dress.

    My search for a mother of the groom dress
    The dress I wore
    A dress I wore the day I got married

    Because I love weddings:

    All I ever wanted was a Cinderella dress and Gerbera daisies.
    She wore cowboy boots under her grandma's wedding dress
    Flower girls flinging flowers
    I particularly liked Queen Elizabeth's canary suit for the royal wedding
    The defining moment of Jon and Lindsey's wedding
    The most courageous wedding picture ever taken...before the ceremony
    An extraordinary lover's knot in a wedding
    Jackie came down the aisle to Non Nobis

  • A Reduction of Tears

     
    Nellie Stover Harper, March 23, 1920 - May 7, 1968

    Sorrow has no shelf life.

    There is, however, a difference between the jagged edges of fresh grief and the patina of an old grief worn smooth like a faded flannel shirt. The splash of hot tears and spasms of sobs wind down, and eventually become sighs and wistful smiles.

    A reduction, in cooking terminology, uses heat and evaporation to get the essential flavors, the best bits, into a thicker base.

    Grief--the healthy kind--can make a reduction of our tears, concentrating those salty drops into a savory flavoring.  Cardamom, by itself, is sharp and bitter, pungent and overwhelming. Reduced with cinnamon, cloves, ginger and black tea, it becomes a vital ingredient in chai.
      
    Revelation (last book of the Bible) promises a day when God will wipe away all the tears and Psalm 56 speaks of God storing tears in a bottle.  

    I know that God sees our tears.  And if he knows the hairs on our head, surely He knows every tear that falls. 
     
    I know that God--the One who Redeems--transforms our sorrows, giving us beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning. 

    I imagine that the oil of joy is a reduction of our tears, redeeming our sorrows and transforming them into praise. He gave the tears; one day we will offer them back to Him.

    Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.

    ~

    More thoughts on grief.

    Some letters my mom wrote.

  • German Boy

    I had already read stacks of Holocaust memoirs and was suffering "misery fatigue" when I bought German Boy. What compelled me to buy and read this book? Simply because it is written from the point of view of a German boy; other than Hitler's Mein Kampf and All Quiet on the Western Front, I had not read a German narrative. Apparently, misery does not recognize boundaries. Once again I am astonished at the suffering a human being can survive.

    Wolfgang Samuel's story covers the time between his tenth birthday, January 1945, in Eastern Germany to January 1951 when Samuel, his mother and her new American husband leave Germany for America.  As the narrative begins, Wolfgang, his sister Ingrid and their Mutti  (German for "mom") leave in the middle of the night to flee Russian troops entering their city. This is the first of many three-suitcase trips. The family of three lives with Mutti's parents until they again travel west.  The formal end of hostilities did not bring an end of deprivation, an end of hunger, or an end of violence.  

    An uncomfortable aspect of this story is the extent Mutti went to provide for her hungry family.  It is a sad story, delicately told, of a desperate woman who exchanges sex for soup. Mutti was a beautiful woman, estranged from her husband, who was used to flirting for favors.  In the flurry of packing up and leaving, Mutti dons a silk blouse, silk stockings, a black velvet jacket and makeup.  When her mother disapproves, she replies:

    Mother, our only chance of escape is to be picked up by an army
    truck heading west to the American lines. Do you think anyone is going
    to stop and pick up a frumpy-looking woman with two children and an
    old woman by her side? No. They'll stop for a pretty, well-dressed woman,
    if they stop at all. I am trying to look my very best. If we are lucky,
    someone will have a heart and will take a look at me--and stop for us.

    Amongst the multiple migrations searching for a safe place, the family takes a small room near the train station.  After months of dwindling food supply and no way to feed her family, Mutti does the unthinkable.  A Russian man starts to visit at night; in the morning a steaming two-liter can of soup sits on the windowsill.  Even so, Wolfgang protests: Mutti, you shouldn't be doing what you are doing. Only Dad should sleep with you. It is a raw story, a poignant story. Almost every woman Wolfgang was associated with at this point in his life was raped by soldiers. 

    Carnage caresses his life.  Besides daily bombings, Wolfgang lives through a strafing attack on a long column of refugees where people five feet from him were killed. He witnesses a school fellow's drowning.  His father shows up and leads them in a night crossing, dodging Russian patrols, through a blizzard to the American zone. And yet, in the way a child focuses on the immediate things, he also remembers the loneliness of being ostracized by other German boys, the boredom of bad schools, the shame of ill-fitting clothes and the petty corruptions of life in a refugee barracks.  

    Living next to RAF Fassberg, Wolfgang witnessed firsthand the continual air traffic of the Berlin airlift. When the Americans arrived, Sergeant Leo Ferguson made his entrance.  He fell in love and married the now-divorced Hedy (Mutti's name); he was the means for Wolfgang and his Mutti to move to Colorado.  Wolfgang's sister Ingrid remained with her father.  Enamored with pilots and airplanes, Wolfgang served in the U.S. Air Force for thirty years, retiring as a colonel.  In June 1998, Wolfgang Samuel was a speaker at a conference commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the Berlin airlift. His story arrested the attention of Stephen Ambrose, who encouraged Samuel to publish his book.

    I cannot conceive of circumstances leading to the choices Hedy made.  I shuddered and recoiled as I read.  I have a relative who lived through post-war Austria.  In the past, when I have asked for this person's story, the answer was always a silent shaking of the head, a polite refusal to revisit that period.  I still have no idea what that story would be, but after having read this book, I am inclined to never again ask that question.