Every Tuesday, I drive to Baltimore to visit my mom and take her to lunch (also to water her African violets, clear out all the 'doggie-bag' boxes in her refrigerator (why does she bring back a container of chocolate milk EVERY DAY from dinner and not drink it?), make sure she is taking her meds, deliver anything she has requested, and, just generally, make sure she is okay.) Mom is almost 92, and while she is in an 'independent living' facility, she is far from independent. Don't tell her I said so.
In any case, I generally approach each visit with the foot-dragging non-enthusiasm of a teenager sentenced to visit with a roomful of elderly maiden aunts. Mom's memory loss is sufficient to try the patience of Job; she repeats and repeats and repeats any observations, questions, complaints, or news items that have become lodged in her mind. The loop replays on an average of every five minutes, unless interrupted by another stray thought. I generally spend three or four hours inventing distractions, thus sparing myself from active rudeness or repetition that rivals water-torture.
This week, I was presented with two sheets of computer paper. (Mom does not own a computer, so someone must have sent or given it to her. ) Each one had a photograph on it--one of my great-grandfather and his wife, another of my grandparents and their nine children. I had never seen either picture before, but my mom insisted I had given them to her. Examining them more closely, I saw that they had come from the genealogy site Ancestry.com, and bore a couple different usernames. I tried to explain that if I copied down these usernames, I might be able to get better copies of the pictures for her. I pocketed the sheets (memory loss works in my favor sometimes; she forgot about the pictures as soon as they disappeared from view) and decided to try and track down whoever was interested in the family--perhaps a cousin, of whom I have quite a few, or even one of their children. Mom is doubtless one of the oldest family members around, and can sometimes summon up stories from way back, despite her inability to remember what she did yesterday. She might have something to offer a budding genealogist; it would certainly offer me a respite if she had something to focus on besides the shortcomings of her current situation.
So, upon my arrival home, I hit the computer. I belong to Ancestry.com, so it was a simple matter to type in my great-grandfather's name and search for pictures. I was astounded. Not only did I see mom's 'found' pictures, but there were also many others, including a wedding picture featuring one of my aunts. I clicked on it, mainly to see if it included my mom, but was informed that it was a picture kept private by the person who uploaded it--but I could send a message and request. Which I did.
Almost by return email, I received a note from someone who--it turned out--was the granddaughter of one of my mother's uncles. (I think that makes us 2nd or 3rd cousins.) It sounds crazy to say that I'd never even heard of her or her grandfather, but in the world of my mother's family, there are many mansions. Or, actually, many farmhouses. Both my grandparents came from families of 10 or more children. The younger ones didn't really know the older ones that well, and while they all lived in the same area, they often did not have much contact as adults. My mother might have made passing references to her Aunt Molly--but I never met her. Her Grandpa Riedel died when mom was 6 or so..and several of the uncles had left the area looking for jobs when she was quite small. It was the '20s after all. I suspect that mom knew more of her Riedel aunts and uncles than her younger siblings--if only because she was the oldest and was more capable of registering names and faces than her younger brothers and sisters.
Anyway, Great-Uncle Harry's granddaughter and I are now communicating. She lives in Florida and has three grandchildren there. While some of the photos are hers, there are others that are not--that may lead to other 'lost' family members. I'm scrambling now to put together a sort of family tree for mom to look at next week, and maybe print down some pictures for her. They may mean nothing to her, but there's always a chance that she'll have a story or two to add to the mix. And I have all those other photos to track down. Excelsior.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
The Churchyard
I don't often spend time in the churchyard at The Old Presbyterian Meetinghouse. It's a quick walk-through between the sanctuary and church office and the education buildings: a brick path that passes through a swath of green, punctuated by some old stones and a couple magnolias that have seen their share of years. I scarcely notice them anymore.
Last week, however, I found myself sitting in our customary pew (middle center, right side) looking out the window that, with its counterpart on the left, overlooks the churchyard. The thought crossed my mind that what we had was two congregations--both facing the altar (or communion table, if you prefer; I'm a Catholic, born and raised, and it will always be an altar to me.) Inside, here we are in our Sunday dress; outside, there they are in their rather irregular ranks of stones. What would we have to say to each other, if we could speak? There must be a poem here somewhere, if I could only find the words.
(And here is the poem that came out of this, done in April of 2012. Sometimes it takes a while, but no idea goes unpursued...)
Last week, however, I found myself sitting in our customary pew (middle center, right side) looking out the window that, with its counterpart on the left, overlooks the churchyard. The thought crossed my mind that what we had was two congregations--both facing the altar (or communion table, if you prefer; I'm a Catholic, born and raised, and it will always be an altar to me.) Inside, here we are in our Sunday dress; outside, there they are in their rather irregular ranks of stones. What would we have to say to each other, if we could speak? There must be a poem here somewhere, if I could only find the words.
(And here is the poem that came out of this, done in April of 2012. Sometimes it takes a while, but no idea goes unpursued...)
Window
On an ordinary Sunday morning at the
meeting-house
I sit in my side pew and,
between those stalwart hymns and anthems,
gaze out the 16-over-16 window
at the churchyard,
home to near three hundred former worshipers
who no doubt sat once in side pews
and likewise gazed.
Between us stands: a communion table,
the old Erben organ,
the pulpit, and a wall, on my side--
magnolia trees, flowers, and two hundred
years on theirs.
I sometimes wonder if they hear the Sunday
sermons there,
and comment sagely on the scripture
lessons...
if the music stirs their memories, as it does
mine.
Perhaps they lie back beneath the trees and
flowers,
their whispers lost in summer breeze,
and, unseen, smile at children
swarming toward our tables,
(set amidst their stones)
scrambling for the after-service cookies and
lemonade.
Perhaps they remember picnics of their own,
with lemonade and cookies..
and recall familiar faces
and the greetings that they shared each
Sunday.
Or maybe it's as simple as this:
there is a window between our holy
assemblies--
looking out, looking in,
looking at each other, at the world,
through lenses past and present,
trying to see through God's eyes
a world we all could live in.
Perhaps we differ
only in perspective.
Forward and Back
There's a single road that takes me to the past and to my future. I don't like it much, but I take it every week, from Alexandria to Baltimore, to visit my mother. Mom is almost 92 and is failing. Her short term memory is all but gone, fast on the heels of her long-term. I am reminded of the movie some time back where the guy woke up every morning with no memory of the day before, and was forced to create his world anew each day. (Or, if I were being more shallow, I would recall the plot of "Fifty First Dates"--but I detest Adam Sandler, so I won't.)
In any case, every Tuesday, I take mom to lunch and endure what passes for conversation: her recitation of stories she'd told the previous week, or sometimes even in the previous five minutes; then, my monologue about what I've been doing, what the grandchildren are doing, and anything else I can think of, from the condition of her plants to what she needs from the grocery store. It's hard.
Why this should be is anybody's guess, but I've given it some thought in the long, often slow-moving trip from my home to hers. My mom was always in control of things when I was growing up. I cannot tell a lie: we were never that close. I don't have any fond memories of sharing secret thoughts with her, or even going shopping, or confiding much of anything. We co-existed for the most part. Of course, I loved her, but in a rather detached way. I was never hers in the way my brother and sister were--at least, that was the way I perceived things. But, still, that was the way things were. Now, driving to Baltimore, I know that our positions have changed. I am no longer the obedient (though sometimes recalcitrant) daughter. I am no longer subject to her authority. Our roles are now reversed, and it is unsettling, to say the least. We all despair of her inability to remember the smallest things. We complain about her stubborn determination to do things for herself that we know she is incapable of. We listen to her grandiose plans to travel unaccompanied back to Pennsylvania to visit her sister--knowing full well that she could never manage it. And yet, and yet...how unsettling it must be for her to no longer be in charge of even the simplest things: a visit to the mall or the grocery store, preparing her own dinner, baking cookies, decorating her door, even watering her plants.
I remember my mom as being strong, of being capable. If she deferred to my dad in something, it was purely a courtesy or an ingrained cultural habit of wifely submission. We all knew who ran things. I myself am strong enough to make decisions--though most of ours are cooperative, rather than submissive. I know I would be angry if that decisive power were taken away--even if it were taken by my own physical weakness. Maybe the reason that visiting mom is so hard is that her angry memory of the past meets my own angry fear of the future.
It's easy to think that I won't be like that when I grow old. I point to how flexible I am, how often we've moved, my relationships with friends and family, my ability to work through problems and situations...but none of us really knows what lies ahead, or how we will deal with it. And so, I keep traveling back and forth on that road every week. Past, present, future--all on the same highway--looking for some kind of wisdom to face it all.
In any case, every Tuesday, I take mom to lunch and endure what passes for conversation: her recitation of stories she'd told the previous week, or sometimes even in the previous five minutes; then, my monologue about what I've been doing, what the grandchildren are doing, and anything else I can think of, from the condition of her plants to what she needs from the grocery store. It's hard.
Why this should be is anybody's guess, but I've given it some thought in the long, often slow-moving trip from my home to hers. My mom was always in control of things when I was growing up. I cannot tell a lie: we were never that close. I don't have any fond memories of sharing secret thoughts with her, or even going shopping, or confiding much of anything. We co-existed for the most part. Of course, I loved her, but in a rather detached way. I was never hers in the way my brother and sister were--at least, that was the way I perceived things. But, still, that was the way things were. Now, driving to Baltimore, I know that our positions have changed. I am no longer the obedient (though sometimes recalcitrant) daughter. I am no longer subject to her authority. Our roles are now reversed, and it is unsettling, to say the least. We all despair of her inability to remember the smallest things. We complain about her stubborn determination to do things for herself that we know she is incapable of. We listen to her grandiose plans to travel unaccompanied back to Pennsylvania to visit her sister--knowing full well that she could never manage it. And yet, and yet...how unsettling it must be for her to no longer be in charge of even the simplest things: a visit to the mall or the grocery store, preparing her own dinner, baking cookies, decorating her door, even watering her plants.
I remember my mom as being strong, of being capable. If she deferred to my dad in something, it was purely a courtesy or an ingrained cultural habit of wifely submission. We all knew who ran things. I myself am strong enough to make decisions--though most of ours are cooperative, rather than submissive. I know I would be angry if that decisive power were taken away--even if it were taken by my own physical weakness. Maybe the reason that visiting mom is so hard is that her angry memory of the past meets my own angry fear of the future.
It's easy to think that I won't be like that when I grow old. I point to how flexible I am, how often we've moved, my relationships with friends and family, my ability to work through problems and situations...but none of us really knows what lies ahead, or how we will deal with it. And so, I keep traveling back and forth on that road every week. Past, present, future--all on the same highway--looking for some kind of wisdom to face it all.
Old?
I'm not old. At least I don't think I am. I have 63 years of experience with this world, and I like to think I've made the best of them. I am technologically literate, if not on the cutting edge. I facebook, tweet, blog and pin, with varying degrees of regularity. I don't really check in from everywhere I go, but at least I understand what's happening when someone else does. I have a laptop, a Kindle, an iPhone an iPad and an eBay account. I shop online.
So it comes as a bit of a surprise to me that--even though I am not old--many of my things are. Someone complimented me on a favorite red wool scarf I happened to be wearing last week, and I quickly gave credit to the lovely person who selected it with her customary good taste--and had given it to me. My daughter's second-grade teacher. Hmm. That brings it in as approximately 28 years old..pretty old for an article of clothing, even when well-taken-care-of.
This week, I ventured forth to buy my mom a bedspread that she claimed she needed, and was appalled at the prices for a twin bedspread. This could be because I don't think I've bought a bedspread since I started grad school and was furnishing my apartment. We were given two lovely Bates Queen Elizabeth bedspreads as wedding presents--38 years ago--and they still cover the two queen-size beds we have in our house and look fine. Even the house in San Diego has its share of Bates bedspreads: when JC's mother died, there were two that ultimately found their way west, and God alone knows how old THEY were. But they serve their purpose in the master and guest bedrooms in California.
The more I look, the more I see. The mixing bowl set that I received as a shower gift is now collectible as 'vintage Pyrex'. I have some pots and pans and utensils that pre-date our grown children, if not our marriage. There are books from college and even high school that still grace our shelves. The typewriter that saw me through elementary school, high school, college and grad school still sits on a desk in my bedroom. And I'd venture to say there are items in boxes under the eaves of our house that go back pretty far. (Who am I kidding? Jimmy Hoffa is probably back there...) I have crossed over the line from 'up-to-date' to 'vintage' and 'antique.' When I break one of my everyday dishes, I have to look in thrift shops and antique stores for replacements. They just don't make them anymore.
Well, okay. I can deal with that. I might even like the fact that I am a little bit 'vintage' myself, a little 'collectable' in my own right. The words imply a level of uniqueness, of being special, of having an unsuspected worth. I like the idea that, if someone looks closely, I might have more to offer that I do at first glance, that I have survived the years intact, and that all my bumps and bruises have simply added to my value. Antique. I like it.
So it comes as a bit of a surprise to me that--even though I am not old--many of my things are. Someone complimented me on a favorite red wool scarf I happened to be wearing last week, and I quickly gave credit to the lovely person who selected it with her customary good taste--and had given it to me. My daughter's second-grade teacher. Hmm. That brings it in as approximately 28 years old..pretty old for an article of clothing, even when well-taken-care-of.
This week, I ventured forth to buy my mom a bedspread that she claimed she needed, and was appalled at the prices for a twin bedspread. This could be because I don't think I've bought a bedspread since I started grad school and was furnishing my apartment. We were given two lovely Bates Queen Elizabeth bedspreads as wedding presents--38 years ago--and they still cover the two queen-size beds we have in our house and look fine. Even the house in San Diego has its share of Bates bedspreads: when JC's mother died, there were two that ultimately found their way west, and God alone knows how old THEY were. But they serve their purpose in the master and guest bedrooms in California.
The more I look, the more I see. The mixing bowl set that I received as a shower gift is now collectible as 'vintage Pyrex'. I have some pots and pans and utensils that pre-date our grown children, if not our marriage. There are books from college and even high school that still grace our shelves. The typewriter that saw me through elementary school, high school, college and grad school still sits on a desk in my bedroom. And I'd venture to say there are items in boxes under the eaves of our house that go back pretty far. (Who am I kidding? Jimmy Hoffa is probably back there...) I have crossed over the line from 'up-to-date' to 'vintage' and 'antique.' When I break one of my everyday dishes, I have to look in thrift shops and antique stores for replacements. They just don't make them anymore.
Well, okay. I can deal with that. I might even like the fact that I am a little bit 'vintage' myself, a little 'collectable' in my own right. The words imply a level of uniqueness, of being special, of having an unsuspected worth. I like the idea that, if someone looks closely, I might have more to offer that I do at first glance, that I have survived the years intact, and that all my bumps and bruises have simply added to my value. Antique. I like it.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Words, It's Only Words...
All right. I admit it. I am a word nerd. I can spend as much time selecting fonts and arranging words on the paper as I do writing the poem. Should I use script, or a jagged font, or a nice traditional look? It generally depends on the feel of the piece. Of course, I revert back to the accepted looks whenever I submit for publication, but I feel as if the appearance of the words accentuates what I'm saying.
Therefore, it comes as no surprise, I think, that my daughter gave me for Christmas a book called "Just My Type". I had seen a review, but hadn't mentioned it to anyone. Sarah, however, knows me too well and slid it under the Christmas tree.
I finally got around to starting the book this week, and it is crammed with all sorts of esoteric information about type and the people (men and women) who design or designed it. Stretching back as far as Gutenberg, and as far forward as today, the stories abound. There's the type designer who picks out anachronistic type styles in the movies that he goes to; there's the guy who, to protect the typeface he designed from being used inappropriately by his partner after his death, painstakingly removed every piece, literally bit by bit, as type is notoriously heavy, and dumped it in the Thames, to be lost forever. You have to picture this guy, in his late 70s, hauling packages of type, wrapped in paper and tied with string, and surreptitiously pitching them off bridges in the dark of night. Then there's the guy who decided to see what it would be like to experience a day without Helvetica, rejecting transportation, advertising, television, stores, clothes, food items--anything that bore that typeface.
But, over and above the strange goings-on among type designers, there is the information: where did the ubiquitous typeface in European airports come from? I never thought about the signage on our highways and how fonts contribute to the smooth flow of traffic. I never considered the value of labels in marketing products, or creating an atmosphere. In fact, I am the classic consumer. According to the experts, type should be like a crystal glass--what you should see is the content, not the vehicle that brings it to you. The ultimate success for a type design is that it disappears. At least until someone draws your attention to it.
And this book does just that. It causes you to look around and notice the printed items you encounter every day. Is that Helvetica on that sign? Or is that shop using Caslon? And why did they choose that particular style? It opens up a whole new world, whose existence I never suspected.
You may have noticed that this piece is written in one of my old traditional fonts. I guess I'm waiting till I finish my book to decide which font is me. Stay tuned.
Therefore, it comes as no surprise, I think, that my daughter gave me for Christmas a book called "Just My Type". I had seen a review, but hadn't mentioned it to anyone. Sarah, however, knows me too well and slid it under the Christmas tree.
I finally got around to starting the book this week, and it is crammed with all sorts of esoteric information about type and the people (men and women) who design or designed it. Stretching back as far as Gutenberg, and as far forward as today, the stories abound. There's the type designer who picks out anachronistic type styles in the movies that he goes to; there's the guy who, to protect the typeface he designed from being used inappropriately by his partner after his death, painstakingly removed every piece, literally bit by bit, as type is notoriously heavy, and dumped it in the Thames, to be lost forever. You have to picture this guy, in his late 70s, hauling packages of type, wrapped in paper and tied with string, and surreptitiously pitching them off bridges in the dark of night. Then there's the guy who decided to see what it would be like to experience a day without Helvetica, rejecting transportation, advertising, television, stores, clothes, food items--anything that bore that typeface.
But, over and above the strange goings-on among type designers, there is the information: where did the ubiquitous typeface in European airports come from? I never thought about the signage on our highways and how fonts contribute to the smooth flow of traffic. I never considered the value of labels in marketing products, or creating an atmosphere. In fact, I am the classic consumer. According to the experts, type should be like a crystal glass--what you should see is the content, not the vehicle that brings it to you. The ultimate success for a type design is that it disappears. At least until someone draws your attention to it.
And this book does just that. It causes you to look around and notice the printed items you encounter every day. Is that Helvetica on that sign? Or is that shop using Caslon? And why did they choose that particular style? It opens up a whole new world, whose existence I never suspected.
You may have noticed that this piece is written in one of my old traditional fonts. I guess I'm waiting till I finish my book to decide which font is me. Stay tuned.
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