Category Archives: Family

Changes

Back in June, when I last wrote a post for Wild Trumpet Vine, I anticipated a summer full of major changes.  Those expectations were fulfilled.     

A bare-bones summary of key events in the life of my family since then:

Our daughter graduated from high school.  We shopped for college gear.  We enjoyed our annual Cape Cod vacation.  The sale of my childhood home in Atlanta was completed.  We moved our daughter into her first-year residence hall at the University of Virginia.  (She had made her college decision, at long last, at the end of April.)  I flew to Atlanta to deal with the final culling and packing of forty-nine years worth of accumulation, and to prepare the house for the new owners.   A dear friend drove my mother to Virginia to spare her from witnessing those last frenetic stages of the move.  At the end of that week, I walked through bare, empty rooms, turned the keys over to a new family, and flew back to Virginia. 

Three days later, the huge Atlas moving van arrived at my mother’s new house, conveniently located next door to ours.  Unpacking has been a slow process, hampered and overshadowed by the cloud of my mother’s ongoing back pain and the rounds of doctor visits it requires.  She’d been in worsening pain in the weeks leading up to her departure from Atlanta.  Now we know the cause, but treatment is challenging.  Mama, who has been for most of her life a whirling dervish of industrious creativity, is now largely confined to sofa-sitting.   

If this account sounds dry and devoid of emotion, it’s because I’ve had little time for reflection.  I’ve been packing my thoughts away, much as I packed up the Atlanta house.   Like the boxes still stored in my mother’s basement and garage, I’ll get to them one day before long and sort them out.  Until then, I’ll ease back into Wild Trumpet Vine.  I’m not yet up to the task of writing about the big things, so I’ll focus on little ones.  I foresee quietly scintillating commentaries on the colors of the season, the many charms of my silent, sleeping dog, that sort of thing.  Whether they’re read by others or not, I will write for my own mental health.  I hope a few of you will stick with me as WTV awakens from dormancy. 

 

 

Father’s Day Thoughts, 2017

Daddy’s final church directory photo

My father never made a big deal about days like today.  He wholeheartedly appreciated any modest gifts I might give him–a tie, cufflinks, a gift card to Long Horn Steakhouse–but he didn’t expect them, and he never considered them to be his due.  What he loved best were probably the photos I sent, especially the photo books I made for him.  He wasn’t enamored of stuff.  Daddy was, or at least seemed to be, to an almost extraordinary degree, perfectly content with his life in terms of the material and the intangible.

While Daddy wasn’t one for long telephone conversations, he valued a quick call on Father’s Day or his birthday.  I’d say I loved him, he’d say he loved me.  These weren’t just words, although we said them often.  In recent years, upon hearing my voice on the line, he usually said, “You sound like my little girl.”  Those words were a comfort.  I could hear the laughter in his voice, see the smile in his eyes.  They affirmed that I would always be his little girl.  And I could always be certain of my father’s love. 

My ears won’t hear Daddy say those familiar words today.  But they echo in my mind, and I will treasure them in my heart, forever.  How blessed I am to be my father’s girl. 

Daddy & me, in the back yard of what was then our new home in Atlanta, 1968.

For other posts on my father, who died on July 22, 2016, see here, here, here, and here.

Final Last Day of School

This year, my daughter’s last day of school took me somewhat by surprise.  She’s been finished with all work and even finals for a while now.  On days of exams from which she was exempt, she didn’t need to show up on school grounds.  Or did she?  Would her absence be excused?  Did I need to call the school or send a note, and what should I say?  Would she be penalized if I told the truth?  Would that even matter?  We’ve debated these questions for four years, and the answers remain up in the air.  My daughter has grown from young teen to young adult in this span, but some things we never managed to learn.  Only this much was certain:  if she showed up to class, there would be no assignments to complete.  She had finished them all, and successfully, more than satisfactorily.  But there would be parties and goodbye opportunities not to be missed. 

Tradition is important to my daughter.  On Monday she wore her “Lazt Day of School” earrings.  She made these in sixth grade, and she has worn them every last day since.  She used the alphabet beads she got for Christmas when she was three.  No more s’s remained in the set; hence the z in “last.”  Monday was apparently  the official last day of classes for seniors.  But many special activities continued this week: Convocation, Senior Picnic, Senior Breakfast, graduation rehearsal, the Senior trip to Kings’ Dominion.  Today there is yet another graduation rehearsal.  

The actual graduation ceremony is tomorrow.  In the wake of so many to-dos surrounding the close of senior year, the reality of my daughter’s  graduation has escaped me.  I started to write “endless to-dos” above.  But they’re not endless.  In fact, they are ending.  Really and truly.  They end today.  The thought lands with a thud.  I haven’t had a chance to consider the true finality of it all.  The finality that this “commencement” entails. 

I’ve been a bit cavalier about these end times.  Our daughter is rarely at home; she merely stops by briefly.  When she leaves for college, it won’t be that different, will it?  For now, I’m going to keep telling myself that’s the case.  

I have the summer to come to terms with her departure.  To face the new beginning that follows this ending. 

 

On This Mother’s Day 2017

If Mother’s Day is here, then Father’s Day can’t be far behind.  On both days, Daddy’s absence will be keenly felt, more so than usual.  If you lost a parent in the last few years, you know the feeling. 

I give thanks that I was born to my warm, loving, smart and funny mother, who is still very much with us.  Before long, she will be closer still, when she relocates from Atlanta to Virginia.  And I’m thankful that we had Daddy with us for so many years.  I’m immensely grateful for the happy, comfortable life my parents worked so hard to build together, primarily for my benefit. 

And on this first Mother’s Day without Daddy, I say a prayer for my mother, and for all the mothers, young and old, who are facing yet another day without their partner. 

Chapel Hill, North Carolina, 1965

On the steps of my parents’ married housing apartment at UNC

Paris, 2002

For so long, it was the three of us.  Now we’re two, but our hearts are fuller because we carry Daddy with us always. 

A Different Kind of Easter, 2017

The first year following the death of a loved one, every day brings a loss that must be faced anew.  Holidays, especially, those days of expected celebration, are tough going.  Absence becomes a heavy, all-suffusing presence, a thick cloud of anxious dismay. 

This would be the first Easter without my father.  

And it wouldn’t be only my father’s absence that would make this Easter different.  My daughter was, at long last, in the final stages of college choice.  She was in the process of comparing the  schools to which she’d been accepted.  Over spring break, she’d come with me to Atlanta and we’d tour Georgia Tech. On Good Friday, she’d fly to Rochester to meet my husband.  They’d spend Easter with his side of the family.  She’d take last looks at the University of Rochester and Union College in Schenectady, NY.  I’d stay in Atlanta.  It would be the first time I’d ever spend an Easter away from my husband and daughter.  But it was being present with my mother, in the face of Daddy’s glaring absence, that took priority. 

I didn’t like to think about what the day would bring.  The words of that hymn, God of Grace, and God of Glory, kept echoing in my head:  Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour.  On Easter morning, around 10:25, Daddy wouldn’t be standing by the back door, jingling his keys, looking spiffy in his navy suit and perfectly knotted tie.  He wouldn’t be close beside me as we sang the beautiful resurrection hymns in church.  Mama and I would certainly need wisdom and courage to face that hour. 

We’d need our faith.  And with it, we’d find comfort in Charles Wesley’s words in that perhaps most frequently sung of all the classic resurrection hymns, Christ the Lord is Risen Today:

Where, O death, is now thy sting? 

Once he died, our souls to save,

Where’s thy victory, boasting grave?  . . .

Made like him, like him we rise,

Ours the cross, the grave, the skies. 

We’d envision my father, free from the chains of illness that had gripped him at the last.  His unique spirit more beautiful than his earthly presence in the prime of his life, he soars now where Christ has led.  The message of Easter would see us through.  It would give us strength for the living of these days. 

What, I wonder, would we do without our faith? 

Easters Past

When I envision the perfect Easter day, I think of one spent in Atlanta with my parents, my husband and daughter.  Most Easters during my daughter’s childhood found us in that well-loved and familiar place. 

My daughter’s first egg hunt was at my home church in Atlanta.  She was not quite three, and her public persona was quiet and timid.  I feared that in the wake of louder, bolder children, her basket might well remain bare.  She was neither quiet nor shy with family, however.  Should the hunt not go well, my husband and I would experience the full force of her fury afterwards.  So we coached her.  We practiced in my parents’ yard:  When you see an egg, pick it up and put it in your basket.  Don’t take an egg that someone else is about to pick up, but don’t wait too long, either.

 

Mama cared little about the Easter egg hunt; she preferred to stay home, cook the ham and devil eggs.  But Daddy loved being with his granddaughter for the hunt.  He gloried in walking along beside her, cheering her every find.  He didn’t have to muster fake enthusiasm, as many grandparents diligently try to do.  He simply had it, and it bubbled up and out.  When it came to his granddaughter, his cup runneth over.  Until it suddenly ran out, and by then, both he and my daughter were grumpy and ready to go home.  They’d snip and snipe at one another like siblings.  My daughter rather appreciated that aspect of Papa’s personality; he became the brother she would never have. 

 

We needn’t have coached our toddler on egg-hunting strategy.  Every church bunny in our experience has been exceptionally generous and not particularly inclined to hide eggs, preferring instead to scatter them abundantly in plain view.  Every child left with an overflowing basket.  Our daughter and her surrogate brother were pleased.  My husband and I were happy and relieved:  another milestone community event successfully completed.    

 

On Easter morning, our daughter would find her basket on the dining room table, filled with goodies.  There would be a reply from the Bunny to the note our daughter always left him. 

After church on Sunday, we typically took the annual photo of our daughter on the steps of the rock garden by the azaleas.  These pictures document her growth from baby to teen. 

The perfect Easter day that I see in my mind–that’s no longer a possibility. 

Things change.  This Easter would be different.

 

Looking into the Ashes

On Ash Wednesday, Christians are encouraged to look into the darkness and face the grimness of what could have been.   With each passing year, the weight of that darkness becomes more palpable to me.  This year especially, as I think of my father’s death, as I consider the yawning void of his absence that greets my mother every morning in the house they shared for forty-nine years, the ashes of Ash Wednesday seem very real indeed. 

Fortunately, thanks to God’s saving grace, we are not left in the ashes.   We are invited out of the gloom and into the light.

Nearly every year I write about Ash Wednesday.  At this point, I’ve said about all I can without redundancy.  Last year’s post, Saved from the Ashes, covers the ground.

I can only add this bit of advice:  confront the darkness of the day.  Maybe, for the first time, attend a church service and get that smudge on your forehead.  If you prefer, you may not even need to get out of your car; many churches are providing drive-by ashes these days.  But think about what the smudge means.  Only by looking into the ashes can we fully appreciate the opportunity to be lifted from the dust into new life.    

And look around you.  Chances are, the promise of spring is already at hand. 

Extreme Gift Wrapping 2016

We’re more than two weeks into January, so it must be about time for my final Christmas post.  Soon, it will even be time to begin taking down the holiday decorations.  I tend to postpone this process further each year.  It’s my way of pretending that time isn’t flying by quite as fast at it really is. 

Christmas was almost upon us, and my husband had mentioned no grand plan for what has become his annual inventive presentation of our daughter’s gifts.  Had his years of Extreme Gift Wrapping come to an end?   They began in earnest in 2011, and every year since, he’s been under pressure to come up with a new scheme.  This becomes ever more difficult, but still, I doubted he’d simply give up.  (For his earlier efforts, see here, here, here, and  here.)   

He hadn’t.  On the morning of Christmas Eve, a small blue gift box appeared to be floating just in front of the tree.  Close inspection revealed that it was attached to the ceiling with fishing line. 

Upon returning that evening after our church’s live nativity and Christmas Eve service, D and I found that seven other boxes, of various sizes and colors, had been added.  They all appeared to hover in mid-air.      

The effect was charming, almost magical.  Hats off to my husband.  He’d found a fresh new approach.  No construction was involved this year.  And not even any actual wrapping.  It was a sophisticated presentation, suitable for a young woman who would soon be heading off to college. 

What will he do next Christmas, I wonder?  I bet he’s already got some ideas.  Our daughter should be home from somewhere, we still know not where, for her first college winter break.  My best guess is this: the tradition of Extreme Gift Wrapping will continue. 

Kiko, of course, couldn’t care less about floating gifts or elaborate packaging.  But he quickly found his stocking filled with favorite treats and a corduroy rabbit equipped with several squeakers. 

A Look Back on Five Years of Wild Trumpet Vine

 

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Five years have passed since I began writing Wild Trumpet Vine.  In the space of that half decade, there have been many changes, naturally.  We passed some major milestones, we faced some challenges, and of course we grew older.  Looking back on the last five years, it gives me comfort to see that our family coped.  Maybe we even grew a little wiser.  I hope so.  We’ll need wisdom.  More daunting challenges lie ahead. 

In the fall of 2011, our daughter was starting middle school.  Seven years of elementary school were behind her, and soon she would be a teenager.  Since then, she made the leap into high school.  She became a licensed driver.  Now, our daughter is a senior, and on the verge of an even bigger leap.   We’ve done our family college visits.  The ongoing process is in her hands now.  Our daughter’s future stretches before her. 

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As for H and me, we’re all too conscious of seeming more elderly with every successive stage in our daughter’s life.  We could consider ourselves young when she was small and looked like a child.  Now that she will soon be out of high school, now that she looks like a young woman, our own youth, we realize, is largely an illusion. 

But we needn’t act old.  About a year ago, H began playing ice hockey once or twice a week, something he’s been wanting to do since he captained a rag-tag grad school intramural team at Princeton.  When windsurfing was his only hobby, his free time was spent mostly feeling sad because there was no wind.  Few opportunities for windsurfing arise in northern Virginia; it’s a sport that requires long stretches of time in an appropriately windy locale, such as Cape Cod or Aruba.  Hockey rinks are more conveniently located.  He’s a happier guy these days. 

And I’m happier, too.   I see good friends on a more regular basis now, and that can’t help but brighten the days.  Five years ago, Kiko and I usually began our early morning walks alone.  We typically chatted with many acquaintances along the way; sometimes we met neighbors and walked a while together.   About two years ago we began walking most weekdays with another neighbor and her dog.  Before long, another friend had joined us with her dog.  We were having fun, and evidently it showed.  A third friend soon joined in.  Now there are at least five of us plus our dogs.  Because we often run into other neighbors, the dog parade may swell to eight or so.  It’s become our morning social hour, one we all hate to miss. 

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Five years ago, Kiko was four, probably in his prime.  Although no doubt it was already far too late, our family continued to argue about training approaches.  Overcoming his headstrong nature was still put forth as a real possibility by my husband and daughter.  His stubbornness was an ongoing source of family friction. (See An Evening of Discontent and The Joys and Travails of Walking our Strange Little Dog).   

In the language of dog food commercials, Kiko is now a senior dog.  He’s as determined as always in his absolute, driving need to go this way or that.  He has no idea that he’s by far the smallest member of our dog walking pack (which includes a Rhodesian Ridgeback, a Doberman, a Labradoodle and a Golden Doodle).   But Kiko is the unquestioned leader; he chooses the path according to the smells that beckon most keenly.  Yielding to his iron will is more pleasant that battling it.  He’s still fast, although his bursts of speed are shorter-lived. He continues to enjoy wowing the lady dogs with his fleetness of foot and incredible turning radius.  But now he’s very likely to plop down immediately afterwards, preferably for a lengthy rest, in the middle of the street, if possible.  He’s trim and svelte.  His appearance has changed very little.  Except for one detail:  on top of his head, above the center patch of dark sesame coloring, he has a blurred triangle of lighter fur, as though someone had smudged him with bleach. 

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Five years ago, my parents were still frequently driving back and forth from Atlanta to our home in Virginia.  They were here watching D and her friends head out trick-or-treating, and to open gifts with us on Christmas morning, to celebrate Easter.  In attitude, demeanor and appearance, they seemed far younger than their actual age. 

Time started to catch up with my father about two years ago.  He had two major surgeries in as many years.  He’d always been fit and active.  He woke up feeling good; he rarely had an ache or pain.  But his last surgery left him weakened, almost frail.  He was becoming more and more sedentary.  When he stood up, he was dangerously wobbly.  And it was becoming clear that he was suffering from some form of dementia.  We tried to see it as no big deal.  It was his short-term memory that was primarily affected.  Did it really matter that he complimented me on my sweater every five minutes?  Or offered to get me a glass of orange juice even more repeatedly than usual?  The disease compounded Daddy’s graciousness.  He’d always made kind, sweet comments.  We simply heard the same ones more often.  But in recent months, the changes were increasingly profound.  During one visit he remarked that he couldn’t remember my birthday.  Another time he asked if I had any sisters.  And was I dating anyone interesting?  I told H it was time he got to Atlanta, before Daddy started actively matchmaking.  He had never been an overly protective father; he’d always wanted me to go out and have fun.  Throughout it all, he kept his sense of humor.  

For most of his life, my father had taken care of my mother, and the shift was very difficult for her.  He had done the driving, the grocery shopping, the bill paying, the handling of most paperwork, all the car stuff.  He had been there with his reassuring presence.  Suddenly Daddy depended on Mama to take care of him.  But he forgot that he needed her help, and that made it even more difficult.  It continually slipped his mind that there were many things he could no longer do.  Understandably, he didn’t want to remember.  He’d been used to doing so much.  Mama worried that he’d go outside without her knowing, that he’d fall on the steps or the steep front bank.  When she told him he couldn’t go outside on his own, he pleaded earnestly and poignantly, like a little boy: Why? Why can’t I go outside?  The thought of that exchange still brings tears to her eyes.  During our final visit in July, H, D and I were doing yard work.  Daddy appeared, as if from nowhere; he could still move surprisingly fast when no one was looking.  He was poised to climb the ladder, an old, rickety thing propped against the house.  We got to him just in time. 

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It took Mama a while to adjust to shouldering the burden of being in charge.  I think she was only just coming to terms with it when Daddy died.  My parents would have been married sixty-one years this month.  For her, his absence is a deep and yawning void.   

So, what will the next five years bring?  I don’t like to speculate on the future.  Even when I was young, I hated that question: Where do you see yourself in five years?  In ten?  But looking back on the last five gives me strength to know that we’ll continue to deal with life’s changes as they come.  Like the wild trumpet vine inching along the fencerows, we’ll persevere, through grief, through joy.  My hope is that we will find the assurance that my father experienced.  We’ll see his smile and hear him say: Hey, no need to worry.  It’s all going to be OK. 

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Final First Day of School

It’s here.  My daughter’s last-ever first day of school.  That thirteenth, and final first day.  Her senior year has begun.  She looks the part.  She appears confident, fit, athletic, in control.  A beautiful young woman. 

It was twelve years ago that my husband and I worried over our little girl (and she was so little) as she boarded the bus (and the bus was so big) for Kindergarten.  Thank goodness our area didn’t have all-day Kindergarten then.  I wouldn’t have been ready.  (See Moving up to Middle School, October 18, 2011.)  Eleven more first days followed, and eleven more years.  We checked off the major  first-year milestones:  elementary school, middle school, high school.  But I don’t remember growing older. 

My husband has been whistling “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof even more frequently than usual these days.  I understand, and those unsettling lyrics rattle around in my head: 

Sunrise sunset, sunrise, sunset!
Swiftly fly the years,
One season following another,
Laden with happiness and tears…

No school bus for our daughter, not since sophomore year.  This tall young woman got in the car, waved happily, and drove away. 

Is this the little girl I carried?

Wasn’t it yesterday when she was small? 

Wonder where she’ll be this time next year?