Tag: family

What’s Up?

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It’s been a while. It’s a challenge to write when the stories aren’t only your own to tell. So I will do my best to do the dance of sharing without oversharing. For the last few months, my house has been full. Two adult nephews have been here, living in the extra rooms, while working and settling into a now familiar rhythm. Plus I’ve gotten a new kitten. Things are lively, to say the least. It’s remarkable to have constant conversation and activity again. And it’s hard to get wrapped up in my own ruminations when I have people to cook with and for. I’m learning new recipes, vocabularly, memes, music, generational and cultural differences. It’s fascinating, hilarious, exhausting, and fun. Some evenings, I can almost hear my big brothers chatting animatedly. And yet these two are very much their own men with their own experiences and stories. It’s quite marvellous.

I can say unreservedly this holiday season is less heavy in that I’m not wallowing in my own sadness and anger. I’m looking forward to baking sugar cookies and jolabokaflod and creating art and spending time with people I love. Being able to provide a haven and support while also being wildly entertained is a measure of good fortune that gobsmacks me all over again.

Now it’s not all beer and skittles. I’m one who loves to bake and one nephew cannot eat gluten. But every challenge is an opportunity to be creative. We’re finding our way. I also know that every season has its end and this one will too. I’m just glad it’s not quite yet. My heart is full. My gratitude cup, my joy nugget basket, my thankful tank, whatever you want to call it–full to the brim and overflowing.

To Be Present

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August is on the downward slope and September will be here before we know it. I’ve seen any number of memes about the pull to the coziness of fall–hoodies, warm beverages, nestling under blankets amidst the soft glow of low lamps when darker evenings appear. Kids are going back to school; parents are mixed with relief and grief. It’s such a challenge not to plan, be forward thinking, eye always on the future, but every season is rich unto itself.

Last night I took the fixings for a tarte a la moutarde to my cousin’s and her family. Now don’t tune out yet. Yes a “mustard tart” sounds kind of gross and a little insane, but it is probably one of the most exquisite summer dishes I have ever made. Dijon, gruyere, herbes de Provence, salt, pepper, and fresh garden tomatoes sliced up all on a crust with the edges rolled up. The combination of flavors is heady. As my good friend Holly would say–“restaurant quality.” The time at table with their family, my family, was so good.

In conversation with my cousin, we discussed “being present” versus “flow.” As introverts who value solitude, I could relate to her struggle with longing for flow–that place where we step outside of chronic consciousness into body, creation, and spirit (best I can do) and be physically, mentally, emotionally attuned to this moment in time. Many of these moments in time are brutal for reasons stemming from the personal to the collective. Some of them are boring and tedious. Some of them break our hearts. Bryan talked a lot about the importance of “being here now.” It takes discipline and effort. I find all the easily available tools of dissociation right at my fingertips. I’m not immune. But dissociation is neither presence nor flow.

What can I conclude? To continue to hunt for the joy nuggets of the moment and savor them in real time like we did those tarts last night–ripening tomatoes, produce to share, flowers in glorious reveal, eye contact with a friend over a bawdy joke, phone calls and texts from nieces and nephews, puppies, saying I love you–these help keep us grounded in the right now in ways that comfort our hearts.

Pumpkin spice, cozy blankets, and dark evenings will come soon enough and they will be worthy of savoring, too. Right now, every hot, dusty moment of August and the bucketloads of tomatoes will be plenty of joy unto itself.

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Blackberry Picking

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It’s August in Southeastern Washington and that means one thing–blackberries! Last weekend, I had to pivot to a new weekend plan. I had every intention of going to Portland to visit my cousin when my mechanic friend and co-worker recommended I’d better put that plan on pause until I get a few repairs done (another story for another time). Disappointed barely scratches the surface. I’d already missed out on a fun scheduled weekend with Mary, her Mom, and her godmother–the infamous “Moms Weekend”–to Portland a few weeks prior due to a savage bout of Covid. Ugh. Thwarted. Twice. Talk about bummed. In an effort to rebound, and redirect, I went for a walk at Mill Creek Friday evening–always a recentering. Saturday morning I enjoyed some coffee and classical music on my back patio. Then I decided to do something outside my more normal routine. Was it a fun trip to Portland? No. But it was good.

Years ago, Bryan took me to a place just past Waitsburg on the way to Dayton, up in the hills on an old gravel road near wheat farms. On a bend in the the road up a ways there’s a great place to park and a whole swath of blackberry bushes fairly easy to access and not terribly picked over. He had told me, Sara, Mary’s mom had shown him this place years ago. I made sure to wear a long sleeve flannel button-up, jeans, and socks and tennis shoes (in August!), giving the brambles less of a chance to tear into me. Anyone eavesdropping might have heard a rainbow of colorful expletives worthy of a sailor’s blush combined with an updated version of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” There might have been some prayers and minor begging for snakes not to find their way to me as well. As you can see from the photo above, my quest was successful. Later that day, I turned these berries into two pies. The next day I took one to my dear cousin and her family who live in town (yes, I have a LOT of cousins.)

I often think about solitude, loneliness, rugged individualism, and all that jazz. It occurred to me on a day where I was very much alone physically that I was in reality surrounded by people, by memories, by love. I started with a phone consultation to my baking mentor, my big sister. When it comes to pie, I’m going to refer to her expertise before the internet, before Betty, before anyone or anything else. She makes more pies in one session than I might for a couple of years. She doesn’t mess around and she’s honed her recipes and technique. Add fresh lemon zest and juice, you don’t need more than 3 1/2 to 4 cups of berries for an 8-inch pie. A pinch of cayenne will enhance the flavor. While she wasn’t in the kitchen with me, she was very much present.

The entire drive to the berry thicket, Bryan was with me in my heart and memories, journeying over roads we’d been on so many times, laughing, reminiscing. Sara was there too in a place she had shown him so many years before–a gift given to him then given to me. Later, in the kitchen, I pulled down my Betty Crocker cookbook with the broken spine. It’s one I found at a thrift store or yard sale. It had reminded me of my Mom’s and I had to have it. My Mama used to quote my great Auntie Iris when someone would compliment a baked dish or some culinary delight “Just Betty and me.” There was my Mom, my auntie, and Betty. The crust I make is one passed down from my sister’s mother-in-law, Erma Torretta. She worked in the kitchen of the old Walla Walla General Hospital. Her oil crust recipe was designed to make a large number of pies at once. Cut down to it’s smallest iteration I still end up with one 10-inch and one 8-inch pie. So there was Erma in my kitchen, too.

I can get so wound up in my pity parties of how alone I am without Bryan. And you know what, it’s a worthy thing to be sad about. I miss him. I miss the spirit of fun and teamwork and humor we shared. He was so interesting and smart and full of life. Kind. Good. Loving. The house is quiet without his presence and I often feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of all that has to be done. But this past weekend was a good reminder that I’m not truly alone and that even when things don’t go exactly as I planned or hoped, there is joy to be found and connections to be made.

Sunday, laden with garden tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, balsamic vinegar, blackberry pie, and vanilla ice cream, I headed to my cousin and her family’s house on the Old Milton Highway to enjoy the consummate Walla Walla brunch in August–caprese and blackberry pie a la mode. It was bliss.

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The Stories We Tell

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When I was little, I remember my Mom saying my oldest brother, Todd, was the artist in the family. He showed early talent and seemed to enjoy it. I guess that settled it, role of artist filled, go find a different thing. Upon reflection as an adult, I don’t think my Mom was trying to exclude anyone else from the idea or opportunity to be an artist. Rather she was trying to encourage my brother who had a lot of self-doubt, as teenagers often do. Nevertheless, the act of restating that story had an impact. I couldn’t be an artist. Todd already was “THE” artist of the family. Turns out, all four of us kids are creative and like to make things whether it’s painting, pottery, woodworking, jewelry-making, or music. Sometimes the stories we tell don’t tell the whole truth or paint the full picture.

This past Saturday, cousins of mine on the Moore side of my family put a lot of time, work, effort and love into putting together a family reunion. We haven’t had one in over 30 years. Right now, that’ll be part of the stories I won’t tell. It was great seeing many cousins I hadn’t in a long time. Overall, it was a positive experience; I’m glad I went. While there, I was reminded of one of the stories we were told and apparently folks still tell that I’ve decided to reconsider and look at as an adult. “Aunt Trudy was so spoiled” is one refrain I’ve heard all my life.

Was she, though? Aunt Trudy, my Dad’s baby sister, was the youngest of eight children. Those eight kids spanned a lot of years. (Rawr, Grandma and Grandpa…GET IT!) Anyway, she was born in the early 1950s. Things were a little more stable economically in our country than the 30s and 40s. She had indoor plumbing and flooring as opposed to an outhouse and dirt floors. She also had one niece older than she was and many nieces and nephews near her age or just a little younger. They were often dropped off at the farm for Grandma to watch while their parents worked. In the stories I’ve heard, Aunt Trudy wouldn’t share her candy, she got to have nicer things, etc. From a little kid’s perspective, that would seem grossly unfair. From an older siblings perspective, it would seem this kid had all kinds of luxuries.

I started thinking about it from Grandma and Grandpa’s perspective. How would I want to communicate or demonstrate to my child that they were not the same as a grandchild? What would I do to make sure she knew where she fit as lots of kids were coming in and out of her home, dividing her parents’ attention away from her? Would I let her have more privileges than the grandchildren? Would I let her keep some things to herself? Why wouldn’t a parent’s first obligation be to their own child? That makes sense to me and I think Grandma and Grandpa did admirably.

It really does come down to perspective though. Nowadays, dropping the kids off for the grandparents to offer free childcare is a lot more rare. I don’t know that Grandma was compensated for her labor. I don’t know if the older kids brought extra groceries to help out with the food bill. I do know that my older cousins got the privilege of spending a lot more time on that farm with grandparents who were younger and had more energy. Spoiled is a relative term.

At the end of the day, Aunt Trudy busted her chops raising her kids primarily alone. She often worked two jobs. I spent the summer with her before her big surgery and I watched as she got up early to fold clothes and keep the house tidy, work a shift at the Forest Service, come home and do a couple of therapeutic massages as her second job, make sure the kids were fed, the house was picked up and folding more laundry before bed. She maybe slept six hours a night if she were being decadent. She always decorated her home for holidays and made the best treats, peanut butter fudge or tapioca pudding were some of my favorites. She was fun and made sure her kids had fun memories. She was kind. And she died in her early fifties of brain cancer. In my opinion, if anybody on this earth had a right to be spoiled it was her.

I used to think my older three sibling had it best because our parents were together, young and energetic, and the kids had each other as best friends and playmates, but they also had hard times that I didn’t experience. On the other hand, I got benefits and privileges as the youngest that they didn’t, but I know of a certainty not one of them would have traded places with me in my adolescent years. Perspective, grace, and gratitude are the antidotes to feeling like you didn’t get as much as someone else or something you felt like you were owed.

Aunt Daisy

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My heart is heavy, broken, and full all at the same time. Don’t ask me how that’s possible; it just is. My Aunt Daisy passed this weekend after struggling with complications arising from an autoimmune disorder. I was able to join her family, along with my sister, and nephew to say goodbye. I would like to take a moment to honor her memory and share some things that matter to me.

My Aunt Daisy had a quick wit and a delightfully wicked sense of humor. The master of a dirty joke or double-entendre. It’s no wonder she and my Dad, her big brother got along so well.

In the last years of his life, my aunt and uncle welcomed my Dad into their home, providing a space of familial comfort, laughter, emotional safety and what my Dad described as a “big black hole of love.” In that time, she encouraged and persuaded my father to mend his rift with me—a gift beyond measure.

Aunt Daisy was an RN who later pursued and achieved her Master’s degree in nursing. She was astute, knowledgeable, deliberate. She was a caregiver both as a profession but also as a core piece of her identity.

My auntie was an incredible cook, a fantastic baker, a mushroom hunter, a fisherwoman. She was a loving and beloved wife to my Uncle John. She took care of many of her nieces and nephews and I’m lucky to have had the time with her I did. Most of all, she loved her babies and grand babies.

Human beings are complicated, multi-faceted, adapting, evolving creatures. No list I can create will tell the full story, but I can say for certain I know she loved me and I her. I can also say it was my honor and privilege to get to be with her and her family this past weekend. Doing the very hardest things with great love, I believe, constitutes a sacred prayer. I got to bear witness to those sacred prayers and offer my own as well.