Tag: family

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.

The Chair

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Lots of things have been tumbling through my thoughts lately. First, I’m not sure I want to go heavy-deep-and-real with the first person narrative of my life quite so much. Plus, I don’t know how much healing there is versus how raw and exposed I make myself. Is it good? Is it helpful to others or to me? I like the writing component, that’s for sure. Playing with words is as fun to me as playing with paint on canvas, plants in dirt, dough into baked goods. Creation is fun. I’ve got lots of ideas swirling around fictional characters and plots. Often with fiction, great truths can be told more boldly. Maybe I’m longing to dig deeper without giving away the farm in the process.

This evening, I had the chance to meet up with Mary’s mom for a beer and time to catch up. It was wonderful. We talked about loads of things as we often do, covering the gamut of home projects, professional endeavors, family, trips, our kiddo, and more. I told Sara about a home dec project I have in mind and how watching my cousins do a complete renovation to a home in desperate need of healing has inspired me. We talked about how houses, with love and attention, can heal from neglect and can have renewed life and joy. She spoke of how old furniture can be like that too. How wonderful it is to honor an old piece, nourish the wood, bring it back to life with new springs, cushions, and fabric, and revitalize what once might have been trash into something cherished again. That gave me an idea…

Once upon a time, there was an old wingback wood and leather chair. It had been languishing in the storage section of a garage, nearly forgotten until it was time to clear out some old junk. But this chair had stories to tell, lives witnessed, seasons celebrated and mourned. Certainly, this couldn’t be the end–a ride in a pickup and finishing up at the town dump. No. This old chair had made its way across great distances to find a new home with new possibilities. It wasn’t going to end like that.

It lived with a family for a number of years until a daughter got married and was planning to move across rugged territory to a new home. Her parents gave her the chair as part of her trousseau. Choosing what to take in a covered wagon was dicey. Every ounce mattered. Every thing selected meant something else had to stay behind. This precious chair made the grade. Long months, fraught conditions, frayed patience and health meant great relief once they’d arrived and settled. The chair had its new home. It became the center of the living space. Stories read. Babies held. Anguish and joy settled into every carved bit of the wood. Stains and worn places on the leather meant this chair mattered. This chair was right in the middle of life.

Then the babies, most of them, grew up and moved out. Grandpa nodded to sleep for good in this chair. Mama read letters from her soldier in this chair. She darned socks in this chair. She hummed hymns of gratitude and hope in this chair.

Time past. The chair grew out of style. Moved to a back room. The guest room. The office. Finally to the garage. No one had the heart to throw it out. No one wanted it either. So it sat. Waiting.

One day, on a lark, the chair was offered to the local upholsterer. “Can you do something with this old chair?” She could and she would. She cleaned up the wood, taking away the old stain and nourishing the wood with beeswax and orange oil. The wood soaked it up like a thirsty man in the desert. The old fabric and padding was removed. New webbing, springs, and cushions added along with a fine piece of rich brown leather carefully pulled into place and fitted around the frame. It almost seemed the back of the chair stood taller. Was that a deep breath and a sigh of relief? New life is possible and is here. A family found this revitalized chair and gave it a good home. Stories told. Hot cocoa by the fire place. A cat nap on a rainy afternoon. Reading a book into the late hours of the night. Ah yes, a very good home.

[If you get anything extra out of my writing, entertainment, edification, intense laughter, and you feel so inclined, you’re welcome to leave a tip here: https://venmo.com/u/Rebecca-Lubbers-1 ]

In Repair

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When I was in the French grad program at Ohio University, my good friend, Amy, loved and listened to John Mayer a lot. She went to his concerts and was a vocal fan. Aside from “Your Body is a Wonderland” (because who wouldn’t want a troubadour with a guitar serenading that?!?!), I really didn’t get the appeal. Until now. I can fully admit I am embracing John Mayer fandom. His music, in this particular season of my life is hitting hard and I love it.

I didn’t write or post anything about Father’s  Day this year. Instead, I went a quieter more somber route. I have been mulling things over, particularly this song https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=rZLbUIa7exE&pp=ygUsZmF0aGVycyBiZSBnb29kIHRvIHlvdXIgZGF1Z2h0ZXJzIGpvaG4gbWF5ZXI%3D as it relates to my dad and me. You see, my dad was magic—straight charisma, charm, and humor. To bask in his sunlight was everything. But he could turn it off like a switch, perhaps as a defense mechanism for his own tender heart and insecurities. His humor danced a razor’s edge of warm teasing to mocking cudgel. In my 20s, more than once or twice, I found myself drawn to men who had similar tendencies and to be near that magic, that sunlight was enough, for a while, enough to tolerate poor behavior, enough to offer far more than I received. These are easy patterns for me to fall into because they’re so familiar.

Remarkably, however, I did not marry a man like my father. Oh sure, Bryan was charming and charismatic, but I never had the fear of him turning that off. And instead of just shining his light, he sought mine and encouraged me in every way he knew to make my light shine brighter. As the lyrics go, “daughters will love like you do.” I see the way Mary loves her friends, family, work, community in like manner to her dad.

I’m not trying to be hurtful to my dad’s memory. He had moments of great introspection and growth. He worked very hard to be a better dad than his own father and succeeded. And he could say I am sorry and did. Nevertheless, the legacy of father-daughter relationships and their effects echo in the hall. I think wanting to be close to that light and feel warmed by it because it feels good is why I am drawn to larger-than-life, charismatic men and have had a history of subsuming my own interests and pride just to be near the light. It is so good to reflect on that and to remember how Bryan sought my light. I think the ending of this song brings those ideas to bear in a really beautiful way. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=7VBex8zbDRs&pp=ygUSam9obiBtYXllciBncmF2aXR5

Finally, when I told my good friend, Amy about my John Mayer late-bloomer discovery, she encouraged me to listen to “In Repair” suggesting it might be an anthem for where I’m at. If you can, go find the lyrics. They’re absolutely spot on. I’m in repair from the consequences of grief and bereavement. I’m in repair in many other ways. My friend, N, calls it “doing the work.” It’s important to recognize what has brought us to this point, extend grace, but acknowledge one’s own responsibility to grow, change, and heal. I am “In Repair” and I’m just fine with that. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Bq8SBDv7Wn4&pp=ygUUaW4gcmVwYWlyIGpvaG4gbWF5ZXI%3D

Momma

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Today is my mom’s birthday. She’s been gone for sixteen and a half years and that hardly seems possible. My relationship with her was complicated–the details of which are more suited for a coffee shop chat than a blog. After the age of eight, almost nine, I didn’t live with my mom full time. There’s a lot of heartache in the layers of story there and I’m not interested in pouring them out. What I do want to share is how she built the foundation of my worldview, character, and aspirations of who I’d like to become.

MariAnne had a rough childhood largely due to an abusive mother, one she only spoke about in sing-song euphemisms to protect her children from the full impact of the truth. What we needed to know was that she chose differently and that we experienced childhood differently, too. I’ve learned in more recent years about childhood ACES (Adverse Childhood Experiences) and their impact on brain development, mental health, physical health and the vital importance of having adults who support and believe in you, even if it’s just one. My mom had more ACES than I will ever know. She also had grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who adored her, supported her, believed in her.

My mom graduated from boarding school, got a degree in nursing, raised four children, traveled as a missionary and teacher to Cuba, South Korea, and some of the Pacific Islands. She climbed mountains, she waterskiied, she could style a home on no money and make it look effortlessly elegant. Long after my parents divorced, my dad told me “your mom could make any place feel like a warm, beautiful home, no matter what our budget.” When her kids were far away, she made sure to not stop loving and took many kids under her wing, teaching them how to drive, giving them a chance to earn a little money doing chores, reminding them of their importance and worth, just like she’d done for her own kids.

When I was little and would come home from school complaining of a mean girl, my mom was insistent that I consider the source of the meanness. She worked very deliberately to help me hone a sense of empathy. Maybe this little girl doesn’t have a happy home. Maybe this little girl is acting out. Maybe this little girl needs your friendship. “Oh Mom!” I’d be so mad that she wouldn’t take my side. I’m so glad she didn’t. I’m so glad she wanted me to think of others. My mom had a spirit of forgiveness that I would like to emulate more. I find it so interesting that some folks can have the worst possible things happen to them and they deliberately choose the path of grace, love, forgiveness, and hope, and others become bitter, angry, score-keeping, and vengeful. She once told me I was just like her and I bristled as a young woman might do when their mother lays that sort of mantle on her shoulders. Now at nearly 47, I think to myself, “Oh, God, I hope so.”

Happy birthday, momma. Thanks for showing us a better way to be.

[My siblings and I have set up a memorial nursing scholarship in our mom’s name at Walla Walla University, her alma mater. The first Sunday in May, I host a porch pop-up at my home where we sell our art, creative achievements, my jewelry, and I invite other vendors to sell their goods in anticipation of Mother’s Day the following week. Our proceeds go to help fund that scholarship. I encourage you to put that day on your calendar as it’s a lot of fun and there’ll be refreshments as well. If you’d like to donate directly to the scholarship you can go here: https://payment.wallawalla.edu/donate#/ in the first dropdown box, choose “Student Aid and Scholarships.” In the second dropdown box, choose “Other.” Then where it says to “Describe Your Donation” write MariAnne Jensen Moore Memorial Nursing Scholarship. Thank you very much to all those who have contributed before as the scholarship has been providing support to Walla Walla University nursing students for a number of years now.]