Dessert

It has been one year since I wrote about my experiences of becoming a widow and learning to live again. The stories of family helped me to understand who I was without James. They made me appreciate and cherish beautiful memories. They made me understand what is important. Along with the challenge of getting to know myself, I also needed to overcome the trepidation of living my life alone. All of a sudden I was lost and I was lonely. I was fearful of life without James. There are many reasons that I was able to work through these fears. In so many ways I was exposed to motives that made me think that perhaps I should focus again on living. Most importantly among the inspirations was my children. What an incredible ride we have had over the last four years. Together we have cried and we have grown. My children exhibited so much patience as I took off on this journey. At times I am sure that they felt as though they lost not only their father, but their mother as well. And still they encouraged me to continue my search. They wanted my happiness and they showed such faith that I would find it again. It was their courage that gave me courage. How could I let them down? Family gives strength. Here are a few more reasons that enabled me to finally face the challenges of life after James. Three weeks after I moved to Austin, Texas, Cookie drove 16 hours from Colorado just because he sensed that I was alone and scared. “I am here,” he said. And I breathed a little easier. As I questioned every move I made Hunter assured me that I needed to “listen to myself and march to that internal drum…..it will not steer you wrong. We are all here for you.” And I felt a little stronger. Jimmie told me that he thought I was “so brave and so smart. Just look what you are doing all by yourself!” And I stood a little taller. Mary Claire never hesitated to call and comfort and listen and reassure. Just yesterday I told her things that I cannot seem to tell anyone else. And I felt a little lighter. Walden just smiles and says “There is so much potential here! I can’t wait to see what becomes of it…” And I felt a little more confident. Martin gently tilts his head and says, “I know there will be things that you will not really want to face, but I will not let you go there alone. Call on me.” And my darkness became a little brighter. Randy said, “I just wish I could take some of the hurt away from you.” And my tears dried a little. Pat never strayed far from my side and reintroduced me to friends and fun and laughter. And I felt a little more alive. Grace made me feel like a hometown celebrity as she bragged on my progress to anyone who would listen. And I felt a little more settled. Sallie calls and just says, “I miss him too.” And I feel a little more normal. And when Noni says, “Just look what I started!” I can smile so much easier. I was born number seven of eleven children and I knew I was a part of something special. There is definitely strength in numbers.

Although large families are somewhat rare I did not understand as I was growing up that mine was perhaps a little different. I was, however, convinced that there could not be many people as lucky as I was. I participated in Sunday lunches and grew up in Jacksonville, Texas. I was surrounded by strong parents and amazing brothers and sisters. How could anything be better than that? Then, I met James. Our love grew as did our family and I was absolutely positive that there was no one who was more lucky than I. My kids were beautiful and healthy and my husband was my best friend. Life just could not be better than what I had. But along came grandkids and somehow suddenly life became even sweeter. How could anything be better than this? After losing James, I slowly came to realize that I had already experienced a most wonderful life. No one could take my memories. I could look at my kids and know that James was still around. I could take the strength from family and friends and face life on my own. I could exist with all of this and know that I had already experienced more goodness than most people have in a lifetime. It would be enough and I was no longer scared.

And then I met Wally. There he was in the same unsettled and lonely situation. He found himself suddenly without Judy. She was his anchor, his soul mate for over forty years. Together Wally and I forged a bond over common ground. Much stronger, much braver, and much more confident than I, Wally was such a beacon as he began his own new life. He made me smile. He made me dance. He made me want to wake up and want more from each day. Wally made me see that the nourishment of all of those special Sunday lunches from long ago left me strong. He taught me that even though I had participated in many perfect lunches during my lifetime, no meal is really complete without dessert. It did not take me long to understand that only the best of desserts could follow a meal that had been as fulfilling as the ones in which I had participated. Never could I have imagined that dessert could be so special. I know that James and Judy will always be a part of who we are as Wally and I make our way together. They will be remembered at every Sunday Lunch and I know that we will feel them smile as we finally feel strong enough to sing and dance in the kitchen. We are ready now to enjoy the greatest of desserts. How could anything be better than this?

The House Is Complete

I stayed in the house for the first time. All alone in a new house. I did not say “home” because it does not feel like home yet. I often wonder if anyplace will ever feel that way again. I look around at the architecture, the woodwork, the view; and I am filled with awe. My heart is so full I worry that it may crumble into pieces yet again. I am stirred by several factors. Many times I have moved into a new house, but this is the first time that my son was the builder. Each time I enter the house I see him wonder. I can tell that he is anxious to see if I think this house is as wonderful a structure as his dad would have built. How can I assure him that it is so much more? I ache for James to see what his son has accomplished. I know that I have never been more proud of a house. The house is complete but there are questions that linger. What do I do now with this house and its breath-taking view of Lake Jacksonville? The construction is the first thing that I have tackled completely without James that is so much like James. The house is a symbol to me and to my kids and it will continue to show us that James is still around. He is here in the courage it took for Bud to create without being able to consult with his hero. He is here in the glue that bonds my kids together as they smile and laugh and reminisce in this place that James has never touched. He is here when Halle says to me that she feels an angel and she knows that it is Big J. He is here when I look in baby Gretchen’s blue eyes, those that James has never seen, and they smile back at me. And so I have come to realize that he will always be with me no matter where “here” is. The house is complete. Is another beginning just around the corner? What comes next? What do I do with the house? I am not sure that I possess the courage that it takes to stop and make time to look, listen, and yearn for what comes next. Over the past two years, I have managed to only think about one day at a time. But now, the house is complete and the question “what comes next” keeps looming in my mind. The question is daunting. By reliving these stories of the Sunday lunches in my life, I understand a little better now that how we act toward what has just ended has an effect on determining the next beginning. I hope that as I try to tackle another beginning, my kids will be able to see the pride I have in them just by watching my actions. I will take pleasure in watching the glue that bonds all four of them become even stronger as they continue to rely on each other. I will treasure the amazing parenting that is on constant display as I hold my grandkids. I will soak up the innocence from new, smiling eyes, and I will learn to listen for angels. I will look with courage for what comes next and know that I will not ever be totally alone. The house is complete. My fairy tale prince charming is gone, but the good he gave me is still here. It is through the strength of what the prince left behind, that I will learn to start again.

Out of tragedy, good seems to follow in some form. It is strange to think that had I not moved to Austin, Texas, I would have never met my new colleagues from work there. They are definitely part of the treasure that I have discovered on this journey without my husband. I feel as though I have known them forever, and yet they know me without ever having known me with James by my side. There are days when I wonder how that can be. It is on those days when I think that I have reached the beginning of an end. The end of one life and the beginning of another. The house is complete. I am beginning to feel a need to start again. Will I find the courage to turn the page and start the next chapter? Will there be another fairy tale in my future? Will I be able to sustain courage for as long as it takes to again find a comfortable place? Will I ever find a home in another house? The nodding assent of my head is barely there, but now I finally feel the faint movement when I ask myself these questions. I rely on my memory of James and one of his last beginnings to gain the direction I will need to continue. He was working on our next home. James possessed more stamina and perseverance than any other individual I have ever known. He created beautiful houses and seemed to do so effortlessly. Any casual observer could not possibly comprehend that every part of the construction on the house came from his hands alone. He built forms, did the plumbing, single-handedly raised walls for framing the structure, strung the wires for electricity, molded cabinets and trim, and tackled any other jobs that were necessary to complete the house. Including laying the stone for its exterior. I stood and watched as he mixed the mortar in the old, scarred wheel-barrow. His faded red t-shirt was drenched with perspiration. His white socks barely showed above his work boots and were covered with sawdust. His green ventilated hat was perched on top of his head. His tool belt was securely fastened atop his threadbare jeans. His big, yellow radio was blaring and his trowel was loaded with a scoop of mortar. He was ready to begin. He turned and smiled at me for an instant. Then, he plopped the mortar onto the lowest level of the house, right at the foundation, and positioned a stone into the cushion of cement. He tapped and eyeballed and tapped again. He scooted the stone over a tad and re-leveled the rock. Once more he turned and flashed me that electric smile. “How do you like it?” I could not really see the one rock that was painstakingly just put into position. All I could see was the rest of the work that loomed in his future. The sheer vastness of the task that lay ahead of him was staggering to me, and yet there he was, so excited about laying that first stone. He was eager for the challenge to start something new. Each day I would walk down and watch his progress. His diligence never faltered and his preciseness never wavered. Every stone he laid was studied, tapped and measured to fit his expectations. He never rushed the art and slowly, stone by stone, the wall grew. As did his smile. “Now how do you like it?” was his daily question. Even now when I think of this story, my heart swells just as it does when I think of my new house and what my son has accomplished. There had to be times when feelings of debilitating doubt must have consumed this young builder. But the house is complete. And the builder’s son persevered with a strength that I have witnessed before.

Now I feel as though I, too, have placed that first stone. The life before me looks so overwhelming; but I will try to tighten my tool belt, wipe off the sweat, and persist with a sense of excitement. It is just one more weapon that I have been given by superman with which to go into battle. I will take his sparkle and I will somehow muster his enthusiasm. I will forge ahead one stone at a time. Maybe I will know when this job is complete and I am ready for the next. Maybe I will not see the magnitude of what looms ahead, but the potential of a new beginning. I did not know it would be the last time I would see James begin a task. I still walk by the home and marvel at the beauty of the stone exterior. I wonder if the occupants of this house comprehend the strength of its foundation. Can they see how tall the wall stands for me? James’s smile that he maintained while he worked on this wall will be forever etched in my mind. As I picture the smile I am grateful that it is a reminder of so many things. I am reminded by his smile that he was a happy man. It is easy to remember that he was strong and smart and unafraid when I picture him smiling through his work. His smile showed that he was loved unconditionally and that he knew it. The memory of James’ smile reminds me that I am so glad I did not miss the dance and that worthwhile things take time. I am grateful that the smile is so familiar to me that I have come to easily recognize it when I study my beautiful kids. The smile is a sure reminder that tomorrow is never guaranteed. I will carry his smile as I remember that the strength he called on everyday will somehow always be a part of who I am. That smile reminds me that I got to participate in one of the greatest fairy tales of all time. Without doubt the memory of his smile confirms that the happily ever after really did happen. The story will not be forgotten, but will serve as the strongest of foundations as I begin to build again and have to place that first stone. How do you like it now? I will keep asking the question until my house is complete and stories of Sunday Lunch begin again.

Blow Out The Candles

Life is a paradox. As I reach the mid century mark of my life, my eyesight seems to be dimming at an astounding rate. The puzzling part is that all of a sudden I can see things so much more clearly. For instance, when I received a birthday card, the print was not too legible, but the message was unmistakable. The time and effort that it took to even think about getting out, buying a card, finding the correct address, putting on a stamp, and ultimately getting it to the post office spoke much more loudly than the words on the card. How strange it was to have this message of caring become so apparent from a birthday card that I could not even decipher! Becoming even more evident to me was the fact that I should probably take a closer look at the other things in my life that always seemed to be so simple and straightforward. And, since January is the month of never ending birthdays in our family, I thought I would start by examining that particular celebration. As I continue to ponder where I came from and how I got to this point, I become increasingly aware that my perfectly normal life was never perfectly normal. My 50 year old weakened eyes and my slowly reviving heart have helped me to focus on the ironies that have always surrounded me. My eyes were strong but I could not always see. I continue to be grateful, I think, that great vision in life does not kick in too early. What a discovery now to be able to covet all of the new that I have found in all that is old.

Was it normal to have a picture taken of the birthday girl? Certainly! Many families take both candid and posed shots of the celebrated one on their special day. Our house was no different in that respect. Or so I thought. I did not realize that in other houses every member of the family did not have their birthday picture taken all on the same day. The date simply made no difference in our home. Mom would make a tall, beautiful cake; adorn it with candles and place it on the table. When it was my turn, I would stand behind the cake and smile for the camera. The number of burning candles precisely depicted the number of years that I had been alive. Pretty normal, huh? It is clear to see now that somehow my family always had some sort of little twist to these otherwise normal events. In fact, the oddity surrounding our birthday pictures did not become evident to me until I was standing much further away. Let me explain. The production took place every January and it went like this. I would stand tall in the chair and have my birthday picture taken and then I would proceed to blow out the candles. There was no one singing “happy birthday” so that is not why I would extinguish the candles on the cake. I would blow out the candles so that mom could take my candles off of the beautiful cake and put on the next set of candles. She would add or subtract candles depending on who was next in line. She would grab the next kid, slick down his or her hair, light another set of candles and take a picture of that child in front of “their” birthday cake! Then, they would blow out their candles in order to get ready for the next person up. Clearly, this was pure genius! I don’t remember thinking that then, but now it is ever so clear. Here is the line up of birthdays following Christmas. Jimmie was born December 28th, I was born January 3rd, Walden’s birthday is January 5th, Papa’s birthday was January 7th, and my Mom was born on January 9th. All of these birthdays followed massive amounts of food and celebrating for days upon end at Christmas. Why not make just one more cake and switch out candles to insure that everyone had their picture made in front of the cake that year? Obviously there was no way to tell what excitement might be happening on each person’s actual birthday so why not stage the pictures all at once? Now you might get the idea that this was the easy way out. Nope. We all still had our own birthday cake on our particular day. We just did not have to get all dressed up, have the film on hand, have the battery charged, have to stand still. Nor did we have to make sure the cake was pretty enough for a picture. We could delight in our day and stick our nose in the cake if we were infants or help bake the cake if we were older. On birthday picture day in January, there was always someone to make you smile for the camera and plenty of babysitters to keep the younger kids occupied while mom snapped pictures. She was determined to get a birthday picture of each of us. I never thought much about all of this until my kids were born. My girls have birthdays that all fall in a 3 week period of time. My vision cleared and the big picture came into focus when my third child, Emily’s first birthday rolled around. I concentrated on baking a most beautiful cake. Then, I lined them all up. Hair was slicked back, cameras were aimed, candles were lit and the moment was caught. It was their turn to blow out the candles and my turn to take a picture of their life. I hope that my kids can look back and have a clear picture of how we celebrated their day and know why birthdays are labeled happy. The picture should be clear, even if they can’t locate the photographs.

We recently held a celebration for my mom’s 88th birthday. We did take pictures and she did blow out the candles but nothing about this day was staged. Trying to immerse myself in my mother’s role at one point during the day, I took a rather secluded seat and sat back to watch the action. All ten of my brothers and sisters were present for the party. And, the majority of their families were also in attendance. The total count for the family, just my siblings and their families, was 78 people. Quite naturally the first thought to enter my mind as I started my observation was, “Just look what she started!” As I studied the eclectic group, I could see people that had traveled from every part of the country to be with mom. Each person started their life, and blew out their candles on the same cake, on the same day, in the same house in Navasota, Texas. How amazing it was to see how diverse the group had become and how close they remain. It is not just the one generation that so obviously feels the connection, but the bond is very real for all of the kids that have followed. The reason that Mom occasionally likes to just sit back and discreetly watch the action became obvious to me. Laughter filled the air. Everywhere. Happiness was the prevailing feeling and any observer would have no choice but to soak it up. Groups gathered around food, huddled close to the fireplace, and squished together on couches to reminisce and catch up. Happy as we all were to see each other, no one had more fun together than the cousins. As our kids’ stories and actions got more animated the longer they were together, I noticed that their children, Moms great grandchildren, just naturally felt at ease with one another as well. It was a huge Sunday Lunch that lasted all day long. I know that all families have reunions that are thoroughly enjoyed by everyone. I hope that their smiles reach as deep and their feelings are just as sincere as what I witnessed at this party. How did it happen? What caused all of these relations to be such genuine friends? What instills these feelings to continue through each generation? What was the secret that enabled each one of the eleven kids to go out and seek their fortunes in so many different directions? Maybe it was a combined birthday party each January. A party of pictures. The pictures became a movie this January and the answer to all of my questions became clear. The candles were lit and this time it was Mom standing behind the cake. Before she could pose the flashes from cameras exploded all around the room. Here was the reason we were all together. Here was the reason we all smiled. Strength of character and spirit may not be visible just by looking, but as Mom blew out her candles, it was easy to see.

January 22nd is the date of another birthday in our family. This was day that James was born. This January would have been his 50th birthday celebration. This was the third January 22nd since James’ death and it was, for me, the most difficult. I retreated to the lake and I cried myself to sleep on the 21st and I woke up with tears on the morning of the 22nd. I tried to infuse myself with strength by going for an early morning walk but the effort seemed futile. I convinced myself that this sorrow was so deeply rooted that I would never really recover from my loss. Though my heart was broken into a million pieces, it felt entirely too heavy. My kids called me one at a time and we consoled each other the best we could. After my kids called, the ringing did not stop. I got calls from Colorado, Massachusetts, New York, California, and Texas. The local crew of brothers and sisters checked on me all day long and I had to decide which one of my sibling’s dinner requests my kids and I would attend. We ended up at Martin and Jackie’s for dinner. It was just my kids, my grandkids, and me, but now I can see that because of their actions, my entire family was present for the celebration. I was the first to arrive and though my eyes were dry, I could feel the puffiness that resulted from the emotion of the day. One by one my kids came over and it was not long before we all began to smile. Perhaps I could not see the result right then, but as I looked back on that day, it was one of those moments that was all of a sudden so clear. Yes, my loss was huge. I grieved that I could never again celebrate life with this wonderful man. It was not my eyesight, but my family that helped me to focus. Each one gave me time to shed my tears and give in to my hurt for awhile. But with such ease they gave me the will to get back up. One more time. There were so many people giving my kids and me strength, it became clear that my heavy heart could not possibly be too heavy to lift. That evening I could finally feel James as we gathered around and blew out the candles on his favorite ice cream brownie sundae. As we made our toast, I understood that James was still with me as I looked at my kids and felt all of my family surrounding me. It reminded me of Januarys long ago. I thought that if he was here, we could slick back his hair, light the candles, and take a picture. I let myself smile and felt a little stronger. As I slipped into bed at the end of this day, I held a one sided conversation with James. I could see clearly enough then to let him know that we would be okay. He was not there but the picture was ever so clear.

Don't Duck

It happened at the Bud Zone. The duck just disappeared. The Bud Zone is our little cabin built out over the water on Lake Jacksonville and the Farmer family’s favorite hang out. It was while James and I were sitting on the deck basking in our grandparent role. We were just relaxing as our kids chased their kids and had to deal with the constant anxiety of trying to keep them all fed, happy, and safe. The ice cream freezer was straining and almost ready for attention, the grandkids were feeding the multitude of ducks, and the smell of grilled hamburgers was still lingering in the air. Then, one of the ducks vanished right before our eyes. We blinked, all wondering if we were seeing things. A moment later Bud’s head popped up and so did a mad, quacking, feather flailing duck. After quietly entering the lake by the shoreline, Bud swam under the duck, grabbed its feet and plucked it under water proving to his cousin that it was indeed possible to catch a duck. I can’t think of the story without shaking my head and laughing out loud. I ready myself for the onslaught of memories that occur when I think of the lake. The memories fill my brain so rapidly that it is almost hard to decipher that they stem not just from my life with James and my kids, but extend back to include my own childhood as well. All of the memories, past and present, seem to be the feel good kind. The most magical part of my marriage must have its roots at the lake, for it is there that I feel closest to James and the memories are still so real. The only place James ever built and would not sell was the Bud Zone. Did he know that we would need it as our family refuge? It is still a major part of our lives today. It houses memories of ducks and kids and food and fun. Although I miss James more when I am on the lake and in the Zone than anywhere else in the world, it is there where I find the most peace. Because it is difficult for any negative emotions to take root when I am by the water, I am certain that the Bud Zone is a sure catalyst for happiness. As I lay there alone at night it is easy to focus on the beautiful woodwork in the little cabin and think of the happy times in my life. As the light of the moon spills through the perfectly placed windows, it is evident that James left his family a safe harbor. We can come here and feel whole again as we continue our lives without him. It is a safe place for me and for my kids and their families. It is a place where our Sunday lunches feel good. It is a place for our friends, who come from all different walks of life, to feel comfortable. It is a place for new life to thrive and tired minds to recharge and broken hearts to mend. It is a safe place to grow stronger. The only ones that may be in peril at the Bud Zone, it seems, are the ducks.

It is not just ducks that trigger these memories of life on Lake Jacksonville. My brother Pat came to take me to lunch a few weeks back. As he picked me up, he waited to see my reaction as I noticed his shoes. I don’t think I disappointed him. When I saw his navy blue deck shoes, my immediate reaction was a huge smile and a clear picture of Papa at the lake wearing the very same type of shoes. The memories came faster and faster during our lunch. Most prominent were the memories of the barge that Papa loved. We would spend the weekend at the lake and rarely would any of that time be spent indoors. The barge had 8 barrels that served as pontoons and a top deck to help accommodate our vast numbers. The five younger Swansons would sit at the front of the barge. Our legs would be pushed through the square holes in the fencing that encased the entire boat. We could let our legs drag in the water and cause splashes to spray the other passengers on board. Behind the barge, several kids would be on inner tubes as they tried to out-do one another with dare devils feats. Some of the older kids and their friends were usually on the top deck of the barge just being teenagers. Life was good as Papa grilled hamburgers while we slowly cruised around the lake. What a great way to have everyone rounded up and corralled for a time. Papa would come home from work, put on those deck shoes, and off we would go! I am sure that we were quite a sight, though I did not think about it at the time. I just thought that this was the norm. Twenty to twenty five people on a homemade pontoon boat, slowly puttering around the lake; complete with orange life jackets, food, friends, and a freezer of ice cream.

It was on this lake that Randy met his future wife Mary Claudia at her lake cabin. It was on these waters that I learned to ski. It was here, too, that my sister Sallie learned to ski behind James’ old fishing boat. I can still hear him telling her, “feet together, knees bent, don’t pull back!” If he said it once, he said it 500 times. Just last year, Sallie brought her kids to Randy and Mary Claudia’s lake house to learn to ski as the cycle continued. The world righted just a little as I heard her issue to her kids the constant mantra of “feet together, knees bent, don’t pull back!” It wasn’t the first time that we all clapped and carried on as another child was pulled around the little lake. Bud had been wakeboarding behind jet skis and other people’s boats for a long time. After school one day, Bud and I arrived home to find a note that James left us on the counter instructing us to come out to the Bud Zone. Bud’s excitement grew as we neared the lake. He was almost certain that his dad had a boat waiting. Thinking that there was not much chance of that being in our budget, I kept trying to prepare him that the likelihood of that being the surprise was not very great. We drove up and there was the blue boat. James was already on a pedestal for his son, but the platform was raised just a little at this sight. Did James know that time was short? How grateful I am that those two became best buddies on the lake. What a picture the two of them made as they manipulated and welded and became MacGyvers in their constant mission to transform the blue boat into a wakeboarding machine. They inspired each other and formed a bond on the water that I am not sure many people experience in their lifetime. Bud took skiing just a step farther as he continued to gain momentum on the wakeboard. People on the lake follow him around as he performs acrobatics that seem to defy gravity. Even today he stays on the water on a daily basis and I am certain that as he flies through the air, he feels an extra pair of wings.

When my family moved from Navasota, Texas, to Jacksonville, Texas, we lived on the lake in a one bedroom house for a while. From the wall of bunk beds on the screened porch, it was comforting to watch the moon rise as its rays glistened on the water. The night sounds, familiar only to a lake, lulled the herd of people to sleep. That, or we were just plain exhausted from the activities of the day. By day, there were places to explore, grapevines to swing on, and people to visit. Mr. Arnett was always out fishing on the pier beside our house and I wonder now how he ever caught a thing with our constant interruptions. If we weren’t plaguing him with questions about the worms on the hook, then we were careening down the trolley that went from our house at the top of the hill all the way down to the lake. Our “dropping point” was in the water right beside the Arnett pier. Besides swimming, we built log cabins out of the pine trees and scoured the creeks that fed the lake for the Indians of Cherokee County. My brothers loved to go fishing and although I could not stand to see the minnows and worms serve as bait for the fish, I loved to go with Papa to Brinkley’s Bait shop. Even during the fall and winter months, the lake was fun. I know that Jiffy Pop pop corn must have tasted better at the lake as we shook it to cook it over the fire in the fireplace. I am certain that campfires just had to burn brighter by the water. I always heard others talking about the colors that exploded from the trees surrounding Lake Jacksonville in the fall. Was it not until I had my own kids that I fully understood the true beauty of these colors? It seemed only natural that the first home James ever built for us was on this lake. My kids all grew up knowing the same pleasures of the smell of pine trees, put together barges, and the stereo sounds of firecrackers on the Fourth of July. I hope that they have now reached the age where all of the colors have come into focus. As they learn to appreciate all of the beauty that surrounds them, it will be then that they will want to keep passing it along.

I moved to Austin a little over a year ago. Each time that I head back home to see my kids I grow a little anxious and without fail my eyes start their incessant leakage when I see the lake. I know it is coming and I am powerless, it seems, to make them stop. I have tried to analyze the reasons why the tears are so free when I am there. It is thinking of inner tubes and helicopters hovering over the water. It is a blue boat, and a make shift barge and Bud teaching his dad to wakeboard. It is homemade ice cream and orange life jackets. It is Alyssa being plucked out of the water. It is James Farmer homes surrounding the lake. It is seeing the look on my grandson’s face as he catches his first fish. It is watching the next generation learn to swim. It is happy memories and an aching for the need to make more. I am anticipating my next trip home tomorrow and the lake is already calling my name. The water is healing. Since James’ death I have visited many bodies of water. The beauty of Kauai is beyond words and the power of the water is overwhelming. There is magic in the hidden waterfalls and scenery at Austin’s Lake Travis. I have walked along Laguna Beach in California and felt small as I consider the vastness that extends beyond my sight. The Zilker Hike and Bike Trails in Austin would not be nearly so compelling without being able to watch the canoes and kayaks as you make your way around Town Lake. But, when I am around these masses of water, I do not cry. It is not just the water that holds the potential to heal. When the duck disappeared at the Bud Zone many years ago, he came up fighting and mad and wanting to find his peace again. When James vanished just as suddenly as that duck seemed to do, I felt as though I disappeared along with him. It is on Lake Jacksonville where I find myself trying to surface, my feathers flapping and my spirit fighting. I am hanging on to the memories there for, though they are painful at times, they give me the power to hold up my head and try to breathe. It took a while for the duck to settle down and for his world to feel right again. But, the duck did settle down. And he felt good as he started swimming again. It was then that we were all able to smile.

It's Just Gravy

It was almost time for Sunday lunch and the five little ones were perched on the bar stools. Since there were five kids and only four stools, the quarters may have been a little close, but that was nothing unusual. Closeness was a given. People were everywhere and the scene that unfolded is particularly clear in my mind. There was chaos, but it was the usual chaos. You know, kids clearing school books and assorted messes off of the round table and inserting leaves so that we could seat as many people as possible at a longer, oblong table. Chairs bigger than the people moving them were being dragged into place. A couple of kids were moving in the little yellow picnic table and its benches where the overflow of younger kids would sit for lunch. Cabinets were being opened and their doors slammed as dishes were being gathered and stacked. Hands were routinely slapped as the boys would try to steal a taste of the roast or potatoes before they were placed on the table. Typically kids were running around non-stop but for some reason all five of us were composed and settled on our bar stools that overlooked the stove where mom was working on the finishing touches for lunch. I poked Randy to get him to look at mom. She had a look on her face that displayed puzzlement. She would stare at the counter, and then turn around and stare at the counter behind her. She opened the oven; and closed it. She looked again at the counter. She moved to the refrigerator and opened and closed the doors not removing anything. Back to the counter for more staring. She glanced up at us perched on the barstools. She asked no questions and neither did we. I know I was wondering what she was looking for, but for some reason, no one asked. I am pretty sure that amidst all of the regular chaos, no one else even noticed that mom was a little confused. She conducted a few more searches, shrugged her shoulders, then opened the cabinet and took out five smaller plates. She cut up the roast into bite sized pieces and spread it out onto the five little plates. Potatoes, peas, and carrots were loaded onto the plates exactly the way we liked it. Randy wanted little green peas on top of his mashed potatoes and Pat wanted potatoes topped with gravy. She knew exactly what should go on each plate; what foods should or should not be touching, who would eat what and how much. It seemed rote the way she managed to get everything just right for each person’s plate. As I write this, I wonder how many “little plates” she fixed in her lifetime. As it turned out she prepared five more than necessary. We all sat down to lunch and Mary Claire was sent back to round up a few more pieces of silverware. She opened the silverware drawer and there she found 5 little plates exactly like the ones that were just put onto the table. Mom knew she had fixed the plates, but just could not figure out what had become of them! All five plates in the drawer. What a conversation piece that was for lunch that day! She just smiled and passed the extra plates around for others to enjoy. I don’t think she ever wondered if she was losing her mind, or stopped to question what made her do some of the things she did. She simply did not have time to dwell on such matters. Looking back, I think it was my parent’s ability to “roll with the flow” that made our externally chaotic life seem internally calm.

As I revisit some of these occurrences, I see that I have had ample opportunity to learn the art of patience and acquiescence from my parents lives. I remember riding with my mom in the Ford Station wagon that was equipped with a standard transmission. When she had that car, we were always guaranteed a fun trip, no matter the destination. She would announce for us to hang on, she would make a few grinding noises with the gears, and then the car would literally shoot out of our long drive way. Next, as we actually started toward our destination, she would floor the gas and hold the steering wheel tightly as the car shook violently for a short distance. Soon, the ride would smooth out and things were okay until we hit a stop sign or red light. We all knew to hang on, for the shaking would start over again as the car rolled forward. I can still see my dad trying to tell her that the car would really run much better if she would start in first gear and then shift the gears as the speed increased. There would be no jerking and sputtering and the ride would be so smooth. She just looked at him and told him to hold on. She did not have time for all of that gear changing stuff and this always got her where she needed to go! It was not too much longer after that a new car complete with an automatic transmission was exchanged for the little standard Ford station wagon. The gears in the car may not have been used, but looking back I think the gears were always turning in my mom’s head.

With so many kids, and a tight budget, my dad tried to help mom organize her finances. Thus the envelope system of financial planning was born. For the month, there was the allotted food money in the “food envelope”, the money for church in the “church envelope”, the phone bill money in the “phone envelope”, the electric bill money in the “electric envelope”, etc. It was a way to gauge spending. In theory, it sounded like a great idea. And, I guess it worked. Sometimes. When the food envelope ran out of money, I would see my mom at the checkout counter of the A & P grocery store “borrow” money from the electric envelope. When that ran out she would switch money from different envelopes to make sure she had what was needed from the needed envelope at the time. She was trying to stay on the budget and was not having to ask for any more money so in her mind, it was working. One night Papa called from a convention he was attending in San Diego. He called collect. She told the operator that she could not accept the call because there was no more money in the phone envelope or in any other envelope, but to tell Papa that all was well! The envelope system went about like the Ford station wagon. Papa returned home, looked at my mom, gently tilted his head, smiled and threw the envelopes in the garbage. People were running all around, doors were slamming, pots boiling over on the stove, the usual chaos and mom stood up on her tip toes to kiss her 6 foot 2 inch financial planner. No matter what the plan might be and no matter how well it did or did not succeed, they had each other. That always seemed to work.

My parents could certainly roll with the punches. And, I know now that there must have been situations that arose at least every hour on the hour that would have the impact of a full blown punch. I did not decide this by observation from my growing up years, but from life as an adult. I don’t ever remember wondering if my mom or dad were upset or hurting. How did they cope with setbacks? Did they start to worry about themselves when plates were lost, or money was short, or things just did not seem exactly normal compared to the rest of the world? Was the way they calmly handled their chaotic life something learned in school? I don’t think so. Mom’s diploma from the University of Texas at Austin was hanging in the old green bathroom of our big rambling house. It was the one bathroom that was rarely used for anything other than storage. Her diploma was framed, and it was hung on the wall, but it was out of sight. I don’t even remember seeing Papa’s diploma anywhere. No, a college education could not have prepared them for what was ahead. I have decided, however, that they could perhaps develop their own curriculum for a course on living life. Detailed instructions would be given on how to look at day to day happenings and isolate the good parts. Perhaps Humor 101 would be the first course. Learn to laugh at life. And at yourself. The one and only thing that I ever perceived that my mom might not be the best at was making gravy. The humor came when there would always be “something” set out to illustrate this short coming. A skill saw would be innocently placed by the gravy boat. Or, much time would be spent making another gravy concoction (one that would look just like the gravy mom made and could easily be substituted without notice). This new one would be thick enough that a gravy ladle would actually stand straight up in the bowl. Sometimes gravy ladles were purposely bent out of shape so that when they were removed from the bowl, it looked as though the gravy had melted the metal. Labels would be attached to the container of gravy, indicating that if there were no such label; no one would recognize the contents of the bowl. The jibes went on and on and mom would always find the
humor that was directed at her gravy making ability. Humor 101. A required course. The course outlining the ability to actually search for and embrace the good that surrounds each of us would be taught next. I know that my parents were adept at this skill for how else could they have survived? It would have been easy to dwell on the “what ifs” and the “how comes” that came with the huge number of people that they were responsible for. Yet it seems that the way they lived gave each of us the feeling that they were always unbelievably grateful that they had such a unique and wonderful life. The next course? Spontaneity 501. This would be a graduate course. Mary Grace Swanson would have to be the author for every piece of required literature for this class. She is the ultimate authority. Mom had just gone into labor with her 8th child when a fire truck zoomed by the house, the sirens blaring. She looked around, thought for a moment, then loaded everyone in the car and took out after the fire truck. She did not want to miss out on any action! Mom’s eyes still have that sparkle and the spontaneity has not waned from her fire truck chasing days. At 87 mom suffered a slight stroke. Less than a year later she has been to Hawaii, Colorado, Washington, California, Maine, and Idaho. She rides her stationary bicycle everyday and attends aerobics on a regular basis. She keeps the books for my brother’s business in Austin, Texas, via the internet. And, at 88, she still answers the phone, “I can go!” Yes, I am sure that should the JC and Mary Grace classes be offered today there would not be a shortage of willing participants. It is too bad that I was a student on the front row in these classes for 18 years and did not realize that I should be taking notes. In a time when large families are rare and somewhat frowned upon, I consider myself lucky to have had the chance to really see how it all worked. I don’t think they would let me in if they did offer the courses and I tried to enroll today. I believe that they would tell me that I had already passed the first major exam by getting to experience my own magical love story. I am convinced that is the secret to the whole course. The rest is just gravy.

Fruits and Nuts

There are fruits and there are nuts. Careful combinations of fruits and nuts sometimes yield wonderful concoctions. One of my most poignantly clear memories of Christmastime centers on this mixture. My memory deals with fruits and nuts of all sorts. Not only are the people in my family contained in my memory, but so are those fruit and nuts that are used for nourishment. In both cases, my mom was responsible for the combinations. In both cases it seemed like she had a pretty great recipe. As I keep reaching inside myself to find a way to smile again, I realize that memories of Christmastime bring forth the smile quite easily. It is easy to see that my smile is rooted in the combination of fruits and nuts and the magic of the added ingredients. My memory stems from my sixth grade year at East Side Elementary School. It was on the morning of the last day of class before the holiday break and I was walking to school as usual. I was loaded down with Christmas gifts for my teachers. In sixth grade we had several teachers and I was so excited to be taking a gift to each one. The surprises were home made. They were relatively heavy. They were wrapped in foil. They were each tied with a red ribbon. They were fresh and they smelled wonderful. And, I was so proud. I had a gift that I knew my teachers would love. Even then I thought teachers were the greatest people on Earth and I was pretty sure my gifts were perfect for such an important group. Each year every one of my teachers would receive a fruitcake and this year was no different. All I knew is that my Mom made them, and if Mom made them and liked them, then my teachers would like them as well. Nothing my mom did could be less than the best. As I hit my teenage years, I suddenly became aware that I should be embarrassed to take fruitcakes for gifts to my teachers. Even though I had heard all of the jokes about what people did with the fruitcakes they received as Christmas gifts, I was still not completely convinced that my teachers would not want one that was made from scratch by my mom. However, the prospect of actually taking a fruitcake to school in front of all of my peers was just too much. So, after my 7th grade year, my teachers at Jacksonville Jr. High missed out on my mom’s famous Christmas recipe. Looking back I am convinced that my mom had to be grateful for my embarrassment. Can you imagine how many fruitcakes she had to make each Christmas just for her kids’ teachers? If I was in sixth grade, that left Randy, Pat, Grace and Sallie in the grades below me and Martin, Bill, and Mary Claire in jr.high and high school. The rest of the kids were in college. Many of us had several teachers. Think about it. That is a lot of fruitcakes. That does not even count the garbage man, the beauty shop lady, the neighbors, the mailman, and the milkman. Yes, Christmastime meant that we were completely surrounded by fruits and nuts. That alone is enough to make anyone smile.

Christmastime in our extraordinarily large family had to seem a little nutty to normal people. Most of the townsfolk would make the drive by our house part of their yearly Christmas tradition. If there was a brochure on sights to see during this holiday season in Jacksonville, Texas, I imagine that 847 Ft. Worth Street would have been near the top of the list. Was it the large, rambling house all beautifully lit that drew the masses? No, that many lights would have blown a fuse and caused a power outage in Jacksonville. Was it the lawn ornaments so lovingly set out that coaxed people into the spirit of Christmas? Not unless footballs, basketballs, Frisbees, bicycles, and patches of dirt were inspirational in some way. Was it awe-inspiring Christmas music from carolers huddled on our front porch? Not unless “ollie ollie in come free” counted as a song. No. The cars lined up to see our mantel. Not a beautifully theme decorated mantel, but a mantel full of stockings. The stockings were in plain sight to anyone driving by. Do you think my Mom knew what she was starting when she first made Cookie, Hunter, Jimmie and Mary Claire a stocking? Perhaps if she could have seen the future, she would have made a whole slew of stockings way back then. How much easier it would have been back in the days when she had only four children and oodles and oodles of spare time? I cannot imagine how she found the time to make each stocking for each child. Every stocking had the year of the child’s birth, hand embroidered. Every stocking had the number of the child, sequined onto the cuff. Every boy stocking had an appliquéd train with separate boxcars each one sporting something of interest to the child. Every girl stocking was adorned with an angel also hand appliquéd onto the body of the stocking and displaying their items of special interest. The boys had matching red stockings while the girls had stockings of white. As the grandchildren arrived on the scene, which was only two years after Sallie was born, a smaller version of the original stockings were added to the mantel. Then, upon the arrival of the great grandchildren an even smaller edition was added to the display. Not only was our mantel covered, but the walls were adorned with stockings as well. I don’t really remember Santa ever putting anything in our stockings. I am sure that if he did, however, it would have been fruits and nuts. I am also sure that we would have found a magical way to mix them up.

Christmas shopping, too, was a unique experience around our house. I guess the uniqueness came from the fact that there really wasn’t much of it. My dad would come home early on Christmas Eve, have a private conversation with my mom, gather up a couple of the older kids and off he would go to do some Christmas shopping. That was the extent of their shopping. On some level, I am sure that my parents had to secretly dread the approach of the holiday season. That comes not from feelings from my childhood, but from my own perspective as a parent and all of the looming challenges that the holiday brings with it. So many gifts to buy, and so little money. So many people to remember, and so little time. Such difficult questions to ponder and so many wavering answers. Questions like, “Should I spend what little money I have on things the kids really need like socks, underwear, and shoes; or splurge for Christmas on a game or toy that is not really a necessity?” I don’t think any of us were ever aware of any hesitancy on the part of my parents with the approach of this most magical season. Neither do I remember any wishes not coming true. All I remember is everyone seemed so excited that the holidays were just around the corner and with the constant cooking of fruitcakes, the house always smelled wonderful. The excitement intensified when all five of the little ones embarked our own yearly shopping trip. One of the older kids would drop us off downtown where we would start the hunt for the perfect gifts. By combining our resources, we would search places like Western Auto, Duke and Ayers, Discount City, and JB Whites. I thought I was in charge of this crew. Now I realize that Randy always held the money. Grace gave the directions. Sallie usually had the final approval. And, Pat always provided entertainment. (Using a coat hangar, he would fashion a wreath of mistletoe over his head to wear on our excursions among other things.) What did I do? I guess just imagined that I was the Person In Charge. After we purchased things like Hai Karate for Martin, a Letterman album for Bill, a jewelry box for mom, and an ashtray for Papa; we would always head straight for Wood Drug Store where JB would cook each of us a hamburger at the soda fountain. At the time that meal always seemed to be the best food we ever tasted. Was it because we were on our own and sitting together in a booth at the fountain? Perhaps it was because we knew that we had purchased the best gifts ever. I am not sure why those trips were so important to me and my brothers and sisters. I do know that there must be some kind of magic involved somehow in the whole gift giving phenomenon. My bachelor Uncle Jim lavished gifts on all of his extended family. No one, young or old, was left out. He seemed to revel in the confusion and mayhem that accompanied our family during this holiday and I am convinced that his greatest pleasure in life was watching all of us as we opened his gifts. Today, my kids still draw names and team up to make their gifts perfect for their siblings. As my kids get married and in-laws and grandkids join in the family celebrations, I love to watch as they all seem to get much more pleasure from the giving. Even though my smile is irrepressible as I conjure up these Christmas memories, it sometimes falters as I imagine the rest of my Christmas mornings without James. James with his bright smile and even brighter eyes as he watches his kids. James with his “First National Bank of Dad” T-shirt worn proudly. James on the floor playing with the grandkids as they enjoy the paper and wrappings better than the toys and trappings. My challenge now is to continue to foster the feeling of warmth that is inherent with this holiday. I understand that it is up to me to continue to build more memories of which James would be proud. That seems to be easier as I slowly learn to recognize the fruits and nuts that surround me. The first Christmas memory that brought back my smile since James’ death is from last year. Randy, Pat, Grace and Sallie embraced my spirit as we somehow ended up together on a shopping trip to Discount City. It was not planned and we were not buying for anyone in particular. My family circled the wagons for me and my memories. And then, they opened their arms for the greatest gift ever as they included my kids in the circle. My kids got to participate as we took that journey down memory lane and laughter filled the aisles. For just a moment I wished for a parcel of mom’s fruitcakes to hand out to all of the shoppers. What a sure way to share the joy of the season.

Our Swanson family Christmas cards presented a detailed history of Christmases past. The first Christmas card went out with the picture of Cookie, Hunter, and Jimmie. Mary Claire was added to the picture the next year and the numbers kept growing with each passing year. The cards continued to be sent until there was not enough room to fit everyone in a picture with any clarity. With the original 11, in-laws, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, the numbers were staggering. Upon studying the family through these yearly portraits, I continue to be amazed by my parents. How in the world did they accomplish the monumental task of rounding up an annual pictorial greeting of their ever expanding family? Everyone was always dressed nicely and usually looked happy. To this day I have people stop me and tell me that they still have every Christmas card ever sent by my parents. Can they feel the stories that accompany the pictures? Are they reminded of their own stories of icicle wars as the Christmas tree was decorated and re-decorated solely by the kids? Do the pictures jog memories of their own wall to wall softies and constant streams of people and friends? Did all families have endless trips to the store for food, perpetual football games and entertaining meetings by a growing Cousin’s Club? Every family has their own traditions that accompany this holiday. Perhaps it is one like my brother and his family of hanging a rubber chicken from the rafters instead of decorating a tree, or something as soothing as singing carols as you sip hot chocolate with the neighbors. I can still see the poinsettias that mom always made sure were adorning the church in December and smile as I see Grace continuing in that role. Maybe the tradition is nothing more than just baking a fruitcake. Like them or not, I am now convinced that fruitcakes allowed my mom to show us how to give from the heart. They allowed me to develop a sense of pride in my mom, my family, my teachers, and myself. Fruitcakes established a tradition that signaled the beginning of a celebration. I know that baking a truckload of fruitcakes helped to reassure my mom that it really did not matter what was in short supply that year, for there was always an abundance of goodwill. She then had the energy to show us that this spirit of giving was indeed the most important of gifts and that the more we could share that thought, the more the celebration would bring. Yes, some of my teachers may still have one of those fruitcakes that I was so proud of. Perhaps they even preserved it so they could bring it out to be placed on their mantel at Christmas time. Just as a reminder. A sort of trophy indicating that they survived their years as a teacher; fruitcakes and all. Maybe it will trigger for them an automatic smile as they remember their own traditions that envelop the season. As I look back on this holiday, I see that it does not matter if you are surrounded by fruits and nuts, or just your kids; the spirit of the holiday is what you make it. When I think of Christmas, I do not think of a lack of money, or embarrassment of a homemade teacher gift, or doing without. I just get that same fuzzy feeling that I had when I walked out of the door toward my sixth grade class. I am so grateful that James and I had access to the magic of the recipe and I certainly plan on passing it down. I don’t care what anyone says. Nothing is better than a fruitcake at Christmas.

Looking For Lucy

It was Elbie. Because of Elbie, I can believe in myself with just a little more conviction. My new friend has shown me a glimpse of the courage it will take to begin the next phase of this life’s journey that I was forced on two years ago. I understand that I will still have doubts about my seemingly irrational decisions, but in such a simple way Elbie has convinced me to listen to my fragile heart and look forward to what comes next. I was looking for a sign. Elbie showed me a billboard.

Every single day I take a walk. As much an exercise for my spirit as it is for my physical health, I look forward to this release each day. With the abundance of hike and bike trails in Austin, I have a great number of choices in locations to walk. However, if I choose to walk after work, instead of fighting the traffic to drive to a trail, I usually just walk in my neighborhood. There are continuous sidewalks, lots of hills, and plenty of scenery to make the walk inviting. It was on these neighborhood jaunts that I started to notice a young man, around thirteen years of age, waiting on the same corner at about the same time in the same place everyday. It was obvious that the young man had special needs. The first few times I passed him, he would not make eye contact. But, as my routine became more familiar to him, I would catch him looking at me now and again. I would give him a smile and he would look away. It was at this point that I really began to look forward to walking this particular route. Rarely did my path vary after I began my limited contact with this young man. Each time I passed him, I wondered if he was waiting on someone to pick him up. I wondered if he was just out of school. I wondered if he was scared. I wondered so many things that I could not ask him. I could tell that he was garnering the courage to talk to me. So, daily, I would smile and say hello. One day, I slowed down and finally asked his name. He lowered his head, and said “Elbie”. Clearly by his manner, that was all he could muster for the day, so I kept walking. But what a joy I felt! I finally knew his name! The next day as I walked past, I said, “Hi, Elbie”. He said, “Have a nice day, have a nice day, have a nice day!” Then he smiled at me. Again, I could sense that was enough contact for one day. The routine continued and daily I would say, “Hi Elbie!” and he would always smile and instruct me to have a nice day. I did not feel that he wanted me to stop and talk as he consistently waved me on. Each time as I passed his spot, I would turn and see him pick up his things to leave. It was obvious that he was waiting on me to walk by before he went home. Several weeks ago, after I had missed the afternoon walks for a few days because of rain, I saw Elbie again. He stood up and smiled and said “Have a nice day, have a nice day, have a nice day!” I said my usual hello and he said, “What is your name?” After I told him, our routine expanded to include, “Hi Lucy, have a nice day, have a nice day, have a nice day!” That has been the extent of our conversations, but still I look forward to seeing Elbie in his spot. On several occasions, the rain would start before I could get home, yet Elbie was always there waiting. He was there in the heat and he was there in the rain. Did he wait for me on the days when I walked in the mornings and did not get to walk past this spot in the afternoon? Was he disappointed when I did not show up? He always had his backpack and he was always wearing his shirt with a University of Texas Logo on it and he was always on the corner. I continued to wonder about his circumstances. At the very least I wanted to know where he lived and why he was always waiting on the corner alone.

I walk at a different time on the weekends than I do on weekdays. I do not typically see Elbie on Sundays. But today was not typical. This Sunday I made a trip to the grocery store and as I was heading across the parking lot, I hear, “Hi Lucy!” There was Elbie. And, Elbie was smiling and waving and it was readily apparent that he was glad to see a friend. There in front of the grocery store, Elbie talked to me more than he ever had before. He said, “Where is your husband, your husband, where is he?....what is his name, your husband?” I told him my husband’s name was James. Elbie said, “James…..he said hello….yeah, James… he said hello….I mean tell James hello… he said hello and Elbie said hello!” About that time a lady walked up and Elbie took off into the store. I watched as the woman said something to Elbie. I stopped her and asked if she was Elbie’s mother. She smiled her acknowledgement. I told her of the encounters that Elbie and I had on the corner during my walks. She explained that for months he has wanted to just sit on the corner and watch the action after he gets off of the bus. Eventually he walks home, which is just a few houses away from his corner. I was so thrilled to have met his mother and to know a little more about Elbie. I did not think much more about my extended conversation with Elbie until later that day.

That afternoon I went on my walk. Even though I was taking the usual route, I knew that because it was a weekend, I would probably not see Elbie again that day. My walk was supposed to help me sort out all of these illogical ideas that I keep having. These ideas include quitting my job and just starting on a journey with no specific destination or itinerary. I have felt compelled to go see what else is out there. My move to Austin has helped me to build some courage. It has helped me to focus on my fate. And, it has enabled me to step back and wonder what comes next. I keep looking for that sign that tells me what I should do. Even though money will be a concern, I am thinking that I need to start my “self discovery search.” In my mind, this journey would involve starting out on the road and really listening to myself. Will I recognize what I am searching for when I see it? Where to start, how to start, and, most importantly, should I start on a trek across the country are the questions that I need to answer. Can’t I discover myself without having to let go of everything I have known? On my walk today, I finally realized how simple the answer was. Elbie was holding the sign. Every day Elbie gets off of the bus with his backpack. Every day Elbie studies the world that surrounds him and does not back down. What courage this young man exemplifies as he struggles to let himself make eye contact with the tall woman who walks past so often. Through good weather and bad, he examines life from the street corner and I have seen how he doesn’t want to miss a thing. I have watched as he gathered the nerve it took to speak to a stranger and I have seen him grow as he wishes for me to “have a nice day.”

“James said hello, I mean tell James hello.” Of course that is just Elbie getting his speech straight. He has no idea who James is. But I am taking that conversation for my billboard. If Elbie has the courage to not miss out, then I know that I can do the same. Since James has died, I have watched my kids call upon their strength as they start their own families. I know James would be as proud of them as I am. Surely a source of their strength comes from having watched their father. Through him they have seen the strength and stamina it takes to start a new business, become a great parent, be a loving spouse, exercise patience, take care of yourself, and live large. And, they have seen the fulfillment that accompanies having lived with such conviction. Perhaps from so much use, the reservoir is running low and I need to replenish the “courage tank” now by showing some strength of my own. I want my kids to know not to settle if there is something missing, but to search until they find it. I want them to see that you can search even if you are scared. I want them to understand that when they search for answers then they can begin to feel secure. They need to be able to search no matter the obstacles. And, they need to continue their search until the billboard comes into focus. Thanks, Elbie. Now I can go “looking for Lucy” armed with the strength of your courage. I am off to re-fill the tank. Please tell James I said hello.

All Covered Up

If you take a drive around the city of Austin, it is easy to see that the roadways are extremely congested. Admittedly, I get a little antsy at times when I am stuck in traffic or caught in a line of cars that seem to be moving at a snail’s pace. However, when I am in this crazy jammed-packed situation, I have come to realize that even though I do feel a slight frustration at the inability to do much about the delays; more than anything else, I find myself feeling rather grateful. I am ever so grateful that I am not a parent in a car with tired, hungry, screaming children and stuck on a freeway. I am eternally grateful that I am not a child in a car with a frazzled, short-fused parent who is ready to get home and can’t move in any direction. And, most of all, I figure that I should be forever grateful that this crowded situation has reminded me of a way that I could easily make a million dollars. My family has a custom that will help to alleviate problems that occur while stuck in a car with kids in stalled traffic, or any number of situations in life that call for instant calm. I figure if I can just market this item that provides a sweet lull of peacefulness for kids and parents alike, then I will have that easy million. I know that everyone in Austin will come to believe in this convention. Then, when the rest of the world discovers the secret, just watch out! Let me introduce you to habit forming, peace-building, tear-drying, smile-inducing softies.

My mother’s mother died when my mother was three years old. Mom was an only child and after her mother’s death she was raised by her father and her aunts. She readily admits that she was doted on by everyone that knew her. One of the things mom recalls giving her immense comfort during her growing up years was the satin blanket one of her aunts made for her. Her softie. It went everywhere with her. She could not fall asleep without the security of the soft satin next to her in bed. Although it did not take the place of her mother, something as small as this blanket made especially for her provided comfort and solace when it was so desperately needed. The mere contact with the softness produced instant warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature. Little did mom know that she would again be saved by her softie later in her life. How could she have realized that “Noni’s softies” would soon provide this comfort to literally hundreds of people?

My mom started making softies herself when Grace and Sallie were young. I know that she was probably kicking herself when she discovered how effective the softies were for her two youngest children. It must have been a little like the “I could have had a V-8” insight…..too late to do much about the oversight now! She discovered that when the girls had their softies, they also had their smiles. When they had their softies, the dark was not so scary. When they had their softies, they loved to be held and cuddled. When they had their softies, the world was just a better place. Because the world was a better place for the girls, the world was also a better place for everyone else around the girls. Thus, the softie effect was magnified to include anyone that was associated with the one actually enjoying the softie. Both of the girls still have their original softies today. Of course, they are in shreds and I am sure if someone touched them they would disintegrate, but don’t try to get rid of them! Since the first softies were manufactured on the big family table, many more have been made. They have become tradition. Each time a baby is born, a softie is made. Every single grandchild and great-grandchild has a softie made by Noni. The baby softies are made in a smaller size and it is a rite of passage when you get your adult sized softie. Every one of mom’s eleven kids has a Noni-made softie and as far as I know not one of us can sleep without it. The colors of the softies are significant. One of life’s major decisions is the color of your softie. In some way I am convinced that the color affects how well you sleep. Every in-law has had to select a color for their softie for each of them has a softie as well. In fact, people who might have been in-laws have softies. Further, those who we knew would probably never be in-laws have softies. In reality, there are people now who don’t even know my family who have satin blankets that they call softies.

When my girls were in middle school and high school, many of their friends insisted on acquiring a softie. So, as my mother taught me, I taught my girls how to sew a softie. They learned to make these comforters for their friends. Kids would come over, the table would be extended, and another softie was completed. At this point, people outside of our family were getting hooked on the comfort of this Swanson custom. The kids would make softies for their boyfriends; they would give them as Christmas gifts, for “going away” presents, and just because someone wanted one. If their friends were sick, they got a softie. Then, friends started making softies and the domino effect was in place. They got so popular that the clerk in the fabric store would give instructions on “how to make a softie” each time someone came in for 5 yards of satin. Adults were calling our house to ask what a softie was because that is the only thing ‘so and so’ wanted for graduation. I often wondered if some of the boys that dated my daughters did so just to acquire their own softie. Sometimes the kids and even adults in the family would put a slight twist on softies integrating their own special designs. There were softies made of flannel, two color softies, softies sporting the colors of favorite teams, double sized softies, monogrammed softies, and those with and without ribbons. My kids often requested new softies before theirs had been completely worn out, so our house runneth over with these blankets. James always built softie closets into our houses. I often wondered if the realtor knew that there was a good chance a buyer would probably actually know what a softie closet was and would even appreciate its existence!

Because softies were given to newborns and the newborns continued to drag them around as toddlers, the name “softie” was often altered a bit by the speech of the little ones. Some families referred to them as “saucies”. My sweet grandson today asks for his “dossie”. I have heard them referred to as “saws-saws” and so on. A dossie can calm a child in a second. A saucie will instill peace inside a car that is in complete chaos. A softie will relax a grown up enough to promote a sound sleep when it is otherwise elusive. And, in addition, a softie has often provided other purposes besides its warmth and security. My niece Heidi takes her softie with her when she goes to see a movie. She says it just goes with the smell of popcorn and makes the whole movie better. My kids and their cousins would build softie forts that would cover an entire room. Hours of entertainment with satin. James would make our kids (and grandkids) squeal with laughter by giving softie rides. He would have as many kids as possible pile on a softie, and then run through the house dragging the kid-laden softie on the floor, often swinging it in every direction. The last child hanging on would be the softie champ for the evening. My kids did not ever really have to make up their beds because they would spread a softie out over their bedspread, lay down on that softie, and cover up with another softie. They were happiest and most content when their skin was touching only satin. I just recently became aware that softies could actually be knotted together and would hold a teenager as they dropped from a window if tied just right. I also learned that it took practice to make a strong softie knot. Softies came in really handy during the winter months when James was hesitant to turn up the thermostat. The kids would each take turns holding their softies in front of the fireplace to get them nice and toasty, and then dive to the floor to roll up in the blessed warmth of the freshly heated blanket. During holidays when the family would gather it did not matter that room was scarce. At night time, a softie pallet would be laid on the floor from wall to wall and everyone left without a bed would crash on the floor for a good night’s sleep. Bodies of all ages and sizes were snuggled against each other and wrapped in a softie. At Sunday lunch it was not uncommon for a softie to be used as the tablecloth on the children’s table. Even there it brought about calm. It also soaked up spilled food. Thank goodness softies are washable. Many times Emily would patiently wait by the washer and then the dryer for her softie to be ready to go again. When my nephew Bubba was in intensive care in the hospital for three weeks, he would have a recurring dream that he was a human burrito all wrapped up in a softie. The nurses that took care of him in ICU knew the softie story. They never let the special blanket stray far from their patient and each ended up with their own softie made especially for them. I know that when more and more people experience “Noni’s softies”, the uses will be boundless. I also know that the world will be a happier place.

Right now as I attempt to explain the significance of the role that softies played in the lives of my kids, the most vivid picture comes into my mind. It is a picture that forces a smile from me even when my heart is heavy. It is a picture that makes me grab a softie, curl up, close my eyes and remember when James was next to me. I see my sweet husband determined to master yet another task. He was resolute in his quest to make a softie. A softie just for me. Mine was worn out and he heard me say that I needed a new one. Softies were made with 5 yards of satin. Two and a half yards of the satin are spread out and topped with a polyester batting. The remaining two and a half yards are then folded over to encase the batting. The softie must be carefully pinned together folding in all of the edges. It takes long straight pins to fasten the edges and they must be placed closely together. Because of this, the softie maker is stabbed quite often. You must be a strong person to be able to produce a softie and quite agile not to get blood from the pin pricks on the softie. After the pins are in place, with a large darning needle, yarn is then tacked every 8-10 inches through all of the layers of the blanket. This takes forever and this task also inflicts a little pain. I guess it is true that everything worthwhile in life is not easily come by. Now, the edges of the softie are ready to be stitched on the sewing machine. It is at this point of the softie production that I have my picture of James. Pins protruding from his lips (where he is keeping them handy) and mounds of pink satin flowing in all directions. He knows the feeling that a new softie brings and cannot wait to deliver his prize to me. Here is this strong, obviously outdoorsy man, sitting at the table in the house that he constructed entirely by himself, surrounded by the furniture that he built just because he could, pushing the foot of a sewing machine to make me a pink softie. I am pretty sure that it was my favorite softie ever.

Just last week Noni, the “Queen of Softies”, went on a road trip with my sister and brother and their spouses. They drove from Durango, Colorado, to Seattle Washington. Because there is no age limit on softie use, and in spite of limited room; all passengers in the van were permitted to bring their softie along on the trip. Noni had her place in the back of the van. There, she wrapped up in her blue softie, propped up her feet, and read her book in between receiving phone calls from all of her kids. At one point in the trip, Cookie had to make a sharp, quick turn. Because Noni was completely wrapped in her softie, and because the material is so slippery, Noni slid right off of her perch in the back and into the floor board of the van! The more she struggled to get up, the deeper she wedged herself between the seats. The softie made it really difficult to get a firm grip to pull Noni up and I am quite sure the laughter did not help either. It is a good thing that when the situation was corrected, and Noni was again in the back of the van in a normal position, she had her softie with her for extra comfort! It seems that no matter the age, the softie softens most situations. I am 50 years old, and I have to admit that in the last two years, I have worn out my pink softie. I call upon it quite regularly for the comfort and security that it unfailingly provides. I guess I could just quit my job as an educator and become a maker of softies. Perhaps I really could become a millionaire from the phenomenon that would be created by marketing the multi-faceted softie. Or, maybe we should just make a softie bomb. How cool would it be to drop softies of all colors from fighter jets positioned all over the world? Noni’s softies, made with love and sweetly stitched, spread worldwide. Can you hear the hush? Can you feel the peace? Can you see the smiles? The world all covered up in a giant softie. That picture alone is worth millions.

What's In A Name

Being the 7th child, I am sure my parents had to be creative to come up with yet another name for yet another child. I was named Alice Lucille Swanson after my two grandmothers. When my gender was announced in the waiting room at the hospital, my sister, who had been the only girl with 5 brothers, modified my name a little and dubbed me “AlleyLuYa!” Still today she calls me Alley Lu. As I continue to study my life, I realized that over the years I have had many different names. Papa called me “Logi”, which, according to him is Chinese for Lucy. I knew when he called me Logi, we were off on an errand by ourselves. I do miss hearing that name. Mary Claire was called Big Tut by all of our brothers, therefore I was Little Tut. That name brings memories of Navasota, Texas. On many occasions I was just referred to as Number 7. After having four kids of my own, I understand a little better how that was an understandable and quite logical name. As a teacher, I was called Miss, Mrs. Farmer, and even LuDogg! Those are just the names of which I was aware. I am sure there were many more. My kids would call me Mom or Mo..om (where it was a long drawn out name with a couple of syllables). Now that my kids are on their own, I love to answer the phone and hear either version coming through loud and clear. One of my favorite names is Bobbye. That is what my grandchildren call me. After learning the news that I was to be a grandmother, I decided that Bobbye would be my name. Its origin has no roots or ties and I have no idea where it came from, but James and I became Big J and Bobbye. The name still makes me smile, especially when I hear it emanating from a small, sweet child. When my kids want to remind me of all the really good things that still surround me, or if they want me to focus more on what it is that I am trying to discover on this new journey that I have been forced on, or if they think that I just need to breathe deeply, they just call me punkin’. That endearment has held a magic for many years. It was the name James always used for me. Its powers included love, patience, confidence and fulfillment. Today it acts as a balm. What power there is in a name. It all depends on who is doing the calling.
Although my official name is Alice Lucille, I was most often called Lucy. That proved to be a little troublesome in school. I always dreaded the first days of school when the teacher would look at the roll and see Alice and actually say that name out loud! For some reason, that was most embarrassing. I guess maybe I suffered some so that when I was a teacher I would know what not to do on the first day of school. I am not sure why the name was an embarrassment. There really was no logical reason that I can think of. Even with the embarrassment, though, I never once thought of changing my name. Now, my brother Bill had a different story. Bill was a child that my mother swears woke up smiling and happy every single day of his life. His enthusiasm for life was, and is boundless. He did not play the Lone Ranger……he became the Lone Ranger. He did not participate in football…..he lived the sport. When he attended the University of Texas, I have no doubt that had he been cut, his blood would have been burnt orange. Knowing our brother, when Bill came home to visit on one occasion and told us to call him Timber, it was not all that strange. He informed us that he was just trying out that name for awhile. So, we called him Timber, and he smiled. A few months later, we learned that his name was no longer Bill, nor was it Timber. My brother had officially changed his name to Walden. The way we were all informed of the change was almost as unique as his new name. The week that Bill had paid money to have his name changed, several other things happened as well. My father had a heart attack and was rushed to Dallas and put in the Intensive Care Unit. All eleven children hurried to the hospital from all over the country. (Several times we jokingly accused Papa of having these heart attacks just to get everyone to come home!) Pat even rushed home from his honeymoon. Now, no one but James and I knew that Pat was on his honeymoon because he had eloped the night before the heart attack, and he was honeymooning on our lake lot. As we all gathered in the waiting room and made our visits to ICU at the specified times, we learned more news. Papa’s basket factory had caught fire and much of the business was destroyed. We struggled with how and when to tell Papa all of this news. It was decided that since he was hooked up to the monitors, we should probably tell him all of the latest happenings as we electronically observed his heart rate. If we saw that there was too much of a strain, the announcements would cease. First, my Mom and Martin went in to tell him about the basket factory. We all gathered around the monitor in the nurses’ station to gauge his reaction to this setback. The heart rate remained steady after receiving the news. His response was predictable….he would start the business again and make it better. Next, Pat and Mom informed Papa that he had another daughter-in-law. Again, a little blip on the monitor, but nothing that would invite more worry. Papa opened his arms to the latest addition to the family. Next Walden and Mom went in to tell Papa that he could now officially call his 5th child Walden. That is when the heart rate jumped! A name change. Papa gently explained to Walden that they had named him William Reynolds after some people that meant a great deal to them, and that Bill had always been one of his favorite names. Bill enlightened Papa that the name Walden was chosen because it most closely reflected the social and environmental issues, among other criteria, that were very important to him. Bill paused a moment and in his own gentle way explained that if Papa really, really liked the name Bill……then for $29.50 he could officially change his name to Bill! That is all it had cost for him to change his name to Walden. It took a minute, but the heart rate settled back into a nice rhythm, Papa smiled, and Bill officially became Walden for real.
My kids never officially changed their names but they do not all go by their given names either. We went for Kathryn’s open house during her second grade year, and her teacher kept talking about a child named Katie. Thinking she was a little confused as to who our child was, I finally told her that our daughter’s name was Kathryn. She looked a little puzzled herself, and then laughed and said that Kathryn told her that she was to be called Katie. That was the first we had ever heard of that and probably the last time we ever called her Kathryn. I was determined when my son was born to use the name Swanson, so our youngest child was named James Swanson Farmer. The child was called many different names, none of them being James or Swanson. I guess it was a little confusing with two James’s in the house and so many Swanson’s around, so his sisters started calling him Bud. I fought this name tooth and nail and corrected everyone who used it. I guess my influence was not that strong, or either the name was just entirely fitting, because James Swanson is well known today as Bud Farmer. Kristin and Emily both tried out different names for awhile but I think they realized they would be more different if they just kept their real names! My brother’s son, Sean, has followed in his uncle’s footsteps. He is now officially Moon. For years I have called my niece, Colin, “Monique”. When she was young, her ambition was to be a star and this name change was her first step. I think I am the only one that still calls her Monique today, but the name just fits. The list of names goes on and on. All one has to do is throw out a name when our family is gathered and more than likely, someone is either presently going by that name, has gone by that name, is married to someone with that name, or will soon give birth to someone with that name. A response is bound to come when a name is called. The names in our family include several duplicates which may cause outsiders a little confusion. We have the Marys: Mary Grace, Mary Claire, Mary, Mary Claudia, and Mary Caroline. There are several versions of Hunter (four times in 3 generations) with H, Hunty, and Huntington being sported by several family members and both genders. My Dad’s name was Jarrett Cook and therefore there are many Cooks in the family including the varieties of Cookie, Big Cookie, Little Cookie, and Cookie III. I won’t even start on the other nicknames in the family, as they are endless. We relish dishing all of this out when a new person is introduced just to see their reactions. Even with all of this name calling, Grace and Sallie had it pretty simple. Although all of us were named after someone important in the lives of my parents, these last two children had no middle names. Either they ran out of important people or they just got tired. I will have to say that even today I am a little jealous of my younger sisters and their names. After all, on the first day of school Grace and Sallie always got to be just Grace and Sallie.
With most people in my family wanting to be a little like Walden, several of us decided to go by different names in the summertime only. There was nothing official and I guess we did this… just because. No other family that we knew of had “summer names”. The whole premise was silly but seemed to catch on like wild fire. Brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, and nephews all got into the spirit. When summer would come around, many of us would simply go by a different name. Our summer name. These names all had to be approved by the summer name committee and they had to truly fit its recipient. The names were varied and made absolutely no sense at all. The phone lines would light up continuously until the perfect summer names were obtained for everyone. My summer name was Valeria Corrine. Other titles were Oscar, Correta, Olga, Hugh, Parmenta Jane, Erwin sometimes Otto, Moose, Lemonade, Herbert, and Fannie Mae Claire just to name a few. Sallie was called Sasha Shane. (She went by that in the summer, but because she was the baby of the family, for the rest of the year she was simply called “The Queen”.) Summer names wreaked even more havoc for those poor people that would try to learn the names in the family. Our given names were pretty strange to begin with, then you throw in some nicknames, and you hear a few summer names being tossed about and it was almost impossible for an outsider to get a grip on things. I remember one day several girls rode their bicycles in our driveway to catch a glimpse of the ongoing basketball game in the back. They giggled for awhile and made some pointing motions and finally called me over. They asked me to show them which one of the boys was Peanut. They had heard that he was really cute. I looked over at the group playing ball. Mentally I went through the list of names that were either given at birth, officially changed, or used on a part time basis, and I could not think of anyone named Peanut. I told the girls that there was no Peanut on the basketball court. They giggled a little more and admitted that the name was just a guess. They had heard that I had some really cute brothers. They also understood that some of the names were kind of different and maybe sounded something like food names. Slowly I turned back to the court and saw my brothers in a whole new light. The Swansons had a new avenue of names to explore and I could not wait to get started!
When a child is born there is much thought put into the name that will remain with the infant through the rest of his or her life. Well, at least remain with them until they can afford the cost of changing their name. Walden’s name change showed who he was and what he cared about. Today as my daughter Kristin gets ready to give birth to my first grandchild to be born after James’ death, I understand her desire to use the name James for her daughter. What strength of character she will have if she takes after her namesake. Even with much forethought there are times when a name just does not accurately depict a person or personality. Thus, nicknames are born. Instantly we know so much about a person from this more personal title. My mother has often been called Mother Superior. And, this she was dubbed by a priest. I don’t think anymore description of my mom is necessary as the name says it all. My favorite name for my mom is one that I have tried to adapt for myself. When asked how she has survived all of the emotion, the upheaval, the worry, the scurry, and the shear stamina that it took to run her household everyday, she said, “Just call me a Teflon skillet…..I just let it slide right off!” I think I may look into officially changing my name. Lucy Teflon Skillet Swanson Farmer. It would cost $29.50, but, oh what a bargain if it worked! Sometimes it is all about what’s in the name.

Letters From Home

"Dear Mom and Dad, We have ran away but just for the day. Don’t worry about us, cause we took the mycitracin. Love, your kids. “Attention Farmer family……there will be a show in 10 minutes starring your daughters Kristin, Kathryn, and Emily and your son, Bud….please take your seats on the couch. You will be served grilled cheese sandwiches or a bean and cheese taco in a minute. Please give your order to the waitress when she comes by. No tips necessary since this is your birthday.” They say that a picture paints a thousand words, but a note found unexpectedly many years after the fact, opens a floodgate of memories. These memories paint a more vivid picture and tell a greater story than mere words could ever bring to life. Running away, putting on a show, finding a girlfriend, entertaining a parent, showing concern, giving thanks, pouring out a heart, finding your way, or giving advice; a note tells the story of the strength of a family. You may have to read between the lines, but the image is there. The power of these notes is that the image that is created will live forever.
There are letters and notes of so many varieties. I remember Martin getting the big plastic bags from the dry cleaning and filling the bags with gas from the jet used for the space heaters. He would insert a message into the “balloon” and let it go off into the blue. Several times he received responses from people that eventually found the note in the balloons. I never thought about it at the time, but now I am wondering how we did not have some sort of explosion from the escaping gas as Martin would inflate the dry cleaning bags. Another form of literature that we collected over time is the “Cousin’s Club Express”. My kids, along with all of the cousins that were around their age, would each submit articles about what was happening in their families. Shannon got Homecoming Queen, Rambo the hamster died, Camp Can Do has a record number of participants, Michael is part Indian and has predicted the weather correctly for 6 days in a row. If you needed help with your parents or friends you could write to “Dear Cousin”. Subscriptions were available to all of the family members and “The Cousin’s Club Express” went out every month. I know all families have their own personal stash of sweet notes and letters. Being married to a builder, we packed up and moved quite often and each time we moved, the task we enjoyed the most was bringing out the box that held all of our correspondences. The box contained letters from our kids, notes left around the house, cards made for us by our children on special occasions, and all of the love letters James sent to me when I went off to college. After a move we never actually unpacked this box, so it should have been one of those items that would have been very easy to throw onto the moving truck. However, the lure of what was inside was always too strong to resist, and this box consistently tacked on hours to our moves. Each of us would get caught up in the memories and the stories. After James died, I spent days poring over the letters that he wrote to me when I went away to college and left him in Jacksonville. Little did I know how valuable these words would become to me. The letters reassured me of his love, made me smile, and are now a treasure chest for my kids. What a wonderful way for my grandchildren to get to know their grandfather. The letters paint such a vivid picture of this beautiful man. Then there was the pleasure of rediscovering the notes that we concocted for Father’s Day. We would send James on a scavenger hunt around town. The kids would deliver the first note to him with breakfast on the morning of Father’s Day. The note would contain instructions for retrieving his father’s day gift. Go get in your pickup and drive to Buckner Park. Find the note before it gets dark. No need to push us on the merry go round. Another note still needs to be found. James would find the note on the merry go round and read the next set of instructions. Now drive to the lake and search the barge. The clue left there is not very large. We would all pile back into the truck and off we would go to the barge to look for a note that would contain directions to the next clue. The search would continue and I realize that we were sent on an exploration of places that meant the most to my kids. As I look back now, I think these must have been the greatest father’s day gifts ever. It wasn’t the present that was finally revealed at the end of the chase that was so magnificent, but it was all of us in the truck watching James’ reactions to the clues that was the true gift. These notes, those times, will be forever priceless to me and my kids. These notes show my kids the art of giving from the heart. These notes remind them of what it was like to be a child adored by their father. These notes help keep James alive.
Notes and letters serve many missions. Growing up with seven brothers, it was always enlightening to just sit back and soak up the art of dating. There never seemed to be a lack of females hanging around our house. My brother Bill, in particular seemed to be a “chick magnet”. After reading some of his notes, I am not really sure why. One note that we still discuss from time to time at Sunday lunch is the “scratch and send” note. It went something like this: Dear Mary Jane, I like you very much. Would you like to go steady? If the answer is yes, that is good! If the answer is no, then please scratch out your name and put in Margo’s name and pass it on to her. Always, Bill. Now, I know that Bill has a killer smile. And, I am aware that all of my brothers have movie star good looks (especially to teenage girls). But I cannot understand how the “scratch and send” note could not tarnish his image just a little. This is a note that proved that the pen is a mighty sword when it comes to love (especially teenage girls). The more notes of this nature that were sent, the more abundant the candidates (especially teenage girls)! Sometimes love just does not make sense.
I love reading the letters my older siblings would send home from college. They would all start with the obligatory, Hi all. Hope you are all fine. I am really studying hard. Unfailingly there would be a mention of their love life away from home. Mom, I had a date with Chuck! Now I am completely snowed over three boys: Chuck, Doyle, and Michael! What do I do? or I am winding up my physics lab and need to study for my calculus exam, but I have to tell you that I finally got a date with that beautiful girl I was telling you about! I just hope that it is not the only date I have with her! I really like the girl from last week, but I have had my eye on this one forever! or I am still in love but I don’t guess there is anything I can do about it. Any suggestions? or Dear Mom, I know you really liked the girl I brought home last weekend, but don’t get your hopes up. I just don’t think she is going to work out. There is an unending line of letters and each seems to get around to the dilemmas of dating. When I analyze this situation, I see that my parents were completely immersed in all phases of falling in love. There were the “circle yes or no” kids in elementary school, kids in middle school with hormones raging, kids in high school where the dating game was in full force, and kids in college where weekly they were hearing many names with which they could not even put a face. For a parent, there could not have been enough right answers. There could not have been enough consolation. There could not have been enough talks. There could not have been more worry. And yet the letters, from the ones written in elementary school to the ones sent home from college, show that we knew the answers would be there and that we were not concerned about the worry we caused. We were not apprehensive about broken hearts or meeting “the one”. Finding the love of our life was just another adventure to write about, and if we followed the example set before us, all would be good.
The letters sent from college did not solely address the love lives of the Swanson clan. There were the ones that had several variations on this note. I’m at work right now. But I just wanted to warn you that I might get a D in Government. I made a 65 on my test. I’ve decided to quit studying because I do just as well when I don’t study. Grades were often mentioned in the letters, but I could not find one letter to my parents that did not ask about the “little ones left at home”. Please tell Mary Claire, Bill, Martin, Lucy, Randy, Pat, Grace, and Sallie hi for me. Tell Bill and Martin to beat Brenham in football…..remember that last game when they beat us 72 to nothing? Sometimes money was the theme. Thanks for the $50 check but I am sending it back. I am not trying to be dramatic or Harry Hero, but I would really feel bad about taking money this close to Christmas with all the little ones still at home. I would rather you spend this money on them. The topics were endless and varied, but from the time Cookie left for Austin until Sallie was packed and gone to the University there was a unifying theme that all of us seemed to pick as a topic. Dear Dad and Mom, There are many things that I know you probably want, but none of those things are what I really want to give to you. I want to give to you what is way down deep in my heart. I want you to know the special, wonderful feelings for you that are always inside me, yet there are no words that can express them. Just the other day when I was leaving for school I looked back just in time to see you walking back into the house. I wanted so much to go back to kiss you goodbye and thank you over and over not only for the wonderful time I had over the holiday, but for being such ideal parents. There are only 10 other people in the whole world who are as lucky as I am. This theme was found in letters from all eleven children. I never knew that the others wrote letters expressing gratitude for our family and upbringing until just in the last few years. How amazing that they were all so much alike. From James’s love letters, my kid’s cards and notes, experiencing my brothers and sisters growing up years, leaving home, finding that special someone; to the Cousin’s Club Express, the written word is there for our family to enjoy for an eternity. Cell phones and email have cut down on some of this correspondence, but in reality, not much has changed. Even as the next generation of our family reads through these notes, they can still readily identify with the feelings and emotions brought forth with each story. Times change, but life stays the same. Papa’s letter to my older brothers shows that advice from forty five years ago is timeless:

10/9/63
Instructions On How To Pick A Wife

Dear Cookie, Hunty, and Jimmie,
Pick one close to the church: I don’t say that she has to be a Catholic…but she surely needs to be one that will eventually make a good Catholic because the Church helps to hold a family together and she is the one that will have to turn the family toward God and the Catholic church is a way to do this.
Pick one that won’t be selfish (Now or later):
A wife has to go through years and years of hard work, self denials, anxieties and constant pressures, so you have to project a long way forward and see if one is really good enough to have this kind of love and compassion ten or twenty years from now and keep it during the times the going gets toughest and times when it looks as if others always get the breaks because these things are true no matter what level of income or living you prove capable of providing.
Pick one that you love:
Since you will have to go through so much of the same self denials, so many of the same anxieties and pressures and so much of the same hard work (except to a much, much lesser degree than your wife) it will be necessary for you to have a lot of this love, too. It will have to be enduring in order for you to get over the “low spots” yourself.
Pick one that will help you:
If a wife is great enough to spread her love if and when there are kids and still have enough left over to keep you with the feeling that you still have the same amount of love from her that you had before it was necessary to spread it evenly to so many or to others in the family then you will receive a lot of help in anything that you do just from this alone.
Pick one of which you will always be proud:
Besides the fact that you feel so good when you hear others just time and time again tell you and other people all about the wonderful mother of your children, there is another thing that this pride does for me. Any time I get “down in the dumps” I can go anywhere with your mother and if there are other people about, I can, just by looking around and seeing her against others (and also by stopping to count to 11 at the same time) get out of the “dumps” and realize what a lucky man I am and realize something else, too….That I did such a good job of picking a wife and mother that I can be justified in taking the pleasure of writing this “guide” to you.

This letter can be used through the ages and the words will live forever. As will my crumpled, worn copy of a letter from James. Dear Lucy, I don’t speak many words but I want you to know that I love you more than anything in the world. Even though you are away at college and I am here, you are still with me and always will be. I hope you know that I am with you, too. You will always be my punkin. Love, James