Sunday Lunch

Dessert

2009-09-04T11:19:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-04T11:17:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-04T11:13:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-04T10:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-04T10:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-04T10:28:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-04T10:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-04T10:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-04T10:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-04T09:51:00.000-07:00

"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

Childbirth

2009-08-29T18:36:00.000-07:00

Childbirth must be just as an emotional experience for a father as it is for a mother. James and I had four kids in 5 ½ years. We knew we wanted several kids, and I wanted to be able to stay home with them for as long as I could; so we saw no reason for spreading this child birth thing out over too much time. When our oldest daughter was born, James took one look at her and decided right then and there that he wanted ten little girls. He was overcome with instantaneous love and adoration. His mistake came when he informed me of his decision to have 9 more little girls. It was 23 minutes after Kristin was born. I am glad now that he was so taken with his daughter that he could not read the raw emotion that the mere mention of having just one more child brought forth in me, much less enduring the process for 9 more occasions. Timing is everything. The experience of childbirth proved to be quite emotional for my dad as well. My mom was in labor for many hours with their firstborn child. Consequently, when my oldest brother, Cookie, arrived kicking, screaming, rather cone-headed, and a little red-faced, my father took one look at him and got all queasy. He, too, had something to say 23 minutes after the miraculous birth of his first child. Papa assured Bama, the infant’s grandmother, and his mother, that he knew he would be able to clothe the child. He knew he could feed the child and not let it starve. But, he also felt a certain assuredness that he would never, under any circumstances, be able to love that child that was screaming there in the nursery window. Now, please keep in mind that these were the times when no one was allowed in the delivery room. He did not see my mother during active labor. He did not witness the unrelenting hours of pain followed by the instant maternal love which makes any suffering worthwhile. When he finally got to see my mother for the first time after the birth of their first child; he told her that he just could not go through something like this ever again. There was entirely too much stress involved in giving birth to a baby.

My mother grew to love her stays in the hospital. The hospital staff in Navasota called it her yearly vacation. How things in the world of obstetrics have changed! It is a good thing that mom kept all of her receipts from her hospital stays or I might have openly questioned not only the money, but the length of her stays with each birth. When Cookie was born, Mom stayed in the hospital for 3 full weeks. The cost for the hospital, nursery, delivery room, and any other extra expenses for the three week stay was $53.00. She was not to get up out of her bed until there was someone there to help, and then only for a short trek. The nurses brought the swaddled child in once every four hours to eat. The schedule did not, could not, and dared not vary. Children under twelve were not allowed on the maternity floor at that time. At each birth, Papa would line all of us up on the sidewalk outside of the hospital to watch my mom wave at us through her window. The line of waving siblings kept getting longer and longer with each birth. I think that the line of cars that would drive by to see the line of waving kids also got longer and longer. Birthing one of the Swanson’s was a community event in Navasota. The staff delegated Room 104 to be the Mary Grace Swanson room in the maternity ward. Not often was anyone else allowed to use that room. Rarely was it available. When Sallie was born, Mom’s bill had increased and her hospital stay time had decreased. Her vacation with Sallie only lasted 7 days and her bill rose to an astronomical $252.00.

I know that Mom had several things to wonder about each time she headed home from the hospital. Where would this child sleep? When would she herself find time to sleep? Would she get all these names mixed up? Who would go to the store? Who would keep an eye on all the other little ones? What number child was this again? What would the house look like after her latest vacation? Who would be the most excited to see a new sibling? The questions swirling around, I am sure, were endless. However, she would not have to spend as much time getting to know the intimate idiosyncrasies of each child like some parents would have to do. Many traits were already known purely by the order of the child’s birth. This is another strange phenomenon that has seemed to occur only in my family. The legitimacy and strength of this particular Swanson family trait is undeniable. Before the baby could talk, or walk, or even roll over; we all knew the most vital and important facts of its life. I mean the really crucial things. Things like what they liked on their sandwich. If the baby was an odd numbered child, it would like mayonnaise. If it was an even numbered sibling, it would only eat mustard. What kind of candy would it take to make the child quiet and happy? Odd numbered children would eat Milk Duds; even numbered kids preferred Jr. Mints. If you are opening a can of tomato soup for an odd numbered kid, you better have a can of chicken noodle for the even numbered one. The behaviors of each of the odd numbered children were all identical. We were more out-going and boisterous. Our mouths were seldom closed. We acted exclusively on impulse, and thrived on activity and excitement. We worked better under pressure. Our personalities could best be summed up by the motto, “ready, shoot, aim.” Every other sibling in line had the exact opposite traits. The even numbered children were quiet and thoughtful. They needed to have order and planning in their life. They loved to dress nicely and could sit and read, or converse, or ponder for hours. Decisions were difficult to make, for all options needed to be weighed and each consequence assessed. The motto that governed their existence was, “ready, aim…aim…aim…aim, oh, here; one of you odd numbered kids shoot!” Life was a perfect balance of harmony if no one disturbed the dependability of evens and odds. For breakfast there were scrambled eggs, and fried eggs. For peace, an odd sat by an even. For laughs, there was an audience for a comedian. For production, there was a plan for ideas. For secrets, there was always exactly who you needed. Life was odd, but seemed pretty even.

Even with the quirks of the evens and odds, it seems there was still a pretty distinct individuality with each child. Are personalities determined by birth order, by experiences, by locale, by family values, by how long your mother’s vacation in the hospital was? It seems there was plenty of fodder for research in my family alone to be able to efficiently answer this question. Aside from the “even and oddness” that existed, the birth order inarguably played a great factor in the development of who we were. When my older three brothers would leave home, my mom would always call out to them. “Cookie, don’t get into trouble; Hunty, don’t get hurt, and Jimmie, don’t hurt anyone!” The three boy’s personalities were also poignantly clear in the home video of them jumping off of the high diving board at the Navasota city pool. Cookie was Captain America. He posed for the camera, and made sure everyone was watching. Because his two younger brothers were already on the diving board ready for their turn, he gave last minute instructions to them on where to stand and when to go. Once again posing for the camera before his launch from the high dive, he raised his muscle man arms and took off and seemed to be animated all the way to the water. Hunty, the 2nd born, was next. Slowly, agonizingly, cautiously he crept to the end of the board. He checked to see where his brother had landed. He calculated the length of time he would be in the air before hitting the water. He counted his steps back and forth from the ladder to the end of the board realizing as the line of people waiting to dive got longer and longer that there was no way down but off the end of the board and into the water. Again, he took his stance by the ladder. He warily took himself closer and closer to the end of the board determined that he could make himself jump this time. He held his nose and kept walking right off the diving board. Before he hit the water, Jimmie had launched himself cannonball style right over Hunty hitting the water before his older brother did. These same personalities were seemingly repeated again, along with the personalities of the 4th and 5th children as the last five little ones came along. Once again, mom did not have to wonder about who she was bringing home from the hospital. Birth order. There is something to be said for its influence.

After having four kids of my own, I have learned that much advice is dispensed on the whole event of childbirth. Everyone has a different story of what would, could or should occur both during birth and during the raising of the perfect child. Personally, I was pretty sure I knew it all and did not need everyone else’s advice. I was number 7. Seven is an odd number. As I look back now, I realize that my mom was pregnant for 100 months. Although she did not offer advice unless she was specifically asked, any guidance given by my mom should have been listened to. As I was steadfast in my belief of the natural childbirth method, I remember now that I did hear her offer a tidbit for me to consider. “Lucy, as far as childbirth goes, let me just say that I have had a child every way there is to have one. Take all they offer to give you!” Then there were those things that she didn’t say but as I look back I see that they were spoken in volumes. “Yes, I know that you are an odd numbered child and you will like certain things.” “Yes, I understand that you are the oldest and you need to have someone to lead.” “Yes, I know that you will need to share your room with one more person and at times it might make you feel lost.” “Yes, I understand that you love your brother or sister more than anything, but just needed to yell.” “Yes, I can forget the cleaning and cooking and read you a story.” All those “yeses” helped each one of us from childbirth on to know without a single doubt the most important part of raising a child. Without her ever saying a word, you could always hear loud and clear from her actions that “ yes, you are my child, and you are my favorite.”

The Menagerie

2009-08-29T18:17:00.001-07:00

When I moved to Austin, Texas, I was hoping to allow my heart to find a time and a place to heal. I hoped that the environment of a bigger city would be different enough from the small town atmosphere to keep my mind occupied on something other than my loss. I found respite in the walks I could enjoy on the beautiful hike and bike trails that are woven throughout the city and I immersed myself in this daily activity. The repetition, the challenge, and the release of endorphins allowed me a chance to slowly learn to live again. I was able now to notice things that I had never paid attention to before. Things like pets. On these walking trails, many people bring their pets. I started to notice that, either Austin people were completely different in the way they treated their pets, or big city folks had to handle their pets differently than those in a rural community. As I walked and observed, I tried to remember the pets that have been a part of my life both as a child and as a parent. The memories that are so vivid to me, the ones that make me smile, would probably scare the pet loving people that I see in the city. I can tell that the pets on the trails and in the parks are well loved and cherished. Just as the pets of my childhood were. I can see that city pets come in every shape, size and model. As did the pets I remember so clearly. The pets in the city are well groomed, well behaved, and well trained. Not at all what I recall from my pets of the past.

Tinker. I have heard that people tend to resemble their pets. I have looked closely at my siblings, my parents, and myself; and thankfully I cannot find any support for that myth. I know I may just be too close to the situation to be an impartial judge. However, my first and most lasting memories of our dog Tinker, don’t really remind me of any members of my family. Tinker lasted through all of the Swanson children. She was very old when she died. I know during her lifetime she had guarded my brothers during their escapades, listened to complaints from whomever needed to purge themselves, hidden behind bushes during games of hide and go seek, and given birth almost as many times as my mother. Tinker never complained. Tinker never left home. Tinker never took sides. Tinker was always loved as a member of the family. And, Tinker was not too pretty. She was a cocker spaniel and actually was a pretty dog until she got hit by a car. She lived, but one of her eyes was destroyed in the accident. The result was very unattractive, but none of us really cared. We were just proud she was alive. When others saw Tinker for the very first time, you could hear the quick intake of breath when they spotted the mutilation surrounding her eye. It took this reaction from others to remind us that our dog was not a normal looking dog. The stories at the lunch table always have a reference to Tinker or one of her offspring, Briquetta. I am not really sure why my mom consented to letting us keep one of Tinker’s puppies. That was just one more mouth to feed. I know that Tinker was getting up in years and perhaps Mom saw this pup as one who could fill the empty spot when our beloved Tinker was gone. The puppy’s name came about pretty naturally. My dad manufactured charcoal. When we saw Tinker’s puppy for the first time, we noticed the special markings of her fur. She had a soft, curly black coat, and her paws were all a light gray color that extended halfway up her legs and just simply faded into the black fur. It reminded all of us of a partially burned charcoal briquette. Because she was female, we made the adjustment and added “etta” to briquette. I am sure that no other family in the entire world would have seen a partially burned briquette when they looked at this dog, but it was crystal clear to us. We knew charcoal.
Although I might hesitate to utter this sentiment aloud in Austin, Texas, I have discovered that I am not a real dog lover. Of course I would never want any harm to come to any pet, but I just have no desire to put forth all of the effort that it takes to keep a dog alive, healthy, active and happy. It was perfect when I had children at home. My kids needed a pet for the same reasons that my siblings and I needed one when I grew up. A pet’s love is unconditional and life lessons are learned just by the caretaking involved. My kids were the Persons In Charge of our dog. Consequently, Boofers was worshipped. Boofers. I cannot even begin to rationalize from whence the name came. Boofers had a dog house built by one of the premier builders in East Texas. You would think it would be a thing of beauty. It was solid. And, it was sturdy. But it was kid decorated and the name “Boofers” was the biggest thing painted on the outside of the house. Boofers was part border collie and part chow and was rescued from the pound. Boofers stubbornly refused to ride in a vehicle of any sort. (We are pretty sure she did not react in this manner to transportation until we took her to the vet to have some medical attention and had to leave her for a few days.) Being married to a home builder, part of our life involved packing up and moving quite often. Try as we might, we could never get Boofers in the truck to move with us. I guess she just learned to recognize that when a trailer was being loaded with furniture, it would soon be time to take off on another “trek”. Thank goodness our moving was confined to Jacksonville. Moving day was the only time Boofers would ever leave the house and she would only leave then on foot. No amount of bribing or coaxing would convince the dog that we were not going back to the vet. So, as we made our move to a new home, all four kids would hang out of the windows of the truck whistling and encouraging Boofers along. We would make stops often to try to get her on board but to no avail. It would sometimes take a couple of days to have Boofer’s breathing return to a regular pattern after a move, but she obviously felt that it was worth it. I am sure our neighbors thought that we were abusers. The labored breathing from long trips was probably not the only reason that onlookers would tend to question our treatment of Boofers. Our kids also tended to the grooming of our animal. Apparently this was another huge difference in the city dogs on the trails and the dog that belonged to my kids. When my son would trim Boofer’s fur in the summer time, he would want her to match the lawn that he had just mowed. With the lawn mower Bud had meticulously mowed his name in the grass. The letters were cut large enough and deep enough that they were easily seen and quite legible to everyone driving by the house. If passersby could tear their eyes away from the strange trimming of the yard, they would notice the dog whose fur sported the same name. B-U-D was buzzed into Boofers fur so that he could match the yard. That way, I was told, our dog would not have to wear a collar. It was be easy to find where she belonged if she ever got lost. As the years went on, and the groomings occurred less often, Boofers’ adverse reaction to getting bathed took on a force equal to that of her desire to never ride in a car. The fur around Boofers hind legs was so matted that it almost became animated as she walked. My kids’ friends came over just to see Boofers. They loved our dog with the funny fur and I am quite sure that the looks of our pet became topics of Sunday lunches all over town.

A portion of the stories at lunchtime dealt with Jake, the bird dog that my dad so romantically presented to mom on her anniversary. However, dogs were not the only pets that were part of our formative years. My brother Bill could only have been thinking of his younger brothers and sisters when he brought home some guinea pigs for us to keep while he was away at college. And, Martin had all five of us digging a pit in the back yard for the alligator that he acquired. We each took turns feeding the pet gator, and were often forced to build small fires in the pit to keep it from freezing. One of my brothers brought home a boa constrictor. What excitement that stirred in our house! No one else had a boa constrictor and thus another reason existed for a line of visitors to keep filing into the Swanson home. So that my mom would not have to worry about feeding the snake, Bill also brought home a little white mouse for the snake to eat. Anxious to see nature at work, several of the brave kids stood around as the mouse was dropped into the cage with the snake. Minutes passed and nothing happened. Minutes turned into hours and still the mouse was not touched by the snake. We decided that the snake would not eat until night time so we all turned in for the evening. My uncle was visiting us at the time and he was asleep in the room with the snake. Uncle Jim was my dad’s older brother and had no kids of his own. I am sure that each visit to our home was an experience, but this particular visit must have been one of his most memorable. Early the next morning, those that were anywhere near Uncle Jim’s room could hear the exact time when he awoke. The kind, gentle, quiet man was heard quite loudly and clearly the next morning when he exclaimed, “My God, it’s a rat!” My brothers went rushing in to check on him and saw that the little white mouse that was supposed to be snake food was sitting on Uncle Jim’s chest enjoying a siesta outside of his cage of doom. Quickly the mouse was returned to the cage. The next morning, as we checked on the status of the mouse, we were all surprised to see that this mouse had not become dinner for the snake. The snake had become the meal for the mouse! I am pretty sure that this was an occurrence that could not have happened in any other home. Combine 11 kids, a bachelor uncle, a boa constrictor, and a mouse and you just never know what might happen next. Never a dull moment.

The hamster/ gerbil phase was big in our line of pets, too. I know that my brother Pat saved enough money to buy 4 gerbils one year. We kept them in a cage in the den. I am not sure how much food those gerbils had, but as I look back, I know that each one of us would give them a little food each time we passed through the den. That had to be a lot of food, even for rats. One day my mom was pretty upset that one of the gerbils had escaped, but she calmly reached down, caught the rodent by his tail and plopped him back into the gerbil den. As she turned to leave, she stopped to count the number of gerbils. There seemed to be one extra. Upon closer inspection, she realized that she had just picked up a mouse and tossed him into the cage with the gerbils. Another testimony as to the vastness of my mother’s endless capabilities! My own kids also had hamster experiences. Rambo the hamster, that was cousin Hunter’s school take home charge over the summer, provided lots of entertainment for everyone. Sometimes the adults were not privy to the various methods of entertainment until it was too late. For instance, on one occasion, the kids would each grab a corner of a blanket, place the hamster in the middle of the blanket, and see how far in the air they could “flick” Rambo. The hamster seemed to be enjoying the rides and so they moved the hamster launching pad to the den where the ceiling was much higher and the little guy could fly even further! 1….2…..3….flick….fly! When we heard the laughter in the den getting louder and louder we went to check out the source of the fun. We opened the door and distracted the “flicking” of Rambo. When the kids turned to look at who was entering the room the blanket went much tauter and the hamster consequently went much higher. Rambo went so high that it hit the moving ceiling fan and was sent flying off of the fan blades and across the room. After slamming into the wall, and sliding down to the floor Rambo seemed a little dazed and confused. All of the kids were concerned but after a while, Rambo seemed to recover without any ill effects. I am sure that it was the only hamster in history that was actually grateful when school started up again and it could return to the peace and quiet of 25 school children on a daily basis.

I guess the list of pets and this chapter could go on and on and on. Pets at Easter time were highly anticipated. Papa would always bring home brightly colored chicks for all of the kids. We would sit and play with the chicks for hours upon hours. We each had our own special color of chicken. I know that after Easter the chicks were always taken out to a farm where they would have a better chance of living a peaceful life. Well, those chicks that made it through the holiday were taken to the farm. As we all shared the status of our chicks with our parents each evening, Randy, the calmest and most gentle of the younger boys, always had the same report for his pet. His line was always, “My chicken died.” He delivered it the same way, in the same tone, with the same sadness each year. We never really figured out what happened to Randy’s Easter chickens. We just knew that without fail, it was always, “my chicken died”.

I understand that most people cannot relate to these unusual pet episodes. Many would cringe as they think that these animals were possibly even abused. I did not see it that way. No animals could have had more love lavished on them by more people. Although hamsters are not supposed to go flying through the air, my kids got to see first hand how being careless could really harm something that was alive. Just telling them that they could hurt Rambo would not have made such an impact. All of my kids have dogs today and the houses of those dogs are decorated by their kids. So far, all of their fur remains nameless. Just yesterday, we gathered most of the Swanson clan for Easter at Martin and Jackie’s ranch. This has become a tradition that is much anticipated each year. My Mom, now 87 years young, was, as always, the guest of honor. I watched her as she studied the crowd. Was she wondering who was going to say “mine died” as she watched her grandkids play with the still present brightly colored chicks? Did it bring back memories of anniversary presents, gerbils, white rats, and Tinker? I am not ever quite sure what goes through her mind as she studies all of the action at these family gatherings. I know she has been a source of inspiration to me as I continue to search for a way to heal. I hate for her to see me hurting, but know that she is one of the few that can truly understand the pain of my loss. There she was on Easter Sunday surrounded by her family. I watched her as she covertly studied me to see how I was coping. She leaned over with that ever present wry smile, held out her arms to indicate the chaos and said, “Just look what I started.” As I turned to take a more focused look around I saw exactly what she meant. I think I could see what I know now that James must have felt at these gatherings. I saw the kids, the grandkids, the great-grandkids, the in-laws, and an assortment of pets. Even if James and Papa are gone, there will always be part of “what they started” present. I smiled and watched my grandkids as they played with the chickens on Easter Sunday. I smiled as it was my own kids’ turn to rescue dirty dogs and flying hamsters. And, I could actually smile at the end of the day when I softly whispered, “Look, James. See what we started?”

Luxurious Entertainment

2009-08-28T17:19:00.000-07:00

Entertainment. It was built in. There was always someone to play with. Always a team or two for baseball. Always enough to play a game of kick the can after dark. Always a Batcave that needed superheroes. Always someone to organize surprises. Always someone around to put on plays and plenty still left to be the audience. Always a building crew nearby for the forts that needed to be constructed. Always a swimming pool to be dug. Always treasures to search for. Always clues to encourage explorations in the woods. Always picnics to be enjoyed. And, there were always neighbors nearby who did not want to miss out on any excitement. There never seemed to be a dull moment around our house. I am not sure that we even recognized that there was constant level of stimulation surrounding our home. (I do know that after we moved to Jacksonville, every single house on our block of Fort Worth Street, except for the brave Kerzee and Groom families, was put on the market in the next few years.) No matter what kind of entertainment was on tap at the moment, because of the sheer number of people involved, a certain level of excitement always accompanied every activity. I guess excitement can be defined in a number of ways. Perhaps age has something to do with the definition. Maybe those who were not members of a large family had a different image in their head of what excitement really was. I am almost positive that when you achieved parenthood, your idea of excitement definitely changed. I am pretty sure that different levels of excitement exist no matter who you are or where you come from or what your position in life might be at the time. No matter who was observing my parents’ life there could be no doubt that sheer madness was their constant companion. How did my mom and dad maintain such a consistent level of tranquility with all the exciting entertainment? As I hear story after story at Sunday lunch, and look back on my own kid’s exciting adventures, I am sure that my parent’s serenity was a result of only one thing. Practice. Day in and day out the constant level of worry, scurry, and mayhem could either wear them out or they could just adjust to the idea that this abnormal amount of activity was their normal. Did they practice counting to 50? Did they practice hiding their worries? Did they practice suppressing moans? Or did they learn to just give in and enjoy the ride?

Surely with all of this constant entertainment, there was a need for my parents to have some down time. I know that when my kids were young, a trip to the grocery store all by myself was a luxury. James would always recognize when I sorely needed a break, and off I would go to the exciting world of grocery shopping. All alone and unattended. Pure indulgence. I realize now that bringing home a 4th child brought about the idea that grocery shopping could be luxurious. I certainly had never thought of that activity in those terms before. What, then, could constitute such an indulgence if you were to come home with your 9th, 10th, or even 11th child? Perhaps just a moment of peace and quiet in the midst of all of the excitement of everyday life could be simply sumptuous. When I hear about the day that occurred during the 2nd week after Pat was brought home from the hospital, I marvel at the complacency with which my mom tells the story. Pat was the 9th child and mom seemed to be able to exist on little or no sleep. My oldest brother had decided he would try to help my mom and take some of the kids away from the house for awhile. Pat was just 2 weeks old, mom needed rest, and Cookie was more than willing to help entertain the masses. With promises of excitement and entertainment for the youngsters, and armed with the help of the older kids, he piled as many of us as he could into the little English Ford and we all took out for a spin. This left the house relatively quiet for mom. Along with the newborn, there were only 2 toddlers left at home. I imagine that Mom put this moment down as one of luxury. Only 3 children at home for at least an hour meant plenty of time to recharge and recoup. As Cookie entertained his brothers and sisters I guess that the level of excitement must have started to wane a little. After all, there were so many people crammed into one car and we had been on so many “drives” for so many different reasons, that we had seen all there was to see in Navasota. Leave it to Cookie, though, to make sure that there would not be a dull moment for us. What would be wrong with seeing if the little English Ford (loaded with 6 little Swansons) could fit on the railroad tracks? It certainly looked as though the wheels were about the same width as the railroad tracks that wound their way through downtown Navasota. With much encouragement from Hunter and Jimmie; and with the inspiring looks of awe that he constantly received from the younger kids, Cookie guided the Ford onto the tracks. There was success for a minute, but of course, there was no way that the car could stay on the tracks for long. And, of course, there was no way the car was coming off of the tracks, either. Now, this was excitement! Try as they might, the boys could not get the car free from the tracks. Being the resourceful son that he was, Cookie sent Bill running home to tell mom that somehow the car got stuck on the train tracks downtown. In the meantime, a crowd was gathering to watch the latest Swanson situation. A train was scheduled to arrive on the tracks in the next few minutes. When Bill arrived home out of breath to relay the situation to mom, she was galvanized into action. As she tells the story, she says she “grabbed the infant off of the top bunk and swept the two toddlers under her arms.” She went to my grandmother’s house in the block behind our house to find a vehicle that could take her to the rescue. (When I ask her why there was an infant on the top bunk she just shrugs and says, “That’s just where I put him!”) She piles the group of kids into the only car available. Never mind that the car did not have brakes; there were children to be rescued, and surely she could manage. As Bill guides her through downtown toward the location of the trouble, she spots my dad’s car parked at the coffee shop. Without use of any brakes, she whips the car around and coasts to a halt in front of the cafe. After explaining the situation, my dad, and the rest of the coffee shop regulars, head for the tracks in the next block. One man runs down the railroad line in hopes of flagging down the train that is now well on its way to town. Several men, along with most of my brothers, helped to lift the car off of the track as the train grinded to a halt before there was any harm or damage inflicted to anyone or anything. My dad thanks his friends, the train starts back on its journey, the kids all pile back into the little English Ford, the townspeople head back home and we are all idly wondering what we would have for dinner that night. My mom had already returned home and missed the car being lifted off of the tracks. At the telling of this story, I am shocked that she did not stay to see if the train actually stopped before ramming the car. How did she make herself leave before knowing that all of her kids were safe? She calmly explains that she knew that everyone was out of the car and that Papa was in charge of the situation. She needed to make sure that she could get home safely with no brakes and since everyone in town was near the tracks watching all of the excitement, the most practical time to leave was right then while there was no one on the road. She had to keep making several extra turns around several extra blocks to make sure that the car would slow down, but she, too, arrived home safe and sound. I know that the coffee shop and Pookie’s beauty shop and Pederson’s Drug Store had plenty to talk about that day. Accounts of the near miss provided lots of entertainment for everyone around town. For my mom and dad, it was just another typical day at the office. The more that I look back, the more I realize that it must have taken a massive amount of creativity to be able to recognize when one of those moments of luxurious peace and quiet actually occurred. My parents must have intuitively known when to grab hold of those sweet, uncomplicated, sparse moments of calm, and bask in the peacefulness that each one must have brought. Is that why I have such a clear picture of my 5 foot tall mom standing on tip toe to kiss my 6 foot 2 tall dad every single morning before he left for work and every single evening when he returned home from work? Were they just grabbing a moment of peace?
The train story is just one of the Sunday lunch stories that show me that, indeed, everything is relative. Things like excitement, entertainment, and luxury. Sure, the kids were stuck on the railroad tracks, but all of us felt the thrill of being alive. Maybe the rescue vehicle didn’t have any brakes, but how capable my mom must have felt to have beaten the odds. Perhaps the respite from having everyone underfoot did not last quite as long as anticipated, but just look how the younger kids kept putting Cookie higher and higher on a pedestal for his powers of entertainment. Maybe there was always a bit a drama surrounding our family, but just consider how a whole village was mesmerized. I am sure that there were nerves that were stretched thin during the whole escapade, but it was followed up with smiles and what ifs and a gratefulness that is still crystal clear as the story is told today. As I look back on my childhood and life, I see that perhaps we did not recognize until later the pure luxury of having parents that handled constant excitement with such a strong sense of confidence and calm. After becoming a parent myself, I will be forever grateful that their actions helped me to recognize and acknowledge the most ultimate of luxuries. The luxury of having a husband with kind, gentle, strong and capable arms that could hold me tight through all forms of excitement. The luxury of having a husband who knew how to enjoy all that life could throw at him. The luxury of having a husband who could recognize and share those rare moments of peace that are sometimes hidden when raising children. Truly there are forms of entertainment that make the heart grow stronger. How luxurious to be able to sit back and really enjoy the ride.

The Mayor

2009-08-24T09:03:00.000-07:00

Papa always seemed a giant among men. Does everyone inherently feel that way about their father? Maybe it was his tall stature, or his persistently calm demeanor, or perhaps it was the smile that emanated from way down deep inside that made each one of us feel as though everything would be okay as long as Papa was around. Apparently we were not the only ones who felt that way. Papa was elected mayor of our hometown of Navasota. I look back now and wonder where in the world he found the time to take the reins of this small town. I am sure he thought if he could run his extraordinarily large family with an appearance of success, then running the town would be nothing. Part of the confidence people placed in my dad came from the unquestioning supposition that he would always do what was right. If we ever found ourselves wavering on what we should or should not do, he would tilt his head to the side a little, and calmly say, “Just do what you feel is right.” No more questioning, no arguing and no explanations. Just the calm delivery of his basic philosophy of life, and his absolute belief in us. He lived pretty simply for someone who seemed so important. He would leave his charcoal plant and head for a meeting with the town council. Papa did not run home and change clothes. He would just fold his long legs to scrunch his 6 foot 2 inch frame in his tiny car, head for town hall, stomp his charcoal covered feet at the door and become the town’s mayor as he entered the building dusting the black soot off of his clothes. He was real. He was honest. He was stable. I am sure he was to Navasota what he was to our family. The voice of reason in a mass of confusion. The reality that there is so much goodness all around us if we just take a minute to look. The gentleness that makes you understand that there is beauty everywhere; in clouds, in colors, in architecture, in food, in family, in Sunday drives, in quiet, and even in chaos.

Papa would never dream of calling in favors by using his position of mayor. His children, however, seemed to have a little trouble understanding this particular stand. There were times when “my dad’s the mayor” just came in way too handy. Bill and Martin in particular seemed to invoke that statement much more often than the rest of us. One of the major advantages of being part of a large family is that playmates were built in. Bill and Martin woke up every morning ready for an adventure. Their imaginations sparked such remarkable excursions! I am sure that most of these exploits did not intend to involve the law, but with them, even a simple game of good old neighborhood football could provide extra excitement. On one particular occasion, the gang had gathered at the football field for a quick pick-up game. The next play was on the verge of being snapped when Bill’s attention was drawn toward a movement off to the side of the field. As the boys studied the object, they noticed that whatever was causing the commotion was closing in on them. And “it” was coming at them pretty fast. But, they knew no fear. They were the self-appointed protectors of the city of Navasota, Texas. As the object drew nearer, they all stood stock still and watched in amazement as the animal came loping toward them. According to the story the animal was an escaped kangaroo. As their interest grew, so did the realization that if this was indeed an animal that had escaped from a circus (and where else would a kangaroo come from?) then there would no doubt be quite a sizeable reward for its capture and return. The kangaroo leapt across the entire width of the football field in only 2 gigantic bounds, and the boys were in hot pursuit. Now, you must keep in mind that the adventure started on the actual high school football field which was close to downtown Navasota. Their chase took them past the statue of LaSalle and behind houses. They sailed past downtown businesses and darted through alleyways. The caravan of kids chased the kangaroo to a vacant house which the animal skirted beneath to hide (or rest). According to who tells the story, it was without any thoughts of danger to themselves and only the desire to protect all of Navasota that they tried to crawl under the house to flush out the beast. Our dog, Tinker, growled and snapped at the boys as she tried to protect them from their zealousness. The dog was the only thing standing between the boys and the underground hiding spot of the animal. After several anxious moments, the kangaroo made a mad dash from the back side of the house and the chase continued. They ran back through the streets of downtown and headed to the creek which runs through Navasota. Finally, they had the animal cornered. After studying the situation, the boys were not sure what to do next. Although it was hidden in the brush and not plainly visible, the animal was definitely trapped. The gang decided they would need extra reinforcements to capture the beast. They played a quick paper, rock, scissors game to decide who would call the police this time. Martin, the youngest in the group, lost and had to make the rescue call. Martin called for the help of Navasota’s finest. Now, the police department had experienced calls from the Swanson kids before and tried to be polite and understanding as they told the boys to let the animal go. Kangaroos would probably not inflict harm on anyone. But persistence, and a vision of the weapons that could be bought with reward money, ignited their desire to succeed and they would not be put off so easily. This was not Martin’s lucky day as the 2nd paper, rock, scissors routine landed him the odd man out once again. He repeated the call to the police department and announced that his dad was mayor and if someone did not come out to help with this situation, and come quickly, he would have them all fired. Not only the police, but the fire department as well became involved in the hunt for the escaped kangaroo. It seems that the animal was captured quite easily once the law arrived on the scene. As it turned out, the animal was not actually a kangaroo. When you think about it, a greyhound dog could easily be confused with a kangaroo if it was being chased and was traveling at a high rate of speed.

Papa was not the only important person in town. The boys had a club whose main mission was the protection of the citizens of Navasota. The club, whose numbers varied but seemed to hover around ten, had meeting places all over town. However, the headquarters of “The Home of the Brave” was the old Emory home down the street from our house. This house was vacant and was on a huge lot overgrown with bushes, trees, and brush. An absolute paradise for young fertile imaginations. The clubs main purpose was to protect everyone from the Russians. Every single day they would add to their arsenal. The trees were loaded with bottle rockets aimed in every direction. The members all sported blisters as the lot was eventually filled with deep trenches and holes that were camouflaged with brush. Sling shots were ready should the enemy attack. B-B guns were secreted away. Extra supplies of food and drink were always kept on hand. And, daily each of the boys would take a little of their lunch money to beef up the club’s account. To make sure the money was safe; they buried the funds on the vacant lot right next to their headquarters. After a plan of attack was mapped out in case of a Russian invasion, and all weapons were properly positioned, the boys went about their other business. You know, the business of camping out, playing whatever ball that was in season, building things, roasting birds (with or without cleaning them), chasing kangaroos, spying, and any other activities that came to mind. Since the Russians never did actually attack, the vacant lot with all of its weapons was almost forgotten. They did find out later, however, that their traps worked. When new construction started in that area, several workmen fell into ditches. When brush and trash were burned, the bottle rockets did not scare the Russians, but carpenters ran for cover. Even invoking the “my dad’s the mayor” line did not convince the crews to tear up the slab so that the club’s money chest could be recovered.

I guess my mother was lucky in that she really did not have time to wonder where the boys would be heading as they left home each day to pursue another adventure. And, I am sure that my dad may have cringed a little when he found out that the boys pulled rank on the policemen by informing them that their dad was mayor. Was my mother too busy to worry, or did she just let her sons gain confidence by giving them time to explore life on their own? Was it the easy way out for my Dad to just encourage us to “do the right thing” or was it more difficult for him to bite his tongue as he watched us try to understand for ourselves what really felt right? Even though he may not have approved of the boys using his title to get what they needed, I can see the smile that could not be suppressed each time the kangaroo story was told. I watch the way that my brothers still rush to rescue others to this day and know that there are bottle rockets still in position if they are ever needed. In their actions I see the gentleness, the kindness and the beauty that Papa was always aching for us to see. I see his head tilted and his smile spreading as his boys gently remind me that I am still surrounded by so much goodness no matter how heavy my heart feels. And anyway, if things don’t pan out like we want them to, we can always listen. I am sure we can still call on the mayor for advice.

The Clubhouse

2009-08-23T17:41:00.001-07:00

My sister lived ten years as the only girl in the family. Five brothers and Mary Claire. At family gatherings even today Cookie, Hunter, and Jimmie talk about how easy it was to make Mary Claire cry. They act like it was a role they relished and each one can always top the other’s story. All the while, when they talk about these times, they have their arm around Mary Claire, or they can’t get the stories completely out because of the goofy smile on their face. As I study the family pictures, I see that Mom took refuge in her girl. Mary Claire’s hair was always curled just right, she always had on a perfectly pressed dress for church, and she was always standing in the middle. But, the biggest hint that gave away the position that Mary Claire held as the only girl in the family was that there were rules that were apparently established just for her. At Sunday lunch, I heard the stories about how “special” she was; and as we raised our own children, I understood the “she gets anything she wants” whining first hand. Just to give you an idea, there is a picture of Cookie, Hunter, Jimmie, and Mary Claire standing beside their clubhouse in Navasota. It was a little difficult to tell the girl apart from the boys. They all had on jeans with worn out knees, cowboy hats situated on their heads each tilted in a different direction, guns and holsters, and a real tough guy smirk for the camera. The soft curls seen in most pictures featuring Mary Claire were hidden under her hat. She was at home with the boys and apparently that is where she spent most of her time. Anywhere her brothers went, she would be there, too. She did not want to miss out on one adventure and there seemed to be an adventure everyday. Upon closer inspection of the picture, you can see the lettering scrawled on the old wooden door of the clubhouse. Painted up high were the words: “no girls allowed except Mary Claire because mama made us.” Now that’s how I know for certain the magnitude of the position that Mary Claire held. Even the neighborhood kids knew and accepted that Mary Claire had her place of importance deeply entrenched.

I was born when she was ten years old. One would think that she would not want another girl to come along and usurp the attention she gained being the only female, but quite the opposite was true. She was thrilled to finally have a sister. She lavished attention on me. Even though there was a difference in our years that would distance most siblings, our bond proved to be strong. When the teenagers went out cruising, it was just like the clubhouse scene. Lucy came along “because Mary Claire said so.” And, no one argued. It never occurred to me that I was not welcome in my grandmother’s big old car that all the teenagers and I rode around in. After all, the boys had painted the car Navasota High School blue, and Mary Claire used her artistic talents to paint the NHS rattlesnakes on each door of the car. It was the clubhouse of the time, and I was now a part of it. Mary Claire was head cheerleader for the Navasota Rattlers and I was the mascot with my own uniform. I performed at the pep rallies and out on the field every Friday night. We were always at the football field. For years, during any game, junior high, junior varsity, or varsity, there was always a brother playing. The announcer would call out the plays saying, “Swanson passes to Swanson”, or, “Onto the field comes Swanson” or, “Swanson calls time out”, or “Swanson fumbles”. The Navasota football coach had to love my parents. They provided him with a football team and consequently, most of the crowd in the stands. And, I was always right beside Mary Claire. We shared a room and we shared secrets.

My brother Jimmie was closest in age to Mary Claire and they, too, shared a special relationship. Jimmie always did well in school and Mary Claire still laments having to follow him scholastically, but their closeness was easily apparent. When Jimmie went to Rice University and became an All-American football player, Mary Claire would go to visit. On one visit she met Stan Smith, one of the Rice football players. They eventually became engaged and it was easy to see that Mary Claire’s status in the family had not diminished. My mom’s oldest girl was getting married! We did not have a lot of money, but my parents wanted to have everything perfect when Stan came to meet the family for the first time. With so many kids, the best entertainment for our family was cooking hamburgers in the back yard. The kids could run around freely, neighbors would always stop by, and it was a ritual that the meal would be topped off with homemade peppermint ice cream for dessert. It is easy to understand that when your house is small and your numbers are large, the safest place is outside. So, a big cookout was planned for Stan with our standard tried and true fare. Papa and most of the five little ones would help prepare the hamburger patties for the grill. He would divide up the tasks for us to do. After he seasoned the meat just so, the even numbered kids would shape the ground beef into balls; and the odd numbered ones would smash the meat into patties using the salad plate that Papa assured us would make the hamburgers just the right size. Papa’s only concern would be that we were making the meal “nearly too good to eat!” The older kids were assigned to cleaning up the backyard, getting the grill ready and making everything nice for their sister. Mary Claire herself was going to attempt to make the peppermint ice cream. It would all be perfect. To his credit, when Stan met the family, he did not even flinch. He joined in the perpetual basketball game while the burgers were cooking and withstood jibes from my brothers. He did not even comment on my younger brother Pat’s condition. (Pat’s state resulted after he went around from adult to adult asking for a sip of their beer; each one of them indulging the youngster unaware that everyone else was doing the same.) Stan even did his turn with the hand cranked ice cream freezer and commented on how wonderful the dessert would be because Mary Claire made it. All in all, the evening was going quite well. When the ice cream was finally firm enough to dish out, it seemed that everyone gathered around the freezer for their helping all at once. It was almost eerily quiet as we all paused to gauge Stan’s reaction to Mary Claire’s part of the meal. As he spooned the first bite of the sweet, pink concoction into his mouth, there was a collective sigh. She really could make ice cream. It looked just like Mom’s, so how could he not like it? Then, as everyone else started to partake of the dessert, laughter slowly trickled about. There was nothing wrong with the flavor of the ice cream. However, it was a little difficult to eat. The trouble was that the wrappers from the peppermints that were used to make the ice cream were never taken off of the candy. Stan just smiled and removed each wrapper as he came to it and kept eating. Did he see some sort of unwritten sign that said, “Enjoy it because Mama said so”? Was he scared of saying anything because he knew that my brothers were very protective of their sister? Was he still in shock at the sheer size and numbers involved with the woman he had pledged to spend the rest of his life with? Or, did he just see the evening as a whole? Forty years later, Stan is still a part of this family and Mary Claire stills holds her high ranking of importance and the peppermint ice cream story is still one of those most told at Sunday lunch. All in all the wrappers were a good sign. The sign stated loud and clear that hardly ever in life would everything be perfect no matter how much effort was made to make it so. When surrounded by family, imperfection can be handled and even relished. The greatest lessons can be learned by watching the ones you love deal with the unexpected. Whether these are the monumental life-changing things that are thrown your way or just the peppermint wrappers of life, it is nice to know that you will always be welcome in the clubhouse. Mama says so.

Pimiento Cheese

2009-08-23T17:25:00.000-07:00

I am pretty sure I know what it is that could solve all the problems in the world. No. I am certain that I have the answer. My mom’s pimiento cheese was the perfect peacemaker growing up and I have no doubt of its powers now. Did I like pimiento cheese growing up? Not on your life. It had little green onions in it. Did I get pimiento cheese made just the way I liked it after establishing that I did not care in the least for little green onions? Of course I did. Did I then eat pimiento cheese? No way. It was a little embarrassing to admit to anyone that you actually liked pimiento cheese. I would only eat it in secret. Mom must have realized this, for each time there would be one dish of pimiento cheese with little green onions and one dish put aside without little green onions. What then, is the secret that pimiento cheese holds to give it such power? Try to immerse yourself in a day in the life of my mother.

When we moved to Jacksonville, Texas, from Navasota, Texas, my father bought a lake house for us to live in on Lake Jacksonville. We lived there one summer before we actually moved from our house in Navasota and that meant that all of the kids were home from college. All thirteen of us in this one bedroom, one bath house on the lake. My dad got busy and added a huge screened in porch to the lake house that he equipped with six army style bunk beds. Our bedroom. Home sweet home. There remained only one bathroom, but we did have the lake. This to us kids was a huge adventure. The age range was such that there were still little kids running around everywhere. The worry for my parents was the lake and the threat of one of the kids falling in when no one else was around. So, there was “the rule”. No matter where you were going, if you were one of the five little ones, you had to wear a life jacket whenever you stepped foot outside of the house. It simply did not matter if you were headed to the lake or not. The life jackets were the orange ones that fit snugly around your neck and buckled with a strap that wrapped around your back. You have to understand that the lure of the outside was strong to us in this new place. There were forts to be built, woods to be explored, cases to be solved, and not much to hold us indoors. We simply had to go outside. And, as much as we tried to resist, wear the life jackets we did. As I struggle to remember that summer, I see my mom heading to the washateria with an unbelievable mountain of laundry. I see Papa and my brothers coming in from work at the charcoal plant their faces, hands, and clothes covered with the black coal. I see brothers bringing in the huge bottles of drinking water because we could not drink the water from the faucets. And, I see my mom eating her pimiento cheese sandwich. It was spread on one piece of rye bread and topped with a piece of lettuce sprinkled with black pepper. She would take a look at a situation, and calmly take a bite of her sandwich. It seemed to compose her enough to enable her to take everything in stride. I think that pimiento cheese had to be the ingredient that made it possible for her to understand and tolerate the move to a new place, allay fears of her youngsters playing around the lake, support those trying to make a new business grow, and cope with thirteen humans living in the three room house. She ate pimiento cheese a lot.

As the years went on and we moved into our huge house on O’Keefe Road, the power of pimiento cheese was still apparent. Yes, the house was big. Mary Claire and I had our own room. The older boys lived in a garage apartment that was actually attached to the main house thus making the house seem huge. Pat and Randy were in a room that was in the center of the home. This room had four doors in it and no matter where you were going in the house you had to pass through this room. When Pat got mad at someone, he would close all the doors and insist that everyone was to stay out of his room. It is a good thing that this did not happen too often. My mom’s most prized room was not a fancy dining room or a big, accommodating kitchen, but what we called the fold room. Though it was not heated or cooled, the garage was walled in for a laundry room. Close your eyes and try to imagine the loads of clothes that would be involved with the day to day activities of the family. Just think about the sheer number of towels alone that were used. Towels used for the kids who splashed water everywhere at bath time. Towels used and disposed by teenagers who would use three, minimum, in order to get ready for their date. And, towels used to mop up spills that occurred every hour on the hour. Papa had a huge red picnic table installed in the laundry room where the clothes were folded. As they were folded, they were stacked in piles according to the kid. Mom spent a lot of time folding clothes out in this room. When someone was trying to locate her, the first place to look was the fold room. I wonder now if there was a stash of pimiento cheese in the fold room. How else could she so calmly face that mountain of clothes?

Papa always tried to make everything wonderful for my mom. With eleven kids the money situation always seemed to be tight so he was excited when he was able to surprise her with new furniture for the den. He announced one Sunday at lunch that he had bought new furniture to replace the pieces that had been completely worn out by the wear and tear of our busy and demanding life. My mom was so excited to have something new and nice! Now, you have to understand that my father was such a brilliant man. He had visions that were way ahead of his time and possessed the drive to put them into play. He did not harbor a mean bone in his body and was held with the utmost of respect from all that knew him. But, as any of his kids can tell you, he did not have the greatest of taste. One of the favorite Sunday lunch stories is when Papa brought home the new furniture that was sure to brighten Mom’s day. The furniture was couches, and they were made of black plastic. Not only were there black plastic couches, but the ensemble was completed with a bright yellow plastic coffee table and two bright yellow plastic end tables to match. These were to go into the room that he had just painted what we dubbed “radioactive green”. Papa had also proudly installed new green indoor/outdoor carpet. Mom watched the furniture being unloaded and carried into the house. She went immediately to fix herself a pimiento cheese sandwich. After a couple of bites, there was no way you could ever detect the disappointment she must have felt in the selection of the furniture that would surely remain in the house for a long time. Wasn’t Papa the greatest for providing us with such wonderful furnishings? A week later (and only several days before my sister’s wedding reception was to be held at our house) Randy was melting crayolas in the den using the tin can contraption that he built in cub scouts. The can toppled over and melted a big gaping hole in the new carpet. If I had not seen my mom going into the kitchen to prepare a pimiento cheese sandwich, I may not have realized how upset she really was at the accident. A couple of bites and we were all engaged in rigging up a way to conceal the mishap.
It is difficult to describe a typical day in the life of my mother. I guess that is because there was nothing typical in her day. I do know that it was filled with what seemed like excitement to us, but after experiencing parenthood myself, I see that the constant excitement had to be trying to her. When Sallie tripped over our dog and had a knot the size of Dallas on her forehead, it was exciting. When the principal of the school would call my mom and tell her several kids (including her own) were skipping school and did she know where they were, it was exciting. It was even more exciting when she would load up all of her preschoolers and go ferret out the escapees and deliver them all back to school. It was exciting when one of us would hide from the occasional baby sitter and a whole search and rescue would be called out. It was exciting when the charcoal plant caught fire. It was exciting when Martin and Bill would take Randy and Pat by their feet, and swing them around and around outside in the yard. We were concerned, but still excited when Randy and Pat’s head collided with a huge sickening thud in one such incident. The excitement went on and on. Hearing about all of these incidences in stories at Sunday lunch, I wonder how in the world my mother survived. It was the pimiento cheese. The magic power of pimiento cheese. I forgot to mention that out of all of the countless doors that were in the house in Jacksonville, there was only one that possessed a lock. That lock was located on the door to one of the bathrooms. When things got really “exciting” my mom would take her pimiento cheese sandwich into the bathroom, and try to hide behind the lock. We always seemed to find her even though I know now that she must have put forth great effort to try to make herself disappear, even if just for an instant. We would lie down on the floor outside the bathroom and talk to her through the door. We would slip her notes. We would entertain ourselves by picking at the chips of paint coming up on the outside of the bathroom door. I suppose that this is what it might be like, although on a much smaller scale, for presidents of companies that have people hanging on their every word. Is it possible that the President of the United States could solve his problems by occasionally hiding behind a door with a lock? Would we all wait for him to emerge from behind the lock and know that all was right in the world just by the look on his face? I am sure that it would not happen without the added power of pimiento cheese. With or without the little green onions.

Nacho Night

2009-08-22T16:28:00.000-07:00

Looking back, I see that it was the simple things that made love grow in my own family. I realize, too, that simple is entirely relative. Simple is not simple for everyone. Nacho night for me was simple and it was the cornerstone on which my husband and I built our home. Nacho night. Our Sunday lunch.
When I think of nacho night, the simple way we entertained ourselves comes to mind. When we found ourselves all six in the car together, someone would invariably start the “what would you do for a million dollars” game. I know you know this game. “Who would lick the entire floor clean in Mercado’s restaurant for a million dollars? Who would throw our dog, Boofers, off a cliff for a million dollars? Who would consent to live in a foreign country for the rest of their lives never to return to the United States for a million dollars? For a million dollars, Dad, would you get out on the roof of our house on busy O’Keefe Road in only your “whitie tighties” and your tool belt and stay for 3 hours promising to wave at every single car that drives by?” Oh, the conversations that would entail from these questions! The simple entertainment was the best. Nothing needed to be plugged in, nothing needed to have earphones, no batteries were required, no one was right or wrong, and no one had to be in a particular seat. Simple. The questions would vary and I am reminded of nacho night because of one particular variation. On one family jaunt, the question of the day was, “If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?” James delivered his answer unequivocally and without hesitation. It was nachos, and the answer for him was simple. Lately I have wondered at the confidence in which his answer was delivered. As I have made the effort to look back at who we were, it is simple to see the reason for his conviction. Nacho night let me feel every ounce of love that was sent my direction from my husband. Nacho night let my kids feel the depth of what it was that held us all together. Nacho night was simple. Nacho night was huge. Thinking about nacho night helps me to heal.
To set the scene for nacho night conjure up the image of three toddlers wrapped in towels. Their hair would be dripping wet and they would be running into the kitchen followed closely by their Dad. The youngest child would be slung over James’shoulder in a towel. Squeals and peals of laughter would always accompany bath time with Dad and this bath time ritual would set the mood for the rest of the evening. I would be busy grating cheese, chopping tomatoes, or lining a tray with chips and would almost miss the look I received from him. The look cast my way from those beautiful blue eyes would convey more love and anticipation than any words could capture. I knew that nacho night was our night. Without fail he would steal a taste of the guacamole and I would feign annoyance. And then, he would give me a kiss to gain forgiveness. That was simple. There is not a doubt in my mind that our kids felt the love that was strengthened each and every nacho night. Simple entertainment with huge benefits. After one kid heads straight for the paper plates and one is on the counter helping to smash the avocados and two spread out the softies for our pallet, the feast in ready. Sit by the fire. Tell us a story. Conduct stare downs. And, pass the nachos. Our kids would fall asleep on the pallet confident in the love that we shared for not only them, but for each other. One by one we would take the kids to their beds. It was simple. No babysitters, no worries about leaving one baby crying, no extra expense, but lots of love. Adult nachos were after the kids were taken to their beds. Onions and jalapenos and margaritas and a great big helping of love. The rest of the night was ours. Who couldn’t live the rest of their life on that?

Flaming Toast

2009-08-21T12:24:00.001-07:00

Precision. That is what made the extraordinarily large household run. I think. Because the center of my Mom’s world was my father, the routine of the household, too, usually centered on Papa. The breakfast regimen was no different. To an outsider just observing the chaos of getting everyone up and out each day, it would seem that the only thing that could possibly be routine in this morning procedure was that there was no routine. But to us,the busy, smoke filled, chaotic kitchen seemed entirely normal. The smell from the first pound of cooking bacon permeated through the air conditioning vents each morning and served as our alarm clock. As one round of siblings was roused and claimed one of the five bathrooms, Mom would be listening for the tell-tale signs that had become her signal to start Papa’s special breakfast. The signals did not vary and the timing on her part was always perfect. Eggs were put on exactly when the sound of the water from Papa’s shower was heard through the pipes in our big, loud, noisy two story house. I am not sure how that sound was so loud and distinguishable to my mom amidst all the confusion, but clear it was and it meant there was only minutes until Papa would walk into the kitchen. The eggs needed to be started precisely at this moment.

The type of eggs mom cooked for Papa may have differed over the years, but somehow the timing of cooking them always remained the same. My first recollection of the type of eggs cooked for Papa (and anyone else who wanted them) was bubble eggs. These were fried eggs cooked quite quickly and efficiently in the big iron skillet. Mom would break the eggs into hot bacon grease then splash the grease over and over the eggs with a spatula until the desired yolk consistency was obtained. When the egg white was a little crusted and the yolk was a little runnier than most of us younger ones liked it, the eggs were perfect for Papa. Someone in the brood dubbed them bubble eggs because of the big bubbles that would explode over the eggs while they were being splashed with grease. I think my mom liked cooking this type of eggs because the five little ones that were lined up at the bar watching this whole event take place were always momentarily entertained by the bubble development. (I never knew that “bubble eggs” was not a universally renowned term for fried eggs until much later.) When the cholesterol scare was brought to the forefront, the fried eggs were replaced with poached eggs. These eggs always looked pretty nil in texture, color, and taste when compared to the bubble eggs, but Papa’s health was the main concern and there would be no diminishing the drive that my mom had to keep Papa healthy. Somehow he managed to consume this type egg with the same zeal and pleasure as he did the bubble eggs. To cook the poached eggs, the iron skillet was replaced with a Teflon skillet. An egg was gently broken and placed into a small amount of water that was steaming in a covered pan. I continue to be baffled by the way the egg was always unfailingly ready to slide onto the plate precisely when Papa walked into the kitchen.

When the bread was popped into the toaster, we knew that Mom had heard the last of the signals. Who needed a clock when you could just listen for the unmistakable squeak of the big dresser drawer? This sound indicated that Papa had pulled the drawer open to reach for his starched white shirt; his last step in getting dressed. The toast would pop up out of the toaster and be placed onto the Mel-Mac plate alongside the perfectly cooked egg and bacon. It would be put at Papa’s designated spot at the bar exactly at the precise moment that he strolled into the kitchen. The place was set with what we knew as Papa’s preferred glass (the one whose thickness was just right), the fork that was always reserved specifically for him, and a perfectly folded blue napkin. The precision may have been unapparent to an outsider, but it was real.

Now, it may sound from this description that my father expected perfection for anything that concerned him. It may also seem that my Mom operated under a certain fear to achieve that expectation. Nothing could be further from the truth. Let me fill in the rest of the breakfast routine story. My mother was always the first one up in the mornings and as I look back I see that I just expected her to be in the kitchen. She would get out pans, start sack lunches, find socks, settle disputes, coax smiles, welcome the milkman, check on neighbors, sign notes, and hurry stragglers. This was all in addition to feeding the different shifts of people coming and going. Everyone always got fed. Everyone always got what they needed for the day. And, everyone almost always left the house happy. She did not do all of this alone, but she made it happen. The kitchen was by necessity a considerable room. It was big enough for someone to move in and take over cooking the bacon when needed. It was big enough for an older brother or sister to help the little ones crack the eggs before being scrambled. It was big enough for someone to be loading the dishwasher. It was big enough for someone to butter the bread that was crammed onto the tray to make tiger toast. It was big enough for several to finish their homework while they ate. It was big enough for someone to mop up the spilled milk. It was big enough to spread out all of the slices of bread that were being readied for lunches. And, it was big enough for no one to get burned as my mom would calmly reach into the oven and pull out the tray of toast that had erupted into flames. (This happened routinely if no one had been given the assignment to guard the toast from burning that morning.) She would open the back door; throw the flaming toast outside and without hesitation start buttering bread for another attempt. Everyone pitched in, but my mom ran the ship. When the sound of Papa’s shower was heard, we all knew the routine. Timing was everything. Gently, she would take over cooking his breakfast. If one of us insisted that we wanted to cook breakfast for Papa, she would let us. But she would keep an eye out and make sure it was perfect. This was her gift to him. His gift was to make her feel like it was the best breakfast he had ever eaten. Ever. This was the way they started their day. Looking back, I see that this was the way they started ours. Amidst what most would consider chaos, there was the routine. The routine of spoiling the one you love most no matter what else was happening. Just because you wanted to. I look back on my marriage and I am grateful that the most important lessons I learned were not acquired in school, but were those discovered in a most precise manner around food.

Start readings here with "Sunday Lunch"

2009-08-20T18:27:00.000-07:00

I did not know that my life was a story. I look back to study my life after the death of my husband and surprisingly I see a real story unfold. A life’s story. A love story. A story that I need to tell. Many memories that help to form my story seem to stem from the huge oval table where my family gathered for lunch each Sunday after mass. These Sunday lunches brought my comically large family together and it is there that I find the root of my life. I see now how deep and strong the root system is. My family story begins on a Sunday…

When the congregation is seated after communion the smell comes to me and apparently to my brothers and sisters as well. I attribute the calming of the squirming, wiggling, poking, and prodding that were present all through mass to the smell that we left behind in the house that morning. It has to be the smell from home. Not the smell of the flowers or the incense or the perfume of Mrs. Pinkard in the pew in front of us, but the distinct smell of Sunday morning. In the waning minutes of the mass, the smell from home is still with me. It conjures up the images of the early morning and what had occurred before any of us ever left to go to church. The schedule on Sunday rarely varied. It started early with the smell of rump roast searing in the hot oil. That is the smell that wakes up the army of people. The smell is more accurate than any time piece, and the family knows exactly how much time is left before the first crew is herded off to church. The smell reminds us that the altar boys get first dubs on the bathrooms for they will be in the earliest car load of people out the door. From the smell emerges the clear picture of my mom in her navy blue Sunday dress with a cup towel thrown over her shoulder. She is standing on tip toe lifting the heavy lid to the black cast iron kettle from where the smell originates. She is small in stature and exudes a calmness that is bigger than life. Her calmness seems to combine with the familiar smell of Sunday to guide us all through the morning. There is no question that Sunday lunch is already underway as Papa takes the first crew to church. When we arrive at church the third pew from the front is occupied and eventually completely filled by my family. The older siblings always helped entertain the younger children during mass so that the rest of the congregation could celebrate the service in peace. After mass we all file outside. I can clearly see the genuine smiles my Dad and Mom offer to each of their friends. No one would think there was anything more important or more pressing for my parents than this visitation with members of the congregation. The mayhem that undoubtedly awaits them as they ready a meal to feed a herd of people could not possibly have been detected by their friends as my parents calmly share and listen each Sunday morning. I wonder….does the story of my life start here? Soon we all pack ourselves into the cars to head home. Without prompting, we consecutively call out our numbers. (Our numbers were those that coincided with the order of our birth.) If a number was not called out we would turn around and go back to find the missing child. I am not sure now whether we numbered off to reassure my parents that we had everyone on board or just to keep the peace on the ride home. We pull up to the house and spill out of the cars. Everyone is running ahead at full throttle in order to grab a bathroom first and to get out of Sunday clothes. How many times was the door thrown open with the extra force of the anxious anticipation that the smell brought with it? How many times did we notice that even the door with its automatic hinge brought about a peace in the way it slowly closed after each assault? Did we even detect that we were all a part of the preparation for the Sunday lunch that unleashed the smell? Who set the table, who changed the diapers, who drained the potatoes, who entertained the young ones, who guarded the rolls from burning, who made the gravy? How was all of this so precise an operation that most of us did not even realize the effort? Did we ever wonder how the food was always ready for each Sunday lunch? Did we ever doubt that the smell would be there? The smell permeates through the entire house and adds more to our life than we could possibly understand. The smell of Sunday lunch is powerful. Perhaps its power is not fully understood until we look back at the scenes that unfold as they are remembered and told at the table. My personal story begins with an ending…

I am the first of the last five little ones. Number seven of eleven children. That means that by the time I was born there had already been 728 Sunday lunches without me and that there would be plenty more ahead. My birth order determined that I would lead. I was certainly the boss of the second crew and I relished my role. I felt empowered to make things right for everyone. There was not much that I could not handle. I realize now that these Sunday lunches fostered this feeling inside of me, and it was inherent that I fulfill this leadership role for the rest of my life. I married my high school sweetheart after convincing him that he really did want to become my husband. During our courtship and marriage, James became as ingrained in this family as any of the original eleven children. We were joyous at the birth of our kids and knew from the stories of Sunday lunch exactly how we wanted to raise our children. Later, I became a teacher and showed others the way. I loved every minute in the classroom and needed the feeling that I was making a difference to someone. Truly, I had the fairy tale life. I was strong, my marriage was strong, my children were healthy and independent, and my husband was superman. Then, kryptonite appeared on the scene. My sweet, beautiful husband of 28 years died tragically and instantaneously in a helicopter crash after we had spent an absolute perfect evening together. In an instant, I could no longer lead, but had to be lead. In a heartbeat, I was not helping others to cope and live and hope, but was on the receiving end of such ministrations. I had no idea who I was without James by my side. I was reduced to a state that made me question every single thing I thought I believed in. Who was I? Where would I gain the strength to continue? How could I show my kids courage when I needed to give up? What made me think that I was strong and capable? My search for this new life and role has made me take a long look at where I came from. As I studied, it was the Sunday lunches that slowly came into focus. Because my husband shared his life with me, he also shared in the dramas of Sunday lunch. Sunday lunch is what made my brothers and sisters rush to take care of me in the face of my tragedy. Sunday lunch is what made my family feel the loss of James as much as my kids and I did. Sunday lunch nourished my soul when I thought it could not be repaired. Sunday lunch gave me the courage to keep on picking up the scattered pieces of myself even though at times I could feel no headway. Perhaps it is the same old habits coming to life in me again as I now feel compelled to share these stories that have helped me to think that I might want to survive. I know that in some way it was the Sunday lunches that made James feel that he was such an integral and important entity in this huge clan of a family. I suppose to an outsider it would seem impossible that any one individual could feel important and loved when so many are around. As I search for understanding, I see a man with no formal education past high school surrounded by the doctors and entrepreneurs and artists and scientists and so much intelligence that defines my siblings. And, I see the way he was respected and valued and cherished by them all. I will be forever grateful for the love he felt from this family. He lived his life more fully than anyone I know, and I am convinced that the strength of Sunday lunch may have empowered him to do so. Through these stories I will try to search for who I am and try to build some courage of my own. I hope you can see yourself along the way and know that no matter what life has to serve; Sunday lunch will always welcome each of us home.