Author Archives: Author Julie Seedorf

About Author Julie Seedorf

As human beings, we are always a work in progress. From birth to death we live, hurt, laugh, cry, feel, and with all of those emotions we grow as people, as family members, and as friends. I'm a dreamer and feel blessed to have the opportunity in my writing to pass those dreams on to others. I believe you are never too old to dream and to turn those dreams into a creative endeavor.” I live in rural Minnesota and am a wife, mother, and grandmother. Throughout my life I have had many careers or should I say opportunities at jobs where I have learned different skills such as working as a waitress, nursing home activities person, office manager, and finally a computer repair person eventually owning her own computer sales and repair business. Add my volunteer activities such as Sunday School Teacher and SADD advisor and more and it's been a full life. I never forgot my love of writing and quit my computer business in 2012 after signing a contract with Cozy Cat Press for Granny Hooks A Crook, the first book in my Fuchsia, Minnesota Series. I currentlyntly have written nine cozy mysteries, three children’s books, participated in three group anthologies or mysteries, and write three blogs about various subjects.

The Test of Time

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Joe wheeled up to the table each night in his motorized wheelchair. He always moved at a fast pace. I and the other residents sitting on the opposite side of the table would grab our dishes, because occasionally he cruised into the table sending things flying. Joe always smiled and chuckled when that happened, with an excuse that he knew we wouldn’t believe.

Joe

Most of us sitting around the table and in the independent and assisted living where we lived told stories of home. In our hearts we wished we could be back there. Joe was no different, but he had accepted assisted living was where he needed to be. His outgoing personality and witty remarks lit up the place.

I remember one conversation about moving away from where he lived his life. Joe said he missed his home in a neighboring town but there was nothing left for him there. All his friends were dead. There was sadness in his voice as he remembered those he shared his life and memories with.

Joe died a few months ago but I’ll never forget him or that conversation. When we’re young, death hits us, especially if it is a close friend or relative. I know it did me, but as I grow older I understand more the repercussions it has on those of us that are up there in age.

Many years ago, right after my husband and I were married, I noticed that whenever my mother-in-law picked up the paper she immediately turned to the obituaries. I thought it was kind of morbid, but at the time she told me it was because she wanted to make sure she didn’t miss sending a sympathy card or attending a funeral of friends that died.

Joe’s statement and my mother-in-laws words come back to me while pondering grief. I now understand. At our age friends and family leave us frequently for their heavenly home, sometimes numerous times a week. There’s more to it than mourning the person who was a part of our life for most of our years. It’s not having that person to talk to that shares your history. Each person shares a unique part of us that no one else can claim. Conversations, experiences good and bad, might only be shared with one or two people.

The other day I thought about the video of a unique funeral given for my cousin, Charlie, when he died. He used to take his four wheeler and travel in the mountain paths near his home in Northern California. That’s where they held his funeral, amongst the mountains and grasses and flowers high up in a place he loved. I wanted to share my thoughts with my cousin, Martha. She and I had watched the videotape together the first time. But Martha is having a conversation in heaven with Charlie along with all my other first cousins on my dad’s side. I can’t share my memories of those California times with anyone else that shared them with me.

A photo took me back to a memory of my high school years. Karen was one of my best friends in grade school and high school and beyond. Karen died when she was 39 and I still miss her, and I miss our conversations about our high school adventures. I could relate them to others but they wouldn’t get it because they weren’t there.

I asked my sister by another mother, Mary, if she wanted to come back and be my date at my next class reunion. Though she graduated a year after I did, we shared many of the same friends. It would be 55 years for me. Mary pointed out that the people she and I created most of our memories with were probably having their reunion in heaven.

My point? We mourn those we lose: family members, friends and acquaintances, but there is so much more under the grief. We also mourn the loss of someone who shared experiences, high points and low points of our lives. There is something sacred in being able to go down memory lane with a friend, or a family member, who are the only ones that share that same memory. Memories of the past that can’t be shared with your special person anymore leaves one feeling lonely. When you get to be the age I and many others are, there are more that shared your history who are gone than are alive.

Like Joe, we realize our tribe is getting smaller. I have a hunch when you hear that an older person is lonely and you encourage them to get out more, or participate more, that the loneliness is on a deeper level. We can be in a crowd of people, enjoying ourselves, making new friends, but yet there is deep loneliness that shares a place in the heart with heartfelt memories. It is a loneliness that can’t be replaced with activity, new friends or even a beautiful attitude. It is the loneliness of memories we can’t share with the ones that helped us create those past moments.

I sometimes get lonely when listening to music of my past because I remember where I was and who I was with when the music played. Yet, I also smile, sing and am thankful for who I got to share my past with. It’s a catch-22 moment and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

I haven’t quite accepted this is where I am in my life. As I made out sympathy cards this morning, too many for one week, these thoughts whirled about in my mind. I know I’m not alone. It’s the passage of time and it goes fast.

It takes a long time as the saying goes, to grow old friends. The people we now meet will become friends but we’ll share a new, shorter history. It doesn’t mean they are less important in our lives, but that we don’t have the years left to build a long history.

Recently I was watching a tv interview after a tragedy, and the person being interviewed said, “If I had known that would be the last time I would be talking to him I might have taken more time to talk.” Sadly we all feel that way at some point. And it also scares us. The fragility in our lives.

I take comfort in a memory that happened while my mother was in her last days. She was smiling the biggest smile ever. Her attention was on a corner of the room. My mom was the last of her family, her five brothers preceding her in death. I asked her why she was smiling and she said, “Because I am going to see my mom and dad and my brothers soon.” The memory of the moment gives me comfort that she knew and saw something we didn’t.

There is a thankfulness in our memories even while we feel the loneliness from those we lost. We have lived, made the memories, and met and shared lives with those old friends, and because of what we shared we have been blessed in our lives on our road to becoming senior saints as they call us older folks in my church.

“The thing is, when you see your old friends, you come face to face with yourself. I run into someone I’ve known for 40 to 50 years and they’re old. And I suddenly realize I’m old. It comes as an enormous shock to me.

~~Polly Bergan

It’s All Relative!

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I attended the funeral of my 106-year-old aunt this week. She was married to my mother’s brother and was my last living aunt. Though I know she was ready, it seemed for the three of us nieces and nephews at her funeral that it represented a passing of the last thread we had with our birth family. It also reminded me of the importance of my aunts and uncle’s presence in my life. 

A few of my uncles and aunts on both sides of my mom and dad’s family didn’t have children, so they took the time to make sure their nieces and nephews knew they were important to them. The aunts and uncles that had kids also were present in my life, whether they lived miles away or close by. 

My Uncle Frank was my mother’s brother. Until I was in sixth grade, we lived with my Polish grandmother and him. My folks ran a shoe store, and my mom also took care of my grandmother. Uncle Frank lived with us. He was a quiet man, not versed in the ways of the world. He had stayed home and took care of the animals, gardened, raised vegetables, and helped with my grandmother. Every winter, he turned our extensive garden into an ice-skating pond. And during the winter he took a hay rack and built tracks for a sled to glide down from the tall back to the ground. The sled with me on it would gain momentum on the steep tracks, and take me on my old-fashioned sled across the snow to almost the end of the pasture. Today, that type of contraption would be banned and considered too dangerous for a child.  Uncle Frank built me my own Merry-Go-Round, taught me how to pick eggs, and let me drive the small tractor to pick up hay. He taught me to pick sweet corn and strawberries and took care of my pony along with his work horses. Everyone would say he wasn’t a smart man, slow at learning the book stuff because he didn’t go to school past sixth grade. They needed him at home to help support his mother. Uncle Frank didn’t dress well. Most of the time, his mode of dress was overalls and a flannel work shirt, sometimes torn and not always clean, because of the work in the yard and with the animals. He wasn’t schooled in the ways of the world, and many ignored him because he didn’t match up to what society valued back in the 1950s. To me, he was like a dad. I certainly spent more time with him than I did with my parents at that age. Most of all, I remember his kindness. He died when I was a teenager. 

My mom usually bought Christmas gifts for the family for him, but the year before he died, he chose my Christmas gift himself. It wasn’t expensive, and it wasn’t fancy, it was a necklace with a big red glass stone. I still have it today. It is one thing I couldn’t part with because it reminds me of the love he showed me. 

My dad had two bachelor brothers, too. They were prominent in my life. They always made me feel special when we visited. One of my best memories is spending time on the farm with them, and my Uncle Chester cooking the best baked beans and stuffing I have tasted in my life. He would put me on his knee and recite a poem that went like this: I had a little horse, his name was Tommy Day, his feet were made of cornstalks, his head was made of hay. I saddled him and bridled him and rode him to the ground. There came a little puff wind that blew him up and down. While he would recite the poem, he bounced me on his knee, and then make sure he had my hands when he collapsed his knees at the last line so I wouldn’t get hurt falling to the ground. 

My dad’s sister, Mary, though very quiet and older, influenced my life too. I would spend some afternoons with her. Every day after her meal she would sit with her Bible and quietly pray. Her faith was a quiet faith, but it impressed me in the way she lived it. 

Distance doesn’t always mean family can’t be present in a child’s life. My two California aunts and uncles never seemed far away. They made a point of keeping in touch and taking time for me even when having a family of their own. I was blessed to be able to travel and spend time with both families as a teenager. Of course, there were visits for them back to Minnesota.

My Uncle Dan was a gruff person with a heart of gold underneath the bark, and my Aunt Clara would counter his bite and crab back and laugh off his antics. It was fun to watch them because you never took their bickering seriously. It was their love speak. My memories of Uncle Dan’s Hawaiian shirts could fill a book, and I still have one of his wood carvings on my dresser. My aunt worked for the Culver City Motor Vehicle Department. Somehow, she must have pilfered Ray Milland’s driver’s license application because she gave it to me. I still have it. Youngster’s if you don’t know who he is, look him up. My aunt met many celebrities of that time at her job.

One of my most vivid memories while staying with my Uncle Dan and Aunt Clara was our travel to a Los Angeles Angel’s game. First, my uncle was a Los Angeles Dodger fan, so he wasn’t pleased that we were going to an Angel’s game. Second, he wasn’t a fan of the construction workers building the freeway and having lanes closed which impeded our time to get to the game. His way of handling it? Did I mention he had no patience? He started yelling out his windows at the construction workers and weaving and running down the cones. My aunt was not pleased, but as a teenager it left me and my friend Mary, hiding our laughter in the back seat. To top it off he had earphones on his radio and listened to the Dodger game instead of watching the Angels and then…the Angels game went into overtime and didn’t end until two in the morning. Karma for the construction worker incident? 

My other California uncle and aunt shaped my life too. My Aunt Elsie was kind and soft spoken. She was always welcoming and though she had some health issues, still took the time to make this niece feel special. She always knew exactly what I would love. My favorite Christmas gift was a frilly can- can. Again, youngsters, look it up. One of things I loved best about my Uncle Bernie was his hugs. We didn’t hug much at that time with my Minnesota family. My parents weren’t huggers, but I knew when Uncle Bernie and his family visited, there would be a big hug. He wasn’t one to back down if he felt something was wrong, especially when it came to getting speeding tickets dropped by the courts, at least if the stories he regaled me with were true. When I hear the words speeding ticket I think of him. I’ll have to ask his kids if his stories were true. 

And then there was Uncle Dominic, my Aunt Marguerite’s husband. My aunt that just died. He was a locksmith and owned a key shop in Mankato, Minnesota. At Christmas he set up a Christmas tree lot next to his key shop. I loved spending the day with him at his business. He took me to my first fast food place. I think it was Hardee’s. It was different from a drive-in because you got to go inside and order and then sitnt and we didn’t have a fast-food chain in my small community, so it was a treat. Christmas was always a special time because spending time with him when he was selling Christmas trees was fun. Very cold, but fun.  He made people happy by helping them find the perfect tree. 

Why am I telling you about my relatives, especially aunts and uncles? Because they helped grow me up in the way I should go. They were important to me. They were special. Being an only child, I couldn’t give my kids aunts and uncles from my side of the family, but my aunts and uncles gave them that. My kids couldn’t meet all of them, but the ones that they did have in their lives left a lasting impression.

Uncle Bernie

Uncle Bernie treated our kids to their first taste of lobster and there’s quite a story in that. My daughter remembers his nickname for her when she was little, “the little girl with the tight-fitting jeans.” There was always a place on his lap for our kids when we visited California, and when he visited us. He also taught our kids to play poker. Yes we let him teach our kids to gamble. No money was exchanged, just chips, but this is a memory they remember to this day. My dad died right before our first son was born. Uncle Bernie represented the grandpa they never had. 

Uncle Dan took them to the La Brea Tar Pits while the rest of us were at the Price Is Right. He climbed the rocks with them at Joshua Tree National Park, and both Aunt Clara and Uncle Dan gave them their introduction to staying in the desert and educated them about their surroundings.

Uncle Dominic and Aunt Marguerite lived on a steep hill below Good Counsel Academy in Mankato. One winter he invited the kids over to sled. He hand shoveled and packed down a slippery steep snow path that went from the top of his yard and angled around the house to the front. He made sure it had sides so they couldn’t slide down the next steep hill in front of the house into the traffic. Aunt Marguerite made sure we had hot drinks and food. It was one of our kids’ last memories of him.

On my husband’s  side of the family their Uncle Evan and Aunt Sue took them fishing, boating and even helped one of them shingle their house. They were there for all the special occasions in their life. 

Aunt Audrey was a kind, gentle person, always being there for birthdays, recitals and being an awesome Godmother, making sure she shared her faith with them. And she was a perfect role model in the way she lived her life. 

Aunts and uncles matter, and you may not know until many years later what your caring in a nieces and nephews life may mean. Our kids need all the support they can get in this stressful, fast-changing world. Because I didn’t have those brothers and sisters I wasn’t always the best aunt to my husband’s nieces and nephews. I didn’t get it. I should have understood because I had great role models, but it isn’t until now that I have had so much time to analyze and ponder what I would do differently if I went back, and one of the things would be to take more time with those kids. My aunts and uncles made a difference in my life. It wasn’t a celebrity or a social media influencer or a tv evangelist, it was family. So I guess you can call my aunts and uncles influencers of their day? Can you be the influencer for your family?

Memories Are Made Of This

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Most of my readers are aware of the huge downsizing I’ve had to go through this year. It wasn’t exactly my choice, though I’d been saying for years it had to happen.

If you recall last March I struggled with packing up our four-bedroom home and reducing my stuff to a two-bedroom apartment. Then I forced myself to part with more for a move to a one- bedroom apartment. My heart had to take a few more jolts to let go of my storage space conglomeration, and because I was moving again to smaller one-bedroom I had to eagle eye what I had left.

I think Marie Condo, the organizer guru,was on to something when she said, “Keep only things that speak to your heart.” The first move I found too many things that spoke to my heart such as my first doll, my first teddy bear, and mementoes from my children. With gritted teeth and help from a friend I let many of them go.

By the third move I was so tired I let things walk out the door with friends and strangers.

Yesterday I needed a large vase and tore through my cupboards looking for my favorite blue vase my husband and I received for a wedding present all those years ago. I realized it was one of the items that probably ended up in a thrift shop somewhere.

As much as I miss some of my “stuff” , and at times feel sad about it, I believe I feel freer now. I don’t spend my time rearranging or looking or taking care of endless objects that I thought meant a great deal to me. In reality they were just objects, some left from an era of family that had no meaning to me, but yet guilt wouldn’t let me part with them because they were family relics. Relics kept because they had meaning to past family members but escaped my adoration.

It’s exciting to fill my space with fun eclectic finds all new to me which speak to my heart as Marie Kondo advised. Yet, I find the few things I have kept from the past, whether I realized it or not, speak to my heart too.

From the pictures on my walls to the knickknacks gracing my tables when I see them they each have a memory of someone special in my life.

One memory may be strange but unique. The time of Lent and Easter is a reminder of not only the season for me, but of my mom. Every Easter season, on Palm Sunday we received palms. They were the tall, willowy ones. My mom would keep hers and braid it. She was very good at the art, and then she would put it n a vase where we could see it. I never asked why, or if I did, in my young age, I never paid attention to the answer. Doing my research I found the palms symbolize the warding off of evil and are supposed to be burned the following year on Ash Wednesday. The Palms having been blessed, should only be burned and buried, and it also is an old tradition to burn the blessed branches before natural disasters asking God to avert or lessen the coming disaster.

I found a braided palm when I packed up my mom’s house over twenty years ago. I remember the final years she lived in her home, it sitting in a vase in the window. I may not be Catholic anymore but the roots run deep,and I knew you didn’t throw the palm away. There was something about it that touched my heart knowing my mom’s love of her religion, and what the palm symbolized to her. I could see her braiding it with care. I kept it. It sat on my windowsill in a vase reminding me of her.

Fast forward to all of these moves. I took a little heat from people that I wouldn’t let go of that braided palm. They didn’t understand my stubbornness. I carefully packed it and unpacked it all three times. It’s brittleness making it a challenge to move so it didn’t disintegrate in the packing. Today it sits in another vase in my bedroom reminding me this Easter Season of the journey to the cross and also of the past, and the faith my mom had. And…of course her talent weaving and braiding those palms.

We pare down, let go of our past lives symbolized by the stuff we have saved, hoarded, hid only to bring out to see what was in the box and always feel guilty because our family chides us about all we keep. Yet, somewhere in the muddle of the junk and the regrets of keeping so much are the memories that are attached, because there are mementos which melt our hearts each time we look at them. They help us remember who we are, where we came from and what matters. Those are the items we need to keep to help us stay attached to our roots. The ones we have to ponder deeply, hold to our hearts and ask ourselves how deeply they speak to our heart and why.

Someday I will burn the braided palm. Or perhaps my family will in my last days. Maybe I’ll be surprised and it will be passed on down the family for as long as it will hold together to remind them of God’s love, His sacrifice of His son and the roots that are deep into our life called family.