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 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.

Hear The Whispers Of The Elderly

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What’s on my mind? A catch-22. Most seniors at some point in their life are going to have to move into a care facility. Care facilities are expensive. It costs a lot to run them and retain good staff.

The life of nurses and nursing assistants are hard and grueling. Long hours, low pay, always short on staff and hard work.

Almost everyone depletes their funds unless you are very wealthy and eventually are forced to rely on government help. Wouldn’t it make more sense for the government to put more money toward these facilities so the monthly rent could be lower so people could afford to live in the facility and get care and not have to go on assistance? I’m not a finance person but it seems to me they might save money by putting it at the top end and helping facilities survive and helping keep the elderly off assistance.

Now that we live in a multi-level care facility, independent/assisted/memory care, I see an entirely different side of things. Our seniors should not have to worry about what’s going to happen to them financially and physically when they are going through health problems. I am old enough to remember the tv show Naked City. It opened with the line “There are 8 million stories in the naked city and this is one of them.”

As I talk to people I could say the same thing about people living in care homes across the United States. These stories get lost in all the politics. This is one of the things we should be protesting about. This is one of the things we should be fighting for. This is who you should be fighting for. The voices of the elderly in homes is silent because they can’t take to the streets and picket and let their cause be known because every day those who live in care facilities are just trying to survive. The young young ones don’t seem to want to take to the streets and speak for them. It seems to be accepted and gets talked about quietly but nothing gets done. And then there’s the paperwork but that’s another blog.

We live in a society where those who shout loudest win. I’m asking you to hear the whispers of the elderly.