Two weeks ago I was in Charleston, West Virginia, to inter my mother's ashes in the family plot where my Dad and his parents and grandparents are buried. Present were my brother Hugh, his wife, Maria, her son Curtis and my husband, Doug. We had a really lovely half hour or so at the graveside, very personal, very intimate. We had Mom's ashes wrapped in a jazzy piece of silk she would have loved. We took some pictures of the headstone with a photo portrait of my mother next to it, then we popped the cork on a bottle of Veuve Clicot champagne that my aunt gave us for the occasion. We sipped the bubbly and talked about this and that. There was bright sunshine, moderated by shade in just the right place for our comfort. A light breeze topped it all off. I really think Mom would have approved of the unconventional but highly personal tone of the event. After a bit, we went into town to a casual Italian restaurant we had found, had a tasty lunch and enjoyed each other's company. A perfect capstone.
I mentioned in an earlier post that I had only been to this family plot three times -- for my grandmother in 1959, for my Dad in 1973 and this year for Mom. It was interesting to see the stones covering the older graves and remember those other occasions. Looking at them, I found it curious to think that their whole lives were summarized by two dates separated by a dash. The two dates, while marking what are arguably the two most impactful experiences a person has, are only two moments in time. All the rest of the lives in question take place on the dash.
My mother was born in October 1918, just a month before the Armistice. The family story has it that my grandmother went into labor on a Sunday, at which time Grandaddy bundled her into the car and drove her to the hospital. The thing you night not know is that one of the things the folks at home did the support the war effort was to conserve gasoline by not driving on Sunday. So when Grandaddy's car went by, the neighbors, not knowing the circumstances, ran out and shouted at him for his unpatriotic activity. Hopefully they apologized later when the new baby came home!
My mother was the first and only grandchild in her mother's family and was doted on. She said the aunties (her mother's sisters) would put her on a blanket in the middle of the table when she was a baby and just sit around watching her. That seems like a lot of pressure. She went to a great high school and then to Wellesley College. Somehow she never felt as though she fit in, a girl from a family of modest means in a population that was mostly more affluent. She was smart and capable, but always felt awkward and out of place. I saw glimmers of that in her eighties as her mind lost hold of the present day, and fears thought long laid to rest resurfaced. She still managed to capture the attention of a quiet, kind, intellectual doctoral student at MIT. They married six months after they both finished their degrees.
Life went on for my parents as it does for many. They had three children -- two boys and a girl (ahem, me). Dad worked as an engineer and Mom kept the house, raised the kids, managed their social lives. They both found foreign cultures fascinating and loved to travel. Life was comfortable and predictable. Then, after 32 years, Dad suddenly had a burst aortic aneurism and died at the age of 62. That was 1973. He was the love of her life, and she was a real mess for a good year or more. As she came out of it and started to conceive of a life without him, she began figuring out who she was. She discovered she liked jazz and that she could manage her own finances and get credit in her own name. It was interesting to watch.
Mom did a great job making a new life for herself, both on her own and with Jack, her second husband, with whom she had 8 good years and 4 not so good ones after his stroke. Then there was Fred, a guy with a fierce intellect and what he himself described as "an excess of personality." He kept her life interesting for 10 years, as they travelled extensively, played bridge and otherwise enjoyed the time they had.
In a double whammy that left us all reeling, Mom and Fred were both diagnosed the same week of February 2005 with brain tumors. Fred's was a very nasty type that took him in only a few months. Mom's was less aggressive but relentless. She slipped away one little bit of clarity at a time and finally died July 4, 2005. By that time, it seemed poetic and appropriate that she died on Independence Day. Free at last from these earthly coils. 85 years of good followed by 18 months of ick. At least there was a point at which she really didn't realize anymore how confused she was. It was heartbreaking for the rest of us, but we had a chance to take care of her at the end of her life in a way that she took care of us at the beginning of ours.
That brings us all to the family plot in West Virginia, looking at the two headstones side by side. Mom and Dad, together again at last. The dash complete and the closing number etched in stone. Ann Webb Snyder Evans. 1918 - 2005. A full life on the dash, no matter how it looks to a stranger.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Sometimes the destination is not important at all
My stepdad Fred liked to say the life is a process, not a destination. The other day I had a real experience of that. The plan was for my friend Lea and me to drive up to the Michigan Renaissance Festival together for a fun outing. We have done a bunch of community theater together and have taken a number of Chautauqua vacations together. We both have a sense of humor that can be quirky and enjoy period costumes, although neither of us is so into it that we considered going to the RenFest that way.
There are folks for whom the costume part is very serious business indeed. For example, my son's 10th grade Shakespeare teacher and his wife had costumes that were really wonderfully done. The reason I came to know this is that the Grosse Ile Boar's Head Festival was being produced that year, and Ed -- tall, thin and with a thick head of wavy, shoulder-length hair -- had been recruited for the part of the knight. The costume folks had located just the thing for him to wear -- his teacher's RenFest costume, which consisted of a handsome red, knee-length tunic and a breath-takingly fluid, full-length "cloak" made of a material that was light and flowing but somehow managed to look like chain mail. His teacher's wife also offered the use of the black tights, but that was apparently way too close for comfort for Ed, so we spent the $30 for a pair of his own. In the end, he was truly a vision of knightly grace and charm, if I do say so myself.
For me, Boar's Head is a great place for this kind of costume, so I have a kirtle and chemise and head piece of my own. But not to wear while running around in a field in Holly, Michigan, on a Saturday in September.
So I was in jeans and a sweatshirt when I picked Lea up at her house and off we went. The weather had unfortunately taken a turn for the potentially unpleasant. Rain was expected in the region, although timing and specific location was not certain. We decided to take a chance.
It's a long way to Holly from downriver. On a good day, an hour and a half is making decent time. We were on track for that until we were just shy of University Drive. Then the tail lights went on ahead of us like Fifth Avenue in New York at Christmas. Four lanes were merging into 3, no 2. No...into 1!!!!!
Anyone who knows me will know that I am not necessarily the most patient person. (Note to my husband -- stop laughing!) Sitting in a traffic mess fuming is not my idea of a way to spend more than about 10 minutes. There was a ramp ahead, and I took it. All of a sudden, we were faced with a new choice -- straight ahead into the Chrysler gated facility (an obvious no) or turn and follow a road that seemed to lead into a parking structure. I pulled over and we searched the door pockets for helpful maps. Let's see - Philadelphia, PA. The Lower Huron Metropark system. Ann Arbor-Ypsilanti. Curses.
I recruited Lea to call my house and contact my personal OnStar wannabe navigator. Doug sat at his computer and did a Google map on our location. Using what I call the spy satellite, he zoomed in on the roads we were on. The images are not real-time, so it's not like he could see our car, but he could see the buildings and the twists and turns in the road clearly. Then he switched to the street map and guided us around and out of the industrial complex and back onto more familiar public byways. By the time we got north of the traffic jam, I am sure we had spent more time than if I had just taken a chill pill and waited for the merging process to complete.
Once we got past this, we were almost at our destination, but the skies, which had not been particularly friendly looking, decided it was time to become downright threatening. We lined up and made the turn into the parking field for the RenFest. A host of folks in ponchos were standing ready to point us into a space in what was not yet a sodden mess. Lea and I looked at each other, imagining what this might be like in a couple of hours. I poked my head out the window and said to the nearest poncho person, "You know, we changed our minds. Can we please just turn around here and leave?" Well, of course, what could she say? And out we went.
We decided we would head toward home and figure out an alternative on the way. In the end, we just ended up in a shop in Wyandotte having a cup of coffee and a good laugh. We had started out to have a fun outing and had achieved our goal, even though the particulars didn't resemble the original concept as closely as we would have liked.
As my favorite philosopher, Roseanne Roseannadanna, would say, "It just goes to show ya. It's always sumpthin."
There are folks for whom the costume part is very serious business indeed. For example, my son's 10th grade Shakespeare teacher and his wife had costumes that were really wonderfully done. The reason I came to know this is that the Grosse Ile Boar's Head Festival was being produced that year, and Ed -- tall, thin and with a thick head of wavy, shoulder-length hair -- had been recruited for the part of the knight. The costume folks had located just the thing for him to wear -- his teacher's RenFest costume, which consisted of a handsome red, knee-length tunic and a breath-takingly fluid, full-length "cloak" made of a material that was light and flowing but somehow managed to look like chain mail. His teacher's wife also offered the use of the black tights, but that was apparently way too close for comfort for Ed, so we spent the $30 for a pair of his own. In the end, he was truly a vision of knightly grace and charm, if I do say so myself.
For me, Boar's Head is a great place for this kind of costume, so I have a kirtle and chemise and head piece of my own. But not to wear while running around in a field in Holly, Michigan, on a Saturday in September.
So I was in jeans and a sweatshirt when I picked Lea up at her house and off we went. The weather had unfortunately taken a turn for the potentially unpleasant. Rain was expected in the region, although timing and specific location was not certain. We decided to take a chance.
It's a long way to Holly from downriver. On a good day, an hour and a half is making decent time. We were on track for that until we were just shy of University Drive. Then the tail lights went on ahead of us like Fifth Avenue in New York at Christmas. Four lanes were merging into 3, no 2. No...into 1!!!!!
Anyone who knows me will know that I am not necessarily the most patient person. (Note to my husband -- stop laughing!) Sitting in a traffic mess fuming is not my idea of a way to spend more than about 10 minutes. There was a ramp ahead, and I took it. All of a sudden, we were faced with a new choice -- straight ahead into the Chrysler gated facility (an obvious no) or turn and follow a road that seemed to lead into a parking structure. I pulled over and we searched the door pockets for helpful maps. Let's see - Philadelphia, PA. The Lower Huron Metropark system. Ann Arbor-Ypsilanti. Curses.
I recruited Lea to call my house and contact my personal OnStar wannabe navigator. Doug sat at his computer and did a Google map on our location. Using what I call the spy satellite, he zoomed in on the roads we were on. The images are not real-time, so it's not like he could see our car, but he could see the buildings and the twists and turns in the road clearly. Then he switched to the street map and guided us around and out of the industrial complex and back onto more familiar public byways. By the time we got north of the traffic jam, I am sure we had spent more time than if I had just taken a chill pill and waited for the merging process to complete.
Once we got past this, we were almost at our destination, but the skies, which had not been particularly friendly looking, decided it was time to become downright threatening. We lined up and made the turn into the parking field for the RenFest. A host of folks in ponchos were standing ready to point us into a space in what was not yet a sodden mess. Lea and I looked at each other, imagining what this might be like in a couple of hours. I poked my head out the window and said to the nearest poncho person, "You know, we changed our minds. Can we please just turn around here and leave?" Well, of course, what could she say? And out we went.
We decided we would head toward home and figure out an alternative on the way. In the end, we just ended up in a shop in Wyandotte having a cup of coffee and a good laugh. We had started out to have a fun outing and had achieved our goal, even though the particulars didn't resemble the original concept as closely as we would have liked.
As my favorite philosopher, Roseanne Roseannadanna, would say, "It just goes to show ya. It's always sumpthin."
Friday, September 3, 2010
The Zen of Waterskiing
When asked about my favorite activity, I do not hestiate to say "waterskiing." There is no sensation on earth -- at least, within my experience to date -- that compares to that of the nearly frictionless glide across mirror-smooth water. When I lived on Ford Lake, I owned a 15' tri-hull with an 86-horsepower outboard motor. Plenty of power to pull a skier on an inland lake. Living on the lake meant I was able to get out early enough to get the really smooth water. No wind, no crazies from the public launch site, no fishermen sitting in the sheltered coves where the water is especially still.
Sitting in the water, steadying the ski tip, yelling "Hit it!," rising into the air and feeling the play in my legs and arms as my body adjusts to the ride behind the boat -- these are sensations I remember as deeply satisfying to some inner part of me. Explain it by endorphins if you want to, but I think that body chemistry explains only part of this effect.This will always be the defining experience of personal joy for me.
[Wow, what kind of mother am I? -- Sorry, kiddo, as much as I am delighted to be your Mom, so much of that process is uncomfortable, confusing, frustrating and ego-challenging that the joy is often obscured or diluted. -- That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.]
The last time I tried to ski was about 15 years ago, and at that time, I hadn't skied in about 8 years. I had gained weight and was woefully out of shape. Forget grip strength. As a result, I failed to get up on my slalom ski. After 3 or 4 tries, I decided to try and get up on two skis. Try as I might, I failed at that also. In the process, as I gripped the handle of the tow rope as hard as I could, I damaged both carpal tunnels enough that I couldn't button anything for weeks and had to wear wrist braces for months. Very discouraging. It was enough to keep me from trying again for a really long time. Or even being interested in doing so.
Now I am retired, and I have been doing strength training for two years. I know my arms and hands are much, much more able to handle the task than before. So I found a friend with a boat who was willing to take me out for a try. We set up a time to do so, last week, on a hot and very windy day.
When Doug and I got to their house, Tim and Virginia asked if I really wanted to go out. It was windy enough that the chop was going to be fierce. If you have ever waterskied, you know that this makes getting up more difficult and the skiing itself a miserable pounding for your legs and lower back. But I was determined to give it a try.
Out we went into the water in front of the house. Way too rough. So we went around the tip of the Island to the wall or jetty that creates a relatively calm area. Of course, the fisher folk like this place, too, which complicates the tow.
We stopped the boat and into the water I went. I struggled to get my slalom ski on. I forgot what that was like, as I rolled on my side and tried to get a good grip on the boot to pull it on. Once that was done, Tim circled the boat around me so that the rope came into range. The handle was split, and I was used to a one-piece handle. I bobbled side to side as the slack was taken out of the rope. Finally, I call "hit it!" The motor kicked into life. The water scooped toward me, billowing my suit and splashing into my face. I was not able to keep a grip on the rope handle, and was soon floating free, waiting for the boat to come back and bring me the rope for another try.
We tried this 4 more times. Once, I was almost up. Almost. Finally I was just too tired to try again. I climbed back in the boat and back we went to land. So what went wrong? I am not sure. It may be that I just have to keep trying, so that I can re-awaken what I used to know. Maybe the split handle was a factor, or maybe I should start again with two skis, before I can try again with one.
It was frustrating, but I don't feel discouraged. I remember some of those sensations that go with this most favorite activity. I still like those sensations. I still want to re-experience them. Okay, I am not that crazy about the river water going up into my sinuses. But that's just part of the deal. In spite of that, therefore, I hope we have some summery days again before Fall settles in for good, so that I don't have to wait until next July. With the help of my boat-owning friends, Tim and Virginia, and my husband, spotter extraordinaire, I know I can do it.
Sitting in the water, steadying the ski tip, yelling "Hit it!," rising into the air and feeling the play in my legs and arms as my body adjusts to the ride behind the boat -- these are sensations I remember as deeply satisfying to some inner part of me. Explain it by endorphins if you want to, but I think that body chemistry explains only part of this effect.This will always be the defining experience of personal joy for me.
[Wow, what kind of mother am I? -- Sorry, kiddo, as much as I am delighted to be your Mom, so much of that process is uncomfortable, confusing, frustrating and ego-challenging that the joy is often obscured or diluted. -- That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.]
The last time I tried to ski was about 15 years ago, and at that time, I hadn't skied in about 8 years. I had gained weight and was woefully out of shape. Forget grip strength. As a result, I failed to get up on my slalom ski. After 3 or 4 tries, I decided to try and get up on two skis. Try as I might, I failed at that also. In the process, as I gripped the handle of the tow rope as hard as I could, I damaged both carpal tunnels enough that I couldn't button anything for weeks and had to wear wrist braces for months. Very discouraging. It was enough to keep me from trying again for a really long time. Or even being interested in doing so.
Now I am retired, and I have been doing strength training for two years. I know my arms and hands are much, much more able to handle the task than before. So I found a friend with a boat who was willing to take me out for a try. We set up a time to do so, last week, on a hot and very windy day.
When Doug and I got to their house, Tim and Virginia asked if I really wanted to go out. It was windy enough that the chop was going to be fierce. If you have ever waterskied, you know that this makes getting up more difficult and the skiing itself a miserable pounding for your legs and lower back. But I was determined to give it a try.
Out we went into the water in front of the house. Way too rough. So we went around the tip of the Island to the wall or jetty that creates a relatively calm area. Of course, the fisher folk like this place, too, which complicates the tow.
We stopped the boat and into the water I went. I struggled to get my slalom ski on. I forgot what that was like, as I rolled on my side and tried to get a good grip on the boot to pull it on. Once that was done, Tim circled the boat around me so that the rope came into range. The handle was split, and I was used to a one-piece handle. I bobbled side to side as the slack was taken out of the rope. Finally, I call "hit it!" The motor kicked into life. The water scooped toward me, billowing my suit and splashing into my face. I was not able to keep a grip on the rope handle, and was soon floating free, waiting for the boat to come back and bring me the rope for another try.
We tried this 4 more times. Once, I was almost up. Almost. Finally I was just too tired to try again. I climbed back in the boat and back we went to land. So what went wrong? I am not sure. It may be that I just have to keep trying, so that I can re-awaken what I used to know. Maybe the split handle was a factor, or maybe I should start again with two skis, before I can try again with one.
It was frustrating, but I don't feel discouraged. I remember some of those sensations that go with this most favorite activity. I still like those sensations. I still want to re-experience them. Okay, I am not that crazy about the river water going up into my sinuses. But that's just part of the deal. In spite of that, therefore, I hope we have some summery days again before Fall settles in for good, so that I don't have to wait until next July. With the help of my boat-owning friends, Tim and Virginia, and my husband, spotter extraordinaire, I know I can do it.
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