On Grief. And Sparks.

 

Hello again. I've been away for a while. I know this might not be the best topic to herald my return, but here we are. 

I've been thinking about grief lately. I thought I knew what grief was, but the death of my father a little over 8 years ago drastically changed my perspective on grief. I was lucky. I had the best of friends who moved heaven and earth to be with me and get me through the time. Within a year, I repaid the favor when one and then the other lost their fathers. One. Two. Three. We each had different relationships with our fathers. Their stories aren't mine to tell, but my grief was strongly centered in feeling like my safety net had been ripped away. It left me breathless. Panic stricken. Gasping for air. I'm still "getting over" it. I don't know if I ever will. 

That change in perspective started my thinking about the heart holes people leave when they're gone. My heart's hole was different from my mother's heart's hole upon my father's death. My father's role in my life was - obviously - different than hers. 

It's little things that seem to creep up on us all that make those holes evident. For me, it was searching out sardines in tomato sauce. For some reason, he thought that was a delicacy. He was delighted when one of us found some. He'd break out some saltine crackers and act like we'd given him caviar. About three months after his death, I found myself in a grocery story thrilled that I'd found some, only to realize he wasn't here to celebrate with me. And I burst into tears in the middle of a grocery store aisle feeling like a nut job. Little things. Big heart holes. 

Not long after, I lost a college professor who was very instrumental in my finding my path in learning. He'd been young in his career - less than a decade older than his students - when I first met him. My weirdo soul found a friend in him. We'd sit at the community table outside the suite of offices he occupied, along with 5 other professors, and talk about obscure Czech punk and Dadaism. Talk about rabbit holes, we'd find them for hours on end. We'd follow each other into the abyss of obscurity and in some ways he gave me permission to be my weirdo self. 

We'd kept in touch after my graduation, but as I married and had a child, that contact lessened. But for some reason it was important that he was still out there, leading other weirdos on a learning journey, making it okay to love to learn. Heart, meet hole. Another spark gone. 

This summer, two of my best friends from high school lost their mothers within weeks of each other. These were the moms who had herded us through first periods, science projects, and school dances (all equally traumatic as a young teen woman). We'd visit each of their homes and they'd bring us snacks. They had actively raised the women who got me through high school. And they were now gone. Spark, spark.  

This was on the heels of my best friend from college losing her mother - a woman I claimed as a second mother (and she claimed me right back). She taught me to make stollen and sheltered me when I had hard life choices to make. She'd listened when I said I'd met the man I wanted to marry. She held me when I cried over the children I lost. She celebrated my son's birth.  She loved me. One. Two. Three. Spark.

Having lost my dad, I knew there was nothing you could say to fill those heart holes. There are no words of comfort that magically make it better. There is nothing you can do. At best, I could express love and stand with them as they buried pieces of their hearts. 

The weird part of losing my second mother is that I was trying to be there for my (all but blood) sister, when I was grieving myself. I just didn't realize it until the home they'd both welcomed me into was sold. Well, hello heart hole. Didn't know you'd be so big. But there you are.

Now you're kinda caught up. There's a point here, I promise. I'm getting to it. Enter Friday night. 

I'd finished a long, tough day at work only to find that two high school classmates had died on the same day. This was on the heels of the loss of another classmate, killed in a freak accident not too long ago. One. Two. Three. Again, I'd not talked to these folks for quite some time. We grew up together - two of them on the same street at different times in my childhood - but our lives went in different directions. 

Reading over tributes, I could see that I was not the only one affected by this loss. We all were. These were our people. They had made us smile. They had been leaders in their own ways. We had journeyed the pain of adolescence together and had successfully come out the other side. We'd had lives and families, and loved, and were loved, but had done so in different places. We still had that history, that commonality. 

I've been reflecting on lives lived as I work through this newest heart hole. How can I still mourn someone I've not seen for decades? Why is my heart heavy when I don't really know their partners, their children, where they lived, the communities they'd grown? 

It came to me today. 

Whether the loss is big or small, we're losing sparks of ourself with every person we bury. These are the people who knew us when we were innocent, who protected us and guided us and lived through angst with us. They knew us at our best and our worst, and now they're gone. Spark after spark, they're flitting away into the afterlife, leaving the rest of us behind. We're forced to face our mortality, sure. But we're also losing pieces of ourselves, knowing that there might be a day when we're the last to remember who we were, the dreams we had, and the experiences we shared. 

So as I'm looking through photos, looking at the firsts they celebrated with their families, knowing they probably didn't know to mark the lasts, I felt like I needed to tell their stories. I needed to share that they mattered. I needed to share that they made an impact, made this world better for a young woman from the heart of WV. Steve, Jack, Ky. Almuth, Judy, June. Bill, John, Mike, Jay. You mattered to me. 

Spark on. 

For This Child I Prayed.

It has been four years since we celebrated the best Thanksgiving of my life. At the time, I didn't know it would be the best Thanksgiving of my life. At the time, all I knew was hope, and a little fear, that what we'd prayed for would finally occur.

Now I know that it would be the last Thanksgiving my father would spend with his brother and sister and their families. Now I know it would be the last trip my brother would take with our Dad. Now I know the house my in-laws had, at the time, just purchased, a house in which we'd celebrate subsequent Thanksgivings.

But in that week, all I knew was hope. All I knew was living moment-by-moment. All I knew was prayer that at least one of the eight lives living in a lab in Rockville, Maryland would continue to grow.

That Thanksgiving week, as my brother and father spent time four states away and my mother-in-law was another four states away (in a different direction), we all waited for the daily call telling us how many lives were left, whether they'd grown. I remember trying to distract myself by shopping, getting the call that there were eight embryos - more than I'd ever had before. I remember screaming out "EIGHT, Mama, EIGHT!" in the middle of that store, both of us sobbing with joy and hugging while people hurried along around us. I remember calling my husband, sharing the news, believing together that maybe this time God would say yes to the thousands of prayers.

I remember my husband driving me to the embryo transfer, knowing that several of my babies had died, not knowing how many lives would be left to welcome into my womb. I remember the news that three babies had lived. I remember them handing us the photo of those three little lives. I remember the embryologist coming out with the syringe containing my three babies, holding my husband's hand as they transferred those babies into me, then checking to find that one had been "sticky" and was still in the tubing. I remember waiting for that sticky embryo to be brought back and transferred to me. I remember joking that this was the one - the one that would be stubborn enough to stay with Mama.


I remember gently walking to the car, knowing that nothing was going to "fall out", but still not wanting to disturb those lives nestling into my womb. I remember reclining in the seat all the way home, looking at the photo of the three embryos, talking to my husband about the possibilities ahead. And then I remember going to bed and staying still, praying for those lives inside of me, mourning the other lives lost.

I remember Thanksgiving day, a meal my Mama cooked, a meal shared with my father-in-law who had to be away from my mother-in-law while he finished up his job locally. I remember gently leaving bed only for the meal and then rushing back to make sure those babies had every opportunity to attach and grow. And I remember the prayers we offered that week in thanksgiving for life and family and provision and love.

I remember the wait, the pain of not knowing whether life had taken root. And I remember the call that told me God had said yes. I remember the tears of joy as I called my husband and my Mom and Dad and brother and in-laws to share the news we'd all hoped for: there was finally at least one baby growing inside of me. There was life.

So as we enter into this season of Thanksgiving, I'll continue to remember how that one Thanksgiving changed my life. I'll remember how my family and friends rallied around me, praying from many states away that God would answer our prayers in the affirmative. I'll remember the beginnings of that year. And I'll forever be thankful for the provision of life that was rooted in that week. From that week on, Thanksgiving has never again been the same.

The House at JoHarry

I remember the first time we went to see the house I've known as home for 40 years now. Built at the dawn of the 20th Century, I remember the basement looking like the door to a great adventure. I remember the red shag carpeting of the powder room off the kitchen. I remember sitting under the windows of the front bedroom, embracing a stuffed dog that was bigger than me, declaring THIS would be MY bedroom.

We moved into the house right before I started first grade. At the time I was eagerly awaiting my 6th birthday, and spent a good bit of my time keeping my little brother from pulling the heads and arms from my Barbies. Instead of getting the biggest, front bedroom, Mama put me in the back bedroom facing the back yard. It was the smallest bedroom in the house, barely containing my twin bed, a dresser, a desk and bookcase. But it did have a huge closet with a built in dresser that was easily twice my height.

Before the move, Mama had been busy prepping furniture for my new domain. My baby brother inherited the bed I'd slept in until the move, and I inherited new (to me) furniture. Mama had painted her grandmother's bed and dresser in a crisp, white enamel. The bed had posters and creaked when I turned over in the night. The dresser was Victorian and had candlestands, a mirror that pivoted on a frame, and a top that looked like a castle crenelation. She'd found a bookcase that would house my well-loved books and desk for future homework that she painted to match the dresser and bed.

She then took me to the Ethan Allan store and walked me through the bedroom vignettes they'd set up to sell furniture we couldn't afford on a college professor's salary. It was there I spotted the patchwork wallpaper that Mama sacrificed to make mine - in all the lime green, yellow, pink and purple glory you can imagine. She found a pink carpet fit for a princess to finish my kingdom at the back of the house.

She spent the winter making a patchwork quilt to match my wallpaper, with blocks of lime green, yellow, pink and purple gingham, and knotted with yarn that would eventually fray into pom poms. She went to the carpet store and found carpet samples in lime green, yellow, pink and purple to create a patchwork floor in my huge closet - a closet that eventually provided hours of playtime for me and my brother.

Though she had an entire house to remodel and repair, she focused on my room first. I got the smallest room in the house as a bedroom, but she made it a vision of a five-year-old girl's dreams. It was a place where we'd lay pallets and read books, a place we'd set up our record player to pretend we ran a radio station, a place where I'd sit and watch the trees sway in the breeze. Eventually, it was the place I'd redo after college to befit a young professional, the place I'd dress for my wedding day, and the place I'd bring my newborn son while my father received cancer treatments.

Though I've not lived in my home town for almost 20 years, and Mama has since remodeled the room to fit her needs, this is still "my room." The trees are no longer there, but the room still seems sheltered and safe at the back of the house. My son has adopted it as "his" room, and gets very upset should we sleep in any other. But in my mind, it will forever be my patchwork princess playground - a place where many of my dreams began.

On being different.

Almost 20 years ago, I moved from my home state to Washington, DC where I found that I was a bit "different" from most of the people I met. I already knew I was different. It had been driven home to me time and again from childhood. My family didn't vacation the same way others in my community vacationed. We didn't play the way others in my community played. Heck, I didn't even color the way other kids colored (Mama gave us any art supply we asked to have but we NEVER, never had a coloring book). But coming to Washington, DC drove my differences home more solidly than ever before.
My father was a history buff, and particularly loved 18th Century history. I think his love of the Lone Ranger and Tonto morphed into a genuine passion for learning about Native American culture, and that dovetailed into stories of "frontier life" in the 1700s. Our region was rife with history from this era. Our home was the frontier, the battles happened virtually in our back yard.

When I was about six years old, Daddy became involved in a project to rebuild an 18th Century refuge fort, called Prickett's Fort. Mama made us period appropriate costumes. Daddy spent 400+ hours making a historically accurate muzzle loader, and started practicing his knife and tomahawk (not to be confused with an axe) throwing. We started going to rendezvous, where others dressed in 18th Century garb, camped in authentic campsites, and competed in shooting, as well as knife and tomahawk throwing. The days would end with campfires and singing of historically appropriate music playing historically appropriate instruments.

I would imagine there are very few people who think it "normal" to regularly dress in 18th Century costume, there is probably a more select group who learned to weave "linsey" on a 200 year old barn loom, spin wool on a 150 year old walking wheel, and cook in a fireplace with a cast iron pot. I doubt many spent their summers listening to the beat of a tomahawk repeatedly hitting a target, even fewer who'd been taught how to throw tomahawks as a child, and I may be the only person I know who had an ex-boyfriend chased off the property with a tomahawk. But this was my family's normal.

While other of my classmates were heading to the beach or an amusement park, my family was heading to another fort, historical site or rendezvous. While other families went hunting for venison, my Dad begged the skins of the deer to make buckskin britches. While other fathers were winning sales awards, my Dad was named State Champion in knife and tomahawk throwing. And Mama and I spent many an hour looking for red fox pelts to make Daddy's fox hat (instead of the oft seen coonskin cap).






My high school science project was on the effects the pot had as a mordant in natural dying (copper pots made the prettiest dyes). While other girls were dressed in 80s neon, I was graduating from shift and mob cap to English bodice and lace cap. And one of the most enjoyable parties I threw in law school involved showing a group of friends how to hold and throw a tomahawk - in the Nation's capitol, just off one of the main thoroughfares.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, my family had taught me an important lesson: embrace who you are. As I grew older, it became easier to be okay with the fact that we were just different, and that there were many other people out there who were also different - in a different way, but still different. Eventually, I found those different people, embraced those different people, and called them friend.

Today, I live in Alexandria, near Mount Vernon, where it is assumed if I'm in 18th Century costume, I'm probably giving a tour nearby. I have a son who's already outgrown his first 18th Century costume - the one he wore with his (proud) Grandfather to a rendezvous at 18 months.

One of the larger challenges I have facing me as a parent is to encourage my child's different self in a way that will encourage him to embrace who he is with confidence. I don't think it will be easy because I know conformity is a much easier path. But what I CAN do, is point to those people I've called friends - some of whom I can claim almost a lifetime of friendship - and say, "See? THIS is what makes you rich. THIS is what makes life good. THESE are the people who will celebrate life with you." And I will thank my "different" friends for embracing the different in me, while I celebrate their different with them. All the while I will know: my life will always be richer for embracing the different.

Buttons... buttons... buttons....

To say I've had a life long love of buttons probably doesn't exactly convey the crazy little welling of joy when I "find" a new stash of these little jewels. I think anyone who loves buttons understands what I mean. It's somewhat irrational the temptation to take each find home, add it to your special button pile that's kept for only the best of projects. And forget looking on ebay. That's just asking money to pour from your pockets in waves... at least that's true for me.

The first place I remember treasure hunting is in my Mama's button box - the button box that was added to her mother's button box, that was added to her mother's button box, and on, and on. I come from a long line of button hoarders. I remember there being smaller boxes and prescription bottles where an attempt at sorting had taken place. Pearl buttons were with pearl buttons, six of the same button strung together with string and baby buttons gathered in a Sucrets tin. I'd pick through them and pull out the ones I liked best, sorting as I went (I'm more than a little OCD, I admit it).

Then there are specific instances I remember being with Mama and finding buttons that demanded a special outfit, or an outfit that demanded special buttons. One such sighting was in Asheville, NC in a yarn shop. They had these amazing pewter buttons with thistles that were something like $8 each. My high school budget certainly couldn't afford such an outrageous sum, and even begging garnered only 3 of these precious thistles that later found a home on one of Mama's creations. Then there were the special trips to G-Street Fabrics in Rockville, MD with their rows of shelves of buttons that completed more than one of my formal gowns and countless jackets.

These days I haunt estate sales and flea markets hoping to find that box of a lifetime - the one with the carved pearl, the czech glass, the painted glass, faceted jet - buttons that go beyond the brown and black of most button boxes. And after years of searching I remember only three sales that really blew me away. The best was the flea market in Fairmont, WV where I found two large boxes of buttons, one white, one multi-colored, sitting under a table offered for $10 for the lot. I snapped those up!

I'm often left relying on the kindness of strangers. I had a former co-worker who cleaned out her mother's house after her death who remembered I was "crafty" and offered me the leftovers of a lifetime of sewing. That gift included not only buttons, but yarns and notions and books on pattern drafting - all welcome additions to my collection.

Most recently, my mother-in-law heard that I was again collecting buttons to use in my jewelry design. I had finally found a way to incorporate my love of buttons into my need to create. She unearthed her golden tin of buttons collected as a child with HER grandmother by going to the local salvage yard and pulling buttons from discarded clothing.

So how about you? Do you keep your buttons in their original boxes? Are yours sorted in old prescription bottles? Did some of your collection come from your mother or grandmother? Did you string them when you were young? Do you design outfits around the most special of your collection?

Am I alone in my love of buttons? I doubt I am.