ceramic memories

I knew this day would come; dreaded it for some time. But this morning, when I saw that today was the day, I shrugged and smiled.

The chip on my coffee cup might not sound like a big deal to you, but this hasn’t always been my coffee cup. It was my father’s first. His little sister gave it to him for some occasion or another. I remember her smile, when he opened the gift. She said something about retirement not changing the fact that he was a bricklayer.

I honestly don’t know if my father ever actually drank coffee from this mug. There were plenty of mugs in the cabinet. But, when I was cleaning out those cabinets, that mug went in the box of things that I wanted. That mug was a part of my Dad.

For the past several years, I’ve alternated between this cup and the lovely Polish pottery I inherited from the previous occupant of a classroom I moved into. They are my favorites and no one else in the house ever takes them. Though my mother never owned, nor drank out of, the Polish pottery, I began to think of that as her mug and the construction worker one as Dad’s. I took turns thinking of them each as I poured the coffee. I felt their presence, I visited with a quick memory each time.

With such a weighty connection to a mug, I feared what would happen when one or the other finally succumbed to age and use, or to accident. I feared the grief that might well up.

But, this morning, as I unexpectedly caught my lip on the new chip in Dad’s cup, I was unprepared by how OK I was with it. Things change, things die, and life goes on.

Since my father died, my family changed in some fundamental ways. I will never be a part of the larger family the way I was when he was with us. I grieved over that loss for a long time. I think, in the past year as my little immediate family changes with growth of our girls, I have come very close to being at peace with the evolution of the larger family. I am loving the evolution of my immediate family.

So, the cup is chipped and I should no longer use it. It would slowly, or not so slowly fall apart and I should retire it before I cut my lip or swallow a ceramic fragment.

It feels wrong to just toss it in the trash, so I might find a garden spot to bury it in, or scatter the broken shards in with the border rocks, but I won’t cry the way I thought I would.

Thank you, Aunt Lee, for buying Dad the mug. Thanks for leaving it in the cabinet for me, Dad. I’ll still think of you both when I sit at the kitchen table with a hot cup of coffee.

same face through generations

Pauline, Albert, and Florence

I've been browsing through old photographs and am struck once again by how the same faces keep popping up through the generations. 

This black and white photo is my Mom with her brother Albert and sister Florence (my Mom called her "Sister"  or "Sis" for her whole life, and we called her "Aunt Sister" - it never seemed weird until I had to explain it to someone). 

It is so easy to see my siblings and I in all of those faces. 

That high forehead on my Mom, the littlest one on the left, she gave to me. I spent much of my life pushing my hair over that forehead, trying to deny it. As I approach 50 I'm finally willing to push my hair back, but you can see my bangs in the photo below (center). 

Wanda, Laura, and Wayne with Dad

That little boy in maroon pants, my brother Wayne, looks a lot like my Uncle Albert. 
And, depending on when I look at the photograph, in Aunt Sis I see my sister Wanda, my sister Brenda or my brother Lenny.

 And then there are my own little girls. Their round faces and high foreheads are certainly from my Mom, from me. In different pictures when you look fast you might think a photo is any number of cousins only to find out it's a photo of an aunt or uncle, a generation or more apart. 

My childhood was remarkably different from my Mom's, and my girls' quite different from my own, but we share these faces. 

Anya and Thea

Happy New Year

I remember being told once that what you do on New Year’s Day is indicative of what you will be doing in that year. It makes sense since what you choose to do with a day off can certainly show your priorities. But we all know that we often subvert our personal priorities for obligation and perceived responsibility. Days off are days off. They take us out of our routine and give us a vacation from responsibility. I think I’m spending this New Year’s much as I’ve spent the past several, but it is not necessarily how I’ve spent my years.

I woke early this morning, before anyone else in the house, got the coffee started and settled into the couch with some light reading. I noticed a Goodreads invitation to submit my 2017 reading challenge and so took half a minute to think about what might be reasonable and then typed in 50 even though it's not. True, I read 51 books this past year – not hard because half of them were student fiction – but this year I’m hoping to sign up for a post graduate program and won’t have the same kind of pleasure reading time that I had last year. Then I think about how much time I spend trolling through Facebook and playing mindless games and reading frustrating blog posts and remember that 50 books is well within my means.

Let’s stop that train of thought though because if what you are doing on New Year’s is what you’ll be doing through the year then I know I want to do a lot less self-flagellation and a lot more energized action.

So here's what I want to continue doing after this morning. Reading, being close to my husband, planning for a better world. And what the picture can't show is the action taken because I will give myself time to refresh.

family history revised

I spent some time this week cleaning up the “office.” I go in spurts of using this room as a workspace, then I let it get cluttered and avoid it hoping the organizing fairies will take care of it. They never do, so after a while I jump in and make it a workspace again. A cool side effect is that I find things I’ve forgotten about or didn’t even know I

Arthur & Nora Nolan

had. Like this picture of my great aunt and uncle at what was likely their 50^th wedding anniversary. The picture is undated and I recognize my adolescent handwriting on the back labeling who it is, with the detail that they are “Mom’s aunt and uncle.”

I have vague memories of Aunt Nora, possibly invented memories but there is no one left to tell me otherwise. Nora died shortly after I turned 6.

I looked at the family tree I made in 8^th grade with my mother’s help. I had made notes on it through the years and at some point my Mom felt I was old enough to know that Earl, who was listed as Nora and my grandmother’s brother was actually Nora’s son. Nora was unmarried and too young to take on the responsibility, so her parents raised Earl. I wonder now if Arthur knew that.

Looking at my addendums to the family tree always makes me smile. I love the idea of my Mom adding more to stories as I matured and became ready to hear them. Can you imagine all the family history that is slowly revised as children grow? And how many stories didn’t get their rewrite in time? We’ve lost a lot of the stories from my mother’s family. There’s just no one left who knows them. But there are these random treasures. There’s Aunt Nora and Uncle Arthur, happy, celebrating.

Now I just have to dig up a photo of Earl and see if he looks like Arthur.

artifacts of a life - mudslide

It pains my sister to make this drink for me. 

She's a real drinker - knows her alcohol, knows what to mix with what. She does NOT stock Oreos in her bar. 

Yet, with all the love a big sister can blend in with Kahlúa and ice cream, she makes me this every year during Siblings' Weekend. She laughs at me, but she makes it.

I love you, sister. 
This drink is a memory I will always treasure.

artifacts of a life - tomatoes on the sill

I walked up to the sink the other day to wash dishes and instead was washed with childhood memories. It was the tomatoes on the windowsill. Dad always put tomatoes on the sill above the sink to finish ripening. I had unconsciously done the same thing, not thinking of my Dad when I put them there, but surrounded by him at that moment of realization.

The best part of that moment was, instead of crying because I miss him so much, I smiled because he gave me so much. Fresh tomatoes ripening on a windowsill. Who could ask for a better memory on a July afternoon? A memory I can truly still savor.

House Key (artifacts of a life)

The very first key I carried opened the door to the brick house on Jean Ave and I have carried that key my whole life since. It was on my key ring while I dormed in Maine for one semester. I brought it with me to grad school in Wyoming. It jingles on my key ring even now each time I get into my car in Westford. That key opened the door to my house. My house. It had always been my house, though I never owned it and I haven’t lived there for 17 years. There were times I opened the door once a week, and times I walked through every day, and every time I went in I felt completely at home, as if I belonged there. Because I did belong there.

Did.

I don’t belong there anymore.

The house was sold to my sister last Friday.

It’s not my house anymore.

When Dad died three years ago, we started calling it Mom’s house. When she died last year, I couldn’t call it that anymore. The house was slowly emptied of things and filled with tension. I called it “the homestead,” “the brick house,” “Jean Ave,” anything to avoid saying Mom’s house because Mom wasn’t there. I mean, really wasn’t there; not her body, not her spirit. And I really thought I would sigh in relief on Friday when the papers were signed; closure, peace. But instead, I got all quiet and grumpy on Thursday in anticipation and cried on Friday morning. I no longer have my home. It didn’t feel like closure; it felt like loss.

There were lots of things that contributed to the tension over this house, things I never anticipated happening, and perhaps those tensions will be relieved with the sale. All the details are finalized and the papers passed; no more animosity or tension over it. I am not sad because my sister owns the house. I wish her happiness there whether she moves in with her husband or passes it along to one of her grown children.

No, what makes me sad is that the home that shaped me, filled with the love of my father and mother is gone. Since Mom died it has not been the comfortable gathering place we all relied on our whole loves. Since Mom died, going there did not feel welcome and safe. So really, I lost my home last year, not last Friday. But over this past year, I’ve used my key, I’ve walked through the door and, if not welcome, felt, at least, entitled to do so. And now I am not. Perhaps my sister will even change the lock.

And I have this key on my key ring that jingles each time I get in my car. And now it is no longer the key to my home. What is it now? Do I keep it on my ring as a reminder of the fortunate childhood I lived? Do I keep it there as a memento of my parents? Do I hang it on the wall, attach it to a chain around my neck? Do I ceremoniously bury it in the backyard?

This is the very fist key I ever carried and it opened the door to love. But the key doesn’t work anymore, so I have to find a new way in.

Artifacts of a Life - The New Testament

This New Testament belonged to my Dad. The pieces of paper are his notes from the class he took to become a Eucharistic Minister. I had seen both book and notes before, but I rediscovered them while cleaning out my parents’ house. I brought them home with me a few months ago and since then have been slowly reading the book; I constantly reread his notes.

I was brought up Catholic and remained very unquestioning so for years. In 7^th grade I seriously contemplated entering the convent, though that could be attributed to the totally cool Sister Roberta more than my own religious fervor. (Who wouldn’t want to be like Sister Roberta?) I made some serious mistakes when I was in high school and to try to get myself back on the right path, I taught CCD – the Catholic Sunday School (I know you’re asking what CCD stands for. I had to look it up: Confraternity of Christian Doctrine. Clears that right up, doesn’t it?)

In college, when I began to question everything, I began my drift from the church. By the time I married, I would not even consider a religious ceremony. I did not baptize my children.

Still, this book means a lot to me, not just because it belonged to my father, but because he belonged to it. I mean, he was so devoted to his faith that he took the time, after working all day (my Dad held at least two jobs until he retired, when he cut back to just one) he took the time to attend this class, to do some independent reading and reflection, and to serve his parish.

I have long wanted to read the bible through. I grew up hearing readings in church, we read some in the parochial school I attended for 1^st through 8^th grade, and I occasionally picked up the big family bible that sat on a shelf at the head of my parents’ bed (loved that one, in part, because of the intriguing illustrations and because of the entries in the family history in the back). I’ve tried before to start from Genesis and work my way through, but I never made it too far. I like the simple wording of this New Testament. It may not have the poetry of the King James, but it’s easy to read. And, yes, of course, I like to think of my father reading this very book. What did he think about that proclamation against divorce when his children announced their separations? Did he relate to Mary’s sorrow when he lost his own son? Did he find comfort here?

I’m reading this New Testament because I want to remember the good teaching of my family’s church, even though I don’t expect to ever count myself a member again. This book is more a part of my childhood, and of the adult I became, than any other (except for that big family Bible, which I spent more time with as a child).  The price printed on the cover amuses me. You can’t buy a book for $1.65 anymore. But you can’t put a price tag on this artifact of my life.