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.

I heart muffins

This is the last morning of extended coffee and reading for a while. Back to school tomorrow after a nearly two week vacation. I spent most mornings slowly, no rush to pack my bag or to make sure everyone got to where they had to be with all the things they needed to have. This morning's relaxation was tinged with melancholy; sigh, all good things must end.

Then Anya said, "I wish I had a muffin," and I thought, "yeah, me too."

And, with all this lovely free time, I pulled the ingredients out of the cupboards and whipped up this batch. 

I still have to go to school tomorrow, pouring my coffee in a covered to-go mug and sipping it while driving to work, but there'll be a muffin my lunchbox to savor while I settle in to prep for the day.

What a great idea, Anya.

Grateful.

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.

Choice

A week later than planned, demolition of the kitchen is scheduled for Monday. That puts me in decision-making mode. We need to choose light and plumbing fixtures. We need to pick out tile for the entryway. We need to decide whether or not to buy new appliances. And I need to choose a wall color. Did you notice the shift in pronouns at the end of that list? I’m not complaining, just noting that the choice of color falls to me. Truthfully, I want it. I finally shared the color decision last year when I gave in to the girls to help them deal with the idea of changing the color of the house – and have regretted it. I don’t love the color of our house. I don’t hate it, but I don’t love it. And it’s hard not to be annoyed with them for that. It was my choice, I can’t blame them, but hey, I’m human, and sometimes I do.

Choice can be stressful. Here’s how I approach it. I delve deep into the endless field of choices, wade through, pushing some aside, collecting others for careful consideration, then I see one thing and forget all of my rational sorting and go with it.

Here is the field, provided by Benjamin Moore. I quickly pushed aside all the blues and reds and browns; weighed the benefits of a neutral gray and then grabbed a bright yellow-orange card. I kept looking, but that card stayed in my hand. I’ve gone through the pretext of a sample pint, which I have dutifully swatched on the wall, with an alternate, softer tone for comparison. Cute. My choice was made as soon as the paint card leapt out at me.

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.

new traditions

Yesterday I booked movie tickets online for Christmas day. Nope, never did think I’d do that. This is the year of new traditions; the first year we will not gather with the Lamarre family at the brick house. Greg and the girls and I have been batting around ideas for months now, since my siblings and I agreed to have our gathering the weekend before Christmas. At first we planned to travel. The extra long school break made it a good year for a trip. But, then I scheduled my surgery for the week before Christmas and didn’t want to lock us into anything in case I wasn’t up to it. (Good call, turns out.)

So, Saturday we gathered with my brothers and sisters and their families for a wonderful holiday. Tonight we’ll head over to Greg’s parents’ house to spend time with his family. And in the morning, after opening presents and feasting on a big Christmas breakfast we have the day to ourselves. We’ve decided on a family walk on one of the great little trails in town, followed by that movie in the afternoon, The Hobbit.

Next year, we’ll likely take a trip. Or host some friends. Or go visiting.

This year we’re easing in to a new tradition of being with our own little family, taking our time, and enjoying the day.

Read another Slice of Life by visiting TwoWritingTeachers

Asking for help

It frustrated me when my mother would worry about “being a burden”. If we correctly anticipated ways she might need us, she would allow us to help, usually while assuring us we “didn’t have to” or worrying that we were neglecting our own families in favor of her. If we were not perceptive enough to predict when she would need us, she almost never asked. We tried to convince her that it was a joy and honor to help the woman who nurtured us through childhood, because truthfully, it was.  I feel truly blessed to have been able to give my meager support in the last years of her life.

I’m thinking of this because I need help and I don’t like it. I can’t drive because the splint goes over my elbow. I can do many things one handed, but more slowly and awkwardly. I can’t carry the laundry basket downstairs, nor get myself to the salon for a haircut, nor cut and clean the squash for soup, nor scrub the shower. I feel like a burden. I hate asking for help and don’t do it often.

My limitations are temporary. In a week I’ll get a new cast that will probably give me more freedom; and a month after that I should be free of a cast altogether. In the meantime, I need to practice asking for help, remembering how good it felt to help Mom.