Tag Archives: Family

Apologies

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When this blog originated it was done with the promise, to you the reader, and myself that it will be posted every other week. In between, a quotation is offered that is in sync with the previous post. I have kept the promise but I am breaking it tonight.

I have felt fortunate that inspiration has always come easily. That is still the case but due to family circumstances I am unable to pull my thoughts together and offer something that would be cohesive in thought and message. I am asking you for a reprieve this week. I will be back shortly with blogs that most likely will reflect the knowledge and experience I am currently acquiring.

For those who reside in the states, Happy Thanksgiving. Never forget to give thanks for the good that comes your way, no matter the size of the blessing.

Also Known As

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With the Father’s Day celebrations taking place today I am reminded that it has been 35 years since my father was here to enjoy them. Although I was an adult when he left us and made his transition, I will always feel like I was robbed. When thinking of him, I realize that it’s the little things, so often forgotten, that continue to put a smile on my face.

My father had two careers where he wore a uniform daily: the US Navy and that of a correctional officer at a local prison. He never held a position in law enforcement proper and I shudder to think what might have happened if he had. He had a propensity for giving nicknames to those around him and I am afraid to think of how an All-Points Bulletin might have read if he were given the opportunity to pen one. Criminals would have donned new and distinctive aliases.

His ability to produce unique monikers came to him honestly. His father, Newton Levigger, answered to the name Pat. If there was a story behind the origin of his nickname, my grandfather took it to the grave with him. His sons, my father and his brothers, followed suit by giving each other animal names. My father was named Rooster as his hair was said to resemble the comb sported by the fowl. No photographs exist from his youth so I rely on my imagination to picture his curly hair standing at attention. I am relieved that neither the name nor the hair style remained. My one uncle was not as fortunate and he carried his name throughout his life. I never thought it odd that I had an Uncle Monk. I would have thought it strange if he had kept the full name of Monkey but apparently his nickname was given a nickname.

It is not unusual for a couple to have pet names for one another. I can still hear my father’s lingering southern accent refer to my mother as Sug, short for sugar, of course. Within our home my mother was not the only one to answer to something other than her given name. I bore the name Miss Priss while my youngest brother was referred to as Hambone. No one was safe from my father’s creativity as my brother’s friend, Jeb, would be greeted upon arrival with a boisterous “Jethro”.

You may wonder at this point if my father, whose flair with nicknames was so prolific, had one himself. Indeed he did. As a young man enlisting in the Navy he became Blackie, a name he would carry with him his entire life. Other than his family, I don’t remember anyone calling him anything other than Blackie. His given name, Henon, was unusual and often mispronounced. My mother, in humor, would call him He – non occasionally, but the usual was Blackie.

Although given this fine example from my father, the names bestowed upon my son were seriously lacking in many ways. Once, while on vacation, we saw a bounty of Milkweed plants. His father and I kiddingly began calling him Milkweed. It was a name that made him, as a teenager, cringe upon hearing it.  It has become more of a joke and now brings a smile as opposed to a grimace. There is nothing I can create that rivals the name my father often called my son. It was never meant to offend and was spoken as an endearment. Since my father has been dead for over three decades no one since has uttered the nickname conferred upon my son and it might be for his benefit. I doubt seriously he would want the name Shit Bird to follow him through eternity.

When Dad Speaks

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My father has been gone for more than half my life. Every so often my mind wonders what it would have been like to have had him remain longer in our lives. My thoughts don’t allow me to have him age although in reality he would have hit the 100 year old mark by now. In my imagination he would still be able to perform those handy man tasks that were common place. More importantly, I could ask him questions about our family or his youth, things I wasn’t prepared to ask earlier in my life. Once again, I could hear the soft southern accent that he never lost.

Years ago, when traveling to New Orleans, my father came to me in a dream. I recall he was wearing his dress blue Naval uniform and we were at the mobile home where we had spent a summer. We were there only temporarily as he was recruiting in a town far removed from where we called home. At some point in my dream, I became aware that death had robbed me of his presence and I clung to him. With tears in my eyes, I begged him not to go. I soon woke up and realized I was sitting upright in bed with my arms outstretched, tears still flowing. I could feel his arms around me. Although I was more than grateful for the visit, I realized he didn’t speak. Comforted by his presence, I wanted more. I wanted to hear his voice.

I hadn’t given it much thought growing up, but I never heard my parents argue. My mother commented, after his death, he never raised his voice to her the entire time they were married. I am not so naïve to think that they didn’t argue but it wasn’t something that we heard. In reality there could be a deafening silence until things were settled. My mother was the main disciplinarian and you knew when she was angry with us. My father would remain even keeled when he was making a point, advising me when I had done something wrong. He would tell me what he thought and then finish his comment by saying, “you know”. His simple comment would have a devasting affect on me. I felt so very small. I did know, I knew not to repeat the transgression.

Very often, as I share my thoughts in these missives, I don’t hesitate to reveal what lesson I might have learned along the way. With the advent of technology, we now have the capability to record the unusual and exciting to the mundane. I wish I had the opportunity to record some of the ordinary things that my father would say to me. Would I have had the foresight to record him when he would ask me to put my pinky in his glass of ice tea, just to sweeten it a bit? Would I have known that I would miss his rendition of the Shake and Bake commercial when the little girl would say, with a very pronounced southern accent, “And I helped!” I continue to feel the love and the longing for my father and I wish I could have preserved his voice. I would love to hear Dad speak one more time. You know?

A Thought on Mother’s Day

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Mom,

You have been gone for several years now, but that hasn’t lessened the love I continue to feel for you. I can hear your voice in my head, recalling the many lessons you have imparted during my life. You always made me feel that I exceeded the dreams you held for me. I also am cognizant of the worry I caused you. Your concern over the sacrifices that came with being a Navy wife, walking through burnt out buildings with the Red Cross and living solo as a divorced woman. All these life experiences were possible because you taught me to have faith, both in a higher power and also myself.

Although many celebrate today with flowers and other tokens of love, I have no reason to fall victim to the commercial trappings of the day. I can celebrate with my heart and head. I know you are there to receive the thoughts and love I send your way. I will embrace the tangible reminders of you by looking in the mirror and seeing your face, cooking without the benefit a recipe or humming a familiar tune. For nine months you carried me and then continued with support and comfort, always with love. I will continue to carry you with me, in my heart, until the end of my life.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Love, Cindy

Pennies From Heaven

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My grandfather died two years after suffering a stroke. The image of him standing in the kitchen, smiling, the night before it happened has always remained with me. It was not unusual to find a smile on his face. He was charming and had a delightful sense of humor. That stroke robbed him of so much and ultimately the onset of another one would take his life.

A few days after his death I had a vivid dream of him. I held a note in my hand that read: I didn’t leave you much as you have what you need. To this day, I can clearly see it in my mind’s eye. The message was clearly written in his handwriting. Startled by the dream I woke up. My attention was drawn to the corner of the room. It was there that I saw him. He was dressed in the blue suit in which he was buried. It was all so clear, even down to his Marcasite tie tack. He was smiling, the smile that I had known my entire life. Then as quickly as I saw him, he faded. Although it has been over forty years, I can recall it as if it was yesterday.

Stay with me as I make what looks like a leap into another subject matter. How often have you noticed spare change in a parking lot? So often it is only a penny but without embarrassment I will stop and pick it up. I have an understanding that it is a gift from my grandfather, pennies from heaven. Better yet, it is a gift, from his pocket to mine. Recently that came to mind as I thought I spotted a coin in the parking lot. It was only a circular piece of gum, discarded and now ground into the macadem. Kiddingly, I invoked my grandfather. I asked him why he had been so stingy lately and not left any change for me. I continued to run my errands and as I departed the next store I spotted change in the parking lot. He must have heard me and wanted to ensure I didn’t think him stingy. This time I was gifted a dime! Maybe it is time for a new song referencing dimes from heaven rather than pennies.

My grandfather has given me a bounty of memories. I was young when he came to live with us. I would sit on his lap and we would rock in the swivel rocker in the living room. He would entertain me with a rhyme that perfectly accompanied the rhythm of our rocking. It began with the line: See saw, knock at the door. It would continue and eventually end with a silly verse. There were other aspects of his life that have all but been forgotten. He drove a white Cadillac, the model with fins. He confessed to my friend that he was addicted to duck pin bowling. Laughing, he told her he couldn’t pass by an alley without going in for a game. Sunday would find him playing pinochle with his friends, ironically all from the same town in Italy.

I recently had the good fortune to obtain Grandpop’s secretary desk from my brother. It gives a sense of joy to now have it in my home. My thoughts go to his giving nature. I am moved when I think of the effort he made to come out one last time after his stroke. My son was being baptized and he didn’t want to miss the event. The last picture we have of him is on that day, one arm in a sling, the other holding my son as an infant. I have received wonderful gifts from my grandfather, a lifetime of love and memories. Now I gladly accept those pennies from heaven as a tangible reminder of him.

Karma

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What goes around comes around or as my mother would say, God will punish you for that. If your mouth was accidently injured it was the result of the time you talked back. If you hurt your hand, it was the result of the time you smacked your sibling. I am sure you get the picture. I don’t recall my mother ever using the word karma but I think, in her own way, she understood the concept.

I learned much from my mother but there are things she did that I am certain Doctor Spock never addressed. One favorite was the time she sent me to my room without dessert because I complained about her serving rice pudding. There was another time that she must have found my stuffy nose annoying. She repeatedly told me to blow my nose and I am sure my response was something spiteful. Her solution was to make me sniff black pepper. I believe her theory was by producing a hefty sneeze I would rid myself of the congestion. To this day, even the smallest whiff of pepper, will induce an immense amount of sneezing. Karma?

A recent trip to the cemetery brought back another incident involving karma. As a young bride I shared with my father the desire to adorn my house with beautiful flower beds. He disapproved by saying that you can’t eat flowers; a vegetable garden would be more practical. The thought of putting nasturtiums in a salad would have been lost on him. I do think it was rather hypocritical for him to always surprise our mother with freshly cut bouquets from our yard’s bounty as she couldn’t eat them. Out of all the flowering bushes we had decorating our landscape, he did have a very strong opinion about forsythia. It was the bane of his existence as he would often try to remove the plant yet it always seemed to return healthy and ready for growth. Visiting his grave at the cemetery would always make me chuckle. Behind his plot was a magnificent hedge of forsythia. I have even been known to place a few sprigs of forsythia in the silk arrangements I would leave to decorate the gravesite. His guidance in horticulture has provided me with years of humor. No good deed goes unpunished.

I have said often, more times than I can count, that what comes back to you is the result of how you live your life. While at the cemetery I felt like my father had been redeemed. The forsythia had been removed and replaced with evergreens. I, too, felt like I was the beneficiary of good fortune. It is rare that I find the office open when I am visiting on a weekend. I crossed paths with the cemetery administrator and was able to inquire about the family bench being restored. I was content, not only because of what was accomplished, but in conversation I learned this individual and I shared many of the same experiences in our lives. Preparing for my departure, a woman in the car next to me made a point of advising me that one of my tires was extremely low. It was on the passenger side of the car, unbeknownst to me. As simplistic as it seems, my observation is that karma centers on human relationships. Treat others as you would have them treat you. I advise you look for the common factor in others; do the figural walk a mile in their shoes. It isn’t necessary to focus on recompense, karma will handle it. Trust me on this one.

One Is Not Like the Others

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My brothers and I were transplants. When our father left Georgia, as a young man, he was never again to make it his home. He met our mother in Philadelphia. We would live there until Navy recruiting duty would have us move. We left a metropolitan area and moved to a small town whose livelihood was centered more on blue collar employment. It almost felt like we were in our own little bubble. We didn’t live close enough to spend holidays and special occasions with our extended family and our celebrations found us together, as immediate family.

I always thought we were a pretty tight family unit. Although we were not carbon copies of each other, there was still evidence that we were family. Our childhood memories are the same, incorporating the same neighbors and friends. Although we may possess the same facial expressions and laughter, our independent natures eventually did emerge. Two of my brothers are tall and blue eyed. They favor our father’s side and are both talented musicians. My other brother and I favor our mother. He was always the athlete in the family and in later years has developed an eye for photography and other artistic endeavors. It wasn’t until recently that I realized that our lives have led us down different paths and we are far from being the same.

It was a startling wake up call to realize that although we were raised with the same values, as adults, our belief systems have gone in different directions. I have come to learn that it can be wise to stay away from the topics that are considered taboo: politics and religion. Although I consider myself independent and one who thinks for herself, I have always felt comfortable following in the footsteps of our parents. It wasn’t forced upon me; it was a natural choice. I will admit that as adults, my brothers and I have led different lives. Professionally, socially and education wise there was nothing cookie-cutter about the paths we followed. I feel rather naïve to admit that it wasn’t until the past few years that I have come to recognize our differences.

Although our mother was a constant in our lives, she must have perceived differences in us. When her time was growing short, there were issues that she felt were important to discuss. She expressed her concerns, that being her only girl, that I was not in a relationship. It would have eased her mind to think that after my divorce there was someone to take care of me. I believe her concern was the result of a generational norm. Ironically, my brothers have all been in relationships and I still bristle at the thought of losing my independence. Her main request was that I would ensure the family stays together. I promised her that would not be an issue. She never shared what she thought could cause a division. Upon her death there were no squabbles about her estate. It is not lost on me that in today’s politically charged environment that families are being torn apart. I would never allow that to happen. I love my brothers too much. We were brought up together on the same foundation and the same blood courses through our veins. I will celebrate our connection and accept our differences. Most of all, I will keep the promise I made to our mother all those years ago.

One and Only

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I have one child, a son. He is a grown man, one that makes me proud. No matter his age, he is still my child. I am fortunate to have him and even more fortunate to enjoy a close relationship with him. Medically, it wasn’t in the picture to have any other children. Granted, I was never one of those women who fell victim to baby fever but it was the reasonable next step. I thought that would be the direction I was headed; it was not to be. I refer to my son as my one and only and there is no one else who walks this earth that I love more.

Growing up with my three brothers I learned that guilt and blame could be shared. I am sure we didn’t fool our parents. As a child it seemed appropriate to blame someone else for a misdeed rather than accept the truth and punishment that would follow. This has made it painfully clear why I feel I let my son down by not providing a sibling. At one point in time, we had a ten gallon aquarium in our living room. It was prominently displayed on the Mission Oak desk by the front windows. I could hear a golf ball being bounced in the room when my son was about six years old. I don’t fully remember but I am sure I must have asked him not to bounce the ball in the house. Shortly afterward, there was a commotion in the room. I came out to see that the aquarium was quickly leaking from a shattered panel. The blame was placed on Dusty. Without a sibling, my son had no one to blame but the cat.

I have never thought about him being spoiled but he did reap the advantages of being an only child. He never had to share a room, his schedule was never compromised by another brother or sister having competing activities and he did have the good fortune of having a car as a new driver. When I speak of him not being spoiled, I recall the other facets of our life. He wore hand-me-downs from his cousin and thrifted clothes. When his father was active duty Navy, there was no sibling to share the loneliness that deployments would create. The car he drove was far from new. I am also aware how my life has been shaped by having an only child. These days I am in receipt of greeting cards that have a beautiful and heartfelt sentiment additionally added, but no signature. My son responds, with a smile, and sees no point to include his signature. Who else would send me a card designated for mother?

Now that he is an adult and I am a senior, is there anything left for me to do as a parent? If there is a surplus of baked goods or casserole, I still have a knee jerk reaction to offer him some. He is accomplished in the kitchen and there is no need to worry that he is going hungry. I am painfully aware that since the divorce, he will now have two estates to deal with when his father and I make our transitions. My goal is to have a plan in place so he can operate on auto-pilot. Even with that consideration I am well aware what important role I must still maintain. Hopefully I have given him a strong foundation and the material items are not as important now but I know my job is not complete. My focus is to continue to pray for my son. As a mother it remains the most important thing I can offer my one and only.

Beyond the Veil

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Sometimes gifts come when you least expect them. I could say that was the case with an addition to our family. My brother had fallen completely head over heels with a pretty cashier at the local department store in which they both worked. He had dated plenty of pretty girls but this was different. I knew she could hold her own with my family the first time I met her. Our home life had always been full of teasing, laughter and banter. Our father was the one who tested the waters. My brother made introductions and my father made a comment, something on the order of her not being as ugly as my brother had stated. Much to her credit, she didn’t run in horror. Obviously, our father didn’t mean it but most would have rethought their situation. She hung in there and passed a test that I am sure she never expected.

She was to become the sister I never had. Our personalities differed yet it never stood in the way of our relationship. We became so close that I often dropped the “in law” portion of her title as my sister-in-law. She felt like blood and it made no difference that she was a girly girl while my roots were that of a tomboy. I was there for her as I knew she was for me. She was my safe confidant.

Realistically, we know that it is natural to lose our parents at some point in life. Hopefully it is later than sooner but we acknowledge that it is natural progression of life. Although I have dreaded the thought, I know that I am at the point in life where contemporaries are making their transition. I would like to bury my head in the sand and say it isn’t so, but it would be a lie. Life progresses and family, friends and their spouses are lost. It is even more heart wrenching when the loss is dealt to someone young.

Though there are many memories of my sister-in-law, one in particular was how every holiday, birthday and anniversary would be celebrated. It could be a card or it could be a gift, her thoughtfulness never failed. I assumed that would all be gone with her death. As I left the hospital upon her transition I noticed a new jet stream in the sky. Looking up I told her to fly high. She was no longer encumbered by illness and it seemed appropriate that she would be soaring heaven ward. I can never view a jet stream without thinking of her. The week of the first anniversary of her death I looked up at the sky as I was leaving the house one morning. I was overcome by the number of jet streams and a cloud that took the shape of an angel.  Even in death it was clear that she was still observing days that held special meaning. I received a gift when I least expected it.

My parents have been gone for some time now but I found love and support in abundance with my sister-in-law’s parents. They would join us at holiday meals and it would make the day complete. Within two years I would lose them as well as my sister-in-law. There are three empty seats now around the table when we gather for holidays. Memories are kept alive and I found that as the recent Christmas season approached, she was often in my thoughts. On Christmas day my brother brought out a bag that he had come across in a closet. It has been two years and he has been in the closet numerous times but this was the first time he noticed the bag. Inside was a gift for me, a necklace, earrings and bracelet. She continues to touch my life. Again, sometimes you receive a gift when you least expect it.

Gifts

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I am fortunate to have a group of friends who I meet with on a regular basis. We gather at least once a month for dinner. We have named our group of five, Sages. Collectively, with several years under our belts, we have learned life’s lessons and feel as if our moniker is justified. My brother kiddingly refers to our events as hen parties but I recognize the importance of our gatherings. In my mind, it feels like we have always been together as a group. I don’t think I am exaggerating when I say we consider each other family. We are there for each other yet our gatherings are also a gift we give ourselves.

It has become routine for one of our group to open their home over the holidays and we enjoy an evening that begins with a delicious pot luck dinner followed by conversation and laughter. Prior to this year we had exchanged both birthday and Christmas gifts. Honestly, we are at the point in our lives that we are not in need of much and no longer exchange material gifts. Tangible items are not as important as the support we freely give one another; it is the best gift of all. It might be a busy time of the year but spending the precious commodity of time with one another makes for an excellent present.

I’m not sure if it is our culture or human nature but it does seem part of our holiday tradition to try to make this time of celebration special. We plan, we purchase, we take the time to find ways to show our love and care for those who mean much to us. There comes a time that those celebrations shift. It could be the result of death, illness or a move out of the area. I took notice of those who were suffering from serious illness, knowing their celebrations would not be like those of the past. Even though preparations weren’t complete at my home, it didn’t seem to matter. I made plans to visit those whose health was challenged. Unfortunately, one individual made her transition prior to Christmas and I didn’t get to see her. Another lesson learned: in giving the gift of time, don’t allow yourself to wait to act upon it.

There have also been sources of happiness that creates the reason for a visit. A friend recently had her fourth baby. The afghan I crocheted was going to be my main offering but I felt I wanted to bring something for the other children. Maybe Dunkin Donuts wasn’t the healthiest choice but it was well received. Planning another trip, closer to Christmas, I again wanted to bring something down for the children. I had the sensation that my company was appreciated as much as my small tangible gift. Not expecting anything in return, I left with a heartwarming token. It appears I might have moved into the role of surrogate grandmother and if that is the case I am filled with joy.

I can recall my mother often saying that our house might not be perfectly clean but she felt she was doing what was more important. She spent time with my three brothers and me. Upon reflection, I was given the gift of a wonderful mother and role model. I will give her the praise for allowing me to realize that the most important gift one can give another is themselves.