Mexico Beach, Florida

If memory serves, this photo was taken in 1988 in Mexico Beach, FL. We stayed at the El Governor Motel, which we found to be perfect for our family. It was small, older but clean, reasonably priced, complete with a kitchenette. Perfect place for Jeff to have his morning cereal, and hide behind the boxes. Jeff never was much of a morning person.

The original El Governor was destroyed by Hurricane Opal in 1995. It has since been rebuilt into a multi-story hotel, but continues to get good reviews from guests. Mexico Beach is a neighbor to Destin, an area we loved and returned to several times. With it's squeaky white sand and clear emerald waters, it was paradise.

The photo is awful in quality, but wonderfully rich in memories. Note the boys are all wearing the same swimming trunks...easier for me to keep an eye three little boys. Everyone was wildly happy to be playing on the beach, in the sun and surf. Terry and I washed sand out of little body crevices for days afterward. Alyssa wore a crown of seaweed, the boys ran in and out of the surf. Everything was simpler, everyone was together

I miss those days. Well, except for washing sand out of crevices.

I Ask You, Could I Have Been A Tomboy?

Returning to my gun-toting ways, half a century later.

Christmas 1960

Christmas 1960.

Where do I start??

1) Seriously Mom, I need new jammies, someone apparently had a sudden growth spurt.

2) Brother is looking on, angelic. It's just an act.

3) I seem to be questioning something, like is that all? That's ALL Santa brought? There must be a mistake.

4) Note the tinsel. That stuff is probably illegal now, toxic maybe? Rusty liked to run past the tree, grabbing a mouthful as he flew by, as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him. Once he succeeded (failed?) on his mission as he brought the tree down.

5) Note that it is dark outside the picture window. It's either very early, or very late. Although we did open our gifts on Christmas Eve in later years, I certainly hope we were not doing it at that age. Talk about killing Santa, Mom & Dad.

6) Love the furniture. Love it. There are people today who would fight over it. The curved sectional was a chenille fabric, in a lovely 1950's salmon tone. The coffee table echoed that curve, rather like a boomerang. The carpet. The carpet! It was a sculpted loop carpet with a rose pattern. SO my mother. The end tables and lamps were around until this year.

7) It's wonderful, isn't it?

An Epiphany

An Open Letter to My Family:

I had an epiphany today. Although minor by comparison to other epiphanies, it was still rocked my world and is setting me on a different path in regards to creative outlet.

I am a memory keeper.

That means that I am not a scrapbooker, per se, but one who wants to record stories, memories, thoughts, dreams. I am not driven to put memories down on cardstock, rather to share them in a more immediate manner. I thought I was a scrapbooker, but it turns out that I am not. Scrapbooking is too slow for how I mentally process things. Plus, I have too many things swirling in my head that I want to get down. Now. I have always loved to write, and have wanted to write for my own pleasure but lacked a platform or format. While time and tide waits for no man, my thoughts won't wait for paper and paste. I am fearful of memories and moments slipping away from me.

I think this new paradigm has been evolving in my mind since my mom passed away. We all know we should seek out our parents memories, stories, wisdoms, but sadly we often don't realize how important it is until it's too late. Although I have many stories from my Dad, I am bereft of stories from my mother's childhood and youth. I regret that those are lost.

I wonder if Declan and my other, future grandchildren will wonder about me, as I have wondered about my parents and grandparents. Never having had a grandfather leaves me wondering what that would have been like. When I think about Heaven, I secretly wish that my grandfathers will be there, waiting, eager to give me the unconditional grandfatherly love that I missed. Is this not what faith is all about? I believe that my own life would have been enriched by knowing my parents and grandparents' hopes and dreams as well as their regrets and losses. Would we find common threads woven through the generations?

And so here I am, with my wee blog (having been immersed in the Outlander series for the past several weeks {months?}, I find it easy to slip in to a little Scots vocab occasionally). I do this for no one but myself; I have my own selfish reasons, but if anyone else finds it interesting, so be it. I have pictures to share, memories to gift to the future and words waiting to file out. In an orderly fashion, I hope. I want not only to share random bits and pieces of my own life - as I see it - but of others, as it unfolds. I pray for guidance that I never say hurtful words, or share things that should have been left private. My original intent was to write only for myself. I was afraid that if I shared, two things would happen. One, I would have to edit what I say. Since I am far, far from perfect there are things that I possibly would write about for my own peace, but not for the consumption of my family. Two, that by sharing I am also opening myself up to criticism and someone else's displeasure in what was written. I came to the solution of one, if I have things to write about the are better left private, this blog is not the place for that anyway. Two, just be kind in your critique and you know we can always talk. This family, as a whole, talks things out pretty darn well. We're gifted like that.

I hope to further expand my meager talent in photography, and to share that progress here. Why? Just because I can. It certainly will not forward anyone else's skills. I find photography deeply satisfying. Sometimes I feel boxed in, here in the wilds of Johnson County, but we'll see. I would love to expand my collection of lenses and experiment with what is possible. I would like to take a class or two, but it's hard to find the time. I know I've come a very long way from the day Terry first bought me the Rebel, and I've loved the journey.

I will not tread specifically on topics that I know are off limits. I may speak in general terms, though. If there is a post which you are uncomfortable with, let me know and I will either edit or remove it. I do hope that others will write guest posts. How fun would that be?! Guest posts are subject to my approval, of course, but it would be interesting and fun. And that brings me to the point of this blog.

This is an interesting family. I had an unique childhood, growing up nowhere and everywhere, knowing terms like 'pig', 'dope', 'inspector' and 'right-of-way'. My dad was a great storyteller and I can only hope to serve his gift reasonably well. This family is unique with having had three sons serve in the military. We have Alyssa, who has shown unparalleled grace of getting through challenging times without self pity, bitterness or anger. There is your dad, whom I know in a different way than you do. I know a man who was a wild child, left to his own devices as a teen, maybe stuck a toe or two in the waters of trouble, but emerged with so much love and caring for his family that one might question it were the same person. We have a family that others only dream about having, and it is here I will celebrate it.

I hope you're okay with that.

Janet, you can stop worrying about keeping this a secret. You did good.

Anita

PS - This is not to say that I've entirely given up scrapbooking. There are still some aspects of it that appeal to me. With some help and cooperation, I would really like for each of my sons to have a military scrapbook, and mini albums....something that is small and focused, is something I see continuing.

PPS - You may share this if you so desire.

Looks Oddly Familiar

According to my mother's handwritten note on the back, this photo was taken in California, circa 1960. I would hope that's the last time I was seen topless in public.

And doesn't it look oddly familiar to this? The similarity is creepy.

And by golly, Grandpa's got himself the next generation of Bigfoot-movie-watcher keeping him company.

It's a Numbers Game

5 - five is the number of times I had to bite my tongue today when a co-worker blew her nose at her work station. Go to the bathroom, please.

4 - four is the number of dirty instruments left soaking in enzymatic cleaner. I walked away. Too many Friday evenings spent cleaning other people's instruments, this was not my day and I will no longer be the one picking up that slack.

3 - three is the number of calls I took from a single patient today. This patient has used up her monthly allotment. Just sayin'.

2 - Two is the number of times I was able to actually pee today at work.

1 - This was one long day. Thank you God for making it a Friday.

Sombreros Anyone?

I snapped a few pics this spring/summer as I cleaned out my childhood home. I must say, my parents collected some interesting things, including refrigerator magnets. Little sombreros, aren't they too cute? Keeping the sombreros company included magazine articles about various health topics, newspaper articles about my sons and their service, random photos and other curious little magnets.

However.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed that indeed these are not little sombreros, but little roulette wheels! Roulette wheels....but why should that surprise me?

After my mother's funeral, her long time friend Bert was reminiscing about their trips to Las Vegas. Keep in mind, these ladies were thrifty gals, given to save and sacrifice and not spend money foolishly. They would save, no - hoard, quarters for months (maybe years?) and then carry them to Vegas. In their little Samsonite hard-sided makeup cases.

Cashing their quarters in for paper money would apparently deprive them of a great deal of fun, of tangible proof that they were quarter high rollers. I can picture Mom and Bert carrying their cases, guarding them as they sat in the airport, awaiting that gleeful moment when they could pop the latches and delve into the fun that only a case load of quarters can bring.

1952

In November 1952, my father put this ring on my mother's finger, and there it stayed for 58 years. My mother faithfully wore the ring alone for over five years; she was never really the same after Dad died, and I suppose that was to be expected.

In November 1952, my mother and father pledged their love, their commitment and their life to the other. There were the early happy years, with lots of pictures of their first "baby"...Rusty. Rusty was a dachshund who transcended the role of a pet. There are pictures of Rusty when he turned six months old. There are NOT pictures of me when I turn six months old. Oh, the joys of being the "third" child (out of two human children).

There were the years of being a young family, or rather a family with young children. My parents were older parents, especially for that era. I was born in 1957 to a thirty-seven year old mom, practically unheard then, unless you were child #12. I never knew my mom was older because she seemed no different to me than my friend's parents.

There were the years of just being a family...brother and I growing up, the family traveling for Dad's work, the wonderful experiences I had because of that. I think those years eventually slid into a sort of discontent for my parents, with my mom spending the summer away one year. I remember feeling adrift that summer, the summer of 1974. Brother had left home so it was just Dad and I. I remember sort of cooking for us, I remember having a new and odd freedom, I remember feeling that my solar system was slightly out of whack.

There were the years of being empty nesters and loving up on the grandchildren. Mom and Dad seemed to bond in another way then, in a way in which I am understanding more and more. It's a fundamental sense that there comes a time in which we can not stand alone. That one will fill in the chinks of the other's failing health, the sense that one alone can no longer conquer all. It is now about numbers more than ever, with two definitely being better than one. Gone are the days of feeling powerful and wanting to take on the world with all of it's injustices, now it's about survival, baby.

Today, I placed this ring on my own left ring finger, where it will stay until passed to my own daughter. There are no words. The ring brings tears of sadness, of happiness, of completeness. I know Mom and Dad are together. I hope they are pleased.

I recently received this lovely painted duck from my cousin, Vici. Her enclosed letter read:

Anita,

I wanted to give you something that Mom had painted. I had brought the duck with me when I came to Kansas and forgot to get it out of the car. I hope that you will enjoy it.

It was so good to see the family. I know you think of your mother all the time and miss her terribly. In my experience, time does not heal all wounds - but it does soften the pain of loss.

Love, Vici

Hi Vici,

What a wonderful surprise. I love My Duck. Thank you so much for sending it to me, I will treasure it always.

As I was holding and admiring My Duck, I was thinking about your mom. I have clear memories of seeing her paint, of hearing her speak of how EASY it was to do. Hah! Even as a child, I knew better. You're mom had a gift. I was always fascinated by your mom...she was all the things my mom wasn't and as kids, we notice those things, even though we may keep them to ourselves. Where my mom was small and quiet, your mom was tall and spoke her mind. Your mom embraced her creative gift, and while my mom admired it, she was content to express herself in her cooking and sewing. I think our moms had mutual respect for one another, and I'm glad they had each other.

I'm glad I have you. (I'm glad I have My Duck - thank you).

Anita

Corner Drug Store, or No Counter for Old Men

Rexall Drug Store was one of two drug stores in my little home town. Curiously enough, this tiny town supported not one drug store, but two. Two! There was the corner Rexall Drug Store, and another one, whose name is lost to me right now. They were just steps apart, but with a side street separating them. Ah, but what a separation it was. Even as a child, I felt there was a difference between the two stores, an invisible gap. My family went to the older drug store, the one with the dull wooden floors with help who knew my father's name, not the shiny new Rexall store with the soda fountain. I remember the pie shaped stoop (really a Isoceles trapezoid, thank you very much Wikipedia), wooden, with a thick sort of threshold to step over. The door was glass in a wooden frame, sturdy and substantial...the kind of door that open/closed signs swung from a string on. Today would we find the shopkeeper removing the high threshold so people wouldn't trip and sue? Makes one wonder.

This drug store eventually went out of business, leaving the shiny new Rexall to fill the town's need for prescription drugs, lotions and potions, and soda. There was a long counter with stools, and behind the counter were all the wonderful stainless steel compartments and pumps and ladles behind which hid a wonderous array of syrups and toppings.

Besides the counter, there were a few tables, maybe three or four or five. On any given morning one could find men surrounding a table or two, having coffee and chatting. At first glance these men appeared to be having their morning coffee, maybe discussing a fellow friend, maybe talking about the kids, maybe bitching about the government - in the old-fashioned way they had, not the new, 1970's style of rioting.

What lie under the surface of these men, though, was a binding thread that only they could see. The thread of war. These men - and the mixture changed up from day to day - went to war together. They didn't necessarily fight side by side, but they were the boys of this small town who volunteered to fight the Germans and the Japanese. They fought through the cold winters of Germany, the steamy heat of Guam, and all shades in between. These men left for war with little experience of the world beyond their own small town experiences, but when our nation asked for their service, they gave it. They gave, and gave and gave. They didn't question what they would miss out on at home, they didn't question whether they should go to college as few would have had that opportunity regardless, they didn't second guess if it was the right thing to do. When Japan attacked Pearl Harbor, all bets were off, they had a job to do. And now, decades later sitting in the Rexall Drug Store, looking at a friend across the table, were they really seeing the friend across a fire built in the snow on a cold day in Germany?

These men grew up during the depression, they knew hard living and knew that complaining was a waste of their breath. Instead, they choose to put their efforts into fighting a war, surviving the war, holding hope that they would return to loved ones and babies born in their absence. These men were manly, and manly men worked hard, found a girl they loved, married her, supported their family and lived a quiet life, without asking for glory or even recognition of the greatness that their contribution was. They knew, and that was enough.

Losing the Last Parent

Just four short weeks ago, I buckled myself into my car and headed from Kansas City to Baudette, Minnesota.

Not for fun. Not to visit friends and family for the holiday weekend. Not for a wild and crazy weekend with those nutty Minnesotans.

It was to say goodbye to my mother.

Dad died five and a half years ago and now I must find a way to say goodbye to the last person on the face of this earth who must love me unconditionally. It's a feeling that I was not prepared to face. I was woefully unprepared to face this new lifestyle, but to have eventually gather myself up and actually live it is painful to face. Every day.

My mom was beautiful, and smart, and a great mom, and a good cook, and a great forgiver, amongst other gifts. My mom knew how to love her family. It may sound like a simple gift or talent to possess, but I think most people would agree that loving someone, always, is not necessarily an easy task. Who can not look around at this moment and wish that they could either receive or give that kind of love?

My miss my mom, but the truth is, I've missed her for a couple of years. I miss calling my mom and talking about my kids - their problems, their achievements, their gifts to this world. I miss asking my mom for advice on anything from cooking to sewing to traveling to childrearing. There was not much I could not discuss with my mom. When growing up my friends would complain about their mothers, have fights with their mothers, yell, scream, slam doors, pitch royal fits. They had drama! I have no memory of hearing my mother's voice raised in anger to me, nor did I ever raise mine to her. Never a slammed door. No drama. Just pure, unconditional love.

As I was going through the few items I brought home from Minnesota, I came across a tiny little book, gifted to my mom by me in 1994. It's a wee little book filled with quotes about mothers. Inside the cover I wrote "I shall never stop trying to be as good a mother as you. Love always and forever, Me". Inside the little book were tucked a variety of photos....the variety is so funny! My brother's sophmore picture from 1970, my engagement picture, my wedding picture, a picture of my sister-in-law with her children, a picture of my four kids circa 1989, and various school pictures of my kids. I want to believe that even on those days in which my mother didn't know who she was, she could still look at these pictures and know those were people who loved her. Because, oh my, we loved her. And we ache for her touch today.