There was another party

This is my cousin Sandy. Sandy's what I call "a real cousin." I guess the right word is first cousin, but I grew up with most of my "cousins" actually being second cousins. They were the kids of my cousins. Many of my actual cousins were my dad's age. He was the last born, and he had a sister, Margaret, who was about twenty and had already had her first child, Joanie when he was born. So my cousin Joanie was my dad's age.

To me, Sandy seemed much older than me when I was younger, but I realize now she wasn't that much older. When I was ten and most idolizing her, she must have been about 25. My dad said that he babysat Sandy when she was a kid, Sandy babysat me, and then I babysat Sandy's kids. I bet she wasn't even thirty years old when I babysat her kids. I thought she was glamorous.

It's such a kick to see her now. Of all my cousins, I think she's the one I'm most like in that genetic way. She has the same sense of humor that I have. I enjoy talking to her because it feels natural. If she were to suddenly lean over and hit me because she just thought of something, I'd think, "Ah, finally home with normal people." I've learned the hard way that not all people hit each other when they have something interesting to say. I bet Sandy does.

Here's Aunt Margaret and Aunt Dot. Aunt Margaret, dad's sister, is about 94. Aunt Dot is, I think, in her late 80's. Aunt Dot is Sandy's mom.

This is Tracy. Tracy's dad is my real cousin and also Dad's age. They were good friends growing up and spent a lot of time together when I was a kid. Dad would always tell us that he would hold Uncle Billy down and say, "Call me Uncle." I loved going to Uncle Billy's house when I was a kid. I called him Uncle Billy until I got old enough to figure out he wasn't my uncle. Then, out of teenage pride, I'd only call him Billy. Now I'd call him Uncle Billy again, because I remember him being good to me for years when he drove me to work every summer.

Tracy's probably about five years younger than me. When the parties were big enough, Tracy didn't make the cut off and I'd play with cousins closer to my age, but at smaller parties, we'd play. She just got married and has a beautiful son, about 10 years old, who ducked every time I pointed the camera at him.

He cracked me up. When I asked him were he went to school, he said, "ER."

"Get out! I went to ER!"

You should have seen the look on his face. It was complete boredom. I realized later that this poor kid was suffering the same fate I'd suffered. The same fate most of us suffered. To him, his town was nothing special. Everyone he knew lived there. Big deal that I had once. He's hoping to get out himself one day!

I felt old. I didn't bother to tell him how much I enjoyed talking to someone who called our town "ER." It took years for me to beat that out of myself. When you're in Alaska or the South and you say you are from ER, they look at you funny. I learned to say East Rochester, but a little part of me always felt like it was false. I'm really from ER.

Aunt Dot is Tracy's grandmother. I always had grandmother envy. All my "cousins" who were my age had one, but I didn't.

This is Sandy's grandson. Isn't he handsome? He comes from a long line of dark-haired handsome men. He is the son of either Mikey or Vinnie. Had his dad been there, I would have said, "Oh look, it's Mikey or Vinnie." I couldn't tell them apart then, and I can't now.

I only have brothers, no sisters. At a family party, the only thing I'd bother saying to a boy cousin was, "Why don't you go play somewhere else." And I'd say it like that, with the periods. Not with a question mark. It wasn't that I didn't like the boys. I just didn't see the point in talking to them when there were girls around.

Alice was my favorite. She is one year older than me. It was pure joy when she'd show up. We didn't live that far from each other, so when we got old enough to walk over to each other's houses, that was the best. She's a real cousin. I think her dad, Uncle Dick, is the next oldest after my dad.

I always envied the simplicity that some families have by keeping the brothers and sisters in one generation, and the cousins in another. We just don't seem to be very good at that.


This is Caitlin holding her brother Seth. Caitlin graduated from college, and before the year was out, her dad had another baby. Caitlin and Seth are the children of my brother, Mark.


I thought this was a sweet picture. Seth got his diaper changed, and they just hung out together for a few minutes. That's Mark's wife, Nicole, with them. Briana, Nicole's daughter, wasn't there, so one person is missing from their family here, but it's still a sweet picture. When you are a kid, you have no idea that at one time, people just gathered around you and glowed in joy at your existence.

My dad is married to Kay, who has a daughter Karee.


This is Lucy, Karee's daughter. She's very cute.

Alice

I never met my paternal grandmother. I grew up down the street from her last home. It stood like a ghost on the streets of my childhood. At 46 years old, I still get together with her surviving children, yet I know almost nothing of her.

A few years ago I asked my cousin Joanie, now in her sixties, if she would tell me about our grandmother.

“My grandmother?” she replied.

Joanie looked astonished, almost startled. Joanie and I had never been in the same room with our grandmother. She had died before I was born. It has been over forty-six years since Joanie had mourned the loss of her grandmother, and now, here was this stranger saying, “No Joanie, our grandmother.” I never met any of my grandparents. I have never been anyone’s grandchild, yet I claim her for my own, depending on strangers who share my genetic connection to tell of their human relationships, just memories really, so I can drink in their nourishment.

Joanie’s answer was unsatisfying. The happy feelings, the glow of satisfaction, and the love all came through in Joanie’s response. I learned something of my grandmother. Joanie had loved her. Forty-five years later, the wonderful feelings born of that relationship were still vibrant, but she could not articulate who my grandmother was.

I cannot fault her for this. I find myself surrounded by people who love me, yet barely know me. They, too, would be unable to tell someone who I am, what I dream of, what irks me, or how I invented my jambalaya.

Maybe my blog will help.

Look Vanessa, the bags are back.

This is a rare find. Both cats are in the same room. We have two cats which we got as kittens about four years ago. I think they were about 7 weeks when we got them. We went to visit them at the neighbor's when they were two weeks, so I remember them as little fluff balls. When they came, they did everything together. It used to crack me up. They ate together, played together, and slept together. What really amazed me was that they pooped together. I could never figure out how they communicated that one. "Hey, Java, want to poop?" "Yea Latte. Good idea. Let's go."

At five months, they went their separate ways. At first we didn't notice that it was more than a separation -- it was pure hate. We really noticed after this past January. I set a piece of burlap on a dining room chair one evening, but before I could get rid of it, Latte claimed it as her own. For the next month, she sat and slept there constantly. Then, for about fours days, there was cat fighting. When it ended, Java was on the burlap and Latte was off. I realized that Java had shoved Latte into a corner of the house. She moved into Andy's room. Andy, being a teenager, never left his room either, so he welcomed Latte. About a week later, Java appeared at the door, only to be attacked by Latte. It worked. Java left never to return.

Months later, I find this. Maybe they don't hate each other completely.

I'm dying!

He looks like I snapped a picture while he was walking, but I didn't. He's standing there like that with his paw in the air and that sad look on his face.

To hear him tell it, he's had a terrible injury. He's been limping all over the house.

He came home from his walk and within two minutes the kitchen floor was covered in blood spots. We quickly discovered that his paw was cut. It turned out to be a bad cut, but not bad enough for the vet. It's like when you cut yourself with a knife while cooking, don't need a doctor, but are inconvenienced for three days holding your hand still while the cut gets a head start on its healing.

Only he's being dramatic. He went from unaware he was cut to limping around the house. It's been a few days, so now he goes bandage free in the house but bandaged up for walks. It's the bandage that makes him limp. It's hysterical.

We comfort him as best we can.

I slept through it

The winds picked up, but I was asleep and missed it all. I went outside before bed and it was windy with the temperature about 83 degrees. It's weird in New York for it to be hot in the dark. Even the hottest days get cool quickly once the sun goes down. It had been dark a few hours when it was still in the 80's.

I knew the power went out, but kept on sleeping. There were 63,000 customers without power. Ours came back on by around 11 AM yesterday, but today the paper reports that some people are still without power.

The picture is from right around the corner. The hurricane remnants brought us some beautiful cool weather, so I'm happy.

Ike

The remnants of Hurricane Ike should arrive between 9 PM and 10:30 PM with sustained winds of 25-35 mph and gusts up to 50 mph. Should be exciting.

Stewardship

I’m a hospice volunteer. I started at hospice feeling pretty prepared to assist the dying. I’d experienced my own grief, a grief so profound that merely thinking about it can still take my breath away. I’ve taken a graduate course in death and dying. I have shared friendship with a woman while she watched her preschooler die from cancer.

I was trained by hospice and went into my first assignment feeling pretty prepared. But my hospice clients have taught me that I had a lesson to learn. It wasn’t just the first person who taught me this, or the second. It took awhile to learn to take this lesson graciously.

I learned that no matter how much my desire to help another person, no matter how far my resources and circumstances surpass the person’s I am helping, they want to give me gifts. At first it felt wrong, but I’ve learned.

The first time it happened, an eighty-year-old woman, who’d had every joint but one replaced, was in need of help. She was her dying husband’s caregiver. She could not drive, so I would go to her home and drive her to appointments, the grocery store, or wherever she wanted to go. Every time, she wanted to stop and buy me lunch. I resisted. She insisted. Finally, one day, she said, “I’m not poor. Don’t worry about the money. I just value your friendship and time, and I want to show that to you.”

The next time it was a devout Christian. As her husband lay dying and she struggled to meet the needs of her young children, she told me how much she valued the practical tasks I helped her with. She said, “I pray for you every day.”

I said, “You don’t have to do that. It’s OK. I want to do this for you.”

She said, “I know. And I want to do this for you.”

It finally sunk in when I went to visit a 93 year-old-woman. I met her early that week in an assisted living facility, but in the course of a week, she been transferred to a nursing home, suddenly unable to walk or care for herself.

When I arrived, she’d been in her new home for two hours. She was agitated about a box of chocolates. Her friend had given her a gift of chocolates, but now she could not find them and asked me to look. Unable to find them, I sat down and we talked. Periodically, she asked me to get up and check another spot as she thought of it. I began to realize that she was agitated because she wanted to offer me a chocolate. My first, internal, reaction was to reassure her that I didn’t need a chocolate, but from my past lessons, I realized that the real agitation was that I was a visitor in her home, and she wanted to offer me something. She could not find her gift, nor could she even look.

Every time she asked, I got up and looked. The room was ten feet by twelve feet. I looked in every spot, some more than once. Each time, I sat back down and resisted the urge to tell her that it didn’t matter. It did matter. It mattered to her very much. Instead, I assured her that I understood her frustration. If only we could find those missing chocolates.

When her daughter-in-law arrived, she asked, “What happened to my chocolates? You had them last.”

“I brought them home. Do you need them?”

Agitated, she answered, “Yes. I need my chocolates.”

I said, “I think she wanted to offer me one.” Her daughter-in-law impressed me with her instant understanding.

“I’ll bring them tomorrow. I’ll make sure they get here.”

She was pleased, and her agitation subsided. I was glad I had learned to accept gifts graciously, since to resist her gift would have only added to her frustration. I was able to accept a gift of a chocolate a few times before she died, but she has left me with a greater gift than those chocolates. She has given me the gift of understanding stewardship.

As a Catholic, I have heard the word “stewardship” a lot in the last few years. I used to think that stewardship is about paying your share of the church's bills or doing your share of the work that needs doing, but it’s not. Stewardship is passing on God’s gifts in gratitude.

Rob versus the stump!

We have numerous areas in our yard which are weeds instead of grass. Our grass is pretty weed infested, which I don't really mind that much. I try to avoid the use of fertilizers because of their effect on the Great Lakes. But some areas of our yard are just weeds. Such as this area:

It once had many more bushes, but they have slowly died. We cut the last ones down this summer, and it left a large area that was once covered with bushes that is now covered with weeds. So we sprayed it with Round-up and waited a week or two. Now it looks like this:


Rob and I have raked it and put the waste into our compost. Now we are working on the stuff that didn't rake up. There are many weed roots still sticking up, which I've been pulling. While I do that, Rob rips out stumps with his bare hands. He started doing this a few years ago, but this year, with his new upper body strength he has developed from his tri-weekly Y visits, he was able to pull up a new personal-best-size stump.

In this picture, he'd already been hacking at it awhile.

Eventually, he just started pulling. And pulling. And pulling.

And he got it! It was a two parter. There were two bushes whose roots were connected.


We have a few more stumps to rip out and some more weed roots to pull, then the weather should be just right for spreading our grass seed.

Who are these people?

I never saw them, at least not all together like this!

Lynn, a woman at my church, organizes this 5K. I was in it, not for any athletic reasons, but more for solidarity. Irene, Kathy, and I walked the race, starting well before these guys, and I'm embarrassed to admit it, ending well after them, too! We did see them whiz past one by one as we strolled the back stretch.

We had fun doing our own thing (which included breakfast), but it was cool to watch the racers come past. The first people were young and fast, but the people in the back were very cool. They plodded along with determination, and their effort expended looked to exceed those in front of them. I found every one of them impressive.

But the cutest was the little ten year old girl with her family. She looked so proud to be keeping up.

We even decided that our church should host a booth at the festival next year. We're all over it. See, we were working.

News from down under!

Look what appeared in my email:
Thanks, Uncle Tom! It came from Australia, so I had to flip it around to find my cousins and Aunt Maureen!

I met Uncle Bob when I was about 14. It was probably 1977 or 1978. I found him very interesting, since he had arrived from Australia, seemed to know a lot about my mom, yet lived such a different life in such a different place (or so it seemed then). At fourteen, I could not believe I had been dealt such a tough blow in life. I'd had the misfortune of being born into the most boring place in the entire universe: New York. Why couldn't I live somewhere exciting?

So these are people who have lived in Australia their entire lives, but been envied by this boring New Yorker the whole time! In the back are David, Mark, and Paul. In the front are Matthew, Maureen, and Steve. Unfortunately, Uncle Bob is now deceased.

So this intrigues me. My father's name is David, and my brothers are named Mark and Steve. That's quite a few names to share. But it doesn't stop there. My mom has six grandkids. Three of them share names with Uncle Bob's nine grandkids. They both have a Justin, Katlyn/Caitlin, and a Robert.

I think Uncle Bob lives on in me a little bit. He planted that seed that I come from stock that can go anywhere and accomplish anything. I no longer feel trapped by life, but in love with it and all its possibilities. How cool to be related to you!

Is it just me?

I'm the only house on my block. I live about a quarter of the way down. I'm surrounded by open space like this:
And this:

I love it. I do not own the entire street. A farmer owns part, and the town owns part. When the town decided to sell, people were up in arms. Would they sell to developers who would change the rural character of the street? Turns out, no. They sold to a cemetery. Ohhh, how fitting! There's a little cemetery right on the street!

According to the newly erected sign, the first burial was in 1811.

There's also a soldier who fought in the Revolutionary War.

It's hard to read, but Rob and I think this is the stone for the 1811 guy.

And this picture just captures the beauty of the old cemetery. It's full of old, thin stones that have heaved up.

These are itty bitty stones whose etchings have worn away.

If I end up buried in this cemetery, here's where I want to be buried. It's toward the middle (not near the street!) and under the shade. I doubt I'll like sunshine any more when I'm dead than I do now.

So I had this vision of occasional visitors to our quiet little street, slowly burying their loved ones, people with histories, stories, and connections, slowly creating a place of memories that fade to memorials.

Instead, this happened:

(I'm rather proud of the picture, though. See how I pieced it together? Click on it for the big view.) It's a major construction site. It's full of heavy equipment completely restructuring the landscape. They cut down all the trees and bulldozed all the plants. It's a big dirt pit now.

In 1811, people got shovels out and dug a hole across the street. It was probably people who loved him. Now the cemetery is a commodity: "Hey folks, shopping around for a cemetery? Come on down to ours and check it out!" That septic system must mean flush toilets, and while they're at it, they might decide that a Starbucks would be nice for the mourners.

I live in the farm house on the street. It was built in the 1860's. I wonder how many people in that cemetery have lived in my house. I know of at least one. Living in this house, it just seems like you should be buried there. Many of the names on the stones are the same as the names on the local streets. This new cemetery just seems so corporate.

I just don't think the image of the construction workers on their heavy equipment will ever feel right when compared to my made-up image of people in wool on a hot summer day burying grandpa, not even knowing they were starting a cemetery.