The morning was quiet and cloudy as I rose early on this Sunday before Christmas, at the moment when day is breaking and gentle light filters through my neighbor's pine trees. I have not written a blog entry in over a month. I have been so busy that my moments of quiet contemplation have been few. The weeks have flown past, filled with preparations for Christmas, office work, and the tasks of reconfiguring our home to accommodate a new apartment for my daughter. Our plans to sell our home and build an apartment on her house were too expensive, so now she will move back here for a time, leaving her own house and the dreams she envisioned there. We are casualties of this terrible economy, which has taken its toll on so many people; there are usually no pleasant solutions to the individual struggles of its victims. While I am relieved to be staying in my own beloved house, I grieve for my daughter's loss of the home she loves.
In the midst of the chaos of reconfiguring our house to include a separate, private apartment -- the moving and sorting and decisions of what to keep and what to let go -- I have also found the time to savor this most lovely of seasons. The month between Thanksgiving and Christmas is one of my favorites. While my time has been limited, and I am ashamed to admit I have baked only one batch of Christmas cookies with my grandchildren, and they were mediocre at best, I have managed to trim my small Christmas tree, place a single candle in each of my front windows, and fill the house with my treasured decorations.
Family time has been frequent, though. We gathered for Thanksgiving at my sister-in-law's lovely home, celebrated my 60th birthday with a delicious dinner at my son's house, celebrated my daughter-in-law's birthday with a take-out meal, and spent a late Sunday afternoon sorting through decorations of long-ago Christmases to divide among my children and grandchildren.
Last Saturday we gathered my husband's father, sister, aunt, uncle, cousin and their families for a glorious evening of good food, conversation and laughter - a memory to cherish. This past Friday night, we joined my cousin, her husband, and my son's mother and father-in-law for dinner at The Century House in Latham. The dining room was warmed by a crackling fire and decorated with exquisite arrangements of greens, ribbons and tiny white lights. The food was scrumptious, and we were shocked when we realized we had lingered for three hours, talking and catching up. How wonderful it is that our in-laws are truly family.
Late this morning, my God-child, her husband, and her parents stopped to pick up an antique sewing machine that I have no room for now. Her mother, one of my best friends, and her grandmother were both wonderful seamstresses, and I hope that this sewing machine will always bring her special memories of the women in her life. What a wonderful few minutes we spent reminiscing.
When I was young, Christmas was all about Santa Claus and gifts. As a young mother, I spent the season making memories for my children -- baking cookies and gingerbread houses, sending lists to Santa, visiting the tree farm for a live tree, setting up the nativity set, attending Christmas Eve services by candlelight, and reading "The Night Before Christmas" before bedtime. The weeks before Christmas were spent in a rush of shopping for just the right gifts, and the anticipation of my own gifts under the tree woke me early in the morning.
Now, however, the focus of Christmas for me has evolved into a calmer, quieter joy. Due to economic necessity, I have cut back seriously on gift exchanges, so my own pile under the tree is very small. Instead, I find my enchantment in the lovely decorations, the candlelight and the music, gentle snowfalls, the gathering together of loved ones, and the wonder of that birth in a little stable which brought the message of love and peace to our troubled world.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Love and Loss
My mother-in-law passed away last weekend. Her death was sudden and unexpected, though she had been ill for six years, trapped in a body and mind that incrementally deteriorated to the point that she was immobile, and spent portions of her days wondering where she was and wandering in thought to her childhood. She was tended to lovingly and faithfully at home by my father-in-law. Her death leaves a large void in our family.
As we have passed through this week, I have thought a great deal about grief – about the process and the ways in which we express and internalize our grief. I have grieved for my mother-in-law for years now, as the woman we knew slowly slipped away from us – in the final year or two her place was empty at our celebrations because it had become too difficult and painful for her to be moved from place to place, and the chatter and bustle around her was disorienting and disturbing to her. She was the matriarch of our family, and celebrations without her were touched with sadness for me.
Now, though, we are dealing with the grief that comes with the finality of death. And, we each must deal with this grief in our own way. The words of comfort from loved ones and friends are behind us now, and we settle back into daily life with a long journey of personal grieving ahead of us all.
In my experience, I have found that every person grieves in his own unique way. There are people who cry openly and inconsolably, and those with a stoicism that does not allow tears. Some talk about the loss of their loved one to everyone who will listen; others find it difficult to talk at all. My grief tends to be a private grief. I dread the wake and the funeral, because talking about the person I loved brings tears and sorrow – although I appreciate the comfort of hugs and love, I prefer to grieve quietly. In fact, after my parents died, I couldn’t even talk about them for months without tears, so I held them closely in my heart and carried on with daily life. I strongly believe that I will be reunited with those that I love some day, and this makes my grief easier to bear.
Grief is cumulative -- once the devastating emotions of fresh grief have softened, we carry the remnants of grief with us forever. Years later, a memory or a lyric from a song can once more release fresh tears of loss. We don’t stop loving, and we really never “complete” the grieving process. We carry the love and the memories in our hearts forever; our family gatherings bring new faces and new love, but the empty chairs are always there in our hearts. We don’t forget – we move on and live our lives – lives that are richer for the knowing and loving of those we’ve lost. They are always a part of us and their love still enfolds us. And the grief that was unbearably painful finds a quiet place in our hearts to linger gently forever.
As we have passed through this week, I have thought a great deal about grief – about the process and the ways in which we express and internalize our grief. I have grieved for my mother-in-law for years now, as the woman we knew slowly slipped away from us – in the final year or two her place was empty at our celebrations because it had become too difficult and painful for her to be moved from place to place, and the chatter and bustle around her was disorienting and disturbing to her. She was the matriarch of our family, and celebrations without her were touched with sadness for me.
Now, though, we are dealing with the grief that comes with the finality of death. And, we each must deal with this grief in our own way. The words of comfort from loved ones and friends are behind us now, and we settle back into daily life with a long journey of personal grieving ahead of us all.
In my experience, I have found that every person grieves in his own unique way. There are people who cry openly and inconsolably, and those with a stoicism that does not allow tears. Some talk about the loss of their loved one to everyone who will listen; others find it difficult to talk at all. My grief tends to be a private grief. I dread the wake and the funeral, because talking about the person I loved brings tears and sorrow – although I appreciate the comfort of hugs and love, I prefer to grieve quietly. In fact, after my parents died, I couldn’t even talk about them for months without tears, so I held them closely in my heart and carried on with daily life. I strongly believe that I will be reunited with those that I love some day, and this makes my grief easier to bear.
Grief is cumulative -- once the devastating emotions of fresh grief have softened, we carry the remnants of grief with us forever. Years later, a memory or a lyric from a song can once more release fresh tears of loss. We don’t stop loving, and we really never “complete” the grieving process. We carry the love and the memories in our hearts forever; our family gatherings bring new faces and new love, but the empty chairs are always there in our hearts. We don’t forget – we move on and live our lives – lives that are richer for the knowing and loving of those we’ve lost. They are always a part of us and their love still enfolds us. And the grief that was unbearably painful finds a quiet place in our hearts to linger gently forever.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Leaving Home
The house is quiet this morning -- my little grandson sits on the living room carpet with his new building blocks. The view from my window is of clouds, drizzle, and the last leaves of autumn slowly drifting to the ground. This season is a soothing one for me -- the craziness of summer is past and we have all adjusted to the more scheduled routine of fall.
On Wednesday I accompanied my granddaughter on a preschool field trip to a pumpkin farm, and yesterday I made Halloween cupcakes -- with a grandchild on each side stirring and licking the batter from wooden spoons. My memories drift to Halloweens long past, when I was creating holiday memories for their fathers and their aunt. I remember the years of costume-making and parties, and the pleasure of reconnecting with neighbors as we trekked from house to house to Trick or Treat.
This autumn I find myself at a crossroad. Our family has struggled in today's difficult economy, and this may very well be the last holiday season I will celebrate in my beloved old house. Our options are limited. We are hopeful that we will be able to sell our house and build a small little inlaw apartment at my daughter's house. Hopefully, it will simplify our financial lives, as well as provide us with a lovely little cottage to shelter us as we age. It is exciting to think of building something new -- an open floor plan with a cozy loft for my bedroom and my books, a place for my grandchildren to sleep over, and a sparkling new kitchen. The view from my windows will be of trees, grass, and inky night skies filled with starlight.
But, and there is a huge "but", my heart breaks to think of leaving this large old Victorian that has sheltered our family for so long. The memories of almost two-thirds of my life linger within these walls. This house has long been filled with children, pets, friends and family. It has been the gathering place for countless holiday celebrations, summer picnics, everyday family meals, and quiet conversations with loved ones at the kitchen table. While many of these friends and family have either moved on or passed on, I hold special memories of them all in my heart, and often picture their beloved faces at the table as I work in my kitchen alone. There have been wonderful times in this house, but there has also been sorrow, and in times of sorrow, its walls draw around me and offer comfort and sanctuary.
Tears flow as I walk through my gardens -- my personal source of peace. I have worked so hard to create my own little oasis here. The stresses of a difficult marriage and a struggling family business have worn me down emotionally, and the solitude of my beloved porch and gardens soothes my spirit. I have placed the stones in the walks, and around the little pond, painted the white picket fences, and lovingly tended the trees and plants that thrive heartily. I feel as if I am leaving part of myself here.
I have to accept that it may be time to move on. Sometimes in life we have to follow a new path. It will be much better for me if I look forward to this move with optimism and anticipation. I will design my little cottage in loving detail, begin plans for new gardens -- bringing along some of my precious perennials and cuttings from my flowering shrubs. I will pack away the treasures I intend to pass along to my grandchildren, and look forward to a new kitchen with a sunny window for fresh herbs, and a lovely loft area with shelves for my books and teddy bear collection. I will have a new, smaller back porch for sipping my morning coffee.
But, this old house of mine is like a long-loved friend. Leaving it will be heart-wrenching. I can only pray that I find a buyer who will treasure it as I do.
On Wednesday I accompanied my granddaughter on a preschool field trip to a pumpkin farm, and yesterday I made Halloween cupcakes -- with a grandchild on each side stirring and licking the batter from wooden spoons. My memories drift to Halloweens long past, when I was creating holiday memories for their fathers and their aunt. I remember the years of costume-making and parties, and the pleasure of reconnecting with neighbors as we trekked from house to house to Trick or Treat.
This autumn I find myself at a crossroad. Our family has struggled in today's difficult economy, and this may very well be the last holiday season I will celebrate in my beloved old house. Our options are limited. We are hopeful that we will be able to sell our house and build a small little inlaw apartment at my daughter's house. Hopefully, it will simplify our financial lives, as well as provide us with a lovely little cottage to shelter us as we age. It is exciting to think of building something new -- an open floor plan with a cozy loft for my bedroom and my books, a place for my grandchildren to sleep over, and a sparkling new kitchen. The view from my windows will be of trees, grass, and inky night skies filled with starlight.
But, and there is a huge "but", my heart breaks to think of leaving this large old Victorian that has sheltered our family for so long. The memories of almost two-thirds of my life linger within these walls. This house has long been filled with children, pets, friends and family. It has been the gathering place for countless holiday celebrations, summer picnics, everyday family meals, and quiet conversations with loved ones at the kitchen table. While many of these friends and family have either moved on or passed on, I hold special memories of them all in my heart, and often picture their beloved faces at the table as I work in my kitchen alone. There have been wonderful times in this house, but there has also been sorrow, and in times of sorrow, its walls draw around me and offer comfort and sanctuary.
Tears flow as I walk through my gardens -- my personal source of peace. I have worked so hard to create my own little oasis here. The stresses of a difficult marriage and a struggling family business have worn me down emotionally, and the solitude of my beloved porch and gardens soothes my spirit. I have placed the stones in the walks, and around the little pond, painted the white picket fences, and lovingly tended the trees and plants that thrive heartily. I feel as if I am leaving part of myself here.
I have to accept that it may be time to move on. Sometimes in life we have to follow a new path. It will be much better for me if I look forward to this move with optimism and anticipation. I will design my little cottage in loving detail, begin plans for new gardens -- bringing along some of my precious perennials and cuttings from my flowering shrubs. I will pack away the treasures I intend to pass along to my grandchildren, and look forward to a new kitchen with a sunny window for fresh herbs, and a lovely loft area with shelves for my books and teddy bear collection. I will have a new, smaller back porch for sipping my morning coffee.
But, this old house of mine is like a long-loved friend. Leaving it will be heart-wrenching. I can only pray that I find a buyer who will treasure it as I do.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Family Moments
I stand quietly in the French doorway as Alivia's Mom holds her hands and gently leads her through the cha-cha steps on the dance floor. Alivia's flower girl dress billows around her, and it is a mother-daughter moment her other grandmother tries to capture with a click of her camera. This was a moment to treasure in a day filled with such moments -- the wedding day of Alivia's uncle.
On this glorious September day we gathered as a picture-perfect family -- the affection, the laughter, the happy tears. These days are the reward for carefully nurturing family bonds. Below the silky smooth surface, however, lies all the drama of family -- the hurt, anger, and disappointment that is so much a part of every family saga. Somehow, the bonds of family hold us together despite our differences. While there are times we can't begin to understand each other, we share a history and links of genes and love that offer us security and comfort in this cold world.
A few weeks ago, I received an unexpected gift in the mail. I carefully opened the box and gently lifted out a most incredibly lovely afghan. There was a note from my cousin. She and her sisters had each contributed crocheted blocks and created this beautiful gift in memory of my sister. I had been especially missing my sister as the anniversary of her death passed earlier this summer, and the afghan brought me a tremendous sense of comfort. As I snuggle into its softness, I can feel the warm thoughts and prayers woven into each block.
This summer has been filled with special moments -- a Fourth of July party at a cousin's house with family members I seldom see, a graduation party for another cousin, the announcement that I will become a grandmother again next spring, a lovely dinner with a beloved uncle and his family -- it is always a joy to reconnect with loved ones and enjoy these gatherings.
At the wedding yesterday I sat with the groom's mother -- my close friend for over thirty years and my son's mother-in-law -- and the groom's grandmother whom I love dearly. She is in her 80's and now has twenty-eight great-grandchildren, and she never misses a family celebration. I looked out over the tables at the faces of these children I have loved for so many years -- now grown up with children of their own. What a gift it is to feel your heart bursting with love!!
These special days in the lives of our families are over much too quickly, and we return to the struggles of day-to-day life. We are stressed, hurtful words are spoken, we suffer disappointments and losses, and we sometimes forget how blessed we are to be part of our extended families. But blessed we are!!
On this glorious September day we gathered as a picture-perfect family -- the affection, the laughter, the happy tears. These days are the reward for carefully nurturing family bonds. Below the silky smooth surface, however, lies all the drama of family -- the hurt, anger, and disappointment that is so much a part of every family saga. Somehow, the bonds of family hold us together despite our differences. While there are times we can't begin to understand each other, we share a history and links of genes and love that offer us security and comfort in this cold world.
A few weeks ago, I received an unexpected gift in the mail. I carefully opened the box and gently lifted out a most incredibly lovely afghan. There was a note from my cousin. She and her sisters had each contributed crocheted blocks and created this beautiful gift in memory of my sister. I had been especially missing my sister as the anniversary of her death passed earlier this summer, and the afghan brought me a tremendous sense of comfort. As I snuggle into its softness, I can feel the warm thoughts and prayers woven into each block.
This summer has been filled with special moments -- a Fourth of July party at a cousin's house with family members I seldom see, a graduation party for another cousin, the announcement that I will become a grandmother again next spring, a lovely dinner with a beloved uncle and his family -- it is always a joy to reconnect with loved ones and enjoy these gatherings.
At the wedding yesterday I sat with the groom's mother -- my close friend for over thirty years and my son's mother-in-law -- and the groom's grandmother whom I love dearly. She is in her 80's and now has twenty-eight great-grandchildren, and she never misses a family celebration. I looked out over the tables at the faces of these children I have loved for so many years -- now grown up with children of their own. What a gift it is to feel your heart bursting with love!!
These special days in the lives of our families are over much too quickly, and we return to the struggles of day-to-day life. We are stressed, hurtful words are spoken, we suffer disappointments and losses, and we sometimes forget how blessed we are to be part of our extended families. But blessed we are!!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Supper With The Ducklings
The August evening was gentle and carried hints of summer days which begin to slip away like pearls from a string by mid-August. When school is over in June, summer lies before us as limitless possibility, but all too soon dusk falls earlier each evening, and there is a subtle shift in the season which reminds us that much of summer is now behind us.
This summer has been uncomfortably humid in upstate New York, and there have been many worrisome issues on my mind and much work to be done, so July and early August have passed by without as much pleasure as I had anticipated in June. There have been some wonderful and memorable moments with my two little grandchildren. We spent a morning at Adirondack Animal Land, a wonderful little zoo which is perfectly charming for preschoolers. We celebrated Alivia's birthday at Hoffman's Playland -- a local amusement park which is a long-time landmark. Watching Luke and Alivia together on the rides was precious -- they share a deep love and caring for each other, which I hope will continue as they grow up. From my own experience, I know what a treasure a beloved cousin can be as we journey through life.
The past couple of weeks I have been physically and emotionally exhausted, and last night when my husband suggested dinner out I was thrilled. While the economy has severely limited our "entertainment" budget, we have managed a few meals at one of our favorite summertime restaurants, Yanni's at Coeymans Landing. This restaurant is a retreat of sorts on the banks of the Hudson River. There is a large, covered open-air deck, complete with paddle fans for warm nights, and portable heaters for chilly evenings. Boats from the adjoining boat club are moored directly in front of the restaurant, so as we sit, my husband can dream his dreams of sailing his days away, and I can enjoy the soothing water and dense treeline on the opposite shore. The food is scrumptious -- New England clam chowder that can't be matched; baskets of fried shrimp, scallops, oysters, etc., and in season, delectable fried zucchini. Of course, there are also more heart-healthy alternatives, but these are my splurges for the season.
Last evening, as I sat on the deck, savoring the chowder and a glass of pinot grigio, I was blessed with the sight of a mother duck and six fluffy little babies wobbling towards our table. Of course I know that you are not supposed to feed the ducks, but I couldn't resist those fluffy little faces, and I opened a package of oyster crackers for them. What pleasure it was to watch those precious creatures savoring the crackers like they were a gift from Heaven. It was the highlight of my evening to stroke the soft feathery down of those babies.
As the stresses of life seem to close in, and we feel that possibly the best in life is behind us and there are no solutions to the problems we face or the worries we carry, it is most important to spend some time outside -- to savor the sights, sounds, and scents of nature -- and to allow our souls to be soothed by God's gift of beauty that surrounds us in each season. While many people find God's spirit in grand cathedrals, I feel his spirit most strongly in the quiet breeze that caresses my cheek and in the trusting face of a fluffy duckling.
This summer has been uncomfortably humid in upstate New York, and there have been many worrisome issues on my mind and much work to be done, so July and early August have passed by without as much pleasure as I had anticipated in June. There have been some wonderful and memorable moments with my two little grandchildren. We spent a morning at Adirondack Animal Land, a wonderful little zoo which is perfectly charming for preschoolers. We celebrated Alivia's birthday at Hoffman's Playland -- a local amusement park which is a long-time landmark. Watching Luke and Alivia together on the rides was precious -- they share a deep love and caring for each other, which I hope will continue as they grow up. From my own experience, I know what a treasure a beloved cousin can be as we journey through life.
The past couple of weeks I have been physically and emotionally exhausted, and last night when my husband suggested dinner out I was thrilled. While the economy has severely limited our "entertainment" budget, we have managed a few meals at one of our favorite summertime restaurants, Yanni's at Coeymans Landing. This restaurant is a retreat of sorts on the banks of the Hudson River. There is a large, covered open-air deck, complete with paddle fans for warm nights, and portable heaters for chilly evenings. Boats from the adjoining boat club are moored directly in front of the restaurant, so as we sit, my husband can dream his dreams of sailing his days away, and I can enjoy the soothing water and dense treeline on the opposite shore. The food is scrumptious -- New England clam chowder that can't be matched; baskets of fried shrimp, scallops, oysters, etc., and in season, delectable fried zucchini. Of course, there are also more heart-healthy alternatives, but these are my splurges for the season.
Last evening, as I sat on the deck, savoring the chowder and a glass of pinot grigio, I was blessed with the sight of a mother duck and six fluffy little babies wobbling towards our table. Of course I know that you are not supposed to feed the ducks, but I couldn't resist those fluffy little faces, and I opened a package of oyster crackers for them. What pleasure it was to watch those precious creatures savoring the crackers like they were a gift from Heaven. It was the highlight of my evening to stroke the soft feathery down of those babies.
As the stresses of life seem to close in, and we feel that possibly the best in life is behind us and there are no solutions to the problems we face or the worries we carry, it is most important to spend some time outside -- to savor the sights, sounds, and scents of nature -- and to allow our souls to be soothed by God's gift of beauty that surrounds us in each season. While many people find God's spirit in grand cathedrals, I feel his spirit most strongly in the quiet breeze that caresses my cheek and in the trusting face of a fluffy duckling.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Missing Carol
I find cemeteries to be peaceful sanctuaries, whether they are crammed into the congestion of suburbia, or sitting silently beside woods and fields. I have always felt comfort in a cemetery -- its quiet little plots holding generations that have gone before us to the peace of eternal life.
Several years ago I began some genealogical research which led me to cemeteries in rural New York -- some in the farmland of Delaware and Schoharie counties and some in the wooded mountains of Warren County. One cemetery, in particular, in Harpersfield, felt like a family reunion with ancestors dating back to the early 1800's. In the silence of a sunny July morning, I felt a welcome of sorts as I touched the engravings of those who have passed on before me.
Wild thyme graces the cemeteries in Warrensburg and Chestertown, as it does in several local cemeteries. Walking slowly over a carpet of thyme releases its pungent aroma, as its tiny flowers create a blanket of purple over the gravesites. The deep stillness in the cemetery in Chestertown where I found my great-great grandparents was broken only by occasional birdsong.
Yesterday I bought two tiny iron crosses. I drove to the quaint little country cemetery where my stillborn baby girl lies, and placed one cross on her grave. Someday, I too, will be with her on that gentle hillside.
Then, I visited my sister's grave in another local cemetery and placed a cross by her stone. Next week will be the first anniversary of her death, and I have found myself painfully reliving the memories of her last weeks of life. After her long suffering, I was filled more with a sense of relief than grief when she finally died. The grief has come incrementally through the past year -- her birthday, the first Christmas without her, the multitude of tiny reminders that make missing her a continuing process. These next few days will be difficult, but once they are over, I will have passed all the milestones of the first year, and hopefully, the pain will begin to lessen a bit.
She lays now in the midst of carpets of thyme, beside our parents, overlooking the middle school she attended, and I trust that she is at peace now and watching over me as I place the tiny cross, tell her I love her, and walk slowly back to my car in the soothing cemetery silence.
Several years ago I began some genealogical research which led me to cemeteries in rural New York -- some in the farmland of Delaware and Schoharie counties and some in the wooded mountains of Warren County. One cemetery, in particular, in Harpersfield, felt like a family reunion with ancestors dating back to the early 1800's. In the silence of a sunny July morning, I felt a welcome of sorts as I touched the engravings of those who have passed on before me.
Wild thyme graces the cemeteries in Warrensburg and Chestertown, as it does in several local cemeteries. Walking slowly over a carpet of thyme releases its pungent aroma, as its tiny flowers create a blanket of purple over the gravesites. The deep stillness in the cemetery in Chestertown where I found my great-great grandparents was broken only by occasional birdsong.
Yesterday I bought two tiny iron crosses. I drove to the quaint little country cemetery where my stillborn baby girl lies, and placed one cross on her grave. Someday, I too, will be with her on that gentle hillside.
Then, I visited my sister's grave in another local cemetery and placed a cross by her stone. Next week will be the first anniversary of her death, and I have found myself painfully reliving the memories of her last weeks of life. After her long suffering, I was filled more with a sense of relief than grief when she finally died. The grief has come incrementally through the past year -- her birthday, the first Christmas without her, the multitude of tiny reminders that make missing her a continuing process. These next few days will be difficult, but once they are over, I will have passed all the milestones of the first year, and hopefully, the pain will begin to lessen a bit.
She lays now in the midst of carpets of thyme, beside our parents, overlooking the middle school she attended, and I trust that she is at peace now and watching over me as I place the tiny cross, tell her I love her, and walk slowly back to my car in the soothing cemetery silence.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Fathers' Day Memories
At 4:00 AM I woke from sleep to thunder rumbling and lightning flickering -- it was not a frightening storm, but as it lingered I was unable to get back to sleep. As a child I was terrified of thunderstorms, always fearing that this would be the storm when lightning would strike us -- pretty morbid thoughts for a child -- but I am a worrier by nature, descending from a long line of worriers.
Somehow, I always felt a measure of safety and security when my father was home. In my eyes he was all-knowing and strong, and could protect us from all harm as long as he was there. As I lay awake listening to the storm this morning -- Fathers' Day morning -- I pondered my relationship with my father.
I don't believe he really enjoyed fatherhood --I think he loved my mother deeply, and would have been content to have remained childless. I was never "Daddy's Girl", and always had an awareness that I irritated him on some level. I was talkative, affectionate, and needy -- he much preferred my sister who was reserved and quiet, as he was. Fortunately, my mother filled the empty spaces of my soul with her love and affection, but I remain to this day somewhat of a "pleaser", always striving to be "liked". I believe this is because I tried so hard to earn my father's affections.
He was a good man -- honest, hardworking, loyal -- the quintessential father of the fifties, whose children complain endlessly about their lack of fatherly attention and affection. He chose a simple life -- working as a mechanic, though his intellect would have allowed him to achieve much greater status. He taught me to be true to my own inner voice and to take pride in what I accomplished, even if those accomplishments were not highly regarded in the world.
He disciplined fairly and firmly, and could correct our behavior by his tone of voice with much more success than men who ruled by harsher forms of discipline. He passed on his love of nature and his contentment with the daily routines of life. He greeted each day with a smile, and, though realistic, was an optimist at heart.
He worked twelve hour days and six hours on Saturdays, and looked forward with relief to retirement at sixty-two. However, his retirement was not to be the peaceful respite he longed for. He developed emphysema and died a slow, debilitating death four years later. Watching my strong, capable father weaken and become dependent on others for his day to day care was heartwrenching for me.
As I pass through this day, I will think of him in a better place -- now joined by my mother and my sister -- and thank him for the strength of character he passed on to me.
Happy Fathers' Day, Daddy!!
Somehow, I always felt a measure of safety and security when my father was home. In my eyes he was all-knowing and strong, and could protect us from all harm as long as he was there. As I lay awake listening to the storm this morning -- Fathers' Day morning -- I pondered my relationship with my father.
I don't believe he really enjoyed fatherhood --I think he loved my mother deeply, and would have been content to have remained childless. I was never "Daddy's Girl", and always had an awareness that I irritated him on some level. I was talkative, affectionate, and needy -- he much preferred my sister who was reserved and quiet, as he was. Fortunately, my mother filled the empty spaces of my soul with her love and affection, but I remain to this day somewhat of a "pleaser", always striving to be "liked". I believe this is because I tried so hard to earn my father's affections.
He was a good man -- honest, hardworking, loyal -- the quintessential father of the fifties, whose children complain endlessly about their lack of fatherly attention and affection. He chose a simple life -- working as a mechanic, though his intellect would have allowed him to achieve much greater status. He taught me to be true to my own inner voice and to take pride in what I accomplished, even if those accomplishments were not highly regarded in the world.
He disciplined fairly and firmly, and could correct our behavior by his tone of voice with much more success than men who ruled by harsher forms of discipline. He passed on his love of nature and his contentment with the daily routines of life. He greeted each day with a smile, and, though realistic, was an optimist at heart.
He worked twelve hour days and six hours on Saturdays, and looked forward with relief to retirement at sixty-two. However, his retirement was not to be the peaceful respite he longed for. He developed emphysema and died a slow, debilitating death four years later. Watching my strong, capable father weaken and become dependent on others for his day to day care was heartwrenching for me.
As I pass through this day, I will think of him in a better place -- now joined by my mother and my sister -- and thank him for the strength of character he passed on to me.
Happy Fathers' Day, Daddy!!
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