Tripping Down Memory Lane, Part 2

     Years ago, I took my dad on a little adventure just before Father's Day. It was part of my gift to him that year. We drove up to Croton Dam area near Newaygo and we explored the property that his grandparents and later his parents owned.

    It was a fun trip, as he was never one to shy away from nosing about. No one was at the remodeled cottage, so we walked right up to the windows and peered inside. We walked all around the property. He told me stories about why there was a chunk still missing out of the concrete steps leading up to the back door. It was him, in 1951. His older brother had built a car from scraps and let me 12 year old dad drive it-and he crashed while backing up to the house. He never got to drive it again,

    We walked across the street and looked at the lake where his grandpa, and then his dad and uncle, would put their boat in the water for fishing, the Kildaire, which was supposedly named for the area the Kelly family came from in Ireland.

    As is often the case in this life, you discover how small the world really is through sharing stories. It turns out, all those years ago, my dad knew my Aunt Sandy, my mom's brother Jim's wife, way back when they were children. Sandy's family would come rent a cottage near the dam and she said, years alter, that she remembered my dad's family--and their difficulties in getting their boat across the street and into the lake.

    Back in August, as the two year anniversary for my dad's last illness was on my mind, I started to feel pity for myself. I was feeling nostalgic and wanting to take my own trip down memory lane. But where could I go? We moved around a lot when I was a child. What was my touchstone? And who would want to go with me? Being the oldest sibling, and so much older than my younger siblings, we don't always share the same set of memories, so what I might care about, they might not even have been around for yet.

    I finally settled on touring around Grandville, MI. This was where my mom and her siblings were raised. We often went to my grandma's when we were children. I was in Grandville schools for part of my childhood-when we lived in both Walker and Wyoming. When we lived in the upper peninsula I came down and stayed with my grandparents for several weeks during the summers. As an adult I stayed with my grandma often, after my grandpa died, to help her with chores and take her to church. I even lived with her for several years, before it became necessary for her to go into assisted living.

    Once I had that settled, I deiced to go for my little trip down memory lane after I was done donating platelets since I go to the donation center in Grandville every few months to make those donations.

    The first place I headed was Grandville's small downtown area. When I was in kindergarten through about second grade, my parents tried their hands at owning a business, a bookstore they called The Book Nook. I know which two store fronts might have been it, but I am not quite sure. My mom created a special children's section in the store-that she called Pooh's Corner. Another local bookshop later used that name when they decided to open book stores that were for children only. I was so pleased when the classic older car drove by in the last of this set of four pictures, as we had a gold car similar to that when I was around 6 or 7.

    

    The next place I headed to was Wedgewood Park, a park that was right by my grandma's house-we could walk there from her house. In the winter they would flood the football field and you could ice skate there. When I was in 6th grade-I went to the elementary school that was opposite the park, Central elementary. At recess, I would go by the fence by the tennis courts-and that was right by my grandma's backyard, and she would hand me chocolate chip cookies through the chain link fence.

    Wedgewood Park has a special children's playground that is dedicated to the memory of a friend of mine, a little boy named Bobby. He died in an accident just weeks before we were supposed to start kindergarten. When I was looking at his memorial at the park and brushed away some debris that was on it, a butterfly floated by.

        

    Then I went to look at the war memorials and the garden's dedicated to the Rosie the Riveters. I also walked past the softball field. I sued to go there at night to watch ball games when I stayed with my grandparents during the summer. You could hear the games from their house, the crack of the aluminum bats, the cheers. It was so much fun to walk over and watch and grandma always gave me to change to buy snacks-such as Big League Chewing gum, or popcorn, or a candy bar.

    I walked along Buck Creek. We used to look for crayfish and walk along the banks, climbing on the bigger rocks.

    I ended my little journey by walking over to Central Elementary. The playground has changed a bit. The tennis court is now for horseshoes. It isn't the same basketball hoop, but it is where I made my first basket. Grandma used to walk me over there to play and I had two small rubber basketballs, an orange one and a green one. When I was about 5 I finally made my first basket.

    

    

Three Minute Resurrection

     Almost at the two-year mark for when my dad suddenly became seriously ill. I’m not sure what I expected at this point. I suppose I hoped to be less surprised, less shocked, and less disappointed by the turn of events, and then by how everything unraveled in such a devastating fashion.

    As I see memories come up in my feed, from just over two years ago, just before the bottom dropped out of everything, I am so grateful that I had no idea what was coming. I am slowly sorting it out and beginning to accept that nothing could have changed the outcome. Maybe it could have been slowed, or prolonged, but the outcome would have ended the same. This is progress. I still don’t always believe these truths, though. Someday I hope to embrace this completely.

    There are still plenty of days where I hope for a shift of time and space. Some days I still secretly hope that the outcomes I wanted will suddenly transpire. That has always been one of my main coping mechanisms, spending a good portion of my days residing in fantasy-land.

    Happily, my dad has one cousin that is still alive. She is named after their grandfather the same as my dad. She recently turned 89. I was messaging her and her husband, sending birthday greetings and wishes to her. I asked her if she would write down memories from her childhood, whether just her own or ones that involved my dad as well.

    She answered me right away, telling the story of when their own grandmother had died. She was fourteen, my dad’s brother was ten, and my dad was seven at the time. As was the tradition at that time, the wake and the funeral took place in their grandparents’ house. The three children were tasked with walking to the front, where their grandmother’s body was in her open casket, and they had a corsage that they were to put on her, the oldest cousin, Wilma, being the one to pin it on their grandmother’s lapel.

    As the three children solemnly walked to the front, my dad, the sweet seven year old, leaned over and whispered to his older cousin to be sure to be careful and not stick grandma with the pin.

    This made me laugh out loud. My dad always had that sweet nature, not wanting anyone to be hurt. It also reminded me of my own struggles at age seven in trying to understand what death meant, what it meant to be dead. I had a little friend that died in an accident when I was five, and at age seven I still would wake up in the night and call for my mother, asking questions about why my friend died, and what it really means to be dead.

    In  hearing this new to me story, for a few brief minutes my dad was alive again.

Health and Rememberance

     My previous blog post was about the mission statement I had to write for the wellness program through my employer wellness plan. Little did I know the very next day some of those thoughts would be put to the test when I myself was suddenly very ill.

    It became crystal clear to me that now was a time I needed to focus on myself and self care. Self care is something that often gets kicked to the side as we live our every day lives-trying to fulfill all our obligations to our jobs, our families, our friends, and communities.

    I found myself needing emergency surgery to fix an issue with my gallbladder. I had not really had previous issues, but now I found myself with continual excruciating pain that had to be dealt with.

    I was a little leery about the fix, as I remembered my dad had such terrible problems when he had his surgery decades ago. Well, technology advances over time and as I much as I enjoy being like him in some ways, I am not him, I am me, and my body will react differently. Happily, my husband was told while I was in the recovery room that the surgery was textbook, and my recovery has been steady ever since that day in the beginning of April.

    I wish that recovery from a broken heart was more of a steady progression toward wellness like my physical recovery has been. It is such a journey of starts and stops, and steps backwards, and sometimes no progress at all. I think that is my big take away in the almost year and half it has been since my dad died. You just never know how you will feel about it on any given day. I don't you think you ever really get over it, but you learn to live with it better, you learn to give that pain a back seat, or a side seat to every day events and moments. It is still there, but it doesn't always color every little thing.

    And eventually more of the happy memories come forward to lend their glow to present moments. This is the first year that Memorial parades and events have taken place since the pandemic started. My heart was not ready for a large event like that.

    I am more about the small every day remembrances being done to honor those that have gone before me. I am all about enjoy desserts, having the sampler platter like my dad would if there is more than one ice cream being offered, eating all the cookies, and enjoying a second piece of cake.

    Last summer I took a trip down memory lane with the Tony Hillerman books my dad introduced me to many years ago. We are big mystery readers in our family. This summer I might revisit Sue Grafton's books. We'll see.

    Tonight we will watch The History Channel special on Teddy Roosevelt, as in 2020 the Washington and Grant specials were a big deal in our household while my dad was with us. He was a huge history buff, and that has been passed down to us. 

    There are so many ways we honor and remember those that have gone before us, do what every brings you peace, comfort, and happiness-especially if it involves ice cream.

Mission Statement-Begin to Heal

     I do take part in my employer's wellness program, not so much because I believe it will impact my overall health by much, but because if you do participate, and do contribute to your own health savings account, they will also make a donation if you complete certain physical and educational tasks through this program. The main task for this month was to write a mission statement for ourselves.

    My statement currently fits in with my belief on how we can help heal the world and make this experience of living better for ourselves and each other.

    The first task to recognized the things I can do for others, and the things I cannot do for others, and then to act accordingly.

I often feel helpless and overwhelmed by all the sorrows and difficulties in the world, like there is nothing I can personally do to alleviate those suffering from the impacts of war around the globe. Then I do nothing because I am overwhelmed and I end up feeling so hopeless. 

In reality, I can at least take an action to help in my own community, to help alleviate the suffering of others-such as people that are undergoing treatment for various illnesses and need blood or platelets. I am able to take a 4 hour block of time out of my day once a month or every other month and do a donation of a triple unit of platelets. It can’t fix global ailments, but it can help with local suffering, and if we all follow that lead-of helping out when and where we are, we could heal the world bit by bit, by healing our own communities.

So, This Is 100?

     I have been thinking all day about what  I might post. Should I do a final re-cap on my baking journey and goals from 2021? Should I shake the dust of 2021 from my shoes and focus on the goals and dreams that are 2022? Then when I logged into my blog I saw that this is going to be my 100th post. It feels like it should be monumental, that I should somehow mark it with some special wisdom. 

    Except that I don't have any great advice. The more I think on it, the more it turns from a happy thought to anxiety. Isn't that true in life? It sure is for me.

    And that brings me back to my exploration of words that I started towards the end of last year. I think there have been times in my life when I have not fully appreciated or respected the power that words have, the words we choose to replay in our minds, the words we assign ourselves, our situations, and others. 

    I must become a better caretaker of the words I use when I speak to myself and to others. When I tell fictional stories, when I tell my stories, and when I help others tell their stories I need to use great care and respect with the words that are used to convey these truths.

    Here's to the hope of a new year, to the community that comes from sharing our stories, and the hard work of thoughtfully choosing the words we give to each other.