In pursuit of a pen, I reached into the junk drawer (grumbled about cleaning it out) and picked up a mechanical pencil with no top, wrapped in tape, and the cylinder was empty. Harper, our 8-year-old neighbor, was over and said, “Why does the pencil look like that?” I held up the plastic pencil remains, fiddling with them in my hands, and said, “Well, when my son lived here, he would recycle these and use them for projects he would build.”
Whoa…Past tense. “…when my son lived here …” I heard it.
Then I felt it. My heart did that sinking thing when it secretly knows the past is, well, past…and life within the walls of our home will never be the same.
That was then…
I thought back to when the kids were little. We’d set up obstacle courses in the backyard with logs to balance on, hula hoops to maneuver through, and barriers to tackle. My husband managed the stopwatch, narrating along the way, and I held the video camera–because in my mind documenting meant the moment wouldn’t (couldn’t) go away.
Our oldest son would go first, his eyes planning the most efficient, logical, and fastest path, no ladder too tall, no tunnel too narrow, no risk too great. Our youngest son would follow, arms flailing, adding cartwheels, leaps, and spins along his path to ensure the most fun could be had on the journey. Finally, our daughter, the oldest, would lean out of the screen door, Harry Potter book in hand, “What’s the fastest time?” she’d ask while slipping on any shoes that were handy and pushing her curls away from her face with the back of her hand the way she does. She’d quickly survey the course, hustle to the starting line next to her brothers, and yell, “READY Papa!” Up, over, in, and out, she dashed through the course with her signature audible breathing, making it clear she was working to win. Once she held the new record, the screen door closed with a bang, book, glasses, and our current winner once inside again. The boys would then clamor to surpass her time, and the cycle continued.
I play the kids’ childhood moments in my mind’s Viewfinder all the time–clicking through the first days of school, family trips, awards won, races lost. I think about who leaves toothpaste in the sink, who can tolerate “all that crunching,” and who will empty the top rack of the dishwasher. One common thread – as if running the backyard course, they have all become unstoppable-each blazing their own trail, no matter the obstacles.
This is now…
We had our kids 15 and 18 months apart. Total 3. So…in the last two years, we’ve had two high school graduates and in 2024, our youngest will flip his tassel as we say farewell to all of the high school pomp and circumstance.
And as quickly as they graced our every single day for 18 years, off they go.
As our first two started their journeys outside the context of our family, it was beyond hard. But all I could picture was our unstoppable daughter out in the world discussing the current issues and immigration policies with peers, laughing heartily at her friends’ jokes, and making Spotify song lists with her new people.
She is right where she needs to be. But boy do I miss her.
Then our oldest son, who always came out to greet us, carry in the groceries, and asked SO MANY “Can I?” questions – the stamina of a cheetah, he never tired of hearing, “No.” He’s the guy to call when the car won’t start, the path needs clearing or the couch won’t fit through the awkward doorway. He follows Mark Twain’s words, “ I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.”
He, too, is right where he needs to be. But boy, do I miss him.
Our youngest is our mainstay. The traditionalist. He knows where the holes are in the wall to hang the birthday banner draping the kitchen window five times a year, where the angel food cake pan is kept (and how to use it), and is always clad in workout clothes as if a “sporting” emergency could spring up anytime, he’s the kid that will be there on your happiest or loneliest day and come loaded with snacks and goofy jokes.
Soon, he’ll pack up, and our nest will be very empty
Boy, I’m going to miss that nest.
What I’ve learned:
Back in August, when packing up the kids for college, I stopped and really listened to the sounds of our morning. I held onto them with clenched fists because somehow through the cacophony of yells and stomps, blenders and constantly running water came the harmony of our home. But eventually, even the best of bands have artists who seek standalone stardom. Simon split from Garfunkel and still performs today with a little less hair and a lot of notoriety. So as they should, our family paths have split. I struggle to marvel at the space between us because letting go is really, really hard. Thankfully we have our stories, love, and of course, Facetime.
Thanks for joining me,
Lucretia
“It is not what you do for your children, but what you have taught them to do for themselves that will make them successful human beings.”
My plan was to walk our dogs this morning…but Lola, our fluffy, tailless Border Collie, yanked me and Sancha (lab/golden mix) through the neighborhood instead. Her tugging seemed to say, “Come on! We’re missing all the good stuff!”
So just like obedient sheep, we followed along as she plowed through the world nose up, eyes straight ahead, one ear forward, the other pointing at me like a periscope.
Poor Lola. I feel the life of a suburban Border Collie is mentally more labor-intensive than that of a farm dog. There are no sheep or livestock to organize, no big fields to hunt and explore, and barely one unamused squirrel in our backyard.
Basically, Lola is left to plan her whole day like the rest of us. Dog breeders will swear you have to exercise Border Collies at least 37 times a day, or they will get bored and expend their energy otherwise. Oh, it’s true, I feel guilty as heck when I come home to a scene from The Killing Fields with stuffed animals strewn about and plastic noses and eyes carefully dislodged from their stuffed owners.
But Lola, much like our kids, came without assembly and upkeep instructions. She was rescued from inside a screened porch somewhere in North Georgia, surrounded by her own poop and no food or water. In retrospect, we often wonder if Lola was a little bummed when driven away from all that land. For all we know, she could have built the porch herself and was just drawing up the bathroom plans. She’s THAT smart.
Lola is a worker and a leader.: Pass her a laptop, and she’ll have a business reorganized and gleaming with success. Lola would be a blur on the corporate ladder as she escalated to the top while others envied her drive, agility, and vertical leap. She efficiently pees on all the spots necessary to make her way through life. Border Collies like Lola are smart and driven – a good breed. She has just the right amount of affection with a smidge of jealousy woven into her fluffy coat.
LOLA’S TOP 8 LEADERSHIP TIPS: If Lola had her own flock, here’s how she would lead.
1. Leave your mark:
Pee several times throughout your life and all over the place. Leave your mark, your legacy…but always remember where your food is and who loves you unconditionally.
2. Take a stand:
Showing you believe in something and sharing how you feel is like Lola when she poops, do it when and where you need to…holding it in will just lead to bad feelings (especially if you ate a sock).
3. Listen and observe:
Always be ready to change directions. Lead your herd wisely.
4. Keep your paws clean:
Be honest and wipe your feet even if you have plans to go out again.
5. Wag your tail:
Exude positivity and wag like mad, even if you only have a stub of a tail.
6. Use your speed and strength:
No matter the setting, be the hardest worker in the room.
7. Beware of shiny objects:
Don’t let your sheep go astray; stay focused and on point.
8. REST on top of tables (or whatever works for you):
Stop and look at life from other perspectives. Truly, things are clearer from above, said God and Lola.
Lola is a sweet girl. She and Sancha make every day better. But in a pinch, if you need a CEO, look for the Lola’s of the world. She will keep you safe, organized, and full of joy. If you need a best friend, Sancha is your gal. She’s your lifer; she’ll stay with the company and be faithful for years. On walks, she pees for a long time in one place ONLY…much like the small-town plumber in a Hallmark movie who is happily living in the same place for life.
What I learned:
I hope our children channel their inner Lola in life. Like people, every dog is different. But unlike some people, dogs love unconditionally, are forgiving, and ever-loyal. Let’s learn from them.
As Anne Lamott said, “Having a good dog is the closest some of us are ever going to come to knowing the direct love of a mother or God.”
Let them lead you home like Lola, comfort you like Sancha, and always “stick” together.
This Friday, I will be home with my parents. I thought I’d repost a story I wrote a few years ago… the changes they’ve gone through, mentally, physically, and emotionally, over the years are evident. Still, they are eternally guided by faith, hope, love, and my super supportive sisters.
Repost from 2023 Lenten Reflections #4
I am one of four sisters. The youngest and farthest from our parents. Growing up, people would refer to me as “the baby,” and mom would swoop in like an eagle – wings flapping and correct them in her unyielding tone, “Nooooo, she’s the youngest”. At the time, mom was busy raising four independent girls, and the term “baby” was reserved solely for those in diapers, which we were all out of by age two.
As in most families, we each had our textbook roles as siblings: the oldest – reliable and overly cautious (as kids we barely glimpsed at the Grand Canyon as she herded us like a Border Collie away from the edge), the middle sisters – a tad rebellious, with large social circles (probably helped that they had a cool 1957 Ford truck to drive), and me fun-loving and easy-going perhaps a bit lazy. Now that Mom and Dad are 84 and 87, respectively, (AMAZING! I KNOW!) life has changed a bit, and we have adjusted our roles.
That being said, when it came to caring for them as they waltzed hand in hand through their later years, I was not the daughter to step up to the helm and guide the ship. There’s something called “Seagull Syndrome,” where the sibling who lives the farthest away tends to visit, poop on everyone’s ideas about caretaking, and fly home. I try not to do that but rather be the “fun uncle” type daughter who says yes to everything (“Yes, cookies for breakfast counts…yes, we can binge watch Blue Bloods until midnight”) , and then I head home.
Thankfully, with three sisters and the Catholic faith as our north star, one of my sisters retired from her job and moved back home to care for them. With a Master’s Degree in psychology, 30 years of experience managing engineers, and a heart of gold, she was clearly qualified and has made what is possibly the noblest of all jobs look easy. She’s the Helen Keller of caretaking. She knows where mom hurts and how to heal, she knows when dad needs to go for a drive or use the wood splitter, and she knows exactly when they both need a nap. Although they both say they “don’t nap”.
As a bunch (think Brady’s with attitude), we each contribute what we can. My oldest sister is always on call and will drop anything to be present. Outsourcing as needed, and sending Pedialyte, Boost, or whatever is needed via Amazon. My sister, closest to me in age, will jump in and clean, manage all outside work, call daily, and do more between 10 pm and 2 am than most people do all day. We all have our jobs, whether it’s calling to tell them stories of our day, making sure mom takes her medicine, or dad sits down to rest. But my sister, the primary caretaker, has developed a skillful management of herself and our parents, and for that, we are all grateful.
How does she do it?
Always reading and learning, she finds the perfect balance between caretaking and respecting our parents’ need for independence. In the book Being Mortal, author Atul Gawande posits that whether a teen or a senior, they both value autonomy and crave the feeling of purpose and worth every day. So, when Dad, who recently stopped driving, wants to drive the truck from the front yard to the back, we let him buckle up and go…better to help him remember he still can, even if just a little bit.
Equally, when mom wants to give the next-door dog, Ned, leftovers through the fence (even though he’s been fed), she takes care of dear old Ned. I read a story about Bill Thomas, director of a nursing home in NY, who brought in pets for the residents to nurture because he says giving people something to care for makes them more active and alert. Thus, my parents’ surplus of suet, bird seed, dog bones, and corn.
Being part of the “Silent Generation,” our parents are workers. Raised in the Depression Era, everything is recycled, reused, repurposed, and appreciated. Growing up, wood piles were (and still are) precious commodities, prom dresses were made by mom (!), and going out to eat at “The Royal Fork” Buffet was a really big deal.
Luckily, Dad starts each morning by saying, “Another good day, right, Mom?!” Mom replies in her realistic tone, placing her coffee in the microwave again, “Okay, Dad”. They do this, call each other “Mom and Dad,” the titles God bestowed on them that they cherish and will use day after day until there are no more days.
During my visit this past week, I wrote down some notes. As they are specific to my parents, I believe the lessons can be applied to taking care of any senior or otherwise. I wrote this list for my sisters, so it may read like a journal, but I thought it might help someone out there.
I strongly believe “everyone needs a destination.”
Respect what I call “the triangle”: Church, the doctor’s office, and the grocery store. These are their familiar stomping grounds – weave in a few other outings (restaurant, casino, a walk), and it gives the day purpose.
Note: If you have to reschedule a doctor’s appointment, do it. Better to take them when they are prepared and feeling okay than stressed and apprehensive.
Listen to their stories – it connects them to a familiar time
My mom’s stories at the age of 14 are formative years and the spotlight of her daily memory.
When Mom talks about giving up the St. John’s College scholarship offer she received, I think about the huge sacrifice she made for her family by working and supporting them when Grandpa was sick.
Mom will remind you of the way grandma and grandpa warmed water on the stove for their baths and how they sang songs like “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain” in perfect harmony.
Dad will tell you stories in Spanglish as vividly as if you were there.
Speak loudly
Especially if you are reading a crossword clue to dad or the jumble letters, or driving and mom is in the back seat, or telling a story, or or or…
Diet and meals – let them eat cake!
Mom will eat more and digest better if the food is cut into small pieces.
Gatorade powder (more economical per Dad) is rejuvenating. Stir thoroughly or he’ll tell you there is “perfectly good wasted sugar at the bottom of the glass” and refill it.
Happy Hour is sacred; respect it. Open a beer for Dad and poor Mom’s Pedialyte. Place cheese, gluten-free crackers, and fruit on a plate and enjoy.
The “Big” meal is at 3:00 pm.
Dove Bars – we bought eight boxes at the commissary – it’s a highlight of the day…and a fair bribe to get mom to eat.
Outdoor Activities – Emerson said that the happiest person on earth is the one who learns from nature the lessons of worship. So walk outside a lot.
Mom will always have things to show you around the yard, enjoy the tour. Upon my arrival, she said, “Come meet our new family members.” I went out back and was greeted by 24 cranes who began squawking at me as I approached the fence. “If we go to the poor house,” Mom said, “it’s because Dad and your sister keep feeding these guys so much corn”.
Watching Dad move wood from the ground to the truck to the splitter and stack it is as exhausting as doing it yourself.
Dad will work harder than any 20-year-old you’ve ever met and wonder why “me duele de todo” (everything hurts).
Later, talk Dad through why “todo duele” (everything hurts) and gently remind him he is 87 years old and must pace himself.
Indoor Weather – Dress for summer
It will always be warm inside Mom and Dad’s house. Our brilliant sister has the thermostat programmed to plummet to 72 degrees. (Highly Recommend!) To set the thermostat, press the bottom button on the left once, then walk away nonchalantly. Mom will later turn it up to 81 degrees. Once you are drenched in sweat, repeat the process.
The fireplace will be used if the weather is 70 degrees or below.
Indoor Activities –
Mom thinks her hearing is excellent, but according to a hearing test, it’s not. So, before watching Jeopardy, Mom will ask you to “turn up the volume because Dad can’t hear!”
Mom’s filter has gone from almost there to MIA, so when watching Jeopardy, be ready for a roasting of Ken Jennings, who, according to Mom, “acts like he knows everything” …ummm…he did win about a million times.
With Dad’s macular degeneration, he is still able to enjoy and make out the scenery when watching the Alaska shows. “Good hard workers!” he says. He also loves “Nat Geo”, “The History Channel”, and “The Weather Channel”. The more dramatic, the better with the weather.
Puzzles for mom…have one set up and another on deck at all times. This is her quiet space.
The Newspaper
Holding the newspaper in their hands brings comfort, familiarity, and joy. Even if Dad can’t see enough to read it.
Let Mom read the paper to Dad in the morning while he slurps his way through the coffee and pastries or cookies. Tread lightly, this is their time.
When Dad shakes out the newspaper, he’ll say, “Let’s see who’s left and let’s see who moved out of town.” Then he’ll hand me the obituary section to read aloud “slowly”. I announce the names as if they were crossing the stage at a commencement ceremony, or rather, St. Peter’s gate.
The crossword and Jumble are great mental gymnastic exercises and keep their minds active.
Top 10 Do’s and Don’ts
Don’t do laundry. That’s mom’s gig.
If Dad is struggling with something, DO take over and help.
If mom is struggling with something, leave her alone. She “CAN DO IT!”
Don’t move the scissors, pencils, coffee, Kleenex, or blankets. Life is now done by feel and rote memory.
Do agree more.
Do let Dad cheer up Mom. Dad equals levity.
Do help them remember: Dad may not remember what he ate the night before – i.e., “Oh, we ate enchiladas last night? Did I enjoy them?” “Yes, Dad, you loved them.” “Oh, good!”
OR “Did we watch Blue Bloods last night?” Yes, Dad, you fell asleep in the last five minutes. “Did I enjoy it?” Yes, Dad – you loved it.“Oh, good!”
Do answer the phone mean people prey on the elderly.
Don’t ask them, “Do you remember when…” just retell the story.
What I’ve learned:
Being far away is hard. Wondering if this is the phone call is hard, hard, hard. Saying goodbye to them at the airport when I leave is hard…homesickness in my fifties looks a lot different than it used to, and I mentally prep myself for the lifelong homesickness yet to come.
But I love that God and Grace and Mercy exist. I love that when I cry and truly let out my fear of their absence, the tears feel like a Baptism. I love that I have my sisters. How to care for those who cared for us…I love that we are like a pit crew, repairing what is broken, filling up our parents’ tank with all the love we possibly can because we’re on the clock. I love that we take care of each other.
Thanks for joining me,
Lucretia
On writing…
“You are going to feel like hell if you never write the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves in your heart–your stories, visions, memories, songs: your truth, your version of things, in your voice. That is really all you have to offer us, and it’s why you were born.”
A few weeks ago I went to my hometown to help take care of my 85 and nearly 88-year-old mom and dad. Each day, I sat and jotted some notes for my sisters, things like: Mom ate four of the keto pancakes. Much happier with food – well really butter and syrup. Or: Dad wants to paint the south side of the back fence but – his words: “The paint has to be from the free recycled paint center. Because paint is $50 a gallon these days! Holy Toledo!”
Sometimes I sat and my notes became what I now call “Senior Moments”. Little periods of time that I experienced with my “Senior” parents while I was home. Like most of my family’s stories, I want to load them into a bubble gum machine and insert a penny to relive anytime, anywhere.
Here you go:
Growing up, Mom taught us to use Bab-o Cleanser to scrub the sinks and tub. She told us “Girls, you can’t just sprinkle it in, you have to use elbow grease or it just won’t work.” We would scrub until the porcelain shined. Lately, when I see mom’s eyes lock on one spot I feel like sometimes she’s searching in her brain, scouring rather, with that same strong elbow grease trying to clean all of the age and forgetfulness that has robbed her of her memories of yesterday, and sometimes an hour ago.
SEWING… It’s kind of a blessing that Mom is so aware of what she doesn’t remember. Like the day we chatted about sewing, something she did effortlessly when we were younger, what with the volume of terry cloth shorts, prom dresses, and “quillows” a genius quilt-pillow combo my friend Mona’s mom gave me, and then my mom made her own pattern from it, and mass-produced dozens of them in all sizes. That was her go-to baby or wedding gift for years. Her sewing machine was always humming.
Mom said, “My memory is not so great anymore. I tried to use the sewing machine…and I just can’t remember how to thread it or get it going.” I quickly interject, in an attempt to keep her buoyant, “That’s why you taught us so well!” I say it while I hem a stack of Dad’s pants that have been rolled at the cuff waiting to be altered. Mom would have hemmed every one of them in under an hour and there I sat, filling the bobbin (which is like solving the Rubix cube), measuring once, sewing twice, ironing, and giving Mom my mistakes to rip the thread out like I used to do for her, although mom rarely had any do-overs.
Dad pops in, checking in on us, as he does, like a teacher taking role, he asks how it’s going. He measures Mom’s mood as he pats her back saying “How ya doin’ babe?!” Mom uses one of her old-timey sayings, “Fair to middling” (so-so). She goes on, “I just can’t get the machine going, but Lucretia is hemming your pants.” Again, I swoop in and jokingly say, “Dad, it’s a good thing you can’t see as well as you used because these pants are fair to middling as well, nothing like mom’s work.” He laughs because humor and sarcasm are fuel for him.
TV: As I sit with Dad and watch TV, it’s apparent he has embraced the voice-activated remote from Xfinity. Yet another long phone call my sister made to help our parents feel a little less tangled and more in control of what they can do. The previous remote was as big as an iPad with huge numbers and bright lights, but as Dad’s vision has gone from (his optimistic words) “still pretty good” to “not too bad” – we now have the voice remote. The volume button is worn from where his thumb presses on it. Dad does that, he has a habit of rubbing his fingers together, something Grandma – his mom – also did. Some say it is a form of self-stimulation – a search for calm – self-soothing. One theory says it is thought to be a symbol of rubbing coins together which – with Dad I can see that being the case – ever the businessman, investment seeker, and relentless worker. Since I was little, I remember him holding a fishing pole, waving it back and forth, holding the line between his fingers in case we “got a bite”. It’s always “we” with Dad, rarely “I”. He is constantly in motion.
6:30 is Wheel of Fortune time and Mom asks for the volume to go up as she is convinced her ears are fine and “Dad can’t hear”. Suddenly Pat Sajak screams something about vowels and categories and Mom settles in, now able to hear the TV “just fine”.
After we watch Mom’s show, Dad speaks into the remote like a walkie-talkie, and says “Alaska”. Mom disappears as quickly as Vanna White did from the screen saying, “I just don’t like that Alaska Show.” She retreats into the dining room which is now the “puzzle room” and continues to tackle the 500-piece yard sale puzzle of a country scene with azaleas blooming and children riding bikes.
As Dad and I watch “The Alaska Show” I see why he enjoys it. He is literally watching people do what he loves: cutting wood, fixing what is broken, and respecting the land. A weathered-looking woman, a transplant from Minnesota preaches to her audience, “We have to work with the land, not against it.” A native Alaskan chimes in, “Yup, I grew up bit by bugs, burnt by the sun, wet from the rain. If you break from adversity, you come back stronger.” Dad nods heartily in agreement, happy to see the scenery and relieved people are out there appreciating hard work and the earth.
CONVERSATIONS: I am so grateful I can chat with Mom and Dad. Dad continually reminds me if our kids have any decisions to make, let it be their idea, their choice. And Mom has always guided me well. Most recently I had a dilemma where we had two commitments for our kids that overlapped. There she was, loaded with guidance and logical navigation. She helped me carry the weight of the plight that I just didn’t want to carry alone. I always feel better after I talk to her.
ROUTINE: Mom clings to her routine. Get the newspaper, water cucumbers, medicine, cereal, coffee, crossword, warm coffee, water tomatoes. When she heads out to water them she says, “Be back!” Dad yells, “Don’t drown them!” They both laugh. Those tomatoes get a lot of attention from mom and make her so happy. She tells me, “Dad calls these poppers because you just pop them in your mouth.” She smiles and laughs thinking of Dad as she picks a handful of little orange tomatoes that taste like a burst of sweet candy.
TRUE LOVE: Dad is incredible. So good to Mom. So kind and patient. Repeats conversations as needed. When she says “It seems like we haven’t watched this show in a long time!” Dad says “We keep forgetting to watch it on Fridays.” Rather than saying, they just saw it…he gives me a shrug that says, I’m gonna love this lady forever and I don’t care how many times she asks me the same question or what day it is or if we saw this or that episode of Golden Girls or Blue Bloods.
Mom is the same. Continually praising Dad for his memory of phone numbers and names. Reminding us that “We can still drive if I just tell Dad where to turn, but nobody believes us.” She reads the front page of the newspaper to him in the mornings and then the “obits” to “see if they are there.” During church, they hold hands lovingly, and I see them tightening their hold a little to keep each other awake. Thankfully there is still laughter and storytelling and even a little dancing, which is like watching Fred and Ginger Gitterbug to Johnny Be Good.
WHAT I LEARNED:
My kids always laugh at me if a song makes me cry. Like a “Cats in the Cradle Moment”. This is how it goes down:
“Watch this…” they tell each other before they play a song that they just know will yank the heck out of my heartstrings. Then they stare at me and boom! Tears. Ridiculous.
One of the latest songs that made me weepy is called Buy Dirt by Jordan Davis the words remind me of the life Mom and Dad are living. It feels like a sermon and a life to-do list that seems simple, yet at the same time impossible and may take over 80 years to accomplish.
So the way I see it, is if you can check off all the recommendations in a country song like this, well, you’re doing pretty alright, and thank God and country music, Mom and Dad are…`
Here are the lyrics and the checklist they’ve accomplished:
✅Find the one you can’t live without ✅Get a ring, let your knee hit the ground ✅Do what you love but call it work ✅And throw a little money in the plate at church ✅Send your prayers up and your roots down deep ✅Add a few limbs to your family tree ✅And watch their pencils marks ✅and the grass in the yard all grow up ‘Cause the truth about it is it all goes by real quick You can’t buy happiness But you can buy dirt”
These Senior Moments will go into all of the stories I have about Mom and Dad. Kind of like a greatest hits album of old songs and new.
As Holy Week ends, and the Easter season begins, I’m reminded of how things change over the years. Growing up, Holy Week was a quiet time. Usually, we would have Thursday and Friday off from school and prep the menu for Easter Sunday. Somewhat of a nod to Thanksgiving dinner, Easter had a few unique dishes thrown into the mix. One vivid memory is my Aunt Eugenia’s salad.
Always toting items from her Amway inventory, she was the aunt who rode a motorcycle, brought her bird “Bonita” to visit, and played the accordion for Sunday mass. I’ve been told I have the same sharp-slanted nose as her. She’d arrive carrying a big bowl and tongs likely from a recent Tupperware party. She had a knack for chopping everything in the salad super-tiny like a Cuisinart before they were a thing. There were little bits of iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, bacon, and other minuscule items that even my keen 10-year-old eyes couldn’t identify. The salad dressing was made in one of those glass containers where you drop the Italian seasoning powder in and shake it up with vegetable oil. Partially hydrogenated? Who cared? It was delicious.
The salad sat alongside ham, mashed potatoes, and red chili (in lieu of gravy). Another headliner was Mom’s pineapple salad. Made with cream cheese, Cool Whip, crushed pineapple (canned – likely in the cupboard alongside several boxes of Jello), and topped with shiny maraschino cherries, it was a Dad-favorite. Maybe because it was a dessert disguised (if only by the name) as a “salad” or maybe because it was a once-a-year wonder. I’m always amazed when we stumble upon a gem of a recipe and it’s only made once a year. Perhaps that’s the formula. It always tastes good…but only once a year.
The pineapple phenomenon reminded me of one of my volunteering gigs at NPR. During a break, a talk show host named Rose with a cool, smooth voice and long dreds said, “I love your blouse!” Thrilled with my outfit choice, I told her my husband gave it to me. “Great taste!” she replied. After that day, I wore the heck out of that shirt holding on to the compliment as we do. Then one day one of my students probed, “Is that your favorite shirt ‘cause you wear it ALL the time.” And so it happened, I had worn out the beauty of the blouse. That could be the pineapple salad’s story. Better to pace the good stuff.
I digress…
The menu was ready. Then, on Holy Thursday as we loaded up the station wagon and headed to St. Anne’s Church, Dad leaned over the seat with his annual reminder: “Today’s mass is a long one!” This, coming from the man who, when Father Gallie’s sermons would go over 10 minutes would circle his hands in the air as if tying a bow on an invisible gift while whispering, “Let’s tie it up now Father.” We’d all giggle secretly praying Father got the hint.
Typically, Dad would deliver the readings as a lector, and Mom would play the organ. I had a choice to either turn pages for Mom or try to sit still with my sisters for the two hours of feet washing and the Last Supper. Up the stairs, I climbed to the choir loft for my bird’s eye view.
Under the cloudy Good Friday skies, we would attend services at 3:00 pm sharp every year. I still remember the cold, empty altar and solemn sentiment inside the Church. Mom reminded us, “This is the one day we don’t need to genuflect and we don’t call it a mass. It’s a service.” An all-knowing Catholic, she went on to explain why and I said “Ohhhh….” holding out the word as if I was listening, but knowing I wouldn’t remember. Although back then I knew I could ask her anything, anytime I needed to – – you know, that time of life when you think your parents are going to live forever and moments stand still like lighthouses shining bright.
Saturday we buckled in for another “long one”. I really loved that mass. Maybe it was seeing a lot of babies being baptized or because I was kept busy turning pages for Mom as she switched from organ to piano. But I highly suspect it was the fact that we could officially indulge in whatever we had “given up for Lent” immediately after mass.
One Easter weekend, we visited my oldest sister at New Mexico State University. That was the year I gave up soda for Lent – I admit, it wasn’t a HUGE sacrifice, as we rarely had soda in the house except for Dad’s RC Cola and a 7Up if we had a stomach ache. But after Holy Saturday Mass that year, I remember going out for pizza right after mass and getting the coldest most delicious Shirley Temple ever. It was served in one of those big red plastic cups, a staple all pizza joints had. I even got a refill.
Over the years, my view of Lent became less soda and more sacrifice. In college, a friend of mine and I vowed to say a Rosary every day, together. During the long drive to San Diego for spring break we prayed, after going out with friends we prayed and even before watching Shamoo jump through hoops, we prayed the Rosary. Yup. I was wild and crazy then too.
What I learned:
Today, unless kids attend a school starting with the word “Saint” it’s likely they will be in class during Holy Week. Even Good Friday. Because times are different. Holy Week just seemed holier back then. Calendars are filled with games, practices, and activities with church fitting into the gaps.
Like anything else, age readjusts the lens on what matters. What we sacrifice, what we lack, what we share, what we just don’t need. For some, Lent might be about giving up chocolate, complaining less, serving at a homeless shelter, and maybe even blogging.
Perhaps we all need an annual reminder of what we overuse, underdo, and ignore. Something that forces us to stare sacrifice in the face and see who blinks first.
Whatever I do, EVERY DAY, Lent or not, I pray it will make a difference.
I often think, if I could pass a little Post-It Note on to God about my writing, I would say, “Please let my stories help others realize they are not alone in this one wild and precious life you’ve given us. Help me to offer them a little chuckle, a tiny connection, and a chunk of hope when it’s just too much. And God (not yet!), but please save me a seat up there …I’ll bring you a special pineapple salad you’re just going to love!”
Amen.
Thanks for joining me.
See you next week,
Lucretia
On justice and sacrifice:
“We want to end unfair sentences in criminal cases and stop racial bias in criminal justice…Ms. Parks leaned back smiling. ‘Ooooh, honey, all that’s going to make you tired, tired, tired.’ We all laughed. I looked down, a little embarrassed. Then Ms. Carr leaned forward and put her finger in my face and talked to me just like my grandmother used to talk to me. She said, ‘That’s why you’ve got to be brave, brave, brave.’ All three women nodded in silent agreement and for just a little while, they made me feel like a young prince.”
In pursuit of a pen, I reached into the junk drawer (grumbled about cleaning it out) and picked up a mechanical pencil with no top, wrapped in tape, and the cylinder was empty. Harper, our 8-year-old neighbor was over and said, “Why does the pencil look like that?” I held up the plastic pencil remains fiddling with them in my hands and said, “Well, when my son lived here, he would recycle these and use them for projects he would build.”
Whoa…Past tense. “…when my son lived here …” I heard it.
Then I felt it. My heart did that sinking thing when it secretly knows the past is, well, past…and life within the walls of our home will never be the same.
That was then…
I thought back to when the kids were little. We’d set up obstacle courses in the backyard with logs to balance on, hula hoops to maneuver through, and barriers to tackle. My husband managed the stopwatch narrating along the way, and I held the video camera–because in my mind documenting meant the moment wouldn’t (couldn’t) go away.
Our oldest son would go first, his eyes planning the most efficient, logical, and fastest path, no ladder too tall, no tunnel too narrow, no risk too great. Our youngest son would follow, arms flailing, adding cartwheels, leaps, and spins along his path to ensure the most fun could be had on the journey. Finally, our daughter, the oldest, would lean out of the screen door, Harry Potter book in hand “What’s the fastest time?” she’d ask while slipping on any shoes that were handy and pushing her curls away from her face with the back of her hand the way she does. She’d quickly survey the course, hustle to the starting line next to her brothers and yell, “READY Papa!” Up, over, in, and out, she dashed through the course with her signature audible breathing making it clear she was working to win. Once she held the new record, the screen door closed with a bang, book, glasses, and our current winner once inside again. The boys would then clamor to surpass her time and the cycle continued.
I play the kids’ childhood moments in my mind’s Viewfinder all the time–clicking through the first days of school, family trips, awards won, races lost. I think about who leaves toothpaste in the sink, who can tolerate “all that crunching” and who will empty the top rack of the dishwasher. One common thread – as if running the backyard course, they have all become unstoppable-each blazing their own trail, no matter the obstacles.
This is now…
We had our kids 15 and 18 months apart. Total 3. So…in the last two years, we’ve had two high school graduates and in 2024, our youngest will flip his tassel as we say farewell to all of the high school pomp and circumstance.
And as quickly as they graced our every, single day for 18 years, off they go.
As our first two started their journeys outside the context of our family, it was beyond hard. But all I could picture was our unstoppable daughter out in the world discussing the current issues and immigration policies with peers, laughing heartily at her friends’ jokes, and making Spotify song lists with her new people.
She is right where she needs to be. But boy do I miss her.
Then our oldest son who always came out to greet us, carry in the groceries, and asked SO MANY “Can I?” questions – the stamina of a cheetah, he never tired of hearing, “No.” He’s the guy to call when the car won’t start, the path needs clearing or the couch won’t fit through the awkward doorway. He follows Mark Twain’s words, “ I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.”
He too is right where he needs to be. But boy do I miss him too.
Our youngest is our mainstay. The traditionalist. He knows where the holes are in the wall to hang the birthday banner draping the kitchen window five times a year, where the angel food cake pan is kept (and how to use it), and is always clad in workout clothes as if a “sporting” emergency could spring up anytime, he’s the kid that will be there on your happiest or loneliest day and come loaded with snacks and goofy jokes.
Soon he’ll pack up and our nest will be very empty.
Boy, I’m going to miss that nest.
I recently read an article about a killer whale mother who, instead of having more offspring, decided to take care of her one son for over twenty years. Male orcas are massive, not as nimble as their moms, and require a lot of food. This particular orca mom would typically dive down for salmon, bring one up and split it with her son. Once the male relies on his mom to supply him with the extra food, his dependency becomes too great to survive on his own. Therefore, in these situations, it is said when an orca mother dies, her son will also die within the next couple of years.
This story resonated with me as I thought about how much I would love for our kids to all be here, at home, together again. Playing outside, laughing, competing, and crushing obstacles. Sure, I’ve done my share of enabling by bringing the forgotten saxophone or “co-writing” an essay or two, but I’ll be damned if these kids aren’t ready for this one shot at life. Therefore, unlike the mother orca, I am NOT splitting my salmon with them anymore, I don’t care how much protein it has!
What I’ve learned:
Back in August, when packing up the kids for college, I stopped and really listened to the sounds of our morning. I held onto them with clenched fists because somehow through the cacophony of yells and stomps, blenders and constantly running water came the harmony of our home. But eventually, even the best of bands have artists who seek standalone stardom. Simon split from Garfunkel and still performs today with a little less hair and a lot of notoriety. So as they should, our family paths have split. I struggle to marvel at the space between us because letting go is really, really hard. Thankfully we have our stories, love, and of course, Facetime.
Thanks for joining me,
Lucretia
“It is not what you do for your children, but what you have taught them to do for themselves that will make them successful human beings.”
When my oldest son was three and accomplished what seemed to be a herculean task, he would yell out, “I DEEEEED it!” He would then toddle out of the room carrying a self-invented toy and tinker with it for hours.
Well, we “DEEEEED it!” We made it through 2020.
We’ve wrapped our brains around puzzles, now know our dog’s favorite marking spots on walks, discovered mind-bending podcasts, maybe even learned how to draw “Tippy” from Highlights. That was just me.
Through all of the changes, bumps and scars we’ve endured this year, here are five takeaways and shoutouts from my corner of life:
Applying to college is not a lark: to all those kids who go through the process of applying to college, you deserve heaps of credit just for pressing “Submit”.
Voting matters: to all the newly turned 18-year-olds like my daughter who voted for the first time in the Georgia Run-off Election, thank you for showing up to vote, your voice was heard.
Societal change is possible: to those of you who pulled out the Sharpies, made a poster and taught civil rights in your living rooms, thank you for helping seek justice for all.
Calling your parents is gratifying : to those of you who can, call or even Face Time your parents. Sure, you might only see the top of your dad’s head or your mom’s elbow like I do, but it is always worth it. Listen, learn and cherish their stories.
Focus on goodness more than grades: to those parents, like me who ask our kids the same questions every day…How do you feel about your test? Any homework? HOW can you study on your phone? Dig deeper. Ask what they think about all day, what makes them angry, sad or joyful. Yes, give your kids another reason to think your “soooo weird”.
We can’t just shake out 2021 like a wrinkled shirt and hope it will emerge smooth and seamless. 2020 left potholes in need of repair and human connections that need mending. It’s up to us to show up and do good work that matters, together.
So I did it. 40 days of writing. 40 days of sharing. 40 days of memories.
And 40 days filled with unfathomable change.
Lent started out like every year. I contemplate giving up all the sugar and carbs in the world. Plan to blog every day…and vow to be kind, on-time, patient and generous.
Never did I think I would be at home watching Holy Saturday Mass streamed online. On Thursday I mentioned to my family that MAYBE we should watch Mass at the Vatican…because we COULD. I was immediately barraged with a slew of questions:
“Do you think they’ll do ALL the readings…Wait, that sounds like it’s going to be LONG…Don’t they say everything in Latin?”
Nevermind. I acquiesced and we stayed local.
We finished coloring our Easter eggs, ate dinner outside, and after every dish was washed, plopped down on the couch for Mass. I noticed each one of our kids disappear for a few minutes, returning to our living room dressed as if we were headed to church.
It seems that after weeks of living in sweats and workout clothes, our kids knew what was appropriate to wear to Easter Mass, albeit at home, and settled in for the next hour or so.
As we held hands while praying the Our Father, I looked at our little circle of faith and beamed. Our dogs roamed in and out of our legs as we gave each other a sign of peace, loving the fact that we’ve been home so much. I held each hug a little longer than usual knowing we all need extra comfort right now, including me.
Sadly, hugs, handshakes, and human contact are obsolete if we decide to cautiously step outside our front doors. This absence of togetherness is hard on all of us. Even as we listened to Father Walsh’s sermon tonight, the church echoed with a melancholy emptiness.
But his words rang true: “Be not afraid”.
At times like these, it’s hard to digest this advice, but we MUST be courageous, trust in God, do what is right, and take care of ourselves and each other.
Happy Easter and thank you for walking through the last 40 days with me.
“…do not be afraid, for I am with you; do not be alarmed, for I am your God. I give you strength, truly I help you, truly I hold you firm with my saving right hand.” -Isaiah, Chapter 41
As the world continues to keep a six-foot distance from one another, the commemoration of the Last Supper of Jesus Christ, Holy Thursday’s Mass, was streamed online this year.
As I stared up at a copy of the famous artwork by Leonardo Da Vinci given to me by my grandmother, I noticed the lack of personal space between the apostles. Honestly, why didn’t anyone sit on the other side of the table? But in all seriousness, this masterpiece depicts the moments after Christ let his chummy crew KNOW-HE-KNEW that one disciple would betray him before sunrise.
We all find ourselves in that space sometimes. That skeptical time when our trust in ourselves and others circle the drain and our own Judas or Coronavirus creeps into our world. But Jesus didn’t lose hope, and we shouldn’t either.
Keep your faith strong and know we’ll get through this time. Pray for the souls lost and do your part to not let the spread continue. And for goodness sake tell all the Judas’ in the world to scoot over because they are sitting WAY to close.
In my research of the painting, I found a few rare facts about this stellar painting on leonardodavinci.net to share:
Leonardo Da Vinci hadn’t worked on such a large painting and had no experience in the standard mural medium of fresco.
The spilled salt is symbolic – speculations about symbolism in the artwork are plentiful. For example, many scholars have discussed the meaning of the spilled salt container near Judas’s elbow. Spilled salt could symbolize bad luck, loss, religion, or Jesus as the salt of the earth.
Was it eel or herring? Scholars have also remarked on da Vinci’s choice of food. They dispute whether the fish on the table is herring or eel since each carries its own symbolic meaning.
Da Vinci used a hammer and nail to help him to achieve a one-point perspective. What makes the masterpiece so striking is the perspective from which it’s painted, which seems to invite the viewer to step right into the dramatic scene. To achieve this illusion, da Vinci hammered a nail into the wall, then tied a string to it to make marks that helped guide his hand in creating the painting’s angles.
The existing mural is not da Vinci’s work. At the end of the 20th century, restorer Panin Brambilla Barcilon and his crew relied on microscopic photographs, core samples, infrared reflectoscopy and sonar to remove the added layers of paint and restore the original as accurately as possible. Critics maintain that only a fraction of the painting that exists today is the work of Leonardo da Vinci.
Given the time we’ve had in our homes lately with those we love…our kids, parents, grandparents, I thought about the “what-if” questions I always ask myself.
Now that time is abundant, I’m going to tackle some of these “what-ifs”. Here’s my Throwback Blog, I hope you enjoy.
Stay safe friends.
Ever feel like you’re constantly making mistakes as a mom, and wonder “WHAT IF I would have just done things differently?”
I do.
And every day I pray I’ll be the mom who guides with love and trust. Where God’s knock on the door is always answered, and grace soars in and ushers our kids through the messy moments of their teenage years.
Every day these “What if” questions herd my mind into a corral like an overzealous border collie with a flock of sheep. Sure, I know the right answers, yet the day flies by and I’ve botched it all again. Or have I? Maybe I did something right. As moms we have to forgive ourselves, trip, fall, grab onto something, stand up on our arthritic ankles and keep going one day at a time.
Here are my “WHAT IF’S”…
What if I went all day without saying one negative thing to anyone?
What if I didn’t complain to my kids about being on their phones?
What if I trusted more and criticized less. A lot less?
What if I admitted devices help with socialization?
What if I invested in what piques my kids’ interest or makes them laugh so crazy hard on their phones?
What if I walked by a messy-made bed and thought of it as ALMOST MADE?
What if I were able to feel their anxiety on the first day of school?
What if I didn’t complain once about my own appearance all day?
What if I focused on one task at a time?
What if I hugged my kids more?
What if I always made time for my husband?
What if I called my parents every day?
What if I walked my dogs more often?
What if I read a book, cover to cover…just because?
What if I sifted through my 42,644 digital photos and only kept my favorite 200?
What if I donated everything we haven’t used in one year?
What if I knew a magic word to rid my kids of their teenage worries?
What if I planned ahead for dinner?
What if I helped my kids learn to study and GET IT rather than memorize?
What if I reminded them more often how special they really are?
What if I told them I know being a teenager can be awful these days, but it will get better?
What if I was as proud of myself as I am of them?
What if we could have had one more baby?
What if I felt their fear every time they tried something new?
What if I listened? Really listened?
What if I counted my blessings instead of yelling at them?
Do you have any WHAT IFS? Please share yours and together we’ll conquer this mom thing.
runonmom.com 