I Remember You

There is a cemetery nearby where many of my paternal relatives rest. Four great-grandparents, three great-aunts, and my own grandparents are in one family area. My mother and father are in another place in the same cemetery.  I was close to my grandparents because they lived five houses away on my street as I grew up. I could walk to see them any time I wanted. I would bring my grandmother flowers and we'd play board games together.  I was also close to my great-aunt Irene. She never married and lived a simple, and I thought, lonely life. My mom and dad took very good care of her in her old age and she was a part of all of our family gatherings. She was 87 when I had my first child and I gave my daughter the middle name Irene so she would be remembered. 

Cemeteries are not fun. They make you think about uncomfortable truths. Many people have nothing to do with cemeteries because they say their loved ones are not there. But, in a way I disagree. When you go to the grave of a loved one you can feel their presence. Even though you may think of them frequently you are solely focused on their memory as you gaze at their names. I like to think that when I am there they feel a surge of love wherever they are.  It's a time to talk to them, catch them up on earthly matters, and once again, tell them how much you miss them. There are always tears, but it feels important for me to do. 

When I go to the Vogel plot of my ancestors I always say "I remember you." I say this because no one else will remember them.  Why would you think of them when you don't even know where their plots are?  The rest of my cousins were not close to my grandparents and they live in far away. My grandmother and grandfather have been gone since 1970 and 1972 respectively. Who thinks of them now that my dad and his sister are gone?  I do. 

I am still overcome with sadness to think that all of my many aunts and uncles and even a few cousins are now gone from this earth.  My mother was the last of her generation in our family when she died in 2016. So now my cousins and I are the matriarchs and patriarchs. Something you never imagine. It's a completely unique part of life when all those before you are gone. Life takes on a different meaning when you see another generation coming into the family as I do with my three grandchildren and my cousin's grandchildren. 

I recently read a novel that took place in post-war Germany. The main character visited a cemetery and inquired why graves were being dug up. She was told that they are dug up and replaced every thirty years because after thirty years no one remembers them. That's not particularly true these days, but it was a shocking reminder of the brevity of life. 

I recall my parents devotedly caring for the Vogel gravesites and I will do the same as long as I am able. No one else will. Every time I visit I will say, "I remember you" to each one there who lived and breathed and made it possible for me to be alive.  

Dad

February 20, 2015 would have been my Dad's 92nd birthday. 
This birthday will have no pain or suffering.


DAD

I want to touch your hands again.
I memorized the shape of every finger;
the ones that held, fixed, carried, loved.

The hands I clutched on your last walk on this earth
after sixty years of steps
across the living room and back.

Then for two days we circled, spoke in your ear,
held those hands, wept, questioned,
and we were one - covered in your final gift.

You know the glory now, Dad,
the reward for always choosing love -
and we are bereft here

on the surface of this incendiary planet
to wait
and wonder.

What I Have Learned From Caregiving

About two years ago both of my parents became ill at the same time and were not able to take care of themselves, their home or their finances.  After some painful confrontations they slowly allowed us to know more about their formerly private lives.  As the months went on they were in and out of hospitals and rehabilitation facilities - sometimes in two different places at once and they needed knowledgeable advocates everywhere they went.

It is easy to step in and do laundry, shopping, cleaning, cooking and transporting. But caregiving is much more than that and involves a lot of personal sacrifice. At first it is a shock. Suddenly everything has changed for all the people involved and there is no choice but to do what is needed whether you think you have the time or not.  There are also events in which you see and do very unpleasant things you never thought you would.

One of the most stressful parts is the responsibility of making decisions for my parents as well as navigating the medical system for them.  If someone is not present when a loved one comes to a hospital there are many things that can go wrong.  We have had to fight battles to get them what they have needed over the past two years. We have fought to change doctors and medications and whether to send them off to yet another facility. I often ask myself what happens to someone who has no one to do that for them.

There have been numerous calls in the middle of the night that someone has fallen and when I got there I still had to decide whether he or she was hurt and whether to call 911 and put them through the ordeal of an ambulance and yet another hospital stay. It is just horrible to see your frightened mother or father loaded into an ambulance. You somehow feel responsible for their suffering in those situations.

There are so many moments that remind me of caring for a young child - the responsibility, the worries, the need for respite sometimes too.  But with adults you are dealing with their emotions, pride and dignity as well. There have been constant battles over for the best medical and financial decisions for them. Doctors do not tell you what to do, but give you options and it is often the caregiver's decision.  Did I make the right one?  This is a tough position to be in when it is your parent.

Everyone has suggestions for you but everything you put in place takes time and often the problem is immediate. We have hired helpers but they have often been useless or caused more problems. We have had them enrolled in various programs for home health care which is always a long intake process and then suddenly they are dismissed and we are back to square one.  We have sometimes decided to go against the doctor's suggestion for rehab and brought them home to care for them ourselves.

But what have I learned from all this?  I have learned that there is nothing I have to do that is more important than being there for my parents. I slowly gave up all my activities because I so often had to miss them. I stopped making commitments for the same reason.  Have I survived it? Of course.  I have learned to do what is needed when it is needed, not on my own schedule.  I'm a pretty routine kind of person so this was not easy for me at first.

I guess flexibility is the word.  I start the day now knowing that there is nothing that can happen that I cannot handle. In the beginning it was constant stress at the unknown and distress at missing work or other things I had planned. I have had to remember that I am not the one suffering - they are.  I guess I'm just saying it's made me a better person and I wouldn't have it any other way.

My sister and I vowed to keep our parents in their beloved home of 61 years if at all possible. We  sacrificed to make that happen for my father who passed away in November. He was there until his last two days at the hospital (and that decision was made by hospice). He never knew he had left home.  Now we are trying desperately to do the same for my mother.

We will never regret that decision or anything else.

In Memory of my Dad

For Donald Vogel
1923-2014


Daddy's Girl

You will never again trust
as you did

when Daddy was twice your size
his arms the greatest you knew.

They could straighten your baton
or chop down a tree in the front yard,

he won every game
and you were his best partner.

Driving in the Fourth of July storm
your dread of thunder and lightning

abated with Daddy's hands
on the wheel.

Fearless, you traveled the country
with the deepest knowledge

that Daddy
would bring you safely home.

He never told you he'd give his life
for you, you were born knowing.

You never felt doubt until the day
he held your hands and then let them go.

Life Happens

I doubt that anyone looks at this blog any longer.  I don't blame you.  Something I once loved and thought about everyday has gotten lost in the circumstances of life.

What has happened since March 9?
Starting on March 16th BOTH of my parents were hospitalized a number of times and both spent time in rehabilitation facilities. Then my first grandchild was born - a beautiful boy!  The end-of-the-school-year craziness ensued.  My daughter's wedding is days away.

Emotional roller coasters don't leave much room for thoughtful blog posts.  I had been winding down anyway.  I miss you COEXIST. I hope I'll be back someday soon. Meanwhile, having a beloved mother and father and new little person to love and care for is a blessing everyday.

Family and Gay Americans

Please click on the link to see something beautiful.

Two Lesbians Raised A Baby And This Is What They Got

Table Grace

by Gary Johnson

Here we sit as evening falls
Like old horses in their stalls.
Thank you Father, that you bless
Us with food and an address.
And the comfort of your hand
In this great and blessed land.
Look around at each dear face,
Keep each one in your good grace.
We think of those who went before,
And wish we could have loved them more.
Grant to us a cheerful heart,
Knowing we must soon depart
to that far land to be with them.
And now let's eat. Praise God. Amen

Better

These are the lyrics to the song my son and I danced to at his wedding. I had played the song for him years ago and he remembered and chose it for our special moment - and it was perfect.

by Toby Lightman

He'll be enough to make you cry
He'll be enough to open your eyes
to all the little things that make this world better.
He'll give you love you never knew.
He'll give his heart only to you
and he'll make your life better.

So when he comes to you in the middle of the night
cause he's scared to be alone in the dark
you'll tell him everything is gonna be alright
'cause I will be your light, I will be your night
I will be that star in the sky who watches over you.

You'll tell him everything you know.
You'll tell him - oh, the places you'll go
so you can be a good man and make this world better.
You'll give him all the love you have
even when he makes you so mad,
keep in mind that he made your life better.

So when he comes to you and he's so confused
because he wants to give his heart to another,
you'll tell him everything is gonna be just fine.

And when the years are going by too fast
and he's growing up to be big and strong,
know his love for you will last,
even when he doesn't say it to your face
even when you have to put him in his place,
know that he's a love that nothing in this
world can ever replace.

Turnings

This is the poem I wrote for my son's wedding.

They started in the last season of childhood;
she in a red dress, he in a white suit,
a lovely Mexican flower, a boy with drumming passion.
The spring sun enveloped them in its light and warmth;
a harbinger before the changes, before the growing,
in a sacred turning only God understands.

Now, in this summer of committment they have brought
unguarded hearts, burgeoning dreams,
and Providence has arrived.
Surrounded by fragile hopes and tender mercies
the thread between heaven and earth is spliced into
this moment, tethered to the cradle of a united life.

In the sweet shelter of autumn, some days
will be hungrier than others, and on those days,
burrowing into their home, folding into each other,
they will lift up their eyes, palms raised and open,
and weave themselves together like a bountiful basket
as if they could hold love in their arms.

The winter solstice has not yet come,
but when it does they will not be alone.
Traveling through wind and snow, coming home to love,
they have found something as never-ending as the seasons,
for brought to each new awakening is the
fellowship in mere living, the survival of being loved.

A Wedding

It's strange that when I have more time I seem to blog less. Yet, the uniqueness of summer is that my brain takes a little vacation. It's not that I think less - it's that I'm thinking about much different things. The freedom to choose my activities, my schedule and what to focus on makes summer versus school year like living two separate lives - each one takes some adjustment time. (Retirement probably won't be as much as a shock as it is for some people.)

Anyway! This summer is filled with the anticipation of my son's wedding in August. He is marrying a young woman who has been so good for him and has been a part of our lives for ten years. So as much as it is a natural progression, I never could have imagined how consuming the anticipation would be - in a good way, a very good way. Each step towards the wedding has been emotional and joyous. I started crying on the day last October when my daughter-in-law-to-be included me in finding and buying her wedding dress - and I haven't stopped. It makes me ponder why weddings are so emotional.

For years I sang at many weddings. It was intimidating being such a central part of the wedding ceremony, and whether I knew the bride and groom or not, I would find myself getting teary - usually as the bride walked down the aisle, something I always had a good view of from the chancel area of the church.

I think that weddings represent hope. Hope in the future, hope for happiness, hope that new people will be born into the family and hope that love really lasts forever. Even for those of us who have experienced the heartbreaking reality of divorce, we still hope that others will escape it - especially our children.

So I may be distracted for a while! I have complete confidence that my son has chosen the right person and I look forward to the ceremony and reception - I just hope I can keep my emotions under control... I'll let you know. :)

Wedding Dress Shopping

What could be more fun than shopping for a wedding dress? My future daughter-in-law was sweet enough to include me on her special day with her mother and sister and my daughter. She chose a dress - which is top secret of course, but just seeing all the dresses was quite a sight.

The Real Thing

On my walk yesterday, my ipod on shuffle, the song "The Real Thing" by Kenny Loggins came on. It's a song from his album "Leap of Faith" from 1991. It was his divorce/starting life over album and it was a lifeline for me. I still cry at "The Real Thing".

I did it for you and the boys
because love should teach you joy
and not the imitation
that your mama and daddy tried to show you
I did it for you and for me
and because I still believe
there is one thing you can never
give up and never compromise on
and it's the real thing
you need in love.

I still cry for my children's broken home. But both of my children chose to rise above all that went wrong. They each chose the high road of forgiveness and love, not anger and resentment. For this, I will always admire them.

Now my son is engaged and I see my dream for him coming true. I believe with all my hear that my kids will do it right because I have seen them learn from their parents' mistakes.

The end of "The Real Thing" says:

Everybody's got a boat out on the ocean
but not everybody's sailing out to sea
and is there someone there for me?
I'm ready to believe.

I chose to believe and there was somebody out there for me - and now I've got The Real Thing.

The Passage of Time

An unhurried sense of time is in itself a form of wealth. Bonnie Friedman

When I am away from home on a vacation it is remarkably easy for me to have very few thoughts in my head. It's a vacation for my normally over-thinking brain. Last week we went to Niagra Falls to visit the wineries, see a play and relax without much of a schedule. We stayed on the 25th floor of the Sheraton in Canada and this was the view from our room.

I sat by the floor-to-ceiling window trying to read but always distracted by the movement of the water and the spectacular view. There was a moment when I had a bit of an emotional revelation about how many times I had been to the falls. Each time was a different phase of my life.

Besides the proverbial meaning of life, I think the most difficult concept to grasp is the passage of time. There are moments when the brevity of life stuns you, and I had one of those moments as I stared at the beauty.

I stood there, on the American side, my baby sister in a stroller, holding the back of my little brother's shirt, as a worried older sister will do. My parents much younger than I am now. We inhaled the mist, cooled in the shower of droplets.

I stood there as part of a traveling musical as a teenager. The winter falls were partially frozen, the mist a cold cloud as I stood in my plaid hooded maxi-coat, my boyfriend nearby.

I stood there, on the Canadian side, my daughter's little two year-old hand in mine among the roar and vibrations of the falls. My son growing in my womb.

Then they were seven and nine years old, leaning on the railing of a boat taking us to the foot of the falls, smiles under sunglasses, wrapped in blue raincoats.

Then suddenly that phase of my life was over and I stood there with someone new in the exquisite days of new love and the whole world looked new to me. In a photo my wispy hair stood straight up in the damp breeze, his brown curls unmoving.

Last week we stood there once again among the roar and the mist and the power of the water. The rainbow still hanging over the falls, giving me hope, tears in my eyes for the knowledge that I had stood there, by those falls, at different times of my life with all of those I love the most in this world - and with tears for the bittersweet passage of time.

Another Good-bye

I had a wonderful childhood full of aunts and uncles and cousins. There were annual picnics and celebrations, game playing, silliness and singing around the piano. My mother's side of the family was in the Pittsburgh area and the trek there was always highly anticpated due to the fun awaiting us. You can read a poem about those experiences HERE. We spent many a New Year's Eve at the home of my Aunt Pat and Uncle Dick and my six cousins. The big highlight of the evening was when Uncle Dick would step out onto the front porch at midnight and play Auld Lang Syne on his trumpet. The neighbors would all come out and clap.

I never saw my uncle in a bad mood. He loved life and loved the Lord. He was a robust man and hugging him was always like hugging a barrel. He was jovial, fun, and found great joy in music. He has been suffering from Alzheimer's for the past few years, but that is the uncle I will always remember. He was the last of my five uncles . He passed away this morning at the age of 91. I know he is up there playing his trumpet for the Lord.

Daddy's Girl

This poem was published in "The Storyteller" in 2006. Happy Father's Day to my Dad.

You will never again trust
as you did

when Daddy was twice your size
his arms the greatest you knew

they could straighten a baton
or chop down a tree in the front yard

he won every game
and you were his best partner.

Driving home in the Fourth of July storm
your dread of thunder and lightning

abated with Daddy's hands
on the wheel

fearless, you traveled the country
with the deepest knowledge

that Daddy
would bring you safely home.

He never told you he'd give is life
for you, you were born knowing,

you never felt doubt until the day
he held your hands and let them go.

My Grandmother's Gift - Part 2

Nostalgia by Elsie Heberling
(This was written about her childhood in the 1890's. She probably wrote this piece in the 1950's or 60's, but she did not put dates on her writing.)

Nostalgia can be a devastating thing; and after wrestling with its gnawing, which at times brought a form of sickness that could no longer be denied, on a bright and hot August morning we set out for the hundred mile trip to visit my childhood home. The early sunrise was just beginning to stain the eastern sky with all its color and glory as we drove out onto the highway. It was not the distance that had prevented me making such a visit, but I was afraid it might be changed; and I never wanted it to change, and besides, I wanted to see for myself.

Perhaps it was the poor quality of the fruit that the market stalls were offering, with their tough wooden texture, that caused me to go at this time when I knew the fruit trees would be yielding their burdens of lusciousness. I had visions of plump red and golden peaches hanging heavy with ripeness in the hot sun. As children we had plucked them fresh from the trees, all for free, just for the taking, and if we sometimes acquired a bellyache from an over abundance, why that was for free also, and we accepted it as a matter of course and well worth the discomfort. A peach ripened on the tree, fresh and delectable, provided an ambrosia that the ancient gods could not surpass. I had prepared myself to once again partake of these delights.

When we arrived, the sun was high and hot, but the big white house standing back from the road on a higher level, seemed cool and serene. The first glimpse of it through the trees caused the lurch of homesickness to creep over me with greater intensity than I had ever known. As the car moved slowly to where we could have a better view, there was much evidence that it was not the same at all. Many changes had been made. The wide porch that had spread full width across the front had been enclosed in glass. On the same porch we had sat together as a family, in the evenings. The cool breeze would waft down the creek valley and bring relief from the day's heat, and as twilight deepened, we children would count the stars as they appeared in the sky, until there would be so many we could no longer count them. We listened to the hum of the night insects and the forlorn croaking of the frogs. A little later we would sit entranced, watching the lemon colored moon slowly rise into the velvet sky, directly over the church steeple. And each time in its never failing rising, it would appear to us as a new and wonderful revelation.

This is only the first part of her essay on Nostalgia. I think her descriptive writing is beautiful and insightful. And so, my grandmother's first essay is published on the Internet, on a blog - two things she never heard of or could have imagined in her lifetime.

My Grandmother's Gift

In August we hosted the annual family reunion as we always do. Everyone graciously thanks us for doing it, but I am so grateful to them for being such an amazing family and for making the effort to come from all over the country so we can see each other.

This year I received an additional gift when my cousin turned over my grandmother's manuscripts to me. In several old boxes I found many short stories, essays and articles with my grandmother's thoughts and opinions as well as four full novels.

My grandmother lived from 1889-1978. My mother is the last of her six children born over a twenty-one year period. My grandfather died before I was born and my grandmother lived a very humble existence in a number of small apartments in a little town in Pennsylvania. I knew she was a writer and I read one or two of the handwritten novels as a teenager. I was fairly young when she died and she lived 100 miles away, so I didn't know her as well as I wished I had.

I sat down on a summer day and read page after page of her precise handwriting (and some pages typed by someone else because she did not have a typewriter) and suddenly I felt so close to her. When giving me the boxes my cousin said "You're the writer in the family, you will take care of these." Well, she was right about that. I treasure them. I learned from them and I was truly impressed by her ideas and her writing talent. She must have worked so hard on those never-to-be published novels. I complain about revising my writing, but try to imagine revising an entire novel several times by hand!

So this gift unexpectedly landed in my possession and I am very grateful for the chance to know my grandmother all over again, as an adult and a fellow writer. The photo is from the day I sorted out the manuscripts that had become a little disorganized in the boxes. I will share some of her writing soon.

Muscular Dystrophy Fundraiser - A Bocce Tournament

Yesterday my husband and I put on our sixth annual Bocce Tournament to raise money for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. A couple years after we moved into our house my husband said he wanted to build a regulation 80' limestone bocce court in our backyard.(see photo - before the bocce-loving throngs arrived) I'm not sure I even knew what bocce was until I fell in love with this Italian. But that's what we have in our backyard and it's provided a lot of fun for friends and family because it's a game anyone can play. The tournament has 32 teams and generally lasts around nine hours. Probably 100+ people visit our backyard during that time. We have a raffle with great donated prizes such as tickets for Major and Minor League teams, gift cards to many area restaurants, signed footballs from the Browns etc. My husband works for many weeks to make this fundraiser a success and thanks to our generous friends and family - it always is. Those people alone bring in over $4000 every year. The winners receive a coveted trophy and their name engraved on a plaque.

Then on Labor Day weekend my husband and stepson, who has Duchenne's muscular dystrophy, proudly present the check at the local station televising Jerry Lewis's Labor Day Telethon. The MDA telethon has been televised and hosted by Jerry Lewis since 1966, but Jerry has been working for and raising money for MDA since 1952. Before he became ill several years ago he would host the entire 22 hour telethon non-stop. Now he comes in at intervals and always, at the end, sings a tearful version of "You'll Never Walk Alone."

If you are not aware, there are 40 different neuro-muscular diseases that can each devastate victims and families. My friend Jacquie, who passed away in March had MD. The most famous person was Lou Gehrig, the New York Yankee for whom amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) is named after.

Muscular dystrophy is not to be confused with Multiple Sclerosis, which strangely enough, two of my family members also have now.

Anyway - it's wonderful, inspiring day and boy - ARE WE TIRED!!!

A Family Reunion

This was the twelfth year we've hosted the family reunion at our house. Some relatives are no longer with us, little children are now teenagers, and for the most part we only see each other once a year. But that's a good thing. I say that because I really believe in traditions, even if they are just once a year. The older we get we all realize how quickly a year passes, and if we didn't have these traditions I'm sure that much more than a year would pass before we carved out the time to see each other again. In my immediate family we still celebrate everyone's birthday. Of course, it's not the presents and the cake and ice cream that is important anymore - it's a reason to set aside time in our lives to see each other.

This year we had 40 family members from 8 states! They all are so appreciative of us having the reunion at our house, but I am appreciative that so many of my cousins travel across the states to get here! It's an effort for all of us. The day goes SO fast! In all of these 12 years we've never had a rainy day. Yesterday was a beautiful day, about 75 degrees. At around 8:00 we had a fire going, marshmallows, Hershey bars and graham crackers out for S'Mores and suddenly the wind kicked up - plates, napkins and tablecloths went flying across the yard and the heavens opened! Everyone grabbed as much stuff as they could carry and ran into every door of the house. Luckily, no one left and we continued the party indoors for another two hours.

Today, an August day in the midwest - it is cold and rainy! So we were lucky! But we weren't just blessed by the weather, but by being a family - and being together.

Fire in the Sky

This weekend I am hosting a family reunion for about 35-40 relatives on my mother's side coming from 7 states. I'm kind of busy and distracted so I am re-posting a poem I wrote about the experience of visiting all my wonderful cousins as a child. "Fire in the Sky" was originally published by Poet Lore in 2007.

The trip from one industrial city to another
took two hours, but as a child, it seemed like forever.
We knew we were getting close to our cousins
when the shallow Ohio hills evolved
into Pennsylvania mountains and out of the
car window there were clusters of railroad tracks,
twisting, converging in a massive puzzle.

We followed the Ohio River, wide and
forbidding into the tiny town that sat
across from the inhospitable steel mills.
In the summer, the dirt falling from
the sky collected in gutters and grew weeds
and grass there, and in the winter it blackened
the snow before it touched the earth.

The surrounding sky was perpetually sallow;
neutral from the belching towers
of fire and foul smelling smog.
The filth from the smokestacks brought
a paycheck to its workers, but caused children
to come in from playing with black hands and
feet and begrimed faces and clothes.

At night I would leave whatever bed I was
sharing with one of two cousins to see
the sky that was lit up orange with the angry
fire that discharged from the mills all night long,
and listen to the howl of the trains
and wonder how anyone could sleep
with all this beauty and brilliance outside,

the view at once forbidding and
inviting to innocent eyes.
The flagrant polluting of the earth
was eventually halted and the mills torn down.
The fiery combustive sky dissolved, the jobs lost,
the houses sandblasted of their scorching,
the heavens clarified and colorful,
and the children were clean.