Category Archives: Memories

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Packing It Tighter Than OctoMom’s Uterus

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DSCN4506As most of you who’ve been following my blog lately are aware, I’ve just completed the enormous task of downsizing 48 years of my physical life into a box measuring 200 cubic feet for shipping to England where I now live with my husband John. As you might imagine, 200 cubic feet is not a lot of space especially for a woman with a tendency to place value on the memory of a day or event and hold on to whatever object heightens the memory. Thank goodness my daughter Miranda was willing to take on some of the things that were too difficult to part with over the last few weeks.

I was fortunate to find a home for most of my furniture and big things last May when I came to England for my first long stretch. What I left behind in storage seemed in my mind to be a smaller amount to sort through than it turned out to be after I saw it all again. I wrote here about what it looked like when I began the weeding out process and below you’ll find a couple of pictures before I condensed it to a more manageable group of boxes.

 

Group One Of Boxes

Group One Of Boxes

Group Two Of Boxes

Group Two Of Boxes

As you can see, I had stuff in two places…one a basement room and one in the garage of my step-mom’s home.  She was so gracious about it all. As hard as I tried to keep it all contained to a few places, there were times when it spilled over briefly into other areas as I went through it.  Everything you see is the before image. All of these boxes had to be opened and sorted and repacked. I went through everything creating piles to re-box and take with me or packing them up to give to Miranda. What was left went into a section for my garage sale which netted enough to pay about half the cost of shipping my stuff over.

 

Day Two Of Sale

Day Two Of Sale

I had some telling signs up for my garage sale and between my Craigslist posting and a few signs, I did little else to alert the world that there was good stuff to be had out in Marietta. I did blog about it and three of my blogging buddies showed up  to say hello and help finance my move….thanks to Jules, Leslye and Taylor  along with some long time friends, Patrice and Scott. Additionally, two old boyfriends that I’m still friendly with from 25 and 30 years ago stopped by to say hello.  It was good to see each of them and I was pleased to see some things that were special to me go to people I know. Taylor bought a birdcage that I loved and I can’t wait to see what cool photographs she creates with it. You can see her first image of it if you go here.

A few more shots of stuff no longer mine from the sale…

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By the time the movers came to box up the breakables, I had packed the rest of it. I could pack the non-fragile items, but had to leave the boxes open for the movers to note before sealing. Here are a few images from that day.

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I shipped loads of art over as well as a chair that looks like the female version of one John has. I’ll post them side by side when it arrives.

Below are some of my boxes repacked and stacked to mimic the dimensions of the storage crate.

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The wooden crate you see above is what ALL of my stuff went into.  You’re going to see why I chose the title I did for this post in a minute.

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These men from Atlantic Relocation Systems did an excellent job packing the breakables up and numbering everything. They have a history of working with Rainier, the company I contacted to do the international move and everyone from Doug Wiviott at Rainier to Mike Orlin with Atlantic Relocation Systems and all of the guys who did the hard work of packing it up have been great to work with. I’ll update you in 45-65 days when my crate arrives as to the condition of things, but it’s been good experience so far.

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Remember what I said about OctoMom’s uterus….well….it wasn’t eight babies, but it was pretty tight!

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Going

Going

 

Going

Going

 

Gone!

Gone!

The next time you see the crate will be when we’re unloading it here in Cornwall. I wonder if it will seem strange to see my things in this setting. I have to say that as they were putting the very last thing into the crate, I got a little teary. The last two things were a large framed photograph of Miranda as a barely walking toddler sitting in my grandmother’s wicker rocking chair and the last minute addition of sewing box given to me many years ago by my Aunt Wylly, the children’s book author. There was something about seeing that old sewing box slip into a little opening to make the journey that caused me to feel something other than relief and exhaustion. I think it was the thought of Aunt Wylly and her sense of adventure that affected me in the moment. She was such a special woman and an inspiration to me in many ways…thinking of her and knowing how she lived her life…I think she’d approve of this new love and life in Blisland .

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Diversions And Updates

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dscf4319I’m still waist deep in boxes and sorting as I decide what will move to England with me. The shippers come a week from Monday and I’m working steadily to go through everything and repack the non-breakables. (the shippers have to pack the fragile stuff)

I’m having a huge, mammoth yard sale on the 15 th & 16 th so I have a good deadline for getting it all done before sending what’s left off on the 18th. In addition to the stress of completing such a task, I find myself getting terribly maudlin at times seeing so much of my past spreading out before me. 

Late at night or in moments when I grab a bite of food, I slip to my computer to do a fast catch up on the blogs I read. Those of you who pop by mine should know how much a quick look at your words and images shakes me out of the past and reminds me of the life I have in the present.  It’s a big help to me right now. 

Today over a breakfast bagel and my third cup of coffee, I took a look at a favorite blogger that I follow. Rima, over at The Hermitage, lives a life most of us couldn’t dream of and her lovely space is alway a delight. The post I read today reminds me of Cornwall and John and what waits for me on my return. Please take a minute to go by and read her post, What I Saw By The Wayside.  While you’re there, take a good look around her site…she’s a wonderful artist and paints the most amazing scenes on the clocks that she makes.  

Have a great weekend and I be back in a bit…once I get through all of this mess.

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Thirteen

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Miranda Holding Sam

Miranda Holding Sam

Thirteen years ago I snapped this photograph of Miranda holding her new cousin Sam. He was about six weeks old when she and I boarded a plane bound for Alaska to see the firstborn son of my sister Margaret and her husband Leon. 

Elizabeth & Sam - Trying To Make Him Laugh

Elizabeth & Sam - Trying To Make Him Laugh

Sam as it turns out, was the laughingest baby I’ve ever known and if you ask my sister she’ll tell you he only ever laughed with wild abandon with me. (Use your imagination here to picture the silly dances and sounds I had to make in order to encourage such giddiness) You should know I’m talking about giggling, squealing peals of real laughter not just the smiles and cooing you get with a lot of happy babies. Born in Alaska, we didn’t see a lot of each other face to face over the years, but my memories of the way he would laugh can still make me smile and it’s one of the stories everyone talks about when we remember Sam’s baby years.

Last December, I had a chance to spend a week in Alaska with Margaret and her husband Leon along with Sam and Nik. It was the first time I’d been around Sam since he was about 3 1/2. so the changes were huge. Sam, the laughingest baby I’ve ever known has a more mature sense of humor now.

He understands subtlety in a way that takes you by surprise, sometimes being a step or two ahead of you before you realize he understands irony in way that most thirteen year olds don’t get yet. 

There are a few other qualities I had a chance to see up close during my visit, such as Sam’s innate sense of direction. It turns out that Sam’s love of maps makes having him in your car a bit like having a personal GPS that tells you where to go and then reassures you that he knows what he’s taking about. I saw him do this more than a few times when we were in the car together last December and thought how handy that would be when he makes it over to Cornwall sometime for a visit. 

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Like his younger brother Nik, Sam is quite the music man. Preferring a Gibson guitar over his brother’s Fender, he seems to like to rock a bit more gently to some less raucous rock and roll classics and it was great fun for me to be able to see him play live at a Christmas concert. 

He’s had a intense interest in Huskies and the Iditarod for as long as I can remember and got his dog Buddy, an Alaskan husky when he was about six. (Sorry …I don’t have a better picture of Buddy) The picture below though shows one of the funny things Buddy likes to do when he feels like he wants to join the rest of the action.

Buddy At The Gate

Buddy At The Gate

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Sam has a need for solitude and time to think that I totally get and conversations with him always leave me thinking about our discussions and marveling at the perspective and insight of such a young man. He digs deeply into areas that interest him and is more than willing to chat at length about certain subjects… sharing details you might not ever have considered. 

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I think what I enjoy most though is seeing Sam interact with his brother Nik. With almost the same two year age difference that his mother Margaret and I share, I’m sometimes reminded of how she and I were as similar and different as Sam and Nik are while still enjoying the connections that come with having a sibling so close in age.

 

Sam Holding A Lizard With Nik Looking On

Sam Holding A Lizard With Nik Looking On

Today Sam is thirteen and recognized as a teenager on his way to all the experiences and expectations that will come with the title of teen. New directions can be more challenging for some of us than others, but with his uncanny sense of direction, I feel sure he’ll have no problems finding the path most right for him.

Happy Birthday Sam 

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A Ladybug Love Story

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Jersey Ladybug Or (Ladybird)

Jersey Ladybug Or (Ladybird)

In England many things have different names than what I’ve grown up with in America. Here, ladybugs are called ladybirds. Farmers and gardeners love them because they eat up the aphids that threaten the plants they labor to raise, but ladybugs have a different reason for being special to me.

If you’ve read any of my writings at my old blog you may remember my friend Marty who I wrote about here.  He was an important teacher for me in many ways. In fact, I would have to say that much of what I learned from talks with him such as why he made certain decisions in his own life, had a great influence on some key decisions I’ve made in my own.

Marty died of melanoma while we were next door neighbors and his decline was difficult to watch. He impressed me with his wisdom in the way that he lived and without knowing, he left a last lesson for me after his death. A short time after he died, I was talking with David, who had been his life partner for 14 years, about finding love. David told me a story that Marty had told to him when they were discussing David’s future life without Marty. David is one of the kindest, sweetest, souls you can imagine and Marty was worried someone might try to take advantage of him later when he was alone with his grief. Marty spoke of his concerns that his status as a physician might bring out those less interested in David and more interested in his position in the community.

So it was in a way that was so uniquely Marty, he told David the ladybug story that David later told me when we talked of how love finds us.  As I remember it, but perhaps not exactly as was told, Marty said words to this effect, ” When the day is beautiful and the weather too perfect for words, you decide to go on a hunt for a ladybug. So you take yourself to your favorite meadow and search and search everywhere looking for the tiny red and black creatures. You look high and low even bringing out a magnifying glass as you try as hard as you can to spot the tiny winged bugs that contrast so brightly with the green of new leaves and grasses.

When you’ve worn yourself out with a slightly desperate search for your ladybug, you stop to rest, unrolling the quilt you dropped in the grassy meadow a few hours earlier and you sit and enjoy the light breeze that keeps the day from being too hot. Feeling thirsty from your labors, you open a bottle of your favorite wine and take out a little package of cheese and crackers and you drink and eat until you feel quite satisfied. Listening to the soft hum of the insects buzzing around you, you begin to feel sleepy as the sun warms your quilt and the wine soothes your busy thoughts to a calmer, slower pace.  Lying back on the quilt you close your eyes and you sleep, a peaceful, restful sleep with dreams you can’t quite remember. Waking slowly from your summer dreams, you notice your hand lying on the worn patchwork fabric of your grandmother’s quilt and on your hand, sitting very still, you see a tiny red ladybug covered in spots.”  

I don’t think I need to explain the moral of his story…that real love comes to us only when we are ready inside and not when we search for it with the desperation of the hunt… for the ladybug or for love.

Marty Thompson - Embracing Every Moment!

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The Ways We Remember, Those We Cannot Forget

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Virgina Tech Campus - April 17, 2007

Virginia Tech Campus - April 17, 2007

Almost everyday we hear of a tragedy so horrible it’s difficult to comprehend. Like many, I see the suffering recounted in the media and when I am overwhelmed, I do what many cannot. I turn off the television, radio, or computer and step away from what is too painful to watch. Two years ago, my daughter was part of a community of people who became unwilling participants in a group memory they will always share. It’s one they can never turn off or step away from, nor is it likely one that they will ever forget.

A recent graduate of Virginia Tech, Miranda was in the last few weeks of her sophomore year when a fellow student went on what is now known as the deadliest shooting rampage in U.S. history by a single gunman. His actions disrupted the small town of Blacksburg’s sense peace and security and had a devastating effect on the lives of the families of 32 people, most of whom were parents of students at the university. While in no way comparable to the loss of a loved one, this tragedy has had a lasting effect on those who call themselves “Hokies.”

On the morning of April 16, 2007, I received a call from my daughter telling me there had been a shooting on campus. She was referring to the two students killed at the first site, but was at that point unaware of the shootings at Norris Hall, where 30 more people lost their lives.

She called me between 9:32 and 9:40 and I immediately turned to CNN to see what information I could pick up from the news. While on the phone together, we learned about the second shooting site at Norris Hall. The morning was cold and windy with a bit of  light snow falling, feeling more like winter  than the calendar would suggest. It was a combination of the weather and a high grade point average that made Miranda decided to skip her 8:00 am class and sleep in. That decision kept her safe that morning. She would say later that she would have been gone and on her way back to her residence hall by the time the shooter arrived at Norris and maybe so, but three of her classmates in her 8:00 class died that day in the next class they attended in Norris Hall.

She doesn’t like to talk about that day. Understandably so. She told me recently that when she talks of changing jobs, people ask about her degree and once they realize  she is a VT grad, they always want to discuss the shooting. She obliges politely, but with reservations. She knows people have questions, but I don’t think at 21, they should look for the answers from her. I can’t begin to know what it’s like to be so young and to know and perhaps on some level dread being asked the same questions over and over. I know she’ll be remembering April 16 today, my fear as a mother is my concern that she may remember it everyday. There is a penetrating sadness for me and an awareness that I can’t kiss away her pain now or erase those memories with same distractions I could when she was a child.

As you would imagine, today is a Day of Remembrance at Virginia Tech. I wish Miranda could be there today with the same group of people who share her experience. Graduating early as she did in December, she seems to miss the feel of the place she called home for almost four years and a family and community of people who understand today even if they can’t really talk about it.  I don’t know the private ways in which my daughter chooses to remember or forget, but I stand ready to listen or sit in silence, grateful that I did not lose the chance to do so now… on April 16, 2007.

I hope you’ll take a moment to remember the 32 who lost their lives that day and if 32 is too many to comprehend at one time, perhaps you can remember the three from Miranda’s 8:00 am class. I feel sure she’ll be thinking of them.

Their names are listed below…running with them in mind is my way of honoring their memory.

Remembering

Remembering

The picture at the top was taken by Miranda on April 17,2007 at the candlelight vigil for those who died.

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I Can’t Believe She’s 35!

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Jennie & Elizabeth 1974

Baby Jennie With Elizabeth 1974

Almost 14 years separate us in age. Born on Easter Sunday, my youngest sister was a surprise in many ways. My dad, having remarried when I was 12, never expected to have more children than the two he’d had in his first marriage to my mother. I know my stepmom was as surprised as anyone when she found herself sitting in her doctor’s waiting room with women much younger and their developing belly bumps. In 1974, women who were 40 or older were more likely to be planning for their first grandchild’s arrival than a baby of their own.

So it was that Jennie, not Jennifer like so many girls born in the 70’s, came into my life. You could say she was a gift from the Easter bunny having arrived on the day when children wake to find surprises left by the fluffy symbol of Easter. Her maternal grandfather called her Bunny right from the start, making it a special nickname that only he would use in conversations with and about her.

I moved into their new baby household when Jennie was about six months old, stretching the limits of what my stepmom had probably planned for her life when she married for the first and only time at 38. Looking back, I am amazed at how well she handled all of unexpected  changes in her transition from single working woman to new wife, before all too quickly being called on to mother an infant and teen.  

Jennie, having been born to older parents grew up almost like an only child. While I was around and involved, I was a teenager after all and pretty well focused on my school and social life. Jennie and I played together, but I don’t remember having had too much required of me…as in no forced baby sitting or sulking about it as I can recall. I remember building her a little puppet theatre and covering it with a hideous pink fabric left over remnants of the 60’s… found somewhere I can’t remember. I made puppets and stories to go with it forcing her to endure and participate in my first playwriting experiences. (Sorry… no pictures seem to exist of the theatre to share.)

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Jennie was my model when I tried my hand at 17 with my first forays into posed portrait work. She was such a good sport especially since she was barely four at the time this poor quality image was taken.  

 

Jennie At Four

Jennie At Four

Joining the Army at 18, I was a visitor mostly after that, a sister who sent letters or gifts from other countries with occasional visits home while on leave. During the 5 years that I was away from Georgia, Jennie changed quite a lot during that time growing out of her little girl self of four into a more outspoken performer of nine. By the time she reached high school she was performing in musicals, sometimes winning the leading role. She began college as a performance major, but changed directions along the way, moving towards a degree and profession aimed at helping others.

 

Miranda Wearing Jennie's College Cap On Graduation Day

Miranda Wearing Jennie's College Cap On Graduation Day

After a few difficult years of helping children through Family and Children’s Services, she returned to school for a master’s degree in community counseling and added a certification to it that would enable her to provide counseling and support to children in a school setting. It’s there she seems to have found her home working with children who frequently need a listening ear and directional support. She spends her days in a rural setting where some of the children come from difficult home situations. Jennie’s quick to recognize a need where someone else might overlook it and at times has gone so far as to buy shoes for a child who didn’t have any they could wear. She does good work there making sure all of the children have equal opportunities for success along with a bit of nurturing and acceptance they may not receive at home.

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Jennie with Mitzi - At Home In North Georgia

It’s hard to believe that she’s 35 today … Happy Birthday Jennie!

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So Far Away

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Not So Far Away

Elizabeth, John, & Nik - Not So Far Away

 ” But you’re so far away
Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door ”

– Carole King

Making a decision to move away from the familiar is not so easy for most people. To move so far away that it requires an extended plane ride or maybe even several to reconnect with those we care about is becoming more common and a little less painful thanks to the many ways that exist for family and friends to stay connected. Yesterday, John and I paid a little visit to Alaska all the way from England for my nephew Nik’s birthday party. Thanks to the internet, iChat, and my sisters willingness to shift her desktop Mac around, John and I were able to “be present” for the family gathering. 

It was great fun to watch Nik open his presents, blow out his candles and sing a rousing round of Happy Birthday to him with his older brother Sam accompanying us on electric guitar. Sam would have made Jimi Hendrix proud as he opened the party with a raucous version of the Happy Birthday tune.  

The world’s a different place than when I turned eleven in 1971 and Carole King was singing, ” So Far Away “.  Far away isn’t quite so far now and although we couldn’t taste the yummy looking (no trans fats included) cake my sister Margaret made, we could gather together for a photograph with the birthday boy… bringing ourselves virtually into the living room though still not quite a face at the door.

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Resurrection Sunday – Ghosts

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Resurrection: Middle English, from Old French, from Late Latin resurrēctiō, resurrēctiōn-, from Latin resurrēctus, past participle of resurgere, to rise again. 

or this

The act of bringing back to practice, notice, or use; revival

I’ve been thinking a bit about my first blog site where I left a few things behind that were important to me. Intimate and personal, they just sit there now waiting for someone to stumble across them. After reading today’s post by Sarah-ji over at Shutter Sisters I thought a good bit about one sentence she wrote and what it meant to me…it’s a request really and one that inspired me to look back through my memories and resurrect some for another look.

Here Sarah-ji asks, ” Will you share with us today your images of the weathered, beat-up and forgotten that nevertheless convey to you a hope and beauty that’s raw and real? ” I appreciate the inspiration provided by her question today and the gifts for me in remembering what remains raw and real. What about you out there…how about a Resurrection Sunday of your own. Perhaps you can provide a link today to what is “raw and real”, ” hope and beauty ” as Sarah-ji asks or something else. I’m interested in what you have to share today…..

Ghosts

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“Let it go” she said. Standing in the remains of the church on the edge of the rocky coast, I could almost hear her voice whispering to me, “forgive yourself and let it go.”

Looking around the dirty room thick with years of dust, I wondered about the last time someone had sat on the rough pew waiting for the minister to get to the point. Simple in their design, and looking as uncomfortable as the wind felt blowing in through the broken glass, I pulled my coat tighter and considered the history of the tiny church. The room was poorly lit, the shadows in the corners near the old pulpit were scary in the dark space that John seemed to disappear into and out of sight. Nervous and not sure why, I stepped closer to the low light drifting in through the only window not boarded up.

Before when we were still outside, John had pulled on a door that was wedged shut to keep people out while had I hung back thinking about how what we were doing was less adventure and more intrusion. This ruin of a church, isolated and abandoned on the Isle of Skye should have drawn me in rather than triggering my fight or flight response, but as he slipped in past the half open door, I found myself tight behind him not wanting to be left alone, even outside.

Once inside I came part way down the aisle and considered my feet were walking where hopeful brides had walked, one hand lightly resting on their father’s arm anxious to take the final steps that would take them from their parents home into one of their own making. A home and life they would struggle to build with the man smiling and nervous waiting at the front of the church.

Flashing quickly forward I imagined the hardships of life here years ago when this church might have been alive with activity and the energy of the fishing community.

Would the women who married and later baptized their children here also have gathered to mourn and bury their hope along with the men they loved in this little church. What dreams had been lost to the things they could not control. What words had they left unsaid and what things once done could never be forgotten.

I knew then why I didn’t want to go into this church. This building had once been light and bright with possibilities and warmth. It had been a gathering place for worship and reflection, for celebration and for sorrow. Standing in the darkness, all I could feel was a sense of loss and the echo of those who had called this place a sanctuary.

“Let it go” she said, “move on with your life and live well while you can.”

Acts of contrition, reconciliation, absolution, sometimes all you can do has to to be enough….let it go.

 

(Posted originally on August 6, 2008 at http://giftsofthejourney.com)