What is your passion?

I was asked this question last weekend and there is nothing I hate more than a question I cannot answer - especially about myself.  

What is my passion?

I like to read.

Is that a passion?

I’d love to be able to write.  Maybe this will push me to write more...?

Truthfully?  This filled me with questions I can’t answer.  Things I have never thought about.  

What do I want to be?

Who do I want to be?

What do I want to do?

Where do I want to go?

Do I want to travel?

Does J want to travel?

Where does he want to go?

When can I retire?

Will I ever afford to retire?

Where will we live?

Can I even write?

How many books can I read if I don’t work?

How can I not work?

What do retired people do all day?

Do I like anything else but, books?

What else do I like to do?

How much Bourbon Cream can I bring back from Louisville?

We have a lot of booze here, and I stopped today for more?

What about Jacob?

Will he grow up ok?

Will he get in a fight one day?

Will he be a good adult?

Will this world suck then?

Would I ever move back to Manistee?

Why am I such a loner?

Why do people hate me?

Do I truly lack empathy?

Maybe I can just maintain this weight?

Will I get thinner as I get older like my mom did?

Are her feelings hurt that I missed the anniversary of her passing?

Will I lose my job?

Do I care?

Where would I go?

Where do I want to go?

What do I want to do?

What are my goals for the future?

What were we talking about?

What is passion anyway?

What is mine?

Do I even have one?

Pieces of Me

I’m in a parking spot downtown. Fremont Indiana, waiting for the funeral of a woman from my summer life...

Fremont, Indiana. Barely a blip in any map. The Corner Pocket Bar is still here - though the door is no longer in the corner. The little Spartan grocery store downtown where this woman bought the thick sliced bologna not in a package but, sliced by the butcher and wrapped in white paper, on her weekly grocery trips when my sister took her to town and we sat in the hot car.  The Bull Pen Cafe is still there, the high school where I got my first work permit, the old antique store, what was the ice cream parlor and before that, the hair salon where I got my summer hair cut.

These summers here, shaped much of my life. I was here every summer from age 8 to 16. My mom worked 7 on, 2 off swing shifts and it was hard to manage me when working so, I stayed with my sister, her husband worked a full time job, and he worked his parents farm when he wasn’t sleeping.  We were up early, to bed early and slept hard.  

Summers on the farm, my days were pretty carefree, chasing barn cats, picking mulberries, riding in the pickup with my long blonde hair whipping in the wind until I got a baseball cap to "get that shit under control". Not a tractor left the barnyard without my little butt perched on a fender. I rode along to bale hay, disc fields, take cattle to market and begged to go anywhere the guys went. My favorite job though was "gopher"! I did a lot of "gopher this", "gopher that".  I hated the trips to town with the women, to the bank, the grocery - ugh, no thanks!  But just to go to the mill with the guys - I couldn’t get in the truck fast enough!  

Much like now, my favorite part of the day was lunch. Audrey fed us well on the farm. The red wrapped, think-sliced bologna, bread stacked on a plate and everything you could imagine for sandwiches, complete with Brook’s ketchup and Gulden’s spicy brown mustard. The guys would come in, stomp their boots through the back porch, pass the dogs, to wash their hands in the utility sink and cross her squeaky kitchen floor to the table.  Then with their caps balanced on their knees, they’d talk about the morning. Which equipment needed fixing, which heifers were to be bred, what fields need prepped, and the plans for the afternoon. And then they were off again. We cleared the table, swept the dirt and then I was running out the door to catch up to my adventures again. 

I learned about tagging cattle, market prices for beef and the difference between beef to sell and beef to eat. I learned about mamma cows bawling for their babies on the truck while they were taken into the barn from the woods for shots. I learned about mean bulls, hornet stings, falling off horses and newborn calves that won’t breathe. I made friends with steers and cried as they were hauled to the market for beef.  

I learned about Laura Ingalls these summers on rainy days on the old green couch in the front entry - back when the living room was only for good - with my nose buried in Farmer Boy as it was my favorite.  The guys would come in the big porch wearing their yellow slickers with muddy rubber boots, shaking off the rain and I’d pause my reading  just waiting for someone to mention they were going anywhere.  Even a boring ride back to the woods to track cattle would do.   

How many times did we come home to a heifer eating grass on the front lawn or to the phone ringing that we had cattle loose in Hamman Road?  We’d hop in trucks, with barbed wire and fence posts to go round them back where they belonged!

As I got older, I made a fair wage baling hay, and I worked hard. I’ll never forget the feeling of salt from sweat in the cuts from the hay. Or the day my sister ran her husband over with a haywagon.

Driving past the old farm as we took Audrey to her final resting place, I opened my window to smell the humid air - the old house gone now, though the stair where we scraped manure off our boots before coming in the house is still there.  Memories flooded me.  The big barn where I met the hornet nest and the box for the electric fence ticked with the current.  Clothes snapping in the breeze on the clothesline behind the garage, John splitting his pants trying to fix the manure spreader for the 10th time that day.  Bill’s gold car rolling up after a day of working the railroad.  The hay field I drove circles for hours while 4H kids broke a steer to show in the county fair.  The two track back to the gravel pit, where the black calf born sickly was buried and they made me take a nap so I wouldn’t know.  I knew it was bad. 

Working a farm is a hard life, and I only saw three months for 8 summers.  The memories will be with me always through many of the people have passed on.  

Thank you Audrey Barkley for putting up with an annoying little city kid, and sharing this little piece of your life with me, for letting me invade your farm.  I’m always thankful you never had many chickens!

The First 45!

I’m loud.  I have opinions.  I say what I’m thinking and most times I forget to sugar coat it.  I work hard. I have goals.  I have dreams.  I have confidence in myself.  I ask questions, I seek to understand and I am teachable.

I don’t need anyone. I rarely ask for help.  I can do it by my own self.  I don’t need people. I’m comfortable alone.  Until I’m not.

I have planned parties for people who don’t like me.  I have fed mouths who speak badly of me.  I’ve given to those without and I’ve been taken advantage of by those with more.  I have friends who are family and family I have unfriended.  

The first 45, I spent navigating everyone else’s crazy.  Hearing so many words spoken behind my back.  Yanking knives out of my back.  Helping who emptied my bucket and never refilled.  And I’m done.  I’m walking away from what doesn’t serve me.  I didn’t talk to my mom for three years, she gave in first, she died.  I don’t give up easily.  

Forgiveness

Forgiveness.  It’s no coincidence that it is Easter weekend and I’m thinking/writing about forgiveness...maybe you need some too?

I have carried a heavy burden for a long time.  I was angry, I felt forgotten, maybe even unloved, and I felt a lot, a lot of guilt.  My mom has been gone almost 5 years, I didn’t talk to her for 3 years prior to that.  It’s been 8 years since I spoke to my mother.  

Now, some of you are getting bristly and ready to defend her - this is where your forgiveness comes in.  My mom was MY mom.  I SAW HER - not YOU - at most of her rawest moments.  I KNEW her at rest, in angst, in fear, in pain, in faith, in courage, in strength, in love, and in anger.   I was there with her when my sister was killed, when her parents died, when my dad was home, when my dad left, when each of my siblings moved out. YOU saw ONLY what SHE wanted you to see. I, I saw EVERYTHING. 

Now back to the story.   When we were ready to foster a child to adopt, they told us stories of children going to bed hugging loaves of bread or gallons of milk in fear of not having food to eat. They told stories of terrible abuse children have endured.  And regardless the story, the child always wanted to return to the mother.  I identified with that feeling and I held it a long time in hopes she would be better.  Hoping one day, I could have her be a real ‘’mom’ and not just a mother.  

I loved my mother.  I love my mother.  Fiercely.   As she got older, it got harder to see her, to talk to her, to relate to her - and I never really understood her!  As her mind deteriorated, which we figure got a real good start when Valerie was killed, it got worse as the years went on and then when the divorce hit, she tipped the scale.  

I lived through all of it.  In that house.  With her.  (Later, away from her, yet she was my mom and it was so hard to leave her.)  Every day of my life.  I saw things, endured things, that to this day are barely even a blip to my memory but, I know them.  I see them in only short movie clips, and some are terrifying, yet they don’t make sense.  I was so small when they happened my adult mind cannot grasp when my little eyes saw.  And I held them for a very long time. I kept them to myself.  I probably always will.  I was the only witness to most of it so it cannot be confirmed.  But if I were to tell you anything about it, you would hate her.  That hate, and any anger toward her is mine.  I can’t have you hate her.   It’s like siblings - I can say what I want about my siblings but, if you say it, you best pack a lunch and bring an army!

A few weeks ago, I took an intuition class led by a good friend. I have felt my mom nearby for a very long time and I took this class to open myself up again, to help me hear past her.   I knew I was ready to get back to my life and let hers go.

I see and hear spirits.  

I shut them off shortly after my mom died.  She has come to me 3 times.  The first, shortly after she passed.  She was cloudy black, angry, full of rage, screaming at me from my bedside.   The second time, she was yelling to me from my shower.  The third she was at the side of my bed again, much calmer telling me she was ready when I was and I knew how to reach her.

During this class - I knew.  I knew without a doubt it was time to put my past with her to rest,, to forgive her and let us both heal.  I did. I was supposed to be doing homework that night but, I felt her there with me.  Stronger than I had in so, so long!  Stronger than in life even.  I could feel her faith, I could feel the mercy and forgiveness she had been given and it was time to give her my peace.   I prepared myself, as I do with any spirit, and I opened myself to “hear” her.   Without any word or pictures, I “understood” all I needed to know from her.  I gave her my love, my forgiveness, my peace, and I let her go!  I let go 45 years of my anger and my hurt and felt her take it all on and leave me.

My mother, will be with me all the rest of my life.  She’ll be at the front of the line to greet me when I reach my heavenly home.   She’s with me in the sun, the moon, and every breeze.  I have her hands, her silly side, her wit, humor, her love of expensive things.  And her temper.  One day, when she’s ready, she’ll show herself to me again in her spirit animal, and I’ll know when I see her, that I am always her daughter and she’s still with me. 

Because I’m all growed up, dammit!

I’m almost 45.  I have never bought a cookware set other than one from Walmart.  Not that there is anything wrong with that but, let’s just say my best set was purchased on clearance after a popular Southern cooking celebrity cut ties.  To go with my clearance copper bottomed cookware, the majority of my kitchen utensils are from the dollar store, meaning if the pan temperature gets too hot, they uh...they melt.  Once a week or so, they get a trim with a sharp knife to remove the melted plastic.  Gross, huh?

We joined a meal delivery service this year (love it) and until we did, I hadn’t noticed that we really like to cook, I hadn’t noticed that our pans were higher in the middle than the edges and it was making it difficult to cook foods evenly.  I noticed that our cookware just wasn’t great.  It was just ok.  I was tired of ok.  It was time.  Time to grow up.  Time for real cookware.  The kind that lasts.  

I had already bought good knives a few years ago, my KitchenAid mixer when we redid the kitchen and now...hello Calphalon cookware (and utensils too)!

It’s just a basic set, I’m not that crazy (or loaded)!  Jeremy isn’t thrilled about the “hand wash only” part but, I’m excited to get away from non-stick spray, turners that don’t melt or bend!  I’m looking forward to even cooking, pans that can go into the oven without melting the handles and so many other options. 

Because I’m a grown up dammit, and I can cook!

The littlest sister isn’t so little...

The hands on the clock are spinning faster and faster every time I look, some days I swear they’ll fly off and stab me in the eye - such is my luck!

The clock is creeping right up on me from hot flashes to being the very same age as my father when I was born.  I always remember him being so fragile and here I am at 45, regrouping my life - eating better, exercising - in the best shape ever.  Yes, round is still a shape!

I had this realization today that I’m getting older, my brother is getting older and my sisters are getting older.   Oddly, I was worried about my brother...how he, if he was strong enough to bury another sister.  I realized that I’m 9 whole years younger than he is and it’s probably more likely for me to be the one to bury the 5 (I still think of us as in our original 6) of them...am I strong enough to do that?

I went to my workout tonight and all I could think about were these memories of my sisters, my brother, just these movie clips of them in my life with them and I wanted to record these things before they fade away.  The mind is an amazingly complicated, beautiful machine and what it keeps and the reasons why will always remain a mystery.  But the best is you never know what people remember about you or what memories they have kept!  Just a few:

Gloria, skipping down Fifth Avenue pier in Manistee singing “Feeling Groovy”.

Karen kneeling over the loveseat talking to our dad.

A very pregnant Cindy standing in a tractor  bucket up picking berries.

David stopping to see me at school - he’d come home for a funeral.

Playing cards with Valerie

Gloria and her guitar, her yellow pinto - Mr Bojangles, glass rocks, Petosky stones, cabbage rolls, and we could write novels!

Little sister weekend in Petosky, jamming my little hands into pop machines for can tabs to build Val a curtain for her closet!

Hours of Matchbox cars with David

Lunches at the Harvest Table with Karen every Saturday.

Cindy and I trying 9000 diets every summer.  The boiled potato and mustard one sticks out - I still hate mustard.  

David taking me to basketball games - oh my God - once I fell in the mud and he had to take me home, another time I fell down the bleachers, and once my mom was doing my hair and found the lice!

Kissing Karen goodbye from the kitchen. 

Horseback riding in the - was it pecan groves or hazelnut groves with Gloria

Left handed Cindy teaching right handed Gail to crochet.

Learning counted cross stitch from Karen 

Making my quilt with Cindy and Karen

Pizza at Armedo’s on Friday night with Karen

Stepping in David’s footprints in the snow.

Gloria playing cards while driving

And Val...

I have never felt so blessed as I did tonight having you 5 in my “movie”, my snapshots in time with you all.  The stories, the smiles my heart chooses to remember.  I’m sadly realizing that too quickly our family of 8 became 7 then 6, 5 and now just 4...

I remember one summer, 4th of July, I think before any of the kids or maybe just Matt, Cindy and Ron were up for the holiday.  You all were going for fireworks and I wasn’t old enough.  I was never old enough, I was always running behind trying to catch up, always wanting to do what you all were doing and go where you were going.  The typical tag along little sister.   Now, I’m not quite as eager!

Thank you all for taking me along - even when you didn’t want to, for answering my questions, my endless chatter, for taking time for me when I need help - to change a tire (thanks David) because I did something dumb (thank you, David) or I need some advice (usually  thanks again, David) and just when I get on your last nerve, remember...I may be the littlest sister, I may always need something or want something, be crying about something or have to ask you something but, one day I’m going to have to be the strongest sister because I’m the only one who will still be left behind here without all of you.

Afterall

I didn't grow up in some magical kingdom where everything was perfect.  We didn't have unlimited cash in hand.   My parents really weren't fancy people.  They met working in a B.F. Goodrich rubber factory where my mother's mother also worked.  Her father worked for an iron company.  My father's father was a mailman and his wife raised 9 children. My father eventually went on to be an Electrical Engineer for Consumer's Power, my mother a nurse's aid, a nurse and then she worked swing shifts in a salt factory.  She didn't work in the office, she worked on the factory floor, just like the men. 

My mom wanted nice, fancy things but, I guess she never wanted to spend the money to have them.  Because she never really bought much of any value. 

That said, my parents were pretty good people.  They raised us kids in the church, taught us to be clean, responsible, kind, considerate of others.  Now maybe that all happened by accident and maybe it was intentional, I'm not sure but regardless, here we are. 

My mother's daughters, all 5 of us, though very different, have always looked out for the little guy, helped the less fortunate, donate our time and our talents where needed.  We have always been quick to volunteer - most often without thinking!  We try very hard to help where we can, and do what we can.  

My mother's children are an extremely responsible, fiercely independent, strongly opinionated, overly determined, bunch.  We're an intelligent, well read, vastly experienced, loud bunch of givers!  

We're also a tough bunch to cross as we tend to hold our wrongs close, we have high expectations of ourselves and others.  When someone fails us, we're hard to forgive and harder to forget.   I truly pity the soul that dares try to take advantage of one of us or lies to us.  We generally sniff out a rat at 50 paces -and there is no turning back.  There is no saving yourself.   

But, when we love, we love with all that we have, all that we know and all that we can give.  We're unabashedly proud of our kids, and we are amazed by our spouses as they are often also our very best friends.  We also will not stand for anyone to take advantage of them in any way.

We're pretty quick to cut someone out when we have had enough.  But, please know by the time we have had enough, we have been stolen from, lied to, lied about, betrayed, talked about, and almost anything and everything in between and rather than hurt any more, we'll just leave you behind and go on with our lives.  You see, the pain of your betrayal is bigger than the pain of being without you. 

I'm not writing this as a threat.  I'm tired of being stabbed in the back, tired of sticking up for myself, really tired of being deceived and lied to.  You see, my momma taught me to be better than this, to not sit back and take this shit from anyone. I'm done.  I am my mother's daughter after all.