My Mother's Hands

My mother’s hands had short, clipped nails and prominent veins. She wore no rings, save her simple gold wedding band, and no nail polish.  

On Sunday mornings she wore soft white gloves to church. Her hands pointed to words in the hymnal and passed out little bags of chocolate chips, raisins, mini marshmallows, and red hots to her four wiggly kids. With one gloved finger, she tapped out “Intery mintery, cutery corn/Apple seed, apple thorn/Wire, briar, limber lock/Three geese in a flock…” on the fingers of the nearest child. During the sermon, when a single snap of her fingers signaled us to stop giggling and behave ourselves, her gloves muffled the sound but not the warning.

 

The rest of the week her hands rarely stopped moving. They folded laundry, ironed shirts, washed windows, scrubbed floors, polished woodwork, packed lunches, pared potatoes, peeled apples, stirred pudding, and cranked homemade ice cream.

 

They baited fishhooks, skipped stones, collected locust shells, arranged wildflowers, cut cattails, painted rocks and slate and pieces of driftwood. They played the piano and strummed the ukulele. They moved game pieces, worked jigsaw puzzles, colored in coloring books, and sewed teeny-tiny doll clothes. They turned the pages of our favorite books as we learned to read, held our bikes as we learned to ride, and pitched softballs as we learned to bat. 

 

I saw them covered in flour when she rolled out pie crust, hidden in bubbles when she washed the dishes, spattered with paint when she rolled the ceilings or painted walls, woodwork, and floors.

 

I felt them strong as they pushed the back of my swing, felt them gentle as she pulled out a stinger or splinter, felt them cool on my feverish cheeks. 

 

I watched them as she turned the whisper-thin pages of her old Bible, as she graded stacks of workbooks with her red pencil, and as she confidently filled in crossword puzzles in ink. 

 

As the years rolled on, they held the hands of my children, raced Matchbox cars down the ironing board with them, turned the pages of the same books she’d read to me. 

 

These days her hands are finally slowing down a bit. They still color, play the piano, and turn the pages of books and her Bible. They may be showing their age, but she has earned every wrinkle. To me, my mother’s hands have always been beautiful and always will be.

The Summer of the Second Grandchild

Ever since we found out about our second grandchild on Christmas Eve, our eyes have been focused on July (or August!). For months now, every conversation about summer plans has begun with “Well, it depends on Baby K…” We know the baby window is a wide one, but we are now two weeks from the due date, so I’m keeping my bag half-packed these days. My phone, usually silenced at night, has the volume turned up all the time now. And "casual" daily check-ins with my daughter have begun.

As we wait, I’ve been spending a lot of time looking forward to all that lies ahead: Holding sweet Baby K for the first time, watching my daughter and son-in-law as parents, happily taking day shifts and night shifts so Mom and Dad can get some rest… But I’ve also been looking back. It started with digging out my old journals to read the birth stories of each of my own kids. Then when I got to the journal from 1992, the year my daughter was born, I got lost in reading other entries, little snippets of our life back then. Those verbal snapshots gave me glimpses of our family that I’d nearly forgotten about.

 

Time is such a fluid thing. We’ve lived a whole life since I wrote those entries. Yet, sometimes, my days as a young mom seem like yesterday. I feel like if I can just look over my shoulder quickly enough, there we’ll all be—just as we were thirty years ago. I loved those days. But I also love these days. 

 

Our first grandchild, Jack, is nearing his first birthday, and what a happy, breathtaking year it’s been for my son and daughter-in-law (and for us!). Recently, I sent my daughter-in-law this text: “Good job, Mama. Your instincts were spot on.” She replied, “Aw thanks! I try but I don’t know what I’m doing.” I was struck by how true that is—in parenting and in life. We trust our instincts, try our hardest, but so much of the time we feel like we don’t know what we’re doing. 

 

Yesterday, my daughter and I spent the day hemming curtains for Baby K’s nursery. It involved a lot of measuring, marking, pinning, cutting, ironing, and finally sewing. We were as careful as could be, and the curtains look beautiful, but they are not perfect. At one point, early in the process, I said to her, “I wish there was one thing in my life where I could say, “Oh, this. I know exactly what to do.” There are probably some people with more expertise and more confidence who feel this way about things, but most of us just go along, doing the best we can and learning as we go. 

In the middle grade novel The Watsons Go to Birmingham by Christopher Paul Curtis, there’s a part I love where the main character, ten-year-old Kenny says, “Dad? I don’t think I’ll ever know what to do when I’m grown-up. It seems like you and Momma know a lot of things that I can never learn. It seems real scary. I don’t think I could ever be as good a parent as you guys.” His dad replies, “You’ll learn from the mistakes your mother and I make, just like we learned from the mistakes our parents made. I don’t have a single doubt that you and Byron and Joey will be much better parents than your mother and I ever were…”

 

I think this is true: each generation learns from the mistakes of the previous one. That doesn’t stop us from making our own mistakes along the way, but from what I’ve seen of this current generation of young adults and young parents, the future is in good hands. Thirty years from now when our kids’ kids are having kids, I hope and believe the world will be a cleaner, greener, safer, kinder place. 

But for now, for us, the countdown is on. See you soon, Baby K. We can't wait to meet you!

Happy 90th Birthday, Dad!

 If my dad had lived another twenty years, he would be turning ninety today. Although I’ve thought of him practically every day since the day he died, it still surprises me that he’s been gone so long and has missed so much. I wish he could see his grown-up grandchildren and meet his great grandchildren. I wish he could see how far technology has come in the last twenty years. But probably most of all, I wish the phone would ring and I’d hear his voice on the other end saying, “Hi, Babe. I don’t really want anything. Just thought I’d check in.” 

Back when those phone calls came regularly, I was a busy, frazzled, working mom. Sometimes I’d sometimes think, If you don’t really want anything, why are you calling? Now that I’m retired and have grown-up kids of my own, I know exactly why he was calling: to hear my voice, to make sure all was well, to stay connected… 

 

The same thing happened in childhood. If one of us kids happened to run into Dad in town when we were on our way to the pool or to a friend’s, he’d be as pleased as anything to see us. “Hey, Windy Mindy,” he’d say to me, “Want to go to Isaly’s for a vanilla Coke?” Sometimes I went, other times, I was too busy with my friends and my plans. TOO BUSY. If only I’d known then what I know now: It wasn’t about the vanilla Coke (though, those soda fountain vanilla Cokes were delicious), it was about a dad who, even then, could hear the pounding feet of the years slipping by, a dad who’d do anything to spend a few minutes with one of his kids.  

 

Like everyone, my dad had his share of troubles. He struggled to find the right job and career. He suffered from anxiety, depression, poor health for almost all of his adult life. Sometimes, those things got in the way of being a dad. Although I have memories of some of those hard times, what I remember more are all the days and all the ways he was a great dad—despite the battles he was fighting.

 

In honor of Dad's 90th birthday, here are just nine of my favorite memories from childhood: 

• The packages of M & M’s he left under our pillows on nights he got home late.
• The time he made my school lunch and instead of a sandwich, he put a potholder between two pieces of bread with a dollar tucked underneath along a note saying I had permission to eat lunch in town.
• His practice of giving us Friday night dimes (later quarters) to spend on anything we wanted.
• The nights he’d come through the door and call out, “Who wants a party?” then pull out little packages of Hostess cakes.
• The odd times he played kickball, four-square, or Spud with us when Mom was working.
• His roll calls: “Is everybody happy? Gail? Timmer? Windy Mindy? Salbo? Willie Bill?”
• The sound of his voice as he led the music at church, sang duets with my mom, or belted out “Five Golden Rings on Christmas car trips.
• The way he thought a milkshake could fix just about anything—from a sore throat to hurt feelings. 
• His ability to make each of us four kids feel like we were his favorite.

Although I would love to have had another twenty years with my dad, he gave me so much to hold onto in his absence. The very best memory I have, the one I carry with me everywhere I go every day of my life is the way Dad was always in my corner, the way he cheered me on and cheered me up, the way he believed in me and helped me believe in myself. In short, the way he loved me. What more could a daughter ask for?

Happy 90th Birthday, Dad. I miss you.

Happy Ben's Birthday (to Me)

I'm not quite sure how this happened, but tomorrow, our firstborn child, Ben, will turn 35. It sounds like a cliche, but I don't know where the time has gone. It doesn't seem possible that 35 years have passed since I held that baby in my arms.

If you had asked me on this day in 1986 to imagine what my life would be like in 2021, I would have gotten a lot of things wrong. 

I definitely would not have predicted we'd still be living in the same small town in Western New York--we thought for sure we were just passing through--but 35 years later, here we are. I might have guessed I'd be retired, but I could never have known then how much I would love my work or that I'd get to stay in the English department for another 34 years. I would have hoped baby #1 would have siblings, but I could not have come close to imagining the wonder of three becoming five, as we added another son and daughter. Or the joy of watching our kids marry, turning our five into eight. Or the way little number nine would capture our hearts.

I think my 26-year-old self would have guessed my 61-year-old self would feel more settled and more sure of herself than I do. She would have thought I'd have more answers than questions by now, that the ground would feel more stable beneath my feet than it does. She would have guessed that as a grandmother, I'd feel older and wiser than I do. But, at the same time, she could not have known how rich and full life would turn out to be--how much better it's been than anything she could have imagined. 

I think of that girl from time to time. I try to remember who she was and what she hoped for. I am thinking about her today when she was less than 24 hours away from the beginning of one of the greatest adventures of her life: being a mom.

The days my kids were born are three of the happiest, best days of my life. Over the past 35 years, I've baked a lot of birthday cakes and bought a lot of gifts for those three kids. As we celebrated each child, year after year, a little part of me felt as though it was my celebration, too. So even though my kids are all grown up and aren't usually home on their birthdays anymore, I still kick my heels up a little bit and throw some confetti around on November 19th, June 30th, and April 10th. 

This year, my firstborn will spend his birthday, as he so often does, in the high school auditorium. Tomorrow night he will oversee the opening night performance of the first middle school musical since the fall of 2019--just a few months before COVID-19 changed all of our lives. If all goes well, and there are no last-minute quarantines, Ben will have the happiest of birthdays. His heart will be full, and so will mine. If you see him, wish him a happy 35th birthday--and while you're at it, throw a little confetti my way, too!

Hello Jack!

Photo by Adam Goodnough

I have this old habit--something I've done since elementary school--of trying to imagine or envision what the next stage of my life will be like. It's almost like I'm rehearsing the future, trying to prepare myself for what is coming my way. Those who know me best know that I am big on "being prepared." I don't like to be caught unaware. I don't usually like surprises. I like to plan ahead. I want to be ready. Of course, my preparation often falls short because life is full of surprises, whether you like them or not. But that doesn't stop me from trying: I over-plan, overpack, and overthink my way through life.  

Yet try as I might, I could not quite imagine or envision what having a grandchild would be like. As part of my preparation, I've been keeping a close eye on other grandparents for years--doing research. I was trying hard to get an emotional glimpse of what it would be like when my turn came. I saw how besotted they were with their grandchildren, how much they talked about them, how much they liked to spend time with them. I thought I understood. 

Then Baby Jack arrived, and I discovered I was completely unprepared for the tidal wave of emotion that swept over me the first time I saw him and held him. I realized my research had only taken me so far: I had understood with my head, but not with my heart. I was surprised in the best possible way. And the emotional waves just keep coming--with each visit and every photo and video. The feeling is nothing like getting knocked down by a wave in the ocean though; it's more like falling into a cloud or the softest feather bed or a clean, clear pool of calm water. Time stops for a minute, and you want to stay inside that minute forever.

And then there is the second surprise: watching your kids become parents. My son and daughter-in-law have fallen head-over-heels in love with their boy and have stepped so naturally into being parents, you'd think they'd been preparing for these roles their whole lives. My heart feels like it will burst when I watch them together. 

So I'd say young Jack has already taught his old grandmother a few things: 1) You can't be prepared for everything (but it's okay to try), 2) Surprises can be very good, and 3) The adventure is just beginning. 

Photo by Adam Goodnough

The Summer of the First Grandchild

As many of you know, we are expecting our first grandchild this summer. As many of you also know, this is a big event in the life of a family. Despite the many other things happening this summer (a new house for our daughter and son-in-law, my husband's first post-pandemic role in a musical, a trip to Maine for my other son and daughter-in-law, a vacation with friends, even a book out on submission), all of our eyes are fixed on the due date, which recently shifted from August 11th to July 21st! All we know so far is that the baby is a boy and that maybe he is as anxious to meet us as we are to meet him!

Interesting things happen when you're anticipating the birth of your first grandchild. You look back at his father's baby book and relive the tumultuous days leading up to his birth, as well as the precious newborn days that followed. You linger over all the social media posts about newborns and babies. Your social media feed pops up ads for all kinds of baby gear and clothes (many of which you order or pin for future gifts). You look at yourself in the mirror and think about how different you look and feel than the way you saw your own grandmothers. But, most of all, you have this nearly overpowering feeling that wells up inside you every time you think of that little life. And you know that from now on, your world is going to revolve around him and all the other grandchildren who come after him. 

I ran into my daughter's third grade teacher at the grocery store last week. We stopped to chat a few minutes, and when she asked how my kids were, I told her about the upcoming arrival of our first grandchild. Tears filled her eyes as she told me her first grandchild had just graduated from high school and his grad party was that day. She kind of laughed and said, "I don't know why I'm so emotional about it, but I am." Then she touched my arm and said, "Enjoy it. It goes so fast." I instantly remembered being in that very same grocery store nearly three decades ago with my three young children and having more than one older women tell me that very same thing. I took it to heart then, and I'm taking it to heart now. 

I recently listened to the audiobook of My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry by Fredrik Backman. There is a passage in the book that stopped me in my tracks:

"Having a grandmother is like having an army. This is a grandchild's ultimate privilege: knowing that someone is on your side, always, whatever the details. Even when  you are wrong. Especially then, in fact. A grandmother is both a sword and a shield."

That is my promise to our first grandson and each grandchild who comes after him: I will always be on your side. No matter what. You can count on me. 

I'm making a promise to myself, too: I will savor every moment of being a grandmother because life has already taught me how fast it all goes. 

Last First Day of School

Today is my last first day of school. This is the latest the spring semester has ever begun while I've been teaching at Fredonia, and I've been glad to have the extra time to prepare--both academically and emotionally. When I first started teaching at Fredonia in 1988, I taught two sections of ENGL 100 at night as a part-time adjunct. This semester I am again teaching two classes at night as a (retired) part-time adjunct (though this semester I am teaching online instead of on campus). I find myself anticipating this last semester with equal measures of sorrow and relief. 

My decision to retire has not come quickly or easily. Walking away from a job I've loved has been tough. I spent many evenings over the summer sorting through and boxing up the books on my office shelves. I've taken down the pictures on the walls and cleaned out most of the drawers in my desk. I still have the file cabinet to tackle, and I think that will be the hardest job of all since I have files going all the way back to grad school tucked away in there. I can only do a little at a time. I read somewhere once that it's not the sorting and cleaning that takes the time, it's the memories that slow you down, and that has been very true for me. 

I know there are things I will forever miss about my job: the daytime hustle and bustle of Fenton Hall; the casual hallway and doorway conversations with my colleagues; the still of the Fenton Hall in the evening when most people have gone home; my cheerful, cluttered office; and of course, my earnest, hardworking students.

My transition from full-time to no-time has been deliberately slow. When I left my classroom last spring in the middle of March, I didn't know it would be for the last time, and somehow that made things easier. In the fall I taught a full load, but my classes and department meetings were virtual; this too added a layer of detachment from life as I've known it in Fenton Hall for more than 30 years. Now that I'm in the final stages of it all, the next chapter of my life has started to reveal itself bit by bit. 

I've always been an early riser, and that hasn't changed. I like being up while the world is still dark and quiet. I seem to do a lot of my best thinking and writing in those early hours. It's nice not to have to stop writing, working, and dreaming to shower, pack a lunch, and rush off to campus. 

I am finding that I like the slower pace of the rest of the day too. I have time to take long walks and knit and bake bread. I can read books that aren't on my syllabi. I can spend time watching multiple series on different platforms--I'm currently in the midst of The Crown, Cranford, Ted Lasso, Virgin River, and Last Tango in Halifax. 

It's not that I never had time to do any of the above before, but I always felt rushed, frazzled, or slightly guilty about wasting time. Of course, there are also many,  many household chores that have been waiting patiently (albeit dustily and messily) for my time and attention--though to be honest, I haven't expended a whole lot of energy in that direction yet. 

Slowly but surely, my well-worn identity as a college lecturer will be eclipsed by these other roles: writer, knitter, baker, reader, watcher, cleaner, organizer . . . and in an exciting plot twist: grandmother! We found out on Christmas morning that our first grandchild is on the way. He or she will arrive in August--just before a new semester starts without me. I can't imagine a better next chapter than that. 

Spaghetti Night

When I was a kid, I was a selective eater. I made out fine at breakfast (peanut butter toast) and lunch (peanut butter sandwiches), but suppertime was always a bit of a minefield for me because there were so many main dishes and side dishes I didn't much like. And there were parents who didn't much like that I didn't eat what was on the table. So dinner time was often stressful. Thus, it was a huge relief when we had one of my two favorite dinners: tacos or spaghetti. Taco nights were rare--usually a birthday meal request from me or one of my siblings. But we had spaghetti more often. In addition to it being a food I loved, spaghetti night was also the one time we were allowed to drink pop with dinner. We shared a bottle of cherry, orange, or grape Golden Age soda. This gave spaghetti night an air of celebration. If I came home late from school after play practice and saw that the kitchen windows were steamed up, my heart lifted because I knew my mom's big aluminum spaghetti pot was boiling away inside. 

All these years later, spaghetti night still lifts my spirits. It doesn't matter if we're having it with homemade Bolognese sauce, salad, and garlic bread, or if I'm just putting a little jarred sauce atop buttered noodles; spaghetti always hits the spot with me. It's the meal we have when I'm tired, when I can't think of anything else to make, or when it's been a hard week. Or all of the above, like today. The steamy kitchen and the wafting smell of tomato sauce connect the present with the past. And to me that comforting plate full of noodles and sauce still feels like a little celebration--especially when it comes with a slice of leftover apple pie! I hope that each of you found a soft place to land for a few minutes this Sunday too.  

Keep Your Happiest Face Up

As many of you know, my mom has been residing in an assisted living facility for the past several years. Thus, my sister, brothers and I have not been able to visit her since early March. Although my mom is a bit peeved by the persistence of the coronavirus, she has adjusted to the changes surprisingly well. We've all been writing letters, sending (or dropping off) care packages, and calling more often. During one phone call early on in the pandemic, Mom and I had been talking about the many ways the virus was interrupting our lives and plans. Maybe I was showing more frustration than I meant to because at the end of the conversation, she said, “Well, honey, keep your happiest face up." I laughed and said I'd try. Then I said what I always say at the end of a call: "I love you, Mom," and she said, "I love you too, more than you know." 

Thanks to the patient supervision of the thoughtful workers at her facility, we've also been able to FaceTime with her, something that we'd never done before. One of the interesting aspects of the collision between FaceTime and early dementia is that to my mom, the FaceTime visits seem like actual in-person visits. "Be sure to take your book with you when you leave today, honey," she told me one day, and then she said, "I'm so glad I got up there to see Ben and Becca's new house" (which she’s seen only on a FaceTime tour my son and his wife gave her).

The FaceTime visits, mail, and phone calls have undoubtedly contributed to the way my mom has adapted to this new normal, but I wonder if her resilience is also a product of having lived a long time and seen a lot of hard things. She was born in 1932, right in the middle of the Great Depression. In the turbulent 1960s, she was a young wife and mother.  By the time she retired from teaching in the early 1990s, she had lived through wars, recessions, political and social unrest, and disease outbreaks from tuberculosis and polio to measles and whooping cough. She was just shy of seventy years old on 9/11, and now here she is at 87, weathering a pandemic, the likes of which, none of us has seen before. 

As she has always done my whole life, she is still setting a wise example for me. I see her carrying on, finding joy and peace in doing the things she's always loved that she can still do: reading, coloring, writing letters, caring for the plants on her windowsill, praying for her family and friends, and drinking coffee. She is holding on tight to her faith and keeping her happiest face up. I love you, Mom, more than you know.

Mountains and Valleys

I've been thinking about those of you who have had your children quarantined with you over the past few months. There is a part of me that envies the cozy scene I envision: board games,  family dinners, and lots of time together. And there is another part of me that is relieved not to be in charge of keeping children (of any age) occupied and happy during a pandemic. I think no matter who you are and what your situation is, we can all agree that life during a pandemic is a challenge, and we are all playing the quarantine hands we've been dealt as well as we can.

Since we're still smack dab in the middle of COVID-19, we're also still in the midst of learning the lessons a pandemic has to offer about who we are, who we were, and who we want to become (both as individuals and as a country). However, I expect, when we look back years from now, we'll see that there were a lot of good things hiding underneath the hardship, sorrow, fear, and frustration of this time.

Once, many years ago when our kids were young, we went to the ocean for a week with our extended family. As I remember, it rained every day and many in our group got the stomach flu. But on our last full day, the sun came out and we ventured down to the ocean's edge where we found a family of dolphins jumping and playing--they were almost close enough to touch. Above them was a double rainbow. And that's what has stayed with me: that beautiful ending to a tough week.

So in the spirit of holding onto the good and trying to finish strong, here are some things I've been noticing:

1. I am taking life more slowly. I've been walking a lot and taking time to notice the bright, cheerful flowers everywhere and the green of the trees against the blue of the sky. I've been appreciating our quiet little village and the creek that runs through it. I've been reading more. I've been making things from scratch: sourdough bread, hamburger and hot dog buns, pita pockets, and pizza.

2. I've been appreciating the way people are stepping up: sharing their expertise and talent; offering information, advice and encouragement via social media; making and distributing masks; sharing recipes; dropping off eggs, produce, coffee beans, and garden plants; texting and calling to stay in touch; cheerfully crossing to the other side of the street to avoid getting too close; and hosting socially distanced porch visits and small backyard gatherings.

3. Although it's been a struggle, I've been learning to be more patient, to do without, to wait for things I wish for and want right now. I'm trying to be more grateful for what I have--and in the process, I'm realizing I have a lot.

4. While it feels odd to have your kids taking care of you instead of the other way around, I am thankful and touched by the ways our kids (our sons and daughter and our son- and daughters-in-law) have watched out for us over the past few months. They text, snap, and call more often (and talk longer). They Zoom and play online games with us on Saturday evenings and Sunday mornings and afternoons. They do our grocery shopping in between Instacart deliveries and pick ups (and don't say anything about the fact that we're still using Instacart instead of masking up and doing our own shopping). They pick up take-out food. They offer help and advice with technology issues and tree removal. They show interest (feign interest?) in my sourdough bread making adventures. They suggest TV shows and podcasts (along with instructions on how and where to find them). They worry when I'm not sleeping and offer solutions. They listen to our fears. They help us sift through information and give us perspective. They model resilience and courage. They cheer us up. They cheer us on.

There's a beautiful passage in the book Esperanza Rising by Pam Munoz Ryan: "[Abuelita] handed Esperanza the bundle of crocheting. 'Look at the zigzag of the blanket. Mountains and valleys. Right now you are in the bottom of the valley and your problems loom big around you. But soon, you will be at the top of a mountain again.'" When I teach this book, my students and I talk about how spending time in the valleys changes Esperanza and makes her a stronger, wiser, more compassionate person; we discuss how that is true for all of us. Although none of us enjoy the hard times in our lives, it's in the valleys that we do our growing.

We are all in the deep valley of COVID-19 right now, and the next mountain top is barely visible. Since we're stuck here for a while, I want to use the time as well as I can, so that when we're on the mountain top again, I am a little stronger, a little wiser, a lot more compassionate.

Jean Galliher Wendell

My husband's mom died yesterday. She was 97. She'd lived a long and full life. But no matter how old we get or how old our parents get, we're just never prepared to lose them. When I first married Steve, I didn't fully realize at first what a gem I had gotten as a mother-in-law. But for the past forty years, I've learned so much from watching this kind, gracious, generous, classy woman. Steadily and surely, she has shown me what a well-lived life looks like. For most of those forty years, we lived in the same town--and for a short while, even in the same house. My recipe box is filled with her recipes; our house is filled with her furniture, her Christmas ornaments, and her dishes; but most of all, our hearts are overflowing with precious memories. We miss you, Mom; we always will. Thank you for everything.

Benjamin: Son of My Right Hand

I've been thinking a lot about Ben lately. Today is the middle school musical: he'll spend twelve hours with the cast and crew of Elf Jr. Monday is his birthday: he'll turn 32. And six weeks from today is his wedding day: he'll marry his sweet Becca. As most of you know, Ben is our oldest child; he's the one who has been with us the longest, the one whose name means "son of my right hand."

They say there are a lot of advantages to being the firstborn in a family, but I think there are a lot of hard things about it too. First of all, firstborns have inexperienced parents who are still trying to figure things out. When siblings come along, the firstborn becomes the leader, the trail blazer, the first one to do almost everything. Because of this, firstborns have to have broad shoulders. They become a kind of link between the outside world and home life, a link between the parents and the younger siblings. Younger siblings look to them for help, for advice, for tips on how to navigate life; they expect them to know what to do and how to do it. And it's not just the younger siblings that lean hard on the firstborn, parents do too. Ben has done a spectacular job of fulfilling this role for the past thirty years. He's lived up to his name by being our "right-hand man" in more ways than I can count.

When Ben was young, he used our wooden coffee table as his desk. His desk chair was one of those chubby yellow Little Tikes chairs. On his desk he had a box filled with pens and markers, a red box for his completed paperwork, and a huge stack of paper. He made books, charts, and schedules--lots and lots of schedules. He used so much paper, we started buying it by the ream, well before we had any kind of home computer and printer. As he grew older, his paperwork often expanded beyond his coffee-table desk to the couch, the end table, and the floor. One night when he was about ten years old, he was heading off to bed, and I asked him to clean up his papers before he went upstairs. "I've already cleaned up after you once tonight," I reminded him. He called back over his shoulder, "I have a full life!"

It was true then and it's true now. Ben has always had a full life. And one of the things I noticed early on about Ben was that his full life spilled over and filled up my life in unexpected ways. He had big plans, big sleepovers, big birthday parties, and a big high school graduation party; he brought big groups of friends home from college for the weekend and invited big groups of friends to dinner. As a result, he helped me live a bigger, fuller life too.

After college, Ben came back to Fredonia to live and work. He teaches school and directs big musicals. His life is fuller than ever. And on December 29, 2018, it will fill up even more--in the best possible way.

So I've been pondering what this new chapter in his life might mean in my life. Will his marriage mean the end of watching West Wing and Blue Bloods together, the end of playing Yahtzee, the end of sitting around the dinner table at the end of a school day, the end of his full life bubbling over into mine? 

But then last Saturday, Ben, Becca, and I had tickets to see my husband Steve in Newsies at the Jamestown Community College campus. We went early with Steve instead of taking two cars, so Ben, Becca, and I had an hour to fill before the show. We found some seats in a downstairs hallway of the academic building that houses the theater. Before long the three of us were playing Heads Up and talking and laughing. And in the midst of it, I realized that even though my last child is getting married and my nest is finally well and truly empty, my life is filling up. The dining room chandelier that I wrote about in my very first blog entry isn't dimming after all; it is blazing with the added light of a new son-in-law and two new daughters-in-law. 

So Benjamin, son of my right hand, carry on. Live big and enjoy your full life. (Just remember to clean up your papers every once in a while!)

The Marvelous, Musical Miss Cicelske

A little over a year ago, my son Ben casually mentioned that he'd been seeing someone for a couple of months and would it be okay if he brought her over for dinner. You know how it is with moms and their kids--we can usually read them pretty well. I was immediately on high alert; there was something in his manner and in his voice that made me think this might not just be "someone" but "SOMEONE." When they came to dinner and we met Becca for the first time and watched the two of them together, my inkling about her grew stronger. Here we are many dinners and many months later, and Ben and Becca are engaged; in just a few months, Becca Cicelske will become Becca Wendell.

But before that happens, let me tell you a little about Becca Rae Cicelske. For nine years, she has been Miss Cicelske, the dedicated, hard-working, jack-of-all-trades music teacher at Northern Chautauqua Catholic School. In just a few days, she will start a brand new job as the band director for grades 5-12 at Chautauqua Lake Central School. She also plays the euphonium (which, I admit, I had to google to make sure I knew just what it was) and the ukulele (this one I knew since my mom is a long-time ukulele player!). She also sings, directs musicals, arranges music, and actually hears music differently than the average person (or at least differently than this average person). So that's the musical part of Miss Cicelske.

The marvelous part is revealed in more ways than I can name in a short blog post, but at the top of the list is the way she cares for people: her family (including her beloved nieces and nephews), her students, her friends, and especially Ben. She "gets" Ben. She understands who he is, what he wants, what he needs. Like many introverted people, she is a watcher, a noticer, and in the sixteen months she's known Ben, she has seen things him that have surprised even me. She's also a good listener, an encourager, a person who seems to know what people need before they ask. She's an excellent game player. She loves Ben's dog, Zeke, and is so good with him that we call her the dog whisperer. And to top it all off: she loves mint chocolate chip ice cream and the Buffalo Bills!

When Becca got the job at Chautauqua Lake, I was so thankful: being a 5-12 band director is her dream job; but I was also thinking how great it was for them: I knew they'd gotten a gem. When Ben proposed to Becca, I was so thankful: Becca is the girl of his dreams and I knew how happy they make each other; but I was also thinking how great it is for us: our family has gotten another gem. Welcome to the family, Becca!

Advice to My Son

To my sweet boy,

One month from tomorrow is your wedding day, and my heart is already brimming with emotion. I think maybe parents of grown-up children all share a strange ability: when they look at their child, they see not only the current, full-grown person that child has become but also every single version of that child—from baby to toddler to child to teen to young adult. My mind is flooded with memories of the boy you were and visions of the husband you are about to become. Because I can’t get you out of my mind, I thought I’d take this opportunity to offer you some advice on marriage. I’m not sure you really need advice from me—but when has that ever stopped me?!

1.    I remember a hot summer day when you were helping me in the yard by hauling weeds to the compost pile as I was gardening. You disappeared into the house for a while, and when you returned, you had two Tupperware cups filled with lemonade. You smiled and said, “I thought this might hit the spot.” So my first piece of advice is this: Take lemonade to Emma. Surprise her with your thoughtfulness. Show her in unexpected ways that you are thinking about her and noticing what she needs.

2.    Another memory from much later on: you, Em, and I went sledding late at night on hill behind Eagle Street school. We were having a lot of fun until I bounced off my saucer and hit my head hard on the packed snow. You were beside me in seconds, helping me up, retrieving my sled, walking me home, and checking my pupils. So that’s my second bit of advice: Always watch out for Emma’s safety and well-being. Take care of her. Protect her. Cherish her. 

3.    I still have several of the notes you left me over the years of your childhood tucked away in my dresser drawer, and I know from a snap or two Emma has sent, that you’ve carried on your note-leaving tradition with her. Keep it up! Keep leaving her sweet notes.

4.    Recently you were telling me about putting together the hammock you got as a shower gift. You were saying how much you love it, how nice it is, how you plan to take care of it and bring it in when it rains. Then you said, “At least for the first year. After that, it’ll probably be like everything else; we’ll forget and it’ll get rained on.” While that is so true for things like hammocks and so many other possessions, don’t let it be true for your marriage. Protect it like the treasure it is. Don’t take it for granted. Don’t ever stop taking care of it.

5.    This is getting long, and I know you are no fan of lengthy posts, so the rest I will put in short bullets:

·      On snowy mornings, clean off her car windows.

·      When she looks nice, notice. Then tell her. 

·      Keep making her laugh.

·      Make sure she knows that you will always take her side and be in her corner.

·      When she’s having a bad day, find a way to make it better.

·      Be as cheerful as possible as often as possible.

·      When you mess up, admit it and apologize.

·      In the long run, the little moments in a marriage matter as much or more than the big ones. So value the everydayness of your life together.

·      Be careful in arguments not to say things you can’t take back, things that will hurt—even if they are true (and especially if they are not true).

·      Working hard is important and having money makes life easier, but making a life is more important than making a living. 

·      Never, ever, ever give up on the relationship even if the going gets tough (and it will). Hang in there and fight for your happy ending.

·      Hold her hand, touch her shoulder—stay connected in big and small ways.

·      Treasure her: make sure she knows you value her, admire her, and appreciate her.

·      Tell her you love her—often.

I’m sure there are other things I could or should add. But as I said before, I think you already know how to be a good husband—just keep being the kind, loving, funny, thoughtful, protective person you’ve always been. And if you ever need advice (or anything at all), you know where to find me . . . 

We Got Her

Emma and Darton, 2012

In June of 2012, we met our son in Buffalo to pick up the family Honda he'd been driving but was now passing along to his sister. Since he had to bring two cars to Buffalo, he enlisted the help of a friend, a girl from Roberts Wesleyan named Emma. She was pretty, friendly, and polite. She was wearing white pants and very cute sandals. And there was an ease between the two of them that I liked. Although our meeting was brief on that sunny day in June, a couple of months later when we found out they were dating, we were delighted but not surprised! And the more we got to know Emma, the more we liked her.

Fast forward five-and-a-half years. Darton and Emma are still together. Emma is still pretty, friendly, and polite. There's still a lovely, just-right ease between the two of them. And Emma's shoe game remains consistently strong! I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that with every single visit, we love her more. In fact a couple of years ago, our other son said, "If they ever break up, we're just going to have to adopt Emma."

A week before Christmas we got the phone call we'd been waiting for. Darton had just proposed to his sweet Emma. None of us could stop smiling.

In the days after that happy phone call, I kept thinking of a chapter title in the book Sahara Special, by Esme Raji Codell, called "We Got Her." At the beginning of the chapter, the students in an ordinary fifth-grade classroom are waiting to meet their brand-new teacher, Madame Poitier (Miss Pointy). As the story unfolds, the students realize that as far as teachers go, they have hit the jackpot. Miss Pointy is a teacher like no other. She's the teacher they've been waiting for, the teacher who will forever change their lives. We feel the way those fictional fifth graders felt. As far as (future) daughters-in-law/sisters-in-law go, we have hit the jackpot. Emma is a girl like no other. She's the girl we've been praying for, the girl who will forever change our family. We Got Her. We Got Her. We Got Emma!

Emma and Darton, 2017

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