When I first retired, I stumbled across The Gift of a Year: How to Give Yourself the Most Meaningful Pleasurable Satisfying Year of Your Life by Mira Kirshenbaum. When I finished reading it, I set my goal for the next year to get the house organized after thirty years of working, raising children, and everything else that comes with a woman’s adult life. At first, it seemed impossible to consider clearing every closet, drawer, and shelf. But, after I slept for the better part of six months, I did begin to get thing under control. It took almost two years to complete, but, by the end of that time, the house was cleared of much of its clutter, repairs had been made, walls and floors were renewed, and our family could fully enjoy every space in the house. We were even confident enough to consider adding an addition to the house with the help of a contractor friend.
What we didn’t see coming was a new, old house. We stumbled across an empty foreclosure with two wooded acres in an area where we never even considered living. It needed to be stripped to the studs to begin the work to bring the house back to a state where it could be lived in. On our first visit, we laughed all the way through, saying, “Not us, not us!” But, somehow, we managed to find ourselves back inside with our good contractor friend whose specialty just happened to be bringing disastrous messes of houses back to life. After that visit, we saw it only as the retirement house of our dreams, designed and built to make the rest of our lives better.
Now, a year and a half after moving in, I realize how much our lives have improved and how this has become a new family home for our children, for my sister and her children, even for my mother who will move into a retirement center nearby next year. In this short time, we’ve had more family members visit than we have ever had in thirty-five years of marriage. We’ve used our dining room table more often than we have in the last twenty years. We’ve had more diverse and more interesting collections of people drink a glass of wine on the screened porch, enjoy a fire in the living room, and always laugh around the kitchen counter than we’ve ever had in our lives. And, despite my arthritis and bad knees, I’ve discovered ways to make it enjoyable for me to entertain large parties, small groups of friends, or family as often as we like.
However, along the way, I’ve picked up more clutter by way of morbid obesity and related health problems. And so, I find myself needing a new year to rid my life of those things that keep it from being the most meaningful, pleasurable, and satisfying life that I realize it could be. Just like setting the goal of updating our last house or planning a complete rebuild of our new home, I’m surprised to find that I have already prepared for the job ahead of me. I’ve paid strict attention to all the concerns of my doctors over the last three years. I’ve followed through on every test and screening that they have ordered and researched the underlying issues. Despite diagnosis as a type 2 diabetic three years ago, I’ve discovered through the process that most of my health problems can be significantly improved or eliminated through changes in diet and exercise and awareness and attitude. And for the first time in over twenty years, I don’t feel doomed to failure with regard to managing my weight for myself. I feel energized and ready.
As I write, I look out at the first vegetable garden I’ve ever had and realize that it's a tangible sign of my choice to live better and to contribute to a healthier life for our family and friends. It has taken months of preparation, from finding and ordering growing boxes that allow me to work smarter to learning to reuse kitchen and yard waste as compost, but the green tomatoes that I see on the vine promise that it will be worth it.
The next year holds other promises for me, as well.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Uncle Joe
My uncle Joe always told me that I was his favorite niece. It took me until I was 50to realize that he only had two nieces and that he probably told both us the same thing.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Carrying Coal
Several years ago my sister surprised me with tapes by Michelle Shocked that rapidly became favorites thanks to their bluegrass melodies and the story-like quality of her songs. But, her lyrics about coal cars on the L & N railroad haunt me in a way I struggled to understand for a long time:
“I was born and raised at the mouth of the Hazard holler,
Where the coal cars rolled and rumbled past my door.
But now they stand in a rusty row, all empty,
Because the L & N don’t stop here anymore.”
My family comes from coal country. My father’s father spent his life as a brakeman for the Louisville & Nashville Railroad, carrying coal from the mines to the mills and factories of the South. Coal built the railroads and brought jobs, schools, churches, business, wealth, alcohol, crime, poverty, and illness to the small towns through which it passed.
As a child, I could point out the sites of strip mines from the car window. Seams of coal, glossy sides shining in the sun, lay exposed in hillsides and I was fascinated to find the odd lump of coal lying in the parking lot. I was forbidden to pick it up, dirty, nasty, priceless coal.
Mom was born in a coal mine camp in Tennessee where her father ran the mine commissary. He died of alcoholism when she was 8 and my grandmother moved her children into her family home in Kentucky and found work with the railroads arranging shipments of coal.
My great uncle was the assistant postmaster and was legendary in the area. Folks far back in the mountains and the mine camps knew he could be counted on to make deliveries from town when he brought their mail. Local doctors kept his garage stocked with sample medicines and my uncle distributed them to families who had no way into town and no means to buy the medications they needed. They would send whatever they could back with him as barter, determined to pay their own way for their illness if not for their health.
We visited the town where my mother was born only once with my great uncle. I have a picture of it in my imagination – two dusty dirt roads, company-owned homes set back in the trees, the company commissary that my grandfather ran, and, off to the left, a dark yawning hole – the entrance to the mine itself. But, I never seem to picture the freight cars or the railroad in a tiny mountain clearing that was too small to have paved streets.
I knew the railroads carried my father and his brothers away to war, delivered my great aunts to New York City for vacations, and brought my mother, sister, and me into the mountains from our home in Atlanta on summer breaks. And, although it began its journey in camps too small to command passenger trains to stop, coal was always the railroads’ most important paying customer.
The families of miners heated their homes with coal, as did my mother’s family and all the others who lived in the valley. My sister or I would come down with respiratory problems early in our visits to Kentucky and we would quickly resemble the runny-nosed children we saw on the streets of town. My great uncle would lead us to his garage, unlock the door and pull it open to display shelves and shelves of cold remedies, cough syrups, and allergy medications. Mom would locate the products we normally took, the door would be relocked, and we would go on with our visit, somewhat drowsier but less congested. We never really questioned why this lovely valley triggered our respiratory problems with such regularity.
Although we moved to Atlanta well before my mother was 30, her life has been plagued with allergies, asthma, and respiratory infections. Last year, she began to have chronic bouts of bronchitis at age 78. When I accompanied her to the pulmonologist for her initial visit, I was stunned to hear him read in medical records provided by her family doctor that she had COPD, Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. The specialist asked her only two questions about her personal history and the first was answered simply with a “No”:
1. Have you ever smoked?
2. Have you ever lived in a house that was heated by coal?
She did, of course. She was born by coal, fed by coal, warmed by coal, clothed by coal, and educated by coal. Somehow, its black dust has stayed with her, hidden in places where we could not see it or sense its effects. And, after all these years, it demands a price for its travels with her and the life it brought to the mountains and valleys of the southern Appalachians.
And now I know the words of the song are wrong – the coal cars have never been empty. They brought the very air that my mother would breathe from deep within the mines themselves. Now I sense the railroad is moving toward her, snaking its way toward a landscape we cannot anticipate, coal smoke blowing through its open cars, stopping to collect the riders who must pay its fare.
My mother will take passage. She was marked with coal for the journey long ago.
“I was born and raised at the mouth of the Hazard holler,
Where the coal cars rolled and rumbled past my door.
But now they stand in a rusty row, all empty,
Because the L & N don’t stop here anymore.”
My family comes from coal country. My father’s father spent his life as a brakeman for the Louisville & Nashville Railroad, carrying coal from the mines to the mills and factories of the South. Coal built the railroads and brought jobs, schools, churches, business, wealth, alcohol, crime, poverty, and illness to the small towns through which it passed.
As a child, I could point out the sites of strip mines from the car window. Seams of coal, glossy sides shining in the sun, lay exposed in hillsides and I was fascinated to find the odd lump of coal lying in the parking lot. I was forbidden to pick it up, dirty, nasty, priceless coal.
Mom was born in a coal mine camp in Tennessee where her father ran the mine commissary. He died of alcoholism when she was 8 and my grandmother moved her children into her family home in Kentucky and found work with the railroads arranging shipments of coal.
My great uncle was the assistant postmaster and was legendary in the area. Folks far back in the mountains and the mine camps knew he could be counted on to make deliveries from town when he brought their mail. Local doctors kept his garage stocked with sample medicines and my uncle distributed them to families who had no way into town and no means to buy the medications they needed. They would send whatever they could back with him as barter, determined to pay their own way for their illness if not for their health.
We visited the town where my mother was born only once with my great uncle. I have a picture of it in my imagination – two dusty dirt roads, company-owned homes set back in the trees, the company commissary that my grandfather ran, and, off to the left, a dark yawning hole – the entrance to the mine itself. But, I never seem to picture the freight cars or the railroad in a tiny mountain clearing that was too small to have paved streets.
I knew the railroads carried my father and his brothers away to war, delivered my great aunts to New York City for vacations, and brought my mother, sister, and me into the mountains from our home in Atlanta on summer breaks. And, although it began its journey in camps too small to command passenger trains to stop, coal was always the railroads’ most important paying customer.
The families of miners heated their homes with coal, as did my mother’s family and all the others who lived in the valley. My sister or I would come down with respiratory problems early in our visits to Kentucky and we would quickly resemble the runny-nosed children we saw on the streets of town. My great uncle would lead us to his garage, unlock the door and pull it open to display shelves and shelves of cold remedies, cough syrups, and allergy medications. Mom would locate the products we normally took, the door would be relocked, and we would go on with our visit, somewhat drowsier but less congested. We never really questioned why this lovely valley triggered our respiratory problems with such regularity.
Although we moved to Atlanta well before my mother was 30, her life has been plagued with allergies, asthma, and respiratory infections. Last year, she began to have chronic bouts of bronchitis at age 78. When I accompanied her to the pulmonologist for her initial visit, I was stunned to hear him read in medical records provided by her family doctor that she had COPD, Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. The specialist asked her only two questions about her personal history and the first was answered simply with a “No”:
1. Have you ever smoked?
2. Have you ever lived in a house that was heated by coal?
She did, of course. She was born by coal, fed by coal, warmed by coal, clothed by coal, and educated by coal. Somehow, its black dust has stayed with her, hidden in places where we could not see it or sense its effects. And, after all these years, it demands a price for its travels with her and the life it brought to the mountains and valleys of the southern Appalachians.
And now I know the words of the song are wrong – the coal cars have never been empty. They brought the very air that my mother would breathe from deep within the mines themselves. Now I sense the railroad is moving toward her, snaking its way toward a landscape we cannot anticipate, coal smoke blowing through its open cars, stopping to collect the riders who must pay its fare.
My mother will take passage. She was marked with coal for the journey long ago.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Not in Our Family
I never thought it could happen in our family. I’ve heard about it before. About neighborhood kids being warned not to play with THOSE children because their… About families having to move away because they couldn’t stop it… About the hallucinations and the addiction and the drooling… About trying to pull him away time and time again, all the while knowing that he doesn’t really recognize me or maybe even see me.
It’s happened in our yard, with our baby. Harry, our sweet, people-loving, wonderful Labradoodle, is a toad licker.
At first, I thought it was funny. Then he started to foam at the mouth, slobbering and smacking his lips continuously. I’d read about dogs addicted to toad licking before and know that toads in other parts of the country exude secretions so toxic that dogs can die from licking them. But, apparently, they die happy.
His sister Bess contented herself with chasing a moth under the spotlight. Not Harry. He followed the toad into every dark cranny, lunging to pick it up, over and over again. His mouth must have gotten numb fairly quickly. Thanks to that and Harry’s “soft” Lab mouth, so highly prized in retrievers, the toad escaped unharmed each time. That toad was covered in slime, despite what naturalists tell you about amphibians. Toad suckin’ dogs generate a lot of slime.
I finally got him to take care of business in the grass and pulled him into the house by the collar. Bess followed happily lured by the promise of a cookie. Harry lumbered to the water bowl and refilled it with slobber.
I tell people to check everything on Snopes. I looked. This isn’t on Snopes. But you can Google “dogs that lick toads” and see photos of cane toads and Colorado toads and giant toads and marine toads. All guilty of dealing to dogs.
With a little luck, you won’t see Harry’s picture posted yet. He’s a first offender.
It’s happened in our yard, with our baby. Harry, our sweet, people-loving, wonderful Labradoodle, is a toad licker.
At first, I thought it was funny. Then he started to foam at the mouth, slobbering and smacking his lips continuously. I’d read about dogs addicted to toad licking before and know that toads in other parts of the country exude secretions so toxic that dogs can die from licking them. But, apparently, they die happy.
His sister Bess contented herself with chasing a moth under the spotlight. Not Harry. He followed the toad into every dark cranny, lunging to pick it up, over and over again. His mouth must have gotten numb fairly quickly. Thanks to that and Harry’s “soft” Lab mouth, so highly prized in retrievers, the toad escaped unharmed each time. That toad was covered in slime, despite what naturalists tell you about amphibians. Toad suckin’ dogs generate a lot of slime.
I finally got him to take care of business in the grass and pulled him into the house by the collar. Bess followed happily lured by the promise of a cookie. Harry lumbered to the water bowl and refilled it with slobber.
I tell people to check everything on Snopes. I looked. This isn’t on Snopes. But you can Google “dogs that lick toads” and see photos of cane toads and Colorado toads and giant toads and marine toads. All guilty of dealing to dogs.
With a little luck, you won’t see Harry’s picture posted yet. He’s a first offender.
Monday, January 1, 2007
Family History
The stories in my husband’s family come to us as letters and documents dating back to the Revolutionary War. Their tellers include a slave, Revolutionary and Civil War Army officers, members of Aaron Burr’s family, Kit Carson, General William Tecumseh Sherman, General Lew Wallace who wrote the classic Ben Hur, Presidents Andrew Johnson, William McKinley, and Grover Cleveland, and various US Secretaries of State and Secretaries of War. They fill a cardboard box that came from an aunt’s basement to sit on a shelf in our closet.
We’ve been told many times how lucky we are to have these stories. But the truth is that my husband’s family chose to perpetuate the stories of their ancestors rather than live their own. They were crippled by the profound burdens of responsibility and privilege at the stories’ cores. The contradictions they tell are too powerful for us to pass on as legacy to our sons.
My husband and I have decided to put all the family documents up for auction, to let them be studied and shared as they never have been before. Despite the wealth of family history, we find ourselves collaborating by necessity with people who value them for the thousands of dollars they bring. Somehow, we’ll create a new story.
We’ve been told many times how lucky we are to have these stories. But the truth is that my husband’s family chose to perpetuate the stories of their ancestors rather than live their own. They were crippled by the profound burdens of responsibility and privilege at the stories’ cores. The contradictions they tell are too powerful for us to pass on as legacy to our sons.
My husband and I have decided to put all the family documents up for auction, to let them be studied and shared as they never have been before. Despite the wealth of family history, we find ourselves collaborating by necessity with people who value them for the thousands of dollars they bring. Somehow, we’ll create a new story.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Daylillies
When I was a child, we made summer trips to the family home in the mountains of eastern Kentucky. Upon arrival, we were greeted by hundreds of yellow daylilies blooming in my great aunt’s garden.
When all the older family members were gone, grandchildren and nieces and nephews gathered one last time to distribute the furnishings, photos, and mementos. My husband and I were the only ones to spend a few minutes digging up lilies to plant at our first home in South Carolina. Each time we move, we take just a few with us.
Soon George and I will move into what is planned to be our final house. Only the things we truly love will go with us. And, next summer, my great aunt’s lilies will welcome us each time we come home.
Tall yellow lilies,
Lush memories of childhood,
Call us to come home.
When all the older family members were gone, grandchildren and nieces and nephews gathered one last time to distribute the furnishings, photos, and mementos. My husband and I were the only ones to spend a few minutes digging up lilies to plant at our first home in South Carolina. Each time we move, we take just a few with us.
Soon George and I will move into what is planned to be our final house. Only the things we truly love will go with us. And, next summer, my great aunt’s lilies will welcome us each time we come home.
Tall yellow lilies,
Lush memories of childhood,
Call us to come home.
Monday, February 6, 2006
Routine Exam
In 1972, two days before my 21st birthday - the Thursday before Easter, I had a routine physical. I was home from college for spring break and had promised my mother that I would finally go to the doctor. I told him that I had a minor illness a month or so earlier and that the "townie" doctor who examined me in the college clinic was particularly attentive to my thyroid. After explaining that I had taken thyroid medication for a short while as a younger child, he proceeded to deal with the sinus infection that brought me to the college clinic in the first place.
However, our family doctor was more concerned. He checked my thyroid gland, immediately had me get up, dress, and go straight to the local hospital to take the medication that would allow me to have a thyroid scan the next day, on Good Friday. Our family doctor was a life long friend of my mother's and he called her while I was at the hospital to explain his concern and the urgency for the test.
Mom accompanied me to the hospital on Friday for the scan. My twenty-first birthday was on Saturday. My parents and our doctor insisted that I not return to school on Monday, as planned, but wait until Tuesday when the results would be available.
When the phone rang on Tuesday, I joined the conversation between my mother and doctor on another phone. My mother insisted that I get off, ordered me to get off, and wouldn’t hear anything else but that I get off the phone. Finally, I gulped and spoke straight to the doctor. "I'm twenty-one and I will not give you permission to discuss this with my mother unless I am on the phone." I've always admired the way he paused and then told my mother that he would explain the results to me while she listened, with my permission. He proceeded to tell me that the test showed that I had thyroid cancer, fortunately detected in the earliest stages. I had surgery about a month later and have had no further problems with cancer in thirty-four years.
I do still have to gulp and force myself to take responsibility to speak up occasionally but this moment reminds me of how important it might be.
However, our family doctor was more concerned. He checked my thyroid gland, immediately had me get up, dress, and go straight to the local hospital to take the medication that would allow me to have a thyroid scan the next day, on Good Friday. Our family doctor was a life long friend of my mother's and he called her while I was at the hospital to explain his concern and the urgency for the test.
Mom accompanied me to the hospital on Friday for the scan. My twenty-first birthday was on Saturday. My parents and our doctor insisted that I not return to school on Monday, as planned, but wait until Tuesday when the results would be available.
When the phone rang on Tuesday, I joined the conversation between my mother and doctor on another phone. My mother insisted that I get off, ordered me to get off, and wouldn’t hear anything else but that I get off the phone. Finally, I gulped and spoke straight to the doctor. "I'm twenty-one and I will not give you permission to discuss this with my mother unless I am on the phone." I've always admired the way he paused and then told my mother that he would explain the results to me while she listened, with my permission. He proceeded to tell me that the test showed that I had thyroid cancer, fortunately detected in the earliest stages. I had surgery about a month later and have had no further problems with cancer in thirty-four years.
I do still have to gulp and force myself to take responsibility to speak up occasionally but this moment reminds me of how important it might be.
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