The flashing railroad warning lights came on...

The black and white stripped wooden arms came down, and I found myself caught by a train. Great, I had so much to do. It was a full day, if only I had been a minute ahead in timing my day, this delay could have been prevented. I was midpoint, in route from leaving one appointment and on my way to another. The train had to be a long one, and a slow one, ugh. I had left my cell phone at home, terrific! I wasn’t even able to use this dead time to check my messages, make calls, I was so stuck. I had no radio on, no CD playing Christmas music, just me, the first of an increasingly long line of cars, waiting on this annoyance to pass.

The clickity-clack sound of the wheels filled my car, and the rumbling grew into a melody that sent me back through an unexpected trip of my own. I don’t think I was even aware of where my mind traveled, until my own journey was over. What an adventure I took in those 5-10 minutes of stillness.

The ka-klunk, ka-klunk of the train’s wheels against the rails wove their way through the crevices of my brain. I loved that train sound as a small child. Minnie Mamma lived right by a railroad track. I spent much of my childhood nestled upstairs in her small, lovely home, windows open, summer breezes blowing, and that ka-klunk ka-klunk lulling me into the softest comfort a small child could experience. I can remember hearing that lonely train whistle in the distance as I played on the floor of my grandmother’s living room. She would allow me to incorporate her “pretties” (breakable, cherished items) with my dolls, I could spend hours every day playing there on her living room floor.Hearing that distant whistle, would bring me to my feet. I would run to her windows, peak out over the ledge, and wait for the clickity-clack of the train to slowly pass by.

My mind traveled on, remembering an obscure time when I was in second grade. I was in a carpool, going to a private elementary school I attended. The school was about a 15 minute drive from my house. Intersecting my home from the school was a long stretch of railroad. I’m not sure why, but this day is one of those vivid memories that has lasted my lifetime. On the way to school, a very, very long train had broken down. The train covered the length of quite a few intersections and there was no detour to be found that would take us over the tracks. I can remember waiting forever in that car. The mother driving us, became exasperated, turned around and took us all home. I remember thinking, how deviant, to be able to skip a day of school because of a wonderful broken train.

My own train traveled through the valleys of my memory to a trip our young family had taken by train. We had thought it would be so exciting to take a train trip from Alpine, Texas to Los Angeles. Brent was 6, Brooke 5 and for countless reasons it was a train trip from Hell. That clickity-clack sound, or lack of it, due to many breakdowns and delays became a nightmare to me by the time that “great idea” of ours was over. Strangely, this trip is among some of Brent and Brooke’s favorite memories of our family vacations.

The last stop of my journey was of memories of last Christmas. Brooke and Jared included me in joining their sweet family for a ride on the Santa Express, a refurbished old train. We sat in our private car eating cookies, peppermint candy canes and drinking hot chocolate. Visits from Christmas Carolers and Mr. and Mrs. Claus brought smiles and laughter to all six of us. I wonder, if Harper and Harris will think of that time and have fond memories of that lovely rumbling chugging sound that enabled them a chance sit on Santa’s knee. Oh, I hope so.

Santa Express 2013

The barrier arms of the railroad intersection rose and I was brought back to the present. I looked to my left and saw the mustard colored caboose chugging away. I think it was then that I realized that I had taken this journey back through years of my life. I smiled to myself, I blinked away tears that had edged their way to the surface, and in that brief moment I gave thanks for the chance to be still and reflect on my very good life. 

Our lives, especially during this Christmas season are on such a fast track. We speed through days checking things off our to-to list, flying from one place to the next, cramming all that we possibly can into a day. What a waste.

I am thankful for my brief ka-klunk, ka-klunk rumbling melody that enabled me to pause and reflect, if only for a moment or two. I am thankful for this Christmas season, and I pray that I will remember to stop during intersections of my day and give thanks to a merciful and loving God. A God that made his trip to earth in human form, because he loves each of us so very much.

I encourage each of you stop and listen...to “Be still and know that I AM GOD.” (Psalms 46:10) and take time to hear the message he has for you.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

I am one…again.

Brent was the last of the family to drive away this morning. As I was following him to his car, I began to feel that familiar pressure slowly wrapping its ugly grip around my heart. I knew this feeling well, as it never fails to tighten each time I have to say good-bye to one of our children. That grasp of sadness tightens, and my heart seems to shrink just a bit. I feel that sadness push its way up and grow into a lump that fills my throat. The closer we get to the car the larger that lump becomes.  As I hug Brent tightly and we tell one another how much we love each other, how fun the visit was, we discuss when we will see each other next, the lump seems to bubble upward and find its way to my eyes, filling them with tears. I blink, trying to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, and the lump is now keeping me from speaking. Brent, all to familiar with this routine of mine, gently smiles, envelops me in a big bear hug one last time, and closes his car door. 

As I walk alone into the house I am reminded of Steve’s presence by my side during these departures in the past. It was these moments, when any of our children were heading back home to resume their lives, that, as they drove away, Steve would knowingly place his hand on the back of my neck. He would pull me to him, his thumb would gently trail its way from the base of my neck up to my hairline and travel slowly back down until his hand would rest on my shoulder. His words were always the same, “This is what we raised them to do. We want nothing more than for them to go back to their lives, to be healthy, happy, productive and independent.” He would then draw me close to him, smile down at me and allow me time to find myself again.

I almost felt his presence as I walked back into the house alone today...but, Steve wasn’t there and I was one, again, and very alone.

I will be honest and say that this Thanksgiving was a million times easier than last year. I hope there will come I time when I quit marking the holidays by Steve’s absence. The first Christmas, the second anniversary, the third whatever the occasion, since Steve’s death. I can’t do this yet, so this second Thanksgiving without Steve still had its moments.

As we sat at dinner on Wednesday with Lynn and her two children, Brooke and Jared and their children, I sat back as an observer for just a few minutes and thought of Steve. He would have loved being a part of this gathering. To listen to Dylan, almost 16, speaking in his new deep voice, talking with such insight, such decency. To observe Elena, now a sixth grader, so sensitive, so bubbly, so bright, so lovely. To see the joy and delight in Harper and Harris as they reunited with their oldest cousins. To watch their awe as they studied the cell phone photos of the Elsa cake that Elena had made them. To laugh, as only Steve could laugh, when he discovered that while we were all busy talking and eating, Harris was posting the Elsa cake picture, complete with his very own caption, to my Facebook page. That tightening grasp encased my heart for a brief moment and that lump became hard to choke down, as I so longed for Steve to be by my side, his arm draped over my shoulder.

Thanksgiving Day came and my new home was full. Lynn and her children had spent Wednesday night with me. Burton and Brent drove in, Brooke and crew arrived early and the bustle of the day began. 

My kitchen was full, Burton making mouthwatering rolls, Brooke and Lynn helping me with the dressing, veggies, and all the makings of an eight course meal, Jared, carving an enormous turkey. Everyone circulating through the kitchen, grabbing crackers and cheese, grapes and cured sausage. Nibbling as the day drew on. 

There was laughter, joy, and festive family banter in the air. Again, I felt that grasp take hold of my heart, and again I wished I could look up from my slicing and mixing and see Steve looking at me across the room, nodding and smiling, the unspoken message that only I felt. Hearing his unspoken words, “Together we made a great family.  A family that loves each other, a family that is bound together by bonds that will last a lifetime. A family that will continue long after we are gone.” That lump would find its way to my throat and the tears would well up and I would shake it off and work my way back to the present.

As nighttime came, we all sat outside around the fire pit. The warmth of the chiminea behind us and a patio heater blowing warm air our way, we were cozy, warm and full, enjoying simply being together. Again I was pulled away from the laughter, the chatter, I almost felt Steve nudging me, whispering, “Janet, all this fire is making me crazy...I mean it’s treacherous to have so many flames surrounding us.  A spark may well fly up and hit the roof, the entire family would be up in flames!”  I had to push down that lump, as I wished for Steve’s over-the-top caution that so counterbalanced my “oh it feels so warm and fuzzy” nature.

Oh, Steve would have enjoyed watching all of us jump all over each other at Thin Air on Friday morning. He would have been in the middle of us jumping on trampolines, playing dodge ball, wallowing all over one another. Witnessing his adult children, as well as his grandchildren, doing flips in mid air, might have brought quite a few winces and teeth sucking (you would have to have known Steve to understand teeth sucking) afraid someone would surely ending up in the E.R. with a major body part broken.

Steve would have been the first to gather us all up and shuffle us off to Chris Madrid’s for our annual post T-giving “the most delicious hamburger ever” lunch.  He would have made sure we were the first people in line when the doors opened, fearful we might have to stand in line for ten minutes before ordering our mouth watering burger.

Steve and I loved nothing more than having our family together.  Our children were always our main focus. Their health, happiness and well-being far out weighed any priority we might ever have had. Steve was proud of his children...every single one of them, spouses included. He was amazed by his grandchildren...all six of them, and loved them with all his might.

I can never fill the empty space that is left in this family’s lives because Steve is no longer with us. I can never fill his shoes and give them the sage advise that flowed so easily from him. I can never remove the ache that lies beneath the surface of the present because he is no longer a part of our daily lives.  All I can do, is remind each of our children, each of our grandchildren, of Steve’s incredible legacy.  Of the imprint he placed on each of their lives, on my life, and be thankful that we loved him and he loved us for the time we had him.

As I write these words the grasp again tightens around my heart, the lump is rising deep within my throat. Tears blur the words on this page, but my heart is full of thanksgiving for being able to share a life with a man that will in one way or another always keep me from feeling that I am only...one.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Psalms 107:1 “Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good’ his love endures forever.”

Thanksgiving...

Just the word sends a flood of memories over me.

My earliest memories take me back to Valley Forge Drive. That distinct smell of the heater coming on for the first time after Houston’s long hot summers, is forefront in my mind. I don’t know why, but I love that smell. Our home had central heat and I remember hearing the slight rumble of the pilot light igniting the heater. Our home was suddenly filled with that smell. I’m not sure what it was, maybe dust burning, or maybe simply waking up from it’s long summer hiatus. 

Every fall when I turn on my heat, that first time smell takes me back through all the years of my life. It fills me with warmth and comfort, like wrapping myself in my favorite, old, well-worn cashmere robe, I settle in to all that is familiar.

I think of my Mother and Minnie Mama in the kitchen on Thanksgiving mornings, each working side by side. What a gift that they were able to share this experience. Minnie Mama’s job was always the dressing. My grandmother was an East Texas farm girl and she could make dressing and gravy like no one in the world. Cornbread dressing, the kind where it’s crunchy on the outside, but soft and full of flavors on the inside, made Thanksgiving simply delicious.

My mother would stand by her side and watch Minnie Mama concoct her dressing. Putting in a pinch of this and a dab of that, there was no written recipe. It was all handed down from generation to generation.  Mother would watch Minnie Mama’s hands as she stirred, tasted, added a bit more salt, pepper, sage. My mother perfected that recipe by watching and learning from her mother. After Minnie Mama died, Mother picked up the mantle and her cornbread dressing became legendary with all her grandchildren. The legacy continues and it fills me with that warmth and comfort.

I wished I had paid more attention as a child, learning from my grandmother and then my mother. I didn’t realize that someday I would be the family matriarch. I long for those Thanksgiving mornings when I could call mother questioning her about how many eggs, how many onions, celery, bell peppers to sauté. I miss my mother and Minnie Mama at Thanksgiving, but my memories are as vivid as that heater smell. I am again wrapped in my well-worn, cherished memories of them, much like the comfort I feel in my well-worn robe. 

I was a freshman in collage. I had come home for Thanksgiving week and had my wisdom teeth removed early that week. My family celebrated Thanksgiving before this procedure, fearing I wouldn’t be able to eat after the surgery. Thanksgiving Day rolled around and I was good to go, but all that was left to eat were scraps from the leftover turkey and dressing. The Boswell’s, yep, that’s right the Boswell’s asked me to their Thanksgiving family dinner. Remember, Ann and I had become good friends in high school and I knew their family well, so they just pulled up a chair and I munched away.

This Thanksgiving seems to be key in my life. You see sitting across the table from me was Ann’s older brother. Steve and his wife and adorable daughter, Lynn were there. I vividly remember thinking, “Whoa, Bos had the most handsome brother ever!” He was a hunk and I was drooling, not only over the turkey, but mainly over this sophisticated older...so much older guy.  He was so exotic. Steve was studying at Duke at the time, so they had little opportunity to get to Houston, but, he was there that Thanksgiving of 1972 and I was goggly eyed.

I will confess that twenty years later when I was reintroduced to Steve, he had no recollection of me or of that dinner. Probably a good thing since I was simply a young collegiate and he a married man and a dad!

Thanksgiving of 2008 was a rough one. Steve was recovering days after his surgery to remove the tumor. We had gotten the tough news that the tumor was indeed a GBM a week before Thanksgiving, and we were numb. We spent that day with all of our family, as well as the extended Boswell family. 

The following day, Bonnie and Tom had us all out to their ranch in Kerrville. It was a crisp, crystal blue day. We went on long walks, we flew kites with the children. I remember Steve being so tired, stopping to rest often, but not allowing anyone but me to notice. 

I think we all felt that this would be our last Thanksgiving with Steve. I remember feeling so incredibly sad, so lost, so consumed with fear. I remember Steve and I holding on to one another constantly, we couldn’t get enough of each other. It was that smell of the heat coming on for the first time. It was that long comfortable robe that we wrapped ourselves in, cocoon like, trying to hang on to all that was familiar and loved.

Well, that wasn’t Steve’s last Thanksgiving. We were grateful and blessed to have four more Thanksgivings with him. What a gift!

Last Thanksgiving was crummy, one of those “firsts” that we all had to endure. We did get through the day and there was great comfort in the fact that we were together as a family. 

While Steve wasn’t with us that day, his spirit was. We didn’t have him to carve the turkey, or to take out the trash (his favorite task). We didn’t have him to laugh with, or to wrap his arms around me, but he was there walking by our sides every step of the way. 

This Thanksgiving, as we all come together, I know I will feel his presence again. It will take me back to Thanksgivings of the past. Much like the first burning smell of the heater or the security of my well-worn robe, I will remember back to all that is right and good and Steve will be right by my side.

I have much to be thankful for. May each of you have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

With love,

Janet

Psalm 106:1 “Praise the LORD. Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his love endures forever.”

"In Flanders Field where poppies blow...

between the crosses, row on row...”  I heard this poem written by Colonel John McCrae discussed on NPR Veteran’s Day. It’s a well-known and beautiful poem written during WWI. 

Last Tuesday, when I heard the first line of this poem I was transformed to my young self, a small little girl of about 4 or 5 years old. I was instantly back in time. I was sitting on the hump of our family car’s backseat sandwiched between my two older sisters. My father was driving our family Oldsmobile, a sort of doo-doo brown sedan. My mother was in the passenger seat. Our Welsh Terrier, Tippy was perched by her back legs on the knee of my sister, her front paws and head resting lovingly on my dad’s shoulder.

We were on an annual family vacation, driving along some backroad, undoubtably lost, looking for our destination. My father was never big on stopping to ask for directions, instead, he would use this time with his captured audience, to recite his favorite poems.

“Flanders Field” was my mother’s favorite and the first poem she always requested. From there, one poem would float into another as miles and miles of countryside passed by us and my father’s youthful memories of beloved poems would surface to be recited.

My oldest sister, Barbara, seemed to have a greater love for his poetry than I. She, being ten years older than I would, along with mother, request one well-known poem after another. I quickly grew bored with these big, flowery old fashion words and my small mind would drift off, at least I thought it did. 

My father was a trial attorney. He also taught adult Sunday School classes, forever. I think he felt he had missed his calling and would have been more content in life teaching, than practicing law. All this being said, my dad was an emoter. He could orate like no one else,  and he loved any opportunity to do so.

So year after year, vacation after vacation I grew up with my father’s voice resonating through our family sedan. “By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, wherefore stopp’st thou me?” (Samuel Taylor Coleridge) “Life is real! Life is earnest!” (Longfellow) These verses are second nature to me now.

I am a bit surprised when my father’s voice travels through the years and I realize my small mind did, in fact, absorb the words, the meanings, the feelings beneath my father’s prose. I find myself now on road trips, driving past some lovely country setting and suddenly my mind lights on a verse from my father's repertoire. “Let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man...” (Sam Walter Foss) On vacation, sitting by a lake or ocean watching the sun set, I hear his words “Sunset and evening star; and one clear call for me...” (Tennyson) I smile and think of my father’s gift to his family.

I feel like we’ve lost something in this high tech age. Today, children sit in the backseats of cars with headphones and DVR’s, watching their movies of choice. Those priceless family moments seem to be a thing of the past today. Don’t get me wrong, if I had had the opportunity 30+ years ago to have my own children watch television, instead of repeatedly asking “Are we there yet?”  I would have been the first to plug in the movie.

What I have realized when these poems resurface in my mind, is not sadness that things have changed, instead, how important words are in molding and shaping children.

I understand when I hear my father quoting, “Blessings on thee little man, barefoot boy with cheeks of tan...” (John Greenleaf Whittier), that my words should be blessings to my grand children. I may not be reciting poetry, but I pray I am giving encouragement and praise. Telling them how much I love them, how proud I am of them, how amazing they are.

Last Friday, Harper was to take something important to school for Show and Tell. This item was to begin with the letter of the week, an “H”. Brooke asked Harps what she was going to take that morning before leaving for school. 

Harper looked around her room and her eyes fell upon a framed picture that sits by her bed. 

“I’m going to take this picture of Grandy and me!” 

Brooke said, “Well okay Harper, but what does that picture of Grandy and you have to do with the letter ‘H’?”

Without hesitation Harper said, “hhhHeaven! Grandy is in Heaven!”

Steve has now been away from us for over 16 months. A large part of this little 4 year old’s life has been spent without her Grandy. I have no doubt that Grandy’s sweet voice, his words of love, praise, encouragement still resonate in Harper’s mind. I am sure she can still hear Grandy’s sweet voice echoing through her. I know his words, his life, his actions have made a huge impression on our oldest grand children, as they speak often of their grandfather.  

Our words are our legacy. I hope I will be remembered as gifting my family with words that will increase the measure of their lives, as I had two of the best teachers walk before me. “And departed leave behind us footprints on the sands of time.” (Longfellow)

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Proverbs 25:11 “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver.”