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Mother's Day in Sepia Tones

Top: Grandma Dorothy Elizabeth Dettmann White, Mom Joyce Elaine White Diehls, Grandma Rose Ella Mau Diehls

Row 2: Great-Grandma Edith Wills Dettmann, Great-Grandma Mae Gower White, Great-Grandma Ella Bernstein Mau Heubi

Row 3: Great-Great-Grandma Sarah Ermina (Mina S.) Wray White, Great-Great-Grandma Mary Elsina Rasey Wray, Great-Great-Grandma Augusta Seidschlag Bernstein

Bottom: Great-Grandma Augusta Brown(?) Diehls

People and places

The places were the first to go. The White family winter home on Center Avenue, sold and split into apartments. The house had been left to Grandma White after her parents died, a place where I’d sit bundled in front of the stove on cold winter mornings, admire my high-school-aged aunts and uncles, and dare myself to peek inside the his-and-hers “chopper hoppers” on the bathroom shelf to catch a glimpse of dentures. When working as a postal carrier in college, I’d deliver mail here, and had to restrain myself from barging in. This is the house that shows up most often in my dreams, full of strangers and unrecognizable labyrinthine hallways.

The old White family farmhouse on Highway 11, the house I picture when I read any story set on a farm, razed to make way for a modern prefab with modern conveniences like proper insulation and windows that kept out the winter winds. Years before, the big barn had become too unstable to take a turn on the rope swing, and then Grandpa finally looked out one day at a heap of splintered boards and shingles and announced, “Huh. I ain’t got no barn.”

Great Grandma’s cinderblock house on County H, with homemade grape juice in bright aluminum cups and rousing games of “Kick in the Pants,” the clicking echo of shoes on linoleum, left empty when Great Grandma moved back to the farm to spend her last weeks with her son and daughter-in-law.

Grandma Diehls’s house on Highway 14, on our farm. The birch tree with the branch perfect for perching long gone, then the contents auctioned off. My parents lived there for a few years, but without the basket of crochet projects, a game of solitaire started on the couch, and the smell of charred hamburgers and (also charred) chocolate chip cookies, the house was no longer Grandma’s.

Then the people who “were” these places began to go too. One of those cool high-school aunts, gone too early. Great Grandma White, cantankerous to the end, then Grandma Diehls, who spent her final years in silence, then Grandpa White, his heart finally giving up. I wait here on the verge of being a grand-orphan, as Grandma White lives her final few days after years of dimming memories. Happy that Maggie finally initiated a conversation with her “Grandma Great” back in July instead of shying away, sad that my girls can’t know these people and places outside of a few washed-out pictures and my washed-out descriptions. How do I make my glimmers of memory important? How can they resonate with my girls as they do with me?

My memories center on the minutiae. Rolling dice and the thunk, thunk, thunk of a marble moving along a wooden board, punctuated with a gleeful “Leapfrog!” Digging through a drawerful of old neckties for the perfect Christmas program shepherd’s headband. The call of “Heeeeeere, kitty-kitty-kitty-kitTY!” and scattering of stale bread. The novelty of sleeping in an upstairs bedroom in a house on a busy street, cars rushing by, headlights circling the room. The weightless moment before a rope swing catches you and takes you up, up, up. Sitting on a slanting porch, feeling the breeze pick up and smelling the oncoming storm. The creak of a screen door, Grandma calling Grandpa in: “Pa!”

Things I've Learned from My Mom

Four generations: Mom with me, baby Maggie, and Grandma White, December 2005

• Take lots of pictures.*
• Label them.
• A baby generally needs socks, even in the heat of summer.
• Be friends with your sister(s).
• Any grudge that threatens a friendship or family relationship isn't worth holding.
• Eat lots of strawberries, tomatoes and sweet corn while they're in season.
• It won't kill kids to go without the latest fad every now and then--they may even be glad, once the trend has faded into obscurity.
• A child should have a job as soon as she can drive, but not on school nights.
• Nurture your artsy-craftsy side. It feeds creativity in all aspects of your life.
• Ripping out mistakes is an integral part of sewing.**
• Planting flowers each spring is always worth the cost.

Thanks, Mom! I love you!

*See also last year's post about what I've learned from my dad. You will note that this one isn't as photo-heavy, because my mom was always behind the camera. Nice trick, that.

**Mom could also accept this fact without excessive swearing...I'm still working on that part.

Maggie and the Marketing Machine

It's a little scary when you realize your two-year-old is becoming a consumer. Maggie recognizes the kid-directed marketing we would expect her to--yesterday she was talking about "tiger Cheetos" and "parrot Froot Loops," neither of which we ever have in the house. But she also recognizes brands that you'd think wouldn't make an impression. This weekend, we dined at a restaurant that featured the "old stuff" decorating theme. Maggie pointed to a wall full of old Coca-Cola signs and announced, "Dat's a Diet Coke! Dat's a ho' bunch of Diet Cokes!" Later, outside, she asked, "We goin' to the Wiggly?" Sure enough, there was a Piggly Wiggly store across the parking lot.

With Christmas quickly approaching, I've been thinking a lot about how best to raise a child who will grow up to value experiences over things. It's relatively easy with Maggie now--she doesn't yet realize a commercial for some Dora toy isn't just a 30-second mini television episode. But it makes me cringe when she asks about every little thing, "Who buyed this for me?" (Admittedly, I don't suppose it helps matters when we rely on Target trips as time-killing family outings!)

When I get too stressed about it all, it helps to step back and remember my childhood Christmases. Thinking back, I realize if it weren't for the photographic evidence, I wouldn't remember much about specific gifts I received. What I remember is the excitement of waking up at 5 on Christmas morning, feeling the change in the air that indicated reindeer had visited (of course, that may just have been the aroma of Dad's farm clothes). I remember the smell of an artificial tree, musty from the basement and decorated with ornaments crafted by my mom, aunts, and grandmas. I remember piling sugar cookies so thickly with frosting and jimmies they became inedible. And watching lights twinkle while listening to the holiday stylings of Alvin and the Chipmunks. I have to take a deep breath and trust that those memories we make as a family will be the ones that stay with our kids.