A Kitchen Table and a Hand to Hold.

My sister-in-law, Sally, passed away suddenly this month and my eldest sister and I flew to Arizona to be with my brother. It was a short trip just shy of three full days, and we packed more into that time than I would have ever thought possible. We honored a lovely wife of 48 years, a mother who had compassion and wit, and who was a “Grandma” to many, not just her own. I watched my nephews mourn, and their children weep. I heard them speak Sally’s praises and laugh while telling stories about her. And I watched my brother.

Every memory I have of my brother is one of a calm and collected dude. (His sons, my nephews, may have seen him differently as a father.) I cannot recall a time that I have ever seen my brother lose it. More than any other male figure in my life, he has been my rock, our own father dying when I was just 18. I watched my brother graciously greet and welcome everyone who came to the services for Sally Kay Alford. My brother was a study in grace and gratitude. My sister Elizabeth and I later talked about that in the hotel room, feet up on pillows, shadows of the big and little sisters that we used to be when I would sit upon her bed and talk so many years before. Elizabeth and I sat in exhausted awe of this man who we called brother.

My brother took us around Phoenix, showing us the sights and allowing us to spend more precious time with our nephews and their loved ones. I met my great-nephews and nieces and found joy when the youngest ran into my arms to hug me. At my brother and Sally’s home, we sat around the kitchen table reminiscing. This was something we always did at home growing up, and we realized the table we were around was our Mother’s. We were only doing what came naturally. In a time of mourning, my brother was making us feel at home. In a time of sorrow, he was making new memories for us. In that time he was honoring his love of so many years with the comfort, caring and sharing that I believe Sally would have given others.

My brother’s chin wobbled only for a few seconds in the kitchen of his home. Wondering how he would handle the coming days. To me, he seemed even more of a rock, big softie that he really is. I don’t want to imagine a future without my husband. It is not habit that I reach for his hand and find it there. It’s a conscious choice to stand with someone you love, even on the awful, icky, if-I-look-at-you-I’ll-scream, days. I couldn’t fathom how my brother was coping, and in a moment of sharing, I saw a strength that took my breath away. What I saw was a kind of knowing that although the hand is no longer across the table from you, you still hold fast. 

Most of the time we were at my brother’s, we spent in laughter. I sat in the back seat of the car while my brother and sister sat in the front, driving to dinner with the family. There was a comfort in that, a memory of days spent in the back seat listening to my older siblings and knowing that somehow, no matter how the road twists and turns, we’ll be alright.

Music Soothed the Savage Copier, While I Danced The Safety Dance.

Tuesday was one of those days, the good kind, where everything seemed to fall into place with an ease that rarely comes. Where I work, the caseloads are full and everyone is vigilantly plugging away to meet deadlines. For the most part we are a quiet group, staying in our offices (thank goodness not cubicles, but real offices, with real doors), and keeping the nose to the grindstone. It can be rewarding work, but I’d be such a liar if I said there were no days when work seemed like an endless escalator ride with no view; constantly moving with no real destination in sight.

I wish I could claim that the good day was all me, my attitude, my work ethic, or my vast and very OCD organizational skills. Nope, nada, not me. It was the iPod. I finally had my replacement iPod Classic, reloaded and synced, and the muses smiled. I popped in my ear buds first thing after slinging my purse into a file drawer. What to my ears should deliver but a huge swell of “Let’s Get It Started” by the Black Eyed Peas. In over a year’s time I don’t believe I’ve filed so vigorously or planned out the day’s work. Where the lyrics rang out “and running, running...” I actually felt my blood roar like an Olympiad readying to cross a finish line. It rocked!

I marched down to the all-powerful copier in the hall, the one that will work only if you stroke it and pay homage to its copying prowess. “Turn It On Again” from Genesis roared. Yep, I was cooking with gas, or at least with an Apple. While going over a difficult case and trying to figure what the heck I was supposed to do, “Keep Your Head Up” by Andy Grammer inspired. My Classic was giving me her all, even with only one ear bud tightly packed in. I have to have the other side out to make sure I hear the phone, the intercom, yadda, yadda, yadda. Who cares? It was working, and I was workin’ it right along with the music.

My step was lighter; my focus was sharp and all for the love of a gadget that twenty years ago I called a Walk-Man. Well, you get the drift, and speaking of that, The Drifters serenaded me with “Up on the Roof” at break time. The best one came on as I was shutting down for the day. Files were packed back in, pens aligned (I had a wonderful co-worker who used to come into my office just to talk, and she would slowly rearrange things on my desk as we chatted. It drove me crazy, she knew it, and still survived! Such is my OCD. Don’t mess with my office space.), and cases ready and compiled as Ray Charles told me in no uncertain terms to “Hit the Road, Jack,” which given that Jack is my son’s name had me moving out the door. 

I walked into our kitchen at home, looked at my small family and thought to myself, there they are, the reason I work, the reason it all works. I parked the iPod into the docking station and the real music begins, ‘cause there “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” to keep me from doing for those who rock me in a way that even music can’t…but I’ll keep the iPod close for the soundtrack to my life.

Don't Fear the Click

First, let me say, I am not Steven Jobs. Technology has never provided me with a living. But I do dearly love the stuff, and I play with it. I've never had the fear of the click. You know, the fear that if I click on this or that it'll be similar to pressing the infamous red button and launch every nuclear missile possible at my computer rendering my pc, well, let's just say in need of Viagra.


So I'm pretty quick to click on stuff and make changes to software. And I don't think there's a platform out there that changes as often as Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg (on a side note, my spell check thinks I spelled his last name wrong and suggested Tinkerbell as a correction...just saying) is desperately in need of a chill pill. All the Facebook changes can be a bit much to keep up with and I've noticed a lot of people on Facebook with settings that I'm not sure they are aware of. Did you really mean to share with the public your frustration with your family or your job? Umm, maybe not. How about your location? Do you really want your teenage daughter posting showing that she's sitting in Timbuktoo, Wisconsin? Are you aware that your cover photo on the new Timeline is public and there is no way to change that setting?


So I thought that I would use this blog to point out just a few settings in Facebook that I consider to be dangerous, and how to reset them. I check the Facebook settings for all four of us in our family and I change any privacy settings that concern me. These are my easy to do, top three:


First, look at your statuses. Do you see the little gray icon on the same line as the Like, and Comment? If the little gray icon shows the earth, then that's who you just shared it with...yep, anybody on planet earth who is connected to the internet...even my Momma...soon as she remembers how to turn on that &*(*& laptop. Soooo, you might want to change this before telling people that your boss is a jerk who keeps picking his nose at your desk. To change that:


At the top of Facebook, spot your name. Beside it see the word Home, beside that will be a downward facing arrow. If you click on that you will see a drop down menu. Choose Privacy Settings. Now look at the  section titled, Control Your Default Privacy. Mine is set for Friends Only. If a friend of a friend wants to see my posts, they should send me a Friend Request. Public is self explanatory. The custom one can be set for even more privacy. If you set your default, you can always change it on individual statuses. But you have now avoided the infamous, "drunk posting" going out to the world.


Let me point out something about the cover photo on the new Timeline feature on Facebook. IT'S PUBLIC and you can't change it. So if you have children on Facebook, you might want to check what they are using as their cover picture, and you might not want to use that family picture as your own cover photo. I don't want the world snagging that picture. I currently have an ECU picture. Before that it was a picture of the geese on the golf course. The world does not need another picture of my family... In particular if you are young and foolish  fun, you might not want the picture of you chugging at the bar set as your cover photo, especially if you expect your parent to continue to fund your college education.


Finally, the one that really scares me is location. If you need to know my location then you also need to be a) married to me or b) my child or c) bringing me my real, ready to spend lottery check. Other then that... So when I realized that my location was on there when I posted a status - big yuck. This one is tricky because it hides in plain sight. When you are posting a status, if you see your location in that little box at the bottom, hover over it and click the x that appears. No longer will your location post on every status. You can always add it back later...not sure why you would want to...but that's up to you.


OK - that's it for this blog. Hope it helps, and remember, don't fear the click! 

Over the River, and Through the Woods to Wal Mart

It's 4 in the morning...and why do I start off sounding like a country music song? Well, because it's the holidays and here I sit finishing off another trip to the relatives. I can't help but wonder if Prince William and his Duchess will have some of the following conversations this Christmas:
"Please can we leave? Why can't your family ever buy a NEW piece of furniture? These 400 year old beds are killing my back. And just what am I supposed to buy for your grandmother? The woman has EVERYTHING. And can you tell your stepmother to stop glaring at me. I did NOT steal the tiara she wanted. I can't help it if your grandmother likes me better."
Or maybe the Prince will have his say:
"What do you mean I have to share a bathroom? If we go to my family's house, no one has to share a bathroom. Does your father really think I'm going to help out the family business? I've got enough problems with my own family business. Has he noticed the mess my father made of things?"

Hubby and I and the teen sons have been to both sides of the family so far. Not an easy task since three states are involved- the one we live in, and the two different ones they live in. So far the trips have involved sick relatives (his father, my mother and father), whiny teenagers (yes, the world revolves around you, my darlings), the realization that the transmission was messing up on my one year old car, juggling the logistics of high school marching band commitments, and our 20th anniversary was in there somewhere.

On our anniversary (which was the day before Thanksgiving), we traveled to relatives. Therefore our possibilities for celebration were somewhat limited. As the evening progressed, I found myself walking through the Wal Mart parking lot. At that point, my somewhat warped sense of humor once again surfaced, and the following conversation truly did take place:
Me (in a thick Southern drawl, my only truly good mimicking skill): "Honeeee, you sure 'nuff know how to treat a girl right on her anniversary. So far I've been to the Applebee's, the nursing home, and now I get to go to Wal Mart. I feel truly blessed."
Hubby: (in a similar drawl) "We're honorin' our heritage, babee."

Of course, we both cracked up, and now we have a new tag line. See I figured out years ago what I needed to get me through the holidays, so here's my list:

Girlfriends (it's ever so much better to share your complaints with like minded individuals)
Sense of humor (while sharing, find the humor in the adventure)
Enjoy the holiday treats
And don't say yes if you don't WANT to do it (see Martha Stewart Don't Live Here No More, I don't decorate or do it unless I want to - that's been a hard lesson to learn and absorb - still sorta a work in progress)

So how do you cope with the holidays? Got someone you call or text? A favorite treat? 'Cause it's awful hard to sleep on these 400 year old beds...

Masking the Grief

When Evelyn and I get together, as we did this past weekend to celebrate her birthday, we can hit fifty different subjects within an hour. I’m talking female domination (does that exist anywhere?), to world peace, Presidential hopefuls, taxes, college tuition and of course, our children and families. We know each other as well as sisters, having known each other since preschool age. Although our histories are separate, they have been shared for four decades. No one knows us better with the exception of our Mothers. Being with her soothes my grey cells. I can let my hair down and let loose with my opinions, and I can feel what I feel and let it show. I don’t have to wear a mask.


July is an up and down month for me, I celebrate the gift of my best friend within that month, but I also mark the anniversary of my Mama’s death. She died July 5, 1998 in my living room from complications of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, or COPD for short. I had brought her to my home that morning from my sister’s home. The plan was to give my sister a break from care-giving and I welcomed the opportunity to do so, not just to help my sister, but because I love my Mama and she gave me so much. But just like Mama, she had other plans, and other places to go.


At nine o’clock that evening, just as “Touched by an Angel” (a popular TV show in the 90’s) was going off the air with its signature dove flying off into a sapphire blue sky, Mama flew away home. My husband called 911 while I administered CPR. The rest is a blur. Emergency Medical Techs surrounded me and took over while my not quite one-year-old daughter slept unaware upstairs. I had phone calls to make to my two sisters and my brother. My husband’s parents came over to lend their support, pitch in with our daughter if needed, and above all, to surround us with the grace that only love can give. So I don’t care much to be in my living room on any given July Fifth, and when I wake up on that morning it’s like some hateful mechanism goes off in my being, squeezing my heart and reminding me of what I’ve lost.


A few weeks after the funeral I was told I shouldn’t grieve, a year later I was asked why I dwelled on it so, and the years have rolled by with comments, meant to bring comfort, but judging. “You need to get on with your life.” Life has gone on. My daughter will be fourteen this year, my shadow and junior lady, and I have a beautiful blue-eyed son who wasn’t even a glimmer when my Mama died. I do what I need to do, I laugh, I work, I help with homework, drive endless miles for the children’s activities, I do not dwell on my Mother’s passing, but I cannot forget it or act as if the loss means nothing. Such a tremendous part of my strength comes from my Mama. My love of music, my gut instincts (which Mama had in spades) my fierce watchfulness over my children and my appreciation for friends are just a tip of what Mama gave to me by example. She was my truest friend, my most righteous defender, and my biggest critic. She breathed for me and for every one of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I do not dwell on her loss, but I miss her like a phantom limb, once a part of me, now apart.


While I was with “Girlfriend” (Evelyn’s term of endearment for both of us) we talked about Evelyn’s Momma, who lost her own mother three years ago. Evelyn’s Momma had her own Momma for seventy-seven, and she misses her every day. She still wants to call her to brag, or just talk, after seventy-seven years. I figure that if Evelyn’s Momma feels that way, I’m justified as well. Evelyn knows what I’m talking about; her essay "Miss NonCongeniality" in our July 4gaby issue pretty much hit home. I can’t pretend not to feel what I feel AND make “chitty chat.” If you see me a little red-eyed, or catch me listening to Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You” in the month of July, don’t worry. I’m getting on with my life, I’m too busy not to, but I won’t wear a mask to make others comfortable. My Mama always told me to be myself.






(And just because I'm being myself, don't forget to check out my other blog, Losing Mary at http://losingmarycarman.blogspot.com/ Thank you.)

I Escape, But Only On Thursdays…

As a hard working, trying to juggle everything mum, I look forward to my Thursday nights out with my girlfriend. It's a vigil, a sanity check, and a keep in the real world affirmation. This precious time is like drinking mellow wine. We sit and write, gossip, laugh, and cry – we are back to being girls again. What a feeling!

As a stay at home mum, wife of a serial world traveler, and thrown into home schooling due to an anxiety disorder that struck my daughter like a speeding car, my temporary escape is key to my survival as Dawn.

As we pass through the different stages of our lives, I can't help feeling that part of me is disappearing. Some days when I look in the mirror, the image looking back at me is still the same old me, but I feel as if I am looking at a stranger.

Perhaps, it is because I am a stranger. A stranger to my former self. Yes, I have grown, matured, and learned life lessons, but life itself along with marriage and kids can overtake you like an alien. Invading your very soul. I love my family, but honestly, sometimes I long for solitude. To do things and make decisions based solely and selfishly for me.

As a partner and/or parent, whether you are male or female, we make compensations. We agree to meet in the middle, we compromise, we give in, and we make decisions for the best together. However, the young girl lost in me sometimes wants to rebel.

Is that so wrong? I don't think so.

Even my husband agrees, that in marriage, we do lose a little of ourselves. We are in danger of becoming the mirror image of our spouses if we submit to it. I can never forget an old English TV sitcom where the married couple wears identical knitted sweaters, their identity becoming one or reading "Eat, Pray, Love," where the author describes the time a person told her that in relationships she takes on the look of her partner. A reality that happens to some that is scary to say the least. You may argue that in marriage being synonymous is a good thing and, yes it is, but as a synergy not a coup.

So you see, my safe escape every Thursday allows me to visit with my old self and say hello to her. It allows me to enjoy the feeling of liberation and then return to my family, happy and content. We all need a little escape, so go ahead allow yourself, it is magnificent!

The Fairytale, The Terrorist, and The Reality.

By Dawn Tolson and Mary Alford-Carman

 

As a group of four unique individuals, two Grits, a Brit and a Yank, we've shared a maelstrom of events within the past seven days. We've seen the highs of jubilation, the depths of evil, and the reality of loss.

During the Royal Wedding we watched in awe as a fairytale unfolded. A prince took a commoner for a wife and made her his princess in a manner unsurpassed by the United Kingdom. The beginning of a life together celebrated by a nation and shared by the world; it was stunning. In the span of 48 hours the media blitz began again with the death of a terrorist. Celebrations of a sort ensued, albeit at the other end of the spectrum. The worlds most wanted man was finally eliminated, bringing to an end an almost ten year search for justice.

But what does that mean to us? The reality is that most of us will never walk within the walls of Buckingham Palace (unless we've purchased a ticket), and while we may never experience personally the tragedy of terrorism, we are all aware that we could be one airplane flight away from the horror. The great leveler for all of us is loss.

No matter who you are or where you are, you will grieve the loss of a loved one. Within these past seven days, one of our own lost her Mom to Alzheimer's. For some of us, this has been a reminder of what has already been lost and for others, a mirror into what is yet to come.

The events of the world go on around us, and they always will, but for the moment, we pause in the reality of loss.

Government Shutdown...Do You Really Wanna See My Granny's Frying Pan?

                  
                  Update - So obviously the government managed to come together in time. But I still think they need a Southern granny 'cause they sure do take an awful lot of time to do their chores.

               So the US government is in danger of shutting down, huh? And yet, I mailed those pesky estimated tax payments just this morning. Because while the government may be able to have “issues”, us dang taxpayers, well, we just keep paying or else. Anybody besides me find the whole thing so irritating that it makes your family seem sainted in comparison? I mean, c’mon, there are thousands of families out there who have managed to work on their “issues” without dragging the innocent into it. Maybe what the gubmint needs is a doggone Southern granny dragging y’all by the ear and tellin’ y’all to work it out or she’ll take the frying pan to your noggins!

                    I’m also wondering if this separation means when you come back to us, you’ll have worked on your “issues” and be ready to do your share of the housework? See just about every one of us has some story about you, and most of them would embarrass your grannies.

                    Let me share one that is particularly pertinent at tax season. We realized that Daddy was declining mentally when we got a notice from the IRS. It seems that Daddy had done his taxes incorrectly that year. The IRS in its good graces had redone them. Only problem was that they made it worse. I sat down and redid his taxes, filling out all the correct paperwork and notifying them in the required timely manner that we were disputing. That’s when the government threatened a lien on my elderly parents for the god awful amount of $77 that they were so sure my parents owed. Another flurry of phone calls, and they paused the process, bless their hearts. Finally we receive a check – for the $1800 that the government really owed my parents. Never did get an apology or an oopsies from them.

                    So if you shut down, how about attending therapy while we are separated? You can work on your “issues” and learn certain kindergarten rules like sharing and playing well together. Just don’t bill me for the therapy…because I can guarandamtee you that I will dispute it…or bring my frying pan to DC.

Keep on Shining Through……

What makes a woman emotionally strong?

Here at 4gaby this question is one that has been asked many times. Usually our
answers include character or will power--don’t know we are right, but you only
have to look at the depth of the essays written on the website to know there is
strength in all of us. It is well known that the stereotypical woman is supposed
to be weak physically compared to a man but emotionally, I feel, they are by
far the stronger sex.

My final confirmation of this came this week. I came to learn the true strength
that a woman can display in the face of adversity. After tracing my family tree
for the past three years, I discovered that my late maternal grandmother,
Alice, had endured terrible circumstances during her early married life. Somehow, she managed to keep the people she loved free from the pain of this and she carried these tragedies with her silently to her death in 1980. They sat buried and I uncovered them. I am not sure how I feel. Am I betraying her by making them known, or would she have wanted me to tell, maybe finally allowing the truth to be heard? I chose the latter option, feeling that such a strong woman’s plight should be heard by those who loved her and those who could be inspired by her.

My grandmother was married at the tender age of 22, in 1922, to a man who was suffering from TB after the trenches of the First World War. Two years later on January 9,1924, with one baby girl aged 1 year old, her husband died and her baby, Joyce, died just 3 days later on January 12. There were both victims of TB. She was 6 months pregnant at the time, and alone. She had just lost the love of her life and her darling baby. It happens, you might say, but in 1924 the world was different, especially in post-war England. She gave birth three months later in a London Lying-In hospital to Winifred Mary on April 16^, 1924. After this, she went to live with her cousin, a blind veteran, and became his care
giver until his death.

No trace of Winifred could be found in the public records after her birth, she
just seemed to disappear. I searched and searched but could not find her. I assumed, due to the extreme circumstances, that she was given up for adoption, or even worse, had suffered the same fate as her sister. This was not so, as I found out this week. Winifred appeared again on a 1980 death certificate of my grandmother’s sister, Lydia. She was the person who registered the death naming herself as her niece. She had not only lived but was obviously close to her family roots. So the questions are; why did she not live with my grandmother? And who brought her up? I wonder, was the pain of losing her family too much to bear, or had Winifred settled somewhere and it was better for her to stay where she was? We don’t know that yet, and we are hoping to find Winifred alive today, although she will be 87 years old, to give us answers. My grandmother went on to raise six more children (one of whom was mentally impaired), alone, their father lost to the war once again. My mother was child number six and never knew her father as he died just after her birth. The pain Alice must have endured is inconceivable. She never uttered a word of her story to any of her children, let alone tell them they had an older living sister from a first marriage. I was the one who broke the news to my mother, and now, with her permission, I have a task to do. I have to find Winifred and finish my grandmother’s brave, sad story. I hope that I can for her sake. She was strong enough to carry on with life, being that kind, quiet, genteel woman I loved, and now I need to honor her and show her family not only how strong but how amazing she actually was.