I Remember

Softer, Sweeter Times

The rains were pouring hard. The rest of our clan was snug inside the house, preparing a Thanksgiving feast for our extended family.

It was time to serve the food. But where was Freda?

We called out to her and looked everywhere but no sign of her. Where on earth could she have gone.

Then we all fell silent, listening. We could hear the faint but distinct sounds of hammering. Outside.

Grandma was on the roof in the rain. She would have been about 70 years old then, still spry as a teenager. One of my aunts called out to her and asked her what in the world she thought she was doing.

She didn’t answer right away, but with a few last resounding and firm smacks with the hammer, Grandma Freda eased her way off the roof, down the ladder, and said simply “The only time you can tell where the holes are is when it rains” — leaving my stunned aunt with her mouth open.

That story illustrated exactly who my grandmother was, and the kind of heritage she passed down to her daughters and grandchildren. She was the matriarch of our family and deservedly so.

My mother had 4 sisters and at Thanksgiving they would all be in the kitchen with Grandma, cooking, baking and laughing. That kitchen was so full of laughter, tears would flow and all of us were holding our sides. I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe. I miss that silly laughter now.

Kids would carry things to the table when asked and generally tried to stay out of the way of the grownups. Finally everything would be on the table and around it, we’d hold hands and say prayers of thanks before eagerly devouring the delicious meal.

Those days were sweet and rich, when we all assembled. It didn’t happen often, but when it did we were bonded by love and cheer.

I remember playing kick the can in the dusty Iowa summers with my boy cousins, and daring to play mumbledy-peg with pocket knives that cut when you folded them too hastily.

I remember walking in the woods to gather hickory nuts and wild berries with my cousins, trying not to eat too many before we got home. (Where do hickory trees grow now? I never see them anymore.)

Image by DALLe

In the winter, we’d go ice skating on the creek when it was below zero outside (as it was most winters in Iowa) – and the wind made our cheeks red and fingers numb inside the woolen mittens our Moms had knit for us.

Now our family is scattered and broken apart, some of us by geography or divorce but mostly by religion. One of my cousins is dead from cancer; another is lost somewhere in his own fantasies about healing the world.

My brother, who survived Vietnam (and was a highly decorated war hero) died at his desk of a heart attack in his 60's. All but one of my aunts is dead, as are Mom and Dad and several of my cousins.

In our family, the oldest daughter was the matriarch. Women were the leaders of the family, not the men. When Freda died, that distinction passed to my mother. Now that Mom is dead, I suppose it passes to me. But there isn’t much of a connection left of our family these days. I’m matriarch in name only.

We’ve all lost touch and I often wonder where they all are, how their lives are going, what’s happened and changed. Recalling the myriad twists and turns in my own life, I can only guess there are stories to be told.

The ones who turned to fundamentalist beliefs don’t tolerate the choices the rest of us have made, even the most mainstream choices. They keep us at a distance so we won’t contaminate their silos of suppression.

Suits me just fine. I’d be an outcast for all but the most liberal among them, and I suspect there are few of those left. My youngest sister is dissociative because our father abused her the same way he did me, but her religion doesn’t allow her to get help because “Jesus is the answer to everything.”

Except Jesus isn’t going to fix what’s wrong with her. My help came from highly skilled therapists who understand how to help adults to heal from child abuse. It takes very special kind of therapy to undo the years of that kind of pain and I am so grateful I found it.

My youngest sister and her husband carry guns, believe whatever Qanon tells them, and follow Trump over the cliff. They hate everyone who’s not white, hetero and Christian and they do whatever their media tells them. They raised a narcissistic son who fathered another narcissistic child out of wedlock and we stay well away from all of them for our own sanity and safety.

I honestly don’t know what is to become of them. They have been so miserable and angry for so long. Makes me grateful for whatever sanity and peace I find in the day, and for trusted friends and companions who are demonstrably sane and stable.

What I remember most, though, is how innocent life was when I was little, even despite the pain I suffered from a dysfunctional and abusive father, and how uncomplicated in many ways life was then.

It’s not as simple as selective memory. There really were sweet and innocent times sprinkled through the past like chocolate Easter eggs hidden where you don’t expect.

I miss those days. I miss the fact that such sweetness and innocence was reliable as rain. It’s the main reason I now work to create the kind of world no one needs to recover from – and why I support those who are doing just that.

Sweetness, softness, and innocence has its own power. I reclaimed mine — and work to preserve spaces and circumstances that foster it in community.

In a world that’s becoming “pay as you go” I’m all about “play as you go” — because even Jesus told us that we must become like little children. I think he meant innocent and sweet, not helpless.

Our power lies in remembering what is good and enduring. We’re going to need that anchor over the coming years. We need it now.

What do you remember that is worth continuing to nurture? What leads you to build more of that? I’d love to hear about that. Share in the comments, would you?