A New Thanksgiving

Posted on November 26, 2016 by Deborah Newell

This year’s Thanksgiving meal was truly extra special. In several ways. For the first time, our daughter and I actually cooked it together. In her kitchen, in her house. With some help from her husband who deep fried the turkey to a golden brown delight while my husband supervised.

And our 6 month old blessing, our first granddaughter, was right there watching, smiling and laughing, and wearing her “Gobble til You Wobble” shirt. And I’m sure anticipating next year, after her first two teeth have been joined by all the others, and she can actually eat a real Thanksgiving meal (I don’t think the banana baby food she had really counted)!

I have to say, this Thanksgiving was the first one in the ten years since my mother passed away, that I truly enjoyed the day without having a moment in which I wanted to cry. Because I was surrounded by the most special family ever. My husband, our daughter and son in law, and their first child.

I did remember Thanksgivings past, from the time Ashley was just a baby and my own mother was more interested In holding her granddaughter than eating dinner. I remember her feeding baby/toddler Ashley from her own plate when she was old enough to eat regular food, and how proud she was of her when she enjoyed it and clapped her little hands for more!

I remember my mother letting Ashley help her make the cinnamon buns for the first time, watching her get flour all over the floor as well as herself and her grandmother, and my mother not caring a bit! And she always let her have a bite of the raw dough, no matter how much I said not to.

And as the years went by, one tradition held firm…Ashley always helped her grandmother make the cinnamon buns. And they were always delicious! Because they were made with such love.

After dinner was over, the leftovers put away, and over slices of pumpkin pie, we’d all go through the newspaper ads to plan our shopping for the next day. At first my mom and I would pick out things we wanted to get, but it wasn’t long before Ashley took over the ads, even as a little girl, and picked out all the toys she wanted Santa to bring her. And also telling her grandmother what she could get for her as well!

The next day was spent with the three of us at the mall, three generations, happily planning a Christmas to remember, going through beautifully decorated and crowded stores to find the gifts we wanted, and waving at Santa until Ashley could get up her courage to go talk to him. We’d come home exhausted and let Ben bring our shopping bags inside and warm up the leftovers. Another ritual successfully completed….!

And this year, we began those traditions anew. With myself as grandmother to Baby Rachel who sat happily beside me in her high chair during dinner. And looking at all the newspaper ads after dinner as we enjoyed our pumpkin pie, with my granddaughter sitting in my lap, not quite sure what we were doing, but somehow understanding it meant fun was coming!

Yes, now I have taken the place of my own mother as matriarch of the family. Yes, I still miss my mother dearly, and certainly had moments where I wished she’d been there, but our family once again proudly has three generations of strong women to love and nurture each other. To pass along family traditions, family stories, and yes, even family recipes. And to make our own new traditions as well.

And we will surely enjoy every moment of making those new traditions.

I hope you and your family had a wonderful Thanksgiving, and made a lot of wonderful memories as well!

The Thanksgiving I’ll Never Forget

Posted on November 21, 2016 by Deborah Newell

I may not remember the year, but I sure remember what happened. Because it’s not often you get a second chance to have more time with your mother.

Thanksgiving was always a time for our family to be together. My aunt, her two sons, their wives and kids. Plus my husband and daughter, of course. I’m not even sure how old Ashley was that year, but it was probably no more than 10 or 11.

She was old enough to understand what was happening, and old enough to be afraid. Not just for her grandmother, but she’d never seen her own mother fall apart and not be in charge of a situation before.

That Thanksgiving started like most of the others had for the past several years. Ben, Ashley and I arrived at her house the night before so we could help with the preparations. We’d set the table in the dining room that night, with my grandmother’s antique china and my mother’s brightly polished silverware. After all, it was going to be a special holiday feast!

The next morning we all got up early, put the turkey in to roast, started the cinnamon bun dough, made pumpkin pies and began putting together the other side dishes to be cooked at the last minute. It was always a special time, Mom and me in the kitchen, while Ben and Ashley watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on TV.

Just another normal Thanksgiving. Or so we thought.

My aunt arrived later with her contributions to the meal, followed shortly afterwards by her two sons and their families. We had our appetizers, and my mom and my aunt started bringing out the side dishes. Mom was just pulling the turkey out of the oven when she suddenly dropped to the floor.

No warning. No time to say she didn’t feel good. She just passed out and fell to the floor.

And my world suddenly stopped.

I had no idea whether she’d suddenly died, or just fainted. She’d never had an incident like that before, at least not one that I’d known about.

What did I do? I’d love to say I rushed over to her, checked her out, and calmly told my family to call 911.

What I really did was panic and scream and start crying. Mature, right?! But fear took over. You don’t know how you will react in any given situation until you’re in it. You can say you’d do this, or you’d do that, but until you’re actually facing that moment, you truly have no idea.

Fortunately my younger cousin’s wife Joanne is a nurse, and she immediately took over while my other cousin called the rescue squad. All I could do was cry and pray that my mother was all right.

And, oh, I sure prayed! Ashley was crying and sobbing. My poor husband was torn between trying to comfort both of us and helping my cousin’s wife with my mother.

I cannot remember ever being so scared. I do remember thinking, though, and praying, “Lord, please don’t take my mother yet! Please, I can’t handle this…!” And I tried to put the memory out of my mind of a Thanksgiving many years previously when my mother’s mother had died early that morning, right in that same house.

Most of the tragic events in our family have happened on holidays or birthdays.

After what seemed like forever, which I’m sure was just a minute or less, my mom came around, found herself laying by the stove on the kitchen floor with a pillow under her head, and a blanket over her, and everyone standing around or leaning over her, with worried expressions on our faces.

Joanne was certainly visibly relieved, but her nurse’s training was still in full swing, as she calmly talked to my mom and asked her how she was feeling, taking her pulse, visibly checking her out and assessing her memory.

At that time we had no idea if she’d had a heart attack, a stroke, or what. All we knew was, she was still alive, and seemed to be ok, if just momentarily confused. Who wouldn’t have been after passing out?

But my mother quickly seemed to return to her normal self, getting upset because everyone was fussing over her and not getting dinner on the table. “I’m fine! Just let me get up and finish getting the food on the table! And no, I don’t want any water!”

She’d never have listened to me, but she did listen to Joanne, who’d certainly had similar stubborn patients in her nursing career. So she didn’t try to get up right away.

But then the rescue squad got there; we hadn’t told her we’d called them, and to say she wasn’t happy about it was an understatement!

Since she still lived in the same small town where I grew up, where everyone knew everyone else, I wasn’t surprised that I knew a few of the EMT’s. Of course, Mom knew them all, including one of her neighbors who lived a few houses away, and whose children she’d taught in kindergarten! And she immediately told them she was fine, and we shouldn’t have bothered them!

They checked her over, and asked her the normal questions, like her name, what day it was, and heaven forbid, her age! Which she promptly told them was none of their business! So I did feel a bit better, but still, something was wrong. And convincing Mom to let them take her to the hospital was, to say the least, a very difficult task. But after everyone promising they’d clean up the kitchen and put the food away, she (very) reluctantly agreed.

Riding in the ambulance with her that night was an experience I’ll not forget either. I couldn’t be in the back with her, so I rode in the front, turning around constantly and checking to be sure she was ok. Yes, I trusted the crew, but my MOTHER was back there, and I was still scared. Even listening to her telling them how she’d ruined our Thanksgiving (which she didn’t!), and then asking if they’d eaten, still didn’t convince me she was all right.

I’d never ridden in an ambulance before. And that normally 30 minute drive from her house, that probably took only 15 minutes that night, seemed like forever. Because I figured if she’d actually agreed to this, Mom was either scared or felt a lot worse than she was telling us!

As fast as the ambulance was going, a car suddenly came up from out of nowhere and passed it! Little did I know until we got to the hospital that my older cousin was driving Ben there in his sports car, and as Ben told me later, “All I could do was hang on and pray we’d get there in one piece! When he passed the ambulance to get there first, I just closed my eyes!” Well, they got there in one piece, and ahead of the ambulance, and Ben was standing outside waiting for me.

Fortunately my mother was all right. They kept her overnight, and never really found out what had happened. Perhaps she’d gotten overheated while cooking in a hot kitchen, or maybe she’d been dehydrated. Her heart was fine, thank goodness, at least as far as they could tell.

She got her Thanksgiving turkey sandwich about 10:00 that night from the hospital kitchen, after telling all of us (our whole family of course ended up there with her – where else would we have been!?) to leave and go eat our Thanksgiving dinner! And of course she apologized again for ruining our day!

We brought her back home the next day and the four of us celebrated a day late with her delicious Thanksgiving leftovers, which tasted even better than they would have the day before, because we truly had something to be quite thankful for.

As I’ve written many times, tomorrow is not promised. We do not know from day to day what our lives will bring. We do not know who could be taken from us, in the blink of an eye, suddenly and without warning, and how quickly our entire world could be changed forever.

As Thanksgiving approaches, take the time to truly count your blessings; to appreciate your family members, even the ones who may drive you crazy, because one day you’ll miss that craziness, those irritating habits that drove you nuts, and long for just one more day….

Happy Thanksgiving, and enjoy the many blessings around you!

If I’d Only Known.

Posted on November 14, 2016 by Deborah Newell

If we could only know for sure that final visits are really final visits, what would we do differently? What more would we say? How would we feel?

“I should’ve said this…..”

“I should’ve asked her more about my dad, about their life together before I was born, and how their lives changed after I was born, and how she really felt about finally being a mom.”

“I should’ve taken her a basket of flowers, or a tray of her favorite cookies.”

“I should’ve said I was sorry for what I said years ago that caused us not to speak for so long.”

“I should’ve been a better daughter/son…”

“I should’ve said ‘I love you’ one more time….”

For me, with my mother, I should’ve asked her how she was really feeling about what she could be facing. I wanted to know – but I really don’t think I could have handled it at the time. I thought it was a conversation that could have waited. I wanted it to be a conversation that could’ve waited. So we never had it.

Unfortunately we don’t usually know the exact day and time of that last, coherent visit. The last time we’ll be able to have a conversation with them. Only God truly knows, although we can certainly get a feeling in our spirit, that we know that we know. That we KNOW. In retrospect, it’s a good thing. Could we actually bear it at the time, knowing it was the last time we’d have a conversation with our loved ones? Sometimes we know. And sometimes we don’t.

Recently a good friend of ours lost her mother. Without any warning. She had their regular conversation with her mom on Tuesday night. On Thursday afternoon she received a call that her mother had been found dead. Fortunately their last words to each other with that last call had been “I love you.”

I was fortunate enough to have talked to my mother on the phone a few hours before she left us. I’d had a good conversation with her, and was quite hopeful that she was finally doing much better, and she was so looking forward to our visiting her the next day. My last words to her were “I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.” And two hours later she was gone.

Many people are fortunate enough to be with their loved ones when they leave and graduate to heaven. But so many more of us are not. The Lord has His reasons. Or perhaps our loved ones wanted it that way. Who are we to question, even though we do? Questioning doesn’t make us any less faithful. It doesn’t make us hurt any less. It just reminds us that we’re human.

And in our human-ness we can’t help but think of all those conversations we wish we’d had. We play them over in our minds and try to imagine what our loved ones would have said to us. We can almost hear their voices in our minds, answering our questions.

We just can’t make out their words anymore.

The Lost Grandmother

Posted on November 7, 2016 by Deborah Newell

About a month ago a very close friend of mine lost her mother. Theirs had not always been the best of relationships, and she always told me she’d envied the relationship I’d had with my mother. Last week I received this letter from my friend in an email, and she has given me permission to share it to show that even a badly broken relationship can be healed, as long as both parties are willing to work towards it.

This is an excerpt from her story that has been included in my book, “Memories in a Daughter’s Heart,” due to be published by the end of November.

“Dear Children, I wanted to write a little bit about your grandmother who passed away.

As you know she was my true mother, and the mother of Ken, Craig, and Elaine. She was blessed with four children. She lost custody of my brothers and me when I was five years old, and Elaine had short terms in foster care.

Through the years, and with Grandpa’s multiple marriages and long term relationships, you met a few “mom’s” who were actually stepmothers. You called them “grandma.”

My real mother loved her children; however she had multiple emotional problems that made mothering too challenging and overwhelming for her. She suffered, among other things, from mental illness, narcolepsy, and manic depression which actually required shock therapy several times in her life.

Back in the 1950’s, mental illness was not fully understood, and most people were not equipped to deal with a young mother who was so depressed she was unable to properly care for her babies and young children. We went hungry; our diapers were often unchanged; and the house was usually completely unkempt or not cleaned.

Unfortunately my dad did not have the patience or understanding to help my mother or cope with her problems. She became addicted to prescription medications, specifically amphetamines and barbiturates. When our dog had puppies, they were named after the drugs. Isn’t it weird that I remember that?

My father was not easy to be married to; he had a very harsh side, and was cruel to my mother. He must have taken her to a doctor for her to have gotten those medications, and tried to get her help, but she needed much more than that.

My brother Ken, being the oldest, remembers the most of it, and the traumatic childhood experience left scars on all of us as well as a sense of fragmentation.

My parents divorced when I was about 5 years old, right after my kindergarten year. My dad was awarded custody of us. At first we were able to see my mother, but not very often. After one of our visits to see her, something bad must have transpired, because after that visit I did not see my mother for 9 years until I turned 15.

My mother did finally marry again to a nice man named Tom, and they had my sister Elaine.

Through either my dad’s own doing, or whether on advice from an attorney or psychiatrist, he stopped allowing visitations with my mother. To my knowledge this was not done through any legal channels or court order.

I sneaked around to try and communicate with her, and when I was in high school, I had her send her letters to a friend’s address.

Growing up, I never heard a good word ever spoken about my real mother. I grew up afraid I would be like this person who was spoken about so negatively. I tried to overcome it all and prove my stepmother wrong.

When I turned 18, I could openly begin communication and establish a relationship with my mother, and finally get to know my sister.

Many years went by where we only talked by phone or through letters, but not many personal visits, as I didn’t have finances for such travel. Though we didn’t see each other often, we became better and better acquainted; while we didn’t have the “normal” mother-daughter relationship, but we had a love for each other.

When my father died seven years ago, I had to sort through all of his papers. My dad had saved everything. Among those papers were letters from my mother to us; beautiful, eloquently written letters that were never given to us. If we had been given our letters, we would have known our mother loved us; that we weren’t abandoned, like we’d been told. I truly believe it would have made a big difference in our growing up to have had that security and knowledge. Why he kept them, I do not know.

There was even a letter from my mother’s mother to my father begging him to not take the children away from her. In that time period, that was how people handled these situations, and they believed it was best to sever all ties.

Yes, my mother was flawed, and did not have the easiest personality to live with. She could be difficult and self-centered; she certainly had had a hard life, and had to do many things to survive and sometimes made the wrong choices.

When Elaine called me and told me the medical team that had been caring for her had said nothing more could be done, and were recommending palliative care for her; I was compelled to go there to be with her. My mother and I had come a long way in building our relationship, and I wanted to say goodbye to her, and be there for Elaine, too. Your dad encouraged me to go. So I went. And I’m so glad I did.

Alone in my mom’s room holding vigil, I had a compelling moment; I needed to forgive my mother. I laid my hands on her forehead, and said, “Mother, I forgive you, and I love you.”

My mother passed away the next morning; I will always believe she was waiting for me, and waiting to hear those words.

I called Ken and let him know that our mother had passed away. Regardless of their broken relationship, I wanted him to know. The next day he called me and said, “I’m not a praying man, but I said a prayer for her that, “I hope she is in a better place, and I forgive her.”

The power of speaking those words of forgiveness cannot be adequately expressed with my words.

I am sorry you could not have known her as your grandmother, and become more acquainted. My mother always asked about all of you; she was interested in your lives’ and cared very much about you. All of your pictures were in her room. She was proud of each of you.

I fortunately learned to embrace the good things about my mother these last few years, and learned not to dwell on her shortcomings. After all, we all have them. I am so thankful I was able to do that and finally enjoy a good relationship with her in these last years. We had so many fun, memorable days together, and I wouldn’t have traded any of them.

My beautiful children, there is always something good, and very much to be thankful for.”

Nothing more needs to be said after this, except, “It’s never too late.” Thank you my dear friend, for writing this to your children, and thank you for sharing it so that perhaps someone else may be able to salvage such a relationship before it’s too late.

In a Little Country Church

Posted on October 24, 2016 by Deborah Newell

There’s just something about those little country churches. Small. Intimate. Simply decorated. No fancy sound systems. No orchestra; not even an electronic keyboard or guitar. And certainly no PowerPoint presentation to display the words to the songs.

This one had just a simple spinet piano, with no microphones to project the music or the preacher’s message; the church was too small to need them. There were about ten rows of old wooden carved pews seating only 6-7 people per row. With hymnals and Bibles nestled in a shelf in front of us. Obviously everyone knows everyone else. Because they’ve been worshipping there for decades. And have probably worshipped there through several different preachers.

This is the type of church I grew up in, as did many of my friends.

The other day we once again visited this quaint little country church to celebrate the life of the 90 year old mother of one of our dear friends, who had advanced to her heavenly reward and joined her beloved husband, who had been called home four years previously.

Sarah Lee and her husband had been married for 67 years when he passed into eternity. Now she is with him once again. Although I’d only met her personally less than five times, I knew her through her daughter, and wished I’d had the opportunity to really have gotten to know her.

She and her husband were blessed with four children, six grandchildren, thirteen great-grandchildren, and three great-great-grandchildren, and most of them were in attendance to bid her farewell. She had lived her entire life in this little farming community, raising her family, working alongside her husband on their dairy farm, enjoying being a homemaker, doing her share of volunteer activities, and faithfully serving this little church as a teacher, pianist, and eventually as the first female elder in the church.

As we sat there waiting for the service to begin, listening to the pianist playing some of Sarah Lee’s favorite hymns on that old, but well-tuned piano, I couldn’t help but feel a bit of nostalgia for these beautiful country churches with their small congregations. Everyone, including those of us who didn’t know hardly anyone at the service, were made to feel like part of the family, and felt like we had known them all for many years by the time we left.

Sarah Lee’s service reflected her life and the family she had adored. Held in the same church where she and her late husband had been married seventy years previously, it was obviously planned by loving family members who will always remember and honor the matriarch of the family.

A number of flower arrangements were placed around the casket, and one in particular caught my eye. It contained a stuffed Dalmatian and two toy fire trucks, sent from the county fire auxiliary of which Sarah Lee had been a charter member. I couldn’t help but remember a similar arrangement that had graced the floral remembrances for her husband a few years earlier…an
arrangement of flowers in the shape of a tractor, as a symbol of the farm life her husband had loved and been devoted to.

Her son-in-law spoke about the woman he had obviously loved dearly, and recounted the story of how he’d once asked her who her favorite child was, and she’d told him a mother has no favorites. “I love them all equally!” Then he asked her who her favorite son-in-law was. He said she had to think about it for a few seconds before she answered, so as not to leave out anyone, “why, it’s you!” Of course, it was, since he was the only one at the time.

Nine of Sarah Lee’s relatives had formed a family choir for the service, beautifully singing three of her favorite hymns, including one of my favorites, “Amazing Grace”. And how fitting it was to have her three great-great-grandchildren “sing” along at various times; I could just imagine her watching from heaven, and smiling in approval, her beloved husband by her side once again.

As we took the short ride to the cemetery I couldn’t help but remember the last time we’d been on this drive, when her husband had been in that same hearse, which had been led to the cemetery by a huge John Deere tractor, and followed a few vehicles back by another tractor pulling a wagon with a model of a cow on it, each symbolizing the dairy farm he and his wife had worked and loved so much.

It was a small cemetery. Just as I’d remembered from the last time, the headstone already in place and marking the location of Sarah Lee’s husband, the ground already prepared to receive Sarah Lee. No amount of camouflage could disguise the preparations that had been made for the casket to be placed in the ground and covered over, after the graveside prayers had been said.

Watching the pallbearers bringing their precious responsibility to the site, I was reminded of a scene in my own life ten years ago, when my own precious mother was laid to rest. It’s a surreal feeling. You’re there, but you’re really NOT there. Unless you’ve sat in one of those graveside family chairs, you can’t comprehend.

Prayers were said, more tears were shed, for a well-loved mother, aunt, grandmother, great- grandmother, and great-great-grandmother. One by one, each of the pallbearers took off their boutonnieres, kissed them, and laid them on top of the casket; their final duties completed.

It was then time to begin to heal, and continue family traditions with those who were left behind, remembering, and never forgetting this very special woman.

Whether we attend a small rustic country church, a modern lavish cathedral, or something in between, it doesn’t matter where we worship, but Who we worship. Because God is God. He knows our hearts. He knows we love Him. And when one of our loved ones leaves this earth for their next, and final, everlasting life, He knows our pain. He knows our sorrow.

But He also knows how the story ends.

Why did this service at this little country church make such an impression?

Because of its simple, yet poignant, reminders that when our loved ones leave us, we must remember not only the essence of who they were and how much they were loved and will be missed, but, as Sarah Lee’s preacher said during the service, “Death tries to have the last word, but it does not. We belong to God in this life, and in the life to come.” We say goodbye for now, but in reality, it’s “See you later.”

Sarah Lee, we’ll see you later!

Ten Years Later

Posted on October 11, 2016 by Deborah Newell

It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years. So much has happened since I got that phone call from my mother that Wednesday night ten years ago. Little did I know what that one phone call would mean; what events would be triggered. And how all our lives would be changing forever.

Sure, it was to be expected eventually, but to me eventually didn’t mean then. It meant a time somewhere in the future, or so I thought.

But the future comes at unexpected moments. Tomorrow is today’s future, just like today is yesterday’s future. And on it goes.

Sometimes it feels like just a few weeks ago. Sometimes I still feel like I can pick up the phone and call her. And sometimes I don’t think about it. That is, until I happen to see a photo that reminds me of that other part of our life, back in the past.

There will always be reminders, and moments I wish we could recapture. And I really wish I could tell Mom all about our lives now; the things she missed:

Our daughter Ashley’s college graduation.

The excitement of Ashley and Chris’ engagement, of planning their wedding and shopping for wedding gowns, and I believe Mom would have joined us on that shopping trip.

Sitting beside me, holding my hand, crying together, as Ben proudly walked our daughter down the aisle on her wedding day.
The excitement of Ashley and Chris announcing their pregnancy to us; with my first reaction being, of course, “I have to call my mother!” But there are no telephones in Heaven.

The fun and excitement of Ashley’s baby shower, and how proud my mother would have been to be the expectant great-grandmother!
Words cannot express how much I wish she could’ve shared the wonder and amazement as Ben and I saw our beautiful granddaughter for the first time, and how I briefly imagined I saw my own mother’s eyes looking back at me as I looked at baby Rachel for the first time.

And I so wish I could share my feelings with my mother about being a grandmother, because she always told me one day I’d understand.

We still ride through my hometown on our way to my favorite beach, but unfortunately we don’t go there nearly as often as we used to.

I still look at the house on the left on that road going into town, the house where I used to live, and wish it were still ours, even though I know we did the right thing by selling it. It doesn’t look the same, of course, and I’m sure it’s been remodeled on the inside as well. I prefer to keep my memories of it as it was. It wouldn’t be right to go through it now; it would be too painful.

One thing I don’t do very often is visit the gravesite. I don’t feel the urgency to do so. My memories live on in photographs and other rooms in my heart; the cemetery is not a place where our memories will ever live. It is not the place where my parents are now.

I also don’t regularly put flowers or wreaths on the grave anymore. That first year after we lost her, we did that regularly. And we’d talk to her, tell her how much we missed her. But it didn’t feel right. She wasn’t there to enjoy the flowers or hear us talk to her. We’d given her flowers for lots of occasions over the years, and she’d always told us flowers died, and not to waste our money on them. And trust me, I heard her in my mind telling me that each time I brought flowers to that grave!

We still honor her memory at Christmas by hanging her “Grandmom” stocking filled with the red silk roses she loved so much. This year there will be another stocking beside that one, one with the name “Rachel” on it, and my mother’s legacy will continue.

Yes, it’s been ten years. A long ten years. But I can honestly tell you, even though you may think you will never recover from your loved one’s death, you will. You will not forget them, and your heart will heal.

But you will always miss them, and remember them.

Dear Summer….

Posted on September 5, 2016 by Deborah Newell

Why are you leaving? You just got here, didn’t you? I don’t think you really had time to unpack your bags all the way. Now you’re leaving already?

For goodness sake, we haven’t had nearly enough time together. Sure, we had lots of great days in the pool, floating in the cool water together and basking in the warmth of the sun. Your summer days are so nice and long, and we’ve sure enjoyed them so far.

We’ve walked on the hot sand at the beach and played in the crashing waves together. We’ve picked up shells and enjoyed the sounds a beach can have only in the middle of summer when you’re visiting us.

You brought us beautiful brightly colored flowers that thrived in your summer heat, as long as they had a sip of cool water several times a day. They don’t want you to leave either, and they’re already starting to show their disappointment with wilting blooms and yellowing leaves.

You brought us fresh strawberries, fresh blueberries, and big juicy watermelons! They were delicious, and they’ve gone away as well, until next year. Those crisp apples that Autumn brings are good, but they’re just not the same.

We’ve spent warm and sultry nights outside together on the porch, sipping chilled sangria and talking about how much fun it is when you’re here. We’ve listened to the frogs singing to us at night, and we even introduced you to our bullfrog Jeremiah. Who’s now packing his bags, too, because he’s decided he’s going with you!

We complained when it rained, even though you said you had to take a break and cool things off a bit for us. We just didn’t want to miss out on your wonderful sunshine, or any of the time we could spend outside with you.

Even when you decided that close to 100 degree days with even higher humidity were going to join you for a week or so, we really didn’t complain that much, because we’d rather have you bring us that than leave us altogether.

We even had a big pool party in your honor, and you seemed to have a wonderful time. You kept the rain away, and your temperatures hot even into the night, so we could all stay in the pool til almost midnight.

Wasn’t that alone enough reason for you to decide to stay longer? We can have another party for you if you want!

Are you sure you really want to leave? Are you sure you can’t stay, at least a month or so longer?

But you’re telling us no, today is Labor Day, which lots of people call the end of summer. Which means you’ll be packing your bags, taking your beach towels and flip flops, and going away. Again.

That’s just not fair. We just never seem to get enough time with you. We know, you have other friends who want to spend time with you, too. You’re a vagabond, and can’t stay in one place forever. You like to move around and spread your warmth to all kinds of places. You’ve promised others as well that you’ll be back, and you can’t break your promises.

We know you’ll be back, but next year is so very far away. Can’t you just stay a few more weeks and let us enjoy your company a little longer? We promise to be good, and spend as much time with you as possible. We’ll have more cookouts and picnics for you, and spend more time outside with you.

And, well, we hate to bring this up, but this Labor Day weekend wasn’t really beach or pool weather. At least if you’re determined to leave, please stay for just a little longer, and make up for this weekend??? Your bags can’t be totally packed; there’s got to be a few more days to give us….

Pretty please…?

Rooms of Memories

Posted on August 29, 2016 by Deborah Newell

Late at night when I can’t sleep I wander through rooms of memories in my mind. Rooms from special homes from long ago that are, sadly, only available now in my memories. And in my heart.

I’ve walked around my mother’s huge front porch that I loved so much so very many times in my mind, I could have worn a hole in its faded red concrete floor. In my dreams, sometimes my mom is even sitting out there with me, talking with me as clearly as if she were still alive.

I’ve been a little girl again, playing in my little-girl room in my mother’s house with its pink walls and white ruffled curtains, and that special handmade canopy doll bed with its pink dotted Swiss canopy and white satin bedspread sitting in front of the window. The other furniture is long gone, but that beautiful doll bed, the last piece of furniture my father made before he died, is sitting in our storage room waiting for me to make new bedclothes for it when our granddaughter is old enough to play with it.

I’ve journeyed through my mother’s attic many times in my mind, exploring and discovering things that most likely never existed, but yet I always longed to find, such as love letters between her and my dad, and diaries she’d written as a young teenager. I could see them, feel them in my hand, even open the pages and see the words written in familiar handwriting, but couldn’t make it out before the dream ended.

I’ve also had the pleasure of once again walking through my grandparents’ old home which I last walked through some fifty+ years ago, when I was only about ten or eleven.

I’ve walked around her kitchen, with its big wood stove that produced so many wonderful baked treats, and sat once again at her red Formica table with its matching chairs with the plastic covered seats, eating a slice of wood-oven toasted bread drenched with fresh cream butter…a delight we always had to have when we visited.

I’ve explored my grandmother’s attic again as well, carefully walking up those dark and very narrow steep stairs to find a treasure of old antique toys and Christmas ornaments, carefully packed away in boxes so old they almost fell apart when we brought them downstairs. I’ve gently placed my grandmother’s doll in her old doll stroller and pushed it around the attic floor, avoiding other boxes that were just waiting for my curious little girl self to open.

I’ve wandered into one of my favorite rooms at my grandmother’s house, her sun porch, with its brown wicker chairs and her old treadle sewing machine. It overlooked her little flower garden of sweet peas and “pinks”, small pink flowers more commonly known as dianthus. I’ve sat in those chairs and admired the view in the late afternoon sun.

But those rooms only exist now in my heart. My grandmother’s house was destroyed in a fire some 20+ years ago. I remember hearing about it from my mom and aunt right after it happened, and even though it had been sold probably some 25 years before, they still thought of it as the “home place.”

And I sold my mother’s house almost ten years ago, and not without buckets of tears. That was my “home place” and I still look at it with a special longing when we visit the area and drive by. It looks somewhat different around the yard, but the house still sits there and calls me by name, evoking memories and a nostalgia that it’s hard to put into words.

Our memories remember things that sometimes never really were. Or never really were exactly the same way as we remembered them. But the memories we keep in our heart are the ones most special to us.

Unfortunately sometimes we twist our memories to become things that never really were. Homes become bigger and more beautiful than they were. Lost relationships become far more perfect than they ever could have been. We forget the cracks and imperfections, making everything perfect in our minds. And if we get the chance to actually relive those memories, like walking through your childhood home now that someone else lives there, or meeting up with an old boyfriend or girlfriend you thought at the time you’d marry and spend your entire life with, you discover that your memories are far, far better than the reality of today.

Our memories of today’s events will become that way as well. We tend to remember things as we wanted them to be, and not as they really were. It’s sometimes easier that way.

Because sometimes in our memories, we can change the outcomes and rewrite the pages as we wish they’d been. We may not even recognize them as they actually occurred.

What memories do you have that you cherish? Write them down, and share them with others. One day, those precious memories may only be living on the pages of your journal.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Posted on August 27, 2016 by Deborah Newell

Last night I was working on my final (hopefully!) edit before sending my manuscript to my publisher. And what portion of the story came to greet me as I turned the pages?? One of my favorite memories of one of the last birthdays we celebrated with my mother.

Very appropriate, since today would have been her 104th birthday! Which of course set my writer’s mind to thinking as I remembered other birthday celebrations with her, and how I so wished we could have just one more.

We always wish for “just one more” of those special times with our loved ones after they’re gone. It’s our own human nature, because we don’t want to let them go. There won’t be any more of those special celebrations here on earth, but in my heart I’ve been imagining what her birthday today might be like in her beautiful heavenly home.

No, it’s not scriptural, but knowing how much the Lord loves us, and how He only wants us to be happy with Him in our eternity, my dreams have imagined what my mother’s heavenly birthday may be like.

First of all, my mother didn’t like birthdays, at least not her own. She didn’t want to be reminded of her age. Sure, she enjoyed other people’s birthdays, but she never wanted to have any type of party or celebration for her own. But in heaven, that’s all changed now.

Her birthday is the anniversary of her arrival here on earth. Now that’s she back in her heavenly home, the aging process she disliked so much is no more. No more old age. Although we have no idea what our heavenly bodies will look like, we know they will be perfect, free of wrinkles and infirmities, restored to our own perfect beautiful self, just as the Lord sees us.

I imagine her now as she appeared in her engagement photo, a beautiful young woman, full of happiness! Looking ahead to a wonderful life with the man she loved.

I imagine her waking up on this birthday morning in a beautiful room, full of flowers, butterflies and hummingbirds darting all around. There are heavenly birds joining in chorus with some of the angels, singing her a special birthday song meant only for her ears. I imagine her smiling happily at this special greeting!

My father is there, too, restored as a young man, who takes her hand and leads her to the special celebration that’s been planned in her honor.

There’s a beautiful table set out on her porch which overlooks a sea of flowers. Not only the roses my mother so loved much here on earth, but flowers we can’t imagine, grown only in heavenly gardens, their colors painted from heavenly rainbows by the Lord’s own hand. Their scent is amazing, and drifts by as a special heavenly perfume, created for her on her special day. A few of the deer she so enjoyed watching in her back yard wander aimlessly through the flowers, waiting for the right moment to wander up on the porch to visit with her.

The pets she’d had here on earth are there as well, little dogs playing with each other, barking happily as they see her walk in, ready to jump in her arms and wish her a happy birthday! I see her face light up as she greets each one by name and gives them a special hug and a heavenly dog treat which they scamper off with to enjoy.

Her family and friends are there as well; her own mom and dad, as well as her brothers and sister, some of her best friends from earth, all delighted to celebrate with her! Plus other relatives I never met, but know one day I’ll get to know.

There are other young adults there as well that I don’t recognize, but I know they are the children she miscarried, now spending eternity with their parents. My brothers and sisters that I won’t meet until that day in the future when I join them.

I see young children around her as well, hugging and kissing her, bringing her flowers and presents, and I hear them calling her “Grandmom.” Obviously, all the babies I miscarried, living in their heavenly home and being watched over by the grandmother who adores them and loves them just as much as she loved and adored the only child I was able to give birth to.

No birthday celebration would be complete without birthday cake and presents. And her cake is a heavenly three-tiered masterpiece, a concoction of sugary flowers and butterflies that no pastry chef here on earth could even begin to duplicate. I can only imagine the taste as it’s served on crystal plates, for all in attendance to enjoy.

And the presents…what kind of presents could you possibly get in heaven, since you already have everything you could ever want? So there aren’t that many, but the ones there are so special. Beautifully wrapped in iridescent paper, which changes color from time to time, and tied with the most intricate and amazing bows like nothing we could ever tie here on earth. The gifts slowly unwrap themselves as they’re placed in her hands, to reveal a few specially selected gifts designed just for her. Another jewel for her heavenly crown. More colorful embroidery thread for her needlework.

But the most precious gift is a photo frame, decorated with pink hearts and pearls, which contains a picture of her new great grandchild…her namesake Rachel. This is certainly not like an earthly photo frame, since it allows her to watch little Rachel as she grows up, through all of her stages of life. What more appropriate gift for her!

I’ve never seen my mother so happy. So beautiful. And so at peace with her life. But heaven is a place of total joy, total peace, and eternal joy. Of course she’s happy.

So Mom, Happy Birthday! I know you are enjoying an amazing celebration! And you deserve it!

I miss you, and I love you so much!

Crickets, Frogs, and Lightning Bugs

Posted on July 11, 2016 by Deborah Newell

There’s just something calming and relaxing about sitting out in a screened-in porch on a warm summer night. If you’re from anywhere in the south, or like me and from the Eastern Shore of Maryland or Virginia where it’s quite rural, you know there’s something almost magical and totally peaceful about the stillness of a country summer night.

That’s one of the very special memories I cherish from my mom’s house. She had the most wonderful screened-in front porch that stretched across the front of the house and ended in an “L” that stopped at our dining room. That porch was the best place to be in the summer, especially since we didn’t have air conditioning (hardly anyone did in the 50’s and 60’s, at least where we lived). It was always cooler out there, with a slight breeze coming through the screens while the mosquitos stayed outside.

I can still see the white-flowered bushes surrounding that porch, with the huge carpenter bees and hummingbirds dipping their tongues in the tiny trumpet shaped blooms to get a taste of sweet nectar. The rows of sweet corn in Mom’s field, their stalks slightly swaying in the gentle evening breeze. And those beautiful clear night skies, sprinkled with stars surrounding a sometimes huge full summer moon which lit up everything around us.

But one of the best parts of relaxing out on that porch in the summer was the symphony of sound and light we experienced on the warmest of those nights; a symphony you just don’t get when living in the city.

Even on the stillest of evenings, we’d be treated to the simple pleasures of chirping crickets and croaking frogs. They’d start off “singing” with just a few soloists at a time, and within a few minutes, the soloists would be joined by a larger chorus which would have made any musician proud. My mother used to say the frogs were croaking for rain, and she was usually right.

The funny thing is, though, I never really saw the entire chorus, just a few scattered participants here and there, and usually only after the performance was over. I still wonder where they all met to present their performance, and if they ever got together to practice before those performances!

And the light shows, although not the spectacular displays of colorful neon and video walls we see at concert venues today, were simple but elegant, choreographed by an unseen Master, just for our delight. It would start out with an occasional lightning bug or two, and as twilight deepened into night, the few would become hundreds, their little lights glowing and moving through the night sky as they silently flew around from place to place. It was almost as if they were dancing to an unheard melody, delighting us children, and silently calling us to join them, as we wondered why their lights never stopped blinking, and where they went after the show was over. That is, the ones we didn’t catch in jars and take inside with us.

And the sunsets were often amazing, with pink, red, and sometimes purple skies which didn’t last nearly long enough to fully appreciate. On the hottest of summer nights we could also be treated to a show of heat lightning, with the southern sky filled with occasional bolts of thin silent white lightning, or bursts of bright light which perfectly outlined the trees in the distance and lit up the occasional clouds. I’m sure I didn’t appreciate the beauty of it all then, like I do now. And now those lights can only be seen in my memories.

As children, and even young adults, we most often do not appreciate the simple beauty of nature around us. God has blessed us with spectacular and wonderful bits of creation, if we only take a good look around us.

I didn’t appreciate the beauty nearly enough when I was experiencing it. I didn’t realize what a marvelous show He was giving us for free; the Master artist and choreographer most certainly delights in displaying His handiwork, and presents it to us absolutely free of charge. All we need to do is watch.

Now another family is living in that house that was once my mother’s, and having the experience of enjoying that wonderful symphony and spectacular light show that I only see in my memories. Most likely the great grandchildren of those crickets and frogs are singing a similar melody from the past, while other descendants of those long ago lightning bugs still dart around the yard in similar patterns from their ancestors.

Sometimes when it’s quiet at night and I’m sitting out on our own back porch I can close my eyes and imagine I’m once again back on that wonderful porch at my mother’s. This year I’m even being treated to solos and sometimes duets or even small choruses of croaking frogs, led by a bullfrog we’ve affectionately named Jeremiah. It isn’t quite the same, but the Master conductor is still leading His chorus for all of us to enjoy, just in a different theatre with different scenery.

Go outside this evening and enjoy a special performance of nature orchestrated by the Master conductor. Most likely it’ll be different from the one we’re enjoying, but it’ll be one created just for your own personal enjoyment!

And then let us know what your special performance was like!

4th of July Goodies

Posted on July 4, 2016 by Deborah Newell

In celebration of the 4th of July, we always had family cookouts when we were growing up. Along with fireworks my uncle set off in the field beside our house. When fireworks were legal, of course, way back long ago!

I can still remember the Roman candles he’d set off, making sure we kids were well out of their range, and carefully aiming them away from anything that could catch on fire. (In case you’re wondering, my mother’s house was just outside the town limits, so we didn’t have to worry about any restrictions.) We also had strings of regular firecrackers, cherry bombs, and colorful sparklers that we loved to swirl and make designs with in the air, long before it became fashionable to use them for weddings! And of course, there were those round snappers we threw on the sidewalk so they’d make a sharp “bang”, leaving a tiny trail of smoke.

Oh, the fun we had…..!! And none of us got hurt, thank goodness! Would we do this for our kids now?! Heck, no!

But first of all we’d eat our dinner of charcoaled burgers and hot dogs, with my mom and my aunts contributing homemade potato salad, macaroni salad, coleslaw and of course potato chips and baked beans, with an occasional plate of freshly deviled eggs! What a treat it was, especially combined with Mom’s homemade iced tea punch that I’ve forgotten (sadly) how to make. Although I think it included grape juice…maybe I’ll attempt it if none of my fellow Eastern Shore friends have a similar recipe they can share.

Anyway, nothing could compare with those burgers cooked on that old charcoal grill. It was a great taste treat, with just the tiniest hint of a bit too much lighter fluid thrown on the charcoal briquettes, which somehow always added to the taste to the meat.

Dessert was usually fresh homemade ice cream, the kind you could get a massive brain freeze from if you ate it too quickly. And we usually did! With plenty of strawberries thrown over that pile of frozen vanilla goodness!

For years my mom used an old wooden ice cream freezer to make her homemade ice cream. I’m not sure, but it must have belonged to her mother at one time, because even back then, its once bright green paint was almost gone. The inside can had a wooden paddle inside, and we used to argue over who would get the chance to lick that paddle once the ice cream was finally frozen! We’d fill the bucket with rock salt and ice, and turn the handle, only stopping when it would barely turn any more, which meant it was finally ready! There have been many times I’ve wished for that old ice cream maker, because even using her recipe, the ice cream just doesn’t taste the same in the newer, modern appliances.

There’s just something to be said about some of those old vintage products!

Yes, those were the days, as the saying goes! And sometimes I long for those days, to just be able to re-live a few of the good times, to see if they really were as good as we remember them!

So in celebration of this year’s 4th of July, I’m sharing our family recipe for homemade ice cream. Just remember, it may not taste the same if it’s not made in that old wooden ice cream maker, but since most of us don’t have one any more, let’s just see if we can bring back a little of the old time memories, and calories, just for old times’ sake!

Mom’s Homemade Ice Cream
15 ounce can sweetened condensed milk
2 c. thin cream
1 c. cold water
1 tbl vanilla
Dash of salt

Mix ingredients together. Fill inner metal container about 2/3 full of ice cream mixture and place paddle in the middle; cover tightly so rock salt (ice cream salt) won’t leak inside.

Pack alternate layers of ice and rock salt around the metal container until the bucket is almost full. As ice melts, replace if necessary, adding any necessary salt to the mixture. Turn the handle and crank away. (It’s a good idea to have a helper or two lined up in case you get tired!)

When handle will barely turn any more, it’s ready! Remove the handle, carefully remove the cover on the inside can, and place paddle in a bowl to be enjoyed by the kids! Place ice cream in freezer until ready to serve.

Note: This makes a wonderful vanilla, however, if you wish, you can add crushed fruit of your choice, but we usually ate it with the fruit generously spooned over it.

Enjoy!

Happy July 4th!

Leaving a Legacy

Posted on June 27, 2016 by Deborah Newell

Legacy: a heritage; something transmitted by an ancestor.

But a legacy means so much more than this definition.

We recently attended a celebration service for the father of some friends we’ve known for several years. We’d known their father, although not as well as we’d liked, and he had indeed been a wonderful man. A devoted husband, father, grandfather, and great grandfather. He was a talented jazz musician who played the trombone in his church’s orchestra, as well as singing bass in their men’s vocal group for as many years as we can remember. He loved the Lord, and instilled that love in each of his children, and in their children as well. He had loved his wife of over 65 years, and her death the previous year had not quenched that love.

We have never heard anyone speak a bad word against this man. Unpretentious to the end, he would enter a room and greet those already there not by saying, “I’m here!” and wanting people to pay attention to him, but by taking someone’s hand and telling them, “I’m glad you’re here!” And he made them feel as if they were the most important person in the room at that time.

His adult grandchildren spoke about him at the service, along with two of his children, choking back tears as they recounted stories about him, all with one common theme. His unfailing love for them; his devotion to family; his willingness to reach out to anyone who needed him; and a faith he was not hesitant or embarrassed to proclaim. Even in the last week of his life he was
praising the Lord with his family as he listened to some of his favorite music.

And when his casket was rolled out of the service, the trombonist played “When the Saints Go Marching In”. We all clapped in rhythm; some danced in place. Because we could all picture him marching through heaven’s gates, his new heavenly trombone in hand, waiting to greet his Lord and reunite with his beloved wife who left him a year previously. We could also hear the Lord telling him, “well done, my good and faithful servant…”

He was a gentle man, not rich in wealth, although he always provided for his family, but rich in his love and friendship to everyone around him. Rich in the number of lives he touched, and the number of lives he’d made a difference in. Rich in family and friends.

This 95 year old man left behind an amazing and powerful legacy to be remembered by all who knew him.

You see, a legacy is not measured in terms of money, your last title at your job, how many homes you had, how expensive your car was, how many vacations you took, or how famous you may have been.

Legacy is passed on from one generation to the next, or in this man’s case, to several generations. Your legacy is how you lived your life, and what you taught others about how to live theirs. How many lives you touched and impacted. By example, by actions; not by mere words.

Your true legacy cannot be left to others in a will. It is not tangible; you can’t hold it in your hand or deposit it in your bank account.

Your legacy is remembered, and reflected in the lives you touched. It is reflected in their works and how they live their life patterned after yours. This man left a true and remarkable legacy that is lived out every day in the lives of his children and their children and grandchildren.

I only pray I am able to leave behind a small portion of the type of legacy this man left behind.

Well done, good and faithful servant.

Featured Image from http://www.EmbeddedFaith.org

Just Living Life

A journal of advice, stories, and ideas from years of living

Category Archives: Memories