Smelling Like My Granny

The first time I got a whiff of White Shoulders was probably an hour or two after I was born. My great-grandmother, Edna Pearl Root Durr Spotts, wore it and over time it became a favorite scent, signifying peace and order. It has a certain pizzazz that has maintained it's popularity since 1943. I gave in and bought a bottle. What a great anxiety reducer. Some part of my brain turns on the chill out juice as soon as the spray hits the air, which is impressive to someone as high-strung as I am.

I hope someday, 20 years after my death there are people to whom a small reminder of me can lift their heaviest mood. I hope I can heal others as she did.

And Away She Goes

Marguerite Eloise graduated yesterday. The ceremony was lovely, and we were all so proud of our kids. Mea was a Senior Scholar which means she graduated with highest honors. She plans on studying neuroscience at the University of Michigan. Watching her congratulate all of her friends and carry out all the rituals and traditions was encouraging because I know she will carry forward the energy into this next more demanding phase of life. 

Congratulations, Mea! I always knew you could do it and I knew you could do it well.

Not My Grandmother's Flannelgraph

Though it is her couch (long story involving six children, general destructiveness and fond memories).  Flannelgraph played an incalculable roll in my spiritual development.  The first time I heard the story of Christ's passion he was hanging from the cross on a deluxe flannel overlay background.  I made my first profession of faith the same day.  Given the choice of with Flannelgraph or without, even hardened teenagers opted for the charming cut out people in their inexplicable worlds and costumes.  Sunday School was the most frequent place for Flannelgraph use. My grandmother was an excellent teacher investing hours of time in her weekly opportunity to change hearts and minds.  She always used the church issued Flannelgraph that was actually flocked paper and sometimes she glued it down because she disliked the interruption to the story telling.

My mother had put off going through Grandmother's Sunday School materials because the items awakened such strong memories.  I came down to go through it with her.  It was inspiring.

My older girls had gone down with me, and on our way home we talked about our family's foray into Flannelgraph.  I bought a complete set of Betty Luken's Bible stories.  That is the crem de la crem of Flannelgraph.  If a woman was heading to the mission field, her friends would go in together to get a set as a parting gift.  The thing is die cut flocked paper is much easier to prep then cutting out hundreds of characters from felt.  The project ate three pairs of scissors before I gave up and let my dramatic personality make up for the lack of figures.

Grandmother's example has me giving it another try, this time with Mea's unexpected help.  We are having a great time trimming and conquering the sheets one herd of camels and many many Jesus' at a time.  I think Grandmother is very proud.

Rest

Today was the beginning of the lay-on-the-beach portion of the trip.  I didn't even make it to the beach.  Jimmy's stitches meant he couldn't swim, and that he was sleepy, so we slept in, way in.  When the crew got back from the beach, they switched gears and Kurt talked me into another nap.  Dinner was quick and easy bacon and eggs.  Mea and I went to a 7:00 PM mass.  The deal is whoever goes to mass gets ice cream.  Ye Olde Ice Cream Store had some good stuff.  Uncle Doctor Peter came over to set Jimmy up with a super glue conversion on his stitches so that he can swim tomorrow.  My rest seems to be over.

Packing My Bag

I decided about three minutes after Mea was born that my grandkids would call me "Grammy."

The title honors my great grandmother without replacing her.  I fell in love with Granny as an infant. If she was in the room I cared for no one else.  When I was four, she came to stay with us after we lost my brother.  In one month she moved my mother from non-functioning despair to spunky assertiveness.  

The day Granny went home was such a lovely day what with Mother back from the dead and all.  I did fine until the last minute when Granny started walking up the gangway for her plane.  I jerked my hand out of Daddy's and ran after her.  "I need one for the road," I said.  She gave me one of her patented kisses and I ran back to Mother and Dad.

Granny was always filling my emotional bag with treasure.  Her keen awareness that after her life was done, mine would go on, led her to think about what she could send forward with me.   Sometimes it was physical things like a Children's Bible with a lovely note inside the cover or a gold watch for graduation.  She finished my wedding quilt before I finished high school.  Sometimes it was stories of all kinds from family history or experiences like a train ride. Sometimes it was special things to do with chldren, songs, recipes, games, crafting skills.  She said that I should always lose a game or two of checkers to young children so that they won't get discouraged.  I'll never know if she said that because I'd won.

I try to do the same things for my kids, but my success is not as complete.  I don't worry too much about that, after all these guys are only the warm up.

institutional bitterness

"You're Marguerite Donnelly's granddaughter," a stranger might say to me back home in Western Maryland.  Living side by side for generations, that said a lot.  It meant I was a Durr.  Durrs are prized for their intelligence and empathy.  They are derided for their emotionalism and vanity.  The next thing to figure out was the relationship between our families.  No one  pulled out guns, but if there was bad blood things cooled off.  Even within families offenses festered.  My great-grandfather didn't speak to his twin brother for thirty years.  He'd stepped off his train because he believed in the union, and his brother had stepped right on because he needed the job.
Living like that is frightening, but it becomes engrained, a point of honor.  It was everywhere I went, just like the pure mountain water.  When I became a Catholic I realized that those habits had to change.  I had to find a new way to live.
"Go forth to love, serve and forgive one another." is one of the things the priest says after mass.  For a while it was so convicting that I thought he said it every week.  Everywhere I went in the Church, I kept bumping into forgiveness and I started to try.
I tried a lot of things, but struggled until I drew on another Durr strength--storytelling. I had a nasty habit of reviewing wrongs and framing them up in such a way that the listener would be moved to take up arms on my behalf.  In the middle of such a reminiscence, common sense said, "This is not forgiving."  So, right there, where the story was most juicy, I forgave.  I forgave all of it, even the emotional impact.  It has turned out to be a very worthy exercise, and my heart is much lighter.
We all have accreted prejudices of many kinds, but those supported by the communities that support us are the worst and most difficult to relinquish.

Comforting or Creepy?

This is my brother's gravestone.  My parent's bought it after the terrible trial of losing an infant.  The money hadn't been easy to spare, but it made it easier to leave him in Michigan when a job came up in West Virginia.  I was careful to pay attention to the details so that I could find him if I ever came back.  The other day I was googling the names of people I know, and there it was, little lost lamb and all.  I felt two things immediately, relief--"there you are" and anger--"how dare they!"
The relief stemmed from the moment of connection with this little person gone, a sense that, in a world of shifting electrons something had stayed put.  I can visit and scrub the headstone and plant things that never survive.  I will admit that since I found this picture I have returned periodically to view it and remember.
The anger comes in that, anyone with Google can go there too.  This is our private grief and no one else's business.  Shouldn't there be some protection for this sacred place?  How dare some camera enthusiast  fill an empty Saturday snapping up pictures of loss and grief?  I cannot move into the graveyard with my brother's body, his body cannot stay with me.  Please do not abuse the middle ground between us.
Then I remembered visiting Starnberg, Germany and my fascination with the graveyards.  The beauty of the expressions of love inspired and comforted me.  The comparative sterility of American graves seemed rather sad.  I took tons of pictures and they are still my favorite tokens of Starnberg.  I suppose the balance is this-- he is my brother, my only brother and he's gone, that's personal--my grief is universal and I share it with everyone.  If the photo was taken in such a spirit, it took nothing it didn't own.

Accepto Patronum

One of the great things about being human is the ability to plan and carry it out. Christmas is the best opportunity for that kind of thing, the only drawback being my tendency to over-plan. Lists have lists until only Santa's naughty and nice list is longer. Our everyday projects crash into Christmas requiring contingency plans. I get overwhelmed, but I'm slow to ask for help. This year I got told.
"Accept help or quit" wasn't the exact message, but it felt that way.
At first I was upset and quitting looked like the better option. As time went by I began to see how good and necessary the help really was. Long term I am certain that my kids will get good at doing their chores, but Christmas won't wait for that to happen. Christmas requires order, so when the elves showed up with buckets and pails and made the impossible possible we rejoiced. When the last few sparkly bits needed to be finished while a bunch of other things required attention it was such a relief to call my sister and ask for help. She has a gift for sparkly bits.
The lesson seems to be that expecto patronum isn't rude, and that accepto patronum is imperative. It has been a very happy holiday.

Delinski Glacier

My maiden name is Delinski. I always hoped for something simple, easy to spell like Smith or Jones, but no, I married an Ansorge. I will be doomed to spelling my name forever. Good thing he's worth it.
Anywho, my uncle has worked for the U.S. Geological Survey since before I was born. He can tell you where you can and can't put a telephone pole on almost any continent. I always loved watching him trace the lines on this light box thing that I don't even know the name of. As a reward for helping with a project mapping the Arctic, he was offered the opportunity to have a mountain named after him, but Uncle George is an original thinker. He asked to have a glacier named after him, so they did. I wasn't able to find an on-line image of the glacier, but here is a link to the Wikipedia article that will be written about it, someday.
We're famous.