Taylor

Taylor and Saul at Macaroni Grill, Dec. 27, 2015.

"You'll love her, Mom. She'll remind you of me."

That's what my daughter, Meagan said when she called me from The Gap, where she was working that Sunday morning some fifteen years ago. Her friend, Gina, was also working that morning, but because of a babysitting glitch, had had to bring her two-and-a-half year old daughter to work with her. Meagan was calling to see if we wouldn't mind stopping by on our way home from church to pick Taylor up. Oh, and would we mind keeping her until Gina got off work that afternoon?

How could we mind? An adorable little girl who looked like our Meagan?

We went to The Gap. Meagan was right. Taylor had masses of dark curls and huge brown eyes just like our Meggie. But she was so tiny. At two, she looked to be about the size of Meagan at a year. I'm not used to tiny babies. I was enthralled. And by that afternoon, I was in love.

Taylor was quiet as her mom strapped her into her car seat and sent her off with a couple of strangers--My Awesome Husband Greg and me. She was quiet when we got to our house. My son, Dominic, who was about 12, had a friend over that day, and she seemed to enjoy entertaining and being entertained by them, but she didn't say a word. She helped herself to a ball of yarn that she found in a basket and wound it all around the house, then sat on Dominic and used it to bind his hands together. All we could do was laugh. She seemed drawn to Greg, whom she called "Grandpa." (Don't think he didn't love that.)

But Taylor pretty much ignored me. Until I had to change her diaper. Gina had warned us that she had had some orange juice, and had a pretty bad rash. It seemed that for that, I was the only one who could comfort her. I felt bad, but also wonderful at finally being allowed to hold that precious little girl and assure her that everything was okay.

That was the day we met. Yesterday, Taylor turned 18. She has a boyfriend now. She has received her first college acceptance letter. Today, she is getting her driver's license. I am waiting for her to come and borrow my car for her road test. I am happy to let her take it, as I am happy to have been a part of her life, and have her be part of mine.

Wherever you go, Taylor, and whatever you do, you will always have a piece of my heart. I love you.

Three Momentous Christmases--Part Three...

...The One Where We Had Moved to North Carolina

This photo was taken on our first Christmas back home after we moved to North Carolina.

The year we moved to North Carolina--1982--was a year of adventure for us. We fell in love with this beautiful state almost at once. But it was also a year of missing-you heartache--for us, and for our families in Michigan. Nowadays, most of our travel between the two states happens during the summer. But that first Christmas, there was no way we were not going home. I was working parttime, Meagan was in preschool and Greg was working hard and not making much money. I mention that only so you will understand when I tell you that, rather than buying a tree that year, he went into some woods on a neighbor's lot in the dark of night and chopped one down.

The day before Christmas Eve, we loaded the car after supper, planning to drive as far as we could get that night, and then continuing what was left of the 14-hour trip the next morning. After Meagan and I were in the car, Greg slipped back in and set up "Santa" under the tree to surprise Meagan when we got back. The only present I remember was a white stuffed kitten in a basket.

The weather was good, and our hearts were light as we drove through the mountains. I loved seeing the three white crosses that appeared from time to time on the side of a wooded slope. We're used to seeing them now, but they held a special meaning that night so close to Christmas.

Our time at home went by too fast. The happiness I felt at being reunited with the people I loved so much was almost too much to bear. Our hearts all started getting heavy as time to depart drew near.

As we loaded the car, Toby, our springer spaniel, decided to take one last dip in the pond. So we headed back to our new home with tears in our eyes and our noses full of wet dog. I'm not going to lie. That was a tough trip. We'd met some nice people--some we'd even call friends--but we knew that no one would really notice if we never returned. But of course we did, and life got better and better. We are very happy here now.

Remember that white kitten in a basket that I mentioned earlier? When we got home late at night and turned on the lights, it took a few minutes for us to realize that it was covered with little bugs. Apparently, they'd been nesting in the tree that Greg had cut down, and decided to come out and party all over Meagan's Christmas presents while we were away.

Three memorable Christmases. All Christmases are memorable, really. I hope everyone of you has memories that make you smile, even if they make you cry, and that you will always feel joy when you bring them out at Christmas.

Three Momentous Christmases--Part Two...

...The One Where I Had A Baby

My first child (the doctor guessed from the ultrasound that it was a boy, but said that if he was wrong, not to tell anyone) was due on December 2, 1977. She (sorry, Doc) didn't arrive until December 22. So much for my plans to have been in and out of the hospital, feeling fine, wrapping presents, baking cookies and going to parties, all while mothering a newborn. Christmas morning found me in the hospital recovering from a Cesarean. But I was so high on joy, I felt no pain. I was being treated like a queen because I had just given birth to a real live princess. (My delusions of royalty were, perhaps, fueled by the fact that my mother-in-law, Hilma, was head nurse in OB.)

Meagan will tell you that it's kind of bummer having a birthday so close to Christmas. I know what she means, but we've always tried to keep the two occasions separate. It wasn't what I had planned, but you know what they say--if you want to make God laugh, just tell him your plans. Now, of course, I can see that the way things happened were just exactly perfect. I love that my daughter's birthday falls during the busiest time of the year, amid all the planning and celebrating. It's a perfect excuse for me not to make birthday cakes. (Just to prove that point, I've actually made a few disastrous attempts. No one even asks anymore.) Merry Christmas and Merry Meagan!!

Three Momentous Christmases--Part One...

...The One Where Greg Asks Me To Marry Him (Or, as Greg would call it, "Thanks to Bev.")

Christmas 1972. We had been dating for almost two years, and I knew Greg was the one. I kind of knew he felt the same way. I dared to wonder if he might not think Christmas would be a good time to ask me to marry him. You know, merry...marry, and all. Deciding that that would be a great idea, I let my imagination play. I wondered how he'd ask. Would he take me someplace fancy, get down on his knee, maybe? Would he ask my dad for permission?

Then he started asking me to guess what he was giving me for Christmas. Hmmm. Clues? He said it was round. I knew it! I guessed "record album?" No. Not that. "Frisbee?" Nope. Guess again...I couldn't come up with a thing (wink, wink). I was happy with my little fantasies, but it was hard to wait.

One morning about a week before Christmas, Greg pulled up outside the trailer that was temporarily housing the savings and loan where I worked. He stuck his head in the door and asked if I could come outside for a minute. There were no customers, so Jane, the head teller, gave a nod. I think I knew what was coming down, but I couldn't figure out the awkward timing. There he stood in a tee-shirt and jeans, his jacket unzipped. I remember exactly how I felt, but I can't remember the words he said. He just told me that he had been planning to ask me to marry him, had bought a ring, and had showed it to Dave, my sister's boyfriend. Later, Dave told him that he had shared the information with Bev, but that she had promised not to tell. Greg, not sure that he could trust my sister with such enormous tidings, decided to hurry up and surprise me before it was too late.

That's how I came to be engaged, shivering outside a mobile home at the end of a parking lot on December 19, 1972. Oh--I said "Yes."

The Year My Dad Saved Christmas

It really 'twas night before Christmas, and the children actually were nestled all snug in their beds--well, all except for one. That would be me, the oldest of the bunch, and the lightest sleeper. Really, though, it's a wonder anyone could sleep with all the racket that was emanating from our kitchen that night. There was banging and yelling and words that were not part of any Christmas story I'd ever heard.

Once we'd said our good nights, had our drinks of water and marched up the stairs to the beat of Dad chanting, "To potty, to drink, to bed," we were not expected expected not to show our little faces again until daylight. Christmas Eve was no exception, although we were allowed a little leeway on what constituted "daylight" on Christmas morning.

But who could sleep with all those wonder-filled images spinning around in her head? Santa would soon be landing his reindeer-driven sleigh on the roof and, using his magical Santa powers, would slide down our chimney and pop into our living room, landing right in front of the tree--which this year had been lovingly spray-painted white by my mom. There, he would breathe life into all those sugarplum visions, gobble a few bites of cookie and take off again, performing the same miracle in every single house in the world!

I knew it was against the rules to spy, and that if I got caught doing so, that would be the end of Christmas as we knew it. But no one had said anything about staying awake to hear the magic. Except I was pretty sure that what I was hearing that Christmas Eve so long ago had nothing to do with magic. It sounded like someone--my dad--was in a lot of trouble, and needed my help. Or, at the very least, he needed me to poke my head in and see what was going on.

I tiptoed down the stairs and across the dining room without being seen by my mom, who must have been in their bedroom wrapping gifts or something. (If it had been me, there would have been wine, but that was not Mom's style.) I stood in the doorway for a moment, too stunned to even gasp at what to my wondering eyes did appear. There must have been some horrible accident involving a small house, some strollers and a large wooden box with a giraffe on it. My dad was stripped to his tee-shirt in the dead of winter in our drafty old farmhouse, holding a hammer over his head. To say he was startled by my "Hey, Dad, what's going on?" would be a dramatic understatement of the obvious.

Knowing now what I didn't know then, I can see what a vision of grace under pressure my dad was that night. I'm sure he wanted to direct some of those colorful words flying around the kitchen at me, telling me to get my butt straight back into bed. But he quickly assessed the situation, and directed them at Santa instead. The story went that the man in red had dropped in a little earlier, before he and Mom had had time to don their cap and kerchief respectively, and told Dad he was a little pinched for time, so would my dad please be a champ and put together some of the stuff for us kids himself. Dad was upset, to say the least, but I was not to worry. Everything would be fine in the morning. Then he put his arm around my shoulder and escorted me back to my bed, where I may or may not have actually slept.

I have never been able to forget the year my dad helped Santa and saved a little girl's magical visions of Christmas all in one night, without changing a single thing about the person he was--my hero.

Hilma

Hilma with her first three granddaughters--Meagan, Erin and Andrea--at the Fischer Family Reunion in 2012.

My mother-in-law, Hilma, died two years ago. I didn't go to her funeral. I have to use supplemental oxygen, I had just been sick, and flying would very likely have caused me some problems. Hilma also used supplemental oxygen, yet she always traveled--like from Florida to Greensboro for the family reunion, pictured above. She was usually sick by the time she got home, but that never stopped her.

I can't get over the feeling that she was just a little bit disappointed in me for not taking the chance that everything would have been okay.

She never would have said that, of course. I'm putting that on myself. Hilma was too kind. She never criticized any choices that I made, and the only time she gave me advice was when I asked her. She always trusted me to make my own choices without trying to influence me. She might have asked a question or two to help me see things in a better light--Lord knows I often needed to do that--but it was always my decision. Today, I wish I had decided to attend her funeral.

I haven't really felt qualified to write about Hilma, I guess because of the fact that she was so beloved by everyone who knew her--especially her children and her grandchildren, and her husband, "Papa" Leo. It's hard to feel like my words could possibly add anything. I'm struggling now, but I want to write about her. I was her only daughter-in-law, so that makes my relationship with her unique. I'm the only one who can write about that, right?

The first time I met Hilma was the first night I went out with Greg. We had gone to the mall to return a record player that Greg had bought. On the way home, he asked me if I had ever smoked pot. Without giving it a thought, I said, "No, but I've always wanted to." That led us to the Fischer home on Turrill Avenue. Greg left me in the living room to chat with his mom, who had just woken up, and was preparing to go to work--third shift at the State Home. She sat on the couch, nestled in blankets, still groggy from sleep, trying to make conversation with me, whom she only knew as one of the Karlek kids. After a few minutes, Greg returned, carrying a book he told his mom I'd wanted to borrow, and we were off. (I don't remember the book, but there was something hidden between the pages.)

I suppose that says more about Greg than it does about his mom, but I was thinking about what my mom would have done if one of us had surprised her with a guest just as she was waking up. Hilma was always a gracious hostess. (I would not be surprised to find out that she knew exactly what Greg was hiding in his book.)

In all of the years that Greg and I dated, through all the years of our marriage--40 of them by the time she died--I do not think I ever thought of Hilma as anything but the perfect mom and mother-in-law. Many times I would feel guilty for not living up to what I saw as her expectations, but that was always me, and never based on anything she said or did.

I have one very special memory of Hilma that I would like to share. This was our first Thanksgiving after my mom had died. Sometimes I think Hilma struggled to understand my mother, but she always accepted her as she did everyone--as she was. That year, Hilma was staying with us, and as she arrived, I was still in the process of cleaning and dusting. Instead of making me feel bad, she pulled up a chair and we just chatted as I worked. I was rambling on and on about my mom, talking about a relationship that was difficult sometimes, but that was all ironed out and made beautiful before she'd died. I don't remember what I said. I just remember Hilma listening to me. When when the moment seemed right, she stood up and said, with a catch in her voice, "Is this a good time for me to give you a hug?"

It was the perfect time. Right now would be a perfect time. I'm really missing you, Hilma. I hope you know what you meant to me.

Old Stuff--A Nativity Limerick

The year was 2000. Facebook and blogging were impossible to imagine. Email was new to me, and I thought it was a miracle. It allowed me to reach out and touch my entire family with offerings like this with just one click--send.

This story begins with young Mary
And an event that some would find scary.
An angel came bearing
News well worth sharing--
The Son of God she would carry!

Now Mary could have said "Leave!"
She could have chosen not to believe.
But instead, she consented--
Said she'd be contented.
The angel was greatly relieved.

He then hurried off to find Joe
So he'd be the second to know.
He said, "Don't be upset,
For you'd surely regret
Letting this young woman go."

So Joseph let go of his trouble
And the couple got hitched on the double.
Now they hadn't a car,
But they journeyed afar
And our Savior was born in a hovel.

Some more angels came on the scene.
By some shepherds they were actually seen;
And also some kings
Who had incense and things,
To whom they'd appeared in a dream.

So these folks followed after a star,
And they had to travel quite far.
Eventually they found
In Bethlehem Town
A stable with the front door ajar.

They quietly entered in awe,
And were deeply moved when they saw
The tiny young babe
Who had been born to save
Kings and shepherds and all.

Now that birthday so long, long ago
Still has meaning today, don't you know?
Because we were saved, too--
Yes, me--even you--
So thank God Mary didn't say no!

The Bird

Technically, my commitment to blog every day ended two days ago, but I haven't been able to stop. I was thinking of it as an obsession; it was bound to happen. But my friend, Cindy, who had made the same commitment, also wrote yesterday. She referred to it as her "writing habit." That sounds better.

Anyway, I thought of one more story that I haven't told yet...

Do you know who George Gaynes is? You will most likely remember him--if you remember him at all--from several of the Police Academy movies. He was also in Doctors' Wives and The Way We Were. Neither one of those merited him a credit in the "1999 Video Movie Guide." I never saw Doctors' Wives (which, by the way, got a black turkey silhouette as a rating), but I remember my mother saying that he had been shot off of Diane Cannon while making love. In The Way We Were, he played a doorman. He was in a scene with both Robert Redford and Barbara Streisand. I think both of those roles should have netted him at least an honorable mention, but I was not allowed to vote.

I know George Gaynes from when he came to Mott Community College in Flint, Michigan in 1971 or 1972 for a role in The Heiress. My Awesome Husband Greg was "Morris." At the time, Mr. Gaynes had only Doctors' Wives to his credit, but it was still a big deal for such an esteemed actor to grace our community college theater with his presence.

Greg's mom deserved an academy award for her role as "Most Thrilled" in all of this. She asked Greg to invite Mr. Gaynes to the house for dinner, which he did. G.G. accepted!

At that point in my life, I'm sure I didn't know George Gaynes from Santa Claus, but I was happy to be invited as well. I was after all, not yet Awesome Greg's wife. My role was that of "girlfriend." I was living in my own apartment near the library, and working at First Federal of Oakland, which was housed in a trailer beside the Yankee's parking lot out on M-21. I had no car. Greg, being as awesome then as he is now, often picked me up after work and drove me home. I was expecting him the day Mr. Gaynes was coming to dinner. But when it was time for me to leave, there was no sign of his awesome wheels. I was steamed, and walked the mile to my apartment in a huff, talking to myself on the way just to fuel my sense of injustice at being forgotten.

Meanwhile, Greg had the revered thespian in his car and was running only a little bit late. He said, "We'll go by and see if we can catch her." So he drove along the same route I had just walked--in uncomfortable shoes--and caught up with me when I was a block from my apartment. Caught midway through what I'm certain was a spectacular mental rant, I heard his horn and saw the light turquoise of his mother's BelAire out of the corner of my eye at the same moment. My left hand shot up with the middle finger extended.

It was a good story at dinner that night. Mr. Gaynes, in his deep theatrical voice, had said, "My goodness! Does she always greet you that way?"

(The house pictured above was owned by the Finnell family. I had spent many happy hours babysitting there. My apartment was in a house located behind this one. The incident related in this post happened right here, in front of the Finnell's beautiful home.)

Not Staying in Bed

Lying in bed, I have to confess
That I really don't know
If "lying" is the correct form of the verb, "to lie"
To use in this sentence.

The way I understand it,
To lie is what you do when you recline,
And to lay is what you do with something you hold.
Like a book.

Anyway, lying in bed,
I wondered how long I could stay there
Before some current obsession
Would beckon me.

Or the need for coffee.
Maybe a snack.
This looks like I'm writing a poem,
Doesn't it?

I did this once for my dad.
I wrote him a long letter
Broken up into "stanzas"
And told him it was a poem.

I thought that was very funny,
And so did he.
We often thought alike,
My dad and me.

Okay. That one actually did rhyme.
Not the rest, though.
That was just an accident--
What I like to call a "happy" accident.

Okay, so I've done some research.
Apparently, I cannot stay in bed all day--
Unless I become obsessed with
Staying in bed all day.

That would not be a good thing.
I have to go do something else now.
Lots of things, actually.
But I'll probably only do a couple.

I'm wishing you all
A productive day.
Or not--
Whichever will make you happiest.