Generations of Joy

Sometimes, family story is as simple as looking at what has been kept and how it is used today. On Christmas Eve 2014, Nora finds joy in this stuffed Santa who wiggles his head while music tinkles "Santa Claus is Coming Town!"  This Santa made her Daddy giggle when he was her age, and through the years perched on various bookshelves, stair steps, and kitchen counters in many different homes through our years of moving often.  He is one of the beloved Christmas decorations we pull out of a bin when we happily begin dressing our home for Christmas every year.

An even older story comes from the wooden high chair where Nora and Santa are playing.  It is also where she joined our family yesterday for her first Christmas dinner at Grandma and Papa Terrell's old oak table. The high chair, circa 1941, used by my sister in the mid 40's, all of our sons, including Nora's Daddy, and our granddaughters as they arrived and shared meals at our house.  The worn spindled back, scuffed footrest, and dented tray hold stories of 4 generations  (5 if you count my grandparents, who without doubt frequently joined Mother and Daddy for mealtime). That is a great deal of joy!

Advent Journey

Our Advent practices vary from year to year.  The Advent wreath and candles change. I choose different books to read from.  But we always set up the Advent calendars (we have several) and our grandchildren love keeping us "up to date" with them.  Here, Skye is adding a little wooden figure to the tiny numbered peg where it will hang, joining those already there and waiting for the rest of the nativity scene to join in this little folding wooden box. In recent years, I have added a daily post during Advent to another blog  www.stonesandfeathers.wordpress.com.  These and other practices help me choose wonder and joy in the middle of all the lists of things to do at this time of year. It is my gift to both myself and my family.

What traditions are important to you in all the busy preparations for Christmas?  How do these change your "list?"

First Christmas

Nora is discovering Christmas for the very first time this year. Her eyes are full of laughter and wonder and she delights in every small new thing she has never seen or touched before:  twinkle lights, red balls, music boxes that tinkle "Joy to the World."  I remember holding her Daddy up to find joy in the same things, some of them the very same when we stand in front of the Christmas tree at our home. We enjoy all the sights and sounds and the fragrance of cinnamon and cloves, press our hands to window glass to feel the cold, and sing the simple carols.

This is my 74th Christmas, but in her delight, I find all of it new again.  Thank you, Nora.   Merry Christmas!

Christmas Past, a Story

                                      1970 -    Joe's paper sculpture angels, at our house on Willow Green in San Antonio, Texas.  This is the only picture I have of them, and they got folded and hidden in one of our moves!

Recently a group of friends gathered for a meal and story sharing. We each told a story of a Christmas remembered. How valuable it is to hear each others' stories! Most of the stories were fond memories of a childhood Christmas experience. So much of our family preparation for and pleasure in Christmas includes ways we have done it before - stockings, and where they are hung, manger scenes and where they are placed, tree decorations, taken out of the box one by one with memories of each, carols around the piano, lots of family around for help and hugs, and cookies baked from recipes so old they are spattered and yellow.

I recounted the tale of our first married Christmas, when Joe and I were far from family and were beginning our own Christmas traditions, starting from scratch for Christmas decorations. I told part of this story in a previous post.   Our First Christmas

In our conversation and shared storytime that recent evening, I also told of disappointment (we would have to go back to Texas the first of the year), of grief due to the death of my beloved grandfather and the fact we could not leave in time to drive back to the funeral, of uncertainty for what the future held, and some of the ways those beginning traditions and stories have played out in our lives. Since that first Oregon Christmas, except for the Christmases we celebrated while living in Indonesia, we have always had some of the decorations for our tree that hung on it the year before. Those years from 1987 to 1991, all of our Christmas decorations including family stockings were mistakenly sent to storage when our overseas shipment was packed in California! That was one of the first boxes I looked for when we got the storage shipment back in 1992!

Even though the beginning Parker family Christmas may have seemed like starting from scratch, it was not entirely. We each brought to our marriage a faith that had been nurtured in our families of origin that was the reason for celebrating Christmas anywhere, at all. The trimmings for the tree, our handmade gifts, the clever folded angels Joe cut from paper for me - all of those were not just traditions carried on from the past, they signified the reason for those traditions:  the coming of God to be with us in the form of a human baby, to show us how to live and love. Fifty one years and many many Christmas candles and carols, evergreen trees and manger scenes, stockings and presents, boy grins and grandgirl giggles later, the traditions are precious, and the Christmas Story remains the same.

Cranberry Thanksgiving

Yesterday 8 year old Maddie and I made cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving dinner by adding 4 cups of fresh glistening cranberries to 1 cup sugar dissolved in 1 cup water (brought to boil) and adding the zest of a large Meyer lemon which Maddie had just picked from our tree!  She is a good lemon picker and very good at zesting!  All 13 of our family gathered to enjoy our feast; our cranberry sauce was well enjoyed.

My early years included cranberries simply as a jellied sauce in a can that was opened at both ends to push out a can shaped mound that could be sliced.  This was passed around with chicken and dressing at Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner.  I remember eating any leftover cranberry sauce on toast for breakfast along with a sausage link. Sometime in the next few years, cranberry as a color became popular.  It was the color I chose for our Christmastime wedding in 1963.  I designed and made my wedding gown, and also chose cranberry faille coat dresses with white organdy colors for my bridesmaids. Four years later, my mother made me a cranberry suede cloth dress with a square neck and an empire waistline - a generous one because it was a maternity dress.  On the sideboard in my dining room is a cranberry glass dish given to me by my grandmother, along with 2 small cranberry glass vases.

My affinity for the color and the berry has grown - I have almost always included the color cranberry in decorating our home, and have a good number of ways I use the berries in my kitchen!  A well-loved book we enjoyed with our boys when they were little (and still enjoy with our granddaughters) is titled Cranberry Thanksgiving, referenced in posts in this blog as well as my kitchen story blog - links are below.

www.mappingsforthismorning.blogspot.com/search?q=cranberry+thanksgiving

www.kitchenkeepers.wordpress.com/2011/11/24/cranberries-on-my-mind/

www.kitchenkeepers.wordpress.com/2014/11/28/cranberry-orange-butter/


Do you like cranberries?  I would love to hear your favorite cranberry stories!

Thanksgiving

                               Nora and the knitted lace and satin coverlet I made for her.

I  am glad we have a day called Thanksgiving. I am blessed to gather family around our table to share prayers of gratitude and a meal we have prepared together.  I am also glad to practice being grateful and saying thank you every day. As part of my early morning quiet time, I keep a gratitude journal where each day I write 5 things for which I am thankful I write down what comes to mind without editing or spending too much time trying to say it well!  This has been a year full of paying attention to God's good gifts, being astonished at beauty and blessings, and wanting to tell about it.* As I look through the pages of that journal and browse all the photos, I have chosen a few things to share with you from these days of 2014.  I chose the photo above for the way it shows being covered.  I feel covered with the love of my family and God's good grace.

I am thankful for...

my forever friend, Joe

the miracle of new life:  Nora Opal, arriving this Spring

my word for 2014: Release

healing for hurting hearts

 knitting lace that I started in 1973!

winter garden harvest - cabbages, cauliflower, and a tree full of Meyer lemons

Skye's love of cooking and being with me in the kitchen

fragrance of a single gardenia

lessons from seeds

Grandma's rocker near the fireplace

March 16:  Maddie's 8th birthday

March 19:  Nora Opal arrives!

our rose arbor in full bloom (the survivor rose, Peggy Martin)

singing songs my mother and grandmother sang to me for  Nora while I rock her

our back porch

dawn sky, peaches and spun sugar

harvesting figs

old cookbooks, heirloom recipes

morning glory blooms at my kitchen window

August 19: Jordann and her birthday doll

the warmth of copper as it catches light

handwritten thank you notes

our porch swing

glimmers from the past - old family photos

November 19:  Skye is 12!




































*this refers to my favorite quotation from the poetry of Mary Oliver:
         "Pay attention
           Be astonished
           Tell about it."

Another November 14

Today is my 74th birthday, and I have received hugs and phone calls and cards telling me Happy Birthday. I feel loved and cherished, but mostly I feel overwhelmingly grateful for celebrating another year with those who provide these sweet greetings, and look forward as I give thanks for the days and months to come in the year ahead.  It occurs to me that I have never really had an Unhappy Birthday!  I have had birthdays celebrated in Jacksonville, San Antonio, Houston, Dallas, and Plano, Texas.  But I have also celebrated my birthday in Oregon, California, Jakarta, Indonesia, and Singapore.

 On the evening of November 14, 1991, Joe was in the U.S. on business, Ben (17 at that time) and I had gone to Singapore for him to have minor surgery. He needed to stay in the hotel room and rest, so I left him for a few minutes and slipped outside to watch as the president of Singapore made a speech and flipped the switch to turn on the millions of  Christmas lights and displays that fill the shopping district of Singapore for the holidays.  It is one of the most spectacular (and completely commercial) extravanzas in the world!  I stood for a few moments, surrounded by thousands of complete strangers in a world that was bent on extreme celebration, and then quickly hurried back to my hotel room and my son, knowing then as I know even more all these years later that I feel most celebrated in the light of the love of my family.

Finding a Keeper

In recent efforts of cleaning and clearing, I went through a box that contained things left behind by my mother.  As I looked at papers and dates and tried to decide what needed to be thrown away or passed on to someone else, I found a number of things that my mother herself probably once held and decided what to do with, because the dates were from years when she was a child.  I found myself thinking of the reasons first my grandmother and then my mother kept certain things.  One little pink booklet came apart at the binding when I turned the pages, but all the pages contained glimpses of life many years ago. The booklet was titled Catalogue and Premium List of School and Community Fair, Bullard, Texas  At the bottom of the cover was the location and date:  Bullard School Grounds, November 10-11, 1922.  

I was intrigued with the little book as I looked through the pages which listed sponsors and advertisements and the list of exhibits and competitions like Best pound of butter, Best bronze turkeys, Best dozen tea cakes, Best counterpane, Best tatting, and Best baby!  Of most interest to me were 2 sections where pages were missing.  Both times, there were penciled notes in my grandmother's handwriting that indicated numbers of items from the missing pages.  My hunch is that these were categories in which some of her craft or some competition entered by a son who was a winner!  Since my mother's brothers were only 4 and 1 that year, that would have been her oldest, Vinnon.

33 1/2    Best display potted flower  (which won wallpaper, given by Huges, hermer? & Son Tyler, Texas - value $3.50.

79  Winner of Mule Rase (which won mds. (merchandise?) given by Adam Wall, Drug. Co., Tyler Texas - value $2.50)

80  Winner of Horse Rase (which won mds (merchandise?) given by Walsh Hdw (hardware?) Co. Tyler, Texas - value $2.50)

Then I saw that on the front of the booklet was printed in pencil in small neat letters: VINNON TERRELL.  I looked again at the date.  And I understood why my grandmother kept the book.  I knew why my mother kept it. And why I will keep it and pass its story on. I put together the name and the date and remembered.

Vinnon was Ky and Clyde Terrell's firstborn son, born in 1909 so he was 13 years old in November, 1922.  He was killed in a hunting accident on Christmas day of that year.  He went hunting with a neighbor boy who got him back to that family's front porch where  Vinnon scrawled a goodbye note to his mother and father. I have seen the bloodstained note and heard his story all of my life. In the same box I found pages of his handwriting and schoolwork. My grandmother kept these things and her memories of her first son.  I never heard her whine or complain or bewail his loss, but I heard the story of the way his short life blessed her.  She knew raw grief then, and in many other ways later in her life but when I think of her I think of generosity and faith, of love and nurturing, of courage and determination.  And that she always grew flowers. I am glad you won the fair prize for that, Grandma!

                                       Opal Terrell, Travis Terrell, Vinnon Terrell  circa 1921

Family Reunion

Parker Ball Players

                                                                    Joe Parker

                                                        His last name is not Parker, but his first name is!

                                                               Skye Parker

The newest Parker!    Nora Opal Parker

Holding on.

Glad to be here.

How long has it been?

                                                   Joe and Mary Ann Parker and family
Michala Cantrell Parker and Maddie, Ben Parker holding Nora, Kristen Edwards Parker, Mary Ann Teal Parker, Skye Parker, Joe Parker, Teion Parker, Sean Parker. ( Not in Photo:  Jordann Parker and Lauren Jeffrey)

                                                             

gathering

 greeting

touching

storytelling

 sharing

remembering

laughter

tears

honoring those who have gone before

celebrating each other now

October 25, 2014

Public Libraries

I am both a patron and a champion of public libraries. We now live in a county that has a wonderful library system with state of the art technology. I can open my laptop and go to the library website, search for books, place them on hold, and go by to get them from a shelf, then check them out myself with computerized scanning. If a book that I want is already checked out, I can request that I be put in the queue and notified. If I wish, I can go to this spacious, sunlit library and curl up in a comfortable armchair in one of several cozy sitting areas to read or research material I don't want to take with me. I take my granddaughters to the younger readers' section of the library and enjoy their pleasure in choosing books as well as remembering how much our public library meant to me when I was their age.

                                          The University Branch Of George Memorial Library, located in Sugar Land, Texas

I don't have photographs of that childhood library, but it was located in Jacksonville's City Park, near the spot the little gazebo occupies in this old picture. The library has changed its location, but still serves Jacksonville's citizens as well as others in Cherokee County. My memory pictures always include the dark wood floors, the racks of wooden drawers which held the card catalogs where my fingers clicked indexed cards instead of computer keys, the kind librarian who helped me find books, the smell of old books and cleaning polish, and the hush. I loved the library but I spoke in whispers there. I am grateful for that little library that supported my love for reading, for my parents, who took me there, for books that took me places beyond my imagination. I now read e-books on my iPad, listen to audio books while I am driving, cooking, and cleaning, buy books in tempting bookstores and on Amazon, but I am forever glad there are still libraries.

A photo courtesy of the Cherokee County Historical Society shows Mrs. C. A (Minnie). Childs bending to lay the first stone for the Jacksonville Public Library in 1940.

October

I think alot about my mother in October.  October 20 is the day we always celebrated her birthday, and I still do, although in different ways, since her death just over 8 Octobers ago.  She went home (her phrase) on September 21, 2006, one day short of a month before her 93rd birthday. I miss her still, but softer, gentler memories than grief color my thoughts when I turn the calendar this month. For Mother's Day the first year after I left home, I mailed her a postcard with a poem every day for a week before. I was in college, short in funds but long on words, and prompted by a longing to let her know how much I loved her and appreciated all she did for me.  As years passed and the physical distance between us grew (as far as the almost 11 ,000 miles between East Texas and the island of Java in the late 80's), she maintained her loving encouragement with long chatty letters filled with clippings and recipes. At the end of her life, when Alzheimer's had blotted out so much of her ability to communicate, she still told me she loved me, and, fearful that she would not remember to say so, she dotted her counters and space with yellow sticky notes telling me so.

Long before that, one of her letters to me contained this folded article. Unless you have a touch screen display that allows you to enlarge,the above photo is not of the quality that allows reading of the piece by Marya Saunders that appeared in The Tyler Morning News Sunday edition May 14,1961, but you will be able to see Mother's lovely, even handwriting, telling me "I Love You Darling, and Thank God for you, Mother."  And of course her ever practical pointing out, "This was in Tyler Paper yesterday."

So I echo the author's subtitle.  Neither time nor death has stilled this message from a mother to her daughter. 

Times Are Different!

Maddie and Jordann and their campfire

I love this photo our son Jeremy sent while he was camping out with his girls, who are 8 and 6 years old. They have always loved campouts, complete with tents and cooking over the fire.  But recently they began what Jeremy termed "glamping" after their family acquired a travel trailer which allows them to have most of the comforts of home (indoor shower and bathroom, beds with mattresses, and a small kitchen.)  They can enjoy being outdoors and still sleep cool and snug. 

When they were here this past weekend, Maddie invited her Papa and me to come camping with them - and they would "give us the best bed!"  I asked her if I had ever told her the story of when we camped out in a buffalo herd the first year we were married.  Her eyes got big and she said no, I had not told her that story, and she was properly shocked as we told what had happened to us.

In July, 1964, (after our December 28,1963 wedding), Joe worked as a geophysicist  on a seismic crew for Petty Geophysical. We lived that blistering hot summer in a small apartment in Duncan, Oklahoma. The crew received word of being moved to Sherman, Texas so we planned a weekend to go there to look for an apartment. We thought it would be fun to go camping at Lake Texoma, so we borrowed gear from another crew member.  On that Friday, we had air mattresses and coolers already loaded into our tiny Karman Ghia, and I had already prepared food to pack at the last minute.  At lunchtime, Joe came home and said the crew move had been delayed for several weeks. Crestfallen, we cancelled our camping plans since we couldn't afford to go find a place to live there and pay double rent for a month.

But when we were eating dinner after Joe got home that evening, we thought of a Plan B!  Lawton, OK is only a little over 30 miles from Duncan, and northwest of Lawton is Mount Scott, a prominent mountain in the Wichita Mountains National Wildlife Refuge.  Why not drive over at there instead?  So we rechecked our prepared gear and food and headed out. 

The closest I had ever come to camping was a weiner roast with my best friend's family or sleeping in a bunk bed at church camp!  So I wasn't much help other than being a good sandwich maker. Joe thought it would be a great geology field trip!  Arriving after dark, as we entered the roads leading toward campsites, I did notice warning signs for wildlife, including some cautions about buffalo, longhorn cattle, and snakes. After all, it was a wildlife refuge!  Evidently alot of other people had the same good idea about a weekend campout, because all the campsites in the common area were already occupied.  Joe drove down to a grove of trees that looked perfect, we inflated our air mattresses and enjoyed the cool breeze, so different from our apartment that had no fan or air conditioner. We left the coolers in the car, and as I walked back to the car to get water, I looked out toward Mount Scott with a full moon rising over it and smiled.  But as I stood there, I felt a twinge of uncertainty. There were what seemed to be round dark shadows moving in this landscape.  I called Joe and pointed this out, but non-plussed, he said they were "just rocks,"  Quickly, I made up my mind - whatever this was, it was moving, and moving toward us.  I told him I was getting in the car, and soon he joined me as the first large animals lumbered by. A small herd of buffalo thought our grove of trees looked inviting too!  Or maybe they were just curious and wanted to investigate our presence. I remember laughing to the point of hysteria!  If I had rolled down the car window, I could have scratched a hairy belly!  And we couldn't just drive off and leave our borrowed gear on the ground!  Joe discovered if he turned on the car's headlights, the animals moved away from the light.  So he told me to move the car back and forth and he ran for the air mattresses.  Unfortunately, inflated air mattresses do not fit well into Kharman Ghias, adding to our nervous hilarity. We drove around for an hour, but never found a spot we (mostly me) found acceptable, so we drove back to our hot apartment and finally went to bed.

Later we learned that the designated camp area was surrounded by a moat to protect campers from Buffalo visitors. We didn't stay in Duncan long enough to repeat our attempt to camp at Mount Scott, and years later when we finally did pitch a tent for a family camp out at Lake Texoma, Jeremy, who was then a small boy, had his own camping adventure when he picked up what he thought was a big ball on the trail and it turned out to be an armadillo!  

Glamping might just be OK!

Thank You, Jane!

Coming Into My Own by Jane Hill Purtle

I will preface my remarks and commendation with saying that the biggest reason I bought and read this memoir as well as the reason it had such attraction and impact (push and pull!) is that the author's story and mine intersect very personally. We have the same great grandmother. My grandmother and Jane's grandfather Hill were half brother and sister. But the family tree is not the only thing we share. Although we have not crossed paths physically many times in our lives, we are alike in many pursuits - loving art and literature, writing, keeping family stories, nurturing friendships, grandmothering, enjoying gardening and birds, seeking spiritual truths and making faith and family priorities

I may have read it for different reasons than you will, but you will be bettered by sharing Jane's journey.



After I posted the above review on GoodReads this morning, I wrote my cousin a note to wish her Happy Birthday since I read in her book that her birthday is September 13. I told her that on this day (9/11) of remembering many sad things as well as acts of bravery and courage, plus stories of family and faith, I wanted to let her know I was remembering her and her birthday. I am grateful for her story.  Thank you, Jane.

Wrapped in Love, Covered with Grace

As Nora nears 6 months of growing and changing and exploring her world, we celebrate the gift she is to us and are grateful.  One day, after I rocked her to sleep and laid her in her crib, I saw the coverlet I made for her hanging nearby and covered her gently with it. In previous posts, I told the story of the lace which I knitted for edging. I made a short piece of the lace when I was pregnant with Nora's Daddy, Ben. Forty years passed before I pulled the lace out and began again.  The story is explained in these two blog posts.

www.tinyurl.com/BeginningAgainForNora

www.tinyurl.com/Nora-sLace

I stood and watched her, smoothing the satin and fingering the tiny knitted stitches. I thought about how fast she is growing and prayed she will always know she is wrapped in love, covered in Grace. 

Back to School

                      Maddie and Jordann, 3rd grade and 1st grade, August 21, 2014
                                (which also happened to be Jordann's 6th birthday!)

During the past 2 weeks, 3 of our granddaughters started back to school.  At 11, Skye is entering the world of Middle School in 6th grade. As you see, Maddie and Jordann are off to their new starts as well.  I am remembering their fathers at the same age, ways we wrapped up summers and headed back to classrooms, the excitement of buying school supplies, sneakers, and new lunch boxes. I am grateful for teachers who encouraged them, inspired them with art and music,  and helped them learn the reading, language, math, and science skills that serve them all so well as adults. I prayed for those teachers and our little boys all during the year but especially on that first day of school.  I do the same for our granddaughters, the teachers who will join them on their learning paths this year, and the friends they will make and enjoy.

 I also think about back to school times at West Side Elementary in Jacksonville, Texas in the 40's and 50's,  my own early school years.

Summers were long and hot. We had no television and no air conditioning, I remember going to the library, reading stacks of books, cooling off in the porch swing on our front porch, eating watermelon, and going barefoot. I remember tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash fresh from the garden, with blackeyed peas and a pan of cornbread that would be made early in the morning to avoid heating up the kitchen later. I looked forward to going back to school because I loved school and would get to see my friends.

Our house was one of the 2 houses on the same block as the school, so I didn't have very far to walk. My mother sewed most of my clothes, and getting ready for school to start meant looking through pattern books to pick a pattern along with the fabric to make my dress for the first day of school.

I see my granddaughters repeating some of that pattern as they go with their Moms to get uniforms, shop for the required shoes, and plan what they will wear on the first day.  They may have very different schools - the older one is in a Christian academy, and the 2 younger ones begin this year at a brand new charter school. They not only have TV, but phones and tablets and laptops. They will not only be studying basic "reading, writing, and 'rithmetic", but also drama, Spanish, and Mandarin.

But as I hear them talk about planning their first day and see their pictures posted in emails and FaceBook, I see they know the importance of beginnings and are off to a year of new adventures in learning.  Back to school, my beautiful  girls! I am looking back at all my own memories, but I am also looking forward to your futures. You may be scientists and researchers and authors and wives You may be musicians and artists and mothers. You may someday be sending your own little ones "back to school."

                                 Skye, 6th grade, August 14, 2014

What Don't You Like?

I am glad to say that all my blog posts are about things I love or simply wish to remember, so most of my writing is positive.  For instance, I love this piece of stained glass which hangs in our living room window that looks out to the porch and garden.  I love everything I can see through that window, but to be fair, there are things I see that I do not care for.

 In Jan Karon's Mitford series, conversations between her two central characters, Father Tim and his wife Cynthia, often include a whimsical exchange triggered by an exclamation of fondness about something from her followed by his question:  "What don't you love, Kavanaugh?" And she always has an immediate answer.  Like this one, quoted from Karon's A Common Life:  "Ducks that cry all night, beds with creaking springs, and feather pillows with little gnawing things inside."

I have not been asked the question, but certain things lately have struck me as happening often enough to be thoroughly annoying!   My list is not as creative as Cynthia's, but would include:

Questionnaires that arrive in the mail or my email inbox or get passed to me at the end of a meal which ask me to fill out a survey rating every medical appointment, customer service, or product I buy, especially the ones on Amazon that ask me to rate books I purchased so recently I could not possibly have read them yet!

Cell phone ringers set on loud that blast out bad music in public places, and their owners who answer them only to continue what should be a private conversation for all to hear.

The millions of address stickers I get in the mail that come with a solicitation for a contribution.  Especially the ones that don't even spell my name right!

Plastic forks that break at the first bite, and paper plates that fold in half when loaded.

Unsolicited political phone calls as well as those which clearly target only senior citizens.

Smoke alarms that signal weak batteries in the middle of the night, and signal, and signal.

Oh yes, one more:  the pop up that tells me I have perfect spelling when I try to send a message from AOL. Really?

That is all for now.  What about you?  What don't you like?  Let's hear your list!

Admiration

As Nora nears 5 months old, she is increasingly aware of color and patterns.  She is more sensitive to faces, smiling at those familiar to her and exhibiting wariness or alarm at those who are not. She fingers spots and dots on toys, reaches for the bright paisley of my shirt and the textured wood panel of her changing table. Here, she is fixed on the butterfly quilt that belonged to one of the grandmothers she is named for, Opal Terrell Teal.  As I smiled and watched her admiration, I thought of so many stories the quilt could tell.

Opal was my mother, making her Nora's great grandmother.  The butterfly quilt was made as a gift for Opal on her 17th birthday in 1931, a common pattern choice in those depression years that so needed the butterfly's symbolism of hope.  The women who chose these colors and patterns and stitched every tiny, even stitch were Opal's mother and grandmother, making them Nora Opal's great-great grandmother and great-great-great grandmother.  I stood as I watched Nora admire their handwork, thinking of their stories and hers.  They could not have known that almost a century later, a beautiful little girl would so love what they made. But I am confident they know now.  Opal herself did not know when she passed the quilt on to me how I would keep it and love it and give it again.  But I know she joins Clyde and Earnestine in blessing Nora and returning the admiration. Hope is a wonderful gift to pass on.

Some Things Don't Change

Mary Ann, 1940  

While I am happily spending this week caring for our baby granddaughter, Nora, I have thought about my own grandparents, who from all accounts were thrilled at my birth and delighted in my smiles and laughter in the same way I delight in Nora's.  I reflect with gratitude, remembering stories of my own parent's happiness in having a baby after almost 9 years of marriage when I see my son and daughter-in-law's radiant faces as they hold their daughter.  When I care for her, hold her close, rock her,  and sing to her, I am re-enacting those long ago love stories.

Many things are very different now- early pregnancy tests, ultrasounds, disposable diapers, washers and dryers that are marvels, air conditioned homes and automobiles, car seats, and  Mp3 lullabies!  I am thankful for every convenience that helps to keep babies safe and provides help for parents, but there is no replacement or upgrade for the calming reassurance of human voice and the comfort of loving arms.  

                    Ben and Nora

Two Girls, One Dress

        Nora 2014

                        Skye 2003

Among my favorite photos of my sons are three separate pictures when they were babies. They are lined up in a small frame that holds the images of each of the three dressed in the same navy blue suit, evidence of the way we passed down clothing from boy to boy. These two photos will join those as pictures that make me happier every single time I look at them.  Eleven years ago, our granddaughter Skye wore a sweet dress that I had given her, and smiled sunshine into my heart.  The dress has been passed down through 2 more granddaughters (I am still looking to see if we have any pictures where they wear the dress) - and now, Nora is wearing the same dress and gracing us with her own happy smiles.  She wore the dress recently on the day we celebrated Joe's 77th birthday.  Skye is now almost as tall as I am, and loves her baby cousin.  When I saw the two of them smiling at each other while the one who wore the dress first cradled the one it now fits while she fed her, there was a lump in my throat and a few happy tears.  Shared dresses don't tell the story, but they do help remind us of shared joy and love passed on and on. Family hand me downs!

For Me!

After I started elementary school in Jacksonville, TX in 1945, I never took my lunch to school because our house was on the same block as West Side School so I walked home almost every day for lunch.  Rarely I was given a quarter to buy my lunch at school which I considered a nice, if infrequent, treat!  If by chance I needed a sack lunch for something, it was just that - a waxed paper wrapped sandwich in a small brown paper sack.

When our sons started their years in Davis Elementary School in Plano, TX in the 1970's, lunch room prices had increased considerably, and most of the time they still had homemade lunches. They just carried them to school in cartoon character or superhero embellished metal  lunch boxes which had their names marked with indelible markers. Since plastic sandwich bags had been introduced in the late 1950's, their sandwiches most often were snugly enclosed in a baggie (no zipper on top), a Ziploc bag, or Tupperware!  If I stopped to do the math X 3 boys for making sandwiches, bagging them and assembling said sandwich, some fruit, chips, and a cookie or three into the corners of those rattly dented lunch boxes, it might make me feel tired, so I will just propose that over those years that happened thousands of times.  Often I tucked a note inside to send a little love along with lunch. I am pretty sure by first grade they did not let their friends see those notes.

In May, I started going to our youngest son's home to take care of my newest granddaughter. Her other grandma and I are sharing time, so I go every third week for my days with Nora, now 4 months old.  On the first Monday, I arrived at 6:00 a.m. to give them time for departure for their jobs by 6:15.  As they kissed their little one goodbye, picked up their things and started to leave, Ben turned around and said.  "Oh, Mom...I made your sandwich for lunch.  It is in the frig." As my eyes filled with tears and memories, I gave him a hug and thanked him before holding his daughter a little closer and breathing her sweet baby scent.

I am keeping that sandwich bag.

Lifelong Friends

I have been working lately at clearing clutter in our house and garden, reducing the number of things I need to clean and care for.  Cleaning out closets, clearing shelves, sorting out the pantry and organizing cabinets is not so much house cleaning - more a spiritual and physical reorganization, I think. But I am loyal to my friends, and many of my books are lifelong friends.  Books like the one in the photograph have been with me ever since I was old enough to read. Then there are the books our sons loved and read over and over again. Add to those the classics, mystery series, poetry, memoir, writing books, and the shelves of books which have been Bible study and spiritual formation guides. I know that the key to reducing the numbers of books lies in beginning to give them away and to stop buying anymore, but I am not making much progress.

I may be able to fill boxes for the Friends of the Library book sale by taking stacks of paperback mysteries, perhaps even some of the series of books written by an author I enjoyed.  But many others I will choose one at a time to introduce to a friend or a granddaughter.  I have always believed in practicing hospitality and  introducing my friends to each other. It pleases me to know that my lifelong friends can become the same kind of friend to someone else.

I previously mentioned my book friends in this post:  http://tinyurl.com/MyChildhoodBook

Retirement

My husband, Joe Parker, recently retired from work as a well respected geophysicist after 52 years in various positions in the oil industry. I love him deeply, and am proud of him for many reasons. I  look forward to his having more time to spend enjoying our family and friends, working as a stained glass artist, capturing beautiful moments with his camera, gardening, and indulging in some well earned fun and rest.

During these weeks leading up to and following the actual retirement date, I have heard one person after another thank him and talk about the ways he mentored, encouraged, and impacted lives.  But the following, written by our oldest son, Sean Parker,  so beautifully paints the picture that I wanted to share it here.

Today is my dad, Joe Parker's first day of retirement after a brilliant and well respected 52 year career in exploration geophysics. His work has taken him (and us, as his family) around the world.

I'm so proud of my dad. His career has been executed with the finest appreciation for the value of driving love and care and attention into the most basic tasks. He is an artist and an authority in his field and should rightfully be proud of his accomplishments, but the humble and accomodating spirit he extends to his peers at every level is something I sincerely hope I can emulate. I'm so grateful to him for the way he's always shared his love for his work with me and the positive impact that's had on my experience of living my own work. When I feel proud of doing something well, it doesn't take long to realize that it's his influence on me that made it so, and he's usually the first person I want to share it with.

I've tried to imagine what it must feel like to reach the summit of a life's work. I can imagine there could be a sense of work being "over" and that a chapter is ending. For my dad, though, there can't be an "over" or an ending...there's only "complete", and the fact that the inspiration and love he poured into his work has grown into me, and my brothers, and the hundreds of others whose lives and work he's touched. The hands that do my work were formed by his, and I'll proudly bear his legacy forward.

Congratulations, Dad. Job very, very well done, Sir

Mother's Kitchen Stool

I have several pieces of antique furniture that once belonged to my mother and her mother before:  an oak china cabinet of Civil War vintage, a wash stand, a library table, a rocking chair that I myself was rocked in when I was a baby, my dining table, Grandma Terrell's bureau.   I have written about the dining table, and will probably write about some of these other things at another time, but this kitchen stool with its worn edges and chipped paint, has been "talking" to me lately.  It belonged to my mother for as long as I remember, and she painted it this pale green when she repainted her kitchen cabinets in the house on Sunset Ave. where I grew up.  It went with her to the little brick house on Tena Street she and Daddy bought in the 1970's, and when she sold that house over 20 years later, the stool went to her tiny apartment in Jacksonville.  There, where the kitchen was not big enough for a stool, it sat in the corner with a circle of lace over it and held the Bible that had once belonged to my father.  In 2002, Mother's dwindling possessions and the stool moved from East Texas to Sugar Land,  to another small apartment where the lace cloth and Bible were unpacked and put back into place.  

In mid July of 2006, Mother began receiving hospice care so I began the sad task of clearing the rooms where she had spent her last years. The kitchen stool came home to another kitchen, mine. I once thought of repainting it with cheerful colors and patterns, but somehow that didn't seem right. I had grown to love every chip and scratch, and in these last 8 years it has taken on a new dignity and task. Now, this stool is where my granddaughters perch to help me cook. When they stir and taste and laugh, I feel my mother's joy blending with mine.

Together

The happiest times on my calendar right now are the days I care for my granddaughter Nora! Every third week is "our" week.  At 3 months, there are certain constants: feedings, diapering, and naps. I love the tending that requires. And I love the joy of the in between times - the cuddling, conversation and cooing, the rocking and singing and togetherness that refills her and comforts her and is important to her as well as those first 3 essentials.

She doesn't mind my crackly voice singing "A, You're Adorable."  We make it through that song every diaper change. If there is an entire clothing change, we sometimes get through several songs from The Sound of Music!  She talks to me with her eyes to say thank you, and flashes a coquettish grin when I brush her hair.

Yesterday we walked outside to catch a raindrop and she smelled a basil leaf when I made my lunch. She likes dots and patterns so I choose the blouse I will wear for her. We play peek a boo and pat a cake and chant nursery rhymes. When I rock her to sleep, I sing many of the same old hyms that my mother and grandmother sang to me. We have discovered that Christmas carols are wonderful lullabies!

Our other granddaughters are a joy to me and teach me just like she does that there is so much to look forward to. They help me remember some favorite lines from a poem by Mary Oliver:      "Pay attention.
   Be astonished.
    Tell about it."
 - all so much more fun when we do it together!

A Gift

Last week Joe received cards, gifts, hugs, and celebrated with our sons who are also fathers as we gathered around our full table (once the place where my Grandma Terrell gathered her own clan to share meals).  This drawing was a gift to him from our oldest son, Sean.  Joe had hinted to him that he would like one of Sean's drawings.

The "canvas" for this work of art is a plain paper table napkin!  Sean has done hundreds of these, all unique, for tucking into his daughter's school lunch box!  What began when she was in preschool continued for several years, each morning bringing a representation of Skye's choice the night before.  When I was little, my mother used to ask me what I wanted for breakfast this next morning.  I would tell her "cinnamon toast" and that is what was on the table the following day before I went to school.  Skye would answer the question "What do you want for your napkin tomorrow?" And there would be seahorse,a dragonfly a tiger a mermaid, bees or a wolf!  All for Skye,  all containing "I love you, Dad."

Joe didn't tell Sean what image he wanted. The image is a gift in that way too. Joe's July birthday makes him a Leo.  But Sean's love of The Lion of Judah and Narnia's Aslan shines through his offering to his Dad, Sean's own dear Lion King.

This "I love you, Dad"  is a to instead of from.  I love it.

Daddy

I never once called him "Father."  He was always my Daddy. In this photo where everyone looks down and squints from the sun , Daddy proudly stands in his Sunday best with Mother and me,  most likely on a Sunday after church. I was about 4 years old, which makes him 34. The year was 1945, about the time he proudly purchased their first home and we all moved into the small white frame house on the corner of Sunset Avenue and Pineda Drive in Jacksonville, Texas.

The suit and tie were saved for church, weddings, and funerals. The rest of the time he wore khaki pants and a button front work shirt, both starched and freshly ironed, covered during the times when he worked in his cafe by a large white apron  - work clothes.

Today I am remembering Daddy's hands, hands that picked me up, soothed my hurts,  made bread dough and shaped pie crusts, flipped pancakes, griddled hamburgers, worked with rake and hoe and planted seeds, grafted pecan trees,scattered hay for his cows, gripped a pickup's steering wheel, tipped his hat to passersby, held a Bible, opened doors for my mother, and applauded each tiny accomplishment of his daughters. Those hands poured coffee, fried bacon, waved goodbye, worked a factory assembly line, scraped ice from windshields and broke ice on stock tank surfaces, doctored animals, Those hands trembled when he gave me away in marriage and wiped away tears when I lost a baby, the same hands that reached for each of my sons after they were born and held them close.

When Daddy's hands trembled from Parkinson's instead of wedding nerves, his coffee cup rattled in the saucer  (he said coffee always tasted better in a cup with a saucer). Tomorrow is a day for remembering fathers,.  I salute the fine father of my children, and celebrate the excellent fathers my sons have become.  And I am grateful forever for my own Daddy, whose hands still remind me of the best ways to work and live and love..

Opal and Gertrude

This photograph taken circa 1930 is an image of a friendship that lasted over 80 years! On the right is my mother, Opal Auntionette Terrell, who married my father,  John William Howard Teal, on December 27, 1931. On the left is Gertrude Mae Burks, who married Herod Bickerstaff on December 4, 1931. These two young women "stood up" for each other at their weddings that December in 1931. But they had been standing up for each other for years before that.  They went to church and school together, both graduating from Bullard High School in 1931. They shared  living in big families on farms with no indoor plumbing, drinking water from a dipper stuck in the well bucket,  learning to cook on wood stoves, learning to iron with flat irons heated on those stoves, writing in their diaries, the giggling of girls, and the satisfaction of working hard,. In those days, school text books were hard to come by. They shared those books, which were called "partner books"  I have one of those books with their names and that designation handwritten inside the book.

Through the years Opal and Gertrude remained close friends. They grew up on farms whose acreage backed up to each other.  There was a small creek with a bridge in between. Mother spoke fondly of the times they would plan to meet at that bridge. I am sure Gertrude was at a party Mother went to when she was a teenager. She told how she had such a good time she was late coming home and as she tip toed down the long front hall of their big white house on the hill in Bullard, she kicked a washpan that had been set outside a bedroom door and woke everyone.  Gertrude shined her patent shoes like Mother did, by rubbing a cold biscuit over the toes!

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Best friends for so long, and married in the same month, their married lives began as Gertrude and Herod worked a farm in the sandy soil of East Texas, raising watermelons among other crops.  They had 2 sons and  2 daughters. Opal and Howard moved to Tyler where they both worked in Cameron's Cafeteria and where they lived when I was born in 1940, later moving to New Orleans, LA during WW II  Daddy worked in shipyards. When they came back to Texas, both worked in cafes in Jacksonville and later operated and owned cafes where Daddy was well known for being a wonderful cook.  My sister Janice was born in 1946.  When I left home to start college in 1958, Gertrude and Herod's oldest daughter Nona was my first college roommate!

Both were strong women whose faith was apparent in the way they lived life in their communities, raised their families,and served in their churches. Gertrude was an active member of First Baptist Church Bullard.Opal was a longtime member of First Baptist Church Jacksonville. Both were married for over 50 years.  Howard Teal died in 1982. Herod Bickerstaff died in 1987.  So both women were widows for many years.

 Gertrude was born August 30, 1913 lived in Bullard all her life and died in Jacksonville (less than 15 miles away) on April 15, 2002 after a couageous battle with cancer.  Opal was born October 20, 1913, lived all but 2 years of her life within a 15 mile radius of her childhood home, and  finally left her home in Jacksonville when we moved her near us the same year Gertrude died, 2002.  Often in those last few years, she would tell me she was ready to "go Home."  On that night,  September 21, 2006, as I grieved her loss, I smiled through tears and said,

"She is meeting Gertrude at the bridge."

Her Father's Daughter

I often mention things my granddaughters do that remind me of their fathers doing the same thing when they were little boys.  This photo Jeremy sent me of Jordann tackling a bowl of watermelon slices almost as big as she is takes me back to days when our boys would ask if we could "cut this watermelon" as they rolled it across the kitchen floor. As they stood digging with forks into the heart of a watermelon half, juice sparkling on their chins, they had the same happy smile as this one.  Sometimes we took the melons outside on the porch and  enjoyed the cool sweetness that seems part of hot Texas summers. Then they would have a seed spitting contest!

 Going back to the 40's and 50's,  I think of all the watermelons grown by my grandfathers or the farmers on nearby farms.  The vines sprawled out in sandy fields, where melons swelled and grew juicy, and melons were harvested, piled into the beds of pickup trucks and taken to town or roadside to sell.  I grew up thinking the heart of the melon was for us to eat, sprinkled with a little salt.  The rest of the melon and its rind could be thrown acorss the fence for the cows to enjoy.  How different that image is from the dear prices we pay for a single melon today!  

Bon Appetit, Jordann!

A Love Note from Mother

My mother, Opal Auntionette Terrell Teal, mothered me long into my own adventures with motherhood. She was not a hover mother or helicopter parent (today's terminology) but she was a a careful parent. "Be careful on your way home."  "Wrap up, it's cold and wet outside!"  "You need to eat right to keep up your strength."
"Don't try to do so much. Slow down."  - only a few examples.  As she advanced in years, eventually wearing a diagnosis she didn't even understand (Alzheimers), she often repeated herself.  Her short term memory was gone, but she never forgot something she had always said often: "I love you."  By the time she died 8 years ago, she had resorted to leaving yellow sticky notes all over her room where she wrote that.

Since she could no longer plant things for herself, various of our family members brought her a pot with a blooming amaryllis from time to time. She enjoyed the blooms, but when they faded she would hand me the pot and tell me to plant it in my yard.  Each year now since she left us, the amaryllis plants that I stuck here and there push their green spears out, shoot up long stems and flower.  Do you see the yellow sticky note?