Snap By Snap

This is my family on the day our Dad married Shirley. It was 1972. Nine months before, our mom lost her six year long battle with cancer. Around the same time, Shirley's first husband had died after a brief illness. Against all odds and with the help of a few church ladies, they had each found love again.  Going left to right, across both above pictures. Gary (23), Cheryl (10), Cindy (19), Dad (49), Debbie (22), me (again), and Shirley (43). The ages say a lot. I have siblings 9, 12, and 13 years older than me. The two oldest were out of the house when I was still quite young. Let me tell you a little of our stories.

Gary is my big brother. When I was small Gary would send me exotic presents from his travels in the navy, and I loved to wear his navy hat when he was home. The phrase "if you two don't stop wrestling, someone is going to end up crying" was frequently heard when Gary was around. I had the feeling he actually liked having a kid sister, and quite a few of the black and white photos I have of myself were taken by Gary.  When I was 10 he taught me how to drive his stick shift sports car - our secret. I remember him telling about his adventures exploring abandoned mines and rock climbing. I wanted to do things like that, too. When I started going on wilderness trips he gave me his Jansport backpack and climbing equipment. When I wanted a stereo, he gave me his old one. When I showed an interest in cameras he gave me his old 35mm Konica camera. Sitting on my desk as I type is the 70's era stapler I inherited from him at some point. Of all the things to save, why did I save a stapler? I have no idea. It wasn't so much the 'stuff' he gave me, it was his desire to encourage me that meant the most.

Cindy is the closest to me in age - she was nine when I was born. I vaguely remember that we shared a room at one point but I wasn't too old when Gary and Debbie moved and we each had our own rooms. Around the dinner table, Cindy was a great storyteller and kept us entertained with stories of her day. She could make us laugh until we cried. It was during these years that mom was sick, and the smiles and laughs were medicine. Like many older siblings, Cindy got stuck with her little sister quite a bit of the time. And, since she was a true California girl, taking care of me often involved riding down to the beach in her brown Rambler. We'd stop for cheetos and drinks at a store near the beach, and I'd play in the waves while she tanned. I also remember sitting on the counter at home while Cindy made chocolate chip cookies. I got to 'help' and lick the beaters. Poor Cindy also sometimes had the chore of givng me my bath (she must have only been 14 or so), but she always made it fun - singing songs to me and playing games. She was a natural mom, even then. Her three boys are very blessed.

Dad was the ultimate car guy. If he wasn't out in the driveway or in the garage washing or polishing a car, he'd have a Hemmings Motor News nearby. One of my favorite memories of Dad was going to a car show with him at the old Buena Park Mall. It was just the two of us and it was HOT. During a break, we walked into the open air mall and bought fresh caramel corn. I don't remember treats like this being very common, so it was a big deal to me. Another memory of Dad was his weekly routine of preparing his Sunday School lessons. He'd be in the front room with his commentaries and Bibles spread out over the couch, writing his lessons out in his block printing "chicken scratch" on blank white paper. Before Mom got sick, I remember bedtime sometimes included Bible stories, and that if I was good, we'd take the time to look at a couple of the "life in Bible times" images in the back of the book. More than forty years later, I still see those simple illustrations in my mind's eye during many a sermon.

Debbie has always been an artist at heart. She was out and on her own by the time I was six or so, working at the telephone company and living in her very own apartment. This was extremely cool stuff to a kid sister. Her apartment was full of her own creations: A claw foot tub became a loveseat; a tractor seat topped a metal milk can was a chair, huge cable spindles became patio furniture. She helped me make decorated pencil holders and sold my creations at work. It was a great little moneymaker there for a while. Like Cindy, Debbie was often called on to take care of me. I remember when I had gashed my head open at a friend's house, Debbie was the one who had to come hold my hand while they stitched me up. Another time she had to act as stand in parent at my school open house. Debbie has always believed in me. She knew I loved to draw, so one year she bought me an old wooden artist's case and filled it with canvas, oil paint, brushes - the real stuff. It was perfect. I painted quite a few little pictures with it for a few years until one day, in a shallow teen moment, I sold it in a garage sale. I regret it to this day. I learned a lot from Debbie. Being slave labor at her house taught me how to refinish furniture, paint a wall, put up lights, wallpaper . . . and more. During breaks from the hard work we enjoyed obsessions ranging from cinnamon rolls to deep fried zucchini, and a friendship was born; one that would blossom over years and miles.

Shirley was 43 when she married my Dad. She stepped in cold turkey to raise a troubled 9 year old and be parent to three newly minted adults. In spite of the challenges, you only have to look at the picture above to see how happy they were to have found each other. The struggles of becoming a family were worth it. When Shirley joined the family, Mom had not been gone very long, and I was unsure what to call my new mom. I remember the conversation she began in the car about what I should call her . . . and she suggested that I call her Shirley. Of course, in no time at all "Shirley" was synonymous with Mom. Shirley was a librarian, and soon found out that not only was I failing reading, but I was barely passing my grade because of my poor reading skills. She went down to the school and demanded to know what was being done to solve my reading problem, and of course nothing had been done. I was being written off as not capable. The years when Mom had been sick had meant that no one had consistently paid attention to my schooling, and it was showing. Dyslexia was diagnosed. Shirley did what any self-respecting librarian would do: She started reading to me. Every night, she'd read a few chapters of an age appropriate book. The stories were wonderful! I don't know how long it was, but one night at the best part of a very exciting book (Chancy and the Grand Rascal), she put the book down. If I wanted to know the rest of the story, she said, I'd have to finish it myself. Torture! But her intuition was right on track. I picked up that book. I read faster and faster and in no time I was reading all the books she could carry home every week. My reading scores went off the charts. What caused my turnaround? Was it being read to? Or the individual attention? Maybe it was a combination. One thing I am absolutely confident of:  Shirley was an answer to my mother's prayers for the family she was leaving behind.

Reading this description of my family, you'd think we were the Cleavers. Older siblings who were kind and nurturing, a perfect youngest child, doting parents. And of course that's not true - it's not true of any family. My mother's long illness stretched through important teen years for my siblings and throughout my grade school years. It was extremely tough, and healing took years and years. However, when I look at the pictures above, it's the good memories that come flooding back.

I gained a part of who I am from each of these members of my family. From Gary I got an adventurous spirit and a love of rough-housing. From Cindy I learned about the gentle playfulness of motherhood, and how to tell a story. From Dad I learned that God's Word can redeem you. From Debbie I learned to give thoughtful gifts and to be independant. From Shirley I learned to love reading, and this changed my life. I think of Dad whenever I eat caramel corn, and Cindy whenever I lick cookie dough off beaters. I think of Debbie whenever I sit at my antique kitchen table, and Gary whenever I take a really good photograph.

Pictures really are portals - sometimes into our very own stories. They are part of the fabric and foundation of who we've become.