Monday, November 16, 2009
Who are these people, anyway?
5:51 PM | 
Posted by
Cheryl |
At the library where I work, we often find bookmarks left in donated books. We find all sorts of things that have been used as bookmarks: greeting cards, homework, boarding passes, paystubs, children's drawings, and photos. By far the most interesting of these found items are the photos. Especially the candid photos of Christmas celebrations, birthdays, or gatherings of friends.
Who are these people? Are they related? Or only friends? What are the stories behind the smiles, behind the guarded expressions? There are stories hidden there, to be sure.
This is why I love pictures. They capture a moment, but they are also portals into larger stories. Lives full of stories. One of the fun things about this blog is that since beginning it I've received a few pictures from my sister Debbie - prints I did not have copies of. Sometimes they spark distant memories that were almost lost, and I'm grateful.
These are a couple of the pictures my sister has given me. If I found pictures like these in a donated book, I'd have so many questions. It's obviously a remarriage . . . but who were these people? What are their stories?
Who are these people? Are they related? Or only friends? What are the stories behind the smiles, behind the guarded expressions? There are stories hidden there, to be sure.
This is why I love pictures. They capture a moment, but they are also portals into larger stories. Lives full of stories. One of the fun things about this blog is that since beginning it I've received a few pictures from my sister Debbie - prints I did not have copies of. Sometimes they spark distant memories that were almost lost, and I'm grateful.
These are a couple of the pictures my sister has given me. If I found pictures like these in a donated book, I'd have so many questions. It's obviously a remarriage . . . but who were these people? What are their stories?
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.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Goldie
7:15 PM |
Posted by
Cheryl |
After Toby, it was about 8 years before we brought home another dog. Meanwhile, though, we decided to take the leap and become parents. Of a child. Or so we thought. By the time Amy was one year old, she was obsessed with doggies. At two she drew doggies all the time and was fearless with dogs she met at the beach or playground. At four she turned every preschool art project into a dog. When they were supposed to make a pizza, she made dog's face on hers. When they drew the nativity, all the characters were dogs. At five she argued with the children's choir director during practice about whether or not Amy really was a dog. She would not back down. She had fur on her arms, she said, and she walked on all fours and barked instead of singing. When I picked her up that day from choir she told me none of this, but when I asked her how choir was, she told me, "they're letting me come back."
We decided it was time to have a real dog in the family, so that Amy could go back to being a girl (a strategy that didn't really work). Amy prayed each night for the right dog: "A dog the needs us as much as we need it." We wanted a Golden Retreiver mix, since purebred Goldens were very expensive, but even the mixes cost more money than we had to spend. Finally, a friend told us of someone who had a litter of puppies from a Golden Retreiver/Brittany Spaniel litter, and best of all, they were free. We arranged to meet them in the parking lot of a Burger King halfway between our houses. They had five three-month old puppies with them, and all seemed quite lethargic and disinterested except one light gold skinny pup, who sniffed us and wagged a little. Amy decided she was the one.
It turned out that the puppies had been neglected, born out in the woods. The owners threw leftovers out for them, but didn't really buy proper dog food. Those dogs were hungry and not in the best of health. On the way home, our new puppy laid on Amy's lap, trembling. Halfway home she threw up a combination of sticks, bark, and baloney and brave Amy handled it well. I began to worry, though, that I was bringing home a sick puppy. She had never been in a house or had a collar or leash on. She was frightened of everything. Fortunately, a few visits to the vet, some medicine, good food, and attention, and "Goldie" perked right up. She quickly became Amy's playmate, and giggling ensued.
I love this picture. It was taken during the first week we had Goldie, taken at Meadow Wood Park in Speedway. Amy was so proud of her dog, and Goldie's favorite thing in the world was Amy - especially when Amy was running. Anything that ran deserved to be chased, after all, and the holes in the bottoms of Amy's pants attested to the fact that Amy got caught quite a bit of the time.
In the video above, Amy is doing a "gardening show," but Goldie doesn't really understand why Amy is allowed to dig in the dirt and she is not! Amy included Goldie in all of her favorite things - she created obstacle courses for Goldie to navigate, wrote many stories with Goldie as the main character, and even tried to teach Goldie to read.
When just the right dog comes into your life at just the right time, it's magic.
Goldie added fun, laughter, and quite a few mini-disasters to our days. She played ball incessantly, sometimes catching up to 50 throws in a row without a miss. She was curious about everything, so she was always in the middle of whatever we were doing. And like us, she was a little neurotic. If Goldie had one ball, she wanted to play. If she had two or more balls, she retreated to her bed with them, convinced they were babies that needed protecting. If you threw them, the poor thing really did act like her babies were in danger and retreived them frantically. It was funny to us at first, but Goldie took it all so seriously that we began to make sure she never had more than one ball at a time. After all, when you love someone, you help them with their neurotic bits!
Goldie smiles. Yes, smiles.
Goldie's puppyhood left its mark on our lives. We still own chess sets with half chewed pawns. One nativity set now includes a three legged donkey. Various stuffed animals show evidence of having visited mom's infirmary. One day we came home to find that Goldie had chewed up a blue ink pen and before we could contain her, we had blue ink on our clothes, on my new tennies, and all over the white linoleum floors. But no matter what the casualty of the week was, we loved her and knew she'd grow out of it. And she did.
Goldie was always Amy's study partner. In all those years, she must have learned something! If Amy could have taken her to college with her, she would have. We looked it up in the student handbook online. The rule for the dorms said: No pets, living or dead. One has to wonder why they felt the need to add that last part.
Goldie the confidant is always happy to listen after a tough day at school (or work!). Any time we hug, she is always right there, wanting in on the action. If we are snuggled on the couch, she has to be there, too. If Amy and I began playing, Goldie would run off to get her ball in case we wanted to play with her toys, too. She considers herself one of the family, and she is. I've never had a dog as good at understanding language or at making herself understood. My father in law always says "You can see that dog think!" And you can. She'd always go nuts if we mentioned the word "walk, so at first we spelled it. Then she figured that out, so we started using using other euphemisms: "Go for a stroll" "Go down the street" "Out on our paws" Staying one step ahead of her was not easy!
Goldie used to like to go sledding with us, and would get all excited when snowpants and boots were put on. She doesn't like the cold nearly so much now and in the picture above she is desperately racing back to the house after a necessary trip outside. Last year when the snow was deep we actually had to shovel an area for her, or she wouldn't have gone out at all.
Tricks are Goldie's speciality. Of course she doesn't think of them as tricks, but more as annoying things she must do to get treats. She readily conquered rolling over, playing dead, begging, speaking, and shaking hands, but she got really annoyed when we came up with the "four growl trick." I'd hold a treat in my closed fist, and she had to growl one time for each finger. With each growl, I opened my fist one finger at a time, revealing the treat. She learned to express her contempt for this trick by glaring at me and shaking her head when we did it. Sometimes she'd add a small sneeze to the head shake, for emphasis.
Goldie LOVES Christmas. She'll lay for hours with her nose under the tree, waiting for us all to open presents. She rips open her own presents and if she gets a stuffed toy, it is disemboweled within minutes. Oh, the joy!
Nobody knows how to make Goldie happy like Amy.
College girl Amy home for a visit.
When we come downstairs, Goldie is thumping her tail to welcome us before we reach the last step. At the end of each and every work day, we receive a wiggling, whining welcome. When I used to pick Amy up from school, we'd walk in the door and the greeting would be so boisterous we'd dump the books and lay on the floor petting Goldie and talking over the day. Goldie makes it very clear that she loves us and misses us when we're gone.
Goldie is 13 now, and has some serious health problems. She's fine for now, but some time in the next few years we will have to say goodbye. What a privilege God has given us to be in relationship with our pets - to remember that we are as dependant on Him as they are on us. To experience the unconditional love they offer us, and to be humbled that we're not as good at it as they are. To be given the chance to be patient with them in their wild youth and again in their infirm old age. To know that our lives are also short, and also beautiful. Maybe the right dog at the right time isn't magic, but it is absolutely a blessing. A blessing that we don't get to have very many times in a lifetime.
Postscript: I wrote this a year and a half ago when Goldie was diagnosed with cancer. We thought then that the end was near, but she lived on with a very good quality of life until today. Today we had to put her to sleep, and we let her go with wrenching sadness, but also with a sense of peace. A combination of congestive heart failure, bad joints, and a severely torn ligament made it an obvious, if not easy choice. Coming home to an empty house is awful right now, and it will take a while until that is easier, but we also have photos, videos, and memories to share of a dog that for almost 15 years enriched our lives. In spite of the current sadness, we learned so much from her and we have been so blessed. We would do it all over again if we could.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Canine Canaries
8:19 PM |
Posted by
Cheryl |
Buffy, Gladys, Mr. Brett, Teddy, Toby . . . and Goldie.
Might pets be the mine canaries of our families? The healthier and happier we are, the better their life is. When circumstances, physical health, or mental health are stressed to the breaking point, our pets also suffer. The pets in my life have been no different.
Buffy is the first dog I remember.
I remember sitting on the back porch with one arm around Buffy and a bag of dry dog food between my feet. "One for you, and one for me." I can still taste that dusty, salty, dry, dog food: Kind of like crunchy freeze dried beef broth. I don't have a very good memory for how long we had Buffy, but he was an outside dog, and was ignored quite a bit of the time. In fact he ended up with a trip to the pound that I've been told had something to do with "no one takes care of this dog!" They didn't tell me that, though, since I was a little kid, so they just told me that he'd run away up the hill. I watched that hill for a long time.
Gladys was my dog.
Odd name for a dog, you say? She was also called "Glad-Ass" because when she was happy she wagged so hard that her tail practically hit her in the nose - and she could grin! Really grin - teeth showing and everything. My older sister gave her to us and I considered her MY dog. She really was a perfect dog . . . except for biting my Dad's ankles, having several illegitimate litters of puppies despite our six foot fence, and never once fetching a ball. She was the dog I grew up with. Gladys died of old age, put down after a debilitating stroke.
We did not know what we were doing when we brought Toby home. We were in our early 20's, living in an apartment with a small backyard, and ready to practice our parenting skills on something living. He was a rescue - his family had moved away and left him in the garage, and it left him with some issues. As you can see in the photo above, Toby had a zest for life. He played, dug, chewed, ran, and drooled constantly. He was a smart dog who loved his toys and could go get the toy you named with 100% accuracy. He'd play with anything. He loved raw potatoes to toss around when he could steal them, balloons (which he carried by the knot, so as not to break them), and any sock that might drop from the dryer. He failed obediance school. Unfortunately for Toby, we made a common 20-something mistake. We plunged into pet ownership before we had quite enough stability in our lives. When we moved to another city, we had to find him another home. Our nephew was shocked that we could consider getting rid of Toby. He asked us, "When you have kids, will you get rid of them, too?" Ouch. Leave it to a 7 year old to lay it all out there. Fortunately we did find Toby a wonderful home with his groomer, two other English Springer Spaniels, and no kids (so that his occasional bursts of extremely bad temper would not be as dangerous).
After Toby, we waited a long time. We waited for that elusive stabilty, for a home with a backyard, and for our daughter to be old enough to help in the process.
Next blog: Goldie.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Sign, sign, everywhere a sign
6:00 PM |
Posted by
Cheryl |
Sign, sign, everywhere a sign;It just isn't a vacation without a few signs. The sign below is from our trip to Yellowstone this year. I edited out the five other languages it was written in. My favorite part was the 1960's illustration. Evidently this is an effective sign, as I don't think it's changed in years. It was so effective, actually, that a little boy who accidently slipped off the boardwalk was hysterical at his near death. And, as I said in our vacation blog, the sign strongly implies that boys are silly, reckless beings (possibly true) and that girls are totally useless in a crisis (absolutely not true!).
Blocking up the scenery, breaking my mind;
Do this, don't do that, can't you read the signs
Most signs are ignored, of course. The sign below is as clear as can be and yet we spent our entire vacation watching visitors ignore its warning and stalk wild animals. Now, I have to admit that we have been known to ignore safety signs (see below) from time to time, but fortunately we had done a lot of research for this vacation. We'd watched videos produced by the National Park Service on wildlife safety that show park visitors being gored, trampled, torn apart, and otherwise having their vacations ruined by buffalo, elk, and bears. After those videos, Mark could hardly get me to go on a hike! And when I did go, I had a bear bell and bear spray to keep me safe.
In 1971, Dad, Grandma and I went on a vacation to Missouri. On the way we visited the Royal Gorge in Colorado. As we drove along the parkway, I spied a buck lying down in the woods not far off the road and begged my Dad to stop and let me feed it. Now, Dad must have seen a sign like the one above, because he said no. At that time it had been about three months since Mom died, and I have been told by eyewitnesses that I was a complete pill that summer. I probably threw a fit, although I don't remember. What I do remember is that when we pulled into the gift shop area down the road, my Grandma had a rare moment of being on my side (or of being sick of traveling with an unhappy ten year old), and bought me a package of yellow cheese crackers. She made Dad drive back to the spot, and I got to feed the buck. And I survived.
My strongest memory of this event was not the feeding of the buck, but Grandma's kindness to me.
I'm not sure how old you have to be before you realize your own mortality and begin to take warning signs seriously. Maybe around 30? Mark and I were 27 and 28 when we went to Hawaii to celebrate his doctoral degree. On the big island of Hawaii we found a road completely blocked off by a lava flow, and found it irresistable. We could see plumes of steam in the distance where the lava was still flowing into the ocean. There was a no trespassing sign, but everyone else was doing it, so . . .
We hiked a couple of miles out over rough lava rock, past the sad remains of swallowed houses and cars. It was an adventure! As we got closer to the steam plumes, we could hear the explosions as hot lava hit the ocean. You could even see bits of lava and earth being blasted into the air.The tiny figure in the background of the picture below is about where we hiked to . . .
. . . before we looked down at a fissure at our feet and saw . . .
red hot lava flowing directly beneath us. It was a moment of crystal clarity. We suddenly understood the 'no trespassing' signs and decided it probably wasn't safe to hang around. And besides, our tennies were getting a little hot . . . that couldn't be good.
Later that week, as we ate our breakfast of fresh papaya and banana bread at our hotel, we read a local newspaper report that a tourist had been killed at the lava flow where we had been. Once in a while the lava flow slackens a little, and the ocean water rushes into the lava tubes. When the hot lava meets cold water under the cliff, the resulting explosion blasts off sections of cliff, along with anyone standing on it. Yep, I think that's about when we started paying attention to signs.
The Sign song is so very 1971. Here's that last verse:
And the sign said everybody welcome, come in, kneel down, and pray
But when they passed the plate around at the end of it all,
I didn't have a penny to pay
So I got me a pen and a paper, and I made up my own little sign,
I said thank you Lord for thinking of me, I alive and doing fine.
Which makes me think of church signs. That would be a complete blog entry all by itself, so I'll just leave you with this one:
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Maybelle
7:40 PM |
Posted by
Cheryl |
1965?
So now, all these years later, I wonder about Maybelle. It's very likely that she went to a maternity home to deliver her baby in 1922. Although women had gained new freedoms such as the vote, unwed mothers were still considered to be mentally ill or even criminal. I was amazed to read that one in four pregnancies ended in abortion the year my mother was born. Considering the societal pressures Maybelle undoubtedly experienced, I have a lot of sympathy for her circumstances when my Mom was born. I'm so glad she did not abort her, and that she managed to stay in touch with her even when adoption became necessary. What I don't understand is her 50 year insistence on the keeping of the secret. Whatever her reasons, she lost out on a deeper relationship with her daughter and family in order to devote herself to the lifelong nurturing of a secret.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Playing
8:36 PM |
Posted by
Cheryl |
Vacations are when grownups get to be kids again. We leave responsibility behind as much as we can and take time for things that are not part of our daily lives. We take joy in the simplest things. We get lost in the reverie of play and imagination The picture above was taken in Peninsula State Park in Door County Wisconsin. It was one of those perfect days, and we were free.
Eight years ago we went canoeing on the Ohio River. We were staying in one of the Ohio River Cabins, and it included a canoe! Nothing like paddling past football field sized barges that trudged along the river - very adventurous. And be sure to note the biggest kid in the famiily - sitting in the back of the canoe!
This picture is from a Yellowstone hike we did above Mammoth Hot Springs this year. Beautiful! And yes, there's a bear story to go with this picture, which is related on our vacation blog. I think we need these open spaces, this beauty, to breathe. If we go too long wthout a vacation, the air becomes thick and sluggish and longing sets in. We kid Mark sometimes because he is like the vacation canary - he is the first to notice the sluggishness of the air, and he knows we need to make a plan to go breathe somewhere beautiful and be kids again. And he's always right. I'm learning to sense this need a little better myself as I get older - and to listen to the longing for beauty.
Where to next?
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Connection.
6:15 PM |
Posted by
Cheryl |
1982: The picture above was taken in my parent's backyard the day we announced our engagement. I was 20 years old, and we had been dating for about 3 years. Over the years, photos have revealed a lot about us: Our hairstyle successes and failures, weight changes, a total lack of fashion sense, happiness, and sometimes sadness. But the thing I find most interesting, though, is that somewhere along the way, our pictures began to reveal our connection. Maybe I'm the only one who can see it, but somewhere along the way our connection to each other became visible.We did not begin to dress alike (thank heavens), I don't think we began to look alike, it's . . . hard to explain. 
1988: Married 5 years, we lived in Santa Barbara just down from the mission. Mark was a newly minted psychologist, and I was in sales. Other than the search for Mark's first professional job, life hadn't thrown us many curves yet.
1990: A year later, we'd lost our first child and Mark's job situation wasn't promising. Finding myself not pregnant as expected, I crashed a backpacking trip in the Sierras with Mark's Dad, brother-in-law, and nephew.
1991: We had been married 9 years when Amy was born, and our priorities changed rapidly. We bought our first home - the infamous condo in Goleta - I began working at home to be with Amy. In the second picture above, Amy was two and we were just months away from a move that would change our lives. Not long before that move, we lost our second baby.
2000: In 1995 we survived a shortsale on our condo after I lost my job and we managed to get out of town with a truck full of furniture, a three year old, and not much else. While moving here we received the call that my parents had been in a catastrophic car accident while on a mission trip in India. My Dad had been killed and my stepmom was very seriously injured. The move itself was incredibly stressful and this shocking loss put us over the top. We moved in with Mark's parents for almost two years while starting up Mark's practice. In spite of all the stress involved in the move, it was one of the smartest decisions we've made. When the picture above was taken, we had been in our own home for several years and had begun our one car, one job, one homeschooled kid lifestyle.
2009: Amy's graduation from CCHS. It was a wonderful experience that reinforced hard decisions we had made in the years before about parenting and educating our daughter. What an adventure it has been, and is!
2009: This picture was taken by Amy on our trip to Yellowstone and the Badlands. Weeks afterward, Amy had moved into Ball State and life has changed yet again. We've been married 27 years and I've noticed something. We are taking a lot more pictures of the two of us again, just like when we were first married. It's kind of nice. There are more wrinkles, less hair, and the same lack of fashion sense . . . but it doesn't matter. It's that connected thing again . . it gets better with age, and I can see it in the picture above. I need to remember this when I look in the mirror and see 50 coming at me like a speeding truck!Mark 10:7-8 'For this reason a man will leave his father
and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh.'So they are no longer two, but one.
Ecclesiastes 5:20 He seldom reflects on the days of his
life, because God keeps him occupied with gladness of heart.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
My husband is a STAR!
8:00 PM |
Posted by
Cheryl |
I worked on a post tonight but didn't quite get it done. So, just for fun, here's something I ran across while browsing old photos. It is priceless!
When I was in college I worked at the library (shocking, isn't it?) and while there I was sorting through old educational film catalogs and randomly came across a page with the above picture. It was an ad for a high school educational film on the dangers of alcohol abuse. I stopped and stared at it, thinking there was no possible chance it could really be Mark in that picture. But it sure did look like him! So, just for fun I copied the page and showed it to him that evening. And it was him! When he was in high school, a film company making health and safety films needed some teens for a short film and picked him to play a part - I don't think he even had any lines, but he made it into the catalog! Isn't he cute? I'm not sure he's a very convincing drunk, though . . .
When I was in college I worked at the library (shocking, isn't it?) and while there I was sorting through old educational film catalogs and randomly came across a page with the above picture. It was an ad for a high school educational film on the dangers of alcohol abuse. I stopped and stared at it, thinking there was no possible chance it could really be Mark in that picture. But it sure did look like him! So, just for fun I copied the page and showed it to him that evening. And it was him! When he was in high school, a film company making health and safety films needed some teens for a short film and picked him to play a part - I don't think he even had any lines, but he made it into the catalog! Isn't he cute? I'm not sure he's a very convincing drunk, though . . .
Friday, September 25, 2009
1971
6:14 PM |
Posted by
Cheryl |
A more conventional picture might have been a better way to start this blog, but this image says so much about why I love photos. Maybe this is the moment it began.
The thumb is mine. I was nine years old and my mother had died several months before. Life was still a bit of a blur for all of us. I knew she was gone, and I knew she'd been sick for a very long time before that, but the finality of it was hard to grasp. I thought about Mom a lot - she had been so very ill before she died that it had been a long time since I'd been able to really talk with her. That Saturday morning, I suddenly realized that I could no longer see her face in my mind. I couldn't hear her voice. I panicked. I needed to see her face - the loss of that memory would make the loss of her unbearable. The only picture of my mom I knew of was in a double hinged frame - two 5x7 church directory photos of my mom and dad - on the nightstand next to my dad's bed. So, I went to my dad and asked if I could have that picture. Possibly not understanding the depth of my 9 year old desparation, or perhaps lost in his own, he said no.
The thumb is mine. I was nine years old and my mother had died several months before. Life was still a bit of a blur for all of us. I knew she was gone, and I knew she'd been sick for a very long time before that, but the finality of it was hard to grasp. I thought about Mom a lot - she had been so very ill before she died that it had been a long time since I'd been able to really talk with her. That Saturday morning, I suddenly realized that I could no longer see her face in my mind. I couldn't hear her voice. I panicked. I needed to see her face - the loss of that memory would make the loss of her unbearable. The only picture of my mom I knew of was in a double hinged frame - two 5x7 church directory photos of my mom and dad - on the nightstand next to my dad's bed. So, I went to my dad and asked if I could have that picture. Possibly not understanding the depth of my 9 year old desparation, or perhaps lost in his own, he said no.
Not to be deterred, I borrowed the picture I could not have, grabbed my little camera and headed out to the backyard. In the days before scanners and quick trips to the Sam's Club photo desk, the grass and the California sun would have to do.
Years later, when the four of us were grown, my sister divided up the family photos among us and I finally have the photos of my mother that I had yearned for so many years before. Memory is a funny thing. It's fragile, prone to distortion, and imperfect, but we must have it. We surround ourselves with things that help us remember - momentos, hand-me-downs, stickynotes, keepsakes, and treasures. We don't want to forget, to let go. I think this is because we are made for connection. We long for it.
The picture above is a grainy black and white photo that is almost 39 years old. My grandmother's box of memories included tintypes, and my daughter's memory box will no doubt be a digital file folder of some description - but no matter how advanced we become, we'll hold on to our images because, more than anything else, we want to hold on to each other.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Snappy beginnings
7:51 PM |
Posted by
Cheryl |
Snapshots capture a moment of time - a smile, a long lost friend, a moment of peace, and the faded images of a childhood. Photos draw us back to that moment complete with the emotions we thought forgotten: wistfulness, joy, sadness, embarrassment, friendship.
I have boxes and computer files full of them as well as a digital frame, and I never get tired of remembering the stories they tell. So for fun, and mostly for me, I have decided to blog photos. Some will be old, some will be new. Most of them I have taken, but not all. It's all just an excuse to write and to enjoy the stories that photos have to tell.
**Debbie asked what this photo was of - this is a picture taken at the cabin we rented in the Smoky Mountains several years ago. One of the most restful vacations ever (unless you count the stress of driving up the seriously steep gravel road to the cabin).
**Debbie asked what this photo was of - this is a picture taken at the cabin we rented in the Smoky Mountains several years ago. One of the most restful vacations ever (unless you count the stress of driving up the seriously steep gravel road to the cabin).
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