If I loved these babies anymore my heart would burst.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Kathryn Elizabeth (Ochs) Wilcut 1902 - 1994
My grandmother (Gram) was born on April 10, 1902 in Salt Lake City, Utah. Her father worked in various mines as a supervisor, which meant that they - she, her parents and brother - lived in various western mining towns while her dad supported the family. When Gram was very young, they left Long Beach, CA via covered wagon and settled for a time in Grants Pass, Oregon. She told us a tragic story of a neighbor woman who left her baby on a blanket nearby while she hung laundry to dry. Gram said that a bear snatched the poor child from it's rest and carried it off into the woods never to be found. The men hunted fervently for the baby and bear but failed to find either in the dense Oregon wilderness.
In 1906, Gram's family was on a boat travelling down the Pacific expecting to dock in San Francisco but were diverted from landing because of the great earthquake and fire. Their boat continued south and eventually her family settled in southern California where she spent most of her life.
I remember vague stories of my grandmothers younger brother Jack, who was a traveller and adventurer. Though I never heard what he did on these journeys, I was told that after a trip to the Middle East no one ever heard from him again. My dad tried to find some record of his death but he could never find an explanation for his disappearance. This is still a mystery to our family.
My Grandmother was an exceptionally quiet, gentle and patient soul. She would often say to us - Patience is a virtue seldom found in a woman but never in a man. - She had the rare virtue of patience.
As a young woman she was accepted to art school in Chicago but before she left California she met the man who would be my grandfather. He lived across the street from her and they married before she ventured east. I remember Gram painting beautiful landscapes of wheat colored land and barns in the background. She painted trees, mountains and ponds but was always very modest about her beautiful, careful work. A widow in her early 50's, she lived near my parents in the Bay Area. When my parents found their dream home in Walnut Creek she sold her house, the only asset she had, to give my parents the down payment to the home we lived in for over 30 years. Gram was a soft and constant fixture through out my childhood. She took me to Golden Gate Park and the various San Francisco museums every year. While on the bus, (She didn't drive.) I remember her whispering in my ear to remind me to give up my seat to the older woman who just got on. I have memories of her sitting at our kitchen table, delicately smoking Virginia Slims rarely talking but listening and smiling.
At Christmas she'd take on the tedious job of shelling the almonds that we'd fry for salted snacks and meticulously plucking the crab from it's shell for our crab cocktail. When asked if she'd like a sandwich or something to eat she always answered no. "Come on, Gram. I'm sure you're hungry... may I please get you something?" "Oh, maybe toast with a little butter and jelly would be nice", she'd finally concede. She was an enigma in our family of mostly impatient, loud, opinionated, big eaters.(Sorry. It's true.) At Christmas we all struggled to find gifts for her. In spite of her insistence that Christmas should be reserved for children and for those more needy, we'd buy her fancy soap, bath powder or a new robe that she'd save "for good". She unwrapped each gift slowly, never tearing the paper then she'd fold the paper for later use. After she died she had stacks of "good" soap and robes - never used.
My Grandmother also had the most beautiful hands. I only remember them when they were old, with blue veins popping through her thin, fragile, paper-like skin, but still they were so lovely with her long, thin fingers and perfectly shaped and manicured fingernails. She took very good care of her fingernails, filing and carefully painting them brilliant colors. This was the only evidence of vanity I ever saw in her. These hands were always busy with her painting, various needlework projects or helping in the kitchen. I also remember her sitting in my parents wing back chair. She'd clasp her fingers then rest her hands in her lap and twirl her thumbs. She'd sit silently, rotating her thumbs, eventually closing her eyes. "Gram, are you tired? Are you ready for bed?", we'd ask. "Oh no, honey, I'm just resting my eyes.", she'd say.
Minutes after Lily was born, she was given to me to cradle in my arms. Tears welled in my eyes when I saw her hands. God gave my daughter my grandmothers beautiful hands.
I admire my grandmother for her patience and quiet, generous spirit. I wish she was here today. I would ask her so many more questions about her life and about her. I loved her and miss her. When she grew old and couldn't manage to live on her own she moved into my parents house. I was given the gift of helping to care for her the last few years of her life. When she was 92 and failing, hospice came to help her let go of this life. She explained to us that she couldn't leave Patsy - my mom - who would care for her, she asked? This was such a poignant message for me. In this subtle way she taught me the most important lesson one mother can give to another - that our love (and concern) is everlasting. Along with her spirit, my grandmother's name lives on through my niece Kathryn Elizabeth and my son's middle name,Wilcut.
Happy birthday, Gram.
A side note:
On Gram's 6th birthday the Titanic hit the iceberg and sank - April 10, 1912
I remember vague stories of my grandmothers younger brother Jack, who was a traveller and adventurer. Though I never heard what he did on these journeys, I was told that after a trip to the Middle East no one ever heard from him again. My dad tried to find some record of his death but he could never find an explanation for his disappearance. This is still a mystery to our family.
My Grandmother was an exceptionally quiet, gentle and patient soul. She would often say to us - Patience is a virtue seldom found in a woman but never in a man. - She had the rare virtue of patience.
As a young woman she was accepted to art school in Chicago but before she left California she met the man who would be my grandfather. He lived across the street from her and they married before she ventured east. I remember Gram painting beautiful landscapes of wheat colored land and barns in the background. She painted trees, mountains and ponds but was always very modest about her beautiful, careful work. A widow in her early 50's, she lived near my parents in the Bay Area. When my parents found their dream home in Walnut Creek she sold her house, the only asset she had, to give my parents the down payment to the home we lived in for over 30 years. Gram was a soft and constant fixture through out my childhood. She took me to Golden Gate Park and the various San Francisco museums every year. While on the bus, (She didn't drive.) I remember her whispering in my ear to remind me to give up my seat to the older woman who just got on. I have memories of her sitting at our kitchen table, delicately smoking Virginia Slims rarely talking but listening and smiling.
At Christmas she'd take on the tedious job of shelling the almonds that we'd fry for salted snacks and meticulously plucking the crab from it's shell for our crab cocktail. When asked if she'd like a sandwich or something to eat she always answered no. "Come on, Gram. I'm sure you're hungry... may I please get you something?" "Oh, maybe toast with a little butter and jelly would be nice", she'd finally concede. She was an enigma in our family of mostly impatient, loud, opinionated, big eaters.(Sorry. It's true.) At Christmas we all struggled to find gifts for her. In spite of her insistence that Christmas should be reserved for children and for those more needy, we'd buy her fancy soap, bath powder or a new robe that she'd save "for good". She unwrapped each gift slowly, never tearing the paper then she'd fold the paper for later use. After she died she had stacks of "good" soap and robes - never used.
My Grandmother also had the most beautiful hands. I only remember them when they were old, with blue veins popping through her thin, fragile, paper-like skin, but still they were so lovely with her long, thin fingers and perfectly shaped and manicured fingernails. She took very good care of her fingernails, filing and carefully painting them brilliant colors. This was the only evidence of vanity I ever saw in her. These hands were always busy with her painting, various needlework projects or helping in the kitchen. I also remember her sitting in my parents wing back chair. She'd clasp her fingers then rest her hands in her lap and twirl her thumbs. She'd sit silently, rotating her thumbs, eventually closing her eyes. "Gram, are you tired? Are you ready for bed?", we'd ask. "Oh no, honey, I'm just resting my eyes.", she'd say.
Minutes after Lily was born, she was given to me to cradle in my arms. Tears welled in my eyes when I saw her hands. God gave my daughter my grandmothers beautiful hands.
I admire my grandmother for her patience and quiet, generous spirit. I wish she was here today. I would ask her so many more questions about her life and about her. I loved her and miss her. When she grew old and couldn't manage to live on her own she moved into my parents house. I was given the gift of helping to care for her the last few years of her life. When she was 92 and failing, hospice came to help her let go of this life. She explained to us that she couldn't leave Patsy - my mom - who would care for her, she asked? This was such a poignant message for me. In this subtle way she taught me the most important lesson one mother can give to another - that our love (and concern) is everlasting. Along with her spirit, my grandmother's name lives on through my niece Kathryn Elizabeth and my son's middle name,Wilcut.
Happy birthday, Gram.
A side note:
On Gram's 6th birthday the Titanic hit the iceberg and sank - April 10, 1912
Monday, March 21, 2011
When It Don't Come Easy
For Melissa, Rosemary, Sharon, Margie & Karen.
You're out there walking down a highway.
All the signs got blown away.
Sometimes you wonder if you're walking in the wrong direction.
Time keeps moving from a crawl to a run.
All the signs got blown away.
Sometimes you wonder if you're walking in the wrong direction.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
My submission for the Real Simple magazine essay contest that I didn’t win. -
Lucy, Ethel, Little Ricky and My Family
My name is Jan and I have donkeys. I didn't want them, but my normally reasonable husband insisted. Is there a support group that? After buying a home on four acres in the wide open farm land of northern Washington, with a barn and corral, John immediately leaped to the irritating conclusion that we needed animals. In spite of my profound objections and pleading for dignity he bought two miniature donkeys, naming them Lucy and Ethel. It was a decisive win for him and a blow to my normally impressive tally in the marital compromise arena. Four months later Little Ricky was born. The previous donkey owner delivered my hubby's two new lady pals to the corral then he gleefully waved his hand out the window, with $750 dollars tucked in his pocket, and shouted, "I think you may have a surprise in the spring!" Sure enough, four months later Lucy had a baby boy. It's all the more special that our new little jack ass was born on my dear husband's birthday. Now my formally respectable and balanced life is teetering on the brink of Green Acre-dom.
The path to country life was paved with my fervent desire to move near my family, who all migrated to the Pacific Northwest from the northern California suburbs over the past several years. I was the lone survivor living a comfortable and familiar suburban lifestyle. I liked my life, living close to my good friends, an assortment of excellent restaurants and tons of darn good shopping to boot. But my pull to be near my siblings and mother was even stronger than my gravitational pull to Nordstrom's. I needed them in my daily life and I wanted to raise my kids in the folds of an extended family. But, of course, being a married woman I had to convince my husband that moving from everything he had known was a good idea. Who would have guessed what the trade off would be? Donkeys weren't on my radar.
When I was in my lobbying mode to transplant my family, I imagined buying an old Craftsman style home on a hill near Western Washington University in the artsy, hip college town of Bellingham. I thought of the hilly neighborhoods that would remind me of the Bay area, with views of Puget Sound and the San Juan Islands and quirky, independent book stores and coffee shops with in walking distance of our new home. I thought I'd have friends next door to share kid stories with over a glass of wine in the evenings and a block of neighborhood kids to play with our children. I never suspected that city boy was conjuring up his own vision of heaven on Earth that included a barn, tractor and manure.
It took about 8 years but John finally came on board with the big move. He retired from a position he held for over 20 years and was open to embracing a new life 900 miles from the place he had always called home. He agreed to move here where my mom, 3 siblings with spouses, nieces, nephews and a new generation of their children lived. He was/is a brave and strong man. The tricky part came when we started to search for our new home. It was funny how we never discussed our perceptions of what our new home should look like. This communication faux pas was a zinger. Our realtor was a confused man jumping from my idea of the ideal home to John's. In the end, of course, I agreed that hubby should have his little slice of country paradise. After all, he moved here to plant me near my kin, the least I could do was give him space to roam and a shop in a barn to hide from all of us. There was, however, no mention of donkeys while we signed the papers to the new homestead. We were in the house about month when he told me of his plan and only a few short months after that when Lucy and Ethel arrived. I was blind sided.
We settled into our new life in the country with clear views of the Cascades to the East and the Canadian range to the north. We enjoy the fresh, crisp air, wide open spaces and a quieter life. I've grown to love it here. Outside my kitchen window, I see my neighbors charming black and white dairy cows scattered on the hill near their big red barn and snow capped Mt Baker gleaming at me throughout the day. It's beautiful. It's beautiful and strange. As I drive up my long gravel drive, past the corral, I see Lucy, Ethel and Little Ricky grazing in the pasture and think, - Wow. You never know where your life may lead. I'm often asked by my friends back home, "Why donkeys?" The answer is simple. John likes them.
On July 5th, 2010 I got an early morning call from my sister. I heard the panic in her voice when she said, "Kirby's been hurt." Her oldest son is a Captain in the army and has served three tours in war zones including Iraq and Afghanistan. This was the call we have dreaded since he joined in 2001. That morning his vehicle was blown up by an IED. The explosion killed two men, critically injuring another and seriously injuring my nephew and another soldier. I was with my sister soon after that call and camped in her living room for days while she and her husband frantically made calls to get information on their son's condition then made travel arrangements to get to him. I was here for her when she needed me. I was where I needed to be. I've been near my family to share the joys of the graduations, weddings and the baby's births. I've been here for the disappointments, illnesses and troubles. Gratefully, I always have a packed house during the holidays which is filled with stories of my dad, who passed away years ago, but who is brought back to us through our shared love for him and the familiar stories. I've been tucked into my family for all of it. But the greatest gift of all is that my kids are an integral part of this extended family that will give them a precious love and security through out their lives.
John generously gave this to me. He gave this gift to all of us and in return I have to live with a few donkeys. It was a good trade. And to be completely honest with you, I should say that I've grown accustomed to them. They're sort of cute in a goofy donkey way.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Cleaning chronicles - Part 3
I had a very bad dream last night. In it I was being chased around my house....
...by my vile toilet brush. It eventually rested on top of my bookcase, flicking putrid toilet water at me when I walked by.
I hate housework.
I hate housework.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Cleaning chronicles - Part 2
I got all the stuff I needed to clean & took the plunge. After 3 cups of coffee & music on the ipod sending mercy my way, I began the tedious job of dusting, shaking out rugs, scrubbing bathrooms, vacuuming, tackling cob webs and mopping the floors. I slaved away from 9:30 until 4:30. Oh my aching back.
Kicks curiously watched from afar....
The cats never appeared. (Good instincts.)
Oh jeez. Come in.
Kicks curiously watched from afar....
...then wisely hid behind the couch.
But managed to kill and eat a poor bird on the rug that I just beat clean.
Will you look at those paws? He can stay outside like the rest of the farm dogs that live around here. It's time for him to man up. My floors are so clean.
I can see that this job is never done. I'm doomed.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
The cleaning chronicles - Part 1
I borrowed 2 mop thingys from my mom.
(See - Mops don't clean, people do.)
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Mops don't clean, people do.
The news hit me hard. She didn't mince her words; now I'm doomed.
For the last two decades I have been fortunate to have a cleaning lady. As I worked a little out of the house and contributed to our household financially, I felt justified to indulge myself and hire others to do my dirty work. It worked out so beautifully, too. I would notice a ring (scum) in the tub, a spot (mud tracks) on the floor or a pile of dust bunnies under the couch (and table and chairs), and say to myself, " No worries, Bev will be here soon to take care of that." And for all these many years nice women have shown up every week or so to mop, dust, vacuum and make our home livable again. I believe it's a job for professionals so that's how we rolled... until recently.
Last spring I quit work which brought on an unexpected fear. I wondered if Safety Man would connect my free time, our shrinking budget and Bev. Could I expect my 20 year fix to household help to continue without question? After all, while I was still bringing home the dough, I'd announce to my husband and children before I left in the morning, "Remember, wonderful Bev will be here today! Pick your dirty clothes up off the floor! She has to vacuum, you know!!" , then I'd happily proceed with my day knowing that I'd come home to a sparkling kitchen, clean bathrooms that smelled fresh and towels neatly hung on their hooks. The dust would be all gone, replaced with a comfort in my heart knowing that my house was livable again and ready for another week of our abuse. But now I instinctfully knew that I had to be on the down low with cleaning day. Not a word did I mutter about carelessly thrown clothes or cluttered counters. I would post Bev's check ,discreetly tucked in an envelope, onto our kitchens bulletin board simply addressed - "B" and hoped no one noticed how clean the house was when they came home.
It was all going as planned until Bev called. She bluntly explained that she's not cleaning houses anymore. She just blurted it out casually and callously, "Time to do other things." was her excuse. What?! I hung up with my head spinning, feeling panicked, my palms starting to sweat and knees feeling weak.. What to do? What to do? I have to think fast. Can I hire someone else quick? Maybe no one will notice if another smiling face shows up with a mop and bucket in hand. I scrambled for answers when the phone rang again. It was Safety Man. I impulsively(stupidly) I cried out the horrible news hoping, praying, wishing so badly that he'd suggest I start the process we have been through several times before. Maybe he'd say it was time to find another cleaning lady. Crushingly, he explained to me cheerfully that this was good news. Now would be a super time to save some money and "we" could certainly clean the house ourselves. What a blow. I hung up defeated, depleted and depressed.
I haven't cleaned a toilet in decades. I don't own a mop. I hate my heavy, ugly vacuum. Truthfully, I don't know how to clean and I don't want to learn. I'm an old dog. I don't do new tricks. Which leads me to this insightful quote.
"You all know that even when women have full rights, they still remain fatally downtrodden because all housework is left to them. In most cases housework is the most unproductive, the most barbarous and the most arduous work a woman can do. It is exceptionally petty and does not include anything that would in any way promote the development of the woman." ~ Vladimir Ilyich Lenin
~ Even deplorable despots are right sometimes.
Help!
Last spring I quit work which brought on an unexpected fear. I wondered if Safety Man would connect my free time, our shrinking budget and Bev. Could I expect my 20 year fix to household help to continue without question? After all, while I was still bringing home the dough, I'd announce to my husband and children before I left in the morning, "Remember, wonderful Bev will be here today! Pick your dirty clothes up off the floor! She has to vacuum, you know!!" , then I'd happily proceed with my day knowing that I'd come home to a sparkling kitchen, clean bathrooms that smelled fresh and towels neatly hung on their hooks. The dust would be all gone, replaced with a comfort in my heart knowing that my house was livable again and ready for another week of our abuse. But now I instinctfully knew that I had to be on the down low with cleaning day. Not a word did I mutter about carelessly thrown clothes or cluttered counters. I would post Bev's check ,discreetly tucked in an envelope, onto our kitchens bulletin board simply addressed - "B" and hoped no one noticed how clean the house was when they came home.
It was all going as planned until Bev called. She bluntly explained that she's not cleaning houses anymore. She just blurted it out casually and callously, "Time to do other things." was her excuse. What?! I hung up with my head spinning, feeling panicked, my palms starting to sweat and knees feeling weak.. What to do? What to do? I have to think fast. Can I hire someone else quick? Maybe no one will notice if another smiling face shows up with a mop and bucket in hand. I scrambled for answers when the phone rang again. It was Safety Man. I impulsively(stupidly) I cried out the horrible news hoping, praying, wishing so badly that he'd suggest I start the process we have been through several times before. Maybe he'd say it was time to find another cleaning lady. Crushingly, he explained to me cheerfully that this was good news. Now would be a super time to save some money and "we" could certainly clean the house ourselves. What a blow. I hung up defeated, depleted and depressed.
I haven't cleaned a toilet in decades. I don't own a mop. I hate my heavy, ugly vacuum. Truthfully, I don't know how to clean and I don't want to learn. I'm an old dog. I don't do new tricks. Which leads me to this insightful quote.
"You all know that even when women have full rights, they still remain fatally downtrodden because all housework is left to them. In most cases housework is the most unproductive, the most barbarous and the most arduous work a woman can do. It is exceptionally petty and does not include anything that would in any way promote the development of the woman." ~ Vladimir Ilyich Lenin
~ Even deplorable despots are right sometimes.
Help!
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