From Suffering to Courage

Elizabeth and her Dad, James D. Deane

So often over the years, people who learned about my diagnosis of bone cancer and partial amputation of my pelvis in my early twenties would say how courageous I was. I had seven surgeries over eleven years and never once felt courageous. I would deny that I was courageous at all, thereby, denying their opinion of me, almost like calling them a liar or fool.

It wasn't until one little old man told me that there were just two people in the world who he admired more than any others because of the courage they had due to succeeding to live a life with pain and suffering and not taking everybody down because of it.

The first person he admired for his courage was his own father who had been crushed between two railroad cars of a train and carried to the station where a doctor sawed off his leg. It was the early 1900's. they did things that way back then. This amputee lived out his total of 86 years with, at first, a very heavy wooden leg for forty years. Then. after all that time, he had a surgery to correct the first botched surgery, after which a new modern lightweight artificial leg was provided. This man worked a job until the day he died. I can see why this man was considered courageous.

The second person was me. This little old man, age 90, was my own father who told me this a few months before he died. I cried to know my father had kept those secret thoughts about me for so long, but terribly grateful he told me.

I have learned that courage is in the eye of the beholder, and you never know who admires your courage. Even though I did not (do not) feel courageous, when others say they admire my courage, I now let them say it and I graciously say thank you, reminding myself that there must be something I do or did that deserved that badge of courage.

Sometimes during those eleven years and seven surgeries, I cried and complained.  I wanted to die and just get it over with. Sometimes I thought I would go crazy. I felt I had no choice. I couldn't escape my circumstances. I just had to keep experiencing what came next. I felt like a victim of circumstances, not courageous at all. It amazes me that I'm still here. I made it! So maybe that did take a little bit of courage to get through it all.

It was not easy in my own eyes to think of myself as courageous, but now I can finally see it. I hope you will too. Realize that you can be afraid or be feeling discouraged and still have a courageous spirit. If life gives us a precarious path to follow and there is no getting off the path, all we can do is keep going even with the fear or pain or emotional trauma. That takes courage. Anyone who has faced adversity or suffered a loss or even stress that can get through to the other side of those things has courage. Keep in mind that like a soldier who has no choice but to face whatever it is he has to do, he does what he has to do whether he is afraid or not. He may not feel brave. But, he keeps at it even if he is afraid.

What I try to do is put one foot ahead of the other and keep going. As they say, the only way out of fear is through it. This goes for any kind of pain and suffering, too, in my opinion. Accepting whatever is happening is half the battle.

Speaking of battles. When it comes to cancer, people will say, he or she is a cancer warrior. I feel that anyone who has a medical challenge can be considered a warrior. Like any warrior on the battlefield, there is nowhere to run. You have to stay and fight the battle. If you have to fight for your life, then that's what you do, even if you do it kicking and screaming and crying and wailing. You get through it.

And now I have leukemia. But, that's another story... er... battle. Stay tuned.

My Uncle - A Poem

Dean Evans

Does anybody know
I wonder
will they care?
My cousin
just called me,
her father has cancer

He was my uncle who took me in
when I was pregnant;
my uncle who taught me to sing;
my uncle who taught me;
about cleaning carpets;
the value of having a life insurance policy;
who taught me how
to pick up a bowling ball the right way,
and get how to get a strike

My father's little brother,
my uncle called him all the time
to help him get through Dad's last days;
encouraging him to be positive,
to have faith.

He was once a little boy
who my parents took into their home to live
when he no longer had a mother and his Dad was sick.
When my Dad was in his last days
My uncle tolerated Mom's comments to him.
My uncle, no matter how old,
was still the little brother, to her.

I think I will tell my older brother
and I wonder,
does he even know my uncle?
Doe he remember him from 1955?
Will it matter to him
that the last of that generation
will soon no longer be with us?

I think I will tell my sister;
and I wonder,
how well does she know him?
Perhaps from the family gatherings we attended.

I think of my younger brother and believe
he might know my uncle best of all.
He hired our uncle to work for him at one time.

My cousin asked me
to inform this side of the family.
My uncle is sick.
The prognosis is terminal.
I am surprised at myself how emotional I feel.

Elizabeth Munroz
November 11, 2007

Morris Franklyn Evans of Cattaraugus County New York

This is the elder sister of Morris Evans. Her name is Anna
Photo taken in Dover, New Hampshire circa 1908

As I was growing up, my father often reminded me that I could rely on my own inner strength, which, in his opinion, I inherited through my ancestors; particularly the ones from Wales.

Dad’s mother, Jessie, spoke the native tongue, Cymraeg. His grandfather, Morris, was the first generation American. I guess that makes me fourth generation away from “the old country”. My great-great grandparents, William and Anna Evans came to New York State about 1843, bringing two sons with them, John and William (Jr.). As far as I have been able to determine, they first settled in Schuyler, Herkimer county.

By the time Morris came along, April of 1852, his siblings, Thomas, David, Benjamin, and Mary had preceded him; after that, a younger sister, Elizabeth, known as Libby. Morris and Libby remained close all their lives.

Eventually, William and Anna moved to Cattaraugus county in western NY probably because of the railroad boom. They purchased and exchanged a great deal of land, speculating more than farming it.  They continued to speak and live in the Welsh ways.

As was common practice among his people, at the age of thirteen Morris was apprenticed out to learn a trade. His older sister, Mary, was married to a man who ran a cheese factory where Morris could have continued out his life as a cheese maker in familial job security. However, as an adult, Morris choose to become a carpenter and most of his life he worked in various aspects of the field; once, for the railroad building huge railroad bridges, especially the famous Kinzua bridge.

Letter to a Dead Mother

Genevieve Deane 1953
Niagara Falls, NY

Dear Mom,

I keep having all these little mini conversations with you in my head as I go about my days. I noticed I've been having more and more of them lately. Little things, like "ooh... you would LOVE this new Vermont white cheddar cheese I found!" or "You would be telling me to go sit down and have a cup of tea now."

At first I wondered how it was after all this time that you are on my mind. Then it dawned on me. Your birthday, in a few more days, you would have been 92 years old this year.

Why your last five birthdays didn't bring you into my daily life, I don't know. But, here we are.

Today, I was standing at the kitchen sink,washing dishes,  looking out the window, remembering how you got to have your sink moved to the front window of your kitchen. You wanted it that way so you could look out into the yard and down the street on Cayuga Island "to keep an eye on the kids".

When was that? I think about 1948. I think. That house is still there, Mom. Did you know that? I bet you wouldn't like what they did to the place. I sure don't. It certainly lost it's charm.

It's funny how the most mundane act can bring on an obscure memory. I wonder if your mother ever stood at the sink and thought of her mother. I wonder if she got along with her mother. You always said how wonderful your mother was, and how well you got along but I never believed it.

You and I got along so poorly, it just didn't seem possible. It was always a mystery to me that mothers and daughters could be friends.  I've been mulling around thoughts about how difficult and painful it must have been for you.

Even after I came to an understanding that you did the very best you knew how in your parenting of me and stopped my blame game, I can understand now why that didn't pull down all the fences between us. The brick wall, yes, but not all the scars were healed. I'm so glad that at least you and Little Sis had such a good connection. Your love for each other was obvious.

I'm not saying you didn't love me. Nor am I saying I didn't love you. It's just clear to me that it was stunted and strained and unfulfilled. I do wish we could have healed that more than we did.

I think about your last years in the nursing home. I picture myself in the same situation. What is to prevent me from ending up there? Nothing I can think of, unless I experience sudden death. Slow deterioration seems to be the most evident cause of nursing home inevitability. Even the most well-meaning, loving kids can intend to see you through your last years in your own home. But, things change. Circumstances change. Stress toleration levels change. And truly, I look at my kids and think as you did... I don't want to be a burden. I don't want to take away a moment of their own chance to enjoy life, to be free to enjoy their later years without being weighted down by an aging incomprehensible parent.

There are things now that I didn't understand in the past, I wish I could tell you. I wish you could have the satisfaction of thinking "I told you so". I know you wouldn't say it out loud. But, I am well aware of the feeling I get when my daughter says something to me and I think, "Ah... there it is. She now knows how it feels. She now understands." She doesn't always acknowledge that she realizes I once went through it myself. Something like that kind of understanding could bind us together, give us that feeling of relief that there no longer is that one thing standing between us. But, that is not always going to happen. The fences are still up. Barbed wire fences, in fact. So sharp and prickly, still after all this time. I just throw up my hands. I no longer reach out and try to smooth it over, no longer try to make it better. Now I understand, Mom, why you did the same thing I am doing now. All that energy just for another stab to come later. Not worth it. Painful, yes. But, less painful than to continue to try to heal something that is scarred over so badly.

I know you know what I'm talking about. Would you want me to say, "I'm sorry" now that I understand some of what you went through with me? Would it have mattered? Or would there be that same hesitation I feel in not believing it will cure anything? Would it only be a band aid hiding the wound? When you pull the band aid away, it may be healed, but still the scar is evidence that the damage has been done. Nothing is erasable. It seems.

Am I being negative? Pragmatic, I think. I look at the facts. On the phone the other day, I was struck by how a subject that would never be considered inflammatory to anyone else was perceived as a possible threat. Being a mom, I don't want to inflict pain upon my child, so I agreed to no longer discuss it. And truly, that's okay. It was not important. I can talk about it with friends instead. The perception that I could be the cause of incredible turmoil and pain because of it makes me hesitate to speak, to say anything unless asked a direct question. And then I wonder what would be the "right answer". How can this not turn into another moment of pain indelibly burned into the heart of my child? So, I've agreed to the suggestions made now, and wonder if I follow through that her fears will come to fruition.

Is that how you felt, Mom? If I say, no.. let it go or yes... let's discuss it, it seems the results might be the same, a woman who is stressed out because she believes she's damned if she does and damned if she doesn't.

I remember one day, when I was going through the family photos you gave me there were many pictures of you and your friends smiling, having a good time. It dawned on me.... somebody LIKES her... lot's of somebodies. It seemed a mystery to me. There were people who liked my mom enough to go places with  her, make quilts with her, have lunch with her, laugh with her, play board games with her have long conversations with her. They were not threatened by what she might say or do. They accepted her for who she was. These were people who sent her loving birthday cards with comments praising her good qualities that I could not see in her. My mom was in reality a likeable, lovable person, non-threatening person. She was not the dangerous half-rabbit half-scorpion who might strike at any second.

Velva, Eva, Al and Gennie Borden

I'm sorry, Mom. I wish I could make it up to you. Of course, it's too late. Or is it? Can you hear my thoughts, feel my feelings, sense my final understanding and regret? Are you in a place where these things are all evident to you? Or does it even matter now that you are gone?

The most obviously thing I can think of is that the healing is one sided. I feel better because I can now relate to what you may have been feeling. I understand more of how it was for you. But, sadly, it is only like having half a blanket when you are cold. I need the other half a blanket. Then, we could sew the blanket back together and wrap our arms around each other with the blanket snuggled 'round.

I Miss You, Mom!

Rest In Peace

February 9, 1920 - December 14, 2006

Genevieve Evelyn Borden Deane, age 86, died at her daughter's home in Cedar Park, Texas on December 14, 2006, following a fruitful and fulfilling life.

She was born February 9, 1920, in Breeseport, NY
She was the Daughter of Myron Rockwell Borden and Orilla Brewer Davis

On May 16, 1937, She was united in marriage to James Deforest Deane in Port Allegany, PA.

Most of her adult life, Mrs. Deane resided in Niagara County NY where she and her husband operated their own business and later she worked for St. Mary's hospital in Lewiston NY. After retirement in 1980, the couple moved to Southern California and lived in Yucaipa, and Valencia, CA.

Mrs. Deane was a member of the Episcopal Church. And was a member of Gideon's International, Full Gospel Businessmen's Ladies Fellowship, and volunteered in the Ladies Auxiliary of Assembly of God San Bernardino California, helping to create quilts for the homeless.

Personally, her extended family included all the friends of her children who called her "Mom".

Among her interests, Genevieve was an avid seamstress sewing on her old Singer treadle machine, which later on was modified as an electric portable. She sewed by hand tiny stitches as her mother had taught her while quilting. But her favorite needlework was hand embroidery. Among pleasures in her life, she enjoyed gardening, antiquing, thrift shopping, yard sales, and swap meets, and collecting treasures such as sea shells and interesting rocks. She loved board games, cards, jigsaw puzzles and was an avid reader. In her early years, she wrote poetry which was recited on the WJJL radio station in Niagara Falls NY.

Genevieve attended Port Allegany High School in Port Allegany, PA and later graduated from Niagara Falls High School.

She is predeceased by her parents, Myron Rockwell Borden, and Orilla Davis Borden, her husband James Deforest Dean and sister, Carrie Borden Staples; brother, Alvin Borden, a son Lee Deforest Deane, and grandson, Raj Anil Megha.

Survivors include her four children, David, Lockport NY, Elizabeth Munroz, Watsonville, CA, Roger, Scottsdale, AZ, and Suzan Simpson of Cedar Park, TX. Her grandchildren include Christine Deane, Lockport NY, Laurie Blunk, Alta Loma, CA, Therese Burton, Chicago IL, Xavier Rodriguez, San Francisco, CA, Carl Deane, Niagara Falls, NY and Varsha Megha,  Austin TX. She is also survived by 17 great-grandchildren and 4 great-great-grandchildren who will surely miss her loving arms around them.

Great-Grandchildren include Moses, Brittany, Marquis, Andrew, Justin, Michael, Breanna, Chloe, Kezia, Moriah, Tiara, Kory, Storm, Jasmine, Sterling, Rain, Anjulique, Ashanti and Rajen

Great-Great Grandchildren are Daniel, Matthew, and Alexander


With special thanks and gratitude to my sister Suzan, who devoted herself to my mother that last year of her life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: new great-great-grandchildren, Rylee, India, and Raj have been born since 2006 with another one due any moment.

Writing About Family

Writers Call for Submissions for Anthology: Writing About Family

Submissions are being sought for an anthology about writing and publishing by women with experience in writing and publishing about family.

Possible subjects:
using life experience; networking; unique issues women must overcome; formal education; queries and proposals; conference participation; self-publishing; teaching tips. Tips on writing about family: creative nonfiction, poetry, short stories, nonfiction, novels.

Watching Old Video

.

Dad's habit

patting his bald head

Mom rubbing her sore leg

How straight is his profile

from nose to chin...

that "stiff upper lip"

he always said to keep.

How tired she looks

saying goodbye

them walking... holding hands.

Saying Good-Bye

I've noticed that even with those who have round the clock family members to sit with the dying, it occasionally occurs that the person dies when someone has momentarily stepped out of the room. I think the patient knows when it is time to go. Some psychologists say there are those who seem to hang on until no one is around as if they want to leave freely, without famly clinging to them, perhaps holding them back. They also say that a person will hang on for much longer than expected as though they have one last thing to do, one last person to kiss goodbye.


This is how it was with my father. All the family came in to see him. Dad's sons and daughters, the adult grandchildren, the great grandchildren, even the great great grandchildren. Dear friends came and some called.

My brothers and sister, my daughter and I had all taken turns being with him. That last night we all had said good night at different times. I was the last to leave. Except my sister, who stayed in the room in case Dad needed anything. She sat in the lazy boy chair right next to his bed with her feet up. Among all the family members, my sister was the one who had spent the most time tirelessly attending to Dad's needs. She was the most likely one to spend her nights there beside him. All he had to do was whisper and she was asking what he might want, even if she was in deep sleep she would hear him. Truly, a devoted daughter.

They say just before someone dies, their breathing changes and some unusual noises are produced, perhaps a snore or two. But, somehow, with my sister right there beside him,  Daddy quietly slipped away. To this day she wonders why she didn't hear him have those breath sounds. Maybe he just didn't want to disturb her and let her rest.

Bad Blood

Covering the seed of my memories,
she is buried at the bottom of my heart,
where the blood has turned brown like dark rich humus;
the baby girl I gave away.
I have watered the soil with my tears of regret
all these eons, as she has grown.

She is big enough now.
I cannot keep her buried anymore,
my thoughts of her possess me.
she is breaking through,
fresh and new, like a newborn
my memory of her stares at me.
I hold her in my arms, softly cooing.

But the years have passed, 
reality faces me.
a full-grown woman stands before me.
she challenges me,

Why did you give me away?"

"Why didn't you want me?"

"Wasn't I good enough for you?"

"Why did you keep the others born to you?"

She spits out her bitterness.
"I have spent all my life feeling like a bad seed!

There are no tears to quench her now,
only anger jetting forth from her body
hitting me in waves.
She's got a lot of ammunition
I shrink from the power of it.
unable to reach out, hold her, comfort her.
My hopes dashed that we might be friends.

Now, I am buried at the bottom of her rage,
weighted down, held back, unable to explain.
She walks away and leaves me for dead,
buried at the bottom of her heart.

But the time will come when I shall emerge
from the dark rich humus of old blood covering me.
I will bloom into her thoughts,
and she shall seek me out, the mother she didn't want,
and she'll be surprised that I am young no longer
but, old and gray and haggard.

Addle-brained, I shall blankly stare at her,
the discarded mother in the nursing home.
Who are you? I'll say.
I don't know you!
What do you want?
Go away!

We will have spent our lives estranged

Written by My Grand Daughter

Mothers are like soldiers.

They are the underdog in the house.

Yet they are always there to protect you.

They are always watching

and making the right choices.

Like a soldier loves his country,

a mother loves her family.

<Adorkable>

~~~~~~~~~~

Please note: Photograph is of my sister's dog and is not a mother.

What's a Mother to do?

What's a mother to do? When her first born babe dies at birth... When her kid swallows bleach... or overdoses on aspirin? When her 9 year old son has an ulcer, her little girl goes down to the river and falls into the water?

In that last case, she takes a branch from the willow tree and whups her wet kid on the back of the legs all the way down the middle of the street... all the way home.

She is not to be blamed. She didn't know any better. It was the way she was raised, and disciplining a child was common practice back 60 years ago. People did not call social services for such an act. It was the way things were. She never thought twice about it. She had been so worried when her little one could not be found. She had been horrified when she discovered a boy bringing the wet child home explaining what happened. As she chased her kid with the willow switch the fear and terror chased her as well. And she sobbed as did her child.

What's a mother to do, when her kids steal apples from the farmer's orchard? Or flowers from the next door neighbor's garden or items from the five and dime store? She makes the child return the stolen goods, admit the crime in shame and apologize. That one really works well because of the humiliation factor. The lesson in honesty needs no willow whip.

What's a mother do do when her teen refuses to help out with family chores, when defiance, rolling of eyes, slamming of doors, swear words muttered intending to hurt are the behaviours she has to deal with? Mother is at her wits end and doesn't know what to do but question herself, question her mothering skills, wonder what when wrong, fear for her children that they will turn out all right.

What's a mother to do when her children inherit the same disease she has? At first she denies the possibility until it is so obvious it can no longer be ignored. She irrationally blames herself for passing this disease on to her children. She carries her guilt like a heavy sack of coal on her back, especially because they suffer pain and social stigma because of it.  How could she have prevented this from happening? Not having any kids? There was no birth control back in those days. Though the children know she is not to blame, she carries that shame the whole of her life, no matter how much they reassure her.

What's a mother to do when her kids get married too young, have babies too young, divorce so quickly? What's a mother to do when she discovers that her hereditary condition is the cause of her grown up child's cancer. She privately cries and prays all the while believing God doesn't hear her. She sits in anguish day after day feeling helpless while her child lies there. Lot's of things were different back then. You didn't tell anyone about the "C" word. People thought it was contagious. You became isolated and alone without the support and love of your community. You most certainly did not question the decisions and behaviors of the doctors and nurses back then.

Oh, this is not one of those lovely overdone tributes to Mother's Day. Is it? What Hallmark card would sell such a message?

What can those children do when they grow up, but look back on their childhoods and understand the value through having children of their own and see just how challenging it is to raise a child. They can only look back in wonder and awe when they realize mother had so many children to take care of. How had she managed? How had she kept the house clean, the laundry done? How did she have energy to cook meals and welcome her husband home? How did she do all that and still work part-time labor intensive jobs over the years?

Please don't get me wrong. There's a whole lot I have left out. The good stuff and the really good stuff and the sublime stuff. But, that's for another day.

She said, "You will always be my children, no matter how old you are. When, I'm 80 and you're in your fifties, you will still be my children. I shall worry about you, pray for you, hope the best for you and love you forever."

A Month in the Lives of Two Extraordinary People

The voice on the other end of the phone is that of a child in distress. "I c-c-c-can't do this. I I I just caaaaaaan't." she cries.

My heart goes out to her. She has been pushing for this for seven months. Begging and cajoling, cantankerous and fighting for her right to do this. And now the time is upon her. Everything has finally been arranged. All the obstacles have been overcome. She is finally getting what so desperately wanted... to go to the nursing home.

"I understand how you feel, Mom." I say in as soothing tones as I can manage. I wish I could be there for her, but live too far away. My sister is close, but has a job that keeps her from being there at Mom's beck and call. So, the best I can do is phone duty.

A part of me deep underneath is a little angry that she is acting like such a baby. But, I know, I truly know, how terrifically overwhelmed she must really be feeling to face that which she has feared all her life, even though this has most recently been her wish. She says she is a burden to Dad.

At 82, she is 85% blind with Macular Degeneration. She is becoming deaf. She has heart disease, high blood pressure and congestive heart failure. She has had three strokes already. Sometimes it seems she's not all there. She has arthritis so bad that just watching her attempt to walk upright with her walker is painful. Tiny little inch-by-inch steps, she can barely lift her feet off the ground, her hips so bad that it looks as though her knees are fused together, her ankles splayed outwards to hold her up. She cannot take care of herself. She has not been able to for a long time. Dad, at 87 has had his hands full trying to count out her pills day by day. His hands that are so arthritic and deformed, he cannot button a shirt or do any fine handwork. How he picks up each pill and puts it in the containers for the week is a mystery to me. He does not complain. He is devoted to her making up for all those lost years when he worked double shifts.

Mom is taking 37 pills per day. Dad has a chart on the wall to remind him which pill is to be taken at what time of day, with or without food. He recently got out of the hospital with pneumonia, a repcurrent complication he has faced these last few years because of his COPD. I'm glad all the arrangements have been made, and Dad will be relieved of his charge. (July 28, 2002) ~~~~~

I get a call from Mom in the nursing home. Dad comes to visit her after driving his golf cart along the busy road the couple miles it is from their home. I think maybe he is late and she's worried.

"All he does is watch the TV! And now, he's asleep on my bed again!" She is indignant sitting in her wheelchair watching him snore. "I don't know why he even bothers to come to visit!" I'm not surprised that Dad has gone to such lengths in the smoggy Los Angeles August heat. "Because he loves you, Mom, and I'm sure his misses you."

This seems to appease her and we talk of other things, how the aide was rude to her, how the food tastes terrible, how noisy the place is and she hates that man who yells all the time, even though she knows he can't help it. She's suspicious that her room mate has disappeared, even though I remind her that the family had arranged a transfer. She says they treat her like she's senile. They wont listen to her. She can't poop, she says. They wont do anything about it.

"This place is a Hell Hole!" she mutters in resignation.

By this, I know she is done complaining and I steer her into a direction of a younger time, where the thoughts are happier, a time when we lived near the lake, a time when life was full for her. I love these parts of our conversations. She always brings forth a new tidbit of information that opens the door to the past. She reminisces, calmer now. (August 20, 2002) ~~~~~

My sister calls me. "Do you know what Mom did?"

"Now what?" I'm thinking she cussed out an aide, or threw something.

"She called 911"

"What?"

"She called 911, and told them she was in terrible pain and needed help!"

"Oh, my God!"

"And you'll never guess what! They came right into the nursing home and took her to the emergency room at the hospital. She really was in pain. She hasn't been able to go to the bathroom for a week. They're going to clean her out and send her back in a day or two."

I am stunned. I can't believe what I am hearing. I'm annoyed at myself that I didn't take her problem more seriously. I'm annoyed the nursing home didn't keep track of things, or take her seriously. On the other hand, I am so proud of Mom. She's sharp as a tack. She's not losing it, after all! What a clever woman to take the initiative to call 911, and get the help she needed. I'm so glad the emergency team took her seriously. That's my Mom, Mrs. Feisty!

I'm laughing now as I picture the ambulance screaming into the parking lot, the emergency team entering the nursing home, asking where is room 134. I can see the shock on the faces of the aides. I can see the administrator swallowing his bile, as he realizes he will be reported to the state for neglect.

My sister laughs, too. "The nursing home administrator called Dad and told him to come in after she is released and take her home." (August 28, 2002) ~~~~~

I can see it now. Mom making sure things get done, running things the way she used to when we were kids. I can see Dad working double shifts helping to fix the electric problems to keep the lights bright in order to provide for her. In his spare time he sings with the choir. I can see her telling the angels what to do while he's away, maybe taking her to the thrift shop to buy some more knick-knacks to clutter up the place. I can see Dad coming home to their cloud and the two of them quietly, or probably not so quietly, spending the evening together while they discuss whether or not they will be watching Jeopardy or Star Trek on their heavenly TV. But, every night Dad will sing to her, "Good Night, Sweetheart" and she will be comforted. I can't imagine it any other way, and I know they are happy. (April 6, 2009)

Dad lived until age 90. Mom survived one year without him. But that is another story

What is happiness?

"Happiness. You deserve it. You have earned it. You get to have it and be present in this life, in this place, here and now."

This I found on the blog site of Dot Hearn  called The Writing Vein. In her writing she suggested in focusing on writing about happiness.

I think happiness is a personal thing. You and I might not experience happiness from the same source. So, here is my viewpoint on what happiness is for me.

Happiness is remembering childhood experiences, writing about them and discovering nuances I had not previously recalled.

Happiness is reading old letters from family and friends that were sent to my parents from 1937 to just a few years ago when they both left this world.

Happiness is thinking fondly of my parents in new ways, looking at them from the perceptions of others in ways I wasn't open to. It's like discovering and loving them with a door open into their lives which I never passed through. It's a treasure I never knew existed.

Happiness is seeing my adult children being successful in ways I could never foresee, learning to like them for who they are now. Yes, I would happily include them in my circle of friends if they were strangers, I recently met them and got acquainted.

Happiness is seeing the most incredible thing come true, that I never thought could possibly take place in my lifetime. I have grandchildren, some who are adults and have found their place in the world. Some who are still getting their education and well focused on their goals for their future place in the world.

Happiness is a miracle that never even occurred to me would happen. Not only do I have children and grandchildren, I have great grandchildren. They are all beautiful souls who have come into live to make our hearts break with loving them. They are the future to carry us forward. How long I will live to see where they go? I don't know. It gives me happiness just to know how they grow, how their personalities are developing, and yes, even their grumpiness, when it manifests.

Happiness is embracing the suffering and survival of my past, and welcoming the knowledge and compassion which it has brought me. It turned me unto a path I never would have taken. Happiness is knowing that I actually have strength and courage I didn't think. I can be thankful, in some ways, for the torment I endured.

Happiness is having a day without pain, a day I can walk naturally, a day where I feel emotionally as close to what one might consider "normal".

Happiness is realizing I have a smile on my face just from looking at LOL cheezburger cats, or experiencing something on YouTube I never would have consider worth watching until that moment, thanks to friends and family for sending me the links.

Happiness is going through sixty years of old photographs, having my Grandparents histories, wondering about old timey things about which I haven't a clue.

Happiness is knowing who my ancestors were, learning about their culture, geography and history of where they lived. Knowing where I came from made me feel connected to the past for many generations. It made me feel more than I am, more than one person, alone on this planet, more than just one set of DNA.

Happiness is having a digital camera so I can take as many pictures as I want without having to worry about the cost of having them printed, deleting all the unacceptable ones, and finding that one perfect picture I didn't realize I had managed to catch with my camera. Those are the kinds of pictures I want printed and framed.

Happiness is being aware I've got a smile on my face that was not there before, a smile I have when I'm by myself and not triggered by someone else, a smile that is my very own. Those smiles are so important to me, especially because of a lifetime of not smiling, of living with depression. Smiles are like little dancing sparkles bursting from my heart and warming me inside and out, even if they only last a minute.

Happiness is my 20 year old cat looking eye to eye with me while the universe and we became one during her last moments. Naturally, there was grief and sadness involved, but that experience is etched in my soul forever in a kind of deep "knowing" that truly is indescribable.

I think I would be bored if I was happy all the time. I would have nothing to compare it to, nothing to make me cherish it all the more because it is so rare and precious.

 ~~~
Present in the group photo above are: from left to right starting at the top row; Clint Mountain, David J. Deane, Bill Reuter Sr., James Deane, xxxxxx?, xxxxxx?

Bottom Row, Clint's son or nephew, Suzan Deane,  Bill Reuter Jr., Genevieve Borden Deane, Roger Deane, and last but not least our dog, Tammy

~~~

The picture of the young man on a Youtube page is my adult son, Xavier who works in the video game industry.

~~~
From the old time picture from 1911 My Grandmother's sister, Anna Evans in Thompson car in front of Ned O. Tarbox's store. Cattaraugus County, New York

~~~

The picture of the calico cat is Keli as described above

Blizzard Moving

The blizzard had blinded us for so many miles, I felt, that night, as though I were in a dark frozen dream. We were all exhausted from the stress and strain of moving. Everyone in the family had helped load furniture and boxes onto the borrowed farm truck and our old run-down Studebaker.

My face was raw and chapped from sticking it out the window. This way I could yell at my mother when she drove too close to the edge of the raod. No heater, no defrost. I propped my numb feet on a box of pots and pans that rattled loudly whenever we hit a pothole. Each time the noise jolted me into alert wakefulness.

It was impossible to judge the conditions of these narrow country roads. Not daring to stop anywhere, we just kept going. My mother sat hunched, with fingers tightly clutched, over the steering wheel, peering vainly through the frosted windshield. She stuck her head out the window as often as I did to make sure she didn’t drive into a ditch.

Roger sat upright between us on the front seat drowsing lightly. At the age of eight he was no longer little enough to curl up to sleep. His long legs were splayed over the driveshaft-hump on the floor. Wendy, still a little butterball at six and a half was asleep on the floor, between the pots and pans and the bump. Her face rested on Roger’s knees. They reminded me of two played out puppies curled together, oblivious to the cold.

When we finally arrived at our new house, I wasn’t disappointed. My excitement grew when I saw, what appeared to me, a mansion rising out of the wild countryside. Adrenaline pumped my curiosity to explore. The snow had stopped blowing. It was just lightly floating down in clumps.

“We made it!” my mother breathed triumphantly. I could clearly see relief erasing the tension from her face.

“Hurray!” the kids yelled.

“I thought you guys were asleep.” I moaned.

“They should be!” admonished my mother. Then, turning to me, she said, “Take them upstairs and get them to bed. And...” she added, “you, go to bed, yourself.”

“Aww, Mom!” I whined. “Can’t I just look around a little bit, first?”

“It’s past midnight; please do what I asked.” She grabbed up the noise making box to haul off to the kitchen. “Besides, if you have so much energy, you can stay up and help unload!”

I didn’t need a second warning. “Okay, I’ll go to bed.” I conceded. “Come on, you two, let’s go find someplace to sleep.”

“I can put my own self to bed.” Roger muttered.

Entering a large hall leading to the staircase, the three of us “oohed and aahhed” at the beautiful woodwork of stairs and banister.

“This is rich people’s house’” my awestricken little sister cooed.

“Yeah.” Echoed Roger as we climbed the two flights to the next floor. We wanted so badly to explore our new home, but exhaustion overtook us. My father and old brother had leaned the mattresses against the wall, and had already left to go get another load. Roger claimed the room the mattresses were in and pushed the first one to the floor, grabbed a blanket from the box nearby. Wendy and I struggled with another mattress yanking, pulling, pushing and sliding it down the large hall to another room. Little did we know how cold that room would be. We slept in our winter coats with a blanket pulled tightly around us,

I laid awake staring at the bare windows as the frost turned to ice. It wasn't until the next day when my father pointed out that the radiator was turned off. If only we had known!

Green Apple Necklace

Laurie has been producing crocheted items for more than 30 years. To look at her, you would never know she is a grandmother. She still has a few young ones of her own at home and yet, still finds time to put her inspired ideas into reality. Aren't her kids adorable. They look a little mischievous. How she can get any work done? It's a wonder to me. This woman is committed to her craft.

Something catches her eye and triggers her imagination, and suddenly she has another piece of art jewelry ready to rest upon someone's pretty neck.

Just take a look at this piece below. I think she calls it Green Apple. It does look luscious, doesn't it? The detail of the crochet design shows her craftsmanship, or would it be crafts-woman-ship? This piece is so feminine, without being frilly. And the natural theme to it, the leaves combined with green and gold, no wonder she likes to call it Green Apple. I'm sorry she already sold this one, as I sure would like to have it. Well, she takes special orders, so I guess I better let her know.

Young and old, alike seem to be attracted to her work. Men are impressed with the intricacy of her designs. In fact one gentleman ordered jewelry sets for his wife and daughter for a family holiday. The sets included necklace, bracelet and earrings. For the daughter, there was also an anklet.

Did I tell you these are all her own designs, which she has copyrighted? Oops, I forgot. Didn't I? Yes, I'm pushing it, aren't I?

Did I tell you that in the past she has crafted fun-to-wear skirts and shirts, exquisite christening gowns, and would you believe, even crochet swimwear (mostly bikinis). I kid you not! They were all hot items at the boutiques in her area of Southern California. She has been quite diverse in creating wearable art. Wouldn't you say?

I have seen her working on a gothic piece that was purchased by a lovely young orange-haired woman. It was designed in black Marcasite and went well with her style. Laurie is quite diverse in her creativity.