Tag Archives: family

Dear Mom

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Dear Mom,

We love you. We miss you. We remember you.

Even though we are separated by that grand canyon between mortality and immortality, our love for you continues. You left an enduring imprint on us. We all have ways that embody Nellie Harper. Your kindness is part of each of our DNA. It would be fun to tell you about the kindness of your children, exhibited just this year. That quiet kindness abides in each of your grandchildren, too. It isn’t always evident between siblings (wry grin), but they are kind people.

We all have wishes.

We wish we could honor you, our mom, face to face. As the years accumulate, we see with greater clarity what we owe you. What was a given—your smile, your excellence, your steadfastness, your encouragement—when we were kids, we now know was such an immense gift. You shaped us into who we are. We all would love to ‘praise you in the gates’. To have you hear our gratitude, feel our hugs.

We wish our kids knew you…beyond the stories we tell. Ditto, for the husbands and wives who never met you. They get the trace elements of you through us, but we’d love them to know the real you.

And Mom? We all wish we were more like you. Sometimes that is the grief we silently share, more than missing you. Your wisdom: your sweet, practical wisdom. Your generosity. Your faith. You made such an impact on more than one community. You were extraordinary in such an ordinary way.

We’re getting together for Anne’s wedding soon. A large, unruly, talkative, loud crowd of relatives. It will be a great time.

It always comes round to thanksgiving. The hollow years without you can’t compare to the full years of having you. You filled us up; you fed us; you nurtured us; you made each of us know how special we were to you. The tears have slowed to a tiny trickle. We all get throat-lumpy in May. But it is thanksgiving that we feel in the end. Another of your legacies is the lack of bitterness in your children.

Mom. We love you. We miss you. We remember you.

Carol, for all of us

Guys Singing

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I thought about naming this post Guys Belting, but figured that might be misconstrued.

There is something about men singing that thrills me, that sends currents of electricity crackling through my limbs, a frisson of delight. From my earliest moments I was raised with the sound of guys singing. Though my dad’s income was scant, there was an abundance of books and music in our home. In the chapel of my childhood, we split hymns, e.g. everyone on verses 1 and 2, men only verse 3, women verse 4, all on the last verse.  The men’s verse was always my favorite. There was a potent oomph, a deep well, a pleasing sound when they sang.

Two (among a thousand) things I love about my church: 1) there are no silent men when we sing. Male participation is universal. 2) The guys sing like they have testosterone in them. It is glorious. 

Random guy-singing memories:

• Hearing my seven year old sing as he washed the dishes

• My four brothers singing in a spontaneous quartet at the 1996 Harper reunion.

• Loving the way Garrison Keillor sings. His voice isn’t excellent, but he puts himself into the singing.

• The sound of singing in the shower

• My brother (who sings in the opera) practicing with the volume UP in the garage when he visits us.

• Watching teen-aged boys playing frisbee on the lawn after church, singing as they play

• Hearing my son(s) sing to his baby

• Listening to my grandson sing Come Thou Fount

• Another grandson singing You Are My Sunshine

• My husband singing his seventh grade fight song at a dinner party a few years ago

• Puddling up whenever my brother (pictured above) sings Children of the Heavenly Father

Yesterday, a friend said that her husband likes to belt out How Can I Keep from Singing? My estimation of him jumped up five notches. I like guys that belt it out.

I long to live in a culture, like South Africa or Wales or Estonia, where singing is so deeply woven into daily life, that folks find it impossible not to sing. Can you imagine waiting in line (subway, Costco, at school) with strangers, and everyone joining in a song? Our headphones/ear buds keep us isolated. [Aside: this is why I loathe personal DVDs in the car.] Singing connects us in a powerful way. Aren’t the best times at a party when everyone sings along to the music?

The first man in my life, my dad, was a man who sang. It is he who taught me, by example, how magnificent it is to hear a man sing. If I were evaluating a potential husband, he would be, among other things, a guy who holds babies, a guy who appreciates poetry, a guy who reads, and a guy who sings.

Thank you, Dad.

JWH, October 3, 1922 – February 14, 1987


I need your help. I’m collecting a list of (clean) movies that have a group of guys singing. I thought of The Hunt for Red October, O Brother, Where Art Thou and How Green Was My Valley. The singing in the trailer for The Hobbit gave me goosebumps. Can you recommend others?  Do you have memories of guys singing?

 

 

Tortilla Soup and Arrachera

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This recipe was both my first and last taste of Chicago on my visit in October.
Yum!

It’s Emeril’s recipe.

My niece substitutes tortilla chips for the homemade corn tortillas.

Good with several squirts of lime.

We also had arrachera (grilled skirt steak marinated with onion, cilantro and lime).

 

 

 If only you could smell this photo.
In California, we’ve eaten virtually the same thing, but it was called Carne Asada.

Can anyone explain the difference between Asada and Arrechera?

::  an aside ::
It is on my Bucket List to learn to make refried beans as good as
the Mexican restaurants. I’ve tried, I’ve fiddled, I’ve cooked many
a pinto bean. But, man, it’s never the perfect consistency.
Any suggestions on making the perfect refried beans?
:: close aside ::

I did learn a fun tip. You probably already know it.
But I don’t get the Food Channel.
So new discoveries are still mine to make!
To warm a tortilla, just do this:

 

I took more pictures of cute kids who share bloodlines with me.

A boy absorbed in a book—yeah, we’re related.

This smile makes my heart thump. Those eyes!

Curls! Sweetness!

 

Compare young man (half Mexican, half mostly Dutch) on left
with picture of me (mongrel English/Dutch) on the right.
Isn’t that something?

This girl has the name I chose, but never got to use.
She’s a keeper!

Family and food.
The perfect recipe for a memorable trip.

♥

A Mario Moment

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When the wind is fierce and furious after the rain has drenched the earth, root systems give way.  This happened the weekend of my son’s wedding near Seattle. Towering trees toppled like toothpicks. A wide swath of cities lost electricity. At the last minute we changed the venue of the wedding, of the rehearsal, of the lodging…and informed all the guests. Without electricity! Flights were cancelled, motels were dark, fuel was scarce, it was a mess. My siblings and I took refuge at The Moore hotel in downtown Seattle. This photo (my sister Margaret is missing) documents our stay.

The morning of the (evening) wedding, we had a parenthetical block of time to spend together. We strolled down to Pike Place Market. It remains, five years later, one of my favorite memories. After 48 hours of adrenaline overload, we relaxed, laughed at the fishmongers tossing salmon across the way, sampled scrumptious food, admired the amazing produce and flowers. We divided into clusters as we browsed the market.

Suddenly, my sister-in-law Val appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my hand, and yanked. That it was urgent for me to follow her was apparent; why was a mystery. No time for words, but pulsing with excitement, we dodged other shoppers, threaded our way around obstacles, ran up stairs, careened across the promenade and skidded to a stop. I looked around.

Business was slow in this section, nothing obvious met my eye. Simultaneously confused and apologetic, I looked at Valeri for a clue. She discreetly nodded to her left. I followed her gaze. There was nothing to see! Well, there was one customer paying for a purchase, one vendor accepting payment, and a whole lot of counter space. The customer was just an ordinary Joe: orange crocs, baggy pajama pants, red hair in a ponytail, and a down vest which expanded his already expansive chest. Panting for breath, I searched the room, trying to see.

Next thing I know, Valeri is approaching the guy, puts her hand on his arm. He glances at her. “Thank you. Thank you for your work. I appreciate it immensely.” He mumbles a reply, we turn and walk away. As soon as we got out of sight, I turned on Val. “What was that about?” The ordinary Joe we saw was a world famous chef with a TV show of his own and a restaurant in New York. I don’t get the Food Channel, so the magnificence of the meeting was lost on me.

This summer Valeri and I were visiting.

“Oh, Valeri, you won’t believe the mileage I’ve gotten out of the time we were in Pike Place Market and saw Emeril. I’ve told that story to every foodie I know.”

“Mario,” she corrected. “It was Mario. Mario Batali.”

My Second Son

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What about second sons?

When they figure out their older brother has secured the patent on proper, compliant behavior (or, shall we say, the appearance of proper, compliant behavior), they know—by instinct it seems—that to gain a purchase in the attention-grabbing game they will have to be creative. There is a gleam/spark in a second son’s eye, a certain kind of jaunty grin on a second son’s face. I saw that grin on Prince Harry’s face during the Royal wedding. Yeah! That grin! I think the jockeying for position gives second sons dexterity, elasticity, jocularity.

You, Carson, my beloved son, are a second son.

I wish now that I had been given a manual tucked into the swaddling clothes when they laid you in my arms.  “This one is different. You need to be different with this one.”  That I didn’t adapt my parenting, that I didn’t change is my regret. And, shame, I can’t get a do-over, can I? silly

You come from some solid second-son stock. Grandpa, whom you resemble, is a second son. Your Uncle Scott, part of the SS Society, was always rooting for you, sort of a co-belligerent against your dad. He would boom, “I understand that boy!” 

And now your nephew. The one whose mom called you up and asked, “How did I get your son?”  Oh my, how we delight in that kiddo. It is pure fun to recognize his personality as it emerges. We know Preston; we can predict what he will do, the looks he will give, the shrugs, the determination, the focus. Because he is you.  And—glory!—you now have your own little Levi, that boy who knows what he wants and can’t sit still. 

You probably don’t know that your other grandpa, my dad, was also a second son. I hear he gave his mom a run for her money. Especially since his dad was gone all the time. Here’s one story: he spouted off in the car and his mom responded, “Johnny, we are going to stop for ice cream cones, but you will not be having any.”  As they continued driving, they almost passed the Red Robin. Little Johnny piped up, “Oh Mother! Do make sure you stop for ice cream for everyone else!”

God surely likes second sons. That would be an interesting study, wouldn’t it? Isaac, Jacob, Ephraim, Solomon.

It is a mercy that our troubles are behind us. That I can look at our differences with wonder and delight. That you can see our similarities…and smile. That we love each other and love to hang out with each other. That your dad enjoys you immensely. We like to talk about you, you know.

Oh my son, you are truly blessed.

What I see in you are the same characteristics you had as a lad. Back then, your stubbornness was frustrating; now it looks more like persistence. Back when I disciplined the Stoic you, nothing made you flinch. Or blink.  But a few weeks ago, you allowed yourself one yelp when you hurt your hand, and then determined to not make another peep about the pain.

You notice details.

You like systems.

You don’t complain.

You are generous.

You take risks.

You are fun to be with.

You take charge of your sons.

You bring flowers to your wife.

And life is so full of surprises.  You—the kid whom I had to force to read a book—regularly read to your son.

Happy Birthday, Carson. I love you more than all the books in the world.

 

Kindle for Toddlers

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Remember those beginning biology experiments? The ones in which the outcome is a foregone conclusion, but you have to follow the steps of the experiment, write it up and turn it in? 

I tried one of those last night. Not biology, but an experiment reading to a toddler from my Kindle.  All the time I had Dan Newman’s quote, “Maybe I’m a Luddite because I feel sorry for children who read “Goodnight Moon” on a phone.” in my head.  Knowing this would fail, I asked my 2 1/2 year old grandson, Noah, if I could read him a book.  Reading is a daily delight in his life and he readily acquiesced.

I picked up my Kindle, slid the power on, and pressed buttons. Thanks to Janet, I had Thornton Burgess’s Bird Book for Children on my Kindle. We started with Jenny Wren Arrives. Happily the first character is Peter Rabbit. Yay for familiarity!  But Noah is a mimic and if Nana pushed buttons, he wanted to push buttons too.  A book with buttons that he wasn’t allowed to push, pull, tap, or pound just made no sense.

The next hurdle was the lack of pictures.  In order to compensate for the visual wasteland, I tried to capitalize on the oral/aural parts.  I had Noah repeat “tut, tut, tut, tut, tut”; I gave “Jenny Wren” a Southern drawl, and had him say “JAY-nee RAY-in” after me each time the name came up. This morning when Noah woke, we continued the tuts and JennyWren’s.

But we only made it through four Kindle pages before I surrendered. Noah’s mom said she saw glimpses of cheerful panic in his eyes. We replaced the Kindle with picture books and all was well, again.

I could envision this working in perhaps four years with a bird coloring book and crayons.

Reading to a toddler with a Kindle.  Fail!  But I’d like to believe it wasn’t an epic fail. 

SatReviewbutton

Mom Remembers

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Chris holding Ethan

It’s your birthday, Hoffer.  This is the age that everyone wants to be: eternally 29!  It feels like this is the last year of your youth. Next year, I’ll have a middle-aged son.  Which is a good thing! I’ve been reviewing the sweet and savory flavors of your journey. Here are some bits:

::  Your dad refused to let me name you Christopher Robin, assuring me that you would not appreciate being named after Pooh’s best friend.  As usual, he was right.

::  I walked you to school your first day of first grade at Central. It was so momentous to me…such a watershed. You took it all in stride. A photo of you, sitting at your desk in red-and-white striped shirt, made the front page of The Observer.

::  I drove you to school your first day of second grade at Heidi Ho. You balked. Refused to enter the classroom. Stunned me.  My compliant child had the ability to rebel!

::  Back at Central for third grade, there was The Day you grew up. No more goodbye kisses. When I dropped you off, your classmates were loitering on the sidewalk. You leaned left towards me, pivoted right toward your friends, looked back at me, paused, did a vague hand motion, mumbled “Bye…”, and opened the car door.  That goodbye ballet is seared in my memory.

::  The out of the blue jolt you will NEVER live down.  I’d like to think I forgave you the instant you realized the thrust you gave me. “Mom, if you and Dad ever get divorced, can I live with Dad?”

::  The time I yelled, “Strike him out, Chris! You’ve done it before; do it again!”  You informed me later that you had never struck that batter out. My over-the-top baseball mom-ness embarrasses me now.

::  How you drove a truck across the mountain one of your first days working at RD Mac. People tended to assume you were older and gave you responsibilities. And you have carried them faithfully.

::  The horror you expressed at how close you came to saying “whom did you want?” at baseball practice.  I would have never lived it down. You caught yourself in time, and, I believe, have never used whom since.  I was an obnoxious Grammar Sheriff, wasn’t I?

::  The day I penciled out how buying a house was a good investment. You embraced the idea; within two years you were a homeowner. Never thought it would take so long to sell your investment, huh?!

::  The night you asked Jessie to be your wife.  Why, oh why, did I have to be in Portland? But I loved the phone call, the smiles I could hear, the joy. Her love for you is such a gift.

::  The tears you wiped after Preston’s birth reminded me of the tears your dad wiped when he looked down at your newborn face. Tenderness over babies is great grace.

::  The Wild Cow Race this Fourth of July.  You in the rodeo? Seriously? After the chutes opened, I don’t think I breathed for three minutes.

Happy Birthday, dear boy.  Your broad shoulders are capable. It’s been so much fun watching you grow up.

Love,  Mom

My South African Aunt

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My Aunt Betty [7/16/1926 – 7/23/2011] and her son Jean Blaise

Although I had never seen her, the knowledge that I had an aunt living in South Africa was both delicious and thrilling to my young heart.  I fingered the African curios on the bookshelf by the piano: woven baskets, a small carved ivory tusk, a wooden giraffe.  My favorite doll was an African baby with tight black curls and beaded skirts.

I would sit in the kitchen and quiz my mom on the family tree: going through aunts, uncles and cousins and fitting them, like puzzle pieces, in their proper place.  There was a secret satisfaction when we came to Aunt Betty and Aunt Ruthie. I felt a connection to these foreign aunts because I had been given their names, Carol from Elizabeth Carolyn and Ruth from Ruth Ethel.

 ::     ::     ::

After I grew up and married, Aunt Betty visited us in California. She was aghast at the extravagant size of our mugs and glasses. “Everything here is SO BIG!” she exclaimed.  When we shopped for groceries she informed me how many rands it would take to purchase each item, a bit of information that baffled me.

One night she suggested we drink coffee.

“We aren’t coffee drinkers, Aunt Betty, but I’d be glad to make you a cup.”

“Why don’t you drink coffee?” she inquired.

“We just don’t like the taste.” (We didn’t back then!)

“Let me make the coffee and I promise you will like it!” She warmed a small pan of milk, mixed in a cup of sugar and added instant coffee.  And so we enjoyed our first latte.

 ::     ::     ::

Several years later, she again paid us a visit. Aunt Betty helped me plant my garden, dispensing folk wisdom for better tomatoes and healthy vegetables. She gave me a cloth bib she had sewn with an African print…and I continue to use it on my grandsons.

One afternoon my young son, on his own initiative, climbed up on Aunt Betty’s lap and snuggled into her. She almost came undone with surprise and delight.That hour of rocking him, holding him close, giving and accepting affection,was a highlight of her visit.

 ::     ::     ::

Like all of us, Betty hadconflicting desires. She was a study in contrasts:

    ~ compassionate and yet critical

   ~ exotic and yet proper

   ~ generous and yet demanding

   ~ confident and yet insecure

   ~ stubborn and yet charming

   ~ connected and yet lonely

::     ::    ::

A good way to know a woman is to notice what she loves.  Aunt Betty loved the Lord Jesus, she loved being connected with family, she loved good food, sewing, gardening, old hymns, telephone calls, getting a bargain, dressing well and her beloved South Africa.

She dearly loved Jean Blaise. Many phone calls were filled with stories about “her son” and how pleased she was with him. “He calls me Mum,” she said. Jean Blaise gave her a focus; helping him was the crowning achievement of her life. Through Betty’s love and generosity, I now have a cousin/brother in South Africa. Through Aunt Betty and now through Jean Blaise, I will always be connected to South Africa.