Tag Archives: family

My Rock Star Drum-Playing Sister

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The room was the size of a small gymnasium. The audience grew as the residents were wheeled in by caregivers. The band set up, plugging in cords, playing chords, adjusting levels.  Several clients took delight in the sound check, chirping “check, check” in an unintended call and response.  The pre-concert buzz was nonexistent.  Most folks stared stoically at the wheelchair ahead of them.

The magic was palpable when the music began.  The Front Porch Band–a guitarist named Moon, a drummer, bass player and harmonica/lead singer–plays country, gospel and bluegrass. The set had songs that looked back on better times like Tennessee Waltz and King of the Road and tunes like I’ll Fly Away and Never Grow Old that held a future hope. The lady on my left kept her eyes closed but sang her heart out. A handsome gentleman in front of me repeatedly jabbed his index finger in the air whenever the lyrics resonated with him.  After I’ve Got a Mansion Just Over the Hilltop one white-haired woman pumped the air with fists upraised. Yep, passion still resides in these residents.

I was at this nursing home gig because the drummer/back up singer is my rock star sister-in-law. As she approached sixty, Karyl Lynn wanted to do something. What to do? When she told my brother she had always wanted to play the drums, he encouraged her to pursue her desire. She found a drum teacher in the classifieds, posted a notice on a radio station–Grandma taking drum lessons, needs drum–, installed her new used drum set in the corner of the parlor, next to the grand piano.  A few years later, when The Front Porch Band asked Karyl Lynn’s drum instructor to play in their band, he recommended my sister-in-law.

They play Monday morning gigs at nursing homes. Jim’s song introductions have perfect pitch: straight-forward, moderately upbeat, genuine. When the bass player sang a solo, Jim coached the audience to say, “Good job, Bob.”

Music is magic. It travels up hairline fissures of our emotions and reaches places we had forgotten about. Here are people with cirrhosis of the soul reduced to tears by a familiar tune. The sight of music stirring people moved me. After her first gig, Karyl Lynn said, “While I was fulfilling my dream, I looked into the eyes of people who had lost theirs.” When this gig ended the band members worked the room, shaking hands, looking into eyes, thanking residents for their attention. Playing the drums for an hour sapped the energy from Karyl Lynn, but facing the fatigued and diminished spirits of people was even more draining. Yet in giving folks a respite from their cares, she takes great joy.  

No wonder this new avocation is so satisfying: it provides a challenge, an avenue to explore a new skill, a team to belong to, and the fulfillment of serving others. It makes me immensely proud of my rock star, drum-playing sister.
  

A Fitting Farewell

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Grandson pallbearers.


The honor guard

In a culture where casual is cool, the formal ceremony of military honors is arresting. It is sobering. It is potent.

Every note of Taps, every fold of the flag, every word in the presentation of the flag is crystal clear, separate and distinct, heard and viewed while we all seem to collectively hold our breaths.


I’ve written before about clean grief.

Sorrow can be such a complicated thing. It easily gets muddied with regrets, splattered with the wrong actions of the deceased, splotched with omissions, and speckled with questions.

One of the gifts we can give to those we leave behind is the gift of clean grief. The difference between clean and mucked-up grief is the difference between the cut of a surgeon’s sterilized knife and the puncture of a rusty nail. Both are incredibly painful, both require a time of healing, and both leave scars; but the puncture requires much cleansing in order to avoid infection and heal.
 

It is remarkable how satisfying a good funeral is. Harold’s four sons spoke of their father, noting who he was, what he did, what he loved, how he loved.  They were proud of their dad, privileged to praise his life. When it came down to one phrase, my Uncle Harold’s life was characterized by faithfulness outside the spotlight.

The best funerals are the ones which leave you inspired to imitate the life of the deceased.  We will never know the full extent of my uncle’s generosity, but I asked God to give me Harold’s eyes to see needs and his heart to respond to them.  Although he loved golf and achieved one of his lifetime goals of a hole-in-one during his retirement, his sunset years were focused on serving others until his final days. He wrote letters, corrected correspondence courses, led Bible studies, connected with people. I want to be as other-oriented as my uncle was. 

“Whenever I spend time with extended family, I learn more about myself,” my young cousin Ashlee remarked.  I learned and laughed about my Harper traits: stubbornness, odd frugality, obsessive book acquisitions (I had to force myself to walk away from the boxes of books in the garage) and fondness of ice cream. 

I came to Philadelphia to honor my uncle.  The friendship of my cousins is the only reason I have to return. It is, however, reason enough.   

~       ~     ~

My Uncle Harold was three things to me.

First, he was a bridge.  There was a time when my father and I had a little estrangement thing going.  Communication between us stalled, sputtered and stopped.  Uncle Harold loved both of us and used every opportunity to bridge the gap between us.  He did nothing heroic, but in his quiet way he worked for peace. [A cancer diagnosis was all my father and I needed to reconcile, which we did, thankfully, before he died.]

He was a beacon. Uncle Harold’s faith informed his opinions and decisions. His interest in my spiritual well-being was constant. I loved him for that.

And Uncle Harold was a bonus. The uncle/aunt-nephew/niece relationship is much less complicated than the parent-child relationship.  There are not the same expectations or obligations.  Sometimes it is as simple as “I know he loves me, and I know I love him.”  That’s how it was with my uncle. He was not obliged to come see me.  But he did.  Because he always picked up the tab of a shared meal, it was not until ten or fifteen years ago that I realized that Harold was not rich.  His life enriched mine, and I will always be thankful. 

Wooden Spoons That Make You Sing

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My kids/grandsons gave me a set of wooden spoons for Mother’s Day.
Yay! I love wooden spoons.




  Spoons with style!




Drumsticks on the end!
Hooray!
Now you can stir your Puttanesca sauce,
flip the spoons, and lay down a cadence as
you merrily fling Puttanesca all over your ceiling.



I love my Fred Mix Stix.

Synchronicity, you make make heart beat!
My husband’s words matched the kids’ gift.

Your joy pushes us onward,
expecting and anticipating more blessings up ahead.
Keep singing your song
and telling your story.
We are honored to be included
in your harmony and script.

He’s My Brother

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I have to be careful here, because I have four big brothers. 

And only one makes his presence known online.

But I just switched the header to the blog using one of my brother’s photos of the mountain I can see out my window.  (I’m including the photo in this post, because the header changes with the seasons.)

And I like to brag on my brothers. 

They all have that je nais se quoi, umm, shall we say…focus…on whatever they do.  And a striving to master whatever they put their minds to.

In Dan’s case it is photography. (When it’s not cooking, singing, gardening, theology, or sharpening knives.)

My brother happens to be one of the best photographers I know.  He doesn’t settle for “whatever”.

Lighting.  Lens.  Composition.  And Editing.  Oh, yes.  Do not forget to edit.

So if you’d like to see some really magnificent pictures, go here!  Enjoy!

Love you, Danny!

How2Coupon

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My daughter-in-law, Taryn,
started a coupon blog this year.

It’s taking off!

Why does Taryn coupon?

Two in diapers, a mortgage and one income.
Your formula may look a little different (add a car payment, subtract the diapers), but the common denominators of debt and life’s little necessities remain. By spending less on the toilet paper, toothpaste and tomato soup, you can allocate more toward your debts, whatever they may be. As many couponers before me would agree, financial freedom is the goal.  

I have witnessed a pass through the grocery store with Taryn.

You know how a twenty foot fall-away jump shot 
is poetry in motion?

Taryn’s twenty minute grocery run which yielded $60 savings
was poetry in marketing.
I could only increase my stride, hang on to coupons and
gasp in admiration.

If you want to save money, take a look.

Check out How2Coupon on Facebook.

Guys Reading Books

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There are legends about my father’s office.  Books on every wall, stacks of books covering the floors with only a narrow walkway between the door and the chair.  Forget overstuffed chairs, this was an overstuffed office. The most magnificent thing was Dad’s ability to navigate the chaos!  He could find a book within two minutes.  He’d stare at the ceiling for ten seconds, get up, scan a shelf, and pick out the requested title in nothing flat.

Very occasionally I would happen to be awake before my father left to teach his 7:00 a.m. class. He never exited the house empty-handed. Shoot, he never left the house with just one or two books. I believe that four was the minimum number he carried back and forth. Though he wasn’t what anyone would call athletic he was acrobatic when it came to balancing tottering stacks of books. 

One more Papa John story: at the time of his death, my father had moved into a larger office with more bookshelves than he’d ever before enjoyed.  No books on the floor. We estimated his personal library of books to be around six thousand volumes. Oh boy! that’s a knee-slapper! He double-stacked books; the number was over ten thousand volumes. 

He managed to pass a love of books and of reading down to all seven of his children. Every level of every child’s house has books. He converted many students into bibliophiles. He read books, he recommended books, he gave books.      

No wonder, then, that I find it attractive (and pathologically normal) to see a man reading a book.  Guys have all sorts of interests: cars, guns, gardens, sports, finance, etc.  But let a man initiate book talk and he becomes instantly more handsome. 

My dad died with thousands of books unread.  My dad lived, though, having read thousands of books. His love of the printed word is a heritage and a legacy which I cherish. 

JWH, October 3, 1922 – February 14, 1987

Other February 14 Entries:
Guys Holding Babies
Guys Reciting Poems

Aroma of the Soul

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I’m grateful for a slice of time,
that slippery, elusive commodity,
to be with our kids and their kids.

For Carson,
whose little bum I wiped,
offering me pointers on the art of diapering.

  We take pleasure in watching this man
giving baby-baths and piggy-backs.

For Levi, who at three weeks’ age
has the visage of an octogenarian.
His furrowed forehead seems to say,
“I reserve the right to withhold my opinion
until more data is in.”

For family extended,
our daughter-in-law’s parents,
whose lives are braided with ours
through our mutual grandsons.

Last night they taught us Hand & Foot,
soundly defeating our novice hands
and awakening that competitive urge for a rematch.

The joy of cooking is magnified
in a large kitchen with a common goal:
chopping vegetables,
gathering rosemary,
mixing biscuits,
slipping skin off peaches,
blending pastry,
stirring soup,
watching the pie.

Noah!
We wait for you to wake up,
to hear your happy vocals.
You repeat the sounding joy,
a face tilted back in laughter,
trying out every word you hear;
every word but one,
that ponderous word no.

I bless the day that Taryn entered Carson’s life.
She enriches those around her,
bringing beauty, depth, laughter and grace.
Feet pitter patter,
toys toggle between shelf and floor,
hungry stomachs growl.

Sleep deprivation can’t stifle
the aroma of this home,
 wafting up from contented souls.
The fragrance of good memories remains.

Simple Pleasures of High Summer

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Kids, kidlings, children, chillin’,
whatever you want to call them.
(Only one of these cutie-pies is related to me!)

: :

Flowers, blossoms, buds, flora….color!

The very pink of perfection!

 

: :
Sisters

: :
The sweetest thing in my garden…

 Vegetables are the food of the earth;  fruit seems more the fruit of the heavens.
~  Sepal Felicivant

: :
….and lastly,

the color Aegean Green.
Funny, I don’t love the color but I am gaga over the name of the color.
Aegean Green just makes me smile.

What simple pleasures are you enjoying before summer wanes and mistappears?

Do you have a favorite descriptive color?

Don’t you love to read paint chips for the color names?

It Is a Privilege

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I called my cousin Rebecca when her husband died of cancer.  Her quiet words, spoken ten years ago, are barnacled to my soul: It was a privilege to be his wife.

That’s exactly how I feel after 32 years of marriage.  It is, it was, it continues to be a privilege to be his wife.  Happy Anniversary, my love!




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Why I Love My Sons’ Father

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I’ve mentioned before my husband’s excellence at note writing and his blessings.  Never sappy, never sentimental, sometimes funny, but always thoroughly wonderful.  While I was helping my son cook his own birthday dinner (Bolognese sauce, pasta, focaccia and green salad) Curt sat down and wrote a card.  With permission from both the giver and the recipient, here it is:

Your birthday is always a good day to take some time
   and reflect back over the years.
Remember the blunders and the blessings,
   the sins and obediences, the consequences and mercies.
In all of it, I pray you will see God’s gracious hand and relentless patience.
May you learn to be always thankful and forever fearful.
Actually, the order must go the other way.
Fear God, for He does as He pleases with you.
And thank Him, for He is pleased to do good to you.
Master these two attitudes toward God, and no other idol will master you.
I am privileged to be your father, and I am proud to have you as my son.

Always,

Dad