Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, despite one of my Thanksgivings being one of the worst days of my life.

I love Thanksgiving because it's simply about being together and being grateful and sharing food. No gifts. Sharing a meal together is such a powerful thing, and a Thanksgiving meal is a great representation of that power. In addition, many studies over the past decade have found that people who consciously count their blessings tend to be happier and less depressed. Deliberate gratitude shifts one’s attention away from toxic emotions, such as resentment and envy

I have had wonderful Thanksgiving meals with friends and wonderful Thanksgiving meals with people I didn't know that well, who took pity on me for being so far from my family. I celebrated Thanksgiving in Germany with American friends, even daring to cook an entire Thanksgiving meal for my French friends (they loved my homemade stuffing). I have spent just one Thanksgiving alone: somehow, I didn't get any invites to a dinner, and too embarrassed to invite myself, I just cooked myself a little meal at home and watched movies all day with my dogs. It actually wasn't half bad...

The bad Thanksgiving day, I think in 1986, featured a lovely Thanksgiving meal and a stress-free gathering I hadn't enjoyed with my family in years. It was one of the last hosted at my paternal grandmother, before she got too old to put it together and, instead, started attending my mother's side of the family's celebration. It was the only family Thanksgiving dinner I ever went to that my father didn't come to at all.

He had said he wasn't coming, and I was glad: no drunk, sullen Dad, sitting there, listening to everyone talking, convincing himself that every comment was meant somehow to insult him, that every gesture by my grandmother was somehow her making fun of him. What he saw at family gatherings and what the reality was could not have been farther apart. Not having him at Thanksgiving that year took enormous pressure off the event. I felt like we were all laughing a bit more, we were all more at ease, we knew the 500-pound gorilla was not going to be sitting in the room, waiting to explode later at my Mom's. He was living in his own apartment, and I had no plans to see him at all while I was at my Mom's - I was done with ugly drunken encounters, encounters that were getting more and more menacing.

After the meal, sitting in my Mom's living room, intending to spend the rest of the weekend with her before I returned to college, I commented, "I'm sorry to say this, Mom, but this really has been the best Thanksgiving I've had in a very long time." She agreed. We went back to watching our movie.

Then the phone started ringing.

When she would answer, there was silence. It was Dad. He wouldn't speak at all. He did this a lot with her. She would sit there for a while, then say, "I'm going to hang up now." A few minutes later, the phone would ring again, and she'd answer again, and just sit there, and after a while, hang up.

Then the phone stopped ringing.

Then came the banging at the door.

A lunge at me, me running, my Mom getting pummeled, my frantic phone call to the police, and the police arriving, talking to him more than us, and then allowing him to drive back to his apartment - obviously drunk. No arrest. My Mom and I packed up my things and jumped in her car and drove to Owensboro, where we stayed in a hotel and she put ice on her swelling face. She drove me on to university the next morning and returned to her home. I called to check on her, but she refused to talk about what happened that night. This incident hasn't really been discussed since.

A year later, Dad got sober. About a decade later, Dad killed himself. He ever dealt with his profound anger and paranoia. To his dying day, he still thought every comment was meant somehow to insult him, that every gesture somehow made fun of him or referred to some weakness he felt he had. It was only in reading his suicide note that I knew just how full of resentment he still was.

I don't know why I didn't let this incident define Thanksgiving for me, why I refused to associate Thanksgiving with such an ugly, dangerous incident of domestic violence. I was determined to keep Thanksgiving something special for me. Staying away from Kentucky for a few years and being in control of my own celebration helped greatly with that. I worked to make sure Thanksgiving quickly again became something I looked forward to every year.

It's 2019, and another Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I've had a lovely time.

But I'm also not sure why I have been thinking about this incident so much this year. It's usually just a blip in my brain, one I move on from in a sea of food preparation and eating and time with my husband and memories of far more good Thanksgiving. Since it's come up, since I've been thinking about it, I decided to write about it. I'm writing about it because I want to remind anyone who might read this that you really can make a holiday your own, you can make any day your own, you really are in control of how you think about your past, and you really can celebrate any special event - and every day - anyway YOU want to.

I hope you have a lovely Thanksgiving and will have many more to come.

Missing Gray Max

Early on, when Gray Max came into my life, I started singing him my own version of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean:

My Gray Max sails over the ocean.
My Gray Max sails over the sea.
My Gray Max sails over the ocean.
Oh bring back my Gray Max to me...

He loved to be held and petted while I sang that over and over. And I was happy to oblige.

Sometime between 10:30 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. on Tuesday, October 30, my beloved Gray Max went missing. When I went outside to feed him that cold and wet afternoon and called and called and he didn't come, I knew he was gone. Because Max always comes when I call, and on a day like that, he wouldn't be far. Even if he was at my neighbors, on the porch, with his buddy, my neighbor's cat, Trouble - they liked to hang out - he always came when called.

The rain and cold continued as night fell, and my dread continued. I held out hope that he'd somehow show up that evening, but he didn't. When I got up Halloween morning, I went to the backdoor immediately - and he wasn't there, those glowing eyes looking through the back window, waiting for me to let him in.

It's been 37 days. I miss him so much it's unbearable at times. But I don't think my Gray Max is coming back.

So many of you already know the story: we moved into our home in January 2013 and sometime after that, sitting outside in our backyard, enjoying a fire in the firepit, Stefan said, "We have a visitor." There, a few feet from where we were sitting, was Gray Max, sitting still, listening to us. After some cajoling sweet talk from me, he came over for some petting. The next visit, probably the next night, I dared to pick him up, and after that, he was happy to jump on my lap.

I assumed he belonged to some neighbor nearby: he looked well fed, he was fixed and he loved being with people. But it turned out he was being taken care of by a crazy neighbor who fed and housed six other cats - she said he'd shown up one day and never left, but that he never seemed interested in hanging out with her, though he tolerated all the cats and her two dogs. He sure loved hanging out with me.

She called him "Max." I called him "Not my cat," because Stefan and I had an agreement when we got married: no cats. For the next 20 months or so, I kept saying he was "Not my cat," though I called him "Gray Max" - I just thought that suited him more. And very quickly after that I started calling him "Graaaaay", and when I did, he would come running to me. I didn't feed him, but he loved being with me. And since our dog at the time, Albi, was blind, she couldn't see him to chase him, so we would all hang out together - Gray Max tolerated most dogs.

Gray Max hung out with me in the yard always when I gardened. I violated the house rules and let him come in on my lap in the afternoons. When it got colder, I would close him up for the night in the guest room. When he got ripped open by a raccoon, I paid the bill to get him fixed up, but his "real" owner, the crazy neighbor, kept him housed up in her apartment for recovery. He wouldn't let her pick him up, and even bit her once when she tried - but he loved when I picked him up and kissed his face over and over.

Two days before we put Albi down, I gave her a bath - I didn't want her to smell like pee for her last days on Earth - and we lay in the yard outside together in the sun. Gray Max joined us.

After Albi died, I went for nine months without a dog. I haven't gone without a dog since I was 24 years old. Gray Max was my dog. He followed me all over the house and all over the yard - all before I ever started feeding him. At one point, a raccoon did some serious damage to him, and I laid out a few hundred dollars to get him sewn up. My crazy neighbor kept him inside during his recovery, much to his outrage and frustration. He healed up nicely - and it was just another reason for him to dislike her and like me more.

Then, in October 2014, my neighbor died. I had to find homes for her cats and her two dogs. But I knew I was going to take Gray Max. I couldn't bear the idea of someone else having him nor the idea of not having him in my life. He was a part of my home - and I spend a great deal of time in this house. I just couldn't imagine this home without him.

I got a discarded dog crate for airline travel and converted it into a cat house for the winter. Gray Max often preferred to be outside, even overnight, and he immediately loved the house. I asked Stefan to build cat ladders on both sides of our backyard fence, and he did. Then I asked him to build a platform for the cat crate, so Gray Max could be well off the ground, but his crate wouldn't take up any space on the porch and would still be under the roof, and he did.

Here's a blog I wrote months ago, but never got around to publishing:

The dog and cat dynamics of my house.

Inside in the morning, before meals: if the Gray Max the Cat comes in from outside, Lucinda the Dog does this sniffy, chewy thing on his head, and he loves it. He pushes his head up against her mouth for more.

If I lay down on the couch, Max sleeps on my belly. Lucy sleeps on her bed in the living room or comes over to the couch so I'll pet her. More head chewing if Max leans over.

If Stefan's radio alarm goes off, Lucy begins bouncing around the living room and making a noise like an excited Chewbacca. Max used to panic and hide behind the couch, but now he just stands there, waiting for me to come back and feed him.

Inside in the morning, after meals: if I'm in the floor, petting Lucinda, she will carefully maneuver so that she is in front of me, partially on my lap, so that she can see Max if he approaches and push him away with a paw. Max will circle us both, sometimes getting close enough to give my hand or Lucy a lick. If he licks Lucy in the same direction as her fur, he'll give her several licks. If he licks Lucy against her fur, he will jump back as though he's licked a needle.

Inside in the evenings, after meals: Gray Max lays on my lap as I sit on the couch. Lucy comes over and positions herself in front of me so as to say, "Pet my bum." Sometimes, Max puts his paw out and places it on her rump for a few seconds. No attempt at head chewing - in fact, Max meows great annoyance at her.

When both animals are outside: if Max has just gone outside, and Lucy rushes out or is already outside, she will tear after him and he will dash up the fence and away from her as quickly as possible. If Lucy is already outside and Max gets over the fence and onto the porch, he'll stand right at the door and she will stand out in the yard and bark - she won't come near him.

And sometimes, Max will walk across the living room and Lucy will try to play and Max will meow great annoyance while continuing to walk wherever he is going.

I have always wanted a dog and a cat.

Of course, I have also wanted a donkey, goats, and chickens. But I knew the farm animals were probably NOT going to happen for me - and now, unless we win the lottery and get to buy a ranch, it's not happening.

But I do I have a dog and a cat.

In the last several months, more and more, Max would stay indoors as day ended, laying on my lap most evenings, content while I watched TV. He snuck into the bedroom a few times, but I'd put him outside when I found him and he quickly got the message - no bedroom.

And Stefan didn't divorce me, though it frustrated him so, so much to have a cat in the house.  He barely tolerated it all because he knew how much I loved Gray Max.

When we adopted Lucinda, I was determined for her to at least tolerate Gray Max, and vice versa. Gray Max had lived in a home with two dogs with my neighbor, so I knew it was possible. I brought Max into the house with Lucy after we'd had her for a week and then just sat on the couch while Max howled at the back door and Lucy lay alert in the floor, staring at him. It took about two hours for the howling to stop and for Max to finally wander over to the couch and sit on my lap. But within just a couple of days, they were fine together in the house. It took about two years for Lucy to stop chasing Max in the backyard, however, and she still loved to just start barking her head off at him when they were both out there - he would just lay wherever he was and wait for me to come tell her to stop. They did sometimes sleep together - in the floor of the living room or out in the backyard. I loved finding them next to each other. I even found Gray Max in Lucinda's bed a few times - she really didn't know what to think about that.

In the last two years, I had to make sure Gray Max was in the house when I walked Lucy because, otherwise, he'd follow us. Stefan once realized he was with them four blocks away. Max was obsessed with following Lucy outside the house (but never inside). If he stayed out all night, then when I let him in in the mornings, he would happily tolerate Lucy's morning sniffs and nibbles all over his face. They were buddies, no question. And I loved it. I had wanted a dog and a cat, at the same time, since I was a little girl. It was a dream come true.

Gray Max was around 6 or 7 years old when he came into my life in 2013. Earlier this year, I took him to the vet for his annual shots and because he had so obviously lost weight - a few people had commented on it. The vet did tests and said he was absolutely fine but to switch him to wet food entirely. I did, and he gained weight and seemed absolutely his usual self. You could tell he was 11 or more years old - his sides were sunken in that old man way - but otherwise, he was fine: great appetite, still active, still liked to play a bit.

There were only two things that I wondered about: firstly, he suddenly decided he hated all dogs that dared to walk by our house, moving in to attack as they approached. I often had to pick him up and hold him as dogs passed. The other thing was that he started trying to sleep in my bed again. We started catching him again in the bedroom - always on my side, snuggled down, looking so content - it concerned me because it meant he preferred being in dark and quiet more than being on my lap, and I thought that might be a sign of... oh, I dunno... something... but I still don't think he slunk off and died. He wasn't sick. He was in fine form and spirits and appetite. I had been thinking of a way to make him an entirely indoor cat, but two things were stopping me: there was nowhere Stefan would tolerate a litter box, and Max loved being outside. He absolutely loved it. And since he never went far without Lucy, I thought we could go with this lifestyle for at least a couple of more years.

But Gray Max is gone now. The day after he disappeared, I walked along all the surrounding streets to make sure he wasn't on the side of one, hit by a car. I've posted flyers all over the neighborhood. I've posted online. I've registered with the local animal shelter's lost and found. But Gray Max has not been found.

My guess is that another animal got him - a raccoon or even a coyote. I just wish we could have found the body. And I hate the idea of him dying somewhere, alone, cold and in pain.

I miss Gray Max on my lap, or snuggled up against me on the couch. Or next to me in the yard. I miss his howl of demand to open the door to go out or come in. I miss his look of frustrated as Lucinda stood over him barking. I miss him beyond anything I can put into words. I think Lucinda misses him too.

No entitlements to careers, including ranching

I believe in entitlements, like access to health care, to non-exploitative job opportunities that pay at least a living wage, to safe, clean housing, to a safe, secure environment, and to nutritious food.

But I don't believe in entitlements to careers. No one is entitled to any career. You are not entitled to be a professional actor. Or a software developer. Or an aid worker. Or a banker. Or a journalist. Or a doctor. Or a tobacco farmer. Or a rancher. Or a coal miner. You can want to do those things, you can train to do those things, you can try to do those things, but you aren't entitled to make your career from any of those things, not in the USA.

My heart breaks when someone suddenly loses their job, particularly when it's the only job they've ever had and/or the loss is unexpected. When someone has a job, and financial security and peace of mind for the future this week, and then loses it the very next week - that's awful. Those people really struggle. You cannot plan for absolutely every scenario, and a lot of people do not see coming the closing of their office or the move of a company - it's a jarring, horrific surprise. They deserve sympathy and support.

But there are other people who whine about their loss of livelihoods that I don't have as much sympathy for.

I'm from Kentucky. When I was a kid, coal mining, horse racing and tobacco farming were dominant industries. My hometown, then less than 25,000 people, had TWO horse racing tracks, one for thoroughbred racing, one harness racing. My grandfather had been an underground coal miner before I was born, I could easily recognize a strip mine - and a site that had been stripped mine - before I was in double digits. And I knew a tobacco barn as soon as I saw one as well, despite no immediate family members that were farmers.

But I also knew, before I was a teenager, that these were three dying industries. The messaging and signs were everywhere. Yet, here I am, almost 50, and I hear people back in Kentucky decrying the demise of "their" industries. "I'm a fourth-generation coal miner! It's all I've ever done! This town was built by the coal mines!" is the kind of refrain I'll often hear when I'm back in Kentucky. And all I can think is - didn't you get the message? I did, more than 35 years ago. You've had an incredibly long amount of time to train for and pursue something new, to redefine yourself professionally and your community economically - why didn't you?

This is on my mind here in Oregon, as I hear people in Eastern Oregon outraged over the transition of ranchland, mining fields and timber lands to wildlife refuges and other pursuits that preserve land and water and history. Mining, for gold, mercury and a few other minerals in Eastern Oregon - from the early 1900’s to the 1930’s, cinnabar mining was king around Prineville, Oregon (mercury was extracted to use in silver and gold mining industries) - is in decline, though it does continue, as does the clean up from dangerous chemical contamination in lands and water. Lack of profitability and environmental laws against dredging and other destructive practices have closed many mines. Oregon remains the number one lumber producer in the U.S., but the industry, and many logging towns, are furious that logging on federal lands is now severely restricted. Ranchers ignore that consumption of meat in the USA, especially red meat, including beef, is in a serious, sustained, long-term decline and demand, though away from the public eye, to continue to receive a range of hefty government cash benefits to keep their dying industry afloat: the US government charges 93 percent less for cattle grazing than private landowners. As of 2014, grazing fees only accounted for 15 percent of the total cost incurred for the Bureau of Land Management to manage land for cattle grazing - the other 85 percent comes from we, the taxpayers. In Nevada, home of the Bundy family (yes, the same one the leader of the armed group in Oregon is from), 80 percent of the state’s land is owned by the federal government. But ranchers get to lease that land for their own private businesses at a huge discount. According to an investigation by The Atlantic, the lease discount program cost taxpayers anywhere from $52 million a year to $200 million, when accounting for all of the administrative overhead involved in managing the program. If the armed men in Eastern Oregon really wanted the “independence” from government they whine about, their businesses would be underwater.

National wildlife refuges pumped $2.4 billion into the economy, employed more than 35,000 people and produced $792.7 million in job income for local communities in Fiscal Year 2011. A 2012 study by North Carolina State University researchers for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service found that metro-area homes near wildlife refuges are worth far more than those farther away from these havens. From 2006-2011, over 46 million people visited the National Wildlife Refuge System generating a total of $2.4 billion in economic output. Considering that every $1 of investment in the refuge system yields around $5 for the economy, national wildlife refuges are among our most economically productive national investments. Every year, millions of bird watchers, hikers, hunters, fishermen, and outdoor enthusiasts visit the National Wildlife Refuge System. No question: wildlife refuges are, in fact, SUSTAINABLE economic engines for local communities.

Having one big industry dominating the economy of a town does not work - not forever. Times change. It's also an epic challenge to transition from one industry to something that's prosperous and more diverse, yet, Ashland, Newport, Hood River, Astoria and Bend in Oregon show that it is possible. It took those cities decades of planning and work to do it, however. They saw the writing on the wall, and they did something about it.

I got a B.A. in journalism, and by the time I graduated from university, I already had professional experience as a journalist - but I decided it wasn't what I really wanted to do, and I took my career in another direction. Within a decade of leaving newspapers, some of my fellow journalism graduates had also left, seeing the writing on the wall with the growing popularity of the Internet and free avenues for news. They anticipated, they retrained, they re-directed, and they are all now employed in other industries. That's what you do in the USA when you realize your career choice is going nowhere. Times change. No one is entitled to any career - not miners, not ranchers, not farmers, not journalists, not you.

The armed ranchers and other armed people currently occupying the Malheur National Wildlife Refugee are costing that community thousands of dollars in tourist dollars, and contributing to a reputation that Oregon does NOT need - one that will keep tourists, and their money, away even after the occupation ends. They need to get out, go home, and rethink their career choices - if your industry is dying, it's time to pursue something else.

Jan 12 Addendum: In this editorial, a rancher whines about dreaming as a kid to be a rancher, about wanting to "work on the land," about saving money to start his own business, about realizing his dream but how the evil government - specifically, the President - is ruining his livelihood with rules and regulations. "Most of the time, those regulations are written by people with no agriculture experience, and little understanding of what it takes to produce our nation’s food. The agencies that control these lands can add burdensome regulations at any time. Often, they will begin aggressively enforcing them before ranchers have a chance to adjust."

Imagine a teacher had written exactly the same thing during the Bush administration, about dreaming as a kid to be a teacher, about wanting to teach children, about taking out loans and saving money to go through the government-mandated training and certification to become a teacher, but how the evil government is ruining her livelihood with rules and regulations. "Most of the time, those regulations are written by people with no education experience, and little understanding of what it takes to prepare our young people for the future. The agencies that control of public schools and funding can add burdensome regulations at any time. Often, they will begin aggressively enforcing them before teachers have a chance to adjust." People would have screamed about what a whiney person she is, how if she can't deal with the changes, she needs to get out of teaching, and on and on.

This is what is known as a double standard. Look it up.

Some thoughts on Thanksgiving 2014

I have had so many memorable Thanksgiving Days. So many. 

Before I met Stefan, and since leaving Henderson, Kentucky, I’ve spent only one Thanksgiving by myself - otherwise, I’ve always gotten invitations. It’s hard to pick the most memorable Thanksgiving. There's the one with my colleague and her entire Mexican American Family in San Jose, California, where her girlfriend was welcomed, but her brother, and his boyfriend, were not. Or the horrible one with an ex-boyfriend’s friend’s racist family in Austin, Texas, just after I'd moved there. Or the one I prepared for my French colleagues in Germany, where I made homemade stuffing for the first and only time in my life (they loved it). Or the one with a co-worker, when her husband presented the turkey on the table, skinless, and she and I staged open rebellion, demanding said skin for immediate devouring, which we did, as he told us again and again how unhealthy it was. Or the one where a co-worker and her then-boyfriend (now husband) and I gorged ourselves while watching Prick Up Your Ears and The Lion in Winter, the latter of which should be shown every Thanksgiving on TCM, truly. Or the one with Sharron Rush’s delightful family in Texas. Or the one at Carrie’s. Or the one at Lis’s. I could go on and on…

I once spent Thanksgiving with Anne Marino, hosted at the house of her sister’s husband’s sister. Anne has been on my mind a lot lately. I miss her terribly. Even as she faced death, she remained graceful, Bohemian, sassy - ANNE. As I sat with her that last time, I was angry at myself for not making more of an effort to get to the San Francisco Bay area since I moved back to the USA - and I vowed I would stop hesitating about traveling in the USA. I don’t have a lot of money, but I have enough to make traveling to visit certain friends and family a priority. I said “yes” this year way more than I said “no” regarding travel this year, and I’m so glad I did. And every time, I think of Anne.  

At some point in my 20s or so - I'm not sure when - Thanksgiving in my family started being hosted at my Aunt Charla's house. I didn't spend many Thanksgivings there, as I moved away from Kentucky when I was 22, but I so appreciated that my paternal grandmother was always invited - my Aunt is my mom's sister, but like me, she has big ideas about what "family" is. Either that, or they really did invite Mamaw only because of her awesome creamed corn. 

Thanksgiving is a difficult holiday for me now, because in 1995, my Dad called me and suggested he fly out to California and spend it with me. And though I would have really liked that, and said so, over and over again, I’d already made plans to be in So Cal for Thanksgiving. It was the last time I talked to him. What I didn’t know was that it was a part of his goodbye tour - he’d wanted to come to say goodbye before he killed himself the following February. Thanksgiving has never been quite the same for me since then. It’s still my favorite holiday, but I always remember that phone call, a mix of love and manipulation. 

There’s so much I’m grateful for this year, but I’ll save that for my blog just before New Year’s Eve. I will say that I’m grateful for my friends and family - clichéd as it sounds, they are awesome and I celebrate them all in my life, more than they know. I'm particularly grateful for the relationship I have with my sister - I was afraid, after Mamaw died, I'd feel less a part of the family. She's ensured that never happens. 

Thanksgiving is about food and being together - no presents, no shopping, just being together, with people, whether family, close friends, or just people you think need somewhere to go today. And that's why I love it. It's the ultimate Humanist Holiday. Have a happy day.

Memories, funerals, family

I have been going to funerals all of my life.

The first visitation and funeral I remember is that of my great-grandfather, "GrandDad," my paternal grandmother's father. It was 1974. I was 8. I was so sad that he had died, because he was a very fun person who I loved hanging out with. I remember the big room of the funeral home, with lots of flowers, and I remember lots and lots of people talking. And I remember hearing this comment again and again: "GrandDad would have loved this." They meant he would have loved not only his family all being there together, but the stories they were telling.

I'm so incredibly lucky to have had four great-grandparents alive at the same time until I was 8 years-old - I lost the last one when I was 27. I had four grandparents alive until I was in my early 20s, and I still have my maternal grandmother. Having so many grandparents and great-grandparents that are real people, with real personalities for me - not just names and dates - has made even those ancestors I never met very real to me, because I have stories about them, stories that give me an idea of their character. And, wow, am I related to a LOT of characters...

I've been to so many funerals - for great-grandparents, for my grandfather, for distant family, for beloved friends, and for my own father. I am just back from Henderson, Kentucky, following the death of GrandDad's daughter, my father's mother, my Mamaw. It prompted my previous blog regarding having tough, detailed conversations with your parents and grandparents.

I don't fear funeral homes, visitations or funerals. I don't fear grief. I don't like grief - and I've certainly had enough in my life. But I find the rituals around death cathartic, comforting and affirming - the opposite of denial. Funerals usually calm me and strengthen me. I love the singular focus of remembering and defining someone. I need those moments. I will always regret not going to my paternal grandfather's funeral; I was living in California and had already purchased a plane ticket to go to Kentucky when I got the news that Papaw had died, and my family said that since I was already coming home the next week, to not change my tickets - too much trouble, too expensive, etc. I regret that decision to this day - it denied me something I very much needed, and a celebration that my family still talks about.

My littlest niece, just three years-old, was around her Mamaw as much as possible, thanks to my sister. At the funeral home, my niece walked up to the open casket during visitation, looked at her beloved grandmother, looked over at my sister and said, "Mamaw passed out." Mamaw would have loved that. My niece told me twice at different times, matter-of-factly, "Mamaw died," and each time, she waited for my followup comment, and then she ran off to do something else. And on my last night in Kentucky, we were alone together in a kitchen, she asked for some milk. I poured her some, handed her the glass and she drank a bit, then said, out of the blue, "Is this Mamaw's glass?" It was, in fact, and I told her so. "Did she drink out of it?" I told her she did. She went back to drinking her milk and thinking. My niece probably won't remember any of this, but now I've written it down, and I'll get to tell her some day, and together with any memories she has, plus the endless number of photos and videos we have, and the stories we tell, this will keep her great-grandmother alive for her, always. And just like me, she will grow up going to funerals - and I think that's a very good thing.

My Mamaw hand-wrote notes about her life, and sent them to me and to my siblings, her only grandchildren. I recorded her talking about her life, and will be digitizing this later this week. We have so many photos of her. We have videos. I cherish it all, and I know that, some day, my nephew and nieces will cherish them, and their children as well.

I've never spoken at a funeral, but for my dearest Mamaw, I had to. Below is what I wrote to say - and I did say most of it, though I think I did some edits in the moment. But one thing I didn't say, and I wish I had: her marriage to my Papaw, Jack Cravens, was the model for my marriage. I never wanted to get married. I had no plans to get married. But when I met the man who is now my husband, and when I knew I really wanted to be married to him, I knew what a good marriage looked like - the ongoing work it takes, the joys and the sacrifices - because of Mamaw and Papaw. I so wish I had said that at her funeral.

Here's my speech:

Ice cream made from snow.
There’s a Monster at the End of this Book
Chicken and dumplings.
Creamed corn.
Corn bread
The Brady Bunch on a Friday night.
Opening a present the night before Christmas Eve.
Kittens.
Vacation Bible School.
Hay rides.
Fear of chickens
Fear of mice
No fear of snakes
Ronald Colman
Clip on earrings
Shadow puppets
Opfrah
Going to town.
Going off.
Singing.
Belly laughs.

Those are 20 or so things that make me think of our Mamaw, Emma Cravens. I could name 1000 more.

They say funerals are for the living. Yet I feel this incredible pressure for this celebration to be something Mamaw would really love. After all, this is a person who wrote a script for what to say about her at her own 90th birthday celebration.

I have so many stories about our grandmother. Like when she held me in her arms as she walked through the haunted house in the basement of Sharon Baptist Church with ALL of the lights on because I was too scared to go in otherwise.

Or when she had a car wreck and laid on her couch and talked me through baking a cake - the first time I ever cooked.

Or how I stayed with her every time I came to Henderson after college, and I would wake up and listen to her telling my dogs how she really shouldn’t let them have bacon, but since I was still in bed…

Or the incredible time we had touring San Francisco together.

Or when she told me she was “as content as a cow”, which sent my sister and I into hysterics.

Or even about some of the times we disagreed regarding how something should or shouldn’t be done.

She could be a saint. And she could say something that could lift you up or that, sometimes, that could cut like a knife, as only someone you dearly love can do.

For Emma Cravens, family was everything. Everything. She was fierce about her family, her tribe. Not just her blood relations, but those her blood relations married. Once you were in the tribe, that was that - you were in HER family.

We know she was a devoted daughter and sister and wife and mother and grandmother. But I want you to also know that Emma Cravens was a preacher. Yes, she was a  preacher’s wife, and she lead the singing in Church who knows how many times, but she was also a preacher. She loved preaching.

One of her favorite things to say was this:

“God created man from dust of the Earth and breathed life into him. Maybe that’s why men are always dirty. Ha ha! “

I asked her once if she liked preaching and she said, emphatically, yes, that she could have been a REAL preacher. I reminded her that in the Bible, Paul said women were supposed to stay quiet in church, and she said, “Oh, Paul, some woman hurt him and we’ve been paying for it ever since!”
I have some of her lectures and thoughts about religion in writing, as my siblings do as well, and I’ll be scanning and sharing them online, so we can all enjoy them. What I like about them is that they don’t just draw on Bible verses - they also draw on her own wisdom, her heart, her observations - all of which she believed came from her God. She believed lessons for life are all around us.

Here’s an excerpt from one of her lectures that I really loved. It’s from a lecture she gave to a women’s group. These are her own words, and I direct them in particular to my sisters, my sisters-in-law, and my nieces:

Who am I?
Where did I come from?
Where am I going?
What am I doing here?
Look in the mirror. What do you see?
A person.
You may be pretty, or ugly.
Fat or skinny. Short or Tall.
Light color or dark.
But you are a PERSON.
I may not like what I see, but I am SOMEBODY.
That person I see in the mirror - that’s my outside.
But I am another person also.
You cannot see that person in a mirror.
Look at the rubber band.
It’s very limpy - not attractive.
Not very useful when it’s dangling.
Until it is STRETCHED. It becomes pliable and useful for many things.
So in life, that’s the woman - stretched, useful
Willing bodies, busy hands, compassion, sacrifice.
So many organizations need us if only for a few hours.
Love everyone, whatever the age, the color of their skin.
We all have one thing in common - the blood. It is red.
We are sisters.
Love makes us equal.

For a long time, Mamaw was my best friend. Once I graduated from university, she was THE primary reason I came back to Henderson. She made me feel welcomed and loved every time I came to Henderson. She sometimes decorated her house when I came home, with artificial flowers and ribbons and homemade signs. And we would stay up late and laugh and laugh and laugh. Everything I am I am because of Emma Cravens, and I’m not the only one here that could say that. This room is filled with people who not only have nice or fun or funny stories about her, but people with stories about how she changed their lives. I hope each of us can love life like she did, and make the kind of difference she made in the lives of so many.

I don’t know many hymns, and I’m not at all a religious person, but there is one song that I fell in love with in my 20s, and I was thrilled to find out a few years ago that Mamaw loved it too. There’s a recording on the Internet of us singing a verse together that you may have heard. It’s called “Farther Along.” I’m going to sing just a couple of verses with the chorus, and I would love for you to sing it with me.

Tempted and tried we're oft made to wonder
Why it should be thus all the day long
While there are others living about us
Never molested though in the wrong.

Farther along we'll know all about it
Farther along we'll understand why
Cheer up, my brother, come sing in the sunshine
We'll understand it all by and by.

When death has come and taken our loved ones
It leaves our home so lonely and drear
Then do we wonder why others prosper
Living so wicked year after year.

Farther along we'll know all about it
Farther along we'll understand why
Cheer up, my brother, come sing in the sunshine
We'll understand it all by and by.

Questions to ask your grandparents & parents right away

I was just back in my home town in Kentucky for the funeral of my paternal grandmother. I'll be writing about that experience later.

Per that experience, I am begging you - BEGGING YOU - please make an appointment with your grandparents and parents - do not wait for this to happen - and ask them:

• "Have you prepared a will? If yes, where is it, and has the signature been NOTARIZED (not just witnessed)?" Make it clear that you are not asking to see it, you are merely asking where it is, so you will know where it is when it is needed.
• "Have you been working with an attorney or financial advisor? If yes, what are their names?" Make it clear that you will NOT be contacting them yourself, that you just want to know their details for when such is needed. 
• "Do you have life insurance policies? If yes, where are they, do you have beneficiaries listed (you don’t have to know who - make that clear that you aren’t asking), and has your signature been NOTARIZED?"
• "Who do you want to handle your estate (your house, your possessions, your finances) and funeral plans after you pass away? Is this in WRITING and, if so, where do I find it?" 
• "May I make an appointment for you to discuss your finances with a pro, so I can make sure you will always be taken care of, and so I can make changes in my finances if I need to contribute to make sure you will always be taken care of?" People are living well into their 90s and past 100 - what are you going to do if your grandparents or parents run out of money at, say, 85?

Again, do not wait for the "right time" for this to happen - make a date for it to happen! Be honest about why you want to have this discussion!

I’m very lucky that my sister got most of these questions answered many years ago with our Mamaw and handled EVERYTHING. But I’ve seen the consequences for people who don’t. And I've also seen the consequences for people that assume that the laws that allowed a signature to be merely witnessed back in the 1950s, rather than also notarized, are still valid today and will be accepted by, say, an insurance company. The consequences of not doing the aforementioned with parents and grandparents tears families apart and makes the lives of spouses, children and grandchildren HELL.

Please do this. Please.

Postcards forever

After my grandfather died, my Mamaw decided it was time to travel, something Papaw never enjoyed. So, she started "Going Off", a term she used that would send me and my siblings into hysterics. She went all over the USA, and even overseas.

In 2009, my sister, my sisters-in-law and I all got together to clean out Mamaw's house for her big move to downtown Henderson, and I found, as my sister put it, "a blue million post cards" that Mamaw bought from all over, but never sent. We wondered what to do with them, and then one of my sisters-in-law laughed and said I should take them and then send them back to the family over the years.

I don't know if she was kidding or not, but that's what I've done, since 2009, sending cards to my  to my siblings with my own weird commentary. And now I've added my two nieces to the send list and, apparently, they love it. These are the first cards they received - my sister took a photo.

What's amazing is how often I can find postcards in the stash for places I've just been or am going to. I can't decide if I should hold on to the postcards she bought in Greece but never sent, because I really do plan on going there once we move back to Europe some day.

Mamaw not only bought postcards, she also grabbed all the free ones that were offered. As a result, she had probably 10 from some big restaurant in, I think, Wisconsin, that claimed to have world famous fried chicken. For a few months, those are the only ones I sent to family.

For a while, I sent the postcards to Mamaw too, with notes like, "Do you remember going here?" But unfortunately, my grandmother is now quite blind. In fact, she doesn't remember traveling. But her form of dementia is different than Alzheimer's - she doesn't remember the trips, but does remember that we've told her that she used to travel. The last time I was in Hendo, I sat with her in rocking chairs out on the front porch of the senior home where she lives now and asked her if she remembered coming to visit me in San Francisco. "No, I don't remember, but tell me about it."

So I did. I told her about how, while we toured San Francisco, she had told me she didn't want to eat Chinese food because she didn't like it, and when I asked her what Chinese food she'd had that she didn't like, she'd answered, "I haven't ever eaten it, because I don't like it." But then she'd tried beef and broccoli at a Chinese restaurant and couldn't get enough of it, and had eaten Chinese food ever since. And how the evening of that same day, we had gone to Fisherman's Wharf for supper, and I'd eaten sautéed seafood, while she'd eaten fried fish, and when she got home, she told Mom I'd eaten raw fish (if it was fried, it wasn't cooked!). I told her about how, at some point on this epic train and bus trip, she and her travel companion had gone to bed early at their hotel, then gotten up in the morning, packed up, gone down for breakfast, and found out that they'd been asleep only a couple of hours.

And she laughed and laughed. And when I was done, she said, "Well, I don't remember any of that, but I sure had fun, didn't I!"

Yes, Mamaw, you did. And the postcards prove it.

Stuff My Mamaw Says

My paternal grandmother, Mamaw, is 94. My maternal grandmother, Mama Cym, just turned 96. They both live in the same retirement apartment complex, in their own apartments. It's wonderful that they can still live in their own individual spaces.

But Mamaw needs care here and there throughout the day, because she's quite blind and almost deaf (though her hearing aids make a HUGE difference). She needs someone to fix her meals, pick out her clothes (though she can dress herself), giver her the pills she needs to take daily, take her blood sugar levels and blood pressure and wash her dishes every day. She also needs someone to help her shower, do her laundry and clean her apartment twice a week. It's too much for any one family member to do - my sister and sister-in-laws would prefer to spend their time with Mamaw taking her out to breakfast or lunch, taking her to special events, taking her shopping, getting her together with her great-grandchildren and other fun stuff. Having caregivers gives family more time to do all those social things with Mamaw that are just as important and necessary as the daily grind stuff. We have one caregiver to do the daily things and one to do the weekly things.

But our daily caregiver had surgery and needed a couple of weeks off. My brother and sister-in-law came to our hometown to take care of Mamaw for the first week, and I've been here for a week. I stayed right here in her apartment. My siblings and I have grown up with Mamaw being a HUGE part of our lives, and I'm glad to give back just a tiny bit of what she's given me.

But this week has also been a fascinating learning experience for me. It's something I think every adult should do at least once - spend one week taking care of someone elderly. I thought I really knew a lot about aging issues; I learned there's so much still to know.

One thing I learned was just how many people here are on the Internet. There's anywhere from a dozen to two dozen networks showing at any given time. Why this place doesn't have a Facebook page with all of its events posted, or a Google calendar with all the events posted, I do not know. Yes, I've suggested it. It would make it easy not only for all those Internet connected folks here, but also, for their relatives to see what's going on (there are almost daily events down in the common area).

But the best thing about this week is enjoying Mamaw's perspective on the world. She often had to curb her silly side over the years, as a preacher's wife. But now, she doesn't hold back at all, and it's incredibly fun to hear her perspective on everything. So I decided to post updates to Facebook about our time together. And she turned out to be a HUGE hit on Facebook! I haven't had so many likes for most of the things I post:


* * *
Mamaw comment for today (actually said last night): "I'm content to just sit here. I'm content like a cow.

* * *
In response to "How are you today," Mamaw's response was "Fat and Sassy!"
Coolest. 94-year-old. Eva.

* * *
After burping several times in one minute, Mamaw says: "you outta find a way to put all this in a can. Then you could run your car on it."

* * *
Mamaw likes to have her hair brushed, because she likes her "scalp woke up."


* * *
My grandmother just asked me where I parked my motorcycle outside. Yes, Mamaw, I road it from Oregon to Kentucky. In 12 hours. She either thinks I am the most badass motorcycle rider EVER, or she forgot I live in the other state. Or maybe both?


* * *
Mamaw needs an iPhone with REALLY loud volume and on and off buttons that can be distinguished easily just by feeling them - so she can talk with Siri all day. She has a million questions, and Siri could answer them, some of them more than once!

* * *
Here at my grandmothers' retirement home, someone has named their Internet connection "WildTurkey", and another person has named their Internet connection "FreeSpirit." I think there are more things going on here than you might think just by visiting the lobby.

* * *
Mamaw likes to sing in the morning. The correct lyrics to the hymn are "Turn your lights down low, And listen to the master's radio" but she changed it to "Turn your lights down low, and then give a big hug to your beau..." And then she laughed and laughed.

* * *

Mamaw, after getting mad at me for not letting her lick the chicken salad off the bread instead of also eating the bread : "I wish I could be around when YOU'RE in your 90s and see how YOU act." I'm learning a LOT about how to act being around all these folks at Pleasant Point, lemme tell ya! (she's diabetic - we have to really monitor her regarding her food)

* * *
I once asked her if she could have been a preacher. She was washing dishes. She whirled around and said, "Yes! I could have been a preacher! I know how to preach!" I said, yes, but Mamaw, Paul said that women should stay silent in church. She made a face and said, "Paul hated women. Some woman broke his heart and we've been paying for it ever since."

* * *
In addition to taking care of my paternal grandmother (Mamaw) this week, I'm also spending time with my maternal grandmother (Mama Cym), who tells me FANTASTIC family stories. Yesterday, she talked about her grandmother, who was forced to go live with a cousin when his wife died, to take care of him and his children, and then pretty much forced to marry him (and he was MUCH older). Before you tut tut other countries with different religions for their attitudes re: women, remember that it was just as bad here not too long ago!

* * *

Decided to spot clean Mamaw's carpet. While I was down scrubbing at stains, she said, "Look at you, down there on your knees. If you're gonna be down there on your knees, you might as well pray." This was followed by a song she made up right then and there about praying while cleaning carpets. I apologize for not remembering the lyrics.

* * *
Took Mamaw out for Chinese Food after a funeral. Her fortune cookie said, "Someone is interested in you." She was absolutely delighted to know this. I said, "There's a man standing over there by the register. He might be the one interested in you." She said, "Well, it could be. But if he spent any time with me and had to fuss with me, he might not be interested in me any more." The guy just shook his head and laughed.

* * *
This morning's singalong was "Life Is like A Mountain Railroad." Mamaw can harmonize to anything. We also tried "Your Cheaten' Heart." Being a good Christian girl from Spottsville, Kentucky, she only knew the chorus and the melody. OF COURSE she does NOT know the words. Only Honky Tonk girl in this apartment is ME.

* * *
Me: "Mamaw, I'm going to take a shower now. Will you be okay?"
Mamaw: "Yes, sweetie, I'll be fine."
Me: "Don't you have a party while I'm taking a shower."
Mamaw: "What?! But I wanted to have my boyfriend over!"

* * *
Saturday, as I drove past the municipal golf course.
Me: "Mamaw, there are people playing golf today! Even in this cold weather!"
Mamaw (in super pitiful voice): "Poor little ball, just gettin' smacked around ever' where. Didn't do nothin' to nobody. Gettin' lost in the weeds. Gettin' left out in the cold." (Laughs)

* * *
And last, but not least: I recorded her singing and uploaded it here. These are all really short - each less than four minutes:

• Coming 'Round the Mountain
• When I grow too old to dream (followed by me asking her questions about her life in Beals and Reed, Kentucky).
• Farther Along (Duet with me - excellent harmonizing by Mamaw)
• Life is Like a Mountain Railroad (Duet with me - she kept forgetting the words, but she knew the tune!)

Really wished I had gotten her singing "He's got the whole world in his hands" and "This land is your land" and "You are my sunshine" as well.