A Time of Quiet Reflection

An Alleshouse family picnic, with Dad on the left, Grandpa Alleshouse on the right, and Uncle Paul between Aunts Marge and Ruth on Townview Circle in the early 1960s.

For those weeks when the sun sets early here on the North Coast, we lean into the long nights as a time of reflection and memory.  And when memory takes over, the people and places we’ve loved emerge as fully formed images of times and places to hold tight.

Some years those images come from the pages of my well-worn address book as I write New Year’s greeting cards. Every year, a few more names are annotated as now gone – and a few more are added to its fading pages. The oldest entries are family and friends from home in Ohio. There are college year friends, the friends we made as young parents, then the colleagues from our middle, heavy-lifting years when we somehow raised children and worked demanding jobs. And there are the precious recent memories from the time we spent in Southern California with dear humans now on the list.

Memories also fly during and following laughter filled zooms with high school classmates as we plan a big reunion. We start off with the important work – the weekend to choose and the events to plan. Quickly the work devolves into a series of “do you remember whens”, that lead to laughs as the faces on the zoom quickly resolve into our 18-year-old selves.

My college roommates began virtual gatherings early in The Pandemic. That was so wonderful, it hasn’t stopped. Every week we catch up on lives we’re leading 40 odd years after we all shared a dorm.

I still hear the voices and laughter of my long-departed aunts and the few uncles I remember. The sweet near whisper of Aunt Mary’s kindness, Aunt Ruth’s perpetual chuckle over the equally perpetual pot of coffee, Aunt Greta’s Eastern European accent as she carefully shares only the good memories of her youth in Yugoslavia.

My parents re-emerge at this time of year. Happy fun memories of annual concerts and recitals that crowded the year-end calendars. My mother passed on when I was in my early 20s, so that’s when the memories stop. Dad was present when I married and the children arrived – so memories of his calm quiet include his humming along as first Clare, then Ben pretended to read stories from books far beyond their picture book stage.

And we remember those who left well before their time. My nieces Megan and Brittany should be home with family preparing to celebrate the holidays. And they, too, have passed on, leaving behind memories of their once easy childhood laughter and energy.

I’ve learned to hold tight to those who are still here to create memories for the coming years when long winter nights lead to reflection. And to cherish the images of those who now are part of memory, as they remain as dear today as they were when the memories were created.

Wailing

Photo by Alice Castro.

I woke up at 3 am because the gentle rain of the night was no longer gentle. The winds were whipping the rain into the window as they wailed through the trees whose leaves had yet to drop.

Wailing. That’s what woke me up.

And that’s when I realized that Mother Nature had picked up the wail of our planet and was joining in with our sorrow.

Wailing is the result of pure evil visited on innocents whose only sin was being born Jewish.

Wailing is the sound of sirens announcing another round of incoming bombs that intend to inflict further damage and death.

We stand witness to the wailing of mothers, fathers, children with the pain of loss and destruction and fear.

I am not a Middle East expert, but I am a Jew. I have been to Israel only three times in my life, and each time I fell in love again with that young nation that emerged from British rule following the Second World War.

Israel has always been a land of diversity – among its citizens are Jews, Arabs, Christians, Druids, and others – all of whom consider themselves Israelis. Its people, its culture, its science that has improved lives, and its overall zest for life.

Israel has always been a nation at risk which makes that zest for life particularly poignant. When terrorist leaders in the lands surrounding you have the stated mission of eliminating the Jews “from the river to the sea”, or erasing them from Israel, it’s a struggle to even start a conversation, isn’t it?

I’m not going to even pretend I have any ideas or suggestions or even thoughts for where this “war” could or should go from here.

All I do know is that the wailing will continue. As will the death, destruction, and fear that feels to be overwhelming us all right now.

May we pursue shalom or peace - Shabbat shalom.  

That Year That Went...

Ever have one of those years that begins with great intentions of things that will get done (finally) before the year wraps up?

This was the year when I would actually hit the mark on publishing two blog posts per month as a way to nurture the writing that will lead – at last – to the long-planned novel.

This was the year that would be measured in gains of strength and endurance to ensure I could travel with my far-flung college friends in their jaunts about the globe.

This was the year when I would complete the photo arranging project begun at the start of the COVID lock down that covers two-thirds of my project table in the office.

And here I sit in September of this year, writing the first blog post to appear on Stunning In Silver.

How does this happen? How do days that begin with great promise of plenty of productive time devolve into busyness that is exhaustingly non-productive?

How do weeks and months just fly along with those boxes of photos gathering dust on the table?

I do know what happened to the intended gains in strength and endurance. The hip that I thought was just sore from a frozen flexor turns out to need a replacement due to rampant arthritis. I had no idea I had arthritis until a truly compassionate surgeon said, “Gosh, this must be incredibly painful. How are you walking?” Not well, is the answer. At least there, I have a plan.

But back to the speed of time.

We’re in our reflective season – the Jewish New Year and all of its rituals are focused on reviewing the actions of the year completed, with great resolve to do better, be better, in the quest to make our world a better place to live.

This year I’m struggling with how to do and be better when I can’t seem to hold on to my intentions with time. I want to spend more time with my friends. I value any time with my family. Am I focusing enough time on the PT and nutrition needed to prepare for surgery?

Where does the time go?

Clare did teach me how to use Instagram this year. That’s a problem. There are my Wordle, Quordle, Octordle games with friends. I’ve started reading again – turns out I can focus when I’m not concerned the pandemic will end life as we know it.

So maybe it’s not such a mystery after all.

My Bonus Aunt Verla

My bonus family - Judy, Dennis, Aunt Verla, and Dwain.

I had no idea I had an Aunt Verla until about six years ago.  

That was when a woman named Judy reached out on 23AndMe saying, “Apparently, we’re first cousins. Where are you from? My parents are from West Virginia and Tennessee.”

The fact that my brother and I were adopted was never a secret. Mom and Dad were always right up front about the fact that they had chosen us to be theirs. So, it wasn’t a total shock that there were relatives with genetic matches somewhere in the world. But this online message made it all very real.

I responded with the few facts I knew – born in Columbus in November 1955, and I thought the last name of my birthmother was Arnold.

Within an hour I had the “OMG text” back.

Judy’s mother, Verla, never knew for certain why her younger sister ran off to Columbus from their home in Welch, WV. She always suspected she was pregnant as she didn’t contact her family for months, until Aunt Verla threatened to come and track her down. Verla’s sister, Ella, did get back in touch but never told her family she had had a child.

Judy and I communicated back and forth, reveling in these bonus family ties and imagining what ifs. By the time I met Judy, her aunt Ella had already passed, but her mother Verla was very much alive.

I spoke to my newfound Aunt Verla within a month or so and, oh my, what a lovely soul. Her first words to me were, “If I had had any idea my sister was pregnant, why, I would have raised you as my own.”

In her lovely Tennessee/West Virginia drawl, she projected sincerity of compassion that went beyond the words.

When Ella gave birth to me, Aunt Verla already had two children of her own – sons David and Dennis. Then was Janet followed by Dwain, and the baby, Judy. Her husband was an electrician named Felts and Aunt Verla was determined that her boys would not go into the primary local Welch industry of coal mining. With a persistence all her own, she pushed her husband to seek work near the Aberdeen Proving Ground in Maryland so she could move her family.

It was a hardscrabble life, as described by Aunt Verla. Her husband traveled up and down the East Coast for his work, forgetting at times to leave money at home for food for the kids. So, Aunt Verla became an independent entrepreneur, selling Avon products on the base. At one point, she said, she was the primary purveyor to the administrative assistants and staff on the base.

“That kept me in peanut butter for the kids’ lunches,” she chuckled.

I met Aunt Verla in person twice. Once, on a trip to D.C., I hopped a local train up to meet her and my cousins Judy and Dwain. We had lunch altogether, marveling at the mannerisms that reminded them of their Aunt Ella. It was strange to realize that my head tilt, and facial twerks may have had a genetic underpinning.

We promised to get together again. And we did in 2018, when Jacques and I were back on the East Coast. On that visit, we went to dinner with Aunt Verla, Dwain, Judy, and Dennis. Dennis brought photos, and Aunt Verla provided captions for them.

When we told her that we were going to drive back to Minnesota by way of the West Virginia hollers of her childhood, she cautioned to be careful on the roads around Welch and Capels.

“Remember, there are two sides of the roads in the West Virginia mountains,” she said. “There’s the safe side and there’s the sui-cide.” And then she chuckled her deep rich laugh that spoke volumes about her life.

I will miss hearing that laugh, that chuckle. We meant to go back. We meant to schedule a trip for the cousins to Minnesota. COVID happened, and then Aunt Verla had a fall that led to complications resulting in the loss of a leg. Her children asked her to approve that surgery. She did, saying, “Well I guess you’ll need to call me stumpy from now on.”

My Aunt Verla Lee Arnold Felts passed away last week at the age of 92. She was a strong, smart, deeply compassionate woman who will be missed.

She was married for 56 years until her husband passed, sold Avon for 55 years, and met a new niece at the age of 85. She had five children and a heart big enough to have raised another. Of that, I am absolutely certain.

Ahead of the Pack

A wolf pack in the wild, with a shout out to the talented Eva Blue.

A friend from my hometown reminded me recently that I am among the first in our graduating class to achieve the newest digit in my age.  A pure kindness, that one.

This is also a truth among my college friends who more regularly ask how it feels to be the age they are nearing later in the year. The short answer is that it is definitely preferable to the alternative.

Once upon a time, being first in the class to get a driver’s permit or being old enough to legally purchase 3.2 beer was a big deal. My younger classmates were well aware that I could get the car for evenings up to a year before they could. And having a driver’s license with the right age on it was a ticket to the best parties, since I could bring beverages.

My, how that perspective changes over the years.

Being old enough to vote before my friends? A big deal.

Being old enough to rent a car before my friends? A big deal.

Being the first to get an invite to join AARP? Not such a big deal.

Being the first to get a Medicare card? Somewhat horrifying.

And qualifying for full benefits from Social Security? Well, I haven’t tapped that yet.

I find myself at an age where I pay attention to ads for those potions and serums that reduce the appearance of the laugh lines I’ve earned.

I actually remember to apply daily sunscreen after one little experience with a spot that had to be sliced out of my forehead. It turns out that sitting on Dayna’s tarpaper roof with foil wrapped album covers to reflect the sun on our faces wasn’t the best idea.

There are regular reminders that moving more is important and sitting too much is deadly. The phrase “move it or lose it” takes on real meaning at this age.  There were those in previous generations who took to their beds for one illness or another – and then were unable to leave their beds again. Cautionary even at our less advanced age.

But advanced age is actually a gift in many ways. Not all of my childhood friends had the opportunity to advance to this age. Not all were able to witness as many turns around the sun as I have at this point – or as many as I hope to have in the future.

So, I’ll take that note from my old friend as a celebration. Yep – still leading the pack with the next larger digit and here to enjoy the experience of it all

Folds of Time

Generations over the years…

In the midst of this reflective, somewhat wistful long weekend of multiple gratitudes, I was relieved to read that scientist philosophers are pretty darn certain that time isn’t linear after all. Of course, I don’t know what the proof points are for this theory, but I was relieved to see I’m not the only human out here who finds that time seems to fold in on itself. 

I’m regularly surprised when Facebook serves up a memory from a decade ago that I could have sworn was just last year. My brain still thinks I’m in my mid-20s, even though my bathroom mirror presents a version of my face that exhibits the effects of gravity in new and astonishing ways,. And while I’m certain it was just a few years ago that we were young parents, the full-grown adult children of ours prove that’s not possible.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m deeply grateful to still be upright and taking liquids, as they say. Not everyone gets the gift of aging. Certainly not everyone has the relative comfort to sit back and reflect on a life filled with adventures, even if I can’t remember when they all took place.

This morning I woke up ready to jump out of bed to run across campus to classes at Wake Forest University. The first sign I wasn’t still living in New Dorm with Carol was the crick-crackle of my hip as it swung out of bed before shooting the now-familiar pain down my leg. Yep – not in college, still in my 60s in Minneapolis after all. But the sense of time folding to touch my 20-something year old self is still with me.

It doesn’t help that I’m actually and finally going through the boxes of things I pulled out when it felt like the COVID lockdown was going to last forever. Remember that year just two and a half ago? When it was clear we had plenty of time to finally go through and sort the photos from at least four generations, but instead got sucked into the vortex of Tiger King and Ted Lasso streaming video.

Those photos present my parents as their young and vital selves actively engaged in travel and productive lives that involved a world of music education and driving us to lessons and performances. My palms still sweat when I think of the large drawing room at Kingwood Center where years of recitals and musical competitions were held. And that was more than 50 years ago.

The emotions remain fresh. The experiences real and present. So how can time have passed so quickly?

I suppose the real lesson from non-linear time is that age is just a relative construct. That means we’re never too old to make memories that will fuel our yesterdays and feed our tomorrows. Maybe we’re achy-er in the joints, needing ibuprofen after long walks and bifocals for focus. And those new bumpy spots on my face are surprising to me, but apparently not unexpected for a woman of my age – says the doctor.

Goodbye to a Woman of Style

My mother in the middle with beautiful Aunt Elva to the right, and their friend Juanita - styling the latest early ‘50s style.

My Aunt Elva died this week.

She wasn’t really my aunt, but when we were growing up, it wasn’t ok to address adults by a first name, and our families were too close for me to call her Mrs. Newdome.

 Aunt Elva was a force in Mansfield – a musical force in the education of hundreds of string students, first in the Mansfield Public Schools, and then after marrying Uncle Bill and having her children, an important impact in the lives of her private lesson students.  

But Aunt Elva’s relationship to my family is much deeper than that. In fact, if not for Aunt Elva, my mother and father may never have met.

My mother was hired by the Mansfield Public Schools to build a music program in the early 1950s and one of her first hires was a beautiful young woman named Elva Welday. Mom knew she wanted our schools to have a string program and Miss Welday knew how to make that happen.

As was common in that day, Miss Welday lived in a boarding house with a few others, including my father, Art Alleshouse. Apparently, my dad had lived in the house longer than other boarders, so he had the best or largest room in the house.

Well, Aunt Elva really wanted that room and also thought my father needed to meet a nice woman. So, one day, she invited my mom to visit in her boarding house when she knew my dad would be practicing his clarinet in the living room – which she said he did on a regular basis. She walked my mother into the room, interrupted dad and said, “Art? I want you to meet my friend Dee Blue. Dee plays piano and I’m sure she’d love to accompany you any time, right Dee? In fact, why not now?”

At which point, she turned and walked out of the room leaving my future parents speechless.

Being a somewhat dutiful sort, my mom sat at the piano and did indeed play along with my father for a while - and that brief introduction led to a first date and then a 30+ year marriage.

Aunt Elva was quite proud of that introduction and repeated the story often. She was particularly pleased that Dad soon left the boarding house and she quickly claimed his room as her own.

Aunt Elva and my mom exchanged kids for lessons – meaning I learned violin and Bill learned piano. They were key players in the musical bubble that framed my formative years in Mansfield along with what we would today call the key influencers like Mr. Chiudioni, Mr. Hall, Don Bernhardt, Dick Wink, and organizations like the Little Mozarts and the Ohio Music Teachers’ Association.

This will be a week for memories of Aunt Elva and her impact on our lives – mixed with a large dose of personal gratitude that she was clever enough to get my father’s larger room in the boarding house by introducing him to my mother.

Seasons of Transition

Fall brilliance of our favorite tree…

I’m watching the leaves fly by on their way to the neighbor’s yard in that annual ritual involving the glorious colors of leaf death.

This year it signals a somewhat erratic path to the season of long nights and short frigid albeit brilliant days up here on the North Coast of the U.S. In an era of changing climates, Mother Nature can’t decide if October should feature 70s and 80s or 20s and 30s. So, she’s doing it all for 2022.

Which is somehow appropriate for a year that began with celebratory plans with friends being dashed by my rip-roaring head cold – still no positive COVID test, though.  It’s been a year filled with unexpected, plan dashing experiences – another reminder of the truth in the old Yiddish proverb that “Man plans and God laughs”.

For example, no one expected my niece, Megan, to die in July. That was nowhere on a “things that could happen this year” list anywhere in our family. And then no one expected that would break everything in her family, resulting in my brother coming to live with us for five weeks.

I haven’t spent that much time with my brother in years – since I was in early high school before he left for boarding school. We have deep shared memories of growing up together in Mansfield – childhoods filled with music performances, road trips, and general 1960s/early 1970s life.

But then life happened – I left for college, he stayed with Dad after our mother died. I got married and dove into a busy life on the East Coast and then Minneapolis. He got married in Texas, had a son and then got married again and had two daughters, living in Mansfield. During those decades, we saw them regularly on trips to visit Dad. My kids have very fond memories of visits to Mansfield.

That changed after Dad died in 2006. Sure, I return for reunions or big events with close friends. But after my brother left Ohio in 2010, we only saw each other once – until this year.

Beyond the trauma of it all, the time with Tom was truly a gift to me. When we were little, I always wanted to protect my younger brother. He was a sensitive boy who grew into a caring man who I didn’t see for more than a decade.

While he was here, though, I re-met the heartfelt man who truly enjoyed getting to know his niece and nephew again. We had time to talk about a whole range of topics in person, and in five weeks, only scratched the surface.

I have no idea how this year will end, although I’m hoping for family gatherings, a few more friend dinners, and yes, jumping on last year’s rain check for New Year’s Eve.  

We’re actually making plans for a few big trips next year. And I won’t be surprised at all if any of them become something else at the last minute. Life is like that.