“Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.”
– George Meredith, 1828-1909, English novelist and poet
Is there any better metaphor for faith than spring? Whether your faith rests in God, Nature, Love or Self. The proof that life emerges after strife — indeed, because of it — is ever present in the warmth of spring.
There is a quilt draped across the back of my desk chair. It’s just a small lap quilt, the kind I remember from nursing homes. The fabrics are old-fashioned prints, woven from cotton. The simple squares are sewn together in random sequence. The layers are tied with yarn at the corners of the pieces. I don’t even know who made it.
It is, by all standards, a quilt of no distinction at all.
Given to the University of Minnesota by a quilting group, it was made to keep oncology patients warm. Diminishing weight and the treatments they endure leave cancer patients extremely cold all the time.
When I first saw the quilt, my father sat at the kitchen table, where all memories of my father lead. He wore a thin grey goose-down jacket. The stocking cap Mother knitted sat high on his head. The quilt lay across his lap and over his slippered feet.
The strong, firm man of my childhood was now frail, thin, and weak. His face produced a genuine smile that visually drained precious energy from his body. I noticed the quilt immediately.
“Where did you get this?”
I hugged him then walked over to do the same to my mother. She explained where he received the quilt, and we all agreed how very nice it was.
As the weeks progressed, my father was never without his quilt. And now, as I look at it these twenty-four years later, I imagine it wise and gentle. The threads woven in purpose. The pieces cut with precision. Love somehow supernaturally layered between patchwork and batting and backing.
For decades the quilt sat neatly folded on my bedroom shelves as a reminder of the care my father received during his last months from so many faceless angels. It is a steadfast message that we just never know when the good we do will affect the lives of others.
Recently I brought the quilt from its place on the shelf and rested it on the back of my chair. When the temperature dips down, as it can in Minnesota, the quilt comes out to lay across my lap and over my slippered feet. It reminds me, as I work diligently at my job, to do well. But more importantly, it reminds me how lucky I am to be in a position where I can do good.
“Go into the world and do well. But more importantly, go into the world and do good.”
Yesterday included my annual pilgrimage to the Great Minnesota Get-Together, otherwise known as the Minnesota State Fair. For most, this is a venture into the exploits of gluttony; corn dogs, pork chops on sticks, buckets of chocolate chip cookies, and mini donuts washed down with all the milk you can drink for a buck. For me, it is a metaphysical event; laced with spirits from the past and traditions not yet established. Yes . . . and a temporary lapse into the exploits of gluttony.
I can sense my mother is within me when I start to hum the theme song from State Fair. It was our song on the drive from Fridley to the fairgrounds every year.
Mom actually called in sick for me at school, just so we could go together when the crowds were lower. We arrived before any attractions opened, and sometimes before the kitchens. After eating breakfast at the Pancake House, which no longer exists, we would head straight to the Creative Arts Building. If we timed it right, we would be among the first to enter. There she strategically surveyed each and every piece of handiwork on display, critiquing the judges as much as the crafters.
This year I passed up the Creative Arts Building. Experience has taught me that it no longer holds magic without the magician by my side. But I smiled at the women waiting patiently outside the unopened doors early yesterday.
I ate breakfast sausage on a stick, followed by a double latte with sugar-free vanilla. Really? Sugar free? Was that a feeble attempt or force of habit? I dipped the breakfast sausage corn dog in real, full-strength, high fructose-laden maple syrup. Nutrition is a balancing act, after all.
I only walked another block before the tears came. What set them off, I can no longer remember. But they came, and I searched for a direction to face in order to hide my sudden display of grief. This is an expected reaction, a tradition since my mother’s death; merciless in its timing, yet cleansing upon its arrival.
My kids visited the fair with my mother and I a couple times. Those years Mom always went twice, just so she could spend more time seeing the things she wanted to see. When you have children in tow, there is a different perspective of the place. Sailing down the big slide is something I hadn’t done since I was a child, and probably not again until I have grandchildren. One year we saw piglets being born. The kids and I had our own song we sang on the way to the fair.
Bubba thought about coming with me. Everyone thinks I’m crazy for going alone, but I prefer it. My favorite parts are the talks and demonstrations. Sometimes I can hardly make it from one to the next, weaving through the crowd from the Agriculture Building to the Progress Center in ten minutes flat. If someone is with me, I won’t put them through that.
I learned a lot about pollinators and rain gardens yesterday. I gained resources and education on things like systemic pesticides and edible landscaping. I logged over 20,000 steps, necessitating a half hour break in my car with my shoes off and feet out the window. I texted and Tweeted, took selfies and Instagrammed. I’m just not one to let being by myself hinder my fun.
Minnesotans throw out this much trash every 30 seconds (Eco-Experience Progress Center)
The Gopher State
Rabbit Agility in the 4-H Building
One of the things Mom used to do before we left the fair every year was to have a beer. She would say that nothing tasted better than an ice cold beer on a hot day at the fair. And so I stopped in the Beer Garden before heading out. I sat there, by all outside appearances alone, and drank to memories, to tradition, to sore feet, and to next year.
It is not uncommon to see, as one travels, monuments of crosses and flowers where loved ones have met their death. They stand as a solemn reminder to slow down, stay wary, and buckle up. Perhaps placed there in hopes the dead were still near. They are displays of love lost, shackled memories, grief.
With all due respect to the dead and their grieving, when I am gone, please lay no flowers where I die. I don’t want silk or plastic flowers, or cut flowers that die and only remind you that I, too, am dead. Place flowers where I lived. Scatter seeds along the bike trail, at the dog park. Plant a perennial in your garden to remind you and make you smile. Plant a tree that will outlive us all!
Throw seeds out a window and let them grow like Jack’s mother with their beanstalk in the clouds. Instead of memorial pamphlets that get saved in a box or recycled at the curb, pass out seed packets. Let the world grow after I cease to do so.
Please don’t remember the date of my death. Remember the days I lived. Remember the date I came into this world as a screaming, writhing newborn, desperate to clench life in my tiny fists. Remember the things that brought meaning to me — laughter, beauty, kindness.
See me in the tiny things around you. I’ll not be in the place that I died — the hospital bed, the roadside — I’ll be there inside you. In the things that make you smile — a laughing baby, a bumblebee , the sun on your face.
And you’ll find me in your darkest hour. When you need comfort, solitude, a hug, wait for me quietly. I’ll be there as sure as those who left before me are there when I need them.
When you find these places, scatter seeds. Plant them in remembrance, in honor, in joy, but never in sadness.
It is called the heart of the home. The kitchen is where, no matter how big or small, everyone gathers at the same time. The dinner table of my childhood was in the kitchen, nestled tightly between the basement and back doors, and the pocket-door to the dining room. The traffic pattern rivaled Grand Central Station, yet five of us sat comfortably, served from the white gas range which stood against the wall.
The floor that was there before it was upgraded to linoleum was speckled, as were the counters. The incandescent light was small, and gave off a golden glow amplified by the cheery yellow walls. Frilly curtains ruffled from the window over the sink.
The kitchen is where Dad got me to eat canned peas by telling me they taste better when squished with the back of my fork, and fresh tomatoes by sprinkling them with sugar. He put a scoop of ice cream on cantaloupe, and he dolloped ketchup on his beef stew. Most of his meals he ate with a slice of bread slathered with butter and strawberry jam. I can still summon his spirit with a slice of that goodness.
The refrigerator has changed remarkably since I was a girl. Not only has it gotten bigger with more compartments and easier to maintain, it contains a plethora of condiments, seasons, sauces and flavors that never existed in my childhood fridge. We had ketchup, mustard, Miracle Whip, Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce, Hershey’s syrup, and possibly a leftover jar of pickles or olives from the last holiday dinner. There was no salsa, chili paste, Szechwan sauce, hot peppers, tabouli, pesto, hummus or even minced garlic for that matter. Back then there was meat and there were vegetables. If you were lucky, there was Jell-O for dessert.
Cooking and eating were not the only reasons we spent time in the kitchen. My mother and grandmother ironed things like sheets, handkerchiefs and underwear in there, discussing the best practice for dampening the wrinkles, or starching the work shirts. A child-sized iron and board sat in the corner, for pretending. It really plugged in and warmed a little to the touch.
Haircuts were given to my reluctant teen brothers, who would rather have donned long sweeping styles like that of the Beatles. Draped in towels or old sheets, the boys argued, whined and complained while the buzzers and Dad’s special hair-cutting scissors removed lengths of hair to the kitchen floor.
We shared news in the kitchen. My brother leaving for the Marines, another getting engaged and later having children were all disclosed at the dinner table. Accounts from the day and headlines from the paper were discussed over cups of milk or plates of spaghetti.
The kitchen was a classroom. This is where my mother learned to cook from my father, who learned what he knew from his mother. The grandmother I never knew was one heck of a cook, whose lemon meringue pies cannot be matched to this day, I am told.
My mother, ever the student, one time subscribed to a cooking class encyclopedia. She pledged to take it one class at a time until she was a master at the art of French cooking. She cooked for hours upon hours, and did finally serve a delectable coq au vin in our formal dining room by candlelight, but not after scouring the city for chicken feet, or beaks or some such part. We laughed all through dinner about how she had finally given up and used chicken wings. It may have been the only recipe she ever used from that expensive volume of books.
Of course, I learned my love of food, both eating and preparing, in that kitchen. There were early mornings watching Dad prepare the Thanksgiving turkey. Late nights helping Mom with Christmas cookies. Favorite casseroles cut from the newspaper, salads created from the side of a pasta box. The heart of the home. The home of my heart.
After my mother’s death, the things from my childhood kitchen were laid out, dollars and cents scribbled on tags hurriedly attached on the handles. I will leave this full story for another time, but I was told, “These are just things. They can’t bring her back.” The words were meant to comfort me; to dry the tears rolling down my face. At the end of the day, I did end up bringing home the things that meant the most to me. And do you know what? It does bring her back. Just a little bit.
The photos in this post are some of the things I grew up with in my mother’s kitchen and are now a part of my daily life.
Peace . . .
From Shirley’s Kitchen:
Chicken Breasts with Wine
4 boned chicken breast halves, skinned
1/2 c. flour, seasoned with garlic powder and paprika
2 T. olive oil
2 T. butter
1/4 c. dry white wine
1 c. sliced fresh white mushrooms
Coat chicken with flour mixture. Brown in oil lightly. Remove chicken, melt butter, add wine and mushrooms; sauté over low heat until the mushrooms release their moisture. Pour over chicken in baking dish.
This may be done the day before baking and stored in the refrigerator.
This is a story that needed to wait until I was ready to tell it. But time has passed, and with it, the deep grief I felt. That is not to say I won’t drip some tears in the telling, but it is time for me to tell the story before I forget it. We must all remember that sometimes the right thing to do is the hardest.
Barney had been coughing up phlegm for a couple weeks — congestive heart failure, most likely. Sometimes, he coughed hard enough to lose his kibble, but mostly it was just watery, slimy phlegm. Bubba, who was not his real dad, but his adopted dad, cleaned it up, led him outside, patted his back, and at least once caught it in his hand as if he was his real dad. I know Bubba worried about me, who had loved Barney for twelve of his thirteen years, but he waited patiently for me to decide when the old guy had had enough.
As a pup, he was picked up at a local no-kill animal shelter. He had a previously injured toe, and an ear that stood up more than the other. He could run like the wind, and played hard. While mannerly at mealtime, never begging or asking for attention, abandoned food was his for the taking. He once ate an entire week’s raw meat out of grocery bags while I ran in to get a few copies made at the printer, and was in his seat looking innocent by the time I got back to the car!
It seems like he was with us such a short time, and yet forever. When we knew it was almost time — he was getting skinnier and more lethargic every day — I texted the kids to come see him if they needed to. The girls came and brushed him, the balls of fluff laying in the yard as evidence to their act of love. One son lay on the carpet with him, breathing in his essence and remembering better times, tears streaming from his eyes.
Once I knew they had all seen him that week, there was one more thing to do. We took him out to the dog park one last time. We waited for him to walk our route, stopping for him to catch up, never letting him feel rushed. He waded in the pools and drank from the muddy water. His coat had become dull. He laid down when we stopped. He had become a spectator of the dog-sports he had previously participated in so passionately.
His appetite was almost nonexistent. I boiled a chicken just for him. That night he ate a piece and threw it up. The next day he refused the chicken. I think that’s when I realized there was nothing left for him. During my lunch break, I called the vet and made his last appointment. When I got home from work, we coaxed him to the car and lifted him in.
I chose a different vet this time. The one my daughter had taken the rabbit to when she rescued it. The one who told my daughter she saved a bunny’s life, and told me I should be proud. The one with the old paneled office, and curtains on the windows, and gold linoleum on the floor. We had trouble finding it, and passed the road a few times before we got it right.
It was a quiet ride. Barney didn’t put his head out the window, or bark at the dogs on leashes as we passed.
When we pulled up, a couple holding a dog on a leash motioned us over, but they had the wrong idea. They thought we were looking for the entrance to another building, and quickly redirected us next door. Their young, strong Staffordshire Bull Terrier saw Barney and stood alert. He pulled, and the man holding the leash was rendered off-balance. The dog pulled harder, and the man fell, still holding the leash. The woman commanded their dog to stop, but he didn’t, and the man was in danger of losing the leash.
Barney, in his last act of defiance, pulled at the leash I held. I was surprised by how much strength was still left in him. His ears propped up, and the hair on his back stood erect. The stark difference between the two dogs in stature was alarming. And so, Bubba, not his real dad, but his adopted dad, stood between the dog and Barney. He put his hands on his hips and poised himself authoritatively and stared the dog down. It was a loving act from a man to his dog.
Then I led Barney into the paneled office through the screen door with the homemade sign on it. We were directed to a room with a gold privacy curtain. Barney lay down on his side and watched the feet of people passing under the curtain. There were decisions to make, and we made them all, and signed the papers. Did we want cremation? Yes. Did we want his ashes? Yes. Did we want a clay paw print? Yes. In between each question, I asked Bubba, “Do we?”
Barney was hoisted onto a table. Despite our encouragement, he would not lay down, so they let him stand. A tourniquet was placed on his front leg. I looked him in the eye and told him what a good boy he was. It was the last thing I wanted him to hear. “You’re a good boy, Barney.”
He always hated it when I cried. While some dogs snuggle up to their humans, trying to comfort them, Barney would head downstairs to his den to wait out the tears. It was so important I did’t cry at this time. Breathe. Silent tears felt down my cheeks. “Good boy.”
The needle was pressed and inserted on a bulging vein on his leg. “Good boy, Barney.” His rear legs slowly sank to a sit. “Good, good boy, Barney. You’re a good boy.” Slowly his front legs slid down the stainless steel table, and his head drooped low, finally resting on his paws. “Good boy, Barney.”
The life left his eyes, and the vet listened to his chest. “He is gone now.”
We stayed with him and petted him a few last times. We thanked them. They said they were sorry. And we drove away.
What do you do after you have released one you love from his misery? Bubba drove us to the meat store and we picked out the biggest, juiciest t-bones in honor of Barney, and grilled them up for dinner. We cried a bit, and cried a bit less the next day, and less yet the day after that. We cried again at the dog park, his favorite place on earth. How lucky we are to have had a companion such as Barney . . .
Guardian of the Mailbox, Chaser of Frogs, Best Friend of Man.
A box of papers has been in my possession for these past eight years. It lay closed, each flap folded over another. Once opened, I found a file that had been removed from my late mother’s house when it was sold. Why it was shuffled off with me is unknown. Like so many other things that needed a place, someone took it, and I guess I took this.
The file held papers. Letters. A Certified Copy of Death Certificate.
– – –
Scott W. Habig | Male | Date of Death: August 10, 1973
White | 23 | Date of Birth: August 7, 1950
– – –
This story has no happy ending. It provides no answers. Only more questions.
Scott was my big brother, the oldest, yet the smaller of my two. He was sickly with asthma, at a time when too few reliefs were known. I remember the urgent midnight phone calls. Grandparents coming to care for me, tucked into bed at the end of the hall, while Scott was rushed to the emergency room, gasping for breath.
Sometimes he was propped up on pillows. I watched from outside the room, secluded, as grandparents and parents sat by his side.
One day he left. I seem to remember he was given an ultimatum — attend school, find a job, or leave the house. He disappeared for a long time — what, in the innocence of childhood, seemed like forever. Yet it wasn’t forever. I would find out what forever felt like later.
He surfaced in Alaska. And one day I walked in after school, greeted by a stranger in my house. The thick, full beard and healthy, broad shoulders belonged to a man I thought I had never met. Alaska’s clear air had been good to him. He was a logger, dressed in a red plaid shirt and good sturdy boots, as loggers should be.
The visit was cut short by a trip to the hospital, and abruptly by a flight back to Alaska. I had so little time to reacquaint myself with my brother who had become a man. No time to be relaxed enough to let myself be embraced by him. No time to tell him I missed him.
Did he visit more than once? Twice perhaps; I just don’t remember. There were letters. I was told when Scott mentioned me, said hello, but I never read them. There was a Poloroid of a girl. Dad mentioned something about her being an Indian, but I didn’t think so, because her hair wasn’t in braids, and she wasn’t wearing animal skins.
Then a letter mentioned he was married. Then another enclosing pictures — a different girl. One with a red up-do and bright eyes, wearing a pretty dress and cutting wedding cake. The man with the broad shoulders and thick beard standing next to her. Smiling.
I can’t describe the mood when the wedding photos were taken from the envelope. I was too young to remember, and there was something I was too young to sense. I was, however, old enough to know better than to ask. Old enough to keep my questions to myself. If not for the letters, I wouldn’t have remembered that I had briefly met his wife the Christmas before she was widowed at the age of eighteen.
When he was hurt my mother cried long, low, mournful sobs. I never saw her cry like that before or since. She knew. My father tried to tell her she didn’t know, but she knew. They flew to Alaska, and saw him in the hospital, but as my mother knew he would, he died.
– – –
Death was caused by | Clostridium Perfringens Sepsis
Due to or as a consequence of | Pelvic Crush Injury
Accident | 8-2-73 | 8:00 AM | Struck by loading equipment
Injury at work: YES | Place of Injury: Logging Camp
At this point you know as much as I knew before I opened the file. In all, there are over twenty letters. They were saved for a reason. Mom didn’t save much, so you have to decipher for yourself the reasons she kept what she did. She kept the ponytail she had cut from my four-year old head. She kept the certificates of baptisms, births, and deaths. And she kept these twenty-some letters.
I have arranged the excerpts as chronologically as I can. These pieces of letters are meant to tell a story; not the whole story, but enough. Some of the grammar has been left as is, some I have edited.
– – –
“Dear Mom & Dad
“Two letters in one week, not bad huh? Are you feeling any better, Mom. I really hope so.”
“I don’t know if I told you before but we eat real well out here. T-bone steaks on Wed & Sat pork shops – roast beef – chicken etc. We get eggs, bacon, ham, toast, pancakes, french toast, hot cereal for breakfast every day. “
– – –
“Just a short note before I go to bed . . .”
Scott asks Don if he needs money, and says if he still does, he can lend it. He says that Don can pay him back or just pay Mom & Dad the money because he owes them. He goes on to write:
“I still hope to make it back for Xmas but we’ll see what Mom & Dad say, I’m not coming back if I can’t see you people without a lot of strain and so forth, you know.”
“Your ‘little’ Brother Scott”
– – –
“Dear Mom & Dad,
“Did you people die, or just break your hand?”
“There’s 3 ft of snow outside (6 ft in the woods). It’s about 10 above and to top it off, the city of Wrangell with 160″ of rain a year is almost out of water . . . We are so low they only turn on the water from 8:30 – 10:30 in the morning and 8:30 – 10:30 at night. The school has no water at all . . . That night I worked out with the Varisty Wrestling team (sweated) then played basketball for an hour & half (sweated) and finally worked out with the Jr. Hi team (sweated). I was on my way home and got side-tracked by Jerry Campbell and played pool with him. I didn’t get home until 11:00, so I didn’t shower. That night . . . the dog wouldn’t even come near me.”
This is from a man who, as a boy, barely had enough strength to leaf through a sports magazine.
“I can’t wait to get back to the woods and start logging. Man, when I’ve got a good crew, everybody wants to work and knows how to do the job, I have so much fun I can’t believe they pay me to do it.”
“I’ve been on my weight-lifting program for 3 weeks now, I’ve added a 1/2″ to my arms and a 1/4″ or so to my shoulder spread. I can curl 40 lbs 5 times with one arm and can lift over my head 145 lbs (if I grunt a lot).”
“Would you send me the Fridley Sun or the Tiger’s Tale from the high school. Everybody here wants to know if you speak the same language? (‘Do you live in igloos?’ I say)”
“Say Hello to Jeanie and Don for me”
– – –
“Dear Mom & Dad,
“I’m sorry about not writing sooner, no excuse I just didn’t get around to it, sorry . . . I got a ‘promotion.’ I’m a chaser now. I’m the one who unhooks the chokers from the logs when they get to the landing and take care of everything on the landing — load trucks, etc. It’s 25 cents an hr more, and I get an extra 1/2 hr a day. We went to a 9 hr day here (40 hrs. + overtime) and we work 6 days a week.”
“Last week we went to hoot-owl. That means no one in the woods between 12:00 noon and 6:00 at night so that means we went to work at 3:00 in the morning and left the woods at 12:00.”
“Yesterday was my birthday. I finally made it to 21. I’m not in jail, nobody really hates me, I’m not over $400 in debt (including you). I’ve got a good job, a little savings and lots of friends. I don’t think I’ve done too badly all things considered.”
“I’m going to try to make it home for Xmas this year if that’s alright.”
October 17, 1971
“Dear Mom and Dad,
“I guess it’s been a long time since I last wrote. Time just seems to get a way from me. I’m not working at Sykes anymore. Its a long story but I’ll do my best to shorten it. It seems that Sykes tried to cheat the sawmill by marking all his logs from the No. 1 sale as if they came from the No. 2 sale. He gets more money for #2 logs. Well he got caught. So the mill stopped payment on our logs and started a lawsuit against him. Sykes started a lawsuit against them also. By the time any of us learned of all this, it was because Sykes couldn’t make the payroll. That left me and most of the guys high and dry.”
“So I got a job out here at H & S logging. I hired out as a choker setter and after the first day the boss asked me if I could pull rigging. I lied and told him I could do the job. He started me that day and I’ve been doing it for the last week. The boss seems happy and Tennesse Crockett, the hook tender, says the boss said I looked like a good man.
“To prove that all this week my crew has been top dog every day and we’ve been in the bonus money twice so far. You get $3 a day extra every day you get 200 logs, $4 for 225, $5 for 250, etc. I’m making $5.93 an hour and overtime for anything over 40 hours and we work 6 – 8 days a week.”
“I’m the youngest rigging slinger in this part of Alaska. The average is about 26 – 27 years and here I am only 21 and I’ve got the best crew of the logging company that is second only to Thornby in log production three years running. There are only 600 pro-loggers in Alaska so news travels fast. I don’t think I’ll ever have to worry about getting a job in logging again.”
“I’ll also be the Jr. High coach this year in wrestling. Last year’s coach worked for the Forest Service and got sent to Kake, a little town up north. If I save enough money out here or if Sykes comes through with the payroll I’ll be down for a week or so later this year but . . . I’ve only got about $200 saved now.”
“Write and tell me all the news there. There’s not really much I can write about here in this logging camp.”
“P.S. Send any letters to Gen Del. This camp won’t be open long enough to make it worthwhile changing address. Shiela sends the letters all to me once a week. By the way my asthma still doesn’t bother me too much here.”
– – –
“Dear Mom & Dad,
“I got about 1/2 my wages from Sykes and as soon as his equipment and stuff is auctioned off I’ll get the rest.”
“You haven’t written in a log time, you’re even worse than me like that. I’ve taken up boxing this fall here in camp. I guess I do alright. Nothing to brag about yet.
“I’ve been taking my little dog out on the rigging with me. He’s a real logger’s dog now. He was sitting on a log we hooked and when I called him he wouldn’t come so I got mad and went ahead on the log, it started to move and it flipped him up in the air and into a bush. I thought it killed him but about two minutes later he stuck his head out and looked at me like, ‘Wow what the hell was that.’ He always stays by me since that.
“I’m going to try to make it to Mpls for about three to four days on Xmas, unless you’d rather I didn’t.”
– – –
“Dear Mom & Dad
“How’s everything back in the old country? Most everything here is fine. Except that i just had my crossbow, logging boots, a jacket, and some other stuff stolen from me. What makes me mad is that I’d only shot the crossbow one time, and boots were the type with spikes in the soles and cost me $75, I only got a month wear out of them.
“Im sending this picture of Sheila and I. She doesn’t look like much but she’s a great girl, Mom. As much as I hate to say it, I think she has wedding (ish) plans for me this summer (if not earlier) and doesn’t look like I can get out of it this time (SEND HELP). I don’t think I’d make a good husband or father, but I can’t convince her that. Oh well, you can’t fight progress.
– – –
“Dear Mom & Dad,
This is not my idea. Sheila is sitting here threatening me. She says if I don’t write you tonight she won’t send me cookies out at camp.”
“I’ve been so busy with the wrestling team. I’m taking my Jr. Hi team down to Ketchikan for a tournament on the 19th of this month . . . I have four boys who could take the championship if I can teach them enough this week.
“I want to thank you for the Xmas gifts. The sweater is beautiful. I wear it more than anything else. The Pendleton fits just right and makes me stand out in a crowd. Tell Grandma and Grandpa that the gloves were perfect. It gets so cold up here and you can’t get a decent pair of gloves, just mittens and you know how I hate those. I needed socks too. I only had three pair left. The candy lasted until New Year’s but only because Sheila put me on rations. That Fanny Farmers candy is the best you can buy. Jeanie, your puzzle is one of the most popular things I own. Everybody wants to try it, and try it, and try it. Thank you all very much.”
“Sheila and I are planning a trip this Aug. and we hope to spend a few days in Mpls.”
“With Love Scott
“P.S. After reading this letter it sounds to me even like Sheila and I are living together, well nothing like that is happening (unfortunately) (It could have been a great winter) Just thought I’d put your minds to ease.
“Tramp L, my dog says hi to Harmon K. The L in his name stands for logger.”
“P.S.S. I tried to call Xmas Eve but I couldn’t get a line to Minnesota.”
– – –
“Dear Mom & Dad,
“This is going to be short because I’m a little sick and have to work tomorrow, so I want to get as much sleep as I can. Suzzie moved the wedding up on me. It’s all set for May 20th at night. I know it’s too soon, but she won’t reconsider. Her brother, Bill, is coming home from the navy on leave so she says it has to be then.
“I’ve got the rings but we can’t seem to find a decent apt. in town at all. Something will turn up Write as soon as you can.
“With love Scott”
– – –
“Dear Mom and Dad
“Here’s some pictures of our wedding . . . As you can see, she is just a little thing. You know how short I am and she’s wearing high heels and has her hair done up. We’ve been married 2 weeks last Saturday. So far everything’s ok, but what can you tell in 2 weeks. I guess we’ll just take it day by day.”
“She gets up at 5:30 and fixes breakfast for me and I get up at 6:00. I leave at 7:00, but she doesn’t go back to bed. She cleans house and then bakes all sorts of goodies for my lunch, like cake and cookies, homemade breads, pies, etc. I get home at 5:15 and clean up and she always has dinner on the table by 5:30. She’s a very good cook.”
“I’m running around almost bare-foot in the woods, because I’m waiting for a new pair of custom-made boots. They are real beauties, 14″ top, they have #1 calks (means the spikes in the bottom are almost 3/4″ long), black heels and lace to the toe with double tongues. But until then I’ve got some wonderful bruises from the falls I take because my old boots are worn-out.”
“Life with Susan is unbelievable. I don’t think she repeated a meal yet. I’m up to 153 lb. That’s more than I’ve ever weighted in my life. . . . To sum up my life to date, I feel great, I work great, and I’m greatly in love with Susan.”
“When I was sick my reputation went way down (as a good logger) so now it’s going to take me until at least August 1st to get it back. (If you can’t breathe you can’t work) Reputation is the most important thing up here.”
“One more thing I’ve been writing poetry, the last few weeks here’s a sample of one of my logging poems. . . “
– – –
August 15, 1972
“Dear Shirley & Wydell,
“I thought I would write you, since Scott’s in the bathtub, reading, & chewing Copanhagen. I’ve been trying to break him of the dirty habit, & it’s not working.”
“We have a special spot in camp we like to go. It’s about a fourth of a mie from camp. There’s a bridge with a little creek running under it. It has the most beautiful rocks in it and on the banks. The grass is kind of a lime green color and is very short. There’s small trout, and a few salmon in it. Actually, the whole place is beautiful.”
“God Bless You, Your daughter-in-law, Susan”
– – –
“Dear Mom & Dad,
“Thought I should write in the hopes I might get a letter in return. How’s that for a hint?
“Still got a happy marriage going after a whole 6 months.”
“We are planning a December 15 shut-down for the camp if the weather holds that long. When we do shut down, Susan and I are coming down for a visit. (Good news, bad news?)”
“I got a new promotion, I’m a rigging slinger now, make $6.48 an hr. I had my proudest moment in logging about 2 weeks by myself. I got 326 logs in one day I was pulling rigging and setting two chokers by myself. 326 logs is a good day for a 9 man crew, but for one man is unbelievable. Everett Tyler (the boss) said if he hadn’t seen the trucks hauling them he wouldn’t believe it. Needless to say, everything went just perfect. Susan says she goes around telling everybody about it.
“It sure is hard to keep men when it starts getting cold. They cry like a bunch of babies. If they think it’s cold they should spend a winter in Minnesota.”
“With love and homesickness Scott”
– – –
December 28, 1972
“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Habig
“Susan has told me how wonderful you both have been to her. Thank you so much for making her stay an enjoyable one.
“I can only say that I could never ask for a nicer son-in-law. They both teasingly call me a matchmaker, but I didn’t have a thing to do with it. They spent three wonderful days with us . . . Scott is so anxious to start logging again that he’s getting restless. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who loves logging like he does.”
“Wishing you all the very best in the coming New Year Virginia”
– – –
“Dear Mom & Dad,
“We were told on Thursday we could move into the big trailer. I told her we would move in Sunday when I had the day off to help her, but she had everything moved in by the time I got home Friday, so you tell me who was more excited about it.
“I’m a head digger now which is the job I want in the woods for the next ten years so everything is great here. By the way, are you people still going to try to make it up this summer?
“Love Scott & Sue”
June 3, 1973
“Dear Mom, Dad & Jeanie,
“We were wondering if you are coming up this summer, & if so, when?
“How is everyone? I hope nice & healthy. How’s Harmon? Is he still playing with his shoe and mouse? How’s Gram & Grampa, still buzzing around? Tell them I said Hi! How did Jeanie do in school? I hope fine.”
“Don still keeping up with the women. I hope he has or gets a good one.
“Mom, Dad, I suppose you have been working pretty hard. How’s the bowling and golf coming along? I hope Great!
“Scott’s over at the bunk house now, visiting with his friends. He’s going through his bad week, now that the pollen’s coming out, but other than that, he’s as healthy as a bear.”
“Lots of Love, Scott & Sue
P.S. Tramp says hello to Harmon!”
– – –
“Dear Mom and Dad,
“We had a forest fire here in July. It started at 6:00 at night and I didn’t get off the fire line until 7:00 the next morning. I got a little too much smoke a couple of times and was sick all over the place.”
“Susan and I are still very happy. I’m trying to teach her how to shoot but so far she can’t hit a thing. I had her out the other day showing her how to climb a tree with belt and spurs but that didn’t work out too well”
“‘With all my love, Scott & Susan
“P.S. Write once in a while or is the price of paper that high?”
– – –
After the funeral, Suzzie (that’s what we called her) stayed with us over the winter. I saw my world through the eyes of someone who had lived most of her life on an eight-mile stretch of town surrounded by wilderness. I think of those times often. She was a sister to me. I would like to have done the rest of my growing with her by my side. But it was time for this child-widow to move on.
– – –
September 15, 1973
“Dear Shirley, Wy, Jeanie & Don,
“I thought I should get my pen & paper out & write. I’m happy to say I had a real nice trip home. My plane ride was wonderful. I spent most of my time trying to figure out puzzles that I found in a magazine.”
“I told my mom about all the fresh corn, cucumbers, tomatoes, & radishes. She told me to stop talking about it, because I was making her hungry.”
“My older brother Chet Jr. will be leaving for college in January. So, I’ll get my old room back.”
“There was a friend of Scott’s and mine that came over from Tyler’s. He said, that he just got down working over at Nelson Log. He said the same guy that hit Scott almost got him too, so he quit. He talked to a guy over there that supposedly had seen the accident. They guy told our friend that the Nelson guy didn’t see anybody back there when he backed up. The first time he backed up, our friend told me Scott probably would have had just a few broken ribs. The second time he backed up, Scott saw him coming, so he went to jump on a pile of logs nearby, and the bark of the log came loose making Scott lose his grip & fall. The machine ran over him. I had a hunch that he was ran over, by his injuries, but I wasn’t all that sure. I finally got Scott’s extra pair of calk boots. Somebody stole his wedding band, which makes me sick to think about it. The witness to the accident went south & nobody knows where. “
“I sure miss you guys. After being down there for a while & coming back up here makes me bored. My girlfriends have been keeping me company, even though they have a family of their own to take care of.”
“All my love, Suzzie”
– – –
October 12, 1973
“I don’t know how many letters I write you and never send off, so here goes again. Don’t get me wrong, because I love to write. Although, I do wish you would write. I would like to know how things are going for everyone.”
“I know I let Jean’s birthday pass by, but I thought I would wait & get her something later on, when I get some money. I would also like to know your birthdays, Don’s, & Grandpa, & Grandma’s. Please don’t let this pass by, because I love you, & want you to know I care for you.”
“I go to the Post Office every day & get nothing but bills. (“Hint!”)
“I was wondering if I had any mail? If I do, would you please sent it right away? I also got word that I was sent money for funeral expenses so take it & pay for the expenses . . .I’m worried about the Trading Union letter, because I haven’t received a letter from them as of yet, and I have a buyer if they don’t. If I don’t hear from them, then I will go over to Petersburg and talk to the guy personally. I will do it very business-like, Mom. I’ll practice before I go over there.”
“God Bless You, All My Love, Suzzan”
– – –
November 26, 1973
“I thought I’d write and let you know the good news.
“I took a G.E.D. course for a week, and got word today that I passed. ‘Isn’t that great?’
“Love you, Suzzie”
– – –
December 28, 1973
“I wish I could have been home when you called. Mom told me I had just hopped into the taxi & you rang.”
“I would like to thank you for the robe, slippers & jewelry box. I like them all very much. I hope you liked your gifts.”
“Will close for now, I ran out of words.
“Love You, Susan”
– – –
Like the closing of a book, these were the last words I read. The rest of the file holds a contract for a marker purchase at Sunset Memorial Park, and a map with a faded red line showing the route the motorcade followed.
What shall I make of all this? Bits and pieces with little context. The constant chiding in hopes of receiving a letter or note. Had I known, would I have written? Did I write, but have since forgotten? The period was so brief in my young life that it’s vague, like a dream. All my life I have missed her, that sister who was at the same time older yet more naive than me.
For my mother it must have been an agonizing nightmare. A son, pushed from the nest, falling to his death just as he finds his wings. Encased in that, how could she possibly continue with the simple courtesy of letters, or the occasional phone call? She rarely spoke of this time, nor anything before or after it. That’s just the way we handled grief in our home. I think, at a time like that, it’s possible that she just ran out of words . . .
Trust implies unreserved belief in or reliance upon something or someone. Do I consider myself a trustworthy person? I do. I can keep information told to me in confidence. I can hold something valuable for someone without hocking it. I will, to the best of my ability, do something I tell you I will.
Why then, can’t I trust myself? Did it start in childhood? I showed up unexpectedly ten years after my mom had planned to be done bearing children. Living in a household of people who always knew better than me, maybe I learned trust was something you put in others.
Was it later when my instincts were nullified? When I was told that creepy men who tried to seduce young girls were just being nice? When I was told that the kiss on my cheek was nothing more than friendly?
Was it going straight from being taken care of by my parents to being taken care of by a husband? Being told how to think, what to believe? Certainly it was familiar — like having older siblings, parents, grandparents who always knew better. I let myself be taken care of. It was comfortable.
I learned through my children’s eyes how to be a trustworthy person. I still remember the first time my daughter caught me in a white lie. That is when I learned how to grow strong and be honest toward others. While I was teaching them it was honorable to follow through with promises, I was proving to myself it was possible.
And then the biggest promise of all was broken. Our family suffered a divorce. Suddenly, with no formal instruction, I was handed the reins to the rest of my life. I was one of those women who had never shopped for insurance, never bought a home, never had the oil changed in my car. I was like a child in a grown-up world. It was a necessity that I learn a lot in a very short time.
With my parents gone, I had no one to trust but myself. I can’t tell you how many times I wished, and still do, that I could ask my mom what to do. There are people in my life who can offer advice, but once my parents passed away there was no one left who would ever have as much invested in my life as me. No one who cared that much. I realized that it was time to invest in me, because no one else is going to. Time to trust in myself.
While I will tell anyone who asks, “You can trust me,” I don’t hold that same confidence in myself. I’ve let myself down. I’ve lied to myself. I’ve spent money I told myself I wouldn’t. I’ve given myself advice on things I know absolutely nothing about. Experience being the best teacher, I have no business trusting myself. Trust is not given, but earned. That takes time. Yet what I need more than anything right now is to be worthy of trust in myself.