I was driving home this afternoon from the mall with the CD player blasting in my car. I had an old Stevie Wonder song playing, "Isn't She Lovely?" and I started thinking about how I was when I was an ignorant child, and a foolish teenager. That song in particular brought back memories of my mother listening to that song, and my first reaction was guilt. When I heard her listening to it when I was a child I had reacted to her by saying, well it was more of a forced reaction due to my need for being cool, that it was a stupid song. And really it wasn't a stupid song. It's a beautiful song. A song about a man, a father, celebrating the joy of parenthood and sharing it with the world. But being the rebellious child that I was, well I wasn't all that rebellious, but I was rebellious with my mother, I didn't dare allow her to enjoy it or so I thought. If she liked a song, then I didn't. And not only did I not like that song, even if I secretly did, it was immoral for my mother to play it much less like it. I would almost become angry at her for liking a song. She could only like the songs that I permitted her to like. Perhaps it was more like contempt for her because she was my mother and she couldn't like a song that I liked. That defied the code of parents and popular music. And to make matters worse, my mother would then dance to the music. Granted she didn't have much rhythm, but how dare she dance to a popular song. But it gets worse my friends. To dance and play a popular song in front of my friends or in public at any kind of party or event, such as a wedding. Mortification sets in at this point. Just shoot me and die. As I sit here and reflect on these difficult memories, I recall that they continued on into my 20s, too. Oh, the foolishness of my stupid pride. My mother should've smacked me, and hard, too, for being so ignorant and unkind. She did nothing to deserve it, but she must've understood that fine line that parents walk on with their kids. While she didn't like how I was towards her with the issue of music, she never punished me for my cruelty. I kind of wish now that she had embarrassed me more than she did. I certainly deserved it. Maybe that foolishness really never goes away. I hope that there are others out there that have experienced this uncomfortable recollection of stupid behavior.
But now the tables have turned, and perhaps it's my twisted way of working out my past, as I now have the pleasure of embarassing my stepchildren, particularly my 15 year old stepson. I don't go to the extreme, but I have fun with it when the opportunity presents itself. He hates everyone already, so I have nothing to lose at this point. But eventually, hopefully, he'll grow out of this general hatred stage, and then I'll back off on embarassing him. Maybe. I guess we never really completely grow up, do we?
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Another Goodbye
It's always difficult to say goodbye to a loved one, whether they've died, moved out, or just leaving for a short time. And while it's most difficult to let go of someone, it can be challenging to let go of some thing, such as a car.
But this isn't any old car. Well, it's old. But this car carries with it many years of memories, and for me, it's a part of my late husband. It's his 1971 Oldsmobile 442. A classic car by any definition. The muscle car of muscle cars. The kind of car that makes heads turn and compells strangers to stop and talk about the car, their car, old cars and other stories. It's more than a piece of metal with an engine. It's a conversation piece, a toy, and a triumph. But it only sits in our garage taking up valuable space. I know. Shameful of me to speak this way of this piece of mechanical history. But it's true. My present husband and I had every intention of fixin' 'er up. But this requires money, knowledge and time. We have time, but not so much of the other two.
My present husband, Brad, had dreamed of tinkering with a muscle car again. Back in his younger days he and his brother took apart and refurbished old cars. But that was ages ago, and his knowledge of cars has dissipated into ether. He purchased a book or two to help, but the desire isn't what it once was. We had talked about rebuilding the car and taking it to car shows, big and small, and just having a fun car to drive around in on warm Sundays. And it was an investment. The car has increased in value over the years because of its rarity and Oldsmobile being phased out as a manufacturer. This rocket on four wheels was also going to contribute to our retirement. It was a great dream, and we had fun with it.
The part that is most difficult is letting go of my late husband. I mainly held on to this steel beauty for the memories. It was a big part of Mark's life. He viewed it like a child of his own, since he couldn't have any children of his own. He shared stories with me of when he first had it and how he would drag with other muscle cars in the neighborhood, and he would usually win these little races. He purchased the car from an elderly woman, a blue haired woman who was also a retired schoolteacher. She was the original owner. I wonder what possessed her to purchase such a car?
As we get closer to selling it, I find myself becoming more emotional and even grieving about it. It's almost like losing Mark again. I sat in the car the other day and imagined Mark driving it; shifting the gears, opening the windows, blasting the 8 track player with his favorite Badfinger songs, and just burning rubber. I caress the leather seats, adjust the rear view mirror and grip the steering wheel. I think about him and how happy he was when he drove the 442. I can picture him laughing and singing along with the stereo. And when he comes home he gently pulls his baby into the garage and then covers her with her blue blanket.
It's been five years since he died, but some days I can feel him and see him in my mind so clearly, as if it was yesterday. Slowly I've been sorting through his things, keeping what mattered most to me. But now it's time to let go of his baby, his 442. It will be like losing him all over again, but it will also be somewhat carthartic, too. But only on one condition will I sell it, the new owner must enjoy it and love it like he did.
But this isn't any old car. Well, it's old. But this car carries with it many years of memories, and for me, it's a part of my late husband. It's his 1971 Oldsmobile 442. A classic car by any definition. The muscle car of muscle cars. The kind of car that makes heads turn and compells strangers to stop and talk about the car, their car, old cars and other stories. It's more than a piece of metal with an engine. It's a conversation piece, a toy, and a triumph. But it only sits in our garage taking up valuable space. I know. Shameful of me to speak this way of this piece of mechanical history. But it's true. My present husband and I had every intention of fixin' 'er up. But this requires money, knowledge and time. We have time, but not so much of the other two.
My present husband, Brad, had dreamed of tinkering with a muscle car again. Back in his younger days he and his brother took apart and refurbished old cars. But that was ages ago, and his knowledge of cars has dissipated into ether. He purchased a book or two to help, but the desire isn't what it once was. We had talked about rebuilding the car and taking it to car shows, big and small, and just having a fun car to drive around in on warm Sundays. And it was an investment. The car has increased in value over the years because of its rarity and Oldsmobile being phased out as a manufacturer. This rocket on four wheels was also going to contribute to our retirement. It was a great dream, and we had fun with it.
The part that is most difficult is letting go of my late husband. I mainly held on to this steel beauty for the memories. It was a big part of Mark's life. He viewed it like a child of his own, since he couldn't have any children of his own. He shared stories with me of when he first had it and how he would drag with other muscle cars in the neighborhood, and he would usually win these little races. He purchased the car from an elderly woman, a blue haired woman who was also a retired schoolteacher. She was the original owner. I wonder what possessed her to purchase such a car?
As we get closer to selling it, I find myself becoming more emotional and even grieving about it. It's almost like losing Mark again. I sat in the car the other day and imagined Mark driving it; shifting the gears, opening the windows, blasting the 8 track player with his favorite Badfinger songs, and just burning rubber. I caress the leather seats, adjust the rear view mirror and grip the steering wheel. I think about him and how happy he was when he drove the 442. I can picture him laughing and singing along with the stereo. And when he comes home he gently pulls his baby into the garage and then covers her with her blue blanket.
It's been five years since he died, but some days I can feel him and see him in my mind so clearly, as if it was yesterday. Slowly I've been sorting through his things, keeping what mattered most to me. But now it's time to let go of his baby, his 442. It will be like losing him all over again, but it will also be somewhat carthartic, too. But only on one condition will I sell it, the new owner must enjoy it and love it like he did.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Our Heroes
Growing up we all had our heroes; Batman (my hero!), Superman, Wonder Woman, Spiderman and the list goes on. We would watch them on TV, read them in comic books or see them at the movies. We lived vicariously through them, through their good deeds, super powers and cool gadgets. Now we're adults, but who are our super heroes? Is it the President of the United States? A celebrity? A neighbor? Your parents?
We all seem to need a hero. Someone to look up to. Someone who has led their life in an admirable fashion or has done something that shouldn't go unnoticed. These are everyday people who have faced unusual challenges, but didn't run away. Rather they charged into the fire, fought the odds and came out stronger, and maybe even happier. One of these people is in my life; my mother-in-law, Jean. She's 82 years old, full of spunk and laughs all the time. She's lived through the Great Depression, WWII and other wars, the women's movement, and 14 presidents. She grew up in a well-to-do family with a nanny in southwest Michigan. She married very young and had four children. During these years her family lived the "good life" until the economy took a turn for the worst in the 70s. She was forced to go to work as her husband was struggling to make ends meet. But through it all, she never lost her faith. As the years rolled by her husband's health worsened and she became his caregiver. She never complained, she endured and had her friends to support her.
Early in the new 21st century she was bombarded with bad news and tragedy. First, she was diagnosed with breast cancer in her early 70s. Scared and unsure of her fate, she followed doctor's orders and had a mastectomy. After months of treatment, she was cancer free, but her husband's health was out of control. Within a year of her cancer treatment, her husband died. But despite the grief and sorrow she felt, she also knew that he was in a better place.
But more tragedy awaited her, to test her strength. Her youngest daughter, Darcy, had been diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes and had to undergo dialysis. During her first dialysis, she suffered a massive heart attack and died. The whole family was shocked and devastated. The family was still recovering from the death of their father. Darcy was only 52 years old and the mother of three boys.
This past Thanksgiving we enjoyed Jean's company at our new home. We had the usual dishes, lots of laughter and great conversation. The day after Thanksgiving Jean and I decided to go shopping. We endured the long lines, made new friends in those long lines and her and I had a heart to heart talk. I asked her, point blank, how she survived so much tragedy and sadness in such a short period of time. She told me that when her husband died that she knew he was in a better place. And while she would miss him, she knew his quality of life wasn't what it once was and he was at peace now. As for her daughter's untimely death, same thing. Her daughter's health, too, had suffered and Jean felt she was probably in a better place, too. She told me she had to see it this way or she couldn't move on. It was too much to deal with, but she found a way. After that conversation, my admiration and respect for Jean grew, tremendously.
Jean has demonstrated to me faith, hope and strength, despite the challenges presented to her. She has maintained a positive attitude, a love of life and a sense of humor. Next week she's flying down to Florida to hang out with her sister for a week. And probably after that she'll be going to a bridge card tournament, as she frequently does. And this is why she's my hero.
We all seem to need a hero. Someone to look up to. Someone who has led their life in an admirable fashion or has done something that shouldn't go unnoticed. These are everyday people who have faced unusual challenges, but didn't run away. Rather they charged into the fire, fought the odds and came out stronger, and maybe even happier. One of these people is in my life; my mother-in-law, Jean. She's 82 years old, full of spunk and laughs all the time. She's lived through the Great Depression, WWII and other wars, the women's movement, and 14 presidents. She grew up in a well-to-do family with a nanny in southwest Michigan. She married very young and had four children. During these years her family lived the "good life" until the economy took a turn for the worst in the 70s. She was forced to go to work as her husband was struggling to make ends meet. But through it all, she never lost her faith. As the years rolled by her husband's health worsened and she became his caregiver. She never complained, she endured and had her friends to support her.
Early in the new 21st century she was bombarded with bad news and tragedy. First, she was diagnosed with breast cancer in her early 70s. Scared and unsure of her fate, she followed doctor's orders and had a mastectomy. After months of treatment, she was cancer free, but her husband's health was out of control. Within a year of her cancer treatment, her husband died. But despite the grief and sorrow she felt, she also knew that he was in a better place.
But more tragedy awaited her, to test her strength. Her youngest daughter, Darcy, had been diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes and had to undergo dialysis. During her first dialysis, she suffered a massive heart attack and died. The whole family was shocked and devastated. The family was still recovering from the death of their father. Darcy was only 52 years old and the mother of three boys.
This past Thanksgiving we enjoyed Jean's company at our new home. We had the usual dishes, lots of laughter and great conversation. The day after Thanksgiving Jean and I decided to go shopping. We endured the long lines, made new friends in those long lines and her and I had a heart to heart talk. I asked her, point blank, how she survived so much tragedy and sadness in such a short period of time. She told me that when her husband died that she knew he was in a better place. And while she would miss him, she knew his quality of life wasn't what it once was and he was at peace now. As for her daughter's untimely death, same thing. Her daughter's health, too, had suffered and Jean felt she was probably in a better place, too. She told me she had to see it this way or she couldn't move on. It was too much to deal with, but she found a way. After that conversation, my admiration and respect for Jean grew, tremendously.
Jean has demonstrated to me faith, hope and strength, despite the challenges presented to her. She has maintained a positive attitude, a love of life and a sense of humor. Next week she's flying down to Florida to hang out with her sister for a week. And probably after that she'll be going to a bridge card tournament, as she frequently does. And this is why she's my hero.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Advice for the Grief Stricken
In the last few weeks I've experienced the loss of an old friend and ex-stepmother. It's the most difficult time for those who were close to these passed souls. A time of tears, a time of sadness, a time of change. The awkward realization of a present void. Stopping yourself from picking up the phone and calling someone who will no longer answer at the other end. A half-empty bed, one less person at the dinner table and the deep searing pain of loss. Just getting through the day is the biggest challenge. The minutes drag only to remind you of your heartfelt grief, and time can't pass quickly enough. Quickly enough to get to a place of less pain, less sorrow and maybe a hint of something resembling happiness will come and quash the desperate pain that pierces your heart.
Five years ago I was feeling all this and more. Five years ago my husband died suddenly and I was left with a tidal wave of consuming emotions. I was forced to start a new life, but first I had to get through my grieving and sorrow. I didn't care about anything, not even myself. I just tried to get through the day and wanted time to pass more quickly so I could get to the other side of grief. Grief is similar to having the flu. The icky feeling never seems to go away and you can't wait to get over it so you can carry on with your life as usual. But "usual" after loss doesn't apply anymore. You are forced to start a new "usual", a new routine and a new life.
While I was trying to sort through all these profound emotions, I did have to take care of myself. I had to eat, sleep, bathe and dress myself. But each task required great effort on some days. One day I decided I needed to get out and maybe treat myself to some beautification. I went to see my hairdresser for a haircut and told her of my horrible news. She was floored and deeply sympathetic. And for once she was speechless. She was so kind to me and it was apparent that she wanted to do more for me, but like most people, she was helpless to my situation. As I was leaving to pay my bill I was talking to her at the reception desk. We were still discussing my news and another woman was at the counter and overhead our conversation. She interjected and told me to be good to myself. Good to myself? Yes. She, too, had lost her husband in recent years and fully understood my pain and grief. But she insisted that I treat myself to something that I normally wouldn't do for myself. She was probably 25 years my senior and had a kind face. She talked to me the way your favorite grandmother talked to you. It was endearing and coming from a stranger had meant more to me than hearing it from a close friend or relative. She was sincere and I felt the warmth in her voice. Her hand, decorated with a stunning wedding ring and signs of years of caring and cleaning, touched my hand as she offered her words of wisdom. At that moment I scheduled a massage for myself at the spa for the following week.
As I continued on my journey of grief and discovery, I also took care of myself. It was up to me to take care of myself. To go beyond the daily routines of being human and to indulge in a massage, a nice dinner at a new restaurant, a facial to exfoliate the pain from my face, to purchase a new outfit at a better department store and maybe to sleep in once in a while. A leisurely day of doing...nothing. Maybe a drive in the country or to visit an old friend. Just to take the time to pamper myself a little, a reminder that I deserve to feel good, even if only for a few minutes.
A stranger's kind words evoked a feeling of hope within me. Hope that one day I could truly enjoy and embrace the warmth of the sun on my face. Hope that one day sadness has been pushed out by contentment, and maybe a glimmer of happiness. Perhaps these words from this stranger meant more because she, too, had once been in my shoes. She understood the desperate pain that overcomes you when you're in the abyss of sorrow. She was a kind of kindred spirit and I will never forget her and her gesture of kindness.
To all my friends and family who are suffering now with grief and sorrow, please, be good to yourself.
Five years ago I was feeling all this and more. Five years ago my husband died suddenly and I was left with a tidal wave of consuming emotions. I was forced to start a new life, but first I had to get through my grieving and sorrow. I didn't care about anything, not even myself. I just tried to get through the day and wanted time to pass more quickly so I could get to the other side of grief. Grief is similar to having the flu. The icky feeling never seems to go away and you can't wait to get over it so you can carry on with your life as usual. But "usual" after loss doesn't apply anymore. You are forced to start a new "usual", a new routine and a new life.
While I was trying to sort through all these profound emotions, I did have to take care of myself. I had to eat, sleep, bathe and dress myself. But each task required great effort on some days. One day I decided I needed to get out and maybe treat myself to some beautification. I went to see my hairdresser for a haircut and told her of my horrible news. She was floored and deeply sympathetic. And for once she was speechless. She was so kind to me and it was apparent that she wanted to do more for me, but like most people, she was helpless to my situation. As I was leaving to pay my bill I was talking to her at the reception desk. We were still discussing my news and another woman was at the counter and overhead our conversation. She interjected and told me to be good to myself. Good to myself? Yes. She, too, had lost her husband in recent years and fully understood my pain and grief. But she insisted that I treat myself to something that I normally wouldn't do for myself. She was probably 25 years my senior and had a kind face. She talked to me the way your favorite grandmother talked to you. It was endearing and coming from a stranger had meant more to me than hearing it from a close friend or relative. She was sincere and I felt the warmth in her voice. Her hand, decorated with a stunning wedding ring and signs of years of caring and cleaning, touched my hand as she offered her words of wisdom. At that moment I scheduled a massage for myself at the spa for the following week.
As I continued on my journey of grief and discovery, I also took care of myself. It was up to me to take care of myself. To go beyond the daily routines of being human and to indulge in a massage, a nice dinner at a new restaurant, a facial to exfoliate the pain from my face, to purchase a new outfit at a better department store and maybe to sleep in once in a while. A leisurely day of doing...nothing. Maybe a drive in the country or to visit an old friend. Just to take the time to pamper myself a little, a reminder that I deserve to feel good, even if only for a few minutes.
A stranger's kind words evoked a feeling of hope within me. Hope that one day I could truly enjoy and embrace the warmth of the sun on my face. Hope that one day sadness has been pushed out by contentment, and maybe a glimmer of happiness. Perhaps these words from this stranger meant more because she, too, had once been in my shoes. She understood the desperate pain that overcomes you when you're in the abyss of sorrow. She was a kind of kindred spirit and I will never forget her and her gesture of kindness.
To all my friends and family who are suffering now with grief and sorrow, please, be good to yourself.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Time To Heal, Time To Forgive
It's time to heal. Not a bruise or bump type of healing. Healing of the heart and mind. Time to mend some scars and let the past stay in the past. Last week my ex-stepmother died. No need to be sorry or sad for me. This was a woman who tortured my brother and me for 13 years. And got away with it, more or less.
My parents divorced when I was 5 years old, and my father remarried when I was 7 years old. At first she seemed nice and kind. But once the gold band was placed on her finger, that all changed. She humiliated us, spanked us, slapped us, washed out my mouth with soap for saying "Oh my God", continually insulted our mother, and was just plain mean to us. And without good reason. We were good kids, but we felt so alone. No one believed us, no one saw what she did, no one seemed to care. At least in the eyes of an innocent child. I was never disrespectful towards her nor sarcastic. But it made no difference how well behaved we were, she would still punish us. My father finally divorced her when I was 20 years old. By then the damage was done. But she was no longer my stepmother. Just a nightmare of my past.
She left a lot of scars. In some ways, she destroyed my childhood. The innocent years were no more. Sure, I can justify or find reason for her cruelty, but it doesn't take away the pain nor does it make it right. Whatever was hurting her and making her so angry against the world, was taken out on me, my brother, and even my stepbrother, her son. I'm sure she didn't think that what she was doing was wrong or harmful. But it was. In some small miniscule region of my heart I do feel for her, and I knew she was suffering from something painful, too. I don't know why she did what she did, but does it really matter? Two wrongs don't make a right, right? It's a domino effect. When someone hurts someone else, that pain can turn into anger and be inflicted upon someone else, and so on, and so on. And those people that have been hurt can affect others in other ways, too, besides abuse. It starts out as a small snowball and turns into an avalanche of pain and sadness.
She's dead now. I don't feel sad for her death. If she died lonely or miserable, it was her own doing. Help is always available. But I'm not a psychologist or counselor. I'm a victim of someone else's pain. And I have found it very difficult to forgive her. How do you forgive so much pain? Regardless if they knew what they were doing was wrong or not? Regardless of anything. How do you forgive? I don't want to be a victim anymore. I'm a survivor. Maybe now is the time to help others with similar stories and similar pain. Maybe now is the time to let sleeping dogs lie.
My parents divorced when I was 5 years old, and my father remarried when I was 7 years old. At first she seemed nice and kind. But once the gold band was placed on her finger, that all changed. She humiliated us, spanked us, slapped us, washed out my mouth with soap for saying "Oh my God", continually insulted our mother, and was just plain mean to us. And without good reason. We were good kids, but we felt so alone. No one believed us, no one saw what she did, no one seemed to care. At least in the eyes of an innocent child. I was never disrespectful towards her nor sarcastic. But it made no difference how well behaved we were, she would still punish us. My father finally divorced her when I was 20 years old. By then the damage was done. But she was no longer my stepmother. Just a nightmare of my past.
She left a lot of scars. In some ways, she destroyed my childhood. The innocent years were no more. Sure, I can justify or find reason for her cruelty, but it doesn't take away the pain nor does it make it right. Whatever was hurting her and making her so angry against the world, was taken out on me, my brother, and even my stepbrother, her son. I'm sure she didn't think that what she was doing was wrong or harmful. But it was. In some small miniscule region of my heart I do feel for her, and I knew she was suffering from something painful, too. I don't know why she did what she did, but does it really matter? Two wrongs don't make a right, right? It's a domino effect. When someone hurts someone else, that pain can turn into anger and be inflicted upon someone else, and so on, and so on. And those people that have been hurt can affect others in other ways, too, besides abuse. It starts out as a small snowball and turns into an avalanche of pain and sadness.
She's dead now. I don't feel sad for her death. If she died lonely or miserable, it was her own doing. Help is always available. But I'm not a psychologist or counselor. I'm a victim of someone else's pain. And I have found it very difficult to forgive her. How do you forgive so much pain? Regardless if they knew what they were doing was wrong or not? Regardless of anything. How do you forgive? I don't want to be a victim anymore. I'm a survivor. Maybe now is the time to help others with similar stories and similar pain. Maybe now is the time to let sleeping dogs lie.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Alive in our Hearts
It's so difficult to say goodbye to a loved one who has passed away. Regardless of how old they were, we never want to lose our loved ones. Whether they were 96 or 46, it's always too soon. A few days ago, many friends and family had to muster up the strength to do such a thing when Marla was laid to rest. Now Lombard has a void. A deep void. A long time resident, a teacher, a community helper, a student of life, a mother, a wife, a daughter and a dear friend is gone.
I was one of hundreds who paid their last respects last week at Marla's wake. Quite frankly, her name doesn't belong in that sentence. She was taken too young and too soon. As I stood in the receiving line, I became reacquainted with Marla. There were numerous collages of pictures of her throughout the funeral home. Each collage represented a different era in her shortened life. And in every picture was her infectious smile and radiating warmth. I even saw a childlike quality in those pictures. A quality that perhaps explains why so many people were drawn to her. I overheard several conversations in that funeral home, too. Many friends, old and new, were recalling good times with Marla; driving to work together when her car broke down and laughing about it was one of many stories shared that night. Other people remembered her smile. A smile that never seemed to leave her face.
Another close friend talked about how Marla was everyone's cheerleader. Whether you were going through a difficult time in your life or just lost a pound on a diet, Marla would cheer you on, encourage you and celebrate your victories. She was the epitomy of a good friend. I hadn't seen her in many years, but she clearly hadn't changed. A good thing for everyone who knew her.
Even though Marla is gone, (again, her name doesn't belong there) her legacy will live on through her family, friends, co-workers, students and neighbors. She left a deep footprint in the hearts of many, and through them, her memory will be kept alive for generations to come.
I found myself inspired by Marla and how she lived. So much so, that I've decided to become involved in volunteer work again. To give back, to help others and become more involved in my community. I want to become a little bit like Marla.
I was one of hundreds who paid their last respects last week at Marla's wake. Quite frankly, her name doesn't belong in that sentence. She was taken too young and too soon. As I stood in the receiving line, I became reacquainted with Marla. There were numerous collages of pictures of her throughout the funeral home. Each collage represented a different era in her shortened life. And in every picture was her infectious smile and radiating warmth. I even saw a childlike quality in those pictures. A quality that perhaps explains why so many people were drawn to her. I overheard several conversations in that funeral home, too. Many friends, old and new, were recalling good times with Marla; driving to work together when her car broke down and laughing about it was one of many stories shared that night. Other people remembered her smile. A smile that never seemed to leave her face.
Another close friend talked about how Marla was everyone's cheerleader. Whether you were going through a difficult time in your life or just lost a pound on a diet, Marla would cheer you on, encourage you and celebrate your victories. She was the epitomy of a good friend. I hadn't seen her in many years, but she clearly hadn't changed. A good thing for everyone who knew her.
Even though Marla is gone, (again, her name doesn't belong there) her legacy will live on through her family, friends, co-workers, students and neighbors. She left a deep footprint in the hearts of many, and through them, her memory will be kept alive for generations to come.
I found myself inspired by Marla and how she lived. So much so, that I've decided to become involved in volunteer work again. To give back, to help others and become more involved in my community. I want to become a little bit like Marla.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Do You Remember 1st Grade?
It's been a long weekend with the tragic news of losing our friend and classmate, Marla Fawell Fitzgerald. It's been a weekend of reflection and recalling memories of childhood. While doing my daily household chores and homework, I found myself thinking about Lincoln School, Mike's Meat Market, Henderson's, Dairy Queen and Lilacia Park. These are or were landmarks and popular businesses in my hometown of Lombard, IL.
Lombard is known as the "Lilac Village" and for a good reason! In the downtown area there is a 10 acre park that we know as Lilacia Park. It's a gorgeous park or large garden filled with my favorite flowers, lilacs. To this day I still visit this lovely park no matter where I live. And then next to the park is the Helen M. Plum Library. How many hours did we all spend there researching for high school papers or when we were little kids looking for our favorite Dr. Seuss books. I still remember going to a viewing of a Dracula movie at the library when I was about 8 years old, and it traumatized me!
Lincoln School. My favorite school, and I went to several schools in Lombard as we moved around a few times when I was young. It stood tall and had a presence about it. At least in the eyes of a little kid. I remember the large boulder in front of the school with all the names of veterans who died in WWI that were from Lombard. The school itself was architecturally interesting. It was built in 1914, so it looked nothing like any of the other schools in town. It stood three stories tall with wide staircases. There was a stage in the gym and an incernerator separate from the building with a tall smoke stack. I remember when they painted the walls in the school using the colorful palette of the 70s. Some walls were bright orange or green or purple. And as a young child it didn't seem right to paint this old structure such modern colors.
Lincoln School is where I met Marla and we became friends. We played in the large playground. I remember the swings, the two sets of crossing bars, the monkey bars and slides. We played "Mother May I", "Green Light, Red Light", statuemaker, girls chase the boys (my favorite!) and other games. I remember one year when the cicadas arrived and we would all hang out by the back wall and play with them. Today I can't stand the sound of them!
I can pretty much remember the names of all my teachers, particularly at Lincoln School. My first grade teacher was Mrs. Huzinger, then Mrs. Haugen for 2nd grade and finally Miss Furman (who later married and became Mrs. Hunter). I loved all them! I think Miss Furman was my favorite. When I was in 3rd grade I was seriously injured and was hospitalized for 2-3 weeks. Miss Furman came to visit me and gave me a handmade stuffed frog. I cherished that gift for many years. And I still remember receiving an envelope filled with handmade Get Well cards from all my classmates. I could probably name about half of my classmates from those grades; Laura Tyndall, Lisa Ladd, Mike Szudarski, Betina Woolensack, Neal Alexander, Craig Oddo, Debbie Raetzke, Madge Anders, Pam Nelson and of course, Marla.
This is only a handful of memories that I have of Lombard, and Marla. Please share your memories!
Lombard is known as the "Lilac Village" and for a good reason! In the downtown area there is a 10 acre park that we know as Lilacia Park. It's a gorgeous park or large garden filled with my favorite flowers, lilacs. To this day I still visit this lovely park no matter where I live. And then next to the park is the Helen M. Plum Library. How many hours did we all spend there researching for high school papers or when we were little kids looking for our favorite Dr. Seuss books. I still remember going to a viewing of a Dracula movie at the library when I was about 8 years old, and it traumatized me!
Lincoln School. My favorite school, and I went to several schools in Lombard as we moved around a few times when I was young. It stood tall and had a presence about it. At least in the eyes of a little kid. I remember the large boulder in front of the school with all the names of veterans who died in WWI that were from Lombard. The school itself was architecturally interesting. It was built in 1914, so it looked nothing like any of the other schools in town. It stood three stories tall with wide staircases. There was a stage in the gym and an incernerator separate from the building with a tall smoke stack. I remember when they painted the walls in the school using the colorful palette of the 70s. Some walls were bright orange or green or purple. And as a young child it didn't seem right to paint this old structure such modern colors.
Lincoln School is where I met Marla and we became friends. We played in the large playground. I remember the swings, the two sets of crossing bars, the monkey bars and slides. We played "Mother May I", "Green Light, Red Light", statuemaker, girls chase the boys (my favorite!) and other games. I remember one year when the cicadas arrived and we would all hang out by the back wall and play with them. Today I can't stand the sound of them!
I can pretty much remember the names of all my teachers, particularly at Lincoln School. My first grade teacher was Mrs. Huzinger, then Mrs. Haugen for 2nd grade and finally Miss Furman (who later married and became Mrs. Hunter). I loved all them! I think Miss Furman was my favorite. When I was in 3rd grade I was seriously injured and was hospitalized for 2-3 weeks. Miss Furman came to visit me and gave me a handmade stuffed frog. I cherished that gift for many years. And I still remember receiving an envelope filled with handmade Get Well cards from all my classmates. I could probably name about half of my classmates from those grades; Laura Tyndall, Lisa Ladd, Mike Szudarski, Betina Woolensack, Neal Alexander, Craig Oddo, Debbie Raetzke, Madge Anders, Pam Nelson and of course, Marla.
This is only a handful of memories that I have of Lombard, and Marla. Please share your memories!
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