The Reluctant Publisher

Tag: family

  • Family Crest or Family Nest

    I don’t have any tattoos and I probably never will. I can’t commit to any one image to permanently ink on my body. There are so many symbols I love that are part of my persona. However, the recent death of my sister has nudged me to reconsider. The grief process has made me realize the most important symbol to me is family.

    So what would a tattoo that symbolized family and the death of a sibling look like? For me, it is certainly not something as obvious as the image of a broken heart or a teardrop or her name in calligraphy (although I love her name and the word Polly looks great in cursive.)

    Because I am part of a family of six siblings, I first thought of a series of six lines of varying heights . . . none of them straight, all of them slightly flawed. They would all be dark blue like the shared color of our eyes. Polly’s line would be a lighter, brighter blue because her eyes were lighter and brighter than the rest of ours. 

    We are so much more than six individual lines though. We intersect and weave in and out of each other’s everyday lives. But we are always connected. In my vision, the lines then became sticks. Still, none were straight but they would be sturdy and maybe a little gnarly as if they had a past which we all have. 

    Perhaps those intertwined sticks become a nest. Maybe my symbol for my family is a nest. Nests are seemingly simple but often quite complex. They can be neat and tidy but constructed of very messy things like bits of garbage and saliva.

    Families can be messy, too. Often the bigger the messier. Nests can look precarious but are surprisingly stable. A nest’s interior is often lined with soft things like downy feathers, moss or cloth. Our family nest is lined with soft things, too. Mostly love and forgiveness.

    No matter how strong and sturdy a nest is, a strong wind or violent storm can break it. A piece of our family nest fell away when Polly died. Unlike nesting birds, we cannot rebuild or repair our nest. We have to go one with a hole in our nest. And we will. It’s not going to be the same or as much fun. We’ll use our memories of Polly as a patch but the nest will never be whole. 

    Is my tattoo a nest? If so, the nest would have a door on the side of it, slightly ajar, because the Polly spirit is always welcome.

  • Visiting My Mother’s Things

    Recently my niece posted a photo celebrating her baby’s first birthday. He’s adorable, front and center grinning in his festooned highchair. Getting to glimpse my great-nephew on his first birthday is one of the truly wonderful things about social media. As I often do, I looked behind the scenes of the photo and it was the background that really caught my eye. Hanging on the wall in my niece’s kitchen is the antique Regulator Clock that hung in the kitchen in our family home for decades. Seeing it there, again, was a little like running into an old friend. 

    My mother had good taste. She had a good fashion sense, too. She wasn’t chic or lavish but she loved clothes and jewelry and she wore both well. She knew and took advantage of a bargain when she saw one. One of her favorite pastimes was “antiquing” with her best friend. Thanks to her many outings, she acquired things that made our home lovely.  Vases, bowls, ornate letter openers, furniture, lamps, the Regulator Clock and so much more found just the right spot in our old stone house. 

    When it came time for my mother to sell the family house and move to a more manageable space, you would have thought downsizing would be the goal. Not really, She chose a large apartment with a formal living room, den, dining room and more bedrooms than she needed. I think she opted for this spacious apartment so she would have room for her lovely things. It’s not a fault. She was alone at this point with children and grandchildren visiting often but busy with their own lives. Her things were a little like old friends..

    Several years later, my mother died after a short and exhausting illness. The night she died, all six of her children slept at her apartment among her things. Her will stated that everything she had be divided evenly between the six of us. Over the years, each of us pointed out something that we were particularly fond of and she remembered. My brother always loved the grandfather clock. I loved her diamond and sapphire pinky ring. My sister, the Regulator Clock. Beyond that, we six children gathered in her apartment and began to select the items we wanted. One by one we picked something and then started over again. Round after round, most of my mother’s things were headed to new homes. It was incredibly civilized. I don’t think anyone left feeling slighted.  Several times one of us would offer, “I think you should have that” because of a certain tradition or memory.

    We all have pieces of her and it is evocative to see those things when we visit each other. The Persian rug looks warm and lovely in my sister’s house. Different vases and bowls reflect new light in another sister’s space. My brother still winds that grandfather clock and that Regulator Clock has moved onto the next generation in my niece’s house.

    I am glad  to have a few pieces of her furniture and a couple of funky brass letter openers. More importantly, I have a few pieces of her jewelry beyond that diamond and sapphire ring. I wear a piece of her jewelry to events that my mother would have liked. To me, I am bringing a piece of her with me to weddings, birthdays, reunions. My mother loved a good party and for a few minutes she’s there because I can see her in that piece of jewelry.

    , #antiques #clocks

  • Women’s History is My History

    It is Women’s History Month. I am surrounded by women in my life who make history every day. They are not in the headlines or trending on social media. But they make the world better as healers, teachers, artists, writers, readers and nurturers. Most are still here but many have passed away.

    Margaret Ryan Wagner, my maternal grandmother worked for women’s suffrage as a young woman and then as a young mother found herself alone, raising five children during the Great Depression after her husband died suddenly. Life was hard but she did it. The grandmother I knew was always a serious woman, focused and determined. She had to be. She found and held a job which put food on the table for her family. It may have been a meager meal sometimes but it was there. Her five children grew up to become college educated professionals, veterans who served their country proudly and then parents themselves. She never made headlines but she lowered her shoulder and pushed forward everyday of her life. Her history is my history.

    Anne Henrietta Mueller Troy, my paternal grandmother’s fate was similar but you might say a bit more extreme. Her husband also died suddenly leaving her with FIFTEEN children to raise ranging in age from six weeks to 22 years old. . . during The Great Depression. The stories those fifteen brothers and sisters could tell. They made it and found their way to success and created loving families of their own. Their history is my history.

    My sisters and me: Two business owners, an executive and a NP, PhD

    This army of cousins, sisters and friends who tumbled into my life are part of my history. They are healers, teachers, artists, writers and nurturers. They are founders of small businesses. They do things that make me say “wow”. They are talented. They inspire. Their achievements may not be historic. They are living lives of purpose and they hold others up rather than beat them down. On the way through the glass ceiling, they built their ladder not on the shoulders of others but with support of, and while supporting, others. And their ladders are strong enough to hold others. They are the mothers of successful female executives, physicians, educators and perhaps the grandmothers of a future president. They are wise and grounded. They love and care deeply. They may not be making headlines or be written about in history books but this world is better because they are in it. I am so proud that women like this are part of my history.

    Let’s recognize and celebrate the achievements that women like those who make up my history make everyday, often through necessity, adversity or inequality. Let’s celebrate the quiet strength and compassion of women this month and every month.

    There are lots of wonderful, loving and inspiring men in my history but this is Women’s History Month. I’ll write about the men when this administration officially declares the remaining eleven months of the year Men’s History Month.