Gathering the Village

I knew I was in over my head. I was a newly divorced mother of a five-year-old daughter, Katherine. I had a full time job and a house with a very big yard to take care of. With all I had on my plate, I truly worried that I wasn’t going to be able to be a very good mother. Raising a child was a important job and I hadn’t been at it all that long. Of course, my family was very supportive. My parents doted on Katherine, as did my sisters (to this day Katherine calls them “Auntie Karla” and “Auntie Karyl”). There were fun uncles and scores of cousins as well. Unfortunately, however, they all lived in Colorado, 1300 miles away. I knew that if I was going to make it through this transition with any sort of stability for both myself and my daughter, I needed help. Lots of it.

I decided to assemble a group of people who would help me mother my daughter, thinking that if I surrounded Katherine with enough remarkable women, I would not only be able to cover areas where I might be weak, tired or inexperienced, but that there was also strength in numbers. The phrase “it takes a village to raise a child” was widely circulating at the time, especially in the counseling circles where I worked. It’s a notion I whole-heartedly adopted. I literally had the t-shirt.

I deliberately set out to create my own village. In addition to my own mother and sisters, my village had a few early members. One was Katherine’s Aunt Dixie, who stayed just as embedded—maybe more embedded–in my life even after her brother and I divorced. Dixie had a daughter, Casey, and treated Katherine like a second child. Dixie’s mother, Katie Bess’s “Nanny Jo,” was a constant presence, driving to my house from her home on the Oregon coast once a week to give me a night off.

Wendy, my dear friend and college roommate who was also Katherine’s godmother, would take Katherine to her apartment where they’d bake cookies or put together puzzles. Not surprisingly, Katherine’s first favorite letter was “W,” and Wendy hand-crafted an entire book of “W” words, which we still have.

And then there was Jill, or “Jilly Jill” as Katherine dubbed her. Just sixteen when I hired her as my very first babysitter, Jill apparently decided to take me under her wing, a decision for which I am forever grateful.  Jill settled in for the long haul and literally became Katherines’s “Other Mother.” (You can read about it in my  blog post). Because we somewhat resembled each other, Jill and I were often mistaken for sisters. It wasn’t much of a stretch, then, that she was also often mistaken as Katherine’s mom. I was fine with this. Delighted even. To make it an even better deal, Jill’s parents, Barbara and Tom, became another set of grandparents to Katherine, enlarging the village.

Other members came later. There was Katherine’s third-grade teacher, Ms. Reay, who really bonded with her and kept in touch over the years. And Ms. Romine, the TAG coordinator, a woman without whom, I think it’s fair to say, Katherine would have ended up hating school.

When Doug and I married  several years later, I not only  increased Katherine’s circle of parents, but expanded the village again. There was Nana, another grandmother to love her, and Doug’s sisters, Susie and Julie and Jane, all interesting, thoughtful women.

Just when I thought the village was pretty complete, a few more people came along. Katherine’s dad Kelly met a marvelous woman named Sabine. When they decided to get married, I was pleased to know that while Katherine was gaining another mother, I was gaining a friend.

Friends, it turns out, are a rich resource as well. While my friends are so important to me, keeping me grounded and sane, they nourish the lives of my kids as well. I know that my friends Elizabeth and Heidi would jump in in a heartbeat if any of my children needed anything.

Katherine is now 25 years old and is getting married this summer to a terrific man named Ryan. I’m thrilled. Not only are they a strong couple, but it occurs to me that Katherine’s village is exponentially enlarged. She’s gaining yet another mother in Ryan’s mom, Mary, who brings yet another voice, another vision to Katherine’s life. But this addition was Katherine’s own doing. I did my part early on, but she’s fully in charge now.

When I considered what kind of bridal shower I wanted to host for my daughter, my first thought was to have a celebration honoring all of the women who helped Katherine build the life she has now. Which is what we did this past Saturday. It seemed fitting that the date happened to fall on Mother’s Day weekend. Not everyone was able to attend, particularly those who lived out of town, but we had a good turnout, including many of the women I’ve talked about, as well as two of Katherine’s sisters, Kate and Sarah, and her best friend Jordan. The younger generation is now building a village all their own.

The day turned out just the way I’d hoped, giving me and Katherine an opportunity to publicly thank the remarkable women who helped me be a better mother, and who filled in the spaces I couldn’t reach. I looked around my house, filled with some of my favorite people in the world: smart, creative, talented, funny, and altogether beautiful women.

It took a village, and I somehow managed to find a good one. Every once in a while, however, it’s lovely to have a reunion.

Driving Lessons

I apologize in advance to my father for having to endure this story one more time, and in public. I’m publishing it anyway because . . . well, because I love it, and it has become one of those well-polished  stories that somehow always shows up at holidays and family gatherings. At the time the story took place, my family was living in a small house on Bush Street in Southmoor Park, and my sisters and I were close to the ages we are in the photo. And I don’t know if I’ve included a photo of the same car. But you get the idea. Ultimately, it’s not a story about cars and driving. It’s a story about my father and his ingenuity and problem-solving. It’s also about how much a little girl can love her dad. Although I am now decades older, my father is still an ingenious problem-solver and this little girl still  adores her father.

Maybe my family memory will remind you of a  story that’s hung around your house for decades. Maybe, just maybe,  you’ll  write it down.

Enjoy!

Driving Lessons

Sundays passed in an unaltered rhythm when I was young.  After church and a meal of pot roast, canned peas, and a salad made of Cool Whip and fruit cocktail, my mother took off her shoes, went into her bedroom and closed the door against me and my two younger sisters.  It was the one time in the week she could count on taking a nap.

I would push against the door.

“But what if I need you,” I would whine.  I was seven and needed to be prepared.

“Ask your father,” she said.  I heard the click of the door latch. “He’s out front.”

Which is how my five-year-old sister, Karla, and I came to be sitting in the grass of the front yard, tormenting roly-poly bugs, while our toddler sister, Karyl, played with spoons on a blanket beside us.  Dad tinkered over the engine of our turquoise Nash Rambler, trying to coax it to one more week’s service.  Screwdrivers, greasy rags and wrenches littered the sidewalk.  Finally he stood and wiped the grime from his hands.

“No use,” he said, lifting the car hood from its support and letting it drop with a clank. “I’m going to have to jump-start it.”

I rolled the well-armored bug in my palm.  “What’s that?” I asked.

Dad propped his hands on his hips.  “I’ll hook up the Mercury in front of this car to pull it.”

“The black car?” I asked.

“Yeah, the black car,” he said.  “You’ll drive the black car and pull me in the green car until I can get it started.”

The roly-poly bug unfurled on its back, its many legs sweeping the air.  I brushed my finger against them and the bug rolled up again.  “But I don’t know how to drive,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” said Dad.  “I’ll show you.”

Soon, I was in the driver’s seat of the Mercury.  Karla knelt backwards beside me, her arms propped over the back of the bench seat.  Karyl sat in the back.  No seatbelts.  If I slid to the edge of the slick vinyl seat and gripped the steering wheel, I could just reach the gas pedal, which, my father told me, was the only pedal I needed to worry about.  I was supposed to push on the gas slowly, keep the steering wheel straight, and drive down the street.

“Now Barbie,” he said, “whatever you do, don’t step on the brake.”  He leaned through the open car window.  “I’ll be right behind you, hooked to this car with a chain.  I’ll stop you when it’s time.  Just leave the brake alone.”

I stared over the steering wheel down the street a few hundred yards ahead where the pavement dead-ended at a deep irrigation ditch.  Filled with tall grasses, dank water and an abundance of grasshoppers, the ditch was a tempting yet scary place to play.  From the driver’s seat of a car, it looked very near.

“Don’t stop?  Ever?” I looked back at my father.  A smudge of grease colored his chin.  His black-rimmed glasses framed his eyes.  He was so strong, so wise.  I desperately wanted to please him. “Okay, Daddy,” I said.

He climbed into the car behind us.  I stared straight ahead. Karla looked over the back seat.  “Daddy’s waving,” she said.

I gripped the steering wheel harder and pushed the gas pedal.  The car lurched forward.  I heard a loud, grinding clatter, but continued to push on the gas.  I stared at the black strip of pavement, watching it disappear beneath the front of the car.

Karla stood next to me, looking backward.  “Daddy’s waving again,” she said.

I ignored her.  I focused on that black strip of road and the gas pedal.  We neared the end of the street.  The ditch loomed closer.  I wanted to stop.  But Daddy had said don’t stop and Daddy knew best.  This I knew for sure.

What I didn’t know, couldn’t know, was that the chain connecting our cars had fallen off.  My father sat in the front of the dead Nash Rambler, watching me drive all three of his children toward a 10-foot drop into an irrigation ditch with specific instructions not to stop.

He got out of the Nash and started running.

If Karla saw him racing toward us, she said nothing.  She just knelt beside me, her back to the impending drop-off, and watched him run.

I was surprised, then, to see movement out of the corner of my left eye.  My father had reached my door, and jerked on the handle to open it.

Suddenly, I knew that I had screwed up somehow.  I’d misunderstood what he’d said.  I’d done it all wrong. My father, who knew all things, could fix all things, would be disappointed in me.

I slammed on the brake.

Unfortunately, I’d braked just as my father opened my door. He smashed into the open door, knocking his breath away.  He fell to the pavement, his hands to his chest, gasping for air.  I cried, seeing my father on the ground, knowing that I had made some sort of mistake to put him there. My sisters, seeing me cry, started wailing.

My father pushed himself to a seated position, still struggling for breath, and reached for my hand.

“’s okay, . . . .  Barbie,” he said, pulling me with my my gangly legs and arms onto his lap. “Not . . . your . . . fault.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.  I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I cried into his shirt, tears creating a big wet patch, my nose running.

“My fault . . . I . . . should’ve known . . . better,” he said, rocking me, pulling my sisters into the pile as well.  “It’s okay.  Shhh.  It’s okay now.”

I let him rock me until my my sobs subsided. Finally I was spent, reduced to occasional hiccuping gasps as I rested my head on his shoulder. “Snubbing,” my grandmother called it. I felt calmer, and yet it seemed like we’d crossed some sort of a line. My seven-year-old mind was trying to grasp two new concepts, as foreign to me as driving a car. First, my father had made a mistake. I couldn’t recall a time when that had ever happened before. My daddy wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t invincible. This might have been a devastating realization, were it not coupled with my other new piece of awareness: my father was really, really scared, and I somehow knew that the thing that frightened him the most was losing me.  I had always understood that my father–both my parents, actually–loved me and had somehow been put on this earth to take care of and provide for me and my sisters. It was a rule, a given, and something I had always taken for granted. But the realization that this love somehow cost him something was new. Imagining this fact as I sat curled on his lap, safe, warmed me. I realized that this is what it meant to be loved.

There we all sat in the middle of the road.  The Nash was far behind us, tethered to one end of the useless chain.  The black car squatted on the pavement, the door still open.  But it was all right now.  We were all okay, and Daddy was back in charge.

Eventually we stood and my father brushed dirt and gravel from his jeans. I wiped my nose on the back of my arm. Dad picked Karyl up and bounced her on one hip until she giggled.

“What do we do with the green car?” I asked.

He stared at the Nash for a moment and sighed.  “Just leave it there,” he said.  “It’ll wait.”  Karla ran ahead. My dad held Karyl in one arm, draping the other arm around my shoulders as we walked back into the house.  I let the screen door slam behind me.

“Shhhh,” Dad said, “Let’s not wake Mommy.”

When A Word Chooses You

Last week, I wrote about trading in the idea of new year’s resolutions for the simplicity of adopting a single word for the year (What’s Your Word?). I got insightful feedback from people who shared what their words would be: trust, dedication, participation, choice, refrain, joy. It was, and is, an excellent conversation. I just didn’t realize that I hadn’t finished the conversation with myself.

When I wrote the post, I thought I had already chosen my word for 2012:  breathe. It made sense. My kids know that I tend to be a bit of a worrier, and a word that reminded me to take a deep breath, to let go seemed like a good idea.

Apparently, however, the word didn’t choose me. All week long, in various ways, a different word kept sounding and resounding:  warrior. I kept hearing it in whispers. Warrior. It showed up all the time, while watching a YouTube video of Ira Glass on storytelling,when reading a Steven Pressfield book, The War of Art, while skimming a couple of other random blog posts. I even went to yoga and was startled to remember that some of the most familiar poses are called Warrior I and Warrior II. Seriously.

Warrior? You’ve got to be kidding, I thought, and rejected the word outright. No way could I be a warrior. I have never been much of a fighter. From an early age, my personality seemed determined to plant itself firmly in the “turn the other cheek” camp. I’m a conciliator, a compromiser, a peace keeper, and I’m very happy with that. I like looking at all sides of situations and consider my ability to build win/win solutions one of my greatest strengths.

But warrior kept nagging me, however, so I wondered if there wasn’t something more going on. As I’ve told my kids for years, our greatest strengths are often the flip-side of our greatest weaknesses, a package deal of sorts. We don’t get one side of the coin without accepting the other. For me, the flip-side of being a peace-keeper is that I am sometimes blind to the times when it is appropriate to be a warrior, to fight for something I believe in.  And that’s the thing about blind spots–we are blind to them, so they are often hard to see. Sometimes we need help. I wondered if this word was creeping out from a blind spot, trying to get me to pay attention to an area I’ve neglected. That’s when I remembered an event from my childhood.

I was five years old when my family moved from Colorado to Texas at the end of my kindergarten year. To me, Texas was an exotic, new country. I was a shy, observant child and soon felt overwhelmed by the strangeness of the place, the differences from Colorado. It was flat for one thing, and humid, and the occasional rainstorm emptied the sky and flooded the streets. And did I mention the scorpions and tarantulas? Plus, all the people there had strange accents that took a while for me to understand.

When I started school the following September, my district didn’t offer kindergarten, so the first grade was really a repeat of everything I had already learned the previous year. I was bored, I didn’t fit in, and I’m guessing my teacher thought I was a nuisance. I’m being charitable here. At the time, I just assumed that my teacher hated me, further proven by the fact that she placed my desk in the middle of a circle of boys!

What Happens After the Fairy Tale

It promises to be a lovely day. This evening, my family and I will drive out to a beautiful vineyard here in Oregon for the 10th Anniversary celebration of our good friends, Dixie and Bob.  I’m excited. There will be lawn games and wine tasting and dinner and dancing. I even bought a new dress. But I’m excited for other reasons. Dixie and Bob are some of our closest friends, and I’m thrilled to be included in the day, especially since many people would consider our relationship to be improbable.

Let me explain. I used to be married to Dixie’s brother, Kelly. She became my sister-in-law and soul mate over 28 years ago, and even after my marriage to Kelly ended nearly 20 years ago, Dixie stayed on. Our friendship has continued and deepened.

Like most relationships, however, it didn’t happen without effort or commitment. Dixie and I worked to stay in each other’s lives and to spend time together. She was a major source of support and encouragement during my years as a single mother. When I married Doug and we created a blended family with four kids, Dixie welcomed everyone with kindness and enthusiasm. Our friendship continued through the end of Dixie’s own marriage, and Doug and I were both thrilled when she married Bob–about ten years ago. When Dixie’s mother–and my former mother-in-law–died last summer, Doug and I were at the hospital with Dixie and Bob, and I considered it a great privilege. They truly are two of the most important people in our lives.

I’m so grateful for this, especially recognizing that the ending of a marriage is usually the ending of a fairy tale we all grow up believing in, and most of us aren’t sure how to write the next chapter. But an unwritten story is also a great opportunity. We can write it any way we want. And Dixie and I have co-written a story that gives great meaning to my life, and makes me proud. We had help. I appreciate that Kelly was gracious enough to support the friendship not only with Dixie but the rest of her (and his) family, which took courage and confidence. I’m grateful that my husband Doug not only understood the connection I had to my ex-husband’s family, but eagerly joined me in it.

Tonight, Dixie and Bob are having a brief ceremony to honor their marriage, and they’ve asked me to read an excerpt from Gift from the Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindberg. I’ve read the book several times before (at Dixie’s suggestion), but had forgotten this passage.

When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity.

The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now. Relationships must be like islands. One must accept them for what they are here and now, within their limits–islands, surrounded and interrupted by the sea, and continually visited and abandoned by the tides.

It’s a good message for a marriage, for sure, and an apt description of what I love about Dixie and Bob’s relationship. But if you think about it, it’s true for all relationships. Even improbable ones.

Daddy’s Girl

 

Next Page →