It's not the destination, it's the doggie bones!

A few summers ago our granddaughter Josie introduced us to "doggie bones."  She had just turned three. We would set out for a walk to Capannari's Ice Cream or the library, or Central Continental Bakery, and she would be bursting with excitement, not about ice cream or cookies or books, but chattering about "doggie bones."  We soon learned this was what she called the squiggly bricks that pave the sidewalks of downtown Mt. Prospect. Doggie bones! How fun is that?

 

We live just down the street from the doggie bones. Out the front door, down the block, cross the street and joy of joys, DOGGIE BONES.

Walking together she holds our hands and can't get enough of "1.2.3. swing!" ...until she decides to let go and tries to keep up with her big sisters. But she's not in a hurry. There are treasures to find; fun to be had. Skipping along on the doggie bones she is secure and happy, surrounded by the people she loves and who love her to the moon and back. Josie finds fun and laughter wherever she goes.

As summer ends, I wonder as I did this time last year, will she still delight in the doggie bones next summer? How long will she see the world with such imagination and unbound joy?

I walk to work most days and a good part of my walk is on the doggie bones. Like Pavlov's dogs salivating when they hear the bell, when I reach these bricks my mood lightens. Thank you, Josie.

My Sister

Three weeks ago on this night I was summoning my muse to help me write the story of my sister's life. It's amazing to me that somehow I got it done, and I want to share it here.

On August 11, my sister died of a heart attack that she did not even know she'd had. She spent a week at home trying to get over what she thought was the flu. When she finally went to the doctor and learned that she'd had a heart attack five days prior, it was just too late. Things fell apart quickly and she died about 12 hours after she entered the hospital.

This is the story I wrote and shared at the visitation and funeral. There's more I want to write/say but I think about all the posts I've started and not published because I wanted them to be perfect. This is not perfect...but it's what I have at the moment. And it seems that the moment is all we have.

So, here's the story of Pat, my sister and lifelong friend.

Pat was born in Chicago on July 23, 1946, the first daughter of Fred and Babe Kerr. Bright, spirited and cute as a button, she charmed everyone, especially her father. Perhaps it was his absolute delight in her and the depth of this love that gave Pat her strength and the belief she could do anything she set out to do. And early on what she set out to do was make others happy.

When her parents welcomed another daughter, Dot, and son, Bob, Pat embraced being the big sister. It didn’t take long for her to take on the role she was born to play—caretaker, homemaker, mother.

Growing up, she stuck close to home, refusing to go away to camp or to sleepovers with friends or cousins. Afraid she would miss something, Pat needed to be home. She was known as the “pony express.” She knew EVERYTHING that was going on and to the dismay of her siblings, she made sure everyone else knew too.

As a teenager she said she couldn’t go out or do fun things because she had to do the cooking or the ironing. But in truth, home was where she was most comfortable. Fixing, cooking, cleaning, being home. Knowing that everyone was okay. That's what mattered to Pat back then and throughout her life.

In high school, she played saxophone in the band and excelled in her home economics classes. Sewing was her thing and it was to play a part in every phase of her life; sewing everything and anything for the family, owning and operating a dry cleaning business, sewing professionally for a formal apparel company, and running a side business of sewing and alterations in her home. She was never without needle and thread.

After high school, Pat found her calling with the birth of her daughter, Roxanne. Living in the apartment below her parent’s home in Chicago, she worked and went to school but her true happiness was found in being a mom. It was never easy, but Pat always said she wouldn’t change a thing.

She worked in the office of Standard Scientific in Chicago, and captured the eye and heart of her boss, Larry Layton. He says it was her can-do spirit and no-nonsense work ethic that first attracted him. They were married at St. Peter Lutheran Church in 1971.

She, of course, made her own wedding dress and the reception was held in the backyard of Pat and Larry's new house in Schaumburg. Opening their door to family, friends and neighbors set the tone for the life they would build together in that home over the next 42 years.

Within a couple of years of the wedding their son Patrick was born, followed by the birth of daughter Katie, and the family was complete.

The years flew by: room mother, lunch mother, Brownie leader, 4-H leader, Girl Scout leader, cheer mom, and baseball team mom. She was the go-to mom for many of Roxanne, Patrick and Katie’s friends. Pool parties, barbecues, craft nights. Graduations, weddings, baby showers. Remodeling, redecorating, forever fixing; making things better. The quintessential mom became the doting aunt, and finally, her ultimate pride and joy—four beautiful grandchildren. 

Never far from her roots, she saw or checked in with her parents everyday for as long as they lived. She was often the counselor and cheerleader for her sister and brother, and for countless friends. Generous to a fault, she would spend her last dollar and borrow another if it meant giving a loved one something they needed.

Pat loved kids and was a kid herself. Christmas was her holiday and she stopped at nothing to find the perfect gift for each niece, nephew and grandchild. All the kids remember the Christmas drill at Auntie Pat's:  "1. 2. 3. Open!"

She cared little for clothes or shopping for herself. A fun day for her was going to the gambling boat and playing the slots, or spending a day breezing through the shops in Geneva, always on the lookout for new kitchen gadgets. She was an avid reader and in recent years she became just a little addicted to playing on her iPad, a gift from her kids. She always wanted a convertible and allowed herself that one indulgence. Her license plate says it all: Sew Fine

Making others happy was her mission and she loved and worried and fretted over all of us... just as a mother does.

Beloved and dutiful daughter. Devoted sister. Proud aunt. Loyal friend. Above all loving wife and mother and grandmother. Love you and miss you "all the muches."

Miss Kim is a late bloomer

When we planted our front garden about ten years ago, we chose plants based on a landscape plan we had drawn up by a landscape designer. The plan called for all kinds of things I had never heard of: Cranberry Cotoneasters, Astilbe Fanale, and a Miss Kim Lilac. Of course, I'd seen lots of lilacs and loved them but I didn't know Miss Kim.

That first year we planted too late in the season to see what our plants would look like in full bloom. The following spring the grass greened up overnight, and up and down the street our neighbors' trees and bushes were alive with color. But nothing from Miss Kim. Just some seedy little, vaguely purple buds. Jeesh. Is that it? Is that all you got, Miss Kim?

I'm not going to lie. I was disappointed. Why would the designer recommend this dud? I wanted to like her - But I wanted the luscious blossoms of my childhood memory. Big, soft blue cones dripping from the branches. You call this a lilac bush? Hmmph.

Several weeks later when spring was giving way to summer, tulips and daffodils, long gone,  just like my expectations for this lilac bush, Miss Kim bloomed! Not a big, showy, BLOOM - but she presented us with some rather brief, timid blossoms. "Uh...here you go. I made these for you. I hope you like them."

Every year it's been kind of the same thing and I guess I've come to accept it. I stopped thinking of her as a disappointment and realized that's just how it is. She operates on her own timetable no matter what the other kids on the block are doing. She's persistent and serious - a bit restrained. She's working on her game. She's hangin' in. I like that is a lilac bush - and in a person.

This year she took me completely by surprise. I walked out the front door one morning last week, and was blown back by Miss Kim's spectacular appearance. Lovely pale lilac blossoms, full and round and everywhere. Why Miss Kim! Look at you! Nicely done!

Here's to Miss Kim, and late bloomers everywhere. Long may we reign.

Jello Break

I signed up for the Scintilla Project a few days ago. This is a two-week long series of of daily writing prompts for anyone who wants to write, discover, learn or connect through stories. Last year I signed up for it and wrote not one post. This year I want to give it another try. Want to get some flow going with Juice Break. Here goes!

So...the first prompts from March 13: Tell about a time you were drunk before you were of legal drinking age. Or tell a story from your first job. I'll go with getting drunk on my first job. No. Just kidding.  Far from it.

My first job was working as a tray girl at Ravenswood Hospital, just a few blocks from my home in Chicago. I was 14 or 15 and the job paid 90 cents per hour.

Looking back, I can now trace my happiness/love/need of work to this first job. So many things about it that fed a need in hungry, young me.

Order. There was a prescribed routine and structure. It happened every day, same time/same place. Took the bus straight to the hospital after school, changed into my uniform; a crisp, clean, gray, short-sleeved shirtwaist dress with white collar, cuffs and apron.

We worked in groups of 4-5 girls, each team serving a different floor of the hospital. We'd get our patient count for the day then set up our trays with paper liners and silverware. We'd stack them neatly in the big rolling, vertical racks. The hot-food cart for each floor was pre-loaded with the meat du jour plus mashed potatoes, gravy, assorted veggies and soup and clear broth.

Jello was a staple at the hospital and before we could head up to our floor we had to make the Jello. Grab a gigantic metal pan of smooth green, yellow, orange or red. Carve it up and spoon the shiny, slippery cubes into the little plastic serving bowls. Fun. Orderly. Meticulous.

Loaded with food and trays, we took the service elevator up to our assigned floor. The little team worked  to assemble the meals; bland, soft, liquid, regular, sugar-free, low sodium. Little pots of coffee or hot water. Some patients got desserts like apple crisp or pudding. Like it or not, everybody got Jello.

We had an assembly line and as the set-ups were completed some of us walked around delivering the meals. During dinner we cleaned up the kitchen and the food cart, then went around and picked up the trays and got everything back in order. Once our floor kitchen and the cart passed inspection, we hauled everything back down to the big kitchen and we were done.

I think the whole process took about 2-3 hours. I loved it. Our supervisor was  a little, gray haired lady with a bit of an Irish lilt. (She wore a little gray uniform, too.) She was our housemother. A sweetie. I liked that if I worked hard and did a good job she noticed. I liked being noticed and it felt like she cared about me. I liked that she counted on me. I felt like somebody.

In most parts of my life I didn't feel good enough, clean enough; didn't have the right clothes. Didn't know the right thing to say. Didn't feel I mattered. But at the hospital I knew the drill, could fit right in and do a good job. I felt safe. I was never late for work, never called in sick. Never let them down and they didn't let me down.  And thus I learned to count on work.

The writing prompt for today wants a "story" from that first job. Hmmm. When you are totally focused on doing what you're supposed to do, following the rules and routine, there's little room for fun or stories. And that in itself is an interesting observation.

A story of sorts: one hot summer day (no air conditioning in the hospital kitchen) I remember walking into the cooler to get the Jello. I got in there and stopped. Leaned back and just took in the cool. Broke the routine and the rush. It was a Jello break.

All these years later here I am at Juice Break, still trying to break from the routine and the rush and spend a little more time on my own stuff. And thanks to today's writing prompt I did! It's a start.