Mom is Just a Nickname

I’ve gotten some teasing in the past for the souvenirs I choose when on special trips.  Mainly from the days when I was in my senior year of high school, or just after.

For Senior Spring Break, I went to Ocean City, MD with my good friend Ellen and her mom.  We had a blast, despite the chilly, overcast days.  I fell in love all over again with the sounds of Elton John, Live with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, after playing the album with the ocean waves in the background.  We played video games, pool, we poked around what shops were open in that pre-season period.  I considered different tshirts, I considered magnets, postcards, etc.  You know, standard tourist souvenir crap.

I ended buying a blanket.  It was one of those Mexican sarape type blankets which were all the rage with the beach going types then (as I recall).  It was pink, baby blue, and white.  It was rough and scratchy.  I loved it.  And then I hated it (because it was scratchy).  I tucked it into my things, taking it with me when I went off to college…taking it with me when I moved to Ohio.  It mostly lives in my car now, ready to pull out should we decide to picnic or if someone gets cold while we’re driving.  It has been through the wash so often after 12-13 years of use that it is soft and snuggly now.  It is better now than it was when I bought it and each time I touch it, I remember the sounds of Tiny Dancer playing with the ocean waves crashing in the background. I remember the fun conversations Ellen and I had, and what a great time I had with her and her mom.  How lucky I was that my parents let me take that trip away from home for a week.

Not too long after that, I went to Britain for 5 weeks with my brother.  I wanted to take everything home with me, to keep forever the adventures Tom and I found.  Of course, I couldn’t. I didn’t want any of the touristy junk to take home from Britain either.  Who needs that stuff? No, one cold day in Scotland, I bought myself a fuzzy fleece sweater…nothing particularly special to Scotland.  And i got it about 4 sizes too large.  It was soft and snuggly right from the start, and again, I loved it.  My brother hated it. He often told me it was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen. True, it was a dull green color…like overcooked asparagus.   Through my college days, I wore that sweater when I was feeling down or sick.  It was like wrapping a bit of comfort around myself.  I remembered the Highlands, with their cold breezes and hanging fog; the sheep, the streams, the burning fire of the whisky.  Putting that sweater on brought it all back.
I still have it, still wear it often, and it’s better than ever (now that I’ve repaired the button that was missing for years and years!).  It is no longer too big for me, it fits just right.  (Well, this makes me kind of sad. I wish it was still too big!)  But I’m delighted that I can still wrap its warmth around me on those cold, gray days, which are never as pretty here at home as they were in the HIghlands of Scotland.

I may choose weird souvenirs, but I choose things that stay with me.  They may look like junk to someone else, with no sentimental value because they don’t scream where they came from, but to me they carry the memories of wonderful times and transformational trips.  And so many of the things in my home carry similar memories, whether they were a special gift commemorating our marriage, or we dug them out of a dumpster at Goodwill….oh. I wasn’t supposed to mention that, was I? Memories aren’t always Kodak moments!

When I was twelve, if anyone had told me that I’d be pregnant in 8 more years, I might have laughed at them. Although I did have great aspirations to be a mother some day (there’s a reason friends called me ‘Momma Beth’) I really did not think it would happen in 8 years. Although 8 years then seemed an eternity away, still it seemed like 20 years old was too young for me to consider becoming a parent.

12+8=20 and there I was pregnant with my first child. Luckily, also happily married to a great guy with lots of love and support from both of our families.

At the age of 20, if anyone had told me that in 8 more years, I would have had two more children but also have lost one, I would not have believed anything that person had told me. Well, maybe having two more children in 8 years was realistic, but not losing one. The thought of losing a child was inconceivable to me then. I lived in a happy world, with a good life spreading out before me. It was not a life tinged with sadness or tragedy. I had such a blessed life, that I could only think “That can’t happen to me.”

At the age of 23, I had my second child. And five weeks later, he stopped breathing. And still the thought that tragedy could strike my family was not one that I felt applied to me. I still had hope that my second child would recover fully from his brush with death and go on to lead a long and fulfilling life. The doctors tried their hardest to put his future into realistic terms for us. The walls of my safe castle were crumbling, my world was no longer full of the bright colors of optimism and joy. Instead, a strong hand had brushed every thing I saw with gray, black and brown. I quickly came to realize my easy, blessed life was changing in horrifying ways. Thinking 8 years ahead then was not an option. It was all I could do to survive, day by day, hour by hour. The future was not mine to dream about.

At the age of 25, the question of Sullivan’s future was answered. He died. He had no future in this life, beyond that of our memories. I became intimately aware that “IT” could happen to anyone, anywhere, without rhyme or reason. As the days and months passed after his death, I began to see a future ahead again. Each day that passed painted a new kaleidoscope of colors in front of me. The world still held grays, blacks and browns, but they became balanced by the endless shades of other possibilities. At the age of 25, I had no idea what my future held. But I wanted another child. Eight years ahead seemed far distant still.

I’m 31 now. I’m still looking forward into the murky future, trying to resolve the whirling mix of colors into some order that makes sense. I’m still trying to find my own path to the future, while realizing that every day lays a new stone on the path to that future. I don’t know what the next 8 years hold for me or for my family. I hope, I pray, that my two children will continue growing and maturing into the next 8 years. In 8 years, J will be 18 and moving out into the great world beyond, hopefully filled with all the hope and optimism an 18 year old should have. In 8 years, X will be 12 and my hope is that he will still have that boundless energy and curiousity that he was now.

But now, looking back 8 years, I see so many twists and turns in the path. It’s hard to believe that almost 8 years ago, I gave birth to my second child…thinking I was giving him into the world to love and nurture to adulthood. It’s hard to believe that six years ago, I said goodbye to that boy. Instead of raising him to adulthood, I watched him soar to the heavens.

Sometimes, when I see a picture of my family now, there’s a shadow figure standing there beside us. A boy with curly light brown hair and bright blue eyes lit with the mischief most 8 year old boys seem to share. He’s tall for his age, and strong. He’s there with us, always, even if only in my head. I wonder what he’d be like now, if he had never stopped breathing that cold December day. And then I wonder what he’d be like now, if he had stopped breathing…but then hadn’t died two years later.

8 years…it’s amazing what a difference 8 years can make.

Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, is probably one of my favorite places. It lies at the confluence of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers, which also just happens to be an area where Virginia, West Virginia and Maryland all come together. The town perches amidst the Blue Ridge Mountains, with heights towering above. One overlooking mountain face has a large advertising mural that was painted around the beginning of the 1900’s.
The town is probably best known for it’s part in the Civil War. But, I’ll quote from the National Park Service, the town has seen so much more history than that:

It is more than one event, one date, or one individual. It is multi-layered – involving a diverse number of people and events that influenced the course of our nation’s history. Harpers Ferry witnessed the first successful application of interchangeable manufacture, the arrival of the first successful American railroad, John Brown’s attack on slavery, the largest surrender of Federal troops during the Civil War, and the education of former slaves in one of the earliest integrated schools in the United States.

I’m not sure why Harpers Ferry has such appeal for me. The rivers, mountains and forests definitely have appeal. The historic feel of all of the old buildings certainly holds an appeal. I found magic in the town, wandering amongst the stores aimed at tourists. I found a pottery shop that completely captured my interest. Actually, I was so intrigued by the dragons that the potter had on display that I insisted my mom and dad drive me back to Harpers Ferry months later, after I had saved up the money to buy one. I searched online today for that shop, but did not find it. I did find two other pottery shops listed in the town though.

Certainly, if you’re ever near Washington, D.C., you should try to visit Harpers Ferry. It’s not much more than an hour’s drive away. The experience of Harpers Ferry is very different from that of Washington, D.C., yet complementary. In D.C., life has continued moving. Although there is a certain sense of history in parts of D.C. it is a cold history. It doesn’t make my imagination come alive. The history in Harpers Ferry is alive, though. I felt as if I had stepped back in time when I visited.

If you’re ever hiking the Appalachian Trail, it runs right through Harpers Ferry. Keep hiking further on the Trail to the North and/or West of Harpers Ferry and you’ll quickly find yourself across the river from my old college in Shepherdstown, WV.

Speaking of all this, I really need to find my way back there someday. The steep streets and towering trees, the quiet churches and the echoing history all call me back. Something about those mountains, and the rivers, they all speak to me. I felt them so much more deeply than I ever have any other landscape I’ve seen.

Edinburgh…We didn’t spend too long there, but the time we spent there was memorable. We met other International Travelers. We saw the historic sites, including the castle. We saw some of the the nightlife of the city and enjoyed beautiful weather while we were there. I think it was in Edinburgh I first began to really feel the freedom of becoming an adult. (I was only 17 at the time!)

My sometimes overprotective brother gave me permission to go out on the town with an Australian fellow we’d met at our hostel. I can’t remember the man’s name and I can only guess that he was in his early twenties. At the time he seemed very much older and I kind of thought my brother had gone loopy. In any case, I had a good time with him. I think we maybe went to one bar, opted out of any nightclubs, and then spent the rest of the time walking through town while we talked. I very vividly recall debating about ‘the right to keep and bear arms’. He was vehemently against the public having guns, and even against law enforcement using guns. I argued the opposite (as one might expect of a girl who had been competing in rifle matches for years).

In contrast, there was the night in Edinburgh I went out with my brother. He decided it was his mission to teach me what college life would be like, so he got me drunk at every opportunity that summer. Edinburgh was no exception. Screwdrivers. I drank screwdrivers all night long because none of the pubs or bars we went in to had the ingredients to make anything else! Walking back to the hostel that night, my brother seemed to think it was hilarious to reach over and push me over with the tip of his finger. Yes, that’s how easy it was to make me stumble!

In Edinburgh, I bought my first Nina Simone cassette tape. I sat in our rental car, which was parked on the street in front of our hostel, and I listened over and over to that tape. I love her song “Feeling Good”!

My memories of the castle and historic monuments in Edinburgh are fuzzy. But the experiences I had there stand out in my mind. Someday, I’d like to go back and see the castle and such again so that I can remember them better. But I’m glad my trip to Britain wasn’t all dry history!

Choosing a place to write about for “D” should have been easy. I’ve lived in a number of places that start with “D”. I considered writing about Daytona, with the roaring race cars I remember from when I was 3 or 4. I considered writing about Delray, but decided that was too much like writing about Boca Raton. The one that popped into my head first and stayed there, though, was Defiance.

I had never heard of this small town in Northwest Ohio until I met the man who would become my husband. He grew up there; not quite a native but close enough. When I moved there in the early months of 1998, I was charmed by the small, rural town. The downtown has quaint shops and restaurants to wander. There are parks, which are great for the kids. The library is an architectural treasure and the land on which it sits is historically significant and beautiful. There are towering trees which provide shade, lilac bushes that scent the air each spring, and broad rivers which define the landscape of the downtown. Many of the homes are quite old and beautiful, with lovely gardens and lawns to admire. All of this can be seen by walking, too, since the sidewalks make it possible to stroll all over the place without competing with car traffic.

The people that live there have long memories and long histories. Even as the landscape of the town has changed through the years (it’s changed quite a bit even since I first lived there) the people remember how it used to be. More than once I felt totally lost when asking for directions since the landmarks used were often for places and stores that no longer existed.

I remember walking into the library to get my library card. (I rarely move to a new place without doing this first thing, since I’m so addicted to reading.) It was shortly after I got married and I was still trying out my new last name. The librarian, an older woman, looked at the name I’d written and looked at me. “Which of the boys did you marry, then?” she asked. I blinked at her, totally confused that she seemed to know my husband. Her words confirmed this as she recalled watching my husband and his brother come into the library as children, and talked about how my in-laws were now her neighbors. I had this scenario happen more than once as I settled into life in the small town. It was a new experience for me and I found it charming.

If you like to travel to new places via book or video, check out ‘The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio’. It was originally a book, but it’s also been made a movie. The movie wasn’t actually shot in Defiance, but it gives a fair feel for the town, even now. Reading the book was a tour through some of the history of the town, and I loved being able to look at the 1950’s pictures in the book and recognize places in town.

I moved to Defiance, OH in ‘defiance’ of my parents’ strongest recommendations. (Did I mention I abruptly withdrew from college and moved West with a man I had met on the internet? That went over really well at the time.) Six years later, I left Defiance of two minds: one was happy to be leaving the small town to go to a bigger town that had more options and the other was sad to leave the small town with it’s charm, history and personality.