Thank You, Daughter

A few weeks ago, I asked my daughter for help in rearranging, sorting, clearing, or whatever it took to give our home a new interior look, aside from painting. 

"I'm busy, Mom," seemed to be the response. Then a week later a letter arrived for me (Our tribute to Helen Stapp, grandma and mom is to regularly correspond through hand-written letters and thoughtful short notes.) 

Inside I found this picture and quote from daughter Katy.

 

I'll hold on to this picture from a magazine like I have so many others, and one day Katy will clean out my personal belongings and find these thoughts. 

Still, I wanted help, or more importantly I wanted to spend some time with my daughter.   On Labor Day weekend I attacked the hidden junk pieces that once had purpose or meaning, but now were pushed to the back of closets, crowded cupboards and bookshelves.

That was a simple chore, emptying and cleaning.

Then came the stacking, tossing, and sorting. When Jack walked by, he'd touch my shoulder, "Are you doing alright?"

"Ha!" I laughed.

Murphy hid under the dining room table and occasionally stepped out to say, "Let's go outside." 

One day later the cupboard was cleaned, refilled, and usable. Now the stacks remain to be given away. The garbage man picked up a load this morning, not knowing how many old memories were inside that green dumpster like the shot glasses we once used for a Julia Child book club dinner and discussion; The assorted yellowed napkins from seasonal parties, travels, and just for fun; The decorative pillows now faded and worn. All gone.

Once when a tornado destroyed a teacher's home in Kansas, she told us in the lunchroom that now she didn't have to worry about all of her mismatched napkins, kitchen towels, washcloths and other bits and pieces of her life. They were gone. I think I held onto to those items for her, but now I've told her story and given it all away. 

My heart felt the success of a dieter after losing five pounds in the first week.

I tend to be like a tick when it comes to completing a task. I take hold and don’t let go until it’s finished or I’m exhausted. Day two I began again pulling out decorative glassware, trophies, piles of seasonal flowers, and other decorative pieces. Now the house looked totally trashed.

On day three I began refreshing the woodwork before playing with books, bookends, and glassware. Day four continued much the same until Katy came down for lunch. Our treat to each other is a meal at The Greek House on Jenkins Street. They serve the most tasty lamb Gyros sandwiches in the USA.

With both of us full and stories shared, we returned home and looked at the surroundings. Katy looked over the shelving and made a few suggestions. She likes a more asymmetrical approach while I like balance, but we agree on colors, splashes of uniqueness, and keeping it simple.  

She took a few candles and said good-bye.

Alas, in the middle of the night, I smiled in my sleep as I pictured what I needed to do.  Funny how we look at life on this side of the hill. I have a voice in the back of my head that says, “How many more years will you be around to enjoy this moment, this item, this book, this garden?”

It is a helping voice. It helps me focus and appreciate living in the moment.

That is how it came to me that night. I’ve never displayed my golf trophies, unless they held flowers. With all of them sitting on the dining room table I realized that I’d better enjoy them now.

Days later, I am still arranging and rearranging our living room bookshelves and mantle, and I think I have it settled in my mind’s eye. With the white highlight (thank you daughter for the color splash idea) I should be able to decorate for the holidays around what I have up and not have to take this down until the next time I become tired of the scenery.

 I did express myself....and hopefully, shared bits and pieces of our family life. 

Thank you Katy. 

 

SAIL ON

"Peace which hovers over all like great white wings,

And the true happiness and joy which knowledge brings."

1929 Wichitan yearbook, Wichita High School East

Pieces of history remembered by those who lived through it are stored away and rarely shared with loved ones as time passes.  Digging and sorting through my mother's vast collection of photos, magazines, and post cards has edged into my life for nearly thirty years now. She carried so many memories but rarely shared, whereas Dad always had a story for us. 

Questions remain in my heart, never to be resolved, but what happened to my mother's life in the fall of 1929, her Senior year at Wichita East High School?  My beautiful blond curly headed mother enjoyed her teenage years in Wichita, and often recounted her first car wreck at an earlier age than 16. I used to laugh when she talked about driving her father's new car up and down Douglas street in Wichita, until the time on Volutsia street she didn't make the turn completely and hit the light pole on the corner.  Leaving the car, she  walked home that day and told her dad her story.  

When faculty and students turn away
From weighty cares and have a gay May Day. 

"Were you grounded?" I asked curiously. "No," she replied, "Why would I have been. It was an accident."  Even then I knew that Helen, my mother, was her dad's favorite child and could do no wrong.  I smiled, but i wanted to know more.  Why didn't my mother graduate from East High School that spring of 1930? Why  was it delayed? What caused her to be so determined that her two daughters graduate and go to college? 

FORWARD to Wichitan 1929

In the broad fields of student endeavor and the limitless space for achievement

there have been flights spectacular and flights nondescript. We aim to record the 

details of flight and to parallel student activities to an aeronautical adventure. 

As sophomores we made the take-off, a bit unsteady to be sure.

There were many things to master before the solo flight.

As juniors we sailed along gaily in the air and as seniors we are landing. The flight

is ended; the goal has been obtained. 

I know from my heart that my mother cherished her time at Wichita East, eventually taking correspondent classes and finishing her degree.  My mother could spell any word out loud correctly, her curiosity of language kept the dictionary handy always looking up words, her desire to learn Spanish opened a lifetime for my sister to speak and use the Spanish language fluently.  Our blue and red World Book Encyclopedia's were the lifeline to the world outside home.  

The stock market crash in 1929  destroyed my grandfather's oil company and his stock investments. My mother said to me, "We didn't lose everything. We learned like everyone else to make things last longer." (Thus, the shoe box full of used soap pieces that I found in the cupboard after she died.) The family life changed dramatically after the stock market crash, and they eventually bought a home on Oakland street that allowed for bedrooms to be converted to boarding rooms and the crows nest and basement into apartments. 

FORWARD Wichitan 1929

All has not been smooth sailing. Fogs have discouraged, strong winds have 

veered us to the right and left, supplies have been exhausted, and unfortunate conditions have made us swerve from our course many times. 

Nevertheless with the aid of our helpful pilots we have managed to right our planes and

 sail on.

During the war she worked for Boeing in the library where she organized books and papers and typed cards for the card catalog. She always liked that job.  What happened to her life between fall of 1929 and the war years?  

Opal and Helen relaxing after work.

I think she took flight and made her life productive and happy around her.  She was married and divorced during those year, as was my father. She struggled with helping her parents come through the depression. One of her best friend's from Boeing, Murphy Doodle, charmed me with her dress of high heels, suit coats, long skirts and brimmed hats, and a cigarette between her long fingers with perfectly polished nails. Their lives experienced tragedy and sorrow much like my life. 

As I prepare to send my mother's 1929 Wichitan annual to her Alma Mater, I realize that we are more alike than I ever knew. It has not been smooth sailing for either of us; strong winds veered each of us from side to side, money ran short, and unfortunate conditions caused us to swerve from our course many times. With the aid of our helpful pilots we managed to right our planes and sail on.