A Non-Ordinary Day

Don’t let anything be ordinary is the sign on my monitor at work. It’s been there for years and is looking pretty beat up. The message is still clear.

Last week I defintely experiened an UNORDINARY day. I felt grungy, weepy and fine. 

When I worked in a counseling center years ago a therapist enlightened me on what fine actually means:  

"Fiercely Intentionally Naurotically Emotional."

After reading the sign and grumbling to myself, I walked into the company lunchroom.

"How are you? Tammy said,

"Do you really want to know or do you want me to say fine?"

"Fine will do, I think," Tammy said.

Sam stood at the sink rinsing a coffee cup. She laughed at Tammy.

"You do know what fine means, right?" I asked.

"The way you say it, I probably don't." Tammy said.

"Don't think you do, Tammy," Sam said. "Just the tone of her voice makes fine sound daunting." 

After I put my cup in the microwave I peeled off the words.” Fine is Fiercely Intentionally Neurotically Emotional. I’m too old to feel this way,” I said. “But you asked for fine. Have a great day gals.”

Neither of the two ran after me to find out why I felt fine or why I bothered to share with them. But then, they probably already received the email about my eyes—the one that said my work days will be erratic. I’m back to legally blind while my cornea transplant heals from the trauma and the eye specialist can fit me with a new set of contact lenses.

I wore patches over my eye for ages--my co-workers joined me. 

I’ve been through this before. It’s nothing new. Fuchs’ Dystrophy left me legally blind in 1999. An eye specialist said, “Well Mrs. Crawford, the bad news is you are legally blind. The good news is with cornea transplants you will see again.”

The doctor didn’t tell me what might happen after the transplants. How long they might last. How the transplant is a graph—like a thick scar and would leave me not feeling pain in my eyes until I’m really in trouble.

Of course, I didn’t ask those questions either. Had no idea the questions to ask.

Even my Team Leader wore a cute patch to support me. 

So why am I just fine? The doctor talked me into buying glasses last summer. “They will be a band aid on your Oregon trip.” I bought them. They lasted me three months—not even long enough to be fit with the contacts that give me miracle vision.

So what's my problem? Is it the expense? The length of time for fittings? The many doctor visits I face? Or the fact I’m measurably slowed down to a grinding halt and can't drive?

How about all the above….

Working on being Lionhearted through the process, Kat

Lion Soak by Savannah Wilkes 

Guess I'll soak my troubles away for the moment.

I've about soaked enough. I feel like a prune. Between the writing and the publishing I faced another glitch in my publication...oh well, it's me. Never late. Right on time. 

Bonnie Allen Crawford My Sister in Love

The first of seven sisters-in-law to live close to me

Yvonne (Bonnie) Allen Crawford

Born Humboldt, Nebraska 1924

Buried Camas, Washington 1986

Dear Bonnie,

 

Our second child, Marcy (age 16) with her Aunt Bonnie

If you were here today we’d laugh up a storm at some of our shenanigans.  The day we married Max attended our wedding. Your youngest David, sick with a cold kept you home a hundred miles away.

My new husband and I spent our honeymoon night on your “click-clack” davenport in Camas, Washington. The next day Max took Husband to Crown Zellerbach Mill to apply for a job.

That fall after our first child, Kathy Ann was born, we moved to our cracker box apartment on Hill Street less than a block away from you. We were so young. I was so lost and lonely.

With Husband working long shifts, a brand new baby, no phone, no car, no friends, and my first move away from my family, I was one scared eighteen year old.

I needed guidance and friendship.  You gave me both. 

“Why did you keep feeding us when I didn’t even volunteer to bring food to your house?” I asked about ten years later. You smiled in your quiet way and shrugged like you didn’t even remember those meals. But believe me, I did.

For three years, at least till after Marcy’s birth, we ate many meals at your cramped table in your tiny kitchen. Food a plenty served with laughter. Those were the days when I barely knew how to open a can, much less complete a recipe. 

Yes, you taught me to cook. 

Far left Warren, Gary, Max and Quin (David, Max's son in front)

About then your Max helped us buy the white house where the garage touched the corner of your backyard. Our girls loved to visit you. They’d squeeze between the garages and play in your fenced backyard. Many summer days Max lit the bar-b-que.  The brother’s and your boys played horse shoes or badminton.

Public Domain Photo

That’s when you showed me how to hang a neat line of clothes, taught me how to keep the diapers white, and tried to teach me to clean house.

One day you said to me, “I may not dust, but if I make the bed first thing in the morning, I feel good all day.”

I put that housekeeping tidbit into practice.

 If you were here Bonnie, I’d squeeze you close and tell you I’ve survived the mother-in-law hurts that you and I shared. You helped me through emotional trauma that, looking back, is of no consequence at all.

“In ten years it won’t matter,” you said.

You were so right on many things.

I did learn to hang a nice looking line of clothes, but my clothesline technique never equaled yours. Can you imagine my thrill when Husband bought me a washer and dryer?

I did manage to become a right smart cook. 

Oh yes and I taught our children to make their beds first thing in the morning. You’d be proud.  

Public Domain Photo

You were a special lady in my world. I’m blessed for having you as my sister-in-law—my sister-in-love.

Affectionately, one of your many sisters-in-law,

Kat

Marcy, Bonnie, Kathy Ann, James and Max about 1977

For my readers: Unfortunately we didn’t take a lot of photos when we first married. When I looked for a picture of Bonnie, I couldn’t find one with her alone. You notice Marcy standing close to her Aunt Bonnie. The two of them were very close from the time she could walk until Bonnie died. 

My Father Believed in Keeping Family Together

My father

For: Orin Stauff Demarest

May 21, 1917-June 14,1996

First written February 22, 2002

Dad about 1993

Dear Dad,

During this last Christmas season I missed you more than ever.  Your name came up often as we reminisced about Christmas past—especially when I expressed to others your dedication to keep our family together through the holidays. (I can’t say as a child that I always appreciated the hundred mile drive to Grandma’s house--at least until we arrived.)

These days I realize how difficult it was for you. Regardless of how old our vehicle, you packed the family of six into the car. There were no seat belts back then. We started out with all four kids in the back seat. Like normal kids, we scrunched one in the middle of the seat on those rattle snake

Lloyd The Void Photo 

corners. Pretty soon one or more of us whined, complained, or cried. That’s when Karla, the youngest climbed over the seat to sit middle front. Those were the good old days, Dad.

There is no way we can count how many times our car broke down miles from home.  You were a wonderful mechanic by trade. You spent so much time working to make a family income, your own vehicle suffered. There you were, under the car in a good Oregon rainstorm—or maybe even snow. You banged away and tinkered while we whined and fussed. In spite of those obstacles, you drove us from Eugene to the families in North Bend.

Always we celebrated Christmas Eve at your sister Pat’s home with her family, your brother, Uncle Vic and family, and your mother, Grandma Dee. We shared gifts, news, played games together, and enjoyed the love of family. Then Christmas day there was another large family gathering at Grandma and Grandpa Leatons.  That’s where I made a close bond to my cousins. So close, the two girls my age, Mary and Gladys, felt like sisters rather than cousins.

Gary, Kat, Karla Mom, Dad, Karl, Jack, Karen 

At the close of the Christmas day our family drove the many miles home for you to work early the next morning. The other relatives that attended either party lived close by—they didn’t struggle with the long trip.

Dad, there isn’t any way to express my thanks for keeping us connected with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, especially since you aren’t with us now. The one thing I can do is try to keep our children and grandchildren in touch with each other.

 Times are different in that none of them live in the same community. We live thousands of miles away and don’t have the opportunity to climb into a vehicle to gather the family all together. That means I must be more creative in keeping in touch. I’ll try to do as well as you did Dad.  You were a devoted son, a loving brother, and I’m glad God gave you to me as a Dad. Your love of family is appreciated.

From your oldest daughter,

Kat

For my readers: Those that knew my father are aware of his gift of gab. He knew something about everything—he didn’t just think he knew the info, he truly did. He didn’t know a stranger and he could curse cars until the air turned black. But in 1985, almost 69, my father asked the Lord to forgive him.

Last photo of my Father 

He dedicated his life to being a Jesus follower. What a change. In the last ten years of his life my father wrote letters and talked to everyone about Jesus.

In 1996 Dad and Mom drove from Oregon to Omaha to visit us for five weeks. Dad talked often about "Orin Junction." He wanted a photo taken in a place named after him.

The next day in Ruppert, Idaho my father was killed in a car accident. He told me several times during our last visit, "Honey, I pray when it's my time, the Good Lord will take me quickly." And the Good Lord did. Often after his death husband would say, "Your father always said..." or "I sure wish your Dad were here now to help me."

My Mom Gave With No Strings Attached

Dear Mom,

Mom Early Morning Giggles 

I’ve written to you many times over the years to thank you for your continual support. Your no nonsense approach has kept me afloat more times than I can count. Those times when I thought I’d cave under the pressure—facing surgery or a family problem that I couldn’t handle alone.

I’ll never forget when I called you long distance to say I faced a hysterectomy. Your first quesion, “Do you have insurance?”

“Yes.”

“Do you get paid while you are off work?”

“Yes.”

“Well then?”you said. “What are you worried about—it’s a common surgery.” You listed off the Aunt’s and friends that survived the ordeal. I have used that example with many ladies over the years.

“Why fear? Others have handled this, you will too.”

The awesome reality about your initial phone conversation is that you hung up and said to Dad, “Kathy needs me.” Then you climbed aboard a Greyhound to ride forty-four hours to care for my family and me.

I’m not the only one that received your ‘nursing’ care. When Aunt Theresa died you helped Uncle Larry; You lived with Aunt Elnora and Uncle Tommy when he arrived home from the hospital after a logging accident—and you’ve gone back to help since then.

You’re the daughter that cares for a ninety-eight year old mother. You’re the mother that that took care of both my ailing sisters in this past year. You’re the friend that drives a cancer patient to a doctor. You’re the sister that cares for siblings …and the list goes on.

I’m sure I’ve said thank you in ten thousand different ways over the years, but I don’t think it’s enough.

Your "No Strings Attached" approach to life gave me a foundation to share with others willingly. I remember you sharing a loaf of your hot homemade bread with Mrs. McCoy, the elderly neighbor across the fields south of your home. When our girls visited you in the summer time, you sent them up the gravel road to the egg lady, Mrs. Branch. Most of the time, you shared a plate of food or vegetables from your garden with her when she didn’t feel well.

Of course, there were those second hand store shopping sprees, too. You usually purchased a little bauble for one your friends. “You know the lady that cuts my hair? She collects these blue bottles,” you said. Or, “You know the lady down the way she helped me with the upholstery … “If you were not buying for a friend, it was one of your grandchildren. You never came home without some little treasure to give away.

Even today you still give and give and give.

Thank you, Mom for your common sense approach to life and for unconditionally giving of yourself. None of us can repay you for your generous acts of kindness and help.

I love you Mom, you are a wonderful example for today’s world.

Your oldest daughter,

Kathy

I shared this letter with Mom before Gary was diagnosed with Psuedomyxoma Peritonei (PMP)—a rare cancer with a prognosis of only days to live. Mom flew from Oregon to Omaha to live with us and help me.

When Grandma fell and broke her hip, Mom flew back to Oregon to care for Grandma.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer Gary took care of me, but when he died suddenly of a heart attack, my 86 year old mother flew from Oregon to Omaha and became my caregiver.

My mother’s caring spirit touched many more than she ever thought possible. 

Grandma Leaton-Her Rocker and Pockets of Fun

About my precious Grandma, Inez (Bobbie) Leaton

(I wrote this in 2002 and did send her a copy—now I’m sharing it with the world.)

Grandma Leaton at a Leaton Family Reunion 

You blessed me with a precious security from the time I can remember. As a youngster I sat on your lap in your big old rocking chair for comfort, safety and hugs. When my siblings and cousins fought over your lap, you laughed and invited us all into the chair with you.  (How did you do that?)

Years later when we drove to Oregon from Colorado, I could hardly stand it till I saw my grandma. The second we arrived you snuggled my whole family right into your rocker, even though your lap had shrunk. It made me sad to see how the many surgeries had robbed you of strength and weight, but I felt thrilled to know your arms and voice never changed.

Over the years we made the trips to see you as often as we could. When we started your direction, Gary and the kids talked about your yummy cookies.

Looks so much like Grandma's Rocker 

Me, I wanted you to rock me right on your lap like a little kid. And you did rock me until your frail frame said, “no more.”

That’s when you coined a new phrase, “Oh honey, it’s so good to see you,” you’d say, “I just wish I could tuck you in my apron pocket then we could have long chats in the dark lonely hours.”

One of our last visits, we drove from Nebraska to Oregon often I said to Gary, “You wait, Hon. My Grandma can’t rock me in her lap anymore, but she’ll want to tuck me in her pocket.”

Sure enough, while we sat side by side, you took my hand in both of yours and pulled it into your lap. You leaned close like you might tell me a secret. The others in the room were so busy chatting they didn’t hear you, but I did. You whispered, “Oh honey, it’s so good to see you. I wish I could just tuck you in my pocket. We could have a party in the lonely hours of the night.”

Husband Said Grandma wanted him in her pocket. 

Grandma, your constant love and the invitation for my family to visit anytime gave me a deep satisfied peace. I loved hearing all the stories of your childhood and the family I didn’t live around. Because of you I’ve learned the value of sharing family stories with others.  

It’s impossible for me to measure up to you Grandma, but it’s my desire to be a story telling, hugging, loving Grandma like you.

With my love, Kat (the one you always called Kathy.)

A few years before Grandma died, I wrote this poem for her.

POCKETS OF FUN

“Climb into my pocket.” Grandma whispered in my ear.

We’ll talk the night away when no one else can hear.

Now Grandma’s apron pocket is far too small for me,

Still and all, my heart is warmed by her desire, you see.

Grandma’s hugs and kisses never disappear

I’ve carried them near my heart over all my sixty years.

At ninety-seven I don’t think Grandma knows my name.

Yet I still love to hear her pocket phrase just the same.

As a child she rocked me and taught me not to fear.

And when I cried she wiped away my tears.

Dear Lord, my Grandma lies alone tonight, many miles away,

Please climb into her pocket and comfort her, I pray.

       

Rocker photo from Antique Chairs (1900-1950)                                         

Jammed In For Jesus

For the next few weeks I’m posting letters I wrote to family and friends. About ten years ago a publisher proposed a series of books. I wrote a dozen or more letters—the project never materialized. Today I thought, why not share them here. They are sunshine and smiles. Enjoy the read and share with your friends. Kat, Still Lionhearted

Letter for my Aunt Betty Viola Leaton Demarest

Photo by Kat June 2010 at Mom's birthday party in Elmira OR

Dear Aunt Betty,

Do you remember the times in your small car jammed full of giggling girls and groaning boys?  They are some of my ‘funnest’ childhood memories.

About two years before those fun rides, you gave me a story book doll that touched my heart forever. I’m pretty sure you gave all the nieces dolls back then. My doll came dressed in a hand crocheted yellow dress. I’ll never forget how pretty she looked with a black bow tied around her waist. That doll is the one prized possession I remember from my childhood in Goshen, Oregon.

Maybe you don’t remember the year, but I do. That’s the year our family lived in a tri-plex that burned.  My doll and all the family possessions went up in smoke.

See below for link to the pattern 

When I started writing this letter, I thought more about how much you gave me through VBS. Then I remembered how much that doll meant to me.

Two summers after the fire you asked if Mom and Dad might let my sister, Karen and me attend Vacation Bible School in North Bend. Mom laughed when I talked about this. She said, “It didn’t take much for me to say yes.”

How much do you remember about those VBS weeks each summer?  I know the crafts were my favorite part of each day. The music, drama and stories were great, too.  I do remember one year when your daughter, Mary, and another of your niece’s, my cousin, Gladys, Karen and I composed the story of the Good Samaritan to the song, “Do Lord.” We giggled our way through the music and never finished the story.

I think I might have been eleven that year. (Oh and your friends Margaret and Violet helped us with that music—they touched my heart for lifes--such fond memories of them too.)

Of course, the four of us girls had great times together.  We played house, helped can pears, peeled apples, and snapped green beans.  All of us girls enjoyed reading your Grace Livingston Hill books.

Best of all, in my memory bank are the trips between home and church jammed three deep in your little car. Just this week I described that funny foreign car, an Austin Healey to a friend. She had no idea what an Austin Healey might be.

Do you remember how all of we laughed when you raised the turn signals? Those funny flapper thingies that popped out on either side when you wanted to turn right or left?

I remember yours as gray and boxier? 

The church and the house were not far apart. Maybe eight blocks if we walked down Marion Street. All I remember is that you crammed Mary, Karen and me in the car and made a run around the town to pick up other kids. I clearly remember one day with thirteen kids in that little rig. We were three deep in giggles and groans. The boys didn’t want to touch the girls and the girls loved having the boys nearby.

Years later, I blamed you when I made trips around our neighborhood to pickup kids for VBS.

VBS Sign

With the seat belt laws I couldn’t put thirteen kids in my car. Some days I made three trips.

You taught me how to care about all those obnoxious giggling girls and grumbly groaning boys. They needed Jesus just like me when I was a kid.

You know, Aunt Betty, my least favorite color is yellow. However, if that doll with the yellow crocheted dress was still around today it would have a place of honor, yellow and all—a reminder of your love for me.

Thank you for teaching me about Jesus and how to care for kids. “Jammed in for Jesus” is a great motto I’m passing on to others.

Your niece,

Kat, the one you still call Kathy 

the doll photo is from Crocheted doll collection /the dress is close to what Aunt Betty crocheted for me--it doesn't have the black belt, but still beautiful. 

The car photo is from somewhere between 19040-1960 from a sales photo--I can't find it again--oops. 

Giggles and Smiles on a Come n Go Snow Day

My newspaper box in winter 2010--one of the worst snowy winters in Omaha. 

Yesterday I drove to work at 6:30 a.m. to work on a project requiring numbers.

Dark morning.

Dry streets.

No problems.

About 8 ish someone walked in the door. 

“Wow, is that a crazy snow.”

Snow?

 I don’t drive in snow.

Well rarely do I drive in snow.

But already hard at work and with an appointment for a haircut 

after work, I stayed put.

Later, when I parked my car in front of Hair Masters a guy yelled at me. 

Scared me, he did.

I looked up—I’m sure my startled look screamed “fear.”

“Isn’t it great,” he said.

“What?”

“The snow.” He pointed at the slush I stood in. “It came and went. I love it.” His grin brought a smile to my face. 

Yes, I like snow that comes and goes. We need moisture, and the slush of the afternoon meant no problems getting around.

Funny how a man’s voice in a parking lot could bring an instant uneasiness, but then in today’s world, one never knows what might happen in a parking lot.

I like the Come n Go Snow, smiles and giggles idea better than being mugged, don’t you?

Today is sunny and I’m definitely looking forward to spring and the beauty and the smell of flowers. Umhum.

Flowers in downtown Eugene, OR mall 

Kat, Still Lionhearted