Sued51's Blog












How would I know, you might ask? Observation? Imagination?

I have mentioned before that I have six brothers and NO sisters. The older I get, the more I feel this as an empty hole in my life. You know how things come in threes? Easter Sunday three things made me consider the value of sisters.

Sisters

Sisters

In the morning I was going through yet another box of old photos at my mother’s house. The photos in the box I was going through belonged to my grandmother and great aunt. I had never seen many of them before, and they showed my grandmother and her sisters when they were in their twenties: on vacation, joking around and dressing up for Halloween (they are a bit older in this photo). There were smiles all around. Very different from the elderly women I remember with the weight of years on them. Looking at the photos, the closeness and the camaraderie came through. The photos made me smile and made me miss my great-aunts. Well…the great-aunts that I never got to know.

After dinner with my family, I went to the home of a friend that I call my “pseudo-sister.” We have known each other for 37 years, since we were 18 years old. When I walked in, her mother and her mother’s sisters, all in their 70’s, were singing together and recording it on someone’s iphone. They were laughing and, admittedly a little tipsy. It really made me smile. One of them had come up with an old photo from when they were girls, copied it, and gifted it to the others in a little Easter basket. They were all clearly enjoying the day despite whatever health problems they have.

After they left, when my friend and I were alone, we talked about our youth. Somehow the conversation turned to Julianne Phillips, the ex-wife of Bruce Springsteen. I mentioned the show she starred in: “Sisters.” It turned out my friend had never seen it! (We’re always learning new things about each other.) I told her how I used to watch it faithfully. I thought about that as I drove home. Did I watch the show to see what having sisters was like because I felt I missed it?

I think the real-life I observed in my grandmother’s photos, the moments between my friend’s Mom and her sisters were probably more realistic than the TV show, but perhaps not? Sisters steal each others’ clothes, and boyfriends too in a not-so-perfect world. And they snitch on you and tease you just like brothers…(though not in this clip)

The Daily Post had a topic the other day: what’s on your bucket list? I couldn’t write about it, because I haven’t made one. I don’t allow myself to want trips or things that I’ll never have the money to buy. What I want to experience before I leave this earth are not places to see or things to do — they are feelings that I want to feel. I can’t change the fact that I don’t have blood sisters. But I am grateful to have my pseudo-sister. And I can continue to cultivate new relationships and continue to search for soul-sisters…

Now that’s what’s on my bucket list.



{January 18, 2014}   Weekly Photo Challenge: Family

I don’t usually participate in the photo challenges on this blog, I usually reserve that for my Last Train to Qville blog. But I thought the topic was great prompt to tell a family story recently told to me by my mother.

I never knew my grandfather (my mother’s father) because he died when she was 6 years old, but I have been fascinated by him, especially lately, for a number of reasons. My mother has been showing me some of the few mementos and photos of him that she treasures, including his service diary when he was in World War I. He was stationed in Paris, and his love of beauty and art is reflected in the observations he chose to record in his concise and neat penmanship and the souvenirs he saved. His letters to my grandmother were full of little sketches; my mother said he wanted to go to art school someday, but he never had the chance.

My Coffee Table -- My Mother's Childhood Toy Box

My Coffee Table — My Mother’s Childhood Toy Box

My mother has some terrific pictures of him, including one of him in his uniform in front of the Arche de Triumph. I’m privileged to have the toy box he made for my mother as my coffee table. Nothing fancy, but he made it so I treasure it. She won’t let the pictures leave the house, even for me to scan, so unfortunately I can’t show you a picture of him here, but I can try to give you a picture of who he was through words. My mother recently shared a poignant story that I thought I’d share with you about the last time she saw him.

My grandfather died of pneumonia in 1932, when he was not even 35 years old. He had a wife, a son and a daughter. My uncle, who was six years older than my mother, was able to relate the story of my grandfather leaving his childhood home in Indiana and driving his family to Florida for a job prospect during the Depression. Cars were not very rugged back then. Highways were a dream to come in the future; most of  the roads were still dirt. My uncle said that often they had to stop the car to roll rocks and boulders out of the way to get through. When they arrived, my grandfather landed a good job at a lumber yard where the owners were pleased with his ability to accurately estimate the amount of lumber needed to translate design plans into finished homes. (I assume that is where he got the wood to build the toy box I have in my living room.) The family had a small home down there with a small yard, so his risk paid off; they were doing well for the time period.

But their prosperity did not last. My grandfather got sick. He was in quarantine in a backyard shed, trying to recover and delirious with fever (I don’t know why no hospital, but perhaps that was only for the rich back then). In 1932, the big news story of the day was the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby. My father adored his little girl, and in his delirium, he became convinced someone had kidnapped her.

My Mother as a Child

My Mother as a Child

(I’m not sure how old my mother was in the picture below, but I think she was a pretty child. She let me have this picture because she hates it…she hates the BIG bow!)

My mother was not allowed to go into the shed where he was, but she remembers being told to wave to him through a window so that he could see that she was safe; the thinking was that it would calm him down so he could concentrate on fighting his illness. It gave him relief, but didn’t save him. The last time my mother saw him was through a window, but thanks to her grandmother (his mother) telling her the background to the story years later, she has felt loved and special to him for most of her life. I was happy she shared the story with me.



et cetera
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