I ran away to a place deep in the forest, just to escape for awhile.
Jittery and anxious last Tuesday, I felt overloaded with the latest, unsettling events in an already trying time: Word of a friend who’d been so careful about COVID-19 exposure, yet is battling the virus, and a U.S. president out of the hospital — yet not humbled.
That news followed a disturbing train wreck of the presidential debate held in my native city, Cleveland, home to more of my loved ones than I dare count.
For just awhile, I needed nothing else to happen, a break from news alerts and the sense of encroaching chaos.
I needed a road trip adventure — a short one that would have me back home by bedtime.
Not far from my home in central Pennsylvania, there is a natural, conservation area deep within the state forest with old-growth pine and hemlock and an understory of sprawling, 20-foot tall rhododendrons.
A century ago, the logging industry cut most of Penn’s Woods to the ground, but bypassed these acres. Now it’s protected, with limited human meddling. (This is Alan Seeger Natural Area within Rothrock State Forest. No logging allowed. Hunting is permitted.)
The place is lovely, peaceful and quiet. I visited only once, long ago. My planned mini-escape route would take the really long way, up and over instead of around the mountain, to reach the county north of us, where I had some things to do.
And — it was on the way to a cheeseburger I’ve been craving.
My work lately has me writing a lot about uplifting country drives and delicious food from local farms. (We eat very well here in central Pennsylvania!)
One pub, in particular, is known for using all local ingredients in its cheeseburgers and milkshakes—two treats that have been dancing around in my head for weeks. Months even. Not exactly sugarplums, but you get the picture.
Clearly, it was time for my own country drive, so I finished my work and grabbed my keys.
But before I could slip out the door, my phone buzzed with one more news alert, and it was a gut punch.
Sad News
Eddie Van Halen was dead at 65. The news triggered my tears, and immediately flooded me with sadness and good memories. A best friend and I always greet each other with the beginning of a favorite Van Halen song: Helllloooo Baby!
Four syllables, all dramatically drawn out, that zip us right back to our senior year of high school when the album 5150 was still new and shiny.
Eddie was a “forever-young,” grinning rock star. A guitar god.
Remember being a teenager and the music that sent you and your friends over the moon into a wild frenzy? Remember those teenage crushes on the fun, famous, gorgeous and talented? Jon Bon Jovi? Luke Bryan? Shania? Keith Urban? Ringo? Paul? Elvis?
To me, Eddie Van Halen is all of that: the music, infatuation and lasting friendships from my teenage years. The soundtrack of my coming-of-age.
(My mom is probably rolling her eyes once again as she reads, recalling the weeks-long, drawn-out argument we had the summer I turned 16 and was determined to go to a Van Halen concert in Cleveland with my boyfriend. But the concert was the same day as the family reunion she insisted we attend somewhere “in the middle of nowhere” in Pennsylvania. She won, of course — and now I live in a “somewhere” not-so-far from that middle-of-nowhere place.)
Eddie had that impish, flirty grin. He made playing music look as easy and delightful as skipping down a sidewalk or jumping rope. His fingers moved crazy-fast and nimble over electric guitar strings and piano keys.
Yes – I was absolutely infatuated with cute Eddie. I was also in awe of his giant musical talent. I played piano then, and wanted to play just like Eddie.
Fresh, Crisp Air
Now, teary, I pulled out of our driveway and turned north away from the valley and toward the mountain, driving through the state park, into the state forest, past the Christmas tree farm, past fields of cows and goats, then farther into the woods.
Mile by mile, I breathed more deeply, as longer exhales and inhales settled my nerves and anxiety. Morning fog had yielded to a gorgeous warm autumn afternoon with blazing red, orange and gold leaves and sunshine slicing through the green canopy.
Among the fresh, crisp air, I found some calm.
Finally, I reached the natural, barely touched area. The quiet, rich and dark coolness comforted me. The scent of fallen leaves turning to new soil on the forest floor among yellowed ferns. Those dark green, leathery leaves of rhododendron grow so tall.
I thought about how these trees have stood strong for hundreds of years, towering toward the sky. They can’t run away, you know — not even for a little country drive.
I felt small again, cradled in all that glorious beauty in the stability — at least for now — of the forest. The world may feel like it’s going to hell, spinning off its axis. But this forest is still right here, right now. Still very real. Still very solid.
I kept driving, eventually out of the wildest part of the forest and still in the woods, climbing the mountain.
When we were girls
Surprisingly, my phone buzzed a bunch of times.
Veronica, my very first best friend and possibly Eddie Van Halen’s number one fan.
Had I heard the news?
Have you ever not realized a part of you was missing until you were again with that person? With someone you’d once spent most of every day with for several years? That’s what it was like for me to hug Veronica after nearly two decades of drifting. We text from time to time. The last time we got on the phone, three hours flew by.
Then, she texted more than 10 of us, all connected by a time long ago when we were best friends, classmates and many of us were dancing, jumping cheerleaders.
Soon, Veronica sent a short tribute RIP message and a link to a YouTube video of Jump, the Van Halen classic and lead-single from their 1984 album. I didn’t expect it to play, there on the switchback turns near the top of that mountain in the middle of nowhere.
But it did.
Joy Ride
Eleven chords from Eddie’s synthesizer returned me to eighth grade at St. Wenceslas and a sleepover in Mary’s living room, where six of us danced and jumped, full of youthful energy and innocence. Mary, our cheerleading coach, hosted her squad: Veronica, Chris, Corina, Donna and Nancy. That night, we watched that Van Halen Jump video over and over again.
As I drove, I played the music as loud as it would go, felt the fresh air rush through the windows and sailed down the mountain on the sheer joy of a fun, driving tune. I was no longer alone in the car, but with all my girlfriends from eighth grade, high school and college in simpler times. Days well before rent and mortgage payments, before anyone was married or divorced, when it’s likely none of us worried about our own parents, our kids or in-laws — and certainly not all of them at the same time.
A time long before anyone thought to call us “ma’am” — or we could even imagine it.
Lighter, lifted and breathing normally once again, I emerged from the forest into town, ticked off my errands and treated myself to one delicious cheeseburger and peanut butter milkshake. I returned home exhilarated, renewed — and in time to kiss my husband goodnight.
Dancing Queens — once again?
No one knows when we’ll be able to safely gather to blissfully dance the night away. A huge dance party is on my list of plans for when we reach “the other side” of this thing.
(Remember that Dancing Queen scene from Mamma Mia when mature women re-live their disco days? Ours would be with more denim and high-tops than polyester bell bottoms and beads, and a lot of blissful rocking out on air-guitar solos!)
Who knows when we’ll able to safely shimmy and sway and stay on our feet for an entire rock concert, whooping and cheering and waving lighters?
My sense of collective grief for the people and experiences we have all lost is immense. So heavy. My family, thank goodness has been healthy, so this weight and disruption must be bearable. We have to stay strong. We have to stay up and hopeful.
Yet, that collective grief is still so immense. I must regularly acknowledge that and soothe my soul in the forest.
And also escape into the uplifting, transportive power of music.
Eddie Van Halen, like many musicians, gave us music that connects me to cherished friends and better, joyful times — a balm for the weight of this world. Godspeed Eddie. Thank you.
The buzzing phone had crashed my sweet, peaceful escape — but delivered an entirely different escape, one of happy connection and shared euphoria. A reminder that the deep joy of beloved music and lifelong friendship is still at my fingertips. Right here. Right now.
Aging is a gift, our chance to get better, stronger, wiser. Birthday rituals help me focus more on this, less on the anxiety of aging.
The strength of her hands is what I remember most about Emily. Her hands dug into the twisted tissues of my neck, the kinked chain-links beneath my shoulder blades.
We talked, at least early in the hour, about staying healthy. What to eat. How to stick to exercise. I was a 20-something then, a regular visitor to Emily’s massage therapy practice.
We talked to find the right, helpful level of pressure. Too much, and my muscles would just tighten.
Because … Wow, her hands were really strong.
I asked Emily: Was her hand-strength from her training for a triathlon the year before? Maybe. And massage, of course. She’d recently turned 50. I wondered if her triathlon goal had anything to do with that big, milestone birthday.
Yes, she said. It had EVERYTHING to do with turning 50.
When Big Birthdays Shift on You
I’d not thought about that conversation — even as my own 50th birthday approached — until I read a post in a Facebook group from a woman nervous about turning 30, and started thinking of a helpful response.
I read her post right before my morning bike ride. She used the word “old.” Kindly, and with curiosity. Whatever “old” is, I’m closer than she is.
So as I pedaled the country roads, in-between saying good morning to the cows and admiring handsome red barns, I thought about what to say.
What would you say?
“Hah! You’re a baby!” is useless to a young woman sharing her fears and looking for comfort, perhaps even wisdom.
After some mental rooting around, I remembered those late 20s. The birthdays sort of shift on you. A lifetime begins to feel limited. Short. Finite.
Not for someone else. For you. For the first time, aging is personal.
Sweet 16 is gone. The excitement of becoming an adult at 18 and legal drinking at 21 fades. At least for me.
Thirty gets your attention and tugs at you: So … now what? None of us live forever, so what are you doing with your one, short little life?
More mental noodling later that week as I gardened, thought about birthday rituals, and learned from my readers about their birthday rituals.
Those Big Birthdays Are Loaded with Reckoning
Here’s what I would say to her:
Happy Birthday!
I get it, sweetheart. Aging is scary. Those big birthdays are often loaded with fear and anxiety. Those milestone numbers remind us our lives are finite. They deliver a reckoning: Are you sure you’re on the right track? (Of course, your anxiety may vary.)
What to do?
• Live!
Find and relish joy, wherever you can. Savor life’s lusciousness. Eat the ripe, juicy peach. Feel the grass under your bare feet. Sing out loud to the car radio. Let the sugary frosting of the birthday cake melt on your tongue. Sky dive, if that’s your thing.
• End obsession over perfection
Do whatever you can to cut off oxygen to this society’s toxic, poisonous, destructive obsession around physical perfection. Screw that nonsense. When I hear a young woman who is beautiful inside and out pick at her appearance, I want to scream.
(Full disclosure: I’m still coloring my hair, for now. Fear of seeing a full head of gray in my reflection is powerful and hard-wired. I’m working on this one.)
Your smile, your face, your body are all exquisitely beautiful right now, just as they are. Sure, we all want to look our best. Do it with tender loving care of your mental, emotional and physical health — without vicious judgment of your physical appearance.
Please re-read the paragraph above at least once, maybe more.
• Enjoy your youth.
Your body can do things right now that it might not be able to later. (That’s OK! Just look at what it CAN do!) Don’t take that for granted. Celebrate it. Live as fully as you can as you care for your body. It will change, and that’s OK. How I miss dancing past midnight. I can do it — I just don’t bounce back the next morning like I used to!
• Grow something.
Even just a houseplant. (Yes, a real, living one. It’s OK to throw a few dead ones out while you’re learning.)
More importantly: Cultivate the garden of your soul. Weed out poisons and toxins. Sow goodness. Tend and water it. Let yourself be part plant and turn toward the sun. (This will make more sense if you watch The Karate Kid. A good flick now streaming free on Netflix.)
• Buy the best shoes and bra you can afford.
Investment in your future health and comfort. Enough said.
• Plan ahead to combat the anxiety around milestone birthdays.
Fear and anxiety over aging come with the milestone birthdays. Plan ahead — like my friend, Emily. Training for a triathlon definitely sticks it to the fear that aging equates to weakness. How can you celebrate and get stronger? And someday when physical strength wanes, strive to be stronger in other ways, like the baseball pitcher who masters finesse over velocity.
In my 20s, I had very little wisdom, just enough to know that and seek it. Maine drew me with her lakes, rock, wild, crashing waves, sweet balsam forests that to a suburban kid from Cleveland smelled like Dentyne cinnamon gum.
That smooth, speckled grey granite stone I keep in the kitchen that looks like a dinosaur egg is from a Maine beach. It reminds me of all the seeking and mistake-making I did on the Maine coast — and also does a fine job smashing garlic bulbs.
Aging is a gift, our chance to get better, stronger, wiser.
And so — I created a personal birthday ritual to focus more on this and less on the fear, potential regret of a fleeting, mis-spent life.
Starting in my mid-20s, every year on my birthday I climbed a taller mountain in Maine or New Hampshire. As my age increased, so did my physical strength. This also likely had a little something to do with chasing a lyric about “the mountain” in the Indigo Girls’ timeless song “Closer to Fine.”
After the West Peak and Horns of the Bigelow range, more than 4,000 feet, and Mount Katahdin at 5,269 feet, I climbed Mount Washington, the region’s tallest at 6,288 feet — and then ran out of weekend trips, possibly even interest in that ritual.
My birthday ritual of climbing a bigger mountain every year helped me get stronger as my age climbed.
Which brings me to:
• Re-invent your birthday ritual as it suits you.
In my 30s, I took lake vacations around my birthday and spent the first day of each one lakeside, sipping coffee and reading essays and memoir from the beautiful and wise Maya Angelou.
Over one of those thirtysomething birthday weekends, I biked from Maine’s mountains to the coast. A good challenge I returned to when 40 approached, and I trained among the rolling hills of central Pennsylvania for a flat, 75-mile ride in northern Ohio on a 95-degree August day.
That was a good decision — because my 40s tested my core physical, emotional and mental strength with the crushing grief of divorce and the loss of my dad.
• Re-invent yourself, as needed.
These losses were my fire, my kiln, making me stronger, better, wiser and more loving. I came out the other side on the precipice of a whole new adventure with family. I fell head over heels in love and stepped into this family life here in a small town in central Pennsylvania.
Then —
Part of me wished to stop time. Our kids were already teenagers, growing up too fast for me, not fast enough for them. But no one — not me, even Cher — can turn back time.
The relentless clock reminded: 50 was fast-approaching with new anxieties. How did my actual accomplishments compare to what I’d dreamed of?
At 48, I re-committed to writing in a new way. I’ll either make it — or keep trying as long as I’m able. I’m beyond OK with that. Complete peace.
Here we both are, then—you and I—in this writing adventure nudged by my own approach to the half-century mark. (What you’re reading now, then, is kind of like Emily’s hand-strength and triathlon — all about my turning 50.)
• Reflection, ritual and reckoning
This year, when my actual birthday arrived in mid-June, I stayed home. Given the pandemic, we scrapped plans for a big bike ride with friends and a lake visit. The reckoning of my milestone birthday arrived as there was so much to reflect on: Deep gratitude that the pandemic had not taken anyone from me, a sense of collective grief for those who’ve suffered direct losses, a national reckoning on racism. (No, I’ve absolutely NOT done enough to combat racism. Where to go from here?)
From our porch swing, overlooking a sea of green vegetation instead of blue lake water — my gardens, the massive woodpile my husband so precisely builds every summer and out beyond the cemetary to the mountain ridge — I read a few random pages from Maya Angelou’s “Wouldn’t Take Nothing For My Journey Now.”
Grateful, I took comfort in her words:
“I have found that among its other benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver…The giver is as enriched as is the recipient, and more important, that intangible but very real psychic force of good in the world is increased.”
So there. Plaques and resume bullets are not the most important thing.
• Give.
Simply give, as best you can, from your own sense of joy and peace.
A final thought to the young woman approaching 30:
• Dream Big at any age. No Limits.
Reflect and dream about whatever brings you joy and is a gift to both you and others. Make it a ritual, a way to celebrate your life, then go do it.
I’d judged the “Ice Queen” as cold. She seemed odd and unfriendly. Decades later, I learned just how wrong I had been.
My dad, sister and I shivered in an open pod of electric-blue fiberglass near the top of the Ferris wheel at Ohio’s Cedar Point amusement park, on a rare, fun day together. The spring air was chilly and damp.
The big wheel had stopped, freezing us over the slate expanse of Lake Erie, where whitecaps dotted the grey-blue waves.
We were determined to make the best of our Cedar Point day, despite the cool, grey, rainy weather of late spring. I’d flown into Cleveland’s Hopkins airport from Maine that morning for the weekend.
High above the lake and on the stopped ride, we felt the air’s bitter bite.
“Where is this cold wind coming from?” someone demanded to know, as a gust blew through the open car.
“Michigan!” I said, and we laughed, because we all knew I meant the woman who our Dad had lived with for a long time by then. “Where the Ice Queen comes from!”
We shared a big, belly laugh with our dad.
Maybe that was the first time we nicknamed Stephanie the Ice Queen. Or, maybe that’s just the day it stuck.
Magic Coaster Rides
My dad, sister and I had come to this amusement park together at least once before, squealing and shrieking as we rode roller coasters with our arms waving in the air, over and over again until the park closed at midnight. Three kids so high and giddy after a ride that we raced each other back to the line, laughing as we re-buckled ourselves into the first cars.
Dad always pushed us to ride as close to the front as possible. Metal gears slowly click … click … clicked as we climbed up a steep hill as tall as a skyscraper, our train of coaster cars inching over the peak then plunging us into the warm darkness, sending us sideways around steep banks.
Many years later, the three of us would attempt to re-capture that fun and magic as a last hurrah before our dad’s chemo treatments began, a futile attempt to stop pancreatic cancer. Temps reached 103 degrees that July day, distorting the air above the asphalt of Frontiertown into waves. Hot, miserable and defeated by the heat and our Dad’s prognosis of six months, we left mid-afternoon, retreating to the cool AC of the car for the ride home.
But on that rainy day when we rode the Ferris wheel, none of that had happened yet.
Quiet Mender
I’d known Stephanie for 17 years. I barely knew her and I had not wanted to. We met, as I remember it, the day my grandfather died. My boyfriend drove me over to my grandparents’ modest, post-war suburban house where my dad and his new girlfriend gathered around my grandmother.
Stephanie sat in a wing chair between the front door and the picture window that looked onto the neatly trimmed front lawn, and across the street to the similar houses. She had a pile of cloth in her lap and worked a needle and thread, mending. Or perhaps knitting, pulling on skeins of yarn as she clicked needles and perled.
By then, I knew my dad’s infidelity had helped break-up both his marriage to my mother and to my stepmom, with whom he’d made a second family. My sister, technically half-sister but we’ve never used that term, is their daughter.
For the record, Stephanie has since told me many times how she insisted on seeing my dad’s divorce papers before they dated.
But when we met, I didn’t know that, nor did I really care. I was busy checking out, a senior in high school, eager to leave behind all the twisted dynamics of my immediate family and move away to attend college and make my own life.
Over the years, Stephanie and I had talked a few times. Basic, polite pleasantries. I’d be “back home” in Cleveland for the holidays. Stephanie would be away, visiting her family in Michigan.
Unfamiliar and Odd
I’d judged her as cold. She was different than women I knew and the moms of my friends. She did not have kids. She thrifted for broken things and repaired them. They were always taking in stray, misfit animals. She seemed so unfriendly.
I questioned why she, why any woman, would be with my dad. Sure, he was easy to like — handsome, charming, funny. But by then I knew it was difficult to count him as a daughter or wife.
I was so angry at him then.
For several of those years after he and I reconciled, he would drive out to Maine alone to visit, explore Maine and help me take care of my first, old house. Stephanie stayed behind in Ohio, seemingly not interested.
Maybe dad said “Ice Queen” first. Who knows for sure? Lots of people in his family had nicknames. He’d called his own dad “Old Fart.”
But it doesn’t matter who said it first, anyway. I piled on.
The Ice Queen moniker became less mean over time. At least I hope so. My dad — always an infuriating tease, but you couldn’t help but laugh — called her “Queenie” later, or “The Queen” or he’d drop words altogether, singing instead that bit of music from the Imperial Margarine commercials — “da-da-ta-DOOOO!”— when a king’s crown pops onto the kid’s head.
Discovering True Nature
When I moved to central Pennsylvania, Dad, Stephanie and I visited more often, spending Saturday afternoons together, eating dinners together. I started to get to know her better.
And when my dad was in crisis — in a medical coma for two weeks — all of us, including my sister, were forced to work together and really get to know each other. We took shifts at the hospital to give each other a break. We chatted beside his bed as he slept. In-between visiting hours, we ate meals together in the hospital cafeteria.
Stephanie laughed with us. She didn’t get angry or bitter or mean. She was afraid to lose him, stressed and vulnerable. I saw her in a state of being overwhelmed, but never saw her treat anyone unkindly. Rather, I was just beginning to realize how she helped smooth out my Dad’s rough edges.
I learned she really, truly loved him. She would have done anything just to get him back home again. He survived the infection, woke from the medical coma that had both saved his life and forced him to miss Thanksgiving, and spent several weeks in a rehabilitation facility to regain his strength.
By Christmas, our Dad was back in his favorite chair at their home, with his Bassett hound and all of their dogs and cats. Two months later, he and Stephanie hosted our first Thanksgiving in February dinner.
They kept visiting Central Pennsylvania over the next couple of years. We talked about art, gardening, animals, food and restaurants. I leaned heavily upon my Dad and Stephanie when my marriage fell apart.
On one visit during “divorce year,” Stephanie helped me finish painting the walls of my living room and dining room a gorgeous, burnt orange. I’d seen a picture of rich, deep smoldering orange walls with white trim and a dark hardwood floor in an issue of This Old House magazine. Had to have that color. Just had to.
“I hate this color, you know,” Stephanie said, as she brushed it onto the wall. “Yeah, I know,” I replied.
My Patron Saint
Once, I was at their house, helping weed Stephanie’s garden and spotted a headless statue of St. Francis of Assisi, about 3-4 feet tall, with his head nestled into the soil beside it.
“Ummm… what’s up with the statue? We can glue the head back on,” I asked Stephanie.
Oh no, she said. “Everyone has a statue of St. Francis with his head. Why would I want that?”
I started to understand. It struck me: Stephanie’s gift is to see beauty in the broken — an exceptional gift to my dad, our family and to me. All of us broken.
I began to think of her as “Saint Stephanie – the Patron Saint of Broken Things.”
One truth at the core of my family’s Thanksgiving in February story: My dad had broken all of our hearts, and he was terribly broken himself. Yet, we all loved him, and he loved us.
Stephanie turned out to have one of the biggest, most loving hearts of anyone I’ve met. Over time, I realized she was the woman who absolutely, unconditionally loved my dad. She accepted him for exactly who he was — mood swings, erratic driving, un-ending projects, infidelity and all. It wasn’t pretty. In her shoes, I would not have stuck around. Surely, none of it was easy. But she loved him.
Stephanie loved him into being a better man. This, I believe, helped he and I to mend our relationship. In time, it helped our family become more functional and loving. The real heroes of our family Thanksgiving in February dinner were the women — my mom, my stepmother, and Stephanie.
Reconciling the Past
I’ve apologized to Stephanie for calling her the Ice Queen. We’ve talked many times about it. It can’t be erased. She was gracious. Surely, the nickname had to hurt.
Now, I’m a stepmother to two young men. If either of them had called me “Ice Queen,” I may have simply vaporized. Yes, I would have been devastated.
My dad has been gone almost seven years now. Stephanie is a beloved part of our family, who every February cooks up a batch of jalapeno bacon poppers and makes a long drive out to the wintry woods of central Pennsylvania for our Thanksgiving dinner. Our crowd gobbles up the poppers, and I remember our common thread, for she is the only person there each year who knew my dad. We both miss him at the table.
To me, she will remain a quiet mender of people, animals, and torn sweaters — of most everything except St. Francis in the garden.
We can love each other through these times. One gracious moment at a time. One friend, one neighbor helping a wounded soul, hurt creature and broken family at a time. One love story at a time.This week, I dipped into the archive for this piece on Mr. Rogers. His wisdom is as true as ever.
A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood — the new movie about Fred Rogers and his vision to create a quality, healthful TV show for children — is packed with gems of wisdom and great life advice. It’s well worth your time.
I’m always curious after seeing a bio-pic about what’s true and what’s a fictional product of movie-making, so I’ve been reading up and discovering wonderful nuggets of inspiration for my grown-up life and work.
Some quick background:
In the movie, a cynical magazine writer is assigned to write a piece about Mr. Rogers for an Esquire magazine issue on heroes. (True.) Fred Rogers took a personal interest in the writer — the relationship at the heart of the movie. (True.) Those interviews led to a rich, four-year friendship until Rogers died in 2002. (All true.) The writer-character’s name in the movie (Lloyd Vogel) and back-story on his personal crises are both fictionalized.
Tom Junod, the real-life writer, penned a gorgeous piece in the December 2019 issue of The Atlantic.
Junod tied this story to our times — and that was before COVID-19 and George Floyd.
What would Fred Rogers make of our times? A worthwhile read.
Here’s the gem from Junod’s story that struck me in December, as I was drafting this little post about writing love stories.
Junod once told Fred Rogers about seeing five motorists in Atlanta stop their cars to help an old, big snapping turtle safely cross a highway exit ramp. Fred Rogers asked if he would be writing about it.
No, Junod said, but asked Fred Rogers why he thought it would be a good story:
“Because whenever people come together to help either another person or another creature, something has happened, and everyone wants to know about it—because we all long to know that there’s a graciousness at the heart of creation.”
That real-life, big family turkey dinner in the middle of February almost 10 years ago led to my obsession with sharing real stories from my real life.
Why? Because I experienced something remarkable that February night and I’m wired to share it. That Mr. Rogers quote brought me a big step closer to understanding it.
You may wonder: What the heck do turtles and exit ramps have to do with roasted turkey, my crazy family and a snowy winter evening?
Love. Sweet. Love.
Graciousness over Pain
As my father lay unconscious, a part of me believed there was some risk that one of his ex-wives or girlfriends could harm him.
Not necessarily that any one of those women, nor that I, were capable of actually unplugging him from the ventilator. But that the stress of one’s presence — or an ugly cat fight between us — could perhaps trigger his cardiac arrest. Or something equally awful.
I understood their anger, even as I stayed close to protect him. I asked his ex-wives to stay out of his room, restricting visitors to my sister, Stephanie his longtime girlfriend, and I. Then I joked about this to reassure my dad, just in case he could hear us.
He had deeply hurt and betrayed all of us. I had witnessed these women’s pain. As his daughter, I shared their pain.
None of those dark products of my imagination actually happened.
Instead, my dad’s ex-wives — my mother and stepmother — his daughters and long-time girlfriend all beautifully worked together to help him survive and recover. Then we celebrated with a big turkey dinner in the middle of February.
Each of these women acted out of graciousness, kindness and love. They became the heroes of our family story.
The “graciousness at the heart of creation” as Fred Rogers put it to Tom Junod, was a bright, shining light in my family that night.
And I have full faith that there is a beautiful, loving graciousness inside each of us.
I witnessed my mom, stepmother and Stephanie all working together in Stephanie’s small kitchen, preparing a meal for our family. No catfights. What had seemed so impossible became possible.
That experience changed our whole family for the better. It changed our dad. It changed me, helped heal me. That’s my truth.
And since we all long to know about that graciousness, as Fred Rogers’ words confirm, I’ll keep sharing this and lots of other love stories.
Love at the Core
I started writing about it, almost immediately. I’ve been a writer since I was a kid, but telling this story was my first real attempt at writing about my own life instead of the lives of other people, or scientific findings, politics, fishing communities, small town government, environmental issues or business trends.
These ThanksgivinginFebruary.com stories explore many themes: Gratitude, family, gathering, friends, pain, turkey, estrangement, apple pie, step-mom-hood, grief, divorce, making peace as we pass the dinner rolls and sweet butter, falling in love, making a new family.
Failing to make peace and finding hope to try again later. All of that stuff of life.
Yet — love is at their core. Love is their essential fiber, and stitches them together.
“We all long to know that there’s a graciousness at the heart of creation,” Fred Rogers.
‘If it’s about love …’
Long ago, as I was just starting this work, I was on a bus trip in Montana, chatting with a group of writers and their spouses about my urge to write about my experience of my family healing over a turkey dinner.
“Does anybody care?” I asked. “Would anybody read that story?”
A woman answered me: “I would,” she said. “I’d read it if it was about love.”
So here we are. I’ve never seen her again. I don’t remember her name. Just what she said.
‘You are loved, just the way you are.’
To be clear: I have no delusions that I’m Fred Rogers. For one thing, I’m not as kind (I’m working on it). I don’t have his vision and I talk way too fast to children. (Working on that, too.)
He inspires me. No one else has my stories and can tell them the way I can, because I had the good fortune to grow up knowing I was loved.
And that I can be brave, tell my stories and keep working to share the most important message of all: You are loved, just as you are.
This is true. Mr. Rogers told me on TV.
In these times, we face darkness on our planet, in our country and in our families. As I first wrote this in December, news alerts popped up on my phone about another shooting, today in Pensacola. I can’t pretend all of that way, nor can I fix it.
I can pray. I can speak. I can vote. I look for and tell love stories. They surround us.
We can love each other through the darkness. One gracious moment at a time. One friend, one neighbor helping an imperiled turtle, wounded soul and broken family.
One love story at a time. The world needs love stories. To share mine with you is a great joy, honor and privilege.
We must fill our own wells and recharge our batteries to take good care of each other.
Morning light streamed through the pale grey limbs of the giant sycamore down into the magenta blooms of our neighbor’s small, redbud tree. Slants of light punched through the trees’ shadows, into the sculpted headstones of the cemetary behind our house, scattering veils of mist over the green fields beyond.
As the sun climbed above the trees, it reflected the bright, alabaster white of the church beside our house. Both buildings date to the 1860s. This fact and the rising light comfort me in this storm. I feel safest here at home.
With a razor-sharp pencil, I’d neatly printed a to-do list for the day, then zipped outside with the dogs, intending to zip right back.
It would be awhile, I soon realized, before I could go back inside.
Our beagle’s nose busily worked over the green grass of our backyard, gathering news of the rabbit and cat night visitors. Our big-brown, curious Blue-dog scanned the landscape and listened with his intense vigilance.
The air was too cool and crisp, the sky too blue, the new fresh green leaves too vibrant — the early morning was just too glorious to spend inside.
We took our brisk walk. Then I returned, alone and intent on restoring order to the long-neglected veggie beds.
Feeling lucky, I succumbed to the morning light and magical mess of the garden.
Forgetting to go Outside
A few weeks earlier, I would have rushed back inside — too glued to screens and digital connections to even remember I could go outside.
I’d simply … well, forgotten. This shocks me, an advocate for the many benefits of outside, nature and gardens, especially for kids.
This coronavirus pandemic, especially the first few weeks of shutdowns, knocked me off my mooring.
I am not suffering. I am not grieving the loss of a loved one nor the loss of my livelihood.
My family and I are all healthy and taking precautions to stay healthy. I work from a home office, so am used to spending most of my time in on our property or walking around the nearby cemetary and neighborhood.
I am a quick drive away from long stretches of gorgeous trails through the woods at our state park. That I can easily do these walks with plenty of elbow room is to me a luxurious, rich life.
Collective Grief
Still — I struggle with what we’ve all lost.
Hugs. Oh — how I long to visit and hug my mom and stepfather, who have been hunkered down in Ohio.
And …. Sports! That one really hurts here in the Man Cave.
I miss the big family celebrations that had to be canceled. Our extended family would typically have gathered five times over these 11 weeks.
I know enough about grief and have seen enough in the coverage to affirm my sense that I am experiencing a collective grief: my personal loss of what my family and I had anticipated for this spring, in the midst of an American death count that yesterday topped 100,000.
Each of those who have died is a stranger to me — and someone’s beloved mother, husband, grandfather, grandmother, wife, cousin, a son, a daughter. My heart aches for all of that loss, the loneliness and people who cannot hug each other through it.
And I struggle with anxiety. I fear the virus will take people I love.
Two, True American Heroes
In March, soon after the shutdowns, craving inspiration and eager to be helpful in a crisis, I thought a lot about two famous heroes: Mr. Rogers and Sully.
We had just watched the Mr. Rogers movie before Christmas — which only feels like a century ago, and I loved remembering his loving TV presence from childhood. A few clicks on Amazon, and we were re-watching the movie Sully.
Remember Sully?
Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger, III, is the airline pilot who safely landed US Airways Flight 1549 on the Hudson River January 15, 2009, saving the lives of 155 people. The plane had struck a flock of geese, damaging both engines and leaving them unable to thrust.
Those two real men are true American heroes. In the midst of tragedy, Mr. Rogers would say: Look to the helpers.Be a helper.
Sully followed his instincts, his mental “muscle memory,” training and experience, as someone who has devoted his life’s work to safety.
Find your inner Sully.
Only you can fill your well. Only I can fill mine. This marathon of the spirit demands balance, pacing — and whatever soothes and renews you.
And so, I looked to their stories to help me focus and navigate these times. I hope to be a helper, in some small ways, and to follow my instincts to do what I do best and be a good, creative communicator in all of my roles: stepmom, writer, professional communicator, community volunteer, member of our church community.
I got busy with some new projects, re-thinking strategies and activities for my clients, re-working how we teach children in a community garden when we can’t see them in the garden.
Instead of ignoring social media, I had to pay closer attention and check more frequently. I read a lot more news than usual. I stayed up too late. Checked the news on my phone from bed. I got tired, but kept going.
I started to clean more. I bleached the doorknobs and handle of the refrigerator. For weeks, I wiped down every item that came into our house from the grocery store. From anywhere.
I started skipping too many of the little things I do to stay balanced.
My roles started to blur and blend. My somewhat compartmentalized life became more of a sloppy stew.
Hitting the Wall
One Friday morning, when I was especially anxious to connect with my friend in New York City, the big brown dog laid on the yoga mat in my office and whimpered.
When I sat on the mat and opened my arms, he leaned in, slumped and curled against me. His whole body sighed in big, grumbly groans as I pet him. For awhile, my own breathing slowed. Then I popped up to check the latest news.
I recognized the familiar sense of grief — but had not yet adjusted for it.
A few days later, I heard myself get testy with our church pastor.
I apologized.
This, of course, was not at all in line with my intention to be helpful, kind and loving.
Nor is my snippy tone of frustration I noticed — with some help — in exchanges with my husband.
“Aren’t you worried?” I’d ask him.
“Not about things I can’t control,” he’d respond. “And hon, you worry enough for all of us.”
My husband is a smooth, glassy lake. The calm in any storm. For the record, he is both perfect for me and a near-perfect man — who, by then was suddenly, virtually helping to keep track of more than 400 elementary students.
I needed a course-correction.
Only you can fill your well. Only I can fill mine. This marathon of the spirit demands balance, pacing — and whatever soothes and renews you.
Put Your Own Oxygen Mask on First
And so — I made an effort to return to all the fixtures in my routine that are there for good reason: morning yoga, sound sleep, walks in the woods. Puttering in the garden.
If I don’t take care of myself, I’m no good to my family or any of the organizations or missions I serve. In fact, my run-away anxiety only adds to my family’s stress.
(Except for the beagle. She seems impervious.)
I leaned into our unfolding Appalachian Spring. Before I drive everyone else in our house crazy, I force myself out the door and to the woods. Just 30 minutes later, I feel so much better.
For me, this time demands focused work in the midst of distractions, feeling, empathizing, creativity, reflection, praying.
This is a marathon with an uncertain finish line, not a sprint. We’re in an endurance event of the spirit.
I’m going to need to pace myself.
Digging In and Digging Out
That glorious late April morning in the garden, I soaked in exceptionally sweet light and new greens. I let it all nourish my soul and fill my well.
Straw and old dried rabbit manure covered the beds. Blooming dandelions and random clumps of grass cluttered the area.
My garden gloves were cold and stiff. I pulled away all the straw, mixed the dried rabbit poop into the soil, and dug deep into the hemlock chips to yank away those weeds by their roots.
One breath at a time, the scent of rich soil, fresh air and new growth shook the tension out of my neck and shoulders. I drank in the spring. I reflected on the latest news and the challenges ahead. So many people and families under terrible stress. So much pain in our country, in our world.
I’ll confess — I checked Facebook on my phone a couple of times.
Perhaps it would be wise to shut out social media and all the news. But I can’t and won’t.
I belong to a group, “Light the Night 8 p.m. each evening,” where people tell their stories and post requests for support and prayers after they or a loved one receives a positive test result for COVID-19 or succumbs to the disease. Or, perhaps the person is a nurse or first responder on the front lines.
When I see these stories of people suffering, I hold them in my heart and say a few silent prayers for them. I will not look away from their stories. I will not tune this horror out and pretend it’s not real. The least I can do is bear witness to their stories and pray. It’s a small way to help.
So I must cope with it. My morning ritual begins with reflection — a walk, a write, a yoga practice, some puttering in the garden.
And some mornings, when the light is especially beautiful, a little extra. I take comfort in the light, and in doing what I can to spread light.
I puttered about, arranging my quirky little tea kettle collection in the corners of our fenced-in veggie patch. Refreshed and energized, I headed inside to work.
Amid so much uncertainty, this is clear to me: We must take care of each other to cope through this pandemic. That only happens if we take care of ourselves. Only you can re-fill your well. Only I can re-fill mine.
Eleven weeks since shutdowns began, Mr. Rogers and Sully remain some of my favorite heroes. Sully is famous for quickly making that dramatic decision in the sky to land a plane on a river.
My decisions are different. They are small, day-to-day, quiet ones. More like Fred’s, I hope. May they add up to be useful and helpful.
