Sunflowers now remind me of the brave woman who cursed a Russian soldier with seeds, and the extraordinary power of ordinary people to unite for peace.
As Russia’s first explosions shattered the peace in Ukraine, I watched real-time on CNN from our warm, comfortable living room in Pennsylvania. Millions of people would soon wake up within a war zone. My normal Wednesday evening, their pre-dawn, would become the day when everything changed.
To keep calm, I envisioned people placing flowers into the barrels of guns and searched online for similar, iconic Flower Power images.
Then, on that first day, Feb. 24, of Russian President Vladimir Putin’s unprovoked invasion of a sovereign nation, phone cameras captured the “Sunflower Woman” standing her ground.
She gave me hope.
Her voice full of outrage and defiance, a Ukrainian woman confronts an armed Russian soldier. We barely see her face on the short video, viewed nearly 14 million times on just YouTube and Twitter at last count.
We never see the sunflower seeds. Yet, whenever I see a sunflower, I will see this woman.
“Take these seeds and put them in your pocket,” she says to the soldier, “so at least sunflowers will grow when you all lie down here.”
Just imagine having the courage to say that to someone who can shoot you dead on the spot.
The only good that will come of you being here on this patch of earth with this gun is if the seeds in your pocket sprout from the dust of your bones. (I’m paraphrasing.)
“You came to my land,” she says, in the translation and subtitles on the video. “You are occupiers. You are fascists. And from this moment, you are cursed,” she tells the soldier.
Powerful Mix of Science & Spirit
I believe her. Sure, she’s furious and telling him off.
But there’s so much more.
To rally her fellow Ukrainians and connect with Western culture, it’s hard to imagine picking a better symbol than the sunflower, a powerful blend of science, spirit and symbolism throughout Ukraine’s history.
The bright blooms of sunflowers lift spirits and feed your soul — and bees and other pollinators. Their heads turn to follow the sun. Their seeds feed people and birds. Their oil has fed the economies of neighbors Russia and Ukraine. That is, before everything changed.
Sunflowers are prominent in Ukrainian folklore and folk art as protection from evil spirits. They represent energy, life and well-being, fertility and unity. (For more on this.)
Sunflowers also have a remarkable capability to heal. Sunflowers removed toxins from the soil after the 1986 disaster at the Ukrainian Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant.
Native Americans first cultivated sunflowers, native to North America. The seeds were later exported to Eastern Europe. While the Ukrainian Orthodox Great Lent promotes abstinence from meat, poultry and by-products — it did not ban sunflower oil during Lent. (For more.)
Learning about Ukrainian culture and history has fueled my growing appreciation and respect of the power of this 69-second video clip. My research across multiple publications has not turned up any evidence that it is fake. Looks like it’s helping Ukraine win the hearts of free people all over the globe — mine included.
Learning has helped me channel my sorrow for the carnage of this horrific war and focus on a bright spot.
“You are a part of me I do not know yet,” writes author Valarie Kaur in her beautiful book “See No Stranger ~ A Memoir and Manifesto of Revolutionary Love.” Her words have been on my mind as I learn more. We are all connected.
Now, the sunflower, the national flower of Ukraine, has become a global symbol of peace and solidarity with Ukraine. A new aspect and face of “flower power”? I hope so.
Sunflower power offers a bright spot in these difficult, bleak days of war.
Bleak Days
The woman’s words did not stop the Russian barrage of shelling and rockets and mortar. What will? This invasion has killed, trapped and terrorized civilians and threatens Europe.
These are horrible, bleak days for Ukraine. Families are shattered as mothers flee with their children, torn away from fathers who stay to fight. Sometimes, mothers have returned once they’ve delivered their children to safety.
As I write, these two weeks of war have turned an estimated 2 million people into refugees and untold numbers of men and women have become soldiers. Apartment buildings that on Valentine’s Day saw celebrations of love, romantic dinners and the daily unfolding of ordinary family life have been shelled into rubble.
If you’ve tuned out of the news to safeguard your mental health, I respect that decision.
And if your life in a democracy allows you to tune out, that is a luxury worthy of at least a moment and prayer of gratitude. We must never take democracy for granted.
Watching human suffering at human hands is heartbreaking.
For me, it’s been impossible to look away.
Bearing Witness
I feel strongly about the importance of bearing witness to what is unfolding, and being an informed global citizen and American citizen who reads and gathers information from many, many sources, constantly checking their credibility. (My journalism training helps with this.)
Democracy over authoritarianism. This war is that simple. An authoritarian leader wants the land and wants to break the Ukrainian people’s choice of self-governance to get it.
But that independence and culture cannot be erased. These people cannot be erased.
In the sea of horrific images and stories, this defiant woman provides a powerful respite, invoking the rich symbolism of cheery blooms, and reminding us of the power of one, ordinary human.
Crushing Fear
Her bravery crushed the largest weapon of authoritarians: Fear.
She walks up to the soldier in her ordinary snow boots, warm coat and knit hat. We see the barrel of his gun, his combat boots, his olive and brown military uniform and helmet. We see her puffy winter coat and knit cap against the cold. They are in Henychesk, a port city near the Sea of Azov in Kherson.
She captured the essence of this moment: The people are the rightful ones to determine their destiny. Not the few and powerful. Not a neighboring country. Not foreign, armed soldiers.
In the first few days of Russia’s invasion, something remarkable happened: Much of the world said NO to war, exercising economic power and power over disinformation.
People and companies all over the globe spoke out and took steps to stand firm against Russian president Putin’s invasion, isolating Russia economically.
A collective call for peace — the brightest spot of this awful time.
Wars often happen in darkness, without enough journalists on the ground. But this one seems to be different. And the world is watching, real-time. These events cannot be denied, as so many previous atrocities have been.
From all I’m learning about the Ukrainian people, they will prevail — eventually. What amount of time and human suffering will that take? No one knows, nor knows how this will end.
But when it does, may sunflowers once again grow all over Ukraine and help these people and this land to heal.
Soon, when my hands can dig into warm soil, I’ll remember this woman and plant loads of sunflower seeds.
Keep Calm & Plant Sunflowers
As the invasion began, my online searching for Flower Power images led me to the comfort of John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s song “Imagine,” an iconic anthem for peace. (Here is a dreamy version. Also fabulous: this cover performance from Lady Gaga.)
Later, I found that iconic “flower power” image I’d half-remembered.
A young man — believed to be an 18-year-old actor named George Harris — placed a carnation into the barrel of a gun during an anti-war march on the Pentagon, on October 21, 1967. Young people had started using flowers, toys, candy and music at anti-war protests to de-escalate tensions and create street theater to convey their message.
Photojournalist Bernie Boston spotted and captured the image
Perhaps sunflowers and the “Sunflower Woman” will endure, and become the iconic new face of Flower Power.
Hope so. Keep calm and plant sunflowers. May people unite against war. May a good, lasting peace and solidarity emerge to end this horrible suffering in Ukraine.
Never underestimate the power of one, ordinary person.
Never underestimate the power of one furious woman with seeds.
To donate to organizations providing humanitarian aid to Ukraine:
During our Thanksgiving-in-February festivities, I leaned into the power of gathering over food to heal and strengthen the fabric of our families and communities. In these times, we need this more than ever.
An 18-pound turkey thawed in the fridge. Stalks of celery and a pile of onions waited on the chopping block. Soon, they would be tossed with butter into a huge cast iron pan over a gas flame. Potatoes were ready to peel and mash.
Cue the pie dough, apples and cranberries. It’s time for Thanksgiving in February.
One day and 19 hours away from my 11th Thanksgiving-in-February dinner, with all of the prep on schedule, I settled in to write about the immense joy I felt in anticipation of this event this year and its deeper meaning.
What’s more powerful to strengthen the fabric of family and community than to gather for a meal? Like the ingredients, the teamwork in the kitchen then conversation around the table blend in their own alchemy to strengthen ties.
Even better: Gather with people you don’t always agree with. To “break bread” together mends and stitches us in many ways and cultivates peace. Simply that we can gather again — something I never questioned before 2020 — was important to celebrate.
So sitting still did not come easily. I swayed in my desk chair and popped up to dance to the driving beat and blend of cultures and instruments from a live performance of the Afro Celt Sound System (on YouTube) flowing from my office speakers.
Why not?!
When people come together over what they have in common, whether that’s apple pie, family, helping people, music or the Super Bowl — well, my body cannot contain my joy.
Eventually, I settled into the drum beat to finish writing and here we are.
More than Dinner
Sure, I’m a foodie who loves hosting big family dinners. I like to bake desserts and cook and design a beautiful table. But the Thanksgiving-in-February dinner tradition has always meant so much more to me than an excuse to gather for dinner.
I dream of encouraging families suffering from old arguments and bitter estrangements to come together, for just one peaceful meal and a “bonus” holiday.
Just one meal.
If my family-of-origin found a way, as it did in 2010, well — then there’s hope for most families. (Read about Our First Thanksgiving in February).
And each time people come together over common ground, or pie, I believe that brings peace — not just for the people around the table but also sends peace out in waves into a painful, broken world. Healing leads to more healing. Peace leads to more peace. No step is too small to matter.
World peace. Why not?! Just a little dream I have. A hope. A wish.
For me, this applies to family in all its forms. To biological and bonus family, family-of-choice, and extended family. To community whether that’s around a church or temple or mosque, a town or garden.
To our American family — and beyond.
Unfortunately, sometimes estrangement becomes the only option. Some positions are non-negotiable. Some differences are irreconcilable. Even in my optimism, I still see that reality. Self-preservation is paramount. So, sometimes the best we can do is love someone from afar.
Muddling Through as Family
In 2022 America, I don’t have to tell you there’s an abundance of disagreement and conflict going around. We’d be hard-pressed to find a family or community not touched by bitter disagreement and deep political divisions over how to manage COVID risks and many other issues.
But I don’t think surrounding ourselves with only people who see things exactly as we do is the best answer.
Maybe we’re put into family and community settings with people unlike us and people with whom we disagree for a reason. Maybe we’re supposed to figure out how to function as a family or community to solve problems despite our differences.
Just a thought.
We must work through these times and culture wars. We don’t have to agree on everything or see things the same way. But we can still work together to solve problems. We must keep talking and stay family and community, in all its forms — and America — together.
We all need a little Thanksgiving-in-February magic. Don’t you think?!
Gathering over food strengthens the bonds of family and community.
Gratitude in Action
For me, that magic begins with gratitude, and has evolved to gratitude in action.
First, the gratitude. This year, we are celebrating that our family is healthy and the safe arrival of our first grandchild, a gorgeous baby boy, born on the same day as my mom’s 75th birthday. My husband, who had to have open heart surgery last September, has recovered and is back to full health.
This year, we return to celebrate our Thanksgiving-in-February dinner in person after skipping 2021 to help people stay healthy. Our 2020 Thanksgiving in February dinner was the last “normal” holiday gathering before the pandemic shut down then disrupted so many gatherings, so vital to healthy lives and strengthening family and community.
As February approached, I felt strongly about moving beyond gratitude into action — a call to action to help fight hunger.
We have the good fortune to serve two Thanksgiving dinners each year. I have never known physical hunger.
This is not true for everyone. And, as I am learning and many of you may already know, the depth of suffering is staggering.
Before COVID, food insecurity in the US was at its lowest in 20 years — and still, 35.2 million people, including 10.7 million children, were food insecure, according to FeedingAmerica.org.
The 2021 estimates: 42 million people, including 13 million children, are food insecure. And that’s just in the US.
Thirteen million children with not enough to eat.
In Mifflin County, Pennsylvania, where I live, 15.2 percent of people are food insecure — which means not enough to be healthy, not knowing where their next meal will come from.
Sharing Soup & Pie to Fight Hunger
This month, our church family came together for a traditional “Souper Bowl” event that raises money to fight hunger locally and beyond. Volunteers make and stir big pots of beef-vegetable and chicken-corn soup — thick with tiny bits of flour and egg rivels, a Pennsylvania Dutch way to thicken soup — over a big, cast iron stove in the church kitchen.
This was the first gathering of our church family since the pandemic. How I’ve missed the community and potluck meals! (For a long time, I avoided organized religion. So no one is more shocked than I am that I am part of a church. Some Thoughts on Faith.)
People could eat at tables together, or take their soup and pie home if that felt safer. Volunteers worked together to take soup and pie out to home-bound people.
This year, we added a twist: Pie! And some words on gratitude, plus a month-long collection drive of non-perishable food items. It was a beautiful, successful event that raised money for hunger relief and I was thrilled to be part of it. If you would like to donate.
Make no mistake: I still dream of a large, community Thanksgiving-in-February dinner — and hope to inspire many dinners, big and small, all over.
Agree to Disagree
Then, in the course of working together to help people, something pretty wonderful happened.
Our church welcomes everyone and works together to help people. Come as you are. That’s why I attend.
One woman from my church family and I shared enough polite but firm words in the fall of 2020 to know we disagree about how to respond to COVID. We hung in there. We tiptoed around each other for awhile. We kept showing up.
She and I both worked on the Souper Bowl (with Thanksgiving-in-February pie) event, coming together around our common goal of feeding people. She and I agreed to disagree on COVID response and agreed on the importance of remaining church family together.
We cleared the air, shared a hug, and decided we’d stir the soup — and share some pie together. Making that peace felt so good. I’ve missed her. Something else to celebrate: Staying family through these messy times.
Celebrating over Red Roses, Chocolate and Apple Pie
So I danced into the preparations for our family Thanksgiving-in-February dinner, a scaled-back event this year.
Making apple-cranberry pies. Checking my lists. Fetching the final grocery items for dinner.
My husband and I gathered with our family and dear friends for a weekend of Thanksgiving, playing dominoes and relaxing around the wood stove. My nieces helped decorate the long dining tables with pink chocolates, Hershey kisses, and silk roses.
My husband roasted the turkey and manned the six-burner, cast iron stove. He and a tight, hard-working kitchen crew made sure the Brussels sprouts, sautéed mushrooms, roasted carrots, turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and rolls all reached the tables hot and on time.
We took our time catching up and laughing over the meal and dessert: Chocolate pie, apple-cranberry pies and a cherry pie. Plus, of course, the chocolates.
Magic!
No Step is Too Small
So — let’s look for common ground. Let’s come together for a common goal, to help someone or to celebrate. Let’s seek ways to make peace, even in seemingly tiny ways. They add up.
Here on the ThanksgivinginFebruary.com blog over the next few weeks, you’ll see information and stories about ways to help fight hunger.
Do what you can. No action is too small. Every helpful step matters.
And if you are working hard every day to stay afloat and feed your family, then that’s your action step. That’s plenty. We can’t help anyone unless we are healthy and taking care of ourselves. I believe this.
Let’s make a little peace over pie.
Happy Thanksgiving!
One of our past Thanksgiving-in-February dinners for family and friends.
As bluebirds feasted on the juicy berries outside my kitchen window, they soothed my sadness in an isolating time of collective grief — and changed my view.
A flash of vibrant, striking blue stole my breath. Instant delight. A lucky spark. Magic, so close I could almost touch it.
Enchantment informed me of the bird’s name before my brain absorbed the shape and color of its body. I’d felt it once before, on a spring morning with my friend Elizabeth in her garden. We’d both seen the brilliant, flashy blue fly over our heads to a tree limb.
“Bluebird!” she said. “It’s going to be a GOOD day!”
On this February Saturday, 2021, the bluebird perched on a winterberry shrub loaded with bright red berries outside our kitchen window. It plucked a plump berry, then another. To get a better view and picture, I approached the window, but it sensed me and flew away.
Failing to See
Bird-watching is one of those supposedly fun things I feel like I should be into as a nature-lover, gardener and conservation writer. But it had never hooked me.
Seeing and learning about birds enthralls me. Looking for specific birds high up in the trees or sky frustrates me.
I’ve tried. My mom and I spent one October week on a hawk-watching trip to Cape May, N.J. When the expert hawk watcher stood with us on the platform and described what she saw through her binoculars, I rarely saw the same thing through mine and grew weary.
My neck hurt, so I went for a walk on the beach.
Perhaps it’s my vision, extremely near-sighted and corrected with powerful lenses since I was four. Or maybe I wasn’t even looking at the right patch of sky, or just not patient enough.
Because when I can actually see birds, they captivate me first with their color, then with their behavior, design and extraordinary innate abilities. The Ruby-Throated hummingbird, a beating blur of shimmering emerald and gold, is barely as big as my thumb and yet flies 18-22 hours non-stop, 500 miles, to cross the Gulf of Mexico during its migration.
Incredible. It’s not magic, but learning about it or — even better — seeing the tiny creature in action feels magical to me.
The hawk-watching trip was still fun. I spotted a fierce merlin — a falcon-like hunter — swoop in over a marsh for the kill, and always have a good time traveling with my mom. We explored the trails and the seaside town with its boardwalk and colorful Victorian buildings.
And — I discovered watching the bird-watchers is easier and far more entertaining than squinting and fussing with binoculars. People absorbed in their passion fascinate me.
Hunger Meets Longing
Then — this spectacular little bird appeared in near-perfect view, nearly a year into the pandemic when I longed to see my mom, and Elizabeth and lots of friends. No binoculars necessary.
Sunday morning’s light offered an even better look at the round bird’s cheerful blue feathers and rust-colored throat and belly. I’d planted these little winterberry shrubs, a wedding gift, seven years ago, hoping they would someday grow tall enough to see from the kitchen and brighten even the gloomiest winter day. And since they are native to this ecosystem, their blossoms provide nectar for pollinating insects and their berries are food for the birds. (For more on winterberry, holly and native plant.)
But I’d never witnessed a bird eating the berries — until then.
Wary of scaring him away, I started from across the kitchen, tiptoeing ever closer, snapped a few pictures and watched.
He chomped one bright red berry after another. When my husband walked into the kitchen, the bluebird flew away (and I shushed my husband for entering his own kitchen).
But I had a picture to send to my mom, who confirmed I was indeed looking at a bluebird, a male. She tends bluebird boxes on a trail along a public golf course.
A little while later, there was another bird of the same round shape, mostly grey with just a bit of the bright blue streaking the wings. A female. (If you’re curious about how to identify bluebirds.)
A pair? How sweet!
The Holy Kitchen Sink
By then, still in my pajamas, I realized I wouldn’t make it to church, which is next door. So, I turned on the radio to listen to the service, broadcast into the parking lot during the pandemic.
Cheating, I know. But I could listen, wash the dishes — and stay glued to the window, watching the bluebirds.
The bluebirds stayed just outside the window, feasting on berries. Then came another. THREE! And another — FOUR bluebirds! They would fly back and forth to the low branches of the giant sycamore-like Oriental plane tree in front of our neighbor’s house.
The bluebirds got comfortable, plucking away. They stayed among the juicy berries, despite my washing, rinsing and stacking, and the sounds of hymns and prayers through the speaker.
They fed their hunger — and in turn, along with the music and prayers, comforted me through my sadness as a guest pastor from the local nursing home spoke of losing so many patients to COVID and how even before the pandemic some people had no one to visit them.
A Conservation Success Story
That week, the bluebirds and I fed each other.
When the cold has set in and turned everything to ice, the bluebirds along with lots of birds, need water. Makes sense. So I boiled water in the kettle then carried it outside to a bowl set into the deep snow, and added some snow in case the water was too hot. On one of these little trips, I looked up to see five bluebirds watching from their perch on a low branch of our neighbor’s maple tree.
My effort with the water was teensy compared to the thousands of conservation-minded folk who stepped up a century ago to reverse the habitat losses that had led to the steep decline of Eastern Bluebird populations. The many factors include when people brought invasive, aggressive and non-native house sparrows and European starlings to the United States. These species took over the nesting spots and habitat critical to bluebirds, according to the American Bird Conservancy primer on Eastern Bluebirds.
People installed bluebird nest boxes and nest box trails. In areas where the rest of the habitat is healthy for bluebirds — open pasture with little human traffic and pesticide use — bluebird populations increased. (Read more about this.)
Outside my window, the bluebirds feasted on the juicy berries, providing an up-close view of the beautiful, inter-connectedness of all things, soothing my sadness in an isolating time of prolonged, collective grief. Their images became a gift I could share with people I had not seen in far too long, and a way to make a new friend with a local naturalist, artist and wildlife photographer.
A Bluebird Buffet
Mealworms are their favorite, said my new friend. So I bought a $20 bag of dried mealworms. Only the best for “my” bluebirds. On a bright Saturday with a powder blue sky and sparkling snow, I assembled the bluebird feeding station with water and a plate of mealworms.
That Sunday morning, a whole glorious flock of bluebirds settled into the winterberry.
Then, so did a few chickadees and a flock of dark grey, bigger birds. I blamed juncos, but now suspect they were starlings, known to quickly strip branches of their berries. The bluebirds held their own and kept nibbling. But they couldn’t keep pace with the greedy gobblers.
I gasped.
Over the next hour, my husband popped in and out of the kitchen to monitor the feeding frenzy — and marvel that my effort had drawn too many birds.
In the time it took me to shower and get ready for church, we were down to just a few berries. When we returned home, every single berry was gone.
There went the ruby red that helps me through winter. And off went the bluebirds — despite the plate of untouched mealworms.
My husband sat at the kitchen table, chuckling and shaking his head, entertained by watching a newly hooked bird-watcher.
My husband and I are on the threshold of becoming grandparents. Only in my dreams can I ask my grandmother all of my questions.
“You’re going to have a grandchild,” my elder stepson announced last summer.
The high pitch of my reaction — a squealing shriek — surprised even my own ears, and left people rubbing theirs. Then came hugging, and some tears.
Of course there were tears.
Suddenly, the much-anticipated “someday” joy of a grandchild was no longer off in the distance but coming soon: February.
My husband and I are on the threshold of a new stage of life, becoming grandparents and watching our kids grow into parenthood.
We are among a crew of this baby boy’s grandparents and great-grandparents eagerly awaiting his birth, ready to envelope him in love.
What an extraordinary experience to be a grandparent to a child. To have a shot, a responsibility to play a special role in a child feeling cherished and loved well throughout their life — even long after you’re gone.
Grandma Lessons
How does one learn and prepare for that? Especially someone like me, who was not a mom in the typical, biological way.
My grandmother is always with me, here in her garden just before I turned 3, and now as my husband and I prepare to be grandparents.
Only in my dreams can I ask “Sweetie Grandma,” my maternal grandmother, for help: How on earth could I possibly be the grandma you were to me?
My memories are a blur of warmth and sweetness, of feeling cherished and safe. A sense of exploring and imagining through quiet afternoons in the magical corners of the bungalow where my mom and her siblings grew up, my home away from home.
The comfort of my grandmother’s lap, rocking in her warm embrace as she sang a silly song about fish on the front porch of their house on Anthony Street. I wasn’t her favorite, just her first, and spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house as a kid.
Preparing to meet this baby has taken me right back to how it felt to grow up in those places. Just like other milestone times in my life, I can hear my grandmother’s voice: Laughing, singing, soothing and urging all 10 of her grandchildren onward.
All This is True
At 41, still hoping to have a child of my own, I met and fell in love with my husband and his two teenage sons, who became my stepsons and “our kids.” I am not their mom. Their mom loves them very much.
Now, at 51, on the verge of becoming a grandma, I feel a deep peace and joy at the anticipation of rocking this baby.
“Granny” as some of my friends have said and giggled. Friends who are the moms of teenagers and older than I am. I get it. My sudden leap-frog through life stages has been a little mind-blowing. I just try to keep up.
None of which matters to this child, who will soon be here needing love and care. (And who, for the record, is welcome to call me whatever nice name he wants to.)
Be Ready with a Lap, Hug & Questions
So — to prepare over these last several months, I’ve sought out “Grandma Lessons.” As always, I’ve leaned heavily on my mom. You’ll know, she says.
With new eyes, I’ve studied my mom and mother-in-law with the little kids at our family events. They always have a lap and hug ready and ask a lot of questions — sometimes challenging ones to spark a child’s imagination. And they are always delighted by the answers.
Last December, I watched my mother-in-law decorate Christmas cookies with her three youngest grandchildren. She’s very organized and simplified the baking. I’m nervous about this part.
Are we ready? Do we need gear? Maybe one of those “Pack ‘n Play” setups would be good? A stroller?
I’ve asked my nephew, 9, and niece, 6, for advice about being a good grandparent.
Take care of them, said my nephew. Play with them, said my niece.
Ahhh …. The watchful, sweet adult, elder playmate. Got it.
My niece also thinks I have too much stuff outside in the back veggie garden and sitting area. I should really think about cleaning up out there, she advises.
OK. Maybe.
All great, confidence-boosting examples and advice.
What Would “Sweetie-Grandma” do?
For Sweetie-Grandma’s advice, I’ve turned to memories and pictures.
One of my favorite images is from August 18, 1945. She is wearing her U.S. Army-issued dark skirt, light long-sleeve blouse with a pointed collar, round dark sunglasses, hat and sensible shoes, walking between two other women in identical uniforms down a sidewalk in Marseilles, France.
She is looking straight ahead, ignoring the camera. She is cool and confident, looking fearless, her whole life ahead of her, ready to serve, ready for an adventure.
Magdalene grew up in a little house across from a big stone church, St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, at the base of Bear Mountain, rising beside the Lehigh River in northeast Pennsylvania. Her family lived in East Mauch Chunk, the working class, immigrant part of this coal, railroad and tourist town, now reinvented as Jim Thorpe.
She left the hardscrabble place for nursing school and to join the Red Cross.
She served as an Army nurse in World War II, and met my grandfather. They married and settled in Cleveland, where they raised four children, including my mom then 10 grandchildren.
She was generous and gracious, a maternity nurse who worked nights, a devout woman of unshakable Catholic faith, hard worker and the wife of a hard-working public servant and politician.
Her Hands, Always
I can clearly hear the bright music of her laugh. Her voice. Even, later, as I came of age and questioned Catholicism, the sound of her quieting her own disapproval during thorny, honest and complicated conversations about faith and God.
Her hands. Always her hands, peeling apples or dredging pork chops through flour, eggs and breadcrumbs for supper. Her hands pushing fuzzy blue velour fabric through her sewing machine, making clothes in one of the upstairs bedrooms.
As she stitched, she’d call out to me not to be nosy as I poked around the boxes in an attic closet, sure of the magical treasures to be found there. Her hands clicking her knitting needles as we watched M*A*S*H or Emergency together on television.
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Singing with the Fishes
She sang about “three little fishes and the mama fishy too” all swimming in a pool until the mama tells her babies to “SWIM! Swim as fast as you can! And they swam and they swam all over the dam.”
In my 20s, I repeatedly had trouble remembering the words and would call her for reminders. The day after she died, nearly 27 years ago, distraught with grief and making my way home, I asked for a sign that she was OK — and soon heard her singing every word of the silly fish song as clearly as if she was beside me at the airport.
You may recall the chorus?
“Boom, boom, diddum datum whaddum SHOO! Boom, boom diddum datum whaddum SHOO! Boom, boom diddum datum whaddum SHOO! And they swam and they swam all over the dam.”
She would always give us an extra squeeze on the SHOO! She forever urges me forward into life’s next adventure. She honored what I needed most growing up, and still inspires and guides me.
The Truest Joy
Magdalene’s rocking chair is now in the warmth and light of our living room, in front of the window view of the gorgeous white Presbyterian Church, and awaiting its new mission to rock and soothe our grandson.
A good start.
And — what I’ve realized in recalling my grandmother’s bravery and zest for life: We will learn from our grandchild what he most needs from us to feel loved and cherished.
He may not want to sit still long enough to reach the chorus of the fishy song with its extra squeeze. He may not like being squeezed at all. Maybe he’ll be into making mudpies outside, or building with blocks.
Given his athletic, competitive parents, I bet he’ll love playing catch and playing games. To play with him, I’ll need to learn a lot of new things.
So that must be the joy, the truest adventure of being a grandparent — he will teach us all we need to know.
In the old, oak table, I saw a bargain, potential and a bridge between loved ones who barely met. And — I had something to prove to myself.
On my hands and knees one muggy August afternoon, I scraped rubbery, dark slime from the round top of an oak pedestal table. Decades of varnish and dirt slowly yielded to my relentless rubbing of coarse sandpaper over the sticky surface.
That old finish took its revenge. Some of it re-settled upon my skin, mixing with my salty sweat, coating the lenses of my glasses and working its way into my nostrils.
Disgusting. Most people — “normal,” saner, smarter people — would have skipped this grimy job. They would have dragged this wobbly table with its scarred, sticky finish out to the curb long ago and purchased a nice, new table.
But not me.
The Object of my Obsessions
In my mind’s eye, I saw how beautiful it could be with its simple, thick round top and luscious curves. Its oval swirls of grain in the pedestal base and its clawed feet. I saw our family sitting together, having dinner around it, in front of the big kitchen window.
I saw a bridge between my parents, who passed on a love of well-made, timeless objects, and the family I found with my husband and stepsons. This table connects people dear to me who barely had a chance to meet.
I saw a small victory against the wasteful, throw-a-way society we’ve become.
And I had something to prove to myself about finishing. Like my Dad, I collect fixer-upper objects, and projects that can pile up. An old door here, an old window there. A house. And before you know it, you’re drowning in a wild sea of unfinished things in need of this or that.
How many is too many? When you’re overwhelmed, I guess. No peace there.
A Broken Promise
When I was in fourth grade, ready to start piano lessons, my Dad gave me an upright fixer-upper, out-of-tune piano with a crackled dark cherry finish. He promised to re-make it into a beautiful instrument. He’d work on it Saturday mornings at the duplex where I lived with my Mom after their divorce. He worked hard, stripping the dark finish away.
I can still see him lying on the old pine dining room floor, with the tip of his tongue hooked around the corner of his mouth in concentration, just like his own father would lie on the grass alongside his tomato plants on a summer afternoon, checking the fruit.
With Dad’s elbow grease, the piano’s finish melted off, leaving behind streaks of dark burgundy and dusky rose with bare, pinkish wood.
But then he stopped coming over — who-knows-why. With adult eyes, I wonder what else was going on in his life. Maybe he was doing his best to just stay afloat.
The abandoned, out-of-tune piano sat idle in the dining room, a constant, ugly reminder of a broken promise. That Christmas my Mom somehow found a way, as she always did, and bought a handsome new chestnut piano and I started lessons. She had the old piano hauled away.
So I was committed to restoring that oak pedestal table, to finishing this project.
Actually, I was obsessed.
As I worked that humid day, I caught glimpses of the bare beauty of the striped tiger oak top and the grain of the base. Enough to keep going.
Preparing to Celebrate
Just before Thanksgiving, years before then, a local antiques dealer had dropped the table off on the front porch of my 1900 folk Victorian. The year had been full with grieving a marriage, and making the house my own. A year of rich growth, deep friendship and long walks along Spring Creek.
I was ready to celebrate, and host my first Thanksgiving dinner. Over months, I’d paid the antiques guy a little here and there for my bargain table. Cosmetics were for later.
I brought the table inside and cleaned it up. A good, helpful friend made two perfect table leaves so we could fully extend it. I shimmed a leg to help with the wobble and draped it in a borrowed, cream damask cloth. Done.
My Dad and Stephanie, his long-time girlfriend, drove from Ohio and brought two oak dining chairs from his stash of treasures.
He didn’t yet know: I’d met a wonderful man at a Halloween party. Maybe we would get together Thanksgiving evening.
Maybe. Too soon to tell. It was a secret.
As the turkey cooked, Dad and I hung pictures on the walls to finish the room. Finishing. I caught him looking at me, wondering.
He’d seen me so sad for so long, comforted me with visits and pep talks — even once wisely said nothing and simply hugged me as I sobbed in a meltdown over lost drill bits.
“You look really happy,” he said.
“I am, Dad. I’m good.” I smiled.
Sharing the Holiday Glow
That evening, when the dishes were cleared and all my guests including Dad and Stephanie had departed, the kind and handsome man who is now my husband first visited my home, a lovely holiday scene of white linen, flickering candles and flowers against walls freshly painted a rich, burnt-orange.
Like being inside a flame.
“Hope you like orange!,” I’d said.
Mike and I relaxed on the couch, sipping the wine he’d brought, talking and enjoying getting to know each other. (Read You Had Me at Pears.)
By the next November, chemo treatments had left my dad weak and ashen, battling and hoping. That Thanksgiving at the wobbly, old oak table was Dad’s last healthy one. The next year, 2012, brought the deepest sorrow of my life as I lost my Dad. So many times over his final months he told me he was not ready to leave his family. He wasn’t finished.
Those 12 short months also brought the greatest joy and bliss as I gained the love of my life and his sons — now our family.
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A Better Bargain?
We moved the oak table to the kitchen of our home and sold the folk Victorian. One day, my husband’s aunt — a smarter, saner woman — eyed the base and remarked she’d had a table just like it, but hers wobbled and had a stain in the top of the striped tiger oak so they had gotten rid of it. We pulled the tablecloth and the stain matched the one in her memory. Who knows? Maybe.
I know what my deal-hunting Dad would say: “You should have waited. Maybe you could have gotten it for FREE!”
Finally, I was more stubborn than that old finish. The bare beauty of the grain came through in soft reds and golds, and gentle browns. A wash with wood bleach removed the stains. I left some rough patches, and sealed it with beeswax and citrus oil.
Pretty. Still, the top wobbled.
Some Tender Loving Care
So a few years ago, my father-in-law and I loaded the table in his pickup and took it to his Amish woodworker friend who re-built the attachment between the base and top.
Now, the table smoothly slides as it was meant to, and at Thanksgiving is the kids’ table. Our niece just decorated a golden piece of fabric with paint splatters and sparkles for it. By next Thanksgiving, gold glitter will settle into the table’s deep crevices forever.
As we work on renovating our 1860s home, the oak table and its finish has faded. I picked up a can of Restore-a-Finish and some beeswax with citrus oil to give it some tender loving care. We’ll never run out of projects around here. Thank goodness for my husband’s patience with my obsessions.
Of course it’s important to finish things, follow-through and keep promises. Good for the soul and peace of mind. Sharing objects is much better when they look good and function well.
Yet, I must wonder: Are we ever really finished?
I can’t imagine ever not starting new projects, chasing visions and working to realize all of the full potential in this life. It’s just too much fun.
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