Hard times?

Image compliments of Holly

As Memorial Day is approaching, my thoughts travel back to the Greatest Generation, which was my parents', and to thinking about their stories of the Great Depression and World War II.

Just yesterday, my mom gave me a paper my older son had written back in 1998 when he was in his first semester of college. He had "interviewed" my parents to obtain information for the paper he was writing for his American History class at Kent State. What a treasure this paper is already, as Andy has gone on to not only graduate from seminary and become a pastor, but he recently obtained a Master's Degree in History from the University of South Carolina.

The gist of his paper was that even though two-thirds of our nation was living below the poverty line during the Great Depression, most people, like my parents and grandparents, did what they needed to do to survive everyday life and relied on their core family values, work ethic, and faith in God to see them through the hard times.

I love what Andy said here:

"The Great Depression was not a time of sadness about how little my grandparents had, but rather a time of hard work and thankfulness for what they did have. When it was so easy for the poor to cry, my grandparents did their best to make it a time of laughter. They knew nothing else but being poor. It was a way of life for them. Still, both families had a sense of pride in the hard work that they had to do in order to survive. Wastefulness was never an option, and innovation was a way of life. It was through this pride in their families, strong faith and morals, and hard work that so many Americans survived the Great Depression and managed to remain happy in times of despair."

He then went on to give example after example of the way this attitude played out in their everyday lives, such as this one:

"My grandmother recalled one time during the Depression when their family's dog brought home a loose chicken. This was considered a blessing to the family, and her family was soon asking the blessing over that chicken at the dinner table."

In these current days of economic recession, my husband and I often talk about how we really can't get a grip on what life was really like even a generation or two before us. I don't know a single family that would cook and eat a chicken the family dog just dragged home. I don't know a single child who would be over-joyed to receive a single orange in his Christmas stocking.

One of my father's brothers died unexpectantly in 1935 at the age of 15, in the midst of the Depression. My grandparents had no money for a gravemarker and buried their son in an obscure section of the local cemetery where there hardly seems like there was room to do so. My grandfather made a marker himself out of cement, with a pole in the middle of it that bore an American flag, and carried it to the cemetery in a wagon, a couple of miles away. At some later date another headstone was placed on the grave. No one has ever wanted to remove the original homemade stone.

Every time I visit the cemetery and plant flowers where thirteen family members are now laid to rest, I think and remember. I am filled with gratitude for the heritage that I have, and for the generations now coming along who inherit the same blessings of hope of our faith-filled ancestors. We continue to tell the stories of hard work, perseverence, sacrifice, and faith in God to the next generation. And we look forward to a glad reunion day.

Andy and my mom

On saying goodbye...and a few other memories

Today I remember my father-in-law on what would have been his 85th birthday. Harold Robert Stager, who we called "Bob" or "Papa", was a member of The Greatest Generation, and served his country during WWII while in the Navy aboard the USS Enterprise and survived a kamikaze attack.

I never learned too many details about my father-in-law's life. I was basically just told he didn't have an easy early life, but that he was always "the dependable" one. But I am grateful for the years that I did know him and I really miss him. I'm glad to know that our separation is only temporary.

Bob had been dying for about 10 years ever since he had a heart attack, open heart surgery, and became diabetic. The last three years of his life were the worst as he struggled with more and more "bad" days than "good" ones. He didn't feel well and he was often "ouchy". A quiet man by nature, he became even more so. He became less and less able to give anything of himself, and more and more critical of just about everything: his food, his Christmas gifts, whatever.

Fortunately for me, I felt accepted by him from the early days, when it seemed the offer of bribes for me to marry his son were never-ending. That became a life-long family laughing matter. But somehow I did feel his sincerity. He looked out for me like a father in those early days--listening to the sounds of my 1972 VW bug and fixing whatever was needed. We sort of "clicked" from the beginning, and it was an easy relationship.

One of the highlights of the early days was that Bob had the confidence in me to teach me how to water ski. I was in my mid 20's at the time. This was something way outside of my comfort zone. But he made it really easy. The pleasure he got from teaching people how to "get out of the water" was evident, and one of his many quiet ways of giving of himself.

I'm sure there were many times over the next 30 years when there was some disapproval, but I always knew he basically respected me. Maybe he was just glad his son was my problem now! But I can only think of two times he hurt my feelings in all those years. For a man who was notorious for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, that seems pretty miraculous. Often times during our visits over the years, while my husband and my mother-in-law would engage in what you might call "aggressive fellowship" about politics or religion, Bob and I would sit quietly and playfully roll our eyes at each other.

I was always flattered that he liked my pumpkin pies, which I make every Thanksgiving. I always sent an extra pie home with him and I knew he really appreciated that little thoughtfulness. I always felt this very old-school man gave me credit for being "domesticated." Though I can't recall any really deep and meaningful discussions we ever had, our relationship was good and I think we met each other on a very practical level, with a mutual, if unspoken, respect. I was flattered, for example, when after he got sick he asked me once to cut his hair.

I think I saw my father-in-law "come out" a little when our older son traveled for a year with a Christian music ministry. The group frequently traveled through our area, and Papa was always donating boxes of pastries to the cause. The man who wasn't prone to wander very far from his retirement chair became interested in attending the local concerts.

I will never forget one of the last Christmases we had together. As the family was gathered around, this man of few words quite unexpectedly announced that he had something to say. He proceeded to apologize for the way he had acted the previous Christmas when he was not feeling well and was quite cranky. It was the only time I ever heard the words "I'm sorry" come from his mouth. But I saw him in a new light that day.

Bob's 80th birthday came while he was in and out of the hospital that last month of his life. I remember I made him a card that said "80 isn't old if you're a tree". He chuckled, but barely. He despised being in the hospital, losing his freedom and his dignity.

By the time he got to that last week, we knew the time was short and so did he. My husband took the week off from work. My mother-in-law spent the days at the hospital and we stayed the nights. I felt strongly that no one in his situation should have to be "alone". It was a bitter-sweet time of watching and waiting, praying, crying, and coming to grips with the reality that we were losing him. We never told my mother-in-law that one night a nurse came in and suggested we agree to a drug to help his breathing, but could accelerate the shutting down of his kidneys. She explained it is a drug that is only given "near the end" and would make it easier on him than drowning from the fluid build up in his lungs.

During those final nights together, he rarely spoke, but he did allow me to moisten his mouth with wet sponges, and put a cool wet cloth on his forehead. I don't really remember all I said to him, but I remember it was right and it was enough. I remember telling him what great care my mother-in-law had given him. I remember asking him if he ever thought he'd live to be 80. I remember we prayed over him.

My husband cried a lot during those final nights, for what was, and for what wasn't. Of all things, a hospital cleaning lady came and prayed with us. The final night of our watch was Good Friday. Bob had been moved to a lovely private room. My husband and I slept off and on in chairs in the darkened room with him. At one point, through the shadows, I saw him slightly lift his head and he looked directly at us, as if to say "why are you still here?" I was haunted by whether or not he was annoyed, but we refused to leave him alone. I think he would have gone that night if we hadn't been there. But it wasn't quite time.

On Saturday, my mother-in-law was with him all day, then on Saturday night we and our kids came to say our last goodbyes. I don't remember what all was said, but it was right and it was enough. Mom Stager was very tired and desperately wanted us all to leave with her, so we did. She returned to the hospital early the next morning alone and held his hand while he passed, and thus ended a 59 year marriage. It was Easter morning. How appropriate.

For my part, I came away with a deep sense of gratitude for the privilege of our spending that last week of nights with him. I know I said everything I needed to say, and many people don't have that opportunity. I've never had more of a deep sense of satisfaction and peace for anything I've ever done. God was most definitely present, showing His grace.

And so we lost the first of our four parents. It was a foretelling of things to come that I could barely think about. But the sweetness of God's presence with us was a profound reality, and I knew that memory would carry us through more transitions.*

*As it turned out, I lost my own father three years later to the day. We still have both of our mothers, who are in their 80's. They live in the same seniors condo building only a few miles away from us.

Introducing my 2nd blog...

Good morning, friends...

Yes, I know. I don't have my pictures posted yet from last weekend. I'm getting there...check again soon! I'm trying like crazy to figure out how to get my grandson's video up so you can hear him sing his Z to A's !!!!!

I would also like to invite you to follow my new blog which is dedicated to my dad. You can now find it at

www.gingersnapsandblacklicorice.blogspot.com.

Could one of you more adept bloggers email me with instructions on how to reference both blogs on the sidebars, and also I would like my profile to be accessed by just clicking my picture instead of having it shown on the front page. I'd really appreciate the help. I've already spent way too many hours trying to learn how to do formatting! Jacque481@aol.com

We have a very busy weekend here, and will be doing some things I hope to tell you about next week.
Please know that even if I don't always comment, I'm reading you all as much as I can and thoroughly enjoying getting to know you all better.

Many blessings on your day,
Jacquelyn

Preparing for Memorial Day weekend

When I was younger, I never gave a thought about taking care of family gravesites. I just knew that every Memorial Day, we would go to the parade in our home town and it always ended up at Oakwood Cemetery. Each of us kids took our turns marching as Brownies or Cub Scouts, carrying flowers to dutifully lay on the graves. There was always a military ceremony too, and we stood in silent awe as flags waved in the breeze and we listened to the lone bugle playing Taps. My parents would never miss it, so we didn't either.

The tradition continued with my own little family, though in another small town. We would find a place to park our lawn chairs somewhere around the historic Circle, and watch the annual parade. The kids loved catching candy the clowns threw out to the crowds. Sometimes we would follow the parade to the cemetery; other times we would end up at the pancake breakfast at the Middle School.

Fast-forwarding, my husband and I now both have our fathers buried at Oakwood. I have more than a dozen relatives on both sides also there. My parents and a couple aunts always took care of the family graves, but beginning this year, a change has begun. A couple weeks ago, several cousins went over and did the initial spring clean up, raking up the winter debris and pulling out old shrubs, etc. We've decided its time for the "younger" generation to take the job over, and hope to make this an annual event.

The other day, I went over with my mom and an aunt, and we dug miniature flower beds and planted annuals on 14 family graves. This one is my dad's brother, Anthony, who was only 21 when he died from diabetes back in 1942.

In the past, I'd never been able to find my great-grandfather's grave because it was covered with a huge overgrowth of hosta. I'm so glad I know where it is now, and that it is cleaned up. He and my great-grandmother immigrated from Sicily and their first child was my dear grandmother Josephine, who was born in 1900. They came over in 1906.

It was nice to have my Aunt Mary Ann along yesterday, because she knew where all the graves were located. I think I have them firmly placed in my mind now too. She also had some stories to tell. One of them was about her other brother, Jacob, who was only 15 when he died back in 1935. She thinks he had an abscessed tooth that got infected. Those were rough years for my grandparents, losing two of their eight children within seven years. It was the middle of the Great Depression, and I'm sure they just had no money for medical care. My grandpa, the sole breadwinner, contracted TB during those years also, and was isolated in a sanitarium for some time.

This is Jacob's headstone. Notice there are actually two of them. The one in the back was handmade of cement by my grandpa, and Aunt Mary Ann said he put it in a wagon and dragged it to the cemetery. What a sorrowful journey that must have been. The stone in the front was placed there sometime later. My aunt said the home made one always had an American flag on the pole. These Italian immigrants were poor, but were very proud to be naturalized Americans.

My father and his five surviving siblings all grew up and had families of their own. It would take some time for me to count all my cousins. As I've said before, we have a reunion every two years and consider ourselves a very close family, especially by today's standards.

It's hard to believe that of the six Sicilians (as we fondly refer to them, which seems odd since they were the 1st generation Americans of the family!) two have now passed on. My dad (84) and my Aunt Jo (90) both died in '08.

This Memorial Day seems very special because my dad's (and mom's) headstone was just installed at Oakwood this past week. This was a huge sacrificial gift from my mother to us. My dad would be so proud of it:

My dad loved lighthouses, and painted many of them. The one on his headstone is of Marblehead on Lake Erie, where he and mom liked to visit. My dad was a member of "The Greatest Generation" and proudly served his country in Europe during WWII.

Here I am with my mom as we see the headstone for the first time. It's really hard not having dad with us anymore, but going to the cemetery and lovingly caring for the family graves on a beautiful sunny day gave me a great sense of satisfaction and purpose. It also reminded me that the cemetery is really not the final resting place of our loved ones who have died in Christ Jesus. Christianity has taught from the beginning, and we believe, that the souls of our loved ones are safely with Him, and their bodies lie in the graves as they await their resurrection. What a glorious hope and peace this affords! Until that day, we will remember them and their lives, especially on Memorial Day.