Love's Legacy
an excerpt

INTRODUCTION

Kirsten and I walked to the car, discussing the upcoming Mother/Daughter banquet. A thin layer of snow covered the church parking lot. The breeze nipped our ears and the sun made a dismal attempt to peek through the dense clouds over Green Mountain. I’m grateful the storm finally calmed down this morning. The forecast is for several more inches by nightfall.

For the most part, I’ve always run the event. We have a great time, even though Kirsten’s not my daughter, and her mother and grandmother can’t bring her themselves. She’s actually my sister’s granddaughter. Cheryl lives in the southwest corner of the state, a good eight hour drive when the weather’s favorable. Kirsten’s Mom moves around, but now she lives somewhere in Texas, and comes to Colorado once or twice a year to spend a day with her little girl.

I nagged her, “You forgot your coat again, you goofball!”

She grinned and shrugged, adding her distinctive cute little head nod. For a nine year old, she’s learned a lot about responsibility. My nephew has done a great job of raising her under the circumstances. On the other hand, everybody has “circumstances,” and if we are to survive emotionally, we find ways to adapt. Some circumstances just aren’t as noticeable to the public.

I‘d relish having Mom come to the banquet, but she died ten years ago. It was the same year Mother Theresa died, and Princess Diana. I know Mom would feel right at home in our banquet. That was her element. She and Dad were both highly involved at Bethel, the Lutheran church across town. They’d much rather go to a potluck social than a concert in the city. I take after them more than I once admitted.

“Gail, if great grandma came to the banquet, would she wear a dress or pants?”

I’ve mellowed recently. It used to bug the heck out of me that she addressed me without using the “aunt” pronoun. Am I old-fashioned or what? What’s important is that she knows I’m her great aunt, so she understands our relationship. She used to call her Daddy’s friend her uncle, which was not at all true, but why did she honor him with such a title and not her own aunt?

“Pants. No, a dress. It would depend on the weather.”

The question threw me. It hadn’t occurred to me that Kirsten might be so curious about her maternal ancestor. She was aware that some of the girls have great grandmas at the banquet.

“She always wore a dress no matter what the weather was like when she was your age, knucklehead. Girls didn’t wear pants to church back then.” I added, “And women didn’t either.”

“Hum.” I could tell she had her mind on other things by now. I had a notion Kirsten’s clothing issue was a red herring. Finally, she posed her real question, “What would she think of me?”

She died several months before Kirsten was born. My daughter told me a few times how she felt about her Grandma. Sarah would tell Kirsten that Grandma, Ruth Holdorf, was like an angel. She thought she was perfect, a gift from heaven. She was eleven, and my other child, Laura, was eight when we lost her after nearly twelve years of battling leukemia. Not that we didn’t see it coming, but her death still snuck up on us silently one night. We all got together for Father’s Day, and six days later, she’s gone.

How would Mom respond to Kirsten’s inquiry? I don’t have the knack she had for knowing when to hug a kid, or how to comfort or encourage them. Maybe it’s the Duke side of me. Dad wasn’t affectionate, not while we were growing up. He wasn’t a hugger, and he rarely complimented us. He laid down the law in the family, and violations were answered by his belt.

Mom made excuses for him, “That’s how he was raised honey.”

“He doesn’t have to raise me that way!” I rebuffed.

He improved for the grandkids, and softened every year as he aged. I miss his soft side most. I grew closer to him after Mom passed away. There was a lingering discomfort due to strain from the past, but, considering the circumstances, our father and daughter relationship had healed.

I did my best to answer Kirsten, “Great grandma would be proud of you. She’d love everything about you. Let’s look at some old pictures and other special things from your great grandparents today.”

The five of us kids chose which of our parent’s most precious items we would like to keep for our own families. Among memorabilia that I have is their Golden Anniversary scrapbook, a photo album, and an exhibit of old photographs in our dining room hutch and on shelves and bookcases throughout the house. I haven’t taken time to sit down with Kirsten and talk with her about these oddly-dressed, sober people.

After a quick lunch, I took Kirsten into the living room and opened one of the albums. We flipped through it at her pace. I recalled the names and places to the best of my ability, sometimes pulling a picture out of its spot to look at the back for a clue. Dad was meticulous about his pictures, except he didn’t know that so many of them would turn orange after several decades. Some pictures were marked on the back, and on others, he typed comic captions onto labels for the front.

Many of the photos were of our family vacations, and our return from Mount Lake Terrace, Washington after Dad’s retirement from the Navy. Dad’s mother came along. Our station wagon was packed with luggage on top and eight of us inside. It made the modern mini van look inadequate. Dad, the impeccable mechanic, kept the old Chevy in fine condition, so we made no garage diversions for all of the roughly two thousand miles of our two-week adventure.

We took a southerly route, stopping first to enjoy Seattle’s Space Needle, then down into California to spend time at Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm, and to see several other sites. We turned northeast into Arizona and stopped to inspect the Grand Canyon, then drove up into Colorado. Dad always had everybody pile out of the car to stand by the signs, statues or other structures for a snapshot; to serve as proof that we graced the landmark with our visit. That’s why he’s not in many of the pictures himself. I’m quite certain, if he could witness today’s technology, he’d have the finest digital camera he could afford. Over the years, we spent countless Saturday nights in the basement viewing Dad’s slideshows. My brother Grant now has all the slides. I think he’s planning to convert them into a CD.

The album journey with Kirsten slowed down when we turned to pictures of the farm. As far as I know, she hasn’t ever visited a farm. It was one of my favorite times, when we went to Nebraska every summer. I had a chance to feed the pigs and chickens, collect eggs with Dad’s mother, Grandma Elsie, and watch Dad's father, Grandpa Max work in the barn and cattle yard. I played in the hayloft, and climbed up on the tractor for a ride.

My mother’s parents, Fred and Kate Rewinkel, were deceased before Grant and I were born. Even Cheryl and the twins were very young. None of us really got to know them.

“I wish I had better pictures of the farmhouses. The Rewinkels, that’s your great grandma Ruth’s family, own a large farm that’s still in their family today.” I explained to her. Kirsten was clearly getting bored. She asked me to take her to the city indoor pool. I set the open album down on the table, to return to on my own later.

I remember one of the farmhouses we visited spooked me at night when I was about Kirsten’s age. The wind on the pane and the creaking floors in unfamiliar surroundings was frightening. I was in a room alone at bedtime. I cried out, and mom came in to lie beside me until I fell asleep.