Italian Butter

We never used real butter in our family. Mom always bought margarine. She considered real butter too expensive, a luxury we didn't need and couldn't afford. I also think her memories of food rationing during World War II played a part in the fact that we never had real butter available. Mom usually purchased sticks of Blue Bonnet and any number of different varieties of the soft margarine in a tub. But no matter what type of margarine she had, we always called it butter.

One of our family traditions was that mom would make your favorite meal on your birthday. Dad usually liked any kind of meat with “home fries” – potato wedges fried in vegetable oil with lots of onions mixed in. My brother always asked for meatloaf and Brussels sprouts and I always asked for lasagna. When it came time for mom’s birthday, we took her out to dinner.

We hardly ever went out to dinner, maybe just a few times a year, so it was a treat for all of us. Mom’s favorite food was Italian and her favorite restaurant was Colacci's, an old-timey Italian restaurant located in a small community between Denver and Boulder. You know the kind of place, red-and-white checkered tablecloths, great big jugs of Chianti on the table, homemade spaghetti noodles so thick you could not possibly eat an entire plateful, and lots of freshly baked bread.

One time during mom’s annual birthday dinner at Colacci’s, my brother asked if someone would “Please pass the Italian butter.” This confused everyone! After questioning, it turned out that Ted was just asking for one of the little individual servings of real butter. Since we never had it in our house, the only place he experienced real butter was in this restaurant. Naturally, he assumed that made it “Italian” butter.

To this day our family teases my brother about Italian butter. Tomorrow I’m having Thanksgiving dinner at Ted’s house with his family. And most likely when it’s our turn, each of us will say, “Please pass the Italian butter!”

A Mother's Touch

I’ve been lost in the past lately, missing my parents and feeling nostalgic about my childhood. It seemed chaotic at times. Mom and dad argued so much, I remember being deeply affected by the arguments and the seeming instability of our family life. It wasn’t until I was an adult and watched them interact as old people that I realized the arguments had grown into nothing more than their customary way of communicating. I always thought they didn’t like each other very much, when in reality they loved each other. As I write this and compare my childhood to my mother’s, my life was far from chaotic. It was a walk in the park compared to hers.

Mom was one of five children born into an extremely poor family, three girls and two boys. The second girl died of pneumonia at age 5. Grampa always felt guilty about her death because she had been outside with him in the cold weather and never recovered. Grampa was also an alcoholic, shunned by his own family due to the fact that his mother was a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. Mom’s earliest memories of her father’s family were unpleasant. Apparently they considered themselves an enlightened group but could find no room in their hearts for those who strayed beyond their narrow and rigid view of righteousness.

During the Depression, my grandmother took in other people’s laundry to help support the family. For this she was labeled a “dirty old wash woman.” Because they lived in such poverty, the remaining children were scattered to the four winds, sent to live with relatives. Mom earned her keep at an uncle’s house, babysitting his children at a home where she was subject to any number of abuses. Eventually the family reunited and lived together in tenement housing. Twice they lost their home to fire, and later relocated from Connecticut to New Jersey.

When my mother was 18 years old, grandmother met an untimely death from a ruptured appendix. She was only 52, the age I am now. The family could not afford hospitals or proper medical care. A doctor visited but dismissed grandmother’s symptoms as nothing more than the typical complaints of a middle-aged woman. She didn’t stand a chance.

Left with an alcoholic father, two wild brothers, and a cold, distant sister, mom was lost without her mother. She described grandmother as a sweet, loving, affectionate woman, always quick to give a kiss and a hug or to stroke your hair and comfort you. Yet I often pointed out that grandmother lived on, because those qualities were passed on to her daughter.

Mom was my best friend, my biggest fan. She too was a sweet, loving, affectionate woman. I recall sitting at the kitchen table and whenever mom passed by she always reached out to me, touched my hair, ran her fingers along my shoulder, kissed the top of my head. In the evening she would sit on the couch and invite me to lay my head in her lap, where she would stroke my hair and listen to whatever petty grievance I might have to share from that particular day. She always had time for us, always had advice for us, and always defended us no matter what. She cherished bedtime with her children, tucking us in at night and giving a kiss before the lights went out. It was a final chance to say, “I’m sorry” or to put to rest whatever problems had plagued us during the day.

Even as an adult, when I returned home to spend the night on Christmas Eve or other special occasions, mom would come into the spare bedroom at night and tuck me in, giving a kiss and a stroke of the hair before retiring to her own room. As a grown woman in my twenties and thirties, it still made me feel safe and loved. I never left my parents' house without sharing a hug and a kiss, even though I lived only five miles away and was sure to see them again in a few days’ time.

Mom never turned her back on her errant family. Grampa came to live with us before he died. A quiet man, he really was good to all of us and didn’t drink much by then. Both of mom’s brothers also became alcoholics. One was killed at age 47, beaten to death in New Orleans. Most likely he was drunk. Yet my brother Ted was named after him, and to the end mom loved her brother dearly. Then her youngest brother died at age 53 of cirrhosis. He also lived with us for nearly a year before he died. Yes, he was often drunk. He was also a kind-hearted soul.

Embarrassed by her own family, mom’s sister chose the high road. She actually admired her father’s family, the ones who repeatedly turned their backs on them. They were educated, well-to-do, important, and that was the life she wanted. Over the years, she was always bothered by the fact that her nieces and nephews were more attached to the alcoholics than to her. It was really an easy choice for me. My grampa and my uncles were completely flawed, imperfect human beings but their love was palpable. Unfortunately, I could never say that about my aunt.

Today I was scanning photos from my childhood, including many pictures of my mother. Mom never liked to have her picture taken, especially as she grew older. In most of those photos I now see a hint of sadness that lurked in her eyes. It was probably always there, maybe I never noticed because all I could see in her eyes was love.

I inherited much from my mother, including the touch of sadness that I often find stalking me at the most inopportune times. Mom also left me with a full measure of affection to share. Since I never had children, I can only hope my husband, my friends, and my dogs are as grateful for that affection as I was.

A Generation of Veterans

The Brothers Thompson: Bill, Jim, Dick, George, and Joe
(photo from some time in the 1980s, the last time they were together).

While digging through my father’s old photos, I discovered a letter my brother and I wrote to the American Battle Monuments Commission at the time the World War II Memorial on the National Mall was in its planning stages. Even though I grew up in this family and the stories were well known, I still find myself amazed at the dedication, service, and sacrifice made by this generation of veterans.

On both sides of our family, a total of eight men fought for and served their country during World War II, six brothers in my father’s family and two brothers in my mother’s family. These men were in every branch of the armed forces, in regions all around the world. Similar to the fictional family in the movie Saving Private Ryan, they all served at the same time. Here are their stories:

Corporal James Thompson

James Thompson, Corporal, U.S. Army. Served in the Army medical corps throughout the South Pacific, first with an engineer battalion and then with the 108th Station Hospital.

Sergeant Richard Thompson

Richard Thompson (my father), Sergeant, U.S. Army. Anti-Aircraft Artillery, automatic weapons battalion. Fought in the Southwest Pacific on Guadalcanal, the Solomon Islands, Tulagi, Emirau, Florida Island, Hollandia, New Guinea, and Bougainville. Suffered broken vertebrae. Recovered in a field hospital and voluntarily returned to action in the liberation of the Philippine Islands on Luzon, the battle for Manila and Clark Field.

Seaman Joseph Thompson

Joseph Thompson, Seaman 1st Class, U.S. Navy. Numerous convoys across the North Atlantic, serving as armed guard on merchant ships. Ship was torpedoed by German U-boat and sunk off the coast of Scotland. Suffered broken vertebrae. Spent weeks in a lifeboat before being rescued by a British destroyer. Recovered in a Scottish hospital.

Private Harold Thompson

Harold Thompson, Private 1st Class, U.S. Army. Anti-Aircraft Artillery gunner. Landed on the beaches of Normandy, France in the first days of the European invasion. Killed in action shortly after D-Day at the battle of St. Lo, in Normandy, France on July 13, 1944.

Private William Thompson

William Thompson, Private 1st Class, U.S. Army. Served in Army artillery. Suffered ruptured eardrums resulting in permanent hearing loss. Medically discharged from duty.

Private George Thompson

George Thompson, Private 1st Class, U.S. Army. Infantry scout. Fought in the liberation of Europe, including the Battle of the Bulge, the Ruhr Valley, and eventually crossed the Elbe River as part of the first U.S. Army contingent to link up with Russian troops immediately before Germany surrendered. Awarded both the Bronze Star and the Silver Star for meritorious service.

Torpedoman Theodore Creer

Theodore Creer, Torpedoman 1st Class, U.S. Navy. U.S. Navy Submarine Service. Served aboard the USS Finback in the Western Pacific. Recipient of the Purple Heart for wounds suffered in action from a surface attack by Japanese Zero aircraft. Aboard the USS Finback on September 2, 1944, during the rescue at sea near ChiChi Jima of a Navy Avenger pilot from the carrier USS San Jacinto. The young pilot was none other than Lt. George Bush, who later became President of the United States.

Airman Richard Creer

Richard Creer, Airman 1st Class, U.S. Army Air Force. Aircraft mechanic. Stationed at various air bases in England. Performed ground support on B-17 bombers and other U.S. aircraft. After the war, served in Germany in the U.S. Army of Occupation. Later participated in the Berlin airlift.

We honor their service, and we owe them all a debt of gratitude.

The Cedar Chest

Mom kept the cedar chest in the back basement bedroom. At some point it was probably upstairs but I was too young to remember it being a part of our main living area. As far back as my memory goes, it was always in the basement. Such a lovely piece of furniture, one of only a handful my parents had trucked out to Colorado when they left New Jersey in search of a better future. The cedar chest was stained a dark walnut color, the cover with a beautiful wood grain that was scratched all over, owing to the fact that my brother liked to run his little TootsieToy cars on the lid as if it were his own private interstate.

Lined inside with soft red fabric, the cedar chest always smelled of mothballs. Mom was big on mothballs. Although the rest of us held our noses whenever the lid was opened, mom liked the smell. Amazing things were buried in the bowels of the cedar chest. Occasionally mom would pull out those items and tell a story for each one. The chest also had a narrow top shelf designed to hold smaller mementos. Rolled up tightly on this shelf, held firmly in place with rubber bands, were the pictures. Dad’s war pictures. Mom showed us the pictures occasionally but it was understood that we should never mess with them.

Dad was drafted into the Army in 1942 and served in the South Pacific as a sergeant. He was in charge of a 12-man anti-aircraft artillery gun crew, fighting Japanese forces in the Philippines. He spent nearly three years in combat. While he was away, dad’s first wife gave birth to my oldest brother. Dad returned to the states to meet his two-and-a-half-year old son for the first time, and to discover his wife had taken up with another man.

Situated directly above the basement workroom, my bedroom was the smallest. In the workroom was a giant table that mom used to sew and assemble draperies, a job she took so she could supplement dad’s income and stay home with her kids at the same time. Oftentimes at night I fell asleep to the high-pitched whine of the power machines, knowing that mom was trying to catch up on her drapery orders. But this night I heard a different sound, the sound of crying and wailing.

Mom and dad fought loudly and frequently about issues that were complex and impossible for me to understand. Issues about dad’s first wife and my oldest brother and our relatives, issues about jobs and money. When I heard the crying that night, it was different. I just had to know what it was about, so I crouched down on the floor, ear pressed against the furnace vent, trying desperately to make out something, anything.

It was dad, sobbing like I had never heard. Raised with five brothers, dad had no patience for excessive emotions or girlish crying. He often complained to mom about my tendency to burst into tears. So naturally when I heard my dad crying, it was simply unthinkable. I knew it had to be the end of the world or at least, the end of our world.

Later mom told me that dad had been digging in the cedar chest that night. He spread out the rolled-up pictures on the drapery table and flipped through a handful of individual photos of his Army buddies. He was lost in another time, remembering his buddies and the war that left him struggling for the rest of his life with ghosts and memories. You see, the largest picture showed dad’s original unit at Camp Stewart, Georgia, as they prepared to head overseas, 150 handsome young men standing upright and orderly in their fine new uniforms. The smaller picture showed the same unit, a tired group of men on a jungle airstrip, ready to go home at the end of the war. Only 45 remained.

Over the years this happened again from time to time. Mom always stayed by his side as he cried in the basement over those same ghosts. She tried to keep him from drifting away to the war too often but was never successful. As I grew older, I began to understand how important it was to talk about it. For him, it was clearly the most significant chapter of his life story. I also learned about post traumatic stress disorder. Although it was usually discussed in the context of the Vietnam War, it was not a problem unique to those veterans. Thankfully, the years brought a measure of peace to my father as he became more settled and better able to reconcile the worst of his memories.

For dad's eightieth birthday, my brother gathered all of dad’s medals and paraphernalia and had someone create shadow boxes that told his war story. The rolled-up pictures were dug out of the cedar chest one last time, framed and hung in the upstairs hallway, next to the little bedroom that dad now occupied. Those ghosts were finally out of the cedar chest and displayed proudly for everyone to see. When he first saw the framed pictures, dad wept openly in front of his many birthday guests. No one, especially not the handsome faces on the wall, seemed to mind.

Walking in Their Footsteps

We just returned from a wonderful vacation to Washington, DC, Virginia and West Virginia. Now, I’m not a fan of big cities. A dream holiday for me would be an escape to where there are less people, not more. DC was different. To be sure, it was noisy and hectic, sirens day and night, people scurrying about in jumbled streams of humanity, car horns blaring if someone dared react to a green traffic light a smidgen too slowly. Yet all this was tempered by the fact that the people we encountered were helpful and courteous. Surrounded by a constant throng of tourists, I expected the locals to be annoyed by our presence. Instead, most seemed genuinely concerned if it looked like you were lost or appeared unsure how to navigate the subway system. They were proud of their city, our city, and happy to help.

The first few days were spent making the customary rounds:

• Arlington National Cemetery, where we arrived in time for the changing of the guard and a wreath-laying ceremony;
• the Lincoln Memorial, outside crawling with people like so many ants on an anthill, inside a hushed silence except for the flashes and whirring noises of cameras;
• the War memorials, each with a handful of surviving veterans immersed in memories of glory and misery;
• the Washington Monument, its impressive height serving as a central beacon for the city;
• the Jefferson Memorial, etched with words that stir emotions and invite quiet reflection;
• the Capitol Building, oozing with power, symbolism, pomp and circumstance;
• the Supreme Court Building, an elegant, stately, silent sentinel perpetually eyeing the Capitol;
• the White House, more magnificent and grand than its condensed presence on news programs.

Everywhere we found ourselves in the company of others just like us, standing with cricked necks, mouths agape, eyes full of wonder.

On the second leg of our tour we rented a car and left the city, enjoying a peaceful ride along Skyline Drive, the northernmost portion of the Blue Ridge Parkway. We chased fleeting glimpses of sunlight as the weather began to turn against us, trying in vain to capture the majesty of the Shenandoah Valley below as well as the serene beauty we experienced traveling underneath a thick canopy of trees. The journey was taking us toward southwestern Virginia, where we hoped to learn more about Dave’s colonial ancestors. Their story will be told in a separate journal, but we later discovered they followed a similar route when, in the mid-1700s, the family moved from northern Virginia and settled near the New River in Giles County, Virginia. There we spent a rain-soaked day searching library collections and photographing family gravestones before heading toward our next destination.

We woke again to a persistent rain but were determined to make the most of it. Arriving first thing in the morning at Monticello, home of Thomas Jefferson, we found his beautiful neoclassical mansion shrouded in fog. Our tour guide was so animated and passionate about her work, it was a delight to listen to her tales of the man who was not only our third president but also a paleontologist, an architect, and an inventor. After the home tour we wandered the grounds including Mulberry Row, where the slave dwellings were located, then through the plantation’s gardens and on to the family cemetery. The thick fog lent an eerie, ghostly quality to the morning. I half expected to see a lone rider on horseback, dressed in colonial garb, emerge from the shadows.

During our trip to New England three years ago, we stumbled upon a picturesque old cemetery in Chelsea, Vermont. For some reason, I was intrigued by the Civil War grave of Captain Orville Bixby of the Second Vermont Volunteer Infantry, who was killed at age 29 in the Battle of the Wilderness, Virginia. Located not far from Monticello, the Wilderness Battlefield is now preserved as a National Military Park. Still drenched by rain, we took a driving tour through the Chancellorsville and Wilderness battlefields. Research tells me that Captain Bixby was shot in the head on the second day of battle. His troops moved him to the rear of the regiment, where he lingered and died later that evening. I have no connection to this man other than curiosity. Yet it meant so much to be able to trace his footsteps all the way from Vermont to Virginia. Peering into the dense woods, I couldn’t even begin to imagine the horrors he must have witnessed that day.

We returned to the city, completing our stay in Old Town Alexandria. The last day we planned an outing to Mount Vernon, home of George and Martha Washington. The rain was relentless. It was cold and clammy and our resolve was weakening. During the home tour we heard the story of Washington’s death. After returning from a day spent inspecting his farm in snow and freezing rain, he sat down for dinner without changing his wet clothes. Two days later he succumbed to an illness that had turned from a bad cold into a serious infection. So despite the nasty weather, we continued touring the grounds, examining the outbuildings, wandering through the orchard, walking in the footsteps of the father of our country.

Walking in their footsteps from Deborah French on Vimeo.

When it's Time to Say Goodbye

My dog Raven was meant to be a cat. I adopted her following the worst year of my life, a time when within the span of six short months I lost my long-time canine companion Bandit, then my oldest brother, then my mother. The house seemed too empty, too lonely. Maybe I’ll try getting a cat this time, I thought. I grew up in a dog family; we were never without a dog for long. I liked cats but knew little about keeping them as pets. What the heck, I told myself, try something different, break out of the mold. The search began.

After explaining all this to a rescue group volunteer one spring weekend, she told me about an Australian Shepherd mix available for adoption at another facility. My curiosity got the best of me and I decided to go take a look. When I first met Raven she put her head in my lap, let out a great big sigh, and jumped right into my heart. She was living in my house later that evening. Now what was that about a cat?

I had only the sketchiest details about her: approximately one year old, doesn’t like to ride in cars, gets scared if you try to pick her up, good with kids and cats, they told me. Not a lot to go on, but it sure made things interesting when I stupidly attempted to pick her up because she refused to get in the car on the way home from the adoption center. Over the years she learned to enjoy riding in the car but never, ever let anyone pick her up. We didn’t have kids and as for the part about getting along with cats? Well, not so much, since she blew out her knee chasing a cat down the street, resulting in the purchase of an extremely expensive bionic joint for our wild and crazy girl.

This creature with the mysterious past was right by my side for more than 10 years. Sure, she also had a nutty streak and got into lots of trouble. Often I wondered, what was I thinking, why didn’t I pick a cat instead? A cat would not dig meteor craters in my gardens, would not try to eat the sofa, would not drag a squirrel into the house through the doggy door and take it on a romp through the family room, would not kill innocent birds just stopping by to use the birdbath (well okay, maybe a cat would do that too). But it was all part of the bargain. Before long I realized I had fallen hopelessly in love with yet another dog.

Raven was bigger than Bandit and strong, she liked to play rough. There was this certain posture, this certain look in her eyes when you just knew it was coming. Raven would streak across the yard at lightning speed and body slam you! It was as if we had suddenly been transported into the middle of a mosh pit. This took some getting used to on my part but eventually I learned the best way to play along with those wild and crazy Raven games.

Her seemingly endless quirks and phobias provided an endless source of amusement. We especially enjoyed the way she “smiled” – baring teeth and gums and hissing. It was a little disturbing to outsiders but we explained that it was her way of saying “Oops, sorry, I’m not in trouble am I?”

Raven’s wildness was equally matched by her sweet, loving disposition. As age began to take its toll, she slowed down and eventually became this big black blob curled up next to you, wherever that might be.

We were devastated last Christmas when Raven was diagnosed with canine lymphoma. The prognosis was not good; without chemotherapy maybe a few months at best. Our veterinarian prescribed a steroid that kept the cancer in remission for a while. When it was no longer effective, we stopped the medication and let the cancer run its course. Secretly I hoped she would make it to see another snowfall, the dog that loved making her own peculiar brand of snow angels, the dog that loved to lay on the deck during snowstorms just because it felt so darned good. But it was not to be.

The vet told us many times, you will know when it’s time. And she was right, we knew. One day Raven was hanging out with us, playing with Tonka, digging little holes in the dirt, and the next morning we found her lying outside with a vacant stare, forever lost to the disease.

When it’s time to say goodbye, oh how the heart breaks. Yet I cherish every minute I spent with Raven. Meet you at the Rainbow Bridge someday, my pretty girl.

We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached. Unable to accept its awful gaps, we would still live no other way. We cherish memory as the only certain immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan.

~ Irving Townsend – The Once Again Prince

It's a Dog's Life from Deborah French on Vimeo.

Autumn in New England

This past week I have been reminiscing about our last weeklong vacation in October 2006. Autumn in New England ranked high on our wish list. Our timing was not so good. While some trees held onto leaves painted in deep shades of red, gold and orange, many had dropped and were already underfoot. A local resident explained that a few days before our arrival, a severe windstorm had blown through the area. Aside from missing some of the peak autumn colors, the rest of the trip was a success. With the exception of one blustery day on the road from Maine to New Hampshire and Vermont, we were blessed with wonderful autumn weather.

We flew from Denver to New York City where we hopped a small plane to Manchester, New Hampshire, rented a car and drove up the coast. Along the way we stopped in the picturesque city of Portsmouth, then continued on to the town of Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park, where we planned to spend most of our time.

Acadia National Park is home to beautiful, rugged coastlines, the kind synonymous with Maine. We loved exploring the area, touring fishing villages, climbing out onto the granite rocks, and dipping our toes tentatively into the chilly waters along Sand Beach. Within the park is Cadillac Mountain, at 1,530 feet above sea level the tallest mountain on the Atlantic Seaboard. At certain times of the year it is the first place to view sunrise in the United States.

The park has more than 40 miles of carriage roads, built in the early twentieth century for the enjoyment of carriage and horseback riders, hikers, and bicyclists. No motor vehicles are allowed. Roaming through the woods along the carriage roads, we found ourselves alone most of the time. A trail shortcut we discovered took us straight up to the summit of Day Mountain. Although the mountain is less than 600 feet in elevation, the views out to the Cranberry Isles were breathtaking.

Next we packed up and drove across Maine to New Hampshire. We avoided interstates and highways, instead choosing rural, two-lane roads that would take us through small towns where we could see more of New England up close. We lost our way a time or two on the winding roads, some of which did not seem to match the map in my hands. Before long my internal navigation system kicked in and we were on our way.

In New Hampshire we took an exhilarating ride up Mount Washington, the highest peak in the northeast at 6,288 feet. A steep road takes you to the summit. The mountain is covered in clouds more than half the time, including the day we visited. By the time we reached the summit, you could see no more than 100 feet in front of you. The clouds were saturated with water and although it wasn't raining, our hair and clothes were soaked just walking to the summit house. It was about 40 degrees with wind gusts of 45 mph. Needless to say we did not get any photos from the top. Observers on this mountain boast that it is “Home of the World’s Worst Weather,” including the highest wind speed ever recorded: 231 mph.

After spending the night near the state capitol building in Montpelier, Vermont, we drove south through more rural roads, enjoying the quaint little towns and covered bridges. Along the way we stopped in Chelsea, where we found a lovely cemetery situated on a hill above town. We were intrigued by one Civil War grave, that of Captain Orville Bixby of the Second Vermont Volunteer Infantry. He fought in many battles including Bull Run, Williamsburg, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, and was killed at age 29 in the Battle of the Wilderness.

Those rural roads took us to Woodstock, a quaint and historic colonial town in Vermont. We spent most of our time strolling up and down the streets, taking photos of the buildings and homes that were so lovingly preserved. One business owner in town even displayed a colonial flag with thirteen stars at the front entrance.

After Woodstock, we jumped on the interstate and zoomed into Massachusetts for the final leg of the trip. One goal we both have is to set foot in each of the 50 states during our lifetime. I had been to Massachusetts; Dave had not. We crossed the Connecticut River at the French King Bridge and returned to Manchester. Our flight home followed the same route in reverse, so again we were able to savor the sight of New York City from the air.

In two weeks we are venturing to the East Coast again, this time to our nation’s capital then on to southwestern Virginia and Appalachia. This next vacation has been a long time coming and I can’t wait!

Autumn in New England from Deborah French on Vimeo.

Ants in Our Pants

This morning was cool and crisp, a clear sign that autumn is just around the corner. It’s the time of year I love so much. For the first time in I can’t remember how long, I closed the windows to the morning air because it was a bit too chilly. Getting dressed I picked my favorite sweatshirt to wear on my weekly grocery shopping expedition. Dave dug through his drawers and found his cool weather golfing gear.

Our furry friends both had ants in their pants this morning. Actually Tonka has ants in his pants most days, whereas the rest of us seem to suffer from a summertime-induced lethargy. Today the dogs were out bright and early on squirrel patrol in the back yard. Raven was acting like a younger version of herself. Being the hairiest of our hairy beasts, the hot weather has always been a challenge for Raven. This year has been particularly difficult since she is battling canine lymphoma and really struggles to keep herself cool. It was good to see her running the fence line with her younger cohort, trying her darnedest to help vanquish the wayward squirrels.

Since we married our lives have been pretty hectic. Between a house remodel, job layoffs, Dave unexpectedly losing his older brother, burying both our fathers and selling our childhood homes, at times the last seven years seem like a blur. At one point when we could not stray far from home, we made a list of places to tour someday. Now we are slowly working our way through the list. We’ve done a few long weekends here and mini-vacations there. Our last major vacation was three years ago when we spent an autumn in New England.

Autumn is the time of year we prefer to travel. It’s much nicer to visit places after all the little darlings have returned to school, and most of the tourists have packed up and headed home. It’s an especially good time for exploring our home state. The sun is warm and the air is cool, making those day hikes much more pleasant. We haven’t decided where to take our annual hike to see the aspens turning but we have settled on a vacation destination.

Four weeks from today we are heading to our nation’s capital, with a side tour to southwest Virginia. We have been making reservations, consulting vacation guides, even touring the city streets using satellite maps. We are both excited to get away, far away, and experience something that will jolt us out our daily routines. So I guess you could say we have ants in our pants too.

It’s time to start clearing out the gardens. My vegetable garden was a bust this year anyway, what with the crazy weather we had this spring and early summer. I’m ready to put away the gardening tools, ready for some football games, ready to start pulling out the warm and snuggly clothes, ready to fluff up an extra blanket for the bed. And I’m so ready to get on that plane and head east!

Only the Heart May Know

Silent sea
Tell this to me:
Where are the children that we used to be?

So begins a favorite song by Dan Fogelberg, the song Dave and I chose for our wedding dance. The words were especially meaningful for two people marrying for the first time in their mid forties.

After not dating for a long time, about ten years ago I decided to dip my toes tentatively back into the water. Dave was one of the fellows who responded to a personal ad I placed online. I met several nice men, and found no fault with any of them. But while I enjoyed the companionship, the conversations, the movies, the dinners, otherwise I felt nothing. I wondered if something was wrong with me. Maybe I had waited too long, maybe the bloom was permanently off the rose.

Then along came Dave. We planned to meet at a restaurant in west Denver on a snowy evening in March, the first day of spring. Because of the weather, I was certain he wouldn’t show. But there he was, waiting for me. I did most of the talking that night and Dave listened to my ramblings as if every word was more important than the last. We made plans for a second date to see a movie. In the theater, Dave put his arm around my shoulder and instantly I felt that schoolgirl sensation of butterflies, something I had not known for ages. It turned out that my autumn rose was still capable of producing a bloom.

After about a year we began to talk about making a commitment. Even though we were nearly inseparable, we maintained distinct and solitary lives. We shared some of the same misgivings. Here were two people, never married, accustomed to solitude, set in our ways. Would it even work? At last we both felt ready to make that leap, to leave our solitary paths and head down a new trail together. A custom ring was created with the diamond from my mother’s engagement ring, surrounded by sapphires, Dave’s birthstone. We were engaged on Valentine’s Day.

I had long carried with me a young girl’s dream to marry in a mountain meadow somewhere, flowers in my hair, perhaps some native wildlife serving as silent witnesses. That was certainly not going to work now. My brother and a cousin schemed to turn this occasion into a reunion of sorts, a chance for our family to see each other for a reason other than a funeral. Most of the people attending were from far away, and many were elderly or disabled. So instead of the meadow, we opted for a more traditional event at an all-inclusive wedding site in Genesee.

Dave set about creating unique invitations while I wrote a personal ceremony, something from the heart that conveyed the importance of this crossroads in our lives. We both worried about speaking in front of a crowd. As the list of participants grew, Dave’s only request was that I keep the words we would say to a minimum. Keeping my promise, the vows were short and sweet.

Both of us are similar in nature, quiet, shy, reserved. Fortunately we complement each other in different ways, a combination of strengths and weaknesses that create a harmonious blend of individual traits. Where I am too emotional, sensitive and stubborn with a tendency to overreact, Dave is calm, rational, patient. Where Dave is prone to forgetfulness and procrastination, I am organized and driven to accomplish something first, relax later.

We continue to learn how to share our lives without overtaking one another, without losing the essence of who we are. And although I was perfectly happy living alone, now I find the muffled sounds and constant presence of another person in the house to be so comforting. Especially when that presence is Dave.

It has been seven years and I love him more than ever, more than I realized you could love another. Sometimes I regret that we didn’t meet while we were still young enough to have a family of our own. Then again, if we were not yet mature, without a lifetime of experiences to ground us, would our hearts have known what we had found?

Our wedding from Deborah French on Vimeo.

The Invisible Sister

Eleven years ago today I lost my oldest brother. Rich was only 55 years old, retired for barely a year from his career as a Denver police officer. Diagnosed with cancer in January, he endured a difficult surgery and grueling treatments. But it was too late. In June the doctors told him he had about two months to live.

Rich was 14 years older than me, the only child of my father’s first marriage. Unusual for the 1940s, dad was awarded custody. Later dad met mom and they created our little family.

The age difference between Rich and me made our relationship challenging. By the time I was eight, he had graduated high school, joined the military, served in Japan and Hawaii, returned home, and was married with a child on the way. It was more than our age difference, though. We were like oil and water. He was brash and abrasive, a teller of tall tales who craved the spotlight, loved to argue, and especially loved to win arguments. I was a quiet, shy, sensitive soul with no debating skills. My family was conservative; I was the peace loving flower child with liberal notions and a completely different way of looking at the world. This made me an easy target. Rich took delight in ridiculing my beliefs. As time passed I found it easier to simply withdraw from most conversations, keeping my ideals intact even as I grew weary of defending them. The fact that I never married or had children also set me apart. I was too different, too hard to understand. Eventually I became invisible.

Rich had another half-sister several years older than me. Patty and Rich shared the same mother, Ida. When Ida passed away, Rich took custody of his teenaged sister. Patty was a sweet, kind, pretty girl. Everyone loved her. In a few years’ time she finished school, married, and moved to Las Vegas to start her own family. Rich visited her frequently and she returned to Colorado on a regular basis.

My brother lived a full, active life. He was adventurous, always into something, and had friends galore. A whirlwind of people constantly surrounded him at his many parties at home, at his cabin on Johnson Lake in Nebraska, or at his trailer near Elephant Butte Lake in New Mexico. I learned this from the tales my family told me, since they usually attended. Once I was asked why I was never at Rich’s parties, never had joined them on road trips to the cabin or the trailer. That was easy to answer. I was never invited.

Naturally, a grand party was planned at Rich’s house following his memorial service. So many people were there, yet I only knew a tiny fraction of them. As the evening wore on, I staked out a quiet location in the living room where I took solace in the company of my brother’s dogs. A line had formed to the bathroom, and one fellow standing in that line asked who I was, how did I know Rich? I answered that I was his sister, Debbie. He looked puzzled. Then he said to me, well, everyone knows Patty, but he never heard that Rich had another sister. Was I from somewhere else? I was devastated.

After that conversation, I went to the dining room where a collage of photos had been assembled on a giant bulletin board to memorialize Rich’s life. As I pored through the photos, I saw the faces of people living and dead, every conceivable connection you could imagine: grandparents, parents, children, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, cars, dogs, boats. I searched but could not find my face anywhere. Finally I realized only three key people were missing from the collection: Rich’s two former wives, and me.

That last summer of his life I visited Rich every weekend, and cared for his dogs while his wife took him to see the ocean one last time. Every time I left his side, I reached out to hug and kiss my brother and always said “I love you.” Each time he turned his face away from my kiss; not once did he respond to my declaration.

The day before he died I spent the afternoon with Rich, giving his wife a break. I joined him on the bed and we watched TV, a documentary about the sinking of the Lusitania. He commented during a commercial for paper shredders, saying he really needed to get one of those. And he told me he kept seeing lights, did I see them too? I shook my head, no. When I left, I leaned over to hug and kiss him. This time he didn’t turn away. When I said, “I love you,” he answered, “I love you too.” For the first time, and the last.

So in the end, what did it matter that a complete stranger didn’t know that Rich had two sisters? Neither did it matter that my photo was not displayed on the memorabilia board. Because at long last, I finally had the answer to something I never dared believe was possible. My brother did love me after all.