July 23, 2008
Postcards from the Past
Since my grandmother's passing in May, I get regular mail from my mother. Sometimes the packages are big; sometimes they're little padded mailers that only weigh a few ounces. But the contents are always the same.
It seems that my grandmother kept a lot of things. Silly pieces of paper like recipes clipped from Good Housekeeping and old Dear Abby columns. But she also kept every card, letter or note she recieved from her children and grandchildren. It's a remarkable collection, made more remarkable by the fact that she was mother to 7 and grandmother to 17.
In cleaning out her hosue, my mother and her sisters went through them all, making piles for the appropriate decendents, but also reading a few. Stoppping to laugh, to cry, to discover something perhaps they never knew.
The first package I received contained not only my high school graduation announcement, but also my mother's. Also held within was an invitation to my parent's wedding and a napkin. "Dick & Judy - March 20, 1965" in gold foil letters. I stood in our kitchen, tears streaming down my face as I showed Aaron. "Look, look," I said. "This was real. This happened."
Last night I laid in bed reading cards sent to my grandparents from my mom. Birthday cards, anniversary cards, mother's day and father's day cards. Many of them signed, "Your Texas daughter." I'd read the date and figure out how old I was, if I was even born yet. In one letter, scrawled in marker on construction paper, my mom wrote about the baby growing inside her and how my dad was fixing up the nursery in their little New Orleans apartment. There were postcards sent from Utah and San Francisco, and I imagined my mother, much younger than I am now, seeing the world with her young eyes, this small town Ohio farm girl, figuring out that city on the bay.
Our children won't have this, I told him. They won't get to read my messages to my mother about what you cooked for dinner and what we are going to do on Saturday. Banal, silly details that when viewed forty years later paint a picture of people you never got to know.
It seemed that when I was a child, I liked to sign my full name, as if my grandmother wouldn't have known who this person was sending her a Mother's Day card. I wrote about slumber parties and how I couldn't wait for her to visit. On the back of many of the cards my grandmother made notes. "My precious children," she'd write. On the back of a note my mom left after our annual visit to Ohio, my grandmother wrote how her beautiful daughter Judy always left the sweetest notes and was always so grateful.
But what stands out to me in my readings is my mother's heart. Even on the cards dated 1988 or 1990, years when she was single and working and trying to raise two insubordinate teenagers, she was cheerful. Joyful. Happy. She wrote encouraging notes to her parents, urging them to take care of one another. To write. To love each other. She wrote with a grateful hand, always full of thanks and praise for them. Many times her letters praised God and, as if it wasn't obvious before, it's obvious upon reading just a few that I am not made of the same mettle as she.
These letters are a gift. I'm not sure if that was her intention in keeping them all; probably not. I think she kept them because she loved her family, and it gave her pleasure to go back and read their words. To know what was going on in their lives and to know that no matter where in the world, they remembered her.
My mom said there were sad letters too. Things that were hard to read. Those they got rid of, she told me. Too hurtful to dredge up some memories, she said, especially now that so many of the players have passed on. What would be the point?
Our lives are so temporary, gone in instants. If we lose the tether to our families, to our histories, to the things that keep us tied together, we lose everything. And maybe that's why she kept them. To remember us remembering her.
Posted by hannah at 02:50 PM
July 19, 2008
To Recap
As I was reading through this site last night — as I do from time to time — I realized that I there are some pretty big holes. Married? Minnesota? Four dogs? I'd sort of neglected this site in lieu of Flickr, and in doing so I skipped documenting not a few major events.
So, to recap. . .
In January 2007, I met a guy at the Piedmont Dog Park.
We fell in love.
He had (has!) two English Bulldogs.
In Spring 2007 he moved back to his home state of Minnesota. And thus began a lot of traveling.
On August 4, 2007, we got engaged.
I started planning a wedding at the Don CeSar in St. Pete Beach, Fla.
And preparing to quit my job, sell my house and move to Minnesota.
And lots of "last ofs" (I really miss Taqueria del Sol.)
Oh, and did I mention the Viking tailgating?
On May 2, we got married.
We honeymooned (mini-mooned!) at the Don.
On May 11, we arrived in Minnesota along with Scout and Montego.
I stayed home for a month or so, setting up house and getting settled.
On June 9, I started working. (Boo.)
And... here we are.
Posted by hannah at 01:36 PM
Heavenly Day
I am slightly obsessed with our wedding pictures. Are all recent brides? If The Knot is any indication, yes, but then again, The Knot is not a good indicator of what is "normal."
It was such an amazing day, but it went too fast. I feel like the memories of it are slipping through my mind even faster still. So I go back and look at the pictures and I laugh and get teary-eyed and remind myself, yes, yes that happened. You had a wedding and you were a bride, and it was wonderful.
(As if having to live with a boy and his two Bulldogs wasn't reminder enough.)
My college friend Mark got married about six weeks after we did and every few days pictures from his wedding will show up on his Flickr page and I imagine him, all the way in California, doing the same thing I am. Pouring over them. Reminiscing. Laughing. Being thankful.
Marriage is amazing. It is hard - let no one tell you differently - but it is amazing yet. That someone would choose to stand by you. To vow to stand by you.. .well, it's a miracle, isn't it?
Posted by hannah at 12:01 AM
July 05, 2008
Notes from Minnesota II
Aaron got up at 6:30 a.m. to go fishing. Or as he says, catching. His friend Roger found a hidden little lake near his house that has huge bass and is rarely fished. It's their little secret.
There was a mini triathlon this morning in the park behind our house, so I took my towel and my camera and watched for awhile. I got over there right as the first finisher crossed the line, somewhere around 56 minutes. It would take me 45 minutes probably just to run the 3 miles, let alone swim 3/4 mile and bike 15! I sat in my little camping chair and kept my sunglasses on to hide the tears filling my eyes as I watched runner after runner bring it in. Their husbands, wives, kids, parents lined the course yelling their names, telling them they only had a few more yards to go. There is something about races that brings out the best in us. We encourage. We cheer. We push ourselves farther than we think we can. It's inspiring. I almost really started crying when a 13-year-old girl approached the finish line with her dad right next to her. His eyes were focused only on her; he was in her ear telling her to kick it, to go strong. What's a better metaphor for life than a race? It's long, it's hard, but you have to just keep going and finish as strong as you can.
There is something so exquisite about a lazy Saturday with nothing on the agenda. All the windows are open and breezes come through and I have laundry going and an empty dishwasher. The dogs are all underneath the ottoman; Eller fell asleep on his bone. Chewing is just so exhausting.
My mom is coming to visit in August, and she can't get here soon enough. I'm homesick in the worst way. Being married is great. I like my job (even though I hate the commute) and I like the house and living in such a beautiful place. But I miss my friends in a wicked way. Sarah is nearing the end of her pregnancy, and even though we e-mail every day and I get to see her belly pictures on Flickr, when I think about that baby girl and how I won't get to see her be born, or visit in the hospital, it's almost more than I can take. Sarah and I lived only a few miles apart, so in a different life, I would have likely spent many evenings with them. Heart break!
I think a lot about the day I will become a mother. It's weird, in some ways I feel like I already am, I just don't have any kids yet.
Posted by hannah at 11:25 AM
