May 13, 2008

Josephine

My grandmother died today.

I said goodbye to her on Saturday night, sitting at her bedside holding her hand. I stroked the paper thin skin on her arm and watched her tiny chest rise up and down as she slowly struggled more and more to breathe. Her eldest daughter sat beside me; her second eldest daughter across the bed. I felt very privileged to be sitting there with them as they waited out their mother's final goodbye. We talked and told stories. We cried. Aunt Sissy said that every time MeMe heard my voice, she'd open her eyes. I believe she knew it was me holding her hand; that I was there beside her.

On Sunday morning I woke up beside my husband, we packed up the car and began the 14 hour drive to Minnesota. It was a tough decision, whether to stay or go, but I knew my grandmother would say that my place was beside my husband and there was no way I should allow him to come to our new home alone.

The past few days, my first days as a housewife, I've thought about her a lot. What it was like for her, a young married mother at age 16, working alongside her new husband on his parents' farm. What that must have been like for her.

This move up North was challenging; combining households and dogs and lifestyles has been a tough start. But I haven't had to carry water up from the creek, or milk cows or wash my husband's work overalls on a scrub board. I haven't had to wrap my babies up tight from the cold before going out to tend to animals and crops. I'll never have to wash my hair in rain water or wait till my 25th wedding anniversary for a diamond ring.

Her life was hard. She worked dawn to dusk for decades and decades. She raised seven children and in her final years had to bury three. She was the last of the last: all her siblings, friends and in laws went before her.

But she died an old, old woman tucked warmly in her bed. She was kissed goodbye by her daughters, her granddaughters, her grandsons, her great-grandchildren and even a couple of great-great-grandsons.

When I walked down the aisle 11 days ago, I wore a tiny gold wedding band on my pinky finger. It was the ring my grandfather placed on her hand almost 84 years ago. My life is her legacy. She was my love and though I can hardly believe her heart no longer beats and though my heart is now broken, I know she is with Jesus and he is loving her more than I ever did.

Josephine Novella Morrow Hall
March 2, 1908 - May 13, 2008

Posted by hannah at 04:23 PM

March 02, 2007

Ninety-Nine

Josephine was born on her family's Ohio farm on March 2, 1908, the middle child of an eventual family of seven kids. When she was nine, her beloved daddy passed away from kidney failure. Her memories of him are sparse, but she speaks fondly of trips to town and how he always had candy in his pockets. She was named after him - a Jo to his Joe - and he wanted her to grow up and become a teacher. Ninety years later, she still grieves for him. She recently commented that she didn't understand why she let her older siblings die without asking them so many questions. "Like what?" I asked her. "Like what it was like to have a daddy," she told me.

Joe Morrow's death would alter Josephine's life in dramatic ways. Her mother remarried - what else could she do? - and her second husband was what we would now call a deadbeat, but what they called a shyster. He left her mother Rwilda with another son and not much else. By the time she was a teenager, Jo had been shuffled around - sent to her brother's sister's house in nearby Springfield and left to work the farm while her younger sisters attended school. When she was 16, still just a young child herself, she married her older brother's friend, Elijah.

They had two children in quick succession and lived with his parents on a small, nearby farm. Eventually, Lige had saved enough money to buy their own land. It was a small place, on Paint Creek, and he purchased it in 1926 from the Fishback family for $300 yearly payments. They moved in on her 18th birthday. On that farm, Jo would have several more children, including her sixth, my mother. Four years later, they moved to a larger farm within the same county, but Lige, ever the self-educated businessman, rented out the Paint Creek farm to sharecroppers, retaining ownership of the land. (On that land, two days ago, a fifth generation of Hall babies was born, Lige and Jo's great-great-grandson, Nathan.) On the Hall Farm - as it became known - Jo finally had a kitchen sink with running water and after a few years they put in an indoor bathroom. She was 41. That same year, 1949, their third child Wanda became engaged to a WWII Vet, Edward, and when Ed purchased a diamond ring with which to propose, Lige purchased one for Jo as well. He hid it in his roll top desk and when he asked Jo to retrieve something for him, she discovered the ring instead. It was their 25th wedding anniversary.

In 1950, Lige retired from farm life, leaving the daily operations of the Hall Farm to his eldest son Dick and his new bride. Lige, Jo and their three youngest daughters moved into a 1800s Victorian house in town, blocks away from their church and the girls' eventual high school. My mom speaks of those years with glowing fondness, as it was almost as if they were a second family. There were no more cows to milk twice a day and Jo no longer had to work a garden for profit; instead she grew tomatoes and canned jam for their own use. Lige could walk into their backyard and pick beets for his lunch, which he ate raw covered in salt and pepper. Jo and Lige lived in that house for 45 years. They saw their youngest children get married and become parents themselves. Their brood of grandchildren grew and grew and they were great-grandparents before they finished gathering grandkids. Every Christmas Eve the old house was filled wall-to-wall with people as the family convened to celebrate. Steam would pour out of the kitchen as Jo cooked and cooked, her daughters joining her as they arrived. After the gifts had been opened and the food was eaten, they would call those who weren't in attendance. Wanda in Athens, Ga. Judy in Spring, Texas. Bill in Cocoa Beach, Fla.

In 1995, after it was apparent Lige's health would continue to worsen with age, they made the extremely difficult decision to sell the home they'd occupied for 45 years and move 14 miles to a neighboring county to be closer to three of their daughters. They purchased a small ranch with a porch so tiny, it would fit neither the glider nor swing Lige and Jo had occupied every evening for the latter years of their lives. Back in Greenfield, they would spend their evenings on the big porch with the wide, white rails greeting neighbors as they walked by.

On Feb. 20, 2000 Lige passed away, his death closely following the death of their eldest son. In the subsequent years, Jo would bury two more of her children, as well as her remaining surviving siblings.

Sometimes she wonders why she's still here; why God has blessed her with such long life. But the answer is found in the redheaded great-grandson whom she cuddles and loves just as she cuddled and loved his daddy, 33 years prior. The answer is found in her church's young pastor who visits her monthly to offer her communion and to seek her counsel on issues close to his own heart. The answer is found in the women and families who have adopted her as their surrogate mother and grandmother; the young blonde whose wedding she attended a few months ago, honored as their matriarch though she was only their neighbor.

The answer is found in me, a granddaughter whose life could not be more dissimilar. She is my guiding star, my hero, my love. I could never stop singing His praise for not only making her mine, but for making me hers.

Happy Birthday, MeMe. Your blood is in my heart.

Posted by hannah at 01:42 PM

December 15, 2006

The List Gets Longer

Proving that I strive to be like my mother in many ways, I save every Christmas card I receive so that I can later reuse them as gift tags. Last night I was digging through the ever-growing card box looking for a cute one to put on one of Michael's gifts, when I pulled out a card with a teddy bear on it. I opened it to see who it was from and the wind was knocked out of me when I saw that it was signed, "Aunt Jo." There wasn't a date on it, but judging from what she'd written, it was the Christmas I lived in my final Columbus apartment, and she and I must have met for lunch or something - probably in German Village - shortly before she sent the card.

I moved to Atlanta four months later, and shortly thereafter she relocated permanently to Florida. Surely I must have seen her again after that, but if I did, I can't remember when or where. When she moved to Florida, she never said that she was moving there to die, that she wanted to die close to the children who loved her, but we all knew that to be the case.

I have learned more about Aunt Jo since her death than I ever did while she was alive. I suppose that's often the way it is with families; we keep each other's secrets until there is no reason to keep them any longer. She was, in many ways, the star of my mother's family. She was the one all the sisters strived to please. My mother was the popular cheerleader, but Jo was the untouchable beauty queen, airy and aloof, with an air of sophistication she must have been born with, as she couldn't possibly have learned it on a farm from her untiring workhorse of a mother. She loved to travel and her taste was exquisite. She loved theater and art and took me to several shows at the Ohio Theater. She lived for a time in Columbus' German Village and I know she was always pleased that I chose to spend several of my post-college years in the Village as well. Last Christmas my mother pulled bags of sweaters out of the attic and asked me to try some of them on. As I did, she told me that they were all Jo's; that before Jo moved to Florida, she'd asked my mom to "hold on" to quite a bit of her cold-weather wardrobe. I brought several sweaters back to Atlanta with me, including the softest cashmere sweater I've ever owned. It's Nieman's store brand and it has to be at least 20 years old, judging from the label. I take better care of that sweater than I do of anything else I own. When I wear it, she is with me, and it is as if I hold a secret over my heart.

I sat there holding the card for a few minutes, unsure what to do with it. I didn't want to rip it in half and paste the cover onto a box for a baby who wouldn't understand the significance of his aunt grabbing a card from the late aunt after whom she was partially named. So not knowing what to do, I took a picture. I stare at it, reading "love you," written in her quick script, again and again. Life gets shorter and the list of people we miss gets longer. May we all learn to hold on to what we can.

Posted by hannah at 02:57 PM

October 19, 2006

I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.

Posted by hannah at 12:42 PM | Comments (0)

October 16, 2006

Tie that Binds

My cousin Anne said that our grandmother is shedding her skin. She's lost 11 pounds since June, which is a lot considering she was almost all bone to begin with.

"We talk a lot about Daddy," my mom told me. "She wants to talk about Jo and Billy and Dick."

Last week she sent me a card, dictated to my mother, and as I read my grandmother’s words via mother's flowing script, I realized that I don't own anything with my MeMe's handwriting on it. I don't know why that would matter, but it does.

The card was just an I'm-thinking-of-you card and inside she'd stuck two $5 bills. She'd heard that Starbucks raised their prices (a whole nickel) and she wanted to pick up my coffee for the week.

"She wants to do little things like that a lot more now," my mom said.

They bought her "going away clothes" as she is calling them - a pink nightgown and a pink housecoat to wear over it. She finally decided who she wants to give her little diamond studs to - the earrings her daughters presented her with on the auspicious occasion of her 90th birthday, almost nine years ago. "I want Sophia to have them," she said. So my mother took out the notebook that lists furniture and books and china - a handwritten record of who gets what the day my last living grandparent dies – and wrote down, “diamond earrings, Sophia.”

The big pieces - like my grandfather's roll top desk - will be sold at auction for the sake of "fairness." The remaining kids agreed that whoever wanted whatever it was badly enough could pay the estate for it. That seems weird to me... that children would fight over or have to buy back something that belonged to their parents. It seems weird, but not unlikely. I should know, as I almost had a meltdown at the thought of a wash stand being sold at auction when I desired it so much. The wash stand isn't much of anything. It's old and it's wood and it's no big deal, but for some reason, it represents my grandmother. It belonged to her eldest sister, Lois, who was born in 1899 and who died a childless widow. She left almost everything to her little sister Jo - who else was there? - and my grandmother cared for Lois's things with reverence and respect. My mom told MeMe that I wanted the wash stand and she said, of course. So there is my name, in this amended, wouldn't-stand-up-in-court spiral bound record of all my grandmother's worldly possessions.

I asked my mom why she was telling me all this. Certainly she didn’t think my grandmother was going to die tomorrow. “No, I think she could go any day,” my mom answered. “Then again, she can afford to live to 105, so who knows?”

Our lives are short, whether we live to be 98 or not. But I know, and I know my grandmother knows, that eternity is what we are waiting on. That gives me comfort. That no matter what and no matter when, I will never lose her.

Posted by hannah at 10:03 PM | Comments (0)

October 09, 2006

Happy Birthday, Daddy

My dad turned 64 on Saturday. That sounds like a large, old number - I suppose it is - and it is one that is almost impossible to fathom.

Shortly after my parents separated, my brother went into counseling. In retrospect, it's a track my parents should've put me on as well, but I was so good at faking being well-balanced that it must not have seemed necessary. Even though I was only 11 at the time, and it was information probably best kept from me, I clearly remember a statement that the counselor made to my mother about Guy. She told her that my brother was struggling so badly because he didn't know how to reconcile his anger towards someone he worshipped so much.

Thinking about that now, I realize that statement applied to me as well. I've come out of that place, and as I have expressed before, I'm not angry anymore. It makes me sad sometimes still - it always will - but it no longer has its hooks in me.

My dad is just a man, a man with faults and bad habits and all the baggage that goes along with making it to 64 years. Now that I'm an adult, I understand how a lot of his parenting was a reflection of his own childhood and that knowledge breaks my heart all over again.

When I see Guy with Micheal, I see how different it is. I know that the cycle is over and I'm so grateful to God to healing our family. We haven't been a four-person unit in almost 20 years, but because I'm unmarried and childless, when I think about "family," they're the unit I cling to.

Several years ago, when I was leaving Houston after a weekend visit, my dad hugged me in front of the security line at terminal C (the terminal in Bush-Intercontinental that you literally have to go through a parking deck to get to), and he said, "I love you more than anything in the world."

Back at ya, Dad.

Posted by hannah at 11:20 AM | Comments (0)

September 27, 2006

I come from a two-dog-household family

June 1973. Lakeside, New Orleans, La.

My dad is, and always has been, a sort of Dog Whisperer. He has a penchant for strays (guess that's where I get it) and both of these dogs were found and rescued by my parents. (Well, I say my parents, but really my dad. My mom said she was 7 months pregnant with Guy when my dad found Chandelle, a tiny puppy, and couldn't believe he'd bring home a 2nd dog when they had a baby on the way.)

They found Sugar in Utah - abandoned by a neighbor - and Chandelle in New Orleans, and both dogs made the move to Houston and saw the birth of both my parents' kids. Chandelle was epileptic and finally succumbed to a seizure when she was nine and I was about 6. I clearly remember my parents rushing to the emergency vet in the middle of the night (Grandma Jean was visiting and stayed at home with Guy and me), and they came back dogless.

Sugar, who by that time was 17 years old, as well as blind and deaf, stopped eating and died fairly soon after. We always said that she died of a broken heart.

Posted by hannah at 12:59 PM | Comments (0)

I come from a two-dog-household family

June 1973. Lakeside, New Orleans, La.

My dad is, and always has been, a sort of Dog Whisperer. He has a penchant for strays (guess that's where I get it) and both of these dogs were found and rescued by my parents. (Well, I say my parents, but really my dad. My mom said she was 7 months pregnant with Guy when my dad found Chandelle, a tiny puppy, and couldn't believe he'd bring home a 2nd dog when they had a baby on the way.)

They found Sugar in Utah - abandoned by a neighbor - and Chandelle in New Orleans, and both dogs made the move to Houston and saw the birth of both my parents' kids. Chandelle was epileptic and finally succumbed to a seizure when she was nine and I was about 6. I clearly remember my parents rushing to the emergency vet in the middle of the night (Grandma Jean was visiting and stayed at home with Guy and me), and they came back dogless.

Sugar, who by that time was 17 years old, as well as blind and deaf, stopped eating and died fairly soon after. We always said that she died of a broken heart.

Posted by hannah at 12:59 PM | Comments (0)

August 11, 2006

Where the Heart Is

I sometimes like I'm pulled between two worlds and I can't quite decide where it is that I want to live.

My mom said the other day that she yearns for Michael; that she thinks about him all the time and just wants to be with him. I told her that I think that's a fairly typical reaction for a new grandmother, but what I didn't tell her, as my eyes filled with tears, was that I feel the same way.

I left Ohio because it didn't feel like home. Because I knew the world was bigger than what I was going to find there. Because I just knew in my gut that there were bigger things waiting for me. I was right, mostly, and in the 4+ years I've lived in Atlanta, I've managed to plant pretty deep roots. I own a home; I have a great job that I would be a fool to leave; I belong to a church that satisfies my soul and stretches me every day. I have friends.

It used to be that those things outweighed the family that I'd left behind. After all, it's natural and normal to leave the nest and move beyond the borders of your life. But the scales have begun to tip the other way and I'm not sure what to do about it.

Posted by hannah at 02:46 PM | Comments (0)

July 25, 2006

Michael Baby

I can hardly stand to look at him, he's so adorable.

My dad said, "I don't normally like newborns, but he's a pretty good lookin' kid."

Only one more month till I go visit him. If I don't come back to Atlanta, will someone bring me my dog?

Posted by hannah at 03:50 PM | Comments (1)

July 24, 2006

He's my Guy

My brother is now officially someone's daddy, as his son Michael was born a scant two and a half weeks ago.

I talked to my mom on the phone last night and she was gushing over Michael and how beautiful he is and then she said how amazing it was to watch my brother with the baby and with Laurie. "He really takes care of them," she said. "Well, that's his job," I told her.

A lot of women have a hard time seeing their sons as someone's husband and as someone's father and I think the transition from son to husband was a bit difficult for my mom, but she's handled it pretty well. The key, I think, is to keep your mothering-in-law mouth shut, which she's done to the best of her ability. (We're not a mouth-shut people.)

But it doesn't surprise me that my brother has shown himself to be a remarkable father already; it doesn't surprise my heart. There are dozens of baby and childhood photos of me where Guy is hovering over me. We fought a lot, don't get me wrong, but in the way it only can be in family, he was also my biggest supporter. There was no way he ever would've stood for someone else roughing me up or teasing me. (That was his job - badumbum.) Guy taught me how to tie my shoe and how to read. His love for all things science is infectious and I already know he and Michael will sit around talking about stars and dinosaurs and how planes fly.

When my mom's eldest brother laid dying in a hospital bed, she went to visit him and sat beside his bed. She said she grabbed his hand, careful not to upset the i.v., and as she held it she had the simple, yet radical, realization that this man was one of the closest things in the world to being her. Your sibling is the closest to what makes you you, biologically, than either of your parents or even your children.

And for Guy and I, it's just us. He's got me and I've got him and now there's this baby whose blood is my blood and I don't know how I ever got so lucky.

Posted by hannah at 02:18 PM | Comments (0)

July 07, 2006

Light of the World

I leave in four days. My beautiful nephew, Michael Edward, was born yesterday and though this is a morbid thought, I am so glad he came before my departure, so that at least I would have seen his face, and known his name, if anything were to happen.

My dad sent an e-mail to his brothers and cousins alerting them to the birth of his first grandchild, and told them briefly about the man from whom Michael gets his middle name - my Uncle Ed, who was one of my maternal aunt's husbands. My dad wrote about Ed's WWII experience and how he went on to get his PhD and become well known in his field. At he end of the e-mail he wrote, "A name to be proud of, I think." Even recounting it now makes me cry because when you come from a fractured family, it's sometimes easy to forget that other relationships don't just cease to exist with divorce. That my dad would be pleased, and touched, that his son named his firstborn after his ex-wife's brother-in-law - I don't know how to explain it - it makes me happy and sad and proud, all at once.

I'm feeling really emotional lately and I know it's because the preparation for this trip has been so intense. I literally feel the prayers of hundreds surrounding me and it's awesome and humbling. Sometimes I don't feel like it's any big deal, and other times I feel so inadequate and scared. There's not only the fear of going somewhere you've never been and trusting in customs agents and airlines you've never heard of, but there's also the fear that I'm not good enough. Why in the world are they letting me go on this trip?? I'm hardly a good representation of anything, expect maybe a spoiled American. I've got that down.

But then I get an e-mail or a note or a check and it says, "We're proud of you," or "We're praying for you." Or I read and (reread) the amazing letter I got from my friend Melissa that talked about many things, like the gift of wisdom - a gift she saw in me that I never saw in myself. She wrote, "Human wisdom cannot teach the things of the Lord, instead we teach in words that are taught by the Spirit."

There is a song by Watermark that I've heard on the radio a lot recently, and I've begun thinking of it as my Romania song, my Romania prayer.

Jesus, light of the world
Shine on us, shine on us
Word of life, spoken for love
Breathe on us, breathe on us
Light of the world, King Jesus
God's beating heart, live through us
God's beating heart, live through us
God's beating heart, live through us
Light of the world, King Jesus

That is my only prayer - that His light be seen through me and that His word be breathed through me. I am not a teacher, but I can teach what He has shown me. I am not a wise leader, but I can share the wisdom He has made plain to me. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me," Phillipians 4:13.

Posted by hannah at 05:22 PM | Comments (2)

July 06, 2006

Baby Merri11

Today, today. He comes today! My sister-in-law has a C-section scheduled for 2:30 this afternoon.

So, in like an hour.

Posted by hannah at 02:31 PM | Comments (1)

May 28, 2006

Let Go

Several months ago I wrote very briefly about how I was finally able to let go of the anger I felt towards my father. I thought about that entry today as Andy Stanley closed his series on what lurks in the Heart with a sermon on Anger.

Ephesians 4:26-27 "In your anger do not sin. Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold."

When we're angry at someone it's because we think they owe us something - they're indebted to us. But the problem with that, of course, is that the guilty party can never make the loss up to us. You can't get back a first marriage or a childhood or your freshman year of college. I can't go back to being a 12-year-old girl whose daddy lives in her house. It's impossible.

But I let go of my anger towards my father and I forgave him. I realized that my adult relationships were patterning themselves and I wasn't angry at any of those guys (well, not at the center of it anyway), but I kept trying to get other people to make it up to me, to pay me back for what was stolen from me. That was never going to happen. Intead, I let it go and I forgave. I cancelled the debt and I closed the book.

Today, as Andy spoke, I thought about Guy and I tried so hard not to cry. He is still so, so angry and I am desperate for him to forgive our father. For both of them, but even more importantly, for the son my brother is about to have. How can he enter into another father-son relationship when his heart is still so hard? But how do you ask someone to let go of their anger? How do you show them that they have to?

We all know the saying, "Don't go to bed angry," and while that is very sound advice, it's more important to stop being angry while you're awake too. Drop it off, and in a hurry, because there is nothing - nothing! - that will ruin your life faster than an angry spirit, a victim mentality, a hard heart. Even if you take God out of it; even if you don't think that you should forgive because you were forgiven, (which you were), forgiveness is still a pretty good idea.

It's hard - to let someone off the hook, so to speak, when you think that they Owe You, especially when it's something big that they took from you. But why would you let them take your whole life?

Posted by hannah at 04:31 PM | Comments (4)

March 20, 2006

Anniversary

An e-mail from my mother:

It was 41 years ago I married your father. I was remembering the day and all that happened. Early that morning Grandma Jean got up early and took a long walk with my bridesmaid June. I can see them red faced coming in the door at Mom & Dads. It was cold that morning! There was much excitement. Thinking back Me-Me handled it all very well. She cooked and cleaned the whole week before and I never heard her complain about anything. Jo Ellen helped her decorate the house. They were all worried about the Doctor and his Wife fitting in with the farmers and the small unassuming wedding. It all went well, it was a lovely day, everyone was so happy. Janie cried during the whole ceremony, the front of her green dress was covered with water marks! Your Daddy was so handsome, he took my breath away. The hallway at 329 South St. was filled with gifts!! Bubby teased me all day, I can still see his "wink" when he saw me come down the aisle.

And I can still feel Pa-Pa's big hand on my arm and hand as he walked me down. He patted my hand and smiled at me as if to say "It's okay." I miss so many people.

" For you have a new life. It was not passed on to you from your parents, for the life they gave you will fade away. this one will last forever, for it comes from Christ, God's ever-lasting Message to men." 1 Peter 1:23 TLB

Posted by hannah at 09:15 AM | Comments (1)

March 10, 2006

What a Guy

My brother turns 33 on Monday, and though I'm a little early, you can never wish someone you love a happy birthday too many times!

When I was a kid I dreamed about having a sister. Even though my parents were done having children, I thought if I hoped enough, prayed enough, even begged enough, that they would grant my request. (Obviously I never got a baby sister, but I've been blessed with so many close female friendships in my life that it hardly mattered.)

I don't know why I was focused on having a sister - maybe because my mother had four or maybe because I didn't think that I would be able to share things and build memories with a stinky boy in the same way. Thank god I was wrong.

My brother is one of the best people I know - he is funny, whip smart and has the most infectious laugh. We had our share of tension and squabbles growing up - he thought I was spoiled and I thought he was just mean - so sometimes it amazes me that we can be so loving and open with each other now. I guess maturity helps in that arena.

In less than five months he will be somebody's daddy and I can honestly say that I am more happy for him than I think I would be for myself. My brother spent a lot of his early life feeling isolated and left out - he didn't make friends very easily and every weekend when I would pack a nightgown and roll up my Barbie sleeping bag for yet another slumber party, he would be in his room, alone.

So the joy I feel that he now has this wife, this partner, that he's part of a whole family, it's unexplainable. I am so grateful to my sister-in-law and her family for embracing him like they have. I am so grateful to her that she loves him without condition, without question, without end.

I may never find that, but sometimes it's enough that he did.

Happy birthday, brother. The Garfield coffee mug is from me.

Posted by hannah at 04:19 PM | Comments (0)

February 22, 2006

Kingdom Come

"Kingdom Come"
Coldplay, X&Y

one.. two.
steal my heart, and hold my tongue
i feel my time, my time has come
let me in, unlock the door
i never felt this way before

and the wheels just keep on turning
the drummer begins to drum
i don't know which way i'm going
i don't know which way i've come.

hold my head, inside your hands
i need someone who understands
i need someone, someone who hears
for you i've waited all these years

for you i'd wait, till kingdom come
until my day, my day is done
and say you'll come, and set me free
just you'll wait, you'll wait for me.

in your tears, and in your blood
in your fire, and in your flood
i hear you laugh, i heard you sing
i wouldn't change a single thing

and the wheels just keep on turning
the drummers begin to drum
i don't know which way I'm going
i don't know what i'll become

for you'd i'd wait, till kingdom come
until my days, my days are done
say you'll come, and set me free
just say you'll wait, you'll wait for me
just say you'll wait, you'll wait for me
just say you'll wait, you'll wait for me.

Last December my dad had an angiogram and subsequent angioplasty where he had two stents put into his heart. The night he called to tell me he was going in for the procedure was one of the worst nights of my life; to be so many miles away, unsure of what was going to happen, of being faced with my father's mortality in a way I'd never fully considered. After we hung up, and he'd told me not to worry and that he'd be fine, I dug around in my little jewelry box for a small white gold band. I found it surrounded by James Avery dangle rings that I will never again wear and plenty of chandelier earrings. It was my mother's original wedding band - the ring that my father slid onto her finger nearly 40 years earlier. Judy gave me the ring when I was in college, and at the time I didn't think much of it. I wore it sometimes because that's when I was into wearing a lot of silver rings and it went with my style. Until that night, however, I hadn't worn it for years, because it's clearly a wedding band, and it seemed sad, to wear a symbol of something that had been dead and broken for a long time. But that night, when I slid it onto my right hand ring finger, it made me feel closer to my father and I told myself I would wear it until I knew that he was okay. It's been about 15 months since that night, and I haven't taken it off.

The other night, over dinner, someone asked me about it, and I told him why I first put it on, but then explained that over the past year, the ring has turned into a symbol for something else. On March 20, 1965, when my parents vowed for better or for worse - when they vowed to forsake all others and cling only to each other - they meant those words. They loved each other once; of that I have no doubt. So I wear this ring to honor those vows because they are my legacy, my lifeblood.

But more than that I wear it as a promise to myself - a promise to wait for someone who has been waiting for me all these years. A promise to wait for the kind of love that could outlast a gold band, a fight, hurt feelings, toothpaste in the sink. A love, a lover, who would wait for me, till his days are done, till kingdom come.

Posted by hannah at 02:16 PM | Comments (4)

February 13, 2006

I'll give you my heart

Yesterday a small group of us went over to Allison's to make Valentine's cookies. Remember when Valentine's Day was just about candy and cookies and passing out cards at school? I'm trying to recapture that. Who needs roses?

When I was growing up, my mom marked every holiday with presents and that is something I love about her! Whether it was Halloween or Easter or Valentine's, my brother and I could be sure that when we woke up and raced down to the breakfast room that there would be treats and treasures awaiting us on the table. When I was little it was usually a stuffed animal or a Barbie, along with chocolate and a card. As I got older the chocolate and card were still there, but they were normally accompanied by a CD or a sweater, or my brother's favorite, money.*

When I was in college I got care packages and she always included cards and little boxes of chocolates for my roommates too. She's a thoughtful woman, my mother. Can't say that enough.

So tomorrow is the 14th and I have a date with my hair stylist. She'll ask about my (scant) love life and she'll probably tell me some crazy story about her klepto roommate. I'm sure she'll reprimand me for going so long between visits. (My hair might be the longest it's every been.)

So I don't have someone who loves me and calls me his very own, but I do have cookies. What more does a girl need? (Don't answer that.)

*Someday when I am feeling good about myself and can take the cold hard truth, I will tell you the difference between my brother's money management style and my own. Let's just say that Guy still has $10 bills that our grandfather gave him a decade ago. Mine was probably spent in about 38 seconds on something like Garbage Pail Kids. Story of my life.

Posted by hannah at 01:53 PM | Comments (6)

January 19, 2006

Blood

Jo & Lige Hall - 1980 or '81.

My grandmother was barely 16 years old when she married my grandfather, he was only a few short months past 21, and within the next ten years they had five children; thirteen years after that they'd added another two, my mother among them.

Because I came along, their final grandchild, a whole generation (29 years) after their first, most of the stories of their life were already legend. By that time they'd retired (as much as lifelong farmers can retire), from daily farm life and they'd been in town for more than 25 years. I was a modern girl, living a suburban American life almost 1,000 miles away, and I think in a lot of ways we didn't understand each other - these small town rural grandparents of mine; this spoiled, attention-centered granddaughter of theirs. Going to visit them was like visiting another planet - cookies in the cookie jar; porch swings; backyard gardens; alleys and basements full of treasure; box fans instead of air conditioning. My father rolled his eyes at their penny-pinching, and I couldn't understand it either. How much is a light bulb anyway? But as I've stood on my own two feet (with enormous help from the boon of their bone-crunching work, of course), I understand it all too well. When you come from dirt, you learn quickly that dirt is the only thing that lasts.

My PaPa was never prouder of anything than he was of his family - his family was everything to him. Their name, their reputation, his legacy. Feb. 20 will mark the sixth anniversary of his death, but there is never a gathering or a moment when his name isn't on someone's tongue. He hangs among us, a giant of a memory, everyone's recollections different. After this year's Christmas Eve, my cousin Ron (aka "Big Ron"), who at 47 is already a grandfather himself, hung around late - talking to me, my mother, Colleen and Aunt Jane. He told us story after story of PaPa working with him on the Hall farm. How, when the rain was coming and they were bailing hay, my grandfather had no time for laughter or jokes. (I guess that's what they mean when they say hurry up and make hay.) Ron laughed and said that you didn't mess around when you were working with PaPa, not unless you wanting a verbal lashing or a head thump. I can't imagine PaPa as a strict boss - when he was with me, he was gentle, patient - getting me lollipops from the bank or teaching me how to keep "the books." He would sit on their front porch every morning and afternoon and read, waving at neighbors as they walked by. He would tolerate my singing as I pushed myself on the porch swing, and he never even yelled at me that time I took every rubber band out of his desk and wrapped them around the porch newel post. (Of course, there was that one time he asked me repeatedly to stop playing on the organ, and I ignored him, only to be yanked off the bench by my ponytail.)

Time is running away from me, and I can't slow it down. I can't go back to that porch swing and see my PaPa sitting across from me, his tractor company hat on his head, newspaper stretched out in front of him. I can't go back to the hot, sticky nights of sleeping in the spare bedroom in their 1800s house, a box fan running over my head, knowing at some point he was going to come in the room and turn it off - who needs a fan when they're asleep?

My grandparents lives were more different than mine than I can possibly list out or articulate. But their blood is in my heart and I can't imagine it any different.

Posted by hannah at 12:53 PM | Comments (0)

January 14, 2006

Good Morning, Texas

Sitting at the island in my dad and Ginger's kitchen. One of their many televisions is tuned to CNN the anchors reporting live from Atlanta. Everyone is getting ready to go downtown to the Houston Marathon Expo.

This morning Mary Lee and I woke up and went to Meyer Park and ran three easy miles. When I was little, Meyer Park was where all the kids played soccer and where my mom would walk almost every day. Running around the curved paths, with my friend at my side, we passed several solo walkers. I thought about my mother, going there daily, part of her routine, walking alone. I thought about her, alone, raising a teenage daughter, her future laid out in front of her, unchanging.

In September she and David celebrated their 9th anniversary, so she has now been remarried longer than she was single, which is hard to believe. Those years seemed sad and long for me; I can't imagine how they must have stretched out for her.

Being here in my childhood home (though not in my childhood house), is always a strange experience. The stores and buildings are different, but the streets and places are the same. Houses look older; schools look smaller, but it's the same place it's always been. It's me that is different.

Posted by hannah at 11:47 AM | Comments (4)

January 12, 2006

Wayne

From the Columbus Dispatch:

"ELLETT C. Wayne Ellett, 89, of Worthington, Friday, January 6, 2006 at home after an extended illness. He was born to Clayton D. and Ida (Phillips) Ellett in Northfield, Oh. He received a BA from Kent State and MSc and Ph.D. from The Ohio State University where he taught Botany, Plant Pathology and Mycology. Trustees named the plant and diagnostic clinic as the C. Wayne Ellett Plant and Pest Diagnostic Clinic to reflect his contributions to the university and his expertise in plant disease diagnosis, and his establishment of the plants disease clinic. He was a consultant with the National Science Foundation in Washington, D.C. and with the Institute of Biology in India, for two summers each. He retired as Professor Emeritus in 1981. Wayne was a member and elder of Overbrook Presbyterian Church.

He enjoyed photography - especially of mushrooms and tree flowers, hiking in state parks, stamp collecting, birding and working in his yard. He served in the Pacific while in the United States Navy during WW II. He is predeceased by his parents and his brother Dwight P. Ellett of Hudson, Oh. His survivors include his brother, Clarence A. (Betty) Ellett of Norwalk, Oh.; his wife of 51 years, Mary Hall Ellett; daughter, Rebecca Sloan of Oak Ridge, N.C.; grandsons, Marshall Brandt McCorkle of Baltimore, Md., Christopher (Bekah) Sloan and great-granddaughters, Kaylee and Briana Sloan, all of Sumpter, S.C.; and his mother-in-law, Josephine M. Hall of Washington C.H., Oh. He leaves many beloved nieces and nephews."

This niece is one of them. Thank you for books; for helping me understand nature; for always having drawing paper and markers; for showing me how to feed a squirrel out of the palm of my hand; for never forgetting my birthday; for loving your wife's crazy family; for loving your wife. For 29 years of being my Uncle Wayne.

Posted by hannah at 02:39 PM | Comments (4)

December 29, 2005

Last Day

Today was my last day in Ohio; I begin the 9-hour drive back to Atlanta bright and early tomorrow morning. I've had a great week and though I am anxious to get back to my house and my friends, it's tough to leave home.

Yesterday my mother and I drove the short 14 miles to Greenfield, her hometown. We visited the cemetery and we stopped by each grave that marks the spot of someone we love. Two of my great-uncles and my great-grandparents are buried there as well and it seems as though each time we visit, I am rewarded with a new story - a snippet of legend that I weave into my own version of our family's rich tapestry. After we left the cemetery we drove past the house where my mother spent most of her childhood - it looks the same, yet different, as most childhood homes do. MeMe and PaPa lived there from 1950 to 1995 and as every step and crevice of that house holds many memories for me, I figure my mother's memories must overflow. We drove out of town to the Hall farm, where one of my first cousins still lives. The land around it, once Hall acreage for miles and miles, has been sold off by bits and pieces. So the lane that was once dirt, and was then paved, is now a road where dozens of families live in tiny tract housing. The farm house, once grand and important, stands falling down. The barn, piecemealed together, is one bad storm away from crumbling in on itself. We didn't stop long.

Tonight, when we stopped by MeMe's so I could say goodbye, she got to talking about that farm, and the one before it, down on Paint Creek. She and my grandfather bought that first farm in 1926 from a family named Fishback, and they lived there, in a 3-room house, for 21 years. My grandmother, only 18 when they moved in, already had two young babies, and while they were living there she gave birth to three more (all but one of them at home in that house - oh the stories she could tell you about that). They finally moved out to the Hall farm in 1947, a few months before she gave birth to her seventh (and last) child. MeMe said that the big white house on that farm was like heaven - she had a kitchen sink for one (the 21 years prior to that she'd had to go to a spring for water, as the well water had sulfur in it and was therefore unusable). They were only there three years before moving to town. My grandfather, tired of milking, let his eldest son take over the operation, and that son's daughter, my cousin, lives in that house today. They don't milk anymore, and the acreage is smaller, but it's still a working farm, and it isn't work that I envy.

But my grandmother, in her amazing resiliency and fortitude, speaks with no bitterness or hardness about those days. She was 40 before she was able to bathe in a tub, or use water from indoor plumbing to wash her hair (although she will tell you that rainwater will give you softer hair than anything else). Not only can I not even imagine it, I can hardly bear it. But she laughs when she tells stories - of milking at 4 a.m. in snow and ice; of her tiny young babies, kicking each other out of their shared bed in the attic room above her; of the never ending daily struggle to simply live - she laughs.

I have never known anyone like her, and I know that I never will. She says that each morning when she wakes up she thinks, "Well. . . okay then. Guess I'm here another day." Her doctor says there is nothing wrong with her, save aging, and so she wonders, this wonder of mine, exactly what it is that she's still hanging around for. And so every day I thank God that He's kept her here, for me.

Posted by hannah at 06:45 PM | Comments (0)

December 24, 2005

Sweet Sleep

I am at my mother's in Small Town, Ohio and it's too early to be awake on my vacation. But it is impossible to sleep-in in this house. First, it's nearly 100 years old so voices carry and noise travels and the radiator next to my bed knocks and rattles. You then factor in the fact that my mother, an early-bird her entire life, and my stepfather, a retired cattleman, get up pre-dawn and it's futile to try and stay under the covers, no matter how tired you may be. (Oh, and did I mention the THREE grandfather clocks?)

I drove up yesterday, pulling out of my driveway at 6 a.m. and pulling into theirs at 3 p.m. on the button. It was an easy trip, thanks to the dry roads and blue skies. I expected the traffic to be heavier, but it wasn't bad at all. I only passed one accident, on northern Kentucky just south of the Ohio River, after 75 and 71 merge. (If an accident like that had happened on the connector in Atlanta, I would've sat there for hours.)

There are about 30-40 people (sadly that number decreases every year, as my family continues to get smaller), coming over tonight and my mother is already in a frenzy. We'll eat food and the little ones will get gifts and I will get asked, approximately 30 to 40 times, why I don't have a boyfriend. My cousin Colleen, who is two years older than me, is in a significant relationship now, so I can't even hide behind her. I'll stand alone, the 29-year-old spinster and my rural cousins, who started their families in high school, will look at me with curious eyes.

But what can you do? It's Christmas.

Posted by hannah at 08:35 AM | Comments (3)

November 30, 2005

I come by it honestly

I tend to leap to the worst case scenario pretty quickly. It helps me to prepare for the worst and 99 percent of the time when nothing bad happens, at least I was prepared. I'm constantly repeatING this scripture ("But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own") from Matthew to myself. In college, I even had it taped to my desk. (Ironically, I wouldn't classify myself as a worrier.) I learned this weekend though that at least I come by the crazy honestly.

Dad: Do you have pull down stairs to your attic?
Hannah: Yes. Why?
Dad: Is there a latch on the outside?
Hannah: No... why?
Dad: Well, I'm just thinking, if someone gets up there, if you keep it latched, they wouldn't be able to get into your house.
Ginger: Dick, how would they get up there?
Dad: You know, in case someone breaks in, and then hides up there in wait for her.

Yes, Dad. Just in case.

They also told me that if I take handgun classes, they'll arm me. I guess this is their way of saying, "Good financial decision to buy in a regentrifing neighborhood. Have a .38."

Posted by hannah at 04:03 PM | Comments (2)

November 03, 2005

Judy & Jo

I wrote about my Aunt Jo, who died in August, a month or so ago. The day after I heard that she'd passed, I brought this photo in and set it on my desk. That first day, or three, I would tear up every time it caught my eye. Now, it just makes me happy to look at it.

My mom is 32 in this photo, Jo, 41. They're sitting in the grass, barefoot, at what was then their brother's farm, but what had been the farm they lived on as girls. It was in that farmhouse that Jo would kick my 4-year-old mother out of bed and where my mom got pecked in the head by a really mad chicken.

Uncle Bub, Jo's husband, was still living and a within a month or two after this picture was taken, my mom got pregnant with me.

They look so happy here, sisters, barefoot in the grass. I don't know whose motorcycle that is, or whose crazy '70s car. Maybe that chair was there for their grandmother, who would've been about 99 that year. I don't know who took the picture, or what kind of conversation was interrupted when it was snapped. I do know that they look happy and that they were surely sharing secrets. Sisters do that, I'm told. I don't have a sister, never will, but my mother does, and sometimes, that's close enough.

Posted by hannah at 05:03 PM | Comments (1)

Homesick

Sometimes I miss my family so much, it's exhausting. I have a good life here, and good friends, but there is no compensating for the safety and love of family. The last half of 2005 hasn't been easy. (Scratch that, it's been flat out hard.) Not for any particular reason, growing pains I guess, and being apart from them, from the only people in the world who care about me down to my soul, it's difficult.

The first year I lived in Atlanta, the year of waiting tables and job searching and empty pockets, I questioned my decision to up and quit my steady job and move 550 miles away. But even on days when I had to work a double and smelled like Ranch dressing and beer, I was still sure that I'd made the right choice. I felt a rock solid certainty that God had led me to this city at that time in my life. I believe that now too (most days), but there are moments when I wonder WHAT in the world I am doing all the way down here.

Sometimes I feel like I accomplished what I set out to do: I led a single life in a single-friendly city. I took risks and made friends and found a job and men to date. I joined organizations and branched out and learned new skills and tough lessons. I wouldn't trade the Atlanta friends I've made for anything, but a lot of the time I feel like I've done enough. I made good memories, filled some scrapbooks, and now I can go home.

It's weird to think of Ohio as my home, as most of the time I lived there I resisted it in full, but when I think of the land, of the soybean fields and white farm houses and the fact that even now, almost six years after his death, my Papa's caps are still hanging on the hat rack, I want to fall on my knees and crawl back.
I want to praise God for giving me such a family and beg His forgiveness for moving away from them.

But I know it's just a phase and that I'm tied here now - I own a house and I've finally, finally found a church I can call home. I would miss my friends terribly. But I still miss my mother more.

Posted by hannah at 02:18 PM | Comments (1)

October 19, 2005

Anymore

I just want you to understand that I’m not angry anymore – Ani Difranco, “Angry Anymore”

The counselor I saw a few times over the summer called the other day to recommend a book about adult children of divorce. I looked it up on Amazon and dropped it into my shopping cart, but I didn’t buy it. I don’t feel the need right now to rip open that wound, now that it’s mostly healed.

I know a lot of people can’t understand how an experience like that can shape you – partly because they want to believe their own children of divorce will be unshaped – but shape you it does. I’m pretty proud of the person I am, most days, and I wouldn’t be who I am if I without those formative years and experiences, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t erase it if I could. I’m simply tired of thinking about it; sick of wondering if their divorce, if his leaving, is the reason I had such a difficult time adjusting to the idea of a boyfriend, to the idea of a person by my side for the long haul. It’s foreign to me – though it shouldn’t be. (My maternal grandparents were married for 76 years, if that isn’t the long haul. . . )

We can learn, like the trees, how to bend, how to sway

Children are resilient, they say. And they are. I was. It wasn’t the girl child who needed healing - it was her adult counterpart. It wasn’t until the grown-up version of myself fell in love and learned what it was like for a heart to break that she finally understood the mighty blow my mother suffered. It wasn’t until I understood that promises made between adults are different than the promises made between children that I had to come to terms with the fact that I am the child of parents who broke theirs. It wasn’t until I began to think of myself as a wife, as a mother, that it terrified me to realize that if a father could so easily walk away, how much easier would it be for a husband, and how much easier still for a boyfriend?

But forgiveness is powerful. Letting go is the most difficult simple thing you can do. And I feel so lucky that I was finally able to release that secret hurt, to let it wash down the drain.

People are resilient, they say. And we are.

Posted by hannah at 05:46 PM | Comments (0)

September 19, 2005

Goodbye Jo

Today is the memorial service for my Aunt Jo, who died on Aug. 24. She was cremated and her ashes will be buried next to her husband, who died in August 1977, when I was barely a year old. I am at work, 500 miles away, because the passing of an extended family member doesn’t qualify for a grievance absence and I don’t have any vacation days left.

She was sick for too long, so her death, while not welcome, was expected. Still, as my mom said, it’s weird to think that she is no longer on Earth with us – breathing the same air, seeing the same sky. My grandmother, as one could imagine, is having a terrible time. This is the third child she will bury and that is three times too many for any mother to bear.

Jo was my mom’s older sister, nine years her senior (the gap between numbers five and six large enough for my mom and her younger sister to be raised almost as a second family), and the stories around Jo have always been slightly mythical in their proportion. She was a great beauty, well traveled and a successful, shrewd businesswoman. Her not-yet-husband went off to Korea knowing she would be his bride when he returned, though she didn’t even know it herself. Since his early death, my entire life, I have heard about how much my uncle loved Jo – worshipped her, idolized her, adored her – and a small part of me has always searched for that kind of love. But I never told Jo that. I never told her how incredible I thought she was, or how brave. The way she attacked her cancer – quietly, knowingly, with silent strength – was inspiring. She was diagnosed when she was only 59 and was given a mere six months to live. She beat that diagnosis by more than 12 years.

With so many nieces and nephews I know that I wasn’t any more special or unique to her than they were, but I like to think that maybe I was. My aunt Wanda would often stroke my blonde ponytail and comment on how I had hair like Jo’s, how often she would catch a glimpse of me and forget that she hadn’t gone back in time. When I want to get off the phone with my mom, because I hate unnecessary phone chatter, she will sigh and say that I am “just like Jo” in that regard. When I went to Savannah for the first time this summer, my mom told me that Jo had said that I had to see the city through her eyes, as it was her favorite place in the world. I tried to remember that when I was there – as I walked the many squares and dodged the rain running down Bull St., as I sampled pralines at River Street Sweets – that I was there for more than just myself. And now, I’ll always try to remember that.

Goodbye Jo – you will be greatly missed.

Posted by hannah at 03:19 PM | Comments (1)

August 25, 2005

Here am I

Right now my mom, stepfather, aunt and uncle are on a cruise ship, floating somewhere off the coast of Ireland. They left last Friday for this two week adventure that is taking them to France, Holland, Brussels, Ireland and Scotland before a five day trip back to the states via the Port of New York. Trust me when I say I was a nervous wreck the night they flew out. As I've mentioned before, my flying fear is ever present, and this extends to people like my mother flying across an OCEAN for the first time in her 62-year life. She called me from their connection in Chicago and told me she was a bit nervous, but that you know, when it's your time, it's your time! (to be said in a chipper manner), and that she would try and figure out how to work a calling card but that I could reach them on the phone my uncle Bill rented for the trip, "But it's $4 a minute, so only if it's an emergency!"

I tacked their itinerary on my bulletin board at work, so every day I can see where they are, and imagine all the fun they're having and crazy stories they're sure to return with. I just hope my mom's digital camera keeps all the photos she takes and that she eventually figures out how to get them off the camera, onto her computer and into an e-mail to send to me. (This may never happen.)

For the past three days there's been a card or a letter in my mailbox from her. On the back of yesterday's envelope there was a little "22" written in the upper corner, so now I'm assuming I can look forward to a letter a day while she's away, and that she numbered them for her sister so she would know on what day to drop which letter in the mail. This is so my mother, that in her preparations for literally the trip of her lifetime, to wanted to ensure that I know she loves me and that she's thinking of me, even an ocean away, in a foreign land she probably figured she'd never see.

In yesterday's card was a passage from one of her favorite hymns (and though she didn't know it, one of mine), "Take My Life."

Take my life and let it be
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee
Take my moments and my days
Let them flow in ceaseless praise
Take my hands and let them move
At the impulse of Thy love
Take my feet and let them be
Swift and beautiful for Thee
- Frances R. Havergal, 1874

She lives every day in this manner - it doesn't matter if she's in Small Town, Ohio or standing on a beach in Normandy. She is, simply, everything to me and I am ever grateful that God blessed me with such a mother. We're more alike than often I know, and my daily prayer is that this remains true and that it remains true for the remainder.

Posted by hannah at 05:52 PM | Comments (0)