Peace for Linda

Back on Sunday, October 18th, I wrote a short blog about my former sister-in-law, Linda Rudy. My daughter, Lydia, and her female cousins, had all gone to Orlando, Florida to walk in the Susan Komen Walk for the Cure in honor of  their aunt.  Their team was called “Fight Like a Girl.”  This morning Linda passed away.

My daughter wrote the following on her own blog. I can’t say it better.

Today, my aunt passed away. Linda has been fighting breast cancer for 9 years, and my Uncle Jay has been next to her the entire way, fighting just as hard. Today she left us after a courageous fight–a fight that millions of women have fought, in my opinion, not for themselves, but for those of us who love them so dearly. Linda fought this cancer for Jay, for her sisters, for those of us who believed she could, and she fought well. She’s a champ and will always be one of the strongest women I ever knew.

I’m not someone who thinks she has all the answers. I don’t really know about Heaven and what it’s like, but I hope, for Linda’s sake that it’s a lot like what my mom described (in her blog).

“While driving through Oregon and Washington State this past October, the original home of these Noble, Douglas, Frazer and Grand Firs, I marveled at these trees in the wild. I wanted nothing more than to be embraced by the forest. I had visions of lying on my back in a bed of needles, breathing in the dark, deep green of the forest.”

I hope Linda is being embraced by the forest. That she is finally at rest, lying on her back in a bed of needles, breathing in the dark, deep green forest, breathing in peace. I hope she is now a part of the forest.

“She is a tree of life to those who embrace her; those who lay hold of her will be blessed.” Proverbs 3:18

A Tree for Everyone

There is someone for everyone.

Remember the forlorn and lonely tree at the back of the Christmas tree lot? It was discounted and tossed aside because it did not have the proper top for a Christmas tree.

After I entered that blog, a woman came to the lot looking for a tree. She didn’t have much money, and wanted a small tree she could handle alone. She shared that her husband had died recently. She wanted a tree, but was concerned about cost and size.

After she looked at the other trees she spotted this little one leaning against a large oak, away from the others. “What about that one she asked?” My friend Frank took her to see it, and explained about that tree.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

Even that tree found a home for the holidays.

The Unbearable Meaning of Touch

We stood there talking about the languages of love, the three of us, two men and a woman. We love each other, I believe, each of us in a different way. We talked about the language of physical touch with our hands dug deep in our pockets or arms crossed tightly against our chests, a comfortable distance between us.

I looked around the restaurant, a place where you can expect intimate scenes to play out, but I saw no one touching, not even a hand held. I was hoping to see what this touch everyone talks about really looks like.

I didn’t grow up with physical demonstrations of love, never sat on my father’s lap. It’s not that I didn’t feel loved. I did, but it wasn’t manifest in touch. So, I may not be the best person to wax eloquent on the virtues of physical affection. However, I do try to show physical affection to my own children. I think I have achieved that to a degree. And I make a point of hugging people I care about. I hug a lot. Those hugs are meant to express a range of emotions.

I know for a fact that the meaning of my hugs is not always understood. I am known to be unflappable, my façade showing little, especially when the stakes are high. This I have practiced to perfection as a means of survival. As a result my body language doesn’t always match the true emotions of the moment. Because I know this, I try to verbalize those emotions when appropriate. It is painful to repress words and touch when you don’t feel the freedom to share.

Touch. It communicates so much, and so little. It can mean everything. It can mean nothing. You can’t totally trust touch and I am puzzled by people’s dependence on it to feel loved.

Take a hug.  Hugs are not all created equal. One hug might be pure affection, or gratitude. Another might be the need for physical contact; another sexual in its intent. Some hugs are just cold.

There is the practiced touch calculated to please, to manipulate.

There is the touch of seduction, a slight of hand meant to light a fire.

So many times, it seems, the language of love through touch is confused and entangled with sexual contact. It is self evident that sexual touch can be intense without passion, without love. And there is unmistakable loving sexual contact without intense touch. You can’t trust the touch.

So why do so many depend on the language of touch to communicate love?

I want it all. I want all that is said and all that is done to communicate the feelings between us. Then, I will know what the touch, when it finally comes, really means.

In the meantime I will take a hug, if just for the human contact alone.

The Perfect Tree

A friend of mine ventured an observation that people pick Christmas trees that mirror their body shapes. After nearly three weeks on a Christmas tree lot, I have another theory to offer.

People assess Christmas trees like society assesses people.

Everyone is looking for the perfect tree. Perfect is definitely in the eye of the beholder but there is a pattern. Most have a very universal view of how a Christmas tree should look. They come to the lot very proud of their commitment to a “real” tree. Most want a tapered top for the star or angel that then broadens gently downward in a perfect triangle. The “perfect” shape. Some prefer their trees tall and trim, others full and lush. Branch spacing is important. Some people prefer wide, even spacing to hold their favorite ornaments. Some prefer tight branching for a dense look.

The problem is that trees don’t grow this way in the wild. Trees, like people, when left to natural growth, are each randomly shaped, and uniquely proportioned. They have deformities and warped branches. In order to be marketable to the general populace; in order to be acceptable in the rarefied atmosphere of our personal life, the trees for Christmas are grown in a controlled environment. They nipped and tucked and shaped as they grow. They are plucked from the ground at their peak, at a prescribed age, and shipped to market.

Trees on the lot were priced according to their level of attained perfection. The more perfect, the higher the price. I watched with interest as crooks and warts were cut off the trunks of otherwise perfect trees in order for them to sell. Some trees damaged in transit had prices reduced for sale. One lone tree, without a top, sat alone and forlorn at the back of the lot, bargain basement priced, but not even deserving of a stand among the other trees closer to the tent.

While driving through Oregon and Washington State this past October, the original home of these Noble, Douglas, Frazer and Grand Firs, I marveled at these trees in the wild. I wanted nothing more than to be embraced by the forest. I had visions of lying on my back in a bed of needles, breathing in the dark, deep green forest. It never occurred to me to judge the individual trees and their acceptability. They were all, each and every one, part of the forest.

If I was a tree I wouldn’t make the tree lot.

I might actually stand out a little from some of the other trees. My top might, to some, still be ideal in many ways. An angel or star might look good on me, but my shape would be all wrong as it tapers down. Only certain ornaments would work.

Most importantly, I would be too old, the circles of years gracing my trunk are too many.

Still, I can tower over the natural forest, watching as younger trees sprout, grow, and thrive; hoping against hope they aren’t plucked too young, or altered and trimmed by life in ways that seek perfection but ruin their “real” beauty. I can hope that when they are passed over for their imperfections they don’t suffer too much. I hope I can remember this. It is hard sometimes, even now.

Most importantly, I hope we all realize something about those trees plucked from the forest for their perfection.

They are dead.

Getting Back to Myself

My brother told his daughter that he had his sister back.

He was talking about my visit with him in Kalamazoo, Michigan back in October. I don’t have to ask him what he means. I know.

Kerry and I last spent a great deal of time together back in college. Since that time I was entangled in a nineteen year troubled marriage. Toward the end of my marriage I took a run at politics. I followed that with a very stressful career as a city administrator. It makes for a very intense me.

Kerry remembers that other Vicky. The one I’d like to get back to.

This unexpected time off has helped immensely. The trip altered my perspective. All of those issues that consumed me peeled away. At the end of 35 days they had no meaning for me any more.

Working at the Christmas tree lot has expanded on the experience. The owner carries all the stress. It is make or break for him. I simply respond to what is needed at the time, with no personal investment in the outcome. Stress free.

I have also rediscovered my personal hardiness. It has been damp and cold. I have hung in there without complaint for days on end and really enjoyed myself. I like this version of me, the one in jeans and layered shirts, sweaters, scarves, jackets, and boots. I look like a tick by the end of the day. And, I get dirty, black ink under my nails.

I love hanging out with the guys. I may not know how to find romance, but I sure know how to hang out with the guys. They are very good to me.

Once I am working again that Vicky may be a fading memory, but I hope not. I expect I am changed.

Pennies from Heaven

I keep finding pennies.

In the three months since I left my job, I have regularly found pennies lying on the ground. I found about three before leaving on the trip. Five more appeared during the trip. I have found about five more since.

It isn’t that many, but I don’t usually come across pennies on the ground more than once or twice a year. It makes me think of manna from heaven. No, I don’t think God is dropping pennies in my path, but it does remind me that He will provide.

It has been a much needed reminder. I have no concrete job on the horizon after three months. It is easy to get discouraged. While I managed to sell my rent house, it is requiring substantial expenditures to get it to closing.

At the same time, I have been able, so far, to meet my expenses on a day to day basis during the month of December. There was no reason to expect this. It really does have a fishes and loaves quality to it from my perspective. It buys me much needed time. Daily provision. As promised.

The battle is not over. The uncertainty continues. But those pennies from heaven encourage me in their own way.

Skinny Christmas

It is going to be a skinny Christmas for my immediate and extended family. It is just one of those years. I think it is a good thing. It helps you appreciate the flush years. And, it is a reminder of what it is like for so many families year after year; where Christmas is always skinny.

The amazing thing is that for the next three weeks I am going to be immersed in Christmas trees. I wanted to find a way to maximize the next several weeks while I wait for a job to come through. In a random turn of events I have the opportunity to help out at a Christmas tree lot. My friend Joel, also my host in Montana for the road trip, operates three lots in Austin so I offered my services.  

Frank, Vicky and Joel

I am surprised by the response people have to my working at a tree lot. I suppose my jobs and some of my community involvement have created an image that doesn’t necessarily correspond to this current situation. From my perspective, it is a natural thing for me to do. I enjoy being out of doors in the great Austin climate, lights strung overhead, mingling with a great group of guys who are helping families find their Christmas trees. It is great watching moms and dads take their children’s pictures among the beautiful minature forest. The excitement in those young faces is enchanting when you yourself are in that stage between your own children, now grown, and grandchildren, still a hope for Christmas future.

My friend Frank, who used to help out there as well, came by today and just hung out. He was trying to get the Christmas spirit. I know what he means. At the lot, Christmas doesn’t seem so skinny any more.

Mental Gymnastics

I have made great strides in the job search in the very short time I have been home. I am now deep in the process. It is always tempting, especially in the current economy, to jump at the first possibility that comes along. There are so many of us out here who are not working. I have friends and family who have been applying for months and months, with little or no success.

It requires mental gymnastics. So much is at stake; how you live, where you live, with different options having their own set of dominoing consequences.

Will I, in the end, have a real choice?

I certainly haven’t turned down any offers, but I have removed myself for consideration for a few jobs were I was a finalist. I did not want to waste the considerable time that an organization invests in the process if I did not feel I could accept. My problem is I had the luxury of thinking about what the second half of my life might look like while driving those 8,700 miles. I had a lot of time to think about what home might look like.

I had a job interview yesterday. It was a good interview and it looks like an excellent opportunity. It is not in Austin, but it is in another fabulous community close to Houston. This interview is my third since returning home two weeks ago. The other two opportunities are in Austin, and I am still in the mix. All things being equal I would love to stay in Austin. All things are never equal.

I have added to this consideration of my sister’s needs. The situation is now more complicated.

I am grateful and excited about these current opportunities. I recognize the extreme blessing that my resume is garnering attention and I have real possibilities. I must remain realistic about what lies ahead.

But, I also want to be true to my journey of discovery. I am excited about what God has to show me in the next few weeks.

The Roommate

I recently heard the founder of a local food program here in Austin say something that stuck with me. He said that often the only thing between a person and homelessness was family.

Homeless. The prospect of it is frightening, but a reality when you or someone you love loses a job in an economic climate where many do not find replacement jobs for months, sometimes more than a year. It is difficult to pay a mortgage without a job. Unemployment is never enough to cover housing, especially in a single income family.

So, I’m getting a roommate. It is not just any roommate. It is my youngest sister, Celine.

Neither one of us is very happy about it. We love each other, of course, and we get along well. However, we have lived together temporarily twice before and we know exactly how difficult this is going to be. We have constructed very different lives for ourselves. Neither one of us, in our right mind, would prefer to live with the other, but, by the end of this week, we will be roomies once again.

This is a story for these times. Celine lost a job over four months ago. I haven’t worked now for two months. She has been renting a house I own for over five years and had intended to purchase the house and live out her years there. This month though, it became obvious she wasn’t going to be able to make any more payments. I am in no position, at this time, to manage both homes. We made the decision to try to sell before worse came to worse. It has been complicated by the fact that she has two large, senior Akitas. She is heartbroken not to keep them together, but one, Scandal, is coming with her. The other, Tank, will live with my son. My son and Tank have a mutual admiration society going, so hopefully it will work out well.

We are joining forces, and combining resources, to weather the storm.

God certainly has our back. I mentioned to a friend the need to sell the house, quick, at a steal. She happened to know someone who was looking in the neighborhood and wanted our floor plan. Short version, the house sold off market within 24 hours. I will barely break even, but in today’s market, many are selling short, so that’s a plus.

There is a gift in this for me. It buys me time, will help in my quest to stay in Austin, and allow me to keep my home, at least for now.

We both hope it is short lived. Neither one of us wants to end up the better half of two old spinster sisters knitting in front of the fireplace. But, family is family. At least we won’t be homeless.

The Tapes in Our Heads

There is a tape playing in my head that turns itself on every time I get painted into a box. That tape is my father telling his nineteen year old daughter that she was “resourceful.”

My resourcefulness, as it were, has often been tested, and the first few days home after the big trip were no exception. There was the little matter of surviving past the first of the year. I knew I needed to use the next six weeks to make loaves and fishes of my few dollars. I did not know how I was going to do that, but there it was, my father’s voice; “You are resourceful.”

It was the summer following the May 27, 1973 tornados in Jonesboro, Arkansas that killed three people and injured 289, causing over $60 million in damage in the town center. I was a college student there and had carefully arranged for a job and living quarters in Jonesboro for the summer. I had enrolled in two summer semesters in order to graduate early. I worked on that Saturday, May 26th, at my new job, and then headed home late that evening for the Memorial Day weekend.

The next morning I went to church with my family just to hear stories about a deadly tornado ripping up the city. I blew it off at first. Jonesboro has a 205 percent higher incidence of tornados than the national average, high even for Arkansas. It wasn’t unusual to experience tornadic incidents. I had already ridden through two baby funnels by my sophomore year.

Unfortunately, five years earlier, on another May day in 1968, a tornado had devastated the city, killing 34 people. That tornado left a physic wound on this town and, had in fact, been the topic of conversation the entire day as customers wandered in and out of the pharmacy where I worked, suspiciously eyeing the yellow stained sky. There was fear all around. To this day I always associate a yellow sky with tornados.

I became a true believer when that 1973 Memorial Day tornado made national news. It struck home when I saw, on that same national news report, what was left of my pharmacy; a sign, just the sign.

My mother, sister, brother-in-law, and I loaded up the car and headed north. We traveled through a ravaged rural area before coming upon war torn Jonesboro. We had our own near miss when an animal ran in front of our car on a dark two lane road, causing us to spin out of control. We survived that bruising incident to discover the main business area surrounding the University nearly completely destroyed, including a mall and a Wal-Mart. Had it struck during the day, instead of 1 a.m., there would certainly have been a higher body count. The National Guard allowed us to enter the area because I lived behind the barricades. It was unrecognizable and a sight I will never forget.

My own residence was safe. We loaded up my things and I said goodbye to Jonesboro for the summer, the city and my plans in disarray.

The resourcefulness came up because of what followed. I don’t remember how or why, but I got the brilliant idea of signing up with a temporary agency. All the typical summer jobs were already spoken for. Through luck, or the hand of God, I ended up with some pretty amazing assignments once I got through the first few weeks doing basic clerical work. The most memorable was the time I spent traveling with the Arkansas Democrat (now the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette) newspaper’s centennial project. The historical display moved from site to site and I went along, acting as a docent of sorts, explaining the displays and insuring its well being in public locations. I landed the assignment because of my journalism studies. Later I secured a long term assignment with Chicopee Manufacturing, a subsidiary of Johnson and Johnson.

To think I had planned to polish the counters of a pharmacy in Jonesboro.

I guess my Dad thought I was pretty clever, pretty resourceful. How significant that a single word from a father can reach across time and motivate that child when they are 55 years old.

So I had to get resourceful when I got home from the “big trip.” In two weeks I have rearranged my mortgage, sold a rent house, found a roommate, started selling a pain relief product, and signed on to work for a friend at Christmas tree lot.

It looks like I might make it to February.