We came to Chicago after my husband graduated from architecture school so that he could begin his career. We had spent three years in Virginia, enjoying Charlottesville and the opportunity to live near my family when our daughter was small. Chicago represented a complete change of environment and plenty of challenges, but we started settling in.
Two months after we moved to Chicago, our second daughter was born. She lived only two days. Suddenly everything was different. I had no family here. My good friend Peg (from my St. Andrews days) was the only person I already knew in town, although we had discovered a lovely next door neighbor and were beginning to meet folks at church. My sister flew in right after our daughter's birth and was with me from then on, which meant that our older daughter had her 'second mother' to comfort her, but I had to stay in the hospital for a week before I could come home. My husband, daughter, and sister took our baby to downstate Illinois for her burial in the Bess family plot in Fairbury.
Some of you may have had a similar tragedy and will understand the dark, dark place that results. I won't dwell on those weeks and months after I came home from the hospital. All the bright hopes and promise of moving to a new city and starting an exciting new chapter in our lives dimmed and diminished. That winter seemed endless and sad.
Over thirty years have passed since her birth, short life, and death. Many blessings have come to me in that time, and much happiness. Yet, my daughter has never left me. I talk with her every now and then, in good times and bad, and I know she would love her niece and nephew. I taught girls her age when I was at Mother Guerin High in Chicago, and I have never been surprised that the class of 1999 is as dear to me as if they were my own daughters, because she would have been their age. Generally, I do okay.
The week of September 16th, however, is the worst week of the year for me. Regardless of where I am or what I am doing, the events of those three days are constantly playing in my heart and mind. I relive every moment. I welcome her and sit beside her in the NICU and hold her hand as I watch her die. This is just a very hard week for me. It's especially tough if I am at home by myself.
So this year, since my husband was out of town with his students, I decided to drive home to Virginia and spend these days with my sister and brother. As I walked into my sister's kitchen, I glanced at her calendar and saw that she already had written down my daughter's birthday. She never forgets, either.
I had a good visit, saw some dear friends, hung out with my sister and brother, and if I had sad moments, well, I was not alone.
Saturday, September 19, 2015
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Curry Powder
My mother cooked simple, straightforward, nourishing food. She didn't particularly like cooking, but she faithfully insured that we had meat/fish, veggies, and a starch at most evening meals. I believe that in the early days of her marriage, she studied her Good Housekeeping cookbook religiously. We certainly benefited from her care and her ability to provide variety in our food over the years. Thanks to her studies of that cookbook, we learned to love spare ribs, liver, and all kinds of seafood. Slices of her meatloaf appeared as a staple in my early school lunch sandwiches. I still hold her potato salad as the exemplar of all potato salads, and I despair of ever making gravy as expertly as she did. (How did she learn to make such a perfect roux so effortlessly?? And without knowing what in the world a roux was?) She and her oldest sister, Willie, seem to have intuited the same spaghetti sauce recipe, which I discovered decades after I had married, moved to the Midwest, and had dinner at my aunt's house in Michigan. Mother's vegetable soup will always remain in my family's 'food memory' as another delicious classic. She could also stir up a batch of biscuits in the blink of an eye and never needed to follow a recipe. (I asked her to make biscuits a couple of years before she died, just one more time, but she said she'd forgotten how. Alas.) For someone who regarded cooking as more chore than creative pleasure, Mother was a pretty good cook.
But she never cooked anything with curry powder.
I'm thinking of Mother's cooking today for two reasons. One because last night, while my husband (who doesn't like this meal) was in Chicago, I fixed a lovely batch of liver and onions just for myself. Total indulgence for less than $3.00. It reminded me of so many meals at home. The second reason is that today I am making a crockpot recipe for curried chicken, which has made my house smell mouth-wateringly scrumptious. These aromas never appeared in my mother's kitchen.
Nothing really spicy ever did appear in our kitchen. I remember introducing various seasonings after I had married and would visit my parents and cook for them, but I don't recall my mother ever following recipes that required more than salt, pepper, ham or bacon for greens, and mustard. (Now that I think of it, there must have been a little extra zip in the sauce for those spare ribs so long ago.)
My gastronomic experiences in college truly flung open the door to the delights of different foods, and, though you may not believe it, spending a year in Scotland broadened my food horizon even farther. I lived in a residence hall at the University of St. Andrews, and we all ate together in the dining room every day. I loved cauliflower and cheese. I had never eaten cauliflower at all, so this was a new veggie. I loved 'tatties and neaps', AKA potatoes and turnips. While I had eaten turnip greens quite often, I had never actually had turnips. I had never eaten lamb. My fellow residents, all from the UK, groaned at what they considered pedestrian fare, but I gobbled it up. Who knew that you could put cold peas in a green salad? I mean, really. At breakfast I could eat blood pudding and scrambled eggs and porridge. I even love haggis. (True.)
I first discovered curries in that dining hall. Not adventurous, super spicy, eye-wateringly hot curries, but curries nonetheless, matching up ingredients that I had never imagined. Wow. I looked forward to the meals that featured curry. So exotic to someone raised in southeastern Virginia and so very delicious. (I visited London on several occasions and we ate Indian food several times there, too.)
Of course, when I returned home, I wanted all my favorite homey foods and put curries out of my mind for awhile. I then spent a year working at Harvard's Center for the Study of World Religions, and was delighted to meet several scholars and their families from India. They plied me with an even broader array of wonderful food. When we moved to Chicago, I lived near the area heavily populated by folks from South Asia. Curries again! And I began to use curry powder in my own cooking. My culminating experience occurred in the summer of 2001, when I actually spent six weeks in India, enjoying just about every new dish I ate.
I never tried to introduce either of my parents to curries. I never sneaked curry powder into any dish just to see 'how they liked it'. I'm not sure my mother had ever even heard of curry, as a matter of fact. But she is responsible for the breadth of my culinary tastes.
Mother's cooking demonstrated how delicious good, plain, wholesome food could be, and that formed the foundation of my own cooking skills. More importantly, Mother's determination not only to send me to college but also to send me off to Europe for a year, to open windows to a world that she knew would enrich me, provided me with experiences and adventures that shape who I am to this very day.
That means Mother introduced me to curry powder after all.
But she never cooked anything with curry powder.
I'm thinking of Mother's cooking today for two reasons. One because last night, while my husband (who doesn't like this meal) was in Chicago, I fixed a lovely batch of liver and onions just for myself. Total indulgence for less than $3.00. It reminded me of so many meals at home. The second reason is that today I am making a crockpot recipe for curried chicken, which has made my house smell mouth-wateringly scrumptious. These aromas never appeared in my mother's kitchen.
Nothing really spicy ever did appear in our kitchen. I remember introducing various seasonings after I had married and would visit my parents and cook for them, but I don't recall my mother ever following recipes that required more than salt, pepper, ham or bacon for greens, and mustard. (Now that I think of it, there must have been a little extra zip in the sauce for those spare ribs so long ago.)
My gastronomic experiences in college truly flung open the door to the delights of different foods, and, though you may not believe it, spending a year in Scotland broadened my food horizon even farther. I lived in a residence hall at the University of St. Andrews, and we all ate together in the dining room every day. I loved cauliflower and cheese. I had never eaten cauliflower at all, so this was a new veggie. I loved 'tatties and neaps', AKA potatoes and turnips. While I had eaten turnip greens quite often, I had never actually had turnips. I had never eaten lamb. My fellow residents, all from the UK, groaned at what they considered pedestrian fare, but I gobbled it up. Who knew that you could put cold peas in a green salad? I mean, really. At breakfast I could eat blood pudding and scrambled eggs and porridge. I even love haggis. (True.)
I first discovered curries in that dining hall. Not adventurous, super spicy, eye-wateringly hot curries, but curries nonetheless, matching up ingredients that I had never imagined. Wow. I looked forward to the meals that featured curry. So exotic to someone raised in southeastern Virginia and so very delicious. (I visited London on several occasions and we ate Indian food several times there, too.)
Of course, when I returned home, I wanted all my favorite homey foods and put curries out of my mind for awhile. I then spent a year working at Harvard's Center for the Study of World Religions, and was delighted to meet several scholars and their families from India. They plied me with an even broader array of wonderful food. When we moved to Chicago, I lived near the area heavily populated by folks from South Asia. Curries again! And I began to use curry powder in my own cooking. My culminating experience occurred in the summer of 2001, when I actually spent six weeks in India, enjoying just about every new dish I ate.
I never tried to introduce either of my parents to curries. I never sneaked curry powder into any dish just to see 'how they liked it'. I'm not sure my mother had ever even heard of curry, as a matter of fact. But she is responsible for the breadth of my culinary tastes.
Mother's cooking demonstrated how delicious good, plain, wholesome food could be, and that formed the foundation of my own cooking skills. More importantly, Mother's determination not only to send me to college but also to send me off to Europe for a year, to open windows to a world that she knew would enrich me, provided me with experiences and adventures that shape who I am to this very day.
That means Mother introduced me to curry powder after all.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
How Did Halloween Become So Popular?
Reading email today, I saw advertising from a children's clothing site touting Halloween costumes. The basic message told me that I needed these costumes so that my grandchildren would sport the most memorable and cutest costumes for Halloween. How did Halloween become such a major holiday that I am already supposed to be thinking about costumes for 2-year-olds who don't attend school?
I am not a Halloween Grinch by any means. (My high school's colors were orange and black, so I am predisposed to enjoy the color themes.) My sister and brother and I went trick-or-treating every year and always wore costumes. But we generally put our costumes together the day before, and certainly no earlier than the week before. We have been known to raid the linen closet for the oldest sheets in order to be ghosts (an always-reliable idea). In fact, I recall re-using one or two costumes for several successive years. And, of course, all that ended when we finished eighth grade.
With my own children, I kept things very low-key for Halloween. Before my oldest started kindergarten, I solved her need for costumes plus the need for very warm outer garments by cutting head and arm holes in a black plastic garbage bag to wear over winter coats and putting a black witch's hat on her head. Nice enough. Generally, every other costume somehow fell together in the hours before we headed out for candy.
I do confess that I spent extra effort on two special costumes. Once, I sewed Star Trek officers' shirts, and once I fabricated an outstanding Tin Man costume for my youngest to wear to kindergarten. In fact, I think that was for the same Halloween, probably spurred on by my friend's (and landlord's) exquisitely-crafted furry bear costume for her son (my godson).
I don't, however, remember Halloween parties everywhere I looked, whether as a child or an adult, or seasonal stores dedicated solely to Halloween costumes and paraphernalia. Halloween was just a little blip on the radar between the beginning of school and Thanksgiving. Hardly a multi-million-dollar industry.
Isn't it just all about the candy, anyway?
That was our motive. We knew we had to wear some kind of costume or the homeowners wouldn't give us any candy. So we dressed up. And we carried brown paper bags to hold the candy. Nothing fancy or complicated that we would have to store somewhere until next year. Who stored decorations for Halloween? The pumpkin didn't last more than a week or two after carving.
During the last few years that my sons were eligible for trick-or-treating, we even ditched costumes and trick-or-treating altogether. Both of them, contemplating an especially cold, wet, and miserable Halloween evening, told me that if I would just go out and buy some bags of their favorite candy the next day, we could all stay inside and relax. That's what we did, and that's how Halloween finished up for us a couple of years later.
My sister has a dear friend whose favorite 'holiday' is Halloween. I think it's an endearing quirk, but I don't understand the appeal. There's not really anything substantial to Halloween. Really. Why has it become such a compelling celebration in the US? And, honestly, what are we celebrating?
I am not a Halloween Grinch by any means. (My high school's colors were orange and black, so I am predisposed to enjoy the color themes.) My sister and brother and I went trick-or-treating every year and always wore costumes. But we generally put our costumes together the day before, and certainly no earlier than the week before. We have been known to raid the linen closet for the oldest sheets in order to be ghosts (an always-reliable idea). In fact, I recall re-using one or two costumes for several successive years. And, of course, all that ended when we finished eighth grade.
With my own children, I kept things very low-key for Halloween. Before my oldest started kindergarten, I solved her need for costumes plus the need for very warm outer garments by cutting head and arm holes in a black plastic garbage bag to wear over winter coats and putting a black witch's hat on her head. Nice enough. Generally, every other costume somehow fell together in the hours before we headed out for candy.
I do confess that I spent extra effort on two special costumes. Once, I sewed Star Trek officers' shirts, and once I fabricated an outstanding Tin Man costume for my youngest to wear to kindergarten. In fact, I think that was for the same Halloween, probably spurred on by my friend's (and landlord's) exquisitely-crafted furry bear costume for her son (my godson).
I don't, however, remember Halloween parties everywhere I looked, whether as a child or an adult, or seasonal stores dedicated solely to Halloween costumes and paraphernalia. Halloween was just a little blip on the radar between the beginning of school and Thanksgiving. Hardly a multi-million-dollar industry.
Isn't it just all about the candy, anyway?
That was our motive. We knew we had to wear some kind of costume or the homeowners wouldn't give us any candy. So we dressed up. And we carried brown paper bags to hold the candy. Nothing fancy or complicated that we would have to store somewhere until next year. Who stored decorations for Halloween? The pumpkin didn't last more than a week or two after carving.
During the last few years that my sons were eligible for trick-or-treating, we even ditched costumes and trick-or-treating altogether. Both of them, contemplating an especially cold, wet, and miserable Halloween evening, told me that if I would just go out and buy some bags of their favorite candy the next day, we could all stay inside and relax. That's what we did, and that's how Halloween finished up for us a couple of years later.
My sister has a dear friend whose favorite 'holiday' is Halloween. I think it's an endearing quirk, but I don't understand the appeal. There's not really anything substantial to Halloween. Really. Why has it become such a compelling celebration in the US? And, honestly, what are we celebrating?
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
The Perseids
Have you ever watched the Perseids? Sometimes called the "tears of St. Lawrence" because they occur near his feast day, these meteors provide a splendid sky show every August, marking the end of summer vacation days with an exciting spectacle.
Watching the Perseids in South Bend frustrates me, because I don't live in a spot with a clear view of the entire evening sky. At present, I don't have friends who live out in the countryside whom I could pester to let me set up my viewing station in their farm fields. Last night was pretty hazy/cloudy, too, so no luck for me. I have, nonetheless, spent two magical evenings in my life watching this meteor show.
When my youngest child was around 4 years old, he and my daughter and I were spending our annual vacation with my parents in Virginia. We had been enjoying our usual pursuits and didn't expect anything different from our typical summer fun. One day, my father surprised us with the suggestion that we go to a campground at Oregon Inlet on the Outer Banks of North Carolina and watch the Perseids. I gave that idea a thumbs up at once. We packed up all the necessary things and set out. Most remarkably, my parents were in their late 60's and hadn't been camping in decades. I was quite impressed. Things proceeded fairly smoothly and we reached out destination uneventfully. We set up camp, ate supper, and tried to protect ourselves from the diabolical Dare County mosquitoes. Night fell and we found comfortable positions to watch for the meteors. The flat, sandy ground blended unbroken into the vast ocean, and we could see the entire dome of the sky without interruption. The Perseids began to appear very soon. Oh my goodness, what a sight. My children sat in fascinated silence. Meteor after meteor after meteor flashed overhead. We saw so, so many. What a magical time for all of us, adults and children alike.
My second treasured sight of the Perseids occurred a couple of years before my father died, on our last summer trip to Kill Devil Hills. Once again my youngest son (now in college) was with us, although the other two children had adult careers by then and couldn't be with us that week. My father had trouble climbing up and down the stairs to our cottage, so we didn't make too many forays each day. This particular night he insisted that we try to watch the Perseids. After supper, my son and I helped Daddy down the stairs and established him in a comfortable chair behind the cottage. We placed our chairs on either side of him and waited patiently for the neighbors' lights to go out and the Dairy Queen across the street to close for the night. The night temperature remained gently warm, stirred by lovely sea breezes, and we could hear the rolling surf from the ocean, only two blocks away across the beach road. Sitting there in the dark, talking with him and with his namesake grandson, made me exquisitely happy. For me, the Perseids would be the icing on the cake. And they were. After a time, my son spotted the first meteor. Soon they were appearing at a steady pace, and we watched shooting star after shooting star arc across the sky. Daddy's face lit up like a star itself as he relished this spectacle. We three sat there for an hour, I think, and only reluctantly turned away when Daddy tired. That final visit together on the Outer Banks couldn't have been any more wonderful.
That is why I love the Perseids and try to see them every year. I hope you can find a good, clear place to watch them this week. I hope you can watch them with folks who will appreciate the blazing wonder of these shooting stars. Now I am looking forward to sharing the Perseids someday with my own grandchildren, and I expect to feel my father's presence with me when I do.
Watching the Perseids in South Bend frustrates me, because I don't live in a spot with a clear view of the entire evening sky. At present, I don't have friends who live out in the countryside whom I could pester to let me set up my viewing station in their farm fields. Last night was pretty hazy/cloudy, too, so no luck for me. I have, nonetheless, spent two magical evenings in my life watching this meteor show.
When my youngest child was around 4 years old, he and my daughter and I were spending our annual vacation with my parents in Virginia. We had been enjoying our usual pursuits and didn't expect anything different from our typical summer fun. One day, my father surprised us with the suggestion that we go to a campground at Oregon Inlet on the Outer Banks of North Carolina and watch the Perseids. I gave that idea a thumbs up at once. We packed up all the necessary things and set out. Most remarkably, my parents were in their late 60's and hadn't been camping in decades. I was quite impressed. Things proceeded fairly smoothly and we reached out destination uneventfully. We set up camp, ate supper, and tried to protect ourselves from the diabolical Dare County mosquitoes. Night fell and we found comfortable positions to watch for the meteors. The flat, sandy ground blended unbroken into the vast ocean, and we could see the entire dome of the sky without interruption. The Perseids began to appear very soon. Oh my goodness, what a sight. My children sat in fascinated silence. Meteor after meteor after meteor flashed overhead. We saw so, so many. What a magical time for all of us, adults and children alike.
My second treasured sight of the Perseids occurred a couple of years before my father died, on our last summer trip to Kill Devil Hills. Once again my youngest son (now in college) was with us, although the other two children had adult careers by then and couldn't be with us that week. My father had trouble climbing up and down the stairs to our cottage, so we didn't make too many forays each day. This particular night he insisted that we try to watch the Perseids. After supper, my son and I helped Daddy down the stairs and established him in a comfortable chair behind the cottage. We placed our chairs on either side of him and waited patiently for the neighbors' lights to go out and the Dairy Queen across the street to close for the night. The night temperature remained gently warm, stirred by lovely sea breezes, and we could hear the rolling surf from the ocean, only two blocks away across the beach road. Sitting there in the dark, talking with him and with his namesake grandson, made me exquisitely happy. For me, the Perseids would be the icing on the cake. And they were. After a time, my son spotted the first meteor. Soon they were appearing at a steady pace, and we watched shooting star after shooting star arc across the sky. Daddy's face lit up like a star itself as he relished this spectacle. We three sat there for an hour, I think, and only reluctantly turned away when Daddy tired. That final visit together on the Outer Banks couldn't have been any more wonderful.
That is why I love the Perseids and try to see them every year. I hope you can find a good, clear place to watch them this week. I hope you can watch them with folks who will appreciate the blazing wonder of these shooting stars. Now I am looking forward to sharing the Perseids someday with my own grandchildren, and I expect to feel my father's presence with me when I do.
A New Box of Crayons
It's that time of year. Time to buy new school supplies. Time to get ready for that first day of classes. A time that has passed me by, after so many years of being both a student and a teacher. Watching my husband prepare for teaching his graduate students just isn't the same. Supporting our local Pack-A-Backpack campaign helps children with much-needed school supplies and is fun, but that just isn't the same, either.
I would like to buy some brand-new crayons.
Is there anything comparable to an untouched box of 24 Crayola crayons? Those sharp points. That excellent variety of colors. The smell of those waxy little wands of creation. The box of 64 crayons always seemed excessive, even though it had that very cool crayon sharpener in the front. (Just to place me in the Crayola timeline, I remember when the box of 64 first came on the market. We were stunned by the available colors.)
I was always excited when my mother took us shopping for school supplies. There were no lists of required supplies in those days, so we just bought what everyone knew they needed for school. Packages of new pencils. New crayons. A new ruler (no centimeter markings then). A compass and a protractor, perhaps. A fat stack of looseleaf paper. A three-ring binder. Spiral notebooks if you were in a grade that needed them. A thick rubber book strap in later years (backpacks were for soldiers then, not students). Perhaps some fancy bookcovers, but generally we used brown paper bags to cover our books. A Shaeffer cartridge pen with ink cartridges of washable blue. That covered everything, I think.
When I was teaching, I still had the pleasure of buying supplies: new pens, packages of pencils which I could lend (!) my students, new grade books, new lesson plan books, markers, cellophane tape, paper clips, staples, thumb tacks, and folders. I loved office supply stores.
Unfortunately, I still have stocks of these 'teacher' supplies in my basement office. I seldom use up all the ink in my Zebra pens. No possible way to justify a rampage through Office Depot or Staples this year. But I have a plan.
Recently, I have read that artists are publishing coloring books for adults. These books look fairly elaborate and complicated and deserve being labeled as art. But they are coloring books. And I could color in them. Granted, they seem to require extensive palettes of markers or colored pencils, which I don't yearn for in the same way as crayons. I don't see why I couldn't use some good old Crayolas if I wanted to.
My secret is out now. I am going to order one of these high-end coloring books and buy a new box of crayons. This means I can consider myself a patron of the arts for supporting the business ventures of actual artists, and I can satisfy my inner second grader with those new Crayolas. Sounds good to me.
[Oh, yes: I am also going to begin stockpiling crayons for my grandchildren. And coloring books. The fun is going to begin again.]
I would like to buy some brand-new crayons.
Is there anything comparable to an untouched box of 24 Crayola crayons? Those sharp points. That excellent variety of colors. The smell of those waxy little wands of creation. The box of 64 crayons always seemed excessive, even though it had that very cool crayon sharpener in the front. (Just to place me in the Crayola timeline, I remember when the box of 64 first came on the market. We were stunned by the available colors.)
I was always excited when my mother took us shopping for school supplies. There were no lists of required supplies in those days, so we just bought what everyone knew they needed for school. Packages of new pencils. New crayons. A new ruler (no centimeter markings then). A compass and a protractor, perhaps. A fat stack of looseleaf paper. A three-ring binder. Spiral notebooks if you were in a grade that needed them. A thick rubber book strap in later years (backpacks were for soldiers then, not students). Perhaps some fancy bookcovers, but generally we used brown paper bags to cover our books. A Shaeffer cartridge pen with ink cartridges of washable blue. That covered everything, I think.
When I was teaching, I still had the pleasure of buying supplies: new pens, packages of pencils which I could lend (!) my students, new grade books, new lesson plan books, markers, cellophane tape, paper clips, staples, thumb tacks, and folders. I loved office supply stores.
Unfortunately, I still have stocks of these 'teacher' supplies in my basement office. I seldom use up all the ink in my Zebra pens. No possible way to justify a rampage through Office Depot or Staples this year. But I have a plan.
Recently, I have read that artists are publishing coloring books for adults. These books look fairly elaborate and complicated and deserve being labeled as art. But they are coloring books. And I could color in them. Granted, they seem to require extensive palettes of markers or colored pencils, which I don't yearn for in the same way as crayons. I don't see why I couldn't use some good old Crayolas if I wanted to.
My secret is out now. I am going to order one of these high-end coloring books and buy a new box of crayons. This means I can consider myself a patron of the arts for supporting the business ventures of actual artists, and I can satisfy my inner second grader with those new Crayolas. Sounds good to me.
[Oh, yes: I am also going to begin stockpiling crayons for my grandchildren. And coloring books. The fun is going to begin again.]
Friday, July 24, 2015
Remembering Marilyn, Ten Years On
As the academic year of 2005-2006 began, I found myself out of teaching and living in South Bend. All my buddies were resuming their classes at Mother Guerin High School, and I missed our camaraderie very much. I sent volumes of emails to everyone, and kept in touch with 'current events' at the school. Everyone expected the usual adjustments with incoming freshmen and new administrative leaders, but none of us expected the bombshell fate dropped on us just as school was starting.
Cancer struck our dear colleague Marilyn.
The diagnosis was dire: stage four ovarian cancer. Surgery first, then massive chemotherapy, possibly followed by radiation. You can imagine the consternation, pain, and sorrow all Marilyn's friends experienced, and can perhaps imagine the devastation and fear she felt. We all know how deadly ovarian cancer is. It was just a horrible August.
I have been thinking about Marilyn this month (her birthday was in July), and tonight I re-read the emails she sent me while undergoing her first chemo that autumn. I'm glad that this occurred to me, because I felt like Marilyn was present to me again in all her old delightful insouciance and humor and energy and love of life.
She and our friend Cheryl and I managed to get together for meals in Chicago several times during those months, and savored every moment of those meetings. Marilyn handled the chemo very well, with a few ups and downs, and by Christmas, the tumor markers had dropped from very high to very low. Although her hair had disappeared, she had a very flattering wig and loved wearing it. Her oncologist believed that the treatments had greatly benefited Marilyn, and we all began 2006 in an optimistic mood.
Since I wasn't working at that point either, Marilyn and I exchanged movie reviews (we wore out Netflix, I think, and the public library and Blockbuster in our respective cities) and gardening tips (how to foil those aggravating squirrels when planting spring bulbs) and comments on everything under the sun. I rejoiced with her and her husband Joe when the White Sox won the World Series in October, and was truly glad for them, because they were life-long fans. (I know that when the Cubs win, Marilyn and Joe will be happy for me in Heaven.) All told, except for the fact that Marilyn was in the fight of her life, the autumn of 2005 passed quite pleasantly, and she and Cheryl and I rejoiced in our opportunities for 'messing around'.
The first months of 2006 also progressed well. Marilyn responded so positively to the treatments that, to the best of my memory, no second surgery was needed. Her prognosis seemed so much better than we had dared to hope. I tried to go in to Chicago as often as possible to meet up with her and Cheryl, and we kept up our emailing and phone calling. Marilyn's hair grew back, and she was just as cute as a little puppy! (I can see her face now as I make that observation.) All of her friends rejoiced, not only that she was still with us but also that she felt so well.
I began working at Notre Dame that summer, and my visits to Chicago tapered off somewhat. Everyone remained in close touch by email and phone, however, and I think we did get together for Marilyn's birthday. My last lunch with her and Cheryl was in August, I think.
As that comment reveals, Marilyn did not survive the cancer. Her condition suddenly began to deteriorate in late August, and while she fought valiantly, by Christmas we all knew that very little time remained. I went to Mobile, Alabama for a business trip and brought her back a Mardi Gras scarf for Christmas, but had to mail it as I couldn't get to town to deliver it in person. Our emails had diminished as Marilyn struggled with each day's challenges. Cheryl relayed updates to me from Joe, and by early January, it seemed that only a few weeks remained for Marilyn. The weekend prior to MLK Day in January of 2007, Cheryl called me and urged me to get to Loyola Medical Center because time was running out. I drove in, collected Cheryl and our dear friend, Sister Kay, and the three of us went to Marilyn's bedside. Marilyn didn't know us and was struggling. Her parents sat by her side, and I will never forget the heartbreak of watching her mother smooth Marilyn's hair. Marilyn died in the early hours of the next day.
Although I said goodbye to her later that week in Chicago, I haven't really lost her. I often look through my photos from our trips with students to France and Spain (with Cheryl along as the Third Musketeer!) and smile at the places we visited and the things we did. Every time I'm in Paris I think of her and remember how she could just chatter away in French with anyone (she was the French teacher at our school). When my daughter and I were following the Tour de France two years ago, I wished that I could send Marilyn emails about all those adventures in France. Silly though it might be, whenever I have a crepe or pain au chocolat, I think of Marilyn! Cheryl and I never tire of sharing our memories of this dear, dear friend.
Marilyn taught many, many 'Guerin girls' during her career and cared about each one. I admired her teaching skills so much! Few people have had as much fun living as Marilyn did. Although she hated to fly, she took trip after trip to Europe with her students, and even went island-hopping in the South Pacific with her father, a World War II Marine veteran. She and Cheryl travelled all over the US by train! She loved cooking and decorating and hosting her family and friends. I could never match her for energy, even though I was younger! She was a fount of creativity, always discovering something new to make or do. Her sense of humor and dry wit were legendary. She was so very, very alive.
Though her diagnosis filled us with apprehension and sorrow, Marilyn inspired us all with her courage and refusal to abandon hope. I can hardly believe that ten years have passed since cancer struck her. Writing about her tonight has inspired me to rise up and get back to our kinds of adventures and shenanigans, so that I might leave behind such memories, too. (And I'll continue to wear that Mardi Gras scarf, which Joe gave me after the funeral, to celebrate Marilyn's joie de vivre.)
Cancer struck our dear colleague Marilyn.
The diagnosis was dire: stage four ovarian cancer. Surgery first, then massive chemotherapy, possibly followed by radiation. You can imagine the consternation, pain, and sorrow all Marilyn's friends experienced, and can perhaps imagine the devastation and fear she felt. We all know how deadly ovarian cancer is. It was just a horrible August.
I have been thinking about Marilyn this month (her birthday was in July), and tonight I re-read the emails she sent me while undergoing her first chemo that autumn. I'm glad that this occurred to me, because I felt like Marilyn was present to me again in all her old delightful insouciance and humor and energy and love of life.
She and our friend Cheryl and I managed to get together for meals in Chicago several times during those months, and savored every moment of those meetings. Marilyn handled the chemo very well, with a few ups and downs, and by Christmas, the tumor markers had dropped from very high to very low. Although her hair had disappeared, she had a very flattering wig and loved wearing it. Her oncologist believed that the treatments had greatly benefited Marilyn, and we all began 2006 in an optimistic mood.
Since I wasn't working at that point either, Marilyn and I exchanged movie reviews (we wore out Netflix, I think, and the public library and Blockbuster in our respective cities) and gardening tips (how to foil those aggravating squirrels when planting spring bulbs) and comments on everything under the sun. I rejoiced with her and her husband Joe when the White Sox won the World Series in October, and was truly glad for them, because they were life-long fans. (I know that when the Cubs win, Marilyn and Joe will be happy for me in Heaven.) All told, except for the fact that Marilyn was in the fight of her life, the autumn of 2005 passed quite pleasantly, and she and Cheryl and I rejoiced in our opportunities for 'messing around'.
The first months of 2006 also progressed well. Marilyn responded so positively to the treatments that, to the best of my memory, no second surgery was needed. Her prognosis seemed so much better than we had dared to hope. I tried to go in to Chicago as often as possible to meet up with her and Cheryl, and we kept up our emailing and phone calling. Marilyn's hair grew back, and she was just as cute as a little puppy! (I can see her face now as I make that observation.) All of her friends rejoiced, not only that she was still with us but also that she felt so well.
I began working at Notre Dame that summer, and my visits to Chicago tapered off somewhat. Everyone remained in close touch by email and phone, however, and I think we did get together for Marilyn's birthday. My last lunch with her and Cheryl was in August, I think.
As that comment reveals, Marilyn did not survive the cancer. Her condition suddenly began to deteriorate in late August, and while she fought valiantly, by Christmas we all knew that very little time remained. I went to Mobile, Alabama for a business trip and brought her back a Mardi Gras scarf for Christmas, but had to mail it as I couldn't get to town to deliver it in person. Our emails had diminished as Marilyn struggled with each day's challenges. Cheryl relayed updates to me from Joe, and by early January, it seemed that only a few weeks remained for Marilyn. The weekend prior to MLK Day in January of 2007, Cheryl called me and urged me to get to Loyola Medical Center because time was running out. I drove in, collected Cheryl and our dear friend, Sister Kay, and the three of us went to Marilyn's bedside. Marilyn didn't know us and was struggling. Her parents sat by her side, and I will never forget the heartbreak of watching her mother smooth Marilyn's hair. Marilyn died in the early hours of the next day.
Although I said goodbye to her later that week in Chicago, I haven't really lost her. I often look through my photos from our trips with students to France and Spain (with Cheryl along as the Third Musketeer!) and smile at the places we visited and the things we did. Every time I'm in Paris I think of her and remember how she could just chatter away in French with anyone (she was the French teacher at our school). When my daughter and I were following the Tour de France two years ago, I wished that I could send Marilyn emails about all those adventures in France. Silly though it might be, whenever I have a crepe or pain au chocolat, I think of Marilyn! Cheryl and I never tire of sharing our memories of this dear, dear friend.
Marilyn taught many, many 'Guerin girls' during her career and cared about each one. I admired her teaching skills so much! Few people have had as much fun living as Marilyn did. Although she hated to fly, she took trip after trip to Europe with her students, and even went island-hopping in the South Pacific with her father, a World War II Marine veteran. She and Cheryl travelled all over the US by train! She loved cooking and decorating and hosting her family and friends. I could never match her for energy, even though I was younger! She was a fount of creativity, always discovering something new to make or do. Her sense of humor and dry wit were legendary. She was so very, very alive.
Though her diagnosis filled us with apprehension and sorrow, Marilyn inspired us all with her courage and refusal to abandon hope. I can hardly believe that ten years have passed since cancer struck her. Writing about her tonight has inspired me to rise up and get back to our kinds of adventures and shenanigans, so that I might leave behind such memories, too. (And I'll continue to wear that Mardi Gras scarf, which Joe gave me after the funeral, to celebrate Marilyn's joie de vivre.)
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Don't Expect Me to Answer the Phone
My cousin Charles tells us not to call him while "Jeopardy" is on the television in the evenings. He will not answer the phone. If we need to call him, we always look at the time, just in case. He has trained us well.
During the first three weeks of July every year, I pay no attention to any communications until that day's stage of the Tour de France ends. NBC Sports covers the entire race, and my daughter has given me the live feed package over the internet, so from 8 AM until noon each day I am riveted to the screens.
Those of you who know how leisurely my days usually begin will chuckle at my setting an alarm every day for 7:50 so I can be set and ready for the broadcasts to start. Granted, I might still be wearing my PJ's, but I'm up! I carry my Chromebook around with me and put it safely on the counter while I fix breakfast. I make no appointments in the mornings, run no errands, do no chores. It's much worse than my cousin's 30 minute blackout.
Why don't I just check the sports news around noon each day? Why on earth do I watch hours and hours of a bike race? Who in the world am I watching, anyway?
I first began to follow the TDF during the last years of Lance Armstrong's dominance. Those were thrilling races indeed. Of course everyone's attention focused on him, but I also began to learn the stories and strengths of the other riders who were vying for the yellow jersey. The TDF began to fascinate me as an athletic event, beyond what Lance was doing. I looked forward to seeing what the others would accomplish each year. I also found myself looking at cycling results throughout the year, learning about the Grand Tour races that fill up the racing schedule. There's so much more to professional cycling than just the TDF, but that's the epic race that the pros want to win.
After the fall of Armstrong, I wasn't angry or bitter, but I resented the way he had lied to all of us who rejoiced in his victories. Those will remain memorable races, but they mean nothing to me now. I hope he stays on the margins permanently. The current generation of cyclists generate so much interest and excitement that I don't miss Lance at all!
What do I like about the Tour? The skill and endurance of all the racers astonish me. These men ride for three weeks, all around France (and a little bit of Holland and Belgium this year), over hill and down dale and across beastly high mountains. It's an incredible feat. The strategy of each cycling team also captivates me. Who tries to take the lead? How do they protect their big stars? Why does a particular rider dash off on a breakaway and punish himself to stay far in front of the main group? How can they handle their bikes under all the variety of weather conditions? Every day is fascinating and no day is routine, even the stages that are supposed to be ordinary! Add to all these attractions is the fact that at any given moment, riders could tangle up their bikes in crashes and suffer painful injuries. There is never a dull moment.
I watch it all. If I could get my hands on "L'Equipe", the French sports daily that covers the Tour in extensive detail, I would buy it! I can figure out enough French to follow most of those kinds of reports. But that's not possible, so I glue my eyes to the computer screen and television and imagine I'm roaming around France with the Tour. I have a ball.
The Tour ends Sunday, so my yearly extravaganza will be over. If you want to come over for coffee some morning, I'll be open for business!
During the first three weeks of July every year, I pay no attention to any communications until that day's stage of the Tour de France ends. NBC Sports covers the entire race, and my daughter has given me the live feed package over the internet, so from 8 AM until noon each day I am riveted to the screens.
Those of you who know how leisurely my days usually begin will chuckle at my setting an alarm every day for 7:50 so I can be set and ready for the broadcasts to start. Granted, I might still be wearing my PJ's, but I'm up! I carry my Chromebook around with me and put it safely on the counter while I fix breakfast. I make no appointments in the mornings, run no errands, do no chores. It's much worse than my cousin's 30 minute blackout.
Why don't I just check the sports news around noon each day? Why on earth do I watch hours and hours of a bike race? Who in the world am I watching, anyway?
I first began to follow the TDF during the last years of Lance Armstrong's dominance. Those were thrilling races indeed. Of course everyone's attention focused on him, but I also began to learn the stories and strengths of the other riders who were vying for the yellow jersey. The TDF began to fascinate me as an athletic event, beyond what Lance was doing. I looked forward to seeing what the others would accomplish each year. I also found myself looking at cycling results throughout the year, learning about the Grand Tour races that fill up the racing schedule. There's so much more to professional cycling than just the TDF, but that's the epic race that the pros want to win.
After the fall of Armstrong, I wasn't angry or bitter, but I resented the way he had lied to all of us who rejoiced in his victories. Those will remain memorable races, but they mean nothing to me now. I hope he stays on the margins permanently. The current generation of cyclists generate so much interest and excitement that I don't miss Lance at all!
What do I like about the Tour? The skill and endurance of all the racers astonish me. These men ride for three weeks, all around France (and a little bit of Holland and Belgium this year), over hill and down dale and across beastly high mountains. It's an incredible feat. The strategy of each cycling team also captivates me. Who tries to take the lead? How do they protect their big stars? Why does a particular rider dash off on a breakaway and punish himself to stay far in front of the main group? How can they handle their bikes under all the variety of weather conditions? Every day is fascinating and no day is routine, even the stages that are supposed to be ordinary! Add to all these attractions is the fact that at any given moment, riders could tangle up their bikes in crashes and suffer painful injuries. There is never a dull moment.
I watch it all. If I could get my hands on "L'Equipe", the French sports daily that covers the Tour in extensive detail, I would buy it! I can figure out enough French to follow most of those kinds of reports. But that's not possible, so I glue my eyes to the computer screen and television and imagine I'm roaming around France with the Tour. I have a ball.
The Tour ends Sunday, so my yearly extravaganza will be over. If you want to come over for coffee some morning, I'll be open for business!
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