Posts Tagged ‘family’
For Mom
What little boy doesn’t feel that Mom is everything? It is not so hard to understand why a person would believe that their mother is the best in the world. My mother invented food. She made my clothes. My mom was the rock in all situations; the calm in any storm. Elizabeth (Betty) Elliott Hays did not lecture me on who I should be, she enabled me to become who I am. She demonstrated to me how to be a good person by being a good person. Most of the time, she was oblivious to that fact. Not only was my mother the most wholesomely classy person imaginable, she was the best mother in the world. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
Now Then
I have already shared this with all of my siblings, and also with my Brainstorms community, so it almost seems redundant to post it here. However, I think it has a universal appeal for the novelty of capturing the similar poses and for the always interesting visual of comparative shots of people when they are young and when they aren’t as young.
I have been wanting to do this for a long time, but younger brother, David, lives up north and older brother, Elliott, wasn’t able to be at our family reunion gathering last summer, so getting the three of us together has been rare.
My family tolerated my attempts to try (probably too hard) to direct the shot to be exact. I thought Elliott should take off his glasses. He disagreed. I respect his opinion that they belong.
In the end, Elliott got the ‘last word’ in about my drive to accomplish a pose exactly the same as the first picture. I only had one image available on my camera when I got home, so after I pasted them together, I sent it out to the family asking if anyone had a better version. I noted that in this image, I didn’t have my shoulders squared to the camera, and with multiple photographers taking pictures, Elliott was looking at a different camera than this one.
Elliott sent this, in reply:
Authentic Joy
Lately, I have been thinking about the accuracy of memory, in particular, earliest memories. Many are augmented, or even supplanted by photographs we have from the past. I don’t actually remember some things that happened, I remember what it looked like from a picture I have repeatedly seen that depicts the moment.
I recently began tinkering with transferring some of our old home-videos from tape to a digital video file. I do remember this particular moment, but it would never be so genuinely presented if we hadn’t managed to capture the video of it. I’m so glad to have this to show my daughter, Elysa, the fun we had during the time before she can remember.
For Elysa
Many times I have voiced the insight that my children have taught me more about myself than I ever expected to learn. Try as I did to figure out a way to instill what little wisdom I was able, while also granting them a healthy amount of independence, I never really felt like I was accomplishing a laudable level of fathering. Too much? Too little? Probably most parents share that feeling.
From my early memories of holding baby Elysa while we both watched ice hockey on television (she cried when play was suspended between periods) and the time she guffawed with genuine total body laughter over my silliness with the jack-in-the-box toy, to the difficult days when I didn’t know what to say to the adolescent she had become and she didn’t know what to say to me, we have forged all the firsts. Every time she faces something with me for the first time, it is my first time, too. She is my firstborn.
She has never shopped for a house before. I have never had a daughter make an offer on a house before.
I still vividly recall the overwhelming feeling of taking that newborn out of the safety of a hospital and putting her in a car to drive to our home. Soon there is walking, braces on teeth, and school graduations. In the next moment, buying a house.
I don’t always recognize what my lesson is, out of all the adventures you bring to my life, my dear, but I can tell you that each and every one is precious as can be. Good luck with this latest endeavor. I expect there will be plenty for both of us to learn.
Relative Discovery
I had a dream the other night, that I was on a road trip with my father. He has been dead for almost 30 years. It is interesting how the sensation that is generated by dream scenes can linger long after the dream is over and consciousness has returned.
When I logged in to my email account yesterday morning, I had 4 new messages from Jim Hays. He provided some family data that he recently collected that reveals our connection through a shared great-grandfather. Our grandfathers were brothers. It was fascinating to be revisiting the names of ancestors with the fresh sense that I had just been with my father, especially since it has been so long since I have really been with my father.
One night, back in the second week of January, I discovered a phone message at home, where Jim first introduced himself and the possibility that we shared ancestors. What an invigorating surprise that was for me. I called him back that night and thoroughly enjoyed the chance to visit and verify our connection.
Jim’s grandfather is John W. Hays, Jr., so I naturally have a heightened interest in that branch of the family tree. We are hoping to find an opportunity when Jim is in town to get together at our house and explore our shared interest in ancestry and the collection of items we have each amassed.
I need to dig out the box of things I have from the time Cyndie and I drove up to Canada to the birthplace of John W. Hays, Sr. We were lucky enough to stumble upon a man who volunteered to drive us out to see the farm property that was owned by my great-great-great grandfather, John Hays. I remember laughing when the man told us that John Hays’ son Stephen really did marry the girl next door, because back then, that was pretty much the only choice in such a rural farming area.
That was in the vicinity of Hawkesbury, Ontario, somewhat between Ottawa and Montreal. We explored an area there which included Vankleek Hill and L’Orignal. We visited the county seat, I believe it was, and were privileged to read and get a copy of the hand-written will of John Hays, the man 5 generations back from me. That is also where we found the land records and evidence that the family of Stephen’s wife, Judith Waite, owned the adjacent farm.
The art of genealogy, of collecting all the data and putting it together in a logical representation of the family, is a lot like assembling a jigsaw puzzle. It can be hard to find all the pieces, and sometimes they appear to fit, but don’t belong. Unfortunately, with genealogy, the pieces are rarely, if ever, all contained in one convenient box, ready for assembly. This is a puzzle where the bulk of the work has to do with bringing all the pieces to the table. In genealogy, that can be a task that is, often times, impossible to fulfill.
Table Memories
Since we didn’t have Thanksgiving dinner at our house this year, my siblings didn’t get their annual chance to be with the old family table, so I am presenting this for their benefit…
I mostly am reminded of trying to do my homework as a schoolboy, when I look at the pattern of dots marking the border of our table. The pencil lead would poke through the paper when you weren’t paying attention and strayed too close to the edge.
The other main memory I have of this table is that it was almost always covered by accumulating newspapers, magazines and old mail, sewing projects, or at the far end, an occasional jigsaw puzzle. There are 5 center leaves available to expand the table to a length that exceeds our present dining room. When Mom allowed Cyndie and I to have the table, she did so with one requirement: we needed to host Thanksgiving, because it was the only table large enough to accommodate everyone when we all gathered.
Now Mom is gone, and some of the family is out of town, so the remaining family has been spending the Thanksgiving holiday with families of spouses. At least that means we didn’t need to clear off the table for a big meal. Lo and behold, it has a sewing project on one end, and fresh home-made holiday treats that Cyndie and Elysa produced over the weekend, on the other.
Me and Alcohol
Long ago in my life, so long that it’s embarrassing to admit, I discovered I don’t care for alcohol one bit. There was a brief period where I figured I should learn to like it, seeing how it was such a large part of people’s lives and a pretty significant expectation in which to imbibe upon attaining legal drinking age. But my better sense overcame that idea, aided nicely by my ongoing dislike of the taste of alcohol in all its forms. Among the multiple reasons I’m grateful for that, the most significant is that it tends to be the number one drug of choice for people with depression, and I would have likely complicated my experience of seeking a remedy for that mental struggle –and more likely than not, made a bigger mess of things up to that point.
At the time I was making my decision to just do without alcohol entirely, I was struck by the presence of the drug in 100% of the conflicts and life-dramas I was witnessing. It also seemed to be present in every violent crime, auto death, and domestic dispute I was reading about in the paper or hearing of in the news. I figured I was improving my odds greatly by avoiding it altogether.
Still, it has never been far off. Nothing is more difficult for me than the role it plays in the lives of people close to me. How I have wished to just have them make the same decision I did and abstain entirely. It frustrates me that there is no definitive point clarifying that intangible transition from unimpaired to intoxicated. How much is too much? How long is too long? I’m afraid, as patient a man as I am, I have no patience for enduring the period of increased drinking, and the associated consequences, that must eventually build up to earning a justifiable intervention.
It all seems so unnecessary and entirely avoidable.
I suffer the fact that even though I am able to completely eliminate my intake of alcohol, I remain under the influence of its impact, through the experiences of people around me.
Manic Mix
Real or imagined, my mind is a manic mix of mayhem, most recently triggered by an ill-timed –as if there was ever a good time– high ankle sprain that occurred on Friday morning during my regular indoor soccer workout. We had been surprised with a forced relocation to the children’s gym due to some basketball special event requiring both wood courts. I didn’t adapt well to the plastic tile sport-court surface and turned my left ankle while desperately trying to maintain a defensive position between our goal and the attacking player, Ranses, who was expertly keeping ball possession and gaining ground, despite my efforts.
I was barely able to drive back home afterward and then decided I needed to take the day off work. However, later that day, we were headed to Mille Lacs Lake for the Hays family reunion weekend. That turned out to be a whirlwind of fun, food, laughter, and silliness. Unfortunately, I didn’t end up maximizing the focus of my treatment of the ankle and neglected to bring my cold packs or my bottle of ibuprofen, and even neglected to appropriately rest it. Getting out for some bocce ball, catch with a Foxtail and then football, and even going for a little walk, were all a little premature activity so soon after the sprain.
I don’t think the bowling on the Wii was all that harmful, but watching some of the X-game performances sure made me tense it up more that I wanted to. I think I hurt myself just watching others risk their limbs to the degree those athletes do. 
I did take advantage of the hydro-therapy available in the big lake when a small number of us walked over to play along the shore. While others were off exploring the Kathio State Park, I got in a little rock balancing while soaking my sprain in the cool waters of Mille Lacs.
The weekend seems to fly by before we even get around to spending quality time with everyone present, but I did get some good attention from Drew as he helped me take apart and rebuild the spherical jigsaw puzzle I brought along.
Yesterday, when we finally landed back home again, I worked on getting into a rhythm of regularly icing of my ankle, taking ibuprofen, and elevating my foot while resting. It gave me a chance to catch up a bit on the ‘virtual’ friends I’ve made in my online community, where I was sad to read of the difficulties one person was having with his recently diagnosed depression.
It has been on my mind since I first read about it last week and I have been struck by the level of influence it has had on my attention. The struggle this person describes in posts to our ‘walled’ community is incredibly familiar to me and I feel very sympathetic to their plight. I’m starting to notice that while they are struggling with things, it feels as if I am impacted as well, and I anxiously await news of a break in the suffering.
I think I’m ready to return to the routine of a work day. Unfortunately, it will not be entirely routine until I am able to return to my morning soccer matches with a fully healed ankle to get my head-clearing exercise. And what can you say to that but, “and how!”
Homemade Memories
Yesterday, for breakfast, I made toast out of some of Cyndie’s homemade bread. I’m noticing that I’ve been feeling a bit nostalgic lately. Don’t know exactly why that is, but maybe the fact that next weekend is the Hays reunion –summertime version– has me thinking about family of origin.
Homemade toast, which is the way I recall us always referring to it, is something that I associate very strongly with my life in the years of growing up in the Hays family. While I’m on the subject of toast, if the bread wasn’t homemade, it was from a loaf of Hollywood Bread, and of course, we just called it Hollywood toast. I remember being almost as fond of Hollywood toast as Mom’s homemade, but they were very d
istinctly different.
Yesterday, after I cut the bread for toast, I returned the loaf to upright and discovered that had left quite an angle on what remained. I don’t know about the rest of my siblings, but that instantly brings the voice of my father in my mind.
“Who didn’t cut the bread straight?!”
I don’t clearly understand why his admonitions were so feared. Some kids worried that their father would strike them, but I feared my father would speak to me in a gruff tone of voice. I studiously practiced the art of cutting a loaf of bread squarely.
Last night for dinner, I had walleye. Next weekend, our reunion is up at Lake Mille Lacs. That is to say, I had for dinner, the fish that Dad was so fond of, and we are going up to the lake where Dad did his fishing. Ralph is very present in my mind lately.
Relative Something 