Coming Back Home

I've been messing around with my first blog for the past couple of days. The core topic was Dating After 50. I'm smiling and shaking my head in retrospect as I read what I had to say about life after breaking up with the fiancé whom I thought would be my fifth husband 🥴 , my forever partner. I was 56 years old when I started writing this blog. Fifty-six!! My elder son will be 52 in December. My younger son will turn 50 a month before we all—they and their nuclear families—go,on our first vacation together since they were teenagers!

In early 2007, I wrote:
[Through all,this writing,] I think maybe my sons are getting to know their mom as kids normally don't know their parents. I'm hoping they're enjoying it, and I'm hoping to memorialize some of myself to them to pass down to their kids or future wife in case I don't live to 75 or whatever.

How interesting is it, now in 2025, when I'll return from our vacation to celebrate my 75th birthday, to see that 75 was the random age to target as the stopping point? I find it very interesting!

I think I'll target 75 as the year to reset with a new knee, rather than the year to stop all activities.

The Drop Zone

This content was previously posted on jancrews.com.

The Drop Zone is the newest pattern from Patterns by Annie designer Annie Unrein. The finished pouch unzips to make a tray. It's a quick and easy-to-make pattern that comes with instructions for three sizes. The Small pouch finishes to 2½" high x 5" wide x 2½" deep closed, and 2½" x 5" x 5" open. Size Medium finishes to 2½" high x 7" wide x 2½" deep when closed, and 2½" x 7" x 5" open. Size Large finishes to 3" high x 9" wide x 3" deep closed, and 3" x 9" x 6" open. For my first three tries with the Drop Zone, I made Large.

The cost to make the pouch is minimal. It takes one 24" or longer handbag zipper; a fat quarter of the exterior fabric and a fat eighth of the lining fabric; a 12" x 16" (max) piece of ByAnnie's Soft and Stable®, the wonderful foam stabilizer created by Annie; a 6" x 13" (max) piece of Pellon Shape Flex fusible woven facing; and thread to coordinate with the chosen fabrics.

With most any smaller bag or pouch pattern that comes with multiple sizes, it's smart to start with the Large or Medium size until you get the hang of the pattern. As this is my summer of trying to decrease the size of my fabric stash, I'm trying to use up fabric I've been hoarding for a long time. That intention comes with the hope that I won't have to purchase any extra fabric or notions to reach the finish line on the construction.

The first I'm showing you is the third of these bags I made. I made the first and second bags with my daughter-in-law and 13yo granddaughter in mind. My son complimented me on the bags when the package arrived. He said he tried to snag one of them for himself, but was quickly told "no." So I dug into my stash and found the perfect fabric for my software engineer son. It's from Hoffman International Fabrics and is called "Circuit Surfing." I believe I found it in Josephine's Dry Goods fabric store in Portland, Oregon, about 25 years ago. It's been waiting for the perfect time. The lining I chose was Radiance in Lime from Whistler Studios for Windham Fabrics. It perfectly made the colors in that exterior pop. I love how the two fabrics work together. And that Radiance comes in a whole bunch of colors. It's great lining fabric that has the ability to complement any number of prints.

For my Drop Zone², I chose two Windham Fabrics coordinating prints from the Midsummer collection by Hackney and Co. The exterior was Honesty Seed in Sage, and the lining was Wildflower Script in Sage. I thought my daughter-in-law would enjoy this print, would find it soothing.

If you like these two prints, there are many pieces from this collection still available on Etsy. Search "Windham midsummer."

I added a fabric zipper pull onto the metal zipper pull, making it easier to grab. The photo doesn't show it, but you can see a similar pull on the photo in the preceding paragraph. It's a free pattern, Zipper Pulls, offered by By_Annie.

All three of these makes are in Size Large. When I work my to-sew list down a little farther, I'd like to make a set of all three in Small, Medium, and Large, and see how they nest. They are clever, multipurpose bags. I can think of all sorts of items that would travel well in these pouches.

My first stab at the new pattern, Drop Zone¹ was done up in a bright print that I've, predictably, had for years. It caught my eye once upon a time, and has been in my basement ever since. These colors were vibrant and fun, and I added a swivel hook onto one of the pull tabs. Imagine carrying all your adapters in it, and then hooking the whole thing onto the outside of your carryon. I think I'd give that a thumbs-up!

The exterior fabric is La prima Stella by Yamashin, Kanebo print. If I could find it again, I'd buy more. It's a treat for the fingers and the eyes. The lining might have been sold as a batik or a hand dye. Not a true batik, but varying shades of a turquoise-blue. It looks like the dye pooled up in places. Really lovely.

There will be more of these pouches in my future. Watch for them.

In the Rearview Mirror: 2022

 Trying to Come to Grips with Covid-19

Looking back at 2022, I'd have to say there was a lot of stress. But it was overridden by the wonderful singers with whom I got to work.

Music:

The year began with "The Music Man," for which Laurie Henderson Jones, Noah Landry, and I shared the rehearsal accompanist duties. I've loved that show since I was seven or eight years old and Daddy bought me the soundtrack. We three, Laurie, Noah, and myself, understood from the beginning that Noah would play in the pit for the performance, singing in the quartet from the piano bench.  As we got closer to performance, it became clear that he would need to be downstage, singing closely with the other three singers for the harmonies to work. So I sat in the green room and then moved backstage for every performance, sliding onto the bench each time Noah moved to his place onstage to sing in those wonderful harmonies that Meredith Willson wrote. 

During the spring semester, I played for ten students, whose work included a senior recital in January, a Master's recital in late February, and a [theatre department] Senior Showcase in April.

In June, I served as the collaborative pianist for the Dana Vocal Performance Clinic, which is a week of learning and sampling life at Dana School of Music for about ten area high school students. Our Dana students serve as the instructors for this week, giving them a taste of life as a music teacher.

The fall semester found me with eight students, two senior recitals, and two hearings for a senior and a junior recital that will occur early in 2023. Oh, and the musical theatre voice teachers decided several weeks before end-of-semester juries that the students (who had been singing to tracks all semester rather than using a live accompanist) needed to sing with an accompanist for juries. As my superpower is saving students who can't find an accompanist, I stepped up and told the students I would play for their juries. So, in addition to the four classical juries and two recital hearings I had to play, I also scheduled 35 practice sessions or lesson attendance for 17 or the musical theatre voice students—while also practicing with my classical students for their juries or hearings. I was never so happy to see the last day of the semester arrive!

Laurie and I split the rehearsal accompanist duties again in September, October, and early November for "Godspell." I vaguely remember hearing the music in the 70s, but really only could remember two songs. It was great fun learning that repertoire. Then, because of a shortage of students with the appropriate skills, I was asked (begged) to play in the pit for the performances. So I got the opportunity to really master some heavy rock & roll piano! I surprised even myself.

As soon as "Godspell" closed, I went right into rehearsals for a Christmas show with the wonderful people who comprise "Area Community Theatre of Sharpsville [PA]." They ask me to work with them on shows like this and let me work my own personal magic on the accompaniment. Percussionist Stephen Ley and I have a blast working together. The day this show closed, the producer asked if I'd play with them again in December of 2023, and I quickly answered "yes!"

I've also been subbing around a lot of churches this year, saving up the money to go towards Jas's and my travel in 2023.

Household Happenings:

In early April, my granddaughter, who was 20 at the time, simultaneously lost her job and her apartment arrangement. When she called to ask if she could move in with us, I quickly said, "yes." It's been an absolute joy for me to have her around. After applying to jobs all summer long, in mid-September she finally found a server position at one of our local Perkin's Restaurants. And she turned 21 in mid-August.

Fiber Arts:

Baby blanket for dear Cleveland Orchestra Chorus friend Julie Cajigas's new daughter, Zoey. Link.

Many sample bags in preparation for commissioned bags for my cousin, Ken Case's wife, Diane, and her two sister  the fabric is vintage yardage they purchased in Africa or India many years ago. Link to the test bags.

Two bags finished and delivered to Diane. Link.

For my partner's July birthday, I made him a man bag to carry on our summer travels, especially the cruise. Link.

I treated myself to an Intermediate Bag Making class with the brilliant Ellie Lum of Klum Bags in Portland. Here's what I made.

Exercising [Our Brains]:

When the NYTimes bought Wordle, we jumped on the bandwagon. Tyler and Jas and I play the puzzle every morning and share our results to a three-way group text. It helps us keep in touch across the miles.

Travel:

Finally, Covid felt manageable enough for us to travel.

• Oops, while proofreading this post, I realized I forgot a quick trip home to Orlando during YSU's Spring Break. Here's the story.

• As soon as the spring semester was finished, we flew from Cleveland into Dallas/Ft. Worth airport and rented a car for the five-hour drive to the Texas panhandle. My daughter-in-law, Leslie, had recently sold her in-town house in Amarillo, and she and Tyler and her daughter, Caroline, moved out to the family's ranch house, about half an hour southeast of Amarillo. This is the house where she and Tyler were married at Thanksgiving time in 2015. We wanted to see how they had made the house their own. The property sits on the edge of the Palo Duro Canyon, which is the second-largest canyon in the U.S., after the Grand Canyon, and we were excited to have the opportunity to hike into the canyon. Much of the canyon land is privately owned, so we were able to hike at will in the area that belongs to the Stephens/Williams family.

  After four days with the family, we headed back to D/FW and spent two nights with my elder son, Scott (who goes by T.J., but will always be Scott to the family). He lives in Lewisville and works from home as a specialist in computer network routing. Our time with him is usually spent attending his hockey games. He plays in several "beer league" teams. He's been playing hockey for about nine years and recently scored his 50th career goal.

• About six weeks later, we drove to Interlochen, MI, the home of Interlochen Arts Camp and Interlochen Arts Academy, where Leslie and Tyler met and from which they graduated in 1996 and 1994, respectively. She teaches dance every summer at Interlochen Arts Camp, and hopes to teach there year-round as soon as a permanent contemporary dance position opens up. They saw a lakefront house this summer, with which they fell in love. They were able to purchase the house, closing on September 1, before heading back to Amarillo for the fall semester, where she has been teaching for years at West Texas A&M University. Their initial plan was to rent the house out and let it pay for itself until they could relocate from Texas to Michigan.

  The actual purpose of this trip for Jas and myself was to attend a performance by Bonnie Raitt at Interlochen Arts Festival, a summer-long series of concerts in all genres. But as long as we were driving 7½ hours to see Bonnie, we made the trip last long enough to visit our Youngstown nextdoor neighbors at their summer house on Torch Lake, and to spend time with Tyler and Leslie.

  During the fall semester, Leslie learned that her summer teaching partner was pregnant and would be taking maternity leave, so she gave her notice at West Texas, and she and Tyler (who works remotely as a programmer manager) and Caroline packed up everything and moved to Interlochen during Thanksgiving week. I now receive beautiful pictures of the view of Bronson Lake from their bedroom windows most mornings.

  Here's the full story and pictures from the Michigan trip.

  And the bag I made for the trip.

• In mid-summer, our travel pals suggested we go on a cruise from Boston to Montreal. I had never visited Montreal, and jumped at the chance. We like the Holland America way of cruising, and we always have fun together, so on August 26, we flew from Cleveland to Boston, boarded the Holland America Zaandam on Saturday, August 27, and disembarked in Montreal seven days later.

  If you're interested in the long story and the pictures, this link will take you there.

• In early October, I took two nights off from "Godspell" and drove to Detroit to spend the night in a hotel near the airport. My late husband's son, Chris Ross, flew from San Diego and met me at the hotel. The next morning we got an early start and drove from Detroit to Interlochen, where we met his daughter, Elise, at noon and spent Interlochen Family Weekend with her. Elise is a senior piano performance major in her second year at Interlochen Arts Academy. We can't wait to learn what she decides to do with her education next year—what university or conservatory will capture her interest? She's an amazing young woman with a bright future ahead.

  I thought I had a reservation for one of the cabins on the Interlochen campus, but when we walked into Stone Hotel to get our cabin keys, the desk clerk said she didn't have a reservation for me. I spent about ten minutes trying to quell my panic (one NEVER goes to parents weekend or graduation without a hotel reservation!), then texted Tyler and asked if we could stay in his unfurnished house. He quickly said it would be fine. Chris spent the afternoon attending Elise's classes with her while I drove to Menard's to buy a couple of inflatable mattresses, sheets, blankets, and a few other necessities to get us through the weekend. I didn't mind spending the money, as I knew Tyler and Leslie would use all these items as soon as they arrived. Chris and I had a blast all weekend, and we were able to take Elise and a friend out to dinner and bowling.

  All I can think whenever I'm around Elise is how sad it is that her grandfather never got to meet her, and how proud he would have been of her musical talents and accomplishments.

• My half-sister moved to Mount Pleasant, SC, about six months into the pandemic, to join her granddaughter and precious young great-granddaughters there. Immediately after my Christmas show at Area Community Theatre of Sharpsville closed, I hopped into the car and began driving toward Mount Pleasant to spend a few days with Debbie. I got as far as Morgantown, WV, that night. The next morning, Monday, I was out of the hotel by 8:30 and arrived at Debbie's house at 6:30. We spent 20 minutes basking in seeing each other after an absence of two years. Then I drove to her granddaughter Casey's house four miles away, where I would spend two nights. Debbie and I spent Tuesday together, catching up. Then we drove back to Casey's for a family dnner. I had planned to leave Wednesday afternoon, but the more I looked at the weather, the more concerned I got with the weather system that was coming up from the south. So at 10:30 in the morning, I hugged Debbie good-bye and took off. I was able to get to Marietta, OH, by about 6:00, and left in the morning as soon as the sun rose. After a stop in Akron to visit Wild Birds Unlimited to stock up on seed, I made it home by noon, just before the rain started. Talk about a whirlwind trip!

For 2023, we have two cruises planned. The first, to the Eastern Caribbean, will begin this week. Yea—sunshine and warm weather!

Extreme Sadness:

The detail about our Texas trip that I neglected to mention was the plan, on our way from Amarillo back to Lewisville, to stop in Denton, the home of University of North Texas, to visit my dear friend and former student, Sierra McCorvey. I had been Sierra's accompanist several times throughout her time at Youngstown State University, where she received her Bachelor's and Master's degrees in vocal performance. She not only had an incredible voice, but she was the nicest and most loving person one could ever meet. Every young person she ever taught, every church member who listened to her sing, every professor or university colleague with whom she ever worked—everyone loved Sierra and considered her one of their best friends. That's how she made you feel.

We texted frequently once she moved to Denton and started her doctoral program. We had plans to meet for coffee on the afternoon of May 20. But on May 10, while kayaking on a large nearby lake, a ferocious storm blew up and she lost control of her kayak. When she didn't show up for work the next morning, her boss became very concerned. Her father immediately flew to Texas, and shortly thereafter her body was recovered.

Her death was a great loss to everyone who knew her. To meet her and hear her sing, you knew she had a fabulous career ahead, in whatever direction she wanted it to go. She blessed us all with her presence in our lives.

Sierra's website and bio

Sierra's senior recital video

And the Last Word

Oh, yeah, and I got Covid. The whole story is in the cruise from Boston to Montreal travelogue. I got sick on August 8, nineteen days before we were to sail. I tested negative again on August 17. I didn't know whether I would be able to board the ship until the day I boarded the ship!!! I didn't pack until the day before we were leaving to drive to Cleveland and fly to Boston. Quelle nightmare (to quote one of my favorite movies).

Happy New Year to you and yours. May you be healthy, happy, and wise in 2023. And may I never see another semester like the one I just lived through.

Thoughts on the Inability to Say No

This morning, I started to write an email to a blogger acquaintance who has studied with the same sewing and creativity teacher with whom I've studied. As I was writing and pouring more of my heart out into the email, I realized I wanted to keep this email and be able to refer back to it to make sure I've learned all available life lessons it had to offer. So that intended email is becoming a blog post on my seldom used everything-other-than-sewing-and-travel blog. Let the learning begin!

This semester, I have gotten in over my head. I did it to myself—I own it! How? Here are the components that have, one by one, become attached to each other like magnets.

I agreed last spring to play for a Christmas program at a community theatre the next county and state over. Since the first show I played for this theatre back in 2013 or 2014, I have received such love from these people, I just want to play with and for them. They let me do my own thing on the piano with their singers and not stick to the printed black dots. When they ask, I try to answer "Yes," as I know I'm going to have a ball with them.

Then my neighbor and friend, the professor who is head of the voice department at Youngstown State, asked if I'd come back to YSU and play for her students, as one of the accompanists had quit this year. I tried to keep my number of students to five, but now I've got eight. More (classical) music to learn, more lessons to attend, and more weekly performances to accompany to help these students learn and perfect their art form. (For the record, I'd rather be playing musical theatre and oldies than classical, but where there's a need ....)

Then my favorite musical theatre professor asked if I'd be the rehearsal accompanist for YSU's production of "Godspell." I love working with the MT students at YSU. They pour love all over me every day. [Sidenote: I had a narcissistic adoptive mother who was emotionally abusive, with the result that I grew up with no self esteem. These young people give me a whole new perspective on who I am - at 72! I adore them for what they've given me.] But then the professor went out on FMLA because of some issues at home, and suddenly everything was different. How lucky that the person who was hired to fill the absence in the department is a fabulous musician, teacher, and director. The show is going on, and all is well. I was able to bring in my favorite collaborative pianist sidekick, who plays on Thursday nights, giving me a break in the 5-nights-a-week rehearsal schedule. She also plays any time I have a conflict, which keeps a lot of cogs moving around.

When the previous professor asked me to be rehearsal pianist, I confirmed with her that I wouldn't have to play in the pit band. I prefer playing for rehearsals, and don't love being in the pit. But you can hear it coming, can't you? Now I'm going to be in the pit the weekends of 11/12 and 11/19.

Then I received a request to accompany the opera chorus for Opera Western Reserve as they prepare for their production of "La Boheme," which will be staged Nov. 11 at Stambaugh Auditorium. That means four Sunday nights of rehearsals, that will happen when I'm usually out for Mexican dinner with our friends. And more importantly, it means I've got a lot of choral music to learn.

And then there's the National Association of Teachers of Singing (NATS) Ohio auditions on Oct. 22, being held at Baldwin Wallace University, 75 miles away. And we have six students competing for the honors and prizes. And I'm playing for all six. New music to learn. And because of NATS' very strict copyright law policy, a bunch of music must be bought, as my comfort level is playing on an iPad with a page turn pedal to solve that problem, not playing from paper with a very kind graduate student turning the pages for me.

I have two senior recitals and two junior recitals coming up, again with a whole bunch of music on each recital.

[I didn't mention two Music at Noon performances I played at the Butler Institute of American Art, one on Sep. 28 for the Musical Theatre department and one on Oct. 5 for the Classical Voice studios. Or the rehearsal I played for Stambaugh Chorus so their regular accompanist could play for Yom Kippur service. Or the choir rehearsal—Messiah, of course—I've got to play in November.]

And finally, the day after the NATS audition in Berea, OH, is the voice studio fall recital in Bliss Hall. Seven students to accompany in performance. And then head straight to my Boheme chorus rehearsal.

I reiterate, I did this to myself. I find it very difficult to say "no" where I see a need. And every penny I earn through all these musical activities is going to pay at least half of the cost of our cruise/tour of the Inside Passage and Denali National Park next May. So there's that!

And while I was busy with music, the Jazzman was contacting contractors and figuring out how to best repair our side porch, which was built in 1927 and covered with cracks. We wanted to preserve the cold room that was hidden underneath it, in case I ever started canning vegetables. No, I joke. I will never start canning anything. But, in my mind, having the coldroom there preserves the integrity of this wonderful old house. The benefit of this rebuild is that it won't collapse when we have fifteen friends sitting around it. The downside is we didn't think ahead about the contractor's use of a concrete saw and the amount of dust it would generate. The door between the cold room and my sewing room was open during the reconstruction, and my entire sewing room is now covered in dust. Fortunately, when we realized what was happening, we ran downstairs and quickly grabbed every blanket and drop cloth we could find to cover my fabrics and machines. Also, not enough and not soon enough. And with my level of music busy-ness, it's going to be Thanksgiving break before I have a moment to go into that room and start ridding it of dust. Oy.

The concrete work, clockwise from top left. Before; during the dust storm; shoring up the cold room; the finished product; and we redid the base of the driveway.

Oh, the photo at the top? That signifies the "big five" wildlife that are a Denali sightseer's prize: moose, bears, Dall sheep, caribou, and wolves. That cruise will be worth every moment of practice I had to invest in making this very difficult semester run its course. Photo credit: Alaska Tour and Travel, alaska.com

The Hackney Pouch from Sew Sweetness

This cute pouch, handy to store so many of your small treasures, is from the Minikins Season 3 collection of patterns, designed by Sara Lawson for her company, Sew Sweetness. I'm entering it in the August challenge and have to link it to my URL, but my regular blog is suddenly and inexplicably not reachable. I'll contact GoDaddy when I can carve some time away from the piano.

The beautiful hydrangea digital print quilting cotton is designed by Chong-A Hwang for Timeless Treasures. I got mine from 4my3boyz.com, but you can also find it by using these search terms: "Timeless Treasures - Misty: CD6897 Black Packed Hydrangea - Digital Fabric"

The pattern is available in this collection.

Other wonderful bag patterns designed by Sara are available here.

Commentability

I have been using Feedburner to enable blog visitors to follow by email. Now Google is disabling the use of Feedburner, so I have removed that capability. I'm searching for some other tool to use.

I'm not using this blog much, but there's a lot of content on here that I don't want to lose. And, occasionally, I want to write something but don't want it on my jancrews blog, so I stash it here. I will continue that practice.

Thanks for reading.

Two Outies, Two Innies

I work a picture puzzle on my iPad every morning in the Jigsaw Puzzle app from Critical Hit Software. I usually choose 64 pieces. I love picture puzzles. When I'm doing physical puzzles, I usually do 1000-piece puzzles. I can't start one when I'm preparing for a gig, as I get totally obsessed with working on it. "Just one more piece and then I'll go practice." Working a virtual puzzle every morning is just a way to start my day. (I've usually finished the night before adding a few words to the NYT or LATimes crossword puzzle, or perhaps spending five minutes on an easy Sudoku.)

This morning I wondering how I fell in love with picture puzzles. (Is that the Southern name for a jigsaw puzzle? One time I told someone I was working on a picture puzzle, and they looked at me with blank eyes. They had no idea what I was talking about.) 

I don't recall either of my parents or my brothers ever working puzzles. I know I got my love of crosswords from my daddy, as my younger son got his love (obsession?) from me. (He once started a crossword puzzle tournament in Youngstown. It only ran a couple of years - maybe his work got in the way of all the planning activity. Or maybe his divorce. I don't know.) And my grandson frequently works crosswords with his dad, while  my granddaughter is more prone to sit down at the jigsaw puzzle table when she comes over to visit. My elder son tells me he loves picture puzzles, but his cat-from-hell would turn a standing puzzle into chaos  

But how did I start doing picture puzzles? Someone had to have bought a puzzle for me. I've been doing them since elementary school days. Did I save my allowance and hop on my bike and ride to the Rexall Drug Store in Maitland where I might have bought my first puzzle?

[Like a flash while typing the previous sentence, I suddenly have a very faint memory of having a puzzle at our vacation cottage in Cashiers, NC. I know we bought that house furnished, so maybe several came with the property.] 

I have very few memories of high school. I attended Forest Lake Academy, a Seventh-day Adventist high school, grades 9-12, northwest of Orlando  The school's administration building burned down a month or so before school was to begin in the fall of 1968. The administration building had held a number of classrooms, without which the entire student body could not have all gone to school at the same time. The solution was to have a split day. The freshmen and seniors would go to school in the morning, and the sophomores and juniors would go in the afternoon.

The morning session began at 7:00, I believe. Because of where I lived, I was the first person on the bus every day. My daddy always went to Florida Hospital to make rounds with his surgical patients before going to the office, leaving the house before 6:00. For my entire freshman year, my daddy drove me to meet the bus at the Rexall on the corner of Horatio and 17-92. We would sit in the car and talk until the bus arrived. Tears well in my eyes as I write this. Those were some of the most precious times in my life. It was certainly the most extended time Daddy and I had together.

My mother was kind to me when it suited her. It didn't often suit her. Verbally tearing me down suited her much better. But my daddy poured love all over me  I frequently think he was the one who wanted to adopt me, not Mother.

After our morning of classes, we had band, choir, lunch from 11:00 to 1:00 ... activities that involved the entire student body of roughly 300. Then I boarded the bus and rode home, where I was the last person off the bus. The bus let me out on 17-92 at Manor Road. I had about a mile to walk to the end of Manor Road. Sometimes Mother would pick me up, but my memories are of lovely solitary walks home. (And now I look it up on Google Maps, and learn my walk was less than half a mile.)

I must have practiced the piano or the oboe or the organ when I got home, but my memories were of sitting on the floor in the living room at the large square coffee table and working on whatever puzzle was laid out there. Daddy had a stereo system set up nearby, with a reel-to-reel tape deck and a turntable that he taught me to use. He would buy records that he knew I would enjoy. The soundtracks to "Oklahoma," "The Music Man," "The Sound of Music," and albums by The Lettermen, Sergio Mendez, the Reader's Digest set of the operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan .... I lived for my afternoons of solitude - Mother working in the kitchen or sewing in her bedroom on her Necchi and leaving me alone. I was listening to music and singing at the top of my lungs, and methodically putting pieces into the puzzle.

Wikipedia tells me the first commercially available puzzle was made in 1760, and that sales soared during the Great Depression. They were an inexpensive form of entertainment and could be used over and over again. Sales fell off after the depression, when rising wages caused higher prices. Interestingly, the Covid pandemic of 2020 caused renewed interest in jigsaw puzzles!

So, back to my original thought - how were jigsaw puzzles introduced into my life. I believe first with the wooden puzzles that were sold in the 1950s where large pieces would fit into a frame to help toddlers develop manual dexterity. I remember seeing those in my house as a child, after I had outgrown them. And then, quite possibly, the serendipity of buying our North Carolina mountain property and being introduced to puzzles there as a vacation activity.

And here I am in my early 70s, still finding great joy from putting the final piece into a puzzle.

By the way, Wikipedia also tells me, "According to the Alzheimer Society of Canada, doing jigsaw puzzles is one of many activities that can help keep the brain active and may reduce the risk of Alzheimer's disease."   

It looks like I'll be working picture puzzles for many years to come.

There's no defined name for the thing that sticks out from a puzzle piece, enabling it to be locked into the adjacent piece  I refer to them as outties and innies when talking to my son, as in, "I hate those puzzles where all the pieces are the same - two innies and two outties."

Pondering Religion

I'm going to say something here that I never admit to anyone: I no longer go to any church and can't say that I believe in god any longer. I go into churches for weddings and funerals, and to play the piano for their worship services when their regular musician needs a vacation day. But I don't believe the words they're saying and the prayers they're praying. It's all gobbledygook to me.

When people ask, I joke that I grew up in the Seventh-day Adventist church, then married a Southern Baptist who had gotten off into all the charismatic stuff, then married a Lutheran, then a Mormon, then a golfer, and I liked his religion the best. For the record, after the death of my One True Love, I had a four-year relationship with a man who was Jewish, then a 10+ year relationship with a man who was a lapsed Roman Catholic. Just to round out the story.

In June of 1950, I was given away for adoption by my thirty-seven-year-old, never-married birthmother. I was her second child to be given up for adoption. The first had been in 1935. I found my half-sister on Ancestry in 2016, when we were 80 and 65. 

So there was the initial abandonment. 

Then I was adopted by a couple who, in their mid 30s, already had two sons, ages seven and five. 

These two mothers sewed up the baggage I've carried around for 71 years.

My adoptive father was, I'm convinced, the driving force behind the adoption. He wanted a daughter. He was a general practitioner and general surgeon, and let all his obstetrician friends know that he and his wife would like to adopt an infant girl. When my mother went into the hospital in labor with no plans for me, her OB called my daddy and said, "If it's a girl, it's yours."

And so, six days after my birth, I was removed from the hospital and driven to my new home in my second mother's arms. My daddy didn't go along to pick me up. They were afraid he would be recognized and that, at anytime later, my birthmother would change her mind and want me back. Only thirty-three years later did I learn that she might recognize him because she knew him! She had come to Orlando to stay with her brother from their native Gloucester, Massachusetts, during her pregnancy. Her brother had heart problems and, as coincidence would have it, my daddy was his doctor and she went with her brother to all his doctor's appointments. 

I say I think Daddy was the driving force in the adoption based upon the years of unequivocal love and emotional support I received from him, in contrast with the emotional abuse I received from Mother. The spankings and slaps when words I spoke to Mother were deemed by her to be "sassy." The harsh and denigrating things she said to me. Years of criticism of me from a very narcissistic woman, whom I've said through the years had no business mothering a daughter, much less adopting a daughter.

But she was not the only person who was critical and judgmental toward me. Because of three of my husbands' devotion to their respective churches, there were many more people looking for an opportunity to take me down a notch  

-There was an Adventist woman on a Saturday night at my elementary school, where many of the Adventist kids congregated after the end of the Sabbath at sundown, with or without their parents, to watch church-approved movies (usually true stories or documentaries about wildlife) or play kickball and tetherball and so on. I don't think I even knew who she was at that time. She had a child with her, a little girl probably three years old. I loved being around children. I bent down to say hello to the little girl and waved at her. The mother yanked her away from me and said to me, very sternly, "Were you thumbing your nose at her?" I not only didn't know what thumbing one's nose meant, I wouldn't have even thought to do it had I known. That was totally not my style. We didn't have a television; we didn't go to movies; where would I have ever seen the gesture called "thumbing your nose." That event occurred about 63 years ago, and if you gave me a map of my elementary school at that time, I could take you right back to the exact location the interchange occurred. 

-About 57 years ago, at the railroad crossing on Virginia Drive approaching North Orange Avenue in Orlando, Mother asked me something. I don't know what she asked; I don't know what I answered. But she clearly didn't like what I said.  She hauled off and slapped me as hard as she could. The location where this act occurred is indelibly burned in my memory. This woman who lived and died for her church thought nothing of taking her open hand or a flyswatter to my skin when my actions didn't meet her requirements. Her actions must have scared her that day, as she never slapped me again. But that was only the last of many such occurrences. 

-When my first husband and I divorced after ten years of emotional abuse on his part, he said horrible things about me to acquaintances. At a women's Bible study a few weeks before our ultimate separation and the following divorce, the woman sitting next to me told me I should be nicer to my sons.  (I remember very few people from that speaking-in-tongues and dancing-in-the-aisles church, but I'm pretty sure this woman's name was Cookie.) WTF? Judgmental much? All in the name of Christ. And because we had moved to that location for my husband to attend graduate school in a Southern Baptist seminary, and our only non-school activities were with the church he had chosen for us to attend, when we divorced, I lost every friend I had made in that town so distant from my friends of many years.

-In my 40s, I began dating an Adventist man whom I met at work. I should have known better, but I was driven by the need to be accepted and loved. I became very close friends with his sister, who was also very active in her Adventist church. She was one of the worship leaders in that church, and once she learned how well I played, she asked me to start being the church pianist. We spoke by phone almost daily and had frequent family gatherings with her extended family. Until one day when she didn't like something I said or did, and told me I wasn't a good enough Christian and she didn't want to be friends with me anymore. "Good enough Christian?" I didn't know there was such a scale. 

Again, all in the name of Christ. 

When presented with the "religion" category in various online profiles, I respond "Kindness." I try to be nice to everyone. I try not to criticize. I don't want to hear negative things that other people say about people I know. I want to like people. I feel I wasn't liked. My mother drummed that into me: I had no value, no worth, no redeeming graces.

People shouldn't have to be raised with a lack of self-respect, with a feeling of not mattering. And if your words that make another human feel worthless are driven by your religion, then you're losing the game of life. In my opinion. 

When someone asks for prayers, I make sure that person knows I'm thinking of them. I'm thinking of their well-being. I'm wishing them a swift recovery from whatever kind of problem they're having. But praying for them? Not in the traditional religious sense. I don't think it's anything more than words and thoughts. 

Your religion is important to you? Good. Good for you. But, for your and everyone else's particular god's sake, don't go around with a sense of superiority. Don't say your religion is the only religion, the only true religion. It just ain't so. Believe what works for you  But don't go trying to force everyone else to believe as you do. It doesn't become you!

My greatest desire is that, at my memorial service when I'm gone, someone--or many someones--will stand and say, "She was kind." Not "she was kind for God's sake" or "she was kind in the name of Jesus." Or Buddha. Or Allah. Or Mother Earth. Or the universe. Just, "she was kind."

I wish for you the same thing. 

The photo is of Kress Memorial Seventh-day Adventist Church in Winter Park, Florida, the church in which I grew up.

A Little Rant for a Headachey Day

 

I have a headache from the crap weather this morning (but while I'm ranting, my heart goes out to the people in the Pacific Northwest and the western states who are suffering from the horrific heat and drought). But my rant is this: if someone mentions that they have some condition that's making them feel bad, don't try to fix it for them. Just say you're sorry they don't feel well. And please don't tell me to talk to my doctor in my annual female physical this morning! I've had headaches since I was 16 or so, and migraines since 18. I'm as on top of it as anyone can be about migraine. I know far more about my headaches than my female-doctor ever will. Just say, "I'm sorry you don't feel well. Is there anything I can do for you?' And I'll say, "No, but thank you for asking." And we'll be done with that. 

So annoyed with Spousal Equivalent this morning. This is the second time in twelve hours that he's told me what to do: last night it was when to get over into the turn lane; this morning it was, yet again, about my headaches. Really, it must be such a burden for him to know everything about every damned thing. Yes, that was sarcasm! 

I needed to rant. I wrote the first paragraph on Facebook, then cut it to paste somewhere else—here—rather than air my dirty laundry where it could come back to haunt me. 

Thank you for letting me rant. 

An Unpopular Opinion

I'm anti Mother's Day. Well, maybe not anti. Maybe I'm just ambivalent about the "holiday." I don't understand why we need a day to honor mothers. Or fathers, grandparents, etc. My daughter-in-law talks to her [wonderful] mother on the phone every day, sometimes multiple times a day. In their world, every day is Mother's Day. And Daughter's Day.

I've had numerous mothers in my life. There was the woman who gave birth to me and, six days later, gave me away. Then there was the woman who, now that I'm 70 I've come to realize, probably didn't want to adopt me. I believe my adoption was solely my daddy's desire. And I thank the universe for him every day. There were four mothers-in-law, who may or may not have been pleased with my marriage to their sons. As I look back, I think of them all as having been kind to me. But I was already damaged goods in the needing-a-mother department. Mothers, for the most part, and by the very nature of being mothers, tend to want to train their offspring. And I didn't think I needed their training, so we were already off to a bad start when we first laid eyes on each other.

But back to Mother's Day.

I consider Mother's Day to be yet another Hallmark holiday. And I don't like the commercialization of anything. Maybe I'm just a grinch at heart.

Here is what I posted on Facebook today:

If Mother's Day is important to you, if you consider yourself a mother-figure to your children, step-children, nieces and nephews, grandchildren, the neighborhood kids, your dogs and cats and fish, your students, the person in the cubicle next to yours or the Zoom window next to yours, or any other being, then I wish you a Happy Mother's Day.

If, like me, you consider it nothing more than an opportunity for commercial establishments to ramp up their marketing efforts and use it as an opportunity to bring in a little extra income, then we can ignore it together. Commercialization be damned. We cynics can unite.

If it's painful to you for any reason - you've always wanted to have a child, but nature or life got in the way; you had a crappy relationship with your mother who had no business being a mother; you lost one too many babies to miscarriage or a childhood illness or an awful accident; because of circumstances in your life, you had to make the difficult decision to abort the pregnancy and have always struggled with that memory; because of circumstances in your life, you had to give a child up for adoption; or any other reason that makes the day painful fo you - I'm sending you a hug and hoping you have someone to talk to about it, if that would help. My heart goes out to you.

To the companies who have told their call center staff, "if you talk to any female this weekend, be sure to end the call with 'Happy Mother's Day," you need to wake up. Being female doesn't equate to being a mother. There are so many more factors involved. And there are so many circumstances you know nothing about.

When I woke up thinking about this topic this morning, I decided to search the internet on "Who invented Mother's Day." I found out it was "Anna Jarvis of Philadelphia." You can read all about her [on Britannica .com]. But here's the most important part of the whole article: "What had originally been primarily a day of honour became associated with the sending of cards and the giving of gifts, however, and, in protest against its commercialization, Jarvis spent the last years of her life trying to abolish the holiday she had brought into being."

Anna, I salute you.

And to my second husband, who knew how difficult the day was for me and, nevertheless, with a nyah nyahnyah nyah nyah tone to his voice, said to me, "I didn't get you anything for Mother's Day. You're not my mother," well, you can take your tiniest of tiny hearts and shove it where the sun don't shine. You were beyond insensitive. There are soooo many reasons I'm no longer married to you!

There were specific factors that first soured me on Mother's Day. They came out of the first marriage (which I knew two weeks in was a Very Bad Mistake). And the ensuing divorce. The thing is—I walked out on my marriage. And in doing so, I walked out on my two little boys, ages six and five. My intention was not to walk out on them; they were unintended victims. What I was walking out on was the emotionally abusive husband of ten years.

I remarried two years later, concurrent with a IBM transfer from the Dallas area to the D.C. suburbs. I got to see my boys every summer and on alternate holidays. If I wanted to talk to them, I would call them in Dallas, and they might or might not be available for my call. Their hyper-religious father treated me as if I was Satan's sister. He said horrible things about me to them (per their comments to me), and saw no reason to treat me as if I were still their mother. They were instructed to address his new wife as "Mother." On Mother's Day, all deference was to her. I would get not a call, not a card, not a thing. And everywhere around me was Mother's Day this and Mother's Day that. Not one person acknowledged that I was a mother who, in walking out on the marriage, had done the only thing she knew how to do in trying to protect herself from a cruel-to-her husband.

As, year after year, the pain of those empty Mother's Days added up, I did what was natural to me: I built a wall around my heart. I acted as if the day didn't exist. I made it not matter to me.

As I draw to the close of this recount, I wish to state clearly that—in my mind, my heart, my opinion—my sons bear no responsibility for these Mother's Day omissions. They were in their own preteen world. Had they been one ounce aware of the upcoming "holiday" (and I use that term very loosely!), and wanted to send me a card, they would have had to depend on the not-good will toward me of their stepmother and their father to get to the store, choose a card, ask for the money to buy the card, ask their dad for my address, ask for a stamp .... You get the idea. If they had wanted to call me that day, they would have had to ask for my phone number. Nothing was easy. Nothing was facilitated.

And in the back of their sweet minds lay the time they were with their grandmother at Walt Disney World and saw some cute tchotchke they wanted to buy for me. When they asked her if they could buy it, she responded, "Why do you want to buy her anything? She walked out on you." (Per their statement to me sometime thereafter—watch out what you say to children of divorce. It always gets back to the target.)

Now, forty years later, I tell myself not to bristle when someone lovingly wishes me a happy Mother's Day. I work very hard to just respond graciously, to just say "thank you."

And my guys, my wonderful men, now 47 and 46? Since we first brought the subject of my walking out—okay, let's use the "a" word, my abandonment—to light in their late teens and twenties, they were nothing but loving and forgiving. They said they understood why I would walk out on their dad. They have never appeared to hold a grudge, to be bitter, to be anything but kind and supportive and loving.

My forgiving myself is an entirely different matter. I don't think I beat myself up about it. But I do, ruefully and not infrequently, wish that I had had the resources to realize I was not helpless in the situation. I do feel sorry for that young mother with frequent, sometimes month-long, migraines, that thirty-year-old wife with a husband who went from job to job on a whim "because God told me to", and who had no inclination to help around the house and with the children. She was a lost soul with no apparent-to-her support system. May the young wives and mothers of the 21st century know the support that society offers them today. May society in this country that is currently in upheaval put politics aside and care about those in need, whatever that need may be.

And if Mother's Day is important to you, may you have a happy Mother's Day, with due deference from those who love you.

In the Rearview Mirror: 2018

Today I’m thinking back over the highlights of 2018. The year included lots of music and lots of travel.

WARNING: Long post. You may want to grab a cuppa or adult beverage before reading.

MUSIC:

At the end of last year, after experiencing some health scares, I asked Dr. Yun to replace me as the collaborative pianist for the April opera performance. She graciously complied, although neither of us loved her having to do that. I made very little music from January to September. Then, while sitting with Nancy Cline at a Music at Noon performance, she showed me two texts she had gotten from musical theatre students who couldn't find an accompanist for the fall semester. Nancy was going through a lot of stress in her personal life, so I told her I would take on these two students for the rest of the semester. I had played for Mia and Daniel during the fall semester of 2017, so was already familiar with their excellent work ethics and knew I'd have fun working with them. Then about three weeks later, I received a late night text from one of the opera/classical students, saying her accompanist had been "ghosting" her and asking if I'd accompany her. I assented, but told her she had to find someone else for the spring semester. And just like that [snaps finger] I was out of retirement and occupying a lot of piano benches.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I l*o*v*e musical theatre (MT). So I was very excited to switch from opera to MT and to have the opportunity to work with Dr. Maria Fenty Denison, who leads the voice program for the theatre department at YSU. Maria and I have been having a wonderful time in her studio, and she has very generously thrown some amazing opportunities my way.

I was honored to accompany the auditionees for the Spring 2019 production of Sondheim's "Into the Woods." I will be the rehearsal accompanist for this show, and will be in the pit for the performances. (Friday and Saturday evenings, Sunday matinee of Palm Sunday weekend; Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evenings of Easter weekend - put it on your calendars.) I also was the collaborative pianist for two performances by MTTroup - a group of about a dozen MT students - performing some great old holiday songs at the new Doubletree Hotel in downtown Youngstown during their cocktail hour, and a Music at Noon performance at the Butler Institute of American Art. This work with MTTroup will be ongoing as we reach out to the community to spread the word about the excellence of the YSU musical theatre program.

(Here's the video of the Music at Noon performance: https://youtu.be/Epg69RdcZYc) I will continue accompanying Mia and Daniel for the spring semester, including Mia's Senior Showcase. And I've taken on Jessica (another senior) and Aislinn, so at four students and a show, I've declared my dance card to be full.

Finishing off December (surely you know about musicians and December!), I stepped up to help Jamie Shiell at Christ Episcopal Church in Warren, where Tyler is the tenor soloist, in Jamie's production of Lessons & Carols. I also helped out in his Christmas Eve services and accompanied Tyler in two solos, one of the YSU students in a solo, and played harpsichord in an organ/harpsichord duet of a suite of Christmas carols. I ended the year subbing as the pianist at St. John Lutheran in Champion, a delightful small church where I'm happy to help when their regular organist needs a day off.

That's a lot of music for being retired! 😄

TRAVEL:

Again, if you know me well, you know I love to travel. In January, Jas and I, along with our travel companions Mike and Marilyn, and our beach buddies Maggie, Carol, and Jeanne, again spent a week at El Dorado Maroma south of Cancun on the Riviera Maya. If you're ever thinking about vacationing at an all-inclusive resort, I highly recommend the El Dorado brand. They focus on the cuisine, and it's all wonderful. We'll be heading to another El Dorado resort a few miles away from Maroma in mid-February, 2019.

I didn’t graduate from the high school near Orlando that I attended, but if I had, it would have been in the class of 1967.5. In 2017, I attended the 50th reunion of the class of ‘67; in 2018, I attended the 50th reunion of the class of ‘68. It was great fun to see some classmates I hadn’t seen in 65 years!

My half-sister and I had planned to travel to California for her granddaughter's wedding in March, but Debbie got very sick the day before we were to leave, so those plans were cancelled. And rather than do more traveling, in October she and I have started attending a theatre or concert performance once a month. We saw "Hello, Dolly" and "Les Miserables" at Playhouse Square in Cleveland, and attended the Cleveland Orchestra and Chorus Christmas concert at Severance Hall. After not knowing about each other for 65 years, we're taking advantage of our geographic proximity to get lots of sister time on the books.

In May I went on a Bali Fiber Tour with nine other women and two guides. We spent one weeks each based in Sanur and Ubud, traveling out from there to do lots of fabric-centric activities. If you're a fiberholic, as I am, visit the Bali Fiber Tour page on FB or google "Bali Fiber Tour." Barb Alexander has been leading these tours for a number of years, and it is a wonderful experience. Here's my travelogue, if you're interested: http://jancrews.com/travel/bali-2018/

Several weeks after returning from Bali, Jas and Mike and Marilyn and I went on a GoAhead tour of Ireland, starting and ending in Dublin and traveling around the south and west coast up to Galway. Since Jas and I visited the island in 2011, I took the Ancestry DNA test and learned I'm part Irish, so this trip was especially meaningful to me. I would go back anytime, and I would take advantage of GoAhead's great staff and planning. Here's that travelogue: http://jancrews.com/travel/ireland-2018/

Four days after returning from Ireland, I left for Japan. This was another fiber-related trip and included lots of interesting activities and side trips, along with the opportunity to meet lots of interesting likeminded people. http://jancrews.com/travel/japan-2018/

In September, Jas and I flew to Boston and drove out to Boothbay Harbor, Maine, to visit his brother, Glenn, in his annual month of working for Cabbage Island Clambakes. From Boothbay Harbor, we drove around the coast all the way out Cape Cod to Provincetown, stopping to visit friends along the way. I love New England, and would visit at the drop of the hat, so I greatly enjoyed this getaway, which coincided with Jas's retirement after 30 years of employment with Norfolk Southern Railway. One more travelogue, if you're interested: http://jancrews.com/travel/september-in-new-england/

And my final travel was a November weekend with my elder son, Scott, at his home in Lewisville, TX. I was able to attend one of his last hockey games of the season. I also took advantage of being in Dallas to catch up with my old friend Walu. We've been friends since around 1980, and have traveled to Europe together, but hadn't spend any quality time together for about 15 years, so this was a treat. The other treat was getting to meet my search angel, Vickie Strong, face to face. This trip was a great way to finish off all my travel for 2018.

While not exactly travel, I am now living in the land of winter comfort in my house, with the addition of new modern windows - 27 of them - on the 2nd and 3rd floors of my circa 1927 home. Once these are paid off, I’ll order the 1st floor windows.

EXTREME SADNESS:

The worst part of the year was losing our beloved Maggie Hagan, Jas's cousin and our frequent travel partner. Maggie knew how to have fun like no other person I've ever met. She was the whirlwind in the center of every party she attended. While we were in Mexico, she discovered a lump in her breast. She had radiation after our return. Then a few months later she was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia. On November 6, surrounded by her large and loving family, she passed away, leaving an enormous hole in the life of every person who had ever met her. Oh, Maggie, how we loved you.

GRATITUDE:

Again this year, I am filled with gratitude that is associated with my genealogical research.

My deepest gratitude for this year (and always) goes to all my second, third, and fourth cousins who have taken Ancestry, 23andme, or FTDNA tests. Each one I have contacted and who has replied has accepted me with an open heart.

Included in this gratitude pool is genealogical researcher Vickie Jordan Strong, who is my search angel. (Yes, that’s a thing.) Vickie has been holding my hand across the miles as my paternal family tree grows and expands with every new farm family we find. We have found lots of men who are NOT my father. Maybe someday we’ll find THE guy, but along the road, my life is richer for all the people who have touched my life. An adoptee grows up with lots of holes in her soul. My holes are slowing being filled with each contact with Vickie and my cousins.

I wish you all health and happiness in the New Year.

Unintended Gifts from Beyond

Note: This was first written as a Facebook Note on March 20, 2017

I spent last weekend in Orlando for my 50th high school reunion, packing every empty minute with visits to old friends in my hometown. I’ve been trying to figure out how to memorialize one very special meeting, and have decided to put it in a Facebook note.

The backstory:

I am adopted. I grew up feeling I didn’t fit in anywhere. I was always curious about my birthmother. With the help of a search organization in Dallas, I found her when I was 33. I called her home number. When she answered the phone, I ask, “Is this Gertrude Hodgkins Verburg?” When she said yes, I said I had been born June 22, 1950, had been doing genealogical research, and that my birth records indicated she might be my mother. (One always offers an out.) On the other end of the phone line there was a long pause, then she said, “I can’t talk to you right now,” and hung up the phone. There was another exchange several months later, with her acquiescence, at the end of which she requested that I never contact her again. I didn’t.

I was certain I was the only child she had ever had. She was almost 38 when I was born, late for pregnancy in 1950. She had spent the last few months of her pregnancy in Orlando, returning to her native Gloucester, Massachusetts, after my birth. A few years later, she and her brother moved permanently to Orlando. She married for the first and only time in 1956. And it was pretty clear from her actions and words that she had never told her husband about her pregnancy. Much later I was to learn that she had spent every Sunday morning of her life in Orlando in the nursery at her church, holding, rocking, caring for the babies.

In March, 2016, through the courtesy of the Ancestry genealogical website, I found a half-sister. My mother had not only had a baby girl and given her up for adoption in 1950, she had also had a baby girl and given her up for adoption in 1935! We were both shocked to find each other and thrilled out of our minds to find someone we were really related to. The icing on the cake was our similarities and shared interests.

My sister, Debbie, had searched for her mother much later than I did. Gertrude had died in April of 1998, and Debbie found her three weeks after her passing. Debbie had engaged a search agency to find her, and learned that Gertrude was a member of Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church in Orlando. She contacted the minister there and learned more about Gertrude’s life. Shortly thereafter, Debbie and her elder daughter flew to Orlando to meet Pastor Bob Eckard. He spoke warmly of our mother, told Debbie of her work in the church nursery, and introduced Debbie to a Mr. and Mrs. Nordman, with whom Gertrude had been close friends. The Nordmans were completely surprised by Debbie’s existence. Not only had Gertrude kept her secret from her husband for 40+ years, she had kept it from her closest friend.

Now to today:

I am on the Ancestry site several days a week as I search for my elusive birth father. I have taken the Ancestry DNA test (as has Debbie) and frequently correspond with distant cousins who are connected to me by our DNA. A couple of weeks ago I received a note from a “cousin” mentioning Gertrude and her husband, Gerrit. I started sorting through possibilities in my mind and decided to see if I could contact Mrs. Nordman. While searching, I learned that Mr. Nordman had died in 2011 and Mrs. Nordman in late 2016, just a few months ago. From her obituary, I learned they had five children, and through further searching, learned that the youngest, Nancy, still lived in the family home.

I contacted her and she shared with me some memories of Debbie’s and my mother. She told me that a few days before her death, her mother had said she wanted to get in touch with Gertrude’s daughter, but couldn’t remember her name. When she said that to me, I immediately teared up, assuming Gertrude had shared my existence with Mrs. Nordman. But when I called Debbie to tell her of this conversation, she reminded me that she had met the Nordmans, and that they had not known of her before meeting her, nor of me.

Mrs. Nordman wanted to get in touch with Debbie, but couldn’t remember her name.

I assumed it was just a desire to again tell Debbie how special Gertrude had been to her.

During our conversation, I told Nancy I’d like to see the church and visit the nursery where my mother had spent so much time and that had been named for and dedicated to her upon her death. She suggested I come attend church with her on the Sunday I would be in Orlando, and I quickly agreed.

We met in the church vestibule at 10:30 Sunday morning. She was holding a sign that said, “Welcome, Jan.” Then she introduced me to her eldest sister. We sat down and I noticed the quilts all arranged along the railings at the front of the church. They have a quilt guild that makes bright child-size quilts to donate to the children’s hospitals in Orlando, and Sunday was “quilt blessing day.” What a treat! As we were waiting for the service to begin, Nancy leaned over and pointed out a gentleman sitting on the back row of the choir. “That’s Pastor Eckard. I’ve arranged for us to have lunch together.” I had to stifle a sob. I had known he was no longer at the church, but assumed he had moved on to another church. I was wrong. He retired and he and his wife still live in Orlando and attend Grace Covenant. He knew my mother for over 30 years!
I enjoyed the service very much. The Presbyterian hymns are similar to the Adventist hymns on which I grew up. Same tunes, same words. The version of the Lord’s Prayer they say has the words “debts” rather than “trespasses.” All familiar. All comfortable. When the service was over, Nancy and I walked up to the front to get a closer look at the quilts. After Pastor Eckard took off his choir robe and put his music away, he joined us and we walked to the other building to see the nursery. Next to the door, a brass plaque was affixed to the wall, engraved with the words, “Gertrude Verburg Nursery.” We walked into the bright and cheery room, and talked about Gertrude’s Sundays there. The woman who had been working there that day had also known Gertrude. She talked about how, later in life when she couldn’t get around very well, they bought a comfortable rocker for her to sit in. Upon arrival, she’d settle in and they’d bring a baby to her to rock.

She gave away two daughters because she was unable to care for them, then spent several hours every week for the rest of her life holding and talking to babies. My eyes fill with tears of regret and tears of respect every time I remember that fact.
After visiting the nursery, Pastor and Mrs. Eckard, Nancy Nordman, and I left to drive to a nearby Italian restaurant for lunch. After we sat down, Nancy said, “I have something for you in the car.” She ran out and came back in carrying two recyclable grocery bags. Nancy said that Gertrude had left some things with Mrs. Nordman when she and Gerrit moved into a retirement home and then, ultimately, to a nursing home.

The first bag contained a large and very heavy silver chest, loaded with sterling silver flatware. Nancy’s mother’s handwritten note inside stated that if Gerrit ever needed money, these were to be sold and the money used for his support.
In the other bag was a plastic shoe storage box filled with various plastic bags, envelopes, and bank envelopes. One envelope contained an exquisite antique necklace and matching earrings. Another held about 20 bills from various foreign countries. I assume her husband collected these during his career in the United States Navy. A couple more envelopes held coins. A small leather box held a large pocket watch. There were several more pocket watches and two beautiful gold bangle bracelets. Plastic bags held two lockets, one with a curl of very fine hair. (My sister's? Mine? Our mother's?) Then Nancy pulled out one last envelope and had me hold my hands together, palms up, as she poured about twenty rings into my hands!!!!!

I slipped several onto my fingers, and they fit my large piano hands perfectly. Several are engraved. One plain wedding band has a 1909 date in it. Unbelievable!!!

Nancy told me she had been praying for me that morning before church, and had felt that these items that had been passed down in Gertrude’s family would help Debbie and me assuage our grief at having grown up without our mother and without each other.

I expressed my overwhelming gratitude to Nancy (and ultimately, her mother, as this was - of course - why she wanted to find Debbie before her death) for having thought of us and given us this very kind and generous gift.
We left the restaurant, I retrieved my car, and before setting out on the next leg of my afternoon journey, I pulled over in a parking lot to call Debbie and tell her this incredible story.

After arriving back at my hotel, I pulled the rings out on the bed, looking through them, touching them, touching my mother whom I had never known. I found one delicate ring and slipped it onto my finger. Now I carry her with me every day.

In the Rearview Mirror: 2017

Today I’m thinking back over the highlights of the year. The year included lots of music and lots of travel.

WARNING: Long post. You may want to grab a cuppa or adult beverage before reading.

MUSIC:

• Tyler and I co-MD’d the “Sondheim in Love” revue at the Youngstown Playhouse. I always love sharing gigs with my younger son - what an honor!

• I played for rehearsals of YSU’s production of “The Impressario” and assisted from the pit for the April performances, which included the incredible Ian LeRoy, conducting from the keyboard, and another opportunity to work with Dr. Steve Gage, whom I love dearly. Make a note of Ian’s name. With his brand new Master’s degree from YSU, he will go far. I fully expect to watch him in a Broadway pit a few years down the road - if that’s the route he chooses to follow.

• This fall I was able to wear my “helper” hat (which I love doing), covering students for one accompanist who was out on medical leave for six weeks, taking her classical voice students through several performances and the National Assn of Teachers of Singing Ohio auditions and Dr. Yun’s studio recital. (I breathed a very large sigh of relief for both Nancy and myself when her treatments were completed and she was back on the piano bench!)

• As soon as Nancy was back, I was asked by two Musical Theatre voice teachers to accompany several of their students for several weeks to get them through their juries (the equivalent of a final exam for applied music students). During this time, another accompanist had emergency surgery and couldn’t play, so I shepherded two of his students through the end of the semester. I adore musical theatre, so - although stressful because of the quantity of music I had to learn and the time pressures - I had a blast learning this music and working with these talented students.

• My “opera kids” staged two great Opera Scenes performances before Thanksgiving. I learned some beautiful music from operas I had never heard before, and loved working with these talented singers. The love these students have showered on me each time we’re together, in class or performance, I will never forget. I love these students (who are just a few years older than my grandchildren) as if they were my own.

• Dr. Misook Yun has my undying love and devotion for emailing me during the summer of 2015 to ask if I might like to accompany her opera program at YSU. That was a life-changing email!!

• My musical year ended by playing background music for a private Christmas party. This is the first party I’ve played in ten years!! Much gratitude to Paul Shanabarger, of the Men’s Garden Club, for hearing me play at the Youngstown Playhouse and envisioning me at their party. He’s already asked me to play for them again in 2018. ❤️

TRAVEL:

• Semester break vacation with five friends to El Dorado Maroma, south of Cancun. This was Jas’s and my first experience with an all-inclusive resort and we’re sold! We’re heading back after the New Year to enjoy the great Karisma experience again.

• In March, we found my maternal half-sister’s paternal half-sister, Marge. I carved the weekend off my spring break and flew to Gloucester, MA, to meet her and to do some genealogical research.

• In late March, I flew to Orlando and attended my 50th high school reunion and was able to spend a little time with my eldest brother. I enjoyed catching up with old friends and renewing acquaintances.

• In early June, my sister and I met in Gloucester - her first visit to the town where our mother spent the first 42 years of her life and where our family tree was planted in 1623. Debbie and her elder daughter, son, and DIL were able to meet Debbie’s sister. After the offspring headed back to Kingston, MA, Debbie and I stayed a few more days,exploring Cape Ann and getting to know Marge.

• In late June, I flew to Albuquerque and spent a couple of days in Santa Fe before heading up to Taos to attend another of Diane Ericson’s “Design Outside the Lines” sewing and creativity workshops. The guest teacher was Valerie Goodwin, an architect and quilter. As always, I left DOL with new perspectives and techniques for my sewing and fiber activities. And a wonderful new friend, Portland sewist Tina Daily. Tina and I will be traveling to Bali together in 2018.

• A few days after returning from Taos, I drove my grandchildren to Interlochen for their second year at Interlochen Arts Camp. While there, I took a three-day Shibori workshop, coming home with more ideas and inspiration. I also spent time with my DIL, who teaches at Interlochen every summer, and with her darling mother and daughter. The highlight of the visit was a drive up to Leland, MI, and dinner at Fishtown.

• Jas and I visited the PacNW in August, spending time with friends in Seattle, Portland, Bend, and Ashland. Before flying out at the end of the week, I was able to meet - for the first time in my life - a relative on my paternal side. Kathy is one of six 2nd cousins that have been identified through Ancestry DNA tests. She lives in a golf community north of Medford, OR. We share our great-grandparents, Nathaniel James Simpson Kelley and Sarah Zanzaline “Sally” Thornton, who lived in middle Tennessee. What an honor!

• The first weekend of December, I took a spur-of-the-moment trip to Orlando to attend an annual party given by and for people who attended Orlando Church School in the 60s. I reconnected with dear friends whom I’ve known all my life, and again was able to spend some precious time with my brother and sister-in-law. In truest southern fashion, I spent the weekend being introduced to new friends as “Jerry’s little sister.”

GRATITUDE:

My deepest gratitude for this year (and always) goes to all my second, third, and fourth cousins who have taken Ancestry, 23andme, or FTDNA tests. Each one I have contacted and who has replied has accepted me with an open heart.

Included in this gratitude pool is genealogical researcher Vickie Jordan Strong, who is my search angel. (Yes, that’s a thing.) Vickie has been holding my hand across the miles as my paternal family tree grows and expands with every new farm family we find. We have found lots of men who are NOT my father. Maybe someday we’ll find THE guy, but along the road, my life is richer for all the people who have touched my life. An adoptee grows up with lots of holes in her soul. My holes are slowing being filled with each contact with Vickie and my cousins.

I wish you all health and happiness in the New Year.

It All Comes Around

I had the most incredible full-circle dream last night and woke feeling all was right with the world.

I've written many times about how wonderful my adoptive father was, how valued he made me feel. I've written a little less often about my adoptive mother. She was a wonderful person, she was just very frequently and very regularly not wonderful to me. My brothers don't see or understand that. No one who knew her as a friend or acquaintance saw that about her. One of Mother's sisters understood what was happening to me at home, how my little adopted self was be turned outside-in, converted into a lost child, but she felt powerless to stop the conversion. And Daddy, as wonderful as he was, worked so many hours establishing and then maintaining his thriving medical practice that he wasn't home enough to realize what was happening to me and to possibly put a stop to it.

I loved and identified with my father. And the cousin I liked the most was one of Daddy's younger brothers' sons, who was closest in age to me. We didn't see each other often, but I felt we "clicked" whenever we were together. I identified with him as I did with Daddy.

In last night's dream, I got a new job. I didn't really understand what my function, my role, was in this company. I worked in an office, a large open space with about fifteen desks and workers placed erratically in a willy-nilly maze within this large space. Our tasks were involved with computers and editing, the two fields in which I was immersed for most of my career. But I felt out of place, as I just couldn't understand what I was supposed to be doing or why I had been hired—out of the blue with no interview. (For many years, I would be contacted by people who had heard of me to come work with them. I was frequently "in the right place at the right time" when it came to jobs. And yet I never was able to escape the feeling of not fitting in.)

So at this new job, I continued to feel I didn't fit in. And then one day, when I was closest to feeling I needed to quit this job because of not fitting in, I realized who the head of the company was. It was my cousin Ronnie. Ron. Suddenly I realized that Ron had somehow heard what my most recent boss had said—that I was the best editor he had worked with in his long academic career. I recognized that this company was not quite thriving and Ron had been looking for someone to help him pull the company back from its doldrums to reach its former glory and potential greatness.

I was wanted. I mattered. I fit in.

Rather than feeling defeated and wanting to quit, I felt valued and motivated. I picked up the company's catalog of publications and started to read about all the books at its core. And my eyes latched onto one book with a nautical title. When I picked it up, I realized it was a history of Gloucester, Massachusetts. My soul's home. The town where all my DNA had come into being. I had the most stunning "aha" moment.

And woke up.

And felt centered. A sense of belonging. A sense that I mattered. That ever-elusive sense of fitting in.

Whatever it is that is not quite working out in my life is going to work out.

Ah, inner peace.

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Photo of two Common Terns on the beach in Gloucester, MA. © Kim Smith.

Photo credit: Kim Smith, Gloucester, MA. See more of Kim's stunning work at Kim Smith Designs and on the Good Morning Gloucester website.

Define: Non-Binary

I'm an old programmer. I know from binary. I taught my sons how to count in binary, and they still know and use that theory thirty years later. But a year ago I had never heard the term "non-binary."

In case you are also unfamiliar with the term, here's what wikipedia says: "Those with non-binary genders can feel that they: Have an androgynous (both masculine and feminine) gender identity, such as androgyne. Have an identity between male and female, such as intergender. Have a neutral or non-existant gender identity, such as agender or neutrois."

My eldest grandchild identifies as female. When she was born (identified as male), we bonded fast and strong. I always said [he] held my heart in [his] hands. Now he is a she, and it has been very difficult for me to switch to saying she instead of he, and to see her experiment with makeup and finding dresses that make her feel pretty has made me sad. I wake up at two o'clock in the morning and lie in bed for two hours worrying about her future. Will she ever find someone with whom to share her life? Will she be able to get a good enough job to be able to support herself—and her family, should she have one?

But it is just not about me. It's about her. The very, very, very worst thing that could happen in my life would be for her to feel not-accepted and to become so depressed that she would feel the need or desire to kill herself. Without her in my life, whether in pants or a dress, I could not live.

So I am determined to be supportive. And she notices.

Just as her father thanked me for all the sacrifices I made for him when he was in the boarding school where he wanted to be, my granddaughter thanks me for all I do for her. She notices.

It helps when I read articles that indicate the world wasn't always binary. And because this reading has helped me, I'm sharing a couple of articles here with you today. If you're confused or skeptical, I hope you can find a little understanding in these pieces.

I have spent much of my life desiring to (and feeling like I didn't) "fit in" to the world around me. I didn't want my children or grandchildren to have to have those same feelings as they were growing up. But isn't it far more important for someone to feel they fit in inside themselves than to feel they fit in with judgmental, unloving, unkind people around them?

I could learn a lesson here.

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Still so much to learn. My grandchild tells me, "I'm not non binary. Binary genders are male and female and I identify as female, so technically I'm still binary." I thought I understood correctly that it meant not traditionally male or female. Must study some more.