Henderson Street

It's not easy being on Williams Street instead of Henderson Street.  I look around my apartment and see all the concrete reminders of people in my life: blankets, pictures, hand-me downs, decor, and memories wrapped up in objects.  There is a story for most everything around me... - one orange chair is a remnant of my JVC year in Denver, and the other is a token of the Columbine house that Jennifer's parents found for her at a garage sale.  Mary has the other one. - the sun, moon, and stars mobile is from Spain from Amy when she studied abroad our junior year of college.  I missed her terribly then.  - a candle bound together with shells found me on the beach outside Vicente Guerrera, Mexico in 2008 when I went on a walk'n'talk with God about where to go next when college was over.  The top half of the candle I found heading South, giving me pause for my considerations of volunteering in Central America.  The bottom half I found heading north, making me wonder if it mattered where I went as much as it mattered how I lived whereever I am.  - a ceramic pot on the window ledge was crafted by my old housemate Erin, now in Renton, Washington. - a black beret that my grandpa wore, that he gave me before he died. I could go on and on...but my mind is really preoccupied with a house on Henderson Street.  A house in which I have spent much time, in which I can visualize where things are "supposed" to be.  But already photos have been stripped from the walls, and favorite things have disappeared.  I wrote to Grandma & Grandpa one time - in college maybe - "where my heart is, there my treasure lies", and I told them that they had a piece of my heart.  That I treasured them.  In truth there is a lot of my heart on Henderson Street, and in this second time of loss, I guess I lose another little piece of my heart.  I don't want to be melodramatic or rash in my actions, but part of me wants to take up residence on Henderson Street and preserve everything as I remember, pretend like I am just a girl again sleeping over at Grandma's house down on the big brass bed.  I know that it is a very emotional desire to be there soaking up their presence in that house.  It is fantastic to think that it will bring me closer to them because really they are already in my heart.  ahh....more tears... And as I continue to grieve, I feel so silly because I still have so much, so many memories, a home on Henderson Street that was my own, family that is still there that loves me and lifts me up as they grieve, too.  What a selfish child to want what I cannot have, to want what I cannot get back!

a special recipe...

My grandma was fabulous inthe kitchen!  I don't remember ever eating anything I didn't like, but there are definitely memorable dishes and treats.  The "GUMDROP JUMBOS" recipe was clipped from a newspaper.  Along the edge she had adjusted the baking time and temperature, and in her beautiful script penned "very good".  They are very good cookies.  Grandma made them for us at Christmas time every year, save this past year when her oven had died shortly before Christmas.  The peculiar ingredient is ketchup, which we speculate adds a bit of color and lots of sweetness, but the magic ingredient she put into this dough, as she put into all her treats for us, was a heaping portion of love!  I am not feeling brave enough to try the recipe myself yet; how could they even compare?  But someday I hope to make them as well as my grandma did.    GUMDROP JUMBOS   - 1 cup butter or margarine, softened - 1/2 cup each, granulated sugar & brown sugar, packed - 2 eggs - 1 tsp vanilla - 1/4 cup catsup - 2 3/4 cups flour - 1/2 tsp soda - 1/4 tsp salt - 1 1/3 cups miniature gumdrops (about 1 1/2 lbs)   Heat oven to 350.  Cream butter, sugars, eggs, vanilla & catsup thoroughly.  Stir in flour, soda & salt.  Fold in gumdrops.  Drop dough by scant 1/4 cupfuls 2" apart onto a greased & floured baking sheet.  Bake 12 - 15 minutes or until golden brown.  Makes 1 1/2 - 2 dozen large cookies.  "very good"

A eulogy for Grandma...

The eulogy I offered at the funeral today:   What a blessing that we gather on such a beautiful day to remember such a beautiful woman!  The gathering of family and sharing of stories buoys me as we remember a woman who has made a tremendous difference in all of our lives.  Our stories sound a little familiar as we remember a woman who welcomed us with open arms, a warm smile, and all the time in the world, as we remember a woman with faith enough to move mountains.   Victoria Evelyn Dieringer, to all who knew her, she was "an ordinary saint among us," a woman who loved God so extraordinarily much that it showed in all she did.  To me, she was my grandmother, my godmother and my namesake.  I am blessed to know her well because she was also my neighbor.  Growing up down the street from Grandma's house, we spent a lot of time together, which confused more than a few who sometimes thought I was one of the twelve.  The memories we made and her role modeling run deep.  A strong matriarch and a true Christian, Grandma embraced a call to love and service.   My little sister Miki and I have been reflecting together about our dear Grandma D.  Granted, we first remember card games, gum drop cookies, and daily mass.  We cannot remember a time she won in concentration, but she was always willing to play.  A game of Trouble, UNO, cribbage or crazy eights was always in progress until we were a little older, when Grandma taught us to play Gin.  And her cookie jar was never empty when we visited, even in the summer when we would visit every day to swim and play.  Though in the summer when the raspberries were ripe, we had no interest in cookies: we would hop the fence from the pool, scamper through the bark to the berry bushes, and stuff our mouths.  If there were enough, Grandma would give us a little silver mixing bowl to fill, and magically she turned them into a frothy whip served over homemade custard, a recipe I have tried to recreate without success, more than once.  During the school year, twenty-five minutes before the first bell, daily mass began under the upper-grade wing in the old worship space.  The only acceptable tardiness for school was attending daily mass.  On most mornings the four of us Ford kids vied for the spot next to Grandma, getting to hold her hand during the "Our Father".  Even still, I loved to sit next to her at mass when I came to visit, partially so I wouldn't look so short next to my family in the pew.  These stories can go on and on.  Over thirty years of running up and down Henderson Street to play, and Grandma was never too busy for us-- whenever we showed up, we had her undivided attention.    These memories of "childhood" give way to who Grandma was.  As Miki & I grew up and followed her footsteps down the halls of St. Mary's Academy, we paid more notice to her leadership, faith, and strength.  Often by her side for these activities, we remember Grandma for 8 am daily mass at Holy Family, praying the evening rosary, communion calls to nursing homes, visiting homebound parishioners, and hospitality for all who knocked on her door.  Even at the end, she wanted to make sure her friend Mary would know she could not bring her communion and visit if she was delayed at the hospital.  Grandma made time for supporting good causes—the list is long.  Her enthusiasm for the Holy Names' sisters' commitment to Catholic education and justice for women has always been strong and made such a difference in our lives.  She modeled their values of faith, justice, and compassion most humbly in all aspects of her life.  Speaking for many young women and mothers who knew her, we all have tremendous respect and admiration for the way Grandma accomplished so much with quiet, confident graciousness – a way of life we all aspire to.   And above all, we remember Grandma for her unfaltering dedication and love for our Grandpa.  The love between these two generous spirits throughout their years of marriage inspires us all.  Her attention and service to him did not go unnoticed, even when we were too young to understand.    Watching my goddaughter, six-year old Maddie, look on and look around at the family gathered around Grandma at the funeral home on Saturday, I remember what a blessing it is to have been Grandma's "Girlie-girlie".  To have lived my first eighteen years one street-crossing away.  To have had my first sleepovers up the street, most of my birthday parties, and all of my Christmases.  What a blessing!  It will be my responsibility, and all our responsibility, to remember Grandma to Maddie and to the younger grandchildren and great grandchildren.  To share the stories of fortitude and faith with the youngest among us, so they remember, too.   My grandma was a humble woman, doing so much, none of it for recognition.  She was moved by her faith, called by her God.  When she was weary, she believed God would give her strength, and when she had emptied herself for others, God would fill her up.  Although she certainly knew hardships and pain, her losses never impeded her ability to act justly, love tenderly, and walk humbly with her God. (Micah 6:8).    As we look on at her body, we do not see her here with us.  We cannot sit with her in her regular front row seat.  There will be no more games of concentration, and I will have to try harder at the raspberry whip.  Though we grieve for ourselves and each other, we celebrate and say, "Allelulia! She has risen, too!" because we know in our hearts that God lifted her up and gave her eternal rest; she is reunited with the love of her life, dancing again.  She will live on in our hearts and our memories.  We love you, Grandma.  I love you, Grandma.

to be here...

The airport was more forgiving than the plane ride.  Tom and I moved around at leisure, played on the internet, and ate Twizzlers.  Granted, the hour delay I was hoping for extended over and over.  Having waltzed through check-in and security around 7 pm, we watched the crowded airport empty from a seat overlooking the terminal.  Our flight, booked to depart at 9:25 pm, didn't board until well after 11 pm, only to get in que for take off behind eight other planes.  The ride was a test of comfortability and exhaustion.  We touched down half past 1 am, gathered my bag from the carousel, and walked right out and into Marty's truck.  I kissed Miki good-night as the alarm clock blinked 2 am.  And shortly thereafter I blinked my eyes closed for sleep.  A long, long, emotional day...   Waking up to another long, emotional day, I found myself crying into the pillow from a bad dream.  In some ways this whole thing is just a bad dream.  I have had to admit to my friends and co-workers in Denver, people who don't how amazing my Grandma was.  To be here, to hear people say "I'm sorry", to be with people who knew her: it is disarming and uplifting at the same time.  The waves of emotions come when they want, and almost always when someone asks, "How are you?" and offers a hug.  It is in that embrace, feeling most vulnerable, that I know I am not "OK" or "Fine" or even "Just trying to keep it together."  Deep down I am torn apart, trying to be strong like Grandma, willing myself to have steadfast faith like Grandma.    Sitting in Grandma's living room before lunch, the tears rolled down my cheek.  The glider, the piano, the coffee table of her books.  The mantle of her pictures.  The things naturally set where she last laid them.  Her neat little handwriting on a note by the phone.  They all suggest she'll be back from the store soon, is on her way home from getting her hair trimmed and curled, or just down the hall behind a closed door.  To see a home so familiar and crowded with family that feels so empty.  Denial is no longer possible.    We went to the viewing after lunch.  She doesn't look like herself.  She doesn't look like Grandma.  But she looks at peace, and the one comfort I hear over andover is that she didn't suffer, even that she looked a little bit more radiant and at peace on Tuesday.  Watching my goddaughter, six-year old Maddie, look on and look around at the family gathered around Grandma, I remember what a blessing it is to have been Grandma's "Girlie-girlie".  To have lived my first eighteen years one street-crossing away.  To have have had my first sleepovers up the street, most of my birthday parties, and all of my Christmases.  What a blessing!  Maddie still has GC, but it will be my responsibility, and all of my family's responsibility, to remember Grandma to Maddie.  To share the stories of fortitude and faith with the youngest among us, so they remember, too.

the unexpected...

I am hard pressed to believe where I am tonight. A week ago I was just getting out of Good Friday service, thinking about what to pack for Easter in New Mexico. Again I was thinking about packing tonight. Tom and I are at DIA, despite the snow - the blizzard that made the news in Portland hours and hours ago. It has been a taxing week for everyone! My neighbor wrecked his bike and tore a ligament last night. A garden I work with has hit turnoil to the point of the resignation of its leadership. And for me...well, Tuesday was rough. I was stretched to the max after being out of the office three days last week and again on Monday. I was slammed on Tuesday and ended up running into a number of snags while trying to edit revisions made to the big grant I manage. I was a little past deadline, but with time out of the office and many events, it couldn't be helped. Gratefully, I got to take a moment to breathe with friends. Jennifer, Mary, Sarah, and I spent some QT in a friend's hot tub, soaking away the stress that had been building, unaware of more to come. Tuesday night my dear grandma, godmother, and namesake joined her beloved in heaven! It was unexpected by all, least of all my mother who was at her side just before her heart stopped. A brokenheart from all I can make out is the cause of our grief. It has been a tough week to anticipate returning to Portland and not seeing her at church, or at the kitchen table, or in the glider in the living room. Never again to see her leaning over the counter talking to a long-distance relative on the phone during family gatherings. Never again to hold her hand for grace, to pass her the cards for her deal, to call on Sunday to see how her week has been. To taste her raspeberry whip as I have never been able to mimic. To find a bag of gumdrop cookies under the tree with my name on it. To celebrate our feast day together. It has been a time most heavy for my heart, and for so many hearts. She touched many lives. So tonight Tom and I sit in the airport in the midst of a snowstorm rendering many homebound. Our flight is an hour late at best, hopefully at most. We'll wake in Portland with family, with loved ones who share in our sorrow. But behind my own tears of longing to see her again, there is a sparkle to know they are dancing together, my grandparents, my godparents, my namesake & my birthday boy! And how lucky for them to be together again, in God's glory everlasting!

blessed tiredness...

I had a first this week!  I was invited to a conference in Durango, Colorado, of which I didn't see much besides the hotels and the Steamworks Brewery.  The drive both ways was sunny, and the mountains were so gorgeous.  I enjoyed getting to see some more of Colorado.  Along the way we found the most wonderful Organic Peddler and Peace of Art Cafe in Del Norte.  It made for the perfect lunch spot both ways.  The cafe is a cordwood building structure - beautiful colored bottles creating pictures inbetween the wood.  I enjoyed talking with Mike both stops.  His wife Kim is quite an artist and visionary!   But with over seven hours on the road Monday and again on Wednesday, I am relieved to have a couple days to rest before the four hours to New Mexico for Easter with the Vigils.  (I really would love to get there sooner than later...)  We are coming back Monday, so we can celebrate Easter dinner on Easter instead of Saturday.  I had an exceptionally full day at work to make it home long enough to drop off my bag and head to church for services.  Unfortunately, tiredness and hunger made it hard to be really present after an hour and a half.  But isn't that what the triduum is all about?  blessed tiredness...